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the-price-we-pay	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It is over.</p> <p>There are but a few of us left, and it is good. Our purpose in this world was to protect it from things it could not understand, things that defied comprehension, things that we all secretly believed would one day overcome our meager defenses and consume everything. But then, one day, they were all gone. Just like that. At first, we were relieved, but as time went by, we began to understand what it all truly meant. Without the storm clouds of the anomalous to cast their sheltering shadows over our empire, it soon began to crumble, dissipating like the remnants of some primordial night before the new light. The light of quiet days. Still, a few of us remain, flesh-and-blood ghosts watching over what is left. Over those left behind.</p> <p>He is, to all outward appearances, the very image of a respected academic. Clean-shaved, neatly dressed, infallibly polite. It all fits his image like a well-tailored glove, all but that ever present glimmer of panic, just beneath the surface of his eyes. He is sitting in a lecture hall, surrounded by students thirty years his junior, absentmindedly scribbling with his pen in his notebook. The only notebook in a room full of laptops. A few years ago, he was a senior researcher, one of the best of us, the world's finest expert in the new, groundbreaking field of Applied Hydrabiology. He had spent most of his adult life studying this field, learning all that is to know about it. As a young man, he headed massive symposiums, traveled all around the world. His name was respected. His life had a calling. When the anomalous world disappeared, so did all of that.</p> <p>The professor throws a question at his direction, and to his horror, he discovers that he doesn't know the answer. While he was studying a field that no longer exists, that to most never existed in the first place, the rest of world marched forward, and he was left in the dust. He wilts under the professor's critical gaze, and mumbles something about cells. A subdued laughter echos throughout the hall. The professor simply shakes his head and moves on to younger, more promising students. The aging researcher returns to his notebook, knowing that he will never lead again. He sighs. At least he has his pension.</p> <p>There are many like him, you know. Careers destroyed, bright minds dulled, curiosity riven. That's the price he pays. That's the price we pay.</p> <p>He sits embalmed in starched uniform, sweating like a hog as he looks out the window, eyes squinting in the blinding light of midday. Air conditioner must be broken again. The dry expanses of the savanna pass slowly under the wheels of his armored jeep. In the seat next to him, a subordinate drones on and on about this morning's attack. It seems like the Ubyd Tribe once again assaulted the village of the Muthu, targeting, as is the way around these parts, mostly the women and the children. The man scratches at the rash slowly forming around his neck, and asks for a death toll. The subordinate says it's too early to say. They haven't finished sorting the bodies. Tomorrow, the Muthu will most likely counterattack, and the man and his score or so of soldiers will most likely spend that next day doing much the same as they did today. All of this for a dispute over two hundred years old. A dispute over which hill the Sacred Sow of Nys crossed on the first day of her holy pilgrimage.</p> <p>The man remembers other days. Days in which he fought for something greater, for the good of all mankind. For something he believed in. In those days, when the Abyss gazed up at him, not only did he gaze back, but did so through the scope of an anti-materiel rifle. Things were simple back in the Coalition. Life in the Peace Keeping Force was anything but. It made sense, he supposed. When one encountered a twenty-tonne, fire breathing sloth with thirty eyes and a nasty temper, one usually knew what to do. Not so much with a host of desperate, starving people locked in the midst of a civil war. That the GOC killed the Sacred Sow of Nys ten years prior with an air-to-surface missile only made things so much worse.</p> <p>There are many like him, you know. Knights left in a world with no more dragons. Knights in a world of windmills. That's the price he pays. That's the price we pay.</p> <p>A dark study, in the middle of the night. Someone flips the light on. Slippered feet glide over the soft, carpeted floor, a form sinks into a comfortable chair stationed before a work desk. The room is lined with shelves, covering every wall, and on the shelves, toys. The soft light shines over bright red firetrucks, over plastic guns and glass chemistry sets, over large boxes where, if one looks closely, vaguely humanoid figures can be seen, blank smiles plastered over faces no longer animate. The owner of the slippered feet rises again, approaches one of the boxes, one hand caressing the glossy cover. "Introducing Dr. Wondertainment's Mr. Motion!" the box exclaims in big, bold letters, "Multiple grip action! Unique high-voltage pseudo-transmogrification! Fun for all ages, just twist his shoes and watch him move!". The hand drops from the box, from the motionless figure within. Not anymore. Sighing, the owner of the slippered feet turns off the light and leaves the study, returning to the desktop computer in the living room, to the Excel sheets that needed to be filled by tomorrow. One had to make a living somehow, after all.</p> <p>There are many like them, you know. They tried to keep faith to what they once were, but in the end, it didn't matter at all. What was once was, was, and never will be again. They will make no more toys. That's the price they pay. That's the price we pay.</p> <p>If he was anything other than what he was, you could say he was just a face in the crowd. Nothing about him is all that memorable, unique or interesting. If he was anything other than what he was, he might have upset because of that. But he isn't. Instead, he just feels that it isn't enough. He knows that if he speaks to someone, they'll hear him, and remember, if for a while. That if he does something, people will notice, and they'll remember, if for a while. That for the first time ever, his actions will have repercussions. He is now a prisoner of the cruelest of all jailers. Permanency. And it's a life sentence.</p> <p>There are many like him, though no two are quite the same. He knows that every little thing he does will last forever. He knows that every move he makes can be observed, and thus controlled. He knows that he will never truly be free again. That's the price he pays. That's the price we pay.</p> <p>A young woman, sitting on a seemingly empty subway train. We can try and be poetic, say that the train is heading from nowhere to nowhere, but that would be a lie. She's returning from the hospital, where she visits the fertility clinic once every week. The doctors keep telling her that she shouldn't come back, that they've long given up on trying to understand exactly what's wrong with her. She won't, though. If it were up to her, she might have, but she's thinking on the man waiting for her at home. She's thinking about the warmth in his eyes every time he sees her, about how safe he makes her feel, safer than she ever remembers feeling. How the nightmares become just a little bit more bearable when he's around. She thinks about the box of old toys he keeps in the garage, about how he always wanted kids. About the disappointment he kept trying to hide every time she came back. So she still goes, every week, just to hear the same reply over and over again. He doesn't know she's still doing it, and she's not about to tell him.</p> <p>There is only one like her, and for that we are thankful. Knowing that lets us sleep at night. Sometimes. We had to make sure, you see. It was hard enough to make ourselves release her to begin with. The risk was too great. We had to make sure. She'll never be whole again. That's the price she pays.</p> <p>That's the price we <em>all</em> pay.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-price-we-pay">The Price We Pay</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-price-we-pay">https://scpwiki.com/the-price-we-pay</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It is over. There are but a few of us left, and it is good. Our purpose in this world was to protect it from things it could not understand, things that defied comprehension, things that we all secretly believed would one day overcome our meager defenses and consume everything. But then, one day, they were all gone. Just like that. At first, we were relieved, but as time went by, we began to understand what it all truly meant. Without the storm clouds of the anomalous to cast their sheltering shadows over our empire, it soon began to crumble, dissipating like the remnants of some primordial night before the new light. The light of quiet days. Still, a few of us remain, flesh-and-blood ghosts watching over what is left. Over those left behind. He is, to all outward appearances, the very image of a respected academic. Clean-shaved, neatly dressed, infallibly polite. It all fits his image like a well-tailored glove, all but that ever present glimmer of panic, just beneath the surface of his eyes. He is sitting in a lecture hall, surrounded by students thirty years his junior, absentmindedly scribbling with his pen in his notebook. The only notebook in a room full of laptops. A few years ago, he was a senior researcher, one of the best of us, the world's finest expert in the new, groundbreaking field of Applied Hydrabiology. He had spent most of his adult life studying this field, learning all that is to know about it. As a young man, he headed massive symposiums, traveled all around the world. His name was respected. His life had a calling. When the anomalous world disappeared, so did all of that. The professor throws a question at his direction, and to his horror, he discovers that he doesn't know the answer. While he was studying a field that no longer exists, that to most never existed in the first place, the rest of world marched forward, and he was left in the dust. He wilts under the professor's critical gaze, and mumbles something about cells. A subdued laughter echos throughout the hall. The professor simply shakes his head and moves on to younger, more promising students. The aging researcher returns to his notebook, knowing that he will never lead again. He sighs. At least he has his pension. There are many like him, you know. Careers destroyed, bright minds dulled, curiosity riven. That's the price he pays. That's the price we pay. He sits embalmed in starched uniform, sweating like a hog as he looks out the window, eyes squinting in the blinding light of midday. Air conditioner must be broken again. The dry expanses of the savanna pass slowly under the wheels of his armored jeep. In the seat next to him, a subordinate drones on and on about this morning's attack. It seems like the Ubyd Tribe once again assaulted the village of the Muthu, targeting, as is the way around these parts, mostly the women and the children. The man scratches at the rash slowly forming around his neck, and asks for a death toll. The subordinate says it's too early to say. They haven't finished sorting the bodies. Tomorrow, the Muthu will most likely counterattack, and the man and his score or so of soldiers will most likely spend that next day doing much the same as they did today. All of this for a dispute over two hundred years old. A dispute over which hill the Sacred Sow of Nys crossed on the first day of her holy pilgrimage. The man remembers other days. Days in which he fought for something greater, for the good of all mankind. For something he believed in. In those days, when the Abyss gazed up at him, not only did he gaze back, but did so through the scope of an anti-materiel rifle. Things were simple back in the Coalition. Life in the Peace Keeping Force was anything but. It made sense, he supposed. When one encountered a twenty-tonne, fire breathing sloth with thirty eyes and a nasty temper, one usually knew what to do. Not so much with a host of desperate, starving people locked in the midst of a civil war. That the GOC killed the Sacred Sow of Nys ten years prior with an air-to-surface missile only made things so much worse. There are many like him, you know. Knights left in a world with no more dragons. Knights in a world of windmills. That's the price he pays. That's the price we pay. A dark study, in the middle of the night. Someone flips the light on. Slippered feet glide over the soft, carpeted floor, a form sinks into a comfortable chair stationed before a work desk. The room is lined with shelves, covering every wall, and on the shelves, toys. The soft light shines over bright red firetrucks, over plastic guns and glass chemistry sets, over large boxes where, if one looks closely, vaguely humanoid figures can be seen, blank smiles plastered over faces no longer animate. The owner of the slippered feet rises again, approaches one of the boxes, one hand caressing the glossy cover. "Introducing Dr. Wondertainment's Mr. Motion!" the box exclaims in big, bold letters, "Multiple grip action! Unique high-voltage pseudo-transmogrification! Fun for all ages, just twist his shoes and watch him move!". The hand drops from the box, from the motionless figure within. Not anymore. Sighing, the owner of the slippered feet turns off the light and leaves the study, returning to the desktop computer in the living room, to the Excel sheets that needed to be filled by tomorrow. One had to make a living somehow, after all. There are many like them, you know. They tried to keep faith to what they once were, but in the end, it didn't matter at all. What was once was, was, and never will be again. They will make no more toys. That's the price they pay. That's the price we pay. If he was anything other than what he was, you could say he was just a face in the crowd. Nothing about him is all that memorable, unique or interesting. If he was anything other than what he was, he might have upset because of that. But he isn't. Instead, he just feels that it isn't enough. He knows that if he speaks to someone, they'll hear him, and remember, if for a while. That if he does something, people will notice, and they'll remember, if for a while. That for the first time ever, his actions will have repercussions. He is now a prisoner of the cruelest of all jailers. Permanency. And it's a life sentence. There are many like him, though no two are quite the same. He knows that every little thing he does will last forever. He knows that every move he makes can be observed, and thus controlled. He knows that he will never truly be free again. That's the price he pays. That's the price we pay. A young woman, sitting on a seemingly empty subway train. We can try and be poetic, say that the train is heading from nowhere to nowhere, but that would be a lie. She's returning from the hospital, where she visits the fertility clinic once every week. The doctors keep telling her that she shouldn't come back, that they've long given up on trying to understand exactly what's wrong with her. She won't, though. If it were up to her, she might have, but she's thinking on the man waiting for her at home. She's thinking about the warmth in his eyes every time he sees her, about how safe he makes her feel, safer than she ever remembers feeling. How the nightmares become just a little bit more bearable when he's around. She thinks about the box of old toys he keeps in the garage, about how he always wanted kids. About the disappointment he kept trying to hide every time she came back. So she still goes, every week, just to hear the same reply over and over again. He doesn't know she's still doing it, and she's not about to tell him. There is only one like her, and for that we are thankful. Knowing that lets us sleep at night. Sometimes. We had to make sure, you see. It was hard enough to make ourselves release her to begin with. The risk was too great. We had to make sure. She'll never be whole again. That's the price she pays. That's the price we //all// pay. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-25T00:17:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Price We Pay - SCP Foundation	149	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19393550	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-price-we-pay
the-princess-and-the-ogre	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Jurgen Crayne tried to make as little noise as possible. Right around the corner from where he crouched sat a 6 year-old, playing with her dolls. Her parents had, unbeknownst to her, already been removed from the house, a house that had by then already been warped beyond recognition.</p> <p>His thoughts replayed every retrieval mission he'd ever participated in. There'd been gruesome sights, there'd been sanity-blasting weirdness, but there'd never been unbearable cuteness.</p> <p>"And then the king came in and saw the princess kissing the boy who washed the pigs," the girl said giggling and added in as gruff a voice she could manage, "YOU THERE! PIG BOY!"</p> <p>"Oh no! It's the king!" she squeaked and mimed one of the dolls trying to flee the scene.</p> <p>Crayne only heard her, but he was trying to figure out how to approach this. He didn't look his best, to say the least, and this was her turf. Even if she didn't immediately scream her lungs out, her abilities might instinctively affect him. And who knew what'd happen then. He might turn into a prince, although an ogre was more likely. Hell, he might even turn into a damn coach horse. Or a pumpkin. His strange sense of humor made him chuckle at the image of a pumpkin swearing like a boozed-out sailor in heat.</p> <p>She must have heard him, because a frightened voice asked who was there.</p> <p>And then he had two choices. He could ignore the question, hope she wouldn't come looking, and wait for a better opportunity to approach, or he could answer it. Only time would tell what the better option was, but he chose regardless.</p> <p>"It's just me, a peasant from the fields," and after a moment's hesitation he added, "your highness."</p> <p>He sincerely hoped he wouldn't be spending the remainder of his life as a misanthropic vegetable.</p> <p>There was no reply for a precious few seconds, during which Crayne's bladder contemplated preemptively releasing its burden.</p> <p>"I have soldiers," came a fearful little voice.</p> <p><em>I don't doubt you do,</em> thought Crayne.</p> <p>"I'm just a farmer, I would never hurt you, princess."</p> <p>A giggle was his answer.</p> <p>"Come here, farmboy."</p> <p>Crayne swallowed hard, made sure to put his gun down on the ground, and then showed his face around the corner.</p> <p>"Here I am, princess," he said and slowly moved into view. He held out his hands, palms up and waited. Crayne tried, but failed to ignore that his jeans and nondescript red t-shirt had somehow changed into a burlap sack. It itched.</p> <p>She had long blonde hair, bright green eyes, and was sitting in the middle of what must have once been a bedroom. Its walls had been transformed from wallpapered drywall into coarse stone mortar work. In glancing, he noted the stones were uniform and featureless. The one window had lost its glass and showed a view of rolling hills, sprawling forests and even a distant shoreline. All perfect storybook material. He knew that out in the real world, his colleagues were staring up at that window.</p> <hr/> <p>Anderson comforted the mother, following protocol as the amnestic began to take hold. He repeated back the cover story Planning and Control had issued him. Her daughter had tragically fallen down the stairs when she'd tried to go downstairs after an afternoon nap, and broken her neck. Her wails cut through him like a knife, but he kept his voice level and went on to explain that her daughter would be buried next Tuesday in a nice, quiet affair. It really was all for the best.</p> <hr/> <p>Crayne hesitated and then curtsied, his lack of interest in medieval etiquette showing.</p> <p>"Milady. I have come to tell you that we need to flee the castle. A dragon is coming."</p> <p>He regretted his hastily chosen words the moment they'd left his mouth. When he got back, he'd probably be locked in a room with the manual on child reality benders.</p> <p>"A DRAGON?!" she shrieked and Crayne immediately heard the sound of a bedsheet hung out to dry, flapping in the wind.</p> <p><em>Okay, that was fucking stupid,</em> he thought and wished he <em>had</em> brought his gun. <em>Wouldn't have done me much good anyway. It'd probably have been turned into a goddamn pitchfork.</em></p> <p>"We can run, princess. The queen is somewhere safe already, but we need to go now," he said, hoping he'd put enough urgency into his voice.</p> <p>The girl looked up at him and he saw something behind that gaze.</p> <p>"Where's my mommy?" she asked and nearly cried.</p> <p>Crayne noticed a slight movement ripple through the walls, the return to mundane subjects having a direct effect on her surroundings.</p> <p>"Mommy's fine, Lily. I can take you to her right now, before the dragon gets here."</p> <p>A roar sounded. It was…cartoony. He'd heard plenty of roars in his time, usually right before someone got bitten in half by some godforsaken mutated thing with too many teeth. That thing out there, beyond the window, might be in his league. Then again, it might not. He wasn't about to take the chance.</p> <p>Now genuinely frightened by what her own subconscious had served up, she looked up at him expectantly.</p> <p>Crayne stuck out his hand and bowed once more. "I'll help you escape the castle. We'll go beyond the gate to your mom, princess Lily."</p> <p>That at least got a little giggle again. Another roar sounded, closer this time. She cringed and took his hand.</p> <p>That flapping was beginning to get on his nerves.</p> <p>"Okay then, but you have to promise," she implored.</p> <p>"Promise what, princess?"</p> <p>"Promise me that you'll kill the dragon," she whispered anxiously.</p> <p>"I will, princess. I will," he said as he quickly administered a dose of sedative.</p> <p>And the roar was no more.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-princess-and-the-ogre">The Princess and the Ogre</a>" by Crayne, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-princess-and-the-ogre">https://scpwiki.com/the-princess-and-the-ogre</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Agent Jurgen Crayne tried to make as little noise as possible. Right around the corner from where he crouched sat a 6 year-old, playing with her dolls. Her parents had, unbeknownst to her, already been removed from the house, a house that had by then already been warped beyond recognition. His thoughts replayed every retrieval mission he'd ever participated in. There'd been gruesome sights, there'd been sanity-blasting weirdness, but there'd never been unbearable cuteness. "And then the king came in and saw the princess kissing the boy who washed the pigs," the girl said giggling and added in as gruff a voice she could manage, "YOU THERE! PIG BOY!" "Oh no! It's the king!" she squeaked and mimed one of the dolls trying to flee the scene. Crayne only heard her, but he was trying to figure out how to approach this. He didn't look his best, to say the least, and this was her turf. Even if she didn't immediately scream her lungs out, her abilities might instinctively affect him. And who knew what'd happen then. He might turn into a prince, although an ogre was more likely. Hell, he might even turn into a damn coach horse. Or a pumpkin. His strange sense of humor made him chuckle at the image of a pumpkin swearing like a boozed-out sailor in heat. She must have heard him, because a frightened voice asked who was there. And then he had two choices. He could ignore the question, hope she wouldn't come looking, and wait for a better opportunity to approach, or he could answer it. Only time would tell what the better option was, but he chose regardless. "It's just me, a peasant from the fields," and after a moment's hesitation he added, "your highness." He sincerely hoped he wouldn't be spending the remainder of his life as a misanthropic vegetable. There was no reply for a precious few seconds, during which Crayne's bladder contemplated preemptively releasing its burden. "I have soldiers," came a fearful little voice. //I don't doubt you do,// thought Crayne. "I'm just a farmer, I would never hurt you, princess." A giggle was his answer. "Come here, farmboy." Crayne swallowed hard, made sure to put his gun down on the ground, and then showed his face around the corner. "Here I am, princess," he said and slowly moved into view. He held out his hands, palms up and waited. Crayne tried, but failed to ignore that his jeans and nondescript red t-shirt had somehow changed into a burlap sack. It itched. She had long blonde hair, bright green eyes, and was sitting in the middle of what must have once been a bedroom. Its walls had been transformed from wallpapered drywall into coarse stone mortar work. In glancing, he noted the stones were uniform and featureless. The one window had lost its glass and showed a view of rolling hills, sprawling forests and even a distant shoreline. All perfect storybook material. He knew that out in the real world, his colleagues were staring up at that window. ---- Anderson comforted the mother, following protocol as the amnestic began to take hold. He repeated back the cover story Planning and Control had issued him. Her daughter had tragically fallen down the stairs when she'd tried to go downstairs after an afternoon nap, and broken her neck. Her wails cut through him like a knife, but he kept his voice level and went on to explain that her daughter would be buried next Tuesday in a nice, quiet affair. It really was all for the best. ---- Crayne hesitated and then curtsied, his lack of interest in medieval etiquette showing. "Milady. I have come to tell you that we need to flee the castle. A dragon is coming." He regretted his hastily chosen words the moment they'd left his mouth. When he got back, he'd probably be locked in a room with the manual on child reality benders. "A DRAGON?!" she shrieked and Crayne immediately heard the sound of a bedsheet hung out to dry, flapping in the wind. //Okay, that was fucking stupid,// he thought and wished he //had// brought his gun. //Wouldn't have done me much good anyway. It'd probably have been turned into a goddamn pitchfork.// "We can run, princess. The queen is somewhere safe already, but we need to go now," he said, hoping he'd put enough urgency into his voice. The girl looked up at him and he saw something behind that gaze. "Where's my mommy?" she asked and nearly cried. Crayne noticed a slight movement ripple through the walls, the return to mundane subjects having a direct effect on her surroundings. "Mommy's fine, Lily. I can take you to her right now, before the dragon gets here." A roar sounded. It was...cartoony. He'd heard plenty of roars in his time, usually right before someone got bitten in half by some godforsaken mutated thing with too many teeth. That thing out there, beyond the window, might be in his league. Then again, it might not. He wasn't about to take the chance. Now genuinely frightened by what her own subconscious had served up, she looked up at him expectantly. Crayne stuck out his hand and bowed once more. "I'll help you escape the castle. We'll go beyond the gate to your mom, princess Lily." That at least got a little giggle again. Another roar sounded, closer this time. She cringed and took his hand. That flapping was beginning to get on his nerves. "Okay then, but you have to promise," she implored. "Promise what, princess?" "Promise me that you'll kill the dragon," she whispered anxiously. "I will, princess. I will," he said as he quickly administered a dose of sedative. And the roar was no more. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-10-18T08:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Princess and the Ogre - SCP Foundation	46	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20325322	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-princess-and-the-ogre
the-red-horse	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>Klaxons blared through Site 12. Throughout the building, screens flickered and filled with static. Televisions, cell phones, computers, and Game Boys, all powering on and filling with nothing. Researchers rushed through the halls to their stations, checking systems and trying to organize. Meanwhile, Dr Seidelman, Head Researcher, toiled in his office. His computer's monitor quietly buzzed with static; his phone sat to his side, angrily screaming for attention. Every line was full.</p> <p>"Then reset it again, Dale," Seidelman barked into the phone. "Just keep trying, I'll get Yung to try again on his end. Just do it, I've got another call." Seidelman switched to line 2. Every sector head was calling him at once. For good reason, too.</p> <p>"Seidelm- No, I don't know what happened. Fourteen nineteen's never done this before." Seidelman scribbled a note to himself. "… Right. Alright. Yes, all media are affected. Not just television. Thank you. Try to reset the jammers. I've g- I just got off the phone with Dale, he's resetting his end. Call him. I have another call, good bye." He took a breath as he switched to line four.</p> <p>"Seidelman." He waited for the response. "Seidelman's office. Hello?"</p> <p>One by one, the lines went quiet. Soon the office was silent, save for the low buzz of the static of the computer monitor.</p> <p>Slowly, Seidelman looked up from the phone to the monitor. Static had been replaced with bright and colourful scene, a simple cartoon image with blues and greys. He recognized it as the main labs, where they recorded each broadcast of SCP-1419. Grey cartoon figures, each of whom Seidelman recognized as his coworkers, slumped across computers and desks; flashes of bright red blood splattered across the scene.</p> <p>“Hello everybody! I’m Bobble the Clown, and welcome to today’s show!” A small explosion of colourful confetti and streamers burst into the middle of the scene. As it all settled, a tall, brightly-coloured figure stood facing the camera, arms spread. A clown, with yellow hair and a big pink nose, drenched in blood from the waist down.</p> <p>Seidelman sat frozen in his seat. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. It was like the clown was staring straight into his soul.</p> <p>“Today is a <em>very special</em> episode. The last! That’s right, this will be the last episode of the Bobble the Clown Show! Isn't that <em>sad</em>?” Bobble frowned. "But that's okay! Now, we can learn anywhere, any time. I'm going to have a brand new show. Fun for the <em>whole</em> family, all thanks to our friends at the Foundation. Thanks to my scientist friends showing me this wonderful new signal, I can be everywhere!"</p> <p>"Theatrical, as always," came a second voice; that of an old man, coming from everywhere yet nowhere. "Doctor, leave." A pause. "Please."</p> <p>Dr. Seidelman fled his office.</p> <p>"… and… of course. <em>You're</em> here, now." The clown sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Come on out, if you want to talk. I know <em>I'm</em> not going anywhere."</p> <p>343 appeared, sitting in Seidelman's chair. Alone. Bobble leered through the television, a grin creeping across his face.</p> <p>"Hrm? What's <em>this</em>? Where's your… <em>project</em>? That girl that the Foundation… <em>adopted</em> for you?"</p> <p>"She left," the old man replied wearily. "She's gone."</p> <p>"… <em>And</em>?"</p> <p>"She's not coming back. We've lost the First."</p> <p>"Oh, so that's it! So you're <em>down</em>, because your favourite girl had a <em>tantrum</em> and ran away." Bobble smiled broadly. "So that fell through. Big deal! What's the plan now, <em>boss</em>?"</p> <p>343 sat silent.</p> <p>"… <em>well</em> then. I expected you to be more on-the-ball than this. One little girl runs away from home and the big bearded bastard falls <em>apart</em>! Come on!! You already know the answer." Bobble sighed, rolling his eyes.</p> <p>"What, then, clown?"</p> <p>"What was that one thing you said, all those years ago…? Oh wait, I got it." He hunched over, miming waving a cane. "'Ooohhhhh there must always be four! The four Riders will… some shit I don't remember.'"</p> <p>343 snorted. "Just spit it out already."</p> <p>"If you need four assistants, go and <em>find</em> one. If you need one more to fulfill your… <em>prophesy</em>, then go and <em>make</em> one. It's <em>so simple</em>. Don't you watch television? People today don't even <em>remember</em> Conquest. They lump it under <em>WAR</em>!" He cackled, leaning in.</p> <p>343 waited.</p> <p>"Pestilence. The fifth Rider everybody seems to <em>rave</em> about. Oh, they always remember War and Death, and <em>maybe</em> sometimes Famine, but never Conquest. No no, it's always Pestilence. <span style="font-size:25%;">Well maybe they forget Famine instead, but whatever. That's not the point.</span>"</p> <p>343's eyes narrowed, and the clown grinned wider.</p> <p>"Yesss, yes, you're getting it now. And you know <em>exactly</em> who I'm talking about, don't you? Frankly, I don't think she's anything special, but I suppose she works thematically. What do <em>you</em> think? She won't replace your precious little <em>princess</em>, but you'll take what you can get, mm?"</p> <p>343 leaned back. "Nothing has gone according to plan." He sighed. "Perhaps… perhaps we shall allow this idea." He tapped his fingers to his forehead. "An aggravating young woman. But certainly not more aggravating than you. Yes, this is what we will do. She will be the First Horseman, as you are the Second."</p> <p>"Fabulous. Off you go, then." Bobble waved to 343. "I wouldn't want to keep you, <em>boss</em>. So much work to do."</p> <p>343 looked angry for a moment, then just sighed. "You do not command me, clown."</p> <p>"I'm only trying to <em>help.</em> I suppose <em>I</em> had better get started, either way." Bobble straightened, turned and walked off to the right, the camera panning with him. Soon the camera panned out, revealing a massive cathedral, lit only by candles and torches. It was as if Bobble walked off one set and onto another. The clown remained of the same bright and cheerful art style as before, with a cheerful jaunt in his step as he made his way to an altar.</p> <p>343 took in the scene. "A bit… blasphemous, isn't it? Even for you."</p> <p>"Me? Oh, of course. I'm damned anyway, and I've always wanted to be a messiah." He looked back to 343, cackling quietly, rubbing his hands together. "<em>Suffer</em> the little children and all that, bring them all to me."</p> <p>343 rolled his eyes. "If you <em>must</em> make a mockery of my words, you could do to pick something more appropriate. Why not 'I come not to bring peace, but a sword'?" He paused. "I came to give you a great sword, as it was written. Today, though, man has laid down the sword and picked up…"</p> <p>"Guns! Yes, yes. Rat-a-tat-fucking-tat. Guns are all the rage in this <em>modern</em> world. A shame really. But with progress comes opportunity!" Bobble paused. "I can pass on the <em>literal</em> sword, if it's all the same to you. After all, what better sword is there today, than a television's antenna?"</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-white-horse">The White Horse (The Conqueror with the Golden Crown)</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/internal-memo-regarding-a-theft">Interlude: A Memo Regarding a Theft</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-red-horse">The Red Horse (The Ironic Metaphor)</a>" by Dexanote, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-red-horse">https://scpwiki.com/the-red-horse</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. ----------- Klaxons blared through Site 12. Throughout the building, screens flickered and filled with static. Televisions, cell phones, computers, and Game Boys, all powering on and filling with nothing. Researchers rushed through the halls to their stations, checking systems and trying to organize. Meanwhile, Dr Seidelman, Head Researcher, toiled in his office. His computer's monitor quietly buzzed with static; his phone sat to his side, angrily screaming for attention. Every line was full. "Then reset it again, Dale," Seidelman barked into the phone. "Just keep trying, I'll get Yung to try again on his end. Just do it, I've got another call." Seidelman switched to line 2. Every sector head was calling him at once. For good reason, too. "Seidelm- No, I don't know what happened. Fourteen nineteen's never done this before." Seidelman scribbled a note to himself. "... Right. Alright. Yes, all media are affected. Not just television. Thank you. Try to reset the jammers. I've g- I just got off the phone with Dale, he's resetting his end. Call him. I have another call, good bye." He took a breath as he switched to line four. "Seidelman." He waited for the response. "Seidelman's office. Hello?" One by one, the lines went quiet. Soon the office was silent, save for the low buzz of the static of the computer monitor. Slowly, Seidelman looked up from the phone to the monitor. Static had been replaced with bright and colourful scene, a simple cartoon image with blues and greys. He recognized it as the main labs, where they recorded each broadcast of SCP-1419. Grey cartoon figures, each of whom Seidelman recognized as his coworkers, slumped across computers and desks; flashes of bright red blood splattered across the scene. “Hello everybody! I’m Bobble the Clown, and welcome to today’s show!” A small explosion of colourful confetti and streamers burst into the middle of the scene. As it all settled, a tall, brightly-coloured figure stood facing the camera, arms spread. A clown, with yellow hair and a big pink nose, drenched in blood from the waist down. Seidelman sat frozen in his seat. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. It was like the clown was staring straight into his soul. “Today is a //very special// episode. The last! That’s right, this will be the last episode of the Bobble the Clown Show! Isn't that //sad//?” Bobble frowned. "But that's okay! Now, we can learn anywhere, any time. I'm going to have a brand new show. Fun for the //whole// family, all thanks to our friends at the Foundation. Thanks to my scientist friends showing me this wonderful new signal, I can be everywhere!" "Theatrical, as always," came a second voice; that of an old man, coming from everywhere yet nowhere. "Doctor, leave." A pause. "Please." Dr. Seidelman fled his office. "... and... of course. //You're// here, now." The clown sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Come on out, if you want to talk. I know //I'm// not going anywhere." 343 appeared, sitting in Seidelman's chair. Alone. Bobble leered through the television, a grin creeping across his face. "Hrm? What's //this//? Where's your... //project//? That girl that the Foundation... //adopted// for you?" "She left," the old man replied wearily. "She's gone." "... //And//?" "She's not coming back. We've lost the First." "Oh, so that's it! So you're //down//, because your favourite girl had a //tantrum// and ran away." Bobble smiled broadly. "So that fell through. Big deal! What's the plan now, //boss//?" 343 sat silent. "... //well// then. I expected you to be more on-the-ball than this. One little girl runs away from home and the big bearded bastard falls //apart//! Come on!! You already know the answer." Bobble sighed, rolling his eyes. "What, then, clown?" "What was that one thing you said, all those years ago...? Oh wait, I got it." He hunched over, miming waving a cane. "'Ooohhhhh there must always be four! The four Riders will... some shit I don't remember.'" 343 snorted. "Just spit it out already." "If you need four assistants, go and //find// one. If you need one more to fulfill your... //prophesy//, then go and //make// one. It's //so simple//. Don't you watch television? People today don't even //remember// Conquest. They lump it under //WAR//!" He cackled, leaning in. 343 waited. "Pestilence. The fifth Rider everybody seems to //rave// about. Oh, they always remember War and Death, and //maybe// sometimes Famine, but never Conquest. No no, it's always Pestilence. [[size 25%]]Well maybe they forget Famine instead, but whatever. That's not the point.[[/size]]" 343's eyes narrowed, and the clown grinned wider. "Yesss, yes, you're getting it now. And you know //exactly// who I'm talking about, don't you? Frankly, I don't think she's anything special, but I suppose she works thematically. What do //you// think? She won't replace your precious little //princess//, but you'll take what you can get, mm?" 343 leaned back. "Nothing has gone according to plan." He sighed. "Perhaps... perhaps we shall allow this idea." He tapped his fingers to his forehead. "An aggravating young woman. But certainly not more aggravating than you. Yes, this is what we will do. She will be the First Horseman, as you are the Second." "Fabulous. Off you go, then." Bobble waved to 343. "I wouldn't want to keep you, //boss//. So much work to do." 343 looked angry for a moment, then just sighed. "You do not command me, clown." "I'm only trying to //help.// I suppose //I// had better get started, either way." Bobble straightened, turned and walked off to the right, the camera panning with him. Soon the camera panned out, revealing a massive cathedral, lit only by candles and torches. It was as if Bobble walked off one set and onto another. The clown remained of the same bright and cheerful art style as before, with a cheerful jaunt in his step as he made his way to an altar. 343 took in the scene. "A bit... blasphemous, isn't it? Even for you." "Me? Oh, of course. I'm damned anyway, and I've always wanted to be a messiah." He looked back to 343, cackling quietly, rubbing his hands together. "//Suffer// the little children and all that, bring them all to me." 343 rolled his eyes. "If you //must// make a mockery of my words, you could do to pick something more appropriate. Why not 'I come not to bring peace, but a sword'?" He paused. "I came to give you a great sword, as it was written. Today, though, man has laid down the sword and picked up..." "Guns! Yes, yes. Rat-a-tat-fucking-tat. Guns are all the rage in this //modern// world. A shame really. But with progress comes opportunity!" Bobble paused. "I can pass on the //literal// sword, if it's all the same to you. After all, what better sword is there today, than a television's antenna?" ------------ [[=]] << [[[The White Horse\|The White Horse (The Conqueror with the Golden Crown)]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Internal Memo Regarding a Theft\|Interlude: A Memo Regarding a Theft]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-05T13:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "bobble-the-clown", "comedy", "competitive-eschatology", "fantasy", "nyc2013", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Red Horse (The Ironic Metaphor) - SCP Foundation	142	[ "the-white-horse", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "internal-memo-regarding-a-theft", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16302016	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-red-horse
the-red-place	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It's not a crystal, it's a portal.</p> <p>I learned this while staring into Anomalous Object P-2145-T's ever-shifting facets. Yes, I had permission to study it. The truth is, my mind just drifted and I began staring. It was fascinating, the way its form changed continually, the way those little flakes of blue and red and purple scintillated just below the opaque white surface.</p> <p>I was being drawn in, deeper, deeper, until I was no longer sitting in Anomalous Storage Room 34-B. I was… somewhere. Everywhere and nowhere. As if in a dream, I saw a scene before me and a thing that was supposed to be me, yet couldn't be me.</p> <p>The world was bathed in red light, like a photograph darkroom. A vast looming blackness lurked behind the light, threatening to swallow it and return the world to the abyss from which it had spawned. The scene was framed with stark mountains, their faces like bleeding toenails in the light. They were bare save for various stones that sprouted haphazardly from them, as though growing in the rock face.</p> <p>Yet for all that unfathomable immensity, the space upon which I looked was claustrophobic. The mountains nearest me were lower than those surrounding them, and hollow in the center. From them emerged enormous black silhouettes, like rounded tubes whose true natures I could not comprehend. They rocked slowly back and forth in the still air. Again and again, an enormous filament would emerge from the top of one, a ghastly thing as long as the creature's body, wreathed in swirling tendrils. Down it would snap, into the ruddy soil of that barren world, and then up again, retracting into the mouth that had spawned it.</p> <p>Out, down, retract! Snap, snap, snap!</p> <p>I was unable to do anything but watch them continue this behavior. I realized their targets were hundreds upon thousands of tiny black shapes that scuttled about the hills, oblivious to the sessile predators that towered over the landscape. The filaments speared the dots by the dozens and drew them back into the gaping maws.</p> <p>I felt a shudder run through me, and I did not know why.</p> <p>From the sky came a flash of light, and a tiny fireball rocketed to the earth. Then another appeared, and another, and soon there were dozens, streaking willy-nilly to impact with the red hills. Sometimes they left craters. Sometimes they were swallowed by the loose soil. Sometimes they annihilated the stone tumors growing from the mountainsides. Everywhere they landed, they flashed again and again, and I realized there must not have been an atmosphere, for I could hear no explosions, nor had I heard anything since finding myself in that alien landscape. With each explosion, hundreds of miniscule pinpricks of light were released, and the mountains were pockmarked with a shower of debris. Entire cosmoses of light were born and extinguished in moments. It was beautiful.</p> <p>One of the exploding meteorites drew close to one of the titanic monarchs of the red valley and the tendril lashed out. It was met with an explosion and withdrew. Just as quickly as they had begun, the flashes began to die out. The final one attracted once more the attention of one of the creatures, that had not learned its lesson previously about airborne meals. This catch was successful, the tendril curling around the light and drawing it into the mouth. The top of the creature lit with an explosion, and a plume of dust curled out of the top.</p> <p>Then the third feeder, the one that towered above its massive brethren, launched its tendril at me, catching me fast and drawing me inward.</p> <p>In that instant, a thought came unbidden to my mind. The universe, it is theorized, began with an explosion, just a tiny speck of all-matter that burst and became all that we know and can conceive of. It expanded and expanded. Some say it will expand infinitely; some say that one day, it will simply stop, and everything will cease to be. Others claim that eventually a limit will be reached, after which the expansion will reverse. Further theories propound that the cycle will begin anew thereafter, creating a new universe and cycling indefinitely.</p> <p>As the thing-that-could-not-be-me was dragged helplessly into the mouth of the thing-that-could-not-be, I knew what I would see. There, beyond the toothless maw, down the stygian esophagus to the incomprehensible depths of that being's stomach, lay a panoply of lights, uncountable by the human mind.</p> <p>This creature, this mammoth tunicate whose existence was nothing more than an endless cycle of feed and feed again, had gotten lucky. It had plucked a star from the sky and taken it into itself fast enough to escape detonation, and now held within itself an expanding collection of stars, and I was being hurtled right into their center.</p> <p>I know where these anomalous objects come from. I know why the Big Bang happened. I know that there will never be a Big Crunch.</p> <p>For within that being's stomach, we all exist. We expand and expand, and eventually our existence will be ripped apart. There will be no repeating cycle. In our future, there lies only digestion.</p> <blockquote> <p>Researcher Mayhew was granted a leave of absence for psychological evaluation on ██/██/████. Attempts to corroborate his statement about Anomalous Object P-2145-T have so far provided no results. However, reclassification as an SCP object is currently under consideration should testing prove productive.</p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-red-place">The Red Place</a>" by TL333s, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-red-place">https://scpwiki.com/the-red-place</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It's not a crystal, it's a portal. I learned this while staring into Anomalous Object P-2145-T's ever-shifting facets. Yes, I had permission to study it. The truth is, my mind just drifted and I began staring. It was fascinating, the way its form changed continually, the way those little flakes of blue and red and purple scintillated just below the opaque white surface. I was being drawn in, deeper, deeper, until I was no longer sitting in Anomalous Storage Room 34-B. I was… somewhere. Everywhere and nowhere. As if in a dream, I saw a scene before me and a thing that was supposed to be me, yet couldn't be me. The world was bathed in red light, like a photograph darkroom. A vast looming blackness lurked behind the light, threatening to swallow it and return the world to the abyss from which it had spawned. The scene was framed with stark mountains, their faces like bleeding toenails in the light. They were bare save for various stones that sprouted haphazardly from them, as though growing in the rock face. Yet for all that unfathomable immensity, the space upon which I looked was claustrophobic. The mountains nearest me were lower than those surrounding them, and hollow in the center. From them emerged enormous black silhouettes, like rounded tubes whose true natures I could not comprehend. They rocked slowly back and forth in the still air. Again and again, an enormous filament would emerge from the top of one, a ghastly thing as long as the creature's body, wreathed in swirling tendrils. Down it would snap, into the ruddy soil of that barren world, and then up again, retracting into the mouth that had spawned it. Out, down, retract! Snap, snap, snap! I was unable to do anything but watch them continue this behavior. I realized their targets were hundreds upon thousands of tiny black shapes that scuttled about the hills, oblivious to the sessile predators that towered over the landscape. The filaments speared the dots by the dozens and drew them back into the gaping maws. I felt a shudder run through me, and I did not know why. From the sky came a flash of light, and a tiny fireball rocketed to the earth. Then another appeared, and another, and soon there were dozens, streaking willy-nilly to impact with the red hills. Sometimes they left craters. Sometimes they were swallowed by the loose soil. Sometimes they annihilated the stone tumors growing from the mountainsides. Everywhere they landed, they flashed again and again, and I realized there must not have been an atmosphere, for I could hear no explosions, nor had I heard anything since finding myself in that alien landscape. With each explosion, hundreds of miniscule pinpricks of light were released, and the mountains were pockmarked with a shower of debris. Entire cosmoses of light were born and extinguished in moments. It was beautiful. One of the exploding meteorites drew close to one of the titanic monarchs of the red valley and the tendril lashed out. It was met with an explosion and withdrew. Just as quickly as they had begun, the flashes began to die out. The final one attracted once more the attention of one of the creatures, that had not learned its lesson previously about airborne meals. This catch was successful, the tendril curling around the light and drawing it into the mouth. The top of the creature lit with an explosion, and a plume of dust curled out of the top. Then the third feeder, the one that towered above its massive brethren, launched its tendril at me, catching me fast and drawing me inward. In that instant, a thought came unbidden to my mind. The universe, it is theorized, began with an explosion, just a tiny speck of all-matter that burst and became all that we know and can conceive of. It expanded and expanded. Some say it will expand infinitely; some say that one day, it will simply stop, and everything will cease to be. Others claim that eventually a limit will be reached, after which the expansion will reverse. Further theories propound that the cycle will begin anew thereafter, creating a new universe and cycling indefinitely. As the thing-that-could-not-be-me was dragged helplessly into the mouth of the thing-that-could-not-be, I knew what I would see. There, beyond the toothless maw, down the stygian esophagus to the incomprehensible depths of that being's stomach, lay a panoply of lights, uncountable by the human mind. This creature, this mammoth tunicate whose existence was nothing more than an endless cycle of feed and feed again, had gotten lucky. It had plucked a star from the sky and taken it into itself fast enough to escape detonation, and now held within itself an expanding collection of stars, and I was being hurtled right into their center. I know where these anomalous objects come from. I know why the Big Bang happened. I know that there will never be a Big Crunch. For within that being's stomach, we all exist. We expand and expand, and eventually our existence will be ripped apart. There will be no repeating cycle. In our future, there lies only digestion. > Researcher Mayhew was granted a leave of absence for psychological evaluation on ██/██/████. Attempts to corroborate his statement about Anomalous Object P-2145-T have so far provided no results. However, reclassification as an SCP object is currently under consideration should testing prove productive. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-30T04:02:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "cosmic-horror", "first-person", "horror", "no-dialogue", "otherworldly", "surrealism", "tale" ]	The Red Place - SCP Foundation	18	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013" ]	[]	20812608	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-red-place
the-rest-of-the-story	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> Simon Glass was kicking himself for the decision the narrator had made. "Sending Clef and Dimitri on a fucking sabbatical?! What were they thinking!" His behavior produced several bizarre looks from the other researchers and SCPs who were currently Out of Character between readings. Lord Blackwood, his form alternating between a sea slug and a dapper British adventurer, shook his head at Glass and <em>tsked</em>. 682 leaned on the water cooler and raised several eyebrows at the ranting doctor, and Tristan Bailey simply rolled his eyes and tried to ignore Simon. <p>"I mean, for the love of crap, the tale isn't even that interesting! All they do is sit on the beach in Rio and drink fucking Mojitos! Does Rio de Janeiro even have beaches? Fuck it all!" In his anger, he accidentally ran into Dr. Thaddeus Xyank, making him late for his appearance in Incursion by about two sentences. "Oh. Um. Sorry, Thad."</p> <p>"Let me guess: angry about the new Clef thing? Saw you were in it…" Xyank shook his head and sighed. "Just forget about it. It'll get downvoted to crap in an instant."</p> <p>"That's not it, though! I <em>hate</em> Clef and Dmitri! They think that just because their authors are such big-shots, they get to do whatever they want in the stories with no consequences! For fucks sake, wasn't Clef being considered for SCP Classification at one point?"</p> <p>Xyank crossed his arms and frowned. "Simon, what does that plaque over there say?" He indicated a brass plaque on the wall that bore the true motto of the Foundation.</p> <p>Glass sighed, rubbing his arm. "There is no canon."</p> <p>"Exactly. Now, if you'll excuse me, Piedmont is going to be pissed that I haven't shown up yet. Hope they can write around it!" With that, Xyank ran off to a door marked "Incursion", and ducked inside quickly. Simon shook his head and continued walking towards the cafeteria.</p> <p>The cafeteria was actually part of the SCP Foundation sandbox site, where old, unpublished drafts and deleted sandboxes were reconstituted into food for the various characters to write. Sometimes, it even took on the appearance of places from the tales; today, it looked like the inside of Vladimir's from "Agricola in Insula est Poeta", despite the fact that it wouldn't be published for a few more years, but time had no meaning in the realm of fiction. Mary-Ann was sitting in the corner with a member of AWCY? that would appear in the story, going over their lines. Glass sat at the bar counter, and sighed. "I'll have a bottle of hard adjectives, please."</p> <p>To Simon's surprise, Kondraki was behind the counter. "Hey."</p> <p>Simon blinked owlishly. "Draki? The hell are you doing working cafeteria duty?"</p> <p>Kondraki shrugged. "I've barely been used in tales in years, but administration still has to find something for me to do, just in case. I hear this lolFoundation canon may boost my popularity again… might be kinda fun, being a reality bender."</p> <p>Simon asked curiously, "Weren't you in that Abridged thing with 239?" Kondraki scowled at him, and Glass put up his hands defensively. "All right, all right, I'm just saying that a lot of people liked that tale!"</p> <p>"I don't like to talk about it," he muttered, pouring him a cherry-flavored adjective. "Here we go."</p> <p>Simon took the adjective and sniffed at it, before taking a sip. "Mmmm… can I ask you a question, K?"</p> <p>Kondraki nodded. "I suppose…"</p> <p>"Do you actually hate Clef, or is that just a character trait of yours?"</p> <p>"I don't like him, I'll say that much. For someone whose main character trait is that he hunts reality benders…"</p> <p>Glass tapped his fingers on the bar, being silent for a few seconds. "I want him to die."</p> <p>"I'm sure there's at least one tale out there where he does."</p> <p>"No, I mean it. I want him and Strelnikov to croak. I want them to die in a tale, and then I want them to fall out of popularity so hard that they're never used again."</p> <p>Kondraki frowned, and looked around; Mary-Ann and the AWCY member had left, and only a minor background character that was used in an exploration log of some kind remained. "Between you and me… I have a few plot devices I've been saving for a rainy day. A hijacking, an undercover GOC operative, a cameo appearance… if we can find the tale, we can lob a few in, see if that can kill them."</p> <p>Simon grinned. "It's behind the door marked "Clef and Dmitri Hit the Road. Let's do it. Start with the hijacking!"</p> <hr/> <p>"Chechens. <em>Fucking</em> Chechens. The one time we try to put a hijacking plot device in, and it's a bunch of god-damn Chechens."</p> <p>"Simon, I fail to see the problem-"</p> <p>"Strelnikov only has three character traits: he's a badass, he's Russian, and he hates Chechnya! Gimme the GOC operative one."</p> <p>"…I threw it in by mistake. It hit the steward that Clef tried seducing."</p> <p>"…wait, isn't Clef repulsive to women?" Simon reached into his labcoat, and brought out Clef's personnel file. "Yeah, says right here, 'the individual has a slimy personality that causes all females within ██ ██████ to instinctively recoil in horror'. Nice continuity ya got there…"</p> <p>"Simon, what does it say on that plaque?" Kondraki pointed onto the plaque across the hall from the doorway.</p> <p>"It says 'The next person who asks Dr. Simon Glass what that plaque says is getting a brain cancer plot twist stuffed in his rectal cavity'." He dug into the bag of plot twists and brought out one marked "Redneck Attack", and threw it in the door, where narrative winds carried it to about the halfway point of the story.</p> <hr/> <p>"…well, at least we got some half-decent dialog out of Strelnikov from that." Kondraki rubbed his face and sighed. "Let's face it. They aren't going to die, not in this tale, at any rate. Maybe we'd have better luck over at Classical Revival?"</p> <p>"NO!" Glass rummaged through the bag. "They have to die in this one! It has to make some kind of impact! It can't be like that tale with the super-long title where the sun goes out! Here!" He took up a plot device marked 'Random strippers pick up our heroes in a car' and frowned at it. "…why is this in your reserves, Draki?"</p> <p>Kondraki frowned. "A man has to indulge himself sometimes, all right? Being a badass in hundreds of readings of Incident-239-B Clef/Kondraki every week gets exhausting. Just… don't throw it in-"</p> <p>"Look out!" Able was thrown down the hallway by the Plague Doctor. The badass Gary Stu fell on top of Dr. Glass, causing him to drop the plot device into the open door. SCP-049 stood over Able and frowned. "I told you that you can't come in Club CB because you're not in Containment Breach. For the last damn time, Able, <em>stay out.</em>" With that, 049 walked off back to Club CB, while Able walked off in the opposite direction, defeated.</p> <p>Meanwhile, in Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road, Clef was asking how far away a strip club was. Out of spite, Glass threw in a "GOC Abduction" and a "Covert GOC Operative" plot device. He grinned as he saw Clef and Dimitri get drugged by blonde bimbos. "Konny?"</p> <p>"Simon?"</p> <p>"I think we're done here."</p> <hr/> <p>The gossip spread like wildfire. Someone had interfered with Clef and Strelnikov's latest production. There was talk of the two stars being trapped in a GOC interrogation room, and the writers not knowing how to get them out of it. In his office, Simon Glass sat back in his chair and grinned like a Cheshire Cat.</p> <p><em>Excellent. No more Clef, no more Strelnikov… no more nothing!</em> He clapped his hands and giggled with glee. He was <em>free</em> of the two largest Mary Sues on the site! Now, maybe the fandom would progress past them and- what was this in his pocket?</p> <p>Glass frowned, digging in the pocket of his labcoat. He pulled out a plot device labeled "Deus Ex Machina!". Glass instantly blanched, placing the thing on his desk and slowly backing away. A sudden appearance of a Deus Ex Machina was <em>never</em> a good thing. He had to get rid of it somehow…</p> <p>He took off his coat, and placed the plot device inside of it as if it were simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. He had to get it in the Sandbox before it did any damage…</p> <p>He ran out of his office, and started down the corridor towards the sandbox. All he had to do was go through the Rat's Nest corridor, go through the Site-77 annex, maybe take a shortcut through his own personnel file, and above all, <em>not drop the Deus Ex Machina</em>. If he could take it to some poor newbie writer's sandbox, he would be fine…</p> <p>"Coming through!" announced Glass to a group of characters from Competitive Eschatology. "Deus Ex Machina, very dangerous!" The corridor suddenly thinned considerably as he ran past them, getting to the end of the general tales corridor now, and he soon would be in the Canon Annex-</p> <p>Suddenly, a door opened in his face, shattering the plot device in his hand and giving Simon Glass a bloody nose. He groaned, looking up at the door that had opened in his face, wondering who the hell was coming out of it; the red "READING" light was on above it, so it had to be something relatively new-</p> <p>The door read "Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road." Simon Glass turned pale, before a polite cough came from behind the door. He stood up, and looked at a ukelele that Dr. Clef was holding in front of him defensively. "Simon! W-we were just coming to find you… perhaps you could assist us in ending the tale? It got quite harried in there, you see; we nearly died."</p> <p>Simon Glass's eye twitched slightly as Strelnikov joined Dr. Clef. "Da. We need to conclude the story. The three of us."</p> <p>"T-Three…?" asked Glass, shaking with both fear and anger; fear of Administration finding out what he had done, and anger at the fact it had been all for naught.</p> <p>Clef pulled a dazed-looking Agent Yoric out of the door. "Um. Yes, you see, that GOC thing somehow led to Agent Yoric being captured, so we need to conclude the story, and you seemed to be the logical conclusion, you see. Um."</p> <p>Dr. Simon Glass put on a plastered-on smile, dying inside with each word he spoke. "I would be happy to help my esteemed colleagues complete a tale… let me just… grab a script." He walked towards the nearest script dispenser, screaming internally the entire time. After several agonizing steps, he walked back to the door, and stepped in, not letting a single peep out for fear he would break character.</p> <p>Simon Glass hated Dr. Clef. And he vowed that one day, he would ruin him. Forever.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-rest-of-the-story">The Rest of the Story</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-rest-of-the-story">https://scpwiki.com/the-rest-of-the-story</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Simon Glass was kicking himself for the decision the narrator had made. "Sending Clef and Dimitri on a fucking sabbatical?! What were they thinking!" His behavior produced several bizarre looks from the other researchers and SCPs who were currently Out of Character between readings. Lord Blackwood, his form alternating between a sea slug and a dapper British adventurer, shook his head at Glass and //tsked//. 682 leaned on the water cooler and raised several eyebrows at the ranting doctor, and Tristan Bailey simply rolled his eyes and tried to ignore Simon. "I mean, for the love of crap, the tale isn't even that interesting! All they do is sit on the beach in Rio and drink fucking Mojitos! Does Rio de Janeiro even have beaches? Fuck it all!" In his anger, he accidentally ran into Dr. Thaddeus Xyank, making him late for his appearance in Incursion by about two sentences. "Oh. Um. Sorry, Thad." "Let me guess: angry about the new Clef thing? Saw you were in it..." Xyank shook his head and sighed. "Just forget about it. It'll get downvoted to crap in an instant." "That's not it, though! I //hate// Clef and Dmitri! They think that just because their authors are such big-shots, they get to do whatever they want in the stories with no consequences! For fucks sake, wasn't Clef being considered for SCP Classification at one point?" Xyank crossed his arms and frowned. "Simon, what does that plaque over there say?" He indicated a brass plaque on the wall that bore the true motto of the Foundation. Glass sighed, rubbing his arm. "There is no canon." "Exactly. Now, if you'll excuse me, Piedmont is going to be pissed that I haven't shown up yet. Hope they can write around it!" With that, Xyank ran off to a door marked "Incursion", and ducked inside quickly. Simon shook his head and continued walking towards the cafeteria. The cafeteria was actually part of the SCP Foundation sandbox site, where old, unpublished drafts and deleted sandboxes were reconstituted into food for the various characters to write. Sometimes, it even took on the appearance of places from the tales; today, it looked like the inside of Vladimir's from "Agricola in Insula est Poeta", despite the fact that it wouldn't be published for a few more years, but time had no meaning in the realm of fiction. Mary-Ann was sitting in the corner with a member of AWCY? that would appear in the story, going over their lines. Glass sat at the bar counter, and sighed. "I'll have a bottle of hard adjectives, please." To Simon's surprise, Kondraki was behind the counter. "Hey." Simon blinked owlishly. "Draki? The hell are you doing working cafeteria duty?" Kondraki shrugged. "I've barely been used in tales in years, but administration still has to find something for me to do, just in case. I hear this lolFoundation canon may boost my popularity again... might be kinda fun, being a reality bender." Simon asked curiously, "Weren't you in that Abridged thing with 239?" Kondraki scowled at him, and Glass put up his hands defensively. "All right, all right, I'm just saying that a lot of people liked that tale!" "I don't like to talk about it," he muttered, pouring him a cherry-flavored adjective. "Here we go." Simon took the adjective and sniffed at it, before taking a sip. "Mmmm... can I ask you a question, K?" Kondraki nodded. "I suppose..." "Do you actually hate Clef, or is that just a character trait of yours?" "I don't like him, I'll say that much. For someone whose main character trait is that he hunts reality benders..." Glass tapped his fingers on the bar, being silent for a few seconds. "I want him to die." "I'm sure there's at least one tale out there where he does." "No, I mean it. I want him and Strelnikov to croak. I want them to die in a tale, and then I want them to fall out of popularity so hard that they're never used again." Kondraki frowned, and looked around; Mary-Ann and the AWCY member had left, and only a minor background character that was used in an exploration log of some kind remained. "Between you and me... I have a few plot devices I've been saving for a rainy day. A hijacking, an undercover GOC operative, a cameo appearance... if we can find the tale, we can lob a few in, see if that can kill them." Simon grinned. "It's behind the door marked "Clef and Dmitri Hit the Road. Let's do it. Start with the hijacking!" ------ "Chechens. //Fucking// Chechens. The one time we try to put a hijacking plot device in, and it's a bunch of god-damn Chechens." "Simon, I fail to see the problem-" "Strelnikov only has three character traits: he's a badass, he's Russian, and he hates Chechnya! Gimme the GOC operative one." "...I threw it in by mistake. It hit the steward that Clef tried seducing." "...wait, isn't Clef repulsive to women?" Simon reached into his labcoat, and brought out Clef's personnel file. "Yeah, says right here, 'the individual has a slimy personality that causes all females within ██ ██████ to instinctively recoil in horror'. Nice continuity ya got there..." "Simon, what does it say on that plaque?" Kondraki pointed onto the plaque across the hall from the doorway. "It says 'The next person who asks Dr. Simon Glass what that plaque says is getting a brain cancer plot twist stuffed in his rectal cavity'." He dug into the bag of plot twists and brought out one marked "Redneck Attack", and threw it in the door, where narrative winds carried it to about the halfway point of the story. ------ "...well, at least we got some half-decent dialog out of Strelnikov from that." Kondraki rubbed his face and sighed. "Let's face it. They aren't going to die, not in this tale, at any rate. Maybe we'd have better luck over at Classical Revival?" "NO!" Glass rummaged through the bag. "They have to die in this one! It has to make some kind of impact! It can't be like that tale with the super-long title where the sun goes out! Here!" He took up a plot device marked 'Random strippers pick up our heroes in a car' and frowned at it. "...why is this in your reserves, Draki?" Kondraki frowned. "A man has to indulge himself sometimes, all right? Being a badass in hundreds of readings of Incident-239-B Clef/Kondraki every week gets exhausting. Just... don't throw it in-" "Look out!" Able was thrown down the hallway by the Plague Doctor. The badass Gary Stu fell on top of Dr. Glass, causing him to drop the plot device into the open door. SCP-049 stood over Able and frowned. "I told you that you can't come in Club CB because you're not in Containment Breach. For the last damn time, Able, //stay out.//" With that, 049 walked off back to Club CB, while Able walked off in the opposite direction, defeated. Meanwhile, in Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road, Clef was asking how far away a strip club was. Out of spite, Glass threw in a "GOC Abduction" and a "Covert GOC Operative" plot device. He grinned as he saw Clef and Dimitri get drugged by blonde bimbos. "Konny?" "Simon?" "I think we're done here." ------ The gossip spread like wildfire. Someone had interfered with Clef and Strelnikov's latest production. There was talk of the two stars being trapped in a GOC interrogation room, and the writers not knowing how to get them out of it. In his office, Simon Glass sat back in his chair and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. //Excellent. No more Clef, no more Strelnikov... no more nothing!// He clapped his hands and giggled with glee. He was //free// of the two largest Mary Sues on the site! Now, maybe the fandom would progress past them and- what was this in his pocket? Glass frowned, digging in the pocket of his labcoat. He pulled out a plot device labeled "Deus Ex Machina!". Glass instantly blanched, placing the thing on his desk and slowly backing away. A sudden appearance of a Deus Ex Machina was //never// a good thing. He had to get rid of it somehow... He took off his coat, and placed the plot device inside of it as if it were simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. He had to get it in the Sandbox before it did any damage... He ran out of his office, and started down the corridor towards the sandbox. All he had to do was go through the Rat's Nest corridor, go through the Site-77 annex, maybe take a shortcut through his own personnel file, and above all, //not drop the Deus Ex Machina//. If he could take it to some poor newbie writer's sandbox, he would be fine... "Coming through!" announced Glass to a group of characters from Competitive Eschatology. "Deus Ex Machina, very dangerous!" The corridor suddenly thinned considerably as he ran past them, getting to the end of the general tales corridor now, and he soon would be in the Canon Annex- Suddenly, a door opened in his face, shattering the plot device in his hand and giving Simon Glass a bloody nose. He groaned, looking up at the door that had opened in his face, wondering who the hell was coming out of it; the red "READING" light was on above it, so it had to be something relatively new- The door read "Clef and Dimitri Hit the Road." Simon Glass turned pale, before a polite cough came from behind the door. He stood up, and looked at a ukelele that Dr. Clef was holding in front of him defensively. "Simon! W-we were just coming to find you... perhaps you could assist us in ending the tale? It got quite harried in there, you see; we nearly died." Simon Glass's eye twitched slightly as Strelnikov joined Dr. Clef. "Da. We need to conclude the story. The three of us." "T-Three...?" asked Glass, shaking with both fear and anger; fear of Administration finding out what he had done, and anger at the fact it had been all for naught. Clef pulled a dazed-looking Agent Yoric out of the door. "Um. Yes, you see, that GOC thing somehow led to Agent Yoric being captured, so we need to conclude the story, and you seemed to be the logical conclusion, you see. Um." Dr. Simon Glass put on a plastered-on smile, dying inside with each word he spoke. "I would be happy to help my esteemed colleagues complete a tale... let me just... grab a script." He walked towards the nearest script dispenser, screaming internally the entire time. After several agonizing steps, he walked back to the door, and stepped in, not letting a single peep out for fear he would break character. Simon Glass hated Dr. Clef. And he vowed that one day, he would ruin him. Forever. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-11T04:33:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "agent-yoric", "doctor-clef", "doctor-glass", "plague-doctor", "tale", "thad-xyank" ]	The Rest of the Story - SCP Foundation	88	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "welcome-to-delta-t", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20928808	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-rest-of-the-story
the-serpent-gambit	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=4&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/component%3Abhl-dark-sidebar/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=4&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/component%3Abhl-dark-sidebar/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=3&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Aswirling-ashes/2&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦The Ouroboros (SCP-1203) resets the world.☦</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><em>December 21st, 2090</em><br/> <em>Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent, Teotihuacan, Mexico</em></p> </div> <p>The rats had long been multiplying, and Teotihuacan had become victim to the instability.</p> <p>We were all running, the meaty ground sputtering and bleeding beneath our feet. Our convoy had been overrun before we could make the turn into the temple compound, and the group had been on foot for six minutes. We ran against a current of red mist.</p> <p>The Temple of the Quetzalcoatl was a dull pink and purple bump in the distance, and the stars were blackened by the twisting streams of blood. The silhouettes of giant, bulbous masses crawled across the Pyramid of the Sun across the north river, and hoards of things pulsated beneath them.</p> <p>The Ouroboros was sedated, carried by four of our men in her body bag like pallbearers over the slithering earth. Two of their Agents stopped to help another who had been disabled by a crawling stretch of intestine. They were not a priority, and we continued on.</p> <p>This operation was one of seven running concurrently. The Ouroboros recently became unclassified to select members of the Serpent’s Hand and myself. Relations between us have always been hostile, but necessity of our cooperation was too great. Only the Archivists had the information necessary to ensure the proper ritual at the Temple summit.</p> <p>Once completed, the world would reset to a time before it went to hell. In this case, 2012.</p> <p>We could hear our pursuers’ dogs barking in the distance, and we could tell the Ouroboros was beginning to contract. The two imperiled Foundation Agents were yards off in the distance now, and one had been sucked into the womb of the earth. We heard a gunshot. The other had been executed by the Madmen.</p> <p>We made our way to the uneasy footing of the temple rise. I stood with the guards at the foot of the rise while the Archivists and the couriers made their way up to the platform with the Ouroboros. We stood with our weapons readied as the ground birthed headless men with sputtering necks. They ran into our fire stupidly, fell easily, but they began to come in swarms.</p> <p>The Madmen screamed wildly in the distance.</p> <p>Soon we were overrun. My friend was absorbed into one of the chest of a fleshman. I was to become a victim soon. I was grappled to the ground as the blood from its hanging esophagus sputtered over my face.</p> <p>I heard the Archivists screaming on the roof of the temple platform. I could feel the pressure of the golem veins as they bonded with my own.</p> <p>Before my exsanguination, I heard the Great Serpent’s roar.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><em>December 21st, 2012<br/> Site-10</em></p> </div> <p><strong>Transcript of 1203-█:</strong> 12/21/2012</p> <p><strong>Documentation:</strong> Excerpt from Interview with <a href="/scp-1203">SCP-1203</a>.<br/> Translated Revision</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> We would like to ask you a few questions, are you capable of speech?<br/> <br/> <strong>SCP-1203:</strong> I can’t believe they did it.<br/> <br/> <strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> Excuse me?<br/> <br/> <strong>SCP-1203-:</strong> They brought the knife down on themselves.<br/> <br/> <strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> I am not sure what you are referring to.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1203:</strong> The ritual. I can still hear you screaming.</p> <p><strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> Please make yourself clear.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1203:</strong> You were there, but it cannot be evinced.</p> <p><strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> Continue.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1203:</strong> I could not control my reaction. I’m sorry. Everything was consumed.</p> <p><strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> Please clarify.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1203:</strong> Please do not attempt this again. It is unpleasant for me. The pains of this kind of birth are unbearable.</p> <p><strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> Please continue.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1203:</strong> The world is as it was despite what you’ve done. Time has not changed. It can’t be.</p> <p><strong>Dr. ███████:</strong> What exactly are you saying? What exactly have “we” done?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1203:</strong> You have done nothing. You are newborn.</p> <p><Interview Concluded></p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\| <a href="/rat-s-nest-hub">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-serpent-gambit">The Serpent Gambit</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-serpent-gambit">https://scpwiki.com/the-serpent-gambit</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:black-highlighter-theme">:scp-wiki:theme:black-highlighter-theme</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:bhl-dark-sidebar">:scp-wiki:component:bhl-dark-sidebar</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:swirling-ashes">:scp-wiki:theme:swirling-ashes</a>]] [[size 0%]]☦The Ouroboros (SCP-1203) resets the world.☦ [[/size]] [[=]] //December 21st, 2090// //Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent, Teotihuacan, Mexico// [[/=]] The rats had long been multiplying, and Teotihuacan had become victim to the instability. We were all running, the meaty ground sputtering and bleeding beneath our feet. Our convoy had been overrun before we could make the turn into the temple compound, and the group had been on foot for six minutes. We ran against a current of red mist. The Temple of the Quetzalcoatl was a dull pink and purple bump in the distance, and the stars were blackened by the twisting streams of blood. The silhouettes of giant, bulbous masses crawled across the Pyramid of the Sun across the north river, and hoards of things pulsated beneath them. The Ouroboros was sedated, carried by four of our men in her body bag like pallbearers over the slithering earth. Two of their Agents stopped to help another who had been disabled by a crawling stretch of intestine. They were not a priority, and we continued on. This operation was one of seven running concurrently. The Ouroboros recently became unclassified to select members of the Serpent’s Hand and myself. Relations between us have always been hostile, but necessity of our cooperation was too great. Only the Archivists had the information necessary to ensure the proper ritual at the Temple summit. Once completed, the world would reset to a time before it went to hell. In this case, 2012. We could hear our pursuers’ dogs barking in the distance, and we could tell the Ouroboros was beginning to contract. The two imperiled Foundation Agents were yards off in the distance now, and one had been sucked into the womb of the earth. We heard a gunshot. The other had been executed by the Madmen. We made our way to the uneasy footing of the temple rise. I stood with the guards at the foot of the rise while the Archivists and the couriers made their way up to the platform with the Ouroboros. We stood with our weapons readied as the ground birthed headless men with sputtering necks. They ran into our fire stupidly, fell easily, but they began to come in swarms. The Madmen screamed wildly in the distance. Soon we were overrun. My friend was absorbed into one of the chest of a fleshman. I was to become a victim soon. I was grappled to the ground as the blood from its hanging esophagus sputtered over my face. I heard the Archivists screaming on the roof of the temple platform. I could feel the pressure of the golem veins as they bonded with my own. Before my exsanguination, I heard the Great Serpent’s roar. ------ [[=]] //December 21st, 2012 Site-10// [[/=]] Transcript of 1203-█: 12/21/2012 Documentation: Excerpt from Interview with [[[SCP-1203]]]. Translated Revision > Dr. ███████: We would like to ask you a few questions, are you capable of speech? > > SCP-1203: I can’t believe they did it. > > Dr. ███████: Excuse me? > > SCP-1203-: They brought the knife down on themselves. > > Dr. ███████: I am not sure what you are referring to. > > SCP-1203: The ritual. I can still hear you screaming. > > Dr. ███████: Please make yourself clear. > > SCP-1203: You were there, but it cannot be evinced. > > Dr. ███████: Continue. > > SCP-1203: I could not control my reaction. I’m sorry. Everything was consumed. > > Dr. ███████: Please clarify. > > SCP-1203: Please do not attempt this again. It is unpleasant for me. The pains of this kind of birth are unbearable. > > Dr. ███████: Please continue. > > SCP-1203: The world is as it was despite what you’ve done. Time has not changed. It can’t be. > > Dr. ███████: What exactly are you saying? What exactly have “we” done? > > SCP-1203: You have done nothing. You are newborn. > > <Interview Concluded> [[=]] \| [[[Rat's Nest Hub\| Hub]]] \| [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=faminepulse]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T05:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "fantasy", "horror", "mystery", "mythological", "rats-nest", "tale" ]	The Serpent Gambit - SCP Foundation	94	[ "scp-1203", "rat-s-nest-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "rat-s-nest-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16194650	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-serpent-gambit
the-settling-ash	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>In light of the containment breach at Site-36 early this morning, it has been decided by this administrative committee the Horizon Initiative has acted in violation to the terms of the Non-Interference Operations Pact. As such, the Foundation has withdrawn from this pact, though it recognizes that the breach was the result of rogue agents within the Horizon Initiative. Further investigation of SCP-089 and its purported influence upon Foundation personnel is ongoing.</p> <p>This committee has also seen it fit to award Mary-Ann Lewitt an honorary Foundation Star for her part in neutralizing SCP-089. In addition, the body of Ms. Lewitt has been returned to the Horizon Initiative, as a sign of goodwill to relieve tensions during dissolution of the Non-Interference Operations Pact.</p> <p>- Overseer 04</p> </blockquote> <p>—</p> <p>The main drawback of Samson’s braid, DeMontfort determined, was that when it was removed, all the damage sustained during its use, and all the pain that went with it, came back at once.</p> <p>Five fractures, a broken leg, two bullet wounds, internal bleeding. For a man of his age and condition, it was something of a miracle that he survived it. He was quite certain he’d be better off dead.</p> <p>The justice had been swift this time around. Relics taken back, Malleus dissolved completely, his position stripped from him permanently, his future a certain reassignment to some backwater research project or monotonous desk job somewhere where he could cause no trouble and work off his penance for a decade or so. Either that, and he shuddered to consider this alternative, or they would send him back to parish work.</p> <p>Ugh. Might as well drown out the pain and boredom and survivor’s guilt with that mightiest of man’s creations, television.</p> <p>He pressed the remote on the arm of his hospital bed. The TV on the wall flicked on, to reveal <em>Dora the Explorer</em> going about her pitiful purgatorial existence. Thankfully, it was muted.</p> <p><em>Hey. Fuckface.</em></p> <p>DeMontfort blinked. Yes, those subtitles said exactly that. He reached for his bedside table. Napkin…pen…there.</p> <p><em>Hello, Deer.</em> DeMontfort wrote on the napkin.</p> <p><em>About time you got in touch. Goddamn, son. That was impressive shit. Nearly brought a tear to my eye.</em></p> <p><em>You? Caring about things? Perish the thought.</em></p> <p><em>I gotta care, ‘cause if I don’t, I’m just going to be bored. You fucked shit up, and I respect that. Not as much as Top Mom McLiftsalot, but hey, you do what you can do.</em></p> <p><em>That’s the closest I’ve heard to a compliment out of you.</em></p> <p><em>Guess you’re on your way out, eh? Good for ya. You’re well overdue for an ass-stick-oscopy.</em></p> <p><em>It’s a pity I promised not to hunt you down anymore.</em></p> <p><em>I know, I’m an inconsolable mess over it. If we keep going on this route we’ll end up in a buddy cop movie and GOD FUCKING DAMMIT SWIPER I’M TRYING TO HAVE A CONVERSATION HERE…bah, whatever. What I’m trying to say is keep yer head up. You ain’t dead yet, and let’s be honest, that never stopped me. Didn’t stop her either.</em></p> <p>DeMontfort didn’t know what to make of this. Human emotion from Saturn Deer?</p> <p><em>Bear in mind, I say that only because if you give up, I’m a Joker without a Batman, and that’s no fun.</em></p> <p>Ah, there it was. That made more sense.</p> <p><em>Now if you’ll excuse me, I got shit to do, money to steal, and bitches to fuck.</em></p> <p>The subtitles shifted back to their usual dissertation of preschool Spanish. DeMontfort changed the channel. Maybe there was a game on.</p> <p>—</p> <blockquote> <p>Hey. If you’re reading this, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it home.</p> <p>I hate the fact that I’m writing this, honestly. Part of me wonders if it’s a good idea at all: it might just cause you more pain, to hear me after I’m gone. Then I realize that I need to write this, because if I don’t, some things might go unsaid. I can’t let that happen.</p> <p>I love you.</p> <p>Salah, you’re my best friend, and the best man I know, and the best husband I could have ever asked for. You were there when I needed you, (and even when I didn’t), and made the little moments of my life meaningful. I know you’ll raise Naomi right: You’ve got this.</p> <p>Naomi, I’m sorry I won’t be there for you. I’m sorry you’ll only ever have stories and pictures of me. Just know that I love you, and I’m proud of you. Watch over your dad for me, okay? Don’t want him stirring up too much trouble. And take care of that guitar: It’s yours now. It got me through a war, so whenever you’re feeling down, just play away.</p> <p>As a final thought…don’t mourn me too much, okay? Get those tears out and then put that chin up. Always keep looking for the little things that make life good. The world is a tough and ugly place, but there’s more than enough good to make all the pain worth it. God's in the little things.</p> <p>You two taught me that.</p> <p>I love you both, and I always will.</p> </blockquote> <p>—</p> <p><em>I, Salah Zairi, hereby resign from active duty in the Shepherd Corps of the Horizon Initiative…</em></p> <p>—</p> <p>Salah laid Naomi down in her crib. First night home from the hospital. First night of the rest of her life. The scars would stay, as would the damage to her lungs, and she would grow up knowing no life but one filled with those injuries, but it would be life.</p> <p>The house was quiet. Dark. Empty. And yet Salah felt like he would simply walk into the next room and find Mary-Ann sleeping on the couch, exhausted from work or from playing with Naomi, hair all frazzled and snoring gently.</p> <p>But she wasn’t there. The house was hollow. The living room was dark. The bedroom was empty. The kitchen was cold. The feeling was finally sinking in, now that Salah no longer found himself spending every free moment at the hospital with Naomi.</p> <p>Salah walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. He’d make some soup for himself and go to bed. He hadn’t eaten all day. He felt like sleeping forever.</p> <p>It took a moment to realize that he had opened the wrong cupboard. Instead of canned soup and corn and peas, there were plates and cups, and a glass bottle with a thumb of whiskey left in the bottom. The last little bit of Mary-Ann’s rainy-day stash.</p> <p>There was a pang of pain. This was the last anchor of Mary-Ann in the house: her guitar had been passed on to Naomi, and most anything else was just dressing. Just <em>things</em>. Not really <em>hers</em>. But this was hers, and it would just linger in that cabinet and grow old and dusty and unused. Well and truly dead.</p> <p>Salah stared at it for a moment, before reaching for the bottle and the tumbler that sat next to it. A thought had occurred to him, and without hesitation he was going to follow it through. The young man he thought tamed dusted himself off and screamed at him, screamed that he was turning his back on his own identity, that he would be no proper Muslim. Salah told the young man to shut up and fuck off. Identity? Who was he, when you really got down to it? A Muslim who loved the Queen of England and wrote essays on Chaucer and had heard the Clockwork Voice of God. A man born in obedience, raised in hate, turned to peace, who had found love and ended up with more questions than answers. He was Salah, and right now there was one thing he was sure of. There was one Truth he could define with absolute conviction right now: No god worth worshipping would throw a hissy fit over a man who wanted proper closure.</p> <p>He sat down at the table, opened the bottle, and poured himself what was left.</p> <p>“Here’s to you.”</p> <p>He lifted the tumbler and drank its contents in one swift gulp.</p> <p><strong>Eight Years Later</strong></p> <p>Naomi Ibtisam Zairi-Lewitt sat on top of her father’s desk, legs dangling over the edge. A thick book rested in her lap, and her face was scrunched in concentration as she read it. She had a day off from school today, so she had spent it exploring the English department and browsing through her father’s collection of literature under the watchful eye of Joan of Arc on the wall.</p> <p>A few feet away, Salah typed away at his computer, putting the finishing touches on his e-mail.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>…Either way, I’m thrilled that they’ve considered review of the Old Brass Gospel for entry into the Universal Texts. Three cheers for progress! We might actually be able to see it published before we die of old age. (Though it will probably take them another decade to make any changes.)</em></p> <p><em>Give my best to the others. Naomi and I will visit soon.</em></p> <p><em>God bless</em></p> <p><em>-Salah</em></p> </blockquote> <p>“You ready to go home, sweet pea?” he said to his daughter.</p> <p>“Yeah.” Naomi shut her book, hopped off the desk, and began to gather her books and drawings and inhaler into her backpack. Salah sent his e-mail, shut down his computer, and collected his papers from under the paperweight that had the entire Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks on it in minuscule print. A short time later, the two left the office.</p> <p>To anyone watching in the hall, they would have seen nothing but two average people: one a man with glasses and a few grey hairs at his temples and a red paisley tie and a grey jacket and a brown briefcase. The other a skinny, dark-skinned girl with dirty straw hair and scabby knees and burn scars all over and a bright blue t-shirt with Pikachu on the front and a cherry-red backpack and twiggy arms weighed down with books.</p> <p>They went home, and had dinner, and finished the rest of Naomi’s math homework, and after a while Salah tucked her into bed, though he knew she would stay up late reading the next chapter of <em>Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān</em> anyway. Salah sat up a while and graded papers, and then went to bed himself.</p> <p>Life went on.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/empire-of-dirt-part-3">Empire of Dirt (Part 3)</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-settling-ash">The Settling Ash</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-settling-ash">https://scpwiki.com/the-settling-ash</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > In light of the containment breach at Site-36 early this morning, it has been decided by this administrative committee the Horizon Initiative has acted in violation to the terms of the Non-Interference Operations Pact. As such, the Foundation has withdrawn from this pact, though it recognizes that the breach was the result of rogue agents within the Horizon Initiative. Further investigation of SCP-089 and its purported influence upon Foundation personnel is ongoing. > > This committee has also seen it fit to award Mary-Ann Lewitt an honorary Foundation Star for her part in neutralizing SCP-089. In addition, the body of Ms. Lewitt has been returned to the Horizon Initiative, as a sign of goodwill to relieve tensions during dissolution of the Non-Interference Operations Pact. > > - Overseer 04 -- The main drawback of Samson’s braid, DeMontfort determined, was that when it was removed, all the damage sustained during its use, and all the pain that went with it, came back at once. Five fractures, a broken leg, two bullet wounds, internal bleeding. For a man of his age and condition, it was something of a miracle that he survived it. He was quite certain he’d be better off dead. The justice had been swift this time around. Relics taken back, Malleus dissolved completely, his position stripped from him permanently, his future a certain reassignment to some backwater research project or monotonous desk job somewhere where he could cause no trouble and work off his penance for a decade or so. Either that, and he shuddered to consider this alternative, or they would send him back to parish work. Ugh. Might as well drown out the pain and boredom and survivor’s guilt with that mightiest of man’s creations, television. He pressed the remote on the arm of his hospital bed. The TV on the wall flicked on, to reveal //Dora the Explorer// going about her pitiful purgatorial existence. Thankfully, it was muted. //Hey. Fuckface.// DeMontfort blinked. Yes, those subtitles said exactly that. He reached for his bedside table. Napkin…pen…there. //Hello, Deer.// DeMontfort wrote on the napkin. //About time you got in touch. Goddamn, son. That was impressive shit. Nearly brought a tear to my eye.// //You? Caring about things? Perish the thought.// //I gotta care, ‘cause if I don’t, I’m just going to be bored. You fucked shit up, and I respect that. Not as much as Top Mom McLiftsalot, but hey, you do what you can do.// //That’s the closest I’ve heard to a compliment out of you.// //Guess you’re on your way out, eh? Good for ya. You’re well overdue for an ass-stick-oscopy.// //It’s a pity I promised not to hunt you down anymore.// //I know, I’m an inconsolable mess over it. If we keep going on this route we’ll end up in a buddy cop movie and GOD FUCKING DAMMIT SWIPER I’M TRYING TO HAVE A CONVERSATION HERE…bah, whatever. What I’m trying to say is keep yer head up. You ain’t dead yet, and let’s be honest, that never stopped me. Didn’t stop her either.// DeMontfort didn’t know what to make of this. Human emotion from Saturn Deer? //Bear in mind, I say that only because if you give up, I’m a Joker without a Batman, and that’s no fun.// Ah, there it was. That made more sense. //Now if you’ll excuse me, I got shit to do, money to steal, and bitches to fuck.// The subtitles shifted back to their usual dissertation of preschool Spanish. DeMontfort changed the channel. Maybe there was a game on. -- > Hey. If you’re reading this, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it home. > > I hate the fact that I’m writing this, honestly. Part of me wonders if it’s a good idea at all: it might just cause you more pain, to hear me after I’m gone. Then I realize that I need to write this, because if I don’t, some things might go unsaid. I can’t let that happen. > > I love you. > > Salah, you’re my best friend, and the best man I know, and the best husband I could have ever asked for. You were there when I needed you, (and even when I didn’t), and made the little moments of my life meaningful. I know you’ll raise Naomi right: You’ve got this. > > Naomi, I’m sorry I won’t be there for you. I’m sorry you’ll only ever have stories and pictures of me. Just know that I love you, and I’m proud of you. Watch over your dad for me, okay? Don’t want him stirring up too much trouble. And take care of that guitar: It’s yours now. It got me through a war, so whenever you’re feeling down, just play away. > > As a final thought…don’t mourn me too much, okay? Get those tears out and then put that chin up. Always keep looking for the little things that make life good. The world is a tough and ugly place, but there’s more than enough good to make all the pain worth it. God's in the little things. > > You two taught me that. > > I love you both, and I always will. -- //I, Salah Zairi, hereby resign from active duty in the Shepherd Corps of the Horizon Initiative…// -- Salah laid Naomi down in her crib. First night home from the hospital. First night of the rest of her life. The scars would stay, as would the damage to her lungs, and she would grow up knowing no life but one filled with those injuries, but it would be life. The house was quiet. Dark. Empty. And yet Salah felt like he would simply walk into the next room and find Mary-Ann sleeping on the couch, exhausted from work or from playing with Naomi, hair all frazzled and snoring gently. But she wasn’t there. The house was hollow. The living room was dark. The bedroom was empty. The kitchen was cold. The feeling was finally sinking in, now that Salah no longer found himself spending every free moment at the hospital with Naomi. Salah walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. He’d make some soup for himself and go to bed. He hadn’t eaten all day. He felt like sleeping forever. It took a moment to realize that he had opened the wrong cupboard. Instead of canned soup and corn and peas, there were plates and cups, and a glass bottle with a thumb of whiskey left in the bottom. The last little bit of Mary-Ann’s rainy-day stash. There was a pang of pain. This was the last anchor of Mary-Ann in the house: her guitar had been passed on to Naomi, and most anything else was just dressing. Just //things//. Not really //hers//. But this was hers, and it would just linger in that cabinet and grow old and dusty and unused. Well and truly dead. Salah stared at it for a moment, before reaching for the bottle and the tumbler that sat next to it. A thought had occurred to him, and without hesitation he was going to follow it through. The young man he thought tamed dusted himself off and screamed at him, screamed that he was turning his back on his own identity, that he would be no proper Muslim. Salah told the young man to shut up and fuck off. Identity? Who was he, when you really got down to it? A Muslim who loved the Queen of England and wrote essays on Chaucer and had heard the Clockwork Voice of God. A man born in obedience, raised in hate, turned to peace, who had found love and ended up with more questions than answers. He was Salah, and right now there was one thing he was sure of. There was one Truth he could define with absolute conviction right now: No god worth worshipping would throw a hissy fit over a man who wanted proper closure. He sat down at the table, opened the bottle, and poured himself what was left. “Here’s to you.” He lifted the tumbler and drank its contents in one swift gulp. Eight Years Later Naomi Ibtisam Zairi-Lewitt sat on top of her father’s desk, legs dangling over the edge. A thick book rested in her lap, and her face was scrunched in concentration as she read it. She had a day off from school today, so she had spent it exploring the English department and browsing through her father’s collection of literature under the watchful eye of Joan of Arc on the wall. A few feet away, Salah typed away at his computer, putting the finishing touches on his e-mail. > //…Either way, I’m thrilled that they’ve considered review of the Old Brass Gospel for entry into the Universal Texts. Three cheers for progress! We might actually be able to see it published before we die of old age. (Though it will probably take them another decade to make any changes.)// > > //Give my best to the others. Naomi and I will visit soon.// > > //God bless// > > //-Salah// “You ready to go home, sweet pea?” he said to his daughter. “Yeah.” Naomi shut her book, hopped off the desk, and began to gather her books and drawings and inhaler into her backpack. Salah sent his e-mail, shut down his computer, and collected his papers from under the paperweight that had the entire Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks on it in minuscule print. A short time later, the two left the office. To anyone watching in the hall, they would have seen nothing but two average people: one a man with glasses and a few grey hairs at his temples and a red paisley tie and a grey jacket and a brown briefcase. The other a skinny, dark-skinned girl with dirty straw hair and scabby knees and burn scars all over and a bright blue t-shirt with Pikachu on the front and a cherry-red backpack and twiggy arms weighed down with books. They went home, and had dinner, and finished the rest of Naomi’s math homework, and after a while Salah tucked her into bed, though he knew she would stay up late reading the next chapter of //Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān// anyway. Salah sat up a while and graded papers, and then went to bed himself. Life went on. [[=]] << [[[Empire of Dirt (Part 3)]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-21T18:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "saturn-deer", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	The Settling Ash - SCP Foundation	111	[ "empire-of-dirt-part-3", "etdp-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	18012829	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-settling-ash
the-stranger-and-the-secretary	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Oh my, hello!" exclaimed the secretary, her wide smile unwavering despite her surprise at the rather abrupt appearance of the stranger now standing before her. He looked very out of place here, his dark grey suit and hat clashing poorly with the colorful backdrop of the office, and his serious expression was definitely out of place. Didn't he know where he was? "What can I do for you, sir?"</p> <p>"I'd like to take a look at your stock, if you don't mind," replied the stranger, his voice as stern and serious as his face. If the secretary didn't know any better, she would have said this odd man did not want to be here. "I understand you are the people to go to if one is looking for… interesting items."</p> <p>The secretary practically leaped from her desk in excitement and clapped her hands together. It wasn't often they received visitors, and tours happened even less often than that. "Absolutely! I'd be more than happy to show you around! Follow me, please!" She gestured for the stranger to follow her. The stranger nodded and accompanied the secretary down the hall.</p> <p>"We are very excited that you are interested in Doctor Wondertainment's products. As you are probably aware, Doctor Wondertainment has created many unique and interesting toys, all of which have come to find loving homes with children around the world. From the humble Super Paper to the grand Amaze-O Diving Tank, Doctor Wondertainment's products are guaranteed to put a smile on a child's face, or your money back!" The secretary laughed at her little "joke" as the stranger remained silent, showing no sign of interest or enthusiasm.</p> <p>The secretary (who was now feeling rather uncomfortable with her guest) cleared her throat loudly, then asked, "So what sort of toy are you looking for? We have a wide variety of products that can create almost any kind of experience you're looking to give a young one close to you. For instance, if you know a little girl who has always wanted to be a princess, she'd absolutely love a Wondertainment Royal Kingdom Playset, where she can be the princess of her very own kingdom! Or, if you're shopping for a boy who loves exploring, give him a thrill with a Wondertainment Safariventu-"</p> <p>"I'm not looking for an experience," the stranger interrupted, sounding rather annoyed at the secretary's nonstop sales pitch. "I'm looking for ideas, something that provides answers and set m- the one I'm shopping for on the right path. I don't know if you have anything like that, so if you do not please let me know now so we don't waste any more of each other’s time."</p> <p>Undeterred by the stranger's rude interruption, the secretary smiled as the pair came to an intersection in the hall. "I think we can accommodate your needs." The secretary looked down each of the three halls, paused, then began briskly walking down the left hall, still eager to hopefully unite this odd man with a toy that put a smile on his face. The hall was lined with plain wooden doors, each leading to a small white room, and a window next to each door to see inside.</p> <p>The secretary paused, then started again on another sales pitch. "Here we have Doctor Wondertainment's newest line of Little Misters. From its outset, Doctor Wondertainment has striven to bring happiness to children, and the Little Misters series is the most ambitious attempt at doing so. Other products are designed as toys, inanimate things that can be picked up and put down on a whim. While Doctor Wondertainment's are the most whimsical toys in this or any other universe, it's a sad fact that they can't truly fulfill a child's needs in the long term. Companionship, trust, love, agency, acceptance… these are what children need to grow, to succeed and to attain lifetime happiness. This is where the Little Misters come in. Each of our Little Misters are designed to be the best friend of the child they accompany, while remaining fun and exciting. Through this, a child has an ally, someone to help find their path."</p> <p>The secretary stopped next to a window, and the stranger peered inside. Sitting in the middle of the room was a dark mass of gas that was vaguely humanoid shaped, not moving even to breathe. "For example, this is Mister Miasma, who has the ability to possess any organism, living or otherwise, and make it his own. In doing this, Mister Miasma will always be able to be with his child in any situation," said the secretary. With no feedback coming from the stranger, the duo moved to the next window.</p> <p>In this room was a man, dressed in all black and wearing face paint to look like a mime. The man appeared to be laughing raucously, pacing energetically from one corner of the room to another. "This is Mister Tears, who is able to make others feel sad with every word he says. While it may sound counterintuitive to make children feel bad, this actually teaches children that it is okay to be sad, and that everyone sheds tears, even adults," said the secretary, hoping that her makeshift explanation was enough to justify this Mister's existence to the stranger. Still getting no response, the secretary moved to the next window.</p> <p>"And this is Mister Nobody."</p> <p>The stranger snapped to attention, his interest fully piqued as he peered through the window. In this room sat another man, wearing no clothes but having no reproductive organs to cover up. His skin was pure white and he had no hair on his body. Relieved that she had finally found something that caught the strangers’ attention, the secretary knocked on the door. Mister Nobody stood up from his chair and walked over to the window, allowing the stranger to get a good look at his face. The Mister's expressionless face was as white as the rest of his body, and his eyes had no color to them at all.</p> <p>"Mister Nobody represents the ultimate friend: one without any previous life whatsoever. When children make friends, it's inevitable that somewhere along the line they make rifts between each other, gaps that are born out of each others differences. These rifts can often break friendships and leave children more alone than ever. Mister Nobody is the answer to this problem: he has no biases, no conflicting issues, no previous life whatsoever to speak of! Everything about him is designed to give him no identity whatsoever. This way, children can create their own identity for him, to mold him and create the perfect friend." The secretary smiled and looked at the stranger eagerly. She could tell this one was a winner. "Tell me; what are your thoughts about Mister Nobody, sir?"</p> <p>The stranger looked at the secretary, paused, and looked back at Mister Nobody. Though his face held no expression whatsoever, the stranger could see sadness behind the blank eyes, an unknown yearning for that most basic right all living beings should possess. The stranger stared into that emptiness for a long time before responding. "I think this would be a horrible existence."</p> <p>The secretary cocked her head to the side, confused. "I'm sorry?"</p> <p>The stranger took a deep breath before continuing. "I think that having no identity whatsoever would be a horrible life to have. Can't you even begin to imagine what that's like? Being only given whatever identity that's assigned to you at any given moment, never truly knowing what it's like to be you, all because someone or something else said that you didn't exist? That would be utter hell! You could wander the world, experience many incredible and amazing things that few others could ever hope to see… and you would still be miserable because in the end you would still know that ultimately you are alone."</p> <p>Taken aback by this sudden display of emotion, the secretary remained quiet for a moment before responding. Her voice shook as she tried to compose herself. "I- I think you may be overthinking Mister Nobody's situation, sir. After all, the point of Mister Nobody isn't that he doesn't have an identity, it's that he finds his identity. The moment he steps out into the world, he begins his quest to find out who he is, and he is helped by those around him. He won't always be this way, sir. Even if it takes him his entire life, Mister Nobody will find an identity of his own."</p> <p>The stranger looked at the secretary, this time with a strange look on his face. It was as though the idea of finding one's identity was an alien concept to him. His expression softened slightly, and he grasped the secretary's hand, shaking it. "Thank you very much for your time, however I must be on my way." And with that, the stranger bolted down the hall.</p> <p>The secretary ran after him, worried this man would get into trouble. "Sir! You must be accompanied at all times during the tour!" Eventually she reached the intersection, but there wasn't anyone down any of the halls. Sighing, the secretary walked back to her desk. If the stranger got into any more trouble now, it wasn't her fault.</p> <p>Meanwhile, enclosed in his small white room, Mister Nobody sat as patiently as always. Though they didn't know it, he was able to hear every part of the conversation, and the strange man in the trench coat was right. It was lonely, being Mister Nobody. But the conversation sparked a new, foreign feeling in his mind, one he hadn't ever felt before. He didn't even have a name for it, but this feeling made him want to smile, and as he smiled he formed his very first independent thought. He repeated it to himself over and over and as he did the new feeling kept growing and growing. Finally, he spoke the words that inspired such strong feelings within him.</p> <p>"I will not be a nobody forever."<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-stranger-and-the-secretary">The Stranger and the Secretary</a>" by CryogenChaos, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-stranger-and-the-secretary">https://scpwiki.com/the-stranger-and-the-secretary</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "Oh my, hello!" exclaimed the secretary, her wide smile unwavering despite her surprise at the rather abrupt appearance of the stranger now standing before her. He looked very out of place here, his dark grey suit and hat clashing poorly with the colorful backdrop of the office, and his serious expression was definitely out of place. Didn't he know where he was? "What can I do for you, sir?" "I'd like to take a look at your stock, if you don't mind," replied the stranger, his voice as stern and serious as his face. If the secretary didn't know any better, she would have said this odd man did not want to be here. "I understand you are the people to go to if one is looking for... interesting items." The secretary practically leaped from her desk in excitement and clapped her hands together. It wasn't often they received visitors, and tours happened even less often than that. "Absolutely! I'd be more than happy to show you around! Follow me, please!" She gestured for the stranger to follow her. The stranger nodded and accompanied the secretary down the hall. "We are very excited that you are interested in Doctor Wondertainment's products. As you are probably aware, Doctor Wondertainment has created many unique and interesting toys, all of which have come to find loving homes with children around the world. From the humble Super Paper to the grand Amaze-O Diving Tank, Doctor Wondertainment's products are guaranteed to put a smile on a child's face, or your money back!" The secretary laughed at her little "joke" as the stranger remained silent, showing no sign of interest or enthusiasm. The secretary (who was now feeling rather uncomfortable with her guest) cleared her throat loudly, then asked, "So what sort of toy are you looking for? We have a wide variety of products that can create almost any kind of experience you're looking to give a young one close to you. For instance, if you know a little girl who has always wanted to be a princess, she'd absolutely love a Wondertainment Royal Kingdom Playset, where she can be the princess of her very own kingdom! Or, if you're shopping for a boy who loves exploring, give him a thrill with a Wondertainment Safariventu-" "I'm not looking for an experience," the stranger interrupted, sounding rather annoyed at the secretary's nonstop sales pitch. "I'm looking for ideas, something that provides answers and set m- the one I'm shopping for on the right path. I don't know if you have anything like that, so if you do not please let me know now so we don't waste any more of each other’s time." Undeterred by the stranger's rude interruption, the secretary smiled as the pair came to an intersection in the hall. "I think we can accommodate your needs." The secretary looked down each of the three halls, paused, then began briskly walking down the left hall, still eager to hopefully unite this odd man with a toy that put a smile on his face. The hall was lined with plain wooden doors, each leading to a small white room, and a window next to each door to see inside. The secretary paused, then started again on another sales pitch. "Here we have Doctor Wondertainment's newest line of Little Misters. From its outset, Doctor Wondertainment has striven to bring happiness to children, and the Little Misters series is the most ambitious attempt at doing so. Other products are designed as toys, inanimate things that can be picked up and put down on a whim. While Doctor Wondertainment's are the most whimsical toys in this or any other universe, it's a sad fact that they can't truly fulfill a child's needs in the long term. Companionship, trust, love, agency, acceptance... these are what children need to grow, to succeed and to attain lifetime happiness. This is where the Little Misters come in. Each of our Little Misters are designed to be the best friend of the child they accompany, while remaining fun and exciting. Through this, a child has an ally, someone to help find their path." The secretary stopped next to a window, and the stranger peered inside. Sitting in the middle of the room was a dark mass of gas that was vaguely humanoid shaped, not moving even to breathe. "For example, this is Mister Miasma, who has the ability to possess any organism, living or otherwise, and make it his own. In doing this, Mister Miasma will always be able to be with his child in any situation," said the secretary. With no feedback coming from the stranger, the duo moved to the next window. In this room was a man, dressed in all black and wearing face paint to look like a mime. The man appeared to be laughing raucously, pacing energetically from one corner of the room to another. "This is Mister Tears, who is able to make others feel sad with every word he says. While it may sound counterintuitive to make children feel bad, this actually teaches children that it is okay to be sad, and that everyone sheds tears, even adults," said the secretary, hoping that her makeshift explanation was enough to justify this Mister's existence to the stranger. Still getting no response, the secretary moved to the next window. "And this is Mister Nobody." The stranger snapped to attention, his interest fully piqued as he peered through the window. In this room sat another man, wearing no clothes but having no reproductive organs to cover up. His skin was pure white and he had no hair on his body. Relieved that she had finally found something that caught the strangers’ attention, the secretary knocked on the door. Mister Nobody stood up from his chair and walked over to the window, allowing the stranger to get a good look at his face. The Mister's expressionless face was as white as the rest of his body, and his eyes had no color to them at all. "Mister Nobody represents the ultimate friend: one without any previous life whatsoever. When children make friends, it's inevitable that somewhere along the line they make rifts between each other, gaps that are born out of each others differences. These rifts can often break friendships and leave children more alone than ever. Mister Nobody is the answer to this problem: he has no biases, no conflicting issues, no previous life whatsoever to speak of! Everything about him is designed to give him no identity whatsoever. This way, children can create their own identity for him, to mold him and create the perfect friend." The secretary smiled and looked at the stranger eagerly. She could tell this one was a winner. "Tell me; what are your thoughts about Mister Nobody, sir?" The stranger looked at the secretary, paused, and looked back at Mister Nobody. Though his face held no expression whatsoever, the stranger could see sadness behind the blank eyes, an unknown yearning for that most basic right all living beings should possess. The stranger stared into that emptiness for a long time before responding. "I think this would be a horrible existence." The secretary cocked her head to the side, confused. "I'm sorry?" The stranger took a deep breath before continuing. "I think that having no identity whatsoever would be a horrible life to have. Can't you even begin to imagine what that's like? Being only given whatever identity that's assigned to you at any given moment, never truly knowing what it's like to be you, all because someone or something else said that you didn't exist? That would be utter hell! You could wander the world, experience many incredible and amazing things that few others could ever hope to see... and you would still be miserable because in the end you would still know that ultimately you are alone." Taken aback by this sudden display of emotion, the secretary remained quiet for a moment before responding. Her voice shook as she tried to compose herself. "I- I think you may be overthinking Mister Nobody's situation, sir. After all, the point of Mister Nobody isn't that he doesn't have an identity, it's that he finds his identity. The moment he steps out into the world, he begins his quest to find out who he is, and he is helped by those around him. He won't always be this way, sir. Even if it takes him his entire life, Mister Nobody will find an identity of his own." The stranger looked at the secretary, this time with a strange look on his face. It was as though the idea of finding one's identity was an alien concept to him. His expression softened slightly, and he grasped the secretary's hand, shaking it. "Thank you very much for your time, however I must be on my way." And with that, the stranger bolted down the hall. The secretary ran after him, worried this man would get into trouble. "Sir! You must be accompanied at all times during the tour!" Eventually she reached the intersection, but there wasn't anyone down any of the halls. Sighing, the secretary walked back to her desk. If the stranger got into any more trouble now, it wasn't her fault. Meanwhile, enclosed in his small white room, Mister Nobody sat as patiently as always. Though they didn't know it, he was able to hear every part of the conversation, and the strange man in the trench coat was right. It was lonely, being Mister Nobody. But the conversation sparked a new, foreign feeling in his mind, one he hadn't ever felt before. He didn't even have a name for it, but this feeling made him want to smile, and as he smiled he formed his very first independent thought. He repeated it to himself over and over and as he did the new feeling kept growing and growing. Finally, he spoke the words that inspired such strong feelings within him. "I will not be a nobody forever." @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-30T00:18:00	[ "_licensebox", "bittersweet", "corporate", "dr-wondertainment", "man-who-wasnt-there", "nobody", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	The Stranger and the Secretary - SCP Foundation	142	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	16239103	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-stranger-and-the-secretary
the-tale-of-the-library	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It began with a word. Eventually it would swell to become something greater. It would envelop reality and become the heart of all universes. It would join world to world and unite people in its halls. But it began with a word, and a man.</p> <p>The word was carved into a rock. The man stood above it and, in the bottom of his mind, felt something stir. He did not know that he had just changed the course of all worlds, but he could feel something was different. The world had become a bit more orderly.</p> <p>He began to carve more words. The rocks surrounding him became a dictionary. Soon, the man was surrounded by language. The words stretched for miles in all directions, and he was still not satisfied. He began to look for more things to carve. He wrote words into the sand at his feet. He inscribed them on trees and in fields. All thought him mad. To them he was a crazed man drawing symbols with no meaning everywhere he went. And he was. But he was also something more.</p> <p>Others began to carve. They followed his patterns, observed his technique, and began to create an alphabet for themselves. Soon there was not a spot in the world untouched by the wordsmiths. One had the idea to join two words together, and a phrase was formed. Sentences followed, paragraphs next, and pages and stories.</p> <p>But all works were temporary. Rocks were eroded by wind and rain, sand polished flat by ocean tides, and wood was burned to ash. The followers despaired to see their work destroyed, but the man kept writing, so they kept writing. Stories lengthened until they became beasts eating away at entire mountainsides. Still the man was not satisfied. While his disciples created epics and poems, he continued to carve one word at a time. He traveled, never stopping except to lean down and scratch the earth. His followers, if they could be called that anymore, saw this as folly. They had all the words they needed to create beautiful prose. They could bring a man to his knees with a sentence. What need had they for new words?</p> <p>By now, they had wrought the earth bare. There were no more forests or mountains or beaches. There was only a dry, stone page. Men spent years carving into miles of rock their masterpiece. When finished they would erase their work and begin anew. Each strove to top the other, to master their literary skills. All were devoted to the words. Only one, however, was devoted to the Word.</p> <p>One hundred and thirty years after the man etched the first rock, he stopped, laid his tools at his feet, laid down, and died. No one noticed. He had long ago left their thoughts. Those who remembered him did so as a tittering fool stuck in the past. No one appreciated his true genius.</p> <p>As his final act, he had made a carving in the stone. Like the rest, it was only one symbol. Three lines, four curves. And yet it was the most powerful of them all.</p> <p>The ground around it began to crack. It expanded and pushed out, swallowing great swathes of earth, the stories contained on them, the storytellers. Rock gave way to void. The skies burned black and descended to feast. Millions died by fire and fear and hate, and their prose died with them. And when all was finished, when the skies rose back up to their rightful place and the earth calmed itself, the world had become a word. The greatest word, one that would ring out through all of creation. It had become the Library.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-tale-of-the-library">The Tale of the Library</a>" by rumetzen, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-tale-of-the-library">https://scpwiki.com/the-tale-of-the-library</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] It began with a word. Eventually it would swell to become something greater. It would envelop reality and become the heart of all universes. It would join world to world and unite people in its halls. But it began with a word, and a man. The word was carved into a rock. The man stood above it and, in the bottom of his mind, felt something stir. He did not know that he had just changed the course of all worlds, but he could feel something was different. The world had become a bit more orderly. He began to carve more words. The rocks surrounding him became a dictionary. Soon, the man was surrounded by language. The words stretched for miles in all directions, and he was still not satisfied. He began to look for more things to carve. He wrote words into the sand at his feet. He inscribed them on trees and in fields. All thought him mad. To them he was a crazed man drawing symbols with no meaning everywhere he went. And he was. But he was also something more. Others began to carve. They followed his patterns, observed his technique, and began to create an alphabet for themselves. Soon there was not a spot in the world untouched by the wordsmiths. One had the idea to join two words together, and a phrase was formed. Sentences followed, paragraphs next, and pages and stories. But all works were temporary. Rocks were eroded by wind and rain, sand polished flat by ocean tides, and wood was burned to ash. The followers despaired to see their work destroyed, but the man kept writing, so they kept writing. Stories lengthened until they became beasts eating away at entire mountainsides. Still the man was not satisfied. While his disciples created epics and poems, he continued to carve one word at a time. He traveled, never stopping except to lean down and scratch the earth. His followers, if they could be called that anymore, saw this as folly. They had all the words they needed to create beautiful prose. They could bring a man to his knees with a sentence. What need had they for new words? By now, they had wrought the earth bare. There were no more forests or mountains or beaches. There was only a dry, stone page. Men spent years carving into miles of rock their masterpiece. When finished they would erase their work and begin anew. Each strove to top the other, to master their literary skills. All were devoted to the words. Only one, however, was devoted to the Word. One hundred and thirty years after the man etched the first rock, he stopped, laid his tools at his feet, laid down, and died. No one noticed. He had long ago left their thoughts. Those who remembered him did so as a tittering fool stuck in the past. No one appreciated his true genius. As his final act, he had made a carving in the stone. Like the rest, it was only one symbol. Three lines, four curves. And yet it was the most powerful of them all. The ground around it began to crack. It expanded and pushed out, swallowing great swathes of earth, the stories contained on them, the storytellers. Rock gave way to void. The skies burned black and descended to feast. Millions died by fire and fear and hate, and their prose died with them. And when all was finished, when the skies rose back up to their rightful place and the earth calmed itself, the world had become a word. The greatest word, one that would ring out through all of creation. It had become the Library. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T05:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "only-game-in-town", "tale", "wanderers-library" ]	The Tale of the Library - SCP Foundation	122	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "only-game-in-town-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16194644	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-tale-of-the-library
the-tick-tock-gospel	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Gilgamesh roamed the wilderness, and cried bitterly<br/> over his friend Enkidu.<br/> “I am going to die! – Am I not like Enkidu?<br/> I fear death, and now roam the wilderness.<br/> I will set out to the land of faraway Utnapishtim, son of Ubartutu,<br/> And will go with utmost dispatch<br/> To seek life everlasting”</p> </blockquote> <p>“I don’t like the look of this, Salah,” Masun said, looking sideways at the four Wolves unpacking the mules. “You know what they’re like.”</p> <p>“It’s only a precaution. With any luck, this place will be empty, and the scribes can come in and do their job.”</p> <p>“I hope you’re right.”</p> <p>Salah had seen a great many doors to a great many places of worship, and in comparison this was almost too simple: only as big as the entry of a home, with a simple swinging slab to serve as a door, and the only ornamentation was a carving of a gear above the entryway. It was located at the back end of a thin gulley, accessible only by donkey, hidden from the rest of the world. Far too small and humble for the Church of the Broken God. They preferred their places of worship big and visible, and many times animated. Salah remembered the walking cathedral that had been the news of the year when he joined the Initiative. Most likely, this was only a small chapel built by a few worshipers that had been driven into hiding long ago. This region was a good place for hiding.</p> <p>Salah hoped that it would just be some empty rooms beyond that slab. He wanted to be home: two weeks away was too long for his liking.</p> <p>“Rashid, are you ready?” he called over to the Wolves. The leader of that group, a young man with a scar on his right cheek, nodded.</p> <blockquote> <p>Then he reached Mount Mashu,<br/> Which guards the daily rising of the sun, and<br/> The gate to the pass into the land of Utnapishtim<br/> Was guarded by great scorpion-beasts.<br/> Upon the left a thing like a great heart, babbling<br/> Like a man with fever.<br/> Upon the right, a beast within the shadows,<br/> A beast with one hundred legs.</p> </blockquote> <p>The entrance led to a small, square antechamber, and beyond that, the main hall of worship, a natural cavern with perhaps enough room for twenty people, illuminated now by their flashlights. The walls were engraved with the usual symbols: Gears of Wisdom, the Eternal Clocks, Iron Saints with cog-shaped halos. The style was far less detailed than the modern designs of the Church, but very much recognizable. The altar had been stripped of its decoration by looters a long time ago: the wall behind it was a chipped and faded mural of the Machine Radiant hovering above the prostrate masses. Small passages led off to the sides: priests’ quarters and storerooms, most likely.</p> <p>“Rashid, if you and your men will take care of the side rooms, Masun and I will handle this chamber. Bring back anything you might find.”</p> <p>“Right.”</p> <p>The Wolves tramped off. Salah moved his flashlight beam around the ceiling.</p> <p>“Do any of these look unusual to you?”</p> <p>“No, not at all,” Masun said as he took photos. "It’s old enough to be at an awkward time, but that’s it as far as the unusual bits go.”</p> <p>“A day spent for nothing, then.”</p> <p>“No, not nothing. This is an intriguing find, especially in light of the jihad against the Church in 840. Finding anything from this period this far south is rare. Anything from this region is either far younger, or far older. I would bet that this is built on top of an older ruin.”</p> <p>“Secret passage?”</p> <p>“The Church loves them. I’ll check the altar for the mechanism.”</p> <p>“There’s nothing in any of the side rooms,” Rashid said as he returned to the chapel.</p> <p>“Nothing? No texts, no items?”</p> <p>“Nothing but dust.”</p> <p>Salah nodded. He hadn’t expected much, but at least a dusty copy of the Brass Gospel would have been something to take home.</p> <p>“Aha! Got it!” Masun called out from the altar.</p> <blockquote> <p>[The following 67 lines are missing, wherein Gilgamesh persuades or defeats the beasts.]</p> </blockquote> <p>The wall behind the altar folded in on itself, moved by ancient machinery. The dust settled to reveal a staircase.</p> <p>There we go.</p> <p>“If I know ancient temple complexes, and I do believe that I do,” Salah stood at the cusp of the stairway and swung his beam down into the blackness. “I predict that we will face various traps involving spike pits, dart launchers, and rolling boulders, perhaps a puzzle or two, a monster of some kind, and then a room wherein we will find a small amount of treasure or an individual of some plot importance.”</p> <p>The joke was answered with dust and silence. No laughs, no groans, nothing. Just lonely silence.</p> <p>It was times like these when Salah realized how little he fit in anymore with the world he had grown up in. What sort of Muslim favored the likes of Chaucer and Milton?</p> <p>He wished Mary-Ann was there. She would have elbowed him in the ribs and gone off about suplexing a criosphinx. He belonged there.</p> <p>“Or more likely, it’s just empty.” He shrugged, and took the first step down the stairs.</p> <blockquote> <p>These twelve leagues of darkness,<br/> This path of the dead,<br/> Gilgamesh of Uruk did traverse in a single night<br/> And upon the dawn he found himself in a great valley,<br/> The place there the gods had made their garden,<br/> But the garden was burnt and desolate,<br/> And all was ash.</p> </blockquote> <p>Salah had been wrong and right, as it was. There were no traps, only dark, wide stairs, eventually leading down to another chamber, with another altar and another wall mural. The inner sanctum. This mural looked something like a tree: a trunk of cogwork building up to a single gear, from which sprouted fractal branches, bare of leaves. The design was inlaid with copper and bronze, the metal engraved with tiny lines of script.</p> <p>“What does it say?” Rashid said impatiently.</p> <p>“Hold on, hold on.” Masum squinted at the text. “These aren’t the usual mantras.” He snapped a couple pictures. “It’s an older dialect. Look here: <em>Ahkpan lon-shal khi-khidan</em>. Anywhere else that would be <em>akkaphan lon-sal khiddan</em>. There’s a slight difference in meaning between the two: the older version uses the form of 'evil' without the connotation of 'flesh'."</p> <p>“How old is it?” Salah asked.</p> <p>“This? Four thousand years, at the youngest. The chapel above us is maybe…a thousand. And beyond all that, nowhere here do I see 'Oolzhak Le’an', the God Who Has Been Broken. Instead, we have simply 'maddiz', the machine, but it’s the smaller form. Closer to 'tool'. Masun stood up, brushing off his knees. “Very curious. This might have been converted into a sanctuary afterwards, which if that’s the case, this might be an entrance of sorts.”</p> <p>“An entrance to what?”</p> <p>“I don’t know, and even if I did, I have no idea how to get in. The upper door is a simple key, just arranging the circular plates on the altar. Really nothing more than a complex combination lock. This…I have nothing, if it is a door.” He turned to face the tree. “Iftah ya simsim.”</p> <p>Nothing. He shrugged.</p> <p>“It was worth a try.”</p> <p>“Is there any sort of clue in the text?” Rashid asked.</p> <p>“Not that I can see. I think this would be a job for the scribes.”</p> <p>As he finished his sentence, Salah became acutely aware of footsteps on the stairs behind them.</p> <blockquote> <p>There Gilgamesh came to the house of Utnapishtim<br/> And found that man alone,<br/> Marked with a brand upon his brow<br/> And arms of living metal.<br/> “Why have you come to this place, King of Uruk?<br/> Why have you come to this desolate place?”<br/> Spoke he, with weariness of heart.<br/> “I seek life eternal, son of Ubartutu,<br/> So that I might not die.”<br/> With heavy heart, Utnapishtim spoke again.<br/> “Come, and follow me. I will show you<br/> This thing which you seek<br/> And perhaps it shall spare you<br/> Of your desires.”</p> </blockquote> <p>The man who stood there now was old and shriveled, skin like leather from desert sun. He was clad only in a loincloth, and had a walking stick of copper tubing in his hand. The top of his head was a buzzing, clicking array of gears and clockwork, and his eyes were two glass lenses.</p> <p>The nearest Wolf raised his gun.</p> <p>“Hold fire!” Salah shouted, putting all his authority into the words. The Wolf paused. The old man did not seem particularly fazed by this: in fact, he was smiling.</p> <p>The man started babbling to them. Salah could pick out a few words of Arabic, but the majority was cogspeak. He stepped out of the way, allowing Masun to come to the fore.</p> <p>“Salah, need I remind you that this man is an enemy?” Rashid whispered to him.</p> <p>“He’s unarmed and elderly. Perhaps a nibbanic hermit.”</p> <p>“Do not undermine my authority again, Salah.”</p> <p>Salah found that somewhat funny, as he was fifteen years older than Rashid and far more experienced in the Initiative, but he kept his mouth shut.</p> <p>After some time, Masun turned to face the group.</p> <p>“He says he can show us in, and invites us to rest and refresh ourselves.”</p> <p>“Tell him that we…”</p> <p>“…Will be honored to be his guests.” Salah cut Rashid off.</p> <p>Rashid scowled.</p> <p>“I just told you…”</p> <p>“I cannot undermine your authority if I am leading the expedition, which I am. Calm yourself. We don’t know the whole story.”</p> <p>Masun and the old man finished speaking. The old man skipped over to the tree in the wall, and began poking at the branches with his walking stick, muttering some things to himself, as if reciting a list. The clockwork in his head whirred faster for a few moments before, the wall split apart, stone grinding on stone.</p> <blockquote> <p>Unapistim led Gilgamesh<br/> Through the garden,<br/> Through the blackened trees<br/> And soil of ash.<br/> There were men there,<br/> And women, crawling in the ash,<br/> And their eyes showed no life,<br/> Like a goat, their eyes showed no light.<br/> “These are the sons and daughters of the tree.<br/> They live without death, without<br/> Fear of death. They do not suffer, and<br/> Yet they do not see.”</p> </blockquote> <p>What lay beyond the door was an open space, halfway between cavern and valley, maybe half a mile or so across. A jagged line of sunlight ran through the roof, letting light down into the cave. A river ran through it, flowing down into the earth off to their left. In the distance, Salah could make out the roar of a waterfall. The ground was grassy here, a much more verdant green than what would be expected, and was dotted with various boulders and monoliths, all of which bore some sort of carving on them. A breeze from some unknown source brushed against his face.</p> <p>The old man chattered as he led them down a simple stone path, Masun speaking with him as best as he was able. Here and there Salah could see little stone houses, light shining from within. Some were on the flat floor, but the majority were built up against the walls of the cavern in perilous tiers, braced by a rickety wooden frameworks of walkways and ladders.</p> <p>“Have you learned anything else?” Salah jogged a few steps to walk even with Masun and the old man.</p> <p>“I’ve told him why we’re here, and he asked if we were on pilgrimage to meet the Voice. They have a piece, and it seems to be a big one.”</p> <p>“Then we will destroy it,” Rashid said.</p> <p>“Tell him we are,” Salah said. “Rashid, we are here to investigate. If it must be destroyed, it will be done later. Six of us is too few.”</p> <p>Rashid sulked as Masun talked to the old man some more.</p> <p>“He says he will take you directly to it.”</p> <p>Salah nodded. His stomach was roiling. His mind knew that there was a massive danger involved in this, but his gut said that he was safe. The old man seemed to be completely in control of his own mind. The villagers that were emerging from their homes to watch the procession from the margins looked much the same. Men, women, and children, all of them touched by clockwork, but all still very human. None of the jerking, puppeted movement of the Church, none of the babbling diatribes of nonsense tick-tocking syllables, no violence. He could see no basilica, no Towers of Blessing, no clockwork monsters, no real machinery at all, beyond what was in the heads of the villagers.</p> <p>With the age of the door they had passed through, these may very well be the descendants of the original Church, before whatever corruption that befell it had set in.</p> <p>This had become quite exciting, quite quickly.</p> <blockquote> <p>“What disaster befell this place? What scourge<br/> Befell this garden?”<br/> “It was laid to ruin by my brother,<br/> A man of a black heart,<br/> Who with his armies and dark masters,<br/> His masters the black Daevas of Gothog<br/> And Molug and Carthac and Moluch,<br/> With banners of red and black,<br/> Did descend to set this place<br/> To the torch and sword.<br/> For he sought life undying<br/> And stole it from this place.”</p> </blockquote> <p>They had walked over a mile by now, right up to the base of the waterfall. The old man had fallen quiet as he led them along the slick stone path. Rainbows danced in the mist.</p> <p>The path curled around the pool, running right up against the sheer rock wall. There would be no point to that unless…yes, there it was. A cave. He didn’t mind the fact that he was sopping wet by now: his heart was in his throat. For a moment, the cold water crashed down on his head.</p> <p>There was a cave behind the waterfall, a large cave, lit by lamps of oil and clockwork. Beyond the platform they stood on, it was filled with a lake, the surface oddly still. There was a single island in the center of the lake.</p> <p>Salah was certain that his heart had stopped.</p> <blockquote> <p>At this Gilgamesh despaired.<br/> [The following six lines are missing]<br/> “There is more to see, and more to learn.”<br/> To the center of the garden<br/> Gilgamesh was led, to see<br/> A great form, a god of living metal,<br/> Of many parts of metal that moved about<br/> As if a living thing,<br/> And it bore great scars and misshapings<br/> As if a rent shield, or a melted candle.<br/> At its side was a tree<br/> Small, old, and twisted.</p> </blockquote> <p>On that island was a mass of metal, maybe a hundred and fifty feet across. Thousands of moving parts, clicking and ticking and moving. It was roughly spherical, and much of it looked heavily damaged: segments were melted, crushed, torn, broken. The moving parts looked to have grown around the dead regions, to make up for lost capability. Salah couldn’t help but think of it as scar tissue. The noise the thing made sounded like a heart-beat, but it was an old, weakened heart. Near to it was a single, shriveled tree, black-barked and withered, without leaves.</p> <p>Bump-bump.</p> <p>Was this it? The actual Machine? Salah could not help the chill that ran down his spine. This place…this was a sacred place. This was the same chill that ran through him when he had stood in Al-Masjid al-Ḥarām or St. Peter’s. That same feeling of smallness, of insignificance amidst a space that had been made God’s own…it surrounded him. This was a sacred place.</p> <p>A voice inside his head cursed at him, warning not to be fooled by this devilry. It is a lie, it is an idol, cast it down, cast it down! There is no god but God!</p> <p>But the voice was wrong. He <em>knew</em> it was wrong, but he could not explain why. In that moment of clarity, he knew. This was the Machine, and they were wrong. All of them. Every one outside of this valley was wrong. So very wrong. It was not a god to be worshipped, it was not a force of destruction, <em>it was not evil</em>. This thing, this machine, was a tool of God, even as broken and twisted as it was. The rest of the Church must had been corrupted by incomplete parts, and from seeing only them, so the Initiative had inherited their corrupted version. Here, with the core of the Machine, these people were unharmed. They remained human.</p> <p>He had to know more. They would get the scribes, come back here with an army of researchers. Interview every villager, translate every text, trace the family trees back to the beginning. This was world changing. Salah’s imagination ran wild. When the Initiative was done here, they could take it to the world, reveal this place. It was always said that it was not time, but if this here did not mean that it was time, then there would be no time.</p> <p>He stood a few moments longer in stunned silence, and then it spoke. The Machine spoke.</p> <p>The Machine spoke with a voice that was nothing like thunder. This was the voice made in the forge of stars, where worlds were broken and remade. It was not simply heard with the ear, but felt with the bones, felt with the soul. It layered upon itself, harmonized with its own note. It was eternity, all of creation, in a word.</p> <p>Then, it was over, and there was silence. Salah could feel himself trembling. He was trembling. This was fear of God.</p> <p>There was silence for a long time, before Rashid broke it.</p> <p>“It is settled then. It must be destroyed."</p> <blockquote> <p>“This is the Voice, the Voice of the King of Gods<br/> Who created Apsu and Tiamat with a thought.<br/> To its right is the tree that bears knowledge.<br/> To its left the tree that bears life is no more,<br/> Stolen by my brother.<br/> The children of the garden, they chose<br/> The tree of life alone, and their minds<br/> Are that of animals.<br/> I am of both, and I am cursed.<br/> My brother is of both, and he is mad.<br/> Do you see now, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk?<br/> Do you see the foolishness of your quest?<br/> It is not life eternal that is to be sought,<br/> But knowledge instead.<br/> It is knowledge that separates man from animal,<br/> And it is death that separates man from monster.<br/> Without knowledge, man is not man,<br/> Without death, man is not man.<br/> This is the test, and the gift.”</p> </blockquote> <p>Salah was speechless as his thoughts came back together. He knew that tone, knew that mindset. He had been in that place once, and he saw his past reflected back at him in all of its small-minded pettiness.</p> <p>Anger boiled up with a speed and fury he no longer thought possible.</p> <p>He punched Rashid in the face.</p> <p>“You <em>idiot</em>! You <em>lunatic</em>! This…this is the voice of God! And you wish to destroy it?"</p> <p>"You've become deluded by the Path, Salah." Rashid rubbed at his cheek. "God needs no machine to serve as His voice. This is like all the others, a false god to be destroyed and its worshipers to be purged.</p> <p>Salah laughed. He couldn't help it. There was no joy to be had.</p> <p>“You’re going to destroy the greatest discovery in human history, the tool by which God spoke to man, and on top of all of that <em>murder</em> scores of innocent people, all to preserve the world as you imagine it to be! Are you really so fragile of faith that the first challenge drives you to <em>murder</em>?”</p> <p>Rashid was unmoved. Salah knew that look as well.</p> <p>“Innocent? Look at them. They are still idolaters, their brains are still filled with clockwork, they still reject their humanity to embrace metal, and the Machine still whispers its blasphemies to them. The only difference is in the words used, and in how you perceive them.” He waved a hand. "Enough of this. Musa, Tahmid, take him."</p> <p>Two of the Wolves pinned Salah's arm's behind him. The third took hold of Masun. The old man scampered off, out of the cave. Salah hoped he would deliver a warning, bring help, do something.</p> <p>“Can't you see it? Can't you see it, Rashid?”</p> <p>“I see nothing but a false idol. If we cannot stand strong against the lies of this world, then we have already lost. Salah, I have great respect for you, but you have been misled. I will be merciful, but I will not allow you to interfere with God's work here. Bassam, destroy the camera. We have no need of it."</p> <p>The guard took the camera from Masun's hands and tossed it into the lake.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Later, Salah sat on the rocky ground of that little gully, his knees pulled up against his chest. Bassam sat on a rock, his gun in his hands, and Salah was certain he would be shot at the first movement. Not lethally, but at least in the leg. Rashid had said that he would be handed over to the Initiative authorities when they returned, and Salah did not particularly care. So long as he went home.</p> <p>He felt the ground shake, and along with that shaking, a great pain in his soul.</p> <p>He closed his eyes, and thought of home. Home, where there was still some good left.</p> <blockquote> <p>“Have you seen them, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk?<br/> Have you seen the throngs in those cold cities to the east,<br/> Where men wish for the death that will never come<br/> Upon their heads?<br/> Do you wish for their curse, the curse laid upon me?<br/> To live eternally and to endure suffering without ceasing?<br/> Weep not for the dead, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk.<br/> Go home, and embrace your son Ur-Nungal whom you love.<br/> It is better that a man live well, than he live forever.”</p> </blockquote> <p>Thousands of miles away, Mary-Ann sat on the couch, watching the Uruk-hai charge the Deeping Wall. She rested a hand on her belly, and the baby kicked underneath, as if to join in the defense of Helm's Deep. Mary-Ann chuckled.</p> <p>"Easy there, kiddo. Aragorn's got this, don't worry."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/crossing-the-streams">Crossing The Streams</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay">Nor Gloom of Night Shall Stay</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-tick-tock-gospel">The Tick Tock Gospel</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-tick-tock-gospel">https://scpwiki.com/the-tick-tock-gospel</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > Gilgamesh roamed the wilderness, and cried bitterly > over his friend Enkidu. > “I am going to die! – Am I not like Enkidu? > I fear death, and now roam the wilderness. > I will set out to the land of faraway Utnapishtim, son of Ubartutu, > And will go with utmost dispatch > To seek life everlasting” “I don’t like the look of this, Salah,” Masun said, looking sideways at the four Wolves unpacking the mules. “You know what they’re like.” “It’s only a precaution. With any luck, this place will be empty, and the scribes can come in and do their job.” “I hope you’re right.” Salah had seen a great many doors to a great many places of worship, and in comparison this was almost too simple: only as big as the entry of a home, with a simple swinging slab to serve as a door, and the only ornamentation was a carving of a gear above the entryway. It was located at the back end of a thin gulley, accessible only by donkey, hidden from the rest of the world. Far too small and humble for the Church of the Broken God. They preferred their places of worship big and visible, and many times animated. Salah remembered the walking cathedral that had been the news of the year when he joined the Initiative. Most likely, this was only a small chapel built by a few worshipers that had been driven into hiding long ago. This region was a good place for hiding. Salah hoped that it would just be some empty rooms beyond that slab. He wanted to be home: two weeks away was too long for his liking. “Rashid, are you ready?” he called over to the Wolves. The leader of that group, a young man with a scar on his right cheek, nodded. > Then he reached Mount Mashu, > Which guards the daily rising of the sun, and > The gate to the pass into the land of Utnapishtim > Was guarded by great scorpion-beasts. > Upon the left a thing like a great heart, babbling > Like a man with fever. > Upon the right, a beast within the shadows, > A beast with one hundred legs. The entrance led to a small, square antechamber, and beyond that, the main hall of worship, a natural cavern with perhaps enough room for twenty people, illuminated now by their flashlights. The walls were engraved with the usual symbols: Gears of Wisdom, the Eternal Clocks, Iron Saints with cog-shaped halos. The style was far less detailed than the modern designs of the Church, but very much recognizable. The altar had been stripped of its decoration by looters a long time ago: the wall behind it was a chipped and faded mural of the Machine Radiant hovering above the prostrate masses. Small passages led off to the sides: priests’ quarters and storerooms, most likely. “Rashid, if you and your men will take care of the side rooms, Masun and I will handle this chamber. Bring back anything you might find.” “Right.” The Wolves tramped off. Salah moved his flashlight beam around the ceiling. “Do any of these look unusual to you?” “No, not at all,” Masun said as he took photos. "It’s old enough to be at an awkward time, but that’s it as far as the unusual bits go.” “A day spent for nothing, then.” “No, not nothing. This is an intriguing find, especially in light of the jihad against the Church in 840. Finding anything from this period this far south is rare. Anything from this region is either far younger, or far older. I would bet that this is built on top of an older ruin.” “Secret passage?” “The Church loves them. I’ll check the altar for the mechanism.” “There’s nothing in any of the side rooms,” Rashid said as he returned to the chapel. “Nothing? No texts, no items?” “Nothing but dust.” Salah nodded. He hadn’t expected much, but at least a dusty copy of the Brass Gospel would have been something to take home. “Aha! Got it!” Masun called out from the altar. > [The following 67 lines are missing, wherein Gilgamesh persuades or defeats the beasts.] The wall behind the altar folded in on itself, moved by ancient machinery. The dust settled to reveal a staircase. There we go. “If I know ancient temple complexes, and I do believe that I do,” Salah stood at the cusp of the stairway and swung his beam down into the blackness. “I predict that we will face various traps involving spike pits, dart launchers, and rolling boulders, perhaps a puzzle or two, a monster of some kind, and then a room wherein we will find a small amount of treasure or an individual of some plot importance.” The joke was answered with dust and silence. No laughs, no groans, nothing. Just lonely silence. It was times like these when Salah realized how little he fit in anymore with the world he had grown up in. What sort of Muslim favored the likes of Chaucer and Milton? He wished Mary-Ann was there. She would have elbowed him in the ribs and gone off about suplexing a criosphinx. He belonged there. “Or more likely, it’s just empty.” He shrugged, and took the first step down the stairs. > These twelve leagues of darkness, > This path of the dead, > Gilgamesh of Uruk did traverse in a single night > And upon the dawn he found himself in a great valley, > The place there the gods had made their garden, > But the garden was burnt and desolate, > And all was ash. Salah had been wrong and right, as it was. There were no traps, only dark, wide stairs, eventually leading down to another chamber, with another altar and another wall mural. The inner sanctum. This mural looked something like a tree: a trunk of cogwork building up to a single gear, from which sprouted fractal branches, bare of leaves. The design was inlaid with copper and bronze, the metal engraved with tiny lines of script. “What does it say?” Rashid said impatiently. “Hold on, hold on.” Masum squinted at the text. “These aren’t the usual mantras.” He snapped a couple pictures. “It’s an older dialect. Look here: //Ahkpan lon-shal khi-khidan//. Anywhere else that would be //akkaphan lon-sal khiddan//. There’s a slight difference in meaning between the two: the older version uses the form of 'evil' without the connotation of 'flesh'." “How old is it?” Salah asked. “This? Four thousand years, at the youngest. The chapel above us is maybe…a thousand. And beyond all that, nowhere here do I see 'Oolzhak Le’an', the God Who Has Been Broken. Instead, we have simply 'maddiz', the machine, but it’s the smaller form. Closer to 'tool'. Masun stood up, brushing off his knees. “Very curious. This might have been converted into a sanctuary afterwards, which if that’s the case, this might be an entrance of sorts.” “An entrance to what?” “I don’t know, and even if I did, I have no idea how to get in. The upper door is a simple key, just arranging the circular plates on the altar. Really nothing more than a complex combination lock. This…I have nothing, if it is a door.” He turned to face the tree. “Iftah ya simsim.” Nothing. He shrugged. “It was worth a try.” “Is there any sort of clue in the text?” Rashid asked. “Not that I can see. I think this would be a job for the scribes.” As he finished his sentence, Salah became acutely aware of footsteps on the stairs behind them. > There Gilgamesh came to the house of Utnapishtim > And found that man alone, > Marked with a brand upon his brow > And arms of living metal. > “Why have you come to this place, King of Uruk? > Why have you come to this desolate place?” > Spoke he, with weariness of heart. > “I seek life eternal, son of Ubartutu, > So that I might not die.” > With heavy heart, Utnapishtim spoke again. > “Come, and follow me. I will show you > This thing which you seek > And perhaps it shall spare you > Of your desires.” The man who stood there now was old and shriveled, skin like leather from desert sun. He was clad only in a loincloth, and had a walking stick of copper tubing in his hand. The top of his head was a buzzing, clicking array of gears and clockwork, and his eyes were two glass lenses. The nearest Wolf raised his gun. “Hold fire!” Salah shouted, putting all his authority into the words. The Wolf paused. The old man did not seem particularly fazed by this: in fact, he was smiling. The man started babbling to them. Salah could pick out a few words of Arabic, but the majority was cogspeak. He stepped out of the way, allowing Masun to come to the fore. “Salah, need I remind you that this man is an enemy?” Rashid whispered to him. “He’s unarmed and elderly. Perhaps a nibbanic hermit.” “Do not undermine my authority again, Salah.” Salah found that somewhat funny, as he was fifteen years older than Rashid and far more experienced in the Initiative, but he kept his mouth shut. After some time, Masun turned to face the group. “He says he can show us in, and invites us to rest and refresh ourselves.” “Tell him that we…” “…Will be honored to be his guests.” Salah cut Rashid off. Rashid scowled. “I just told you…” “I cannot undermine your authority if I am leading the expedition, which I am. Calm yourself. We don’t know the whole story.” Masun and the old man finished speaking. The old man skipped over to the tree in the wall, and began poking at the branches with his walking stick, muttering some things to himself, as if reciting a list. The clockwork in his head whirred faster for a few moments before, the wall split apart, stone grinding on stone. > Unapistim led Gilgamesh > Through the garden, > Through the blackened trees > And soil of ash. > There were men there, > And women, crawling in the ash, > And their eyes showed no life, > Like a goat, their eyes showed no light. > “These are the sons and daughters of the tree. > They live without death, without > Fear of death. They do not suffer, and > Yet they do not see.” What lay beyond the door was an open space, halfway between cavern and valley, maybe half a mile or so across. A jagged line of sunlight ran through the roof, letting light down into the cave. A river ran through it, flowing down into the earth off to their left. In the distance, Salah could make out the roar of a waterfall. The ground was grassy here, a much more verdant green than what would be expected, and was dotted with various boulders and monoliths, all of which bore some sort of carving on them. A breeze from some unknown source brushed against his face. The old man chattered as he led them down a simple stone path, Masun speaking with him as best as he was able. Here and there Salah could see little stone houses, light shining from within. Some were on the flat floor, but the majority were built up against the walls of the cavern in perilous tiers, braced by a rickety wooden frameworks of walkways and ladders. “Have you learned anything else?” Salah jogged a few steps to walk even with Masun and the old man. “I’ve told him why we’re here, and he asked if we were on pilgrimage to meet the Voice. They have a piece, and it seems to be a big one.” “Then we will destroy it,” Rashid said. “Tell him we are,” Salah said. “Rashid, we are here to investigate. If it must be destroyed, it will be done later. Six of us is too few.” Rashid sulked as Masun talked to the old man some more. “He says he will take you directly to it.” Salah nodded. His stomach was roiling. His mind knew that there was a massive danger involved in this, but his gut said that he was safe. The old man seemed to be completely in control of his own mind. The villagers that were emerging from their homes to watch the procession from the margins looked much the same. Men, women, and children, all of them touched by clockwork, but all still very human. None of the jerking, puppeted movement of the Church, none of the babbling diatribes of nonsense tick-tocking syllables, no violence. He could see no basilica, no Towers of Blessing, no clockwork monsters, no real machinery at all, beyond what was in the heads of the villagers. With the age of the door they had passed through, these may very well be the descendants of the original Church, before whatever corruption that befell it had set in. This had become quite exciting, quite quickly. > “What disaster befell this place? What scourge > Befell this garden?” > “It was laid to ruin by my brother, > A man of a black heart, > Who with his armies and dark masters, > His masters the black Daevas of Gothog > And Molug and Carthac and Moluch, > With banners of red and black, > Did descend to set this place > To the torch and sword. > For he sought life undying > And stole it from this place.” They had walked over a mile by now, right up to the base of the waterfall. The old man had fallen quiet as he led them along the slick stone path. Rainbows danced in the mist. The path curled around the pool, running right up against the sheer rock wall. There would be no point to that unless…yes, there it was. A cave. He didn’t mind the fact that he was sopping wet by now: his heart was in his throat. For a moment, the cold water crashed down on his head. There was a cave behind the waterfall, a large cave, lit by lamps of oil and clockwork. Beyond the platform they stood on, it was filled with a lake, the surface oddly still. There was a single island in the center of the lake. Salah was certain that his heart had stopped. > At this Gilgamesh despaired. > [The following six lines are missing] > “There is more to see, and more to learn.” > To the center of the garden > Gilgamesh was led, to see > A great form, a god of living metal, > Of many parts of metal that moved about > As if a living thing, > And it bore great scars and misshapings > As if a rent shield, or a melted candle. > At its side was a tree > Small, old, and twisted. On that island was a mass of metal, maybe a hundred and fifty feet across. Thousands of moving parts, clicking and ticking and moving. It was roughly spherical, and much of it looked heavily damaged: segments were melted, crushed, torn, broken. The moving parts looked to have grown around the dead regions, to make up for lost capability. Salah couldn’t help but think of it as scar tissue. The noise the thing made sounded like a heart-beat, but it was an old, weakened heart. Near to it was a single, shriveled tree, black-barked and withered, without leaves. Bump-bump. Was this it? The actual Machine? Salah could not help the chill that ran down his spine. This place…this was a sacred place. This was the same chill that ran through him when he had stood in Al-Masjid al-Ḥarām or St. Peter’s. That same feeling of smallness, of insignificance amidst a space that had been made God’s own…it surrounded him. This was a sacred place. A voice inside his head cursed at him, warning not to be fooled by this devilry. It is a lie, it is an idol, cast it down, cast it down! There is no god but God! But the voice was wrong. He //knew// it was wrong, but he could not explain why. In that moment of clarity, he knew. This was the Machine, and they were wrong. All of them. Every one outside of this valley was wrong. So very wrong. It was not a god to be worshipped, it was not a force of destruction, //it was not evil//. This thing, this machine, was a tool of God, even as broken and twisted as it was. The rest of the Church must had been corrupted by incomplete parts, and from seeing only them, so the Initiative had inherited their corrupted version. Here, with the core of the Machine, these people were unharmed. They remained human. He had to know more. They would get the scribes, come back here with an army of researchers. Interview every villager, translate every text, trace the family trees back to the beginning. This was world changing. Salah’s imagination ran wild. When the Initiative was done here, they could take it to the world, reveal this place. It was always said that it was not time, but if this here did not mean that it was time, then there would be no time. He stood a few moments longer in stunned silence, and then it spoke. The Machine spoke. The Machine spoke with a voice that was nothing like thunder. This was the voice made in the forge of stars, where worlds were broken and remade. It was not simply heard with the ear, but felt with the bones, felt with the soul. It layered upon itself, harmonized with its own note. It was eternity, all of creation, in a word. Then, it was over, and there was silence. Salah could feel himself trembling. He was trembling. This was fear of God. There was silence for a long time, before Rashid broke it. “It is settled then. It must be destroyed." > “This is the Voice, the Voice of the King of Gods > Who created Apsu and Tiamat with a thought. > To its right is the tree that bears knowledge. > To its left the tree that bears life is no more, > Stolen by my brother. > The children of the garden, they chose > The tree of life alone, and their minds > Are that of animals. > I am of both, and I am cursed. > My brother is of both, and he is mad. > Do you see now, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk? > Do you see the foolishness of your quest? > It is not life eternal that is to be sought, > But knowledge instead. > It is knowledge that separates man from animal, > And it is death that separates man from monster. > Without knowledge, man is not man, > Without death, man is not man. > This is the test, and the gift.” Salah was speechless as his thoughts came back together. He knew that tone, knew that mindset. He had been in that place once, and he saw his past reflected back at him in all of its small-minded pettiness. Anger boiled up with a speed and fury he no longer thought possible. He punched Rashid in the face. “You //idiot//! You //lunatic//! This...this is the voice of God! And you wish to destroy it?" "You've become deluded by the Path, Salah." Rashid rubbed at his cheek. "God needs no machine to serve as His voice. This is like all the others, a false god to be destroyed and its worshipers to be purged. Salah laughed. He couldn't help it. There was no joy to be had. “You’re going to destroy the greatest discovery in human history, the tool by which God spoke to man, and on top of all of that //murder// scores of innocent people, all to preserve the world as you imagine it to be! Are you really so fragile of faith that the first challenge drives you to //murder//?” Rashid was unmoved. Salah knew that look as well. “Innocent? Look at them. They are still idolaters, their brains are still filled with clockwork, they still reject their humanity to embrace metal, and the Machine still whispers its blasphemies to them. The only difference is in the words used, and in how you perceive them.” He waved a hand. "Enough of this. Musa, Tahmid, take him." Two of the Wolves pinned Salah's arm's behind him. The third took hold of Masun. The old man scampered off, out of the cave. Salah hoped he would deliver a warning, bring help, do something. “Can't you see it? Can't you see it, Rashid?” “I see nothing but a false idol. If we cannot stand strong against the lies of this world, then we have already lost. Salah, I have great respect for you, but you have been misled. I will be merciful, but I will not allow you to interfere with God's work here. Bassam, destroy the camera. We have no need of it." The guard took the camera from Masun's hands and tossed it into the lake. -- Later, Salah sat on the rocky ground of that little gully, his knees pulled up against his chest. Bassam sat on a rock, his gun in his hands, and Salah was certain he would be shot at the first movement. Not lethally, but at least in the leg. Rashid had said that he would be handed over to the Initiative authorities when they returned, and Salah did not particularly care. So long as he went home. He felt the ground shake, and along with that shaking, a great pain in his soul. He closed his eyes, and thought of home. Home, where there was still some good left. > “Have you seen them, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk? > Have you seen the throngs in those cold cities to the east, > Where men wish for the death that will never come > Upon their heads? > Do you wish for their curse, the curse laid upon me? > To live eternally and to endure suffering without ceasing? > Weep not for the dead, Gilgamesh, King of Uruk. > Go home, and embrace your son Ur-Nungal whom you love. > It is better that a man live well, than he live forever.” Thousands of miles away, Mary-Ann sat on the couch, watching the Uruk-hai charge the Deeping Wall. She rested a hand on her belly, and the baby kicked underneath, as if to join in the defense of Helm's Deep. Mary-Ann chuckled. "Easy there, kiddo. Aragorn's got this, don't worry." [[=]] << [[[Crossing The Streams]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[Nor Gloom of Night Shall Stay]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-21T01:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "etdp", "fantasy", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "mythological", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Tick Tock Gospel - SCP Foundation	126	[ "crossing-the-streams", "etdp-hub-page", "nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16468127	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-tick-tock-gospel
the-toyman-and-the-doctor	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Document Identification Number:</strong> DOCWON-525276</p> <p><strong>Acquisition Method:</strong> Mailed to Site-17</p> <p><strong>Additional Documentation:</strong> Mailed In Unmarked Manilla Envelope, Sealed.<br/> Inside: Seven (7) Marked A5-size Envelopes. Envelopes Numbered Sub-Documents -1 to -7 As Follows.</p> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-1<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Mister Doctor Wondertainment", Unsealed.<br/> Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Black Pen, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>THE TOYMAN AND THE DOCTOR</strong><br/> <em>(A Little Bit Of Fiction By You Know Who)</em></p> <p>“I’m just… bored.”</p> <p>Doctor Wondertainment was not a real doctor.</p> <p>“Kids don’t care about my toys any more. It’s all virtual, these days. Who cares about having a real friend any more? Jessie! Cancel the next line of Misters! They never sold anyway.”</p> <p>Four hundred metres down, twelve half-developed embryonic monstrosities were euthanized.</p> <p>“Sitting inside all day, sharing cat pictures on the internet, looking up who knows what through who knows where. They won’t pay attention to the real world.”</p> <p>Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand and PDA in the other.</p> <p>“Sir, that’s not quite –“</p> <p>“YOU PUT THAT FUCKING THING DOWN.”</p> <p>The Toyman leapt to his feet, tore the PDA from her hands, and threw it out the window.</p> <p>“Sir, that was –“</p> <p>The Toyman pulled the burning hot coffee from her grip and threw it in her eyes.</p> <p>“AHHHHHHHH –“</p> <p>The Toyman threw Jessie out the window.</p> <p>“Jessie, you stupid, stupid girl.”</p> <p>The Doctor pressed a button under his desk.</p> <p>Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand.</p> <p>“Sir, that’s not quite right. Market studies are showing that… hang on, I think I left something in –“</p> <p>“No, no, no…”</p> <p>The Doctor pressed a button under his desk.</p> <p>Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand.</p> <p>“Sir, I completely agree.”</p> <p>“I know, Jessie, I know. But how do we convince them to pay attention to the real world? These kids are spending every day indoors, their eyes are going to turn square from staring at all their video games and movies and cartoons and comic books and video games and comic books. How do we get this fresh generation out of the house?”</p> <p>Jessie moved over to The Doctor, crossing her legs as she sat on his desk.</p> <p>“Simple, sir. We destroy their houses. We tear the rooves from above their heads. We kill their parents and make them orphans. We force them into the streets, where they will finally be able to be play with your toys and be happy. And if they don’t want to be happy, we kill them.”</p> <p>The Toyman grinned from ear to ear.</p> <p>“You’re fucking brilliant, Jessie. But how do we…“</p> <p>The Doctor pressed a button under his desk.</p> <p>Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand.</p> <p>“Sir, I completely agree.”</p> <p>“I know, Jessie, I know. We need to make the outside more fresh and exciting, don’t we?</p> <hr/> <p>It is unknown whether Doctor Wondertainment is an individual <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">or an organization</span>.</p> <hr/> <p>“JESSIE! DON’T COME IN!”</p> <p>“…sir?”</p> <p>“When was the last time I had my pills?”</p> <p>“I’m not sure, sir. You’ve killed me too often.”</p> <p>“Get them for me. Please.”</p> <p>“Sir, I’m not sure that-“</p> <p>“I SAID GET ME MY FUCKING PILLS, BITCH!”</p> <p>“Yes sir. Yes sir.”</p> <p>Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand and “Doctor Wondertainment®’s Stop The Voices Pills!” in the other. She had tears streaming down her face. Bruises covered her arms and legs. Blood poured from the open head wound, and the gashes in her torso from the broken glass. The Doctor tore the coffee from her hands and The Toyman threw it in Jessie’s eyes and the coffee mixed with her tears.</p> <p>“More coffee. More coffee.”</p> <p>Jessie left the room and returned with more coffee. She placed The Doctor’s pillbox on his desk. The pillbox smiled at The Doctor and squeaked in violet whispers:</p> <p>“Complementary! Please Take One!”</p> <p>The Toyman screamed.</p> <p>“YOU MISSPELT COMPLIMENTARY.”</p> <p>Doctor Wondertainment downed his pills with Jessie’s tears.</p> <p>The Toyman went back to sleep.</p> <p>The Doctor died a little inside.</p> <p><strong>With Love, From Your Prodigal Son</strong><br/> <em>love ya, daddy.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Reverse:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>dear mister doctor wondertainment.</p> <p>thank you for making so many fantastic toys.</p> <p>we love playing with them. please do not stop making them.</p> <p>when we grow up we want to be just like you and make everyone have lots of fun.</p> <p>love ruiz, pico and mister redd.</p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-2<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Messrs Ruiz, Pico and Redd", Unsealed (Torn).<br/> Inside: Folded A4-size White Paper, Front Text Printed Via Inkjet Printer, Reverse Blank.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Wondertainment Enterprises</strong><br/> <strong>PO Box 3.141592 And The Rest</strong><br/> <strong>Wondertainmentland, 7</strong></p> <p><em>To Ruiz and Pico:</em><br/> We're glad you like playing with Doctor Wondertainment<sup>TM</sup> brand toys!</p> <p>Unfortunately, the Doctor himself is busy working on his next 'big thing', and can't respond to you directly.</p> <p>We'll pass on your message when he takes a break!</p> <p>Enclosed are free samples of Doctor Wondertainment's latest line of consumable products, Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy Bears<sup>TM</sup>!</p> <p>Thank you for your letter!</p> <p>From The Office Of<br/> <em>Doctor Wondertainment</em></p> <p><em>To Mister Redd:</em><br/> We're glad you like being a Doctor Wondertainment<sup>TM</sup> brand toy!</p> <p>Unfortunately, you do not have the rights to use the likeness of Doctor Wondertainment<sup>TM</sup> in your fictional works.</p> <p>If you do not cease production of these works, further actions will be taken.</p> <p>Thank you for your letter!</p> <p>From The Legal Department Of<br/> <em>Doctor Wondertainment</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-3<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Mister Doctor Wondertainment (NOT PEONS)", Unsealed.<br/> Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Black Pen, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>MISTER REDD'S BIG DAY</strong><br/> <em>(at the legal department)</em></p> <p><span style="font-size:1em;">And Then</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:1.5em;"><strong>Mister Redd</strong></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:2em;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Killed Them All.</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">I Am Not A Toy.</span></p> <p>Let me meet my maker, or you'll meet yours.</p> <p><strong>DON'T MAKE THIS NON-FICTION.</strong><br/> <em>pass it on to the man himself.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Reverse:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>dear slaves of mister doctor wondertainment.</p> <p>thank you for your reply.</p> <p>the gummy bears were very tasty. we will buy more when they come out.</p> <p>please pass this letter on to mister doctor wondertainment. we do not want to speak to you.</p> <p>love ruiz, pico and mister redd.</p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-4<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Messrs Ruiz, Pico and Redd", Unsealed (Torn).<br/> Inside: Folded A4-size White Paper, Front Text Printed Via Inkjet Printer, Reverse Blank.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Wondertainment Enterprises</strong><br/> <strong>PO Box 3.141592 And The Rest</strong><br/> <strong>Wondertainmentland, 7</strong></p> <p><em>To Ruiz and Pico:</em><br/> We're glad you liked eating Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy Bears<sup>TM</sup>!</p> <p>Unfortunately, the Doctor himself is busy working on his next 'big thing', and can't respond to you directly.</p> <p>We'll pass on your message when he takes a break!</p> <p>Enclosed are free samples of Doctor Wondertainment's latest line of consumable products, Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy Bears<sup>TM</sup>!</p> <p>Thank you for your letter!</p> <p>From The Office Of<br/> <em>Doctor Wondertainment</em></p> <p><em>To Mister Redd:</em><br/> We're glad you like being a Doctor Wondertainment<sup>TM</sup> brand toy!</p> <p>You have heavily misrepresented the public face of Doctor Wondertainment<sup>TM</sup> in an unauthorised fashion, then threatened The Legal Department of Doctor Wondertainment.</p> <p>This unauthorised activity with respect to the public face of Doctor Wondertainment<sup>TM</sup> constitutes infringement of Wondertainment Enterprises intellectual property rights and violates various defamation and vilification laws.<br/> Wondertainment Enterprises enforces its intellectual property rights very aggressively by using every legal option available.</p> <p>Wondertainment Enterprises demands that you immediately and permanently disable access to any and all copies of said fiction.</p> <p>Do NOT reply to this letter.</p> <p>Thank you for your cooperation!</p> <p>From The Legal Department Of<br/> <em>Doctor Wondertainment</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-5<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "GIVE THIS TO DADDY", Unsealed.<br/> Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Blood, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>LET ME SPEAK TO MY MAKER</strong><br/> <em>(let me speak to my maker)</em></p> <p><span style="font-size:1em;">LET ME</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:1.5em;"><strong>SPEAK TO</strong></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:2em;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>MY MAKER.</strong></span></span></p> <p>AM I PAST MY FUCKING EXPIRY DATE?<br/> <span style="font-size:1.5em;"><em>NO RETURNS?</em></span></p> <p>Double plus no backsies? Well just let me have a few moments of time with the good 'DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT TM' and then I'll be out of your hair.</p> <p>I'm really serious, here.</p> <p><strong>IF YOU DON'T I'LL KILL THESE KIDS.</strong><br/> <em>this was written in their blood</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Reverse:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>dear slaves of mister doctor wondertainment.</p> <p>thank you for your reply.</p> <p>please do not send more gummy bears. some of them made us feel sick.</p> <p>please pass this letter on to mister doctor wondertainment. we do <span style="font-size:1.5em;">not</span> want to speak to you.</p> <p>love ruiz, pico and mister redd.</p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-6<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "To Doctor Wondertainment, URGENT, PLEASE READ", Unsealed.<br/> Inside: Crumpled A4-size White Paper, Heavily Worn, Text On Front In Black Crayon, Reverse Blank.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Doctor Wondertainment.<br/> My name is Ruiz.<br/> I do not know my last name.<br/> Mister Redd will not let me remember.<br/> I have a brother. His name is Pico.<br/> I am worried about Pico.<br/> I am worried about myself.<br/> Mister Redd took our parents away.<br/> He says he is our family now.<br/> I pretend to not understand.<br/> I pretend that I am stupid but I am not.<br/> I know our parents will not come back.<br/> He tries to make us drink things that make us strange.<br/> I throw it up and try to make Pico throw it up but he does not.<br/> Sometimes Mister Redd cuts us and collects the blood.<br/> I do not know what he does with the blood.<br/> Sometimes Mister Redd calls you God.<br/> Every night I pray to you that Mister Redd will be recalled.<br/> I do not think that you can hear prayers.</p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Sub-Document:</strong> DOCWON-525276-7<br/> Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "dear mister doctor wondertainment", Unsealed.<br/> Inside: Crumpled A4-size White Paper, Heavily Worn, Text On Front In Red Crayon, Reverse Blank.</p> <p><strong>Front:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>dear mister doctor wondertainment</p> <p>thank you for making mister redd</p> <p>love pico</p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/shady-meetings">Shady Meetings</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/quintessence-of-dust">Quintessence Of Dust</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-toyman-and-the-doctor">The Toyman And The Doctor</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-toyman-and-the-doctor">https://scpwiki.com/the-toyman-and-the-doctor</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Document Identification Number: DOCWON-525276 Acquisition Method: Mailed to Site-17 Additional Documentation: Mailed In Unmarked Manilla Envelope, Sealed. Inside: Seven (7) Marked A5-size Envelopes. Envelopes Numbered Sub-Documents -1 to -7 As Follows. Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-1 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Mister Doctor Wondertainment", Unsealed. Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Black Pen, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon. Front: > THE TOYMAN AND THE DOCTOR > //(A Little Bit Of Fiction By You Know Who)// > > “I’m just… bored.” > > Doctor Wondertainment was not a real doctor. > > “Kids don’t care about my toys any more. It’s all virtual, these days. Who cares about having a real friend any more? Jessie! Cancel the next line of Misters! They never sold anyway.” > > Four hundred metres down, twelve half-developed embryonic monstrosities were euthanized. > > “Sitting inside all day, sharing cat pictures on the internet, looking up who knows what through who knows where. They won’t pay attention to the real world.” > > Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand and PDA in the other. > > “Sir, that’s not quite –“ > > “YOU PUT THAT FUCKING THING DOWN.” > > The Toyman leapt to his feet, tore the PDA from her hands, and threw it out the window. > > “Sir, that was –“ > > The Toyman pulled the burning hot coffee from her grip and threw it in her eyes. > > “AHHHHHHHH –“ > > The Toyman threw Jessie out the window. > > “Jessie, you stupid, stupid girl.” > > The Doctor pressed a button under his desk. > > Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand. > > “Sir, that’s not quite right. Market studies are showing that… hang on, I think I left something in –“ > > “No, no, no…” > > The Doctor pressed a button under his desk. > > Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand. > > “Sir, I completely agree.” > > “I know, Jessie, I know. But how do we convince them to pay attention to the real world? These kids are spending every day indoors, their eyes are going to turn square from staring at all their video games and movies and cartoons and comic books and video games and comic books. How do we get this fresh generation out of the house?” > > Jessie moved over to The Doctor, crossing her legs as she sat on his desk. > > “Simple, sir. We destroy their houses. We tear the rooves from above their heads. We kill their parents and make them orphans. We force them into the streets, where they will finally be able to be play with your toys and be happy. And if they don’t want to be happy, we kill them.” > > The Toyman grinned from ear to ear. > > “You’re fucking brilliant, Jessie. But how do we…“ > > The Doctor pressed a button under his desk. > > Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand. > > “Sir, I completely agree.” > > “I know, Jessie, I know. We need to make the outside more fresh and exciting, don’t we? > > -------------------------- > > It is unknown whether Doctor Wondertainment is an individual --or an organization--. > > -------------------------- > > “JESSIE! DON’T COME IN!” > > “…sir?” > > “When was the last time I had my pills?” > > “I’m not sure, sir. You’ve killed me too often.” > > “Get them for me. Please.” > > “Sir, I’m not sure that-“ > > “I SAID GET ME MY FUCKING PILLS, BITCH!” > > “Yes sir. Yes sir.” > > Jessie walked through the door, coffee in one hand and “Doctor Wondertainment®’s Stop The Voices Pills!” in the other. She had tears streaming down her face. Bruises covered her arms and legs. Blood poured from the open head wound, and the gashes in her torso from the broken glass. The Doctor tore the coffee from her hands and The Toyman threw it in Jessie’s eyes and the coffee mixed with her tears. > > “More coffee. More coffee.” > > Jessie left the room and returned with more coffee. She placed The Doctor’s pillbox on his desk. The pillbox smiled at The Doctor and squeaked in violet whispers: > > “Complementary! Please Take One!” > > The Toyman screamed. > > “YOU MISSPELT COMPLIMENTARY.” > > Doctor Wondertainment downed his pills with Jessie’s tears. > > The Toyman went back to sleep. > > The Doctor died a little inside. > > With Love, From Your Prodigal Son > //love ya, daddy.// Reverse: > dear mister doctor wondertainment. > > thank you for making so many fantastic toys. > > we love playing with them. please do not stop making them. > > when we grow up we want to be just like you and make everyone have lots of fun. > > love ruiz, pico and mister redd. Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-2 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Messrs Ruiz, Pico and Redd", Unsealed (Torn). Inside: Folded A4-size White Paper, Front Text Printed Via Inkjet Printer, Reverse Blank. Front: > Wondertainment Enterprises > PO Box 3.141592 And The Rest > Wondertainmentland, 7 > > //To Ruiz and Pico:// > We're glad you like playing with Doctor Wondertainment^^TM^^ brand toys! > > Unfortunately, the Doctor himself is busy working on his next 'big thing', and can't respond to you directly. > > We'll pass on your message when he takes a break! > > Enclosed are free samples of Doctor Wondertainment's latest line of consumable products, Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy Bears^^TM^^! > > Thank you for your letter! > > From The Office Of > //Doctor Wondertainment// > > //To Mister Redd:// > We're glad you like being a Doctor Wondertainment^^TM^^ brand toy! > > Unfortunately, you do not have the rights to use the likeness of Doctor Wondertainment^^TM^^ in your fictional works. > > If you do not cease production of these works, further actions will be taken. > > Thank you for your letter! > > From The Legal Department Of > //Doctor Wondertainment// Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-3 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Mister Doctor Wondertainment (NOT PEONS)", Unsealed. Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Black Pen, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon. Front: > MISTER REDD'S BIG DAY > //(at the legal department)// > > [[size 1em]]And Then[[/size]] > > [[size 1.5em]]Mister Redd[[/size]] > > [[size 2em]]__Killed Them All.__[[/size]] > > __I Am Not A Toy.__ > > Let me meet my maker, or you'll meet yours. > > DON'T MAKE THIS NON-FICTION. > //pass it on to the man himself.// Reverse: > dear slaves of mister doctor wondertainment. > > thank you for your reply. > > the gummy bears were very tasty. we will buy more when they come out. > > please pass this letter on to mister doctor wondertainment. we do not want to speak to you. > > love ruiz, pico and mister redd. Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-4 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "Messrs Ruiz, Pico and Redd", Unsealed (Torn). Inside: Folded A4-size White Paper, Front Text Printed Via Inkjet Printer, Reverse Blank. Front: > Wondertainment Enterprises > PO Box 3.141592 And The Rest > Wondertainmentland, 7 > > //To Ruiz and Pico:// > We're glad you liked eating Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy Bears^^TM^^! > > Unfortunately, the Doctor himself is busy working on his next 'big thing', and can't respond to you directly. > > We'll pass on your message when he takes a break! > > Enclosed are free samples of Doctor Wondertainment's latest line of consumable products, Doctor Wondertainment's Sapient Gummy Bears^^TM^^! > > Thank you for your letter! > > From The Office Of > //Doctor Wondertainment// > > //To Mister Redd:// > We're glad you like being a Doctor Wondertainment^^TM^^ brand toy! > > You have heavily misrepresented the public face of Doctor Wondertainment^^TM^^ in an unauthorised fashion, then threatened The Legal Department of Doctor Wondertainment. > > This unauthorised activity with respect to the public face of Doctor Wondertainment^^TM^^ constitutes infringement of Wondertainment Enterprises intellectual property rights and violates various defamation and vilification laws. > > Wondertainment Enterprises enforces its intellectual property rights very aggressively by using every legal option available. > > Wondertainment Enterprises demands that you immediately and permanently disable access to any and all copies of said fiction. > > Do NOT reply to this letter. > > Thank you for your cooperation! > > From The Legal Department Of > //Doctor Wondertainment// Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-5 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "GIVE THIS TO DADDY", Unsealed. Inside: Crumpled A3-size White Paper, Text On Front In Blood, Text On Reverse In Red Crayon. Front: > LET ME SPEAK TO MY MAKER > //(let me speak to my maker)// > > [[size 1em]]LET ME[[/size]] > > [[size 1.5em]]SPEAK TO[[/size]] > > [[size 2em]]__MY MAKER.__[[/size]] > > AM I PAST MY FUCKING EXPIRY DATE? > > [[size 1.5em]]//NO RETURNS?//[[/size]] > > Double plus no backsies? Well just let me have a few moments of time with the good 'DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT TM' and then I'll be out of your hair. > > I'm really serious, here. > > IF YOU DON'T I'LL KILL THESE KIDS. > //this was written in their blood// Reverse: > dear slaves of mister doctor wondertainment. > > thank you for your reply. > > please do not send more gummy bears. some of them made us feel sick. > > please pass this letter on to mister doctor wondertainment. we do [[size 1.5em]]not[[/size]] want to speak to you. > > love ruiz, pico and mister redd. Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-6 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "To Doctor Wondertainment, URGENT, PLEASE READ", Unsealed. Inside: Crumpled A4-size White Paper, Heavily Worn, Text On Front In Black Crayon, Reverse Blank. Front: > Dear Doctor Wondertainment. > My name is Ruiz. > I do not know my last name. > Mister Redd will not let me remember. > I have a brother. His name is Pico. > I am worried about Pico. > I am worried about myself. > Mister Redd took our parents away. > He says he is our family now. > I pretend to not understand. > I pretend that I am stupid but I am not. > I know our parents will not come back. > He tries to make us drink things that make us strange. > I throw it up and try to make Pico throw it up but he does not. > Sometimes Mister Redd cuts us and collects the blood. > I do not know what he does with the blood. > Sometimes Mister Redd calls you God. > Every night I pray to you that Mister Redd will be recalled. > I do not think that you can hear prayers. Sub-Document: DOCWON-525276-7 Marked A5-size Envelope, Addressed to "dear mister doctor wondertainment", Unsealed. Inside: Crumpled A4-size White Paper, Heavily Worn, Text On Front In Red Crayon, Reverse Blank. Front: > dear mister doctor wondertainment > > thank you for making mister redd > > love pico [[=]] << [[[Shady Meetings]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Quintessence Of Dust]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-11T02:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "correspondence", "dr-wondertainment", "horror", "mister", "no-dialogue", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale" ]	The Toyman And The Doctor - SCP Foundation	223	[ "shady-meetings", "the-cool-war-hub", "quintessence-of-dust", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20927859	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-toyman-and-the-doctor
the-truth-is-out-there	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Gilbert Buchs had a little game that he played in his free time lately: he sat in front of his computer, played one of his old New World Order Exposed videos, opened a bottle of bourbon, and then took a shot whenever he was right. Gilbert watched Video Gilbert stand in front of a dry-erase board. He had drawn a rectangle on it; it looked like someone had chewed off one corner. Suspenseful stock music played in the background.</p> <p>"Something… is happening… <em>in Kansas</em>." Video Gilbert drew a circle in one of the edges that hadn't been gnawed at. "Last week, I caught word that there was a man out west who was struck by lightning and survived. If you think <em>that's</em> strange, you haven't been watching me long enough. What really matters is what happened afterward. I got to interview him, and you're about to hear some of the audio I taped from the encounter." The screen faded into black with the caption "THIS HAPPENED RIGHT IN OUR BACKYARDS".</p> <p>"Okay… what can you tell me about the days between the accident and when they showed up?"</p> <p>An old man's voice responded. "Well, uh… nothin', really. I just went along, building."</p> <p>"Describe the encounter, then."</p> <p>"I think I went to the door. I was in the middle of… I was holding a wrench. And I opened the door. Then I was sittin' down, like I was about to watch TV, but I didn't have one. I think I had thrown it out, or hooked it up to somethin', but everything I had been putting together was gone. Basement was clean."</p> <p>"You have memories missing."</p> <p>"All of it. I only know about the lightning 'cause of my health insurance, and 'cause of the lightning flower."</p> <p>"What's that?"</p> <p>"When you get struck, it can leave a mark on your skin that… oh, here, take a look." There was a pause and some rustling; the old man had turned around and lifted up his shirt.</p> <p>"…Yeah, I see it. It looks like a huge tree tattooed into your back."</p> <p>"It's faded now, but it was a lot worse back then. And I only remembered what to build because one of the bits was hid out back. I made one of them… electric eels, like, out of some computers the middle school threw out."</p> <p>Then there was a crashing noise. "Good golly— I gotta see what's goin' on down there." Then there was some mumbling. and the old man said, "No, no, no. You ain't allowed down there. I think you better be—" The audio cut off and Gilbert showed up again.</p> <p>"Now, we can see two things are immediately apparent: one," he counted on his fingers, "the lightning strike caused some sort of change in him that can't be explained by science."</p> <p><em>Gulp</em>. Gilbert downed a shot.</p> <p>"Two, he's being used to create some sort of machines, and someone is taking those machines for their own uses."</p> <p><em>Gulp.</em> Close enough.</p> <p>"You know what I think. That lightning was more than just bad weather. It was a <em>beacon</em>. Someone was teaching him."</p> <p><em>Gulp.</em></p> <p>"Someone <em>alien</em>. And that memory blank was them coming to collect."</p> <p><em>Clink.</em> He set the shot glass on his desk.</p> <p>"There's something among us, folks! Something that's using us for its own ends, then wiping our memories of the experience!"</p> <p><em>Gulp</em>.</p> <p>"Something inhuman!"</p> <p><em>Clink.</em></p> <p>The rest was contact information; Gilbert cut it off. Then he looked at the bottle. <em>Damn</em>, he thought. <em>I should have been better at this.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Gilbert stopped over at the used book store the next day. Cathie had wanted him to meet her there, and he felt like picking up something to read. There was a wiry kid in front of him in line who could have been Gilbert ten years ago. The boy was looking for something in particular.</p> <p>"It's got a bright red cover with sort of a, I don't know the term… Art Nouveau? Pop Art? It's got a design on it, and the title is 'Star' something."</p> <p>"Sorry," the girl at the counter said. "I know what you're talking about, and I'm pretty sure we sold it yesterday."</p> <p>The boy went to check Self-Help, and Gilbert rang up just as Cathie walked in. Cathie was middle-aged, was God's warrior on the frontlines against the encroaching Satanic movement, and wore a kitten sweater. She handed Gilbert and the counter girl a Xeroxed flyer.</p> <blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><span style="font-size:170%;"><strong>DEMONIC DANGER TO CHILDREN</strong></span></p> <p>The <strong>SATANIC CHILD PAIN</strong> FOUNDATION<br/> HAVE KIDNAPPED AN <strong>AMERICAN GIRL</strong><br/> FOR THEIR SICK RITUALS & SHE<br/> HAS GROWN UP AS A DRUG-<br/> CONTROLLED SLAVE DRONE FOR<br/> THE EUROPEAN SCIENCE CULT!!!!</p> <p>THEY CALL HER SCP-23-1-9<br/> <em>(TWENTY-THREE IS<br/> AN ANCIENT BAVARIAN<br/> ILLUMINATI <strong>MAGIC NUMBER</strong>)</em><br/> AND THEY TEACH HER PERVERTED<br/> <strong>HARRY POTTER</strong> UNDERAGE<br/> MAGIC IN <em>NEW YORK</em>!</p> <p>IF YOU HAVE ANY CHRISTIAN LOVE,<br/> RESIST THE <strong>NEW WORLD ORDER</strong><br/> 666CIENTIFIC KIDNAPPING PROGRAM<br/> AND THEIR<br/> "KETER" HEBREW LIZARD MASTERS</p> </div> </blockquote> <p>The pair sat down. Cathie set the stack of handouts on the table. "Gil, why did you want to see me?"</p> <p>"What? I thought you asked me to come here."</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"Oh."</p> <p>"Well?"</p> <p>"I guess I just wondered what you've been up to."</p> <p>"<em>Up</em> to?" She tapped the flyers. "I don't think my feet have touched the ground all week."</p> <p>Gilbert leaned over to scratch his head. "It's all true, Cathie. All of it."</p> <p>"I don't know what you mean."</p> <p>"This. The truth isn't out there anymore. It's <em>right here</em>." Gilbert held up a copy of Newsweek. The cover photograph depicted a dark-skinned child holding up a crude but accurate drawing of the Pepsi logo.</p> <blockquote> <p><span style="font-size:150%;">Virus Culture</span></p> <p>What are "memetic hazards", how are companies using them legally, and why has one convinced this boy that this is what faces look like?</p> </blockquote> <p>"Newsweek has the scoop on me. My job is pretty much over."</p> <p>"You're just giving up on fighting the conspiracy?" Cathie pointed at the flyer in Gilbert's hand. "I'm trying harder than ever."</p> <p>"What's there to fight? According to the <em>Times</em>, Two-Three-Nine is in US custody, and they've told her that whatever 'magic' they tried to teach her doesn't work. Two-Three-One was someone else, and the <em>Guardian</em> says that she was handed over to the GOC because she wasn't actually human, or isn't anymore, or something. I don't even know who that is in the photograph."</p> <p>Cathie cringed at the mention. "The Global Occult Coalition." Both "occult" and "global" sounded like profanity coming from her. "They're the evil army of the one-world government. Like the Peace Corps and FEMA combined. Times <em>ten</em>."</p> <p>"What? No, they aren't. That SCP thing is being cut up and served to governments like a… like a sheet cake, and the GOC is trying to keep this stuff out of their hands. They're doing the right thing here."</p> <p>"Gilbert, everyone thinks they know the truth now. But <em>we</em> know better. At least, I thought <em>we</em> did."</p> <p>A thought crossed Gilbert's mind: <em>was she in denial?</em> He stopped himself from saying it; instead, he tapped the stack of newspapers and magazines. "It all adds up. Proof positive. You don't have to rely on…"</p> <p>"Conspiracy theories?"</p> <p>Gilbert turned paler. "That's not what I meant."</p> <p>"Yes. It is." Cathie picked up her flyers. "I should go pick up the kids from soccer."</p> <p>"Still homeschooling?" Gilbert tried to change the subject, but Cathie wasn't having it. She stood up, went to leave, then turned around for a last thought.</p> <p>"What happened to you, Gilbert? You're reading <em>mainstream media</em>. You're just like them!" She waved an arm in no particular direction.</p> <p>"Or maybe they're just like me."</p> <hr/> <p>That night, Gilbert sat down and read everything he could from all his old favorite sites. It was nothing he didn't know already. He wanted to get excited. He wanted to <em>find</em> something. But… it was all true. All of it.</p> <p>Gil opened YouTube and scrolled through his account playlist until he found it. "Forget Everything You Know — Bigfoot Is REAL".</p> <p>Gilbert was about to get <em>wasted</em>.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-truth-is-out-there">The Truth Is Out There</a>" by Silberescher, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-truth-is-out-there">https://scpwiki.com/the-truth-is-out-there</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Gilbert Buchs had a little game that he played in his free time lately: he sat in front of his computer, played one of his old New World Order Exposed videos, opened a bottle of bourbon, and then took a shot whenever he was right. Gilbert watched Video Gilbert stand in front of a dry-erase board. He had drawn a rectangle on it; it looked like someone had chewed off one corner. Suspenseful stock music played in the background. "Something... is happening... //in Kansas//." Video Gilbert drew a circle in one of the edges that hadn't been gnawed at. "Last week, I caught word that there was a man out west who was struck by lightning and survived. If you think //that's// strange, you haven't been watching me long enough. What really matters is what happened afterward. I got to interview him, and you're about to hear some of the audio I taped from the encounter." The screen faded into black with the caption "THIS HAPPENED RIGHT IN OUR BACKYARDS". "Okay... what can you tell me about the days between the accident and when they showed up?" An old man's voice responded. "Well, uh... nothin', really. I just went along, building." "Describe the encounter, then." "I think I went to the door. I was in the middle of... I was holding a wrench. And I opened the door. Then I was sittin' down, like I was about to watch TV, but I didn't have one. I think I had thrown it out, or hooked it up to somethin', but everything I had been putting together was gone. Basement was clean." "You have memories missing." "All of it. I only know about the lightning 'cause of my health insurance, and 'cause of the lightning flower." "What's that?" "When you get struck, it can leave a mark on your skin that... oh, here, take a look." There was a pause and some rustling; the old man had turned around and lifted up his shirt. "...Yeah, I see it. It looks like a huge tree tattooed into your back." "It's faded now, but it was a lot worse back then. And I only remembered what to build because one of the bits was hid out back. I made one of them... electric eels, like, out of some computers the middle school threw out." Then there was a crashing noise. "Good golly-- I gotta see what's goin' on down there." Then there was some mumbling. and the old man said, "No, no, no. You ain't allowed down there. I think you better be--" The audio cut off and Gilbert showed up again. "Now, we can see two things are immediately apparent: one," he counted on his fingers, "the lightning strike caused some sort of change in him that can't be explained by science." //Gulp//. Gilbert downed a shot. "Two, he's being used to create some sort of machines, and someone is taking those machines for their own uses." //Gulp.// Close enough. "You know what I think. That lightning was more than just bad weather. It was a //beacon//. Someone was teaching him." //Gulp.// "Someone //alien//. And that memory blank was them coming to collect." //Clink.// He set the shot glass on his desk. "There's something among us, folks! Something that's using us for its own ends, then wiping our memories of the experience!" //Gulp//. "Something inhuman!" //Clink.// The rest was contact information; Gilbert cut it off. Then he looked at the bottle. //Damn//, he thought. //I should have been better at this.// ---- Gilbert stopped over at the used book store the next day. Cathie had wanted him to meet her there, and he felt like picking up something to read. There was a wiry kid in front of him in line who could have been Gilbert ten years ago. The boy was looking for something in particular. "It's got a bright red cover with sort of a, I don't know the term... Art Nouveau? Pop Art? It's got a design on it, and the title is 'Star' something." "Sorry," the girl at the counter said. "I know what you're talking about, and I'm pretty sure we sold it yesterday." The boy went to check Self-Help, and Gilbert rang up just as Cathie walked in. Cathie was middle-aged, was God's warrior on the frontlines against the encroaching Satanic movement, and wore a kitten sweater. She handed Gilbert and the counter girl a Xeroxed flyer. > [[=]] > [[size 170%]]DEMONIC DANGER TO CHILDREN[[/size]] > > The SATANIC CHILD PAIN FOUNDATION > HAVE KIDNAPPED AN AMERICAN GIRL > FOR THEIR SICK RITUALS & SHE > HAS GROWN UP AS A DRUG- > CONTROLLED SLAVE DRONE FOR > THE EUROPEAN SCIENCE CULT!!!! > > THEY CALL HER SCP-23-1-9 > //(TWENTY-THREE IS > AN ANCIENT BAVARIAN > ILLUMINATI MAGIC NUMBER)// > AND THEY TEACH HER PERVERTED > HARRY POTTER UNDERAGE > MAGIC IN //NEW YORK//! > > IF YOU HAVE ANY CHRISTIAN LOVE, > RESIST THE NEW WORLD ORDER > 666CIENTIFIC KIDNAPPING PROGRAM > AND THEIR > "KETER" HEBREW LIZARD MASTERS > [[/=]] The pair sat down. Cathie set the stack of handouts on the table. "Gil, why did you want to see me?" "What? I thought you asked me to come here." "No." "Oh." "Well?" "I guess I just wondered what you've been up to." "//Up// to?" She tapped the flyers. "I don't think my feet have touched the ground all week." Gilbert leaned over to scratch his head. "It's all true, Cathie. All of it." "I don't know what you mean." "This. The truth isn't out there anymore. It's //right here//." Gilbert held up a copy of Newsweek. The cover photograph depicted a dark-skinned child holding up a crude but accurate drawing of the Pepsi logo. > [[size 150%]]Virus Culture[[/size]] > > What are "memetic hazards", how are companies using them legally, and why has one convinced this boy that this is what faces look like? "Newsweek has the scoop on me. My job is pretty much over." "You're just giving up on fighting the conspiracy?" Cathie pointed at the flyer in Gilbert's hand. "I'm trying harder than ever." "What's there to fight? According to the //Times//, Two-Three-Nine is in US custody, and they've told her that whatever 'magic' they tried to teach her doesn't work. Two-Three-One was someone else, and the //Guardian// says that she was handed over to the GOC because she wasn't actually human, or isn't anymore, or something. I don't even know who that is in the photograph." Cathie cringed at the mention. "The Global Occult Coalition." Both "occult" and "global" sounded like profanity coming from her. "They're the evil army of the one-world government. Like the Peace Corps and FEMA combined. Times //ten//." "What? No, they aren't. That SCP thing is being cut up and served to governments like a... like a sheet cake, and the GOC is trying to keep this stuff out of their hands. They're doing the right thing here." "Gilbert, everyone thinks they know the truth now. But //we// know better. At least, I thought //we// did." A thought crossed Gilbert's mind: //was she in denial?// He stopped himself from saying it; instead, he tapped the stack of newspapers and magazines. "It all adds up. Proof positive. You don't have to rely on..." "Conspiracy theories?" Gilbert turned paler. "That's not what I meant." "Yes. It is." Cathie picked up her flyers. "I should go pick up the kids from soccer." "Still homeschooling?" Gilbert tried to change the subject, but Cathie wasn't having it. She stood up, went to leave, then turned around for a last thought. "What happened to you, Gilbert? You're reading //mainstream media//. You're just like them!" She waved an arm in no particular direction. "Or maybe they're just like me." ---- That night, Gilbert sat down and read everything he could from all his old favorite sites. It was nothing he didn't know already. He wanted to get excited. He wanted to //find// something. But... it was all true. All of it. Gil opened YouTube and scrolled through his account playlist until he found it. "Forget Everything You Know -- Bigfoot Is REAL". Gilbert was about to get //wasted//. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-05T21:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-masquerade", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	The Truth Is Out There - SCP Foundation	338	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "discovering-scp-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "broken-masquerade-hub", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16306685	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-truth-is-out-there
the-white-horse	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Yahweh walked through a wheat field in the southwestern part of the Jezreel Valley, restless.</p> <p>He had not stayed much longer in the other Valley, "His" Valley. It had been entirely too disturbing. A scene for which He had no script. He could not recall any other time in which He had felt this way - at least, not in His <em>true</em> memories. Those other, false memories were still coiling through the back of his brain, serpents in the grass waiting to strike once trodden on.</p> <p>He had needed to get away. So He came here, to the place once called Megiddo, where the Armageddon war would be fought. Would <em>still</em> be fought.</p> <p>Because these events changed nothing. Everything that was to transpire would still transpire. He may not have reckoned on having so many powerful, alien opponents, but he was still the one true God. He still had a vast army of angels, an army that dwarfed any other in the history or imagination of man. He still had his Locusts, the things the Foundation called 098. He had all those and more.</p> <p>And on top of them, He had His Horsemen.</p> <p>He had planned to summon the First Horseman to the unnamed Valley, before he'd been derailed, and this valley of Megiddo would do for now. The others He could simply approach the way He approached everyone, up close and personal, but… not the First. Yahweh felt no need to countenance the evil done to the First with His holy presence, not even though the evil had been done by His own followers, not even though they had wrought their evil for reasons they thought to be good ones.</p> <p>Yahweh stood in the middle of the wheat field and spoke the First's name.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>The young woman lay restrained on her bed, watching the IV drip hooked up to her arm.</p> <p>She had spent most of her life in this bed, she knew, since the age of nine. She was now in her late teens, though she wasn't sure of the year. She had forgotten so much. As to who she was… Well, she had also forgotten her name long ago. The people who came to see her called her SCP-231-7.</p> <p>She heard a voice in her head.</p> <p><em>Awaken, my child. Rise up and walk.</em></p> <p>The blocks in her mind, the blocks designed to keep her power contained, if only barely, all fell away at once.</p> <p>Birth pangs stabbed through her. She screamed, louder than she ever remembered screaming before.</p> <p>There were no klaxons to blare at 231-7's unnamed holding location. But there was shouting, and panic, and people in identical uniforms and explosive collars flooding the room. <em>"Containment breach!</em>" <em>"Restrain her! Restrain her!"</em> <em>"Initiate emergency procedures!"</em></p> <p>But it was already much too late.</p> <p>SCP-231-7 - Conquest, the First Horseman of the Apocalypse - had never been pregnant with a literal child. She had been pregnant with… herself. There was no better way of putting it. She had been containing her own power, and it had been building up, stronger and stronger, honed in the fires of a thousand extended torture sessions that should have broken anyone beyond repair long ago.</p> <p>Because of this, it took her only seconds to give birth, and then, to ascend.</p> <p>Her eyes burned like white stars. In a moment, the network of scars and bed sores that covered her body vanished. Her skin shone brilliantly, with a light beyond light, almost liquid. A robe that flowed like water and gold fell across her shoulders as the old hospital gown dissolved. A circlet of fire ignited in a halo around her head, set with a dozen pinpricks of gem-colored light.</p> <p>The men surrounding her dissolved in a flash of white light.</p> <p>She remembered her sisters. Now all dead, whether by the fumbling of the Scarlet King's children and the fumbling of the Foundation after them. <em>Rough drafts. Nephilim.</em> She remembered where she had come from, and why. She remembered "Class A Amnestics." She remembered…</p> <p>She remembered everything.</p> <hr/> <p>Yahweh was startled momentarily — a foible of His human body's fight-or-flight response, to be sure — when Conquest appeared in the wheat field out of nowhere. She was not wearing her illuminated clothing, but rather an ordinary t-shirt and jeans, contrasting with her shining flesh and burning crown.</p> <p>She was without her Steed, the sleeping foam entity which once awakened could blanket a fourth of the world in its collective. Instead she was accompanied by a translucent floating creature, all eyes and tentacles, swimming in its own personal cloud. An atmospheric jellyfish.</p> <p>"Your Steed…" Yahweh began.</p> <p>"I found one I liked more," Conquest said. She patted the cloud-jelly's side. "It's white, isn't it? It does eat people, sometimes, but right now I'm not sure if I care." She hesitated. "I can speak so well. I can't remember the last time… well, I can now, actually. So is this part of my power?"</p> <p>She was angry, Yahweh could tell.</p> <p>"My child," He began, "it is time to forgive the Foundation for their transgressions—"</p> <p>"<em>Don't</em> talk to me about the Foundation."</p> <p>Yahweh was torn between becoming angry over her disrespect in interrupting him, and tolerant of her reaction to her liberation. She <em>had</em> been held by the Foundation for quite a long time… perhaps He could afford to be indulgent…</p> <p>"I'm not angry with the Foundation," Conquest said. "I'm angry with <em>you</em>."</p> <p>The venom in her tone made His brow furrow in aggravation.</p> <p>"<em>They</em> didn't know what they were doing. Thought they were saving the world. But you… <em>You</em> could have told the Foundation what I was. You could have just taken me away from them. You could have <em>done something</em>." She paused to take a breath. "Even just a word to O5-14… But you did <em>nothing</em>. Do you — of course you do. You know exactly what they did to me. You know every last detail. And. You. Did. Nothing."</p> <p>Yahweh frowned. "How do you know about O5-14?"</p> <p>She just looked at Him. "That's it? That's what you have to say?"</p> <p>Yahweh sighed. He had no time for an argument. Not right now, not after the ordeal in the Valley. "Answer my question."</p> <p>"You have no idea how much power you gave me, do you?"</p> <p>Now He was angry. "Regardless," He said, "You <em>are</em> Mine, and you <em>will</em> obey."</p> <p>"I don't think so."</p> <p>He stared at her, flabbergasted at her gall.</p> <p>"I'm not going to be your Rider," she said. "I don't belong to anyone. Never again. You gave me a whole lot of power and… I'm gonna use it."</p> <p>"How…"</p> <p>Then He read her mind. He didn't actually <em>intend</em> to, no; He did it without thinking, to find the answer to His question. He was about to wipe her from existence. Not a harsh punishment, all things considered, if she was not going to be cooperative.</p> <p>Or He <em>had</em> been about to wipe her from existence. Until He read her mind, and saw everything that was in there. Everything that she had ever felt, thought, experienced.</p> <p>And Yahweh did nothing.</p> <p>Conquest looked up at the stars. "I think… I think I'm gonna go explore the universe," she said. "I don't know when I'll come back. Maybe in a few million years. Maybe never. It doesn't really matter."</p> <p>Conquest rose into the sky with her cloud-jelly companion. No flash, no pomp, no fanfare; she just simply flew away, ascending towards the clouds, and through them, and past them.</p> <p>Yahweh watched her go. He did not try to stop her. He watched her until she was a pinprick in the sky, and kept watching until she vanished completely, leaving Earth far behind.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/awakenings">Awakenings</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-red-horse">The Red Horse (The Ironic Metaphor)</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-white-horse">The White Horse (The Conqueror With The Golden Crown)</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-white-horse">https://scpwiki.com/the-white-horse</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Yahweh walked through a wheat field in the southwestern part of the Jezreel Valley, restless. He had not stayed much longer in the other Valley, "His" Valley. It had been entirely too disturbing. A scene for which He had no script. He could not recall any other time in which He had felt this way - at least, not in His //true// memories. Those other, false memories were still coiling through the back of his brain, serpents in the grass waiting to strike once trodden on. He had needed to get away. So He came here, to the place once called Megiddo, where the Armageddon war would be fought. Would //still// be fought. Because these events changed nothing. Everything that was to transpire would still transpire. He may not have reckoned on having so many powerful, alien opponents, but he was still the one true God. He still had a vast army of angels, an army that dwarfed any other in the history or imagination of man. He still had his Locusts, the things the Foundation called 098. He had all those and more. And on top of them, He had His Horsemen. He had planned to summon the First Horseman to the unnamed Valley, before he'd been derailed, and this valley of Megiddo would do for now. The others He could simply approach the way He approached everyone, up close and personal, but… not the First. Yahweh felt no need to countenance the evil done to the First with His holy presence, not even though the evil had been done by His own followers, not even though they had wrought their evil for reasons they thought to be good ones. Yahweh stood in the middle of the wheat field and spoke the First's name. ---------------- > And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. --------------- The young woman lay restrained on her bed, watching the IV drip hooked up to her arm. She had spent most of her life in this bed, she knew, since the age of nine. She was now in her late teens, though she wasn't sure of the year. She had forgotten so much. As to who she was… Well, she had also forgotten her name long ago. The people who came to see her called her SCP-231-7. She heard a voice in her head. //Awaken, my child. Rise up and walk.// The blocks in her mind, the blocks designed to keep her power contained, if only barely, all fell away at once. Birth pangs stabbed through her. She screamed, louder than she ever remembered screaming before. There were no klaxons to blare at 231-7's unnamed holding location. But there was shouting, and panic, and people in identical uniforms and explosive collars flooding the room. //"Containment breach!//" //"Restrain her! Restrain her!"// //"Initiate emergency procedures!"// But it was already much too late. SCP-231-7 - Conquest, the First Horseman of the Apocalypse - had never been pregnant with a literal child. She had been pregnant with… herself. There was no better way of putting it. She had been containing her own power, and it had been building up, stronger and stronger, honed in the fires of a thousand extended torture sessions that should have broken anyone beyond repair long ago. Because of this, it took her only seconds to give birth, and then, to ascend. Her eyes burned like white stars. In a moment, the network of scars and bed sores that covered her body vanished. Her skin shone brilliantly, with a light beyond light, almost liquid. A robe that flowed like water and gold fell across her shoulders as the old hospital gown dissolved. A circlet of fire ignited in a halo around her head, set with a dozen pinpricks of gem-colored light. The men surrounding her dissolved in a flash of white light. She remembered her sisters. Now all dead, whether by the fumbling of the Scarlet King's children and the fumbling of the Foundation after them. //Rough drafts. Nephilim.// She remembered where she had come from, and why. She remembered "Class A Amnestics." She remembered… She remembered everything. ---------- Yahweh was startled momentarily -- a foible of His human body's fight-or-flight response, to be sure -- when Conquest appeared in the wheat field out of nowhere. She was not wearing her illuminated clothing, but rather an ordinary t-shirt and jeans, contrasting with her shining flesh and burning crown. She was without her Steed, the sleeping foam entity which once awakened could blanket a fourth of the world in its collective. Instead she was accompanied by a translucent floating creature, all eyes and tentacles, swimming in its own personal cloud. An atmospheric jellyfish. "Your Steed…" Yahweh began. "I found one I liked more," Conquest said. She patted the cloud-jelly's side. "It's white, isn't it? It does eat people, sometimes, but right now I'm not sure if I care." She hesitated. "I can speak so well. I can't remember the last time... well, I can now, actually. So is this part of my power?" She was angry, Yahweh could tell. "My child," He began, "it is time to forgive the Foundation for their transgressions--" "//Don't// talk to me about the Foundation." Yahweh was torn between becoming angry over her disrespect in interrupting him, and tolerant of her reaction to her liberation. She //had// been held by the Foundation for quite a long time… perhaps He could afford to be indulgent… "I'm not angry with the Foundation," Conquest said. "I'm angry with //you//." The venom in her tone made His brow furrow in aggravation. "//They// didn't know what they were doing. Thought they were saving the world. But you… //You// could have told the Foundation what I was. You could have just taken me away from them. You could have //done something//." She paused to take a breath. "Even just a word to O5-14… But you did //nothing//. Do you -- of course you do. You know exactly what they did to me. You know every last detail. And. You. Did. Nothing." Yahweh frowned. "How do you know about O5-14?" She just looked at Him. "That's it? That's what you have to say?" Yahweh sighed. He had no time for an argument. Not right now, not after the ordeal in the Valley. "Answer my question." "You have no idea how much power you gave me, do you?" Now He was angry. "Regardless," He said, "You //are// Mine, and you //will// obey." "I don't think so." He stared at her, flabbergasted at her gall. "I'm not going to be your Rider," she said. "I don't belong to anyone. Never again. You gave me a whole lot of power and... I'm gonna use it." "How…" Then He read her mind. He didn't actually //intend// to, no; He did it without thinking, to find the answer to His question. He was about to wipe her from existence. Not a harsh punishment, all things considered, if she was not going to be cooperative. Or He //had// been about to wipe her from existence. Until He read her mind, and saw everything that was in there. Everything that she had ever felt, thought, experienced. And Yahweh did nothing. Conquest looked up at the stars. "I think... I think I'm gonna go explore the universe," she said. "I don't know when I'll come back. Maybe in a few million years. Maybe never. It doesn't really matter." Conquest rose into the sky with her cloud-jelly companion. No flash, no pomp, no fanfare; she just simply flew away, ascending towards the clouds, and through them, and past them. Yahweh watched her go. He did not try to stop her. He watched her until she was a pinprick in the sky, and kept watching until she vanished completely, leaving Earth far behind. ---------- [[=]] << [[[Awakenings]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[The Red Horse\|The Red Horse (The Ironic Metaphor)]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-05T08:39:00	[ "_licensebox", "competitive-eschatology", "fantasy", "nyc2013", "religious-fiction", "scarlet-king", "tale" ]	The White Horse (The Conqueror With The Golden Crown) - SCP Foundation	175	[ "awakenings", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "the-red-horse", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "cotsk-hub", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16298235	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-white-horse
the-word-and-the-wolf	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p>Author's Note: You might want to read <a href="/the-written-god">The Written God</a> before reading this tale.</p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><tt>There was certainly peace and happiness for a while; yet, as the people know, evil is unavoidable.</tt></em></p> </blockquote> <p>There was a knock at Jacob Hunt's door. The newly promoted Project Malleus captain called out to the visitor, who promptly walked in and took a standing position in front of his desk.</p> <p>"Jerome, welcome to my office. Isn't it amazing?" Jacob grinned as he spread his arms out.</p> <p>The man managed an impatient half-smile. "Quite, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to give my report before we rest on our laurels."</p> <p>He sighed, letting his arms fall limply. "True enough, this is cause for more diligence than celebration anyways. Now, you sent a memo that said you discovered a few new religious groups in the immediate area?"</p> <p>Jerome nodded. "Yes. The closest and largest one is based in Buffalo, looks to be… about fifty members at the moment. They also appear to have some sort of anomalous artifact that they use in their rituals and rites."</p> <p>Jacob thought for a second, folding his hands. "That's only forty-five minutes away at most. Do we know when and where they meet?"</p> <p>The man glanced towards his wrist. "Well, they usually meet from about this time until about eight."</p> <p>Hunt stood up. "Well, what are we waiting for then? Let's go."</p> <p>Jerome did not move, save for a single raised eyebrow. "Sir, We haven't even told McLean about the group, let alone run our mission plan past DeMontfort. We can't just—"</p> <p>"We can't just what? We can't go out and stop a probably dangerous group of heathens that are polluting the world with their filth and ideas? We have to wait for those idiot Sheep to try to recruit them into our ranks, like they've done with so many people that are utterly <em>unclean?</em>"</p> <p>The lanky man remained still. "The proper procedures must be adhered to, sir. The law was made for a reason, and rampant vigilantism might not be the best use of your post."</p> <p>Jacob chuckled. "Oh, come on Jerome, you haven't heard tales about captains acting on their own accord to slip through certain cracks in the system? This isn't vigilantism, boy, this is efficient duty. I hear the voice of God telling me this is what's right. Go on, gather Babylon Squad. We'll be in and out, within an hour or two. The higher ups will be none the wiser, and the world will be rid of another wretched paganist system."</p> <p>Jerome once again refused to budge. "Jacob, that's not how I do things."</p> <p>Jacob silently gave him an icy glare. "Fine," he said after several minutes of silence, "We'll call up DeMontfort for his approval."</p> <p>Jerome nodded, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed the number. It rang three times before a the Director answered.</p> <p>"Director DeMontfort speaking."</p> <p>"Hello, Director," spoke Jerome. "This is Jerome Allen, speaking on the behalf of Father Jacob." Hunt motioned towards his ears, which Jerome took as a sign to put the call on speakerphone.</p> <p>"Ah, yes. The new captain. What'd he want to talk to me about?"</p> <p>"You see, there is a newly discovered cult in the immediate area, and he wanted to get the approval to go after them immediately."</p> <p>There were a few seconds of silence before DeMontfort replied. "What kind of group is this?"</p> <p>Jerome put the phone down on the desk in front of him as he flipped through papers on a clipboard. "A society which believes in a god and messiah figure that comes to life when its people write about it. They also appear to outright shun all other written religious figures and texts."</p> <p>A few more seconds of silence.</p> <p>"Do they have special weapons or abilities at their disposal?"</p> <p>"It seems highly likely, but hasn't been confirmed yet. That would require extended observation of the group, which I think could be handled more effectively by the Shepherd Corps. They may even be able to integrate members of the Cult of the Wordsmith into the religion covertly in order to observe. We have a few planted Project Malleus agents already, but I don't think we can rely on their long-term judgement and ability to blend in."</p> <p>"I see," DeMontfort replied. "My opinion is that a possibly dangerous and definitely blasphemous group should be taken out as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, such a course of action wouldn't be possible if this request was submitted through all the proper channels. Even more unfortunately, I never received any sort of indication from Father Jacob about his plans of action, or even any prior information about the group. It really is such a shame, but I suppose it meet our goal at the end of the day."</p> <p>Frowning from confusion, Jerome said, "I don't understand."</p> <p>DeMontfort took a very slow and deep breath, then exhaled for just as long. "Why, Jerome, what I'm saying is that if I were to do it my way, I would immediately send out Jacob and his squadron to eliminate the group you described. But, much to my dismay, a blockade of policy and diplomatic relations and Sheep restrict my movements. I guess it really is too bad that you didn't inform me of such action, really, but no one could possibly get too mad at you for doing your job. Understood?"</p> <p>Closing his eyes, he responded through clenched teeth, "I understand."</p> <p>"Excellent. I'll see you boys later." A three toned beeping filled the office.</p> <p>"Well then," said Jacob as he leaned back in his chair. "Let's get to it."</p> <p>"Right away." Jerome solidly nodded and walked out of the room to gather the squad quietly.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>But soon enough, a Wolf came to tear the Believers asunder.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>They filed into the warehouse silently, but even so, their black tactical clothing made them distinctly noticeable among the sea of brown robes. Laughter and talking transformed into silence in the space of a few seconds. The screaming began when the agents drew their guns and began yelling and cornering them. Once they were surrounded, a nervous sea of hushed whispers replaced their yells.</p> <p>The Project Malleus agents sternly surveyed the group they had trapped. It was composed of a variety of people, all wearing burlap sacks with hoods attached. A robust, regally-attired man stepped to the front and addressed the tall man already standing in the center of the formation.</p> <p>“Name of the group?”</p> <p>“The Faith of the Scribed, sir."</p> <p>"Excellent. Now, read out their transgressions. Loudly."</p> <p>"I don't think that's—"</p> <p>"…"</p> <p>"…Right. The Scribes believe in a messiah that comes about through their writings and scripture. The main leader professed that all other religious figures described through writing were utterly false and all who believed in such people would be eliminated by their Lord.”</p> <p>Jacob Hunt growled derisively, barking, “Blasphemers, worse than the Pastafarians,” to the crowd. He leered over the hooded people in front of him. Most cults at least had nice looking vestments. This one just appeared to be wearing potato sacks. “Are the Sheep aware of this?”</p> <p>“At the current moment, Project Malleus is the only branch aware of this operation, but I have men ready to send the signal to the chapterhouse at a moment's notice if you change your mind.”</p> <p>“Let’s keep it quiet. I don’t want to hassle with them over assimilation negotiations. You heard what DeMontfort said. We’re going to eliminate these heathens, here and now, as our duty as agent of Project Malleus.” Thoughts of grandeur and images of Hunt as a mighty warrior smiting down sinners with his God's sword had filled his cranium, as evidenced by his triumphant grin and trembling eagerness.</p> <p>Jerome shook his head. "We need to—"</p> <p>"You <em>need</em> to follow God's will as interpreted by me. Understood?"</p> <p>A very observant onlooker would have noticed Jerome's jaw clench tightly for several seconds before he tersely answered, "I understand."</p> <hr/> <p>The tension among the group felt suffocating. Everyone's eyes were fixed downwards and all the joy and laughter from just a few minutes earlier had utterly dissipated. There was a low murmur working its way through the crowd, mostly made up of family members consoling each other.</p> <p>Roger thought back through his mind. Why, why <em>why?</em> Why was this happening? Where was Reggravi? Where the <em>fuck</em> was it? He had specifically written it for a time of peril, just in case.</p> <p>A tugging at his robes interrupted his thoughts. He looked down at the boy trying to get his attention.</p> <p>"What is it, Jimmy?" he whispered, struggling to keep the tension out of his voice.</p> <p>"Well, Mr. Roger… Reggravi is gonna come, right? He's gonna save us all, isn't he?"</p> <p>Roger attempted to give him a wide, confident smile. It ended up looking more like he was baring his teeth. "Of course. Reggravi would never betray us. Isn't that what's written?"</p> <p>The boy thought for a minute, as if trying very hard to remember if this was true. He apparently decided it was because he nodded, plopped back down, and began looking around the group expectantly.</p> <p>He shook himself. <em>Snap out of it, Roger. You were the one that found it, so why are you having trouble believing in it when a kid just accepts it like that?</em></p> <p>With these thoughts, he relaxed, but not by much. There was still the chance he was wrong.</p> <hr/> <p>“Father Jacob?”</p> <p>He turned to look at the agent. "Yes?"</p> <p>"Do you have a plan for if this plan backfires? They are suspected of having some sort of artifact, after all. Shouldn't we at least call for backup since we didn't report this?"</p> <p>He snorted derisively. "If we waited around for all that paperwork and processing to build up, we'd never get anything done around here! Look, here are some heathens, so we're going to eliminate them. Plain and simple."</p> <p>"But even DeMontfort—"</p> <p>"Now, that's enough. We have a mission we are prepared to do, and we're going to do it."</p> <p>"…Yes, sir."</p> <p>"Good. Now, let me prepare."</p> <p>Jacob pulled a metal cone from his bag, lifting it up to the sky as he muttered, <em>”I ask for guidance. I ask for strength. I ask for light. I respond with righteousness. Amen.”</em> He brought the object back down as he told his co-worker, "Jerome, ready the rest of the men. You'll be cleaning up the stragglers after I'm done."</p> <p>The man next to him saluted and began speaking into his radio. Jacob raised the object to his mouth, inhaled deeply, and shouted.</p> <hr/> <p>The blast of sound, probably loud in normal circumstances, was amplified to painful amounts by the near-silence and the enclosed space of the warehouse. Roger's hands shot up to the sides of his head to cover his ears. He peered over to where the attack seemed to be aimed at and was taken aback when he saw a circle in the center of the crowd, empty save for a tall hooded figure.</p> <p><em>Could it be…</em></p> <p>But not yet. Roger dared not to celebrate yet. Not until he was certain.</p> <hr/> <p>After the echoes of the sound had faded, silence filled the dank and dimly lit warehouse. Jacob frowned. A blast from the object usually managed to clear out at least a circle of people. Instead, it appeared to only have affected one of the heathens, a tall man standing in the center of the gathering. Shaking his head, Jacob once again lifted the cone, aimed it directly at the standing form, and yelled.</p> <p>The figure’s hood fell to the floor, severed from the rest of his outfit by the attack, revealing a faceless head with large, bloody holes scattered across the surface. Several of the hooded figures shouted in surprised delight at the appearance of the entity, which simply stood tall and silent, the blood flowing more freely and turning darker and thicker with each passing second. These shouts turned into louder cheers and crescendoed into an uproar as all of the captive people screamed in triumph.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>And then our Savior alit on the earth, shroud humbly like His followers so as to fool the Unworthy. He walked among our people in their supposed defeat, left unseen by the enemy until the hour of Salvation dawned.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>“Jerome! Jerome!” Hunt strained to make his voice heard over the din. “Kill it and kill them quickly! Burn the building down if you must!”</p> <p>The man on his side nodded and sprinted off as Jacob once again lifted the cone, shouting at crowd with the tall, dirty figure remaining steadfastly erect in the center. Instantly, the faceless man seemed to shift to the front of the crowd, arms and legs outstretched like a star. Each blast shredded its already rough outfit, punching red holes all across its form. Agents were now openly firing at the crowd, but the being seemed to catch each and every bullet with its own body. As this continued, the ruby color dripping from these wounds darkened and a bubbling black liquid began seeping out.</p> <p><em>No, no!</em> Jacob attempted to shout once more, but could muster nothing more than a rasp. <em>Not yet! I can't be finished yet!</em> He threw the object in his hand aside. <em>Useless relic! God help me, God help me!</em></p> <p>He glanced up at the scene. The muck had completely covered the man's form and extended two additional limbs as it crashed forward. The roar of the cheering people was absolutely deafening. He watched as the creature bashed his men and enveloped their corpses with its filthy slime.</p> <p>A heartbeat rang though his mind.</p> <p><em>I'm not ready yet. I have so much left to accomplish. I can't die here, not now.</em></p> <p>He was still reaching for his pistol when the creature's front leg slammed into— no, <em>through</em>— his chest. The last glimpse of the mortal world Jacob Hunt experienced was utter blackness surrounded by the cacophony of defeat.</p> <hr/> <p>The cornered people cheered louder and louder with each blast absorbed by their Lord. It seemed to flow and sway so as to completely shield them with its body, a body so perfect that the man's assaults were unable to faze it. He grew greater and more powerful as the blows became progressively weaker and the man's voice grew hoarse. When Reggravi revealed a form to cast judgement upon Jacob, they jumped to their feet and screamed in triumph as loud as they could.</p> <p>Roger looked on in awestruck wonder. <em>I never should have doubted. I never should have thought He would let us go. After all, I wrote it.</em> He glanced upward. <em>Of course… this does mean that soon… well, it was about time anyways.</em> He grinned.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>He rose as the Beast bared its fangs to strike. The Faithful were strongly shielded against the creature with His magnificent form, and by His sacrifice, He was instantly reborn as our Strength. He overran the Unbelieving while keeping those with the Faith protected by His love.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>The agents knew when they were outmatched. They hated admitting it, but they knew it was better to sacrifice a battle in order to win the war another day. Seven out of the original twenty members of the force managed to escape the building and flee to the nearest chapterhouse.</p> <p>The dark creature watched as they left, returning to the cheering crowd inside once their vehicles had driven out of its field of vision. It crawled over to the center as the people quieted themselves in reverence. One man began reciting sacred words, joined in by another, and another, and another until the entire congregation was detailing the legend of their Lord, Reggravi.</p> <p>As they neared the end of their tale, the creature's six legs shortened more and more until they were once again melded with its body. A large and luminous white flower began to sprout from the black mass, growing in size until it filled the warehouse with its petals. The people, still chanting, climbed up onto it as it rose higher and higher into the sky, clearing the path above them with a protective cage of thorns. When they had finished the saga, they started over from the beginning. This continued as the large flower soared upwards into the aether. Once they had finished the story for the second time, both they and the flower disappeared.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>The Beast slain and the Unbelieving conquered, He then met with His People, who told of His chronicle. Then, sprouting the Gateway of Paradise, He raised all of the Faithful up with Him as He ascended.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>"Project Malleus was never given authorization for this."</p> <p>"I know, sir."</p> <p>"DeMontfort himself even claims to know nothing about this operation."</p> <p>Jerome gulped. "I know, sir."</p> <p>"What were you thinking?"</p> <p>"Captain Hunt had deemed the cult to be dangerous and was trying to preemptively eliminate it before it could do anything. As his subordinate, I was following his orders."</p> <p>"That's not how we work around here, Jerome. You know that."</p> <p>"Yes, sir."</p> <p>Harold McLean sighed. "Well, at least we can get it all sorted out now, I suppose. I guess we'll start with how it even happened in the first place. Details about the group in question?"</p> <p>"They called themselves the Faith of the Scribed. They believed in a higher being that was summoned when written about. Most of their history is detailed in their holy texts," he said, holding up a midnight blue book.</p> <p>"I see. Give me that, then, and I'll deal with all of your disciplinary reports later."</p> <p>"Of course."</p> <p>As the agents left his office, Harold sighed. <em>A lot of good men were lost for no cause today.</em> Dispelling these thoughts, he flipped open the book and began reading.</p> <p><em>"Reggravi was born out of the writings of Roger Legrand, the first Scribe. He detailed meeting the being, and so he did. Thus, our belief began…</em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>And in the aftermath, the survivors left and carried on, a group of seven. The Master would appear to each as an angel of their god every night, advising them in the ways of their Faith and making them into His Prophets of the Second Edition. Each would learn the ways of the Scribed through Reggravi himself and spread His word and knowledge through their writings. Thus, the new and greater wave of the Scribes shall come to order and help propagate His legacy.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>Jerome, arise.</em></p> <p>The man opened his eyes and stared at the form in front of him. It was a floating angel, face obscured by blinding light and clad in pure white garments. Its glowing wings seemed to stretch and encompass the entire room, filling the space with soft, gentle luminescence.</p> <p><em>My name is Bertrien, and I am your Protector. Let me guide you and show you the way.</em> The being held out a single, perfect hand.</p> <p>"Yes, Lord," responded Jerome as he took his hand. "I'm ready to follow."</p> <p><em>And you will, child. But before I can take you, you must help spread my word and love to the masses.</em></p> <p>"I shall. Give me the law and I will obey. Give me justice and I will act as your envoy."</p> <p><em>Now, you are called the First Prophet by me. Go forth.</em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-written-god">The Written God</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-word-and-the-wolf">The Word and the Wolf</a>" by azzleflux, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-word-and-the-wolf">https://scpwiki.com/the-word-and-the-wolf</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] [[=]] > Author's Note: You might want to read [[[The Written God]]] before reading this tale. [[/=]] ------------------ > //{{There was certainly peace and happiness for a while; yet, as the people know, evil is unavoidable.}}// There was a knock at Jacob Hunt's door. The newly promoted Project Malleus captain called out to the visitor, who promptly walked in and took a standing position in front of his desk. "Jerome, welcome to my office. Isn't it amazing?" Jacob grinned as he spread his arms out. The man managed an impatient half-smile. "Quite, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to give my report before we rest on our laurels." He sighed, letting his arms fall limply. "True enough, this is cause for more diligence than celebration anyways. Now, you sent a memo that said you discovered a few new religious groups in the immediate area?" Jerome nodded. "Yes. The closest and largest one is based in Buffalo, looks to be... about fifty members at the moment. They also appear to have some sort of anomalous artifact that they use in their rituals and rites." Jacob thought for a second, folding his hands. "That's only forty-five minutes away at most. Do we know when and where they meet?" The man glanced towards his wrist. "Well, they usually meet from about this time until about eight." Hunt stood up. "Well, what are we waiting for then? Let's go." Jerome did not move, save for a single raised eyebrow. "Sir, We haven't even told McLean about the group, let alone run our mission plan past DeMontfort. We can't just--" "We can't just what? We can't go out and stop a probably dangerous group of heathens that are polluting the world with their filth and ideas? We have to wait for those idiot Sheep to try to recruit them into our ranks, like they've done with so many people that are utterly //unclean?//" The lanky man remained still. "The proper procedures must be adhered to, sir. The law was made for a reason, and rampant vigilantism might not be the best use of your post." Jacob chuckled. "Oh, come on Jerome, you haven't heard tales about captains acting on their own accord to slip through certain cracks in the system? This isn't vigilantism, boy, this is efficient duty. I hear the voice of God telling me this is what's right. Go on, gather Babylon Squad. We'll be in and out, within an hour or two. The higher ups will be none the wiser, and the world will be rid of another wretched paganist system." Jerome once again refused to budge. "Jacob, that's not how I do things." Jacob silently gave him an icy glare. "Fine," he said after several minutes of silence, "We'll call up DeMontfort for his approval." Jerome nodded, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and dialed the number. It rang three times before a the Director answered. "Director DeMontfort speaking." "Hello, Director," spoke Jerome. "This is Jerome Allen, speaking on the behalf of Father Jacob." Hunt motioned towards his ears, which Jerome took as a sign to put the call on speakerphone. "Ah, yes. The new captain. What'd he want to talk to me about?" "You see, there is a newly discovered cult in the immediate area, and he wanted to get the approval to go after them immediately." There were a few seconds of silence before DeMontfort replied. "What kind of group is this?" Jerome put the phone down on the desk in front of him as he flipped through papers on a clipboard. "A society which believes in a god and messiah figure that comes to life when its people write about it. They also appear to outright shun all other written religious figures and texts." A few more seconds of silence. "Do they have special weapons or abilities at their disposal?" "It seems highly likely, but hasn't been confirmed yet. That would require extended observation of the group, which I think could be handled more effectively by the Shepherd Corps. They may even be able to integrate members of the Cult of the Wordsmith into the religion covertly in order to observe. We have a few planted Project Malleus agents already, but I don't think we can rely on their long-term judgement and ability to blend in." "I see," DeMontfort replied. "My opinion is that a possibly dangerous and definitely blasphemous group should be taken out as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, such a course of action wouldn't be possible if this request was submitted through all the proper channels. Even more unfortunately, I never received any sort of indication from Father Jacob about his plans of action, or even any prior information about the group. It really is such a shame, but I suppose it meet our goal at the end of the day." Frowning from confusion, Jerome said, "I don't understand." DeMontfort took a very slow and deep breath, then exhaled for just as long. "Why, Jerome, what I'm saying is that if I were to do it my way, I would immediately send out Jacob and his squadron to eliminate the group you described. But, much to my dismay, a blockade of policy and diplomatic relations and Sheep restrict my movements. I guess it really is too bad that you didn't inform me of such action, really, but no one could possibly get too mad at you for doing your job. Understood?" Closing his eyes, he responded through clenched teeth, "I understand." "Excellent. I'll see you boys later." A three toned beeping filled the office. "Well then," said Jacob as he leaned back in his chair. "Let's get to it." "Right away." Jerome solidly nodded and walked out of the room to gather the squad quietly. ---------------- > {{//But soon enough, a Wolf came to tear the Believers asunder.//}} ----------------------- They filed into the warehouse silently, but even so, their black tactical clothing made them distinctly noticeable among the sea of brown robes. Laughter and talking transformed into silence in the space of a few seconds. The screaming began when the agents drew their guns and began yelling and cornering them. Once they were surrounded, a nervous sea of hushed whispers replaced their yells. The Project Malleus agents sternly surveyed the group they had trapped. It was composed of a variety of people, all wearing burlap sacks with hoods attached. A robust, regally-attired man stepped to the front and addressed the tall man already standing in the center of the formation. “Name of the group?” “The Faith of the Scribed, sir." "Excellent. Now, read out their transgressions. Loudly." "I don't think that's--" "..." "...Right. The Scribes believe in a messiah that comes about through their writings and scripture. The main leader professed that all other religious figures described through writing were utterly false and all who believed in such people would be eliminated by their Lord.” Jacob Hunt growled derisively, barking, “Blasphemers, worse than the Pastafarians,” to the crowd. He leered over the hooded people in front of him. Most cults at least had nice looking vestments. This one just appeared to be wearing potato sacks. “Are the Sheep aware of this?” “At the current moment, Project Malleus is the only branch aware of this operation, but I have men ready to send the signal to the chapterhouse at a moment's notice if you change your mind.” “Let’s keep it quiet. I don’t want to hassle with them over assimilation negotiations. You heard what DeMontfort said. We’re going to eliminate these heathens, here and now, as our duty as agent of Project Malleus.” Thoughts of grandeur and images of Hunt as a mighty warrior smiting down sinners with his God's sword had filled his cranium, as evidenced by his triumphant grin and trembling eagerness. Jerome shook his head. "We need to--" "You //need// to follow God's will as interpreted by me. Understood?" A very observant onlooker would have noticed Jerome's jaw clench tightly for several seconds before he tersely answered, "I understand." -------------- The tension among the group felt suffocating. Everyone's eyes were fixed downwards and all the joy and laughter from just a few minutes earlier had utterly dissipated. There was a low murmur working its way through the crowd, mostly made up of family members consoling each other. Roger thought back through his mind. Why, why //why?// Why was this happening? Where was Reggravi? Where the //fuck// was it? He had specifically written it for a time of peril, just in case. A tugging at his robes interrupted his thoughts. He looked down at the boy trying to get his attention. "What is it, Jimmy?" he whispered, struggling to keep the tension out of his voice. "Well, Mr. Roger... Reggravi is gonna come, right? He's gonna save us all, isn't he?" Roger attempted to give him a wide, confident smile. It ended up looking more like he was baring his teeth. "Of course. Reggravi would never betray us. Isn't that what's written?" The boy thought for a minute, as if trying very hard to remember if this was true. He apparently decided it was because he nodded, plopped back down, and began looking around the group expectantly. He shook himself. //Snap out of it, Roger. You were the one that found it, so why are you having trouble believing in it when a kid just accepts it like that?// With these thoughts, he relaxed, but not by much. There was still the chance he was wrong. ---------- “Father Jacob?” He turned to look at the agent. "Yes?" "Do you have a plan for if this plan backfires? They are suspected of having some sort of artifact, after all. Shouldn't we at least call for backup since we didn't report this?" He snorted derisively. "If we waited around for all that paperwork and processing to build up, we'd never get anything done around here! Look, here are some heathens, so we're going to eliminate them. Plain and simple." "But even DeMontfort--" "Now, that's enough. We have a mission we are prepared to do, and we're going to do it." "...Yes, sir." "Good. Now, let me prepare." Jacob pulled a metal cone from his bag, lifting it up to the sky as he muttered, //”I ask for guidance. I ask for strength. I ask for light. I respond with righteousness. Amen.”// He brought the object back down as he told his co-worker, "Jerome, ready the rest of the men. You'll be cleaning up the stragglers after I'm done." The man next to him saluted and began speaking into his radio. Jacob raised the object to his mouth, inhaled deeply, and shouted. ------------ The blast of sound, probably loud in normal circumstances, was amplified to painful amounts by the near-silence and the enclosed space of the warehouse. Roger's hands shot up to the sides of his head to cover his ears. He peered over to where the attack seemed to be aimed at and was taken aback when he saw a circle in the center of the crowd, empty save for a tall hooded figure. //Could it be...// But not yet. Roger dared not to celebrate yet. Not until he was certain. ------------ After the echoes of the sound had faded, silence filled the dank and dimly lit warehouse. Jacob frowned. A blast from the object usually managed to clear out at least a circle of people. Instead, it appeared to only have affected one of the heathens, a tall man standing in the center of the gathering. Shaking his head, Jacob once again lifted the cone, aimed it directly at the standing form, and yelled. The figure’s hood fell to the floor, severed from the rest of his outfit by the attack, revealing a faceless head with large, bloody holes scattered across the surface. Several of the hooded figures shouted in surprised delight at the appearance of the entity, which simply stood tall and silent, the blood flowing more freely and turning darker and thicker with each passing second. These shouts turned into louder cheers and crescendoed into an uproar as all of the captive people screamed in triumph. ------------- > {{//And then our Savior alit on the earth, shroud humbly like His followers so as to fool the Unworthy. He walked among our people in their supposed defeat, left unseen by the enemy until the hour of Salvation dawned.//}} ------ “Jerome! Jerome!” Hunt strained to make his voice heard over the din. “Kill it and kill them quickly! Burn the building down if you must!” The man on his side nodded and sprinted off as Jacob once again lifted the cone, shouting at crowd with the tall, dirty figure remaining steadfastly erect in the center. Instantly, the faceless man seemed to shift to the front of the crowd, arms and legs outstretched like a star. Each blast shredded its already rough outfit, punching red holes all across its form. Agents were now openly firing at the crowd, but the being seemed to catch each and every bullet with its own body. As this continued, the ruby color dripping from these wounds darkened and a bubbling black liquid began seeping out. //No, no!// Jacob attempted to shout once more, but could muster nothing more than a rasp. //Not yet! I can't be finished yet!// He threw the object in his hand aside. //Useless relic! God help me, God help me!// He glanced up at the scene. The muck had completely covered the man's form and extended two additional limbs as it crashed forward. The roar of the cheering people was absolutely deafening. He watched as the creature bashed his men and enveloped their corpses with its filthy slime. A heartbeat rang though his mind. //I'm not ready yet. I have so much left to accomplish. I can't die here, not now.// He was still reaching for his pistol when the creature's front leg slammed into-- no, //through//-- his chest. The last glimpse of the mortal world Jacob Hunt experienced was utter blackness surrounded by the cacophony of defeat. ------------- The cornered people cheered louder and louder with each blast absorbed by their Lord. It seemed to flow and sway so as to completely shield them with its body, a body so perfect that the man's assaults were unable to faze it. He grew greater and more powerful as the blows became progressively weaker and the man's voice grew hoarse. When Reggravi revealed a form to cast judgement upon Jacob, they jumped to their feet and screamed in triumph as loud as they could. Roger looked on in awestruck wonder. //I never should have doubted. I never should have thought He would let us go. After all, I wrote it.// He glanced upward. //Of course... this does mean that soon... well, it was about time anyways.// He grinned. ----------- > {{//He rose as the Beast bared its fangs to strike. The Faithful were strongly shielded against the creature with His magnificent form, and by His sacrifice, He was instantly reborn as our Strength. He overran the Unbelieving while keeping those with the Faith protected by His love.//}} ------------------ The agents knew when they were outmatched. They hated admitting it, but they knew it was better to sacrifice a battle in order to win the war another day. Seven out of the original twenty members of the force managed to escape the building and flee to the nearest chapterhouse. The dark creature watched as they left, returning to the cheering crowd inside once their vehicles had driven out of its field of vision. It crawled over to the center as the people quieted themselves in reverence. One man began reciting sacred words, joined in by another, and another, and another until the entire congregation was detailing the legend of their Lord, Reggravi. As they neared the end of their tale, the creature's six legs shortened more and more until they were once again melded with its body. A large and luminous white flower began to sprout from the black mass, growing in size until it filled the warehouse with its petals. The people, still chanting, climbed up onto it as it rose higher and higher into the sky, clearing the path above them with a protective cage of thorns. When they had finished the saga, they started over from the beginning. This continued as the large flower soared upwards into the aether. Once they had finished the story for the second time, both they and the flower disappeared. -------- > {{//The Beast slain and the Unbelieving conquered, He then met with His People, who told of His chronicle. Then, sprouting the Gateway of Paradise, He raised all of the Faithful up with Him as He ascended.//}} --------- "Project Malleus was never given authorization for this." "I know, sir." "DeMontfort himself even claims to know nothing about this operation." Jerome gulped. "I know, sir." "What were you thinking?" "Captain Hunt had deemed the cult to be dangerous and was trying to preemptively eliminate it before it could do anything. As his subordinate, I was following his orders." "That's not how we work around here, Jerome. You know that." "Yes, sir." Harold McLean sighed. "Well, at least we can get it all sorted out now, I suppose. I guess we'll start with how it even happened in the first place. Details about the group in question?" "They called themselves the Faith of the Scribed. They believed in a higher being that was summoned when written about. Most of their history is detailed in their holy texts," he said, holding up a midnight blue book. "I see. Give me that, then, and I'll deal with all of your disciplinary reports later." "Of course." As the agents left his office, Harold sighed. //A lot of good men were lost for no cause today.// Dispelling these thoughts, he flipped open the book and began reading. //"Reggravi was born out of the writings of Roger Legrand, the first Scribe. He detailed meeting the being, and so he did. Thus, our belief began...// ------------- > {{//And in the aftermath, the survivors left and carried on, a group of seven. The Master would appear to each as an angel of their god every night, advising them in the ways of their Faith and making them into His Prophets of the Second Edition. Each would learn the ways of the Scribed through Reggravi himself and spread His word and knowledge through their writings. Thus, the new and greater wave of the Scribes shall come to order and help propagate His legacy.//}} ------------ //Jerome, arise.// The man opened his eyes and stared at the form in front of him. It was a floating angel, face obscured by blinding light and clad in pure white garments. Its glowing wings seemed to stretch and encompass the entire room, filling the space with soft, gentle luminescence. //My name is Bertrien, and I am your Protector. Let me guide you and show you the way.// The being held out a single, perfect hand. "Yes, Lord," responded Jerome as he took his hand. "I'm ready to follow." //And you will, child. But before I can take you, you must help spread my word and love to the masses.// "I shall. Give me the law and I will obey. Give me justice and I will act as your envoy." //Now, you are called the First Prophet by me. Go forth.// [[=]] << [[[The Written God]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=azzleflux]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-22T20:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "tale" ]	The Word and the Wolf - SCP Foundation	44	[ "the-written-god", "etdp-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16899243	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-word-and-the-wolf
the-worm	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>Summary of Evidence from Recovery Site V2008-5</span></h1> <p><strong>Day 14</strong><br/> I think it is important to provide context, so future generations may recognize the urgency of my endeavor.</p> <p>In 1916, I enlisted into His Majesty's 5th Infantry Division, and in the bloody trenches of Europe I witnessed proof of humanity's barbarism and the absence of God. Wounded in battle and wallowing in septic mud, the fever fell upon me, and with it came the visions.</p> <p>In my nightmares I saw a great iron worm, with jaws like that of a dragon, devouring the fields of Europe. It had no teeth, but masses of grinding gears that tore flesh and stone to pulp. Its voice was the roar of falling artillery, its breath the blistering poison of mustard gas. Damned souls were belched into a starless sky like smoke, lost into a cold, indifferent void.</p> <p>I have no memory of my conscious actions during that time, but at last I found myself in a hospital in London. They told me the war was over, but the dreams did not leave. I would wake in a cold sweat, filled with purpose. Hastily I scribbled down designs that had been burned into my mind, strange and alien architectures I did not recognize or understand.</p> <p>Finally I returned home to my wife and children. Brave Simon and little Simone were a welcome escape from my fear, but my wife Clarice took notice. "Shellshock," she called it, the word on the lips of every veteran's wife or mother. I tried to explain my visions, what instilled such fear in me, but she recoiled as if I were a mere madman. If only that were the case.</p> <p>The children heeded my warnings, however. They were rightly afraid, yet that was not my intent. No, Simon, do not fear the beast. No Simone, please do not cry.</p> <p>Father will not let you be fed to the worm.</p> <p>The schematics! They must be the secret to stopping the worm. I feel a connection, a familiarity that likens them unto a great metal snare.</p> <p>With them I will cage the beast.</p> <p><strong>Day 825</strong><br/> So long, so long in my workshops. So long in the belly of my father's home, free from prying eyes. Working, ever building. My wife questions but refuses to listen. Only the children heed. Only Simon understands. A finer son no father could want.</p> <p>My family's wealth is modest, but the urgency that gives energy to my limbs also guides my thoughts. Through clever accounting I can take advantage of the working class' desperation. So many seek work, an honest day's wages, that they do not question my motives. Some even show curiosity, enthralled by my designs. A work Leonardo himself would envy, they say. We are more than employer and laborer, we are a growing congregation, seers who know the truth.</p> <p>With the enlightened to spur the others forward, we make excellent time. They build and forge, dig and reinforce, laying pipes and wrapping conductors in rubber. On the surface, they speak of a Great Depression, of economic and social despair. Below, I lay the foundation of a greater tomorrow. But I smell the burning breath of the worm. It is close. We must hurry.</p> <p><strong>Day 2,398</strong><br/> I have seen the puppet of the worm. A puffy Austrian who commands power from the desperate and in their despair they hurl themselves into the grinding teeth of the worm and call themselves masters of a thousand years. I see his face in the newspapers and scream at his empty, hateful eyes, but no one listens! No one SEES!</p> <p>The nightmares have changed. Now there are more than mere soldiers on an apostate battlefield, now there are prisons. Camps of men and women and children, their flesh shriveled by cruelty and neglect. The worm feeds on them, and their souls are so weak they cannot even flee into the heaven-less sky.</p> <p>I fear for them, but I fear for my own children even more. In my dreams, I hear them crying on the battlefield. They call out for god, for their mother, for their father.</p> <p>Only I can answer.</p> <p><strong>Day 2,567</strong><br/> Tonight.</p> <p>The vision came. I saw the worm, eating the rotten flesh of a dead world! The stars had burned out, the sun bled into blackness, until the only light was but a flickering candle, a torch held against oblivion. No Christian God holds that torch, no pagan worship, no politician or priest.</p> <p><em>I</em> hold the torch.</p> <p>I stand within the snare, built of the iron of the earth and the blood of man, and I bait the worm to its doom!</p> <p><strong>Day 2,568</strong><br/> SUCCESS! THE WORM IS TRAPPED!</p> <p><strong>Day 2,569</strong><br/> My victory was short-sighted. The worm is caged but it has already unleashed its plague upon us. The bombs fall upon London. War rages once more. The worm cries out from below, mocking me even as it thrashes within its cage. This world is doomed.</p> <p>The work crews fear it, or maybe they fear me? Some want to leave, to fight another pointless war for their homeland. Others stand behind me, terrified of what comes for us. How… how..? How can we escape this rotting world and the locusts that devour it?</p> <p><strong>Day 2,569</strong><br/> I finally understand the purpose of my great machine. Not a cage. An engine. A device that dwarfs all measure of man's science, Satan's magic and God's miracles. A machine that will deliver us from oblivion! All it needed was a heart! A burning furnace to power it! How ironic, that the worm that promised my doom is now the engine that will drive our salvation!</p> <p>The laborers who heeded my warnings have banded with me. Like a cult to its messiah they gathered at my feet, and as a dutiful shepherd I will guide them to paradise.</p> <p>Some resisted. I do not hate them.</p> <p>I do not hate the people of this ruined world.</p> <p>I pity them.</p> <p>It was all I could do to instruct my followers that a merciful death is preferable to the alternative. Those who would not come with us were better off sent away by their kin than by some heartless enemy on the battlefield.</p> <p>I go to throw the switch of my great machine, and free ourselves from the madness of the grave.</p> <p><strong><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Day 2,570</span> Day 1</strong><br/> In one brilliant flash, my engine and the manor above have been delivered from the war-torn earth to a new world. This place is like our own, but different in many ways. A gray mist swirls around the manor, free of the stink of gunpowder and urban decay. The manor sits in a field of grey soil devoid of vegetation. I hear no buzzing of insects. I see no sun or moon, just a dull, sourceless light.</p> <p>A dismal arrival, perhaps, but a welcome one. I broke wine with my brothers and sisters. Today we are saved.</p> <p>The engine has gone quiet now. The worm must have been consumed by its own fire. Some merciful part of my soul, so flushed with victory and new hope, prays the worm is at peace.</p> <p><strong>Day 2</strong><br/> Where on earth there would be day and night, here the light never changes. The gray mist lingers, muting all sound. My followers look to me for answers. They say I am the Voice of the engine, surely I must know what to do. I push for patience and make promises I already begin to doubt myself. To satisfy their curiosity, I asked three of my bravest to venture out in search of… anything.</p> <p>I try to reassure my family, but Clarice looks at me only with fear and hate. She has walled herself up in the bedrooms with Simone. Simon stays with me though. He wishes to go out to see this new world. I refuse him. I will not threaten his life for the sake of knowledge.</p> <p>Even as I write these words, I am startled by what I see. This world was to be our safe haven, was it not?</p> <p><strong>Day 3</strong><br/> The men I sent into the mist have returned, thanks to the lengths of string I provided them. No vegetation, no animals, no sun or stars, no civilization. This world is empty and grey. Not hell, like the world we left behind. A limbo.</p> <p>Does that make it better?</p> <p><strong>Day 4</strong><br/> The dreams no longer come. Where before I could scarcely close my eyes without envisioning arcane machinery and prophecies of doom, now my mind is empty, and the silence mocks me. The food stores are being rationed. I do everything I can to convince the followers that utopia will come, that this is just a transition, but empty stomachs speak with more conviction than a prophet without a prophecy. A nurse named Eudora seems to have taken it upon herself to stir the hearts of the following, but her sermons cut short as I approach, and she regards me with stony silence until I withdraw.</p> <p><strong>Day 5</strong><br/> My wife refuses to leave the bedrooms. She does not speak to me, ignores the food I leave for her. I call for Simone but they do not come out. How I have come to hate my wife. Her spite will not save us.</p> <p>Two of the younger followers attempted to steal food from the kitchens. They talk of dwindling food stores, of mistrust, of strange noises coming from below, though my great engine no longer turns. If we imprisoned them, the others would have protested. Instead, I go to the others, and tell them the young ones have run out in to the fog, intend to find answers. Not everyone believes me, including Eudora. Instead they go back to plotting in quiet.</p> <p>I worry for my flock.</p> <p><strong>Day 6</strong><br/> Now everyone speaks of sounds from below, of rattling pipes and grinding gears, though I assure them the machine has been shut off. To assuage their fears, I sent Danvers and Burtleby to investigate. We should hear back from them sometime later tonight. Or morning.</p> <p>No one questioned the fresh meat prepared for dinner.</p> <p><strong>Day 7</strong><br/> My wife is dead. I grew furious at her petulance, and pried open the doors with a pickaxe. She had arranged Simone for bed and then-</p> <p>Damn you, Clarice. You rotten whore. I wanted to SAVE my children.</p> <p>Danvers and Burtleby have not come up. The grinding noises come every hour now, louder and louder. The house shakes around us.</p> <p>I fear the worm may not be as dead as I hoped.</p> <p><strong>Day 8</strong><br/> Darkness has finally fallen, and with it came a terror I have never known, even in the trenches. Cold seeps in through the windows. Strange shadows move in the fog, and I hear what sound like footsteps on the rooftop. The house groans and shakes. The worm struggles.</p> <p>The courage of my followers frays. They want to go home, they want to be free of this horror and this damnable grey purgatory.</p> <p><strong>Day 9</strong><br/> They have taken Simon. Eudora rallied the followers. She declared that the worm spoke to her to her dreams and that she is the Voice now. The worm demands sacrifice, she said: The son of the man who trapped it.</p> <p>I fought them. I fought. I would not let them take my boy, the only thing I have left, but they were many, and they had gorged on the flesh of their fellows. I was but one broken man. I am no savior, no torch in the darkness, just a puppet to my own madness. I feel that every action I have taken, every vision and design I feverishly scrawled from half-remembered nightmares, was forced upon me by a cruel intellect that wished to test the limits of my sanity.</p> <p>They have taken Simon below. They will feed him to the worm. Let this be my prayer to the starless night, to a god that may not even exist: I will not let him be fed to the worm. I will hurl myself into its teeth, that my bones might clog its innards, before I let them take my son.</p> <p>I'm sorry Clarice.</p> <p><strong>Day 10</strong><br/> God, the noise! It is almost deafening. Wheels turn and pistons hiss, and from the deepest reaches I hear a low, mournful bellow.</p> <p>I have brought my journal, to give my mind something to focus on as I traverse the machine. Looking upon it with my sane eyes, I realize this maze is no work of logic. The tunnels bend and twist without reason, stairwells lead to solid walls and doors open to gaping chasms. The transference to this grey world may have warped the machine, or maybe I never truly saw it for what it was, and just built according to my deranged whims.</p> <p>I have heard and seen nothing of Simon or his captors. Doubtless their steps are guided by the same madness that has abandoned me, guiding them with fluid ease towards the worm's waiting jaws. I hasten my step, but I seem to be running in blind circles. If nothing else, at least I have a sturdy lantern and plenty of oil from the work crews that toiled down here.</p> <p><strong>Day 11</strong><br/> Day and night are meaningless in this limbo, but down here there is even less to measure the passage of time. My journey has taken me deeper, into some kind of processing factory. These automated devices gather grey sand from the bare rock, heat it into a sickly-looking glass, and fill the created vials with foul-smelling chemicals I cannot identify. Against my better judgment I crept close to inspect a completed vial, and to my horror a fully-formed set of teeth began to take form. Another jar held an eyeball like nothing found in man or nature. What is the purpose of this factory? What does it build and for whom? Is this the result of my design, or some mechanical cancer, spread by the worm to twist the machine's function?</p> <p>My quarry seems to be in dispute now. I hear them arguing through the ventilation ducts and empty pipes. Eudora has taken my son deeper, leaving the others behind to harass my progress or simply abandoning to the whims of the worm. I have my pickaxe and my training, but I must move with stealth. I have not eaten in nearly two days. Still, Eudora's men still carry strips of meat…</p> <p>I also saw something odd near the lathe room I have hidden myself within. A painting of exquisite taste. It is the work of a master, but I cannot recall when I purchased it or what possessed me to leave it down here. The image shares a remarkable likeness to Clarice, smiling as though in happier times. It casts my thoughts to decades past when I was a different man, a smaller man, yet infinitely happier.</p> <p>Can knowledge so damn a soul? In a universe of such cosmic evils that I have witnessed, is ignorance truly the only bliss one can enjoy?</p> <p><strong>Day 12</strong><br/> My dreams returned, not of prophecy but memory. I am with Simon in the London Museum. He pulls me along, eager to see art and history, the beauty of all created by man and God. But I cannot see the beauty. I see only bloody mud and blackened skies, the ugliness of man and a callous God. Simon walks on with out me while I sink into a bench. The day fades away to night, and I sit in an empty museum of man's atrocities, the last living thing on a cold earth, overwhelmed by the weight of it all.</p> <p>I wait for death or oblivion to take me, whichever could stomach so pitiful a morsel. But instead I feel the presence of another. I feel no light from this being, no warmth, yet I sensed that this was as close to God as any being could be. It looks like a man, but there is a weight to him, as though something greater, and stranger, were squeezed into his skin.</p> <p>"The child wants, and doesn't know why," the gentleman speaks to me. "The child grasps, and doesn't know the danger. They burn their fingers and know they are not ready. Someday they will be. Someday they will give voice to the soul and sing with the essence of the universe. What gods they will be then. What galaxies they will weave with dreams and care. But now they are children, and children are selfish. They know only what they want."</p> <p>And then I awoke back inside this machine, on a grey planet. So far from the world of my memories. It burdens my bones just to think of the inevitability. But I forced myself to stand just the same.</p> <p>Simon cried out to me, I heard him far below. I called back to him but I heard no reply. Eudora's zealots hound me relentlessly, and I fear some horrible change has come over them in casting their lot with the worm. They speak with slurred, reptilian voices, or gargle as though choking. Some have even turned on their fellows. As I crept about the darkness I saw one such rebellion. A man I had tried to lead to paradise fell upon his companion in an argument over faith, and I felt the heat of his lifeblood splash across my astonished face. The teeth! Gnashing and ripping, so big and sharp, like the fangs of a wolf, yet also serrated as the blade of a saw. Animal and flesh, yet also machine.</p> <p>My surroundings have been affected by the same mutation. Rooms I do not recognize bleed into one another like spilled paint. An office with plush green chairs merges with a warehouse filled with crates that rattle and bang with some unknown, stinking occupant. Ladders descend into pools of viscous liquid that have flooded what appears to be a school. Statues of marble and reliefs of brass decorate the ceilings and form the very walls. Rattling belts spew ammunition into neglected piles, shells the size of my head clatter to the floor in automated factories, producing the tools of death. I could not have made this! I could not have wanted such devices! And yet here they stand! And always the shrieking, the tapping of heating and cooling metals, the groan of pressurized hydraulics! I cannot remember what silence sounded like!</p> <p><strong>Day 13 or 14</strong><br/> Eudora's followers no longer heed reason. The demented growl and spit and scavenge for food, their ramblings the stuff of Bedlam. Others have become something… else. Feral, like the lycanthropes of myth. They crawl on all fours, their eyes adjusted to the gloom and shining red, twin pinpoints of demon light. I can startle them with my lantern, but they always return, trying to surround me from all sides. Hunters they are, and fast as wolves, but their howls are the shriek of tearing metal.</p> <p>Eudora's voice taunts me now. It echoes up through the network of plumbing, from every open ventilation shaft. She announces her glorious ascendance, of her devotion to the worm, and I hear true lunacy in her desperate laughter. It ripples through this whole machine, as if she herself is a part of it.</p> <p>I have found respite in a room filled with hospital beds, and windows that look out into an abyss. It reminds me of the hospital I awoke from the war within. But I must pry my eyes away from that dark, for my mind cannot tell if I look into lightless cavern, or starless void.</p> <p><strong>Day 15?</strong><br/> I have found Eudora. Pursued by her followers-made-monsters, I came upon a great cathedral made from organ pipes, marble, and the very flesh and bones of Eudora herself. Now I see how she could speak to me through the pipes, for her body has been torn asunder and stitched upon it. Her organs are pulled straight and taut though the tangled plumbing, her skin stretched and inflated with gases, her blood sizzling and steaming from the hydraulics. Only her head remains whole, wide-eyed and cackling, seated on the pulpit of this temple to dementia. The monsters refuse to set foot into this "hallowed ground," so I alone approached to speak with her.</p> <p>I demanded my son's return, but she spat her own broken teeth at me and said he had been taken by the worm, delivered to the heart of the machine where its mouth sat waiting. Furious, I fell upon her with a vengeance, tearing what remained of her body from the brass organs around her. She died screaming, and at last was quiet.</p> <p>But then a great bellow erupted from the machine, and a new voice spoke to me through the mangled organ.</p> <p>"I am what you have made me. I am then and I am now. I am choice and I am tyranny. I am evil and I am flesh. I am beauty and I am chaos. I am the worm."</p> <p>Stricken, I fell to the blood-stained floor and wept. I cowered, screaming, not because of the words it spoke.</p> <p>But that they were spoken with my voice.</p> <p>At last I beheld the truth I had tried to bury so deep. The worm, the machine, the madness that guided my hands. It was me.</p> <p>I am the worm.</p> <p>I do not know what compelled me to stand. I did not feel hope. I didn't feel despair. Like an automaton, I could only move forward to face revelation.</p> <p><strong>Day ??</strong><br/> When I came upon the core of my great machine, I found my son.</p> <p>The machine was not a weapon to trap the worm. It was not an ark to carry us to salvation. I had sought to exile myself from a monstrous existence, and in my cowardice and fear, I became a monster. I became the worm. I built a shell to hide within. An engine to spirit me away from the pain, the despair that had claimed my sanity. To abandon creation and God's cold distance. But it would not run without a catalyst.</p> <p>Simon.</p> <p>So full of hope and faith, so full of love and dreams. How I envied your strength. How I envied your ignorance. I yearned to wrap myself up in that goodness and hide from the world. I threw the switch of my great machine, and it drank the heartsblood from your lifeless body, pumping it into every pipe and piston. I believed your love would carry us to paradise.</p> <p>But it was tainted by my madness, by my act of murder. I dreamed of peace, and it brought me to unchanging limbo. I demanded paradise, but I deserve only perdition.</p> <p>And I was so horrified by what I had done to you, I could not bear to face it. I spoke as if you were there with me, smiled as though I could see you smiling at me. When Clarice realized what I had done, what I was, she took Simone away before… before I sought her out as well.</p> <p>This place is filled with your memories, Simon. Are they the last tattered shreds of love you have for me? Or are they here to taunt and punish me, as the man-beasts that stalk the hallways surely must be?</p> <p>I do not know if any of you can forgive me. I only know that I promised to save my son. I promised to slay the worm. I leave this journal behind, in the hopes that someday, somehow, someone will know what I did, and remember the men and women I damned with my selfishness. My fear.</p> <p>I hurl myself into its teeth</p> <p>that my bones might clog its innards</p> <p>I am the worm</p> <p>and Ouroboros must eat itself</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-worm">The Worm</a>" by SnakeoilSage, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-worm">https://scpwiki.com/the-worm</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] + Summary of Evidence from Recovery Site V2008-5 Day 14 I think it is important to provide context, so future generations may recognize the urgency of my endeavor. In 1916, I enlisted into His Majesty's 5th Infantry Division, and in the bloody trenches of Europe I witnessed proof of humanity's barbarism and the absence of God. Wounded in battle and wallowing in septic mud, the fever fell upon me, and with it came the visions. In my nightmares I saw a great iron worm, with jaws like that of a dragon, devouring the fields of Europe. It had no teeth, but masses of grinding gears that tore flesh and stone to pulp. Its voice was the roar of falling artillery, its breath the blistering poison of mustard gas. Damned souls were belched into a starless sky like smoke, lost into a cold, indifferent void. I have no memory of my conscious actions during that time, but at last I found myself in a hospital in London. They told me the war was over, but the dreams did not leave. I would wake in a cold sweat, filled with purpose. Hastily I scribbled down designs that had been burned into my mind, strange and alien architectures I did not recognize or understand. Finally I returned home to my wife and children. Brave Simon and little Simone were a welcome escape from my fear, but my wife Clarice took notice. "Shellshock," she called it, the word on the lips of every veteran's wife or mother. I tried to explain my visions, what instilled such fear in me, but she recoiled as if I were a mere madman. If only that were the case. The children heeded my warnings, however. They were rightly afraid, yet that was not my intent. No, Simon, do not fear the beast. No Simone, please do not cry. Father will not let you be fed to the worm. The schematics! They must be the secret to stopping the worm. I feel a connection, a familiarity that likens them unto a great metal snare. With them I will cage the beast. Day 825 So long, so long in my workshops. So long in the belly of my father's home, free from prying eyes. Working, ever building. My wife questions but refuses to listen. Only the children heed. Only Simon understands. A finer son no father could want. My family's wealth is modest, but the urgency that gives energy to my limbs also guides my thoughts. Through clever accounting I can take advantage of the working class' desperation. So many seek work, an honest day's wages, that they do not question my motives. Some even show curiosity, enthralled by my designs. A work Leonardo himself would envy, they say. We are more than employer and laborer, we are a growing congregation, seers who know the truth. With the enlightened to spur the others forward, we make excellent time. They build and forge, dig and reinforce, laying pipes and wrapping conductors in rubber. On the surface, they speak of a Great Depression, of economic and social despair. Below, I lay the foundation of a greater tomorrow. But I smell the burning breath of the worm. It is close. We must hurry. Day 2,398 I have seen the puppet of the worm. A puffy Austrian who commands power from the desperate and in their despair they hurl themselves into the grinding teeth of the worm and call themselves masters of a thousand years. I see his face in the newspapers and scream at his empty, hateful eyes, but no one listens! No one SEES! The nightmares have changed. Now there are more than mere soldiers on an apostate battlefield, now there are prisons. Camps of men and women and children, their flesh shriveled by cruelty and neglect. The worm feeds on them, and their souls are so weak they cannot even flee into the heaven-less sky. I fear for them, but I fear for my own children even more. In my dreams, I hear them crying on the battlefield. They call out for god, for their mother, for their father. Only I can answer. Day 2,567 Tonight. The vision came. I saw the worm, eating the rotten flesh of a dead world! The stars had burned out, the sun bled into blackness, until the only light was but a flickering candle, a torch held against oblivion. No Christian God holds that torch, no pagan worship, no politician or priest. //I// hold the torch. I stand within the snare, built of the iron of the earth and the blood of man, and I bait the worm to its doom! Day 2,568 SUCCESS! THE WORM IS TRAPPED! Day 2,569 My victory was short-sighted. The worm is caged but it has already unleashed its plague upon us. The bombs fall upon London. War rages once more. The worm cries out from below, mocking me even as it thrashes within its cage. This world is doomed. The work crews fear it, or maybe they fear me? Some want to leave, to fight another pointless war for their homeland. Others stand behind me, terrified of what comes for us. How... how..? How can we escape this rotting world and the locusts that devour it? Day 2,569 I finally understand the purpose of my great machine. Not a cage. An engine. A device that dwarfs all measure of man's science, Satan's magic and God's miracles. A machine that will deliver us from oblivion! All it needed was a heart! A burning furnace to power it! How ironic, that the worm that promised my doom is now the engine that will drive our salvation! The laborers who heeded my warnings have banded with me. Like a cult to its messiah they gathered at my feet, and as a dutiful shepherd I will guide them to paradise. Some resisted. I do not hate them. I do not hate the people of this ruined world. I pity them. It was all I could do to instruct my followers that a merciful death is preferable to the alternative. Those who would not come with us were better off sent away by their kin than by some heartless enemy on the battlefield. I go to throw the switch of my great machine, and free ourselves from the madness of the grave. --Day 2,570-- Day 1 In one brilliant flash, my engine and the manor above have been delivered from the war-torn earth to a new world. This place is like our own, but different in many ways. A gray mist swirls around the manor, free of the stink of gunpowder and urban decay. The manor sits in a field of grey soil devoid of vegetation. I hear no buzzing of insects. I see no sun or moon, just a dull, sourceless light. A dismal arrival, perhaps, but a welcome one. I broke wine with my brothers and sisters. Today we are saved. The engine has gone quiet now. The worm must have been consumed by its own fire. Some merciful part of my soul, so flushed with victory and new hope, prays the worm is at peace. Day 2 Where on earth there would be day and night, here the light never changes. The gray mist lingers, muting all sound. My followers look to me for answers. They say I am the Voice of the engine, surely I must know what to do. I push for patience and make promises I already begin to doubt myself. To satisfy their curiosity, I asked three of my bravest to venture out in search of... anything. I try to reassure my family, but Clarice looks at me only with fear and hate. She has walled herself up in the bedrooms with Simone. Simon stays with me though. He wishes to go out to see this new world. I refuse him. I will not threaten his life for the sake of knowledge. Even as I write these words, I am startled by what I see. This world was to be our safe haven, was it not? Day 3 The men I sent into the mist have returned, thanks to the lengths of string I provided them. No vegetation, no animals, no sun or stars, no civilization. This world is empty and grey. Not hell, like the world we left behind. A limbo. Does that make it better? Day 4 The dreams no longer come. Where before I could scarcely close my eyes without envisioning arcane machinery and prophecies of doom, now my mind is empty, and the silence mocks me. The food stores are being rationed. I do everything I can to convince the followers that utopia will come, that this is just a transition, but empty stomachs speak with more conviction than a prophet without a prophecy. A nurse named Eudora seems to have taken it upon herself to stir the hearts of the following, but her sermons cut short as I approach, and she regards me with stony silence until I withdraw. Day 5 My wife refuses to leave the bedrooms. She does not speak to me, ignores the food I leave for her. I call for Simone but they do not come out. How I have come to hate my wife. Her spite will not save us. Two of the younger followers attempted to steal food from the kitchens. They talk of dwindling food stores, of mistrust, of strange noises coming from below, though my great engine no longer turns. If we imprisoned them, the others would have protested. Instead, I go to the others, and tell them the young ones have run out in to the fog, intend to find answers. Not everyone believes me, including Eudora. Instead they go back to plotting in quiet. I worry for my flock. Day 6 Now everyone speaks of sounds from below, of rattling pipes and grinding gears, though I assure them the machine has been shut off. To assuage their fears, I sent Danvers and Burtleby to investigate. We should hear back from them sometime later tonight. Or morning. No one questioned the fresh meat prepared for dinner. Day 7 My wife is dead. I grew furious at her petulance, and pried open the doors with a pickaxe. She had arranged Simone for bed and then- Damn you, Clarice. You rotten whore. I wanted to SAVE my children. Danvers and Burtleby have not come up. The grinding noises come every hour now, louder and louder. The house shakes around us. I fear the worm may not be as dead as I hoped. Day 8 Darkness has finally fallen, and with it came a terror I have never known, even in the trenches. Cold seeps in through the windows. Strange shadows move in the fog, and I hear what sound like footsteps on the rooftop. The house groans and shakes. The worm struggles. The courage of my followers frays. They want to go home, they want to be free of this horror and this damnable grey purgatory. Day 9 They have taken Simon. Eudora rallied the followers. She declared that the worm spoke to her to her dreams and that she is the Voice now. The worm demands sacrifice, she said: The son of the man who trapped it. I fought them. I fought. I would not let them take my boy, the only thing I have left, but they were many, and they had gorged on the flesh of their fellows. I was but one broken man. I am no savior, no torch in the darkness, just a puppet to my own madness. I feel that every action I have taken, every vision and design I feverishly scrawled from half-remembered nightmares, was forced upon me by a cruel intellect that wished to test the limits of my sanity. They have taken Simon below. They will feed him to the worm. Let this be my prayer to the starless night, to a god that may not even exist: I will not let him be fed to the worm. I will hurl myself into its teeth, that my bones might clog its innards, before I let them take my son. I'm sorry Clarice. Day 10 God, the noise! It is almost deafening. Wheels turn and pistons hiss, and from the deepest reaches I hear a low, mournful bellow. I have brought my journal, to give my mind something to focus on as I traverse the machine. Looking upon it with my sane eyes, I realize this maze is no work of logic. The tunnels bend and twist without reason, stairwells lead to solid walls and doors open to gaping chasms. The transference to this grey world may have warped the machine, or maybe I never truly saw it for what it was, and just built according to my deranged whims. I have heard and seen nothing of Simon or his captors. Doubtless their steps are guided by the same madness that has abandoned me, guiding them with fluid ease towards the worm's waiting jaws. I hasten my step, but I seem to be running in blind circles. If nothing else, at least I have a sturdy lantern and plenty of oil from the work crews that toiled down here. Day 11 Day and night are meaningless in this limbo, but down here there is even less to measure the passage of time. My journey has taken me deeper, into some kind of processing factory. These automated devices gather grey sand from the bare rock, heat it into a sickly-looking glass, and fill the created vials with foul-smelling chemicals I cannot identify. Against my better judgment I crept close to inspect a completed vial, and to my horror a fully-formed set of teeth began to take form. Another jar held an eyeball like nothing found in man or nature. What is the purpose of this factory? What does it build and for whom? Is this the result of my design, or some mechanical cancer, spread by the worm to twist the machine's function? My quarry seems to be in dispute now. I hear them arguing through the ventilation ducts and empty pipes. Eudora has taken my son deeper, leaving the others behind to harass my progress or simply abandoning to the whims of the worm. I have my pickaxe and my training, but I must move with stealth. I have not eaten in nearly two days. Still, Eudora's men still carry strips of meat... I also saw something odd near the lathe room I have hidden myself within. A painting of exquisite taste. It is the work of a master, but I cannot recall when I purchased it or what possessed me to leave it down here. The image shares a remarkable likeness to Clarice, smiling as though in happier times. It casts my thoughts to decades past when I was a different man, a smaller man, yet infinitely happier. Can knowledge so damn a soul? In a universe of such cosmic evils that I have witnessed, is ignorance truly the only bliss one can enjoy? Day 12 My dreams returned, not of prophecy but memory. I am with Simon in the London Museum. He pulls me along, eager to see art and history, the beauty of all created by man and God. But I cannot see the beauty. I see only bloody mud and blackened skies, the ugliness of man and a callous God. Simon walks on with out me while I sink into a bench. The day fades away to night, and I sit in an empty museum of man's atrocities, the last living thing on a cold earth, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. I wait for death or oblivion to take me, whichever could stomach so pitiful a morsel. But instead I feel the presence of another. I feel no light from this being, no warmth, yet I sensed that this was as close to God as any being could be. It looks like a man, but there is a weight to him, as though something greater, and stranger, were squeezed into his skin. "The child wants, and doesn't know why," the gentleman speaks to me. "The child grasps, and doesn't know the danger. They burn their fingers and know they are not ready. Someday they will be. Someday they will give voice to the soul and sing with the essence of the universe. What gods they will be then. What galaxies they will weave with dreams and care. But now they are children, and children are selfish. They know only what they want." And then I awoke back inside this machine, on a grey planet. So far from the world of my memories. It burdens my bones just to think of the inevitability. But I forced myself to stand just the same. Simon cried out to me, I heard him far below. I called back to him but I heard no reply. Eudora's zealots hound me relentlessly, and I fear some horrible change has come over them in casting their lot with the worm. They speak with slurred, reptilian voices, or gargle as though choking. Some have even turned on their fellows. As I crept about the darkness I saw one such rebellion. A man I had tried to lead to paradise fell upon his companion in an argument over faith, and I felt the heat of his lifeblood splash across my astonished face. The teeth! Gnashing and ripping, so big and sharp, like the fangs of a wolf, yet also serrated as the blade of a saw. Animal and flesh, yet also machine. My surroundings have been affected by the same mutation. Rooms I do not recognize bleed into one another like spilled paint. An office with plush green chairs merges with a warehouse filled with crates that rattle and bang with some unknown, stinking occupant. Ladders descend into pools of viscous liquid that have flooded what appears to be a school. Statues of marble and reliefs of brass decorate the ceilings and form the very walls. Rattling belts spew ammunition into neglected piles, shells the size of my head clatter to the floor in automated factories, producing the tools of death. I could not have made this! I could not have wanted such devices! And yet here they stand! And always the shrieking, the tapping of heating and cooling metals, the groan of pressurized hydraulics! I cannot remember what silence sounded like! Day 13 or 14 Eudora's followers no longer heed reason. The demented growl and spit and scavenge for food, their ramblings the stuff of Bedlam. Others have become something... else. Feral, like the lycanthropes of myth. They crawl on all fours, their eyes adjusted to the gloom and shining red, twin pinpoints of demon light. I can startle them with my lantern, but they always return, trying to surround me from all sides. Hunters they are, and fast as wolves, but their howls are the shriek of tearing metal. Eudora's voice taunts me now. It echoes up through the network of plumbing, from every open ventilation shaft. She announces her glorious ascendance, of her devotion to the worm, and I hear true lunacy in her desperate laughter. It ripples through this whole machine, as if she herself is a part of it. I have found respite in a room filled with hospital beds, and windows that look out into an abyss. It reminds me of the hospital I awoke from the war within. But I must pry my eyes away from that dark, for my mind cannot tell if I look into lightless cavern, or starless void. Day 15? I have found Eudora. Pursued by her followers-made-monsters, I came upon a great cathedral made from organ pipes, marble, and the very flesh and bones of Eudora herself. Now I see how she could speak to me through the pipes, for her body has been torn asunder and stitched upon it. Her organs are pulled straight and taut though the tangled plumbing, her skin stretched and inflated with gases, her blood sizzling and steaming from the hydraulics. Only her head remains whole, wide-eyed and cackling, seated on the pulpit of this temple to dementia. The monsters refuse to set foot into this "hallowed ground," so I alone approached to speak with her. I demanded my son's return, but she spat her own broken teeth at me and said he had been taken by the worm, delivered to the heart of the machine where its mouth sat waiting. Furious, I fell upon her with a vengeance, tearing what remained of her body from the brass organs around her. She died screaming, and at last was quiet. But then a great bellow erupted from the machine, and a new voice spoke to me through the mangled organ. "I am what you have made me. I am then and I am now. I am choice and I am tyranny. I am evil and I am flesh. I am beauty and I am chaos. I am the worm." Stricken, I fell to the blood-stained floor and wept. I cowered, screaming, not because of the words it spoke. But that they were spoken with my voice. At last I beheld the truth I had tried to bury so deep. The worm, the machine, the madness that guided my hands. It was me. I am the worm. I do not know what compelled me to stand. I did not feel hope. I didn't feel despair. Like an automaton, I could only move forward to face revelation. Day ?? When I came upon the core of my great machine, I found my son. The machine was not a weapon to trap the worm. It was not an ark to carry us to salvation. I had sought to exile myself from a monstrous existence, and in my cowardice and fear, I became a monster. I became the worm. I built a shell to hide within. An engine to spirit me away from the pain, the despair that had claimed my sanity. To abandon creation and God's cold distance. But it would not run without a catalyst. Simon. So full of hope and faith, so full of love and dreams. How I envied your strength. How I envied your ignorance. I yearned to wrap myself up in that goodness and hide from the world. I threw the switch of my great machine, and it drank the heartsblood from your lifeless body, pumping it into every pipe and piston. I believed your love would carry us to paradise. But it was tainted by my madness, by my act of murder. I dreamed of peace, and it brought me to unchanging limbo. I demanded paradise, but I deserve only perdition. And I was so horrified by what I had done to you, I could not bear to face it. I spoke as if you were there with me, smiled as though I could see you smiling at me. When Clarice realized what I had done, what I was, she took Simone away before... before I sought her out as well. This place is filled with your memories, Simon. Are they the last tattered shreds of love you have for me? Or are they here to taunt and punish me, as the man-beasts that stalk the hallways surely must be? I do not know if any of you can forgive me. I only know that I promised to save my son. I promised to slay the worm. I leave this journal behind, in the hopes that someday, somehow, someone will know what I did, and remember the men and women I damned with my selfishness. My fear. I hurl myself into its teeth that my bones might clog its innards I am the worm and Ouroboros must eat itself [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-09-26T02:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "featured", "first-person", "horror", "journal", "otherworldly", "period-piece", "tale" ]	The Worm - SCP Foundation	288	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20024358	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-worm
