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faceless	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was a simple matter really. Just a few authorization codes he nabbed the last time he got out and….there it was. For all their security, the Foundation was essentially just a secret prison that excelled in covering their tracks. If you knew the right people, you could use their tricks against them. This time it was looping the cameras. It's kind of interesting really, all you have to do is stand still for a few days and that's what they expect you to do.</p> <p>He adjusted his hat and locked in the codes. That was their one big flaw he thought, cocking his head at the unconscious guard slumped against the console. They expected the same. They expected their containment procedures to work and if they didn't, they at least expected them to break with a huge flourish and bang. They never check for problems until after the fact. He stuck his hands in his pockets, sauntering out into the halls of site 17.</p> <p>His walk was uneventful, as he knew it would be. With each turn, the guards in the previous hall changed. With each step, the cameras moved over their blind spots, missing him. He had planned this too long to let a minimum security site stop him. And finally, here he was. Nodding to the content looking guards, he opened the door to the containment cell, letting it softly shut behind him. His skin rippled, letting a rare display of emotion affect him as he walked up to the old man. This time he had decided to do the Foundation a major favor, as it had come to a point that this issue could no longer be ignored. Oh it had been noted before that "God" couldn't see other SCPs. But he was special.</p> <p>His skin changed, his form taking on the appearance of an old wizened man. There it was, finally recognition in the sage's eyes. His hands tightened around the neck of 'god' and squeezed. The fear in the abomination's eyes as his world slowly went dark was nothing short of blissful for the faceless man. Poor thing. Wiping his hands on his jacket, he once more strode out into the halls of Site 17.</p> <p>This time there would be an alarm, but he would be back in his cell before that ever happened. People would talk, they would devise plans dealing with the death of God. It would be fun to watch at least, though if they knew what really happened they would create new containment procedures, and that wasn't something he planned on letting happen. His walk back was once more without incident. At this point researchers and guards were running to 343's cell, hell some of them would probably even take their own lives when they saw what happened if they had been corrupted far enough. But unfortunately that show wasn't for him. Just one last thing to do.</p> <p>There was only one guard left patrolling the hallway, one guard to notice the man in the crooked fedora and gray suit stroll into view. He tilted his hat and answered the question as he always did, knocking the guard unconscious before he could radio it in. He would be fine, waking up in a few minutes to tell them the story about the mysterious man completely calm in a sea of chaos. And SCP-600 would be standing still in its room as always, with no features, nothing to identify itself except for the identity of those who approached it. After all, it really was just Nobody.<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="/faceless">Faceless</a>" by Anonymouse99, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/faceless">https://scpwiki.com/faceless</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 simple matter really. Just a few authorization codes he nabbed the last time he got out and….there it was. For all their security, the Foundation was essentially just a secret prison that excelled in covering their tracks. If you knew the right people, you could use their tricks against them. This time it was looping the cameras. It's kind of interesting really, all you have to do is stand still for a few days and that's what they expect you to do. He adjusted his hat and locked in the codes. That was their one big flaw he thought, cocking his head at the unconscious guard slumped against the console. They expected the same. They expected their containment procedures to work and if they didn't, they at least expected them to break with a huge flourish and bang. They never check for problems until after the fact. He stuck his hands in his pockets, sauntering out into the halls of site 17. His walk was uneventful, as he knew it would be. With each turn, the guards in the previous hall changed. With each step, the cameras moved over their blind spots, missing him. He had planned this too long to let a minimum security site stop him. And finally, here he was. Nodding to the content looking guards, he opened the door to the containment cell, letting it softly shut behind him. His skin rippled, letting a rare display of emotion affect him as he walked up to the old man. This time he had decided to do the Foundation a major favor, as it had come to a point that this issue could no longer be ignored. Oh it had been noted before that "God" couldn't see other SCPs. But he was special. His skin changed, his form taking on the appearance of an old wizened man. There it was, finally recognition in the sage's eyes. His hands tightened around the neck of 'god' and squeezed. The fear in the abomination's eyes as his world slowly went dark was nothing short of blissful for the faceless man. Poor thing. Wiping his hands on his jacket, he once more strode out into the halls of Site 17. This time there would be an alarm, but he would be back in his cell before that ever happened. People would talk, they would devise plans dealing with the death of God. It would be fun to watch at least, though if they knew what really happened they would create new containment procedures, and that wasn't something he planned on letting happen. His walk back was once more without incident. At this point researchers and guards were running to 343's cell, hell some of them would probably even take their own lives when they saw what happened if they had been corrupted far enough. But unfortunately that show wasn't for him. Just one last thing to do. There was only one guard left patrolling the hallway, one guard to notice the man in the crooked fedora and gray suit stroll into view. He tilted his hat and answered the question as he always did, knocking the guard unconscious before he could radio it in. He would be fine, waking up in a few minutes to tell them the story about the mysterious man completely calm in a sea of chaos. And SCP-600 would be standing still in its room as always, with no features, nothing to identify itself except for the identity of those who approached it. After all, it really was just Nobody. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-04-30T09:17:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "nobody", "tale" ]	Faceless - SCP Foundation	39	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13246662	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/faceless
factory-finding-mission	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"So there I was, in a power plant what was about to explode, surrounded by the enemy."</p> <p>An idle thought; it's how Max would have started the story, if he'd survived. He'd have come up with some clever, improbable solution, or revealed that he'd had an escape plan the entire time. Or his team would have come in and saved him at the last minute, so he could fix the plant.</p> <p>But he hadn't survived. Most of his team had been elsewhere. I'd been the only one with him, and when the time came, I wasn't fast enough. No one could have made it to help and gotten back in time, but that didn't make it any easier.</p> <p>No one blames me for it. That makes it almost worse. I could get defensive, then.</p> <p>A backfiring car jolts me out of my thoughts. I'm jumpier these days.</p> <p>The neighborhood I'm in has seen better days. Industry built it, and then industry left like a deadbeat father without even the promise of child support. But it's on the uprise. That's why I'm here, in fact.</p> <p>I'm watching the men and women going to work. Work at the factory, which had been closed for years, and shouldn't be open. There were plenty of possible explanations, some of them perfectly ordinary. It could be a front for some crime syndicate or other, or more sinister, it could be a front for the CI. It could be any number of things. But our suspicion is that it's not just a factory, but the Factory, capital letter and all.</p> <p>I'd heard of it, of course. It's in the intel briefs. But for the first time, I'm trusted with more of the story. It moves around, taking over abandoned factories like a parasite. It stays, collecting workers, shipping orders, and making trouble until someone goes and stops it. It's not as hard as it sounds. The trouble's finding it.</p> <p>I'll be going in soon. There isn't much more information I could get from the outside. I won't go in far. The Factory can be dangerous, but we've seen it enough times to know how far to go. If I'm right, then I'll call for back-up. If I'm wrong… Well, it'll be embarrassing, but I'll be on my way soon enough.</p> <p>No use stalling. It's time to take a look.</p> <p>I get out of the car, adjust my clothes, and, after a block, I'm there. There's no security I can see, which makes me more suspicious. No guards, no ID checks. There aren't even any locks on the door.</p> <p>I walk through the door as though I belong, just behind a man in a trenchcoat. The workers making their way in ignore me. Not even a spare glance. Perhaps they're just busy. Perhaps.</p> <p>There's a receptionist seated behind a desk. "Hello, sir," she says. Her voice is chipper, almost excited to see me. It puts me on edge. "How can I help you?"</p> <p>"Which way to the bathroom?" I ask.</p> <p>"Down the hall, second door to the right," she chirps.</p> <p>I thank her, and walk past the desk, glancing as I do. Bingo. The receptionist has no legs. She just grows out of the chair. I'm in the right place.</p> <p>I go into the bathroom for the form of things. It looks fairly normal, except that it's clean. Too clean. People are never that good at cleaning up after themselves.</p> <p>I start making my way to the entrance when I hear a number of people entering the building. I see them before they get a good look at me. They're wearing robes, and there's at least twenty of them, if not more. One of them is carrying a scepter made out of a broken clock. He's asking the receptionist something.</p> <p>I keep a smile on my face and head left into the first intersection I see, and then run. Things just got a lot more complicated.</p> <p>I duck into an office and pull out my phone. No service. I slip it back into my pocket, and consider my next move. I could try finding another exit. However, the Factory is supposed to be a maze. We're never supposed to explore it alone. On the other hand, the tickers are between me and the main entrance. I might try waiting for them to go past. I might even be able to get away with walking out past them, so long as I don't look out of place.</p> <p>My planning is interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. I curse, and start moving. I need to be as far away from the lobby as possible as quickly as possible.</p> <p>I make my way out and start walking confidently down the hallway. Behind, I heard the sounds of scuffling shoes and muffled shouts. They're still excited about their discovery and full of righteous fire. The Factory will be slow to respond to them. If I'm lucky, it won't respond to me as well.</p> <p>I'm leaving the office area and into a more open space. I see men and women at tables, mindlessly putting small knick-knacks together. They look like smoke alarms. As I pass by a table, I see a woman delicately, carefully put a tooth into one. I don't get any closer. Whatever they're building, I don't want any part of it.</p> <p>I pause to check my phone again. Still nothing. I notice a few of the larger men standing up from their work and turning towards the way I came. They're all carrying screwdrivers, holding them like knives. I pick up speed slightly and make it to the other end of the room before they start slowly walking the other way.</p> <p>The room I'm in is short on exits. There are stairs leading down, and an elevator, neither of which seems likely to lead me out of the building. I start to turn back when I hear more gunfire. I see robed figures entering the assembly floor. They're ignoring most of the workers, likely to conserve ammo. I don't think they'll be nearly so chary with me.</p> <p>There's mist rising from below as I descend. It's like walking into a jungle, but instead of flowers and vines, there are pipes and conduits. Still animals, though. I hear the sound of rats and larger things moving deeper in. Better, though, than the animals I've left behind.</p> <p>I run in, hoping the steam will conceal me, that the tickers won't want to follow me through. I force myself to slow down, even though I feel like there's a target painted on my back. Sound carries in a place like this.</p> <p>"He went this way!" I hear a voice call out behind me. "I saw him."</p> <p>I hate my luck, some days. Most days, in fact.</p> <p>I run down the corridor. My footsteps echo, but it's too late for stealth. My only hope is that there's some cover I can take advantage of.</p> <p>A shot hits a pipe, letting out a gout of steam. I avoid it, continuing to move forward. Another shot, and another. They can't see me through the artificial fog, but enough shots, and eventually one of them will get lucky.</p> <p>Finally, a branch in the corridor. I stop long enough to throw some lead back their way. No reason they should have all the fun, and it might give them something to think about before running headlong after me. Or not. Hard to predict just how fanatical they're feeling today.</p> <p>More shots ring out, but I'm already booking it down the side path. So long as nothing gets in my way, I should be able to outrun the main group of them. Their leaders are slow, and full of metal.</p> <p>I find another stairway, and climb up. If I haven't gotten completely turned around, this should have taken me outside the building. However, I find myself on an assembly line floor. My brief hadn't mentioned anything about weird spaces. But then, I wasn't meant to go exploring, either. Need to know's a bitch, Max used to say.</p> <p>I race across the floor, trying to avoid the workers. I'm almost out when something grabs me by the back of my neck.</p> <p>He's a big sucker, Goliath-sized. His uniform is torn where he's outgrown it, like a man wearing a schoolboy's clothes. His head is gone, replaced by a security camera. A badge proclaims his name is Jim. I raise my gun and he knocks it out of my hand, the camera whirring as it focuses on me. I kick him hard in the gut, but I might as well be kicking a wall. The other hand takes hold of my leg. It seems to be deciding what to do with me.</p> <p>I pull out my knife, and slash at his wrist. It doesn't matter how strong he is if he can't use those muscles. Of course, now he's made his decision, and he knocks me back against the wall. The air rushes from my lungs, and I'm seeing stars. He's about to bash me again when he jerks, and stumbles.</p> <p>I see a pair of tickers running through the assembly line, pushing past workers, firing at me and Jim. I take advantage of the distraction to twist out of my shirt, and scramble away. Jim lumbers away towards the bigger threat as I run through the door.</p> <p>There are more offices, and I run into one of them.</p> <p>Interesting decor in here. There are strange implements hanging on the wall, including what looks like a rack. An empty business suit is stretched out on it. On the desk there's an old Macintosh, but the monitor's doesn't have a screen. Just an old, dusty book propped up in the empty shell. The pages flutter, even though there's no wind.</p> <p>I freeze as someone enters the room, then relax as the man smiles blankly at me, and pulls a mop and bucket in behind him. He slowly begins cleaning the floor, all the while with that empty, unknowing stare. However, he leaves the door open, so I move further back, toward the closet.</p> <p>Idly, I check my phone again, still no signal. As I look up, I see the machete come down at the base of the janitor's neck. I quickly and quietly slip into the closet as the ticker moves in.</p> <p>He doesn't see me, not yet. But I know he's looking for me, and it's just a matter of time before he checks the closet. I'm unarmed, and there isn't so much as a wire hanger in here to defend myself with. My best chance is to hit him as soon as he comes in range of the closet, try and get that machete away from him.</p> <p>Suddenly, he makes a strangled noise and holds his throat. He thrashes around for a minute, and I finally notice the man standing behind him. Tall, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora. I realize I saw him before, when I first entered the building. He goes through the ticker's pocket, takes out some papers, and then picks up the machete. He looks directly at me through the slats of the closet door, and holds a finger to his lips, then walks away.</p> <p>I wonder for a moment if it really was Nobody. I'd always assumed he'd been made up. Lombardi has just as near told me so once. But I don't have time for riddles. There were two on my heels, and more behind them. With one of them already dead in here, I don't have a chance at taking the other by surprise. Time for another plan.</p> <p>I hightail it out of the office and into the hall. I hear the sound of a fight on the Factory floor. Seems the other tickers are fighting it out with the Factory workers. I don't need to be a part of that.</p> <p>One of the other office doors is open, so I take a peek in. There's the other ticker. He sees me just as I enter, and he raises up a crowbar. I'm ready, though, and I dodge the first attack, get inside his reach, and get him in an armlock.</p> <p>"We are his—" he starts, but I slam his head down against the desk, shutting him up.</p> <p>I consider trying to use him as a hostage, but he's a fanatic. If he can die killing me, he will. Besides, while he doesn't appear altered, you can't always tell. With a tinge of regret, I change position, moving my hands. He starts to struggle as he feels my grip slacken, but then I have him again, and with a crack, he falls limp. I take the crowbar and head back into the hallway.</p> <p>"The heretic! He comes to take our God from us!" a voice calls out. It's the man with the scepter. He's pushing his way past the assembly line workers as though they were children. His robe is torn, and I can see where parts of his body have been replaced with metal and ceramic. Time to book it again, before any of his gunmen have a clear shot.</p> <p>At the end of the hallway, I find myself in a cafeteria. Workers are eating, ignoring the sound of the battle nearby. As I watch, several of them reach into their glasses of water and very deliberately dab their faces with it. There's an odd, chemical smell.</p> <p>I think of ants, and I get an idea. It's risky, and I'll likely pay for it later, but I'd like to have a later to regret it with. I take one of the glasses and pour it over myself. If my hunch holds, it'll help me later. I start moving again. I'm through to the other side as the tickers make it in. There are fewer of them now, down to half a dozen. I smile. At least I'm not the only one having a bad day.</p> <p>The smile lasts as long as a cheap match. I'm at a dead end. I raise the crowbar, and wait, trying to think of some clever last words.</p> <p>"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I say. I'll admit, not the best epitaph, but it's from the heart.</p> <p>The lead ticker walks through the door. I swing at him, and he catches the crowbar one handed, wrenching it from my grasp. He takes me by the wrist, and twists. I scream as I feel my bones creak. He's stronger than Jim.</p> <p>"So, heretic, we catch you at last. You don't belong here. Who are your masters?" His face is fringed with a beard of steel wool. Clockwork has torn through his skin. His eyes are the most human thing about him, and they're what terrify me the most.</p> <p>"Fuck you," I spit, then grimace as he tightens his grip.</p> <p>"We'll find out," he tells me. "We may have to rebuild your tongue in time, but we'll have your secrets." He hauls me to my feet, and gives me a little shake. "Then there will be time for penitence. In the end, you'll beg to join our number, to become one with the God."</p> <p>"Not interested," I tell him. "I'm machine-agnostic." I'm trying to buy some time, maybe make him angry enough to do something stupid, like kill me.</p> <p>He laughs, a sound like bending metal. "You'll learn. We all have learned. But put off the pain a while, and tell me this: What are these that have taken over the heart of our God? Where have they come from, and how can we exterminate them?"</p> <p>"Wait, the heart..? You think this is the heart of your god?" I ask. That had not been in the report.</p> <p>"Yes," he says, his mouth twisted in triumph. "It has long been lost to us, but we have finally found it. This place is the Heart, even as you have stolen His Brain and his Muscles. And we find it has been invaded. How can we be rid of these invaders?"</p> <p>I stare at him for a moment, and then I burst out laughing. This time he doesn't find me so amusing, and he digs his fingers in.</p> <p>"Tell me what I need to know!" he yells.</p> <p>"You idiot. You poor, blind, idiot. You think they're invaders?" I'm not laughing, but I still can't help but smirk. I'll admit, there are times I'm not a clever man. Then again, I hear something moving behind the wall.</p> <p>"They infest the Heart! They use His grace for their perverse works!" he tells me.</p> <p>"They aren't invaders," I tell him. "You think they call the shots? Look around you. They're practically growing out of the walls. They're being controlled. Changed. They're practically like insects, the way they act."</p> <p>"What's your point?" he asks me.</p> <p>"So, let's say you're right. This place is just a big piece of your god. Then what in the hell do you suppose they are?"</p> <p>"I…" He stares at me for a moment, and I can literally hear the gears turning in his head. There's a click every so often where one skips.</p> <p>"You're killing your fellow servants. How do you suppose your god's going to feel about that?" I laugh again, and his grip loosens. Then suddenly it tightens.</p> <p>"Blasphemy!" he screams. "We are his Clockwork Servants! We do the work of his Hand! We will remake this Earth. No one else!" He throws me across the room. I manage to roll into it, but it still hurts like hell. Then a hidden garbage chute opens up near the lead ticker, and a tendril made of coils and wires wraps around him. His comrades immediately work to free him, only to be grabbed themselves. I run out the door, back into the cafeteria.</p> <p>I run through a different door, and I'm blasted by heat. My first thought is that it's like a furnace. Then I look and I see I'm not far off. I'm on a catwalk over a large chamber. Below sit several furnaces, filled with bright molten metal. Twenty-foot-tall, vaguely human figures attend them, stirring the metal with long rods.</p> <p>I stumble across the walkway. The heat's oppressive. I need to get out of here, and back to cooler air.</p> <p>I'm halfway across when the door slams open. The lead ticker has followed. He's alone now, and his robes are entirely shredded. His body is lined with numerous cuts, which bleed a mix of blood and oil. His eyes are even madder. "I'll tear you apart! I'll tear apart all who oppose us, and rebuild in His name!" He starts running toward me. He's slow at first, but building up speed, and I can hear his heavy feet banging against the metal frame of the walkway.</p> <p>There's a metal hook on chain attached to a belt of some sort. My arms feel heavy and my lungs feel like they're on fire, but I don't have many good options. I grab onto the hook and swing out as far as I can. It works, to an extent. I'm off the walkway when the ticker gets there, but what goes up must come down. I swing back, and I brace my legs for the impact. I slam into the ticker, and we both go flying over the railway. I manage to grab the railing. I watch as he falls down into the molten metal.</p> <p>There's a splash as he lands, and then he bobs up to the surface again. The human body, even one as loaded with metal as his, is still lighter than the molten steel. He thrashes around, and I can hear his mechanical scream. Flames lick over his flesh, and he's soon reduced to little more than a metal skeleton, and he still won't stop screaming, until one of the steel workers takes his pole and pushes him under the surface. The thrashing stops.</p> <p>My grip is weakening, and I know I can't hold on. I feel my hand slip from the hot edge of the walkway, and close my eyes as I prepare to die. Then I feel an impact, and something has me. I open my eyes to see the face of one of the steel workers. He's let go of his pole, and he's simply holding me. Then he steps away from the furnace, carries me to a door, and sets me down on the other side.</p> <p>The linoleum beneath me is cool, and the air conditioner blasts down on me. I take several deep breaths, and thank god for ant hills and pheromones. Eventually, I stand up, and look for the exit.</p> <p>It's been two hours since the rescue team found me. When I didn't report in, they sent a team to check on me. There was apparently another wave of tickers trying to get in, but they dealt with them. I'm now in quarantine in the back of a truck. They already checked to make sure the tickers didn't do anything to me. They asked me questions to make sure I was still me (no, I don't feel like I belong there, yes, I work for the Foundation, no, I've never thought it would be "neat" to be a clock). Now it's just observation to make sure.</p> <p>I don't mind. It gives me time to think. Not about the Factory, or the Church, but about the stranger in the fedora. Whether or not he was Nobody, there was a nagging feeling I'd seen him before somewhere. It was a puzzle.</p> <p>While I ponder the riddle, I watch through the window as they complete the containment procedures. It's anti-climactic after all the excitement. No gunfights, no explosives. Just handing a letter to each and every person who leaves for the night.</p> <blockquote> <p>Notice of Termination</p> <p>It is our unpleasant duty to inform you that your services are no longer required at this facility. Due to budget cuts, this location is being shut down. Please find enclosed your final paycheck. If you need a letter of recommendation, please contact our parent company, Sedgeville Capital Products. We wish you all luck in your future endeavors.</p> </blockquote> <p>An out of business sign will be affixed to the door, and within a week, this will just be another abandoned factory again, and the workers will have only the vaguest memories of working here.