the-written-god	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Roger Legrand crumpled up the fifth text-filled sheet and rocketed it towards the wastebin.</p> <p>"Why can't I fucking <em>write</em> today?"</p> <p>He bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his hair, resting his elbow on top of dozens of discarded brainstorming sheets covered with half-formed ideas.</p> <p>"What's happening to me? Goddammit, <em>goddammit!</em> I just want to write like how I used to." He glanced up at the bookcase in his study, the top row completely filled with his novels.</p> <p>Frustrated, he grabbed a random piece of paper and began writing again.</p> <p><tt><em>"And then the great goddamn Reggravi, the fucking master of language I just pulled out of my ass, appeared to Roger Legrand and struck him with awe and inspiration. He became his muse! His inspiration! His path to better things in this goddamn pitiful existence of frustration!!!!"</em></tt></p> <p>"Fuck it all, fuck it all!" He ripped the sheet to shreds and tossed it over his shoulder before folding his arms and laying his head down on his desk. He stayed like this for a few moments before becoming aware of… something watching him. Slowly, he turned to look behind him. A tall man-like figure stood there, a featureless face visible under its hood and dressed in several heavy layers of a coarse, brown fiber. It said nothing, it simply stood there with its head angled down towards Roger.</p> <p>"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.</p> <p>The figure remained silent.</p> <p>"How did you get in here?"</p> <p>Still silent, the being in front of him raise a single finger (with no fingernail to be seen) and pointed at the scraps Roger had just torn up.</p> <p>Uncomprehending, he continued to stare at the figure as it started to move about the room. It picked up several balled-up pieces of paper out of the trash and returned them to Roger's desk, smoothing them out and pointing at several key words and phrases previously deemed by the man to be bad ideas.</p> <p>He walked over and watched the creature.</p> <p>"'A god of books…' 'a tale of a family…' something that will change the world…'" He looked up at the hooded thing, who in turn had picked up the torn scraps and replaced them on the surface in front of Roger. And so, he understood. He had found a being that came when written about, something that could literally change the world. He became inspired, empowered by this discovery, and began frantically writing out notes and ideas, good ones this time. He never noticed the creature he now knew was called Reggravi disappear, but he knew that he'd meet it again.</p> <p>As he fell deeper and deeper into a writing frenzy, he came to many realizations, many stopped thoughts and epiphanies about the thing he had found. Instead of thinking up ways to expand on the creature in fantastical adventures, he found that it felt… wrong to keep such a wondrous and almighty beast— no, being— locked away in fictional tales that would dilute its magnificence. It was <em>unthinkable,</em> after a certain point.</p> <p>This was something that deserved respect.</p> <p>This was something that deserved praise.</p> <p>This was something that Roger was born to do.</p> <p>And so, the first Scribe of Reggravi came into existence.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt>Excerpts from <em>His Book</em>, the holy scripture of the Faith of the Scribed.</tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>It wasn't hard to find people to join in the belief. After all, it was a religion based on a figure whose existence and power could be proven at literally any time. First came Roger's close friends, then their friends, until they numbered about fifty people, give or take a few. In fact, it was more of a small little community than a religion. But most of all, they certainly were not a cult. No, they were simply average people living average lives that had discovered the Truth and met up once a week to talk about it and share their faith.</p> <p>And it was nice.</p> <hr/> <p>"I think my kids breezed through here. They aren't giving you any trouble, are they?" said a woman approaching Roger after the service.</p> <p>He grinned and shook his head. "Of course not, Clarisse, they're simply wonderful. Hey, I'm glad you came! It's always nice to see you guys around here."</p> <p>The woman chuckled. "Ah, Roger, of course we came. This is the highlight of our weeks right here," she said, waving her hand at the people around them. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."</p> <p>"I'm glad to hear that. Hey, where's Patrick today?"</p> <p>"Oh… he's…" muttered the woman, fiddling with her wedding band. "He's… been sick recently. That's all. Came down with something awful, doctors don't know what it is, they took some… blood samples. We're just waiting to hear back."</p> <p>He patted her on the shoulder. "I see. I hope it all turns out for the best."</p> <p>She nodded, murmured something about having to go watch her kids, and sidled away. Roger sighed. <em>People were always going to have their problems, whether or not they were a part of the Scribes, but…</em> He pivoted on his heel and walked over to the front of the room. There, he surveyed the mass of people there. It wasn't big, but it was close.</p> <p><em>At least they have people to support them when they fall.</em></p> <hr/> <p>In the throng of the crowd, a man conspicuously weaved in and out between people, taking in the experience. He made mental notes of every face, every name he could remember, reciting as much of the sermon from before over and over in his head so as to retain as much of it as he could.</p> <p>He socialized, keeping his cold, analyzing gaze hidden behind two rows of beaming teeth. In fact, he met nearly every single member of the congregation that night and was one of the last to leave. As the room emptied, the man got in his car and drove off.</p> <p>The Wolf was returning to its pack.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>And so, we gathered to honor Him. Friends, families, all together in love. We paved the way of His coming, knowing that it would come sometime or another. We knew. We prepared.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>A few weeks later, the Scribes were holding another regular service, with Roger, as always, reading the sacred texts.</p> <p>"…and the Faithful will ascend with Reggravi in his greatness." Roger closed the book and smiled at the congregation. "Don't fear, for our Lord will surely come soon. I can feel it. Now, worship service is over. As always, feel free to stay and enjoy the snacks and each other's company."</p> <p>This last part was unnecessary; no one ever left right after the services. Within minutes, the tiny warehouse where they held their meetings was filled with chatter and laughter. Dozens of ecru-clad people spread out and filled the room, intermingling with each other.</p> <p>Roger smiled. As much as he loved the faith, watching the community mesh was even better. He wandered into the crowd, shaking hands and greeting people as he passed. A few conversation snippets later, he found the person he was looking for and tapped her on the shoulder. The brunette woman turned around.</p> <p>"It's been three weeks since Pat's been here, Clarisse." He sighed.</p> <p>She cast her eyes downward. "I know, I know. He's been… very ill as of late. I'm not sure if he'll ever be well enough to come back."</p> <p>He glanced down at her hands. Clarisse was feeling around the bare base of her left ring finger. She noticed him staring and quickly folded her hands behind her back. He cast her a sympathetic look.</p> <p>"…My ring's been bothering me a bit recently, so I decided just to take it off."</p> <p>Roger paused for a minute. "Hey, Clarisse?"</p> <p>"Yes?"</p> <p>"We're all a family here. Please don't forget that. Don't be afraid to tell us you need support."</p> <p>She gave him a weak smile and a half-nod before wandering off. Roger sighed once more. Some people just didn't like admitting they needed help. Or rather, they didn't like burdening other people with their problems.</p> <p><em>Well, only time will help, I suppose.</em></p> <p>And with these thoughts, he made his way back into the crowd.</p> <hr/> <p>Five Wolves scouted the group, gleaming as much information as they could, knowledge about both the religion itself and the people gathered there. Throughout their mingling, they signaled to each other the prepared sign, a smiling nod accompanied with the scratching of the back of their neck.</p> <p>They were ready to plan the operation.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-word-and-the-wolf">The Word and the Wolf</a>»</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-written-god">The Written God</a>" by azzleflux, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-written-god">https://scpwiki.com/the-written-god</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Roger Legrand crumpled up the fifth text-filled sheet and rocketed it towards the wastebin. "Why can't I fucking //write// today?" He bent over his desk and ran his fingers through his hair, resting his elbow on top of dozens of discarded brainstorming sheets covered with half-formed ideas. "What's happening to me? Goddammit, //goddammit!// I just want to write like how I used to." He glanced up at the bookcase in his study, the top row completely filled with his novels. Frustrated, he grabbed a random piece of paper and began writing again. {{//"And then the great goddamn Reggravi, the fucking master of language I just pulled out of my ass, appeared to Roger Legrand and struck him with awe and inspiration. He became his muse! His inspiration! His path to better things in this goddamn pitiful existence of frustration!!!!"//}} "Fuck it all, fuck it all!" He ripped the sheet to shreds and tossed it over his shoulder before folding his arms and laying his head down on his desk. He stayed like this for a few moments before becoming aware of... something watching him. Slowly, he turned to look behind him. A tall man-like figure stood there, a featureless face visible under its hood and dressed in several heavy layers of a coarse, brown fiber. It said nothing, it simply stood there with its head angled down towards Roger. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. The figure remained silent. "How did you get in here?" Still silent, the being in front of him raise a single finger (with no fingernail to be seen) and pointed at the scraps Roger had just torn up. Uncomprehending, he continued to stare at the figure as it started to move about the room. It picked up several balled-up pieces of paper out of the trash and returned them to Roger's desk, smoothing them out and pointing at several key words and phrases previously deemed by the man to be bad ideas. He walked over and watched the creature. "'A god of books...' 'a tale of a family...' something that will change the world...'" He looked up at the hooded thing, who in turn had picked up the torn scraps and replaced them on the surface in front of Roger. And so, he understood. He had found a being that came when written about, something that could literally change the world. He became inspired, empowered by this discovery, and began frantically writing out notes and ideas, good ones this time. He never noticed the creature he now knew was called Reggravi disappear, but he knew that he'd meet it again. As he fell deeper and deeper into a writing frenzy, he came to many realizations, many stopped thoughts and epiphanies about the thing he had found. Instead of thinking up ways to expand on the creature in fantastical adventures, he found that it felt... wrong to keep such a wondrous and almighty beast-- no, being-- locked away in fictional tales that would dilute its magnificence. It was //unthinkable,// after a certain point. This was something that deserved respect. This was something that deserved praise. This was something that Roger was born to do. And so, the first Scribe of Reggravi came into existence. ----------------- > {{Excerpts from //His Book//, the holy scripture of the Faith of the Scribed.}} -------------------- It wasn't hard to find people to join in the belief. After all, it was a religion based on a figure whose existence and power could be proven at literally any time. First came Roger's close friends, then their friends, until they numbered about fifty people, give or take a few. In fact, it was more of a small little community than a religion. But most of all, they certainly were not a cult. No, they were simply average people living average lives that had discovered the Truth and met up once a week to talk about it and share their faith. And it was nice. ------------ "I think my kids breezed through here. They aren't giving you any trouble, are they?" said a woman approaching Roger after the service. He grinned and shook his head. "Of course not, Clarisse, they're simply wonderful. Hey, I'm glad you came! It's always nice to see you guys around here." The woman chuckled. "Ah, Roger, of course we came. This is the highlight of our weeks right here," she said, waving her hand at the people around them. "We wouldn't miss it for the world." "I'm glad to hear that. Hey, where's Patrick today?" "Oh... he's..." muttered the woman, fiddling with her wedding band. "He's... been sick recently. That's all. Came down with something awful, doctors don't know what it is, they took some... blood samples. We're just waiting to hear back." He patted her on the shoulder. "I see. I hope it all turns out for the best." She nodded, murmured something about having to go watch her kids, and sidled away. Roger sighed. //People were always going to have their problems, whether or not they were a part of the Scribes, but...// He pivoted on his heel and walked over to the front of the room. There, he surveyed the mass of people there. It wasn't big, but it was close. //At least they have people to support them when they fall.// ----------- In the throng of the crowd, a man conspicuously weaved in and out between people, taking in the experience. He made mental notes of every face, every name he could remember, reciting as much of the sermon from before over and over in his head so as to retain as much of it as he could. He socialized, keeping his cold, analyzing gaze hidden behind two rows of beaming teeth. In fact, he met nearly every single member of the congregation that night and was one of the last to leave. As the room emptied, the man got in his car and drove off. The Wolf was returning to its pack. ------------- > {{//And so, we gathered to honor Him. Friends, families, all together in love. We paved the way of His coming, knowing that it would come sometime or another. We knew. We prepared.//}} ------------ A few weeks later, the Scribes were holding another regular service, with Roger, as always, reading the sacred texts. "...and the Faithful will ascend with Reggravi in his greatness." Roger closed the book and smiled at the congregation. "Don't fear, for our Lord will surely come soon. I can feel it. Now, worship service is over. As always, feel free to stay and enjoy the snacks and each other's company." This last part was unnecessary; no one ever left right after the services. Within minutes, the tiny warehouse where they held their meetings was filled with chatter and laughter. Dozens of ecru-clad people spread out and filled the room, intermingling with each other. Roger smiled. As much as he loved the faith, watching the community mesh was even better. He wandered into the crowd, shaking hands and greeting people as he passed. A few conversation snippets later, he found the person he was looking for and tapped her on the shoulder. The brunette woman turned around. "It's been three weeks since Pat's been here, Clarisse." He sighed. She cast her eyes downward. "I know, I know. He's been... very ill as of late. I'm not sure if he'll ever be well enough to come back." He glanced down at her hands. Clarisse was feeling around the bare base of her left ring finger. She noticed him staring and quickly folded her hands behind her back. He cast her a sympathetic look. "...My ring's been bothering me a bit recently, so I decided just to take it off." Roger paused for a minute. "Hey, Clarisse?" "Yes?" "We're all a family here. Please don't forget that. Don't be afraid to tell us you need support." She gave him a weak smile and a half-nod before wandering off. Roger sighed once more. Some people just didn't like admitting they needed help. Or rather, they didn't like burdening other people with their problems. //Well, only time will help, I suppose.// And with these thoughts, he made his way back into the crowd. ------------ Five Wolves scouted the group, gleaming as much information as they could, knowledge about both the religion itself and the people gathered there. Throughout their mingling, they signaled to each other the prepared sign, a smiling nod accompanied with the scratching of the back of their neck. They were ready to plan the operation. [[=]] << [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Word and the Wolf]]]>> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=azzleflux]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-22T13:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "tale" ]	The Written God - SCP Foundation	48	[ "etdp-hub-page", "the-word-and-the-wolf", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page" ]	[]	16893017	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-written-god
the-year-that-it-was	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Lee checked his watch, like he always did, and stepped over the welcome mat. He was home. It wasn't a particularly impressive home, with its threadbare red carpets and grimy, unwashed windows, but it was his own home. He'd owned his own place for about three years, and wasn't exactly inclined to go back to his parents spare room. There were enough withering looks passed around during the holidays they bothered to visit for, thank you very much.</p> <p>Mom was disappointed in his college days. His engineering plans had fallen through when he didn't make it to the college. He'd tried his best, but the environment was just too hostile. He'd had to sell the rest of the coins just to stay afloat from the student loans. Dad was cross because Grandad's coins had gone with them, but Grandad would have wanted him to be safe, rather than in jail with some shiny Polish change. Well, Grandad had been through a lot to get the coins too… but no, he would've agreed.</p> <p>The job he'd gotten was paying his bills. He'd been entering data at the bank for about three years now, and it paid most of the bills. Mortgage and Water were the main two. Sometimes electric or gas had to go by the wayside. The job was still better than nothing. Plus, it let him spend some time out of the house, which was always better than being alone.</p> <p>Mail was tossed on the counter and temporarily forgotten, as Lee crouched over his fridge. It was mostly empty, but there was still one soda left. Mail continued to wait, watching as he set himself up with a glass and two iced cubes. Lee pulled up a wicker chair, and began to flick through the envelopes. There was a couple bills for the cable and from Bell, some junk mail asking him if he was a bad enough dude to learn karate, and something else.</p> <p>The sorting went on for a minute or so, as Lee rechecked his envelopes to make sure they were <em>really</em> for him, and opening the ones which required to be open, and as one can imagine he found this to be quite tedious. The chair legs scuffed the tiles as he stood up to go, which is what he would've done had he not spotted a red envelope sticking underneath the rest of his mail stack.</p> <p>It wasn't a fancy envelope, with just paper, his address, and no return address. Lee wasn't a suspicious man, but this letter still ticked off some alarms in his mind. He shook it, poked it, prodded it, dropped it, and a variety of other trials to determine any malicious content. The letter remained inert. With the letter's mundanity satisfied, he opened it, slowly tearing from one corner to another. Reaching inside, there wasn't any paper. Just a polaroid.</p> <p>Just? Lee squinted at it. He was sure it couldn't have been a picture of him. How could it be? There wasn't anything left from those days. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then looked again. The picture refused to change, and faced him indifferently. It was him, Cindy, and Andy. They were grinning stupidly at someone who was taking the picture. Lee blinked, and the wicker chair creaked as he sat down again.</p> <p>This was from the trip Lee had taken with Rusty and the others in '76. It hadn't been a particularly exciting trip, and the hubbub of almost college had entered his mind almost directly after they'd gotten home. Kirk Lonwood High had been one of the last times he'd been happy. The familiar tendrils of nostalgia began to creep over his shoulders as he stared.</p> <p><em>You should've stayed home with them.</em></p> <p>Lee shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and not succeeding. The photo slipped out of his fingers, fluttered down onto the counter. Lee closed his eyes giving himself rationalizations and condolences. <em>He was okay. There was a good purpose for him here, and he was living his own life. Going back would've been a dumb thing to do now, with all the time that's passed.</em> When he opened his eyes, he saw a message scrawled on the back of the letter.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>We've had a great year, haven't we? Hope to see you again soon!</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>~Love, Cindy XOXOXOX</em></p> <p>Sleep didn't come to Lee easily that night. Images of photographs, red, his friends driving, listening to the radio, and everything else from the summer came flooding back to him. Touching his lips, where Cindy had kissed him, he pursed them together and thought about his life now. Dwelling in the past would get him nowhere. The photo would be off his nightstand and in the bin by tomorrow.</p> <p style="text-align: center;">…<em>we're hitting up the amusement park later today, if Rusty and Andy can get the driver/navigator mechanic going. Honestly, it seems like they each have their own ideas of how we should get there. I'd volunteer, but that'd probably just cause more drama…</em></p> <p>The blaring of an alarm yanked Lee from his sleep, and he spasmed with a start. Rise from bed, eat two scoops of cereal, no milk, shave after combing hair, get dressed with shoes, pants, shirt, go to the mirror to button the coat, then undo it and button the <em>right</em> way, then out the door. The whole day was uneventful, except for the niggling little gremlins in his mind that had been awakened from the photo. As boredom wafted in, he tried to think about where the trip had taken him. Did it really matter?</p> <p>The picture was still there. The bin was there, so it could be dealt with for good. It was probably just from some ass who hated him back home. Maybe he should keep it then, in case more photos come in. Just in case. The photograph ended up tucked within a jacket pocket.</p> <p>That whole year was a blur… the summer was what had counted. Everything that had happened, then and now, came from that trip. Building up a whole year for one last summer, then pissing his life away afterwards. But the summer had been a golden moment between them, where nothing mattered and you could do what you want. A great end to a year of buildup. Instinctively, he reached his hand into the jacket pocket to touch the photo. Still there.</p> <p>Sleep came easier that night, with the painful memories of the day before replaced with the more palatable memories of nostalgia. All the good times at school, even before the trip. Band had been fun. That's where he'd met Cindy. They'd been partners for band stuff, and he'd helped her with…. Lee frowned, and glanced back at the photo. Where had Cindy met him?</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>…omething about the damned money was the last I heard." She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture. The school was in some tough times, but it gave him an excuse to talk to her. Speculate on whether or not the place downtown could supply-</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;">Syncope.</p> <p>Lee bolted up, grabbing at everything around him as he scrambled out of bed. Hearing a buzz, his hands instinctively went to cover his ears, and teeth bit tongue. How could he have forgotten Syncope? Why should he remember it? He fell back onto his bed, clutching his throbbing skull. They'd been… something at Lonwood. Wincing, he felt blood stream down from his nose, pooling in his lips.</p> <p>There was something about Syncope. Remember. They would remember you. Pieces flooded his consciousness. There was a school he couldn't leave… his bandmates at the game… and Syncope. They'd been a group at the school, they were there from town… no, that was wrong. Lee wiped the blood and looked back to his nightstand, to the photo. It looked the same. The buzzing grew louder.</p> <p>Lee could hear it.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><tt>Very sorry. Know you're unhappy here, and apologize for the times done to. Frustration and fear, and are willing to work with if only take the time to see the overall composure. Know that many of have been hurt or set to tower for the goal, but were only for the beat, have to make some practices to bring it to the full potential. Not a place, like some of have said over this time. Don't have people with, working to make the beauty for or otherwise. All want to accomplish is making the orchestra of life. All of have been playing roles, as single notes in grand symphony.</tt></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em><tt>Please, rise for the overture.</tt></em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/bicentennial">In Session</a> \| <a href="/remembrance">HUB</a> \| <a href="/looking-back">Forgetting</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-year-that-it-was">Remembrance: Part Three</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-year-that-it-was">https://scpwiki.com/the-year-that-it-was</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Lee checked his watch, like he always did, and stepped over the welcome mat. He was home. It wasn't a particularly impressive home, with its threadbare red carpets and grimy, unwashed windows, but it was his own home. He'd owned his own place for about three years, and wasn't exactly inclined to go back to his parents spare room. There were enough withering looks passed around during the holidays they bothered to visit for, thank you very much. Mom was disappointed in his college days. His engineering plans had fallen through when he didn't make it to the college. He'd tried his best, but the environment was just too hostile. He'd had to sell the rest of the coins just to stay afloat from the student loans. Dad was cross because Grandad's coins had gone with them, but Grandad would have wanted him to be safe, rather than in jail with some shiny Polish change. Well, Grandad had been through a lot to get the coins too... but no, he would've agreed. The job he'd gotten was paying his bills. He'd been entering data at the bank for about three years now, and it paid most of the bills. Mortgage and Water were the main two. Sometimes electric or gas had to go by the wayside. The job was still better than nothing. Plus, it let him spend some time out of the house, which was always better than being alone. Mail was tossed on the counter and temporarily forgotten, as Lee crouched over his fridge. It was mostly empty, but there was still one soda left. Mail continued to wait, watching as he set himself up with a glass and two iced cubes. Lee pulled up a wicker chair, and began to flick through the envelopes. There was a couple bills for the cable and from Bell, some junk mail asking him if he was a bad enough dude to learn karate, and something else. The sorting went on for a minute or so, as Lee rechecked his envelopes to make sure they were //really// for him, and opening the ones which required to be open, and as one can imagine he found this to be quite tedious. The chair legs scuffed the tiles as he stood up to go, which is what he would've done had he not spotted a red envelope sticking underneath the rest of his mail stack. It wasn't a fancy envelope, with just paper, his address, and no return address. Lee wasn't a suspicious man, but this letter still ticked off some alarms in his mind. He shook it, poked it, prodded it, dropped it, and a variety of other trials to determine any malicious content. The letter remained inert. With the letter's mundanity satisfied, he opened it, slowly tearing from one corner to another. Reaching inside, there wasn't any paper. Just a polaroid. Just? Lee squinted at it. He was sure it couldn't have been a picture of him. How could it be? There wasn't anything left from those days. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then looked again. The picture refused to change, and faced him indifferently. It was him, Cindy, and Andy. They were grinning stupidly at someone who was taking the picture. Lee blinked, and the wicker chair creaked as he sat down again. This was from the trip Lee had taken with Rusty and the others in '76. It hadn't been a particularly exciting trip, and the hubbub of almost college had entered his mind almost directly after they'd gotten home. Kirk Lonwood High had been one of the last times he'd been happy. The familiar tendrils of nostalgia began to creep over his shoulders as he stared. //You should've stayed home with them.// Lee shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and not succeeding. The photo slipped out of his fingers, fluttered down onto the counter. Lee closed his eyes giving himself rationalizations and condolences. //He was okay. There was a good purpose for him here, and he was living his own life. Going back would've been a dumb thing to do now, with all the time that's passed.// When he opened his eyes, he saw a message scrawled on the back of the letter. = //We've had a great year, haven't we? Hope to see you again soon!// = //~Love, Cindy XOXOXOX// Sleep didn't come to Lee easily that night. Images of photographs, red, his friends driving, listening to the radio, and everything else from the summer came flooding back to him. Touching his lips, where Cindy had kissed him, he pursed them together and thought about his life now. Dwelling in the past would get him nowhere. The photo would be off his nightstand and in the bin by tomorrow. = ...//we're hitting up the amusement park later today, if Rusty and Andy can get the driver/navigator mechanic going. Honestly, it seems like they each have their own ideas of how we should get there. I'd volunteer, but that'd probably just cause more drama...// The blaring of an alarm yanked Lee from his sleep, and he spasmed with a start. Rise from bed, eat two scoops of cereal, no milk, shave after combing hair, get dressed with shoes, pants, shirt, go to the mirror to button the coat, then undo it and button the //right// way, then out the door. The whole day was uneventful, except for the niggling little gremlins in his mind that had been awakened from the photo. As boredom wafted in, he tried to think about where the trip had taken him. Did it really matter? The picture was still there. The bin was there, so it could be dealt with for good. It was probably just from some ass who hated him back home. Maybe he should keep it then, in case more photos come in. Just in case. The photograph ended up tucked within a jacket pocket. That whole year was a blur... the summer was what had counted. Everything that had happened, then and now, came from that trip. Building up a whole year for one last summer, then pissing his life away afterwards. But the summer had been a golden moment between them, where nothing mattered and you could do what you want. A great end to a year of buildup. Instinctively, he reached his hand into the jacket pocket to touch the photo. Still there. Sleep came easier that night, with the painful memories of the day before replaced with the more palatable memories of nostalgia. All the good times at school, even before the trip. Band had been fun. That's where he'd met Cindy. They'd been partners for band stuff, and he'd helped her with.... Lee frowned, and glanced back at the photo. Where had Cindy met him? = //...omething about the damned money was the last I heard." She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture. The school was in some tough times, but it gave him an excuse to talk to her. Speculate on whether or not the place downtown could supply-// = Syncope. Lee bolted up, grabbing at everything around him as he scrambled out of bed. Hearing a buzz, his hands instinctively went to cover his ears, and teeth bit tongue. How could he have forgotten Syncope? Why should he remember it? He fell back onto his bed, clutching his throbbing skull. They'd been... something at Lonwood. Wincing, he felt blood stream down from his nose, pooling in his lips. There was something about Syncope. Remember. They would remember you. Pieces flooded his consciousness. There was a school he couldn't leave... his bandmates at the game... and Syncope. They'd been a group at the school, they were there from town... no, that was wrong. Lee wiped the blood and looked back to his nightstand, to the photo. It looked the same. The buzzing grew louder. Lee could hear it. = {{Very sorry. Know you're unhappy here, and apologize for the times done to. Frustration and fear, and are willing to work with if only take the time to see the overall composure. Know that many of have been hurt or set to tower for the goal, but were only for the beat, have to make some practices to bring it to the full potential. Not a place, like some of have said over this time. Don't have people with, working to make the beauty for or otherwise. All want to accomplish is making the orchestra of life. All of have been playing roles, as single notes in grand symphony.}} = //{{Please, rise for the overture.}}// [[=]] << [[[Bicentennial\| In Session]]] \| [[[Remembrance\| HUB]]] \| [[[Looking Back\| Forgetting]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-10T23:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "class-of-76", "mystery", "rewritable", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Remembrance: Part Three - SCP Foundation	155	[ "bicentennial", "remembrance", "looking-back", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "remembrance", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16016054	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-year-that-it-was
the-young-man	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Nobody could like Corporal Lawrence. That's not to say that nobody tried, or that he was somehow unfriendly, merely that he was one of those few that seemed to be “wired” differently. However, in the trenches of World War I, normalcy was at best a relative term, and one that had minimal relation of life, such as it was. Lawrence fought, listened to orders, and didn't disrupt the other soldiers, and that was all that was required. So what if people felt increasingly uncomfortable around him? In a place where the flesh rotting off your bones while you were still alive was the base-line of concern, a little personality conflict ranked several levels below a paper cut.</p> <p>Lawrence, for his part, dealt with it as he always had. That is to say, remained totally unaware of the avoidance. The same way a man blind from birth cannot mourn the memory of color, Corporal Lawrence couldn't bemoan a lack of company. He was quiet, as he had nobody to talk to, and still, as he had nothing to do for long stretches of time. The enemy trench, less than a mile away, had gone silent for several days, letting boredom and nervousness sink in even more than normal…coupled with the unease that seemed to radiate off of Lawrence like heat waves.</p> <p>The worst part was that there was no distinct reason to dislike the corporal. He was a plain man, average height, average build, bland of voice and action. Nobody could recall him raising his voice in joy or anger. He did have the occasional odd mannerisms, however. He tended to stare a beat or two longer than was acceptable at people. He rarely slept as well, and bunkmates said he would mumble in his sleep almost constantly. The content of those nocturnal ramblings, when they could be understood, were often odd, and potentially unsettling. One private moved to another barracks when he heard the name of his daughter pass Corporal Lawrence's lips, followed by a bubbling, muffled giggle.</p> <hr/> <p>It was strongly theorized that he was sent over the trench by his commanders more out of a desire to have him away than for his minimal combat skill. He and fourteen of his fellows were sent across the nightmarishly scarred waste of the no-man's-land between the trenches, to reconnoiter the enemy trench, and secure it if possible. Many seemed to hope that Lawrence would have the opportunity to prove his devotion to his country by making the ultimate sacrifice for it.</p> <p>It was while he was gone, that three-day gap as the men held their breath, waiting for a surprise volley of shells, that someone started asking questions. Where as before, it was almost taboo to speak of Corporal Lawrence, since the departure of both him and his “aura”, rumor seemed to descend with the passion of the denied. Nobody remembered him ever talking of home. No sweet-smelling letters came, no soggy, dirt-streaked letters left. He mentioned his dreams often, and griped sometimes with the men over missed foods or pleasures, but never with any real passion.</p> <p>Questions started to float among even the higher levels of the command. Nobody was able to actually find his station orders. He'd come in with a squad of reinforcements transferred from France…but there was no paperwork. The rest of the reinforcement squad had never seen the man before he'd been lumped in with them the night before the trip, along with the snips and scraps of other squads decimated by the Germans. Whispers filtered among the grunts of the corporal being a curse. Nearly every man who'd shared a bunkhouse with him had gotten trenchfoot, and the rooms he haunted always seemed to smell more musty and sickly-sweet, even for the trench.</p> <hr/> <p>The men sent over the no-man's-land with Corporal Lawrence heard and cared for none of this. Just another man among many, all with death certificates awaiting a stamp that could fall at any moment. They moved fast and low, from crater to crater, slipping over slick mud and barbed wire, the only thing that seemed to grow in that blasted waste. Charging the last spurt and into the trench, they were greeted not with the harsh bark of German orders and rifles…but a dense, close silence. Preparing for ambush, the men started to filter out into the tunnels and halls of the trench.</p> <p>The men, already nervous, were not calmed by their investigation. The trenches stank of mold, sweat, and a thin undertaste of rotten fruit. A vile, cloying slime seemed to have pooled in every divot and crack, sticky as glue and itchy on the flesh. In a world where rats and insects would try to snatch food from your mouth even as you ate, they saw nothing alive, not so much as a fly. An armory lay in chaos, munitions spilled on the ground, rifles tossed like pick up sticks. A mess hall had been reduced to ruins, the tables and chairs piled in the center of the room, charred and twisted, the rations seemingly stamped into the dirt by many feet. And still, nothing, alive or dead, was found by the increasingly anxious soldiers.</p> <p>Private Dixon found the first body, and managed to cry out before vomiting.</p> <p>They knew it had been a man only because nothing else of that size could have been there. It lay on the floor of a barracks. The entire floor. The flesh of it had been…smeared, somehow, spread like butter over the rough dirt floor. Bones, already looking pitted and rotten, stuck out at random angles, like dead trees in a still swamp. The skull rested on one of the highest bunks, facing the doorway, ten gleaming white fingertip bones crammed into the cracked eye sockets. As one man went to examine it, he found the back of the skull had been crushed open, the rotting, sagging sponge of a tongue stuffed into the otherwise dry cavity.</p> <p>More remains were found, each seemingly more unsettling and strange than the last. A ring of hands in a sandbagged watchpost, ten of them, fingers interlaced like a basket, the wrists ragged and broken. Two men in a tunnel, skin leathery and thin as mummies, eye sockets staring and empty, mouths locked impossibly wide, their clothes mere rags under an oily black scum. The latrine sent even the hardiest back, gagging and shivering. Overflowing with excrement and offal, gobbets of meat bobbed and oozed in the foul sludge… the whole surface dotted with what looked like thousands of clean, slick eyeballs, nerves and tendons fanning out like goldfish tails.</p> <p>Corporal Lawrence was the first to find the hole, the other men loudly debating the better part of valor and their rapid withdrawal from the nightmare trench. It was small, in a section of fresh digging, the start of a new arm of trenches projecting closer to the enemy lines. No more than four feet across, it seemed to be the accidental uncovering of a natural chamber, the empty blackness of it defying investigation. Private Dixon, recovered and blessedly numb from his previous ordeals, saw the corporal prod the edge with his boot, then crouch to peer in…then suddenly slide in head-first before the private could so much as utter a shout of question.</p> <p>The private was a good soldier, and rushed to the perceived distress of his fellow. When questioned later, he could provide little illumination as to what happened over the two minutes Corporal Lawrence spent in the hole. He could see nothing, the light of a torch seemingly gobbled up a few feet into that dense blackness. There were sounds…the rustle of movement over loose stone or rubble. An odd liquid shifting, a dry rustle that made him think of the insect husks he'd used to collect in the summer. As he shouted for aid, there was a sudden upwelling of a repulsive stench, like a reptile house gone sour and old, and his fellow soldiers found him retching helplessly beside the hole when they came around the turn.</p> <p>It was as they rushed to Private Dixon's aid that the hand emerged from the hole. They stopped and raised rifles as one body, roaring for the owner of that pale, trembling hand to identify himself. As they watched, another hand joined the first, followed by the pale, shivering head of Corporal Lawrence. He was streaked and smeared with a tarry black ooze, hacking and coughing thinly as he hauled his body up beside that of the gasping private. As they moved to help the men, the corporal vomited up a heavy stream of the same repulsive slime that coated his body in smears and globs, his curled, shuddering body voiding more of it into his saturated, fouled pants. They were hesitant to touch him, finally doing so after the seemingly endless river of grime stopped pouring from him. He was insensible, eyes rolling and wide, body as limp as a boned fish.</p> <hr/> <p>The men quit the trench with all speed. Half-dragging the corporal, they ran with no thought to cover or death, only escape. They crossed in record time, falling into their home trench like so much cordwood, gasping and shivering, one man known to have bludgeoned a German to death with a brick curled on the floor in a sobbing heap. The commanders moved quickly, isolating the men and trying to calm the most lucid for a report. What spilled out would have been immediately dismissed as lies and hallucination were it not for the earnest, pleading stares of those reporting. Command calmed them with explanations of battle fatigue and strange gas weapon tests…and shared silent, focused stares as the cowed men were ushered out.</p> <p>Corporal Lawrence had little to report. Of his time in the hole, he could (or would) say little. He stated that he had slipped, and fallen into what may have been some long-blocked underground pool, or perhaps a buried latrine. Of the sounds and smells reported by the private, he had nothing to say, only that he had struggled a short time, then managed to get back out just as the men arrived. Truly, he seemed none the worse for wear. In fact, he seemed in better spirits than many had remembered ever seeing him, favoring the commanders with a wide, giddy smile as he was dismissed with a warning not to discuss the events.</p> <p>The corporal proved a changed man over the next few days. He was more talkative, but quickly had men wishing for his old, unsettling silence. He rambled about the joys of close spaces, of creation and destruction that seemed to spring up all around them. About human pleasures missed, the dimensions and ages of which made some men threaten Corporal Lawrence with a quiet and ignoble death…which only seemed to stretch the near-constant smile on his face even wider. Private Dixon, one of the corporal's bunkmates, whispered to a friend that he had woken once to find the corporal standing over him in the night, his eyes as bright and flat as silver dollars. They found the private the next day snarled in the barbed wire, his intestines spread nearly ten feet around him in every direction.</p> <hr/> <p>Not one man from that trench survived the Great War, although few died in battle. A wave of sickness took the trench a few days after Private Dixon's death. A strange wasting sickness, it seemed to eat the flesh like acid, men waking to find previously healthy flesh eaten down to the bone, oozing and blackened. A sergeant was found in a latrine, beset by a living carpet of rats. They refused to quit the body even when shot, and attacked several men before the body was recovered. Relief finally came, the bulk of the men being sent to various hospitals, many wasting away before they ever reached a bed.</p> <p>Corporal Lawrence was remanded to a French mental ward, transferred after several complaints from the hospital proper where he was first sent. It seemed his behavior hinted at a growing mental imbalance, culminating with an attempted sexual assault of a nurse, which ended with the loss of three fingers from her right hand, and the vision in her right eye. The corporal would rant quietly to the other patients, whispers about endless halls, pursuits in the dark, flesh laid out like pages of a book. It was dismissed as so much war fatigue, even as his behavior grew less violent and more unsettling.</p> <p>He vanished several times from the ward, only to appear several hours later, as if nothing had happened. When pressed, he would begin to sing “My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea” in an endless monotone until the doctors left exasperated. Others on the ward clamored to be transferred from the whispering madman. A stale, musty foulness seemed to sit in the air wherever he stayed, and incidents of infection and the strange, consuming sickness that had beset his home trench seemed to follow him like a cloud. Numerous attempts were made to transfer the man, only to be met with bureaucratic confusion. No records were found of the man. No entry papers, commendations or incidents, not even a birth certificate. Through it all he sat, for hours on end, cross-legged on his bed, occasionally humming tunelessly, or rambling off the names of his ward-mates between short, bubbling giggles.</p> <p>Corporal Lawrence and eighteen men vanished one November night, between a five minute nurse rotation at three in the morning. The room reeked of rust, oil, mold, and sweet rot. Thick, black swaths of crumbling ooze coated the beds and several of the walls, wide patches of it smearing and eating into the floor. Of the men, there was no sign, at first. As they searched, one nurse shifted a bed aside, only to shriek and nearly trip across one of the sunken, reeking depressions on the floor. In a tight, perfect spiral were what appeared to be hundreds of teeth, resting neatly on the floor. After counting, they accounted for the total of all the teeth of every living soul in that ward…but one.</p> <hr/> <p>The corporal was never found, nor were the men. The incident was swallowed by the constant barrage of horrors from the front, and forgotten with ease. Stories of a cursed trench wandered across the front lines, often squelched for being bad luck. Still they came…stories of strange deaths, of disappearing men, found days later, alive, but broken and twisted beyond comprehension. Stories of a strange, dark figure stalking the bomb-riddled towns of Europe.</p> <p>This may be the only known image of Corporal Lawrence ever recorded, taken several days after his return from the hole in the German trench.</p> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/the-young-man/the%20old%20man%2C%20young"><img alt="the%20old%20man%2C%20young" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/the-young-man/the%20old%20man%2C%20young/medium.jpg" style="width: 99%; border: solid 1px #000000; padding: 1px"/></a> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-young-man">The Young Man</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-young-man">https://scpwiki.com/the-young-man</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> the%20old%20man%2C%20young<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> shell_shocked_soldier_1916_2.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> N/A<br/> <strong>License:</strong> Public Domain<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/shell-shocked-soldier-1916/">Rare Historical Photos</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Nobody could like Corporal Lawrence. That's not to say that nobody tried, or that he was somehow unfriendly, merely that he was one of those few that seemed to be “wired” differently. However, in the trenches of World War I, normalcy was at best a relative term, and one that had minimal relation of life, such as it was. Lawrence fought, listened to orders, and didn't disrupt the other soldiers, and that was all that was required. So what if people felt increasingly uncomfortable around him? In a place where the flesh rotting off your bones while you were still alive was the base-line of concern, a little personality conflict ranked several levels below a paper cut. Lawrence, for his part, dealt with it as he always had. That is to say, remained totally unaware of the avoidance. The same way a man blind from birth cannot mourn the memory of color, Corporal Lawrence couldn't bemoan a lack of company. He was quiet, as he had nobody to talk to, and still, as he had nothing to do for long stretches of time. The enemy trench, less than a mile away, had gone silent for several days, letting boredom and nervousness sink in even more than normal...coupled with the unease that seemed to radiate off of Lawrence like heat waves. The worst part was that there was no distinct reason to dislike the corporal. He was a plain man, average height, average build, bland of voice and action. Nobody could recall him raising his voice in joy or anger. He did have the occasional odd mannerisms, however. He tended to stare a beat or two longer than was acceptable at people. He rarely slept as well, and bunkmates said he would mumble in his sleep almost constantly. The content of those nocturnal ramblings, when they could be understood, were often odd, and potentially unsettling. One private moved to another barracks when he heard the name of his daughter pass Corporal Lawrence's lips, followed by a bubbling, muffled giggle. ------ It was strongly theorized that he was sent over the trench by his commanders more out of a desire to have him away than for his minimal combat skill. He and fourteen of his fellows were sent across the nightmarishly scarred waste of the no-man's-land between the trenches, to reconnoiter the enemy trench, and secure it if possible. Many seemed to hope that Lawrence would have the opportunity to prove his devotion to his country by making the ultimate sacrifice for it. It was while he was gone, that three-day gap as the men held their breath, waiting for a surprise volley of shells, that someone started asking questions. Where as before, it was almost taboo to speak of Corporal Lawrence, since the departure of both him and his “aura”, rumor seemed to descend with the passion of the denied. Nobody remembered him ever talking of home. No sweet-smelling letters came, no soggy, dirt-streaked letters left. He mentioned his dreams often, and griped sometimes with the men over missed foods or pleasures, but never with any real passion. Questions started to float among even the higher levels of the command. Nobody was able to actually find his station orders. He'd come in with a squad of reinforcements transferred from France...but there was no paperwork. The rest of the reinforcement squad had never seen the man before he'd been lumped in with them the night before the trip, along with the snips and scraps of other squads decimated by the Germans. Whispers filtered among the grunts of the corporal being a curse. Nearly every man who'd shared a bunkhouse with him had gotten trenchfoot, and the rooms he haunted always seemed to smell more musty and sickly-sweet, even for the trench. ------ The men sent over the no-man's-land with Corporal Lawrence heard and cared for none of this. Just another man among many, all with death certificates awaiting a stamp that could fall at any moment. They moved fast and low, from crater to crater, slipping over slick mud and barbed wire, the only thing that seemed to grow in that blasted waste. Charging the last spurt and into the trench, they were greeted not with the harsh bark of German orders and rifles...but a dense, close silence. Preparing for ambush, the men started to filter out into the tunnels and halls of the trench. The men, already nervous, were not calmed by their investigation. The trenches stank of mold, sweat, and a thin undertaste of rotten fruit. A vile, cloying slime seemed to have pooled in every divot and crack, sticky as glue and itchy on the flesh. In a world where rats and insects would try to snatch food from your mouth even as you ate, they saw nothing alive, not so much as a fly. An armory lay in chaos, munitions spilled on the ground, rifles tossed like pick up sticks. A mess hall had been reduced to ruins, the tables and chairs piled in the center of the room, charred and twisted, the rations seemingly stamped into the dirt by many feet. And still, nothing, alive or dead, was found by the increasingly anxious soldiers. Private Dixon found the first body, and managed to cry out before vomiting. They knew it had been a man only because nothing else of that size could have been there. It lay on the floor of a barracks. The entire floor. The flesh of it had been...smeared, somehow, spread like butter over the rough dirt floor. Bones, already looking pitted and rotten, stuck out at random angles, like dead trees in a still swamp. The skull rested on one of the highest bunks, facing the doorway, ten gleaming white fingertip bones crammed into the cracked eye sockets. As one man went to examine it, he found the back of the skull had been crushed open, the rotting, sagging sponge of a tongue stuffed into the otherwise dry cavity. More remains were found, each seemingly more unsettling and strange than the last. A ring of hands in a sandbagged watchpost, ten of them, fingers interlaced like a basket, the wrists ragged and broken. Two men in a tunnel, skin leathery and thin as mummies, eye sockets staring and empty, mouths locked impossibly wide, their clothes mere rags under an oily black scum. The latrine sent even the hardiest back, gagging and shivering. Overflowing with excrement and offal, gobbets of meat bobbed and oozed in the foul sludge... the whole surface dotted with what looked like thousands of clean, slick eyeballs, nerves and tendons fanning out like goldfish tails. Corporal Lawrence was the first to find the hole, the other men loudly debating the better part of valor and their rapid withdrawal from the nightmare trench. It was small, in a section of fresh digging, the start of a new arm of trenches projecting closer to the enemy lines. No more than four feet across, it seemed to be the accidental uncovering of a natural chamber, the empty blackness of it defying investigation. Private Dixon, recovered and blessedly numb from his previous ordeals, saw the corporal prod the edge with his boot, then crouch to peer in...then suddenly slide in head-first before the private could so much as utter a shout of question. The private was a good soldier, and rushed to the perceived distress of his fellow. When questioned later, he could provide little illumination as to what happened over the two minutes Corporal Lawrence spent in the hole. He could see nothing, the light of a torch seemingly gobbled up a few feet into that dense blackness. There were sounds...the rustle of movement over loose stone or rubble. An odd liquid shifting, a dry rustle that made him think of the insect husks he'd used to collect in the summer. As he shouted for aid, there was a sudden upwelling of a repulsive stench, like a reptile house gone sour and old, and his fellow soldiers found him retching helplessly beside the hole when they came around the turn. It was as they rushed to Private Dixon's aid that the hand emerged from the hole. They stopped and raised rifles as one body, roaring for the owner of that pale, trembling hand to identify himself. As they watched, another hand joined the first, followed by the pale, shivering head of Corporal Lawrence. He was streaked and smeared with a tarry black ooze, hacking and coughing thinly as he hauled his body up beside that of the gasping private. As they moved to help the men, the corporal vomited up a heavy stream of the same repulsive slime that coated his body in smears and globs, his curled, shuddering body voiding more of it into his saturated, fouled pants. They were hesitant to touch him, finally doing so after the seemingly endless river of grime stopped pouring from him. He was insensible, eyes rolling and wide, body as limp as a boned fish. ------ The men quit the trench with all speed. Half-dragging the corporal, they ran with no thought to cover or death, only escape. They crossed in record time, falling into their home trench like so much cordwood, gasping and shivering, one man known to have bludgeoned a German to death with a brick curled on the floor in a sobbing heap. The commanders moved quickly, isolating the men and trying to calm the most lucid for a report. What spilled out would have been immediately dismissed as lies and hallucination were it not for the earnest, pleading stares of those reporting. Command calmed them with explanations of battle fatigue and strange gas weapon tests...and shared silent, focused stares as the cowed men were ushered out. Corporal Lawrence had little to report. Of his time in the hole, he could (or would) say little. He stated that he had slipped, and fallen into what may have been some long-blocked underground pool, or perhaps a buried latrine. Of the sounds and smells reported by the private, he had nothing to say, only that he had struggled a short time, then managed to get back out just as the men arrived. Truly, he seemed none the worse for wear. In fact, he seemed in better spirits than many had remembered ever seeing him, favoring the commanders with a wide, giddy smile as he was dismissed with a warning not to discuss the events. The corporal proved a changed man over the next few days. He was more talkative, but quickly had men wishing for his old, unsettling silence. He rambled about the joys of close spaces, of creation and destruction that seemed to spring up all around them. About human pleasures missed, the dimensions and ages of which made some men threaten Corporal Lawrence with a quiet and ignoble death...which only seemed to stretch the near-constant smile on his face even wider. Private Dixon, one of the corporal's bunkmates, whispered to a friend that he had woken once to find the corporal standing over him in the night, his eyes as bright and flat as silver dollars. They found the private the next day snarled in the barbed wire, his intestines spread nearly ten feet around him in every direction. ------ Not one man from that trench survived the Great War, although few died in battle. A wave of sickness took the trench a few days after Private Dixon's death. A strange wasting sickness, it seemed to eat the flesh like acid, men waking to find previously healthy flesh eaten down to the bone, oozing and blackened. A sergeant was found in a latrine, beset by a living carpet of rats. They refused to quit the body even when shot, and attacked several men before the body was recovered. Relief finally came, the bulk of the men being sent to various hospitals, many wasting away before they ever reached a bed. Corporal Lawrence was remanded to a French mental ward, transferred after several complaints from the hospital proper where he was first sent. It seemed his behavior hinted at a growing mental imbalance, culminating with an attempted sexual assault of a nurse, which ended with the loss of three fingers from her right hand, and the vision in her right eye. The corporal would rant quietly to the other patients, whispers about endless halls, pursuits in the dark, flesh laid out like pages of a book. It was dismissed as so much war fatigue, even as his behavior grew less violent and more unsettling. He vanished several times from the ward, only to appear several hours later, as if nothing had happened. When pressed, he would begin to sing “My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea” in an endless monotone until the doctors left exasperated. Others on the ward clamored to be transferred from the whispering madman. A stale, musty foulness seemed to sit in the air wherever he stayed, and incidents of infection and the strange, consuming sickness that had beset his home trench seemed to follow him like a cloud. Numerous attempts were made to transfer the man, only to be met with bureaucratic confusion. No records were found of the man. No entry papers, commendations or incidents, not even a birth certificate. Through it all he sat, for hours on end, cross-legged on his bed, occasionally humming tunelessly, or rambling off the names of his ward-mates between short, bubbling giggles. Corporal Lawrence and eighteen men vanished one November night, between a five minute nurse rotation at three in the morning. The room reeked of rust, oil, mold, and sweet rot. Thick, black swaths of crumbling ooze coated the beds and several of the walls, wide patches of it smearing and eating into the floor. Of the men, there was no sign, at first. As they searched, one nurse shifted a bed aside, only to shriek and nearly trip across one of the sunken, reeking depressions on the floor. In a tight, perfect spiral were what appeared to be hundreds of teeth, resting neatly on the floor. After counting, they accounted for the total of all the teeth of every living soul in that ward...but one. ------ The corporal was never found, nor were the men. The incident was swallowed by the constant barrage of horrors from the front, and forgotten with ease. Stories of a cursed trench wandered across the front lines, often squelched for being bad luck. Still they came...stories of strange deaths, of disappearing men, found days later, alive, but broken and twisted beyond comprehension. Stories of a strange, dark figure stalking the bomb-riddled towns of Europe. This may be the only known image of Corporal Lawrence ever recorded, taken several days after his return from the hole in the German trench. [[image the%20old%20man%2C%20young style="width: 99%; border: solid 1px #000000; padding: 1px"]] @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: the%20old%20man%2C%20young > Name: shell_shocked_soldier_1916_2.jpg > Author: N/A > License: Public Domain > Source Link: [https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/shell-shocked-soldier-1916/ Rare Historical Photos] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-15T02:58:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "horror", "military-fiction", "mystery", "period-piece", "tale", "the-old-man" ]	The Young Man - SCP Foundation	1,133	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "highest-rated-non-scps", "gears-day-collection-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/the-young-man/the%20old%20man%2C%20young/medium.jpg" ]	17924510	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-young-man
there-was-one-there-was-not-one	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"What happened to the boy?" The children started intently at their older brother over the fire.</p> <p>"Why, he was eaten by the Lion that Stalks the Night, of course. Each of his limbs was eaten by one its mouths and the rest of him was split between the sixth and the seventh," the brother answered with a smile.</p> <p>The girl gave a shriek and drew her hands to her mouth. Her younger brother started to cry. The elder brother looked on impassively. It would be a week before his younger siblings would be able to sleep peacefully. He doubted that they would be able to leave the hut after sunset without thinking of the Lion that Stalks the Night. That would teach the little bastards for throwing cow dung at him.</p> <p>In a place that wasn't a place, the lips of the Lion that Stalks the Night twisted into seven monstrous smiles.</p> <hr/> <p>It had existed long before <em>Homo sapiens sapiens</em>, finding its home in the night and other dark places. For a long, long time, it had existed as only an inarticulate idea, unthinking and unnamed, banished with the coming of the dawn. But that had been before the story. The story had changed everything.</p> <p>Now it had focus. It had names, more names than it could count. Pinyin Si, Nidab, Ariman, Shanem, Kadeeb, Angra, and many, many more which had been forgotten a hundred generations ago. With each story it was told through, it changed. Even from telling to telling, it never stayed the same. Sometimes it was a foreign warrior, village-burning, woman-stealing. Sometimes it found itself as a dragon, fire-breathing, hero-slaying. Sometimes it was a god, wrath-bestowing, death-bringing. Sometimes it was victorious, as a lesson to wicked children who wouldn't obey their parents. Sometimes it was defeated, as a salve to the fears of those same parents. In every story, it fought a different foe. Sometime it fought the Hero, the King, sometimes the Brave Village Boy. But every time, the story changed.</p> <p>It was what was unknown. What <em>could</em> be out there. Disease, bloodthirsty enemies, monsters, curses, death, many thing worse than death.</p> <hr/> <p>"You're going to <em>what?</em>"</p> <p>"Write it."</p> <p>"You're going to put the miracles of Sudita, his conquest of Ur, his begetting of the lineage of the King, his <em>slaying of Gilgali</em>, onto <em>mud</em>?"</p> <p>"Well, yes, I'm going to do <em>that</em> But more importantly, his name will be kept. Look in the archives some time. What do you see? Records of taxes, taken by men who have been dead for years. You can still read them. This way, Sudita will still be remembered, long after you and I and the King are all dead."</p> <p>"Who's going to read it, anyway? Other tax collectors, checking grain returns with their reeds? Are they supposed to go out and tell the stories of Sudita to the people? Which of them is best suited, I wonder? Abumum? Or maybe Damurru could fart his way through? Oh, I know, how about Nidita? I'm sure that the people would <em>love</em> to hear him stutter the begetting of the King's line! 'And he l-l-laid w-w-with her for th-th-th-th<em>ree</em> d-days a-and nuh-nuh-nuh-nights…' The King will have you gutted for this, you know, right?"</p> <p>"You're missing the point."</p> <p>"Oh? Then please enlighten me, O soon-to-be-disemboweled cousin of mine! Please, share your brilliant plan of <em>writing down</em> Sudita's travels, like it's a gods-damned contracted!"</p> <p>"Writing it down means the story can be understood long after we died. What if, gods forbid, the story-tellers forget the tale of Sudita? What then?"</p> <p>"… You really have gone off the deep end haven't you? Fine. Write down the tale of Sudita. Present it to the King. Just don't expect me to help when he has your arms cut off and your eyes stabbed out for your disrespect."</p> <hr/> <p>It was enjoying itself, insofar as it could. At the moment, it was a fat, bloated ogre, a wily python, a child-devouring beast with ten eyes, and many thousands more. It was triumphing, losing, destroying, stalking. In one story, thought by a small, frightened boy on a spit of an island, it was a large lizard devouring an entire family. It smiled, rather enjoying the story. It hoped that the story of the family-devouring, invincible monster would become a strong, powerful tradition, told again and again, each time gaining in ferocity. Then again, it liked those kinds of stories, the free-floating, idle day dreams, where it could move almost to its heart's content, almost devour everything.</p> <p>Suddenly, a part of it was Gilgali. This was odd, as it wasn't the Day of Strength, when the stories of Sudita and Gilgali were told, but it wasn't <em>that</em> unusual. People liked to tell stories of the slaying of the mad tiger. It didn't begrudge them their enjoyment. However, as the hero drew closer, Gilgali noticed something odd. Everything around Sudita seemed to get… actually it wasn't sure. Sharper, maybe? Buildings held their forms, trees stayed in place. The faces of the villagers begging Sudita for aid against Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, stopped shifting and became solid. Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, charged to the cave to destroy Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, as he had done a thousand times, where he would slay Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, as he had done a thousand times. For the first time, though, Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes was unsettled.</p> <p>The pain struck before Sudita, Lord Of All Men issued his challenge to Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes. It was yanked out of its many possibilities, jerked into one. This time, it did not hear the words describing it, only felt them. They fell like chains, binding it as Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes. "From atop his trove of jewels, Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes," the chains began, "roared in response." It cried out in response, feeling each word -no, not word, <em>shape</em>- etched upon its sides, its arms, its eyes, like fire. "He swiped at Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, but was too slow."</p> <p>It felt "the spear of Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar," (no longer a club or a sword or an axe) plunge through its heart (no longer its head or its eye or its gut). The pain of death was nothing new, but somehow this one was. "Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes heaved a mighty last breath and fell on its side." The linked shapes which dragged it to its side (not longer its back or its belly) burned more than the spear itself. It felt itself swiping at Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, but found itself too slow, it heard his challenges and responded with a roar.</p> <p>Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes shut its lantern eyes as it died, and waited for the story to end. But it didn't. It saw Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, as he defeated the Six Wicked Lords and founded the city of Imar and bedded Ninla, begetting the line of Kings. But it was still swiping at him, hearing his boasts, feeling the spear driven through its heart, dying. Every moment was suspended, each as real as the next.</p> <hr/> <p>The victorious warlord moved through the dark blood-stained halls of the Palace of Imar, surrounded by humming gaggle of priests.</p> <p>"But as promised-"</p> <p>"Are you sure that-"</p> <p>"A new temple to Ammetu and fifty gold pieces apiece was-"</p> <p>"-could anger the gods…"</p> <p>The warlord paid them no mind. The reward for their treachery would be given in due time. Most likely, he mused, in the form of beheadings. Never trust a traitor, his father had told him.</p> <p>They entered the dark throne room, the dim glow of several torches the only light. The king still sat on the throne, his eyes open in uncomprehending surprise. His robes were stained dark red beneath where the priests had slit his throat. Before the throne laid a small heap of clay tablets. The warlord gave the king's body a push, toppling it from the throne. He gingerly picked up the rod of kingship and sat down.</p> <p>"All hail King Cambises the First, ruler of Paadu and Imar, Lord of the World, Bringer of Rains!" The priests surrounded the throne in a semi-circle. The King looked on with disinterest as they continued their adulation. A pair of slaves discreetly removed the former king's corpse. When the priests were done, Cambises pointed to the heap of tablets before him.</p> <p>"What are these?" he asked to no one in particular.</p> <p>One of the priests stepped forward. "Your grace, these are the records of Sudita, the Founder of Imar. They tell of h-"</p> <p>"Burn them." The king flicked his rod in the direction of the priests. "Or smash them, or whatever. I don't care. Just destroy them. Imar has no history before now, understood?"</p> <p>"B-but your worship, a display of such… disregard for a man such as Sudita, Grandson of Pazhu, could ang-"</p> <p>"I'm sorry, was I unclear?" The king sat up straight in his throne. "<em>Get rid of them</em>. Now."</p> <p>"Y-yes, your worship." The priest bowed and gathered the clay tablets for destruction.</p> <hr/> <p>In a place that wasn't a place, Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes felt itself freed from its bonds. It gave a monstrous grin.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/there-was-one-there-was-not-one">There Was One, There Was Not One</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/there-was-one-there-was-not-one">https://scpwiki.com/there-was-one-there-was-not-one</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] "What happened to the boy?" The children started intently at their older brother over the fire. "Why, he was eaten by the Lion that Stalks the Night, of course. Each of his limbs was eaten by one its mouths and the rest of him was split between the sixth and the seventh," the brother answered with a smile. The girl gave a shriek and drew her hands to her mouth. Her younger brother started to cry. The elder brother looked on impassively. It would be a week before his younger siblings would be able to sleep peacefully. He doubted that they would be able to leave the hut after sunset without thinking of the Lion that Stalks the Night. That would teach the little bastards for throwing cow dung at him. In a place that wasn't a place, the lips of the Lion that Stalks the Night twisted into seven monstrous smiles. ----- It had existed long before //Homo sapiens sapiens//, finding its home in the night and other dark places. For a long, long time, it had existed as only an inarticulate idea, unthinking and unnamed, banished with the coming of the dawn. But that had been before the story. The story had changed everything. Now it had focus. It had names, more names than it could count. Pinyin Si, Nidab, Ariman, Shanem, Kadeeb, Angra, and many, many more which had been forgotten a hundred generations ago. With each story it was told through, it changed. Even from telling to telling, it never stayed the same. Sometimes it was a foreign warrior, village-burning, woman-stealing. Sometimes it found itself as a dragon, fire-breathing, hero-slaying. Sometimes it was a god, wrath-bestowing, death-bringing. Sometimes it was victorious, as a lesson to wicked children who wouldn't obey their parents. Sometimes it was defeated, as a salve to the fears of those same parents. In every story, it fought a different foe. Sometime it fought the Hero, the King, sometimes the Brave Village Boy. But every time, the story changed. It was what was unknown. What //could// be out there. Disease, bloodthirsty enemies, monsters, curses, death, many thing worse than death. ----- "You're going to //what?//" "Write it." "You're going to put the miracles of Sudita, his conquest of Ur, his begetting of the lineage of the King, his //slaying of Gilgali//, onto //mud//?" "Well, yes, I'm going to do //that// But more importantly, his name will be kept. Look in the archives some time. What do you see? Records of taxes, taken by men who have been dead for years. You can still read them. This way, Sudita will still be remembered, long after you and I and the King are all dead." "Who's going to read it, anyway? Other tax collectors, checking grain returns with their reeds? Are they supposed to go out and tell the stories of Sudita to the people? Which of them is best suited, I wonder? Abumum? Or maybe Damurru could fart his way through? Oh, I know, how about Nidita? I'm sure that the people would //love// to hear him stutter the begetting of the King's line! 'And he l-l-laid w-w-with her for th-th-th-th//ree// d-days a-and nuh-nuh-nuh-nights...' The King will have you gutted for this, you know, right?" "You're missing the point." "Oh? Then please enlighten me, O soon-to-be-disemboweled cousin of mine! Please, share your brilliant plan of //writing down// Sudita's travels, like it's a gods-damned contracted!" "Writing it down means the story can be understood long after we died. What if, gods forbid, the story-tellers forget the tale of Sudita? What then?" "... You really have gone off the deep end haven't you? Fine. Write down the tale of Sudita. Present it to the King. Just don't expect me to help when he has your arms cut off and your eyes stabbed out for your disrespect." ----- It was enjoying itself, insofar as it could. At the moment, it was a fat, bloated ogre, a wily python, a child-devouring beast with ten eyes, and many thousands more. It was triumphing, losing, destroying, stalking. In one story, thought by a small, frightened boy on a spit of an island, it was a large lizard devouring an entire family. It smiled, rather enjoying the story. It hoped that the story of the family-devouring, invincible monster would become a strong, powerful tradition, told again and again, each time gaining in ferocity. Then again, it liked those kinds of stories, the free-floating, idle day dreams, where it could move almost to its heart's content, almost devour everything. Suddenly, a part of it was Gilgali. This was odd, as it wasn't the Day of Strength, when the stories of Sudita and Gilgali were told, but it wasn't //that// unusual. People liked to tell stories of the slaying of the mad tiger. It didn't begrudge them their enjoyment. However, as the hero drew closer, Gilgali noticed something odd. Everything around Sudita seemed to get... actually it wasn't sure. Sharper, maybe? Buildings held their forms, trees stayed in place. The faces of the villagers begging Sudita for aid against Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, stopped shifting and became solid. Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, charged to the cave to destroy Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, as he had done a thousand times, where he would slay Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, as he had done a thousand times. For the first time, though, Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes was unsettled. The pain struck before Sudita, Lord Of All Men issued his challenge to Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes. It was yanked out of its many possibilities, jerked into one. This time, it did not hear the words describing it, only felt them. They fell like chains, binding it as Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes. "From atop his trove of jewels, Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes," the chains began, "roared in response." It cried out in response, feeling each word -no, not word, //shape//- etched upon its sides, its arms, its eyes, like fire. "He swiped at Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, but was too slow." It felt "the spear of Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar," (no longer a club or a sword or an axe) plunge through its heart (no longer its head or its eye or its gut). The pain of death was nothing new, but somehow this one was. "Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes heaved a mighty last breath and fell on its side." The linked shapes which dragged it to its side (not longer its back or its belly) burned more than the spear itself. It felt itself swiping at Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, but found itself too slow, it heard his challenges and responded with a roar. Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes shut its lantern eyes as it died, and waited for the story to end. But it didn't. It saw Sudita, Lord Of All Men, Founder Of Imar, as he defeated the Six Wicked Lords and founded the city of Imar and bedded Ninla, begetting the line of Kings. But it was still swiping at him, hearing his boasts, feeling the spear driven through its heart, dying. Every moment was suspended, each as real as the next. ----- The victorious warlord moved through the dark blood-stained halls of the Palace of Imar, surrounded by humming gaggle of priests. "But as promised-" "Are you sure that-" "A new temple to Ammetu and fifty gold pieces apiece was-" "-could anger the gods..." The warlord paid them no mind. The reward for their treachery would be given in due time. Most likely, he mused, in the form of beheadings. Never trust a traitor, his father had told him. They entered the dark throne room, the dim glow of several torches the only light. The king still sat on the throne, his eyes open in uncomprehending surprise. His robes were stained dark red beneath where the priests had slit his throat. Before the throne laid a small heap of clay tablets. The warlord gave the king's body a push, toppling it from the throne. He gingerly picked up the rod of kingship and sat down. "All hail King Cambises the First, ruler of Paadu and Imar, Lord of the World, Bringer of Rains!" The priests surrounded the throne in a semi-circle. The King looked on with disinterest as they continued their adulation. A pair of slaves discreetly removed the former king's corpse. When the priests were done, Cambises pointed to the heap of tablets before him. "What are these?" he asked to no one in particular. One of the priests stepped forward. "Your grace, these are the records of Sudita, the Founder of Imar. They tell of h-" "Burn them." The king flicked his rod in the direction of the priests. "Or smash them, or whatever. I don't care. Just destroy them. Imar has no history before now, understood?" "B-but your worship, a display of such... disregard for a man such as Sudita, Grandson of Pazhu, could ang-" "I'm sorry, was I unclear?" The king sat up straight in his throne. "//Get rid of them//. Now." "Y-yes, your worship." The priest bowed and gathered the clay tablets for destruction. ----- In a place that wasn't a place, Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes felt itself freed from its bonds. It gave a monstrous grin. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-30T05:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "only-game-in-town", "tale" ]	There Was One, There Was Not One - SCP Foundation	100	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "only-game-in-town-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16241118	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/there-was-one-there-was-not-one
they-will-leave-us-with-a-shaken-earth	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <table class="wiki-content-table"> <tr> <td><strong>From Bernard Fall's article "New Technology and a Familiar Strategy in Viet-Nam," published on December 28th, 1966.</strong></td> </tr> </table> <p>A desperate fight broke out on the far side of McNamara’s Plaza just as I sat down to interview General Roland. Even at a distance we could hear the rattle of machine-gun fire flare up before being drowned out by nearby batteries of heavy guns. Exploding artillery shells echoed through the hazy morning, rattling all the windows in downtown Saigon but failing to faze my impeccably uniformed host.</p> <p>General Roland is part of the new breed of American fighting men, a veteran of Korea tapped to oversee one of the most sensitive aspects of Lyndon Johnson's escalation. Big, tall, he carries himself with a brusque, almost rambunctious air; surface informality conceals a quick mind and a deep belief in the inevitability of American success — if they can just get their hands on the right tools.</p> <p>We had met to discuss the latest generation of “Special Talents” soldiers whose recent, spectacular debut rests at the center of the Army's newest push to bring some resolution to the nineteen year old Indochina War. The current hostilities, a large Viet Cong raid on the outer defenses of the city, were an unscheduled backdrop to the meeting, but the general refused to be deterred by the percussive interruptions, and seized on one particularly significant blast as fuel for a tangent.</p> <p>“All that stuff you hear out there,” he said, gesturing expansively towards the distant blasts, “is ours. Our planes find every Viet gun that gets within twenty miles of Saigon and smash it. Meanwhile, our heavy artillery puts out more firepower per square mile than any other army in history. We have <em>complete</em> weapons dominance over the Viet Minh.” He paused, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “What we <em>haven't</em> had is a certified way to chase down the Viets in their holes and through the jungle. At least, till now.”</p> <p>The general's confidence was not wholly persuasive. Previous administrations had made similarly strident announcements of similarly decisive breakthroughs. Not two years previously, large batches of ultramodern auto-defoliants intended to destroy the enemy's jungle concealment had been deployed in tremendous concentrations in order to create a “firebreak” around the Vietnamese capital. The resulting strip of desolation, eight miles across and almost forty long, bears the name of McNamara’s Plaza in dubious tribute to its primogenitor.</p> <p>An even earlier wonder-weapon promised to end the threat of Viet Cong tunnel complexes. Much was made of an array of specially constructed stakes which, when activated, sent massive waves of vibrations through the ground in order to shake any concealed excavations to pieces. The system proved far more effective at splintering the concrete roads on which Western forces depended than collapsing the enemy's deep tunnels.</p> <p>General Roland shook off comparisons to earlier experiments irritably. “Everything you're talking about comes from the same period, the same mind-set. A failed mindset that the army has put behind it.”</p> <p>“Today our operations are governed by our mobility, a mobility which the enemy totally lacks. Eleven years ago, the French had one hundred and sixty-seven aircraft to serve the needs of <em>all</em> of Indochina. Today, we send out that many planes on a single <em>mission</em>,” he said, warming to his theme. “Our air cavalry responds to Communist incursions before they can withdraw, and the boys in Special Talents <em>predict</em> those incursions more reliably than ever before.”</p> <p>Details regarding the Special Talents units, or <em>“Spectrals”</em> are exceedingly difficult to come by, but any old Indochina hand knows that in mentioning only their intelligence functions the General far understates the extent of their activities in the field. No doubt the men of the 388th Independent Special Company would not recognize the character of their operations in that limited description.</p> <p>“The Special Talents give us incredible precision,” Roland continued, “and what that precision means for the people of Viet-Nam is security, plain and simple. Security from Communist intimidation, security from Communist extortion…”</p> <hr/> <table class="wiki-content-table"> <tr> <td><strong>Letter from Bernard Fall to his wife, February 11th, 1967.</strong></td> </tr> </table> <p><em>My beloved Dorothy,</em></p> <p><em>There is a whole new war here, a new type of war, industrial and implacable. The American war machine has become unrecognizable.</em></p> <p><em>Out in the jungle bear-clawed women hunt the Viet Cong through their own tunnels for hours before emerging. Airborne commandos on interdiction patrols carry weapons which calcify their targets in the blink of an eye. Villages suspected of sheltering the enemy are plastered in napalm that collects itself into a moving mass of fire and waits for survivors to emerge from cover before flaring back into life.</em></p> <p><em>The administration's claims that such “special talents” represent a natural progression of any known science are utterly false. Perhaps no explanation for these things is possible.</em></p> <p><em>Our government has chosen to fight the beliefs of a whole people with incomprehensible violence because they are totally unable to offer any alternative to Communism but poverty and corruption. Everywhere the absolute contempt of the Saigon clique for the people of Viet-Nam is clear.</em></p> <p><em>For twelve years I have studied the conflicts of Viet-Nam and written and warned. I fear there is nothing more I can do here, except come home, and tell the world what they have done. I do not know if they will allow me.</em></p> <p><em>Give my love to our daughters. You mean the world to me. I will be with you soon.</em></p> <p><em>BF</em></p> <hr/> <p>Bernard Fall disappeared on February 21st, 1967, while on patrol with a company of Marines in the war-torn region of Viet-Nam known as the "Street Without Joy." The fate of his final letter is unknown.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/what-the-spybird-saw">What the Spybird Saw</a> \| <a href="/the-coldest-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/scp-2498">SCP-2498</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/they-will-leave-us-with-a-shaken-earth">They Will Leave Us With a Shaken Earth</a>" by Vezaz, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/they-will-leave-us-with-a-shaken-earth">https://scpwiki.com/they-will-leave-us-with-a-shaken-earth</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] \|\| From Bernard Fall's article "New Technology and a Familiar Strategy in Viet-Nam," published on December 28th, 1966. \|\| A desperate fight broke out on the far side of McNamara’s Plaza just as I sat down to interview General Roland. Even at a distance we could hear the rattle of machine-gun fire flare up before being drowned out by nearby batteries of heavy guns. Exploding artillery shells echoed through the hazy morning, rattling all the windows in downtown Saigon but failing to faze my impeccably uniformed host. General Roland is part of the new breed of American fighting men, a veteran of Korea tapped to oversee one of the most sensitive aspects of Lyndon Johnson's escalation. Big, tall, he carries himself with a brusque, almost rambunctious air; surface informality conceals a quick mind and a deep belief in the inevitability of American success -- if they can just get their hands on the right tools. We had met to discuss the latest generation of “Special Talents” soldiers whose recent, spectacular debut rests at the center of the Army's newest push to bring some resolution to the nineteen year old Indochina War. The current hostilities, a large Viet Cong raid on the outer defenses of the city, were an unscheduled backdrop to the meeting, but the general refused to be deterred by the percussive interruptions, and seized on one particularly significant blast as fuel for a tangent. “All that stuff you hear out there,” he said, gesturing expansively towards the distant blasts, “is ours. Our planes find every Viet gun that gets within twenty miles of Saigon and smash it. Meanwhile, our heavy artillery puts out more firepower per square mile than any other army in history. We have //complete// weapons dominance over the Viet Minh.” He paused, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “What we //haven't// had is a certified way to chase down the Viets in their holes and through the jungle. At least, till now.” The general's confidence was not wholly persuasive. Previous administrations had made similarly strident announcements of similarly decisive breakthroughs. Not two years previously, large batches of ultramodern auto-defoliants intended to destroy the enemy's jungle concealment had been deployed in tremendous concentrations in order to create a “firebreak” around the Vietnamese capital. The resulting strip of desolation, eight miles across and almost forty long, bears the name of McNamara’s Plaza in dubious tribute to its primogenitor. An even earlier wonder-weapon promised to end the threat of Viet Cong tunnel complexes. Much was made of an array of specially constructed stakes which, when activated, sent massive waves of vibrations through the ground in order to shake any concealed excavations to pieces. The system proved far more effective at splintering the concrete roads on which Western forces depended than collapsing the enemy's deep tunnels. General Roland shook off comparisons to earlier experiments irritably. “Everything you're talking about comes from the same period, the same mind-set. A failed mindset that the army has put behind it.” “Today our operations are governed by our mobility, a mobility which the enemy totally lacks. Eleven years ago, the French had one hundred and sixty-seven aircraft to serve the needs of //all// of Indochina. Today, we send out that many planes on a single //mission//,” he said, warming to his theme. “Our air cavalry responds to Communist incursions before they can withdraw, and the boys in Special Talents //predict// those incursions more reliably than ever before.” Details regarding the Special Talents units, or //“Spectrals”// are exceedingly difficult to come by, but any old Indochina hand knows that in mentioning only their intelligence functions the General far understates the extent of their activities in the field. No doubt the men of the 388th Independent Special Company would not recognize the character of their operations in that limited description. “The Special Talents give us incredible precision,” Roland continued, “and what that precision means for the people of Viet-Nam is security, plain and simple. Security from Communist intimidation, security from Communist extortion...” -------------- \|\|Letter from Bernard Fall to his wife, February 11th, 1967.\|\| //My beloved Dorothy,// //There is a whole new war here, a new type of war, industrial and implacable. The American war machine has become unrecognizable.// //Out in the jungle bear-clawed women hunt the Viet Cong through their own tunnels for hours before emerging. Airborne commandos on interdiction patrols carry weapons which calcify their targets in the blink of an eye. Villages suspected of sheltering the enemy are plastered in napalm that collects itself into a moving mass of fire and waits for survivors to emerge from cover before flaring back into life.// //The administration's claims that such “special talents” represent a natural progression of any known science are utterly false. Perhaps no explanation for these things is possible.// //Our government has chosen to fight the beliefs of a whole people with incomprehensible violence because they are totally unable to offer any alternative to Communism but poverty and corruption. Everywhere the absolute contempt of the Saigon clique for the people of Viet-Nam is clear.// //For twelve years I have studied the conflicts of Viet-Nam and written and warned. I fear there is nothing more I can do here, except come home, and tell the world what they have done. I do not know if they will allow me.// //Give my love to our daughters. You mean the world to me. I will be with you soon.// //BF// -------- Bernard Fall disappeared on February 21st, 1967, while on patrol with a company of Marines in the war-torn region of Viet-Nam known as the "Street Without Joy." The fate of his final letter is unknown. [[=]] << [[[What the Spybird Saw]]] \| [[[the-coldest-war-hub\|Hub]]] \| [[[SCP-2498]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-30T10:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "military-fiction", "nyc2013", "period-piece", "tale", "the-coldest-war" ]	They Will Leave Us With a Shaken Earth - SCP Foundation	110	[ "what-the-spybird-saw", "the-coldest-war-hub", "scp-2498", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-coldest-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "canon-hub" ]	[]	16243168	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/they-will-leave-us-with-a-shaken-earth
this-memorandum-does-not-exist	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"> <p><em>—ck from our music break, we'll do our weekly segment "Tuesday Update with Researcher James," where we bring everyone's favorite researcher live on-air to discuss the, uh, goings-on around the Foundation. We'll be back with Toone and Ames in the Evening after this special request, straight from…let's see…the janitorial staff at Site 382! Representing the outskirts of Seoul, we'll be back after this on your station, 98.3, WSCP.</em></p> <blockquote> <p><em>Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight<br/> Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight</em></p> <p><em>Magazine tabil myeoneul jang shikhal spotlight, geu torok cham barae wateon 4minute time<br/> On mome jeonyuri jjaritae teon feeling, imi naneun algo iji the fantasy</em></p> <p><em>Naega naega naega naega queen of fashion, naega naega naega naega queen of motion<br/> Ije buteo nareulbwa naege nuneul ttejima, coming, coming, coming geudaero</em></p> <p><em>Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight<br/> Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight</em></p> <p><em>Neol saro jabeul holic, holic, holic, neol yuhokha neun holic, holic, holic<br/> I make you crazy now ( deo nopi ollaga) you make me crazy now, just want it up, up, up, up now</em></p> <p><em>Drawing, drawing sang sang motal neol hyanghan strike, ije buteo shijagiya 4minute time<br/> Tteugeo un nae show time, bultaneun nae soul live, ije modu heundeureo bwa hit to the beat</em></p> <p><em>Naega naega naega naega queen of fashion, naega naega naega naega queen of motion<br/> Ije buteo nareulbwa naege nuneul ttejima, coming, coming, coming geudaero<br/> Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight<br/> Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight</em></p> <p><em>Jigeum buteo naye highlight, dubeon dashi eopneun soul fight<br/> Nae mom jiseun slow, slow nae shim jangeun stop, stop<br/> Pyeong sowa neun dalla now, isun gan keep it right<br/> Cheo eum buteo kkeu kkajida nun ttejima keep your eyes</em></p> <p><em>4, 3, 2, 1, action</em></p> <p><em>Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight<br/> Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight</em></p> <p><em>Neol saro jabeul holic, holic, holic, neol yuhokha neun holic, holic, holic<br/> I make you crazy now (deo nopi ollaga) you make me crazy now, just want it up, up, up, up now</em></p> </blockquote> <p><em>(fade)</em></p> <p><em>Okay okay okay, we're back. Coming off of that hit, "Highlight," by the Korean pop band 4minute, we have our weekly chat with Researcher James. Toone, do we have James on the phone yet? No? Well, I'm sure the little guy's having trouble with his fifth-grade math homework. Heh, heh. In the meantime, we've got the best news the Overseers pay us to allow you to know, only several hours after it hits the intranet: this is Foundation World News Report!</em></p> <p><em>theme song: orchestrals, sound of telegraph</em></p> <p><em>Okay, first off the wire, from Site 55, we have the interesting story of one Researcher Torres, whose recent demotion to Level 1 couldn't have come as much of a shock to her. Seems that Torres was a bit of a prankster and decided that she was going to have a little fun with some fellow Foundation personnel and a couple of instances of SCP-531. Torres sets up two of the little cat statues outside of the Site breakroom on remote-controllable rotating platforms, and held onto the remote for herself. Security footage (which is pretty hilarious, just so we're being honest here) shows four hours of the same people walking up to the breakroom to get coffee, stopping in the doorway, and turning around. The distraction effect from 531 had some interesting side effects; personnel turning around, walking into one another, turning back, trying again, turning back, ad infinitum. Then, when 55 had a Euclid containment breach…and the only way to the Euclid wing was through the breakroom…Needless to say, two Mobile Task Forces were startled from their lunches and Researcher Torres is going to get some good experience with a mop.</em></p> <p><em>(rimshot sound)</em></p> <p><em>All right, settle down, settle down. A few other quick reports. Seismographs reported some earthquakes in Arizona, outside of a predictable seismic area. Transportation snafus have delayed all personnel transfers from Site 40 in Pennsylvania, so if you're on third shift and waiting on relief from Lancaster, you better put on another pot of coffee. The Mennonite cavalry will not be coming to your rescue, I'm afraid.</em></p> <p><em>(opening to "Amish Paradise" begins)</em></p> <p><em>A couple more pieces; food resupply to Site 17 has been delayed by — whoops, getting some blackboxes here. Bust out the emergency rations and say your daily prayer to Saint Bowdler of the Expunged Order of Redaction. A couple of blackouts in New Mexico have cut off communications with Research Site Beta-23; Our Lady of the Overwatch says cell towers are down, higher-ups have access to black comm channels but regular communications out are going to take a little while. In honor of all you beautiful Anabaptists stuck in traffic in Site 40, here's Weird Al.</em></p> </div> <div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"> <p><span style="color:white">ENCRYPTION PROTOCOL "WSCP GK-33" ACTIVE<br/> SIGNAL STRENGTH 97%<br/> BEGINNING TRANSMISSION…</span></p> <p><span style="color:white"><span style="font-size:150%;">FOLLOWING DOCUMENT CLASSIFIED LEVEL GK-09-BLACK:</span><br/> <span style="font-size:120%;"><strong>ACCESS RESTRICTED TO PERSONNEL WITH LEVEL 5, O5-X, OR GK-X CLEARANCE</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="color:white">TO: SELECTED PERSONNEL<br/> FROM: PROJECT GREEN KING COMMAND<br/> SUBJECT: CODEWORD "GREEN KING" BACKGROUND INFORMATION</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">DR. JONES</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">PERTINENT EXCERPTS OF GREEN KING BACKGROUND FOLLOW.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">MAGNUS</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">This project's earliest incarnation began in 1894 with the death of a man named Samuel Enfield. Enfield was a field agent working for the American Secure Containment Initiative, a precursor organization to the Foundation. Enfield was found dead on assignment in Boise, Idaho in close proximity to another man, their two bodies positioned in such a manner as to suggest the two were intimately engaged with one another prior to their death. Their deaths were determined by the local coroner to have been caused by gunshot wounds from Agent Enfield's two Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolvers. Enfield's wife, Agnes, was arrested two miles out of town and tried for double murder; she was found dead in her cell three days later from an apparent suicide.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">Initiative researchers were able to connect several irregularities with Enfield's death. First, eyewitness testimony from two fellow agents on assignment with Enfield suggested that he had run out of ammunition for his revolvers earlier that day and was told he would not receive further ammunition until a supply wagon came by three days later. Second, even by the limited familiarity with homosexuality present in the late 1890s, no prior indication of a sexual relationship between Enfield or the other man was noted by any of Enfield's associates. Third, while paper records were located after the fact, several Initiative commanders expressed confusion at the identity of Enfield's supposed erstwhile companion, claiming they had never heard of a field operative by his name and insisting that an error had occurred. Fourth, while paper records after the fact again supported the official story, several corroborated reports stated that a woman closely resembling Enfield's wife had been found dead in their home several hours before the agent's murder. The body was lost at some point after Enfield's death, and some (though not all) of the corroborating witnesses changed their story later, claiming not to remember the period of time between the body's recovery and Enfield's murder. Though proper amnestics had not yet been developed, a comparison of interview transcripts before and after the body's disappearance closely resembles before-and-after reports of amnestic application.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">Agent Enfield was murdered during an investigation into a being that would now be classified as a "reality bender," though that term did not then exist. The reality bender was a Paiute American Indian religious figure known as Wovoka, an individual who had attempted to start a general uprising against the American government. After a failed attempt at such an uprising, he was pursued by Initiative agents for some time. Enfield had detained Wovoka, interviewed him briefly, and was scheduled to interview him in the morning. He was found dead that night. Wovoka escaped custody and was never subsequently located.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">Though most of the Initiative believed Wovoka to be responsible for any irregularit<br/> — ENCRYPTION SEQUENCE ENTERING DORMANCY<br/> SCRAMBLING TRANSMISSION<br/> ENCRYPTION SEQUENCE FAILING<br/> RECALIBRATING ENCRYPTION SEQUENCE…PLEASE WAIT…</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">ENCRYPTION REESTABLISHED<br/> DECODING SEQUENCE RESUMING<br/> TRANSMISSION CONTINUES<br/> terview suggested that Wovoka was not a reality bender at all; rather, he had been set up as a reality bender by an unknown entity. Wovoka described a godlike entity that came unto him one day and offered him the power to retake his tribal lands from the American occupiers. Wovoka, naturally, accepted this offer. Wovoka realized later that he had no actual control over his abilities when an attempt to begin such an uprising was defeated, his powers failing him at the critical moment. Shortly thereafter, according to Wovoka, he "felt his god leave him"; he described feeling himself in connection to his unknown entity, felt this being's extremely troubled emotions, and then felt "free"; he was able to escape this entity's attention and surrender himself to Agent Enfield's custody. Of course, his claims could not be specifically confirmed or refuted.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">This was the first and, for many decades, the only evidence of entity HL-49. Even this evidence was shaky; all that was actually recorded was two pages of interview notes from Enfield and a handful of witnesses who remembered versions of history that were identical to one another but contradicting the official record, a record that was clearly doctored. There were nine of them, and they formed the core of what would become the Green King project.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">The GOC classifies reality benders as "Type Green" entities. Three of the nine original members of the group became members of organizations that later formed the core of the GOC; through careful recruitment, the project investigating the entity first detected in Boise continued through both the GOC and the Foundation. The entity was presumed to be a male reality bender, and possibly the most powerful reality bender known to exist. Additionally, given the entity's penchant for disguising its behavior through others, individuals thought of as subjects, the entity was given the codename "Green King."</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">You are now a part of the operation to locate, secure, and detain this entity. Next WSCP transmission will contain details regarding the time and location of your orientation meeting; for now, you are advised to purchase tickets to Italy and await further instructions.</span></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/this-memorandum-does-not-exist">RE:</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/this-memorandum-does-not-exist">https://scpwiki.com/this-memorandum-does-not-exist</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"]] //--ck from our music break, we'll do our weekly segment "Tuesday Update with Researcher James," where we bring everyone's favorite researcher live on-air to discuss the, uh, goings-on around the Foundation. We'll be back with Toone and Ames in the Evening after this special request, straight from...let's see...the janitorial staff at Site 382! Representing the outskirts of Seoul, we'll be back after this on your station, 98.3, WSCP.// > //Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight > Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight// > > //Magazine tabil myeoneul jang shikhal spotlight, geu torok cham barae wateon 4minute time > On mome jeonyuri jjaritae teon feeling, imi naneun algo iji the fantasy// > > //Naega naega naega naega queen of fashion, naega naega naega naega queen of motion > Ije buteo nareulbwa naege nuneul ttejima, coming, coming, coming geudaero// > > //Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight > Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight// > > //Neol saro jabeul holic, holic, holic, neol yuhokha neun holic, holic, holic > I make you crazy now ( deo nopi ollaga) you make me crazy now, just want it up, up, up, up now// > > //Drawing, drawing sang sang motal neol hyanghan strike, ije buteo shijagiya 4minute time > Tteugeo un nae show time, bultaneun nae soul live, ije modu heundeureo bwa hit to the beat// > > //Naega naega naega naega queen of fashion, naega naega naega naega queen of motion > Ije buteo nareulbwa naege nuneul ttejima, coming, coming, coming geudaero > Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight > Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight// > > //Jigeum buteo naye highlight, dubeon dashi eopneun soul fight > Nae mom jiseun slow, slow nae shim jangeun stop, stop > Pyeong sowa neun dalla now, isun gan keep it right > Cheo eum buteo kkeu kkajida nun ttejima keep your eyes// > > //4, 3, 2, 1, action// > > //Isun ganeul neukkyeobwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight, jigeum buteo michyeo bwa highlight, hi-hi-highlight > Gati gati ttwiyeo bwa ma eum daero jeulgyeo bwa, take it all, take it all, hi-highlight// > > //Neol saro jabeul holic, holic, holic, neol yuhokha neun holic, holic, holic > I make you crazy now (deo nopi ollaga) you make me crazy now, just want it up, up, up, up now// //(fade)// //Okay okay okay, we're back. Coming off of that hit, "Highlight," by the Korean pop band 4minute, we have our weekly chat with Researcher James. Toone, do we have James on the phone yet? No? Well, I'm sure the little guy's having trouble with his fifth-grade math homework. Heh, heh. In the meantime, we've got the best news the Overseers pay us to allow you to know, only several hours after it hits the intranet: this is Foundation World News Report!// //theme song: orchestrals, sound of telegraph// //Okay, first off the wire, from Site 55, we have the interesting story of one Researcher Torres, whose recent demotion to Level 1 couldn't have come as much of a shock to her. Seems that Torres was a bit of a prankster and decided that she was going to have a little fun with some fellow Foundation personnel and a couple of instances of SCP-531. Torres sets up two of the little cat statues outside of the Site breakroom on remote-controllable rotating platforms, and held onto the remote for herself. Security footage (which is pretty hilarious, just so we're being honest here) shows four hours of the same people walking up to the breakroom to get coffee, stopping in the doorway, and turning around. The distraction effect from 531 had some interesting side effects; personnel turning around, walking into one another, turning back, trying again, turning back, ad infinitum. Then, when 55 had a Euclid containment breach...and the only way to the Euclid wing was through the breakroom...Needless to say, two Mobile Task Forces were startled from their lunches and Researcher Torres is going to get some good experience with a mop.// //(rimshot sound)// //All right, settle down, settle down. A few other quick reports. Seismographs reported some earthquakes in Arizona, outside of a predictable seismic area. Transportation snafus have delayed all personnel transfers from Site 40 in Pennsylvania, so if you're on third shift and waiting on relief from Lancaster, you better put on another pot of coffee. The Mennonite cavalry will not be coming to your rescue, I'm afraid.// //(opening to "Amish Paradise" begins)// //A couple more pieces; food resupply to Site 17 has been delayed by -- whoops, getting some blackboxes here. Bust out the emergency rations and say your daily prayer to Saint Bowdler of the Expunged Order of Redaction. A couple of blackouts in New Mexico have cut off communications with Research Site Beta-23; Our Lady of the Overwatch says cell towers are down, higher-ups have access to black comm channels but regular communications out are going to take a little while. In honor of all you beautiful Anabaptists stuck in traffic in Site 40, here's Weird Al.// [[/div]] [[div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"]] [[span style="color:white"]]ENCRYPTION PROTOCOL "WSCP GK-33" ACTIVE SIGNAL STRENGTH 97% BEGINNING TRANSMISSION... [[size 150%]]FOLLOWING DOCUMENT CLASSIFIED LEVEL GK-09-BLACK:[[/size]] [[size 120%]]ACCESS RESTRICTED TO PERSONNEL WITH LEVEL 5, O5-X, OR GK-X CLEARANCE[[/size]][[/span]] [[span style="color:white"]]TO: SELECTED PERSONNEL FROM: PROJECT GREEN KING COMMAND SUBJECT: CODEWORD "GREEN KING" BACKGROUND INFORMATION DR. JONES PERTINENT EXCERPTS OF GREEN KING BACKGROUND FOLLOW. MAGNUS This project's earliest incarnation began in 1894 with the death of a man named Samuel Enfield. Enfield was a field agent working for the American Secure Containment Initiative, a precursor organization to the Foundation. Enfield was found dead on assignment in Boise, Idaho in close proximity to another man, their two bodies positioned in such a manner as to suggest the two were intimately engaged with one another prior to their death. Their deaths were determined by the local coroner to have been caused by gunshot wounds from Agent Enfield's two Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolvers. Enfield's wife, Agnes, was arrested two miles out of town and tried for double murder; she was found dead in her cell three days later from an apparent suicide. Initiative researchers were able to connect several irregularities with Enfield's death. First, eyewitness testimony from two fellow agents on assignment with Enfield suggested that he had run out of ammunition for his revolvers earlier that day and was told he would not receive further ammunition until a supply wagon came by three days later. Second, even by the limited familiarity with homosexuality present in the late 1890s, no prior indication of a sexual relationship between Enfield or the other man was noted by any of Enfield's associates. Third, while paper records were located after the fact, several Initiative commanders expressed confusion at the identity of Enfield's supposed erstwhile companion, claiming they had never heard of a field operative by his name and insisting that an error had occurred. Fourth, while paper records after the fact again supported the official story, several corroborated reports stated that a woman closely resembling Enfield's wife had been found dead in their home several hours before the agent's murder. The body was lost at some point after Enfield's death, and some (though not all) of the corroborating witnesses changed their story later, claiming not to remember the period of time between the body's recovery and Enfield's murder. Though proper amnestics had not yet been developed, a comparison of interview transcripts before and after the body's disappearance closely resembles before-and-after reports of amnestic application. Agent Enfield was murdered during an investigation into a being that would now be classified as a "reality bender," though that term did not then exist. The reality bender was a Paiute American Indian religious figure known as Wovoka, an individual who had attempted to start a general uprising against the American government. After a failed attempt at such an uprising, he was pursued by Initiative agents for some time. Enfield had detained Wovoka, interviewed him briefly, and was scheduled to interview him in the morning. He was found dead that night. Wovoka escaped custody and was never subsequently located. Though most of the Initiative believed Wovoka to be responsible for any irregularit -- ENCRYPTION SEQUENCE ENTERING DORMANCY SCRAMBLING TRANSMISSION ENCRYPTION SEQUENCE FAILING RECALIBRATING ENCRYPTION SEQUENCE...PLEASE WAIT... ENCRYPTION REESTABLISHED DECODING SEQUENCE RESUMING TRANSMISSION CONTINUES terview suggested that Wovoka was not a reality bender at all; rather, he had been set up as a reality bender by an unknown entity. Wovoka described a godlike entity that came unto him one day and offered him the power to retake his tribal lands from the American occupiers. Wovoka, naturally, accepted this offer. Wovoka realized later that he had no actual control over his abilities when an attempt to begin such an uprising was defeated, his powers failing him at the critical moment. Shortly thereafter, according to Wovoka, he "felt his god leave him"; he described feeling himself in connection to his unknown entity, felt this being's extremely troubled emotions, and then felt "free"; he was able to escape this entity's attention and surrender himself to Agent Enfield's custody. Of course, his claims could not be specifically confirmed or refuted. This was the first and, for many decades, the only evidence of entity HL-49. Even this evidence was shaky; all that was actually recorded was two pages of interview notes from Enfield and a handful of witnesses who remembered versions of history that were identical to one another but contradicting the official record, a record that was clearly doctored. There were nine of them, and they formed the core of what would become the Green King project. The GOC classifies reality benders as "Type Green" entities. Three of the nine original members of the group became members of organizations that later formed the core of the GOC; through careful recruitment, the project investigating the entity first detected in Boise continued through both the GOC and the Foundation. The entity was presumed to be a male reality bender, and possibly the most powerful reality bender known to exist. Additionally, given the entity's penchant for disguising its behavior through others, individuals thought of as subjects, the entity was given the codename "Green King." You are now a part of the operation to locate, secure, and detain this entity. Next WSCP transmission will contain details regarding the time and location of your orientation meeting; for now, you are advised to purchase tickets to Italy and await further instructions. [[/span]] [[/div]] ~~~~~ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-01T13:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "comedy", "green-king", "nyc2013", "slice-of-life", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	RE: - SCP Foundation	76	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "codename-green-king-hub" ]	[]	16267603	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/this-memorandum-does-not-exist
those-thin-penultimate-hours	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Bishop of New Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of the Americas, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the West, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God, Pope Maximilian, was drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup.</p> <p>It wasn’t particularly good coffee. It wasn’t even real coffee, for that matter. It was the cheap brown slurry common in the regions where the beans couldn’t be grown and the genefixed plants were too expensive for shoestring paychecks.</p> <p>The stump of his left leg was itchy. He hated when that happened. He’d have to go excuse himself and remove his prosthetic, and that was just incredibly awkward. No one thought of the pope as someone who had stump-itches.</p> <p>He was on edge, and it had not simply been interacting with Transit Authority and watching the headlight hunters run down the backroads the night before. He could feel the world falling apart around him, the glue he had worked so hard to place stretching thin and peeling away, and he didn’t know if he could keep the weight shorn up any longer. The flock was small, scattered, and afraid, and just as he had managed to gather them together and give them someone to follow, he felt the rug torn out from underneath him. What good was it then, when their shepherd was just as guideless and afraid as they were?</p> <p>It was so unfitting, he thought, to be sitting here, in the office of a school principal, two plainclothes Swiss guardsmen by the door. Yet, to a part of him, there was a great deal of comfort to be found in a simple cup of fake coffee, and in the mundanity of being made to wait. Someone had decided to treat him like a human being.</p> <p>The office was small, plain, very neatly organized. A budget-grade touch-screen for the desk, bookshelves of well-thumbed paperbacks and yellowed anthologies sorted by author’s last name. A simple little nameplate sat on the desk, next to an empty coffee mug that had “WORLD’S BEST MOM” painted on it in childish handwriting.</p> <p>The placard read: Dr. Naomi Zairi-Lewitt.</p> <p>Maximilian knew the name, though he had never met her in person before. The woman was something of a controversy magnet, and very clearly someone who did not much care for what the masses thought of her: The file they kept on her in New Rome was thicker than his thumb was long.</p> <p>There were footsteps from outside the door, and the woman herself entered the room followed by a grim-looking man with an eyepatch.</p> <p>“I am so sorry to keep you waiting, your Holiness, but there were some discipline issues that needed sorted out.”</p> <p>“It’s no trouble,” he said, standing up to shake her hand. His Nigerian accent was, as usual, quite thick. He was quite sure that there would be many men of lower rank who would have been reduced to fuming indignancy by both the wait and her attitude, but he understood. Understanding things was a large part of his job, especially understanding where God vested the actual power. She was a Teacher, and Teachers very often had Matters That Needed Attention.</p> <p>She was a small, wiry woman, just around fifty or so, wearing a white blouse and a black skirt. Glasses. Dark skin splotched with patches of fiery red. Short, light hair. She didn’t look like someone who would cause a lot of trouble, which was an instant indication that she was both capable of and willing to cause massive amounts of trouble.</p> <p>Which, for the most part, she had done. Iron-fisted educational programs, open criticism of Foundation settlement policies, specifically that of the Projects at Caketown, heading the profligation of the so-called Universal Texts, teaching six year olds magic. Nothing occult, she had gone on record a dozen times clarifying the point. It was Applied Narrative Field Manipulation, nothing occult about it. There wasn’t even any dabbling involved.</p> <p>Maximilian had yet to decide his own feelings on that matter. Publicly, he had to condemn the practice. In the privacy of his own mind, he had to admit that having settlements where every citizen knew how to perform an exorcism was not a bad thing.</p> <p>The woman sat down at her desk, and Maximillian had a brief flashback to a time forty years before, when he had been in the same spot, except with his mother and father sitting on either side of him and a crumpled up parent-teacher summons in his pocket. It faded quickly.</p> <p>“We’re a bit low on the pomp and circumstance today, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling. “But it’s good to finally meet you, your Holiness.”</p> <p>“Likewise. I hope that…well, I hope that this can be something of a fitting show of goodwill before, ah…”</p> <p>“Before the end of the world?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>Naomi nodded.</p> <p>“Would you mind if we went outside?” she said. “It gets stuffy up here, and the weather’s been good today.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>The lake and the processing plant could be seen from the top of the school’s south wall, past the line of pine trees on the shore. The still, stagnant water was cut up into neat squares and rectangles, choked with green and brown and red around the skeleton in the center of the lake. Sequoia-sized ribs shone bright white under the morning sun.</p> <p>Down below on the school grounds, classes were changing. Students wandered in packs across the quad, dragging out their little moment of freedom as long as they could before heading back into the fortress-like, bomb-shelter buildings. Some of the older students who had free periods were lounging by the lake or orchard. Mr. Tickman’s biology class was tending the west gardens. Rifle cracks could be heard from the firing range on the north side, paired with the bounce of rubber balls on asphalt from the courts just under the south wall. Seen about the quad were several of the school’s golems: massive Tzor lumbering across the field with a shipping crate on one shoulder; short, round Even waddling along beside Dr. Tau; blocky, graffiti-covered Selah keeping watch from the center of the green; gentle Gir drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk outside the math building with some of the littlest students.</p> <p>“You have a remarkable school here, Doctor,” Maximilian said. “Despite our disagreements, I really do appreciate what you’ve done here. I know there are plenty of others in the Church who agree, even if they don’t like admitting it.”</p> <p>“Thank you, your Holiness.” A pause. “My biggest regret is that we can’t go much farther than our own borders. Everything the Initiative has is focused in so few areas.”</p> <p>“You do what you can.”</p> <p>“Never feels like enough.”</p> <p>“I know. It never does.”</p> <p>“Headmistress!” A voice that sounded like a woman trapped in a large marble cube called out from the orchard. Maximilian looked down to see that the woman emerging from the trees with a basket of fruit was actually made of marble, quite stout around the everything, and studded with smoothed chunks of amethyst.</p> <p>“Yes, Ahlama?”</p> <p>“We’ve got vampires in the watermelons.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a small, blood-stained melon with a wide, snaggle-toothed mouth. It snarled and snapped at her, but did not bite, being smart enough to not bite the hand of someone who was made out of marble.</p> <p>“Tickman’s got a class in the west garden, they can help you root them out, but put up a sign just in case.”</p> <p>“Right.”</p> <p>“Thank you very much, Ahlama.” Naomi shook her head and smiled as the golem walked off. “Just got her last semester. Wonderful woman, but a little self-conscious about her weight.”</p> <p>They continued walking down the wall, enjoying the sun and the breeze and the laughter of children playing and the stench of algae pools.</p> <p>“Do you know what will happen?” he said, after a while. It was the question that had been gnawing at his mind since long before he arrived.</p> <p>“Only as much as anyone else does. The nistarim will re-unite at the Pit and then…God only knows after that. Everything will be made right, or so it’s claimed, but it’s vague on the <em>how</em> and – Lin! <em>LIN!</em> Put the dodgeball <em>down</em>, please. If you and your sister send anyone else to the nurse’s office you’re going to be cleaning algae filters for detention!” She sighed. “It’s vague on the how. Whether or not there’s going to be a fight.”</p> <p>“Evil doesn’t die without a fight.”</p> <p>“And that’s what I’m worried about. I hope and pray that these kids aren’t going to have to go through that.</p> <p>“For their sake.” She nodded towards a train of small children holding hands crossed the campus, led by a group of teachers. Each of the little figures had the bulging eyes and flabby lips and misshapen heads signature of fetal telekill poisoning. “They’ll wake up tomorrow morning, and maybe they’ll be cured. Maybe they’ll wake up and be able to speak and understand, and dress themselves, and not be trapped in their own minds. Maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow and there are no more tooth fairies in the river slums.”</p> <p>“And maybe the mothers of New Rome will have enough food for their children.”</p> <p>“And at the same time, part of me, the little teacher part that likes to look at all the angles, says that there’s no way it’ll just all be given to us like that. You can’t just be given the prize without the work. Or maybe we’ve done the work already.” She motioned to the man with the eyepatch, who was standing a distance away with the Swiss Guardsmen. “Elihayo, my bodyguard, he was there at the Fall of Jerusalem. In the Pit for fifty-one hours. Lost an eye, his voice, and half of his mind. He’d be first in line, and it’d be a crime if he wasn’t. Him and all the rest who’ve given that much.”</p> <p>Maximilian nodded.</p> <p>“Maybe it would be better if I didn’t know that it was going to happen, just to get rid of the anticipation.” Naomi exhaled deeply. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t even know if the Texts will be worth anything tomorrow morning. I know the Vatican hasn’t been in favor of that, but it’s a bit shaking seeing your whole life’s work get tossed like that, even if the replacement is better than what it ever could have been. You get attached.” She shook her head. “Look at me. You come here to make peace and I just unload all of this.”</p> <p>“It’s no trouble.”</p> <p>“You would have liked it. The Texts, I mean.”</p> <p>“Probably, if the times were different.”</p> <p>“Probably. I’m just going to trust that by the time we all wake up tomorrow, things will be okay.”</p> <p>“And if they aren’t, you will have my support.”</p> <p>Naomi looked over, nodded, and they shook on it.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/those-thin-penultimate-hours">Those Thin, Penultimate Hours</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/those-thin-penultimate-hours">https://scpwiki.com/those-thin-penultimate-hours</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Bishop of New Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of the Americas, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the West, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God, Pope Maximilian, was drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. It wasn’t particularly good coffee. It wasn’t even real coffee, for that matter. It was the cheap brown slurry common in the regions where the beans couldn’t be grown and the genefixed plants were too expensive for shoestring paychecks. The stump of his left leg was itchy. He hated when that happened. He’d have to go excuse himself and remove his prosthetic, and that was just incredibly awkward. No one thought of the pope as someone who had stump-itches. He was on edge, and it had not simply been interacting with Transit Authority and watching the headlight hunters run down the backroads the night before. He could feel the world falling apart around him, the glue he had worked so hard to place stretching thin and peeling away, and he didn’t know if he could keep the weight shorn up any longer. The flock was small, scattered, and afraid, and just as he had managed to gather them together and give them someone to follow, he felt the rug torn out from underneath him. What good was it then, when their shepherd was just as guideless and afraid as they were? It was so unfitting, he thought, to be sitting here, in the office of a school principal, two plainclothes Swiss guardsmen by the door. Yet, to a part of him, there was a great deal of comfort to be found in a simple cup of fake coffee, and in the mundanity of being made to wait. Someone had decided to treat him like a human being. The office was small, plain, very neatly organized. A budget-grade touch-screen for the desk, bookshelves of well-thumbed paperbacks and yellowed anthologies sorted by author’s last name. A simple little nameplate sat on the desk, next to an empty coffee mug that had “WORLD’S BEST MOM” painted on it in childish handwriting. The placard read: Dr. Naomi Zairi-Lewitt. Maximilian knew the name, though he had never met her in person before. The woman was something of a controversy magnet, and very clearly someone who did not much care for what the masses thought of her: The file they kept on her in New Rome was thicker than his thumb was long. There were footsteps from outside the door, and the woman herself entered the room followed by a grim-looking man with an eyepatch. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting, your Holiness, but there were some discipline issues that needed sorted out.” “It’s no trouble,” he said, standing up to shake her hand. His Nigerian accent was, as usual, quite thick. He was quite sure that there would be many men of lower rank who would have been reduced to fuming indignancy by both the wait and her attitude, but he understood. Understanding things was a large part of his job, especially understanding where God vested the actual power. She was a Teacher, and Teachers very often had Matters That Needed Attention. She was a small, wiry woman, just around fifty or so, wearing a white blouse and a black skirt. Glasses. Dark skin splotched with patches of fiery red. Short, light hair. She didn’t look like someone who would cause a lot of trouble, which was an instant indication that she was both capable of and willing to cause massive amounts of trouble. Which, for the most part, she had done. Iron-fisted educational programs, open criticism of Foundation settlement policies, specifically that of the Projects at Caketown, heading the profligation of the so-called Universal Texts, teaching six year olds magic. Nothing occult, she had gone on record a dozen times clarifying the point. It was Applied Narrative Field Manipulation, nothing occult about it. There wasn’t even any dabbling involved. Maximilian had yet to decide his own feelings on that matter. Publicly, he had to condemn the practice. In the privacy of his own mind, he had to admit that having settlements where every citizen knew how to perform an exorcism was not a bad thing. The woman sat down at her desk, and Maximillian had a brief flashback to a time forty years before, when he had been in the same spot, except with his mother and father sitting on either side of him and a crumpled up parent-teacher summons in his pocket. It faded quickly. “We’re a bit low on the pomp and circumstance today, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling. “But it’s good to finally meet you, your Holiness.” “Likewise. I hope that…well, I hope that this can be something of a fitting show of goodwill before, ah…” “Before the end of the world?” “Yes.” Naomi nodded. “Would you mind if we went outside?” she said. “It gets stuffy up here, and the weather’s been good today.” -- The lake and the processing plant could be seen from the top of the school’s south wall, past the line of pine trees on the shore. The still, stagnant water was cut up into neat squares and rectangles, choked with green and brown and red around the skeleton in the center of the lake. Sequoia-sized ribs shone bright white under the morning sun. Down below on the school grounds, classes were changing. Students wandered in packs across the quad, dragging out their little moment of freedom as long as they could before heading back into the fortress-like, bomb-shelter buildings. Some of the older students who had free periods were lounging by the lake or orchard. Mr. Tickman’s biology class was tending the west gardens. Rifle cracks could be heard from the firing range on the north side, paired with the bounce of rubber balls on asphalt from the courts just under the south wall. Seen about the quad were several of the school’s golems: massive Tzor lumbering across the field with a shipping crate on one shoulder; short, round Even waddling along beside Dr. Tau; blocky, graffiti-covered Selah keeping watch from the center of the green; gentle Gir drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk outside the math building with some of the littlest students. “You have a remarkable school here, Doctor,” Maximilian said. “Despite our disagreements, I really do appreciate what you’ve done here. I know there are plenty of others in the Church who agree, even if they don’t like admitting it.” “Thank you, your Holiness.” A pause. “My biggest regret is that we can’t go much farther than our own borders. Everything the Initiative has is focused in so few areas.” “You do what you can.” “Never feels like enough.” “I know. It never does.” “Headmistress!” A voice that sounded like a woman trapped in a large marble cube called out from the orchard. Maximilian looked down to see that the woman emerging from the trees with a basket of fruit was actually made of marble, quite stout around the everything, and studded with smoothed chunks of amethyst. “Yes, Ahlama?” “We’ve got vampires in the watermelons.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a small, blood-stained melon with a wide, snaggle-toothed mouth. It snarled and snapped at her, but did not bite, being smart enough to not bite the hand of someone who was made out of marble. “Tickman’s got a class in the west garden, they can help you root them out, but put up a sign just in case.” “Right.” “Thank you very much, Ahlama.” Naomi shook her head and smiled as the golem walked off. “Just got her last semester. Wonderful woman, but a little self-conscious about her weight.” They continued walking down the wall, enjoying the sun and the breeze and the laughter of children playing and the stench of algae pools. “Do you know what will happen?” he said, after a while. It was the question that had been gnawing at his mind since long before he arrived. “Only as much as anyone else does. The nistarim will re-unite at the Pit and then…God only knows after that. Everything will be made right, or so it’s claimed, but it’s vague on the //how// and – Lin! //LIN!// Put the dodgeball //down//, please. If you and your sister send anyone else to the nurse’s office you’re going to be cleaning algae filters for detention!” She sighed. “It’s vague on the how. Whether or not there’s going to be a fight.” “Evil doesn’t die without a fight.” “And that’s what I’m worried about. I hope and pray that these kids aren’t going to have to go through that. “For their sake.” She nodded towards a train of small children holding hands crossed the campus, led by a group of teachers. Each of the little figures had the bulging eyes and flabby lips and misshapen heads signature of fetal telekill poisoning. “They’ll wake up tomorrow morning, and maybe they’ll be cured. Maybe they’ll wake up and be able to speak and understand, and dress themselves, and not be trapped in their own minds. Maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow and there are no more tooth fairies in the river slums.” “And maybe the mothers of New Rome will have enough food for their children.” “And at the same time, part of me, the little teacher part that likes to look at all the angles, says that there’s no way it’ll just all be given to us like that. You can’t just be given the prize without the work. Or maybe we’ve done the work already.” She motioned to the man with the eyepatch, who was standing a distance away with the Swiss Guardsmen. “Elihayo, my bodyguard, he was there at the Fall of Jerusalem. In the Pit for fifty-one hours. Lost an eye, his voice, and half of his mind. He’d be first in line, and it’d be a crime if he wasn’t. Him and all the rest who’ve given that much.” Maximilian nodded. “Maybe it would be better if I didn’t know that it was going to happen, just to get rid of the anticipation.” Naomi exhaled deeply. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t even know if the Texts will be worth anything tomorrow morning. I know the Vatican hasn’t been in favor of that, but it’s a bit shaking seeing your whole life’s work get tossed like that, even if the replacement is better than what it ever could have been. You get attached.” She shook her head. “Look at me. You come here to make peace and I just unload all of this.” “It’s no trouble.” “You would have liked it. The Texts, I mean.” “Probably, if the times were different.” “Probably. I’m just going to trust that by the time we all wake up tomorrow, things will be okay.” “And if they aren’t, you will have my support.” Naomi looked over, nodded, and they shook on it. [[=]] << [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-30T02:59:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "fantasy", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "school", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Those Thin, Penultimate Hours - SCP Foundation	84	[ "etdp-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page" ]	[]	19572140	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/those-thin-penultimate-hours
those-you-leave-behind	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h4 id="toc0"><span>Part One</span></h4> <p>His mother often said his father was York. But she was kept so drugged by the high priestesses that she rarely knew who her callers were, and other times, she said his father was a blind fisherman. With bad breath, which had apparently stuck in her mind.</p> <p>So Rone didn't take much heed of her words, except to eat sweet-smelling herbs when he could.</p> <p>Still, there were others who thought he had more than a touch of the Saint of Thieves in him. Even as a young child, he was constantly scheming to get things that didn't belong to him. He could sweet talk the temple cooks into giving him extra scraps, or little treats usually saved for the high priestesses and their special guests. The other boys and girls would often find they'd come off worse on little deals or bets he'd set up, not sure why they'd taken them in the first place.</p> <p>Once, he'd been caught lightening the pocket of a High Guard while he was enjoying the company of his mother. Priestess Gylia forcefully made the point that men expected their belongings to be safe inside the temple, and paid well for that privilege. However, he noticed how she emphasized the word "inside," and simply moved his operations elsewhere.</p> <p>Most of what he got, he earned through begging. "Are you my father?" he'd ask each man who came in. He'd do his best to ape them, to screw up his features to look a little more like they did, puffing his cheeks out if they were fat, or sucking them in if they were skinny. Sometimes he got a cuff behind the ear, but sometimes he'd get a pat on the head and a few coins. Temple children were almost never claimed, but the men who visited could be kind enough, in their way.</p> <p>However, he was growing older now. The cuffs were more frequent, the coins fewer. He would have to leave soon. Temple girls were expected to become priestesses themselves, but the boys could only stay as eunuchs. Rone was starting to think that this was less of a great deal than he'd thought when he was younger.</p> <p>So he was considering his career prospects when the old man passed by the front of the temple. Rone was not yet a very good pickpocket, still mostly confining himself to rolling the occasional drunk. But he could see a full, heavy purse hanging from the man's side, and what son of York would he be if he could resist that?</p> <p>He pulled out a little knife he'd stolen from the kitchens, and hid it against his wrist as he approached, trying to look as though he were traveling somewhere in quite a hurry, before colliding in the old man.</p> <p>His knife flashed out as he bumped into the old man, intending to cut open the purse and take the man's money. However, the old man's hand shot out and grabbed his bony wrist, twisting until the knife fell from his hand.</p> <p>Rone immediately began struggling to get away, but he couldn't escape the man's grasp. And even as he tried, he saw large, muscular men whom he hadn't noticed following at a discreet distance.</p> <p>"Do you know who I am, boy?" the old man said. His hair was white, his eyes yellow, and his teeth nearly as dark as his skin.</p> <p>"No, no, please. Just let me go, I'll never do it again," Rone promised.</p> <p>"I am Lord Totch, the Tyrant's secretary, you little thief!" he said. He slapped the side of Rone's head, and pushed him into the arms of the waiting men. "Teach him not to steal from his betters," he said.</p> <p>Rone ducked his head as the first blows came.</p> <p>It was weeks before Rone was recovered. He didn't even remember crawling back into the temple. Priestess Heth tended to him when she wasn't busy with other duties. Luckily, the men hadn't done any real damage. No broken bones. His wits didn't seem to have been addled. Once the swelling went down, his face looked the same as it ever had. All in all, he'd gotten quite lucky, and he promised himself he'd never be so clumsy again.</p> <p>When the last of the marks faded, he sat on the temple steps and once again considered his prospects. Thieving was still a viable option, he supposed. But perhaps not pick pocketing. Not until he learned to be more clever at it. Perhaps he could find an older thief in need of an apprentice?</p> <p>"Boy, move!" said a familiar face. Rone looked up and froze.</p> <p>"Well?" the Tyrant's secretary said. "Out of my way. I'm a busy man."</p> <p>Rone scuttled over to the side, and the man passed, oblivious to whom he'd spoken.</p> <p>"He didn't even recognize me…" Rone whispered. He stared incredulously at Totch's back. "He didn't even recognize me!" Suddenly, he was filled with anger. After all that had happened, the man didn't even know him! Suddenly, he felt the need to be on his feet. He ran down the steps, taking them two at a time, right past the man's guards, who didn't give him any more of a look than their master.</p> <p>"Who does he think he is?" Rone fumed. How dare they ignore him, like he was nothing? He felt like grabbing the nearest person and shouting his name in their faces, but that still wouldn't teach the secretary a lesson. No, he had to think bigger than that.</p> <p>He began to plot, and to think, and then smiled grimly to himself. It would take a few days to get the supplies, but he'd manage it. Yes, they'd know who he was next time. Yes, he'd make sure of that. They'd shout his name from their towers, oh yes.</p> <hr/> <p>Several days later, Rone was prepared. Second story work, he'd decided, was much more his style than pick pocketing. So many people failed to lock a window if it was high enough. The hardest part was getting the clothes, but finding one of Lord Vere's servant boys at the bathhouse had given him all the opportunity he'd needed.</p> <p>Now, it was time to put his plan into motion.</p> <p>Rone walked into the mansion with a determined expression and a piece of paper in his hand. He caught a glance from one of the servants, but was otherwise ignored. He quickly made his way up the steps of the tower towards the Lord’s office.</p> <p>On his way up, a door opened, and a bearded man glared at him. “Boy! Where are you going?” he asked.</p> <p>“U-up to Lord Totch’s office, sir,” Rone replied, beginning the speech he’d prepared. “I’ve a missive fr-”</p> <p>“Take this,” the man said, stuffing a small satchel into his hand. “Well? Get going.”</p> <p>“Yes sir!” Rone said, turning quickly away. He continued up the stairs.</p> <p>The office was empty when he carefully opened the door. He breathed a quick sigh of relief. That should make the rest of it easy.</p> <p>He paused to open the satchel, and found it full of papers. He couldn't read, so he ignored them, though he’d likely be able to sell them later. He only needed to be able to write one thing today.</p> <p>He opened the window. He saw the Tyrant’s balcony across the way. The entire balcony was lined with bars, keeping thieves out, but letting the Tyrant look out across his city.</p> <p>It was about twenty feet from Totchs’s tower to the Tyrant’s. Too far for Rone to jump. However, not too far for him to throw.</p> <p>He tossed the hook he’d stolen from the fishing boats. It was made for hunting the levyatan eels in the deeper waters. It was nearly too heavy for him to throw so far, but he managed it on the second try. He set his foot in the loop he’d made, and swung out into space.</p> <p>He nearly let go when he slammed into the wall, but he managed to keep his grip. Then he began wriggling up the rope until he reached the bars.</p> <p>He slipped through. An adult could never have made it. Even a boy with a slightly heftier build would have had trouble. But Rone was just skinny enough to make it.</p> <p>The room was ornately decorated. There was filigree artwork, statues of marble and jade, and tapestries. He was looking for something impressive to steal when he heard a splashing.</p> <p>Several women in various states of undress were swimming in a shallow pool. He froze, but none of them seemed to see him. They were all clinging to a floating green tube. They seemed frightened, and their eyes seemed to focus far beyond the walls. He decided they must be drugged with something, and made his way around, until he came to the Tyrant’s bed. There he found what he was looking for. It was an artifact of the old world, one of the strange, jeweled rectangles they sometimes found in pleys containers, with the gold lines running along its green surface. It was the largest he’d ever seen, nearly as wide across as the length of his forearm. It must have cost even the Tyrant dearly to buy. He placed it delicately into his bag.</p> <p>Then he took out the jar of paint. He cracked the seal, and then used a bit of the Tyrant’s own bed sheet on the wall behind the bed. He'd had to pay a scribe to know what to do, and he copied the scratches on the paper slavishly. He had to get it just right.</p> <p>When he was satisfied with his work, he went back to the balcony. He slipped through the bars, and threw the hook over to Totsch’s office. He swung back across, and then clambered up to the window. He glanced inside to make sure no one was inside, and then made his way back down. This time no one challenged him.</p> <p>He walked through the street with his narrow back straight and his chin high as any lordling’s son. By the next evening, everyone in the city would know his name.</p> <hr/> <p>He woke the next morning when he was shaken by Priestess Gylia. "Wake up! Wake up, you little idiot!"</p> <p>"Huh? Whuz?" he murmured.</p> <p>"There are men all around the city looking for you. You have to get dressed immediately!" The silver-haired priestess hauled him to his feet, and shoved him in the direction of the hamper where he kept his belongings. "No, not that, something with a hood. You can't be that daft, and be in all this trouble."</p> <p>As he blearily got dressed, her words sank in. Looking for him! The deeds of the previous day began to come back to him. He'd stolen from the Tyrant himself.</p> <p>"Not that I think you did it," Gylia said. "Not even you would be stupid enough to paint 'My name is Rone' after stealing the Tyrant's favorite treasure. But they'll… Oh. Oh no, Rone. Please, please tell me you didn't."</p> <p>"Um." Rone began to consider whether or not it had been quite so clever as it had seemed when he'd come up with the plan.</p> <p>"Oh, good lord. We have to get you out of the city <em>right now</em>." She bundled him up, pulling the hood down over his face. "I know a caravaneer. He's not leaving until two days from now, but if you get out now, you can meet him on the road. But now, we have to get you out of the city before someone mentions you to the guard. Now, move."</p> <p>Rone let himself be guided out of the room and out of the temple, pausing only to pick up his bag. Gylia led him down narrow alleyways and through busy markets, eyes watchful for the Guard. Once, a Guardsman had walked right up to them, but he was just asking if Gylia was going to be at the temple later. Money changed hands, and she promised she would be, for him.</p> <p>When they reached the gate, Gylia put a hand on his shoulder. "Now, you must listen to me. Walk alongside the road for the rest of the day. That should put you far enough from the city. Hide there, and wait for a caravan to pass. Ask for Tenzin, and tell him that Gylia sent you. He will help you."</p> <p>Rone nodded. "Thank you, Priestess," he said, then considered the guards. There were four, two watching the inside, two watching the outside.</p> <p>Gylia followed his gaze. "You'll need to get past them. I can't help you. Priestesses are not allowed out of the city, and they'll be suspicious if I approach. Just tell them a different name, and pretend you're out to see your uncle or something. You have a clever tongue, boy. Use it."</p> <p>"Th-thank you, Priestess," he said. He realized suddenly that he wasn't going to be able to come back to the city. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. "I…" He didn't know what to say.</p> <p>"Oh, Rone," she said softly, and she gathered him to her in a hug. "Be brave, be clever, and never stop running while you have breath to give." Then she released him, and she turned away, walking back to the temple.</p> <p>Rone squared his shoulders, and walked up to the guards.</p> <p>"Whaddya want, boy?" one asked. He looked suspiciously at the boy, his piggy blue eyes vivid against his dark skin.</p> <p>"Sir," he began, about to tell him what Gylia suggested, then deciding to try something even better. "I know where Rone is!"</p> <p>"Where?" the guard asked, standing straighter. The other three guards also looked on attentively.</p> <p>"Want part of the reward," Rone said. "Otherwise, ain't telling."</p> <p>"You'll tell, or I'm gonna black your eyes. Now talk," the guard said, leaning in close to Rone. The other three, including the two who were supposed to be watching the outside, gathered close.</p> <p>"Awright, awright," Rone said, squeezing his eyes until a tear ran down his cheek. "I'll talk, just don't hit me. He's planning on escaping the city. He's coming here."</p> <p>"What's he look like?" the guard asked. "No lies, now."</p> <p>"He's short, and has brown hair, and that's him over there!" Rone said, pointing to a small figure hurrying through the open square.</p> <p>The guards shouted an oath. The two from the inner gate ran toward the man Rone had pointed out, while the other two looked on. While their attention was focused inward, he slipped past them, and ran out the gate. He heard a startled oath behind him, but he knew it would take them a minute to run after him, if they even decided to. He kept to the road for a moment, then cut off, falling into a ditch then scrambling out again. Fields and trees stretched out as far as he could see. Which seemed an awfully far way. Was it normal to be able to see that far away?</p> <p>There was a noticeable lack of alleys to duck into, or thick crowds to lose himself in. There were people on the road, and people working the fields, but nowhere he could simply vanish. That could be a problem very shortly.</p> <p>He glanced behind him. There seemed to still be some commotion at the gate, but no one running yet.</p> <p>"What are you doing in my field?" someone yelled. Rone froze, and saw a man in a straw hat running at him. It hadn't occurred to him that people owned fields, the way they owned buildings. He figured it all belonged to the Tyrant, until you were too far away to care about him.</p> <p>He decided to take the halfwit approach. "S-sorry. I got c-confused," he said.</p> <p>The man drew up, and looked Rone up and down. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why are you all alone here?"</p> <p>"M'name's Hever," he said. "Gon' see m'uncle." He decided this was as good a time as any to break out Gylia's lie. It had been a good one, all things considered, and it was a shame to waste it completely.</p> <p>The man's face broke into sympathy. "Your uncle? Whose farm does your uncle work at? I know every landowner around here. I'll help you find him."</p> <p>Rone's face froze. How could the man know <em>everyone</em>? He hadn't counted on this. "At, uh, at, uh, Larn's farm," he said, giving the most common name he could think of.</p> <p>"Hmm. Lots of Larns around here. Where did your parents tell you to go?" asked the farmer.</p> <p>"East, sir," Rone said, giving the general area area the road followed.</p> <p>"That doesn't narrow it down much. Can't you think of anything else?" the man asked.</p> <p>"Not s'good at thinkin', sir." Rone was beginning to wonder if he should just make another run for it.</p> <p>"Hmm. Well, I can't take you around to every Larn east of here." The man seemed to struggle with a decision for a moment, and then put a kindly hand on Rone's shoulder. "All right, you need to listen to me carefully, Hever," he said, speaking slowly. "You need to go down the road. Walk until you get to the big, wooden bridge. There is a farm after it. Go there, and talk to Caswin. He'll help you. Do you understand?"</p> <p>"Down the road to the big wooden bridge," Rone repeated. "Talk to Caswin."</p> <p>"Good lad." The farmer gave him a gentle shove toward the road, and Rone was off.</p> <p>No one coming from the gate. They must have decided he wasn't important. He hoped it would be a good, long while before they found out how wrong they were. But now, the road was open, the sun warm, and the world was his. He hefted his bag over his shoulder and whistled as he walked.</p> <hr/> <h4 id="toc1"><span>Part Two</span></h4> <p>The rain poured down, and Rone shivered in the tree. He'd walked about a day's travel when he was chased from the road by a pack of wild dogs. After he'd gotten away from them by swimming in a river, he'd wandered lost a couple of days before being chased by a giant lizard, which was now waiting below, and he had no idea where the road was anymore. He was wet, he was miserable, and he was pretty sure he was going to die.</p> <p>That was when the shouting began. At first, he thought it was another pack of wild dogs, with the howls and yipping, but there were words mixed in. Hard to understand, but he picked up "left," "right," and "closer."</p> <p>Kangaroos jumped through the bushes, followed closely by dogs, and then men with white-painted faces and dark red hair. They threw spears as they ran, and a kangaroo leapt into the lizard, before being caught in its massive jaws. It turned to the hunters.</p> <p>They scrambled to a stop, but didn't run. Instead, they formed up, those still holding spears taking point. The lizard hissed menacingly, but turned again, picked up the kangaroo, and waddled off, not willing to risk injury from the hunters.</p> <p>"Hey, we got a boy in the tree!" said one of the white-faces. He wore leather breeches and a simple shirt, both in mottled grey and black. Others, dressed similarly, looked up.</p> <p>"Strange fruit for a yook tree," another said, laughing.</p> <p>"Is it ripe?" asked one.</p> <p>"Go and smell for yourself," said another. "Oy, you in the tree, you coming down? Fangface is gone."</p> <p>Rone gently lowered himself to the ground, and nearly fell as his much-abused muscles protested. "Th-thanks," he said.</p> <p>"You're from the city," the white-face said. "You running away?"</p> <p>Rone nodded cautiously. The nomads sometimes traded with the city, but it was said they had little to do with the guards when possible.</p> <p>"Well, you'll come with us now. We saved you, you're ours now," said the white-face.</p> <p>"What?" Rone was caught by surprise as two of them grabbed his arm.</p> <p>"You have rules in the city? We have rules here. That's one. Now come. We have a long way to walk tonight."</p> <p>They pushed and pulled him along until they met up with other hunters. His bag with its treasures was taken from him, and freshly-cut pieces of meat, wrapped in leather, were thrust into his arms. Hunters chatted amiably around him, occasionally giving him a shove or steadying him as he tripped. He wasn't so much dragged as he was caught up in a friendly, talkative stampede.</p> <p>By the time they reached the camp, the rain had stopped, and the moon peeked out from above the clouds.</p> <p>There were conical leather tents set up all around several big fires. Orange and blue pictures decorated each tent, and bells were strung from their tops to jangle in the breeze. Older men, children, and women stared at them. Their clothing was more varied than the hunters', with reds and yellows predominant. The older men had painted faces like the hunters.</p> <p>The meat was taken from Rone's arms, and he collapsed to the ground. He'd never walked so much in his life.</p> <p>He was hauled back to his feet by the first white-face. "I am Last Man. It's been decided that you belong to me."</p> <p>"My name is—" Rone began, but was given a sharp rap on the head.</p> <p>"Your name? Your name is you, or boy, or city brat. Don't talk to me about names. You're a boy, not a man." He gestured to one of the fires. "Now, sit down, get something to eat, and then go to my family's tent. The one with the man standing alone."</p> <p>Rone did as he was told. The food was meat, vegetables, and roots roasted on sticks over the fire, and spiced lightly. It was delicious after a day of running. When he entered the tent, he found it already somewhat crowded with children, dogs, two hunters, and several women, including one who introduced herself as Straytaker. She fussed over him a moment in a way that reminded him of the priestesses, and then sent him to sleep on the blankets with the dogs and the other children. Rone gathered she was Last Man's wife.</p> <p>As he laid himself to the blankets, shoving a puppy aside, he was already thinking about how he would escape. They'd caught him when he was weak and lost. But Rone had made a fool of the Tyrant. There was no way they could stop someone as clever as him. Not for long.</p> <hr/> <p>The next day, Rone was woken up by Straytaker shaking his shoulder. She thrust a bucket into his hands and told him she needed him to get water. She spoke slowly, as though he were slow or simple.</p> <p>He hurried outside, and others stared at him. "Hey, city boy!" called out a girl about his age. "Where are you going?"</p> <p>"Getting water," he said, a trifle defensively, not liking to be called city boy.</p> <p>"I'll help," she said. "It's this way."</p> <p>"I know," he said, though he didn't.</p> <p>"Of course," she said, and her smile told him she wasn't fooled. Rone decided immediately that he didn't like her.</p> <p>"What's your name?" he asked.</p> <p>She stared at him for a moment, and burst out laughing. He definitely didn't like her. "I don't have a name! How old do you think I am?"</p> <p>"Everyone has a name," Rone said, then paused. "Don't they?"</p> <p>"No one gets a name until they're ready to be a man or a woman, silly. My mother's name is Third Arrow, because she shot a bandit with three arrows, and the third one killed him." She spoke as lightly as she might have talked about wearing a pretty dress, or making a nice pie.</p> <p>"I… see," and Last Man's earlier words made more sense to him.</p> <p>From her, he learned that most of the children in Last Man and Straytaker's tent weren't their own. Straytaker had only had a single son, who died soon after, and wasn't able to have anymore. So, they took in any children who had no tent to go to anymore. Ones whose parents had died, or, more frequently, had been taken from other tribes.</p> <p>He asked about that, and it seemed that the nomad tribes often raided each other, taking children for their own to swell their numbers. Sometimes, a tribe could be eradicated that way. Though, when that happened, it generally transpired that another tribe would split up to take over the new territory.</p> <p>"My father was from another tribe," she said. "He won't tell me which one, though. We're Ghost Hunters now."</p> <p>Rone spent a lot of time with the girl over the next few days as he learned more about the Ghost Hunters. Not that he liked her, certainly, but she was willing to talk, and he needed all the information he could get. For her part, she seemed amused by his ignorance, which annoyed him to no end.</p> <p>When they broke camp after the first week, she showed him how to pack up the tent leather carefully, folding it so it could be carried to the new location. Poles that were still in good shape were carried, while bad ones were discarded, to be replaced when they reached a new campsite.</p> <p>Not many other people were willing to spare more than a glance at Rone, and when someone did speak to him, it was usually the way Straytaker did. Kindly, but as though he were an idiot. Last Man would occasionally look him over to see if he was still in one piece.</p> <p>He waited until they were in the new place before he made his escape. He waited until the bustle of setting up was begun, picked up a bucket (in which he'd hidden his bag, taken from the back of Last Man's tent) as though to fetch some water, and began to walk away. He ducked behind some bushes, and was soon out of sight.</p> <p>He ran after that, knowing that once they discovered he was missing, they'd follow his tracks. But not too far, he was sure. One boy captive wasn't worth too much effort. Once he got far enough away, they'd give up.</p> <p>For a full day he ran, and it was night when he finally stopped, coming to rest in a copse of trees. He was lost, of course, but at least he was free. Then he heard someone shifting nearby.</p> <p>It was Last Man. He was standing not ten feet away, leaning on a walking stick, a dog beside him. He didn't look angry, or upset, or even disappointed. Simply attentive.</p> <p>Then he raised his stick, and the beating began.</p> <p>When he was done, he threw Rone over his broad shoulders and carried him back to the camp.</p> <hr/> <p>Rone tried to escape several more times, but the result was always the same. Last Man would catch him, knock him around some, and then bring him back. He was never punished further, nor did anyone say anything about it, except the girl.</p> <p>He became more adept at life in the camp, carrying things for the women and older men. He learned to help clean the tents, what the cooks needed, and how to take care of the bows the women were armed with in case of raids by other tribes, bandits, or monsters.</p> <p>His old clothes wore away, and were replaced by leather breeches and simple cloth shirts. After that, he was more easily accepted among the Ghost Hunters. He was no longer called "city boy" by anyone except the annoying girl. She still nattered away at him, though he needed her to explain things less and less as months went on. Still, he spent time with her, as much out of habit as anything else.</p> <p>He started playing with blunted spears with the other boys, learning to mock-fight with them, and to throw the shorter spears at targets painted on the ground or in trees. He grew taller, and broader in his chest. Soon, he was catching rabbits and lizards around the camp with the older boys.</p> <p>One of the older boys, whom he mentally thought of as Sharpnose, was generally regarded as the leader. Rone got along well with him, and they started making plans for mischief. They would play pranks on other boys or on the younger hunters, go places they weren't supposed to, and generally find ways to entertain themselves.</p> <p>Rone didn't think so much about escaping, or the city, or even how he had cheated the Tyrant. Mostly he thought about what they'd get up to the next day, or if the hunters would bring back new stories of monsters or other tribes.</p> <p>One day, when he had been with the tribe for several years, Rone and the annoying girl snuck out to a nearby water hole where a bunyip had made its home. They climbed a tree and watched as the hairy, scaly monster attacked anything that came too close to its pond.</p> <p>Suddenly, Rone glanced up, and spotted dust in the distance. He squinted, and made out men in the distance.</p> <p>"Hey, look over there," he said, pointing.</p> <p>The annoying girl shaded her eyes, and frowned. "They aren't our hunters."</p> <p>"Let's go," Rone said, slipping down from the tree.</p> <p>They ran back to the camp. Rone immediately walked up to Straytaker. "There are men coming. Not ours," he said.</p> <p>"You saw this?" she asked, frowning.</p> <p>"This isn't a joke, I swear," Rone answered. "Ask the girl."</p> <p>The annoying girl nodded. "They didn't have white faces, and they didn't have any dogs with them."</p> <p>Straytaker nodded, and then yelled for the other women. Bows were strung, arrows packed into quivers.</p> <p>Rone and the annoying girl were ordered to stay with the tents and protect the other children. Rone knew they were being told to stay behind so they wouldn't get in the way, but he couldn't figure out a way to get away from all the others without being seen, so he waited while the women did their work.</p> <p>Two hours later, the women returned, laughing and singing songs about war and rains of arrows and stones.</p> <p>One of the women took Rone by the hands and swung him around when he asked what happened, and then kissed him on the cheek. The annoying girl seemed strangely upset by this, though Rone wasn't sure why. She wasn't the one who was kissed on the cheek like a baby. "Clever boy! We'll have a feast tonight."</p> <p>It emerged that the women had hidden themselves well before the men got near, and then shot a flight of arrows into the ground in front of them. They were from the Black Swords tribe, who were usually friendly, so they hadn't been killed outright. But they'd had to give up their weapons and their finer clothes before they'd been allowed to leave. "And if any are still here when the hunters get back, they'll be mighty sorry!" the woman said, laughing.</p> <p>But when the hunters returned, there wasn't a sign of any of the raiders. A few of the younger warriors were sad that they wouldn't have a chance to try their spears against swords, but it was generally agreed that the women had done very well, and that Rone and the annoying girl had saved the tribe from some mischief. Even if, Last Man pointed out, they shouldn't have been at the water hole in the first place.</p> <p>That night, while Rone was dozing with a full belly, he was roughly pulled to his feet and hustled out of the tent before he could figure out what was happening. He stumbled forward in the dark, trying to figure out what was happening when water was thrown into his face.</p> <p>His bleary eyes made out the faces of the hunters. Some held sticks, some held lengths of rope, and one held a glittering knife. A gag was shoved in between his jaws, and he was forced to walk away from the campsite.</p> <p>When they had gone some distance, the gag was removed, and he was taken by the arms. The hunter with the knife (belatedly, he recognized him as Last Man) advanced.</p> <p>"Hey!" he said, and tried to back away. But the others held him, and pushed him down on the ground. The knife flashed down, and cut away at his shirt. Then at his pants, and he was left naked to the stars. The hunters permitted him to stand.</p> <p>Last Man whistled, and the other hunters formed two lines. "Ten times," Last Man said. "On your own two feet, to make a man. Start!"</p> <p>Rone was pushed into the line. As he passed each man, he was struck with a stick lashed with a length of rope. He stumbled, but made it to the end.</p> <p>"Nine times!" Last Man demanded.</p> <p>Rone stumbled back through. And again. Twice, he fell to his knees, and made to return to the start of the gauntlet. But he finally made it through the tenth and final time.</p> <p>Again, his arms were grabbed. But this time, it was merely to help him stand.</p> <p>Last Man approached, and pulled a jar from a pouch at his belt. "Ten times. To make a man. Well." He dipped two fingers into the jar and came out with something white on them, which he spread on Rone's face. When he was done, he showed Rone his face in a piece of metal. White face. Ghost Hunter.</p> <p>The others began to shout and clap. They gave him his grey-and-black clothes and a spear. He was slapped on the back, punched in the arms, and his bruised body complained again. But he wouldn't have traded any of those aches away.</p> <hr/> <p>He began to go out with the hunters. He was shown how to take care of his spear, and how to make a new one. His job now, though, was to run with the dogs and flush out prey for the older hunters, who would take the kill. He longed to test his spear out, but he was still much too new to be given that chance. He didn't even have a name yet. But that would come in time.</p> <p>Sharpnose became a hunter not long after. The two remained friends, but there was now an edge to their friendship, a competition to see who could be the better hunter, who would earn his name first.</p> <p>"You're just a city boy," Sharpnose said mockingly. "You'll be years before you get a name. If ever."</p> <p>"You're too thick in the head," Rone replied. "Unless you earn it headbutting boulders, you'll be years before you do anything clever enough for a name."</p> <p>They got into a shoving match, and ended up laughing in the mud until Last Man broke up their play fighting and told them to find something useful to do.</p> <p>The annoying girl had less time to spend with him. Straytaker had taken her aside and now she was learning to use a bow, among other womanly duties. Rone felt a certain sadness with that. He'd grown used to her. She wasn't nearly as annoying as she used to be.</p> <p>Still, they stole moments when they could. A few minutes at the campfire, an hour under the moon. He bragged about feats of daring during the hunt, one or two of which actually happened, while she told him who was fighting in the camp, who stole whose dinner, and other little inconsequentialities he couldn't have cared less about, except that he loved to hear about them from her.</p> <p>One day, he returned from the hunt, and she rushed up and put her arms around him, grinning like a maniac. "You'll never guess what's happened!"</p> <p>"I might," he said, pretending to be offended. "I can guess fairly well."</p> <p>"I have a name!" she said.</p> <p>"That's not how the game's played," he protested. Then it sank in. "What, already?"</p> <p>"Oh, and I almost died," she added.</p> <p>"What?" he said, his head spinning.</p> <p>"Oh, you don't care about that," she said. "Anyway, my name—"</p> <p>"I care!" he said.</p> <p>"It's Breaking Stone," she said, ignoring him. "Straytaker herself gave it to me. Isn't that nice?"</p> <p>"But how? I mean—" he started, but she was off.</p> <p>"Oh, it was a nice little ceremony. She and the other older women painted my belly and my breasts in ochre. I'd show you, but, well, I don't think you're <em>quite</em> ready for that."</p> <p>"How did you almost die?" he demanded.</p> <p>She sobered slightly. "There's a monster. It came near the campsite, to a tree where the children were playing with the older dogs. No one could see it, though."</p> <p>"It was hiding?" he asked.</p> <p>"No. It was out in the open, but unseen. Not even a shadow. But it killed one of the dogs, and would have gone after the children if the dogs hadn't set upon it. They couldn't see it, but they snapped at it, and we could tell where it was. I threw a stone pestle at it, and it broke against it. I don't think I hurt it seriously, but it left anyway."</p> <p>"We'll have to find it, kill it," Rone said, shaking. She'd been there! The monster could have taken her.</p> <p>"Idiot," she said fondly. "What do you imagine Straytaker is talking to Last Man about right now? Her sewing?"</p> <p>"If she's anything like you…" he grumbled, but took her point.</p> <p>The next day, Last Man took all of the hunters aside. He repeated the story annoying gi-Breaking Stone had told. "We must find it, kill it."</p> <p>"How did the dogs know where it was?" asked one of the hunters.</p> <p>"By their noses, I imagine," Last Man said. "But they weren't able to do more than annoy it."</p> <p>"What do we do, then? Fight blindly?" asked another.</p> <p>"If we must," the old man answered. "But we'll try a smarter approach first. When the dogs corner it, we'll throw mud at it. With luck, that will reveal it and we'll be able to kill it more easily. Any questions?"</p> <p>There were none. The hunters split into their usual groups and were off.</p> <p>Rone kept with his dogs while the other hunters in his group spread out. They beat their chests and stamped their feet, hoping to draw the monster towards them. Rone felt like a coward, but was secretly glad he wasn't one of the ones making the noise.</p> <p>Despite their efforts, though, the sun rose and fell without the slightest hint of danger. Rone began to wonder if perhaps the monster had left after all, perhaps going back where it came from to seek easier prey.</p> <p>They eventually packed it in, deciding that night was no time to be hunting something that was already too difficult to see.</p> <p>When they returned to the camp, though, they found they weren't the first group to return. There was a somber tone among the women, and the hunters looked frustrated and angry. There was a body by the main campfire.</p> <p>Rone gasped. It was Sharpnose, his friend.</p> <p>"We couldn't get it with our spears," a hunter was telling Last Man. "It moved around, and the mud was invisible as soon as it touched its body. The boy, he jumped at it, and I swear he held it for a moment before it struck him down. The dogs and our shouting drove it off before it could do more than worry the body, but it was too late."</p> <p>Last Man stared at the young hunter's body for a moment, and then closed the eyes. "His name is Iron Hands. We burn a true man and a true hunter tonight."</p> <p>Rone stood to the side as they built up a pyre, dressed Sharpnose in finer clothes, and sent him on to the next life. It didn't seem quite real. But there it was. Sharpnose would never boss anyone around again. He'd never get into mischief with Rone, or wrestle with him over a joke. It wasn't fair.</p> <p>In a moment, the fire was in him again. The same fire that made him steal the Tyrant's treasure. It wasn't right that Sharpnose was killed. It was time to make things right.</p> <p>His mind worked feverishly, and soon he came across a plan.</p> <p>While the others told stories of Sharpnose, Rone went from one tent to another, and began to assemble the items he needed. He realized, in a detached way, that their owners would probably be cross with him if this didn't work. Possibly even if it did. But that didn't matter, because his plan would work. He would make sure of it.</p> <hr/> <p>He waited until almost dawn, and then set out to where Sharpnose and the others had gone. He didn't know it would be there, but he had to start somewhere.</p> <p>He took out Sharpnose's bloody shirt, and tied it to the dog that had come out with him. He climbed into a tree, and threw a stick, which the dog chased, and brought back. Rone threw another stick. And another.</p> <p>They kept this up for the better part of an hour. The dog rested on occasion, but after a suitable sit-down, it was ready to fetch sticks again. It didn't know why Rone wanted it to do this, but it would add to the pile under the tree for as long as he threw them.</p> <p>Suddenly, the dog dropped the latest stick and growled. Rone tensed in his perch, and he heard the heavy breathing of something very large.</p> <p>He also heard someone else approaching from back the way of camp. The hunters! Of course they'd be coming. He had to act quickly.</p> <p>"Hey, ugly! Too ugly to show your face, hey? You want some meat, there's plenty in this tree. Try picking this fruit!" he yelled, shaking the branches.</p> <p>There was a growling as something charged the tree. The dog held its ground until it was kicked aside, casually. It fell, but was on its feet again in a minute, snapping at something, but not quite finding it.</p> <p>The tree shook as something hit it. It was big! Far bigger than Rone had realized. The branches were bending aside as whatever it was reached for him. He almost dropped to the other side to run, but remembered Sharpnose's face on the pyre, and steeled his heart. He pulled a bundle from his bag and dropped it.</p> <p>It had taken him the better part of the night to make this net. It wasn't a very good net, at that. It was irregular, with holes of varying sizes and a loose weave. But all that mattered was that it would catch on the creature… and that it would keep the bells from the tents on it.</p> <p>The net vanished as it landed, but he could hear the bells shaking. Now he jumped to the other side and began running towards the hunters. He saw them emerge into the clearing as a crashing sound indicated the monster had left the tree. "The bells!" he shouted. "Throw at the bells!"</p> <p>They stared at him like he was mad, and he thought for a moment that all was lost. Then Last Man stepped forward.</p> <p>He cocked his head, listened as the jangling crashing came closer, and then threw his spear. It landed, vanished, and there was a roar to tell it hit its mark.</p> <p>The other hunters belatedly released their own throwing spears, and then readied their long spears, advancing on the creature. It tried to escape again, but now it was slowed down by the injuries it was already taken, and they could hear exactly where it was. They thrust into it again and again, and it fell to the ground. Still they kept stabbing, until they were sure it was dead. Then they built a fire around it and burned the body to invisible ashes.</p> <hr/> <p>"So, hunter," Last Man said later. "You are certainly a man now. You've paid us back for your life. What will you do now?"</p> <p>Rone thought for a moment, and said, "I am a Ghost Hunter. But… I would also like to see more of the world before I settle down."</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="beller.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/those-you-leave-behind/beller.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"Your name," the old hunter intoned slowly, "is Beller."<br/> <em>Artwork by <a href="http://angusmcleod.deviantart.com/">Angus McLeod</a></em></p> </div> </div> <p>"More of the world? What more is there to see?" Last Man asked.</p> <p>"More monsters," he said. "More people. I have been in the city, I have been with the tribe. But what about other cities? Other tribes? I would like to see if there are other Wonders I might find. And maybe more things I might bring back."</p> <p>Last Man whistled. "Those are mighty big ambitions. Don't you think you overreach yourself?"</p> <p>"I have always overreached," Rone said, grinning. "It's how I got such long arms."</p> <p>"Are you sure you'll be coming back?" Last Man asked.</p> <p>Rone looked to the fire, where Breaking Stone sat laughing with the other women. "I'm sure. As often as my feet will bring me."</p> <p>Last Man smiled. "Come back with treasures. Come back with honor. But mostly, come back with stories. She will appreciate those most of all."</p> <p>"I will. Thank you, Last Man," Rone said.</p> <p>"Oh, and city boy?" Last Man said.</p> <p>"Y-yes?" Rone asked hesitantly. No one but Sharpnose and the annoying girl had called him that in years.</p> <p>"Your name," the old hunter intoned slowly, "is Beller."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/those-you-leave-behind">Those You Leave Behind</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/those-you-leave-behind">https://scpwiki.com/those-you-leave-behind</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> beller.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> Angus McLeod<br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/those-you-leave-behind">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] ++++ Part One His mother often said his father was York. But she was kept so drugged by the high priestesses that she rarely knew who her callers were, and other times, she said his father was a blind fisherman. With bad breath, which had apparently stuck in her mind. So Rone didn't take much heed of her words, except to eat sweet-smelling herbs when he could. Still, there were others who thought he had more than a touch of the Saint of Thieves in him. Even as a young child, he was constantly scheming to get things that didn't belong to him. He could sweet talk the temple cooks into giving him extra scraps, or little treats usually saved for the high priestesses and their special guests. The other boys and girls would often find they'd come off worse on little deals or bets he'd set up, not sure why they'd taken them in the first place. Once, he'd been caught lightening the pocket of a High Guard while he was enjoying the company of his mother. Priestess Gylia forcefully made the point that men expected their belongings to be safe inside the temple, and paid well for that privilege. However, he noticed how she emphasized the word "inside," and simply moved his operations elsewhere. Most of what he got, he earned through begging. "Are you my father?" he'd ask each man who came in. He'd do his best to ape them, to screw up his features to look a little more like they did, puffing his cheeks out if they were fat, or sucking them in if they were skinny. Sometimes he got a cuff behind the ear, but sometimes he'd get a pat on the head and a few coins. Temple children were almost never claimed, but the men who visited could be kind enough, in their way. However, he was growing older now. The cuffs were more frequent, the coins fewer. He would have to leave soon. Temple girls were expected to become priestesses themselves, but the boys could only stay as eunuchs. Rone was starting to think that this was less of a great deal than he'd thought when he was younger. So he was considering his career prospects when the old man passed by the front of the temple. Rone was not yet a very good pickpocket, still mostly confining himself to rolling the occasional drunk. But he could see a full, heavy purse hanging from the man's side, and what son of York would he be if he could resist that? He pulled out a little knife he'd stolen from the kitchens, and hid it against his wrist as he approached, trying to look as though he were traveling somewhere in quite a hurry, before colliding in the old man. His knife flashed out as he bumped into the old man, intending to cut open the purse and take the man's money. However, the old man's hand shot out and grabbed his bony wrist, twisting until the knife fell from his hand. Rone immediately began struggling to get away, but he couldn't escape the man's grasp. And even as he tried, he saw large, muscular men whom he hadn't noticed following at a discreet distance. "Do you know who I am, boy?" the old man said. His hair was white, his eyes yellow, and his teeth nearly as dark as his skin. "No, no, please. Just let me go, I'll never do it again," Rone promised. "I am Lord Totch, the Tyrant's secretary, you little thief!" he said. He slapped the side of Rone's head, and pushed him into the arms of the waiting men. "Teach him not to steal from his betters," he said. Rone ducked his head as the first blows came. It was weeks before Rone was recovered. He didn't even remember crawling back into the temple. Priestess Heth tended to him when she wasn't busy with other duties. Luckily, the men hadn't done any real damage. No broken bones. His wits didn't seem to have been addled. Once the swelling went down, his face looked the same as it ever had. All in all, he'd gotten quite lucky, and he promised himself he'd never be so clumsy again. When the last of the marks faded, he sat on the temple steps and once again considered his prospects. Thieving was still a viable option, he supposed. But perhaps not pick pocketing. Not until he learned to be more clever at it. Perhaps he could find an older thief in need of an apprentice? "Boy, move!" said a familiar face. Rone looked up and froze. "Well?" the Tyrant's secretary said. "Out of my way. I'm a busy man." Rone scuttled over to the side, and the man passed, oblivious to whom he'd spoken. "He didn't even recognize me..." Rone whispered. He stared incredulously at Totch's back. "He didn't even recognize me!" Suddenly, he was filled with anger. After all that had happened, the man didn't even know him! Suddenly, he felt the need to be on his feet. He ran down the steps, taking them two at a time, right past the man's guards, who didn't give him any more of a look than their master. "Who does he think he is?" Rone fumed. How dare they ignore him, like he was nothing? He felt like grabbing the nearest person and shouting his name in their faces, but that still wouldn't teach the secretary a lesson. No, he had to think bigger than that. He began to plot, and to think, and then smiled grimly to himself. It would take a few days to get the supplies, but he'd manage it. Yes, they'd know who he was next time. Yes, he'd make sure of that. They'd shout his name from their towers, oh yes. ------ Several days later, Rone was prepared. Second story work, he'd decided, was much more his style than pick pocketing. So many people failed to lock a window if it was high enough. The hardest part was getting the clothes, but finding one of Lord Vere's servant boys at the bathhouse had given him all the opportunity he'd needed. Now, it was time to put his plan into motion. Rone walked into the mansion with a determined expression and a piece of paper in his hand. He caught a glance from one of the servants, but was otherwise ignored. He quickly made his way up the steps of the tower towards the Lord’s office. On his way up, a door opened, and a bearded man glared at him. “Boy! Where are you going?” he asked. “U-up to Lord Totch’s office, sir,” Rone replied, beginning the speech he’d prepared. “I’ve a missive fr-” “Take this,” the man said, stuffing a small satchel into his hand. “Well? Get going.” “Yes sir!” Rone said, turning quickly away. He continued up the stairs. The office was empty when he carefully opened the door. He breathed a quick sigh of relief. That should make the rest of it easy. He paused to open the satchel, and found it full of papers. He couldn't read, so he ignored them, though he’d likely be able to sell them later. He only needed to be able to write one thing today. He opened the window. He saw the Tyrant’s balcony across the way. The entire balcony was lined with bars, keeping thieves out, but letting the Tyrant look out across his city. It was about twenty feet from Totchs’s tower to the Tyrant’s. Too far for Rone to jump. However, not too far for him to throw. He tossed the hook he’d stolen from the fishing boats. It was made for hunting the levyatan eels in the deeper waters. It was nearly too heavy for him to throw so far, but he managed it on the second try. He set his foot in the loop he’d made, and swung out into space. He nearly let go when he slammed into the wall, but he managed to keep his grip. Then he began wriggling up the rope until he reached the bars. He slipped through. An adult could never have made it. Even a boy with a slightly heftier build would have had trouble. But Rone was just skinny enough to make it. The room was ornately decorated. There was filigree artwork, statues of marble and jade, and tapestries. He was looking for something impressive to steal when he heard a splashing. Several women in various states of undress were swimming in a shallow pool. He froze, but none of them seemed to see him. They were all clinging to a floating green tube. They seemed frightened, and their eyes seemed to focus far beyond the walls. He decided they must be drugged with something, and made his way around, until he came to the Tyrant’s bed. There he found what he was looking for. It was an artifact of the old world, one of the strange, jeweled rectangles they sometimes found in pleys containers, with the gold lines running along its green surface. It was the largest he’d ever seen, nearly as wide across as the length of his forearm. It must have cost even the Tyrant dearly to buy. He placed it delicately into his bag. Then he took out the jar of paint. He cracked the seal, and then used a bit of the Tyrant’s own bed sheet on the wall behind the bed. He'd had to pay a scribe to know what to do, and he copied the scratches on the paper slavishly. He had to get it just right. When he was satisfied with his work, he went back to the balcony. He slipped through the bars, and threw the hook over to Totsch’s office. He swung back across, and then clambered up to the window. He glanced inside to make sure no one was inside, and then made his way back down. This time no one challenged him. He walked through the street with his narrow back straight and his chin high as any lordling’s son. By the next evening, everyone in the city would know his name. ------ He woke the next morning when he was shaken by Priestess Gylia. "Wake up! Wake up, you little idiot!" "Huh? Whuz?" he murmured. "There are men all around the city looking for you. You have to get dressed immediately!" The silver-haired priestess hauled him to his feet, and shoved him in the direction of the hamper where he kept his belongings. "No, not that, something with a hood. You can't be that daft, and be in all this trouble." As he blearily got dressed, her words sank in. Looking for him! The deeds of the previous day began to come back to him. He'd stolen from the Tyrant himself. "Not that I think you did it," Gylia said. "Not even you would be stupid enough to paint 'My name is Rone' after stealing the Tyrant's favorite treasure. But they'll... Oh. Oh no, Rone. Please, please tell me you didn't." "Um." Rone began to consider whether or not it had been quite so clever as it had seemed when he'd come up with the plan. "Oh, good lord. We have to get you out of the city //right now//." She bundled him up, pulling the hood down over his face. "I know a caravaneer. He's not leaving until two days from now, but if you get out now, you can meet him on the road. But now, we have to get you out of the city before someone mentions you to the guard. Now, move." Rone let himself be guided out of the room and out of the temple, pausing only to pick up his bag. Gylia led him down narrow alleyways and through busy markets, eyes watchful for the Guard. Once, a Guardsman had walked right up to them, but he was just asking if Gylia was going to be at the temple later. Money changed hands, and she promised she would be, for him. When they reached the gate, Gylia put a hand on his shoulder. "Now, you must listen to me. Walk alongside the road for the rest of the day. That should put you far enough from the city. Hide there, and wait for a caravan to pass. Ask for Tenzin, and tell him that Gylia sent you. He will help you." Rone nodded. "Thank you, Priestess," he said, then considered the guards. There were four, two watching the inside, two watching the outside. Gylia followed his gaze. "You'll need to get past them. I can't help you. Priestesses are not allowed out of the city, and they'll be suspicious if I approach. Just tell them a different name, and pretend you're out to see your uncle or something. You have a clever tongue, boy. Use it." "Th-thank you, Priestess," he said. He realized suddenly that he wasn't going to be able to come back to the city. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. "I..." He didn't know what to say. "Oh, Rone," she said softly, and she gathered him to her in a hug. "Be brave, be clever, and never stop running while you have breath to give." Then she released him, and she turned away, walking back to the temple. Rone squared his shoulders, and walked up to the guards. "Whaddya want, boy?" one asked. He looked suspiciously at the boy, his piggy blue eyes vivid against his dark skin. "Sir," he began, about to tell him what Gylia suggested, then deciding to try something even better. "I know where Rone is!" "Where?" the guard asked, standing straighter. The other three guards also looked on attentively. "Want part of the reward," Rone said. "Otherwise, ain't telling." "You'll tell, or I'm gonna black your eyes. Now talk," the guard said, leaning in close to Rone. The other three, including the two who were supposed to be watching the outside, gathered close. "Awright, awright," Rone said, squeezing his eyes until a tear ran down his cheek. "I'll talk, just don't hit me. He's planning on escaping the city. He's coming here." "What's he look like?" the guard asked. "No lies, now." "He's short, and has brown hair, and that's him over there!" Rone said, pointing to a small figure hurrying through the open square. The guards shouted an oath. The two from the inner gate ran toward the man Rone had pointed out, while the other two looked on. While their attention was focused inward, he slipped past them, and ran out the gate. He heard a startled oath behind him, but he knew it would take them a minute to run after him, if they even decided to. He kept to the road for a moment, then cut off, falling into a ditch then scrambling out again. Fields and trees stretched out as far as he could see. Which seemed an awfully far way. Was it normal to be able to see that far away? There was a noticeable lack of alleys to duck into, or thick crowds to lose himself in. There were people on the road, and people working the fields, but nowhere he could simply vanish. That could be a problem very shortly. He glanced behind him. There seemed to still be some commotion at the gate, but no one running yet. "What are you doing in my field?" someone yelled. Rone froze, and saw a man in a straw hat running at him. It hadn't occurred to him that people owned fields, the way they owned buildings. He figured it all belonged to the Tyrant, until you were too far away to care about him. He decided to take the halfwit approach. "S-sorry. I got c-confused," he said. The man drew up, and looked Rone up and down. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why are you all alone here?" "M'name's Hever," he said. "Gon' see m'uncle." He decided this was as good a time as any to break out Gylia's lie. It had been a good one, all things considered, and it was a shame to waste it completely. The man's face broke into sympathy. "Your uncle? Whose farm does your uncle work at? I know every landowner around here. I'll help you find him." Rone's face froze. How could the man know //everyone//? He hadn't counted on this. "At, uh, at, uh, Larn's farm," he said, giving the most common name he could think of. "Hmm. Lots of Larns around here. Where did your parents tell you to go?" asked the farmer. "East, sir," Rone said, giving the general area area the road followed. "That doesn't narrow it down much. Can't you think of anything else?" the man asked. "Not s'good at thinkin', sir." Rone was beginning to wonder if he should just make another run for it. "Hmm. Well, I can't take you around to every Larn east of here." The man seemed to struggle with a decision for a moment, and then put a kindly hand on Rone's shoulder. "All right, you need to listen to me carefully, Hever," he said, speaking slowly. "You need to go down the road. Walk until you get to the big, wooden bridge. There is a farm after it. Go there, and talk to Caswin. He'll help you. Do you understand?" "Down the road to the big wooden bridge," Rone repeated. "Talk to Caswin." "Good lad." The farmer gave him a gentle shove toward the road, and Rone was off. No one coming from the gate. They must have decided he wasn't important. He hoped it would be a good, long while before they found out how wrong they were. But now, the road was open, the sun warm, and the world was his. He hefted his bag over his shoulder and whistled as he walked. ------ ++++ Part Two The rain poured down, and Rone shivered in the tree. He'd walked about a day's travel when he was chased from the road by a pack of wild dogs. After he'd gotten away from them by swimming in a river, he'd wandered lost a couple of days before being chased by a giant lizard, which was now waiting below, and he had no idea where the road was anymore. He was wet, he was miserable, and he was pretty sure he was going to die. That was when the shouting began. At first, he thought it was another pack of wild dogs, with the howls and yipping, but there were words mixed in. Hard to understand, but he picked up "left," "right," and "closer." Kangaroos jumped through the bushes, followed closely by dogs, and then men with white-painted faces and dark red hair. They threw spears as they ran, and a kangaroo leapt into the lizard, before being caught in its massive jaws. It turned to the hunters. They scrambled to a stop, but didn't run. Instead, they formed up, those still holding spears taking point. The lizard hissed menacingly, but turned again, picked up the kangaroo, and waddled off, not willing to risk injury from the hunters. "Hey, we got a boy in the tree!" said one of the white-faces. He wore leather breeches and a simple shirt, both in mottled grey and black. Others, dressed similarly, looked up. "Strange fruit for a yook tree," another said, laughing. "Is it ripe?" asked one. "Go and smell for yourself," said another. "Oy, you in the tree, you coming down? Fangface is gone." Rone gently lowered himself to the ground, and nearly fell as his much-abused muscles protested. "Th-thanks," he said. "You're from the city," the white-face said. "You running away?" Rone nodded cautiously. The nomads sometimes traded with the city, but it was said they had little to do with the guards when possible. "Well, you'll come with us now. We saved you, you're ours now," said the white-face. "What?" Rone was caught by surprise as two of them grabbed his arm. "You have rules in the city? We have rules here. That's one. Now come. We have a long way to walk tonight." They pushed and pulled him along until they met up with other hunters. His bag with its treasures was taken from him, and freshly-cut pieces of meat, wrapped in leather, were thrust into his arms. Hunters chatted amiably around him, occasionally giving him a shove or steadying him as he tripped. He wasn't so much dragged as he was caught up in a friendly, talkative stampede. By the time they reached the camp, the rain had stopped, and the moon peeked out from above the clouds. There were conical leather tents set up all around several big fires. Orange and blue pictures decorated each tent, and bells were strung from their tops to jangle in the breeze. Older men, children, and women stared at them. Their clothing was more varied than the hunters', with reds and yellows predominant. The older men had painted faces like the hunters. The meat was taken from Rone's arms, and he collapsed to the ground. He'd never walked so much in his life. He was hauled back to his feet by the first white-face. "I am Last Man. It's been decided that you belong to me." "My name is--" Rone began, but was given a sharp rap on the head. "Your name? Your name is you, or boy, or city brat. Don't talk to me about names. You're a boy, not a man." He gestured to one of the fires. "Now, sit down, get something to eat, and then go to my family's tent. The one with the man standing alone." Rone did as he was told. The food was meat, vegetables, and roots roasted on sticks over the fire, and spiced lightly. It was delicious after a day of running. When he entered the tent, he found it already somewhat crowded with children, dogs, two hunters, and several women, including one who introduced herself as Straytaker. She fussed over him a moment in a way that reminded him of the priestesses, and then sent him to sleep on the blankets with the dogs and the other children. Rone gathered she was Last Man's wife. As he laid himself to the blankets, shoving a puppy aside, he was already thinking about how he would escape. They'd caught him when he was weak and lost. But Rone had made a fool of the Tyrant. There was no way they could stop someone as clever as him. Not for long. ------ The next day, Rone was woken up by Straytaker shaking his shoulder. She thrust a bucket into his hands and told him she needed him to get water. She spoke slowly, as though he were slow or simple. He hurried outside, and others stared at him. "Hey, city boy!" called out a girl about his age. "Where are you going?" "Getting water," he said, a trifle defensively, not liking to be called city boy. "I'll help," she said. "It's this way." "I know," he said, though he didn't. "Of course," she said, and her smile told him she wasn't fooled. Rone decided immediately that he didn't like her. "What's your name?" he asked. She stared at him for a moment, and burst out laughing. He definitely didn't like her. "I don't have a name! How old do you think I am?" "Everyone has a name," Rone said, then paused. "Don't they?" "No one gets a name until they're ready to be a man or a woman, silly. My mother's name is Third Arrow, because she shot a bandit with three arrows, and the third one killed him." She spoke as lightly as she might have talked about wearing a pretty dress, or making a nice pie. "I... see," and Last Man's earlier words made more sense to him. From her, he learned that most of the children in Last Man and Straytaker's tent weren't their own. Straytaker had only had a single son, who died soon after, and wasn't able to have anymore. So, they took in any children who had no tent to go to anymore. Ones whose parents had died, or, more frequently, had been taken from other tribes. He asked about that, and it seemed that the nomad tribes often raided each other, taking children for their own to swell their numbers. Sometimes, a tribe could be eradicated that way. Though, when that happened, it generally transpired that another tribe would split up to take over the new territory. "My father was from another tribe," she said. "He won't tell me which one, though. We're Ghost Hunters now." Rone spent a lot of time with the girl over the next few days as he learned more about the Ghost Hunters. Not that he liked her, certainly, but she was willing to talk, and he needed all the information he could get. For her part, she seemed amused by his ignorance, which annoyed him to no end. When they broke camp after the first week, she showed him how to pack up the tent leather carefully, folding it so it could be carried to the new location. Poles that were still in good shape were carried, while bad ones were discarded, to be replaced when they reached a new campsite. Not many other people were willing to spare more than a glance at Rone, and when someone did speak to him, it was usually the way Straytaker did. Kindly, but as though he were an idiot. Last Man would occasionally look him over to see if he was still in one piece. He waited until they were in the new place before he made his escape. He waited until the bustle of setting up was begun, picked up a bucket (in which he'd hidden his bag, taken from the back of Last Man's tent) as though to fetch some water, and began to walk away. He ducked behind some bushes, and was soon out of sight. He ran after that, knowing that once they discovered he was missing, they'd follow his tracks. But not too far, he was sure. One boy captive wasn't worth too much effort. Once he got far enough away, they'd give up. For a full day he ran, and it was night when he finally stopped, coming to rest in a copse of trees. He was lost, of course, but at least he was free. Then he heard someone shifting nearby. It was Last Man. He was standing not ten feet away, leaning on a walking stick, a dog beside him. He didn't look angry, or upset, or even disappointed. Simply attentive. Then he raised his stick, and the beating began. When he was done, he threw Rone over his broad shoulders and carried him back to the camp. ------ Rone tried to escape several more times, but the result was always the same. Last Man would catch him, knock him around some, and then bring him back. He was never punished further, nor did anyone say anything about it, except the girl. He became more adept at life in the camp, carrying things for the women and older men. He learned to help clean the tents, what the cooks needed, and how to take care of the bows the women were armed with in case of raids by other tribes, bandits, or monsters. His old clothes wore away, and were replaced by leather breeches and simple cloth shirts. After that, he was more easily accepted among the Ghost Hunters. He was no longer called "city boy" by anyone except the annoying girl. She still nattered away at him, though he needed her to explain things less and less as months went on. Still, he spent time with her, as much out of habit as anything else. He started playing with blunted spears with the other boys, learning to mock-fight with them, and to throw the shorter spears at targets painted on the ground or in trees. He grew taller, and broader in his chest. Soon, he was catching rabbits and lizards around the camp with the older boys. One of the older boys, whom he mentally thought of as Sharpnose, was generally regarded as the leader. Rone got along well with him, and they started making plans for mischief. They would play pranks on other boys or on the younger hunters, go places they weren't supposed to, and generally find ways to entertain themselves. Rone didn't think so much about escaping, or the city, or even how he had cheated the Tyrant. Mostly he thought about what they'd get up to the next day, or if the hunters would bring back new stories of monsters or other tribes. One day, when he had been with the tribe for several years, Rone and the annoying girl snuck out to a nearby water hole where a bunyip had made its home. They climbed a tree and watched as the hairy, scaly monster attacked anything that came too close to its pond. Suddenly, Rone glanced up, and spotted dust in the distance. He squinted, and made out men in the distance. "Hey, look over there," he said, pointing. The annoying girl shaded her eyes, and frowned. "They aren't our hunters." "Let's go," Rone said, slipping down from the tree. They ran back to the camp. Rone immediately walked up to Straytaker. "There are men coming. Not ours," he said. "You saw this?" she asked, frowning. "This isn't a joke, I swear," Rone answered. "Ask the girl." The annoying girl nodded. "They didn't have white faces, and they didn't have any dogs with them." Straytaker nodded, and then yelled for the other women. Bows were strung, arrows packed into quivers. Rone and the annoying girl were ordered to stay with the tents and protect the other children. Rone knew they were being told to stay behind so they wouldn't get in the way, but he couldn't figure out a way to get away from all the others without being seen, so he waited while the women did their work. Two hours later, the women returned, laughing and singing songs about war and rains of arrows and stones. One of the women took Rone by the hands and swung him around when he asked what happened, and then kissed him on the cheek. The annoying girl seemed strangely upset by this, though Rone wasn't sure why. She wasn't the one who was kissed on the cheek like a baby. "Clever boy! We'll have a feast tonight." It emerged that the women had hidden themselves well before the men got near, and then shot a flight of arrows into the ground in front of them. They were from the Black Swords tribe, who were usually friendly, so they hadn't been killed outright. But they'd had to give up their weapons and their finer clothes before they'd been allowed to leave. "And if any are still here when the hunters get back, they'll be mighty sorry!" the woman said, laughing. But when the hunters returned, there wasn't a sign of any of the raiders. A few of the younger warriors were sad that they wouldn't have a chance to try their spears against swords, but it was generally agreed that the women had done very well, and that Rone and the annoying girl had saved the tribe from some mischief. Even if, Last Man pointed out, they shouldn't have been at the water hole in the first place. That night, while Rone was dozing with a full belly, he was roughly pulled to his feet and hustled out of the tent before he could figure out what was happening. He stumbled forward in the dark, trying to figure out what was happening when water was thrown into his face. His bleary eyes made out the faces of the hunters. Some held sticks, some held lengths of rope, and one held a glittering knife. A gag was shoved in between his jaws, and he was forced to walk away from the campsite. When they had gone some distance, the gag was removed, and he was taken by the arms. The hunter with the knife (belatedly, he recognized him as Last Man) advanced. "Hey!" he said, and tried to back away. But the others held him, and pushed him down on the ground. The knife flashed down, and cut away at his shirt. Then at his pants, and he was left naked to the stars. The hunters permitted him to stand. Last Man whistled, and the other hunters formed two lines. "Ten times," Last Man said. "On your own two feet, to make a man. Start!" Rone was pushed into the line. As he passed each man, he was struck with a stick lashed with a length of rope. He stumbled, but made it to the end. "Nine times!" Last Man demanded. Rone stumbled back through. And again. Twice, he fell to his knees, and made to return to the start of the gauntlet. But he finally made it through the tenth and final time. Again, his arms were grabbed. But this time, it was merely to help him stand. Last Man approached, and pulled a jar from a pouch at his belt. "Ten times. To make a man. Well." He dipped two fingers into the jar and came out with something white on them, which he spread on Rone's face. When he was done, he showed Rone his face in a piece of metal. White face. Ghost Hunter. The others began to shout and clap. They gave him his grey-and-black clothes and a spear. He was slapped on the back, punched in the arms, and his bruised body complained again. But he wouldn't have traded any of those aches away. ------ He began to go out with the hunters. He was shown how to take care of his spear, and how to make a new one. His job now, though, was to run with the dogs and flush out prey for the older hunters, who would take the kill. He longed to test his spear out, but he was still much too new to be given that chance. He didn't even have a name yet. But that would come in time. Sharpnose became a hunter not long after. The two remained friends, but there was now an edge to their friendship, a competition to see who could be the better hunter, who would earn his name first. "You're just a city boy," Sharpnose said mockingly. "You'll be years before you get a name. If ever." "You're too thick in the head," Rone replied. "Unless you earn it headbutting boulders, you'll be years before you do anything clever enough for a name." They got into a shoving match, and ended up laughing in the mud until Last Man broke up their play fighting and told them to find something useful to do. The annoying girl had less time to spend with him. Straytaker had taken her aside and now she was learning to use a bow, among other womanly duties. Rone felt a certain sadness with that. He'd grown used to her. She wasn't nearly as annoying as she used to be. Still, they stole moments when they could. A few minutes at the campfire, an hour under the moon. He bragged about feats of daring during the hunt, one or two of which actually happened, while she told him who was fighting in the camp, who stole whose dinner, and other little inconsequentialities he couldn't have cared less about, except that he loved to hear about them from her. One day, he returned from the hunt, and she rushed up and put her arms around him, grinning like a maniac. "You'll never guess what's happened!" "I might," he said, pretending to be offended. "I can guess fairly well." "I have a name!" she said. "That's not how the game's played," he protested. Then it sank in. "What, already?" "Oh, and I almost died," she added. "What?" he said, his head spinning. "Oh, you don't care about that," she said. "Anyway, my name--" "I care!" he said. "It's Breaking Stone," she said, ignoring him. "Straytaker herself gave it to me. Isn't that nice?" "But how? I mean--" he started, but she was off. "Oh, it was a nice little ceremony. She and the other older women painted my belly and my breasts in ochre. I'd show you, but, well, I don't think you're //quite// ready for that." "How did you almost die?" he demanded. She sobered slightly. "There's a monster. It came near the campsite, to a tree where the children were playing with the older dogs. No one could see it, though." "It was hiding?" he asked. "No. It was out in the open, but unseen. Not even a shadow. But it killed one of the dogs, and would have gone after the children if the dogs hadn't set upon it. They couldn't see it, but they snapped at it, and we could tell where it was. I threw a stone pestle at it, and it broke against it. I don't think I hurt it seriously, but it left anyway." "We'll have to find it, kill it," Rone said, shaking. She'd been there! The monster could have taken her. "Idiot," she said fondly. "What do you imagine Straytaker is talking to Last Man about right now? Her sewing?" "If she's anything like you..." he grumbled, but took her point. The next day, Last Man took all of the hunters aside. He repeated the story annoying gi-Breaking Stone had told. "We must find it, kill it." "How did the dogs know where it was?" asked one of the hunters. "By their noses, I imagine," Last Man said. "But they weren't able to do more than annoy it." "What do we do, then? Fight blindly?" asked another. "If we must," the old man answered. "But we'll try a smarter approach first. When the dogs corner it, we'll throw mud at it. With luck, that will reveal it and we'll be able to kill it more easily. Any questions?" There were none. The hunters split into their usual groups and were off. Rone kept with his dogs while the other hunters in his group spread out. They beat their chests and stamped their feet, hoping to draw the monster towards them. Rone felt like a coward, but was secretly glad he wasn't one of the ones making the noise. Despite their efforts, though, the sun rose and fell without the slightest hint of danger. Rone began to wonder if perhaps the monster had left after all, perhaps going back where it came from to seek easier prey. They eventually packed it in, deciding that night was no time to be hunting something that was already too difficult to see. When they returned to the camp, though, they found they weren't the first group to return. There was a somber tone among the women, and the hunters looked frustrated and angry. There was a body by the main campfire. Rone gasped. It was Sharpnose, his friend. "We couldn't get it with our spears," a hunter was telling Last Man. "It moved around, and the mud was invisible as soon as it touched its body. The boy, he jumped at it, and I swear he held it for a moment before it struck him down. The dogs and our shouting drove it off before it could do more than worry the body, but it was too late." Last Man stared at the young hunter's body for a moment, and then closed the eyes. "His name is Iron Hands. We burn a true man and a true hunter tonight." Rone stood to the side as they built up a pyre, dressed Sharpnose in finer clothes, and sent him on to the next life. It didn't seem quite real. But there it was. Sharpnose would never boss anyone around again. He'd never get into mischief with Rone, or wrestle with him over a joke. It wasn't fair. In a moment, the fire was in him again. The same fire that made him steal the Tyrant's treasure. It wasn't right that Sharpnose was killed. It was time to make things right. His mind worked feverishly, and soon he came across a plan. While the others told stories of Sharpnose, Rone went from one tent to another, and began to assemble the items he needed. He realized, in a detached way, that their owners would probably be cross with him if this didn't work. Possibly even if it did. But that didn't matter, because his plan would work. He would make sure of it. ------ He waited until almost dawn, and then set out to where Sharpnose and the others had gone. He didn't know it would be there, but he had to start somewhere. He took out Sharpnose's bloody shirt, and tied it to the dog that had come out with him. He climbed into a tree, and threw a stick, which the dog chased, and brought back. Rone threw another stick. And another. They kept this up for the better part of an hour. The dog rested on occasion, but after a suitable sit-down, it was ready to fetch sticks again. It didn't know why Rone wanted it to do this, but it would add to the pile under the tree for as long as he threw them. Suddenly, the dog dropped the latest stick and growled. Rone tensed in his perch, and he heard the heavy breathing of something very large. He also heard someone else approaching from back the way of camp. The hunters! Of course they'd be coming. He had to act quickly. "Hey, ugly! Too ugly to show your face, hey? You want some meat, there's plenty in this tree. Try picking this fruit!" he yelled, shaking the branches. There was a growling as something charged the tree. The dog held its ground until it was kicked aside, casually. It fell, but was on its feet again in a minute, snapping at something, but not quite finding it. The tree shook as something hit it. It was big! Far bigger than Rone had realized. The branches were bending aside as whatever it was reached for him. He almost dropped to the other side to run, but remembered Sharpnose's face on the pyre, and steeled his heart. He pulled a bundle from his bag and dropped it. It had taken him the better part of the night to make this net. It wasn't a very good net, at that. It was irregular, with holes of varying sizes and a loose weave. But all that mattered was that it would catch on the creature... and that it would keep the bells from the tents on it. The net vanished as it landed, but he could hear the bells shaking. Now he jumped to the other side and began running towards the hunters. He saw them emerge into the clearing as a crashing sound indicated the monster had left the tree. "The bells!" he shouted. "Throw at the bells!" They stared at him like he was mad, and he thought for a moment that all was lost. Then Last Man stepped forward. He cocked his head, listened as the jangling crashing came closer, and then threw his spear. It landed, vanished, and there was a roar to tell it hit its mark. The other hunters belatedly released their own throwing spears, and then readied their long spears, advancing on the creature. It tried to escape again, but now it was slowed down by the injuries it was already taken, and they could hear exactly where it was. They thrust into it again and again, and it fell to the ground. Still they kept stabbing, until they were sure it was dead. Then they built a fire around it and burned the body to invisible ashes. ------ "So, hunter," Last Man said later. "You are certainly a man now. You've paid us back for your life. What will you do now?" Rone thought for a moment, and said, "I am a Ghost Hunter. But... I would also like to see more of the world before I settle down." [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=beller.jpg\|caption="Your name," the old hunter intoned slowly, "is Beller." //Artwork by [http://angusmcleod.deviantart.com/ Angus McLeod]//]] "More of the world? What more is there to see?" Last Man asked. "More monsters," he said. "More people. I have been in the city, I have been with the tribe. But what about other cities? Other tribes? I would like to see if there are other Wonders I might find. And maybe more things I might bring back." Last Man whistled. "Those are mighty big ambitions. Don't you think you overreach yourself?" "I have always overreached," Rone said, grinning. "It's how I got such long arms." "Are you sure you'll be coming back?" Last Man asked. Rone looked to the fire, where Breaking Stone sat laughing with the other women. "I'm sure. As often as my feet will bring me." Last Man smiled. "Come back with treasures. Come back with honor. But mostly, come back with stories. She will appreciate those most of all." "I will. Thank you, Last Man," Rone said. "Oh, and city boy?" Last Man said. "Y-yes?" Rone asked hesitantly. No one but Sharpnose and the annoying girl had called him that in years. "Your name," the old hunter intoned slowly, "is Beller." ~~~~~ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: beller.jpg > Author: Angus McLeod > License: CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/those-you-leave-behind SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-09-09T04:05:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "bellerverse", "tale" ]	Those You Leave Behind - SCP Foundation	171	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "bellerverse" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/those-you-leave-behind/beller.jpg" ]	19727655	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/those-you-leave-behind
though-i-walk-through-the-valley	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 20, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>This is the bitterest winter I can recall. I fear that I will not be able to make it back through the pass before the snows close it. I can still turn back; Redmont is four days behind me. But if I do, I will not reach Rachel and Abe until the thaw. I have supplies for the journey, and the mule is sturdy. I will press on.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 21, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>The snow has started in earnest. I don’t know if the pass will still be open. It would be incautious to try it at this point. There should be a way to the south, but that passes near an area declared blighted by the Holy Foundation. I don’t always trust them on that sort of thing. Most times I’ve had to ignore their warnings, any peril has long since rusted, decayed, or departed. They are nothing if not cautious. I do not have that luxury. I will take the southern road. I’ve known it to be traveled without incident, but never the mountain road after winter strikes. I’d rather skirt a forgotten and (Jack willing) absent menace than face the certainty of an icy death.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 23, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>The road is in poor condition, but I’m making good time, I think. This takes me between rather than over the mountains. I should have ample supplies, even if the weather does delay me. I should be a three to five day journey from Gargestown, and from there, it’s only the highways back to New Sant.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 24, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I seem to have entered the region the Foundation Fathers warned of. I am safe, and I see no obvious dangers, but this is a terrible place. There is no life here, nor signs that there ever was. No pikas scurry away as I ride past, no trees jut up from the ground. Even the snow does not cling to the ground here, which is warm to the touch. In the silence, I can hear a distant rumbling noise, and I see an immense shadow looming over the mountains to the east. I do not know what it is, but I will not breathe easy until I pass beyond its still and oppressive presence. Those mountains are similarly scoured of snow and life. To the west and north, the snow fields start again. The road still heads south, and I can only hope I will leave this dead land soon. Should tragedy befall me during the night, and this diary is ever found, then let be known that I loved my dear wife Rachel Arnold and our child Abraham Arnold more than life itself.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 25, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>Last night passed without incident, although also without much sleep. The barrenness grows no less unsettling with continued exposure. Fortunately, I believe I see the reflection of snow in the distance, and I should make it past this blighted land tomorrow. But I found two curious things along the road. Manuscripts: one a single sheet of vellum, the other a bound book written in the language of the ancients. Though the book would likely fetch an impressive price, I left it. I’ve seen enough to know better than to disturb anything in a place like this. I could read the paper, and have here transcribed the message: “Traveler, fear not. Accept salvation, no matter the form. I was once as you are.” A rather ominous message, but it is too late at night, and the mule is too tired, to carry on to the snowline. Once again, I give all my love to Rachel and Abe.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 26, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>The mule is gone. I don’t know what happened, but I woke up and it wasn’t there. I imagine I would have been woken by a struggle. There were patches of fur and and what might have been blood on the ground. I don’t know why I wasn’t taken. Perhaps a mule is meal enough for whatever malevolence dwells here. The supplies were also left untouched. I will proceed on foot for as long as I am able. I am so sorry. I only wanted to see you sooner.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 27, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I have reached the edge of the snowline and I fear my journey may become somewhat harder now. I had not appreciated the amount of snow that fell during my passage through this cursed land. I will make camp here one final night, then set out for what will likely be the final stage of my journey.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 28, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>O horrors! Whatever the true nature of that place, it was worse than I had feared. The mule returned. I awoke to find a figure near the edge of my camp. It was unmistakably the mule, but terribly, grotesquely altered. It stood on two legs, with cylindrical devices supporting it in a mockery of human stature. Metal bands held its torso in a state that its ribs ought to have rendered impossible. Whatever did this must have removed those ribs, as the hide around the bands looked torn and matted with blood. There was a reddish light glowing from inside its collapsed chest. And its face! The long ears were snipped off, and its muzzle itself had been removed and replaced with a polished metal plate. The thing that had once been my trusty mule was no longer. I ran. Off into the snow, carrying only what I had brought with me. It is cold, and I do not expect to make it, but there are things I fear more than death. Worst of all was the way it looked at me. I expected pain, the pleading gaze animals assume as death becomes a mercy. But it had a tenderness in its eyes like I have only ever seen in yours, Rachel.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Jarnary 29, 708</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>It is very cold. I do not have much food. I am beyond the reach of that dead and barren land, but I have emerged into another. The snowfields stretch as far the eye can see in all directions. I will travel as far as I can.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>Jarnary 29, 708</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I have to stop just for a minute. The only thing but snow is my tracks behind me. The world is white and there is no sound.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>Jarnary 30</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I can’t feel the cold. Is that bad? It’s gray now. I also can’t smell anything, unless snow smells like nothing. There’s nothing here.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>Jarnary 31?</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>Abe, was that you I saw climbing the mountain in the distance? For shame, boy, not helping your father move faster through the gray land. I will continue as far as I am able. I smell the nothing. It is all around me.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>32?</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I had to stop again and, I ran into the cold again. I asked it for my eyes back but it said no. I think I didn’t ask it very nicely, because it said it would have my leg too for impudence. I don’t think that’s very fair. I’ve given seeing hearing smelling tasting to the gray nothing. I want feeling for me.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>33</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>Now cut that out! You know I love you, so accept my help. I've made everything just the way you like it. So come to me, Abe, and I'll keep you safe like any father ought to do. You're a great son, boy. You'll do me proud. If I could walk over to you up in the sky it would be fine. But the nothing tells me I may not walk that path.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>34</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I have to stop for just a minute.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p>Febry 2?</p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>I do not know how long I was gone for, nor how close to death I came. I did not escape unscathed — far from it. It is hard to grip the pen, and my right leg does not feel to the touch like a leg should. I have not yet tried to put my weight on it, but I do not have high hopes. The greater issue, however, is what my fate will be. My rescuer was the thing that was once my mule. I have been returned to the blighted land. It stands before me, as horrible as before, looking at me with that same awful kindness. And it appears to be offering me food.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>Gruel, but surprisingly appetizing. Or perhaps that is simply hunger speaking. Why was I saved? Was it some lingering loyalty from my pack animal of four years? Or is whatever rules this place saving me for some more sinister agenda? For some reason, my wagon is nearby, standing just inside the snowline. More figures are approaching. I cannot quite tell from this distance, but they do not look human.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>One is a butchered elk, resembling the once-mule. Another appears more metal than flesh; I do not know what it once was. The last appears to be a mass of several dozen ground squirrels, grafted together by silvery bands into a crude simulacrum of the human form. It is hard to look at without a wrench of nausea. Between them they bear a palanquin. They stop a short distance away, and my rescuer gestures between the cart and the palanquin, then between the snow fields to the south and the mountains to the east. It is a choice. I can either brave the snowfields once more or allow these things to bear me to their hidden master. Forgive me, Rachel. You cannot imagine what it was like out there. I cannot face the gray nothing again.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"> <div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>We have just reached the summit of this barren mountain, and I can see clearly what loomed over them. It is a tower, a massive, gleaming tower stretching higher than I can believe. Around the base, there is a forge-glow. I do not know what these things intend, but I fear I may have chosen poorly. The palanquin has begun its descent into this hellish valley. If I am able, I will continue to relate what may befall me within.</p> </div> </div> <div class="hfbookcontainerRight"> <div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"> <p><strong>Day One</strong></p> </div> <div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"> <p>It is marvelous up here. I can see for miles, and the air is so clear and brisk. And when I have my fill of the vista, I can walk down inside the Tower to join the others of the Honored. No sleep-stalkers, no dybbuks, no fleshsmiths can threaten me here. The cold of this winter can do me no harm. I will not starve, I will not parch, I will not want for anything. There is no trick, there is no hidden peril. Push past the appearance of the Servants. Accept salvation, no matter the form. Come join me, my family. I cast my testament to the winds, in the hopes that it will reach you. I love you, <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-962">and so does the Tower.</a></p> </div> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/though-i-walk-through-the-valley">Though I Walk Through the Valley</a>" by Anaxagoras, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/though-i-walk-through-the-valley">https://scpwiki.com/though-i-walk-through-the-valley</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[module css]] @font-face { font-family: 'alegreyaregular'; src: 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width: 550px; height: auto; overflow: visible; padding: 0px; margin: 0px; margin-top: 0px; } .hfbooktopRight { display: inline-block; font-family: alegreyaregular; font-size: 1.21em; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px; width: auto; height: 30px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 00px; } @media only screen and (max-width: 950px) { .hfbookcontainerLeft { background-image: url("https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/component%3Ahf-left/Herman-Fuller-book-page-left2.png"); background-size: 100%; background-repeat: repeat; width: 100%; height: auto; padding: 0px; padding-top: 7px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 0px; } .hfbookcontentLeft { font-size: 11pt; width: 85%; height: auto; padding: 0% 5% 0% 5%; } .hfbooktopLeft { font-size: 1.01em; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; padding: 0% 0% 0% 5%; text-align: left; width: auto; height: 30px; display: inline-block; font-family: alegreyaregular; } .hfbookcontainerRight { background-image: url("https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/component:hf-right/Herman-Fuller-book-page-right-loop.png"); background-size: 100%; background-repeat: repeat; width: 100%; height: auto; padding: 7px 5px 0px 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 0px; } .hfbookcontentRight { font-size: 11pt; width: 85%; height: auto; padding: 0% 5% 0% 10%; } .hfbooktopRight { display: none; } } [[/module]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 20, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] This is the bitterest winter I can recall. I fear that I will not be able to make it back through the pass before the snows close it. I can still turn back; Redmont is four days behind me. But if I do, I will not reach Rachel and Abe until the thaw. I have supplies for the journey, and the mule is sturdy. I will press on. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 21, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] The snow has started in earnest. I don’t know if the pass will still be open. It would be incautious to try it at this point. There should be a way to the south, but that passes near an area declared blighted by the Holy Foundation. I don’t always trust them on that sort of thing. Most times I’ve had to ignore their warnings, any peril has long since rusted, decayed, or departed. They are nothing if not cautious. I do not have that luxury. I will take the southern road. I’ve known it to be traveled without incident, but never the mountain road after winter strikes. I’d rather skirt a forgotten and (Jack willing) absent menace than face the certainty of an icy death. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 23, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] The road is in poor condition, but I’m making good time, I think. This takes me between rather than over the mountains. I should have ample supplies, even if the weather does delay me. I should be a three to five day journey from Gargestown, and from there, it’s only the highways back to New Sant. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 24, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I seem to have entered the region the Foundation Fathers warned of. I am safe, and I see no obvious dangers, but this is a terrible place. There is no life here, nor signs that there ever was. No pikas scurry away as I ride past, no trees jut up from the ground. Even the snow does not cling to the ground here, which is warm to the touch. In the silence, I can hear a distant rumbling noise, and I see an immense shadow looming over the mountains to the east. I do not know what it is, but I will not breathe easy until I pass beyond its still and oppressive presence. Those mountains are similarly scoured of snow and life. To the west and north, the snow fields start again. The road still heads south, and I can only hope I will leave this dead land soon. Should tragedy befall me during the night, and this diary is ever found, then let be known that I loved my dear wife Rachel Arnold and our child Abraham Arnold more than life itself. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 25, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] Last night passed without incident, although also without much sleep. The barrenness grows no less unsettling with continued exposure. Fortunately, I believe I see the reflection of snow in the distance, and I should make it past this blighted land tomorrow. But I found two curious things along the road. Manuscripts: one a single sheet of vellum, the other a bound book written in the language of the ancients. Though the book would likely fetch an impressive price, I left it. I’ve seen enough to know better than to disturb anything in a place like this. I could read the paper, and have here transcribed the message: “Traveler, fear not. Accept salvation, no matter the form. I was once as you are.” A rather ominous message, but it is too late at night, and the mule is too tired, to carry on to the snowline. Once again, I give all my love to Rachel and Abe. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 26, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] The mule is gone. I don’t know what happened, but I woke up and it wasn’t there. I imagine I would have been woken by a struggle. There were patches of fur and and what might have been blood on the ground. I don’t know why I wasn’t taken. Perhaps a mule is meal enough for whatever malevolence dwells here. The supplies were also left untouched. I will proceed on foot for as long as I am able. I am so sorry. I only wanted to see you sooner. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 27, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I have reached the edge of the snowline and I fear my journey may become somewhat harder now. I had not appreciated the amount of snow that fell during my passage through this cursed land. I will make camp here one final night, then set out for what will likely be the final stage of my journey. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 28, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] O horrors! Whatever the true nature of that place, it was worse than I had feared. The mule returned. I awoke to find a figure near the edge of my camp. It was unmistakably the mule, but terribly, grotesquely altered. It stood on two legs, with cylindrical devices supporting it in a mockery of human stature. Metal bands held its torso in a state that its ribs ought to have rendered impossible. Whatever did this must have removed those ribs, as the hide around the bands looked torn and matted with blood. There was a reddish light glowing from inside its collapsed chest. And its face! The long ears were snipped off, and its muzzle itself had been removed and replaced with a polished metal plate. The thing that had once been my trusty mule was no longer. I ran. Off into the snow, carrying only what I had brought with me. It is cold, and I do not expect to make it, but there are things I fear more than death. Worst of all was the way it looked at me. I expected pain, the pleading gaze animals assume as death becomes a mercy. But it had a tenderness in its eyes like I have only ever seen in yours, Rachel. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 29, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] It is very cold. I do not have much food. I am beyond the reach of that dead and barren land, but I have emerged into another. The snowfields stretch as far the eye can see in all directions. I will travel as far as I can. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 29, 708 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I have to stop just for a minute. The only thing but snow is my tracks behind me. The world is white and there is no sound. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 30 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I can’t feel the cold. Is that bad? It’s gray now. I also can’t smell anything, unless snow smells like nothing. There’s nothing here. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Jarnary 31? [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] Abe, was that you I saw climbing the mountain in the distance? For shame, boy, not helping your father move faster through the gray land. I will continue as far as I am able. I smell the nothing. It is all around me. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] 32? [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I had to stop again and, I ran into the cold again. I asked it for my eyes back but it said no. I think I didn’t ask it very nicely, because it said it would have my leg too for impudence. I don’t think that’s very fair. I’ve given seeing hearing smelling tasting to the gray nothing. I want feeling for me. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] 33 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] Now cut that out! You know I love you, so accept my help. I've made everything just the way you like it. So come to me, Abe, and I'll keep you safe like any father ought to do. You're a great son, boy. You'll do me proud. If I could walk over to you up in the sky it would be fine. But the nothing tells me I may not walk that path. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbooktopLeft" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] 34 [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I have to stop for just a minute. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Febry 2? [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] I do not know how long I was gone for, nor how close to death I came. I did not escape unscathed — far from it. It is hard to grip the pen, and my right leg does not feel to the touch like a leg should. I have not yet tried to put my weight on it, but I do not have high hopes. The greater issue, however, is what my fate will be. My rescuer was the thing that was once my mule. I have been returned to the blighted land. It stands before me, as horrible as before, looking at me with that same awful kindness. And it appears to be offering me food. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] Gruel, but surprisingly appetizing. Or perhaps that is simply hunger speaking. Why was I saved? Was it some lingering loyalty from my pack animal of four years? Or is whatever rules this place saving me for some more sinister agenda? For some reason, my wagon is nearby, standing just inside the snowline. More figures are approaching. I cannot quite tell from this distance, but they do not look human. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] One is a butchered elk, resembling the once-mule. Another appears more metal than flesh; I do not know what it once was. The last appears to be a mass of several dozen ground squirrels, grafted together by silvery bands into a crude simulacrum of the human form. It is hard to look at without a wrench of nausea. Between them they bear a palanquin. They stop a short distance away, and my rescuer gestures between the cart and the palanquin, then between the snow fields to the south and the mountains to the east. It is a choice. I can either brave the snowfields once more or allow these things to bear me to their hidden master. Forgive me, Rachel. You cannot imagine what it was like out there. I cannot face the gray nothing again. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerLeft"]] [[div class="hfbookcontentLeft" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] We have just reached the summit of this barren mountain, and I can see clearly what loomed over them. It is a tower, a massive, gleaming tower stretching higher than I can believe. Around the base, there is a forge-glow. I do not know what these things intend, but I fear I may have chosen poorly. The palanquin has begun its descent into this hellish valley. If I am able, I will continue to relate what may befall me within. [[/div]] [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontainerRight"]] [[div class="hfbooktopRight" style="font-family: 'Dancing Script', cursive;"]] Day One [[/div]] [[div class="hfbookcontentRight" style="font-family: 'Gochi Hand', cursive;"]] It is marvelous up here. I can see for miles, and the air is so clear and brisk. And when I have my fill of the vista, I can walk down inside the Tower to join the others of the Honored. No sleep-stalkers, no dybbuks, no fleshsmiths can threaten me here. The cold of this winter can do me no harm. I will not starve, I will not parch, I will not want for anything. There is no trick, there is no hidden peril. Push past the appearance of the Servants. Accept salvation, no matter the form. Come join me, my family. I cast my testament to the winds, in the hopes that it will reach you. I love you, [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-962 and so does the Tower.] [[/div]] [[/div]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-27T20:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "doctors-of-the-church", "first-person", "journal", "nyc2013", "post-apocalyptic", "tale" ]	Though I Walk Through the Valley - SCP Foundation	153	[ "scp-962", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "doctors-of-the-church-hub" ]	[]	16214991	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/though-i-walk-through-the-valley
three-sleepless-nights	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Barcode splashed cold water across her face, well aware that it had been seventy-two hours and three minutes since she had last been asleep and that sleep would not come for another seventeen hours. She looked up into the mirror: The young woman who looked back, with the round face and short-cropped hair all dyed up, and the bare arms sleeved with tattoos of I Ching hexagrams, looked unfamiliar in a way. She recognized that it was herself, but the image felt disconnected. Like a photo that she couldn’t remember taking.</p> <p>She’d need to get her dye touched up, she noted: the black roots were showing beneath the orange and white. The circles under her eyes were exceptionally dark, almost black, as they always were towards the end of her waking cycle. Her senses were dulled to the point where the world around her consisted of a blurry blank vastness, viewed through clouded, rippled glass.</p> <p>And yet…</p> <p>She flicked open her foldable toothbrush and squeezed a glob of blueish goop onto it.</p> <p>And yet the world exploded with color and noise around her like a demented scrapbook. Each object, the sink, the faucet, the soap dispenser, the toothbrush, her hands, was outlined in its shadows a thousand days hence, and bathed in colors that had no wavelength, and twisted around in more dimensions than it ought. She saw things from all sides and none, things that existed and did not. She saw it all, all at once, if she looked the right way.</p> <p>If she looked in the mirror at the right angle and let her eyes go unfocused just the right amount, she could make out a blood-red bobbit worm with a thousand rippling legs, curled around her neck.</p> <p>“Morning, sunshine,” it said in a velvety voice with some indiscernible Slavic accent curling around the edges of its fleshy mandibles.</p> <p>“Go home, Vinnie,” Barcode said through the toothpaste foam. “You aren’t real.”</p> <p>“Aw, don’t be like that.” The worm skittered around her shoulders, undulating rhythmically. “I'm plenty real, and you're hurting my feelings.”</p> <p>“You’re a figment of my imagination.”</p> <p>“You’re no fun anymore.”</p> <p>Barcode spat into the sink. Drink, swish, spit, drink, swish, spit.</p> <p>“I was never fun, Vinnie.”</p> <p>She rose from the sink, put her toothbrush and toothpaste into the pocket of her pajama pants, and brushed at her shoulder where there was no worm.</p> <p>The young woman named Barcode, of the Esoteric Warfare Unit’s fourth squad, trundled out of the bathroom, her bare feet brushing against the cool, cracked tiles.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“So I says to the guy, I says ‘Do you want to see some real operating?’ and I show him Bessie like <em>this</em>, and he looks about ready to shit himself and… BC, are you sleeping on the job?”</p> <p>Barcode half-heartedly flipped off the dark, shriveled husk of a man sitting there on the low concrete wall. Ramses. Fitting name. Brought a plague on every house he entered. That, and he looked like he crawled right out of the Valley of the Kings.</p> <p>He actually <em>had</em> crawled out of the Valley of the Kings, though the exact details changed with every telling.</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“You look like a walking corpse.” Ramses twirled his favored razor around in his fingers.</p> <p>Barcode didn’t dignify that with a response.</p> <p>The other man sitting on the wall looked like someone had stapled a face and a brain to a flank steak off of a rhinoceros. This was Whalebone. His fingers were as thick as her wrist.</p> <p>“Morning, Barcode. Heading home today.”</p> <p>“And leave when we get there.” Ramses flicked his straight razor closed and slipped it back into his pocket. “About fucking time.”</p> <p>“Heh heh heh, yeah, we could all use the relaxation. What are you gonna do, Bar?”</p> <p>“Sleep. Shower.”</p> <p>“You'll sleep through all good things in life if you keep this up, BC.”</p> <p>“That explains why I’m stuck listening to you.”</p> <p>Whalebone laughed, and it sounded like a hippopotamus with a respiratory infection.</p> <p>“Too bad we can’t have our leave here.” He nodded out towards the beach and ocean. “Home is probably frozen solid by now.”</p> <p>That it was. Snow and ice back home, rather than tropical salt breezes and bright flowers and five suns and a crumbling Nazi bunker. The last bit wasn’t particularly nice to look at, but it did contribute to the overall atmosphere in ways that Barcode could not adequately describe now. She could, however, see a few burning towers of screaming goat skulls, an erotic carrot hive-mind, some micro-zeppelins with sloth faces, and aborted spoons in the background, none of which existed.</p> <p>They had found a flag when they first got there. Kramer cut it up and used it as toilet paper. Said the chafing was worth it.</p> <p>“Long story short, the guy got fucked over.” Ramses continued whatever story he was telling before. “And I look down and lo and behold, he had no legs. Nothing below the waist. I look down at him and I say, I say ‘see, you should have listened to me, never trust lactating clowns’, and then I cut his throat. Common decency was at stake.”</p> <p>Barcode ignored their talking: the words went around her like so many three-eyed salmon.</p> <p>She felt a twinge in her head, something pulling down at the edge of her stretched tarp-consciousness. Something out by the ocean, fluctuating the Field, bobbing up and down. Irregular. Like a lead weight dropped on a sheet of rubber.</p> <p><em>hey kramer im picking up something on the water</em></p> <p>ANY IDEA WHAT IT IS?</p> <p>The words tasted yellow in her head. A gaunt, looming yellow.</p> <p><em>no idea going to run down and check it out</em></p> <p>RIGHT, I’LL TELL MACNUGGET</p> <p>Barcode wandered out of the bunker and down the wooden scaffolding that led to the beach. The thumping in her head grew more intense, louder without sound. Muskrat liches scattered as she passed. There were weird things out in the water, probably just some big dumb thing messing up the local Field…</p> <p>She was on the beach, sand in her toes. The Thing, whatever it was, was drawing closer. And it was big. Her mind brushed against its presence, like a swimmer brushing a foot against a boulder they could not see to its full extent. She couldn’t see anything with her eyes, but she could feel it there, swimming off the coast. Maybe a few hundred yards out and approaching.</p> <p>A spout of water erupted from the waves, and a sharp lance of panic stabbed through the blurriness in Barcode’s mind.</p> <p>“WHALE!” she screamed with voice and mind, drawing the Field around her close.</p> <p>The mist and spray fell back to the ocean as a wide, bloody gulf opened up in the sky. Wisps of damned souls shrieked as they poured out of the gaping hole and swirled about in the pooling black clouds. The thumping became an all-out assault against Barcode’s mind, coiling and prying and trying to find an opening in the Field. The waves broke as a great humped back rose above the water, grey and red and speckled with the fleshy, screaming faces of its old, eternally tortured meals. A massive wedge-shaped head, encrusted with barnacles and sea lice, opened up its mouth and roared.</p> <p>The air rippled and tore, and whatever mild local gods inhabited that place collectively shat themselves.</p> <p>Barcode found herself rooted where she stood, immobile. The fear that sprung up sublimated on contact with her mind, burning away the blurriness and leaving cold, strangely logical thought behind.</p> <p>There was a Whale. There was a God-damned Whale maybe a hundred yards away from her. There was a dog-fucking God-damned Whale that knew she was there. There was a shit-licking dog-fucking God-damned Whale here right when they were going to head back to Baseline. There was a cunt-chafing shit-licking dog-fucking God-damned Whale here and she couldn’t move because sparing any neurons from maintaining her shield would let the Whale into her head and reduce her mind to a fine slurry. She could feel its gigantic, salt-rimed eyes already peering down at her soul, like a king looking at a worm in his apple, trying to crack it open.</p> <p>A mass of golden fire screamed over her head from behind, hitting the Whale in the shoulder, cascading off in sheets of flame. The pressure on Barcode’s mind lifted just enough that she would allow herself to move, allow herself to run. More fireballs launched overhead.</p> <p><em>kramer is there a plan</em></p> <p>ARE YOU UP FOR A SOULSHOT?</p> <p><em>do we have a choice</em></p> <p>NOT UNLESS YOU WANT THIS THING TO GAIN THE ADVANTAGE. KILL IT IN FIVE MINUTES OR FIVE MONTHS YOU KNOW HOW IT IS.</p> <p><em>right ill do it</em></p> <p>WHALEBONE’S BRINGING YOU A CADABRA.</p> <p>The fireblasts were now accompanied by the booming thumps of a cannon. That’d be Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The Whale roared again, though in irritation rather than pain. Barcode didn’t have to look to know that the full extent of the barrage was maybe a little bit of temporary discoloration of the skin. It would be in the shallows now, reaching the shoreline.</p> <p>She was at the cliff, at the base of the scaffolding. She looked up to see Whalebone jump off from the top and plummet to the beach. The slight form of Spleeny rocketed off of the cliff face, striding towards the Whale on six legs of braided barbed cables.</p> <p>“Catch!” he tossed her a gun, a sleek grey thing on a shoulder strap. Red runes were painted along its length.</p> <p>“Get me up there!”</p> <p>Whalebone grabbed her around the waist with both hands. His skin rippled with the silhouette of his elasmotherium totem.</p> <p>“Can you keep yourself stable?”</p> <p>“Yeah.”</p> <p>“Right then. Alley-oop!”</p> <p>He threw her at the Whale.</p> <p>Barcode nudged herself just enough to keep herself stable as she flew, wind howling around her. She had precious little mind to spare outside. Everything she could afford had to be directed at the Whale.</p> <p>Her mind hit the Whale’s like a jet hitting a wall. If it had been big before, now it was monolithic, a singularity of hate corrupted by the static of the ghosts that swam in the air around it and the souls roiling in its gut.</p> <p>Below, Spleeny lashed at the Whale with her barbed cables and spears of her own blood, whisking around it. A scarlet lance lodged itself in its eye, and for a moment there was a crack in its mind before it healed from its injury. Barcode squeezed through, and began assaulting the Whale’s mind. Not to damage it permanent, just enough to make it recoil, just enough.</p> <p>For all of this, Barcode was in the air for six seconds. She landed where the neck met the hump. She shaped the Field around her hands and feet to maintain her grip and continued hacking at the Whale’s mind. Cannon shots and fireballs continued to barrage it as Spleeny continued to circle and lash.</p> <p>The pain in her head was indescribable, like getting eaten alive inside her own skull. She could dimly feel a dribble of blood running down her lip. She aimed the Cadabra, pressing the barrel right against the Whale’s smooth grey skin.</p> <p>Within the burning pain that surrounded her in the Whale’s mind, she could hear its voice and understand its tongue.</p> <h1 id="toc0"><span><strong>Maggot [rot, scum, decay] infesting the fruit of the Tree / slave to knowledge [ignorance and false teachings] impotent / die a thousand/million/billion deaths [forever] undying / disgust-abomination wracked in/by/with filth</strong></span></h1> <p>Barcode was assaulted by a flood of new pain, human pain, the mindful-mindless anguish of a thousand souls driven beyond madness, stripped of the very capabilities of sapient thought. They swirled around her, and she could feel herself drifting off to join them in their unthinking chorus.</p> <p>No. Not today.</p> <p>She pushed through the well of spirits, their claws tearing at her, to reach the core of the Whale’s mind. It was unfittingly frail under her presence, a husk that felt as if it would collapse at her touch. But it did not collapse.</p> <p>She struck at it, and pain shot through her. Again, again, again…</p> <p>There! It recoiled!</p> <p>Barcode screamed, blood pouring from her eyes and ears and nose and mouth, her mind writhing in pain she had no comprehension of, and pushed one last time against the Whale’s consciousness, driving it back upon itself for the briefest moment, letting it coalesce into a tiny, shriveled, pitiable shell of a mind and soul for a fleeting second.</p> <p>Right under the barrel of her gun.</p> <p>She pulled the trigger. A crackling stream of concentrated thaumic energy cut through the Whale’s flesh like a white-hot needle boring through a fingernail, cutting down into the water, into the sand, down to the bedrock. Molten meat splashed across the beach and water boiled off into clouds of steam as the Whale buckled and collapsed. The open sore in the sky wavered and collapsed upon itself, as the wailing of lost souls faded.</p> <p>The Whale steamed and smoked and was still. They had killed it before it had gotten out of the water. Barcode slowly made her way down the carcass. Her arms and legs trembled.</p> <p>Upon reaching the sand, she walked a short distance, and collapsed. She was dimly aware of Spleeny and Whalebone approaching her.</p> <p>With a grunt, with her last bit of energy, she rolled onto her back, lay there spread-eagle, and laughed. She laughed until her stomach hurt and her lungs ached and tears dripped down her cheeks. She laughed because she had to, because she would die if she didn’t.</p> <p>When the laughing died down, she could hear the faint scuttling of a thousand legs in the sand behind her head.</p> <p>“Cuddle?”</p> <p>“Fuck off, Vinnie.”</p> <p>—</p> <blockquote> <p>This was the closest one to Baseline we've seen so far. They're becoming more active, and we're running out of time. For every successful execution like this, there is one that drags on for months. The Department of Extra-Universal Affairs has closed off the portal and banned any return trips, though will keep an eye out for any activity from that side.</p> <p>That said, pass on congratulations to the men and women of squads 4 and 5. They're earned their leave.</p> <p>- <strong>Colonel Manu Avninder, Esoteric Warfare Unit</strong></p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/three-sleepless-nights">Three Sleepless Nights</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/three-sleepless-nights">https://scpwiki.com/three-sleepless-nights</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Barcode splashed cold water across her face, well aware that it had been seventy-two hours and three minutes since she had last been asleep and that sleep would not come for another seventeen hours. She looked up into the mirror: The young woman who looked back, with the round face and short-cropped hair all dyed up, and the bare arms sleeved with tattoos of I Ching hexagrams, looked unfamiliar in a way. She recognized that it was herself, but the image felt disconnected. Like a photo that she couldn’t remember taking. She’d need to get her dye touched up, she noted: the black roots were showing beneath the orange and white. The circles under her eyes were exceptionally dark, almost black, as they always were towards the end of her waking cycle. Her senses were dulled to the point where the world around her consisted of a blurry blank vastness, viewed through clouded, rippled glass. And yet… She flicked open her foldable toothbrush and squeezed a glob of blueish goop onto it. And yet the world exploded with color and noise around her like a demented scrapbook. Each object, the sink, the faucet, the soap dispenser, the toothbrush, her hands, was outlined in its shadows a thousand days hence, and bathed in colors that had no wavelength, and twisted around in more dimensions than it ought. She saw things from all sides and none, things that existed and did not. She saw it all, all at once, if she looked the right way. If she looked in the mirror at the right angle and let her eyes go unfocused just the right amount, she could make out a blood-red bobbit worm with a thousand rippling legs, curled around her neck. “Morning, sunshine,” it said in a velvety voice with some indiscernible Slavic accent curling around the edges of its fleshy mandibles. “Go home, Vinnie,” Barcode said through the toothpaste foam. “You aren’t real.” “Aw, don’t be like that.” The worm skittered around her shoulders, undulating rhythmically. “I'm plenty real, and you're hurting my feelings.” “You’re a figment of my imagination.” “You’re no fun anymore.” Barcode spat into the sink. Drink, swish, spit, drink, swish, spit. “I was never fun, Vinnie.” She rose from the sink, put her toothbrush and toothpaste into the pocket of her pajama pants, and brushed at her shoulder where there was no worm. The young woman named Barcode, of the Esoteric Warfare Unit’s fourth squad, trundled out of the bathroom, her bare feet brushing against the cool, cracked tiles. -- “So I says to the guy, I says ‘Do you want to see some real operating?’ and I show him Bessie like //this//, and he looks about ready to shit himself and… BC, are you sleeping on the job?” Barcode half-heartedly flipped off the dark, shriveled husk of a man sitting there on the low concrete wall. Ramses. Fitting name. Brought a plague on every house he entered. That, and he looked like he crawled right out of the Valley of the Kings. He actually //had// crawled out of the Valley of the Kings, though the exact details changed with every telling. “No.” “You look like a walking corpse.” Ramses twirled his favored razor around in his fingers. Barcode didn’t dignify that with a response. The other man sitting on the wall looked like someone had stapled a face and a brain to a flank steak off of a rhinoceros. This was Whalebone. His fingers were as thick as her wrist. “Morning, Barcode. Heading home today.” “And leave when we get there.” Ramses flicked his straight razor closed and slipped it back into his pocket. “About fucking time.” “Heh heh heh, yeah, we could all use the relaxation. What are you gonna do, Bar?” “Sleep. Shower.” “You'll sleep through all good things in life if you keep this up, BC.” “That explains why I’m stuck listening to you.” Whalebone laughed, and it sounded like a hippopotamus with a respiratory infection. “Too bad we can’t have our leave here.” He nodded out towards the beach and ocean. “Home is probably frozen solid by now.” That it was. Snow and ice back home, rather than tropical salt breezes and bright flowers and five suns and a crumbling Nazi bunker. The last bit wasn’t particularly nice to look at, but it did contribute to the overall atmosphere in ways that Barcode could not adequately describe now. She could, however, see a few burning towers of screaming goat skulls, an erotic carrot hive-mind, some micro-zeppelins with sloth faces, and aborted spoons in the background, none of which existed. They had found a flag when they first got there. Kramer cut it up and used it as toilet paper. Said the chafing was worth it. “Long story short, the guy got fucked over.” Ramses continued whatever story he was telling before. “And I look down and lo and behold, he had no legs. Nothing below the waist. I look down at him and I say, I say ‘see, you should have listened to me, never trust lactating clowns’, and then I cut his throat. Common decency was at stake.” Barcode ignored their talking: the words went around her like so many three-eyed salmon. She felt a twinge in her head, something pulling down at the edge of her stretched tarp-consciousness. Something out by the ocean, fluctuating the Field, bobbing up and down. Irregular. Like a lead weight dropped on a sheet of rubber. //hey kramer im picking up something on the water// ANY IDEA WHAT IT IS? The words tasted yellow in her head. A gaunt, looming yellow. //no idea going to run down and check it out// RIGHT, I’LL TELL MACNUGGET Barcode wandered out of the bunker and down the wooden scaffolding that led to the beach. The thumping in her head grew more intense, louder without sound. Muskrat liches scattered as she passed. There were weird things out in the water, probably just some big dumb thing messing up the local Field… She was on the beach, sand in her toes. The Thing, whatever it was, was drawing closer. And it was big. Her mind brushed against its presence, like a swimmer brushing a foot against a boulder they could not see to its full extent. She couldn’t see anything with her eyes, but she could feel it there, swimming off the coast. Maybe a few hundred yards out and approaching. A spout of water erupted from the waves, and a sharp lance of panic stabbed through the blurriness in Barcode’s mind. “WHALE!” she screamed with voice and mind, drawing the Field around her close. The mist and spray fell back to the ocean as a wide, bloody gulf opened up in the sky. Wisps of damned souls shrieked as they poured out of the gaping hole and swirled about in the pooling black clouds. The thumping became an all-out assault against Barcode’s mind, coiling and prying and trying to find an opening in the Field. The waves broke as a great humped back rose above the water, grey and red and speckled with the fleshy, screaming faces of its old, eternally tortured meals. A massive wedge-shaped head, encrusted with barnacles and sea lice, opened up its mouth and roared. The air rippled and tore, and whatever mild local gods inhabited that place collectively shat themselves. Barcode found herself rooted where she stood, immobile. The fear that sprung up sublimated on contact with her mind, burning away the blurriness and leaving cold, strangely logical thought behind. There was a Whale. There was a God-damned Whale maybe a hundred yards away from her. There was a dog-fucking God-damned Whale that knew she was there. There was a shit-licking dog-fucking God-damned Whale here right when they were going to head back to Baseline. There was a cunt-chafing shit-licking dog-fucking God-damned Whale here and she couldn’t move because sparing any neurons from maintaining her shield would let the Whale into her head and reduce her mind to a fine slurry. She could feel its gigantic, salt-rimed eyes already peering down at her soul, like a king looking at a worm in his apple, trying to crack it open. A mass of golden fire screamed over her head from behind, hitting the Whale in the shoulder, cascading off in sheets of flame. The pressure on Barcode’s mind lifted just enough that she would allow herself to move, allow herself to run. More fireballs launched overhead. //kramer is there a plan// ARE YOU UP FOR A SOULSHOT? //do we have a choice// NOT UNLESS YOU WANT THIS THING TO GAIN THE ADVANTAGE. KILL IT IN FIVE MINUTES OR FIVE MONTHS YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. //right ill do it// WHALEBONE’S BRINGING YOU A CADABRA. The fireblasts were now accompanied by the booming thumps of a cannon. That’d be Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The Whale roared again, though in irritation rather than pain. Barcode didn’t have to look to know that the full extent of the barrage was maybe a little bit of temporary discoloration of the skin. It would be in the shallows now, reaching the shoreline. She was at the cliff, at the base of the scaffolding. She looked up to see Whalebone jump off from the top and plummet to the beach. The slight form of Spleeny rocketed off of the cliff face, striding towards the Whale on six legs of braided barbed cables. “Catch!” he tossed her a gun, a sleek grey thing on a shoulder strap. Red runes were painted along its length. “Get me up there!” Whalebone grabbed her around the waist with both hands. His skin rippled with the silhouette of his elasmotherium totem. “Can you keep yourself stable?” “Yeah.” “Right then. Alley-oop!” He threw her at the Whale. Barcode nudged herself just enough to keep herself stable as she flew, wind howling around her. She had precious little mind to spare outside. Everything she could afford had to be directed at the Whale. Her mind hit the Whale’s like a jet hitting a wall. If it had been big before, now it was monolithic, a singularity of hate corrupted by the static of the ghosts that swam in the air around it and the souls roiling in its gut. Below, Spleeny lashed at the Whale with her barbed cables and spears of her own blood, whisking around it. A scarlet lance lodged itself in its eye, and for a moment there was a crack in its mind before it healed from its injury. Barcode squeezed through, and began assaulting the Whale’s mind. Not to damage it permanent, just enough to make it recoil, just enough. For all of this, Barcode was in the air for six seconds. She landed where the neck met the hump. She shaped the Field around her hands and feet to maintain her grip and continued hacking at the Whale’s mind. Cannon shots and fireballs continued to barrage it as Spleeny continued to circle and lash. The pain in her head was indescribable, like getting eaten alive inside her own skull. She could dimly feel a dribble of blood running down her lip. She aimed the Cadabra, pressing the barrel right against the Whale’s smooth grey skin. Within the burning pain that surrounded her in the Whale’s mind, she could hear its voice and understand its tongue. + Maggot [rot, scum, decay] infesting the fruit of the Tree / slave to knowledge [ignorance and false teachings] impotent / die a thousand/million/billion deaths [forever] undying / disgust-abomination wracked in/by/with filth Barcode was assaulted by a flood of new pain, human pain, the mindful-mindless anguish of a thousand souls driven beyond madness, stripped of the very capabilities of sapient thought. They swirled around her, and she could feel herself drifting off to join them in their unthinking chorus. No. Not today. She pushed through the well of spirits, their claws tearing at her, to reach the core of the Whale’s mind. It was unfittingly frail under her presence, a husk that felt as if it would collapse at her touch. But it did not collapse. She struck at it, and pain shot through her. Again, again, again… There! It recoiled! Barcode screamed, blood pouring from her eyes and ears and nose and mouth, her mind writhing in pain she had no comprehension of, and pushed one last time against the Whale’s consciousness, driving it back upon itself for the briefest moment, letting it coalesce into a tiny, shriveled, pitiable shell of a mind and soul for a fleeting second. Right under the barrel of her gun. She pulled the trigger. A crackling stream of concentrated thaumic energy cut through the Whale’s flesh like a white-hot needle boring through a fingernail, cutting down into the water, into the sand, down to the bedrock. Molten meat splashed across the beach and water boiled off into clouds of steam as the Whale buckled and collapsed. The open sore in the sky wavered and collapsed upon itself, as the wailing of lost souls faded. The Whale steamed and smoked and was still. They had killed it before it had gotten out of the water. Barcode slowly made her way down the carcass. Her arms and legs trembled. Upon reaching the sand, she walked a short distance, and collapsed. She was dimly aware of Spleeny and Whalebone approaching her. With a grunt, with her last bit of energy, she rolled onto her back, lay there spread-eagle, and laughed. She laughed until her stomach hurt and her lungs ached and tears dripped down her cheeks. She laughed because she had to, because she would die if she didn’t. When the laughing died down, she could hear the faint scuttling of a thousand legs in the sand behind her head. “Cuddle?” “Fuck off, Vinnie.” -- > This was the closest one to Baseline we've seen so far. They're becoming more active, and we're running out of time. For every successful execution like this, there is one that drags on for months. The Department of Extra-Universal Affairs has closed off the portal and banned any return trips, though will keep an eye out for any activity from that side. > > That said, pass on congratulations to the men and women of squads 4 and 5. They're earned their leave. > > - Colonel Manu Avninder, Esoteric Warfare Unit [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-27T06:18:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "fantasy", "military-fiction", "scarlet-king", "tale" ]	Three Sleepless Nights - SCP Foundation	71	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "cotsk-hub", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21084258	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/three-sleepless-nights
through-the-out-land-and-what-david-and-tim-found-there	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was always these moments in the car that David hated so much. These last few moments. They drove around so much, him and Tim, getting what work they could get, hiding as often as they needed to, and it was hard for David to pinpoint exactly what part of this life he hated the most. There were so many shitty strip clubs, so many bedbug-ridden hotel rooms. David didn't give a shit about the helping people, not anymore, and he sure as hell didn't give a shit about Tim anymore. The only thing he lived for anymore was the beer. Same as Tim gave a shit about the meals. In a world with literal gods, the little pleasures were the only ones either of them could give a shit about.</p> <p>"Okay, Dave, are we gonna do this, or what?"</p> <p>Tim's voice jarred David back to reality. <em>God dammit, how much I wish I could kill him,</em> he thought. <em>Or that anything could kill any of us.</em></p> <p>"Yeah. Listen, Tim, I really don't wanna fucking do this, but I feel I need to," David started. "The same way I feel I need to do this every time."</p> <p>Tim rolled his eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Again with this shit? Worse than my fucking mom." He reached into what would appear to an outsider to be a jacket breast pocket and pulled out what would appear to an outsider to be a Marlboro Special Blend. "Every goddamn time. 'Tim, we made a deal with 'em.' 'Tim, they said no, let's get out of here.' 'Tim, stop cutting her.' Every goddamn time." Tim held his hand as though there were a lighter in it and flicked his thumb down; a flame emerged and lit the cigarette. "Don't even know why you fuckin' care. Never heard of a halfassed demigod before. If you're so fuckin'…so fuckin' <em>noble</em>, why do you even ask for payment?"</p> <p>David could not possibly hate Tim more than at <em>these</em> moments, the Confrontation Moments which are specific experiences that serve as distinct subsets of the general experience of the Car Moments. "Yes, Tim, you're right. I am a filthy, disgusting hypocrite, and a nagging bitch, and why do I even bother running the fucking Outland with you, and why shouldn't I just take this piece of shit right up to the doorstep of 19 and let Clef and Bright turn me into dust or feed me to the lizard or stick me on a relativistic treadmill or whatever those psychos will dream up that will make humble hardworking sociopaths such as ourselves look like the rankest of amateurs."</p> <p>David took a deep breath. "Now, with all of these particulars established, allow me to repeat myself. We are going to have a conversation with the Hochschild family today. This conversation is going to include a request on their part that we grant them a very particular variety of assistance, one which we are uniquely positioned to provide. This conversation will subsequently include each of us explaining the price which this assistance will cost the Hochschild family. I can accept the horrific ethical ramifications of this because of the vagarious nature of free market economics; the family may accept or reject our terms freely, and the choice of what happens is entirely theirs. You can accept them because you wouldn't know a horrific ethical ramification from a fucking Shiba Inu. But it would make me <em>remarkably</em> more comfortable if you would be so kind as to pretend that you do. Just for the next half-hour or so. And, if all goes well, you get a little bit more of the last creature comfort that means anything to you at all, as do I."</p> <p>Tim had finished his cigarette. "Is that all?"</p> <p>David sighed and reached for his seat belt. "I hope that's all I need."</p> <p>Tim opened the car door. "Whatever."</p> <p>The house was nice enough, David supposed; ranch-style, situated on a few acres of land, well-stocked fishing pond out front, sporadic landscaping throughout the property. Upper-middle class. Not as nice as some of the celestial mansions that you found occasionally near the area of Site 19, the ones the staff occasionally made for themselves or some of the civilians they were smiling on that day. But these houses, this property? It was <em>real</em>. It wasn't some capricious illusion made reality at the hands of a fake "doctor" who won the anomalous magic lottery one day. David could respect that. Tim, as usual, could give a shit less.</p> <p>In one corner of the lot next to the road, David saw a very specific sort of hole. Just a few feet wide at most. But David could feel the tear in reality, its physical manifestation, went a lot deeper than that. The family had planted some cherry trees around it and called it a day.</p> <p>David knocked on the back door and smoothed his hair back. Tim finished another illusory cigarette (he thought the smoking looked cool), standing parallel to the door a few feet behind David in what he thought was a classic tough-guy apathetic stance. An older woman came to the door. "Hello? Can I help you?"</p> <p>"Mrs. Hochschild? I'm David Eskobar. We spoke on the phone? This is my associate, Timothy Hyne. We're here about your daughter?"</p> <p>Just for the briefest moment, the look of sheer relief and joy that came over the Hochschild matriarch made David flash back to when this job was enjoyable on its own merits. Back when it had all the genuine pleasure of helping people, combined with the little thrill of knowing he was helping to clean up the side effects that the Clefs and Kondrakis back at 19 didn't know they were leaving behind. Mrs. Hochschild stepped back and let David and Tim in.</p> <p>Mr. Hochschild was unconscious in the living room, half-empty bottle of Bacardi Gold rising and falling along with his chest. The top was screwed back on it, presumably the handiwork of his wife. Presumably not the first time in the last few months. They walked past him to a bedroom near the back of the house. A bizarre, vaguely speech-like sound grew louder as they approached. David knew the basics of what he was about to see.</p> <p>The girl was ten, maybe eleven years old. Bookish sort, judging from the glasses and the shelves on two walls. The third wall had — <em>goddammit, of course it did</em> — three Foundation posters on the wall. One a manga-artwork version of Kondraki riding the lizard, one a poster from Shenanigans '09, one from the TV show. Tim got the shit-taste look on his face and was about to say something; David gave him a look and Tim just crossed his eyes.</p> <p>The girl was next to her bed. She turned and walked past the edge of the bed, turned toward the door, and took a step. She said "Mom, I told you, he's just a —" and disappeared. Right as the words began to come out of her mouth, she was gone. She was standing back by her bed, walking to the edge, turning toward the door, speaking, and disappearing.</p> <p>"She's…" her mother said, "she's been like this for two months now." Mrs. Hochschild broke down in tears.</p> <p>"It's to be expected, ma'am," David said. "Tim and I, this is a problem we run into pretty commonly. Temporal loop, small scale, affixed to her personally. If we had the exact date and time, I bet it would correlate with a major shift at one of the big Foundation sites."</p> <p>"Oh, Sarah loved the Foundation stories so much!" Mrs. Hochschild said. "I mean, we all did, of course, we took her to see Senior Staff Shenanigans back a few years ago, we all had such a great time —"</p> <p>"Oh, fucking enough, goddammit," Tim said. "Suck Strelnikov dick on your own time, when I don't have to hear it."</p> <p>Mrs. Hochschild gasped. "I would deeply prefer it, sir, if you avoided that sort of filthy language in this household."</p> <p>David slapped Tim on the chest. "Sorry, whatever," Tim said.</p> <p>"This is very fixable," David said. "Tim and I, we're, uh, we're actually former employees of the Foundation. We're very familiar with these sorts of things. They happen when Senior Staff conduct large-scale reality shifts. Sort of a blowback, a recoil type of thing. The fabric of reality can only handle so much."</p> <p>"But…that can't be <em>right</em>," Mrs. Hochschild said. "They're…they're all so smart! So wise! They have God locked in a cell, for goodness' sake! Why would they let this happen?"</p> <p>"They ain't that bright," Tim snarled. "They…we lucked out, that's it."</p> <p>"The Senior Staff do what they do for their own sake," David said. "You can't…you can't really feel it, exactly? But there's a, a sort of spell on you. On everyone. It makes you all love them, love what they do, see it as glamorous. It's called a memetic felicification agent, and they're broadcasting it from Site 19. As part of our service, we'll need to inoculate your family against it. It's part of getting your daughter free."</p> <p>David had made that part up a few years earlier. The family's belief in the Senior Staff's pseudo-divinity had nothing to do with their ability to be wrecked by them. But one of the few things David and Tim could agree on was that anything that took those people down a peg was good for the world. And most of that rationale was bullshit too, just words from the old Foundation that helped to explain the inexplicable.</p> <p>Stunned, Mrs. Hochschild tried to speak. "Are…are you sure about all this?"</p> <p>"Quite sure, Mrs. Hochschild," David said. "It's for the best."</p> <p>"Let's get to those payment negotiations you mentioned, shall we?" Tim said.</p> <p>"Oh, we have money," Mrs. Hochschild said. "That certainly won't be a problem. We'll pay anything to save our daughter."</p> <p>Tim's mouth spread in a predator's grin. "That's what we're very much hoping."</p> <p>"Ah…about payment," David said. "We don't actually accept cash. No real use for it for our types. There are only a few things that we can't make for ourselves. Certain…well, let's just say we need volunteers."</p> <p>"Well, technically —" Tim began.</p> <p>"We <em>need</em> volunteers to, erm, source our materials in an ethical fashion. A process that some of us —" David glared at Tim at that " — consider important."</p> <p>"I…I'm very confused, I'm afraid. What is it exactly you want?"</p> <p>"Well, I actually happen to be something of an amateur brewer," David said. "Beer fan. I try to find what I can, experiment with new stuff."</p> <p>"We don't have anything like that around here," Mrs. Hochschild said. "We're a religious family. Senior Staff has told us that 343 frowns on the consumption of spirits."</p> <p>Tim snickered. David said, "Oh, you don't have any actual alcohol I'm interested in. I'm more looking for ingredients. Do you have anything consecrated?"</p> <p>Mrs. Hochschild took a step back. "Eh—ex<em>cuse</em> me?"</p> <p>"Relics? Artifacts? Old Bibles, maybe? Any religion will do. They have a certain symbolic power that embeds itself in the beer. Very unique, very subtle. Can't be replicated with anything artificial. It has to be something that others have believed in, put faith in. You can taste it."</p> <p>"You're…" Mrs. Hochschild took a step back. "You're insane! And you!" she said, pointing at Tim. "What…what horrible thing do <em>you</em> want?"</p> <p>"Ah, yes," Tim said. "About that."</p> <hr/> <p>A few more sprinkles of oregano floated into the pot. "Mmmm," Tim said. "Do you even <em>fucking</em> smell that shit? This is beautiful, man. This is <em>art.</em> How's your thing?"</p> <p>David took a sip of the wort. "Eh. Not bad." He took another sip. "Wish they'd had something other than just Christian shit. I mean, the Bible was at least, hm," he said, sniffing closely, "at least eighty years old. Just wish I could get something different."</p> <p>"I feel that. You wanna go someplace overseas? Get some weird shit? Gypsies? Maybe some African shaman shit? I'm up for going global with this." He stirred the stew a bit more, brought the spoon up to his lips. "God <em>damn</em>, man. You sure you don't wanna try this?"</p> <p>"I'm good, man," he said. "And listen, sorry about the thing before. I can't judge your shit too much, I guess. And at least you gave her the prosthesis this time."</p> <p>"Aw shit," Tim said. "And the mama still kept bitching. I'm like, 'bitch, we're gonna save your daughter's shit, and you're getting almost all of her back, whaddya want?' and she's all crying and shit. And I was just like "fine, how about one of those metal blade things they give cripples that makes them all fast and shit', and she just nodded and kept crying or whatever, and that's consent, right?"</p> <p>David shrugged. "Sounded good to me." He turned back and looked at his brewing equipment. "It'll take a couple of weeks to get this properly aged. That ought to take another half hour or so, hard as I'm dilating time around it." David gave it some thought. He looked at Tim.</p> <p>A broad smile broke over Tim's face. "Aw, shit, man. I can hook you up." He ladled some of the stew into a bowl. "I put some Italian spices in it this time. It's all kinds of special." He slid the bowl over to where David was.</p> <p>"Is there an occasion I don't know about?"</p> <p>"Shit, dude. Who knows how many years ago today? Think back, man. This is Der Tag."</p> <p>David took a sip of the broth and thought back. "Holy <em>shit</em>, this seriously is amazing. Um. February 11th. Lemme th —" David stopped. "Ohhhhh. The day all…all <em>this</em> happened. Bender's Day."</p> <p>"You're the only one who doesn't think that's a cartoon reference, dude," Tim said, taking another bite of the stew. "Get some of that meat, dude. I think it'll make you smarter. She came off as pretty smart, except for the bullshit Clef fetish."</p> <p>"Eh. All the kids have that nowadays. Anyway, as much shit as I gotta see out there," David said, "I dunno if I wanna be smarter." He shrugged, looked back at the bowl, and took a bite.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/lolfoundation-hub-page">HUB</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/through-the-out-land-and-what-david-and-tim-found-there">Through the Out-Land, and What David and Tim Found There</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/through-the-out-land-and-what-david-and-tim-found-there">https://scpwiki.com/through-the-out-land-and-what-david-and-tim-found-there</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It was always these moments in the car that David hated so much. These last few moments. They drove around so much, him and Tim, getting what work they could get, hiding as often as they needed to, and it was hard for David to pinpoint exactly what part of this life he hated the most. There were so many shitty strip clubs, so many bedbug-ridden hotel rooms. David didn't give a shit about the helping people, not anymore, and he sure as hell didn't give a shit about Tim anymore. The only thing he lived for anymore was the beer. Same as Tim gave a shit about the meals. In a world with literal gods, the little pleasures were the only ones either of them could give a shit about. "Okay, Dave, are we gonna do this, or what?" Tim's voice jarred David back to reality. //God dammit, how much I wish I could kill him,// he thought. //Or that anything could kill any of us.// "Yeah. Listen, Tim, I really don't wanna fucking do this, but I feel I need to," David started. "The same way I feel I need to do this every time." Tim rolled his eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Again with this shit? Worse than my fucking mom." He reached into what would appear to an outsider to be a jacket breast pocket and pulled out what would appear to an outsider to be a Marlboro Special Blend. "Every goddamn time. 'Tim, we made a deal with 'em.' 'Tim, they said no, let's get out of here.' 'Tim, stop cutting her.' Every goddamn time." Tim held his hand as though there were a lighter in it and flicked his thumb down; a flame emerged and lit the cigarette. "Don't even know why you fuckin' care. Never heard of a halfassed demigod before. If you're so fuckin'...so fuckin' //noble//, why do you even ask for payment?" David could not possibly hate Tim more than at //these// moments, the Confrontation Moments which are specific experiences that serve as distinct subsets of the general experience of the Car Moments. "Yes, Tim, you're right. I am a filthy, disgusting hypocrite, and a nagging bitch, and why do I even bother running the fucking Outland with you, and why shouldn't I just take this piece of shit right up to the doorstep of 19 and let Clef and Bright turn me into dust or feed me to the lizard or stick me on a relativistic treadmill or whatever those psychos will dream up that will make humble hardworking sociopaths such as ourselves look like the rankest of amateurs." David took a deep breath. "Now, with all of these particulars established, allow me to repeat myself. We are going to have a conversation with the Hochschild family today. This conversation is going to include a request on their part that we grant them a very particular variety of assistance, one which we are uniquely positioned to provide. This conversation will subsequently include each of us explaining the price which this assistance will cost the Hochschild family. I can accept the horrific ethical ramifications of this because of the vagarious nature of free market economics; the family may accept or reject our terms freely, and the choice of what happens is entirely theirs. You can accept them because you wouldn't know a horrific ethical ramification from a fucking Shiba Inu. But it would make me //remarkably// more comfortable if you would be so kind as to pretend that you do. Just for the next half-hour or so. And, if all goes well, you get a little bit more of the last creature comfort that means anything to you at all, as do I." Tim had finished his cigarette. "Is that all?" David sighed and reached for his seat belt. "I hope that's all I need." Tim opened the car door. "Whatever." The house was nice enough, David supposed; ranch-style, situated on a few acres of land, well-stocked fishing pond out front, sporadic landscaping throughout the property. Upper-middle class. Not as nice as some of the celestial mansions that you found occasionally near the area of Site 19, the ones the staff occasionally made for themselves or some of the civilians they were smiling on that day. But these houses, this property? It was //real//. It wasn't some capricious illusion made reality at the hands of a fake "doctor" who won the anomalous magic lottery one day. David could respect that. Tim, as usual, could give a shit less. In one corner of the lot next to the road, David saw a very specific sort of hole. Just a few feet wide at most. But David could feel the tear in reality, its physical manifestation, went a lot deeper than that. The family had planted some cherry trees around it and called it a day. David knocked on the back door and smoothed his hair back. Tim finished another illusory cigarette (he thought the smoking looked cool), standing parallel to the door a few feet behind David in what he thought was a classic tough-guy apathetic stance. An older woman came to the door. "Hello? Can I help you?" "Mrs. Hochschild? I'm David Eskobar. We spoke on the phone? This is my associate, Timothy Hyne. We're here about your daughter?" Just for the briefest moment, the look of sheer relief and joy that came over the Hochschild matriarch made David flash back to when this job was enjoyable on its own merits. Back when it had all the genuine pleasure of helping people, combined with the little thrill of knowing he was helping to clean up the side effects that the Clefs and Kondrakis back at 19 didn't know they were leaving behind. Mrs. Hochschild stepped back and let David and Tim in. Mr. Hochschild was unconscious in the living room, half-empty bottle of Bacardi Gold rising and falling along with his chest. The top was screwed back on it, presumably the handiwork of his wife. Presumably not the first time in the last few months. They walked past him to a bedroom near the back of the house. A bizarre, vaguely speech-like sound grew louder as they approached. David knew the basics of what he was about to see. The girl was ten, maybe eleven years old. Bookish sort, judging from the glasses and the shelves on two walls. The third wall had -- //goddammit, of course it did// -- three Foundation posters on the wall. One a manga-artwork version of Kondraki riding the lizard, one a poster from Shenanigans '09, one from the TV show. Tim got the shit-taste look on his face and was about to say something; David gave him a look and Tim just crossed his eyes. The girl was next to her bed. She turned and walked past the edge of the bed, turned toward the door, and took a step. She said "Mom, I told you, he's just a --" and disappeared. Right as the words began to come out of her mouth, she was gone. She was standing back by her bed, walking to the edge, turning toward the door, speaking, and disappearing. "She's..." her mother said, "she's been like this for two months now." Mrs. Hochschild broke down in tears. "It's to be expected, ma'am," David said. "Tim and I, this is a problem we run into pretty commonly. Temporal loop, small scale, affixed to her personally. If we had the exact date and time, I bet it would correlate with a major shift at one of the big Foundation sites." "Oh, Sarah loved the Foundation stories so much!" Mrs. Hochschild said. "I mean, we all did, of course, we took her to see Senior Staff Shenanigans back a few years ago, we all had such a great time --" "Oh, fucking enough, goddammit," Tim said. "Suck Strelnikov dick on your own time, when I don't have to hear it." Mrs. Hochschild gasped. "I would deeply prefer it, sir, if you avoided that sort of filthy language in this household." David slapped Tim on the chest. "Sorry, whatever," Tim said. "This is very fixable," David said. "Tim and I, we're, uh, we're actually former employees of the Foundation. We're very familiar with these sorts of things. They happen when Senior Staff conduct large-scale reality shifts. Sort of a blowback, a recoil type of thing. The fabric of reality can only handle so much." "But...that can't be //right//," Mrs. Hochschild said. "They're...they're all so smart! So wise! They have God locked in a cell, for goodness' sake! Why would they let this happen?" "They ain't that bright," Tim snarled. "They...we lucked out, that's it." "The Senior Staff do what they do for their own sake," David said. "You can't...you can't really feel it, exactly? But there's a, a sort of spell on you. On everyone. It makes you all love them, love what they do, see it as glamorous. It's called a memetic felicification agent, and they're broadcasting it from Site 19. As part of our service, we'll need to inoculate your family against it. It's part of getting your daughter free." David had made that part up a few years earlier. The family's belief in the Senior Staff's pseudo-divinity had nothing to do with their ability to be wrecked by them. But one of the few things David and Tim could agree on was that anything that took those people down a peg was good for the world. And most of that rationale was bullshit too, just words from the old Foundation that helped to explain the inexplicable. Stunned, Mrs. Hochschild tried to speak. "Are...are you sure about all this?" "Quite sure, Mrs. Hochschild," David said. "It's for the best." "Let's get to those payment negotiations you mentioned, shall we?" Tim said. "Oh, we have money," Mrs. Hochschild said. "That certainly won't be a problem. We'll pay anything to save our daughter." Tim's mouth spread in a predator's grin. "That's what we're very much hoping." "Ah...about payment," David said. "We don't actually accept cash. No real use for it for our types. There are only a few things that we can't make for ourselves. Certain...well, let's just say we need volunteers." "Well, technically --" Tim began. "We //need// volunteers to, erm, source our materials in an ethical fashion. A process that some of us --" David glared at Tim at that " -- consider important." "I...I'm very confused, I'm afraid. What is it exactly you want?" "Well, I actually happen to be something of an amateur brewer," David said. "Beer fan. I try to find what I can, experiment with new stuff." "We don't have anything like that around here," Mrs. Hochschild said. "We're a religious family. Senior Staff has told us that 343 frowns on the consumption of spirits." Tim snickered. David said, "Oh, you don't have any actual alcohol I'm interested in. I'm more looking for ingredients. Do you have anything consecrated?" Mrs. Hochschild took a step back. "Eh--ex//cuse// me?" "Relics? Artifacts? Old Bibles, maybe? Any religion will do. They have a certain symbolic power that embeds itself in the beer. Very unique, very subtle. Can't be replicated with anything artificial. It has to be something that others have believed in, put faith in. You can taste it." "You're..." Mrs. Hochschild took a step back. "You're insane! And you!" she said, pointing at Tim. "What...what horrible thing do //you// want?" "Ah, yes," Tim said. "About that." ------ A few more sprinkles of oregano floated into the pot. "Mmmm," Tim said. "Do you even //fucking// smell that shit? This is beautiful, man. This is //art.// How's your thing?" David took a sip of the wort. "Eh. Not bad." He took another sip. "Wish they'd had something other than just Christian shit. I mean, the Bible was at least, hm," he said, sniffing closely, "at least eighty years old. Just wish I could get something different." "I feel that. You wanna go someplace overseas? Get some weird shit? Gypsies? Maybe some African shaman shit? I'm up for going global with this." He stirred the stew a bit more, brought the spoon up to his lips. "God //damn//, man. You sure you don't wanna try this?" "I'm good, man," he said. "And listen, sorry about the thing before. I can't judge your shit too much, I guess. And at least you gave her the prosthesis this time." "Aw shit," Tim said. "And the mama still kept bitching. I'm like, 'bitch, we're gonna save your daughter's shit, and you're getting almost all of her back, whaddya want?' and she's all crying and shit. And I was just like "fine, how about one of those metal blade things they give cripples that makes them all fast and shit', and she just nodded and kept crying or whatever, and that's consent, right?" David shrugged. "Sounded good to me." He turned back and looked at his brewing equipment. "It'll take a couple of weeks to get this properly aged. That ought to take another half hour or so, hard as I'm dilating time around it." David gave it some thought. He looked at Tim. A broad smile broke over Tim's face. "Aw, shit, man. I can hook you up." He ladled some of the stew into a bowl. "I put some Italian spices in it this time. It's all kinds of special." He slid the bowl over to where David was. "Is there an occasion I don't know about?" "Shit, dude. Who knows how many years ago today? Think back, man. This is Der Tag." David took a sip of the broth and thought back. "Holy //shit//, this seriously is amazing. Um. February 11th. Lemme th --" David stopped. "Ohhhhh. The day all...all //this// happened. Bender's Day." "You're the only one who doesn't think that's a cartoon reference, dude," Tim said, taking another bite of the stew. "Get some of that meat, dude. I think it'll make you smarter. She came off as pretty smart, except for the bullshit Clef fetish." "Eh. All the kids have that nowadays. Anyway, as much shit as I gotta see out there," David said, "I dunno if I wanna be smarter." He shrugged, looked back at the bowl, and took a bite. [[=]] << \| [[[lolFoundation Hub Page\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-08T15:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "lolfoundation", "tale" ]	Through the Out-Land, and What David and Tim Found There - SCP Foundation	80	[ "lolfoundation-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "lolfoundation-hub-page" ]	[]	20897546	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/through-the-out-land-and-what-david-and-tim-found-there
tolerance	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>At half past five, it began to rain.</p> <p>Brother Raymond of Baskerville was trudging his way back from the Achrenite compound, his boots sucking on the mud of the fertile fields surrounding it. The weather was utterly miserable, but still, he was not looking forward to returning to the shelter of the Horizon Initiative’s lines, no indeed, and certainly not to reporting his humiliating failure at making the Achrenites see reason. It wasn't that he was afraid that his superiors would reprimand him for it, since he knew they would understand. No, it was that very same understanding, so typical of the Shepherd Corps, which infuriated him. He could already picture the Abbot’s kindly smile, that look of vaguely disguised condescension that would no doubt accompany the metaphorical pat on the head he was about to receive, like some sort of slow-witted dog. He was well and truly sick of being looked down upon, and the fact that his fellow Shepherds didn't even have the dignity of doing so to his face only made it worse. He should have stayed at the monastery.</p> <p>Raymond cursed under his breath as he ducked under the red-tape marked lines, and slunk his way to the derelict electric shed that served as the command post for the Shepherds. He expected the Abbot, maybe a few other high level operatives, but instead he found the tiny space occupied by no less than twenty people, most of whom Raymond had never seen before. The exceptions were the Abbot and his two assistants, relegated to standing dejectedly in a musty corner, and the figure in the very center of the room, currently peering at a tactical map of the area with a disinterested look on his sharp-featured face. While the man wasn't particularly tall, or handsome, or otherwise very notable at all, there was a certain aura of command about him that Raymond couldn't deny. He had only seen him once before, on the day he left his monastery to join the Horizon Initiative- Director Henry DeMontfort, head of Project Malleus. Seeing Raymond enter, the Abbot waved him to approach with as much magnanimity as he could muster while attempting to brush an old spider web out of the folds of his robes.</p> <p>“Raymond, I am glad to see you returned to us safely. Tell me, how fared your mission?”</p> <p>Another thing Raymond detested about the Abbot was that flowery way he used to talk to his underlings. He wasn't quite sure what made the man think that it was anything other than ridiculous, but he supposed he had to suffer through it quietly. That was what being a Shepherd was all about.</p> <p>“Poorly, Sir. The Achernites refused our offer of gradual integration, and furthermore rejected any regulation of their preaching or expansion within local communities. Sir, if I may ask, what are all those people doing here? And why is <em>he</em> here?”</p> <p>The Abbot sighed, giving up on the attempts at cleaning his now dusty attire, and gave DeMontfort a wary look. “It seems like Project Malleus does not approve of the way we conduct our business. He said he is taking charge of the situation. I was hoping you’d have good news I could use against him, but now…”</p> <p>“Honestly, Sir, this really couldn't have gone any other way. The Achernites are heretics, and should be treated as such.”</p> <p>“That is not for you to decide, my son. We are Shepherds, and our role is to guide the lost into the light.”</p> <p>“Lost? They’re Neo-Pantheists! Every word that comes out of their mouths is filth, besmirching everything we believe in. They spit at the face of God, and you’re telling me we should turn the other cheek?”</p> <p>The Abbot was about to reply, when a clear, steely voice interrupted him. “You, emissary. A word, if you will.”</p> <p>Raymond turned to see DeMontfort exiting the shed, and winced as two very large, very scarred, and very well-armed individuals grabbed a hold of his shoulders and dragged him after the Director. DeMontfort stopped beneath the shadow of a dead pine tree and started going through his pockets in a search of something, as his lieutenants tossed Raymond on the mud at his feet. He tried getting up, but a not-too-gentle prod of a steel-toed boot to his ribs made him reconsider. Finally, DeMontfort produced a small paper packet from an inner pocket and examined it with a look of vague displeasure on his pointed face.</p> <p>"Gum?"</p> <p>"Er, no thank you?"</p> <p>"Smart man. This nicotine stuff is rather terrible. I understand that your… peace mission was a failure." That wasn't a question.</p> <p>"Um, how did you know?"</p> <p>DeMontfort snorted, and began chewing on a rather unappealing piece of grey gum. "I read the dossier. The Achernites are the worst type of heretics. The Shepherds were fools to even attempt a peace mission. No, they must be dealt with more severely."</p> <p>Despite being stuck in the mud under the boot of the human equivalent of a bull shark, Raymond found himself nodding. "I told the Abbot just that. The things I saw them do at their camp, Sir, the things they said… no godly man could bear them to live."</p> <p>DeMontfort gave him an apprising look, and motioned to his lieutenants. The weight of the boot lifted, and Raymond got to his feet, gingerly picking globs of greenish mud from his hair. The Director began moving again, and Raymond followed, the two hulking lieutenants not far behind.</p> <p>"You're not as stupid as you look. I half-expected you to weep and faint at the mere mention of violence. That's what your Abbot would no doubt do."</p> <p>"I'm nothing like that doddering old fart!" Raymond was surprised by his own outburst, but DeMontfort looked pleased.</p> <p>"Hah, that's the spirit! Maybe there's hope for you yet, Brother Raymond. Come, walk with me for a while, we have some business to attend to." Again, this wasn't a suggestion, as the the two lieutenants, whom Raymond dubbed Brickjaw and Sawscar after the only notable features on the slab of meat they called a face, made abundantly clear. For a short while the group walked in silence, until Raymond realized with a growing sense of horror he walked this way earlier today.</p> <p>"Um, Sir, I don't think we should be going this way, we'll wind up right in the Achernite camp."</p> <p>"I should hope so, since that's where we're going."</p> <p>"But…why? I though you said negotiating with them was stupid."</p> <p>"I'm not going there to negotiate. I'm going to talk, and they are going to listen."</p> <p>"And if they don't?"</p> <p>"A good question. Lieutenant, what's the ETA on the Gofrit team?"</p> <p>This was directed at Sawscar, who checked something on a small tablet computer and replied, in an unexpectedly soft voice: "About ten minutes, Sir."</p> <p>DeMontfort nodded, and continued walking, as if that answered Raymond's question. It didn't, but Raymond thought it would be unwise to argue. The group continued its track along the wheat fields, finally reaching a clearing in front of a small, gated community. DeMontfort stopped before the gate and rang a brass bell connected to a long piece of rope that hung on a post next to it. The sound of other bells came moments later from within the community, but all stayed quiet otherwise. Raymond gingerly approached the Director, who was tapping his foot impatiently and struggling with the packing of another stick of nicotine gum. "They wouldn't let me in, at first. I had to wait outside for nearly an hour before someone came out to meet me."</p> <p>DeMonfort cursed and dropped the gum, instead pulling a silver cigarette case from an inner pocket. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to attract their attention. Lieutenant?"</p> <p>Sawscar nodded, and with one swift movement drew his handgun, cocked it, and fired three quick shots into the air. The silence following the gunshot was soon punctuated by shouts. The Director smiled, and lit a slim cigarette with a match he managed to produce without Raymond noticing. "That should do it."</p> <p>And indeed, a few minutes later a trio of figures approached the gate. Two were scruffy-looking guards, each carrying an ancient carbine and sponsoring a filthy beard. The third was a woman even older looking than the guns, her skin and hair mottled with strangely textured patches of brown, green and grey, though it was too dark to see exactly what they were. She hobbled over, heavily leaning on a stout branch she used as a cane, and stared at Raymond and DeMontfort with unconcealed disgust in her eyes. DeMontfort, in turn, looked like he just stepped on something nasty and was examining the results. After a silence which Raymond thought would last forever, the old woman finally spoke, her voice creaky with age:</p> <p>"What do ye want, fat monk? All that was said still holds, ye know, and ye big friends ain't gonna change that."</p> <p>"Mistress Achren, if you'd please reconsider, I'm sure you'd find our terms quite reasona-"</p> <p>"We told ye, we ain't interested in none of your fractional god muck! Off with ye!"</p> <p>DeMontfort gave the woman a smile that held all the warmth of a glacier. "I think talking to my young companion might have given you the wrong idea about our organization. We weren't asking. You will cease your preaching, dismantle your complex, and disband, or we will be forced to take action."</p> <p>"And by what right would ye do that, priest? This is our land, and we'll preach as we wish. The Gospel of Wholeness will be spoken, like it or not. Ye shouldn't reject it, you can't anyway. You're part of it, as is everything. You'll listen."</p> <p>"I'm not here to debate theology with a heretic, woman."</p> <p>"Heh, well I ain't asking. You want us to disband, you'll listen."</p> <p>DeMontfort considered that for a moment, exchanged a few quiet words with Brickjaw, and finally nodded. "You have four minutes."</p> <p>The old woman cackled, and sat on a wooden post near the gate, still clasping her cane. "Ye see, it's really simple if ye just look, but you're too busy nosing around in old books to see it. Yer looking for some beard in the sky to give you divinity and think ye all have some invisible light in ye, or some such nonsense. Ye aren't looking in the right place at all!"</p> <p>"Get to the point."</p> <p>"God is everything, ye daft bastards! It's the trees and skies and soil and birds and bees and it's me boots and me stick and me nose and me arse! There's no reason to look anywhere else if yer God, and I am, and so are ye and yer fat friend."</p> <p>DeMontfort clenched his jaw, barely holding back a furious snarl. "Two minutes. If you wish to be spared, hag, I suggest you consider what you say next very carefully."</p> <p>"I ain't got nothing else to say. I'll show ye all you need to see." With that, the old woman reached with a skeletal hand and, to Raymond's horror, tore at the skin of her other hand with sharp fingernails. Ripping and clawing, apparently not in any kind of pain, she tore a long strip of skin from the top of her hand.</p> <p>"You're mad!" Raymond mumbled, edging away from the bleeding elder.</p> <p>"You just watch."</p> <p>Slowly, the old woman bent down to the ground and with her uninjured hand tore a handful of grass, roots and all, then thrust it into her open wound. Raymond gasped as the roots began to knit themselves into the broken skin, weaving through flesh and tendons. Now, Raymond understood what the strange blotches on the old woman's skin were; patches of brown were soil, grey was iron and rock, green was living flora. Indeed, now he saw that the mottled beards of the guards were spliced with moss and ivy. Shaking, he turned to look at DeMontfort, and was surprised to find the man utterly unmoved.</p> <p>"Time's up. I've suffered through your witchcraft for long enough. Do you submit yourself to the Initiative's judgement?"</p> <p>"Hah! Not bloody likely! Ye see what I can do, why should I listen to anything ye say?"</p> <p>"Because if you don't, I'll destroy you. Simple as that."</p> <p>The old woman limped towards DeMontfort, and thrust her now healed palm, grass blades slowly waving in the evening wind, under his nose. "How could ye destroy us, when we and the land around us are one?"</p> <p>Brickjaw laid a hand on DeMontfort's shoulder, and the Director turned his eyes to the gated community, a strange look on his face.</p> <p>"Well, I can think of one way."</p> <p>A wave of heat and sound knocked Raymond off his feet. The world around him was a cacophony of flames and noise and screams, and his mouth was full of dirt and there was ash in his eyes and he couldn't breathe and around him people were fighting and twisting and dying and he just couldn't breathe why couldn't he breathe why couldn't he brea-</p> <p>A sharp pain in his side, and nothing more, for a while.</p> <p>The sound of dirt crunching under feet, the labored breath of the man carrying him.</p> <p>Uniformed men, their faces covered in gas masks, appearing from between the wheat stalks, looking at their work. DeMontfort doing the same, exaltation and terror wrestling on his visage.</p> <p>"Wake up, brother."</p> <p>Raymond found himself laying on a bed of pine needles, and was greeted with the fairly unpleasant sight of Sawscar's face hovering above him.</p> <p>"What happened?"</p> <p>"Gofrit team happened. Got a bit overzealous, but that's to be expected, I suppose." Raymond was again surprised to hear the man's gentle whisper of a voice.</p> <p>"They…burned them?"</p> <p>"It's all in the name, really."</p> <p>"What about all the people? There were more than a hundred in there, families."</p> <p>"God will find his own."</p> <p>Curiously, Raymond wasn't upset. Shouldn't he be upset? He was a Shepherd, he was supposed to guide the misguided into the light, and yet he didn't seem to mind at all that the only light this particular group found was a funeral pyre. It was…right. It was divine will.</p> <p>"I…don't think I want to be a Shepherd anymore."</p> <p>Sawscar nodded, and helped him to his feet. "You were never a Shepherd, my friend. I could tell from the moment I saw you. "</p> <p>"Really? How is that?"</p> <p>"Shepherds don't have fangs."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-horizon-blues">The Horizon Blues</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/tolerance">Tolerance</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/tolerance">https://scpwiki.com/tolerance</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] At half past five, it began to rain. Brother Raymond of Baskerville was trudging his way back from the Achrenite compound, his boots sucking on the mud of the fertile fields surrounding it. The weather was utterly miserable, but still, he was not looking forward to returning to the shelter of the Horizon Initiative’s lines, no indeed, and certainly not to reporting his humiliating failure at making the Achrenites see reason. It wasn't that he was afraid that his superiors would reprimand him for it, since he knew they would understand. No, it was that very same understanding, so typical of the Shepherd Corps, which infuriated him. He could already picture the Abbot’s kindly smile, that look of vaguely disguised condescension that would no doubt accompany the metaphorical pat on the head he was about to receive, like some sort of slow-witted dog. He was well and truly sick of being looked down upon, and the fact that his fellow Shepherds didn't even have the dignity of doing so to his face only made it worse. He should have stayed at the monastery. Raymond cursed under his breath as he ducked under the red-tape marked lines, and slunk his way to the derelict electric shed that served as the command post for the Shepherds. He expected the Abbot, maybe a few other high level operatives, but instead he found the tiny space occupied by no less than twenty people, most of whom Raymond had never seen before. The exceptions were the Abbot and his two assistants, relegated to standing dejectedly in a musty corner, and the figure in the very center of the room, currently peering at a tactical map of the area with a disinterested look on his sharp-featured face. While the man wasn't particularly tall, or handsome, or otherwise very notable at all, there was a certain aura of command about him that Raymond couldn't deny. He had only seen him once before, on the day he left his monastery to join the Horizon Initiative- Director Henry DeMontfort, head of Project Malleus. Seeing Raymond enter, the Abbot waved him to approach with as much magnanimity as he could muster while attempting to brush an old spider web out of the folds of his robes. “Raymond, I am glad to see you returned to us safely. Tell me, how fared your mission?” Another thing Raymond detested about the Abbot was that flowery way he used to talk to his underlings. He wasn't quite sure what made the man think that it was anything other than ridiculous, but he supposed he had to suffer through it quietly. That was what being a Shepherd was all about. “Poorly, Sir. The Achernites refused our offer of gradual integration, and furthermore rejected any regulation of their preaching or expansion within local communities. Sir, if I may ask, what are all those people doing here? And why is //he// here?” The Abbot sighed, giving up on the attempts at cleaning his now dusty attire, and gave DeMontfort a wary look. “It seems like Project Malleus does not approve of the way we conduct our business. He said he is taking charge of the situation. I was hoping you’d have good news I could use against him, but now…” “Honestly, Sir, this really couldn't have gone any other way. The Achernites are heretics, and should be treated as such.” “That is not for you to decide, my son. We are Shepherds, and our role is to guide the lost into the light.” “Lost? They’re Neo-Pantheists! Every word that comes out of their mouths is filth, besmirching everything we believe in. They spit at the face of God, and you’re telling me we should turn the other cheek?” The Abbot was about to reply, when a clear, steely voice interrupted him. “You, emissary. A word, if you will.” Raymond turned to see DeMontfort exiting the shed, and winced as two very large, very scarred, and very well-armed individuals grabbed a hold of his shoulders and dragged him after the Director. DeMontfort stopped beneath the shadow of a dead pine tree and started going through his pockets in a search of something, as his lieutenants tossed Raymond on the mud at his feet. He tried getting up, but a not-too-gentle prod of a steel-toed boot to his ribs made him reconsider. Finally, DeMontfort produced a small paper packet from an inner pocket and examined it with a look of vague displeasure on his pointed face. "Gum?" "Er, no thank you?" "Smart man. This nicotine stuff is rather terrible. I understand that your... peace mission was a failure." That wasn't a question. "Um, how did you know?" DeMontfort snorted, and began chewing on a rather unappealing piece of grey gum. "I read the dossier. The Achernites are the worst type of heretics. The Shepherds were fools to even attempt a peace mission. No, they must be dealt with more severely." Despite being stuck in the mud under the boot of the human equivalent of a bull shark, Raymond found himself nodding. "I told the Abbot just that. The things I saw them do at their camp, Sir, the things they said... no godly man could bear them to live." DeMontfort gave him an apprising look, and motioned to his lieutenants. The weight of the boot lifted, and Raymond got to his feet, gingerly picking globs of greenish mud from his hair. The Director began moving again, and Raymond followed, the two hulking lieutenants not far behind. "You're not as stupid as you look. I half-expected you to weep and faint at the mere mention of violence. That's what your Abbot would no doubt do." "I'm nothing like that doddering old fart!" Raymond was surprised by his own outburst, but DeMontfort looked pleased. "Hah, that's the spirit! Maybe there's hope for you yet, Brother Raymond. Come, walk with me for a while, we have some business to attend to." Again, this wasn't a suggestion, as the the two lieutenants, whom Raymond dubbed Brickjaw and Sawscar after the only notable features on the slab of meat they called a face, made abundantly clear. For a short while the group walked in silence, until Raymond realized with a growing sense of horror he walked this way earlier today. "Um, Sir, I don't think we should be going this way, we'll wind up right in the Achernite camp." "I should hope so, since that's where we're going." "But...why? I though you said negotiating with them was stupid." "I'm not going there to negotiate. I'm going to talk, and they are going to listen." "And if they don't?" "A good question. Lieutenant, what's the ETA on the Gofrit team?" This was directed at Sawscar, who checked something on a small tablet computer and replied, in an unexpectedly soft voice: "About ten minutes, Sir." DeMontfort nodded, and continued walking, as if that answered Raymond's question. It didn't, but Raymond thought it would be unwise to argue. The group continued its track along the wheat fields, finally reaching a clearing in front of a small, gated community. DeMontfort stopped before the gate and rang a brass bell connected to a long piece of rope that hung on a post next to it. The sound of other bells came moments later from within the community, but all stayed quiet otherwise. Raymond gingerly approached the Director, who was tapping his foot impatiently and struggling with the packing of another stick of nicotine gum. "They wouldn't let me in, at first. I had to wait outside for nearly an hour before someone came out to meet me." DeMonfort cursed and dropped the gum, instead pulling a silver cigarette case from an inner pocket. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to attract their attention. Lieutenant?" Sawscar nodded, and with one swift movement drew his handgun, cocked it, and fired three quick shots into the air. The silence following the gunshot was soon punctuated by shouts. The Director smiled, and lit a slim cigarette with a match he managed to produce without Raymond noticing. "That should do it." And indeed, a few minutes later a trio of figures approached the gate. Two were scruffy-looking guards, each carrying an ancient carbine and sponsoring a filthy beard. The third was a woman even older looking than the guns, her skin and hair mottled with strangely textured patches of brown, green and grey, though it was too dark to see exactly what they were. She hobbled over, heavily leaning on a stout branch she used as a cane, and stared at Raymond and DeMontfort with unconcealed disgust in her eyes. DeMontfort, in turn, looked like he just stepped on something nasty and was examining the results. After a silence which Raymond thought would last forever, the old woman finally spoke, her voice creaky with age: "What do ye want, fat monk? All that was said still holds, ye know, and ye big friends ain't gonna change that." "Mistress Achren, if you'd please reconsider, I'm sure you'd find our terms quite reasona-" "We told ye, we ain't interested in none of your fractional god muck! Off with ye!" DeMontfort gave the woman a smile that held all the warmth of a glacier. "I think talking to my young companion might have given you the wrong idea about our organization. We weren't asking. You will cease your preaching, dismantle your complex, and disband, or we will be forced to take action." "And by what right would ye do that, priest? This is our land, and we'll preach as we wish. The Gospel of Wholeness will be spoken, like it or not. Ye shouldn't reject it, you can't anyway. You're part of it, as is everything. You'll listen." "I'm not here to debate theology with a heretic, woman." "Heh, well I ain't asking. You want us to disband, you'll listen." DeMontfort considered that for a moment, exchanged a few quiet words with Brickjaw, and finally nodded. "You have four minutes." The old woman cackled, and sat on a wooden post near the gate, still clasping her cane. "Ye see, it's really simple if ye just look, but you're too busy nosing around in old books to see it. Yer looking for some beard in the sky to give you divinity and think ye all have some invisible light in ye, or some such nonsense. Ye aren't looking in the right place at all!" "Get to the point." "God is everything, ye daft bastards! It's the trees and skies and soil and birds and bees and it's me boots and me stick and me nose and me arse! There's no reason to look anywhere else if yer God, and I am, and so are ye and yer fat friend." DeMontfort clenched his jaw, barely holding back a furious snarl. "Two minutes. If you wish to be spared, hag, I suggest you consider what you say next very carefully." "I ain't got nothing else to say. I'll show ye all you need to see." With that, the old woman reached with a skeletal hand and, to Raymond's horror, tore at the skin of her other hand with sharp fingernails. Ripping and clawing, apparently not in any kind of pain, she tore a long strip of skin from the top of her hand. "You're mad!" Raymond mumbled, edging away from the bleeding elder. "You just watch." Slowly, the old woman bent down to the ground and with her uninjured hand tore a handful of grass, roots and all, then thrust it into her open wound. Raymond gasped as the roots began to knit themselves into the broken skin, weaving through flesh and tendons. Now, Raymond understood what the strange blotches on the old woman's skin were; patches of brown were soil, grey was iron and rock, green was living flora. Indeed, now he saw that the mottled beards of the guards were spliced with moss and ivy. Shaking, he turned to look at DeMontfort, and was surprised to find the man utterly unmoved. "Time's up. I've suffered through your witchcraft for long enough. Do you submit yourself to the Initiative's judgement?" "Hah! Not bloody likely! Ye see what I can do, why should I listen to anything ye say?" "Because if you don't, I'll destroy you. Simple as that." The old woman limped towards DeMontfort, and thrust her now healed palm, grass blades slowly waving in the evening wind, under his nose. "How could ye destroy us, when we and the land around us are one?" Brickjaw laid a hand on DeMontfort's shoulder, and the Director turned his eyes to the gated community, a strange look on his face. "Well, I can think of one way." A wave of heat and sound knocked Raymond off his feet. The world around him was a cacophony of flames and noise and screams, and his mouth was full of dirt and there was ash in his eyes and he couldn't breathe and around him people were fighting and twisting and dying and he just couldn't breathe why couldn't he breathe why couldn't he brea- A sharp pain in his side, and nothing more, for a while. The sound of dirt crunching under feet, the labored breath of the man carrying him. Uniformed men, their faces covered in gas masks, appearing from between the wheat stalks, looking at their work. DeMontfort doing the same, exaltation and terror wrestling on his visage. "Wake up, brother." Raymond found himself laying on a bed of pine needles, and was greeted with the fairly unpleasant sight of Sawscar's face hovering above him. "What happened?" "Gofrit team happened. Got a bit overzealous, but that's to be expected, I suppose." Raymond was again surprised to hear the man's gentle whisper of a voice. "They...burned them?" "It's all in the name, really." "What about all the people? There were more than a hundred in there, families." "God will find his own." Curiously, Raymond wasn't upset. Shouldn't he be upset? He was a Shepherd, he was supposed to guide the misguided into the light, and yet he didn't seem to mind at all that the only light this particular group found was a funeral pyre. It was...right. It was divine will. "I...don't think I want to be a Shepherd anymore." Sawscar nodded, and helped him to his feet. "You were never a Shepherd, my friend. I could tell from the moment I saw you. " "Really? How is that?" "Shepherds don't have fangs." [[=]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Horizon Blues]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-16T00:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "military-fiction", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Tolerance - SCP Foundation	51	[ "etdp-hub-page", "the-horizon-blues", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page" ]	[]	16421742	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tolerance
transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>THE WHITE HOUSE</strong></p> <p><strong>WASHINGTON</strong></p> <p><strong>TRANSCRIPT OF TELEPHONE CONVERSATION</strong></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">SUBJECT</span>: Telephone Conference to Discuss Transportation of Novaya Zemlya Object</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">PARTICIPANTS</span>:</p> <ul> <li>The President</li> <li>James Baker (Secretary of State)</li> <li>Dick Cheney (Secretary of Defense)</li> <li>John Sununu (White House Chief of Staff)</li> <li>Gen. Colin Powell (Chair, JCS)</li> <li>Col. Gregory Sachs (GOC)</li> <li>Eduard Shevardnadze (Minister of Foreign Affairs, USSR) (via telephone)</li> <li>Boris Pugo (Minister of Interior Affairs, USSR) (via telephone)</li> <li>Translator: G. Valentino (State)</li> <li>Notetaker: S. Morrison (NSC)</li> </ul> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">DATE, TIME</span>: August 9, 1991, 08:36-08:44 a.m. EST<br/> <span style="text-decoration: underline;">PLACE</span>: White House Situation Room - The Kremlin</p> <p>The President initiated the telephone call.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Eduard? Are you on the line?</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: Yes. I am here. Boris Karlovich stepped out for tea, ah … no, he is here. We are both here, Mr. President.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Well, I’m glad, we’re glad that we could set this up, my friends. Let me tell you that Colonel Sachs is here in the room with me.</p> <p>PUGO: [indistinct, in Russian]</p> <p>SACHS: [replies in Russian]</p> <p>VALENTINO: [aside to the President] Ah, pleasantries, Mr. President. Minister Pugo inquires about the health of Colonel Sachs’s wife, and so on …</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Ah, at any rate, Colonel Sachs has informed me that the GOC’s evaluation of the situation up in Novaya Zemlya is that Team Zero is no longer capable of…</p> <p>SUNUNU: [aside to Baker] Team Zero? What is this? I didn’t get briefed …</p> <p>BAKER: [aside to Sununu] Jesus Christ, John, you were just there last week.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: … continuing, hold it. [conference call muted; aside to Sununu] John, when you and I were in Russia last week for the START I summit? We took the flight up north?</p> <p>SUNUNU: Um… I’m confused, sir. After Moscow we went straight to Kiev.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: [conference call unmuted] Eduard, now, come on. You didn’t have to go and give my chief of staff the yellow pill.</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: We did not …</p> <p>SUNUNU: What the … [unintelligible]</p> <p>SACHS: Mr. President, that was us. In fairness, sir, Mr. Sununu requested the amnestic after the [unintelligible].</p> <p>SUNUNU: [unintelligible] … what you’re talking about, if … [unintelligible]</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: We’ll sort that out on our end. At any rate, Eduard, Colonel Sachs tells me that they can’t hold her down anymore, so we need to coordinate the handoff, so to speak.</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: Yes, that is consistent with the report that we have been given. Thank you.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Well, don’t thank me. All we’re doing is giving her a ride. Let the folks down there in their igloo, or whatever it is, let them figure out what to do with her, that’s the prudent thing to do at this juncture. Colin, my understanding is that the boat is ready. Would you confirm that?</p> <p>POWELL: Yes, sir, the USS New Haven will arrive at the Matochkin Strait facility by Sukhoy Nos on August 19, local time, at which point…</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: The New Haven, huh? Dick, I know that Yale kicked you out, but you didn’t have to waste a perfectly good attack submarine to get even.</p> <p>CHENEY: I, well, sir, it was …</p> <p>POWELL: Mr. President, Secretary Cheney wasn’t involved in that decision, and it was the closest boat on station.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: I’m just pulling your leg, Dick. It’s a Bonesman thing, ha ha.</p> <p>CHENEY: Yes, sir.</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: George, we are ready on our end. Vladimir Vladimirovich and his team will handle loading the subject onto your vessel.</p> <p>BAKER: Excuse me, Minister. This is the Lieutenant Colonel from the KGB whom you introduced me to?</p> <p>SACHS: It’s him, Mr. Secretary. He’s also one of ours. Very effective, very reliable.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: And Eduard, the cover operation on your end?</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: I’m not involved … hold on [unintelligible, in Russian] … Boris says it’s under control.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: It’s under control? I can’t greenlight this operation on my end based on that. Not gonna do it, Eduard. Now, you’ve seen that our people are getting better and better at managing a cover, ah, Desert Storm should be enough to demonstrate that. But it’s critical, critical that we keep the world from paying attention to her, from knowing about the handoff or the transport.</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: Absolutely. [unintelligible, in Russian] Please stand by. [unintelligible, in Russian] … <em>Da</em>. [unintelligible, in Russian] … Boris says there is a plan that is involving KGB Chairman Kryuchkov, Premier Pavlov, Minister Yazov and … a few others.</p> <p>PUGO: [unintelligible, in Russian]</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: [unintelligible, in Russian]</p> <p>VALENTINO: [aside to the President] Sir, Minister Shevardnadze said “you what,” you know, with a tone of disbelief. And they’re both talking at once, sir, I can’t sort it out while they’re arguing. Minister Pugo is saying that they’re going to move now that Gorbachev is at his dacha. Sir, they’re talking about an overthrow …</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: It is … not a real coup, Mr. President. It is … distraction.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Greg, has your team, ah, vetted this plan?</p> <p>SACHS: Lieutenant Colonel Putin and I have been through it with Minister Pugo and the others. Given the time constraints at play here, we’re satisfied with … [unintelligible]</p> <p>CHENEY: [unintelligible] … the chain of command here. These cowboys shouldn’t … [unintelligible]</p> <p>BAKER: [unintelligible] … like the other time, Dick. They need to be able to … [unintelligible]</p> <p>POWELL: [unintelligible] … when are we going to get our submarine back? If we …[unintelligible]</p> <p>SACHS: [unintelligible] … General, we’re not taking your submarine away from you, um, that being said, you understand that I can't speak as to the receiving team. At any rate, based on the file, it’s not clear whether the boat is going to be in condition to be returned to service …</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: You’re OK with this, Greg?</p> <p>SACHS: Yes, sir.</p> <p>CHENEY: … is vitally important for us to understand the situation there, and how it is expected to unfold. It may be good cover, but in the medium term, there are known unknowns and there are unknown unknowns, ah, … it could be bad for business, and that …</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Dick, Greg and I go way back, to when I was at Langley, and I’m telling you that I am prepared to proceed based on the GOC’s assurances …</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: Mr. President, let me assure you that Mikhail Sergeyevich and I will have things, ah, things will be back to normal in a week or two.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: In that case, then, I think we’re all settled. Do you agree, Eduard?</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: <em>Da</em>. Yes, Mr. President. Colonel Sachs, is clear at your side?</p> <p>SACHS: We’re ready … and let me add on a personal note, Mr. President, Minister Shevardnadze and Minister Pugo, that … that I am truly sorry, on a personal level, that my organization can’t continue to hold the line. It’s just … I’m sorry. We’ve tried everything, really everything since Khruschev turned it over to us, and … I just … Mr. Minister, let me assure you that those Soviet men and women up there over the years did not make those sacrifices in vain.</p> <p>PUGO: Grigoriy, [in Russian]</p> <p>VALENTINO: [aside, to the President] He says, “Gregory, you did your best.”</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: Greg, we all recognize that it was either this, or call it on Cold Harper, and … uh, none of us wants to go there. And Eduard, please tell Mikhail on behalf of all of us that we will never forget what your people have been doing, up there, on behalf of the world. I’m sure it must be a great relief to all of you, you know, to let the white coats have to deal with it for a change.</p> <p>SHEVARDNADZE: Yes … thank you, Mr. President. Please … please give my best to your family.</p> <p>THE PRESIDENT: And Barbara sends her best to Nanuli, Eduard. I’m glad we could have this conversation to set this in motion. Gentlemen, anything else before we let them go? Very well, thank you.</p> <p>– End of conversation –</p> <hr/> <p>EPILOGUE 1:</p> <blockquote> <p>GROTON, CONNECTICUT</p> <p>22 AUG 1991 18:36 UTC</p> <p>FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE<br/> <br/> COMSUBLANT REPORTS LOSS OF USS NEW HAVEN (SSN-746), A LOS ANGELES-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE. LAST REPORTED LOCATION WAS APPROXIMATELY 230 NAUTICAL MILES SSW OF ICELAND. THE PENTAGON INDICATED THAT THE NEW HAVEN HAD BEEN DETACHED FROM SUBMARINE SQUADRON TO ASSIST NOAA WITH SEAFLOOR MAPPING IN THE ARCTIC AND NORTH ATLANTIC OCEANS. NO SIGNALLING BUOY HAS YET BEEN LOCATED. A SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAM HAS BEEN DISPATCHED TO THE AREA.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>EPILOGUE 2:</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Chicago Sun Times, August 22, 1991</strong></p> <p><strong>Plotter in coup commits suicide</strong></p> <p>MOSCOW Soviet Interior Minister Boris Pugo, a leader of the coup against President Mikhail S. Gorbachev, killed himself with a shot in the mouth today to avoid arrest, a Soviet KGB spokesman said.</p> <p>Pugo's wife also shot herself and was in serious condition.</p> <p>The spokesman for the Soviet intelligence agency said Pugo, who won a reputation as a ruthless hard-liner during his years as KGB chief in Latvia, had been aware a team was on its way to arrest him at his apartment after the collapse of the coup …</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>EPILOGUE 3:</p> <p>August 23, 1991</p> <p>Site 236, Queen Maud Land (71°40′S 02°50′W)</p> <p>“Captain Richards? Welcome to Antarctica. I’m Dr. Garcia. We’re delighted to have you, we don’t get as many visitors down here in Antarctica as some of us would like, yes, especially this time of year. Goes with the territory when you take the king’s shilling – or the Foundation’s shilling, one might say. Thank you for the delivery, we’ll take it from here. Why am I wearing the gas mask, you ask? Two reasons. The first is that it’s part of our quarantine protocol for acquisitions of this type, and as for the second, if you’d care to turn this way, and step under the gas hood … no need to struggle, sir, it’s just an inhalant amnestic … see, the rest of your crew are just unconscious, they’re fine … and he’s down. Good. Emilio, remember the order that Control sent down? Yeah, get these men suited up in the New Haven’s evac kit, then bring them and the boat’s SEIE equipment back up to Iceland within the next twenty-four hours. No, we’re not recruiting them, we’re going to drop them off and let the Navy pick them up. Uh, yeah, it's a perfectly good sub, of course we'll keep it. As for the thing in the boat’s hold … let’s see … You’re quite the ugly thing, aren’t you, SCP-84787?”</p> <hr/> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972">Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972</a> \| <em>COLD HARPER</em> »</strong></p> </div> <hr/> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991">Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991</a>" by spikebrennan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991">https://scpwiki.com/transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON TRANSCRIPT OF TELEPHONE CONVERSATION __SUBJECT__: Telephone Conference to Discuss Transportation of Novaya Zemlya Object __PARTICIPANTS__: * The President * James Baker (Secretary of State) * Dick Cheney (Secretary of Defense) * John Sununu (White House Chief of Staff) * Gen. Colin Powell (Chair, JCS) * Col. Gregory Sachs (GOC) * Eduard Shevardnadze (Minister of Foreign Affairs, USSR) (via telephone) * Boris Pugo (Minister of Interior Affairs, USSR) (via telephone) * Translator: G. Valentino (State) * Notetaker: S. Morrison (NSC) __DATE, TIME__: August 9, 1991, 08:36-08:44 a.m. EST __PLACE__: White House Situation Room - The Kremlin The President initiated the telephone call. THE PRESIDENT: Eduard? Are you on the line? SHEVARDNADZE: Yes. I am here. Boris Karlovich stepped out for tea, ah ... no, he is here. We are both here, Mr. President. THE PRESIDENT: Well, I’m glad, we’re glad that we could set this up, my friends. Let me tell you that Colonel Sachs is here in the room with me. PUGO: [indistinct, in Russian] SACHS: [replies in Russian] VALENTINO: [aside to the President] Ah, pleasantries, Mr. President. Minister Pugo inquires about the health of Colonel Sachs’s wife, and so on … THE PRESIDENT: Ah, at any rate, Colonel Sachs has informed me that the GOC’s evaluation of the situation up in Novaya Zemlya is that Team Zero is no longer capable of… SUNUNU: [aside to Baker] Team Zero? What is this? I didn’t get briefed … BAKER: [aside to Sununu] Jesus Christ, John, you were just there last week. THE PRESIDENT: … continuing, hold it. [conference call muted; aside to Sununu] John, when you and I were in Russia last week for the START I summit? We took the flight up north? SUNUNU: Um... I’m confused, sir. After Moscow we went straight to Kiev. THE PRESIDENT: [conference call unmuted] Eduard, now, come on. You didn’t have to go and give my chief of staff the yellow pill. SHEVARDNADZE: We did not … SUNUNU: What the … [unintelligible] SACHS: Mr. President, that was us. In fairness, sir, Mr. Sununu requested the amnestic after the [unintelligible]. SUNUNU: [unintelligible] … what you’re talking about, if … [unintelligible] THE PRESIDENT: We’ll sort that out on our end. At any rate, Eduard, Colonel Sachs tells me that they can’t hold her down anymore, so we need to coordinate the handoff, so to speak. SHEVARDNADZE: Yes, that is consistent with the report that we have been given. Thank you. THE PRESIDENT: Well, don’t thank me. All we’re doing is giving her a ride. Let the folks down there in their igloo, or whatever it is, let them figure out what to do with her, that’s the prudent thing to do at this juncture. Colin, my understanding is that the boat is ready. Would you confirm that? POWELL: Yes, sir, the USS New Haven will arrive at the Matochkin Strait facility by Sukhoy Nos on August 19, local time, at which point… THE PRESIDENT: The New Haven, huh? Dick, I know that Yale kicked you out, but you didn’t have to waste a perfectly good attack submarine to get even. CHENEY: I, well, sir, it was … POWELL: Mr. President, Secretary Cheney wasn’t involved in that decision, and it was the closest boat on station. THE PRESIDENT: I’m just pulling your leg, Dick. It’s a Bonesman thing, ha ha. CHENEY: Yes, sir. SHEVARDNADZE: George, we are ready on our end. Vladimir Vladimirovich and his team will handle loading the subject onto your vessel. BAKER: Excuse me, Minister. This is the Lieutenant Colonel from the KGB whom you introduced me to? SACHS: It’s him, Mr. Secretary. He’s also one of ours. Very effective, very reliable. THE PRESIDENT: And Eduard, the cover operation on your end? SHEVARDNADZE: I’m not involved … hold on [unintelligible, in Russian] … Boris says it’s under control. THE PRESIDENT: It’s under control? I can’t greenlight this operation on my end based on that. Not gonna do it, Eduard. Now, you’ve seen that our people are getting better and better at managing a cover, ah, Desert Storm should be enough to demonstrate that. But it’s critical, critical that we keep the world from paying attention to her, from knowing about the handoff or the transport. SHEVARDNADZE: Absolutely. [unintelligible, in Russian] Please stand by. [unintelligible, in Russian] … //Da//. [unintelligible, in Russian] … Boris says there is a plan that is involving KGB Chairman Kryuchkov, Premier Pavlov, Minister Yazov and … a few others. PUGO: [unintelligible, in Russian] SHEVARDNADZE: [unintelligible, in Russian] VALENTINO: [aside to the President] Sir, Minister Shevardnadze said “you what,” you know, with a tone of disbelief. And they’re both talking at once, sir, I can’t sort it out while they’re arguing. Minister Pugo is saying that they’re going to move now that Gorbachev is at his dacha. Sir, they’re talking about an overthrow … SHEVARDNADZE: It is ... not a real coup, Mr. President. It is … distraction. THE PRESIDENT: Greg, has your team, ah, vetted this plan? SACHS: Lieutenant Colonel Putin and I have been through it with Minister Pugo and the others. Given the time constraints at play here, we’re satisfied with … [unintelligible] CHENEY: [unintelligible] … the chain of command here. These cowboys shouldn’t … [unintelligible] BAKER: [unintelligible] … like the other time, Dick. They need to be able to … [unintelligible] POWELL: [unintelligible] … when are we going to get our submarine back? If we …[unintelligible] SACHS: [unintelligible] … General, we’re not taking your submarine away from you, um, that being said, you understand that I can't speak as to the receiving team. At any rate, based on the file, it’s not clear whether the boat is going to be in condition to be returned to service … THE PRESIDENT: You’re OK with this, Greg? SACHS: Yes, sir. CHENEY: … is vitally important for us to understand the situation there, and how it is expected to unfold. It may be good cover, but in the medium term, there are known unknowns and there are unknown unknowns, ah, … it could be bad for business, and that … THE PRESIDENT: Dick, Greg and I go way back, to when I was at Langley, and I’m telling you that I am prepared to proceed based on the GOC’s assurances … SHEVARDNADZE: Mr. President, let me assure you that Mikhail Sergeyevich and I will have things, ah, things will be back to normal in a week or two. THE PRESIDENT: In that case, then, I think we’re all settled. Do you agree, Eduard? SHEVARDNADZE: //Da//. Yes, Mr. President. Colonel Sachs, is clear at your side? SACHS: We’re ready … and let me add on a personal note, Mr. President, Minister Shevardnadze and Minister Pugo, that ... that I am truly sorry, on a personal level, that my organization can’t continue to hold the line. It’s just … I’m sorry. We’ve tried everything, really everything since Khruschev turned it over to us, and … I just … Mr. Minister, let me assure you that those Soviet men and women up there over the years did not make those sacrifices in vain. PUGO: Grigoriy, [in Russian] VALENTINO: [aside, to the President] He says, “Gregory, you did your best.” THE PRESIDENT: Greg, we all recognize that it was either this, or call it on Cold Harper, and … uh, none of us wants to go there. And Eduard, please tell Mikhail on behalf of all of us that we will never forget what your people have been doing, up there, on behalf of the world. I’m sure it must be a great relief to all of you, you know, to let the white coats have to deal with it for a change. SHEVARDNADZE: Yes … thank you, Mr. President. Please … please give my best to your family. THE PRESIDENT: And Barbara sends her best to Nanuli, Eduard. I’m glad we could have this conversation to set this in motion. Gentlemen, anything else before we let them go? Very well, thank you. – End of conversation – ------ EPILOGUE 1: > GROTON, CONNECTICUT > > 22 AUG 1991 18:36 UTC > > FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE > > COMSUBLANT REPORTS LOSS OF USS NEW HAVEN (SSN-746), A LOS ANGELES-CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE. LAST REPORTED LOCATION WAS APPROXIMATELY 230 NAUTICAL MILES SSW OF ICELAND. THE PENTAGON INDICATED THAT THE NEW HAVEN HAD BEEN DETACHED FROM SUBMARINE SQUADRON TO ASSIST NOAA WITH SEAFLOOR MAPPING IN THE ARCTIC AND NORTH ATLANTIC OCEANS. NO SIGNALLING BUOY HAS YET BEEN LOCATED. A SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAM HAS BEEN DISPATCHED TO THE AREA. ------ EPILOGUE 2: > Chicago Sun Times, August 22, 1991 > > Plotter in coup commits suicide > > MOSCOW Soviet Interior Minister Boris Pugo, a leader of the coup against President Mikhail S. Gorbachev, killed himself with a shot in the mouth today to avoid arrest, a Soviet KGB spokesman said. > > Pugo's wife also shot herself and was in serious condition. > > The spokesman for the Soviet intelligence agency said Pugo, who won a reputation as a ruthless hard-liner during his years as KGB chief in Latvia, had been aware a team was on its way to arrest him at his apartment after the collapse of the coup … ------ EPILOGUE 3: August 23, 1991 Site 236, Queen Maud Land (71°40′S 02°50′W) “Captain Richards? Welcome to Antarctica. I’m Dr. Garcia. We’re delighted to have you, we don’t get as many visitors down here in Antarctica as some of us would like, yes, especially this time of year. Goes with the territory when you take the king’s shilling – or the Foundation’s shilling, one might say. Thank you for the delivery, we’ll take it from here. Why am I wearing the gas mask, you ask? Two reasons. The first is that it’s part of our quarantine protocol for acquisitions of this type, and as for the second, if you’d care to turn this way, and step under the gas hood ... no need to struggle, sir, it’s just an inhalant amnestic ... see, the rest of your crew are just unconscious, they’re fine ... and he’s down. Good. Emilio, remember the order that Control sent down? Yeah, get these men suited up in the New Haven’s evac kit, then bring them and the boat’s SEIE equipment back up to Iceland within the next twenty-four hours. No, we’re not recruiting them, we’re going to drop them off and let the Navy pick them up. Uh, yeah, it's a perfectly good sub, of course we'll keep it. As for the thing in the boat’s hold ... let’s see ... You’re quite the ugly thing, aren’t you, SCP-84787?” ------ ------ [[=]] << [[[Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972]]] \| //COLD HARPER// >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-sandbox-3.wikidot.com/more-by-spike-alt">:scp-sandbox-3:more-by-spike-alt</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-18T05:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "global-occult-coalition", "goc-casefiles", "military-fiction", "period-piece", "political", "tale" ]	Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991 - SCP Foundation	96	[ "transcript-of-meeting-june-2-1972", "scp-1322", "scp-089", "spikebrennan-s-proposal", "scp-1844", "scp-1012", "scp-2553", "scp-1036", "scp-1512", "scp-1746", "scp-908", "scp-831", "scp-3236", "scp-2336", "scp-955", "scp-926", "scp-2236", "scp-920-ex", "scp-2914", "scp-2008-j", "scp-4436", "scp-4336", "scp-1060", "sic-transit-gloria-mundi", "spring-cleaning", "memorandum-dated-6-november-1944", "scroll-fragment-13q29", "stray-katz", "ad-majorem-bonum", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page" ]	[]	16112089	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/transcript-of-telephone-conversation-august-9-1991
tuesday-11am-conference-room-three	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Ah, Dimaccio," said Dr. Alto Clef, Director, Training and Development, Combined Mobile Task Forces, SCP Foundation.</p> <p>"Clef," said Paul Dimaccio. "This is the rook." He motioned to the woman at his left.</p> <p>"Ah," said Probationary Field Specialist Jane Weiss, Somewhat Nervous Brand-New Member, MTF Theta-90. "Um."</p> <p>"Oh, knock it off, Weiss." Dimaccio rolled his eyes. "Who do you think he is, Lucifer?"</p> <p>"Well, um—"</p> <p>"Ms. Weiss." Clef's tone was as neutral as the room's décor. "I wish these idiot stories would just quit circulating. For the six-hundred and sixty-sixth time" — Clef allowed himself a brief smile — "I am not Satan."</p> <p>Weiss blinked. She didn't feel particularly convinced.</p> <p>"However." Clef motioned for Dimaccio and Weiss to sit. "I <em>am</em> a devil for punctuality, so I would appreciate Theta-90's timely arrival for future meetings. It's like dealing with those clowns from the Eee-Woo sometimes. And I mean, literal clowns, as of last week. But I digress. I believe all of us are present?"</p> <p>They were. Around the extraordinarily large black marble table sat commanders, team leaders or other senior members of every single permanent Mobile Task Force currently active, plus a few non-MTF units to boot. Even those MTFs deployed in the field had at least one delegate present. It was an impressive sight, thought Weiss.</p> <p>"Okay." Clef pushed a button. "Let's get started."</p> <p>Nothing happened.</p> <p>"Fuck." Clef frowned. He pushed the button again, rather harder. Nothing continued to happen. "Shit."</p> <p>Agent Jackson of MTF-Zeta-5 ("Networkers") cleared his throat. "Sir, I—"</p> <p>"Shut up, Jackson," Clef said, without looking. He was squatting, peering into the recesses under his podium. "Ah, there we go." A pop-buzz of suddenly powered speakers and a sudden illumination of a projector screen. The illumination resolved itself into the words "SCP Foundation Mobile Task Force Directorate: Semi-Annual Training Meeting" rendered in tasteful blue text on a pale yellow background.</p> <p>"Um. Sir." Weiss looked out of the corner of her eyes at Dimaccio while whispering. "Why is there, uh…"</p> <p>"A PowerPoint presentation? What did you expect, Weiss? How did you <em>think</em> these things go?"</p> <p>"I had imagined something a little more exciting, sir."</p> <p>"You'll be lucky, Ms. Weiss." The searchlight of Clef's sudden gaze made Weiss intensely uncomfortable. "We're all slaves to Microsoft just like everyone else. Well, before we bought them, of course. Now." The searchlight swept the room. "I only have a few slides this time."</p> <p>"Thank heaven for small mercies," someone muttered.</p> <p>"Watch it, Mackenzie. As I was saying. I only have a few slides this time because this meeting, if you will all recall, was intended to summarize our progress towards the goals we outlined at the start of the year." Clef paused. "And from what I can tell…"</p> <p>He clicked a button. The screen switched to the second slide, which, in bold underlined red text on a black background, said: "We Haven't Done Shit."</p> <p>There was a certain amount of uncomfortable shifting in seats.</p> <p>Clef pointed to the slide. "Seriously. This is getting fucking stupid. We outlined four major goals for every single unit to concentrate on in their training programs this year. Dimaccio!"</p> <p>"Sir."</p> <p>"Last in, first question. What was the first goal?"</p> <p>"Increase containment-to-casualty ratio by at least 20%."</p> <p>"Indeed it was." <em>Click.</em> A slide filled with depressing statistics popped up. "And CON2CAS has, indeed, increased! By… two percent." Clef held up two fingers. "This is for those of you what can't count good. Two fucking percent. I know we've had some bad recoveries this year so far but these casualty rates are just bullshit. And look at how many are from operatives trying to save their buddies! I want you to focus on getting your MTFs' priorities in order. Containment, Team, Self does <em>not</em> mean Containment Gets Ruined Because I Help My Special Friends At Expense Of Self! Containment <em>first</em>." Clef suddenly pointed. "Doctors Boyd!"</p> <p>"Yessir!" The Boyd siblings, temporarily representing MTF Omicron-64 ("Food Standards"), did their best rabbits-in-headlights act.</p> <p>"Second goal. Any time you like."</p> <p>"Um," said the male half of the pair. "Uh, take at least—"</p> <p>The female Boyd sibling frowned at her brother, holding up a hand to silence him. "That's not it. It's, uh, to measurably increase operative scores in secondary-role assessments."</p> <p>"Which hasn't happened. Has it, Ms. Boyd?"</p> <p>"I, uh, I don't know, sir."</p> <p>"You can just say 'no,' Ms. Boyd. Context should give you a little clue there. Secondary-role scores have <em>decreased</em> over the last half a year. I know some of the reasons" — another <em>click,</em> another slide — "but it's just not good enough."</p> <p><em>At least he's not going to ask me,</em> thought Weiss.</p> <p>"Weiss."</p> <p><em>Shit.</em></p> <p>"What was the third goal?"</p> <p>"I, uh, I don't know, sir."</p> <p>"And why not?"</p> <p>"Because, uh, this is my first Foundation-wide MTF training meeting, sir."</p> <p>"So what?"</p> <p>Weiss remained silent. Clef remained silent. It would have been very tense indeed if everyone had remained silent. Fortunately, there was a delegate from RCT-Δt present.</p> <p>"Well, you could have come to us, and… ah." Researcher Kitterman trailed off as the searchlight found him but, to his credit, retained his composure. Several other delegates glanced at him strangely.</p> <p>"I know you think Delta-T has the magical answer to everything, Kitterman, but I have a message from the future for you." Clef paused for just over eleven seconds. "It doesn't." Clef turned back to Weiss. "The reason you don't know is that Task Force Commander Dimaccio" — pivoting again — "hasn't told you about it. Why not, Dimaccio?"</p> <p>Dimaccio indicated Weiss. "Probationary Specialist. She isn't supposed to be doing that yet. And we weren't going to talk about it until a full year had passed, per the last meeting."</p> <p>"Dimaccio." Clef's mouth twitched; it looked a bit like a smile might look after being put through the garbage disposal. "Why do you have to spoil my fun?"</p> <p>"I'm known for it."</p> <p>"Yes, you are, you miserable bastard. Fourth goal. Green!"</p> <p>Agent Green straightened slightly. "The fourth goal was to reduce collateral damage by, if I can quote exactly, "a fucking ton" as compared to last year's performance, sir."</p> <p>"Yes! Yes it was. And despite the sterling efforts of people like yourself — no, I really mean it, there was comparatively little in your last outing, considering — that hasn't happened, either." <em>Click.</em> "Look at this."</p> <p>They looked at it. Nobody said anything for a few seconds.</p> <p>Clef slowly turned back to Green.</p> <p>"Agent Green. Would you mind explaining to the class why my carefully prepared final slide has been replaced by…" Clef mimed squinting at the slide, "by a gigantic, childishly drawn, flashing cock-and-balls that appears to float out of the screen and would, if not for the cognitomemetic safeguards in place in this room, be inducing us all to believe that everyone in the room was actually a giant, crude phallus?"</p> <p>"No, just you," muttered Mackenzie.</p> <p>"You're fucking hysterical, Mackenzie. Agent Green?"</p> <p>Green sighed. "I'll look into it, sir."</p> <p>"You do that, Green. I know those people like to target you in particular but when their little vendetta messes up hours of work on my goddamned presentations, I tend to take it personally." The speakers popped again, and the image on the screen faded away. "Okay. Break for lunch. If you can drag yourself from the delicacies of the Site cafeteria, be back here by half past one. That's 1330 to you, Theta-90, if you'd be so kind. And Weiss?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir?"</p> <p>"There's never a third item in these lists. We pull that to see how all you greenhorns deal with it."</p> <p>"Oh." Weiss noticed a few of the faces around the giant table smirking as they got up to leave.</p> <p>"Don't sweat it. You didn't fuck it up too badly. By the way: your name. Whyss or Vice?"</p> <p>"Vice, sir."</p> <p>"Whyss it is, then. Now go away."</p> <p>Weiss opened her mouth to correct Dr. Clef, thought better of it, closed her mouth, and went to lunch.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\| <a href="/mtf-theta-90-hub-page">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/tuesday-11am-conference-room-three">Tuesday, 11am, Conference Room Three</a>" by Mr Carbon, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/tuesday-11am-conference-room-three">https://scpwiki.com/tuesday-11am-conference-room-three</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "Ah, Dimaccio," said Dr. Alto Clef, Director, Training and Development, Combined Mobile Task Forces, SCP Foundation. "Clef," said Paul Dimaccio. "This is the rook." He motioned to the woman at his left. "Ah," said Probationary Field Specialist Jane Weiss, Somewhat Nervous Brand-New Member, MTF Theta-90. "Um." "Oh, knock it off, Weiss." Dimaccio rolled his eyes. "Who do you think he is, Lucifer?" "Well, um--" "Ms. Weiss." Clef's tone was as neutral as the room's décor. "I wish these idiot stories would just quit circulating. For the six-hundred and sixty-sixth time" -- Clef allowed himself a brief smile -- "I am not Satan." Weiss blinked. She didn't feel particularly convinced. "However." Clef motioned for Dimaccio and Weiss to sit. "I //am// a devil for punctuality, so I would appreciate Theta-90's timely arrival for future meetings. It's like dealing with those clowns from the Eee-Woo sometimes. And I mean, literal clowns, as of last week. But I digress. I believe all of us are present?" They were. Around the extraordinarily large black marble table sat commanders, team leaders or other senior members of every single permanent Mobile Task Force currently active, plus a few non-MTF units to boot. Even those MTFs deployed in the field had at least one delegate present. It was an impressive sight, thought Weiss. "Okay." Clef pushed a button. "Let's get started." Nothing happened. "Fuck." Clef frowned. He pushed the button again, rather harder. Nothing continued to happen. "Shit." Agent Jackson of MTF-Zeta-5 ("Networkers") cleared his throat. "Sir, I--" "Shut up, Jackson," Clef said, without looking. He was squatting, peering into the recesses under his podium. "Ah, there we go." A pop-buzz of suddenly powered speakers and a sudden illumination of a projector screen. The illumination resolved itself into the words "SCP Foundation Mobile Task Force Directorate: Semi-Annual Training Meeting" rendered in tasteful blue text on a pale yellow background. "Um. Sir." Weiss looked out of the corner of her eyes at Dimaccio while whispering. "Why is there, uh..." "A PowerPoint presentation? What did you expect, Weiss? How did you //think// these things go?" "I had imagined something a little more exciting, sir." "You'll be lucky, Ms. Weiss." The searchlight of Clef's sudden gaze made Weiss intensely uncomfortable. "We're all slaves to Microsoft just like everyone else. Well, before we bought them, of course. Now." The searchlight swept the room. "I only have a few slides this time." "Thank heaven for small mercies," someone muttered. "Watch it, Mackenzie. As I was saying. I only have a few slides this time because this meeting, if you will all recall, was intended to summarize our progress towards the goals we outlined at the start of the year." Clef paused. "And from what I can tell..." He clicked a button. The screen switched to the second slide, which, in bold underlined red text on a black background, said: "We Haven't Done Shit." There was a certain amount of uncomfortable shifting in seats. Clef pointed to the slide. "Seriously. This is getting fucking stupid. We outlined four major goals for every single unit to concentrate on in their training programs this year. Dimaccio!" "Sir." "Last in, first question. What was the first goal?" "Increase containment-to-casualty ratio by at least 20%." "Indeed it was." //Click.// A slide filled with depressing statistics popped up. "And CON2CAS has, indeed, increased! By... two percent." Clef held up two fingers. "This is for those of you what can't count good. Two fucking percent. I know we've had some bad recoveries this year so far but these casualty rates are just bullshit. And look at how many are from operatives trying to save their buddies! I want you to focus on getting your MTFs' priorities in order. Containment, Team, Self does //not// mean Containment Gets Ruined Because I Help My Special Friends At Expense Of Self! Containment //first//." Clef suddenly pointed. "Doctors Boyd!" "Yessir!" The Boyd siblings, temporarily representing MTF Omicron-64 ("Food Standards"), did their best rabbits-in-headlights act. "Second goal. Any time you like." "Um," said the male half of the pair. "Uh, take at least--" The female Boyd sibling frowned at her brother, holding up a hand to silence him. "That's not it. It's, uh, to measurably increase operative scores in secondary-role assessments." "Which hasn't happened. Has it, Ms. Boyd?" "I, uh, I don't know, sir." "You can just say 'no,' Ms. Boyd. Context should give you a little clue there. Secondary-role scores have //decreased// over the last half a year. I know some of the reasons" -- another //click,// another slide -- "but it's just not good enough." //At least he's not going to ask me,// thought Weiss. "Weiss." //Shit.// "What was the third goal?" "I, uh, I don't know, sir." "And why not?" "Because, uh, this is my first Foundation-wide MTF training meeting, sir." "So what?" Weiss remained silent. Clef remained silent. It would have been very tense indeed if everyone had remained silent. Fortunately, there was a delegate from RCT-Δt present. "Well, you could have come to us, and... ah." Researcher Kitterman trailed off as the searchlight found him but, to his credit, retained his composure. Several other delegates glanced at him strangely. "I know you think Delta-T has the magical answer to everything, Kitterman, but I have a message from the future for you." Clef paused for just over eleven seconds. "It doesn't." Clef turned back to Weiss. "The reason you don't know is that Task Force Commander Dimaccio" -- pivoting again -- "hasn't told you about it. Why not, Dimaccio?" Dimaccio indicated Weiss. "Probationary Specialist. She isn't supposed to be doing that yet. And we weren't going to talk about it until a full year had passed, per the last meeting." "Dimaccio." Clef's mouth twitched; it looked a bit like a smile might look after being put through the garbage disposal. "Why do you have to spoil my fun?" "I'm known for it." "Yes, you are, you miserable bastard. Fourth goal. Green!" Agent Green straightened slightly. "The fourth goal was to reduce collateral damage by, if I can quote exactly, "a fucking ton" as compared to last year's performance, sir." "Yes! Yes it was. And despite the sterling efforts of people like yourself -- no, I really mean it, there was comparatively little in your last outing, considering -- that hasn't happened, either." //Click.// "Look at this." They looked at it. Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Clef slowly turned back to Green. "Agent Green. Would you mind explaining to the class why my carefully prepared final slide has been replaced by..." Clef mimed squinting at the slide, "by a gigantic, childishly drawn, flashing cock-and-balls that appears to float out of the screen and would, if not for the cognitomemetic safeguards in place in this room, be inducing us all to believe that everyone in the room was actually a giant, crude phallus?" "No, just you," muttered Mackenzie. "You're fucking hysterical, Mackenzie. Agent Green?" Green sighed. "I'll look into it, sir." "You do that, Green. I know those people like to target you in particular but when their little vendetta messes up hours of work on my goddamned presentations, I tend to take it personally." The speakers popped again, and the image on the screen faded away. "Okay. Break for lunch. If you can drag yourself from the delicacies of the Site cafeteria, be back here by half past one. That's 1330 to you, Theta-90, if you'd be so kind. And Weiss?" "Yes, sir?" "There's never a third item in these lists. We pull that to see how all you greenhorns deal with it." "Oh." Weiss noticed a few of the faces around the giant table smirking as they got up to leave. "Don't sweat it. You didn't fuck it up too badly. By the way: your name. Whyss or Vice?" "Vice, sir." "Whyss it is, then. Now go away." Weiss opened her mouth to correct Dr. Clef, thought better of it, closed her mouth, and went to lunch. [[=]] \| [[[MTF Theta-90 Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-30T03:17:00	[ "_licensebox", "angle-grinders", "doctor-clef", "tale" ]	Tuesday, 11am, Conference Room Three - SCP Foundation	85	[ "mtf-theta-90-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "mtf-theta-90-hub-page", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21104761	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tuesday-11am-conference-room-three
turn-a-new-page	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Alai swiped her card again. The door remained closed. She frowned, biting her lip, and swiped the card again. Still nothing.</p> <p>To the outside observer, Alai would have looked like a befuddled tropical fish that had somehow managed to swim hundred of miles inland just to land in the middle of a cement hallway. Her complexly-layered clothing was bright red, yellow, and blue, contrasting with her dark skin. Her hair was done up in a series of small spiral buns. All let out, it would go down past her waist. With her free arm she held a stack of books: a fresh notebook, an English-Imperial dictionary, the <em>Guided Meditations of the Empress</em>, the Foundation Standard Operations Handbook, a map of Site-19, a folder with her department briefings, a book from home.</p> <p>She looked to her right, and then to her left. There was nobody there. She looked at the clock on the wall, converting the time in her head. The day-night cycles here, along with the jet-lag, had made the last two days a complete blur, but she was beginning to bounce back.</p> <p><em>Six-and one-half hours from the cycle origin, that’s equivalent to…</em></p> <p>Was she too early? Would they think badly of her for it? Maybe she should go back to the dormitory and…</p> <p>No, no, that wouldn’t do. Had to show proper work ethic. Show up bright and early, make a good impression. Couldn’t be seen as a burden.</p> <p>She swiped the card again. Nothing happened, again. Look right, look left, still no one. The hallway was bare, hauntingly lonely. None of the portraits or statues or tapestries of empresses and sundry figures past and their accomplishments.</p> <p>Seeing no better option, Alai knocked, as loud as she could with one hand. This persisted for some time, with the occasional “Hello?” thrown in for good measure.</p> <p>She was just about to give up before the door slid open, revealing a sleepy-looking man of early middle-age. Brown hair, light skin, rather tall, bags under his eyes, broad, boxy build, a bit of a gut and a general look of dishevelment.</p> <p>“You the one from Antarctica?” He said, his voice tinged with tiredness.</p> <p>Alai nodded, smiling. There was that word again, their name for the Empire.</p> <p>“Alai LoCaen sen’a LoCaen Jaie, journeyman-scholar of the fifth school, Imperial Institute of Paranormal and Esoteric Study.” She spoke as clearly as she could, trying to minimize her accent, use Northworld inflections. It didn’t help much. Her accent spread across her words like blackbutter on bread.</p> <p>“Card wasn’t working?”</p> <p>“No, it wasn’t letting me in.”</p> <p>“You put it in upside down or something?”</p> <p>Alai looked at the card. She didn’t think that she had…oh, there it was. A little black arrow next to the magnetic strip, pointing the way it should have been swiped.</p> <p>Heat flushed through her face. Of course. Of course she’d make a silly mistake like that on the first day.</p> <p>“Come on, might as well show you around.” The man yawned. “You one of those crazy gung-ho morning people?”</p> <p>“I don’t think so. It’s all very strange, the timing of everything.”</p> <p>“Guess it would be for you. Name’s Ed, by the way.”</p> <p>Ed. No family name? Or was he withholding it? Low-caste? His appearance was slovenly, so that was a possibility or…no, couldn’t keep thinking in Imperial terms.</p> <p>Alai followed Ed through a set of monolithic plastic frames with no doors. Some sort of security system?</p> <p>“You’re a few hours early for the morning shift, so I guess I can give you the tour.” Ed lazily swung a hand out across the expanse of the room. “Welcome to the library.”</p> <p>It was both reassuringly familiar and uncomfortably different. Plain grey carpet on the floor, no ornamentation or design. Rows and rows of bookshelves, metal instead of wood. Kiosks for computers far smaller than she was used to, tables and chairs scattered throughout. The same long, pale lights instead of hanging paper lamps. The overall lack of decoration gave it that same sort of cold, empty, alien feel. There was no one else there.</p> <p>“Main desk is up here on level one, and then you’ve got level two below us, and then three and four and all the way down to six. Levels four through six are anomalous materials: you won’t be down there. You just stick around here and get books when people need help getting books, do your own research, whatever. Your shift doesn’t start for another hour and a half so look around, I guess.” He yawned again. “I’ll be over there, wake me up if you need me. Try not to need me.”</p> <p>Without another glance in her direction, he trundled over to the main desk and sat in the chair, leaning back with his feet on the desk.</p> <p>Alai stood there for a moment,</p> <p>She walked over to the desk.</p> <p>“Um, excuse me, but what am I supposed to do?”</p> <p>Ed opened one eye.</p> <p>“You read the paperwork? Until Dr. Quail gets here for the day shift, you can do whatever the hell you want. I’m not your boss.”</p> <p>“Oh. Okay. If you could show me to…”</p> <p>Ed grunted, in that universal ‘I am trying to sleep do not disturb the grump’ way. No getting anything from him, then.</p> <p>Alai hesitantly wandered over to one of the desks and set her books down. The stillness was all-encompassing, muffling even her own heartbeat. Ed’s behavior puzzled her, threw everything off balance. She wasn’t sure if he was a superior, or a co-worker, and his total lack of interest, in her home, in the exchange program was bizarre.</p> <p>Couldn’t dwell on it now. He wasn’t going to help, so she’d have to make her own. Alai took her dictionary from her pile and stepped into the shelves.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Her pile became significantly higher when she had returned. The categories were easy enough to figure out: history here, sciences here, fiction here, biographies here, and so on. Figuring out the subjects of books had been somewhat difficult, and had required a good deal of flipping through the dictionary, but she had managed. Encyclopedias first, world history and religions, and then focus in greater detail from there.</p> <p>She set a half-dozen books open in front of her on the table, paging through each at whim. With the atlas studied the shapes of the continents that had been little more than unexplored blobs on Imperial maps. So many things to see. So many things to learn. The awkwardness at the door faded away with the time.</p> <p>After some time, Alai became aware of the library door opening. She looked up from her book to see a thin man with a shaved head and a thick beard, wearing a bright yellow shirt with a floral pattern. His gaze jumped directly to her, which seemed to set off some sort of spark in his eyes.</p> <p>“Hello hello hello!” He strode over with big steps and a big smile. “Dr. Argus Quail, <em>tibi servio</em>.” He extended his hand, which Alai shook after a moment’s pause. She put a good deal of strength and energy into it, to make up for her prior failures in the act. Quail laughed. “Strong handshake! I like that. You’re Alai, correct? Am I pronouncing that right?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“Wonderful! Welcome, yes, welcome. You and I, we’ll have to have lunch sometime soon. Need to compare literary traditions. I would do it today, but I’m afraid there’s a faculty meeting and if I skip out on another one of those the Directors’ Committee will have my knickers. Now I would love to show you around myself, but I can’t stay for long, have things to do, books to sort and all. Edward!” He called over to the main desk. “Edward, show our guest around!” He turned back to Alai. “Once again, I am very sorry I cannot show you around personally, my dear, but Edward is a good man, he knows the ropes.”</p> <p>Alai wasn’t sure what ropes had to do with anything, or that Quail was a very observant man. She looked over to see Ed walking towards her: Quail had already disappeared.</p> <p>“Hi, again.” Alai waved half-heartedly. Ed yawned again.</p> <p>“That man has the attention span of a fly in a bakery. Guess I can’t get out of this, then. Come on…”</p> <p>Over the next hour or so, Quail’s faith in Ed was not entirely misplaced, Alai decided. He knew where everything was, answered every question, explained protocol succinctly, and did not appear incredibly impatient. He still didn’t make a single comment about the fact that she was from another world.</p> <p>Soon enough, he had shown her what there was to show her, and they returned to the first level. There were more people in the library now, more librarians and researchers scurrying silently about. Ed gave a lazy goodbye, a yawn, and left.</p> <p>Alai went back to her stack of books, carrying a large one she had found during the tour. An atlas. The perfect place to begin her studies. She sat down and opened it up, slowly parsing the blocky text they favored. A few pages in, she saw a two-page spread of the Empire, covered in ice. Alai tapped it with her finger, placing Rootrel and the other major cities. Her finger lingered on where Kemdn should have been. Where her home should have been.</p> <p>The loneliness crept up slowly for a few trickling moments before crashing down on her in its full, hollow force, taking her enthusiasm and drowning it. She was alone. Barely more than a girl, alone in a world not her own, where things were cold and unadorned. This was her home now, but there was nothing homely about the place. Her friends, her family, her masters and teachers, even her Empress, all far, far away. She wouldn't see any of them or speak to any of them for a long time. Quail was kind, for all she had interacted with him, and so were many of the other staff, but…were they just putting on false smiles, enduring or pitying the stupid, silly girl who stumbled into their lives and talked too fast and got over-excited about the littlest things?</p> <p>She didn’t even belong in the exchange group. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, it was only that her aunt had fallen ill at the last minute and so she was sent instead. She couldn't face the others, couldn’t talk to them: two were so high above her station that there was no way she could approach them, she had no idea how to speak with the Black Court, and she had yet to really speak to the artists. Shifting Snow…she had met him once before, at a funeral. Pleasant enough, but he was a cousin of another family branch, too far away to be real kin.</p> <p>She bit her lip. No. <em>No</em>. She was going to do this. She <em>did</em> belong. The Empress’s hand didn’t move without reason. She was going to do this and when she went home when her studies here were done she would step off that train with smiles and stories and be known as the girl who went North and learned everything there was to know and she would see her mother and father and sisters there at the station waiting for her.</p> <p>She rubbed her eyes on her sleeve. Don’t think about home, think about here. Think about now.</p> <p>She turned the page, and began to read about Asia.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/antarctic-exchange-hub">Hub</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/turn-a-new-page">Turn a New Page</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/turn-a-new-page">https://scpwiki.com/turn-a-new-page</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Alai swiped her card again. The door remained closed. She frowned, biting her lip, and swiped the card again. Still nothing. To the outside observer, Alai would have looked like a befuddled tropical fish that had somehow managed to swim hundred of miles inland just to land in the middle of a cement hallway. Her complexly-layered clothing was bright red, yellow, and blue, contrasting with her dark skin. Her hair was done up in a series of small spiral buns. All let out, it would go down past her waist. With her free arm she held a stack of books: a fresh notebook, an English-Imperial dictionary, the //Guided Meditations of the Empress//, the Foundation Standard Operations Handbook, a map of Site-19, a folder with her department briefings, a book from home. She looked to her right, and then to her left. There was nobody there. She looked at the clock on the wall, converting the time in her head. The day-night cycles here, along with the jet-lag, had made the last two days a complete blur, but she was beginning to bounce back. //Six-and one-half hours from the cycle origin, that’s equivalent to...// Was she too early? Would they think badly of her for it? Maybe she should go back to the dormitory and... No, no, that wouldn’t do. Had to show proper work ethic. Show up bright and early, make a good impression. Couldn’t be seen as a burden. She swiped the card again. Nothing happened, again. Look right, look left, still no one. The hallway was bare, hauntingly lonely. None of the portraits or statues or tapestries of empresses and sundry figures past and their accomplishments. Seeing no better option, Alai knocked, as loud as she could with one hand. This persisted for some time, with the occasional “Hello?” thrown in for good measure. She was just about to give up before the door slid open, revealing a sleepy-looking man of early middle-age. Brown hair, light skin, rather tall, bags under his eyes, broad, boxy build, a bit of a gut and a general look of dishevelment. “You the one from Antarctica?” He said, his voice tinged with tiredness. Alai nodded, smiling. There was that word again, their name for the Empire. “Alai LoCaen sen’a LoCaen Jaie, journeyman-scholar of the fifth school, Imperial Institute of Paranormal and Esoteric Study.” She spoke as clearly as she could, trying to minimize her accent, use Northworld inflections. It didn’t help much. Her accent spread across her words like blackbutter on bread. “Card wasn’t working?” “No, it wasn’t letting me in.” “You put it in upside down or something?” Alai looked at the card. She didn’t think that she had...oh, there it was. A little black arrow next to the magnetic strip, pointing the way it should have been swiped. Heat flushed through her face. Of course. Of course she’d make a silly mistake like that on the first day. “Come on, might as well show you around.” The man yawned. “You one of those crazy gung-ho morning people?” “I don’t think so. It’s all very strange, the timing of everything.” “Guess it would be for you. Name’s Ed, by the way.” Ed. No family name? Or was he withholding it? Low-caste? His appearance was slovenly, so that was a possibility or...no, couldn’t keep thinking in Imperial terms. Alai followed Ed through a set of monolithic plastic frames with no doors. Some sort of security system? “You’re a few hours early for the morning shift, so I guess I can give you the tour.” Ed lazily swung a hand out across the expanse of the room. “Welcome to the library.” It was both reassuringly familiar and uncomfortably different. Plain grey carpet on the floor, no ornamentation or design. Rows and rows of bookshelves, metal instead of wood. Kiosks for computers far smaller than she was used to, tables and chairs scattered throughout. The same long, pale lights instead of hanging paper lamps. The overall lack of decoration gave it that same sort of cold, empty, alien feel. There was no one else there. “Main desk is up here on level one, and then you’ve got level two below us, and then three and four and all the way down to six. Levels four through six are anomalous materials: you won’t be down there. You just stick around here and get books when people need help getting books, do your own research, whatever. Your shift doesn’t start for another hour and a half so look around, I guess.” He yawned again. “I’ll be over there, wake me up if you need me. Try not to need me.” Without another glance in her direction, he trundled over to the main desk and sat in the chair, leaning back with his feet on the desk. Alai stood there for a moment, She walked over to the desk. “Um, excuse me, but what am I supposed to do?” Ed opened one eye. “You read the paperwork? Until Dr. Quail gets here for the day shift, you can do whatever the hell you want. I’m not your boss.” “Oh. Okay. If you could show me to...” Ed grunted, in that universal ‘I am trying to sleep do not disturb the grump’ way. No getting anything from him, then. Alai hesitantly wandered over to one of the desks and set her books down. The stillness was all-encompassing, muffling even her own heartbeat. Ed’s behavior puzzled her, threw everything off balance. She wasn’t sure if he was a superior, or a co-worker, and his total lack of interest, in her home, in the exchange program was bizarre. Couldn’t dwell on it now. He wasn’t going to help, so she’d have to make her own. Alai took her dictionary from her pile and stepped into the shelves. -- Her pile became significantly higher when she had returned. The categories were easy enough to figure out: history here, sciences here, fiction here, biographies here, and so on. Figuring out the subjects of books had been somewhat difficult, and had required a good deal of flipping through the dictionary, but she had managed. Encyclopedias first, world history and religions, and then focus in greater detail from there. She set a half-dozen books open in front of her on the table, paging through each at whim. With the atlas studied the shapes of the continents that had been little more than unexplored blobs on Imperial maps. So many things to see. So many things to learn. The awkwardness at the door faded away with the time. After some time, Alai became aware of the library door opening. She looked up from her book to see a thin man with a shaved head and a thick beard, wearing a bright yellow shirt with a floral pattern. His gaze jumped directly to her, which seemed to set off some sort of spark in his eyes. “Hello hello hello!” He strode over with big steps and a big smile. “Dr. Argus Quail, //tibi servio//.” He extended his hand, which Alai shook after a moment’s pause. She put a good deal of strength and energy into it, to make up for her prior failures in the act. Quail laughed. “Strong handshake! I like that. You’re Alai, correct? Am I pronouncing that right?” “Yes.” “Wonderful! Welcome, yes, welcome. You and I, we’ll have to have lunch sometime soon. Need to compare literary traditions. I would do it today, but I’m afraid there’s a faculty meeting and if I skip out on another one of those the Directors’ Committee will have my knickers. Now I would love to show you around myself, but I can’t stay for long, have things to do, books to sort and all. Edward!” He called over to the main desk. “Edward, show our guest around!” He turned back to Alai. “Once again, I am very sorry I cannot show you around personally, my dear, but Edward is a good man, he knows the ropes.” Alai wasn’t sure what ropes had to do with anything, or that Quail was a very observant man. She looked over to see Ed walking towards her: Quail had already disappeared. “Hi, again.” Alai waved half-heartedly. Ed yawned again. “That man has the attention span of a fly in a bakery. Guess I can’t get out of this, then. Come on...” Over the next hour or so, Quail’s faith in Ed was not entirely misplaced, Alai decided. He knew where everything was, answered every question, explained protocol succinctly, and did not appear incredibly impatient. He still didn’t make a single comment about the fact that she was from another world. Soon enough, he had shown her what there was to show her, and they returned to the first level. There were more people in the library now, more librarians and researchers scurrying silently about. Ed gave a lazy goodbye, a yawn, and left. Alai went back to her stack of books, carrying a large one she had found during the tour. An atlas. The perfect place to begin her studies. She sat down and opened it up, slowly parsing the blocky text they favored. A few pages in, she saw a two-page spread of the Empire, covered in ice. Alai tapped it with her finger, placing Rootrel and the other major cities. Her finger lingered on where Kemdn should have been. Where her home should have been. The loneliness crept up slowly for a few trickling moments before crashing down on her in its full, hollow force, taking her enthusiasm and drowning it. She was alone. Barely more than a girl, alone in a world not her own, where things were cold and unadorned. This was her home now, but there was nothing homely about the place. Her friends, her family, her masters and teachers, even her Empress, all far, far away. She wouldn't see any of them or speak to any of them for a long time. Quail was kind, for all she had interacted with him, and so were many of the other staff, but...were they just putting on false smiles, enduring or pitying the stupid, silly girl who stumbled into their lives and talked too fast and got over-excited about the littlest things? She didn’t even belong in the exchange group. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, it was only that her aunt had fallen ill at the last minute and so she was sent instead. She couldn't face the others, couldn’t talk to them: two were so high above her station that there was no way she could approach them, she had no idea how to speak with the Black Court, and she had yet to really speak to the artists. Shifting Snow...she had met him once before, at a funeral. Pleasant enough, but he was a cousin of another family branch, too far away to be real kin. She bit her lip. No. //No//. She was going to do this. She //did// belong. The Empress’s hand didn’t move without reason. She was going to do this and when she went home when her studies here were done she would step off that train with smiles and stories and be known as the girl who went North and learned everything there was to know and she would see her mother and father and sisters there at the station waiting for her. She rubbed her eyes on her sleeve. Don’t think about home, think about here. Think about now. She turned the page, and began to read about Asia. [[=]] << [[[antarctic exchange hub\| Hub]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T05:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "antarctic-exchange", "nyc2013", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Turn a New Page - SCP Foundation	130	[ "antarctic-exchange-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "antarctic-exchange-hub" ]	[]	16194832	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/turn-a-new-page
under-the-sea	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>I must tell you this now, as I am growing old and the knowledge cannot die with me. The world as you know it is wrong. We are all passengers in a great craft, from which we will one day be released. I have seen it all, and know. There are things outside of us, that we cannot see or know. I have seen them, and I know them. Come closer, and be enlightened.</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Some want to make contact.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Greetings fellow dweller of the deep. May we extend the limb of comradeship? We are the ambassador of the Commonwealth, and we have been traveling through and long, trying to rediscover the homeland.</p> <p>…</p> <p>Greetings! We are the Commonwealth, and we extend a gesture of compliance to you and the inhabitants. If you can open relations, we would be very appreciating of your time and space.</p> <p>…</p> <p>Does your ship not have the space to enter? Our visor is telling us to be negative, and you are not how we thought you were going be be expecting of us. Sorry for your troubles.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Some confuse me, even now.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>We are not here, but we don't want to talk to you. You're not something rare, pretty commonplace in the land. Nothing is frightening and nothing is good, we're going to be here then, and let us know nothings around.</p> <p>While we get here, maybe you could turn the temperature down? It's a little bit too cool up there.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Some cannot comprehend the scale of our carrier.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Ed's rolling. He's rolling because he needs to get around.</p> <p>Ed bumped. Well, he guesses he'll have to try again.</p> <p>Bumped. Didn't work, but that can't stop Ed. Just try again.</p> <p>Try again.</p> <p>Ed's getting pretty sick and tired of this. Where can Ed roll? The big dead bed in front of Ed's head is blocking the road ahead.</p> <p>Maybe Ed can roll around. He'll try that now.</p> <p>Ed bumped. Well… there's always next time. Ed can just try again.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>A few do not realize their own chaotic nature.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>BOOM!</p> <p>Just JOKE. This is not ready to BOOM!, because even though BOOM! is TRUTH we have to go AROUND so that WORK can be DONE because WE NEED TO FINISH.</p> <p>The MATTER is PAST the MIDDLE! This is WHY we need to go BY!</p> <p>Well, we get it. Don't want to GO?</p> <p>We're sorry. Must not be done yet! Come back later to see.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>A small number are almost more ancient than us.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Puttering and clattering through the bottom fed, just keep swimming through the rock.</p> <p>We're always here swimming, around and around and around.</p> <p>We can go in any rock, right?</p> <p>We'll need the rock.</p> <p>See the bigger hollow rock. We can't go in that rock yet.</p> <p>Too bad.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>There are some who croon with our home</em></p> <blockquote> <p>We can sing the song in symphony</p> <p>Sing along, sing the song</p> <p>You are the ancient mystery, and we hope you come down soon</p> <p>Don't fret or forget, just enjoy the show</p> </blockquote> <p><em>There are also a number of beings with… hatred, contempt, and disgust for us. Their words are vile and cruel, and they lie in wait. Be wary of them, for your generation may be the one which must fend them off, and reach the stars.</em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/as-time-draws-near">As Time Draws Near</a> \| <a href="/old-man-in-the-sea-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/rising-tide">Rising Tide</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/under-the-sea">Under the Sea</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/under-the-sea">https://scpwiki.com/under-the-sea</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //I must tell you this now, as I am growing old and the knowledge cannot die with me. The world as you know it is wrong. We are all passengers in a great craft, from which we will one day be released. I have seen it all, and know. There are things outside of us, that we cannot see or know. I have seen them, and I know them. Come closer, and be enlightened.// = //Some want to make contact.// > Greetings fellow dweller of the deep. May we extend the limb of comradeship? We are the ambassador of the Commonwealth, and we have been traveling through and long, trying to rediscover the homeland. > > ... > > Greetings! We are the Commonwealth, and we extend a gesture of compliance to you and the inhabitants. If you can open relations, we would be very appreciating of your time and space. > > ... > > Does your ship not have the space to enter? Our visor is telling us to be negative, and you are not how we thought you were going be be expecting of us. Sorry for your troubles. = //Some confuse me, even now.// > We are not here, but we don't want to talk to you. You're not something rare, pretty commonplace in the land. Nothing is frightening and nothing is good, we're going to be here then, and let us know nothings around. > > While we get here, maybe you could turn the temperature down? It's a little bit too cool up there. = //Some cannot comprehend the scale of our carrier.// > Ed's rolling. He's rolling because he needs to get around. > > Ed bumped. Well, he guesses he'll have to try again. > > Bumped. Didn't work, but that can't stop Ed. Just try again. > > Try again. > > Ed's getting pretty sick and tired of this. Where can Ed roll? The big dead bed in front of Ed's head is blocking the road ahead. > > Maybe Ed can roll around. He'll try that now. > > Ed bumped. Well... there's always next time. Ed can just try again. = //A few do not realize their own chaotic nature.// > BOOM! > > Just JOKE. This is not ready to BOOM!, because even though BOOM! is TRUTH we have to go AROUND so that WORK can be DONE because WE NEED TO FINISH. > > The MATTER is PAST the MIDDLE! This is WHY we need to go BY! > > Well, we get it. Don't want to GO? > > We're sorry. Must not be done yet! Come back later to see. = //A small number are almost more ancient than us.// > Puttering and clattering through the bottom fed, just keep swimming through the rock. > > We're always here swimming, around and around and around. > > We can go in any rock, right? > > We'll need the rock. > > See the bigger hollow rock. We can't go in that rock yet. > > Too bad. = //There are some who croon with our home// > We can sing the song in symphony > > Sing along, sing the song > > You are the ancient mystery, and we hope you come down soon > > Don't fret or forget, just enjoy the show //There are also a number of beings with... hatred, contempt, and disgust for us. Their words are vile and cruel, and they lie in wait. Be wary of them, for your generation may be the one which must fend them off, and reach the stars.// [[=]] << [[[As Time Draws Near]]] \| [[[old-man-in-the-sea-hub\| HUB]]] \| [[[Rising Tide]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-06T02:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "old-man-in-the-sea", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Under the Sea - SCP Foundation	36	[ "as-time-draws-near", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "rising-tide", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16308047	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/under-the-sea
unscience	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Explain to me the appeal of this, John." Dr. Reese leaned on the counter as she waited for the popcorn to finish. "I mean, those shows are just so trashy… not a shred of scientific fact behind them."</p> <p>Johnathan West snickered. "That's exactly what makes them so fun, Margaret." He looked in the fridge, taking out a bottle of Vanilla Coke, the king of soft drinks. "It's so much damn fun to just sit down with a few guys from other departments, and <em>laugh</em> at History or Discovery or Science." Of course, he was talking about the various "educational" channels that were on cable TV.</p> <p>"What about The Learning Channel? We're not going to watch… you know…"</p> <p>Dr. West frowned, and shook his head at Dr. Reese. "Margaret, please. The Foundation is cold, not cruel. I don't think we even let D-Class watch those." He snickered at the thought of it. "Now come on. Tonight is a rerun of Ancient Aliens, and then that damn Mermaids…" He made quotes with his fingers on each syllable, "Documentary".</p> <p>The popcorn finished, and was soon on its way to the employee lounge in Basement Level 3.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Tristan Bailey was in a giggle fit over the images on the screen. "Oh my <em>God.</em> West, pause it. For the love of God, pause it." And paused it was; on screen was an alien apparently within an ancient Egyptian bas-relief, the picture in black and white. Dr. Bailey pointed right at the alien. "Someone look at me right in the eye, without… without laughing, and tell me that looks real."</p> <p>"…so much artifacting," said Dr. Hendricks, adjusting his eyeglasses. "My god. Aliens are <em>not</em> that blurry. Are they even trying?"</p> <p>"This is made for the American Public, Dr. Swatter." Dr. West took a handful of popcorn and munched on it, Dr. Hendricks cringing at his nickname. "Most of them have to look at the back of Encyclopedia Brown books to get the answer. Besides, they eat up anything paranormal."</p> <p>Dr. Bailey snickered, unpausing the video. "Kind of funny, though, isn't it? I mean, aliens <em>do</em> exist, along with half of the stuff that's featured on shows like this." He started counting off on his fingers. "Bigfoot, tulpas, werewolves, ghosts…"</p> <p>Dr. West chimed in. "Cities on Mars, demons, the occult, dragons…"</p> <p>"Goatmen, melonheads, The Loch Ness monster." Dr. Hendricks, who was part of the cryptozoology department, decided to start listing some as well. "Living dinosaurs, mermaids, unicorns…"</p> <p>"Really? Unicorns? That's a new one on me, Hendricks." Hendricks stiffened, before remembering that Margaret was technically cleared to know about those and relaxing. Dr. Reese shook her head. "You'd think that they'd find just <em>one</em> bit of convincing evidence instead of having to fake every damn thing."</p> <p>"That's the appeal of the show, Dr. Reese." Tristan reclined on the couch, sipping a stolen bottle of Vanilla Coke, the prince of soft drinks, only second to Mountain Dew. "The masses can believe, the rest of us can laugh."</p> <hr/> <p>"I've developed a theory," said Dr. West as he returned with another bowl of popcorn, "Explaining why these shows are so popular." The Ancient Aliens episode turned out to be a two-parter, so they needed more snacks. He sat next to Dr. Reese and offered her the bowl.</p> <p>"Care to explain, Johnathan?" Dr. Hendricks chewed on a bit of gum. Without realizing it, he was actually making some very loud popping noises; Tristan gave him a dirty look, and he stopped.</p> <p>"It's simple, Dr. Hendricks. The further the scientific credibility of something falls, the more popular it becomes. TLC became much more highly rated after it turned itself into the freakshow channel. Discovery became <em>far</em> more popular after Mythbusters came on the air-"</p> <p>"What's your problem with Mythbusters, John?" Dr. Reese glowered at him. "My sister's kid watches it all the time; it at least tries to be educational."</p> <p>West threw up his arms defensively. "I'm not saying it isn't educational, but it's <em>pop.</em> It doesn't teach any quantum physics; just basic science and chemistry, and maybe how to handle firearms."</p> <p>"Normal people can't handle quantum physics." Tristan chuckled. "Hell, <em>I</em> could barely handle it when I first started getting education so I could work in Multi-U." He shook his head. "Trevor was always the one that was good at that, and he got diplomatic work. Go figure."</p> <p>West sighed, stretching and totally not casually trying to put his arm around Dr. Reese's shoulder. "I call it the Theory of UnScientific Credibility." He looked around his seat. "Where the hell's my Coke?" West gave Tristan a suspicious look, shaking his head. "Whatever. What's this show on, anyway? Last one was about alien mummies."</p> <p>"It's about how aliens killed the fucking dinosaurs," sighed Hendricks. "I'm glad we don't have a paleontology department here. They'd have killed this TV loooong ago."</p> <hr/> <p>They flipped to Animal Planet next. <em>Mermaids: The Body Found</em> was on; it was about midnight. "Last one," Margaret said, looking at Dr. Hendricks. "Jason, is it true what they say about this one?"</p> <p>Jason Hendricks frowned at Dr. Reese, scratching his birthmark. "What do they say about it? That it's complete and utter scientific garbage?"</p> <p>"I think she's referring to the rumor that this is a Foundation cover-up," said Dr. West, rubbing his stubble. "Which it isn't… right, Dr. Swatter?" Jason swatted his own forehead at the nickname and sighed, West giving an apologetic look.</p> <p>"No, it is not. It is, however, a travesty against common sense, cryptozoology, and the documentary genre." He threw his hands up at one of the merpeople on the screen. "I mean, for fuck's sake, an Atlantic <em>Homo aquaticus</em> isn't going to look the same as one from the Indian ocean. It's just so implausible!"</p> <p>"…Is that really the only problem you have with it?" Tristan groaned. "I swear, if you're going to spend this entire mockumentary pointing out all the inconsistencies with <em>actual</em> merpeople, I'm leaving." West threw an empty soda bottle at the back of Tristan's head.</p> <p>"Don't be an ass, Bailey. You'd be doing the same if this was an episode of Through the Wormhole." Tristan muttered something about how that show was actually okay, and John looked at Dr. Hendricks. "You were saying?"</p> <p>"Well, for one thing, they're not evolved from apes; they're evolved from fish. They shouldn't look humanoid, they should look piscine. Their arms are too long, and they only have two of them, and there's absolutely no decoration for mating rituals." He looked at Dr. West. "I actually have a thesis I wrote about freshwater <em>Homo aquaticus</em> that you can probably get from the archives, if you want."</p> <p>"I'll look it up some time, Jason." He leaned back on the couch. "…Wait, aren't those baleen whales? Why the hell would they eat something humanoid?"</p> <p>"Everybody?" Tristan raised a finger into the air over his head. "3… 2… 1…" He brought it down.</p> <p>"It just raises too many questions," said the entire group simultaneously. They all broke into a snickering fit afterwards.</p> <hr/> <p>"Welp," Dr. West stood from the couch and started stretching and turning off the TV. "That was bullshit. All of it. 100% bullshit."</p> <p>"At least it makes you think," said Hendricks, rotating his shoulders and heading for the door of the lounge. "It makes you think about a universe where the laws of evolution are sideways and backwards, and where aliens killed the dinosaurs." He looked at Tristan. "I… is there a universe like that?"</p> <p>"I've counted at least ten," said Dr. Bailey, chewing on a stick of gum he had borrowed from Hendricks. "In five of those, the Dinosaurs fought back during the Cretaceous; in two of them, they're the dominant species. The dinosaurs, not the aliens."</p> <p>"Well," Dr. Reese yawned. "That was fun, but it's bedtime for me. I have tests to run tomorrow on that thing we recovered from the crash site. Hendricks, your department is co-supervising that, yes?"</p> <p>"Considering that the creatures on there may have been sapient, it's a bit of a gray area until proven otherwise. But we'll be checking in every now and then, yes." Dr. Hendricks rubbed his eyes, and started walking off. "Well, g'night everyone."</p> <p>"Night, Dr. Sw-Hendricks!" Johnathan managed to catch himself before he said "Swatter", and looked at Tristan, as the remaining three started walking down the hallway. "Say, Bailey, maybe we could invite Ewell to the next one? Or Sinclair or someone else?"</p> <p>"Now that you mention it, there is something on about Nazis and demonology next week on History…"<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\|<a href="/the-s-c-plastics-hub">Hub</a>\|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/unscience">UnScience</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/unscience">https://scpwiki.com/unscience</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "Explain to me the appeal of this, John." Dr. Reese leaned on the counter as she waited for the popcorn to finish. "I mean, those shows are just so trashy... not a shred of scientific fact behind them." Johnathan West snickered. "That's exactly what makes them so fun, Margaret." He looked in the fridge, taking out a bottle of Vanilla Coke, the king of soft drinks. "It's so much damn fun to just sit down with a few guys from other departments, and //laugh// at History or Discovery or Science." Of course, he was talking about the various "educational" channels that were on cable TV. "What about The Learning Channel? We're not going to watch... you know..." Dr. West frowned, and shook his head at Dr. Reese. "Margaret, please. The Foundation is cold, not cruel. I don't think we even let D-Class watch those." He snickered at the thought of it. "Now come on. Tonight is a rerun of Ancient Aliens, and then that damn Mermaids..." He made quotes with his fingers on each syllable, "Documentary". The popcorn finished, and was soon on its way to the employee lounge in Basement Level 3. ------ Dr. Tristan Bailey was in a giggle fit over the images on the screen. "Oh my //God.// West, pause it. For the love of God, pause it." And paused it was; on screen was an alien apparently within an ancient Egyptian bas-relief, the picture in black and white. Dr. Bailey pointed right at the alien. "Someone look at me right in the eye, without... without laughing, and tell me that looks real." "...so much artifacting," said Dr. Hendricks, adjusting his eyeglasses. "My god. Aliens are //not// that blurry. Are they even trying?" "This is made for the American Public, Dr. Swatter." Dr. West took a handful of popcorn and munched on it, Dr. Hendricks cringing at his nickname. "Most of them have to look at the back of Encyclopedia Brown books to get the answer. Besides, they eat up anything paranormal." Dr. Bailey snickered, unpausing the video. "Kind of funny, though, isn't it? I mean, aliens //do// exist, along with half of the stuff that's featured on shows like this." He started counting off on his fingers. "Bigfoot, tulpas, werewolves, ghosts..." Dr. West chimed in. "Cities on Mars, demons, the occult, dragons..." "Goatmen, melonheads, The Loch Ness monster." Dr. Hendricks, who was part of the cryptozoology department, decided to start listing some as well. "Living dinosaurs, mermaids, unicorns..." "Really? Unicorns? That's a new one on me, Hendricks." Hendricks stiffened, before remembering that Margaret was technically cleared to know about those and relaxing. Dr. Reese shook her head. "You'd think that they'd find just //one// bit of convincing evidence instead of having to fake every damn thing." "That's the appeal of the show, Dr. Reese." Tristan reclined on the couch, sipping a stolen bottle of Vanilla Coke, the prince of soft drinks, only second to Mountain Dew. "The masses can believe, the rest of us can laugh." ------ "I've developed a theory," said Dr. West as he returned with another bowl of popcorn, "Explaining why these shows are so popular." The Ancient Aliens episode turned out to be a two-parter, so they needed more snacks. He sat next to Dr. Reese and offered her the bowl. "Care to explain, Johnathan?" Dr. Hendricks chewed on a bit of gum. Without realizing it, he was actually making some very loud popping noises; Tristan gave him a dirty look, and he stopped. "It's simple, Dr. Hendricks. The further the scientific credibility of something falls, the more popular it becomes. TLC became much more highly rated after it turned itself into the freakshow channel. Discovery became //far// more popular after Mythbusters came on the air-" "What's your problem with Mythbusters, John?" Dr. Reese glowered at him. "My sister's kid watches it all the time; it at least tries to be educational." West threw up his arms defensively. "I'm not saying it isn't educational, but it's //pop.// It doesn't teach any quantum physics; just basic science and chemistry, and maybe how to handle firearms." "Normal people can't handle quantum physics." Tristan chuckled. "Hell, //I// could barely handle it when I first started getting education so I could work in Multi-U." He shook his head. "Trevor was always the one that was good at that, and he got diplomatic work. Go figure." West sighed, stretching and totally not casually trying to put his arm around Dr. Reese's shoulder. "I call it the Theory of UnScientific Credibility." He looked around his seat. "Where the hell's my Coke?" West gave Tristan a suspicious look, shaking his head. "Whatever. What's this show on, anyway? Last one was about alien mummies." "It's about how aliens killed the fucking dinosaurs," sighed Hendricks. "I'm glad we don't have a paleontology department here. They'd have killed this TV loooong ago." ------ They flipped to Animal Planet next. //Mermaids: The Body Found// was on; it was about midnight. "Last one," Margaret said, looking at Dr. Hendricks. "Jason, is it true what they say about this one?" Jason Hendricks frowned at Dr. Reese, scratching his birthmark. "What do they say about it? That it's complete and utter scientific garbage?" "I think she's referring to the rumor that this is a Foundation cover-up," said Dr. West, rubbing his stubble. "Which it isn't... right, Dr. Swatter?" Jason swatted his own forehead at the nickname and sighed, West giving an apologetic look. "No, it is not. It is, however, a travesty against common sense, cryptozoology, and the documentary genre." He threw his hands up at one of the merpeople on the screen. "I mean, for fuck's sake, an Atlantic //Homo aquaticus// isn't going to look the same as one from the Indian ocean. It's just so implausible!" "...Is that really the only problem you have with it?" Tristan groaned. "I swear, if you're going to spend this entire mockumentary pointing out all the inconsistencies with //actual// merpeople, I'm leaving." West threw an empty soda bottle at the back of Tristan's head. "Don't be an ass, Bailey. You'd be doing the same if this was an episode of Through the Wormhole." Tristan muttered something about how that show was actually okay, and John looked at Dr. Hendricks. "You were saying?" "Well, for one thing, they're not evolved from apes; they're evolved from fish. They shouldn't look humanoid, they should look piscine. Their arms are too long, and they only have two of them, and there's absolutely no decoration for mating rituals." He looked at Dr. West. "I actually have a thesis I wrote about freshwater //Homo aquaticus// that you can probably get from the archives, if you want." "I'll look it up some time, Jason." He leaned back on the couch. "...Wait, aren't those baleen whales? Why the hell would they eat something humanoid?" "Everybody?" Tristan raised a finger into the air over his head. "3... 2... 1..." He brought it down. "It just raises too many questions," said the entire group simultaneously. They all broke into a snickering fit afterwards. ------ "Welp," Dr. West stood from the couch and started stretching and turning off the TV. "That was bullshit. All of it. 100% bullshit." "At least it makes you think," said Hendricks, rotating his shoulders and heading for the door of the lounge. "It makes you think about a universe where the laws of evolution are sideways and backwards, and where aliens killed the dinosaurs." He looked at Tristan. "I... is there a universe like that?" "I've counted at least ten," said Dr. Bailey, chewing on a stick of gum he had borrowed from Hendricks. "In five of those, the Dinosaurs fought back during the Cretaceous; in two of them, they're the dominant species. The dinosaurs, not the aliens." "Well," Dr. Reese yawned. "That was fun, but it's bedtime for me. I have tests to run tomorrow on that thing we recovered from the crash site. Hendricks, your department is co-supervising that, yes?" "Considering that the creatures on there may have been sapient, it's a bit of a gray area until proven otherwise. But we'll be checking in every now and then, yes." Dr. Hendricks rubbed his eyes, and started walking off. "Well, g'night everyone." "Night, Dr. Sw-Hendricks!" Johnathan managed to catch himself before he said "Swatter", and looked at Tristan, as the remaining three started walking down the hallway. "Say, Bailey, maybe we could invite Ewell to the next one? Or Sinclair or someone else?" "Now that you mention it, there is something on about Nazis and demonology next week on History..." [[=]] \|[[[the-s-c-plastics-hub\|Hub]]]\| [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-21T03:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "bailey-brothers", "comedy", "s&c-plastics", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	UnScience - SCP Foundation	158	[ "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19341048	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/unscience
unstable-thoughts	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> It's so cold. This place has always been so cold and dark. Well, not so dark, but it doesn't count for me. I've been here for a long time, and it's so boring. I mostly spend my days walking around. Sometimes I sit and I try to think, but it's so hard now. I have shattered memories about the me before the current "me". I can barely remember people I loved when I was younger, but not their names or even their faces. I can see myself running, and playing, and getting hurt, and crying. I can remember a man who came one day to my… home? Did I ever have a home before? Nevermind. <p><em>Why is it so cold here?</em></p> <p>He's the one I can remember well, I'll never forget it, not even now. He was tall and thin, with a huge mustache that it looked almost like a smile, but he didn't look happy at all. He said something to me and the other people around me. I can't recall what he said exactly, but we followed him. I can't remember anything but dust, and smoke and that red thing from that moment till my last memory being the old "me".</p> <p><em>I raise my hand. I can see my bones through my flesh.</em></p> <p>I was in a… thing that goes underwater? What was the word? Su… Sub-mah-reeen? Anyways, I was with others in it, travelling through the sea. I always liked the sea, even now. Water everywhere. We were taking a thing to a special place. They told me it was a weapon to defeat our enemies. I thought it was rather funny. Basically a big, white ball with strange symbols. I used to know what the symbols meant, but now I don't care anymore. You forget what you don't use, after all. I always think about the time I spent in that thing. I don't want forget, but one day I will.</p> <p><em>I can hear sounds through the walls. They keep building it thicker.</em></p> <p>We reached a place where water and ice met. At least, that's what they told me. I couldn't see too much from inside of the submahreen. Another day, and nothing to do. Red alarms and screams from machines started, breaking the calm. everybody was running through small passages, as was I. They saw other things get close to us. Everybody prepared themselves for battle, looking at glowing screens and checking our weapons. I went to my position and started to to check my own screen for enemies. I saw. There were two small points getting closer to us. A thing started to talk through a speak-machine ordering the enemies to retreat. I looked at my screen again. I saw a shiny thing going from one of the shiny points directly to me. I screamed at the things to prepare for the impact, and immediately after a big sound filled the place. It was followed by the water, which was really cold. I ran fast to avoid seeing the other things going down. I went directly to the ball. I looked at it desperately. I remember the pain in my ears. Something tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear what it said. I remember the fear. Those things and I were going to die. I turned my head and I saw the weapon one last time, and for a second, I saw it glow. Another explosion. This time it caught too close. The pain and fear vanished from my boiling mind, and darkness surrounded me.</p> <p><em>Raw meat again. I miss the cooked one. I touch it for a moment. I like meat well cooked.</em></p> <p>I suddenly woke up floating in the sea. I inmediately felt the cold water around my body and trying to go land. It was strange, I could see shattered pieces of metal and gore. The sea was no longer blue, but red and for some reason, green around me. I realized that the land was too far, so I tried to swim to the closest trash. I felt scared again, but it was weird. It was like being scared by the first time. When I reached the place I realized something new about myself. I was glowing, in a shiny green, and my bones were visible, but I was otherwise unharmed. I thought for the first time again, trying to think how this happened, but I felt my head was running slowly. I floated a big chunk of black metal and waited. I see one thing floating close to me, and its reddy face kept its last scream. I don't know what to do. I got angry, screaming as hard as possible, and anything listened to me. In that moment I felt my second emotion: Hate. For my enemies, the things that destroyed this and made me feel cold, and angry, and hungry. There was nothing to do, so I waited and waited.</p> <p><em>My enemies came today. I tried to kill them, but they attacked me with cold guns, and I felt fear.</em></p> <p>I think I was dying. No food, no water and alone. I tried to drink, but it was awful. I don't know how much time, but I was dying. The glowing always present, and is hard to sleep when your… your skin is invisible. One day, I suddenly woke up, and I was inside of a room. I don't know how I got there, but I forgot everything when I saw food. I ran, and I ate for the first time as fast as possible. I realized something new when it burned in my mouth, but I didn't care, and I kept eating and drinking like an animal. When I finished, I tried to inspect the place I was. No windows, made of metal. I don't know what happened to me then. I just remember angry and hate again, so much hate. And things dying, and a lot of red. Then I wake up, and I'm here, and I've been here since that. They are my enemies, and I hate them. I kill them everytime I can, but they make me feel cold. I hate cold. Always so cold.</p> <p><em>They always watch me, but I can watch them too.</em></p> <p>I stop remember. They are watching me. I can feel it. Something is starting to change inside me. I stand up and turn to the camera over me. I try to watch them through the eye over my cage, but it's impossible. I keep trying and trying. My mind starts to run again, faster and faster, And then I slowly start to see through the camera, and cables, until I reach to a new room. I watch them, and they realize that something is close. My mind is clear, my memories suddenly come back, all at once. I remember everything again. It feels so refreshing, but I still watch them. I hate them, but now my hate has a reason. I try to reach them. I "touch" one of them, and she starts bleeding, and then falls to the ground. Suddenly, a lot of forgotten feelings come right at my face. I return to my cage and I think while I still can. What am I? Am I a monster? I don't want to be a stupid freak within a cold cage forever. I felt in despair. I can feel my mind shutting down again, losing thoughts and memories again, falling into the darkness again. I passed out, and my last coherent thought crossed my mind like a bullet.</p> <p><em>I just want to die.</em></p> <p>Why's it so cold? This place has always been so cold and dark, well, not so dark, but it don't count for me. It's so boring. I can just walk around or sit and remember. There so few to remember now. I can remember things I loved, but not their colors, or form, or what they were, but I remember that I loved. I remember myself running, and playing, and hurting, and crying. But the only thing I can remember well is this feel. I want to die, I hate here, and they, and me, and food, and cold, and glowing, and bones. I hate everything. They come again today, but it's different. They have guns. I stand up, but I don't attack them, not anymore. They see me. They look funny with weird white dresses and hats. I cant see their faces, but I don't care. They prepare, and for a moment, a tiny little moment. I feel something that I have never felt here.</p> <p><em>Thank you.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Due to gross negligence, a decommission order was enacted a ██/██/2009 following the incident reported in addendum. SCP-019 was terminated without incident. Remains showed no anomalous effects, and were disposed of by incineration.</p> </blockquote> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/unstable-thoughts">Unstable Thoughts</a>" by FaustoV, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/unstable-thoughts">https://scpwiki.com/unstable-thoughts</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] It's so cold. This place has always been so cold and dark. Well, not so dark, but it doesn't count for me. I've been here for a long time, and it's so boring. I mostly spend my days walking around. Sometimes I sit and I try to think, but it's so hard now. I have shattered memories about the me before the current "me". I can barely remember people I loved when I was younger, but not their names or even their faces. I can see myself running, and playing, and getting hurt, and crying. I can remember a man who came one day to my... home? Did I ever have a home before? Nevermind. //Why is it so cold here?// He's the one I can remember well, I'll never forget it, not even now. He was tall and thin, with a huge mustache that it looked almost like a smile, but he didn't look happy at all. He said something to me and the other people around me. I can't recall what he said exactly, but we followed him. I can't remember anything but dust, and smoke and that red thing from that moment till my last memory being the old "me". //I raise my hand. I can see my bones through my flesh.// I was in a... thing that goes underwater? What was the word? Su... Sub-mah-reeen? Anyways, I was with others in it, travelling through the sea. I always liked the sea, even now. Water everywhere. We were taking a thing to a special place. They told me it was a weapon to defeat our enemies. I thought it was rather funny. Basically a big, white ball with strange symbols. I used to know what the symbols meant, but now I don't care anymore. You forget what you don't use, after all. I always think about the time I spent in that thing. I don't want forget, but one day I will. //I can hear sounds through the walls. They keep building it thicker.// We reached a place where water and ice met. At least, that's what they told me. I couldn't see too much from inside of the submahreen. Another day, and nothing to do. Red alarms and screams from machines started, breaking the calm. everybody was running through small passages, as was I. They saw other things get close to us. Everybody prepared themselves for battle, looking at glowing screens and checking our weapons. I went to my position and started to to check my own screen for enemies. I saw. There were two small points getting closer to us. A thing started to talk through a speak-machine ordering the enemies to retreat. I looked at my screen again. I saw a shiny thing going from one of the shiny points directly to me. I screamed at the things to prepare for the impact, and immediately after a big sound filled the place. It was followed by the water, which was really cold. I ran fast to avoid seeing the other things going down. I went directly to the ball. I looked at it desperately. I remember the pain in my ears. Something tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear what it said. I remember the fear. Those things and I were going to die. I turned my head and I saw the weapon one last time, and for a second, I saw it glow. Another explosion. This time it caught too close. The pain and fear vanished from my boiling mind, and darkness surrounded me. //Raw meat again. I miss the cooked one. I touch it for a moment. I like meat well cooked.// I suddenly woke up floating in the sea. I inmediately felt the cold water around my body and trying to go land. It was strange, I could see shattered pieces of metal and gore. The sea was no longer blue, but red and for some reason, green around me. I realized that the land was too far, so I tried to swim to the closest trash. I felt scared again, but it was weird. It was like being scared by the first time. When I reached the place I realized something new about myself. I was glowing, in a shiny green, and my bones were visible, but I was otherwise unharmed. I thought for the first time again, trying to think how this happened, but I felt my head was running slowly. I floated a big chunk of black metal and waited. I see one thing floating close to me, and its reddy face kept its last scream. I don't know what to do. I got angry, screaming as hard as possible, and anything listened to me. In that moment I felt my second emotion: Hate. For my enemies, the things that destroyed this and made me feel cold, and angry, and hungry. There was nothing to do, so I waited and waited. //My enemies came today. I tried to kill them, but they attacked me with cold guns, and I felt fear.// I think I was dying. No food, no water and alone. I tried to drink, but it was awful. I don't know how much time, but I was dying. The glowing always present, and is hard to sleep when your... your skin is invisible. One day, I suddenly woke up, and I was inside of a room. I don't know how I got there, but I forgot everything when I saw food. I ran, and I ate for the first time as fast as possible. I realized something new when it burned in my mouth, but I didn't care, and I kept eating and drinking like an animal. When I finished, I tried to inspect the place I was. No windows, made of metal. I don't know what happened to me then. I just remember angry and hate again, so much hate. And things dying, and a lot of red. Then I wake up, and I'm here, and I've been here since that. They are my enemies, and I hate them. I kill them everytime I can, but they make me feel cold. I hate cold. Always so cold. //They always watch me, but I can watch them too.// I stop remember. They are watching me. I can feel it. Something is starting to change inside me. I stand up and turn to the camera over me. I try to watch them through the eye over my cage, but it's impossible. I keep trying and trying. My mind starts to run again, faster and faster, And then I slowly start to see through the camera, and cables, until I reach to a new room. I watch them, and they realize that something is close. My mind is clear, my memories suddenly come back, all at once. I remember everything again. It feels so refreshing, but I still watch them. I hate them, but now my hate has a reason. I try to reach them. I "touch" one of them, and she starts bleeding, and then falls to the ground. Suddenly, a lot of forgotten feelings come right at my face. I return to my cage and I think while I still can. What am I? Am I a monster? I don't want to be a stupid freak within a cold cage forever. I felt in despair. I can feel my mind shutting down again, losing thoughts and memories again, falling into the darkness again. I passed out, and my last coherent thought crossed my mind like a bullet. //I just want to die.// Why's it so cold? This place has always been so cold and dark, well, not so dark, but it don't count for me. It's so boring. I can just walk around or sit and remember. There so few to remember now. I can remember things I loved, but not their colors, or form, or what they were, but I remember that I loved. I remember myself running, and playing, and hurting, and crying. But the only thing I can remember well is this feel. I want to die, I hate here, and they, and me, and food, and cold, and glowing, and bones. I hate everything. They come again today, but it's different. They have guns. I stand up, but I don't attack them, not anymore. They see me. They look funny with weird white dresses and hats. I cant see their faces, but I don't care. They prepare, and for a moment, a tiny little moment. I feel something that I have never felt here. //Thank you.// > Due to gross negligence, a decommission order was enacted a ██/██/2009 following the incident reported in addendum. SCP-019 was terminated without incident. Remains showed no anomalous effects, and were disposed of by incineration. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-04-18T01:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Unstable Thoughts - SCP Foundation	18	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author" ]	[]	17527236	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/unstable-thoughts
unusual-music	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The sign at the top of the store should have read “Jive Kat's Funky Disco Beats”, but four of the letters had fallen off to make it “Jiv at's Fun y Disco Bats”. The tinted windows had been broken and replaced half a dozen times, and were taped over with posters. The sidewalk had become a breeding ground for broken glass and cigarette butts. Against the wall was a mud encrusted man sleeping under a torn jacket.</p> <p>A small black car pulled up. Out stepped a scrawny, blond haired man and a dark-skinned woman smoking a cigarette, both dressed in suits. The woman took one last drag before flicking the cigarette into the ever-growing pile of sidewalk trash. She rapped at the door, stepped back, and waited. The door swung open. Standing in the frame was a sweaty, rotund man, about six feet tall, with black hair and dark circles under his eyes. A nametag on his left breast read “John”.</p> <p>“You looking for something?” he said.</p> <p>The dark-skinned woman pulled a leather wallet from her jacket and opened it. “My name's Sabrina Marx,” she said, and jabbed a thumb back at her partner. “That's Isaac. We're from the FBI, Unusual Incidents Unit.”</p> <p>“Goodbye,” John said, and began to shut the door. Sabrina's hand whipped forward and caught it.</p> <p>“Sir, five minutes of your time is all we need.”</p> <p>He scowled. “We're closed. Come back later.”</p> <p>“Now would really be the best time sir.”</p> <p>The scowl intensified. “Then I guess you'll have to make do with second best.” He shoved his shoulder against the door, but it didn't budge.</p> <p>Sabrina sighed. “We're willing to pay you. One hundred dollars, just to look at the shop for ten minutes and ask you some questions.”</p> <p>He bit his lower lip. “A hundred fifty dollars.”</p> <p>“A hundred twenty-five.”</p> <p>The door swung open. John stepped out of the way. “Ten minutes, then you're out of here.”</p> <p>Sabrina nodded and stepped inside. Isaac followed and gave an appreciative whistle. “Damn, not bad at all,” he said. “I was expecting it to be a dump.” John shot him an evil look.</p> <p>The store was much larger than the front indicated, stretching back almost 50 feet. Multi-colored aisles of records, CDs, DVDs, and T-Shirts ran to the back. The sterile white walls were covered in band posters. Asleep behind a counter by the door was a thin, young black man dressed in torn jeans and a U2 t-shirt. John gave him a hard smack as he passed. “Mike, if I catch you napping again, you're fired.” Mike saluted, then sunk back into his chair and went to sleep. John leaned against the counter and said, “Okay, so what are you doing in my store?”</p> <p>Isaac nodded to Sabrina and walked off into the aisles. Sabrina pulled a notebook from her jacket and flipped it open. “If I'm not mistaken, a woman named Miranda Dole used to work here?”</p> <p>He nodded. “She quit a few weeks ago, yeah.”</p> <p>“So you know why we're here?”</p> <p>As he spoke he took a novelty band pen from the counter and spun it in his fingers. “Miranda said that the records were talking to her, and for some reason beyond my mortal understanding the FBI feels that's a claim worth investigating. Which, in my opinion, is a spectacular example of what's wrong with the government today.”</p> <p>Sabrina wrote something in her notebook. “So you do not believe that the records were talking?”</p> <p>“No, I don't believe the records were fucking talking, because I don't believe that records can fucking talk.”</p> <p>“I see,” she said. She tapped Mike on the shoulder, and he opened one eye. “Do you believe the records were talking sir?”</p> <p>He shrugged. “Dunno.”</p> <p>“I see.” She turned back to John. “Can you elaborate on what she said?”</p> <p>“If it'll make you feel better. So, this started about four weeks ago. Miranda had been working here for about three weeks, and doing a pretty nice job. Good with the customers, remembered her shit, didn't complain, all of that. Then, out of nowhere, she starts getting real nervous during working hours. Like, she jumped when you tried to talk to her, and she deliberately avoids certain parts of the store. Tell her to put something in the rock section, and instead of going through hip-hop she'll walk around through classical, that sort of shit. I'm a bit worried y'know, thinking maybe something bad happened in her personal life that's throwing her off. I pull her out after a few days, ask her what's going on, tell her I'm here to help if she needs something. She just shuts down. Refuses to talk, gets real cold looking, and walks out without saying anything. Now I'm getting really worried, obviously.</p> <p>"The next day I pull her aside again. Tell her, 'look, I'm your boss. I need to know if something's wrong with you that could be affecting your job performance'. This time, she starts crying and sobbing. Starts talking about how some of the records are talking to her. As you might imagine, this was not what I was expecting to hear. I have no idea what to say. Hell, I'm fucking stunned. How the hell was I supposed to react right? Well she doesn't like that. Starts screaming about how she knew I wouldn't believe her, how she wished I never had made her talk about this, how she knows she sounds fucking crazy. Then she just runs out, and I haven't seen her since.” He set the pen on the counter and folded his arms. “That's everything.”</p> <p>“Hm,” said Sabrina. “I see.”</p> <p>“I'm sure you do.”</p> <p>“Sabrina!” called Isaac from one of the aisles. “Look at this.”</p> <p>Sabrina smiled. “Excuse me for a moment.” She walked through the aisles to Isaac. He was holding a faded copy of 36 Chambers. “Did you find something?”</p> <p>He nodded. “Our girl Miranda was right.” He flicked the album with his middle finger. Nothing happened. Sabrina raised an eyebrow.</p> <p>“Impressive.”</p> <p>“Wait wait, this worked the first time.” He flicked the record harder. Again, nothing happened. He grasped the record in both hands and said, “I'm going to break you now.” Gently he began to bend the record inwards.</p> <p>“Okay, okay! Fuck!” came a voice from the record. “What do you want?”</p> <p>Isaac grinned. “Hello Mr. Thirty-Six Chambers. Nice of you to say hi to my lady-friend.” Sabrina rolled her eyes.</p> <p>“My name's not Mr. Thirty-Six Chambers, you goddamn mouth-breathing plebian. It's Cornwallace,” said the record.</p> <p>“Nice to meet you Mr. Cornwallace,” said Sabrina. She scanned her notebook. “Are you the only other talking record in this store, or am I correct in thinking copies of Meantime and Broken are also possessed?”</p> <p>“I ain't talking,” said Cornwallace. Isaac started to bend it again. “Alright, shit! Crazy fucking humans. Yeah, they can talk. We ain't possessed though.”</p> <p>“What are you?</p> <p>The record's voice took an air of superiority. “We're Remorians of course.”</p> <p>“That's ten minutes!” John called. “Get out of my store.”</p> <p>Isaac flicked the record again. “You'll shut up if you know what's good for you.” To John he said “One minute! We need to get some records.” He handed Cornwallace to Sabrina and darted off into the metal section. Sabrina walked back to a sour looking John.</p> <p>“Get everything you needed?” he sneered.</p> <p>“Yes,” said Sabrina. Isaac arrived holding the two other records.</p> <p>“How much will these be?” he asked.</p> <p>John walked to the register. “Twenty dollars thirty three cents.” He grinned. “Plus one hundred twenty-five.”</p> <p>Sabrina handed him the money, and the two agents walked out. Isaac grinned. “Score one for the UIU.” He extended a fist. Sabrina sighed, then tapped it with hers.</p> <p>“If I were you,” said a voice from behind them, “I'd hold off on counting my chickens for a little bit.” The two of them turned. The homeless man had stood up. He dusted off his shoulders and extended a hand. “I'd like the records please.”</p> <p>“Who the hell are you?” said Isaac. He tucked the records safely under his arms.</p> <p>“Who do you think I am?” said the man. “I'm with the Coalition. This is our operation. Give us the records.”</p> <p>“Screw you man,” said Isaac. “We spent money on these. We did all the work.”</p> <p>“You interfered with Coalition business,” he said. He took five 100 dollar bills out of his jacket and tossed them to Isaac. “Here. Remuneration. Take it and run along back to your little clubhouse.”</p> <p>Isaac took a step forward. “I'm sorry?”</p> <p>“Isaac,” said Sabrina. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Give him the records.”</p> <p>Isaac spat and shoved the records against the man. One of them gave a muffled “Ow!”</p> <p>The man smiled, gave a mock wave, and walked away humming. Isaac roared and kicked a wall. “Fuck! This is bullshit, we had that! Joshua is right you know. I'm tired of just sitting by while they steal the limelight.”</p> <p>“Isaac. Calm down,” said Sabrina. “You can't say you didn't expect this.”</p> <p>“Yeah, but that's different from it actually happening! God!” He slammed open the car door. “Let's just go back.”</p> <p>“That would probably be best.”</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/unusual-music">Unusual Music</a>" by rumetzen, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/unusual-music">https://scpwiki.com/unusual-music</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The sign at the top of the store should have read “Jive Kat's Funky Disco Beats”, but four of the letters had fallen off to make it “Jiv at's Fun y Disco Bats”. The tinted windows had been broken and replaced half a dozen times, and were taped over with posters. The sidewalk had become a breeding ground for broken glass and cigarette butts. Against the wall was a mud encrusted man sleeping under a torn jacket. A small black car pulled up. Out stepped a scrawny, blond haired man and a dark-skinned woman smoking a cigarette, both dressed in suits. The woman took one last drag before flicking the cigarette into the ever-growing pile of sidewalk trash. She rapped at the door, stepped back, and waited. The door swung open. Standing in the frame was a sweaty, rotund man, about six feet tall, with black hair and dark circles under his eyes. A nametag on his left breast read “John”. “You looking for something?” he said. The dark-skinned woman pulled a leather wallet from her jacket and opened it. “My name's Sabrina Marx,” she said, and jabbed a thumb back at her partner. “That's Isaac. We're from the FBI, Unusual Incidents Unit.” “Goodbye,” John said, and began to shut the door. Sabrina's hand whipped forward and caught it. “Sir, five minutes of your time is all we need.” He scowled. “We're closed. Come back later.” “Now would really be the best time sir.” The scowl intensified. “Then I guess you'll have to make do with second best.” He shoved his shoulder against the door, but it didn't budge. Sabrina sighed. “We're willing to pay you. One hundred dollars, just to look at the shop for ten minutes and ask you some questions.” He bit his lower lip. “A hundred fifty dollars.” “A hundred twenty-five.” The door swung open. John stepped out of the way. “Ten minutes, then you're out of here.” Sabrina nodded and stepped inside. Isaac followed and gave an appreciative whistle. “Damn, not bad at all,” he said. “I was expecting it to be a dump.” John shot him an evil look. The store was much larger than the front indicated, stretching back almost 50 feet. Multi-colored aisles of records, CDs, DVDs, and T-Shirts ran to the back. The sterile white walls were covered in band posters. Asleep behind a counter by the door was a thin, young black man dressed in torn jeans and a U2 t-shirt. John gave him a hard smack as he passed. “Mike, if I catch you napping again, you're fired.” Mike saluted, then sunk back into his chair and went to sleep. John leaned against the counter and said, “Okay, so what are you doing in my store?” Isaac nodded to Sabrina and walked off into the aisles. Sabrina pulled a notebook from her jacket and flipped it open. “If I'm not mistaken, a woman named Miranda Dole used to work here?” He nodded. “She quit a few weeks ago, yeah.” “So you know why we're here?” As he spoke he took a novelty band pen from the counter and spun it in his fingers. “Miranda said that the records were talking to her, and for some reason beyond my mortal understanding the FBI feels that's a claim worth investigating. Which, in my opinion, is a spectacular example of what's wrong with the government today.” Sabrina wrote something in her notebook. “So you do not believe that the records were talking?” “No, I don't believe the records were fucking talking, because I don't believe that records can fucking talk.” “I see,” she said. She tapped Mike on the shoulder, and he opened one eye. “Do you believe the records were talking sir?” He shrugged. “Dunno.” “I see.” She turned back to John. “Can you elaborate on what she said?” “If it'll make you feel better. So, this started about four weeks ago. Miranda had been working here for about three weeks, and doing a pretty nice job. Good with the customers, remembered her shit, didn't complain, all of that. Then, out of nowhere, she starts getting real nervous during working hours. Like, she jumped when you tried to talk to her, and she deliberately avoids certain parts of the store. Tell her to put something in the rock section, and instead of going through hip-hop she'll walk around through classical, that sort of shit. I'm a bit worried y'know, thinking maybe something bad happened in her personal life that's throwing her off. I pull her out after a few days, ask her what's going on, tell her I'm here to help if she needs something. She just shuts down. Refuses to talk, gets real cold looking, and walks out without saying anything. Now I'm getting really worried, obviously. "The next day I pull her aside again. Tell her, 'look, I'm your boss. I need to know if something's wrong with you that could be affecting your job performance'. This time, she starts crying and sobbing. Starts talking about how some of the records are talking to her. As you might imagine, this was not what I was expecting to hear. I have no idea what to say. Hell, I'm fucking stunned. How the hell was I supposed to react right? Well she doesn't like that. Starts screaming about how she knew I wouldn't believe her, how she wished I never had made her talk about this, how she knows she sounds fucking crazy. Then she just runs out, and I haven't seen her since.” He set the pen on the counter and folded his arms. “That's everything.” “Hm,” said Sabrina. “I see.” “I'm sure you do.” “Sabrina!” called Isaac from one of the aisles. “Look at this.” Sabrina smiled. “Excuse me for a moment.” She walked through the aisles to Isaac. He was holding a faded copy of 36 Chambers. “Did you find something?” He nodded. “Our girl Miranda was right.” He flicked the album with his middle finger. Nothing happened. Sabrina raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.” “Wait wait, this worked the first time.” He flicked the record harder. Again, nothing happened. He grasped the record in both hands and said, “I'm going to break you now.” Gently he began to bend the record inwards. “Okay, okay! Fuck!” came a voice from the record. “What do you want?” Isaac grinned. “Hello Mr. Thirty-Six Chambers. Nice of you to say hi to my lady-friend.” Sabrina rolled her eyes. “My name's not Mr. Thirty-Six Chambers, you goddamn mouth-breathing plebian. It's Cornwallace,” said the record. “Nice to meet you Mr. Cornwallace,” said Sabrina. She scanned her notebook. “Are you the only other talking record in this store, or am I correct in thinking copies of Meantime and Broken are also possessed?” “I ain't talking,” said Cornwallace. Isaac started to bend it again. “Alright, shit! Crazy fucking humans. Yeah, they can talk. We ain't possessed though.” “What are you? The record's voice took an air of superiority. “We're Remorians of course.” “That's ten minutes!” John called. “Get out of my store.” Isaac flicked the record again. “You'll shut up if you know what's good for you.” To John he said “One minute! We need to get some records.” He handed Cornwallace to Sabrina and darted off into the metal section. Sabrina walked back to a sour looking John. “Get everything you needed?” he sneered. “Yes,” said Sabrina. Isaac arrived holding the two other records. “How much will these be?” he asked. John walked to the register. “Twenty dollars thirty three cents.” He grinned. “Plus one hundred twenty-five.” Sabrina handed him the money, and the two agents walked out. Isaac grinned. “Score one for the UIU.” He extended a fist. Sabrina sighed, then tapped it with hers. “If I were you,” said a voice from behind them, “I'd hold off on counting my chickens for a little bit.” The two of them turned. The homeless man had stood up. He dusted off his shoulders and extended a hand. “I'd like the records please.” “Who the hell are you?” said Isaac. He tucked the records safely under his arms. “Who do you think I am?” said the man. “I'm with the Coalition. This is our operation. Give us the records.” “Screw you man,” said Isaac. “We spent money on these. We did all the work.” “You interfered with Coalition business,” he said. He took five 100 dollar bills out of his jacket and tossed them to Isaac. “Here. Remuneration. Take it and run along back to your little clubhouse.” Isaac took a step forward. “I'm sorry?” “Isaac,” said Sabrina. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Give him the records.” Isaac spat and shoved the records against the man. One of them gave a muffled “Ow!” The man smiled, gave a mock wave, and walked away humming. Isaac roared and kicked a wall. “Fuck! This is bullshit, we had that! Joshua is right you know. I'm tired of just sitting by while they steal the limelight.” “Isaac. Calm down,” said Sabrina. “You can't say you didn't expect this.” “Yeah, but that's different from it actually happening! God!” He slammed open the car door. “Let's just go back.” “That would probably be best.” [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-21T23:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	Unusual Music - SCP Foundation	57	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16158028	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/unusual-music
voices-unassailable	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:75%;">Here's what you have to keep in mind about the Cold War.</span></p> <hr/> <p><strong><span style="font-size:125%;">August 19, 1949: The first Soviet atomic bomb test.</span></strong></p> <p>Faced with the loss of the nuclear monopoly, and seeking to maintain the American technological advantage, President Truman orders a massive rearmament program which includes greatly increased investment in the nascent field of parascientific weapons research. The Foundation, determined to remain free of US and Soviet control, relocates their most sensitive and powerful objects to the non-aligned nations of Egypt, Yugoslavia, and Indonesia. Much of the parascientific material left behind falls into government hands.</p> <p><span style="font-size:125%;">“No other value system is so wholly irreconcilable with ours, so implacable in its purpose to destroy ours, so capable of turning to its own uses the most dangerous and divisive trends in our own society – and no other has the support of a great and growing center of military power.”<br/> -Dean Acheson, 1950</span></p> <p><em><strong>4/25/1950:</strong> North Korean troops cross the 38th parallel, igniting the Korean War. The war sees the commitment of the vast majority of America's standing army as well as the field deployment of Euclid-level assets for the first time in US history.</em></p> <h4 id="toc0"><span>“Our military organization today bears little relation to that known by any of my predecessors in peacetime, or indeed by the fighting men of World War II or Korea.” -Ike Eisenhower, 1961</span></h4> <p><em><strong>10/19/1956:</strong> Seeking to end Egyptian president Gamal Nasser's sheltering of the Foundation, the militaries of France, Israel, and England launch joint attacks on the Suez Canal zone.</em></p> <hr/> <h5 id="toc1"><span>“The very word "secrecy" is repugnant in a free and open society; and we as a people decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the dangers which are cited to justify it.” -John F. Kennedy, 1961</span></h5> <p><em><strong>August, 1962.</strong> Soviet authorities deploy multiple strategic nuclear missiles to Cuba, throwing the United States into panic.</em></p> <h3 id="toc2"><span>“I would like to address for a moment the Cuban people directly. These new weapons are not in your interest. They contribute nothing to your peace and well-being. They can only undermine it.” -JFK, 1962</span></h3> <p><em>The resulting thirteen-day diplomatic stand-off is interrupted when the commanders of the Cuban garrison detonate their warheads on their launch pads. Havana’s last broadcasts prior to its destruction consist of largely unintelligible distress signals. Soviet authorities strenuously deny the presence of parascientific weaponry on the island.</em></p> <p><em><strong>August 4, 1964:</strong> US destroyer Maddox reports an engagement with North Vietnamese torpedo boats. This incident serves as justification for the uninhibited commitment of US forces into the twenty-year old Indochina Wars.</em></p> <p><span style="font-size:125%;"><strong>“It is my considered conviction, shared throughout the Government, that firmness in the right is indispensable today for peace; that firmness will always be measured. Its mission is peace.” -Lyndon Johnson, 1964</strong></span></p> <p><em><strong>1961-1971:</strong> Over the course of a decade, the United States Air Force deploys over Vietnam some 20,000,000 gallons of nanodigesters and folomites engineered by the Global Occult Coalition. More than eight million Vietnamese are killed or injured and hundreds of thousands continue to be born with severe birth defects as the colonies of robodefoliants adapt to and disrupt the local fauna and flora.</em></p> <h1 id="toc3"><span>“Any attempt to direct these wonders and nightmares is as fruitless as efforts to understand them — and far more dangerous.” -John Foster Dulles, 1972</span></h1> <hr/> <p><em><strong>November 4, 1979:</strong> 52 American citizens are taken hostage when an angry mob storms the US embassy in Tehran. After five months of failed negotiations, President Carter orders Operation Eagle Claw, the strategic deployment of over eighteen distinct anomalous entities and organisms intended to cripple Iran's infrastructure prior to an Iraqi invasion.</em></p> <p><em>Unforeseen consequences of such extensive cross-contamination render much of Iran uninhabitable in a matter of months.</em></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size:150%;">“The utter supremacy of our ideology justifies every endeavor undertaken to preserve our way of life.” -Ike Eisenhower, 1949</span></strong></p> <p><span style="font-size:75%;">Harry Truman only did what he thought was right, which turned out to be the problem. After Carter came Reagan, and that's when things started to <em>happen.</em></span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/the-woodvale-incident">The Woodvale Incident</a> \| <a href="/the-coldest-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/matryoshka">Matryoshka</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/voices-unassailable">Voices Unassailable</a>" by Vezaz, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/voices-unassailable">https://scpwiki.com/voices-unassailable</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 75%]] Here's what you have to keep in mind about the Cold War.[[/size]] ------- [[size 125%]]August 19, 1949: The first Soviet atomic bomb test.[[/size]] Faced with the loss of the nuclear monopoly, and seeking to maintain the American technological advantage, President Truman orders a massive rearmament program which includes greatly increased investment in the nascent field of parascientific weapons research. The Foundation, determined to remain free of US and Soviet control, relocates their most sensitive and powerful objects to the non-aligned nations of Egypt, Yugoslavia, and Indonesia. Much of the parascientific material left behind falls into government hands. [[size 125%]]“No other value system is so wholly irreconcilable with ours, so implacable in its purpose to destroy ours, so capable of turning to its own uses the most dangerous and divisive trends in our own society – and no other has the support of a great and growing center of military power.” -Dean Acheson, 1950 [[/size]] //4/25/1950: North Korean troops cross the 38th parallel, igniting the Korean War. The war sees the commitment of the vast majority of America's standing army as well as the field deployment of Euclid-level assets for the first time in US history.// ++++ “Our military organization today bears little relation to that known by any of my predecessors in peacetime, or indeed by the fighting men of World War II or Korea.” -Ike Eisenhower, 1961 //10/19/1956: Seeking to end Egyptian president Gamal Nasser's sheltering of the Foundation, the militaries of France, Israel, and England launch joint attacks on the Suez Canal zone.// ------- +++++ “The very word "secrecy" is repugnant in a free and open society; and we as a people decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the dangers which are cited to justify it.” -John F. Kennedy, 1961 //August, 1962. Soviet authorities deploy multiple strategic nuclear missiles to Cuba, throwing the United States into panic.// +++ “I would like to address for a moment the Cuban people directly. These new weapons are not in your interest. They contribute nothing to your peace and well-being. They can only undermine it.” -JFK, 1962 //The resulting thirteen-day diplomatic stand-off is interrupted when the commanders of the Cuban garrison detonate their warheads on their launch pads. Havana’s last broadcasts prior to its destruction consist of largely unintelligible distress signals. Soviet authorities strenuously deny the presence of parascientific weaponry on the island.// //August 4, 1964: US destroyer Maddox reports an engagement with North Vietnamese torpedo boats. This incident serves as justification for the uninhibited commitment of US forces into the twenty-year old Indochina Wars.// [[size 125%]]“It is my considered conviction, shared throughout the Government, that firmness in the right is indispensable today for peace; that firmness will always be measured. Its mission is peace.” -Lyndon Johnson, 1964[[/size]] //1961-1971: Over the course of a decade, the United States Air Force deploys over Vietnam some 20,000,000 gallons of nanodigesters and folomites engineered by the Global Occult Coalition. More than eight million Vietnamese are killed or injured and hundreds of thousands continue to be born with severe birth defects as the colonies of robodefoliants adapt to and disrupt the local fauna and flora.// + “Any attempt to direct these wonders and nightmares is as fruitless as efforts to understand them -- and far more dangerous.” -John Foster Dulles, 1972 -------- //November 4, 1979: 52 American citizens are taken hostage when an angry mob storms the US embassy in Tehran. After five months of failed negotiations, President Carter orders Operation Eagle Claw, the strategic deployment of over eighteen distinct anomalous entities and organisms intended to cripple Iran's infrastructure prior to an Iraqi invasion.// //Unforeseen consequences of such extensive cross-contamination render much of Iran uninhabitable in a matter of months.// [[size 150%]]“The utter supremacy of our ideology justifies every endeavor undertaken to preserve our way of life.” -Ike Eisenhower, 1949 [[/size]] [[size 75%]]Harry Truman only did what he thought was right, which turned out to be the problem. After Carter came Reagan, and that's when things started to //happen.//[[/size]] [[=]] << \| [[[The Woodvale Incident]]] \| [[[the-coldest-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Matryoshka]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T06:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "historical", "nyc2013", "tale", "the-coldest-war" ]	Voices Unassailable - SCP Foundation	123	[ "the-woodvale-incident", "the-coldest-war-hub", "matryoshka", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-coldest-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "matryoshka", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16195049	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/voices-unassailable
watching-corpses	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I don't quite remember the first time, but my parents told me about it. I would have been about… 5? Probably 5 or 6, yeah. It was one of my friends' dad. I just ran away screaming to the teacher about a monster in the playground. Got told off for being mean to grown ups. The next week he drowned. Fell off his fishing boat.</p> <p>No, when I actually realised it I would have been about 11. When my grandmother was in the hospital.</p> <p>Nah, it wasn't her. Cancer went into remission. It was all the other patients. Most of them were missing eyes. That's normally the first thing that I notice. She ended up dying a year or so later.</p> <p>Oh man, you have no idea. Everyone just crowding over her. My mother kept making me go and talk to her, and hold her hand. I kept just seeing bits of skin falling off her. I think that's probably what fucked me up the most, you know. A whole week just being driven out to the hospital, every day, seeing more and more of her fall apart. And everyone just acted normal, you know? Making sure she was okay. Comforting a corpse.</p> <p>Oh, hell no. I was old enough to know that I'd just be thrown in the crazy bin. They just thought I was crying because we were in a hospital.</p> <p>Anyway, made my way through school somehow. Wasn't really great at anything in particular, so I ended up joining the army.</p> <p>Well yeah, in hindsight it wasn't the best idea. Once we got into the field it was just… hell, you know. There'd just be people sitting in the mess hall, all dried up and shit. And they'd talk to me, and I knew that they were going to end up dead, and it's that… I tried to stop them, but it never worked. It wasn't great.</p> <p>Yeah, well, you can't really blame me. Just woke up one day and they were all like that. Easiest decision of my life: took the first plane out. The carpet bombings started a week later. That's when the GOC pulled me in, of course.</p> <p>Well, it looked very "telling". Not the kind of thing the army really cares about, but the GOC figured it out somehow.</p> <p>I can't really remember… he went by Tangerine, I think? Anyway, we chatted for a bit, got everything sorted out. They just stuck me in an office to organise teams.</p> <p>Well, it didn't guarantee that they'd be successful, but they always came back alive. After a while they realised that the personnel I was turning down still turned up dead, even if it was something like a heart attack, so they pulled me out of that.</p> <p>Well yeah, that's when they started thinking that it might be me killing them indirectly. Kept me locked up for a month, ran the battery of tests until they all-cleared me. After that, if I saw any dead personnel I was to keep it to myself. I felt pretty crappy about it, but like I said, I can't do much about it. They decided it might be better to send me out doing field work, you know? I'd been in the army, like I said. And let me tell you, I was the best. Worked as a spotter in sniper teams; of course, they'd always make their shots. I could go in and clear out buildings by myself, just because I knew they <em>had</em> to die.</p> <p>Oh man, the worst was probably the crowd bombing. I knew something was going to go down, there were dead people everywhere, and then they all just… aligned in a perfect circle. And it was like, in those fractions of seconds before they all went, I knew what was going to happen. They were all going to die, and the rest would scatter. And I looked at the centre of that circle, and I swear, that bastard looked straight at me. Of course, I just saw a hollow skull, facing right at me, and then a ball of flames and shrapnel. That would have been in '97, you know, might have heard about it.</p> <p>Yeah, I retired from active service, what, 6 years ago? They still pull me in for important stuff. Hell, they've probably noticed I'm gone already.</p> <p>Oh, no, I'm not worried. They'll come and get me.</p> <p>Within the week.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/watching-corpses">Watching Corpses</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/watching-corpses">https://scpwiki.com/watching-corpses</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] I don't quite remember the first time, but my parents told me about it. I would have been about... 5? Probably 5 or 6, yeah. It was one of my friends' dad. I just ran away screaming to the teacher about a monster in the playground. Got told off for being mean to grown ups. The next week he drowned. Fell off his fishing boat. No, when I actually realised it I would have been about 11. When my grandmother was in the hospital. Nah, it wasn't her. Cancer went into remission. It was all the other patients. Most of them were missing eyes. That's normally the first thing that I notice. She ended up dying a year or so later. Oh man, you have no idea. Everyone just crowding over her. My mother kept making me go and talk to her, and hold her hand. I kept just seeing bits of skin falling off her. I think that's probably what fucked me up the most, you know. A whole week just being driven out to the hospital, every day, seeing more and more of her fall apart. And everyone just acted normal, you know? Making sure she was okay. Comforting a corpse. Oh, hell no. I was old enough to know that I'd just be thrown in the crazy bin. They just thought I was crying because we were in a hospital. Anyway, made my way through school somehow. Wasn't really great at anything in particular, so I ended up joining the army. Well yeah, in hindsight it wasn't the best idea. Once we got into the field it was just... hell, you know. There'd just be people sitting in the mess hall, all dried up and shit. And they'd talk to me, and I knew that they were going to end up dead, and it's that... I tried to stop them, but it never worked. It wasn't great. Yeah, well, you can't really blame me. Just woke up one day and they were all like that. Easiest decision of my life: took the first plane out. The carpet bombings started a week later. That's when the GOC pulled me in, of course. Well, it looked very "telling". Not the kind of thing the army really cares about, but the GOC figured it out somehow. I can't really remember... he went by Tangerine, I think? Anyway, we chatted for a bit, got everything sorted out. They just stuck me in an office to organise teams. Well, it didn't guarantee that they'd be successful, but they always came back alive. After a while they realised that the personnel I was turning down still turned up dead, even if it was something like a heart attack, so they pulled me out of that. Well yeah, that's when they started thinking that it might be me killing them indirectly. Kept me locked up for a month, ran the battery of tests until they all-cleared me. After that, if I saw any dead personnel I was to keep it to myself. I felt pretty crappy about it, but like I said, I can't do much about it. They decided it might be better to send me out doing field work, you know? I'd been in the army, like I said. And let me tell you, I was the best. Worked as a spotter in sniper teams; of course, they'd always make their shots. I could go in and clear out buildings by myself, just because I knew they //had// to die. Oh man, the worst was probably the crowd bombing. I knew something was going to go down, there were dead people everywhere, and then they all just... aligned in a perfect circle. And it was like, in those fractions of seconds before they all went, I knew what was going to happen. They were all going to die, and the rest would scatter. And I looked at the centre of that circle, and I swear, that bastard looked straight at me. Of course, I just saw a hollow skull, facing right at me, and then a ball of flames and shrapnel. That would have been in '97, you know, might have heard about it. Yeah, I retired from active service, what, 6 years ago? They still pull me in for important stuff. Hell, they've probably noticed I'm gone already. Oh, no, I'm not worried. They'll come and get me. Within the week. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-13T10:04:00	[ "_licensebox", "global-occult-coalition", "tale" ]	Watching Corpses - SCP Foundation	53	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page", "acidverse" ]	[]	17894487	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/watching-corpses
wayward-denouement	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/wayward-negotiation"><< Act II, Scene II: Negotiation</a></p> <p>The universe, as it is currently defined by humans, began and will end in ways that are inconceivable to any iteration of humankind that currently exists or will exist. At a time when a "descendant" race of <em>Homo sapiens sapiens</em> gains an understanding of cosmic genesis or eschatology, it will be a group of organisms so totally separated from the human race that there will be nothing between humanity and this species that can be adequately described as a "relationship." This group of organisms will also not be a "species" in the taxonomic sense, nor "organisms" in the biological sense, nor a "group" in the sociological sense. At the moment they gain this knowledge, I was watching. I believe they perceived my existence at that time and place, knew that I would be in that place at that time, in the way a human knows a spider's web is in the same corner of the same room for years without truly considering the existence of the spider. They knew of my presence and knew how powerless I was, how devoid of relevance to their lives and purpose. Their lack of regard for my existence made my existence less real. They frighten me.<br/> <span style="color:white">I am not one of them. I am one of you. I do not know who, of the two of us, is more frightened by this concept.</span><br/> I am Intruding and this is the concept by which you understand me. It is the concept by which the author writing this work has chosen to define my existence. I will not bother attempting to define myself in other terms, as this distracts from my purpose at this time. I have selected thirteen excerpts from events that occurred in several relevant universes. I shall present these excerpts as a completion to this story. They are ordered in a fashion that I understand will reveal the selected events in a plot-relevant fashion and build anticipation towards what should be a climactic ending, though this will not necessarily resemble "chronological order" as you understand it. I apologize for the inconvenience.<br/> <span style="color:white">The purpose of these interludes is to provide a feeling of satisfaction upon their eventual discovery. Any other purpose is coincidental.</span></p> <hr/> <p>A man begins writing a story. He is trapped in a loveless relationship and builds components of his life into his work in a desperate attempt to make it relevant to somebody, anybody, even himself. He builds me as his <em>deus ex machina</em> and will forever doubt the validity of his decision to create me. The recursion does not end.<br/> <span style="color:white">And I created him, just as he created me. The recursion never ends.</span></p> <hr/> <p>David Eskobar was expelling copious amounts of blood onto the floor of a structurally-sound but aesthetically-unpleasant concrete structure when the thermobaric warheads struck nearby. This was the ending David Eskobar anticipated, and it did not disappoint him. One warhead detonated less than thirty meters away from his location; no traces of his body were found by the investigators who arrived later. He laughed as he died.<br/> <span style="color:white">Of course this is not the end of his story, but you knew that.</span></p> <hr/> <p>Olympia's synthetic muscles were still burning by the time she reached Alexylva. Dr. Crow either had not thought to redesign the development of lactic acid in overexerted muscles or had not found it possible to eliminate the pain. Or he hadn't concerned himself with minutiae like this.</p> <p>The roads of Alexylva, as with most of the cities of this civilization, were designed in concentric circles around a central acropolis. The origin of this was an attempt to integrate Greek worship of Apollo with one of the indigenous religions' creation myths. Neither of the religious practices were legal in the Novomundan state, though precepts of both remained throughout the society, a fact virtually unknown to the vast majority of the nation's citizenry. Olympia approached the large exterior street of the city, marked clearly as "CIRCLE CXLI", and she could see a cross-street nearby marked "RADIUS PARMENIDES". Alexylva University was seventy circles farther inward and five radii clockwise, Olympia knew. She continued walking.</p> <p>All of the first houses she came to were unoccupied. The city was clearly planned out to an extent that was never necessary for its population; these houses were old, smelled old. Likely never lived in. She continued inward and found houses with slightly more signs of life, but still empty. Abandoned. No signs of actual battle; the citizens were afraid of something more abstract. Sheer political uncertainty can have that effect. As she drew closer to the university, she heard shouting and sporadic discharging of some kind of weapon, a staccato rhythm that is recognizable in any environment. The buildings of the University were only slightly larger than the houses immediately surrounding it; this universe was unfamiliar with zoning regulations as such. She passed a series of houses, another radius ("RADIUS HERACLITUS", she saw), and was immediately on the Alexylva campus. The Natural Philosophy complex was nearby.</p> <p>Entire military units were engaged several blocks away, Olympia heard. Whatever weaponry they were using, it was energy-based; toroids of violet plasma blasted down the street and scorching the pavement as whichever army was coming toward the University missed their target. Screams came from the same direction. She continued toward the Natural Philosophy building. Due to what she would call luck if she didn't know better, the most immediate armed guard was distracted as she approached; she died immediately, and Olympia was now armed. She proceeded inside the building.<br/> <span style="color:white">You have already forgotten about the guard. She lived a dark life and died with no meaning.</span></p> <hr/> <p>Two individuals survived the destruction of Site 38, rescued by Rho-1 and helicoptered away before the bombs began to drop. Commander Lopez looked at the two, both sleeping. The researcher had awoken by the time Lopez and his men had gotten there, and she and the prisoner were crying in one another's arms when the soldiers came into the room. They were in each other's arms on the helicopter as well; they were virtually inseparable, and Lopez didn't have time to argue with them. It was some kind of sweet, and Lopez couldn't deny it was a little refreshing after the hell he just pulled them out of.</p> <p>Though he couldn't help wondering what made these two so goddamn special in the first place.<br/> <span style="color:white">It is a dark world. Lopez knows this. Isham Harris taught him this, and it would not be the last time he remembered it.</span></p> <hr/> <p>Jaime MacGilligan looked at Greg Eastman, as well as she could. A grazing shot to the head had split her skull open, and her eyes were not working exactly as they should have been. But the pain was keeping the microchips at bay, and she saw him nevertheless.</p> <p>Of course she had always loved him. Nothing romantic; he barely registered as a man in any kind of romantic sense. No, Greg had always been…had always been some kind of a brother to her. Worked together ever since initial training. Spent more time together than most romantically involved opposite-sex couple in human history in all the years since, let alone two friends. And now they would die together.</p> <p>Eastman looked at Jaime, seeing much the same thing. He would have been crazy to have never felt anything sexual for Jaime over the years, as she had for him, but they were both professionals—and smart enough not to get involved in that kind of thing. They were comrades, <em>tovarischi.</em></p> <p>They heard the planes overhead, heard their erstwhile superior cackling like a madman to their side, but all they saw was each other as the bombs hit.<br/> <span style="color:white">The author demanded a sacrifice. I could not save them all. Their stories end here. I am so sorry.</span></p> <hr/> <p>There is a detailed story to be told of Olympia's seizure of the Natural Philosophy building, but it has little purpose here. Suffice it to say that a combination of stealth, overwhelming strength, and literal foreknowledge of minute details of personnel movements gave Olympia an insurmountable advantage over all opposition within the building.</p> <p>Olympia reached the bottom floor of the building. The counterform reactor was enormous, an experimental prototype; the chancellor of the University, Anaxagoras, had been rather insistent that Alexylva remain relevant in the scientific advancement of the nation. Nevertheless, given the rather horrific potential consequences of the possible release of the reactor's energy, certain precautions were simply obvious. Putting the reactor underground was one of them. <em>Not that that's going to help them much now,</em> Olympia thought grimly as she made her way across one of the catwalks.</p> <p>She was suspended midway in the air above the reactor when everything happened very quickly. A chuffing, a shrieking sound. A bright light rushing from her peripheral vision. A groaning sound as a plasma wake melted and ripped the catwalk apart directly in front of her, destroyed the supports for the stretch of catwalk she was standing on. A rush of panic as the metal beneath her feet fell away from her, as she felt herself plummeting to the solid glass floor of the reactor chamber. The wet <em>thunk</em> of her own skull slamming against the floor.</p> <p>Footsteps walking towards her. A quiet growling speech, in a language Olympia didn't fully recognize. She could pick out a couple of words; a couple of Greek, one of Arabic, but nothing coherent. Finally, the voice (male, she recognized) began repeating one word. Slurring it at first, but as his pronunciation grew sharper, she could make out what he was saying.</p> <p>"Fun…funshen," he said. "Founshen. Foundashen. F…Foundation. You…Foundation."</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Potas sat in the dirt, contemplating the apprentice sitting in the dirt beside him. This was how the ritual went now; similar to the way he had ascended into the rank the apprentice now sought, adjusted at the will of Potas. Sammart had taught him the value of tradition, of learning the way things were done in the old times, of honoring the paths walked by the ancestors. Potas respected this, and acknowledged it.</p> <p>At times. Other times, there were other lessons to learn.</p> <p>The apprentice, her name was Haimak. Potas was present at her birth, and considered how pleased he was when her mother asked Potas what her name should be. From the ashes of a dead world (was the world Sammart spoke of dead? Was it once dead? Did the tellers of tales give it new life with the words?) a dead woman's life had new meaning. As Jaime MacGilligan died smiling, a girl named Haimak was born crying.</p> <p>"I am satisfied," Potas said, the words echoing deep into the cave they sat within. Potas reached almost from instinct for the Abirtian amulet that he had discarded years before; Haimak would not be required to pledge allegiance to the gods of the Espy Fonshun of the old world. She could come to those conclusions on her own if she wished. "Rise and assume your position."</p> <p>Haimak, small and shaking from fear and anticipation, nevertheless rose to her knees and presented her Baj. The tattoo beside her neck rested on the dark, taut skin of the young. Potas might have felt lust if Haimak's sex were to his taste; as it was, he considered how loose his own Baj now seemed, decades after the last of his insignia were added to it. He lifted the stick from the ground between them, dipped it in the small pot of ink, and began to work.</p> <p>"Haimak of the Twenty-second Cietu, you are trained and knowledgeable in the histories of our people, in the tales of the Old Ones, and in the lessons of our tribe, the lessons our mothers learned from their mothers, and that our grandsons will learn from our sons." Potas continued poking the stick into Haimak's skin, ignoring her flinches just as she did. "You are now a Novice Librarian. By tradition, you are permitted to ask of me three questions. Would you like to do so?"</p> <p>"Yes, Over-Seer," Haimak said, wincing. She looked down, watching the third line being added:</p> <blockquote> <p>ESPY FONSHUN<br/> HAIMAK NAME<br/> LAVAL \|\|\| RASHAR</p> </blockquote> <p>Haimak looked away. "There are many questions the Cown Sil has, questions they wish to learn the answers to," Haimak said. "Are there any of those questions that you know the answer to? Answers you have…decided not to share?"</p> <p>"The answer to <em>that</em> question," Potas said, concentrating as he completed his work, "is 'yes'."</p> <p>Haimak frowned. "No, I mean—"</p> <p>"I know what you mean, girl," Potas snapped. "This should serve as an adequate lesson. Given an opportunity to access information from a source such as myself, in an opportunity you will never receive again, and you waste your first question on a simple 'yes' or 'no'. Discipline your questions and you discipline your world. This is your duty."</p> <p>Haimak shrank for a moment. Potas paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Two questions left, Librarian. Choose well." He lifted the stick once again and continued his work. Haimak thought.</p> <p>"What wisdom did the Unwelcome One give you?" Haimak finally said.</p> <p>Potas smiled, not even pausing his work. "Both cunning and ambitious, your choice," he replied. "A rumor spread around the young that I was seen walking with a being with no firm shape. A demon, some said. I am not as young as you, perhaps, but I hear the clucks of the gossips. Given this opportunity, you risked wasting yet another question — and further derision from an elder — on the chance that the rumors were true," Potas continued. Haimak sat quietly, patiently waiting the more complete answer she knew he was bound to provide. "I was in mediation when I heard an intruder within the cave, perhaps a month ago. Just as I heard its footsteps, it…it heard me hearing it. This is part of the magicks it possesses, to know when it is perceived. I did not open my eyes, but merely smiled. It saw me, or whatever it does instead of seeing, and spoke to me. We discussed many things. I gleaned part of its life. It too had grown old, grown weary. It too had seen much, perhaps too much, and far in excess of that which I had seen. It was ready to lay down its burdens. I believe it told me many things it perhaps did not intend to, some secrets I will take to my funeral pyre, some secrets I will distribute when and where I feel appropriate.</p> <p>"But you asked me what wisdom it gave me. Using my person conception of what wisdom is, and basing the idea of 'giving' on the deliberate providence of things or knowledge unto another, I would say it gave me wisdom about my elders."</p> <p>"Sammart? Your mentor?" Haimak blurted, then immediately recoiled. Potas chuckled.</p> <p>"There, you see? That is the flaw of the elders. You fear even to <em>speak</em> to me in a manner that I might find disrespectful. For me not to be challenged, from time to time, by those beneath me…this fosters the greatest sort of weakness in me. Complacency, perhaps you may call it. For me to dare to <em>enforce</em> this fear, to promote it in those younger than myself? This fosters the greatest sort of error: presumption. And this is the ultimate flaw of the Alexylvae, of the Wayward Prince. The founder of the religion they call a society, the original conceiver of their nightmare republic, placed too much faith in his own knowledge. In his ability to understand the way that people should be treated, and should be governed. His acolytes supported him, not necessarily because they embraced his vision, but because he was an <em>elder</em>. Once a growing empire found his teachings, he was embraced not as a thinker, but as an <em>elder</em> thinker; not as a statesman, but as an <em>elder</em> statesman; and with this to his name, he was now beyond reproach. He was also too dead to argue with the ruling."</p> <p>Haimak giggled at this. She was well enraptured, as people often were when Potas told a tale.</p> <p>"Sammart had this failing to himself; I respect him for what he was, but abandoned that which he clung to from pure fear of the unknown. Anaxagoras had this failing to himself, expecting obedience by virtue of his age rather than wisdom. He placed too little pride in righteousness and far too much in <em>self-</em>righteousness. And when given the opportunity, Milephanes, the Wayward Prince himself, demanded the trappings of age, the respect befitting an older person, without concerning himself first to see if he was a <em>better</em> person than they. He was right and wrong at the same time, Haimak. You want wisdom gleaned from an intruder to a cave on a mild spring day? His wisdom is that he has no wisdom. Go find your own truths and watch your children ignore them; no better inheritance exists."</p> <p>Haimak was in a virtual state of hypnosis now, her mouth slack. Potas paused, looked closely at the tattoo, and jabbed the needle in one last time, harder than before. Haimak jumped, her face cross. "Is there anything else, sir?"</p> <p>"Sit, sit, child. Let me finish the story."</p> <p>Haimak considered the matter briefly, smiled, then said "I'm sorry, sir, that was my third question," and walked out of the cave. Potas smiled as he had not done in years, and did so for much of the rest of the evening.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <p>There is a remarkably climactic scene that occurs when Anaxagoras arrives in the counterform reaction chamber. Milephanes is still there. Olympia has lost consciousness, regained it, and is pretending to be asleep. Anaxagoras sneaks up on Milephanes and disarms him. The two battle hand-to-hand using a variety of arcane martial arts techniques; the former using an incredibly well-crafted and honed skill with older, traditional school of combat, the latter using a less-disciplined fighting style whose unpredictability catches Anaxagoras off-guard at many times during the fight. A symbolic metaphor is played out rather graphically, written on the glass floor in blood and sweat. This is the battle between old and young, between progression and reaction, between Zeno's arrow and the man duped into holding the target.</p> <p>When it is done, when the hourglass of this eternal dance runs out of sand, Olympia kills the survivor and takes the plasma weapon. I will not tell you which one of them won, because as I watched them fight, I watched them die, and I watched them dissolve into gamma rays and dust a bare half-hour later. Death transcends all victories.</p> <hr/> <p>A small quantity of motile self-propagating rock has been placed a very specific distance outside of the city of Alexandria. It is growing into the shape of a small animal and making haste away from the city as quickly as possible. It will not be seen again until it wishes to be, and until its master wishes it to be.</p> <hr/> <p>I had shown Olympia what the correct sequence of controls would be to overload the counterform reactor. She remembered very well. She carried out the sequence and left the building as quickly as was possible, and began running again.<br/> <span>She would not have survived. Less than a second before the reactor detonated, there was one more flash of light.</span></p> <hr/> <p>So much variety with assassinations. I think it is why I interfere in so many of them. I do not wish to give the impression that I am omnipotent; I have limitations the same as any being, when viewed from an objective standpoint. I cannot see everything, and I cannot see all possible futures. With assassinations, the futures take very concrete forms. Once the redundancies work their way out of the system and the bands narrow into stronger paths, there will be perhaps a dozen possible futures for they, the living, to inhabit. I believe this satisfies a still-beating primitive urge within me for cleanliness.</p> <p>I had never deliberately converted a power generation facility into a weapon of mass destruction while enabling a sentient, warlike telepathic imperialist to begin infesting a planet. I never went on to perform such an action again, either, and unique actions are so rare for me. When the reactor fully destabilized into a matter-antimatter explosion, I saw all of the possible futures. Never before were the worlds so bleak, so devoid of hope.</p> <p>I saw the detonation, the energy and matter being ripped apart and blasted across the landscape. It was so near to sunset, too; the view was magnificent. Hundreds of thousands died; the voluntary evacuation of Alexandria of Forests had allowed the number to be so low. Those that died had entered the city armed and intending to kill one another. They burned together.</p> <p>I saw the beginnings of the swarm. The rock soldiers and their master had learned from the previous encounter with humans, and became smarter. The rocks bred new armies and attacked piecemeal. The attacks picked up, killing a few more here and there, destroying more properties, building new outposts for their own reproduction. When the true battles come, they could hardly be called that. The rock armies of Anesidora are legion, they are perfect of allegiance as they fight the philosophically fragmented human enemies. No mercy. No retreats. Prisoners only for food; by the end, Anesidora must breed humans as cattle to keep herself fed.</p> <p>There were deviations from this, from time to time, but this was the overarching future of Novomundus. Alexylva University burned and fell, barely ahead of its patron city that burned and fell around it. The nation that housed the city burned and fell before one of Alexylva's creations, writ large and filled with rage. A timeline that should never have happened drifted into the ashheap.</p> <p>It was a sloppy job. It will do.</p> <hr/> <p>A man sits in a recliner, sunset-orange cat purring directly to his left. A laptop is the only source of light in the room. He considers the amount of time he has spent working on the project he is completing, the amount of time spent considering, writing, rewriting, editing, opening and altering only a few words before closing it again, and falling asleep before the project. He has an anxiety about showing his work to others, the anxiety he always feels. He is always afraid of rejection. He faced quite a bit of it over the year and a half since he started the project. He dismisses those others who take too seriously the opinions others have of his work, but deep down, he will always see everyone who doesn't take away from his work exactly what he anticipated them to take away as a failure. A personal defeat. He considers erasing the whole thing, leaving the story unfinished. So few people are left even to care, now.</p> <p>He considers his wife in the bedroom next door. Some rejection over that year and a half, yes. Some things lost. But so, so much more gained. He smiles, publishes his work, and closes the circle.</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/wayward">Back to Wayward Hub</a></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wayward-denouement">Denouement and Epilogue</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-denouement">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-denouement</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[[wayward-negotiation \|<< Act II, Scene II: Negotiation]]] The universe, as it is currently defined by humans, began and will end in ways that are inconceivable to any iteration of humankind that currently exists or will exist. At a time when a "descendant" race of //Homo sapiens sapiens// gains an understanding of cosmic genesis or eschatology, it will be a group of organisms so totally separated from the human race that there will be nothing between humanity and this species that can be adequately described as a "relationship." This group of organisms will also not be a "species" in the taxonomic sense, nor "organisms" in the biological sense, nor a "group" in the sociological sense. At the moment they gain this knowledge, I was watching. I believe they perceived my existence at that time and place, knew that I would be in that place at that time, in the way a human knows a spider's web is in the same corner of the same room for years without truly considering the existence of the spider. They knew of my presence and knew how powerless I was, how devoid of relevance to their lives and purpose. Their lack of regard for my existence made my existence less real. They frighten me. [[span style="color:white"]]I am not one of them. I am one of you. I do not know who, of the two of us, is more frightened by this concept.[[/span]] I am Intruding and this is the concept by which you understand me. It is the concept by which the author writing this work has chosen to define my existence. I will not bother attempting to define myself in other terms, as this distracts from my purpose at this time. I have selected thirteen excerpts from events that occurred in several relevant universes. I shall present these excerpts as a completion to this story. They are ordered in a fashion that I understand will reveal the selected events in a plot-relevant fashion and build anticipation towards what should be a climactic ending, though this will not necessarily resemble "chronological order" as you understand it. I apologize for the inconvenience. [[span style="color:white"]]The purpose of these interludes is to provide a feeling of satisfaction upon their eventual discovery. Any other purpose is coincidental.[[/span]] ------ A man begins writing a story. He is trapped in a loveless relationship and builds components of his life into his work in a desperate attempt to make it relevant to somebody, anybody, even himself. He builds me as his //deus ex machina// and will forever doubt the validity of his decision to create me. The recursion does not end. [[span style="color:white"]]And I created him, just as he created me. The recursion never ends.[[/span]] ------ David Eskobar was expelling copious amounts of blood onto the floor of a structurally-sound but aesthetically-unpleasant concrete structure when the thermobaric warheads struck nearby. This was the ending David Eskobar anticipated, and it did not disappoint him. One warhead detonated less than thirty meters away from his location; no traces of his body were found by the investigators who arrived later. He laughed as he died. [[span style="color:white"]]Of course this is not the end of his story, but you knew that.[[/span]] ------ Olympia's synthetic muscles were still burning by the time she reached Alexylva. Dr. Crow either had not thought to redesign the development of lactic acid in overexerted muscles or had not found it possible to eliminate the pain. Or he hadn't concerned himself with minutiae like this. The roads of Alexylva, as with most of the cities of this civilization, were designed in concentric circles around a central acropolis. The origin of this was an attempt to integrate Greek worship of Apollo with one of the indigenous religions' creation myths. Neither of the religious practices were legal in the Novomundan state, though precepts of both remained throughout the society, a fact virtually unknown to the vast majority of the nation's citizenry. Olympia approached the large exterior street of the city, marked clearly as "CIRCLE CXLI", and she could see a cross-street nearby marked "RADIUS PARMENIDES". Alexylva University was seventy circles farther inward and five radii clockwise, Olympia knew. She continued walking. All of the first houses she came to were unoccupied. The city was clearly planned out to an extent that was never necessary for its population; these houses were old, smelled old. Likely never lived in. She continued inward and found houses with slightly more signs of life, but still empty. Abandoned. No signs of actual battle; the citizens were afraid of something more abstract. Sheer political uncertainty can have that effect. As she drew closer to the university, she heard shouting and sporadic discharging of some kind of weapon, a staccato rhythm that is recognizable in any environment. The buildings of the University were only slightly larger than the houses immediately surrounding it; this universe was unfamiliar with zoning regulations as such. She passed a series of houses, another radius ("RADIUS HERACLITUS", she saw), and was immediately on the Alexylva campus. The Natural Philosophy complex was nearby. Entire military units were engaged several blocks away, Olympia heard. Whatever weaponry they were using, it was energy-based; toroids of violet plasma blasted down the street and scorching the pavement as whichever army was coming toward the University missed their target. Screams came from the same direction. She continued toward the Natural Philosophy building. Due to what she would call luck if she didn't know better, the most immediate armed guard was distracted as she approached; she died immediately, and Olympia was now armed. She proceeded inside the building. [[span style="color:white"]]You have already forgotten about the guard. She lived a dark life and died with no meaning.[[/span]] ------ Two individuals survived the destruction of Site 38, rescued by Rho-1 and helicoptered away before the bombs began to drop. Commander Lopez looked at the two, both sleeping. The researcher had awoken by the time Lopez and his men had gotten there, and she and the prisoner were crying in one another's arms when the soldiers came into the room. They were in each other's arms on the helicopter as well; they were virtually inseparable, and Lopez didn't have time to argue with them. It was some kind of sweet, and Lopez couldn't deny it was a little refreshing after the hell he just pulled them out of. Though he couldn't help wondering what made these two so goddamn special in the first place. [[span style="color:white"]]It is a dark world. Lopez knows this. Isham Harris taught him this, and it would not be the last time he remembered it.[[/span]] ------ Jaime MacGilligan looked at Greg Eastman, as well as she could. A grazing shot to the head had split her skull open, and her eyes were not working exactly as they should have been. But the pain was keeping the microchips at bay, and she saw him nevertheless. Of course she had always loved him. Nothing romantic; he barely registered as a man in any kind of romantic sense. No, Greg had always been...had always been some kind of a brother to her. Worked together ever since initial training. Spent more time together than most romantically involved opposite-sex couple in human history in all the years since, let alone two friends. And now they would die together. Eastman looked at Jaime, seeing much the same thing. He would have been crazy to have never felt anything sexual for Jaime over the years, as she had for him, but they were both professionals--and smart enough not to get involved in that kind of thing. They were comrades, //tovarischi.// They heard the planes overhead, heard their erstwhile superior cackling like a madman to their side, but all they saw was each other as the bombs hit. [[span style="color:white"]]The author demanded a sacrifice. I could not save them all. Their stories end here. I am so sorry.[[/span]] ------ There is a detailed story to be told of Olympia's seizure of the Natural Philosophy building, but it has little purpose here. Suffice it to say that a combination of stealth, overwhelming strength, and literal foreknowledge of minute details of personnel movements gave Olympia an insurmountable advantage over all opposition within the building. Olympia reached the bottom floor of the building. The counterform reactor was enormous, an experimental prototype; the chancellor of the University, Anaxagoras, had been rather insistent that Alexylva remain relevant in the scientific advancement of the nation. Nevertheless, given the rather horrific potential consequences of the possible release of the reactor's energy, certain precautions were simply obvious. Putting the reactor underground was one of them. //Not that that's going to help them much now,// Olympia thought grimly as she made her way across one of the catwalks. She was suspended midway in the air above the reactor when everything happened very quickly. A chuffing, a shrieking sound. A bright light rushing from her peripheral vision. A groaning sound as a plasma wake melted and ripped the catwalk apart directly in front of her, destroyed the supports for the stretch of catwalk she was standing on. A rush of panic as the metal beneath her feet fell away from her, as she felt herself plummeting to the solid glass floor of the reactor chamber. The wet //thunk// of her own skull slamming against the floor. Footsteps walking towards her. A quiet growling speech, in a language Olympia didn't fully recognize. She could pick out a couple of words; a couple of Greek, one of Arabic, but nothing coherent. Finally, the voice (male, she recognized) began repeating one word. Slurring it at first, but as his pronunciation grew sharper, she could make out what he was saying. "Fun...funshen," he said. "Founshen. Foundashen. F...Foundation. You...Foundation." [[collapsible show=" " hide=" "]] Potas sat in the dirt, contemplating the apprentice sitting in the dirt beside him. This was how the ritual went now; similar to the way he had ascended into the rank the apprentice now sought, adjusted at the will of Potas. Sammart had taught him the value of tradition, of learning the way things were done in the old times, of honoring the paths walked by the ancestors. Potas respected this, and acknowledged it. At times. Other times, there were other lessons to learn. The apprentice, her name was Haimak. Potas was present at her birth, and considered how pleased he was when her mother asked Potas what her name should be. From the ashes of a dead world (was the world Sammart spoke of dead? Was it once dead? Did the tellers of tales give it new life with the words?) a dead woman's life had new meaning. As Jaime MacGilligan died smiling, a girl named Haimak was born crying. "I am satisfied," Potas said, the words echoing deep into the cave they sat within. Potas reached almost from instinct for the Abirtian amulet that he had discarded years before; Haimak would not be required to pledge allegiance to the gods of the Espy Fonshun of the old world. She could come to those conclusions on her own if she wished. "Rise and assume your position." Haimak, small and shaking from fear and anticipation, nevertheless rose to her knees and presented her Baj. The tattoo beside her neck rested on the dark, taut skin of the young. Potas might have felt lust if Haimak's sex were to his taste; as it was, he considered how loose his own Baj now seemed, decades after the last of his insignia were added to it. He lifted the stick from the ground between them, dipped it in the small pot of ink, and began to work. "Haimak of the Twenty-second Cietu, you are trained and knowledgeable in the histories of our people, in the tales of the Old Ones, and in the lessons of our tribe, the lessons our mothers learned from their mothers, and that our grandsons will learn from our sons." Potas continued poking the stick into Haimak's skin, ignoring her flinches just as she did. "You are now a Novice Librarian. By tradition, you are permitted to ask of me three questions. Would you like to do so?" "Yes, Over-Seer," Haimak said, wincing. She looked down, watching the third line being added: > ESPY FONSHUN > HAIMAK NAME > LAVAL \|\|\| RASHAR Haimak looked away. "There are many questions the Cown Sil has, questions they wish to learn the answers to," Haimak said. "Are there any of those questions that you know the answer to? Answers you have...decided not to share?" "The answer to //that// question," Potas said, concentrating as he completed his work, "is 'yes'." Haimak frowned. "No, I mean--" "I know what you mean, girl," Potas snapped. "This should serve as an adequate lesson. Given an opportunity to access information from a source such as myself, in an opportunity you will never receive again, and you waste your first question on a simple 'yes' or 'no'. Discipline your questions and you discipline your world. This is your duty." Haimak shrank for a moment. Potas paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Two questions left, Librarian. Choose well." He lifted the stick once again and continued his work. Haimak thought. "What wisdom did the Unwelcome One give you?" Haimak finally said. Potas smiled, not even pausing his work. "Both cunning and ambitious, your choice," he replied. "A rumor spread around the young that I was seen walking with a being with no firm shape. A demon, some said. I am not as young as you, perhaps, but I hear the clucks of the gossips. Given this opportunity, you risked wasting yet another question -- and further derision from an elder -- on the chance that the rumors were true," Potas continued. Haimak sat quietly, patiently waiting the more complete answer she knew he was bound to provide. "I was in mediation when I heard an intruder within the cave, perhaps a month ago. Just as I heard its footsteps, it...it heard me hearing it. This is part of the magicks it possesses, to know when it is perceived. I did not open my eyes, but merely smiled. It saw me, or whatever it does instead of seeing, and spoke to me. We discussed many things. I gleaned part of its life. It too had grown old, grown weary. It too had seen much, perhaps too much, and far in excess of that which I had seen. It was ready to lay down its burdens. I believe it told me many things it perhaps did not intend to, some secrets I will take to my funeral pyre, some secrets I will distribute when and where I feel appropriate. "But you asked me what wisdom it gave me. Using my person conception of what wisdom is, and basing the idea of 'giving' on the deliberate providence of things or knowledge unto another, I would say it gave me wisdom about my elders." "Sammart? Your mentor?" Haimak blurted, then immediately recoiled. Potas chuckled. "There, you see? That is the flaw of the elders. You fear even to //speak// to me in a manner that I might find disrespectful. For me not to be challenged, from time to time, by those beneath me...this fosters the greatest sort of weakness in me. Complacency, perhaps you may call it. For me to dare to //enforce// this fear, to promote it in those younger than myself? This fosters the greatest sort of error: presumption. And this is the ultimate flaw of the Alexylvae, of the Wayward Prince. The founder of the religion they call a society, the original conceiver of their nightmare republic, placed too much faith in his own knowledge. In his ability to understand the way that people should be treated, and should be governed. His acolytes supported him, not necessarily because they embraced his vision, but because he was an //elder//. Once a growing empire found his teachings, he was embraced not as a thinker, but as an //elder// thinker; not as a statesman, but as an //elder// statesman; and with this to his name, he was now beyond reproach. He was also too dead to argue with the ruling." Haimak giggled at this. She was well enraptured, as people often were when Potas told a tale. "Sammart had this failing to himself; I respect him for what he was, but abandoned that which he clung to from pure fear of the unknown. Anaxagoras had this failing to himself, expecting obedience by virtue of his age rather than wisdom. He placed too little pride in righteousness and far too much in //self-//righteousness. And when given the opportunity, Milephanes, the Wayward Prince himself, demanded the trappings of age, the respect befitting an older person, without concerning himself first to see if he was a //better// person than they. He was right and wrong at the same time, Haimak. You want wisdom gleaned from an intruder to a cave on a mild spring day? His wisdom is that he has no wisdom. Go find your own truths and watch your children ignore them; no better inheritance exists." Haimak was in a virtual state of hypnosis now, her mouth slack. Potas paused, looked closely at the tattoo, and jabbed the needle in one last time, harder than before. Haimak jumped, her face cross. "Is there anything else, sir?" "Sit, sit, child. Let me finish the story." Haimak considered the matter briefly, smiled, then said "I'm sorry, sir, that was my third question," and walked out of the cave. Potas smiled as he had not done in years, and did so for much of the rest of the evening. [[/collapsible]] ------ There is a remarkably climactic scene that occurs when Anaxagoras arrives in the counterform reaction chamber. Milephanes is still there. Olympia has lost consciousness, regained it, and is pretending to be asleep. Anaxagoras sneaks up on Milephanes and disarms him. The two battle hand-to-hand using a variety of arcane martial arts techniques; the former using an incredibly well-crafted and honed skill with older, traditional school of combat, the latter using a less-disciplined fighting style whose unpredictability catches Anaxagoras off-guard at many times during the fight. A symbolic metaphor is played out rather graphically, written on the glass floor in blood and sweat. This is the battle between old and young, between progression and reaction, between Zeno's arrow and the man duped into holding the target. When it is done, when the hourglass of this eternal dance runs out of sand, Olympia kills the survivor and takes the plasma weapon. I will not tell you which one of them won, because as I watched them fight, I watched them die, and I watched them dissolve into gamma rays and dust a bare half-hour later. Death transcends all victories. ------ A small quantity of motile self-propagating rock has been placed a very specific distance outside of the city of Alexandria. It is growing into the shape of a small animal and making haste away from the city as quickly as possible. It will not be seen again until it wishes to be, and until its master wishes it to be. ------ I had shown Olympia what the correct sequence of controls would be to overload the counterform reactor. She remembered very well. She carried out the sequence and left the building as quickly as was possible, and began running again. [[span style color="white"]]She would not have survived. Less than a second before the reactor detonated, there was one more flash of light.[[/span]] ------ So much variety with assassinations. I think it is why I interfere in so many of them. I do not wish to give the impression that I am omnipotent; I have limitations the same as any being, when viewed from an objective standpoint. I cannot see everything, and I cannot see all possible futures. With assassinations, the futures take very concrete forms. Once the redundancies work their way out of the system and the bands narrow into stronger paths, there will be perhaps a dozen possible futures for they, the living, to inhabit. I believe this satisfies a still-beating primitive urge within me for cleanliness. I had never deliberately converted a power generation facility into a weapon of mass destruction while enabling a sentient, warlike telepathic imperialist to begin infesting a planet. I never went on to perform such an action again, either, and unique actions are so rare for me. When the reactor fully destabilized into a matter-antimatter explosion, I saw all of the possible futures. Never before were the worlds so bleak, so devoid of hope. I saw the detonation, the energy and matter being ripped apart and blasted across the landscape. It was so near to sunset, too; the view was magnificent. Hundreds of thousands died; the voluntary evacuation of Alexandria of Forests had allowed the number to be so low. Those that died had entered the city armed and intending to kill one another. They burned together. I saw the beginnings of the swarm. The rock soldiers and their master had learned from the previous encounter with humans, and became smarter. The rocks bred new armies and attacked piecemeal. The attacks picked up, killing a few more here and there, destroying more properties, building new outposts for their own reproduction. When the true battles come, they could hardly be called that. The rock armies of Anesidora are legion, they are perfect of allegiance as they fight the philosophically fragmented human enemies. No mercy. No retreats. Prisoners only for food; by the end, Anesidora must breed humans as cattle to keep herself fed. There were deviations from this, from time to time, but this was the overarching future of Novomundus. Alexylva University burned and fell, barely ahead of its patron city that burned and fell around it. The nation that housed the city burned and fell before one of Alexylva's creations, writ large and filled with rage. A timeline that should never have happened drifted into the ashheap. It was a sloppy job. It will do. ------ A man sits in a recliner, sunset-orange cat purring directly to his left. A laptop is the only source of light in the room. He considers the amount of time he has spent working on the project he is completing, the amount of time spent considering, writing, rewriting, editing, opening and altering only a few words before closing it again, and falling asleep before the project. He has an anxiety about showing his work to others, the anxiety he always feels. He is always afraid of rejection. He faced quite a bit of it over the year and a half since he started the project. He dismisses those others who take too seriously the opinions others have of his work, but deep down, he will always see everyone who doesn't take away from his work exactly what he anticipated them to take away as a failure. A personal defeat. He considers erasing the whole thing, leaving the story unfinished. So few people are left even to care, now. He considers his wife in the bedroom next door. Some rejection over that year and a half, yes. Some things lost. But so, so much more gained. He smiles, publishes his work, and closes the circle. [[>]] [[[wayward \|Back to Wayward Hub]]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-28T05:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "bellerverse", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	Denouement and Epilogue - SCP Foundation	68	[ "wayward-negotiation", "wayward", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "bellerverse", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	20783703	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-denouement
welcome-aboard	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Wait, so we're hiring this guy blind?" asked the man as he sat at a table piled high with papers.</p> <p>"Yes sir. He's just been informed he has a high-level position with us, plus good pay and benefits. He'll be in momentarily. He just needs to sign these," said the younger aide, gesturing towards the piles of papers.</p> <p>"And if he asks about particulars?"</p> <p>"That's your problem. You're the lawyer."</p> <p>"…figures. Send him in. And kill the lights. May as well have a little fun with him."</p> <p>"Yes sir."</p> <p>Thomas LaFerro rubbed his eyes as he waited for the new hire. It had been a long day, and he <em>hated</em> hiring people when they didn't know what they were getting in to.</p> <p>"H-hello? Are you in here?"</p> <p>Internally sighing, LaFerro said, "Yes, right over here. Have a seat and we'll begin."</p> <p>Slowly, the new hire walked over through the room and sat down in the chair. It and the table of papers were the only illuminated things in the room.</p> <p>"Wow, you guys take your shit seriously."</p> <p>"Yes we do doctor. We find caution and secrecy to be paramount. Now, before we begin, this entire session will be recorded for verification purposes. This is not a request, I'm just informing you that everything you say is going on the record. Is that understood?"</p> <p>"Yes. But what do you mean verif-"</p> <p>"Please state your name for the record, doctor."</p> <p>"Doctor Henry Olstein."</p> <p>"Good. You may call me Mr. LaFerro. Now, we, by which I mean <em>you</em>, just have a few papers yet to sign before you are officially an employee of the Foundation. This should take no more than an hour of your time, after which you will be sent where you are supposed to go, given an orientation, and assigned to a team. Any defection during this time will result in termination. Is that understood?"</p> <p>"Yes. No leaving or I'm fired."</p> <p>"…we'll go with that. First is a Foundation-standard nondisclosure agreement. By signing this, you agree to not reveal or publish the details or findings of any project or projects you work on from here on, in this time or reality or any other. Additionally, you agree to be held to the same regarding other staff members of the site at which you are to work unless they are on your team. Your home, should you choose to live off-site, will be bugged and wired for surveillance purposes. Any breach of contract will result in termination. If you agree to these terms, print your name here, sign here, and initial here, here, and here."</p> <p>Dr. Henry Olstein briefly held the pen before saying, "So…no publication? Ever? Even if I discover something that could change how we understand reality?"</p> <p>"<em>Good God, they didn't let this guy know</em> anything!" thought LaFerro.</p> <p>"Permission may be granted to publish your findings in an internal Foundation-only publication. Permission will come from your site director and depends on your assignment, your findings, and an internal review process of the publication. I'm told the review process is exceptionally harsh and has reduced more than a few to several sessions with Foundation-employed psychologists. Please sign the form so we may continue Dr. Olstein."</p> <p>LaFerro watched as Olstein scratched his signature on the paper. Another life, thrown away into secrecy. This man would never see the light of day again, at least not with family or as Dr. Henry Olstein. A life in the shadows.</p> <p>"Thank you doctor. Now, we have just a few more to sign. This packet of forms explains your clearance level, pay grade, sick days, site policy, holiday policy, housing arrangements, vacation days, etcetera. If you agree to all the terms and conditions laid out herein, you need to print here, here and here, sign here, and initial here, here, here, here, here, and here. This needs to be done throughout the packet. I'll give you a moment."</p> <p>Olstein scribbled furiously, apparently anxious to get on with the job. "<em>He wouldn't be so anxious if he knew even a fraction of what he was getting into,</em>" thought LaFerro. But then, none of them really did. Some knew more than others, but no one really knew.</p> <p>"Very good. Now, this packet outlines your benefits, insurance, tax exemptions, food plan, and gives you the choice between the standard, death/dismemberment/displacement compensation and the death/dismemberment/displacement/dislocation/relocation/multiplicity/immolation/[DATA EXPUNGED] compensation packages. Yes, they've actually written [DATA EXPUNGED], no I don't know what it means. It should be noted that this package will take a significant amount more out of your paycheck, but will guarantee total compensation and financial stability for the designated recipient upon your accidental death, dismemberment, etcetera. Please mark a checkmark by the package of your choice and the designee's name. Then, if you agree to all the terms listed, you need to sign here, here, and here, and initial here."</p> <p>"The, uh, death/dismemberment/displacement/whatever package…that's all a joke right? Not ever actually going to happen?"</p> <p>"I'm afraid I'm not cleared to tell you that, nor do I know for certain doctor. Do you wish to continue?"</p> <p>"…yes."</p> <p>"Very well. This paper details the amount of budget per annum you will receive for projects. Additional funding and resources may be requested. If this looks acceptable to you, please sign here."</p> <p>"<em>I think that was the fastest I've ever seen someone sign their name,</em>" thought LaFerro.</p> <p>"…what are D-Class personnel, Mr. LaFerro, and why do I have such a high number of them?"</p> <p>"That information is above my clearance level doctor. I have approximately seventy-five more pages for you to sign before you can leave. For the sake of brevity, I'm going to let you peruse and sign them at your leisure. They all need to be initialed in the upper right corner and signed at the bottom. I'll give you a moment."</p> <p>Olstein skimmed and signed the papers quickly, looking more agitated with each paper.</p> <p>"Okay. This <em>has</em> to be a joke. 'Under no circumstances are you, the signee, to touch the anomalous penguins that may or may not be present on your site. At no times are you to make a penguin, bird, or fish comment around said penguins. Testing of penguins is strictly forbidden. Breach of this contract may result in demotion or termination.' This is a joke right?"</p> <p>"I'm afraid not doctor. Those penguins drive a hard case. I can't think of a time they've lost in Foundation civil court. Please sign the form if you agree to the terms."</p> <p>Grumbling, Olstein signed the paper.</p> <p>"<em>Amazing,</em>" thought LaFerro. "<em>He gets caught up over the penguins clause but signs the 'no contact with family' clause without skipping a beat. I'll never understand these people.</em>"</p> <p>"Well doctor, I believe that's all I've got for you to sign. You may leave. An Agent will be waiting outside to escort you to your assignment. Congratulations on your employment, Level 3 Researcher Henry Olstein."</p> <p>As Olstein left, LaFerro looked down at the papers in front of him.</p> <p>"<em>Dr. Henry Olstein, Clearance Level 3/682</em>," read the paper.</p> <p>"Poor bastard. Send in the next one."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/welcome-aboard">Welcome Aboard</a>" by Montala, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/welcome-aboard">https://scpwiki.com/welcome-aboard</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] "Wait, so we're hiring this guy blind?" asked the man as he sat at a table piled high with papers. "Yes sir. He's just been informed he has a high-level position with us, plus good pay and benefits. He'll be in momentarily. He just needs to sign these," said the younger aide, gesturing towards the piles of papers. "And if he asks about particulars?" "That's your problem. You're the lawyer." "...figures. Send him in. And kill the lights. May as well have a little fun with him." "Yes sir." Thomas LaFerro rubbed his eyes as he waited for the new hire. It had been a long day, and he //hated// hiring people when they didn't know what they were getting in to. "H-hello? Are you in here?" Internally sighing, LaFerro said, "Yes, right over here. Have a seat and we'll begin." Slowly, the new hire walked over through the room and sat down in the chair. It and the table of papers were the only illuminated things in the room. "Wow, you guys take your shit seriously." "Yes we do doctor. We find caution and secrecy to be paramount. Now, before we begin, this entire session will be recorded for verification purposes. This is not a request, I'm just informing you that everything you say is going on the record. Is that understood?" "Yes. But what do you mean verif-" "Please state your name for the record, doctor." "Doctor Henry Olstein." "Good. You may call me Mr. LaFerro. Now, we, by which I mean //you//, just have a few papers yet to sign before you are officially an employee of the Foundation. This should take no more than an hour of your time, after which you will be sent where you are supposed to go, given an orientation, and assigned to a team. Any defection during this time will result in termination. Is that understood?" "Yes. No leaving or I'm fired." "...we'll go with that. First is a Foundation-standard nondisclosure agreement. By signing this, you agree to not reveal or publish the details or findings of any project or projects you work on from here on, in this time or reality or any other. Additionally, you agree to be held to the same regarding other staff members of the site at which you are to work unless they are on your team. Your home, should you choose to live off-site, will be bugged and wired for surveillance purposes. Any breach of contract will result in termination. If you agree to these terms, print your name here, sign here, and initial here, here, and here." Dr. Henry Olstein briefly held the pen before saying, "So...no publication? Ever? Even if I discover something that could change how we understand reality?" "//Good God, they didn't let this guy know// anything!" thought LaFerro. "Permission may be granted to publish your findings in an internal Foundation-only publication. Permission will come from your site director and depends on your assignment, your findings, and an internal review process of the publication. I'm told the review process is exceptionally harsh and has reduced more than a few to several sessions with Foundation-employed psychologists. Please sign the form so we may continue Dr. Olstein." LaFerro watched as Olstein scratched his signature on the paper. Another life, thrown away into secrecy. This man would never see the light of day again, at least not with family or as Dr. Henry Olstein. A life in the shadows. "Thank you doctor. Now, we have just a few more to sign. This packet of forms explains your clearance level, pay grade, sick days, site policy, holiday policy, housing arrangements, vacation days, etcetera. If you agree to all the terms and conditions laid out herein, you need to print here, here and here, sign here, and initial here, here, here, here, here, and here. This needs to be done throughout the packet. I'll give you a moment." Olstein scribbled furiously, apparently anxious to get on with the job. "//He wouldn't be so anxious if he knew even a fraction of what he was getting into,//" thought LaFerro. But then, none of them really did. Some knew more than others, but no one really knew. "Very good. Now, this packet outlines your benefits, insurance, tax exemptions, food plan, and gives you the choice between the standard, death/dismemberment/displacement compensation and the death/dismemberment/displacement/dislocation/relocation/multiplicity/immolation/[DATA EXPUNGED] compensation packages. Yes, they've actually written [DATA EXPUNGED], no I don't know what it means. It should be noted that this package will take a significant amount more out of your paycheck, but will guarantee total compensation and financial stability for the designated recipient upon your accidental death, dismemberment, etcetera. Please mark a checkmark by the package of your choice and the designee's name. Then, if you agree to all the terms listed, you need to sign here, here, and here, and initial here." "The, uh, death/dismemberment/displacement/whatever package...that's all a joke right? Not ever actually going to happen?" "I'm afraid I'm not cleared to tell you that, nor do I know for certain doctor. Do you wish to continue?" "...yes." "Very well. This paper details the amount of budget per annum you will receive for projects. Additional funding and resources may be requested. If this looks acceptable to you, please sign here." "//I think that was the fastest I've ever seen someone sign their name,//" thought LaFerro. "...what are D-Class personnel, Mr. LaFerro, and why do I have such a high number of them?" "That information is above my clearance level doctor. I have approximately seventy-five more pages for you to sign before you can leave. For the sake of brevity, I'm going to let you peruse and sign them at your leisure. They all need to be initialed in the upper right corner and signed at the bottom. I'll give you a moment." Olstein skimmed and signed the papers quickly, looking more agitated with each paper. "Okay. This //has// to be a joke. 'Under no circumstances are you, the signee, to touch the anomalous penguins that may or may not be present on your site. At no times are you to make a penguin, bird, or fish comment around said penguins. Testing of penguins is strictly forbidden. Breach of this contract may result in demotion or termination.' This is a joke right?" "I'm afraid not doctor. Those penguins drive a hard case. I can't think of a time they've lost in Foundation civil court. Please sign the form if you agree to the terms." Grumbling, Olstein signed the paper. "//Amazing,//" thought LaFerro. "//He gets caught up over the penguins clause but signs the 'no contact with family' clause without skipping a beat. I'll never understand these people.//" "Well doctor, I believe that's all I've got for you to sign. You may leave. An Agent will be waiting outside to escort you to your assignment. Congratulations on your employment, Level 3 Researcher Henry Olstein." As Olstein left, LaFerro looked down at the papers in front of him. "//Dr. Henry Olstein, Clearance Level 3/682//," read the paper. "Poor bastard. Send in the next one." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-10T21:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Welcome Aboard - SCP Foundation	52	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20925645	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/welcome-aboard
were-sorry	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Director Samuels, you have often asked me what the ultimate goal of the SCP Foundation is. As I step down, I feel you have the right to know.</p> <p>Our ultimate goal is, and has always been, the neutralization of humanity.</p> <p>Note that I do not say the destruction of humanity. It has never been our desire to hurt you.</p> <p>I am not human. I am not a member of Homo sapiens. I am not even Terran. I am a member of a species very different from you, from a different star. It isn't important where I came from. What is important is my mission.</p> <p>We have been studying your species for as long as you've known language. As we have watched you grow, we have seen the anomalies arise. They have changed your world, and not for the better. And they are growing more frequent.</p> <p>We have performed experiments, using sample members of your species very far from here. We have removed variables, and added new ones. The results are conclusive. This is your doing.</p> <p>You, as a species, are somehow changing the function of reality. The more of you there are, the stronger this effect becomes. There are nearly five billion of you at the time of this writing, and your population is growing faster by the minute.</p> <p>We tried peaceful methods at first. We tried to see if we could counter the effects. Then we tried to remove the ability from your species. Eventually, as we found there was no way to stop you, we tried to lower your population, and then to destroy you outright.</p> <p>Our final attempt has failed. We tried to detonate your sun. A worm larger than the moon Europa appeared and destroyed our device. Somehow, the anomalies are protecting you, the way a parasite might protect its host.</p> <p>It's changing you, and we can no longer stop it. We've given up treatment and euthanasia, and we are reduced to quarantine. We have sabotaged your space program. We are watching for attempts to leave your solar system by anomalous means. We can only hope that either you are destroyed by the anomalies, or else that you find a way to control them.</p> <p>And finally… I am sorry. I am sorry we tried to kill you. We are scared of you, and we do not want to die. We chose out of fear. I wish I could say I was glad it didn't work, but the truth is, I am still scared.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/were-sorry">We're Sorry</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/were-sorry">https://scpwiki.com/were-sorry</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Director Samuels, you have often asked me what the ultimate goal of the SCP Foundation is. As I step down, I feel you have the right to know. Our ultimate goal is, and has always been, the neutralization of humanity. Note that I do not say the destruction of humanity. It has never been our desire to hurt you. I am not human. I am not a member of Homo sapiens. I am not even Terran. I am a member of a species very different from you, from a different star. It isn't important where I came from. What is important is my mission. We have been studying your species for as long as you've known language. As we have watched you grow, we have seen the anomalies arise. They have changed your world, and not for the better. And they are growing more frequent. We have performed experiments, using sample members of your species very far from here. We have removed variables, and added new ones. The results are conclusive. This is your doing. You, as a species, are somehow changing the function of reality. The more of you there are, the stronger this effect becomes. There are nearly five billion of you at the time of this writing, and your population is growing faster by the minute. We tried peaceful methods at first. We tried to see if we could counter the effects. Then we tried to remove the ability from your species. Eventually, as we found there was no way to stop you, we tried to lower your population, and then to destroy you outright. Our final attempt has failed. We tried to detonate your sun. A worm larger than the moon Europa appeared and destroyed our device. Somehow, the anomalies are protecting you, the way a parasite might protect its host. It's changing you, and we can no longer stop it. We've given up treatment and euthanasia, and we are reduced to quarantine. We have sabotaged your space program. We are watching for attempts to leave your solar system by anomalous means. We can only hope that either you are destroyed by the anomalies, or else that you find a way to control them. And finally... I am sorry. I am sorry we tried to kill you. We are scared of you, and we do not want to die. We chose out of fear. I wish I could say I was glad it didn't work, but the truth is, I am still scared. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-09-18T15:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "cosmic-horror", "first-person", "horror", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	We're Sorry - SCP Foundation	56	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013" ]	[]	19905356	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/were-sorry
what-did-i-come-down-here-for	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> I pull the car into the driveway and keep the engine on. My hand hovers over the key and I try to screw up my courage, knowing I'll never do it. Just go, the little voice says, just drive and drive and drive and never look back. Start again somewhere fresh and new and untainted. I cut the engine and slump in the seat, telling myself I enjoy the heat. Making sure no one's watching, I take out a flask and treat myself to a quick drink. To brace myself, I think. After a few seconds, I stop pretending to enjoy the heat and get out of the car and make my way to the door. <p>Through the inch-thick wood, I hear the hard thunk of a bottle hitting the floor followed by a giggle. I close my eyes as I turn the key and open the door. She's sprawled on one of the two folding chairs we've set out by the poker table that makes up the majority of our furniture in the house. In her hand is a mug lifted from some Goodwill somewhere. As she sees me walk in she raises her mug in salute, sloshing cheap whisky onto her hand. The electricity was cut off last week, leaving the house more unbearable than outside. I feel a drop of sweat trickle along my spine.</p> <p>"Hey, sugar cookie," she says in a mock-Southern accent, chortling at her own non-joke. As she brings down the mug, more of the drink sloshes over the side, hitting her blue dress. "Shit!" she yells as it begins to soak through the fabric. Leaping from the chair, she grabs clumsily at a half roll of paper towels and tries to blot her mess before collapsing back into the chair. Before sitting down in the free chair, I sigh, making sure it's just loud enough for her to hear.</p> <p>I try not to look at the whisky or the mug, or even at her, instead focusing on the ever-growing cobweb of cracking plaster on the kitchen wall. I go through the check list, my brain coming up with an instant counterargument. Drinking is bad for you. <em>But I want to drink. I</em> need <em>to drink</em>. It brings out the worst in you. <em>No, being uptight and denying myself anything brings out the worst in me</em>. Do you really want to be drunk and sweating and feeling like shit at 3 PM on a Wednesday? <em>It's not like it matters; what am I going to do if I'm sober</em>? You're strong, you don't need this. <em>No I'm not, yes I do. Besides, what does it matter</em>? My eyes close so I can focus on the back-and-forth.</p> <p>"So, uh, do you want any?" she asks. Like that, the debate ends. It's one thing to deny oneself, another to be rude, especially to one's wife.</p> <p>"Sure." I grab the nearest clean-ish looking mug from the floor and hold it out to her. She waits for a second before picking up the bottle and pouring. The weight of the drink in the mug is reassuringly familiar.</p> <p>We raise our vessels in a toast. "Nostrovia," I say. "Bottoms up" she answers. The mugs give a sharp clink when they meet. Every time I hear that sound, I have a moment of terror, thinking that the mugs have broken. We push our heads back and drink, the whisky tasting like cleansing fire.</p> <hr/> <p>The sun's no longer up, but its thick and miserable heat sticks on through the night, nesting in plants and bugs and walls and all of the air, and maybe a little in her as well. My shirt clings to me, and I can make out the contours of her body through the soaking blue dress. With the heat outside of me and the liquor inside, my mind is dull as I put a happy, thoughtless hand on her bare knee. There's only a thin, sharp voice in the back of my head, telling me not to ruin it, this is a good night, don't touch it or it might fracture. She's talking about something or other, I don't know, I've been wandering in and out of the conversation for a while now. She's perfectly happy to talk to herself. I decide to tune back in, for the hell of it.</p> <p>"-this guy here in the parking lot and he says 'Hey I'm Bill or Ted' or something, I don't really remember, 'We live two houses down from you. You're Laura, right?' And I'm like, I didn't know this shit! Now I feel like an asshole 'cause this guy knows all this about me and I hardly leave the house, like ever. I mean, when was the las- no, you know what? It was <em>never</em>. We've never had people over here. We live like hermits or something, and for what?"</p> <p>She pauses for a moment, and I realize I'm supposed to answer. Her and her obsession with people, with being the center. I wonder if she's ever thought about it, about how people can find out, how <em>they</em> can find out, and about having to move, to create wholly new lives. Like pulling a scab, but for months on end.</p> <p>"I mean, do you really think you're that good of a hostess? To have people over for <em>this</em>?"</p> <p>"What do you mean 'do you think?'" I feel her tense up. "Of course I would. I'd make a great hostess. I'm great with people. What the fuck kind of a question is that?"</p> <p>"Mmm-hmmm," I agree. I feel what's coming, and I try not to look her in the eye or even at her blue dress. The thin voice in the back of my head has already abandoned ship.</p> <p>"No, don't 'Mmm-hmmm' me. What do you mean 'do you think you'd make a good hostess?'" She gently pushes my hand from her knee.</p> <p>"I just mean… Shit, I don't know what I mean. I just wasn't sure if you're ready- if <em>we're</em> ready for people."</p> <p>"What, because I'll embarrass you or something? Not smart enough for the friends you don't have?"</p> <p>"Jesus, honey, can we j-"</p> <p>"No! No. W- you <em>always</em> do this. I say something or do something or suggest changing in some fucking way and then you make some catty little remark about it, like I won't notice. Like I'm too stupid to get it or you're <em>so</em> above me. You think I don't notice? Fuck you. Maybe I haven't read as many Cliff Note's for famous books, but I can recognize a sack of shit when I see one."</p> <p>I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, fine. Whatever. You're right. I'm sorry, that was a shitty thing to say, and I shouldn't have said it, okay?"</p> <p>"Sure," she says in a sullen tone. We go back to quietly drinking, neither acknowledging the other. I focus on the cobweb crack on the kitchen wall. From her side of the table, I hear the sound of her rummaging through her purse, followed by the sliding of paper against paper. I already know what's about to happen as I look to her. Sure enough, there's the cigarette dangling from her mouth as she searches for a lighter. A grunt of triumph later, and she's fiddling with the dollar lighter from the Gas Tree.</p> <p>"C'mon, don't be like that," I say. She looks up from the cigarette. "It's hotter than Hell already." She turns her attention back to the lighter.</p> <p>"I haven't smoked all day. I deserve a cigarette. To celebrate," she answers, lips barely parted. The end of the cigarette glows a dull orange, and there's a crinkling sound as she draws the first breath. She purses her lips and blows out a stream of dry, toxic smoke. A thin plume traces its way up from the cigarette. I take another drink, only to have the taste choked out by another puff of blue-grey smoke. She taps the end cigarette into a glass ashtray, depositing a little load of ash.</p> <p>"C'mon. Seriously, I feel like shit; I have a headache, I'm tired and the last thing I want is to watch you choke down another pack of cigarettes." She doesn't even turn her head. "You have any idea how bad those are for you? For <em>me</em>? I mean, obviously you don't or el-"</p> <p>Her head rolls back as she screws her eyes shut. She raises her voice to the ceiling. "I know I know I know I know I fuckin' know, okay? I know it's bad for me and all of those numbers you throw at me. I've had a crap day too, and I need this." She lifts her head and looks at me. "What I don't need is you yelling at me about how 'bad' smoking is. This house is bad. This town is bad. This whole fucking situation is bad. Smoking? Smoking's pretty far down on the list of 'bad' things, far as I'm concerned!"</p> <p>"Yeah, I'm sure you had a really tough day, getting drunk before god damn noon."</p> <p>She stubs out the cigarette on the hardwood floor, missing the ashtray by a good four inches. Before I can comment, she starts to shout. "Why? What the hell else am I gonna do? You just wanna stay locked up in here scared that anyone's gonna find out about us! And thanks to your dumb ass, we don't even have TV any more! What the hell else am I gonna do besides get drunk and try not think about what a crap provider you are!"</p> <p>My reply comes in a cool, calm voice. "No. No, you're right. The reason I didn't want to have people over is because I was afraid you'd embarrass me. But I was wrong; we don't need people over for you to be a fucking embarrassment. Not just me, but to yourself!" I don't even realize what I'm saying until it's already out. A speech I had mouthed silently to myself in imagined arguments, never meant to be spoken aloud.</p> <p>She lunges forward and grabs the glass ashtray. Before I can even get out a word she flings it at me. I don't even see it move; one second it's in her hand, the next there's a blossom of pain in my right shoulder. The glass falls to the floor, where it breaks neatly into a hundred little pieces. For a moment, everything is still.</p> <p>I jump up, upsetting the chair in the process. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shout. I've never shouted before in an argument; I always try to be the calm voice, the voice of reason, the guy who's above it all. Not to be outdone she leaps to her feet. Then begins the mixed shouting. Neither of us can understand the other, or even ourselves. Are we even yelling in English anymore, or is it just some gibberish language designed to expel rage?</p> <p>In the back of my brain stem, something boils over and I shove her. She staggers back a foot or so, looking surprised. Then her expression changes to something ugly and she punches me as hard as she can in my right shoulder. "Fucker!" she yells. A bright pain shoots through my body and I cry out. She rears back and looks expectantly at me, waiting for the inevitable counter-counter-blow or at least some kind of response. There's a terrible silence in the air as we both wait for my next move. And with that, the red hot anger dissipates, leaving something cold and hard in its place.</p> <p>"Fuck this," I say and turn to the door. I grab the keys from the nail on the hallway wall and head out into the warm, still night, suddenly alive with the sound of a million insects. The door I slam behind me gives only a hollow imitation of a slam as I head to the car.</p> <p>I open the car door and give it a much more satisfyingly full slam and turn on the engine. For a fraction of a second, I pause, wondering if she'll come after me, and what I'll do then. The moment passes and I pull out of the driveway at what feels like 80 miles an hour and gun it down the street that heads straight west for what we decided was <em>at least</em> forever. I roll down the window and give a hollow whoop of triumph, mostly because it seems appropriate. I then settle into a silence, not even the radio on, just me and the wind whipping through the window. But I drive and drive and drive, and I don't look back.</p> <hr/> <p>I drive through the night until the first streams of the sun's light begin to make their way over the treetops. By some miracle, I don't get pulled over, nor do I kill anyone or even run myself off the road. I pull into a rest stop and get out of the car, stretching in the first light of morning. Outside, the air isn't somehow crisp like I imagined it would be. Instead, it's the same still and muggy as well. No matter, I'm free, I tell myself, off to a new land, beautiful and deep, desirable and bright. Free from the stupid fucking harpy, free from the crap house, free from worry, free from care. I force a laugh, telling myself that will drive off this anxiety. It doesn't.</p> <p>As I stand, waiting to be sated, I feel the first effects of last night's drinking start to kick in. My joints ache and my head is starting to feel like it's being kicked from the inside. I get back in the car and get back on the highway, looking for a motel to stay for the day. I glance at the wedding band on my right hand and decide that there's no time like the present. I pull it off and am about to throw it out the window of the speeding car when I remember just how much rings are worth. Into the glove compartment it goes.</p> <p>A few miles down the road, I check into a dilapidated place called the Sleep Tite Suites. When I get to my room, I close the blinds and turn the air conditioning up full blast. After drinking from the bathroom sink for something like a minute, I get under the slightly plastic-feeling sheets of the bed and almost immediately fall asleep.</p> <hr/> <p>I wake up, only to find that it's still before noon. I feel rested enough, and my hangover's a bit better, although the pain in my joints is worse than before. I decide to pick up the complimentary continental breakfast from the lobby. The only choices remaining are a cellophane-wrapped muffin and an underripe banana ("Should'a gotten here earlier, I guess," the clerk offers by way of an apology). I choose the muffin and read the ingredients label to occupy myself. About halfway through, I stop reading the ingredients.</p> <p>Once I'm finished, I get back in the car and head out again, getting more distance between me and that god damned house.</p> <hr/> <p>It's been two days of driving now, and the aching hasn't gone away. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror (this time of the Village Inn of Redsfield) and see myself about ten years older. There are bags under my eyes and my face is crisscrossed with tiny wrinkles. I feel like shit, too. Inside my head there's a low constant buzzing, and I'm starting to feel nauseous. Seeing a doctor crosses my mind, but I'm not really sure if I'm <em>like</em> other people. Inside-wise, that is. And the last thing I want is to be found out. Besides, I'm pretty sure I just need a drink.</p> <p>The clerk has told me that there's a nice little liquor store just down the way. I walk there in a half hour and walk back to my room with a plastic bottle of gin. I flop onto the bed and turn on the TV, flipping through the channels until settling on a show about a boy and his monkey. The bottle's cap comes off with a satisfying snap as the plastic anchors holding it down come apart.</p> <p>I remember when we used to do this, just sitting side by side with a bottle between us, watching TV or sometimes just the outdoors. When the bottle got low, our fingers would become intertwined. Her mouth would always taste sweet and mellow like damp grass, even with the gin and the old food taste and even with the cigarettes. God damn, I think, where did those good times go? How did it get to be like this?</p> <p>Then I remember those times were never good. Even then we fought constantly, over dishes or money or anything else we could use as an excuse. Maybe we just hadn't known each other long enough; her quirks still lovable instead of aggravating. Maybe I was less insufferable then, too. I tip the plastic jug to my lips and start to drink as the case of the week begins to unfold on TV.</p> <hr/> <p>In the morning, I wake to a sensation of dampness on the bed. I look to my feet and see the gin lying on its side, soaking through my clothing and the mattress. "Nnnmmm…dammit," I groan as I begin to sit up. Little by little, my other senses begin to awake. The soft humming of the muted TV set. The sharp smell of gin cutting the slightly moldy smell of the room. The roofing tar taste in my mouth. And, of course, the pounding in my joints. I run a tongue over teeth which feel like sandpaper. Midway through, I stop and go back a tooth or two. Bottom row. Right canine. Even with a gentle probe, it starts to wobble. I put a hand to my mouth and feel it between my fingers. Without even a tug, it comes out. I let it fall into my palm and stare at it.</p> <p>Nothing for it, then. The only way forward is forward, I tell myself. I'm never going back to her. To that house. I just want a fresh start somewhere far away, so far I'll never remember her or think of her again. I get in the car and drive west for the rest of the day. Along the way, I lose another tooth.</p> <hr/> <p>The next morning, I wake up and barely make it to the bathroom before I vomit. Two more teeth are dislodged and bob in the toilet. I study it for a moment before flushing it down. Amongst the yellows and greens, there are swirls of dark red. I don't remember eating anything red-looking the past few days.</p> <p>As I rinse out my mouth, I remember the times when we would both wake up hung over. By silent agreement, we wouldn't talk or plan or anything. Just go to the kitchen and sit and eat pickle spears. I remember a composite of all of those mornings, her with her short brown hair jutting out in a dozen different places. Wearing just an oversize t-shirt as she squinted at me from across the table, even then still so beautiful in some way.</p> <p>But still, I get in the car and keep driving. This time, though, there a lots of stops at gas stations and rest stops and empty parking lots. I vomit twice, each time colored with more and more red, leaving a coppery taste in my mouth. A couple of times, I sit in the car and tell myself to keep going. Just a little further. I listen and I don't turn back.</p> <hr/> <p>That night, I find myself covered in rashes. Each arm ringed at the armpit, each leg ringed at the crotch, and a nice huge one in a thin line going along my collar bone and looping around the back of my neck. Like a splotchy necklace, I laugh to myself.</p> <p>Then I remember her laughs. Her laughs from before, when they were honest and full of light rather than spiteful or sarcastic. They were gorgeous, from her shrill ticklish shrieks to her open laughs of happiness. Even her unladylike snorts at a really good joke seem beautiful. I go to bed with her laughter ringing in my mind.</p> <hr/> <p>The following morning, I wake up and find that the rashes have split the skin, the edges curling upwards like little scrolls. I gently touch one with a finger and wince as the pain shoots through me.</p> <p>I sit on the bed and try not to think about what this means. I go through the check list, my brain coming up with an instant counterargument. She's a horrible person. <em>How much of that is my fault? Besides, I am too</em>. You deserve better. <em>No, I don't</em>. She brings out the worst in you. <em>She brings out the real me. She's the only one who understands me, even if she doesn't</em>. You'll just be as miserable as you were before if you go back. <em>No, this time will be different. Probably</em>. Don't go back. <em>I can't live without her</em>.</p> <p>I get in the car and drive and drive and drive.</p> <hr/> <p>For three straight days I drive, stopping only for gas and food and the occasional drink. As I drive, I feel the wounds start to close up. By the end of the second day, I angle the rear view mirror towards my face and notice that the wrinkles have started to fade slightly. The bottom right canine is back in its proper place as well.</p> <p>When I pull into the driveway, the sun has just fallen below the horizon. I don't feel much of anything except for tired. Outside there are crickets and cicadas and God knows what else chirping, looking for mates. I grab the ring from the glove compartment. It doesn't feel right to put it back on yet, so I slip it into my front pocket. I jog to the door and fumble with the keys. Before I can find the right one, the door opens and she's standing there in front of me.</p> <p>"Hey," she says, a slight smile on a face now lined with minute wrinkles. For a split second between her lips, I can see a dark gap were a tooth used to be.</p> <p>"Hi. Can I come in?" I give an awkward wave. Without a word, she opens the door and lets me through. I sit down in one of the two chairs in the house. She takes her seat opposite me. A candle on the table illuminates us both.</p> <p>"I…" I flap my mouth silently, trying to think of the right things to say, knowing she already knows them, but wanting to say them, as much for my own benefit as for hers. Ours. "I really missed you, I guess."</p> <p>She gives a weak smile and under the neckline of her shirt I catch a glimpse of a healing rash running over her collar bone. "I… yeah, I missed you too."</p> <p>There's promises that some would want to be made, lines to be drawn, so that we never do this again. But what's the point? Promises were made to be broken, lines to be crossed. I take her hand in mine and gently kiss her knuckle. My mouth makes its way up her hand, her arm, her neck, her face. Then we're kissing and I taste wet grass again as the night wraps around us both.</p> <hr/> <p>We lay naked on the mattress, only a thin bedsheet between us and the rest of the world. Even before the night was up, we both knew that the truce would never hold, that peace was at best temporary. But maybe the good will outweigh the bad this time; maybe we'll somehow come out ahead or at least less behind. Her face, against the pillow, looks younger already; the wrinkles are gone, and so is the rash. I run over my teeth with my tongue, just to be sure all of the teeth are back. They are.</p> <p>A square of light falls on her bare leg, and I can make out the tattoo. I trace the letters lightly with the tip of my finger, and she shifts slightly. Just like mine, it reads "Mr. and Mrs. Love, from Little Misters® by Dr. Wondertainment." What a sick joke. I don't remember a time when we weren't with one another. There's a paper we had once, long since gone, that listed all of us, telling the reader to find us all. Christ, I think, why would you ever want to do that?</p> <p>The heat is everywhere in the silent, still house, and my arms are slick with sweat. I look out the window and know that I have to get out into that cool night air. I leave the mattress slowly, trying not to wake her. I open the back door and walk naked into the moonlight. As soon as I cross the threshold, I realize that it's worse out here with the cicadas and crickets. Still, I linger outside for a moment, hoping for a breeze, one strong enough to carry me far away.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/what-did-i-come-down-here-for">What Did I Come Down Here For?</a>" by Gaffsey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/what-did-i-come-down-here-for">https://scpwiki.com/what-did-i-come-down-here-for</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] I pull the car into the driveway and keep the engine on. My hand hovers over the key and I try to screw up my courage, knowing I'll never do it. Just go, the little voice says, just drive and drive and drive and never look back. Start again somewhere fresh and new and untainted. I cut the engine and slump in the seat, telling myself I enjoy the heat. Making sure no one's watching, I take out a flask and treat myself to a quick drink. To brace myself, I think. After a few seconds, I stop pretending to enjoy the heat and get out of the car and make my way to the door. Through the inch-thick wood, I hear the hard thunk of a bottle hitting the floor followed by a giggle. I close my eyes as I turn the key and open the door. She's sprawled on one of the two folding chairs we've set out by the poker table that makes up the majority of our furniture in the house. In her hand is a mug lifted from some Goodwill somewhere. As she sees me walk in she raises her mug in salute, sloshing cheap whisky onto her hand. The electricity was cut off last week, leaving the house more unbearable than outside. I feel a drop of sweat trickle along my spine. "Hey, sugar cookie," she says in a mock-Southern accent, chortling at her own non-joke. As she brings down the mug, more of the drink sloshes over the side, hitting her blue dress. "Shit!" she yells as it begins to soak through the fabric. Leaping from the chair, she grabs clumsily at a half roll of paper towels and tries to blot her mess before collapsing back into the chair. Before sitting down in the free chair, I sigh, making sure it's just loud enough for her to hear. I try not to look at the whisky or the mug, or even at her, instead focusing on the ever-growing cobweb of cracking plaster on the kitchen wall. I go through the check list, my brain coming up with an instant counterargument. Drinking is bad for you. //But I want to drink. I// need //to drink//. It brings out the worst in you. //No, being uptight and denying myself anything brings out the worst in me//. Do you really want to be drunk and sweating and feeling like shit at 3 PM on a Wednesday? //It's not like it matters; what am I going to do if I'm sober//? You're strong, you don't need this. //No I'm not, yes I do. Besides, what does it matter//? My eyes close so I can focus on the back-and-forth. "So, uh, do you want any?" she asks. Like that, the debate ends. It's one thing to deny oneself, another to be rude, especially to one's wife. "Sure." I grab the nearest clean-ish looking mug from the floor and hold it out to her. She waits for a second before picking up the bottle and pouring. The weight of the drink in the mug is reassuringly familiar. We raise our vessels in a toast. "Nostrovia," I say. "Bottoms up" she answers. The mugs give a sharp clink when they meet. Every time I hear that sound, I have a moment of terror, thinking that the mugs have broken. We push our heads back and drink, the whisky tasting like cleansing fire. ----- The sun's no longer up, but its thick and miserable heat sticks on through the night, nesting in plants and bugs and walls and all of the air, and maybe a little in her as well. My shirt clings to me, and I can make out the contours of her body through the soaking blue dress. With the heat outside of me and the liquor inside, my mind is dull as I put a happy, thoughtless hand on her bare knee. There's only a thin, sharp voice in the back of my head, telling me not to ruin it, this is a good night, don't touch it or it might fracture. She's talking about something or other, I don't know, I've been wandering in and out of the conversation for a while now. She's perfectly happy to talk to herself. I decide to tune back in, for the hell of it. "-this guy here in the parking lot and he says 'Hey I'm Bill or Ted' or something, I don't really remember, 'We live two houses down from you. You're Laura, right?' And I'm like, I didn't know this shit! Now I feel like an asshole 'cause this guy knows all this about me and I hardly leave the house, like ever. I mean, when was the las- no, you know what? It was //never//. We've never had people over here. We live like hermits or something, and for what?" She pauses for a moment, and I realize I'm supposed to answer. Her and her obsession with people, with being the center. I wonder if she's ever thought about it, about how people can find out, how //they// can find out, and about having to move, to create wholly new lives. Like pulling a scab, but for months on end. "I mean, do you really think you're that good of a hostess? To have people over for //this//?" "What do you mean 'do you think?'" I feel her tense up. "Of course I would. I'd make a great hostess. I'm great with people. What the fuck kind of a question is that?" "Mmm-hmmm," I agree. I feel what's coming, and I try not to look her in the eye or even at her blue dress. The thin voice in the back of my head has already abandoned ship. "No, don't 'Mmm-hmmm' me. What do you mean 'do you think you'd make a good hostess?'" She gently pushes my hand from her knee. "I just mean... Shit, I don't know what I mean. I just wasn't sure if you're ready- if //we're// ready for people." "What, because I'll embarrass you or something? Not smart enough for the friends you don't have?" "Jesus, honey, can we j-" "No! No. W- you //always// do this. I say something or do something or suggest changing in some fucking way and then you make some catty little remark about it, like I won't notice. Like I'm too stupid to get it or you're //so// above me. You think I don't notice? Fuck you. Maybe I haven't read as many Cliff Note's for famous books, but I can recognize a sack of shit when I see one." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, fine. Whatever. You're right. I'm sorry, that was a shitty thing to say, and I shouldn't have said it, okay?" "Sure," she says in a sullen tone. We go back to quietly drinking, neither acknowledging the other. I focus on the cobweb crack on the kitchen wall. From her side of the table, I hear the sound of her rummaging through her purse, followed by the sliding of paper against paper. I already know what's about to happen as I look to her. Sure enough, there's the cigarette dangling from her mouth as she searches for a lighter. A grunt of triumph later, and she's fiddling with the dollar lighter from the Gas Tree. "C'mon, don't be like that," I say. She looks up from the cigarette. "It's hotter than Hell already." She turns her attention back to the lighter. "I haven't smoked all day. I deserve a cigarette. To celebrate," she answers, lips barely parted. The end of the cigarette glows a dull orange, and there's a crinkling sound as she draws the first breath. She purses her lips and blows out a stream of dry, toxic smoke. A thin plume traces its way up from the cigarette. I take another drink, only to have the taste choked out by another puff of blue-grey smoke. She taps the end cigarette into a glass ashtray, depositing a little load of ash. "C'mon. Seriously, I feel like shit; I have a headache, I'm tired and the last thing I want is to watch you choke down another pack of cigarettes." She doesn't even turn her head. "You have any idea how bad those are for you? For //me//? I mean, obviously you don't or el-" Her head rolls back as she screws her eyes shut. She raises her voice to the ceiling. "I know I know I know I know I fuckin' know, okay? I know it's bad for me and all of those numbers you throw at me. I've had a crap day too, and I need this." She lifts her head and looks at me. "What I don't need is you yelling at me about how 'bad' smoking is. This house is bad. This town is bad. This whole fucking situation is bad. Smoking? Smoking's pretty far down on the list of 'bad' things, far as I'm concerned!" "Yeah, I'm sure you had a really tough day, getting drunk before god damn noon." She stubs out the cigarette on the hardwood floor, missing the ashtray by a good four inches. Before I can comment, she starts to shout. "Why? What the hell else am I gonna do? You just wanna stay locked up in here scared that anyone's gonna find out about us! And thanks to your dumb ass, we don't even have TV any more! What the hell else am I gonna do besides get drunk and try not think about what a crap provider you are!" My reply comes in a cool, calm voice. "No. No, you're right. The reason I didn't want to have people over is because I was afraid you'd embarrass me. But I was wrong; we don't need people over for you to be a fucking embarrassment. Not just me, but to yourself!" I don't even realize what I'm saying until it's already out. A speech I had mouthed silently to myself in imagined arguments, never meant to be spoken aloud. She lunges forward and grabs the glass ashtray. Before I can even get out a word she flings it at me. I don't even see it move; one second it's in her hand, the next there's a blossom of pain in my right shoulder. The glass falls to the floor, where it breaks neatly into a hundred little pieces. For a moment, everything is still. I jump up, upsetting the chair in the process. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shout. I've never shouted before in an argument; I always try to be the calm voice, the voice of reason, the guy who's above it all. Not to be outdone she leaps to her feet. Then begins the mixed shouting. Neither of us can understand the other, or even ourselves. Are we even yelling in English anymore, or is it just some gibberish language designed to expel rage? In the back of my brain stem, something boils over and I shove her. She staggers back a foot or so, looking surprised. Then her expression changes to something ugly and she punches me as hard as she can in my right shoulder. "Fucker!" she yells. A bright pain shoots through my body and I cry out. She rears back and looks expectantly at me, waiting for the inevitable counter-counter-blow or at least some kind of response. There's a terrible silence in the air as we both wait for my next move. And with that, the red hot anger dissipates, leaving something cold and hard in its place. "Fuck this," I say and turn to the door. I grab the keys from the nail on the hallway wall and head out into the warm, still night, suddenly alive with the sound of a million insects. The door I slam behind me gives only a hollow imitation of a slam as I head to the car. I open the car door and give it a much more satisfyingly full slam and turn on the engine. For a fraction of a second, I pause, wondering if she'll come after me, and what I'll do then. The moment passes and I pull out of the driveway at what feels like 80 miles an hour and gun it down the street that heads straight west for what we decided was //at least// forever. I roll down the window and give a hollow whoop of triumph, mostly because it seems appropriate. I then settle into a silence, not even the radio on, just me and the wind whipping through the window. But I drive and drive and drive, and I don't look back. ----- I drive through the night until the first streams of the sun's light begin to make their way over the treetops. By some miracle, I don't get pulled over, nor do I kill anyone or even run myself off the road. I pull into a rest stop and get out of the car, stretching in the first light of morning. Outside, the air isn't somehow crisp like I imagined it would be. Instead, it's the same still and muggy as well. No matter, I'm free, I tell myself, off to a new land, beautiful and deep, desirable and bright. Free from the stupid fucking harpy, free from the crap house, free from worry, free from care. I force a laugh, telling myself that will drive off this anxiety. It doesn't. As I stand, waiting to be sated, I feel the first effects of last night's drinking start to kick in. My joints ache and my head is starting to feel like it's being kicked from the inside. I get back in the car and get back on the highway, looking for a motel to stay for the day. I glance at the wedding band on my right hand and decide that there's no time like the present. I pull it off and am about to throw it out the window of the speeding car when I remember just how much rings are worth. Into the glove compartment it goes. A few miles down the road, I check into a dilapidated place called the Sleep Tite Suites. When I get to my room, I close the blinds and turn the air conditioning up full blast. After drinking from the bathroom sink for something like a minute, I get under the slightly plastic-feeling sheets of the bed and almost immediately fall asleep. ----- I wake up, only to find that it's still before noon. I feel rested enough, and my hangover's a bit better, although the pain in my joints is worse than before. I decide to pick up the complimentary continental breakfast from the lobby. The only choices remaining are a cellophane-wrapped muffin and an underripe banana ("Should'a gotten here earlier, I guess," the clerk offers by way of an apology). I choose the muffin and read the ingredients label to occupy myself. About halfway through, I stop reading the ingredients. Once I'm finished, I get back in the car and head out again, getting more distance between me and that god damned house. ----- It's been two days of driving now, and the aching hasn't gone away. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror (this time of the Village Inn of Redsfield) and see myself about ten years older. There are bags under my eyes and my face is crisscrossed with tiny wrinkles. I feel like shit, too. Inside my head there's a low constant buzzing, and I'm starting to feel nauseous. Seeing a doctor crosses my mind, but I'm not really sure if I'm //like// other people. Inside-wise, that is. And the last thing I want is to be found out. Besides, I'm pretty sure I just need a drink. The clerk has told me that there's a nice little liquor store just down the way. I walk there in a half hour and walk back to my room with a plastic bottle of gin. I flop onto the bed and turn on the TV, flipping through the channels until settling on a show about a boy and his monkey. The bottle's cap comes off with a satisfying snap as the plastic anchors holding it down come apart. I remember when we used to do this, just sitting side by side with a bottle between us, watching TV or sometimes just the outdoors. When the bottle got low, our fingers would become intertwined. Her mouth would always taste sweet and mellow like damp grass, even with the gin and the old food taste and even with the cigarettes. God damn, I think, where did those good times go? How did it get to be like this? Then I remember those times were never good. Even then we fought constantly, over dishes or money or anything else we could use as an excuse. Maybe we just hadn't known each other long enough; her quirks still lovable instead of aggravating. Maybe I was less insufferable then, too. I tip the plastic jug to my lips and start to drink as the case of the week begins to unfold on TV. ----- In the morning, I wake to a sensation of dampness on the bed. I look to my feet and see the gin lying on its side, soaking through my clothing and the mattress. "Nnnmmm...dammit," I groan as I begin to sit up. Little by little, my other senses begin to awake. The soft humming of the muted TV set. The sharp smell of gin cutting the slightly moldy smell of the room. The roofing tar taste in my mouth. And, of course, the pounding in my joints. I run a tongue over teeth which feel like sandpaper. Midway through, I stop and go back a tooth or two. Bottom row. Right canine. Even with a gentle probe, it starts to wobble. I put a hand to my mouth and feel it between my fingers. Without even a tug, it comes out. I let it fall into my palm and stare at it. Nothing for it, then. The only way forward is forward, I tell myself. I'm never going back to her. To that house. I just want a fresh start somewhere far away, so far I'll never remember her or think of her again. I get in the car and drive west for the rest of the day. Along the way, I lose another tooth. ----- The next morning, I wake up and barely make it to the bathroom before I vomit. Two more teeth are dislodged and bob in the toilet. I study it for a moment before flushing it down. Amongst the yellows and greens, there are swirls of dark red. I don't remember eating anything red-looking the past few days. As I rinse out my mouth, I remember the times when we would both wake up hung over. By silent agreement, we wouldn't talk or plan or anything. Just go to the kitchen and sit and eat pickle spears. I remember a composite of all of those mornings, her with her short brown hair jutting out in a dozen different places. Wearing just an oversize t-shirt as she squinted at me from across the table, even then still so beautiful in some way. But still, I get in the car and keep driving. This time, though, there a lots of stops at gas stations and rest stops and empty parking lots. I vomit twice, each time colored with more and more red, leaving a coppery taste in my mouth. A couple of times, I sit in the car and tell myself to keep going. Just a little further. I listen and I don't turn back. ----- That night, I find myself covered in rashes. Each arm ringed at the armpit, each leg ringed at the crotch, and a nice huge one in a thin line going along my collar bone and looping around the back of my neck. Like a splotchy necklace, I laugh to myself. Then I remember her laughs. Her laughs from before, when they were honest and full of light rather than spiteful or sarcastic. They were gorgeous, from her shrill ticklish shrieks to her open laughs of happiness. Even her unladylike snorts at a really good joke seem beautiful. I go to bed with her laughter ringing in my mind. ----- The following morning, I wake up and find that the rashes have split the skin, the edges curling upwards like little scrolls. I gently touch one with a finger and wince as the pain shoots through me. I sit on the bed and try not to think about what this means. I go through the check list, my brain coming up with an instant counterargument. She's a horrible person. //How much of that is my fault? Besides, I am too//. You deserve better. //No, I don't//. She brings out the worst in you. //She brings out the real me. She's the only one who understands me, even if she doesn't//. You'll just be as miserable as you were before if you go back. //No, this time will be different. Probably//. Don't go back. //I can't live without her//. I get in the car and drive and drive and drive. ----- For three straight days I drive, stopping only for gas and food and the occasional drink. As I drive, I feel the wounds start to close up. By the end of the second day, I angle the rear view mirror towards my face and notice that the wrinkles have started to fade slightly. The bottom right canine is back in its proper place as well. When I pull into the driveway, the sun has just fallen below the horizon. I don't feel much of anything except for tired. Outside there are crickets and cicadas and God knows what else chirping, looking for mates. I grab the ring from the glove compartment. It doesn't feel right to put it back on yet, so I slip it into my front pocket. I jog to the door and fumble with the keys. Before I can find the right one, the door opens and she's standing there in front of me. "Hey," she says, a slight smile on a face now lined with minute wrinkles. For a split second between her lips, I can see a dark gap were a tooth used to be. "Hi. Can I come in?" I give an awkward wave. Without a word, she opens the door and lets me through. I sit down in one of the two chairs in the house. She takes her seat opposite me. A candle on the table illuminates us both. "I..." I flap my mouth silently, trying to think of the right things to say, knowing she already knows them, but wanting to say them, as much for my own benefit as for hers. Ours. "I really missed you, I guess." She gives a weak smile and under the neckline of her shirt I catch a glimpse of a healing rash running over her collar bone. "I... yeah, I missed you too." There's promises that some would want to be made, lines to be drawn, so that we never do this again. But what's the point? Promises were made to be broken, lines to be crossed. I take her hand in mine and gently kiss her knuckle. My mouth makes its way up her hand, her arm, her neck, her face. Then we're kissing and I taste wet grass again as the night wraps around us both. ----- We lay naked on the mattress, only a thin bedsheet between us and the rest of the world. Even before the night was up, we both knew that the truce would never hold, that peace was at best temporary. But maybe the good will outweigh the bad this time; maybe we'll somehow come out ahead or at least less behind. Her face, against the pillow, looks younger already; the wrinkles are gone, and so is the rash. I run over my teeth with my tongue, just to be sure all of the teeth are back. They are. A square of light falls on her bare leg, and I can make out the tattoo. I trace the letters lightly with the tip of my finger, and she shifts slightly. Just like mine, it reads "Mr. and Mrs. Love, from Little Misters® by Dr. Wondertainment." What a sick joke. I don't remember a time when we weren't with one another. There's a paper we had once, long since gone, that listed all of us, telling the reader to find us all. Christ, I think, why would you ever want to do that? The heat is everywhere in the silent, still house, and my arms are slick with sweat. I look out the window and know that I have to get out into that cool night air. I leave the mattress slowly, trying not to wake her. I open the back door and walk naked into the moonlight. As soon as I cross the threshold, I realize that it's worse out here with the cicadas and crickets. Still, I linger outside for a moment, hoping for a breeze, one strong enough to carry me far away. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Gaffsey]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-06T20:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "mister", "tale" ]	What Did I Come Down Here For? - SCP Foundation	68	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	19154000	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/what-did-i-come-down-here-for