</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="/factory-finding-mission">Factory-Finding Mission</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/factory-finding-mission">https://scpwiki.com/factory-finding-mission</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 there I was, in a power plant what was about to explode, surrounded by the enemy." An idle thought; it's how Max would have started the story, if he'd survived. He'd have come up with some clever, improbable solution, or revealed that he'd had an escape plan the entire time. Or his team would have come in and saved him at the last minute, so he could fix the plant. But he hadn't survived. Most of his team had been elsewhere. I'd been the only one with him, and when the time came, I wasn't fast enough. No one could have made it to help and gotten back in time, but that didn't make it any easier. No one blames me for it. That makes it almost worse. I could get defensive, then. A backfiring car jolts me out of my thoughts. I'm jumpier these days. The neighborhood I'm in has seen better days. Industry built it, and then industry left like a deadbeat father without even the promise of child support. But it's on the uprise. That's why I'm here, in fact. I'm watching the men and women going to work. Work at the factory, which had been closed for years, and shouldn't be open. There were plenty of possible explanations, some of them perfectly ordinary. It could be a front for some crime syndicate or other, or more sinister, it could be a front for the CI. It could be any number of things. But our suspicion is that it's not just a factory, but the Factory, capital letter and all. I'd heard of it, of course. It's in the intel briefs. But for the first time, I'm trusted with more of the story. It moves around, taking over abandoned factories like a parasite. It stays, collecting workers, shipping orders, and making trouble until someone goes and stops it. It's not as hard as it sounds. The trouble's finding it. I'll be going in soon. There isn't much more information I could get from the outside. I won't go in far. The Factory can be dangerous, but we've seen it enough times to know how far to go. If I'm right, then I'll call for back-up. If I'm wrong... Well, it'll be embarrassing, but I'll be on my way soon enough. No use stalling. It's time to take a look. I get out of the car, adjust my clothes, and, after a block, I'm there. There's no security I can see, which makes me more suspicious. No guards, no ID checks. There aren't even any locks on the door. I walk through the door as though I belong, just behind a man in a trenchcoat. The workers making their way in ignore me. Not even a spare glance. Perhaps they're just busy. Perhaps. There's a receptionist seated behind a desk. "Hello, sir," she says. Her voice is chipper, almost excited to see me. It puts me on edge. "How can I help you?" "Which way to the bathroom?" I ask. "Down the hall, second door to the right," she chirps. I thank her, and walk past the desk, glancing as I do. Bingo. The receptionist has no legs. She just grows out of the chair. I'm in the right place. I go into the bathroom for the form of things. It looks fairly normal, except that it's clean. Too clean. People are never that good at cleaning up after themselves. I start making my way to the entrance when I hear a number of people entering the building. I see them before they get a good look at me. They're wearing robes, and there's at least twenty of them, if not more. One of them is carrying a scepter made out of a broken clock. He's asking the receptionist something. I keep a smile on my face and head left into the first intersection I see, and then run. Things just got a lot more complicated. I duck into an office and pull out my phone. No service. I slip it back into my pocket, and consider my next move. I could try finding another exit. However, the Factory is supposed to be a maze. We're never supposed to explore it alone. On the other hand, the tickers are between me and the main entrance. I might try waiting for them to go past. I might even be able to get away with walking out past them, so long as I don't look out of place. My planning is interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. I curse, and start moving. I need to be as far away from the lobby as possible as quickly as possible. I make my way out and start walking confidently down the hallway. Behind, I heard the sounds of scuffling shoes and muffled shouts. They're still excited about their discovery and full of righteous fire. The Factory will be slow to respond to them. If I'm lucky, it won't respond to me as well. I'm leaving the office area and into a more open space. I see men and women at tables, mindlessly putting small knick-knacks together. They look like smoke alarms. As I pass by a table, I see a woman delicately, carefully put a tooth into one. I don't get any closer. Whatever they're building, I don't want any part of it. I pause to check my phone again. Still nothing. I notice a few of the larger men standing up from their work and turning towards the way I came. They're all carrying screwdrivers, holding them like knives. I pick up speed slightly and make it to the other end of the room before they start slowly walking the other way. The room I'm in is short on exits. There are stairs leading down, and an elevator, neither of which seems likely to lead me out of the building. I start to turn back when I hear more gunfire. I see robed figures entering the assembly floor. They're ignoring most of the workers, likely to conserve ammo. I don't think they'll be nearly so chary with me. There's mist rising from below as I descend. It's like walking into a jungle, but instead of flowers and vines, there are pipes and conduits. Still animals, though. I hear the sound of rats and larger things moving deeper in. Better, though, than the animals I've left behind. I run in, hoping the steam will conceal me, that the tickers won't want to follow me through. I force myself to slow down, even though I feel like there's a target painted on my back. Sound carries in a place like this. "He went this way!" I hear a voice call out behind me. "I saw him." I hate my luck, some days. Most days, in fact. I run down the corridor. My footsteps echo, but it's too late for stealth. My only hope is that there's some cover I can take advantage of. A shot hits a pipe, letting out a gout of steam. I avoid it, continuing to move forward. Another shot, and another. They can't see me through the artificial fog, but enough shots, and eventually one of them will get lucky. Finally, a branch in the corridor. I stop long enough to throw some lead back their way. No reason they should have all the fun, and it might give them something to think about before running headlong after me. Or not. Hard to predict just how fanatical they're feeling today. More shots ring out, but I'm already booking it down the side path. So long as nothing gets in my way, I should be able to outrun the main group of them. Their leaders are slow, and full of metal. I find another stairway, and climb up. If I haven't gotten completely turned around, this should have taken me outside the building. However, I find myself on an assembly line floor. My brief hadn't mentioned anything about weird spaces. But then, I wasn't meant to go exploring, either. Need to know's a bitch, Max used to say. I race across the floor, trying to avoid the workers. I'm almost out when something grabs me by the back of my neck. He's a big sucker, Goliath-sized. His uniform is torn where he's outgrown it, like a man wearing a schoolboy's clothes. His head is gone, replaced by a security camera. A badge proclaims his name is Jim. I raise my gun and he knocks it out of my hand, the camera whirring as it focuses on me. I kick him hard in the gut, but I might as well be kicking a wall. The other hand takes hold of my leg. It seems to be deciding what to do with me. I pull out my knife, and slash at his wrist. It doesn't matter how strong he is if he can't use those muscles. Of course, now he's made his decision, and he knocks me back against the wall. The air rushes from my lungs, and I'm seeing stars. He's about to bash me again when he jerks, and stumbles. I see a pair of tickers running through the assembly line, pushing past workers, firing at me and Jim. I take advantage of the distraction to twist out of my shirt, and scramble away. Jim lumbers away towards the bigger threat as I run through the door. There are more offices, and I run into one of them. Interesting decor in here. There are strange implements hanging on the wall, including what looks like a rack. An empty business suit is stretched out on it. On the desk there's an old Macintosh, but the monitor's doesn't have a screen. Just an old, dusty book propped up in the empty shell. The pages flutter, even though there's no wind. I freeze as someone enters the room, then relax as the man smiles blankly at me, and pulls a mop and bucket in behind him. He slowly begins cleaning the floor, all the while with that empty, unknowing stare. However, he leaves the door open, so I move further back, toward the closet. Idly, I check my phone again, still no signal. As I look up, I see the machete come down at the base of the janitor's neck. I quickly and quietly slip into the closet as the ticker moves in. He doesn't see me, not yet. But I know he's looking for me, and it's just a matter of time before he checks the closet. I'm unarmed, and there isn't so much as a wire hanger in here to defend myself with. My best chance is to hit him as soon as he comes in range of the closet, try and get that machete away from him. Suddenly, he makes a strangled noise and holds his throat. He thrashes around for a minute, and I finally notice the man standing behind him. Tall, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora. I realize I saw him before, when I first entered the building. He goes through the ticker's pocket, takes out some papers, and then picks up the machete. He looks directly at me through the slats of the closet door, and holds a finger to his lips, then walks away. I wonder for a moment if it really was Nobody. I'd always assumed he'd been made up. Lombardi has just as near told me so once. But I don't have time for riddles. There were two on my heels, and more behind them. With one of them already dead in here, I don't have a chance at taking the other by surprise. Time for another plan. I hightail it out of the office and into the hall. I hear the sound of a fight on the Factory floor. Seems the other tickers are fighting it out with the Factory workers. I don't need to be a part of that. One of the other office doors is open, so I take a peek in. There's the other ticker. He sees me just as I enter, and he raises up a crowbar. I'm ready, though, and I dodge the first attack, get inside his reach, and get him in an armlock. "We are his--" he starts, but I slam his head down against the desk, shutting him up. I consider trying to use him as a hostage, but he's a fanatic. If he can die killing me, he will. Besides, while he doesn't appear altered, you can't always tell. With a tinge of regret, I change position, moving my hands. He starts to struggle as he feels my grip slacken, but then I have him again, and with a crack, he falls limp. I take the crowbar and head back into the hallway. "The heretic! He comes to take our God from us!" a voice calls out. It's the man with the scepter. He's pushing his way past the assembly line workers as though they were children. His robe is torn, and I can see where parts of his body have been replaced with metal and ceramic. Time to book it again, before any of his gunmen have a clear shot. At the end of the hallway, I find myself in a cafeteria. Workers are eating, ignoring the sound of the battle nearby. As I watch, several of them reach into their glasses of water and very deliberately dab their faces with it. There's an odd, chemical smell. I think of ants, and I get an idea. It's risky, and I'll likely pay for it later, but I'd like to have a later to regret it with. I take one of the glasses and pour it over myself. If my hunch holds, it'll help me later. I start moving again. I'm through to the other side as the tickers make it in. There are fewer of them now, down to half a dozen. I smile. At least I'm not the only one having a bad day. The smile lasts as long as a cheap match. I'm at a dead end. I raise the crowbar, and wait, trying to think of some clever last words. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I say. I'll admit, not the best epitaph, but it's from the heart. The lead ticker walks through the door. I swing at him, and he catches the crowbar one handed, wrenching it from my grasp. He takes me by the wrist, and twists. I scream as I feel my bones creak. He's stronger than Jim. "So, heretic, we catch you at last. You don't belong here. Who are your masters?" His face is fringed with a beard of steel wool. Clockwork has torn through his skin. His eyes are the most human thing about him, and they're what terrify me the most. "Fuck you," I spit, then grimace as he tightens his grip. "We'll find out," he tells me. "We may have to rebuild your tongue in time, but we'll have your secrets." He hauls me to my feet, and gives me a little shake. "Then there will be time for penitence. In the end, you'll beg to join our number, to become one with the God." "Not interested," I tell him. "I'm machine-agnostic." I'm trying to buy some time, maybe make him angry enough to do something stupid, like kill me. He laughs, a sound like bending metal. "You'll learn. We all have learned. But put off the pain a while, and tell me this: What are these that have taken over the heart of our God? Where have they come from, and how can we exterminate them?" "Wait, the heart..? You think this is the heart of your god?" I ask. That had not been in the report. "Yes," he says, his mouth twisted in triumph. "It has long been lost to us, but we have finally found it. This place is the Heart, even as you have stolen His Brain and his Muscles. And we find it has been invaded. How can we be rid of these invaders?" I stare at him for a moment, and then I burst out laughing. This time he doesn't find me so amusing, and he digs his fingers in. "Tell me what I need to know!" he yells. "You idiot. You poor, blind, idiot. You think they're invaders?" I'm not laughing, but I still can't help but smirk. I'll admit, there are times I'm not a clever man. Then again, I hear something moving behind the wall. "They infest the Heart! They use His grace for their perverse works!" he tells me. "They aren't invaders," I tell him. "You think they call the shots? Look around you. They're practically growing out of the walls. They're being controlled. Changed. They're practically like insects, the way they act." "What's your point?" he asks me. "So, let's say you're right. This place is just a big piece of your god. Then what in the hell do you suppose they are?" "I..." He stares at me for a moment, and I can literally hear the gears turning in his head. There's a click every so often where one skips. "You're killing your fellow servants. How do you suppose your god's going to feel about that?" I laugh again, and his grip loosens. Then suddenly it tightens. "Blasphemy!" he screams. "We are his Clockwork Servants! We do the work of his Hand! We will remake this Earth. No one else!" He throws me across the room. I manage to roll into it, but it still hurts like hell. Then a hidden garbage chute opens up near the lead ticker, and a tendril made of coils and wires wraps around him. His comrades immediately work to free him, only to be grabbed themselves. I run out the door, back into the cafeteria. I run through a different door, and I'm blasted by heat. My first thought is that it's like a furnace. Then I look and I see I'm not far off. I'm on a catwalk over a large chamber. Below sit several furnaces, filled with bright molten metal. Twenty-foot-tall, vaguely human figures attend them, stirring the metal with long rods. I stumble across the walkway. The heat's oppressive. I need to get out of here, and back to cooler air. I'm halfway across when the door slams open. The lead ticker has followed. He's alone now, and his robes are entirely shredded. His body is lined with numerous cuts, which bleed a mix of blood and oil. His eyes are even madder. "I'll tear you apart! I'll tear apart all who oppose us, and rebuild in His name!" He starts running toward me. He's slow at first, but building up speed, and I can hear his heavy feet banging against the metal frame of the walkway. There's a metal hook on chain attached to a belt of some sort. My arms feel heavy and my lungs feel like they're on fire, but I don't have many good options. I grab onto the hook and swing out as far as I can. It works, to an extent. I'm off the walkway when the ticker gets there, but what goes up must come down. I swing back, and I brace my legs for the impact. I slam into the ticker, and we both go flying over the railway. I manage to grab the railing. I watch as he falls down into the molten metal. There's a splash as he lands, and then he bobs up to the surface again. The human body, even one as loaded with metal as his, is still lighter than the molten steel. He thrashes around, and I can hear his mechanical scream. Flames lick over his flesh, and he's soon reduced to little more than a metal skeleton, and he still won't stop screaming, until one of the steel workers takes his pole and pushes him under the surface. The thrashing stops. My grip is weakening, and I know I can't hold on. I feel my hand slip from the hot edge of the walkway, and close my eyes as I prepare to die. Then I feel an impact, and something has me. I open my eyes to see the face of one of the steel workers. He's let go of his pole, and he's simply holding me. Then he steps away from the furnace, carries me to a door, and sets me down on the other side. The linoleum beneath me is cool, and the air conditioner blasts down on me. I take several deep breaths, and thank god for ant hills and pheromones. Eventually, I stand up, and look for the exit. It's been two hours since the rescue team found me. When I didn't report in, they sent a team to check on me. There was apparently another wave of tickers trying to get in, but they dealt with them. I'm now in quarantine in the back of a truck. They already checked to make sure the tickers didn't do anything to me. They asked me questions to make sure I was still me (no, I don't feel like I belong there, yes, I work for the Foundation, no, I've never thought it would be "neat" to be a clock). Now it's just observation to make sure. I don't mind. It gives me time to think. Not about the Factory, or the Church, but about the stranger in the fedora. Whether or not he was Nobody, there was a nagging feeling I'd seen him before somewhere. It was a puzzle. While I ponder the riddle, I watch through the window as they complete the containment procedures. It's anti-climactic after all the excitement. No gunfights, no explosives. Just handing a letter to each and every person who leaves for the night. > Notice of Termination > > It is our unpleasant duty to inform you that your services are no longer required at this facility. Due to budget cuts, this location is being shut down. Please find enclosed your final paycheck. If you need a letter of recommendation, please contact our parent company, Sedgeville Capital Products. We wish you all luck in your future endeavors. An out of business sign will be affixed to the door, and within a week, this will just be another abandoned factory again, and the workers will have only the vaguest memories of working here. [[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>]]	2012-07-31T08:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "body-horror", "broken-god", "chase", "factory", "horror", "nobody", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Factory-Finding Mission - SCP Foundation	111	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "factory-hub" ]	[]	13924914	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/factory-finding-mission
father-iron	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The man in the suit wiped the sweat from his brow. Christ, he hoped that they would wrap it up soon. The chanting grew more intense. "Father Iron, King of War!" the crowd sang in Haitian creole, "Lord of Fire! Hear us! Ride your horse!" The <em>chwal</em> was shaking in time with the music, the fabric of her long red dress flowing a split second behind her limbs.</p> <p>He had always loathed these expeditions. The heat, the ignorant jabbering of the yokels, the way it reminded him of the old toothless man who sold charms and "elixirs" back in Libreville. The fact that so far the entire expedition had been a wild goose chase did nothing to improve his attitude. Five ceremonies so far and nothing to show for it other than one of his suits ruined by a stray spurt of chicken blood. The thought had occurred that O'Conner might just be using this an excuse to get rid of him. But then again, if O'Conner wanted someone gone, there was no ambiguity about it.</p> <p>The <em>chwal</em> screamed and began to spasm. The chanting was growing to a fever pitch now. The man rubbed the ring with his thumb, reassuring himself that it was still there. All of a sudden, the woman fell to her knees, her head bowed. The chanting stopped instantly. There was no noise now besides the soft crackling of the torches. Even the ever-present crickets seemed to have grown silent in respect for the spirit. The man in the suit rolled his eyes.</p> <p>"My balls! My balls are cold. Fetch me rum!" the priestess cried in a voice deep and gravelly. A member of the congregation silently offered her a clay jug. She snatched it from his hands and put it to her lips. She sucked down the mixture of rum, chili, iron filings, and gunpowder, draining the vessel in a single go. She gave a satisfied sigh as she smashed the jug against the earthen floor. "Ahhhh, it's been a while since I've been called this deep into the backwoods. Usually you yokels cry for help to some <em>Rada</em> bitch! What brings Papa Ogun to you tonight?"</p> <p>The supplicants began shouting in Creole to the priestess, asking for help with the law, with a rival, with killing rats. The man in the suit stepped forward into the circle.</p> <p>"Father Ogun!" the man cried in French, "I request a favor!"</p> <p>The priestess whipped around to face the man. He caught her eyes and knew that this was a real one. He wasn't talking to some backass Vodou wannabe high on crowd hysteria. He was talking to a <em>loa</em>. He was talking to Ogun. "You speak <em>proper</em> to me, <em>gason pòmdetè</em>!" Ogun answered in an exaggerated French accent, "I remember little ones like you during the Revolution! Little shits, who had a little cash and thought they could pass as French! Forgot all about Papa Ogun as soon as you had a piece of land and a slave to fuck!"</p> <p>The man considered several retorts before biting his tongue. It did not seem like a wise choice to insult a god, especially one from whom one is requesting a boon. He forced a smile instead. "Your godhood, I request a favor. You are King of War, yes? You saved the slaves from the French, you fight for right against might, no? Myself and my brothers, we seek your favor in a struggle against those who w-"</p> <p>"I know who you are, Maurice Soglo. I know all about your fight against your masters. I know all the sneaky tricks little fucks like you tried to pull. Hiding, like little rats in mountains and caves and cities. Using your toys instead of fighting like men! Too scared to fight a better warrior head-on. I know how your idiotic revolt got started! Who do you think put the idea in their heads? But you failed, because you were <em>weak</em>" Ogun spat. His face twisted into a mirthless smile, filled with teeth. Maurice noticed that the <em>chwal</em>'s teeth seemed much sharper than they had been at the beginning of the ceremony. "Give me one reason why you should have my help!"</p> <p>Maurice took his hand from his pocket, displaying the ring to the god. "Because of this. One of the seals of King Solomon. If you don't help us, I can seal you inside an empty beer bottle for the next ten thousand years." He spoke slowly and deliberately to keep his voice from quaking.</p> <p>A murmur ran through the crowd and steadily grew into a chorus of angry shouts. How <em>dare</em> he threaten <em>their</em> god! That little French <em>chi-manjè</em>! A few of the supplicants stepped forward to grab the man, but Ogun waved them back. He walked steadily towards Maurice, his eyes burning with rage.</p> <p>"You think you, <em>you</em>, some puny ant-fucker, can threaten me?" Ogun bellowed. Maurice could feel the god's glare burning through him. "I <em>am</em> war! Metal melts at my command! Fire devours at <em>my</em> whim! Empires rise and fall as it pleases me! And you dare to dream of threatening <em>me</em>, you little <em>pédé</em>?!" He was very close now, close enough for the man to smell the breath of the god as it looked down upon him. In some distant corner of his mind, he thought that the priestess had been at least a half meter shorter than he.</p> <p>"You may be a god, but even gods may die. Especially if they're helped along their way," Maurice replied as evenly as he could manage, "You are immortal now, but you can be trapped, where you can't answer prayers. How long, then, do you think your followers will wait? A decade, maybe two, before they move on to a different god. Then you will be mortal. Just a sad sack of rum and shit, alone and forgotten. Except by us. We make sure that everyone gets his due. Do you really want that?" The man's mouth went dry as he spoke.</p> <p>Ogun's nostrils flared as he considered the threat. He burst out laughing.</p> <p>"Ahahahaha! You threaten a god and you don't back down! That takes guts! I like you, <em>pòmdetè</em>, you've got a dick!" Ogun slapped the man on the back causing him to stumble forward slightly. "If only the other fighters had as much balls as you!"</p> <p>"All of you," Ogun said, making a sweeping motion to the assembled crowd, "should take note of this man! He fears <em>nothing</em>! Alright, <em>pòmdetè</em>, you shall have my blessing! Henceforth, your enemies will never be able to destroy you! They may hurt you, but you shall always recover. And in exchange…" The god paused for a moment, "I want some of your toys. Next time I see you, you had best have some prepared!"</p> <p>"But I-" Maurice started.</p> <p>"<em>Pòmdetè</em>," Ogun said coolly, "you have already argued with a god once today. Do not attempt it again."</p> <p>"R-right" Maurice stammered. He made his way to the edge of the circle, which parted to let him pass. As he slipped away into the dark night, he heard the sound of the yokels pleading for Ogun's favor in rat-killing or law-evading, or whatever it was that they needed. After a minute of walking, he knew that he was alone. Suddenly, the enormity of what he had done hit him. He had bluffed a god. A <em>god</em>. And what was more, he had come out ahead. The stress and fear that he had pushed to the recesses of his mind came flooding back. His knees began to shake. Before he reached the car, he had vomited twice. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he started the car and began the four hour drive back to civilization.</p> <hr/> <p>By the time he reached his hotel in Port-au-Prince, the sun was already rising, its light just creeping above the shanties of the outer city. He parked the car by the curb of the hotel and headed inside. Soon, he was in his room, dialing a number that he knew but did not know. The after the third ring, someone on the other line picked up. "Yes?" asked a soft voice.</p> <p>"He went for it. But there's a catch," Maurice said as he laid on the bed.</p> <p>"<em>What catch</em>?" the voice on the other end hissed.</p> <p>"Can't talk about it here. Nothing too big. We might have to rearrange some holdings is all. It was worth it," he said calmly. The only response he received was a click and a dialtone as the line went dead. He hung up the phone and went to run a bath. Fuck them, he thought. Let <em>them</em> try to bargain with the embodiment of war if they want to keep their "anomalous objects" so bad. Besides, it's not as though they could complain; the Chaos Insurgency now had its first patron.<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="/father-iron">Father Iron</a>" by Gaffsey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/father-iron">https://scpwiki.com/father-iron</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 man in the suit wiped the sweat from his brow. Christ, he hoped that they would wrap it up soon. The chanting grew more intense. "Father Iron, King of War!" the crowd sang in Haitian creole, "Lord of Fire! Hear us! Ride your horse!" The //chwal// was shaking in time with the music, the fabric of her long red dress flowing a split second behind her limbs. He had always loathed these expeditions. The heat, the ignorant jabbering of the yokels, the way it reminded him of the old toothless man who sold charms and "elixirs" back in Libreville. The fact that so far the entire expedition had been a wild goose chase did nothing to improve his attitude. Five ceremonies so far and nothing to show for it other than one of his suits ruined by a stray spurt of chicken blood. The thought had occurred that O'Conner might just be using this an excuse to get rid of him. But then again, if O'Conner wanted someone gone, there was no ambiguity about it. The //chwal// screamed and began to spasm. The chanting was growing to a fever pitch now. The man rubbed the ring with his thumb, reassuring himself that it was still there. All of a sudden, the woman fell to her knees, her head bowed. The chanting stopped instantly. There was no noise now besides the soft crackling of the torches. Even the ever-present crickets seemed to have grown silent in respect for the spirit. The man in the suit rolled his eyes. "My balls! My balls are cold. Fetch me rum!" the priestess cried in a voice deep and gravelly. A member of the congregation silently offered her a clay jug. She snatched it from his hands and put it to her lips. She sucked down the mixture of rum, chili, iron filings, and gunpowder, draining the vessel in a single go. She gave a satisfied sigh as she smashed the jug against the earthen floor. "Ahhhh, it's been a while since I've been called this deep into the backwoods. Usually you yokels cry for help to some //Rada// bitch! What brings Papa Ogun to you tonight?" The supplicants began shouting in Creole to the priestess, asking for help with the law, with a rival, with killing rats. The man in the suit stepped forward into the circle. "Father Ogun!" the man cried in French, "I request a favor!" The priestess whipped around to face the man. He caught her eyes and knew that this was a real one. He wasn't talking to some backass Vodou wannabe high on crowd hysteria. He was talking to a //loa//. He was talking to Ogun. "You speak //proper// to me, //gason pòmdetè//!" Ogun answered in an exaggerated French accent, "I remember little ones like you during the Revolution! Little shits, who had a little cash and thought they could pass as French! Forgot all about Papa Ogun as soon as you had a piece of land and a slave to fuck!" The man considered several retorts before biting his tongue. It did not seem like a wise choice to insult a god, especially one from whom one is requesting a boon. He forced a smile instead. "Your godhood, I request a favor. You are King of War, yes? You saved the slaves from the French, you fight for right against might, no? Myself and my brothers, we seek your favor in a struggle against those who w-" "I know who you are, Maurice Soglo. I know all about your fight against your masters. I know all the sneaky tricks little fucks like you tried to pull. Hiding, like little rats in mountains and caves and cities. Using your toys instead of fighting like men! Too scared to fight a better warrior head-on. I know how your idiotic revolt got started! Who do you think put the idea in their heads? But you failed, because you were //weak//" Ogun spat. His face twisted into a mirthless smile, filled with teeth. Maurice noticed that the //chwal//'s teeth seemed much sharper than they had been at the beginning of the ceremony. "Give me one reason why you should have my help!" Maurice took his hand from his pocket, displaying the ring to the god. "Because of this. One of the seals of King Solomon. If you don't help us, I can seal you inside an empty beer bottle for the next ten thousand years." He spoke slowly and deliberately to keep his voice from quaking. A murmur ran through the crowd and steadily grew into a chorus of angry shouts. How //dare// he threaten //their// god! That little French //chi-manjè//! A few of the supplicants stepped forward to grab the man, but Ogun waved them back. He walked steadily towards Maurice, his eyes burning with rage. "You think you, //you//, some puny ant-fucker, can threaten me?" Ogun bellowed. Maurice could feel the god's glare burning through him. "I //am// war! Metal melts at my command! Fire devours at //my// whim! Empires rise and fall as it pleases me! And you dare to dream of threatening //me//, you little //pédé//?!" He was very close now, close enough for the man to smell the breath of the god as it looked down upon him. In some distant corner of his mind, he thought that the priestess had been at least a half meter shorter than he. "You may be a god, but even gods may die. Especially if they're helped along their way," Maurice replied as evenly as he could manage, "You are immortal now, but you can be trapped, where you can't answer prayers. How long, then, do you think your followers will wait? A decade, maybe two, before they move on to a different god. Then you will be mortal. Just a sad sack of rum and shit, alone and forgotten. Except by us. We make sure that everyone gets his due. Do you really want that?" The man's mouth went dry as he spoke. Ogun's nostrils flared as he considered the threat. He burst out laughing. "Ahahahaha! You threaten a god and you don't back down! That takes guts! I like you, //pòmdetè//, you've got a dick!" Ogun slapped the man on the back causing him to stumble forward slightly. "If only the other fighters had as much balls as you!" "All of you," Ogun said, making a sweeping motion to the assembled crowd, "should take note of this man! He fears //nothing//! Alright, //pòmdetè//, you shall have my blessing! Henceforth, your enemies will never be able to destroy you! They may hurt you, but you shall always recover. And in exchange..." The god paused for a moment, "I want some of your toys. Next time I see you, you had best have some prepared!" "But I-" Maurice started. "//Pòmdetè//," Ogun said coolly, "you have already argued with a god once today. Do not attempt it again." "R-right" Maurice stammered. He made his way to the edge of the circle, which parted to let him pass. As he slipped away into the dark night, he heard the sound of the yokels pleading for Ogun's favor in rat-killing or law-evading, or whatever it was that they needed. After a minute of walking, he knew that he was alone. Suddenly, the enormity of what he had done hit him. He had bluffed a god. A //god//. And what was more, he had come out ahead. The stress and fear that he had pushed to the recesses of his mind came flooding back. His knees began to shake. Before he reached the car, he had vomited twice. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he started the car and began the four hour drive back to civilization. ----- By the time he reached his hotel in Port-au-Prince, the sun was already rising, its light just creeping above the shanties of the outer city. He parked the car by the curb of the hotel and headed inside. Soon, he was in his room, dialing a number that he knew but did not know. The after the third ring, someone on the other line picked up. "Yes?" asked a soft voice. "He went for it. But there's a catch," Maurice said as he laid on the bed. "//What catch//?" the voice on the other end hissed. "Can't talk about it here. Nothing too big. We might have to rearrange some holdings is all. It was worth it," he said calmly. The only response he received was a click and a dialtone as the line went dead. He hung up the phone and went to run a bath. Fuck them, he thought. Let //them// try to bargain with the embodiment of war if they want to keep their "anomalous objects" so bad. Besides, it's not as though they could complain; the Chaos Insurgency now had its first patron. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-12-27T14:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "art-exchange", "chaos-insurgency", "tale" ]	Father Iron - SCP Foundation	57	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "chaos-insurgency-hub", "art-exchange-hub" ]	[]	15735770	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/father-iron
favors-part-one	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The man in grey sat on the rooftop and waited. Beneath him, the city spread endlessly, an ocean of lights and color under the night sky. On the balcony below, a party was nearing its conclusion; slightly drunken couples making their goodbyes and wading their way home, the hostess surveying the mess they left behind them and sighing. The wind was fierce this high up, and he had to hold tight to his hat to keep it from carrying it away. The sounds of the metropolis were comforting, familiar. In that moment, he was at peace, though he knew it wouldn't last. He relished this small instance of freedom. Life is made in small hours like this, he thought. This place felt so familiar, yet he couldn’t recall ever being here before. Then again, his memory wasn't what it used to be.</p> <p><strong><em>It is time.</em></strong></p> <p>The Breath of the World came the way it always did—sudden, silent, and irresistible. The words reached his mind without ever passing through his ears, but this ceased to surprise him years ago. A servant of the Breath learns to cope with surprises, or else he didn’t get to keep his mind for very long—while the Breath prefers its agents thinking on their own, he knew it wouldn’t hesitate to take matters into its own hands if it needed to. He had learned that the hard way.</p> <p><strong><em>An Aspect requires your attention and my judgment. I will show you the way.</em></strong></p> <p>It was time to go. He made his way to the stairs leading down from the roof and into the service halls. The presence of the Breath led him through twisting corridors and empty, derelict apartments, ones that had no right to exist in a classy part of town such as this. This was, of course, because they didn’t. As he followed the Breath’s instructions, the quality of the air began to change—the damp, cool northern European air became much drier and dustier. Sunlight began shining through the cracked windows and grimy skylights of the industrial complex he was making his way through, though it was night when he began his trip, seemingly only a few minutes ago. Turning a corner, he felt a crunch under his shoes—dry bones. He didn’t want to know who they belonged to. They might have been his.</p> <p><strong><em>Others are searching for the Aspect—the servants of the crescent and those who seek to contain.</em></strong></p> <p>At least now he knew where he was going—Iran. His past encounters with the ORIA were often less than civil and ended badly. Mostly for them. Still, the vicious bastards were certainly a force to be reckoned with on their home turf. He was actually relieved to hear the Foundation was here as well—he would much rather leave an unworthy Aspect in their hands. While they were just as ruthless, at least he could respect their goals. He saw what some of the Aspects could do, felt them rend his flesh, tear at the fabric of his mind with mental claws, saw them open doors to places that should never be. And those were some of the more pleasant ones.</p> <p><strong><em>You are here.</em></strong></p> <p>It seemed he was. The last hallway led to a ladder ending in a metal hatch. He climbed out and surveyed his surroundings: he was standing in a vast salt flat, stretching to the horizon in all directions. Aside from the hatch, the landscape was entirely featureless. “Just lovely,” he muttered, forgetting himself for a moment, “You led me to the middle of Dasht-e Kavir. This is one of the largest, emptiest deserts in the world, how the hell am I supposed to find anything here?” A shock of intense pain ran through his body, and he collapsed to the ground, the salty dust staining his suit.</p> <p><strong><em>A favor was granted. You will obey. West, towards the twin mirage.</em></strong></p> <p>Grunting, he picked himself up and started walking. That was a mistake, and he should have known better by now—The Breath of the World had no patience for complaints. His outfit was ill-suited for the fierce heat of the salt flats, and his hat provided little protection from the sun, but he persevered; the Breath protected him from dehydration and sun stroke, but did nothing to keep him comfortable. When he spotted what he assumed to be the twin mirage, he was sweating profusely and his tongue felt like parchment. If the Breath hadn’t told him about it, he would have missed it—it was just two patches of slightly simmering air, which did not disappear the way a normal mirage would as he approached them.</p> <p><strong><em>The Aspect lies between. The others will be here soon, guided by the Manticore.</em></strong></p> <p>He had to hurry. While the Breath offered him protection, he was far from invincible, and though he could fend for himself, he couldn’t handle an entire ORIA detection squad or Mobile Task Force on his own, not for long at least. He moved into the empty patch of air between the mirages, and found himself standing in an enormous doorway, sixty feet tall at least.</p> <p><strong><em>The sarcophagus. The Aspect lies within. It is time to judge.</em></strong></p> <hr/> <p>Colonel Abtin Arjmand was not a happy man. This entire expedition was a complete and utter disaster. First he had to drag an entire platoon to this arid wasteland to search for some heathen mythical beast, and after they finally found it after a month of searching, it devoured half his men before revealing the information they needed. Now, he and his remaining men had to leave their vehicles behind and spend half a day trudging in the salt flats on foot, searching for some half-invisible gate. This artifact had better be worth it, or else he was going to have some words with the research department. Words like “fire!”</p> <p>“Sir! I think I found something!”</p> <p>Arjmand hurried to where one of his lieutenants stood, and the young man pointed to a patch of shimmering air. “This mirage is acting funny. It isn’t fading, no matter how close I get to it.”</p> <p>“Good man, I think this might be it. Rally the men, we go inside.”</p> <p>If nothing else, at least they’ll get out of the sun for a while.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Gladstone watched the Iranians disappearing into the mirage. He and his men were using some state-of-the-art camouflage, which was the only thing keeping them alive. Staying hidden on a salt flat was next to impossible, and he doubted anyone else was capable of it. The Iranians led them right to the location of the possible SCP object, though this left them in a problematic situation—the Iranian colonel had three times the manpower at his disposal, and though Gladstone knew the men of his task force were the best in the business, he didn’t like these odds. Plus, the Iranians were already inside, and if they went after them, they’ll be discovered. He could wait for them to leave and ambush them then, but that meant risking damage to the SCP object, or who knows what else if the object was dangerous. No, he had to try disposing of the Iranians before they got their hands on the object, and he had a plan.</p> <p>“Turner! Get that drone of yours ready. We are going to have a good old fashioned fox hunt.”</p> <hr/> <p>The man in grey crossed the vast hall that lay inside the mirage, making his way towards the sarcophagus. It was massive, far larger than any man could ever need, or so he thought until he removed the cover. The skeleton inside was enormous, at least three times the size of a normal man, and around him were various weapons, even the smallest of them too big for an ordinary man to use comfortably. None of them were the Aspect, so he continued his search. Eventually, he noticed something that stood out, a small piece of softness hidden between the rough edges and metal. It was a piece of dry parchment, a scroll, wrapped around what seemed to be a child’s toy. Curious, the man in grey inspected the old scroll:</p> <p>“Here lies mighty Rostam, Son of white-haired Zal, too great for his mother’s womb. Here lies fierce Rostam, tamer of Rakhsh, performer of the Seven Labors. Here lies fool Rostam, willing slave to the coward Kay Kavus. Here lies cursed Rostam, slayer of Sohrab, his son. All who defiles this final place of rest shall share his fate.”</p> <p><strong><em>The Aspect is in your hand. The toy. Judgment is upon us.</em></strong></p> <p>The man in grey never understood exactly how the Breath of the World judged the Aspects. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to which Aspects it deemed worthy and which it rejected. He’d seen it accept seemingly worthless ones, like that weather vane that wouldn’t be moved by wind, and deny ones of immense power.</p> <p><strong><em>This Aspect is abhorrent in my eyes. Remove it from my sight.</em></strong></p> <p>And that was that. All this effort, for nothing. Once an Aspect was deemed unworthy, the Breath lost all interest in it. It was time for him to leave.</p> <hr/> <p>Colonel Arjmand couldn’t believe his eyes. A palace, hidden in a mirage, amazing! He’s been hunting those damnable relics for years, and he’s never seen anything like it.</p> <p>“Men, I want this place combed. That beast told me there is an object of power here, and what it looked like, but not what it does. Just be careful, we don’t know what this thing can do.”</p> <p>His men did as ordered. Arjmand reached for the chain around his neck, feeling the comforting weight of the object that hung from it. He knew the price of using it, but having it around still made him more confident. If anyone tried to take what was his, they would pay dearly.</p> <p>“Sir, I think I found it! Here, in the sarcophagus!”</p> <p>“Let me see. Yes, this seems to be it! Prepare the carrier unit, we leave immi—”</p> <p>A sudden buzzing noise. Arjmand looked up just in time to see a small remote drone drop a payload of grenades on their heads.</p> <hr/> <p>“They’re all down, Sir. The payload of stingers and flashbangs knocked them out cold!” Turner said, looking up from his pocket monitor for the drone.</p> <p>Gladstone grinned. They didn’t call his task force “The Mirth Busters” for nothing. He almost pitied the poor bastards—they just spent a month looking for the SCP, and when they finally found it, BAM! It was gone again.</p> <p>“Alright, move in. I want the object secured and the Iranians neutralized.”</p> <hr/> <p>Colonel Arjmand barely managed to get a hold of his talisman before the grenades took down his men. He knew he was sacrificing much by using it, but he hardly had a choice.</p> <p>They were going to pay for this.</p> <p><a href="/favors-part-two">Favors-Part Two</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="/favors-part-one">Favors-Part One</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/favors-part-one">https://scpwiki.com/favors-part-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]] [[/>]] The man in grey sat on the rooftop and waited. Beneath him, the city spread endlessly, an ocean of lights and color under the night sky. On the balcony below, a party was nearing its conclusion; slightly drunken couples making their goodbyes and wading their way home, the hostess surveying the mess they left behind them and sighing. The wind was fierce this high up, and he had to hold tight to his hat to keep it from carrying it away. The sounds of the metropolis were comforting, familiar. In that moment, he was at peace, though he knew it wouldn't last. He relished this small instance of freedom. Life is made in small hours like this, he thought. This place felt so familiar, yet he couldn’t recall ever being here before. Then again, his memory wasn't what it used to be. //It is time.// The Breath of the World came the way it always did—sudden, silent, and irresistible. The words reached his mind without ever passing through his ears, but this ceased to surprise him years ago. A servant of the Breath learns to cope with surprises, or else he didn’t get to keep his mind for very long—while the Breath prefers its agents thinking on their own, he knew it wouldn’t hesitate to take matters into its own hands if it needed to. He had learned that the hard way. //An Aspect requires your attention and my judgment. I will show you the way.// It was time to go. He made his way to the stairs leading down from the roof and into the service halls. The presence of the Breath led him through twisting corridors and empty, derelict apartments, ones that had no right to exist in a classy part of town such as this. This was, of course, because they didn’t. As he followed the Breath’s instructions, the quality of the air began to change—the damp, cool northern European air became much drier and dustier. Sunlight began shining through the cracked windows and grimy skylights of the industrial complex he was making his way through, though it was night when he began his trip, seemingly only a few minutes ago. Turning a corner, he felt a crunch under his shoes—dry bones. He didn’t want to know who they belonged to. They might have been his. //Others are searching for the Aspect—the servants of the crescent and those who seek to contain.// At least now he knew where he was going—Iran. His past encounters with the ORIA were often less than civil and ended badly. Mostly for them. Still, the vicious bastards were certainly a force to be reckoned with on their home turf. He was actually relieved to hear the Foundation was here as well—he would much rather leave an unworthy Aspect in their hands. While they were just as ruthless, at least he could respect their goals. He saw what some of the Aspects could do, felt them rend his flesh, tear at the fabric of his mind with mental claws, saw them open doors to places that should never be. And those were some of the more pleasant ones. //You are here.// It seemed he was. The last hallway led to a ladder ending in a metal hatch. He climbed out and surveyed his surroundings: he was standing in a vast salt flat, stretching to the horizon in all directions. Aside from the hatch, the landscape was entirely featureless. “Just lovely,” he muttered, forgetting himself for a moment, “You led me to the middle of Dasht-e Kavir. This is one of the largest, emptiest deserts in the world, how the hell am I supposed to find anything here?” A shock of intense pain ran through his body, and he collapsed to the ground, the salty dust staining his suit. //A favor was granted. You will obey. West, towards the twin mirage.// Grunting, he picked himself up and started walking. That was a mistake, and he should have known better by now—The Breath of the World had no patience for complaints. His outfit was ill-suited for the fierce heat of the salt flats, and his hat provided little protection from the sun, but he persevered; the Breath protected him from dehydration and sun stroke, but did nothing to keep him comfortable. When he spotted what he assumed to be the twin mirage, he was sweating profusely and his tongue felt like parchment. If the Breath hadn’t told him about it, he would have missed it—it was just two patches of slightly simmering air, which did not disappear the way a normal mirage would as he approached them. //The Aspect lies between. The others will be here soon, guided by the Manticore.// He had to hurry. While the Breath offered him protection, he was far from invincible, and though he could fend for himself, he couldn’t handle an entire ORIA detection squad or Mobile Task Force on his own, not for long at least. He moved into the empty patch of air between the mirages, and found himself standing in an enormous doorway, sixty feet tall at least. //The sarcophagus. The Aspect lies within. It is time to judge.// ----- Colonel Abtin Arjmand was not a happy man. This entire expedition was a complete and utter disaster. First he had to drag an entire platoon to this arid wasteland to search for some heathen mythical beast, and after they finally found it after a month of searching, it devoured half his men before revealing the information they needed. Now, he and his remaining men had to leave their vehicles behind and spend half a day trudging in the salt flats on foot, searching for some half-invisible gate. This artifact had better be worth it, or else he was going to have some words with the research department. Words like “fire!” “Sir! I think I found something!” Arjmand hurried to where one of his lieutenants stood, and the young man pointed to a patch of shimmering air. “This mirage is acting funny. It isn’t fading, no matter how close I get to it.” “Good man, I think this might be it. Rally the men, we go inside.” If nothing else, at least they’ll get out of the sun for a while. ----- Agent Gladstone watched the Iranians disappearing into the mirage. He and his men were using some state-of-the-art camouflage, which was the only thing keeping them alive. Staying hidden on a salt flat was next to impossible, and he doubted anyone else was capable of it. The Iranians led them right to the location of the possible SCP object, though this left them in a problematic situation—the Iranian colonel had three times the manpower at his disposal, and though Gladstone knew the men of his task force were the best in the business, he didn’t like these odds. Plus, the Iranians were already inside, and if they went after them, they’ll be discovered. He could wait for them to leave and ambush them then, but that meant risking damage to the SCP object, or who knows what else if the object was dangerous. No, he had to try disposing of the Iranians before they got their hands on the object, and he had a plan. “Turner! Get that drone of yours ready. We are going to have a good old fashioned fox hunt.” ----- The man in grey crossed the vast hall that lay inside the mirage, making his way towards the sarcophagus. It was massive, far larger than any man could ever need, or so he thought until he removed the cover. The skeleton inside was enormous, at least three times the size of a normal man, and around him were various weapons, even the smallest of them too big for an ordinary man to use comfortably. None of them were the Aspect, so he continued his search. Eventually, he noticed something that stood out, a small piece of softness hidden between the rough edges and metal. It was a piece of dry parchment, a scroll, wrapped around what seemed to be a child’s toy. Curious, the man in grey inspected the old scroll: “Here lies mighty Rostam, Son of white-haired Zal, too great for his mother’s womb. Here lies fierce Rostam, tamer of Rakhsh, performer of the Seven Labors. Here lies fool Rostam, willing slave to the coward Kay Kavus. Here lies cursed Rostam, slayer of Sohrab, his son. All who defiles this final place of rest shall share his fate.” //The Aspect is in your hand. The toy. Judgment is upon us.// The man in grey never understood exactly how the Breath of the World judged the Aspects. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to which Aspects it deemed worthy and which it rejected. He’d seen it accept seemingly worthless ones, like that weather vane that wouldn’t be moved by wind, and deny ones of immense power. //This Aspect is abhorrent in my eyes. Remove it from my sight.// And that was that. All this effort, for nothing. Once an Aspect was deemed unworthy, the Breath lost all interest in it. It was time for him to leave. ----- Colonel Arjmand couldn’t believe his eyes. A palace, hidden in a mirage, amazing! He’s been hunting those damnable relics for years, and he’s never seen anything like it. “Men, I want this place combed. That beast told me there is an object of power here, and what it looked like, but not what it does. Just be careful, we don’t know what this thing can do.” His men did as ordered. Arjmand reached for the chain around his neck, feeling the comforting weight of the object that hung from it. He knew the price of using it, but having it around still made him more confident. If anyone tried to take what was his, they would pay dearly. “Sir, I think I found it! Here, in the sarcophagus!” “Let me see. Yes, this seems to be it! Prepare the carrier unit, we leave immi—” A sudden buzzing noise. Arjmand looked up just in time to see a small remote drone drop a payload of grenades on their heads. ----- “They’re all down, Sir. The payload of stingers and flashbangs knocked them out cold!” Turner said, looking up from his pocket monitor for the drone. Gladstone grinned. They didn’t call his task force “The Mirth Busters” for nothing. He almost pitied the poor bastards—they just spent a month looking for the SCP, and when they finally found it, BAM! It was gone again. “Alright, move in. I want the object secured and the Iranians neutralized.” ----- Colonel Arjmand barely managed to get a hold of his talisman before the grenades took down his men. He knew he was sacrificing much by using it, but he hardly had a choice. They were going to pay for this. [[[Favors-Part Two]]] [[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>]]	2012-06-24T18:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "nobody", "oria", "tale" ]	Favors-Part One - SCP Foundation	65	[ "favors-part-two", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "oria-hub", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13624111	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/favors-part-one
favors-part-two	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Note:</strong> Naturally, this should only be read after <a href="/favors-part-one">Favors-Part One</a></p> <hr/> <p>Colonel Arjmand wasn't sure he made the right choice. Granted, it was either using the talisman or certain death, but the latter seemed like a more attractive option with every passing moment.</p> <p>He was standing in a lavishly furnished dining room, surrounded by plump, richly dressed men, each wearing a different bizarre hat. One of them, sporting a hat that Arjmand was sure was made to look like two goats fornicating, approached Arjmand with a huge, smug grin on his face.</p> <p>"Captain Arjmand!" The fat man said, intentionally getting his rank wrong, "How pleasant it is to see you here again! What brings you to the demesne of the Djinn today?"</p> <p>Arjmand loathed the Djinn. The very idea of dealing with them was an affront to God, to decency, and, frankly, to common sense. The Djinn fancied themselves traders, honest businessmen, but they were much more similar to loan sharks. Behind that jovial, colorful facade lay a mind like a razor, and Arjmand knew he wasn't leaving without getting thoroughly sliced by it.</p> <p>"You know damn well what I'm here for, spirit! I know you keep a close eye on items like the one I was searching. Those pigs from the Foundation got the drop on me, and I need to repay them. With interest."</p> <p>The Djinn smiled warmly at him, and produced a notebook from the folds of his robe. Arjmand shivered. People always spoke of the terrible powers of the Djinn, but they rarely mentioned their complete mastery over numbers, real or imaginary.</p> <p>"Hmm, let us see," The Djinn peered at the notebook, now filled with page upon page of numbers. "Carry the one, reduce a week for bulk discount, add four months for multiple assailants…I would say you'll need one year of condensed time to deal with them and stay alive, in a reasonable condition."</p> <p>Arjmand relaxed a little—a year wasn't so bad, he could live with that. The Djinn wasn't done, however.</p> <p>"Of course, there is the matter of our commission. Let's see…stun removal, conversation fees, regeneration overload prevention, instant death fail-safe, friction nullifiers…that comes to five years overall."</p> <p>"Five years!? That's ludicrous! It's highway robbery!"</p> <p>The Djinn flashed his wide smile again, but there was nothing warm in it this time. "Come now, no Djinn would be caught dead on a highway. Five years, or no deal."</p> <p>Arjmand sighed. "If I give you five years, you guarantee I'll be able to dispose of those who attacked me?"</p> <p>"Of course. You know our word is good."</p> <p>"Do it."</p> <p>The Djinn placed a thick finger on the talisman still around Arjmand's neck, which started to emit a steady argent glow. Most of the silvery light flowed to the Djinn, whose grin could now only barely be contained by his puffy cheeks. Some of it, however, stayed in the talisman. And grew brighter.</p> <p>"It is done."</p> <p>Despite himself, and despite the knowledge he just lost five years of his life, Arjmand answered the Djinn's smile with one of his own.</p> <p>"Yes. And so are they."</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Gladstone couldn't help but winch at the sound of gunshot. When he told his men to neutralize the stunned Iranians, they knew what he meant. It was dirty work, but he couldn't risk them following his team on the way out. Overall, things went surprisingly well for the Mirth Busters.</p> <p>"Colt, go check on their commander. I want to question him before we get rid of him."</p> <p>"Got it, Sir."</p> <p>With this, Gladstone began looking for the object. The great stone hall with its great pillars and columns would take ages to properly search, but now, with the Iranians gone, they had all the time in the world. Maybe the Iranians already found the object. Their commander would know.</p> <p>"Colt, what's taking so long?"</p> <p>No reply. Gladstone turned to find the commander's body gone, and replacing it was Colt's, his throat crushed.</p> <p>"Defensive positions! We got a possible Zero-Thirteen scenario on our hands! Backs against a wall, now!"</p> <p>Well, so much for things going well.</p> <hr/> <p>Colonel Arjmand hid behind one of the great pillars, having used three days' worth of strength and speed of his condensed year to crush the soldier's throat and escape unseen. He could feel time leaking out of him, a few minutes for each second- the human body was never meant to hold so much time at once. He knew he needed to act fast, lest he won't have enough time time left to finish the rest of them—their commander was already ordering a defensive position, and he would have to spend a lot more time to penetrate it. He knew his sidearm would be entirely unreliable under the influence of the Djinn's talisman, so hand-to-hand was the only option. The entire affair was giving him a headache. Damn the Djinn and their temporal nonsense.