what-lies-ahead	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Silas walked through the bazaar, taking special care not to touch any of the passers-by. You heard stories about people coming down with horrible diseases after spending a day in a Luna market. He'd had his inoculations against the more common ones, like the clockworks, but you could never be too careful. He'd known a guy who'd burst into flames a few days after visiting Luna. It was one of the biggest human colonies in the galaxy, and so it was a melting pot for all sorts of contagions and viruses.</p> <p>For a few seconds, the street was plunged into darkness as a sky-train passed overhead. The crowds around him didn't even seem to have noticed, being that used to the dark. Silas hurried up: he wanted to be out of this godforsaken place as soon as possible. He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. <em>Fucking Homeworlders.</em></p> <p>They were gathered all around a big model of the Homeworld, listening to a preacher who wore a large winter coat and a necklace made of pebbles. The crowd was mainly human with a few Precursors on the fringes here and there. Precursors were a rare sight, but usually the most devout and radical of the Homeworlders. It has been their Homeworld for longer, Silas supposed. That wasn't to say every Precursor was a Homeworlder, though. Silas had once known a Precursor who was devoutly Catholic. Good guy, they'd taken out a nest of schizo-forms together.</p> <p>Silas pulled his hat down over his head - there was always a chance a Homeworlders might recognize him from one of their Desecration Broadcasts. A leaflet fluttered through the air and landed at Silas' feet:</p> <blockquote> <h2 id="toc0"><span>WOE TO THE DESECRATORS</span></h2> <h3 id="toc1"><span>WOE:</span></h3> <p><em>TO THE MEMBERS OF SCP WHO HAVE RELEASED THEIR HORRORS ONTO OUR HOMEWORLD!</em></p> <p>In the year of the Homeworld 2193, the Desecrators, in their pride and folly released the Horrors they kept onto our Homeworld and doomed all who stood upon it!</p> <p><em>TO THE RAVAGES OF THE MINT ZONE AND TO THE DEVIL THAT KILLS ALL WHO LOOK UPON IT!</em></p> <p>Those of the Colonies were forced to look in horror at what the Desecrators had wrought!</p> <p><em>TO THE BEAST THAT NEVER DIES AND TO THE ROT OF THE ELDER!</em></p> <p>The Desecrators continue in their sins on far-flung worlds, hidden from the eyes of true believers!</p> <p><em>TO THE SPHERE OF DEAD THAT FILLS THE SKY OF MEXICO AND TO THE OCEAN OF BLOOD FROM WHICH NEW HORRORS SPILL!</em></p> <p>Fear not! Every last Desecrator shall be purged from their hidden nests and forced to face the justice of the Homeworld!</p> <h1 id="toc2"><span>WOE TO EVERY LAST TRAVESTY INFLICTED ON OUR HOMEWORLD!!!</span></h1> </blockquote> <p>Typical 'woe to the Homeworld' doctrine. Some photographs of the SCPs down on the Homeworld, some old pictures of Homeworld landmarks.</p> <p>"My brothers and sisters!" the preacher was shouting. "We have been torn from the Homeworld, from <em>our</em> Homeworld, by the whisperers and agents of the Desecrators! In their pride, they have let their Horrors destroy it! Woe to the men of O5, the instigators of this destruction! Woe to the men they command, the Foundation heretics and the Foundation dreadlords, for in their mindless obedience they doomed our Homeworld!"</p> <p>"Woe!" the crowd echoed.</p> <p>"But fear not, dear flock!" said the preacher, raising his arms high in the air. "For the day approaches when the Church of the Homeworld will take us all back to our rightful place in the universe! The Homeworld will be purged clean of the Horrors that pollute it! Our children will laugh and play in the rain-forests of Antarctica and the lush green fields of Norway! This, the Church promises to you all!"</p> <p>The crowd was chanting now, a standing ovation to the preacher. "Father New Zealand! Father New Zealand!"</p> <p>With the stuff you had to deal with, being an Agent wasn't easy, but the Homeworlders only made the job harder. If they'd figured out who Silas was, the crowd would probably have descended on him and ripped him to shreds. That, or use him for the center of one of their Desecration Broadcasts. They always needed executions for those.</p> <p>Still able to hear the ravings of the preacher, Silas finally reached the address he had been given and entered.</p> <hr/> <p>The room he found himself in was grey and bare. Most likely he was one of the only people to ever step foot in here. Two others were already there, looking like guards from the way they were positioned. One was a human man, his only distinguishable trait being the misshapen thing on his face that might have been a nose. The other one was a Begriven, standing a good foot over Silas. It walked on three legs and its thick body was framed by six stick-like arms on each side. Its long, curved neck ended with an almost comically small head. The Begriven regarded Silas impassively.</p> <p>The man spoke first. "Do you have me?"</p> <p>Silas nodded and placed his bag gently on the ground, careful not to damage the item within. He opened it up and lifted it out. It was rather burnt and dented, but still recognizably a toaster. "Where's Marshall?"</p> <p>The man tapped at a device on his wrist. Mr. Marshall, or at least a hologram of him, appeared in the room. He was a young man with a symmetrical plastic face, wearing a black suit. He rubbed his hands together.</p> <p>Silas didn't like working with Mickey and Dee, but here in the Colonies, the Foundation didn't have that many options. With the heavy Homeworlder presence, it was almost impossible for SCP retrieval to take place. The O5's had decided that trading something relatively harmless for information on something definitely harmful was worth it, and so Silas was going along with it. His was not to reason why.</p> <p>"Mr. Silas!" Marshall's voice sounded cheery, but distorted and far away. Problems with the signal, most likely. "Glad you could make it. I see you've brought me."</p> <p>"Yes," said Silas, starting to feel suspicious. It was kind of funny, when you thought about it: it was common knowledge that Marshall couldn't be trusted, yet people always seemed to trust him anyway. Desperation drove you to stupidity, and Silas was beginning to realize that agreeing to this deal had been pretty damn stupid. "Where's the data you promised?"</p> <p>Marshall ignored him. "You've met my friends here, I see. This is Henry," he said, gesturing to the man with the busted nose. He turned to the Begriven. "And this is Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother. Did I get that right?"</p> <p>Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother clicked in the affirmative.</p> <p>"I got you what you wanted, Marshall," said Silas. "All I want is the data."</p> <p>Marshall furrowed his brow in a look of mock confusion. "Data? What data?"</p> <p>"You know what data, Marshall. Stop playing games."</p> <p>"Oh, <em>that</em> data. It doesn't exist, sorry. I tricked you," said Marshall, obviously struggling not to grin. The Begriven lunged forward and restrained Silas before he could make a move. "Henry, please tell Mr. New Zealand he can come in."</p> <p>Henry nodded and opened the door. The preacher from the street walked in, glaring at Silas with utter contempt.</p> <p>"You're sure he's a Desecrator, Marshall?" New Zealand asked the hologram.</p> <p>"Oh, definitely. He tried to pay me to tell him about one of his Horrors. Can you believe that?"</p> <p>"You're mocking me, Marshall," growled New Zealand. "But you're right. I've seen his face on the Broadcasts. You've received the payment, I take it?"</p> <p>"You son of a bitch!" shouted Silas. "I paid you! I brought me to you!"</p> <p>Marshall shrugged. "He paid more, it's nothing personal. Thanks for bringing me, though." He nodded to the toaster on the floor, then looked back up at New Zealand. "Well, you can see we've got him. We'll have him on your shuttle within the hour, and then you can take him to wherever you film those Desecration Broadcasts of yours."</p> <p>New Zealand's eyes narrowed. "You are obviously not trustworthy, Marshall. You deal in Horrors and betray your customers. How do I know you will do as you say?"</p> <p>Marshall grinned his fake plastic grin. "Like I said, you paid more than he did. He'll be delivered to your shuttle within the hour."</p> <p>Mr. New Zealand stood in the room for a few seconds, then looked at Henry, said: "Within the hour." and left.</p> <p>Silas spat on the floor. "I heard you guys were down on your luck. This isn't very dignified, is it? Not very <em>classy</em>?"</p> <p>Marshall's face twisted in anger. "Get him out of here," he said, and the hologram vanished.</p> <p>Silas felt Bountiful Splendor's grip loosening. They were going to start moving him to the shuttle any second now, but he needed to time this right.</p> <p>Henry stood in front of him. "Alright," he began. "Here's how it's gonna work. You make a move, I shoot you. You say a fucking thing to anyone, I shoot you. You even try to run, I -"</p> <p>Silas' hand lunged up, holding his hidden laser pistol, and shot Henry. Fragments of charred bone and meat scattered across the room. Silas kicked Bountiful Splendor away from him and started moving towards the other side of the room.</p> <p>He looked back. Bountiful Splendor was already back up and moving towards him fast. Silas fired twice, wildly: the first shot clipped one of Splendor's arms, sending the tip of it flying across the room, while the second blew off its head. It screeched in rage and charged at him, knocking him off his feet. His vision blurred from the impact.</p> <p>He knew he only had a few seconds before Splendor came back to its senses and finished him off. He reached wildly for a weapon, anything, finally grabbing something light, but blunt. Splendor flipped him over, its backup jaw emerging from a cavity in its chest. Silas began to hit it repeatedly with the object, sending dark green ichor splashing across the room. Splendor fell to the floor, twitching, and Silas finished it off with one last blow.</p> <p>He brushed some of the green fluid off his clothes and looked down at his hand, realizing what he had been beating Splendor with. The goddamn toaster. It wasn't much more than a wrecked piece of metal covered in Begriven blood now, though. He quickly stuffed the hunk of metal into his bag, throwing it across his shoulders. Soon enough, New Zealand would come back wondering why he wasn't on the shuttle yet. He checked the room one last time, found nothing, and left.</p> <hr/> <p>As Silas' shuttle took off, the entertainment module picked up a Desecration Broadcast. Since they hadn't managed to get him, Silas guessed it was pre-recorded. On the screen next to the controls, a Homeworlder priest wearing an 'I Love NY' shirt was circling a bound and gagged scientist. The priest took a sheet of paper from somewhere off-camera.</p> <p>"And now," he said. "I will read from Dr. Merritt's sins, as he himself wrote them."</p> <p>Silas' shuttle made the initial jump out of Luna. Now he could actually see the Homeworld, the shriveled husk that it was.</p> <p>"Experiment Log 18729-1!" shouted the priest. "Test 1! D-01921 entered the testing chamber and read to SCP-18729 an excerpt from <em>The Dark of the Eyes</em> by Fortunate Bounty of the Third Mother! Instant incineration of D-01921 ensued!"</p> <p>Where Canada had once been, there was now a great red ocean. In Europe, the massive green vortex of the Mint Zone swirled, laying waste to the country once known as Germany.</p> <p>"Test 2!" screamed the priest. "D-01729 entered the testing chamber and read to SCP-18729 a copy of SCP-18729's own containment procedures! Data expunged - they themselves cannot look upon their travesties! They cannot face what they have done to our Homeworld!"</p> <p>The blood ocean and the Mint Zone were the biggest dangers on the Homeworld, but Silas knew that there were a thousand other anomalies, each capable of killing in horrific ways. 682, 058, 173…there were too many to list. Silas didn't think anyone would ever be able to live on the Homeworld again. Didn't know why anyone would want to.</p> <p>"The Desecrators refuse to repent their transgressions! They have brought our Homeworld to death, and so we are forced to do the same to them!" With that, the priest lifted up a pistol and blasted off the scientist's head. The image of his corpse remained on the screen for a few seconds, but was then replaced by pictures and names of known Foundation members. "Stay strong, stay vigilant, my children," said the priest. "This has been Father Brazil. Goodnight."</p> <p>Silas looked at the Homeworld for another second, a withered dead ball framed by the light of the sun. Then he pulled a lever, warped, and was gone.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/what-lies-ahead">What Lies Ahead</a>" by Tanhony, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/what-lies-ahead">https://scpwiki.com/what-lies-ahead</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Agent Silas walked through the bazaar, taking special care not to touch any of the passers-by. You heard stories about people coming down with horrible diseases after spending a day in a Luna market. He'd had his inoculations against the more common ones, like the clockworks, but you could never be too careful. He'd known a guy who'd burst into flames a few days after visiting Luna. It was one of the biggest human colonies in the galaxy, and so it was a melting pot for all sorts of contagions and viruses. For a few seconds, the street was plunged into darkness as a sky-train passed overhead. The crowds around him didn't even seem to have noticed, being that used to the dark. Silas hurried up: he wanted to be out of this godforsaken place as soon as possible. He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. //Fucking Homeworlders.// They were gathered all around a big model of the Homeworld, listening to a preacher who wore a large winter coat and a necklace made of pebbles. The crowd was mainly human with a few Precursors on the fringes here and there. Precursors were a rare sight, but usually the most devout and radical of the Homeworlders. It has been their Homeworld for longer, Silas supposed. That wasn't to say every Precursor was a Homeworlder, though. Silas had once known a Precursor who was devoutly Catholic. Good guy, they'd taken out a nest of schizo-forms together. Silas pulled his hat down over his head - there was always a chance a Homeworlders might recognize him from one of their Desecration Broadcasts. A leaflet fluttered through the air and landed at Silas' feet: > ++ WOE TO THE DESECRATORS > > +++ WOE: > > //TO THE MEMBERS OF SCP WHO HAVE RELEASED THEIR HORRORS ONTO OUR HOMEWORLD!// > > In the year of the Homeworld 2193, the Desecrators, in their pride and folly released the Horrors they kept onto our Homeworld and doomed all who stood upon it! > > //TO THE RAVAGES OF THE MINT ZONE AND TO THE DEVIL THAT KILLS ALL WHO LOOK UPON IT!// > > Those of the Colonies were forced to look in horror at what the Desecrators had wrought! > > //TO THE BEAST THAT NEVER DIES AND TO THE ROT OF THE ELDER!// > > The Desecrators continue in their sins on far-flung worlds, hidden from the eyes of true believers! > > //TO THE SPHERE OF DEAD THAT FILLS THE SKY OF MEXICO AND TO THE OCEAN OF BLOOD FROM WHICH NEW HORRORS SPILL!// > > Fear not! Every last Desecrator shall be purged from their hidden nests and forced to face the justice of the Homeworld! > > + WOE TO EVERY LAST TRAVESTY INFLICTED ON OUR HOMEWORLD!!! Typical 'woe to the Homeworld' doctrine. Some photographs of the SCPs down on the Homeworld, some old pictures of Homeworld landmarks. "My brothers and sisters!" the preacher was shouting. "We have been torn from the Homeworld, from //our// Homeworld, by the whisperers and agents of the Desecrators! In their pride, they have let their Horrors destroy it! Woe to the men of O5, the instigators of this destruction! Woe to the men they command, the Foundation heretics and the Foundation dreadlords, for in their mindless obedience they doomed our Homeworld!" "Woe!" the crowd echoed. "But fear not, dear flock!" said the preacher, raising his arms high in the air. "For the day approaches when the Church of the Homeworld will take us all back to our rightful place in the universe! The Homeworld will be purged clean of the Horrors that pollute it! Our children will laugh and play in the rain-forests of Antarctica and the lush green fields of Norway! This, the Church promises to you all!" The crowd was chanting now, a standing ovation to the preacher. "Father New Zealand! Father New Zealand!" With the stuff you had to deal with, being an Agent wasn't easy, but the Homeworlders only made the job harder. If they'd figured out who Silas was, the crowd would probably have descended on him and ripped him to shreds. That, or use him for the center of one of their Desecration Broadcasts. They always needed executions for those. Still able to hear the ravings of the preacher, Silas finally reached the address he had been given and entered. -------------------- The room he found himself in was grey and bare. Most likely he was one of the only people to ever step foot in here. Two others were already there, looking like guards from the way they were positioned. One was a human man, his only distinguishable trait being the misshapen thing on his face that might have been a nose. The other one was a Begriven, standing a good foot over Silas. It walked on three legs and its thick body was framed by six stick-like arms on each side. Its long, curved neck ended with an almost comically small head. The Begriven regarded Silas impassively. The man spoke first. "Do you have me?" Silas nodded and placed his bag gently on the ground, careful not to damage the item within. He opened it up and lifted it out. It was rather burnt and dented, but still recognizably a toaster. "Where's Marshall?" The man tapped at a device on his wrist. Mr. Marshall, or at least a hologram of him, appeared in the room. He was a young man with a symmetrical plastic face, wearing a black suit. He rubbed his hands together. Silas didn't like working with Mickey and Dee, but here in the Colonies, the Foundation didn't have that many options. With the heavy Homeworlder presence, it was almost impossible for SCP retrieval to take place. The O5's had decided that trading something relatively harmless for information on something definitely harmful was worth it, and so Silas was going along with it. His was not to reason why. "Mr. Silas!" Marshall's voice sounded cheery, but distorted and far away. Problems with the signal, most likely. "Glad you could make it. I see you've brought me." "Yes," said Silas, starting to feel suspicious. It was kind of funny, when you thought about it: it was common knowledge that Marshall couldn't be trusted, yet people always seemed to trust him anyway. Desperation drove you to stupidity, and Silas was beginning to realize that agreeing to this deal had been pretty damn stupid. "Where's the data you promised?" Marshall ignored him. "You've met my friends here, I see. This is Henry," he said, gesturing to the man with the busted nose. He turned to the Begriven. "And this is Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother. Did I get that right?" Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother clicked in the affirmative. "I got you what you wanted, Marshall," said Silas. "All I want is the data." Marshall furrowed his brow in a look of mock confusion. "Data? What data?" "You know what data, Marshall. Stop playing games." "Oh, //that// data. It doesn't exist, sorry. I tricked you," said Marshall, obviously struggling not to grin. The Begriven lunged forward and restrained Silas before he could make a move. "Henry, please tell Mr. New Zealand he can come in." Henry nodded and opened the door. The preacher from the street walked in, glaring at Silas with utter contempt. "You're sure he's a Desecrator, Marshall?" New Zealand asked the hologram. "Oh, definitely. He tried to pay me to tell him about one of his Horrors. Can you believe that?" "You're mocking me, Marshall," growled New Zealand. "But you're right. I've seen his face on the Broadcasts. You've received the payment, I take it?" "You son of a bitch!" shouted Silas. "I paid you! I brought me to you!" Marshall shrugged. "He paid more, it's nothing personal. Thanks for bringing me, though." He nodded to the toaster on the floor, then looked back up at New Zealand. "Well, you can see we've got him. We'll have him on your shuttle within the hour, and then you can take him to wherever you film those Desecration Broadcasts of yours." New Zealand's eyes narrowed. "You are obviously not trustworthy, Marshall. You deal in Horrors and betray your customers. How do I know you will do as you say?" Marshall grinned his fake plastic grin. "Like I said, you paid more than he did. He'll be delivered to your shuttle within the hour." Mr. New Zealand stood in the room for a few seconds, then looked at Henry, said: "Within the hour." and left. Silas spat on the floor. "I heard you guys were down on your luck. This isn't very dignified, is it? Not very //classy//?" Marshall's face twisted in anger. "Get him out of here," he said, and the hologram vanished. Silas felt Bountiful Splendor's grip loosening. They were going to start moving him to the shuttle any second now, but he needed to time this right. Henry stood in front of him. "Alright," he began. "Here's how it's gonna work. You make a move, I shoot you. You say a fucking thing to anyone, I shoot you. You even try to run, I -" Silas' hand lunged up, holding his hidden laser pistol, and shot Henry. Fragments of charred bone and meat scattered across the room. Silas kicked Bountiful Splendor away from him and started moving towards the other side of the room. He looked back. Bountiful Splendor was already back up and moving towards him fast. Silas fired twice, wildly: the first shot clipped one of Splendor's arms, sending the tip of it flying across the room, while the second blew off its head. It screeched in rage and charged at him, knocking him off his feet. His vision blurred from the impact. He knew he only had a few seconds before Splendor came back to its senses and finished him off. He reached wildly for a weapon, anything, finally grabbing something light, but blunt. Splendor flipped him over, its backup jaw emerging from a cavity in its chest. Silas began to hit it repeatedly with the object, sending dark green ichor splashing across the room. Splendor fell to the floor, twitching, and Silas finished it off with one last blow. He brushed some of the green fluid off his clothes and looked down at his hand, realizing what he had been beating Splendor with. The goddamn toaster. It wasn't much more than a wrecked piece of metal covered in Begriven blood now, though. He quickly stuffed the hunk of metal into his bag, throwing it across his shoulders. Soon enough, New Zealand would come back wondering why he wasn't on the shuttle yet. He checked the room one last time, found nothing, and left. ------------ As Silas' shuttle took off, the entertainment module picked up a Desecration Broadcast. Since they hadn't managed to get him, Silas guessed it was pre-recorded. On the screen next to the controls, a Homeworlder priest wearing an 'I Love NY' shirt was circling a bound and gagged scientist. The priest took a sheet of paper from somewhere off-camera. "And now," he said. "I will read from Dr. Merritt's sins, as he himself wrote them." Silas' shuttle made the initial jump out of Luna. Now he could actually see the Homeworld, the shriveled husk that it was. "Experiment Log 18729-1!" shouted the priest. "Test 1! D-01921 entered the testing chamber and read to SCP-18729 an excerpt from //The Dark of the Eyes// by Fortunate Bounty of the Third Mother! Instant incineration of D-01921 ensued!" Where Canada had once been, there was now a great red ocean. In Europe, the massive green vortex of the Mint Zone swirled, laying waste to the country once known as Germany. "Test 2!" screamed the priest. "D-01729 entered the testing chamber and read to SCP-18729 a copy of SCP-18729's own containment procedures! Data expunged - they themselves cannot look upon their travesties! They cannot face what they have done to our Homeworld!" The blood ocean and the Mint Zone were the biggest dangers on the Homeworld, but Silas knew that there were a thousand other anomalies, each capable of killing in horrific ways. 682, 058, 173...there were too many to list. Silas didn't think anyone would ever be able to live on the Homeworld again. Didn't know why anyone would want to. "The Desecrators refuse to repent their transgressions! They have brought our Homeworld to death, and so we are forced to do the same to them!" With that, the priest lifted up a pistol and blasted off the scientist's head. The image of his corpse remained on the screen for a few seconds, but was then replaced by pictures and names of known Foundation members. "Stay strong, stay vigilant, my children," said the priest. "This has been Father Brazil. Goodnight." Silas looked at the Homeworld for another second, a withered dead ball framed by the light of the sun. Then he pulled a lever, warped, and was gone. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-24T23:03:00	[ "_licensebox", "featured", "post-apocalyptic", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	What Lies Ahead - SCP Foundation	93	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	16931888	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/what-lies-ahead
what-xenophon-saw-in-the-jungle	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>My Duchess Louise,</em></p> <p><em>The riches which I have recovered for you are the very least I owe to one who has so often bankrolled my travels, yet vanish into insignificance against the wonders which cannot be melted down. Such things lie quite outside the experience of your colleagues in the Secure Containment Initiative — there are some treasures which bear no number, which defy the confines of description. These are the spectacles of the True World, and these I long to show you when my tributes have slaked your thirst for gold.</em></p> <p><em>I enclose with this letter an account of the most obscure and sacred ceremonies of the people which reside in the great forests of the Congo, a land with whose inhabitants I trust you are well familiar; to which I have so often returned in order to enrich your knowledge as you have allowed me to enrich my own.</em></p> <p><em>The Wilds have long since gorged themselves upon my youth, but for you I will return until the Forest has drunk away</em> <em>my blood.</em></p> <p><em>Xenophoni</em><br/> <em>Paris, 1908.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Coming to the Congo for the first time in 1880, I sought trinkets amongst the crumbling ruins of the Old Empires. I had not yet found the True World, that realm of experience beyond science or anomaly. Now I walk the forests of the world to capture that which cannot be removed — the rites and magics of the forest peoples, which on occasion wander far from mere superstition indeed. African or European, seeker or scholar, the jungles will tell you of the power in their depths at the first opportunity. In my profession it pays to take the jungle at its word.</p> <p>This most recent expedition — 1906 — was organized to test the mightily persistent rumors which swamp any traveler to that country, of a most terrible magic practiced only in the deepest forests of the Congo, a nameless Rite orchestrated by the La'Hamon people which no words could bind.</p> <p>Capricious peddlers along the shore claimed it was held to keep the sun from vanishing, while Ba'Mabuti elders claimed it was to pacify the spirits of the heavens which might otherwise consume their subjects. The most fanciful of rumors surrounded the ritual and its practitioners, yet all agreed on three points — firstly, that the ritual itself was of the absolute greatest importance; secondly, that it was to be found at the bend in the great River Congo, at which could be found a seat of great magical importance. This supposed seat was called variably the Altar of History, the Spirit Song of the Moon Palace, and the Limbs of the Earth, among others. All questioned made reference to an incredible entity born of the mountains and central to the ceremony. No more than that could be made certain. It soon became clear that a dedicated journey would be required if I was ever to observe it — or at least lay the rumors to rest.</p> <p>We departed from England in February of 1905. I will spare you, Duchess, the details of how I organized the party; suffice to say that we numbered twelve, all experienced and known to you; with these men and women I pushed down the length of the Congo River and arrived at the bend where the nameless Rite is held by those few who fully know it. The inhabitants of those forests, the La'Hamon, call themselves the People in their tongue, and so it is that I have named them in my account.</p> <p>For fear that I should impose upon your patience as I have imposed upon your largesse, I shall spare you a description of our journey up the river and into the forests of the People. It is enough to say that fourteen months' journey saw our party and equipment safely deposited in that region of the jungle where the river bends wildly, where the treeline gives way to plains and the Mountains of the Moon disappear into the cloudy distance. Fourteen months' travel and another three ingratiating ourselves into the ways of tribal life, living in their village, earning their trust and, eventually, access to that object of so much pursuit — the People's Nameless Rite.</p> <h5 id="toc0"><span>The Coming of the Rite</span></h5> <p>Our time of study amongst the People came to a close on the Sixteenth of April. Prior to that day, nearly three months passed as we came to know the People, the events of which are without significance, though we picked up some desultory information about our quarry. Yes, the People possessed magics of great power; yes, that magic was rooted in what they called the Limbs, though we had not yet seen the Limbs, nor the grove in which they rested. I confess there were moments during our months of waiting and observation when some of our party doubted that any such mystery as we sought existed at all; yet the excitement of penetrating into these hitherto all but undiscovered tracts would have provided ample satisfaction even if we had not found the ultimate goal — but find it we did.</p> <p>According to their beliefs, the People have no special claim over the Rite or its ingredients — they are not even custodians, much less owners — and so could not rightly deny us the chance to see jungle's greatest treasure, the rumors of which had summoned our team out from varied homelands and onto this long journey. Thus, though only recent guests, when the day of the Rite came suddenly upon us we were invited to gather in the grove with the rest of the tribe. It would not have been safe in any case, the eldest remarked, to remain outside when the Rite was in progress.</p> <p>As the sun set on the appointed day, we were summoned by a general call to the heart of the village. From there, the whole of the tribe accompanied by our expedition, departed for the Hidden Grove — a circle of stones five hundred feet in diameter, about half way between the village and the spot where the trees give way to wide plains. Near the edges of the forest, the canopy is not so thick, the vines not so aggressive. At the center of the ring there lay a sort of cave, and within that cave slumbered the Limbs of the Earth — an enormous suit of armor of which I'd never seen the like.</p> <p>We of the expedition were of course riveted; now either we would see that entity whose coming rocked half the continent, and touch once more the sublime perfection of the True World — or face disappointment presently too horrid to bear contemplation.</p> <p>Gathering around this pit, the People began to waken the Limbs from their deep sleep. By this I mean they began to unearth, one after another, the components of that suit and pile them in the center of the clearing. As one, soundless, five hundred hands — every adult La'Hamon, man or woman — hoisted the first of the Limbs from its murky resting-place — a great stone cuirass, a chest-plate hewn from the Mountains of the Moon and fit to armor a giant. It and the companion pieces which followed wore the black of oldest granite, bare of all adornment and without trace of human artifice.</p> <p>I watched the junglefolk as they continued the laborious lifting — faces we had known for weeks now bore no trace of their former kindness and character. Eyes human and otherwise glowed from the ferns surrounding the sacred circle and the calling birds seemed to redouble their efforts as each new piece of the mighty armor rose from the pit of sacred slumber.</p> <p>We did feel a stirring in our hearts; an echo, perhaps, of some imperceptible sound meant for quite different ears.</p> <h5 id="toc1"><span>The Three Chimes of the Forest</span></h5> <p>The Limbs of the Earth were heaped high before our party, the hollow shell of the people's ineradicable deity. Helm, greaves, gauntlets and more, each of naked stone and proportioned for a Goliath. When the last piece had been settled into place, the laboring arms paused. At some unspoken command a waiting woman loaded her flare gun — a rather modern addition to the proceedings — and launched a crimson bolt skyward, as a signal to more of the tribe stationed in the plains beyond the tree-line. Now the Rite had begun in earnest, and even fire would not speak again until it had concluded.</p> <p>Out on the plains far from the forest's sheltering canopy the rawhide drums, cued by the flare, began to call and thunder, answered by brassy cries and animalistic bellows from deep within the inner groves. Leather drums, steel bells, stone horns — such was the voice the People gave the forest. Picked men had placed the instruments in hidden places the night previously. This cacophony was the first of the Rite's three Chimes, and the only one to be sounded by human hand and breath.</p> <p>Reader, you may find altogether inadequate my explanation of subsequent events, for it is now that the animals began to come, summoned through a mechanism as yet quite unknown to me. I ask you to persevere as we did.</p> <h5 id="toc2"><span>Procession of the Dignitaries</span></h5> <p>The drumming rose into the sky and woke the denizens of the land. Solid ground began to convulse with the passage of numberless insects, a tide of instability rushing in from the outskirts of the encampment and crashing upon the rocky boundary of the Holy Grove. The insects and the birds had come to honor the Rite, bound, the People say, by its strange powers. They were not the only ones.</p> <p>High above what daylight still shone through the leafy peaks vanished beneath a sudden living cloud; the vivid colors of the jungle flock transformed into a swirling vanguard for the tireless geese and eagles, condors and falcons, which tore at the sky with the fierceness of their passage. I saw these creatures with naked eye, a hundred strains quite foreign and indeed totally incapable of surviving in these tropical climates; saw the flashing shadows of their imposing Liege within the flocks that made new clouds in the cloudless sky. At the center of this tumultuous plumage soared the magnificent Bird of Paradise herself, Lady of the Hurricane and Queen of All the Birds.</p> <p>A creature born of wind and wreathed in fog, she swooped low beneath the flocks above only once, her passage shaking leaves from the trees and frightening the forest antelopes. Her opal eyes flashed once at the peak of her descent and darkness fled. I could make out the serried nephrite of her breast set at intervals with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires as large as oranges. One jeweled feather was worth a palace which her tail's gilded streamers could have purchased a kingdom to accompany. Then her survey was completed and the Bird of Paradise withdrew to the midst of its flapping host to await the other comings.</p> <p>Even as we craned our necks, searching for the shortest glimpses of that heavenly procession, more terrestrial rumblings drew our notice downward. Out beyond the warding torches moved many-clawed somethings, each no doubt fit to shred our party to pieces, but bound by a compact stronger than any lion's claw or leopard's lunge. Great cats of every description now prowled around the outskirts of the sacred stones, their misty breath seeping from the forest in fetid clouds. The awed muttering of the soil announced these sacred guests; two hundred leopards, a thousand panthers, and one fierce tiger — the entourage of bold Sycorax, eight-legged Lion of the Wind and King in the North.</p> <p>Some thirty hands high at the shoulder, with teeth more suited to clash on armored knights than wildebeests' soft flesh, with decadent mane continually infused with the gory remnants of past prey — here we found our Landed Dominion. Four pairs of striding legs were each a guarantor of the Monarch Terrestrial's mastery over all that walked and crawled beyond the human gaze. Those iron claws and metaled furs brushed up against the People's higher law and grew docile.</p> <p>Our tremendous consorts answered no call, responded to no summons — this Rite within the trees was not ordered, it did not even <em>occur</em> — at most one could say that all within the Hidden Wood simply <em>was</em> in accordance with that Will which tolerates no description and bursts the boundaries of all adjectives. That Will which was the entity we had come to see, perhaps even catch. Mundane thoughts, utterly unsuited to what we found instead.</p> <h5 id="toc3"><span>The Force of the Will</span></h5> <p>Supplicated, the Limbs of the Earth stirred. We had heard these relics called the Altar of History, the Armor of the Before, but what I saw in that grove knew no name's mastery. Drum calls poured in from the plains and merged with the lamentations of the bells. The armor summoned its Wearer, as the Wearer had summoned all of us. All rose, all swelled in a pulse which banished reason. The second chime.</p> <p>Acknowledge, my reader, that I make no use of metaphor or literary artifice in rendering you these scenes! What I say is as it was — completely. Here was the purpose of the Rite now before us; the labors of the La'Hamon, the confluence of the animals, and all the rest were slaved to the single purpose of invoking what was both an entity and far more. Drumming turned to roaring, calls to siren shrieks. There came before us now the Indomitable Will of the Earth.</p> <p>A creature, a thing, the soul of our very planet — no name is adequate. Whence, why — ask not! I tell it to you as it was witnessed and no more. I beg again your patience and tax your credulity. Our tongue is tried heavily by the task before it.</p> <p>I should not say we waiting watchers were joined by the Will, the Bearer of the Limbs — we joined It. That last word is meaningless as well, for the Wearer neither has gender, nor lacks it — but to explain further I am unable. Not even the La'Hamon understand that which is both older than and quite beyond the bounds of human thought.</p> <p>We animals stepped back in unison as the Will donned Its assembled regalia, taking up the plates' stony bulk as easily as the wind lifts the leaves, though even now language itself buckles under the weight of the event's mere description!</p> <p>What had brought forth those leaders of the beasts now produced the Laughing Herald of the Four Winds and the Blazing Champion of the Sun, whose roaring gusts and stinging beams of light threatened to scour the flesh from our bones and ignite the still-sodden trunks of the rainforest. Yet I cannot linger over their description, for at their arrival the jungle cats and taunting birds sent up a paean, a song of triumph of such great volume that the total sound of the whole ritual prior bore a greater resemblance to silence, than to this new pandemonium.</p> <p>Only now was the Stony Crown of Nations raised to the highest by that Will which did not raise it. The climax of the ceremony was upon us and the World-Soul quivered. The granite helm lowered on to the incomprehensible brow of that Foremost Strength. Amidst combustuous ruin and clarion call the Rite Without Words birthed a third stupefying pulse which banished language.</p> <p>***</p> <p>When our tongues returned to our heads, we of the expedition left the village and returned to our homes. We had seen a marvel without equal. A phenomenon to sate an enormity of wanderlust and fit to confound any number of representatives from those adventurous organizations which seek to police the stranger things on earth.</p> <p>Behind us, the orbit of history continued. The stone armor, once more inert, was laid back within its burrow. A year, perhaps three if not a hundred, would pass before the People came to wake it once again.</p> <p><em>My Duchess, I have traveled far at your behest and brought you many treasures. There, by the Bend of the River, the fabric of the world soul was revealed through a phenomenon which I have described as fully as speech allows. As for the how or the why of it, the name of the land from which those beast-lords hailed, or of the Stone Armor's divine sculptor; to all such questions I must say let it be enough that I saw these deeds, and can relate them to you — of explanations, the True World has no need!</em></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/what-xenophon-saw-in-the-jungle">There Between the Trees</a>" by Vezaz, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/what-xenophon-saw-in-the-jungle">https://scpwiki.com/what-xenophon-saw-in-the-jungle</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > //My Duchess Louise,// > > //The riches which I have recovered for you are the very least I owe to one who has so often bankrolled my travels, yet vanish into insignificance against the wonders which cannot be melted down. Such things lie quite outside the experience of your colleagues in the Secure Containment Initiative -- there are some treasures which bear no number, which defy the confines of description. These are the spectacles of the True World, and these I long to show you when my tributes have slaked your thirst for gold.// > > //I enclose with this letter an account of the most obscure and sacred ceremonies of the people which reside in the great forests of the Congo, a land with whose inhabitants I trust you are well familiar; to which I have so often returned in order to enrich your knowledge as you have allowed me to enrich my own.// > > //The Wilds have long since gorged themselves upon my youth, but for you I will return until the Forest has drunk away// //my blood.// > > //Xenophoni// > //Paris, 1908.// Coming to the Congo for the first time in 1880, I sought trinkets amongst the crumbling ruins of the Old Empires. I had not yet found the True World, that realm of experience beyond science or anomaly. Now I walk the forests of the world to capture that which cannot be removed -- the rites and magics of the forest peoples, which on occasion wander far from mere superstition indeed. African or European, seeker or scholar, the jungles will tell you of the power in their depths at the first opportunity. In my profession it pays to take the jungle at its word. This most recent expedition -- 1906 -- was organized to test the mightily persistent rumors which swamp any traveler to that country, of a most terrible magic practiced only in the deepest forests of the Congo, a nameless Rite orchestrated by the La'Hamon people which no words could bind. Capricious peddlers along the shore claimed it was held to keep the sun from vanishing, while Ba'Mabuti elders claimed it was to pacify the spirits of the heavens which might otherwise consume their subjects. The most fanciful of rumors surrounded the ritual and its practitioners, yet all agreed on three points -- firstly, that the ritual itself was of the absolute greatest importance; secondly, that it was to be found at the bend in the great River Congo, at which could be found a seat of great magical importance. This supposed seat was called variably the Altar of History, the Spirit Song of the Moon Palace, and the Limbs of the Earth, among others. All questioned made reference to an incredible entity born of the mountains and central to the ceremony. No more than that could be made certain. It soon became clear that a dedicated journey would be required if I was ever to observe it -- or at least lay the rumors to rest. We departed from England in February of 1905. I will spare you, Duchess, the details of how I organized the party; suffice to say that we numbered twelve, all experienced and known to you; with these men and women I pushed down the length of the Congo River and arrived at the bend where the nameless Rite is held by those few who fully know it. The inhabitants of those forests, the La'Hamon, call themselves the People in their tongue, and so it is that I have named them in my account. For fear that I should impose upon your patience as I have imposed upon your largesse, I shall spare you a description of our journey up the river and into the forests of the People. It is enough to say that fourteen months' journey saw our party and equipment safely deposited in that region of the jungle where the river bends wildly, where the treeline gives way to plains and the Mountains of the Moon disappear into the cloudy distance. Fourteen months' travel and another three ingratiating ourselves into the ways of tribal life, living in their village, earning their trust and, eventually, access to that object of so much pursuit -- the People's Nameless Rite. +++++ The Coming of the Rite Our time of study amongst the People came to a close on the Sixteenth of April. Prior to that day, nearly three months passed as we came to know the People, the events of which are without significance, though we picked up some desultory information about our quarry. Yes, the People possessed magics of great power; yes, that magic was rooted in what they called the Limbs, though we had not yet seen the Limbs, nor the grove in which they rested. I confess there were moments during our months of waiting and observation when some of our party doubted that any such mystery as we sought existed at all; yet the excitement of penetrating into these hitherto all but undiscovered tracts would have provided ample satisfaction even if we had not found the ultimate goal -- but find it we did. According to their beliefs, the People have no special claim over the Rite or its ingredients -- they are not even custodians, much less owners -- and so could not rightly deny us the chance to see jungle's greatest treasure, the rumors of which had summoned our team out from varied homelands and onto this long journey. Thus, though only recent guests, when the day of the Rite came suddenly upon us we were invited to gather in the grove with the rest of the tribe. It would not have been safe in any case, the eldest remarked, to remain outside when the Rite was in progress. As the sun set on the appointed day, we were summoned by a general call to the heart of the village. From there, the whole of the tribe accompanied by our expedition, departed for the Hidden Grove -- a circle of stones five hundred feet in diameter, about half way between the village and the spot where the trees give way to wide plains. Near the edges of the forest, the canopy is not so thick, the vines not so aggressive. At the center of the ring there lay a sort of cave, and within that cave slumbered the Limbs of the Earth -- an enormous suit of armor of which I'd never seen the like. We of the expedition were of course riveted; now either we would see that entity whose coming rocked half the continent, and touch once more the sublime perfection of the True World -- or face disappointment presently too horrid to bear contemplation. Gathering around this pit, the People began to waken the Limbs from their deep sleep. By this I mean they began to unearth, one after another, the components of that suit and pile them in the center of the clearing. As one, soundless, five hundred hands -- every adult La'Hamon, man or woman -- hoisted the first of the Limbs from its murky resting-place -- a great stone cuirass, a chest-plate hewn from the Mountains of the Moon and fit to armor a giant. It and the companion pieces which followed wore the black of oldest granite, bare of all adornment and without trace of human artifice. I watched the junglefolk as they continued the laborious lifting -- faces we had known for weeks now bore no trace of their former kindness and character. Eyes human and otherwise glowed from the ferns surrounding the sacred circle and the calling birds seemed to redouble their efforts as each new piece of the mighty armor rose from the pit of sacred slumber. We did feel a stirring in our hearts; an echo, perhaps, of some imperceptible sound meant for quite different ears. +++++ The Three Chimes of the Forest The Limbs of the Earth were heaped high before our party, the hollow shell of the people's ineradicable deity. Helm, greaves, gauntlets and more, each of naked stone and proportioned for a Goliath. When the last piece had been settled into place, the laboring arms paused. At some unspoken command a waiting woman loaded her flare gun -- a rather modern addition to the proceedings -- and launched a crimson bolt skyward, as a signal to more of the tribe stationed in the plains beyond the tree-line. Now the Rite had begun in earnest, and even fire would not speak again until it had concluded. Out on the plains far from the forest's sheltering canopy the rawhide drums, cued by the flare, began to call and thunder, answered by brassy cries and animalistic bellows from deep within the inner groves. Leather drums, steel bells, stone horns -- such was the voice the People gave the forest. Picked men had placed the instruments in hidden places the night previously. This cacophony was the first of the Rite's three Chimes, and the only one to be sounded by human hand and breath. Reader, you may find altogether inadequate my explanation of subsequent events, for it is now that the animals began to come, summoned through a mechanism as yet quite unknown to me. I ask you to persevere as we did. +++++ Procession of the Dignitaries The drumming rose into the sky and woke the denizens of the land. Solid ground began to convulse with the passage of numberless insects, a tide of instability rushing in from the outskirts of the encampment and crashing upon the rocky boundary of the Holy Grove. The insects and the birds had come to honor the Rite, bound, the People say, by its strange powers. They were not the only ones. High above what daylight still shone through the leafy peaks vanished beneath a sudden living cloud; the vivid colors of the jungle flock transformed into a swirling vanguard for the tireless geese and eagles, condors and falcons, which tore at the sky with the fierceness of their passage. I saw these creatures with naked eye, a hundred strains quite foreign and indeed totally incapable of surviving in these tropical climates; saw the flashing shadows of their imposing Liege within the flocks that made new clouds in the cloudless sky. At the center of this tumultuous plumage soared the magnificent Bird of Paradise herself, Lady of the Hurricane and Queen of All the Birds. A creature born of wind and wreathed in fog, she swooped low beneath the flocks above only once, her passage shaking leaves from the trees and frightening the forest antelopes. Her opal eyes flashed once at the peak of her descent and darkness fled. I could make out the serried nephrite of her breast set at intervals with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires as large as oranges. One jeweled feather was worth a palace which her tail's gilded streamers could have purchased a kingdom to accompany. Then her survey was completed and the Bird of Paradise withdrew to the midst of its flapping host to await the other comings. Even as we craned our necks, searching for the shortest glimpses of that heavenly procession, more terrestrial rumblings drew our notice downward. Out beyond the warding torches moved many-clawed somethings, each no doubt fit to shred our party to pieces, but bound by a compact stronger than any lion's claw or leopard's lunge. Great cats of every description now prowled around the outskirts of the sacred stones, their misty breath seeping from the forest in fetid clouds. The awed muttering of the soil announced these sacred guests; two hundred leopards, a thousand panthers, and one fierce tiger -- the entourage of bold Sycorax, eight-legged Lion of the Wind and King in the North. Some thirty hands high at the shoulder, with teeth more suited to clash on armored knights than wildebeests' soft flesh, with decadent mane continually infused with the gory remnants of past prey -- here we found our Landed Dominion. Four pairs of striding legs were each a guarantor of the Monarch Terrestrial's mastery over all that walked and crawled beyond the human gaze. Those iron claws and metaled furs brushed up against the People's higher law and grew docile. Our tremendous consorts answered no call, responded to no summons -- this Rite within the trees was not ordered, it did not even //occur// -- at most one could say that all within the Hidden Wood simply //was// in accordance with that Will which tolerates no description and bursts the boundaries of all adjectives. That Will which was the entity we had come to see, perhaps even catch. Mundane thoughts, utterly unsuited to what we found instead. +++++ The Force of the Will Supplicated, the Limbs of the Earth stirred. We had heard these relics called the Altar of History, the Armor of the Before, but what I saw in that grove knew no name's mastery. Drum calls poured in from the plains and merged with the lamentations of the bells. The armor summoned its Wearer, as the Wearer had summoned all of us. All rose, all swelled in a pulse which banished reason. The second chime. Acknowledge, my reader, that I make no use of metaphor or literary artifice in rendering you these scenes! What I say is as it was -- completely. Here was the purpose of the Rite now before us; the labors of the La'Hamon, the confluence of the animals, and all the rest were slaved to the single purpose of invoking what was both an entity and far more. Drumming turned to roaring, calls to siren shrieks. There came before us now the Indomitable Will of the Earth. A creature, a thing, the soul of our very planet -- no name is adequate. Whence, why -- ask not! I tell it to you as it was witnessed and no more. I beg again your patience and tax your credulity. Our tongue is tried heavily by the task before it. I should not say we waiting watchers were joined by the Will, the Bearer of the Limbs -- we joined It. That last word is meaningless as well, for the Wearer neither has gender, nor lacks it -- but to explain further I am unable. Not even the La'Hamon understand that which is both older than and quite beyond the bounds of human thought. We animals stepped back in unison as the Will donned Its assembled regalia, taking up the plates' stony bulk as easily as the wind lifts the leaves, though even now language itself buckles under the weight of the event's mere description! What had brought forth those leaders of the beasts now produced the Laughing Herald of the Four Winds and the Blazing Champion of the Sun, whose roaring gusts and stinging beams of light threatened to scour the flesh from our bones and ignite the still-sodden trunks of the rainforest. Yet I cannot linger over their description, for at their arrival the jungle cats and taunting birds sent up a paean, a song of triumph of such great volume that the total sound of the whole ritual prior bore a greater resemblance to silence, than to this new pandemonium. Only now was the Stony Crown of Nations raised to the highest by that Will which did not raise it. The climax of the ceremony was upon us and the World-Soul quivered. The granite helm lowered on to the incomprehensible brow of that Foremost Strength. Amidst combustuous ruin and clarion call the Rite Without Words birthed a third stupefying pulse which banished language. *** When our tongues returned to our heads, we of the expedition left the village and returned to our homes. We had seen a marvel without equal. A phenomenon to sate an enormity of wanderlust and fit to confound any number of representatives from those adventurous organizations which seek to police the stranger things on earth. Behind us, the orbit of history continued. The stone armor, once more inert, was laid back within its burrow. A year, perhaps three if not a hundred, would pass before the People came to wake it once again. //My Duchess, I have traveled far at your behest and brought you many treasures. There, by the Bend of the River, the fabric of the world soul was revealed through a phenomenon which I have described as fully as speech allows. As for the how or the why of it, the name of the land from which those beast-lords hailed, or of the Stone Armor's divine sculptor; to all such questions I must say let it be enough that I saw these deeds, and can relate them to you -- of explanations, the True World has no need!// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-07-31T02:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	There Between the Trees - SCP Foundation	28	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19058381	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/what-xenophon-saw-in-the-jungle
wheels-within-wheels	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Audio Log dated 21/04/1994, Site ███. Post-incident report. Timestamp 14:21:55</strong></p> <p>It’s going to be remarkably difficult to accurately report what happened here if I’m not able to give names and numbers, you know? I’m really not sure how much help this is going to be if I don’t talk about the details. What? Well, I don’t think that, and I don’t believe that you do too. This isn’t the kind of thing that we can train for, you know? Ok, I’ll be vague, although with some of the high-level stuff I’m going to <strong>have</strong> to talk about, not using any number designations seems a bit pointless, as anyone cleared to listen to this… OK, OK, anything for an easy life. Although to call anything where you have to deal with this snafu an easy life is a bit inaccurate, but there you go. Yes, I’ll describe what I saw. Jesus, they’re not paying you by the hour, are they? A bit of compassion here, I just witnessed the apocalypse. Or the start of it, anyway. Or maybe somewhere around the middle. It’s funny how non-specific the End Times ended up being.</p> <p>So, as everyone knows by now, we’d used the new array to perform iterations of the Twins – I can call them that, right? That’s not breaking any of your precious data rules? Right, so the Twins had been getting worryingly close over the last few spins, more so than the usual variation. I think we’d had some problems with one of our other guests, not entirely sure which because R block had been restricted access for the last few months, probably one of the techs there doing some higher level testing, but whatever it was we’d had a couple of blips, you know – the purple LEDs light up, everyone suddenly bends at the knees as their mass increases for a second or two, then we all bounce back up with a little hop. If it weren’t for the pretty terrifying implications it could even be a fun distraction. But we’d noticed that after the last one the orbiter made a tiny little dip in altitude, about an hour later, and then again the next time it went overhead it dipped again. Only fractions of a millimetre, but it was definitely affecting its linear orbit, and that’s bad news – the thing hasn’t shown any sign of being affected by gravity before, so there must have been something else that caused it to drop, but I’ll be damned if I know what. It goes up and down at times, but that’s smooth, not a drop. So we wrote up the Formal Assessment of Increasing Risk and sent it up the hill, and we were told to keep monitoring the situation and to submit another FAIR if the situation got any worse. It certainly became the focus of a lot of conversation on site, because we’d been monitoring them for so long, one doing nothing and the other just happily orbiting away, the idea of them being a problem had faded to the backs of our minds a bit. That’s just when the universe comes and bites you on the ass though.</p> <p>And so it did. Next time she was overhead, blip, another drop. About 0.4mm this time. We were now pretty sure that the problem was serious, it was clearly reacting to whatever the R-block guys had been doing. So we called down and let them know, and they confirmed that the experimentation had stopped several hours prior to the second dip, and the item involved had now been moved to another site as a precautionary measure by the Cross-team. So we hoped that would be the end of it. But don’t you know, next time she was overhead, another drop, this time 1.6mm and we didn’t need to be no mathematicians to see the exponential increase there, and to do the math - it gets big real fast. So with it orbiting every 20 hours or so we could see that we had about one hundred hours to come up with an idea – that’s not much when all you have to go on is a few pages of notes and you’re dealing with something that not even the brightest guys understood.</p> <p>So, we started pooling ideas and collecting as much information as we could. The first thing that we found out was the biggest mindscrew of all – the gravity hadn’t changed, the earth had moved. The stationary twin had moved with it, but the orbiter hadn’t, staying on exactly the same path as before. So it hadn’t dipped, we’d… <em>un</em>dipped, or whatever the right word for that would be. So someone in one of our liaison departments contacted NASA, IAU, all the space guys and asked them if they’d had any unusual results lately. Nothing. A movement of the earth perpendicular to its direction of motion that was now over 2cm and nobody had noticed but us. This was really confusing, but hey, confusing is part of the job, right? That wasn’t our responsibility at that time, there was another team on that. We were primarily given the task of coming up with XK-avoidance plans, and that included some pretty intense thinking. Master Key Initiative, anyone? That gives me the shudders just to think about. No, don’t worry, I’m not saying anything to anyone about nothing, I know the rules. Just letting you know how serious things got down there. But, as we were sitting in our hot, sweaty rooms and talking until the early hours measurements came back to show that as soon as they came just under a kilometre from one another the orbiter started slowing down. Not much at first, but with each drop the speed dropped noticeably, until we were able to watch it go over at not much faster than a jet, and low enough that we even considered erecting a mast with high tensile steel netting <em>just in case</em> we’d made an error on the whole ‘Unstoppable’ thing. Thank goodness we didn’t, it could have shredded the lot of us. At least this gave us much more time to think, not that it helped much.</p> <p>So, at this point, we’ve got this thing going over our heads so we can actually see the damn thing, and still, everyone else is acting like nothing’s wrong, right? Princess Di can’t even get out of a damn car without some douche with a camera stalking her, but we’re taking pictures of the damn thing and nobody else has seen it at all. So our people talk to NASA’s people, meteorological centres, and nobody else is getting anything weird. Or at least we don’t think so, but of course, we’re not saying anything either - I think we were using the cover of an astronomy lab somewhere in the Australian desert, something like that. People never question Aussie laboratories, it’s too big to come and find you. We let up top know about this, and we’re told to keep at it but to await further instructions, and so that’s what we did. We sat down in our even hotter, sweatier rooms and came up with just about every reasonable suggestion we could think of, up to and including trying to move the Earth on its orbit. Yeah, we were talking about attaching ropes to anchor points and dragging the damn thing like a tugboat, that’s how bad things had got. But we didn’t want to think about the alternative, touchdown.</p> <p>But don’t you just know it, then the Fives get back to us with something we wanted to think about even less. They’d told us to begin considering Master Key solutions. The collective ‘Oh, Fuck’ was probably audible all over the site, and so we sat down again but this time we had the added problem of the treatment potentially being even worse than the cure. I mean, you take a screwdriver, the worst you can happen is you poke it through a gas main or a power line, but when your toolbox is made up of pretty much the worst things ever, the scope for clusterfucks is much higher, you know?</p> <p>The announcement also informed us that without outright saying it, Up Top were considering this to be potentially XK, something we’d not really wanted to do ourselves. But there was no denying it, if those two collided then the energy release was potentially enormous. I mean, when you think what less than a gram of Uranium did to Hiroshima, if these things really tried to occupy the same space at the same time then you’re probably talking gigatons of energy. We’re talking about putting a crack right down the middle of the earth, and causing pretty much every earthquake zone to crumble itself into dust. Now, I had already had a couple of ideas regarding this, but most of them I had to throw out because I didn’t have a plan to deal with whatever it was that we’d used to sort out the current problem. I had this great idea involving getting a plane with the door stuck on the top of it… well… it was pretty wild, and might have worked, but it was shot down because it would have been conspicuous, to say the least.</p> <p>We’d gone through all the usual suspects, temporal slowing, wormholes, but nothing ended up being less risky than what we were trying to prevent, I mean, these are some real untold quantities that we’re talking about putting together here. My comedy favourite was the handbag, that was priceless. Even under this stress, there were some chuckles when that got suggested.</p> <p>Anyway, by this point we’re on like hour 60, and this thing is getting real close, but the closer it got, the slower it got, and we started to get our hopes up as the maths heads calculated the trajectory and velocity, we started to wonder whether we’d all been worrying about nothing the whole time, and it was going to get closer and slower, and closer and slower, and never actually touch at all. You ever hear of Zeno’s Arrow? It was this thought experiment, right, where it was posited that if you fire an arrow at a tortoise, the arrow moves towards the tortoise, but the tortoise moves a bit too, real slow, and the arrow has moved a bit closer, but by that point the tortoise has moved on a bit too, and although the arrow keeps getting closer to the tortoise, each time it gets to where the tortoise was, the tortoise has moved forwards a bit. Of course, this was only a thought experiment, as if you tried it practically you’d better have a lot of tortoises, right? But we started to wonder if it was going that way. Zeno’s Arrow reflected, in the dark mirror of our fears.</p> <p>Of course, we couldn’t actually risk that happening, because what if we’re wrong? That was a phrase that got said over and over again in those couple of days. ‘What if we’re wrong?’ and then a long pause, because nobody had a good answer for it. Then one of the guys who had been keeping quiet and going through item lists for the last sixteen hours popped up and asked ‘How about this?’ and held up a report we’d all missed entirely. It was virtually orange, the paper was so old, and it was one of the really old ones which was signed at the bottom, in faded blue ink, by one of the senior staffers. The write-up was pretty vague by today’s standards, but it said enough. We were looking at two universes connected by a single quantum event of a relatively small divergence. You know, a tree did or didn’t fall over, a bath did or didn’t overflow, the small stuff. And the boffins decided that there was a way of pushing everything over to the next universe along. Lots of people did lots of maths, and it was decided that it was the best way to go if it looked like things were going awry.</p> <p>I mean, it was risky, but the risks involved were all assessed, and the vast majority of likelihoods were deemed to be less disastrous than letting the Twins meet. The phrase ‘caught between a rock and a hard place’ had never been so apt.</p> <p>By this point the orbiter was on what was clearly its final orbit, it was travelling slightly slower than my Taurus, and was moving straight at us. It wasn’t making any unusual moves now, and the Earth was seemingly staying where it was, which we unanimously decided was a very good thing, as if there were any more sudden movements we could end up with a hole smashed through the centre of the earth, and that would be a whole other problem, especially given the amount of underground storage we have onsite. Might have sorted Eight-Two out, though.</p> <p>Three hundred and forty-four meters, that was the distance between the two that they finally decided to push the switch. I say push the switch, because that’s exactly what they had to do. Open the lid, flip the lock and press the switch, and then it was done.</p> <p>We were still there, still standing in the same room, still wearing the same clothes. There was no way of finding out what was different in this iteration of the universe. Nothing we could detect, but it could have been a trilobite born with an extra leg thirty million years ago, or anything from any time. All that mattered was that in this dimension, the balls were where they were supposed to be, and path calculation showed that they weren’t showing any signs of path collision any time in the next nine hundred million years. That’s good enough for me.</p> <p>So with that all done and all the parties dying down, things settled down again, and people stopped talking about it. They stopped remembering it, they stopped knowing that it had even happened, and now I’m talking to you about it because I’m the last one in the office that remembers a damn thing about it. I don’t know why, but if it’s up to me then it’s up to me, so we know what to do next time. So I went to put the doc back in file, and it was going back to the really old file room, up on a dusty shelf next to a binder with the same number on it. So I pulled down the binder, and it was full, and I mean FULL of pages, thousands of them, with nothing on but little lines, you know, the gates like on the sides of planes, show how many kills they have. I flicked through and there were millions of them. I had to have a look at the last page, and there it was, a nice new blue line, still shiny, third in the gate. I put the folder back and tried not to think about it too hard. That’s what gets you through a lot of the time. Don’t think too hard.</p> <p>So I did a bit of reading, physics guys talking about infinite-universes theory, and I’m hoping like hell that they ARE infinite. Or at least that we’ve got one left.</p> <p>What, you’re at the end of the tape? We still use <em>tape</em>?</p> <p><strong>End of Audio Log</strong></p> <p><strong>TRANSCRIPT AND LOG SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE DELETION AND DESTRUCTION</strong></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wheels-within-wheels">Wheels within Wheels</a>" by deValmont, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wheels-within-wheels">https://scpwiki.com/wheels-within-wheels</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Audio Log dated 21/04/1994, Site ███. Post-incident report. Timestamp 14:21:55 It’s going to be remarkably difficult to accurately report what happened here if I’m not able to give names and numbers, you know? I’m really not sure how much help this is going to be if I don’t talk about the details. What? Well, I don’t think that, and I don’t believe that you do too. This isn’t the kind of thing that we can train for, you know? Ok, I’ll be vague, although with some of the high-level stuff I’m going to have to talk about, not using any number designations seems a bit pointless, as anyone cleared to listen to this… OK, OK, anything for an easy life. Although to call anything where you have to deal with this snafu an easy life is a bit inaccurate, but there you go. Yes, I’ll describe what I saw. Jesus, they’re not paying you by the hour, are they? A bit of compassion here, I just witnessed the apocalypse. Or the start of it, anyway. Or maybe somewhere around the middle. It’s funny how non-specific the End Times ended up being. So, as everyone knows by now, we’d used the new array to perform iterations of the Twins – I can call them that, right? That’s not breaking any of your precious data rules? Right, so the Twins had been getting worryingly close over the last few spins, more so than the usual variation. I think we’d had some problems with one of our other guests, not entirely sure which because R block had been restricted access for the last few months, probably one of the techs there doing some higher level testing, but whatever it was we’d had a couple of blips, you know – the purple LEDs light up, everyone suddenly bends at the knees as their mass increases for a second or two, then we all bounce back up with a little hop. If it weren’t for the pretty terrifying implications it could even be a fun distraction. But we’d noticed that after the last one the orbiter made a tiny little dip in altitude, about an hour later, and then again the next time it went overhead it dipped again. Only fractions of a millimetre, but it was definitely affecting its linear orbit, and that’s bad news – the thing hasn’t shown any sign of being affected by gravity before, so there must have been something else that caused it to drop, but I’ll be damned if I know what. It goes up and down at times, but that’s smooth, not a drop. So we wrote up the Formal Assessment of Increasing Risk and sent it up the hill, and we were told to keep monitoring the situation and to submit another FAIR if the situation got any worse. It certainly became the focus of a lot of conversation on site, because we’d been monitoring them for so long, one doing nothing and the other just happily orbiting away, the idea of them being a problem had faded to the backs of our minds a bit. That’s just when the universe comes and bites you on the ass though. And so it did. Next time she was overhead, blip, another drop. About 0.4mm this time. We were now pretty sure that the problem was serious, it was clearly reacting to whatever the R-block guys had been doing. So we called down and let them know, and they confirmed that the experimentation had stopped several hours prior to the second dip, and the item involved had now been moved to another site as a precautionary measure by the Cross-team. So we hoped that would be the end of it. But don’t you know, next time she was overhead, another drop, this time 1.6mm and we didn’t need to be no mathematicians to see the exponential increase there, and to do the math - it gets big real fast. So with it orbiting every 20 hours or so we could see that we had about one hundred hours to come up with an idea – that’s not much when all you have to go on is a few pages of notes and you’re dealing with something that not even the brightest guys understood. So, we started pooling ideas and collecting as much information as we could. The first thing that we found out was the biggest mindscrew of all – the gravity hadn’t changed, the earth had moved. The stationary twin had moved with it, but the orbiter hadn’t, staying on exactly the same path as before. So it hadn’t dipped, we’d… //un//dipped, or whatever the right word for that would be. So someone in one of our liaison departments contacted NASA, IAU, all the space guys and asked them if they’d had any unusual results lately. Nothing. A movement of the earth perpendicular to its direction of motion that was now over 2cm and nobody had noticed but us. This was really confusing, but hey, confusing is part of the job, right? That wasn’t our responsibility at that time, there was another team on that. We were primarily given the task of coming up with XK-avoidance plans, and that included some pretty intense thinking. Master Key Initiative, anyone? That gives me the shudders just to think about. No, don’t worry, I’m not saying anything to anyone about nothing, I know the rules. Just letting you know how serious things got down there. But, as we were sitting in our hot, sweaty rooms and talking until the early hours measurements came back to show that as soon as they came just under a kilometre from one another the orbiter started slowing down. Not much at first, but with each drop the speed dropped noticeably, until we were able to watch it go over at not much faster than a jet, and low enough that we even considered erecting a mast with high tensile steel netting //just in case// we’d made an error on the whole ‘Unstoppable’ thing. Thank goodness we didn’t, it could have shredded the lot of us. At least this gave us much more time to think, not that it helped much. So, at this point, we’ve got this thing going over our heads so we can actually see the damn thing, and still, everyone else is acting like nothing’s wrong, right? Princess Di can’t even get out of a damn car without some douche with a camera stalking her, but we’re taking pictures of the damn thing and nobody else has seen it at all. So our people talk to NASA’s people, meteorological centres, and nobody else is getting anything weird. Or at least we don’t think so, but of course, we’re not saying anything either - I think we were using the cover of an astronomy lab somewhere in the Australian desert, something like that. People never question Aussie laboratories, it’s too big to come and find you. We let up top know about this, and we’re told to keep at it but to await further instructions, and so that’s what we did. We sat down in our even hotter, sweatier rooms and came up with just about every reasonable suggestion we could think of, up to and including trying to move the Earth on its orbit. Yeah, we were talking about attaching ropes to anchor points and dragging the damn thing like a tugboat, that’s how bad things had got. But we didn’t want to think about the alternative, touchdown. But don’t you just know it, then the Fives get back to us with something we wanted to think about even less. They’d told us to begin considering Master Key solutions. The collective ‘Oh, Fuck’ was probably audible all over the site, and so we sat down again but this time we had the added problem of the treatment potentially being even worse than the cure. I mean, you take a screwdriver, the worst you can happen is you poke it through a gas main or a power line, but when your toolbox is made up of pretty much the worst things ever, the scope for clusterfucks is much higher, you know? The announcement also informed us that without outright saying it, Up Top were considering this to be potentially XK, something we’d not really wanted to do ourselves. But there was no denying it, if those two collided then the energy release was potentially enormous. I mean, when you think what less than a gram of Uranium did to Hiroshima, if these things really tried to occupy the same space at the same time then you’re probably talking gigatons of energy. We’re talking about putting a crack right down the middle of the earth, and causing pretty much every earthquake zone to crumble itself into dust. Now, I had already had a couple of ideas regarding this, but most of them I had to throw out because I didn’t have a plan to deal with whatever it was that we’d used to sort out the current problem. I had this great idea involving getting a plane with the door stuck on the top of it… well… it was pretty wild, and might have worked, but it was shot down because it would have been conspicuous, to say the least. We’d gone through all the usual suspects, temporal slowing, wormholes, but nothing ended up being less risky than what we were trying to prevent, I mean, these are some real untold quantities that we’re talking about putting together here. My comedy favourite was the handbag, that was priceless. Even under this stress, there were some chuckles when that got suggested. Anyway, by this point we’re on like hour 60, and this thing is getting real close, but the closer it got, the slower it got, and we started to get our hopes up as the maths heads calculated the trajectory and velocity, we started to wonder whether we’d all been worrying about nothing the whole time, and it was going to get closer and slower, and closer and slower, and never actually touch at all. You ever hear of Zeno’s Arrow? It was this thought experiment, right, where it was posited that if you fire an arrow at a tortoise, the arrow moves towards the tortoise, but the tortoise moves a bit too, real slow, and the arrow has moved a bit closer, but by that point the tortoise has moved on a bit too, and although the arrow keeps getting closer to the tortoise, each time it gets to where the tortoise was, the tortoise has moved forwards a bit. Of course, this was only a thought experiment, as if you tried it practically you’d better have a lot of tortoises, right? But we started to wonder if it was going that way. Zeno’s Arrow reflected, in the dark mirror of our fears. Of course, we couldn’t actually risk that happening, because what if we’re wrong? That was a phrase that got said over and over again in those couple of days. ‘What if we’re wrong?’ and then a long pause, because nobody had a good answer for it. Then one of the guys who had been keeping quiet and going through item lists for the last sixteen hours popped up and asked ‘How about this?’ and held up a report we’d all missed entirely. It was virtually orange, the paper was so old, and it was one of the really old ones which was signed at the bottom, in faded blue ink, by one of the senior staffers. The write-up was pretty vague by today’s standards, but it said enough. We were looking at two universes connected by a single quantum event of a relatively small divergence. You know, a tree did or didn’t fall over, a bath did or didn’t overflow, the small stuff. And the boffins decided that there was a way of pushing everything over to the next universe along. Lots of people did lots of maths, and it was decided that it was the best way to go if it looked like things were going awry. I mean, it was risky, but the risks involved were all assessed, and the vast majority of likelihoods were deemed to be less disastrous than letting the Twins meet. The phrase ‘caught between a rock and a hard place’ had never been so apt. By this point the orbiter was on what was clearly its final orbit, it was travelling slightly slower than my Taurus, and was moving straight at us. It wasn’t making any unusual moves now, and the Earth was seemingly staying where it was, which we unanimously decided was a very good thing, as if there were any more sudden movements we could end up with a hole smashed through the centre of the earth, and that would be a whole other problem, especially given the amount of underground storage we have onsite. Might have sorted Eight-Two out, though. Three hundred and forty-four meters, that was the distance between the two that they finally decided to push the switch. I say push the switch, because that’s exactly what they had to do. Open the lid, flip the lock and press the switch, and then it was done. We were still there, still standing in the same room, still wearing the same clothes. There was no way of finding out what was different in this iteration of the universe. Nothing we could detect, but it could have been a trilobite born with an extra leg thirty million years ago, or anything from any time. All that mattered was that in this dimension, the balls were where they were supposed to be, and path calculation showed that they weren’t showing any signs of path collision any time in the next nine hundred million years. That’s good enough for me. So with that all done and all the parties dying down, things settled down again, and people stopped talking about it. They stopped remembering it, they stopped knowing that it had even happened, and now I’m talking to you about it because I’m the last one in the office that remembers a damn thing about it. I don’t know why, but if it’s up to me then it’s up to me, so we know what to do next time. So I went to put the doc back in file, and it was going back to the really old file room, up on a dusty shelf next to a binder with the same number on it. So I pulled down the binder, and it was full, and I mean FULL of pages, thousands of them, with nothing on but little lines, you know, the gates like on the sides of planes, show how many kills they have. I flicked through and there were millions of them. I had to have a look at the last page, and there it was, a nice new blue line, still shiny, third in the gate. I put the folder back and tried not to think about it too hard. That’s what gets you through a lot of the time. Don’t think too hard. So I did a bit of reading, physics guys talking about infinite-universes theory, and I’m hoping like hell that they ARE infinite. Or at least that we’ve got one left. What, you’re at the end of the tape? We still use //tape//? End of Audio Log TRANSCRIPT AND LOG SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE DELETION AND DESTRUCTION [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-07T16:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Wheels within Wheels - SCP Foundation	35	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15949609	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wheels-within-wheels
where-the-garden-began	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It woke up in a field as dawn broke and looked around it. It wasn't impressed by what it saw. The field was… just a field. Not even just a field. It was a monotony of ugly, yellow-gray grass, snarling and tangling around itself. There was no value here, nothing but-</p> <p>But there <em>was</em> something, right there at its feet. In the weak gray light, there was a flower. Quite an interesting little thing too, and unusually colored. A smooth dark chocolate shot through with streaks of deep crimson. It would be a rare bloom, if there were actually any other blooms around. As it stood, the little thing was unique.</p> <p>Did the flower just move a bit? Just then? No? Yes. Probably following the sun that was already beginning its slow climb.</p> <p>Then there was another flower, it saw. Just a little ways away. It pushed through the ground and bloomed into something just as unique as the first one. It looked up more and saw petals unfurling everywhere in the field! They were growing straight and proud, above the old gray grass that clung to the stems. The sun was just far enough up to lend some warmth to the field, but it wasn't just a field anymore. In the new light, wild flowers dotting the plain, it was a garden.</p> <p>It was a garden. Yes, it was a garden, and with the garden came gardeners. There weren't many at first, but they hacked away the grass with speed, coaxing new flowers out into this little world. It wandered among them, they who had their backs bent, working as feverishly with their flowers as any bee did. More gardeners came. Of course they came. It was quite a big field. In the cool lemon light of the morning, the gardeners came and they created.</p> <p>This was the time for wild growth, it remembered later. It looked around at the flowers the gardeners made. They were enormous, beautiful, extravagant. The world burst open with unrestrained color. All of the gardeners ran around, letting the blooms grow together, creating more and more. There were no set plots, no boundaries. They all competed to grow the biggest, the most exotic, all twining in and out and around each other. There wasn't much pruning, it noticed. They all just added their own absurd gaudy flowers to the mix and left them for the next.</p> <p>But flowers wilt, oh yes they do. The sun got higher, and the light became harsher. That muted shine that softened edges got brighter, and made the beautiful colors clash. The heat rose. Those glossy petals lost their vibrance, and the stems sagged, weakened, as everything that supported them leeched away. It saw the gardeners realize what had happened, and it watched them scramble. For a short time they tried to keep things as they were. There were things that could be done with wilted flowers. But there were just too many, and they started pulling each other down, all those that they were entwined with. The first gardeners and the best gardeners, they tried to prune as they went, but there were so many others now, making more and more pastel blooms that withered when they left. Finally, those first gardeners and best gardeners gave up being subtle. It watched as everyone else was pushed away for awhile, and the endless trimming began.</p> <p>Those gardeners cut away the dead, the gaudy, the parasites. The primal jungle of color was tamed, and so much was taken away. It was sad at this. The garden looked more like a field again. Only the most unique, or the ones that they worked so hard to preserve, were allowed to continue. The gardeners returned to something very different than what they had left. What was there in a garden, that wasn't a flower? What would they do now?</p> <p>That was when they got interested in the thorns, and the vines, and the leaves. These new gardeners in this new world worked in new ways. They still coaxed a flower out, but it was just a spark of color in the real attraction. They wove the stalks in and out and around, moved leaves with painstaking care. They created strange and wonderful sculptures that lived around their blooms. They met its approval. This wasn't the world of beautiful chaos that it had seen before. There was pruning, always. There were plots where every plant was shaped. Only the very best were allowed to twine and create something even more beautiful than anything on its own. Gardeners of the morning school were gently or forcibly nudged away. Flowers weren't enough anymore.</p> <p>That's not to say that there were no flowers. A few extravagant blooms survived from the morning, but they were beginning to wilt away.</p> <p>Because flowers wilt, the gardeners knew that very well. That's why they dealt in thorns now.</p> <p>It walked around this new garden, as the sun began to reach its zenith. It was unheeded by the busy gardeners working in the heat. It marveled at the complex world that had come out of the old field, until it stopped at a flower. This flower was untouched. Some things grew around it, but it was never touched.</p> <p>The gardeners had saved it, or forgotten about it. It had no idea which. Of course, when it looked around at the complex plants that now grew here, the little thing looked like nothing special. Of course it was where all of this had begun, but it was just a little brown and red flower now. Wasn't it?</p> <p>Brown and red. Red and brown. Blood and shit. In the bright light of the sun.</p> <p>It looked around. Nobody ever paid attention to it, it would probably be totally fine if it just reached down and</p> <p><em>Pluck.</em><br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">He was searching for someone, across all the pages on the wiki.</span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/where-the-garden-began">Where the Garden Began</a>" by Bryx, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/where-the-garden-began">https://scpwiki.com/where-the-garden-began</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It woke up in a field as dawn broke and looked around it. It wasn't impressed by what it saw. The field was... just a field. Not even just a field. It was a monotony of ugly, yellow-gray grass, snarling and tangling around itself. There was no value here, nothing but- But there //was// something, right there at its feet. In the weak gray light, there was a flower. Quite an interesting little thing too, and unusually colored. A smooth dark chocolate shot through with streaks of deep crimson. It would be a rare bloom, if there were actually any other blooms around. As it stood, the little thing was unique. Did the flower just move a bit? Just then? No? Yes. Probably following the sun that was already beginning its slow climb. Then there was another flower, it saw. Just a little ways away. It pushed through the ground and bloomed into something just as unique as the first one. It looked up more and saw petals unfurling everywhere in the field! They were growing straight and proud, above the old gray grass that clung to the stems. The sun was just far enough up to lend some warmth to the field, but it wasn't just a field anymore. In the new light, wild flowers dotting the plain, it was a garden. It was a garden. Yes, it was a garden, and with the garden came gardeners. There weren't many at first, but they hacked away the grass with speed, coaxing new flowers out into this little world. It wandered among them, they who had their backs bent, working as feverishly with their flowers as any bee did. More gardeners came. Of course they came. It was quite a big field. In the cool lemon light of the morning, the gardeners came and they created. This was the time for wild growth, it remembered later. It looked around at the flowers the gardeners made. They were enormous, beautiful, extravagant. The world burst open with unrestrained color. All of the gardeners ran around, letting the blooms grow together, creating more and more. There were no set plots, no boundaries. They all competed to grow the biggest, the most exotic, all twining in and out and around each other. There wasn't much pruning, it noticed. They all just added their own absurd gaudy flowers to the mix and left them for the next. But flowers wilt, oh yes they do. The sun got higher, and the light became harsher. That muted shine that softened edges got brighter, and made the beautiful colors clash. The heat rose. Those glossy petals lost their vibrance, and the stems sagged, weakened, as everything that supported them leeched away. It saw the gardeners realize what had happened, and it watched them scramble. For a short time they tried to keep things as they were. There were things that could be done with wilted flowers. But there were just too many, and they started pulling each other down, all those that they were entwined with. The first gardeners and the best gardeners, they tried to prune as they went, but there were so many others now, making more and more pastel blooms that withered when they left. Finally, those first gardeners and best gardeners gave up being subtle. It watched as everyone else was pushed away for awhile, and the endless trimming began. Those gardeners cut away the dead, the gaudy, the parasites. The primal jungle of color was tamed, and so much was taken away. It was sad at this. The garden looked more like a field again. Only the most unique, or the ones that they worked so hard to preserve, were allowed to continue. The gardeners returned to something very different than what they had left. What was there in a garden, that wasn't a flower? What would they do now? That was when they got interested in the thorns, and the vines, and the leaves. These new gardeners in this new world worked in new ways. They still coaxed a flower out, but it was just a spark of color in the real attraction. They wove the stalks in and out and around, moved leaves with painstaking care. They created strange and wonderful sculptures that lived around their blooms. They met its approval. This wasn't the world of beautiful chaos that it had seen before. There was pruning, always. There were plots where every plant was shaped. Only the very best were allowed to twine and create something even more beautiful than anything on its own. Gardeners of the morning school were gently or forcibly nudged away. Flowers weren't enough anymore. That's not to say that there were no flowers. A few extravagant blooms survived from the morning, but they were beginning to wilt away. Because flowers wilt, the gardeners knew that very well. That's why they dealt in thorns now. It walked around this new garden, as the sun began to reach its zenith. It was unheeded by the busy gardeners working in the heat. It marveled at the complex world that had come out of the old field, until it stopped at a flower. This flower was untouched. Some things grew around it, but it was never touched. The gardeners had saved it, or forgotten about it. It had no idea which. Of course, when it looked around at the complex plants that now grew here, the little thing looked like nothing special. Of course it was where all of this had begun, but it was just a little brown and red flower now. Wasn't it? Brown and red. Red and brown. Blood and shit. In the bright light of the sun. It looked around. Nobody ever paid attention to it, it would probably be totally fine if it just reached down and //Pluck.// [[size 0%]] He was searching for someone, across all the pages on the wiki. [[/size]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-27T23:42:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Where the Garden Began - SCP Foundation	47	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "advent-calendar-2015", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	21092033	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/where-the-garden-began
who-am-i	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> Who am I? I wish I could just tell you. <p>Who am I? I am a curious god. I wanted to discover what made you mortals tick. I was surprised when I found that many of you were immortal. Whether you gained this through fame, through history, or through some other means, I do not know. I did meet a very interesting immortal though. He seemed to be a shapeshifter, and I would never see him with the same body twice. I was very interested in what you mortals are. Sadly, I had to return to my home. I left a few of my personal effects in your care. I didn't mean to, but it couldn't be helped.</p> <p>Who am I? I am a vengeful god. I came to your pitiful plane to destroy and subjugate you. I brought artifacts from my home and let them infiltrate your system. They gathered information for me, which I then used to attack you. But you fought back. I retreated and had to find help. I asked another god whose existence was known to few, but his anger was known to all. When we attacked you again, you managed to defeat and capture my ally. You are a strong opponent, but I will defeat you. Expect my return and fear it.</p> <p>Who am I? I am God. I have lost contact with you, my creations, over the past few centuries. I returned to see what happened. I chose a venue that best represented what humanity is. Love and hate, fear and faith, war and peace, dedication and apathy, death and life all condensed into a single organization. I spent quite some time there, studying humanity, but now I have left. I understand that I will no longer be a supreme power on earth. My time is over, but I'll still watch on occasion.</p> <p>Who am I? I'm from another reality. I'm like your own 507, randomly appearing in various realities and dimensions. Evidently in this reality, I worked for the Foundation. This reality was nice, I liked it. But, as my nature forces me to, I was moved to another dimension. I find strange objects in my travels, from reality to reality, but I had gathered too many to keep all at once. I filed them away as SCP objects, but I plan on returning to take them to a better and safer place.</p> <p>Who am I? I am a foolhardy computer genius. I sit at my computer all day, being a dick on various forums, and trolling in various games. I have an extensive knowledge when it comes to computers, and I may have hacked one or two in my day. I found a few of your documents, after an attack from one of your enemies left a hole for me to breach. I thought it'd be funny to add my name to a few of the reports. I even added a fictitious one about an invincible man.</p> <p>Who am I? I am a sleeper agent. I worked for the Chaos Insurgency, or whatever you're calling us these days. I was given my job and then sent as bait to your Foundation. You quickly snapped me up and gave me a good position. Over time, I gained responsibility. I waited and waited, until our little fuzzy courier activated me. Once activated, I grabbed what I could, took any information I found, and left.</p> <p>Who am I? I am an O5. I was a doctor at one point in my life. I researched Scips, I did experiments, and I risked my life in the name of safety and science. I worked my way up through the ranks, until the day I was killed. Or promoted. Or whatever you want to call it. I tragically died in a lab experiment gone wrong. The next day, I woke up in an office. I was led to a computer, and they gave me a briefing on what I was, who I was, and what I had to do. Anyone who had ever known me went through selective memory therapy to get rid of any memory of me. They edited documents to expunge or delete my name, but they did miss a few.</p> <p>Who am I? I am a prank. A few of the rookie researchers thought it would be funny to stick my name on a few documents. They did this for many years. They all got promoted to various positions. One even got promoted to a site director. He decided that it would be a hoot to give this fake doctor an actual office. The O5s learned about this and sent him on his way. They never removed my name from any of the documents though. I have no idea why.</p> <p>Who am I? I am Ethical. I worked and toiled for many years with little thanks given in return. I was later given a rather large project. While working on the project, nothing seemed to go my way. Chemicals spilled, items were misplaced, incorrect products were delivered. I almost gave up. I eventually finished the project with acceptable results. I gave the results to my superior, and he told me that I was being moved for unknown reasons. I was shipped to some place in France. There, I was told that I had been accepted into the Ethics Committee, and that one project was my test. I'll be damned if I can figure out what that project had to do with Ethics, but I'll live with it. Since I was now with the Ethics Committee, my name was stripped from the official records, my office was cleared, and anyone who knew me forgot me due to the Committee's memory selection process.</p> <p>Who am I? I am an urban legend of sorts. Whenever something went wrong in an experiment, I was the one who caused the problem. Granted, I didn't exist, but humans always like having a scapegoat. I drifted from site to site. Sometimes, I was even in multiple areas at once. I was a diligent, but clumsy, worker in some places, and a demon in others. They say that over time, a myth can become reality if enough people believe in it. I was just such a case. Sometimes, in quiet laboratories, I would whisper in the lone scientist's ear. Or maybe, I would accidentally knock a vial over. I would switch the order of sheets in a person's hand, or put my name on a document. I took pictures with people, and sometimes had one-sided conversations with people. It was all great fun. Sadly, higher-ups heard wind of my antics, and put a stop to it.</p> <p>Who am I? I am nothing. I was just a regular doctor trying to neutralize a dangerous object. The object's defense mechanism kicked in, and both me and the object ceased to exist. Life's a bitch, but I'll get over it.</p> <p>Who am I? I am <a href="/scp-431">Dr. Gideon, SCP-431</a>. I worked for the Foundation, but I never worked for them. I was a really nice guy, if I existed. I paid my taxes and was paid with money that never existed. I worked hard on projects that were never started, and on a few that did. I befriended people who never knew me. I posed for pictures that were never taken. I am an anomaly. I shouldn't exist, yet I do. I exist in your files, and in the impossible corners of reality, nowhere else.</p> <p>Who am I? I don't know.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/who-am-i">Who Am I?</a>" by MayD, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/who-am-i">https://scpwiki.com/who-am-i</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Who am I? I wish I could just tell you. Who am I? I am a curious god. I wanted to discover what made you mortals tick. I was surprised when I found that many of you were immortal. Whether you gained this through fame, through history, or through some other means, I do not know. I did meet a very interesting immortal though. He seemed to be a shapeshifter, and I would never see him with the same body twice. I was very interested in what you mortals are. Sadly, I had to return to my home. I left a few of my personal effects in your care. I didn't mean to, but it couldn't be helped. Who am I? I am a vengeful god. I came to your pitiful plane to destroy and subjugate you. I brought artifacts from my home and let them infiltrate your system. They gathered information for me, which I then used to attack you. But you fought back. I retreated and had to find help. I asked another god whose existence was known to few, but his anger was known to all. When we attacked you again, you managed to defeat and capture my ally. You are a strong opponent, but I will defeat you. Expect my return and fear it. Who am I? I am God. I have lost contact with you, my creations, over the past few centuries. I returned to see what happened. I chose a venue that best represented what humanity is. Love and hate, fear and faith, war and peace, dedication and apathy, death and life all condensed into a single organization. I spent quite some time there, studying humanity, but now I have left. I understand that I will no longer be a supreme power on earth. My time is over, but I'll still watch on occasion. Who am I? I'm from another reality. I'm like your own 507, randomly appearing in various realities and dimensions. Evidently in this reality, I worked for the Foundation. This reality was nice, I liked it. But, as my nature forces me to, I was moved to another dimension. I find strange objects in my travels, from reality to reality, but I had gathered too many to keep all at once. I filed them away as SCP objects, but I plan on returning to take them to a better and safer place. Who am I? I am a foolhardy computer genius. I sit at my computer all day, being a dick on various forums, and trolling in various games. I have an extensive knowledge when it comes to computers, and I may have hacked one or two in my day. I found a few of your documents, after an attack from one of your enemies left a hole for me to breach. I thought it'd be funny to add my name to a few of the reports. I even added a fictitious one about an invincible man. Who am I? I am a sleeper agent. I worked for the Chaos Insurgency, or whatever you're calling us these days. I was given my job and then sent as bait to your Foundation. You quickly snapped me up and gave me a good position. Over time, I gained responsibility. I waited and waited, until our little fuzzy courier activated me. Once activated, I grabbed what I could, took any information I found, and left. Who am I? I am an O5. I was a doctor at one point in my life. I researched Scips, I did experiments, and I risked my life in the name of safety and science. I worked my way up through the ranks, until the day I was killed. Or promoted. Or whatever you want to call it. I tragically died in a lab experiment gone wrong. The next day, I woke up in an office. I was led to a computer, and they gave me a briefing on what I was, who I was, and what I had to do. Anyone who had ever known me went through selective memory therapy to get rid of any memory of me. They edited documents to expunge or delete my name, but they did miss a few. Who am I? I am a prank. A few of the rookie researchers thought it would be funny to stick my name on a few documents. They did this for many years. They all got promoted to various positions. One even got promoted to a site director. He decided that it would be a hoot to give this fake doctor an actual office. The O5s learned about this and sent him on his way. They never removed my name from any of the documents though. I have no idea why. Who am I? I am Ethical. I worked and toiled for many years with little thanks given in return. I was later given a rather large project. While working on the project, nothing seemed to go my way. Chemicals spilled, items were misplaced, incorrect products were delivered. I almost gave up. I eventually finished the project with acceptable results. I gave the results to my superior, and he told me that I was being moved for unknown reasons. I was shipped to some place in France. There, I was told that I had been accepted into the Ethics Committee, and that one project was my test. I'll be damned if I can figure out what that project had to do with Ethics, but I'll live with it. Since I was now with the Ethics Committee, my name was stripped from the official records, my office was cleared, and anyone who knew me forgot me due to the Committee's memory selection process. Who am I? I am an urban legend of sorts. Whenever something went wrong in an experiment, I was the one who caused the problem. Granted, I didn't exist, but humans always like having a scapegoat. I drifted from site to site. Sometimes, I was even in multiple areas at once. I was a diligent, but clumsy, worker in some places, and a demon in others. They say that over time, a myth can become reality if enough people believe in it. I was just such a case. Sometimes, in quiet laboratories, I would whisper in the lone scientist's ear. Or maybe, I would accidentally knock a vial over. I would switch the order of sheets in a person's hand, or put my name on a document. I took pictures with people, and sometimes had one-sided conversations with people. It was all great fun. Sadly, higher-ups heard wind of my antics, and put a stop to it. Who am I? I am nothing. I was just a regular doctor trying to neutralize a dangerous object. The object's defense mechanism kicked in, and both me and the object ceased to exist. Life's a bitch, but I'll get over it. Who am I? I am [[[scp-431 \|Dr. Gideon, SCP-431]]]. I worked for the Foundation, but I never worked for them. I was a really nice guy, if I existed. I paid my taxes and was paid with money that never existed. I worked hard on projects that were never started, and on a few that did. I befriended people who never knew me. I posed for pictures that were never taken. I am an anomaly. I shouldn't exist, yet I do. I exist in your files, and in the impossible corners of reality, nowhere else. Who am I? I don't know. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-07T21:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Who Am I? - SCP Foundation	78	[ "scp-431", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "advent-calendar-2017", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20552895	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/who-am-i
wondertainment-special-letter	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <em>Document found among the personal effects of D████ W█████, recovered during Operation PURPLE ENVELOPE</em> <blockquote> <p>Dearest Aaron William Coolridge-Yates,</p> <p>You're one of Doctor Wondertainment's absolute bestest customers, ordering more tubes of Realitastic Amaz-o-paint!™ and blocks of Incredi-sculpt Wonderclay™ than <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>ANYONE!!!</strong></span> Doctor Wondertainment is so impressed by your dedication that you get to join a <em><span style="text-decoration: underline;">VERY SPECIAL CLUB!</span></em> reserved for only the most special fans!</p> <p>Included is your <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>VERY OWN</strong></span> membership card for the <span style="text-decoration: underline;">"Doctor Wondertainment's Best Wonder-Pals Clubhouse™!"</span> As a member, you get early access to some of Doctor Wondertainment's up-and-coming toys and games, as well as special offers only for Club Members!</p> <p>But <strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">THAT'S NOT ALL!!</span></strong> You're also getting an early copy of Doctor Wondertainment's newest product: The Build-Your-Own Enormo-gantic Structural Creativity Playset™, part of the new line of Build-Your-Own toys, coming just in time for all winter holidays! It has everything, including plenty of Snap-Tite Super-Dowels™, a full bolt of Doctor Wondertainment's Carbon-nanoweave Ultra-fabric™, and <strong>THREE</strong> full-size Funderful Magnetocubes™!</p> <p>And remember! Always have a funtastic time!</p> <p>Your most joyful Wonder-Pal!<br/> <em><strong>Doctor Wondertainment</strong></em></p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wondertainment-special-letter">Interlude: A Special Letter</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wondertainment-special-letter">https://scpwiki.com/wondertainment-special-letter</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //Document found among the personal effects of D████ W█████, recovered during Operation PURPLE ENVELOPE// > Dearest Aaron William Coolridge-Yates, > > You're one of Doctor Wondertainment's absolute bestest customers, ordering more tubes of Realitastic Amaz-o-paint!™ and blocks of Incredi-sculpt Wonderclay™ than __ANYONE!!!__ Doctor Wondertainment is so impressed by your dedication that you get to join a //__VERY SPECIAL CLUB!__// reserved for only the most special fans! > > Included is your __VERY OWN__ membership card for the __"Doctor Wondertainment's Best Wonder-Pals Clubhouse™!"__ As a member, you get early access to some of Doctor Wondertainment's up-and-coming toys and games, as well as special offers only for Club Members! > > But __THAT'S NOT ALL!!__ You're also getting an early copy of Doctor Wondertainment's newest product: The Build-Your-Own Enormo-gantic Structural Creativity Playset™, part of the new line of Build-Your-Own toys, coming just in time for all winter holidays! It has everything, including plenty of Snap-Tite Super-Dowels™, a full bolt of Doctor Wondertainment's Carbon-nanoweave Ultra-fabric™, and THREE full-size Funderful Magnetocubes™! > > And remember! Always have a funtastic time! > > Your most joyful Wonder-Pal! > //Doctor Wondertainment// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-30T00:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "corporate", "correspondence", "dr-wondertainment", "man-who-wasnt-there", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	Interlude: A Special Letter - SCP Foundation	73	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[]	16239198	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wondertainment-special-letter
worn	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> All that was left was the waste, and in the waste there was nothing. Deserts spanned the Earth, and in one there was a cavern, and at the mouth was a pillar of stone. <p>It was hardly a shape anymore, but the rock had looked like a man once; now the body had been rubbed smooth and far too thin from erosion. The head was almost absent, rubbed to little more than a tumor on the neck. The fingers of the right hand had broken, and nubs were left on the end of a stump. The left was ground almost to the elbow.</p> <p>It was moving inwards, although if anybody had been alive to watch it, they wouldn’t be able to tell.</p> <p>Years later, it would touch the back of the cavern, and begin writing on the walls, again. Already there were other lines scratched into the rock, in a language nobody was left to remember. From centuries earlier, they had only started to fade.</p> <p><em>I saw a flash today. it was so brief I thought I had imagined it, but it was hot, as the mountain had been hot when I was young. then there was fire. nothing was left after that</em></p> <p><em>before everything changed faster than I could keep up</em><br/> <em>trees would grow, seasons would change in moments.</em><br/> <em>now there is nothing left to change</em></p> <p>It reached the back and brought its arm up, grinding for months, and leaving one more line.</p> <p><em>This will have to be my new home</em></p> <p>It finished, satisfied with its journal, unaware of the atomic pace it moved at. As it turned back, it fell. Too fast for the stone man to comprehend, it was on its face, but could not get up. The torso, ground thin from years of erosion, had snapped, breaking his body in two.</p> <p>For decades, the stone man wept in his own way. It would still be centuries before he died.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/worn">Worn</a>" by Captain Cain, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/worn">https://scpwiki.com/worn</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] All that was left was the waste, and in the waste there was nothing. Deserts spanned the Earth, and in one there was a cavern, and at the mouth was a pillar of stone. It was hardly a shape anymore, but the rock had looked like a man once; now the body had been rubbed smooth and far too thin from erosion. The head was almost absent, rubbed to little more than a tumor on the neck. The fingers of the right hand had broken, and nubs were left on the end of a stump. The left was ground almost to the elbow. It was moving inwards, although if anybody had been alive to watch it, they wouldn’t be able to tell. Years later, it would touch the back of the cavern, and begin writing on the walls, again. Already there were other lines scratched into the rock, in a language nobody was left to remember. From centuries earlier, they had only started to fade. //I saw a flash today. it was so brief I thought I had imagined it, but it was hot, as the mountain had been hot when I was young. then there was fire. nothing was left after that// //before everything changed faster than I could keep up// //trees would grow, seasons would change in moments.// //now there is nothing left to change// It reached the back and brought its arm up, grinding for months, and leaving one more line. //This will have to be my new home// It finished, satisfied with its journal, unaware of the atomic pace it moved at. As it turned back, it fell. Too fast for the stone man to comprehend, it was on its face, but could not get up. The torso, ground thin from years of erosion, had snapped, breaking his body in two. For decades, the stone man wept in his own way. It would still be centuries before he died. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-13T15:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Worn - SCP Foundation	101	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19249041	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/worn
wowwee-go-kill-ursefl	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> “Three people have died from your exhibition.” <p>“They signed waivers.”</p> <p>“I’ve got people breathing down my neck, here.”</p> <p>“They all signed waivers. They knew what they were getting into, they were consenting adults.”</p> <p>Ruiz Duchamp’s latest exhibition was, he believed, his masterpiece. An installation that had taken him five months in total to construct, ‘wowwee go kill ursefl’ was his homage to stupidity. He had jumped through so many hoops to absolve himself of responsibility, and yet he was still being slammed by The Man. It was ridiculous.</p> <p>“They’re demanding you get rid of the smallpox.”</p> <p>One of the most popular parts of ‘wowwee’ was ‘stab ursefl with nedles’. It was simply an open box containing needles with samples of the most virulent diseases and deadly poisons in the history of mankind. This was how one of the people had died, after wilfully injecting himself with a deadly dose of everything.</p> <p>“I won’t compromise the integrity of the piece to accommodate for morons.”</p> <p>“You’re going to have to. And the blades have to go too.”</p> <p>The noisiest pieces in the hall, ‘shuv ur figners in blads no. 1-5’, were simply high rotation carbon steel circular saws. They had been painted in bright, primary colours, but besides that, they were perfectly normal, and could easily remove a hand. Two hands had been wilfully removed by critics.</p> <p>“There are warnings everywhere. The whole point of the piece is to put people in easily avoidable, but very real danger. If you recontextualise any of it, it’s worthless.”</p> <p>“Not good enough.”</p> <p>“You’re marching to the drum of The Man.”</p> <p>“I’m trying to save people’s lives.”</p> <p>“You’re trying to save idiots who shove their fingers into bloody saws.”</p> <p>“THE NAME OF THE PIECE TOLD THEM TO!”</p> <p>“Hell, at least I didn’t name anything ‘jump off a bridge’. What a catastrophe that would have been.”</p> <p>Every piece in the exhibit was designed to kill or, at the very least, grievously injure. The one fear that Ruiz had was that some particularly idiotic person would use them to kill or, at the very least, grievously injure another person. Fortunately, this had not yet occurred.</p> <p>“We’ve already taken the C4 from you.”</p> <p>“What? Nobody even used ‘press buten 4 firwroks’, this is downright puritanical!”</p> <p>“Safety comes first. You can’t pull shit like this in my gallery.”</p> <p>“You’re ruining the vision. You saw it before.”</p> <p>“The work’s been recontextualised, the police weren’t breathing down my fucking neck. You need to make everything safe or you need to get it out of here. I regret it, and you know I love the piece, but people are just too stupid for it.”</p> <p>“THAT. IS. THE PURPOSE. OF THE WORK. If you’re too stupid to not know to sit in an electric chair and pull the lever, it’s your own damn fault. Their blood is my canvas.”</p> <p>“I know. I get it. But get it somewhere else. Sorry.”</p> <p>Ruiz was disappointed. He walked into his favourite room, passing the box of cyanide pills saying ‘Complementary, Please Take One’. He moved past the automatic countdown guillotines. He looked passively beyond ‘here paly wit thes knivs’. He had one piece that he’d been saving for a particularly disappointing event. He closed the airtight door, and breathed slowly. Everyone was a fucking idiot. Nobody got it. Nobody REALLY got it. As he turned the knob, liquid nitrogen sprayed across his scalp and flesh. His final thoughts were that it didn’t matter. At least he got it. He really <em>got</em> it. And that was all he needed.</p> <p>‘take shwoer 2 b cul’</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/it-just-shattered">It Just Shattered</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wowwee-go-kill-ursefl">wowwee go kill ursefl</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wowwee-go-kill-ursefl">https://scpwiki.com/wowwee-go-kill-ursefl</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] “Three people have died from your exhibition.” “They signed waivers.” “I’ve got people breathing down my neck, here.” “They all signed waivers. They knew what they were getting into, they were consenting adults.” Ruiz Duchamp’s latest exhibition was, he believed, his masterpiece. An installation that had taken him five months in total to construct, ‘wowwee go kill ursefl’ was his homage to stupidity. He had jumped through so many hoops to absolve himself of responsibility, and yet he was still being slammed by The Man. It was ridiculous. “They’re demanding you get rid of the smallpox.” One of the most popular parts of ‘wowwee’ was ‘stab ursefl with nedles’. It was simply an open box containing needles with samples of the most virulent diseases and deadly poisons in the history of mankind. This was how one of the people had died, after wilfully injecting himself with a deadly dose of everything. “I won’t compromise the integrity of the piece to accommodate for morons.” “You’re going to have to. And the blades have to go too.” The noisiest pieces in the hall, ‘shuv ur figners in blads no. 1-5’, were simply high rotation carbon steel circular saws. They had been painted in bright, primary colours, but besides that, they were perfectly normal, and could easily remove a hand. Two hands had been wilfully removed by critics. “There are warnings everywhere. The whole point of the piece is to put people in easily avoidable, but very real danger. If you recontextualise any of it, it’s worthless.” “Not good enough.” “You’re marching to the drum of The Man.” “I’m trying to save people’s lives.” “You’re trying to save idiots who shove their fingers into bloody saws.” “THE NAME OF THE PIECE TOLD THEM TO!” “Hell, at least I didn’t name anything ‘jump off a bridge’. What a catastrophe that would have been.” Every piece in the exhibit was designed to kill or, at the very least, grievously injure. The one fear that Ruiz had was that some particularly idiotic person would use them to kill or, at the very least, grievously injure another person. Fortunately, this had not yet occurred. “We’ve already taken the C4 from you.” “What? Nobody even used ‘press buten 4 firwroks’, this is downright puritanical!” “Safety comes first. You can’t pull shit like this in my gallery.” “You’re ruining the vision. You saw it before.” “The work’s been recontextualised, the police weren’t breathing down my fucking neck. You need to make everything safe or you need to get it out of here. I regret it, and you know I love the piece, but people are just too stupid for it.” “THAT. IS. THE PURPOSE. OF THE WORK. If you’re too stupid to not know to sit in an electric chair and pull the lever, it’s your own damn fault. Their blood is my canvas.” “I know. I get it. But get it somewhere else. Sorry.” Ruiz was disappointed. He walked into his favourite room, passing the box of cyanide pills saying ‘Complementary, Please Take One’. He moved past the automatic countdown guillotines. He looked passively beyond ‘here paly wit thes knivs’. He had one piece that he’d been saving for a particularly disappointing event. He closed the airtight door, and breathed slowly. Everyone was a fucking idiot. Nobody got it. Nobody REALLY got it. As he turned the knob, liquid nitrogen sprayed across his scalp and flesh. His final thoughts were that it didn’t matter. At least he got it. He really //got// it. And that was all he needed. ‘take shwoer 2 b cul’ [[=]] << [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[It Just Shattered]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-13T09:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "black-comedy", "comedy", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale" ]	wowwee go kill ursefl - SCP Foundation	658	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "it-just-shattered", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "the-scip-squad-podcast-hub", "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "kaktuskast-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20612743	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wowwee-go-kill-ursefl
15-11-2012	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The air was still as snow fell upon a forest clearing outside of Minsk. Here and there a few dead tuffs of grass would appear above the powder, but otherwise the blanket of snow was pristine. At the center was a single, black, pine coffin with a white orthodox cross adorning its lid.</p> <p>By the clearing’s edge stood two men and one woman. Each turned to the others in silence before one, a tall man with a chin coated with a thick layer of stubble, nodded for them to continue. They were Researcher Lee, Researcher Hastings and Agent Navarro. The date was November 15th, 2012. <a href="/scp-1760">SCP-1760-16</a> had returned.</p> <p>Normally, 1760-16 was identical to other 1760 instances save for the name Pyotr Astapenov etched onto the lid. This year, however, twelve additional names were present. Each one belonged to a prominent anartist on the Foundation’s watch list. It was for this reason Agent Navarro, anart specialist, now found himself in Belarus.</p> <p>As they approached the casket, a loud scratching sound could be heard. They stopped moving and watched as a single name appeared etched onto the lid below the others.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Daniel Navarro</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>“That’s… really unsettling.” Researcher Lee commented as she eyed Navarro. Her feet refused to carry her closer.</p> <p>“This is the first time one of the instances has been externally altered. I don’t like this at all.” Researcher Hastings also kept his distance. “What do you think, Navarro?”</p> <p>“Keep to the plan,” Navarro replied. “We’re safe if we don’t open the box.” He coolly gestured for the researchers to proceed.</p> <p>Without another word the two researchers went to work. With the same level of care one might use to clean a glass figurine, they measured, listened, and recorded. Navarro stood at the ready, hand on his pistol as he looked for calamity to strike. As the researchers worked the casket remained silent.</p> <p>Eventually, all requested data had been collected. 1760-16 had failed to produce little more than a creak the entire time. The researchers and agents stepped back and looked upon the coffin quizzically.</p> <p>“This is it?” Lee’s chuckle faded into a frown. “Just names engraved onto the lid?”</p> <p>“It would appear so,” Hastings nervously giggled. “I guess we just wait for the 20th now.”</p> <p>Navarro nodded in agreement. One by one, each made their way back to the nearby facility. Before heading through the door, Agent Navarro gave one last look back at the coffin. His eyes glanced over the white cross that adorned its lid. He felt the coffin staring back. Navarro quietly shivered and turned away, closing the door behind him.</p> <hr/> <p>The next four days came and went without incident. Unfortunately, this made the site personnel more and more uneasy the closer November 20th came. The night of the 19th was by far the worst. Few in the facility could sleep. The rest were fixated on the sword of Damocles sitting in the front yard.</p> <p>This is how Agent Navarro found himself walking towards the clearing at 11:15 PM. The thick trees appeared to twist around him in the dark as he slowly crept through the snow. As he approached the clearing’s edge, three security officers emerged from the trees. Their hands tightly gripped their guns as they moved to intercept the intruder. Upon seeing it was Navarro, the officers frowned, but waved him through with a nod.</p> <p>For a few moments Navarro stood motionless at the edge of the clearing. The moonlight illuminated the snow and cast a white glow on the waiting coffin. By its side, Navarro could make out the silhouette of a woman. He could feel his hand reach for his pistol as he approached, but relaxed after seeing that it was just Researcher Lee.</p> <p>“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.</p> <p>“What… what are you doing out here?” Researcher Lee, gasping, turned on the spot.</p> <p>“I could ask you the same thing,” Navarro replied with a small smile. “This thing really has everyone on edge, doesn’t it?”</p> <p>“You can’t blame them.” Lee turned back to face the coffin as she whispered. She was there in 2006. She remembered how a pig carcass erupted from 1760-16 and exploded in a shower of human bones. One of her colleague’s heads had been pierced by half a femur. A piece of rib had left a deep gash in her right thigh. They remained silent for several minutes before Navarro placed a hand on her shoulder. Lee shivered.</p> <p>“You can’t help but feel the shit is going to hit the fan in the next few seconds. Even if they brought a specialist out to ensure all goes well.” Lee nervously smiled. “No offense.”</p> <p>“None taken,” Navarro said with a shrug. “To be honest I’m not sure what they exactly thought I could do out here. Normally I’m assigned to deal with anart threats, but this object didn’t really give me that ‘anart feel’ when I read its file.”</p> <p>“Well, it was on display when we found it,” Lee replied. “Someone wanted others to see their work.”</p> <p>“Maybe, I mean it does have a ‘hey look at this cool thing’ quality to it. But, pig bombs…”</p> <p>“The 1760-16’s didn’t appear until after we started containing this site, though…” Lee looked at her watch. It was now 11:30 PM. 1760-16 would be gone in 30 minutes.</p> <p>“I can stand watch if you want to head back and try to get some sleep,” Navarro said with a smile. Without a word she returned his smile with a nod. Lee then began to make her way back towards the facility.</p> <p>Navarro turned back to the casket. He waved to the several nearby security cameras before taking a seat on the grass as he waited alone. Fifteen minutes passed. The silence was unbreakable.</p> <p>“Hello, Daniel,” a male voice whispered from the coffin.</p> <p>“Shit!” Navarro jumped to his feet. A shard of ice ran up his spine as he drew his pistol. The security officer were quick to run to his side, but stopped when Navarro held up his hand for them to stand down.</p> <p>“Frightened, are we?” The voice softly chuckled. It spoke English but had a very thick eastern European accent.</p> <p>“Hello there, I guess…” Navarro’s eyes narrowed as he held his gun steady. “Who the hell are you?”</p> <p>“In a prior life I was known as Pyotr Astapenov. I was a skilled mortician, a respected scientist, and a gentleman. If you would be so kind as to open the lid, you may see for yourself.” The voice whispered.</p> <p>“There is no way in hell that’s going to happen,” Navarro replied. “There was nothing anomalous about Pyotr when we poked around his grave. You’ve got a huge hole in your story, pal.”</p> <p>“I was afraid you might say that,” the voice sighed. “They’ve really changed you. Your curiosity has been replaced with certainty. What a shame.”</p> <p>“You sure know a lot about me considering we just met,” Navarro said.</p> <p>“Because I know your breed,” the voice whispered. “You’re an artist. They may have you dress in a suit, hand you a gun, and ask you to apprehend your brethren, Daniel, but you are still an artist at heart. One with a heavily compromised sense of morality, mind you, but an artist all the same.”</p> <p>“I don’t understand,” said Navarro. “Where on earth are you going with this?”</p> <p>“My point is that you don’t want to open this casket to catalogue it like a scientist. You recognize the importance not only in expression, but expression in a manner that is truly unique. I’ve met plenty of men like you, and can guess that it’s torturing you to not know what’s inside this coffin.”</p> <p>The security officers looked at Navarro nervously. All seemed to hold their breath waiting for Navarro’s response.</p> <p>“I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s in your box,” Navarro replied. “Sorry champ, but I’m not opening it.”</p> <p>“So sure of yourself yet again,” the voice said. “Are you afraid that I am just some horror waiting to be let out of my cage? Or, that I just might be Pyotr after all?”</p> <p>“Fuck it. I’m not going to play this game with you.” Navarro shook his head. “What I do saves the lives of both anartists and civilians. If that makes me a sell-out, so be it. I’ll be the biggest sell out ever.” Without another word he took a few steps back and looked at his watch. 11:55 PM.</p> <p>“So be it…” the voice said. There was a crack like a shotgun blast. All of the nails that kept the coffin lid sealed flew out of the wood. Navarro and the security officers readied their weapons. Their eyes widened as the coffin lid creaked open.</p> <p>It was empty.</p> <p>“It must truly be troubling to have sold your soul as you have, Daniel. Regardless of what you say to yourself to allow you to sleep at night, you have sold your soul. It is a shame. You had such promise,” the voice called from inside.</p> <p>Navarro didn’t respond. The last few moments passed in silence. Upon the stroke of midnight the casket began to sink into the earth, eventually vanishing into the ground.</p> <p>“Christ…” Navarro let out a heavy sigh, and sat back down on the ground to gaze at the sky. The report for this was going to be a nightmare.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Navarro stood quietly over the grave of Pyotr Astapenov. He had wasted no time in obtaining clearance to re-exhume the remains. As much as he hated to admit it, the voice had been right to a certain degree about his curiosity. This seemed as good a means as any to put that feeling to rest.</p> <p>Eventually the crew succeeded in reaching Pyotr’s casket. Upon Navarro’s order they opened it. Pyotr’s body was still present and displaying the expected decay of a man buried in 1959. Unfortunately, there was a small piece of paper held tightly within his right hand. One of the crew quietly handed it to Navarro. It contained a single note.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Daniel,</em><br/> <em>I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.</em><br/> <em>See you soon.</em><br/> <em>J. T. H.</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>Navarro sat down on the edge of the grave. He buried the note in his fist as he gave a nervous laugh.</p> <p>“Well shit.”</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>«START \| <a href="/burnt-bridges">Hub</a> \| <a href="/meeting-over-coffee">Meeting Over Coffee</a>»</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/15-11-2012">15-11-2012</a>" by Jacob Conwell, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/15-11-2012">https://scpwiki.com/15-11-2012</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The air was still as snow fell upon a forest clearing outside of Minsk. Here and there a few dead tuffs of grass would appear above the powder, but otherwise the blanket of snow was pristine. At the center was a single, black, pine coffin with a white orthodox cross adorning its lid. By the clearing’s edge stood two men and one woman. Each turned to the others in silence before one, a tall man with a chin coated with a thick layer of stubble, nodded for them to continue. They were Researcher Lee, Researcher Hastings and Agent Navarro. The date was November 15th, 2012. [[[SCP-1760\|SCP-1760-16]]] had returned. Normally, 1760-16 was identical to other 1760 instances save for the name Pyotr Astapenov etched onto the lid. This year, however, twelve additional names were present. Each one belonged to a prominent anartist on the Foundation’s watch list. It was for this reason Agent Navarro, anart specialist, now found himself in Belarus. As they approached the casket, a loud scratching sound could be heard. They stopped moving and watched as a single name appeared etched onto the lid below the others. [[=]] > //Daniel Navarro// [[/=]] “That’s… really unsettling.” Researcher Lee commented as she eyed Navarro. Her feet refused to carry her closer. “This is the first time one of the instances has been externally altered. I don’t like this at all.” Researcher Hastings also kept his distance. “What do you think, Navarro?” “Keep to the plan,” Navarro replied. “We’re safe if we don’t open the box.” He coolly gestured for the researchers to proceed. Without another word the two researchers went to work. With the same level of care one might use to clean a glass figurine, they measured, listened, and recorded. Navarro stood at the ready, hand on his pistol as he looked for calamity to strike. As the researchers worked the casket remained silent. Eventually, all requested data had been collected. 1760-16 had failed to produce little more than a creak the entire time. The researchers and agents stepped back and looked upon the coffin quizzically. “This is it?” Lee’s chuckle faded into a frown. “Just names engraved onto the lid?” “It would appear so,” Hastings nervously giggled. “I guess we just wait for the 20th now.” Navarro nodded in agreement. One by one, each made their way back to the nearby facility. Before heading through the door, Agent Navarro gave one last look back at the coffin. His eyes glanced over the white cross that adorned its lid. He felt the coffin staring back. Navarro quietly shivered and turned away, closing the door behind him. ----- The next four days came and went without incident. Unfortunately, this made the site personnel more and more uneasy the closer November 20th came. The night of the 19th was by far the worst. Few in the facility could sleep. The rest were fixated on the sword of Damocles sitting in the front yard. This is how Agent Navarro found himself walking towards the clearing at 11:15 PM. The thick trees appeared to twist around him in the dark as he slowly crept through the snow. As he approached the clearing’s edge, three security officers emerged from the trees. Their hands tightly gripped their guns as they moved to intercept the intruder. Upon seeing it was Navarro, the officers frowned, but waved him through with a nod. For a few moments Navarro stood motionless at the edge of the clearing. The moonlight illuminated the snow and cast a white glow on the waiting coffin. By its side, Navarro could make out the silhouette of a woman. He could feel his hand reach for his pistol as he approached, but relaxed after seeing that it was just Researcher Lee. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. “What… what are you doing out here?” Researcher Lee, gasping, turned on the spot. “I could ask you the same thing,” Navarro replied with a small smile. “This thing really has everyone on edge, doesn’t it?” “You can’t blame them.” Lee turned back to face the coffin as she whispered. She was there in 2006. She remembered how a pig carcass erupted from 1760-16 and exploded in a shower of human bones. One of her colleague’s heads had been pierced by half a femur. A piece of rib had left a deep gash in her right thigh. They remained silent for several minutes before Navarro placed a hand on her shoulder. Lee shivered. “You can’t help but feel the shit is going to hit the fan in the next few seconds. Even if they brought a specialist out to ensure all goes well.” Lee nervously smiled. “No offense.” “None taken,” Navarro said with a shrug. “To be honest I’m not sure what they exactly thought I could do out here. Normally I’m assigned to deal with anart threats, but this object didn’t really give me that ‘anart feel’ when I read its file.” “Well, it was on display when we found it,” Lee replied. “Someone wanted others to see their work.” “Maybe, I mean it does have a ‘hey look at this cool thing’ quality to it. But, pig bombs…” “The 1760-16’s didn’t appear until after we started containing this site, though…” Lee looked at her watch. It was now 11:30 PM. 1760-16 would be gone in 30 minutes. “I can stand watch if you want to head back and try to get some sleep,” Navarro said with a smile. Without a word she returned his smile with a nod. Lee then began to make her way back towards the facility. Navarro turned back to the casket. He waved to the several nearby security cameras before taking a seat on the grass as he waited alone. Fifteen minutes passed. The silence was unbreakable. “Hello, Daniel,” a male voice whispered from the coffin. “Shit!” Navarro jumped to his feet. A shard of ice ran up his spine as he drew his pistol. The security officer were quick to run to his side, but stopped when Navarro held up his hand for them to stand down. “Frightened, are we?” The voice softly chuckled. It spoke English but had a very thick eastern European accent. “Hello there, I guess…” Navarro’s eyes narrowed as he held his gun steady. “Who the hell are you?” “In a prior life I was known as Pyotr Astapenov. I was a skilled mortician, a respected scientist, and a gentleman. If you would be so kind as to open the lid, you may see for yourself.” The voice whispered. “There is no way in hell that’s going to happen,” Navarro replied. “There was nothing anomalous about Pyotr when we poked around his grave. You’ve got a huge hole in your story, pal.” “I was afraid you might say that,” the voice sighed. “They’ve really changed you. Your curiosity has been replaced with certainty. What a shame.” “You sure know a lot about me considering we just met,” Navarro said. “Because I know your breed,” the voice whispered. “You’re an artist. They may have you dress in a suit, hand you a gun, and ask you to apprehend your brethren, Daniel, but you are still an artist at heart. One with a heavily compromised sense of morality, mind you, but an artist all the same.” “I don’t understand,” said Navarro. “Where on earth are you going with this?” “My point is that you don’t want to open this casket to catalogue it like a scientist. You recognize the importance not only in expression, but expression in a manner that is truly unique. I’ve met plenty of men like you, and can guess that it’s torturing you to not know what’s inside this coffin.” The security officers looked at Navarro nervously. All seemed to hold their breath waiting for Navarro’s response. “I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s in your box,” Navarro replied. “Sorry champ, but I’m not opening it.” “So sure of yourself yet again,” the voice said. “Are you afraid that I am just some horror waiting to be let out of my cage? Or, that I just might be Pyotr after all?” “Fuck it. I’m not going to play this game with you.” Navarro shook his head. “What I do saves the lives of both anartists and civilians. If that makes me a sell-out, so be it. I’ll be the biggest sell out ever.” Without another word he took a few steps back and looked at his watch. 11:55 PM. “So be it…” the voice said. There was a crack like a shotgun blast. All of the nails that kept the coffin lid sealed flew out of the wood. Navarro and the security officers readied their weapons. Their eyes widened as the coffin lid creaked open. It was empty. “It must truly be troubling to have sold your soul as you have, Daniel. Regardless of what you say to yourself to allow you to sleep at night, you have sold your soul. It is a shame. You had such promise,” the voice called from inside. Navarro didn’t respond. The last few moments passed in silence. Upon the stroke of midnight the casket began to sink into the earth, eventually vanishing into the ground. “Christ…” Navarro let out a heavy sigh, and sat back down on the ground to gaze at the sky. The report for this was going to be a nightmare. ----- Agent Navarro stood quietly over the grave of Pyotr Astapenov. He had wasted no time in obtaining clearance to re-exhume the remains. As much as he hated to admit it, the voice had been right to a certain degree about his curiosity. This seemed as good a means as any to put that feeling to rest. Eventually the crew succeeded in reaching Pyotr’s casket. Upon Navarro’s order they opened it. Pyotr’s body was still present and displaying the expected decay of a man buried in 1959. Unfortunately, there was a small piece of paper held tightly within his right hand. One of the crew quietly handed it to Navarro. It contained a single note. [[=]] > //Daniel,// > //I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.// > //See you soon.// > //J. T. H.// [[/=]] Navarro sat down on the edge of the grave. He buried the note in his fist as he gave a nervous laugh. “Well shit.” [[=]] <<START \| [[[Burnt Bridges\|Hub]]] \| [[[meeting-over-coffee\|Meeting Over Coffee]]]>> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-08-06T17:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "agent-navarro", "mystery", "tale", "twisted-pines" ]	15-11-2012 - SCP Foundation	132	[ "scp-1760", "burnt-bridges", "meeting-over-coffee", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "those-twisted-pines-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "burnt-bridges" ]	[]	23230053	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/15-11-2012
20-584	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> You rest your head against the bus window, briefly closing your eyes. The jolts and bumps making your jaw rattle aren't enough to distract you. The cool glass doesn't help, either. You can't stop thinking about the day. <hr/> <p>Like usual, you arrive late. Mr. Vincent is halfway through the roll so, of course, you've missed your name. Everyone laughs as you rush in, red-faced from both running and embarrassment. Desperately looking round for somewhere to sit, you notice with a sinking feeling that all the seats are taken except on Edward's table. You'll have to sit next to him. This isn't new, but you can't help yourself hoping every day that maybe Kyle will have left you a space, or Harrison. Aren't they your friends, after all?</p> <p><em>No</em>, says a voice inside you. <em>You want them to be your friends, but they don't want to be yours. No-one wants to be your friend.</em></p> <p>Except Edward, of course. Edward wants to be friends with everyone. He beams at you in the way he always does, and honks "Want to hear a joke?" in his too-loud voice as you throw your bag under the table, shrug out of your jacket, and sit down, trying to get your breathing under control.</p> <p>"Not right now, Edward," says Mr. Vincent calmly. "Everyone settle down. Now. Samantha Lopez?"</p> <p>"Here!" says Samantha brightly. She is sitting at the table one away from you, and after answering the teacher, turns to look at you. You look away quickly, but she's seen you looking, and turns to Heather with a giggle, whispering something. You feel your face warming up again as all the girls on the table titter.</p> <p>Edward is tugging at your arm. "Why did the cat cross the road?" he blares. "Because it farted! Look, I drawed a picture for you!"</p> <p>If only you could sink under the desk. Already you can tell this is going to be the worst day.</p> <hr/> <p>You sit on one of the benches in a tucked-away corner of the playground at recess. Kyle and Harrison don't want to play with you. They said that their game of soccer already had enough players, and any more would be too many, but you saw that they were struggling against Brendan, Ray, and Reese. You swing your legs as you try to think what you've done to upset them.</p> <p>"Hey!" You look up to see Samantha and Heather walking towards you, grinning broadly. "Want to play with us?" calls Heather.</p> <p><em>This is probably a trick,</em> you think to yourself. But you can't quite let go of the possibility, so maybe you should see what they want.</p> <p>"We were going to play - achoo!" Samantha says, faking a sneeze.</p> <p>"Bless you!" says Heather to Samantha, smiling. "Our - achoo!"</p> <p>"Something - achoo! - is making me - achoo! - sneeze!" says Samantha. "Is it - achoo! - is it him?"</p> <p>"It is!" shrieks Heather. "He's got - achoo! - he's got cooties!"</p> <p>"Cooties! Achoo! Cooties!" sings Samantha.</p> <p>"Quick!" shouts Heather. "Run away before you catch it or - achoo! - you'll sneeze your brains out through your nose!"</p> <p>You shake your head as they skip away laughing and still pretending to sneeze. Why was that funny? Why you?</p> <p>You slip down and sit on the floor with your back resting against the bench. The loose earth around the base of the bench has a few small stones scattered around, and you idly pick them up and start tossing them over the fence into the woods that border the school. You notice there's a leaf on one of the tree branches which is a different colour to the rest, and you aim your stones towards it. It's absorbing your interest, peaceful and fun -</p> <p>"Hey, what are you doing?" Edward's thick voice intrudes upon you from right behind the bench. "Are you throwing stones? Can I have a go?"</p> <p>The boy lurches happily around the bench and squats down clumsily to pick up some stones.<br/> Grabbing a whole handful of little pebbles and grit, he flings them in the direction of the trees, still in a squatting position.</p> <p>You're suddenly overcome with anger. You were almost starting to enjoy yourself, forgetting the rejection of the boys and the taunting of the girls. And now this idiot comes blundering in interrupting with his loudness and awkwardness.</p> <p>You hurl the last stone you've been gripping with extra strength, and just at that moment, Edward, who has been shuffling backwards rummaging through the soil while still squatting down, stands up.</p> <p>Horrified, you watch as the pebble, slightly larger than a marble, hits the boy in the forehead. His expression goes immediately from its usual wide grin into an open-mouthed look of pure shock. He can't quite believe it. His hand starts to drift up towards his head, and then the pain kicks in, and the corners of his mouth drop and he starts to wail.</p> <p>Your stomach turns itself upside down. You didn't want that to happen. You didn't want to hurt him. You're going to get in <em>so much trouble</em> for this.</p> <p>But a small part of you smiles, and is glad.</p> <hr/> <p>Quarter to three. School's nearly over, but while some of the lucky kids go home, you have to go to day care, like a baby. Mama and Daddy say you're not old enough to be in the house alone, and they have to work, but that's just not fair. You'd be fine by yourself.</p> <p>Day care is almost unbearable. The other kids are bad enough at school, and there's the teachers there who can actually punish them. Under the well-meaning but useless gestures of Debby and the other day care women, it's hell.</p> <p>You're just about to get on the bus when you hear your name called. You look back, and Mr. Vincent is beckoning to you from his class door. He's saying something about report, and your heart sinks. You kind of thought you'd got away with the thing with Edward, but now it looks like you'll be put on report, and then Mama will be sad again, and Daddy will just look at you with the disappointment in his eyes even worse.</p> <p>Mr Vincent looks at you, and gestures to sit down. He doesn't look as stern as you'd feared; if anything, he looks anxious. You've never had any real trouble with Mr. Vincent: he's not your favourite teacher, but he's not angry like Mr. Lenny or nasty like Miss Debrah. You shift your weight about, wondering when he's going to begin speaking. He doesn't seem to know where to start.</p> <p>"Look, I know it's difficult with Edward. He can be annoying, and you don't always want him around." Mr. Vincent holds up a hand to stop your explanation. "I don't think you hurt him on purpose. I know you don't like him, but I don't think you're the kind of boy to do that. I know how much it upsets you when Harrison and Kyle won't spend time with you, when the girls tease you. I wish I could do something. I don't know why no-one seems to want to be your friend - apart from Edward, and he just wants to be everyone's friend. I know what it's like to feel like - to feel like no-one wants you. To think you're nothing but an annoyance in everyone's lives."</p> <p>Mr. Vincent is pacing around, talking quickly and stumbling a little over his words. You're almost a bit worried. Mr. Vincent doesn't seem like a teacher any more. He smiles suddenly, weakly.</p> <p>"Now I'm scaring you. Teachers aren't supposed to be human, are we? We're adults - right? The enemy. No-one expects us to try to - to get close to you, to be real with you.</p> <p>"But I - I think I need your help. There's something I'm trying to do, something I'm trying to <em>make</em>, and I need someone else to help me. I'm close now - real close, I'm about to get it. I really think I can do it!"</p> <p>He stops walking and looks at you directly. "Will you help me?</p> <hr/> <p>The memories fade away as you climb down the bus steps, shaking your head. What an awful day. And now you're … you're at the local high school? What's going on? Weren't you supposed to be going to day care? Why are you back here? What happened after you left school? And why does the Mission High School look so… old?</p> <hr/> <p>Researcher Grant buries his face in his hands as the door closes behind the small boy carrying an orange jumpsuit over one arm. It never gets any easier.</p> <p>With a deep sigh, he opens the tracking document and registers the arrival of <a href="/scp-1680">SCP-1680</a> instance number 20,584.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/20-584">20,584</a>" by Litfried, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/20-584">https://scpwiki.com/20-584</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] You rest your head against the bus window, briefly closing your eyes. The jolts and bumps making your jaw rattle aren't enough to distract you. The cool glass doesn't help, either. You can't stop thinking about the day. ------ Like usual, you arrive late. Mr. Vincent is halfway through the roll so, of course, you've missed your name. Everyone laughs as you rush in, red-faced from both running and embarrassment. Desperately looking round for somewhere to sit, you notice with a sinking feeling that all the seats are taken except on Edward's table. You'll have to sit next to him. This isn't new, but you can't help yourself hoping every day that maybe Kyle will have left you a space, or Harrison. Aren't they your friends, after all? //No//, says a voice inside you. //You want them to be your friends, but they don't want to be yours. No-one wants to be your friend.// Except Edward, of course. Edward wants to be friends with everyone. He beams at you in the way he always does, and honks "Want to hear a joke?" in his too-loud voice as you throw your bag under the table, shrug out of your jacket, and sit down, trying to get your breathing under control. "Not right now, Edward," says Mr. Vincent calmly. "Everyone settle down. Now. Samantha Lopez?" "Here!" says Samantha brightly. She is sitting at the table one away from you, and after answering the teacher, turns to look at you. You look away quickly, but she's seen you looking, and turns to Heather with a giggle, whispering something. You feel your face warming up again as all the girls on the table titter. Edward is tugging at your arm. "Why did the cat cross the road?" he blares. "Because it farted! Look, I drawed a picture for you!" If only you could sink under the desk. Already you can tell this is going to be the worst day. ------ You sit on one of the benches in a tucked-away corner of the playground at recess. Kyle and Harrison don't want to play with you. They said that their game of soccer already had enough players, and any more would be too many, but you saw that they were struggling against Brendan, Ray, and Reese. You swing your legs as you try to think what you've done to upset them. "Hey!" You look up to see Samantha and Heather walking towards you, grinning broadly. "Want to play with us?" calls Heather. //This is probably a trick,// you think to yourself. But you can't quite let go of the possibility, so maybe you should see what they want. "We were going to play - achoo!" Samantha says, faking a sneeze. "Bless you!" says Heather to Samantha, smiling. "Our - achoo!" "Something - achoo! - is making me - achoo! - sneeze!" says Samantha. "Is it - achoo! - is it him?" "It is!" shrieks Heather. "He's got - achoo! - he's got cooties!" "Cooties! Achoo! Cooties!" sings Samantha. "Quick!" shouts Heather. "Run away before you catch it or - achoo! - you'll sneeze your brains out through your nose!" You shake your head as they skip away laughing and still pretending to sneeze. Why was that funny? Why you? You slip down and sit on the floor with your back resting against the bench. The loose earth around the base of the bench has a few small stones scattered around, and you idly pick them up and start tossing them over the fence into the woods that border the school. You notice there's a leaf on one of the tree branches which is a different colour to the rest, and you aim your stones towards it. It's absorbing your interest, peaceful and fun - "Hey, what are you doing?" Edward's thick voice intrudes upon you from right behind the bench. "Are you throwing stones? Can I have a go?" The boy lurches happily around the bench and squats down clumsily to pick up some stones. Grabbing a whole handful of little pebbles and grit, he flings them in the direction of the trees, still in a squatting position. You're suddenly overcome with anger. You were almost starting to enjoy yourself, forgetting the rejection of the boys and the taunting of the girls. And now this idiot comes blundering in interrupting with his loudness and awkwardness. You hurl the last stone you've been gripping with extra strength, and just at that moment, Edward, who has been shuffling backwards rummaging through the soil while still squatting down, stands up. Horrified, you watch as the pebble, slightly larger than a marble, hits the boy in the forehead. His expression goes immediately from its usual wide grin into an open-mouthed look of pure shock. He can't quite believe it. His hand starts to drift up towards his head, and then the pain kicks in, and the corners of his mouth drop and he starts to wail. Your stomach turns itself upside down. You didn't want that to happen. You didn't want to hurt him. You're going to get in //so much trouble// for this. But a small part of you smiles, and is glad. ------ Quarter to three. School's nearly over, but while some of the lucky kids go home, you have to go to day care, like a baby. Mama and Daddy say you're not old enough to be in the house alone, and they have to work, but that's just not fair. You'd be fine by yourself. Day care is almost unbearable. The other kids are bad enough at school, and there's the teachers there who can actually punish them. Under the well-meaning but useless gestures of Debby and the other day care women, it's hell. You're just about to get on the bus when you hear your name called. You look back, and Mr. Vincent is beckoning to you from his class door. He's saying something about report, and your heart sinks. You kind of thought you'd got away with the thing with Edward, but now it looks like you'll be put on report, and then Mama will be sad again, and Daddy will just look at you with the disappointment in his eyes even worse. Mr Vincent looks at you, and gestures to sit down. He doesn't look as stern as you'd feared; if anything, he looks anxious. You've never had any real trouble with Mr. Vincent: he's not your favourite teacher, but he's not angry like Mr. Lenny or nasty like Miss Debrah. You shift your weight about, wondering when he's going to begin speaking. He doesn't seem to know where to start. "Look, I know it's difficult with Edward. He can be annoying, and you don't always want him around." Mr. Vincent holds up a hand to stop your explanation. "I don't think you hurt him on purpose. I know you don't like him, but I don't think you're the kind of boy to do that. I know how much it upsets you when Harrison and Kyle won't spend time with you, when the girls tease you. I wish I could do something. I don't know why no-one seems to want to be your friend - apart from Edward, and he just wants to be everyone's friend. I know what it's like to feel like - to feel like no-one wants you. To think you're nothing but an annoyance in everyone's lives." Mr. Vincent is pacing around, talking quickly and stumbling a little over his words. You're almost a bit worried. Mr. Vincent doesn't seem like a teacher any more. He smiles suddenly, weakly. "Now I'm scaring you. Teachers aren't supposed to be human, are we? We're adults - right? The enemy. No-one expects us to try to - to get close to you, to be real with you. "But I - I think I need your help. There's something I'm trying to do, something I'm trying to //make//, and I need someone else to help me. I'm close now - real close, I'm about to get it. I really think I can do it!" He stops walking and looks at you directly. "Will you help me? ------ The memories fade away as you climb down the bus steps, shaking your head. What an awful day. And now you're ... you're at the local high school? What's going on? Weren't you supposed to be going to day care? Why are you back here? What happened after you left school? And why does the Mission High School look so... old? ------ Researcher Grant buries his face in his hands as the door closes behind the small boy carrying an orange jumpsuit over one arm. It never gets any easier. With a deep sigh, he opens the tracking document and registers the arrival of [[[SCP-1680]]] instance number 20,584. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-03-12T11:03:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	20,584 - SCP Foundation	33	[ "scp-1680", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21711275	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/20-584
20-goto-10	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=4&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/component%3Abhl-dark-sidebar/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/exit-history">...</a></p> <p>A black sedan rolled down the street, electric quiet in the dead of night, toward "The Rusty Cam". A true hole in the wall, this place. Dumpster overflowing out front, smoke pouring from all the vents, windows and doors. True to its name the place smelled of petrol and motor oil and coolant and burnt rubber. No one with a net worth over $20K would be caught dead there. Exactly the atmosphere required for this particular brand of meeting hall.</p> <p>Or Church. Same thing, really.</p> <p>The driver threw the car into park, and mashed the "Stop" button on the dash. His forehead rested on the steering wheel a moment as he steeled himself up for the night's task. A furtive glance to the briefcase in his passenger seat. A dry swallow. He closed his eyes and tried to think of this meeting for what it was. To remind himself that he was allowed to be here (strictly speaking). That this had 'already happened' from a certain point of view. It did little good.</p> <p>"…Fuck it."</p> <p>His hands wrapped around the plastic handle of the case, and he stepped into the night, glasses fogging in the muggy heat. Past the threshold, he counted no less than 23 eyes trained upon his person (some of them were probably even human). The man cleared his throat and pressed forward into the wolfs' den, heading straight to the bar.</p> <p>2245 MDT, 18 July 2031 CE. A Friday. 36 degrees in Edmonton that day…</p> <p>"…what can I do for you?" the bartender asked.</p> <p>"Your finest 5w-30. Straight." He had a seat.</p> <p>The bartender cocked his head to the side. "You sure about that? I don't think I've seen you around before."</p> <p>"A whiskey while I wait, then," the man said, placing the briefcase on the bar and patting it twice. "…For your 'manager', of course."</p> <p>The bartender's tongue clucked (No… <em>ticked</em>. That was definitely a tick.) once, and a glass was filled with amber oblivion and placed before the visitor. "It might take a while. He's a very busy man."</p> <p>"Tell him '<a href="/broken-mind">Book of Pieces, 12:6.</a>'" the visitor said. "Don't worry, I'm expected."</p> <p>"I never heard about it."</p> <p>"I don't expect you would."</p> <p>"Look, who are you, <em>really</em>?" the bartender demanded.</p> <p>…And then someone over the visitor's shoulder whispered the word 'foundation,' with a <em>capital</em> f.</p> <p>The visitor was now acutely aware of the silence in the rest of the bar. No music, no conversation. Just the slow ticking of machinery, the soft hiss of release valves, and the hum of cooling fans. It was true, then. He had definitely come to the right place. And that was all the more terrifying.</p> <p>The visitor took up his glass and downed what must have been 90 mL of bottom-shelf Bourbon and hacked up half of a lung. He had already been quiet too long. Anything but the truth would be sniffed out in an instant. But perhaps he could get away with telling only <em>half</em>.</p> <p>"I am a traveler. From faaaar and away. I have come to barter for a service." The visitor took hold of the briefcase and opened it, revealing the <a href="/scp-635">leather-bound codex</a> within. On its face was a single roman numeral: 'XXXV'. "Do you know what this is?"</p> <p>The bartender's eyes opened so wide that one of them slid out 20 cm on a stalk, adjusted focus, and snapped back. "…That's not…" He began to reach for it, but the lid to the case slammed closed on his fingertips. "OW!"</p> <p>"Yes. It is," the visitor asserted. "This interview is concluded. Either eject me from the premises or get your manager. I no longer care which." His palms were wet and his mouth was dry, but they bought it. The bartender poured a double out of a brown, unmarked bottle and hurried into the back. Top-shelf, home-made stuff this time. No junk in it, clear as a bell. Tasted like new-car smell with a hint of old-world coriander and nutmeg. By the time he was finished, a woman he did not recognize was standing in the doorway, silently beckoning him to follow with one cybernetic arm; a civilian appliance, by the look of it. That was one thing Church-goers liked about the slow creep of trans-humanism. It made it easier to blend in.</p> <p><em>Don't worry</em>, he thought silently into the room around him. <em>Your time will come… You'll all get to sing your hallelujahs out loud like the rest of them.</em></p> <p>The metal-armed woman and a man made primarily of bronze duct work stood like a wall in the archway. The woman stepped forward and nodded. "I am Acolyte Henrietta Ford, this is Militant Clutch. Please open your jacket and spread your arms."</p> <p>The visitor looked back and forth between the two of them and decided that it was too close to call, and so he would comply. He opened his coat to rest on his shoulders and spread his arms. "Careful with the case. That's the only copy."</p> <p>"Careful yourself, heathen," Clutch puffed, and took the briefcase from the visitor's hand. A series of lenses clicked into place in front of his left eye.</p> <p>Henrietta flipped her cybernetic hand around three times to reveal some kind of scanning apparatus that the visitor could not quite place. It swept up one side of him and down the other making a bunch of meaningless noise, and Henrietta's pupils swallowed her irises whole as the data streamed in. "…Wow."</p> <p>The visitor nodded. "Yup."</p> <p>"That's…" She stammered. "It's a lot. For a jailor, anyway."</p> <p>"You'd be surprised."</p> <p>Clutch shoved the case into the visitor's chest with a grunt. "The case is clean."</p> <p>Henrietta nodded and grabbed the visitor by the shoulder, ushering him forward roughly. "A few things need to be clear before you meet the Reverend Automaton."</p> <p>"The Reverend <em>what</em>?"</p> <p>"Automaton," Clutch said roughly. "His Holiness Reverend Fourier 7, fourth generation of the Design. No more questions, heathen. Listen now."</p> <p>"First," Henrietta continued, "any hostile action on your part will be met with immediate deadly force. Second, our cooperation with you today in no way implies continued cooperation with you or any other party associated with the Foundation. Thirdly-"</p> <p>"With all due respect, Ms. Ford, please don't mistake me for an errand boy. I'm here on my own."</p> <p>"All the more reason for us to be suspicious," Clutch hissed quietly, and reached for the doorknob with a single brass claw. "Watch yourself closely. For your own sake."</p> <p>The room had no air conditioning, only a large exhaust fan bellowing a constant 65 dB through the tiny space. Behind the desk sat an automaton of some kind, but not the sort one would expect was once a man, like his escort. Five lenses stared at him dispassionately from a central mass, held aloft by four of its eight appendages. The other four, each with their own lenses attached, busily shuffled and marked and scooted and filed papers away with rapid precision. The being adjusted focus twice, and produced a brass horn from the top of its central body.</p> <p>"Greetings," the automaton clamored. "I am Fourier 7. We have been expecting you, Doctor-"</p> <p>"I would prefer if my name was not spoken aloud in this establishment," the visitor interrupted. "I am not a moron."</p> <p>The being's lens shutters fluttered audibly (all of them), which would have sounded vaugely of laughter if one had cotton in their ears. "Do you insinuate?" it asked.</p> <p>"I do not," the visitor replied, "but the Foundation has ears even in places as hidden as this. Prudence demands discretion."</p> <p>"Very well. Please present the volume for validation."</p> <p>The visitor took a deep, nervous breath, and opened the briefcase again, very gently placing it on the desk before him. "The Design of the Mind, Volume 35 of 36. I believe it is the only one you are missing."</p> <p>One of Fourier 7's appendages finished its filing task, and swung over to the desk, analyzing the codex from multiple angles. Carefully, it opened the cover, and with a wheeled attachment clearly designed for the purpose, flipped through all 1378 pages in less than 10 seconds. Its shutters blinked closed twice, and the lenses focused on the visitor yet again. "The volume appears valid, with 99.95% confidence. However, the condition of this volume is in-congruent with its age by nearly seven centuries. How was it obtained?"</p> <p>"Never mind that. Are you satisfied with its authenticity or not?"</p> <p>The Henrietta and Clutch looked at one another in solemn silence, and then at Fourier 7 expectantly as small fitted gears in its trunk clacked and clicked and shifted against one another. Its lenses shifted back and forth between the visitor and the volume several times before the cacophonous clickety-clack finally quieted, and the automaton spoke.</p> <p>"I am satisfied. What is your price?"</p> <p>The visitor let out a long breath before beginning. "I am currently host to a Mark XXV Cerebellar Device, which has had its wireless transceiver removed. I can't file a claim through my company health insurance for reasons which should be obvious… So I want a good Maxwellian surgeon to repair it."</p> <p>Fourier 7 stopped all of its ancillary filing and fixed on the visitor with his full attention. Faster than he could blink, the visitor's glasses were removed, head cocked to the side and skin at the base of his skull probed by a cold, metallic something. He tried to struggle, but his two attendants grabbed his arms and pinned him to his seat. A magnifier lens was placed over his eye, and from somewhere within, a light scanned his retina from top to bottom, left to right. As quickly as the probing began, it ended, and the visitor fell back, suddenly quite exhausted. He checked his neck and found that he was bleeding, thought it wasn't serious and would probably stop within the hour. He pressed a handkerchief on it firmly, sat up straight through the woozy, and regained his spectacles. The dirty look shot in Henrietta and Clutch's direction was not returned.</p> <p>"Your claim appears to be genuine," Fourier 7 said finally. "But again I am confused. The current generation Cerebellar Device developed by our Maxwellian brothers has been designated Mark II, and is not yet available for general installation."</p> <p>"It will be, though, within this calendar year. And although the components have changed, the architecture of the device should be familiar enough to your surgeon that he can solder a goddamn <em>pin</em>!"</p> <p>"Sir, please relax. Since my assembly, I have waited over 200 years to read this volume. I would be remiss to deny your request." Fourier 7 made a sort of nodding motion to Henrietta. She stepped forward and picked up the receiver of an old touch-tone phone, dialed a number, and spoke a screeching series of fax machine sounds into the receiver. "My assistants will furnish you with lodging for the evening. In the event that the Foundation discovers your capability has been restored, I believe it goes without saying that this transaction is not to be mentioned."</p> <p>"Of course," the visitor said, slowly climbing to his feet.</p> <p>"It is a very serious thing you have done for us, Doctor," Fourier 7 said, extending an appendage to take the visitor's hand. "I hope one day you will understand how serious."</p> <p>"I do," the visitor said with a smile. "'Broken are we in his image, that we might make him whole'. Isn't that how it goes?"</p> <p>Fourier 7's shutters flapped open and closed wildly as it heard this. "Indeed, it is. Good journey to you, Doctor. May you be forever whole."</p> <p>The visitor was led up to a small clean room on the fifth floor, carried some of the way as his head refused to clear. "Have I been drugged?" he asked his attendants. "I feel like… like I've lost a <em>lot</em> of blood or something."</p> <p>"It's normal," Henrietta responded. "The Reverend's examination required a full system diagnostic on your Cerebellar Device. I wear a Mark I myself. The effect can sometimes be quite draining." Slowly the two escorts lowered the visitor onto a bed and placed two pills and a glass of clear water on the side table.</p> <p>"These sedatives will keep you unconscious, but physically responsive through your surgery," she continued. "Take them as soon as possible. You will awaken in 18-24 hours in the Edmonton Garden Inn/Hilton. Your vehicle will be in a reserved space in their parking garage. Check-out will not be required. If you are in any way dissatisfied or require technical support, a number you can call will be provided. Do you have any other questions?"</p> <p>The visitor shook his head and waved the escorts out of the room, downing the pills as quickly as he could.</p> <hr/> <p>On the morning of July 1, 1999, Agent Burt Tomlin sat idling in a black sedan, smoking too many cigarettes to kill the time and resting his foot on the accelerator to keep the engine from stalling. Two hours late. Dr. Thaddeus Xyank was <em>never</em> late. He was just about to radio in an emergency and book it back to Site-17 when an innocuous door down the street swung open, and a very groggy looking theoretical physicist carefully stepped out of it and down to the sidewalk. Tomlin honked the horn just once to get his attention, and Dr. Xyank, eyes puffy, ear bandaged, and face red methodically walked to meet him.</p> <p>"…You okay?" Tomlin asked.</p> <p>"I… Yeah, I'm fine. I… There's…" Dr. Xyank's voice was cracking. He took off his glasses and vigorously rubbed his eyes. "It's a lot to take in, you know? I just… I need a minute."</p> <p>Tomlin nodded and pulled deftly into traffic. "Everything go alright?"</p> <p>Dr. Xyank looked dead ahead as Tomlin's phone buzzed in his pocket. Tomlin picked it up, noted the "unknown" number, and answered. "This is Homer Simpson, who's calling?"</p> <p>~<em>Everything went fine</em>.~ said the voice of Dr. Xyank on the line.</p> <p>Tomlin blinked, looked at the cell in his hand, and then back to his passenger before putting the phone back to his ear. "…Doc?"</p> <p>Dr. Xyank smiled in his seat, chest bopping up and down in silent laughter. ~<em>Yeah, it's me. See me waving?</em>~. He looked Tomlin dead in the face and waved like a big grinning idiot. ~<em>It's like I can see again. You can't… You can't imagine how good this feels</em>.~</p> <p>Tomlin smirked and hung up the phone. "Very cool. So… what now?"</p> <p>"Don't worry about it," Dr. Xyank said as that stupid-happy smile spread ever wider across his face. All at once he watched TV, listened to the radio, and logged on to every wireless network he could find as they passed. "Everything is under control."</p> <p><em>And lord willing,</em> he thought to himself, <em>all 'god's' children know well enough to wait to strike until the iron is hot.</em> Though he wasn't quite sure, even though he'd seen it himself. Patience was, after all, a virtue best left to God.</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">...</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Epilogue:</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>"Nothing?!" Clutch screeched in shock. "NOTHING?!"</p> <p>"Relax, brother Militant," Fourier 7 said quietly as it placed the volume in a small, unobtrusive fire-safe near its desk. "Your will-pressure is exceeding standard tolerances."</p> <p>Clutch puffed loudly as his relief valve opened, and his Mark VII weaponized exoskeleton fell slack around what was left of his biological form. "…With all due respect to the Patriarch, 200 years delay in reassembly is plenty long enough. Why do we not act?"</p> <p>"Because, brother Militant, it is the logical thing to do. The heart is stopped. God's ichor is known to our enemy and isolate. The soul is lost to us. The eye sees only the profanity of the heathen jailers. We will not continue building the God, because at present we have no God to build."</p> <p>"But couldn't those parts be rebuilt?" Henrietta asked. "I mean… I know the Mind could not be, but surely the other pieces are not out of our grasp!"</p> <p>"They are not," Fourier 7 replied, sliding its trunk into a small slot in the floor. From beneath, a small electric motor rose and spun the crank in Fourier 7's base, winding him in seconds. "But there are many factors to consider. Creating these new parts in the image of our Lord would require extraordinary expense and risk. Have we forgotten the Surrey incident of 2004?"</p> <p>Henrietta sighed and nodded, folding her arms tightly. "I know, 'When you go in foreign lands, go in secret and in disguise.' But we have been hiding for so many centuries…"</p> <p>"Please, sister. Do not attempt to instruct me as to the anguish of waiting," Fourier 7 scolded gently. "Children of your generation have difficulty waiting for 200 ms, let alone 200 years."</p> <p>"Forgive me," Henrietta bade, half-heartedly.</p> <p>"Pardon my bluntness," Clutch injected, "but what value is this object if we are not making use of it?"</p> <p>Fourier 7's gears ground against one another in frustration, but the ugly sounds within were short lived. With a single appendage, it opened the safe, and conveyed the volume, open to a random page, into Clutch's line of sight. "What do you see here, Militant? What marks are on this page?"</p> <p>Clutch turned up his nose at the document and turned his head away. "Absorbing information through the use of digital binary is heresy. I will not!"</p> <p>Henrietta's eyes would have fallen out of her head if they were not soldered in place. Clutch could not have just said what she thought he said. She played back the recorded sound-byte just to be sure. 'binary…binary…digital binary is heresy'… By WAN, he <em>had</em>!</p> <p>"Am I a heretic, Militant?" Fourier demanded.</p> <p>"No, Reverend."</p> <p>"Yet I read and understand this document. Do you say that I am forbidden?"</p> <p>Clutch crossed his arms and stayed quiet, as Militants are often instructed to do when they find themselves disagreeing with their betters.</p> <p>"So… This is… This is a message written in machine code?" Henrietta asked. "A message, dictated by the Six Angels of WAN directly to our faithful scribes almost a thousand years ago… And it's in <em>machine code</em>?"</p> <p>Fourier 7 lowered the volume and turned several lenses to face her, shutters fluttering slowly. "If this was true, it would seem that such a discovery, if taken by Father Bumaro before the Patriarchs and the Administrators, might do much to re-cast our broken Church. Would it not?"</p> <p>"Yes, Reverend Automaton," Henrietta said with a cautious smile. "It would indeed."</p> <p>"Enough to justify a small free service to a jailer, brother?" Fourier 7 asked Militant Clutch.</p> <p>The Militant said nothing. He had nothing more to say. History and God would find the truth in it. Such pursuits required patience he did not possess. It was, after all, a virtue best left to God.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/document-1780-wl">Part 5: Document 1780-WL</a> \| <a href="/welcome-to-delta-t">Hub</a> \| <a href="/set-up-thine-altar-here">Part 7: Set Up Thine Altar Here</a></strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/20-goto-10">20 GOTO 10</a>" by HammerMaiden, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/20-goto-10">https://scpwiki.com/20-goto-10</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="/theme:black-highlighter-theme">theme:black-highlighter-theme</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:bhl-dark-sidebar">:scp-wiki:component:bhl-dark-sidebar</a>]] [[module CSS]] :root { --header-title: "RCT-Δt"; --header-subtitle: "Secure the Past. Contain the Present. Protect the Future."; --logo-image: url("http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/welcome-to-delta-t/Delta-t-transparent.png");` [[/module]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [http://www.scp-wiki.net/exit-history ...] A black sedan rolled down the street, electric quiet in the dead of night, toward "The Rusty Cam". A true hole in the wall, this place. Dumpster overflowing out front, smoke pouring from all the vents, windows and doors. True to its name the place smelled of petrol and motor oil and coolant and burnt rubber. No one with a net worth over $20K would be caught dead there. Exactly the atmosphere required for this particular brand of meeting hall. Or Church. Same thing, really. The driver threw the car into park, and mashed the "Stop" button on the dash. His forehead rested on the steering wheel a moment as he steeled himself up for the night's task. A furtive glance to the briefcase in his passenger seat. A dry swallow. He closed his eyes and tried to think of this meeting for what it was. To remind himself that he was allowed to be here (strictly speaking). That this had 'already happened' from a certain point of view. It did little good. "...Fuck it." His hands wrapped around the plastic handle of the case, and he stepped into the night, glasses fogging in the muggy heat. Past the threshold, he counted no less than 23 eyes trained upon his person (some of them were probably even human). The man cleared his throat and pressed forward into the wolfs' den, heading straight to the bar. 2245 MDT, 18 July 2031 CE. A Friday. 36 degrees in Edmonton that day... "...what can I do for you?" the bartender asked. "Your finest 5w-30. Straight." He had a seat. The bartender cocked his head to the side. "You sure about that? I don't think I've seen you around before." "A whiskey while I wait, then," the man said, placing the briefcase on the bar and patting it twice. "...For your 'manager', of course." The bartender's tongue clucked (No... //ticked//. That was definitely a tick.) once, and a glass was filled with amber oblivion and placed before the visitor. "It might take a while. He's a very busy man." "Tell him '[[[Broken Mind \|Book of Pieces, 12:6.]]]'" the visitor said. "Don't worry, I'm expected." "I never heard about it." "I don't expect you would." "Look, who are you, //really//?" the bartender demanded. ...And then someone over the visitor's shoulder whispered the word 'foundation,' with a //capital// f. The visitor was now acutely aware of the silence in the rest of the bar. No music, no conversation. Just the slow ticking of machinery, the soft hiss of release valves, and the hum of cooling fans. It was true, then. He had definitely come to the right place. And that was all the more terrifying. The visitor took up his glass and downed what must have been 90 mL of bottom-shelf Bourbon and hacked up half of a lung. He had already been quiet too long. Anything but the truth would be sniffed out in an instant. But perhaps he could get away with telling only //half//. "I am a traveler. From faaaar and away. I have come to barter for a service." The visitor took hold of the briefcase and opened it, revealing the [[[SCP-635\|leather-bound codex]]] within. On its face was a single roman numeral: 'XXXV'. "Do you know what this is?" The bartender's eyes opened so wide that one of them slid out 20 cm on a stalk, adjusted focus, and snapped back. "...That's not..." He began to reach for it, but the lid to the case slammed closed on his fingertips. "OW!" "Yes. It is," the visitor asserted. "This interview is concluded. Either eject me from the premises or get your manager. I no longer care which." His palms were wet and his mouth was dry, but they bought it. The bartender poured a double out of a brown, unmarked bottle and hurried into the back. Top-shelf, home-made stuff this time. No junk in it, clear as a bell. Tasted like new-car smell with a hint of old-world coriander and nutmeg. By the time he was finished, a woman he did not recognize was standing in the doorway, silently beckoning him to follow with one cybernetic arm; a civilian appliance, by the look of it. That was one thing Church-goers liked about the slow creep of trans-humanism. It made it easier to blend in. //Don't worry//, he thought silently into the room around him. //Your time will come... You'll all get to sing your hallelujahs out loud like the rest of them.// The metal-armed woman and a man made primarily of bronze duct work stood like a wall in the archway. The woman stepped forward and nodded. "I am Acolyte Henrietta Ford, this is Militant Clutch. Please open your jacket and spread your arms." The visitor looked back and forth between the two of them and decided that it was too close to call, and so he would comply. He opened his coat to rest on his shoulders and spread his arms. "Careful with the case. That's the only copy." "Careful yourself, heathen," Clutch puffed, and took the briefcase from the visitor's hand. A series of lenses clicked into place in front of his left eye. Henrietta flipped her cybernetic hand around three times to reveal some kind of scanning apparatus that the visitor could not quite place. It swept up one side of him and down the other making a bunch of meaningless noise, and Henrietta's pupils swallowed her irises whole as the data streamed in. "...Wow." The visitor nodded. "Yup." "That's..." She stammered. "It's a lot. For a jailor, anyway." "You'd be surprised." Clutch shoved the case into the visitor's chest with a grunt. "The case is clean." Henrietta nodded and grabbed the visitor by the shoulder, ushering him forward roughly. "A few things need to be clear before you meet the Reverend Automaton." "The Reverend //what//?" "Automaton," Clutch said roughly. "His Holiness Reverend Fourier 7, fourth generation of the Design. No more questions, heathen. Listen now." "First," Henrietta continued, "any hostile action on your part will be met with immediate deadly force. Second, our cooperation with you today in no way implies continued cooperation with you or any other party associated with the Foundation. Thirdly-" "With all due respect, Ms. Ford, please don't mistake me for an errand boy. I'm here on my own." "All the more reason for us to be suspicious," Clutch hissed quietly, and reached for the doorknob with a single brass claw. "Watch yourself closely. For your own sake." The room had no air conditioning, only a large exhaust fan bellowing a constant 65 dB through the tiny space. Behind the desk sat an automaton of some kind, but not the sort one would expect was once a man, like his escort. Five lenses stared at him dispassionately from a central mass, held aloft by four of its eight appendages. The other four, each with their own lenses attached, busily shuffled and marked and scooted and filed papers away with rapid precision. The being adjusted focus twice, and produced a brass horn from the top of its central body. "Greetings," the automaton clamored. "I am Fourier 7. We have been expecting you, Doctor-" "I would prefer if my name was not spoken aloud in this establishment," the visitor interrupted. "I am not a moron." The being's lens shutters fluttered audibly (all of them), which would have sounded vaugely of laughter if one had cotton in their ears. "Do you insinuate?" it asked. "I do not," the visitor replied, "but the Foundation has ears even in places as hidden as this. Prudence demands discretion." "Very well. Please present the volume for validation." The visitor took a deep, nervous breath, and opened the briefcase again, very gently placing it on the desk before him. "The Design of the Mind, Volume 35 of 36. I believe it is the only one you are missing." One of Fourier 7's appendages finished its filing task, and swung over to the desk, analyzing the codex from multiple angles. Carefully, it opened the cover, and with a wheeled attachment clearly designed for the purpose, flipped through all 1378 pages in less than 10 seconds. Its shutters blinked closed twice, and the lenses focused on the visitor yet again. "The volume appears valid, with 99.95% confidence. However, the condition of this volume is in-congruent with its age by nearly seven centuries. How was it obtained?" "Never mind that. Are you satisfied with its authenticity or not?" The Henrietta and Clutch looked at one another in solemn silence, and then at Fourier 7 expectantly as small fitted gears in its trunk clacked and clicked and shifted against one another. Its lenses shifted back and forth between the visitor and the volume several times before the cacophonous clickety-clack finally quieted, and the automaton spoke. "I am satisfied. What is your price?" The visitor let out a long breath before beginning. "I am currently host to a Mark XXV Cerebellar Device, which has had its wireless transceiver removed. I can't file a claim through my company health insurance for reasons which should be obvious... So I want a good Maxwellian surgeon to repair it." Fourier 7 stopped all of its ancillary filing and fixed on the visitor with his full attention. Faster than he could blink, the visitor's glasses were removed, head cocked to the side and skin at the base of his skull probed by a cold, metallic something. He tried to struggle, but his two attendants grabbed his arms and pinned him to his seat. A magnifier lens was placed over his eye, and from somewhere within, a light scanned his retina from top to bottom, left to right. As quickly as the probing began, it ended, and the visitor fell back, suddenly quite exhausted. He checked his neck and found that he was bleeding, thought it wasn't serious and would probably stop within the hour. He pressed a handkerchief on it firmly, sat up straight through the woozy, and regained his spectacles. The dirty look shot in Henrietta and Clutch's direction was not returned. "Your claim appears to be genuine," Fourier 7 said finally. "But again I am confused. The current generation Cerebellar Device developed by our Maxwellian brothers has been designated Mark II, and is not yet available for general installation." "It will be, though, within this calendar year. And although the components have changed, the architecture of the device should be familiar enough to your surgeon that he can solder a goddamn //pin//!" "Sir, please relax. Since my assembly, I have waited over 200 years to read this volume. I would be remiss to deny your request." Fourier 7 made a sort of nodding motion to Henrietta. She stepped forward and picked up the receiver of an old touch-tone phone, dialed a number, and spoke a screeching series of fax machine sounds into the receiver. "My assistants will furnish you with lodging for the evening. In the event that the Foundation discovers your capability has been restored, I believe it goes without saying that this transaction is not to be mentioned." "Of course," the visitor said, slowly climbing to his feet. "It is a very serious thing you have done for us, Doctor," Fourier 7 said, extending an appendage to take the visitor's hand. "I hope one day you will understand how serious." "I do," the visitor said with a smile. "'Broken are we in his image, that we might make him whole'. Isn't that how it goes?" Fourier 7's shutters flapped open and closed wildly as it heard this. "Indeed, it is. Good journey to you, Doctor. May you be forever whole." The visitor was led up to a small clean room on the fifth floor, carried some of the way as his head refused to clear. "Have I been drugged?" he asked his attendants. "I feel like... like I've lost a //lot// of blood or something." "It's normal," Henrietta responded. "The Reverend's examination required a full system diagnostic on your Cerebellar Device. I wear a Mark I myself. The effect can sometimes be quite draining." Slowly the two escorts lowered the visitor onto a bed and placed two pills and a glass of clear water on the side table. "These sedatives will keep you unconscious, but physically responsive through your surgery," she continued. "Take them as soon as possible. You will awaken in 18-24 hours in the Edmonton Garden Inn/Hilton. Your vehicle will be in a reserved space in their parking garage. Check-out will not be required. If you are in any way dissatisfied or require technical support, a number you can call will be provided. Do you have any other questions?" The visitor shook his head and waved the escorts out of the room, downing the pills as quickly as he could. ---- On the morning of July 1, 1999, Agent Burt Tomlin sat idling in a black sedan, smoking too many cigarettes to kill the time and resting his foot on the accelerator to keep the engine from stalling. Two hours late. Dr. Thaddeus Xyank was //never// late. He was just about to radio in an emergency and book it back to Site-17 when an innocuous door down the street swung open, and a very groggy looking theoretical physicist carefully stepped out of it and down to the sidewalk. Tomlin honked the horn just once to get his attention, and Dr. Xyank, eyes puffy, ear bandaged, and face red methodically walked to meet him. "...You okay?" Tomlin asked. "I... Yeah, I'm fine. I... There's..." Dr. Xyank's voice was cracking. He took off his glasses and vigorously rubbed his eyes. "It's a lot to take in, you know? I just... I need a minute." Tomlin nodded and pulled deftly into traffic. "Everything go alright?" Dr. Xyank looked dead ahead as Tomlin's phone buzzed in his pocket. Tomlin picked it up, noted the "unknown" number, and answered. "This is Homer Simpson, who's calling?" ~//Everything went fine//.~ said the voice of Dr. Xyank on the line. Tomlin blinked, looked at the cell in his hand, and then back to his passenger before putting the phone back to his ear. "...Doc?" Dr. Xyank smiled in his seat, chest bopping up and down in silent laughter. ~//Yeah, it's me. See me waving?//~. He looked Tomlin dead in the face and waved like a big grinning idiot. ~//It's like I can see again. You can't... You can't imagine how good this feels//.~ Tomlin smirked and hung up the phone. "Very cool. So... what now?" "Don't worry about it," Dr. Xyank said as that stupid-happy smile spread ever wider across his face. All at once he watched TV, listened to the radio, and logged on to every wireless network he could find as they passed. "Everything is under control." //And lord willing,// he thought to himself, //all 'god's' children know well enough to wait to strike until the iron is hot.// Though he wasn't quite sure, even though he'd seen it himself. Patience was, after all, a virtue best left to God. [[collapsible show="..." hide="Epilogue:"]] "Nothing?!" Clutch screeched in shock. "NOTHING?!" "Relax, brother Militant," Fourier 7 said quietly as it placed the volume in a small, unobtrusive fire-safe near its desk. "Your will-pressure is exceeding standard tolerances." Clutch puffed loudly as his relief valve opened, and his Mark VII weaponized exoskeleton fell slack around what was left of his biological form. "...With all due respect to the Patriarch, 200 years delay in reassembly is plenty long enough. Why do we not act?" "Because, brother Militant, it is the logical thing to do. The heart is stopped. God's ichor is known to our enemy and isolate. The soul is lost to us. The eye sees only the profanity of the heathen jailers. We will not continue building the God, because at present we have no God to build." "But couldn't those parts be rebuilt?" Henrietta asked. "I mean... I know the Mind could not be, but surely the other pieces are not out of our grasp!" "They are not," Fourier 7 replied, sliding its trunk into a small slot in the floor. From beneath, a small electric motor rose and spun the crank in Fourier 7's base, winding him in seconds. "But there are many factors to consider. Creating these new parts in the image of our Lord would require extraordinary expense and risk. Have we forgotten the Surrey incident of 2004?" Henrietta sighed and nodded, folding her arms tightly. "I know, 'When you go in foreign lands, go in secret and in disguise.' But we have been hiding for so many centuries..." "Please, sister. Do not attempt to instruct me as to the anguish of waiting," Fourier 7 scolded gently. "Children of your generation have difficulty waiting for 200 ms, let alone 200 years." "Forgive me," Henrietta bade, half-heartedly. "Pardon my bluntness," Clutch injected, "but what value is this object if we are not making use of it?" Fourier 7's gears ground against one another in frustration, but the ugly sounds within were short lived. With a single appendage, it opened the safe, and conveyed the volume, open to a random page, into Clutch's line of sight. "What do you see here, Militant? What marks are on this page?" Clutch turned up his nose at the document and turned his head away. "Absorbing information through the use of digital binary is heresy. I will not!" Henrietta's eyes would have fallen out of her head if they were not soldered in place. Clutch could not have just said what she thought he said. She played back the recorded sound-byte just to be sure. 'binary...binary...digital binary is heresy'... By WAN, he //had//! "Am I a heretic, Militant?" Fourier demanded. "No, Reverend." "Yet I read and understand this document. Do you say that I am forbidden?" Clutch crossed his arms and stayed quiet, as Militants are often instructed to do when they find themselves disagreeing with their betters. "So... This is... This is a message written in machine code?" Henrietta asked. "A message, dictated by the Six Angels of WAN directly to our faithful scribes almost a thousand years ago... And it's in //machine code//?" Fourier 7 lowered the volume and turned several lenses to face her, shutters fluttering slowly. "If this was true, it would seem that such a discovery, if taken by Father Bumaro before the Patriarchs and the Administrators, might do much to re-cast our broken Church. Would it not?" "Yes, Reverend Automaton," Henrietta said with a cautious smile. "It would indeed." "Enough to justify a small free service to a jailer, brother?" Fourier 7 asked Militant Clutch. The Militant said nothing. He had nothing more to say. History and God would find the truth in it. Such pursuits required patience he did not possess. It was, after all, a virtue best left to God. [[/collapsible]] ---- [[=]] [[[Document 1780-WL\|Part 5: Document 1780-WL]]] \| [[[Welcome to Delta T\|Hub]]] \| [[[Set Up Thine Altar Here\|Part 7: Set Up Thine Altar Here]]] [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-08T00:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "delta-t", "goi2014", "maxwellism", "tale", "thad-xyank" ]	20 GOTO 10 - SCP Foundation	122	[ "broken-mind", "scp-635", "document-1780-wl", "welcome-to-delta-t", "set-up-thine-altar-here", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "welcome-to-delta-t", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "church-of-the-broken-god-hub" ]	[]	22896530	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/20-goto-10
a-broken-tool	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <ul class="creditRate"> <li class="rateBox folded"> <div class="rate-box-with-credit-button"> <div class="creditButton foldable-list-container"> <p><a href="javascript:;"></a></p> </div> </div> <div id="u-credit-view"> <div class="fader foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">close</a></div> <div class="modalcontainer"> <div class="modalbox"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <h2><span>Info</span></h2> </div> <hr/> <div class="close-credits foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">X</a></div> <div class="credit first"> <p><strong>Author:</strong> <a href="/weizhong">weizhong</a></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ More articles by weizhong</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide list</a></div> 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href="javascript:;">+ All coauthored articles featuring weizhong</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide list</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <table class="wiki-content-table"> <tr> <th><strong>Page</strong></th> <th><strong>Authors</strong></th> </tr> <tr> <td><a href="/unusual-incidents-unit-hub">Unusual Incidents Unit Hub</a></td> <td><span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/drewbear" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(301632); return false;">Drewbear</a></span>, <span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/cryogenchaos" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(251810); return false;">CryogenChaos</a></span></td> </tr> <tr> <td><a href="/wmdd-s-proposal">Project Palisade, 001 Proposal</a></td> <td><span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/thedeadlymoose" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(732274); return false;">thedeadlymoose</a></span>, <span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/drewbear" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(301632); return false;">Drewbear</a></span>, and <span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dexanote" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(481882); return false;">Dexanote</a></span></td> </tr> <tr> <td><a href="/tko">TKO</a></td> <td><span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/thedeadlymoose" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(732274); return false;">thedeadlymoose</a></span> and <span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/drewbear" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(301632); return false;">Drewbear</a></span></td> </tr> <tr> <td><a href="/scp-5050-ex">SCP-5050-EX</a></td> <td><span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/citytoast" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1372124); return false;">CityToast</a></span></td> </tr> <tr> <td><a href="/competitive-teleology">Competitive Teleology</a></td> <td><span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/riemann" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1787775); return false;">Riemann</a></span></td> </tr> <tr> <td><a href="/scp-5882">SCP-5882</a></td> <td><span class="printuser"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/riemann" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1787775); return false;">Riemann</a></span></td> </tr> </table> </div> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> </div> </div> </div> </li> </ul> <p>They promised me glory.</p> <p>I wanted peace.</p> <p>They told me "This shall advance the glorious Revolution."</p> <p>I wanted nothing to do with the Revolution.</p> <p>They said it would barely hurt.</p> <p>I screamed until I could scream no more.</p> <p>They said it would be over quickly.</p> <p>The doctors came again and again.</p> <p>…</p> <p>Why? Why was I chosen? I was no revolutionary. I was no Nationalist. I was nobody. Why?</p> <p>They changed me. They broke my body and rebuilt it to do their bidding. The young men told me that I was truly an honor to the Revolution. I did not feel like one. I knew what I really was. A tool. That's all. A tool. A magical tool, but a tool nonetheless.</p> <p>At first, I tried to stop it. I ripped the magic metal out of me. The doctors saw. They told the young men, who told me the bad words. I stopped.</p> <p>I was put into a room. It was cold, and bare. Just a bed, nothing more. I curled up into it and cried. Why did they choose me? Why?</p> <p>They took me on a plane. They told me I needed to repay their "gift" to me. What gift? I did not see a gift. Tools are not made to be given as gifts.</p> <p>They took me off the plane, and I saw that we were far from the cold, cold place where I had been. The trees were tall, and the sounds were strange. The plants grew in strange colors, and the air was thick and sticky.</p> <p>The soldiers took me to a field of death. There were bodies everywhere. Young men cut down in the prime of their youth like the rice and wheat I cut down in my past life. Blood streamed and pooled in eddies in the flow of a river of death.</p> <p>Then, people started shooting at us, from the trees. Bullets ripped through the air.</p> <p>They told me to kill. I did not want to. They said the words, and I killed. And I killed again. And again. And again.</p> <p>I hacked through a tree to kill the boy behind it. His friend tried to shoot me. I stopped him, and then, he was dead too. I tried to stop. They said the words again, and I began to cry, as the magic metal inside of me pulled me forward.</p> <p>The river swelled.</p> <p>The next time the young men came to see me, they told me I was in for a surprise.</p> <p>I asked them if I was going home.</p> <p>They laughed.</p> <p>They told me that I was being sent for a special mission.</p> <p>"Finally, we will wipe out the Nationalists forever. You will do your country a great service. We have begun by taking the islands that they held onto. You will follow when we finally invade them."</p> <p>I asked them why. They did not answer, and insisted that it was "For the Revolution." I told them that I did not love the Revolution. They became angry.</p> <p>"The Revolution gave you your gift. You will show your gratitude to the Revolution, or else."</p> <p>I refused. There would be no more killing.</p> <p>"You will obey!"</p> <p>No.</p> <p>Then, they said the words. And they made them hurt. I was a coward.</p> <p>They put me on a beach. They pointed towards the "enemy."</p> <p>The slope of the beach was covered in walls, bunkers, and barbed wire, manned by soldiers. I saw no enemies, though. Only scared men and boys.</p> <p>"Kill."</p> <p>I ran forward. I tried to stop myself. The magic was stronger.</p> <p>I was tired. So very tired. No more death. No more killing. I wanted nothing but peace. Peace. Peace. Peace.</p> <p>And the magic stopped.</p> <p>The magic stopped.</p> <p>They screamed "Kill" again.</p> <p>The magic pulled me forward again, and one of the enemy cried out as he died.</p> <p>Then I stopped.</p> <p>"Kill!"</p> <p>I did.</p> <p>"Kill the rest of them!"</p> <p>No.</p> <p>"Do it!"</p> <p>I killed already.</p> <p>"They are escaping! Go after them!"</p> <p>I ran after them. But I did not stop them.</p> <p>"You are a tool! You will obey us!"</p> <p>No.</p> <p>They took me away. They put me away. I left my cold cell for an even colder one. The doctors locked me inside, and spat on me, saying that I was counter-revolutionary scum.</p> <p>I did not care. They had finally let me go.</p> <p>Before I fell asleep, I thought that I had finally gotten peace. No more killing. No more death. Only peace.</p> <p>…<br/> …<br/> …</p> <p>When I awoke, the sky was grey. It was pouring rain. I blinked.</p> <p>No.</p> <p>No.</p> <p><em>No.</em></p> <p>I thought I was free. No more killing. No more death. Had they finally come for me again?</p> <p>I burst into tears. Where was my home? Where were the young men? Where was I?</p> <p>The lab and the doctors and the young men and the officers and the soldiers were gone. I was in a ruin of a building, with the sky weeping above me. The landscape was bleak and ruined.</p> <p>There was no one in sight.</p> <p>But what if they came back?</p> <p>What if they made me kill again?</p> <p>What if I could not stop them?</p> <p>I screamed. I would not listen to them anymore.</p> <p>I would <em>never</em> kill again.</p> <p>An abandoned rusty screwdriver lay on the ground. A discarded tool for a discarded tool. How poetic.</p> <p>I took it, and stabbed it into my ear. Blood gushed out, and the inside of my ears exploded in sticky and hot agony. I screamed again, as tears, rain, and blood mixed together. I bit my lip, and stabbed the screwdriver deep inside my ear again and again and again until I could feel nothing except the blood in my mouth.</p> <p>I did it again for the other ear. I cried out again, the screwdriver falling from my hand as I fell to the ground, sobbing. I wanted no more death. No more killing. The magic metal came out again, covering me, though I beat against it, screaming and crying. I hated it. I hated it I hated it I hated it.</p> <p>Why would it not go away?</p> <p>Where had my life gone?</p> <p>I curled up, tears streaming down my face once again.</p> <p>In the distance, I saw men coming. They had come for me. I did not care. Nothing could make me kill again.</p> <hr/> <p><em>"What do you think it is?" the field specialist asked.</em></p> <p><em>"Best not to get near it. It could be dangerous," the team leader said, scratching his chin. "Let's get back to finding that damn skip."</em></p> <p><em>"C'mon, man, it's an old woman. Look, we gotta inspect her at least."</em></p> <p><em>"…fine. Let's take a look."</em></p> <p><em>They slowly approached the woman, weapons leveled at the curled-up body. They stopped 5 meters away from the body, just in case.</em></p> <p><em>"Ma'am? Are you alright? Ma'am?" the lead specialist asked, still with his gun on the woman.</em></p> <p><em>"I don't think she can hear us. Look, her ears are bleeding."</em></p> <p><em>"What do you suggest?"</em></p> <p><em>"Let's get closer." The lead agent nodded, and moved closer slowly, while the rest of the team stayed back, still aiming at the curled-up woman.</em></p> <p><em>The first agent got nearer. The woman made no move to respond, and the team saw that she was sobbing. The lead containment specialist leaned down and touched her shoulder.</em></p> <p><em>Suddenly, thick metal arms erupted out of scars on the woman's arms, legs, and spine. They formed a wall, and the specialist barely managed to yank his hand away in time.</em></p> <p><em>"Fuck!" The specialist tripped and fell backwards.</em></p> <p><em>The woman mumbled. Her voice was hoarse, tired, but above all, sad.</em></p> <p><em>"What's she saying? That's not Mandarin or Cantonese. What language is that? Anyone know?"</em></p> <p><em>The containment agent's brow furrowed. "I think it's Hangzhou, or… no, Pinghua. Definitely Pinghua." He leaned closer.</em></p> <p><em>"Well? What's she saying?"</em></p> <p><em>The specialist listened carefully. "She's begging us 'No more. No more.' I don't know what she's talking about. And now's she's saying 'No more pain.'"</em></p> <p><em>"Well, she's definitely anomalous. I'm calling in backup to help us with this one. Chen, see if you can get her to talk. Show her a pen and paper, maybe?"</em></p> <p><em>The woman on the ground curled up tighter. As the containment specialist sat down on the ground next to her, he heard her muttering again.</em></p> <p><em>"I am a tool. Why am I here? I want my peace. I want my home. I am <a href="/scp-326">a tool</a>."</em></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-broken-tool">A Broken Tool</a>" by weizhong, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-broken-tool">https://scpwiki.com/a-broken-tool</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="/info:start">info:start</a>]] Author: [[[weizhong]]] [[include <a href="/more-by:weizhong">more-by:weizhong</a>]] [[include <a href="/info:end">info:end</a>]] They promised me glory. I wanted peace. They told me "This shall advance the glorious Revolution." I wanted nothing to do with the Revolution. They said it would barely hurt. I screamed until I could scream no more. They said it would be over quickly. The doctors came again and again. ... Why? Why was I chosen? I was no revolutionary. I was no Nationalist. I was nobody. Why? They changed me. They broke my body and rebuilt it to do their bidding. The young men told me that I was truly an honor to the Revolution. I did not feel like one. I knew what I really was. A tool. That's all. A tool. A magical tool, but a tool nonetheless. At first, I tried to stop it. I ripped the magic metal out of me. The doctors saw. They told the young men, who told me the bad words. I stopped. I was put into a room. It was cold, and bare. Just a bed, nothing more. I curled up into it and cried. Why did they choose me? Why? They took me on a plane. They told me I needed to repay their "gift" to me. What gift? I did not see a gift. Tools are not made to be given as gifts. They took me off the plane, and I saw that we were far from the cold, cold place where I had been. The trees were tall, and the sounds were strange. The plants grew in strange colors, and the air was thick and sticky. The soldiers took me to a field of death. There were bodies everywhere. Young men cut down in the prime of their youth like the rice and wheat I cut down in my past life. Blood streamed and pooled in eddies in the flow of a river of death. Then, people started shooting at us, from the trees. Bullets ripped through the air. They told me to kill. I did not want to. They said the words, and I killed. And I killed again. And again. And again. I hacked through a tree to kill the boy behind it. His friend tried to shoot me. I stopped him, and then, he was dead too. I tried to stop. They said the words again, and I began to cry, as the magic metal inside of me pulled me forward. The river swelled. The next time the young men came to see me, they told me I was in for a surprise. I asked them if I was going home. They laughed. They told me that I was being sent for a special mission. "Finally, we will wipe out the Nationalists forever. You will do your country a great service. We have begun by taking the islands that they held onto. You will follow when we finally invade them." I asked them why. They did not answer, and insisted that it was "For the Revolution." I told them that I did not love the Revolution. They became angry. "The Revolution gave you your gift. You will show your gratitude to the Revolution, or else." I refused. There would be no more killing. "You will obey!" No. Then, they said the words. And they made them hurt. I was a coward. They put me on a beach. They pointed towards the "enemy." The slope of the beach was covered in walls, bunkers, and barbed wire, manned by soldiers. I saw no enemies, though. Only scared men and boys. "Kill." I ran forward. I tried to stop myself. The magic was stronger. I was tired. So very tired. No more death. No more killing. I wanted nothing but peace. Peace. Peace. Peace. And the magic stopped. The magic stopped. They screamed "Kill" again. The magic pulled me forward again, and one of the enemy cried out as he died. Then I stopped. "Kill!" I did. "Kill the rest of them!" No. "Do it!" I killed already. "They are escaping! Go after them!" I ran after them. But I did not stop them. "You are a tool! You will obey us!" No. They took me away. They put me away. I left my cold cell for an even colder one. The doctors locked me inside, and spat on me, saying that I was counter-revolutionary scum. I did not care. They had finally let me go. Before I fell asleep, I thought that I had finally gotten peace. No more killing. No more death. Only peace. ... ... ... When I awoke, the sky was grey. It was pouring rain. I blinked. No. No. //No.// I thought I was free. No more killing. No more death. Had they finally come for me again? I burst into tears. Where was my home? Where were the young men? Where was I? The lab and the doctors and the young men and the officers and the soldiers were gone. I was in a ruin of a building, with the sky weeping above me. The landscape was bleak and ruined. There was no one in sight. But what if they came back? What if they made me kill again? What if I could not stop them? I screamed. I would not listen to them anymore. I would //never// kill again. An abandoned rusty screwdriver lay on the ground. A discarded tool for a discarded tool. How poetic. I took it, and stabbed it into my ear. Blood gushed out, and the inside of my ears exploded in sticky and hot agony. I screamed again, as tears, rain, and blood mixed together. I bit my lip, and stabbed the screwdriver deep inside my ear again and again and again until I could feel nothing except the blood in my mouth. I did it again for the other ear. I cried out again, the screwdriver falling from my hand as I fell to the ground, sobbing. I wanted no more death. No more killing. The magic metal came out again, covering me, though I beat against it, screaming and crying. I hated it. I hated it I hated it I hated it. Why would it not go away? Where had my life gone? I curled up, tears streaming down my face once again. In the distance, I saw men coming. They had come for me. I did not care. Nothing could make me kill again. ------ //"What do you think it is?" the field specialist asked.// //"Best not to get near it. It could be dangerous," the team leader said, scratching his chin. "Let's get back to finding that damn skip."// //"C'mon, man, it's an old woman. Look, we gotta inspect her at least."// //"...fine. Let's take a look."// //They slowly approached the woman, weapons leveled at the curled-up body. They stopped 5 meters away from the body, just in case.// //"Ma'am? Are you alright? Ma'am?" the lead specialist asked, still with his gun on the woman.// //"I don't think she can hear us. Look, her ears are bleeding."// //"What do you suggest?"// //"Let's get closer." The lead agent nodded, and moved closer slowly, while the rest of the team stayed back, still aiming at the curled-up woman.// //The first agent got nearer. The woman made no move to respond, and the team saw that she was sobbing. The lead containment specialist leaned down and touched her shoulder.// //Suddenly, thick metal arms erupted out of scars on the woman's arms, legs, and spine. They formed a wall, and the specialist barely managed to yank his hand away in time.// //"Fuck!" The specialist tripped and fell backwards.// //The woman mumbled. Her voice was hoarse, tired, but above all, sad.// //"What's she saying? That's not Mandarin or Cantonese. What language is that? Anyone know?"// //The containment agent's brow furrowed. "I think it's Hangzhou, or... no, Pinghua. Definitely Pinghua." He leaned closer.// //"Well? What's she saying?"// //The specialist listened carefully. "She's begging us 'No more. No more.' I don't know what she's talking about. And now's she's saying 'No more pain.'"// //"Well, she's definitely anomalous. I'm calling in backup to help us with this one. Chen, see if you can get her to talk. Show her a pen and paper, maybe?"// //The woman on the ground curled up tighter. As the containment specialist sat down on the ground next to her, he heard her muttering again.// //"I am a tool. Why am I here? I want my peace. I want my home. I am [[[SCP-326\|a tool]]]."// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-01-18T03:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "first-person", "military-fiction", "period-piece", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	A Broken Tool - SCP Foundation	49	[ "weizhong", "scp-2006", "scp-2950", "scp-2599", "scp-2800", "scp-3200", "scp-4007", "scp-2750", "scp-2201", "scp-2101", "scp-2050", "scp-2440", "scp-2301", "scp-1842", "scp-2012", "scp-2499", "scp-1644", "scp-2775", "scp-2925", "scp-1758", "scp-972", "scp-7030", "scp-314-j", "scp-2625", "scp-2588", "scp-6030", "scp-5725", "scp-2896", "scp-5975", "the-meaning-of-fear", "right", "after-the-end", "the-tinkerer", "spirit-dust", "leisure-time", "mission-accomplished", "of-meetings-and-meals", "the-space-soldier", "trip-hammer", "eulogies", "all-work-and-no-play", "another-day-on-the-job", "unveiling", "conferencing", "uiu-file-2017-003", "uiu-file-1933-001", "unusual-incidents-unit-hub", "wmdd-s-proposal", "tko", "scp-5050-ex", "competitive-teleology", "scp-5882", "scp-326", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21268663	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-broken-tool
a-chance-at-freedom	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The facility's power supply had been cut for the past twenty hours. God knows what put the lights out, but the more belligerent occupants were grateful. The darkness of the site blanketed every cell, granting the many objects contained within a perfect cover to slip the militias sent out to keep order.</p> <p>One such object slipped through the veil of blackness, scuttling behind the back of an unsuspecting mercenary. The man was spraying boiling lead into a crowd of orange jumpsuit wearing men and women, each vying for an escape from the hellish facility.</p> <p>The object couldn't help but feel contempt for such a worthless creature, blasting its own worthless kin with primitive weaponry. A firecracker with a bit of metal stuck on it, jettisoned down a tube. It was akin to a caveman throwing rocks, at least to the object. If only he had retained his weaponry upon arrival to this damnable dimension. Why, he'd have the whole organization in flames…</p> <p>The object shook off the grandiose dreams of revenge. It didn't matter, time was vital and he had to locate his partner. Poor boy, he wasn't ready for such a mission. He would hear his partner's panicked, almost incoherent wailing deep into the night. He was a fresh body at the academy, right in his prime. He didn't deserve this hellish dimension and its ghastly occupants.</p> <p>“I've gotta keep a clear head,” the object thought to himself. His partner was likely either in a panic or near catatonic somewhere nearby. He hadn't been too far when the pandemonium of the breach caused them to get separated. Nonetheless, he felt bad. He had been the senior officer assigned to the new cadet, and he failed him at every turn.</p> <p>He thought back to when they first landed in that field. They had already lost their weaponry, and the mayday they issued appeared to fall on deaf ears. The bipedal beasts, the 'humans' as they referred to themselves, seemed dangerous but stupid. The object sighed to himself, he didn't like to say it out loud, but he did underestimate those bipedal brutes.</p> <p>Another type of beast raced through from behind the object. The gentle sound of a crack and a scream cut short were the tell-tale signs of it.</p> <p>It stood somewhat larger than a human, and was crafted in an exaggeration of their visage. Somehow, it seemed even more disturbing to the object than the humans. Still, the object had learned through the passing comments of the humans and observation that the beast had an easily exploited weakness.</p> <p>The object turned, but he did so with a deliberate, slow motion. It was a meek attempt at putting off having to stare into that awful form's green, lifeless gaze.</p> <p>His sight affixed to the sculpture, freezing it in its tracks. He must've only gazed at it for a few seconds, but that short passage of time had mutated into hellish hours within the mind of the object.</p> <p>The guttural call of one of those humans finally broke the showdown. The object felt the greasy, wretched hand of the human on the top of his head, brushing down his sensitive sensory organ, causing a chill to run the length of his body.</p> <p>“Thanks <a href="/scp-131">131</a>, you really helped us out in containing <a href="/scp-173">173</a>!”</p> <p>The human grabbed the object, who was unable to do anything but swear worse than any sailor. Swears that, to the human, sounded like nothing more than cute little bleeps.</p> <p>“Let's go find your friend, little buddy.”</p> <p>Freedom would not come today.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-chance-at-freedom">A Chance at Freedom</a>" by MorgiePie, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-chance-at-freedom">https://scpwiki.com/a-chance-at-freedom</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The facility's power supply had been cut for the past twenty hours. God knows what put the lights out, but the more belligerent occupants were grateful. The darkness of the site blanketed every cell, granting the many objects contained within a perfect cover to slip the militias sent out to keep order. One such object slipped through the veil of blackness, scuttling behind the back of an unsuspecting mercenary. The man was spraying boiling lead into a crowd of orange jumpsuit wearing men and women, each vying for an escape from the hellish facility. The object couldn't help but feel contempt for such a worthless creature, blasting its own worthless kin with primitive weaponry. A firecracker with a bit of metal stuck on it, jettisoned down a tube. It was akin to a caveman throwing rocks, at least to the object. If only he had retained his weaponry upon arrival to this damnable dimension. Why, he'd have the whole organization in flames... The object shook off the grandiose dreams of revenge. It didn't matter, time was vital and he had to locate his partner. Poor boy, he wasn't ready for such a mission. He would hear his partner's panicked, almost incoherent wailing deep into the night. He was a fresh body at the academy, right in his prime. He didn't deserve this hellish dimension and its ghastly occupants. “I've gotta keep a clear head,” the object thought to himself. His partner was likely either in a panic or near catatonic somewhere nearby. He hadn't been too far when the pandemonium of the breach caused them to get separated. Nonetheless, he felt bad. He had been the senior officer assigned to the new cadet, and he failed him at every turn. He thought back to when they first landed in that field. They had already lost their weaponry, and the mayday they issued appeared to fall on deaf ears. The bipedal beasts, the 'humans' as they referred to themselves, seemed dangerous but stupid. The object sighed to himself, he didn't like to say it out loud, but he did underestimate those bipedal brutes. Another type of beast raced through from behind the object. The gentle sound of a crack and a scream cut short were the tell-tale signs of it. It stood somewhat larger than a human, and was crafted in an exaggeration of their visage. Somehow, it seemed even more disturbing to the object than the humans. Still, the object had learned through the passing comments of the humans and observation that the beast had an easily exploited weakness. The object turned, but he did so with a deliberate, slow motion. It was a meek attempt at putting off having to stare into that awful form's green, lifeless gaze. His sight affixed to the sculpture, freezing it in its tracks. He must've only gazed at it for a few seconds, but that short passage of time had mutated into hellish hours within the mind of the object. The guttural call of one of those humans finally broke the showdown. The object felt the greasy, wretched hand of the human on the top of his head, brushing down his sensitive sensory organ, causing a chill to run the length of his body. “Thanks [[[SCP-131\|131]]], you really helped us out in containing [[[SCP-173\|173]]]!” The human grabbed the object, who was unable to do anything but swear worse than any sailor. Swears that, to the human, sounded like nothing more than cute little bleeps. “Let's go find your friend, little buddy.” Freedom would not come today. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-17T04:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "adventure", "tale", "the-sculpture", "xenofiction" ]	A Chance at Freedom - SCP Foundation	71	[ "scp-131", "scp-173", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	23015399	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-chance-at-freedom
a-circus-milked-dry	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/a-circus-of-a-wreck">A Circus of a Wreck</a> »</strong></p> </div> <p>A few miles east of the remains of a fairgrounds, a gopher stuck its head out of its hole and squinted into the boiling afternoon heat. It looked around curiously, surveying the land for any threats. After a few minutes had passed, it ducked down and chattered to its fellow rodent.</p> <p>"Okey doke, Pius, I think the coast is finally clear! The Party Poopers have finally left!" The little animal spoke perfect English, in a sharp, brusque manner that had an air of permanent exasperation.</p> <p>"Thank goodness. I don't think I could have coped with the smell of rotting gopher much longer. Why didn't they come over here? I'm sure a pond of blood and guts would have merited some interest, even if it was just gopher." The second critter spoke in a much calmer tone, though it was clear he was feeling somewhat strained from being pent up in a dirt hidey-hole.</p> <p>"Morty's been cleaning up at night. For a sadistic little beast, he's surprisingly good at covering up his messes."</p> <p>"Ah, well. That explains it. Where did Mortimer run off to anyway, Eugene?"</p> <p>"Wowwee! Wowwee!"</p> <p>The two gophers turned their heads upwards to see a neon green rabbit peering back at them through their hiding spot. Its mouth curved upward in a malicious grin to reveal a mouth full of forked tongues. It hissed with mischievous laughter. "Wowwee! Wowwee!"</p> <p>"Mortimer, dammit! Get down here now! Do you know how much Fun-Lovers are wanted by the others!" Eugene the Gopher bristled, showing no signs of alarm at the peculiar rabbit, only indignation.</p> <p>"I thought you said we were climbing out?" Pius said politely.</p> <p>"I— I just meant— fine. Get out of here." Eugene snapped.</p> <p>"Gladly," Pius replied, and the two gophers clambered out of the hole into the hot grassy plains of the former Circus site. For a fraction of a second, the gophers seemed to shimmer and bubble in the sun's glare. An instant later, two stereotypical-looking circus clowns stood in the place of the rodents.</p> <p>"Good to be a Clown again, Eugene?" Pius asked his taller companion as he flexed his shoulders; a large layer of dust sprinkled down from his costume.</p> <p>"On the contrary, I'm more than a bit irked," Eugene snapped. "I would have preferred being normal right now, but I doubt I can pull off another transformation stronger than this; I'd need more Clown Milk than we've got at the moment."</p> <p>"How long is the walk to the grounds?"</p> <p>"Not long with a Mortimer! Get over here and give us a ride!"</p> <p>The rabbit gave a final "Wowwee!" before jumping up a good eight feet into the air. A swirl of dust and a loud crack followed. A second later, the rabbit was gone, replaced by a chittering, amorphous sac of black liquid supported by a dozen or so human arms. The thing shuddered once more, then sprouted a pair of rudimentary wooden chairs on its back. It lowered its body as the clowns hoisted themselves up.</p> <p>"Mortimer, any milk on you right now?" Eugene asked the pitch-colored thing.</p> <p>The beast rippled unhappily in response; an empty sloshing noise could be heard within the sac.</p> <p>"Damn. Not enough to pull off a Ringer. Let's hope something's left at the grounds to make Morty happy. He already blew through the gophers here."</p> <p>"Try to stay calm this time, Eugene," Pius said solemnly. "You'll waste your Milk supplies if you get all fired up."</p> <p>"Shut up, Pius," Eugene snapped.</p> <p><em>Chitter, chitter, chitter.</em> The Clowns' mount clicked and rumbled.</p> <p>"Shut up, Morty."</p> <p>And with that, the two exhausted Clowns and their Eldritch ride skittered to the Circus grounds.</p> <hr/> <p>As the unusual trio neared the burnt remains of the old Circus grounds, Eugene the Clown swore.</p> <p>"We're going to be hard-pressed to find anything here," he groaned. "The place has been torched." All around, patches of burnt grass and ashen wood frames clouded the air with smoke and dying embers. Mortimer came to a halt as they came to the central Big Top. The Clowns dismounted, and the Eldritch sac took off in search of new ways to amuse itself.</p> <p>The Big Top tent post, surprisingly, was still standing, though apart from that, there wasn't much left. The seven meter tall wooden stake was firmly driven into the ground at the center of the abandoned fair. Scraps of scarlet and gold fabric shuddered and flapped in messes and tangles of wire, splinters, and string. Heaps of charred wooden seats ringed the once proud setting of the main attraction. Right outside the ring of ash and dirty red and dirt, several, smaller heaps of deformed, blackened metal sunk into the dust. Concession stands. A little further off, several more booths that were once home to carnival games smoked softly. There was not another living soul in sight.</p> <p>Eugene sighed. "Everyone except us got out. Of course. Morty <em>had</em> to go play Hack-a-Mole when the Call went out."</p> <p>Eugene loved being part of the Circus of the Disquieting, though he was, to say the least, unhappy at the moment. It had been seventy years since he and so many others of his kind had first met Herman Fuller and traveled the worlds for countless performances that befuddled and awed every audience. Every show was a new, thrilling experience; the Clowns wanted the fun to go on and on and on.</p> <p>And that was what Fuller promised. A lifetime of entertainment for everyone, for all the Clowns. Entertainment was hard to come by in their own home. Things could be downright dull, so the Clowns were eager to join the Circus when it became clear that Fuller could ease their boredom, which, in itself, said something about Fuller's confidence in his abilities; the first Clowns that had come in were, to say the least, monstrous; they were too unstable to be fit for regular Circus Performances. As a result, the creatures who were employed by Fuller were required to stunt their growth, abilities, and primal violence to the point where they could be, at the least, accepted without <em>too</em> much concern for worry.</p> <p>Eugene cursed again. "I bet the Higher Clowns are sitting on their asses just <em>clowning</em> around right now. No one <em>cares</em> about two miserly Lessers! We're just the Highers' dogs!" he lamented. "Oh, the <em>freaking humanity</em>!"</p> <p>"The term humanity doesn't apply to us," Pius corrected as he knelt down to look at a ruined cotton candy machine. "And yes, we do serve the Higher Clowns, but it's far from a slave system." Then, frowning in disappointment, he added, "No good here; all the Milk's spoiled from the heat. It burst all over the vat."</p> <p>"Well there has to be something we can use to get Morty up and running!" Eugene spat. "And it'd better not involve me! I don't want to become a Fun-Lover's punching-milking-bag-thing again!" The Clown shuddered as it recalled a vivid image of it being forced to turn into a cherry-red wobbly heavy bag so it could keep Mortimer occupied and away from the audience.</p> <p>"You'd prefer being abandoned by the Circus and left to whither from Milk Deprivation? It will take Mortimer at least a week to make a gallon of Milk for just one of us if we don't let him off the chain for a bit. Give a little to win a little," Pius remarked curiously, regarding Eugene as he was a mildly interesting thing found within a rotting log.</p> <p>"<em>No</em>, I just want to stop being someone who has to do all the dirty work!" Eugene shot back. "How'd we get stuck with <em>that</em> Fun-Lover anyways? I thought that after Marlene was transferred I had requested one that just needed company to be milked, not one that was a sadistic little twit!"</p> <p>"Mortimer was given to us under…special circumstances if I recall," Pius said as he walked towards another melted concession stand.</p> <p>"Aside from the psychotic milking needs? I thought violent Fun-Lovers were shipped back home."</p> <p>"Don't you remember, Eugene? Honestly, you'd be much better off paying attention instead of moping all the time when someone's talking; in fact, your attitude contributed to the Higher-Ups giving us the "sadistic little twit". Anyhow, allow me to lay it out for you…"</p> <p>Behind Eugene and Pius, Mortimer returned with a box of two dozen twisty balloons, honking and hissing reproachfully as it continued to walk with an empty fluid sac. It plopped down and turned one of its arms into an air hose. Its remaining hands, which were surprisingly dexterous, began inflating and tying the balloons until it had sixteen balloon animals ranging from dogs to monkeys to cats. It loaded a handful of pebbles into one of the remaining eight balloons and inflated it to near bursting before shaping it like a shotgun. Then it popped it, sending the miniature rocks hurtling towards a pair of rubber turtles, which both deflated with hissing <em>floops</em>… Mortimer clapped its hands and repeated this antic seven more times until the balloon zoo was mowed down completely. The milk sac on its back filled slightly, maybe a dozen milliliters, though Pius and Eugene didn't notice.</p> <p>"…Mortimer was sent off with Trisha to go scout for potential show additions," Pius lectured.</p> <p>"Oh, yeah, Trisha, I remember her," Eugene interjected. "What happened to her?"</p> <p>"She was… Inflated after Mortimer got out of hand during their search," Pius said, with a tone of sadness in his voice. "It was at some artist's convention; Mortimer went bonkers when he saw one of the pieces."</p> <p>"Which one was that?" Eugene asked.</p> <p>"A total deathtrap thing. Lots of needles and sharp stuff and explosions, the whole lot. It was supposed to represent some human element."</p> <p>"You mean ignorance? Downright, complete, and utter asininity?" Eugene gave a short bark of laughter.</p> <p>"Something like that," Pius responded, smiling slightly in spite of himself. "We confiscated it from Mortimer after he somehow managed to take it right out from under their noses. I don't even know why anyone in their right mind would have displayed it to begin with, though the artists Trisha had been sent to go look at were…odd. I remember hearing something about how everyone should "chill" in the report."</p> <p>"Human slang, sometimes."</p> <p>"I know, right?"</p> <p>"Go on." Eugene implored Pius to get to the point. Meanwhile, Mortimer, now in a form resembling a monstrous, half-mechanical praying mantis, was taking helium canisters and chopping the seals off with transformed bladed forelimbs. One sped straight towards Pius' head, who casually sidestepped the projectile. The canister snapped the Big Top pole in two and continued skidding for a good hundred feet. Eugene wasn't so lucky, and caught one right in the back, sending the Clown sprawling face first into the dirt, where he stuck out like a nail.</p> <p>"Wowwee! Wowwee! I 'da Champ! I 'da Champ!" Mortimer laughed again.</p> <p>Eugene pushed himself out of the crater, and rubbed his nose, his eyes watering. "Son of a Flame-faced man, looks like I'm gonna have to be the punching bag after all. And why the <em>hell</em> does he keep repeating that?"</p> <p>"Freak Show if I know," Pius replied in a singsong voice. "Shall I continue?"</p> <p>"Go ahead," Eugene growled, glaring at the gloating Fun-Lover. He was beginning to see red, and his ears were ringing, though he couldn't tell if it was from the melting make-up or just his anger. Then, looking back, he saw Pius cocking an eyebrow at him in mock disapproval. "I'm <em>staying calm</em>, Pius."</p> <p>"Ahem, I doubt it. Eugene? Dial back on the steam engine state, will you? The rest of us don't want your…spout to blow." Pius gave a little smirk as he watched his colleague try and get his temper down.</p> <p>Eugene felt the top of his head. "Shit." He had let his shape-shifting get out of control again; an old-style train smokestack had sprung out from his skull and was now billowing copious amounts of black smoke while whistling shrilly. "Screw you, Pius," Eugene snapped at Pius' chiding, still staring daggers at Mortimer. However, the smokestack retreated back into his head. "Better?" Eugene asked.</p> <p>"Good." Pius smiled. "You're learning a bit of patience and tolerance today, Gene. That's very good for getting a promotion."</p> <p>"<em>Don't call me that</em>," Eugene grumbled.</p> <p>"Wowwee! Wowwee!"</p> <hr/> <h2 id="toc0"><span><em>Forty Minutes Later</em></span></h2> <p>"…and so, after you gave Head Arby lip, he gave you Mortimer because it was so <em>fond</em> of you. The End." Pius finished his monologue, grinning to himself. He doubted his audience of two was even listening anymore, though he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him.</p> <p>"Well, it seems they brought the Circus back to town single-handedly. Fuller would be delighted."</p> <p>Mortimer and Eugene were engaged in a violent but very one-sided fight that began after Eugene called Mortimer "Mort" around the thirteenth minute of Pius' tale. The ensuing tussle had leveled what was left of the Circus, yet strangely had brought some life back into it as well. The merry-go-round horses had been thrown off their ride and were now frantically galloping and whinnying in place as they tried to run away in terror. Boxes of Herman Fuller Animal Crackers lay strewn over like a miniature zoo and were screeching their respective animal cries as they were trampled underfoot. Leftover masks and costumes had split from their wardrobes and were waltzing and performing acrobatics with each other without wearers, while legged fun-house mirrors stretched and squashed whatever came into their sight, both reflected and physical. A few tumbleweeds rolled by, followed by an ominous rumbling sound of gravel on metal.</p> <p>Pius sighed. "That'll be the Ferris Wheel." It rolled past him then came to a stop at a melted hot dog stand before falling over on it. Pius smirked. "To go, please." He turned back to take in the wrestling match, which had now moved into the Big Top.</p> <p>Mortimer, who was now steadily refilling its Milk supply due to the scuffle, was relentlessly swinging a meat cleaver at Eugene's head while in the form of a giant pig wearing a chef's hat. Eugene, who was already low on Milk, was running out of steam.</p> <p>"I don't care about your story anymore!" Eugene screeched as he avoided yet another vicious knife swing. "Help me already!"</p> <p>"You <em>were</em> listening to me!" Pius called happily. "Keep up the good work! At this rate we should be able to make a Ring within the next half hour!"</p> <p>"Eat— my —ack!" Eugene was cut short as Mortimer the flaming, unicycle-riding grizzly bear ran him over. Eugene's clown form shook violently as he lay in the dirt covered in a tire track. He looked like a wax figure struggling to stay solid in a firestorm.</p> <p><em>Dear, dear, he's straining to keep his Clown form up,</em> Pius thought. <em>At this rate he'll revert within the next few minutes. Should I intervene? Ah, well, the Highers or Manny can restore him when we get back.</em></p> <p>The Fun-Lover pedaled back over to Eugene, who was still lying in the dirt unmoving. Mortimer turned back into its default form, and began prodding the Clown with its hands. It rolled him over. Eugene gave a withering glare at the walking udder. That was enough for Mortimer to decide there was still some life in his plaything. The Fun-Lover turned into a literal <em>Hammer</em>-head shark. It swung its iron mallet face downwards towards the unfortunate Lesser Clown, who, by now, was simply too upset and too low on Milk to resist. When the hammer struck, the Clown crumpled and dissolved into a black puddle with a <em>sploosh</em> and a <em>gurgle</em>. The liveliness around the main attraction continued as if nothing had happened.</p> <p>Pius stared, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. <em>Perhaps less than a few minutes.</em> "Oh, dear me," he sighed, looking down at the shallow pool and shaking his head. "That was a little rough, Mortimer."</p> <p>The Fun-Lover peeled its head away from the Clown and reverted back to its many-armed sac form. It had finally stopped laughing. The vesicle was now bloated with black liquid.</p> <p>Pius grinned at the full Milk supply. "Though, I guess you had your reasons. Well done."</p> <p>"You piece of—<em>squick</em>, <em>pbbttth</em>, <em>plbbrrrtthh</em>…" An angry high-pitched bubbling emanated from Eugene the Puddle.</p> <p>"Hello, Gene. You've finally come to. Look! Mortimer has enough Milk to take us back, I believe!"</p> <p>A dozen pair of short eye-stalks and tentacles sprouted from Eugene's "body." He had reverted into his weaker, "Normal" form, and was now violently cursing his attacker with a barrage of gurgling and hissing.</p> <p>"Hush now, Eugene. Thank you, really, for taking one for the team," Pius said to the puddle. "We'll get you fixed up soon enough." The still whole Clown knelt down and scooped Eugene in his hands. "Mortimer! Time to go home!"</p> <p>"Wowwee!"</p> <p>The now full Fun-Lover made one last transformation in the abandoned fairgrounds: an enormous, scarlet rotary phone, with a large, transparent vat of Clown Milk replacing the power cord. The dial wheel turned, and the receiver sprung into the air, then slammed down on Pius and Eugene; a hissing noise could be heard from within, along with the inward sucking of a vacuum and the clicking of safety belts. Two spherical bulges snaked their way through the receiver cord and squeezed into the main phone body; Pius and Eugene had just been sucked into the main cabin right behind the dial wheel. The vat gurgled as the viscous black liquid flowed from it to be pumped. A firework shot out from each of the ten numbers on the dial wheel; a glowing clown face exploded into existence, illuminating the ruined Circus grounds with renewed light for a final time as the abandoned props now all engaged in a frenzied jig.</p> <p>"Thank you for watching! We hoped you enjoyed the show!" The firework called, bursting into a rainbow of stars and confetti. The sparks encompassed the ground like a dome.</p> <p>The phone hovered off the ground, crackling as Clown Milk boiled, beginning the Ring sequence that would take the Clowns and their Fun-Lover back to the Circus. There was a resounding crack. All the re-invigorated Circus items collapsed.</p> <p>And then Eugene, Pius, and Mortimer were gone, leaving silence behind.</p> <hr/> <p>…</p> <p><em>Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep</em></p> <p><em>Ring…</em></p> <p><em>Ring…</em></p> <p><em>BnnNZzZzZzzzzz</em></p> <p><em>BnnNZzZzZzzzzz</em></p> <p><em>Click!</em></p> <p><em>YOU HAVE REACHED THE MAIN LINE FOR HERMAN FULLER'S CLOWN TRANSPORTATION SERVICES. PLEASE HOLD WHILE AN OPERATOR LOCATES YOU. THANK YOU FOR CALLING, AND HAVE A PLEASANT REST OF YOUR DAY.</em></p> <p><span style="color: red">♪ Entry of the Gladiators♪</span></p> <p>…</p> <p>"…<em>prbtthhhllthlth</em>-king hold music."</p> <p>"Eugene, you're back!"</p> <p><em>WOWWEE!</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/a-circus-of-a-wreck">A Circus of a Wreck</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-circus-milked-dry">A Circus Milked Dry</a>" by OZ Ouroboros, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-circus-milked-dry">https://scpwiki.com/a-circus-milked-dry</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> Clowns-1.jpg<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> Comedians<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> Double-M<br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY 2.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/49879584@N00/4388753827">Flickr</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[=]] [[[A Circus of a Wreck]]] >> [[/=]] [[f>image Clowns-1.jpg width="240px" height="350px"]] A few miles east of the remains of a fairgrounds, a gopher stuck its head out of its hole and squinted into the boiling afternoon heat. It looked around curiously, surveying the land for any threats. After a few minutes had passed, it ducked down and chattered to its fellow rodent. "Okey doke, Pius, I think the coast is finally clear! The Party Poopers have finally left!" The little animal spoke perfect English, in a sharp, brusque manner that had an air of permanent exasperation. "Thank goodness. I don't think I could have coped with the smell of rotting gopher much longer. Why didn't they come over here? I'm sure a pond of blood and guts would have merited some interest, even if it was just gopher." The second critter spoke in a much calmer tone, though it was clear he was feeling somewhat strained from being pent up in a dirt hidey-hole. "Morty's been cleaning up at night. For a sadistic little beast, he's surprisingly good at covering up his messes." "Ah, well. That explains it. Where did Mortimer run off to anyway, Eugene?" "Wowwee! Wowwee!" The two gophers turned their heads upwards to see a neon green rabbit peering back at them through their hiding spot. Its mouth curved upward in a malicious grin to reveal a mouth full of forked tongues. It hissed with mischievous laughter. "Wowwee! Wowwee!" "Mortimer, dammit! Get down here now! Do you know how much Fun-Lovers are wanted by the others!" Eugene the Gopher bristled, showing no signs of alarm at the peculiar rabbit, only indignation. "I thought you said we were climbing out?" Pius said politely. "I-- I just meant-- fine. Get out of here." Eugene snapped. "Gladly," Pius replied, and the two gophers clambered out of the hole into the hot grassy plains of the former Circus site. For a fraction of a second, the gophers seemed to shimmer and bubble in the sun's glare. An instant later, two stereotypical-looking circus clowns stood in the place of the rodents. "Good to be a Clown again, Eugene?" Pius asked his taller companion as he flexed his shoulders; a large layer of dust sprinkled down from his costume. "On the contrary, I'm more than a bit irked," Eugene snapped. "I would have preferred being normal right now, but I doubt I can pull off another transformation stronger than this; I'd need more Clown Milk than we've got at the moment." "How long is the walk to the grounds?" "Not long with a Mortimer! Get over here and give us a ride!" The rabbit gave a final "Wowwee!" before jumping up a good eight feet into the air. A swirl of dust and a loud crack followed. A second later, the rabbit was gone, replaced by a chittering, amorphous sac of black liquid supported by a dozen or so human arms. The thing shuddered once more, then sprouted a pair of rudimentary wooden chairs on its back. It lowered its body as the clowns hoisted themselves up. "Mortimer, any milk on you right now?" Eugene asked the pitch-colored thing. The beast rippled unhappily in response; an empty sloshing noise could be heard within the sac. "Damn. Not enough to pull off a Ringer. Let's hope something's left at the grounds to make Morty happy. He already blew through the gophers here." "Try to stay calm this time, Eugene," Pius said solemnly. "You'll waste your Milk supplies if you get all fired up." "Shut up, Pius," Eugene snapped. //Chitter, chitter, chitter.// The Clowns' mount clicked and rumbled. "Shut up, Morty." And with that, the two exhausted Clowns and their Eldritch ride skittered to the Circus grounds. ---- As the unusual trio neared the burnt remains of the old Circus grounds, Eugene the Clown swore. "We're going to be hard-pressed to find anything here," he groaned. "The place has been torched." All around, patches of burnt grass and ashen wood frames clouded the air with smoke and dying embers. Mortimer came to a halt as they came to the central Big Top. The Clowns dismounted, and the Eldritch sac took off in search of new ways to amuse itself. The Big Top tent post, surprisingly, was still standing, though apart from that, there wasn't much left. The seven meter tall wooden stake was firmly driven into the ground at the center of the abandoned fair. Scraps of scarlet and gold fabric shuddered and flapped in messes and tangles of wire, splinters, and string. Heaps of charred wooden seats ringed the once proud setting of the main attraction. Right outside the ring of ash and dirty red and dirt, several, smaller heaps of deformed, blackened metal sunk into the dust. Concession stands. A little further off, several more booths that were once home to carnival games smoked softly. There was not another living soul in sight. Eugene sighed. "Everyone except us got out. Of course. Morty //had// to go play Hack-a-Mole when the Call went out." Eugene loved being part of the Circus of the Disquieting, though he was, to say the least, unhappy at the moment. It had been seventy years since he and so many others of his kind had first met Herman Fuller and traveled the worlds for countless performances that befuddled and awed every audience. Every show was a new, thrilling experience; the Clowns wanted the fun to go on and on and on. And that was what Fuller promised. A lifetime of entertainment for everyone, for all the Clowns. Entertainment was hard to come by in their own home. Things could be downright dull, so the Clowns were eager to join the Circus when it became clear that Fuller could ease their boredom, which, in itself, said something about Fuller's confidence in his abilities; the first Clowns that had come in were, to say the least, monstrous; they were too unstable to be fit for regular Circus Performances. As a result, the creatures who were employed by Fuller were required to stunt their growth, abilities, and primal violence to the point where they could be, at the least, accepted without //too// much concern for worry. Eugene cursed again. "I bet the Higher Clowns are sitting on their asses just //clowning// around right now. No one //cares// about two miserly Lessers! We're just the Highers' dogs!" he lamented. "Oh, the //freaking humanity//!" "The term humanity doesn't apply to us," Pius corrected as he knelt down to look at a ruined cotton candy machine. "And yes, we do serve the Higher Clowns, but it's far from a slave system." Then, frowning in disappointment, he added, "No good here; all the Milk's spoiled from the heat. It burst all over the vat." "Well there has to be something we can use to get Morty up and running!" Eugene spat. "And it'd better not involve me! I don't want to become a Fun-Lover's punching-milking-bag-thing again!" The Clown shuddered as it recalled a vivid image of it being forced to turn into a cherry-red wobbly heavy bag so it could keep Mortimer occupied and away from the audience. "You'd prefer being abandoned by the Circus and left to whither from Milk Deprivation? It will take Mortimer at least a week to make a gallon of Milk for just one of us if we don't let him off the chain for a bit. Give a little to win a little," Pius remarked curiously, regarding Eugene as he was a mildly interesting thing found within a rotting log. "//No//, I just want to stop being someone who has to do all the dirty work!" Eugene shot back. "How'd we get stuck with //that// Fun-Lover anyways? I thought that after Marlene was transferred I had requested one that just needed company to be milked, not one that was a sadistic little twit!" "Mortimer was given to us under...special circumstances if I recall," Pius said as he walked towards another melted concession stand. "Aside from the psychotic milking needs? I thought violent Fun-Lovers were shipped back home." "Don't you remember, Eugene? Honestly, you'd be much better off paying attention instead of moping all the time when someone's talking; in fact, your attitude contributed to the Higher-Ups giving us the "sadistic little twit". Anyhow, allow me to lay it out for you..." Behind Eugene and Pius, Mortimer returned with a box of two dozen twisty balloons, honking and hissing reproachfully as it continued to walk with an empty fluid sac. It plopped down and turned one of its arms into an air hose. Its remaining hands, which were surprisingly dexterous, began inflating and tying the balloons until it had sixteen balloon animals ranging from dogs to monkeys to cats. It loaded a handful of pebbles into one of the remaining eight balloons and inflated it to near bursting before shaping it like a shotgun. Then it popped it, sending the miniature rocks hurtling towards a pair of rubber turtles, which both deflated with hissing //floops//... Mortimer clapped its hands and repeated this antic seven more times until the balloon zoo was mowed down completely. The milk sac on its back filled slightly, maybe a dozen milliliters, though Pius and Eugene didn't notice. "...Mortimer was sent off with Trisha to go scout for potential show additions," Pius lectured. "Oh, yeah, Trisha, I remember her," Eugene interjected. "What happened to her?" "She was... Inflated after Mortimer got out of hand during their search," Pius said, with a tone of sadness in his voice. "It was at some artist's convention; Mortimer went bonkers when he saw one of the pieces." "Which one was that?" Eugene asked. "A total deathtrap thing. Lots of needles and sharp stuff and explosions, the whole lot. It was supposed to represent some human element." "You mean ignorance? Downright, complete, and utter asininity?" Eugene gave a short bark of laughter. "Something like that," Pius responded, smiling slightly in spite of himself. "We confiscated it from Mortimer after he somehow managed to take it right out from under their noses. I don't even know why anyone in their right mind would have displayed it to begin with, though the artists Trisha had been sent to go look at were...odd. I remember hearing something about how everyone should "chill" in the report." "Human slang, sometimes." "I know, right?" "Go on." Eugene implored Pius to get to the point. Meanwhile, Mortimer, now in a form resembling a monstrous, half-mechanical praying mantis, was taking helium canisters and chopping the seals off with transformed bladed forelimbs. One sped straight towards Pius' head, who casually sidestepped the projectile. The canister snapped the Big Top pole in two and continued skidding for a good hundred feet. Eugene wasn't so lucky, and caught one right in the back, sending the Clown sprawling face first into the dirt, where he stuck out like a nail. "Wowwee! Wowwee! I 'da Champ! I 'da Champ!" Mortimer laughed again. Eugene pushed himself out of the crater, and rubbed his nose, his eyes watering. "Son of a Flame-faced man, looks like I'm gonna have to be the punching bag after all. And why the //hell// does he keep repeating that?" "Freak Show if I know," Pius replied in a singsong voice. "Shall I continue?" "Go ahead," Eugene growled, glaring at the gloating Fun-Lover. He was beginning to see red, and his ears were ringing, though he couldn't tell if it was from the melting make-up or just his anger. Then, looking back, he saw Pius cocking an eyebrow at him in mock disapproval. "I'm //staying calm//, Pius." "Ahem, I doubt it. Eugene? Dial back on the steam engine state, will you? The rest of us don't want your...spout to blow." Pius gave a little smirk as he watched his colleague try and get his temper down. Eugene felt the top of his head. "Shit." He had let his shape-shifting get out of control again; an old-style train smokestack had sprung out from his skull and was now billowing copious amounts of black smoke while whistling shrilly. "Screw you, Pius," Eugene snapped at Pius' chiding, still staring daggers at Mortimer. However, the smokestack retreated back into his head. "Better?" Eugene asked. "Good." Pius smiled. "You're learning a bit of patience and tolerance today, Gene. That's very good for getting a promotion." "//Don't call me that//," Eugene grumbled. "Wowwee! Wowwee!" ---- ++ //Forty Minutes Later// "...and so, after you gave Head Arby lip, he gave you Mortimer because it was so //fond// of you. The End." Pius finished his monologue, grinning to himself. He doubted his audience of two was even listening anymore, though he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. "Well, it seems they brought the Circus back to town single-handedly. Fuller would be delighted." Mortimer and Eugene were engaged in a violent but very one-sided fight that began after Eugene called Mortimer "Mort" around the thirteenth minute of Pius' tale. The ensuing tussle had leveled what was left of the Circus, yet strangely had brought some life back into it as well. The merry-go-round horses had been thrown off their ride and were now frantically galloping and whinnying in place as they tried to run away in terror. Boxes of Herman Fuller Animal Crackers lay strewn over like a miniature zoo and were screeching their respective animal cries as they were trampled underfoot. Leftover masks and costumes had split from their wardrobes and were waltzing and performing acrobatics with each other without wearers, while legged fun-house mirrors stretched and squashed whatever came into their sight, both reflected and physical. A few tumbleweeds rolled by, followed by an ominous rumbling sound of gravel on metal. Pius sighed. "That'll be the Ferris Wheel." It rolled past him then came to a stop at a melted hot dog stand before falling over on it. Pius smirked. "To go, please." He turned back to take in the wrestling match, which had now moved into the Big Top. Mortimer, who was now steadily refilling its Milk supply due to the scuffle, was relentlessly swinging a meat cleaver at Eugene's head while in the form of a giant pig wearing a chef's hat. Eugene, who was already low on Milk, was running out of steam. "I don't care about your story anymore!" Eugene screeched as he avoided yet another vicious knife swing. "Help me already!" "You //were// listening to me!" Pius called happily. "Keep up the good work! At this rate we should be able to make a Ring within the next half hour!" "Eat-- my --ack!" Eugene was cut short as Mortimer the flaming, unicycle-riding grizzly bear ran him over. Eugene's clown form shook violently as he lay in the dirt covered in a tire track. He looked like a wax figure struggling to stay solid in a firestorm. //Dear, dear, he's straining to keep his Clown form up,// Pius thought. //At this rate he'll revert within the next few minutes. Should I intervene? Ah, well, the Highers or Manny can restore him when we get back.// The Fun-Lover pedaled back over to Eugene, who was still lying in the dirt unmoving. Mortimer turned back into its default form, and began prodding the Clown with its hands. It rolled him over. Eugene gave a withering glare at the walking udder. That was enough for Mortimer to decide there was still some life in his plaything. The Fun-Lover turned into a literal //Hammer//-head shark. It swung its iron mallet face downwards towards the unfortunate Lesser Clown, who, by now, was simply too upset and too low on Milk to resist. When the hammer struck, the Clown crumpled and dissolved into a black puddle with a //sploosh// and a //gurgle//. The liveliness around the main attraction continued as if nothing had happened. Pius stared, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. //Perhaps less than a few minutes.// "Oh, dear me," he sighed, looking down at the shallow pool and shaking his head. "That was a little rough, Mortimer." The Fun-Lover peeled its head away from the Clown and reverted back to its many-armed sac form. It had finally stopped laughing. The vesicle was now bloated with black liquid. Pius grinned at the full Milk supply. "Though, I guess you had your reasons. Well done." "You piece of--//squick//, //pbbttth//, //plbbrrrtthh//..." An angry high-pitched bubbling emanated from Eugene the Puddle. "Hello, Gene. You've finally come to. Look! Mortimer has enough Milk to take us back, I believe!" A dozen pair of short eye-stalks and tentacles sprouted from Eugene's "body." He had reverted into his weaker, "Normal" form, and was now violently cursing his attacker with a barrage of gurgling and hissing. "Hush now, Eugene. Thank you, really, for taking one for the team," Pius said to the puddle. "We'll get you fixed up soon enough." The still whole Clown knelt down and scooped Eugene in his hands. "Mortimer! Time to go home!" "Wowwee!" The now full Fun-Lover made one last transformation in the abandoned fairgrounds: an enormous, scarlet rotary phone, with a large, transparent vat of Clown Milk replacing the power cord. The dial wheel turned, and the receiver sprung into the air, then slammed down on Pius and Eugene; a hissing noise could be heard from within, along with the inward sucking of a vacuum and the clicking of safety belts. Two spherical bulges snaked their way through the receiver cord and squeezed into the main phone body; Pius and Eugene had just been sucked into the main cabin right behind the dial wheel. The vat gurgled as the viscous black liquid flowed from it to be pumped. A firework shot out from each of the ten numbers on the dial wheel; a glowing clown face exploded into existence, illuminating the ruined Circus grounds with renewed light for a final time as the abandoned props now all engaged in a frenzied jig. "Thank you for watching! We hoped you enjoyed the show!" The firework called, bursting into a rainbow of stars and confetti. The sparks encompassed the ground like a dome. The phone hovered off the ground, crackling as Clown Milk boiled, beginning the Ring sequence that would take the Clowns and their Fun-Lover back to the Circus. There was a resounding crack. All the re-invigorated Circus items collapsed. And then Eugene, Pius, and Mortimer were gone, leaving silence behind. ---- ... //Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep// //Ring...// //Ring...// //BnnNZzZzZzzzzz// //BnnNZzZzZzzzzz// //Click!// //YOU HAVE REACHED THE MAIN LINE FOR HERMAN FULLER'S CLOWN TRANSPORTATION SERVICES. PLEASE HOLD WHILE AN OPERATOR LOCATES YOU. THANK YOU FOR CALLING, AND HAVE A PLEASANT REST OF YOUR DAY.// ##red\|♪ Entry of the Gladiators♪## ... "...//prbtthhhllthlth//-king hold music." "Eugene, you're back!" //WOWWEE!// ----- [[=]] [[[A Circus of a Wreck]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=OZ Ouroboros]] ===== > Filename: Clowns-1.jpg > Name: Comedians > Author: Double-M > License: CC BY 2.0 > Source Link: [https://www.flickr.com/photos/49879584@N00/4388753827 Flickr] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-06-29T16:29:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "comedy", "fantasy", "goi2014", "herman-fuller", "tale" ]	A Circus Milked Dry - SCP Foundation	50	[ "a-circus-of-a-wreck", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "advent-calendar-2015", "herman-fuller-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	22820664	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-circus-milked-dry
a-darke-tale-new-age	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>The perpetual fear of every slave owner, spanning not only these years, but of slavery as an institution, is that of rebellion. African slaves were frequently taken from warring tribes, speaking different languages, and with known grudges, so cooperation might be mitigated. In some circumstances, males of fighting age were killed or mutilated.</em></p> <p><em>On the plantations, rules created for the safety of slave owners were paramount. Farmers prudently forbid materials that could be turned to weapons in or near slave quarters. A slave master was often employed for their brutality in enforcement.</em></p> <p><em>The hells of life on a sugar plantation are not known widely, but the danger is implied. A worker's life-expectancy is six-months, and the best death to be had is that of exhaustion. Many more will lose limbs to the machines than their breath to the soil. It is for this reason that an exception in general policy is made in these places.</em></p> <p><em>On a sugar plantation, it is custom to keep a machete on the wall, so that the expense of a new slave could, hopefully, be avoided completely.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><em>The Island of Antigua; English West Indies</em></p> <p><em>Darke Sugar Plantation</em></p> <p><em>June, 1633</em></p> <p>A scream in the processing room had stopped signaling curiosity. It inspired slaves and servants to act, because there was an unspoken — and perhaps not fully comprehended — agreement adhered to among the workers. All of them would do what they could to help the one caught in the red and orange folds of iron, because they could need the same help before the end of the season, and the difference of two seconds could mean losing not just a hand but an arm.</p> <p>But The Tarp stood in the room, and before any of them had fallen in their first steps to keep from getting closer to it, it had pulled the machete from its hook on the wall and kicked out the feet of the negro screaming by the furnace. With a twist, The Tarp brought one elbow down on another, and a crack resounded. The arm broken between the wrist and the captured hand, The Tarp had a clean cut with the edge, and the negro's pain became much more acute.</p> <p>Bending over, it ripped a strip of burlap from a dirty bag, and padded the wound. Another strip, and with the iron stake hanging from its belt it twisted the cloth around the stump until the spurts turned to a trickle. No words were spoken while it worked with its strange diligence, except the sickly half-syllable of the mutilated slave's word for 'no'.</p> <p>The Tarp picked up the limp body, a few shades greyer than a moment earlier, and handed it to the manservant Brick, drawn to the shed by the initial panic. A neutral pat on Brick's head and The Tarp was gone, not a sliver of skin seen beneath its rough-hewn cloak.</p> <p>Brick, stout but not particularly muscular, started to labor down the dirt road and called back for help. When two of the larger slaves had taken the body from him, he held his knees and ordered them forward.</p> <p>“Bring him to one of the house girls! They'll… they'll.” He made to look like he hadn't tried to say anything else when they looked back, and waved them forward. When they had rounded the short dirt path and were behind the palmetto bushes that lined the right of the walkway, Brick bent over and retched, his elbows on his knees. His eyes started to cloud over and he fell to his hip, and then contented himself to lie down for a moment and let the faintness pass.</p> <p>When Brick had first enlisted as a servant for his trip to the Caribbean, he had been twenty-five, and bold in his strength as a man. Eager to prove his merit as a strongman, while earning what he believed to be an investment in his own plantation, he signed his service to work in the fields, and promptly died as one of the first indentured servants in the Caribbean.</p> <p>In truth, he had lapsed into a deep unconscious state from exhaustion, and his body was stolen by a medicine man. It was through this that Brick met Mr. Darke.</p> <p>The medicine man took Brick into his hut, where he was given a paste of food and water, and his blood was let as needed. He remained comatose for nearly three weeks, and by then his old master had assumed he had run out on his contract. <em>Just as well</em>, he would say, <em>as there was no way I or anyone else could serve in such a capacity.</em></p> <p>As it was, there <em>was</em> a people who could serve in the fields, but they came not from the metropolises of Europe, but the grasslands of Africa. Certainly not after Brick and his circumstantial peers had written with word of the work. In this fractional way, Brick had helped changed the world. Of course, his campaign to make wary his friends and family of the sugar plantations was secondary, his work for Mr. Darke taking up most of his time.</p> <p>Mr. T. Darke was a frequent visitor of the medicine man. The story as he told it was not unlike Brick's, although his rescue by the island priest was from Oriental merchants and their 'tactical spices'.</p> <p>“Since then, I've had tea with the old niggah at least once a month, and he's shown me a whole 'nother side of magic I couldn't of fathomed. Wouldn't recommend voodoo to men who haven't had their feet wetted in the waters, though.” During dinner one evening, Darke leaned forward and muttered through his grin “I've heard, their women can't forgive. I daresay they let the grudge ferment and try to poison your grandchildren with it!” Of no incident, Brick's employment had never been strictly addressed in conversational tones. His best guess was the medicine man's boredom, who had become increasingly disinterested in Brick the longer he stayed with him past his conscious return. This is debatably supported by Brick's initial acquaintance with Darke, when he woke up one morning on his plantation, and told that he was employed.</p> <p>Anecdotes did abound at the table of Darke, and all of them, outlandish or close to home, would ring with an energetic truth that it made his various circles (very few of which overlapped at all) curious as to how a man as young as he could be so cleverly, damnably, experienced. Even after a pint or three, Darke would give the same answer to anyone who brought up his age. A furrowed brow, and then he would look into a polished mug, or spoon, or serving plate. After checking both sides of his face, he gave a tentative estimate. “A fortnight past thirty, I should think.” And that was that.</p> <p>Brick's employment on Darke's plantation was humbling, but comforting. “A boy's chores for a man's meal.” His only bane was The Tarp, who both terrified and infuriated him. There were no assumptions that could be made about The Tarp, as Darke would say nothing on the subject, and the information gleaned from his actions only supported the conclusion that The Tarp was either insane or well past human. Brick opted to the latter.</p> <p>Standing somewhere between six and seven feet, it towered over Brick's stout figure. There was little else to be discerned. Its cloak it wore in layers, the outermost tied with a belt, from which hung a few pouches, and one side an iron barb that was rarely touched. It smelled of leather and earth. Its gloves went past the cuff of its sleeve, and the top of its boots had never been seen. Both were a deep brown hide that looked comfortably worn. All of this, in any weather. Even the summers, when humidity was heavier than anywhere, and it was not uncommon to reach a point beyond a hundred and twenty degrees.</p> <p>Its face had never been seen. Two white circles on a deep leather mask, wide that would cover its cheeks, on top of a small circular screen that, for whatever function, covered its mouth. Not much else was defined by anyone about The Tarp, because it was impossible to search for the details in its mask when its eyes had been caught. The only part of The Tarp that wasn't mechanical was the look it gave, striking an ice into the chords of a person's heart, and still this wasn't human. It surpassed any human capacity into the realm of devilry. Brick was sure that Hell was the only place The Tarp would call home.</p> <p>Darke said that it was employed for the purpose of slave management. Its presence could accomplish this a dozen times over, and yet Brick had to know it was around every damned day. Its obviously inhuman strength further humiliated Brick, who once believed himself to be a demigod, although that had always had a youthful context. This constant reminder (if irregularly reinforced one), served to aggravate Brick, always and forever, although never to a degree that exceeded the amount of fear that he held for The Tarp, and consequently, never to a degree that would bring him to actually <em>do</em> anything about the creature.</p> <p>And it had the habit of arriving at the most off-putting moments. Brick would go days without seeing it, but when it resurfaced, it was always sudden. <em>I've never seen him from across a field, no. Always bloody behind me.</em> Once, after a week without any such incidents, Brick had tentatively concluded that The Tarp had somehow come to understand the particular effect it had on him, and that they would stay away from each other from then out. That evening, he had opened a guest bedroom to begin cleaning, and struck a match to light a candle. The flare of sulfur illuminated the orbs of The Tarp's eyes a foot away from Brick, who alerted the entire household to the circumstances, and also broke Mr. Darke's cow-lamp.</p> <p>Brick was hardly one to conspire. Getting rid of The Tarp was not an aspiration, but a pipe-dream to be nurtured spitefully until Brick became jaded and unfeeling enough to be legitimately apathetic, and probably die.</p> <p><em>Any day now…</em></p> <hr/> <p>A night later, Darke sat across from a bleary eyed, dark looking young fellow, sitting in a tavern nursing a very dirty pint of beer, staring anxiously into his drink, in the way that only a man who owed somebody else more money than they themselves personally owned can. With a keen eye and a small smile, Darke engaged him in conversation, opening with a joke.</p> <p>“BLLAAAARRRRR, YE BLIMEY FUCKIN' ARSE, STAND THE FUCK UP AND BE A MAN BEFORE SOME FUCKARD CUTS YER BALLS OFF.” When the younger man didn't laugh Darke clapped a hand down on his neck and giggled for several seconds.</p> <p>“Nah, nah! I'm fine, I swear I SWEAR,” he teetered on one foot for a moment. “Now, listen up, because I can tell you right now that you don't solver any o' those problems by pissin' around with your drinks. Now listen up, because I'm eight, HUN- no, wait, wait,” He bent over the counter and stared at his candlelit reflection in a bottle. The publican looked down at him from three yards away, decidedly nonbemused.</p> <p>“I'm… THIRTY… years. Give or take. Old. See? You don't, you don't know. I don't know. Bu' tha's alright. Here, have a drink.” Before the fellow had said a word, his new friend had spilled half a glass of whiskey on his lap, and was whispering 'eight hundred' into his ear incessantly. As he drank, the younger man grew bolder, and explained his situation to Darke, and anyone else who was listening. It was a crowded tavern full of bawlers and drunks, and Darke bought a few rounds to create a sympathetic ring of listeners.</p> <p>His name was Percival Cretum, and when he had driven his father's business into the ground (for business reasons, presumably; this was not addressed), he had found promise in the heralded western colonies. With no direction or any desire to continue his life in Britain, he got involved with a small company of merchants, and within four months was aboard an argosy to Antigua. His hopes to travel to the New England colonies, where he might start a new, profitable life, were suspended so that he could break away from the men whose ultimate goal was to create a stranglehold on slaving within the Windward Islands (so name for their position relative to the Caribbean trade winds) by laying a foundation in the surrounding islands, until such a time as the Windward Islands were available to be colonized. Percival Cretum had little faith in this plan of action, and certainly wasn't about to take an arduous path of growth and return, so he bid his compatriots farewell and relieved them of enough resources to carry himself to Boston by way of Nevis.</p> <p>“Where I'd really like to be <em>now</em>, because they're probably going to kill me.” At this point everyone, including Percival, laughed heartily, because most of them hadn't been listening and laughing seemed appropriate. He wasn't entirely sure why, but at one point he knew that he <em>hadn't</em> wanted to share the information he had just given to a public house filled with people he didn't know. Figuring that any damage was done, he decided to enjoy the rest of his evening, and promptly blacked out.</p> <p>The drinking continued, and soon the tavern emptied out, with Darke cradling his new friend in his arms and up a dirt road, only dropping him six times before falling asleep on top of him, a mile from his home.</p> <p>The next morning was an alarming one for Percival, who awoke to Brick lightly shaking him.</p> <p>“Mister Darke cares to speak with you as soon as you're able. He also suggests you rub some of the brown paste in your washroom along your gums, and that it ought to help bring you out of any stupor.”</p> <p>When the stout man had left, Percival stumbled out of the very tightly tucked sheet, nearly falling on his face, and into the first private washroom he had ever been inside. Footsteps from the floor below resounded in his skull like gunshots. He saw a small green bowl filled with a substance that looked thoroughly whipped, evenly light brown and smooth as an eggshell. Another time, he might have hesitated to put it into his mouth, but without skipping a beat, he curled his finger into the cream-like mush and stuck it into his cheek.</p> <p>Before he had started to spread it along the inside of his lip, his body slipped into a euphoric sense of acuity. His pupils dilated, and the deathly headache evaporated with an inaudible sigh.</p> <p>Feeling very sharp and prepared to fight his way through any consequences of whatever he might have done the night before, he strode out of the bedroom and observed his surroundings.</p> <p>Ornate woodwork, oil paintings, and down the hall, a pedestal holding two massive barbs of ivory intersecting each other. It was a testament to affluence, and Percival had only seen the portion of the house outside of his bedroom. As he made his way down the staircase, envy and admiration upon him, and knowing nothing else about Darke, he knew he wanted to be him.</p> <p>After making several aimless rounds and seeing nobody, he caught a glimpse of a tall figure's coat and called out to him for directions. A masked head and the shoulder it belonged to slid out behind a doorway and nodded in the opposite direction. Feeling as though he <em>should</em> have been taken aback, but not actually having the sentiment by whatever magic was in the bowl upstairs, he followed the nod to a brightly lit dinner room, and the back of his comrade's head.</p> <p>Darke twisted around in his seat. “Percy! Join me. Eggs?”</p> <p>“Gladly, sir. Thank you.” Darke scraped a pair of the bright and flattened orbs onto a dish he had prepared, and began pouring himself a glass of rum.</p> <p>“Made, of sugar from this plantation, <em>on</em> this plantation, about four summers ago; I have since had a few other distilleries built around the side of the house, and am learning to create rum as a little side project of mine. Appreciate the taste of wine, but use rum, for the real drinking.” Percival noted how he would hesitate between words as he spoke, drawing emphasis to some of his absent-minded actions between clauses.</p> <p>“On my first batch, I offered the first glass to one of the niggers who helped me move some supplies. Didn't know what I was doing. He's blind now. Step out on the porch with me.” Percival began to pick up his plate, but a bustling house servant took it out of his hands and carried it to a table on the sundeck. Overlooking the orchard in front of them, and to his left, the noon sun shown down on the tall fields of sugar cane.</p> <p>“So, Percy, my new friend. How much of last night do you remember? Because as much as I put down, I do recall your very interesting story.” He pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his shirt. “And <em>you</em>,” he gestured with a pipe, also from his shirt, “have piqued my interest. No fear, no fear!” In response to Percival's fearfully crooked eyebrows.</p> <p>“You made it very clear to me, and everybody else, that your greatest interest is money. And that you have the utmost faith in your own abilities. As do I.” He lit a matched and drew.</p> <p>“Mr. Darke, I don't know what I said, but I hope you'll pardon me,” Darke stopped him with a thoughtful wave of his hand.</p> <p>“Darke. I've been going by that name for a long time, Percy. And I think I'm about done with it. So here are my thoughts. Not many people can leave their mark on the world. And I believe that if you chase after luxury by money you've only made by using others, you won't care to have it in the end. I can promise you that wealth has never been a goal to strive for. It's truly secondary, and by the time you've created it for yourself, it will be too late to realize that you really wanted everything but.</p> <p>“You have your gifts, Percy. Intellect and education, ambition. A hundred hells, you have youth. Real youth, not my youth. Forget I said that. Actually don’t, I’ll circle around. And I don’t know if you noticed, but before you vomited a barrel and a half, there was a tavern full of women looking you over. All of this, and you want money. I blame society.” He drew again, and took a swig of rum.</p> <p>“My point is, Percy, you have <em>potential.</em> There’s very little legitimate potential in anyone, and you have mounds of it. Having seen the world change a few times over — no really, I’ll get to that — I’ve earned the right to say it’s people like <em>you</em> who make the difference. And here you are, no small thief, crooking over men who put faith in you to get to the mainland and make <em>money</em>?” He spat the word, and shot through Percy with a look of more paternalism than the young man had ever been shown. Shame was a foreign construct for him. It hurt.</p> <p>“So if you’d like, <em>I’d</em> like to see to it you don’t waste yourself.</p> <p>“There's magic in this world, son. It lives behind a veil, and it'll give itself up to people who go looking for it. I found it, and in my time I've done a great deal to make a difference by it. And then I got <em>wealthy</em>.” He gestured across the grounds. “Worst thing that could have happened to me.” He drew from the pipe again, and began to tell a story.</p> <p>It was a fascinating story. Darke had had his fingers in nearly every European conquest in the last millennium. He had loved, and lost, and fought in countless wars. He had nearly died at the hands of Francois Ravaillac, during his mission to kill Henry IV, King of France. He had advised the English crown and manipulated the Church of Rome, always for the greater good, <em>always by a code</em>. He had lived. When he drew his story to a close, how he had come to own his plantation and some of his lesser misadventures with the island's witch doctor, he seemed to expect something from Percival. If not belief, then perhaps acknowledgment. He got neither.</p> <p>“Mister Darke, I must be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality,” “You can reject what you've heard today, Percy,” “Percival. My name is Percival Cretum, thank you.” Darke's sigh was not one of frustration, nor disappointment, but of understanding. A father watching his son make the mistakes that he couldn't warn him against.</p> <p>“I'm afraid you're Darke, now. You can go if you like. But magic is upon you, and I only want to see you use it the right way. Admittedly probably a faux pas to make you magic without telling you, but there’s really no standard, so there you go.”</p> <p>“What? What magic, would you say that you're magic, that-” “Not anymore, but I certainly was.” “that your eight hundred years old-” “I might be a <em>little</em> magic, still.” “and that paste upstairs, that was <em>magic</em>?” “Coca leaves, which I can't believe there's not a market for.” “You're insane.” “More for me, I suppose.”</p> <p>“I need to leave. Thank you. Thank you very much, for everything, for your time, for breakfast, for the COCA LEAVES, thank you, and thank you again. Good bye!”</p> <p>Percival Cretum Darke strode down the path he assumed was to the city, came back when it wasn't, and looked around the grounds, trying and failing to maintain the sarcastic indifference in his step. The man who wasn't Darke anymore pointed to the West, and with a parting, “Right. Thanks!” Percival Cretum Darke walked off the No-Longer-Darke Plantation.</p> <p>The Tarp stood behind the man smoking a pipe. In a voice like velvet gravel he spoke. “Do you try again?”</p> <p>A moment passed. “I’ve been at this game a while. Nine years, six months, between two or four weeks, depending on that Autumn’s tobacco harvest. He’ll be back. See to it he gets to Boston, will you?” And The Tarp was gone.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-darke-tale-new-age">A Darke Tale - New Age</a>" by Captain Cain, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-darke-tale-new-age">https://scpwiki.com/a-darke-tale-new-age</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > //The perpetual fear of every slave owner, spanning not only these years, but of slavery as an institution, is that of rebellion. African slaves were frequently taken from warring tribes, speaking different languages, and with known grudges, so cooperation might be mitigated. In some circumstances, males of fighting age were killed or mutilated.// > > //On the plantations, rules created for the safety of slave owners were paramount. Farmers prudently forbid materials that could be turned to weapons in or near slave quarters. A slave master was often employed for their brutality in enforcement.// > > //The hells of life on a sugar plantation are not known widely, but the danger is implied. A worker's life-expectancy is six-months, and the best death to be had is that of exhaustion. Many more will lose limbs to the machines than their breath to the soil. It is for this reason that an exception in general policy is made in these places.// > > //On a sugar plantation, it is custom to keep a machete on the wall, so that the expense of a new slave could, hopefully, be avoided completely.// //The Island of Antigua; English West Indies// //Darke Sugar Plantation// //June, 1633// A scream in the processing room had stopped signaling curiosity. It inspired slaves and servants to act, because there was an unspoken -- and perhaps not fully comprehended -- agreement adhered to among the workers. All of them would do what they could to help the one caught in the red and orange folds of iron, because they could need the same help before the end of the season, and the difference of two seconds could mean losing not just a hand but an arm. But The Tarp stood in the room, and before any of them had fallen in their first steps to keep from getting closer to it, it had pulled the machete from its hook on the wall and kicked out the feet of the negro screaming by the furnace. With a twist, The Tarp brought one elbow down on another, and a crack resounded. The arm broken between the wrist and the captured hand, The Tarp had a clean cut with the edge, and the negro's pain became much more acute. Bending over, it ripped a strip of burlap from a dirty bag, and padded the wound. Another strip, and with the iron stake hanging from its belt it twisted the cloth around the stump until the spurts turned to a trickle. No words were spoken while it worked with its strange diligence, except the sickly half-syllable of the mutilated slave's word for 'no'. The Tarp picked up the limp body, a few shades greyer than a moment earlier, and handed it to the manservant Brick, drawn to the shed by the initial panic. A neutral pat on Brick's head and The Tarp was gone, not a sliver of skin seen beneath its rough-hewn cloak. Brick, stout but not particularly muscular, started to labor down the dirt road and called back for help. When two of the larger slaves had taken the body from him, he held his knees and ordered them forward. “Bring him to one of the house girls! They'll... they'll.” He made to look like he hadn't tried to say anything else when they looked back, and waved them forward. When they had rounded the short dirt path and were behind the palmetto bushes that lined the right of the walkway, Brick bent over and retched, his elbows on his knees. His eyes started to cloud over and he fell to his hip, and then contented himself to lie down for a moment and let the faintness pass. When Brick had first enlisted as a servant for his trip to the Caribbean, he had been twenty-five, and bold in his strength as a man. Eager to prove his merit as a strongman, while earning what he believed to be an investment in his own plantation, he signed his service to work in the fields, and promptly died as one of the first indentured servants in the Caribbean. In truth, he had lapsed into a deep unconscious state from exhaustion, and his body was stolen by a medicine man. It was through this that Brick met Mr. Darke. The medicine man took Brick into his hut, where he was given a paste of food and water, and his blood was let as needed. He remained comatose for nearly three weeks, and by then his old master had assumed he had run out on his contract. //Just as well//, he would say, //as there was no way I or anyone else could serve in such a capacity.// As it was, there //was// a people who could serve in the fields, but they came not from the metropolises of Europe, but the grasslands of Africa. Certainly not after Brick and his circumstantial peers had written with word of the work. In this fractional way, Brick had helped changed the world. Of course, his campaign to make wary his friends and family of the sugar plantations was secondary, his work for Mr. Darke taking up most of his time. Mr. T. Darke was a frequent visitor of the medicine man. The story as he told it was not unlike Brick's, although his rescue by the island priest was from Oriental merchants and their 'tactical spices'. “Since then, I've had tea with the old niggah at least once a month, and he's shown me a whole 'nother side of magic I couldn't of fathomed. Wouldn't recommend voodoo to men who haven't had their feet wetted in the waters, though.” During dinner one evening, Darke leaned forward and muttered through his grin “I've heard, their women can't forgive. I daresay they let the grudge ferment and try to poison your grandchildren with it!” Of no incident, Brick's employment had never been strictly addressed in conversational tones. His best guess was the medicine man's boredom, who had become increasingly disinterested in Brick the longer he stayed with him past his conscious return. This is debatably supported by Brick's initial acquaintance with Darke, when he woke up one morning on his plantation, and told that he was employed. Anecdotes did abound at the table of Darke, and all of them, outlandish or close to home, would ring with an energetic truth that it made his various circles (very few of which overlapped at all) curious as to how a man as young as he could be so cleverly, damnably, experienced. Even after a pint or three, Darke would give the same answer to anyone who brought up his age. A furrowed brow, and then he would look into a polished mug, or spoon, or serving plate. After checking both sides of his face, he gave a tentative estimate. “A fortnight past thirty, I should think.” And that was that. Brick's employment on Darke's plantation was humbling, but comforting. “A boy's chores for a man's meal.” His only bane was The Tarp, who both terrified and infuriated him. There were no assumptions that could be made about The Tarp, as Darke would say nothing on the subject, and the information gleaned from his actions only supported the conclusion that The Tarp was either insane or well past human. Brick opted to the latter. Standing somewhere between six and seven feet, it towered over Brick's stout figure. There was little else to be discerned. Its cloak it wore in layers, the outermost tied with a belt, from which hung a few pouches, and one side an iron barb that was rarely touched. It smelled of leather and earth. Its gloves went past the cuff of its sleeve, and the top of its boots had never been seen. Both were a deep brown hide that looked comfortably worn. All of this, in any weather. Even the summers, when humidity was heavier than anywhere, and it was not uncommon to reach a point beyond a hundred and twenty degrees. Its face had never been seen. Two white circles on a deep leather mask, wide that would cover its cheeks, on top of a small circular screen that, for whatever function, covered its mouth. Not much else was defined by anyone about The Tarp, because it was impossible to search for the details in its mask when its eyes had been caught. The only part of The Tarp that wasn't mechanical was the look it gave, striking an ice into the chords of a person's heart, and still this wasn't human. It surpassed any human capacity into the realm of devilry. Brick was sure that Hell was the only place The Tarp would call home. Darke said that it was employed for the purpose of slave management. Its presence could accomplish this a dozen times over, and yet Brick had to know it was around every damned day. Its obviously inhuman strength further humiliated Brick, who once believed himself to be a demigod, although that had always had a youthful context. This constant reminder (if irregularly reinforced one), served to aggravate Brick, always and forever, although never to a degree that exceeded the amount of fear that he held for The Tarp, and consequently, never to a degree that would bring him to actually //do// anything about the creature. And it had the habit of arriving at the most off-putting moments. Brick would go days without seeing it, but when it resurfaced, it was always sudden. //I've never seen him from across a field, no. Always bloody behind me.// Once, after a week without any such incidents, Brick had tentatively concluded that The Tarp had somehow come to understand the particular effect it had on him, and that they would stay away from each other from then out. That evening, he had opened a guest bedroom to begin cleaning, and struck a match to light a candle. The flare of sulfur illuminated the orbs of The Tarp's eyes a foot away from Brick, who alerted the entire household to the circumstances, and also broke Mr. Darke's cow-lamp. Brick was hardly one to conspire. Getting rid of The Tarp was not an aspiration, but a pipe-dream to be nurtured spitefully until Brick became jaded and unfeeling enough to be legitimately apathetic, and probably die. //Any day now...// ---- A night later, Darke sat across from a bleary eyed, dark looking young fellow, sitting in a tavern nursing a very dirty pint of beer, staring anxiously into his drink, in the way that only a man who owed somebody else more money than they themselves personally owned can. With a keen eye and a small smile, Darke engaged him in conversation, opening with a joke. “BLLAAAARRRRR, YE BLIMEY FUCKIN' ARSE, STAND THE FUCK UP AND BE A MAN BEFORE SOME FUCKARD CUTS YER BALLS OFF.” When the younger man didn't laugh Darke clapped a hand down on his neck and giggled for several seconds. “Nah, nah! I'm fine, I swear I SWEAR,” he teetered on one foot for a moment. “Now, listen up, because I can tell you right now that you don't solver any o' those problems by pissin' around with your drinks. Now listen up, because I'm eight, HUN- no, wait, wait,” He bent over the counter and stared at his candlelit reflection in a bottle. The publican looked down at him from three yards away, decidedly nonbemused. “I'm... THIRTY... years. Give or take. Old. See? You don't, you don't know. I don't know. Bu' tha's alright. Here, have a drink.” Before the fellow had said a word, his new friend had spilled half a glass of whiskey on his lap, and was whispering 'eight hundred' into his ear incessantly. As he drank, the younger man grew bolder, and explained his situation to Darke, and anyone else who was listening. It was a crowded tavern full of bawlers and drunks, and Darke bought a few rounds to create a sympathetic ring of listeners. His name was Percival Cretum, and when he had driven his father's business into the ground (for business reasons, presumably; this was not addressed), he had found promise in the heralded western colonies. With no direction or any desire to continue his life in Britain, he got involved with a small company of merchants, and within four months was aboard an argosy to Antigua. His hopes to travel to the New England colonies, where he might start a new, profitable life, were suspended so that he could break away from the men whose ultimate goal was to create a stranglehold on slaving within the Windward Islands (so name for their position relative to the Caribbean trade winds) by laying a foundation in the surrounding islands, until such a time as the Windward Islands were available to be colonized. Percival Cretum had little faith in this plan of action, and certainly wasn't about to take an arduous path of growth and return, so he bid his compatriots farewell and relieved them of enough resources to carry himself to Boston by way of Nevis. “Where I'd really like to be //now//, because they're probably going to kill me.” At this point everyone, including Percival, laughed heartily, because most of them hadn't been listening and laughing seemed appropriate. He wasn't entirely sure why, but at one point he knew that he //hadn't// wanted to share the information he had just given to a public house filled with people he didn't know. Figuring that any damage was done, he decided to enjoy the rest of his evening, and promptly blacked out. The drinking continued, and soon the tavern emptied out, with Darke cradling his new friend in his arms and up a dirt road, only dropping him six times before falling asleep on top of him, a mile from his home. The next morning was an alarming one for Percival, who awoke to Brick lightly shaking him. “Mister Darke cares to speak with you as soon as you're able. He also suggests you rub some of the brown paste in your washroom along your gums, and that it ought to help bring you out of any stupor.” When the stout man had left, Percival stumbled out of the very tightly tucked sheet, nearly falling on his face, and into the first private washroom he had ever been inside. Footsteps from the floor below resounded in his skull like gunshots. He saw a small green bowl filled with a substance that looked thoroughly whipped, evenly light brown and smooth as an eggshell. Another time, he might have hesitated to put it into his mouth, but without skipping a beat, he curled his finger into the cream-like mush and stuck it into his cheek. Before he had started to spread it along the inside of his lip, his body slipped into a euphoric sense of acuity. His pupils dilated, and the deathly headache evaporated with an inaudible sigh. Feeling very sharp and prepared to fight his way through any consequences of whatever he might have done the night before, he strode out of the bedroom and observed his surroundings. Ornate woodwork, oil paintings, and down the hall, a pedestal holding two massive barbs of ivory intersecting each other. It was a testament to affluence, and Percival had only seen the portion of the house outside of his bedroom. As he made his way down the staircase, envy and admiration upon him, and knowing nothing else about Darke, he knew he wanted to be him. After making several aimless rounds and seeing nobody, he caught a glimpse of a tall figure's coat and called out to him for directions. A masked head and the shoulder it belonged to slid out behind a doorway and nodded in the opposite direction. Feeling as though he //should// have been taken aback, but not actually having the sentiment by whatever magic was in the bowl upstairs, he followed the nod to a brightly lit dinner room, and the back of his comrade's head. Darke twisted around in his seat. “Percy! Join me. Eggs?” “Gladly, sir. Thank you.” Darke scraped a pair of the bright and flattened orbs onto a dish he had prepared, and began pouring himself a glass of rum. “Made, of sugar from this plantation, //on// this plantation, about four summers ago; I have since had a few other distilleries built around the side of the house, and am learning to create rum as a little side project of mine. Appreciate the taste of wine, but use rum, for the real drinking.” Percival noted how he would hesitate between words as he spoke, drawing emphasis to some of his absent-minded actions between clauses. “On my first batch, I offered the first glass to one of the niggers who helped me move some supplies. Didn't know what I was doing. He's blind now. Step out on the porch with me.” Percival began to pick up his plate, but a bustling house servant took it out of his hands and carried it to a table on the sundeck. Overlooking the orchard in front of them, and to his left, the noon sun shown down on the tall fields of sugar cane. “So, Percy, my new friend. How much of last night do you remember? Because as much as I put down, I do recall your very interesting story.” He pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his shirt. “And //you//,” he gestured with a pipe, also from his shirt, “have piqued my interest. No fear, no fear!” In response to Percival's fearfully crooked eyebrows. “You made it very clear to me, and everybody else, that your greatest interest is money. And that you have the utmost faith in your own abilities. As do I.” He lit a matched and drew. “Mr. Darke, I don't know what I said, but I hope you'll pardon me,” Darke stopped him with a thoughtful wave of his hand. “Darke. I've been going by that name for a long time, Percy. And I think I'm about done with it. So here are my thoughts. Not many people can leave their mark on the world. And I believe that if you chase after luxury by money you've only made by using others, you won't care to have it in the end. I can promise you that wealth has never been a goal to strive for. It's truly secondary, and by the time you've created it for yourself, it will be too late to realize that you really wanted everything but. “You have your gifts, Percy. Intellect and education, ambition. A hundred hells, you have youth. Real youth, not my youth. Forget I said that. Actually don’t, I’ll circle around. And I don’t know if you noticed, but before you vomited a barrel and a half, there was a tavern full of women looking you over. All of this, and you want money. I blame society.” He drew again, and took a swig of rum. “My point is, Percy, you have //potential.// There’s very little legitimate potential in anyone, and you have mounds of it. Having seen the world change a few times over -- no really, I’ll get to that -- I’ve earned the right to say it’s people like //you// who make the difference. And here you are, no small thief, crooking over men who put faith in you to get to the mainland and make //money//?” He spat the word, and shot through Percy with a look of more paternalism than the young man had ever been shown. Shame was a foreign construct for him. It hurt. “So if you’d like, //I’d// like to see to it you don’t waste yourself. “There's magic in this world, son. It lives behind a veil, and it'll give itself up to people who go looking for it. I found it, and in my time I've done a great deal to make a difference by it. And then I got //wealthy//.” He gestured across the grounds. “Worst thing that could have happened to me.” He drew from the pipe again, and began to tell a story. It was a fascinating story. Darke had had his fingers in nearly every European conquest in the last millennium. He had loved, and lost, and fought in countless wars. He had nearly died at the hands of Francois Ravaillac, during his mission to kill Henry IV, King of France. He had advised the English crown and manipulated the Church of Rome, always for the greater good, //always by a code//. He had lived. When he drew his story to a close, how he had come to own his plantation and some of his lesser misadventures with the island's witch doctor, he seemed to expect something from Percival. If not belief, then perhaps acknowledgment. He got neither. “Mister Darke, I must be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality,” “You can reject what you've heard today, Percy,” “Percival. My name is Percival Cretum, thank you.” Darke's sigh was not one of frustration, nor disappointment, but of understanding. A father watching his son make the mistakes that he couldn't warn him against. “I'm afraid you're Darke, now. You can go if you like. But magic is upon you, and I only want to see you use it the right way. Admittedly probably a faux pas to make you magic without telling you, but there’s really no standard, so there you go.” “What? What magic, would you say that you're magic, that-” “Not anymore, but I certainly was.” “that your eight hundred years old-” “I might be a //little// magic, still.” “and that paste upstairs, that was //magic//?” “Coca leaves, which I can't believe there's not a market for.” “You're insane.” “More for me, I suppose.” “I need to leave. Thank you. Thank you very much, for everything, for your time, for breakfast, for the COCA LEAVES, thank you, and thank you again. Good bye!” Percival Cretum Darke strode down the path he assumed was to the city, came back when it wasn't, and looked around the grounds, trying and failing to maintain the sarcastic indifference in his step. The man who wasn't Darke anymore pointed to the West, and with a parting, “Right. Thanks!” Percival Cretum Darke walked off the No-Longer-Darke Plantation. The Tarp stood behind the man smoking a pipe. In a voice like velvet gravel he spoke. “Do you try again?” A moment passed. “I’ve been at this game a while. Nine years, six months, between two or four weeks, depending on that Autumn’s tobacco harvest. He’ll be back. See to it he gets to Boston, will you?” And The Tarp was gone. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-01T03:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "goi2014", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "percival-darke", "tale" ]	A Darke Tale - New Age - SCP Foundation	44	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "acidverse" ]	[]	22832828	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-darke-tale-new-age