</p> <p>Arjmand considered his options. With his sloppy control, it would take at least two weeks worth of time to pick one of the soldiers off and just barely avoid the hail of bullets that would follow. There were fifteen of them. With him leaking time all over the place, and his muscles already aching from the abuse of using them in such a careless manner, he knew he had no chance to win using strength and speed alone. Luckily, even a novice like him could use concentrated time in other ways. While he was protected from some of the more horrid effects of the Djinn's intervention, the soldiers were not.</p> <p>Gathering two hundred days of concentrated time all at once, and leaking time everywhere, Arjmand charged. The moment he left his cover, the soldiers spotted him and opened fire, but he was moving at such speed the bullets seemed to barely move as they floated lazily in the air. He knew he couldn't maintain this speed for very long- he already ate through months of speed, and his muscles screamed in protest. Luckily, he didn't need to. As he reached the first of the soldiers, he placed a finger on the man's forehead. Using the time leaking out of him to his advantage, Arjmand forced three weeks of wakefulness into the man's brain. Without the Djinn failsafe to protect him, the soldier collapsed immediately, suffering the equivalent of three weeks without sleep. With blinding speed, Arjmand turned and elbowed another soldier in the stomach, sending him flying across the hall.</p> <p>Arjmand was beginning to enjoy himself, despite the enormous temporal pressure his body was under. In less then thirty seconds, or several months of concentrated time, ten of the fifteen soldiers were down, out cold or dead. Arjmand accelerated the air flow in the lungs of one of the survivors, causing the friction to burn the man's lunges to cinders. Another had his bladder and intestines explode, caving in under the pressure of a month of waste that wasn't there moments before. This was true power, Arjmand thought, this was glory! He laughed as he ripped the guns from the hands of the surviving men, casting them aside. It was time to finish this. He was going to enjoy this, oh yes.</p> <p>A sudden shock of pain in his back brought his euphoria to a sharp end. Turning around, he saw a figure in grey holding one of the discarded rifles. He gathered what little remained of his time and tried to rush to it, but the figure was somehow too fast, even for him. Three more shots, and Arjmand felt himself falling, as slow as a feather, as heavy as a tombstone.</p> <p>"You promised there would be enough time…you said I could kill those who attacked me…"</p> <p><em>"And we kept our word. You never mentioned the man hiding behind that corner."</em></p> <p>Arjmand would have cursed the traitorous bastards, but he just felt so very tired…</p> <p>Colonel Abtin Arjmand's time had run out.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Gladstone, nursing a broken arm, was gazing sullenly at what remained of his task force. Over half his men were dead, and of the rest, only three were in any sort of fighting condition, including himself. Of course, there was also the man in grey, who was at the moment checking the dead colonel's body for something, while taking care to keep his weapon pointed firmly on Gladstone and his men.</p> <p>"Huh, would you look at that," the man in grey said, removing a silver necklace for the colonel's corpse. "It seems like this trip wasn't a complete waste of time after all."</p> <p>"Yeah, I'm real happy for you."</p> <p>"Come now, no need to be like that. I did just save your lives."</p> <p>"Oh yes, and I'm sure you didn't wait until most of my men were disposed of before acting on purpose. You must have been busy building an orphanage for the blind behind that corner."</p> <p>The man in grey just shrugged and turned to leave. "I would advise you to wait an hour or so before making your way back to your rendezvous point. The good colonel here didn't come alone. Oh, I've almost forgotten," he produced what seemed to be an ancient toy. "Are you a father, agent?"</p> <p>Gladstone shook his head. "Good, then it should be safe for you to handle this. I believe this is what the Iranians were looking for." He tossed the toy to Gladstone, who awkwardly caught it with his good hand. Then, he threw his rifle away and stepped out of the stone hall's mirage doors. Gladstone, without a moment hesitation, recovered the gun and went after him. He'd be damned if he let the smug bastard get away with a possible SCP object. The desert sands were blowing outside, as the sun was beginning to set on the salt flats. Of the man in grey, there was no sign.</p> <hr/> <p>As the dry and salty desert air began to smell of rain, the man in grey knew he was out of harm's way. Passing the corner of what seemed to be an abandoned butcher shop, he sank to the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He seemed to have misplaced his hat, which annoyed him.</p> <p><strong><em>A fortunate turn of events. The talisman of the Djinn could speed the growth of the Maker's chainfruit. They are creatures of avarice, but they will serve.</em></strong></p> <p>He hated talking to the Breath without his Gem of Aspects. Ever since he was forced to give the Gordian Stone away by the Breath's own instructions, his ability to discern which of its aspects was currently dominant was much reduced. This sounded like the Mind, but it could have been the Eye or the Mouth just as easily. The Breath was a solid, impenetrable storm front now, and trying to have a conversation with it was like trying to fly a kite in a Jovian maelstrom.</p> <p><strong><em>The others are stirring. The Pulse has attained powerful tools already, and the rest are not far behind. The fruit will be needed. Acquire the services of the Djinn.</em></strong></p> <p>He knew there were other Gems out there, like the Pulse's stone, but he had no way of knowing where they were. Besides, he knew the Breath did everything for a reason, and the blasted thing must not have wanted him to have one anymore.</p> <p><strong><em>Do not tarry.</em></strong></p> <p>With a sigh, the man in grey twisted the talisman, and the dirty butcher shop was replaced by lavish dining hall, all ivory and gold. An enormous man, wearing a hat which could not be described in civilized company, rose from a cushion and waddled towards him, a wide grin on his face.</p> <p>"A new customer, how pleasant! Welcome to the demesne of the Djinn, my good man. Are you here to trade? We have such marvelous wonders waiting for you, and all for just a humble price of time."</p> <p>"I'm sorry, but all my time is already in the possession of another. No, I'm simply here to take a few years of concentrated time. Twenty-five or so should suffice."</p> <p>The grin vanished. "If you have no time to trade for it, we have nothing further to discuss."</p> <p>The Djinn began making his way back to his cushion, and, feeling a rush of air at his back, dived just in time to avoid a large stone bust colliding with his skull. Turning, he saw the man in grey was standing in the midst of a swirling mass of air, which was rapidly reducing the dining hall into piles of expensive rubble. The Djinn, with surprising agility for a man of his size, accelerated his movement and smashed into the interloper with the force of two centuries, but found that all of his time simply vanished into the air flow around the man. Later the Djinn understood why—the thing was so old, two hundred years were nothing more than a quick lunch break for it.</p> <p>"Who are you?"</p> <p>The man in grey felt himself disappearing, fading into the gathering storm, and the Breath of the World, sometimes known as the Wind in the West, the sum of humanity's secrets, considered the question for a moment.</p> <p><strong><em>Nobody.</em></strong><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="/favors-part-two">Favors-Part Two</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/favors-part-two">https://scpwiki.com/favors-part-two</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]] [[/>]] Note: Naturally, this should only be read after [[[Favors-Part One]]] ---- Colonel Arjmand wasn't sure he made the right choice. Granted, it was either using the talisman or certain death, but the latter seemed like a more attractive option with every passing moment. He was standing in a lavishly furnished dining room, surrounded by plump, richly dressed men, each wearing a different bizarre hat. One of them, sporting a hat that Arjmand was sure was made to look like two goats fornicating, approached Arjmand with a huge, smug grin on his face. "Captain Arjmand!" The fat man said, intentionally getting his rank wrong, "How pleasant it is to see you here again! What brings you to the demesne of the Djinn today?" Arjmand loathed the Djinn. The very idea of dealing with them was an affront to God, to decency, and, frankly, to common sense. The Djinn fancied themselves traders, honest businessmen, but they were much more similar to loan sharks. Behind that jovial, colorful facade lay a mind like a razor, and Arjmand knew he wasn't leaving without getting thoroughly sliced by it. "You know damn well what I'm here for, spirit! I know you keep a close eye on items like the one I was searching. Those pigs from the Foundation got the drop on me, and I need to repay them. With interest." The Djinn smiled warmly at him, and produced a notebook from the folds of his robe. Arjmand shivered. People always spoke of the terrible powers of the Djinn, but they rarely mentioned their complete mastery over numbers, real or imaginary. "Hmm, let us see," The Djinn peered at the notebook, now filled with page upon page of numbers. "Carry the one, reduce a week for bulk discount, add four months for multiple assailants…I would say you'll need one year of condensed time to deal with them and stay alive, in a reasonable condition." Arjmand relaxed a little—a year wasn't so bad, he could live with that. The Djinn wasn't done, however. "Of course, there is the matter of our commission. Let's see…stun removal, conversation fees, regeneration overload prevention, instant death fail-safe, friction nullifiers…that comes to five years overall." "Five years!? That's ludicrous! It's highway robbery!" The Djinn flashed his wide smile again, but there was nothing warm in it this time. "Come now, no Djinn would be caught dead on a highway. Five years, or no deal." Arjmand sighed. "If I give you five years, you guarantee I'll be able to dispose of those who attacked me?" "Of course. You know our word is good." "Do it." The Djinn placed a thick finger on the talisman still around Arjmand's neck, which started to emit a steady argent glow. Most of the silvery light flowed to the Djinn, whose grin could now only barely be contained by his puffy cheeks. Some of it, however, stayed in the talisman. And grew brighter. "It is done." Despite himself, and despite the knowledge he just lost five years of his life, Arjmand answered the Djinn's smile with one of his own. "Yes. And so are they." ----- Agent Gladstone couldn't help but winch at the sound of gunshot. When he told his men to neutralize the stunned Iranians, they knew what he meant. It was dirty work, but he couldn't risk them following his team on the way out. Overall, things went surprisingly well for the Mirth Busters. "Colt, go check on their commander. I want to question him before we get rid of him." "Got it, Sir." With this, Gladstone began looking for the object. The great stone hall with its great pillars and columns would take ages to properly search, but now, with the Iranians gone, they had all the time in the world. Maybe the Iranians already found the object. Their commander would know. "Colt, what's taking so long?" No reply. Gladstone turned to find the commander's body gone, and replacing it was Colt's, his throat crushed. "Defensive positions! We got a possible Zero-Thirteen scenario on our hands! Backs against a wall, now!" Well, so much for things going well. ----- Colonel Arjmand hid behind one of the great pillars, having used three days' worth of strength and speed of his condensed year to crush the soldier's throat and escape unseen. He could feel time leaking out of him, a few minutes for each second- the human body was never meant to hold so much time at once. He knew he needed to act fast, lest he won't have enough time time left to finish the rest of them—their commander was already ordering a defensive position, and he would have to spend a lot more time to penetrate it. He knew his sidearm would be entirely unreliable under the influence of the Djinn's talisman, so hand-to-hand was the only option. The entire affair was giving him a headache. Damn the Djinn and their temporal nonsense. Arjmand considered his options. With his sloppy control, it would take at least two weeks worth of time to pick one of the soldiers off and just barely avoid the hail of bullets that would follow. There were fifteen of them. With him leaking time all over the place, and his muscles already aching from the abuse of using them in such a careless manner, he knew he had no chance to win using strength and speed alone. Luckily, even a novice like him could use concentrated time in other ways. While he was protected from some of the more horrid effects of the Djinn's intervention, the soldiers were not. Gathering two hundred days of concentrated time all at once, and leaking time everywhere, Arjmand charged. The moment he left his cover, the soldiers spotted him and opened fire, but he was moving at such speed the bullets seemed to barely move as they floated lazily in the air. He knew he couldn't maintain this speed for very long- he already ate through months of speed, and his muscles screamed in protest. Luckily, he didn't need to. As he reached the first of the soldiers, he placed a finger on the man's forehead. Using the time leaking out of him to his advantage, Arjmand forced three weeks of wakefulness into the man's brain. Without the Djinn failsafe to protect him, the soldier collapsed immediately, suffering the equivalent of three weeks without sleep. With blinding speed, Arjmand turned and elbowed another soldier in the stomach, sending him flying across the hall. Arjmand was beginning to enjoy himself, despite the enormous temporal pressure his body was under. In less then thirty seconds, or several months of concentrated time, ten of the fifteen soldiers were down, out cold or dead. Arjmand accelerated the air flow in the lungs of one of the survivors, causing the friction to burn the man's lunges to cinders. Another had his bladder and intestines explode, caving in under the pressure of a month of waste that wasn't there moments before. This was true power, Arjmand thought, this was glory! He laughed as he ripped the guns from the hands of the surviving men, casting them aside. It was time to finish this. He was going to enjoy this, oh yes. A sudden shock of pain in his back brought his euphoria to a sharp end. Turning around, he saw a figure in grey holding one of the discarded rifles. He gathered what little remained of his time and tried to rush to it, but the figure was somehow too fast, even for him. Three more shots, and Arjmand felt himself falling, as slow as a feather, as heavy as a tombstone. "You promised there would be enough time…you said I could kill those who attacked me…" //"And we kept our word. You never mentioned the man hiding behind that corner."// Arjmand would have cursed the traitorous bastards, but he just felt so very tired… Colonel Abtin Arjmand's time had run out. ---- Agent Gladstone, nursing a broken arm, was gazing sullenly at what remained of his task force. Over half his men were dead, and of the rest, only three were in any sort of fighting condition, including himself. Of course, there was also the man in grey, who was at the moment checking the dead colonel's body for something, while taking care to keep his weapon pointed firmly on Gladstone and his men. "Huh, would you look at that," the man in grey said, removing a silver necklace for the colonel's corpse. "It seems like this trip wasn't a complete waste of time after all." "Yeah, I'm real happy for you." "Come now, no need to be like that. I did just save your lives." "Oh yes, and I'm sure you didn't wait until most of my men were disposed of before acting on purpose. You must have been busy building an orphanage for the blind behind that corner." The man in grey just shrugged and turned to leave. "I would advise you to wait an hour or so before making your way back to your rendezvous point. The good colonel here didn't come alone. Oh, I've almost forgotten," he produced what seemed to be an ancient toy. "Are you a father, agent?" Gladstone shook his head. "Good, then it should be safe for you to handle this. I believe this is what the Iranians were looking for." He tossed the toy to Gladstone, who awkwardly caught it with his good hand. Then, he threw his rifle away and stepped out of the stone hall's mirage doors. Gladstone, without a moment hesitation, recovered the gun and went after him. He'd be damned if he let the smug bastard get away with a possible SCP object. The desert sands were blowing outside, as the sun was beginning to set on the salt flats. Of the man in grey, there was no sign. ----- As the dry and salty desert air began to smell of rain, the man in grey knew he was out of harm's way. Passing the corner of what seemed to be an abandoned butcher shop, he sank to the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He seemed to have misplaced his hat, which annoyed him. //A fortunate turn of events. The talisman of the Djinn could speed the growth of the Maker's chainfruit. They are creatures of avarice, but they will serve.// He hated talking to the Breath without his Gem of Aspects. Ever since he was forced to give the Gordian Stone away by the Breath's own instructions, his ability to discern which of its aspects was currently dominant was much reduced. This sounded like the Mind, but it could have been the Eye or the Mouth just as easily. The Breath was a solid, impenetrable storm front now, and trying to have a conversation with it was like trying to fly a kite in a Jovian maelstrom. //The others are stirring. The Pulse has attained powerful tools already, and the rest are not far behind. The fruit will be needed. Acquire the services of the Djinn.// He knew there were other Gems out there, like the Pulse's stone, but he had no way of knowing where they were. Besides, he knew the Breath did everything for a reason, and the blasted thing must not have wanted him to have one anymore. //Do not tarry.// With a sigh, the man in grey twisted the talisman, and the dirty butcher shop was replaced by lavish dining hall, all ivory and gold. An enormous man, wearing a hat which could not be described in civilized company, rose from a cushion and waddled towards him, a wide grin on his face. "A new customer, how pleasant! Welcome to the demesne of the Djinn, my good man. Are you here to trade? We have such marvelous wonders waiting for you, and all for just a humble price of time." "I'm sorry, but all my time is already in the possession of another. No, I'm simply here to take a few years of concentrated time. Twenty-five or so should suffice." The grin vanished. "If you have no time to trade for it, we have nothing further to discuss." The Djinn began making his way back to his cushion, and, feeling a rush of air at his back, dived just in time to avoid a large stone bust colliding with his skull. Turning, he saw the man in grey was standing in the midst of a swirling mass of air, which was rapidly reducing the dining hall into piles of expensive rubble. The Djinn, with surprising agility for a man of his size, accelerated his movement and smashed into the interloper with the force of two centuries, but found that all of his time simply vanished into the air flow around the man. Later the Djinn understood why—the thing was so old, two hundred years were nothing more than a quick lunch break for it. "Who are you?" The man in grey felt himself disappearing, fading into the gathering storm, and the Breath of the World, sometimes known as the Wind in the West, the sum of humanity's secrets, considered the question for a moment. //Nobody.// @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-08-17T16:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "nobody", "oria", "tale" ]	Favors-Part Two - SCP Foundation	62	[ "favors-part-one", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "oria-hub", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14066547	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/favors-part-two
fight	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Fucking hell, Sarah," Mitchell said. "I guess I'll just stop talking. Just…" He made a growling sound of frustration.</p> <p>"You know how much I hate it when you curse at me," Sarah said. "You can't argue without cursing. I <em>hate</em> it." She sighed. "And that weird growling sound. It makes me afraid you're going to hit—"</p> <p>"Afraid I'm going to hit you, yes," Mitchell interrupted. "Because that's <em>ever</em> happened in the past. I can't just be <em>angry</em> at how fucking <em>irrational</em> you are all the goddamn time; no, I must be <em>abusive.</em> Jesus Christ, Sarah."</p> <p>She was crying already. Mitchell felt terrible, but he wasn't willing to apologize yet. This trip was already a nightmare, and Mitchell didn't think the hike would be much better. He thought about turning around, decided against it. <em>May as well give her some time to calm down</em>, he thought.</p> <p>They reached the parking lot for the trail, sullenly put on their packs, and carried on. After an hour or so, Mitchell finally turned to Sarah. "Look, I'm sorry. For the way I acted."</p> <p>"I…" Sarah sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry too. I know how stressful it can be, doing as much work as you do. You really do need to work on your anger issues, though—"</p> <p>"I know," Mitchell said.</p> <p>"—and also your interrupting issues," Sarah said, frowning for a moment. Mitchell apologized again.</p> <p>They held hands the rest of the way along the trail, stopping to sit on a rock for a moment. Sarah got out her canteen and took a drink, passing it to Mitchell. <em>I really do love him,</em> she thought. <em>I just wish he could be—</em></p> <p>Sarah saw something peeking its head out of the woods. <em>Is that a monkey?</em> she thought. <em>What's it doing out—</em></p> <p>The monkey dashed along the ground towards them. "Mitchell! Look out!" Sarah screamed. Mitchell turned and looked just in time to see the little monkey bite him on the hand and dash off into the woods.</p> <p>"Ow, goddammit!" Mitchell yelled. But the bite didn't hurt as much as he felt like it should, so he composed himself. <em>She already thinks I have anger issues,</em> he thought. <em>No reason to act crazy now, not when we're patching things up.</em> "Aw, that was weird," he said.</p> <p>"Oh my god, are you okay?" Sarah asked</p> <p>"Yeah, yeah, it's cool," Mitchell said, playing off the pain. "Dude had little teeth or something. Eh, I'll be all right."</p> <p>Sarah packed the bags back up; Mitchell did the same. They began walking back.</p> <p>Half an hour of far more pleasant conversation followed. Halfway back to the parking lot, Sarah paused a moment. "Do you smell that?" she asked.</p> <p>Mitchell sniffed. "I don't smell anything."</p> <p>"Of course you don't," Sarah snapped, "you never smell anything. Jesus, I think you have a tumor or something. Same way you can't hear anything, either. At least not anything I say." Sarah shook her head and walked around for a minute, sniffing the air.</p> <p>"God, sorry," Mitchell said, recoiling slightly.</p> <p>Sarah sighed. "It's disgusting. I don't know how you could possibly not smell that." They kept walking.</p> <p>"Oh, god," she said after a while. "I know where it's coming from. It's <em>you.</em> I'm sure of it. What <em>is</em> that?"</p> <p>"Hmm?" he asked.</p> <p>"Jesus, you really <em>don't</em> listen, do you?"</p> <p>"Oh, not this again," Mitchell huffed. "What is it now? Am I not picking my feet up enough? Did I pick my nose? Do I have too many zits? Did I bring the wrong books? Did I forget what your favorite purse looks like? Did the food I brought not have enough green vegetables? What do you have to complain about now, for fuck's sake?" Mitchell realized he'd gone too far, took a step towards Sarah. "Oh, shit, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"</p> <p>Sarah slapped Mitchell directly across the face. "You pissant piece of shit, don't you <em>ever</em> speak to me like that again!"</p> <p>Mitchell was shocked, and in a considerable amount of pain. He rubbed the spot on his face where Sarah slapped him; it had come back with a spot of blood on it. He looked at Sarah and was shocked. She looked nearly crazed with anger.</p> <p>Sarah charged at him; Mitchell didn't know what to do, so he started running away. He dropped his pack on the ground so as to run faster. Sarah was close behind him, though; her time at the gym left her in better shape than he was.</p> <p>Mitchell heard a rustling in the woods beside him, then saw a form emerge. A dog was running next to him. Not even a big dog, maybe just a terrier. Mitchell didn't think much of this until the chipper-looking dog launched itself at him, growling and snarling as though it were rabid. The thirty-pound terrier brushed past Mitchell, its teeth nipping at Mitchell's leg before falling to the side. <em>What the fuck is going on?</em> he thought.</p> <p>He wasn't looking at the trail closely enough. A group of small animals were coming at him, mostly squirrels and stray cats. Startled, Mitchell tripped and fell to the ground, huffing. The squirrels began nibbling on his ears as soon as they reached him, while the cats clawed at his hands.</p> <p>Sarah was close behind. Mitchell fought to throw the animals off of him, clawing his way forward, but Sarah was too fast. She dove onto his back, knees first, shoving him to the ground with her weight.</p> <p>"You piece…of shit…" Sarah snarled, beating on the back of Mitchell's head with the bottoms of her fists, "moody….insecure…pussy…asshole!" The blows kept raining down. Mitchell was dizzy, his blood all over the ground now. He was barely holding on to consciousness. "I fucking…hate you…you son of a bitch! Just…fucking…die!"</p> <p>Sarah found a palm-sized stone on the ground nearby. The terrier caught up to the group and started biting at Mitchell's ankles. That was the last feeling Mitchell noticed before the rock smashed into his skull the first time. He didn't feel the last twenty-six times.</p> <hr/> <p>Researcher Kim was sitting in front of his computer, considering the information in front of him. There were six murders now, all unrelated, all in wooded regions of the Southeast United States. All committed by people with no history of violent crime, often simply people who were near the victim. Hell, in two of the cases, multiple people all joined in, beating or clawing or kicking the victim to death. And in every instance, all signs pointed to a temporary yet total psychotic break. They all simply decided to kill somebody near them.</p> <p>Ten people do not "turn crazy" all at once. They don't murder a man for no reason. Their official cover stories involved drugs, gas leaks, the usual, but Kim wasn't the only one who knew that didn't explain things. Kim agreed with his colleagues who forwarded him the information; something anomalous was going on. He just had no idea what to do with that knowledge. He had no idea how to find…whatever this was.</p> <p>He heard a rustling sound behind him, like paper on tile. Rubbing his eyes (<em>how is it already past midnight,</em> Kim thought), he turned to look.</p> <p>A large manila envelope was just in front of his door. Kim walked over, opened the door, looked back and forth down the long hallway. Nobody.</p> <p>He closed the door and grabbed the envelope. Inside he found a batch of twenty photos, a printout of a Wikipedia article, and a single sheet of paper with some words scrawled on it.</p> <p>He looked at the photos. He was shocked to recognize many of them, all photos of the victims he had been looking at only a few minutes ago. First he saw Mitchell Rosenberg, the most recent victim, covered in bite marks and lying with his head smashed in from behind. Next was another photo, much closer, showing Mitchell's hand. A circle was drawn around one bite in particular.</p> <p>The rest of the photos were the same; first, a victim, then, a single bite. Kim's knowledge of forensic science wasn't needed here. Anybody would have recognized it. Each victim was covered in bites from small animals, but they were usually different animals. This bite, however, was exactly the same on every single victim. Many of the photos were of victims Kim didn't recognize; he assumed they were new.</p> <p>He put down the photos and picked up the single sheet of paper. After some time, he was able to make out the scrawl. It was an address somewhere in Tennessee, no place Kim recognized. Below that read simply "LOOK IN THE BARN. BRING MASKS."</p> <p>Kim, confused, put the paper on top of the photos and looked at the Wikipedia article:</p> <blockquote> <p><em>The Philippine tarsier (Carlito syrichta), known locally as the kupal in Cebuano/Visayan and mamag in Luzon…</em></p> </blockquote> <p>He skimmed the article and began typing a message to his supervisor.</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="/fight">Fight</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/fight">https://scpwiki.com/fight</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]] [[/>]] "Fucking hell, Sarah," Mitchell said. "I guess I'll just stop talking. Just..." He made a growling sound of frustration. "You know how much I hate it when you curse at me," Sarah said. "You can't argue without cursing. I //hate// it." She sighed. "And that weird growling sound. It makes me afraid you're going to hit--" "Afraid I'm going to hit you, yes," Mitchell interrupted. "Because that's //ever// happened in the past. I can't just be //angry// at how fucking //irrational// you are all the goddamn time; no, I must be //abusive.// Jesus Christ, Sarah." She was crying already. Mitchell felt terrible, but he wasn't willing to apologize yet. This trip was already a nightmare, and Mitchell didn't think the hike would be much better. He thought about turning around, decided against it. //May as well give her some time to calm down//, he thought. They reached the parking lot for the trail, sullenly put on their packs, and carried on. After an hour or so, Mitchell finally turned to Sarah. "Look, I'm sorry. For the way I acted." "I..." Sarah sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry too. I know how stressful it can be, doing as much work as you do. You really do need to work on your anger issues, though--" "I know," Mitchell said. "--and also your interrupting issues," Sarah said, frowning for a moment. Mitchell apologized again. They held hands the rest of the way along the trail, stopping to sit on a rock for a moment. Sarah got out her canteen and took a drink, passing it to Mitchell. //I really do love him,// she thought. //I just wish he could be--// Sarah saw something peeking its head out of the woods. //Is that a monkey?// she thought. //What's it doing out--// The monkey dashed along the ground towards them. "Mitchell! Look out!" Sarah screamed. Mitchell turned and looked just in time to see the little monkey bite him on the hand and dash off into the woods. "Ow, goddammit!" Mitchell yelled. But the bite didn't hurt as much as he felt like it should, so he composed himself. //She already thinks I have anger issues,// he thought. //No reason to act crazy now, not when we're patching things up.// "Aw, that was weird," he said. "Oh my god, are you okay?" Sarah asked "Yeah, yeah, it's cool," Mitchell said, playing off the pain. "Dude had little teeth or something. Eh, I'll be all right." Sarah packed the bags back up; Mitchell did the same. They began walking back. Half an hour of far more pleasant conversation followed. Halfway back to the parking lot, Sarah paused a moment. "Do you smell that?" she asked. Mitchell sniffed. "I don't smell anything." "Of course you don't," Sarah snapped, "you never smell anything. Jesus, I think you have a tumor or something. Same way you can't hear anything, either. At least not anything I say." Sarah shook her head and walked around for a minute, sniffing the air. "God, sorry," Mitchell said, recoiling slightly. Sarah sighed. "It's disgusting. I don't know how you could possibly not smell that." They kept walking. "Oh, god," she said after a while. "I know where it's coming from. It's //you.// I'm sure of it. What //is// that?" "Hmm?" he asked. "Jesus, you really //don't// listen, do you?" "Oh, not this again," Mitchell huffed. "What is it now? Am I not picking my feet up enough? Did I pick my nose? Do I have too many zits? Did I bring the wrong books? Did I forget what your favorite purse looks like? Did the food I brought not have enough green vegetables? What do you have to complain about now, for fuck's sake?" Mitchell realized he'd gone too far, took a step towards Sarah. "Oh, shit, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--" Sarah slapped Mitchell directly across the face. "You pissant piece of shit, don't you //ever// speak to me like that again!" Mitchell was shocked, and in a considerable amount of pain. He rubbed the spot on his face where Sarah slapped him; it had come back with a spot of blood on it. He looked at Sarah and was shocked. She looked nearly crazed with anger. Sarah charged at him; Mitchell didn't know what to do, so he started running away. He dropped his pack on the ground so as to run faster. Sarah was close behind him, though; her time at the gym left her in better shape than he was. Mitchell heard a rustling in the woods beside him, then saw a form emerge. A dog was running next to him. Not even a big dog, maybe just a terrier. Mitchell didn't think much of this until the chipper-looking dog launched itself at him, growling and snarling as though it were rabid. The thirty-pound terrier brushed past Mitchell, its teeth nipping at Mitchell's leg before falling to the side. //What the fuck is going on?// he thought. He wasn't looking at the trail closely enough. A group of small animals were coming at him, mostly squirrels and stray cats. Startled, Mitchell tripped and fell to the ground, huffing. The squirrels began nibbling on his ears as soon as they reached him, while the cats clawed at his hands. Sarah was close behind. Mitchell fought to throw the animals off of him, clawing his way forward, but Sarah was too fast. She dove onto his back, knees first, shoving him to the ground with her weight. "You piece...of shit..." Sarah snarled, beating on the back of Mitchell's head with the bottoms of her fists, "moody....insecure...pussy...asshole!" The blows kept raining down. Mitchell was dizzy, his blood all over the ground now. He was barely holding on to consciousness. "I fucking...hate you...you son of a bitch! Just...fucking...die!" Sarah found a palm-sized stone on the ground nearby. The terrier caught up to the group and started biting at Mitchell's ankles. That was the last feeling Mitchell noticed before the rock smashed into his skull the first time. He didn't feel the last twenty-six times. ------ Researcher Kim was sitting in front of his computer, considering the information in front of him. There were six murders now, all unrelated, all in wooded regions of the Southeast United States. All committed by people with no history of violent crime, often simply people who were near the victim. Hell, in two of the cases, multiple people all joined in, beating or clawing or kicking the victim to death. And in every instance, all signs pointed to a temporary yet total psychotic break. They all simply decided to kill somebody near them. Ten people do not "turn crazy" all at once. They don't murder a man for no reason. Their official cover stories involved drugs, gas leaks, the usual, but Kim wasn't the only one who knew that didn't explain things. Kim agreed with his colleagues who forwarded him the information; something anomalous was going on. He just had no idea what to do with that knowledge. He had no idea how to find...whatever this was. He heard a rustling sound behind him, like paper on tile. Rubbing his eyes (//how is it already past midnight,// Kim thought), he turned to look. A large manila envelope was just in front of his door. Kim walked over, opened the door, looked back and forth down the long hallway. Nobody. He closed the door and grabbed the envelope. Inside he found a batch of twenty photos, a printout of a Wikipedia article, and a single sheet of paper with some words scrawled on it. He looked at the photos. He was shocked to recognize many of them, all photos of the victims he had been looking at only a few minutes ago. First he saw Mitchell Rosenberg, the most recent victim, covered in bite marks and lying with his head smashed in from behind. Next was another photo, much closer, showing Mitchell's hand. A circle was drawn around one bite in particular. The rest of the photos were the same; first, a victim, then, a single bite. Kim's knowledge of forensic science wasn't needed here. Anybody would have recognized it. Each victim was covered in bites from small animals, but they were usually different animals. This bite, however, was exactly the same on every single victim. Many of the photos were of victims Kim didn't recognize; he assumed they were new. He put down the photos and picked up the single sheet of paper. After some time, he was able to make out the scrawl. It was an address somewhere in Tennessee, no place Kim recognized. Below that read simply "LOOK IN THE BARN. BRING MASKS." Kim, confused, put the paper on top of the photos and looked at the Wikipedia article: > //The Philippine tarsier (Carlito syrichta), known locally as the kupal in Cebuano/Visayan and mamag in Luzon...// He skimmed the article and began typing a message to his supervisor. [[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>]]	2012-06-02T19:48:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Fight - SCP Foundation	26	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13450810	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/fight
fire-on-the-horizon	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The narrow alleyways of the Armenian Quarter of Old Jerusalem were beginning to darken as twilight stretched the shadows of the ancient stone buildings over them. Henry De Montfort felt the age of the city bear down on him like a lead brick, the sheer magnitude of the events it has seen dwarfing his already unimpressive frame even further. As he approached a seemingly deserted building at the corner of the old market, he wanted nothing more than to turn away and leave. De Montfort cursed silently. Damn those foolish old men for choosing this place. They did it on purpose, he was sure, they knew how uncomfortable the memories of their joint history made him. Well, he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cower before a few piles of old bricks. Not when he finally won.</p> <p>De Montfort knocked on the heavy iron door at the front of the building, and through a hatch appeared a pair of suspicious eyes.</p> <p>"Where did you come from?"</p> <p>"From the walls of Carcassonne, mighty and thick."</p> <p>There was a sliding sound, and the door opened to reveal a heavyset man with a broken nose wearing the shift of a Cistercian monk.</p> <p>"You're late."</p> <p>"You can't rush progress, Brother Alberic."</p> <p>"Tell that to the old men. You know how they get."</p> <p>That he did. As he was ushered in by Brother Alberic he could hear the sounds of a heated argument from the inner chamber:</p> <p>"… they still expect us to continue our funding after the fiasco with the honey? That's absurd!"</p> <p>"The Manna Charitable Foundation has proved to be a valuable asset in the past. It would be prudent to-"</p> <p>"Valuable? That honey of theirs killed thousands! More! If anyone discovers our connection with them we might as well bury our efforts in East Africa. No, from now on, they are on their own."</p> <p>"Adnan?"</p> <p>"I'm sorry, Bernard, but I have to side with Samuel here. They are a liability the Initiative can no longer afford to be associated with. The honey was simply the final straw in a haystack of failures."</p> <p>De Montfort cleared his throat loudly.</p> <p>"We shall continue this discussion later,” said the voice from within. "Come in, Henry. You said you had some important matters to discuss.”</p> <p>“I should bloody well hope so,” grunted another. “If he insisted on meeting us in person to discuss them. We are busy men, De Montfort, this better be good.”</p> <p>De Montfort entered the dim room. Most of it was taken by a wooden dais, on which three heavy leather chairs were stationed. The occupants of the chairs were shrouded in darkness, a pointless precautionary measure, since De Montfort knew perfectly well who they were. He didn’t care. Let the old men have their fun playing spies if they wished.</p> <p>"I assure you, gentlemen, it is. I am here to inform you that the Montsegur Loyalists are no more. If the information we have is correct, the death of their final member should rid us of Bélibaste’s journal once and for all."</p> <p>"Excellent work, De Montfort,” said the central chair. "The Cathars have been a thorn in our side for far too long, spreading their foul heresy, and that journal was one of their greatest tools. Might I ask how you disposed of him?"</p> <p>“I’m afraid this is where things begin to get complicated. We found him using one of the relics, and disposed of him using another.”</p> <p>This caused quite the commotion. De Montfort was surprised at the amount of noise three old men could produce.</p> <p>When he next addressed him, the outrage in the voice of the left chair was obvious. "You dared to use one of the relics as a killing tool? The relics are sacred objects, De Montfort, as you of all people should know!"</p> <p>"I had no choice. Someone informed the Foundation of the whereabouts of the last Cathar. We couldn’t risk them getting their hands on him, not considering what he knew. It had to be done."</p> <p>The chamber was silent for a moment. Then, the central chair spoke. "How did they find out? The only way they could possibly… Oh no."</p> <p>"A traitor. Someone within the Horizon Initiative must have informed them."</p> <p>"Well, we all know which section of the Initiative this traitor most likely belongs to," said the right chair. "The journal was stolen from your archives, after all."</p> <p>There was anger in the voice of the central chair. "What exactly are you accusing me of? The Initiative didn't even exist when the journal was stolen, and you know how the situation in Europe was in the years following the theft. The church had larger matters to deal with than an ancient heresy!"</p> <p>"Oh, we all know how busy the church was," said the right chair, a dangerous undertone sneaking into his voice. "Yes, the wars kept it very busy indeed."</p> <p>The left chair sighed. "Gentlemen, this isn’t the time. Allow De Montfort to finish his report."</p> <p>"As I was saying, a relic was used to sabotage the Foundation’s attempt to retrieve the last Cathar, leading to his death. As far as we know, they remain unaware of our intervention."</p> <p>"Very well, the matter is closed then. If that is all, I believe we can adjourn-"</p> <p>"Not quite,” De Montfort interrupted. "There is one more subject I wished to discuss with you. Project Malleus. The Initiative has spent far too long fighting old enemies and burying even older secrets, while new and much more dire threats have arisen. The last Cathar showed us how dangerous inaction can be. It is time we take the fight to them."</p> <p>This caught the old men by surprise. "Impossible!" said the central chair. "Confronting the Fifth Church and the Church of the Broken God directly?! It’s madness!"</p> <p>The left chair seemed to agree. "We are still far too few, and far too young. Those groups hold many powerful relics, and who knows what else. The Initiative is still in its infancy, and our support structure is very limited. We must learn to crawl before we can run."</p> <p>De Montfort was somewhat surprised at the indignation in his voice when he spoke next: "Crawl? We are the leaders of man, the shepherds, the bearers of the sacred light, and you want us to grovel at the feet of pagans and idol worshipers? When will the Initiative be strong enough? When the pieces of the True Cross are burned to fuel a Fifth ritual? When the Menorah is smelted for gears? When the Kaaba is shattered by heathens? We cannot continue to rely on secular groups to stop a spiritual threat such as this. They do not understand, cannot understand. They think they are fighting to preserve normalcy, to defend humanity’s flesh. We know we are fighting for nothing less than its eternal soul."</p> <p>Silence.</p> <p>Finally, the right chair spoke. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right. You have the support of the Sons of Shamai. Let it never be said we have cowered before evil again."</p> <p>The left chair spoke next. "Atibba al-Kitab are behind you as well. I have let our weakness cloud my judgment and shake my resolve. We must fight, regardless of the odds. It is our privilege and our duty."</p> <p>The center chair was last. "It seems I have no choice. The Ordinis Occulti Luminis are with you as well. You may begin the first phase of Project Malleus. We will require additional reports before approving anything further. Leave us."</p> <p>As De Montfort made his way through the now dark streets back to his hotel, a smile crept to his face. He knew informing the Foundation of the last Cathar was the right thing to do. With the old men finally stirred from their complacency, the world was about to find out just how terrible the Wrath of God could be.<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="/fire-on-the-horizon">Fire on the Horizon</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/fire-on-the-horizon">https://scpwiki.com/fire-on-the-horizon</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 narrow alleyways of the Armenian Quarter of Old Jerusalem were beginning to darken as twilight stretched the shadows of the ancient stone buildings over them. Henry De Montfort felt the age of the city bear down on him like a lead brick, the sheer magnitude of the events it has seen dwarfing his already unimpressive frame even further. As he approached a seemingly deserted building at the corner of the old market, he wanted nothing more than to turn away and leave. De Montfort cursed silently. Damn those foolish old men for choosing this place. They did it on purpose, he was sure, they knew how uncomfortable the memories of their joint history made him. Well, he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cower before a few piles of old bricks. Not when he finally won. De Montfort knocked on the heavy iron door at the front of the building, and through a hatch appeared a pair of suspicious eyes. "Where did you come from?" "From the walls of Carcassonne, mighty and thick." There was a sliding sound, and the door opened to reveal a heavyset man with a broken nose wearing the shift of a Cistercian monk. "You're late." "You can't rush progress, Brother Alberic." "Tell that to the old men. You know how they get." That he did. As he was ushered in by Brother Alberic he could hear the sounds of a heated argument from the inner chamber: "... they still expect us to continue our funding after the fiasco with the honey? That's absurd!" "The Manna Charitable Foundation has proved to be a valuable asset in the past. It would be prudent to-" "Valuable? That honey of theirs killed thousands! More! If anyone discovers our connection with them we might as well bury our efforts in East Africa. No, from now on, they are on their own." "Adnan?" "I'm sorry, Bernard, but I have to side with Samuel here. They are a liability the Initiative can no longer afford to be associated with. The honey was simply the final straw in a haystack of failures." De Montfort cleared his throat loudly. "We shall continue this discussion later,” said the voice from within. "Come in, Henry. You said you had some important matters to discuss.” “I should bloody well hope so,” grunted another. “If he insisted on meeting us in person to discuss them. We are busy men, De Montfort, this better be good.” De Montfort entered the dim room. Most of it was taken by a wooden dais, on which three heavy leather chairs were stationed. The occupants of the chairs were shrouded in darkness, a pointless precautionary measure, since De Montfort knew perfectly well who they were. He didn’t care. Let the old men have their fun playing spies if they wished. "I assure you, gentlemen, it is. I am here to inform you that the Montsegur Loyalists are no more. If the information we have is correct, the death of their final member should rid us of Bélibaste’s journal once and for all." "Excellent work, De Montfort,” said the central chair. "The Cathars have been a thorn in our side for far too long, spreading their foul heresy, and that journal was one of their greatest tools. Might I ask how you disposed of him?" “I’m afraid this is where things begin to get complicated. We found him using one of the relics, and disposed of him using another.” This caused quite the commotion. De Montfort was surprised at the amount of noise three old men could produce. When he next addressed him, the outrage in the voice of the left chair was obvious. "You dared to use one of the relics as a killing tool? The relics are sacred objects, De Montfort, as you of all people should know!" "I had no choice. Someone informed the Foundation of the whereabouts of the last Cathar. We couldn’t risk them getting their hands on him, not considering what he knew. It had to be done." The chamber was silent for a moment. Then, the central chair spoke. "How did they find out? The only way they could possibly… Oh no." "A traitor. Someone within the Horizon Initiative must have informed them." "Well, we all know which section of the Initiative this traitor most likely belongs to," said the right chair. "The journal was stolen from your archives, after all." There was anger in the voice of the central chair. "What exactly are you accusing me of? The Initiative didn't even exist when the journal was stolen, and you know how the situation in Europe was in the years following the theft. The church had larger matters to deal with than an ancient heresy!" "Oh, we all know how busy the church was," said the right chair, a dangerous undertone sneaking into his voice. "Yes, the wars kept it very busy indeed." The left chair sighed. "Gentlemen, this isn’t the time. Allow De Montfort to finish his report." "As I was saying, a relic was used to sabotage the Foundation’s attempt to retrieve the last Cathar, leading to his death. As far as we know, they remain unaware of our intervention." "Very well, the matter is closed then. If that is all, I believe we can adjourn-" "Not quite,” De Montfort interrupted. "There is one more subject I wished to discuss with you. Project Malleus. The Initiative has spent far too long fighting old enemies and burying even older secrets, while new and much more dire threats have arisen. The last Cathar showed us how dangerous inaction can be. It is time we take the fight to them." This caught the old men by surprise. "Impossible!" said the central chair. "Confronting the Fifth Church and the Church of the Broken God directly?! It’s madness!" The left chair seemed to agree. "We are still far too few, and far too young. Those groups hold many powerful relics, and who knows what else. The Initiative is still in its infancy, and our support structure is very limited. We must learn to crawl before we can run." De Montfort was somewhat surprised at the indignation in his voice when he spoke next: "Crawl? We are the leaders of man, the shepherds, the bearers of the sacred light, and you want us to grovel at the feet of pagans and idol worshipers? When will the Initiative be strong enough? When the pieces of the True Cross are burned to fuel a Fifth ritual? When the Menorah is smelted for gears? When the Kaaba is shattered by heathens? We cannot continue to rely on secular groups to stop a spiritual threat such as this. They do not understand, cannot understand. They think they are fighting to preserve normalcy, to defend humanity’s flesh. We know we are fighting for nothing less than its eternal soul." Silence. Finally, the right chair spoke. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right. You have the support of the Sons of Shamai. Let it never be said we have cowered before evil again." The left chair spoke next. "Atibba al-Kitab are behind you as well. I have let our weakness cloud my judgment and shake my resolve. We must fight, regardless of the odds. It is our privilege and our duty." The center chair was last. "It seems I have no choice. The Ordinis Occulti Luminis are with you as well. You may begin the first phase of Project Malleus. We will require additional reports before approving anything further. Leave us." As De Montfort made his way through the now dark streets back to his hotel, a smile crept to his face. He knew informing the Foundation of the last Cathar was the right thing to do. With the old men finally stirred from their complacency, the world was about to find out just how terrible the Wrath of God could be. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-08-24T06:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "fifthist", "horizon-initiative", "manna-charitable-foundation", "tale" ]	Fire on the Horizon - SCP Foundation	92	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "1998-911-hub", "kaktuskast-hub", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "fifthist-hub", "etdp-hub-page" ]	[]	14111806	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/fire-on-the-horizon
first-seed	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>March 11th, 2015.</em></p> <p>Siberia was not nice this time of year. Anders Forsman wondered if Siberia was ever really nice at <em>any</em> time of the year. Either way, this wasn't his normal neck of the woods. The Siberian tundra was the kind of place you shipped low performance Insurgency officers to try and whip them into shape. But apparently one of those washouts had stumbled upon something big before the hoarders had a chance to nab it from them. So the Insurgency had decided that he would be the one to go verify that it was as big a hazard as they claimed it to be. Forsman personally thought that it was a cluster of bullshit coming from some attention whore officers. He'd see that it wasn't as jazzy as they had made it out to be, and some of them would probably be shot. Bing bang done.</p> <p>The convoy was beginning to slow down, and at the head of the pack Forsman could almost make out the silhouette of a big tower. He opened his car door and was hit by a block of freezing air. Pulling up his parka, he began trudging down toward the silhouette of a tower, hazy from all the snow in the air. It was the thing the washouts claimed to be the greatest thing since sliced bread. Orville walked up next to him. Orville was another one of the guys the big chiefs had sent down to look at this thing. He was great at explaining to overexcited officers that the magic flying bobble-head they had found did not require an Apozem recovery protocol. Forsman nodded to him as they walked toward their mutual destination.</p> <p>It was a big fucker. That was the first thing that occurred to Forsman as they got closer. There were the signs of excavation protocols being enacted even at this distance from the site. He saw kids digging holes through solid permafrost. Locals, probably recruited recently. As they went on, the digging became more and more organized. It went from freezing teens digging haphazard holes to professional engineers yakking about controlled demolition with the tremble of heavy machinery permanently in the background. The excavated area itself was at least three hundred and fifty meters across. Not meters, thought Forsman, yards. They didn't use meters anymore.</p> <p>The hole itself was too deep to see anything, but the officers in charge were more than happy to blather about all their theories on what the object really was. "Maybe it is some ruins that came from ancient civilizations!" was one of the more popular theories. Another one that was brought out almost as often was that it was an extraterrestrial vehicle. Most of them hadn't seen the thing for themselves, and had no idea what it actually was. But that didn't stop every officer Forsman interviewed from spouting off their own kettle of bullshit.</p> <p>"Now lieutenant," Forsman would say, as he pretended to look at the important documents on his clipboard, "When did you first become aware of this object?"</p> <p>The lieutenant would reply that they had found it "Pokin' out of a big ditch. Some of the people that used to live in the next town over went wild over it after it grew right into an insurance office."</p> <p>Things would go on like that, with Forsman asking what had happened to the property (Demolished), townsfolk ("Evacuated"), and how things at the excavation site were going (they always said it was excellent).</p> <p>And then he would have to ask about their theories on what the object could be. And he would sit and listen as the man seated in front of him listed off speculative bullshit, sometimes with clever theories they had come up with all on their own. The theories usually ran the gamut of things that he had heard a million times before. Aliens, ancients, conspiracy blah blah blah. The only one who wasn't completely up his own ass was a junior officer who had been in the dig site. He was the only officer Forsman knew of who had seen the thing. His name was Jasper.</p> <p>Jasper told him that the thing looked like a tree connected to a bunch of big roots, all made of some kind of metal substance. When one of his men tried to touch it, they'd been snarled in by millions of fibers growing out of the thing that pulled him in. They had stopped underground excavation after that, and begun trying to dig it out from the surface. Jasper told him that it looked like the thing went a long way into the dirt. It was the only useful information Forsman had gotten all day.</p> <hr/> <p>Forsman looked at his accumulated data and shook his head. It was just a textbook case of overeager officers taking something big and scary to be more dangerous than it actually was. All it seemed to be was a big fibrous root in the ground. Strange, certainly, and definitely warranted the Insurgency's attention, but it wasn't doing anything particularly dangerous. Such a shame. He had had hope that maybe this wouldn't be bullshit, that they may have actually found something important before the Foundation could add it to their collections. But…well…that was a fanciful thought. Realistically, he would probably never be important enough to do anything other than these backwater assignments. At least he didn't have to live here.</p> <p>He shut down the terminal, and a piercing whine began blaring. He covered his ears and ducked. After a second, he realized it was the alarm. The intercom crackled and fizzed, and then spat out a static-riddled announcement.</p> <p><em>"ALL SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT TO EXCAVATION SITE PRIME IMMEDIATELY, OBJECT NASAW HAS BEEN ACTIVATED, REPEAT, OBJECT NASAW-"</em> the bulletin sputtered, and then went silent. Forsman got up and grabbed his gun. The door handle stuck for a second, but he was still out in the corridor within moments. The corridor itself was in pandemonium. Men and women in secondhand uniforms ran in every direction, and the feeling of panic was heavy in the air. Forsman noticed Orville calmly walking toward the exit. He pushed his way past a security agent fumbling with a gun and walked beside him.