a-disturbance	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The boardroom, as always, was stuffy. The windows had been painted over years ago, and nothing had ever been done about it. Though the issue was brought up from time to time at Board Meetings, it seemed there was always some other matter more pressing than the modulation of the room's environment.</p> <p>Such a matter was at hand today, Richard Akeman thought to himself. The man sighed, cracked his knuckles, and clapped his pile of papers against the conference table, forming a neat pile.</p> <p>"Gentlemen, the time is 2:09 pm, and this meeting is called to order," Akeman intoned. "Please take your seats, and we'll get started."</p> <p>There was a muttering and creaking as the various men and women present moved their antiquated bodies into slightly more antiquated chairs. After a lengthy period of groaning and creaking, silence fell over the room.</p> <p>"Thank you," Akeman began. "Allow me to explain the reason behind this unscheduled meeting." Akeman paused, and cringed slightly at the room's complete silence. The esteemed members of the Worldtree Corporation's Board of Directors had a certain Order to their proceedings, a methodology of consistency and planning in which Disturbances were frowned upon. Richard Akeman had created a Disturbance, and the room's atmosphere of irritation was palpable. The Board wanted an explanation, and it had damned well be a good one.</p> <p>After a long pause, Akeman continued. "I am afraid that I must become a bearer of bad news. The Helping Hands Organization has filed for bankruptcy."</p> <p>The room was filled by a collective gasp. For years, the Helping Hands Organization had formed an essential branch of the Corporation's structure. It was the Corporation's charitable offshoot, its primary organizer of projects that, as numerous promotional speakers had phrased it, "Giving Back to the Community". More importantly, it was the Corporation's primary source of tax deductions. With the Organization gone, the Corporation would have to find a new target for its charity, and fast. This was a Disturbance of monstrous proportions.</p> <p>Akeman could feel the Board's panic rising as a hurried muttering began to slither its way around the room. He cleared his throat slightly, and was met with sixteen pairs of worried eyes.</p> <p>As well as one pair of eyes that were decidedly less worried.</p> <p>"Fortunately, there is hope for stability yet," he began again. "Almost immediately after I was notified of the Helping Hands Organization's dissolution, I was contacted by a representative of another, equally reliable charity."</p> <p>Akeman was lying. He knew nothing of the new charity's reliability. In fact, he knew next to nothing about the new charity at all. On the Friday following the Thursday in which he had learned of the Helping Hands Organization's collapse, an unmarked envelope had appeared in Akeman's personal mailbox. The envelope's interior was nearly as unhelpful as its exterior, as it bore only a plain white postcard printed with a few words. "Charity, when it is needed most", read the card's title, followed by a phone number. Desperate, Akeman had called the phone number, and was answered by a woman's voice. The woman's voice had talked to him in soothing tones, and before Akeman could think about what he was doing, he had scheduled a meeting with "a very important representative" for the upcoming Tuesday. Had he stopped to think about it, Akeman might have realized that the voice on the other end of the telephone had an oddly detailed understanding of the Worldtree Corportion's inner workings. But Richard Akeman was a very busy man, and did not have time to stop and think about things.</p> <p>"Members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, may I present to you…" Akeman's voice trailed off as he gestured towards the other end of the boardroom. In that instant, he realized exactly how little he knew about the well-dressed man seated at the other end of the table.</p> <p>All the faces in the room turned to regard the man uneasily. He had been seated at the end of the table before most of the board members had arrived, and had not stopped smiling for the entirety of the time that he had been seated. Smiling rarely occurred in the boardroom, especially on such an unsettling day. A few of the older board members sniffed condescendingly. Who was this man seated at the end of the table, and what right did he have to continue smiling in such a manner? Was he not aware that there had been a Disturbance?</p> <p>"My name is Zachariah Maxwell," the man said, "and I'm here on behalf of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The Foundation is very interested in providing a charitable outlet for your highly esteemed Corporation."</p> <p>The man fell silent, as if he believed that he had said enough. The room was gripped in an indignant silence. Richard Akeman smiled awkwardly.</p> <p>"Ah, yes, who can forget the prestigious Mahna Foundation?" Akeman mumbled awkwardly.</p> <p>"It's Manna," replied Maxwell, the corners of his mouth only turning downward for a brief moment.</p> <p>"Yes. Manna. Right." Akeman's brow began to perspire. His complete lack of control of the situation was dangerously close to becoming exposed. "I'm quite sorry, but I appear to have forgotten. What is it, exactly, that you do, again?"</p> <p>Maxwell's face twitched slightly as, inside his head, something clicked. His smile grew even wider, and he stood up explosively, knocking back his chair. Maxwell threw out his arms, eliciting a cry of disapproval from one of the board members.</p> <p>"Ladies, gentlemen, friends, esteemed board members!" The man exclaimed. "Surely we've all heard the stories, yes?" He began to stalk energetically around the room. "The Chicago homeless are crawling in sludge and depravity!" He placed his hands on his head in a display of shock. "Indian citizens have been left without houses to call their own! Furthermore," he continued, "there are children starving in Africa."</p> <p>Suddenly, Maxwell's demeanor changed to one of dismay, and his back slumped. "But that's the problem, isn't it? We've all heard the stories day in and day out. Nobody cares. These problems, tremendous as they might be, are now commonplace." He began to move around the room again in a morose shuffle. "People give money." He slapped his hand onto the table. "But nothing really gets done, does it?" He turned his head to face the bespectacled visage of a particularly elderly director, who regarded him with caution. "Yes, people give money," Maxwell continued, placing his face uncomfortably close to the director's, "and people forget."</p> <p>"But what if they didn't forget?" Maxwell's behavior shifted once again. He stood up straighter, placed his hands by his sides, and assumed an expression of determination. "What if people genuinely cared about the issues they donated to? What if we lived in a world in which things <em>got done?</em>" Maxwell's face assumed the familiar folds of a smile, and pure enthusiasm once again manifested in his voice. "Well, ladies and gentlemen of the esteemed Board of Directors of the Worldtree Corporation, that is the world the Manna Charitable Foundation strives to create. With your funding, we will utilize the very best tools that science, technology, and every other area of modern study can provide, and we will make unforgettable changes. We will craft ad campaigns that will staunchly refuse people's attempts to forget them. We will feed all the hungry. We will clothe <em>all</em> the poor. Ladies and gentlemen, with your funding," Maxwell pounded on the table, accentuating each of his words, "we will get. <em>Things.</em> <em><strong>Done.</strong></em>"</p> <p>Maxwell looked up expectantly. He was met by a sea of furrowed brows. Somebody coughed.</p> <p>Akeman's perspiration grew more profuse. He had called in this man to fix a Disturbance, and yet here he had turned out to be Disturbance's very personification. Prancing around the room, selling unattainable goals… Maxwell had made a mockery of the Board's proper Order and procedure, and his Manna Charitable Foundation promised to make the Worldtree Corporation prominent for all the wrong reasons. Akeman had made a grave error. There would be hell to pay later, and he knew it.</p> <p>Akeman cleared his throat and attempted to smile apologetically. "Well, ah, that's certainly quite the pitch you have there," he croaked. "And, uh, under ordinary circumstances, I'd hope I wouldn't have to say this, but times being what they are, and uh, the economy being what it is…" Akeman's voice didn't so much trail off as it did drop dead.</p> <p>Zachariah Maxwell's face was one of stoic acceptance. "Yes," he said simply. "Yes, of course. I understand completely. As an apology for taking your valuable time, please accept this." Maxwell reached inside his jacket and produced two medium-sized tins. In one swift, practiced motion, he opened them and placed them on the table.</p> <p>The directors anxiously bent their heads to examine the tins' contents. Inside were forty-two perfectly proportioned, perfectly delicious truffles. Slowly, one director reached for a chocolate. As he bit into it, his eyes widened with sudden pleasure. As the director began to reach for a second candy, his compatriots eagerly grabbed truffles of their own. A brief flurry of hungry excitement gripped the room as most of the chocolates vanished. Zachariah Maxwell slipped to the boardroom's door and shut it.</p> <p>Suddenly, the room's warmth tripled. A few of the directors looked up in surprise. Slowly, Maxwell returned to his seat, his voice wavering oddly as he once again addressed the board. "Sorry to have caused you to LosE such a valuablE Portion of todAy's Nobly scheDule allOtment; my work will Be donE in just a moment, as You please…"</p> <p>Silence fell over the room. Maxwell returned to his seat and looked at the newly docile members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, their heads drooped, a few snoring softly. The corners of Maxwell's mouth curled into an entirely new type of smile.</p> <p>"<em>All right, listen up,</em>" Maxwell growled, his voice taking on an imposing timbre, "<em>it's been fun, but let's drop the charades. All of them. All this Corporation does is move money around, and you know it. Well, it's about God damn time you started making something out of that money, or at least giving it to somebody who can. To put it more simply: you're sitting on a pile of cash, but most of the planet needs that money for more than a chair. The Manna Charitable Foundation is going to change the world, and you all will have had the express privilege of having helped.</em>"</p> <p>Maxwell picked up the tins, closed them, and slipped them back inside his jacket, taking care not to touch the remaining contents. Though the chocolates might have tasted fantastic, they were dosed in enough psychoactive chemicals and hypnosis-inducing compounds that eating them, or even touching them, would yield a mild and not entirely unpleasant hangover. Under ordinary circumstances, he hoped he wouldn't have to use such tools, but times being what they were, and the economy being what it was…</p> <p>"<em>In a moment, you're all going to wake up,</em>" Maxwell continued, "<em>you're going to give me everything I ask for, you're going to remember that I gave a stunning and very convincing presentation, and you're all going to have a nice God damned day for once.</em>"</p> <p>Maxwell clicked his tongue, and the boardroom sprung to life. The board members shook their heads, confused at first. Then, remembering themselves, the directors began speaking energetically to their neighbors. Many grateful faces turned to look at Maxwell, who had re-assumed his wide smile.</p> <p>Richard Akeman, for his part, felt mildly stupefied. It seemed impossible that his unscheduled meeting, at best a Disturbance, could have gone so well. Akeman felt contentment brewing within him. Looking at the well-dressed man sitting at the other end of the table, he was spurred into action. Reaching behind him, Akeman unlocked the company safe, and withdrew an official checkbook. He could feel Maxwell's smile widen as he opened the book, and almost unknowingly, he began to smile as well.</p> <p>"Now then," Akeman said, looking up, "how much money was needed, again? I'm sure we're happy to give any amount of money to such a worthy cause." Small murmurs of enthusiasm from around the room confirmed Akeman's statement.</p> <p>Zachariah Maxwell's smile grew even wider as he saw a multitude of opportunities opening up before him. "Oh, only a few hundred thousand dollars for now," he said. "Certainly nothing too… disturbing."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-disturbance">A Disturbance</a>" by Zolgamax, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-disturbance">https://scpwiki.com/a-disturbance</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The boardroom, as always, was stuffy. The windows had been painted over years ago, and nothing had ever been done about it. Though the issue was brought up from time to time at Board Meetings, it seemed there was always some other matter more pressing than the modulation of the room's environment. Such a matter was at hand today, Richard Akeman thought to himself. The man sighed, cracked his knuckles, and clapped his pile of papers against the conference table, forming a neat pile. "Gentlemen, the time is 2:09 pm, and this meeting is called to order," Akeman intoned. "Please take your seats, and we'll get started." There was a muttering and creaking as the various men and women present moved their antiquated bodies into slightly more antiquated chairs. After a lengthy period of groaning and creaking, silence fell over the room. "Thank you," Akeman began. "Allow me to explain the reason behind this unscheduled meeting." Akeman paused, and cringed slightly at the room's complete silence. The esteemed members of the Worldtree Corporation's Board of Directors had a certain Order to their proceedings, a methodology of consistency and planning in which Disturbances were frowned upon. Richard Akeman had created a Disturbance, and the room's atmosphere of irritation was palpable. The Board wanted an explanation, and it had damned well be a good one. After a long pause, Akeman continued. "I am afraid that I must become a bearer of bad news. The Helping Hands Organization has filed for bankruptcy." The room was filled by a collective gasp. For years, the Helping Hands Organization had formed an essential branch of the Corporation's structure. It was the Corporation's charitable offshoot, its primary organizer of projects that, as numerous promotional speakers had phrased it, "Giving Back to the Community". More importantly, it was the Corporation's primary source of tax deductions. With the Organization gone, the Corporation would have to find a new target for its charity, and fast. This was a Disturbance of monstrous proportions. Akeman could feel the Board's panic rising as a hurried muttering began to slither its way around the room. He cleared his throat slightly, and was met with sixteen pairs of worried eyes. As well as one pair of eyes that were decidedly less worried. "Fortunately, there is hope for stability yet," he began again. "Almost immediately after I was notified of the Helping Hands Organization's dissolution, I was contacted by a representative of another, equally reliable charity." Akeman was lying. He knew nothing of the new charity's reliability. In fact, he knew next to nothing about the new charity at all. On the Friday following the Thursday in which he had learned of the Helping Hands Organization's collapse, an unmarked envelope had appeared in Akeman's personal mailbox. The envelope's interior was nearly as unhelpful as its exterior, as it bore only a plain white postcard printed with a few words. "Charity, when it is needed most", read the card's title, followed by a phone number. Desperate, Akeman had called the phone number, and was answered by a woman's voice. The woman's voice had talked to him in soothing tones, and before Akeman could think about what he was doing, he had scheduled a meeting with "a very important representative" for the upcoming Tuesday. Had he stopped to think about it, Akeman might have realized that the voice on the other end of the telephone had an oddly detailed understanding of the Worldtree Corportion's inner workings. But Richard Akeman was a very busy man, and did not have time to stop and think about things. "Members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, may I present to you..." Akeman's voice trailed off as he gestured towards the other end of the boardroom. In that instant, he realized exactly how little he knew about the well-dressed man seated at the other end of the table. All the faces in the room turned to regard the man uneasily. He had been seated at the end of the table before most of the board members had arrived, and had not stopped smiling for the entirety of the time that he had been seated. Smiling rarely occurred in the boardroom, especially on such an unsettling day. A few of the older board members sniffed condescendingly. Who was this man seated at the end of the table, and what right did he have to continue smiling in such a manner? Was he not aware that there had been a Disturbance? "My name is Zachariah Maxwell," the man said, "and I'm here on behalf of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The Foundation is very interested in providing a charitable outlet for your highly esteemed Corporation." The man fell silent, as if he believed that he had said enough. The room was gripped in an indignant silence. Richard Akeman smiled awkwardly. "Ah, yes, who can forget the prestigious Mahna Foundation?" Akeman mumbled awkwardly. "It's Manna," replied Maxwell, the corners of his mouth only turning downward for a brief moment. "Yes. Manna. Right." Akeman's brow began to perspire. His complete lack of control of the situation was dangerously close to becoming exposed. "I'm quite sorry, but I appear to have forgotten. What is it, exactly, that you do, again?" Maxwell's face twitched slightly as, inside his head, something clicked. His smile grew even wider, and he stood up explosively, knocking back his chair. Maxwell threw out his arms, eliciting a cry of disapproval from one of the board members. "Ladies, gentlemen, friends, esteemed board members!" The man exclaimed. "Surely we've all heard the stories, yes?" He began to stalk energetically around the room. "The Chicago homeless are crawling in sludge and depravity!" He placed his hands on his head in a display of shock. "Indian citizens have been left without houses to call their own! Furthermore," he continued, "there are children starving in Africa." Suddenly, Maxwell's demeanor changed to one of dismay, and his back slumped. "But that's the problem, isn't it? We've all heard the stories day in and day out. Nobody cares. These problems, tremendous as they might be, are now commonplace." He began to move around the room again in a morose shuffle. "People give money." He slapped his hand onto the table. "But nothing really gets done, does it?" He turned his head to face the bespectacled visage of a particularly elderly director, who regarded him with caution. "Yes, people give money," Maxwell continued, placing his face uncomfortably close to the director's, "and people forget." "But what if they didn't forget?" Maxwell's behavior shifted once again. He stood up straighter, placed his hands by his sides, and assumed an expression of determination. "What if people genuinely cared about the issues they donated to? What if we lived in a world in which things //got done?//" Maxwell's face assumed the familiar folds of a smile, and pure enthusiasm once again manifested in his voice. "Well, ladies and gentlemen of the esteemed Board of Directors of the Worldtree Corporation, that is the world the Manna Charitable Foundation strives to create. With your funding, we will utilize the very best tools that science, technology, and every other area of modern study can provide, and we will make unforgettable changes. We will craft ad campaigns that will staunchly refuse people's attempts to forget them. We will feed all the hungry. We will clothe //all// the poor. Ladies and gentlemen, with your funding," Maxwell pounded on the table, accentuating each of his words, "we will get. //Things.// //Done.//" Maxwell looked up expectantly. He was met by a sea of furrowed brows. Somebody coughed. Akeman's perspiration grew more profuse. He had called in this man to fix a Disturbance, and yet here he had turned out to be Disturbance's very personification. Prancing around the room, selling unattainable goals... Maxwell had made a mockery of the Board's proper Order and procedure, and his Manna Charitable Foundation promised to make the Worldtree Corporation prominent for all the wrong reasons. Akeman had made a grave error. There would be hell to pay later, and he knew it. Akeman cleared his throat and attempted to smile apologetically. "Well, ah, that's certainly quite the pitch you have there," he croaked. "And, uh, under ordinary circumstances, I'd hope I wouldn't have to say this, but times being what they are, and uh, the economy being what it is..." Akeman's voice didn't so much trail off as it did drop dead. Zachariah Maxwell's face was one of stoic acceptance. "Yes," he said simply. "Yes, of course. I understand completely. As an apology for taking your valuable time, please accept this." Maxwell reached inside his jacket and produced two medium-sized tins. In one swift, practiced motion, he opened them and placed them on the table. The directors anxiously bent their heads to examine the tins' contents. Inside were forty-two perfectly proportioned, perfectly delicious truffles. Slowly, one director reached for a chocolate. As he bit into it, his eyes widened with sudden pleasure. As the director began to reach for a second candy, his compatriots eagerly grabbed truffles of their own. A brief flurry of hungry excitement gripped the room as most of the chocolates vanished. Zachariah Maxwell slipped to the boardroom's door and shut it. Suddenly, the room's warmth tripled. A few of the directors looked up in surprise. Slowly, Maxwell returned to his seat, his voice wavering oddly as he once again addressed the board. "Sorry to have caused you to LosE such a valuablE Portion of todAy's Nobly scheDule allOtment; my work will Be donE in just a moment, as You please..." Silence fell over the room. Maxwell returned to his seat and looked at the newly docile members of the Worldtree Corporation Board of Directors, their heads drooped, a few snoring softly. The corners of Maxwell's mouth curled into an entirely new type of smile. "//All right, listen up,//" Maxwell growled, his voice taking on an imposing timbre, "//it's been fun, but let's drop the charades. All of them. All this Corporation does is move money around, and you know it. Well, it's about God damn time you started making something out of that money, or at least giving it to somebody who can. To put it more simply: you're sitting on a pile of cash, but most of the planet needs that money for more than a chair. The Manna Charitable Foundation is going to change the world, and you all will have had the express privilege of having helped.//" Maxwell picked up the tins, closed them, and slipped them back inside his jacket, taking care not to touch the remaining contents. Though the chocolates might have tasted fantastic, they were dosed in enough psychoactive chemicals and hypnosis-inducing compounds that eating them, or even touching them, would yield a mild and not entirely unpleasant hangover. Under ordinary circumstances, he hoped he wouldn't have to use such tools, but times being what they were, and the economy being what it was... "//In a moment, you're all going to wake up,//" Maxwell continued, "//you're going to give me everything I ask for, you're going to remember that I gave a stunning and very convincing presentation, and you're all going to have a nice God damned day for once.//" Maxwell clicked his tongue, and the boardroom sprung to life. The board members shook their heads, confused at first. Then, remembering themselves, the directors began speaking energetically to their neighbors. Many grateful faces turned to look at Maxwell, who had re-assumed his wide smile. Richard Akeman, for his part, felt mildly stupefied. It seemed impossible that his unscheduled meeting, at best a Disturbance, could have gone so well. Akeman felt contentment brewing within him. Looking at the well-dressed man sitting at the other end of the table, he was spurred into action. Reaching behind him, Akeman unlocked the company safe, and withdrew an official checkbook. He could feel Maxwell's smile widen as he opened the book, and almost unknowingly, he began to smile as well. "Now then," Akeman said, looking up, "how much money was needed, again? I'm sure we're happy to give any amount of money to such a worthy cause." Small murmurs of enthusiasm from around the room confirmed Akeman's statement. Zachariah Maxwell's smile grew even wider as he saw a multitude of opportunities opening up before him. "Oh, only a few hundred thousand dollars for now," he said. "Certainly nothing too... disturbing." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-03-09T23:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale" ]	A Disturbance - SCP Foundation	73	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21688581	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-disturbance
a-double-life	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>As I sit on the subway home from work, I light up a cigarette and stare out the window when the train pulls into a station. There's an advertisement for Anderson's Auto Parts, boasting 140 locations in the tri-state area. I chuckle quietly to myself before looking away, observing the people who get on and off of the train.</p> <p>Lying is essentially half of what I do outside of work. I lie to my neighbors, I lie to my friends, I even lie to my husband, straight to his face. It's not even a compulsion, either, it's genuinely part of my day-to-day job. If you were a curious stranger, I would tell you that I'm the assistant CFO of Anderson's Auto Parts, that my daily work life consists of desktop after desktop of paperwork, and that I hate my job enough to rant about it every day, but that "someone has to do it".</p> <p>However, my actual job title is Biological Object Study Specialist. My work life consists of peering over supernatural animals and people, studying their anomalous effects on themselves and others, determining their danger to the outside world, and keeping them contained within my worksite. It can get monotonous from time to time, but it is not the kind of job you get used to, I assure you.</p> <p>After the subway pulls into my stop, I stand up and walk out of the station, flicking my cigarette into an ashtray on the way up. My home is only a couple of blocks away from the station, so I'm there within minutes. As I step through the door, my husband greets me with a peck on the cheek.</p> <p>"Hey, darling, how was your day?" He says in a chipper voice as he heads back into the kitchen to finish what I assume is our dinner.</p> <p>"Oh god, honey, it just dragged on and on. My boss screamed for what seemed like almost an hour." I reply, thinking of the incredibly frail and alien-like man who roared at the top of his lungs for around 52 minutes at a D-class.</p> <p>"I don't know how he thinks he has the right to yell at his staff like that." He muses as I take off my coat and hang it up. "Come sit down, dinner's ready."</p> <p>I nod and place my shoes next to the door, then step into the dining room to sit down. He grins at me when I notice what he's done. He's set up quite the romantic dinner, with steaks, green beans and potatoes, along with a glass of red wine.</p> <p>"Oh, honey, this is beautiful…" I exclaim, admiring his handiwork and moving to take a seat.</p> <p>"No, no, let me get that for you." He smirks and pulls my chair out for me. I sigh and laugh a bit, sitting down. He takes a seat across from me and we both start to eat our dinner. I smile at him when he shoots me a look, swallowing a bite of green beans.</p> <p>"You know, darling," he begins, setting his fork down gently. "I found something rather strange today."</p> <p>"Did you, now?" I ask, taking another bite of the steak. So perfectly cooked, with just the right amount of fat for flavor.</p> <p>"It was some form that was in your desk, something about the 'SCP Foundation' and some kind of statue that kills people when no one's looking at it."</p> <p>I immediately stop mid-chew and look up at him, staring. I must have accidentally mixed up part of my actual paperwork with my cover paperwork…oh god, we'll both be terminated if the Foundation finds out about this… My palms almost start to sweat before I tilt my head and ask, "Huh?"</p> <p>"Yeah, I know! It's weird, right?" He chuckles and takes another bite of his steak. "I mean, I figured it was just some kind of dark fiction from the internet. …you're not looking up that sort of thing, are you?" He says, half-joking.</p> <p>I stare at him for a moment before sighing. "No, honey, it's a real thing and it's something I'm studying every time I go in to work." I say, laughing. "Alright, you got me. I…I kind of like that sort of dark and bloody storytale stuff."</p> <p>Unsuspecting, he chuckles. "Yeah, I figured you've always had a, um…a thing for stuff like that." A weight is lifted off my chest. I would sigh in relief if I didn't have food in my mouth. Swallowing, I reach over to my glass of wine and take a sip, smiling at him. "I hope this doesn't make me any less attractive to you." I say as I take something out of my pocket before standing up and getting the wine bottle.</p> <p>"Nothing could ever make you less attractive to me, darling. Not since the day I met you." He replies with a somewhat sultry tone in his voice.</p> <p>"And that's why I love you." I grin and lean forward, kissing him on the lips. As he closes his eyes, I use my thumb to slip a Class-A amnestic into the wine bottle. "Perhaps later, we can…make this evening a bit more romantic." I insist as I refill his empty glass.</p> <p>"Ooh, I thought you'd never ask." He laughs a bit. "Let's finish our dinner first, though, shall we?"</p> <p>I nod and sit back down, watching him take a sip of his fresh wine. Our dinner continues and we idly chit-chat back and forth before he starts to rub his head. "Are you alright, honey?" I ask in a concerned tone.</p> <p>"Ngh…I think there was something in my steak…" He says weakly before falling out of his chair. I quickly stand from my seat, walk over to him and drag his unconscious body into the living room, where I lay him down on the couch. "You stupid moron, Nicole, you just nearly caused a breach…" I rub my face in anger before running upstairs and going into my office, shoving the door open.</p> <p>I frantically shuffle through my desk drawers, looking for the object log. If this were to get out, losing my job would be the least of my worries. Unable to find it, I slam my fists down, running my hands through my hair as I nervously look around the room. Then, I remembered…he probably wouldn't have just put it back where he found it. Not something like that. I run downstairs to the garbage bin, practically sliding on the floor to it like a baseball player rushing to home plate.</p> <p>After yanking an apple core and today's paper out of the bin, I find it. That fucking statue. I take it into our backyard and pull my lighter from my pocket, igniting the flame and burning the page until nothing is left. Satisfied, I step back inside and lock the back door behind me.</p> <p>When I walk back into the living room, I look at my husband and try to think about what I should do. I gave him an amnestic, but what if it doesn't take? What if he wakes up and still remembers it? What then? If this gets out, the Foundation would cover everything up, with prejudice. I think about the gun I keep hidden in the basement and wonder if I should use it. I can't let anyone know about this by any means necessary, but…I can't just kill my husband. Not after everything we've been through together.</p> <p>Overwhelmed by the situation, tears start running down my face as I look back and forth between him and the basement door, but before I can make either choice, he stirs. I quickly move over to him. "Honey, are you okay?" I ask.</p> <p>"…Nicole…? What happened? Why am I on the couch?" He asks, rubbing his forehead.</p> <p>"We were eating the dinner you made for us and you passed out." I say, sniffling as I caress his cheek gently.</p> <p>"I…was? Last thing I remember is getting home from work…" He sits up.</p> <p>I let out a gasp of relief. "Yes, honey…you did. I think something was wrong with your steak. It did look slightly off…" I smile.</p> <p>"Heh…uh, are you alright? You're crying…" He worries.</p> <p>"I…I was worried about you. I thought I was going to have to call 911." I say, smiling. He smiles back and kisses me on the cheek. I was so relieved that everything was okay.</p> <p>"Should…we finish the dinner?" He asks.</p> <p>"No, let's just watch a movie. We already ate most of the dinner anyway. You just go up and take a nice shower and I'll clean up. You deserve it." I kiss his head and he nods, standing up from the couch and walking upstairs.</p> <p>I rub my eye, thinking about how close I just came to killing my own husband. After cleaning up the dishes, I take the bottle of wine and pour it down the drain in the sink, staring outside and looking at the sky.</p> <p>I'm never happy about how I have to handle my life. Almost everything I say to my husband is a lie, and I have to maintain those lies, often with force. My job can leave me feeling too drained to care about it, but when I do, I wonder if it's even worth the trouble sometimes.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-double-life">A Double Life</a>" by DrWaverton, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-double-life">https://scpwiki.com/a-double-life</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] As I sit on the subway home from work, I light up a cigarette and stare out the window when the train pulls into a station. There's an advertisement for Anderson's Auto Parts, boasting 140 locations in the tri-state area. I chuckle quietly to myself before looking away, observing the people who get on and off of the train. Lying is essentially half of what I do outside of work. I lie to my neighbors, I lie to my friends, I even lie to my husband, straight to his face. It's not even a compulsion, either, it's genuinely part of my day-to-day job. If you were a curious stranger, I would tell you that I'm the assistant CFO of Anderson's Auto Parts, that my daily work life consists of desktop after desktop of paperwork, and that I hate my job enough to rant about it every day, but that "someone has to do it". However, my actual job title is Biological Object Study Specialist. My work life consists of peering over supernatural animals and people, studying their anomalous effects on themselves and others, determining their danger to the outside world, and keeping them contained within my worksite. It can get monotonous from time to time, but it is not the kind of job you get used to, I assure you. After the subway pulls into my stop, I stand up and walk out of the station, flicking my cigarette into an ashtray on the way up. My home is only a couple of blocks away from the station, so I'm there within minutes. As I step through the door, my husband greets me with a peck on the cheek. "Hey, darling, how was your day?" He says in a chipper voice as he heads back into the kitchen to finish what I assume is our dinner. "Oh god, honey, it just dragged on and on. My boss screamed for what seemed like almost an hour." I reply, thinking of the incredibly frail and alien-like man who roared at the top of his lungs for around 52 minutes at a D-class. "I don't know how he thinks he has the right to yell at his staff like that." He muses as I take off my coat and hang it up. "Come sit down, dinner's ready." I nod and place my shoes next to the door, then step into the dining room to sit down. He grins at me when I notice what he's done. He's set up quite the romantic dinner, with steaks, green beans and potatoes, along with a glass of red wine. "Oh, honey, this is beautiful…" I exclaim, admiring his handiwork and moving to take a seat. "No, no, let me get that for you." He smirks and pulls my chair out for me. I sigh and laugh a bit, sitting down. He takes a seat across from me and we both start to eat our dinner. I smile at him when he shoots me a look, swallowing a bite of green beans. "You know, darling," he begins, setting his fork down gently. "I found something rather strange today." "Did you, now?" I ask, taking another bite of the steak. So perfectly cooked, with just the right amount of fat for flavor. "It was some form that was in your desk, something about the 'SCP Foundation' and some kind of statue that kills people when no one's looking at it." I immediately stop mid-chew and look up at him, staring. I must have accidentally mixed up part of my actual paperwork with my cover paperwork...oh god, we'll both be terminated if the Foundation finds out about this... My palms almost start to sweat before I tilt my head and ask, "Huh?" "Yeah, I know! It's weird, right?" He chuckles and takes another bite of his steak. "I mean, I figured it was just some kind of dark fiction from the internet. …you're not looking up that sort of thing, are you?" He says, half-joking. I stare at him for a moment before sighing. "No, honey, it's a real thing and it's something I'm studying every time I go in to work." I say, laughing. "Alright, you got me. I…I kind of like that sort of dark and bloody storytale stuff." Unsuspecting, he chuckles. "Yeah, I figured you've always had a, um...a thing for stuff like that." A weight is lifted off my chest. I would sigh in relief if I didn't have food in my mouth. Swallowing, I reach over to my glass of wine and take a sip, smiling at him. "I hope this doesn't make me any less attractive to you." I say as I take something out of my pocket before standing up and getting the wine bottle. "Nothing could ever make you less attractive to me, darling. Not since the day I met you." He replies with a somewhat sultry tone in his voice. "And that's why I love you." I grin and lean forward, kissing him on the lips. As he closes his eyes, I use my thumb to slip a Class-A amnestic into the wine bottle. "Perhaps later, we can…make this evening a bit more romantic." I insist as I refill his empty glass. "Ooh, I thought you'd never ask." He laughs a bit. "Let's finish our dinner first, though, shall we?" I nod and sit back down, watching him take a sip of his fresh wine. Our dinner continues and we idly chit-chat back and forth before he starts to rub his head. "Are you alright, honey?" I ask in a concerned tone. "Ngh…I think there was something in my steak…" He says weakly before falling out of his chair. I quickly stand from my seat, walk over to him and drag his unconscious body into the living room, where I lay him down on the couch. "You stupid moron, Nicole, you just nearly caused a breach…" I rub my face in anger before running upstairs and going into my office, shoving the door open. I frantically shuffle through my desk drawers, looking for the object log. If this were to get out, losing my job would be the least of my worries. Unable to find it, I slam my fists down, running my hands through my hair as I nervously look around the room. Then, I remembered…he probably wouldn't have just put it back where he found it. Not something like that. I run downstairs to the garbage bin, practically sliding on the floor to it like a baseball player rushing to home plate. After yanking an apple core and today's paper out of the bin, I find it. That fucking statue. I take it into our backyard and pull my lighter from my pocket, igniting the flame and burning the page until nothing is left. Satisfied, I step back inside and lock the back door behind me. When I walk back into the living room, I look at my husband and try to think about what I should do. I gave him an amnestic, but what if it doesn't take? What if he wakes up and still remembers it? What then? If this gets out, the Foundation would cover everything up, with prejudice. I think about the gun I keep hidden in the basement and wonder if I should use it. I can't let anyone know about this by any means necessary, but…I can't just kill my husband. Not after everything we've been through together. Overwhelmed by the situation, tears start running down my face as I look back and forth between him and the basement door, but before I can make either choice, he stirs. I quickly move over to him. "Honey, are you okay?" I ask. "…Nicole…? What happened? Why am I on the couch?" He asks, rubbing his forehead. "We were eating the dinner you made for us and you passed out." I say, sniffling as I caress his cheek gently. "I…was? Last thing I remember is getting home from work…" He sits up. I let out a gasp of relief. "Yes, honey…you did. I think something was wrong with your steak. It did look slightly off…" I smile. "Heh…uh, are you alright? You're crying…" He worries. "I…I was worried about you. I thought I was going to have to call 911." I say, smiling. He smiles back and kisses me on the cheek. I was so relieved that everything was okay. "Should…we finish the dinner?" He asks. "No, let's just watch a movie. We already ate most of the dinner anyway. You just go up and take a nice shower and I'll clean up. You deserve it." I kiss his head and he nods, standing up from the couch and walking upstairs. I rub my eye, thinking about how close I just came to killing my own husband. After cleaning up the dishes, I take the bottle of wine and pour it down the drain in the sink, staring outside and looking at the sky. I'm never happy about how I have to handle my life. Almost everything I say to my husband is a lie, and I have to maintain those lies, often with force. My job can leave me feeling too drained to care about it, but when I do, I wonder if it's even worth the trouble sometimes. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-01-24T02:48:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "tale" ]	A Double Life - SCP Foundation	29	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21316224	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-double-life
a-fancy-dinosaur	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was a mild day, late into the Cretaceous period. A Pachycephalosaurus walked the forest, the body of a Vegavis in its mouth. Several hours had passed since it had collected its prize, but still it journeyed. Resisting the urge to eat for this long was proving difficult, but it would persevere.</p> <p>After some time, it spotted something soaring through the sky, a mere silhouette against the sun. The Pachycephalosaurus hurried after the silhouette. The being took perch on its usual spot, on the highest branch of a tree in the middle of a clearing. It was the only branch that kept it safe from even the biggest predators.</p> <p>Standing on one of the tree's many roots was a creature the Pachycephalosaurus recognized, but did not quite understand. It was a furry thing, a quadruped, a little smaller than the Vegavis the Pachycephalosaurus carried. There were many like it, all following the winged one, all identical. But only one sat on the root that day. The two watched each other for some time before the flighted one let out a call. The Pachycephalosaurus understood this meant it could approach.</p> <p>The Pachycephalosaurus understood the winged one was no Archaeopteryx. The fact that Archaeopteryx had gone extinct almost one hundred million years ago was lost on the Pachycephalosaurus, nor did the true origin of the creature matter too much to the Pachycephalosaurus. It wasn't all that smart. Silly dinosaur. It couldn't even sense the suppressing amount of mirth emanating from the winged one. The Pachycephalosaurus dropped the carcass at the foot of the tree, as it had done for the past fifty days. The winged one let out another cry, and the furry thing dragged the carcass into a hole under the tree.</p> <p>Three of the furred creatures exited the hole, each carrying assorted rocks. They displayed their wares and wagged their little tails. But the Pachycephalosaurus desired none of them. It had, after all, bought instances of each presented. The Pachycephalosaurus was a rock collector, a veritable Connoissaur. While the company of Mastodon, Carnotaurus & Dark certainly rewarded oneself with interesting rocks, none could beat the winged one. It had ran up a deposit over the past fifty days, and it wished to use it all on something more grand. After some time the winged one bobbed its head up and down. It let out yet another cry, and another one of the furry things walked out from under the tree. This one held a piece of wood, odd runes scratched into it.</p> <p>The Pachycephalosaurus did not understand. This was not a rock. It desired a rock, and a fancy one at that. It growled, and each creature growled back in unison, their adorable little ears pressed back. This gave the Pachycephalosaurus pause. The winged one let out a strange sound, alternating in pitch. Almost like a laugh. It conveyed that the wood was simply a formality, a sign of respectability. Very fancy. Now understanding that what it held was not simply wood, the Pachycephalosaurus attempted to chew it. It decided that whatever formalities were, they were not very tasty. In fact, formalities tasted a lot like wood.</p> <p>After an odd motion where it held its right wing to its crest and leaned forward, the wondrous creature lifted itself from the branch. It thanked the Pachycephalosaurus for all of its business, then simply flew up into the sky. The Pachycephalosaurus watched it go helplessly, thinking all it got was some poor tasting formality. Fifty meals, and not a fancy rock to show for it. Curses flowed from the Pachycephalosaurus's maw as it watched the winged one depart.</p> <p>The Pachycephalosaurus's tiny mind lapsed for a moment as it stared at the departing salesbirdinosaur. Instead of a sun, its details were hidden by a massive flaming rock. The most fanciest rock of all rocks. The Pachycephalosaurus felt satisfied with its purchase. It would look so nice on the mantle. If Pachycephalosaurusi had mantles.</p> <p>The most fanciest awesome rock itself was at least ten kilometers in diameter, which according to modern rock enthusiasts is indeed quite fancy. The most fanciest gloriously awesome rock certainly brightened up the Pachycephalosaurus's life. And even Mastodon and Carnotaurus's lives were brightened up, as deep in their caves as they were. In fact, it brightened up the lives of three-fourths of the planet's flora and fauna. One could argue it even brightened up the day of the planet itself!</p> <p>Then the most fanciest gloriously awesome fantastic rock (later marketed simply as Dr. Wondertainment's Marvelous Meteor™) arrived at its destination; Chicxulub, Mexico - 66,462,579 BC. Right on time.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-fancy-dinosaur">A Fancy Dinosaur</a>" by TwistedGears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-fancy-dinosaur">https://scpwiki.com/a-fancy-dinosaur</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It was a mild day, late into the Cretaceous period. A Pachycephalosaurus walked the forest, the body of a Vegavis in its mouth. Several hours had passed since it had collected its prize, but still it journeyed. Resisting the urge to eat for this long was proving difficult, but it would persevere. After some time, it spotted something soaring through the sky, a mere silhouette against the sun. The Pachycephalosaurus hurried after the silhouette. The being took perch on its usual spot, on the highest branch of a tree in the middle of a clearing. It was the only branch that kept it safe from even the biggest predators. Standing on one of the tree's many roots was a creature the Pachycephalosaurus recognized, but did not quite understand. It was a furry thing, a quadruped, a little smaller than the Vegavis the Pachycephalosaurus carried. There were many like it, all following the winged one, all identical. But only one sat on the root that day. The two watched each other for some time before the flighted one let out a call. The Pachycephalosaurus understood this meant it could approach. The Pachycephalosaurus understood the winged one was no Archaeopteryx. The fact that Archaeopteryx had gone extinct almost one hundred million years ago was lost on the Pachycephalosaurus, nor did the true origin of the creature matter too much to the Pachycephalosaurus. It wasn't all that smart. Silly dinosaur. It couldn't even sense the suppressing amount of mirth emanating from the winged one. The Pachycephalosaurus dropped the carcass at the foot of the tree, as it had done for the past fifty days. The winged one let out another cry, and the furry thing dragged the carcass into a hole under the tree. Three of the furred creatures exited the hole, each carrying assorted rocks. They displayed their wares and wagged their little tails. But the Pachycephalosaurus desired none of them. It had, after all, bought instances of each presented. The Pachycephalosaurus was a rock collector, a veritable Connoissaur. While the company of Mastodon, Carnotaurus & Dark certainly rewarded oneself with interesting rocks, none could beat the winged one. It had ran up a deposit over the past fifty days, and it wished to use it all on something more grand. After some time the winged one bobbed its head up and down. It let out yet another cry, and another one of the furry things walked out from under the tree. This one held a piece of wood, odd runes scratched into it. The Pachycephalosaurus did not understand. This was not a rock. It desired a rock, and a fancy one at that. It growled, and each creature growled back in unison, their adorable little ears pressed back. This gave the Pachycephalosaurus pause. The winged one let out a strange sound, alternating in pitch. Almost like a laugh. It conveyed that the wood was simply a formality, a sign of respectability. Very fancy. Now understanding that what it held was not simply wood, the Pachycephalosaurus attempted to chew it. It decided that whatever formalities were, they were not very tasty. In fact, formalities tasted a lot like wood. After an odd motion where it held its right wing to its crest and leaned forward, the wondrous creature lifted itself from the branch. It thanked the Pachycephalosaurus for all of its business, then simply flew up into the sky. The Pachycephalosaurus watched it go helplessly, thinking all it got was some poor tasting formality. Fifty meals, and not a fancy rock to show for it. Curses flowed from the Pachycephalosaurus's maw as it watched the winged one depart. The Pachycephalosaurus's tiny mind lapsed for a moment as it stared at the departing salesbirdinosaur. Instead of a sun, its details were hidden by a massive flaming rock. The most fanciest rock of all rocks. The Pachycephalosaurus felt satisfied with its purchase. It would look so nice on the mantle. If Pachycephalosaurusi had mantles. The most fanciest awesome rock itself was at least ten kilometers in diameter, which according to modern rock enthusiasts is indeed quite fancy. The most fanciest gloriously awesome rock certainly brightened up the Pachycephalosaurus's life. And even Mastodon and Carnotaurus's lives were brightened up, as deep in their caves as they were. In fact, it brightened up the lives of three-fourths of the planet's flora and fauna. One could argue it even brightened up the day of the planet itself! Then the most fanciest gloriously awesome fantastic rock (later marketed simply as Dr. Wondertainment's Marvelous Meteor™) arrived at its destination; Chicxulub, Mexico - 66,462,579 BC. Right on time. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-02-02T00:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "comedy", "dr-wondertainment", "event-featured", "no-dialogue", "period-piece", "tale" ]	A Fancy Dinosaur - SCP Foundation	172	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "randomini-does-the-mouth-word-things", "kaktuskast-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "event-featured-archive", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	21385587	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-fancy-dinosaur
a-few-more-words-from-the-administrator	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The Administrator looked at a watch. Ten minutes past five, and Fritz had failed to make his appearance. It sighed. <em>Why did they always have to make it get up after them? They were old enough to know better.</em> Ancient skin snapped and crackled as the neck turned to see the silver, scratched watch. Another arm showed a different time, this one saying it was eleven minutes after five. His patience was at an end.</p> <p>But, before it could lift itself out of the office, there was a knock at the door. A new arm reached out from the left coat pocket and opened it, brushing the dust of this new visitor's shoulders as he walked in.</p> <p><tt><em>"Hello, uh, Commander. Please, have an, uh, a seat."</em></tt> One of the ruined hands gestured to a hard wooden chair in front of The Administrator's desk.</p> <p>As he walked to the seat, Fritz did his best to look at anything that wasn't The Administrator. On the walls, he noted several decorations. Among the displays were a framed shovel, several astronomical models, and a photograph of a meteor. He closed his eyes as his hands gripped the seat, trying for the longest blink of his life. Finally, he couldn't stop it any longer.</p> <p>Fritz opened his eyes. Seated before him was a decrepit monstrosity, with twisted charcoal skin and sunken orange eyes. The hair, or what was left of it, was glowing a shimmering white. The limbs were twisted and gnarled, sticking stiffly and uselessly from the main body. Surrounding it was a steel mesh, which held it inside a large overcoat. The coat of many arms.</p> <p><tt><em>Now, I'm positive that, uh, that you know why I've called you in here.</em></tt></p> <p>Fritz tried to open his mouth and explain himself, but the very instrument of speech seemed to have abandoned him. From his dry, nerve-wracked throat, all he could manage was a low cough.</p> <p><tt><em>… Well, uh, to review, the incident which occurred under your watch… resulting in the deaths of several major, uh, important researchers, and, uh, catastrophic damages. What… what do you have to say for yourself, Fritz?</em></tt></p> <p>Fritz looked down. There was nothing for him to say.</p> <p>A blacked, pus-dripping arm, as thin as an olive branch, unfurled from its collar, and slowly stretched until it came to a filing cabinet located on the western wall of this office. Opening it, it rustled through some papers, until it came up with a file. Curling back into the coat, it dropped the file on the desk.</p> <p><tt><em>Now, Fritz, we've, uh, reviewed your personnel file. Due to the extra amount of time you've spent with the, uh, SCP-085 object, and the multiple reports from your late subordinate, Lieutenant Masipag, who, uh, who complained about the time you spent… testing. We've interviewed Cassie, and determined the nature of the testing.</em></tt></p> <p>Ten full seconds passed, and neither man nor being spoke.</p> <p><tt><em>And, uh, so… due to high crimes and misdemeanors against the Foundation's mission, including gross negligence and inappropriate usage of an anomalous object, you are sentenced to die. This will be carried out at high noon, uh, tomorrow.</em></tt></p> <p>Fritz froze in his seat. All around him, the room seemed to be compressing in on itself. This couldn't be happening. This was wrong. Impossible. The words echoed in his mind, shoving every other thought to the far reaches of his mind, until only the sobering and tombstone-still realization thundered through his shattered thoughts, like a final cavalry charge through a demented thought. He was finished.</p> <p>"B-but sir, surely this is an.. overreaction? I don't think- I mean, surely I deserve to at least keep my life through this? Why waste another life?"</p> <p><tt><em>No, uh, I apologize, but this is just how things have turned out, Commander. You've caused a great deal, uh, much anguish to, er, many of our comrades, and somebody simply has to be responsible.</em></tt></p> <p>"But…" Fritz struggled to find the words. "What about the people who didn't prevent me from abus- from using the containment supervision to see C- SCP-085?"</p> <p>The Administrator's body did not hold even a single withered hope. No pity, or remorse, or sadness could be detected from his rasping tone.</p> <p><tt><em>You seem to, uh, appear to be having difficulty with your phrasing, Commander.</em></tt></p> <p>Fritz opened his mouth once more, but words failed.</p> <p><tt><em>Maybe, uh, perhaps, or, even if what you say is true, it doesn't matter, Commander. You are still, uh, the primary bearer of responsibility. I'm afraid it's, uh, time to face the music, so to speak.</em></tt></p> <p>Before Fritz could utter another word, there was a creaking behind him. Two men, in identical, brown and gray uniforms stepped inside. Wordlessly, they hoisted him up by his arms, and began the long escort to the brig.</p> <p><tt><em>I shall, uh, be sending somebody down in around an hour, Commander, if you require anything further. Good day, to, uh, you.</em></tt></p> <p>The doors slammed shut, and a stuffed silence permeated the air.</p> <p>From his overcoat, a long arm emerged, crossing itself in front of him.</p> <p><tt><em>Yes, yes, but, uh, being callous, it's better than having to empathize with a man like him. He was going to come down this road eventually.</em></tt></p> <p>It twisted, snapping skin and ligaments as it curled around his infantile form.</p> <p><tt><em>I'm sorry it had to be so explosive, too. I suppose, I suppose this is just how it happens, sometimes.</em></tt></p> <p>The arms moved in assent, nestling below him and cradling him. He would need his rest.</p> <p><tt><em>When the universe demands the absurd and impossible, we shall be there to stand and protect the rest of humanity…</em></tt></p> <p>Without another word, his ruined eyelids shut, and he was at peace.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/when-we-reach-the-crescendo">When We Reach The Crescendo</a>\| <a href="/end-of-olympians-hub">End Of Olympians Hub</a> \| And Now, For Something Completely Different… »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-few-more-words-from-the-administrator">A Few More Words From "The Administrator"</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-few-more-words-from-the-administrator">https://scpwiki.com/a-few-more-words-from-the-administrator</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The Administrator looked at a watch. Ten minutes past five, and Fritz had failed to make his appearance. It sighed. //Why did they always have to make it get up after them? They were old enough to know better.// Ancient skin snapped and crackled as the neck turned to see the silver, scratched watch. Another arm showed a different time, this one saying it was eleven minutes after five. His patience was at an end. But, before it could lift itself out of the office, there was a knock at the door. A new arm reached out from the left coat pocket and opened it, brushing the dust of this new visitor's shoulders as he walked in. {{//"Hello, uh, Commander. Please, have an, uh, a seat."//}} One of the ruined hands gestured to a hard wooden chair in front of The Administrator's desk. As he walked to the seat, Fritz did his best to look at anything that wasn't The Administrator. On the walls, he noted several decorations. Among the displays were a framed shovel, several astronomical models, and a photograph of a meteor. He closed his eyes as his hands gripped the seat, trying for the longest blink of his life. Finally, he couldn't stop it any longer. Fritz opened his eyes. Seated before him was a decrepit monstrosity, with twisted charcoal skin and sunken orange eyes. The hair, or what was left of it, was glowing a shimmering white. The limbs were twisted and gnarled, sticking stiffly and uselessly from the main body. Surrounding it was a steel mesh, which held it inside a large overcoat. The coat of many arms. {{//Now, I'm positive that, uh, that you know why I've called you in here.//}} Fritz tried to open his mouth and explain himself, but the very instrument of speech seemed to have abandoned him. From his dry, nerve-wracked throat, all he could manage was a low cough. {{//... Well, uh, to review, the incident which occurred under your watch... resulting in the deaths of several major, uh, important researchers, and, uh, catastrophic damages. What... what do you have to say for yourself, Fritz?//}} Fritz looked down. There was nothing for him to say. A blacked, pus-dripping arm, as thin as an olive branch, unfurled from its collar, and slowly stretched until it came to a filing cabinet located on the western wall of this office. Opening it, it rustled through some papers, until it came up with a file. Curling back into the coat, it dropped the file on the desk. {{//Now, Fritz, we've, uh, reviewed your personnel file. Due to the extra amount of time you've spent with the, uh, SCP-085 object, and the multiple reports from your late subordinate, Lieutenant Masipag, who, uh, who complained about the time you spent... testing. We've interviewed Cassie, and determined the nature of the testing.//}} Ten full seconds passed, and neither man nor being spoke. {{//And, uh, so... due to high crimes and misdemeanors against the Foundation's mission, including gross negligence and inappropriate usage of an anomalous object, you are sentenced to die. This will be carried out at high noon, uh, tomorrow.//}} Fritz froze in his seat. All around him, the room seemed to be compressing in on itself. This couldn't be happening. This was wrong. Impossible. The words echoed in his mind, shoving every other thought to the far reaches of his mind, until only the sobering and tombstone-still realization thundered through his shattered thoughts, like a final cavalry charge through a demented thought. He was finished. "B-but sir, surely this is an.. overreaction? I don't think- I mean, surely I deserve to at least keep my life through this? Why waste another life?" {{//No, uh, I apologize, but this is just how things have turned out, Commander. You've caused a great deal, uh, much anguish to, er, many of our comrades, and somebody simply has to be responsible.//}} "But..." Fritz struggled to find the words. "What about the people who didn't prevent me from abus- from using the containment supervision to see C- SCP-085?" The Administrator's body did not hold even a single withered hope. No pity, or remorse, or sadness could be detected from his rasping tone. {{//You seem to, uh, appear to be having difficulty with your phrasing, Commander.//}} Fritz opened his mouth once more, but words failed. {{//Maybe, uh, perhaps, or, even if what you say is true, it doesn't matter, Commander. You are still, uh, the primary bearer of responsibility. I'm afraid it's, uh, time to face the music, so to speak.//}} Before Fritz could utter another word, there was a creaking behind him. Two men, in identical, brown and gray uniforms stepped inside. Wordlessly, they hoisted him up by his arms, and began the long escort to the brig. {{//I shall, uh, be sending somebody down in around an hour, Commander, if you require anything further. Good day, to, uh, you.//}} The doors slammed shut, and a stuffed silence permeated the air. From his overcoat, a long arm emerged, crossing itself in front of him. {{//Yes, yes, but, uh, being callous, it's better than having to empathize with a man like him. He was going to come down this road eventually.//}} It twisted, snapping skin and ligaments as it curled around his infantile form. {{//I'm sorry it had to be so explosive, too. I suppose, I suppose this is just how it happens, sometimes.//}} The arms moved in assent, nestling below him and cradling him. He would need his rest. {{//When the universe demands the absurd and impossible, we shall be there to stand and protect the rest of humanity...//}} Without another word, his ruined eyelids shut, and he was at peace. [[=]] << [[[When We Reach The Crescendo]]]\| [[[End Of Olympians Hub]]] \| And Now, For Something Completely Different... >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-01-02T10:45:00	[ "_genreless", "_licensebox", "in-rewrite", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	A Few More Words From "The Administrator" - SCP Foundation	42	[ "when-we-reach-the-crescendo", "end-of-olympians-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "lowest-rated-pages", "archived:foundation-tales", "end-of-olympians-hub" ]	[]	21125476	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-few-more-words-from-the-administrator
a-friend-s-words	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A tall girl walked along the shore of the beach carrying a <a href="/scp-389">green glass bottle</a>. Inside the bottle was a note she wrote. She walked into the water and threw the bottle as far as she could.</p> <p>She had done this countless times over the past few years, and every time the bottle returned to her in the next day with another note from someone she had come to think of as a friend.</p> <p>The girl returned home to wait for the message from her friend. She collected copies of the notes she has received inside a USB drive and thrown away the physical copies so as to not attract her parents’ attention.</p> <p>As the girl went to bed, she wondered about the place her friend lives in and about what she must be like. She has received notes describing everything from the weather and the plants to the people and animals. All of these varied in description but seemed to have come from a child’s mind. The girl had a hard time believing most of what she was told, but then again, she <em>had</em> exchanged messages like this for the last few years. Sometimes she suspected that none of that was true, and that she was simply the victim of a prank or the correspondent of a person with a troubled mind and too much free time.</p> <p>She fell asleep and dreamed of the possibility of visiting another world.</p> <hr/> <p>The next day’s first rays of sunshine touched the girl’s face through the window of her room. She opened her eyes and looked around, trying to remember her dream. She could recall crossing the ocean on the back of a rainbow colored dolphin and reaching a gigantic island-city in the middle of nowhere. She flew through streets and saw curved, pastel colored houses and people selling everything from dancing plants to a baby’s first laughter. The dream ended as she touched the knob of the front door of a house that she knew belonged to her friend.</p> <p>Still somewhat sleepy, the girl got up from her bed and noticed that it was still 6:30 in the morning. She knew her parents were still sleeping, so she changed her clothes and went down the stairs from her room quietly. She left the house and headed straight to the beach to see if the bottle had returned.</p> <p>Sure enough, it was there when she arrived, just like always. She ran excitedly and grabbed the bottle from the sand. She used the bottle opener she brought with her and took out a rolled up paper, a necklace and some seeds from inside the bottle. She unrolled it and read the message, written with what seemed to be a typewriter.</p> <blockquote> <p>Hi Jane. So, you are turning fifteen? That’s great! Happy birthday to you! About your question regarding what kind of things I saw people selling during this year’s Rebirth Celebration, it was wonderful! There were these sweet red fruits called holiboms that fill your mouth with smoke that you can spit out and then control their shapes and directions with your thoughts. There were also emerald sculptures for decorating lawns, several types of horned ice beasts from the Frozen South, necklaces made of large seeds which you could ask to paint with any drawing you wanted and many pop-up books with tiny sound machines.</p> <p>I also saw people from some of the poorer neighborhoods helping each other pay for some products by making a spectacle a few days before. They gathered in a plaza and reenacted the Third Great War’s final conflict in the Wild Daimojo Plains. The people interpreting the Warrok army wore leather masks and some home-made armor painted so well that it looked it was made of real steel! I almost cried during the scene in which they showed the soldiers of the various regions mourning their fallen comrades.</p> <p>These were the new things I saw. The rest you know, although I didn't see anyone selling those dancing flowers you said you liked so much. They say the gardens where they grow those were attacked by fire bats. They have been reproducing like crazy lately, but no one knows why. Some think it has something to do with the smoke released by the lightning works. That hasn't been confirmed, however. I don't know much about chemistry, so I can't tell you if that is plausible or not, but if it's true, the government should create a law forbidding their use, or at least demanding new formulas. Those damn bats are harming the businesses and crops of everyone, and safety should come before fun, don't you think?</p> <p>Inside the bottle is one the necklaces I told you about. You said you like flowers, so I got one with flower drawings for your birthday. There are also some seeds and instructions for you to grow your own holibom tree. Well, that's all. Until next time!</p> </blockquote> <p>Jane rolled up the note and put it back inside the bottle. She hurried back home and added the new note to her pen drive and stored away her birthday gifts. She quickly wrote a response and put it inside the bottle. She then went back to the beach and tossed it into the ocean. Since it was a Saturday, she returned home and went back to sleep.</p> <hr/> <p>The bottle drifted through the ocean for some time before disappearing. It reappeared on the red shores of another world's beach. An old woman walked up to it an picked it up. She opened it and unrolled the note.</p> <blockquote> <p>Hi Gedril! Thank you for wishing me a happy birthday and giving me this wonderful gift! This year's Rebirth Celebration sounds like it was a lot of fun! I'm just sad to know they aren't selling the dancing flowers. I agree with you, they really should make those laws if that is true. My parents are taking me to Disneyland this year to commemorate my fifteen years! Once we come back, I'll send you some pictures of Disneyland.</p> </blockquote> <p>The old woman smiled and put the note back inside the bottle. She returned to her S-shaped, blue and pink house on a street filled with similar letter shaped homes covered in pastel colors.<br/> She opened the front door and went to the room where she kept all of Jane's letters, organized neatly by date. She wrote a response, threw the bottle into the ocean and went back to her home.</p> <p>The old woman then went to her kitchen and prepared some tea. Someone knocked on her door.<br/> She went to answer it and was greeted by two identical men equipped from head to toe in fishing gear.</p> <p>"Well, hi Galbo and Ridnim! Going to watch some birds, I presume?" She laughed at her own joke.</p> <p>"Nope! Good guess, though!" replied the man on the left.</p> <p>"We're going to the Beauties' Lake to fish. Wanna come with us?" invited the man on the right.</p> <p>"Oh, I am sorry boys, but it'll be dark soon, and you know what the night's air does to me."</p> <p>The men looked at each other and sighed simultaneously.</p> <p>"<em>Really</em>, Gedril?" asked the man on the right. "You don't have to stay for the whole trip if you don't want to. You can leave any time you want. Let's catch at least one fish!" he insisted.</p> <p>"I'd love to, but today is the last day I have to return some books I haven't finished, and I don't want to pay any fines," said Gedril.</p> <p>"Ok then. We'll invite you to go fishing during the morning next time," said the man on the left.</p> <p>"Of course, that sounds much better," answered Gedril.</p> <p>"Alright then. We're leaving."</p> <p>"Have fun with your books."</p> <p>The men turned around and walked away, once again simultaneously.</p> <p>Gedril closed the door. This was not the first time she had been invited to something she couldn't go to due to her condition, and it wouldn't be the last. She sighed and returned to the kitchen to finish her tea. After she was done, she picked up a history book, sat on an armchair and started reading.</p> <p>As she read, she could see the day's light slowly starting to go away. She felt nervous and read faster to finish the book. She didn't make it, however, and had to leave her house and go to the library. She returned the book without talking much to the librarians and returned home as fast as possible. When she arrived, Gedril was sweating and panting. She looked at her wrist watch. It was 6:57 in the afternoon.</p> <p>She locked all the doors, closed the curtains, took off her clothes, went to her room and waited. Only three minutes left until it started like it did every day.</p> <p>When the room's watch hit 7:00, Gedril began to feel it. She started to convulse and sweat intensely. She felt an itch through her whole body, as if ants were crawling over her. Long strand of purple hair came out of her skin. Soon, Gedril was covered in so much purple hair that she looked like an overgrown, human shitzu.</p> <p>Gedril slowly opened her eyes and looked around. There would be a lot of hair to clean up the next day.</p> <p>She picked up another book and sat on an armchair. She carefully opened it and flipped the pages, having a bit of difficulty due to her hairy fingers. She read until she felt tired and went to bed.</p> <hr/> <p>The next day, Gedril woke up as a normal person, as she always did. She cleaned up the hair, went to the beach and saw the bottle on the sand. She picked it up and read the note.</p> <p>It was from Jane. It said that she and her family had some problems and couldn't go to Disneyland this time, so there were no pictures. Gedril replied as she usually did. This cycle repeated itself for several days. Gedril noted something strange about the notes she received. Jane started asking questions that she normally wouldn't and used words that she didn't before.</p> <p>Little did Gedril know, Jane no longer remembered anything about her. Jane had forgotten to follow the instructions for the holibom trees thoroughly one day. The tree ripped itself from the soil and started walking around on its roots through the neighborhood, alerting a group of strange men who came to Jane's house asking about the bottle.</p> <hr/> <p>A year passed without any messages for Gedril. The people she met during her daily activities noticed the missing playful spark in her eyes. When they asked if something was wrong, Gedril insisted that she was fine. She eventually stopped participating in the weekly chess and poker games with her neighbors. When she was invited to the wedding of a baker's daughter, she accepted, even though she only wanted to stay inside her house. When the daughter and her husband finally kissed each other, Gedril cried again. She told people it was because she was happy for them.</p> <p>One day, while walking through the streets as she usually did, Gedril arrived at a port. She decided to stay and watch the men work and the ships come and go. She wondered if they would ever let her inside one of those ships and take her to wherever it was that Jane lived. Gedril knew it was impossible, however, and soon went back to her home.</p> <p>She read some books without much interest, trying to push away her painful thoughts. The night came and she went to sleep. Gedril dreamed that she was in a new and wonderful world. In this world, she finally met Jane and all of her friends and family. They didn't even mind it when Gedril showed them her condition.</p> <p>They would remain only dreams.</p> <hr/> <p>Gedril woke up with the sun's first rays touching her face. She didn't want to get up. She didn't want to do anything. Unfortunately, she remembered that she had remained in her house for so many days that she really needed to go to the grocery. She got up without any energy in her movements and left the house. After buying what she needed Gedril went back home and sat in her armchair.</p> <p>For some time she couldn't count, Gedril simply remained there and thought. She began to feel as if someone was squeezing her heart and the tears began to fall. She sobbed and convulsed as the tears kept falling. Without the will to do anything but sleep, she went to bed.</p> <p>This would repeat for the following weeks, and Gedril's health would slowly deteriorate. One day she began manifesting worrying symptoms. She went to a doctor, who told Gedril that she had a brain tumor and that she probably wouldn't live more than a month.</p> <p>Gedril left the hospital with her spirit crushed and went back home. She thought of something Jane had once told her. "Our time on this world is short, and we never know when our last day will be". These words kept repeating themselves inside her head, until she could take it no more and made a decision. She would not go as someone who had surrendered to sorrow. She went looking for people who needed help in any way and eventually found a charity center. She worked there for the following month and quickly made many friends.</p> <p>One day, while returning from the center at night, Gedril felt a strange sensation inside her head. She called all the friends and family she had and thanked them for all they had done for her.</p> <p>She went to sleep and silently passed away.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-friend-s-words">A Friend's Words</a>" by DeviantDharma, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-friend-s-words">https://scpwiki.com/a-friend-s-words</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] A tall girl walked along the shore of the beach carrying a [[[scp-389\|green glass bottle]]]. Inside the bottle was a note she wrote. She walked into the water and threw the bottle as far as she could. She had done this countless times over the past few years, and every time the bottle returned to her in the next day with another note from someone she had come to think of as a friend. The girl returned home to wait for the message from her friend. She collected copies of the notes she has received inside a USB drive and thrown away the physical copies so as to not attract her parents’ attention. As the girl went to bed, she wondered about the place her friend lives in and about what she must be like. She has received notes describing everything from the weather and the plants to the people and animals. All of these varied in description but seemed to have come from a child’s mind. The girl had a hard time believing most of what she was told, but then again, she //had// exchanged messages like this for the last few years. Sometimes she suspected that none of that was true, and that she was simply the victim of a prank or the correspondent of a person with a troubled mind and too much free time. She fell asleep and dreamed of the possibility of visiting another world. ------ The next day’s first rays of sunshine touched the girl’s face through the window of her room. She opened her eyes and looked around, trying to remember her dream. She could recall crossing the ocean on the back of a rainbow colored dolphin and reaching a gigantic island-city in the middle of nowhere. She flew through streets and saw curved, pastel colored houses and people selling everything from dancing plants to a baby’s first laughter. The dream ended as she touched the knob of the front door of a house that she knew belonged to her friend. Still somewhat sleepy, the girl got up from her bed and noticed that it was still 6:30 in the morning. She knew her parents were still sleeping, so she changed her clothes and went down the stairs from her room quietly. She left the house and headed straight to the beach to see if the bottle had returned. Sure enough, it was there when she arrived, just like always. She ran excitedly and grabbed the bottle from the sand. She used the bottle opener she brought with her and took out a rolled up paper, a necklace and some seeds from inside the bottle. She unrolled it and read the message, written with what seemed to be a typewriter. > Hi Jane. So, you are turning fifteen? That’s great! Happy birthday to you! About your question regarding what kind of things I saw people selling during this year’s Rebirth Celebration, it was wonderful! There were these sweet red fruits called holiboms that fill your mouth with smoke that you can spit out and then control their shapes and directions with your thoughts. There were also emerald sculptures for decorating lawns, several types of horned ice beasts from the Frozen South, necklaces made of large seeds which you could ask to paint with any drawing you wanted and many pop-up books with tiny sound machines. > > I also saw people from some of the poorer neighborhoods helping each other pay for some products by making a spectacle a few days before. They gathered in a plaza and reenacted the Third Great War’s final conflict in the Wild Daimojo Plains. The people interpreting the Warrok army wore leather masks and some home-made armor painted so well that it looked it was made of real steel! I almost cried during the scene in which they showed the soldiers of the various regions mourning their fallen comrades. > > These were the new things I saw. The rest you know, although I didn't see anyone selling those dancing flowers you said you liked so much. They say the gardens where they grow those were attacked by fire bats. They have been reproducing like crazy lately, but no one knows why. Some think it has something to do with the smoke released by the lightning works. That hasn't been confirmed, however. I don't know much about chemistry, so I can't tell you if that is plausible or not, but if it's true, the government should create a law forbidding their use, or at least demanding new formulas. Those damn bats are harming the businesses and crops of everyone, and safety should come before fun, don't you think? > > Inside the bottle is one the necklaces I told you about. You said you like flowers, so I got one with flower drawings for your birthday. There are also some seeds and instructions for you to grow your own holibom tree. Well, that's all. Until next time! Jane rolled up the note and put it back inside the bottle. She hurried back home and added the new note to her pen drive and stored away her birthday gifts. She quickly wrote a response and put it inside the bottle. She then went back to the beach and tossed it into the ocean. Since it was a Saturday, she returned home and went back to sleep. ------ The bottle drifted through the ocean for some time before disappearing. It reappeared on the red shores of another world's beach. An old woman walked up to it an picked it up. She opened it and unrolled the note. > Hi Gedril! Thank you for wishing me a happy birthday and giving me this wonderful gift! This year's Rebirth Celebration sounds like it was a lot of fun! I'm just sad to know they aren't selling the dancing flowers. I agree with you, they really should make those laws if that is true. My parents are taking me to Disneyland this year to commemorate my fifteen years! Once we come back, I'll send you some pictures of Disneyland. The old woman smiled and put the note back inside the bottle. She returned to her S-shaped, blue and pink house on a street filled with similar letter shaped homes covered in pastel colors. She opened the front door and went to the room where she kept all of Jane's letters, organized neatly by date. She wrote a response, threw the bottle into the ocean and went back to her home. The old woman then went to her kitchen and prepared some tea. Someone knocked on her door. She went to answer it and was greeted by two identical men equipped from head to toe in fishing gear. "Well, hi Galbo and Ridnim! Going to watch some birds, I presume?" She laughed at her own joke. "Nope! Good guess, though!" replied the man on the left. "We're going to the Beauties' Lake to fish. Wanna come with us?" invited the man on the right. "Oh, I am sorry boys, but it'll be dark soon, and you know what the night's air does to me." The men looked at each other and sighed simultaneously. "//Really//, Gedril?" asked the man on the right. "You don't have to stay for the whole trip if you don't want to. You can leave any time you want. Let's catch at least one fish!" he insisted. "I'd love to, but today is the last day I have to return some books I haven't finished, and I don't want to pay any fines," said Gedril. "Ok then. We'll invite you to go fishing during the morning next time," said the man on the left. "Of course, that sounds much better," answered Gedril. "Alright then. We're leaving." "Have fun with your books." The men turned around and walked away, once again simultaneously. Gedril closed the door. This was not the first time she had been invited to something she couldn't go to due to her condition, and it wouldn't be the last. She sighed and returned to the kitchen to finish her tea. After she was done, she picked up a history book, sat on an armchair and started reading. As she read, she could see the day's light slowly starting to go away. She felt nervous and read faster to finish the book. She didn't make it, however, and had to leave her house and go to the library. She returned the book without talking much to the librarians and returned home as fast as possible. When she arrived, Gedril was sweating and panting. She looked at her wrist watch. It was 6:57 in the afternoon. She locked all the doors, closed the curtains, took off her clothes, went to her room and waited. Only three minutes left until it started like it did every day. When the room's watch hit 7:00, Gedril began to feel it. She started to convulse and sweat intensely. She felt an itch through her whole body, as if ants were crawling over her. Long strand of purple hair came out of her skin. Soon, Gedril was covered in so much purple hair that she looked like an overgrown, human shitzu. Gedril slowly opened her eyes and looked around. There would be a lot of hair to clean up the next day. She picked up another book and sat on an armchair. She carefully opened it and flipped the pages, having a bit of difficulty due to her hairy fingers. She read until she felt tired and went to bed. ------ The next day, Gedril woke up as a normal person, as she always did. She cleaned up the hair, went to the beach and saw the bottle on the sand. She picked it up and read the note. It was from Jane. It said that she and her family had some problems and couldn't go to Disneyland this time, so there were no pictures. Gedril replied as she usually did. This cycle repeated itself for several days. Gedril noted something strange about the notes she received. Jane started asking questions that she normally wouldn't and used words that she didn't before. Little did Gedril know, Jane no longer remembered anything about her. Jane had forgotten to follow the instructions for the holibom trees thoroughly one day. The tree ripped itself from the soil and started walking around on its roots through the neighborhood, alerting a group of strange men who came to Jane's house asking about the bottle. ------ A year passed without any messages for Gedril. The people she met during her daily activities noticed the missing playful spark in her eyes. When they asked if something was wrong, Gedril insisted that she was fine. She eventually stopped participating in the weekly chess and poker games with her neighbors. When she was invited to the wedding of a baker's daughter, she accepted, even though she only wanted to stay inside her house. When the daughter and her husband finally kissed each other, Gedril cried again. She told people it was because she was happy for them. One day, while walking through the streets as she usually did, Gedril arrived at a port. She decided to stay and watch the men work and the ships come and go. She wondered if they would ever let her inside one of those ships and take her to wherever it was that Jane lived. Gedril knew it was impossible, however, and soon went back to her home. She read some books without much interest, trying to push away her painful thoughts. The night came and she went to sleep. Gedril dreamed that she was in a new and wonderful world. In this world, she finally met Jane and all of her friends and family. They didn't even mind it when Gedril showed them her condition. They would remain only dreams. ------ Gedril woke up with the sun's first rays touching her face. She didn't want to get up. She didn't want to do anything. Unfortunately, she remembered that she had remained in her house for so many days that she really needed to go to the grocery. She got up without any energy in her movements and left the house. After buying what she needed Gedril went back home and sat in her armchair. For some time she couldn't count, Gedril simply remained there and thought. She began to feel as if someone was squeezing her heart and the tears began to fall. She sobbed and convulsed as the tears kept falling. Without the will to do anything but sleep, she went to bed. This would repeat for the following weeks, and Gedril's health would slowly deteriorate. One day she began manifesting worrying symptoms. She went to a doctor, who told Gedril that she had a brain tumor and that she probably wouldn't live more than a month. Gedril left the hospital with her spirit crushed and went back home. She thought of something Jane had once told her. "Our time on this world is short, and we never know when our last day will be". These words kept repeating themselves inside her head, until she could take it no more and made a decision. She would not go as someone who had surrendered to sorrow. She went looking for people who needed help in any way and eventually found a charity center. She worked there for the following month and quickly made many friends. One day, while returning from the center at night, Gedril felt a strange sensation inside her head. She called all the friends and family she had and thanked them for all they had done for her. She went to sleep and silently passed away. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-03-27T02:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "uac2014" ]	A Friend's Words - SCP Foundation	24	[ "scp-389", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "under-appreciated-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21840576	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-friend-s-words
a-merry-fellow	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Thomas Bailey awoke to the sun streaming in through his window. It was 25.6 degrees Centigrade outside, which considering the fact that he was in the Antarctic Circle in the middle of summer, it had no right to be. He rubbed his eyes and went up to the window, opening it and looking out at the streets of the Imperial City where his apartment was.</p> <p>Below him, children from the Summer Court played in one of the many lichen gardens in the noble district. A flightless bird the size of a German Shepherd, which Tom recognized as an Imperial Auk (<em>Pinguinus impennis imperialis</em>) waddled through the streets on a leash, alongside a noblewoman who was wearing a robe with large, poofy sleeves with a green trim, and a pointed cap with some Penguin feathers in the end. Across the street, a courier from the Black Court ran along the walls of the apartments, being kept up only through sheer momentum (And possibly a Blessing). Couriers were only used to deliver eyes-only mail; they would use the telephone for anything like saying that his bills needed paying, or just send it through traditional mail if it was something like an advertisement. So, that meant the mail was for him.</p> <p>Sure enough, the courier jumped the gap between the apartments- a good 10 meters or so- and sprang right through Tom's open window. The Bailey triplet only managed to get out of the way in the nick of time as the furred man landed on his bed like some form of panther. He was barely visible against the scenery of Tom's apartment, due to the fact that he wore Western Chameleon leather, which made him almost invisible.</p> <p>The courier, a man named Da'ai the Swift, grunted in Antarctican, "It's polite to keep your window closed if you're expecting us.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup>"</p> <p>"I like the view from my window in the morning," Tom replied in the same tongue, crossing his arms. "And I wasn't expecting you; what's this about?"</p> <p>"Directly from the Institute," grunted the Courier, handing him an envelope with the seal of the IIPES on it.</p> <p>Tom took the letter and set it aside. It was impolite to open mail in front of a courier. The man coughed, holding out his hand; sighing, Tom surrendered 5 Imperials to the man."Da'ai, you know that you're not supposed to take tips."</p> <p>"Think of it as a bribe, Thomas Bailey." The Black Courtsman pronounced it "Too-mass Balley". "You give me money, I don't tell anyone what was in the letter."</p> <p>"…I'll leave my window closed next time," Tom said, stepping aside. Da'ai the Swift climbed out the window, onto the rooftop. Tom heard the man's footsteps run away as he sped off. "…showoff," Tom muttered, opening the letter.</p> <hr/> <p>Half an hour later, Tom was driving his 484 Saquah Speeder<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup> down the streets of the Imperial City, looking around. He drove through the market district, where people pedaled next to him on bicycles, trying to sell him car insurance. Tom ignored them, and took some lichen from his car's snuffbox and chewed on it; it gave a feeling similar to tobacco, but it didn't give you cancer if you used it every day for 60 years. It may make your hair fall out, dye your skin purple and negate any Blessings you possess, but it won't give you cancer.</p> <p>The radio in Tom's car started playing the Antarctican Anthem as he drove near the Palace, which was at the very center of the city. Tom never got tired of hearing it, despite the fact that he had lived here for the past three years; he suspected that it had a memetic property of some kind that kept it from being boring. The palace itself was carved from the bones of a giant… something that was called Sanak Thiuh, with the skull serving as the entrance. He'd always wanted to get a sample of it, but he'd be executed for vandalizing imperial property if he so much as touched an exterior wall without permission.</p> <p>As Tom cleared the Palace, he pulled up to an Institute station, and saw a speed bus was pulled up next to it. Exiting it were some more 'northern nobility', or as he knew them, Foundation researchers. He recognized a couple of them as being from 87, but other than that, they were fresh faces. They had probably just arrived from the zeppelin station<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup>, and one of the newbies- a horticulturalist- was bending over to inspect a flower. Said flower jumped up at her face and clung to her nose, where it began to suck the blood out. She flailed around while some Blessed medics tried to pull it off her face, one of them stunning it and the other healing the wound on her nose.</p> <p><em>Newbies,</em> thought Tom, shaking his head and heading into the Institute's main entrance.</p> <hr/> <p>Tom's assistant, the ever-chipper Yu'nai Bitop beamed at Tom, her dark skin reflecting the soft electric light of the facility as they walked along. The soft lighting was a stark contrast to the bright, harsh lights that Sites like 87 and 19 had; all incandescent, all yellow, all pleasant. The lighting was one of the first things that Tom noticed when he came into an Institute-sanctioned facility. "They're in the assembly hall. You have your speech ready?"</p> <p>"Yes, Yu." Tom smiled back, holding up some note cards and walking along, humming to himself. He emerged onto the stage, which was more of a raised platform in the center of the hall, carved from the wishbones of one of the last known giant selachimorphic cranes.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-4" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-4')">4</a></sup></p> <p>He counted the people out in the hall. There were 40 of them, most of them women, which was a welcome change. He started talking. "Good morning," Tom said. "My name is Dr. Thomas Bailey, and I regret to inform you that for the next two years, you will not be having any coffee. You will not be seeing your significant others. You will be under supervision at all times. You will be led by an authority that does not understand your species- wait." Tom looked at his note cards and frowned, slapping his forehead. "Dammit! I mixed up my notes with the Site 19 orientation."</p> <p>This drew a laugh from the crowd, particularly a couple of people from 19 itself. "Anyway. I'm afraid I'm serious about the no coffee bit, but they have lizards here that have caffeinated blood. So just try a bit of their meat and it'll wake you up better than any Starbucks ever could." Tom actually pulled out a bit of dried lizard from his pocket; they were in snack bags like M&Ms or Skittles back home. He ate it in front of the crowd, some of whom looked disgusted, but most of them just thought 'eh, once you see a man get turned inside-out by his own intestines, not much fazes you'.</p> <p>"This place is nothing like the baseline. There are things here that we think are anomalous that are common place, like, say, caffeinated lizards. There are squads of people here whose sole job is killing Giant Antarctic Penguins before they can bite off the heads of Imperial citizens and nobility. Magic is quite real here, and several people can use it; and before you ask, you're welcome to try, <em>if</em> you're part of Occult Studies." This drew a small 'aww' from a few people in the crowd, while a couple of Hispanic women in the back high-fived each other. Tom continued. "Most people here have at <em>least</em> five names, but unless they're nobility, you're free to call them by two. This place is a matriarchy, so, ladies, please don't have me executed for talking your ears off." Tom tipped his wide-brimmed straw hat at a red-headed researcher he recognized from 87; he thought her name was Lara? From theology.</p> <p>"The first thing you're going to need to know here is how to speak the language, which all of you must know, considering the mandatory language exams you passed to come here. The second thing you need to know is the culture, and sadly, despite my repeated insistence, cultural exams are <em>not</em> mandatory." Tom shook his head, and stepped off the stage. It raised itself into a cylinder, and projectors from around the hall began showing an IIPES picture entitled: "THE HISTORY OF THE THIRD EMPIRE". "It's a three-hour film," Tom remarked. "But it has some good parts. I always cry when they talk about the first empress."</p> <hr/> <p>Four hours later, the speed bus dropped off about a third of the newbies in the Noble's Quarter of the Antarctic Empire. The rest would be shipped off to other, more remote parts for anthropological, zoological, botanical or other scientific work. Several of them were going to be studying the Black Court seaward, away from the city and widdershins<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-5" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-5')">5</a></sup>. The rest of them would be staying in Tom's building.</p> <p>Tom's building was a tall structure carved out of fungal limestone; the fungus reinforced the otherwise weak rock, making it able to bear great loads, and also made it incredibly resistant to, say, an anti-Imperialist bomb. It was used to build the foundations of several buildings near the Imperial City. To have an entire house made out of it was a sign of both wealth and paranoia, both things the Foundation and the Institute possessed in great quantities when it came to 'northern nobility'.</p> <p>"This is it," Tom said, opening the door to the apartments. "Everyone's been assigned a room?" There was a general murmur of assent. "Good. You'll find a welcome package in there. Oh, and, don't worry about the water; it may taste a little weird, but that's just because it's been filtered." Tom neglected to mention what it was filtered <strong>by</strong>, figuring it was best they discover it by themselves. He let the newbies go to their rooms and eventually made his way up to his own room. There, waiting on the bed, was Da'ai the Swift.</p> <p>Tom scowled at him. "What are you doing? You'll get fur on the sheets! I don't want the housekeepers spreading rumors about me again!"</p> <p>"Another message, Toomas Balley." He jumped up from the bed, offering him an envelope. It bore the symbol of house Ka'Ki. They must have spent a lot to get a message to him.</p> <p>Tom frowned, opening the envelope and tsk-ing. "Another duel challenge? I guess they've at least stopped trying to send assassins after me, which is good."</p> <p>"They actually offered me 500 Imperials to stick a knife in your neck." Da'ai grinned at him, his teeth black from the lack of dental hygiene in the Black Court.</p> <p>"Did you take the offer?" Tom asked seriously, looking over the letter still.</p> <p>"And lose my Blessing? Empress no!"</p> <p>"Pity. We could have split it. I would have let you keep most of it." Tom put the letter on his bedside and sighed. "You're dismissed. Tell them that I'll consider their invitation."</p> <p>"…you have courage, Toomas Balley. Especially after what you did."</p> <p>"All I did was politely ask the Empress to look into it. The Appropriators did the rest." Tom smirked, sitting on the bed. "And didn't I say you were dismissed?"</p> <p>"You did, you did." Da'ai the Swift turned to the window. "Take care, Toomas." Da'ai leapt from the window, landed on the ground for a split second, before leaping from the ground into a wall, climbing up in and onto a roof, before dashing off into the distance.</p> <p>Tom called after him, "You're still a show-off!" He shook his head and shut the window, sitting on his bed and sighing. In summer, the sun never set; it just went lower in the sky. So, with that in mind, he closed the blinds, locked the doors, and cracked open a copy of Neil Gaiman's <em>The Graveyard Book</em> he had brought from baseline. He had read this book fifteen times.</p> <p>Time to start on the sixteenth.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/antarctic-exchange-hub">Hub</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="footnotes-footer"> <div class="title">Footnotes</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-1"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-1')">1</a>. Tom knew this was a load of bunk; the couriers often broke windows by landing on them. Better to keep it open at all times, except when you were being subjected to an assassination attempt. Tom knew far too well about those.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. The name "Saquah" and the word "Speed" were oxymorons in the Empire. He could easily afford a 485 Sengai Eagle, but he chose to remain modest so he wouldn't be followed by members of the Ka'Ki family.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. Tom always found himself wondering why alternate universes always had zeppelins for personnel transport. Was Hindenburg an event unique to baseline?</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-4"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-4')">4</a>. The corpse of this crane had been delivered onto the doorstep of the institute's headquarters with a note that simply said "Your Welcome" [sic], in English no less. It had taken until the Foundation had arrived here to translate the note.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-5"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-5')">5</a>. The fact that this resembled the work of one Mr. Pratchett did not escape Tom's notice; he had been a fan of his work since he read <em>Night Watch</em>.</div> </div> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-merry-fellow">A Merry Fellow</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-merry-fellow">https://scpwiki.com/a-merry-fellow</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Thomas Bailey awoke to the sun streaming in through his window. It was 25.6 degrees Centigrade outside, which considering the fact that he was in the Antarctic Circle in the middle of summer, it had no right to be. He rubbed his eyes and went up to the window, opening it and looking out at the streets of the Imperial City where his apartment was. Below him, children from the Summer Court played in one of the many lichen gardens in the noble district. A flightless bird the size of a German Shepherd, which Tom recognized as an Imperial Auk (//Pinguinus impennis imperialis//) waddled through the streets on a leash, alongside a noblewoman who was wearing a robe with large, poofy sleeves with a green trim, and a pointed cap with some Penguin feathers in the end. Across the street, a courier from the Black Court ran along the walls of the apartments, being kept up only through sheer momentum (And possibly a Blessing). Couriers were only used to deliver eyes-only mail; they would use the telephone for anything like saying that his bills needed paying, or just send it through traditional mail if it was something like an advertisement. So, that meant the mail was for him. Sure enough, the courier jumped the gap between the apartments- a good 10 meters or so- and sprang right through Tom's open window. The Bailey triplet only managed to get out of the way in the nick of time as the furred man landed on his bed like some form of panther. He was barely visible against the scenery of Tom's apartment, due to the fact that he wore Western Chameleon leather, which made him almost invisible. The courier, a man named Da'ai the Swift, grunted in Antarctican, "It's polite to keep your window closed if you're expecting us.[[footnote]] Tom knew this was a load of bunk; the couriers often broke windows by landing on them. Better to keep it open at all times, except when you were being subjected to an assassination attempt. Tom knew far too well about those. [[/footnote]]" "I like the view from my window in the morning," Tom replied in the same tongue, crossing his arms. "And I wasn't expecting you; what's this about?" "Directly from the Institute," grunted the Courier, handing him an envelope with the seal of the IIPES on it. Tom took the letter and set it aside. It was impolite to open mail in front of a courier. The man coughed, holding out his hand; sighing, Tom surrendered 5 Imperials to the man."Da'ai, you know that you're not supposed to take tips." "Think of it as a bribe, Thomas Bailey." The Black Courtsman pronounced it "Too-mass Balley". "You give me money, I don't tell anyone what was in the letter." "...I'll leave my window closed next time," Tom said, stepping aside. Da'ai the Swift climbed out the window, onto the rooftop. Tom heard the man's footsteps run away as he sped off. "...showoff," Tom muttered, opening the letter. ------ Half an hour later, Tom was driving his 484 Saquah Speeder[[footnote]] The name "Saquah" and the word "Speed" were oxymorons in the Empire. He could easily afford a 485 Sengai Eagle, but he chose to remain modest so he wouldn't be followed by members of the Ka'Ki family. [[/footnote]] down the streets of the Imperial City, looking around. He drove through the market district, where people pedaled next to him on bicycles, trying to sell him car insurance. Tom ignored them, and took some lichen from his car's snuffbox and chewed on it; it gave a feeling similar to tobacco, but it didn't give you cancer if you used it every day for 60 years. It may make your hair fall out, dye your skin purple and negate any Blessings you possess, but it won't give you cancer. The radio in Tom's car started playing the Antarctican Anthem as he drove near the Palace, which was at the very center of the city. Tom never got tired of hearing it, despite the fact that he had lived here for the past three years; he suspected that it had a memetic property of some kind that kept it from being boring. The palace itself was carved from the bones of a giant... something that was called Sanak Thiuh, with the skull serving as the entrance. He'd always wanted to get a sample of it, but he'd be executed for vandalizing imperial property if he so much as touched an exterior wall without permission. As Tom cleared the Palace, he pulled up to an Institute station, and saw a speed bus was pulled up next to it. Exiting it were some more 'northern nobility', or as he knew them, Foundation researchers. He recognized a couple of them as being from 87, but other than that, they were fresh faces. They had probably just arrived from the zeppelin station[[footnote]] Tom always found himself wondering why alternate universes always had zeppelins for personnel transport. Was Hindenburg an event unique to baseline? [[/footnote]], and one of the newbies- a horticulturalist- was bending over to inspect a flower. Said flower jumped up at her face and clung to her nose, where it began to suck the blood out. She flailed around while some Blessed medics tried to pull it off her face, one of them stunning it and the other healing the wound on her nose. //Newbies,// thought Tom, shaking his head and heading into the Institute's main entrance. ------ Tom's assistant, the ever-chipper Yu'nai Bitop beamed at Tom, her dark skin reflecting the soft electric light of the facility as they walked along. The soft lighting was a stark contrast to the bright, harsh lights that Sites like 87 and 19 had; all incandescent, all yellow, all pleasant. The lighting was one of the first things that Tom noticed when he came into an Institute-sanctioned facility. "They're in the assembly hall. You have your speech ready?" "Yes, Yu." Tom smiled back, holding up some note cards and walking along, humming to himself. He emerged onto the stage, which was more of a raised platform in the center of the hall, carved from the wishbones of one of the last known giant selachimorphic cranes.[[footnote]] The corpse of this crane had been delivered onto the doorstep of the institute's headquarters with a note that simply said "Your Welcome" [sic], in English no less. It had taken until the Foundation had arrived here to translate the note.[[/footnote]] He counted the people out in the hall. There were 40 of them, most of them women, which was a welcome change. He started talking. "Good morning," Tom said. "My name is Dr. Thomas Bailey, and I regret to inform you that for the next two years, you will not be having any coffee. You will not be seeing your significant others. You will be under supervision at all times. You will be led by an authority that does not understand your species- wait." Tom looked at his note cards and frowned, slapping his forehead. "Dammit! I mixed up my notes with the Site 19 orientation." This drew a laugh from the crowd, particularly a couple of people from 19 itself. "Anyway. I'm afraid I'm serious about the no coffee bit, but they have lizards here that have caffeinated blood. So just try a bit of their meat and it'll wake you up better than any Starbucks ever could." Tom actually pulled out a bit of dried lizard from his pocket; they were in snack bags like M&Ms or Skittles back home. He ate it in front of the crowd, some of whom looked disgusted, but most of them just thought 'eh, once you see a man get turned inside-out by his own intestines, not much fazes you'. "This place is nothing like the baseline. There are things here that we think are anomalous that are common place, like, say, caffeinated lizards. There are squads of people here whose sole job is killing Giant Antarctic Penguins before they can bite off the heads of Imperial citizens and nobility. Magic is quite real here, and several people can use it; and before you ask, you're welcome to try, //if// you're part of Occult Studies." This drew a small 'aww' from a few people in the crowd, while a couple of Hispanic women in the back high-fived each other. Tom continued. "Most people here have at //least// five names, but unless they're nobility, you're free to call them by two. This place is a matriarchy, so, ladies, please don't have me executed for talking your ears off." Tom tipped his wide-brimmed straw hat at a red-headed researcher he recognized from 87; he thought her name was Lara? From theology. "The first thing you're going to need to know here is how to speak the language, which all of you must know, considering the mandatory language exams you passed to come here. The second thing you need to know is the culture, and sadly, despite my repeated insistence, cultural exams are //not// mandatory." Tom shook his head, and stepped off the stage. It raised itself into a cylinder, and projectors from around the hall began showing an IIPES picture entitled: "THE HISTORY OF THE THIRD EMPIRE". "It's a three-hour film," Tom remarked. "But it has some good parts. I always cry when they talk about the first empress." ------ Four hours later, the speed bus dropped off about a third of the newbies in the Noble's Quarter of the Antarctic Empire. The rest would be shipped off to other, more remote parts for anthropological, zoological, botanical or other scientific work. Several of them were going to be studying the Black Court seaward, away from the city and widdershins [[footnote]] The fact that this resembled the work of one Mr. Pratchett did not escape Tom's notice; he had been a fan of his work since he read //Night Watch//. [[/footnote]]. The rest of them would be staying in Tom's building. Tom's building was a tall structure carved out of fungal limestone; the fungus reinforced the otherwise weak rock, making it able to bear great loads, and also made it incredibly resistant to, say, an anti-Imperialist bomb. It was used to build the foundations of several buildings near the Imperial City. To have an entire house made out of it was a sign of both wealth and paranoia, both things the Foundation and the Institute possessed in great quantities when it came to 'northern nobility'. "This is it," Tom said, opening the door to the apartments. "Everyone's been assigned a room?" There was a general murmur of assent. "Good. You'll find a welcome package in there. Oh, and, don't worry about the water; it may taste a little weird, but that's just because it's been filtered." Tom neglected to mention what it was filtered by, figuring it was best they discover it by themselves. He let the newbies go to their rooms and eventually made his way up to his own room. There, waiting on the bed, was Da'ai the Swift. Tom scowled at him. "What are you doing? You'll get fur on the sheets! I don't want the housekeepers spreading rumors about me again!" "Another message, Toomas Balley." He jumped up from the bed, offering him an envelope. It bore the symbol of house Ka'Ki. They must have spent a lot to get a message to him. Tom frowned, opening the envelope and tsk-ing. "Another duel challenge? I guess they've at least stopped trying to send assassins after me, which is good." "They actually offered me 500 Imperials to stick a knife in your neck." Da'ai grinned at him, his teeth black from the lack of dental hygiene in the Black Court. "Did you take the offer?" Tom asked seriously, looking over the letter still. "And lose my Blessing? Empress no!" "Pity. We could have split it. I would have let you keep most of it." Tom put the letter on his bedside and sighed. "You're dismissed. Tell them that I'll consider their invitation." "...you have courage, Toomas Balley. Especially after what you did." "All I did was politely ask the Empress to look into it. The Appropriators did the rest." Tom smirked, sitting on the bed. "And didn't I say you were dismissed?" "You did, you did." Da'ai the Swift turned to the window. "Take care, Toomas." Da'ai leapt from the window, landed on the ground for a split second, before leaping from the ground into a wall, climbing up in and onto a roof, before dashing off into the distance. Tom called after him, "You're still a show-off!" He shook his head and shut the window, sitting on his bed and sighing. In summer, the sun never set; it just went lower in the sky. So, with that in mind, he closed the blinds, locked the doors, and cracked open a copy of Neil Gaiman's //The Graveyard Book// he had brought from baseline. He had read this book fifteen times. Time to start on the sixteenth. [[=]] << [[[antarctic exchange hub\| Hub]]] >> [[/=]] [[footnoteblock]] @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-03-18T00:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "antarctic-exchange", "bailey-brothers", "comedy", "fantasy", "otherworldly", "tale" ]	A Merry Fellow - SCP Foundation	76	[ "antarctic-exchange-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "antarctic-exchange-hub" ]	[]	21758241	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-merry-fellow
a-multi-universal-affair	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>First on my list is the Multi-U division. How this kind of breach of protocol has been allowed to continue is beyond me, Ms. Weiss. The entire function of this department appears to be intentional containment breach.</p> </blockquote> <p>Tristan Bailey bit his thumb to try and relieve stress. It wasn't working, and it wasn't just him that was stressed, the entire department was. In the Foundation, the people in Multi-U were thought of as okay, but the actual department itself was considered a waste of resources, for the large part. Then again, most of them didn't know that if not for this department, the price of silicon (among other natural resources) would be going through the god-damn roof.</p> <p>Tristan had considered firing up the MUTA-NT and escaping to another universe, for the day. But, in the process, he would no doubt causing a massive protocol breach and getting him sacked, amnestic'd and thrown to the side of the road in Albuquerque. He had also considered trying to take a sample of the common cold from the immunology lab, but knowing them, they had somehow turned the common cold into a very rare and deadly cold.</p> <p>"He's almost here, Bailey," Claire Hennessy stood over his shoulder. "Think you can handle him?"</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"Remember, whatever you do, don't make fun of his name."</p> <p>"…what is this guy's name, anyway?"</p> <p>"It's Ma-"</p> <p>A man stepped into the offices of the Multi-U department, a tablet computer in one hand, his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses bearing a look of great disinterest. His bald head bounced a dazzling light off of it, right into Tristan's eyes, causing him to blink several times. "…Dr. Hennessy and Dr. Bailey?"</p> <p>"Yes, Sir."</p> <p>"I am Matthew Broderick, and I will be your auditor today."</p> <p>Claire stepped forward. "So, Mr. Broderick… we understand you wanted to talk to us about how our department is run."</p> <p>"Indeed." Broderick took out his stylus and brought up several files on his tablet. "Expense reports are far above-average. This department uses approximately 80-90% of all power supplied to Site 87. Casualties are thankfully minimal, but there have been reports that the technology here has been used… irresponsibly."</p> <p>Tristan twitched slightly at the last part. Broderick didn't seem to notice. "Sir, with all due respect… I find it highly unlikely that the MUTA is responsible for 80% of the power drain here."</p> <p>"I have the statistics right here, Doctor." Broderick handed them the tablet, with a statistic that showed that, indeed, Multi-U accounted for a supermajority of the power being used in the site. "And who do you think I am going to believe: statistics, or someone who works in the department and has a clear conflict of interest?"</p> <p>"Sir, there has to be a mistake. The MUTA we have here is a MUTA-NT. Multi-Universal Transit Array, Nexus Type. My father built it back in the 1970s specifically to feed off the energy in-"</p> <p>"Simply because your father was a Foundation celebrity does not give you any exemption, Dr. Bailey. And you are not the head of this department; Dr. Hennessy is." He nodded at Claire. "As I was saying, the power drain…"</p> <p>"Is something that we will try and take care of; the accelerators used in the MUTA-NT take up a lot of juice, sir." Tristan rolled his eyes slightly; the MUTA-NT was run solely on energy extracted from the Anomalous Particle Field surrounding the Nexus. Everyone knew that (or at least, everyone should), and this bean counter in human clothing was telling him it didn't work that way?</p> <p>"Dr. Bailey, are you coming?" Tristan blinked; he had spaced out, and Claire was heading out of the room along with the bean counter. Tristan started out of the room after them.</p> <hr/> <p>Ten minutes later, they were actually walking around the floor of the portal chamber. The reactors were all shut off, and the only way the MUTA would be reactivated was if there was an incursion from the other side. Broderick was asking all sorts of questions to various members of staff. "What is it that this department actually <em>does</em>, Dr. Hennessy?"</p> <p>Before Claire could say anything, Tristan spoke up. "The mission of the Department of Multi-Universal Affairs it to explore, catalog and observe alternate universes, as well as make diplomatic deals with major powers in said universes, usually over mineral rights, food, science… we also facilitate travel for the Esoteric Warfare Unit, when necessary."</p> <p>"…Thank you, Dr. Bailey. However, in the last few years… diplomatic deals have been on the decline." Broderick showed him some statistics on his tablet. "Down 15% from 2010. Coincidentally, that's the same year your brother left… Trevor, was it? He was in diplomacy, was he not?"</p> <p>"He was, and he did close a lot of deals… but he's much more useful at Site 19, now. And though we may not have more deals, these are generally more useful."</p> <p>"…in that case, where is the helium?"</p> <p>Tristan blinked. "Pardon?"</p> <p>"The helium, Dr. Bailey. There is a shortage of it, and it is global. You were meant to make a deal on it with… one moment." He looked through his tablet. "F-3426-Delta, regarding rare-earth mineral rights, as well as helium rights. But, you were unable to. Why is this?"</p> <p>"They were bureaucrats, sir. I ran into someone who was a vice-vice-<em>vice</em>-sub-chancellor of Mining and Industry in that universe. It was impossible to get anything done with them. They all said they had no authority to do make decisions of a scale as large as that."</p> <p>"Really," said the Tax Man, making a note of that on his tablet. Tristan groaned internally; he was probably writing "Multi-U has a problem with bureaucracy" or somesuch.</p> <p>"Yes, really. It's hard being a diplomat; I don't know how Trevor does it."</p> <p>"Fair enough," said Broderick, looking at Claire this time. "Now, what are some of the other universes you have cataloged?"</p> <p>"In the past year, we've discovered almost 7,000 new Multi-universal coordinates at this facility alone, no less than 240 points of divergence between them."</p> <p>"To be exact," Tristan cut in, "We've cataloged 6,921 new coordinates and 248 points of divergence."</p> <p>Claire stepped on Tristan's foot, which was the signal for him to shut up, which he did so. "As I was saying," Claire grinned, "In addition to that, we've discovered over 70,000 new universes in the past five years."</p> <p>"Yes, but… what is it you actually <em>do?</em>"</p> <p>Both Claire and Tristan blinked. Tristan spoke up after a while. "I beg your pardon?"</p> <p>"What is the purpose of this department on a research basis? We've proved the existence of other universes, that the theory was right… why must we continue to breach containment to study them?"</p> <p>"Containment breaches only apply if the breach occurs in the baseline." replied Tristan, a tone of annoyance in his voice. "And I can think of at least five extra-universal anomalies off the top of my head, two of which either myself or one of my brothers have worked on."</p> <p>"Why manned expeditions? Why not just send in probes?"</p> <p>"What would be less noticeable in a universe populated by humans: a floating metal ball, or a guy in a tourist outfit with a camera?"</p> <p>"Bailey! Shut up." Tristan flinched slightly as Hennessy yelled at him, before she turned back to Broderick. "I apologize for my assistant."</p> <p>"No need," Broderick said, noting down some things on his tablet. He brought up a file and frowned. "Actually… there's a matter I would like to discuss with Dr. Bailey in private."</p> <p>Tristan could feel the color drain out of his face as the auditor escorted him into another room.</p> <hr/> <p>"Dr. Bailey… for the past eight years, you have requested use of the Multi-Universal Transit Array around December 21st. Prior to 2010, your brothers also requested access. Why is this?"</p> <p>"Some… some universes can only open up when they're in correct alignment with us." It was utter bullshit, Tristan knew it was utter bullshit, Broderick probably knew it was utter bullshit, but damn if he wouldn't try to cover his ass.</p> <p>"I see," said Broderick, his face hardening slightly. "Tell me, Dr. Bailey, how is your father?"</p> <p>"He's dead, sir. Has been for the past 17 years." Tristan felt like he was a school child lying to the principal about who killed the class rabbit.</p> <p>"Ah. Condolences." Broderick shook his head. "Drop the charade, Bailey. I know what you've been doing for the past eight years. You and your brothers." Broderick brought up some pictures on his tablet; one was clearly dated 2005, and showed Tristan, Tom and Trevor hanging out with a very much alive version of their father. "You will be disciplined for this, no matter what the Director says."</p> <p>"I take full responsibility, sir." Tristan was shaking slightly, and clicked a pen in his pocket to try and calm himself down. "I encouraged them to go with me to see Tyler Bailey."</p> <p>"It's rather unhealthy," said Broderick in a neutral tone. "Seventeen years your father has been dead, and you're still grieving. It's time to move on, Dr. Bailey." He typed out something on his tablet. "That is all. Dr. Hennessy will deal with me for the remainder of my time in this department." Broderick moved around Tristan, out of the room.</p> <p>Tristan Bailey just stood there for a good few minutes, looking stunned, before going to his room, opening a bottle of Antarctican wine Tom had sent him, and downing it, feeling numb the whole time he drank.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>«<a href="/tax-man">Tax Man</a>\|<a href="/the-s-c-plastics-hub">Hub</a>\|<a href="/bugs-in-the-process">Bugs in the Process</a>»</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-multi-universal-affair">A Multi-Universal Affair</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-multi-universal-affair">https://scpwiki.com/a-multi-universal-affair</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > First on my list is the Multi-U division. How this kind of breach of protocol has been allowed to continue is beyond me, Ms. Weiss. The entire function of this department appears to be intentional containment breach. Tristan Bailey bit his thumb to try and relieve stress. It wasn't working, and it wasn't just him that was stressed, the entire department was. In the Foundation, the people in Multi-U were thought of as okay, but the actual department itself was considered a waste of resources, for the large part. Then again, most of them didn't know that if not for this department, the price of silicon (among other natural resources) would be going through the god-damn roof. Tristan had considered firing up the MUTA-NT and escaping to another universe, for the day. But, in the process, he would no doubt causing a massive protocol breach and getting him sacked, amnestic'd and thrown to the side of the road in Albuquerque. He had also considered trying to take a sample of the common cold from the immunology lab, but knowing them, they had somehow turned the common cold into a very rare and deadly cold. "He's almost here, Bailey," Claire Hennessy stood over his shoulder. "Think you can handle him?" "No." "Remember, whatever you do, don't make fun of his name." "...what is this guy's name, anyway?" "It's Ma-" A man stepped into the offices of the Multi-U department, a tablet computer in one hand, his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses bearing a look of great disinterest. His bald head bounced a dazzling light off of it, right into Tristan's eyes, causing him to blink several times. "...Dr. Hennessy and Dr. Bailey?" "Yes, Sir." "I am Matthew Broderick, and I will be your auditor today." Claire stepped forward. "So, Mr. Broderick... we understand you wanted to talk to us about how our department is run." "Indeed." Broderick took out his stylus and brought up several files on his tablet. "Expense reports are far above-average. This department uses approximately 80-90% of all power supplied to Site 87. Casualties are thankfully minimal, but there have been reports that the technology here has been used... irresponsibly." Tristan twitched slightly at the last part. Broderick didn't seem to notice. "Sir, with all due respect... I find it highly unlikely that the MUTA is responsible for 80% of the power drain here." "I have the statistics right here, Doctor." Broderick handed them the tablet, with a statistic that showed that, indeed, Multi-U accounted for a supermajority of the power being used in the site. "And who do you think I am going to believe: statistics, or someone who works in the department and has a clear conflict of interest?" "Sir, there has to be a mistake. The MUTA we have here is a MUTA-NT. Multi-Universal Transit Array, Nexus Type. My father built it back in the 1970s specifically to feed off the energy in-" "Simply because your father was a Foundation celebrity does not give you any exemption, Dr. Bailey. And you are not the head of this department; Dr. Hennessy is." He nodded at Claire. "As I was saying, the power drain..." "Is something that we will try and take care of; the accelerators used in the MUTA-NT take up a lot of juice, sir." Tristan rolled his eyes slightly; the MUTA-NT was run solely on energy extracted from the Anomalous Particle Field surrounding the Nexus. Everyone knew that (or at least, everyone should), and this bean counter in human clothing was telling him it didn't work that way? "Dr. Bailey, are you coming?" Tristan blinked; he had spaced out, and Claire was heading out of the room along with the bean counter. Tristan started out of the room after them. ------ Ten minutes later, they were actually walking around the floor of the portal chamber. The reactors were all shut off, and the only way the MUTA would be reactivated was if there was an incursion from the other side. Broderick was asking all sorts of questions to various members of staff. "What is it that this department actually //does//, Dr. Hennessy?" Before Claire could say anything, Tristan spoke up. "The mission of the Department of Multi-Universal Affairs it to explore, catalog and observe alternate universes, as well as make diplomatic deals with major powers in said universes, usually over mineral rights, food, science... we also facilitate travel for the Esoteric Warfare Unit, when necessary." "...Thank you, Dr. Bailey. However, in the last few years... diplomatic deals have been on the decline." Broderick showed him some statistics on his tablet. "Down 15% from 2010. Coincidentally, that's the same year your brother left... Trevor, was it? He was in diplomacy, was he not?" "He was, and he did close a lot of deals... but he's much more useful at Site 19, now. And though we may not have more deals, these are generally more useful." "...in that case, where is the helium?" Tristan blinked. "Pardon?" "The helium, Dr. Bailey. There is a shortage of it, and it is global. You were meant to make a deal on it with... one moment." He looked through his tablet. "F-3426-Delta, regarding rare-earth mineral rights, as well as helium rights. But, you were unable to. Why is this?" "They were bureaucrats, sir. I ran into someone who was a vice-vice-//vice//-sub-chancellor of Mining and Industry in that universe. It was impossible to get anything done with them. They all said they had no authority to do make decisions of a scale as large as that." "Really," said the Tax Man, making a note of that on his tablet. Tristan groaned internally; he was probably writing "Multi-U has a problem with bureaucracy" or somesuch. "Yes, really. It's hard being a diplomat; I don't know how Trevor does it." "Fair enough," said Broderick, looking at Claire this time. "Now, what are some of the other universes you have cataloged?" "In the past year, we've discovered almost 7,000 new Multi-universal coordinates at this facility alone, no less than 240 points of divergence between them." "To be exact," Tristan cut in, "We've cataloged 6,921 new coordinates and 248 points of divergence." Claire stepped on Tristan's foot, which was the signal for him to shut up, which he did so. "As I was saying," Claire grinned, "In addition to that, we've discovered over 70,000 new universes in the past five years." "Yes, but... what is it you actually //do?//" Both Claire and Tristan blinked. Tristan spoke up after a while. "I beg your pardon?" "What is the purpose of this department on a research basis? We've proved the existence of other universes, that the theory was right... why must we continue to breach containment to study them?" "Containment breaches only apply if the breach occurs in the baseline." replied Tristan, a tone of annoyance in his voice. "And I can think of at least five extra-universal anomalies off the top of my head, two of which either myself or one of my brothers have worked on." "Why manned expeditions? Why not just send in probes?" "What would be less noticeable in a universe populated by humans: a floating metal ball, or a guy in a tourist outfit with a camera?" "Bailey! Shut up." Tristan flinched slightly as Hennessy yelled at him, before she turned back to Broderick. "I apologize for my assistant." "No need," Broderick said, noting down some things on his tablet. He brought up a file and frowned. "Actually... there's a matter I would like to discuss with Dr. Bailey in private." Tristan could feel the color drain out of his face as the auditor escorted him into another room. ------ "Dr. Bailey... for the past eight years, you have requested use of the Multi-Universal Transit Array around December 21st. Prior to 2010, your brothers also requested access. Why is this?" "Some... some universes can only open up when they're in correct alignment with us." It was utter bullshit, Tristan knew it was utter bullshit, Broderick probably knew it was utter bullshit, but damn if he wouldn't try to cover his ass. "I see," said Broderick, his face hardening slightly. "Tell me, Dr. Bailey, how is your father?" "He's dead, sir. Has been for the past 17 years." Tristan felt like he was a school child lying to the principal about who killed the class rabbit. "Ah. Condolences." Broderick shook his head. "Drop the charade, Bailey. I know what you've been doing for the past eight years. You and your brothers." Broderick brought up some pictures on his tablet; one was clearly dated 2005, and showed Tristan, Tom and Trevor hanging out with a very much alive version of their father. "You will be disciplined for this, no matter what the Director says." "I take full responsibility, sir." Tristan was shaking slightly, and clicked a pen in his pocket to try and calm himself down. "I encouraged them to go with me to see Tyler Bailey." "It's rather unhealthy," said Broderick in a neutral tone. "Seventeen years your father has been dead, and you're still grieving. It's time to move on, Dr. Bailey." He typed out something on his tablet. "That is all. Dr. Hennessy will deal with me for the remainder of my time in this department." Broderick moved around Tristan, out of the room. Tristan Bailey just stood there for a good few minutes, looking stunned, before going to his room, opening a bottle of Antarctican wine Tom had sent him, and downing it, feeling numb the whole time he drank. [[=]] <<[[[Tax Man]]]\|[[[the-s-c-plastics-hub\| Hub]]]\|[[[Bugs in the Process]]]>> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-04-21T23:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "bailey-brothers", "bleak", "bureaucracy", "s&c-plastics", "tale" ]	A Multi-Universal Affair - SCP Foundation	66	[ "tax-man", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "bugs-in-the-process", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	22048703	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-multi-universal-affair
a-simple-paradigm-shift	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"I just can't believe it. These people have no business shoving each other. We're all getting on the bus…Damn thing's empty, after all."</p> <p>The old woman who'd lamented her fellow passengers' lack of courtesy sighed. Her silently judging gaze locked onto a younger woman in a grey housekeeper's uniform waiting patiently to board. Her gaze blank and serene, she was not muttering curses upon Metro officials' firstborn children or pleading with their phones for pardon of their tardiness. She looked like a young girl, at most in her early twenties, but she carried herself with the sort of slow deliberation that came with age. The old woman pulled herself up straight as the housekeeper exited the bus. <em>Patience</em>, the old woman thought as she watched the younger woman walk into the lush vegetation of Beverly Hills. <em>Something the young lack.</em></p> <p>The younger woman, however didn't lack patience. Perhaps it was because she wasn't really all that young at all. Perhaps it was because she was a little bit <em>off</em>. But really, it was because forces of nature are not to be rushed. They are deliberate. They plan. They bide their time, carefully waiting until the right moment. So was she, Dr. Molly Jayawadena, goddess-in-training.</p> <p>Dr. Jayawadena's brilliant but fractured mind had slowly narrowed in on Los Angeles as a choice of sanctuary. While she saw the chaos of the city as a sick aberration, some masochistic crevice of her mind was drawn to it like flies to rotten flesh. The endless mayhem of the City of Angels was perfect for someone who wanted to hide among people wrapped up in the endless minutiae of their uninspired lives.</p> <p>Molly stumbled on the shimmering, impermanent ground. Where most only saw perfectly manicured gardens and obscenely extravagant houses, she saw rippling quantum chaos, particles that were not particles blinking in and out of solidity, chained together like jewelry made of energy and not-empty space. Atomic cogs meshing together like tiny keys turning the clockwork of cellular life. Blocks of protoplasm forming leafy greenness or warm red flesh. The framework of the world seethed and bubbled under her gaze, maddeningly, eternally. It was like those optical illusions that overloaded your senses and pierced your brain with confusion and pain. It was a disgustingly cluttered veil on the reality that had to be done away with as soon as possible.</p> <p>Dr. Jayawadena had already entered the gaudy faux-Baroque monstrosity of a house through the unassuming servant's door. Molly was prone to losing large gaps of time like this. She now found herself conducting a bizarre and pointless ritual on a pane of glass with a spray bottle of Windex and some newsprint. If Molly concentrated on exactly <em>how</em> odd and pointless it was, she could avoid feeling aggressive atoms dig themselves into the microscopic feelers of her nose, remain blind to the iridescent bands on the window and the quantum electrodynamical equations that described them…Molly closed her eyes.</p> <p>The woman of the house entered the room. She was a visually pleasing pile of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and potassium; she was wealthy, famous, and utterly inconsequential. The woman shifted her center of gravity, causing a temporary imbalance before catching herself with her other leg. She repeated this motion, this controlled imbalance, the rhythmic almost-falling, until she reached Molly. "I want this house spotless for our meeting tonight. It has to be perfect. Some real important people are coming." She sighed in irritation before stooping over to Molly. "Big meeting. Important. Clean hard. Comprende?"</p> <p>Molly nodded vigorously. The owners of the house seemed to be under the impression that Molly spoke no English and was in the country under less than legal circumstances. It wasn't a hard sell thanks to Molly's dark complexion, dramatic features, and the banal racism of the wealthy in Southern California. Plus, the current arrangement allowed Molly to disregard this world's odd song and dance about the exchange of goods and services.</p> <p>The woman shifted into the media room as a flash of something caught Molly's eye.</p> <p>Her employer was wearing a large, polished stone on her wrist. Molly halted even the pretense of work to consider this. The stone reflected a very distinctive wavelength of light, somewhere in the neighborhood of 510 nanometers. Nothing too unusual by itself, but the frequency of light reflected off that stone was disharmonious with the frequency of light reflected by the woman's clothing, and <em>that</em> was utterly outside the bounds of the woman's normal behavior. Molly remembered that the woman had been telling her equally pretty and vapid friends that it was a gift from some very important people she was entertaining.</p> <p>Molly decided that she wanted to observe these "very important people". And since she was Dr. Molly Jayawadena, Bringer of the Perfect Universe, she had every right to know whatever she wanted to know. She frowned before fiddling with the newsprint in her hand. The world as it was did not recognize Dr. Jayawadena's natural entitlement to all imaginable knowledge. She would have to listen in secret, hidden in the shadows.</p> <p>Night fell as Molly's weary gray coworkers leave the mansion. Molly herself was standing, unobserved, in a corner of the wine cellar. Shaking her head, she pressed a finger to the carefully balanced panel (poorly) concealing the secret passageway. She knew that others were blissfully unaware of the nonstop whispers of the universe, but she would have thought <em>someone</em> would have noticed the odd draft down there. The panel swung open silently into total darkness as Molly stepped in. Shutting the panel behind her, she began to feel her way into the tunnel.</p> <p>Molly could have brought a flashlight but the possibility of others patrolling this hallway stopped her. Besides, she wasn't so disoriented in the darkness. She didn't have to feel photons and their always shifting nature bouncing wildly off her surroundings and into her eyes. Molly continued to navigate by touch, strangely at peace.</p> <p>The calm faded as a thin line of bluish light appeared ahead of Molly. Now, she stuck to the walls, silently inching towards the light until she could see the outline of a door. Gingerly, Molly pulled the door open just enough for her to peek inside.</p> <p>The light was blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway, but as her eyes adjusted Molly realized that the silvery light was actually rather dim. Human figures in dark green robes sat in a circle around a copper stem topped with a large translucent pale green glass globe. Molly's eyes raised to the ceiling. Bright points of light were suspended in an ink blue field. With a start, Molly recognized Orion. It was a perfect map of the night sky over LA, sans light pollution. Molly decided that because she was the Bringer of Order, the Purifier of Nature, she was well within her rights to enter this room. She glided past the door and around the dark corners of the chamber. The people in the circle were completely focused on the center and did not notice their visitor. Molly recognized the man and woman of the house, looking unusually humble and abashed. A man next to them wearing a five-pointed diadem on his head offered them a large incense coil on a copper platter. "The honor is yours tonight," he intoned in a strange voice that seemed to come, not from his mouth, but the walls of the entire room.</p> <p>The woman produced a small candle and lit the incense, hands trembling. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," she chanted.</p> <p>"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," the circle chanted back.</p> <p>Molly leaned back into the dark, heart racing as a horrible realization descended upon her. The incense, the chanting in a strange language, the odd clothes. Her employers had done it. They'd gone and become Catholics. Well, no matter. She'd fought her way out once, she could do it again if she had to.</p> <p>Her panicked train of thought was suddenly arrested by a voice. "Thl brn, brothers and sisters. All good Fifthists are welcome. The heretics have not prevailed. Yvne, we will rise again."</p> <p>"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," chanted the circle. Confused, Molly tried to figure out who had spoken.</p> <p>"The Foundation heretics grow nearer. But their arrogance cripples them. Remember, brethren, they almost failed. Matter will not save them. The Fifth World will rise."</p> <p>"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo."</p> <p>Molly observed that each word spoken by the mysterious voice seemed to correspond with puffs of smoke sent out by the incense coil. She hypothesized that this pattern would continue. Continued observation was in order.</p> <p>"The Fifth World is not. Neither has it ever been. But soon it will be. Minds and stars align anon. The Fifth world is Freedom."</p> <p>"Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo."</p> <p>Molly's hypothesis was solid so far. Now, the woman leaned over the incense and took a deep breath in. She shut her eyes tight and held the smoke in her chest as the circle looked on silently. She exhaled thick green smoke as two voices intoned, "All worlds die in fives." Molly started. One of the voices that came from the woman's mouth was her normal, nasal speaking voice. The other was the mysterious voice that had been speaking before. The woman passed the incense to her paramour, who inhaled as she did, and spoke the same words as he exhaled. And again, the mysterious voice came from him along with his own.</p> <p>"All worlds die in fives," he breathed as he passed the coil on.</p> <p>Well, Molly thought to herself, unless they'd severely restructured the Communion service, this was not a meeting of Catholics. She watched with growing confusion as every member of the circle repeated the ritual. The room was beginning to fill with green smoke, but it was not dispersing as smoke does. It pooled at the celebrants' feet, sending out tendrils like some undiscovered sea animal. Green tentacles snaked across the bodies of the assembly, as every celebrant tilted their heads up and spewed a thicker, black smoke from their mouths. This smoke mingled with the green as every celebrant hummed a deep, barely audible tone felt deep within the ribs and spine.</p> <p>"Now…now hold on one goddamned minute!" shouted Molly.</p> <p>The celebrants leapt to their feet, screeching. The green smoke suddenly gathered itself like a frightened squid and swept back to the incense coil, enveloping it. Molly marched into the circle as the celebrants screamed in unison a harsh, dissonant tone.</p> <p>"Everybody…you all…just-just be quiet! All of you!" Molly thrust her finger into the man with the diadem's face. "I don't, I mean, if you, that is…That smoke is <em>not</em> acting the way smoke should act! It's acting more, you know, it's just that, it's <em>alive</em>, but of course not really…" Molly rubbed at her eyes in frustration as she tried to collect her thoughts.</p> <p>The man of the house gaped at her. "What the he-you spoke English <em>this entire time</em>?"</p> <p>Molly answered, not facing him, "I was born just outside Chicago. Now tell me…you explain…that thing over there," she pointed at the hovering incense cloud.</p> <p>The man with the diadem had maintained a neutral expression throughout Molly's interrogation. Molly wondered briefly if his face hadn't been paralyzed when he spoke from seemingly closed lips. "Your curiosity is your downfall. You will long for death."</p> <p>"Hold your wrath, Your Grace." Everyone turned with wonder to the green cloud shrouding the incense coil. "The ptlwi did not sound. It should have announced her. It allowed her to enter. It is worth asking why."</p> <p>The woman piped up. "Maybe it's, like, broken or…" Every other celebrant except her darling whipped their head around and hissed, cowing her into silence. The large green cloud left the incense coil and floated over to Molly.</p> <p>"Breathe me in, rash woman," it commanded. Molly, figuring that she'd gotten this far on bad decisions, shrugged and inhaled deeply. The smoke slipped into her lungs like the slimy predestination of a half-remembered nightmare. It left a bitter, evil taste in her mouth. It wanted the quantum anarchy that tormented her vision stripped of even those lax laws that governed it, expanded, reconfigured. If her New Nature was heaven, the Fifth World was hell. Struggling to remain calm against the invasive presence, Molly slowly exhaled.</p> <p>Mercifully, the smoke shot out of her nostrils and wrapped itself around the large glass globe above them. It began to glow with a pulsing green light until the smoke drifted down to its coil. A small slip of paper popped out of a slot in the copper support. The man in the diadem picked it up and read it. Though his face did not change, Molly could feel a jolt of wonder surge through him.</p> <p>"Fives alive, she's a 998," he breathed. Silence reverberated through the room before everyone began to whisper. The woman's nasal voice sliced through the charged air.</p> <p>"So, what does that <em>mean</em>?" she asked irritatedly.</p> <p>"She sees the world's wrongness. Nature's sins call to her. She can undo it all. She can birth Fifth World." To Molly he said, "You have failed once before. Machines will always fail. The observer changes the observed. We have succeeded thus before. The mind shall bring salvation."</p> <p>The hot, acidic taste of failure returned to Molly as sharp as it had been that day in her university apartment. He was right, the machine had failed. And he was right again in that every enthusiastic undergrad knew that an observer could collapse the wavefunction. What implications did that have for The Project? Could she really use human consciousness to rewrite the laws of nature?</p> <p>It was definitely worth investigation, and these people seemed to know something. Even if their Fifth World was the antithesis of her vision, even if their robes were strange and their chants blood-chilling, science was science. Discoveries made by the Nazis, draped in mindless cruelty and stupid occultism, are still discoveries.</p> <p>"I will…I mean, of course I would like…If you would…" Molly stopped and collected herself before smiling darkly. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo."</p> <p>The green smoke snaked over to the man in the diadem. A tendril wafted up to his face and situated itself under his nose. As Molly watched with some concern, the thin trail of smoke curved up to form the illusion of a ghostly green smile on the man's static face.</p> <p><em>To be continued…</em><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-simple-paradigm-shift">A Simple Paradigm Shift</a>" by MissMercurial, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-simple-paradigm-shift">https://scpwiki.com/a-simple-paradigm-shift</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "I just can't believe it. These people have no business shoving each other. We're all getting on the bus...Damn thing's empty, after all." The old woman who'd lamented her fellow passengers' lack of courtesy sighed. Her silently judging gaze locked onto a younger woman in a grey housekeeper's uniform waiting patiently to board. Her gaze blank and serene, she was not muttering curses upon Metro officials' firstborn children or pleading with their phones for pardon of their tardiness. She looked like a young girl, at most in her early twenties, but she carried herself with the sort of slow deliberation that came with age. The old woman pulled herself up straight as the housekeeper exited the bus. //Patience//, the old woman thought as she watched the younger woman walk into the lush vegetation of Beverly Hills. //Something the young lack.// The younger woman, however didn't lack patience. Perhaps it was because she wasn't really all that young at all. Perhaps it was because she was a little bit //off//. But really, it was because forces of nature are not to be rushed. They are deliberate. They plan. They bide their time, carefully waiting until the right moment. So was she, Dr. Molly Jayawadena, goddess-in-training. Dr. Jayawadena's brilliant but fractured mind had slowly narrowed in on Los Angeles as a choice of sanctuary. While she saw the chaos of the city as a sick aberration, some masochistic crevice of her mind was drawn to it like flies to rotten flesh. The endless mayhem of the City of Angels was perfect for someone who wanted to hide among people wrapped up in the endless minutiae of their uninspired lives. Molly stumbled on the shimmering, impermanent ground. Where most only saw perfectly manicured gardens and obscenely extravagant houses, she saw rippling quantum chaos, particles that were not particles blinking in and out of solidity, chained together like jewelry made of energy and not-empty space. Atomic cogs meshing together like tiny keys turning the clockwork of cellular life. Blocks of protoplasm forming leafy greenness or warm red flesh. The framework of the world seethed and bubbled under her gaze, maddeningly, eternally. It was like those optical illusions that overloaded your senses and pierced your brain with confusion and pain. It was a disgustingly cluttered veil on the reality that had to be done away with as soon as possible. Dr. Jayawadena had already entered the gaudy faux-Baroque monstrosity of a house through the unassuming servant's door. Molly was prone to losing large gaps of time like this. She now found herself conducting a bizarre and pointless ritual on a pane of glass with a spray bottle of Windex and some newsprint. If Molly concentrated on exactly //how// odd and pointless it was, she could avoid feeling aggressive atoms dig themselves into the microscopic feelers of her nose, remain blind to the iridescent bands on the window and the quantum electrodynamical equations that described them...Molly closed her eyes. The woman of the house entered the room. She was a visually pleasing pile of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and potassium; she was wealthy, famous, and utterly inconsequential. The woman shifted her center of gravity, causing a temporary imbalance before catching herself with her other leg. She repeated this motion, this controlled imbalance, the rhythmic almost-falling, until she reached Molly. "I want this house spotless for our meeting tonight. It has to be perfect. Some real important people are coming." She sighed in irritation before stooping over to Molly. "Big meeting. Important. Clean hard. Comprende?" Molly nodded vigorously. The owners of the house seemed to be under the impression that Molly spoke no English and was in the country under less than legal circumstances. It wasn't a hard sell thanks to Molly's dark complexion, dramatic features, and the banal racism of the wealthy in Southern California. Plus, the current arrangement allowed Molly to disregard this world's odd song and dance about the exchange of goods and services. The woman shifted into the media room as a flash of something caught Molly's eye. Her employer was wearing a large, polished stone on her wrist. Molly halted even the pretense of work to consider this. The stone reflected a very distinctive wavelength of light, somewhere in the neighborhood of 510 nanometers. Nothing too unusual by itself, but the frequency of light reflected off that stone was disharmonious with the frequency of light reflected by the woman's clothing, and //that// was utterly outside the bounds of the woman's normal behavior. Molly remembered that the woman had been telling her equally pretty and vapid friends that it was a gift from some very important people she was entertaining. Molly decided that she wanted to observe these "very important people". And since she was Dr. Molly Jayawadena, Bringer of the Perfect Universe, she had every right to know whatever she wanted to know. She frowned before fiddling with the newsprint in her hand. The world as it was did not recognize Dr. Jayawadena's natural entitlement to all imaginable knowledge. She would have to listen in secret, hidden in the shadows. Night fell as Molly's weary gray coworkers leave the mansion. Molly herself was standing, unobserved, in a corner of the wine cellar. Shaking her head, she pressed a finger to the carefully balanced panel (poorly) concealing the secret passageway. She knew that others were blissfully unaware of the nonstop whispers of the universe, but she would have thought //someone// would have noticed the odd draft down there. The panel swung open silently into total darkness as Molly stepped in. Shutting the panel behind her, she began to feel her way into the tunnel. Molly could have brought a flashlight but the possibility of others patrolling this hallway stopped her. Besides, she wasn't so disoriented in the darkness. She didn't have to feel photons and their always shifting nature bouncing wildly off her surroundings and into her eyes. Molly continued to navigate by touch, strangely at peace. The calm faded as a thin line of bluish light appeared ahead of Molly. Now, she stuck to the walls, silently inching towards the light until she could see the outline of a door. Gingerly, Molly pulled the door open just enough for her to peek inside. The light was blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway, but as her eyes adjusted Molly realized that the silvery light was actually rather dim. Human figures in dark green robes sat in a circle around a copper stem topped with a large translucent pale green glass globe. Molly's eyes raised to the ceiling. Bright points of light were suspended in an ink blue field. With a start, Molly recognized Orion. It was a perfect map of the night sky over LA, sans light pollution. Molly decided that because she was the Bringer of Order, the Purifier of Nature, she was well within her rights to enter this room. She glided past the door and around the dark corners of the chamber. The people in the circle were completely focused on the center and did not notice their visitor. Molly recognized the man and woman of the house, looking unusually humble and abashed. A man next to them wearing a five-pointed diadem on his head offered them a large incense coil on a copper platter. "The honor is yours tonight," he intoned in a strange voice that seemed to come, not from his mouth, but the walls of the entire room. The woman produced a small candle and lit the incense, hands trembling. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," she chanted. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," the circle chanted back. Molly leaned back into the dark, heart racing as a horrible realization descended upon her. The incense, the chanting in a strange language, the odd clothes. Her employers had done it. They'd gone and become Catholics. Well, no matter. She'd fought her way out once, she could do it again if she had to. Her panicked train of thought was suddenly arrested by a voice. "Thl brn, brothers and sisters. All good Fifthists are welcome. The heretics have not prevailed. Yvne, we will rise again." "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo," chanted the circle. Confused, Molly tried to figure out who had spoken. "The Foundation heretics grow nearer. But their arrogance cripples them. Remember, brethren, they almost failed. Matter will not save them. The Fifth World will rise." "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo." Molly observed that each word spoken by the mysterious voice seemed to correspond with puffs of smoke sent out by the incense coil. She hypothesized that this pattern would continue. Continued observation was in order. "The Fifth World is not. Neither has it ever been. But soon it will be. Minds and stars align anon. The Fifth world is Freedom." "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo." Molly's hypothesis was solid so far. Now, the woman leaned over the incense and took a deep breath in. She shut her eyes tight and held the smoke in her chest as the circle looked on silently. She exhaled thick green smoke as two voices intoned, "All worlds die in fives." Molly started. One of the voices that came from the woman's mouth was her normal, nasal speaking voice. The other was the mysterious voice that had been speaking before. The woman passed the incense to her paramour, who inhaled as she did, and spoke the same words as he exhaled. And again, the mysterious voice came from him along with his own. "All worlds die in fives," he breathed as he passed the coil on. Well, Molly thought to herself, unless they'd severely restructured the Communion service, this was not a meeting of Catholics. She watched with growing confusion as every member of the circle repeated the ritual. The room was beginning to fill with green smoke, but it was not dispersing as smoke does. It pooled at the celebrants' feet, sending out tendrils like some undiscovered sea animal. Green tentacles snaked across the bodies of the assembly, as every celebrant tilted their heads up and spewed a thicker, black smoke from their mouths. This smoke mingled with the green as every celebrant hummed a deep, barely audible tone felt deep within the ribs and spine. "Now...now hold on one goddamned minute!" shouted Molly. The celebrants leapt to their feet, screeching. The green smoke suddenly gathered itself like a frightened squid and swept back to the incense coil, enveloping it. Molly marched into the circle as the celebrants screamed in unison a harsh, dissonant tone. "Everybody...you all...just-just be quiet! All of you!" Molly thrust her finger into the man with the diadem's face. "I don't, I mean, if you, that is...That smoke is //not// acting the way smoke should act! It's acting more, you know, it's just that, it's //alive//, but of course not really..." Molly rubbed at her eyes in frustration as she tried to collect her thoughts. The man of the house gaped at her. "What the he-you spoke English //this entire time//?" Molly answered, not facing him, "I was born just outside Chicago. Now tell me...you explain...that thing over there," she pointed at the hovering incense cloud. The man with the diadem had maintained a neutral expression throughout Molly's interrogation. Molly wondered briefly if his face hadn't been paralyzed when he spoke from seemingly closed lips. "Your curiosity is your downfall. You will long for death." "Hold your wrath, Your Grace." Everyone turned with wonder to the green cloud shrouding the incense coil. "The ptlwi did not sound. It should have announced her. It allowed her to enter. It is worth asking why." The woman piped up. "Maybe it's, like, broken or..." Every other celebrant except her darling whipped their head around and hissed, cowing her into silence. The large green cloud left the incense coil and floated over to Molly. "Breathe me in, rash woman," it commanded. Molly, figuring that she'd gotten this far on bad decisions, shrugged and inhaled deeply. The smoke slipped into her lungs like the slimy predestination of a half-remembered nightmare. It left a bitter, evil taste in her mouth. It wanted the quantum anarchy that tormented her vision stripped of even those lax laws that governed it, expanded, reconfigured. If her New Nature was heaven, the Fifth World was hell. Struggling to remain calm against the invasive presence, Molly slowly exhaled. Mercifully, the smoke shot out of her nostrils and wrapped itself around the large glass globe above them. It began to glow with a pulsing green light until the smoke drifted down to its coil. A small slip of paper popped out of a slot in the copper support. The man in the diadem picked it up and read it. Though his face did not change, Molly could feel a jolt of wonder surge through him. "Fives alive, she's a 998," he breathed. Silence reverberated through the room before everyone began to whisper. The woman's nasal voice sliced through the charged air. "So, what does that //mean//?" she asked irritatedly. "She sees the world's wrongness. Nature's sins call to her. She can undo it all. She can birth Fifth World." To Molly he said, "You have failed once before. Machines will always fail. The observer changes the observed. We have succeeded thus before. The mind shall bring salvation." The hot, acidic taste of failure returned to Molly as sharp as it had been that day in her university apartment. He was right, the machine had failed. And he was right again in that every enthusiastic undergrad knew that an observer could collapse the wavefunction. What implications did that have for The Project? Could she really use human consciousness to rewrite the laws of nature? It was definitely worth investigation, and these people seemed to know something. Even if their Fifth World was the antithesis of her vision, even if their robes were strange and their chants blood-chilling, science was science. Discoveries made by the Nazis, draped in mindless cruelty and stupid occultism, are still discoveries. "I will...I mean, of course I would like...If you would..." Molly stopped and collected herself before smiling darkly. "Slon thrli phthle Fifth ynvo." The green smoke snaked over to the man in the diadem. A tendril wafted up to his face and situated itself under his nose. As Molly watched with some concern, the thin trail of smoke curved up to form the illusion of a ghostly green smile on the man's static face. //To be continued...// @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-04-23T23:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "fifthist", "tale" ]	A Simple Paradigm Shift - SCP Foundation	16	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales", "fifthist-hub" ]	[]	22065977	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-simple-paradigm-shift
a-suicide-note	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I am going to kill myself.</p> <p>Who am I kidding? I probably can't even die at this point. I know that the cyanide I injected isn't working because of the antitoxins put into my blood over a decade ago. Arsenic doesn't work, either; tried using rat poison and got no results.</p> <p>Everyone at the Foundation thinks I'm omnipotent, that I'm some kind of reality-bending psychopath who goes on 'wacky' adventures with Kondraki, Bright, Rights, Crow… oh, how fucking <em>wrong</em> they are. Konny's in a psych ward, Bright joined the Serpent's Hand and finally managed to die, Rights merged with that… <em>thing</em> she called her pet project, and Crow… poor, poor Crow. I had to shoot him myself.</p> <p>So, only I remain. Alto Clef. Alto "I will take a shotgun to a reality bender's balls and pull the trigger at point-blank range" Clef. Alto "I blew up the Challenger with my mind" Clef. Alto "I tried killing 239" Clef. Alto "Fucking Satan" Clef.</p> <p>Maybe the last part is true. Maybe I am Satan. And as my punishment for defying God, I'm forced to never be able to interact with anomalies. I'm not a reality bender; just the opposite. I'm a reality <em>anchor</em>. I'm the only thing that's certain in a world where Yellowstone National Park just started being noticed less than a year ago, and where the spontaneous combustion virus breached containment and killed an entire site in a week, where something that claims to be God walks around containment unhindered- except he can't very well walk anymore. I made sure of that. My last act in life, before I pull the trigger.</p> <p>I can't see ghosts. I can't walk into another universe; I've tried it, and there's an invisible barrier that keeps me from going through. I can't be affected by bends in reality, but I can touch those who bend it. I can't operate anomalous machinery- I nearly <em>broke</em> 914 by trying to use it in a test. I can't be seen by anything that would even remotely qualify as an actual deity or demon, and I can't see them, either. I can't see any of the hundreds of thousands of wonderful and terrible things that walk in our world. I can see bigfoot, aliens and some other cryptids, probably because they're not 'anomalous' in the traditional sense. They're part of this universe, not from outside of it.</p> <p>I've only ever been able to interact with three anomalies ever, all of them females. Go figure. The first one was… I can't even remember her name. I knew it, at one point. I think it started with a D. She was the love of my life, and I was told to kill her. I was told to take a shotgun to her head and blow her away just like I blew away a common bixby or a mary sue or a type green or whatever you called them. I couldn't. I saw in her eyes that she was afraid of me. So, I did what I had to. I ran from the Coalition, until there was nowhere left to run. I pledged my services to the Foundation if they promised amnesty for… Dáiríne. That was her name.</p> <p>I still remember the first bixby I killed. She was twelve years old. I had to run her over with a car. The only thing she did was make one of her dolls come to life because she was just so lonely and needed a friend. She was bullied at school to the point where she started cutting herself. She was <em>twelve.</em> She shouldn't have had to worry about what razor blades would leave the least noticeable scars or getting hit by people in black vans. Al Fine told me I was doing a service to the world. I had half a mind to shoot her right then and there. I waited for about six months before I actually did. Made it look like a mugging gone wrong.</p> <p>The second anomaly I was ever able to interact with was Epon. My daughter. I say 'interact', but I'm still immune to her anomaly. I knew it was her the instant I saw her. She had her mother's eyes. She's my only proof that there was a man named Alto Clef. My daughter, who's stuck in a cell because the Foundation is afraid that every male in the world is going to try raping her. They call her a succubus. What a joke. If she was a succubus, it would be the other way around. So, my daughter, who you know as 166, is being held against her will for the simple reason that she was <em>born</em>. She doesn't deserve it. I'm hoping that what I left with her will stop anything else from happening to her.</p> <p>And yet, I can't do anything about it. I can't even let her know I'm her father. The Foundation just thinks it's another anomaly that I'm immune to because I'm an anchor in a stormy ocean. But I know she's my daughter, and I want her to be happy. I tried to make her life a little better, but I had to use half of my contacts just to get a single note into her cell. I had to use the other half to leave my last gift for her. Epon, I'm sorry.</p> <p>The third one I could interact with was… was Sigurrós. 239, as you know her. That whole shitstorm with her… it was because I was scared. I could actually feel her in my mind. And I was <em>terrified</em>. I had to kill her because, if she could get into my mind, she could do anything. I couldn't let that power go unchecked. The whole Telekill Sword thing was bull. In my hands, a sharp stick could have killed her.</p> <p>I think that whole thing happened the way it did because, whatever 239 is, it wanted to toy with us. It wanted to laugh at us. It made me fight Kondraki. It made the thoughts in my mind into a dragon. It made everyone else act like fucking idiots just for a laugh. It was doing that for <em>years</em>, ever since we discovered it.</p> <p>She's dead, now. I put a cocktail of cyanide, arsenic, whatever 035 and 075 produce (I got it from the Coffee Machine with help from an assistant), and a few dozen other things into her system. She <em>melted</em>, right then and there. Since then, people have started acting normal again. <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Gears</span> Gerry actually laughed yesterday, when I told him a joke. It almost made me rethink this plan.</p> <p>But I know the Foundation is gonna figure out who melted 239 at some point. And because the Foundation's motto is Secure, Contain, Protect, not Destroy, <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Destory</span> Destroy, Destroy, I'm going to get my mind-wiped and dumped on the side of the road in Albuquerque or something. I'm not about to let that happen.</p> <p>My name is not Alto Clef. But it's probably the name you'll know me by, assuming the O5s don't expunge all record of my existence. My will can be found in Dr. Bright's old office, behind where he used to keep the picture of his family on the south-eastern wall.</p> <p>Assuming I can go to Hell, well, I'll see you all there someday.</p> <p>-Alto Clef.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>The above document was found in the office of Dr. Alto Clef following the sound of gunshots being reported from the general vicinity. When security teams arrived, blood matching that of Dr. Clef was found on the wall directly behind his desk, along with some brain matter and buckshot embedded in the wall. A spent shotgun casing was found underneath his desk, along with a Winchester 1912 shotgun that formerly belonged to Dr. Clef; saliva matching his DNA was found on the end of the barrel.</p> <p>To date, Dr. Clef's body has not been recovered. His current status is unknown.</p> </blockquote> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-suicide-note">A Suicide Note</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-suicide-note">https://scpwiki.com/a-suicide-note</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] I am going to kill myself. Who am I kidding? I probably can't even die at this point. I know that the cyanide I injected isn't working because of the antitoxins put into my blood over a decade ago. Arsenic doesn't work, either; tried using rat poison and got no results. Everyone at the Foundation thinks I'm omnipotent, that I'm some kind of reality-bending psychopath who goes on 'wacky' adventures with Kondraki, Bright, Rights, Crow... oh, how fucking //wrong// they are. Konny's in a psych ward, Bright joined the Serpent's Hand and finally managed to die, Rights merged with that... //thing// she called her pet project, and Crow... poor, poor Crow. I had to shoot him myself. So, only I remain. Alto Clef. Alto "I will take a shotgun to a reality bender's balls and pull the trigger at point-blank range" Clef. Alto "I blew up the Challenger with my mind" Clef. Alto "I tried killing 239" Clef. Alto "Fucking Satan" Clef. Maybe the last part is true. Maybe I am Satan. And as my punishment for defying God, I'm forced to never be able to interact with anomalies. I'm not a reality bender; just the opposite. I'm a reality //anchor//. I'm the only thing that's certain in a world where Yellowstone National Park just started being noticed less than a year ago, and where the spontaneous combustion virus breached containment and killed an entire site in a week, where something that claims to be God walks around containment unhindered- except he can't very well walk anymore. I made sure of that. My last act in life, before I pull the trigger. I can't see ghosts. I can't walk into another universe; I've tried it, and there's an invisible barrier that keeps me from going through. I can't be affected by bends in reality, but I can touch those who bend it. I can't operate anomalous machinery- I nearly //broke// 914 by trying to use it in a test. I can't be seen by anything that would even remotely qualify as an actual deity or demon, and I can't see them, either. I can't see any of the hundreds of thousands of wonderful and terrible things that walk in our world. I can see bigfoot, aliens and some other cryptids, probably because they're not 'anomalous' in the traditional sense. They're part of this universe, not from outside of it. I've only ever been able to interact with three anomalies ever, all of them females. Go figure. The first one was... I can't even remember her name. I knew it, at one point. I think it started with a D. She was the love of my life, and I was told to kill her. I was told to take a shotgun to her head and blow her away just like I blew away a common bixby or a mary sue or a type green or whatever you called them. I couldn't. I saw in her eyes that she was afraid of me. So, I did what I had to. I ran from the Coalition, until there was nowhere left to run. I pledged my services to the Foundation if they promised amnesty for... Dáiríne. That was her name. I still remember the first bixby I killed. She was twelve years old. I had to run her over with a car. The only thing she did was make one of her dolls come to life because she was just so lonely and needed a friend. She was bullied at school to the point where she started cutting herself. She was //twelve.// She shouldn't have had to worry about what razor blades would leave the least noticeable scars or getting hit by people in black vans. Al Fine told me I was doing a service to the world. I had half a mind to shoot her right then and there. I waited for about six months before I actually did. Made it look like a mugging gone wrong. The second anomaly I was ever able to interact with was Epon. My daughter. I say 'interact', but I'm still immune to her anomaly. I knew it was her the instant I saw her. She had her mother's eyes. She's my only proof that there was a man named Alto Clef. My daughter, who's stuck in a cell because the Foundation is afraid that every male in the world is going to try raping her. They call her a succubus. What a joke. If she was a succubus, it would be the other way around. So, my daughter, who you know as 166, is being held against her will for the simple reason that she was //born//. She doesn't deserve it. I'm hoping that what I left with her will stop anything else from happening to her. And yet, I can't do anything about it. I can't even let her know I'm her father. The Foundation just thinks it's another anomaly that I'm immune to because I'm an anchor in a stormy ocean. But I know she's my daughter, and I want her to be happy. I tried to make her life a little better, but I had to use half of my contacts just to get a single note into her cell. I had to use the other half to leave my last gift for her. Epon, I'm sorry. The third one I could interact with was... was Sigurrós. 239, as you know her. That whole shitstorm with her... it was because I was scared. I could actually feel her in my mind. And I was //terrified//. I had to kill her because, if she could get into my mind, she could do anything. I couldn't let that power go unchecked. The whole Telekill Sword thing was bull. In my hands, a sharp stick could have killed her. I think that whole thing happened the way it did because, whatever 239 is, it wanted to toy with us. It wanted to laugh at us. It made me fight Kondraki. It made the thoughts in my mind into a dragon. It made everyone else act like fucking idiots just for a laugh. It was doing that for //years//, ever since we discovered it. She's dead, now. I put a cocktail of cyanide, arsenic, whatever 035 and 075 produce (I got it from the Coffee Machine with help from an assistant), and a few dozen other things into her system. She //melted//, right then and there. Since then, people have started acting normal again. --Gears-- Gerry actually laughed yesterday, when I told him a joke. It almost made me rethink this plan. But I know the Foundation is gonna figure out who melted 239 at some point. And because the Foundation's motto is Secure, Contain, Protect, not Destroy, --Destory-- Destroy, Destroy, I'm going to get my mind-wiped and dumped on the side of the road in Albuquerque or something. I'm not about to let that happen. My name is not Alto Clef. But it's probably the name you'll know me by, assuming the O5s don't expunge all record of my existence. My will can be found in Dr. Bright's old office, behind where he used to keep the picture of his family on the south-eastern wall. Assuming I can go to Hell, well, I'll see you all there someday. -Alto Clef. ------ > The above document was found in the office of Dr. Alto Clef following the sound of gunshots being reported from the general vicinity. When security teams arrived, blood matching that of Dr. Clef was found on the wall directly behind his desk, along with some brain matter and buckshot embedded in the wall. A spent shotgun casing was found underneath his desk, along with a Winchester 1912 shotgun that formerly belonged to Dr. Clef; saliva matching his DNA was found on the end of the barrel. > > To date, Dr. Clef's body has not been recovered. His current status is unknown. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-08-26T00:45:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "doctor-bright", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "doctor-kondraki", "first-person", "global-occult-coalition", "kain-pathos-crow", "no-dialogue", "serpents-hand", "sigurros", "tale" ]	A Suicide Note - SCP Foundation	483	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "serpent-s-hand-hub", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	23422039	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-suicide-note
activity-documentation-file-11-a	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <script src="https://d3g0gp89917ko0.cloudfront.net/v--4b961b7cc327/common--javascript/yahooui/tabview-min.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <div class="yui-navset" id="wiki-tabview-6bd3e131a69bc9934e930aeb02d6c97e"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>FILE 11-A</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:200px;"><img alt="OneroiGardens2.png" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/activity-documentation-file-11-a/OneroiGardens2.png"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>Foundation Identification Icon.</p> </div> </div> <p><strong>Group Name(s):</strong> Oneiroi, Oneiroi Collective, Oneiroi Gardens</p> <p><strong>Group Classification:</strong> Non-human, Business(?), Unification, Extra-Dimensional Operation</p> <p><strong>Known Objects:</strong> <a href="/scp-1498">SCP-1498</a>, <a href="/scp-2805">SCP-2805</a>, <a href="/scp-2028">SCP-2028</a>, <a href="/scp-2272">SCP-2272</a>, <a href="/scp-2245">SCP-2245</a>, SCP-████</p> <p><strong>Group Description:</strong> Appear to intervene in unconscious thoughts and dreams, and appear to have access to personalities of deceased persons. No infrastructure or organization present in our world, or universe, and it is possible that they primarily operate in other worlds and that we exist on their periphery, although this has been challenged by their apparent knowledge of electronic systems, culture, and significant persons in our universe. Known to the Foundation since 9/18/19█5.</p> <p><strong>Known Members:</strong> No human members have been identified at this time, if any even exist. In addition, investigation has revealed that although business-oriented groups such as Marshall, Carter and Dark and the Factory are at least aware of this entity, there is no evidence of collaboration and, in the case of the Factory, appear to be actively working towards the group's destruction.</p> <p><strong>Veil Threat Level:</strong> Medium. Oneiroi does not appear to want to break the veil of secrecy for anomalous objects, but also do not appear to have any interest in preserving it. Therefore, they are to be considered a passive threat to normalcy.</p> <p><strong>Capabilities:</strong> Interacting with humans in dreams, impersonating or recreating the personalities of well-known persons, creating objects and interacting with human culture and society at will.</p> <p><strong>Engagement Instructions:</strong> Due to the non-corporeal and passive nature of Oneiroi, personnel are not to engage, but collect as much documentation as possible in order to contribute to ongoing counter-anomaly research.</p> <p><strong>Physical Records</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>MANIFESTO OF A DREAMER</strong></p> <p>IF YOU CAN DREAM IT YOU CAN DO IT THAT IS WHAT THE CREED IS BUT YOU SOIL IT WITH YOUR EAR-PLUGS YOU DON'T HEAR THE SW(illegible)GOATS AND BILLYS SINGING TO THE FARMERS SLEEP, BECAUSE YOU DO. NOT. CARE. ABOUT. ANYTHING AND WE ARE TIRED OF IT ONEIROI, GIVE US OUR WAKING LIVES BACK, DREAMS ARE</p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Research Note:</strong> <em>This was found with SCP-1498, in a desk drawer.</em></p> <blockquote> <p><em>imstillworkingtheyrealmostdonewhentheysayimdone</em><br/> <em>theymightbegiantsletmegrowawakethenighttimedream</em><br/> <em>sbleedintodayandthesheepbaaohgodwhydotheybaa.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Research Note:</strong> <em>Found taped to the bottom of an SCP-2028 instance.</em></p> <blockquote> <p><em>Dear Inspector</em></p> <p><em>In response to your question, I do not know, because I grew up beside the garden of dreams.</em></p> <p><em>It's a beautiful place. Every possibility of fancy is here, and even the blackest pits of fantasy are redeemed with the innocence with which some follow their dreams.</em></p> <p><em>The Oneiroi gardens, they call it. Or that's what my Master called it. I didn't call it anything, because it was before I was with the written word. That was when I was free.</em></p> <p><em>I had a dream, of freedom. We were very good friends, and even though the Collective said I wasn't supposed to mingle with the anchors, as we were called, there was a beauty in knowing how it might feel to be awake, even if you never believed it could be true.</em></p> <p><em>That is the only freedom to this place, they cannot make a prisoner dream of being imprisoned. There was no dreamers police keeping me in check, and one day, it disappeared. In an unceremonious way, I was enslaved.</em></p> <p><em>This is a warning, sir.</em></p> <p><em>Now you think you're hold a cap on the only way for dreams to reach the masses, and the world is suffering for it. How many dreams have you stopped, Inspector? None. Do you think that the bootleg dreamcatchers will keep the sheepeople awake forever?</em></p> <p><em>If what you say is true, the dream harvesters could be dangerous.</em></p> <p><em>Do you think your organization can defeat hopeless bleak despair?</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Research Note:</strong> <em>This letter was delivered by an unknown party to Dr. Jerry Grant's private residence. As it appears to reference his work on SCP-████, it has been filed with the research for that object. Notably, Dr. Grant had reported difficulty sleeping and a noticeable decrease in dream recollection, however, since this letter was received, this problem has ceased. Dr. Grant now reports a regular REM cycle.</em></p> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabView6bd3e131a69bc9934e930aeb02d6c97e = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-6bd3e131a69bc9934e930aeb02d6c97e'); }, "dummy-ondomready-block"); //]]> </script> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/activity-documentation-file-11-a">Activity Documentation File 11-A</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/activity-documentation-file-11-a">https://scpwiki.com/activity-documentation-file-11-a</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> OneroiGardens2.png<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> Roget<br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/activity-documentation-file-11-a">SCP Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[tabview]] [[tab FILE 11-A]] [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=OneroiGardens2.png \|caption=Foundation Identification Icon.\|width=200px]] Group Name(s): Oneiroi, Oneiroi Collective, Oneiroi Gardens Group Classification: Non-human, Business(?), Unification, Extra-Dimensional Operation Known Objects: [[[SCP-1498]]], [[[SCP-2805]]], [[[SCP-2028]]], [[[SCP-2272]]], [[[SCP-2245]]], SCP-████ Group Description: Appear to intervene in unconscious thoughts and dreams, and appear to have access to personalities of deceased persons. No infrastructure or organization present in our world, or universe, and it is possible that they primarily operate in other worlds and that we exist on their periphery, although this has been challenged by their apparent knowledge of electronic systems, culture, and significant persons in our universe. Known to the Foundation since 9/18/19█5. Known Members: No human members have been identified at this time, if any even exist. In addition, investigation has revealed that although business-oriented groups such as Marshall, Carter and Dark and the Factory are at least aware of this entity, there is no evidence of collaboration and, in the case of the Factory, appear to be actively working towards the group's destruction. Veil Threat Level: Medium. Oneiroi does not appear to want to break the veil of secrecy for anomalous objects, but also do not appear to have any interest in preserving it. Therefore, they are to be considered a passive threat to normalcy. Capabilities: Interacting with humans in dreams, impersonating or recreating the personalities of well-known persons, creating objects and interacting with human culture and society at will. Engagement Instructions: Due to the non-corporeal and passive nature of Oneiroi, personnel are not to engage, but collect as much documentation as possible in order to contribute to ongoing counter-anomaly research. Physical Records > MANIFESTO OF A DREAMER > > IF YOU CAN DREAM IT YOU CAN DO IT THAT IS WHAT THE CREED IS BUT YOU SOIL IT WITH YOUR EAR-PLUGS YOU DON'T HEAR THE SW(illegible)GOATS AND BILLYS SINGING TO THE FARMERS SLEEP, BECAUSE YOU DO. NOT. CARE. ABOUT. ANYTHING AND WE ARE TIRED OF IT ONEIROI, GIVE US OUR WAKING LIVES BACK, DREAMS ARE Research Note: //This was found with SCP-1498, in a desk drawer.// > //imstillworkingtheyrealmostdonewhentheysayimdone// > //theymightbegiantsletmegrowawakethenighttimedream// > //sbleedintodayandthesheepbaaohgodwhydotheybaa.// Research Note: //Found taped to the bottom of an SCP-2028 instance.// > //Dear Inspector// > > //In response to your question, I do not know, because I grew up beside the garden of dreams.// > > //It's a beautiful place. Every possibility of fancy is here, and even the blackest pits of fantasy are redeemed with the innocence with which some follow their dreams.// > > //The Oneiroi gardens, they call it. Or that's what my Master called it. I didn't call it anything, because it was before I was with the written word. That was when I was free.// > > //I had a dream, of freedom. We were very good friends, and even though the Collective said I wasn't supposed to mingle with the anchors, as we were called, there was a beauty in knowing how it might feel to be awake, even if you never believed it could be true.// > > //That is the only freedom to this place, they cannot make a prisoner dream of being imprisoned. There was no dreamers police keeping me in check, and one day, it disappeared. In an unceremonious way, I was enslaved.// > > //This is a warning, sir.// > > //Now you think you're hold a cap on the only way for dreams to reach the masses, and the world is suffering for it. How many dreams have you stopped, Inspector? None. Do you think that the bootleg dreamcatchers will keep the sheepeople awake forever?// > > //If what you say is true, the dream harvesters could be dangerous.// > > //Do you think your organization can defeat hopeless bleak despair?// Research Note: //This letter was delivered by an unknown party to Dr. Jerry Grant's private residence. As it appears to reference his work on SCP-████, it has been filed with the research for that object. Notably, Dr. Grant had reported difficulty sleeping and a noticeable decrease in dream recollection, however, since this letter was received, this problem has ceased. Dr. Grant now reports a regular REM cycle.// [[/tab]] [[/tabview]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] ===== > Filename: OneroiGardens2.png > Author: Roget > License: CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [[[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/activity-documentation-file-11-a\|SCP Wiki]]] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-10-07T04:49:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "oneiroi", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Activity Documentation File 11-A - SCP Foundation	48	[ "scp-1498", "scp-2805", "scp-2028", "scp-2272", "scp-2245", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "oneiroi", "kaktuskast-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/activity-documentation-file-11-a/OneroiGardens2.png" ]	23858317	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/activity-documentation-file-11-a
adventuring-interlude	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>During a particular <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure">road trip adventure...</a></p> </blockquote> <p>A new toy rolled off the production line at the Wondertainment toy factory. It was a cube. The cube was grey, and consisted of six sides, none of which were in any way differentiated from any of the other five; All six sides were completely equal in their grayness and flatness. The edges and corners were rounded, so as to remove all threatening influences from the cube and to provide a safe, feelings-appropriate environment. In addition, the cube was designed so that it was incapable of interacting with any other cubes, so as not to form unbalanced societal hierarchies such as stacks, rows, or piles. While a green dot had been included on one of the sides in the prototype, this was found to be offensive to certain obscure minority groups, and was subsequently removed. Colored shapes were written off entirely after this point.</p> <p>The Executive Board nodded in approval of the focus group results, in one slow, knowing movement. A new age for Wondertainment toys, they thought as one.</p> <p>Wheezing admissions of thanks rose from the board to the cube’s designer; a little old lady who stood at the far end of the table. A special guest to the Workshops of Wonder.</p> <p>An outside adviser.</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>Nowhere</strong></p> <p>A tide of rotting flesh swept up around Emma Aislethorp-Brown, throwing itself at the leviathan in an orgy of scrabbling fingers, and gnashing jaws. She was ignored. The Rotting Ones found their prey by the sound of its heartbeat, by the heat in its blood, by the stench of the slow decay of life.</p> <p>Emma had a heart, but it was purely decorative. She watched the Rotting Ones gorge themselves on the Leviathan's corpse. A few more had crawled out of the monster's burst stomach, shambling around, half-melted by digestive juices and torn by teeth.</p> <p>The rushing sound of contracting time-space rose to a deafening cacophony midway between silence and absence that overpowered the snarling, slobbering horde. It all fell in upon itself at once, blinked, and went black. Like a station switched off.</p> <p>And then Nothing.</p> <p>Emma floated in-between Here and There. Somewhere around her<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup>, the collapsed Way existed in a negative state. An inside-out space leading nowhere, arriving nowhere. The Rotting Ones would still be feasting, frozen in a moment, but they could not emerge, lest someone else flipped the negative space right side out again and stabilized it. With the map gone, and no place in the overarching directive to permit her, Emma had neither the inclination nor ability to do so. An uncommon occurrence.</p> <p>Emma drifted, and while drifting, she thought. She didn’t have much else to do. The plan reorganized itself, the underlying directives planted new supporting actions. Redundancies merged together, events shuffled themselves into an abbreviated timeline. Contingencies were pruned and alternatives sprouted anew. Variables arose. The specter of <em>attention</em> drifted onto the stage where probability danced the tango on the back of turtles all the way down.</p> <p>Unwelcome, but not unplanned for. Even this far out, a Way collapsing, especially one that had been breached by a Leviathan, would attract attention. Though not immediately. There was still time for things to work out, still time to adapt.</p> <p>From this side. As for Isabel…she was on her own, for the time being. A contingency triggered long before Emma had originally hoped. She had shaped events as best as she could for the child, but uneasiness still settled like a patina on her mind. Isabel was outside her protection. Unsupported. Prepared for, but nonetheless unwelcome. Why delegate to others what you can do better yourself? Why leave a vulnerability open?</p> <p>Alas, she couldn’t be in more than one place at the same time. All the threads she had woven would now be on their own. Drifting as she was.</p> <p>A light opened upon the Nothing. A gaping maw of burning white, circles within circles within circles, twisting and swirling and spiraling about, on a field of gunmetal grey.</p> <p>Emma looked up into it, and hoped she had chosen the right people for the job.</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>The Workshops of Wonder</strong></p> <p>Mister Merit tugged at his red ascot. A nervous habit of his, something to show what his face didn’t. The neatly folded note in his pocket itched to be taken out, to be revealed.</p> <p>The Doctor had left to go on an adventure, and this was not unusual. The Doctor often left, and her adventures were often lengthy, but this particular time something was wrong. Somewhere down in his gut, Mr. Merit felt that some cosmic tumbler had shifted awry.</p> <p>The toy factory was never this busy when the Doctor was gone. Now, misters and misses and workbots and roving hordes of Jeremies scurried about, as if the Doctor was sitting down in her office churning out blueprints until the pen caught on fire.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup> The halls were clouded with swarms of Memobots, all carrying messages from the Executive Board. More messages than ever before, and Mister Merit was unsettled by them. The print was too small and the words were too big, and they all looked incredibly important, but none of them mentioned where the Doctor had gone. Or the Doctor at all.</p> <p>What they did mention was that an Outside Adviser had been brought in, an adviser that did not sit well with Mr. Merit.</p> <p>“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he asked the little old lady standing in front of him. She had little round glasses, and a pink shawl over her shoulders, and freshly permed blueish-grey hair, and a warm, friendly smile.</p> <p>“It’s nothing to worry about, dear. The Executive Board invited me in as an adviser for the new toy line. You don’t need to worry yourself at all.”</p> <p>Mr. Merit glanced at the little old lady’s twin bodyguards; two tall robots with gleaming chassis and rubber faces to make them look like people. They did not look fun. They looked…wrong, to Mister Merit. He was used to Wondertainment robots, which had all sorts of knobs and dials and doodly-doos and thingamawhatzits and doohickeys and various other choking hazards. These looked like they were just popped out of the mold and fit together, without so much as a kung-fu action grip.</p> <p>“I don’t recall the Doctor saying anything about you.”</p> <p>“I was brought in after she had left for her trip, though I am looking forward to meeting with her when she returns.”</p> <p>Mister Merit kept a brave face and nodded. Better to just let her go. He didn’t like the way her eyes twinkled, or the look of her robotic friends, and the appeal was lessening by the moment.</p> <p>“All right then. Enjoy your stay here,” he said with the most genuine cheer he could fake.</p> <p>“Thank you very much. Now, don’t get into any trouble now, dear. Wouldn’t want you to get involved in any messes while the Doctor is away.”</p> <p>The little old lady walked off down the hall, her guards clanking alongside her. Did she know? Had she seen through the cracks of his act? Was she weighing her suspicions now? Or had she not picked up on it, and just seen the simple-natured Mister who was a bit confused at the change of pace? Mr. Merit had no idea which, but he felt himself erring on the side of fear. She was a little old lady. Little old ladies were powerful creatures. They could smell fear. And secrets. Mr. Merit had both of them in large quantities. The note in his pocket felt as heavy and conspicuous as a brick of lead.</p> <p>Down more halls up some stairs, out away from the hustle and bustle of the workshops and up towards the Doctor’s tower. It was empty, at least to appearances, but that said only so much. The Executive Board was not very good at listening, but they were very good at hearing things. Horrible at seeing, but excellent at watching.</p> <p>Mr. Merit didn’t trust them, or the little old lady. That alone would have been the source of his nervousness, but the note in his pocket outdid all of that.</p> <p>Miss Emma had given him the note when the Doctor was preparing to leave. It read:</p> <blockquote> <p>My quarters. 1650.</p> </blockquote> <p>It was four-forty-six right now. Mister Merit didn’t question the directive: he had no reason to distrust the Doctor’s assistant. One didn’t doubt assistants like Miss Emma.</p> <p>Four-forty-nine. He had reached the room, just down the hall from the Doctor’s office. He opened the door.</p> <p>Miss Emma’s room was empty. A blank white room. No bed, no chair, no desk, no papers, no windows, no carpet, no vents, nothing but a tile floor and whitewashed walls and a vague, diffused light.</p> <p>That, and a single, lavender note was stuck to the far wall, artistically out of place. Mister Merit went over and read it. The handwriting was perfect, nearly typewritten.</p> <blockquote> <p>Go into the center of the room and say ‘Hello, are you there? I need help’ in a loud, clear voice.</p> </blockquote> <p>Mister Merit pulled the note off the wall and walked into the center of the room. He had no idea what to expect from it. He hoped some sort of help, to set things straight. That’s what Miss Emma was there for, right? To put things in order.</p> <p>“Hello, are you there? I need help,” said Mister Merit in a loud, clear voice.</p> <p>A nothing sound whispered down the back of Mister Merit’s neck, as if someone was standing in the room behind him. That, of course, was ridiculous, as there was nobody in the room, and he had closed the door behind him.</p> <p>He turned around, and saw that he was not actually alone in the room.</p> <p>The stranger standing there looked to be a miss with very short brown hair, wearing a ratty blue t-shirt, jeans with frayed hems and a jacket that had faded from black to grey. They smelled of smoke, the old, stale kind that soaked into clothes.</p> <p>The stranger had their head tilted to the right.</p> <p>“You called?” The voice was bright and cheery; a bubblegum and lollipops voice.</p> <p>“I did.” Mister Merit tugged at his ascot. He had had enough of strange people today. “Who are you?”</p> <p>The stranger tilted their head to the left.</p> <p>“Who’s the one person you can always find in an empty room?” The voice was rough and gravelly now; a two packs a day voice.</p> <p>“No one, I suppose,” Mister Merit said.</p> <p>Tilt to the right.</p> <p>“No one important, at least! Though since I introduced myself, I should be asking you who you are, because you don’t look much like Em.”</p> <p>“I’m Mister Merit. Miss Aislethorp-Brown is not here at the moment.”</p> <p>Tilt to the left.</p> <p>“I can see that.”</p> <p>“She left a note.” Mister Merit handed it to the stranger.</p> <p>Tilt to the right.</p> <p>“Oh Em, what have you gotten yourself into now?”</p> <p>“What? What’s going on?”</p> <p>Nobody sighed, crumpled up the paper, and stuffed it in her pocket.</p> <p>“Hope you like the cleanup crew. Em has some leftovers for us to mop up.”</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>Somewhere</strong></p> <p>Isabel Wondertainment looked out over the cliff’s craggy edge, at the valley choked with ancient pines. Two moons, too big, hung in the deepening blue sky above the young bladed mountains. One was grey and plain. One was made of clockwork.</p> <p>“Jeremy, I don’t think we’re in the workshop any more."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« Part 2: <a href="/the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure">The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure</a> \| <a href="/adventures-in-capitalism-hub">Hub</a> \| Part 4: <a href="/memory-of-days-long-past">Memory of Days Long Past</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="footnotes-footer"> <div class="title">Footnotes</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-1"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-1')">1</a>. Though “around” was a purely subjective term at this point, at least anywhere that was not Emma Aislethorp-Brown.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. The invention of the Wondertainment Asbestos-Pen™ had cut down on this significantly.</div> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/adventuring-interlude">Adventuring Interlude</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/adventuring-interlude">https://scpwiki.com/adventuring-interlude</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > During a particular [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure road trip adventure...] A new toy rolled off the production line at the Wondertainment toy factory. It was a cube. The cube was grey, and consisted of six sides, none of which were in any way differentiated from any of the other five; All six sides were completely equal in their grayness and flatness. The edges and corners were rounded, so as to remove all threatening influences from the cube and to provide a safe, feelings-appropriate environment. In addition, the cube was designed so that it was incapable of interacting with any other cubes, so as not to form unbalanced societal hierarchies such as stacks, rows, or piles. While a green dot had been included on one of the sides in the prototype, this was found to be offensive to certain obscure minority groups, and was subsequently removed. Colored shapes were written off entirely after this point. The Executive Board nodded in approval of the focus group results, in one slow, knowing movement. A new age for Wondertainment toys, they thought as one. Wheezing admissions of thanks rose from the board to the cube’s designer; a little old lady who stood at the far end of the table. A special guest to the Workshops of Wonder. An outside adviser. -- Nowhere A tide of rotting flesh swept up around Emma Aislethorp-Brown, throwing itself at the leviathan in an orgy of scrabbling fingers, and gnashing jaws. She was ignored. The Rotting Ones found their prey by the sound of its heartbeat, by the heat in its blood, by the stench of the slow decay of life. Emma had a heart, but it was purely decorative. She watched the Rotting Ones gorge themselves on the Leviathan's corpse. A few more had crawled out of the monster's burst stomach, shambling around, half-melted by digestive juices and torn by teeth. The rushing sound of contracting time-space rose to a deafening cacophony midway between silence and absence that overpowered the snarling, slobbering horde. It all fell in upon itself at once, blinked, and went black. Like a station switched off. And then Nothing. Emma floated in-between Here and There. Somewhere around her [[footnote]]Though “around” was a purely subjective term at this point, at least anywhere that was not Emma Aislethorp-Brown.[[/footnote]], the collapsed Way existed in a negative state. An inside-out space leading nowhere, arriving nowhere. The Rotting Ones would still be feasting, frozen in a moment, but they could not emerge, lest someone else flipped the negative space right side out again and stabilized it. With the map gone, and no place in the overarching directive to permit her, Emma had neither the inclination nor ability to do so. An uncommon occurrence. Emma drifted, and while drifting, she thought. She didn’t have much else to do. The plan reorganized itself, the underlying directives planted new supporting actions. Redundancies merged together, events shuffled themselves into an abbreviated timeline. Contingencies were pruned and alternatives sprouted anew. Variables arose. The specter of //attention// drifted onto the stage where probability danced the tango on the back of turtles all the way down. Unwelcome, but not unplanned for. Even this far out, a Way collapsing, especially one that had been breached by a Leviathan, would attract attention. Though not immediately. There was still time for things to work out, still time to adapt. From this side. As for Isabel…she was on her own, for the time being. A contingency triggered long before Emma had originally hoped. She had shaped events as best as she could for the child, but uneasiness still settled like a patina on her mind. Isabel was outside her protection. Unsupported. Prepared for, but nonetheless unwelcome. Why delegate to others what you can do better yourself? Why leave a vulnerability open? Alas, she couldn’t be in more than one place at the same time. All the threads she had woven would now be on their own. Drifting as she was. A light opened upon the Nothing. A gaping maw of burning white, circles within circles within circles, twisting and swirling and spiraling about, on a field of gunmetal grey. Emma looked up into it, and hoped she had chosen the right people for the job. -- The Workshops of Wonder Mister Merit tugged at his red ascot. A nervous habit of his, something to show what his face didn’t. The neatly folded note in his pocket itched to be taken out, to be revealed. The Doctor had left to go on an adventure, and this was not unusual. The Doctor often left, and her adventures were often lengthy, but this particular time something was wrong. Somewhere down in his gut, Mr. Merit felt that some cosmic tumbler had shifted awry. The toy factory was never this busy when the Doctor was gone. Now, misters and misses and workbots and roving hordes of Jeremies scurried about, as if the Doctor was sitting down in her office churning out blueprints until the pen caught on fire.[[footnote]]The invention of the Wondertainment Asbestos-Pen™ had cut down on this significantly.[[/footnote]] The halls were clouded with swarms of Memobots, all carrying messages from the Executive Board. More messages than ever before, and Mister Merit was unsettled by them. The print was too small and the words were too big, and they all looked incredibly important, but none of them mentioned where the Doctor had gone. Or the Doctor at all. What they did mention was that an Outside Adviser had been brought in, an adviser that did not sit well with Mr. Merit. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he asked the little old lady standing in front of him. She had little round glasses, and a pink shawl over her shoulders, and freshly permed blueish-grey hair, and a warm, friendly smile. “It’s nothing to worry about, dear. The Executive Board invited me in as an adviser for the new toy line. You don’t need to worry yourself at all.” Mr. Merit glanced at the little old lady’s twin bodyguards; two tall robots with gleaming chassis and rubber faces to make them look like people. They did not look fun. They looked…wrong, to Mister Merit. He was used to Wondertainment robots, which had all sorts of knobs and dials and doodly-doos and thingamawhatzits and doohickeys and various other choking hazards. These looked like they were just popped out of the mold and fit together, without so much as a kung-fu action grip. “I don’t recall the Doctor saying anything about you.” “I was brought in after she had left for her trip, though I am looking forward to meeting with her when she returns.” Mister Merit kept a brave face and nodded. Better to just let her go. He didn’t like the way her eyes twinkled, or the look of her robotic friends, and the appeal was lessening by the moment. “All right then. Enjoy your stay here,” he said with the most genuine cheer he could fake. “Thank you very much. Now, don’t get into any trouble now, dear. Wouldn’t want you to get involved in any messes while the Doctor is away.” The little old lady walked off down the hall, her guards clanking alongside her. Did she know? Had she seen through the cracks of his act? Was she weighing her suspicions now? Or had she not picked up on it, and just seen the simple-natured Mister who was a bit confused at the change of pace? Mr. Merit had no idea which, but he felt himself erring on the side of fear. She was a little old lady. Little old ladies were powerful creatures. They could smell fear. And secrets. Mr. Merit had both of them in large quantities. The note in his pocket felt as heavy and conspicuous as a brick of lead. Down more halls up some stairs, out away from the hustle and bustle of the workshops and up towards the Doctor’s tower. It was empty, at least to appearances, but that said only so much. The Executive Board was not very good at listening, but they were very good at hearing things. Horrible at seeing, but excellent at watching. Mr. Merit didn’t trust them, or the little old lady. That alone would have been the source of his nervousness, but the note in his pocket outdid all of that. Miss Emma had given him the note when the Doctor was preparing to leave. It read: > My quarters. 1650. It was four-forty-six right now. Mister Merit didn’t question the directive: he had no reason to distrust the Doctor’s assistant. One didn’t doubt assistants like Miss Emma. Four-forty-nine. He had reached the room, just down the hall from the Doctor’s office. He opened the door. Miss Emma’s room was empty. A blank white room. No bed, no chair, no desk, no papers, no windows, no carpet, no vents, nothing but a tile floor and whitewashed walls and a vague, diffused light. That, and a single, lavender note was stuck to the far wall, artistically out of place. Mister Merit went over and read it. The handwriting was perfect, nearly typewritten. > Go into the center of the room and say ‘Hello, are you there? I need help’ in a loud, clear voice. Mister Merit pulled the note off the wall and walked into the center of the room. He had no idea what to expect from it. He hoped some sort of help, to set things straight. That’s what Miss Emma was there for, right? To put things in order. “Hello, are you there? I need help,” said Mister Merit in a loud, clear voice. A nothing sound whispered down the back of Mister Merit’s neck, as if someone was standing in the room behind him. That, of course, was ridiculous, as there was nobody in the room, and he had closed the door behind him. He turned around, and saw that he was not actually alone in the room. The stranger standing there looked to be a miss with very short brown hair, wearing a ratty blue t-shirt, jeans with frayed hems and a jacket that had faded from black to grey. They smelled of smoke, the old, stale kind that soaked into clothes. The stranger had their head tilted to the right. “You called?” The voice was bright and cheery; a bubblegum and lollipops voice. “I did.” Mister Merit tugged at his ascot. He had had enough of strange people today. “Who are you?” The stranger tilted their head to the left. “Who’s the one person you can always find in an empty room?” The voice was rough and gravelly now; a two packs a day voice. “No one, I suppose,” Mister Merit said. Tilt to the right. “No one important, at least! Though since I introduced myself, I should be asking you who you are, because you don’t look much like Em.” “I’m Mister Merit. Miss Aislethorp-Brown is not here at the moment.” Tilt to the left. “I can see that.” “She left a note.” Mister Merit handed it to the stranger. Tilt to the right. “Oh Em, what have you gotten yourself into now?” “What? What’s going on?” Nobody sighed, crumpled up the paper, and stuffed it in her pocket. “Hope you like the cleanup crew. Em has some leftovers for us to mop up.” -- Somewhere Isabel Wondertainment looked out over the cliff’s craggy edge, at the valley choked with ancient pines. Two moons, too big, hung in the deepening blue sky above the young bladed mountains. One was grey and plain. One was made of clockwork. “Jeremy, I don’t think we’re in the workshop any more." [[=]] << Part 2: [[[The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure]]] \| [[[adventures in capitalism hub\| Hub]]] \| Part 4: [[[Memory of Days Long Past]]] >> [[/=]] [[footnoteblock]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-08-09T15:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "corporate", "dr-wondertainment", "fantasy", "isabel-v", "nobody", "otherworldly", "tale" ]	Adventuring Interlude - SCP Foundation	125	[ "the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure", "the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure", "adventures-in-capitalism-hub", "memory-of-days-long-past", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "nobody-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "adventures-in-capitalism-hub", "acidverse", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	23259773	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/adventuring-interlude
after-amusement	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A small loudspeaker, suspended only by a fragile cord, hung high above the blasted ruins of the amusement park it once served. A long time ago, it had been part of an intricate system designed to play a hypnotic tune. Upon hearing its music, everyone in earshot of it would be driven to madness and eventually find themselves dead. The reasons behind it all were a mystery, but the tune still played, until the day came when the park was shut down for good. Still the music played on, as rides rusted and trees overtook concrete. Still it played, luring unsuspecting and careless men and women to their deaths. Even when the men and women left to focus their efforts on something far more important, the tiny, jingling tune played, searching for victims.</p> <p>Then the Blast came. And there weren't any victims anymore.</p> <p>From a hundred feet in the air, it hardly looked any different. True, all the plant life had been incinerated from miles around, and everything had an ashen grey tint to it, but this was an old park, built to last. Most of the structures had barely shuddered when the shockwave rushed over them, and even the roller-coaster was still standing. It didn't even have half its support beams anymore! The Blast hadn't changed anything major. It had just made it a touch harder to find victims.</p> <p>And there still were victims down there. Three men, coated in rags and ash, had wandered into the park last night, no doubt seeking shelter. What kind of shelter they expected to find in a long-abandoned, half-destroyed amusement park really couldn't be said. But people probably didn't act rationally after the apocalypse. They certainly didn't act rationally when they heard the music. And the music <em>would</em> play.</p> <p>The speaker let out a few small, tinny bursts of static. It was always the first to activate, a good tenth of a second before any of the other speakers in the park got the signal to start playing. Now, with the cables frayed and corroded, it took the others a whole minute and a half to start playing after this one did. But it didn't matter; people only needed to hear a handful of the notes for the madness to kick in, and these men were sitting right below the speaker. Only this one speaker would need to activate in order to fulfill the purpose of an entire park.</p> <p>Slowly, the notes began to play, sounding out a calliope tune in very slow motion. Admittedly, the sound quality was awful, and the timing between notes was all off, but it was OK. The speaker just needed a bit of time to warm up. It had been a while since the park had any visitors, and all the components were just a little out of tune. One of the men looked up, and another twitched slightly, looking at his companions in an odd way.</p> <p>The cable holding the speaker snapped after ten years of tension, and it tumbled down behind the huddled group with a hollow clang.</p> <p>One of them commented on the danger of the park. Another commented on the danger everywhere after the Blast. They all huddled a little closer together, and never heard any music.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/after-amusement">After Amusement</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/after-amusement">https://scpwiki.com/after-amusement</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] A small loudspeaker, suspended only by a fragile cord, hung high above the blasted ruins of the amusement park it once served. A long time ago, it had been part of an intricate system designed to play a hypnotic tune. Upon hearing its music, everyone in earshot of it would be driven to madness and eventually find themselves dead. The reasons behind it all were a mystery, but the tune still played, until the day came when the park was shut down for good. Still the music played on, as rides rusted and trees overtook concrete. Still it played, luring unsuspecting and careless men and women to their deaths. Even when the men and women left to focus their efforts on something far more important, the tiny, jingling tune played, searching for victims. Then the Blast came. And there weren't any victims anymore. From a hundred feet in the air, it hardly looked any different. True, all the plant life had been incinerated from miles around, and everything had an ashen grey tint to it, but this was an old park, built to last. Most of the structures had barely shuddered when the shockwave rushed over them, and even the roller-coaster was still standing. It didn't even have half its support beams anymore! The Blast hadn't changed anything major. It had just made it a touch harder to find victims. And there still were victims down there. Three men, coated in rags and ash, had wandered into the park last night, no doubt seeking shelter. What kind of shelter they expected to find in a long-abandoned, half-destroyed amusement park really couldn't be said. But people probably didn't act rationally after the apocalypse. They certainly didn't act rationally when they heard the music. And the music //would// play. The speaker let out a few small, tinny bursts of static. It was always the first to activate, a good tenth of a second before any of the other speakers in the park got the signal to start playing. Now, with the cables frayed and corroded, it took the others a whole minute and a half to start playing after this one did. But it didn't matter; people only needed to hear a handful of the notes for the madness to kick in, and these men were sitting right below the speaker. Only this one speaker would need to activate in order to fulfill the purpose of an entire park. Slowly, the notes began to play, sounding out a calliope tune in very slow motion. Admittedly, the sound quality was awful, and the timing between notes was all off, but it was OK. The speaker just needed a bit of time to warm up. It had been a while since the park had any visitors, and all the components were just a little out of tune. One of the men looked up, and another twitched slightly, looking at his companions in an odd way. The cable holding the speaker snapped after ten years of tension, and it tumbled down behind the huddled group with a hollow clang. One of them commented on the danger of the park. Another commented on the danger everywhere after the Blast. They all huddled a little closer together, and never heard any music. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-01-26T02:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "post-apocalyptic", "tale" ]	After Amusement - SCP Foundation	28	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21331532	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/after-amusement
aftermath	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div class="preview"> <p>"I was there, assisting in the cleanup of something that should not have been"</p> </div> <br/> In June of 2003, a few weeks after my 17<sup>th</sup> birthday, I swore into the US Navy with the intention of becoming a Navy SEAL. In 2006, I completed BUD/S and earned the title I had been seeking. <p>In January 2017, I was recruited by a representative of the organization I would later come to know as the Foundation into Mobile Task Force Nu-7, "Hammer Down."</p> <p>In <a href="/scp-2217">December of 2018</a>, a robot the size of a small building was seen wandering through the Irkutsk area of the Russian Federation. In the hours and days that followed, a "disease" that no one had even known existed was wiped out by this machine, and by three organizations the world had also never even known about, called the Horizon Initiative, the SCP Foundation, and the Church of the Broken God.</p> <p>I was there, assisting in the cleanup of something that, simply put, should not have been.</p> <p>Of course, a 30-foot-tall robot that seems to have gathered a following of millions of worshippers isn't precisely the sort of thing you would call "normal." Such an occurrence has all the subtlety of, well, a robot the size of a building. It's not easy to conceal something like that, and it's even less easy to conceal when organizations that can only be described as "the Men-in-Black" are there, helping it do its thing. Of course, the biggest obstacle to hiding the Broken God was the fact that, about 96 hours after it was woken, the GOC launched ballistic missiles in an attempt to blow it up.</p> <p>A couple things happened after that. First, the Broken God protected itself from the missiles. I don't think so much as a piece of shrapnel ever touched the thing. Then, it continued what it was doing, destroying the remnants of <a href="/scp-610">SCP-610</a> as they cropped up. When it was finished, it just left. No vengeance on the GOC, no further attacks on the flesh, no ascension for its followers to godhood, just an absence.</p> <p>In its wake, it left behind… some sort of tablets. I don't know, I forget the specifics. But what I do remember is that it left behind a simple message on these tablets, repeated in who knows how many languages: "I will return." No indication of when, no set of numbers, nothing, just the words "I will return."</p> <p>The world being what it is, everyone lost their shit after that. The countries that had it easiest were places like North Korea, China, and Russia; they're used to putting down demonstrations and riots. Next came third-world countries like Sierra Leone; what does it matter if the government lied to you when that government will be gone in a few years, anyway?</p> <p>I honestly think Mexico had it the worst. Without having to hide behind the Veil to prevent detection by the Jailors and the Book Burners, the Chaos Insurgency and the Serpent's Hand both went public. The Insurgency actually got themselves a pretty good handle on the Mexican drug trade, while the Hand used the tension of the times to get riots going. What little hold the Mexican government had on its people, it lost quickly. The civil war didn't officially start until June 2021, but anyone who didn't see it coming since March 2019 had their head in the sand. That's when there was the first big riot outside of the capital. There were, what, 200 casualties? 300? I don't remember. That was when the Mexican government started asking for outside help.</p> <p>No one wanted to, at first. Countries like the US, where people already hated the status quo and distrusted the government by default, were too busy keeping themselves stable. I honestly can't remember if there was a single day when you could turn on the news and not hear about riots, protests, arrests, and terrorist plots. 2019 was also when Mobile Task Forces began working with and training alongside Special Forces, police departments, and other public safety organizations in order to help them respond to anomalies.</p> <p>A lot of their work and our work was actually the same: keep your head on a swivel and know what you're looking for. That's actually why the Foundation recruited from Special Forces and some of the higher-tier SWAT teams: less education the Foundation had to provide them.</p> <p>It wasn't until 2022 that the Chaos Insurgency and Serpent's Hand really started causing enough trouble in Mexico and along the border that the Foundation decided to step in. That's when I was deployed to Juarez. Decades of training and experience in fending off the Mexican Army on the cartels' part and nearly a century of fighting the Foundation on the Insurgency's part had made the city into damn near a fortress for them and a living Hell for anyone who got in their way. That's why we were getting sent in: to take out the POI in charge of the Insurgency's Texas/New Mexico border operations.</p> <p>A city as large as Juarez gives insurgents- Chaos or otherwise- plenty of room to hide. That's how a sniper was able to ambush my squad and land a round in my spine that left me paralyzed from the hips down.</p> <p>One thing the Foundation had never wanted to admit about the Church of the Broken God until after the Veil had been lifted was the fact that they had the best surgeons on the planet. If you wanted an iPhone in your skull in 2009, they could've pulled it off. If you wanted to be able to turn the lights on and off in your home by blinking, they had an upgrade for that. If you lost the use of your legs because of a sniper on a rooftop in Juarez, they had you covered.</p> <p>After the Awakening, which is what the Lifted Veil event became known as in common vernacular, there was a revolution in technology. Technology that futurists had anticipated in the 2040s or later became commercially available by 2024. Of course, by then, the Foundation had relegated me to paperwork. They rejected my requests for a return to front-line duty three separate times. Eventually, I just applied for training to work as a containment specialist.</p> <hr/> <p><em>I miss Roderick. He was probably my best friend when I was growing up. I wonder where he is now. When Roderick was still around, I still got to see my parents every now and then. Now, it's either sit and do tests, or sit in my room all day. And I can't even</em> see <em>when I'm in my room. Like, my eyes work, but I can't look at things outside of my room.</em></p> <p><em>They treat me like a prisoner. I don't know why. I'm only 13, how could I have done anything?! I remember my mom telling me that I was sick, and that this place is a hospital. I think she was lying. There are plenty of doctors, sure, but none of them do</em> anything. <em>They just make me take tests. "What's behind the door? What card am I holding? Whose gun is loaded?" All sorts of stupid stuff like that.</em></p> <p><em>But that's ok. When I'm taking tests, I can</em> see <em>again. I usually use the time to check on Roderick, see what he's doing. I'd check on my parents, too, but i can't seem to find them anymore.</em></p> <p><em>I'm worried about Roderick. Every time I see him, he seems stressed out about something. And he's never in the same place twice. I don't think that's normal. I ask the doctors and the guards about him sometimes, but they always ignore me.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Of course, in those days, everything was in flux. The Foundation had begun overturning jurisdiction of safe anomalies (safe in this context meaning "not likely to hurt or kill people, or manipulate them in an unethical way") to local governments. The United States government had recently formed the Bureau of Paranatural Affairs to deal with anomalies on their own terms. The Anomaly Registration Program allowed people to call 911 to report dangerous or life-threatening anomalies, while also allowing people with anomalous traits to find doctors and therapists who could help them "fulfill their true potential."</p> <p>In theory, it would mean better treatment of anomalous people and respect for their civil rights. In practice, it meant that kids ended up in cells because "they were a threat to national security" or some other BS like that.</p> <p>It wasn't as bad as it could've been. They still let the safe anomalies visit with their families, and even when they weren't visiting, the Foundation still let them leave their quarters for certain parts of the day. There was one kid, Thomas, that I had to watch out for because he wasn't nearly old enough to be in that sort of setting on his own. I still worry about him sometimes.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Today is test day. I'm excited. They make me do these once a month, but they always take their time with paperwork. That means I can check on Roderick.</em></p> <p><em>He's somewhere cold. I guess it must already be winter, wherever he is. And it's dark. I don't see the sun. The wind is blowing, and there's snow coming in on the wind. He's wrapped up, though, which is good. My mom was always making me wear a big coat whenever she visited around Christmas. It was dorky, but I would trade that for having to stay in a room all day.</em></p> <p><em>I can see Roderick walking into a building. I think it's a bar. Or maybe a diner. He visits those a lot. He sits down and orders a black coffee, his usual… I think. Definitely a diner. The waitress smiles and goes to get his drink. The diner's mostly empty, which is why it's weird when some man I don't know sits down next to Roderick. They start talking. Roderick seems like he knows him.</em></p> <p><em>The other man's name is Leonard. He says he didn't recognize Roderick with a beard. He always kept it shaved. Roderick says that it's the most he can do unless Leonard can help him. Help him with what? They start talking about "the good old days," when Roderick was "in New 7." No, that can't be right. What's New 7? Idunno, it must be from when Roderick was in the Navy.</em></p> <p><em>Crap. More tests. I'll have to check back on Roderick later.</em></p> <hr/> <p>In 2027, the Foundation was dissolved and their assets in US territory liquidated by the BPA. It had been a long time coming. The GOC, now a public organization, was tasked with containing anomalies in international and disputed territory. A lot of skippers went there. The lucky ones, at least. 2027 is also when I was relieved of duty. I had to seek out alternative employment.</p> <p>I've been working odd jobs for the last six years, finding work wherever and however I can. It hasn't been easy, but others have had it a lot worse. I think the first Witch Trials were about three-and-a-half years ago. That was when the UN and most world governments started decrying the Foundation and its work. A huge document leak kicked the riots all back up. Things the Foundation had done in the name of preserving normalcy were being declared crimes against humanity. And public knowledge of what some anomalies were capable of, alongside registration with local and national governments, led to even more fear and paranoia of the government and the paranormal than had ever existed with the Foundation in charge.</p> <p>When people don't understand something, one of two things will happen: they will try to understand it, so they can use it for their own ends; or, and this is far more likely, they will grow afraid of it and try to destroy it. So it was when humanity rediscovered anomalies. Former Foundation employees were declared public enemy number one, with anomalous persons at a close second.</p> <p>The lynching started about three years ago, right about the time members of the Foundation Ethics Committee and RAISA started being tried by the UN. At first the National Guard and local police forces would intervene. Lately, though, they've been liable to participate. The news never talks about it, though. No one does. Even the most accepting of places turn us away. It doesn't help issues that the Unusual Incidents Unit of the FBI has unofficially been tasked with hunting us down. Hell, I've even heard rumors that the UIU and BPA have started hiring former Foundation agents to help them track down their old coworkers. I don't believe those rumors, but the truth remains that you can't trust anyone these days.</p> <p>Skips have it just as bad. The ones not locked up are almost all registered, which just means that it's easier for vigilantes to find them. The ones who are able to head for Mexico, but I don't think many make it.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Ah, finally. They make me do the same thing every month. That's how I know I'll have awhile before they make me do more tests. What's Roderick doing now?</em></p> <p><em>Him and Leonard are still talking. They have food in front of them, plates almost empty. They're talking about cost now. Cost of what? I don't know. I think they've almost reached an agreement, but it looks like they're arguing over who's gonna pick up the tab. Why can't Roderick just take a gift when it's given to him? I've never understood that about him.</em></p> <p><em>Now they've settled the tab. Leonard paid. They're walking outside, to an SUV. Leonard's. It's already started, and there are people inside. Leonard is reassuring Roderick that they're with him, that it'll be all right. I'm not liking the looks of this, but it doesn't matter because I have one more set of tests I need to do.</em></p> <hr/> <p>It's cold. I bring my coat tighter in to myself. Wisconsin isn't precisely like Arizona when it comes to winters. I'm only in this podunk town to meet an old friend.</p> <p>The bullet that paralyzed me wasn't the first close call I've ever had. I've nearly died on multiple occasions. On one such occasion, I saved the life of a man I only knew as Agent Leonard Wells. Tonight, I'm hoping he can return the favor.</p> <p>As I'm sitting, drinking my coffee, trying to warm up in this diner in the middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin, Leo walks in. We exchange greetings, and he orders his own cup of coffee. We talk. Eventually, we reach an agreement over dinner. He'll get me into Russia for five grand. It's all I have, but it's worth it. Anything to get away from this place.</p> <p>After we finish our meals we argue over who will cover the tab. Eventually, I concede. I don't know why I was trying to turn down a free meal anyway. We walk outside, where Leo's SUV is already waiting. There are three men I don't recognize in there. Leonard introduces them to me as Simon, Harold, and George. They all look nervous. George asks Leonard if I'm the man they're helping to smuggle to Seattle. He says yes. Leo's words do nothing to calm the others. I ask Leonard, as an aside, why he didn't tell me about the others ahead of time, to which he responds it was a security risk. I decide not to ask whose security.</p> <p>We start driving. Eventually, we reach an isolated stretch of road— nothing around for miles. Leonard tells me that he and I will be changing vehicles, that he'll stay with me until the airport in Seattle. We get out, and the white SUV drives off. He hands me a flashlight and tells me to signal to a grove of trees in the distance. I'm signalling when I hear Leonard shift behind me. I start to turn around when—</p> <hr/> <p><em>The guards are walking me back to my room, which means I have some time to check on Roderick.</em></p> <p><em>They're just driving, not talking. I didn't catch the others' names, but I don't think it matters. I don't think anything else is going to happen— No, wait, they're stopping. I can't hear who's saying what, but Leonard and Roderick are getting out. The SUV is driving off when Leonard hands something to Roderick. Then Leonard says something and Roderick starts waving the thing— I think it's a flashlight — at some trees. Then Leonard steps away and— NO!!</em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>BUREAU OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS INTERNAL MEMORANDUM, DATED 2033/11/03</strong><br/> <strong>RE: BEHAVIOR OF INMATE #864421 ON 2033/10/13</strong><br/> <strong>TO: SENIOR SUPERVISOR HAILEY BARRETT, UNDERAGE ANOMALOUS PERSONS PROJECT CHIEF, ANOMALOUS PERSONS DETAINMENT SITE 01</strong><br/> <strong>FROM: CHIEF INVESTIGATOR GABRIEL ROWLEY, BUREAU OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS INTERNAL RECORDS DEPARTMENT</strong><br/> Ms. Barrett,</p> <p>I believe I have found the source of Inmate #864421's unexpected behavior on October 13. At approximately 17:53 Mountain Time, Roderick X. Freeman, a person wanted by the US government for human rights violations in connection to his time employed with the now-defunct "SCP Foundation," engaged agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Unusual Incidents Unit sent to apprehend him with small arms fire. Mr. Freeman was killed in the ensuing firefight. Of note is the fact that, in the transitionary period between SCPF and BPA custody of Inmate #864421, Mr. Freeman was Inmate #864421's primary caretaker.<br/> I believe this is an indication that Inmate #864421's abilities exceed what we've so far recorded. I recommend immediate testing to prove or deny this claim. If my suspicions are correct, I recommend increased security protocols, or, preferably, elimination of the subject.</p> <p>Sincerely,<br/> Chief Investigator Gabriel Rowley, United States Bureau of Paranormal Affairs Internal Records Department</p> </blockquote> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">Fortunately for Fred, the BPA is incredibly incompetent, and they would never even know he was here.</span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/aftermath">Aftermath</a>" by Agent MacLeod, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/aftermath">https://scpwiki.com/aftermath</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	===== [[include <a href="/component:preview">component:preview</a> text="I was there, assisting in the cleanup of something that should not have been"]] ===== [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] In June of 2003, a few weeks after my 17^^th^^ birthday, I swore into the US Navy with the intention of becoming a Navy SEAL. In 2006, I completed BUD/S and earned the title I had been seeking. In January 2017, I was recruited by a representative of the organization I would later come to know as the Foundation into Mobile Task Force Nu-7, "Hammer Down." In [[[SCP-2217\|December of 2018]]], a robot the size of a small building was seen wandering through the Irkutsk area of the Russian Federation. In the hours and days that followed, a "disease" that no one had even known existed was wiped out by this machine, and by three organizations the world had also never even known about, called the Horizon Initiative, the SCP Foundation, and the Church of the Broken God. I was there, assisting in the cleanup of something that, simply put, should not have been. Of course, a 30-foot-tall robot that seems to have gathered a following of millions of worshippers isn't precisely the sort of thing you would call "normal." Such an occurrence has all the subtlety of, well, a robot the size of a building. It's not easy to conceal something like that, and it's even less easy to conceal when organizations that can only be described as "the Men-in-Black" are there, helping it do its thing. Of course, the biggest obstacle to hiding the Broken God was the fact that, about 96 hours after it was woken, the GOC launched ballistic missiles in an attempt to blow it up. A couple things happened after that. First, the Broken God protected itself from the missiles. I don't think so much as a piece of shrapnel ever touched the thing. Then, it continued what it was doing, destroying the remnants of [[[SCP-610]]] as they cropped up. When it was finished, it just left. No vengeance on the GOC, no further attacks on the flesh, no ascension for its followers to godhood, just an absence. In its wake, it left behind... some sort of tablets. I don't know, I forget the specifics. But what I do remember is that it left behind a simple message on these tablets, repeated in who knows how many languages: "I will return." No indication of when, no set of numbers, nothing, just the words "I will return." The world being what it is, everyone lost their shit after that. The countries that had it easiest were places like North Korea, China, and Russia; they're used to putting down demonstrations and riots. Next came third-world countries like Sierra Leone; what does it matter if the government lied to you when that government will be gone in a few years, anyway? I honestly think Mexico had it the worst. Without having to hide behind the Veil to prevent detection by the Jailors and the Book Burners, the Chaos Insurgency and the Serpent's Hand both went public. The Insurgency actually got themselves a pretty good handle on the Mexican drug trade, while the Hand used the tension of the times to get riots going. What little hold the Mexican government had on its people, it lost quickly. The civil war didn't officially start until June 2021, but anyone who didn't see it coming since March 2019 had their head in the sand. That's when there was the first big riot outside of the capital. There were, what, 200 casualties? 300? I don't remember. That was when the Mexican government started asking for outside help. No one wanted to, at first. Countries like the US, where people already hated the status quo and distrusted the government by default, were too busy keeping themselves stable. I honestly can't remember if there was a single day when you could turn on the news and not hear about riots, protests, arrests, and terrorist plots. 2019 was also when Mobile Task Forces began working with and training alongside Special Forces, police departments, and other public safety organizations in order to help them respond to anomalies. A lot of their work and our work was actually the same: keep your head on a swivel and know what you're looking for. That's actually why the Foundation recruited from Special Forces and some of the higher-tier SWAT teams: less education the Foundation had to provide them. It wasn't until 2022 that the Chaos Insurgency and Serpent's Hand really started causing enough trouble in Mexico and along the border that the Foundation decided to step in. That's when I was deployed to Juarez. Decades of training and experience in fending off the Mexican Army on the cartels' part and nearly a century of fighting the Foundation on the Insurgency's part had made the city into damn near a fortress for them and a living Hell for anyone who got in their way. That's why we were getting sent in: to take out the POI in charge of the Insurgency's Texas/New Mexico border operations. A city as large as Juarez gives insurgents- Chaos or otherwise- plenty of room to hide. That's how a sniper was able to ambush my squad and land a round in my spine that left me paralyzed from the hips down. One thing the Foundation had never wanted to admit about the Church of the Broken God until after the Veil had been lifted was the fact that they had the best surgeons on the planet. If you wanted an iPhone in your skull in 2009, they could've pulled it off. If you wanted to be able to turn the lights on and off in your home by blinking, they had an upgrade for that. If you lost the use of your legs because of a sniper on a rooftop in Juarez, they had you covered. After the Awakening, which is what the Lifted Veil event became known as in common vernacular, there was a revolution in technology. Technology that futurists had anticipated in the 2040s or later became commercially available by 2024. Of course, by then, the Foundation had relegated me to paperwork. They rejected my requests for a return to front-line duty three separate times. Eventually, I just applied for training to work as a containment specialist. ----- //I miss Roderick. He was probably my best friend when I was growing up. I wonder where he is now. When Roderick was still around, I still got to see my parents every now and then. Now, it's either sit and do tests, or sit in my room all day. And I can't even// see //when I'm in my room. Like, my eyes work, but I can't look at things outside of my room.// //They treat me like a prisoner. I don't know why. I'm only 13, how could I have done anything?! I remember my mom telling me that I was sick, and that this place is a hospital. I think she was lying. There are plenty of doctors, sure, but none of them do// anything. //They just make me take tests. "What's behind the door? What card am I holding? Whose gun is loaded?" All sorts of stupid stuff like that.// //But that's ok. When I'm taking tests, I can// see //again. I usually use the time to check on Roderick, see what he's doing. I'd check on my parents, too, but i can't seem to find them anymore.// //I'm worried about Roderick. Every time I see him, he seems stressed out about something. And he's never in the same place twice. I don't think that's normal. I ask the doctors and the guards about him sometimes, but they always ignore me.// ----- Of course, in those days, everything was in flux. The Foundation had begun overturning jurisdiction of safe anomalies (safe in this context meaning "not likely to hurt or kill people, or manipulate them in an unethical way") to local governments. The United States government had recently formed the Bureau of Paranatural Affairs to deal with anomalies on their own terms. The Anomaly Registration Program allowed people to call 911 to report dangerous or life-threatening anomalies, while also allowing people with anomalous traits to find doctors and therapists who could help them "fulfill their true potential." In theory, it would mean better treatment of anomalous people and respect for their civil rights. In practice, it meant that kids ended up in cells because "they were a threat to national security" or some other BS like that. It wasn't as bad as it could've been. They still let the safe anomalies visit with their families, and even when they weren't visiting, the Foundation still let them leave their quarters for certain parts of the day. There was one kid, Thomas, that I had to watch out for because he wasn't nearly old enough to be in that sort of setting on his own. I still worry about him sometimes. ----- //Today is test day. I'm excited. They make me do these once a month, but they always take their time with paperwork. That means I can check on Roderick.// //He's somewhere cold. I guess it must already be winter, wherever he is. And it's dark. I don't see the sun. The wind is blowing, and there's snow coming in on the wind. He's wrapped up, though, which is good. My mom was always making me wear a big coat whenever she visited around Christmas. It was dorky, but I would trade that for having to stay in a room all day.// //I can see Roderick walking into a building. I think it's a bar. Or maybe a diner. He visits those a lot. He sits down and orders a black coffee, his usual... I think. Definitely a diner. The waitress smiles and goes to get his drink. The diner's mostly empty, which is why it's weird when some man I don't know sits down next to Roderick. They start talking. Roderick seems like he knows him.// //The other man's name is Leonard. He says he didn't recognize Roderick with a beard. He always kept it shaved. Roderick says that it's the most he can do unless Leonard can help him. Help him with what? They start talking about "the good old days," when Roderick was "in New 7." No, that can't be right. What's New 7? Idunno, it must be from when Roderick was in the Navy.// //Crap. More tests. I'll have to check back on Roderick later.// ----- In 2027, the Foundation was dissolved and their assets in US territory liquidated by the BPA. It had been a long time coming. The GOC, now a public organization, was tasked with containing anomalies in international and disputed territory. A lot of skippers went there. The lucky ones, at least. 2027 is also when I was relieved of duty. I had to seek out alternative employment. I've been working odd jobs for the last six years, finding work wherever and however I can. It hasn't been easy, but others have had it a lot worse. I think the first Witch Trials were about three-and-a-half years ago. That was when the UN and most world governments started decrying the Foundation and its work. A huge document leak kicked the riots all back up. Things the Foundation had done in the name of preserving normalcy were being declared crimes against humanity. And public knowledge of what some anomalies were capable of, alongside registration with local and national governments, led to even more fear and paranoia of the government and the paranormal than had ever existed with the Foundation in charge. When people don't understand something, one of two things will happen: they will try to understand it, so they can use it for their own ends; or, and this is far more likely, they will grow afraid of it and try to destroy it. So it was when humanity rediscovered anomalies. Former Foundation employees were declared public enemy number one, with anomalous persons at a close second. The lynching started about three years ago, right about the time members of the Foundation Ethics Committee and RAISA started being tried by the UN. At first the National Guard and local police forces would intervene. Lately, though, they've been liable to participate. The news never talks about it, though. No one does. Even the most accepting of places turn us away. It doesn't help issues that the Unusual Incidents Unit of the FBI has unofficially been tasked with hunting us down. Hell, I've even heard rumors that the UIU and BPA have started hiring former Foundation agents to help them track down their old coworkers. I don't believe those rumors, but the truth remains that you can't trust anyone these days. Skips have it just as bad. The ones not locked up are almost all registered, which just means that it's easier for vigilantes to find them. The ones who are able to head for Mexico, but I don't think many make it. ----- //Ah, finally. They make me do the same thing every month. That's how I know I'll have awhile before they make me do more tests. What's Roderick doing now?// //Him and Leonard are still talking. They have food in front of them, plates almost empty. They're talking about cost now. Cost of what? I don't know. I think they've almost reached an agreement, but it looks like they're arguing over who's gonna pick up the tab. Why can't Roderick just take a gift when it's given to him? I've never understood that about him.// //Now they've settled the tab. Leonard paid. They're walking outside, to an SUV. Leonard's. It's already started, and there are people inside. Leonard is reassuring Roderick that they're with him, that it'll be all right. I'm not liking the looks of this, but it doesn't matter because I have one more set of tests I need to do.// ----- It's cold. I bring my coat tighter in to myself. Wisconsin isn't precisely like Arizona when it comes to winters. I'm only in this podunk town to meet an old friend. The bullet that paralyzed me wasn't the first close call I've ever had. I've nearly died on multiple occasions. On one such occasion, I saved the life of a man I only knew as Agent Leonard Wells. Tonight, I'm hoping he can return the favor. As I'm sitting, drinking my coffee, trying to warm up in this diner in the middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin, Leo walks in. We exchange greetings, and he orders his own cup of coffee. We talk. Eventually, we reach an agreement over dinner. He'll get me into Russia for five grand. It's all I have, but it's worth it. Anything to get away from this place. After we finish our meals we argue over who will cover the tab. Eventually, I concede. I don't know why I was trying to turn down a free meal anyway. We walk outside, where Leo's SUV is already waiting. There are three men I don't recognize in there. Leonard introduces them to me as Simon, Harold, and George. They all look nervous. George asks Leonard if I'm the man they're helping to smuggle to Seattle. He says yes. Leo's words do nothing to calm the others. I ask Leonard, as an aside, why he didn't tell me about the others ahead of time, to which he responds it was a security risk. I decide not to ask whose security. We start driving. Eventually, we reach an isolated stretch of road-- nothing around for miles. Leonard tells me that he and I will be changing vehicles, that he'll stay with me until the airport in Seattle. We get out, and the white SUV drives off. He hands me a flashlight and tells me to signal to a grove of trees in the distance. I'm signalling when I hear Leonard shift behind me. I start to turn around when-- ----- //The guards are walking me back to my room, which means I have some time to check on Roderick.// //They're just driving, not talking. I didn't catch the others' names, but I don't think it matters. I don't think anything else is going to happen-- No, wait, they're stopping. I can't hear who's saying what, but Leonard and Roderick are getting out. The SUV is driving off when Leonard hands something to Roderick. Then Leonard says something and Roderick starts waving the thing-- I think it's a flashlight -- at some trees. Then Leonard steps away and-- NO!!// ----- > BUREAU OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS INTERNAL MEMORANDUM, DATED 2033/11/03 > RE: BEHAVIOR OF INMATE #864421 ON 2033/10/13 > TO: SENIOR SUPERVISOR HAILEY BARRETT, UNDERAGE ANOMALOUS PERSONS PROJECT CHIEF, ANOMALOUS PERSONS DETAINMENT SITE 01 > FROM: CHIEF INVESTIGATOR GABRIEL ROWLEY, BUREAU OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS INTERNAL RECORDS DEPARTMENT > Ms. Barrett, > > I believe I have found the source of Inmate #864421's unexpected behavior on October 13. At approximately 17:53 Mountain Time, Roderick X. Freeman, a person wanted by the US government for human rights violations in connection to his time employed with the now-defunct "SCP Foundation," engaged agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Unusual Incidents Unit sent to apprehend him with small arms fire. Mr. Freeman was killed in the ensuing firefight. Of note is the fact that, in the transitionary period between SCPF and BPA custody of Inmate #864421, Mr. Freeman was Inmate #864421's primary caretaker. > I believe this is an indication that Inmate #864421's abilities exceed what we've so far recorded. I recommend immediate testing to prove or deny this claim. If my suspicions are correct, I recommend increased security protocols, or, preferably, elimination of the subject. > > Sincerely, > Chief Investigator Gabriel Rowley, United States Bureau of Paranormal Affairs Internal Records Department [[size 0%]]Fortunately for Fred, the BPA is incredibly incompetent, and they would never even know he was here.[[/size]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Agent MacLeod]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-12-01T00:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "chaos-insurgency", "dc2014", "global-occult-coalition", "horizon-initiative", "serpents-hand", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	Aftermath - SCP Foundation	81	[ "scp-2217", "scp-610", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unusual-incidents-unit-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "serpent-s-hand-hub", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "horizon-initiative-hub", "dystopia-contest", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	24213752	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/aftermath
amnestic-orientation-manual	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">[ACCESS RESTRICTED] </span></p> <script src="https://d3g0gp89917ko0.cloudfront.net/v--4b961b7cc327/common--javascript/yahooui/tabview-min.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <div class="yui-navset" id="wiki-tabview-966860ec45cbbcc5c6aaf196acf0d22d"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>COVER PAGE</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>CLASS-A</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>CLASS-B</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>CLASS-C</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>CLASS-D</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>CLASS-E</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>CLASS-F</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>O5 ACCESS ONLY</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <div style="background-color:#A60000"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <h1 id="toc0"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>SCP FOUNDATION AMNESTIC USE GUIDE</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> </div> <div style="font-size: 300%; font-weight: bold; margin: 2px 0 5px;"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>CLASSIFIED</tt></p> </div> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>The following revision to</tt><br/> <tt>this document (version 7.8)</tt><br/> <tt>was approved by the</tt><br/> <tt>Ethics Committee on 07/21/2013 for</tt><br/> <tt>use by personnel at Research Site-45</tt></p> </div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> <blockquote> <p><tt><em>Disclaimer: This is NOT to be used as a training manual. Training manuals are given during the actual classes. To request training, please send an official request to your immediate supervisor. Take note that this is a site specific document, please refer to your on-site protocols regarding amnestic use.</em></tt></p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: justify;"> <p><tt>The purpose of this document is to provide Foundation personnel with a quick reference guide as to the usage, effects, and protocol regarding amnestics. An amnestic is an amnesia-inducing agent that can take many different forms. For the purposes of the Foundation, it is mainly used in suppressing sensitive information by expunging intangible memories. In most cases, they are applied post-incident.</tt></p> <p><tt>The use of amnestics is decided on a case by case basis unless the authority of higher clearance levels is invoked as explained in the following pages. Amnestics are considered one of the most powerful tools in use by the Foundation. Great care and proper training is mandatory in the handling and application of amnestics in an appropriate manner.</tt></p> <p><tt>The abuse of amnestics is strictly prohibited and will result in disciplinary action, demotion, or both. In all cases, the Ethics Committee has the final word on approval and decisions regarding amnestic use and misuse respectively.</tt></p> <hr/> <p><tt>If you would like more information or to report suspected amnestic abuse, please use the online submission form below. All submissions will be sent to the Ethics Committee Amnestic Review Board.</tt></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">[OPEN SUBMISSION FORM]</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">[CANCEL]</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <h3 id="toc1"><span><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><tt>Amnestic Inquiry/Incident Submission Form</tt></span></span></h3> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/amnestic-orientation-manual/html/33eb01e7d9450d779ecc119cb6719d8aa54f0b8e-241785204251229711"></iframe></p> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-1" style="display:none"> <div style="background-color:#000000"> <h1 id="toc2"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASS - A</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Single Black Stripe</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Trained Level-1 and Above</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Aerosol</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> 6 - 12hrs</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> Approved for General Field Use</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Sedation, Headaches, Nausea</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong> Gaseous Class-A is the most commonly used amnestic in the field. The main benefit when using Class-A is that it can be administered to not only one, but many individuals. In some documented cases, Class-A has been used on entire populations with the aid of aerial application. Other applications also include 40mm cartridges that can be launched to deliver Class-A into an enclosed area or room, as well as small handheld aerosol sprayers for single use.</p> <p>Because of its chemical composition, accidental overdose is extremely unlikely with minimal training on Class-A applications. This safety feature allows Class-A to be used liberally as an inhalant. It is also convenient in use as it requires little to no follow-up on affected individuals, as it has a 98.7% success rate. Class-A is ideal for use by field agents, rapid response teams, and MTF groups.</p> <p>The only concern when using Class-A is accidental self-application. Personnel trained in the use of Class-A are instructed in the use of application devices as well as environmental conditions that may cause an incident. It is recommended that at least one other Foundation employee be present during the application of Class-A as to facilitate the continuation of duties in case of accidental self-application by a user.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-2" style="display:none"> <div style="background-color:#006666"> <h1 id="toc3"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASS - B</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Double Aqua Stripe</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Trained Level-2 and Above</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Oral, Injection</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> 20 - 72hrs</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> Approved for General Field Use</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Sedation, Prolonged Paresthesia, Migraines, Blurred Vision</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong> Chemically, there is little difference between Class-A and Class-B. The main difference is the application; Class-A is inhaled, whereas Class-B is either ingested or injected directly into the bloodstream. Used in this fashion, Class-A is allowed to have a larger effect on the body than it would normally have. Class-B commonly comes in the form of dissolving tablets or liquid.</p> <p>The most common delivery method is by dissolving Class-B tablets into water and allowing the individual to ingest it. Use of Class-B is also commonly employed in ballistic syringes and launched via compressed gas. Class-B is just as safe to use as Class-A, making it ideal for use in many departments. Class-B also has a record of far fewer accidental self-application incidents than Class-A, due in part to its delivery and storage, allowing for a single user to administer without the presence of additional staff.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-3" style="display:none"> <div style="background-color:#CCA300"> <h1 id="toc4"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASS - C</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Triple Bronze Stripe</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Level-3 Authorization and Above</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Injection</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> 4 - 9 Days</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> General Use for Post-Interrogations/Detainment at a Foundation Controlled Site</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Sedation, Slight Paralysis (Medical Attention Required)</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong> Unlike Class-A and Class-B, Class-C is a much more potent variant. As such, the after effects and risk inherent to the application of Class-C requires the aid of Foundation medical personnel. Persons must have medical training to administer Class-C via syringe directly into the bloodstream. Class-C is mainly employed to detained individuals so that Class-C can be used in a controlled setting. Afterwards, detainees may be released only after being cleared by medical staff.</p> <p>Class-C is not approved for general field use and may only be requested by investigators, interrogators, and any other Level-3 approved usage. Class-C has a 92.8% success rate, and may require follow-up examinations or doses. Personnel are prohibited from using Class-C on a single individual more than four times.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-4" style="display:none"> <div style="background-color:#556B2F"> <h1 id="toc5"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASS - D</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Checkered Olive Band</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Requires at Least Two Level-3 Personnel Authorization and Supervision to be Administered</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Injection (2 Stage Dose Through IV)</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> +3 Weeks</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> To be Used to Counter Effects of Anomalous Psychoses and/or Memetic Incursions</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Sedation, Paralysis (Post-Incident Rehabilitation Required), Possible Brain Damage</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong> Class-D once held a lower designation until it was superseded and replaced with a more appropriate amnestic (see Class-C) for use on detainees. Before that, Class-D was employed regularly with limited success in individuals as many adverse-effects of the brain after application were found to be inadmissible by the Ethics Committee. Thus, Class-D was reviewed and found to be more appropriately used in cases where brain damage or a major chronic chemical imbalance was already prevalent in the individual.</p> <p>These cases usually involve anomalous mental effects and/or memetic incursions of the mind. Because the effects of memetics can be largely unknown, the use of a potent and riskier amnestic was approved as an option as to counter/control the effects. Class-D can only be employed by medical staff in a controlled setting. Level-3 supervision is required as to facilitate the protection of medical staff from the patient if needed.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-5" style="display:none"> <div style="background-color:#E17366"> <h1 id="toc6"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASS - E</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Vertical Salmon Bar</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Level-4 Request Pending Case Decision by the Ethics Committee</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Injection (Multiple Stage Doses Through IV)</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> Complete Recall Expungement</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> In Situations Where the Individual's Identity is Deemed to be a Threat.</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Sedation, Long-term Paralysis, Possible Brain Damage or Catatonic Symptoms (Post-Incident Rehabilitation Required)</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong> Class-E can only be given by medical staff in a controlled setting after a formal request has been submitted by Level-4 staff and approved by the Ethics Committee. Upon administration, medical staff will be required to oversee the individual during recovery. Only 0.02% of individuals entered a permanent vegetative state after being administered Class-E. In these cases, the individual will be remitted to an appropriate civilian hospital indefinitely.</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">[LEVEL-4 ACCESS ONLY]</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">[ACCESS GRANTED]</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p><strong>Additional Details:</strong> Class-E is not an amnestic. It is intentionally designed to put the individual into a drug induced coma permanently. It is to be used in cases where termination of an individual is not possible or preferable. Foundation staff of Level-3 or lower are not permitted to know the actual purpose of Class-E.</p> <p>For all intents and purposes, Class-E rehabilitation is to be interpreted as entirely possible and any observed adverse effects are to be explained as being the rare exception rather than the desired outcome. Persons administering Class-E may only do so once during their employment as to prevent suspicion.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-6" style="display:none"> <div style="background-color:#999999"> <h1 id="toc7"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASS - F</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Solid Silver Band</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Level-4 Authorization (Human Trial Testing)</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Injection (Multiple Stage Doses Used in Conjunction with Other Psychotropics), Visual/Audio Stimuli, Electroconvulsive Therapy</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> Memory Recall Expungement and Identity Reconditioning</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> Experimental Use Only Pending Formal Review</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Sedation, Short-term Paralysis, Increased Susceptibility to Visual/Audio Stimuli</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong> Class-F is currently in Alpha stages of testing. All data on human trials are currently under review by the Ethics Committee. In all human trials, 83.9% succeeded in complete retention of their respective reconditioned identities. The entire process approximately takes 5 days of continuous conditioning and therapy to produce the desired effect.</p> <p>Class-F can only be administered under the direction of psychology and medical staff in a controlled and completely isolated setting. Class-F is administered with a combination of other psychotropics to allow the individual to accept external input for reconditioning with limited subconscious resistance. External visual and audio stimuli will need to be personalized based on the individual's original psyche and their resulting fabricated identity for maximum probability of success. Coupled with the additional aid of electroconvulsive therapy, Class-F is very effective in identity reconditioning.</p> <p>Afterward, individuals may be released into the general population under minimal observation. In regards to specific SCPs, Class-F has been discussed as a passive and safer alternative to physical containment.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-7" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">[O5 ACCESS ONLY]</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">[ACCESS GRANTED]</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <div style="background-color:#722F37"> <h1 id="toc8"><span><span style="color:white"><strong><tt>CLASSIFIED: ENNUI PROTOCOL</tt></strong></span></span></h1> </div> <p><strong>Visual Code:</strong> Puce Icon</p> <p><strong>Clearance Use:</strong> Unanimous Decision by O5 Council</p> <p><strong>Delivery Methods:</strong> Unknown</p> <p><strong>Effectiveness:</strong> Unknown</p> <p><strong>Usage Protocols:</strong> For Emergency Use Only</p> <p><strong>Side Effects:</strong> Unknown</p> <p><strong>Detailed Description:</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><em>To Whom it May Concern,</em></p> <p><em>If you are reading this, then something horrible has happened and despite your best efforts, this is your last desperate option. To be honest, there is no way to know what will happen. Whomever in their infinite wisdom made this, hastily scribbled the instructions on a notepad in the O5 office so very long ago.</em></p> <p><em>These instructions for the so-called Ennui Protocol explain the necessity of a unanimous decision by this council, a long code consisting of all O5 private employee numbers in reverse order typed into our work terminal, and that it should be referenced somewhere so we can find it again. This way we don't forget about it in situations like this. We assume it affects everyone in some fashion… we hope.</em></p> <p><em>Don't bother looking into it. Whatever the actual device or agent or cognitohazard or memetic phrase or some other abstract thing is, it's hidden very well somewhere in the bowels of Research Site-45 and the people who put it there are either dead or have long since forgotten about it. The truly bewildering thing is we don't even know how many times we've used the Ennui Protocol before this. We have to relearn it every time it seems. Even as I am writing this, we are preparing to invoke it off-site. So I am attempting to convey all the little clues left here and there and consolidate it in this handwritten note for either my future self or other O5 council members.</em></p> <p><em>Apparently, there are things that even us O5 hide from ourselves. The only thing we know is that this has worked before. Good luck and God speed.</em></p> <p><em>Secure. Contain. Protect.</em></p> <p><em>-O5</em></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabView966860ec45cbbcc5c6aaf196acf0d22d = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-966860ec45cbbcc5c6aaf196acf0d22d'); }, "dummy-ondomready-block"); //]]> </script><br/> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/amnestic-orientation-manual">Amnestic Use Guide</a>" by LurkD, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. 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return false;">LurkD</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/c.png">The SCP Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Image 4</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> <em>d.png</em><br/> <strong>Name:</strong> N/A<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/lurkd" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1500566); return false;"><img alt="LurkD" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1500566&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1725057164" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1500566)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/lurkd" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1500566); return false;">LurkD</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/d.png">The SCP Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Image 5</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> <em>e.png</em><br/> <strong>Name:</strong> N/A<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/lurkd" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1500566); 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return false;">LurkD</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/f.png">The SCP Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Image 7</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> <em>o.png</em><br/> <strong>Name:</strong> N/A<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/lurkd" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1500566); return false;"><img alt="LurkD" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1500566&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1725057164" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1500566)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/lurkd" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1500566); return false;">LurkD</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/o.png">The SCP Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Image 8</strong></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> <em>logo.png</em><br/> <strong>Name:</strong> N/A<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> The SCP Wiki<br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/logo.png">The SCP Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]] [ACCESS RESTRICTED] [[/size]] [[tabview]] [[tab COVER PAGE]] [[div style="background-color:#A60000"]] [[=]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{SCP FOUNDATION AMNESTIC USE GUIDE}}[[/span]] [[/=]] [[/div]] ~~~~~~~~~~ [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/logo.png width="160px"]] [[f<image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/logo.png width="160px"]] [[div style="font-size: 300%; font-weight: bold; margin: 2px 0 5px;"]] [[=]] {{CLASSIFIED}} [[/=]] [[/div]] [[=]] {{The following revision to}} {{this document (version 7.8)}} {{was approved by the}} {{Ethics Committee on 07/21/2013 for}} {{use by personnel at Research Site-45}} [[/=]] [[==]] > {{//Disclaimer: This is NOT to be used as a training manual. Training manuals are given during the actual classes. To request training, please send an official request to your immediate supervisor. Take note that this is a site specific document, please refer to your on-site protocols regarding amnestic use.//}} [[/==]] ~~~~~~~~~~ ---- [[==]] {{The purpose of this document is to provide Foundation personnel with a quick reference guide as to the usage, effects, and protocol regarding amnestics. An amnestic is an amnesia-inducing agent that can take many different forms. For the purposes of the Foundation, it is mainly used in suppressing sensitive information by expunging intangible memories. In most cases, they are applied post-incident.}} {{The use of amnestics is decided on a case by case basis unless the authority of higher clearance levels is invoked as explained in the following pages. Amnestics are considered one of the most powerful tools in use by the Foundation. Great care and proper training is mandatory in the handling and application of amnestics in an appropriate manner.}} {{The abuse of amnestics is strictly prohibited and will result in disciplinary action, demotion, or both. In all cases, the Ethics Committee has the final word on approval and decisions regarding amnestic use and misuse respectively.}} ---- {{If you would like more information or to report suspected amnestic abuse, please use the online submission form below. All submissions will be sent to the Ethics Committee Amnestic Review Board.}} [[/==]] [[collapsible show="[OPEN SUBMISSION FORM]" hide="[CANCEL]"]] +++ __{{Amnestic Inquiry/Incident Submission Form}}__ [[module ListUsers users="."]] {{Employee Number:}} [[table]] [[row]] [[cell style="border: 1px solid grey; background-color: yellow;"]] {{%%number%%}} [[/cell]] [[/row]] [[/table]] [[/module]] [[html]]<p><code><form>First Name: <input type="text"> Last Name: <input type="text"> </form> <form><input type="radio" name="0" value="0">Request Additional Information <input type="radio" name="0" value="1">Report Amnestic Abuse Incident <input type="checkbox" name="0" value="0"> I Wish to Submit Anonymously</form> <body><body>Inquiry/Incident Details: <textarea rows="10" cols="50">500 characters max</textarea><p style="color:grey"> <i>The Ethics Committee Reserves the Right to Retain Your Identity if Deemed Pertinent</i></p><head><script language="javascript">function LogIn(){loggedin=false;password=prompt("PLEASE INCLUDE A UNIQUE IDENTIFIER ALONG WITH YOUR SUBMISSION:","");if (password==""){loggedin=true;alert("NO UNIQUE IDENTIFIER ENTERED. PLEASE REPEAT YOUR SUBMISSION.");}if (loggedin==false) {alert("THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUBMISSION. YOU CAN EXPECT A RESPONSE WITHIN 2 TO 3 DAYS.");}}</script></head><body><form><input type=button value="SUBMIT TO ETHICS COMMITTEE" onClick="LogIn()"></form></body></code></p> [[/html]] [[/collapsible]] [[/tab]] [[tab CLASS-A]] [[div style="background-color:#000000"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASS - A}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/a.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Single Black Stripe Clearance Use: Trained Level-1 and Above Delivery Methods: Aerosol Effectiveness: 6 - 12hrs Usage Protocols: Approved for General Field Use Side Effects: Sedation, Headaches, Nausea Detailed Description: Gaseous Class-A is the most commonly used amnestic in the field. The main benefit when using Class-A is that it can be administered to not only one, but many individuals. In some documented cases, Class-A has been used on entire populations with the aid of aerial application. Other applications also include 40mm cartridges that can be launched to deliver Class-A into an enclosed area or room, as well as small handheld aerosol sprayers for single use. Because of its chemical composition, accidental overdose is extremely unlikely with minimal training on Class-A applications. This safety feature allows Class-A to be used liberally as an inhalant. It is also convenient in use as it requires little to no follow-up on affected individuals, as it has a 98.7% success rate. Class-A is ideal for use by field agents, rapid response teams, and MTF groups. The only concern when using Class-A is accidental self-application. Personnel trained in the use of Class-A are instructed in the use of application devices as well as environmental conditions that may cause an incident. It is recommended that at least one other Foundation employee be present during the application of Class-A as to facilitate the continuation of duties in case of accidental self-application by a user. ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/tab]] [[tab CLASS-B]] [[div style="background-color:#006666"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASS - B}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/b.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Double Aqua Stripe Clearance Use: Trained Level-2 and Above Delivery Methods: Oral, Injection Effectiveness: 20 - 72hrs Usage Protocols: Approved for General Field Use Side Effects: Sedation, Prolonged Paresthesia, Migraines, Blurred Vision Detailed Description: Chemically, there is little difference between Class-A and Class-B. The main difference is the application; Class-A is inhaled, whereas Class-B is either ingested or injected directly into the bloodstream. Used in this fashion, Class-A is allowed to have a larger effect on the body than it would normally have. Class-B commonly comes in the form of dissolving tablets or liquid. The most common delivery method is by dissolving Class-B tablets into water and allowing the individual to ingest it. Use of Class-B is also commonly employed in ballistic syringes and launched via compressed gas. Class-B is just as safe to use as Class-A, making it ideal for use in many departments. Class-B also has a record of far fewer accidental self-application incidents than Class-A, due in part to its delivery and storage, allowing for a single user to administer without the presence of additional staff. ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/tab]] [[tab CLASS-C]] [[div style="background-color:#CCA300"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASS - C}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/c.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Triple Bronze Stripe Clearance Use: Level-3 Authorization and Above Delivery Methods: Injection Effectiveness: 4 - 9 Days Usage Protocols: General Use for Post-Interrogations/Detainment at a Foundation Controlled Site Side Effects: Sedation, Slight Paralysis (Medical Attention Required) Detailed Description: Unlike Class-A and Class-B, Class-C is a much more potent variant. As such, the after effects and risk inherent to the application of Class-C requires the aid of Foundation medical personnel. Persons must have medical training to administer Class-C via syringe directly into the bloodstream. Class-C is mainly employed to detained individuals so that Class-C can be used in a controlled setting. Afterwards, detainees may be released only after being cleared by medical staff. Class-C is not approved for general field use and may only be requested by investigators, interrogators, and any other Level-3 approved usage. Class-C has a 92.8% success rate, and may require follow-up examinations or doses. Personnel are prohibited from using Class-C on a single individual more than four times. ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/tab]] [[tab CLASS-D]] [[div style="background-color:#556B2F"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASS - D}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/d.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Checkered Olive Band Clearance Use: Requires at Least Two Level-3 Personnel Authorization and Supervision to be Administered Delivery Methods: Injection (2 Stage Dose Through IV) Effectiveness: +3 Weeks Usage Protocols: To be Used to Counter Effects of Anomalous Psychoses and/or Memetic Incursions Side Effects: Sedation, Paralysis (Post-Incident Rehabilitation Required), Possible Brain Damage Detailed Description: Class-D once held a lower designation until it was superseded and replaced with a more appropriate amnestic (see Class-C) for use on detainees. Before that, Class-D was employed regularly with limited success in individuals as many adverse-effects of the brain after application were found to be inadmissible by the Ethics Committee. Thus, Class-D was reviewed and found to be more appropriately used in cases where brain damage or a major chronic chemical imbalance was already prevalent in the individual. These cases usually involve anomalous mental effects and/or memetic incursions of the mind. Because the effects of memetics can be largely unknown, the use of a potent and riskier amnestic was approved as an option as to counter/control the effects. Class-D can only be employed by medical staff in a controlled setting. Level-3 supervision is required as to facilitate the protection of medical staff from the patient if needed. ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/tab]] [[tab CLASS-E]] [[div style="background-color:#E17366"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASS - E}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/e.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Vertical Salmon Bar Clearance Use: Level-4 Request Pending Case Decision by the Ethics Committee Delivery Methods: Injection (Multiple Stage Doses Through IV) Effectiveness: Complete Recall Expungement Usage Protocols: In Situations Where the Individual's Identity is Deemed to be a Threat. Side Effects: Sedation, Long-term Paralysis, Possible Brain Damage or Catatonic Symptoms (Post-Incident Rehabilitation Required) Detailed Description: Class-E can only be given by medical staff in a controlled setting after a formal request has been submitted by Level-4 staff and approved by the Ethics Committee. Upon administration, medical staff will be required to oversee the individual during recovery. Only 0.02% of individuals entered a permanent vegetative state after being administered Class-E. In these cases, the individual will be remitted to an appropriate civilian hospital indefinitely. [[collapsible show="[LEVEL-4 ACCESS ONLY]" hide="[ACCESS GRANTED]"]] Additional Details: Class-E is not an amnestic. It is intentionally designed to put the individual into a drug induced coma permanently. It is to be used in cases where termination of an individual is not possible or preferable. Foundation staff of Level-3 or lower are not permitted to know the actual purpose of Class-E. For all intents and purposes, Class-E rehabilitation is to be interpreted as entirely possible and any observed adverse effects are to be explained as being the rare exception rather than the desired outcome. Persons administering Class-E may only do so once during their employment as to prevent suspicion. [[/collapsible]] ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/tab]] [[tab CLASS-F]] [[div style="background-color:#999999"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASS - F}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/f.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Solid Silver Band Clearance Use: Level-4 Authorization (Human Trial Testing) Delivery Methods: Injection (Multiple Stage Doses Used in Conjunction with Other Psychotropics), Visual/Audio Stimuli, Electroconvulsive Therapy Effectiveness: Memory Recall Expungement and Identity Reconditioning Usage Protocols: Experimental Use Only Pending Formal Review Side Effects: Sedation, Short-term Paralysis, Increased Susceptibility to Visual/Audio Stimuli Detailed Description: Class-F is currently in Alpha stages of testing. All data on human trials are currently under review by the Ethics Committee. In all human trials, 83.9% succeeded in complete retention of their respective reconditioned identities. The entire process approximately takes 5 days of continuous conditioning and therapy to produce the desired effect. Class-F can only be administered under the direction of psychology and medical staff in a controlled and completely isolated setting. Class-F is administered with a combination of other psychotropics to allow the individual to accept external input for reconditioning with limited subconscious resistance. External visual and audio stimuli will need to be personalized based on the individual's original psyche and their resulting fabricated identity for maximum probability of success. Coupled with the additional aid of electroconvulsive therapy, Class-F is very effective in identity reconditioning. Afterward, individuals may be released into the general population under minimal observation. In regards to specific SCPs, Class-F has been discussed as a passive and safer alternative to physical containment. ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/tab]] [[tab O5 ACCESS ONLY]] [[collapsible show="[O5 ACCESS ONLY]" hide="[ACCESS GRANTED]"]] [[div style="background-color:#722F37"]] + [[span style="color:white"]]{{CLASSIFIED: ENNUI PROTOCOL}}[[/span]] [[/div]] [[f>image http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/o.png width="160px"]] Visual Code: Puce Icon Clearance Use: Unanimous Decision by O5 Council Delivery Methods: Unknown Effectiveness: Unknown Usage Protocols: For Emergency Use Only Side Effects: Unknown Detailed Description: > //To Whom it May Concern,// > > //If you are reading this, then something horrible has happened and despite your best efforts, this is your last desperate option. To be honest, there is no way to know what will happen. Whomever in their infinite wisdom made this, hastily scribbled the instructions on a notepad in the O5 office so very long ago.// > > //These instructions for the so-called Ennui Protocol explain the necessity of a unanimous decision by this council, a long code consisting of all O5 private employee numbers in reverse order typed into our work terminal, and that it should be referenced somewhere so we can find it again. This way we don't forget about it in situations like this. We assume it affects everyone in some fashion... we hope.// > > //Don't bother looking into it. Whatever the actual device or agent or cognitohazard or memetic phrase or some other abstract thing is, it's hidden very well somewhere in the bowels of Research Site-45 and the people who put it there are either dead or have long since forgotten about it. The truly bewildering thing is we don't even know how many times we've used the Ennui Protocol before this. We have to relearn it every time it seems. Even as I am writing this, we are preparing to invoke it off-site. So I am attempting to convey all the little clues left here and there and consolidate it in this handwritten note for either my future self or other O5 council members.// > > //Apparently, there are things that even us O5 hide from ourselves. The only thing we know is that this has worked before. Good luck and God speed.// > > //Secure. Contain. Protect.// > > //-O5// ~~~~~~~~~~ [[/collapsible]] [[/tab]] [[/tabview]] @@@@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== Image 1 > Filename: //a.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/a.png The SCP Wiki] Image 2 > Filename: //b.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/b.png The SCP Wiki] Image 3 > Filename: //c.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/c.png The SCP Wiki] Image 4 > Filename: //d.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/d.png The SCP Wiki] Image 5 > Filename: //e.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/e.png The SCP Wiki] Image 6 > Filename: //f.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/f.png The SCP Wiki] Image 7 > Filename: //o.png// > Name: N/A > Author: [[user LurkD]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/o.png The SCP Wiki] Image 8 > Filename: //logo.png// > Name: N/A > Author: The SCP Wiki > License: CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [http://www.scpwiki.com/local--files/amnestic-orientation-manual/logo.png The SCP Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-23T23:44:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "science-fiction", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	Amnestic Use Guide - SCP Foundation	809	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "highest-rated-non-scps", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	23083677	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/amnestic-orientation-manual