</p> <p>Their conversation was short.</p> <p>"Any idea what's going on?"</p> <p>"None at all."</p> <p>"Heading out."</p> <p>"Of course. You?"</p> <p>"Of course."</p> <p>They hit the exit doors and looked up.</p> <p>The tower was no longer at the center of the excavation site. Or, rather, it was in the same relative place, but the excavation site was gone. The tower was several hundred feet in the air. Several hundred tendrils, the root structures, trailed down to the earth. They ripped tremendous amounts of earth apart as they were liberated from their underground resting place. It looked like a flower being pinched and lifted into the sky, and they were the bugs being smashed by the uplifting roots.</p> <p>As the tower grew higher, the ground around them started to break. The trails of the roots drew closer to their location. Forsman looked to his right to ask Orville what to do. He realized Orville was gone. In his place, there was a big mesh root, ornately woven and glimmering in the winter sun. Forsman turned around to go back into the base, radio command about what had happened. And he would've been able to, had the door not been blocked by a large root, also ornate, with intricately carved patterns. Forsman would have turned to try and run, but he tripped on a root. As he watched it crawl up his leg, he didn't feel any pain. He looked over at the dig site, saw roots spreading, making new towers to put themselves out of the ground. Some might call it a shame. He thought it was beautiful.</p> <p>It was the last thought he ever had.</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="/first-seed">First Seed</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/first-seed">https://scpwiki.com/first-seed</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]] [[/>]] = //March 11th, 2015.// Siberia was not nice this time of year. Anders Forsman wondered if Siberia was ever really nice at //any// time of the year. Either way, this wasn't his normal neck of the woods. The Siberian tundra was the kind of place you shipped low performance Insurgency officers to try and whip them into shape. But apparently one of those washouts had stumbled upon something big before the hoarders had a chance to nab it from them. So the Insurgency had decided that he would be the one to go verify that it was as big a hazard as they claimed it to be. Forsman personally thought that it was a cluster of bullshit coming from some attention whore officers. He'd see that it wasn't as jazzy as they had made it out to be, and some of them would probably be shot. Bing bang done. The convoy was beginning to slow down, and at the head of the pack Forsman could almost make out the silhouette of a big tower. He opened his car door and was hit by a block of freezing air. Pulling up his parka, he began trudging down toward the silhouette of a tower, hazy from all the snow in the air. It was the thing the washouts claimed to be the greatest thing since sliced bread. Orville walked up next to him. Orville was another one of the guys the big chiefs had sent down to look at this thing. He was great at explaining to overexcited officers that the magic flying bobble-head they had found did not require an Apozem recovery protocol. Forsman nodded to him as they walked toward their mutual destination. It was a big fucker. That was the first thing that occurred to Forsman as they got closer. There were the signs of excavation protocols being enacted even at this distance from the site. He saw kids digging holes through solid permafrost. Locals, probably recruited recently. As they went on, the digging became more and more organized. It went from freezing teens digging haphazard holes to professional engineers yakking about controlled demolition with the tremble of heavy machinery permanently in the background. The excavated area itself was at least three hundred and fifty meters across. Not meters, thought Forsman, yards. They didn't use meters anymore. The hole itself was too deep to see anything, but the officers in charge were more than happy to blather about all their theories on what the object really was. "Maybe it is some ruins that came from ancient civilizations!" was one of the more popular theories. Another one that was brought out almost as often was that it was an extraterrestrial vehicle. Most of them hadn't seen the thing for themselves, and had no idea what it actually was. But that didn't stop every officer Forsman interviewed from spouting off their own kettle of bullshit. "Now lieutenant," Forsman would say, as he pretended to look at the important documents on his clipboard, "When did you first become aware of this object?" The lieutenant would reply that they had found it "Pokin' out of a big ditch. Some of the people that used to live in the next town over went wild over it after it grew right into an insurance office." Things would go on like that, with Forsman asking what had happened to the property (Demolished), townsfolk ("Evacuated"), and how things at the excavation site were going (they always said it was excellent). And then he would have to ask about their theories on what the object could be. And he would sit and listen as the man seated in front of him listed off speculative bullshit, sometimes with clever theories they had come up with all on their own. The theories usually ran the gamut of things that he had heard a million times before. Aliens, ancients, conspiracy blah blah blah. The only one who wasn't completely up his own ass was a junior officer who had been in the dig site. He was the only officer Forsman knew of who had seen the thing. His name was Jasper. Jasper told him that the thing looked like a tree connected to a bunch of big roots, all made of some kind of metal substance. When one of his men tried to touch it, they'd been snarled in by millions of fibers growing out of the thing that pulled him in. They had stopped underground excavation after that, and begun trying to dig it out from the surface. Jasper told him that it looked like the thing went a long way into the dirt. It was the only useful information Forsman had gotten all day. ------------------------ Forsman looked at his accumulated data and shook his head. It was just a textbook case of overeager officers taking something big and scary to be more dangerous than it actually was. All it seemed to be was a big fibrous root in the ground. Strange, certainly, and definitely warranted the Insurgency's attention, but it wasn't doing anything particularly dangerous. Such a shame. He had had hope that maybe this wouldn't be bullshit, that they may have actually found something important before the Foundation could add it to their collections. But...well...that was a fanciful thought. Realistically, he would probably never be important enough to do anything other than these backwater assignments. At least he didn't have to live here. He shut down the terminal, and a piercing whine began blaring. He covered his ears and ducked. After a second, he realized it was the alarm. The intercom crackled and fizzed, and then spat out a static-riddled announcement. //"ALL SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT TO EXCAVATION SITE PRIME IMMEDIATELY, OBJECT NASAW HAS BEEN ACTIVATED, REPEAT, OBJECT NASAW-"// the bulletin sputtered, and then went silent. Forsman got up and grabbed his gun. The door handle stuck for a second, but he was still out in the corridor within moments. The corridor itself was in pandemonium. Men and women in secondhand uniforms ran in every direction, and the feeling of panic was heavy in the air. Forsman noticed Orville calmly walking toward the exit. He pushed his way past a security agent fumbling with a gun and walked beside him. Their conversation was short. "Any idea what's going on?" "None at all." "Heading out." "Of course. You?" "Of course." They hit the exit doors and looked up. The tower was no longer at the center of the excavation site. Or, rather, it was in the same relative place, but the excavation site was gone. The tower was several hundred feet in the air. Several hundred tendrils, the root structures, trailed down to the earth. They ripped tremendous amounts of earth apart as they were liberated from their underground resting place. It looked like a flower being pinched and lifted into the sky, and they were the bugs being smashed by the uplifting roots. As the tower grew higher, the ground around them started to break. The trails of the roots drew closer to their location. Forsman looked to his right to ask Orville what to do. He realized Orville was gone. In his place, there was a big mesh root, ornately woven and glimmering in the winter sun. Forsman turned around to go back into the base, radio command about what had happened. And he would've been able to, had the door not been blocked by a large root, also ornate, with intricately carved patterns. Forsman would have turned to try and run, but he tripped on a root. As he watched it crawl up his leg, he didn't feel any pain. He looked over at the dig site, saw roots spreading, making new towers to put themselves out of the ground. Some might call it a shame. He thought it was beautiful. It was the last thought he ever had. [[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>]]	2012-08-10T23:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "rewritable", "tale" ]	First Seed - SCP Foundation	51	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-age-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "end-of-olympians-hub", "chaos-insurgency-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	14013407	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/first-seed
flamingos	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Note: The following audio transcripts were recovered from an audio listening device found installed inside the home telephone of Arthur Windsworth during the recovery operation of <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1507">SCP-1507</a>. The origin of the listening device is currently unknown; investigation is ongoing.</p> <hr/> <p>"Hello? Are you there?"</p> <p>"Hello, this is 911. What is the nature of your emergency?"</p> <p>"Someone's gone and put flamingos all over my lawn! I don't know how they got there, but they're there and I want them gone."</p> <p>"May I have your name and address please?"</p> <p>"Arthur. Arthur Windsworth. I live at…. uhh…. well it's on 9th street. In Shady Oaks. I'm sure I can give the police officers directions if you would just patch me through. These birds need to be gotten rid of I tell you!"</p> <p>"Are you able to tell me the condition of the birds? Do they appear to be injured?"</p> <p>"Injured? What? No, no. You don't understand. They're not <em>real</em> birds."</p> <p>"Not real?"</p> <p>"Fake! Plastic birds, big great pink plastic flamingos cluttering up my lawn. Someone's put them there and I want them <span style="text-decoration: underline;">gone</span>."</p> <p>"Sir, that's not exactly considered an <em>emergency</em>. The 911 hotline is reserved for use in <em>emergencies</em>."</p> <p>"Well I am ever so sorry, but could you at least send <em>someone</em> down? I'm too <em>old</em> to be messing about in the yard trying to get at a bunch of birds that some hoodlums put in my yard."</p> <p>"Well Mr. Windsworth, I'll see what I can do. In the future, if you have any more problems with 'hoodlums' please contact the police department directly to file a report."</p> <p>"Well…. I…. alright."</p> <p>"Goodbye, Mr. Windsworth."</p> <p>"What? Oh. Yes. Goodbye."</p> <hr/> <p>"Hello?"</p> <p>"Hello, this is 911. What is the nature of your emergency?"</p> <p>"Oh. Yes. Well you see, I called earlier about some flamingos. I just wanted to let you all know that you don't need to send anyone down. As it turns <em>out</em>, they're actually quite friendly. I've named one of them Dave. He's really very nice."</p> <p>"Are you referring to the <em>plastic</em> flamingos that were in your yard Mr. Windsworth?"</p> <p>"Oh. Right. Well I suppose they weren't quite as <em>plastic</em> as I had thought. Maybe they're only <em>partly</em> plastic."</p> <p>"Well Mr. Windsworth, I've already filed the report, but I'll let them know. Good day Mr. Windsworth."</p> <p>"Oh thank you. Oh, and umm…. Good day to you as well. I suppose. Yes. A good day indeed."</p> <hr/> <p>"911. What's your 'mergency?"</p> <p>"The birds! The birds are attacking me!"</p> <p>"What birds?"</p> <p>"The birds in my yard!"</p> <p>"Mr. Windsworth, flamingos don't attack people."</p> <p>"But they did! Someone <em>put</em> them there, don't you see? First they were plastic, now they're attacking me!"</p> <p>"That's what I'm trying to tell you Mr. Windsworth, flamingos don't attack people. Especially not <em>plastic</em> flamingos."</p> <p>"But… but I saw them. They really did! One of them nearly pecked my poor eye out… All I did was try to give them some nice shrimp. I didn't <em>mean</em> to knock the poor thing over. I'm telling the truth you know. You have to believe me. I really am!"</p> <p>"I'm sorry Mr. Windsworth, there's nothing I can do."</p> <p>"This is preposterous! <em>I</em> am an American citizen. I shall not accept this kind of treatment… I'd like to speak to your Manager!"</p> <p>"I'll put you through to my boss, Mr. Windsworth, but he'll just tell you the same thing."</p> <hr/> <p>"Hello?"</p> <p>"Who is this? Are you the manager?"</p> <p>"Yes Mr. Windsworth. I'm told you've been having some trouble with your lawn ornaments."</p> <p>"Trouble! You don't know trouble. And they're certainly not <em>mine</em>. I don't know who put them there. Whoever did it, they're a <em>terrorist</em>. Those little monsters have been assaulting me. They're a public nuisance, I tell you!"</p> <p>"Mr. Windsworth, you have to understand. No one is coming. No one will ever come. Give up."</p> <p>"Hello? Are you still there? Hello? …Hello?"</p> <hr/> <p>"Is this Captain Jefferies?"</p> <p>"Yeah Emerson, what's the problem? I've been trying to get a hold of you all day."</p> <p>"Sorry, Cap, the damn thing died again. You should see this place though, fuckin' preposterous. There's these weird-ass flamingos all over the place. Whole house is filled with 'em. Old man must've been collecting the damn things."</p> <p>"Have you questioned him yet? The dispatcher told me he sounded a bit out of it."</p> <p>"That's the thing captain. The old man, Windsor or somethin', he's dead. Gaines found him out front, covered in these weird scratches. Must've been some crazy-ass gardening accident or something. I dunno. Anyway, the guy's dead. Looks like he bled out. I think the crows already got to him, the eyes and tongue are gone."</p> <p>"No signs of forced entry at the house?"</p> <p>"No. There's a broken window upstairs, but nothing bigger than, like, a bird or something could get in through there."</p> <p>"Alright, Emerson, call the morgue and get back to work."</p> <p>"Hey Cap, one more thing. The phone line's down here. Looks like something snapped it. Not sure what could have done it, though, no trees nearby. Maybe somethin' landed on it or something. Whatever, I'm out of here. These birds are starting to get pretty fuckin' creepy."</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="/flamingos">Flamingos</a>" by Wogglebug, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/flamingos">https://scpwiki.com/flamingos</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]] [[/>]] Note: The following audio transcripts were recovered from an audio listening device found installed inside the home telephone of Arthur Windsworth during the recovery operation of [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1507 SCP-1507]. The origin of the listening device is currently unknown; investigation is ongoing. ------ "Hello? Are you there?" "Hello, this is 911. What is the nature of your emergency?" "Someone's gone and put flamingos all over my lawn! I don't know how they got there, but they're there and I want them gone." "May I have your name and address please?" "Arthur. Arthur Windsworth. I live at.... uhh.... well it's on 9th street. In Shady Oaks. I'm sure I can give the police officers directions if you would just patch me through. These birds need to be gotten rid of I tell you!" "Are you able to tell me the condition of the birds? Do they appear to be injured?" "Injured? What? No, no. You don't understand. They're not //real// birds." "Not real?" "Fake! Plastic birds, big great pink plastic flamingos cluttering up my lawn. Someone's put them there and I want them __gone__." "Sir, that's not exactly considered an //emergency//. The 911 hotline is reserved for use in //emergencies//." "Well I am ever so sorry, but could you at least send //someone// down? I'm too //old// to be messing about in the yard trying to get at a bunch of birds that some hoodlums put in my yard." "Well Mr. Windsworth, I'll see what I can do. In the future, if you have any more problems with 'hoodlums' please contact the police department directly to file a report." "Well.... I.... alright." "Goodbye, Mr. Windsworth." "What? Oh. Yes. Goodbye." ------ "Hello?" "Hello, this is 911. What is the nature of your emergency?" "Oh. Yes. Well you see, I called earlier about some flamingos. I just wanted to let you all know that you don't need to send anyone down. As it turns //out//, they're actually quite friendly. I've named one of them Dave. He's really very nice." "Are you referring to the //plastic// flamingos that were in your yard Mr. Windsworth?" "Oh. Right. Well I suppose they weren't quite as //plastic// as I had thought. Maybe they're only //partly// plastic." "Well Mr. Windsworth, I've already filed the report, but I'll let them know. Good day Mr. Windsworth." "Oh thank you. Oh, and umm.... Good day to you as well. I suppose. Yes. A good day indeed." ------ "911. What's your 'mergency?" "The birds! The birds are attacking me!" "What birds?" "The birds in my yard!" "Mr. Windsworth, flamingos don't attack people." "But they did! Someone //put// them there, don't you see? First they were plastic, now they're attacking me!" "That's what I'm trying to tell you Mr. Windsworth, flamingos don't attack people. Especially not //plastic// flamingos." "But... but I saw them. They really did! One of them nearly pecked my poor eye out... All I did was try to give them some nice shrimp. I didn't //mean// to knock the poor thing over. I'm telling the truth you know. You have to believe me. I really am!" "I'm sorry Mr. Windsworth, there's nothing I can do." "This is preposterous! //I// am an American citizen. I shall not accept this kind of treatment... I'd like to speak to your Manager!" "I'll put you through to my boss, Mr. Windsworth, but he'll just tell you the same thing." ------ "Hello?" "Who is this? Are you the manager?" "Yes Mr. Windsworth. I'm told you've been having some trouble with your lawn ornaments." "Trouble! You don't know trouble. And they're certainly not //mine//. I don't know who put them there. Whoever did it, they're a //terrorist//. Those little monsters have been assaulting me. They're a public nuisance, I tell you!" "Mr. Windsworth, you have to understand. No one is coming. No one will ever come. Give up." "Hello? Are you still there? Hello? ...Hello?" ------ "Is this Captain Jefferies?" "Yeah Emerson, what's the problem? I've been trying to get a hold of you all day." "Sorry, Cap, the damn thing died again. You should see this place though, fuckin' preposterous. There's these weird-ass flamingos all over the place. Whole house is filled with 'em. Old man must've been collecting the damn things." "Have you questioned him yet? The dispatcher told me he sounded a bit out of it." "That's the thing captain. The old man, Windsor or somethin', he's dead. Gaines found him out front, covered in these weird scratches. Must've been some crazy-ass gardening accident or something. I dunno. Anyway, the guy's dead. Looks like he bled out. I think the crows already got to him, the eyes and tongue are gone." "No signs of forced entry at the house?" "No. There's a broken window upstairs, but nothing bigger than, like, a bird or something could get in through there." "Alright, Emerson, call the morgue and get back to work." "Hey Cap, one more thing. The phone line's down here. Looks like something snapped it. Not sure what could have done it, though, no trees nearby. Maybe somethin' landed on it or something. Whatever, I'm out of here. These birds are starting to get pretty fuckin' creepy." [[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>]]	2012-06-14T20:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "comedy", "featured", "horror", "tale" ]	Flamingos - SCP Foundation	162	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	13563374	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/flamingos
follow-the-keter	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <em>Note: The following audio log was recovered from security cameras inside of SCP-682's containment cell during Incident 682-076-1JF4D-NA5, in which SCP-076-2 breached containment and engaged in combat with SCP-682. For the full incident report, please refer to Document 682-076-1JF4D-NA5.</em> <p><strong><Begin Log></strong></p> <p><strong>SCP-076-2:</strong> You say you fucked my mother? I'll fucking kill you, man. Nobody fucks with A-to-the B L E.</p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> Ho ass bitch, you just wish you was me. Stop playing, maybe I'll spare you.</p> <p><strong>SCP-076:</strong> Yea, yea, yea, yea, alright boy, this time you asked for it!<br/> A vat of acid, that's your decorum?<br/> Check my swag, I'm back in a black case<br/> Just in case you missed the memo, I'm based!</p> <p>I'm the king of the hill, as real as they come,<br/> You was probably rich, but I came from the slums.<br/> A heart of darkness, but I came the farthest,<br/> Your flow is retarded, if I want beef then I'll start it!</p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> I killed you before, I can do it some more.<br/> I'm getting hundreds, you got twenties, but lemme settle the score.<br/> No cheap ass screwball from off the street<br/> Can withstand the weight beneath 682's feet!</p> <p>I'm the out-of-town gangster, major shot-caller,<br/> I call guard's necks snapbacks, which I brought back, holla,<br/> I'm a straight up baller, rhyming sicker than HOVA,<br/> You the son of a gun, I scare the fuck out Jehova.</p> <p><strong>SCP-076:</strong> Ay yo, let's be real, eh?<br/> I'm the realest realist, I never change,<br/> You have to adapt and move, can't stick with one flow<br/> But I can spit so hot that my fucking mouth glows.</p> <p>What's your killcount total? Every time I win!<br/> The greatest warrior of all time, the rhymes I spin,<br/> The lives chagrined at the child of Him,<br/> And the Grandson of the One, I'm able to spit, bitch.</p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> Hahaha, call that a line, close your eyes and stay alive<br/> You can die from minutes with me, and yes, I've tried.<br/> Call yourself a superhero when you're really super queer, yo,<br/> Yo shit's cheesier than Cheetos, gayer than a speedo.</p> <p>Sorry, when's the last time I lost my life? Never!<br/> You can't live more than a few years, but me? Forever!<br/> You can die and come back, fag, and get smacked.<br/> My casual causality actually gets stacks.</p> <p>Weak from the human pussy you got? Please.<br/> You get less than that ████ SCP-073.<br/> I take mine, stay fly, make Rights get wide<br/> I'm a killer all day, all night. Alright?</p> <p>682, a legendary number,<br/> Cuz a real OG went and made it a Wonder.<br/> I got so many pocket dimensions, call them lint,<br/> I see your eensy weensy knives and their even littler glint</p> <p><strong>SCP-076:</strong> The smallest knife I got outreaches your body,<br/> at 100 percent, yet, to which you never get,<br/> Then I whip out the swagger dagger, old school like Atari<br/> and knock off your right side, bitch, match, game and set!</p> <p>You just a real hater, and you been recorded saying it.<br/> You play the game just to win, but I play it to play it.<br/> A primordial beast, you disgusting, fuck this,<br/> So push me, pussy, I've been wanting to cut the shit.</p> <p><em>Note: At this point, SCP-682 became even more enraged and pounced on SCP-076-2. After ██ seconds, vital signs for SCP-076-2 ceased.</em></p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> Come at me, bro.</p> <p><strong><End Log></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="/follow-the-keter">Follow The Keter</a>" by Rejekyll, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/follow-the-keter">https://scpwiki.com/follow-the-keter</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]] [[/>]] //Note: The following audio log was recovered from security cameras inside of SCP-682's containment cell during Incident 682-076-1JF4D-NA5, in which SCP-076-2 breached containment and engaged in combat with SCP-682. For the full incident report, please refer to Document 682-076-1JF4D-NA5.// <Begin Log> SCP-076-2: You say you fucked my mother? I'll fucking kill you, man. Nobody fucks with A-to-the B L E. SCP-682: Ho ass bitch, you just wish you was me. Stop playing, maybe I'll spare you. [!-- SCP-076-02: You're just mad cuz BasedGod fucked all your bitches. SCP-682: BasedGod tried to fuck all my bitches, but they are lizards and he isn't in to bestiality. --] SCP-076: Yea, yea, yea, yea, alright boy, this time you asked for it! A vat of acid, that's your decorum? Check my swag, I'm back in a black case Just in case you missed the memo, I'm based! I'm the king of the hill, as real as they come, You was probably rich, but I came from the slums. A heart of darkness, but I came the farthest, Your flow is retarded, if I want beef then I'll start it! SCP-682: I killed you before, I can do it some more. I'm getting hundreds, you got twenties, but lemme settle the score. No cheap ass screwball from off the street Can withstand the weight beneath 682's feet! I'm the out-of-town gangster, major shot-caller, I call guard's necks snapbacks, which I brought back, holla, I'm a straight up baller, rhyming sicker than HOVA, You the son of a gun, I scare the fuck out Jehova. SCP-076: Ay yo, let's be real, eh? I'm the realest realist, I never change, You have to adapt and move, can't stick with one flow But I can spit so hot that my fucking mouth glows. What's your killcount total? Every time I win! The greatest warrior of all time, the rhymes I spin, The lives chagrined at the child of Him, And the Grandson of the One, I'm able to spit, bitch. SCP-682: Hahaha, call that a line, close your eyes and stay alive You can die from minutes with me, and yes, I've tried. Call yourself a superhero when you're really super queer, yo, Yo shit's cheesier than Cheetos, gayer than a speedo. Sorry, when's the last time I lost my life? Never! You can't live more than a few years, but me? Forever! You can die and come back, fag, and get smacked. My casual causality actually gets stacks. Weak from the human pussy you got? Please. You get less than that ████ SCP-073. I take mine, stay fly, make Rights get wide I'm a killer all day, all night. Alright? 682, a legendary number, Cuz a real OG went and made it a Wonder. I got so many pocket dimensions, call them lint, I see your eensy weensy knives and their even littler glint SCP-076: The smallest knife I got outreaches your body, at 100 percent, yet, to which you never get, Then I whip out the swagger dagger, old school like Atari and knock off your right side, bitch, match, game and set! You just a real hater, and you been recorded saying it. You play the game just to win, but I play it to play it. A primordial beast, you disgusting, fuck this, So push me, pussy, I've been wanting to cut the shit. //Note: At this point, SCP-682 became even more enraged and pounced on SCP-076-2. After ██ seconds, vital signs for SCP-076-2 ceased.// SCP-682: Come at me, bro. <End Log> [[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>]]	2012-04-03T16:27:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "tale" ]	Follow The Keter - SCP Foundation	216	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13086823	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/follow-the-keter
for-want-of-a-nail	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily across the floor. If it were a bit more invested, it might have been upset at the rookie agent who carelessly let it roll away across the table in his haste to reload the magazine of his service pistol. But it was just a bullet, and didn't care.</p> <p>A mob of shambling figures forcing their way through the doorway. Former researchers, staff members, even guards that were once familiar to the agent, their faces were now horribly transfigured by the virulent contagion that coursed through their ravaged bodies. They swarmed him, and he fired his pistol at them as they approached. If the last one still had a mind left, it might have felt relief as the pistol's slide locked back, empty. But it was just a corpse, and it thoughtlessly latched itself onto the helpless agent and buried its teeth in his throat.</p> <p>A faceless horror older than the earth itself shifted in its containment cell as it felt the presence of others outside the shielded room. They felt a sharp twinge of surprise, followed by the horror of recognition, then mindless fear as they each winked out in turn, overrun by a wave of decaying flesh. If it had a human thought process, it might have silently thanked the fleshy, infected beasts for killing its captors. But it was alien, and it felt only hunger as it forced its way out from its prison.</p> <p>A site buried deep within the mountains heaved and shuddered from the violence that was occuring within it. Its human caretakers dead or dying, the computers that formed its brain knew that it had one last thing to take care of. If it had been more sympathetic, it might have considered an alternative to its established last resort. But it was only a machine, and without remorse it detonated its fail-safe warhead, vaporising years of work and hundreds of personnel.</p> <p>A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily down the side of the mountain. Half-melted from the intense heat of a thermonuclear detonation, it tumbled as it encountered the rocks and plants in its way before finally coming to rest in the bottom of a ravine. If it were alive, it might have praised whatever powers may be and marveled at how it could possibly have escaped from such a horrific breach event.</p> <p>But it was just a bullet.<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="/for-want-of-a-nail">For Want of a Nail...</a>" by Aelanna, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/for-want-of-a-nail">https://scpwiki.com/for-want-of-a-nail</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 single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily across the floor. If it were a bit more invested, it might have been upset at the rookie agent who carelessly let it roll away across the table in his haste to reload the magazine of his service pistol. But it was just a bullet, and didn't care. A mob of shambling figures forcing their way through the doorway. Former researchers, staff members, even guards that were once familiar to the agent, their faces were now horribly transfigured by the virulent contagion that coursed through their ravaged bodies. They swarmed him, and he fired his pistol at them as they approached. If the last one still had a mind left, it might have felt relief as the pistol's slide locked back, empty. But it was just a corpse, and it thoughtlessly latched itself onto the helpless agent and buried its teeth in his throat. A faceless horror older than the earth itself shifted in its containment cell as it felt the presence of others outside the shielded room. They felt a sharp twinge of surprise, followed by the horror of recognition, then mindless fear as they each winked out in turn, overrun by a wave of decaying flesh. If it had a human thought process, it might have silently thanked the fleshy, infected beasts for killing its captors. But it was alien, and it felt only hunger as it forced its way out from its prison. A site buried deep within the mountains heaved and shuddered from the violence that was occuring within it. Its human caretakers dead or dying, the computers that formed its brain knew that it had one last thing to take care of. If it had been more sympathetic, it might have considered an alternative to its established last resort. But it was only a machine, and without remorse it detonated its fail-safe warhead, vaporising years of work and hundreds of personnel. A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily down the side of the mountain. Half-melted from the intense heat of a thermonuclear detonation, it tumbled as it encountered the rocks and plants in its way before finally coming to rest in the bottom of a ravine. If it were alive, it might have praised whatever powers may be and marveled at how it could possibly have escaped from such a horrific breach event. But it was just a bullet. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-04-06T17:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	For Want of a Nail... - SCP Foundation	60	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13106462	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/for-want-of-a-nail
foundation-burger	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Goddammit, people!" shouted Manager Fred, bursting through the front doors of the restaurant. "Can I go out for a cup of coffee for five minutes without you people screwing things up?"</p> <p>"With all due respect, sir," said Hank, trying to make himself heard over the roar of the crowd, "we do have a coffee machine in the corner that…"</p> <p>"I want coffee that doesn't stand a chance of turning me into a girl, Hank. Not after that time you screwed up the filtration device." Fred slapped a bucket out from the other man's grasp. "Now stop stuffing your fat face with chicken and tell me what the problem is!"</p> <p>"Well, sir, for one thing, the union's banging on our door again."</p> <p>"What about this time?" groaned Fred, cramming himself into the office hidden in the back room.</p> <p>"They say that it's unethical of us to hire walking sacks of meat that hate people and would rather envelop and absorb them messily than serve hamburgers to them."</p> <p>"Tell 'em that they work for free, and that we've only lost ten people in the last three weeks," deflected Fred, brushing a retirement notice from Rights off of his desk. "What else?"</p> <p>"The woman from Kansas is trying to sue us for selling 'SCP-173's Crunchy Mexican Tacos" that broke her husband's throat…"</p> <p>"He was clearly eating too fast!"</p> <p>"Mrs. Lambwith is suing us for serving her a Brightburger that still had the sexual lubricant when she plainly asked for none…"</p> <p>"That's the employee's problem, not mine."</p> <p>"And the FDA is trying to shut us down for selling products that contain meat derived from SCP-835," Hank concluded, pushing the reports onto his boss's desk.</p> <p>Fred blinked. "Look, just write up another report filled with [DATA EXPUNGED]s and let 'em spend another few months trying to figure it out." He slammed his fist on the desk. "Are there any problems that don't pertain to lawsuits? Problems we can actually fix right now?"</p> <p>"Well," coughed Hank, looking around nervously. "We've got the issue of the tomatoes trying to kill Conan O'…"</p> <p><em>"That don't deal with lawsuits."</em></p> <p>"Cassy wants a pay raise!" blurted Hank.</p> <p>Fred shook his head wearily. "That'll be the sixth time in the last year. She's just on the bloody coffee cups. It's not like she's a cashier or anything. Pass on that one."</p> <p>"Speaking of cashiers, Bright managed to transfer himself to one of the customers. Again."</p> <p>"Fire the old body and have Gears take care of the payroll for the new guy. Next."</p> <p>"The county is complaining about the giant 682 statue outside frightening traffic away, Cain is demanding access to the building again, and the…"</p> <p>"Hank!" shouted Fred, jumping up and grabbing the other man by the collar. "Do we have any <em>good</em> news today! My blood pressure's high enough as it is, and…"</p> <p>"The Very Fine special has been a big hit with the test crowds without killing anyone, sir!" screamed Hank, tears in his eyes. Fred set him down, patting him on the head.</p> <p>"Good boy!" he exclaimed. "See, once you get to know your boss, you just need to tell him what he wants to hear. Keep that up!"</p> <p>"We also released the Ableburger today. It was a resounding success."</p> <p>"Hank, you're sweating. What's the problem?"</p> <p>Hank took a deep breath, and blurted all at once, "SCP-231 is claiming her time as a fryer is cruel and unusual, Kondraki's butterflies have been infecting the food, and the Stairwell Burger is causing people to hear screaming in the women's bathroom!"</p> <p>Fred let out a deep sigh, contemplated his navel for a few moments, and said at length, "So a little bit of good news surrounded by complete chaos that we can barely contain?" Hank nodded. "Just another day at Foundation Burger."</p> <p>***</p> <p>The Agent who went by the code name Sauce Jockey beamed at the Head of the SCP Foundation as the logo for Foundation Burger ran across the end of his video. The Head was grasping at his temples, trying desperately to not let the red in his face show. At length, he spoke in a low voice.</p> <p>"So… that is your proposal for a new cover agency?"</p> <p>"Yes sir!" said Sauce Jockey, crossing his arms across his chest and standing up straighter.</p> <p>"Remind me to ban McDonald's food from the break room. You're fired."</p> <p>Agent Sauce Jockey's eyes widened for a moment. He shuffled out of the room, sure it was all just a joke, that the Head of the Foundation had loved the video.</p> <p>When he was sure he was alone, the Head pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Miss Jones, send a small shipment of SCP-504 to Conan O'Brien."<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="/foundation-burger">Foundation Burger</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/foundation-burger">https://scpwiki.com/foundation-burger</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]] [[/>]] "Goddammit, people!" shouted Manager Fred, bursting through the front doors of the restaurant. "Can I go out for a cup of coffee for five minutes without you people screwing things up?" "With all due respect, sir," said Hank, trying to make himself heard over the roar of the crowd, "we do have a coffee machine in the corner that..." "I want coffee that doesn't stand a chance of turning me into a girl, Hank. Not after that time you screwed up the filtration device." Fred slapped a bucket out from the other man's grasp. "Now stop stuffing your fat face with chicken and tell me what the problem is!" "Well, sir, for one thing, the union's banging on our door again." "What about this time?" groaned Fred, cramming himself into the office hidden in the back room. "They say that it's unethical of us to hire walking sacks of meat that hate people and would rather envelop and absorb them messily than serve hamburgers to them." "Tell 'em that they work for free, and that we've only lost ten people in the last three weeks," deflected Fred, brushing a retirement notice from Rights off of his desk. "What else?" "The woman from Kansas is trying to sue us for selling 'SCP-173's Crunchy Mexican Tacos" that broke her husband's throat..." "He was clearly eating too fast!" "Mrs. Lambwith is suing us for serving her a Brightburger that still had the sexual lubricant when she plainly asked for none..." "That's the employee's problem, not mine." "And the FDA is trying to shut us down for selling products that contain meat derived from SCP-835," Hank concluded, pushing the reports onto his boss's desk. Fred blinked. "Look, just write up another report filled with [DATA EXPUNGED]s and let 'em spend another few months trying to figure it out." He slammed his fist on the desk. "Are there any problems that don't pertain to lawsuits? Problems we can actually fix right now?" "Well," coughed Hank, looking around nervously. "We've got the issue of the tomatoes trying to kill Conan O'..." //"That don't deal with lawsuits."// "Cassy wants a pay raise!" blurted Hank. Fred shook his head wearily. "That'll be the sixth time in the last year. She's just on the bloody coffee cups. It's not like she's a cashier or anything. Pass on that one." "Speaking of cashiers, Bright managed to transfer himself to one of the customers. Again." "Fire the old body and have Gears take care of the payroll for the new guy. Next." "The county is complaining about the giant 682 statue outside frightening traffic away, Cain is demanding access to the building again, and the..." "Hank!" shouted Fred, jumping up and grabbing the other man by the collar. "Do we have any //good// news today! My blood pressure's high enough as it is, and..." "The Very Fine special has been a big hit with the test crowds without killing anyone, sir!" screamed Hank, tears in his eyes. Fred set him down, patting him on the head. "Good boy!" he exclaimed. "See, once you get to know your boss, you just need to tell him what he wants to hear. Keep that up!" "We also released the Ableburger today. It was a resounding success." "Hank, you're sweating. What's the problem?" Hank took a deep breath, and blurted all at once, "SCP-231 is claiming her time as a fryer is cruel and unusual, Kondraki's butterflies have been infecting the food, and the Stairwell Burger is causing people to hear screaming in the women's bathroom!" Fred let out a deep sigh, contemplated his navel for a few moments, and said at length, "So a little bit of good news surrounded by complete chaos that we can barely contain?" Hank nodded. "Just another day at Foundation Burger." *** The Agent who went by the code name Sauce Jockey beamed at the Head of the SCP Foundation as the logo for Foundation Burger ran across the end of his video. The Head was grasping at his temples, trying desperately to not let the red in his face show. At length, he spoke in a low voice. "So... that is your proposal for a new cover agency?" "Yes sir!" said Sauce Jockey, crossing his arms across his chest and standing up straighter. "Remind me to ban McDonald's food from the break room. You're fired." Agent Sauce Jockey's eyes widened for a moment. He shuffled out of the room, sure it was all just a joke, that the Head of the Foundation had loved the video. When he was sure he was alone, the Head pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Miss Jones, send a small shipment of SCP-504 to Conan O'Brien." @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-03-18T04:48:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Foundation Burger - SCP Foundation	81	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12948886	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/foundation-burger
founding	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>August 12th, 1993</strong></p> <p>The door buzzer buzzed.</p> <p>“Ah, that must be them now,” Dr. Crow stood up and walked to the door. He always did that: never said "come in", never had anyone else go do it, he always got up and opened the door himself. He wasn't a man to let blindness get him down.</p> <p>“I’m sorry we’re late, Dr. Crow,” a woman's voice came from the doorway. The group around the coffee table turned their heads.</p> <p>“Oh no, it’s no trouble at all.” Crow turned from the new arrivals to those already gathered around his coffee table, revealing three guests: a woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair in a braid, a rather nondescript middle-aged man in a business suit, and a balding man with a beard and a pink button-down shirt. “Attention, all! These are the three final members of our group: Doctor Sophia Light, Doctor Everett Mann, and Doctor Simon Glass. They are all good friends of mine, and have worked with me many times in the past. Connor, I am sure you have met them before.”</p> <p>The doctor, now out of the hospital, nodded slightly.</p> <p>Crow smiled broadly and walked back to his chair at the unofficial head of the table. He was a man with a friendly smile, frizzy blond hair reminiscent of Einstein, and the quiet, powerful aura of a mafia don. He was, as usual, dressed in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, with his wrap-around sunglasses over his sightless eyes and Kain lying at his feet. Dr. Connor Gerry stood several feet behind Crow’s chair like a clothing store mannequin, hands folded behind his back and no trace of emotion on his face. Francis had not known him to be an expressive man before, but now he was simply unsettling.</p> <p>Dr. Crow clapped his hands together.</p> <p>“Now then, I think it’s about time to start. Benjamin, if you will, please.”</p> <p>“Mm-hmm. Okay, so. Nemo, Fats and I have gone into the facility three times now, and here’s what we have so far.” Ben opened several thick manilla folders one after another, spilling dozens of photographs and sketches across the table. “Turns out the place isn’t infinite, but it is big. Really big. The part we ran through last week was just one of the side towers, right here…” he pointed to a sketch of a large cylinder surrounded by eight smaller ones. “Each of the branch towers goes down twenty levels, and is connected the center one every other level. Center one goes down at least forty-five levels. The entire place looks like it’s wired and ready to use. It’s like if whoever built it just got up and left and took their shit with them.”</p> <p>“<em>If</em> anyone built it,” Nemo interrupted.</p> <p>“Yes, yes, <em>if</em> anyone built it. It’s not a normal building, if you hadn’t figured that out yet. The exits lead to locations hundreds of miles apart: One door went to the arctic, another opened into a cave, and the buildings on the surface look to be somewhere in Nevada.”</p> <p>“Classic,” Jack said.</p> <p>“Ayup. Watch out for those pesky aliens and their rogue anal probings.”</p> <p>There were a few chuckles, solely from Nemo and Fats. Ben paid the response or lack thereof no mind and continued to speak.</p> <p>“Exploring the place fully will take another week or two, but that’s a pretty generous estimate. We weren’t able to find the main power station, so it’s all in standby mode.”</p> <p>“And the statue?” Dr. Crow said.</p> <p>“Right back where we locked it up: Tower 1, Level 7, Chamber 3.” He pointed to the appropriate spot: The sketches already had designations thought up and filled in.</p> <p>“Good, good…” Crow scratched Kain behind his ears. “Now then, what do you have planned on for your next expedition?”</p> <p>Francis scanned the photos. Dark, empty hallways and dark empty rooms. Despite the fact that the nightmares had dulled in the last few days, the pictures filled him with apprehension: the statue was still there, in that dark. Still watching. Still waiting.</p> <p><em>No, I’m watching you.</em></p> <p>The mantra came to his mind automatically now, yanking him back from that precipice. He was the watcher, the statue was the watched. That was the way it was, and how it should be. The statue was just that. A statue that needed storage. What it was capable of was secondary. Merely a statue that needed to be put in the proper place.</p> <p><em>Dammit stop drifting off…</em></p> <p>“I say we just destroy the thing and be done with it,” John said. He was one of Connor’s assistants, a small, shifty-looking man who seemed to be Bright’s long lost little brother, if his surliness was any indication.</p> <p>“And what if you can’t?” Sophia said. “What if that only makes it angry?”</p> <p>“If it doesn’t work the first time, then you hit it harder the second time.”</p> <p><em>Really, John? You goddamn idiot…</em></p> <p>“Not harder. Hit smarter.” Strelnikov this time, another one of Connor’s assistants. His accent was quite thick. “To fight directly is stupid. We must get around. Perhaps we find a weakness, eh? Then we strike.”</p> <p><em>Smart, but off-base. Re-railing this train…</em></p> <p>“And then we throw it away.” Francis said. “John, I don’t know what it is that you actually do or why you’re here, but I can tell for sure that you’re not a scientist. Sure, we <em>could</em> destroy it, but that gains us nothing. If we can keep it locked up, which apparently we can, then we can watch it. And eventually understand it, which can help us when we deal with things like it in the future.”</p> <p>John sat back in his chair, glaring at Francis. The others seemed to be in agreement: nodded heads and “mm-hmms” throughout the thirteen. It hadn’t been much of an argument to begin with.</p> <p>“That said,” Francis continued. “We need support. While it may be locked up now, we’ve essentially set it up in an empty room, shut the door, and check in on it occasionally. That won’t work as a long term containment plan, even if all of us were to be put on the project today, which I’m guessing we will.”</p> <p>Adam smiled, and it was the sort to prelude a polite correction.</p> <p>“Both true and false. I’ve found that a small group of people in the right place can handle almost anything: It’s why I work with all of you in the way I do. While I appreciate your concern for maintaining security of the statue, who would we go to? Would you trust the government to spare us the red tape and help us accomplish anything, rather than taking it all for themselves and bungling the entire thing? Would you trust the public not to go into a panic when they realize that there is a blatant violation of what they thought they knew without an explanation? Any support we’ll have will be what we can muster ourselves. There’s more brainpower concentrated in this one room than anywhere else on Earth. I’m sure we can make the solutions reveal themselves.</p> <p>"A good house needs a solid foundation, and that foundation is sitting right here at this table. I’m not going to hand off the responsibility of protecting against whatever or whoever is out there to a faceless bureaucracy: this is a job for people I trust. We have our foundation, now we just build the house.”</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="/founding">Founding</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/founding">https://scpwiki.com/founding</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]] [[/>]] August 12th, 1993 The door buzzer buzzed. “Ah, that must be them now,” Dr. Crow stood up and walked to the door. He always did that: never said "come in", never had anyone else go do it, he always got up and opened the door himself. He wasn't a man to let blindness get him down. “I’m sorry we’re late, Dr. Crow,” a woman's voice came from the doorway. The group around the coffee table turned their heads. “Oh no, it’s no trouble at all.” Crow turned from the new arrivals to those already gathered around his coffee table, revealing three guests: a woman in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair in a braid, a rather nondescript middle-aged man in a business suit, and a balding man with a beard and a pink button-down shirt. “Attention, all! These are the three final members of our group: Doctor Sophia Light, Doctor Everett Mann, and Doctor Simon Glass. They are all good friends of mine, and have worked with me many times in the past. Connor, I am sure you have met them before.” The doctor, now out of the hospital, nodded slightly. Crow smiled broadly and walked back to his chair at the unofficial head of the table. He was a man with a friendly smile, frizzy blond hair reminiscent of Einstein, and the quiet, powerful aura of a mafia don. He was, as usual, dressed in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, with his wrap-around sunglasses over his sightless eyes and Kain lying at his feet. Dr. Connor Gerry stood several feet behind Crow’s chair like a clothing store mannequin, hands folded behind his back and no trace of emotion on his face. Francis had not known him to be an expressive man before, but now he was simply unsettling. Dr. Crow clapped his hands together. “Now then, I think it’s about time to start. Benjamin, if you will, please.” “Mm-hmm. Okay, so. Nemo, Fats and I have gone into the facility three times now, and here’s what we have so far.” Ben opened several thick manilla folders one after another, spilling dozens of photographs and sketches across the table. “Turns out the place isn’t infinite, but it is big. Really big. The part we ran through last week was just one of the side towers, right here…” he pointed to a sketch of a large cylinder surrounded by eight smaller ones. “Each of the branch towers goes down twenty levels, and is connected the center one every other level. Center one goes down at least forty-five levels. The entire place looks like it’s wired and ready to use. It’s like if whoever built it just got up and left and took their shit with them.” “//If// anyone built it,” Nemo interrupted. “Yes, yes, //if// anyone built it. It’s not a normal building, if you hadn’t figured that out yet. The exits lead to locations hundreds of miles apart: One door went to the arctic, another opened into a cave, and the buildings on the surface look to be somewhere in Nevada.” “Classic,” Jack said. “Ayup. Watch out for those pesky aliens and their rogue anal probings.” There were a few chuckles, solely from Nemo and Fats. Ben paid the response or lack thereof no mind and continued to speak. “Exploring the place fully will take another week or two, but that’s a pretty generous estimate. We weren’t able to find the main power station, so it’s all in standby mode.” “And the statue?” Dr. Crow said. “Right back where we locked it up: Tower 1, Level 7, Chamber 3.” He pointed to the appropriate spot: The sketches already had designations thought up and filled in. “Good, good…” Crow scratched Kain behind his ears. “Now then, what do you have planned on for your next expedition?” Francis scanned the photos. Dark, empty hallways and dark empty rooms. Despite the fact that the nightmares had dulled in the last few days, the pictures filled him with apprehension: the statue was still there, in that dark. Still watching. Still waiting. //No, I’m watching you.// The mantra came to his mind automatically now, yanking him back from that precipice. He was the watcher, the statue was the watched. That was the way it was, and how it should be. The statue was just that. A statue that needed storage. What it was capable of was secondary. Merely a statue that needed to be put in the proper place. //Dammit stop drifting off…// “I say we just destroy the thing and be done with it,” John said. He was one of Connor’s assistants, a small, shifty-looking man who seemed to be Bright’s long lost little brother, if his surliness was any indication. “And what if you can’t?” Sophia said. “What if that only makes it angry?” “If it doesn’t work the first time, then you hit it harder the second time.” //Really, John? You goddamn idiot…// “Not harder. Hit smarter.” Strelnikov this time, another one of Connor’s assistants. His accent was quite thick. “To fight directly is stupid. We must get around. Perhaps we find a weakness, eh? Then we strike.” //Smart, but off-base. Re-railing this train…// “And then we throw it away.” Francis said. “John, I don’t know what it is that you actually do or why you’re here, but I can tell for sure that you’re not a scientist. Sure, we //could// destroy it, but that gains us nothing. If we can keep it locked up, which apparently we can, then we can watch it. And eventually understand it, which can help us when we deal with things like it in the future.” John sat back in his chair, glaring at Francis. The others seemed to be in agreement: nodded heads and “mm-hmms” throughout the thirteen. It hadn’t been much of an argument to begin with. “That said,” Francis continued. “We need support. While it may be locked up now, we’ve essentially set it up in an empty room, shut the door, and check in on it occasionally. That won’t work as a long term containment plan, even if all of us were to be put on the project today, which I’m guessing we will.” Adam smiled, and it was the sort to prelude a polite correction. “Both true and false. I’ve found that a small group of people in the right place can handle almost anything: It’s why I work with all of you in the way I do. While I appreciate your concern for maintaining security of the statue, who would we go to? Would you trust the government to spare us the red tape and help us accomplish anything, rather than taking it all for themselves and bungling the entire thing? Would you trust the public not to go into a panic when they realize that there is a blatant violation of what they thought they knew without an explanation? Any support we’ll have will be what we can muster ourselves. There’s more brainpower concentrated in this one room than anywhere else on Earth. I’m sure we can make the solutions reveal themselves. "A good house needs a solid foundation, and that foundation is sitting right here at this table. I’m not going to hand off the responsibility of protecting against whatever or whoever is out there to a faceless bureaucracy: this is a job for people I trust. We have our foundation, now we just build the house.” [[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>]]	2012-07-14T14:16:00	[ "_licensebox", "agent-strelnikov", "agent-yoric", "bureaucracy", "classical-revival", "doctor-bright", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "doctor-glass", "doctor-kondraki", "doctor-light", "doctor-mann", "kain-pathos-crow", "mystery", "tale" ]	Founding - SCP Foundation	89	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	13788369	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/founding