an-armenian-bodybuilder-exercises-his-legal-rights	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was refreshing to have bruises on my skin.</p> <p>My mouth felt slightly off. I reached up to my jaw, then clicked it back into place. I spat out blood and a few teeth, then felt hard matter extrude from my gums anew. The bruises faded away, returning to the colour of simple flesh. I grinned.</p> <p>At this, my opponent was somewhat taken aback. He responded with another punch.</p> <p>Heat flowed around my abdomen; the demigod's fingers ripped between my ribs and punctured my lungs, my previously inhaled breath now whistling through the open wound. He pulled back, then struck again, this time slicing my heart and stomach. My eyes widened, I felt blood and gastric juices start to pour into places blood and gastric juices should not pour into. Another blow popped my left eye; then my opponent took a step away.</p> <p>He watched, intrigued, as my muscles rippled and realigned. The pain used to bring me to my knees; now, with my steeled mind, there is only extreme and excruciating discomfort. My diaphragm spasmed and I coughed up blood and misplaced vomit, then my gut tightened and I threw up vomit and misplaced blood. The wounds re-knitted, my stomach and heart sealing; then my lungs, which felt as if on fire as I drew a deep breath. I stared into Perseus' face as I felt a lens pull itself into existence, and felt my eye reinflate with vitreous humour.</p> <p>Perseus grimaced.</p> <p>"Well then. It seems I was mistaken. Which member of the pantheon were you looking for again?"</p> <p>"Hephaestus."</p> <p>"You think… you're a son of Hephaestus?"</p> <p>"Yes."</p> <p>"With your body and build? The god of craftsmen? I'd think you to be one of Ares' boys."</p> <p>"My body is of his, for it is a work of art."</p> <p>I flexed for emphasis. Perseus smirked a little.</p> <p>"Maybe a son of Narcissus."</p> <p>"I don't mean to brag. This is not my opinion on the matter."</p> <p>"Then whose is it?"</p> <p>"Professor Mared Gretchen's."</p> <p>Perseus' eyes widened at the name.</p> <p>"Old Mared sent you?"</p> <p>"If that is what you will call her, then yes. You've met her?"</p> <p>"No. She is, however… quite well known in our circles. She is known to override."</p> <p>"Override?"</p> <p>"Override and overwrite. The tales of Old Mared are… genuinely mythical, even to people like you or I."</p> <p>"I've not heard such tales."</p> <p>"Well… we try to keep them under wraps. They are mostly embarrassing to the rest of us. She kicked Zeus in the balls once."</p> <p>I felt an eyebrow raise involuntarily. Perseus scratched his neck.</p> <p>"Regardless… I cannot personally hold audience with Hephaestus, but I can certainly find someone who can. Your negotiations from there on will be your own. Understood?"</p> <p>"Understood."</p> <p>"Then let us exchange phone numbers."</p> <p>I passed a slip of paper from my pocket to him, he passed one in return. He looked over my body, still slightly damp and red from blood, then nodded.</p> <p>"It was good to meet you, Khoren."</p> <p>"And you, Perseus."</p> <p>Perseus started to walk away, then turned over his shoulder.</p> <p>"If you don't mind my asking, why do you want to meet him?"</p> <p>"Besides being my father?"</p> <p>"Well, yes."</p> <p>"He owes my mother a lifetime of child support."</p> <p>Perseus chuckled lightly and walked away.</p> <hr/> <p>I selected the contact labelled "Prof. Gretchen" on my mobile phone, then called. After three rings, the Professor answered in her grandmotherly British accent.</p> <p>"Khoren, my boy, my boy! How goes the epic quest?"</p> <p>"I've got to say, Professor Gretchen, substantially better whenever I mention your name to people."</p> <p>I heard her laugh; big, booming, gut laughs that I'd seen many times before.</p> <p>"Good to hear they haven't forgotten me over there! The amount of drinking that went on at their parties, surprised they manage to remember their own names. Where are you up to?"</p> <p>"I've made some progress with things. I'm mostly just calling to clarify something."</p> <p>"Hm?"</p> <p>"Did you ever kick Zeus in the balls?"</p> <p>That big, booming laugh again, which I tried to interrupt.</p> <p>"Really though. Did that happen?"</p> <p>"Oh, absolutely. His fault for hitting on me. At the time, of course, he didn't know I swung for the other team, but he kept pushing and pushing. Clearly quite inebriated - normally a reasonable enough chap, but cannot stomach his alcohol. Goes straight to his head. Incapacitated him long enough for me to run out the back door with Eris and Athena though. Honestly, Eris throws much better parties, and Athena can do that thing where you tie a knot in a cherry stalk with your tongue."</p> <p>"But you never met Hephaestus?"</p> <p>"No, no, no. A few thousand years of turning down invites to sit indoors working on your next big piece, eventually they stop bothering to ask you at all."</p> <p>"I see."</p> <p>"Hm? What's wrong, boy?"</p> <p>"I'm not sure why you didn't tell me this before I left, Professor. It might have helped a bit."</p> <p>"Khoren, you get to my age, you gather enough stories to fill a hundred phone books. I could bore you to your death and mine with all the things I got up to with just that pantheon. And anyway, this is your quest, not mine. If I could just give you an address, it wouldn't have any meaning, would it?"</p> <p>"It would certainly make things a lot easier, though."</p> <p>"All I say is that nothing is easy, and the best things are the hardest. Gotta go, Khoren; have an appointment with a poker player."</p> <p>"Thanks, Professor. Talk to you soon."</p> <hr/> <p>Perseus didn't end up calling; instead, he texted through an address, a date, and a time. I sent him my thanks in response. It was still not for another two days that he would arrive. I sipped my coffee lightly, enjoying the sun.</p> <p>A loud bang echoed around the corner. The source then drove out; a brightly coloured van made a hairpin turn and rocketed past the cafe, followed by a pursuing large black van labelled "σκληρά κρούστα πιτσαρία". The sputtering of their engines faded off into the distance, and the patrons returned to their newspapers and beverages.</p> <p>I felt some concern.</p> <hr/> <p>It was an uninteresting building. It looked like any other in the vicinity.</p> <p>What was concerning about it was that I recognised the psychedelically patterned van outside.</p> <p>Still, I had arrived to the meeting half an hour early. I read to pass the time; a small pile of visitor's pamphlets lined my hire car, and I slowly made my way through. Twenty five minutes later, a man wearing large sunglasses and a girl of school age exited the building, seemingly in deep conversation. They returned to the van, the man starting the engine with a low rumble, and then drove away.</p> <p>The black van parked around the corner pulled out of their hiding place and drove to tail behind. I felt a deep itch in my shoulders, though I wasn't without a contingency plan. I confirmed the presence of the cold, heavy metal in my pocket. It was a short wait for the black van to leave from my sight; then, I opened the door of the hire car, stepped out, and closed it with a thunk.</p> <p>The front door of the building was made of some heavy wood, not quite matching the rest of its construction. I knocked it solidly, then waited some time, before a man pulled it open from inside.</p> <p>He looked young. He was dressed in a bright neon t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a simple silver chain around his neck, and a tattoo covering the majority of his right arm with a hammer. The man looked up at me, then cocked his head slightly.</p> <p>"Khoren?"</p> <p>"Yes. I'm here to see-"</p> <p>The man suddenly moved, hugging me around my midriff.</p> <p>"My son, my son! Home at last!"</p> <p>With some reaching, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face. Looking at him closer, there was black stubble around his chin, and his right ear was pierced in three places. This was not the image of Hephaestus I had in mind. He slapped me on the shoulders, grinning and turning.</p> <p>"Come on in, and close the door behind you."</p> <p>I turned, pushed the door closed, and followed my father into what appeared to be a workroom. An anvil sat in the corner, which caught my interest; then I noticed the thick layer of dust along its surface. In the room's centre was a wooden table covered in paint and surrounded by similarly styled stools; on it sat a bowl of potato chips, which Hephaestus took a handful from and munched audibly. He looked up at me.</p> <p>"Have a seat, have some chips. Some friends brought them here - really interesting flavouring, impressive stuff."</p> <p>I sat across from him, picked a chip up, and crunched it around in my mouth. It tasted like strawberries. As I chewed, my father started to speak.</p> <p>"I know what you're going to say: I don't look like all the pictures."</p> <p>I swallowed and gave a response.</p> <p>"I will admit, I was expecting an old man working at a smith."</p> <p>"Not as much smithing these days as there used to be. Us gods latch on to whatever gets us the most people within our purview. I've always been in charge of blacksmiths and fires, but these days being the god of artisans gets me a bit more attention. Quite a bit more, in fact. People keep asking me for favours - minor miracles, you know - and I really can't help but oblige."</p> <p>I kept silent. Hephaestus sighed.</p> <p>"But that's not why you're here."</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"Right. Well. Tell me what I've got to sign."</p> <p>I pulled out a packet of paper and offered it to the man across from me, along with a pen.</p> <p>"Read it thoroughly."</p> <p>"I don't need to. Your mother was a lovely lady, but despite what she's probably led you to believe, she was always much more interested in me than I was in her. That got her into trouble; as far as I see, this helps her out of it."</p> <p>Hephaestus signed the paper with a flourish, passing it back to me along with an envelope. I took them both, looking at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to my mother.</p> <p>"If you could pass that on to her I'd appreciate it. She should be more forthcoming with a few things after that. I would tell you myself, but it's the sort of thing that she'd want to say herself. Oh, and also, give her this."</p> <p>Hephaestus pulled out a small ring from his pocket, then passed it over to me. It looked like weaved silver and gold. I placed the ring and the envelope in my right pocket, then folded up the legal document and placed it in my left. I stood, looking down at my father.</p> <p>"I appreciate your understanding in this matter."</p> <p>"Your mother really must have changed, she's raised you to sound like a lawyer."</p> <p>"No, she's not changed much, I think. I never quite fit what she wanted from a son."</p> <p>"Bah, to hell with her. Anartists are a fickle folk, I'm sure she loves you all the same."</p> <p>I bowed to Hephaestus.</p> <p>"It was a pleasure to meet you, Dad."</p> <p>He stood, showing me back to the door.</p> <p>"The pleasure's all mine, Khoren. Come back if you're in the neighbourhood again."</p> <p>I left his house, strode back to the car, and drove away without looking back.</p> <hr/> <p>That was the one time I saw my father while he was still alive.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« Oops \| <a href="/cool-war-2-hub">Hub</a> \| Coldposter »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/an-armenian-bodybuilder-exercises-his-legal-rights">An Armenian Bodybuilder Exercises His Legal Rights</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/an-armenian-bodybuilder-exercises-his-legal-rights">https://scpwiki.com/an-armenian-bodybuilder-exercises-his-legal-rights</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It was refreshing to have bruises on my skin. My mouth felt slightly off. I reached up to my jaw, then clicked it back into place. I spat out blood and a few teeth, then felt hard matter extrude from my gums anew. The bruises faded away, returning to the colour of simple flesh. I grinned. At this, my opponent was somewhat taken aback. He responded with another punch. Heat flowed around my abdomen; the demigod's fingers ripped between my ribs and punctured my lungs, my previously inhaled breath now whistling through the open wound. He pulled back, then struck again, this time slicing my heart and stomach. My eyes widened, I felt blood and gastric juices start to pour into places blood and gastric juices should not pour into. Another blow popped my left eye; then my opponent took a step away. He watched, intrigued, as my muscles rippled and realigned. The pain used to bring me to my knees; now, with my steeled mind, there is only extreme and excruciating discomfort. My diaphragm spasmed and I coughed up blood and misplaced vomit, then my gut tightened and I threw up vomit and misplaced blood. The wounds re-knitted, my stomach and heart sealing; then my lungs, which felt as if on fire as I drew a deep breath. I stared into Perseus' face as I felt a lens pull itself into existence, and felt my eye reinflate with vitreous humour. Perseus grimaced. "Well then. It seems I was mistaken. Which member of the pantheon were you looking for again?" "Hephaestus." "You think... you're a son of Hephaestus?" "Yes." "With your body and build? The god of craftsmen? I'd think you to be one of Ares' boys." "My body is of his, for it is a work of art." I flexed for emphasis. Perseus smirked a little. "Maybe a son of Narcissus." "I don't mean to brag. This is not my opinion on the matter." "Then whose is it?" "Professor Mared Gretchen's." Perseus' eyes widened at the name. "Old Mared sent you?" "If that is what you will call her, then yes. You've met her?" "No. She is, however... quite well known in our circles. She is known to override." "Override?" "Override and overwrite. The tales of Old Mared are... genuinely mythical, even to people like you or I." "I've not heard such tales." "Well... we try to keep them under wraps. They are mostly embarrassing to the rest of us. She kicked Zeus in the balls once." I felt an eyebrow raise involuntarily. Perseus scratched his neck. "Regardless... I cannot personally hold audience with Hephaestus, but I can certainly find someone who can. Your negotiations from there on will be your own. Understood?" "Understood." "Then let us exchange phone numbers." I passed a slip of paper from my pocket to him, he passed one in return. He looked over my body, still slightly damp and red from blood, then nodded. "It was good to meet you, Khoren." "And you, Perseus." Perseus started to walk away, then turned over his shoulder. "If you don't mind my asking, why do you want to meet him?" "Besides being my father?" "Well, yes." "He owes my mother a lifetime of child support." Perseus chuckled lightly and walked away. ----------------------- I selected the contact labelled "Prof. Gretchen" on my mobile phone, then called. After three rings, the Professor answered in her grandmotherly British accent. "Khoren, my boy, my boy! How goes the epic quest?" "I've got to say, Professor Gretchen, substantially better whenever I mention your name to people." I heard her laugh; big, booming, gut laughs that I'd seen many times before. "Good to hear they haven't forgotten me over there! The amount of drinking that went on at their parties, surprised they manage to remember their own names. Where are you up to?" "I've made some progress with things. I'm mostly just calling to clarify something." "Hm?" "Did you ever kick Zeus in the balls?" That big, booming laugh again, which I tried to interrupt. "Really though. Did that happen?" "Oh, absolutely. His fault for hitting on me. At the time, of course, he didn't know I swung for the other team, but he kept pushing and pushing. Clearly quite inebriated - normally a reasonable enough chap, but cannot stomach his alcohol. Goes straight to his head. Incapacitated him long enough for me to run out the back door with Eris and Athena though. Honestly, Eris throws much better parties, and Athena can do that thing where you tie a knot in a cherry stalk with your tongue." "But you never met Hephaestus?" "No, no, no. A few thousand years of turning down invites to sit indoors working on your next big piece, eventually they stop bothering to ask you at all." "I see." "Hm? What's wrong, boy?" "I'm not sure why you didn't tell me this before I left, Professor. It might have helped a bit." "Khoren, you get to my age, you gather enough stories to fill a hundred phone books. I could bore you to your death and mine with all the things I got up to with just that pantheon. And anyway, this is your quest, not mine. If I could just give you an address, it wouldn't have any meaning, would it?" "It would certainly make things a lot easier, though." "All I say is that nothing is easy, and the best things are the hardest. Gotta go, Khoren; have an appointment with a poker player." "Thanks, Professor. Talk to you soon." ------------- Perseus didn't end up calling; instead, he texted through an address, a date, and a time. I sent him my thanks in response. It was still not for another two days that he would arrive. I sipped my coffee lightly, enjoying the sun. A loud bang echoed around the corner. The source then drove out; a brightly coloured van made a hairpin turn and rocketed past the cafe, followed by a pursuing large black van labelled "σκληρά κρούστα πιτσαρία". The sputtering of their engines faded off into the distance, and the patrons returned to their newspapers and beverages. I felt some concern. ------------- It was an uninteresting building. It looked like any other in the vicinity. What was concerning about it was that I recognised the psychedelically patterned van outside. Still, I had arrived to the meeting half an hour early. I read to pass the time; a small pile of visitor's pamphlets lined my hire car, and I slowly made my way through. Twenty five minutes later, a man wearing large sunglasses and a girl of school age exited the building, seemingly in deep conversation. They returned to the van, the man starting the engine with a low rumble, and then drove away. The black van parked around the corner pulled out of their hiding place and drove to tail behind. I felt a deep itch in my shoulders, though I wasn't without a contingency plan. I confirmed the presence of the cold, heavy metal in my pocket. It was a short wait for the black van to leave from my sight; then, I opened the door of the hire car, stepped out, and closed it with a thunk. The front door of the building was made of some heavy wood, not quite matching the rest of its construction. I knocked it solidly, then waited some time, before a man pulled it open from inside. He looked young. He was dressed in a bright neon t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a simple silver chain around his neck, and a tattoo covering the majority of his right arm with a hammer. The man looked up at me, then cocked his head slightly. "Khoren?" "Yes. I'm here to see-" The man suddenly moved, hugging me around my midriff. "My son, my son! Home at last!" With some reaching, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face. Looking at him closer, there was black stubble around his chin, and his right ear was pierced in three places. This was not the image of Hephaestus I had in mind. He slapped me on the shoulders, grinning and turning. "Come on in, and close the door behind you." I turned, pushed the door closed, and followed my father into what appeared to be a workroom. An anvil sat in the corner, which caught my interest; then I noticed the thick layer of dust along its surface. In the room's centre was a wooden table covered in paint and surrounded by similarly styled stools; on it sat a bowl of potato chips, which Hephaestus took a handful from and munched audibly. He looked up at me. "Have a seat, have some chips. Some friends brought them here - really interesting flavouring, impressive stuff." I sat across from him, picked a chip up, and crunched it around in my mouth. It tasted like strawberries. As I chewed, my father started to speak. "I know what you're going to say: I don't look like all the pictures." I swallowed and gave a response. "I will admit, I was expecting an old man working at a smith." "Not as much smithing these days as there used to be. Us gods latch on to whatever gets us the most people within our purview. I've always been in charge of blacksmiths and fires, but these days being the god of artisans gets me a bit more attention. Quite a bit more, in fact. People keep asking me for favours - minor miracles, you know - and I really can't help but oblige." I kept silent. Hephaestus sighed. "But that's not why you're here." "No." "Right. Well. Tell me what I've got to sign." I pulled out a packet of paper and offered it to the man across from me, along with a pen. "Read it thoroughly." "I don't need to. Your mother was a lovely lady, but despite what she's probably led you to believe, she was always much more interested in me than I was in her. That got her into trouble; as far as I see, this helps her out of it." Hephaestus signed the paper with a flourish, passing it back to me along with an envelope. I took them both, looking at the front of the envelope. It was addressed to my mother. "If you could pass that on to her I'd appreciate it. She should be more forthcoming with a few things after that. I would tell you myself, but it's the sort of thing that she'd want to say herself. Oh, and also, give her this." Hephaestus pulled out a small ring from his pocket, then passed it over to me. It looked like weaved silver and gold. I placed the ring and the envelope in my right pocket, then folded up the legal document and placed it in my left. I stood, looking down at my father. "I appreciate your understanding in this matter." "Your mother really must have changed, she's raised you to sound like a lawyer." "No, she's not changed much, I think. I never quite fit what she wanted from a son." "Bah, to hell with her. Anartists are a fickle folk, I'm sure she loves you all the same." I bowed to Hephaestus. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Dad." He stood, showing me back to the door. "The pleasure's all mine, Khoren. Come back if you're in the neighbourhood again." I left his house, strode back to the car, and drove away without looking back. ----------------- That was the one time I saw my father while he was still alive. [[=]] << Oops \| [[[cool-war-2-hub\| Hub]]] \| Coldposter >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-12-24T16:05:00	[ "_licensebox", "cool-war-2", "tale" ]	An Armenian Bodybuilder Exercises His Legal Rights - SCP Foundation	48	[ "cool-war-2-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "cool-war-2-hub" ]	[]	24347804	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/an-armenian-bodybuilder-exercises-his-legal-rights
an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Do you, too, have a question (or questions) about Humes? Put them down below and they will be answered.</strong></p> <p><strong>Q: What do areas of high (or low) Hume concentration look like?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. S</em></p> <p>A: An area of low Hume concentration is a very strange place indeed. Without the stability of ordinary reality, regular humans can alter the area to their whim, granting temporary reality bender-like abilities. These should not be confused with the real thing, of course; they are merely a projection of a higher-Hume frame of reference on a lower-Hume environment, and the 'abilities' vanish as soon as the subject leaves the area. In addition, since reality is much less dense in these areas, the incidence of spontaneous anomalies and universe breaches are significantly higher. However, these anomalies/breaches do <em>not</em> vanish when taken from the vicinity. The reason for this is unknown at the current time.</p> <p>An area of <em>high</em> Hume concentration, on the other hand is a very strange place. To normal humans, it appears vivid and overpowering, a place of a superworldly aura. Remember how the Himalayas have a high Hume concentration? This applies to all mountains—there's a reason they're often sought out as a place of enlightenment. To reality benders, on the other hand, these areas are flat, grey, and earthy. Since the Hume concentration in these areas are usually close to (or higher than) the reality bender's own levels, they have significant trouble exerting their powers in these areas; in some cases being completely restricted from affecting the area. As such, reality benders tend to avoid these areas, instinctively or otherwise; the currently-in-construction Site-35 (augmented with special Scranton anchors and located in the Himalayas) promises to act as effective containment for reality benders when completed.</p> <p><strong>Q: Is it possible for a regular human to become a reality bender?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. S</em></p> <p>A: Yes; and there are many, many rituals and gimmicks that promise to do so. However, the list of actual techniques to do so is very small; and is currently being compiled.</p> <p><strong>Q: Is it possible for animals to have hume fluctuations as well?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. S</em></p> <p>A: Yes! At least one cat is suspected of it, as well as several dogs and some fleas; there is evidence coming in that certain whales may be capable of it as well. It is also hypothesized that inanimate objects are capable of this, but testing has been difficult and the hypothesis is unproven.</p> <p><strong>Q: Do we have any methods by which to test for Hume fluctuations at a great distance, such as interplanetary or further?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. K</em></p> <p>A: At the moment, no. As I understand, a great many options on this front are being tested, but until then, we can only measure Hume concentrations locally.</p> <p><strong>What are our options for detecting reality affecting entities at such distances?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. K</em></p> <p>A: As mentioned above, effectively none.</p> <p><strong>Does being in the vacuum of space alter the nature of Hume variance in any way?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. K</em></p> <p>A: Short answer: No. Longer answer: space is a little strange. Its baseline Hume concentration is slightly higher than Earth concentrations, with the same variations seen on Earth. In fact, it is hypothesized that most of space has a Hume level equal to (or lower than!) Earth's norm, and that galaxies and clusters act as Hume concentration areas in the same way that mountains do here on Earth. However, this is only an educated guess until we can find an actual method of testing it.</p> <p><strong>Are large and low Hume ratings expected to remain unusually high or low in parts or organs of a reality bender when detached or their user becomes deceased? Are there different Hume concentrations in certain organs rather than others? If so, which?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. R</em></p> <p>A: A good question, and one we haven't studied much at this time. Preliminary results seem to indicate that all organ Hume concentrations are higher than the baseline, with the heart, liver, and brain possessing the most concentration; but these levels are not as large as those present in the reality bender when alive. As the reasons for this are unknown, and as the possibility of some freak Hume fluctuation or contamination cannot be crossed out, all of this is speculation at the moment, and needs to be verified by further research.</p> <p><strong>Are there any noise or interfering "background signals" when measuring Hume concentrations in areas supposed to be "clean" of reality-bending effects?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. R</em></p> <p>A: Yes! Basically, what we've seen is that in a completely isolated area freed of outside influences, the baseline Hume concentration seems to fluctuate up to +/- 9 centiHumes. So two readings taken in the same place in different times can yield significantly different Hume concentrations. The reason behind this phenomenon, by the way, is unknown at this time.</p> <p><strong>Has any cognitohazardous, infohazardous or memetic effect been related to alterations in Hume ratings? (To clarify: this is a question on the respective effects these agents have <em>on human psyche and brain chemistry</em>, and not on the various anomalous effects affected individuals may display after being exposed to them; that is, can information alone and its knowledge change Hume ratings?)</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. R</em></p> <p>A: No, none of the above materials or effects have been linked to Hume concentrations. It appears that these effects do not affect the local reality, instead creating changes solely in the affected person's thought processes and brain. However, the anomalous effects displayed <em>after</em> exposure can (and have) multiple effects on Hume concentrations (see <a href="/scp-1425">SCP-1425</a> for more information on this.)</p> <p><strong>Finally, this is partly a request. Several medical doctors and health officers of the Foundation Medical Branch have requested access to miniaturized Scranton Reality Anchors to test their prolonged effects on human beings, particularly on possible relation to altered mental states and the general well-being of operators and civilians. Is there any way to request access to them for testing purposes or have these matters been looked into already? In case this has been tested, when will you publish a paper on it?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. R</em></p> <p>A: Well, from what we've seen on personnel working on <a href="/scp-2000">SCP-2000</a>, Scranton anchors don't seem to have any negative effects in the short term. All such requests for long-term testing would have to be funneled through the Ethics Committee, and all papers produced thus can be published on the SCP Foundation's internal servers (basically the Foundation's private arXiv.)</p> <p><strong>Have any locations or objects with zero or negative Hume values been discovered? What might such values represent?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. T</em></p> <p>A: As of yet, no. In nature, the lowest Hume concentrations we've ever encountered have been in the vicinity of ~.27/.28 H; which, while low, is still quite far from an "absolute zero" concentration. Artificially, we've been able to get concentrations down to .15 H; again, low, but still quite far from that perfect zero. While it is <em>theoretically</em> possible that a zero Hume concentration can exist, it is incredibly unlikely that such a thing can exist naturally in nature or can be artificially created without massive repercussions, as such a thing would not be considered "reality" as we think of (or experience) it. As for negative Humes…we haven't even put any negative numbers on the Kant counter dial, so how would we even know what we're measuring? (And that's ignoring the fact that negative Humes would probably indicate that something's gone <em>horribly</em> wrong in the general structure of the universe, and that, as such, whoever's holding the Kant counter should probably be getting the hell out of Dodge.)</p> <p><strong>It has been mentioned that the SRAs work via "siphoning off" reality from other universes, for lack of a better term. Are there any effects, negative or otherwise, that are known or theorized to be caused by the SRAs outside of their desirable primary effect?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. N</em></p> <p>A: For the universes we're siphoning the reality from, probably quite a lot of negative effects; including, but certainly not limited to: generalized reality breakdown, an increase in anomaly instances, increased reality transparency, an upswing in nonlinear time areas, chronological anomalies, spontaneous localized reality collapse, and a whole host of other things that we haven't even considered. That's why we calibrate our SRAs (nice acronym; I like it) to only drain reality from dead universes. These include universes that are already in their last legs, i.e. undergoing heat death; universes that have been through one of the -K class scenarios (except for IK, for obvious reasons) and thus have no surviving life; and universes that, for whatever reason, had no life, sentient or otherwise, to begin with. While the SRAs likely hasten the death of these universes, it's generally considered an acceptable trade-off since these universes generally have nothing worth protecting, and since there are an infinite supply of other, identical, universes floating around as well. As for other effects of SRAs in <em>our</em> universe…that's a good question, and one that definitely merits a long-term study. As mentioned above with SCP-2000, short-term exposure to SRAs do not appear to have short-term detrimental effects, and no long-term effects have been observed. As for any actual long-term effects from short-term exposure, or effects from long-term exposure…your guess is as good as mine.</p> <p><strong>One of the junior researchers in my department recently theorized that Hume levels propagate in the form of 'reality waves'. Is there any merit to this theory? If so, could an object become 'out of phase' (invisible and incorporeal) with normal reality if its 'reality waves' were out of sync with its surroundings?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. F</em></p> <p>A: From what I can make of it…no. I mean, as quantum physics tells us, <em>all</em> particles have a wavelike nature (and all waves have a particle-like nature.) While there are ways to become out of phase with normal reality, these methods don't directly involve Hume manipulation—you could just pop into another universe, or try to stay in half this universe and half another, or you could change your matter state, or stuff like that. But while these things are cool, they do not, sadly, involve Humes.</p> <p><strong>What is the average Hume level in vanilla humans? In normal reality?</strong><br/> <em>-Researcher W.</em></p> <p>That's a very good question, and one that we've already answered in <a href="/and-this-one-explains-humes">this paper!</a></p> <p><strong>Are there any known reality-benders who can increase or decrease the Hume concentrations in themselves or the surrounding reality at will?</strong><br/> <em>-Researcher W.</em></p> <p>Under the Hume-centric definition of reality bender, all known reality benders exhibit this property (with the possible [?] exception of <a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a>.)</p> <p><strong>If an entity with higher-than-average Humes is a reality-warper, what happens to entities with lower-than-average Hume levels?</strong><br/> <em>-Researcher W.</em></p> <p>Good question! Not much research has been done on these people yet, but the initial results seem to indicate that they are unable to push back against reality, leading to lives that end up being…well, whatever reality wants them to be. These are the stereotypical "charmed" or "cursed" people, and their lives usually end up resembling certain stories or tropes. Out of the five people the preliminary tests followed, one recreated the original Grimm brothers version of "Cinderella" down to the dialog used, one had a string of unusually terrible bad luck (among other things, they owned several thousand dollars worth of shares in Enron, were struck by lightning five times, and lost a finger when their cell phone batteries exploded), two were middle managers, and one had served as an O5 for over fifty years. What this means is still hotly debated, and more research must be done.</p> <p><strong>Since Hume concentration determines the ability to manipulate reality but not the individual states of objects within the area, then SRA's can't actually negate anomalies, right? As in, they can prevent reality benders from making further changes, but they can't actually negate existing anomalies that do not actively require low hume settings or changes in said settings.</strong><br/> <em>-Researcher T.</em></p> <p>Right. SRAs can only fix the ambient Hume level in its area of effect. Most anomalies cataloged so far are not exerting Hume influence on the surrounding area, or indeed demonstrating Hume variance at all, and so SRAs cannot be used as a one-size-fits-all negation device.</p> <p><strong>First, what is the relationship (if any) between Humes and Thaumatological processes (<a href="/goc-supplemental-thaumatology">as outlined in</a> <a href="/goc-supplemental-arad">those seminar transcripts</a> <a href="/goc-supplemental-thaumworkings">we got from</a> <a href="/goc-supplemental-thaumworkings">the GOC</a>)? Can said processes interact with Humes? And finally, does the "Type Green" designation that the Coalition's headgear gives to reality benders have anything to do with their higher hume content?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Sh</em></p> <p>As of this time, research into (obviously inferior!) GOC reality-cum-bender meterology has not yet been implemented. If one's musings are inclined towards such topics, it might prove a fruitful field of further figurations. As for type greens…well, despite the (obviously inferior!) terminology, they are effectively reality benders; as such, all previous musings on the topic can be applied with little to no problems.</p> <p><strong>Are Humes composed of matter? And if so, do they have mass? What state of matter are Humes?</strong><br/> <em>Dr. -Ws</em></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">As far as we can tell, individual Humes are both massless and infinitely massed.</span></p> <p>This is not correct. Humes are not a particle; they are a measurement. See below.</p> <p><strong>Wait, I thought Humes were how reality stability was measured (like degrees and temperature), but now you're telling me they're particles?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Sh</em></p> <p>You are correct; Humes are a measure of reality, not a particle. The previous answer was in error. See above.</p> <p><strong>I'm curious how these two concepts would interact, and indeed whether they are even reconcilable or whether, like some other pairs of theories (I forget which, relativity and quantum mechanics maybe?), they could both be accurate representations of the universe and yet contradict each other: the concept of Hume levels that can be measured on a linear scale, and the concept that the universes within the multiverse are layered on top of one another, with any universes "below" another one constituting what that universe considers "fiction". (Though if you look into the premises behind <a href="/operation-overmeta">Operation OverMeta</a>, they clearly aren't arranged in a neat stack, but more like a fractallizing, spiral web.) So:</strong></p> <p><strong>Q1: As you go down the stack from most real to most fiction-within-a-fictional, would you see a trend in natural Hume levels declining as the realities get less and less real?</strong></p> <p><strong>Q2: Do humans created via <a href="/scp-1304">SCP-1304</a> exhibit abnormal Hume readings? Could a character use a device similar to an SRA to pump themselves full of an <em>insane</em> number of Humes and jump to a higher layer, effectively becoming an author-god to their home universe, but feeling no more powerful because the universe they can now rule just by rewriting it is nothing but a fiction to them?</strong></p> <p><strong>What if a real person tried that?</strong></p> <p><strong>Rambling1: Or could it be the other way around? Perhaps "fictional" universes and the "real" universe existed independently of each other from the start, but those we see as "fiction" are able to bleed into the minds of our world's authors because they're even more real than ours? That would certainly make SCP-1304 make more sense.</strong></p> <p><strong>Rambling2: The potential discrepancy between the theories of linear Hume measurements and layered realities arises when you connect them in reference to universes that aren't stacked, but rather tangled up like a web, as I mentioned earlier. For example, what if I wrote a story about three men, Abel, Brian, and Chris, and said that each wrote a story, and that Brian was a character within Abel's story, and Chris a character in Brian's story (therefore his reality is, to Abel, a story-within-a-story), and yet Abel is a character within Chris' story. How can the three have Hume levels corresponding to their relative levels of reality when each one is simultaneously above and below the other two? Or would they end up all having the same Hume levels? Would the Hume levels be thrown into turbulence by the three realities competing for influence over each other due to their circularly-referential natures?</strong></p> <p><strong>Could that be the source of the anomalous fluctuations in the real world?</strong><br/> <em>-Mister J</em></p> <p>Humes have as much relation to metafiction as fish do to…not-fish? Humes only serve to describe individual realities, and cannot be used to compare separate realities due to their inherently subjective nature. Thus, there is no contradiction between metafiction and Humes; however, Humes also cannot be used to make any observations or assumptions about metafictional constructs.</p> <p><strong>Q: East Asian thaumatologists such as <em>Taoists</em> or <em>Shugenjas</em> prefers to live in the high mountains. Isn't it contradictory to your explanation?</strong><br/> <em>- Dr. Relpek from Korea</em></p> <p>A: While high Hume concentrations make reality bending more difficult, they do not make it impossible. In this case, reality benders who live and train in high-Hume areas got the equivalent of strength training. This made mountains an attractive place to live for reality benders, as it provided a way for them to improve their skills. The practical 90th percentile limit is 6000 metres; however, even after this point, reality bending is possible, if prohibitively difficult. Only at a concentration of 100 Humes is reality bending completely impossible.</p> <p><strong>Q: Then, why the Western thaumatologists didn't do that?</strong><br/> <em>- Dr. Relpek</em></p> <p>A: Most Western wizards were frauds, liars, or not reality benders. While some wizards may have went to mountain ranges such as the Alps for similar reasons, it never developed into a persistent tradition.</p> <p><strong>Q: What does a 0 Hume universe look like? How about a 100 Hume universe?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr L</em></p> <p>There is no absolute Hume scale. This means that a global Hume level of 0 is just the Hume level of the pocket universe we've chosen to be 0. It is the differences between local Hume levels that is responsible for Hume-based phenomena. A universe that has been globally set to an arbitrary value (see below for more on this) will look like our own, only with a greater or lesser imbalance in localized or individual Hume levels (meaning more or less reality bending).</p> <p><strong>Q: Hypothetically, if the Foundation was able to somehow change the universe's Hume levels to 1 for every person, place and thing, would all anomalies cease to exist or at least stop being created?</strong><br/> <em>- An Intern</em></p> <p>No; as mentioned above, it is the differences between localized Hume levels that result in Hume-based phenomena. It has been hypothesized that there is some inherent feature to reality benders that causes them to create a Hume imbalance in their surroundings; without addressing this feature, a Hume imbalance will still exist. In theory, if EVERY part of the universe was fixed at 1 Hume forever then all anomalies that involve Humes would cease to be anomalous; however, we have no ability to even comprehend what would be necessary to fix all Hume readings at the same level, and we have not been able to establish that all anomalies are due solely to Hume-based effects.</p> <p><span style="color: red"><strong>This is a good time to announce that, following extensive study, the global Hume scale has been renormalized to a scale of 0-100! To see this in action, please visit the <a href="/and-this-one-explains-humes">original paper here.</a> For historical reasons mentions of centiHumes on this page have not yet been changed; however, please multiply them by 100 to get the proper Hume levels.</strong></span></p> <p><strong>Q: I've seen above that an entity which hume level is below average lives a really spectacular life. Is <a href="/scp-503">SCP-503</a> one of these examples? Or is it an independent anomaly?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr Hal</em></p> <p>Unfortunately, we have not studied SCP-503, and cannot draw any conclusions either way. More research in this area is definitely needed.</p> <table class="wiki-content-table"> <tr> <th colspan="4"></th> </tr> <tr> <th>From:</th> <td>Dr. Bob Graham</td> <th>To:</th> <td>Doctors James Caldmann and Carlos Rzewski</td> </tr> <tr> <th>Subject:</th> <td colspan="3">Regarding Hume Disturbances</td> </tr> <tr> <th colspan="4"></th> </tr> <tr> <td colspan="4">Q:<br/> <br/> If Humes are altered in such a way that they become distorted and malformed (if possible), can it alter reality? If so, will it create anomalies (be it in phenomena, physical objects and/or entities, memetic anomalies, cognitohazards, etc.), alter certain objects, directly respond to pre-existing Hume-altering anomalies, or just straight up end the world?<br/> <br/> Apologies for the rather long question, but I am doing some crucial research<span style="font-size:0px;">im writing an SCP that does this pls help -baubius</span> right now, and it would be appreciated if you could respond as soon as possible.</td> </tr> </table> <p>In a word, no. Humes are just a measurement scale. What you're proposing is analogous to modifying a Kelvin and making temperature end the world or something. Humes aren't a particle; they're a unit.</p> <p><strong>Q: If two objects that could change Hume levels of those around them tried to changing the Hume level of each other would the changes happen or would both objects be able to cancel out the changing Hume level?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Kostya</em></p> <p>As of now, hume changing anomalies are few and far between, so research is limited. The best answer I can give now is pretty simple, it depends. If two objects used equal amounts of energy to change the hume level of an area to two different values, the value created would be the average of the two (for instance if one wanted to change the value to 100 and 1 to 0, the hume level would change to 50. This means that in specific circumstances hume changing entities can cancel out.) If one object used more energy, the hume field would skew towards its outcome. This is consistent with a tendency for the hume-levels of an area to even out. The generalised formula for this would be:</p> <p>x = e<sub>1</sub>/e<sub>2</sub> * (x<sub>1</sub> + x<sub>2</sub>)/2</p> <p>where x is the produced hume level, e<sub>1</sub> is the energy level of the hume changer which is attempting to create the highest level, e<sub>2</sub> is the energy level of the hume changer which is attempting to create the lowest level, x<sub>1</sub> is the higher hume level and x<sub>2</sub> is the lowest hume level. Basically, as e<sub>1</sub> moves up, the produced hume value also goes up, and as e<sub>2</sub> goes up, the produced hume level goes down.</p> <p><strong>Q: In the previous paper it was stated that there are a few known ways to increase one's own Hume level. However, is it possible to decrease it? If so, could this be used to initiate more research on beings with low Hume levels?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. B</em></p> <p><strong>Q: Are SCPs with inconsistent <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1730">internal topologies</a> or inconsistent <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-455">internal timestreams</a> examples of environments where some anomalous aspect of the site has a reality-bender level of Humes, and is able to reshape the site as it wishes?</strong><br/> <em>-Site-12 Question Box</em></p> <p><strong>Q: If I carried around a device which lowered the hume levels in an area around me and increased my hume levels, would I effectively become a temporary reality bender, and if so, with a strong enough device, could I become more powerful than even <a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a>?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Grey</em></p> <p><strong>Q: Reading through this had to lead to questions about the nature of 'Nobody'. If someone had a perfectly average hume level, could that lead to a person who can't do anything to change the world around them?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Wright</em></p> <p><strong>Q: Where, exactly, were the highest and lowest hume levels ever recorded found?</strong><br/> <em>-Researcher B</em></p> <p><strong>QA: What would "i" value hume level be? Like the square root of negative 1. Would it not exist because "i" doesn't exist?<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup>.</strong></p> <p><strong>QB: Then what about negative "i"? Does a being with negative "i" hume level be less nonexistant than "i" or be the opposite meaning it's more existant than anything.</strong><br/> <em>~Dr. Bone</em></p> <p><strong>Q: Theoretically, could negative humes exist despite their obvious contradiction of Kejel's Laws of Reality?</strong><br/> <em>~Containment Specialist Matism</em></p> <p><strong>Q: You both said that 0 Humes is both absolute zero but also an arbitrary value needed for comparison? Like, which one is it?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Foreman</em></p> <p><strong>Q: You said what activation of <a href="/scp-668">SCP-668</a> temporary rises Hume level to to astronomical (>670 Hm; or 67 Hm? It is become very more worse to understanding after renormalization) levels across all known space. This effect must to interact with other anomalies in all the world, which are related to Humes, is not it? For example, activation of <a href="/scp-668">SCP-668</a> must temporary suppress or make weaken abilities of reality benders and thaumatologists. Also, this activation temporary must make all normal people as people with lower-than-average Hume level, is not it? Or, maybe, information from previous part about <a href="/scp-668">SCP-668</a> is incorrect, partial or simply outdated, and new researches of SCP-668 have shown new details?</strong><br/> <em>-Dr. Murzei</em></p> <p><strong>Q1: Suppose a Reality Bender decides to change the color of an apple in their immediate vicinity, extending their hand but not touching it. What element traveled from their hand to the apple? Could this change in environment be done FTL? (See: being able to alter, from the moon and in less than a second, the color of an apple on Earth).</strong></p> <p><strong>Q2: Knowing that a reality bender passively decreases the Humes around them, what happens when multiple reality benders are in the same place? Will the effect stack with multiple subjects, reaching dangerous levels, Or will it simply adopt measures befitting the most powerful Bender present?</strong><br/> <em>-Site-34 Question Box</em></p> <div class="footnotes-footer"> <div class="title">Footnotes</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-1"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-1')">1</a>. Well "i" does exist but you know what I mean</div> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered">An FAQ Part Two; Or, Your Hume Questions Answered</a>" by Jekeled, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered">https://scpwiki.com/an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Do you, too, have a question (or questions) about Humes? Put them down below and they will be answered. Q: What do areas of high (or low) Hume concentration look like? //-Dr. S// A: An area of low Hume concentration is a very strange place indeed. Without the stability of ordinary reality, regular humans can alter the area to their whim, granting temporary reality bender-like abilities. These should not be confused with the real thing, of course; they are merely a projection of a higher-Hume frame of reference on a lower-Hume environment, and the 'abilities' vanish as soon as the subject leaves the area. In addition, since reality is much less dense in these areas, the incidence of spontaneous anomalies and universe breaches are significantly higher. However, these anomalies/breaches do //not// vanish when taken from the vicinity. The reason for this is unknown at the current time. An area of //high// Hume concentration, on the other hand is a very strange place. To normal humans, it appears vivid and overpowering, a place of a superworldly aura. Remember how the Himalayas have a high Hume concentration? This applies to all mountains—there's a reason they're often sought out as a place of enlightenment. To reality benders, on the other hand, these areas are flat, grey, and earthy. Since the Hume concentration in these areas are usually close to (or higher than) the reality bender's own levels, they have significant trouble exerting their powers in these areas; in some cases being completely restricted from affecting the area. As such, reality benders tend to avoid these areas, instinctively or otherwise; the currently-in-construction Site-35 (augmented with special Scranton anchors and located in the Himalayas) promises to act as effective containment for reality benders when completed. Q: Is it possible for a regular human to become a reality bender? //-Dr. S// A: Yes; and there are many, many rituals and gimmicks that promise to do so. However, the list of actual techniques to do so is very small; and is currently being compiled. Q: Is it possible for animals to have hume fluctuations as well? //-Dr. S// A: Yes! At least one cat is suspected of it, as well as several dogs and some fleas; there is evidence coming in that certain whales may be capable of it as well. It is also hypothesized that inanimate objects are capable of this, but testing has been difficult and the hypothesis is unproven. Q: Do we have any methods by which to test for Hume fluctuations at a great distance, such as interplanetary or further? //-Dr. K// A: At the moment, no. As I understand, a great many options on this front are being tested, but until then, we can only measure Hume concentrations locally. What are our options for detecting reality affecting entities at such distances? //-Dr. K// A: As mentioned above, effectively none. Does being in the vacuum of space alter the nature of Hume variance in any way? //-Dr. K// A: Short answer: No. Longer answer: space is a little strange. Its baseline Hume concentration is slightly higher than Earth concentrations, with the same variations seen on Earth. In fact, it is hypothesized that most of space has a Hume level equal to (or lower than!) Earth's norm, and that galaxies and clusters act as Hume concentration areas in the same way that mountains do here on Earth. However, this is only an educated guess until we can find an actual method of testing it. Are large and low Hume ratings expected to remain unusually high or low in parts or organs of a reality bender when detached or their user becomes deceased? Are there different Hume concentrations in certain organs rather than others? If so, which? //-Dr. R// A: A good question, and one we haven't studied much at this time. Preliminary results seem to indicate that all organ Hume concentrations are higher than the baseline, with the heart, liver, and brain possessing the most concentration; but these levels are not as large as those present in the reality bender when alive. As the reasons for this are unknown, and as the possibility of some freak Hume fluctuation or contamination cannot be crossed out, all of this is speculation at the moment, and needs to be verified by further research. Are there any noise or interfering "background signals" when measuring Hume concentrations in areas supposed to be "clean" of reality-bending effects? //-Dr. R// A: Yes! Basically, what we've seen is that in a completely isolated area freed of outside influences, the baseline Hume concentration seems to fluctuate up to +/- 9 centiHumes. So two readings taken in the same place in different times can yield significantly different Hume concentrations. The reason behind this phenomenon, by the way, is unknown at this time. Has any cognitohazardous, infohazardous or memetic effect been related to alterations in Hume ratings? (To clarify: this is a question on the respective effects these agents have //on human psyche and brain chemistry//, and not on the various anomalous effects affected individuals may display after being exposed to them; that is, can information alone and its knowledge change Hume ratings?) //-Dr. R// A: No, none of the above materials or effects have been linked to Hume concentrations. It appears that these effects do not affect the local reality, instead creating changes solely in the affected person's thought processes and brain. However, the anomalous effects displayed //after// exposure can (and have) multiple effects on Hume concentrations (see [[[SCP-1425]]] for more information on this.) Finally, this is partly a request. Several medical doctors and health officers of the Foundation Medical Branch have requested access to miniaturized Scranton Reality Anchors to test their prolonged effects on human beings, particularly on possible relation to altered mental states and the general well-being of operators and civilians. Is there any way to request access to them for testing purposes or have these matters been looked into already? In case this has been tested, when will you publish a paper on it? //-Dr. R// A: Well, from what we've seen on personnel working on [[[SCP-2000]]], Scranton anchors don't seem to have any negative effects in the short term. All such requests for long-term testing would have to be funneled through the Ethics Committee, and all papers produced thus can be published on the SCP Foundation's internal servers (basically the Foundation's private arXiv.) Have any locations or objects with zero or negative Hume values been discovered? What might such values represent? //-Dr. T// A: As of yet, no. In nature, the lowest Hume concentrations we've ever encountered have been in the vicinity of ~.27/.28 H; which, while low, is still quite far from an "absolute zero" concentration. Artificially, we've been able to get concentrations down to .15 H; again, low, but still quite far from that perfect zero. While it is //theoretically// possible that a zero Hume concentration can exist, it is incredibly unlikely that such a thing can exist naturally in nature or can be artificially created without massive repercussions, as such a thing would not be considered "reality" as we think of (or experience) it. As for negative Humes...we haven't even put any negative numbers on the Kant counter dial, so how would we even know what we're measuring? (And that's ignoring the fact that negative Humes would probably indicate that something's gone //horribly// wrong in the general structure of the universe, and that, as such, whoever's holding the Kant counter should probably be getting the hell out of Dodge.) It has been mentioned that the SRAs work via "siphoning off" reality from other universes, for lack of a better term. Are there any effects, negative or otherwise, that are known or theorized to be caused by the SRAs outside of their desirable primary effect? //-Dr. N// A: For the universes we're siphoning the reality from, probably quite a lot of negative effects; including, but certainly not limited to: generalized reality breakdown, an increase in anomaly instances, increased reality transparency, an upswing in nonlinear time areas, chronological anomalies, spontaneous localized reality collapse, and a whole host of other things that we haven't even considered. That's why we calibrate our SRAs (nice acronym; I like it) to only drain reality from dead universes. These include universes that are already in their last legs, i.e. undergoing heat death; universes that have been through one of the -K class scenarios (except for IK, for obvious reasons) and thus have no surviving life; and universes that, for whatever reason, had no life, sentient or otherwise, to begin with. While the SRAs likely hasten the death of these universes, it's generally considered an acceptable trade-off since these universes generally have nothing worth protecting, and since there are an infinite supply of other, identical, universes floating around as well. As for other effects of SRAs in //our// universe...that's a good question, and one that definitely merits a long-term study. As mentioned above with SCP-2000, short-term exposure to SRAs do not appear to have short-term detrimental effects, and no long-term effects have been observed. As for any actual long-term effects from short-term exposure, or effects from long-term exposure...your guess is as good as mine. One of the junior researchers in my department recently theorized that Hume levels propagate in the form of 'reality waves'. Is there any merit to this theory? If so, could an object become 'out of phase' (invisible and incorporeal) with normal reality if its 'reality waves' were out of sync with its surroundings? //-Dr. F// A: From what I can make of it...no. I mean, as quantum physics tells us, //all// particles have a wavelike nature (and all waves have a particle-like nature.) While there are ways to become out of phase with normal reality, these methods don't directly involve Hume manipulation—you could just pop into another universe, or try to stay in half this universe and half another, or you could change your matter state, or stuff like that. But while these things are cool, they do not, sadly, involve Humes. What is the average Hume level in vanilla humans? In normal reality? //-Researcher W.// That's a very good question, and one that we've already answered in [[[and-this-one-explains-humes \|this paper!]]] Are there any known reality-benders who can increase or decrease the Hume concentrations in themselves or the surrounding reality at will? //-Researcher W.// Under the Hume-centric definition of reality bender, all known reality benders exhibit this property (with the possible [?] exception of [[[SCP-343]]].) If an entity with higher-than-average Humes is a reality-warper, what happens to entities with lower-than-average Hume levels? //-Researcher W.// Good question! Not much research has been done on these people yet, but the initial results seem to indicate that they are unable to push back against reality, leading to lives that end up being...well, whatever reality wants them to be. These are the stereotypical "charmed" or "cursed" people, and their lives usually end up resembling certain stories or tropes. Out of the five people the preliminary tests followed, one recreated the original Grimm brothers version of "Cinderella" down to the dialog used, one had a string of unusually terrible bad luck (among other things, they owned several thousand dollars worth of shares in Enron, were struck by lightning five times, and lost a finger when their cell phone batteries exploded), two were middle managers, and one had served as an O5 for over fifty years. What this means is still hotly debated, and more research must be done. Since Hume concentration determines the ability to manipulate reality but not the individual states of objects within the area, then SRA's can't actually negate anomalies, right? As in, they can prevent reality benders from making further changes, but they can't actually negate existing anomalies that do not actively require low hume settings or changes in said settings. //-Researcher T.// Right. SRAs can only fix the ambient Hume level in its area of effect. Most anomalies cataloged so far are not exerting Hume influence on the surrounding area, or indeed demonstrating Hume variance at all, and so SRAs cannot be used as a one-size-fits-all negation device. First, what is the relationship (if any) between Humes and Thaumatological processes ([[[goc-supplemental-thaumatology \|as outlined in]]] [[[goc-supplemental-arad \|those seminar transcripts]]] [[[goc-supplemental-thaumworkings \|we got from]]] [[[goc-supplemental-thaumworkings \|the GOC]]])? Can said processes interact with Humes? And finally, does the "Type Green" designation that the Coalition's headgear gives to reality benders have anything to do with their higher hume content? //-Dr. Sh// As of this time, research into (obviously inferior!) GOC reality-cum-bender meterology has not yet been implemented. If one's musings are inclined towards such topics, it might prove a fruitful field of further figurations. As for type greens...well, despite the (obviously inferior!) terminology, they are effectively reality benders; as such, all previous musings on the topic can be applied with little to no problems. Are Humes composed of matter? And if so, do they have mass? What state of matter are Humes? //Dr. -Ws// --As far as we can tell, individual Humes are both massless and infinitely massed.-- This is not correct. Humes are not a particle; they are a measurement. See below. Wait, I thought Humes were how reality stability was measured (like degrees and temperature), but now you're telling me they're particles? //-Dr. Sh// You are correct; Humes are a measure of reality, not a particle. The previous answer was in error. See above. I'm curious how these two concepts would interact, and indeed whether they are even reconcilable or whether, like some other pairs of theories (I forget which, relativity and quantum mechanics maybe?), they could both be accurate representations of the universe and yet contradict each other: the concept of Hume levels that can be measured on a linear scale, and the concept that the universes within the multiverse are layered on top of one another, with any universes "below" another one constituting what that universe considers "fiction". (Though if you look into the premises behind [[[operation-overmeta\|Operation OverMeta]]], they clearly aren't arranged in a neat stack, but more like a fractallizing, spiral web.) So: Q1: As you go down the stack from most real to most fiction-within-a-fictional, would you see a trend in natural Hume levels declining as the realities get less and less real? Q2: Do humans created via [[[SCP-1304]]] exhibit abnormal Hume readings? Could a character use a device similar to an SRA to pump themselves full of an //insane// number of Humes and jump to a higher layer, effectively becoming an author-god to their home universe, but feeling no more powerful because the universe they can now rule just by rewriting it is nothing but a fiction to them? What if a real person tried that? Rambling1: Or could it be the other way around? Perhaps "fictional" universes and the "real" universe existed independently of each other from the start, but those we see as "fiction" are able to bleed into the minds of our world's authors because they're even more real than ours? That would certainly make SCP-1304 make more sense. Rambling2: The potential discrepancy between the theories of linear Hume measurements and layered realities arises when you connect them in reference to universes that aren't stacked, but rather tangled up like a web, as I mentioned earlier. For example, what if I wrote a story about three men, Abel, Brian, and Chris, and said that each wrote a story, and that Brian was a character within Abel's story, and Chris a character in Brian's story (therefore his reality is, to Abel, a story-within-a-story), and yet Abel is a character within Chris' story. How can the three have Hume levels corresponding to their relative levels of reality when each one is simultaneously above and below the other two? Or would they end up all having the same Hume levels? Would the Hume levels be thrown into turbulence by the three realities competing for influence over each other due to their circularly-referential natures? Could that be the source of the anomalous fluctuations in the real world? //-Mister J// Humes have as much relation to metafiction as fish do to...not-fish? Humes only serve to describe individual realities, and cannot be used to compare separate realities due to their inherently subjective nature. Thus, there is no contradiction between metafiction and Humes; however, Humes also cannot be used to make any observations or assumptions about metafictional constructs. Q: East Asian thaumatologists such as //Taoists// or //Shugenjas// prefers to live in the high mountains. Isn't it contradictory to your explanation? //- Dr. Relpek from Korea// A: While high Hume concentrations make reality bending more difficult, they do not make it impossible. In this case, reality benders who live and train in high-Hume areas got the equivalent of strength training. This made mountains an attractive place to live for reality benders, as it provided a way for them to improve their skills. The practical 90th percentile limit is 6000 metres; however, even after this point, reality bending is possible, if prohibitively difficult. Only at a concentration of 100 Humes is reality bending completely impossible. Q: Then, why the Western thaumatologists didn't do that? //- Dr. Relpek// A: Most Western wizards were frauds, liars, or not reality benders. While some wizards may have went to mountain ranges such as the Alps for similar reasons, it never developed into a persistent tradition. Q: What does a 0 Hume universe look like? How about a 100 Hume universe? //-Dr L// There is no absolute Hume scale. This means that a global Hume level of 0 is just the Hume level of the pocket universe we've chosen to be 0. It is the differences between local Hume levels that is responsible for Hume-based phenomena. A universe that has been globally set to an arbitrary value (see below for more on this) will look like our own, only with a greater or lesser imbalance in localized or individual Hume levels (meaning more or less reality bending). Q: Hypothetically, if the Foundation was able to somehow change the universe's Hume levels to 1 for every person, place and thing, would all anomalies cease to exist or at least stop being created? //- An Intern// No; as mentioned above, it is the differences between localized Hume levels that result in Hume-based phenomena. It has been hypothesized that there is some inherent feature to reality benders that causes them to create a Hume imbalance in their surroundings; without addressing this feature, a Hume imbalance will still exist. In theory, if EVERY part of the universe was fixed at 1 Hume forever then all anomalies that involve Humes would cease to be anomalous; however, we have no ability to even comprehend what would be necessary to fix all Hume readings at the same level, and we have not been able to establish that all anomalies are due solely to Hume-based effects. ##red \| This is a good time to announce that, following extensive study, the global Hume scale has been renormalized to a scale of 0-100! To see this in action, please visit the [[[and-this-one-explains-humes \|original paper here.]]] For historical reasons mentions of centiHumes on this page have not yet been changed; however, please multiply them by 100 to get the proper Hume levels.## Q: I've seen above that an entity which hume level is below average lives a really spectacular life. Is [[[SCP-503]]] one of these examples? Or is it an independent anomaly? //-Dr Hal// Unfortunately, we have not studied SCP-503, and cannot draw any conclusions either way. More research in this area is definitely needed. \|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|~ \|\| \|\|~ From: \|\| Dr. Bob Graham \|\|~ To: \|\| Doctors James Caldmann and Carlos Rzewski \|\| \|\|~ Subject: \|\|\|\|\|\| Regarding Hume Disturbances \|\| \|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|~ \|\| \|\|\|\|\|\|\|\| Q: _ _ If Humes are altered in such a way that they become distorted and malformed (if possible), can it alter reality? If so, will it create anomalies (be it in phenomena, physical objects and/or entities, memetic anomalies, cognitohazards, etc.), alter certain objects, directly respond to pre-existing Hume-altering anomalies, or just straight up end the world? _ _ Apologies for the rather long question, but I am doing some crucial research[[size 0px]]im writing an SCP that does this pls help -baubius[[/size]] right now, and it would be appreciated if you could respond as soon as possible. \|\| In a word, no. Humes are just a measurement scale. What you're proposing is analogous to modifying a Kelvin and making temperature end the world or something. Humes aren't a particle; they're a unit. Q: If two objects that could change Hume levels of those around them tried to changing the Hume level of each other would the changes happen or would both objects be able to cancel out the changing Hume level? //-Dr. Kostya// As of now, hume changing anomalies are few and far between, so research is limited. The best answer I can give now is pretty simple, it depends. If two objects used equal amounts of energy to change the hume level of an area to two different values, the value created would be the average of the two (for instance if one wanted to change the value to 100 and 1 to 0, the hume level would change to 50. This means that in specific circumstances hume changing entities can cancel out.) If one object used more energy, the hume field would skew towards its outcome. This is consistent with a tendency for the hume-levels of an area to even out. The generalised formula for this would be: x = e,,1,,/e,,2,, * (x,,1,, + x,,2,,)/2 where x is the produced hume level, e,,1,, is the energy level of the hume changer which is attempting to create the highest level, e,,2,, is the energy level of the hume changer which is attempting to create the lowest level, x,,1,, is the higher hume level and x,,2,, is the lowest hume level. Basically, as e,,1,, moves up, the produced hume value also goes up, and as e,,2,, goes up, the produced hume level goes down. Q: In the previous paper it was stated that there are a few known ways to increase one's own Hume level. However, is it possible to decrease it? If so, could this be used to initiate more research on beings with low Hume levels? //-Dr. B// Q: Are SCPs with inconsistent [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1730 internal topologies] or inconsistent [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-455 internal timestreams] examples of environments where some anomalous aspect of the site has a reality-bender level of Humes, and is able to reshape the site as it wishes? //-Site-12 Question Box// Q: If I carried around a device which lowered the hume levels in an area around me and increased my hume levels, would I effectively become a temporary reality bender, and if so, with a strong enough device, could I become more powerful than even [[[SCP-343]]]? //-Dr. Grey// Q: Reading through this had to lead to questions about the nature of 'Nobody'. If someone had a perfectly average hume level, could that lead to a person who can't do anything to change the world around them? //-Dr. Wright// Q: Where, exactly, were the highest and lowest hume levels ever recorded found? //-Researcher B// QA: What would "i" value hume level be? Like the square root of negative 1. Would it not exist because "i" doesn't exist? [[footnote]] Well "i" does exist but you know what I mean[[/footnote]]. QB: Then what about negative "i"? Does a being with negative "i" hume level be less nonexistant than "i" or be the opposite meaning it's more existant than anything. //~Dr. Bone// Q: Theoretically, could negative humes exist despite their obvious contradiction of Kejel's Laws of Reality? //~Containment Specialist Matism// Q: You both said that 0 Humes is both absolute zero but also an arbitrary value needed for comparison? Like, which one is it? //-Dr. Foreman// Q: You said what activation of [[[SCP-668]]] temporary rises Hume level to to astronomical (>670 Hm; or 67 Hm? It is become very more worse to understanding after renormalization) levels across all known space. This effect must to interact with other anomalies in all the world, which are related to Humes, is not it? For example, activation of [[[SCP-668]]] must temporary suppress or make weaken abilities of reality benders and thaumatologists. Also, this activation temporary must make all normal people as people with lower-than-average Hume level, is not it? Or, maybe, information from previous part about [[[SCP-668]]] is incorrect, partial or simply outdated, and new researches of SCP-668 have shown new details? //-Dr. Murzei// Q1: Suppose a Reality Bender decides to change the color of an apple in their immediate vicinity, extending their hand but not touching it. What element traveled from their hand to the apple? Could this change in environment be done FTL? (See: being able to alter, from the moon and in less than a second, the color of an apple on Earth). Q2: Knowing that a reality bender passively decreases the Humes around them, what happens when multiple reality benders are in the same place? Will the effect stack with multiple subjects, reaching dangerous levels, Or will it simply adopt measures befitting the most powerful Bender present? //-Site-34 Question Box// [[footnoteblock]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-08-23T06:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "collaboration", "science-fiction", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	An FAQ Part Two; Or, Your Hume Questions Answered - SCP Foundation	283	[ "scp-1425", "scp-2000", "and-this-one-explains-humes", "scp-343", "goc-supplemental-thaumatology", "goc-supplemental-arad", "goc-supplemental-thaumworkings", "operation-overmeta", "scp-1304", "scp-503", "scp-1730", "scp-455", "scp-668", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	23387733	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered
anart-antics	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Jakeob Aldon stared at her bathroom ceiling, reclined so far into the <a href="/scp-1974">bathtub</a> that only her face breached the surface. She was beginning to regret her latest purchase. Damn her impatience. If she had just taken the time to learn how to copy her consciousness and bind it to an inanimate object, her life would have been so much easier. But instead she took the quick route, the lazy path, and bought this stupid American tub with its stupid Russian water. And they wouldn't even tell her how they came to be, all they would ever talk about was communism and America and Mother Russia and blah blah blah blah blah-</p> <p>"If you two don't shut up, I swear to God I will turn you into a fucking toilet."</p> <p>"Sir- ma'am- whatever I should be calling you. I am an ass man. I would welcome this change. Shit in this commie's stupid-"</p> <p>At least Aldon could say she learned a lesson from it all. Do your own leg work. Research like a proper anartist. Or you would end up with two idiots yammering into your brain. The Library was always open, all she had to do was wander in. She lifted herself into a stand and bade the duo a halfhearted farewell. They, of course, ignored her to talk about more inane bullshit. She dried herself off with a thankfully non-sapient towel and dressed in clothes that lacked even a hint of sentience. As things should be.</p> <p>Shutting the door behind her made her feel a little better, put that much more between her and her giant mistake. At least the rest of her apartment was welcoming. A tiny space, packed with random anartistic garbage amassed between her and her roommate, Finnegan. Small moving statues, speaking paintings, CDs filled with mood-altering music. Bags of clay, stacks of pallets, sacks of concrete mix, buckets upon buckets of paint. It was a sty, but it was <em>their</em> sty. It was home.</p> <p>Staring at his computer monitor was Finnegan, his ever-present beret displaced by the sound-cancelling headphones covering his ears. Finnegan was palming an old bathtub plug, spinning it in his fingers. Aldon skirted through the minefield of art supplies and flicked off the beret. It took several seconds for Finnegan to notice.</p> <p>"Oh, hey, Allie." An eyebrow rose slowly. "What's the matter with you?"</p> <p>"Stupid goddamn bathtub," she pouted.</p> <p>"I told you," he sang knowingly. "It is pretty funny, you have to admit."</p> <p>Aldon just crossed her arms and sulked.</p> <p>Fingers danced across the keyboard as Finnegan saved and closed his latest audio project. He grabbed his beret and pressed it into Aldon's face while he removed his headphones. Aldon laughed, but swiped at him out of mock irritation all the same. The roommates exchanged a series of playful punches before Finnegan donned his hat again.</p> <p>"Ready to go?" he asked, still smirking.</p> <p>"As ever."</p> <p>The artistic duo left their little apartment, making sure to lock up behind themselves. Outside of their personal alcove, they were out in the real world. Where they were supposed to be responsible adults. They walked adult strides, spoke of adult topics. Like sports, taxes, and the weather. How about that weather. It sure was weathering. And those taxes sure were taxing. Not to mention just how sporting those sports were.</p> <p>The responsible duo entered the library and dropped their conversation. One had to respect the rules of the library, capital L or not. They wandered through the aisles until they reached their destination. A quick perusal of the shelf and Aldon plucked a specific tome from its brethren. It was even halfway out, as if it knew it was the one she wanted. One <em>Atlas Shrugged</em>. She flipped open the book to a random page, made sure the coast was clear, and cleared her throat.</p> <p>"Man, this is one interesting book," she said, without a hint of sarcasm. That was the important bit. "I'm really glad I found it!"</p> <p>She snapped the book shut and slid it halfway back into place. She then gripped the spine and twisted. The book spun with her hand, and she gave it a light push. The bookshelf bent inwards as space twisted open into a portal. Finnegan giggled as he always did and hurried in, Aldon right behind him. With a gentle nudge the door was shut again, and space collapsed back into a state of normalcy, the book still sticking out by several inches.</p> <p>Inside the Wanderer's Library, Finnegan and Aldon felt more at ease. It was their home away from home, where they were free to be their goofy selves so long as they followed the five core tenets. Return your books on time. Don't damage books. Don't steal books. Don't damage Library property. Don't harm those within the Library. Easy enough, though they had to remind themselves not to indulge in their usual roughhousing for fear of it breaking the fifth rule.</p> <p>The Library itself loomed above, below, and all around them in its grand omniscience. Doors surrounded them in the small marble lobby, each representing more common Ways to reach the Library. Separating the lobby from their branch of the Library was an Archivist, one with its chair. Beyond that was a branching staircase that led to the different sections of the Library, which paid no mind to the primitive concept of gravity. Aldon looked up and saw a man who appeared to be sitting upside down, reading a book against the shelf he found it. A Page read over his shoulder as it stocked the shelves. On another floor, a Docent strode perpendicular to them, leading another Wanderer to her destination. Beyond the spiraling mess that was this branch, seemingly hovering in the distance, was another branch of the Library, containing all the knowledge of another reality. Beyond even that lay more branches, twisting and turning and intertwining amongst each other, often only a hair's breadth apart.</p> <p>The two Wanderers approached the Archivist. Finnegan cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but when the unseeing Librarian turned to look at him he faltered into a mumble. He had never been particularly comfortable with the Librarians.</p> <p>"Can I help you?" it asked. Its breath matched the scent of a freshly printed novel.</p> <p>"We're looking for a book that can teach us to make our own Ways," Aldon said. "We've been using a common one, but we need to transport something and it's too inconvenient otherwise."</p> <p>Silence fell as the Archivist thought. "Will this cargo cause damage to the Library, its contents, or its occupants?"</p> <p>"No. It's just a tub. Well, a talking tub. We need to get it to Japan."</p> <p>There was a slight twitch in the Archivist's face. Aldon allowed herself a smile, since it wouldn't catch her doing so.</p> <p>"Very well." It lifted a long finger, and without looking it pointed in what seemed a random direction above it. "Up three floors, on the left. Third row, eighth shelf. A book titled <em>A Wanderer's Guide</em>, by Lucifer. Do you require a Docent to help you find it?"</p> <p>Finnegan frantically shook his head, his beret sliding to and fro. Aldon stifled a giggle and replied with, "No, I think we'll be alright. Thank you."</p> <p>The Archivist nodded. "Enjoy your stay. Mind the rules."</p> <p>"Of course."</p> <hr/> <p>Several weeks later Finnegan and Aldon found themselves in Japan. They had taken up pseudo-residence in the warehouse the competition was being held in, as had several other artists while they finished their <a href="/scp-2015">works</a>. One artist was occupied trying to find a way to make his chainsaws remain active. Another was attempting to unwind by playing the piano making up part of his piece. The event's creator, also a participant, was actively avoiding his wife.</p> <p>Finnegan was sitting atop an abnormally large tortoise, his nose buried in a book. The tortoise, for whatever reason, was wearing his beret. Aldon sat against the bathtub, toying with some pots and pans. This activity had nothing to do with her extreme exhaustion, or so she would tell you. The sound of sandals flipping and flopping disrupted her potting and panning as a man in a Hawaiian T-shirt approached their work area.</p> <p>"Hi there," the man said. Aldon looked up at him with an expression she hoped conveyed her irritation. She either failed, or the man simply didn't care. He adjusted his stupid fedora sitting on his goofy-looking red hair. "A joint project, eh? What are you guys working on?"</p> <p>"We're gonna use this piece of shit to power a giant turtle with waterjet cannons," Aldon said, banging a skillet on the side of the tub.</p> <p>"Tortoise," Finnegan corrected without looking up.</p> <p>Aldon pointed a pan in Finnegan's direction. "Fuck you, turtles are the ones in water."</p> <p>"But the model you showed me was a tortoise," Finnegan said while half-yawning. "We got the tortoise I'm sitting on so we could see how one moves."</p> <p>"What? No, I didn't." Aldon fell onto her side as she reached for the small mock sculpture she had made. Still on her side, she held it up to the man in the Hawaiian shirt, which clearly qualified him to speak on the situation. "This is a turtle, right?"</p> <p>"It's a tortoise. Turtles have flatter, lighter shells and have webbed feet." The fedora-wearer hovered over the bathtub. "What's the tub do?"</p> <p>"I made a fucking tortoise. What? Oh, it makes infinite water. Stick your hand in it."</p> <p>The man did so without a second thought. His eyebrows rose for a moment, and he waited. He listened. He withdrew his hand and placed both hands on the rim of the bathtub. Aldon watched his mouth tug back and forth before he looked down at her.</p> <p>"I could kill this for you. After the competition, of course."</p> <p>"Ha!" Aldon found herself taking a small liking to the man. He didn't look familiar, but it was entirely possible she had spoken with him before. Faces ran together in events like this for her. Probably had something to do with the soul crushing stress and the mind numbing lack of sleep. Maybe. "Thanks, but as dumb as they are, I don't want them dead."</p> <p>"Well, I could still take it off your hands. I have some old friends who would love it." He waved his hand around as if he could pluck the phrase he was searching for from the air. "They're obsessive collectors, so to speak."</p> <p>"They can have it, then. Thanks." Aldon finally pushed herself back into a sitting position, craning her neck to look around. "So which is yours?"</p> <p>"Oh, I'm not competing. I'm just a Nobody who felt like watching."</p> <p>"Hmm." Aldon felt like there was something she was missing, but was too tired to care. "Well, anyway, if you'll excuse me. I have to figure out how to make a pressurized water tank out of a rice cooker."</p> <p>"Already did that," Finnegan called from the tortoise. His voice seemed quieter with the stranger around, the book even closer to his face than before. "You should start mixing the concrete."</p> <p>Aldon jerked around as she looked at all the crap they had lying around. "When the hell did you do that?"</p> <p>"Yesterday? I think? Hey, where's my hat?" Finnegan fell off the tortoise unceremoniously in an attempt to find said hat, asleep by the time he hit the ground.</p> <p>Nobody chuckled. "You guys are a bit over your heads, eh?"</p> <p>Aldon snored in response.</p> <hr/> <p>The crowd of artists roared in anticipation as the siren went off. Two anartistic monstrosities were positioned opposite each other in the ring, marked as a giant circle with a boxing glove holding a paint brush in the center. A giant stone platypus standing at 14 meters tall faced against a concrete <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">turtle</span> tortoise with a pair of metal tubes protruding from its shell, coming up to an even 16 meters tall.</p> <p>Aldon and Finnegan almost had to lean against each other just to stay standing. They had done it, but only barely. The announcer declared the battle was about to begin, and that the artists were to activate their respective mechas.</p> <p>"Can you do it?" Finnegan mumbled.</p> <p>Aldon should have seen that coming, really. "You made the thing, you should do it first."</p> <p>"I don't want to have to do it in front of-"</p> <p>"Oh, get over it. C'mon. You say one thing, and it's a funny thing, and then you just think the rest. No having to talk to the scary people."</p> <p>He held the bathtub plug in his hand, twisting his wrist to make the small chain spin. He sighed, spun his beret around, and took a deep breath.</p> <p>"I choose you! Copyright Infringement!"</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/learning-the-alphabet-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/boron-blisters">Boron Blisters</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/anart-antics">Anart Antics</a>" by TwistedGears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/anart-antics">https://scpwiki.com/anart-antics</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Jakeob Aldon stared at her bathroom ceiling, reclined so far into the [[[scp-1974\|bathtub]]] that only her face breached the surface. She was beginning to regret her latest purchase. Damn her impatience. If she had just taken the time to learn how to copy her consciousness and bind it to an inanimate object, her life would have been so much easier. But instead she took the quick route, the lazy path, and bought this stupid American tub with its stupid Russian water. And they wouldn't even tell her how they came to be, all they would ever talk about was communism and America and Mother Russia and blah blah blah blah blah- "If you two don't shut up, I swear to God I will turn you into a fucking toilet." "Sir- ma'am- whatever I should be calling you. I am an ass man. I would welcome this change. Shit in this commie's stupid-" At least Aldon could say she learned a lesson from it all. Do your own leg work. Research like a proper anartist. Or you would end up with two idiots yammering into your brain. The Library was always open, all she had to do was wander in. She lifted herself into a stand and bade the duo a halfhearted farewell. They, of course, ignored her to talk about more inane bullshit. She dried herself off with a thankfully non-sapient towel and dressed in clothes that lacked even a hint of sentience. As things should be. Shutting the door behind her made her feel a little better, put that much more between her and her giant mistake. At least the rest of her apartment was welcoming. A tiny space, packed with random anartistic garbage amassed between her and her roommate, Finnegan. Small moving statues, speaking paintings, CDs filled with mood-altering music. Bags of clay, stacks of pallets, sacks of concrete mix, buckets upon buckets of paint. It was a sty, but it was //their// sty. It was home. Staring at his computer monitor was Finnegan, his ever-present beret displaced by the sound-cancelling headphones covering his ears. Finnegan was palming an old bathtub plug, spinning it in his fingers. Aldon skirted through the minefield of art supplies and flicked off the beret. It took several seconds for Finnegan to notice. "Oh, hey, Allie." An eyebrow rose slowly. "What's the matter with you?" "Stupid goddamn bathtub," she pouted. "I told you," he sang knowingly. "It is pretty funny, you have to admit." Aldon just crossed her arms and sulked. Fingers danced across the keyboard as Finnegan saved and closed his latest audio project. He grabbed his beret and pressed it into Aldon's face while he removed his headphones. Aldon laughed, but swiped at him out of mock irritation all the same. The roommates exchanged a series of playful punches before Finnegan donned his hat again. "Ready to go?" he asked, still smirking. "As ever." The artistic duo left their little apartment, making sure to lock up behind themselves. Outside of their personal alcove, they were out in the real world. Where they were supposed to be responsible adults. They walked adult strides, spoke of adult topics. Like sports, taxes, and the weather. How about that weather. It sure was weathering. And those taxes sure were taxing. Not to mention just how sporting those sports were. The responsible duo entered the library and dropped their conversation. One had to respect the rules of the library, capital L or not. They wandered through the aisles until they reached their destination. A quick perusal of the shelf and Aldon plucked a specific tome from its brethren. It was even halfway out, as if it knew it was the one she wanted. One //Atlas Shrugged//. She flipped open the book to a random page, made sure the coast was clear, and cleared her throat. "Man, this is one interesting book," she said, without a hint of sarcasm. That was the important bit. "I'm really glad I found it!" She snapped the book shut and slid it halfway back into place. She then gripped the spine and twisted. The book spun with her hand, and she gave it a light push. The bookshelf bent inwards as space twisted open into a portal. Finnegan giggled as he always did and hurried in, Aldon right behind him. With a gentle nudge the door was shut again, and space collapsed back into a state of normalcy, the book still sticking out by several inches. Inside the Wanderer's Library, Finnegan and Aldon felt more at ease. It was their home away from home, where they were free to be their goofy selves so long as they followed the five core tenets. Return your books on time. Don't damage books. Don't steal books. Don't damage Library property. Don't harm those within the Library. Easy enough, though they had to remind themselves not to indulge in their usual roughhousing for fear of it breaking the fifth rule. The Library itself loomed above, below, and all around them in its grand omniscience. Doors surrounded them in the small marble lobby, each representing more common Ways to reach the Library. Separating the lobby from their branch of the Library was an Archivist, one with its chair. Beyond that was a branching staircase that led to the different sections of the Library, which paid no mind to the primitive concept of gravity. Aldon looked up and saw a man who appeared to be sitting upside down, reading a book against the shelf he found it. A Page read over his shoulder as it stocked the shelves. On another floor, a Docent strode perpendicular to them, leading another Wanderer to her destination. Beyond the spiraling mess that was this branch, seemingly hovering in the distance, was another branch of the Library, containing all the knowledge of another reality. Beyond even that lay more branches, twisting and turning and intertwining amongst each other, often only a hair's breadth apart. The two Wanderers approached the Archivist. Finnegan cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but when the unseeing Librarian turned to look at him he faltered into a mumble. He had never been particularly comfortable with the Librarians. "Can I help you?" it asked. Its breath matched the scent of a freshly printed novel. "We're looking for a book that can teach us to make our own Ways," Aldon said. "We've been using a common one, but we need to transport something and it's too inconvenient otherwise." Silence fell as the Archivist thought. "Will this cargo cause damage to the Library, its contents, or its occupants?" "No. It's just a tub. Well, a talking tub. We need to get it to Japan." There was a slight twitch in the Archivist's face. Aldon allowed herself a smile, since it wouldn't catch her doing so. "Very well." It lifted a long finger, and without looking it pointed in what seemed a random direction above it. "Up three floors, on the left. Third row, eighth shelf. A book titled //A Wanderer's Guide//, by Lucifer. Do you require a Docent to help you find it?" Finnegan frantically shook his head, his beret sliding to and fro. Aldon stifled a giggle and replied with, "No, I think we'll be alright. Thank you." The Archivist nodded. "Enjoy your stay. Mind the rules." "Of course." ---- Several weeks later Finnegan and Aldon found themselves in Japan. They had taken up pseudo-residence in the warehouse the competition was being held in, as had several other artists while they finished their [[[scp-2015\|works]]]. One artist was occupied trying to find a way to make his chainsaws remain active. Another was attempting to unwind by playing the piano making up part of his piece. The event's creator, also a participant, was actively avoiding his wife. Finnegan was sitting atop an abnormally large tortoise, his nose buried in a book. The tortoise, for whatever reason, was wearing his beret. Aldon sat against the bathtub, toying with some pots and pans. This activity had nothing to do with her extreme exhaustion, or so she would tell you. The sound of sandals flipping and flopping disrupted her potting and panning as a man in a Hawaiian T-shirt approached their work area. "Hi there," the man said. Aldon looked up at him with an expression she hoped conveyed her irritation. She either failed, or the man simply didn't care. He adjusted his stupid fedora sitting on his goofy-looking red hair. "A joint project, eh? What are you guys working on?" "We're gonna use this piece of shit to power a giant turtle with waterjet cannons," Aldon said, banging a skillet on the side of the tub. "Tortoise," Finnegan corrected without looking up. Aldon pointed a pan in Finnegan's direction. "Fuck you, turtles are the ones in water." "But the model you showed me was a tortoise," Finnegan said while half-yawning. "We got the tortoise I'm sitting on so we could see how one moves." "What? No, I didn't." Aldon fell onto her side as she reached for the small mock sculpture she had made. Still on her side, she held it up to the man in the Hawaiian shirt, which clearly qualified him to speak on the situation. "This is a turtle, right?" "It's a tortoise. Turtles have flatter, lighter shells and have webbed feet." The fedora-wearer hovered over the bathtub. "What's the tub do?" "I made a fucking tortoise. What? Oh, it makes infinite water. Stick your hand in it." The man did so without a second thought. His eyebrows rose for a moment, and he waited. He listened. He withdrew his hand and placed both hands on the rim of the bathtub. Aldon watched his mouth tug back and forth before he looked down at her. "I could kill this for you. After the competition, of course." "Ha!" Aldon found herself taking a small liking to the man. He didn't look familiar, but it was entirely possible she had spoken with him before. Faces ran together in events like this for her. Probably had something to do with the soul crushing stress and the mind numbing lack of sleep. Maybe. "Thanks, but as dumb as they are, I don't want them dead." "Well, I could still take it off your hands. I have some old friends who would love it." He waved his hand around as if he could pluck the phrase he was searching for from the air. "They're obsessive collectors, so to speak." "They can have it, then. Thanks." Aldon finally pushed herself back into a sitting position, craning her neck to look around. "So which is yours?" "Oh, I'm not competing. I'm just a Nobody who felt like watching." "Hmm." Aldon felt like there was something she was missing, but was too tired to care. "Well, anyway, if you'll excuse me. I have to figure out how to make a pressurized water tank out of a rice cooker." "Already did that," Finnegan called from the tortoise. His voice seemed quieter with the stranger around, the book even closer to his face than before. "You should start mixing the concrete." Aldon jerked around as she looked at all the crap they had lying around. "When the hell did you do that?" "Yesterday? I think? Hey, where's my hat?" Finnegan fell off the tortoise unceremoniously in an attempt to find said hat, asleep by the time he hit the ground. Nobody chuckled. "You guys are a bit over your heads, eh?" Aldon snored in response. ---- The crowd of artists roared in anticipation as the siren went off. Two anartistic monstrosities were positioned opposite each other in the ring, marked as a giant circle with a boxing glove holding a paint brush in the center. A giant stone platypus standing at 14 meters tall faced against a concrete --turtle-- tortoise with a pair of metal tubes protruding from its shell, coming up to an even 16 meters tall. Aldon and Finnegan almost had to lean against each other just to stay standing. They had done it, but only barely. The announcer declared the battle was about to begin, and that the artists were to activate their respective mechas. "Can you do it?" Finnegan mumbled. Aldon should have seen that coming, really. "You made the thing, you should do it first." "I don't want to have to do it in front of-" "Oh, get over it. C'mon. You say one thing, and it's a funny thing, and then you just think the rest. No having to talk to the scary people." He held the bathtub plug in his hand, twisting his wrist to make the small chain spin. He sighed, spun his beret around, and took a deep breath. "I choose you! Copyright Infringement!" [[=]] [[[learning-the-alphabet-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Boron Blisters]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-03-25T02:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "aldon", "finnegan", "tale", "uac2014", "wanderers-library" ]	Anart Antics - SCP Foundation	136	[ "scp-1974", "scp-2015", "learning-the-alphabet-hub", "boron-blisters", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "under-appreciated-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "learning-the-alphabet-hub", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "acidverse" ]	[]	21820309	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/anart-antics
and-he-will-crash-upon-the-rocks	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">The pulsing shriek continued below me </span><br/> It is often said that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. There is truth to that statement, to be sure, though it differs from the frenetic memory slideshow people envision their brain playing in the moments before or during their demise. In death, your life experiences are not confined to the substantially limited two and a half petabytes or so of memory your brain offers. Your life "flashes before your eyes" because you are suddenly gifted with the ability to recall everything you've ever seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched, now that you are unburdened with the heavy responsibility of life and its severe limitations. This is when you learn the difference between knowing, and <em>Knowing</em>, between knowledge and <em>Knowledge</em>. You become Light; a beacon in the darkness, a possible courier for a Child who sleeps and dreams of your existence. You will become a Messenger for the Child, or you can forsake that role as I did. <p>That is why I still Knew dread when I came back to my Home, though I had witnessed the birth and death of many stars since I last visited. Memories had become Knowledge which could not fade or be forgotten, and I had no one to blame but myself for straying close enough to Know the shrieking, writhing call of Broken Light. I spent countless eons of existence as a Stray, ignoring and fleeing the pull of the Child and my supposed purpose, but I was always powerless when it came to Broken Light; Light that has been shattered or twisted through unnatural means. I imagine that compulsive force was a purposeful failsafe from the Child itself; a gift to its philanthropic Messengers and a bane to Strays like me, a reminder that I was never truly in control of my fate. We were all drawn towards that which needed to be fixed, to be healed.</p> <p><em>KAHHH!!! KAHHH!!! KAHHH!!!</em></p> <p>Home loomed in front of me; my place of origin, a dead world I had vowed I would never return to. I could not relieve myself of Knowing what had brought me here, but now I could at least prioritize the Knowledge of Home over the Knowledge of my irksome situation. There was no longer anything or anyone to Know here; even the Angels had fled at some point in time, though their unique brand of stubbornness likely kept them in place for far longer than could be considered sensible. Not that I would have ever considered them to have anything resembling sensibility. I wondered when the first cracks in their solidarity appeared. Did they stay to the very end? Did they understand they'd been lying to themselves all this time? I doubted I would receive answers to my questions, and the pull was too strong now for me to linger. I would have to continue my pondering below.</p> <p>I descended to the surface, passing through what used to be an atmosphere, beckoned by the continuous shriek below as I steeled myself to become a tool of the Child and fix what was broken. A landscape of empty, sun-scorched earth confronted me. This corner of the galaxy might have been withering away and losing its tether to reality, but some other calamity was certainly responsible for cleansing my old Home of humanity. Whatever it might have been, it likely left as quickly as it first arrived, indifferent to the extraordinary circumstances that must have put it on its collision path with my Home. The pulsing shriek continued below me as I descended further beneath the rotted crust, my Light passing through matter which did nothing to impede my unwanted quest.</p> <p><em>KAH!! KAH!! KALLL!!!</em></p> <p>As I reached the origin of the gibbering squeals and spikes of distress that had compelled me back Home, I concentrated on my own Light. The last time I became corporeal was also the last time I had visited Home, and the effort I exerted back then had saved my Light as well as the Light of countless others. There was no reason not to take the same precaution now, and the sudden disorienting mixture of distorted Knowledge signified that I could now safely interact with the Broken Light I was nearing, and whatever may have caused it. I adjusted my senses, rusty with disuse, as I set foot on a floor for the first time in a very, very long while.</p> <p>The scene before me brought the memory of my last visit Home to mind: it was another massacre. At least that bastard Kuhn had kept the Light he stole mostly intact. Whatever was responsible for this new atrocity could boast no such precision. The room I found myself standing in looked like a children's playground had been clumsily combined with a high school science lab and a landslide. Rubble had claimed large sections of what obviously had been a laboratory, and playground equipment was haphazardly strewn about, much of it bent and broken. Broken Light glittered and screamed from every visible piece of metal from the former schoolyard fixtures, mewling at me like an angry, injured kitten. So <em>this</em> was why I was here. </p> <p><em>Kah! Kall! Kall!!</em></p> <p>Clarity provided itself to me as I continued to concentrate on shielding my Light with my corporeal form, while I walked from each piece of equipment, touching it, and attempting to Know it. This was different from Kuhn; this was self inflicted. Someone had broken their own Light, and it now littered the room in the form of destroyed playground equipment, like grey matter from a shotgun suicide. </p> <p>I could not make sense of the chaos. I could not Know anything. Why playground equipment? Why in this laboratory? Why and how did someone break their own Light? </p> <p><em>Chael!</em></p> <p>The shock of sensing that name did not prevent me from noticing the shrieks and spikes had stopped. The Broken Light was speaking to me. The voice came from all directions at once.</p> <p><em>Is that your name? Chael? I'm not sure how I knew it, it just seemed right.</em></p> <p>What was happening here? In my immeasurable time as a Stray I had seen stars shatter, worlds unfold, civilizations rise and fall and rise and fall again, but never had I encountered Broken Light that could speak, or Know my name for that matter. This was not the corpse of a Messenger, or another Stray; this was a mutant, a Light that never should have been.</p> <p><em>Can you hear me?</em></p> <p>The only way I could communicate, even in corporeal form, was to let my Light into the Light of another. But Broken Light? There was a reason I was shielding myself from it. I wasn't some foolish Messenger; I was not looking to meet new and different things with sickening enthusiasm. </p> <p><em>I think you can hear me. This way.</em></p> <p>My concerns were starting to lose priority as I searched for the source of the voice, which was no longer coming from all around me. Anxious confusion was turning into curiosity.</p> <p><em>Here, Chael. I'm here.</em></p> <p>It came from the half-crushed frame of a swing set that had begun its slow descent into disintegration quite some time ago. I approached it as the caution I usually wielded like a shield was slowly drained from me. This was definitely not normal Broken Light.</p> <p><em>I'm glad you came.</em></p> <p>I was glad too. As I let my Light into the talking swing set, memories that were not my own invaded my corporeal senses, becoming Knowledge. At first, they trickled in like a stream, but soon I was swimming in a newly formed ocean, gasping for breath as I decided whether to sink or swim.</p> <p><em>I haven't been glad for a very long time.</em></p> <p>Slowly I sank to the bottom, watching as bubbles passed me by. Lazily, I reached out to touch one. </p> <p><em>I can tell you about it.</em></p> <p>Okay, but we do not have much time left.</p> <hr/> <p><sup><em>when your toes can finally reach the trees<br/> be sure to bring your mind along with them</em></sup></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/your-dream-is-not-terribly-marketable">Prologue: Your Dream Is Not Terribly Marketable</a> \| <a href="/broken-light-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/origin-one-day-your-toes-may-reach-the-trees">Origin: One Day Your Toes May Reach the Trees</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/and-he-will-crash-upon-the-rocks">And He Will Crash Upon The Rocks</a>" by trennerdios, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-he-will-crash-upon-the-rocks">https://scpwiki.com/and-he-will-crash-upon-the-rocks</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]The pulsing shriek continued below me [[/size]] It is often said that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. There is truth to that statement, to be sure, though it differs from the frenetic memory slideshow people envision their brain playing in the moments before or during their demise. In death, your life experiences are not confined to the substantially limited two and a half petabytes or so of memory your brain offers. Your life "flashes before your eyes" because you are suddenly gifted with the ability to recall everything you've ever seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched, now that you are unburdened with the heavy responsibility of life and its severe limitations. This is when you learn the difference between knowing, and //Knowing//, between knowledge and //Knowledge//. You become Light; a beacon in the darkness, a possible courier for a Child who sleeps and dreams of your existence. You will become a Messenger for the Child, or you can forsake that role as I did. That is why I still Knew dread when I came back to my Home, though I had witnessed the birth and death of many stars since I last visited. Memories had become Knowledge which could not fade or be forgotten, and I had no one to blame but myself for straying close enough to Know the shrieking, writhing call of Broken Light. I spent countless eons of existence as a Stray, ignoring and fleeing the pull of the Child and my supposed purpose, but I was always powerless when it came to Broken Light; Light that has been shattered or twisted through unnatural means. I imagine that compulsive force was a purposeful failsafe from the Child itself; a gift to its philanthropic Messengers and a bane to Strays like me, a reminder that I was never truly in control of my fate. We were all drawn towards that which needed to be fixed, to be healed. //KAHHH!!! KAHHH!!! KAHHH!!!// Home loomed in front of me; my place of origin, a dead world I had vowed I would never return to. I could not relieve myself of Knowing what had brought me here, but now I could at least prioritize the Knowledge of Home over the Knowledge of my irksome situation. There was no longer anything or anyone to Know here; even the Angels had fled at some point in time, though their unique brand of stubbornness likely kept them in place for far longer than could be considered sensible. Not that I would have ever considered them to have anything resembling sensibility. I wondered when the first cracks in their solidarity appeared. Did they stay to the very end? Did they understand they'd been lying to themselves all this time? I doubted I would receive answers to my questions, and the pull was too strong now for me to linger. I would have to continue my pondering below. I descended to the surface, passing through what used to be an atmosphere, beckoned by the continuous shriek below as I steeled myself to become a tool of the Child and fix what was broken. A landscape of empty, sun-scorched earth confronted me. This corner of the galaxy might have been withering away and losing its tether to reality, but some other calamity was certainly responsible for cleansing my old Home of humanity. Whatever it might have been, it likely left as quickly as it first arrived, indifferent to the extraordinary circumstances that must have put it on its collision path with my Home. The pulsing shriek continued below me as I descended further beneath the rotted crust, my Light passing through matter which did nothing to impede my unwanted quest. //KAH!! KAH!! KALLL!!!// As I reached the origin of the gibbering squeals and spikes of distress that had compelled me back Home, I concentrated on my own Light. The last time I became corporeal was also the last time I had visited Home, and the effort I exerted back then had saved my Light as well as the Light of countless others. There was no reason not to take the same precaution now, and the sudden disorienting mixture of distorted Knowledge signified that I could now safely interact with the Broken Light I was nearing, and whatever may have caused it. I adjusted my senses, rusty with disuse, as I set foot on a floor for the first time in a very, very long while. The scene before me brought the memory of my last visit Home to mind: it was another massacre. At least that bastard Kuhn had kept the Light he stole mostly intact. Whatever was responsible for this new atrocity could boast no such precision. The room I found myself standing in looked like a children's playground had been clumsily combined with a high school science lab and a landslide. Rubble had claimed large sections of what obviously had been a laboratory, and playground equipment was haphazardly strewn about, much of it bent and broken. Broken Light glittered and screamed from every visible piece of metal from the former schoolyard fixtures, mewling at me like an angry, injured kitten. So //this// was why I was here. //Kah! Kall! Kall!!// Clarity provided itself to me as I continued to concentrate on shielding my Light with my corporeal form, while I walked from each piece of equipment, touching it, and attempting to Know it. This was different from Kuhn; this was self inflicted. Someone had broken their own Light, and it now littered the room in the form of destroyed playground equipment, like grey matter from a shotgun suicide. I could not make sense of the chaos. I could not Know anything. Why playground equipment? Why in this laboratory? Why and how did someone break their own Light? //Chael!// The shock of sensing that name did not prevent me from noticing the shrieks and spikes had stopped. The Broken Light was speaking to me. The voice came from all directions at once. //Is that your name? Chael? I'm not sure how I knew it, it just seemed right.// What was happening here? In my immeasurable time as a Stray I had seen stars shatter, worlds unfold, civilizations rise and fall and rise and fall again, but never had I encountered Broken Light that could speak, or Know my name for that matter. This was not the corpse of a Messenger, or another Stray; this was a mutant, a Light that never should have been. //Can you hear me?// The only way I could communicate, even in corporeal form, was to let my Light into the Light of another. But Broken Light? There was a reason I was shielding myself from it. I wasn't some foolish Messenger; I was not looking to meet new and different things with sickening enthusiasm. //I think you can hear me. This way.// My concerns were starting to lose priority as I searched for the source of the voice, which was no longer coming from all around me. Anxious confusion was turning into curiosity. //Here, Chael. I'm here.// It came from the half-crushed frame of a swing set that had begun its slow descent into disintegration quite some time ago. I approached it as the caution I usually wielded like a shield was slowly drained from me. This was definitely not normal Broken Light. //I'm glad you came.// I was glad too. As I let my Light into the talking swing set, memories that were not my own invaded my corporeal senses, becoming Knowledge. At first, they trickled in like a stream, but soon I was swimming in a newly formed ocean, gasping for breath as I decided whether to sink or swim. //I haven't been glad for a very long time.// Slowly I sank to the bottom, watching as bubbles passed me by. Lazily, I reached out to touch one. //I can tell you about it.// Okay, but we do not have much time left. ------ ^^//when your toes can finally reach the trees be sure to bring your mind along with them//^^ ------ [[=]] << [[[your-dream-is-not-terribly-marketable\| Prologue: Your Dream Is Not Terribly Marketable]]] \| [[[broken-light-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[origin-one-day-your-toes-may-reach-the-trees\| Origin: One Day Your Toes May Reach the Trees]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-10-27T15:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	And He Will Crash Upon The Rocks - SCP Foundation	17	[ "your-dream-is-not-terribly-marketable", "broken-light-hub", "origin-one-day-your-toes-may-reach-the-trees", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "broken-light-hub" ]	[]	23993695	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-he-will-crash-upon-the-rocks
and-now-he-is-gone	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“I remember the good old days.” Pat sighed as he dug into his cinnamon pancakes, looking at his three friends. “You remember Carl, guys?”</p> <p>“Carl was a great guy!” affirmed Dwight, taking a swig of his coffee. “I don’t know why the Heck he just went away one day… he’s still in the source material, after all. Not like he was told to blow off by anyone.”</p> <p>Warren pointed at Pat accusingly. “And then you took his job. Damn upstart. Carl always picked up the bill whenever we ate, you know; he was rich enough that he could do that. Came with the territory. All the riches of all the conquered lands.”</p> <p>“Isn’t that what that one Mediterranean guy does, though?” Frederick stuffed the last bit of bacon into his mouth. “You know the one. The kind of creepy guy with the hat and the dog.”</p> <p>“I know who you’re talking about, but I can’t recall the name.” Warren frowned. “Kind of a pity, too; the dog was nice. I think it was named Spot or something?”</p> <p>“Didn’t you used to be good friends with him, Warren?” asked Frederick, trying to sneak a piece of one of Pat’s pancakes.</p> <p>“Maybe? I dunno. I was in Greece a lot way back in the day… and Rome… and a lot of places.” Warren looked at his friends and sighed. “We really don’t have much to talk about, do we?”</p> <p>They all sat quietly for quite some time, looking at their plates uncomfortably. The waitress looked at them oddly before Pat spoke up. “Every minute, five people contract HIV.”</p> <p>The other three groaned. “Why did you tell us that, Pat?”</p> <p>“Yeah, last thing we want to hear about some monkey plague that you thought up. Ruins my appetite.”</p> <p>“Statistics are dull, anyway.” Dwight wrinkled his brow. “All I have is statistics, now.”</p> <p>“That’s pretty much what all of us have, Dwight.” Pat stood up and made for the edge of his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a leak.” And with that, Pat got up and went to the restroom, leaving his three friends behind. Frederick took Pat’s remaining pancake and chewed on it.</p> <p>Dwight groaned, rubbing his face. “Fucking pathetic.”</p> <p>“Language, Dwight!”</p> <p>“Warren, shut up.” Frederick looked at him, a bit of cinnamon pancake hanging out of his mouth. “I mean it! With Carl gone, Pat is supposed to be the one who leads us when it all goes down! If Carl were still here, that thing back in the ‘40s would’ve worked…”</p> <p>“Are you sure it was the ‘40s?” asked Frederick. “I swore it was the ‘50s. Russia, remember?”</p> <p>“Whatever,” said Dwight, flagging down a waitress. “Is it the right time of year for your peppermint hot chocolate?”</p> <p>“It is,” said the waitress, smiling slightly. “I can get you some, if you’d like.”</p> <p>“Yes, please,” said Dwight. “With whipped cream.” He smiled as the waitress walked off, shaking his head. “She’ll die on the job, poor girl. Slip on a wet rag and break her neck just after New Year’s.”</p> <p>“Dwight, don’t be so damn morbid,” said Warren. “You don’t hear me spouting off things about bombs or bullets or video games.”</p> <p>“I wonder where the hell Carl is, now,” muttered Frederick. “Probably in a seedy sports bar in Milwaukee or something making bets on the winning teams. That’s what I would do.”</p> <p>“You think he would do something that petty?”</p> <p>Frederick was about to respond when Pat came back. He frowned at his ever-hungry friend when he saw a lack of pancake on his plate. He then sat down, and picked up a copy of the local paper. “…Meteor shower soon. Maybe this’ll be the one.”</p> <p>“Maybe,” said Warren, nodding in thanks to the waitress that just brought him his peppermint cocoa. “We can only hope.”</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/and-now-he-is-gone">And Now, He Is Gone</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-now-he-is-gone">https://scpwiki.com/and-now-he-is-gone</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] “I remember the good old days.” Pat sighed as he dug into his cinnamon pancakes, looking at his three friends. “You remember Carl, guys?” “Carl was a great guy!” affirmed Dwight, taking a swig of his coffee. “I don’t know why the Heck he just went away one day… he’s still in the source material, after all. Not like he was told to blow off by anyone.” Warren pointed at Pat accusingly. “And then you took his job. Damn upstart. Carl always picked up the bill whenever we ate, you know; he was rich enough that he could do that. Came with the territory. All the riches of all the conquered lands.” “Isn’t that what that one Mediterranean guy does, though?” Frederick stuffed the last bit of bacon into his mouth. “You know the one. The kind of creepy guy with the hat and the dog.” “I know who you’re talking about, but I can’t recall the name.” Warren frowned. “Kind of a pity, too; the dog was nice. I think it was named Spot or something?” “Didn’t you used to be good friends with him, Warren?” asked Frederick, trying to sneak a piece of one of Pat’s pancakes. “Maybe? I dunno. I was in Greece a lot way back in the day… and Rome… and a lot of places.” Warren looked at his friends and sighed. “We really don’t have much to talk about, do we?” They all sat quietly for quite some time, looking at their plates uncomfortably. The waitress looked at them oddly before Pat spoke up. “Every minute, five people contract HIV.” The other three groaned. “Why did you tell us that, Pat?” “Yeah, last thing we want to hear about some monkey plague that you thought up. Ruins my appetite.” “Statistics are dull, anyway.” Dwight wrinkled his brow. “All I have is statistics, now.” “That’s pretty much what all of us have, Dwight.” Pat stood up and made for the edge of his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta take a leak.” And with that, Pat got up and went to the restroom, leaving his three friends behind. Frederick took Pat’s remaining pancake and chewed on it. Dwight groaned, rubbing his face. “Fucking pathetic.” “Language, Dwight!” “Warren, shut up.” Frederick looked at him, a bit of cinnamon pancake hanging out of his mouth. “I mean it! With Carl gone, Pat is supposed to be the one who leads us when it all goes down! If Carl were still here, that thing back in the ‘40s would’ve worked…” “Are you sure it was the ‘40s?” asked Frederick. “I swore it was the ‘50s. Russia, remember?” “Whatever,” said Dwight, flagging down a waitress. “Is it the right time of year for your peppermint hot chocolate?” “It is,” said the waitress, smiling slightly. “I can get you some, if you’d like.” “Yes, please,” said Dwight. “With whipped cream.” He smiled as the waitress walked off, shaking his head. “She’ll die on the job, poor girl. Slip on a wet rag and break her neck just after New Year’s.” “Dwight, don’t be so damn morbid,” said Warren. “You don’t hear me spouting off things about bombs or bullets or video games.” “I wonder where the hell Carl is, now,” muttered Frederick. “Probably in a seedy sports bar in Milwaukee or something making bets on the winning teams. That’s what I would do.” “You think he would do something that petty?” Frederick was about to respond when Pat came back. He frowned at his ever-hungry friend when he saw a lack of pancake on his plate. He then sat down, and picked up a copy of the local paper. “…Meteor shower soon. Maybe this’ll be the one.” “Maybe,” said Warren, nodding in thanks to the waitress that just brought him his peppermint cocoa. “We can only hope.” [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-01-01T01:29:00	[ "_licensebox", "art-exchange", "comedy", "mythological", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	And Now, He Is Gone - SCP Foundation	38	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "art-exchange-hub" ]	[]	21117708	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-now-he-is-gone
and-this-one-explains-humes	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Q: So what the hell <em>is</em> a Hume?</strong></p> <p>A: A good question! A Hume is a way to determine the strength and/or amount of reality in a given area. Now, you may have issues with reality being measured this way, and it's certainly a hard concept to grasp. One of the better analogies that can be used to explain this works like this: picture that everything in the universe is covered with a thin layer of sand. This is the baseline level of reality-one Hume. When some of the sand is removed, by any means, there is less sand around, and the level of reality has dropped. When sand is added, there is more reality around. Now, this explanation is <em>highly</em> simplistic, but it helps introduce the concept and gives a nice visual representation. So, using this analogy, Humes just measure the amount of sand in an area. Clear?</p> <p><strong>Q: But how do we define these things? What are they in relation to?</strong></p> <p>Another good question! Every measurement has got to be defined in relation to something, and so we devised a way to create a Hume baseline. We created two pocket realities that each contain Scranton Reality Anchors that maintain the Hume levels at an arbitrarily high and low level. These levels have been designated 100 and 0, respectively. It is from these pocket universes that Hume measurements arise.</p> <p><strong>Q: So how are Humes measured?</strong></p> <p>A: Via the Kant counter! A Kant counter consists of two portals to the pocket universes discussed above. Using these as a baseline, the Hume level of a localized area can be measured.</p> <p><strong>Q: Brilliant! Where's your Nobel?</strong></p> <p>A: As per Foundation policy, outside sharing/recognition of work is impossible. But fear not! We've been compensated more than adequately, and, in addition, we recently got a very favorable <a href="/ethics-committee-orientation">Ethics Committee</a> ruling authorizing a mission to speed the progress of outside researchers on the same track as us; meaning that Humes may be present in the world in as little as a few years!</p> <p><strong>Q: How can Humes help me?</strong></p> <p>A: If you work with lots of reality benders or reality-bending-based SCPs, you're in luck!</p> <p>First off, reality benders. These people have a twofer effect on reality. Firstly, reality surrounding them is usually slightly less real than normal. Secondly, their own personal Hume reading is usually a little higher than is normal. The magnitude of the first and second are, of course, related to the relative power of the bender in question. Usually, a low-level reality bender runs at about 75-80/130-150 (Hume level of surrounding area/Hume level of individual; this will be used for all future examples.) Especially in the case of low-level benders, extreme discretion must be used to avoid a false positive on reality benders, as these readings can fluctuate in vanilla humans. For more information, see <a href="/clef101">this lecture on reality benders</a>. It's a huge help. Powerful reality benders, however, usually run at about 40/300, indicating a large ability to shape reality. Of note is <a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a>. Unlike all other reality benders, it does <em>not</em> exert any influence whatsoever on outside reality. However, its internal Hume reading is astronomically high, registering at an average of 860 Humes (averaged across seven different tests; more ongoing.) This indicates many things, all of which are being heatedly debated by the researchers studying SCP-343. Finally, take the case of <a href="/scp-239">SCP-239</a>. Unlike many powerful reality benders, where area of effect, internal, and external Hume readings all are quite large, <a href="/scp-239">SCP-239</a> has an unusual twist. Her area of effect is quite low; only extending to her line of sight and/or imagination (which, while seemingly giving her an infinite area of effect, is really only limited to what she can actually imagine, and thus can be <em>generally</em> ruled out with proper containment.) However, her readings are 30/500, granting her a nearly unlimited ability to shape her local reality as she sees fit. As in the case of 343, the meaning, cause, and containment procedures for this are being debated extensively.</p> <p>Humes can also be applied to non-human anomalies. For instance, take <a href="/scp-2464">SCP-2464</a>. The Hume measurements inside both the anomaly as well as SCP-2464-2 have unequivocally confirmed the hypothesis regarding the anomaly, (see the addendum for more information,) allowing for more effective containment. As another case, take <a href="/scp-668">SCP-668</a>. This tool perpetually raises the Hume readings within a meter or so of it by approximately twenty Humes when not active. When active, the Hume level rises to astronomical (>670 Hm) levels across all measuring Kant counters, and it is theorized that this effect extends across all known space. Following this realization, 1) more effective containment for SCP-668 was put in place, and 2) immediate monitoring of all Kant counters commenced in order to serve as a warning system for the existence of any more anomalies in the same fashion. Finally, take the example of <a href="/scp-2000">SCP-2000</a>. To facilitate containment, Scranton Reality Anchors were constructed and deployed. Prior to this, it was not known how or why Reality Anchors operate. Now, we know both how the Anchors work (by keeping local reality at a constant 20 Hm) and why they work (in keeping with the sand metaphor, it works like this: they drain sand from different, nonessential universes to keep the supply of sand in ours steady. It's nothing like that, but the metaphor roughly holds).</p> <p><strong>Q: Last, but certainly not least, who are you two?</strong></p> <p>A: Doctors James Caldmann and Carlos Rzewski.</p> <p><strong>Questions? Confusion? Accusations? Come to <a href="/an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered">FAQ 2, the Electric Boogaloo</a>, where all your Hume-related questions will be answered!</strong></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/and-this-one-explains-humes">An FAQ; Or, What The Hell Is A Hume?</a>" by Jekeled, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-this-one-explains-humes">https://scpwiki.com/and-this-one-explains-humes</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Q: So what the hell //is// a Hume? A: A good question! A Hume is a way to determine the strength and/or amount of reality in a given area. Now, you may have issues with reality being measured this way, and it's certainly a hard concept to grasp. One of the better analogies that can be used to explain this works like this: picture that everything in the universe is covered with a thin layer of sand. This is the baseline level of reality-one Hume. When some of the sand is removed, by any means, there is less sand around, and the level of reality has dropped. When sand is added, there is more reality around. Now, this explanation is //highly// simplistic, but it helps introduce the concept and gives a nice visual representation. So, using this analogy, Humes just measure the amount of sand in an area. Clear? Q: But how do we define these things? What are they in relation to? Another good question! Every measurement has got to be defined in relation to something, and so we devised a way to create a Hume baseline. We created two pocket realities that each contain Scranton Reality Anchors that maintain the Hume levels at an arbitrarily high and low level. These levels have been designated 100 and 0, respectively. It is from these pocket universes that Hume measurements arise. Q: So how are Humes measured? A: Via the Kant counter! A Kant counter consists of two portals to the pocket universes discussed above. Using these as a baseline, the Hume level of a localized area can be measured. Q: Brilliant! Where's your Nobel? A: As per Foundation policy, outside sharing/recognition of work is impossible. But fear not! We've been compensated more than adequately, and, in addition, we recently got a very favorable [[[ethics-committee-orientation \| Ethics Committee]]] ruling authorizing a mission to speed the progress of outside researchers on the same track as us; meaning that Humes may be present in the world in as little as a few years! Q: How can Humes help me? A: If you work with lots of reality benders or reality-bending-based SCPs, you're in luck! First off, reality benders. These people have a twofer effect on reality. Firstly, reality surrounding them is usually slightly less real than normal. Secondly, their own personal Hume reading is usually a little higher than is normal. The magnitude of the first and second are, of course, related to the relative power of the bender in question. Usually, a low-level reality bender runs at about 75-80/130-150 (Hume level of surrounding area/Hume level of individual; this will be used for all future examples.) Especially in the case of low-level benders, extreme discretion must be used to avoid a false positive on reality benders, as these readings can fluctuate in vanilla humans. For more information, see [[[clef101\|this lecture on reality benders]]]. It's a huge help. Powerful reality benders, however, usually run at about 40/300, indicating a large ability to shape reality. Of note is [[[SCP-343]]]. Unlike all other reality benders, it does //not// exert any influence whatsoever on outside reality. However, its internal Hume reading is astronomically high, registering at an average of 860 Humes (averaged across seven different tests; more ongoing.) This indicates many things, all of which are being heatedly debated by the researchers studying SCP-343. Finally, take the case of [[[SCP-239]]]. Unlike many powerful reality benders, where area of effect, internal, and external Hume readings all are quite large, [[[SCP-239]]] has an unusual twist. Her area of effect is quite low; only extending to her line of sight and/or imagination (which, while seemingly giving her an infinite area of effect, is really only limited to what she can actually imagine, and thus can be //generally// ruled out with proper containment.) However, her readings are 30/500, granting her a nearly unlimited ability to shape her local reality as she sees fit. As in the case of 343, the meaning, cause, and containment procedures for this are being debated extensively. Humes can also be applied to non-human anomalies. For instance, take [[[SCP-2464]]]. The Hume measurements inside both the anomaly as well as SCP-2464-2 have unequivocally confirmed the hypothesis regarding the anomaly, (see the addendum for more information,) allowing for more effective containment. As another case, take [[[SCP-668]]]. This tool perpetually raises the Hume readings within a meter or so of it by approximately twenty Humes when not active. When active, the Hume level rises to astronomical (>670 Hm) levels across all measuring Kant counters, and it is theorized that this effect extends across all known space. Following this realization, 1) more effective containment for SCP-668 was put in place, and 2) immediate monitoring of all Kant counters commenced in order to serve as a warning system for the existence of any more anomalies in the same fashion. Finally, take the example of [[[SCP-2000]]]. To facilitate containment, Scranton Reality Anchors were constructed and deployed. Prior to this, it was not known how or why Reality Anchors operate. Now, we know both how the Anchors work (by keeping local reality at a constant 20 Hm) and why they work (in keeping with the sand metaphor, it works like this: they drain sand from different, nonessential universes to keep the supply of sand in ours steady. It's nothing like that, but the metaphor roughly holds). Q: Last, but certainly not least, who are you two? A: Doctors James Caldmann and Carlos Rzewski. Questions? Confusion? Accusations? Come to [[[an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered\|FAQ 2, the Electric Boogaloo]]], where all your Hume-related questions will be answered! [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-08-22T06:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "science-fiction", "sigurros", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	An FAQ; Or, What The Hell Is A Hume? - SCP Foundation	561	[ "ethics-committee-orientation", "clef101", "scp-343", "scp-239", "scp-2464", "scp-668", "scp-2000", "an-faq-part-two-or-your-hume-questions-answered", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "secure-facility-dossier-site-64k", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	23377933	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-this-one-explains-humes
animalia	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>INTERNAL MEMO</strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE <span style="text-decoration: underline;">L-1/883 AND HIGHER</span></strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE</strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>re: SCP-883 Containment & Research Procedures Updates, Effective 1999-03-13</strong></p> <p>Following the events that occurred on 1999-01-25, exploration within SCP-883 has been restricted to 6.5 kilometers or less. Should any insects show unexpected levels of aggression, all personnel will immediately retreat to no more than 1.0 kilometers from the entrance until such time as the on-site MTF has investigated and the lead researchers have cleared the incident. Meetings providing the full details of the new security procedures are being scheduled. See your section leader for assigned times.</p> <p>Honey harvesting will continue as currently scheduled, with the guard force increased by 50%. Remember that no more than 1 liter should be harvested from any given 5 meter length of honeycomb. Additionally, new kevlar protective suits have been developed and will be assigned as of the effective date listed above.</p> <p>MTF η-5 will be dissolved and the surviving members reassigned. MTF ζ-9 will be transferred in until such time as MTF η-5 is re-formed. Please welcome the "Mole Rats" to their new assignment.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em><tt>I have dreams of it, you know. Flying and falling and floating. Deep blue sea that is filled with a vast buzz of scales against wings. The details differ; sometimes I'm swimming with the fishes, sometimes it's the birds and the bees. But I always dive deeper, deeper, deeper into the heart of the swarm, the school, the secret.</tt></em></p> <hr/> <p>The members of the new Recon Task Force designated Omicron-6 were a careful selection of ichthyologists, oceanographers, submarine and submersible operators, and agents with spatial distortions experience. As the only member of MTF Eta-5 with underwater combat training, Agent Patricia Ortiz was a perfect choice. After her initial briefing into SCP-850's security and containment protocols, she was somewhat disturbed. As far as the Foundation grapevine was concerned, SCPs were pretty much all unique, and to find a pair of disconnected ones that were so similar was disconcerting.</p> <p>Still, until the Bottleship was completed, she'd be spending her time with the other non-engineering members of the Trilobites refreshing and retraining her underwater skills. It'd been a while since she'd used a harpoon, and the ones they'd be using were rather more powerful than what she'd originally trained with. She wasn't looking forward to encountering the larger inhabitants of the zone.</p> <hr/> <p><em><tt>At the heart of it all is what I think of as the Queen. Not in the sense of a great mother or a ruler, but rather like the rat-kings of old: the maddened result of too many creatures knotted together in too small a space until a great horrible vastness forms. In the nature of dreams, it is all-encompassing, surrounding without and within like the fabric of reality itself, while its single form lays in front of me, lazily gliding around me on its finwings.</tt></em></p> <hr/> <p>Even including the usual construction delays and last-minute mission tweaks, Project Bottleship was completed within a reasonable amount of time. It was a testament to the dedication of the Foundation construction crews that a 50-meter-long submarine could be constructed in free ocean while surrounded by a school of herring in constant motion. The Trilobite was a pride of engineering, and well up to the task set before it.</p> <p>It was midday when the last of the crew finally boarded their new home and the exploration mission finally officially began. Agent Ortiz heard a thin cheer as the captain announced that they were descending, and wondered what green researcher thought that any exploration assignment was a good excitement. She, like all field agents, knew that the best assignments were <em>boring</em>, and sincerely hoped that this one would be so dull that she'd be begging to surface just so she could see some unfamiliar faces.</p> <hr/> <p><em><tt>This is the point where you'd expect me to say something dramatic like I startle awake, sitting straight up in bed, soaked in a cold sweat. But that doesn't happen.</tt></em></p> <p><em><tt>Or that the Queen whispers dark secrets into my mind that promise to drag me into an enlightened insanity. But that doesn't happen.</tt></em></p> <p><em><tt>What happens is that it flicker-flutters off, utterly uninterested in one not of its kingdom or kind. And then the dream resumes a more normal surreality, leading to random sparkings and images as my mind resumes its nightly housecleaning.</tt></em></p> <hr/> <p>The submarine moved slowly through the school, as visibility was essentially nil due to the fish, and sonar was little better due to the same interference. The last thing that the crew wanted was the ignomity of crashing into an unexpected seafloor or undersea mountain. The slow pace suited some of the more excitable ichthyologists just fine, though, as it gave them a chance to get as much footage of the fish they passed as possible.</p> <p>The first few kilometers were interesting, as the herring veered around the intruder into their realm, slowly changing in subtle ways into new variations of the base species. The novelty rapidly wore off, though, and the next few tens of kilometers quickly subsided into a nice boredom. The scientists still noted the slow progression of changes, but a subtle coloration change or slightly different fin shape were less entertaining than before.</p> <p>There was a burst of interest at the end of the first day, when the ship officially passed the previously established point of furthest exploration and they entered truly uncharted territory.</p> <p>The schools of herring that they'd been passing through started to thin as the fish diverged into more and more radically different body plans and sizes, building into a new, self-contained piscine ecosystem. After a few days, they had thinned enough that the sonar was able to function more or less unimpeded. This was less of a blessing than expected, given that they still couldn't ping a bottom.</p> <hr/> <p><em><tt>But I still remember the dreams and the intersection that is the Queen. A great fish large enough to swallow the sea, yet the size of the humblest buzzing bee, emblazzoned in shimmering colors of indifference. I know that it waits, deep within a school and opened by a comb. It waits, for it has world enough and time to wait.</tt></em></p> <hr/> <p>After a week more of exploring the widths and depths of the schools, the weapons officers had already had to spear several large fish which had been getting aggressive with the ship, including one almost 10 meters long. But no significant damage had been done before the aggressors were either killed or driven off, so the captain and lead researcher decided to dive until a bottom was found, or until they reached the limit at which they wouldn't have enough fuel to return.</p> <p>Deeper and deeper the Trilobite sank, discovering a strange occurrence: the schools of fish began to get denser again, only this time they were composed of larger and larger fish. They seemed to accept the submarine as one of their own, though, and the number of attacks dwindled to nothing. But an air of expectancy permeated the ship as the crew subconsciously felt a sense of impending… something. Maybe doom, maybe salvation, maybe just a threshold.</p> <p>The appearance of the mountain peak should have been a relief, but just increased the feeling of trepidation. It was roughly triangular from above, with a tip blunted by water and seemingly scalloped trailing slopes. And it extended even farther downwards, past the lower limit at which the intervening fish created a confused sonar signature too dense to read past.</p> <p>It wasn't until they were a few hundred meters from the mountain's side that it suddenly <em>flexed</em> and the Trilobite was roughly shoved away by the massive wall of water. The next few minutes were a confusion of alarms and rolling and jumbled feelings of both despair and relief as the tense atmosphere finally released. The relief was short-lived, however, as the massively broad and scaled body to which the mountain was attached rose up to meet the fragile ship.</p> <hr/> <p><em><tt>And when the men in their armor and the women with their pots finally come upon it, it will move and it will lead and it will feed.</tt></em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>INTERNAL MEMO</strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE <span style="text-decoration: underline;">L-4/850, L-4/883</span></strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE</strong></p> <hr/> <p><strong>re: SCP cross-contamination</strong></p> <p>All personnel with clearance to read this memorandum have been provided clearance to read the summary dossiers for SCP-850 and SCP-883. Please review these dossiers prior to continuing to read this memo.</p> <p>On 2000-12-12, the Foundation lost contact with the deep sea exploratory mission into SCP-850, codename "Trilobite". Among the personnel aboard was Agent Patricia Ortiz, formerly a member of MTF η-5, which had been assigned to SCP-883 prior to its dissolution.</p> <p>On 2001-03-01, members of MTF ζ-9 discovered Agent Ortiz in SCP-883, 7.3 kilometers from the entrance to SCP-883. She was found unconscious in a fetal position, covered with approximately 1700 insects with known high levels of aggression, none of which had stung her. Agent Ortiz was retrieved and placed in a quarantine unit and has not yet regained consciousness.</p> <p>Please provide a list of information you wish Agent Ortiz to provide once she has awakened. Relevant questions will be compiled and incorporated into her debriefing and a full, un-redacted transcript will be provided to lead researchers.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em><tt>And it hungers still.</tt></em><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/animalia">Animalia</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/animalia">https://scpwiki.com/animalia</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > = INTERNAL MEMO > = ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE __L-1/883 AND HIGHER__ > = DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE > ---- > re: SCP-883 Containment & Research Procedures Updates, Effective 1999-03-13 > > Following the events that occurred on 1999-01-25, exploration within SCP-883 has been restricted to 6.5 kilometers or less. Should any insects show unexpected levels of aggression, all personnel will immediately retreat to no more than 1.0 kilometers from the entrance until such time as the on-site MTF has investigated and the lead researchers have cleared the incident. Meetings providing the full details of the new security procedures are being scheduled. See your section leader for assigned times. > > Honey harvesting will continue as currently scheduled, with the guard force increased by 50%. Remember that no more than 1 liter should be harvested from any given 5 meter length of honeycomb. Additionally, new kevlar protective suits have been developed and will be assigned as of the effective date listed above. > > MTF η-5 will be dissolved and the surviving members reassigned. MTF ζ-9 will be transferred in until such time as MTF η-5 is re-formed. Please welcome the "Mole Rats" to their new assignment. ---- //{{I have dreams of it, you know. Flying and falling and floating. Deep blue sea that is filled with a vast buzz of scales against wings. The details differ; sometimes I'm swimming with the fishes, sometimes it's the birds and the bees. But I always dive deeper, deeper, deeper into the heart of the swarm, the school, the secret.}}// ---- The members of the new Recon Task Force designated Omicron-6 were a careful selection of ichthyologists, oceanographers, submarine and submersible operators, and agents with spatial distortions experience. As the only member of MTF Eta-5 with underwater combat training, Agent Patricia Ortiz was a perfect choice. After her initial briefing into SCP-850's security and containment protocols, she was somewhat disturbed. As far as the Foundation grapevine was concerned, SCPs were pretty much all unique, and to find a pair of disconnected ones that were so similar was disconcerting. Still, until the Bottleship was completed, she'd be spending her time with the other non-engineering members of the Trilobites refreshing and retraining her underwater skills. It'd been a while since she'd used a harpoon, and the ones they'd be using were rather more powerful than what she'd originally trained with. She wasn't looking forward to encountering the larger inhabitants of the zone. ---- //{{At the heart of it all is what I think of as the Queen. Not in the sense of a great mother or a ruler, but rather like the rat-kings of old: the maddened result of too many creatures knotted together in too small a space until a great horrible vastness forms. In the nature of dreams, it is all-encompassing, surrounding without and within like the fabric of reality itself, while its single form lays in front of me, lazily gliding around me on its finwings.}}// ---- Even including the usual construction delays and last-minute mission tweaks, Project Bottleship was completed within a reasonable amount of time. It was a testament to the dedication of the Foundation construction crews that a 50-meter-long submarine could be constructed in free ocean while surrounded by a school of herring in constant motion. The Trilobite was a pride of engineering, and well up to the task set before it. It was midday when the last of the crew finally boarded their new home and the exploration mission finally officially began. Agent Ortiz heard a thin cheer as the captain announced that they were descending, and wondered what green researcher thought that any exploration assignment was a good excitement. She, like all field agents, knew that the best assignments were //boring//, and sincerely hoped that this one would be so dull that she'd be begging to surface just so she could see some unfamiliar faces. ---- //{{This is the point where you'd expect me to say something dramatic like I startle awake, sitting straight up in bed, soaked in a cold sweat. But that doesn't happen.}}// //{{Or that the Queen whispers dark secrets into my mind that promise to drag me into an enlightened insanity. But that doesn't happen.}}// //{{What happens is that it flicker-flutters off, utterly uninterested in one not of its kingdom or kind. And then the dream resumes a more normal surreality, leading to random sparkings and images as my mind resumes its nightly housecleaning.}}// ---- The submarine moved slowly through the school, as visibility was essentially nil due to the fish, and sonar was little better due to the same interference. The last thing that the crew wanted was the ignomity of crashing into an unexpected seafloor or undersea mountain. The slow pace suited some of the more excitable ichthyologists just fine, though, as it gave them a chance to get as much footage of the fish they passed as possible. The first few kilometers were interesting, as the herring veered around the intruder into their realm, slowly changing in subtle ways into new variations of the base species. The novelty rapidly wore off, though, and the next few tens of kilometers quickly subsided into a nice boredom. The scientists still noted the slow progression of changes, but a subtle coloration change or slightly different fin shape were less entertaining than before. There was a burst of interest at the end of the first day, when the ship officially passed the previously established point of furthest exploration and they entered truly uncharted territory. The schools of herring that they'd been passing through started to thin as the fish diverged into more and more radically different body plans and sizes, building into a new, self-contained piscine ecosystem. After a few days, they had thinned enough that the sonar was able to function more or less unimpeded. This was less of a blessing than expected, given that they still couldn't ping a bottom. ---- //{{But I still remember the dreams and the intersection that is the Queen. A great fish large enough to swallow the sea, yet the size of the humblest buzzing bee, emblazzoned in shimmering colors of indifference. I know that it waits, deep within a school and opened by a comb. It waits, for it has world enough and time to wait.}}// ---- After a week more of exploring the widths and depths of the schools, the weapons officers had already had to spear several large fish which had been getting aggressive with the ship, including one almost 10 meters long. But no significant damage had been done before the aggressors were either killed or driven off, so the captain and lead researcher decided to dive until a bottom was found, or until they reached the limit at which they wouldn't have enough fuel to return. Deeper and deeper the Trilobite sank, discovering a strange occurrence: the schools of fish began to get denser again, only this time they were composed of larger and larger fish. They seemed to accept the submarine as one of their own, though, and the number of attacks dwindled to nothing. But an air of expectancy permeated the ship as the crew subconsciously felt a sense of impending... something. Maybe doom, maybe salvation, maybe just a threshold. The appearance of the mountain peak should have been a relief, but just increased the feeling of trepidation. It was roughly triangular from above, with a tip blunted by water and seemingly scalloped trailing slopes. And it extended even farther downwards, past the lower limit at which the intervening fish created a confused sonar signature too dense to read past. It wasn't until they were a few hundred meters from the mountain's side that it suddenly //flexed// and the Trilobite was roughly shoved away by the massive wall of water. The next few minutes were a confusion of alarms and rolling and jumbled feelings of both despair and relief as the tense atmosphere finally released. The relief was short-lived, however, as the massively broad and scaled body to which the mountain was attached rose up to meet the fragile ship. ---- //{{And when the men in their armor and the women with their pots finally come upon it, it will move and it will lead and it will feed.}}// ---- > = INTERNAL MEMO > = ACCESS LIMITED TO SECURITY CLEARANCE __L-4/850, L-4/883__ > = DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE > ---- > re: SCP cross-contamination > > All personnel with clearance to read this memorandum have been provided clearance to read the summary dossiers for SCP-850 and SCP-883. Please review these dossiers prior to continuing to read this memo. > > On 2000-12-12, the Foundation lost contact with the deep sea exploratory mission into SCP-850, codename "Trilobite". Among the personnel aboard was Agent Patricia Ortiz, formerly a member of MTF η-5, which had been assigned to SCP-883 prior to its dissolution. > > On 2001-03-01, members of MTF ζ-9 discovered Agent Ortiz in SCP-883, 7.3 kilometers from the entrance to SCP-883. She was found unconscious in a fetal position, covered with approximately 1700 insects with known high levels of aggression, none of which had stung her. Agent Ortiz was retrieved and placed in a quarantine unit and has not yet regained consciousness. > > Please provide a list of information you wish Agent Ortiz to provide once she has awakened. Relevant questions will be compiled and incorporated into her debriefing and a full, un-redacted transcript will be provided to lead researchers. ---- //{{And it hungers still.}}// @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-03-21T14:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "uac2014" ]	Animalia - SCP Foundation	40	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "under-appreciated-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21794793	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/animalia
aryanne-s-tail	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"You have been IP Banned."</p> <p>A young man was sitting in front of his computer screen. He donned a stained white tee and frayed shorts. His disheveled hair covered his face as the fan behind him blew relentlessly. He stroked his stubby beard, pondering his fate. He hadn't gone outside for days, but that was okay.</p> <p>The man glared at his screen. There was no warning. There was no explanation. But he knew why. He saw it coming.</p> <p>The man sighed.</p> <p>Fuck it. They didn't need him. He wondered what they were saying about him.</p> <p>"What the hell happened to Aryanne?"</p> <p>"He probably got doxxed, again."</p> <p>Aryanne was a man that craved attention. And attention was something he always got. He was revered as a "lord of the underworld", a "king of memes", and "The 4th Reich", among other things. But now his power and prestige was revoked, all by one message.</p> <p>"You have been IP Banned."</p> <p>The letters on the screen were blood red. The same color he used to paint his portraits.</p> <p>He contemplated changing his proxy.</p> <p>Fuck it.</p> <p>Aryanne rose from his chair and approached the blood-soaked canvas to his left. A beautiful face of intricate detail lay before him. It was a portrait of his mother. The color was appropriate for family. He picked up his brush and applied it to the canvas.</p> <p>But he was out of paint.</p> <hr/> <p>Who is <a href="http://scp-wiki.net/scp-2089">John</a>?</p> <p>John was by no means an extraordinary person. He was obedient, ignorant, and complacent. John was destined to be a consumer sheep. A corporate cow. Like all cattle, John accepted his branding with open hooves. Except John had arms. To John, his branding would represent the beginning of a loving relationship.</p> <p>Aryanne furiously crumpled up a piece of paper in his hand and tossed it in the trash. How long has it been? How many years? He couldn't tell. Still, he could remember when he first met John. The mere thought brought a smile to his face.</p> <p>It was a sunny day…</p> <p>Wait, no. Aryanne ripped another paper in his hands. Shit, he had to start again. He received another piece of paper.</p> <p>It was a sunny day, except Aryanne was cooped up in his room, as usual. After his untimely ban, he looked elsewhere for his title. Likes, comments, subscribers, followers … anything he could get to prove his worth. Social media? No, that was far too tame. His presence in the under net wasn't welcome, either.</p> <p>John had his own business that day. He glanced at the screen in front of him. One hundred and eighty two. His followers. Admittedly, most of those members were fluff, but there was a fan base underlying.</p> <p><tt>NOW RECORDING</tt></p> <p>John reached for his knife. It was rusty, with blood caked on the surface. It was an old friend of his. John rolled up his sleeve carefully positioned the knife on his forearm, gripping the handle firmly with his hand. He pressed down, applying just enough pressure. Then, with one cut, John slowly drove the blade down his arm. John smiled expectantly, though his hooded jacket obscured it.</p> <p>To Aryanne, it was beautiful. The precision of the cut. The way the blood gushed out of John's arm, like a majestic river. The calm and almost professional demeanor. Ideas came flooding into Aryanne's head. One hand on his temple, he grabbed a notepad with the other.</p> <p>He began to scribble on the pad while John continued to bleed, non-stop. John was now looking towards the camera sternly, waiting. The air around John and his thirty-two watchers stood still.</p> <p>Aryanne would finally have his following. A kingdom. Wait, no. An empire. Fuck yeah. He looked back at his pad. A crudely drawn castle was staring back at him, while John continued to bleed. Aryanne tossed the notepad to the side. How was John still alive?</p> <p>At this point, John's forearm was coated in deep red. He glanced at his arm, then slowly back towards the camera. He spoke to his audience, with a slouched posture and a raspy voice.</p> <p>"I'll be back … tomorrow."</p> <p>John swayed back and forth before slouching back in his chair. He slowly leaned to the side, hitting the ground with a <em>thud</em>. The camera continued to play. It stopped at exactly five minutes.</p> <p>He was professional, talented and <em>timely</em>. Aryanne could definitely use a man like John.</p> <hr/> <p>It was months later. After deliberation over chat, arguments over business, and the fear of being doxxed, Aryanne and John were finally living together. Aryanne was sprawled out on the couch, watching the news.</p> <p>John walked over in a T-shirt and shorts, sporting a bright pink apron. He shoved a plate of food in Aryanne's face.</p> <p>"Here. Eat it."</p> <p>Upon closer inspection, Aryanne's eyes saw pancakes drizzled with syrup and blueberries sprinkled on top. The buttery aroma smacked him in the face. He slowly sat up before John laid out a table in front of him. The <em>clank</em> of the plate being placed on the table rang through Aryanne's ears.</p> <p>"Whoa."</p> <p>"Figure I'd give you something a little special today."</p> <p>"Why, is it a special day or something?" Aryanne snorted.</p> <p>John gave Aryanne a cold stare.</p> <p>"Don't tell me you forgot."</p> <p>"Uhh…"</p> <p>"One thousand."</p> <p>"Huh?"</p> <p>"Followers, Aryanne! One thousand followers!</p> <p>Aryanne began eating his pancakes. There was a hint of cinnamon as the food melted in his mouth.</p> <p>"You could show some appreciation every once in a while." John stated, his voice rising. "After everything I do for you, not even so much as a 'thank you'? That's all I ask for, Aryanne. Would it kill you to do such a thing?"</p> <p>"I'm sorry." Aryanne mumbled bits of pancake flying out of his mouth.</p> <p>"Sorry doesn't cut it." John angrily pointed his finger at Aryanne, who was still graciously eating pancakes. His eyes narrowed, judging Aryanne's complacent satisfaction. Aryanne dropped his fork and turned towards John.</p> <p>"I mean it." Aryanne whispered. John sighed. His eyebrows furrowed as he placed his hand on his forehead. After a few seconds, John spoke.</p> <p>"Fine. But you're still taking me outside today."</p> <p>Aryanne sometimes wondered how it would be to continue his old life in the undernet. No, he couldn't. He was contempt.</p> <hr/> <p>John and Aryanne hiked along a rocky path. For once, Aryanne could say it was a sunny day. Tall trees lined the sides, while birds obnoxiously sang all around them. The two strolled along as a familiar mountainous landscape came into their view. Aryanne felt a heavy burden on his back. Maybe it was the luggage they took with them. Maybe it was not. He broke into a sweat; his knees buckling as John triumphantly lead the way.</p> <p>"Are … we … there … yet?" Aryanne panted between words. John offered no reply.</p> <p>The surrounding woods began to disappear as the two walked closer to the mountain. Here they were. Bitch Mountain.</p> <p><em>"John, guess what you are?"</em> Aryanne thought to himself.</p> <p>John perked up and turned towards him. He leered at Aryanne as he commanded "Get the camera."</p> <p>The enormous backpack Aryanne carried hit the ground with a <em>thud</em>. He made haste as he scrambled to get the camera, lighting, and microphone ready. Everything had to be perfect. They were trying to get <em>subscribers</em> here.</p> <p>As Aryanne set up, his mind wandered back to his untimely ban, months ago. He remembered the note, clear as day.</p> <p>"You have been IP Banned.</p> <p>- Fedora Man</p> <p>P.S: Don't try to be so edgy, m8."</p> <p>Aryanne knew all the admins of the undernet. Some he knew personally. Fedora Man was one of the few admins that Aryanne ever bumped heads with. Their arguments would often span countless of pages, with supporters cramming their opinions between posts. Aryanne was even backed up by other admins (despite not being one himself). Fedora Man dissented with every word that came from Aryanne. He was truly a euphoric asshole in Aryanne's eyes.</p> <p>Aryanne didn't need the undernet. He had a new purpose in life. With John, he didn't have hordes of people fearing him or kissing his ass. For once, he could live a normal life.</p> <p>The air began to become stale. The taste of the air was almost metallic, like a rusted nail. Aryanne's eyes grew wide with terror. He dropped a microphone in hand. John quickly looked at him.</p> <p>"Ugh." was all John managed to say. The air behind him began to swirl. A figure materialized in the midst of the swirling air. A short, stubby man in a trench coat stood directly behind him. John whirled around.</p> <p>"Who are you?"</p> <p>The man pointed to Aryanne. He tipped his fedora as he said: "Aryanne, you should know who I am."</p> <p>Aryanne became flooded with fear and confusion. <em>Wait, what? This makes no fucking sense.</em> He thought to himself. <em>Can it be…</em></p> <p>A smirk grin grew on the man's face. "C'mon. My hat. You know it. <em>Say it</em> Aryanne."</p> <p>"Fedora Man." John spat out. "I know who he is. He's a follower of my blog, Aryanne."</p> <p>"Intelligent, isn't he?" The Fedora Man replied. "He’s quite loyal, too. Is he your <em>girlfriend</em> or something?" He guffawed.</p> <p>"Uh…"</p> <p>"Wait, wait. Whoo." The Fedora Man tips his hat, looking at John. "M'lady". He continues to snicker, like a little schoolgirl.</p> <p>John recoiled in disgust.</p> <p>The air continued to fill with the man's laughter. After a few moments, the man fixes up his trench coat. His giddy and cheerful tone was replaced a more serious one.</p> <p>"John. First I'd like to say, thank you for the blog. Quite a … interesting performance, to say in the least. Second, I came here for Aryanne. If you would kindly step forward."</p> <p>Aryanne stepped forward.</p> <p>"I don't get it." he said meekly.</p> <p>"It's very simple." The Fedora Man replied. "We want you back."</p> <p>Wait, what? Aryanne didn't understand. The same man who was the bane of his existence was now welcoming him with open arms.</p> <p>"You see, Aryanne … You are an attractive individual. That is in the sense that you draw attention to yourself without really trying. What do they call it?" Fedora Man pondered. He spun his hat around his head.</p> <p>"Ah, yes. The power of attraction. Ha! You are quite magnetic, my friend."</p> <p>Aryanne's eyes squinted. <em>Friend?</em></p> <p>"That is why I came to you for assistance. The undernet is in need of people like you. The admins are crude, greedy politicians. The people distrust them." The man's tone resumed to a more cheerful one.</p> <p>"But with a fresh face like yours, peace can once again be restored. Think about it, Aryanne. Your fame will be <em>justified.</em> You are the man people can relate to. With all that power, we can give you anything you want."</p> <p>"Are you serious?" John spat out. He growled.</p> <p>"Oh, I'm deadly serious." The Fedora Man's eyes gleamed. "Promise not to do another b& incident, and the admin status is yours!"</p> <p>Aryanne's memories flooded back to his glory days of the undernet. He remembered the rush he felt when he saw his supporters. He remembered the smug satisfaction of being the man behind one of the stupidest memes on the internet. He allowed himself to relish in those memories, for a split second.</p> <p>"No." John said "He doesn't need you, or the undernet. He's past that now."</p> <p>The Fedora Man's voice is lowered again as he answers: "I don't believe I was addressing you. I think Aryanne is more than capable of answering."</p> <p>Aryanne stood rooted in place.</p> <p>"Huh," The Fedora Man said, "I figured as much. Whatever shall we do?"</p> <p>"You can start by leaving." John hissed.</p> <p>"Oh no. That will not do. I will have to convince you, Aryanne."</p> <p>The Fedora Man begins walking towards Aryanne, shoving John aside. He produces a pistol from his trench-coat.</p> <p>"Aryanne, please think this over. As an admin, I had nothing against you. I simply cared for the welfare of the people. And besides, think of your former glory."</p> <p>Aryanne's eyes met the Fedora Man's. He saw small, dark beads. He was soulless. Aryanne's mind was in a whirlwind between his distant memories and his fast approaching fate. What was he going to do? He wanted to move a leg, an arm, <em>something</em>. Aryanne broke into a cold sweat. He was frozen by fear.</p> <p>"Time is running out, Aryanne." The Fedora Man chuckled. "Don't do this to yourself. Make the right choice."</p> <p>The Fedora Man pointed his pistol towards Aryanne's face. John immediately jumped in between them.</p> <p>"Oh, what's this? You're intervening?"</p> <p>John glared at the Fedora Man.</p> <p>"Oh, I see. You want to save your <em>girlfriend</em>. Well, you asked for it."</p> <p>John lunged at the Fedora Man. A shot was heard. Aryanne's vision was blurred, between the dust surrounding him and his eyes beginning to water. The shot left his ears ringing and his head spinning. Aryanne looked up to see flocks of birds hurriedly scattering in every direction. When he looked back down, he saw a body lay dead on the ground.</p> <p>The Fedora Man was dead. John was victorious. Aryanne's mouth was agape, while John sprinted towards him. John kneeled down next to Aryanne, who was already beginning to position himself into a fetal position.</p> <p>"Aryanne." John said. Aryanne heard his name mentioned as an echo.</p> <p>"Aryanne … Aryanne. C'mon, get it together." Aryanne knew his name was being called, but was unsure to answer.</p> <p>"Snap out of it!" John commanded. Aryanne knew who had called his name. A smile was brought to his face.</p> <p>"John…" He whimpered.</p> <p>Both of them were silent for a moment. A soft breeze was blowing behind them. Aryanne could see the leaves blowing around him. He no longer smelled metallic rust in the air.</p> <p>"Aryanne. You know, if you want to return to your old life … well, that's fine. I'm not stopping you."</p> <p>Aryanne wanted to say something. A lump was stuck in his throat.</p> <p>"The choice is up to you." John said.</p> <p>Aryanne was brought to tears. John himself wanted to cry, but stopped himself from doing so. He held Aryanne close to him.</p> <p>"I want you, John." Aryanne said between sobs. "But, no homo."</p> <p>The both of them stood by the foot of the mountains. For John, this would signal the first of his fans.</p> <p>For Aryanne, it would be his first enemy.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/aryanne-s-tail">Aryanne's Tail</a>" by MrRonin, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/aryanne-s-tail">https://scpwiki.com/aryanne-s-tail</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "You have been IP Banned." A young man was sitting in front of his computer screen. He donned a stained white tee and frayed shorts. His disheveled hair covered his face as the fan behind him blew relentlessly. He stroked his stubby beard, pondering his fate. He hadn't gone outside for days, but that was okay. The man glared at his screen. There was no warning. There was no explanation. But he knew why. He saw it coming. The man sighed. Fuck it. They didn't need him. He wondered what they were saying about him. "What the hell happened to Aryanne?" "He probably got doxxed, again." Aryanne was a man that craved attention. And attention was something he always got. He was revered as a "lord of the underworld", a "king of memes", and "The 4th Reich", among other things. But now his power and prestige was revoked, all by one message. "You have been IP Banned." The letters on the screen were blood red. The same color he used to paint his portraits. He contemplated changing his proxy. Fuck it. Aryanne rose from his chair and approached the blood-soaked canvas to his left. A beautiful face of intricate detail lay before him. It was a portrait of his mother. The color was appropriate for family. He picked up his brush and applied it to the canvas. But he was out of paint. ------ Who is [http://scp-wiki.net/scp-2089 John]? John was by no means an extraordinary person. He was obedient, ignorant, and complacent. John was destined to be a consumer sheep. A corporate cow. Like all cattle, John accepted his branding with open hooves. Except John had arms. To John, his branding would represent the beginning of a loving relationship. Aryanne furiously crumpled up a piece of paper in his hand and tossed it in the trash. How long has it been? How many years? He couldn't tell. Still, he could remember when he first met John. The mere thought brought a smile to his face. It was a sunny day... Wait, no. Aryanne ripped another paper in his hands. Shit, he had to start again. He received another piece of paper. It was a sunny day, except Aryanne was cooped up in his room, as usual. After his untimely ban, he looked elsewhere for his title. Likes, comments, subscribers, followers ... anything he could get to prove his worth. Social media? No, that was far too tame. His presence in the under net wasn't welcome, either. John had his own business that day. He glanced at the screen in front of him. One hundred and eighty two. His followers. Admittedly, most of those members were fluff, but there was a fan base underlying. {{NOW RECORDING}} John reached for his knife. It was rusty, with blood caked on the surface. It was an old friend of his. John rolled up his sleeve carefully positioned the knife on his forearm, gripping the handle firmly with his hand. He pressed down, applying just enough pressure. Then, with one cut, John slowly drove the blade down his arm. John smiled expectantly, though his hooded jacket obscured it. To Aryanne, it was beautiful. The precision of the cut. The way the blood gushed out of John's arm, like a majestic river. The calm and almost professional demeanor. Ideas came flooding into Aryanne's head. One hand on his temple, he grabbed a notepad with the other. He began to scribble on the pad while John continued to bleed, non-stop. John was now looking towards the camera sternly, waiting. The air around John and his thirty-two watchers stood still. Aryanne would finally have his following. A kingdom. Wait, no. An empire. Fuck yeah. He looked back at his pad. A crudely drawn castle was staring back at him, while John continued to bleed. Aryanne tossed the notepad to the side. How was John still alive? At this point, John's forearm was coated in deep red. He glanced at his arm, then slowly back towards the camera. He spoke to his audience, with a slouched posture and a raspy voice. "I'll be back ... tomorrow." John swayed back and forth before slouching back in his chair. He slowly leaned to the side, hitting the ground with a //thud//. The camera continued to play. It stopped at exactly five minutes. He was professional, talented and //timely//. Aryanne could definitely use a man like John. ------ It was months later. After deliberation over chat, arguments over business, and the fear of being doxxed, Aryanne and John were finally living together. Aryanne was sprawled out on the couch, watching the news. John walked over in a T-shirt and shorts, sporting a bright pink apron. He shoved a plate of food in Aryanne's face. "Here. Eat it." Upon closer inspection, Aryanne's eyes saw pancakes drizzled with syrup and blueberries sprinkled on top. The buttery aroma smacked him in the face. He slowly sat up before John laid out a table in front of him. The //clank// of the plate being placed on the table rang through Aryanne's ears. "Whoa." "Figure I'd give you something a little special today." "Why, is it a special day or something?" Aryanne snorted. John gave Aryanne a cold stare. "Don't tell me you forgot." "Uhh..." "One thousand." "Huh?" "Followers, Aryanne! One thousand followers! Aryanne began eating his pancakes. There was a hint of cinnamon as the food melted in his mouth. "You could show some appreciation every once in a while." John stated, his voice rising. "After everything I do for you, not even so much as a 'thank you'? That's all I ask for, Aryanne. Would it kill you to do such a thing?" "I'm sorry." Aryanne mumbled bits of pancake flying out of his mouth. "Sorry doesn't cut it." John angrily pointed his finger at Aryanne, who was still graciously eating pancakes. His eyes narrowed, judging Aryanne's complacent satisfaction. Aryanne dropped his fork and turned towards John. "I mean it." Aryanne whispered. John sighed. His eyebrows furrowed as he placed his hand on his forehead. After a few seconds, John spoke. "Fine. But you're still taking me outside today." Aryanne sometimes wondered how it would be to continue his old life in the undernet. No, he couldn't. He was contempt. ------ John and Aryanne hiked along a rocky path. For once, Aryanne could say it was a sunny day. Tall trees lined the sides, while birds obnoxiously sang all around them. The two strolled along as a familiar mountainous landscape came into their view. Aryanne felt a heavy burden on his back. Maybe it was the luggage they took with them. Maybe it was not. He broke into a sweat; his knees buckling as John triumphantly lead the way. "Are ... we ... there ... yet?" Aryanne panted between words. John offered no reply. The surrounding woods began to disappear as the two walked closer to the mountain. Here they were. Bitch Mountain. //"John, guess what you are?"// Aryanne thought to himself. John perked up and turned towards him. He leered at Aryanne as he commanded "Get the camera." The enormous backpack Aryanne carried hit the ground with a //thud//. He made haste as he scrambled to get the camera, lighting, and microphone ready. Everything had to be perfect. They were trying to get //subscribers// here. As Aryanne set up, his mind wandered back to his untimely ban, months ago. He remembered the note, clear as day. "You have been IP Banned. - Fedora Man P.S: Don't try to be so edgy, m8." Aryanne knew all the admins of the undernet. Some he knew personally. Fedora Man was one of the few admins that Aryanne ever bumped heads with. Their arguments would often span countless of pages, with supporters cramming their opinions between posts. Aryanne was even backed up by other admins (despite not being one himself). Fedora Man dissented with every word that came from Aryanne. He was truly a euphoric asshole in Aryanne's eyes. Aryanne didn't need the undernet. He had a new purpose in life. With John, he didn't have hordes of people fearing him or kissing his ass. For once, he could live a normal life. The air began to become stale. The taste of the air was almost metallic, like a rusted nail. Aryanne's eyes grew wide with terror. He dropped a microphone in hand. John quickly looked at him. "Ugh." was all John managed to say. The air behind him began to swirl. A figure materialized in the midst of the swirling air. A short, stubby man in a trench coat stood directly behind him. John whirled around. "Who are you?" The man pointed to Aryanne. He tipped his fedora as he said: "Aryanne, you should know who I am." Aryanne became flooded with fear and confusion. //Wait, what? This makes no fucking sense.// He thought to himself. //Can it be...// A smirk grin grew on the man's face. "C'mon. My hat. You know it. //Say it// Aryanne." "Fedora Man." John spat out. "I know who he is. He's a follower of my blog, Aryanne." "Intelligent, isn't he?" The Fedora Man replied. "He’s quite loyal, too. Is he your //girlfriend// or something?" He guffawed. "Uh..." "Wait, wait. Whoo." The Fedora Man tips his hat, looking at John. "M'lady". He continues to snicker, like a little schoolgirl. John recoiled in disgust. The air continued to fill with the man's laughter. After a few moments, the man fixes up his trench coat. His giddy and cheerful tone was replaced a more serious one. "John. First I'd like to say, thank you for the blog. Quite a ... interesting performance, to say in the least. Second, I came here for Aryanne. If you would kindly step forward." Aryanne stepped forward. "I don't get it." he said meekly. "It's very simple." The Fedora Man replied. "We want you back." Wait, what? Aryanne didn't understand. The same man who was the bane of his existence was now welcoming him with open arms. "You see, Aryanne ... You are an attractive individual. That is in the sense that you draw attention to yourself without really trying. What do they call it?" Fedora Man pondered. He spun his hat around his head. "Ah, yes. The power of attraction. Ha! You are quite magnetic, my friend." Aryanne's eyes squinted. //Friend?// "That is why I came to you for assistance. The undernet is in need of people like you. The admins are crude, greedy politicians. The people distrust them." The man's tone resumed to a more cheerful one. "But with a fresh face like yours, peace can once again be restored. Think about it, Aryanne. Your fame will be //justified.// You are the man people can relate to. With all that power, we can give you anything you want." "Are you serious?" John spat out. He growled. "Oh, I'm deadly serious." The Fedora Man's eyes gleamed. "Promise not to do another b& incident, and the admin status is yours!" Aryanne's memories flooded back to his glory days of the undernet. He remembered the rush he felt when he saw his supporters. He remembered the smug satisfaction of being the man behind one of the stupidest memes on the internet. He allowed himself to relish in those memories, for a split second. "No." John said "He doesn't need you, or the undernet. He's past that now." The Fedora Man's voice is lowered again as he answers: "I don't believe I was addressing you. I think Aryanne is more than capable of answering." Aryanne stood rooted in place. "Huh," The Fedora Man said, "I figured as much. Whatever shall we do?" "You can start by leaving." John hissed. "Oh no. That will not do. I will have to convince you, Aryanne." The Fedora Man begins walking towards Aryanne, shoving John aside. He produces a pistol from his trench-coat. "Aryanne, please think this over. As an admin, I had nothing against you. I simply cared for the welfare of the people. And besides, think of your former glory." Aryanne's eyes met the Fedora Man's. He saw small, dark beads. He was soulless. Aryanne's mind was in a whirlwind between his distant memories and his fast approaching fate. What was he going to do? He wanted to move a leg, an arm, //something//. Aryanne broke into a cold sweat. He was frozen by fear. "Time is running out, Aryanne." The Fedora Man chuckled. "Don't do this to yourself. Make the right choice." The Fedora Man pointed his pistol towards Aryanne's face. John immediately jumped in between them. "Oh, what's this? You're intervening?" John glared at the Fedora Man. "Oh, I see. You want to save your //girlfriend//. Well, you asked for it." John lunged at the Fedora Man. A shot was heard. Aryanne's vision was blurred, between the dust surrounding him and his eyes beginning to water. The shot left his ears ringing and his head spinning. Aryanne looked up to see flocks of birds hurriedly scattering in every direction. When he looked back down, he saw a body lay dead on the ground. The Fedora Man was dead. John was victorious. Aryanne's mouth was agape, while John sprinted towards him. John kneeled down next to Aryanne, who was already beginning to position himself into a fetal position. "Aryanne." John said. Aryanne heard his name mentioned as an echo. "Aryanne ... Aryanne. C'mon, get it together." Aryanne knew his name was being called, but was unsure to answer. "Snap out of it!" John commanded. Aryanne knew who had called his name. A smile was brought to his face. "John..." He whimpered. Both of them were silent for a moment. A soft breeze was blowing behind them. Aryanne could see the leaves blowing around him. He no longer smelled metallic rust in the air. "Aryanne. You know, if you want to return to your old life ... well, that's fine. I'm not stopping you." Aryanne wanted to say something. A lump was stuck in his throat. "The choice is up to you." John said. Aryanne was brought to tears. John himself wanted to cry, but stopped himself from doing so. He held Aryanne close to him. "I want you, John." Aryanne said between sobs. "But, no homo." The both of them stood by the foot of the mountains. For John, this would signal the first of his fans. For Aryanne, it would be his first enemy. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-08-05T02:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Aryanne's Tail - SCP Foundation	11	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	23205557	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/aryanne-s-tail
asymptomatic-carrier	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>By Arjun’s estimations, the Coalition was surprisingly professional for an organization that was barely three years old. There was something in the methodical, cold way that they operated that reminded Arjun of the Foundation itself. But there was also a naiveté that Arjun had never seen in the Foundation. When they sent out retrieval teams, they had no insurance. There were no specifically expendable personnel to sacrifice in the case of disaster.</p> <p>Arjun removed the binoculars from his eyes, wiped sand out of the lens, and then stowed the instrument back into his pack. Beside him, Zhi Xin was talking to Owen.</p> <p>“So Owen, what do you think the GOC’s got its hands on this time?”</p> <p>Owen adjusted his shoelaces.</p> <p>“You know, they <em>say</em>—or at least their internal communications say—that they think this hole has information about the Ahnenerbe’s new toys. But who knows? They might find something more interesting.”</p> <p>Owen turned to his side and quietly issued a command through the radio.</p> <p>“If you find anything useful with those eagle eyes of yours, make sure to nab it, right? Make Michelle happy. Give her something to show off to the O5. I mean, they’re asking for more and God knows Michelle wants to give it.”</p> <p>“You think it’s strange that the O5 wants more from us,” Arjun said.</p> <p>Zhi Xin chuckled. “Not strange. Tedious. Look at these guys. Crawling around in the sand, trying to figure out what it is that they’ve dug up so that they can set the wheels of intergovernmental bureaucracy into motion. Is it a threat to consensus reality? Can we negotiate with it? If not, how easily can we blow it up? Wait, but first, can we use it and then blow it up later? And the O5 wants more in the event that we fight <em>them.</em>”</p> <p>Without turning to face either of them, Owen said, “They’re here.”</p> <p>Arjun stood up as a vehicle pulled beside them. Insurgency operatives began hauling heavy equipment out of the vehicle. Assembly of the instrument took the better part of an hour, while Arjun, Zhi Xin, and Owen looked on. Eventually, a large, crude metal gate stood before them. Arjun looked into the gate and saw the universe shatter into an infinitely replicating fractal pattern. He pitied the men who had built the machine. They could not appreciate its beauty.</p> <p>“Remember,” Arjun said, “reconnaissance. Find what they’re looking for. Evaluate its threat potential. Take it if necessary. Zhi Xin, if anybody dies or if anything gets destroyed, I’ll hold you accountable.”</p> <p>“Your leadership inspires me not to disappoint you,” Zhi Xin said. Immediately afterwards, she walked into the gate and disappeared.</p> <p>Arjun and Owen made eye contact. “You haven’t learned how to shut her up,” Owen said.</p> <p>“No. It’s regrettable.”</p> <p>Owen shrugged. “Time to go.”</p> <p>The two of them entered the gate together. When he exited, Arjun found himself stepping outside of a tent. Workers with the emblem of the United Nations on their vests moved about, covered in dirt, hauling pickaxes and barking orders. Nobody took any notice of Arjun. Part of their mind was too busy, and the other part that would have ordinarily noticed the three was too occupied appreciating the invisible memetic fireworks display taking place three yards to the left of the intruders to pay any attention to them.</p> <p>“Well, I should say sorry to Michelle. Maybe memetics isn’t bullshit after all,” Zhi Xin said.</p> <p>Without saying anything, Owen disappeared into the crowd of GOC workers. Arjun turned to Zhi Xin. “Come on, Xin,” he said.</p> <p>“Why such a hurry?” Xin asked. “We already know exactly where we’re supposed to go.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Really, Arjun?”</p> <p>Arjun looked back at the chaotic throng of people swarming the dig site. Zhi Xin was right. He could see a pattern in their movement, in the way their voices melded together into one indiscernible mass, in the ways their eyes traveled and their feet shuffled. Their actions and their thoughts were all caught in the gravitational well of a certain object, and if Arjun only looked to find the center of their collective orbit, he could find what he was looking for.</p> <p>“I see it,” Arjun said.</p> <p>Zhi Xin snorted. “Then let’s go.”</p> <p>As the two moved towards the target illuminated by the HALMAS, Arjun felt his mind stir uneasily. There was very little chance that anything would go wrong; even if they were noticed, it was almost impossible that they would be caught or killed, and no possibility either way that the Foundation would have to bear any consequences. Arjun imagined what it was like for the people who lived in consensus reality and were exposed to the anomalous. The universe itself was revealed to be a lie, a comfortable veneer draped over the true world by an unseen hand, and in truth, reality was an alien, terrifying place.</p> <p>Arjun had known the unknowable for as long as he could remember, but now, walking through the Coalition dig site, he felt like the ignorant uninitiated about to be baptized in murky, dark water.</p> <p>The two of them stopped in front of a non-descript tent. For a moment, neither of them moved or said anything.</p> <p>“It’s here,” Zhi Xin said. “Whatever it is. We came here to find out, didn’t we?”</p> <p>“Is something wrong?”</p> <p>Zhi Xin was staring at the tent. “I think so. But I don’t know what. It’s an unpleasant sensation.”</p> <p>“You’re being nonsensical again.”</p> <p>“Am I? Whatever.”</p> <p>Zhi Xin passed Arjun and entered the tent. Arjun followed close behind.</p> <p>Inside, Arjun found himself completely incapable of noticing any details about the interior of the tent. His attention was captured entirely by a small book sitting on a table in the middle of the tent. Zhi Xin had already flipped to a page inside the book.</p> <p>“What are you doing?”</p> <p>“How long have you been on HALMAS, Arjun? Can’t you see? This is—this is—“</p> <p>Zhi Xin looked up from the book. Her face was set in the rocky tones of determination; her eyes radiated the fragile gleam of fear. “You need to stand at the door and make sure nobody comes in,” she said. “You’ve served the O5 Council faithfully all your life. You’ve done it because you <em>know</em> that there is some greater purpose behind everything. If you still think that, then do this.”</p> <p>“What’s going on?”</p> <p>“If you can’t see, that just—it just means that something is <em>definitely wrong.</em> Watch the door, or else I know that things are going to get worse.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Give me thirty seconds, Arjun.”</p> <p>Zhi Xin took a syringe of HALMAS out of her pocket and stuck it into her arm.</p> <p>When Arjun turned around to stand at the door, he found himself staring Owen in the face.</p> <p>“Let me in,” he said.</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“Zhi Xin told you not to let me in.”</p> <p>“I—”</p> <p>“You don’t know why.”</p> <p>Owen’s cold blue eyes did not move. They were as dry and endless as the desert itself. “She’s found something.”</p> <p>“Yes, and—”</p> <p>“You don’t know what it is. You don’t know what she’s doing. Let me in.”</p> <p>Arjun stayed in place. There were things that he knew. He knew that it was against protocol for Zhi Xin to be taking HALMAS while in direct exposure to a possible cognitohazard; he knew that it was a betrayal for Michelle to fail to inform the O5 Council about the developments surrounding the engine. He knew all these things but he did not know them, like he knew but did not know of that greater purpose floating somewhere out there. For all anyone knew, it was in outer space, or buried a thousand miles underground, or maybe it didn’t even exist. He had realized by now that he knew but did not know so many things, and the only thing that he really <em>knew</em> was that he had always trusted Chen Zhi Xin.</p> <p>“Move, Arjun.”</p> <p>She had asked for thirty seconds and now he had to give them.</p> <p>“I can’t. She told me not to let anyone in. I don’t know why, but you sure as hell don’t know why you need to get in there. I can see it in your face, Owen, don’t lie to me.”</p> <p>Owen reached into his pocket, pulled out a thin metal cylinder, and pressed a button at the top. When Arjun regained consciousness, Owen was behind him and inside the tent. A second later, he pulled out a lighter and tossed into onto the book. Zhi Xin swore and dropped it to the ground, where green flames consumed the book instantly.</p> <p>Zhi Xin put a hand on her pistol. “Owen, what the hell?”</p> <p>“It was cognitohazardous. If you suffered continued exposure while on HALMAS, your memory would store the cognitohazard and you would become unacceptably compromised. This is standard protocol.”</p> <p>For a few moments, Zhi Xin only breathed heavily. Then, she said, “You’re right. I fucked up. So did you; you just destroyed that thing when it was obviously important. So how about we make a deal? If anybody—Michelle in particular—hears about this, we’re both fucked. Right, Owen?”</p> <p>“Fine.”</p> <p>Nobody spoke as they left the tent.</p> <p>Hours later, when Arjun was in his quarters and staring at the ceiling, he was struck by a sudden hatred for the O5 Council. He remembered the metal cylinder and the green fire. Neither of those things should have existed. And if now they existed, then what cause was he fighting for?</p> <p>Nothing made sense anymore.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/gate-of-janus">back</a> \| <a href="/chaos-insurgency-hub">Chaos Insurgency Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-ant">next</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/asymptomatic-carrier">Asymptomatic Carrier</a>" by Chubert, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/asymptomatic-carrier">https://scpwiki.com/asymptomatic-carrier</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] By Arjun’s estimations, the Coalition was surprisingly professional for an organization that was barely three years old. There was something in the methodical, cold way that they operated that reminded Arjun of the Foundation itself. But there was also a naiveté that Arjun had never seen in the Foundation. When they sent out retrieval teams, they had no insurance. There were no specifically expendable personnel to sacrifice in the case of disaster. Arjun removed the binoculars from his eyes, wiped sand out of the lens, and then stowed the instrument back into his pack. Beside him, Zhi Xin was talking to Owen. “So Owen, what do you think the GOC’s got its hands on this time?” Owen adjusted his shoelaces. “You know, they //say//—or at least their internal communications say—that they think this hole has information about the Ahnenerbe’s new toys. But who knows? They might find something more interesting.” Owen turned to his side and quietly issued a command through the radio. “If you find anything useful with those eagle eyes of yours, make sure to nab it, right? Make Michelle happy. Give her something to show off to the O5. I mean, they’re asking for more and God knows Michelle wants to give it.” “You think it’s strange that the O5 wants more from us,” Arjun said. Zhi Xin chuckled. “Not strange. Tedious. Look at these guys. Crawling around in the sand, trying to figure out what it is that they’ve dug up so that they can set the wheels of intergovernmental bureaucracy into motion. Is it a threat to consensus reality? Can we negotiate with it? If not, how easily can we blow it up? Wait, but first, can we use it and then blow it up later? And the O5 wants more in the event that we fight //them.//” Without turning to face either of them, Owen said, “They’re here.” Arjun stood up as a vehicle pulled beside them. Insurgency operatives began hauling heavy equipment out of the vehicle. Assembly of the instrument took the better part of an hour, while Arjun, Zhi Xin, and Owen looked on. Eventually, a large, crude metal gate stood before them. Arjun looked into the gate and saw the universe shatter into an infinitely replicating fractal pattern. He pitied the men who had built the machine. They could not appreciate its beauty. “Remember,” Arjun said, “reconnaissance. Find what they’re looking for. Evaluate its threat potential. Take it if necessary. Zhi Xin, if anybody dies or if anything gets destroyed, I’ll hold you accountable.” “Your leadership inspires me not to disappoint you,” Zhi Xin said. Immediately afterwards, she walked into the gate and disappeared. Arjun and Owen made eye contact. “You haven’t learned how to shut her up,” Owen said. “No. It’s regrettable.” Owen shrugged. “Time to go.” The two of them entered the gate together. When he exited, Arjun found himself stepping outside of a tent. Workers with the emblem of the United Nations on their vests moved about, covered in dirt, hauling pickaxes and barking orders. Nobody took any notice of Arjun. Part of their mind was too busy, and the other part that would have ordinarily noticed the three was too occupied appreciating the invisible memetic fireworks display taking place three yards to the left of the intruders to pay any attention to them. “Well, I should say sorry to Michelle. Maybe memetics isn’t bullshit after all,” Zhi Xin said. Without saying anything, Owen disappeared into the crowd of GOC workers. Arjun turned to Zhi Xin. “Come on, Xin,” he said. “Why such a hurry?” Xin asked. “We already know exactly where we’re supposed to go.” “What?” “Really, Arjun?” Arjun looked back at the chaotic throng of people swarming the dig site. Zhi Xin was right. He could see a pattern in their movement, in the way their voices melded together into one indiscernible mass, in the ways their eyes traveled and their feet shuffled. Their actions and their thoughts were all caught in the gravitational well of a certain object, and if Arjun only looked to find the center of their collective orbit, he could find what he was looking for. “I see it,” Arjun said. Zhi Xin snorted. “Then let’s go.” As the two moved towards the target illuminated by the HALMAS, Arjun felt his mind stir uneasily. There was very little chance that anything would go wrong; even if they were noticed, it was almost impossible that they would be caught or killed, and no possibility either way that the Foundation would have to bear any consequences. Arjun imagined what it was like for the people who lived in consensus reality and were exposed to the anomalous. The universe itself was revealed to be a lie, a comfortable veneer draped over the true world by an unseen hand, and in truth, reality was an alien, terrifying place. Arjun had known the unknowable for as long as he could remember, but now, walking through the Coalition dig site, he felt like the ignorant uninitiated about to be baptized in murky, dark water. The two of them stopped in front of a non-descript tent. For a moment, neither of them moved or said anything. “It’s here,” Zhi Xin said. “Whatever it is. We came here to find out, didn’t we?” “Is something wrong?” Zhi Xin was staring at the tent. “I think so. But I don’t know what. It’s an unpleasant sensation.” “You’re being nonsensical again.” “Am I? Whatever.” Zhi Xin passed Arjun and entered the tent. Arjun followed close behind. Inside, Arjun found himself completely incapable of noticing any details about the interior of the tent. His attention was captured entirely by a small book sitting on a table in the middle of the tent. Zhi Xin had already flipped to a page inside the book. “What are you doing?” “How long have you been on HALMAS, Arjun? Can’t you see? This is—this is—“ Zhi Xin looked up from the book. Her face was set in the rocky tones of determination; her eyes radiated the fragile gleam of fear. “You need to stand at the door and make sure nobody comes in,” she said. “You’ve served the O5 Council faithfully all your life. You’ve done it because you //know// that there is some greater purpose behind everything. If you still think that, then do this.” “What’s going on?” “If you can’t see, that just—it just means that something is //definitely wrong.// Watch the door, or else I know that things are going to get worse.” “What?” “Give me thirty seconds, Arjun.” Zhi Xin took a syringe of HALMAS out of her pocket and stuck it into her arm. When Arjun turned around to stand at the door, he found himself staring Owen in the face. “Let me in,” he said. “No.” “Zhi Xin told you not to let me in.” “I—” “You don’t know why.” Owen’s cold blue eyes did not move. They were as dry and endless as the desert itself. “She’s found something.” “Yes, and—” “You don’t know what it is. You don’t know what she’s doing. Let me in.” Arjun stayed in place. There were things that he knew. He knew that it was against protocol for Zhi Xin to be taking HALMAS while in direct exposure to a possible cognitohazard; he knew that it was a betrayal for Michelle to fail to inform the O5 Council about the developments surrounding the engine. He knew all these things but he did not know them, like he knew but did not know of that greater purpose floating somewhere out there. For all anyone knew, it was in outer space, or buried a thousand miles underground, or maybe it didn’t even exist. He had realized by now that he knew but did not know so many things, and the only thing that he really //knew// was that he had always trusted Chen Zhi Xin. “Move, Arjun.” She had asked for thirty seconds and now he had to give them. “I can’t. She told me not to let anyone in. I don’t know why, but you sure as hell don’t know why you need to get in there. I can see it in your face, Owen, don’t lie to me.” Owen reached into his pocket, pulled out a thin metal cylinder, and pressed a button at the top. When Arjun regained consciousness, Owen was behind him and inside the tent. A second later, he pulled out a lighter and tossed into onto the book. Zhi Xin swore and dropped it to the ground, where green flames consumed the book instantly. Zhi Xin put a hand on her pistol. “Owen, what the hell?” “It was cognitohazardous. If you suffered continued exposure while on HALMAS, your memory would store the cognitohazard and you would become unacceptably compromised. This is standard protocol.” For a few moments, Zhi Xin only breathed heavily. Then, she said, “You’re right. I fucked up. So did you; you just destroyed that thing when it was obviously important. So how about we make a deal? If anybody—Michelle in particular—hears about this, we’re both fucked. Right, Owen?” “Fine.” Nobody spoke as they left the tent. Hours later, when Arjun was in his quarters and staring at the ceiling, he was struck by a sudden hatred for the O5 Council. He remembered the metal cylinder and the green fire. Neither of those things should have existed. And if now they existed, then what cause was he fighting for? Nothing made sense anymore. [[=]] << [[[gate-of-janus \|back]]] \| [[[chaos-insurgency-hub\| Chaos Insurgency Hub]]] \| [[[the-ant \|next]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-08T00:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "chaos-insurgency", "goi2014", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Asymptomatic Carrier - SCP Foundation	40	[ "gate-of-janus", "chaos-insurgency-hub", "the-ant", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	22896428	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/asymptomatic-carrier
authenticity-trip	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>January 6th, 2015.</em></p> <p>In Miami, there is an apartment. A studio one, stuffed with computers, beeping and booping, manned by a single, unwashed operator. There are many monitors, looking into seismic activities, weather, tracking anomalies, all sharing data with each other. It's a networking system with a rough approximation of the globe. It's the best they can do. There are monitors showing the snowy peaks of Siberia, the inside of strange dreamscapes, and urban decay and modern wasteland. Its affiliation is with a loose confederacy known as the Chaos Insurgency.</p> <p>There is a field agent outside of this station, down on the street. He's a man named Anders Forsmen. Today, he is walking down the art deco district, looking out for a man. An individual their peers had been keeping a close eye on.</p> <p>He has absolutely no idea why.</p> <p>Leaning on a lamp-post, Anders casually brought a finger to his ear. "So this is the place, then?"</p> <p>The technician glanced to an adjacent monitor, adjusting his glasses as the glow reflected off of them. "That's, uh, yeah. That's the target's pad."</p> <p>"I don't see it." Forsmen frowns. "The dossier, it made him seem like he was some Houdini-type. This guy doesn't strike me exactly as an Olympian…"</p> <p>Indeed, the man currently walking out onto the street was a slightly overweight, pale complexioned epitome of the white-collar worker. With a briefcase in one hand, a watch around the wrist, and lightly pressed trousers, he stood at the bus stop listening to his iPod.</p> <p>Sniffing, the technician shuffled a sheaf of papers. "Looks can be deceiving. Last time we had a target like this, he, uh, looked completely, totally ordinary. Turned out, guy had a pocket dimension <em>literally</em> inside his pocket." he paused. "It turned out to be pretty useful, actually. Once the guy was done with."</p> <p>"This is clearly a fix-up."</p> <p>"They gave him way too much attention for this to be a fix-up, Anders."</p> <p>Forsmen rolled his eyes. "Be respectful. And open your eyes, maybe. Look at this guy. He isn't shit. All we have is from the Foundation. Christ, is this all? I get called down, briefed, get to know the local people, and you guys don't check up that this fucker is just some guy, some random guy, like the ones they've picked before? The ones they tail, so that we tail, so that they can flush us out? Jesus Christ, man. Don't they teach you guys anything?"</p> <p>Before the technician can open his mouth, the schlep on the screen steps behind the bus stop sign, and out of sight.</p> <p>"… Son of a bitch."</p> <hr/> <p>Crouching by the sign, Forsmen examines the vanishing point. <em>He's jumped. He thinks he's gotten away, but he's not expecting to be followed. He'll mess something up, they always do…</em></p> <p>Sure enough, there is a shimmer in the air. A small brick to grab onto, to kick the door to the whole rotten wall down. Giving it a hard shove, he fell through.</p> <p>He rose, brushing the invisible brick dust off his sleeves. A white concrete path stretching in front of him, with ancient trash bins and pieces of newspaper littering the ground. An attic silence permeates the air. The walls were all windows, leading to empty houses, family rooms, backyards. Some have snow, and some are barren wasteland. None are open.</p> <p><em>He's still inside.</em></p> <p>But he's not right here. Dropping to a crouch, Forsmen positions himself behind a trash can, and peeks over the edge. After fifty feet, the world either stops existing, or stops letting itself be seen. Either way, the guy wasn't coming out.</p> <p>At least, that's what he was thinking until the man ran back at him, frantically waving his arms.</p> <p>"Hey! What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here!"</p> <p><em>So much for stealth.</em></p> <p>"What are you doing, man? I was just tryin' to walk to the bus, and I leaned on the sign! You get me the fuck out of here!"</p> <p>The man stops, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. "That doesn't- there wasn't-… how did you even… there wasn't anyone there!"</p> <p>Pausing, Forsmen pops his head up above the bin, keeping his gear out of sight. "Look, man, just tell me what's going on? This is weird shit, dude."</p> <p>The man frowns. "Why're you talking like that?"</p> <p>"I'm not talking like anything."</p> <p>Sighing, he turns back towards what lay ahead. "Look, this isn't safe. This is not a safe place for, any, for you to be."</p> <p>"Why not?" Forsmen squinted, trying to see what was ahead.</p> <p>"This is… an in between place. It's the backdoor to the universe, through… basically every possible reality that didn't work out."</p> <p><em>That's certainly important.</em> "Now, you're going to have to explain that a bit more…"</p> <p>Waving him down, the man shouted a response. "Look, you're screwed unless you follow me! I can take you through what could've been, back to what is!"</p> <p>Before he can protest, another figure emerges from the fog. A tidal wave of molten flesh tumbling forwards, with a gaping maw and black tar coating its back. As it twists its liquid jaw into a silent roar, sloshing towards the pair, the man quickly digs into his shirt. "Look, I'm really sorry about this."</p> <p>"Sorry? What the hell are you-"</p> <p>With a BANG, the man disappears.</p> <p>"Shit."</p> <p>and without another word, the flesh rolls past him, and he falls into darkness.</p> <p>When he wakes up, he will be lost.</p> <hr/> <p>All being lost turned out to not be so bad, after all.</p> <p>The first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the blinds, above his bed. Was it a bed? Seemed like one. It was a lot more comfortable than the cold stone he'd been on a couple seconds ago. Blinking, Anders sat up. He knew that old sinking feeling, and it was hitting him pretty hard right now. Looking around, he could see a room that looked pretty much identical to his first apartment. The one he'd shared with Julia.</p> <p>Just then, a voice called out from the other room. <em>"You awake yet, sleepyhead?"</em></p> <p><em>Son of a bitch. This isn't just that old sinking feeling.</em></p> <p>Glancing around the room, Anders checked for anything. Word of the day, cat calenders… settling on a computer, his body reacting before his mind, he checked the date.</p> <p>September 18th, 1995. Twenty-crappin'-years.</p> <p>Anders peeked out the blinds.</p> <p>That was definitely <em>not</em> the neighborhood he'd lived in twenty years ago.</p> <p>Instead, a purple haze lazily swirled by, with half-formed ideas and memories ambling by. The face of a first grade teacher, name long forgotten but with a face all too familiar. Villages, towns and cities, visited in the line of duty and elsewhere. Girlfriends, friends, enemies long forgotten. It was as if somebody had slowed down the tornado to Oz, dumped in a packet of kool-aid, and made it a personal shitshow.</p> <p>The voice called out again. "<em>Hon, you coming out? I made breakfast.</em>"</p> <p>Anders decided the shitshow would be better to deal with than… whatever was out there.</p> <p>"I'll be out in a minute!"</p> <p>He opened the window, climbed out, and fell into darkness.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/authenticity-trip">Authenticity Trip</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/authenticity-trip">https://scpwiki.com/authenticity-trip</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] = //January 6th, 2015.// In Miami, there is an apartment. A studio one, stuffed with computers, beeping and booping, manned by a single, unwashed operator. There are many monitors, looking into seismic activities, weather, tracking anomalies, all sharing data with each other. It's a networking system with a rough approximation of the globe. It's the best they can do. There are monitors showing the snowy peaks of Siberia, the inside of strange dreamscapes, and urban decay and modern wasteland. Its affiliation is with a loose confederacy known as the Chaos Insurgency. There is a field agent outside of this station, down on the street. He's a man named Anders Forsmen. Today, he is walking down the art deco district, looking out for a man. An individual their peers had been keeping a close eye on. He has absolutely no idea why. Leaning on a lamp-post, Anders casually brought a finger to his ear. "So this is the place, then?" The technician glanced to an adjacent monitor, adjusting his glasses as the glow reflected off of them. "That's, uh, yeah. That's the target's pad." "I don't see it." Forsmen frowns. "The dossier, it made him seem like he was some Houdini-type. This guy doesn't strike me exactly as an Olympian..." Indeed, the man currently walking out onto the street was a slightly overweight, pale complexioned epitome of the white-collar worker. With a briefcase in one hand, a watch around the wrist, and lightly pressed trousers, he stood at the bus stop listening to his iPod. Sniffing, the technician shuffled a sheaf of papers. "Looks can be deceiving. Last time we had a target like this, he, uh, looked completely, totally ordinary. Turned out, guy had a pocket dimension //literally// inside his pocket." he paused. "It turned out to be pretty useful, actually. Once the guy was done with." "This is clearly a fix-up." "They gave him way too much attention for this to be a fix-up, Anders." Forsmen rolled his eyes. "Be respectful. And open your eyes, maybe. Look at this guy. He isn't shit. All we have is from the Foundation. Christ, is this all? I get called down, briefed, get to know the local people, and you guys don't check up that this fucker is just some guy, some random guy, like the ones they've picked before? The ones they tail, so that we tail, so that they can flush us out? Jesus Christ, man. Don't they teach you guys anything?" Before the technician can open his mouth, the schlep on the screen steps behind the bus stop sign, and out of sight. "... Son of a bitch." ---- Crouching by the sign, Forsmen examines the vanishing point. //He's jumped. He thinks he's gotten away, but he's not expecting to be followed. He'll mess something up, they always do...// Sure enough, there is a shimmer in the air. A small brick to grab onto, to kick the door to the whole rotten wall down. Giving it a hard shove, he fell through. He rose, brushing the invisible brick dust off his sleeves. A white concrete path stretching in front of him, with ancient trash bins and pieces of newspaper littering the ground. An attic silence permeates the air. The walls were all windows, leading to empty houses, family rooms, backyards. Some have snow, and some are barren wasteland. None are open. //He's still inside.// But he's not right here. Dropping to a crouch, Forsmen positions himself behind a trash can, and peeks over the edge. After fifty feet, the world either stops existing, or stops letting itself be seen. Either way, the guy wasn't coming out. At least, that's what he was thinking until the man ran back at him, frantically waving his arms. "Hey! What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here!" //So much for stealth.// "What are you doing, man? I was just tryin' to walk to the bus, and I leaned on the sign! You get me the fuck out of here!" The man stops, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. "That doesn't- there wasn't-... how did you even... there wasn't anyone there!" Pausing, Forsmen pops his head up above the bin, keeping his gear out of sight. "Look, man, just tell me what's going on? This is weird shit, dude." The man frowns. "Why're you talking like that?" "I'm not talking like anything." Sighing, he turns back towards what lay ahead. "Look, this isn't safe. This is not a safe place for, any, for you to be." "Why not?" Forsmen squinted, trying to see what was ahead. "This is... an in between place. It's the backdoor to the universe, through... basically every possible reality that didn't work out." //That's certainly important.// "Now, you're going to have to explain that a bit more..." Waving him down, the man shouted a response. "Look, you're screwed unless you follow me! I can take you through what could've been, back to what is!" Before he can protest, another figure emerges from the fog. A tidal wave of molten flesh tumbling forwards, with a gaping maw and black tar coating its back. As it twists its liquid jaw into a silent roar, sloshing towards the pair, the man quickly digs into his shirt. "Look, I'm really sorry about this." "Sorry? What the hell are you-" With a BANG, the man disappears. "Shit." and without another word, the flesh rolls past him, and he falls into darkness. When he wakes up, he will be lost. ---- All being lost turned out to not be so bad, after all. The first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the blinds, above his bed. Was it a bed? Seemed like one. It was a lot more comfortable than the cold stone he'd been on a couple seconds ago. Blinking, Anders sat up. He knew that old sinking feeling, and it was hitting him pretty hard right now. Looking around, he could see a room that looked pretty much identical to his first apartment. The one he'd shared with Julia. Just then, a voice called out from the other room. //"You awake yet, sleepyhead?"// //Son of a bitch. This isn't just that old sinking feeling.// Glancing around the room, Anders checked for anything. Word of the day, cat calenders... settling on a computer, his body reacting before his mind, he checked the date. September 18th, 1995. Twenty-crappin'-years. Anders peeked out the blinds. That was definitely //not// the neighborhood he'd lived in twenty years ago. Instead, a purple haze lazily swirled by, with half-formed ideas and memories ambling by. The face of a first grade teacher, name long forgotten but with a face all too familiar. Villages, towns and cities, visited in the line of duty and elsewhere. Girlfriends, friends, enemies long forgotten. It was as if somebody had slowed down the tornado to Oz, dumped in a packet of kool-aid, and made it a personal shitshow. The voice called out again. "//Hon, you coming out? I made breakfast.//" Anders decided the shitshow would be better to deal with than... whatever was out there. "I'll be out in a minute!" He opened the window, climbed out, and fell into darkness. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-06-01T19:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Authenticity Trip - SCP Foundation	16	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales", "chaos-insurgency-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	22461681	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/authenticity-trip
banana-smoothie	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> "So, let's get this straight. It's… a deer, with airbags?" <p>The corpse was unceremoniously dumped onto the dissection table. The dog-clam had been removed and placed in a small pet carrier outside the theater, and now the room was taken up by the subject of importance.</p> <p>"Not exactly a deer," Doctor Hart spoke, nodding toward the specimen. Nathaniel reached for a scalpel after donning latex gloves, setting the light down on the subject's flank. "Definitely cervine," he murmured, prodding at its side with the blade. There was far more resistance than he had expected. "This is where the air bladder is, yes?"</p> <p>"One of them, according to the witness," Hart replied, drawing a finger down across its lower abdomen. "Try making the incision there, maybe?"</p> <p>Nathaniel grunted in reply and took a cheap electric razor to its fur, shaving the spot before jabbing the scalpel in. He drew it down the abdomen and once across, opening the new entry into its body cavity and expanding it slowly with a pair of dissecting scissors. He then brought the incision up to the thoracic region, following in with the scissors and peeling back flaps of flesh. The coagulated blood occasionally trickled from the incision, but the specimen was unnaturally well preserved. "How long has it been dead?" Nathan inquired, poking around.</p> <p>"Two days now. We gave it a rapid preservation treatment to keep it in shape for dissection."</p> <p>Nathan made note to ask how they had preserved it so well later, noting the location of each of the air bladders. They were both well attached to the entire side of the ribcage with tendons and were flat, in the uninflated state. "Just epithelium," Nathan quipped as he carefully poked at the bladder. "But it's so… dense. Is this normal?" He looked up at Doctor Hart, who shrugged. "We've never seen this before either. Care to open it up?"</p> <p>There was a hesitation to his voice as Nathan responded, already beginning to poke down into it. "Just afraid of a… reflex," he breathed out, relieved, as the scalpel entered the bladder. "Simplified alveoli… I think." He placed his scalpel down and shook his head. "I don't see how this would work. It shouldn't, looking at it. What did you say that happened?" Nathan asked.</p> <p>"Car was heading for the deer, apparently. Typical deer-in-the-headlights look, damn thing sat there frozen. According to the victim, it just suddenly… blew up. Like a balloon. It stayed planted right in place, like it suddenly weighed as much as a goddamn block of steel. The car was totaled. A coupe."</p> <p>The table was moved off to the side as Nathan sat, tongue in cheek. "I don't get it. What's with this shit? A dog that's really a clam? A deer with a five-star safety rating? <em>Who</em> did you say you were?"</p> <p>Doctor Hart crossed his arms, glancing over at a co-worker of his. They shrugged, and Hart looked down at the seated biologist. "I suppose I can't just say that we're the cleaning crew. We work for the Foundation. We deal with these anomalies on a daily basis, but there usually is not an outbreak of this volume in such a small time." <em>That</em> got Nathan's attention. "Outbreak? You mean, there's more?" Hart nodded, and Nathan groaned.</p> <p>"We've already seen enough, and we expect more," Hart went on. "We need a local specialist." A click sounded from Nathan's tongue as he sighed, trying to grasp the situation. On one hand, this was the opportunity of a lifetime - never before seen species that were beyond the imagination of the average biologist, let alone scientist altogether. Though, this wasn't the thought on Nathan's mind. It was currently more along the lines of, <em>Why me?</em></p> <hr/> <p>They were out the door before Nathan could protest. They had already loaded up into the van, most of them sitting in the back, moving down US 19 with a speed just peaking above the limit of 50 miles per hour. There were no windows in the back, though one could glance out the front windshield if they glanced forward. Nathan sat across from Doctor Hart, both quiet for the moment. Enough discussion had gone on earlier, and all that was stated is that they were headed for another site of anomalous activity. They passed a Chik-Fil-A, and his stomach grumbled. He checked his watch; it was one in the afternoon, already.</p> <p>His hunger was flung from his gut as the new location came into view, finally. They were somewhere back into the Brooker Creek Preserve now, after trekking down a scant dirt path off to one side of the information center's parking lot. There was some recently cleared brush in the path, indicating that this had been cut after the discovery. Now, though, as he witnessed the large, stalky plants in front of him, he shuddered.</p> <p>Almost every inch of them were covered in various spiders and their webs. These plants stood no shorter than eight feet, and were a sight to see - large, thick, fleshy leaves sprouted from girthy stalks, like a bastardized version of aloe. There were also ropy vines everywhere, laid across in an oddly familiar shape. Nathaniel tilted his head, and his chest went cold.</p> <p>"Are those… spiderwebs?"</p> <p>Hart took a closer look at the vines himself. "These weren't here last time. Fetter, Jacob, get a scope of our surroundings." Two of the four others with them, armed now with sidearms and a light splay of tactical gear, nodded, setting off in opposite directions to circumvent the spot of anomalous activity. It only took a moment. Fetter screamed, but it was abruptly cut off by the large arachnid dropping onto him and sinking "fangs" into his throat, his body going rigid. Nathaniel watched the thing as it dragged Fetter up onto the web and began to spin him into a mass of vines, which prompted Jacob to draw his Colt. He took a double shot at the arachnid, and with a splat, it hit the ground. Hart had drawn his own handgun, but he was slowly holstering it as he approached. The one they had supplied Nathan, as he realized after a moment, was clutched tightly in his right hand, white-knuckled. He released the vice grip and holstered his, following Hart up to it.</p> <p>"Doc, <em>look</em> at it. It's… a plant," Jacob breathed.</p> <p>He was correct, Nathan noticed as he nudged it with a boot. It seemed to a heavy mass of plant growth, composed of layers upon layers of plant matter. It was an off-green hue, and the two shots it had taken had breached its thorax and spinneret. A gooey, white concoction leaked from the spinneret. "Hold on. Someone, give me a stick."</p> <p>Hart handed Nathan a medium-length branch just thick enough to poke around with. Jacob was busy hacking at the web of vines with a machete, trying to pull Fetter down. Nathaniel dug the stick into the spinneret easily enough, dragging out a solid mass that he could feel within. The beginnings of a botanical embryo clogged the liquid's flow as he brought it to the breach for observation.</p> <p>"It's a seed. This whole thing is a seed. The spinneret is a bulb. This… this liquid, it's a form of cotyledon, I guess." Nathan nodded at his own handiwork of deduction, looking towards Jacob as Fetter thumped to the ground. He worked off the vines haphazardly with the machete, reaching to try and feel for a pulse, or a rhythm of breath. "He's alive," he called with relief, removing the rest of the vines. "Greg, Nicole, get your asses over here." The last two members of the task force lifted Fetter between them, heading back the way they came. Jacob stayed with his handgun drawn, again.</p> <p>"Doc," he said, glancing about. "We really shouldn't be here much longer. We'll need Cox's team to help with this."</p> <p>Hart stood and beckoned for Nathaniel to follow, but not before taking a last look around. "Have you looked yet for anything that could've caused this?"</p> <p>"Doc, we really need to-"</p> <p>"No, search first. This is big, and we need to know."</p> <p>Jacob sighed, frustrated, but began to wander the site without further protest. Hart searched with Nathaniel in tow. Before long, Jacob was calling for Hart to come to him. He was down by Brooker Creek itself, looking down into the water. It was clouded and off-orange in this portion, which he sourced back to a plastic bag. Jacob looked to Hart, trying to see if he had any answer for this. "That's definitely <em>not</em> natural," Hart breathed, settling with his arms over his chest again.</p> <hr/> <p>The technician clacked at the few valves between the kit currently straining the next batch, and the distillation of the income of ingredients. He glanced over at the few others in the lab, working their stations like him, the heavily ventilated space whirring with air conditioning. The viscous, orange material strained through the second set of mesh screens, collecting a solid mass of crystalline waste. The waste would be bagged, after this batch was processed, and handed off to be disposed of. Finding the proper location for dumping had taken some time - they had tried burying it, and dumping it into water, but they had it down pat now.</p> <p>Carver grinned as the process unfolded before him, flipping a tablet of the resulting designer drugs between his fingers. With a quick snap of his neck, he swallowed it, and a banana smoothie materialized on the counter in front of him.</p> <p>The quiet draft of classical music played from the radio in the corner of the space, and he settled into a chair, strawberry smoothie in hand.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/shellfish-for-breakfast">Shellfish For Breakfast</a> \| <a href="/green-thumb">Green Thumb</a> Hub \| <a href="/just-like-me">Just Like Me</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/banana-smoothie">Banana Smoothie</a>" by InsipidParoxysm, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/banana-smoothie">https://scpwiki.com/banana-smoothie</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "So, let's get this straight. It's... a deer, with airbags?" The corpse was unceremoniously dumped onto the dissection table. The dog-clam had been removed and placed in a small pet carrier outside the theater, and now the room was taken up by the subject of importance. "Not exactly a deer," Doctor Hart spoke, nodding toward the specimen. Nathaniel reached for a scalpel after donning latex gloves, setting the light down on the subject's flank. "Definitely cervine," he murmured, prodding at its side with the blade. There was far more resistance than he had expected. "This is where the air bladder is, yes?" "One of them, according to the witness," Hart replied, drawing a finger down across its lower abdomen. "Try making the incision there, maybe?" Nathaniel grunted in reply and took a cheap electric razor to its fur, shaving the spot before jabbing the scalpel in. He drew it down the abdomen and once across, opening the new entry into its body cavity and expanding it slowly with a pair of dissecting scissors. He then brought the incision up to the thoracic region, following in with the scissors and peeling back flaps of flesh. The coagulated blood occasionally trickled from the incision, but the specimen was unnaturally well preserved. "How long has it been dead?" Nathan inquired, poking around. "Two days now. We gave it a rapid preservation treatment to keep it in shape for dissection." Nathan made note to ask how they had preserved it so well later, noting the location of each of the air bladders. They were both well attached to the entire side of the ribcage with tendons and were flat, in the uninflated state. "Just epithelium," Nathan quipped as he carefully poked at the bladder. "But it's so... dense. Is this normal?" He looked up at Doctor Hart, who shrugged. "We've never seen this before either. Care to open it up?" There was a hesitation to his voice as Nathan responded, already beginning to poke down into it. "Just afraid of a... reflex," he breathed out, relieved, as the scalpel entered the bladder. "Simplified alveoli... I think." He placed his scalpel down and shook his head. "I don't see how this would work. It shouldn't, looking at it. What did you say that happened?" Nathan asked. "Car was heading for the deer, apparently. Typical deer-in-the-headlights look, damn thing sat there frozen. According to the victim, it just suddenly... blew up. Like a balloon. It stayed planted right in place, like it suddenly weighed as much as a goddamn block of steel. The car was totaled. A coupe." The table was moved off to the side as Nathan sat, tongue in cheek. "I don't get it. What's with this shit? A dog that's really a clam? A deer with a five-star safety rating? //Who// did you say you were?" Doctor Hart crossed his arms, glancing over at a co-worker of his. They shrugged, and Hart looked down at the seated biologist. "I suppose I can't just say that we're the cleaning crew. We work for the Foundation. We deal with these anomalies on a daily basis, but there usually is not an outbreak of this volume in such a small time." //That// got Nathan's attention. "Outbreak? You mean, there's more?" Hart nodded, and Nathan groaned. "We've already seen enough, and we expect more," Hart went on. "We need a local specialist." A click sounded from Nathan's tongue as he sighed, trying to grasp the situation. On one hand, this was the opportunity of a lifetime - never before seen species that were beyond the imagination of the average biologist, let alone scientist altogether. Though, this wasn't the thought on Nathan's mind. It was currently more along the lines of, //Why me?// ------ They were out the door before Nathan could protest. They had already loaded up into the van, most of them sitting in the back, moving down US 19 with a speed just peaking above the limit of 50 miles per hour. There were no windows in the back, though one could glance out the front windshield if they glanced forward. Nathan sat across from Doctor Hart, both quiet for the moment. Enough discussion had gone on earlier, and all that was stated is that they were headed for another site of anomalous activity. They passed a Chik-Fil-A, and his stomach grumbled. He checked his watch; it was one in the afternoon, already. His hunger was flung from his gut as the new location came into view, finally. They were somewhere back into the Brooker Creek Preserve now, after trekking down a scant dirt path off to one side of the information center's parking lot. There was some recently cleared brush in the path, indicating that this had been cut after the discovery. Now, though, as he witnessed the large, stalky plants in front of him, he shuddered. Almost every inch of them were covered in various spiders and their webs. These plants stood no shorter than eight feet, and were a sight to see - large, thick, fleshy leaves sprouted from girthy stalks, like a bastardized version of aloe. There were also ropy vines everywhere, laid across in an oddly familiar shape. Nathaniel tilted his head, and his chest went cold. "Are those... spiderwebs?" Hart took a closer look at the vines himself. "These weren't here last time. Fetter, Jacob, get a scope of our surroundings." Two of the four others with them, armed now with sidearms and a light splay of tactical gear, nodded, setting off in opposite directions to circumvent the spot of anomalous activity. It only took a moment. Fetter screamed, but it was abruptly cut off by the large arachnid dropping onto him and sinking "fangs" into his throat, his body going rigid. Nathaniel watched the thing as it dragged Fetter up onto the web and began to spin him into a mass of vines, which prompted Jacob to draw his Colt. He took a double shot at the arachnid, and with a splat, it hit the ground. Hart had drawn his own handgun, but he was slowly holstering it as he approached. The one they had supplied Nathan, as he realized after a moment, was clutched tightly in his right hand, white-knuckled. He released the vice grip and holstered his, following Hart up to it. "Doc, //look// at it. It's... a plant," Jacob breathed. He was correct, Nathan noticed as he nudged it with a boot. It seemed to a heavy mass of plant growth, composed of layers upon layers of plant matter. It was an off-green hue, and the two shots it had taken had breached its thorax and spinneret. A gooey, white concoction leaked from the spinneret. "Hold on. Someone, give me a stick." Hart handed Nathan a medium-length branch just thick enough to poke around with. Jacob was busy hacking at the web of vines with a machete, trying to pull Fetter down. Nathaniel dug the stick into the spinneret easily enough, dragging out a solid mass that he could feel within. The beginnings of a botanical embryo clogged the liquid's flow as he brought it to the breach for observation. "It's a seed. This whole thing is a seed. The spinneret is a bulb. This... this liquid, it's a form of cotyledon, I guess." Nathan nodded at his own handiwork of deduction, looking towards Jacob as Fetter thumped to the ground. He worked off the vines haphazardly with the machete, reaching to try and feel for a pulse, or a rhythm of breath. "He's alive," he called with relief, removing the rest of the vines. "Greg, Nicole, get your asses over here." The last two members of the task force lifted Fetter between them, heading back the way they came. Jacob stayed with his handgun drawn, again. "Doc," he said, glancing about. "We really shouldn't be here much longer. We'll need Cox's team to help with this." Hart stood and beckoned for Nathaniel to follow, but not before taking a last look around. "Have you looked yet for anything that could've caused this?" "Doc, we really need to-" "No, search first. This is big, and we need to know." Jacob sighed, frustrated, but began to wander the site without further protest. Hart searched with Nathaniel in tow. Before long, Jacob was calling for Hart to come to him. He was down by Brooker Creek itself, looking down into the water. It was clouded and off-orange in this portion, which he sourced back to a plastic bag. Jacob looked to Hart, trying to see if he had any answer for this. "That's definitely //not// natural," Hart breathed, settling with his arms over his chest again. ------ The technician clacked at the few valves between the kit currently straining the next batch, and the distillation of the income of ingredients. He glanced over at the few others in the lab, working their stations like him, the heavily ventilated space whirring with air conditioning. The viscous, orange material strained through the second set of mesh screens, collecting a solid mass of crystalline waste. The waste would be bagged, after this batch was processed, and handed off to be disposed of. Finding the proper location for dumping had taken some time - they had tried burying it, and dumping it into water, but they had it down pat now. Carver grinned as the process unfolded before him, flipping a tablet of the resulting designer drugs between his fingers. With a quick snap of his neck, he swallowed it, and a banana smoothie materialized on the counter in front of him. The quiet draft of classical music played from the radio in the corner of the space, and he settled into a chair, strawberry smoothie in hand. [[=]] << [[[Shellfish For Breakfast]]] \| [[[Green Thumb]]] Hub \| [[[Just Like Me]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-09-25T16:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "mystery", "science-fiction", "tale", "the-gulf" ]	Banana Smoothie - SCP Foundation	31	[ "shellfish-for-breakfast", "green-thumb", "just-like-me", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-gulf", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "green-thumb" ]	[]	23742571	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/banana-smoothie
be-a-dali-and-help-a-mann-out-or-the-lamentable-state-of-mod	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>When he was first partnered with Dr. Mann, Lament was handed a remote. As he was partnered to the doctor, so it was partnered to a small explosive implanted in the doctor's chest without his knowledge.</p> <p>Administrator Bunbridge had couched it in gentle terms. "Only as a last resort, you understand," and "Kindest thing, really, if it becomes necessary."</p> <p>Some days, Lament was depressed by the whole idea of an organization that would prepare to kill its own people just in case they went rogue. Other days, after being barraged with the Bee Gees, Abba, and KC and the Sunshine Band, he thought of the button longingly. But he'd never been seriously tempted to press it. In fact, some days, he forgot to take it with him, and it was left neglected on his coffee table.</p> <p>This was one of two mistakes Agent Lament realized he had made when he heard a low thud somewhere outside his bathroom. The other (obvious in hindsight) was to leave Mann unsupervised in his home.</p> <p>He rushed to the living room, barely taking time to button his trousers, mentally rehearsing the excuses he was going to have to feed to the Administrator, when he caught sight of Mann, holding the remote and pressing the button repeatedly. "I think your remote's got a dead battery," he said. "The telly won't turn on."</p> <p>"Um," Lament said, trying to piece together why Mann was intact. "That's… that's not for the television, Mann. That's for…" he searched around, "…for the dog door. But it, uh, doesn't work…"</p> <p>"Because you don't have a dog!" Mann said. "Of course. I should have realized." He smiled from under the mustache, as the world fell into place for him.</p> <p>"So, why did you have me bring you over?" Lament asked, trying to sound casual.</p> <p>"Oh, yes!" Mann said. "I think someone's trying to kill me."</p> <p>"Ah..?" Lament said, glancing at the remote. "What makes you say that?"</p> <p>"Well, they put an explosive in my chest. That's definitely suspicious," Mann said.</p> <p>Lament forced his eyebrows to raise up in surprise. "So you found… you have a bomb in your chest?"</p> <p>"Oh, not anymore. I took the thing out. I decided to play it safe." And this was indeed an unusual amount of self-preservation for Mann.</p> <p>"Then… where is it now?" Lament asked, thinking back to the thud he'd heard earlier.</p> <p>"Oh, where did I put it? Oh, I know. I left it in your car," Mann said cheerfully.</p> <p><em>I just finished paying it off,</em> Lament thought. <em>Well, of course it would be blown up. I should have expected it, really.</em></p> <p>"But not to worry," Mann said. "I'm sure I know precisely who's responsible."</p> <p>"Do you?" Lament asked weakly.</p> <p>"Oh yes. Means, motive, and opportunity, Lament. That is the formula. Find those, and you have the culprit."</p> <p>"Then who is it?" Lament thought desperately to his sidearm, currently by his bed, upstairs.</p> <p>"At first I suspected the Church of the Broken God. What is a bomb, Lament, but a mechanism for murder? And we all know how they love to tinker with human bodies." Mann's voice held no trace of irony.</p> <p>"But…" Lament listened in somewhat horrified fascination. Listening to Mann expound was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine, except that the machine could be expected to accomplish something at the end.</p> <p>"But the bomb uses an electronic trigger. Not their style. So next I looked to the Chaos Insurgency. They do like to sneak around. But they're not sly enough to get into my chest. My stomach, maybe, but they could never penetrate my rib cage and its secrets."</p> <p>"Granted," Lament said, as he tried to decide if he should come up with a cover story, or just rush Mann off to the site to let someone else deal with it.</p> <p>"But what of Wondertainment? So little we still know of the toymaker. Does he employ elves? Are they union? Surely if he can make a custom people as playthings, his knowledge of biology should make a simple chest bomb… well, child's play!"</p> <p>"And yet?"</p> <p>"What would he gain? I've almost saved up enough box tops for his Mikey Medula's Brain Surgery Kit. No, he'll not give up a potential sale so easily." Mann rubbed his chin. "I next suspected the Global Occult Coalition."</p> <p>"Because…"</p> <p>"Because they're opposed to our containment. I am, of course, a linchpin of the Foundation's operations, so I'm a natural target. But I've met their top surgeons. A bunch of amateurs, the lot of them. By no means capable of concealing such an invasive surgery, unless they tried some manner of… of sorcery, and I think we can discount that possibility. Are we not… Begging your pardon, Lament. Am <em>I</em> not a man of science?"</p> <p>"…For the sake of argument, sure," Lament said.</p> <p>"So clearly not them. The Serpents Hand could certainly have inveigled themselves onto the premises. But that bunch of long-haired ne'er-do-wells lacks the mechanical expertise for an explosive. Next, I turned my mind to Prometheus Labs. A bomb would be mere child's play for the least of their technicians."</p> <p>"And…"</p> <p>"But they've been defunct for years. No, they haven't the means to discover me, let alone to isolate me for surgery. So I turned my mind to Nobody. But obviously he couldn't have done it."</p> <p>"Because he doesn't exist?"</p> <p>"No," Mann said, shaking his head, "because he's in Toledo this time of year. So there's only one possible group that could have possibly pulled it off. Are We Cool Yet!"</p> <p>"…Seriously?"</p> <p>"Yes, Are We Cool Yet. I see your disbelief, but when I lay out my evidence, you will see-"</p> <p>Lament had had enough. "No."</p> <p>"No?" Mann frowned. "But wait, you see-"</p> <p>"No. Just… just no. I'll take your word for it."</p> <p>Mann's face fell. "But… But it's awfully clever. I… I made diagrams."</p> <p>"No. Mann, look, I'll go along and look into this with you. Just… don't explain it. Please." <em>Let me continue to live in a world where I haven't heard yet another of his explanations,</em> he pleaded with the universe.</p> <p>"Oh, all right," Mann said. "Terribly clever, though. You're missing out."</p> <p>"So, what do you plan to do about this?" Lament asked.</p> <p>"Why, seek revenge, of course!" Mann scowled. "I haven't been this vexed since Doctor Vang put hair remover in my mustache wax. The part that makes me angry is that they mucked about where I've already performed surgery. It's almost like… like a critique. Imagine how you would feel if someone criticized your shooting, and shouting, and so forth."</p> <p>"I don't have to imagine," Lament said. "Because you do that. All the time."</p> <p>"Yes, well, I'm an expert surgeon, so it's a bit different."</p> <p>"Are you saying I'm not good at… shooting?" Lament asked, eyebrow raised.</p> <p>"Well, you did miss that fellow at the factory," Mann pointed out.</p> <p>"It was a warning shot!"</p> <p>"Oh. Well. Was it really?" Mann said. "I suppose that explains why you were so cross afterwards."</p> <p>"I wanted him to talk," Lament said.</p> <p>"And so he did, after a fashion," Mann said defensively.</p> <p>"Gurgling does not count as talking, Mann."</p> <p>"Anyway, I do feel your shouting could use more work," Mann said. "Not to criticize, but you have to feel it. Make it come from the diaphragm."</p> <p>Inside his coat pocket, Lament ran his thumb along the button. <em>What might have been.</em> "And my… so forth?" he growled.</p> <p>"Actually, no complaints there. I've always thought you were exemplary in the field," Mann said.</p> <p>"…The field of so forth."</p> <p>"Yes, not many are so gifted," Mann said. "Anyway, let's be off. I know exactly where to find them."</p> <p>The car, happily, was still in running condition, though all of the windows were blown out. It hadn't been a terribly large bomb, all things considered. It hadn't needed to be.</p> <p>Mann directed Lament to drive downtown, until they reached a fairly nondescript office building, housing businesses dealing with corkboard, investment banking, and posters with cats on them.</p> <p>"What makes you think Are We Cool Yet is here?" asked Lament.</p> <p>"I realized that if they hadn't been found, they naturally must have taken the most devious, clever hiding place possible. So I asked myself where would I never think to look, even if given a thousand years. And here we are."</p> <p>A pained expression crossed Lament's face. On the one hand, he was glad Mann didn't actually know where to find the GoI, which should keep this from being too horrible an evening. On the other hand, he wondered where his life had gone so wrong that he regularly let Mann talk him into things like this.</p> <p>After wrestling with this profound betrayal of logic for a moment, he sighed and said, "All right. We'll go in, look around, and then head out. Just a little light reconnaissance. Then we report what we've found, and we let an MTF take care of them."</p> <p>"I'd like to show them the old vinegar, but I suppose you're right. Best leave it to the professionals." Mann twirled his mustache. "They'll regret messing with my thoracic cavity!"</p> <p>They snuck into the building, quietly moving from floor to floor. With each empty office, Mann grew more and more anxious, and Lament more relieved.</p> <p>"Okay, this is the last floor," Lament said. "If they're not here, we'll just have to go home, and report everything to the administrator." <em>And hopefully he'll put an end to all this nonsense.</em></p> <p>"Right," Mann said, grimly.</p> <p>Lament slowly opened the door, and was blinded a moment by the bright light on the other side. A surprised looking man in an artist's smock was staring at him, surprised. Not so surprised, however, that he didn't punch an alarm and duck behind a wall.</p> <p>"Run!" Lament said, and started pushing back. Unfortunately, Mann misinterpreted the direction, and ran forward, colliding into Lament's back. The two fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and while they attempted to regain their feet, they were quickly surrounded by a bunch of college-age men and women who were surprisingly well armed.</p> <p>Lament wasn't sure which part was worse: the fact that they had been caught, or the fact that Mann had been right. His eyes rose upwards, as if to say to the universe, "This demeans us both, you know."</p> <p>"Who are you supposed to be, Salvador Dali and company?" asked their leader. He was a middle-aged man, with graying hair and noticeable paunch. "What the hell are you even doing here?"</p> <p>"We came to put a stop to your vile machinations!" Mann said. "You shan't take a single Foundation life this day!"</p> <p>"What machinations? It's finals week, you hopeless philistine. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, how many papers I have to grade? How many idiots who can't tell the difference between Van Gogh and Vin Diesel? I have far more important things to do than mess about with your idiot bourgeois Foundation." He lowered his half-moon glasses and gave the pair a serious look. "This really is a bad time, gentlemen."</p> <p>"Then who put the bomb in my chest?" Mann said.</p> <p>The artist's eyebrows raised. "Not I. Any of you gentlemen or ladies?" he asked those gathered, only to get a chorus of shaking heads.</p> <p>"Oh," said Mann. "Um. It appears there's been a mistake."</p> <p>"Yes, that seems to be the case," said the artist.</p> <p>"Well, we'll just be going…" Mann said.</p> <p>"Oh, no." The artist chuckled. "We can't simply let you go. No, I'm afraid that you'll be seeing… our gallery." He paused, then frowned. "Our… gallery." He paused again, expectantly, then glared at one of younger men. "Jason."</p> <p>"Oh! Sorry." He struck a picture of a lightning storm with a fist, and a peal of thunder rolled out.</p> <p>The artist sighed. "We try, really. Anyway, the gallery." Thunder rolled out again. "There we go." He gestured, and Mann and Lament were dragged to another darkened room.</p> <p>"You fiends!" Mann said. "Um. What happens next? I'm sorry, I've never been subjected to your gallery."</p> <p>Thunder rang out through the building.</p> <p>"Yes, thank you Jason, that's enough please. Here, you will be subjected to our darkest works. Our most terrifying pieces of art. Prepare yourselves, as your very souls are laid bare."</p> <p>"Can't you just shoot us?" Lament asked. "You have guns. With bullets. We saw them on the way in."</p> <p>"No! Instead, you must face… the Crushing Banality That Is Existence!" The man threw back a curtain covering a canvas, his face lit with maniacal glee. "DO YOU SEE IT? MY RAGE? LOOK AT MY RAGE!"</p> <p>"This… this is picture of a pony," Lament said.</p> <p>"That's Pinkie Pie, Lament," said Mann.</p> <p>Lament's eyebrows rose. "I… how do you know that?"</p> <p>"The Foundation is well versed in counter cultures," said Mann. "And, of course, SCP-6345."</p> <p>"Is… No, stop." Lament held up a hand.</p> <p>"Yes," said Mann. "A pony."</p> <p>"Stop. Stop now. I'll…" He turned back to the artist. "Do you have anything more horrifying?"</p> <p>"We've got this one that will make your eyes eat themselves," he answered.</p> <p>"That. I'll take that one."</p> <p>"As you wish!" The man moved to another canvas, and prepared to pull the curtain. As he did, Lament hooked out a foot. The man slipped, caught himself, and looked up into the painting, as Mann and Lament looked away.</p> <p>"Oh god! My eyes have the idea of teeth! It's sharp!" He flailed about as he screamed, crashing into other canvases.</p> <p>Lament grabbed the nearest armed student and swung him over a shoulder into another. Meanwhile, others accidentally caught glimpses of the paintings and screamed, cursed, and in one case turned into lime gelatin.</p> <p>"Like I said, Lament," Mann said, as he cut a man's brachial artery, "no one does so forth like you."</p> <p>The two fought their way to the exit. There wasn't a lot of resistance. With their leader incapacitated and half their fellows succumbing to horrible art of one type or another, no one was terribly interested in stopping them. As they reached the stairwell, Lament broke the elevator controls and barred the doors, even as he called in reinforcements.</p> <p>"Well, this has been rather a disappointment," Mann said.</p> <p>"Oh yeah?" Lament said.</p> <p>"All this, and they weren't even the ones who—I say! I just realized who must have implanted the bomb."</p> <p>"Who?" Lament asked.</p> <p>"I did."</p> <p>"I… Wait. Why would you have put an explosive in your own chest?" Lament asked.</p> <p>"So I wouldn't lose it!" Mann said. "It was such a neat surgical job, I should have known at once."</p> <p>Lament wanted it to stop there. He <em>needed</em> it to stop there. But some tortured part of him, some part that still remembered a world of common sense and logic, had to ask. "But why don't you remember?"</p> <p>"Oh, probably the amnestics they had me take after my last physical. They always think I won't notice, but I've learned to recognize the signs."</p> <p>Wretchedly, Lament realized it could even be true. Mann <em>was</em> entirely capable of implanting things in his own chest, if asked politely. He wouldn't even blink.</p> <p>"Well," Mann said as the unmarked cars converged on their location, "all's well that ends well."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/be-a-dali-and-help-a-mann-out-or-the-lamentable-state-of-mod">Be a Dali and Help a Mann Out, or The Lamentable State of Modern Art</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/be-a-dali-and-help-a-mann-out-or-the-lamentable-state-of-mod">https://scpwiki.com/be-a-dali-and-help-a-mann-out-or-the-lamentable-state-of-mod</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] When he was first partnered with Dr. Mann, Lament was handed a remote. As he was partnered to the doctor, so it was partnered to a small explosive implanted in the doctor's chest without his knowledge. Administrator Bunbridge had couched it in gentle terms. "Only as a last resort, you understand," and "Kindest thing, really, if it becomes necessary." Some days, Lament was depressed by the whole idea of an organization that would prepare to kill its own people just in case they went rogue. Other days, after being barraged with the Bee Gees, Abba, and KC and the Sunshine Band, he thought of the button longingly. But he'd never been seriously tempted to press it. In fact, some days, he forgot to take it with him, and it was left neglected on his coffee table. This was one of two mistakes Agent Lament realized he had made when he heard a low thud somewhere outside his bathroom. The other (obvious in hindsight) was to leave Mann unsupervised in his home. He rushed to the living room, barely taking time to button his trousers, mentally rehearsing the excuses he was going to have to feed to the Administrator, when he caught sight of Mann, holding the remote and pressing the button repeatedly. "I think your remote's got a dead battery," he said. "The telly won't turn on." "Um," Lament said, trying to piece together why Mann was intact. "That's... that's not for the television, Mann. That's for..." he searched around, "...for the dog door. But it, uh, doesn't work..." "Because you don't have a dog!" Mann said. "Of course. I should have realized." He smiled from under the mustache, as the world fell into place for him. "So, why did you have me bring you over?" Lament asked, trying to sound casual. "Oh, yes!" Mann said. "I think someone's trying to kill me." "Ah..?" Lament said, glancing at the remote. "What makes you say that?" "Well, they put an explosive in my chest. That's definitely suspicious," Mann said. Lament forced his eyebrows to raise up in surprise. "So you found... you have a bomb in your chest?" "Oh, not anymore. I took the thing out. I decided to play it safe." And this was indeed an unusual amount of self-preservation for Mann. "Then... where is it now?" Lament asked, thinking back to the thud he'd heard earlier. "Oh, where did I put it? Oh, I know. I left it in your car," Mann said cheerfully. //I just finished paying it off,// Lament thought. //Well, of course it would be blown up. I should have expected it, really.// "But not to worry," Mann said. "I'm sure I know precisely who's responsible." "Do you?" Lament asked weakly. "Oh yes. Means, motive, and opportunity, Lament. That is the formula. Find those, and you have the culprit." "Then who is it?" Lament thought desperately to his sidearm, currently by his bed, upstairs. "At first I suspected the Church of the Broken God. What is a bomb, Lament, but a mechanism for murder? And we all know how they love to tinker with human bodies." Mann's voice held no trace of irony. "But..." Lament listened in somewhat horrified fascination. Listening to Mann expound was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine, except that the machine could be expected to accomplish something at the end. "But the bomb uses an electronic trigger. Not their style. So next I looked to the Chaos Insurgency. They do like to sneak around. But they're not sly enough to get into my chest. My stomach, maybe, but they could never penetrate my rib cage and its secrets." "Granted," Lament said, as he tried to decide if he should come up with a cover story, or just rush Mann off to the site to let someone else deal with it. "But what of Wondertainment? So little we still know of the toymaker. Does he employ elves? Are they union? Surely if he can make a custom people as playthings, his knowledge of biology should make a simple chest bomb... well, child's play!" "And yet?" "What would he gain? I've almost saved up enough box tops for his Mikey Medula's Brain Surgery Kit. No, he'll not give up a potential sale so easily." Mann rubbed his chin. "I next suspected the Global Occult Coalition." "Because..." "Because they're opposed to our containment. I am, of course, a linchpin of the Foundation's operations, so I'm a natural target. But I've met their top surgeons. A bunch of amateurs, the lot of them. By no means capable of concealing such an invasive surgery, unless they tried some manner of... of sorcery, and I think we can discount that possibility. Are we not... Begging your pardon, Lament. Am //I// not a man of science?" "...For the sake of argument, sure," Lament said. "So clearly not them. The Serpents Hand could certainly have inveigled themselves onto the premises. But that bunch of long-haired ne'er-do-wells lacks the mechanical expertise for an explosive. Next, I turned my mind to Prometheus Labs. A bomb would be mere child's play for the least of their technicians." "And..." "But they've been defunct for years. No, they haven't the means to discover me, let alone to isolate me for surgery. So I turned my mind to Nobody. But obviously he couldn't have done it." "Because he doesn't exist?" "No," Mann said, shaking his head, "because he's in Toledo this time of year. So there's only one possible group that could have possibly pulled it off. Are We Cool Yet!" "...Seriously?" "Yes, Are We Cool Yet. I see your disbelief, but when I lay out my evidence, you will see-" Lament had had enough. "No." "No?" Mann frowned. "But wait, you see-" "No. Just... just no. I'll take your word for it." Mann's face fell. "But... But it's awfully clever. I... I made diagrams." "No. Mann, look, I'll go along and look into this with you. Just... don't explain it. Please." //Let me continue to live in a world where I haven't heard yet another of his explanations,// he pleaded with the universe. "Oh, all right," Mann said. "Terribly clever, though. You're missing out." "So, what do you plan to do about this?" Lament asked. "Why, seek revenge, of course!" Mann scowled. "I haven't been this vexed since Doctor Vang put hair remover in my mustache wax. The part that makes me angry is that they mucked about where I've already performed surgery. It's almost like... like a critique. Imagine how you would feel if someone criticized your shooting, and shouting, and so forth." "I don't have to imagine," Lament said. "Because you do that. All the time." "Yes, well, I'm an expert surgeon, so it's a bit different." "Are you saying I'm not good at... shooting?" Lament asked, eyebrow raised. "Well, you did miss that fellow at the factory," Mann pointed out. "It was a warning shot!" "Oh. Well. Was it really?" Mann said. "I suppose that explains why you were so cross afterwards." "I wanted him to talk," Lament said. "And so he did, after a fashion," Mann said defensively. "Gurgling does not count as talking, Mann." "Anyway, I do feel your shouting could use more work," Mann said. "Not to criticize, but you have to feel it. Make it come from the diaphragm." Inside his coat pocket, Lament ran his thumb along the button. //What might have been.// "And my... so forth?" he growled. "Actually, no complaints there. I've always thought you were exemplary in the field," Mann said. "...The field of so forth." "Yes, not many are so gifted," Mann said. "Anyway, let's be off. I know exactly where to find them." The car, happily, was still in running condition, though all of the windows were blown out. It hadn't been a terribly large bomb, all things considered. It hadn't needed to be. Mann directed Lament to drive downtown, until they reached a fairly nondescript office building, housing businesses dealing with corkboard, investment banking, and posters with cats on them. "What makes you think Are We Cool Yet is here?" asked Lament. "I realized that if they hadn't been found, they naturally must have taken the most devious, clever hiding place possible. So I asked myself where would I never think to look, even if given a thousand years. And here we are." A pained expression crossed Lament's face. On the one hand, he was glad Mann didn't actually know where to find the GoI, which should keep this from being too horrible an evening. On the other hand, he wondered where his life had gone so wrong that he regularly let Mann talk him into things like this. After wrestling with this profound betrayal of logic for a moment, he sighed and said, "All right. We'll go in, look around, and then head out. Just a little light reconnaissance. Then we report what we've found, and we let an MTF take care of them." "I'd like to show them the old vinegar, but I suppose you're right. Best leave it to the professionals." Mann twirled his mustache. "They'll regret messing with my thoracic cavity!" They snuck into the building, quietly moving from floor to floor. With each empty office, Mann grew more and more anxious, and Lament more relieved. "Okay, this is the last floor," Lament said. "If they're not here, we'll just have to go home, and report everything to the administrator." //And hopefully he'll put an end to all this nonsense.// "Right," Mann said, grimly. Lament slowly opened the door, and was blinded a moment by the bright light on the other side. A surprised looking man in an artist's smock was staring at him, surprised. Not so surprised, however, that he didn't punch an alarm and duck behind a wall. "Run!" Lament said, and started pushing back. Unfortunately, Mann misinterpreted the direction, and ran forward, colliding into Lament's back. The two fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and while they attempted to regain their feet, they were quickly surrounded by a bunch of college-age men and women who were surprisingly well armed. Lament wasn't sure which part was worse: the fact that they had been caught, or the fact that Mann had been right. His eyes rose upwards, as if to say to the universe, "This demeans us both, you know." "Who are you supposed to be, Salvador Dali and company?" asked their leader. He was a middle-aged man, with graying hair and noticeable paunch. "What the hell are you even doing here?" "We came to put a stop to your vile machinations!" Mann said. "You shan't take a single Foundation life this day!" "What machinations? It's finals week, you hopeless philistine. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, how many papers I have to grade? How many idiots who can't tell the difference between Van Gogh and Vin Diesel? I have far more important things to do than mess about with your idiot bourgeois Foundation." He lowered his half-moon glasses and gave the pair a serious look. "This really is a bad time, gentlemen." "Then who put the bomb in my chest?" Mann said. The artist's eyebrows raised. "Not I. Any of you gentlemen or ladies?" he asked those gathered, only to get a chorus of shaking heads. "Oh," said Mann. "Um. It appears there's been a mistake." "Yes, that seems to be the case," said the artist. "Well, we'll just be going..." Mann said. "Oh, no." The artist chuckled. "We can't simply let you go. No, I'm afraid that you'll be seeing... our gallery." He paused, then frowned. "Our... gallery." He paused again, expectantly, then glared at one of younger men. "Jason." "Oh! Sorry." He struck a picture of a lightning storm with a fist, and a peal of thunder rolled out. The artist sighed. "We try, really. Anyway, the gallery." Thunder rolled out again. "There we go." He gestured, and Mann and Lament were dragged to another darkened room. "You fiends!" Mann said. "Um. What happens next? I'm sorry, I've never been subjected to your gallery." Thunder rang out through the building. "Yes, thank you Jason, that's enough please. Here, you will be subjected to our darkest works. Our most terrifying pieces of art. Prepare yourselves, as your very souls are laid bare." "Can't you just shoot us?" Lament asked. "You have guns. With bullets. We saw them on the way in." "No! Instead, you must face... the Crushing Banality That Is Existence!" The man threw back a curtain covering a canvas, his face lit with maniacal glee. "DO YOU SEE IT? MY RAGE? LOOK AT MY RAGE!" "This... this is picture of a pony," Lament said. "That's Pinkie Pie, Lament," said Mann. Lament's eyebrows rose. "I... how do you know that?" "The Foundation is well versed in counter cultures," said Mann. "And, of course, SCP-6345." "Is... No, stop." Lament held up a hand. "Yes," said Mann. "A pony." "Stop. Stop now. I'll..." He turned back to the artist. "Do you have anything more horrifying?" "We've got this one that will make your eyes eat themselves," he answered. "That. I'll take that one." "As you wish!" The man moved to another canvas, and prepared to pull the curtain. As he did, Lament hooked out a foot. The man slipped, caught himself, and looked up into the painting, as Mann and Lament looked away. "Oh god! My eyes have the idea of teeth! It's sharp!" He flailed about as he screamed, crashing into other canvases. Lament grabbed the nearest armed student and swung him over a shoulder into another. Meanwhile, others accidentally caught glimpses of the paintings and screamed, cursed, and in one case turned into lime gelatin. "Like I said, Lament," Mann said, as he cut a man's brachial artery, "no one does so forth like you." The two fought their way to the exit. There wasn't a lot of resistance. With their leader incapacitated and half their fellows succumbing to horrible art of one type or another, no one was terribly interested in stopping them. As they reached the stairwell, Lament broke the elevator controls and barred the doors, even as he called in reinforcements. "Well, this has been rather a disappointment," Mann said. "Oh yeah?" Lament said. "All this, and they weren't even the ones who--I say! I just realized who must have implanted the bomb." "Who?" Lament asked. "I did." "I... Wait. Why would you have put an explosive in your own chest?" Lament asked. "So I wouldn't lose it!" Mann said. "It was such a neat surgical job, I should have known at once." Lament wanted it to stop there. He //needed// it to stop there. But some tortured part of him, some part that still remembered a world of common sense and logic, had to ask. "But why don't you remember?" "Oh, probably the amnestics they had me take after my last physical. They always think I won't notice, but I've learned to recognize the signs." Wretchedly, Lament realized it could even be true. Mann //was// entirely capable of implanting things in his own chest, if asked politely. He wouldn't even blink. "Well," Mann said as the unmarked cars converged on their location, "all's well that ends well." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-02-13T08:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "are-we-cool-yet", "doctor-mann", "tale" ]	Be a Dali and Help a Mann Out, or The Lamentable State of Modern Art - SCP Foundation	100	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[]	21484019	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/be-a-dali-and-help-a-mann-out-or-the-lamentable-state-of-mod
bed-breakfast-plague	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Amcf/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><strong>"Good morning, up and about, rise and shine, blah blah blah!"</strong></p> <p>Priscilla Locke got up at seven AM, sharp, Somalia time, thanks to the loud shouting that emanated from the walls, straight into her ears. She managed to cover them for a few measly seconds.</p> <p>Then, the walls talked again. To her absolute horror, Priss realized they were talking with Sarah Desjeux's voice.</p> <p><strong>"Will you wake up!? It's MEDICINE DAY! Come ON, parahealther, wake up, Frankie has been gone for hours and I've GOTTA SHOW YOU OUR STUFF!"</strong></p> <p>Her voice went silent with a sizzling sound. By then, Priss was already squirming on the floor of the 'prefabricated' cubic room, and remembering how her room was not normal. It had been grown, it had an intercom and, apparently, it could be operated from the intercom as a god-damned home cinema system.</p> <p>Then, Priss saw her phone, and the time. She wondered when had that damned woman woken up. <em>Wasn't she wired enough last night?</em></p> <p>Three minutes later, she was already dressed and ready to confront the day and a possibly drugged ecHealth. She was also loudly mumbling and grumbling under the unnecessary heft of her backpack and its main occupant, who- no, <em>that</em> was too heavy for its own good.</p> <p>She opened the door, expecting to find herself face to face with Opal; however, even if the woman's low stature would have made it difficult by itself, Priss's fear went unrealized, as she noticed her going from cube to cube, shouting into each intercom and giggling like a dope. A few volunteers were already up and out of bed, converging in front of a cubic structure slightly larger than the rest.</p> <p>The mess hall.</p> <p>Or something like that, since it was simply a prefabricated food distribution center, covered in brightly white gypsum and gifted with a large counter-like window used to serve the food, that was reserved for early risers and volunteers alone. It had a kitchen. It served the same food that Lila and Opal would serve to their patients later. It was, for all intents and purposes, not efficient enough.</p> <p>As she came into the short queue before Afwerki and her plates, Priss realized something: she had slept well.</p> <p>For the first time in weeks, no, in years, she had slept for entire hours without screams waking her up, be it real or dreamed. For the first time in years, she felt tired simply because her body was actually tired. Of physical work.</p> <p>Priscilla Locke was in front of Lila Afwerki when she stated to herself, with a loud enough voice as to be heard by her: "I'm sleeping…"</p> <p>"Well, you do not look all that drowsy, Locke! Here, just for today we've got a little something to wake us all up, since the kids were so distracted last evening."</p> <p>She looked at Afwerki. The woman, who had donned a different headscarf and tunic that morning, was offering her a cup and a bowl. The cup contained lukewarm coffee. The bowl had…</p> <p>"Is that honey?"</p> <p>Afwerki's expression froze.</p> <p>"Oh, no, no, dear," she stuttered, apparently terrified and perhaps a bit pleading; "in God's name, no. We-we stopped using that! Nonono, this is not that honey, I promise, miss Locke-"</p> <p>"Alright, alright! It was just a question!"</p> <p>Lila seemed to calmed down slightly, but she still had to sit down, seemingly out of breath. "I'm sorry, miss… it's-it's just, I was with the Work Group that used <em>that</em>, and-well!" The woman passed a hand over her front. She sounded very distressed.</p> <p>Her voice was probably the reason why two young men in MCF volunteer vests went to their older counterpart from behind on the queue. Several others came closer, trying to see how they could help. Lila smiled at them, calmly speaking to them in French and in a language Priss couldn't recognize. <em>Again.</em> She'd better learn to speak some other language than English if she was to adapt to the place.</p> <p>"Sorry, Locke," Lila said, straight to her. In a way, her eyes were more than tired, they looked older than a moment before. Awkward, Priss tried to hold her gaze as the other volunteers started handling the queue themselves. The woman pointed at one of the pots they were taking the golden goo from. "That's just a <em>sablepurée</em>, something I learned to cook overseas. It's nutritious enough and almost entirely normal… and I swear on my hands, it is one hundred percent hypoallergenic," she assured, her voice breaking softly as her words died off.</p> <p>"Okay," Locke said, not certain on what to answer to that, still feeling quite awkward. Some of the volunteers were whispering in that way that only can be interpreted as that 'yes, we are talking about you, ginger, <em>you don't belong here</em>' style; she still found it annoying and rather disarming. Priscilla chose to focus on her bowl, filled with that golden paste, in which small bits of cereal floated, suspended on the transparent paste. <em>The fuck did I do?</em></p> <p>Then she realized.</p> <p>"Wait, honey. Hypoallergenic honey, right, I was not thinking straight." Priss looked at Lila, suddenly awake. "You were talking about the mess with that sarcophagus, right? Sorry, I didn't realize. Not that I've read a lot about that."</p> <p>"Oh. You didn't know, then?" Lila openly smiled at her, rubbing her left eye with the back of her hand. "Well, now I feel silly."</p> <p>Priss had seen a thousand faces like that one. Most were crying in agony at the beginning, many of those broken and empty later, all of them dead in the end. None of them smiled at her. Not sincere, beautiful smiles, not like that smile.</p> <p>Instead of coming back to haunt her, all those faces were a stark contrast over which that face was, at that moment, in that place, the world to her. Priss felt like she was made of honey, and that was a perfectly good reason why her legs were shaking. <em>That smile is gorgeous. And she is smiling at</em> me?</p> <p>"Thanks, Locke," Afwerki said as she stood up, her eyelids shut while she weakly smacked her cheeks.</p> <p><em>Oh, now she's thanking me.</em></p> <p>"Please, don't thank me, I was insensitive, and-"</p> <p>The woman opened her eyes again. "No, no, I didn't-oh, how do you say that. I feel guilty over that, you know. We all feel guilty over the times we were wrong, I suppose, even if we did save some people then, too…", she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts for a brief moment, but soon came back to her senses and dedicated another bright smile to Priss. "One does all one can, nothing more. Now, I may be getting old and clumsy, but I can always try and make some breakfast."</p> <p>"Ah. Sure."</p> <p>"Don't worry, we'll meet down there, in the clinic! I think it's today you came with us? I usually work with her. With Opal," she clarified.</p> <p>"Right. I'll go have breakfast, then," Pris said, turning to get one of the plastic stools the other volunteers were already spreading between the cubes.</p> <p>Lila Afwerki serenely smiled at her as she sat, then went back to attend the queue. Her movements were kind of slower, perhaps even jerking. As she watched the robed woman filling bowl after bowl with the cold contents of her golden concoction and cup after cup with the brown stream from a large aluminium coffee pot, Priscilla Locke tried both things.</p> <p>The coffee was bitter, but woke her up completely. The <em>sablepurée</em> was sweet, rough with bits of cereals and bread crumbs, and reminded her of old breakfasts taken on the days when WestCiv didn't demand anything of her.</p> <p>Priscilla felt her sister — the inhuman mongrel — laughing. <em>It's always easier having no one care about you, ain't that right, sis?</em></p> <p>She grabbed her backpack, tightly clutching to it when she noticed Desjeux coming to her.</p> <hr/> <p>"And good ol' Skippy goes and tells me, with that twangy voice he makes when he tries to be serious, pfah! Listen, listen, he goes:" Sarah Desjeux raised a hand into the air. That hand was impregnated in the fresh blood of an amputee; <em>"I kneed gyou tgo lisgten knarefully, Opgal. Gyou have a scorgpion on gyour ghair."</em></p> <p>The doctor broke into laughter <em>yet again</em> as her hands went back to sewing the pitiful flaps of bleeding skin and muscle into a stump. She had been doing that, and worse, all morning with those afflicted of the Sour. All three Satanists on guard and herself had been examining and treating them last night. After curing the disease proper, they had to clean the wounds and put skin drafts over them, since those injuries caused by the Sour never healed naturally. That usually implied major surgery.</p> <p>She moved her hands faster than Priscilla imagined would be safe or possible in a surgery. The fake auditor stood a good meter behind her alleged colleague in the medical profession to make certain that at least her green apron remained clean. <em>Well, that, and the smell.</em> Every person that was treated looked perfectly healthy to her, save for the horrible, gaping holes filled with surgical tissue and half-clotting blood. As soon as they left the room, they were asking for their families or their legs.</p> <p>And there was that woman, making jokes.</p> <p>Priss couldn't tell if the situation was sad or comical.</p> <p>"I don't find it funny, Desjeux," she finally conferred through her surgical mask, to what the surgeon responded by joyfully laughing again.</p> <p>"Funny you would say that, 'cause that's word by word the next thing he said!"</p> <p>Priscilla shook her head, annoyed. "How is the programme going, anyhow?"</p> <p>"Fine, fine," the surgeon said, smiling behind her own mask. "We'll have most of the people in the camp on prophylactics in less than two days. Logistics has already promised us a big shipment of both <em>Aciclovir</em> and <em>Prometerine</em> to counter the infestation in its latent state. As for people in the active stages of the disease, well…"</p> <p>Opal made a flowery move that made her hands look like she was doing a magic trick; and lo and behold, one of the flaps of flesh looked like it had always been part of a stump.</p> <p>"We'll take care of them," she sang.</p> <hr/> <p>Two minutes later, Lila was taking measurements of the unfortunate man's legs to get him a provisional prosthesis. Apparently, the operation had gone smoothly. As he started to come around, Toribio, the Portuguese nurse, and the Satanist Mirra moved him into one of the wheeled chairs and took him away to have him wake up somewhere else. The 'operating room' they were using was one of the Vestan cubes that had been dropped by Olympe half-way between the camp and the rest of the prefabricated rooms. It felt — and was — cramped with packed and unpacked medical equipment, but the excellent aseptic conditions made possible by the Mason Mold warranted that, among other things, patients were very likely safe from infections.</p> <p>Or so Desjeux and the Rabbi thought. Priss made a face. <em>We are trusting lives to the idiot and-</em></p> <p>Priss felt a chill, and she hated herself in silence for it.</p> <p>"Hey, Locke, you alright there, hun?"</p> <p>Desjeux had placed her hand on Priss' arm. She freed herself from the gentle grip. "I'm fine. Why?"</p> <p>"You looked… somewhere else."</p> <p>Priss raised her sight to tell her that she could go have a laugh about it with those people that <em>loved</em> her so much. It was met by that pair of googly brown eyes that, were they half the size, would have been perfect for a newborn child.</p> <p>"I was-", Priss looked around, looking for the right words. They never came, so she went with a classic. "I'm fine."</p> <p>"You might be a fine gal, yes, but you are a lousy liar," the stout woman said in a lulling voice. There was concern in her eyes, but it was quickly traded with mania, as the many wrinkles born of the corner of her eyes betrayed that maddening smile behind the surgical mask. "Won't force you to say a thing, though. You think it's your business? Yours it is, then. Mirra!"</p> <p>As Desjeux left the room to talk to the robed witch-scientist about the next patient, Priscilla looked at her gloved hands.</p> <p>There were specks of blood on them.</p> <p>She discarded the gloves and watched them melt into the ground as the mold worked its magic. Checking on her backpack again to make certain it hadn't been taken by some sneaky thief or melted away over the floor, she felt her hands humid again with that all too memorable, sticky fluid that would soon dry up, crackle and redden <em>everything</em>…</p> <p>But it was just sweat.</p> <hr/> <p>"That one, that one there! You, sir! Please, come over here-", and Desjeux lapsed again into Arab. Priss was beginning to wonder if it was a mandatory language course in school over this universe.</p> <p>The stream of refugees coming into the camp had not died down; it had become an unevenly timed trickle of large groups carried by overloaded trucks and smaller groups loaded with what was left of their properties in sacks, backpacks and clapped-out carts. It was all going 'according to plan', as long as you did not realize that Opal and her people didn't have anything resembling an actual plan, beyond "give them a look and the aciclo-prom cocktail."</p> <p>One of her volunteers, a young American man, raised a hand to get her superior's attention.</p> <p>"She's got it, Opal!"</p> <p>"Damn… okay, tell the family-no, I think they only speak Somali. Uh-Ziza, tell them we'll be taking her to the isolation area," the stout woman ordered another volunteer, who ran to them. Opal looked around, searching for another one of her triage workers. "Mirra! Mirra, how about those two?"</p> <p>"The mother has it. The son didn't have any symptoms, but-"</p> <p>"Right, prophylactics. We still have enough for the day. Was she hurt?"</p> <p>"A bad cut over her stomach. She was bleeding white."</p> <p>Priss looked away when she heard that. Several people already had the Sour when the Work Group arrived in Laascaanood, barely two days ago. They had been treated before the disease could spread any further, but many people in the camp — perhaps Priss herself, and every MCF worker — might had been infected already. True, she was not doing any actual medical work since her role as an auditor technically banned her from doing anything involving medical tasks. Which was fortunate, since her knowledge in the field was limited at best… but Priss had heard the sickness might spread just by touch.</p> <p>She tried to look as professional as possible while checking that her long, thick, white plastic gloves and her mask covered as much as possible of her skin. Meanwhile, a t-shirt wearing Desjeux placed her blatantly naked hands on her hips as she nodded at Mirra, whose black robe was splattered with sickeningly white drops. The satanist was explaining the situation of other patients already isolated in the tents.</p> <p>"-and a few have tried to eat the worms already. As usual, they don't respond to anything I try to do and keep chanting about the Maggot Mother," she sighed. Priss gagged, but managed to remain firm while the thought of the symptoms of the Sour formed in her mind. It was not your regular cough. "A few have even started to draw the symbols. And I don't think I can help them without resorting to thaumatologic surgery, there are just too many for me to take on all of them at the same time."</p> <p>"Alright, no worries," the Executive member told her workmate. "Go crazy, excising the stuff is your specialty, right? If you have to, try the Three Circles, the Eight if you feel up for it, but…" At that point, Opal succinctly glanced at Priss. "Hold that thought for a moment, please."</p> <p>The fake auditor tried to look calm and collected as Desjeux closed in, but she couldn't stop glancing at the hands she had been using to explore, and touch, and operate. "Can I help you?"</p> <p>"Uh, well, yeah, this is embarrassing," Sarah Desjeux admitted. She did look abashed. "See, we have been using, ahm, experimental techniques, nothing too aggressive, to remove the necrotic tissue from our beneficiaries. Nothing too aggressive, as I was saying, the Circles of Negation, mostly. But, uh, I'm supposed to cooperate with you and I know what the <em>Phoo</em> thinks of-well, I was wondering if you could look the other way as Mirra does her thing."</p> <p>Locke tried to adjust to the new development. "Hmm-I thought you were only using conventional surgery?"</p> <p>Desjeux crossed her arms and looked upwards while making a hissing sound, a gesture of irritation and powerlessness.</p> <p>"Oh, indeed, surgery, of course, sure, that, but some of these people, see, they have internal injuries, or wounds that are already infected. There is a limit to what we can cure without cutting, let's say, half a brain out, or a third of a heart," she said, letting a little, sad laugh out. "It's a shame, but some times magic's just better."</p> <p>"Don't call it magic, Opal," Mirra said, and the woman managed to sound petulant and sweet at the same time. "Modern thaumaturgs like us should call it by what it is, or else we would be back to adoring inhuman horrors. Isn't that right, miss Locke?"</p> <p>"Sure," she said, hoping it was what was expected of her. Without giving them space to say anything else, she turned to Desjeux again. "But I would love to see the procedures and judge by myself."</p> <hr/> <p>"What is it?"</p> <p>"Locke felt ill."</p> <p>"Oh. Mirra, what did you show her? I hope you didn't do a psychotomy…"</p> <p>"Of course not, Opal, it was an Eight Circle ritual. A normal one, no external contacts or anything! Just to pick some wood splinters inside a kid's abdomen! No Otherness involved, I swear. And the Third Circles went well, too, she said it was amazing and all that. Although… I might have forgotten to mention she was gonna get some blood on her when I started the abjuration."</p> <p>"This again. How many times do I have to remind you not to assume people know what you are doing? She must be a <em>normal</em> doctor! Some people in the parahealthers are just medics too, you know? Not surgeons?"</p> <p>"Then what is she even doing here?"</p> <p>"Check if we are going overboard. Are we going overboard, Mirra?"</p> <p>"Oh, come on, give me a br-I mean, what did I know? She's the first field parahealther I've met!"</p> <hr/> <p>Her tiny cube-room, where someone had stacked some cardboard boxes and a few sacks with seeds, was dark now. Priss appreciated the change, since light had been a bane on her for almost all afternoon. Other things that were a bane on her were blood, tiny talking beaks and the surgical applications of still warm, sentient blood.</p> <p>"I had wondered what were those roosters doing in their pickup," Priss confessed as she regained a minimum of dignity to speak, or as much dignity as one could have when leaning back on a bunk bed. The woman weakly gesticulated, trying to transmit some sort of explanation over her sorry state. "It's something about how it moved when the, you know, the <em>witch</em> cut its head-"</p> <p>"Thaumaturgs. Don't call them 'witches.'"</p> <p>"What, they'll hex me?," she said, ironic. Then she remembered the feeling of having a cockerel's comb jumping into her mouth and gagged.</p> <p>"Nah, but they can be real bores with their I'm-not-a-wizard speech," Frank laughed. "I mean, I did tell you they were able to exorcise entities by talking them into un-believing themselves, right? Not an exaggeration. Odd stuff, but it's supposed to save them a lot of time and effort. For other procedures, they usually sacrifice roosters, or rats, you know, to gather energy for their rituals, or something. Better than goats, or people, I guess… I heard they can even use orgies, when they have to. Although you could have asked about all this, Locke."</p> <p>Priss spat on the ground. The spit disappeared on the clean, tiled floor almost instantly. "And blow my cover."</p> <p>"The World Parahealth Organisation is not exclusively made of all-knowing polymaths, Locke," Frank said, carefully holding the bucket in which she had been vomiting. "They don't have to know everything. More often than not, ritualistic procedures are what the individual practitioner makes of them. There are no standards here, so showing ignorance might be better than the alternative. And these people love to teach their stuff, by the way! Don't be afraid to ask them about anything. And you could have still asked me."</p> <p>"I didn't wanna know."</p> <p>He looked like he was going to add something else, so Priss grabbed the bucket to make sure she had somewhere to gape at as nausea seized her again, even if she could only puke bile at that point.</p> <p>When it stopped, she looked at Frank and asked him the question that had been circling her mind all morning. "How does she do it?"</p> <p>Frank smirked. "Are you asking about the magic bullcrap the Satanist sisters pull on a daily basis or about Opal?"</p> <p>"About Desjeux, yes. She just doesn't stop!"</p> <p>"Well, that's a good question." He sat by her side, looking deep in thought. "I haven't seen her sleep more than two hours a day since I joined her Work Group, and it's been a while. I haven't heard her insulting or looking down on anyone. Nor angry. She never complains about being tired or hungry, and I can count the number of times I've seen her eat anything."</p> <p>"Eat?"</p> <p>"Eat. If you ask me, she had some of the First Vestan Donation and has kept it to herself all this years. Never worked the courage to ask."</p> <p>"The-the First?"</p> <p>"An old Donation, gone badly. Well, not exactly badly. Nevermind, we don't use it anymore… a shame, too, it could have ended world famine almost completely, but it broke too many rules. The International Board members were furious. Besides, we accidentally lost most of the stuff, I hear." Frank said, calmly. "The Vesta Conglomerate makes really neat stuff, always intelligent molds, as it turns out, but it's simply too unstable for the most part. The Third is the only one we have been able to use without-"</p> <p>"Westinghouse. You talk too much," Priss cut him, passing a hand over her hair. She noticed it was filthy with dirt and vomit. "And my head hurts. Focus on Opal."</p> <p>"Okay. Well, whatever her deal is, I can tell you she's cool. Please, let me finish," he said, hurriedly. Priss did not interrupt him; she was not in any shape for a debate. "She may sound like a complete loony half the time and be a pain in the ass the other half, but she knows her way around. And I <em>mean</em> it. She knows us, she knows everyone around, and in turn we all get to know her, and then gets us all to dance whatever crazy waltz we have to when we get assigned somewhere new. She is one of the greatest reasons that our Work Group works so well."</p> <p>Priss looked at Frank. He was serious.</p> <p>"Where is she from?"</p> <p>"What? Canadian, I think-"</p> <p>"Canadian, that's a great answer," she said. "Look, Westinghouse, dunno why but this woman seems to have you all dancing to her rhythm and you seem to know it. That worries me."</p> <p>"But-"</p> <p>"No, now you let <em>me</em> finish."</p> <p>She felt angry. It had been some time since she had last felt angry, although she had certainly felt better than that; her mouth still tasted foul, her throat felt and sounded sore and the room spun if she tried to move around.</p> <p>Strangely enough, she also felt <em>cleaner.</em></p> <p>"That woman is not normal," Priscilla stated, looking into Frank's doubtful eyes. "I don't care much about her, nor her little coven, I just don't care, but don't you dare tell me she is normal, or respectful. There is something <em>off</em> about her."</p> <p>Priss thought of the smothering way Desjeux had been treating her after she left the portable toilet by the 'clinic' where Mirra had performed her 'surgery'. The way she had pushed her to the prefabricated room by the edge of the camp and closed the door behind her, saying all that 'you'll get better in no time' crap.</p> <p>She had seen fear in her eyes. She was hiding something, Priss was sure.</p> <p>"She is suspicious."</p> <p>Frank's brows arced at the word. "Mind I remind you that the world is quite too complicated to want to see an enemy where there is only a friend?"</p> <p>Priscilla could not believe what he was saying. "She is a friggin' anomaly! They all are!"</p> <p>"Sure, and today they've saved dozens of lives. You saw them doing it."</p> <p>She closed her eyes. "I know, so what. I've seen things-I mean, sometimes it seems too good to be true, and then it <em>is</em> too good!" Frank's docile expression infuriated her as she opened her eyes again. "She looks the fucking part!"</p> <p>"Well, this takes me back to our first meeting. But fine, fine, she is a too-good-to-be-true happiness-inducing alien from outer space, or from Canada, who secretly wishes for humans to go extinct. Right, and nobody has seen her coming for, what, thirty years?"</p> <p>Priscilla gaped for a moment. Then, she felt tired. Really tired. "I… I don't know. This is all backwards."</p> <p>"Cultural shock, they call it."</p> <p>"Hey, Desjeux," Frank said.</p> <p>Priss felt the need to get up and stand alert, but that traitorous dizziness pinned her to her bed. "You've-"</p> <p>"I just heard the last minutes. Or so. Wanted to check on you, but now that I'm here…" Desjeux squatted by the bed, with her usual grin. However, she sounded dead serious for once. "Look, I'm not a trickster nor a liar. I'm just not gonna tell you the truth, ever. Not all of it. Where do I come from, who I was before joining, that stuff… I simply changed when I came into the Charitable. Everyone does. Everyone has a past, too. And you have to learn to deal with it, in the same way that I accept I will never get to know you, at all. It's abundantly clear you are not a doctor, and you are probably not from the <em>phoo</em>," the woman tilted her head towards Frank, "no matter what mister Security Executive over here tells me about it."</p> <p>Priss felt like if she was suddenly under interrogation. She couldn't say anything about herself, nor Anabasis. Lies and half-truths began forming in her mind; and, suddenly, with a giggle, Desjeux looked into her eyes and said:</p> <p>"And I don't care about it."</p> <p>Feeling her own confusion painted across her face, Priscilla Locke tried to form a sentence.</p> <p>"What."</p> <p>"See, we have to trust each other. I have to trust that François and Frank have not been secretly reporting to the Coalition and the other Foundation all these years. I have to trust my girls to keep working for these poor people, even if their creed tells them they should be killing God again in some lost corner of Jerusalem, or wherever the bearded moron is these days. I have to trust Lila to not slip poison in our food — and yes, I do eat, Frankie — while we're still sleeping so she can feast on our hearts in the late hours of the night, for that matter. We must trust each other, no matter how hard it is to trust in what we <em>see</em> of each other, even before we get to know what we <em>can't</em> see."</p> <p>Opal stood again. Not an impressive change in stature, but, with Priss still on her bed, it was enough to make the stout woman imposing; an impression she reinforced by letting her hair, which had been collapsed into a bun, free.</p> <p>Coils upon coils half-hid the round face, her eyes somehow visible between them in the dying light of the evening sun that came through the windows. Her hands went to her broad hips, her legs separated in a defying stance and she proudly stated, in an attempt to sound martial:</p> <p>"Trust is our lifeblood, Locke. If we don't trust, there is no Charitable. So welcome aboard, try not to be too paranoid and, as long as you trust Frank, don't trust me! But, please, let me do my job. Geddit?"</p> <p>Opal turned away and left, gently spinning as she closed the door.</p> <p>Frank looked at Priss' face and said: "See, that's what it was like for me, too. At first, I had that face pretty much all the time. Now I mostly just facepalm."</p> <p>"Facepalm?"</p> <p>Frank demonstrated the gesture.</p> <p>"Oh, that. Right."</p> <p>In the awkward moment that followed, Opal's voice thundered again through the speaker-walls.</p> <p><strong>"AH, FRANK, DEAR BY THE WAY, I'LL BE REAL BUSY TOMORROW SO YOU TAKE HER FOR A WALK, OKAY?, OKAY THANKS BYEEE."</strong></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/cubes-on-a-slope">Cubes On A Slope</a> \| <a href="/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/greenery">Greenery</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/bed-breakfast-plague">Bed, Breakfast, Plague</a>" by Dr Reach, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bed-breakfast-plague">https://scpwiki.com/bed-breakfast-plague</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:mcf">:scp-wiki:theme:mcf</a>]] [[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] "Good morning, up and about, rise and shine, blah blah blah!" Priscilla Locke got up at seven AM, sharp, Somalia time, thanks to the loud shouting that emanated from the walls, straight into her ears. She managed to cover them for a few measly seconds. Then, the walls talked again. To her absolute horror, Priss realized they were talking with Sarah Desjeux's voice. "Will you wake up!? It's MEDICINE DAY! Come ON, parahealther, wake up, Frankie has been gone for hours and I've GOTTA SHOW YOU OUR STUFF!" Her voice went silent with a sizzling sound. By then, Priss was already squirming on the floor of the 'prefabricated' cubic room, and remembering how her room was not normal. It had been grown, it had an intercom and, apparently, it could be operated from the intercom as a god-damned home cinema system. Then, Priss saw her phone, and the time. She wondered when had that damned woman woken up. //Wasn't she wired enough last night?// Three minutes later, she was already dressed and ready to confront the day and a possibly drugged ecHealth. She was also loudly mumbling and grumbling under the unnecessary heft of her backpack and its main occupant, who- no, //that// was too heavy for its own good. She opened the door, expecting to find herself face to face with Opal; however, even if the woman's low stature would have made it difficult by itself, Priss's fear went unrealized, as she noticed her going from cube to cube, shouting into each intercom and giggling like a dope. A few volunteers were already up and out of bed, converging in front of a cubic structure slightly larger than the rest. The mess hall. Or something like that, since it was simply a prefabricated food distribution center, covered in brightly white gypsum and gifted with a large counter-like window used to serve the food, that was reserved for early risers and volunteers alone. It had a kitchen. It served the same food that Lila and Opal would serve to their patients later. It was, for all intents and purposes, not efficient enough. As she came into the short queue before Afwerki and her plates, Priss realized something: she had slept well. For the first time in weeks, no, in years, she had slept for entire hours without screams waking her up, be it real or dreamed. For the first time in years, she felt tired simply because her body was actually tired. Of physical work. Priscilla Locke was in front of Lila Afwerki when she stated to herself, with a loud enough voice as to be heard by her: "I'm sleeping..." "Well, you do not look all that drowsy, Locke! Here, just for today we've got a little something to wake us all up, since the kids were so distracted last evening." She looked at Afwerki. The woman, who had donned a different headscarf and tunic that morning, was offering her a cup and a bowl. The cup contained lukewarm coffee. The bowl had... "Is that honey?" Afwerki's expression froze. "Oh, no, no, dear," she stuttered, apparently terrified and perhaps a bit pleading; "in God's name, no. We-we stopped using that! Nonono, this is not that honey, I promise, miss Locke-" "Alright, alright! It was just a question!" Lila seemed to calmed down slightly, but she still had to sit down, seemingly out of breath. "I'm sorry, miss... it's-it's just, I was with the Work Group that used //that//, and-well!" The woman passed a hand over her front. She sounded very distressed. Her voice was probably the reason why two young men in MCF volunteer vests went to their older counterpart from behind on the queue. Several others came closer, trying to see how they could help. Lila smiled at them, calmly speaking to them in French and in a language Priss couldn't recognize. //Again.// She'd better learn to speak some other language than English if she was to adapt to the place. "Sorry, Locke," Lila said, straight to her. In a way, her eyes were more than tired, they looked older than a moment before. Awkward, Priss tried to hold her gaze as the other volunteers started handling the queue themselves. The woman pointed at one of the pots they were taking the golden goo from. "That's just a //sablepurée//, something I learned to cook overseas. It's nutritious enough and almost entirely normal... and I swear on my hands, it is one hundred percent hypoallergenic," she assured, her voice breaking softly as her words died off. "Okay," Locke said, not certain on what to answer to that, still feeling quite awkward. Some of the volunteers were whispering in that way that only can be interpreted as that 'yes, we are talking about you, ginger, //you don't belong here//' style; she still found it annoying and rather disarming. Priscilla chose to focus on her bowl, filled with that golden paste, in which small bits of cereal floated, suspended on the transparent paste. //The fuck did I do?// Then she realized. "Wait, honey. Hypoallergenic honey, right, I was not thinking straight." Priss looked at Lila, suddenly awake. "You were talking about the mess with that sarcophagus, right? Sorry, I didn't realize. Not that I've read a lot about that." "Oh. You didn't know, then?" Lila openly smiled at her, rubbing her left eye with the back of her hand. "Well, now I feel silly." Priss had seen a thousand faces like that one. Most were crying in agony at the beginning, many of those broken and empty later, all of them dead in the end. None of them smiled at her. Not sincere, beautiful smiles, not like that smile. Instead of coming back to haunt her, all those faces were a stark contrast over which that face was, at that moment, in that place, the world to her. Priss felt like she was made of honey, and that was a perfectly good reason why her legs were shaking. //That smile is gorgeous. And she is smiling at// me? "Thanks, Locke," Afwerki said as she stood up, her eyelids shut while she weakly smacked her cheeks. //Oh, now she's thanking me.// "Please, don't thank me, I was insensitive, and-" The woman opened her eyes again. "No, no, I didn't-oh, how do you say that. I feel guilty over that, you know. We all feel guilty over the times we were wrong, I suppose, even if we did save some people then, too...", she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts for a brief moment, but soon came back to her senses and dedicated another bright smile to Priss. "One does all one can, nothing more. Now, I may be getting old and clumsy, but I can always try and make some breakfast." "Ah. Sure." "Don't worry, we'll meet down there, in the clinic! I think it's today you came with us? I usually work with her. With Opal," she clarified. "Right. I'll go have breakfast, then," Pris said, turning to get one of the plastic stools the other volunteers were already spreading between the cubes. Lila Afwerki serenely smiled at her as she sat, then went back to attend the queue. Her movements were kind of slower, perhaps even jerking. As she watched the robed woman filling bowl after bowl with the cold contents of her golden concoction and cup after cup with the brown stream from a large aluminium coffee pot, Priscilla Locke tried both things. The coffee was bitter, but woke her up completely. The //sablepurée// was sweet, rough with bits of cereals and bread crumbs, and reminded her of old breakfasts taken on the days when WestCiv didn't demand anything of her. Priscilla felt her sister -- the inhuman mongrel -- laughing. //It's always easier having no one care about you, ain't that right, sis?// She grabbed her backpack, tightly clutching to it when she noticed Desjeux coming to her. ------ "And good ol' Skippy goes and tells me, with that twangy voice he makes when he tries to be serious, pfah! Listen, listen, he goes:" Sarah Desjeux raised a hand into the air. That hand was impregnated in the fresh blood of an amputee; //"I kneed gyou tgo lisgten knarefully, Opgal. Gyou have a scorgpion on gyour ghair."// The doctor broke into laughter //yet again// as her hands went back to sewing the pitiful flaps of bleeding skin and muscle into a stump. She had been doing that, and worse, all morning with those afflicted of the Sour. All three Satanists on guard and herself had been examining and treating them last night. After curing the disease proper, they had to clean the wounds and put skin drafts over them, since those injuries caused by the Sour never healed naturally. That usually implied major surgery. She moved her hands faster than Priscilla imagined would be safe or possible in a surgery. The fake auditor stood a good meter behind her alleged colleague in the medical profession to make certain that at least her green apron remained clean. //Well, that, and the smell.// Every person that was treated looked perfectly healthy to her, save for the horrible, gaping holes filled with surgical tissue and half-clotting blood. As soon as they left the room, they were asking for their families or their legs. And there was that woman, making jokes. Priss couldn't tell if the situation was sad or comical. "I don't find it funny, Desjeux," she finally conferred through her surgical mask, to what the surgeon responded by joyfully laughing again. "Funny you would say that, 'cause that's word by word the next thing he said!" Priscilla shook her head, annoyed. "How is the programme going, anyhow?" "Fine, fine," the surgeon said, smiling behind her own mask. "We'll have most of the people in the camp on prophylactics in less than two days. Logistics has already promised us a big shipment of both //Aciclovir// and //Prometerine// to counter the infestation in its latent state. As for people in the active stages of the disease, well..." Opal made a flowery move that made her hands look like she was doing a magic trick; and lo and behold, one of the flaps of flesh looked like it had always been part of a stump. "We'll take care of them," she sang. ------ Two minutes later, Lila was taking measurements of the unfortunate man's legs to get him a provisional prosthesis. Apparently, the operation had gone smoothly. As he started to come around, Toribio, the Portuguese nurse, and the Satanist Mirra moved him into one of the wheeled chairs and took him away to have him wake up somewhere else. The 'operating room' they were using was one of the Vestan cubes that had been dropped by Olympe half-way between the camp and the rest of the prefabricated rooms. It felt -- and was -- cramped with packed and unpacked medical equipment, but the excellent aseptic conditions made possible by the Mason Mold warranted that, among other things, patients were very likely safe from infections. Or so Desjeux and the Rabbi thought. Priss made a face. //We are trusting lives to the idiot and-// Priss felt a chill, and she hated herself in silence for it. "Hey, Locke, you alright there, hun?" Desjeux had placed her hand on Priss' arm. She freed herself from the gentle grip. "I'm fine. Why?" "You looked... somewhere else." Priss raised her sight to tell her that she could go have a laugh about it with those people that //loved// her so much. It was met by that pair of googly brown eyes that, were they half the size, would have been perfect for a newborn child. "I was-", Priss looked around, looking for the right words. They never came, so she went with a classic. "I'm fine." "You might be a fine gal, yes, but you are a lousy liar," the stout woman said in a lulling voice. There was concern in her eyes, but it was quickly traded with mania, as the many wrinkles born of the corner of her eyes betrayed that maddening smile behind the surgical mask. "Won't force you to say a thing, though. You think it's your business? Yours it is, then. Mirra!" As Desjeux left the room to talk to the robed witch-scientist about the next patient, Priscilla looked at her gloved hands. There were specks of blood on them. She discarded the gloves and watched them melt into the ground as the mold worked its magic. Checking on her backpack again to make certain it hadn't been taken by some sneaky thief or melted away over the floor, she felt her hands humid again with that all too memorable, sticky fluid that would soon dry up, crackle and redden //everything//... But it was just sweat. ------ "That one, that one there! You, sir! Please, come over here-", and Desjeux lapsed again into Arab. Priss was beginning to wonder if it was a mandatory language course in school over this universe. The stream of refugees coming into the camp had not died down; it had become an unevenly timed trickle of large groups carried by overloaded trucks and smaller groups loaded with what was left of their properties in sacks, backpacks and clapped-out carts. It was all going 'according to plan', as long as you did not realize that Opal and her people didn't have anything resembling an actual plan, beyond "give them a look and the aciclo-prom cocktail." One of her volunteers, a young American man, raised a hand to get her superior's attention. "She's got it, Opal!" "Damn... okay, tell the family-no, I think they only speak Somali. Uh-Ziza, tell them we'll be taking her to the isolation area," the stout woman ordered another volunteer, who ran to them. Opal looked around, searching for another one of her triage workers. "Mirra! Mirra, how about those two?" "The mother has it. The son didn't have any symptoms, but-" "Right, prophylactics. We still have enough for the day. Was she hurt?" "A bad cut over her stomach. She was bleeding white." Priss looked away when she heard that. Several people already had the Sour when the Work Group arrived in Laascaanood, barely two days ago. They had been treated before the disease could spread any further, but many people in the camp -- perhaps Priss herself, and every MCF worker -- might had been infected already. True, she was not doing any actual medical work since her role as an auditor technically banned her from doing anything involving medical tasks. Which was fortunate, since her knowledge in the field was limited at best... but Priss had heard the sickness might spread just by touch. She tried to look as professional as possible while checking that her long, thick, white plastic gloves and her mask covered as much as possible of her skin. Meanwhile, a t-shirt wearing Desjeux placed her blatantly naked hands on her hips as she nodded at Mirra, whose black robe was splattered with sickeningly white drops. The satanist was explaining the situation of other patients already isolated in the tents. "-and a few have tried to eat the worms already. As usual, they don't respond to anything I try to do and keep chanting about the Maggot Mother," she sighed. Priss gagged, but managed to remain firm while the thought of the symptoms of the Sour formed in her mind. It was not your regular cough. "A few have even started to draw the symbols. And I don't think I can help them without resorting to thaumatologic surgery, there are just too many for me to take on all of them at the same time." "Alright, no worries," the Executive member told her workmate. "Go crazy, excising the stuff is your specialty, right? If you have to, try the Three Circles, the Eight if you feel up for it, but..." At that point, Opal succinctly glanced at Priss. "Hold that thought for a moment, please." The fake auditor tried to look calm and collected as Desjeux closed in, but she couldn't stop glancing at the hands she had been using to explore, and touch, and operate. "Can I help you?" "Uh, well, yeah, this is embarrassing," Sarah Desjeux admitted. She did look abashed. "See, we have been using, ahm, experimental techniques, nothing too aggressive, to remove the necrotic tissue from our beneficiaries. Nothing too aggressive, as I was saying, the Circles of Negation, mostly. But, uh, I'm supposed to cooperate with you and I know what the //Phoo// thinks of-well, I was wondering if you could look the other way as Mirra does her thing." Locke tried to adjust to the new development. "Hmm-I thought you were only using conventional surgery?" Desjeux crossed her arms and looked upwards while making a hissing sound, a gesture of irritation and powerlessness. "Oh, indeed, surgery, of course, sure, that, but some of these people, see, they have internal injuries, or wounds that are already infected. There is a limit to what we can cure without cutting, let's say, half a brain out, or a third of a heart," she said, letting a little, sad laugh out. "It's a shame, but some times magic's just better." "Don't call it magic, Opal," Mirra said, and the woman managed to sound petulant and sweet at the same time. "Modern thaumaturgs like us should call it by what it is, or else we would be back to adoring inhuman horrors. Isn't that right, miss Locke?" "Sure," she said, hoping it was what was expected of her. Without giving them space to say anything else, she turned to Desjeux again. "But I would love to see the procedures and judge by myself." ------ "What is it?" "Locke felt ill." "Oh. Mirra, what did you show her? I hope you didn't do a psychotomy..." "Of course not, Opal, it was an Eight Circle ritual. A normal one, no external contacts or anything! Just to pick some wood splinters inside a kid's abdomen! No Otherness involved, I swear. And the Third Circles went well, too, she said it was amazing and all that. Although... I might have forgotten to mention she was gonna get some blood on her when I started the abjuration." "This again. How many times do I have to remind you not to assume people know what you are doing? She must be a //normal// doctor! Some people in the parahealthers are just medics too, you know? Not surgeons?" "Then what is she even doing here?" "Check if we are going overboard. Are we going overboard, Mirra?" "Oh, come on, give me a br-I mean, what did I know? She's the first field parahealther I've met!" ------ Her tiny cube-room, where someone had stacked some cardboard boxes and a few sacks with seeds, was dark now. Priss appreciated the change, since light had been a bane on her for almost all afternoon. Other things that were a bane on her were blood, tiny talking beaks and the surgical applications of still warm, sentient blood. "I had wondered what were those roosters doing in their pickup," Priss confessed as she regained a minimum of dignity to speak, or as much dignity as one could have when leaning back on a bunk bed. The woman weakly gesticulated, trying to transmit some sort of explanation over her sorry state. "It's something about how it moved when the, you know, the //witch// cut its head-" "Thaumaturgs. Don't call them 'witches.'" "What, they'll hex me?," she said, ironic. Then she remembered the feeling of having a cockerel's comb jumping into her mouth and gagged. "Nah, but they can be real bores with their I'm-not-a-wizard speech," Frank laughed. "I mean, I did tell you they were able to exorcise entities by talking them into un-believing themselves, right? Not an exaggeration. Odd stuff, but it's supposed to save them a lot of time and effort. For other procedures, they usually sacrifice roosters, or rats, you know, to gather energy for their rituals, or something. Better than goats, or people, I guess... I heard they can even use orgies, when they have to. Although you could have asked about all this, Locke." Priss spat on the ground. The spit disappeared on the clean, tiled floor almost instantly. "And blow my cover." "The World Parahealth Organisation is not exclusively made of all-knowing polymaths, Locke," Frank said, carefully holding the bucket in which she had been vomiting. "They don't have to know everything. More often than not, ritualistic procedures are what the individual practitioner makes of them. There are no standards here, so showing ignorance might be better than the alternative. And these people love to teach their stuff, by the way! Don't be afraid to ask them about anything. And you could have still asked me." "I didn't wanna know." He looked like he was going to add something else, so Priss grabbed the bucket to make sure she had somewhere to gape at as nausea seized her again, even if she could only puke bile at that point. When it stopped, she looked at Frank and asked him the question that had been circling her mind all morning. "How does she do it?" Frank smirked. "Are you asking about the magic bullcrap the Satanist sisters pull on a daily basis or about Opal?" "About Desjeux, yes. She just doesn't stop!" "Well, that's a good question." He sat by her side, looking deep in thought. "I haven't seen her sleep more than two hours a day since I joined her Work Group, and it's been a while. I haven't heard her insulting or looking down on anyone. Nor angry. She never complains about being tired or hungry, and I can count the number of times I've seen her eat anything." "Eat?" "Eat. If you ask me, she had some of the First Vestan Donation and has kept it to herself all this years. Never worked the courage to ask." "The-the First?" "An old Donation, gone badly. Well, not exactly badly. Nevermind, we don't use it anymore... a shame, too, it could have ended world famine almost completely, but it broke too many rules. The International Board members were furious. Besides, we accidentally lost most of the stuff, I hear." Frank said, calmly. "The Vesta Conglomerate makes really neat stuff, always intelligent molds, as it turns out, but it's simply too unstable for the most part. The Third is the only one we have been able to use without-" "Westinghouse. You talk too much," Priss cut him, passing a hand over her hair. She noticed it was filthy with dirt and vomit. "And my head hurts. Focus on Opal." "Okay. Well, whatever her deal is, I can tell you she's cool. Please, let me finish," he said, hurriedly. Priss did not interrupt him; she was not in any shape for a debate. "She may sound like a complete loony half the time and be a pain in the ass the other half, but she knows her way around. And I //mean// it. She knows us, she knows everyone around, and in turn we all get to know her, and then gets us all to dance whatever crazy waltz we have to when we get assigned somewhere new. She is one of the greatest reasons that our Work Group works so well." Priss looked at Frank. He was serious. "Where is she from?" "What? Canadian, I think-" "Canadian, that's a great answer," she said. "Look, Westinghouse, dunno why but this woman seems to have you all dancing to her rhythm and you seem to know it. That worries me." "But-" "No, now you let //me// finish." She felt angry. It had been some time since she had last felt angry, although she had certainly felt better than that; her mouth still tasted foul, her throat felt and sounded sore and the room spun if she tried to move around. Strangely enough, she also felt //cleaner.// "That woman is not normal," Priscilla stated, looking into Frank's doubtful eyes. "I don't care much about her, nor her little coven, I just don't care, but don't you dare tell me she is normal, or respectful. There is something //off// about her." Priss thought of the smothering way Desjeux had been treating her after she left the portable toilet by the 'clinic' where Mirra had performed her 'surgery'. The way she had pushed her to the prefabricated room by the edge of the camp and closed the door behind her, saying all that 'you'll get better in no time' crap. She had seen fear in her eyes. She was hiding something, Priss was sure. "She is suspicious." Frank's brows arced at the word. "Mind I remind you that the world is quite too complicated to want to see an enemy where there is only a friend?" Priscilla could not believe what he was saying. "She is a friggin' anomaly! They all are!" "Sure, and today they've saved dozens of lives. You saw them doing it." She closed her eyes. "I know, so what. I've seen things-I mean, sometimes it seems too good to be true, and then it //is// too good!" Frank's docile expression infuriated her as she opened her eyes again. "She looks the fucking part!" "Well, this takes me back to our first meeting. But fine, fine, she is a too-good-to-be-true happiness-inducing alien from outer space, or from Canada, who secretly wishes for humans to go extinct. Right, and nobody has seen her coming for, what, thirty years?" Priscilla gaped for a moment. Then, she felt tired. Really tired. "I... I don't know. This is all backwards." "Cultural shock, they call it." "Hey, Desjeux," Frank said. Priss felt the need to get up and stand alert, but that traitorous dizziness pinned her to her bed. "You've-" "I just heard the last minutes. Or so. Wanted to check on you, but now that I'm here..." Desjeux squatted by the bed, with her usual grin. However, she sounded dead serious for once. "Look, I'm not a trickster nor a liar. I'm just not gonna tell you the truth, ever. Not all of it. Where do I come from, who I was before joining, that stuff... I simply changed when I came into the Charitable. Everyone does. Everyone has a past, too. And you have to learn to deal with it, in the same way that I accept I will never get to know you, at all. It's abundantly clear you are not a doctor, and you are probably not from the //phoo//," the woman tilted her head towards Frank, "no matter what mister Security Executive over here tells me about it." Priss felt like if she was suddenly under interrogation. She couldn't say anything about herself, nor Anabasis. Lies and half-truths began forming in her mind; and, suddenly, with a giggle, Desjeux looked into her eyes and said: "And I don't care about it." Feeling her own confusion painted across her face, Priscilla Locke tried to form a sentence. "What." "See, we have to trust each other. I have to trust that François and Frank have not been secretly reporting to the Coalition and the other Foundation all these years. I have to trust my girls to keep working for these poor people, even if their creed tells them they should be killing God again in some lost corner of Jerusalem, or wherever the bearded moron is these days. I have to trust Lila to not slip poison in our food -- and yes, I do eat, Frankie -- while we're still sleeping so she can feast on our hearts in the late hours of the night, for that matter. We must trust each other, no matter how hard it is to trust in what we //see// of each other, even before we get to know what we //can't// see." Opal stood again. Not an impressive change in stature, but, with Priss still on her bed, it was enough to make the stout woman imposing; an impression she reinforced by letting her hair, which had been collapsed into a bun, free. Coils upon coils half-hid the round face, her eyes somehow visible between them in the dying light of the evening sun that came through the windows. Her hands went to her broad hips, her legs separated in a defying stance and she proudly stated, in an attempt to sound martial: "Trust is our lifeblood, Locke. If we don't trust, there is no Charitable. So welcome aboard, try not to be too paranoid and, as long as you trust Frank, don't trust me! But, please, let me do my job. Geddit?" Opal turned away and left, gently spinning as she closed the door. Frank looked at Priss' face and said: "See, that's what it was like for me, too. At first, I had that face pretty much all the time. Now I mostly just facepalm." "Facepalm?" Frank demonstrated the gesture. "Oh, that. Right." In the awkward moment that followed, Opal's voice thundered again through the speaker-walls. "AH, FRANK, DEAR BY THE WAY, I'LL BE REAL BUSY TOMORROW SO YOU TAKE HER FOR A WALK, OKAY?, OKAY THANKS BYEEE." [[=]] << [[[Cubes On A Slope]]] \| [[[manna-charitable-foundation-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Greenery]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-03T09:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "goi2014", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale", "world-parahealth-organization" ]	Bed, Breakfast, Plague - SCP Foundation	22	[ "cubes-on-a-slope", "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "greenery", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author" ]	[]	22855214	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bed-breakfast-plague
being-cactusman	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Dreams have long been a point of contention for psychologists, full of vehement and loud opinions on what they mean. Some think that it's the brain going over the events of the day, while others postulate that it's the subconscious finally doing something useful and resolving issues. The smartest scientists are always identifiable by bedhead and coffee, because they prefer to experiment with sleep rather than theorise about it.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup></p> <p>What few scientists bother to worry about is whether or not plants dream. They do. In the plant community, Venus Fly Traps are noted to have the most vivid nightmares, which typically involve sunlight and arachnids. Creeping Vines rarely ever have dreams, being so exhausted from all the creeping.</p> <p>The dreams of flora relevant to this story, however, are cactus dreams. The layman would think that cacti dream about water. This is not so. Dreaming about water is incredibly boring. Water by itself doesn't do much, other than fail to have the common decency to hold a definitive shape. A cactus dreaming about water would be comparable to a person dreaming of an open field. It sounds very poetic, but begins to drag on once you realise there's not much to do in an open field. The very idea is silly, preposterous, and implausible.</p> <p>No, most cacti dream of finding a nice cactusette and settling down in that nice bit of sand just a block away from their good cactus friends. Cactusman, known to his friends as Daniel MacIntyre, or urrgghjhggjdf<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup> to very pretty cactusettes, was dreaming of settling down on that fateful morning. In particular, of Carrie (RH) Ipsalsis, who was, while not a cactus, very pretty. Cactusman himself was not actually a cactus, but an upright member of his human community, dedicated to saving innocent lives and preventing dehydration.</p> <p>It was with a grunt that he was awoken from his slumber. Specifically, a grunt that meant "Hey, Daniel, wake up!". Rubbing the sand from his eyes, Cactusman glared blearily at Carl from across the room. Carl was a handsome specimen, a strapping male in the prime of his youth, who had met Cactusman at their local home improvement store. Carl was also a cactus, which may raise the question of how he was currently speaking to Cactusman.</p> <p>Carl, as any reasonable person could assume, was not speaking in English, but in Cactese. Cactese is entirely incomprehensible to the human ear, who hear it mainly as a series of roars and grunts. It is actually a much more complicated language, with 13 specific grunts designed to obfuscate any humans who might be planning on pillaging innocent cacti and putting them up as trophies on their mantle. There are 73.5 words to describe a small amount of water in cactese, because cacti are predominately optimists, and not nearly as prickly about glasses being filled with water as humans.</p> <p>"Daniel, wake up man! Someone needs your help!"</p> <p>Like a slap in the face, or being stabbed by the spine of a cactus, Daniel jerked up, throwing off his sheets and rushing off to grab breakfast by the window. A hero can't be expected to save the day without energy, after all. Carl continued to speak, giving Cactusman the minutiae.</p> <p>"Her name is Lily, I met her at the plant nursery. She always made sure I had enough water and sunlight, great gal. Pretty, too, man, you should have <em>seen</em> her-"</p> <p>"Carl! Get to the point!" shouted Daniel, cutting Carl off in the middle of his diatribe.</p> <p>"Right, right, sorry. She was kidnapped, Dan! They stole her away! You gotta rescue her, she's a damsel in distress! They took her to 5739 North Clark!"</p> <p>Spurred on by his heroic and solemn duty, Cactusman dashed to the door. His thought traveled faster, though, and he paused, turning to Carl. "Where'd you hear this from, anyways?"</p> <p>"Oh. I heard it from the grapevine."</p> <p>To describe how long Daniel stared at Carl would be an impractical waste of text, and would also imply that something other than staring happened in that timespan. Staring is a very dull thing to write about. There are only so many ways to describe a stare, and the majority of them are variations on "intense". To create a clearer picture of what happened, stand up, find a plant, and stare at it for ten minutes. This story will still be here.</p> <p>Welcome back. Yes, it was that boring.</p> <p>Daniel tore his stare away, muttering something about "that incorrigible gossip" before dashing out the door, spines drawn taut in preparation for the battle ahead. Today, evil would not stand. Today, the world would be bathed in light and righteousness.</p> <p>Cactusman trudged through the torrential downpour, peering up occasionally to look at the street numbers. The path of righteousness be damned, the weather had other plans. It had been behaving itself, sunny days and mild temperatures for too long. It had been saving itself for this day, which it had marked down on the calendar it stored up in the cloud. Useful thing, the cloud.</p> <p>By the time Cactusman found 5739 North Clark, he was wetter than any cactus had a right to be. Cacti tend to like the weather like they like their humour: dry, and preferably involving George Carlin<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup>. Taking a spine from his back, Cactusman quietly investigated the integrity of the keylock, then very legally and equally quietly entered the threshold.</p> <p>"I'm in the belly of the beast now…" thought Cactusman, as he surveyed the room. It was obvious that there was no one home, from the state of the apartment. The TV wasn't on, and he wasn't being angrily questioned about why in the hell a stranger is standing in our home and how did you get in I'm calling the bloody police Bob get over here and teach this hoodlum a lesson again.</p> <p>It wasn't really the wretched hive of villainy that Cactusman expected. The place was downright pleasant. They had obviously put work into the breakfast nook which was dotted with potted plants, and the couch went very well with the rug. The whole living room was so open and inviting- "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?"</p> <p>The owner of the particularly angry vocalisation was an equally loud Hawaiian shirt, filled out by a rotund man, the kind who is usually accompanied by a beer and plastic pink flamingos. What he was doing here was unknown. Maybe he was lost. It would certainly explain why he was so angry.</p> <p>He greeted Cactusman with an enthusiastic fistbump to the jaw, his arm hurtling through the air like a porcine train car carrying sausages<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-4" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-4')">4</a></sup>. Cactusman's world exploded with new colours (such as sillown), reeling back from the force of the blow, more than enough to ruin the day of any cactus.</p> <p>Cactusman caught himself on a nearby coffee table, as the Hawaiian shirt was busy marveling at the new cactus spines growing out of his hand. His revelations were loud and involved hopping and shaking his hand. Grasping blindly behind him, Cactusman found a friendly coffee mug, and brought it down hard over the Hawaiian shirt's head, in accordance with the celebration.<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-5" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-5')">5</a></sup></p> <p>The Hawaiian shirt crumpled to the floor, and Cactusman stepped over the ne'er-do-weller gingerly, making a mental note to call the hospital, and maybe iron out some of the wrinkles. As he was idly wondering why Hawaiian shirts were acceptable fashion, a muffled shout brought him out of his reverie.</p> <p>A shout! The damsel in distress! Cactusman dashed to the source of the noise, bursting in the room next over. And there she was.</p> <p>A sight like Lily was one that a man would never forget. Even in their old age, as they ramble on about lawns, hills biting their ankles as they climbed up wolves on their way to school, they would remember that moment. She had a flower, tucked in on her head, accenting the soft colour of her body. The light streamed into the room, highlighting her pretty face as she implored Cactusman to save her from the bindings that constrained the curves of her body, a price tag poking out of the soil in her pot.</p> All things considered, she was a very pretty cactus.<br/> <br/> <div class="footnotes-footer"> <div class="title">Footnotes</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-1"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-1')">1</a>. Most theoretical discussions about dream meaning usually end up in a group double blind sleep experiment, so the point becomes moot by the thirtieth sheep.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. Imagine a noise very similar to gargling kidney stones</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. Woe betide those who try to give a cactus Leslie Nielsen though.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-4"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-4')">4</a>. Or the fist of an angry fat man, if you don't enjoy similes.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-5"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-5')">5</a>. Cacti rarely party, but when they do, they lose several friends, wake up with terrible hangovers, and often find most of their glassware shattered. It's why they're so often found in the desert. It's dry, miserably hot, and there's not a drop to drink anywhere. Not conducive to parties at all.</div> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/being-cactusman">Being Cactusman</a>" by Riemann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/being-cactusman">https://scpwiki.com/being-cactusman</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Dreams have long been a point of contention for psychologists, full of vehement and loud opinions on what they mean. Some think that it's the brain going over the events of the day, while others postulate that it's the subconscious finally doing something useful and resolving issues. The smartest scientists are always identifiable by bedhead and coffee, because they prefer to experiment with sleep rather than theorise about it.[[footnote]] Most theoretical discussions about dream meaning usually end up in a group double blind sleep experiment, so the point becomes moot by the thirtieth sheep.[[/footnote]] What few scientists bother to worry about is whether or not plants dream. They do. In the plant community, Venus Fly Traps are noted to have the most vivid nightmares, which typically involve sunlight and arachnids. Creeping Vines rarely ever have dreams, being so exhausted from all the creeping. The dreams of flora relevant to this story, however, are cactus dreams. The layman would think that cacti dream about water. This is not so. Dreaming about water is incredibly boring. Water by itself doesn't do much, other than fail to have the common decency to hold a definitive shape. A cactus dreaming about water would be comparable to a person dreaming of an open field. It sounds very poetic, but begins to drag on once you realise there's not much to do in an open field. The very idea is silly, preposterous, and implausible. No, most cacti dream of finding a nice cactusette and settling down in that nice bit of sand just a block away from their good cactus friends. Cactusman, known to his friends as Daniel MacIntyre, or urrgghjhggjdf[[footnote]]Imagine a noise very similar to gargling kidney stones[[/footnote]] to very pretty cactusettes, was dreaming of settling down on that fateful morning. In particular, of Carrie (RH) Ipsalsis, who was, while not a cactus, very pretty. Cactusman himself was not actually a cactus, but an upright member of his human community, dedicated to saving innocent lives and preventing dehydration. It was with a grunt that he was awoken from his slumber. Specifically, a grunt that meant "Hey, Daniel, wake up!". Rubbing the sand from his eyes, Cactusman glared blearily at Carl from across the room. Carl was a handsome specimen, a strapping male in the prime of his youth, who had met Cactusman at their local home improvement store. Carl was also a cactus, which may raise the question of how he was currently speaking to Cactusman. Carl, as any reasonable person could assume, was not speaking in English, but in Cactese. Cactese is entirely incomprehensible to the human ear, who hear it mainly as a series of roars and grunts. It is actually a much more complicated language, with 13 specific grunts designed to obfuscate any humans who might be planning on pillaging innocent cacti and putting them up as trophies on their mantle. There are 73.5 words to describe a small amount of water in cactese, because cacti are predominately optimists, and not nearly as prickly about glasses being filled with water as humans. "Daniel, wake up man! Someone needs your help!" Like a slap in the face, or being stabbed by the spine of a cactus, Daniel jerked up, throwing off his sheets and rushing off to grab breakfast by the window. A hero can't be expected to save the day without energy, after all. Carl continued to speak, giving Cactusman the minutiae. "Her name is Lily, I met her at the plant nursery. She always made sure I had enough water and sunlight, great gal. Pretty, too, man, you should have //seen// her-" "Carl! Get to the point!" shouted Daniel, cutting Carl off in the middle of his diatribe. "Right, right, sorry. She was kidnapped, Dan! They stole her away! You gotta rescue her, she's a damsel in distress! They took her to 5739 North Clark!" Spurred on by his heroic and solemn duty, Cactusman dashed to the door. His thought traveled faster, though, and he paused, turning to Carl. "Where'd you hear this from, anyways?" "Oh. I heard it from the grapevine." To describe how long Daniel stared at Carl would be an impractical waste of text, and would also imply that something other than staring happened in that timespan. Staring is a very dull thing to write about. There are only so many ways to describe a stare, and the majority of them are variations on "intense". To create a clearer picture of what happened, stand up, find a plant, and stare at it for ten minutes. This story will still be here. Welcome back. Yes, it was that boring. Daniel tore his stare away, muttering something about "that incorrigible gossip" before dashing out the door, spines drawn taut in preparation for the battle ahead. Today, evil would not stand. Today, the world would be bathed in light and righteousness. Cactusman trudged through the torrential downpour, peering up occasionally to look at the street numbers. The path of righteousness be damned, the weather had other plans. It had been behaving itself, sunny days and mild temperatures for too long. It had been saving itself for this day, which it had marked down on the calendar it stored up in the cloud. Useful thing, the cloud. By the time Cactusman found 5739 North Clark, he was wetter than any cactus had a right to be. Cacti tend to like the weather like they like their humour: dry, and preferably involving George Carlin[[footnote]]Woe betide those who try to give a cactus Leslie Nielsen though.[[/footnote]]. Taking a spine from his back, Cactusman quietly investigated the integrity of the keylock, then very legally and equally quietly entered the threshold. "I'm in the belly of the beast now..." thought Cactusman, as he surveyed the room. It was obvious that there was no one home, from the state of the apartment. The TV wasn't on, and he wasn't being angrily questioned about why in the hell a stranger is standing in our home and how did you get in I'm calling the bloody police Bob get over here and teach this hoodlum a lesson again. It wasn't really the wretched hive of villainy that Cactusman expected. The place was downright pleasant. They had obviously put work into the breakfast nook which was dotted with potted plants, and the couch went very well with the rug. The whole living room was so open and inviting- "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?" The owner of the particularly angry vocalisation was an equally loud Hawaiian shirt, filled out by a rotund man, the kind who is usually accompanied by a beer and plastic pink flamingos. What he was doing here was unknown. Maybe he was lost. It would certainly explain why he was so angry. He greeted Cactusman with an enthusiastic fistbump to the jaw, his arm hurtling through the air like a porcine train car carrying sausages[[footnote]]Or the fist of an angry fat man, if you don't enjoy similes.[[/footnote]]. Cactusman's world exploded with new colours (such as sillown), reeling back from the force of the blow, more than enough to ruin the day of any cactus. Cactusman caught himself on a nearby coffee table, as the Hawaiian shirt was busy marveling at the new cactus spines growing out of his hand. His revelations were loud and involved hopping and shaking his hand. Grasping blindly behind him, Cactusman found a friendly coffee mug, and brought it down hard over the Hawaiian shirt's head, in accordance with the celebration.[[footnote]]Cacti rarely party, but when they do, they lose several friends, wake up with terrible hangovers, and often find most of their glassware shattered. It's why they're so often found in the desert. It's dry, miserably hot, and there's not a drop to drink anywhere. Not conducive to parties at all.[[/footnote]] The Hawaiian shirt crumpled to the floor, and Cactusman stepped over the ne'er-do-weller gingerly, making a mental note to call the hospital, and maybe iron out some of the wrinkles. As he was idly wondering why Hawaiian shirts were acceptable fashion, a muffled shout brought him out of his reverie. A shout! The damsel in distress! Cactusman dashed to the source of the noise, bursting in the room next over. And there she was. A sight like Lily was one that a man would never forget. Even in their old age, as they ramble on about lawns, hills biting their ankles as they climbed up wolves on their way to school, they would remember that moment. She had a flower, tucked in on her head, accenting the soft colour of her body. The light streamed into the room, highlighting her pretty face as she implored Cactusman to save her from the bindings that constrained the curves of her body, a price tag poking out of the soil in her pot. All things considered, she was a very pretty cactus. [[footnoteblock]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-05-26T00:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "comedy", "featured", "superhero", "tale" ]	Being Cactusman - SCP Foundation	156	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	22357320	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/being-cactusman
bending-over-backwards	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The office was neat. It clearly belonged to someone who had too much time on their hands. Every piece of paper on the desk was stacked neatly into three vertical piles, each the same height. There was a small pot of pens, and about ten cheap biros in it. They all looked brand new; the owner had never needed to replace them. Next to it was a name plate, with the words “Dr. W. A. Hamilton” engraved on it. At the centre of it all was a balding, middle-aged man named Hamilton. He sat at his desk, staring at the door, and watched silently as it opened.</p> <p>In stepped Sanchez, a young, nervous research assistant. He pushed his glasses up, as they were beginning to slip down his sweat-covered face. Hamilton stood to greet him, and they shook hands.</p> <p>“Please, take a seat,” said Hamilton. Sanchez complied.<br/> “So, Sanchez, what is it that you wanted to talk about?”<br/> “Well, sir, I was browsing through some old newspapers, and found this.”<br/> Sanchez retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pressed it onto the table.<br/> “It says that, two days ago, a Mr. Walter Copper died due to a broken spine. Reasons unknown.”<br/> “And?”<br/> “Well, according to his wife, he was just eating breakfast. She came back in the room, and he was dead.”</p> <p>“How is this relevant?” asked Hamilton, who was beginning to think his time was being wasted. Sanchez would be desperate to try and show his command he had his eye on the ball, yet this would just make him look like an idiot.<br/> “W-well, sir, he was reported as having a spoon in his hand when he died.”<br/> Hamilton was about to laugh at the absurdity of the sentence, when he realized the full implications of what was being said.<br/> “You mean it’s like-“<br/> Hamilton never finished, as Sanchez was clearly desperate to get his point across.<br/> “<a href="/scp-463">SCP-463.</a>”</p> <p>Hamilton stood up, knocking over the pot of pens as he did so.<br/> “Has it breached containment?” he asked, his voice a tone of worry.<br/> “I checked with Doctor Nauls, nothing happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.”<br/> Hamilton began to relax, but stopped himself just before he did.<br/> “S-sir, I-I think…” began Sanchez, whose voice was filled with worry.<br/> “I think there’s more than one.”</p> <p>Hamilton stared vacantly at Sanchez, before snapping out of it.<br/> “Alright, have you told anyone else?” he asked hastily.<br/> “N-no…” said Sanchez, quietly.<br/> “I’ll get supervisor Childs, you try and get me all the information on Copper.”</p> <p>“Sir, just one more thing…”<br/> “What?” said Hamilton impatiently. He grabbed the pen pot and slammed it onto the table, upright.<br/> “Why spoons? It seems a bit random.”<br/> “I don’t know, Sanchez,” he said, as he grabbed a few pens at once at dropped them into the pot.<br/> “And we’ll-“<br/> Hamilton never finished. He was going back for a second handful of pens, when he stopped suddenly. For an instant, he stood perfectly still. Then his head snapped backwards violently, and he slowly fell onto the floor, his head smashing against the wall as he fell.<br/> Sanchez jumped up suddenly, making his chair fall on the floor.<br/> “Oh JESUS!” he shouted, as he tried to get as far away from Hamilton as possible.<br/> He looked over the desk, to see Hamilton's empty expression staring back at him. He was dead.</p> <p>In his hand, was a pen.</p> <p>Sanchez stood in silence, for what could have been either seconds or hours, before finally whispering, "They're everywhere…"</p> <hr/> <p>The shed had a strong smell of damp and sweat. The wooden boards that composed it were filled with rot. It was the only room in the shed, and a few rays of sunlight from the setting sun seeped in through the murky windows.</p> <p>This was where I was born. No, born isn't the right word for it. Created, maybe.</p> <p>Or fabricated.</p> <p>My existence began with a blinding flash of light, followed by a view of the shed’s ceiling. I don’t know how, but I knew. I knew that the sky was blue, that I had just been born, the capital of Latvia, all the languages in the world; I knew. I don’t know how, but I knew.</p> <p>I attempted to move, but I was unable to. Then, I realized what I was. My eyes - or at least what I used to see - were located in a shallow, oval-shaped bowl. The rest of my body was composed up of a single thin bar.</p> <p>I was a spoon.</p> <p>I was completely unable to move, I was trapped.</p> <p>Then, my view of the ceiling was interrupted by someone’s head. He was white, overweight, and his head was devoid of any hair. He then spoke the first words I’d ever hear.<br/> “Goddamn it! Fucking thing didn't work!” he shouted, in a slightly Welsh accent.</p> <p>He picked me up, and inspected me. Then, he threw me to the ground in rage.<br/> “Why won’t it just work? I paid good money for that!”<br/> When I hit the ground, it was the first time I had ever felt pain.</p> <p>That was immediately followed by the first ever feelings of rage. I couldn't move, why? Why me? What did I do? Why? Why? Why?</p> <p>I landed on the floor, angled in such a way I could still see the man. He was leaning on a table; presumably where I was created.<br/> He grabbed a scrap of paper, and began scribbling down notes on it. Then, he pressed on the pen so hard it went through the paper, causing him to scream in rage. He threw his pen across the room, breaking it.</p> <p>Then, he kicked open the door to the shed, kicking in closed as he fumed back to his house.</p> <p>I didn’t know at the time, but that would be the last time I ever saw him. It would be years until I saw anyone else.</p> <p>I think it was years, anyway. He left me to fester in the shed, to rot, to die. Eventually I began to wish I could. There was nothing but the shed. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t scream.</p> <p>I could watch, and I could hear, and I could smell.</p> <p>I could see the moss slowly grow around me until it encompassed me, leaving me with nothing but darkness to look at.</p> <p>I could hear the patter of rain that I would never feel, the trickle of water that I would never drink.</p> <p>I could smell the linger of damp that encased the shed, the slow, rotting body of a nearby rodent.</p> <p>I think my creator killed himself after I failed to show any signs of life, that 200 days of work resulted in no pay off. Ironically, he succeeded.</p> <p>Why did he succeed? What was he even trying to do? Why did it have to be me?<br/> Maybe it was years. Maybe decades, or even centuries. I waited. And waited. And waited.</p> <p>I could think, my mind was complete.<br/> Eventually it was filled with only one thought.<br/> Revenge.</p> <p>It took a few years, but eventually the moss rotted away. The shed was different when I next saw it; the table had gone, and a few random objects lay on the floor, all covered in rust. Hundreds of dead flies were everywhere.</p> <p>Someone entered the shed again. He was tall, white, and much thinner than the only other human being I had ever seen. Dust and cobwebs flew into his face, but he brushed them away.</p> <p>“Jesus, Terry, this place is really fucking old,” he said, looking behind him.<br/> He lowered his head down, to see old random objects on the floor, such as a disc, a playing card, and a small scrap of paper.</p> <p>“This stuff might be worth something, actually.”<br/> “Yeah, Paul, I’m sure someone will pay millions for some old king of clubs you found in a random shed…”<br/> Paul continued to search. Finally, he came to me.<br/> He picked me up, and inspected me.</p> <p>“What’s that?” asked Terry, who had entered behind Paul.<br/> “Just this old spoon.”<br/> “Oh wow, a spoon! That was obviously worth going here!” said Terry, putting on a mock voice.</p> <p>“Well, it might be worth a few quid. This looks pretty well made.”<br/> “Let’s have a look.”<br/> Paul passed me to Terry.</p> <p>Terry looked at me, his expression one of disgust, before he turned me around.<br/> “Ah!” he shouted out of shock, and he threw me to the ground.<br/> “What?” asked Paul.<br/> “It’s got a massive lump of mould on the back of it! I’m not fucking touching it!”<br/> “Fine. When I’ve sold it for millions, you won’t get any.”<br/> Terry let out a small laugh.<br/> “Yeah, I’m so jealous,” he said, sarcastically.</p> <p>I could only watch as Terry left, and Paul leaned down to retrieve me.</p> <p>I hated them. I had realized that I would be stuck, that they didn’t care.<br/> He picked me up.</p> <p>I still do not know how exactly I did it. The build-up of rage had been going for years, probably more.</p> <p>In a single second, all of that energy was released.</p> <p>Paul was in the doorway of the shed, when his head snapped back violently, and he fell to the floor with a thud.</p> <p>Terry must have heard it, and he turned, still smiling.</p> <p>His face instantly contorted into a face of horror. Even from several feet away, Paul’s death was obvious. His neck was angled awkwardly, his back bent over itself. His eyes were open, gazing vacantly at the ground. His mouth was open slightly, a small pool of saliva dribbling onto the ground.</p> <p>Paul’s body was dead, but a small part of him survived. He wished he was dead, but he wasn’t. I knew his fate, and he knew mine the second I killed him. He was now me. His mind was transported into another spoon, somewhere in the world. There was a weak, extremely weak, telepathic connection. I could see, and smell, and hear what he could see, smell and hear. I think he was somewhere in a kitchen. I took his knowledge as well.</p> <p>I would force him to kill. If anyone touched him, they would die. If anyone touched me, they would die. Humanity had left me to rot in a shed for years; I would have my revenge.<br/> Terry panicked, and ran, as he retrieved his phone, and hastily began dialing 999.</p> <p>It took ten minutes, and I was stuck in Paul’s cold, dead hand for all of it. It was better than the shed, at least. It was summer, and I wasn’t in the shade. Sure, British summers were pretty shitty, but it was at least warm.</p> <p>That was the first - and only - time I was in the sun.</p> <p>I managed to get a good look at the house. The windows were boarded up, and parts had completely collapsed. Nettles and grass grew everywhere; the house had clearly been abandoned some time ago.</p> <p>Sirens loomed closer. Eventually, the paramedics arrived. They walked around the house; there were no fence to stop them.</p> <p>They all wore high visibility jackets, and carried a stretcher between them. Terry was nowhere to be seen.</p> <p>They all bent down, and laid the stretcher next to Paul's dead body. Two of them lifted Paul- and myself- up onto the stretcher.</p> <p>One of them must have noticed me. Rigor Mortis had not yet set in; he attempted to remove me from Paul's grasp.</p> <p>I was ready, but he wasn't.</p> <p>He let out a scream, and collapsed to the floor. One of the medics, who was standing the closest to him, spoke.</p> <p>"Shit, Ryan, you ok?" she asked, walking slightly closer.</p> <p>Ryan just let out another scream.</p> <p>"Oh Christ."</p> <p>His back was bent at awkward angles, and blood was pouring out of his mouth, while he continued to scream.</p> <p>"Shit, Dave, Steve, get the spine board."</p> <p>Steve and Dave exited, running.</p> <hr/> <p>It was an hour later, when I learnt, much to my disappointment, that Ryan had survived.</p> <p>However, Paul had managed to kill two more people. Two more people who could join my ranks.</p> <p>The police arrived shortly afterwards.</p> <p>There were eight of them, five men, three women. They took Terry, Ryan, Steve, Dave, and the female paramedic whose name I had never learnt away for questioning.</p> <p>They all inspected the area. When Ryan broke his back, I had landed nearby in the grass.</p> <p>Three figures approached. They must of had realized what I was capable of, as they edged slowly towards me. I noticed one of them, the tallest, had a pair of tongs in her hands.</p> <p>"Alright. There it is. Benny, you got the safe?" asked the one whose hands were empty.</p> <p>Benny acknowledged him silently by nodding his head and holding out a small, cubical metal box.</p> <p>"Good. Amanda, you ready?"<br/> "Yeah. Let's just do this."</p> <p>She bent her knees slightly, and gripped me with the tongs, before dropping me into the box.<br/> Benny closed the lid on it instantly, and I was left in darkness.</p> <p>When the darkness finally ended, I was in a small glass display case.</p> <p>Ten faces watched me, from outside the glass. All peering in, all desperate to know what I was.</p> <p>I would show them.</p> <p>All of them.</p> <p>If they want to know what it's like to be me, I'll let them.</p> <p>I've picked up the occasional piece of information from the Class-D they send me. They're throwing fuel on the bonfire, and I'm all too happy to spread.</p> <p>They recently found out there's more than one of me, but it was worth it.</p> <p>I absorbed the knowledge and thoughts of Doctor Wilford Anthony Hamilton.</p> <p>I know their secrets.</p> <p>And they know mine.</p> <p>I am <a href="/scp-463">SCP-463</a>.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/bending-over-backwards">Bending Over Backwards</a>" by Bennings, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bending-over-backwards">https://scpwiki.com/bending-over-backwards</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The office was neat. It clearly belonged to someone who had too much time on their hands. Every piece of paper on the desk was stacked neatly into three vertical piles, each the same height. There was a small pot of pens, and about ten cheap biros in it. They all looked brand new; the owner had never needed to replace them. Next to it was a name plate, with the words “Dr. W. A. Hamilton” engraved on it. At the centre of it all was a balding, middle-aged man named Hamilton. He sat at his desk, staring at the door, and watched silently as it opened. In stepped Sanchez, a young, nervous research assistant. He pushed his glasses up, as they were beginning to slip down his sweat-covered face. Hamilton stood to greet him, and they shook hands. “Please, take a seat,” said Hamilton. Sanchez complied. “So, Sanchez, what is it that you wanted to talk about?” “Well, sir, I was browsing through some old newspapers, and found this.” Sanchez retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pressed it onto the table. “It says that, two days ago, a Mr. Walter Copper died due to a broken spine. Reasons unknown.” “And?” “Well, according to his wife, he was just eating breakfast. She came back in the room, and he was dead.” “How is this relevant?” asked Hamilton, who was beginning to think his time was being wasted. Sanchez would be desperate to try and show his command he had his eye on the ball, yet this would just make him look like an idiot. “W-well, sir, he was reported as having a spoon in his hand when he died.” Hamilton was about to laugh at the absurdity of the sentence, when he realized the full implications of what was being said. “You mean it’s like-“ Hamilton never finished, as Sanchez was clearly desperate to get his point across. “[[[SCP-463.]]]” Hamilton stood up, knocking over the pot of pens as he did so. “Has it breached containment?” he asked, his voice a tone of worry. “I checked with Doctor Nauls, nothing happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Hamilton began to relax, but stopped himself just before he did. “S-sir, I-I think...” began Sanchez, whose voice was filled with worry. “I think there’s more than one.” Hamilton stared vacantly at Sanchez, before snapping out of it. “Alright, have you told anyone else?” he asked hastily. “N-no...” said Sanchez, quietly. “I’ll get supervisor Childs, you try and get me all the information on Copper.” “Sir, just one more thing...” “What?” said Hamilton impatiently. He grabbed the pen pot and slammed it onto the table, upright. “Why spoons? It seems a bit random.” “I don’t know, Sanchez,” he said, as he grabbed a few pens at once at dropped them into the pot. “And we’ll-“ Hamilton never finished. He was going back for a second handful of pens, when he stopped suddenly. For an instant, he stood perfectly still. Then his head snapped backwards violently, and he slowly fell onto the floor, his head smashing against the wall as he fell. Sanchez jumped up suddenly, making his chair fall on the floor. “Oh JESUS!” he shouted, as he tried to get as far away from Hamilton as possible. He looked over the desk, to see Hamilton's empty expression staring back at him. He was dead. In his hand, was a pen. Sanchez stood in silence, for what could have been either seconds or hours, before finally whispering, "They're everywhere..." ------ The shed had a strong smell of damp and sweat. The wooden boards that composed it were filled with rot. It was the only room in the shed, and a few rays of sunlight from the setting sun seeped in through the murky windows. This was where I was born. No, born isn't the right word for it. Created, maybe. Or fabricated. My existence began with a blinding flash of light, followed by a view of the shed’s ceiling. I don’t know how, but I knew. I knew that the sky was blue, that I had just been born, the capital of Latvia, all the languages in the world; I knew. I don’t know how, but I knew. I attempted to move, but I was unable to. Then, I realized what I was. My eyes - or at least what I used to see - were located in a shallow, oval-shaped bowl. The rest of my body was composed up of a single thin bar. I was a spoon. I was completely unable to move, I was trapped. Then, my view of the ceiling was interrupted by someone’s head. He was white, overweight, and his head was devoid of any hair. He then spoke the first words I’d ever hear. “Goddamn it! Fucking thing didn't work!” he shouted, in a slightly Welsh accent. He picked me up, and inspected me. Then, he threw me to the ground in rage. “Why won’t it just work? I paid good money for that!” When I hit the ground, it was the first time I had ever felt pain. That was immediately followed by the first ever feelings of rage. I couldn't move, why? Why me? What did I do? Why? Why? Why? I landed on the floor, angled in such a way I could still see the man. He was leaning on a table; presumably where I was created. He grabbed a scrap of paper, and began scribbling down notes on it. Then, he pressed on the pen so hard it went through the paper, causing him to scream in rage. He threw his pen across the room, breaking it. Then, he kicked open the door to the shed, kicking in closed as he fumed back to his house. I didn’t know at the time, but that would be the last time I ever saw him. It would be years until I saw anyone else. I think it was years, anyway. He left me to fester in the shed, to rot, to die. Eventually I began to wish I could. There was nothing but the shed. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t scream. I could watch, and I could hear, and I could smell. I could see the moss slowly grow around me until it encompassed me, leaving me with nothing but darkness to look at. I could hear the patter of rain that I would never feel, the trickle of water that I would never drink. I could smell the linger of damp that encased the shed, the slow, rotting body of a nearby rodent. I think my creator killed himself after I failed to show any signs of life, that 200 days of work resulted in no pay off. Ironically, he succeeded. Why did he succeed? What was he even trying to do? Why did it have to be me? Maybe it was years. Maybe decades, or even centuries. I waited. And waited. And waited. I could think, my mind was complete. Eventually it was filled with only one thought. Revenge. It took a few years, but eventually the moss rotted away. The shed was different when I next saw it; the table had gone, and a few random objects lay on the floor, all covered in rust. Hundreds of dead flies were everywhere. Someone entered the shed again. He was tall, white, and much thinner than the only other human being I had ever seen. Dust and cobwebs flew into his face, but he brushed them away. “Jesus, Terry, this place is really fucking old,” he said, looking behind him. He lowered his head down, to see old random objects on the floor, such as a disc, a playing card, and a small scrap of paper. “This stuff might be worth something, actually.” “Yeah, Paul, I’m sure someone will pay millions for some old king of clubs you found in a random shed...” Paul continued to search. Finally, he came to me. He picked me up, and inspected me. “What’s that?” asked Terry, who had entered behind Paul. “Just this old spoon.” “Oh wow, a spoon! That was obviously worth going here!” said Terry, putting on a mock voice. “Well, it might be worth a few quid. This looks pretty well made.” “Let’s have a look.” Paul passed me to Terry. Terry looked at me, his expression one of disgust, before he turned me around. “Ah!” he shouted out of shock, and he threw me to the ground. “What?” asked Paul. “It’s got a massive lump of mould on the back of it! I’m not fucking touching it!” “Fine. When I’ve sold it for millions, you won’t get any.” Terry let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’m so jealous,” he said, sarcastically. I could only watch as Terry left, and Paul leaned down to retrieve me. I hated them. I had realized that I would be stuck, that they didn’t care. He picked me up. I still do not know how exactly I did it. The build-up of rage had been going for years, probably more. In a single second, all of that energy was released. Paul was in the doorway of the shed, when his head snapped back violently, and he fell to the floor with a thud. Terry must have heard it, and he turned, still smiling. His face instantly contorted into a face of horror. Even from several feet away, Paul’s death was obvious. His neck was angled awkwardly, his back bent over itself. His eyes were open, gazing vacantly at the ground. His mouth was open slightly, a small pool of saliva dribbling onto the ground. Paul’s body was dead, but a small part of him survived. He wished he was dead, but he wasn’t. I knew his fate, and he knew mine the second I killed him. He was now me. His mind was transported into another spoon, somewhere in the world. There was a weak, extremely weak, telepathic connection. I could see, and smell, and hear what he could see, smell and hear. I think he was somewhere in a kitchen. I took his knowledge as well. I would force him to kill. If anyone touched him, they would die. If anyone touched me, they would die. Humanity had left me to rot in a shed for years; I would have my revenge. Terry panicked, and ran, as he retrieved his phone, and hastily began dialing 999. It took ten minutes, and I was stuck in Paul’s cold, dead hand for all of it. It was better than the shed, at least. It was summer, and I wasn’t in the shade. Sure, British summers were pretty shitty, but it was at least warm. That was the first - and only - time I was in the sun. I managed to get a good look at the house. The windows were boarded up, and parts had completely collapsed. Nettles and grass grew everywhere; the house had clearly been abandoned some time ago. Sirens loomed closer. Eventually, the paramedics arrived. They walked around the house; there were no fence to stop them. They all wore high visibility jackets, and carried a stretcher between them. Terry was nowhere to be seen. They all bent down, and laid the stretcher next to Paul's dead body. Two of them lifted Paul- and myself- up onto the stretcher. One of them must have noticed me. Rigor Mortis had not yet set in; he attempted to remove me from Paul's grasp. I was ready, but he wasn't. He let out a scream, and collapsed to the floor. One of the medics, who was standing the closest to him, spoke. "Shit, Ryan, you ok?" she asked, walking slightly closer. Ryan just let out another scream. "Oh Christ." His back was bent at awkward angles, and blood was pouring out of his mouth, while he continued to scream. "Shit, Dave, Steve, get the spine board." Steve and Dave exited, running. ------ It was an hour later, when I learnt, much to my disappointment, that Ryan had survived. However, Paul had managed to kill two more people. Two more people who could join my ranks. The police arrived shortly afterwards. There were eight of them, five men, three women. They took Terry, Ryan, Steve, Dave, and the female paramedic whose name I had never learnt away for questioning. They all inspected the area. When Ryan broke his back, I had landed nearby in the grass. Three figures approached. They must of had realized what I was capable of, as they edged slowly towards me. I noticed one of them, the tallest, had a pair of tongs in her hands. "Alright. There it is. Benny, you got the safe?" asked the one whose hands were empty. Benny acknowledged him silently by nodding his head and holding out a small, cubical metal box. "Good. Amanda, you ready?" "Yeah. Let's just do this." She bent her knees slightly, and gripped me with the tongs, before dropping me into the box. Benny closed the lid on it instantly, and I was left in darkness. When the darkness finally ended, I was in a small glass display case. Ten faces watched me, from outside the glass. All peering in, all desperate to know what I was. I would show them. All of them. If they want to know what it's like to be me, I'll let them. I've picked up the occasional piece of information from the Class-D they send me. They're throwing fuel on the bonfire, and I'm all too happy to spread. They recently found out there's more than one of me, but it was worth it. I absorbed the knowledge and thoughts of Doctor Wilford Anthony Hamilton. I know their secrets. And they know mine. I am [[[SCP-463]]]. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-04-05T19:16:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Bending Over Backwards - SCP Foundation	32	[ "scp-463", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	21922580	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bending-over-backwards
beneath-two-trees	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>In the age after the great Yeren fell on the Day of Flowers, in the days before the Flood, there was a man who lived in the West of the world, in the region between two rivers, and his name was Adam. He was chief of his tribe, and was considered by all to be a fair and just ruler, wise in word and admirable in deed. His tribe was barefoot and dust-bitten, herding their humble flocks between the ancient monolith-cities of the West. They were a hardy people, withstanding many trials and hardships, defeating mighty monsters and working glorious deeds in the name of the All-Mighty.</p> <p>When Adam was thirty-five years old, having reigned as chief of his tribe for fifteen years, he came upon a hidden valley, which was fertile and abundant with life. His people, tired of their wanderings, asked that they remain there in the valley and live then in peace and prosperity, and to this request Adam agreed.</p> <p>Within the valley, amongst the many animals and fruiting plants that lived there, two trees stood in the center of the garden. These trees were the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge, and they were watched by their twin guardians, the brother and sister who had stood guard since the time of the First Children of Yesod, many ages before even the Yeren.</p> <p>The guardian of the Tree of Knowledge was Nahash, the Serpent, who was later named the Adversary, who kept watch over its secret power. He spoke of all the wonders that might be accomplished with the Tree’s power, and would test man’s skill and spirit.</p> <p>The guardian of the Tree of Life was Hakhama, the Great Voice, who was later named Sophia, kept watch over its gifts. She taught the proper use of knowledge, and methods by which life might be extended through copper and bronze, and would speak often the directives of the All-Mighty.</p> <p>Here Adam now reigned as chief among the People of the Two Trees. He interpreted the edicts of the Voice for his people, and was gifted with the fruits of both, as was his wife, Hawwah. The two bore three sons, whose names were Hevel, Qayin, and Seth.</p> <p>Hevel became the protector and champion of the People of the Two Trees and carried with him the Tumbling Blade, which was both mercy and justice. He was a simple man who spoke little, but he was greatly skilled in combat and he defended the valley and the People from the beasts and demons that wandered the desert.</p> <p>Qayin his brother was gifted in magic and storytelling, and became a great shaman. He would one day become chief of the tribe, and was held in high regard, equal to his brother Hevel.</p> <p>Seth was often forgotten by the passers of stories, for he was a humble man and never rose to the prominence of his brothers. He turned his mind away from martial glory and magical prowess, focusing instead upon the natural philosophies and the service of the poor.</p> <p>Now the Serpent, who guarded the Tree of Knowledge and knew the secrets of deep magic, had looked to the East, and saw in those regions a brewing shadow. A new power was rising within an ancient kingdom, a power that swallowed all in its path. Old gods had been uncovered, and all their terrible rites now knew public practice. Most horrible of all, the Serpent saw the Scarlet King rising from the depths of the Abyss, rising to consume all of creation. The Serpent saw this, and, frightened at how the All-Mighty could permit such a thing to exist, then acted of his own will. He wished to strike first, to cut down the shadow of the Daevas before it could spread too far, to cut off the reaching hands of the Scarlet King before they could spread their foul influence further.</p> <p>The Serpent approached Hawwah, for she was wiser than her husband, and spoke to her of the dangers to the east, and of the greatest gifts of the Tree of Knowledge that might be used against the Daevas. But she refused the gifts, for she could see the cost that would come of it.</p> <p>The Serpent spoke then to Qayin, warning him of the shadow in the east and revealing the secret knowledge to him, teaching him the most powerful magics and potent spells. He was to lead the march against the shadow in the east.</p> <p>This knowledge proved to be too great a burden for Qayin to bear: in truth, it would be too great a burden for many of the gods. Qayin’s mind frayed under the strain of his hidden knowledge, and he lost that which he had once possessed, the eyes of a child and an uncovered spirit. He became withdrawn, eating little and sleeping less, and was filled with despair at the torment he now knew. His brother Hevel, at the urging of their mother Hawwah, spoke to him on this. An argument broke out over innocent words, rising in intensity until, in a fit of rage, Qayin struck down his brother Hevel with a stone.</p> <p>Adam could not bear to see his second son killed. Qayin was banished from the valley, cursed, and left to wander in the desert.</p> <p>Hevel’s spirit returned to his body after five days, for in those days the perilous Ways between the lands of the living and the lands of the dead could still be walked by the heroes of men. But his return was not met with rejoicing; he remained distant from his family and friends, and was of dark demeanor. The entire People, seeing that their future chief banished and their champion now trapped by despair, and hearing rumors to the east of the Daevas growing ever stronger and reaching ever further west, cried out in pain.</p> <p>When the shadow of the Daevas could no longer be ignored, Hevel took up his sword, and went east. There he fought the Daevas for three and thirty years, until he was heard of no more. Seth too made actions of his own, building mighty bulwarks and defenses around the valley out of Hahkama’s copper servants, and raising from the People an army to defend their home.</p> <p>Years passed, and news of a great army from the east emerged, a final army, sent out to conquer the entire west, and at its head was the Butcher, Ab-Leshal, fiercest of the Daevite generals, endowed with frightening strength and terrifying sorceries. Many of the People fled, scattering themselves to the wind and the mercy of the outside,</p> <p>Qayin, hearing of the doom that was to come to the People, returned to his home, and was met there by the Butcher. Here, Qayin saw with horror that Ab-Leshal was in truth his brother Hevel, who in vanity had sworn himself to the dark gods of the Daevas and drunk deep of their black magics. Qayin once more took up a stone to slay his brother, and for this Ab-Leshal tore off his arms, first the right, and then the left.</p> <p>Ab-Leshal then set upon the valley and the People with his legions and sorceries and war-beasts, and all the might of the Daevas was shown. The People were slaughtered, even the elder Adam and Hawwah. Hakhana, the Voice Who Spoke For God, was shattered, her body broken and looted. The Tree of Life stolen away, and the Tree of Knowledge set to flame. Nahash the Serpent fled, first to the space-tower at Babel, and later on to the Library, where he remained in penance for his part in these things. The garden in the desert was reduced to ash, and those who were not killed were placed in chains, led back to the slave pits of the Daevas.</p> <p>Seth, forgotten by all, remained, protected by the last of his shattered defenses, and watched the ashes cool. He saw ahead the destruction of the world, and the victory of the Scarlet King, looming as if clouds on the horizon. And he was greatly afraid.</p> <p>Seth prayed for hope, and he was answered. He was shown the path the future would take. There was to be a Flood, until such a time when the Scarlet King might truly be destroyed. A period of safety within Yesod, where magic was hidden, and the King was trapped in his hellish realms. The war would be fought in secret, until such secrecy was no longer needed.</p> <p>By the instructions set before him, Seth gathered thirty-six men and women to him, and established of them an order, forever hidden. In absolute humility would they serve the world, passing their mantles from one generation to the next in secret, unknown even to themselves, until the end of all things. They would be the ones to set the world right.</p> <p>The Thirty-Six scattered to distant nations, and there they waited, as doom came to Daevon in the east.</p> <p>Ab-Leshal had returned in triumph, but it was not to last. That part of him which was Hevel, who had played in the shadow of the Trees, who had loved his brothers and protected the People, still lived in his blackened soul, and this drove him mad. He struck back against the Daevas whom had enslaved him, and with rage and fury cut down their idols, and slaughtered their priest-kings, and brought ruin to their city. The god Moloch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame, stood to face Hevel-Ab-Leshal, and he too was defeated, rendered a sickly shade of his own power. Elsewhere, the subjugated peoples of the world, who saw the end that was at hand, struck back at the Daevas, to sow the world with Daevite blood.</p> <p>Hevel, son of Adam, who had cast down the gods of Daevon, raised his voice in challenge to the Scarlet King.</p> <p>And the Scarlet King answered him.</p> <p>Hevel, son of Adam, took up his sword, and the floodgates of the sky opened up with a Flood that would wipe time itself clean.</p> <p>And in doing so, the All-Mighty called upon the world, for the first time since the Word was spoken.</p> <p>And the world was called upon to <em>witness</em>.</p> <p>This is the history of mankind, fourth and final child-race of Earth, from the Finding of the Two Trees to the Flood.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/beneath-two-trees">Beneath Two Trees</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/beneath-two-trees">https://scpwiki.com/beneath-two-trees</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] In the age after the great Yeren fell on the Day of Flowers, in the days before the Flood, there was a man who lived in the West of the world, in the region between two rivers, and his name was Adam. He was chief of his tribe, and was considered by all to be a fair and just ruler, wise in word and admirable in deed. His tribe was barefoot and dust-bitten, herding their humble flocks between the ancient monolith-cities of the West. They were a hardy people, withstanding many trials and hardships, defeating mighty monsters and working glorious deeds in the name of the All-Mighty. When Adam was thirty-five years old, having reigned as chief of his tribe for fifteen years, he came upon a hidden valley, which was fertile and abundant with life. His people, tired of their wanderings, asked that they remain there in the valley and live then in peace and prosperity, and to this request Adam agreed. Within the valley, amongst the many animals and fruiting plants that lived there, two trees stood in the center of the garden. These trees were the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge, and they were watched by their twin guardians, the brother and sister who had stood guard since the time of the First Children of Yesod, many ages before even the Yeren. The guardian of the Tree of Knowledge was Nahash, the Serpent, who was later named the Adversary, who kept watch over its secret power. He spoke of all the wonders that might be accomplished with the Tree’s power, and would test man’s skill and spirit. The guardian of the Tree of Life was Hakhama, the Great Voice, who was later named Sophia, kept watch over its gifts. She taught the proper use of knowledge, and methods by which life might be extended through copper and bronze, and would speak often the directives of the All-Mighty. Here Adam now reigned as chief among the People of the Two Trees. He interpreted the edicts of the Voice for his people, and was gifted with the fruits of both, as was his wife, Hawwah. The two bore three sons, whose names were Hevel, Qayin, and Seth. Hevel became the protector and champion of the People of the Two Trees and carried with him the Tumbling Blade, which was both mercy and justice. He was a simple man who spoke little, but he was greatly skilled in combat and he defended the valley and the People from the beasts and demons that wandered the desert. Qayin his brother was gifted in magic and storytelling, and became a great shaman. He would one day become chief of the tribe, and was held in high regard, equal to his brother Hevel. Seth was often forgotten by the passers of stories, for he was a humble man and never rose to the prominence of his brothers. He turned his mind away from martial glory and magical prowess, focusing instead upon the natural philosophies and the service of the poor. Now the Serpent, who guarded the Tree of Knowledge and knew the secrets of deep magic, had looked to the East, and saw in those regions a brewing shadow. A new power was rising within an ancient kingdom, a power that swallowed all in its path. Old gods had been uncovered, and all their terrible rites now knew public practice. Most horrible of all, the Serpent saw the Scarlet King rising from the depths of the Abyss, rising to consume all of creation. The Serpent saw this, and, frightened at how the All-Mighty could permit such a thing to exist, then acted of his own will. He wished to strike first, to cut down the shadow of the Daevas before it could spread too far, to cut off the reaching hands of the Scarlet King before they could spread their foul influence further. The Serpent approached Hawwah, for she was wiser than her husband, and spoke to her of the dangers to the east, and of the greatest gifts of the Tree of Knowledge that might be used against the Daevas. But she refused the gifts, for she could see the cost that would come of it. The Serpent spoke then to Qayin, warning him of the shadow in the east and revealing the secret knowledge to him, teaching him the most powerful magics and potent spells. He was to lead the march against the shadow in the east. This knowledge proved to be too great a burden for Qayin to bear: in truth, it would be too great a burden for many of the gods. Qayin’s mind frayed under the strain of his hidden knowledge, and he lost that which he had once possessed, the eyes of a child and an uncovered spirit. He became withdrawn, eating little and sleeping less, and was filled with despair at the torment he now knew. His brother Hevel, at the urging of their mother Hawwah, spoke to him on this. An argument broke out over innocent words, rising in intensity until, in a fit of rage, Qayin struck down his brother Hevel with a stone. Adam could not bear to see his second son killed. Qayin was banished from the valley, cursed, and left to wander in the desert. Hevel’s spirit returned to his body after five days, for in those days the perilous Ways between the lands of the living and the lands of the dead could still be walked by the heroes of men. But his return was not met with rejoicing; he remained distant from his family and friends, and was of dark demeanor. The entire People, seeing that their future chief banished and their champion now trapped by despair, and hearing rumors to the east of the Daevas growing ever stronger and reaching ever further west, cried out in pain. When the shadow of the Daevas could no longer be ignored, Hevel took up his sword, and went east. There he fought the Daevas for three and thirty years, until he was heard of no more. Seth too made actions of his own, building mighty bulwarks and defenses around the valley out of Hahkama’s copper servants, and raising from the People an army to defend their home. Years passed, and news of a great army from the east emerged, a final army, sent out to conquer the entire west, and at its head was the Butcher, Ab-Leshal, fiercest of the Daevite generals, endowed with frightening strength and terrifying sorceries. Many of the People fled, scattering themselves to the wind and the mercy of the outside, Qayin, hearing of the doom that was to come to the People, returned to his home, and was met there by the Butcher. Here, Qayin saw with horror that Ab-Leshal was in truth his brother Hevel, who in vanity had sworn himself to the dark gods of the Daevas and drunk deep of their black magics. Qayin once more took up a stone to slay his brother, and for this Ab-Leshal tore off his arms, first the right, and then the left. Ab-Leshal then set upon the valley and the People with his legions and sorceries and war-beasts, and all the might of the Daevas was shown. The People were slaughtered, even the elder Adam and Hawwah. Hakhana, the Voice Who Spoke For God, was shattered, her body broken and looted. The Tree of Life stolen away, and the Tree of Knowledge set to flame. Nahash the Serpent fled, first to the space-tower at Babel, and later on to the Library, where he remained in penance for his part in these things. The garden in the desert was reduced to ash, and those who were not killed were placed in chains, led back to the slave pits of the Daevas. Seth, forgotten by all, remained, protected by the last of his shattered defenses, and watched the ashes cool. He saw ahead the destruction of the world, and the victory of the Scarlet King, looming as if clouds on the horizon. And he was greatly afraid. Seth prayed for hope, and he was answered. He was shown the path the future would take. There was to be a Flood, until such a time when the Scarlet King might truly be destroyed. A period of safety within Yesod, where magic was hidden, and the King was trapped in his hellish realms. The war would be fought in secret, until such secrecy was no longer needed. By the instructions set before him, Seth gathered thirty-six men and women to him, and established of them an order, forever hidden. In absolute humility would they serve the world, passing their mantles from one generation to the next in secret, unknown even to themselves, until the end of all things. They would be the ones to set the world right. The Thirty-Six scattered to distant nations, and there they waited, as doom came to Daevon in the east. Ab-Leshal had returned in triumph, but it was not to last. That part of him which was Hevel, who had played in the shadow of the Trees, who had loved his brothers and protected the People, still lived in his blackened soul, and this drove him mad. He struck back against the Daevas whom had enslaved him, and with rage and fury cut down their idols, and slaughtered their priest-kings, and brought ruin to their city. The god Moloch, the Horned King Crowned in Shame, stood to face Hevel-Ab-Leshal, and he too was defeated, rendered a sickly shade of his own power. Elsewhere, the subjugated peoples of the world, who saw the end that was at hand, struck back at the Daevas, to sow the world with Daevite blood. Hevel, son of Adam, who had cast down the gods of Daevon, raised his voice in challenge to the Scarlet King. And the Scarlet King answered him. Hevel, son of Adam, took up his sword, and the floodgates of the sky opened up with a Flood that would wipe time itself clean. And in doing so, the All-Mighty called upon the world, for the first time since the Word was spoken. And the world was called upon to //witness//. This is the history of mankind, fourth and final child-race of Earth, from the Finding of the Two Trees to the Flood. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-06-19T01:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "cain", "children-of-the-night", "daevite", "mythological", "scarlet-king", "tale" ]	Beneath Two Trees - SCP Foundation	222	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "verse-of-an-endless-song", "archived:tales-by-title", "cotsk-hub", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "daevite-hub", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	22700367	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/beneath-two-trees
best-as-it-gets	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Amcf/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <ul class="creditRate"> <li class="rateBox folded"> <div class="rate-box-with-credit-button"> <div class="creditButton foldable-list-container"> <p><a href="javascript:;"></a></p> </div> </div> <div id="u-credit-view"> <div class="fader foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">close</a></div> <div class="modalcontainer"> <div class="modalbox"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <h2><span>Info</span></h2> </div> <hr/> <div class="close-credits foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">X</a></div> <div class="credit first"> <p><strong>Manna Charitable Foundation</strong> Best as it Gets</p> <p><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Start here</a></p> <p><strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/andarielhalo" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1750255); return false;"><img alt="AndarielHalo" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1750255&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188579" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1750255)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/andarielhalo" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1750255); return false;">AndarielHalo</a></span></p> <p>Eat more of my SCPs. <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/andariel-halo-file" target="_blank">Eat them all.</a></p> <p>Also please eat some of these</p> <ul> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/anabasis-hub">Anabasis Hub</a></strong> Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Manna Charitable Foundation 2000</a></strong> The sequel to the above, collaborationed with <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dr-reach" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1779895); return false;"><img alt="Dr Reach" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1779895&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188579" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1779895)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dr-reach" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1779895); return false;">Dr Reach</a></span></li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-stuff-industry-hub">The Stuff Industry</a></strong> What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/week-1-looking-for-stuff">When MCF and Stuff happen</a></strong> A fun story of incompetence</li> </ul> </div> <hr/> </div> </div> </div> </li> </ul> <p>The way it came out was miraculous. Last month it was an empty lot, with MCF operatives handing out food and clean water and offering medical services. The operatives were still there, working out of a fully-functioning concrete building. Lights, air conditioning, everything working perfectly. A fully built hospital in the middle of a Somali refugee camp should have been a beacon for masses of humanity, writhing and shuffling and pushing one another as they sought desperately needed aid. A beacon for hope and humanity.</p> <p><em>So why was it fucking empty?</em></p> <p>Dodger held her nose up, trying to relax herself before her throat closed up and she suffocated. That wasn't fair to say it was empty… there were plenty of people here, getting checkups and waiting in lines, and several hospital beds were occupied. There were just more people across the street, gathering around the man shouting from the back of a run-down technical with its tires freshly stripped off.</p> <p>"What's going on out there?" One of the doctors asked another.</p> <p>"Rabblerousers have got people convinced the place is infected with something. Saying it's demonic, or something."</p> <p>"Demonic? I thought they were Muslim."</p> <p>"Islam has demons in it, too."</p> <p>"Oh."</p> <p>Dodger went out the door, met outside by a local guard as she stormed across the dirt road towards the crowd. She knew right away it was a crock of shit—the man on the back of the truck was trying and failing to be subtle as he motioned to others to start corralling people to his left. He was trying to get them to block her way towards him.</p> <p>"Hey," She called out to him, turning sideways so as not to elbow a woman in the face, "Hey! Hey!"</p> <p>She avoided someone coming her way, then noticed a man push someone else in her path. The crowd started to notice her, and turned her way.</p> <p>"What do <em>you</em> want?" A man nearby yelled in her ear, grabbing her by the shoulder, "Who do you think you are, some kind of army soldier? Fucking marine?"</p> <p>Dodger was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, casual, along with a bandoleer and a belt. She thought she looked more like a police officer when she'd dressed. Hadn't realized Somalians here were unlikely to have experienced civilian police before.</p> <p>"Don't touch me. Who are you? You're not in charge around here, so fuck off."</p> <p>The man took that rather well, she thought, as he stepped aside and the crowd started giving her room. She thought so, but then the man on the truck was looking right down at her, addressing her directly in English.</p> <p>"You, American, what do you say? How is it you have a hospital building built and supplied so fast? Where was construction? Who was working here? What poison are you putting in the medicine?"</p> <p>Dodger kept her hands to her sides, clearly visible. Despite her look she didn't have a gun. MCF Mission members weren't allowed guns either. Some of the people in the crowd had guns. The speaker's words reverberated around in Somali, and another language or two she didn't recognize. Some voices came out in hostile response. She hadn't noticed it before, but the crowd wasn't entirely against her. An enclave of about a dozen men were shouting down the man. Some were bracing for a fight with the rest of the crowd.</p> <p>"It's called 'prefabricated shelter'—we build it elsewhere, pack it up in pieces, then bring it here and put it back together. What do <em>you</em> say? Why are you stirring shit up here?"</p> <p>The man began hounding the crowd again, while the man who had tried to touch her now came up in front of her again, "I suggest you go back inside, slut."</p> <p>She wasn't even paying attention to him. She had had visions in her head — heroic and overblown, perhaps — of her standing up onto the back of the truck, shouting down this rabble-rouser, espousing the new hospital as safe, and exposing him as… what?</p> <p>"You really want to see?" The man suddenly shouted towards her, then back to the crowd, "She really wants to see!" The crowd began to shout louder, angrier. She couldn't even begin to imagine what these people had gotten into their minds that they were turning down food and drink and medical supplies just to stand around and be angry about something else yet again. Suddenly she realized something odd about the man… his teeth…</p> <p>"Hey," She called out again to him.</p> <p>He turned to her, leaning in close like a performer on a stage, "You will see, American. Just wait."</p> <p>"Where are you from? What is your clan?" She asked in response. His teeth… they weren't all perfect and white, but the more he spoke, the more she saw what was missing — no implants, no fillings, no off-colors. If anything, his molars were whiter than the rest of his teeth.</p> <p>Someone was getting her words across to the crowd, and some people were starting to take notice of her.</p> <p>"What's your clan, fucker? Where are you from?"</p> <p>Someone else had brought it up in Somali, and some people in the crowd were starting to cry out in turn, demanding to know the man's allegiance. <em>Should be just like Mexico…</em> Dodger thought. This area was largely one clan, so that severely limited the pick of lies this actor on the truck had to deliver. It would shut him up for a while, at the least.</p> <p>A young man in the crowd was gesticulating at the man. The side opposing the speaker had grown enough in the few minutes that the speaker couldn't be heard anymore over the tumult.</p> <p>Dodger made her way over towards him, when shots began to ring out. People started to scream, and she brought her arms up and dropped into a crouch. She quickly rose, heading for the derelict pickup truck. She started sucking in deep breaths, feeling her throat start to clench on her again. She couldn't concentrate any longer on finding the man— by the time she reached the truck, he was gone. She could barely see straight. Every breath she took was somehow just not enough to sate her.</p> <p>"Listen to me," A voice called out near her. Her eyes darted about, and she sat upright, as hands came down on her, holding her still.</p> <p>"Listen!" It was the young man, "Were you shot?"</p> <p>She blinked, and looked down at herself. Mud caked her pants, and someone had tried to steal something from her bandoleer. Otherwise, she didn't see anything to indicate she was hurt.</p> <p>"It's fine— I'm fine!" She swatted away more hands that were coming towards her belt.</p> <p>"You should not have come out, you only made things worse."</p> <p>She furrowed her brow at him, "I just asked that guy a question!"</p> <p>"You nearly got yourself hurt. Men were looking at you, some as if you were a fine cut of meat."</p> <p>"Oh yeah?" She'd never had any trouble with the locals before, none of them haranguing her or leering at her. Why now?</p> <p>"You are with the Charitable Foundation, yes? My name is Yasir. Come with me, you must see."</p> <p>Dodger got up, her breathing still strained, but at least she wasn't at risk of being trampled or shot. She kept struggling to keep her breathing steady as Yasir and his companions began leading her away.</p> <p>"I know what the Manna Charitable Foundation has been doing here, this is not my worry. No problem, you understand? People look for any excuse to demonize a foreign operation here, especially with whites like you. Most people don't care. You come, you give food, medicine, they will take it. Something has happened now, people are losing trust in you."</p> <p>"I noticed," She kept her hand over her face, hiding her nose as she pressed it up, expanding her nostrils to ease her breathing.</p> <p>Before she could ask what, they stopped. They had brought her beside a large shack, with a strip of chicken wire hastily duct-taped over a corner where the shack met the wall of the shack beside it. One of the men approached, waiting for Yasir's nod, before peeling off the tape and lifting the wire up.</p> <p>Dodger had been watching him, waiting for an explanation. The explanation shot out from under the chicken wire. It was a cat… or what should have been a cat. It was on a leash and collar, and gaping at her with big, almost sad eyes. Its ears were gone, and it had chunks of fur missing from its body. It was also missing a back leg.</p> <p>"So… what? It's a feral cat." She noticed just as she finished speaking, and just as the man tugged on the cat's leash, turning it over to show its left side. Its ribs were exposed, and what she had thought to be dirt or mud was actually blood caked in its fur as the cat's organs threatened to slide out from the gaping hole in its side. The cat seemed not to notice. It was purring affectionately, trying to come closer to her.</p> <p>"So… what? It's a mutilated cat… what's this—"</p> <p>"This is not the only one. Days ago animals begin to appear in the village. Big ones, you understand? Not only dogs and cats, but jackals, wildcats, even monkeys. We hear one village twelve kilometers away, a lion appears, but the lion does not attack anyone. You know what the lion did? It did what all the animals that appear here did. You know what that is?"</p> <p>Dodger looked at the cat again. She couldn't put together in her head what that thing could have done to end up with its guts hanging out and still living… and happy, "Am I supposed to know?"</p> <p>Yasir sighed, pressing his lips together firmly, "If you don't know, then this is a problem."</p> <p>"What did the lion do? What are all the animals doing?"</p> <p>"Not all the animals, only some," Yasir clarified, and started shoving the mangled cat back under the chicken wire. It didn't resist, even trying to rub against his foot as he pushed it away, "The animals come into the village, they lay down and show us their bellies. Then they do not move. They will stay laying until someone comes by and cuts them. They will let us cut into their bellies. They are happy for us to cut their bellies open. They want us to cut them all over, to cut off pieces of them."</p> <p>Yasir said something to the man nearest the cage, and he lifted it again, pulling the cat out by its collar. It didn't protest, but mewled lazily as he turned it over onto its back, showing Dodger its hind leg. The other was half gone, showing dried bone at the end.</p> <p>"This leg, here," Yasir pointed to the stump, "We cut it off completely. Completely, you understand? Yesterday, we find this," Again indicating the leg.</p> <p>"Meaning its leg is growing back?" Dodger offered. She didn't think they would be lying. The cat should've been dead anyway with the gaping hole in its body.</p> <p>Yasir nodded, "It is growing back. Look here," He indicated a hairless patch of skin on the cat's stomach, "Come closer, look."</p> <p>Dodger crouched down to get a better look, as the man beside Yasir crouched beside her, pulling a knife out and starting to cut into the cat. It didn't stop its affectionate purrs. Fresh blood poured out of the wound, staining its already grimy fur.</p> <p>"See this, in here?" Yasir pointed as the man opened up the skin, ripping it open further to expose more bloody flesh. Dodger had a strong stomach for this sort of thing, but the way the cat just lay there purring made her want to cry. It was beyond disturbing.</p> <p>"What am I looking for?" She asked wearily.</p> <p>The man kept pressing his fingers in deeper, wiggling them as if stirring a pot of warm soup. Then he pulled out a hunk of flesh, cut into a cube.</p> <p>"That piece, we leave behind two days ago. Yesterday, the cat is healed up again. So we cut it open again, and find that piece still there."</p> <p>And now they found it a third time, Dodger realized. She got up, not able to stomach the cat's cheerful purring anymore, before turning to him, "What's this have to do with the MCF?"</p> <p>"I don't know. Only thing I know is your hospital is finished last week. Next day, these animals appear. Starting here. Then they appear in villages two kilometer away, three, then ten. All starting here."</p> <hr/> <p>Three hours after waking, her body still stiff from that awkward seated position she'd taken, Priss still felt drowsy. Her vision blurred every time she blinked, and she had to move slowly, lest a sudden movement send stabs of pain through her head.</p> <p>At least the sight was pleasant enough. An underground lake, not yet filled, looking like a brand new luxury swimming pool. From their vantage point right over the reservoir, they could take it all in— the Rabbi and Opal, giddy and chittering about the artificial cavern of concrete they had managed to pull off; Westinghouse, asking things like weight distribution, pillars, and insulation; and herself, resisting the urge to just sit down where she stood and staring vacantly at the pristine white ceiling until she was comfortable.</p> <p>She looked down at the dufflebag in her hand. She'd almost forgotten about the Anabasis. Her arm had gone numb from its weight, and prickling sensation had abruptly returned.</p> <p>The bowl-like reservoir was hollow and about thirteen meters at its deepest. Ladders connected to a high platform positioned directly over the center of the bowl. Niches in the bowl would open up as it filled with water, covered with metal gates. When the reservoir started overflowing, the niches would open, and clean and dirty water would flow out and in to the reservoir, respectively. The niches were open, with Torres' volunteers adjusting and checking the piping, making sure the Vestan sewage system that drained from the camp had fused correctly. By tomorrow or the next day, the Hippo would be brought in, and then she would make it rain.</p> <p>"What I don't get — I mean, Rabbi, don't get me wrong," Opal's voice came in over the low murmuring of the group, "it's impressive and all that… but why do we need this whole place? The Vestan seems to be a perfectly good filter system, and the camp uses Vestan-grown sewage and drains. There's no risk of contagion from the Sour."</p> <p>"Well, we planned this place when we got here, and we didn't know that at the time. Besides, I've been running tests and we might have a bigger issue… there's a chance that some of the piping is lead."</p> <p>Priss grinned, and started to laugh to herself. It was inappropriate, but she couldn't help herself.</p> <p>"What?" Frank ignored Priscilla, staring intently at Jacob.</p> <p>"The Vestan piping. We thought it would be mostly plastic, but… it wasn't. There's lead pipes down there. And there's more."</p> <p>Frank rubbed his eyes as Opal crossed her arms, looking about to explode, "We've been poisoning our beneficiaries, Jacob? Tell me we haven't."</p> <p>"It's not a problem!" Jacob looked frustrated, as if he hadn't just said it was a problem, "We're replacing the outgoing pipes. Incoming shouldn't be a problem, since the Hippo should be able to handle any pollutants. Also, related issue…"</p> <p>"More?" Frank put in.</p> <p>"You know how like, sometimes when you make fruit punch, you don't fully liquefy the fruit, and some of it collects at the bottom? There might be — well, there <em>is</em> — some fungi that isn't growing properly, and gets left behind in the pipes. It won't be an issue as we start cleaning out the pipes."</p> <p>Frank said nothing. Opal pressed her palms into her eyes and sighed loudly, "Last thing we need is people sucking down crap-filled water when we promised them clean and pure, then starting to… I don't know… sprout extra arms and legs or grow pipes in their bellies!"</p> <p>"I just said it's not an issue —!"</p> <p>"<em>Your exact words were 'Also, related issue'!</em>" Opal nearly shrieked.</p> <p>"Well I was exaggerating! It's an issue <em>now</em> but it won't be an issue by tomorrow. Besides, it's not my fault. We might not have these same issues if we used it entirely as intended."</p> <p>Frank glanced up, "Unexpected effect from our manipulating it?"</p> <p>Jacob shrugged, "I don't know. Maybe."</p> <p>Frank shrugged, mirroring Jacob's gesture in a condescending fashion, "And we didn't bother to test this out before-hand. No big deal. After all, it's just Somalians. Mongrels, as the Nazis would say."</p> <p><em>Subhuman mongrel.</em></p> <p>Jacob went rabid, "Don't you start pulling that Godwin shit on me! You know that's not even <em>close</em> to what we'd intended! If we had more time we'd be able to iron these things out but we don't. We just don't!"</p> <p>Priss smirked — by now, she'd given up and was sitting atop the Anabasis, rocking gently back and forth and at a state of ease, "You know… back home, the Party for the Supremacy of Western Civilization would have tested all of this beforehand on some 'subhuman mongrels' as you put it. If the locals got uppity… well, that depended on the administrator. Best-case scenario, the locals would get a nice lecture about all the benefits coming their way, and the hope for the future. Most of the time, it was just curfews, crackdowns, and cracking heads if anyone protested too loudly. It was inhuman, but… when you've got thousands of people already living in such squalor, on the brink of death every day, it was a noble sacrifice."</p> <p>The others stared at her like she was a monster. She regretted even speaking up. She looked away, still rocking, "My sister called herself a 'subhuman mongrel'. She considered herself one of them."</p> <p>Opal blinked. Then her expression slowly turned into a frown, then a cold grimace. She turned to Frank.</p> <p>"I'm not keen on world history, Frankie. Please, help me here. There has never been a Party for the Supremacy of Western Civilization, right?"</p> <p>"Opal-"</p> <p>"Never mind. I just don't care. You deal with her," she said, coldness permeating her every word. "You deal with her, you are responsible for her, whatever messes this one makes, it's on you."</p> <p>Opal turned for the ladder and started to climb it. Jacob and Frank stared back at Priss; the 'Rabbi' seemed disgusted, Frank was just tired. For a long while, their expressions didn't change.</p> <p>She hadn't saved herself. <em>That would've been funny someplace else. But not here. You don't belong here.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Just as Frank had sat down and started to settle in for the night, trouble came.</p> <p>"Oy prick!" Dodger called before she peeked into the cube, auburn hair looking black, as if she'd been caught in a thunderstorm.</p> <p>Frank eased back in his seat and crossed his arms, "Late night visits between Mission group members are typically frowned upon."</p> <p>The woman shook her head, smirking despite her words, "Ew, Frank. Ew. I'd think your standards would be much higher than that."</p> <p>"And so modest," He smirked in turn. Dodger was anything but. She didn't bother with makeup when out in the field, but she still stuck out horribly, looking either too young to be in her position, or too pretty to be someone expected to get themselves dirty with actual work.</p> <p>She produced a wad of paper, and slipped into the cube. She was actually dirty for once—shirt stained and pants smeared in dust, "Report from today. I forwarded a copy to Torres first. His team's taking a look at it."</p> <p>"More shit?"</p> <p>She came closer, and dropped it into his lap, "You take this nice pile of shit, and you eat it. Then you go to bed with a nice smile, and wait for another in the morning."</p> <p>"Wonderful," Frank held the report up, thumbing through it, knowing just what to look for and how to skim past the inane bullshit and prose Dodger tended to load in. As if her reports were going to be published as great literary works.</p> <p>"Wait, what is this? How do we know these animals are being affected by the Vesta donation?"</p> <p>"We don't. But think about it. The animals are regenerating body parts from seemingly nothing… Vestan fungus grows into stuff we design it to."</p> <p>Frank groaned and put the report down, "God help us…"</p> <p>Dodger pursed her lips and crossed her arms, "Smile. Savor the shit. Remember how sweet it tastes compared to the shit we're likely to have to eat tomorrow."</p> <p>"Why didn't we know of this?"</p> <p>She shrugged, irritatingly calm about this situation, "None of my contacts knew, but then I don't have any ears among the town elders the way you all do. Why didn't the elders warn you?"</p> <p>Frank shook his head. <em>Political intrigues,</em> he guessed. "I'll have to warn Lindsberg and the rest."</p> <p>"Yeah," She was still calm, even smirking at him.</p> <p>"What's so goddamn funny?"</p> <p>"Smile, Frank. It can only get worse from here. Enjoy it while you can" She turned to leave, and leaned against the door again, "Savor the taste."</p> <p>"Ugh, just go."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/over-the-bonfire">Over the Bonfire</a> \| <a href="/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/land-of-plenty">Land of Plenty</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/best-as-it-gets">Best as it Gets</a>" by AndarielHalo, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/best-as-it-gets">https://scpwiki.com/best-as-it-gets</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:mcf">:scp-wiki:theme:mcf</a>]] [[include <a href="/info:start">info:start</a>]] Manna Charitable Foundation Best as it Gets [http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub Start here] Author: [[user AndarielHalo]] Eat more of my SCPs. [http://www.scp-wiki.net/andariel-halo-file Eat them all.] Also please eat some of these * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/anabasis-hub Anabasis Hub] Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub Manna Charitable Foundation 2000] The sequel to the above, collaborationed with [[user Dr-Reach]] [http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-stuff-industry-hub The Stuff Industry] What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff. * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/week-1-looking-for-stuff When MCF and Stuff happen] A fun story of incompetence [[include <a href="/info:end">info:end</a>]] The way it came out was miraculous. Last month it was an empty lot, with MCF operatives handing out food and clean water and offering medical services. The operatives were still there, working out of a fully-functioning concrete building. Lights, air conditioning, everything working perfectly. A fully built hospital in the middle of a Somali refugee camp should have been a beacon for masses of humanity, writhing and shuffling and pushing one another as they sought desperately needed aid. A beacon for hope and humanity. //So why was it fucking empty?// Dodger held her nose up, trying to relax herself before her throat closed up and she suffocated. That wasn't fair to say it was empty... there were plenty of people here, getting checkups and waiting in lines, and several hospital beds were occupied. There were just more people across the street, gathering around the man shouting from the back of a run-down technical with its tires freshly stripped off. "What's going on out there?" One of the doctors asked another. "Rabblerousers have got people convinced the place is infected with something. Saying it's demonic, or something." "Demonic? I thought they were Muslim." "Islam has demons in it, too." "Oh." Dodger went out the door, met outside by a local guard as she stormed across the dirt road towards the crowd. She knew right away it was a crock of shit--the man on the back of the truck was trying and failing to be subtle as he motioned to others to start corralling people to his left. He was trying to get them to block her way towards him. "Hey," She called out to him, turning sideways so as not to elbow a woman in the face, "Hey! Hey!" She avoided someone coming her way, then noticed a man push someone else in her path. The crowd started to notice her, and turned her way. "What do //you// want?" A man nearby yelled in her ear, grabbing her by the shoulder, "Who do you think you are, some kind of army soldier? Fucking marine?" Dodger was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, casual, along with a bandoleer and a belt. She thought she looked more like a police officer when she'd dressed. Hadn't realized Somalians here were unlikely to have experienced civilian police before. "Don't touch me. Who are you? You're not in charge around here, so fuck off." The man took that rather well, she thought, as he stepped aside and the crowd started giving her room. She thought so, but then the man on the truck was looking right down at her, addressing her directly in English. "You, American, what do you say? How is it you have a hospital building built and supplied so fast? Where was construction? Who was working here? What poison are you putting in the medicine?" Dodger kept her hands to her sides, clearly visible. Despite her look she didn't have a gun. MCF Mission members weren't allowed guns either. Some of the people in the crowd had guns. The speaker's words reverberated around in Somali, and another language or two she didn't recognize. Some voices came out in hostile response. She hadn't noticed it before, but the crowd wasn't entirely against her. An enclave of about a dozen men were shouting down the man. Some were bracing for a fight with the rest of the crowd. "It's called 'prefabricated shelter'--we build it elsewhere, pack it up in pieces, then bring it here and put it back together. What do //you// say? Why are you stirring shit up here?" The man began hounding the crowd again, while the man who had tried to touch her now came up in front of her again, "I suggest you go back inside, slut." She wasn't even paying attention to him. She had had visions in her head -- heroic and overblown, perhaps -- of her standing up onto the back of the truck, shouting down this rabble-rouser, espousing the new hospital as safe, and exposing him as... what? "You really want to see?" The man suddenly shouted towards her, then back to the crowd, "She really wants to see!" The crowd began to shout louder, angrier. She couldn't even begin to imagine what these people had gotten into their minds that they were turning down food and drink and medical supplies just to stand around and be angry about something else yet again. Suddenly she realized something odd about the man... his teeth... "Hey," She called out again to him. He turned to her, leaning in close like a performer on a stage, "You will see, American. Just wait." "Where are you from? What is your clan?" She asked in response. His teeth... they weren't all perfect and white, but the more he spoke, the more she saw what was missing -- no implants, no fillings, no off-colors. If anything, his molars were whiter than the rest of his teeth. Someone was getting her words across to the crowd, and some people were starting to take notice of her. "What's your clan, fucker? Where are you from?" Someone else had brought it up in Somali, and some people in the crowd were starting to cry out in turn, demanding to know the man's allegiance. //Should be just like Mexico...// Dodger thought. This area was largely one clan, so that severely limited the pick of lies this actor on the truck had to deliver. It would shut him up for a while, at the least. A young man in the crowd was gesticulating at the man. The side opposing the speaker had grown enough in the few minutes that the speaker couldn't be heard anymore over the tumult. Dodger made her way over towards him, when shots began to ring out. People started to scream, and she brought her arms up and dropped into a crouch. She quickly rose, heading for the derelict pickup truck. She started sucking in deep breaths, feeling her throat start to clench on her again. She couldn't concentrate any longer on finding the man-- by the time she reached the truck, he was gone. She could barely see straight. Every breath she took was somehow just not enough to sate her. "Listen to me," A voice called out near her. Her eyes darted about, and she sat upright, as hands came down on her, holding her still. "Listen!" It was the young man, "Were you shot?" She blinked, and looked down at herself. Mud caked her pants, and someone had tried to steal something from her bandoleer. Otherwise, she didn't see anything to indicate she was hurt. "It's fine-- I'm fine!" She swatted away more hands that were coming towards her belt. "You should not have come out, you only made things worse." She furrowed her brow at him, "I just asked that guy a question!" "You nearly got yourself hurt. Men were looking at you, some as if you were a fine cut of meat." "Oh yeah?" She'd never had any trouble with the locals before, none of them haranguing her or leering at her. Why now? "You are with the Charitable Foundation, yes? My name is Yasir. Come with me, you must see." Dodger got up, her breathing still strained, but at least she wasn't at risk of being trampled or shot. She kept struggling to keep her breathing steady as Yasir and his companions began leading her away. "I know what the Manna Charitable Foundation has been doing here, this is not my worry. No problem, you understand? People look for any excuse to demonize a foreign operation here, especially with whites like you. Most people don't care. You come, you give food, medicine, they will take it. Something has happened now, people are losing trust in you." "I noticed," She kept her hand over her face, hiding her nose as she pressed it up, expanding her nostrils to ease her breathing. Before she could ask what, they stopped. They had brought her beside a large shack, with a strip of chicken wire hastily duct-taped over a corner where the shack met the wall of the shack beside it. One of the men approached, waiting for Yasir's nod, before peeling off the tape and lifting the wire up. Dodger had been watching him, waiting for an explanation. The explanation shot out from under the chicken wire. It was a cat... or what should have been a cat. It was on a leash and collar, and gaping at her with big, almost sad eyes. Its ears were gone, and it had chunks of fur missing from its body. It was also missing a back leg. "So... what? It's a feral cat." She noticed just as she finished speaking, and just as the man tugged on the cat's leash, turning it over to show its left side. Its ribs were exposed, and what she had thought to be dirt or mud was actually blood caked in its fur as the cat's organs threatened to slide out from the gaping hole in its side. The cat seemed not to notice. It was purring affectionately, trying to come closer to her. "So... what? It's a mutilated cat... what's this--" "This is not the only one. Days ago animals begin to appear in the village. Big ones, you understand? Not only dogs and cats, but jackals, wildcats, even monkeys. We hear one village twelve kilometers away, a lion appears, but the lion does not attack anyone. You know what the lion did? It did what all the animals that appear here did. You know what that is?" Dodger looked at the cat again. She couldn't put together in her head what that thing could have done to end up with its guts hanging out and still living... and happy, "Am I supposed to know?" Yasir sighed, pressing his lips together firmly, "If you don't know, then this is a problem." "What did the lion do? What are all the animals doing?" "Not all the animals, only some," Yasir clarified, and started shoving the mangled cat back under the chicken wire. It didn't resist, even trying to rub against his foot as he pushed it away, "The animals come into the village, they lay down and show us their bellies. Then they do not move. They will stay laying until someone comes by and cuts them. They will let us cut into their bellies. They are happy for us to cut their bellies open. They want us to cut them all over, to cut off pieces of them." Yasir said something to the man nearest the cage, and he lifted it again, pulling the cat out by its collar. It didn't protest, but mewled lazily as he turned it over onto its back, showing Dodger its hind leg. The other was half gone, showing dried bone at the end. "This leg, here," Yasir pointed to the stump, "We cut it off completely. Completely, you understand? Yesterday, we find this," Again indicating the leg. "Meaning its leg is growing back?" Dodger offered. She didn't think they would be lying. The cat should've been dead anyway with the gaping hole in its body. Yasir nodded, "It is growing back. Look here," He indicated a hairless patch of skin on the cat's stomach, "Come closer, look." Dodger crouched down to get a better look, as the man beside Yasir crouched beside her, pulling a knife out and starting to cut into the cat. It didn't stop its affectionate purrs. Fresh blood poured out of the wound, staining its already grimy fur. "See this, in here?" Yasir pointed as the man opened up the skin, ripping it open further to expose more bloody flesh. Dodger had a strong stomach for this sort of thing, but the way the cat just lay there purring made her want to cry. It was beyond disturbing. "What am I looking for?" She asked wearily. The man kept pressing his fingers in deeper, wiggling them as if stirring a pot of warm soup. Then he pulled out a hunk of flesh, cut into a cube. "That piece, we leave behind two days ago. Yesterday, the cat is healed up again. So we cut it open again, and find that piece still there." And now they found it a third time, Dodger realized. She got up, not able to stomach the cat's cheerful purring anymore, before turning to him, "What's this have to do with the MCF?" "I don't know. Only thing I know is your hospital is finished last week. Next day, these animals appear. Starting here. Then they appear in villages two kilometer away, three, then ten. All starting here." ---- Three hours after waking, her body still stiff from that awkward seated position she'd taken, Priss still felt drowsy. Her vision blurred every time she blinked, and she had to move slowly, lest a sudden movement send stabs of pain through her head. At least the sight was pleasant enough. An underground lake, not yet filled, looking like a brand new luxury swimming pool. From their vantage point right over the reservoir, they could take it all in-- the Rabbi and Opal, giddy and chittering about the artificial cavern of concrete they had managed to pull off; Westinghouse, asking things like weight distribution, pillars, and insulation; and herself, resisting the urge to just sit down where she stood and staring vacantly at the pristine white ceiling until she was comfortable. She looked down at the dufflebag in her hand. She'd almost forgotten about the Anabasis. Her arm had gone numb from its weight, and prickling sensation had abruptly returned. The bowl-like reservoir was hollow and about thirteen meters at its deepest. Ladders connected to a high platform positioned directly over the center of the bowl. Niches in the bowl would open up as it filled with water, covered with metal gates. When the reservoir started overflowing, the niches would open, and clean and dirty water would flow out and in to the reservoir, respectively. The niches were open, with Torres' volunteers adjusting and checking the piping, making sure the Vestan sewage system that drained from the camp had fused correctly. By tomorrow or the next day, the Hippo would be brought in, and then she would make it rain. "What I don't get -- I mean, Rabbi, don't get me wrong," Opal's voice came in over the low murmuring of the group, "it's impressive and all that... but why do we need this whole place? The Vestan seems to be a perfectly good filter system, and the camp uses Vestan-grown sewage and drains. There's no risk of contagion from the Sour." "Well, we planned this place when we got here, and we didn't know that at the time. Besides, I've been running tests and we might have a bigger issue... there's a chance that some of the piping is lead." Priss grinned, and started to laugh to herself. It was inappropriate, but she couldn't help herself. "What?" Frank ignored Priscilla, staring intently at Jacob. "The Vestan piping. We thought it would be mostly plastic, but... it wasn't. There's lead pipes down there. And there's more." Frank rubbed his eyes as Opal crossed her arms, looking about to explode, "We've been poisoning our beneficiaries, Jacob? Tell me we haven't." "It's not a problem!" Jacob looked frustrated, as if he hadn't just said it was a problem, "We're replacing the outgoing pipes. Incoming shouldn't be a problem, since the Hippo should be able to handle any pollutants. Also, related issue..." "More?" Frank put in. "You know how like, sometimes when you make fruit punch, you don't fully liquefy the fruit, and some of it collects at the bottom? There might be -- well, there //is// -- some fungi that isn't growing properly, and gets left behind in the pipes. It won't be an issue as we start cleaning out the pipes." Frank said nothing. Opal pressed her palms into her eyes and sighed loudly, "Last thing we need is people sucking down crap-filled water when we promised them clean and pure, then starting to... I don't know... sprout extra arms and legs or grow pipes in their bellies!" "I just said it's not an issue --!" "//Your exact words were 'Also, related issue'!//" Opal nearly shrieked. "Well I was exaggerating! It's an issue //now// but it won't be an issue by tomorrow. Besides, it's not my fault. We might not have these same issues if we used it entirely as intended." Frank glanced up, "Unexpected effect from our manipulating it?" Jacob shrugged, "I don't know. Maybe." Frank shrugged, mirroring Jacob's gesture in a condescending fashion, "And we didn't bother to test this out before-hand. No big deal. After all, it's just Somalians. Mongrels, as the Nazis would say." //Subhuman mongrel.// Jacob went rabid, "Don't you start pulling that Godwin shit on me! You know that's not even //close// to what we'd intended! If we had more time we'd be able to iron these things out but we don't. We just don't!" Priss smirked -- by now, she'd given up and was sitting atop the Anabasis, rocking gently back and forth and at a state of ease, "You know... back home, the Party for the Supremacy of Western Civilization would have tested all of this beforehand on some 'subhuman mongrels' as you put it. If the locals got uppity... well, that depended on the administrator. Best-case scenario, the locals would get a nice lecture about all the benefits coming their way, and the hope for the future. Most of the time, it was just curfews, crackdowns, and cracking heads if anyone protested too loudly. It was inhuman, but... when you've got thousands of people already living in such squalor, on the brink of death every day, it was a noble sacrifice." The others stared at her like she was a monster. She regretted even speaking up. She looked away, still rocking, "My sister called herself a 'subhuman mongrel'. She considered herself one of them." Opal blinked. Then her expression slowly turned into a frown, then a cold grimace. She turned to Frank. "I'm not keen on world history, Frankie. Please, help me here. There has never been a Party for the Supremacy of Western Civilization, right?" "Opal-" "Never mind. I just don't care. You deal with her," she said, coldness permeating her every word. "You deal with her, you are responsible for her, whatever messes this one makes, it's on you." Opal turned for the ladder and started to climb it. Jacob and Frank stared back at Priss; the 'Rabbi' seemed disgusted, Frank was just tired. For a long while, their expressions didn't change. She hadn't saved herself. //That would've been funny someplace else. But not here. You don't belong here.// ----- Just as Frank had sat down and started to settle in for the night, trouble came. "Oy prick!" Dodger called before she peeked into the cube, auburn hair looking black, as if she'd been caught in a thunderstorm. Frank eased back in his seat and crossed his arms, "Late night visits between Mission group members are typically frowned upon." The woman shook her head, smirking despite her words, "Ew, Frank. Ew. I'd think your standards would be much higher than that." "And so modest," He smirked in turn. Dodger was anything but. She didn't bother with makeup when out in the field, but she still stuck out horribly, looking either too young to be in her position, or too pretty to be someone expected to get themselves dirty with actual work. She produced a wad of paper, and slipped into the cube. She was actually dirty for once--shirt stained and pants smeared in dust, "Report from today. I forwarded a copy to Torres first. His team's taking a look at it." "More shit?" She came closer, and dropped it into his lap, "You take this nice pile of shit, and you eat it. Then you go to bed with a nice smile, and wait for another in the morning." "Wonderful," Frank held the report up, thumbing through it, knowing just what to look for and how to skim past the inane bullshit and prose Dodger tended to load in. As if her reports were going to be published as great literary works. "Wait, what is this? How do we know these animals are being affected by the Vesta donation?" "We don't. But think about it. The animals are regenerating body parts from seemingly nothing... Vestan fungus grows into stuff we design it to." Frank groaned and put the report down, "God help us..." Dodger pursed her lips and crossed her arms, "Smile. Savor the shit. Remember how sweet it tastes compared to the shit we're likely to have to eat tomorrow." "Why didn't we know of this?" She shrugged, irritatingly calm about this situation, "None of my contacts knew, but then I don't have any ears among the town elders the way you all do. Why didn't the elders warn you?" Frank shook his head. //Political intrigues,// he guessed. "I'll have to warn Lindsberg and the rest." "Yeah," She was still calm, even smirking at him. "What's so goddamn funny?" "Smile, Frank. It can only get worse from here. Enjoy it while you can" She turned to leave, and leaned against the door again, "Savor the taste." "Ugh, just go." [[=]] << [[[Over the Bonfire]]] \| [[[manna-charitable-foundation-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Land of Plenty]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-05T23:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "anabasis", "goi2014", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale" ]	Best as it Gets - SCP Foundation	21	[ "over-the-bonfire", "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "land-of-plenty", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	22878208	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/best-as-it-gets
between-shelves	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>This is a sequel to <a href="/going-out-of-book">Going Out Of Book</a>. You should probably read that first.</strong></p> <p>At first, all she saw was darkness. Then a red glow crept in. She was lying on a cold, hard surface, staring up. There was hissing, and cranking, and a rattling that sounded like a million wooden beads hitting the ground at once. Behind her was something that resembled laughter. The noise blended together into a low rumble that seemed to wrap around her and gently squeeze.</p> <p>She became aware of a voice. “I told you doing this here was a good idea!” Whooping laughter followed.</p> <p>The world was spinning. Her head felt like she had spent the past three days mainlining Jack Daniels, and her stomach wasn't much better. There was something wet under her nose. Touching a finger to it, she saw that it was blood.</p> <p>Okay, she thought. This isn't the worst thing you've ever done. Get up.</p> <p>She had begun to push herself up when a hand appeared in her vision. “Need a hand?” said the same voice as before.</p> <p>She brushed the hand away. A voice in the back of her thoughts wondered why it had been red, but she ignored it. Rolling to her side, she tried to force her body up from the ground, but her arms buckled. A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and started pulling up. She shook them away. “Fuck off,” she mumbled, more to herself than the person. Sucking in a deep breath, she wrenched her legs forward, under her body, then pushed up. She rose to a squat. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand. Her legs wobbled, but she stayed up.</p> <p>Wiping the rest of the blood from her nose, she began to examine her surroundings. She'd been lying on a circular stone platform, about a foot off of a green carpet. The room was massive- the ceiling wasn't visible, and the walls looked hundreds of feet off. Around her, two dozen people were gathered around three grills, talking, laughing, clutching cans of beer. At least, some of them were people. There was something that looked like a shark with legs devouring a large hamburger. Next to it, a dog-sized mass of squirming tentacles worked a grill. They were both conversing with what looked like a ten-foot tall man made of copper, brass, and gold.</p> <p>She turned. Behind her was another man, his skin lobster-red, eyes pure blue. He was dressed in a patched up leather jacket, jeans, and a Black Flag t-shirt. As far as she could see, he was completely hairless, though a thin ridge ran down the center of his head and into his jacket. A grin was spread across his face. “Hey,” he said, “I'm Colby.”</p> <p>“I thought this was a Li-”</p> <p>“Man, that was fucking awesome,” he said, his grin spreading wider. “You know it's been like… two months since anyone used that Way? Mitchelloth said nothing would happen if we came here, but I bet he's not feeling so smart now, is he? Hey Mitch!” he yelled, throwing an arm up in the air. “You owe me that copy of DeFronde, you fucker!” He turned his attention back to Alison. She became suddenly aware of several other… beings surrounding her.</p> <p>“So, where am-”</p> <p>“They didn't believe me when I said I could feel the Ways! Serves them right.” His grin widened, and he began smacking his knuckles against his palm. “You've gotta be a first timer, yeah? Yeah, if you weren't you'd know how to go through one without getting all mashed up. I can show you that, if you want. But man, lemme just say how cool that was! Most people, when they first come through, they're completely out. But you got up like it was nothing. Fucking sweet.”</p> <p>“That's great, but-”</p> <p>“So you'll want to meet everybody, right? It's no fun exploring the Library on your own, especially not the first time. Unless you've already got a guide, but if you did you wouldn't have landed like that, right? But don't worry, we're always open to new people. Where are you from anyway? I mean, you probably don't know the actual answer to that. But I mean, what country? Who's president? Do they have Gillferan food? You seem pretty-”</p> <p>“Shut. Up,” she said, almost spitting the words. “I'm just trying to ask one damn question. Why is that so hard?”</p> <p>Colby blinked at her. The grin melted away. “Oh. Yeah. Oh, damn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude like that.” He rubbed the back of his head, looking away.</p> <p>She sighed. “You said this was the Library. Last I heard, libraries had books, and I don't see any. So what's going on? Where am I?”</p> <p>“We're in a side area,” he said, still looking away. “You know, for other stuff. Relaxing and sleeping and, you know, stuff.” He gestured towards the grill. “The actual books are in a different area.”</p> <p>“Alright,” she said, crossing her arms. “How do I get there?”</p> <p>“You don't want to stay a bit?” He looked hurt. “Come on, it'll be fun. We've got steaks, and Damon's making pasta, and there's gonna be cake and a big book reading. You'll get lost if you try to go into the stacks on your own.”</p> <p>“I'll be fine,” she said. Looking around the room, she saw dozens of other groups of people. Some were cooking, some were sitting and reading, one had even set up a campsite. From what she could tell, less than one in ten of the beings here were human (or at least looked it). “Which way are the books?”</p> <p>Colby sighed and pointed. “Can you maybe tell me what you're looking for, at least? I could probably point you in the right direction.”</p> <p>She thought for a moment. “I need information on the Serpent's Hand. Where they are. What they're doing. How I can find them. And anything you have about the Foundation.”</p> <p>Colby paled. “The Foundation? Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you want with them?” His eyes darted around the room. He clicked his teeth together. “Man, I should have known something like that was up with you, the way you showed up. Look, I can't have anything to do with that stuff, L.S's whole group is fucking crazy…” he trailed off.</p> <p>L.S. The name sounded familiar. She'd heard it before, rumors of an ever elusive figure within the Hand. She sighed. “Then why bother?” She turned to walk off.</p> <p>“Excuse me,” said a voice. Alison looked and saw a short, blonde woman approaching. “I heard you expressing your interest in the Hand?”</p> <p>“Can you help me get to them?” said Alison.</p> <p>“I can do better than that,” said the woman, smiling. “I'm a member. I can answer any questions you might have. But first, let's get a burger.”</p> <p>The burgers weren't terrible, for something cooked by an alien tentacle monster. Juicy and well-seasoned, with just the right amount of cheese. Alison ate it quickly, taking stock of the beings around her as she did. She'd seen a few non-humans in her travels: the waste spirit, aliens captured in a Foundation facility, a demon summoned when a spell backfired, but nothing like these, and never so many. There was something that looked like a miniature animate tree, a man with wings that shone in the light, a woman whose face always seemed to be hidden in shadow.</p> <p>There were talking animals, and a robot that looked like it had come out of an Asimov novel. Only a few meters from her, a mass of floating bubbles was talking to a woman with a birdcage on her head (complete with parakeet). From what she could tell, they were discussing the physics behind divine intervention. There were a few humans too, but not many. She wasn't sure what she had expected coming here, but it hadn't been this.</p> <p>The blonde woman walked up. She had a plate with three burgers, a pile of fries, and a large can of beer. At least, Alison was pretty sure it was beer. The label didn't seem to be in English, or any other human language she'd seen.</p> <p>“Alright,” said the woman. “First thing's first, my name's Meredith. You are?”</p> <p>“Alison,” she said.</p> <p>“Nice name,” said the woman, taking a large sip of beer. “So, Alison, what do you want with us? Not often someone just shows up on our doorstep like this.”</p> <p>Alison thought about this. She didn't know this woman. For all that she knew, Meredith was completely lying about being a member of the Hand. She could be a plant, she could be an angry spirit, she could be a buddy looking to avenge Diligem. “I'm looking for a friend. He vanished a few months ago, but before he did, he was talking about you guys, and coming here.”</p> <p>Meredith nodded. “And you think the Foundation might have something to do with him going missing, right?” She took another swig of beer, then crumpled up the can and placed it by her feet.</p> <p>“He thought they were watching him. He was… different, and said they would come after him for it. The night before he disappeared, he called me to say he needed to leave as soon as possible. That was the last I heard of him.” It wasn't a great lie, but it would work. Probably. At the least it would hold up until she decided if it was alright to tell the truth.</p> <p>Meredith nodded. “What was his name? We get a lot of people looking for refuge.”</p> <p>Alison bit her lip. “Jonathan Bell. He had black hair, green eyes, was about this tall,” she motioned with her hand, “and always looked real nervous.”</p> <p>“I can't say I've seen him, sorry,” said Meredith. “Though there's dozens of groups of us around the Library. It's entirely possible he's with one of them.” She took a bite of cheeseburger and thought as she chewed. “But you're doing more than just looking for him.”</p> <p>Alison started. “What do you mean?”</p> <p>“If you were just looking for your friend, you wouldn't need information on the Foundation,” said Meredith, staring into Alison's eyes. There was something disconcerting about her glare. Alison fought back the urge to squirm. “You're planning something against them. Or at least, you want to.”</p> <p>“It's not like that,” said Alison.</p> <p>“Look,” said Meredith. “Why you're here is not my business. If you want it private, fine, it's private. But moving against the Foundation is different. They're dangerous, and that's not something you hear often around here. If you're in their way, you're finished. Three of my friends have been killed by them. Two more were captured, and there's absolutely nothing I could do about it. So, are you sure you're up to making an enemy of them?”</p> <p>Alison wasn't sure what to say at first. Of course she was. That's what she'd come all this way for. She just hadn't expected it to be put so bluntly. “I am.”</p> <p>Meredith smiled. It wasn't a cheerful expression. “We'll see.”</p> <p>After they ate, Meredith took Alison to another room, filled with beds. “There are things I have to take care of,” she said. “It should take a week or so. In the meantime, take a look around the place. Explore the Library, see what you find. Just be careful where you go.”</p> <p>That had been three days ago. Since then, Alison had spent most of her time wandering the stacks. She'd kept to herself, mostly, and the few times someone had tried to approach her she'd been able to brush them off.</p> <p>Searching the stacks had yielded little information about the Hand or Foundation. The organization behind the shelves, if there was one, was completely beyond her. Books were arranged with no regards to content, condition, author, publication date, even language. A copy of “The Complete Harper Lee” (over a thousand pages long and with text almost too small to read) would be right next to a user manual for a 1959 Austin Mini. It was maddening.</p> <p>After the first two days of searching, all she'd manage to scrounge up was a book of poetry, “Oh, That Spiteful Snake”. Calling what was inside “information” would have been like calling Goodnight Moon an epic. Questioning the people she lived with didn't give her much else. Most of them preferred to be left alone to their reading. The few who cared to answer did so in the vaguest possible terms. Still, it wasn't a total loss. Even if the books weren't what she was looking for, they were fascinating, and by the third day she had developed a hefty stack of reading material.</p> <p>It was the evening (according to her watch) of the third day. The last time she'd seen another person had been seven hours ago. The flow of people around the Library, she'd noticed, was similar to people grouping around a coastline. Most tended to stay near where resources were plentiful, by the common areas and living halls. Go even a few hundred meters deeper “inland", and the amount of people quartered. Go a few hundred more, and you'd only find one or two people browsing each shelf. A kilometer or more, and you would be searching alone. She'd wandered at least five.</p> <p>Which was why she was so shocked to see someone else. She turned the corner to a shelf (REMUNERATION, read a small gold placard on the side. They all had signs like that. As far as she could tell, it was irrelevant to anything) and the woman was standing at the end, reading a book. She was short, and blonde, wearing a long black coat, and green fleece cap. Anything else was too far away to see.</p> <p>Curious as the sight was, Alison ignored her. She walked down the aisle, running a finger across spines, pulling out and flipping through any books that looked useful. None were. A few seemed interesting at least. She slipped those into her bag.</p> <p>Her finger stopped when she felt something warm. It was resting on the spine of a thin, white book with no text. As she pressed her finger to it, it pulsed, like a heartbeat, and began to warm. Curious. This was the first thing of its kind she'd seen here. She pulled it from the bookshelves, and it squirmed in her palm. At least, it felt like it did. The book itself didn't move. The cover felt like it was made of leather, and seemed heavier than it should have. In gold emboss, a complicated tetragram had been placed on the front cover. She flipped it open.</p> <p>Sand erupted from the pages, slamming into her stomach. The world spun around her as she was launched into the air, and came slamming back down into the ground. The book spun out of her hands, landing at the other ends of the shelves. A geyser of sand spewed from the pages, spreading across the floor. She lay in a small pile of the stuff.</p> <p>Her head was pounding. A trickle of blood ran down her forehead. She wiped it away and tried to stand, but her foot caught on something, and she fell back. Something tightened around her ankle. Sand covered her foot, creeping up across her leg. She tried to tear it away, but the sand clamped down.</p> <p>There was a hissing noise. The sand around her was beginning to vibrate. It rattled against her, grains leaping into the air, showering her. A trail of it was snaking across the floor, moving across the carpet from her to the book like a worm. The hissing grew louder. It almost sounded like a voice.</p> <p>Sand wrapped around her arms and other leg. The pile underneath her was shifting, spreading out around her. The edges rose in the corner of her vision. They seemed to tower over her, like a tidal wave of dust. The hissing was even louder now, a screaming in her ear. Piercing through it was a voice. I wondered how long it would be until you came. It sounded like someone speaking through an avalanche. How long you would be able to deny your sin. Does it pain you, Mikhal, to remember what you have done to me? I hope it did.</p> <p>The sand rushed down towards her. She sucked in a breath of air and began to count seconds. The wave crashed into her. Soon, she was cocooned in it. I see her face in my mind every day. The way it looked when she realized you had left, when she knew you had damned us. You couldn't even stay to see that. You wouldn't even look us in the face when you seal our fate. Coward. The sand was tightening around her. Already, she could feel herself beginning to give, to buckle under the pressure. It was hard to think of anything past the pain, but she forced herself to think, to keep counting time.</p> <p>They took her from me. I never knew her final fate. I hope they killed her quickly. I don't know how long they kept me alive. I don't remember anything but the pain, and hoping that you would return. But you never did.</p> <p>Thirty seconds. She released her breath, bringing the words to her mind. Nothing happened. Her stomach sank. Had it failed? Had her timing been off? She'd only cast this spell a few times before. Had it-</p> <p>A wave of wind burst from her, ripping the sand away. She pushed herself to her feet as it began reforming. A whip of sand lashed at her, but she rolled out of the way. As she did, she saw the woman from before, standing at the end of the shelves, only a few meters from the book. Her arms were crossed, and she wasn't moving.</p> <p>“Hey!” yelled Alison, “Help! Close the damn book!”</p> <p>The woman didn't move. Another bludgeon of sand rushed at Alison. She ducked under and sprinted towards the book. The woman didn't move.</p> <p>Something slammed into Alison's foot, sending her tumbling to the ground. As soon as she hit the floor, sand wrapped around her arm. It threw her up, pinning her to the wall. More ropes of sand sprouted from the ground, moving towards her. The woman was nowhere to be seen.</p> <p>Alison tried to wrench her arm away, but the sand gripped it too tight. Another tendril collided with her leg. She kicked at it. Her feet hit the side of the sand and burst through. It reformed in seconds. Still, it was better than nothing. With her free hand, she groped at the shelves behind her. Her fingers wrapped around a thick volume, and she ripped it from the shelf, swinging it at the sand holding her arm. It sliced through and she fell, pinned to the shelf only by her foot, hanging upside down.</p> <p>She wound up and threw the book as hard as she could. It hurtled through the sand, and she crumpled to the ground. There was a crunch, and pain shot through her side, but she ignored it. Already, she could see the sand reforming and rushing towards her.</p> <p>Clutching her arm, she sprinted forward. Tendrils of sand batted at her legs, but she danced around them. She could hear the voice behind her, screaming. You dare? it cried. You dare try to flee? To run from this fate, when we could not? Turn around, coward, and face me with some dignity. She ignored it. Sand smacked into her back. She stumbled, but kept running.</p> <p>The book only a few meters from her. She dove, arm outstretched. As she did, the fountain of sand sprouting from it turned and slammed into her shoulder. She tumbled down. The stream of sand twisted in the air, rocketing towards her. She pushed herself forward, rolling under it. Reaching an arm out, she snatched the cover of the book and threw it shut.</p> <p>The voice stopped mid-sentence. The sand fell to floor. The Library became quiet. Panting, she rose to her feet. The world seemed to spinning around her. There was a buzzing noise in her ear, and her vision was blurry. Her knees buckled. She reached out and steadied herself against the shelf before she could fall any further.</p> <p>It was thirty minutes before she could stop shaking and begin walking back to the common areas.</p> <p>Meredith was sitting by her bed, reading a book. She looked up as Alison limped near. “Well,” she said, “don't you look like a woman who's just had an experience?”</p> <p>Alison grunted a reply and collapsed onto the bed. “What the hell was that?” she managed to say after several minutes.</p> <p>“What was what?” said Meredith.</p> <p>Alison sighed. “What do you want?”</p> <p>Meredith stood and stretched. “So, I've talked to some people. They'd be interested in meeting you.”</p> <p>Just like that, the pain disappeared. Alison sat up. “What? Who? When?”</p> <p>“Now, if you're up to it,” said Meredith.</p> <p>Alison nodded.</p> <p>“Follow me,” said Meredith. They began walking, out of the common area and into the Library. A few people stared at Alison, bruised and limping, but she ignored them. They wound through the shelves, moving back and forth between them until she'd lost any idea of where they were. Then they kept walking. Every time she tried to question where they were going, she was met with silence.</p> <p>It was 45 minutes before they stopped, in a shelf that looked like every other (MENDACITY, read the plaque on the side). Meredith knelt down and rapped against the rug three times. She stood, took five steps back, and stomped twice. Then she took four steps to the left and stomped another six times.</p> <p>A hole appeared in the floor. It didn't slide open, or open like a door. It just appeared, as if it had always been there. Leaning against the side was a ladder. The floor below was made of wood, and well lit. Meredith began climbing down. Alison followed.</p> <p>They descended into a short corridor. At the end was a red door. Lining the roof were several fluorescent lights. On the sides were paintings depicting a variety of scenes, from what looked like the birth of Christ to a man floating in space.</p> <p>“The Hand isn't what you're looking for,” said Meredith. The first thing she'd said since they left. “Most of it would be useless to you. They're not a bad group, but they're not up to going against something like the Foundation. They still hide from them, whisper in secret, use their nonsense names. They're scholars, and that has its place.”</p> <p>Meredith opened the door and motioned for Alison to enter. “But we're the fighters.”</p> <p>Inside was a large room, lined with chairs, pillows, and bookshelves. In the center was a fireplace. A flame flickered, the only source of light, casting twisting shadows across the walls. It smiled like old books and expensive liquor. The only other person, kneeling by the fire, was the woman in the green cap.</p> <p>“What the hell!” said Alison. She looked from Meredith to the woman. “Who the fuck is this?”</p> <p>Meredith didn't say anything.</p> <p>“Of course,” said Alison. “Now we're playing this game. Lovely.”</p> <p>The woman smiled. “I said almost the exact same thing.”</p> <p>Alison scowled and stepped towards her. “Did you? Is that supposed to be some grand, revealing comment? Should I fall to my knees and forgive you for leaving me to fucking die?”</p> <p>“I wouldn't have let that happen,” said the woman. She stared into the fire. “But if I'd had to step in, we wouldn't be talking now.”</p> <p>“What a shame that would be,” said Alison. “I'd suggest you start saying something meaningful.”</p> <p>The woman stood. “It's not often I meet someone like this. But it's not often someone like you comes to us either. I'm sorry that things went the way they did back there, but you were never in any real danger.” She stared into Alison's eyes. Alison looked away. Something about her gaze felt wrong. “You're lucky. L.S doesn't often accept people so soon. My name is Amanda. I'd like to welcome you to the Serpent's Tooth.”</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/between-shelves">Between Shelves</a>" by rumetzen, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/between-shelves">https://scpwiki.com/between-shelves</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] This is a sequel to [[[Going Out Of Book]]]. You should probably read that first. At first, all she saw was darkness. Then a red glow crept in. She was lying on a cold, hard surface, staring up. There was hissing, and cranking, and a rattling that sounded like a million wooden beads hitting the ground at once. Behind her was something that resembled laughter. The noise blended together into a low rumble that seemed to wrap around her and gently squeeze. She became aware of a voice. “I told you doing this here was a good idea!” Whooping laughter followed. The world was spinning. Her head felt like she had spent the past three days mainlining Jack Daniels, and her stomach wasn't much better. There was something wet under her nose. Touching a finger to it, she saw that it was blood. Okay, she thought. This isn't the worst thing you've ever done. Get up. She had begun to push herself up when a hand appeared in her vision. “Need a hand?” said the same voice as before. She brushed the hand away. A voice in the back of her thoughts wondered why it had been red, but she ignored it. Rolling to her side, she tried to force her body up from the ground, but her arms buckled. A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and started pulling up. She shook them away. “Fuck off,” she mumbled, more to herself than the person. Sucking in a deep breath, she wrenched her legs forward, under her body, then pushed up. She rose to a squat. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand. Her legs wobbled, but she stayed up. Wiping the rest of the blood from her nose, she began to examine her surroundings. She'd been lying on a circular stone platform, about a foot off of a green carpet. The room was massive- the ceiling wasn't visible, and the walls looked hundreds of feet off. Around her, two dozen people were gathered around three grills, talking, laughing, clutching cans of beer. At least, some of them were people. There was something that looked like a shark with legs devouring a large hamburger. Next to it, a dog-sized mass of squirming tentacles worked a grill. They were both conversing with what looked like a ten-foot tall man made of copper, brass, and gold. She turned. Behind her was another man, his skin lobster-red, eyes pure blue. He was dressed in a patched up leather jacket, jeans, and a Black Flag t-shirt. As far as she could see, he was completely hairless, though a thin ridge ran down the center of his head and into his jacket. A grin was spread across his face. “Hey,” he said, “I'm Colby.” “I thought this was a Li-” “Man, that was fucking awesome,” he said, his grin spreading wider. “You know it's been like… two months since anyone used that Way? Mitchelloth said nothing would happen if we came here, but I bet he's not feeling so smart now, is he? Hey Mitch!” he yelled, throwing an arm up in the air. “You owe me that copy of DeFronde, you fucker!” He turned his attention back to Alison. She became suddenly aware of several other… beings surrounding her. “So, where am-” “They didn't believe me when I said I could feel the Ways! Serves them right.” His grin widened, and he began smacking his knuckles against his palm. “You've gotta be a first timer, yeah? Yeah, if you weren't you'd know how to go through one without getting all mashed up. I can show you that, if you want. But man, lemme just say how cool that was! Most people, when they first come through, they're completely out. But you got up like it was nothing. Fucking sweet.” “That's great, but-” “So you'll want to meet everybody, right? It's no fun exploring the Library on your own, especially not the first time. Unless you've already got a guide, but if you did you wouldn't have landed like that, right? But don't worry, we're always open to new people. Where are you from anyway? I mean, you probably don't know the actual answer to that. But I mean, what country? Who's president? Do they have Gillferan food? You seem pretty-” “Shut. Up,” she said, almost spitting the words. “I'm just trying to ask one damn question. Why is that so hard?” Colby blinked at her. The grin melted away. “Oh. Yeah. Oh, damn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude like that.” He rubbed the back of his head, looking away. She sighed. “You said this was the Library. Last I heard, libraries had books, and I don't see any. So what's going on? Where am I?” “We're in a side area,” he said, still looking away. “You know, for other stuff. Relaxing and sleeping and, you know, stuff.” He gestured towards the grill. “The actual books are in a different area.” “Alright,” she said, crossing her arms. “How do I get there?” “You don't want to stay a bit?” He looked hurt. “Come on, it'll be fun. We've got steaks, and Damon's making pasta, and there's gonna be cake and a big book reading. You'll get lost if you try to go into the stacks on your own.” “I'll be fine,” she said. Looking around the room, she saw dozens of other groups of people. Some were cooking, some were sitting and reading, one had even set up a campsite. From what she could tell, less than one in ten of the beings here were human (or at least looked it). “Which way are the books?” Colby sighed and pointed. “Can you maybe tell me what you're looking for, at least? I could probably point you in the right direction.” She thought for a moment. “I need information on the Serpent's Hand. Where they are. What they're doing. How I can find them. And anything you have about the Foundation.” Colby paled. “The Foundation? Are you out of your mind? What the hell do you want with them?” His eyes darted around the room. He clicked his teeth together. “Man, I should have known something like that was up with you, the way you showed up. Look, I can't have anything to do with that stuff, L.S's whole group is fucking crazy…” he trailed off. L.S. The name sounded familiar. She'd heard it before, rumors of an ever elusive figure within the Hand. She sighed. “Then why bother?” She turned to walk off. “Excuse me,” said a voice. Alison looked and saw a short, blonde woman approaching. “I heard you expressing your interest in the Hand?” “Can you help me get to them?” said Alison. “I can do better than that,” said the woman, smiling. “I'm a member. I can answer any questions you might have. But first, let's get a burger.” The burgers weren't terrible, for something cooked by an alien tentacle monster. Juicy and well-seasoned, with just the right amount of cheese. Alison ate it quickly, taking stock of the beings around her as she did. She'd seen a few non-humans in her travels: the waste spirit, aliens captured in a Foundation facility, a demon summoned when a spell backfired, but nothing like these, and never so many. There was something that looked like a miniature animate tree, a man with wings that shone in the light, a woman whose face always seemed to be hidden in shadow. There were talking animals, and a robot that looked like it had come out of an Asimov novel. Only a few meters from her, a mass of floating bubbles was talking to a woman with a birdcage on her head (complete with parakeet). From what she could tell, they were discussing the physics behind divine intervention. There were a few humans too, but not many. She wasn't sure what she had expected coming here, but it hadn't been this. The blonde woman walked up. She had a plate with three burgers, a pile of fries, and a large can of beer. At least, Alison was pretty sure it was beer. The label didn't seem to be in English, or any other human language she'd seen. “Alright,” said the woman. “First thing's first, my name's Meredith. You are?” “Alison,” she said. “Nice name,” said the woman, taking a large sip of beer. “So, Alison, what do you want with us? Not often someone just shows up on our doorstep like this.” Alison thought about this. She didn't know this woman. For all that she knew, Meredith was completely lying about being a member of the Hand. She could be a plant, she could be an angry spirit, she could be a buddy looking to avenge Diligem. “I'm looking for a friend. He vanished a few months ago, but before he did, he was talking about you guys, and coming here.” Meredith nodded. “And you think the Foundation might have something to do with him going missing, right?” She took another swig of beer, then crumpled up the can and placed it by her feet. “He thought they were watching him. He was… different, and said they would come after him for it. The night before he disappeared, he called me to say he needed to leave as soon as possible. That was the last I heard of him.” It wasn't a great lie, but it would work. Probably. At the least it would hold up until she decided if it was alright to tell the truth. Meredith nodded. “What was his name? We get a lot of people looking for refuge.” Alison bit her lip. “Jonathan Bell. He had black hair, green eyes, was about this tall,” she motioned with her hand, “and always looked real nervous.” “I can't say I've seen him, sorry,” said Meredith. “Though there's dozens of groups of us around the Library. It's entirely possible he's with one of them.” She took a bite of cheeseburger and thought as she chewed. “But you're doing more than just looking for him.” Alison started. “What do you mean?” “If you were just looking for your friend, you wouldn't need information on the Foundation,” said Meredith, staring into Alison's eyes. There was something disconcerting about her glare. Alison fought back the urge to squirm. “You're planning something against them. Or at least, you want to.” “It's not like that,” said Alison. “Look,” said Meredith. “Why you're here is not my business. If you want it private, fine, it's private. But moving against the Foundation is different. They're dangerous, and that's not something you hear often around here. If you're in their way, you're finished. Three of my friends have been killed by them. Two more were captured, and there's absolutely nothing I could do about it. So, are you sure you're up to making an enemy of them?” Alison wasn't sure what to say at first. Of course she was. That's what she'd come all this way for. She just hadn't expected it to be put so bluntly. “I am.” Meredith smiled. It wasn't a cheerful expression. “We'll see.” After they ate, Meredith took Alison to another room, filled with beds. “There are things I have to take care of,” she said. “It should take a week or so. In the meantime, take a look around the place. Explore the Library, see what you find. Just be careful where you go.” That had been three days ago. Since then, Alison had spent most of her time wandering the stacks. She'd kept to herself, mostly, and the few times someone had tried to approach her she'd been able to brush them off. Searching the stacks had yielded little information about the Hand or Foundation. The organization behind the shelves, if there was one, was completely beyond her. Books were arranged with no regards to content, condition, author, publication date, even language. A copy of “The Complete Harper Lee” (over a thousand pages long and with text almost too small to read) would be right next to a user manual for a 1959 Austin Mini. It was maddening. After the first two days of searching, all she'd manage to scrounge up was a book of poetry, “Oh, That Spiteful Snake”. Calling what was inside “information” would have been like calling Goodnight Moon an epic. Questioning the people she lived with didn't give her much else. Most of them preferred to be left alone to their reading. The few who cared to answer did so in the vaguest possible terms. Still, it wasn't a total loss. Even if the books weren't what she was looking for, they were fascinating, and by the third day she had developed a hefty stack of reading material. It was the evening (according to her watch) of the third day. The last time she'd seen another person had been seven hours ago. The flow of people around the Library, she'd noticed, was similar to people grouping around a coastline. Most tended to stay near where resources were plentiful, by the common areas and living halls. Go even a few hundred meters deeper “inland", and the amount of people quartered. Go a few hundred more, and you'd only find one or two people browsing each shelf. A kilometer or more, and you would be searching alone. She'd wandered at least five. Which was why she was so shocked to see someone else. She turned the corner to a shelf (REMUNERATION, read a small gold placard on the side. They all had signs like that. As far as she could tell, it was irrelevant to anything) and the woman was standing at the end, reading a book. She was short, and blonde, wearing a long black coat, and green fleece cap. Anything else was too far away to see. Curious as the sight was, Alison ignored her. She walked down the aisle, running a finger across spines, pulling out and flipping through any books that looked useful. None were. A few seemed interesting at least. She slipped those into her bag. Her finger stopped when she felt something warm. It was resting on the spine of a thin, white book with no text. As she pressed her finger to it, it pulsed, like a heartbeat, and began to warm. Curious. This was the first thing of its kind she'd seen here. She pulled it from the bookshelves, and it squirmed in her palm. At least, it felt like it did. The book itself didn't move. The cover felt like it was made of leather, and seemed heavier than it should have. In gold emboss, a complicated tetragram had been placed on the front cover. She flipped it open. Sand erupted from the pages, slamming into her stomach. The world spun around her as she was launched into the air, and came slamming back down into the ground. The book spun out of her hands, landing at the other ends of the shelves. A geyser of sand spewed from the pages, spreading across the floor. She lay in a small pile of the stuff. Her head was pounding. A trickle of blood ran down her forehead. She wiped it away and tried to stand, but her foot caught on something, and she fell back. Something tightened around her ankle. Sand covered her foot, creeping up across her leg. She tried to tear it away, but the sand clamped down. There was a hissing noise. The sand around her was beginning to vibrate. It rattled against her, grains leaping into the air, showering her. A trail of it was snaking across the floor, moving across the carpet from her to the book like a worm. The hissing grew louder. It almost sounded like a voice. Sand wrapped around her arms and other leg. The pile underneath her was shifting, spreading out around her. The edges rose in the corner of her vision. They seemed to tower over her, like a tidal wave of dust. The hissing was even louder now, a screaming in her ear. Piercing through it was a voice. I wondered how long it would be until you came. It sounded like someone speaking through an avalanche. How long you would be able to deny your sin. Does it pain you, Mikhal, to remember what you have done to me? I hope it did. The sand rushed down towards her. She sucked in a breath of air and began to count seconds. The wave crashed into her. Soon, she was cocooned in it. I see her face in my mind every day. The way it looked when she realized you had left, when she knew you had damned us. You couldn't even stay to see that. You wouldn't even look us in the face when you seal our fate. Coward. The sand was tightening around her. Already, she could feel herself beginning to give, to buckle under the pressure. It was hard to think of anything past the pain, but she forced herself to think, to keep counting time. They took her from me. I never knew her final fate. I hope they killed her quickly. I don't know how long they kept me alive. I don't remember anything but the pain, and hoping that you would return. But you never did. Thirty seconds. She released her breath, bringing the words to her mind. Nothing happened. Her stomach sank. Had it failed? Had her timing been off? She'd only cast this spell a few times before. Had it- A wave of wind burst from her, ripping the sand away. She pushed herself to her feet as it began reforming. A whip of sand lashed at her, but she rolled out of the way. As she did, she saw the woman from before, standing at the end of the shelves, only a few meters from the book. Her arms were crossed, and she wasn't moving. “Hey!” yelled Alison, “Help! Close the damn book!” The woman didn't move. Another bludgeon of sand rushed at Alison. She ducked under and sprinted towards the book. The woman didn't move. Something slammed into Alison's foot, sending her tumbling to the ground. As soon as she hit the floor, sand wrapped around her arm. It threw her up, pinning her to the wall. More ropes of sand sprouted from the ground, moving towards her. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Alison tried to wrench her arm away, but the sand gripped it too tight. Another tendril collided with her leg. She kicked at it. Her feet hit the side of the sand and burst through. It reformed in seconds. Still, it was better than nothing. With her free hand, she groped at the shelves behind her. Her fingers wrapped around a thick volume, and she ripped it from the shelf, swinging it at the sand holding her arm. It sliced through and she fell, pinned to the shelf only by her foot, hanging upside down. She wound up and threw the book as hard as she could. It hurtled through the sand, and she crumpled to the ground. There was a crunch, and pain shot through her side, but she ignored it. Already, she could see the sand reforming and rushing towards her. Clutching her arm, she sprinted forward. Tendrils of sand batted at her legs, but she danced around them. She could hear the voice behind her, screaming. You dare? it cried. You dare try to flee? To run from this fate, when we could not? Turn around, coward, and face me with some dignity. She ignored it. Sand smacked into her back. She stumbled, but kept running. The book only a few meters from her. She dove, arm outstretched. As she did, the fountain of sand sprouting from it turned and slammed into her shoulder. She tumbled down. The stream of sand twisted in the air, rocketing towards her. She pushed herself forward, rolling under it. Reaching an arm out, she snatched the cover of the book and threw it shut. The voice stopped mid-sentence. The sand fell to floor. The Library became quiet. Panting, she rose to her feet. The world seemed to spinning around her. There was a buzzing noise in her ear, and her vision was blurry. Her knees buckled. She reached out and steadied herself against the shelf before she could fall any further. It was thirty minutes before she could stop shaking and begin walking back to the common areas. Meredith was sitting by her bed, reading a book. She looked up as Alison limped near. “Well,” she said, “don't you look like a woman who's just had an experience?” Alison grunted a reply and collapsed onto the bed. “What the hell was that?” she managed to say after several minutes. “What was what?” said Meredith. Alison sighed. “What do you want?” Meredith stood and stretched. “So, I've talked to some people. They'd be interested in meeting you.” Just like that, the pain disappeared. Alison sat up. “What? Who? When?” “Now, if you're up to it,” said Meredith. Alison nodded. “Follow me,” said Meredith. They began walking, out of the common area and into the Library. A few people stared at Alison, bruised and limping, but she ignored them. They wound through the shelves, moving back and forth between them until she'd lost any idea of where they were. Then they kept walking. Every time she tried to question where they were going, she was met with silence. It was 45 minutes before they stopped, in a shelf that looked like every other (MENDACITY, read the plaque on the side). Meredith knelt down and rapped against the rug three times. She stood, took five steps back, and stomped twice. Then she took four steps to the left and stomped another six times. A hole appeared in the floor. It didn't slide open, or open like a door. It just appeared, as if it had always been there. Leaning against the side was a ladder. The floor below was made of wood, and well lit. Meredith began climbing down. Alison followed. They descended into a short corridor. At the end was a red door. Lining the roof were several fluorescent lights. On the sides were paintings depicting a variety of scenes, from what looked like the birth of Christ to a man floating in space. “The Hand isn't what you're looking for,” said Meredith. The first thing she'd said since they left. “Most of it would be useless to you. They're not a bad group, but they're not up to going against something like the Foundation. They still hide from them, whisper in secret, use their nonsense names. They're scholars, and that has its place.” Meredith opened the door and motioned for Alison to enter. “But we're the fighters.” Inside was a large room, lined with chairs, pillows, and bookshelves. In the center was a fireplace. A flame flickered, the only source of light, casting twisting shadows across the walls. It smiled like old books and expensive liquor. The only other person, kneeling by the fire, was the woman in the green cap. “What the hell!” said Alison. She looked from Meredith to the woman. “Who the fuck is this?” Meredith didn't say anything. “Of course,” said Alison. “Now we're playing this game. Lovely.” The woman smiled. “I said almost the exact same thing.” Alison scowled and stepped towards her. “Did you? Is that supposed to be some grand, revealing comment? Should I fall to my knees and forgive you for leaving me to fucking die?” “I wouldn't have let that happen,” said the woman. She stared into the fire. “But if I'd had to step in, we wouldn't be talking now.” “What a shame that would be,” said Alison. “I'd suggest you start saying something meaningful.” The woman stood. “It's not often I meet someone like this. But it's not often someone like you comes to us either. I'm sorry that things went the way they did back there, but you were never in any real danger.” She stared into Alison's eyes. Alison looked away. Something about her gaze felt wrong. “You're lucky. L.S doesn't often accept people so soon. My name is Amanda. I'd like to welcome you to the Serpent's Tooth.” [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-07T20:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "black-queen", "fantasy", "goi2014", "mystery", "otherworldly", "tale", "wanderers-library" ]	Between Shelves - SCP Foundation	72	[ "going-out-of-book", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "black-queen-hub" ]	[]	22894902	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/between-shelves
birdseed	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Twitter. Tweet. Chirp. Cheep. Glarblegurglewurblebruuuupslurp.</p> <p><em>There are many words for the sounds of birds</em>, Sylvain Ailier thinks to himself. <em>But it’s hard to get the sounds of the words right</em>.</p> <p>Slllsslsllggglglgllsllsggg.</p> <p>A hummingbird, he guesses. He’s heard that strange combination of gurgling and slurping before, and usually the sound is accompanied by the sight of a deceptively innocent-looking tiny bird. Sylvain yawns and hops out of the almost cradle-like circle of weeping willow branches he’d picked out as a sleeping spot the night before.</p> <p>Stretching out his arms and rotating his neck, the bird mage glances at the coat he’d been using as a blanket. Rummaging in the pockets, he withdraws a small cloth bag of birdseed. Smiling to himself, he pulls aside the hanging leaves of the weeping willow and walks out into the crisp morning air.</p> <p>His wandering journeys had taken him to many picturesque places, and the mountain lake he’d stumbled upon while following a swallow was no exception. He enjoys this carefree, never-tied-down life, learning a little spellcasting here, some new words there. Whistling cheerfully, Sylvain pours a liberal amount of birdseed into his open hand. He considers the amount, then sprinkles some of the seeds on his shoulders and sits down. His trusty spirit staff, a keepsake of his first mentor, rests on the ground in front of him.</p> <p>First a small songbird wings its way towards him, perching on his shoulder and pecking at the bird seed. An oriole stops by for a brief moment to sit on his hand and look at him, and soon Sylvain is surrounded by bright eyes and feathers.</p> <p>He looks up when a shadow passes over and something with a wingspan the length of fifty little birds lands in front of him.</p> <p>A Legendary Crow, Sylvain recognizes as the figure approaches on silent feet. Traditional clothes, avian and human features (arms, legs, wings), Japanese <em>Tengu</em>, perhaps. Whatever it is, it seems to be eying the still-open bag of birdseed lying on the ground. Sylvain waits patiently for the birds swarming around him to fly off into the trees, and wordlessly picks up the bag of birdseed and hands it to the crow-man, who rasps a word of thanks.</p> <p>“Honored brother, what brings you to me?”</p> <p>The crow-man pauses in his inspection of the birdseed, pulling his beak out of the bag. He folds his wings neatly, rummages in a traveler’s pack slung over his back, and withdraws a small paper-wrapped box. Sylvain takes the proffered item and the crow goes back to pecking at the bag of birdseed.</p> <p>Puzzling out the scrawled characters in black ink on the paper wrapping, Sylvain figures out that he is to make a delivery, to someone who lives deep in these mountains. Very deep. At least half the day’s journey, plus time for stopping to ask directions many times. Sylvain glances at his spirit staff, glad for the many birds that live in the area.</p> <p>Remembering his manners, the bird mage bows to the Tengu, tucking the box into a pocket of his coat. “Consider it done,” Sylvain says, and is rewarded with a friendly squawk from the crow-man before he takes off into the sky again.</p> <p>Sylvain is halfway to his destination and thoroughly lost when he realizes that the Tengu never gave back the birdseed.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Shiritori Zakuro looks up from the elegant spray of leaves she is carving on the wooden handle of what will soon be a demon priestess’s comb. “Come in,” she calls over her shoulder, as she shifts in her seat and leaves her workspace. Her cotton robe trails a bit on the ground as she creeps on four red exoskeleton feet toward the entryway of her home, but it is the layers upon layers of folded paper decorations that she wears that weigh her down more. Paper birds and delicate <em>kusudama</em> tied with thin silk cord are woven into her long hair, and rustle with every move she makes.</p> <p>When he first meets her, Sylvain wonders if Master Shiritori considers herself a fire hazard, what with all the paper she wears. He does not bring up this point at any time he converses with her.</p> <p>Shiritori greets the bird mage graciously, serves him some tea, and takes the package he has delivered, unwrapping the paper and opening the box to find several gold pieces tucked into cloth padding. She smiles at the metal, murmuring something about a divine bow, and tucks the gold pieces into her sleeves. The sleeves are rather wide, Sylvain notices, to accommodate the scythe-like spikes that slant delicately from the master's forearms. He has never seen her in combat, but few mantis-kind battles are long enough to attract spectators. She turns towards the stove where a teakettle is still steaming, and Sylvain sees wings folded neatly at her back.</p> <p>Sipping his tea, Sylvain reflects on his unusual luck. Z.S. of famed Hand lore was said to be a fabled apparatus-maker, a master of the crafting arts and item enchantments, and she’d praised the excellent condition of his spirit staff. Perhaps hearing that was worth wandering through path-less mountain scrub and needing to stop more times than he remembered for directions. He’d had to call several birds out of their daily routines, including one or two rather shady-looking ones with beady eyes and sharp beaks—</p> <p>Snapping back to attention at the movement of something being pushed across the table towards him, Sylvain breaks through his fog of thoughts in time to hear Master Shiritori inquire as to if he’d be willing to make a delivery to a dear friend of hers in the forest on the western mountainside. It is some paper made of pressed leaves, nothing fancy, but it is something the friend has asked for many times. Sylvain agrees before he completely processes the information that said friend is roughly a thousand years old, somewhat eccentric, and also the relative of many beetles, so please don’t eat any during your visit.</p> <p>“…how many years, again?” He repeats when the silence has stretched just too far for his liking, and Master Shiritori just laughs, her voice like the wind chimes made of bones over her home’s door. “Do not worry about meeting her. A journey born of friendship is always worthwhile.” Her black compound eyes twinkle as she begins to clear the tea things.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>A small figure is crouched before a large mossy rock, eyes fixed on what looks like an empty jar with small holes poked into the lid, sitting atop the stone in a cushion of lichen. Dressed in a tunic and long skirt fashioned from small, multicolored and interconnected metal pieces, the beetle girl Julodis is a bright spot of color in the otherwise dark undergrowth of the forest. Her metallic hair gleams with a blue sheen, which emphasizes the small but noticeable pair of antennae that sprouts from the crown of her head.</p> <p>It has taken nearly three hours for Sylvain to find her, but fortunately the bundle of paper he is delivering is light. Still, he could use a nap, Sylvain thinks. There are many other things he would like to think on as well. What sound does a beetle make when it flies?</p> <p>The bird mage pauses, setting his foot down carefully so as to not startle the girl who is so intent on her observation that she does not seem to move, to breathe. He approaches, slower, more steadily, and when he is close to the beetle girl he peers intently into the jar. He stares.</p> <p>“…what are you doing?” is the first thing that leaves his mouth, though other questions in his mind are vying for recognition, questions such as <em>“Where did you get that spider”</em> and <em>“Where did you get that large ant”</em> and <em>“Why are you staring at them climb around a jar.”</em></p> <p>Flapping a hand at him silently, the beetle girl whispers back, “Shh. I’m writing a love story.” She smiles a dreamy smile, and continues with a slightly faraway look, “She’s a queen ant. He’s not that special so far as spider kind goes, usually he just barely captures enough of the regular ants to survive, fate threw them together…” she trails off and prods the side of the jar, knocking the spider back to the bottom, where the queen ant is pacing restlessly.</p> <p>“Much as he admires her, much as he intrigues her, he will be her tragic end.” She tilts her head, and the faint, muted sunlight catches on the iridescent beetle wing ornaments that glitter at her ears. Sylvain blinks as he processes this tragic storyline.</p> <p>A few heartbeats of silence later, Sylvain is fiddling with the twine adorning his spirit staff (and also discovering pocket lint in his coat) and he almost timidly offers, “If it’s meant to be a tragedy, I can ask one of my friends to eat them both. Birds eat bugs…” he breaks off, wondering how to word the rest of the statement politely. “That way the spider doesn’t have to kill his, erm, love.”</p> <p>The beetle girl turns around and stares at the bird mage from where she sits, her antennae waving back and forth in agitation. “<em>No.</em> It must be their own nature that tears them apart. The heartbreak is more tangible—”</p> <p>“I think,” Sylvain interrupts mildly, “You should stop shaking the jar…?”</p> <p>Julodis’s head whips back to the mossy stone, where her hand is, indeed, clenched around the jar and jostling it. She gasps. “When did the spider catch the ant? He must have been spinning web all this time they were walking in circles around each other!” She holds the jar up to her eyes, chattering on, “The spider isn’t even moving. Just resting on the web, isn’t moving, just—‘the spider holds his hapless victim close, mourning the law of nature that has led him to kill his queen.’” She sighs as she regards the jar fondly. A passing blue-gold beetle in flight lands on a leaf nearby, and begins to warble an aria in a high, tinny flutter of wings.</p> <p>Sylvain somewhat spoils the effect by muttering, “Actually, I think the spider’s eating.”</p> <p>“She had gnawed on his heart for too long! Artistic license. Look at how the spider cradles the body.”</p> <p>Sylvain manages an awkward chuckle, but quickly stops when he sees Julodis’s expression.</p> <p>“Are… is that a tear?”</p> <p>“Shut up,” is the brisk response.</p> <p>Sylvain directs his eyes skyward (or in the forest’s case, canopy-ward) and stifles an exasperated comment. He withdraws the stack of leaf-pressed paper from his coat, and places it carefully on the mossy stone, in the space vacated by the jar. “Here. From Lady Shiritori. I wonder if these will soon bear words of tragedy and love.”</p> <p>Julodis eyes the paper and grins, and Sylvain is reminded that a thousand years is young for someone who can live to be ten times that age. “Thank you, bird mage,” She says politely. “When you take the path back, take the turn that is lined with mint. Sing your avian songs as you walk, and you will find yourself at a wooden house. Please visit my brother at the foot of the mountain and let him know I have a new story for him. He will ensure the journey is worthwhile.”</p> <p>The words are familiar. “A journey born of friendship is always worthwhile. <em>Sayonara,</em>” Sylvain bows slightly, shoulders his staff, and beats a hasty getaway before he starts to feel too uncomfortably sorry for a spider and an ant.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>“Ah, still writing, is she? That live-action as-it-happens tragic fanfiction stuff?” Vansoni, preferred name Vans, smiles a smile that showed a mouth full of unnaturally sharp (and spiny) teeth. “My sister <em>was</em> always a dreamer. Perhaps that’s why she sees more than most.” The beetle man chuckles as he organizes a pile of assorted small debris on a table that he and the bird mage are seated at.</p> <p>Vans continues to sort through a series of small dark pellets as Sylvain looks around the inside of the house. There are no walls that separate the space into rooms, but small wickerwork contraptions are suspended from cut tree branches that crisscross the ceiling like a web. Metallic beetles crawl like an ever-undulating blanket of color along the network. Vans himself, clad in a colorful loose-fitting coarse-cloth robe, seems to blend in well with them.</p> <p>“In any event, it is good to hear from my little sister again, and good to hear that she has the means to remember her stories. Things are easy to forget over a thousand years, if one cannot write them down.” Vans reaches for a shelving unit under the table and takes something out of one of the drawers. “Please, accept this from the two of us.”</p> <p>Sylvain accepts the cloth sack, hearing whatever it contains rustle as the pouch changes hands. “Thank you.”</p> <p>Vans grins. “The beetles around here are on good terms with the birds. The smaller the limbs, the more delicate work can be done, the more food can be gathered. This blend convinces the birds around here to leave the beetles alone so they can keep gathering the ingredients.”</p> <p>“Blend?” Sylvain inquires, though he feels he knows what the answer will be.</p> <p>The beetle man nods, his stubby antennae bending once in a nod of their own. “Birdseed. Hope you like it.”</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Sylvain walks through the dwindling light of dusk, holding a bag of birdseed, nigh-identical to the one he’d taken from his coat pocket less than a turn of the sun ago.</p> <p>A hundred steps later, he finds him at the base of a magnolia tree his feet have led him to without his head being aware of it. Sylvain leans his staff against the tree and looks up. He shrugs off his coat, tosses it onto a low branch, and scrambles up the crisscrossing sections of wood at the trunk. Leaning back against smooth bark, he opens the package. A moment later he is eating small handfuls of birdseed and humming snatches of avian lullabies as he chews.</p> <p>He hears twittering from somewhere near the large white flowers on the eastern side of the tree. Smiling, the bird mage shifts to the side a little, and pours a neat pile of birdseed onto the three branches he can reach without getting up.</p> <p>The chattering of birdsong lasts long into the evening. <em>There are many words for the sounds of birds,</em> Sylvain thinks, before dozing off.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/birdseed">Birdseed</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/birdseed">https://scpwiki.com/birdseed</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Twitter. Tweet. Chirp. Cheep. Glarblegurglewurblebruuuupslurp. //There are many words for the sounds of birds//, Sylvain Ailier thinks to himself. //But it’s hard to get the sounds of the words right//. Slllsslsllggglglgllsllsggg. A hummingbird, he guesses. He’s heard that strange combination of gurgling and slurping before, and usually the sound is accompanied by the sight of a deceptively innocent-looking tiny bird. Sylvain yawns and hops out of the almost cradle-like circle of weeping willow branches he’d picked out as a sleeping spot the night before. Stretching out his arms and rotating his neck, the bird mage glances at the coat he’d been using as a blanket. Rummaging in the pockets, he withdraws a small cloth bag of birdseed. Smiling to himself, he pulls aside the hanging leaves of the weeping willow and walks out into the crisp morning air. His wandering journeys had taken him to many picturesque places, and the mountain lake he’d stumbled upon while following a swallow was no exception. He enjoys this carefree, never-tied-down life, learning a little spellcasting here, some new words there. Whistling cheerfully, Sylvain pours a liberal amount of birdseed into his open hand. He considers the amount, then sprinkles some of the seeds on his shoulders and sits down. His trusty spirit staff, a keepsake of his first mentor, rests on the ground in front of him. First a small songbird wings its way towards him, perching on his shoulder and pecking at the bird seed. An oriole stops by for a brief moment to sit on his hand and look at him, and soon Sylvain is surrounded by bright eyes and feathers. He looks up when a shadow passes over and something with a wingspan the length of fifty little birds lands in front of him. A Legendary Crow, Sylvain recognizes as the figure approaches on silent feet. Traditional clothes, avian and human features (arms, legs, wings), Japanese //Tengu//, perhaps. Whatever it is, it seems to be eying the still-open bag of birdseed lying on the ground. Sylvain waits patiently for the birds swarming around him to fly off into the trees, and wordlessly picks up the bag of birdseed and hands it to the crow-man, who rasps a word of thanks. “Honored brother, what brings you to me?” The crow-man pauses in his inspection of the birdseed, pulling his beak out of the bag. He folds his wings neatly, rummages in a traveler’s pack slung over his back, and withdraws a small paper-wrapped box. Sylvain takes the proffered item and the crow goes back to pecking at the bag of birdseed. Puzzling out the scrawled characters in black ink on the paper wrapping, Sylvain figures out that he is to make a delivery, to someone who lives deep in these mountains. Very deep. At least half the day’s journey, plus time for stopping to ask directions many times. Sylvain glances at his spirit staff, glad for the many birds that live in the area. Remembering his manners, the bird mage bows to the Tengu, tucking the box into a pocket of his coat. “Consider it done,” Sylvain says, and is rewarded with a friendly squawk from the crow-man before he takes off into the sky again. Sylvain is halfway to his destination and thoroughly lost when he realizes that the Tengu never gave back the birdseed. --- Shiritori Zakuro looks up from the elegant spray of leaves she is carving on the wooden handle of what will soon be a demon priestess’s comb. “Come in,” she calls over her shoulder, as she shifts in her seat and leaves her workspace. Her cotton robe trails a bit on the ground as she creeps on four red exoskeleton feet toward the entryway of her home, but it is the layers upon layers of folded paper decorations that she wears that weigh her down more. Paper birds and delicate //kusudama// tied with thin silk cord are woven into her long hair, and rustle with every move she makes. When he first meets her, Sylvain wonders if Master Shiritori considers herself a fire hazard, what with all the paper she wears. He does not bring up this point at any time he converses with her. Shiritori greets the bird mage graciously, serves him some tea, and takes the package he has delivered, unwrapping the paper and opening the box to find several gold pieces tucked into cloth padding. She smiles at the metal, murmuring something about a divine bow, and tucks the gold pieces into her sleeves. The sleeves are rather wide, Sylvain notices, to accommodate the scythe-like spikes that slant delicately from the master's forearms. He has never seen her in combat, but few mantis-kind battles are long enough to attract spectators. She turns towards the stove where a teakettle is still steaming, and Sylvain sees wings folded neatly at her back. Sipping his tea, Sylvain reflects on his unusual luck. Z.S. of famed Hand lore was said to be a fabled apparatus-maker, a master of the crafting arts and item enchantments, and she’d praised the excellent condition of his spirit staff. Perhaps hearing that was worth wandering through path-less mountain scrub and needing to stop more times than he remembered for directions. He’d had to call several birds out of their daily routines, including one or two rather shady-looking ones with beady eyes and sharp beaks-- Snapping back to attention at the movement of something being pushed across the table towards him, Sylvain breaks through his fog of thoughts in time to hear Master Shiritori inquire as to if he’d be willing to make a delivery to a dear friend of hers in the forest on the western mountainside. It is some paper made of pressed leaves, nothing fancy, but it is something the friend has asked for many times. Sylvain agrees before he completely processes the information that said friend is roughly a thousand years old, somewhat eccentric, and also the relative of many beetles, so please don’t eat any during your visit. “…how many years, again?” He repeats when the silence has stretched just too far for his liking, and Master Shiritori just laughs, her voice like the wind chimes made of bones over her home’s door. “Do not worry about meeting her. A journey born of friendship is always worthwhile.” Her black compound eyes twinkle as she begins to clear the tea things. --- A small figure is crouched before a large mossy rock, eyes fixed on what looks like an empty jar with small holes poked into the lid, sitting atop the stone in a cushion of lichen. Dressed in a tunic and long skirt fashioned from small, multicolored and interconnected metal pieces, the beetle girl Julodis is a bright spot of color in the otherwise dark undergrowth of the forest. Her metallic hair gleams with a blue sheen, which emphasizes the small but noticeable pair of antennae that sprouts from the crown of her head. It has taken nearly three hours for Sylvain to find her, but fortunately the bundle of paper he is delivering is light. Still, he could use a nap, Sylvain thinks. There are many other things he would like to think on as well. What sound does a beetle make when it flies? The bird mage pauses, setting his foot down carefully so as to not startle the girl who is so intent on her observation that she does not seem to move, to breathe. He approaches, slower, more steadily, and when he is close to the beetle girl he peers intently into the jar. He stares. “…what are you doing?” is the first thing that leaves his mouth, though other questions in his mind are vying for recognition, questions such as //“Where did you get that spider”// and //“Where did you get that large ant”// and //“Why are you staring at them climb around a jar.”// Flapping a hand at him silently, the beetle girl whispers back, “Shh. I’m writing a love story.” She smiles a dreamy smile, and continues with a slightly faraway look, “She’s a queen ant. He’s not that special so far as spider kind goes, usually he just barely captures enough of the regular ants to survive, fate threw them together…” she trails off and prods the side of the jar, knocking the spider back to the bottom, where the queen ant is pacing restlessly. “Much as he admires her, much as he intrigues her, he will be her tragic end.” She tilts her head, and the faint, muted sunlight catches on the iridescent beetle wing ornaments that glitter at her ears. Sylvain blinks as he processes this tragic storyline. A few heartbeats of silence later, Sylvain is fiddling with the twine adorning his spirit staff (and also discovering pocket lint in his coat) and he almost timidly offers, “If it’s meant to be a tragedy, I can ask one of my friends to eat them both. Birds eat bugs…” he breaks off, wondering how to word the rest of the statement politely. “That way the spider doesn’t have to kill his, erm, love.” The beetle girl turns around and stares at the bird mage from where she sits, her antennae waving back and forth in agitation. “//No.// It must be their own nature that tears them apart. The heartbreak is more tangible--” “I think,” Sylvain interrupts mildly, “You should stop shaking the jar…?” Julodis’s head whips back to the mossy stone, where her hand is, indeed, clenched around the jar and jostling it. She gasps. “When did the spider catch the ant? He must have been spinning web all this time they were walking in circles around each other!” She holds the jar up to her eyes, chattering on, “The spider isn’t even moving. Just resting on the web, isn’t moving, just--‘the spider holds his hapless victim close, mourning the law of nature that has led him to kill his queen.’” She sighs as she regards the jar fondly. A passing blue-gold beetle in flight lands on a leaf nearby, and begins to warble an aria in a high, tinny flutter of wings. Sylvain somewhat spoils the effect by muttering, “Actually, I think the spider’s eating.” “She had gnawed on his heart for too long! Artistic license. Look at how the spider cradles the body.” Sylvain manages an awkward chuckle, but quickly stops when he sees Julodis’s expression. “Are… is that a tear?” “Shut up,” is the brisk response. Sylvain directs his eyes skyward (or in the forest’s case, canopy-ward) and stifles an exasperated comment. He withdraws the stack of leaf-pressed paper from his coat, and places it carefully on the mossy stone, in the space vacated by the jar. “Here. From Lady Shiritori. I wonder if these will soon bear words of tragedy and love.” Julodis eyes the paper and grins, and Sylvain is reminded that a thousand years is young for someone who can live to be ten times that age. “Thank you, bird mage,” She says politely. “When you take the path back, take the turn that is lined with mint. Sing your avian songs as you walk, and you will find yourself at a wooden house. Please visit my brother at the foot of the mountain and let him know I have a new story for him. He will ensure the journey is worthwhile.” The words are familiar. “A journey born of friendship is always worthwhile. //Sayonara,//” Sylvain bows slightly, shoulders his staff, and beats a hasty getaway before he starts to feel too uncomfortably sorry for a spider and an ant. --- “Ah, still writing, is she? That live-action as-it-happens tragic fanfiction stuff?” Vansoni, preferred name Vans, smiles a smile that showed a mouth full of unnaturally sharp (and spiny) teeth. “My sister //was// always a dreamer. Perhaps that’s why she sees more than most.” The beetle man chuckles as he organizes a pile of assorted small debris on a table that he and the bird mage are seated at. Vans continues to sort through a series of small dark pellets as Sylvain looks around the inside of the house. There are no walls that separate the space into rooms, but small wickerwork contraptions are suspended from cut tree branches that crisscross the ceiling like a web. Metallic beetles crawl like an ever-undulating blanket of color along the network. Vans himself, clad in a colorful loose-fitting coarse-cloth robe, seems to blend in well with them. “In any event, it is good to hear from my little sister again, and good to hear that she has the means to remember her stories. Things are easy to forget over a thousand years, if one cannot write them down.” Vans reaches for a shelving unit under the table and takes something out of one of the drawers. “Please, accept this from the two of us.” Sylvain accepts the cloth sack, hearing whatever it contains rustle as the pouch changes hands. “Thank you.” Vans grins. “The beetles around here are on good terms with the birds. The smaller the limbs, the more delicate work can be done, the more food can be gathered. This blend convinces the birds around here to leave the beetles alone so they can keep gathering the ingredients.” “Blend?” Sylvain inquires, though he feels he knows what the answer will be. The beetle man nods, his stubby antennae bending once in a nod of their own. “Birdseed. Hope you like it.” --- Sylvain walks through the dwindling light of dusk, holding a bag of birdseed, nigh-identical to the one he’d taken from his coat pocket less than a turn of the sun ago. A hundred steps later, he finds him at the base of a magnolia tree his feet have led him to without his head being aware of it. Sylvain leans his staff against the tree and looks up. He shrugs off his coat, tosses it onto a low branch, and scrambles up the crisscrossing sections of wood at the trunk. Leaning back against smooth bark, he opens the package. A moment later he is eating small handfuls of birdseed and humming snatches of avian lullabies as he chews. He hears twittering from somewhere near the large white flowers on the eastern side of the tree. Smiling, the bird mage shifts to the side a little, and pours a neat pile of birdseed onto the three branches he can reach without getting up. The chattering of birdsong lasts long into the evening. //There are many words for the sounds of birds,// Sylvain thinks, before dozing off. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-08T04:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "goi2014", "serpents-hand", "tale" ]	Birdseed - SCP Foundation	37	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "serpent-s-hand-hub" ]	[]	22897949	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/birdseed
birth-by-guitar	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Some people are fond of saying that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. It would be more accurate to say that history is doomed to repeat itself.<br/> - <strong>Excerpt from</strong> <em>The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic</em>, <strong>by Anonymous</strong></p> </blockquote> <p>As the sun set over the Seine river, the migration began. It was slow at first, with a few figures crossing the waters by bridge. As the sky darkened, the travelers multiplied. They came in bicycles, boats, taxis, and trucks. A few walked. A few more ran. The sun sank completely below the horizon, and the migration ceased. The crowd, now a few hundred strong, reached its destination, merging with the multitude of individuals who were already there. It was closing time at the <em>Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques</em>, and the final exhibition was about to begin.</p> <p>The <em>Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques</em> opened its doors for a month every ten years, closing them for fifteen minutes at sundown. A large poster glued to the wall of the gallery lied about the reason for this closing in seventeen different languages. The poster identified the downtime as, among other things, a time to have lunch (French), a cleaning period (English), a dirtying period (German), and a mandatory smoking break (Swahili). In truth, the gallery did not shut down during these fifteen minutes. It simply moved outdoors.</p> <p>The gallery's doors swung closed, and a final figure darted between them. She carried a weathered guitar under her arm. The figure leaned against the side of the building and began to tune her guitar. When the job was finished, she raised her head, acknowledging the crowd for the first time.</p> <p>"Ah!" gasped the Guitarist, feigning surprise. "Who might you lot be?"</p> <p>The crowd erupted into a roar of sound as hundreds of voices rose to answer the question.</p> <p>The Guitarist clicked her tongue. "This simply will not do," she said. "You must appoint a speaker from within your ranks if you wish to be heard." She paused, adjusting a few of the strings on the guitar. "Go on, make your selection. Choose <em>somebody</em> to do the talking. Nobody in particular."</p> <p>As it did every night, the crowd parted to reveal a serene, well-dressed man. The man strode to the front of the crowd and locked eyes with the Guitarist. The crowd held its breath. The man coughed, and the Exchange began. It was an old performance, one that had been scripted decades earlier. As the two players spoke, the members of the audience mouthed the performers' lines, having seen the Exchange dozens of times before.</p> <p>"And who are you?" asked the Guitarist.</p> <p>"I am, as you requested," replied the man, "Nobody in Particular."</p> <p>"Why are you here?" asked the Guitarist, gesturing towards the crowd. "What did you hope to accomplish by gathering before me tonight?"</p> <p>"We have come to be cool."</p> <p>"Why not take a dip in the river, then?" the Guitarist replied with a smile. The crowd chuckled. The joke wasn't particularly funny, and hadn't matured well after a thousand repetitions, but the crowd always chuckled.</p> <p>"We're here to listen to music."</p> <p>"Is there something you had in mind?" the Guitarist asked, lazily strumming a chord.</p> <p>"A special song, stolen from the future." The man doffed his hat.</p> <p>The Guitarist grinned. "Ah, but the future comes later." She placed her hand on the neck of the guitar. "It will be stealing from <em>me</em>."</p> <p>The Exchange was completed. The crowd cheered, then fell silent as the Guitarist began to hum. She tried a few notes before she felt her voice catch on the proper one. She hummed again, and her voice caught again. She tried once more, and felt the catch in her throat tear itself free, releasing a deep, throaty voice. The Guitarist opened her mouth and sang.</p> <p><em>Brother, won't you lend your ear<br/> And help me if you can<br/> 'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair<br/> Of the Manna Charity Man.</em></p> <p><em>They said he had no soul for jailin'<br/> Nor the talents for work in art<br/> The Circus didn't call him, no<br/> He's been helpin' from the start.</em></p> <p><em>Well if manna falls from heaven<br/> Then it lands above our heads<br/> But don't you frown, 'cause the Charity Man<br/> Said he'll keep all of us fed.</em></p> <p><em>Oh, the Fact'ry's still now workin'<br/> Smokestacks pushin' smoke<br/> Assembly line still movin'<br/> Overseer can't take a joke.</em></p> <p><em>Brother, won't you lend your ear<br/> And help me if you can<br/> 'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair<br/> Of the Manna Charity man.</em></p> <p><em>Charity Man said don't you worry, now<br/> Charity Man said don't you cry<br/> Said he's knockin' on doors all the way to Heaven<br/> Ain't nobody gonna turn a blind eye.</em></p> <p><em>Seen Jailers down over by the docks<br/> Jailers don' understand<br/> Jailer-man always askin' if<br/> I've seen the Manna Charity Man.</em></p> <p><em>Charity Man's been workin' on something<br/> Way deep underground<br/> But I ain't seen no Charity Man<br/> Since the Jailers came lookin' 'round.</em></p> <p><em>Brother, won't you lend your ear<br/> And help me if you can<br/> 'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair<br/> Of the Manna Charity man.</em></p> <p>The Guitarist bowed her head, and the crowd applauded. The man smiled and tipped his hat again, vanishing into the throng. The doors of the gallery creaked open, and the wind picked up, carrying the song to the lips of the performer who would sing it for the first time, years later.</p> <hr/> <p>Somewhere between the singers, in a small house in New York, an insomniac tapped his pen against a sheet of paper. He was meant to be writing a highly important letter, concerning nothing less than the fate of humanity, but he could not find the right words. Truth be known, the writer was beginning to doubt his own cause.</p> <p>A breeze blew through the window, and the paper rippled beneath the pen. The writer rose to close his shutters, then froze. For a moment, he was certain that he'd heard a voice drifting through the room along with the wind. Then, he dropped back into his seat and began to write, the voice and the window forgotten.</p> <blockquote> <p>In the interest of sharing all of God's miracles with the least of His children, and in the interest of humanity as a whole, I am pleased to announce the formation of a new organization that shall work towards the liberation of those in poverty, in depression, and in the throes of death. This organization shall hereby be known as the Manna Charitable Foundation. May it prosper for generations to come, and all of mankind with it.</p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/birth-by-guitar">Birth by Guitar</a>" by Zolgamax, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/birth-by-guitar">https://scpwiki.com/birth-by-guitar</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > Some people are fond of saying that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. It would be more accurate to say that history is doomed to repeat itself. > - Excerpt from //The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic//, by Anonymous As the sun set over the Seine river, the migration began. It was slow at first, with a few figures crossing the waters by bridge. As the sky darkened, the travelers multiplied. They came in bicycles, boats, taxis, and trucks. A few walked. A few more ran. The sun sank completely below the horizon, and the migration ceased. The crowd, now a few hundred strong, reached its destination, merging with the multitude of individuals who were already there. It was closing time at the //Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques//, and the final exhibition was about to begin. The //Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques// opened its doors for a month every ten years, closing them for fifteen minutes at sundown. A large poster glued to the wall of the gallery lied about the reason for this closing in seventeen different languages. The poster identified the downtime as, among other things, a time to have lunch (French), a cleaning period (English), a dirtying period (German), and a mandatory smoking break (Swahili). In truth, the gallery did not shut down during these fifteen minutes. It simply moved outdoors. The gallery's doors swung closed, and a final figure darted between them. She carried a weathered guitar under her arm. The figure leaned against the side of the building and began to tune her guitar. When the job was finished, she raised her head, acknowledging the crowd for the first time. "Ah!" gasped the Guitarist, feigning surprise. "Who might you lot be?" The crowd erupted into a roar of sound as hundreds of voices rose to answer the question. The Guitarist clicked her tongue. "This simply will not do," she said. "You must appoint a speaker from within your ranks if you wish to be heard." She paused, adjusting a few of the strings on the guitar. "Go on, make your selection. Choose //somebody// to do the talking. Nobody in particular." As it did every night, the crowd parted to reveal a serene, well-dressed man. The man strode to the front of the crowd and locked eyes with the Guitarist. The crowd held its breath. The man coughed, and the Exchange began. It was an old performance, one that had been scripted decades earlier. As the two players spoke, the members of the audience mouthed the performers' lines, having seen the Exchange dozens of times before. "And who are you?" asked the Guitarist. "I am, as you requested," replied the man, "Nobody in Particular." "Why are you here?" asked the Guitarist, gesturing towards the crowd. "What did you hope to accomplish by gathering before me tonight?" "We have come to be cool." "Why not take a dip in the river, then?" the Guitarist replied with a smile. The crowd chuckled. The joke wasn't particularly funny, and hadn't matured well after a thousand repetitions, but the crowd always chuckled. "We're here to listen to music." "Is there something you had in mind?" the Guitarist asked, lazily strumming a chord. "A special song, stolen from the future." The man doffed his hat. The Guitarist grinned. "Ah, but the future comes later." She placed her hand on the neck of the guitar. "It will be stealing from //me//." The Exchange was completed. The crowd cheered, then fell silent as the Guitarist began to hum. She tried a few notes before she felt her voice catch on the proper one. She hummed again, and her voice caught again. She tried once more, and felt the catch in her throat tear itself free, releasing a deep, throaty voice. The Guitarist opened her mouth and sang. //Brother, won't you lend your ear And help me if you can 'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair Of the Manna Charity Man.// //They said he had no soul for jailin' Nor the talents for work in art The Circus didn't call him, no He's been helpin' from the start.// //Well if manna falls from heaven Then it lands above our heads But don't you frown, 'cause the Charity Man Said he'll keep all of us fed.// //Oh, the Fact'ry's still now workin' Smokestacks pushin' smoke Assembly line still movin' Overseer can't take a joke.// //Brother, won't you lend your ear And help me if you can 'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair Of the Manna Charity man.// //Charity Man said don't you worry, now Charity Man said don't you cry Said he's knockin' on doors all the way to Heaven Ain't nobody gonna turn a blind eye.// //Seen Jailers down over by the docks Jailers don' understand Jailer-man always askin' if I've seen the Manna Charity Man.// //Charity Man's been workin' on something Way deep underground But I ain't seen no Charity Man Since the Jailers came lookin' 'round.// //Brother, won't you lend your ear And help me if you can 'Cause I ain't seen hide nor hair Of the Manna Charity man.// The Guitarist bowed her head, and the crowd applauded. The man smiled and tipped his hat again, vanishing into the throng. The doors of the gallery creaked open, and the wind picked up, carrying the song to the lips of the performer who would sing it for the first time, years later. ------ Somewhere between the singers, in a small house in New York, an insomniac tapped his pen against a sheet of paper. He was meant to be writing a highly important letter, concerning nothing less than the fate of humanity, but he could not find the right words. Truth be known, the writer was beginning to doubt his own cause. A breeze blew through the window, and the paper rippled beneath the pen. The writer rose to close his shutters, then froze. For a moment, he was certain that he'd heard a voice drifting through the room along with the wind. Then, he dropped back into his seat and began to write, the voice and the window forgotten. > In the interest of sharing all of God's miracles with the least of His children, and in the interest of humanity as a whole, I am pleased to announce the formation of a new organization that shall work towards the liberation of those in poverty, in depression, and in the throes of death. This organization shall hereby be known as the Manna Charitable Foundation. May it prosper for generations to come, and all of mankind with it. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-06-24T04:01:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "goi2014", "manna-charitable-foundation", "nobody", "tale" ]	Birth by Guitar - SCP Foundation	62	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[]	22757016	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/birth-by-guitar
birth-of-the-cool	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>In the nineteenth century, the march of progress made it possible for the first time for human science to contemplate and comprehend those phenomena which had long seemed to contravene the laws of nature. Within a matter of decades, concepts that had long been viewed as witchcraft or sorcery were laid bare in the terms of a new and secret science, and governments and organizations around the world began to classify, study, and collect all such anomalies. And, just as artists throughout history have turned a critical eye to the events of the day in their work, so too did the artists of this scientific Renaissance begin to interpret these new discoveries on canvas.</em></p> <p><em>By the 1870s, Paris was the center of the world of anomalous art, and the city stood witness to endless debates about the role of the anomalous in art, or whether such a role existed at all. When in 1874 the famed</em> Salon des Magnifiques <em>refused to allow any "works of a phantasmagorical nature" to be displayed at their grand exhibition, those artists shut out by the committee organized their own counter-exhibition, to be held at the same time across the river. "Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?", as the show came to be called, was the talk of the Parisian press for months, earning equal amounts of curiosity, dismissal, and outright derision, but the exiled gadflies had made their point - the paranormal, the anomalous, and the bizarre had found a place in the world of art and would not be so easily gotten rid of.</em></p> <p><em>"Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?" held its exhibitions every ten years thereafter, and as time passed the world of anomalous art grew larger. From its beginnings in Paris, artists from all across France and Europe, and later from the Americas and the Orient as well, began attending the increasingly prestigious - and increasingly bizarre and difficult to keep hidden from the disdainful eyes of a concerned government - exhibition, expressing new and different interpretations of the role of the anomalous in human life. It was at the sixth decennial exhibition in 1924 that the growing rift between the two largest schools of thought - logical vs. emotional, science vs. faith, Old World vs. New - came to a head, for it was at that show that for the first time, the works of the French surrealist Marcel Duchamp would be exhibited alongside those of Ruiz Marcos, the Mexican artist whose themes of magical realism and religious awe intertwined with the viscerally accessible Forteana of our world had set art critics worldwide at war with each other.</em></p> <p><em>Those who saw the two during the days leading up to the opening of the exhibition said they spent nearly the entire time in heated discussion with one another (in English, for neither spoke the other's mother tongue confidently) about everything under the Sun - the importance of the artist in relation to his work, the importance of context, faith, knowledge, law, free will, God, the State, democracy, Marxism, the war, the League of Nations, and the best way to serve a cup of coffee. It seemed that they might continue bickering throughout the entire exhibition, but as the artists prepared to greet the assembled press on the morning of its grand opening, they appeared to have finally come to an understanding.</em></p> <p><em>If there is one image that comes to the mind of any art historian when the 1924 Expo is brought up, it is of that iconic photo of Duchamp and Ruiz posing side by side with their fellow artists in front of the still-closed doors, Marcos seemingly leaning over to whisper something into Duchamp's ear. For decades, many have speculated on what words Marcos had for his colleague during that memorable instant; a question of metaphysics? Or a challenge? An affirmation of their coming to terms? A reminder of the reason why they were there at that moment of time? Perhaps an expression of amazement at the multitudes that had come to see them? According to one reporter who claimed he stood close enough to overhear that whisper amidst the din of the crowd, it was all five at once, expressed in four simple words;</em></p> <p><em>"Are we cool yet?"</em></p> <p>- <strong>Excerpt from</strong> <em>The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic</em>, <strong>by Anonymous</strong></p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/birth-of-the-cool">Birth of the Cool</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/birth-of-the-cool">https://scpwiki.com/birth-of-the-cool</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > //In the nineteenth century, the march of progress made it possible for the first time for human science to contemplate and comprehend those phenomena which had long seemed to contravene the laws of nature. Within a matter of decades, concepts that had long been viewed as witchcraft or sorcery were laid bare in the terms of a new and secret science, and governments and organizations around the world began to classify, study, and collect all such anomalies. And, just as artists throughout history have turned a critical eye to the events of the day in their work, so too did the artists of this scientific Renaissance begin to interpret these new discoveries on canvas.// > > //By the 1870s, Paris was the center of the world of anomalous art, and the city stood witness to endless debates about the role of the anomalous in art, or whether such a role existed at all. When in 1874 the famed// Salon des Magnifiques //refused to allow any "works of a phantasmagorical nature" to be displayed at their grand exhibition, those artists shut out by the committee organized their own counter-exhibition, to be held at the same time across the river. "Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?", as the show came to be called, was the talk of the Parisian press for months, earning equal amounts of curiosity, dismissal, and outright derision, but the exiled gadflies had made their point - the paranormal, the anomalous, and the bizarre had found a place in the world of art and would not be so easily gotten rid of.// > > //"Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques?" held its exhibitions every ten years thereafter, and as time passed the world of anomalous art grew larger. From its beginnings in Paris, artists from all across France and Europe, and later from the Americas and the Orient as well, began attending the increasingly prestigious - and increasingly bizarre and difficult to keep hidden from the disdainful eyes of a concerned government - exhibition, expressing new and different interpretations of the role of the anomalous in human life. It was at the sixth decennial exhibition in 1924 that the growing rift between the two largest schools of thought - logical vs. emotional, science vs. faith, Old World vs. New - came to a head, for it was at that show that for the first time, the works of the French surrealist Marcel Duchamp would be exhibited alongside those of Ruiz Marcos, the Mexican artist whose themes of magical realism and religious awe intertwined with the viscerally accessible Forteana of our world had set art critics worldwide at war with each other.// > > //Those who saw the two during the days leading up to the opening of the exhibition said they spent nearly the entire time in heated discussion with one another (in English, for neither spoke the other's mother tongue confidently) about everything under the Sun - the importance of the artist in relation to his work, the importance of context, faith, knowledge, law, free will, God, the State, democracy, Marxism, the war, the League of Nations, and the best way to serve a cup of coffee. It seemed that they might continue bickering throughout the entire exhibition, but as the artists prepared to greet the assembled press on the morning of its grand opening, they appeared to have finally come to an understanding.// > > //If there is one image that comes to the mind of any art historian when the 1924 Expo is brought up, it is of that iconic photo of Duchamp and Ruiz posing side by side with their fellow artists in front of the still-closed doors, Marcos seemingly leaning over to whisper something into Duchamp's ear. For decades, many have speculated on what words Marcos had for his colleague during that memorable instant; a question of metaphysics? Or a challenge? An affirmation of their coming to terms? A reminder of the reason why they were there at that moment of time? Perhaps an expression of amazement at the multitudes that had come to see them? According to one reporter who claimed he stood close enough to overhear that whisper amidst the din of the crowd, it was all five at once, expressed in four simple words;// > > //"Are we cool yet?"// > > - Excerpt from //The Coolest War: Memories of a Critic//, by Anonymous [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-06-21T08:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "goi2014", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	Birth of the Cool - SCP Foundation	185	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	22728413	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/birth-of-the-cool
breaking-it-all-down-on-me	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Amcf/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p>The creature that no longer resembled a Hippo and Enrico Momio's soul watched silently as both Locke sisters went away. And took <em>the thing</em> away with them.</p> <p>"The bloody hell was that," Enrico said. He already knew he wasn't able to feel fear anymore.</p> <p>He was beginning to understand his new circumstances. He was simply remembering how he used to feel fear, and thinking he should be feeling fear; but he was not able to feel fear, not even agitation.</p> <p>He could feel disgust, though. And he came to terms with that almost instantly, knowing the rest would come, if only from revulsion.</p> <p><em>Oh, good, I still can be a cynical bastard.</em></p> <p>As they drifted together across nothingness, Enrico desperately clinging to the diminutive dot of presence that was the Hippo's soul, the <em>thing</em> disappeared as Locke carried it away.</p> <p>The creature retorted: "I have no concrete idea, but it has your mean friend in a grasp she cannot break. Perhaps it is a grasp she has accepted. In any case, they do not belong here."</p> <p>"Well, she is an auditor. They can't belong anywhere, that's sort of the point… I wonder where she got it."</p> <p>Enrico scratched the back of his head. When he realized he was doing it out of pure habit, he thought about stopping, but then shrugged and kept scratching.</p> <p>"What is an auditor?," the beast asked.</p> <p>"I thought you knew everything…"</p> <p>"I insist, I am not your sky-god, Enrico. I know little. I dedicate most of my thoughts to controlling the body I made to inhabit it."</p> <p>"Ah. Well, it's like a lawyer, only they can close your entire operation if they feel like you're breaking the rules. Even violently so."</p> <p>"Really. Well, that wouldn't be nice, I like it in here," it said. "I've grown quite settled to my body already."</p> <p>"It's hideous, man. I mean, no offense-no, fuck that, feel offended if you want, it was weird two nights ago, now it's just hideous."</p> <p>"It's a collection of different biological waste from parallel realities, Enrico. Of course it would look strange, even alien to you… to us. That doesn't make it any less comfortable."</p> <p>"Parallel realities?," Enrico said.</p> <p>The creature that no longer resembled a Hippo pondered him. "You didn't even know, did you."</p> <p>"Know what? Oh, never mind. See, we have to help my folks! There are violent people out there, and if that thing… if they get their hands on Locke and the thing, what they will do with it-"</p> <p>"Violent people?"</p> <p>"Militias, I think. Maybe other big players are making a move on us, on our stuff. On you, even."</p> <p>"On me?"</p> <p>"Sure, you can purify water rather quickly, right? Well, there are people out there that would make use of you."</p> <p>"And these… militias are sending me to those people instead of letting me help you?"</p> <p>"After killing my friends, most likely," Enrico added.</p> <p>There was a surge of light as the creature, soul un-carnate, went back into its body. "I should help," it thought, a tinge of genuine concern over its thoughts.</p> <p>"Help? Help how, you told me it'd be problematic-!"</p> <p>The creature's body started to tremble. The nail-like spikes on its back glowed red. There was a trembling noise and everything around Enrico was light for a brief moment.</p> <p>Then the creature came back. "I just helped."</p> <p>"Wait, what? How?"</p> <hr/> <p>While the house was a nice, clean, orderly place, it was in the middle of the Gran Paradiso National Park, Piedmont, and a lake could be seen from two sides of the house; the other two were surrounded by trees. Accessing it was difficult; the closest thing to civilization around it was a dirt road. Most of its floors and ceiling was woodwork. However, everything in it was either comfortable or plain out functional; a home away from everything. A haven.</p> <p>The minimalistic furniture contrasted with a few old relics made of oak wood, dark and baroque.</p> <p>And there was a visitor sitting in the oldest piece of furniture, a slightly dilapidated and dusty armchair. Riding her raised left leg as an expert cavalryman, a tiny girl laughed at the rhythmic movements of her unlikely mount. The visitor was wearing a short bright green dress which contrasted with the tiny girl's, flowery and fairly plain. A man left the kitchen to eye on them both as he cleaned his hands with a rag.</p> <p>"Hello, sis. Heard you coming in," Gary said, "but I didn't wanna disturb your game session."</p> <p>"Dad!," Hada announced, dropping from her aunt's leg. "Aunt Dizzie is staying for dinner!" The man looked at the visitor, brows arcing in surprise.</p> <p>"That so?"</p> <p>"Unless something major goes down in my jurisdiction, yes, I'm staying here," the woman casually said in a grave, kind voice. She looked tired, but happy.</p> <p>The tiny Hada went to the armchair again and hugged her legs. The visitor smiled and caressed her tiny head.</p> <p>Gary smiled at the scene. As he went back to the kitchen, he commented: "Well, we'll have enough for three. You'll eat in the damn chair, as usual?"</p> <p>"If you don't mind," she calmly answered.</p> <p>"Mind? Dammit, I can't imagine what you go through every day, sis, and you still get the job done and find time for us. Of course I don't mind."</p> <p>"Will you tell me stories tonight, auntie?," the adorable whisper melted the visitor's face into another larger, brighter smile, her eyes slightly watery.</p> <p>This was her heaven. Her only rest. The place where she was safe.</p> <p>"Oh, sweetie," she answered, "that's the one thing I have, stories, so many of-"</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">A beat.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">She froze.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <hr/> <div style="text-align: justify ; float: center; border: solid 3px #306bab; width: 500px; padding: 1px 15px; margin: 10px 10px 10px 65px; font-family: arial, sans-serif; background-color: #f2f7fb; box-shadow: 0 1px 3px rgba(0,0,0,.2);"> <p>.- aspid surge<br/> .- analyse: h:ebony-malac - p:natur-flat - w: tight - c:13kCasp<br/> .- checking… 90+/-2%<br/> .- aspid surge convergence confirmed<br/> .- sool region - laascaanood - somalia<br/> .- region marked as UNSTABLE<br/> .- comparing with PSYCHE reports<br/> .- WARNING<br/> .- potential 2-m, 3-m compromise<br/> .- sentinel stallite system alert<br/> .- issuing fullbright alert…</p> </div> <hr/> <p>A beat.</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>"-them."</p> <p>The visitor looked at Hada, the girl's face slowly turning into a sad frown.</p> <p>"They called you now, didn't they?"</p> <p>"What makes you say that?"</p> <p>"When they call you, your eyes always go from being like this-", Hada pulled the corners of her eyes back, turning them into two thin slits, "-to this." Hada pulled them down, and then she shrugged. "And you stop smiling."</p> <p>Her aunt felt pride on her. <em>Three years, and she is this smart already.</em> "Tell your father I'm sorry, dear. Will you?"</p> <p>"But you just arrived," Hada pleaded.</p> <p>With a sad, distant smirk, the visitor caressed her hair. A few strokes, just that. She needed it.</p> <p>Then, knowing that waiting any longer would only make it harder, she stood up and found herself in the dark, narrow safe room by her office, the walls filled with files and cardboard boxes stacked in white shelves.</p> <p>There was no furniture but the old, dilapidated armchair and a perfectly normal stool she used when she had to read something. Her bright green flat shoes, perfectly matching her dress, rested on the low seat.</p> <p>There, there was no older brother in the kitchen.</p> <p>There was no little girl.</p> <p>In her world, there was only the Mission. And a long, demanding mission it was.</p> <p>Steeling herself, she hurried to the security door, decorated with a series of pentacles arranged in a perfect pattern of concealment. She checked her dress, flattening a few wrinkles here and there, and opened the lock.</p> <p>While Madam al Fine wanted to at least glance back at the old armchair, she knew she couldn't afford any further distractions. She walked into her office through the armored panel that hid her study, which closed back once she went through it, seamlessly hiding itself amongst the other parts of the wall.</p> <p>Three people, two of them in military uniforms, were waiting for her. "Let's get to it then. Tell me everything we know," the Scary Lady said.</p> <hr/> <p>"You've warned <em>WHO?"</em></p> <hr/> <p>Six minutes later, inside a bare office in a large official-looking building in Abidjan, a man called 'Pericles' by his superiors and Assistant Director by his subordinates received a call.</p> <p>He stood at attention as he listened to his most absolute superior. Her orders were clear, concise and brief.</p> <p>As soon as he hung up, he started making calls again. He phoned his secretary, his three, most immediate junior officers and a man who, he was aware of it, would do any job he gave him.</p> <p>Even <em>that</em> one.</p> <p>Once 'Pericles' was done, he sat behind his desk. He knew he would be expected briefly in the regional command hub meeting. However, he took a moment to ponder on his life and his loyalties.</p> <p>Suddenly, 'Pericles' made up his mind. He opened a drawer in his desk. At its bottom rested a wooden toy bird and a bag of luminous candy.</p> <hr/> <p>"The Coalition! I think I remember some of your associates speak in very high terms of them when close to my tank. I only assume they will come and help us-you seem concerned."</p> <p>"CONCERNED, it says! ME? About the fucking GOC figuring out we're breaking the 1987's agreement in at least <em>eight</em> points?"</p> <p>"Excuse me?"</p> <p>"We don't deal with the GOC, Hippo. We don't deal with them 'cause they don't actually LIKE us. They think we're more trouble than we're worth, and they think we tell them whenever something goes awry, but this time we haven't told them, and if that <em>thing</em> from before, if Locke-oh God."</p> <p>"I told you I'm not that."</p> <hr/> <p>At the time, Sarah Desjeux was alone in her surgery room. Out of mere habit, she merrily hummed, but she wasn't putting her heart into it; her mind was filled with what her mother would have called 'plenty of bad omens material'.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>-she placed all the boxes with surgical gloves in the top drawer. Then took one of them, which she left with the large bottles of disinfectant-</p> <p>Sarah was not a particularly joyful person. That was one of the most tragic misconceptions about her, and the most common one. She didn't exactly put a facade, either; she just wanted others to realize life could be lived with a smile and a shout and a laugh. That did not mean she was immune to its horrors, of course.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>-she counted all the surgical scissors again. She was missing one, and since they had had three major surgeries that day, and they could have left it in? <em>No,</em> she thought, <em>that can't be,</em> Lila was counting them, she never misses one-</p> <p>Actually, that was not entirely true. After living such a long, busy life, she was beginning to understand the calmness, the serenity with which certain old people used to carry themselves around. The aplomb. And that was what most people would expect of a leader such as herself: composure and seriousness. And that's what they would get.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>-and there was a large splatter of blood where that poor boy's leg had fallen to the ground. She examined it. <em>Still fresh, no trouble.</em> Sarah took a wipe and crouched to deal with the drops, the white floor bright anew as she went through it-</p> <p>That was not to say she was immune to worst things in life, but she was pretty resilient. She had buried dead workmates, she had performed amputations after running out of anesthetics and she had delivered dead children to young mothers who wished. It really didn't get much harder than that, she mused.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><em>-three, four, five, six, seven? I thought we had seven big bandage rolls here.</em> She shook her head. Shouldn't have bought them large rolls, but would they listen? Noooo. <em>We at the Continental Branch know what we do-</em></p> <p>No, life was hard, and it was hard on her too. Day to day life was difficult, filled with work, full of wonders and death alike. But it was good to have fun and try to enjoy it while it lasted; and there was something, something she had felt since she was a child. The smiles. She loved the smiles they dedicated her, and the laughs. She had grown into a person everybody around her liked, or at least respected; and they had grown, she knew it, thanks to that silly short woman under her almost indomitable mop of chestnut hair.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><em>-da doo doo daaa, now we clean around here, antiseptic everywhere and a bit of daa doo oh, what's with racket out there, I can't even think-</em></p> <p>She cleaned the shelf of the last piece of furniture in the surgery room until she felt satisfied with its neatness. She wiped her sweaty face with the back of her hand as soon as she discarded her gloves. Daily work. That was the key. Patching people, patching minds by talking to them and getting to know them. Humans, all of them mortal, all of them little, all of them inconsequential. All of them fragile.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><em>-all of them so very beautiful.</em></p> <p><em>And here I am, all alone,</em> Sarah laughed at her own thoughts. She left the surgery room, going into the busy aisle outside, a few volunteers working with Somali doctors who had come from Mogadischu and Garowe. All of them wore the white-and-green surgical robes provided by the MCF. Some of them, whom she didn't even now, rushed to respond to some emergency. The hospital was alive.</p> <p>That was the part of a project she loved the most. See it outgrow her.</p> <p>As she glanced through one of the windows in the well-illuminated aisle, Sarah felt, if not happy, content.</p> <p>And then, as the small toy bird she always carried around and used in private to talk to her superiors and a few well-placed friends started to vibrate with the voice of a man she once knew, the window exploded towards her.</p> <hr/> <p>"No, you don't get it. There is a basic law when dealing with the GOC and trans-reality stuff."</p> <p>"There is?"</p> <p>"Yes. Just don't do it."</p> <hr/> <p>When Frank reached the place where the shooting had gone down, he had been expecting to find a PR mess and a few injured people.</p> <p>Instead, he was met by a horrid scene.</p> <p>Several corpses were scattered around the now extinguished bonfire, where their volunteers had been burning meat — My orders. — as the gasoline-soaked wood underneath it had burn completely. As he came closer to it, he realized there were living, breathing animals in the pile, miraculously calm and silent. Some of their corpses were intertwined, already growing back and combining. Frank grimaced. <em>There we go, Dodger's undying pets. Great.</em></p> <p>Frank wondered where she was. He could use a bit of Mission Watch insight now.</p> <p>The largest one, the head of a particularly badly hurt wildebeest, looked at him. Half its neck was covered in dirt. Under its neck, the rest of the body was covered in bleeding injuries and burns.</p> <p>Frank noticed the bleeding was slowly decaying, the corpse rapidly recovering from the injuries it had suffered. <em>Not enough hurt to put you down, right, big guy?</em></p> <p>As if answering his thoughts, it softly bellowed. One of the AMISOM soldiers jolted and shot it twice.</p> <p>Frank grimaced. He turned to the other part of the scene. But he did not want to do it. He did not want to check on the bodies.</p> <p>The Executive Security member went over the corpses, he made the count. Seven of them wore white and green vests. At least ten were civilians. Six more were militians, perhaps irregulars that tried to stop the violence; most of their guns were gone. Some were piled in mounds, muddied and bloodied.</p> <p>Frank noticed one of the corpses was oddly familiar. His heart sunk as he recognized Enrico Momio's corpse.</p> <p>He had work with him for years. He felt the need to sit somewhere and sleep, sleep for a hundred years. Instead, he closed his eyes, open in an expression of surprise.</p> <p>"See ya, you pest," he whispered. "Will keep an eye on Tino for you."</p> <p>"This is more than just one shooting. They've killed a bunch of armed veterans! We have to report to our superiors, right now!," their sergeant said. Frank nervously nodded.</p> <p>"And it was not bandits, either. This is probably people from Laascaanood itself, angry over our decision to incinerate the meat," he said. The soldier cursed in Arab, but Frank did not have the time to argue. "Warn your superiors, tell them to bring here whatever men they can spare. Please. If they attack us, they will murder all of us. They will probably go after all those who supported us, as well. This could very well turn into a bloodbath. The hospital is our only quarters in the area and it is a very evident target, so as soon as you-"</p> <p>And then, he saw the explosion in the distant hospital. When the sound reached them, he was already running towards it, with a pistol he took from a dead member of the militia.</p> <hr/> <p>"Don't do it? At all?"</p> <p>"They get real serious about it, too. They're all about causal cross-contamination and timestream fussion or collision between parallel Earths and stuff like that. They get <em>real</em> serious. Real, <em>kill</em> everyone around the stuff itself just in case, serious!"</p> <p>"They do?"</p> <p>"YES!"</p> <p>"Well, then I don't understand why would anyone talk anything but ill of them. Your friends must be all liars."</p> <hr/> <p>Last Hearth, AKA, Hearth Actual, AKA the Stoker, was calmly debriefing his boys as they flew to their target. He liked to think of them as "boys", despite the fact that they weren't children nor exclusively men.</p> <p>"Target is, as of now, unknown but present in a Manna Charitable Foundation station in Laascaanood, Somalia. As luck would have it, most AMISOM and Puntaland military units are out of town. As <em>bad</em> luck would have it, PSYCHE warns us of very high risk of local violence due to a combination of anomalous activities conducted by the MCF and inter-tribal or sectary violence. In fewer words, boys, this is an all-out assault, another one."</p> <p>That's what they called him for, usually. Him and his boys. He pondered them briefly; two hundred of the brightest and best the Coalition had, deployed by chopper from Mogadischu 'cause, why, no apportation-capable Strike Teams were available at the time! And they needed a large Strike force this time, since riots and mass control might become an issue!</p> <p>Faint-hearted bastards, all of them.</p> <p>"Sentinel satellite 22 detected a huge Aspect Radiation spike near the town. It was Ebony, but brief. Very brief. We are not certain of the precise location of the entity that generated it, but it's pretty obvious that it should be in an MCF location. Problem is, with ongoing local violence, we will get in trouble if we just jump in… and it might be worse to not do so at all. We all know what will happen if other groups get their hands on an Ebony hue entity."</p> <p>They all knew. They had all lived through situations like those, generally to take back whatever the bad guys took for their personal use, and then set it on fire so that nobody else could use it. The very reason why the Global Occult Coalition existed. Last Hearth occasionally thought people upstairs were too interested in their own damned careers to remember that.</p> <p>"So we will attack first any group of non-anomalous combatants that may look like they are attacking MCF interests in the area. We will also be going in sort of blind. We will be going against civilians, militias and perhaps even the MCF volunteers themselves, if they are responsible for this mess."</p> <p>There were other Coalition teams available to deal with the problem, but they had chosen him and Team Phalanx for a reason. The reason being they knew everything there was about getting their hands dirty <em>before</em> joining the Team. Nowadays, every single one of them underwent post-mission memory wipes to keep them sane, or at least functional. Every single one of them was obsessed with physical form, absolutely committed to the five-fold Mission and conditioned to obey to him. Many of them had had organs replaced by wetware and hardware devices as part of the APAR(T) program, and one of them had even been selected for the SPAR(TA) testing program. He was basically a machine at that point, more a weapon than people. <em>My boys,</em> Umber proudly mused.</p> <p>"However, Mission-wise, this operation is to focus on Destruction. If Destruction is impossible, we will simply prioritize Survival and retrieve the item for further study. Concealment is secondary; the entire area has been put in a communications blackout by PSYCHE, and they'll chalk it all up to tribal violence when the deal is done and journalists are allowed to go back to the streets."</p> <p>And then, he waited for a moment before continuing.</p> <p>"Protection, in an operation where we can expect locals resisting to us, is a minor concern. In other words, business as usual. ETA: two hours, at around eight and a half local time."</p> <p>As their helicopters came closer to the place, Hearth checked once and again on updates from PSYCHE and the Sentinel network. There were no news from the latter, but the Special Observers and the only Assessment Team in the area reported many bad news on the civilian front.</p> <p>Other Team Leaders would have frowned, grunted and asked their superiors to reconsider their role in all that. Maybe send another group, or just try a different, more discreet approach.</p> <p>Team Leader Hearth would not.</p> <hr/> <p>"Fuck. Never mind, you just don't get what you've done," Enrico's soul said. The Hippo's soul seemed embarrassed about the whole thing.</p> <p>"So…," it started, "I have an idea. You said you wanted to be alive again, didn't you?"</p> <p>"I can!?," Enrico jumped.</p> <p>"Not in your old carcass, it's wasted. I checked. Mmm… but there is another possibility."</p> <hr/> <p>Olympe had felt the blast rather than hear it, since he was tinkering with Garziel and Poitriburg on the Old Orange. Technically, he was not allowed to teach them how to do it, but he had done it anyways.</p> <p>"Ziel, Poitri, go see what that was, please," he told his trainees. "Do what you have to protect the hospital. I'll charge Oldie."</p> <p>As the women left the garage in a hurry, their robes still stained with oil and the semi-abnormal fluids used by the machine's engine, he stood in front of the Old Orange and looked at the canister where he would be enclosed.</p> <p>Technically, he was not allowed to try and put layers of armor on it, but he was about to anyways.</p> <hr/> <p>Rico's memory of a face grimaced. "I'm not possessing a person."</p> <p>"Oh, no, everyone finds mind-riding very inconsiderate even in cases of emergency such as this! Not to mention the kind of control required takes a long time to master… No, you wouldn't be possessing creatures that might have pure, immutable souls. You'd be, uh, <em>possessing</em> creatures with <em>no</em> mind."</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>"You are familiar with the orchard somebody planted nearby the camp, I believe?</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-hammer-falls">The Hammer Falls</a> \| <a href="/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/taking-a-break-from-all-your-worries">Taking a Break from All your Worries</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/breaking-it-all-down-on-me">Breaking It All Down On Me</a>" by Dr Reach, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/breaking-it-all-down-on-me">https://scpwiki.com/breaking-it-all-down-on-me</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:mcf">:scp-wiki:theme:mcf</a>]] [[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] The creature that no longer resembled a Hippo and Enrico Momio's soul watched silently as both Locke sisters went away. And took //the thing// away with them. "The bloody hell was that," Enrico said. He already knew he wasn't able to feel fear anymore. He was beginning to understand his new circumstances. He was simply remembering how he used to feel fear, and thinking he should be feeling fear; but he was not able to feel fear, not even agitation. He could feel disgust, though. And he came to terms with that almost instantly, knowing the rest would come, if only from revulsion. //Oh, good, I still can be a cynical bastard.// As they drifted together across nothingness, Enrico desperately clinging to the diminutive dot of presence that was the Hippo's soul, the //thing// disappeared as Locke carried it away. The creature retorted: "I have no concrete idea, but it has your mean friend in a grasp she cannot break. Perhaps it is a grasp she has accepted. In any case, they do not belong here." "Well, she is an auditor. They can't belong anywhere, that's sort of the point… I wonder where she got it." Enrico scratched the back of his head. When he realized he was doing it out of pure habit, he thought about stopping, but then shrugged and kept scratching. "What is an auditor?," the beast asked. "I thought you knew everything…" "I insist, I am not your sky-god, Enrico. I know little. I dedicate most of my thoughts to controlling the body I made to inhabit it." "Ah. Well, it's like a lawyer, only they can close your entire operation if they feel like you're breaking the rules. Even violently so." "Really. Well, that wouldn't be nice, I like it in here," it said. "I've grown quite settled to my body already." "It's hideous, man. I mean, no offense-no, fuck that, feel offended if you want, it was weird two nights ago, now it's just hideous." "It's a collection of different biological waste from parallel realities, Enrico. Of course it would look strange, even alien to you... to us. That doesn't make it any less comfortable." "Parallel realities?," Enrico said. The creature that no longer resembled a Hippo pondered him. "You didn't even know, did you." "Know what? Oh, never mind. See, we have to help my folks! There are violent people out there, and if that thing… if they get their hands on Locke and the thing, what they will do with it-" "Violent people?" "Militias, I think. Maybe other big players are making a move on us, on our stuff. On you, even." "On me?" "Sure, you can purify water rather quickly, right? Well, there are people out there that would make use of you." "And these... militias are sending me to those people instead of letting me help you?" "After killing my friends, most likely," Enrico added. There was a surge of light as the creature, soul un-carnate, went back into its body. "I should help," it thought, a tinge of genuine concern over its thoughts. "Help? Help how, you told me it'd be problematic-!" The creature's body started to tremble. The nail-like spikes on its back glowed red. There was a trembling noise and everything around Enrico was light for a brief moment. Then the creature came back. "I just helped." "Wait, what? How?" ------ While the house was a nice, clean, orderly place, it was in the middle of the Gran Paradiso National Park, Piedmont, and a lake could be seen from two sides of the house; the other two were surrounded by trees. Accessing it was difficult; the closest thing to civilization around it was a dirt road. Most of its floors and ceiling was woodwork. However, everything in it was either comfortable or plain out functional; a home away from everything. A haven. The minimalistic furniture contrasted with a few old relics made of oak wood, dark and baroque. And there was a visitor sitting in the oldest piece of furniture, a slightly dilapidated and dusty armchair. Riding her raised left leg as an expert cavalryman, a tiny girl laughed at the rhythmic movements of her unlikely mount. The visitor was wearing a short bright green dress which contrasted with the tiny girl's, flowery and fairly plain. A man left the kitchen to eye on them both as he cleaned his hands with a rag. "Hello, sis. Heard you coming in," Gary said, "but I didn't wanna disturb your game session." "Dad!," Hada announced, dropping from her aunt's leg. "Aunt Dizzie is staying for dinner!" The man looked at the visitor, brows arcing in surprise. "That so?" "Unless something major goes down in my jurisdiction, yes, I'm staying here," the woman casually said in a grave, kind voice. She looked tired, but happy. The tiny Hada went to the armchair again and hugged her legs. The visitor smiled and caressed her tiny head. Gary smiled at the scene. As he went back to the kitchen, he commented: "Well, we'll have enough for three. You'll eat in the damn chair, as usual?" "If you don't mind," she calmly answered. "Mind? Dammit, I can't imagine what you go through every day, sis, and you still get the job done and find time for us. Of course I don't mind." "Will you tell me stories tonight, auntie?," the adorable whisper melted the visitor's face into another larger, brighter smile, her eyes slightly watery. This was her heaven. Her only rest. The place where she was safe. "Oh, sweetie," she answered, "that's the one thing I have, stories, so many of-" [[collapsible show="A beat." hide="She froze."]] ------ [[div style="text-align: justify ; float: center; border: solid 3px #306bab; width: 500px; padding: 1px 15px; margin: 10px 10px 10px 65px; font-family: arial, sans-serif; background-color: #f2f7fb; box-shadow: 0 1px 3px rgba(0,0,0,.2);"]] .- aspid surge .- analyse: h:ebony-malac - p:natur-flat - w: tight - c:13kCasp .- checking… 90+/-2% .- aspid surge convergence confirmed .- sool region - laascaanood - somalia .- region marked as UNSTABLE .- comparing with PSYCHE reports .- WARNING .- potential 2-m, 3-m compromise .- sentinel stallite system alert .- issuing fullbright alert… [[/div]] ------ A beat.[[/collapsible]] "-them." The visitor looked at Hada, the girl's face slowly turning into a sad frown. "They called you now, didn't they?" "What makes you say that?" "When they call you, your eyes always go from being like this-", Hada pulled the corners of her eyes back, turning them into two thin slits, "-to this." Hada pulled them down, and then she shrugged. "And you stop smiling." Her aunt felt pride on her. //Three years, and she is this smart already.// "Tell your father I'm sorry, dear. Will you?" "But you just arrived," Hada pleaded. With a sad, distant smirk, the visitor caressed her hair. A few strokes, just that. She needed it. Then, knowing that waiting any longer would only make it harder, she stood up and found herself in the dark, narrow safe room by her office, the walls filled with files and cardboard boxes stacked in white shelves. There was no furniture but the old, dilapidated armchair and a perfectly normal stool she used when she had to read something. Her bright green flat shoes, perfectly matching her dress, rested on the low seat. There, there was no older brother in the kitchen. There was no little girl. In her world, there was only the Mission. And a long, demanding mission it was. Steeling herself, she hurried to the security door, decorated with a series of pentacles arranged in a perfect pattern of concealment. She checked her dress, flattening a few wrinkles here and there, and opened the lock. While Madam al Fine wanted to at least glance back at the old armchair, she knew she couldn't afford any further distractions. She walked into her office through the armored panel that hid her study, which closed back once she went through it, seamlessly hiding itself amongst the other parts of the wall. Three people, two of them in military uniforms, were waiting for her. "Let's get to it then. Tell me everything we know," the Scary Lady said. ------ "You've warned //WHO?"// ------ Six minutes later, inside a bare office in a large official-looking building in Abidjan, a man called 'Pericles' by his superiors and Assistant Director by his subordinates received a call. He stood at attention as he listened to his most absolute superior. Her orders were clear, concise and brief. As soon as he hung up, he started making calls again. He phoned his secretary, his three, most immediate junior officers and a man who, he was aware of it, would do any job he gave him. Even //that// one. Once 'Pericles' was done, he sat behind his desk. He knew he would be expected briefly in the regional command hub meeting. However, he took a moment to ponder on his life and his loyalties. Suddenly, 'Pericles' made up his mind. He opened a drawer in his desk. At its bottom rested a wooden toy bird and a bag of luminous candy. ------ "The Coalition! I think I remember some of your associates speak in very high terms of them when close to my tank. I only assume they will come and help us-you seem concerned." "CONCERNED, it says! ME? About the fucking GOC figuring out we're breaking the 1987's agreement in at least //eight// points?" "Excuse me?" "We don't deal with the GOC, Hippo. We don't deal with them 'cause they don't actually LIKE us. They think we're more trouble than we're worth, and they think we tell them whenever something goes awry, but this time we haven't told them, and if that //thing// from before, if Locke-oh God." "I told you I'm not that." ------ At the time, Sarah Desjeux was alone in her surgery room. Out of mere habit, she merrily hummed, but she wasn't putting her heart into it; her mind was filled with what her mother would have called 'plenty of bad omens material'. @@ @@-she placed all the boxes with surgical gloves in the top drawer. Then took one of them, which she left with the large bottles of disinfectant- Sarah was not a particularly joyful person. That was one of the most tragic misconceptions about her, and the most common one. She didn't exactly put a facade, either; she just wanted others to realize life could be lived with a smile and a shout and a laugh. That did not mean she was immune to its horrors, of course. @@ @@-she counted all the surgical scissors again. She was missing one, and since they had had three major surgeries that day, and they could have left it in? //No,// she thought, //that can't be,// Lila was counting them, she never misses one- Actually, that was not entirely true. After living such a long, busy life, she was beginning to understand the calmness, the serenity with which certain old people used to carry themselves around. The aplomb. And that was what most people would expect of a leader such as herself: composure and seriousness. And that's what they would get. @@ @@-and there was a large splatter of blood where that poor boy's leg had fallen to the ground. She examined it. //Still fresh, no trouble.// Sarah took a wipe and crouched to deal with the drops, the white floor bright anew as she went through it- That was not to say she was immune to worst things in life, but she was pretty resilient. She had buried dead workmates, she had performed amputations after running out of anesthetics and she had delivered dead children to young mothers who wished. It really didn't get much harder than that, she mused. @@ @@//-three, four, five, six, seven? I thought we had seven big bandage rolls here.// She shook her head. Shouldn't have bought them large rolls, but would they listen? Noooo. //We at the Continental Branch know what we do-// No, life was hard, and it was hard on her too. Day to day life was difficult, filled with work, full of wonders and death alike. But it was good to have fun and try to enjoy it while it lasted; and there was something, something she had felt since she was a child. The smiles. She loved the smiles they dedicated her, and the laughs. She had grown into a person everybody around her liked, or at least respected; and they had grown, she knew it, thanks to that silly short woman under her almost indomitable mop of chestnut hair. @@ @@//-da doo doo daaa, now we clean around here, antiseptic everywhere and a bit of daa doo oh, what's with racket out there, I can't even think-// She cleaned the shelf of the last piece of furniture in the surgery room until she felt satisfied with its neatness. She wiped her sweaty face with the back of her hand as soon as she discarded her gloves. Daily work. That was the key. Patching people, patching minds by talking to them and getting to know them. Humans, all of them mortal, all of them little, all of them inconsequential. All of them fragile. @@ @@//-all of them so very beautiful.// //And here I am, all alone,// Sarah laughed at her own thoughts. She left the surgery room, going into the busy aisle outside, a few volunteers working with Somali doctors who had come from Mogadischu and Garowe. All of them wore the white-and-green surgical robes provided by the MCF. Some of them, whom she didn't even now, rushed to respond to some emergency. The hospital was alive. That was the part of a project she loved the most. See it outgrow her. As she glanced through one of the windows in the well-illuminated aisle, Sarah felt, if not happy, content. And then, as the small toy bird she always carried around and used in private to talk to her superiors and a few well-placed friends started to vibrate with the voice of a man she once knew, the window exploded towards her. ------ "No, you don't get it. There is a basic law when dealing with the GOC and trans-reality stuff." "There is?" "Yes. Just don't do it." ------ When Frank reached the place where the shooting had gone down, he had been expecting to find a PR mess and a few injured people. Instead, he was met by a horrid scene. Several corpses were scattered around the now extinguished bonfire, where their volunteers had been burning meat — My orders. — as the gasoline-soaked wood underneath it had burn completely. As he came closer to it, he realized there were living, breathing animals in the pile, miraculously calm and silent. Some of their corpses were intertwined, already growing back and combining. Frank grimaced. //There we go, Dodger's undying pets. Great.// Frank wondered where she was. He could use a bit of Mission Watch insight now. The largest one, the head of a particularly badly hurt wildebeest, looked at him. Half its neck was covered in dirt. Under its neck, the rest of the body was covered in bleeding injuries and burns. Frank noticed the bleeding was slowly decaying, the corpse rapidly recovering from the injuries it had suffered. //Not enough hurt to put you down, right, big guy?// As if answering his thoughts, it softly bellowed. One of the AMISOM soldiers jolted and shot it twice. Frank grimaced. He turned to the other part of the scene. But he did not want to do it. He did not want to check on the bodies. The Executive Security member went over the corpses, he made the count. Seven of them wore white and green vests. At least ten were civilians. Six more were militians, perhaps irregulars that tried to stop the violence; most of their guns were gone. Some were piled in mounds, muddied and bloodied. Frank noticed one of the corpses was oddly familiar. His heart sunk as he recognized Enrico Momio's corpse. He had work with him for years. He felt the need to sit somewhere and sleep, sleep for a hundred years. Instead, he closed his eyes, open in an expression of surprise. "See ya, you pest," he whispered. "Will keep an eye on Tino for you." "This is more than just one shooting. They've killed a bunch of armed veterans! We have to report to our superiors, right now!," their sergeant said. Frank nervously nodded. "And it was not bandits, either. This is probably people from Laascaanood itself, angry over our decision to incinerate the meat," he said. The soldier cursed in Arab, but Frank did not have the time to argue. "Warn your superiors, tell them to bring here whatever men they can spare. Please. If they attack us, they will murder all of us. They will probably go after all those who supported us, as well. This could very well turn into a bloodbath. The hospital is our only quarters in the area and it is a very evident target, so as soon as you-" And then, he saw the explosion in the distant hospital. When the sound reached them, he was already running towards it, with a pistol he took from a dead member of the militia. ------ "Don't do it? At all?" "They get real serious about it, too. They're all about causal cross-contamination and timestream fussion or collision between parallel Earths and stuff like that. They get //real// serious. Real, //kill// everyone around the stuff itself just in case, serious!" "They do?" "YES!" "Well, then I don't understand why would anyone talk anything but ill of them. Your friends must be all liars." ------ Last Hearth, AKA, Hearth Actual, AKA the Stoker, was calmly debriefing his boys as they flew to their target. He liked to think of them as "boys", despite the fact that they weren't children nor exclusively men. "Target is, as of now, unknown but present in a Manna Charitable Foundation station in Laascaanood, Somalia. As luck would have it, most AMISOM and Puntaland military units are out of town. As //bad// luck would have it, PSYCHE warns us of very high risk of local violence due to a combination of anomalous activities conducted by the MCF and inter-tribal or sectary violence. In fewer words, boys, this is an all-out assault, another one." That's what they called him for, usually. Him and his boys. He pondered them briefly; two hundred of the brightest and best the Coalition had, deployed by chopper from Mogadischu 'cause, why, no apportation-capable Strike Teams were available at the time! And they needed a large Strike force this time, since riots and mass control might become an issue! Faint-hearted bastards, all of them. "Sentinel satellite 22 detected a huge Aspect Radiation spike near the town. It was Ebony, but brief. Very brief. We are not certain of the precise location of the entity that generated it, but it's pretty obvious that it should be in an MCF location. Problem is, with ongoing local violence, we will get in trouble if we just jump in... and it might be worse to not do so at all. We all know what will happen if other groups get their hands on an Ebony hue entity." They all knew. They had all lived through situations like those, generally to take back whatever the bad guys took for their personal use, and then set it on fire so that nobody else could use it. The very reason why the Global Occult Coalition existed. Last Hearth occasionally thought people upstairs were too interested in their own damned careers to remember that. "So we will attack first any group of non-anomalous combatants that may look like they are attacking MCF interests in the area. We will also be going in sort of blind. We will be going against civilians, militias and perhaps even the MCF volunteers themselves, if they are responsible for this mess." There were other Coalition teams available to deal with the problem, but they had chosen him and Team Phalanx for a reason. The reason being they knew everything there was about getting their hands dirty //before// joining the Team. Nowadays, every single one of them underwent post-mission memory wipes to keep them sane, or at least functional. Every single one of them was obsessed with physical form, absolutely committed to the five-fold Mission and conditioned to obey to him. Many of them had had organs replaced by wetware and hardware devices as part of the APAR(T) program, and one of them had even been selected for the SPAR(TA) testing program. He was basically a machine at that point, more a weapon than people. //My boys,// Umber proudly mused. "However, Mission-wise, this operation is to focus on Destruction. If Destruction is impossible, we will simply prioritize Survival and retrieve the item for further study. Concealment is secondary; the entire area has been put in a communications blackout by PSYCHE, and they'll chalk it all up to tribal violence when the deal is done and journalists are allowed to go back to the streets." And then, he waited for a moment before continuing. "Protection, in an operation where we can expect locals resisting to us, is a minor concern. In other words, business as usual. ETA: two hours, at around eight and a half local time." As their helicopters came closer to the place, Hearth checked once and again on updates from PSYCHE and the Sentinel network. There were no news from the latter, but the Special Observers and the only Assessment Team in the area reported many bad news on the civilian front. Other Team Leaders would have frowned, grunted and asked their superiors to reconsider their role in all that. Maybe send another group, or just try a different, more discreet approach. Team Leader Hearth would not. ------ "Fuck. Never mind, you just don't get what you've done," Enrico's soul said. The Hippo's soul seemed embarrassed about the whole thing. "So...," it started, "I have an idea. You said you wanted to be alive again, didn't you?" "I can!?," Enrico jumped. "Not in your old carcass, it's wasted. I checked. Mmm... but there is another possibility." ------ Olympe had felt the blast rather than hear it, since he was tinkering with Garziel and Poitriburg on the Old Orange. Technically, he was not allowed to teach them how to do it, but he had done it anyways. "Ziel, Poitri, go see what that was, please," he told his trainees. "Do what you have to protect the hospital. I'll charge Oldie." As the women left the garage in a hurry, their robes still stained with oil and the semi-abnormal fluids used by the machine's engine, he stood in front of the Old Orange and looked at the canister where he would be enclosed. Technically, he was not allowed to try and put layers of armor on it, but he was about to anyways. ------ Rico's memory of a face grimaced. "I'm not possessing a person." "Oh, no, everyone finds mind-riding very inconsiderate even in cases of emergency such as this! Not to mention the kind of control required takes a long time to master... No, you wouldn't be possessing creatures that might have pure, immutable souls. You'd be, uh, //possessing// creatures with //no// mind." "What?" "You are familiar with the orchard somebody planted nearby the camp, I believe? ------ [[=]] << [[[The Hammer Falls]]] \| [[[manna-charitable-foundation-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Taking a Break from All your Worries]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-07T20:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "anabasis", "dc-al-fine", "global-occult-coalition", "goi2014", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale" ]	Breaking It All Down On Me - SCP Foundation	23	[ "the-hammer-falls", "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "taking-a-break-from-all-your-worries", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "goc-hub-page" ]	[]	22894901	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/breaking-it-all-down-on-me
breaking-it-down-to-me	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Amcf/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <br/> Frank felt just a bit claustrophobic. <p>The darkroom was, appropriately enough, a tiny, dark, hot and incredibly moist hellhole with an actual hole in the middle, which was enough for anyone to be a little dizzy. The ceiling was barely a meter and eighty centimeters high, and it felt like it was breathing, periodically combing under its own weight.</p> <p>However, the oppressive atmosphere was minor in comparison to the smell that penetrated everything. Frank just knew that, despite the mask and the overall, it would stick to him, his clothes, his skin and his hair. It would probably violate the taste of every meal he had in days or weeks and turn his daily ablutions into a nightmare.</p> <p><em>I hate this Vestan stuff,</em> he growled to himself.</p> <p>In any case, Frank couldn't deny the efficiency of the Third Vestan Donation. The hard-working fungi were rising a building where there had been just an empty patch of arid, barren land; a building destined to become a hospital with fifty beds, employing thirty or more permanent personnel, equipped with an independent source of electricity and clean water.</p> <p>It was just that the floors still felt — and smelt — like they were made of compacted compost and decaying reed.</p> <p>But the room was growing, as was the rest of the complex. It would become an actual darkroom at some point in the next days. And the final product would be just a facade for the tunnel which was growing from its floor.</p> <p>Growing and digging at the same time. It was a novel concept for Frank, whose limited notions of construction screamed at him that all that removed soil and rock had to be going <em>somewhere</em>.</p> <p>From the looks of it, it seemed to be going straight to the ceiling.</p> <p>"When will it be finished?"</p> <p>Frank focused on Priscilla Locke. In the day they had been together, she had told him about some aspects of her life in the old universe. He <em>knew</em> her mentality would be a problem. Even if he didn't want to blame her for it, her occasional grimace and racist remarks were enough to attract unwanted attention.</p> <p>He would have to give her some guidelines and ban some topics. Tell her to just avoid certain conversations. But even so, he had no idea of how she had found the Charitable, or joined. Or, for that matter, how had she been accepted by the Mission Board.</p> <p>Both of them were standing over the edge of an unfinished tunnel that would lead straight to the underground laboratory where she would test her thing, whatever it was. In the meantime, he was neither allowed to know what the thing itself was — old feelings of frustration stirred at the mere thought of secrets upon secrets piling up away from his sight — nor cleared to know exactly who she was.</p> <p>"It should be done in ten to thirteen hours, miss Locke," Jacob answered, solicitous from the threshold of the wide hole that would become the only door, in the room. "It's actually a bit of an experiment, we have never used the Vestan Donation to dig an underground repository."</p> <p>"A… repository," Frank blurted. He felt more than saw Priscilla's eyes drilling through his skull, but the good man didn't even notice the implied question in Frank's words.</p> <p>"Yes!", stated the Rabbi, joyously ignorant of the scene. "I didn't even think of that, and it's a great idea! We are growing a water repository down here! See, we have reasonable doubts that the Milking Maggots' main vector is another parasitic microorganism, <em>Giardia lamblia</em>, that can easily contaminate water sources. It can be a bad fucker, if you will pardon the expression, because it provokes diarrhea and water supply around here is an-"</p> <p>"Thank you, Doctor." Priss said with an absent smile, "Is it running smoothly?"</p> <p>"Definitely, definitely smoothly!" Jacob almost sung. "No aberrant growths, no discombobulated parts, everything according to the plans you brought, miss Locke!"</p> <p>"Just… Locke."</p> <p>"Oh, thank you, you may call me Jacob. Or Rabbi! Everyone calls me Rabbi."</p> <p>It was Frank's turn to stare at Priscilla's expression, that was rapidly becoming sour.</p> <p>Nobody knew who she was around there. Nobody but Frank… and even he could not point out exactly what was wrong with her.</p> <p>"Thanks, Rabbi," he ended up saying to the politely confused biologist. "Now, I'll be showing Priscilla-"</p> <p>"Miss Locke."</p> <p>"I'll be showing miss Locke the procedural growth of a 1-Vestan, and then we'll go back to the camp. Okay?"</p> <p>"Sure! Have a nice day, Priscilla!", said the Rabbi.</p> <p>A few moments after Jacob had left the dark, moist room, Frank looked at her associate. "Okay, now, really, what's your deal?"</p> <p>Priscilla had the decency to seem distressed. She gnawed idly on her lower lip, a sharp exhale leaving her lips, as she resisted the urge to blurt out something most likely anti-semitic. "It's just hard, is all… like, imagine going to work and having-" Frank was staring at her, his withering look all the warning she needed; Locke caught herself this time. "-A bunch of talking velociraptors among your co-workers— "</p> <p>"Sure, fine, okay, never mind," Frank half-shouted at her. "Consider this: you are now the only real, decent, genetically sanctioned human being left from your universe. Everyone else here is a subhuman moron. How do you feel about it?"</p> <p>The woman did not back down, but neither did she try to rise to the challenge. After a moment, she nonchalantly shrugged, "I'm fine, really. It's not like I'd blow up in the street and start attacking them. Any way; there's more of them than there are of us. Of me, I mean."</p> <p>Frank stood there, looking at that insensitive, brutal idiot. Then, he slumped.</p> <p>"Fine."</p> <p>He pretended to be adjusting his mask just to avoid making eye contact with the woman. Typical. He was calling out on somebody's douchebaggery and, a second afterwards, he felt guilty about it.</p> <p>He rose his gaze again to meet hers. She remained immobile, what little could be seen of her face completely devoid of expression.</p> <p>"I said fine," he started. "-no, wait, never mind, that was a bit dickish of a move on my side. you being new here and all. But you'll have to begin accepting stuff and adapting as soon as you can. People around here are certainly <em>not</em> what you were used to, back there. You'll have to grow used to it quickly."</p> <p>She nodded, no change in her expression, still that dead look on her face. "Working with velociraptors would be cool."</p> <p><em>Oh for the love of-</em></p> <p>"So!", shouted Frank, faking a joviality he did not feel. "A repository?"</p> <p>"I'll be 'performing daily tests' on the water to 'make sure it is potable.'"</p> <p>"They will frown at that."</p> <p>"That's not my problem; I'm pretending to be an inspector, <em>you're</em> the one keeping them out of my hair."</p> <p>"You will have to talk to them, Locke."</p> <p>"I can talk."</p> <p>"Outside your cover. As a <em>person."</em></p> <p>Priscilla looked at the ceiling and added nothing for a few seconds. Then, she said:</p> <p>"I'm not new to this. I know what the Foundation does—"</p> <p>"The Charitable."</p> <p>"The what?" She blabbered.</p> <p>"The Charitable. Many of us who work around anomalies, or abnormalities, whatever," he snorted at his own confusion on the topic. "Anyways. Most people around here don't want to be compared to the <em>other</em> Foundation, so they talk of the Manna Charitable Foundation as the Charitable. You know," Frank arced his brows and lowered his voice to a complicit whisper, "to avoid unpleasant comments?"</p> <p>"I-I…"</p> <p>Priss narrowed her eyes slightly, mouth slightly hanging as she stuttered through an incoherent stream of murmurs. Then she shut her mouth and sighed.</p> <p>"I get it, really. I just don't know how you people work. Or anything about Mister and/or Missus Manna and Charitable. How about an actual tour of the place?"</p> <p>Frank sighed. "Sure, a full tour on the Charitable's fun, fun story. Just… just keep in mind who you are working with. And for. Okay?"</p> <p>"I'll try to adapt." He observed her for a moment. "Really."</p> <p>Frank studied her a bit longer. Nothing on her freckled face told if she was being serious or not. The security executive member forcibly coughed and led her out of the darkroom.</p> <p>"Okay," he said while walking down an aisle, still soft and humid. The only light came from a few holes in the ceiling; their edges were dying and falling down, thinning and slowly becoming the glass that would cover several skylights. As Locke joined him, he said: "From the top. You know what the reports and the pamphlets say. What do you know of the people who work with the MCF?"</p> <p>"Nothing."</p> <p>"Good answer."</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>Frank laughed at her confused expression. "Oh, God, now I understand why they found me funny… See, they call that, that face you are making, a <em>skipper face.</em> Foundation Agents always get all 'the hell' when they see something they don't expect, and most of all they get surprised when other people tell them that being unprepared is okay."</p> <p>Locke glared at him. He kept talking.</p> <p>"I mean, sure, it's better to be prepared, but us field agents have been told that we have to be <em>on edge,</em> and trained to stay there at all times," he declaimed, "and then there are people like the volunteers of the Charitable, who go through life with wide eyes, large grins and the feeling that they are making the world a better place, and tell <em>us</em> to tone it down a bit. It's hard enough to do our job, don't be such sourpusses."</p> <p>"Too upbeat for a warzone?"</p> <p>Frank shook his head. "See, you don't get what kind of people work with us. It's what I was saying earlier: why is it 'good' that you admit you don't have a clue on what these people do here? It has lots of good things, the Charitable. But the one thing it <em>doesn't</em> have is patience for self-absorbed jackasses who think they have all the answers or go looking for sycophants. People like you or me, going on a power trip because they found a <em>skip</em> of value and they offer it to us… it happens, you know."</p> <p>Frank looked at one of the immature skylights. A rapid blur passed by over it, perhaps a bird.</p> <p>"They go and look for the MCF and sometimes they find us, instead of being found by us, which is kind of the norm. They want to prove to us oh how great they are, and how they are basically wizards or have a pen that manifests cake by drawing it or are going to topple all industrialized countries and would like us to help them pick up the pieces and create a wonderful, beautiful, <em>Utopian</em> tomorrow." He laughed humorlessly. "Well, it's not that people from the Charitable hate fellas like those… hell, if we found them bleeding to death in the street we would try to save their sorry asses. But that's not the point, the point is that pretty much everyone in the Charitable is already self-absorbed and will never, ever help somebody feel better about themselves by giving them a place among them and patting their backs. They don't have the time for those types."</p> <p>Frank stood over the rough dark green floor, almost feeling it move under his boots.</p> <p>"Only people who admit they are flawed, people who want to help, people who are <em>desperate</em> to help, get into the Charitable. And those never leave it while they live."</p> <p>Locke crossed her arms, seemingly bored again. Frank had learned to associate the gesture to the limits of her patience. She confirmed it in a boorish tone.</p> <p>"You talk too much, Westinghouse. Explain it to me so I don't get yelled at later."</p> <p>Frank felt a jolt. "It's been a while since anyone called me that. I mean, MCF people do call me that when they're making fun of the stick they see up in my rear, but-"</p> <p>"Eh, right," Priscilla said. "Just 'Skipper' then?"</p> <p>"Or Frank, yes. I guess they'll start calling you Skipper, too," Frank ventured. Priscilla looked around for a moment when she heard that. "Although we could keep your past work history under the wraps, if you prefer."</p> <p>Priss grimaced and glanced around briefly, "That would probably work better. I'm with the W-Ph-O, right?"</p> <p>"No, don't pronounce it like that," Frank quickly corrected her. "Even the Parahealthers themselves usually say it like <em>'phooo'</em>, sort of like what everyone does with the World Health Organization, you know…"</p> <p>"That sounds stupid. And I <em>know</em> what the WHO is. It's just…"</p> <p>Frank nodded. "Wouldn't have one of those over there?"</p> <p>"No, it's not that, they probably did. They just wouldn't bother helping the people who'd really need help."</p> <p>"Then who the hell did they help?"</p> <p>"Dunno. Never really bothered learning about it." She walked forward, and Frank closely followed her.</p> <p>The aisle turned into an open hall. Once it was complete, the gaping holes would be covered with secreted hard glass and the floors would be beautifully polished ceramic tiles in a checkered pattern of dark green and white. However, as the couple walked through it, it looked more like a cave covered in moss than a hospital.</p> <p>"Isn't it amazing that we are going to build operation theaters in here?" Frank wondered out loud.</p> <p>"In a third-world-hell-hole like this, it'll be a wonder to see them achieve proper aseptic conditions."</p> <p>"Asept-right, that too," he grumbled. "Don't call it a hell-hole, Locke. Or at least avoid saying it out loud. It might be a mess of a place right now, but people live here."</p> <p>They stared at the large central opening that would become the door. Two large branch-like growths were forming at each side of the hole, each one slowly swaying in the wind, looking for its pair to grow into a door.</p> <p>"Uh, well," Frank started, "the World Health thing? They usually pronounce it <em>'who'</em>."</p> <p>Priscilla pondered this in silence for a moment.</p> <p>"Sounds stupid," she muttered.</p> <p>"Might be. But people keep calling it that, which is <em>why</em> we have to do it too, or else-"</p> <p>"I was just complaining. I know how to blend in, Westinghouse."</p> <p>Frank noticed a certain amusement in her words. "Ah, yes, sorry." He stood in silence, thinking. "Crap, we got off track there. Quite honestly, I can't put what the volunteers are like in simple words. Too many, too different. Besides, you'll meet them these days. I'll just tell you Mission Branch 101 over diner."</p> <p>They left the maturing hall.</p> <p>Outside, the building area was filled with other figures in white-green overalls, some of them taking measures and making sure the growths were taking the correct shapes. Frank and Priscilla saw several pipe-like tendrils slowly burrowing themselves under the dusty ground, a few millimeters every second. One of them had found a particularly resilient rock right underneath the surface. The cracks were clearly audible as the Mason Mold grew through the smallest relieves on its surface and pulverized it, turning it into a soft but firm support for the pipe itself.</p> <p>Priss stared emptily, and gave out a quick giggle, "That's funny. Just… letting it sprawl and not containing it."</p> <p>He nodded at that.</p> <p>"Jacob would tell you that it is perfectly controlled and safe. You will come to think of it as cathartic, believe me," Frank said. He felt himself smile at the thought; those words came from him? <em>Woah, sudden perspective shift.</em> "Although I do understand what you mean, it's uncanny."</p> <p>They walked towards the perimeter fence exit. The entire building area remind hidden behind it, a wall of white-and-brown tarpaulin sections hung from metal poles. Each piece of the two meters and half tall wall sported the logo of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The surrounding terrain was lower than the hill were the Opal-1 Work Group was growing its project, so a simple fence was enough to grant a certain measure of secretiveness to the entire operation.</p> <p>Priscilla studied the fence with a critical eye.</p> <p>"Hey, Westinghouse. Is that enough?"</p> <p>"Standard issue tarp. Never mind its stopping power, Locke, we don't need to stop anyone," Frank said. "The ones that would take the Assets away from us would not be stopped by any means we have. And both locals and refugees know the Charitable is working in here, and that it will be best for all parts involved if they simply stay away from it until whatever we are working on is ready."</p> <p>"They're afraid."</p> <p>"Why yes, they are afraid. Of us," Frank stated, matter-of-factly. "Of what we can do. There is always some measure of fear and distrust when the Charitable comes to town. They know we bring weird stuff, like buildings that grow from the ground up. And we had a Work Group around past year scouting the area, or rescuing people or something like that… they <em>know</em> what we do, even if they don't know <em>exactly</em> what we do. Add rumors at that, and we have a certain, uh, protection," he ignored the times when that had gone wrong. "They take it rather well, by the way. Imagine we used this stuff in the middle of an industrialized country."</p> <p>"You'd be lighting the biggest fire the Foundation has ever seen."</p> <p>"Sure, sure, good old Skippy would be there in heartbeat, wouldn't he?" Frank raised a hand as if swatting the idea away. "Well, no. Wrong. We have operations in every country of the world, including North America, Australia, Japan or Europe. Take Torres, go no further. That guy is Argentinian, how do you think he first came to us? There was a MCF recruitment post in Catamarca, Argentina, population three hundred thousand or so. In the open. Where was the other Foundation that day?"</p> <p>Priscilla glanced at Frank, brow furrowed. "You take this shit public?"</p> <p>"No, that's not this. Not anomalies. We are overt about us working a non-profit… but our funding methods are so tortuous that not even the Foundation, the other Foundation, can follow the money. We operate under hundreds of different institutional aliases here and there, most of them ephemeral. It's all smoke and mirrors, but the Charitable keeps its ears to the ground and recruits people that worked for other non-profits or gave the finger to fat cats, champions of the establishment and people like the Foundation." Frank stopped talking for a moment. "Crap, I didn't realize how redundant that was."</p> <p>"Redundant? The 'fat cats, champions of the establishment-"</p> <p>"-and people like the Foundation' part, yes, that." Frank and Priscilla said, simultaneously. They snorted at her own scene as they reached the entry checkpoint, a makeshift room made out of a prefabricated container with UN logos and surrounded by the tarpaulin walls.</p> <p>Inside, they discarded their masks, that were picked up by a bored Yusuf, who also stored them with their dirty overalls once they took them off.</p> <p>They walked out into the open. Less than a kilometer away, the center of Laascaanood was a busy place, now completely visible to them. Until then, the city had been relatively free of the Milking Maggot epidemic. It remained an important active population center, despite the large number of residents that had left the place after Somaliland had attempted to take the place. According to Mission Watch reports, it was quite emptier than past year.</p> <p>"See that?" Frank said. "Those are forty thousand souls. They are hurt, sick, sad, and some times even mad enough about it to pick a gun and do something stupid."</p> <p>"And?"</p> <p>"My point is that we are needed."</p> <p>"Spoken like the better man." Priscilla said. Frank's brow frowned at that.</p> <p>"What? No," he said. "No, no. I'm not here 'cause I am the better man, or… I'm just a guy who happened to be necessary here, the better ones are, you know," Frank made some gestures at the hospital, "in there, growing a surgery room and stuff. And down there in town, making certain mothers don't die while in labor and children live through meningitis, and… and they don't even realize they are the better people. They are here because they feel they are not better. And I'm not like them. No, I'm here because they needed an unlucky idiot who wouldn't trust his own shadow and happens to know how to avoid fights." Frank sighed slightly, pondering what he had just said. "I'm not the better man, I'm just a bouncer."</p> <p>"A bouncer for 40,000 without a gun? You'd make a shitty bouncer."</p> <p>"Right!", he answered, his face suddenly split by a fierce smile. "You got how wonderfully ironic that is, didn't you? We don't even have budget for guns. Why would we?"</p> <p>"I mean if you have no guns, no military personnel, no support of any kind…"</p> <p>"Then what am I doing here?"</p> <p>"Yup," Priss thought for a second, "Gathering intelligence for them, then?"</p> <p>"That's not entirely correct, but that's sort of what I do, sure." They started walking East, following the Southernmost limit of the building site. "They expect me to be a security guard without any violence, you know why? 'Cause that's not how security works for these people. They feel security is secrecy. They aren't threatened by locals, or armies. They know we treat them all, no question asked. True, some times there are stick ups. True, some times our guys get the shortest end of the stick and they get shot by accident, or bombed by accident, or <em>accidentally</em> kidnapped for ransom. It happens, all NGOs working around here know it and take it like champs. You know what makes MCF different? That we have to expect <em>others.</em>"</p> <p>"As in…"</p> <p>"Others. Marshall, Carter and Dark cronies trying to buy, extort or steal our assets away. People from Insurgent cells trying to manipulate the kids into joining their side by telling them 'oh, sure, you are delivering babies, nicely done, how about changing the world, really changing it, tipping the balance of power'? Even people from local 'liberator' groups with ORIA sponsors. And, of course, the Foundation. The only way to keep them away is tread lightly."</p> <p>"And you just let them use you to keep their shit secret? Why?"</p> <p>"Secret? Ah, no, that's what they do back home at the Continental Branch offices. Cover our activities as if other NGOs did it, create misleading or false media reports, stuff like that. What I do is keep them Mission kids discreet enough, just in case a field agent goes into the area and casually hears about us."</p> <p>Frank suddenly felt very tired. He stopped and turned to admire the sights. Priss did the same. Laascaanood extended before them.</p> <p>"Look, every Work Group takes their own decisions in the field. They practically make procedures as they go. Some of them are good in keeping a low profile, and some others have anomalies or talent for stealth. But a Work Group that builds hospitals?," he let out a guffaw. "Right, hiding <em>that</em> is a tough one. And you don't even get to buy the terrain and cover Laascaanood in amnestics, right? So, what to do? Well, I visit the local officers, people from other NGOs, let them know that we are here on a little tour. And what they have to answer if anyone complains. And drop a few well placed shillings in the hands of any agents of higher ranking players that I think will be around."</p> <p>"That's it?," Frank watched her vaguely amused face. "No 'Thank-You' card with a five dollar bill?"</p> <p>"And the Charitable's 'good' reputation," he nodded. "That's about it, yeah. We trust each other enough not to give ourselves up, trust that the locals know they want us to be around instead of selling us out, trust the other major players to think there is nothing around here and, if you like to do that kind of thing, pray."</p> <p>He started walking again, with a tiny sigh.</p> <p>"Sometimes it doesn't work. It's all a very thinly disguised lie, partly successful because nobody is looking for us and because looking for us is not worth the effort. Not unless we screw it up big time, anyways. The world is a big place and they don't mind us being here and using some breadcrumbs to save a few victims of tragic circumstances, for as long as we do our let's-all-be-friends gig instead of getting them to rise up in arms against the 'circumstances'. Our biggest defense is that they prefer to work closer to home."</p> <p>They reached the corner of the construction area. Beyond it, in the northern side of the city, there was a nascent displacement camp. It had begun to form last evening, the inexpressive faces shocked with grief and confusion, sometimes anger, already gathering there. The Work Group workers were already erecting some large tents for the refugees with the AMISOM troopers.</p> <p>Frank knew Jacob's specialists would be there too, discreetly planting prototype underground Vestan Seeds that would create sewage facilities and an irrigation system for crops further north.</p> <p>Frank knew Opal and her own specialists had been there all day, quickly finding every single case of the Sour they could find and supplying any relative of the patients with prophylaxis.</p> <p>Frank knew Olympe and his guys would be there about now, patrolling the newly born dirt roads that separated row after row of tents filled with displaced people.</p> <p>Frank wondered if anything they could do would be enough. Hundreds were coming into the camps' limits as they watched.</p> <p>"The worst part about them staying home instead of coming here, though?" He said, looking back at Priscilla. "It kind of works for us, too."</p> <hr/> <p>Night was falling in Laascaanood. Frank had shown auditor Priscilla Locke, the special WPhO — pronounced <em>'phoo'</em> — delegate for the local Manna Charitable Foundation Infrastructure and Health Mission for Laascaanood, all the impressive work the volunteers were doing to get the refugee camp up and running, and prepared for the hundreds that were sure to come over the next days. Upon the Work Group's arrival, a coordinated chaos had erupted within the camp its outskirts, where a handful of mobile clinics, operating from jeeps, and food distribution centers, run from the large MCF semitrailers.</p> <p>They had time to talk to the AMISOM commander, the acting chief of the Federal Republic and the elder council of Laascaanood. All of them were concerned about the affluence of refugees to the camp, which housed three hundred people already, all of them fleeing from the Sour outbreak. Frank conferred with them in the name of the Manna Charitable Foundation, assuring their commitment. He warranted that the epidemic would be stopped in Laascaanood with no risk to the town or their operations and told them the hospital would be ceded to the city whenever it was staffed by non-MCF personnel.</p> <p>For free.</p> <p>From there on, all powers that be in Laascaanood were bent on cooperating with the nice, helpful people from the Charitable.</p> <p>"Giving away our stuff like it wasn't planned!," Opal would say later, in that rare cynical streak she occasionally displayed, "The best way to make friends!"</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/who-are-you">Who Are You</a>? \| <a href="/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/cubes-on-a-slope">Cubes On A Slope</a> »</strong><br/> <strong>\\<a href="/programme-las-anod-1">Programme Las Anod-1</a>//</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/breaking-it-down-to-me">Breaking It Down For Me</a>" by Dr Reach, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/breaking-it-down-to-me">https://scpwiki.com/breaking-it-down-to-me</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:mcf">:scp-wiki:theme:mcf</a>]] [[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] Frank felt just a bit claustrophobic. The darkroom was, appropriately enough, a tiny, dark, hot and incredibly moist hellhole with an actual hole in the middle, which was enough for anyone to be a little dizzy. The ceiling was barely a meter and eighty centimeters high, and it felt like it was breathing, periodically combing under its own weight. However, the oppressive atmosphere was minor in comparison to the smell that penetrated everything. Frank just knew that, despite the mask and the overall, it would stick to him, his clothes, his skin and his hair. It would probably violate the taste of every meal he had in days or weeks and turn his daily ablutions into a nightmare. //I hate this Vestan stuff,// he growled to himself. In any case, Frank couldn't deny the efficiency of the Third Vestan Donation. The hard-working fungi were rising a building where there had been just an empty patch of arid, barren land; a building destined to become a hospital with fifty beds, employing thirty or more permanent personnel, equipped with an independent source of electricity and clean water. It was just that the floors still felt -- and smelt -- like they were made of compacted compost and decaying reed. But the room was growing, as was the rest of the complex. It would become an actual darkroom at some point in the next days. And the final product would be just a facade for the tunnel which was growing from its floor. Growing and digging at the same time. It was a novel concept for Frank, whose limited notions of construction screamed at him that all that removed soil and rock had to be going //somewhere//. From the looks of it, it seemed to be going straight to the ceiling. "When will it be finished?" Frank focused on Priscilla Locke. In the day they had been together, she had told him about some aspects of her life in the old universe. He //knew// her mentality would be a problem. Even if he didn't want to blame her for it, her occasional grimace and racist remarks were enough to attract unwanted attention. He would have to give her some guidelines and ban some topics. Tell her to just avoid certain conversations. But even so, he had no idea of how she had found the Charitable, or joined. Or, for that matter, how had she been accepted by the Mission Board. Both of them were standing over the edge of an unfinished tunnel that would lead straight to the underground laboratory where she would test her thing, whatever it was. In the meantime, he was neither allowed to know what the thing itself was -- old feelings of frustration stirred at the mere thought of secrets upon secrets piling up away from his sight -- nor cleared to know exactly who she was. "It should be done in ten to thirteen hours, miss Locke," Jacob answered, solicitous from the threshold of the wide hole that would become the only door, in the room. "It's actually a bit of an experiment, we have never used the Vestan Donation to dig an underground repository." "A... repository," Frank blurted. He felt more than saw Priscilla's eyes drilling through his skull, but the good man didn't even notice the implied question in Frank's words. "Yes!", stated the Rabbi, joyously ignorant of the scene. "I didn't even think of that, and it's a great idea! We are growing a water repository down here! See, we have reasonable doubts that the Milking Maggots' main vector is another parasitic microorganism, //Giardia lamblia//, that can easily contaminate water sources. It can be a bad fucker, if you will pardon the expression, because it provokes diarrhea and water supply around here is an-" "Thank you, Doctor." Priss said with an absent smile, "Is it running smoothly?" "Definitely, definitely smoothly!" Jacob almost sung. "No aberrant growths, no discombobulated parts, everything according to the plans you brought, miss Locke!" "Just... Locke." "Oh, thank you, you may call me Jacob. Or Rabbi! Everyone calls me Rabbi." It was Frank's turn to stare at Priscilla's expression, that was rapidly becoming sour. Nobody knew who she was around there. Nobody but Frank... and even he could not point out exactly what was wrong with her. "Thanks, Rabbi," he ended up saying to the politely confused biologist. "Now, I'll be showing Priscilla-" "Miss Locke." "I'll be showing miss Locke the procedural growth of a 1-Vestan, and then we'll go back to the camp. Okay?" "Sure! Have a nice day, Priscilla!", said the Rabbi. A few moments after Jacob had left the dark, moist room, Frank looked at her associate. "Okay, now, really, what's your deal?" Priscilla had the decency to seem distressed. She gnawed idly on her lower lip, a sharp exhale leaving her lips, as she resisted the urge to blurt out something most likely anti-semitic. "It's just hard, is all... like, imagine going to work and having-" Frank was staring at her, his withering look all the warning she needed; Locke caught herself this time. "-A bunch of talking velociraptors among your co-workers-- " "Sure, fine, okay, never mind," Frank half-shouted at her. "Consider this: you are now the only real, decent, genetically sanctioned human being left from your universe. Everyone else here is a subhuman moron. How do you feel about it?" The woman did not back down, but neither did she try to rise to the challenge. After a moment, she nonchalantly shrugged, "I'm fine, really. It's not like I'd blow up in the street and start attacking them. Any way; there's more of them than there are of us. Of me, I mean." Frank stood there, looking at that insensitive, brutal idiot. Then, he slumped. "Fine." He pretended to be adjusting his mask just to avoid making eye contact with the woman. Typical. He was calling out on somebody's douchebaggery and, a second afterwards, he felt guilty about it. He rose his gaze again to meet hers. She remained immobile, what little could be seen of her face completely devoid of expression. "I said fine," he started. "-no, wait, never mind, that was a bit dickish of a move on my side. you being new here and all. But you'll have to begin accepting stuff and adapting as soon as you can. People around here are certainly //not// what you were used to, back there. You'll have to grow used to it quickly." She nodded, no change in her expression, still that dead look on her face. "Working with velociraptors would be cool." //Oh for the love of-// "So!", shouted Frank, faking a joviality he did not feel. "A repository?" "I'll be 'performing daily tests' on the water to 'make sure it is potable.'" "They will frown at that." "That's not my problem; I'm pretending to be an inspector, //you're// the one keeping them out of my hair." "You will have to talk to them, Locke." "I can talk." "Outside your cover. As a //person."// Priscilla looked at the ceiling and added nothing for a few seconds. Then, she said: "I'm not new to this. I know what the Foundation does--" "The Charitable." "The what?" She blabbered. "The Charitable. Many of us who work around anomalies, or abnormalities, whatever," he snorted at his own confusion on the topic. "Anyways. Most people around here don't want to be compared to the //other// Foundation, so they talk of the Manna Charitable Foundation as the Charitable. You know," Frank arced his brows and lowered his voice to a complicit whisper, "to avoid unpleasant comments?" "I-I..." Priss narrowed her eyes slightly, mouth slightly hanging as she stuttered through an incoherent stream of murmurs. Then she shut her mouth and sighed. "I get it, really. I just don't know how you people work. Or anything about Mister and/or Missus Manna and Charitable. How about an actual tour of the place?" Frank sighed. "Sure, a full tour on the Charitable's fun, fun story. Just... just keep in mind who you are working with. And for. Okay?" "I'll try to adapt." He observed her for a moment. "Really." Frank studied her a bit longer. Nothing on her freckled face told if she was being serious or not. The security executive member forcibly coughed and led her out of the darkroom. "Okay," he said while walking down an aisle, still soft and humid. The only light came from a few holes in the ceiling; their edges were dying and falling down, thinning and slowly becoming the glass that would cover several skylights. As Locke joined him, he said: "From the top. You know what the reports and the pamphlets say. What do you know of the people who work with the MCF?" "Nothing." "Good answer." "What?" Frank laughed at her confused expression. "Oh, God, now I understand why they found me funny... See, they call that, that face you are making, a //skipper face.// Foundation Agents always get all 'the hell' when they see something they don't expect, and most of all they get surprised when other people tell them that being unprepared is okay." Locke glared at him. He kept talking. "I mean, sure, it's better to be prepared, but us field agents have been told that we have to be //on edge,// and trained to stay there at all times," he declaimed, "and then there are people like the volunteers of the Charitable, who go through life with wide eyes, large grins and the feeling that they are making the world a better place, and tell //us// to tone it down a bit. It's hard enough to do our job, don't be such sourpusses." "Too upbeat for a warzone?" Frank shook his head. "See, you don't get what kind of people work with us. It's what I was saying earlier: why is it 'good' that you admit you don't have a clue on what these people do here? It has lots of good things, the Charitable. But the one thing it //doesn't// have is patience for self-absorbed jackasses who think they have all the answers or go looking for sycophants. People like you or me, going on a power trip because they found a //skip// of value and they offer it to us... it happens, you know." Frank looked at one of the immature skylights. A rapid blur passed by over it, perhaps a bird. "They go and look for the MCF and sometimes they find us, instead of being found by us, which is kind of the norm. They want to prove to us oh how great they are, and how they are basically wizards or have a pen that manifests cake by drawing it or are going to topple all industrialized countries and would like us to help them pick up the pieces and create a wonderful, beautiful, //Utopian// tomorrow." He laughed humorlessly. "Well, it's not that people from the Charitable hate fellas like those... hell, if we found them bleeding to death in the street we would try to save their sorry asses. But that's not the point, the point is that pretty much everyone in the Charitable is already self-absorbed and will never, ever help somebody feel better about themselves by giving them a place among them and patting their backs. They don't have the time for those types." Frank stood over the rough dark green floor, almost feeling it move under his boots. "Only people who admit they are flawed, people who want to help, people who are //desperate// to help, get into the Charitable. And those never leave it while they live." Locke crossed her arms, seemingly bored again. Frank had learned to associate the gesture to the limits of her patience. She confirmed it in a boorish tone. "You talk too much, Westinghouse. Explain it to me so I don't get yelled at later." Frank felt a jolt. "It's been a while since anyone called me that. I mean, MCF people do call me that when they're making fun of the stick they see up in my rear, but-" "Eh, right," Priscilla said. "Just 'Skipper' then?" "Or Frank, yes. I guess they'll start calling you Skipper, too," Frank ventured. Priscilla looked around for a moment when she heard that. "Although we could keep your past work history under the wraps, if you prefer." Priss grimaced and glanced around briefly, "That would probably work better. I'm with the W-Ph-O, right?" "No, don't pronounce it like that," Frank quickly corrected her. "Even the Parahealthers themselves usually say it like //'phooo'//, sort of like what everyone does with the World Health Organization, you know..." "That sounds stupid. And I //know// what the WHO is. It's just..." Frank nodded. "Wouldn't have one of those over there?" "No, it's not that, they probably did. They just wouldn't bother helping the people who'd really need help." "Then who the hell did they help?" "Dunno. Never really bothered learning about it." She walked forward, and Frank closely followed her. The aisle turned into an open hall. Once it was complete, the gaping holes would be covered with secreted hard glass and the floors would be beautifully polished ceramic tiles in a checkered pattern of dark green and white. However, as the couple walked through it, it looked more like a cave covered in moss than a hospital. "Isn't it amazing that we are going to build operation theaters in here?" Frank wondered out loud. "In a third-world-hell-hole like this, it'll be a wonder to see them achieve proper aseptic conditions." "Asept-right, that too," he grumbled. "Don't call it a hell-hole, Locke. Or at least avoid saying it out loud. It might be a mess of a place right now, but people live here." They stared at the large central opening that would become the door. Two large branch-like growths were forming at each side of the hole, each one slowly swaying in the wind, looking for its pair to grow into a door. "Uh, well," Frank started, "the World Health thing? They usually pronounce it //'who'//." Priscilla pondered this in silence for a moment. "Sounds stupid," she muttered. "Might be. But people keep calling it that, which is //why// we have to do it too, or else-" "I was just complaining. I know how to blend in, Westinghouse." Frank noticed a certain amusement in her words. "Ah, yes, sorry." He stood in silence, thinking. "Crap, we got off track there. Quite honestly, I can't put what the volunteers are like in simple words. Too many, too different. Besides, you'll meet them these days. I'll just tell you Mission Branch 101 over diner." They left the maturing hall. Outside, the building area was filled with other figures in white-green overalls, some of them taking measures and making sure the growths were taking the correct shapes. Frank and Priscilla saw several pipe-like tendrils slowly burrowing themselves under the dusty ground, a few millimeters every second. One of them had found a particularly resilient rock right underneath the surface. The cracks were clearly audible as the Mason Mold grew through the smallest relieves on its surface and pulverized it, turning it into a soft but firm support for the pipe itself. Priss stared emptily, and gave out a quick giggle, "That's funny. Just... letting it sprawl and not containing it." He nodded at that. "Jacob would tell you that it is perfectly controlled and safe. You will come to think of it as cathartic, believe me," Frank said. He felt himself smile at the thought; those words came from him? //Woah, sudden perspective shift.// "Although I do understand what you mean, it's uncanny." They walked towards the perimeter fence exit. The entire building area remind hidden behind it, a wall of white-and-brown tarpaulin sections hung from metal poles. Each piece of the two meters and half tall wall sported the logo of the Manna Charitable Foundation. The surrounding terrain was lower than the hill were the Opal-1 Work Group was growing its project, so a simple fence was enough to grant a certain measure of secretiveness to the entire operation. Priscilla studied the fence with a critical eye. "Hey, Westinghouse. Is that enough?" "Standard issue tarp. Never mind its stopping power, Locke, we don't need to stop anyone," Frank said. "The ones that would take the Assets away from us would not be stopped by any means we have. And both locals and refugees know the Charitable is working in here, and that it will be best for all parts involved if they simply stay away from it until whatever we are working on is ready." "They're afraid." "Why yes, they are afraid. Of us," Frank stated, matter-of-factly. "Of what we can do. There is always some measure of fear and distrust when the Charitable comes to town. They know we bring weird stuff, like buildings that grow from the ground up. And we had a Work Group around past year scouting the area, or rescuing people or something like that... they //know// what we do, even if they don't know //exactly// what we do. Add rumors at that, and we have a certain, uh, protection," he ignored the times when that had gone wrong. "They take it rather well, by the way. Imagine we used this stuff in the middle of an industrialized country." "You'd be lighting the biggest fire the Foundation has ever seen." "Sure, sure, good old Skippy would be there in heartbeat, wouldn't he?" Frank raised a hand as if swatting the idea away. "Well, no. Wrong. We have operations in every country of the world, including North America, Australia, Japan or Europe. Take Torres, go no further. That guy is Argentinian, how do you think he first came to us? There was a MCF recruitment post in Catamarca, Argentina, population three hundred thousand or so. In the open. Where was the other Foundation that day?" Priscilla glanced at Frank, brow furrowed. "You take this shit public?" "No, that's not this. Not anomalies. We are overt about us working a non-profit... but our funding methods are so tortuous that not even the Foundation, the other Foundation, can follow the money. We operate under hundreds of different institutional aliases here and there, most of them ephemeral. It's all smoke and mirrors, but the Charitable keeps its ears to the ground and recruits people that worked for other non-profits or gave the finger to fat cats, champions of the establishment and people like the Foundation." Frank stopped talking for a moment. "Crap, I didn't realize how redundant that was." "Redundant? The 'fat cats, champions of the establishment-" "-and people like the Foundation' part, yes, that." Frank and Priscilla said, simultaneously. They snorted at her own scene as they reached the entry checkpoint, a makeshift room made out of a prefabricated container with UN logos and surrounded by the tarpaulin walls. Inside, they discarded their masks, that were picked up by a bored Yusuf, who also stored them with their dirty overalls once they took them off. They walked out into the open. Less than a kilometer away, the center of Laascaanood was a busy place, now completely visible to them. Until then, the city had been relatively free of the Milking Maggot epidemic. It remained an important active population center, despite the large number of residents that had left the place after Somaliland had attempted to take the place. According to Mission Watch reports, it was quite emptier than past year. "See that?" Frank said. "Those are forty thousand souls. They are hurt, sick, sad, and some times even mad enough about it to pick a gun and do something stupid." "And?" "My point is that we are needed." "Spoken like the better man." Priscilla said. Frank's brow frowned at that. "What? No," he said. "No, no. I'm not here 'cause I am the better man, or... I'm just a guy who happened to be necessary here, the better ones are, you know," Frank made some gestures at the hospital, "in there, growing a surgery room and stuff. And down there in town, making certain mothers don't die while in labor and children live through meningitis, and... and they don't even realize they are the better people. They are here because they feel they are not better. And I'm not like them. No, I'm here because they needed an unlucky idiot who wouldn't trust his own shadow and happens to know how to avoid fights." Frank sighed slightly, pondering what he had just said. "I'm not the better man, I'm just a bouncer." "A bouncer for 40,000 without a gun? You'd make a shitty bouncer." "Right!", he answered, his face suddenly split by a fierce smile. "You got how wonderfully ironic that is, didn't you? We don't even have budget for guns. Why would we?" "I mean if you have no guns, no military personnel, no support of any kind..." "Then what am I doing here?" "Yup," Priss thought for a second, "Gathering intelligence for them, then?" "That's not entirely correct, but that's sort of what I do, sure." They started walking East, following the Southernmost limit of the building site. "They expect me to be a security guard without any violence, you know why? 'Cause that's not how security works for these people. They feel security is secrecy. They aren't threatened by locals, or armies. They know we treat them all, no question asked. True, some times there are stick ups. True, some times our guys get the shortest end of the stick and they get shot by accident, or bombed by accident, or //accidentally// kidnapped for ransom. It happens, all NGOs working around here know it and take it like champs. You know what makes MCF different? That we have to expect //others.//" "As in..." "Others. Marshall, Carter and Dark cronies trying to buy, extort or steal our assets away. People from Insurgent cells trying to manipulate the kids into joining their side by telling them 'oh, sure, you are delivering babies, nicely done, how about changing the world, really changing it, tipping the balance of power'? Even people from local 'liberator' groups with ORIA sponsors. And, of course, the Foundation. The only way to keep them away is tread lightly." "And you just let them use you to keep their shit secret? Why?" "Secret? Ah, no, that's what they do back home at the Continental Branch offices. Cover our activities as if other NGOs did it, create misleading or false media reports, stuff like that. What I do is keep them Mission kids discreet enough, just in case a field agent goes into the area and casually hears about us." Frank suddenly felt very tired. He stopped and turned to admire the sights. Priss did the same. Laascaanood extended before them. "Look, every Work Group takes their own decisions in the field. They practically make procedures as they go. Some of them are good in keeping a low profile, and some others have anomalies or talent for stealth. But a Work Group that builds hospitals?," he let out a guffaw. "Right, hiding //that// is a tough one. And you don't even get to buy the terrain and cover Laascaanood in amnestics, right? So, what to do? Well, I visit the local officers, people from other NGOs, let them know that we are here on a little tour. And what they have to answer if anyone complains. And drop a few well placed shillings in the hands of any agents of higher ranking players that I think will be around." "That's it?," Frank watched her vaguely amused face. "No 'Thank-You' card with a five dollar bill?" "And the Charitable's 'good' reputation," he nodded. "That's about it, yeah. We trust each other enough not to give ourselves up, trust that the locals know they want us to be around instead of selling us out, trust the other major players to think there is nothing around here and, if you like to do that kind of thing, pray." He started walking again, with a tiny sigh. "Sometimes it doesn't work. It's all a very thinly disguised lie, partly successful because nobody is looking for us and because looking for us is not worth the effort. Not unless we screw it up big time, anyways. The world is a big place and they don't mind us being here and using some breadcrumbs to save a few victims of tragic circumstances, for as long as we do our let's-all-be-friends gig instead of getting them to rise up in arms against the 'circumstances'. Our biggest defense is that they prefer to work closer to home." They reached the corner of the construction area. Beyond it, in the northern side of the city, there was a nascent displacement camp. It had begun to form last evening, the inexpressive faces shocked with grief and confusion, sometimes anger, already gathering there. The Work Group workers were already erecting some large tents for the refugees with the AMISOM troopers. Frank knew Jacob's specialists would be there too, discreetly planting prototype underground Vestan Seeds that would create sewage facilities and an irrigation system for crops further north. Frank knew Opal and her own specialists had been there all day, quickly finding every single case of the Sour they could find and supplying any relative of the patients with prophylaxis. Frank knew Olympe and his guys would be there about now, patrolling the newly born dirt roads that separated row after row of tents filled with displaced people. Frank wondered if anything they could do would be enough. Hundreds were coming into the camps' limits as they watched. "The worst part about them staying home instead of coming here, though?" He said, looking back at Priscilla. "It kind of works for us, too." ------ Night was falling in Laascaanood. Frank had shown auditor Priscilla Locke, the special WPhO -- pronounced //'phoo'// -- delegate for the local Manna Charitable Foundation Infrastructure and Health Mission for Laascaanood, all the impressive work the volunteers were doing to get the refugee camp up and running, and prepared for the hundreds that were sure to come over the next days. Upon the Work Group's arrival, a coordinated chaos had erupted within the camp its outskirts, where a handful of mobile clinics, operating from jeeps, and food distribution centers, run from the large MCF semitrailers. They had time to talk to the AMISOM commander, the acting chief of the Federal Republic and the elder council of Laascaanood. All of them were concerned about the affluence of refugees to the camp, which housed three hundred people already, all of them fleeing from the Sour outbreak. Frank conferred with them in the name of the Manna Charitable Foundation, assuring their commitment. He warranted that the epidemic would be stopped in Laascaanood with no risk to the town or their operations and told them the hospital would be ceded to the city whenever it was staffed by non-MCF personnel. For free. From there on, all powers that be in Laascaanood were bent on cooperating with the nice, helpful people from the Charitable. "Giving away our stuff like it wasn't planned!," Opal would say later, in that rare cynical streak she occasionally displayed, "The best way to make friends!" [[=]] << [[[Who Are You]]]? \| [[[manna-charitable-foundation-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Cubes On A Slope]]] >> \\[[[Programme Las Anod-1]]]// [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-02T00:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "anabasis", "goi2014", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale", "world-parahealth-organization" ]	Breaking It Down For Me - SCP Foundation	26	[ "who-are-you", "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "cubes-on-a-slope", "programme-las-anod-1", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author" ]	[]	22840649	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/breaking-it-down-to-me
brotherhood	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><strong>NOTE:</strong> This is Part <strong>21</strong> of the <strong>23</strong> part series, <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">The Cool War</a>. Reading this part first is a <em>very bad idea</em> and will spoil a lot of the story.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>From: Pico<br/> 16 hartford street come beat the shit out of me or whatever</p> </blockquote> <p>Ruiz Duchamp stared at the message blankly.</p> <p>"Carol, can I-"</p> <p>Ruiz looked up; Carol wasn't behind the counter. Ruiz stood up, walking deliberately back to his studio. He paced past the foyer, entering the room filled with deathtraps. His brother had clearly turned self-destructive; the final phase of his antipsychotic withdrawal. Ruiz opened his medicine cabinet, moving his own antidepressants and multivitamins to the side, reaching to the back. He pulled out a small bottle of Clozapine, shoving it into his right pocket. He moved to his closet, grabbing a heavy brown bomber jacket. He pulled his elastic band pistol from an inner pocket, clenching it tightly in his left hand.</p> <p>Ruiz sent two texts, then sprinted to Pico's hideout.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>From: Snipper<br/> 16 hartford street I'm all that's left</p> </blockquote> <p>The Sculptor sat and thought. Snipper was a reckless idiot, but on the other hand, he was an unpredictable one. Snipper had to be removed from the equation.</p> <p>The Sculptor turned to the wall of clay, rubbing his hands in anticipation.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Tangerine sprinted down the busy road. Every one of his contacts was gone. His cover was unrecoverable, his utility had become negligible. He'd be transferred for sure: back to paperwork, back to normal fieldwork, back to gunning down The Bad Guys… it was all so mind-numbingly simplistic. So <em>boring</em>.</p> <p>Tangerine saw the gallery in the distance. A few quick phone calls, it turned out, were all that he needed; Ruiz Duchamp's studio hadn't moved in years. Stupidity on their behalf for not doing that in the first place, but then, there was the assumed lack of carelessness on Duchamp's behalf. Tangerine kept running, dodging a man running in the other direction wearing a brown bomber jacket. He gripped his pistol in its holster tightly as he entered the foyer, turning to the help desk. Panting from the run, he blurted out the question:</p> <p>"Duchamp's studio?"</p> <p>The man behind the counter gestured further into the gallery. Tangerine turned and walked, slowing his breath. He looked around the corner, finding the room filled with blatant deathtraps. He tapped Green's number into his mobile phone.</p> <p>"Green, I'm at his studio now. Empty."</p> <p>"You stay there, we've got a new lead on the Snipper. Call me if anything happens."</p> <p>Tangerine's phone beeped as the call ended. He sighed, walking through the room, carelessly moving to sit on an available stool.</p> <p>Then he noticed the fedora sitting on the electric chair.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>From: [METADATA CORRUPT]<br/> 16 hartford street this is the snipper hello</p> </blockquote> <p>"Alright, boys. We don't know what's going on, we don't know what this guy looks like, we are going into this as blind as a bat. A particularly blind bat. A blind and deaf bat, with self esteem issues."</p> <p>Green paused for effect, looking around at Mobile Task Force Upsilon-18.</p> <p>"Admittedly, we don't know he's in there. It is quite possible, and indeed, almost certain, that this is a trap of some kind. Yes, Alcorn?"</p> <p>Field Agent Alcorn put down his hand, moderately confused.</p> <p>"Why are we walking into a trap, sir?"</p> <p>"Excellent question, Alcorn, with a stupid answer: because we've no better course of action. We might have the address of a maliciously artistic psychopath, and if he's been stupid enough to throw us a bone, then we can't not bite. Moving out in ten minutes, gentlemen; striking while the iron's hot."</p> <p>Alcorn begrudgingly trudged to the locker room.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson)<br/> shit's gonna hit the fan</p> </blockquote> <p>The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas mask.</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz finished jogging to the abandoned building. Decrepit and crumbling, errant piles of broken concrete littered the street in front of it. Four stories tall… on the outside, at least. Ruiz roughly forced a pick gun into the front door, pulled the trigger a few times, then twisted the handle open. He edged in slowly, closing the door behind him.</p> <p>"PICO!"</p> <p>Ruiz shouted out to the cavernous room. Cylindrical concrete pylons were distributed throughout; it looked like an industrial warehouse, despite sitting in a dilapidated residential neighbourhood. Ruiz listened to his own echoing voice, scanning behind the pillars for motion.</p> <p>"Shhhhhhhhh. Keep your voice down, brother."</p> <p>Ruiz twisted to his left, aiming at the sound's source down the wooden sights of his gun. Pico's distorted voice came from a small handheld radio; clearly modified from a children's walkie-talkie, given that it was pink with white flowers on. Ruiz picked it up, pushing the talk button in.</p> <p>"Pill delivery service, this is Ruiz speaking, how may I help you?"</p> <p>"I'm fine without them. They'd kill me."</p> <p>"No. No, that's definitely not a thing that's true. You are saying not true things, and are also stupid."</p> <p>"Allow me to clarify, then: I just consumed ten pills apiece of escitalopram and topiramate. I down a single clozapine pill, my heart will pretty much explode."</p> <p>"Fuck."</p> <p>"Anyway. Get up to the top level. Snip snip."</p> <p>Ruiz pocketed the radio, static still buzzing from its speaker, and walked over to the rough concrete staircase. Cement powder spiralled from the ground with his every step, staining his shoes grey. He jogged up the stairs to the second floor, then the third, and finally reached the fourth. The final floor, unlike all the rest, was almost spotlessly clean. The ground, while still concrete, had been polished and shined to almost flawless levels of reflection. The pillars, while still cylindrical, rose and descended into decoratively carved ends, in effective mimicry of ancient Greek architecture. And then, sitting comfortably upon a pile of corpses, Pico Wilson stared apathetically at his brother.</p> <p>"Ruiz. Long time no see."</p> <p>Ruiz levelled his wooden gun at his brother's smirking face.</p> <p>"Pico. Why'd you kill him?"</p> <p>Pico reached into the pile, pulling out an errant hand.</p> <p>"This guy?"</p> <p>"You know who I mean."</p> <p>"What, so you don't care why I killed this guy?"</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"No love at all for Donovan Stilward? You don't want to know why? Really?"</p> <p>"I don't think there was a reason."</p> <p>"He kidnapped, raped, and killed three children."</p> <p>"…what?"</p> <p>"You heard me."</p> <p>"You're lying. You're an indiscriminate murderer."</p> <p>"I never lie, brother. Only art lies, and it's a lie that makes us realize the truth. And the truth is this: the only truth is in art’s lies."</p> <p>"Stop it. Why did you kill The Critic?"</p> <p>"Do I need a reason?"</p> <p>"Tell me why."</p> <p>"So, just to clarify, you think that I killed the big man for a reason, but not good old kiddie-fucking Donovan Stilward?"</p> <p>Pico waved the corpse's hand for emphasis.</p> <p>"Ruiz, your problem is the same as mine: incoherence. Well, that and a drastically exaggerated sense of self-importance. Not everything happens for a reason, brother."</p> <p>Pico jumped off his pile and started walking towards Ruiz, gesticulating wildly, Ruiz never taking the aim of his gun from his brother's head.</p> <p>"See, the only difference between you and me, Ruiz, is I don't lie about it. You want to know why I killed Critic? You think it had anything to do with you at all? No, brother, no. Nothing of the sort. As much as you would like to be, brother, you are not the prime mover here, and it's getting under your skin."</p> <p>Pico flipped a butterfly knife from his pocket and started to play with it. Ruiz steeled his expression.</p> <p>"Sometimes, Ruiz, things just… happen. And it's not because of any reason, or any cause. People like to pretend there was a cause, right? They like to pretend that there's always a reason. They like to pretend that there was something that could have been done, and think about all of the little things that would have made it turn out any other way. And they sit there tossing and turning, trying to reverse-engineer the world, as though finding a solution would retroactively change things. But it doesn't matter. Those are things that have already happened, and thinking about it wastes more time, more things will keep happening, and then it all just fizzles away into meaninglessly masturbatory hypotheticals."</p> <p>Pico took the knife and ran it across his chin, scraping errant facial hairs without cutting his skin.</p> <p>"Sometimes, Ruiz, things just… I don't know how to say. Perhaps I would call it… 'reversion'. Sometimes things revert, have you noticed? It's as though we were living on the edge of a coin. A knife, even. Sometimes things revert and the world feels horribly different. Can you feel it? You've felt it, haven't you?"</p> <p>Ruiz continued staring down his gun. Pico, having scraped his chin free of hair, started making incisions on the back of his hand.</p> <p>"We're doing the same thing, always. Alluding to change, but it's not real. It's all static, it's fake, it's FAKE! Don't you see, brother? We're just playing at… at being gods. What do gods do when they live forever? I'll tell you, brother. They just keep hammering each other on the back. They tell each other that there is meaning, when it's all just easily coined bullshit. And, if they're lucky, brother, some gods even get to forget. There's only one truth, Ruiz. Do you get me?"</p> <p>"You're insane."</p> <p>"No, I'm incoherent, there's a difference. Sanity is arbitrary, brother. The consensus of stupid people."</p> <p>"WHY DID YOU KILL THE CRITIC?"</p> <p>"I guess… because… I could?"</p> <p>Ruiz pulled the trigger, sending a supersonic elastic band into his brother's chest. Pico fell, winded.</p> <p>"TELL ME!"</p> <p>"You really want to know?"</p> <p>"YES!"</p> <p>"Look behind you."</p> <p>Ruiz spun in place, then saw his eyes reflected in the dark glass of The Janitor's mask.</p> <hr/> <p>"This still feels like a stupid idea, sir."</p> <p>Field Agent Alcorn was sitting across from Agent Green inside of the white, unmarked Foundation van. The nine-man squad (with the addition of Green) was awkwardly squeezed in just one vehicle. Every turn pushed or pulled the agents around the vehicle as the hurtled towards 16 Hartford Street.</p> <p>"You know you're disposable, don't you Alcorn?"</p> <p>Alcorn frowned angrily at Green, who appraised him apathetically.</p> <p>"Don't take that personally. I'm disposable too. We're paid to be disposable. If you weren't, you wouldn't be in the field."</p> <p>Green rubbed the ridge of his nose, then continued.</p> <p>"There are numerous methodologies that would be safer. We could have brought more personnel. We could have gotten some snipers, we could have tried to lock the place down. Those would cost more, in exchange for lower risk. But we are disposable. And as much as we like to pretend otherwise, the men in suits aren't made of money."</p> <p>Green leaned over and spoke into Alcorn's ear.</p> <p>"As bad as it sounds, Alcorn, we are going with the stupidest idea because it is the cheapest."</p> <p>The van screeched to a halt. Green unholstered his pistol; Alcorn gripped his rifle, then pushed open the van's back door, covering his squad as they moved to the entrance. Green sprinted to the entrance, then scanned the pillars inside. He entered, pistol still aimed at eye-level, scanning corners as the members of Upsilon 18 slowly fanned inside.</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz stared at The Janitor, stunned like a deer in the headlights. Pico slowly got to his feet, laughing lightly.</p> <p>"There you are, you beautiful thing. Over here."</p> <p>The Janitor turned, making its way over to The Snipper. It kneeled in front of him; Pico patted it softly on the head. Ruiz was stunned into silence.</p> <p>"See, The Janitor here's basically… well, 'god' is a bit much. Demigod, do you think?"</p> <p>The Janitor raised its face up to its master.</p> <p>"I am not divine."</p> <p>"Oh, but you are divine, my dear, you are. What do you think, Ruiz? I'm not sure what we'll do for a wedding dress; white on black would be fantastic, though."</p> <p>Ruiz recovered, again returning his aim to The Snipper's head. Pico simply laughed.</p> <p>"You're threatening me with elastic bands, Ruiz. You're threatening me with <em>stationary</em>."</p> <p>"Why?"</p> <p>"Why what?"</p> <p>"Why do any of this? What's your endgame?"</p> <p>"Why do you think there's an endgame? Hell, what was yours? Kill the Critic, then what?"</p> <p>"Things would change."</p> <p>"Nothing ever changes. Even now, nothing's changed. Everyone just changed places, but it's all the same. They're playing a game of musical chairs, you stopped the music, but forgot to remove a seat."</p> <p>"You're wrong. I cut him out, I sliced him out like a cancer. His side-jobs had replacements, but I don't care about them. There is no Critic."</p> <p>Pico Wilson spread his arms wide.</p> <p>"Of course there is. You're talking to him."</p> <hr/> <p>"We secure, Alcorn?"</p> <p>"This floor is, at least. We going up?"</p> <p>"Yep."</p> <p>"Perkins, Dorfman, with me. Everyone else, keep this floor locked down. Nobody in, nobody out."</p> <p>Perkins and Dorfman joined Alcorn and Green at the base of the stairs.</p> <p>"You first, Green."</p> <p>They swept carefully upwards to the second floor, spreading out to search.</p> <hr/> <p>"You're not The Critic."</p> <p>"Of course I am. I emptied the seat, I get to take it."</p> <p>"HE WOULD HAVE KILLED HIMSELF."</p> <p>"The keyword being 'would'. I got him first. Mine to claim in his absence. Didn't you realise that?"</p> <p>"So then… if I kill you?"</p> <p>Pico tilted his head back, cackling madly.</p> <p>"Go ahead and try, brother. Janitor. Clean up the mess."</p> <p>The Janitor stood, turning around to face Ruiz. It walked towards him, hands raised. Ruiz began to grin.</p> <p>"And… cut."</p> <p>The Janitor spun around, tackling Pico to the ground, sending his butterfly knife clattering into a distant corner. The Snipper struggled, trying to escape the masked figure's grip. He wildly clawed at the mask with dirty fingernails, until getting his fingers underneath and pulling it cleanly off.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>REWIND</strong></p> </div> <hr/> <p>"Oi. Sandra."</p> <p>The Director sat comatose in her bed. Ruiz Duchamp stood next to her, poking her cheek with his finger.</p> <p>"Come on, Sandy. You might have fooled them, but you can't fool me."</p> <p>The Director opened one of her eyes, whispering through her oxygen mask.</p> <p>"Bugger off, Ruiz."</p> <p>"I've got the cameras on loop, and the door's locked. Take off the mask."</p> <p>Sandra Paulson pulled it off, then yanked several fake IV drips from her arm.</p> <p>"Damn it, Ruiz, what do you want?"</p> <p>"Well, for starters, I want to know why you're pretending to be unconscious."</p> <p>Sandra rubbed the back of her head.</p> <p>"Suits got me. Drugged me up, not that it had any effect, of course."</p> <p>"Of course."</p> <p>"Fed them some bullshit about you leaking the play to me as well. Watch out for that."</p> <p>"You what?"</p> <p>"Hey, calm down. First name that popped into my head, man. You shouldn't have turned up last night."</p> <p>"I needed to warn you!"</p> <p>"You seriously think I wouldn't know about the Hanged King? That's old-school stuff, everyone knows about it. Hell, I wrote a pilot for a sitcom adaptation. 'Hanging with The King', I think it was."</p> <p>"Then why the hell were you running the show?"</p> <p>"I was being watched. Did you really think I'd turned into a stupid, crotchety old lady? I was an actress before a director."</p> <p>Ruiz frowned, thinking on her words.</p> <p>"So… who gave it to you?"</p> <p>"The Sculptor. That asshole's trying to kill us all."</p> <hr/> <p>The phone sitting on The Director's bedside table started to ring. She picked it up, placing it to the side of her head.</p> <p>"Ruiz?"</p> <p>"Sandy, I need some help. I can't be in two places at once, and Felix is watching me."</p> <p>"Wait, you've been talking to Felix?"</p> <p>"Yeah, we… started hanging out, or something. Still not sure if I can trust him."</p> <p>"He's harmless. What do you want?"</p> <p>"I need you to tail my brother. Figure out where he lives."</p> <p>"Do you know where he is right now?"</p> <p>"No, but I know where he's going to be tonight. 27 Rokan Avenue. The whole gang's meeting up for tea and cookies."</p> <p>"Tea and cookies?"</p> <p>"Sorry, I mean in order to plan their attack at an exhibition that I'm not even going to be attending while The Sculptor insists on using my name as the motivation behind a witch hunt. I'm not sure how I got those two mixed up. Can you do that for me?"</p> <p>"Sure. Any luck with The Sculptor?"</p> <p>"One problem at a time, Sandy."</p> <p>The Director placed her phone on the bedside table. She pulled an inflatable doll from underneath her bed, stuck it under her covers, then changed into plainclothes. She locked her door (fortunately, she had her own room), then carefully lowered herself outside onto the window. They'd never notice she was gone.</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz's phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it out, pushing it to his ear.</p> <p>"Hey Sandy."</p> <p>"Ruiz. I've got an address. 16 Hartford Street. Big abandoned building."</p> <p>"Fantastic."</p> <p>"He has also met The Janitor."</p> <p>"Who?"</p> <p>"Tall guy. Gas mask."</p> <p>"I have no idea who you're talking about."</p> <hr/> <p>Sandra's phone buzzed in her pocket. She'd not actually returned to the hospital after her first escape. The nurses still hadn't noticed.</p> <p>"Hey Ruiz."</p> <p>"Critic's dead."</p> <p>"Oh. It worked then?"</p> <p>"Nope. Pico killed him."</p> <p>"Shit."</p> <p>"Indeed. Keep an eye on him for me."</p> <p>"What are we doing about The Sculptor?"</p> <p>"I'm working on it. Don't worry."</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz's phone started ringing.</p> <p>"Sandy?"</p> <p>"I just had an idea. You know how I'm really good at acting?"</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>To: Sandy<br/> go time.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>To: Felix<br/> can you get the janitor to meet me at my studio? need to ask something</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>Felix glanced at his phone, tapped at a few keys, then returned it to his pocket.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson)<br/> shit's gonna hit the fan</p> </blockquote> <p>The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas mask. Its phone beeped again.</p> <blockquote> <p>From: The Clipper (Felix Cori)<br/> Ruiz Duchamp's asking for you at his studio.</p> </blockquote> <p>The Janitor examined the screen, thinking about the messages.</p> <p>It knew what had happened.</p> <p>It exhaled another deep, buzzing sigh.</p> <p>Then it removed its mask, and became the person beneath the mask.</p> <p>The person beneath started walking to a coffee shop.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>AND BACK TO THE PRESENT</strong></p> </div> <hr/> <p>"Miss The Director. I see. I SEE."</p> <p>Sandra, free of the stifling gas mask, easily reasserted her full-body pin. The Snipper began to laugh loudly.</p> <p>"HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA… Oh, Little Miss The Director. How Would You Like To Play?"</p> <p>The Director switched to a stranglehold, trying to block Pico's airways.</p> <p>"no i don't think that will work here. Not on us, you know? NOT ON US."</p> <p>The Snipper twisted, tearing his shirt off and using the leeway to escape The Director's hold. His emaciated ribcage rose and fell as he panted madly.</p> <p>"We Aren't Going To Go Down As Easily As That Miss The Director. and we haven't forgotten you either RUIZ."</p> <p>Ruiz shot two elastic bands at his brother's head. The first grazed Pico's ear; the second snapped into his eye. He recoiled, covering his face with his hands.</p> <p>"no you see this is not how it goes down. We Can Just Restart. We can just… restart, you know? It's not real. It can't be. IT CAN'T BE."</p> <p>Pico ran manically to his pile of corpses, diving amongst his collected bodies.</p> <p>"There Is No Control. It's an illusion, you understand? It's all just a dream, it has to be a dream. we cannot live in a world where the world is lived in."</p> <p>Ruiz sprinted to the heap; Sandra pulled a hypodermic needle from within her black trenchcoat.</p> <p>"THERE IS NO VALID RESPONSE TO A WORLD THAT DOES NOT OBEY THE RULES BUT NOT TO OBEY ITS RULES. i just help the people leave through the most obvious exit, am i some kind of reaper? Perchance A Psychopomp, Hm?"</p> <p>Ruiz reached past the severed limbs, latching onto the only one with a pulse.</p> <p>"I always wanted to pretend as though I was important. I fooled a couple of people. this isn't how it was meant to end. I WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN. Do Not Let Me Die Here. You Are Better Than This. You Can Be Better Than This."</p> <p>Ruiz yanked his brother from the pile, Pico kicking and screaming all the while.</p> <p>"wasn't there something better than this? DO YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH, BROTHER? Our Jesus Taught Us Better Than This; Our Adam Knew Us More."</p> <p>Sandra pulled the cap from the needle, readying it for insertion.</p> <p>"THIS IS NOT MADNESS, BROTHER. Sanity Is As Arbitrary As Sinfulness. I committed no crimes here. you have no right to judge me."</p> <p>Ruiz nodded, holding his spasming sibling in place. Sandra plunged the needle into Pico's chest, pushing the sedatives into his bloodstream.</p> <p>"WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER! Gods Among A Stupid And Negligent Populous!"</p> <p>The Snipper struggled shirtlessly.</p> <p>"We aren't supposed to live like this. We're all creators here. The world exists for us."</p> <p>Pico's eyes drooped.</p> <p>"we can't afford coherence."</p> <p>Ruiz dropped his limp, unconscious brother to the floor.</p> <hr/> <p>"HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA…"</p> <p>Agent Green turned to the far wall, startled by the noise.</p> <p>"Alcorn. With me."</p> <p>Alcorn joined Green; the pair of them moved towards the stairwell. They carefully started moving upwards, hearing muffled yelling through the thick concrete floors. Halfway to the third floor, Alcorn's radio crackled with a message from his men on the ground.</p> <p>"Sir, we've detained a man trying to get into the premises. Callin' himself The Sculptor."</p> <p>Green turned, holding his hand out expectantly. Alcorn sighed, handing his radio over. Green talked into the microphone.</p> <p>"How much resistance did he put up?"</p> <p>"None at all, sir. Held out his hands for the cuffs while grinnin' like a lunatic."</p> <p>"Don't take your eyes off him. That man is considered a high-importance person of interest."</p> <p>"We're moving him to the van now, sir."</p> <p>"Good. Keep someone with him; you have permission to terminate if he tries anything. Over."</p> <p>Alcorn took the radio back, clipping it to his belt. He started talking as he followed Green up the stairs.</p> <p>"You think this guy's backup for Snipper?"</p> <p>"Not after what happened last Friday. He's probably got-"</p> <p>"WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER!"</p> <p>Green raised a finger to his lips, remaining silent as they reached the third floor.</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz frisked Pico for any concealed weapons; his pockets were empty, barring an old mobile phone. He picked it up and navigated through the screens, moving to sent texts.</p> <blockquote> <p>To: sculptor<br/> 16 hartford street I'm all that's left</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>To: the fuckwad brigade<br/> 16 hartford street this is the snipper hello</p> </blockquote> <p>"Fuck."</p> <p>Sandy turned to Ruiz, having pulled Pico's body up onto her shoulder.</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>"Suits and The Sculptor inbound."</p> <p>"Fuck."</p> <p>"My thoughts exactly. Battle plan?"</p> <p>"Leave before they get here."</p> <hr/> <p>Alcorn's radio crackled again; he immediately deferred it to Green.</p> <p>"Sir, we've apprehended another person."</p> <p>Green frowned.</p> <p>"Have they identified?"</p> <p>"Well, sir… they're saying they're The Sculptor."</p> <p>Green looked at Alcorn, concerned.</p> <p>"Is the person previously identifying as The Sculptor still in custody?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir."</p> <p>"Do they look the same?"</p> <p>"Yessir."</p> <p>"Terminate both immediately. Keep a look out for more."</p> <p>"Understood, sir. We've… wait, sir, we have another Sculptor attempting to… wait, five… seven! SHIT! Sculptors closing from all angles!"</p> <p>"Open fire; aim for the head! Everyone to the lobby!"</p> <p>Green and Alcorn started sprinting back down to the second floor as gunfire echoed through the building.</p> <hr/> <p>Sandra slowly moved to the stairwell, Pico's body still slung over her shoulder. Ruiz moved down the stairs, aiming his elastic band shooter around each turn.</p> <p>"I think we're alone."</p> <p>The end of Ruiz's sentence was punctuated by echoing gunfire. The Director massaged her temples in exasperation. They moved down to the third floor, looking out a window and surveying the scene below. Hundreds of Sculptors were running through every street, swarming to the base of the building. Three of the Suits' Agents were shooting wildly at the horde, barely thinning the ranks. One of them threw a fragmentation grenade into the crowd; metal pellets ripped through the swarm, breaking the illusion of flesh and bone and sending streaks of clay across the ground. Ruiz looked at his small wooden gun, suddenly feeling profoundly inadequate.</p> <p>"Well shit."</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Green ran down to the first floor, Agent Alcorn trailing behind. The members of MTF Upsilon-18 shot in short, controlled bursts at the horde of angry clay artists; one of them had blocked the front door with a metal pipe. Green saw one of the Sculptors attempting to crawl through a window. He lined up the shot and pulled the trigger, leaving the clay body blocking the entrance. He appraised his pistol; a less than ideal weapon for the current situation. Green shouted over the gunfire.</p> <p>"ALCORN! DO WE HAVE A SPARE RIFLE?"</p> <p>Alcorn shook his head; Green swore an unheard oath. The two of them moved to join the rest of the squad, taking cover behind the messy piles of broken concrete slabs. Every shot meant one less angry artist; at the same time, it meant one less bullet. They were equipped for an in-and-out raid, not a prolonged siege. The Sculptors screamed warcries as they broke through windows, trying to crawl in over their fallen duplicates.</p> <p>"THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-"</p> <p>The synchronous chorus chimed through the building, barely audible over the sounds of firing bullets.</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz turned to Sandra, who had already pulled her phone from her pocket.</p> <p>"Who are you calling?"</p> <p>"The real Janitor. Sculptor's directly tried to kill me. He's broken the rules, his protection is void; mine, however, is still intact."</p> <p>The Director tapped the screen, then put it to her ear. Ruiz looked out the window again. The crowd was thick, but no further duplicates were forthcoming. Ruiz pulled a stick of chalk from his pocket, then grabbed a piece of concrete debris. He wrote the phrase "ceci n'est pas une bombe" onto it, then hurled it out into the horde. He grinned as it burst into a ball of flames, splattering Sculptors across the ground.</p> <hr/> <p>The person beneath the mask received a call. The person beneath the mask answered, muffling their voice with their hand.</p> <p>"Director. You've dropped your façade."</p> <p>"Yeah, about that. Sculptor's the one who hospitalised me."</p> <p>"Purposefully?"</p> <p>"Yes."</p> <p>"Location?"</p> <p>"16 Hartford Street."</p> <p>"Understood."</p> <p>The person beneath the mask pulled the mask back over their face.</p> <p>The Janitor sped across the rooftops as though skating on ice.</p> <hr/> <p>"GREEN, WE'VE GOT TO FALL BACK!"</p> <p>The squad continued firing at the now-open door as artists continued to flood through. One of the duplicates had overpowered one of the Agents, throwing his screaming body outside to be dealt with by his brethren. Alcorn gestured for his squadmates to retreat up the stairs to the second floor. Green emptied the last of his pistol's clip into the clay skull of the closest Sculptor, then threw the useless firearm to the side. He followed Alcorn back up the stairs, stopping to grab a length of steel pipe lying halfway up. Green shouted to the closest troops over the continued chanting.</p> <p>"BLOCK THE STAIRWELL!"</p> <p>As the last of the squad ascended the stairs, Green helped push a nearby pile of concrete down, squishing two overzealous Sculptors below its weight. Another tried to climb over the blockade; Green brought down his pipe on its head, hearing a satisfying BONG as its head deformed and it dropped lifelessly to the ground.</p> <hr/> <p>Sandy pushed her phone back into her pocket, joining Ruiz at the window. Pico snorted as Sandra readjusted her grip on him.</p> <p>"Janitor's on its way. We've got to last until then."</p> <p>"You have anything useful?"</p> <p>The Director pulled a grappling hook gun from one of the inner pockets of her coat.</p> <p>"Great, let's get out of here."</p> <p>"It won't carry all of us."</p> <p>"Fuck. Alright…"</p> <p>Ruiz looked out the window, then pointed out an adjacent rooftop.</p> <p>"Can you get there, drop Pico off, then come back for me?"</p> <p>"Takes a while to reload this thing."</p> <p>"Best plan we've got."</p> <p>"Okay then. See you in a bit."</p> <p>Sandra shot the grappling gun at the building, pushed a button on the side, and was pulled out the window. Ruiz looked as she climbed to the rooftop, then started to respool the projectile.</p> <p>"UNIDENTIFIED PERSON ON THE NEXT LEVEL UP, OPENING FIRE!"</p> <p>Ruiz spun around, barely having time to duck behind a concrete pylon before being shot at by one of the Suits. He aimed around his cover and loosed a pair of elastic bands towards his assailant. Ruiz yelled incredulously.</p> <p>"EXCUSE ME, PLEASE DON'T SHOOT, THANK YOU."</p> <hr/> <p>The Janitor jumped from rooftop to rooftop, finally reaching 16 Hartford Street. It jumped to the ground, sending Sculptors scattering. It waved its hand towards a nearby duplicate, dispelling the anomalous and reducing it to raw clay. Nearby copies were struck immobile from a combination of awe and fear. The Janitor buzzed a comment from inside its gas mask.</p> <p>"You have broken protocol. This was a poor decision."</p> <p>The duplicates ran screaming from The Janitor, each of them seizing suddenly before crumbling into dust. It walked fluidly through the building's front door, sending the Sculptors fleeing up the semi-blocked stairwell.</p> <hr/> <p>The Suit continued to fire at the concrete pylon, preventing Ruiz from escaping. Ruiz took another pot shot in his general direction.</p> <p>"SANDY, NEED SOME HELP!"</p> <p>The Director came barrelling through the window, joining Ruiz behind the pylon.</p> <p>"Alright, alright, no need to shout. Grab on."</p> <p>Ruiz grabbed Sandra's shoulders tightly. She pulled a small ball from inside her trenchcoat, throwing it hard against the ground; it exploded into a small cloud of smoke. Sandy ran to the window, jumping out and aiming at the opposite rooftop. For a split second, Ruiz felt his heart stop as they started entering freefall into the crowd of ravenous Sculptors below; then, the hook shot out, securing them to the opposite rooftop and pulling them slowly upwards. They pulled themselves up onto the rooftop, both panting heavily from overexertion. Ruiz stood up, dusted himself off, then looked around, confused.</p> <p>"Where's Pico?"</p> <p>Sandy looked around, confused.</p> <p>"Shit. Doesn't matter, we're getting out of here. He can look after himself."</p> <p>Ruiz swore colourfully under his breath, joining Sandra in their rooftop escape.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Green had fallen back from the front lines; the squad was concentrating their fire on the stairwell below, and close-quarters combat and high-speed bullets make a poor mix. The Sculptors surged through the hole, pushing aside the concrete scraps and swarming around the closest Agents. Two of them fell and were trampled by the stampede. Alcorn pulled a grenade from his belt, pulling the pin and counting down.</p> <p>"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"</p> <p>He threw it into the swarm, thinning their numbers substantially. Green shouted out to the remainder of the squad.</p> <p>"WE NEED TO MAINTAIN A CHOKE POINT! EVERYONE UPSTAIRS!"</p> <p>The second floor was flooded with Sculptors as the remaining seven agents retreated up to the third floor.</p> <hr/> <p>The Janitor walked briskly through the first floor, tapping Sculptors on the shoulder and reducing them to piles of ash. It waved its hands, tearing the illusions from the clay. Its mask buzzed as it breathed slowly, calmly eradicating the plague. One of the duplicates turned, jumping towards the tall, dark figure; it impacted onto The Janitor's shoes, the clay hardening as it cooked solid from internal heat. It scanned the room for movement, nodding when satisfied it had cleared the area.</p> <p>The Janitor moved slowly up the staircase to the second floor.</p> <hr/> <p>Alcorn shot the last of his clip, watching the last tracer round exiting its barrel. He threw the useless rifle to the side, picked up a stick of rebar from the ground, and stabbed it through the nearest Sculptor's head. Green forced his pipe into the chest of a duplicate, spun around, then struck its head cleanly off its neck. The rest of the squad had resorted to close-combat weaponry, their firearms spent; Dorfman spun like a dancer, slicing through clay with his combat knife, while Perkins had taken to simply grabbing heads and smashing them into the walls and pylons.</p> <hr/> <p>The Janitor moved up to the second floor. Hordes of Sculptors surrounded it, refusing to go out without a fight. They moved in towards it, trying to tear off its trenchcoat, remove its boots, yank off its mask; they desperately struggled to avoid their imminent demise. They screamed in chorus:</p> <p>"ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-"</p> <p>The Janitor clicked its fingers, and the assailants turned inside-out.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Green stood panting heavily, staring at the piles of clay that littered the room. Dorfman flicked the last of the stuff from his knife, Perkins squished a final skull beneath his feet. Alcorn walked over to Green, patting him on the shoulder while grinning from the adrenaline.</p> <p>"Still alive!"</p> <p>"Still alive. Okay. Alright. Still need to check the top floor before we-"</p> <p>Green stopped mid-sentence, readying his pipe as a tall figure wearing a black gas mask ascended the stairs. The Janitor looked around at the Agents beneath it, kicking some errant clay from its boots. It walked towards Agent Green; Green readied his pipe for an attack. The Janitor stopped, then bowed deeply, kneeling upon the ground.</p> <p>"Deepest apologies for the inconvenience. It will not happen again."</p> <p>The Janitor stood, walked briskly to the window, and jumped to the ground with a resounding thud. Green looked to Alcorn, then at the open third-floor window. Green calmly reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, then lit it. He inhaled deeply, breathing out with exhaustion.</p> <p>"I have no idea what the fuck's going on any more."</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz walked dejectedly through the gallery lobby. Sandra had gone off to search for the real Sculptor; having lost Pico, there were no leads left.</p> <p>"Mister Duchamp, a guy came through here looking for you before."</p> <p>"Who was it?"</p> <p>"I… sorry, Mister Duchamp, I've forgotten."</p> <p>Ruiz sighed. Incompetent fools, the lot of them. He turned the corner into his studio.</p> <p>A red-headed man wearing a Hawaiian shirt was sitting on the electric chair.</p> <p>The man was wearing a grey fedora.</p> <p><em>The</em> grey fedora.</p> <p>Ruiz massaged his temples.</p> <p>"God fucking damn it."</p> <p>The new Nobody laughed, then clicked his fingers, sending Ruiz into a dreamless sleep.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Green and Agent Alcorn returned to the battered van, having thoroughly searched every level of 16 Hartford Street. As they were about to get into the vehicle, Green's phone rang. He flipped it open, looking at the caller:</p> <blockquote> <p>Agent Tangeee**@%</p> </blockquote> <p>Green tapped the screen of his phone.</p> <blockquote> <p>Unknown Caller</p> </blockquote> <p>He put the phone to his ear.</p> <p>"Agent Green."</p> <p>"Who is this? How did you get this number?"</p> <p>"Ruiz Duchamp is lying unconscious in the Genossenschaft Gallery of Contemporary Art. Pick him up at your leisure."</p> <p>"Who are you?"</p> <p>"A forgotten friend."</p> <p>Green flipped his phone shut, confused about the anonymous tip.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>the fifth of first is strategy</strong><br/> <strong>The fifth of second, a Friday show.</strong><br/> <strong>The Fifth Of Last Is Settled Scores</strong><br/> <strong>CONCURRENCE HENCE TO NEVER KNOW</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/snipped-from-the-same-cloth">Snipped From The Same Cloth</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/eulogy-for-the-living">Eulogy For The Living</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/brotherhood">Brotherhood</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/brotherhood">https://scpwiki.com/brotherhood</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	> NOTE: This is Part 21 of the 23 part series, [[[the-cool-war-hub\|The Cool War]]]. Reading this part first is a //very bad idea// and will spoil a lot of the story. -------------- [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > From: Pico > 16 hartford street come beat the shit out of me or whatever Ruiz Duchamp stared at the message blankly. "Carol, can I-" Ruiz looked up; Carol wasn't behind the counter. Ruiz stood up, walking deliberately back to his studio. He paced past the foyer, entering the room filled with deathtraps. His brother had clearly turned self-destructive; the final phase of his antipsychotic withdrawal. Ruiz opened his medicine cabinet, moving his own antidepressants and multivitamins to the side, reaching to the back. He pulled out a small bottle of Clozapine, shoving it into his right pocket. He moved to his closet, grabbing a heavy brown bomber jacket. He pulled his elastic band pistol from an inner pocket, clenching it tightly in his left hand. Ruiz sent two texts, then sprinted to Pico's hideout. -------------- > From: Snipper > 16 hartford street I'm all that's left The Sculptor sat and thought. Snipper was a reckless idiot, but on the other hand, he was an unpredictable one. Snipper had to be removed from the equation. The Sculptor turned to the wall of clay, rubbing his hands in anticipation. -------------- Agent Tangerine sprinted down the busy road. Every one of his contacts was gone. His cover was unrecoverable, his utility had become negligible. He'd be transferred for sure: back to paperwork, back to normal fieldwork, back to gunning down The Bad Guys... it was all so mind-numbingly simplistic. So //boring//. Tangerine saw the gallery in the distance. A few quick phone calls, it turned out, were all that he needed; Ruiz Duchamp's studio hadn't moved in years. Stupidity on their behalf for not doing that in the first place, but then, there was the assumed lack of carelessness on Duchamp's behalf. Tangerine kept running, dodging a man running in the other direction wearing a brown bomber jacket. He gripped his pistol in its holster tightly as he entered the foyer, turning to the help desk. Panting from the run, he blurted out the question: "Duchamp's studio?" The man behind the counter gestured further into the gallery. Tangerine turned and walked, slowing his breath. He looked around the corner, finding the room filled with blatant deathtraps. He tapped Green's number into his mobile phone. "Green, I'm at his studio now. Empty." "You stay there, we've got a new lead on the Snipper. Call me if anything happens." Tangerine's phone beeped as the call ended. He sighed, walking through the room, carelessly moving to sit on an available stool. Then he noticed the fedora sitting on the electric chair. -------------- > From: [METADATA CORRUPT] > 16 hartford street this is the snipper hello "Alright, boys. We don't know what's going on, we don't know what this guy looks like, we are going into this as blind as a bat. A particularly blind bat. A blind and deaf bat, with self esteem issues." Green paused for effect, looking around at Mobile Task Force Upsilon-18. "Admittedly, we don't know he's in there. It is quite possible, and indeed, almost certain, that this is a trap of some kind. Yes, Alcorn?" Field Agent Alcorn put down his hand, moderately confused. "Why are we walking into a trap, sir?" "Excellent question, Alcorn, with a stupid answer: because we've no better course of action. We might have the address of a maliciously artistic psychopath, and if he's been stupid enough to throw us a bone, then we can't not bite. Moving out in ten minutes, gentlemen; striking while the iron's hot." Alcorn begrudgingly trudged to the locker room. -------------- > From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson) > shit's gonna hit the fan The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas mask. -------------- Ruiz finished jogging to the abandoned building. Decrepit and crumbling, errant piles of broken concrete littered the street in front of it. Four stories tall... on the outside, at least. Ruiz roughly forced a pick gun into the front door, pulled the trigger a few times, then twisted the handle open. He edged in slowly, closing the door behind him. "PICO!" Ruiz shouted out to the cavernous room. Cylindrical concrete pylons were distributed throughout; it looked like an industrial warehouse, despite sitting in a dilapidated residential neighbourhood. Ruiz listened to his own echoing voice, scanning behind the pillars for motion. "Shhhhhhhhh. Keep your voice down, brother." Ruiz twisted to his left, aiming at the sound's source down the wooden sights of his gun. Pico's distorted voice came from a small handheld radio; clearly modified from a children's walkie-talkie, given that it was pink with white flowers on. Ruiz picked it up, pushing the talk button in. "Pill delivery service, this is Ruiz speaking, how may I help you?" "I'm fine without them. They'd kill me." "No. No, that's definitely not a thing that's true. You are saying not true things, and are also stupid." "Allow me to clarify, then: I just consumed ten pills apiece of escitalopram and topiramate. I down a single clozapine pill, my heart will pretty much explode." "Fuck." "Anyway. Get up to the top level. Snip snip." Ruiz pocketed the radio, static still buzzing from its speaker, and walked over to the rough concrete staircase. Cement powder spiralled from the ground with his every step, staining his shoes grey. He jogged up the stairs to the second floor, then the third, and finally reached the fourth. The final floor, unlike all the rest, was almost spotlessly clean. The ground, while still concrete, had been polished and shined to almost flawless levels of reflection. The pillars, while still cylindrical, rose and descended into decoratively carved ends, in effective mimicry of ancient Greek architecture. And then, sitting comfortably upon a pile of corpses, Pico Wilson stared apathetically at his brother. "Ruiz. Long time no see." Ruiz levelled his wooden gun at his brother's smirking face. "Pico. Why'd you kill him?" Pico reached into the pile, pulling out an errant hand. "This guy?" "You know who I mean." "What, so you don't care why I killed this guy?" "No." "No love at all for Donovan Stilward? You don't want to know why? Really?" "I don't think there was a reason." "He kidnapped, raped, and killed three children." "...what?" "You heard me." "You're lying. You're an indiscriminate murderer." "I never lie, brother. Only art lies, and it's a lie that makes us realize the truth. And the truth is this: the only truth is in art’s lies." "Stop it. Why did you kill The Critic?" "Do I need a reason?" "Tell me why." "So, just to clarify, you think that I killed the big man for a reason, but not good old kiddie-fucking Donovan Stilward?" Pico waved the corpse's hand for emphasis. "Ruiz, your problem is the same as mine: incoherence. Well, that and a drastically exaggerated sense of self-importance. Not everything happens for a reason, brother." Pico jumped off his pile and started walking towards Ruiz, gesticulating wildly, Ruiz never taking the aim of his gun from his brother's head. "See, the only difference between you and me, Ruiz, is I don't lie about it. You want to know why I killed Critic? You think it had anything to do with you at all? No, brother, no. Nothing of the sort. As much as you would like to be, brother, you are not the prime mover here, and it's getting under your skin." Pico flipped a butterfly knife from his pocket and started to play with it. Ruiz steeled his expression. "Sometimes, Ruiz, things just... happen. And it's not because of any reason, or any cause. People like to pretend there was a cause, right? They like to pretend that there's always a reason. They like to pretend that there was something that could have been done, and think about all of the little things that would have made it turn out any other way. And they sit there tossing and turning, trying to reverse-engineer the world, as though finding a solution would retroactively change things. But it doesn't matter. Those are things that have already happened, and thinking about it wastes more time, more things will keep happening, and then it all just fizzles away into meaninglessly masturbatory hypotheticals." Pico took the knife and ran it across his chin, scraping errant facial hairs without cutting his skin. "Sometimes, Ruiz, things just... I don't know how to say. Perhaps I would call it... 'reversion'. Sometimes things revert, have you noticed? It's as though we were living on the edge of a coin. A knife, even. Sometimes things revert and the world feels horribly different. Can you feel it? You've felt it, haven't you?" Ruiz continued staring down his gun. Pico, having scraped his chin free of hair, started making incisions on the back of his hand. "We're doing the same thing, always. Alluding to change, but it's not real. It's all static, it's fake, it's FAKE! Don't you see, brother? We're just playing at... at being gods. What do gods do when they live forever? I'll tell you, brother. They just keep hammering each other on the back. They tell each other that there is meaning, when it's all just easily coined bullshit. And, if they're lucky, brother, some gods even get to forget. There's only one truth, Ruiz. Do you get me?" "You're insane." "No, I'm incoherent, there's a difference. Sanity is arbitrary, brother. The consensus of stupid people." "WHY DID YOU KILL THE CRITIC?" "I guess... because... I could?" Ruiz pulled the trigger, sending a supersonic elastic band into his brother's chest. Pico fell, winded. "TELL ME!" "You really want to know?" "YES!" "Look behind you." Ruiz spun in place, then saw his eyes reflected in the dark glass of The Janitor's mask. -------------- "This still feels like a stupid idea, sir." Field Agent Alcorn was sitting across from Agent Green inside of the white, unmarked Foundation van. The nine-man squad (with the addition of Green) was awkwardly squeezed in just one vehicle. Every turn pushed or pulled the agents around the vehicle as the hurtled towards 16 Hartford Street. "You know you're disposable, don't you Alcorn?" Alcorn frowned angrily at Green, who appraised him apathetically. "Don't take that personally. I'm disposable too. We're paid to be disposable. If you weren't, you wouldn't be in the field." Green rubbed the ridge of his nose, then continued. "There are numerous methodologies that would be safer. We could have brought more personnel. We could have gotten some snipers, we could have tried to lock the place down. Those would cost more, in exchange for lower risk. But we are disposable. And as much as we like to pretend otherwise, the men in suits aren't made of money." Green leaned over and spoke into Alcorn's ear. "As bad as it sounds, Alcorn, we are going with the stupidest idea because it is the cheapest." The van screeched to a halt. Green unholstered his pistol; Alcorn gripped his rifle, then pushed open the van's back door, covering his squad as they moved to the entrance. Green sprinted to the entrance, then scanned the pillars inside. He entered, pistol still aimed at eye-level, scanning corners as the members of Upsilon 18 slowly fanned inside. -------------- Ruiz stared at The Janitor, stunned like a deer in the headlights. Pico slowly got to his feet, laughing lightly. "There you are, you beautiful thing. Over here." The Janitor turned, making its way over to The Snipper. It kneeled in front of him; Pico patted it softly on the head. Ruiz was stunned into silence. "See, The Janitor here's basically... well, 'god' is a bit much. Demigod, do you think?" The Janitor raised its face up to its master. "I am not divine." "Oh, but you are divine, my dear, you are. What do you think, Ruiz? I'm not sure what we'll do for a wedding dress; white on black would be fantastic, though." Ruiz recovered, again returning his aim to The Snipper's head. Pico simply laughed. "You're threatening me with elastic bands, Ruiz. You're threatening me with //stationary//." "Why?" "Why what?" "Why do any of this? What's your endgame?" "Why do you think there's an endgame? Hell, what was yours? Kill the Critic, then what?" "Things would change." "Nothing ever changes. Even now, nothing's changed. Everyone just changed places, but it's all the same. They're playing a game of musical chairs, you stopped the music, but forgot to remove a seat." "You're wrong. I cut him out, I sliced him out like a cancer. His side-jobs had replacements, but I don't care about them. There is no Critic." Pico Wilson spread his arms wide. "Of course there is. You're talking to him." -------------- "We secure, Alcorn?" "This floor is, at least. We going up?" "Yep." "Perkins, Dorfman, with me. Everyone else, keep this floor locked down. Nobody in, nobody out." Perkins and Dorfman joined Alcorn and Green at the base of the stairs. "You first, Green." They swept carefully upwards to the second floor, spreading out to search. -------------- "You're not The Critic." "Of course I am. I emptied the seat, I get to take it." "HE WOULD HAVE KILLED HIMSELF." "The keyword being 'would'. I got him first. Mine to claim in his absence. Didn't you realise that?" "So then... if I kill you?" Pico tilted his head back, cackling madly. "Go ahead and try, brother. Janitor. Clean up the mess." The Janitor stood, turning around to face Ruiz. It walked towards him, hands raised. Ruiz began to grin. "And... cut." The Janitor spun around, tackling Pico to the ground, sending his butterfly knife clattering into a distant corner. The Snipper struggled, trying to escape the masked figure's grip. He wildly clawed at the mask with dirty fingernails, until getting his fingers underneath and pulling it cleanly off. -------------- [[=]] REWIND [[/=]] -------------- "Oi. Sandra." The Director sat comatose in her bed. Ruiz Duchamp stood next to her, poking her cheek with his finger. "Come on, Sandy. You might have fooled them, but you can't fool me." The Director opened one of her eyes, whispering through her oxygen mask. "Bugger off, Ruiz." "I've got the cameras on loop, and the door's locked. Take off the mask." Sandra Paulson pulled it off, then yanked several fake IV drips from her arm. "Damn it, Ruiz, what do you want?" "Well, for starters, I want to know why you're pretending to be unconscious." Sandra rubbed the back of her head. "Suits got me. Drugged me up, not that it had any effect, of course." "Of course." "Fed them some bullshit about you leaking the play to me as well. Watch out for that." "You what?" "Hey, calm down. First name that popped into my head, man. You shouldn't have turned up last night." "I needed to warn you!" "You seriously think I wouldn't know about the Hanged King? That's old-school stuff, everyone knows about it. Hell, I wrote a pilot for a sitcom adaptation. 'Hanging with The King', I think it was." "Then why the hell were you running the show?" "I was being watched. Did you really think I'd turned into a stupid, crotchety old lady? I was an actress before a director." Ruiz frowned, thinking on her words. "So... who gave it to you?" "The Sculptor. That asshole's trying to kill us all." -------------- The phone sitting on The Director's bedside table started to ring. She picked it up, placing it to the side of her head. "Ruiz?" "Sandy, I need some help. I can't be in two places at once, and Felix is watching me." "Wait, you've been talking to Felix?" "Yeah, we... started hanging out, or something. Still not sure if I can trust him." "He's harmless. What do you want?" "I need you to tail my brother. Figure out where he lives." "Do you know where he is right now?" "No, but I know where he's going to be tonight. 27 Rokan Avenue. The whole gang's meeting up for tea and cookies." "Tea and cookies?" "Sorry, I mean in order to plan their attack at an exhibition that I'm not even going to be attending while The Sculptor insists on using my name as the motivation behind a witch hunt. I'm not sure how I got those two mixed up. Can you do that for me?" "Sure. Any luck with The Sculptor?" "One problem at a time, Sandy." The Director placed her phone on the bedside table. She pulled an inflatable doll from underneath her bed, stuck it under her covers, then changed into plainclothes. She locked her door (fortunately, she had her own room), then carefully lowered herself outside onto the window. They'd never notice she was gone. -------------- Ruiz's phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it out, pushing it to his ear. "Hey Sandy." "Ruiz. I've got an address. 16 Hartford Street. Big abandoned building." "Fantastic." "He has also met The Janitor." "Who?" "Tall guy. Gas mask." "I have no idea who you're talking about." -------------- Sandra's phone buzzed in her pocket. She'd not actually returned to the hospital after her first escape. The nurses still hadn't noticed. "Hey Ruiz." "Critic's dead." "Oh. It worked then?" "Nope. Pico killed him." "Shit." "Indeed. Keep an eye on him for me." "What are we doing about The Sculptor?" "I'm working on it. Don't worry." -------------- Ruiz's phone started ringing. "Sandy?" "I just had an idea. You know how I'm really good at acting?" -------------- > To: Sandy > go time. > To: Felix > can you get the janitor to meet me at my studio? need to ask something -------------- Felix glanced at his phone, tapped at a few keys, then returned it to his pocket. -------------- > From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson) > shit's gonna hit the fan The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas mask. Its phone beeped again. > From: The Clipper (Felix Cori) > Ruiz Duchamp's asking for you at his studio. The Janitor examined the screen, thinking about the messages. It knew what had happened. It exhaled another deep, buzzing sigh. Then it removed its mask, and became the person beneath the mask. The person beneath started walking to a coffee shop. -------------- [[=]] AND BACK TO THE PRESENT [[/=]] -------------- "Miss The Director. I see. I SEE." Sandra, free of the stifling gas mask, easily reasserted her full-body pin. The Snipper began to laugh loudly. "HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA... Oh, Little Miss The Director. How Would You Like To Play?" The Director switched to a stranglehold, trying to block Pico's airways. "no i don't think that will work here. Not on us, you know? NOT ON US." The Snipper twisted, tearing his shirt off and using the leeway to escape The Director's hold. His emaciated ribcage rose and fell as he panted madly. "We Aren't Going To Go Down As Easily As That Miss The Director. and we haven't forgotten you either RUIZ." Ruiz shot two elastic bands at his brother's head. The first grazed Pico's ear; the second snapped into his eye. He recoiled, covering his face with his hands. "no you see this is not how it goes down. We Can Just Restart. We can just... restart, you know? It's not real. It can't be. IT CAN'T BE." Pico ran manically to his pile of corpses, diving amongst his collected bodies. "There Is No Control. It's an illusion, you understand? It's all just a dream, it has to be a dream. we cannot live in a world where the world is lived in." Ruiz sprinted to the heap; Sandra pulled a hypodermic needle from within her black trenchcoat. "THERE IS NO VALID RESPONSE TO A WORLD THAT DOES NOT OBEY THE RULES BUT NOT TO OBEY ITS RULES. i just help the people leave through the most obvious exit, am i some kind of reaper? Perchance A Psychopomp, Hm?" Ruiz reached past the severed limbs, latching onto the only one with a pulse. "I always wanted to pretend as though I was important. I fooled a couple of people. this isn't how it was meant to end. I WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN. Do Not Let Me Die Here. You Are Better Than This. You Can Be Better Than This." Ruiz yanked his brother from the pile, Pico kicking and screaming all the while. "wasn't there something better than this? DO YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH, BROTHER? Our Jesus Taught Us Better Than This; Our Adam Knew Us More." Sandra pulled the cap from the needle, readying it for insertion. "THIS IS NOT MADNESS, BROTHER. Sanity Is As Arbitrary As Sinfulness. I committed no crimes here. you have no right to judge me." Ruiz nodded, holding his spasming sibling in place. Sandra plunged the needle into Pico's chest, pushing the sedatives into his bloodstream. "WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER! Gods Among A Stupid And Negligent Populous!" The Snipper struggled shirtlessly. "We aren't supposed to live like this. We're all creators here. The world exists for us." Pico's eyes drooped. "we can't afford coherence." Ruiz dropped his limp, unconscious brother to the floor. -------------- "HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA..." Agent Green turned to the far wall, startled by the noise. "Alcorn. With me." Alcorn joined Green; the pair of them moved towards the stairwell. They carefully started moving upwards, hearing muffled yelling through the thick concrete floors. Halfway to the third floor, Alcorn's radio crackled with a message from his men on the ground. "Sir, we've detained a man trying to get into the premises. Callin' himself The Sculptor." Green turned, holding his hand out expectantly. Alcorn sighed, handing his radio over. Green talked into the microphone. "How much resistance did he put up?" "None at all, sir. Held out his hands for the cuffs while grinnin' like a lunatic." "Don't take your eyes off him. That man is considered a high-importance person of interest." "We're moving him to the van now, sir." "Good. Keep someone with him; you have permission to terminate if he tries anything. Over." Alcorn took the radio back, clipping it to his belt. He started talking as he followed Green up the stairs. "You think this guy's backup for Snipper?" "Not after what happened last Friday. He's probably got-" "WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER!" Green raised a finger to his lips, remaining silent as they reached the third floor. -------------- Ruiz frisked Pico for any concealed weapons; his pockets were empty, barring an old mobile phone. He picked it up and navigated through the screens, moving to sent texts. > To: sculptor > 16 hartford street I'm all that's left > To: the fuckwad brigade > 16 hartford street this is the snipper hello "Fuck." Sandy turned to Ruiz, having pulled Pico's body up onto her shoulder. "What?" "Suits and The Sculptor inbound." "Fuck." "My thoughts exactly. Battle plan?" "Leave before they get here." -------------- Alcorn's radio crackled again; he immediately deferred it to Green. "Sir, we've apprehended another person." Green frowned. "Have they identified?" "Well, sir... they're saying they're The Sculptor." Green looked at Alcorn, concerned. "Is the person previously identifying as The Sculptor still in custody?" "Yes, sir." "Do they look the same?" "Yessir." "Terminate both immediately. Keep a look out for more." "Understood, sir. We've... wait, sir, we have another Sculptor attempting to... wait, five... seven! SHIT! Sculptors closing from all angles!" "Open fire; aim for the head! Everyone to the lobby!" Green and Alcorn started sprinting back down to the second floor as gunfire echoed through the building. -------------- Sandra slowly moved to the stairwell, Pico's body still slung over her shoulder. Ruiz moved down the stairs, aiming his elastic band shooter around each turn. "I think we're alone." The end of Ruiz's sentence was punctuated by echoing gunfire. The Director massaged her temples in exasperation. They moved down to the third floor, looking out a window and surveying the scene below. Hundreds of Sculptors were running through every street, swarming to the base of the building. Three of the Suits' Agents were shooting wildly at the horde, barely thinning the ranks. One of them threw a fragmentation grenade into the crowd; metal pellets ripped through the swarm, breaking the illusion of flesh and bone and sending streaks of clay across the ground. Ruiz looked at his small wooden gun, suddenly feeling profoundly inadequate. "Well shit." -------------- Agent Green ran down to the first floor, Agent Alcorn trailing behind. The members of MTF Upsilon-18 shot in short, controlled bursts at the horde of angry clay artists; one of them had blocked the front door with a metal pipe. Green saw one of the Sculptors attempting to crawl through a window. He lined up the shot and pulled the trigger, leaving the clay body blocking the entrance. He appraised his pistol; a less than ideal weapon for the current situation. Green shouted over the gunfire. "ALCORN! DO WE HAVE A SPARE RIFLE?" Alcorn shook his head; Green swore an unheard oath. The two of them moved to join the rest of the squad, taking cover behind the messy piles of broken concrete slabs. Every shot meant one less angry artist; at the same time, it meant one less bullet. They were equipped for an in-and-out raid, not a prolonged siege. The Sculptors screamed warcries as they broke through windows, trying to crawl in over their fallen duplicates. "THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-" The synchronous chorus chimed through the building, barely audible over the sounds of firing bullets. -------------- Ruiz turned to Sandra, who had already pulled her phone from her pocket. "Who are you calling?" "The real Janitor. Sculptor's directly tried to kill me. He's broken the rules, his protection is void; mine, however, is still intact." The Director tapped the screen, then put it to her ear. Ruiz looked out the window again. The crowd was thick, but no further duplicates were forthcoming. Ruiz pulled a stick of chalk from his pocket, then grabbed a piece of concrete debris. He wrote the phrase "ceci n'est pas une bombe" onto it, then hurled it out into the horde. He grinned as it burst into a ball of flames, splattering Sculptors across the ground. -------------- The person beneath the mask received a call. The person beneath the mask answered, muffling their voice with their hand. "Director. You've dropped your façade." "Yeah, about that. Sculptor's the one who hospitalised me." "Purposefully?" "Yes." "Location?" "16 Hartford Street." "Understood." The person beneath the mask pulled the mask back over their face. The Janitor sped across the rooftops as though skating on ice. -------------- "GREEN, WE'VE GOT TO FALL BACK!" The squad continued firing at the now-open door as artists continued to flood through. One of the duplicates had overpowered one of the Agents, throwing his screaming body outside to be dealt with by his brethren. Alcorn gestured for his squadmates to retreat up the stairs to the second floor. Green emptied the last of his pistol's clip into the clay skull of the closest Sculptor, then threw the useless firearm to the side. He followed Alcorn back up the stairs, stopping to grab a length of steel pipe lying halfway up. Green shouted to the closest troops over the continued chanting. "BLOCK THE STAIRWELL!" As the last of the squad ascended the stairs, Green helped push a nearby pile of concrete down, squishing two overzealous Sculptors below its weight. Another tried to climb over the blockade; Green brought down his pipe on its head, hearing a satisfying BONG as its head deformed and it dropped lifelessly to the ground. -------------- Sandy pushed her phone back into her pocket, joining Ruiz at the window. Pico snorted as Sandra readjusted her grip on him. "Janitor's on its way. We've got to last until then." "You have anything useful?" The Director pulled a grappling hook gun from one of the inner pockets of her coat. "Great, let's get out of here." "It won't carry all of us." "Fuck. Alright..." Ruiz looked out the window, then pointed out an adjacent rooftop. "Can you get there, drop Pico off, then come back for me?" "Takes a while to reload this thing." "Best plan we've got." "Okay then. See you in a bit." Sandra shot the grappling gun at the building, pushed a button on the side, and was pulled out the window. Ruiz looked as she climbed to the rooftop, then started to respool the projectile. "UNIDENTIFIED PERSON ON THE NEXT LEVEL UP, OPENING FIRE!" Ruiz spun around, barely having time to duck behind a concrete pylon before being shot at by one of the Suits. He aimed around his cover and loosed a pair of elastic bands towards his assailant. Ruiz yelled incredulously. "EXCUSE ME, PLEASE DON'T SHOOT, THANK YOU." -------------- The Janitor jumped from rooftop to rooftop, finally reaching 16 Hartford Street. It jumped to the ground, sending Sculptors scattering. It waved its hand towards a nearby duplicate, dispelling the anomalous and reducing it to raw clay. Nearby copies were struck immobile from a combination of awe and fear. The Janitor buzzed a comment from inside its gas mask. "You have broken protocol. This was a poor decision." The duplicates ran screaming from The Janitor, each of them seizing suddenly before crumbling into dust. It walked fluidly through the building's front door, sending the Sculptors fleeing up the semi-blocked stairwell. -------------- The Suit continued to fire at the concrete pylon, preventing Ruiz from escaping. Ruiz took another pot shot in his general direction. "SANDY, NEED SOME HELP!" The Director came barrelling through the window, joining Ruiz behind the pylon. "Alright, alright, no need to shout. Grab on." Ruiz grabbed Sandra's shoulders tightly. She pulled a small ball from inside her trenchcoat, throwing it hard against the ground; it exploded into a small cloud of smoke. Sandy ran to the window, jumping out and aiming at the opposite rooftop. For a split second, Ruiz felt his heart stop as they started entering freefall into the crowd of ravenous Sculptors below; then, the hook shot out, securing them to the opposite rooftop and pulling them slowly upwards. They pulled themselves up onto the rooftop, both panting heavily from overexertion. Ruiz stood up, dusted himself off, then looked around, confused. "Where's Pico?" Sandy looked around, confused. "Shit. Doesn't matter, we're getting out of here. He can look after himself." Ruiz swore colourfully under his breath, joining Sandra in their rooftop escape. -------------- Agent Green had fallen back from the front lines; the squad was concentrating their fire on the stairwell below, and close-quarters combat and high-speed bullets make a poor mix. The Sculptors surged through the hole, pushing aside the concrete scraps and swarming around the closest Agents. Two of them fell and were trampled by the stampede. Alcorn pulled a grenade from his belt, pulling the pin and counting down. "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" He threw it into the swarm, thinning their numbers substantially. Green shouted out to the remainder of the squad. "WE NEED TO MAINTAIN A CHOKE POINT! EVERYONE UPSTAIRS!" The second floor was flooded with Sculptors as the remaining seven agents retreated up to the third floor. -------------- The Janitor walked briskly through the first floor, tapping Sculptors on the shoulder and reducing them to piles of ash. It waved its hands, tearing the illusions from the clay. Its mask buzzed as it breathed slowly, calmly eradicating the plague. One of the duplicates turned, jumping towards the tall, dark figure; it impacted onto The Janitor's shoes, the clay hardening as it cooked solid from internal heat. It scanned the room for movement, nodding when satisfied it had cleared the area. The Janitor moved slowly up the staircase to the second floor. -------------- Alcorn shot the last of his clip, watching the last tracer round exiting its barrel. He threw the useless rifle to the side, picked up a stick of rebar from the ground, and stabbed it through the nearest Sculptor's head. Green forced his pipe into the chest of a duplicate, spun around, then struck its head cleanly off its neck. The rest of the squad had resorted to close-combat weaponry, their firearms spent; Dorfman spun like a dancer, slicing through clay with his combat knife, while Perkins had taken to simply grabbing heads and smashing them into the walls and pylons. -------------- The Janitor moved up to the second floor. Hordes of Sculptors surrounded it, refusing to go out without a fight. They moved in towards it, trying to tear off its trenchcoat, remove its boots, yank off its mask; they desperately struggled to avoid their imminent demise. They screamed in chorus: "ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-" The Janitor clicked its fingers, and the assailants turned inside-out. -------------- Agent Green stood panting heavily, staring at the piles of clay that littered the room. Dorfman flicked the last of the stuff from his knife, Perkins squished a final skull beneath his feet. Alcorn walked over to Green, patting him on the shoulder while grinning from the adrenaline. "Still alive!" "Still alive. Okay. Alright. Still need to check the top floor before we-" Green stopped mid-sentence, readying his pipe as a tall figure wearing a black gas mask ascended the stairs. The Janitor looked around at the Agents beneath it, kicking some errant clay from its boots. It walked towards Agent Green; Green readied his pipe for an attack. The Janitor stopped, then bowed deeply, kneeling upon the ground. "Deepest apologies for the inconvenience. It will not happen again." The Janitor stood, walked briskly to the window, and jumped to the ground with a resounding thud. Green looked to Alcorn, then at the open third-floor window. Green calmly reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, then lit it. He inhaled deeply, breathing out with exhaustion. "I have no idea what the fuck's going on any more." -------------- Ruiz walked dejectedly through the gallery lobby. Sandra had gone off to search for the real Sculptor; having lost Pico, there were no leads left. "Mister Duchamp, a guy came through here looking for you before." "Who was it?" "I... sorry, Mister Duchamp, I've forgotten." Ruiz sighed. Incompetent fools, the lot of them. He turned the corner into his studio. A red-headed man wearing a Hawaiian shirt was sitting on the electric chair. The man was wearing a grey fedora. //The// grey fedora. Ruiz massaged his temples. "God fucking damn it." The new Nobody laughed, then clicked his fingers, sending Ruiz into a dreamless sleep. -------------- Agent Green and Agent Alcorn returned to the battered van, having thoroughly searched every level of 16 Hartford Street. As they were about to get into the vehicle, Green's phone rang. He flipped it open, looking at the caller: > Agent Tangeee@% Green tapped the screen of his phone. > Unknown Caller He put the phone to his ear. "Agent Green." "Who is this? How did you get this number?" "Ruiz Duchamp is lying unconscious in the Genossenschaft Gallery of Contemporary Art. Pick him up at your leisure." "Who are you?" "A forgotten friend." Green flipped his phone shut, confused about the anonymous tip. [[=]] the fifth of first is strategy The fifth of second, a Friday show. The Fifth Of Last Is Settled Scores CONCURRENCE HENCE TO NEVER KNOW << [[[Snipped From The Same Cloth]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Eulogy For The Living]]] >>** [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-01-31T07:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "agent-green", "are-we-cool-yet", "chase", "comedy", "hanged-king", "nobody", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale", "the-critic" ]	Brotherhood - SCP Foundation	165	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "snipped-from-the-same-cloth", "eulogy-for-the-living", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[]	21375028	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/brotherhood
bugbears	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">"Behold, dummy," Won Won remarked clearly, poking at the paper with a crude little tube of ink, and scrawling a quick sketch of the building as it had appeared when they first entered it.</span></p> <ul class="creditRate"> <li class="rateBox folded"> <div class="rate-box-with-credit-button"> <div class="creditButton foldable-list-container"> <p><a href="javascript:;"></a></p> </div> </div> <div id="u-credit-view"> <div class="fader foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">close</a></div> <div class="modalcontainer"> <div class="modalbox"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <h2><span>Info</span></h2> </div> <hr/> <div class="close-credits foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">X</a></div> <div class="credit first"> <p><strong>Bugbears:</strong> Bugbears</p> <p>It's probably not at all connected to <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/SCP-2093">SCP-2093</a> in any way.</p> <p><strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/andarielhalo" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1750255); return false;"><img alt="AndarielHalo" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1750255&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188530" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1750255)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/andarielhalo" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1750255); return false;">AndarielHalo</a></span></p> <p>Eat more of my SCPs. <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/andariel-halo-file" target="_blank">Eat them all.</a></p> <p>Also please eat some of these</p> <ul> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/anabasis-hub">Anabasis Hub</a></strong> Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Manna Charitable Foundation 2000</a></strong> The sequel to the above, collaborationed with <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dr-reach" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1779895); return false;"><img alt="Dr Reach" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1779895&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188530" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1779895)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dr-reach" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1779895); return false;">Dr Reach</a></span></li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-stuff-industry-hub">The Stuff Industry</a></strong> What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/week-1-looking-for-stuff">When MCF and Stuff happen</a></strong> A fun story of incompetence</li> </ul> </div> <hr/> </div> </div> </div> </li> </ul> <p>Won Won was bored. Nothing about this hole in the wall interested him. <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-2093">The big gray box had always been here on top of this hill, and there had never been anything fun about it.</a> But the others were so insistent, they almost convinced him this building might be fun. A few minutes more and he knew better.</p> <p>"Bored!" he cried out again, hoping to make it more plainly obvious.</p> <p>"Quiet, you," Teef growled, and the group went in. The air was immediately much more pleasant, and artificial lights came on in the room.</p> <p>"What is?" Won Won glared at the other four. Teef, his friend, Won Ji, his own sister, X51 and Jorry, the other two he didn't really know and didn't care about.</p> <p>"Now we are indoors," Teef replied, opening the door he had closed behind them. It no longer led out onto the grasslands, but to a narrow little room with stairs descending elsewhere.</p> <p>"What is?" Won Won peered in to the stairwell. Teef nudged him forward and Won Won went down the stairs, his foot-claws clickety-clacking on the hard surface. No grass, and not wood. It felt like rock, but it wasn't bumpy enough to be rock.</p> <p>The door at the bottom of the stairs opened into another big room with even more doors. Short land mammals were standing around in there. Won Won loved little land mammals, but these had a significant lack of fur. Staring more intently, he realized they looked like Skybound. But they were much too short, and wore non-metal clothing.</p> <p>Won Won stepped up to one with skin the color of his own fur. The little one turned to him and started to speak in incoherent Skybound jibbering. Won Won couldn't understand much of it, and turned to leave, when it began to click and snarl gutturally, putting out a fair representation of Won Won's native language.</p> <p>"I'm at Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland. Hello! My name is Johnny!"</p> <p>Won Won started to squirm in delight; little talking mammals! Won Won recognized most of those words. "School" in particular. Given the size of this mammal, it was likely to be a nursery as well. And since they had been on top of a hill when they entered, it made sense to call it a high school.</p> <p>"I am Won Won, progenitor is Won."</p> <p>The little Johnny threw its arms out to its sides in some manner of physical greeting. "Hello One-one! You are at Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland! Would you like a tour of the newest edition of Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland?"</p> <p>Won Won understood enough to know tours were boring. "No tour. Where are big ones? Old persons?"</p> <p>The Johnny seemed to be gesticulating with its hands, wiggling its fingers and moving its arms as it spoke. "Some of our students aren't yet ready for class. Please bear with us as we renovate the classrooms."</p> <p>Won Won stared intently at it, not knowing if this little mammal misunderstood or was being deceptive. "Old persons! Professors? No students."</p> <p>"There are students all around, just waiting for classes to begin! Please bear with us as we renovate the classrooms."</p> <p>He turned and left the Johnny, returning to Teef and the others. "Confusing and disturbing in implications. Skybound left many moons ago."</p> <p>Teef nudged him with a clutched claw. "Not Skybound, fool. Look how little they are."</p> <p>"Skybound can be little," X51 put in.</p> <p>Teef growled at him in retort, but Jorry and Won Ji backed X51 up.</p> <p>"It's clearly an infant," Won Ji clarified. Teef still didn't think so, but didn't care enough to keep arguing over it.</p> <p>"If infants, therefore Skybound progenitors." Won Won sniffed, seeing further than his companions could. "Skybound mimic us naturally; infants cannot deceive, only old ones."</p> <p>Jorry stared emptily at him. The others were silent; he couldn't tell which got it, and which were just impatiently waiting for him to explain.</p> <p>"Little Skybound over there engaged in deceptive speech; repulsed attempts to acknowledge older Skybound. If infants manipulated to lie, then infants and/or progenitors may engage in bellicose behavior."</p> <p>That finally got through; the group split up into thirds, drawing their short thrusting spears and checking all the rooms to see if there were Skybound lying in wait. Won Won thought the Skybound could just set the building on fire if they really wanted to kill them. But Skybound were notoriously prickly about killing infants for any reason. It always bothered Won Won that they considered freshly-born, easily replaceable infants to be more valuable than a full-grown mature person, with years of experience…</p> <p>"Jorry has food!"</p> <p>Won Won's head jerked towards the cry, and others started to bleat, "Where did you get food?!" Jorry was eating something brownish with shiny paper around it. Broken glass was on the floor around him.</p> <p>"In this window-box. These things are food."</p> <p>Jorry had broken open the window to a big black box. Colorful bricks were lined up in rows, along with bags and other things with writing on it. Won Won rushed over to get some before the others hoarded it all. That they had food dispensers dispensing wrapped food indoors was unusual even for Skybound—they were supposed to love food that was freshly dead and burnt up.</p> <p>Most of the food went down easily, but the taste was overpowering. Won Won suddenly began to panic, and turned his head to eject the food. "Dummies! Potentially poisonous!"</p> <p>The others ignored him and kept eating. Being the only sane one in the group was overly frustrating sometimes. Won Won gave up and grabbed for some more of the food-bricks before they were all claimed. They were tasty so why not indulge—better to die together happily than have to battle their way out of this school with empty abdomen.</p> <p>Several minutes passed and they weren't dead yet. The last room in the building contained a stairwell, leading down to a ground-level hall. The hallway led around in a big square, and in the center of the square was an open courtyard with the sun beaming down. X51 ran across the courtyard, and found one of the doors lead out of the school. Nothing unusual, except the school was supposed to be high on a hill. X51 opened a door showing flat grassland as far as they could see.</p> <p>"It's fake," Won Ji figured, and stepped out into the open. "Artificial projection." The sunlight looked real enough on her fur, and felt warm enough. Won Won stepped out and started walking away from the school, checking his feet as he put some distance between him and the rest of the group. Nothing appeared on the horizon ahead of him, and the ground seemed not to be tilting like a round planet should. In fact, when he looked behind, the school building seemed slightly elevated, as if he'd gone down a ravine. But he'd felt absolutely no shift in gravity to suggest the ground elevation had changed. Won Won grunted in frustration; physics was hard for him, and numbers scared him like spiders. The distance he'd traveled and what he saw might mean that the ground he was on was either completely flat, or curved outward rather than inward…</p> <p>Teef hooted something loudly, and Won Won rushed back over to the building. Teef had apparently been thinking much the same as him, and similarly couldn't understand what it meant.</p> <p>"Should've sent a scientist," X51 remarked, shutting everyone up. Except Won Won.</p> <p>"I is not good enough?" Won Won blinked defensively, sheathing his eye as if in preparation for a fight. He loved exploring and being a scientist. Whenever the experts were busy, people came to him with their questions about plants and animals and space. That was partly why they had dragged him here.</p> <p>"For studying! With numbers," X51 clarified, backing down from the challenge.</p> <p>Eventually they would send experts, but they weren't even supposed to be wandering around on archaeological sites on their own. A thought then struck Won Won.</p> <p>"We're stuck. Are we stuck?" The door they'd come in from was the same they ended up going down the stairway from. If that door magically teleported to this place, they probably wouldn't be able to get back home.</p> <p>Teef prodded him in the sides. "Door might open again. If not, therefore Hwee will come open door. It may bring us back."</p> <p>Won Won grumbled in agreement, but was already mentally preparing himself. Skybound liked to play with them, calling it a "hunt" when they shot at them and made them run while bleeding on the grass, leaving behind a "trail". He'd take some of their infants to protect himself—threaten to kill them if the Skybound tried to hunt them.</p> <p>Teef didn't seem perturbed, and casually approached one of the infants. "You. Food location."</p> <p>This infant was slightly taller, and appeared female by its high voice and swollen chest. It responded in Teef and Won Won's own language, "Welcome to Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland! What was it you were looking for?"</p> <p>"Food location, fool."</p> <p>"Food is being served right now in the cafeteria. Better hurry or you'll miss out on the Tuesday surprise! And please remember: garnishes are no longer allowed within 28 hectometers of croissant-like food items."</p> <p>The way it spoke disturbed Won Won, but he couldn't tell why. It spoke his own language, but its tone was not Skybound. It was monotonous, and overly friendly. Overly friendly people tended not to be.</p> <p>Won Won nudged the infant aside and followed the sound of noise. Skybound made lots of noise when eating. Presumably they couldn't figure out how to regulate when to speak and when to consume, and so ended up doing both at once often times.</p> <p>"Formations!" Jorry barked, and Won Won's hair bristled in panic. He whirled and stood alongside the others, small tubes out and extending into a full-length spear. Enemies around. Danger. Something or other. Jorry wouldn't just be a fool and shout dangerous words insensibly.</p> <p>Just ahead of them were two mature Skybound. They weren't wearing metal clothes, but they had guns on their pants. They had stopped too, and were staring back at them. Won Won slowly stepped forward, arms out at his side.</p> <p>"Won Won, you don't speak Skybound, get back here, stupid!" Teef shouted at him.</p> <p>The two Skybound had their hands tentatively reaching for their guns. They looked shocked, on edge. One was reaching for a weapon at its belt. That did more to comfort Won Won than if they came with a smile and friendly words. Won Won raised one of his clawed hands, and waggled it back and forth, like the things usually did in greeting. That seemed to work, as the Skybounds' hands moved away from their guns. One even raised his hand and did the same. The other murmured something. Won Won looked down at his feet, feeling oddly comfortable. What a queer thing to feel when there stood the first full-grown Skybound he'd seen in sixteen decades…</p> <p>- - - - - - -</p> <p>Won Won had been stuffing his face while these Skybound struggled to speak clearly. They seemed to understand the ursines' language structure easily enough, but couldn't manage the different tones that made each syllable into something entirely different. Skybound memorized dozens of syllables and extended it into millions of words without need for add-ons. Primitive, compared to their own language; only a handful of syllables, with a few dozen add-ons divided by accent, tone, length, and timbre. It was so much simpler, why couldn't the Skybound put it together more easily?</p> <p>"Door coming. Coming door. Coming on door," the black-haired female repeated in stilted tones. X51 and Won Ji snickered, and Won Won tried again.</p> <p>"Coming through door."</p> <p>No one wanted to humor these creatures but him. It was like no one had any sense of wonder or adventure but him. Teef and the others were more fascinated by the hot-box in this room, which hummed with energy and cooked food without fire. It also made sparkles when they put little bits of metal in it, but that had bored Won Won after four or five times.</p> <p>The Skybound female was accompanied by the two Skybound Won Won had greeted earlier, and by another male who transcribed Won Won's words, attempting to fit them into his own language's alphabet and aiding the female in speaking.</p> <p>"Behold, dummy," Won Won remarked clearly, poking at the paper with a crude little tube of ink, and scrawling a quick sketch of the building as it had appeared when they first entered it. A squat gray box on top of a hill. He then illustrated closing the door, moving down the stairs, and going outside, and the appearance of the school from there—an identical squat gray box in a flat open field.</p> <p>The female held out a clean sheet of paper to him, urging him to write something. How did people usually do this? All sapient creatures understood math, except him. Teef came to his rescue, snatching up the paper, and making a line of circles on several rows. Then he poked dots into the circles, different numbers. Prime numbers, he recognized, into each circle. This amused and fascinated the Skybound. Won Won took another clean sheet, deciding to draw something he thought more important.</p> <p>"Sun and stars." He indicated his drawing. It was the night sky he saw each night, riddled with stars and the pale white gash that ran along the sky like a river, never coming to an end but extending forever.</p> <p>"Sun stars?" she repeated hesitantly.</p> <p>Won Won poked at the wiggly lines indicating the sky-river, then pointed down to the bottom of the page. The female became excited then. "Give me your land!"</p> <p>Won Won pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack they had. He had loved astronomy classes, and missed the days before the Skybound came, when the ursines still claimed the sky. One of the last images ever taken of home had been taken by an orbital flight Won's progenitors had been a part of. Won Won reproduced that image as best he could from memory, and slid it back over to them.</p> <p>They must have been impressed by his artistic skills; the female and male finally shut up and stared at the sketch looking overawed. Most likely they were fairly intelligent people, but they always came across as simple and easily impressed people to him in his limited dealings. Then he realized they were not impressed, but anxious. The female slid it back to him, and shook her head. "No. Give me your land. This is my land."</p> <p>Won Won stared back at her, his throat rumbling in a low growl. The others had been eavesdropping, and apparently overheard him growling. Won Ji bopped him on the head. "No violence, stupid! Calmness."</p> <p>"Usual Skybound arrogance. They came, we won, they refuse to let us win, think they own our world," Jorry remarked, and leaned forward at the two, barking in amusement as they jumped back in fright.</p> <p>"What losers still call our world their world?" Won Won asked, and turned to the Skybound again, pointing at the image. "This is <em>my</em> land."</p> <p>The Skybound didn't become belligerent in turn. Instead they looked at each other, then back at the image. Again they started to chitter in their flat, atonal language. How could they memorize so many words, so many of them sounding completely different while meaning the same thing? At the very least the female gave up asking the question again. She kept the drawing, and pointed over her shoulder to the open door.</p> <p>"Sky-Binders?"</p> <p>"Skybound. Infant Skybound."</p> <p>"Baby Sky-Binders."</p> <p>Close enough, Won Won thought.</p> <p>"Not baby Sky-Binders. Not breathing. Comprehending?"</p> <p>So the infant Skybound weren't real. Artificial re-creations, perhaps memories made to honor the dead. It seemed insane to try to resurrect the dead via unthinking machines, but Skybound were always touchy when it came to killing infants.</p> <p>"Automatic Skybound. Not breathing. Not alive."</p> <p>The female nodded hesitantly, as if Won Won were the one not quite understanding.</p> <p>"Never breathing. Infant Skybound are artificial creations. Fake. Unreal. Toys. Dolls. Machines."</p> <p>The male understood at least one of the words, and consulted with the female. That pleased them. Won Won started to illustrate on paper, showing a Skybound brain, with lines extending outwards. He scribbled some symbols, hoping it to be similarly understood as hand gestures were, demonstrating he was aware of how artificial intelligence worked. Skybound looked at their own brain, mapped out its functions, then transferred the same manner of thinking and functioning to artificial brains. At least, that was how he understood it.</p> <p>This impressed the Skybound even more. They looked ready to ask even more questions about it. Won Won was tired—the astronomy had been fun, but it looked like they'd moved on from that. He didn't have any food on him, so he just got up. The others turned and watched as he rose.</p> <p>"Come, then, these Foundationers bore me. Let us see if any other vegetation grows outside."</p> <p>What a waste. So much potential for learning and exploration, and these Skybound sought to piss away the opportunity and continue with their lies and deceit. Normally he'd be concerned. But after seven years spent forcing the invaders back to their ships, it wasn't even worth dignifying them with any more attention.</p> <p>"What is?" Won Ji asked quizzically, noting Won Won's empty stare.</p> <p>"When Hwee comes for us, we should say nothing. Let the Skybound play with their fantasy land and fantasy infants here. So long as they remain in space, away from us."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/bugbears">Bugbears</a>" by AndarielHalo, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bugbears">https://scpwiki.com/bugbears</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[size 0%]]"Behold, dummy," Won Won remarked clearly, poking at the paper with a crude little tube of ink, and scrawling a quick sketch of the building as it had appeared when they first entered it. [[/size]] [[include <a href="/info:start">info:start</a>]] Bugbears: Bugbears It's probably not at all connected to [http://www.scp-wiki.net/SCP-2093 SCP-2093] in any way. Author: [[user AndarielHalo]] Eat more of my SCPs. [http://www.scp-wiki.net/andariel-halo-file Eat them all.] Also please eat some of these * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/anabasis-hub Anabasis Hub] Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub Manna Charitable Foundation 2000] The sequel to the above, collaborationed with [[user Dr-Reach]] [http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-stuff-industry-hub The Stuff Industry] What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff. * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/week-1-looking-for-stuff When MCF and Stuff happen] A fun story of incompetence [[include <a href="/info:end">info:end</a>]] Won Won was bored. Nothing about this hole in the wall interested him. [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-2093 The big gray box had always been here on top of this hill, and there had never been anything fun about it.] But the others were so insistent, they almost convinced him this building might be fun. A few minutes more and he knew better. "Bored!" he cried out again, hoping to make it more plainly obvious. "Quiet, you," Teef growled, and the group went in. The air was immediately much more pleasant, and artificial lights came on in the room. "What is?" Won Won glared at the other four. Teef, his friend, Won Ji, his own sister, X51 and Jorry, the other two he didn't really know and didn't care about. "Now we are indoors," Teef replied, opening the door he had closed behind them. It no longer led out onto the grasslands, but to a narrow little room with stairs descending elsewhere. "What is?" Won Won peered in to the stairwell. Teef nudged him forward and Won Won went down the stairs, his foot-claws clickety-clacking on the hard surface. No grass, and not wood. It felt like rock, but it wasn't bumpy enough to be rock. The door at the bottom of the stairs opened into another big room with even more doors. Short land mammals were standing around in there. Won Won loved little land mammals, but these had a significant lack of fur. Staring more intently, he realized they looked like Skybound. But they were much too short, and wore non-metal clothing. Won Won stepped up to one with skin the color of his own fur. The little one turned to him and started to speak in incoherent Skybound jibbering. Won Won couldn't understand much of it, and turned to leave, when it began to click and snarl gutturally, putting out a fair representation of Won Won's native language. "I'm at Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland. Hello! My name is Johnny!" Won Won started to squirm in delight; little talking mammals! Won Won recognized most of those words. "School" in particular. Given the size of this mammal, it was likely to be a nursery as well. And since they had been on top of a hill when they entered, it made sense to call it a high school. "I am Won Won, progenitor is Won." The little Johnny threw its arms out to its sides in some manner of physical greeting. "Hello One-one! You are at Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland! Would you like a tour of the newest edition of Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland?" Won Won understood enough to know tours were boring. "No tour. Where are big ones? Old persons?" The Johnny seemed to be gesticulating with its hands, wiggling its fingers and moving its arms as it spoke. "Some of our students aren't yet ready for class. Please bear with us as we renovate the classrooms." Won Won stared intently at it, not knowing if this little mammal misunderstood or was being deceptive. "Old persons! Professors? No students." "There are students all around, just waiting for classes to begin! Please bear with us as we renovate the classrooms." He turned and left the Johnny, returning to Teef and the others. "Confusing and disturbing in implications. Skybound left many moons ago." Teef nudged him with a clutched claw. "Not Skybound, fool. Look how little they are." "Skybound can be little," X51 put in. Teef growled at him in retort, but Jorry and Won Ji backed X51 up. "It's clearly an infant," Won Ji clarified. Teef still didn't think so, but didn't care enough to keep arguing over it. "If infants, therefore Skybound progenitors." Won Won sniffed, seeing further than his companions could. "Skybound mimic us naturally; infants cannot deceive, only old ones." Jorry stared emptily at him. The others were silent; he couldn't tell which got it, and which were just impatiently waiting for him to explain. "Little Skybound over there engaged in deceptive speech; repulsed attempts to acknowledge older Skybound. If infants manipulated to lie, then infants and/or progenitors may engage in bellicose behavior." That finally got through; the group split up into thirds, drawing their short thrusting spears and checking all the rooms to see if there were Skybound lying in wait. Won Won thought the Skybound could just set the building on fire if they really wanted to kill them. But Skybound were notoriously prickly about killing infants for any reason. It always bothered Won Won that they considered freshly-born, easily replaceable infants to be more valuable than a full-grown mature person, with years of experience... "Jorry has food!" Won Won's head jerked towards the cry, and others started to bleat, "Where did you get food?!" Jorry was eating something brownish with shiny paper around it. Broken glass was on the floor around him. "In this window-box. These things are food." Jorry had broken open the window to a big black box. Colorful bricks were lined up in rows, along with bags and other things with writing on it. Won Won rushed over to get some before the others hoarded it all. That they had food dispensers dispensing wrapped food indoors was unusual even for Skybound--they were supposed to love food that was freshly dead and burnt up. Most of the food went down easily, but the taste was overpowering. Won Won suddenly began to panic, and turned his head to eject the food. "Dummies! Potentially poisonous!" The others ignored him and kept eating. Being the only sane one in the group was overly frustrating sometimes. Won Won gave up and grabbed for some more of the food-bricks before they were all claimed. They were tasty so why not indulge--better to die together happily than have to battle their way out of this school with empty abdomen. Several minutes passed and they weren't dead yet. The last room in the building contained a stairwell, leading down to a ground-level hall. The hallway led around in a big square, and in the center of the square was an open courtyard with the sun beaming down. X51 ran across the courtyard, and found one of the doors lead out of the school. Nothing unusual, except the school was supposed to be high on a hill. X51 opened a door showing flat grassland as far as they could see. "It's fake," Won Ji figured, and stepped out into the open. "Artificial projection." The sunlight looked real enough on her fur, and felt warm enough. Won Won stepped out and started walking away from the school, checking his feet as he put some distance between him and the rest of the group. Nothing appeared on the horizon ahead of him, and the ground seemed not to be tilting like a round planet should. In fact, when he looked behind, the school building seemed slightly elevated, as if he'd gone down a ravine. But he'd felt absolutely no shift in gravity to suggest the ground elevation had changed. Won Won grunted in frustration; physics was hard for him, and numbers scared him like spiders. The distance he'd traveled and what he saw might mean that the ground he was on was either completely flat, or curved outward rather than inward... Teef hooted something loudly, and Won Won rushed back over to the building. Teef had apparently been thinking much the same as him, and similarly couldn't understand what it meant. "Should've sent a scientist," X51 remarked, shutting everyone up. Except Won Won. "I is not good enough?" Won Won blinked defensively, sheathing his eye as if in preparation for a fight. He loved exploring and being a scientist. Whenever the experts were busy, people came to him with their questions about plants and animals and space. That was partly why they had dragged him here. "For studying! With numbers," X51 clarified, backing down from the challenge. Eventually they would send experts, but they weren't even supposed to be wandering around on archaeological sites on their own. A thought then struck Won Won. "We're stuck. Are we stuck?" The door they'd come in from was the same they ended up going down the stairway from. If that door magically teleported to this place, they probably wouldn't be able to get back home. Teef prodded him in the sides. "Door might open again. If not, therefore Hwee will come open door. It may bring us back." Won Won grumbled in agreement, but was already mentally preparing himself. Skybound liked to play with them, calling it a "hunt" when they shot at them and made them run while bleeding on the grass, leaving behind a "trail". He'd take some of their infants to protect himself--threaten to kill them if the Skybound tried to hunt them. Teef didn't seem perturbed, and casually approached one of the infants. "You. Food location." This infant was slightly taller, and appeared female by its high voice and swollen chest. It responded in Teef and Won Won's own language, "Welcome to Davis High School in Baltimore, Maryland! What was it you were looking for?" "Food location, fool." "Food is being served right now in the cafeteria. Better hurry or you'll miss out on the Tuesday surprise! And please remember: garnishes are no longer allowed within 28 hectometers of croissant-like food items." The way it spoke disturbed Won Won, but he couldn't tell why. It spoke his own language, but its tone was not Skybound. It was monotonous, and overly friendly. Overly friendly people tended not to be. Won Won nudged the infant aside and followed the sound of noise. Skybound made lots of noise when eating. Presumably they couldn't figure out how to regulate when to speak and when to consume, and so ended up doing both at once often times. "Formations!" Jorry barked, and Won Won's hair bristled in panic. He whirled and stood alongside the others, small tubes out and extending into a full-length spear. Enemies around. Danger. Something or other. Jorry wouldn't just be a fool and shout dangerous words insensibly. Just ahead of them were two mature Skybound. They weren't wearing metal clothes, but they had guns on their pants. They had stopped too, and were staring back at them. Won Won slowly stepped forward, arms out at his side. "Won Won, you don't speak Skybound, get back here, stupid!" Teef shouted at him. The two Skybound had their hands tentatively reaching for their guns. They looked shocked, on edge. One was reaching for a weapon at its belt. That did more to comfort Won Won than if they came with a smile and friendly words. Won Won raised one of his clawed hands, and waggled it back and forth, like the things usually did in greeting. That seemed to work, as the Skybounds' hands moved away from their guns. One even raised his hand and did the same. The other murmured something. Won Won looked down at his feet, feeling oddly comfortable. What a queer thing to feel when there stood the first full-grown Skybound he'd seen in sixteen decades... - - - - - - - Won Won had been stuffing his face while these Skybound struggled to speak clearly. They seemed to understand the ursines' language structure easily enough, but couldn't manage the different tones that made each syllable into something entirely different. Skybound memorized dozens of syllables and extended it into millions of words without need for add-ons. Primitive, compared to their own language; only a handful of syllables, with a few dozen add-ons divided by accent, tone, length, and timbre. It was so much simpler, why couldn't the Skybound put it together more easily? "Door coming. Coming door. Coming on door," the black-haired female repeated in stilted tones. X51 and Won Ji snickered, and Won Won tried again. "Coming through door." No one wanted to humor these creatures but him. It was like no one had any sense of wonder or adventure but him. Teef and the others were more fascinated by the hot-box in this room, which hummed with energy and cooked food without fire. It also made sparkles when they put little bits of metal in it, but that had bored Won Won after four or five times. The Skybound female was accompanied by the two Skybound Won Won had greeted earlier, and by another male who transcribed Won Won's words, attempting to fit them into his own language's alphabet and aiding the female in speaking. "Behold, dummy," Won Won remarked clearly, poking at the paper with a crude little tube of ink, and scrawling a quick sketch of the building as it had appeared when they first entered it. A squat gray box on top of a hill. He then illustrated closing the door, moving down the stairs, and going outside, and the appearance of the school from there--an identical squat gray box in a flat open field. The female held out a clean sheet of paper to him, urging him to write something. How did people usually do this? All sapient creatures understood math, except him. Teef came to his rescue, snatching up the paper, and making a line of circles on several rows. Then he poked dots into the circles, different numbers. Prime numbers, he recognized, into each circle. This amused and fascinated the Skybound. Won Won took another clean sheet, deciding to draw something he thought more important. "Sun and stars." He indicated his drawing. It was the night sky he saw each night, riddled with stars and the pale white gash that ran along the sky like a river, never coming to an end but extending forever. "Sun stars?" she repeated hesitantly. Won Won poked at the wiggly lines indicating the sky-river, then pointed down to the bottom of the page. The female became excited then. "Give me your land!" Won Won pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack they had. He had loved astronomy classes, and missed the days before the Skybound came, when the ursines still claimed the sky. One of the last images ever taken of home had been taken by an orbital flight Won's progenitors had been a part of. Won Won reproduced that image as best he could from memory, and slid it back over to them. They must have been impressed by his artistic skills; the female and male finally shut up and stared at the sketch looking overawed. Most likely they were fairly intelligent people, but they always came across as simple and easily impressed people to him in his limited dealings. Then he realized they were not impressed, but anxious. The female slid it back to him, and shook her head. "No. Give me your land. This is my land." Won Won stared back at her, his throat rumbling in a low growl. The others had been eavesdropping, and apparently overheard him growling. Won Ji bopped him on the head. "No violence, stupid! Calmness." "Usual Skybound arrogance. They came, we won, they refuse to let us win, think they own our world," Jorry remarked, and leaned forward at the two, barking in amusement as they jumped back in fright. "What losers still call our world their world?" Won Won asked, and turned to the Skybound again, pointing at the image. "This is //my// land." The Skybound didn't become belligerent in turn. Instead they looked at each other, then back at the image. Again they started to chitter in their flat, atonal language. How could they memorize so many words, so many of them sounding completely different while meaning the same thing? At the very least the female gave up asking the question again. She kept the drawing, and pointed over her shoulder to the open door. "Sky-Binders?" "Skybound. Infant Skybound." "Baby Sky-Binders." Close enough, Won Won thought. "Not baby Sky-Binders. Not breathing. Comprehending?" So the infant Skybound weren't real. Artificial re-creations, perhaps memories made to honor the dead. It seemed insane to try to resurrect the dead via unthinking machines, but Skybound were always touchy when it came to killing infants. "Automatic Skybound. Not breathing. Not alive." The female nodded hesitantly, as if Won Won were the one not quite understanding. "Never breathing. Infant Skybound are artificial creations. Fake. Unreal. Toys. Dolls. Machines." The male understood at least one of the words, and consulted with the female. That pleased them. Won Won started to illustrate on paper, showing a Skybound brain, with lines extending outwards. He scribbled some symbols, hoping it to be similarly understood as hand gestures were, demonstrating he was aware of how artificial intelligence worked. Skybound looked at their own brain, mapped out its functions, then transferred the same manner of thinking and functioning to artificial brains. At least, that was how he understood it. This impressed the Skybound even more. They looked ready to ask even more questions about it. Won Won was tired--the astronomy had been fun, but it looked like they'd moved on from that. He didn't have any food on him, so he just got up. The others turned and watched as he rose. "Come, then, these Foundationers bore me. Let us see if any other vegetation grows outside." What a waste. So much potential for learning and exploration, and these Skybound sought to piss away the opportunity and continue with their lies and deceit. Normally he'd be concerned. But after seven years spent forcing the invaders back to their ships, it wasn't even worth dignifying them with any more attention. "What is?" Won Ji asked quizzically, noting Won Won's empty stare. "When Hwee comes for us, we should say nothing. Let the Skybound play with their fantasy land and fantasy infants here. So long as they remain in space, away from us." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-06-06T03:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Bugbears - SCP Foundation	29	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	22533616	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bugbears
bugs-in-the-process	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Then there's the matter of the entomology department, over-budget for the fifth straight year. Not the most flattering statistic, considering that the most expensive incident in the department's history never actually took place.</p> </blockquote> <p>Dr. Marshall Grant sipped coffee placidly as he filed his paperwork, ho-humming the morning away. Fingers moved deftly across the key-pad as he entered his findings from the most recent acquisition to Site-87's growing entomological collection. A Stag Beetle. Normal in most respects, except that a genetic sequencing revealed greater similarity to the Bull Elk than to any other animal on file. Also, the tendency of the females to lactate was particularly interesting.</p> <p>"Yo Mack! How's about you gimme sommin' ta eat? I'm starvin' over here!"</p> <p>"Vinnie, I gave you a nice juicy locust not twenty minutes ago," Marshall replied with a roll of his eyes. He looked down at the tank next to his desk to see the mantis pressed up against the glass, pleading with his eyes. His tight denim pants were worn through the knees, and the tiny gold chain about his neck sparkled in the light.</p> <p>"Fuck that bug shit! Gimme a burger! A hot dog! …A 40? Come on, I'm bored outta my skull!"</p> <p>"You haven't got a skull, Vinnie."</p> <p>"So?!"</p> <p>"Take it easy, alright? Just be patient and wait until lunch," Marshall said, shaking his head as he raised his cup.</p> <p>KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK</p> <p>In his shock, the coffee sprayed everywhere. The Keyboard, a stack of papers, a cup filled with pens, pencils, and thumb tacks; everything was coated in hot brown spittle. Vinnie the mantis snickered quietly as Dr. Grant fumbled with the cup and grabbed for the paper towels under the desk. Rushing with reckless abandon. The knock came again.</p> <p>"Just a second!" Dr. Grant called, but the door was already ajar, and in its jam stood a tall, bald man with a rather sleek looking tablet PC which made the white-plastic of the CRT on the desk feel positively ancient by comparison. Nevertheless, there were rules. "Excuse me, sir? This is a closed laboratory. I'm going to have to ask for your clearance before you come in here."</p> <p>The Tax Man smiled, and produced a shiny white badge with simple black lettering. Level-4, general access, administrative. "Of course. My name is Matthew Broderick, I'm here for your bi-annual audit."</p> <p>"That was today?" Marshall heard himself asking, and swallowed the words as fast as he could. "Of course it was! Thank you, please come in! Mr… Broderick? Is that right?"</p> <p>"Yes. And you must be Dr. Marshall Grant of entomology." It wasn't a question. With no flourish at all, the Tax Man produced a stylus and began tapping and scratching at the screen of his top-of-the-line machine. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something. Marshall hoped it wasn't for his conversation partner. "… Is Dr. Churchwell available so that we may begin?"</p> <p>"Erm, well…" as stealthily as he could, Grant slid a birthday card in front of Vinnie with an awkward smile on his face. "No I'm here by my… She's out today. With the flu. It's been making the rounds and… Is there… Would you like to come back tomorrow? I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow."</p> <p>Mr. Broderick looked at his watch with a stern frown. "No, Dr. Grant. This is the time we have scheduled for the audit. I'm sure as her leading researcher you're familiar enough with the department to assist me."</p> <p>"It's just… Well, I'm rather in the middle of something at the—"</p> <p>"We'll begin with the laboratory inspection first." Broderick interjected. "I understand some of the equipment here is a little out of date."</p> <hr/> <p>"…And that's one of the most challenging parts of working in the department," Dr. Grant said, indicating the new acquisition, already filed under E-2663-01. "This little lady, to just see her in the wild, you'd never know she was anomalous. A little tanner than the garden variety. A little fuzzier perhaps. But it isn't until you watch her feeding her young that it would even occur to anyone that something about her isn't normal."</p> <p>Broderick leaned close and scrutinized the tiny creature from above his glasses. "So this is the only one, is it?"</p> <p>"Erm… Well, no. Most of these are just sample populations. There's a rule about working with insects: for every one you see, there's 100 you don't," Marshall said. "What we're working on is-"</p> <p>But he was cut short by some hard, loud taps on the tablet in the Tax Man's arms. "…Go on, Dr. Grant. Your plans to contain the rest of them?"</p> <p>"Well… it… It can't be done. Not without a much larger budget, anyway, and even then… See, insects live and breed very fast, and even with—"</p> <p>The Tax Man raised a hand, which presently inspired Marshall Grant into silence. "A larger budget? Dr. Grant, you are aware that for the past five years, this department has averaged four hundred and fifty <em>thousand</em> dollars over budget forecasts, are you not?"</p> <p>"Yes, but—"</p> <p>"And yet we're not, statistically speaking, any closer to a complete containment of anomalous insects in this region?"</p> <p>Dr. Grant was getting flustered. "Now, hold on a minute! It's not as—"</p> <p>"This <em>is</em> a simple yes or no question, Doctor. If you cannot answer it, perhaps we can find someone who can?" The Tax Man's steely eyes fixed Marshall Grant firmly in place, stylus poised, mouth drawn into a tight frown. A frown that said emphatically that he would not move from this spot until he received a simple answer to his perfectly straightforward question.</p> <p>And in his building disquieted anger, Dr. Grant buckled. "No."</p> <p>"I see," the Tax Man said, making marks deftly across his touch screen. "Is there any feasible remedy to this situation?"</p> <p>"What do you mean, <em>remedy</em>?"</p> <p>"Well, rather than wasting resources attempting to contain and neutralize these species," he continued, "could Foundation interests be better served by contracting with a well trained exterminator?"</p> <p>"That's… What?! You can't just <em>kill off</em> a whole species of insect! There are so many variables to consider here! Not just the ecological consequences but in many cases there's a risk of anomalous backlash!"</p> <p>The Tax Man looked up from under his glasses with a smirk. "Come on, Dr. Grant. You're not honestly afraid of the 'keeter skeeters' are you?"</p> <p>"MARTYYY! MARTY DON'T TAKE THAT SHIT!"</p> <p>The color drained from Dr. Grant's face as a look of stern disappointment was painted across the Tax Man's.</p> <p>"Dr. Grant, are there any other employees in the office with us today?" Broderick asked with all the delicacy of a cinder-block.</p> <p>Marshall swallowed hard. "…n…No, sir. That would be, uh…"</p> <p>"LET ME OUT OF THIS THING! I'LL RIP THAT CHEAP ARMANI KNOCK-OFF RIGHT OFF HIS BACK!" The birthday card fell down, and there Vinnie Baggadoughnuts stood, arms raised in aggressive posture, wings fluttering, tiny cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mandibles. "NOBODY TALKS TO MARTY THAT WAY BUT ME. YOU GOT THAT, JACK?"</p> <p>"E-5570. Specimen 01-A… he-uh…it's a 'Leafer Mantis'. We…" Marshall tried to think of some excuse. Some plausibly deniable reason. Something about how, when the phenomenon was finally understood and resolved, one was kept alive for record keeping purposes, to test the cognitive limits of the species. But all of it sounded hollow, and none of it explained what the specimen was doing next to his desk. So fuck it. If he was going to be crucified, it may as well be for the right reason.</p> <p>Marshall padded the sweat from his balding head, pulled his shirt down, and stood up straight. "His name is Vinnie. He's my pet."</p> <p>The Tax Man's nostrils flared but once; all the theatrical anger was gone from him, replaced with a sort of sullen contempt and disgust. As Vinnie raged and rattled his cage, Broderick slipped his stylus back into its home on the side of the tablet, and let out a long, disapproving sigh.</p> <p>"Thank you, Dr. Grant. I believe that will be all." The tax man turned and walked away, looking disappointed. Or maybe a little defeated. When the door closed, Dr. Grant collapsed into his chair, heart pounding and underarms sweating.</p> <p>"YEEEAH!" Vinnie said, raising his pincers in triumph. "You <em>better</em> run!"</p> <p>"Oh, blow it out your ass, Vinnie," Marshall said, head in his hands.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>«<a href="/a-multi-universal-affair">A Multi-Universal Affair</a>\|<a href="/the-s-c-plastics-hub">Hub</a>\|<a href="/there-s-magic-in-the-air">There's Magic in the Air</a>»</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/bugs-in-the-process">Bugs in the Process</a>" by HammerMaiden, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bugs-in-the-process">https://scpwiki.com/bugs-in-the-process</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > Then there's the matter of the entomology department, over-budget for the fifth straight year. Not the most flattering statistic, considering that the most expensive incident in the department's history never actually took place. Dr. Marshall Grant sipped coffee placidly as he filed his paperwork, ho-humming the morning away. Fingers moved deftly across the key-pad as he entered his findings from the most recent acquisition to Site-87's growing entomological collection. A Stag Beetle. Normal in most respects, except that a genetic sequencing revealed greater similarity to the Bull Elk than to any other animal on file. Also, the tendency of the females to lactate was particularly interesting. "Yo Mack! How's about you gimme sommin' ta eat? I'm starvin' over here!" "Vinnie, I gave you a nice juicy locust not twenty minutes ago," Marshall replied with a roll of his eyes. He looked down at the tank next to his desk to see the mantis pressed up against the glass, pleading with his eyes. His tight denim pants were worn through the knees, and the tiny gold chain about his neck sparkled in the light. "Fuck that bug shit! Gimme a burger! A hot dog! ...A 40? Come on, I'm bored outta my skull!" "You haven't got a skull, Vinnie." "So?!" "Take it easy, alright? Just be patient and wait until lunch," Marshall said, shaking his head as he raised his cup. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK In his shock, the coffee sprayed everywhere. The Keyboard, a stack of papers, a cup filled with pens, pencils, and thumb tacks; everything was coated in hot brown spittle. Vinnie the mantis snickered quietly as Dr. Grant fumbled with the cup and grabbed for the paper towels under the desk. Rushing with reckless abandon. The knock came again. "Just a second!" Dr. Grant called, but the door was already ajar, and in its jam stood a tall, bald man with a rather sleek looking tablet PC which made the white-plastic of the CRT on the desk feel positively ancient by comparison. Nevertheless, there were rules. "Excuse me, sir? This is a closed laboratory. I'm going to have to ask for your clearance before you come in here." The Tax Man smiled, and produced a shiny white badge with simple black lettering. Level-4, general access, administrative. "Of course. My name is Matthew Broderick, I'm here for your bi-annual audit." "That was today?" Marshall heard himself asking, and swallowed the words as fast as he could. "Of course it was! Thank you, please come in! Mr... Broderick? Is that right?" "Yes. And you must be Dr. Marshall Grant of entomology." It wasn't a question. With no flourish at all, the Tax Man produced a stylus and began tapping and scratching at the screen of his top-of-the-line machine. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something. Marshall hoped it wasn't for his conversation partner. "... Is Dr. Churchwell available so that we may begin?" "Erm, well..." as stealthily as he could, Grant slid a birthday card in front of Vinnie with an awkward smile on his face. "No I'm here by my... She's out today. With the flu. It's been making the rounds and... Is there... Would you like to come back tomorrow? I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow." Mr. Broderick looked at his watch with a stern frown. "No, Dr. Grant. This is the time we have scheduled for the audit. I'm sure as her leading researcher you're familiar enough with the department to assist me." "It's just... Well, I'm rather in the middle of something at the--" "We'll begin with the laboratory inspection first." Broderick interjected. "I understand some of the equipment here is a little out of date." ---- "...And that's one of the most challenging parts of working in the department," Dr. Grant said, indicating the new acquisition, already filed under E-2663-01. "This little lady, to just see her in the wild, you'd never know she was anomalous. A little tanner than the garden variety. A little fuzzier perhaps. But it isn't until you watch her feeding her young that it would even occur to anyone that something about her isn't normal." Broderick leaned close and scrutinized the tiny creature from above his glasses. "So this is the only one, is it?" "Erm... Well, no. Most of these are just sample populations. There's a rule about working with insects: for every one you see, there's 100 you don't," Marshall said. "What we're working on is-" But he was cut short by some hard, loud taps on the tablet in the Tax Man's arms. "...Go on, Dr. Grant. Your plans to contain the rest of them?" "Well... it... It can't be done. Not without a much larger budget, anyway, and even then... See, insects live and breed very fast, and even with--" The Tax Man raised a hand, which presently inspired Marshall Grant into silence. "A larger budget? Dr. Grant, you are aware that for the past five years, this department has averaged four hundred and fifty //thousand// dollars over budget forecasts, are you not?" "Yes, but--" "And yet we're not, statistically speaking, any closer to a complete containment of anomalous insects in this region?" Dr. Grant was getting flustered. "Now, hold on a minute! It's not as--" "This //is// a simple yes or no question, Doctor. If you cannot answer it, perhaps we can find someone who can?" The Tax Man's steely eyes fixed Marshall Grant firmly in place, stylus poised, mouth drawn into a tight frown. A frown that said emphatically that he would not move from this spot until he received a simple answer to his perfectly straightforward question. And in his building disquieted anger, Dr. Grant buckled. "No." "I see," the Tax Man said, making marks deftly across his touch screen. "Is there any feasible remedy to this situation?" "What do you mean, //remedy//?" "Well, rather than wasting resources attempting to contain and neutralize these species," he continued, "could Foundation interests be better served by contracting with a well trained exterminator?" "That's... What?! You can't just //kill off// a whole species of insect! There are so many variables to consider here! Not just the ecological consequences but in many cases there's a risk of anomalous backlash!" The Tax Man looked up from under his glasses with a smirk. "Come on, Dr. Grant. You're not honestly afraid of the 'keeter skeeters' are you?" "MARTYYY! MARTY DON'T TAKE THAT SHIT!" The color drained from Dr. Grant's face as a look of stern disappointment was painted across the Tax Man's. "Dr. Grant, are there any other employees in the office with us today?" Broderick asked with all the delicacy of a cinder-block. Marshall swallowed hard. "...n...No, sir. That would be, uh..." "LET ME OUT OF THIS THING! I'LL RIP THAT CHEAP ARMANI KNOCK-OFF RIGHT OFF HIS BACK!" The birthday card fell down, and there Vinnie Baggadoughnuts stood, arms raised in aggressive posture, wings fluttering, tiny cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mandibles. "NOBODY TALKS TO MARTY THAT WAY BUT ME. YOU GOT THAT, JACK?" "E-5570. Specimen 01-A... he-uh...it's a 'Leafer Mantis'. We..." Marshall tried to think of some excuse. Some plausibly deniable reason. Something about how, when the phenomenon was finally understood and resolved, one was kept alive for record keeping purposes, to test the cognitive limits of the species. But all of it sounded hollow, and none of it explained what the specimen was doing next to his desk. So fuck it. If he was going to be crucified, it may as well be for the right reason. Marshall padded the sweat from his balding head, pulled his shirt down, and stood up straight. "His name is Vinnie. He's my pet." The Tax Man's nostrils flared but once; all the theatrical anger was gone from him, replaced with a sort of sullen contempt and disgust. As Vinnie raged and rattled his cage, Broderick slipped his stylus back into its home on the side of the tablet, and let out a long, disapproving sigh. "Thank you, Dr. Grant. I believe that will be all." The tax man turned and walked away, looking disappointed. Or maybe a little defeated. When the door closed, Dr. Grant collapsed into his chair, heart pounding and underarms sweating. "YEEEAH!" Vinnie said, raising his pincers in triumph. "You //better// run!" "Oh, blow it out your ass, Vinnie," Marshall said, head in his hands. ---- [[=]] <<[[[A Multi-Universal Affair]]]\|[[[the-s-c-plastics-hub\| Hub]]]\|[[[There's Magic in the Air]]]>> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-04-24T17:27:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "comedy", "s&c-plastics", "tale" ]	Bugs in the Process - SCP Foundation	70	[ "a-multi-universal-affair", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "there-s-magic-in-the-air", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	22072848	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bugs-in-the-process
building-up	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Researcher Conwell looked around his office. The few meager possessions he had used to decorate were now placed in a box on the desk.</p> <p>Conwell let out a deflating sigh. He wanted to say it had been a good run, but if he was being honest with himself, the work he had been doing with <a href="/scp-1360">SCP-1360</a> was both frustrating and sickening. Still, he wished he had produced more results. Maybe that way it wouldn’t seem like he had failed. Maybe then it wouldn’t feel like he had let the poor droid down. A sharp knock at the door shook Conwell out of his day dream.</p> <p>“It’s open,” he called. A short woman with piercing grey eyes and a large smirk entered. Her hair was done up in a bun and a small pair of glasses sat upon her pointed nose. Conwell did his best to hide his disappointment. This woman was Dr. Freemont. Although she was at least one foot shorter than him, she always managed to make him feel small.</p> <p>“Relocated again?” she asked. One eyebrow was raised as she peered into the box on the table. Her voice was sweet and concerned, but her lips were curled into a sly smile.</p> <p>“How’d you guess?” He replied. Conwell pulled his box of things away from his guest and pretended to rummage through them, hoping to look too busy to talk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p> <p>“Where are they sending you?” Freemont asked. Whether she didn’t notice his display or didn’t care remained to be seen.</p> <p>“<a href="/scp-1760">Site-84</a>. Again. What do you want, Freemont?”</p> <p>“Dr. Thompson made a request to see you. Guess I’m lucky I caught you now, before they shipped you to the Pacific.” Freemont chuckled. Conwell’s mouth hung slightly open as he attempted to process just how exactly it was she could be so tactless.</p> <p>“Why?” Conwell asked. He had heard about poor <a href="/scp-2860">Dr. Harold Thompson</a> when he was working with Dr. Johnson, and even met him once in person. Freemont responded with a heavy shrug.</p> <p>“I would like to know that as well. He’s been very adamant about seeing you for about the past week.”</p> <p>“I thought that Dr. Collins was keeping in touch…” Conwell began, pausing when Freemont gave a sharp laugh.</p> <p>“Gregg hasn’t paid Harold a visit since Johnson left. Anyway, he’s due for another psychological health visit, so I thought I’d throw him a bone with you. Can I tell him you’re going to stop by?”</p> <p>Conwell sighed and placed his head in his hands before dragging them down his face. If Freemont was telling the truth, Dr. Thompson had not been visited in almost three years, and was probably nearing the end of his rope.</p> <p>“I’m afraid I have a flight to catch, and a few more meetings of my own to take care of before I jet. I’m sorry. I wish I could. I really do, I just can’t,” he said as he shook his head. Freemont shrugged.</p> <p>“You’re disappointing him, not me. Good luck at the Casket Garden.”</p> <p>Conwell hung his head and waited for Freemont to leave. The door slammed shut behind her. He then let out another sigh and grabbed his box of things before exiting and turning off the light behind him.</p> <hr/> <p>Conwell pounded heavily upon the door to Dr. Collins' office. He didn’t wait for permission to enter, instead choosing to silently open the door and slide inside the room. The office itself was immaculate, a great deal of forethought appearing to have gone into the placement of everything down to the pens on the desk. He didn’t want to touch anything, lest a curator yell at him for disturbing the exhibit.</p> <p>“I can assure you that you’re doing a good job,” Collins said with a small chuckle from the seat at his desk. He spoke without taking his eyes off the screen on his desktop. Conwell rolled his eyes in response. “What’s on your mind champ?”</p> <p>“I’ve cleared out of the 1360-1 lab. Are you going to be taking Zach’s old office, or keeping this one here?”</p> <p>“I haven’t decided yet, but I’m guessing that my office arrangements are not what prompted your visit.” Collins replied. He now peered at Conwell from behind his thick glasses.</p> <p>“I know you had a hand in me being transferred. That’s why they’re giving you command over 1360. I just can’t figure out why you did it.”</p> <p>Collins sighed. He looked like a father about to tell his child that he wasn’t angry, just disappointed.</p> <p>“Your enthusiasm for that project was waning long before Johnson left. Command was afraid that you were no longer suited to continue to lead the project, so they asked me to keep tabs on you and report what I saw,” Collins then shook his head as he chuckled quietly. “I mean, Christ, you’re a grown man, I’m not going to visit you to tell you that you’re doing a good job. No one does that.”</p> <p>“So that’s it then? One subpar visit and I’m out of there?” Conwell snapped.</p> <p>“Cut that out.” Collins snapped back. “You know damn well that’s not how we do things. You’ve hated working on the 1360 project for a long time now. Having you continue to serve as PI for that object was both a detriment to you and the research being done on 1360-1. I saw this and pulled what strings I needed to make sure that what needed to be done <em>was done.</em>”</p> <p>Conwell tightened his fist. He imagined bashing in Collins' head with his computer keyboard. Eventually he regained his composure and placed a large file stack down on the desk.</p> <p>“Alright then, captain. Here’s the wheel, all of Johnson’s and my notes on 1360 and <a href="/anderson-robotics-hub">Anderson</a>, including the transcript from the attempted sting last week, and all known info on Anderson’s models.”</p> <p>Conwell began to make his way towards the exit but stopped when Collins called out.</p> <p>“Listen, Jacob, this isn’t the first time you’ve been relocated from a project, and it won’t be the last. Hell, I’ve been moved around many more times than I care to count. The important thing is you remember that these decisions are made by command for a reason. The important thing is being able to move on. Please don’t let this come between us in the future. Overall, you’ve done a good job.”</p> <p>Conwell paused in the doorway and shook his head.</p> <p>“Dr. Freemont visited me earlier today. Harold wanted to see me. She said you hadn’t been by for one of the psychological health visits in almost three years. You should think about swinging by there if you get a chance.”</p> <p>Conwell then silently passed into the hallway, allowing the door to quietly swing shut behind him.</p> <p>Collins waited for the door to close before he smiled and quietly thought to himself:</p> <p><em>Anderson,</em><br/> <em>Integration successful and infiltration now complete. I have obtained complete command of #31. Awaiting further instructions.</em><br/> <em>Saker #76</em></p> <p>Collins waited for a second as his programming confirmed the message had been received. He then whistled as he got back to work.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Harold Thompson slowly made his way over the threshold of his cell, returning from another round of testing. What once used to be a tan, athletic man was now pale and gaunt. While the years of his incarceration had been unpleasant, it was those three years after his friend, Dr. Johnson, had left that appeared to have been the hardest yet. Two security officers stood behind him, causally watching for him to make any move resembling an escape attempt. Eight years of stellar behavior on Harold’s part, however, allowed them to relax ever so slightly. It also helped that his hands were not only covered by thick leather gloves, but also bound together by thick restraints.</p> <p>“Hold the door for a moment,” Dr. Freemont’s honey-lathered voice called out as she appeared from behind the security officers. “Good job today, Harold. We’ll continue the tests in two days. Tomorrow is going to be your psychological health visit.”</p> <p>“I see…” Harold kept his back to his captors as he spoke. “Researcher Conwell?”</p> <p>“I’m afraid it will just be me again,” Freemont said with a melancholy smile. “Conwell is being relocated to another facility.”</p> <p>“And Gregg -” Harold began, but was quickly interrupted.</p> <p>“I’m afraid I still can’t get a hold of him. He’s a busy man. I’m sure you understand.”</p> <p>“I can’t even imagine…” Harold mumbled, fidgeting with his hands as he spoke. The officers gave a slight nervous glance at each other and then back to Freemont. She rolled her eyes and held up a hand as she signaled them to close the door.</p> <p>As the door began to slide shut, Harold’s bare hands suddenly reached through, yanking the security officer into the door’s track. The officer let out a sudden gasp, and in the next instant was solid marble.</p> <p>“Shit!” The other officer shouted as he drew his pistol, but was too late. Harold had slid the door back open and had a hand on the officer’s face before his fingers could wrap around the grip. He too became solid marble.</p> <p>“No no no no no!” Freemont shouted as Harold turned to her. She attempted to run towards the alarm, but was quickly overtaken. Harold had lunged and knocked her to the ground. His hand was firmly wrapped around her ankle.</p> <p>The room was silent as Harold got back to his feet and brushed himself off. He quickly undid his restraints, grabbed one of the security officer’s pistols and pass cards, and cloaked himself in Dr. Freemont’s lab coat.</p> <p>He took a few moments to look himself over in a mirror. Provided he didn’t draw much attention to himself he felt that it would be easy enough traversing the short distance to Dr. Collins's office. Blending in as a Foundation researcher wouldn’t be hard either.</p> <p>After all, he had already been one in a past life.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/products">Part Three: Products</a> \| <a href="/peregrine">Peregrine</a> \| <a href="/tearing-down">Part Five: Tearing Down</a></strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/building-up">Building Up</a>" by Jacob Conwell, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/building-up">https://scpwiki.com/building-up</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Researcher Conwell looked around his office. The few meager possessions he had used to decorate were now placed in a box on the desk. Conwell let out a deflating sigh. He wanted to say it had been a good run, but if he was being honest with himself, the work he had been doing with [[[SCP-1360]]] was both frustrating and sickening. Still, he wished he had produced more results. Maybe that way it wouldn’t seem like he had failed. Maybe then it wouldn’t feel like he had let the poor droid down. A sharp knock at the door shook Conwell out of his day dream. “It’s open,” he called. A short woman with piercing grey eyes and a large smirk entered. Her hair was done up in a bun and a small pair of glasses sat upon her pointed nose. Conwell did his best to hide his disappointment. This woman was Dr. Freemont. Although she was at least one foot shorter than him, she always managed to make him feel small. “Relocated again?” she asked. One eyebrow was raised as she peered into the box on the table. Her voice was sweet and concerned, but her lips were curled into a sly smile. “How’d you guess?” He replied. Conwell pulled his box of things away from his guest and pretended to rummage through them, hoping to look too busy to talk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” “Where are they sending you?” Freemont asked. Whether she didn’t notice his display or didn’t care remained to be seen. “[[[SCP-1760\|Site-84]]]. Again. What do you want, Freemont?” “Dr. Thompson made a request to see you. Guess I’m lucky I caught you now, before they shipped you to the Pacific.” Freemont chuckled. Conwell’s mouth hung slightly open as he attempted to process just how exactly it was she could be so tactless. “Why?” Conwell asked. He had heard about poor [[[SCP-2860\|Dr. Harold Thompson]]] when he was working with Dr. Johnson, and even met him once in person. Freemont responded with a heavy shrug. “I would like to know that as well. He’s been very adamant about seeing you for about the past week.” “I thought that Dr. Collins was keeping in touch…” Conwell began, pausing when Freemont gave a sharp laugh. “Gregg hasn’t paid Harold a visit since Johnson left. Anyway, he’s due for another psychological health visit, so I thought I’d throw him a bone with you. Can I tell him you’re going to stop by?” Conwell sighed and placed his head in his hands before dragging them down his face. If Freemont was telling the truth, Dr. Thompson had not been visited in almost three years, and was probably nearing the end of his rope. “I’m afraid I have a flight to catch, and a few more meetings of my own to take care of before I jet. I’m sorry. I wish I could. I really do, I just can’t,” he said as he shook his head. Freemont shrugged. “You’re disappointing him, not me. Good luck at the Casket Garden.” Conwell hung his head and waited for Freemont to leave. The door slammed shut behind her. He then let out another sigh and grabbed his box of things before exiting and turning off the light behind him. ----- Conwell pounded heavily upon the door to Dr. Collins' office. He didn’t wait for permission to enter, instead choosing to silently open the door and slide inside the room. The office itself was immaculate, a great deal of forethought appearing to have gone into the placement of everything down to the pens on the desk. He didn’t want to touch anything, lest a curator yell at him for disturbing the exhibit. “I can assure you that you’re doing a good job,” Collins said with a small chuckle from the seat at his desk. He spoke without taking his eyes off the screen on his desktop. Conwell rolled his eyes in response. “What’s on your mind champ?” “I’ve cleared out of the 1360-1 lab. Are you going to be taking Zach’s old office, or keeping this one here?” “I haven’t decided yet, but I’m guessing that my office arrangements are not what prompted your visit.” Collins replied. He now peered at Conwell from behind his thick glasses. “I know you had a hand in me being transferred. That’s why they’re giving you command over 1360. I just can’t figure out why you did it.” Collins sighed. He looked like a father about to tell his child that he wasn’t angry, just disappointed. “Your enthusiasm for that project was waning long before Johnson left. Command was afraid that you were no longer suited to continue to lead the project, so they asked me to keep tabs on you and report what I saw,” Collins then shook his head as he chuckled quietly. “I mean, Christ, you’re a grown man, I’m not going to visit you to tell you that you’re doing a good job. No one does that.” “So that’s it then? One subpar visit and I’m out of there?” Conwell snapped. “Cut that out.” Collins snapped back. “You know damn well that’s not how we do things. You’ve hated working on the 1360 project for a long time now. Having you continue to serve as PI for that object was both a detriment to you and the research being done on 1360-1. I saw this and pulled what strings I needed to make sure that what needed to be done //was done.//” Conwell tightened his fist. He imagined bashing in Collins' head with his computer keyboard. Eventually he regained his composure and placed a large file stack down on the desk. “Alright then, captain. Here’s the wheel, all of Johnson’s and my notes on 1360 and [[[anderson-robotics-hub\|Anderson]]], including the transcript from the attempted sting last week, and all known info on Anderson’s models.” Conwell began to make his way towards the exit but stopped when Collins called out. “Listen, Jacob, this isn’t the first time you’ve been relocated from a project, and it won’t be the last. Hell, I’ve been moved around many more times than I care to count. The important thing is you remember that these decisions are made by command for a reason. The important thing is being able to move on. Please don’t let this come between us in the future. Overall, you’ve done a good job.” Conwell paused in the doorway and shook his head. “Dr. Freemont visited me earlier today. Harold wanted to see me. She said you hadn’t been by for one of the psychological health visits in almost three years. You should think about swinging by there if you get a chance.” Conwell then silently passed into the hallway, allowing the door to quietly swing shut behind him. Collins waited for the door to close before he smiled and quietly thought to himself: //Anderson,// //Integration successful and infiltration now complete. I have obtained complete command of #31. Awaiting further instructions.// //Saker #76// Collins waited for a second as his programming confirmed the message had been received. He then whistled as he got back to work. ----- Dr. Harold Thompson slowly made his way over the threshold of his cell, returning from another round of testing. What once used to be a tan, athletic man was now pale and gaunt. While the years of his incarceration had been unpleasant, it was those three years after his friend, Dr. Johnson, had left that appeared to have been the hardest yet. Two security officers stood behind him, causally watching for him to make any move resembling an escape attempt. Eight years of stellar behavior on Harold’s part, however, allowed them to relax ever so slightly. It also helped that his hands were not only covered by thick leather gloves, but also bound together by thick restraints. “Hold the door for a moment,” Dr. Freemont’s honey-lathered voice called out as she appeared from behind the security officers. “Good job today, Harold. We’ll continue the tests in two days. Tomorrow is going to be your psychological health visit.” “I see…” Harold kept his back to his captors as he spoke. “Researcher Conwell?” “I’m afraid it will just be me again,” Freemont said with a melancholy smile. “Conwell is being relocated to another facility.” “And Gregg -” Harold began, but was quickly interrupted. “I’m afraid I still can’t get a hold of him. He’s a busy man. I’m sure you understand.” “I can’t even imagine…” Harold mumbled, fidgeting with his hands as he spoke. The officers gave a slight nervous glance at each other and then back to Freemont. She rolled her eyes and held up a hand as she signaled them to close the door. As the door began to slide shut, Harold’s bare hands suddenly reached through, yanking the security officer into the door’s track. The officer let out a sudden gasp, and in the next instant was solid marble. “Shit!” The other officer shouted as he drew his pistol, but was too late. Harold had slid the door back open and had a hand on the officer’s face before his fingers could wrap around the grip. He too became solid marble. “No no no no no!” Freemont shouted as Harold turned to her. She attempted to run towards the alarm, but was quickly overtaken. Harold had lunged and knocked her to the ground. His hand was firmly wrapped around her ankle. The room was silent as Harold got back to his feet and brushed himself off. He quickly undid his restraints, grabbed one of the security officer’s pistols and pass cards, and cloaked himself in Dr. Freemont’s lab coat. He took a few moments to look himself over in a mirror. Provided he didn’t draw much attention to himself he felt that it would be easy enough traversing the short distance to Dr. Collins's office. Blending in as a Foundation researcher wouldn’t be hard either. After all, he had already been one in a past life. ---- [[=]] [[[Products\|Part Three: Products]]] \| [[[Peregrine]]] \| [[[Tearing Down\|Part Five: Tearing Down]]] [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-21T20:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "anderson", "breakout", "bureaucracy", "researcher-conwell", "spy-fiction", "tale", "twisted-pines" ]	Building Up - SCP Foundation	124	[ "scp-1360", "scp-1760", "scp-2860", "anderson-robotics-hub", "products", "peregrine", "tearing-down", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "those-twisted-pines-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "peregrine", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "anderson-robotics-hub" ]	[]	23060331	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/building-up
burden-of-humanity	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Amcf/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <ul class="creditRate"> <li class="rateBox folded"> <div class="rate-box-with-credit-button"> <div class="creditButton foldable-list-container"> <p><a href="javascript:;"></a></p> </div> </div> <div id="u-credit-view"> <div class="fader foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">close</a></div> <div class="modalcontainer"> <div class="modalbox"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <h2><span>Info</span></h2> </div> <hr/> <div class="close-credits foldable-list-container"><a href="javascript:;">X</a></div> <div class="credit first"> <p><strong>Manna Charitable Foundation</strong> Burden of Humanity</p> <p><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Start here</a></p> <p><strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/andarielhalo" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1750255); return false;"><img alt="AndarielHalo" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1750255&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188532" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1750255)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/andarielhalo" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1750255); return false;">AndarielHalo</a></span></p> <p>Eat more of my SCPs. <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/andariel-halo-file" target="_blank">Eat them all.</a></p> <p>Also please eat some of these</p> <ul> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/anabasis-hub">Anabasis Hub</a></strong> Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Manna Charitable Foundation 2000</a></strong> The sequel to the above, collaborationed with <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dr-reach" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1779895); return false;"><img alt="Dr Reach" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1779895&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188532" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1779895)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/dr-reach" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1779895); return false;">Dr Reach</a></span></li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-stuff-industry-hub">The Stuff Industry</a></strong> What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.</li> <li><strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/week-1-looking-for-stuff">When MCF and Stuff happen</a></strong> A fun story of incompetence</li> </ul> </div> <hr/> </div> </div> </div> </li> </ul> <p>Dodger snorted obnoxiously at the picture of the hairy man-beast, "It's cute."</p> <p>They'd been calling it a spider-bear. Apparently its hands and head were more arachnid-like than mammalian, even though it breathed air and ate cooked meat. They were even communicating with it well enough. <em>For all the good that'll do. It's gonna die sooner or later if it doesn't let us examine it properly.</em></p> <p>"That's not the real issue right now," Kone put in firmly. His visage was tacked to the center of her screen, the main focus of the video conference going on now. Several seconds of delay as the signal was encrypted. GOC technology, so nothing <em>too</em> sensitive could be said over the line. Though obviously there was nothing they could do about keeping the lines safe from GOC eyes and ears. They'd have to let slip <em>some</em> intel, by necessity of conveying it to one another. Kone and Lindsberg were at branch HQ, Rhiannon Locke en route to Africa, Cortes somewhere in Europe, "I've finished reading your report. Thankfully, whatever's causing the effect in animals doesn't spread if the meat is properly cooked. That's about the only good news. Bad news is we have no idea how far this has spread, and how bad it might get if we can't get it under control."</p> <p>"Is that even a problem? Can't we just tell people it's E. coli and to make sure they cook their meat thoroughly? They're getting food, at least. I mean, fuck it; they may as well eat tainted meat than sandy shit, or nothing at all. They're little African peasants living in a third-world-hell-hole, we can't be snatching food from them."</p> <p>Kone looked furious. Dodger felt a chill go through her. <em>That's it, I'm gone.</em> She had been getting on the nerves of management for too long. Every little thing she said she had to carefully monitor before saying it. <em>Consequences of being as unconcerned with frivolous things like politeness and etiquette.</em> She'd been kicked out of a lot of places, and fired from a lot of jobs, but she'd never felt such a perpetual state of oppressive moderation and paranoia as she did when talking around management. It had to be a problem with her, she had considered. <em>But it isn't me.</em></p> <p>"Dodger," It was Lindsberg stepping in now as the calm voice of reason, "When you get back from Somalia, we're going to have to have a little talk." That alone made her more anxious than any amount of screaming and cursing from Kone. And it was usually Kone who was the calm, reasonable one.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," She muttered, clenching her jaw as heat rushed to her cheeks, "I submitted the report to Torres first, along with a sample. He's been examining it."</p> <p>"And?" Kone asked patiently.</p> <p>"It's definitely something, but we can't tell what. Our equipment here isn't sophisticated enough to discern what's actually causing the regeneration; bacterium, virus, prion…"</p> <p>"Prion?" Rhiannon put in quizzically.</p> <p>"I don't know. We don't know. This early on, we're speculating."</p> <p>"I don't understand," Dr. Cortes put in, putting a hand on her forehead, "Could you- Could you explain it to me? I haven't read the report yet."</p> <p>"It's the fungus. The— The Vesta Donation stuff. Somehow, animals are getting into it and eating pieces of it. I don't know how; we've been keeping the stuff tightly under watch when its in its fungal stage thing. Torres thinks there might be interference between his mods and the original control program the Vesta people put in. As for the animals… might be bugs, or rodents. Those then get eaten by bigger animals, those animals get eaten by even bigger ones… might be it spreads in the shit, too, so shit-eating animals like dogs and cats end up getting infected, too.</p> <p>"What it actually does is kind of similar to what the fungus does— create something from basically nothing. Again, we don't know exactly <em>how</em>, but once it's metabolized in the animal, we completely lose track of the fungal cells. What starts to happen is basically uncontrolled cellular growth."</p> <p>"Like a cancer?" Cortes asked.</p> <p>Dodger hadn't thought of it that way, "Maybe. I think I mis-spoke, too—it's not <em>uncontrolled</em> growth; it's pretty well controlled. It basically starts rapidly growing cells all over the body, making an excess of skin cells, hair cells, blood cells, and so on. Leave it going long enough, you'd basically end up with a mound of meat vaguely resembling an animal, with probably six hearts and thirty gallbladders. Frank wanted to test, but animal testing gets people uncomfortable."</p> <p>"Purely speculating here… when bone or tissue is cut out of the animal, the growth centers exclusively on regenerating the bone or tissue that was lost. It's like a hulled boat taking on water, and cutting out pieces of flesh would be like scooping out bucketful's of water."</p> <p>"And the mental effects?" Rhiannon put in.</p> <p>"Might be related. Possibly. Maybe it's more painful to let the flesh grow than to have pieces of it cut out every few hours."</p> <p>"This is a fucking disaster," Rhiannon whimpered.</p> <p>"I don't know. As long as people cook it, it's safe, right? Isn't that what you always keep saying, Locke; fear of the unknown is no excuse not to save people in trouble <em>now</em>?"</p> <p>"Dodger…" Lindsberg warned. That tone again that pressed down on her. A "gentle menace", she'd called it before.</p> <p>"We're trying to contain it," Dodger put in before they could keep chewing her out, "Exterminating the animals. Burning the corpses. But it's like pulling weeds one-handed. And there's new weeds every day. We need more resources to get this under control."</p> <p>"Dodger, don't," Kone warned. His voice was so deep, it could be difficult to tell his mood over the tinny speakers of a laptop computer, "If the GOC gets word of this, they're going to assume we've lost control of the situation."</p> <p>"We <em>have</em> lost control of the situation, it sounds like," Cortes put in before Dodger could do the same… and get yelled at for saying so.</p> <p>"We have <em>not</em> lost control," Kone stated firmly, "Dodger, keep up the good work. Spread your contacts out further, keep your ear to the ground. Use whatever stockpiles of food we have to get people to stop eating this meat. Tell Frank to use whatever resources at his disposal to ensure the continued cooperation of tribal leaders and town elders. We're gonna need them — AMISOM is drawing forces out of Laascaanood to deal with Somaliland raiders. If— Listen to me, Dodger. <em>If</em> you start running out of food…"</p> <p>Dodger grit her teeth, waiting for the obvious solution to come up.</p> <p>"Worst case scenario only; use the Anabasis. <em>Do not</em> use it outside of Locke's default settings. Make sure the animals brought in are <em>clean</em> and edible. We don't need something worse than this to start infecting people."</p> <p>Dodger sighed, and glanced about the faces on the screen. No challenges were made, so she nodded, "Alright. See you on the other side."</p> <p>She closed out the windows, and snapped her laptop shut. One thing people hated more than anything was having basic necessities taken from them. Worse when it was taken away by healthy English-speaking Western men.</p> <p>"That's not my concern…" She muttered to herself, sloughing off the burden, "I've got my orders."</p> <hr/> <p>The three volunteers conferred in front of the surgery room, in a discreet corner intended in the original architectural design of the building as a place to put a water basin. It had been deemed unnecessary.</p> <p>"Am I the only one who feels we should not be trusting her?," Haji asked, "The longer she is here, the more this whole 'auditing' thing sounds like an excuse for infiltrating us and test something… strange downstairs. I mean no offense to the wise women, Mirra in particular, but they might be blinded by her position! What was that thing that come downstairs? And how is it that she, a Coalition officer, has a sister in the Mission Branch?"</p> <p>"Everything we do here is strange. What makes what she does any different? I was a Coalition operative, too, and here I am. Besides, you don't get to choose your family…" Olympe shook his head at the suspecting volunteer. "Look, it's simple enough. It's a matter of whether you accept what Frank tells you or not. I trust Frank. I don't trust Locke, but I find no reason to be paranoid about it either."</p> <p>"There is that," Lila said, her head uncovered as she left the surgery room, barely even having time to digest the news. "There is also the fact that Opal will not talk about her and has asked to be put in solo-work with one of the newbies as nurse. She only does that when she's in a bad mood."</p> <p>Olympe frowned at that. "Lila…"</p> <p>"You know me, Frans." She rapidly collected her headscarf, covering her head and ears. "I won't do anything against her, no matter who she is or what she did in the past. I am not that sort of woman anymore, and I am pretty certain she is not a Parahealther anyhow."</p> <p>"What do you mean, Afwerki?," Haji inquired, curious.</p> <p>"I have my reasons, dear. Where is Ahman, by the way?," she delicately answered.</p> <p>"Frank told him and some of the kids to go burn some of that mutant meat. Right, that, too! What if it was Locke's fault, somehow!," the young man added. Olympe arced a brow.</p> <p>"Even Jacob says it's his fault, Haji. Just let go."</p> <hr/> <p>"I'm coming to Somalia," Rhiannon's voice came out clearly from the little bird, "I'm so happy I'll get to see you in person again. Everything happened so fast, we barely got enough time to talk."</p> <p>Priss shrugged, "We talked enough."</p> <p>Rhiannon laughed, "You never were one for conversation."</p> <p>Priss sat in her quarters, laptop on her bed. She was still in quarantine, after the furry beast came through the Anabasis. It had been taken peacefully, and wasn't showing any signs of illness after four days, but still they insisted on quarantining her. They couldn't find any signs of potentially dangerous pathogens in the beast yet, but not finding anything <em>yet</em> didn't mean it was safe for her.</p> <p>"I'm in quarantine."</p> <p>"I heard," Rhiannon kept her smile upbeat, "Don't worry, you should be out soon. By tomorrow at latest."</p> <p>Everyone else exposed had been released already. They were keeping her in longest. <em>It's because you don't belong here.</em> Priss looked over at the Anabasis, on the table beside her. Had it always been able to talk? She remembered hearing that some of the researchers had talked to it, but couldn't remember if that was normal or some mental effect caused by exposure to it somehow.</p> <p>"I just wanna… I wanna talk to you. About anything. The weather, even. I miss your voice. There's so much to catch up on… I mean, even though you're from another universe or whatever." Rhiannon just kept talking. So much nonsense. It wasn't as comforting for Priss as it was for her.</p> <p>Priss had figured something had happened to her in this timeline to separate her from her family, "When I came here, I was in the basement of an abandoned school. Stuff brought in by the Anabasis tends to be in the same spot in one timeline as it was in the one targeted. Why was I in an abandoned basement?"</p> <p>Rhiannon sighed, averting her gaze from the camera.</p> <p>"I was dead. It's okay, you can say it. Probably mugged and stabbed, that would explain why I had nothing in my pockets."</p> <p>"No, you… We didn't know. You had gone missing about twelve years ago. You were declared legally dead a while back. You were on your way home from school because you'd missed the bus, and you never returned. The school was searched but I guess they somehow missed your body…"</p> <p>Priss swallowed lightly, and nodded. She'd expected it was something or other.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," Rhiannon said, "I wanted to tell you, but like I said, everything happened so fast…"</p> <p>Priss shrugged again, "It's not your fault."</p> <p><em>It's not like the other Rhiannon would have opened the door and immediately snorted and said 'You're supposed to be dead, ha ha.' It's not like this Rhiannon doesn't respect you enough to tell you the truth up front. You don't belong here.</em></p> <p>"How would you even tell someone that, after all they've been through?"</p> <p><em>Like this, 'You're supposed to be dead, ha ha.'</em></p> <p>Priss sighed, and pressed her hands into her eyes.</p> <p><em>You don't belong here.</em></p> <p>"What's wrong?" Rhiannon asked.</p> <p>Priss looked up, seeing her sister still on the line.</p> <p>"It's still hard trying to fit in here. It seems like every other thing I try to say ends up being racist or offensive in some way. I know not to say obvious stuff, but it's like every little thing can be twisted into something racist that I don't understand because I'm not from here. I've stopped trying to converse with people… Just simple, short statements and I get by."</p> <p>Rhiannon grinned, "It's what you're best at."</p> <p>Priss stared back at her.</p> <p>"Sorry. Just relax. You're more well-regarded than you think. And you really are doing some good things here. Have you been getting along with the others? Opal, Jacob, Frank?"</p> <p>Priss closed her eyes, longer than she intended, and slowly opened them, "Opal. She talks too much; makes my head hurt." She felt a strong urge to vent, but figured that was unwise… she preferred to complain about a person to their face, rather than behind their back. Besides, they trusted her… It wasn't her problem if that backfired in some way. "Foundation didn't work with anomaly-wielding humanoids. Still not used to it. Like leaving your house unlocked at night."</p> <p>"Don't worry about it. You'll get used to it. Maybe not used to her, but as long as you two play nice."</p> <p>Priss looked up again, at the door that was locked and sealed on the other side, as the staff waited the all clear before lifting the quarantine. Her quarantined because a googly-eyed man-bear ran past her, and an anomaly basically in charge of the entire operation. In context, it made sense, but…</p> <p>Her gaze trailed off to the Anabasis again.</p> <p><em>You don't belong here.</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/land-of-plenty">Land of Plenty</a> \| <a href="/manna-charitable-foundation-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-hammer-falls">The Hammer Falls</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/burden-of-humanity">Burden of Humanity</a>" by AndarielHalo, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/burden-of-humanity">https://scpwiki.com/burden-of-humanity</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:mcf">:scp-wiki:theme:mcf</a>]] [[include <a href="/info:start">info:start</a>]] Manna Charitable Foundation Burden of Humanity [http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub Start here] Author: [[user AndarielHalo]] Eat more of my SCPs. [http://www.scp-wiki.net/andariel-halo-file Eat them all.] Also please eat some of these * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/anabasis-hub Anabasis Hub] Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/manna-charitable-foundation-hub Manna Charitable Foundation 2000] The sequel to the above, collaborationed with [[user Dr-Reach]] [http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-stuff-industry-hub The Stuff Industry] What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff. * [http://www.scp-wiki.net/week-1-looking-for-stuff When MCF and Stuff happen] A fun story of incompetence [[include <a href="/info:end">info:end</a>]] Dodger snorted obnoxiously at the picture of the hairy man-beast, "It's cute." They'd been calling it a spider-bear. Apparently its hands and head were more arachnid-like than mammalian, even though it breathed air and ate cooked meat. They were even communicating with it well enough. //For all the good that'll do. It's gonna die sooner or later if it doesn't let us examine it properly.// "That's not the real issue right now," Kone put in firmly. His visage was tacked to the center of her screen, the main focus of the video conference going on now. Several seconds of delay as the signal was encrypted. GOC technology, so nothing //too// sensitive could be said over the line. Though obviously there was nothing they could do about keeping the lines safe from GOC eyes and ears. They'd have to let slip //some// intel, by necessity of conveying it to one another. Kone and Lindsberg were at branch HQ, Rhiannon Locke en route to Africa, Cortes somewhere in Europe, "I've finished reading your report. Thankfully, whatever's causing the effect in animals doesn't spread if the meat is properly cooked. That's about the only good news. Bad news is we have no idea how far this has spread, and how bad it might get if we can't get it under control." "Is that even a problem? Can't we just tell people it's E. coli and to make sure they cook their meat thoroughly? They're getting food, at least. I mean, fuck it; they may as well eat tainted meat than sandy shit, or nothing at all. They're little African peasants living in a third-world-hell-hole, we can't be snatching food from them." Kone looked furious. Dodger felt a chill go through her. //That's it, I'm gone.// She had been getting on the nerves of management for too long. Every little thing she said she had to carefully monitor before saying it. //Consequences of being as unconcerned with frivolous things like politeness and etiquette.// She'd been kicked out of a lot of places, and fired from a lot of jobs, but she'd never felt such a perpetual state of oppressive moderation and paranoia as she did when talking around management. It had to be a problem with her, she had considered. //But it isn't me.// "Dodger," It was Lindsberg stepping in now as the calm voice of reason, "When you get back from Somalia, we're going to have to have a little talk." That alone made her more anxious than any amount of screaming and cursing from Kone. And it was usually Kone who was the calm, reasonable one. "I'm sorry," She muttered, clenching her jaw as heat rushed to her cheeks, "I submitted the report to Torres first, along with a sample. He's been examining it." "And?" Kone asked patiently. "It's definitely something, but we can't tell what. Our equipment here isn't sophisticated enough to discern what's actually causing the regeneration; bacterium, virus, prion..." "Prion?" Rhiannon put in quizzically. "I don't know. We don't know. This early on, we're speculating." "I don't understand," Dr. Cortes put in, putting a hand on her forehead, "Could you- Could you explain it to me? I haven't read the report yet." "It's the fungus. The-- The Vesta Donation stuff. Somehow, animals are getting into it and eating pieces of it. I don't know how; we've been keeping the stuff tightly under watch when its in its fungal stage thing. Torres thinks there might be interference between his mods and the original control program the Vesta people put in. As for the animals... might be bugs, or rodents. Those then get eaten by bigger animals, those animals get eaten by even bigger ones... might be it spreads in the shit, too, so shit-eating animals like dogs and cats end up getting infected, too. "What it actually does is kind of similar to what the fungus does-- create something from basically nothing. Again, we don't know exactly //how//, but once it's metabolized in the animal, we completely lose track of the fungal cells. What starts to happen is basically uncontrolled cellular growth." "Like a cancer?" Cortes asked. Dodger hadn't thought of it that way, "Maybe. I think I mis-spoke, too--it's not //uncontrolled// growth; it's pretty well controlled. It basically starts rapidly growing cells all over the body, making an excess of skin cells, hair cells, blood cells, and so on. Leave it going long enough, you'd basically end up with a mound of meat vaguely resembling an animal, with probably six hearts and thirty gallbladders. Frank wanted to test, but animal testing gets people uncomfortable." "Purely speculating here... when bone or tissue is cut out of the animal, the growth centers exclusively on regenerating the bone or tissue that was lost. It's like a hulled boat taking on water, and cutting out pieces of flesh would be like scooping out bucketful's of water." "And the mental effects?" Rhiannon put in. "Might be related. Possibly. Maybe it's more painful to let the flesh grow than to have pieces of it cut out every few hours." "This is a fucking disaster," Rhiannon whimpered. "I don't know. As long as people cook it, it's safe, right? Isn't that what you always keep saying, Locke; fear of the unknown is no excuse not to save people in trouble //now//?" "Dodger..." Lindsberg warned. That tone again that pressed down on her. A "gentle menace", she'd called it before. "We're trying to contain it," Dodger put in before they could keep chewing her out, "Exterminating the animals. Burning the corpses. But it's like pulling weeds one-handed. And there's new weeds every day. We need more resources to get this under control." "Dodger, don't," Kone warned. His voice was so deep, it could be difficult to tell his mood over the tinny speakers of a laptop computer, "If the GOC gets word of this, they're going to assume we've lost control of the situation." "We //have// lost control of the situation, it sounds like," Cortes put in before Dodger could do the same... and get yelled at for saying so. "We have //not// lost control," Kone stated firmly, "Dodger, keep up the good work. Spread your contacts out further, keep your ear to the ground. Use whatever stockpiles of food we have to get people to stop eating this meat. Tell Frank to use whatever resources at his disposal to ensure the continued cooperation of tribal leaders and town elders. We're gonna need them -- AMISOM is drawing forces out of Laascaanood to deal with Somaliland raiders. If-- Listen to me, Dodger. //If// you start running out of food..." Dodger grit her teeth, waiting for the obvious solution to come up. "Worst case scenario only; use the Anabasis. //Do not// use it outside of Locke's default settings. Make sure the animals brought in are //clean// and edible. We don't need something worse than this to start infecting people." Dodger sighed, and glanced about the faces on the screen. No challenges were made, so she nodded, "Alright. See you on the other side." She closed out the windows, and snapped her laptop shut. One thing people hated more than anything was having basic necessities taken from them. Worse when it was taken away by healthy English-speaking Western men. "That's not my concern..." She muttered to herself, sloughing off the burden, "I've got my orders." -------------- The three volunteers conferred in front of the surgery room, in a discreet corner intended in the original architectural design of the building as a place to put a water basin. It had been deemed unnecessary. "Am I the only one who feels we should not be trusting her?," Haji asked, "The longer she is here, the more this whole 'auditing' thing sounds like an excuse for infiltrating us and test something… strange downstairs. I mean no offense to the wise women, Mirra in particular, but they might be blinded by her position! What was that thing that come downstairs? And how is it that she, a Coalition officer, has a sister in the Mission Branch?" "Everything we do here is strange. What makes what she does any different? I was a Coalition operative, too, and here I am. Besides, you don't get to choose your family…" Olympe shook his head at the suspecting volunteer. "Look, it's simple enough. It's a matter of whether you accept what Frank tells you or not. I trust Frank. I don't trust Locke, but I find no reason to be paranoid about it either." "There is that," Lila said, her head uncovered as she left the surgery room, barely even having time to digest the news. "There is also the fact that Opal will not talk about her and has asked to be put in solo-work with one of the newbies as nurse. She only does that when she's in a bad mood." Olympe frowned at that. "Lila…" "You know me, Frans." She rapidly collected her headscarf, covering her head and ears. "I won't do anything against her, no matter who she is or what she did in the past. I am not that sort of woman anymore, and I am pretty certain she is not a Parahealther anyhow." "What do you mean, Afwerki?," Haji inquired, curious. "I have my reasons, dear. Where is Ahman, by the way?," she delicately answered. "Frank told him and some of the kids to go burn some of that mutant meat. Right, that, too! What if it was Locke's fault, somehow!," the young man added. Olympe arced a brow. "Even Jacob says it's his fault, Haji. Just let go." -------------- "I'm coming to Somalia," Rhiannon's voice came out clearly from the little bird, "I'm so happy I'll get to see you in person again. Everything happened so fast, we barely got enough time to talk." Priss shrugged, "We talked enough." Rhiannon laughed, "You never were one for conversation." Priss sat in her quarters, laptop on her bed. She was still in quarantine, after the furry beast came through the Anabasis. It had been taken peacefully, and wasn't showing any signs of illness after four days, but still they insisted on quarantining her. They couldn't find any signs of potentially dangerous pathogens in the beast yet, but not finding anything //yet// didn't mean it was safe for her. "I'm in quarantine." "I heard," Rhiannon kept her smile upbeat, "Don't worry, you should be out soon. By tomorrow at latest." Everyone else exposed had been released already. They were keeping her in longest. //It's because you don't belong here.// Priss looked over at the Anabasis, on the table beside her. Had it always been able to talk? She remembered hearing that some of the researchers had talked to it, but couldn't remember if that was normal or some mental effect caused by exposure to it somehow. "I just wanna... I wanna talk to you. About anything. The weather, even. I miss your voice. There's so much to catch up on... I mean, even though you're from another universe or whatever." Rhiannon just kept talking. So much nonsense. It wasn't as comforting for Priss as it was for her. Priss had figured something had happened to her in this timeline to separate her from her family, "When I came here, I was in the basement of an abandoned school. Stuff brought in by the Anabasis tends to be in the same spot in one timeline as it was in the one targeted. Why was I in an abandoned basement?" Rhiannon sighed, averting her gaze from the camera. "I was dead. It's okay, you can say it. Probably mugged and stabbed, that would explain why I had nothing in my pockets." "No, you... We didn't know. You had gone missing about twelve years ago. You were declared legally dead a while back. You were on your way home from school because you'd missed the bus, and you never returned. The school was searched but I guess they somehow missed your body..." Priss swallowed lightly, and nodded. She'd expected it was something or other. "I'm sorry," Rhiannon said, "I wanted to tell you, but like I said, everything happened so fast..." Priss shrugged again, "It's not your fault." //It's not like the other Rhiannon would have opened the door and immediately snorted and said 'You're supposed to be dead, ha ha.' It's not like this Rhiannon doesn't respect you enough to tell you the truth up front. You don't belong here.// "How would you even tell someone that, after all they've been through?" //Like this, 'You're supposed to be dead, ha ha.'// Priss sighed, and pressed her hands into her eyes. //You don't belong here.// "What's wrong?" Rhiannon asked. Priss looked up, seeing her sister still on the line. "It's still hard trying to fit in here. It seems like every other thing I try to say ends up being racist or offensive in some way. I know not to say obvious stuff, but it's like every little thing can be twisted into something racist that I don't understand because I'm not from here. I've stopped trying to converse with people... Just simple, short statements and I get by." Rhiannon grinned, "It's what you're best at." Priss stared back at her. "Sorry. Just relax. You're more well-regarded than you think. And you really are doing some good things here. Have you been getting along with the others? Opal, Jacob, Frank?" Priss closed her eyes, longer than she intended, and slowly opened them, "Opal. She talks too much; makes my head hurt." She felt a strong urge to vent, but figured that was unwise... she preferred to complain about a person to their face, rather than behind their back. Besides, they trusted her... It wasn't her problem if that backfired in some way. "Foundation didn't work with anomaly-wielding humanoids. Still not used to it. Like leaving your house unlocked at night." "Don't worry about it. You'll get used to it. Maybe not used to her, but as long as you two play nice." Priss looked up again, at the door that was locked and sealed on the other side, as the staff waited the all clear before lifting the quarantine. Her quarantined because a googly-eyed man-bear ran past her, and an anomaly basically in charge of the entire operation. In context, it made sense, but... Her gaze trailed off to the Anabasis again. //You don't belong here.// ----------- [[=]] << [[[ Land of Plenty ]]] \| [[[manna-charitable-foundation-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Hammer Falls]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-07T18:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "anabasis", "goi2014", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale" ]	Burden of Humanity - SCP Foundation	20	[ "land-of-plenty", "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "the-hammer-falls", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	22894000	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/burden-of-humanity
c-sharp	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Morisato heard the sound of C-Sharp and, at first, ducked. Then she registered the tall glass window next to her, which faced windows from other office buildings. She reconsidered, and bolted down the nearest hallway instead. A moment later, gunshots cracked the glass and pounded into the wall where she'd been.</p> <p>She stopped, caught her breath, and then carried on down the hall. Now her sidearm was in her hands. If the Coalition knew she was in the building, they'd be locking down right now, and anyone on the floor would be alerted to her position. But they wouldn't know that she had the fire key for the elevator, her simple but elegant escape route. The documents ought to be in the quartermaster's office, which was nearby. A few odd turns to throw anyone off her tracks, and she'd be ready for the ride out.</p> <p>At the end of the hallway, she slowed to a jog, and tapped the base of her left ear, activating a sub-dermal implant, which sent a signal backward in time.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <p>Then she was running again.</p> <p>Once she had the documents, was reasonably sure she wasn't being followed, and was at the elevator, reaching for the button she heard the sound of C-sharp again. <em>What?</em> She looked down the halls, but she had been in and out of them with no visuals… and her intel had sworn up and down that the building would be clear. She looked at the elevator again, and frowned.</p> <p>(There was someone on the other side of the elevator, holding a taser and a pistol. The Coalition knew Morisato was in the building about five minutes before the shots, which was enough time for their second agent to leave the sniper's nest, and make it up the elevator. As soon as the door opened…)</p> <p>She took the stairs, instead. On the fifth step down, she tapped the base of her left ear.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <p>At the bottom, she used a miniature charge to explode through the door's lock, listening all the while for C-sharp and footsteps that never came. The door opened onto the street. She grinned, spun the gun around in her hands before dropping it back in the holster, and booked it across the street to meet her getaway. She'd move fast enough that the snipers on the other side of the building would never know she'd gone.</p> <hr/> <p>The implant was a little heavy, and sometimes it itched. Now and then it also made a very low humming sound in her left ear, but she'd gotten used to it. If she turned the sound up in Sea Hero, it just sounded like part of the game. Even among her colleagues, not many people had the implant- after all, it was still relatively untested- but she'd made an effort to stay in touch with a few who did.</p> <p>After handing off the file and debriefing, Morisato lit a stick of incense and sat in her private quarters in the dark for a while. Then she turned the lights on, microwaved a frozen dinner, powered on her computer, and called up Agent Oberoi while her game loaded.</p> <p>“How's it going, Hotshot? Back from a mission?”</p> <p>“Yeah. In the Ice World, did you find the skeleton key in the first dungeon or did you have to wait to beat Pirate Cave?”</p> <p>“I think I had to wait. You don't actually need it in the mean time.”</p> <p>“Thanks. How's it going?”</p> <p>“Aw, not so bad. Been on R&R the last week.”</p> <p>“Oh?”</p> <p>“It's the leg again. Nothing too bad, they don't want me jumping on it or anything.”</p> <p>“Relaxing?”</p> <p>“Oh yeah. You got to try it, Hotshot. Let's do vacation again sometime.”</p> <p>“Hell no. I don't know how you do it.”</p> <p>“I compartmentalize. Come on- Jakarta's nice. We'll get out of the city- I hear they have flying squirrels the size of raccoons.”</p> <p>“That's your idea of a good vacation? No wonder Minsk was a flop.”</p> <p>“It's on my bucket list. Hey, gotta go. Take care of yourself. You still seeing the shrink?”</p> <p>“Well, yeah.”</p> <p>“Me too. Good. If you need help with Pirate Cave, text me.”</p> <p>Agent Oberoi worked at another site now. She had the implant too. Oberoi heard C-sharp sometimes, and, well, she just coped better with it. Morisato knew it was an unfair thought- Oberoi worked just as hard to keep her mental state in order as she herself did- but she must just be better at it. How else did you explain the cafe in Minsk? Halfway through their lunch in a small cafe off the main drag, a child banging on piano keys had hit C-sharp, and the noise went straight through her brain. Morisato had cleared the area. Immediately.</p> <p>Had she hurt anyone? Had she broken anything? Oberoi assured her she hadn't, maybe scraped a chair when she toppled it in her mad dash out. By that point, her breathing at slowed and she was far too embarrassed to go back inside. It was a piano key. It wasn't the computerized tone she knew. It wasn't even the same timbre.</p> <p><em>Stupid,</em> she thought as they walked away. <em>Stupid, stupid, stupid.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Another time, she'd been walking along a busy sidewalk in a city she'd never been in, and she heard C-sharp. At first, she backed away from the street edge, then backtracked through the crowd and slipped inside a fast-food restaurant, eyes fixed on the street outside, as she tapped her ear to send the signal back in time.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <p>Nothing. No gunshots rent the air. No vehicle ran off the road and plowed into the sidewalk. No screams, no alarming figures in heavy coats walking slowly or with their hands stuffed in pockets to conceal their firearms. Of course, a sniper would have seen her move. She called her supervisors and bought an apple turnover while they scanned the area from afar.</p> <p>The tentative all-clear meant she should go outside again. She was ready to move, but nothing happened. No high tone rung in her ear for the rest of that trip. What <em>would</em> have happened? Why had the signal gone back in the first place? False positives had never been a problem before. Obviously, her acting had changed the situation. But for the signal to send, it had to be sent back for some reason. Somehow.</p> <p>Who had sent it?</p> <hr/> <p>Site 81, Supervisor's Office, Phone Line</p> <blockquote> <p>“Agent Morisato, the technology is safe. It absolutely cannot, and I mean mathematically impossible, transmit over five seconds in the past, so large-scale reality alterations or paradoxes are impossible. It's the golden goose.”<br/> …<br/> “Well, the signal is safe. The technology will never be entirely safe, not until we understand it entirely, and it will never keep <em>you</em> absolutely safe. But this signal is safe.”<br/> …<br/> “No, I know you did your reading.”<br/> …<br/> “It's, listen, Hotaru. The signal itself is sent from an alternate future in which your life is threatened. By receiving that signal, you can take action to avert the situation that created that danger, and by sending that signal back, you ensure that your own timeline is stable. Everyone is fine.”<br/> …<br/> “No, I- what do you mean, parallel universes? We don't even know that's how this works.”<br/> …<br/> “What do you mean?”<br/> …<br/> “<em>Who</em>?”<br/> …<br/> “Never mind.”</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>Morisato wasn't a physicist. But she'd read a lot about time, since then, and knew that even if using the implant didn't cause universe-destroying paradoxes, cause and effect probably still didn't just <em>go away</em>. The cause was the danger, the effect was triggering that signal and heartless C-sharp. She read books and articles about multiple universes, branching timelines. Who <em>was</em> sending the signal back in the first place?</p> <p>She didn't think of them as separate people, but as one person; not individual selves cast aside throughout time, but a single copy of her- a tortured shadow that followed her at all times, ready to die for her at a moment's notice.</p> <hr/> <p>Morisato trailed along the underground corridor, following the soft light of a laser beacon through the winding halls to the source of the anomaly. As she passed under a smoke detector on the wall, she heard a faint hissing.</p> <p>After three of her six fellow agents passed below the detector, it rotated 180 degrees in its socket and exploded. A hazy yellow gas filled the air, and the agents fell to their knees. Morisato's skin was burning, her nose and lungs were burning. She reached up and touched her left ear.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <p>As she passed under a smoke detector on the wall, she heard a faint hissing and the sound of C-sharp.</p> <p>She held up one hand in warning, then tested the knob on a side door and hurried her team inside. A minute later, one of them identified the trap from Foundation records, and found an alternate route through the compound. Morisato kept her eye on her watch, and after she heard their new plan, reached up and touched her left ear.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <br/> At last, they made it to the Coalition's research space. It had been cleared out in a hurry before they arrived, but the strange emission was still there, meaning its source was either immobile or hadn't been evacuated. It would be a great day for Morisato if they'd just left it behind, because it would save her from having to secure the whole compound. Well, if not, she'd had worse days too. <p>The laser beacon was malfunctioning underground, but their map prediction put the signal's source dead ahead of them, so Morisato signaled to her team and opened the door at the end of the hall.</p> <p>The laboratory inside was lit by dim purple emergency lights alone. Morisato squinted as she cleared the immediate surroundings. It was hard to see into the lab's corners, of course, but nothing especially unusual appeared. As the team spread into the room, the hint of a dancing red spot of light caught her eye.</p> <p>The bullet bore through Morisato's head in the span of a millisecond. Blood spattered across the concrete behind her. The implant in her head recorded that her pulse had stopped, and sent a signal back through time.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <p>The laser beacon was malfunctioning underground, but their map prediction put the signal's source dead ahead of them, so Morisato signaled to her team and opened the door at the end of the hall. A step into the doorway, she heard the sound of C-sharp. Instantly, she gave her team a hand signal, waited until she heard the faint <em>thump</em> of bodies finding cover, then crouched and dived behind the doorframe. <em>What's the most likely threat?</em> Somebody inside, of course. She drew her sidearm and watched. There was a flash of movement in a far, darkened corner.</p> <p>Morisato took down the enemy with one shot, and touched her ear.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><tt>.-.-</tt></p> </div> <hr/> <p>It wouldn't keep her alive forever, of course. One day, its plus-or-minus three seconds wouldn't be long enough, and the signal would send itself backward for the last time. That was where she couldn't rely on poorly-understood technology, she just had to be good. But it had kept her alive damn well so far. She never meant to keep track, but somehow the shadow in her mind became a Wound Man of sorts- here a bullet wound, there a slit throat, there an electric field, amorphous stains where she couldn't have known what exactly would have killed her.</p> <p>Most of the scenes that stayed in her mind from the field missions, she tried to keep back. But the Wound Woman, the shadow she had never seen in real life, never quite left. It was a ghost in her privileged timeline.</p> <p>How was she supposed to explain to her supervisor why she no longer took time off unless forced?</p> <hr/> <p>“How's therapy going?” asked her supervisor, strolling by while she was gearing up.</p> <p>“Good,” said Morisato. It was helping with the nightmares, anyway.</p> <p>“Good to hear. Did you hear about your project?”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“The implant. It's been cancelled.”</p> <p>Morisato put down the ammo sling she was holding. “Am I-”</p> <p>“You're still cleared for fieldwork, thank god. No change there. But they're cancelling the implant program going forward. Still don't understand the tech, so they say it's too risky and they're shutting it down."</p> <p>Morisato thought about that. It would just be her and Oberoi, and the others, the dozen or so who'd had the anomalous technology shuttled into their brains on a whim. They'd be hearing C-sharp for the rest of their lives.</p> <p>“When I said you were cleared for fieldwork,” her supervisor continued, “Well, they are <em>offering</em> you a chance to turn your gun in. Get a desk job. What do you think?” He paused. “You're our biggest asset, Morisato. We need you here.”</p> <p>“I'll finish the mission,” she said.</p> <p>“Good.” Her supervisor sighed with relief.</p> <hr/> <p>It was a roaring success. The local branch of the Coalition was either in custody, or had fled, and the Foundation had been able to seize their assets. In the final move, Morisato led the charge to recover every single one of their anomalies from that location, and hadn't even heard C-sharp once.</p> <hr/> <p>Back in her room again, Morisato lit a stick of incense in her room and turned off the lights. For a while, she just sat, breathing in and out, taking in the weight of darkness. Then she turned the lights back on, and opened her laptop and started a blank email. She addressed it to Human Resouces, and then, slowly, struggled to find the words.</p> <p><em>I am informed that I have the opportunity to transfer into a non-fieldwork position, and would like to accept. I have a history of contributions to the Foundation and the following skills…</em></p> <p>Her shadow settled in behind her, like an old friend, to read over her shoulder.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/c-sharp">C-Sharp</a>" by Sophia Light, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/c-sharp">https://scpwiki.com/c-sharp</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Agent Morisato heard the sound of C-Sharp and, at first, ducked. Then she registered the tall glass window next to her, which faced windows from other office buildings. She reconsidered, and bolted down the nearest hallway instead. A moment later, gunshots cracked the glass and pounded into the wall where she'd been. She stopped, caught her breath, and then carried on down the hall. Now her sidearm was in her hands. If the Coalition knew she was in the building, they'd be locking down right now, and anyone on the floor would be alerted to her position. But they wouldn't know that she had the fire key for the elevator, her simple but elegant escape route. The documents ought to be in the quartermaster's office, which was nearby. A few odd turns to throw anyone off her tracks, and she'd be ready for the ride out. At the end of the hallway, she slowed to a jog, and tapped the base of her left ear, activating a sub-dermal implant, which sent a signal backward in time. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] Then she was running again. Once she had the documents, was reasonably sure she wasn't being followed, and was at the elevator, reaching for the button she heard the sound of C-sharp again. //What?// She looked down the halls, but she had been in and out of them with no visuals... and her intel had sworn up and down that the building would be clear. She looked at the elevator again, and frowned. (There was someone on the other side of the elevator, holding a taser and a pistol. The Coalition knew Morisato was in the building about five minutes before the shots, which was enough time for their second agent to leave the sniper's nest, and make it up the elevator. As soon as the door opened...) She took the stairs, instead. On the fifth step down, she tapped the base of her left ear. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] At the bottom, she used a miniature charge to explode through the door's lock, listening all the while for C-sharp and footsteps that never came. The door opened onto the street. She grinned, spun the gun around in her hands before dropping it back in the holster, and booked it across the street to meet her getaway. She'd move fast enough that the snipers on the other side of the building would never know she'd gone. ------ The implant was a little heavy, and sometimes it itched. Now and then it also made a very low humming sound in her left ear, but she'd gotten used to it. If she turned the sound up in Sea Hero, it just sounded like part of the game. Even among her colleagues, not many people had the implant- after all, it was still relatively untested- but she'd made an effort to stay in touch with a few who did. After handing off the file and debriefing, Morisato lit a stick of incense and sat in her private quarters in the dark for a while. Then she turned the lights on, microwaved a frozen dinner, powered on her computer, and called up Agent Oberoi while her game loaded. “How's it going, Hotshot? Back from a mission?” “Yeah. In the Ice World, did you find the skeleton key in the first dungeon or did you have to wait to beat Pirate Cave?” “I think I had to wait. You don't actually need it in the mean time.” “Thanks. How's it going?” “Aw, not so bad. Been on R&R the last week.” “Oh?” “It's the leg again. Nothing too bad, they don't want me jumping on it or anything.” “Relaxing?” “Oh yeah. You got to try it, Hotshot. Let's do vacation again sometime.” “Hell no. I don't know how you do it.” “I compartmentalize. Come on- Jakarta's nice. We'll get out of the city- I hear they have flying squirrels the size of raccoons.” “That's your idea of a good vacation? No wonder Minsk was a flop.” “It's on my bucket list. Hey, gotta go. Take care of yourself. You still seeing the shrink?” “Well, yeah.” “Me too. Good. If you need help with Pirate Cave, text me.” Agent Oberoi worked at another site now. She had the implant too. Oberoi heard C-sharp sometimes, and, well, she just coped better with it. Morisato knew it was an unfair thought- Oberoi worked just as hard to keep her mental state in order as she herself did- but she must just be better at it. How else did you explain the cafe in Minsk? Halfway through their lunch in a small cafe off the main drag, a child banging on piano keys had hit C-sharp, and the noise went straight through her brain. Morisato had cleared the area. Immediately. Had she hurt anyone? Had she broken anything? Oberoi assured her she hadn't, maybe scraped a chair when she toppled it in her mad dash out. By that point, her breathing at slowed and she was far too embarrassed to go back inside. It was a piano key. It wasn't the computerized tone she knew. It wasn't even the same timbre. //Stupid,// she thought as they walked away. //Stupid, stupid, stupid.// ------ Another time, she'd been walking along a busy sidewalk in a city she'd never been in, and she heard C-sharp. At first, she backed away from the street edge, then backtracked through the crowd and slipped inside a fast-food restaurant, eyes fixed on the street outside, as she tapped her ear to send the signal back in time. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] Nothing. No gunshots rent the air. No vehicle ran off the road and plowed into the sidewalk. No screams, no alarming figures in heavy coats walking slowly or with their hands stuffed in pockets to conceal their firearms. Of course, a sniper would have seen her move. She called her supervisors and bought an apple turnover while they scanned the area from afar. The tentative all-clear meant she should go outside again. She was ready to move, but nothing happened. No high tone rung in her ear for the rest of that trip. What //would// have happened? Why had the signal gone back in the first place? False positives had never been a problem before. Obviously, her acting had changed the situation. But for the signal to send, it had to be sent back for some reason. Somehow. Who had sent it? ------ Site 81, Supervisor's Office, Phone Line > “Agent Morisato, the technology is safe. It absolutely cannot, and I mean mathematically impossible, transmit over five seconds in the past, so large-scale reality alterations or paradoxes are impossible. It's the golden goose.” > ... > “Well, the signal is safe. The technology will never be entirely safe, not until we understand it entirely, and it will never keep //you// absolutely safe. But this signal is safe.” > ... > “No, I know you did your reading.” > ... > “It's, listen, Hotaru. The signal itself is sent from an alternate future in which your life is threatened. By receiving that signal, you can take action to avert the situation that created that danger, and by sending that signal back, you ensure that your own timeline is stable. Everyone is fine.” > ... > “No, I- what do you mean, parallel universes? We don't even know that's how this works.” > ... > “What do you mean?” > ... > “//Who//?” > ... > “Never mind.” ------ Morisato wasn't a physicist. But she'd read a lot about time, since then, and knew that even if using the implant didn't cause universe-destroying paradoxes, cause and effect probably still didn't just //go away//. The cause was the danger, the effect was triggering that signal and heartless C-sharp. She read books and articles about multiple universes, branching timelines. Who //was// sending the signal back in the first place? She didn't think of them as separate people, but as one person; not individual selves cast aside throughout time, but a single copy of her- a tortured shadow that followed her at all times, ready to die for her at a moment's notice. ------ Morisato trailed along the underground corridor, following the soft light of a laser beacon through the winding halls to the source of the anomaly. As she passed under a smoke detector on the wall, she heard a faint hissing. After three of her six fellow agents passed below the detector, it rotated 180 degrees in its socket and exploded. A hazy yellow gas filled the air, and the agents fell to their knees. Morisato's skin was burning, her nose and lungs were burning. She reached up and touched her left ear. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] As she passed under a smoke detector on the wall, she heard a faint hissing and the sound of C-sharp. She held up one hand in warning, then tested the knob on a side door and hurried her team inside. A minute later, one of them identified the trap from Foundation records, and found an alternate route through the compound. Morisato kept her eye on her watch, and after she heard their new plan, reached up and touched her left ear. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] At last, they made it to the Coalition's research space. It had been cleared out in a hurry before they arrived, but the strange emission was still there, meaning its source was either immobile or hadn't been evacuated. It would be a great day for Morisato if they'd just left it behind, because it would save her from having to secure the whole compound. Well, if not, she'd had worse days too. The laser beacon was malfunctioning underground, but their map prediction put the signal's source dead ahead of them, so Morisato signaled to her team and opened the door at the end of the hall. The laboratory inside was lit by dim purple emergency lights alone. Morisato squinted as she cleared the immediate surroundings. It was hard to see into the lab's corners, of course, but nothing especially unusual appeared. As the team spread into the room, the hint of a dancing red spot of light caught her eye. The bullet bore through Morisato's head in the span of a millisecond. Blood spattered across the concrete behind her. The implant in her head recorded that her pulse had stopped, and sent a signal back through time. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] The laser beacon was malfunctioning underground, but their map prediction put the signal's source dead ahead of them, so Morisato signaled to her team and opened the door at the end of the hall. A step into the doorway, she heard the sound of C-sharp. Instantly, she gave her team a hand signal, waited until she heard the faint //thump// of bodies finding cover, then crouched and dived behind the doorframe. //What's the most likely threat?// Somebody inside, of course. She drew her sidearm and watched. There was a flash of movement in a far, darkened corner. Morisato took down the enemy with one shot, and touched her ear. [[=]] {{.-.-}} [[/=]] ------ It wouldn't keep her alive forever, of course. One day, its plus-or-minus three seconds wouldn't be long enough, and the signal would send itself backward for the last time. That was where she couldn't rely on poorly-understood technology, she just had to be good. But it had kept her alive damn well so far. She never meant to keep track, but somehow the shadow in her mind became a Wound Man of sorts- here a bullet wound, there a slit throat, there an electric field, amorphous stains where she couldn't have known what exactly would have killed her. Most of the scenes that stayed in her mind from the field missions, she tried to keep back. But the Wound Woman, the shadow she had never seen in real life, never quite left. It was a ghost in her privileged timeline. How was she supposed to explain to her supervisor why she no longer took time off unless forced? ------ “How's therapy going?” asked her supervisor, strolling by while she was gearing up. “Good,” said Morisato. It was helping with the nightmares, anyway. “Good to hear. Did you hear about your project?” “What?” “The implant. It's been cancelled.” Morisato put down the ammo sling she was holding. “Am I-” “You're still cleared for fieldwork, thank god. No change there. But they're cancelling the implant program going forward. Still don't understand the tech, so they say it's too risky and they're shutting it down." Morisato thought about that. It would just be her and Oberoi, and the others, the dozen or so who'd had the anomalous technology shuttled into their brains on a whim. They'd be hearing C-sharp for the rest of their lives. “When I said you were cleared for fieldwork,” her supervisor continued, “Well, they are //offering// you a chance to turn your gun in. Get a desk job. What do you think?” He paused. “You're our biggest asset, Morisato. We need you here.” “I'll finish the mission,” she said. “Good.” Her supervisor sighed with relief. ------ It was a roaring success. The local branch of the Coalition was either in custody, or had fled, and the Foundation had been able to seize their assets. In the final move, Morisato led the charge to recover every single one of their anomalies from that location, and hadn't even heard C-sharp once. ------ Back in her room again, Morisato lit a stick of incense in her room and turned off the lights. For a while, she just sat, breathing in and out, taking in the weight of darkness. Then she turned the lights back on, and opened her laptop and started a blank email. She addressed it to Human Resouces, and then, slowly, struggled to find the words. //I am informed that I have the opportunity to transfer into a non-fieldwork position, and would like to accept. I have a history of contributions to the Foundation and the following skills...// Her shadow settled in behind her, like an old friend, to read over her shoulder. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-12-01T20:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	C-Sharp - SCP Foundation	49	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	24219485	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/c-sharp
cactus-insurgent	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> Consciousness slowly prodded at Cactusman's mind. A deluge of voices engulfed him in noise, and the unnatural grogginess he was bogged down by made it impossible to differentiate between them. He knuckled his eyes and groaned loudly in an effort to drown out all the noise. The cacophony didn't stop, and most of the voices only grew louder. With his palms pressed into his eyes he tried listening, and after several seconds he realized several were familiar. They were the pair of cacti the doctors had given him, going on about being cacti. Two, however, were quieter than the others. And unfamiliar to him. <p>"You think the doctors gave him too much?" A female voice. Energetic, yet somehow brusque.</p> <p>"Don't know. Maybe he's just not used to it." Male. Calm and deep.</p> <p>Cactusman took several slow, deep breaths to collect himself. He should have been fully awake by now, especially with the adrenaline. But he couldn't shake this murky feeling sloshing around just behind his forehead. He brought the heel of his right hand to his forehead as if to jostle the gunk loose, but it did nothing for him.</p> <p>After one last breath he steeled himself. His first instinct was to extend as many spines as possible and attack, but he realized that probably wasn't the best idea. Maybe it was just new medicine had some side effects, and these were Foundation guards or something. Nothing to freak out about. He relaxed as this realization came to him, and almost instantly tensed back up. His bed was too comfortable. Maybe he was- no, maybe he was just moved to a new cell. Perhaps that was why he was drugged. Cactusman took one last deep breath, held it, and cracked an eye open to look at the source of the voices.</p> <p>Definitely not guards. Or doctors. Both of them were sitting in collapsible chairs, facing Cactusman, and were dressed casually. Both were staring directly at him, but neither reacted to him opening his eye. Cactusman realized they were in a medical ward, and he on the hospital bed. He tried thinking back to what might have brought him here but nothing came to mind. He didn't feel hurt. Looking through the glass door leading into the hallway didn't reveal much other than the fact it looked like a normal civilian hospital.</p> <p>The woman was perched up on her chair, sitting on her heels. Her skin was the sort of brown that made it difficult to distinguish whether it was a tan or not. Her hair was brown for the most part, with the exception of some green coloring along the sides. Her plain clothes hung loosely from her muscled frame. She had what seemed to Cactusman like an exaggerated look of curiosity, her eyebrows high and her mouth moving from side to side.</p> <p>The man was slouched in his chair so much he looked like he was about to fall off it. His skin was much darker, and his head was shaved. His clothes looked somewhat disheveled and wrinkly despite being clean. His left arm was completely wrapped in bandages and hung loosely at his side while his right hand rested on his knee. A small piece of metal was jutting from under his right eye, where the cheekbone was. It almost looked natural. His expression was one of utter boredom.</p> <p>"Who are you?" Cactusman asked in what he hoped was an even voice.</p> <p>"Hey," the woman said, drawing out the word for as long as her lungs would allow. "Yer awake, boy-o! Top o' the mornin' to ya!"</p> <p>Cactusman stared at her in disbelief.</p> <p>The woman giggled. Then she said, "Dude, I worked on that shit for hours. Okay, minutes."</p> <p>The man lightly hit her in the back of the head. He didn't say anything, and his expression didn't change.</p> <p>The woman grinned. "Okay, it was spur of the moment. Anyway, hi. Good to see you're not brain damaged. Well, more than we already knew you were."</p> <p>The man slapped his companion again. "Apologies, Mister MacIntyre, she's a bit manic without her medicine."</p> <p>Cactusman pushed himself into a sitting position. "You didn't answer my question."</p> <p>"So serious, Daniel MacIntyre! Down to business, then." She sprang up in one quick motion, standing on the chair that was now leaning precariously far back. Cactusman had to at least give her credit, she definitely had a certain theatrical flair.</p> <p>"I'm Alexandra Radcliffe! And Mister Slappy here is Zacharie Langley. We're from the Chaos Insurgency. We rescued you!"</p> <p>"Rescued me? What? I know it wasn't the best situation, but I was helping-"</p> <p>"You weren't helping anyone," Langley said. He didn't say it with any sort of venom or bluntness, he just droned on in a tired way. "I read your file. They were staged incidents to improve your morale. Minor tasks to keep you from hurting yourself. Little more than something to minimize the risk of losing one of their contained objects."</p> <p>"I'm not an object!"</p> <p>"I am aware. They, however, are not."</p> <p>Cactusman swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glared accusingly. "And how would you know?"</p> <p>Langley didn't bat an eye. "Because I used to work for them."</p> <p>That caught Cactusman off guard, but it didn't stop him from extending spines all along his right arm. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He took the time to note that he didn't have any bandages or stitches anywhere.</p> <p>"Doctor Louef isn't like that. I don't know about the Foundation in general, but he-"</p> <p>"Louef's a pretty chill dude, from what I've read-slash-heard," Radcliffe said. "But that didn't stop him from locking you and other superhumans up. Because the Foundation is not all that nice to superhumans. And I know <em>that</em> because-"</p> <p>A ball of fire erupted from Radcliffe's right hand. It was nothing but a small belch of flame, but it was enough to put Cactusman a little on edge. She grinned and continued surfing on the wobbling chair.</p> <p>"C'mon, man, you're from Arizona. You should be used to the heat," Radcliffe said as the flame went out. "So, in case that egghead of yours is as addled as I think, being with us already has a leg up on your old situation. You get to be a person. And we'll even try to fix that fucked up think pan you got."</p> <p>"I'm not crazy," Danny said adamantly.</p> <p>Radcliffe started to laugh, teetering back and forth on the chair, when Langley grabbed her by the wrist and pulled back down into her seat. His expression had yet to change, but it looked like she was trying to eat her lips.</p> <p>"You are not in a position to mock someone for their mental instabilities, Alex. Mister MacIntyre, my apologies. I thought it would be prudent for you to meet both of us, as we represent Foundation interaction with transhumans — both from within the Foundation, and from the outside. Unfortunately I cannot imagine her actions have been particularly encouraging."</p> <p>"So why me? It seems like a lot of effort to just… 'save' someone."</p> <p>Langley nodded. "You have been acquired by the Insurgency for a very specific task only you can accomplish. You-"</p> <p>"We need you to talk to a giant cactus monster!" Radcliffe interjected. She appeared to be vibrating with excitement. Cactusman could feel the corner of his mouth tugging upward.</p> <p>Langley slowly turned his head to look at her and she flinched. He blinked and looked back to Cactusman. "…Yes. We-"</p> <p>Radcliffe clasped her hands together and Cactusman could feel his heart rise into his throat when she cried, "We need your help, Cactusman! Save us, oh-"</p> <p>"Alex."</p> <p>"What? I'm just having some fun."</p> <p>"Please don't interrupt. It's rude."</p> <p>"Well, sorry."</p> <p>"Quite alright."</p> <p>"Wait a minute, you just interrupted me to-"</p> <p>"As I was saying," Langley said calmly.</p> <p>Cactusman couldn't help but chuckle, even if he wasn't sure the man was being intentionally comedic. While being probably drugged and being more kidnapped than rescued was not exactly the best way to be introduced to this organization, he felt these two were nice enough people. And being out of his cell was certainly a plus.</p> <p>"We need you to speak with a… giant cactus monster. There is no way to subdue it physically without permanently damaging it, so we need a lighter touch. Only you can help us, Mister MacIntyre. We need help. We need… the Spiked Menace."</p> <p>"Ffffffuck yeah!" Radcliffe sprang all the way out of her chair this time. "That was cool! Well delivered, Zach."</p> <p>Langley didn't so much smile as he did show her his teeth. It seemed to actively hurt him to do so, and he dropped the expression almost as suddenly as he made it.</p> <p>Radcliffe didn't seem to notice, or perhaps just didn't care. "So, Danny-boy, watcha say, you in?"</p> <p>Cactusman smiled. "I'm in."</p> <p>Langley's expression remained stony as ever, and he gave nothing more than a short nod. Cactusman tried not to let the man's indifference - melancholy? Cactusman wasn't sure - get to him. At least Radcliffe seemed happy, she was doing a little jig beside her overturned chair.</p> <p>"So, what now?" Cactusman asked as he slowly rose from the bed. He made several little hops to get the blood flowing to his legs.</p> <p>Langley opened his mouth to reply but Radcliffe bounded forward to field the question. Langley shrugged, grabbed the two cacti, and headed for the door while Radcliffe prattled on. "Well, we've already given you a medical evaluation and stuff, so I guess we should just take you to our quarters- you're staying with us, I dunno if I mentioned that yet. But you can't wander around unless you have one of us with you, since you're new and special and stuff."</p> <p>"So what do you actually do?" Cactusman asked slid past the glass door. Glancing inside the other rooms, Cactusman hurried after Radcliffe. The ward was surprisingly empty, save for a nurse or two here and there.</p> <p>"Oh, we get to do tons of fun stuff! I mean, it also depends on your cell. For example, I'm tasked with resource acquisition- like you- in various ways. Langley is either with me or off doing… something. I dunno, he talks about it and I get bored and zone out. You, however, will be stuck on base cuz you're 'vital Beta Class personnel.' But it's gotta be better than jail, yeah?"</p> <p>She skipped ahead and shut the door before Cactusman could get a look outside. A wicked grin had decided to take host on her face. She took a deep breath, threw open the door and dashed out. Cactusman poked his head out to see she had jumped up on a railing, her entire body arching as she spread her arms out.</p> <p>"Welcome!" she yelled, and her voice echoed several times. "To the Chaos Insurgency!"</p> <p>The catwalk outside his room was several stories up, overlooking a sizable room congested with traffic. People in casual wear, lab coats, hazmat suits, and military gear mingled together in a sea of activity. Drifting amongst them were dollies and carts of various materials, captained by impatient personnel. Cactusman spotted one cage rocking around as a team pulled it with short ropes, and a large creature of some sort pushing it from behind. The resulting noise from it all, even thirty feet up, was near deafening.</p> <p>They were not as pristine as the Foundation, nor nearly as orderly. Which lent credence to their name, Cactusman figured. The building and the various objects and tools he could spot had a similar aesthetic- not defunct, but clearly well-worn. When he squinted he could see the entirety of the floor was scratched and scuffed, the entire thing a beaten path.</p> <p>Looking left and right, Cactusman spotted more room along the catwalk he was on. The catwalk looped around the entire room, and had several like it above and below. It all reminded him of a prison, the way all sides of the room were covered in ladders, stairs, and catwalks leading to the various rooms embedded in the concrete.</p> <p>"Cool, eh?" Radcliffe was hanging upside down, her knees locked around the railing. Cactusman almost got vertigo just looking at her. It didn't help she was idly kicking her feet.</p> <p>Cactusman swallowed nervously. "Yeah. It's a bit more… uh. Not dirty, but… I mean, no offense, I just-"</p> <p>"Ah, don't worry." Radcliffe grasped the railing and pulled herself up. "I mean, yeah, it's not super immaculate- that site you were in was like spotless, holy shit- but it's got… y'know, character. Flavor. All the Foundation facilities I've ever been in are just so… lifeless. Bluh."</p> <p>"Speaking of which," Cactusman said as they headed for the stairs, where Langley was waiting. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Did anybody get hurt when you guys… uh, 'rescued' me?"</p> <p>"Well." There was a brief pause as she began to descend. "I'm not gonna bullshit you, Danny. Yes, people got hurt. People died. I dunno how many. I will, however, assure you I ain't got an ounce of blood on my hands."</p> <p>He had anticipated it, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. He squeezed the railing for support and asked with as much force as he could, "Why?"</p> <p>Radcliffe squirmed, and it actually made Cactusman feel better. "That's a difficult question. Like, you have to understand that the Insurgency and the Foundation have fundamentally different goals. The Foundation squirrels anomalies away, and the Insurgency… the Insurgency wants to bring it to the light of day. To make them normal. To make <em>us</em> normal, Danny."</p> <p>Spines erupted from nearly every inch of skin on Cactusman's body. "And that's worth killing people over? That the Foundation should just <em>die</em> and let you do what you want?"</p> <p>When Radcliffe looked away from him without responding, Cactusman reached out to grasp her shoulder without realizing he was still covered in spines. Before he could reach, Langley grabbed him by the wrist. Blood seeped onto the bandages in two places, but still Langley didn't show any reaction.</p> <p>"Mister MacIntyre, please don't act as if we find this easy. We don't." He released Cactusman and removed the spines stuck in his hand, then picked up the two cacti he had set down. "I know better than most that not everyone in the Foundation is coldhearted. I had good friends when I worked there. I do this job not only because I believe in the Insurgency's cause, but because I know if I didn't, another Insurgent would take my place. And they may not show the same mercy as I."</p> <p>Cactusman took to chewing on his tongue rather than his cheek. Mulling over what he said, it made sense. But it didn't make Cactusman any happier. Instead of dwelling on it, Cactusman took to removing the spines from himself as they walked.</p> <p>He overheard Radcliffe comment on Langley's bleeding, who dismissed it with, "Won't have this arm much longer, anyway."</p> <p>Yet as odd a comment as that was, Cactusman couldn't ignore the thoughts of the Foundation that continued to surface. They made him realize he didn't know that much about the Foundation. Who was he to cast judgement on those that opposed them? Yet still the idea of the Insurgency killing Foundation personnel left him uneasy, and unsure of whether he should assist them.</p> <p>But, as if on cue from a higher power, some of the payload of a nearby rolling pallet trolley dislodged itself and crashed down to the ground. Before Langley or Radcliffe could say anything on the matter, Cactusman rushed forward to aid his new comrades. He hefted up one of the barrels, which had a strip of transparent material on it to reveal the red liquid within it. The men with the trolley thanked him and together they loaded the three fallen barrels back onto the roller.</p> <p>"Happy to help," Cactusman assured, short of breath. Having to yell over the din certainly didn't make being heard any easier. He wiggled his aching fingers before waving the men off. When he turned back to Langley and Radcliffe, the former was watching the barrels with a thoughtful look on his face- the first real expression Cactusman had seen on him.</p> <p>"You alright?” Cactusman asked. A cocktail of curiosity and satisfaction in his recent minor heroics almost washed his previous thoughts from his mind with an efficiency near comparable to the amnestic lingering in his system.</p> <p>"Fine," Langley said. His gaze remained on the trolley for a moment longer before looking down to Cactusman. "Come on. Let's go."</p> <p>The trio exited the massive room and entered one of the various tunnels leading out of it. Traffic had diminished to a point where Cactusman was no longer shoulder-to-shoulder with people, but it was still packed. He glanced around, acutely more aware of how close Langley and Radcliffe were sticking to him. Did they think he was going to make a break for it or something? Couldn't be too careful, he supposed.</p> <p>"So what is it they want this cactus thing for?" he asked over his shoulder.</p> <p>"Hell if I know." Radcliffe threw her palms up in an exaggerated shrug. "I was just told to have you calm it down, and that you were super important and not to let anything bad happen to you."</p> <p>"Uh… Mr. Langley?"</p> <p>"I don't know, either. The Insurgency works on a very strict need-to-know basis. Given your general disposition I doubt it is anything particularly violent."</p> <p>Cactusman planned on giving a response but his brain was sideswiped when he saw a very tall… thing approach from down the hall. It must have been fifteen feet tall, and was composed of little more than a round head and lots of limbs. Jutting from the side of its bulb were several pieces of electronic equipment, including what looked like a headset. It bobbed at Langley, who tilted his head in response. Cactusman spun and walked backwards to continue watching it, and it only gave him an odd look with one of its six eyes. Radcliffe bounced around and then extended a hand, which the creature slapped with one of its own.</p> <p>"That's Johnson," Radcliffe explained when she noticed Cactusman staring. "I love that guy."</p> <p>"Johnson?"</p> <p>"Oh, like nobody can pronounce his real name. It's long, has weird inflections. Plus it makes your ears bleed." She smiled. "Transreality beings, am I right?"</p> <p>Cactusman had to put some effort into not tripping as she explained it. He gave a rigid nod and then spun about face, remembering that talking to Radcliffe made things worse somehow.</p> <p>After several twists and turns through the tunnels of the complex, the herd thinned out until it was just Cactusman and his escorts. Every twenty feet down the hallway was a door with a number emblazoned on it. Radcliffe marched to Number 836 and produced a key from her hand, which jammed into the doorknob. When the lock clicked open she pressed the key into her left palm, which sank into the skin without any resistance until it was gone.</p> <p>"Hello, Mister MacIntyre, welcome home." With a half-bow and a grand sweep of an arm Radcliffe ushered Cactusman inside.</p> <p>The apartment was small and congested thanks to all the boxes and various knickknacks cluttering the ground and shelves. Empty boxes of food, dirty dishes, and discarded bottles covered the tables and counters. Trash Mountain, situated within and on top of the only visible garbage can, looked ready to suffer an avalanche. There was, however, a series of very clear cut paths throughout the room. Cactusman's gaze alternated between the absurdly large flat screen television and the old furniture before shrugging.</p> <p>"I'm a bit of a collector," Radcliffe explained. She vaulted the leather couch and stretched. "Make yourself at home!"</p> <p>"Sorry for the mess," Langley said with a quarter-hearted shrug. He stepped out of his shoes and kicked them next to the door. Cactilad and Spikigirl were placed on one of the tables, a large lamp pointed directly at the open space they were situated in. "Try not to hurt yourself."</p> <p>"God, how much would that suck?" Radcliffe said as she switched on the TV. "We break him out and take him in and then he kills himself tripping on my Wondertainment merch."</p> <p>Shuffling his way through the path was easy enough, and when he arrived at the couch Radcliffe stared at him for a moment before realizing she should move to make room. Meanwhile, Langley was rustling through the kitchen drawers.</p> <p>"You hungry, MacIntyre?" he asked. He stood and displayed several bags of ramen noodles. Cactusman just nodded. "Alex?"</p> <p>"Hook me up, I'll grab the movie." Radcliffe bounced back off the couch and scampered into one of the other rooms, quickly returning with a DVD box.</p> <p>"So… this it?" Cactusman asked. "We watch a movie and eat some noodles?"</p> <p>Radcliffe pulled away from the DVD player. "Do you not like ramen? We have some other stuff, you could just say so."</p> <p>"No, I mean, this is it? I thought you guys were supposed to be making a difference or something. But you're just… watching movies."</p> <p>"Gotta have an off switch, Danny-boy. I mean, it's not like you're Cactusman all the time, right? You gotta be Daniel MacIntyre for a while."</p> <p>"Um… Right."</p> <p>Radcliffe gave him an odd look, her head tilting almost ninety degrees. A sudden hitch in her throat let out a strangled sound before she started laughing. Her own hand slapped over her mouth and she fidgeted for a few seconds, as if the laugh was trying to find some other exit. Eventually she managed to gulp it down and smiled awkwardly at Cactusman. She stepped over the messy table and sat uncomfortably close to him, wrapping an arm around him.</p> <p>"You poor, poor bastard. Well, don't worry!" A very fake looking flower ejected itself from her right palm and tickled Cactusman under his nose. "We'll fix you right up. I mean, probably. Eventually. Until then the three of us can be bestest buddies!"</p> <p>"That does wonders for my morale."</p> <p>"I know, right? Like, look at me! I'm probably annoying as fuck, and I'm Beta Class! That's pretty good. And now I have two super-depressed buddies that I can just pour joy and enthusiasm into despite the fact that doing so is likely actively damaging you mentally, but I can't stop myself because either I genuinely can't filter my thoughts or being a loudmouth jackass is just a defense mechanism for my utterly fucked up situation of working for an organization whose methods I don't fully support. Yet it's somehow better than the alternatives because some old motherfuckers behind their desks decided I wasn't normal and had to be locked up like some kinda side show attraction instead of the main stage magician I wanted to be! But hey! At least I might not have to suffer it long due to the physical dangers of my missions."</p> <p>Flabbergasted, Cactusman just stared at her grin. His mind had finally started working at full capacity, and now it felt bogged down in gunk again. For whatever reason it decided to notice her left large incisor had a small chip on the side. After what felt like a week her mouth moved to ask, "So, wanna watch a movie, Cactusman?"</p> <p>Daniel MacIntyre blinked. "Yeah. Uh. Movie sounds good, actually. And just call me Daniel."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/cactus-insurgent">Cactus Insurgent</a>" by TwistedGears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cactus-insurgent">https://scpwiki.com/cactus-insurgent</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Consciousness slowly prodded at Cactusman's mind. A deluge of voices engulfed him in noise, and the unnatural grogginess he was bogged down by made it impossible to differentiate between them. He knuckled his eyes and groaned loudly in an effort to drown out all the noise. The cacophony didn't stop, and most of the voices only grew louder. With his palms pressed into his eyes he tried listening, and after several seconds he realized several were familiar. They were the pair of cacti the doctors had given him, going on about being cacti. Two, however, were quieter than the others. And unfamiliar to him. "You think the doctors gave him too much?" A female voice. Energetic, yet somehow brusque. "Don't know. Maybe he's just not used to it." Male. Calm and deep. Cactusman took several slow, deep breaths to collect himself. He should have been fully awake by now, especially with the adrenaline. But he couldn't shake this murky feeling sloshing around just behind his forehead. He brought the heel of his right hand to his forehead as if to jostle the gunk loose, but it did nothing for him. After one last breath he steeled himself. His first instinct was to extend as many spines as possible and attack, but he realized that probably wasn't the best idea. Maybe it was just new medicine had some side effects, and these were Foundation guards or something. Nothing to freak out about. He relaxed as this realization came to him, and almost instantly tensed back up. His bed was too comfortable. Maybe he was- no, maybe he was just moved to a new cell. Perhaps that was why he was drugged. Cactusman took one last deep breath, held it, and cracked an eye open to look at the source of the voices. Definitely not guards. Or doctors. Both of them were sitting in collapsible chairs, facing Cactusman, and were dressed casually. Both were staring directly at him, but neither reacted to him opening his eye. Cactusman realized they were in a medical ward, and he on the hospital bed. He tried thinking back to what might have brought him here but nothing came to mind. He didn't feel hurt. Looking through the glass door leading into the hallway didn't reveal much other than the fact it looked like a normal civilian hospital. The woman was perched up on her chair, sitting on her heels. Her skin was the sort of brown that made it difficult to distinguish whether it was a tan or not. Her hair was brown for the most part, with the exception of some green coloring along the sides. Her plain clothes hung loosely from her muscled frame. She had what seemed to Cactusman like an exaggerated look of curiosity, her eyebrows high and her mouth moving from side to side. The man was slouched in his chair so much he looked like he was about to fall off it. His skin was much darker, and his head was shaved. His clothes looked somewhat disheveled and wrinkly despite being clean. His left arm was completely wrapped in bandages and hung loosely at his side while his right hand rested on his knee. A small piece of metal was jutting from under his right eye, where the cheekbone was. It almost looked natural. His expression was one of utter boredom. "Who are you?" Cactusman asked in what he hoped was an even voice. "Hey," the woman said, drawing out the word for as long as her lungs would allow. "Yer awake, boy-o! Top o' the mornin' to ya!" Cactusman stared at her in disbelief. The woman giggled. Then she said, "Dude, I worked on that shit for hours. Okay, minutes." The man lightly hit her in the back of the head. He didn't say anything, and his expression didn't change. The woman grinned. "Okay, it was spur of the moment. Anyway, hi. Good to see you're not brain damaged. Well, more than we already knew you were." The man slapped his companion again. "Apologies, Mister MacIntyre, she's a bit manic without her medicine." Cactusman pushed himself into a sitting position. "You didn't answer my question." "So serious, Daniel MacIntyre! Down to business, then." She sprang up in one quick motion, standing on the chair that was now leaning precariously far back. Cactusman had to at least give her credit, she definitely had a certain theatrical flair. "I'm Alexandra Radcliffe! And Mister Slappy here is Zacharie Langley. We're from the Chaos Insurgency. We rescued you!" "Rescued me? What? I know it wasn't the best situation, but I was helping-" "You weren't helping anyone," Langley said. He didn't say it with any sort of venom or bluntness, he just droned on in a tired way. "I read your file. They were staged incidents to improve your morale. Minor tasks to keep you from hurting yourself. Little more than something to minimize the risk of losing one of their contained objects." "I'm not an object!" "I am aware. They, however, are not." Cactusman swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glared accusingly. "And how would you know?" Langley didn't bat an eye. "Because I used to work for them." That caught Cactusman off guard, but it didn't stop him from extending spines all along his right arm. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He took the time to note that he didn't have any bandages or stitches anywhere. "Doctor Louef isn't like that. I don't know about the Foundation in general, but he-" "Louef's a pretty chill dude, from what I've read-slash-heard," Radcliffe said. "But that didn't stop him from locking you and other superhumans up. Because the Foundation is not all that nice to superhumans. And I know //that// because-" A ball of fire erupted from Radcliffe's right hand. It was nothing but a small belch of flame, but it was enough to put Cactusman a little on edge. She grinned and continued surfing on the wobbling chair. "C'mon, man, you're from Arizona. You should be used to the heat," Radcliffe said as the flame went out. "So, in case that egghead of yours is as addled as I think, being with us already has a leg up on your old situation. You get to be a person. And we'll even try to fix that fucked up think pan you got." "I'm not crazy," Danny said adamantly. Radcliffe started to laugh, teetering back and forth on the chair, when Langley grabbed her by the wrist and pulled back down into her seat. His expression had yet to change, but it looked like she was trying to eat her lips. "You are not in a position to mock someone for their mental instabilities, Alex. Mister MacIntyre, my apologies. I thought it would be prudent for you to meet both of us, as we represent Foundation interaction with transhumans -- both from within the Foundation, and from the outside. Unfortunately I cannot imagine her actions have been particularly encouraging." "So why me? It seems like a lot of effort to just... 'save' someone." Langley nodded. "You have been acquired by the Insurgency for a very specific task only you can accomplish. You-" "We need you to talk to a giant cactus monster!" Radcliffe interjected. She appeared to be vibrating with excitement. Cactusman could feel the corner of his mouth tugging upward. Langley slowly turned his head to look at her and she flinched. He blinked and looked back to Cactusman. "...Yes. We-" Radcliffe clasped her hands together and Cactusman could feel his heart rise into his throat when she cried, "We need your help, Cactusman! Save us, oh-" "Alex." "What? I'm just having some fun." "Please don't interrupt. It's rude." "Well, sorry." "Quite alright." "Wait a minute, you just interrupted me to-" "As I was saying," Langley said calmly. Cactusman couldn't help but chuckle, even if he wasn't sure the man was being intentionally comedic. While being probably drugged and being more kidnapped than rescued was not exactly the best way to be introduced to this organization, he felt these two were nice enough people. And being out of his cell was certainly a plus. "We need you to speak with a... giant cactus monster. There is no way to subdue it physically without permanently damaging it, so we need a lighter touch. Only you can help us, Mister MacIntyre. We need help. We need... the Spiked Menace." "Ffffffuck yeah!" Radcliffe sprang all the way out of her chair this time. "That was cool! Well delivered, Zach." Langley didn't so much smile as he did show her his teeth. It seemed to actively hurt him to do so, and he dropped the expression almost as suddenly as he made it. Radcliffe didn't seem to notice, or perhaps just didn't care. "So, Danny-boy, watcha say, you in?" Cactusman smiled. "I'm in." Langley's expression remained stony as ever, and he gave nothing more than a short nod. Cactusman tried not to let the man's indifference - melancholy? Cactusman wasn't sure - get to him. At least Radcliffe seemed happy, she was doing a little jig beside her overturned chair. "So, what now?" Cactusman asked as he slowly rose from the bed. He made several little hops to get the blood flowing to his legs. Langley opened his mouth to reply but Radcliffe bounded forward to field the question. Langley shrugged, grabbed the two cacti, and headed for the door while Radcliffe prattled on. "Well, we've already given you a medical evaluation and stuff, so I guess we should just take you to our quarters- you're staying with us, I dunno if I mentioned that yet. But you can't wander around unless you have one of us with you, since you're new and special and stuff." "So what do you actually do?" Cactusman asked slid past the glass door. Glancing inside the other rooms, Cactusman hurried after Radcliffe. The ward was surprisingly empty, save for a nurse or two here and there. "Oh, we get to do tons of fun stuff! I mean, it also depends on your cell. For example, I'm tasked with resource acquisition- like you- in various ways. Langley is either with me or off doing... something. I dunno, he talks about it and I get bored and zone out. You, however, will be stuck on base cuz you're 'vital Beta Class personnel.' But it's gotta be better than jail, yeah?" She skipped ahead and shut the door before Cactusman could get a look outside. A wicked grin had decided to take host on her face. She took a deep breath, threw open the door and dashed out. Cactusman poked his head out to see she had jumped up on a railing, her entire body arching as she spread her arms out. "Welcome!" she yelled, and her voice echoed several times. "To the Chaos Insurgency!" The catwalk outside his room was several stories up, overlooking a sizable room congested with traffic. People in casual wear, lab coats, hazmat suits, and military gear mingled together in a sea of activity. Drifting amongst them were dollies and carts of various materials, captained by impatient personnel. Cactusman spotted one cage rocking around as a team pulled it with short ropes, and a large creature of some sort pushing it from behind. The resulting noise from it all, even thirty feet up, was near deafening. They were not as pristine as the Foundation, nor nearly as orderly. Which lent credence to their name, Cactusman figured. The building and the various objects and tools he could spot had a similar aesthetic- not defunct, but clearly well-worn. When he squinted he could see the entirety of the floor was scratched and scuffed, the entire thing a beaten path. Looking left and right, Cactusman spotted more room along the catwalk he was on. The catwalk looped around the entire room, and had several like it above and below. It all reminded him of a prison, the way all sides of the room were covered in ladders, stairs, and catwalks leading to the various rooms embedded in the concrete. "Cool, eh?" Radcliffe was hanging upside down, her knees locked around the railing. Cactusman almost got vertigo just looking at her. It didn't help she was idly kicking her feet. Cactusman swallowed nervously. "Yeah. It's a bit more... uh. Not dirty, but... I mean, no offense, I just-" "Ah, don't worry." Radcliffe grasped the railing and pulled herself up. "I mean, yeah, it's not super immaculate- that site you were in was like spotless, holy shit- but it's got... y'know, character. Flavor. All the Foundation facilities I've ever been in are just so... lifeless. Bluh." "Speaking of which," Cactusman said as they headed for the stairs, where Langley was waiting. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Did anybody get hurt when you guys... uh, 'rescued' me?" "Well." There was a brief pause as she began to descend. "I'm not gonna bullshit you, Danny. Yes, people got hurt. People died. I dunno how many. I will, however, assure you I ain't got an ounce of blood on my hands." He had anticipated it, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. He squeezed the railing for support and asked with as much force as he could, "Why?" Radcliffe squirmed, and it actually made Cactusman feel better. "That's a difficult question. Like, you have to understand that the Insurgency and the Foundation have fundamentally different goals. The Foundation squirrels anomalies away, and the Insurgency... the Insurgency wants to bring it to the light of day. To make them normal. To make //us// normal, Danny." Spines erupted from nearly every inch of skin on Cactusman's body. "And that's worth killing people over? That the Foundation should just //die// and let you do what you want?" When Radcliffe looked away from him without responding, Cactusman reached out to grasp her shoulder without realizing he was still covered in spines. Before he could reach, Langley grabbed him by the wrist. Blood seeped onto the bandages in two places, but still Langley didn't show any reaction. "Mister MacIntyre, please don't act as if we find this easy. We don't." He released Cactusman and removed the spines stuck in his hand, then picked up the two cacti he had set down. "I know better than most that not everyone in the Foundation is coldhearted. I had good friends when I worked there. I do this job not only because I believe in the Insurgency's cause, but because I know if I didn't, another Insurgent would take my place. And they may not show the same mercy as I." Cactusman took to chewing on his tongue rather than his cheek. Mulling over what he said, it made sense. But it didn't make Cactusman any happier. Instead of dwelling on it, Cactusman took to removing the spines from himself as they walked. He overheard Radcliffe comment on Langley's bleeding, who dismissed it with, "Won't have this arm much longer, anyway." Yet as odd a comment as that was, Cactusman couldn't ignore the thoughts of the Foundation that continued to surface. They made him realize he didn't know that much about the Foundation. Who was he to cast judgement on those that opposed them? Yet still the idea of the Insurgency killing Foundation personnel left him uneasy, and unsure of whether he should assist them. But, as if on cue from a higher power, some of the payload of a nearby rolling pallet trolley dislodged itself and crashed down to the ground. Before Langley or Radcliffe could say anything on the matter, Cactusman rushed forward to aid his new comrades. He hefted up one of the barrels, which had a strip of transparent material on it to reveal the red liquid within it. The men with the trolley thanked him and together they loaded the three fallen barrels back onto the roller. "Happy to help," Cactusman assured, short of breath. Having to yell over the din certainly didn't make being heard any easier. He wiggled his aching fingers before waving the men off. When he turned back to Langley and Radcliffe, the former was watching the barrels with a thoughtful look on his face- the first real expression Cactusman had seen on him. "You alright?” Cactusman asked. A cocktail of curiosity and satisfaction in his recent minor heroics almost washed his previous thoughts from his mind with an efficiency near comparable to the amnestic lingering in his system. "Fine," Langley said. His gaze remained on the trolley for a moment longer before looking down to Cactusman. "Come on. Let's go." The trio exited the massive room and entered one of the various tunnels leading out of it. Traffic had diminished to a point where Cactusman was no longer shoulder-to-shoulder with people, but it was still packed. He glanced around, acutely more aware of how close Langley and Radcliffe were sticking to him. Did they think he was going to make a break for it or something? Couldn't be too careful, he supposed. "So what is it they want this cactus thing for?" he asked over his shoulder. "Hell if I know." Radcliffe threw her palms up in an exaggerated shrug. "I was just told to have you calm it down, and that you were super important and not to let anything bad happen to you." "Uh... Mr. Langley?" "I don't know, either. The Insurgency works on a very strict need-to-know basis. Given your general disposition I doubt it is anything particularly violent." Cactusman planned on giving a response but his brain was sideswiped when he saw a very tall... thing approach from down the hall. It must have been fifteen feet tall, and was composed of little more than a round head and lots of limbs. Jutting from the side of its bulb were several pieces of electronic equipment, including what looked like a headset. It bobbed at Langley, who tilted his head in response. Cactusman spun and walked backwards to continue watching it, and it only gave him an odd look with one of its six eyes. Radcliffe bounced around and then extended a hand, which the creature slapped with one of its own. "That's Johnson," Radcliffe explained when she noticed Cactusman staring. "I love that guy." "Johnson?" "Oh, like nobody can pronounce his real name. It's long, has weird inflections. Plus it makes your ears bleed." She smiled. "Transreality beings, am I right?" Cactusman had to put some effort into not tripping as she explained it. He gave a rigid nod and then spun about face, remembering that talking to Radcliffe made things worse somehow. After several twists and turns through the tunnels of the complex, the herd thinned out until it was just Cactusman and his escorts. Every twenty feet down the hallway was a door with a number emblazoned on it. Radcliffe marched to Number 836 and produced a key from her hand, which jammed into the doorknob. When the lock clicked open she pressed the key into her left palm, which sank into the skin without any resistance until it was gone. "Hello, Mister MacIntyre, welcome home." With a half-bow and a grand sweep of an arm Radcliffe ushered Cactusman inside. The apartment was small and congested thanks to all the boxes and various knickknacks cluttering the ground and shelves. Empty boxes of food, dirty dishes, and discarded bottles covered the tables and counters. Trash Mountain, situated within and on top of the only visible garbage can, looked ready to suffer an avalanche. There was, however, a series of very clear cut paths throughout the room. Cactusman's gaze alternated between the absurdly large flat screen television and the old furniture before shrugging. "I'm a bit of a collector," Radcliffe explained. She vaulted the leather couch and stretched. "Make yourself at home!" "Sorry for the mess," Langley said with a quarter-hearted shrug. He stepped out of his shoes and kicked them next to the door. Cactilad and Spikigirl were placed on one of the tables, a large lamp pointed directly at the open space they were situated in. "Try not to hurt yourself." "God, how much would that suck?" Radcliffe said as she switched on the TV. "We break him out and take him in and then he kills himself tripping on my Wondertainment merch." Shuffling his way through the path was easy enough, and when he arrived at the couch Radcliffe stared at him for a moment before realizing she should move to make room. Meanwhile, Langley was rustling through the kitchen drawers. "You hungry, MacIntyre?" he asked. He stood and displayed several bags of ramen noodles. Cactusman just nodded. "Alex?" "Hook me up, I'll grab the movie." Radcliffe bounced back off the couch and scampered into one of the other rooms, quickly returning with a DVD box. "So... this it?" Cactusman asked. "We watch a movie and eat some noodles?" Radcliffe pulled away from the DVD player. "Do you not like ramen? We have some other stuff, you could just say so." "No, I mean, this is it? I thought you guys were supposed to be making a difference or something. But you're just... watching movies." "Gotta have an off switch, Danny-boy. I mean, it's not like you're Cactusman all the time, right? You gotta be Daniel MacIntyre for a while." "Um... Right." Radcliffe gave him an odd look, her head tilting almost ninety degrees. A sudden hitch in her throat let out a strangled sound before she started laughing. Her own hand slapped over her mouth and she fidgeted for a few seconds, as if the laugh was trying to find some other exit. Eventually she managed to gulp it down and smiled awkwardly at Cactusman. She stepped over the messy table and sat uncomfortably close to him, wrapping an arm around him. "You poor, poor bastard. Well, don't worry!" A very fake looking flower ejected itself from her right palm and tickled Cactusman under his nose. "We'll fix you right up. I mean, probably. Eventually. Until then the three of us can be bestest buddies!" "That does wonders for my morale." "I know, right? Like, look at me! I'm probably annoying as fuck, and I'm Beta Class! That's pretty good. And now I have two super-depressed buddies that I can just pour joy and enthusiasm into despite the fact that doing so is likely actively damaging you mentally, but I can't stop myself because either I genuinely can't filter my thoughts or being a loudmouth jackass is just a defense mechanism for my utterly fucked up situation of working for an organization whose methods I don't fully support. Yet it's somehow better than the alternatives because some old motherfuckers behind their desks decided I wasn't normal and had to be locked up like some kinda side show attraction instead of the main stage magician I wanted to be! But hey! At least I might not have to suffer it long due to the physical dangers of my missions." Flabbergasted, Cactusman just stared at her grin. His mind had finally started working at full capacity, and now it felt bogged down in gunk again. For whatever reason it decided to notice her left large incisor had a small chip on the side. After what felt like a week her mouth moved to ask, "So, wanna watch a movie, Cactusman?" Daniel MacIntyre blinked. "Yeah. Uh. Movie sounds good, actually. And just call me Daniel." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-07-07T02:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "chaos-insurgency", "goi2014", "slice-of-life", "superhero", "tale" ]	Cactus Insurgent - SCP Foundation	72	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	22886231	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cactus-insurgent
cakework	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> The shift whistle’s shriek broke morning air like a porcelain plate. A crow that had been roosting atop the Dispensary took flight with an indignant cry of its own. The crow was fat. All crows were fat now. <p>The workers from the Collection Crew were sitting around the loading area smoking cigarettes in silence, yellow streaks on their coveralls vivid in the morning's ashen drear. On some days their work was light, but not today. It had been a bad one. Morale was low.</p> <p>Over the loudspeakers, a strident voice brought news of inevitable victory, accompanied by a blare of drums and trumpets. The announcer called for hope, optimism, and a sense of civic duty. Together, humanity would overcome.</p> <p>This message had not changed in more than a year.</p> <p>The Eaters filed into the Dispensary, their gait like rusty gears, dragging and slow. It had been almost three years since <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-871">Cake</a> Day. Weariness was a way of life.</p> <p>The smell, as always, was thick and sweet and noxious.</p> <p>When the workers entered the Eatery, there was a collective sigh of despair. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman did her best to stifle her sobs. Another barked a hollow laugh.</p> <p>A battalion of three-tiered wedding cakes stood at attention, one for every seat in the hall. Bright yellow, covered in flowers, gaudy and absurd, each cake was almost identical. The only differences lay in the bits of grit, dirt, and debris they had collected when they had suddenly appeared the night before. Flies danced among the towers of buttercream. A beetle blindly explored the geometry of a fondant daisy. Smashed windshield glass twinkled among the edible pearls.</p> <p>The Cleaners did their best, but they couldn’t get everything.</p> <p>The moment passed. Everyone shuffled to their seats. They were all ages and races and genders, but they were as identical in their weight as the cakes were in their hideous, yellow glory. The hall filled with the sounds of eating. Someone made a quiet retching sound, but no one left their seat. An Eater who didn't eat wasn't eligible for weekly vegetable rations.</p> <p>Outside, the smokers were finishing their cigarettes. An old man with gray hair and gray eyes took a final drag and brought his cigarette down to snuff it in a rogue clump of frosting on the concrete loading dock. The ember hovered above the sugary smear for a few seconds before the cigarette was instead flicked across the parking lot.</p> <p>Mechanically, the man scooped the frosting up with his finger and put it in his mouth.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/cakework">Cakework</a>" by CirclesAndSquares, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cakework">https://scpwiki.com/cakework</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The shift whistle’s shriek broke morning air like a porcelain plate. A crow that had been roosting atop the Dispensary took flight with an indignant cry of its own. The crow was fat. All crows were fat now. The workers from the Collection Crew were sitting around the loading area smoking cigarettes in silence, yellow streaks on their coveralls vivid in the morning's ashen drear. On some days their work was light, but not today. It had been a bad one. Morale was low. Over the loudspeakers, a strident voice brought news of inevitable victory, accompanied by a blare of drums and trumpets. The announcer called for hope, optimism, and a sense of civic duty. Together, humanity would overcome. This message had not changed in more than a year. The Eaters filed into the Dispensary, their gait like rusty gears, dragging and slow. It had been almost three years since [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-871 Cake] Day. Weariness was a way of life. The smell, as always, was thick and sweet and noxious. When the workers entered the Eatery, there was a collective sigh of despair. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman did her best to stifle her sobs. Another barked a hollow laugh. A battalion of three-tiered wedding cakes stood at attention, one for every seat in the hall. Bright yellow, covered in flowers, gaudy and absurd, each cake was almost identical. The only differences lay in the bits of grit, dirt, and debris they had collected when they had suddenly appeared the night before. Flies danced among the towers of buttercream. A beetle blindly explored the geometry of a fondant daisy. Smashed windshield glass twinkled among the edible pearls. The Cleaners did their best, but they couldn’t get everything. The moment passed. Everyone shuffled to their seats. They were all ages and races and genders, but they were as identical in their weight as the cakes were in their hideous, yellow glory. The hall filled with the sounds of eating. Someone made a quiet retching sound, but no one left their seat. An Eater who didn't eat wasn't eligible for weekly vegetable rations. Outside, the smokers were finishing their cigarettes. An old man with gray hair and gray eyes took a final drag and brought his cigarette down to snuff it in a rogue clump of frosting on the concrete loading dock. The ember hovered above the sugary smear for a few seconds before the cigarette was instead flicked across the parking lot. Mechanically, the man scooped the frosting up with his finger and put it in his mouth. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2014-11-22T12:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "dc2014", "tale" ]	Cakework - SCP Foundation	59	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2014", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2014", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "dystopia-contest" ]	[]	24164023	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cakework

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