friday	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>While Nexus points of this nature exist elsewhere in the world, it is in the United States that they are the most prominent. This is, in my opinion, an example of culture’s influence on universal narrative principles: bizarre happenings in small town America has been a common media trope since the very beginning of the country, to the point where it is hardly anomalous to us anymore. The oddities of the small town is expected, and as such, these nexus points are very easily contained by their own nature: no matter what unusual events occur, it will never seem to leave its borders of the town, and the populace will remain in blissful ignorance of the happenings.</em></p> <p><em>Such a principle would not go unnoticed by the Foundation. Of the twenty-three confirmed nexuses within the United States, fifteen of them have full sites located within the town, and the remainder are under some form of observation. Of these sites, Site 87 is, I find, of special note.</em></p> <p>- Dr. Philip Verhoten, <em>The Crossroads: A Study of Urban Anomalous Nexuses in the United States.</em><br/> —</p> <p>“You went and did it…”</p> <p>‘You almost sound surprised. You know what my job entails. Come on, pay up.”</p> <p>Harold Breaker sighed, and withdrew a wad of Monopoly money from his pocket. He licked his thumb and leafed through it, tossing five hundreds in the center of the table, in between the two rather disappointing breakfasts.</p> <p>“Thank y’kindly.” Ryan Melbourne said with a complete lack of anything remotely resembling happiness at the outcome. He added the bills to his own wad. Breaker shook his head, chuckling in that vague “I can’t believe you’re doing this” manner of people who have just witnessed a friend get roped into something stupid.</p> <p>“Laugh all you want, but you know what? Hughes bought me this shirt, because he’s an asshole. If I was able to turn down a free shirt I’d burn the thing faster than you can say hot Texas barbeque! Yeah, you can laugh, but you guys have had it easy since <em>Darwin</em>. I have to re-write half of the book every other week just because a hipster farted and someone put it on the Internet. Do you know how much extra work this damn show’s given me? At least twenty percent god<em>dammit</em>! It’s in my head and it won’t <em>leave</em>!”</p> <p>Breaker looked up from his newspaper and sipped his coffee simultaneously. The combination of cup angle, location of paper relative to the table, expression of the eyes, and the length of the sip said: “8/10 on the rant: you’re overdoing it a little bit, but it’s amusing so I’m going to make a snarky statement to further incite the situation.”</p> <p>Coffee sips are very expressive.</p> <p>“You’re still wearing a shirt with My Little Pony on it,” he said.</p> <p>“Yes, and I am simmering with the indignity of it. You caused this, you know. You and my gambling addiction.”</p> <p>“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”</p> <p>“You don’t know how addiction works, man.”</p> <p>“Admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery.”</p> <p>“Implying I want to recover.”</p> <p>“Probability is minimal.”</p> <p>“Exactly.”</p> <p>“I hypothesize that this is all incredibly silly.”</p> <p>“I concur with your hypothesis.”</p> <p>“The data supports it.”</p> <p>“Final conclusion: this conversation is incredibly silly, and we should probably stop.”</p> <p>“Agreed.” Breaker went back to the paper, and surprisingly enough looked like he was actually reading it. “Though I’m going to have to give Hughes a chewing out for his bad taste. Twilight Sparkle is the best pony. Lynn says so.”</p> <p>Melbourne did a passable imitation of a trout for a few moments, blinked several times, and went back his corn flakes, defeated. How did he forget the crucial fact that his friend had a six-year-old daughter? Of <em>course</em> he’d made the bet. He knew the stakes, had contextual knowledge, he knew the bet would be fulfilled, and then knew that he’d get to have the humorous final comment when it was all done. <em>That bastard</em>…</p> <p>The cafeteria went quiet again, though granted, Melbourne and Breaker were the only people in there, and the former was busily plotting vengeance on the latter.</p> <p>A few minutes of coffee-sipping, cereal-chewing, newspaper-reading and vengeance-plotting later, the door to the cafeteria opened, revealing a lanky, brown-haired man with a boyish face and small, rectangular glasses.</p> <p>“Oi, Bailey!” Melbourne called out to him. “Which one are you today?”</p> <p>“Same one I’ve been every day for the last five months.” Tristan Bailey walked over to the cabinets and began shuffling through the contents. Someone would have to buy bread soon.</p> <p>“Dammit.” Melbourne handed Breaker a fifty. “I swear, you’re going to pull that switcheroo joke on us one of these days and I am going to be <em>ready</em> for it.”</p> <p>“Going to be hard to do that, with Trev at 19 and Tom in Antarctica.” Bailey put four slices of wheat bread into the toaster. There was no peanut butter.</p> <p>“Yeah, yeah, keep trying to fool me. I’m watching you.” Melbourne made the universal sign of “I’m watching you punk”, though the effect was greatly mitigated by his choice of shirt. Breaker finished the last of his coffee and continued reading about how some people were killing some other people somewhere in the world by means of sundry mundane methods.</p> <p>Some time was spent waiting for toast.</p> <p><em>Ding</em></p> <p>“Finally.” Bailey removed his toast. “I think old four-slot has seen better days.” He chose normal butter to make up for the lack of peanut butter. “Is it just me or is this place <em>dead</em> this morning?”</p> <p>“Eh, it’s Friday. It’s always dead on Friday.”</p> <p>Bailey placed the butter back in the fridge, took up his plate and mug, and sat down next to the other two.</p> <p>“And what a wonderful death it is. What’s on the agenda for today?”</p> <p>“Gonna try knocking out a good chunk of the security meme update package, then data collection, and then several hours of staring at the ceiling and wondering where everything went wrong. Same as usual,” Melbourne said. “How about you?”</p> <p>Bailey swallowed a mouthful of toast.</p> <p>“More negotiations over mining rights in F-3426-Delta. Dumb bastards have been sitting on top of enough rare earths to plate the goddamn Statue of Liberty in iridium, not doing a thing with it for centuries, but the moment we ask to mine some of the stuff they dig in their heels.”</p> <p>“Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha.” Breaker gloated with well-practiced theatric fakery. “All I have for today is the final paperwork for the E-5503 tests, and then the whole bunch is off to Resources and Processing. I’ll be done by lunch.”</p> <p>Melbourne glared at him with the special loathing only acquired by being forced to wear a humiliating t-shirt in public for fake money. This was not something you just let people get away with. No, this required action.</p> <p>“Bailey, I need you as witness to this.”</p> <p>“I am witnessing it.”</p> <p>“Good.” Melbourne took out his considerably thick wad of pastel bills, kept one for himself, and slammed the rest on the table.</p> <p>“I bet you all of this that you won’t get done by noon today.”</p> <p>“Fair enough.” Breaker’s tone was so noncommittal, so flat, so accepting. No, no this wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all.</p> <p>“Okay, you know what, no. Stakes aren’t high enough. I have seventy-five dollars and a Steak n’ Shake gift card in my wallet. I am willing to bet all of that on you having to stay past noon. Deal?”</p> <p>“Deal.”</p> <p>They shook on it.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Site 87 woke up, or in the case of the night shift, went to sleep. In both cases it was much like a cat, with yawns and stretches but no particular hurry to do so. Some cars entered the parking lot of S & C Plastics, others left, and absolutely no one outside found anything unusual about the fact.</p> <p>Ryan Melbourne sat down at his desk and sighed. Stupid, stupid, <em>stupid</em>. Why did he bet real money? The entire <em>point</em> of the Monopoly money was so that he’d stop betting real money. He booted up his computer. The desktop wallpaper was a picture of Earth from the ISS.</p> <p>But that was how he worked, right? Things got stuck in his head. Melbourne is a compulsive gambler. Everyone knew that. Melbourne would bet his own grandmother on what someone had in their lunch. It was a meme. It stuck in their heads, and it stuck in his head. You didn’t think about memes, you acted on them. They were automatic. You threw “implying” at the beginning of sentences. You said that things were twenty percent better when it didn’t even make sense. You made references that no one else understood, just because they made sense to you, and your mind wouldn’t let you stop. That was a good deal of memetics in a nutshell: programming the mind through the transmission of ideas.</p> <p>Good <em>God</em>, he needed help. The pony on his shirt didn’t mean anything anymore: this was one of those moments where a man realizes that something is very much wrong and he needs to act immediately before the moment passes and he falls into complacency.</p> <p>He grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes.</p> <p><em>Make appointment with Dr. Talbot</em></p> <p>He stuck it to his computer monitor with a sharp jab, adding an emphatic period to the statement.</p> <p>He paused for a moment and then wrote another note:</p> <p><em>Stop pitying yourself.</em></p> <p>He then began reviewing dispersion patterns.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“We do not consider your case a pressing need.”</p> <p>It was the same response that Tristan Bailey had been hearing for the past two weeks of his adventures in bureaucracy. The translation software had latched onto the phrase, spouting it and variants in its metallic monotone. It seemed to fit the man sitting across the negotiation table: bald and tall, with a thin face and not a spark of life anywhere in his eyes. At the very least he didn’t have a “sub” or “vice” anywhere in his title. He might actually have some power.</p> <p>“That may be the case, but as I have said a thousand times before, your society can’t be without needs. Tell us the need, and we will be more than happy to supply you.”</p> <p>“I have no authority to make decisions of this scale.”</p> <p>That same answer. No one seemed to have any authority.</p> <p>“Are you sure? There’s absolutely nothing your people need or want from us? Luxury goods, cultural knick-knacks, anything?”</p> <p>“I have no authority to make decisions of this scale.”</p> <p>Bailey argued back and forth with himself in his head. There was a significant amount of valuable materials available here, and two weeks wasn’t an abnormal time for negotiation. Maybe he was just too used to dealing with primitives who saw them as gods or fellow institutions of the paranatural. But, there were only so many extra-universal contacts and contracts that could be held at any one time, and leaving this one open for weeks without progress would just be taking resources away from something that needed them more. This was a judgment call scenario.</p> <p>The mining could wait. It wasn’t like Multi-U was low on options.</p> <p>Bailey stood up and straightened his tie.</p> <p>“Well, it appears that you won’t be swayed by any of my reasoning, so I’m going to have to take my business elsewhere. Good day to you, sir.”</p> <p>They shook hands. For a brief moment, the thin man took notice of a slight prick in his palm. His eyes went glassy a brief moment later. When he woke from his stupor, all he would remember was a plain looking foreigner who had been attempting…something.</p> <p>Bailey walked out of the room, and hoped he had better luck in F-3426-Gamma.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Harold Breaker smiled to himself as he checked his watch.</p> <p>11:46.</p> <p>It wasn’t so much that he had won the bet. Caring about those things was Melbourne’s job. He was just happy that the project was done and out of his hands, as were the creatures themselves. That was always a good feeling, getting something done. What made things even better was that E-5503 had proven itself to be quite fireproof, enough so to justify farming the things for their leather.</p> <p>He knocked on the wall of Melbourne’s cubicle. The man himself was hunched at his computer, typing away lines of code.</p> <p>“Of <em>course</em>. Today is just not my day.” He jabbed a thumb at a small pile of cash on top of a filing cabinet. “Right over there.”</p> <p>Breaker scooped up the money, took the two steps necessary to cross the cubicle, and set it down next to his mouse pad.</p> <p>“I’m in need of a ballpoint pen and I am willing to pay seventy-five American dollars for it.”</p> <p>“Well, what do you know? That’s my asking price.” Melbourne grinned “You can keep the card. There’s only like four bucks on it anyway.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>The next day was Saturday, which meant it was Harold Breaker’s visitation day. As such, it involved cartoons about friendship, followed by burgers and milkshakes for lunch.</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="/friday">Friday</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/friday">https://scpwiki.com/friday</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]] [[/>]] //While Nexus points of this nature exist elsewhere in the world, it is in the United States that they are the most prominent. This is, in my opinion, an example of culture’s influence on universal narrative principles: bizarre happenings in small town America has been a common media trope since the very beginning of the country, to the point where it is hardly anomalous to us anymore. The oddities of the small town is expected, and as such, these nexus points are very easily contained by their own nature: no matter what unusual events occur, it will never seem to leave its borders of the town, and the populace will remain in blissful ignorance of the happenings.// //Such a principle would not go unnoticed by the Foundation. Of the twenty-three confirmed nexuses within the United States, fifteen of them have full sites located within the town, and the remainder are under some form of observation. Of these sites, Site 87 is, I find, of special note.// - Dr. Philip Verhoten, //The Crossroads: A Study of Urban Anomalous Nexuses in the United States.// -- “You went and did it…” ‘You almost sound surprised. You know what my job entails. Come on, pay up.” Harold Breaker sighed, and withdrew a wad of Monopoly money from his pocket. He licked his thumb and leafed through it, tossing five hundreds in the center of the table, in between the two rather disappointing breakfasts. “Thank y’kindly.” Ryan Melbourne said with a complete lack of anything remotely resembling happiness at the outcome. He added the bills to his own wad. Breaker shook his head, chuckling in that vague “I can’t believe you’re doing this” manner of people who have just witnessed a friend get roped into something stupid. “Laugh all you want, but you know what? Hughes bought me this shirt, because he’s an asshole. If I was able to turn down a free shirt I’d burn the thing faster than you can say hot Texas barbeque! Yeah, you can laugh, but you guys have had it easy since //Darwin//. I have to re-write half of the book every other week just because a hipster farted and someone put it on the Internet. Do you know how much extra work this damn show’s given me? At least twenty percent god//dammit//! It’s in my head and it won’t //leave//!” Breaker looked up from his newspaper and sipped his coffee simultaneously. The combination of cup angle, location of paper relative to the table, expression of the eyes, and the length of the sip said: “8/10 on the rant: you’re overdoing it a little bit, but it’s amusing so I’m going to make a snarky statement to further incite the situation.” Coffee sips are very expressive. “You’re still wearing a shirt with My Little Pony on it,” he said. “Yes, and I am simmering with the indignity of it. You caused this, you know. You and my gambling addiction.” “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” “You don’t know how addiction works, man.” “Admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery.” “Implying I want to recover.” “Probability is minimal.” “Exactly.” “I hypothesize that this is all incredibly silly.” “I concur with your hypothesis.” “The data supports it.” “Final conclusion: this conversation is incredibly silly, and we should probably stop.” “Agreed.” Breaker went back to the paper, and surprisingly enough looked like he was actually reading it. “Though I’m going to have to give Hughes a chewing out for his bad taste. Twilight Sparkle is the best pony. Lynn says so.” Melbourne did a passable imitation of a trout for a few moments, blinked several times, and went back his corn flakes, defeated. How did he forget the crucial fact that his friend had a six-year-old daughter? Of //course// he’d made the bet. He knew the stakes, had contextual knowledge, he knew the bet would be fulfilled, and then knew that he’d get to have the humorous final comment when it was all done. //That bastard//… The cafeteria went quiet again, though granted, Melbourne and Breaker were the only people in there, and the former was busily plotting vengeance on the latter. A few minutes of coffee-sipping, cereal-chewing, newspaper-reading and vengeance-plotting later, the door to the cafeteria opened, revealing a lanky, brown-haired man with a boyish face and small, rectangular glasses. “Oi, Bailey!” Melbourne called out to him. “Which one are you today?” “Same one I’ve been every day for the last five months.” Tristan Bailey walked over to the cabinets and began shuffling through the contents. Someone would have to buy bread soon. “Dammit.” Melbourne handed Breaker a fifty. “I swear, you’re going to pull that switcheroo joke on us one of these days and I am going to be //ready// for it.” “Going to be hard to do that, with Trev at 19 and Tom in Antarctica.” Bailey put four slices of wheat bread into the toaster. There was no peanut butter. “Yeah, yeah, keep trying to fool me. I’m watching you.” Melbourne made the universal sign of “I’m watching you punk”, though the effect was greatly mitigated by his choice of shirt. Breaker finished the last of his coffee and continued reading about how some people were killing some other people somewhere in the world by means of sundry mundane methods. Some time was spent waiting for toast. //Ding// “Finally.” Bailey removed his toast. “I think old four-slot has seen better days.” He chose normal butter to make up for the lack of peanut butter. “Is it just me or is this place //dead// this morning?” “Eh, it’s Friday. It’s always dead on Friday.” Bailey placed the butter back in the fridge, took up his plate and mug, and sat down next to the other two. “And what a wonderful death it is. What’s on the agenda for today?” “Gonna try knocking out a good chunk of the security meme update package, then data collection, and then several hours of staring at the ceiling and wondering where everything went wrong. Same as usual,” Melbourne said. “How about you?” Bailey swallowed a mouthful of toast. “More negotiations over mining rights in F-3426-Delta. Dumb bastards have been sitting on top of enough rare earths to plate the goddamn Statue of Liberty in iridium, not doing a thing with it for centuries, but the moment we ask to mine some of the stuff they dig in their heels.” “Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha.” Breaker gloated with well-practiced theatric fakery. “All I have for today is the final paperwork for the E-5503 tests, and then the whole bunch is off to Resources and Processing. I’ll be done by lunch.” Melbourne glared at him with the special loathing only acquired by being forced to wear a humiliating t-shirt in public for fake money. This was not something you just let people get away with. No, this required action. “Bailey, I need you as witness to this.” “I am witnessing it.” “Good.” Melbourne took out his considerably thick wad of pastel bills, kept one for himself, and slammed the rest on the table. “I bet you all of this that you won’t get done by noon today.” “Fair enough.” Breaker’s tone was so noncommittal, so flat, so accepting. No, no this wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. “Okay, you know what, no. Stakes aren’t high enough. I have seventy-five dollars and a Steak n’ Shake gift card in my wallet. I am willing to bet all of that on you having to stay past noon. Deal?” “Deal.” They shook on it. -- Site 87 woke up, or in the case of the night shift, went to sleep. In both cases it was much like a cat, with yawns and stretches but no particular hurry to do so. Some cars entered the parking lot of S & C Plastics, others left, and absolutely no one outside found anything unusual about the fact. Ryan Melbourne sat down at his desk and sighed. Stupid, stupid, //stupid//. Why did he bet real money? The entire //point// of the Monopoly money was so that he’d stop betting real money. He booted up his computer. The desktop wallpaper was a picture of Earth from the ISS. But that was how he worked, right? Things got stuck in his head. Melbourne is a compulsive gambler. Everyone knew that. Melbourne would bet his own grandmother on what someone had in their lunch. It was a meme. It stuck in their heads, and it stuck in his head. You didn’t think about memes, you acted on them. They were automatic. You threw “implying” at the beginning of sentences. You said that things were twenty percent better when it didn’t even make sense. You made references that no one else understood, just because they made sense to you, and your mind wouldn’t let you stop. That was a good deal of memetics in a nutshell: programming the mind through the transmission of ideas. Good //God//, he needed help. The pony on his shirt didn’t mean anything anymore: this was one of those moments where a man realizes that something is very much wrong and he needs to act immediately before the moment passes and he falls into complacency. He grabbed a pen and a pad of sticky notes. //Make appointment with Dr. Talbot// He stuck it to his computer monitor with a sharp jab, adding an emphatic period to the statement. He paused for a moment and then wrote another note: //Stop pitying yourself.// He then began reviewing dispersion patterns. -- “We do not consider your case a pressing need.” It was the same response that Tristan Bailey had been hearing for the past two weeks of his adventures in bureaucracy. The translation software had latched onto the phrase, spouting it and variants in its metallic monotone. It seemed to fit the man sitting across the negotiation table: bald and tall, with a thin face and not a spark of life anywhere in his eyes. At the very least he didn’t have a “sub” or “vice” anywhere in his title. He might actually have some power. “That may be the case, but as I have said a thousand times before, your society can’t be without needs. Tell us the need, and we will be more than happy to supply you.” “I have no authority to make decisions of this scale.” That same answer. No one seemed to have any authority. “Are you sure? There’s absolutely nothing your people need or want from us? Luxury goods, cultural knick-knacks, anything?” “I have no authority to make decisions of this scale.” Bailey argued back and forth with himself in his head. There was a significant amount of valuable materials available here, and two weeks wasn’t an abnormal time for negotiation. Maybe he was just too used to dealing with primitives who saw them as gods or fellow institutions of the paranatural. But, there were only so many extra-universal contacts and contracts that could be held at any one time, and leaving this one open for weeks without progress would just be taking resources away from something that needed them more. This was a judgment call scenario. The mining could wait. It wasn’t like Multi-U was low on options. Bailey stood up and straightened his tie. “Well, it appears that you won’t be swayed by any of my reasoning, so I’m going to have to take my business elsewhere. Good day to you, sir.” They shook hands. For a brief moment, the thin man took notice of a slight prick in his palm. His eyes went glassy a brief moment later. When he woke from his stupor, all he would remember was a plain looking foreigner who had been attempting…something. Bailey walked out of the room, and hoped he had better luck in F-3426-Gamma. -- Harold Breaker smiled to himself as he checked his watch. 11:46. It wasn’t so much that he had won the bet. Caring about those things was Melbourne’s job. He was just happy that the project was done and out of his hands, as were the creatures themselves. That was always a good feeling, getting something done. What made things even better was that E-5503 had proven itself to be quite fireproof, enough so to justify farming the things for their leather. He knocked on the wall of Melbourne’s cubicle. The man himself was hunched at his computer, typing away lines of code. “Of //course//. Today is just not my day.” He jabbed a thumb at a small pile of cash on top of a filing cabinet. “Right over there.” Breaker scooped up the money, took the two steps necessary to cross the cubicle, and set it down next to his mouse pad. “I’m in need of a ballpoint pen and I am willing to pay seventy-five American dollars for it.” “Well, what do you know? That’s my asking price.” Melbourne grinned “You can keep the card. There’s only like four bucks on it anyway.” -- The next day was Saturday, which meant it was Harold Breaker’s visitation day. As such, it involved cartoons about friendship, followed by burgers and milkshakes for lunch. [[=]] \|[[[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>]]	2012-10-11T13:40:00	[ "_licensebox", "otherworldly", "s&c-plastics", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Friday - SCP Foundation	162	[ "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	14634970	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/friday
from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>July 3rd, 1857:</strong><br/> It has been the better part of a year since I set sail from England. I feel myself overcome with a certain melancholy every time I watch the White Cliffs of Dover disappear over the horizon, seemingly watching me as I venture out into the wilderness. But whatever guilt I might feel, there is much work to be done; the vast untamed wilds of the world wait for no man, and it is our duty as Englishmen to carry the light of civilization to the corners of creation.</p> <p>Today I have alighted in the Oregon territory, in a newly-founded town on the shores of Puget's Sound that the pioneers call Seattle. Even now, in the height of summer, it is a cold and dreary place. Clouds meander across the heavens, bringing showers and fog, as cool winds blow across the water, and on all sides the tiny town is surrounded by the massive evergreens that populate this country. In many ways it is not unlike the climate of my boyhood home in the West Country, and I felt an odd sense of nostalgia as the summer rains wet my cheek. But it is not the town, nor the weather that interests me; it is the forests that hold my true reason for venturing to this virgin frontier.</p> <p>In the town I have hired porters and two guides, a white man and a civilized Indian. I spent many hours in conversation with the noble redskin, which confirmed the legends I had heard repeated third-hand in the gentlemen's club back on Broad Street. In the unexplored woods east of the Sound, so the Indians said, there lived a race of primates unknown to science, half again as tall as a man, covered head to toe in thick fur, quick and nimble, and possessing of an almost manlike cleverness. "Sasquatch", my guide called the creatures, but they had been called by many names by the tribes he knew of - Semekwe, Mo-Mo, Kwiwky, Skookum, and Big-Foot among them. Even among the Indians they were mostly regarded as little more than legend, but my guide informed me that he had seen one in the flesh two years prior, in the foot-hills of the mountain his people call Tahoma<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup>, and that he had heard tales of a tribe that worshipped them as gods.</p> <p>Tomorrow, we set out for Tahoma, for it is Big-Foot that I seek now as my quarry. I mean to find one of the elusive beasts and bring it back to England - dead if I must, alive if I can. I have brought ample equipment from England and purchased fresh victuals from the shops of this town. Tonight I plan and I pray that my hunt will not fail.</p> <p><strong>July 7th, 1857:</strong><br/> The forests of the territory make for slow going. In my adventures I have hacked through jungle reeds, forced my way through the tall grasses of the Serengeti, braved the unforgiving cold of the Himalayas and baked under the cruel Egyptian sun. But what hand or blade can cast aside the trunks of the ancient evergreens that stand by the myriads in every direction? The guides assure me we are making steady progress, though it seems we have gone scarcely two dozen miles since we left Seattle.</p> <p>I caught my first glimpse of Tahoma today as we entered a clearing upon a hill, and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the tableau that I observed. Tahoma is not nearly the height of the famous Peak XV<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup> that Sir Waugh described last year in Nepal, but unlike the great Himalayas it stands alone, a solitary peak towering above the forests of the territory, like a proud and mighty king surveying a kingdom encompassing all that it perceives.</p> <p>Shortly after mid-day we chanced upon a fox cub, scarcely old enough to hunt for itself, imprisoned in a cage of wood and hides. My Indian guide pointed out a clever set of machinations connected to the box, and informed me it was a trap laid by the Indians who lived in those woods, and that the unfortunate rascal had been lured in by a scrap of meat to be captured. He said to me that his people were most efficient; the beast's hide would make clothing, its teeth jewelry, its meat food for the children, its sinew cords and rope. Let there be no doubt, any who may chance to read this, that I with glee engaged in many a fox-hunt in the county pastures in my younger days. But to ride out with one's hounds is a gentleman's game; in this, my friend, there was no sport. I looked into the creature's eyes and it seemed to regard me almost as a starving beggar-child might regard a man of wealth; envious and jealous, but at the same time supplicant, as if to beg me for mercy. I drew my knife and cut the cords holding the cage door shut, and the vulpine burst free and darted into the woods, fetching a brief glance at me as it ran away.</p> <p><strong>July 8th, 1857:</strong><br/> This morning we encountered a half-dozen Indians in a hunting party near the banks of a river. I had thought at first to call it the Blackwood River when we forded it, though my guide informed me it was known to his people as Nisqually. The Indians regarded us at first with suspicion. I know not if they had seen a white man before, and I feared the worst. But my Indian called out to them in a language strange to me, and they responded gleefully in the same. I learned that he was of the same tribe as they, and that he called their leader his cousin, and they received us warmly. We luncheoned on salmon the Indians had caught in the river, and traded with them for food and supplies. I was most excited to hear from one of the younger redskins that he had seen a Big-Foot once when he was young, for the porters believed this expedition to be a fool's errand, and with this revelation they seemed most renewed in their vigours. By the time we parted ways, I had managed to learn a few words of their language. After I have brought a Big-Foot back to England, I shall have to return to this land and learn more of the ways of these people.</p> <p><strong>July 13th, 1857:</strong><br/> I must write in haste, for my captors have not discovered this book. I am in darkness, alone, my feet bound, in a tent in a place I do not know, well guarded without by my captors.</p> <p>They came upon us two nights ago. We had encamped for the night in a clearing not a dozen miles from the place my Indian told me he had seen the Big-Foot two years hence. They must have been lurking in the darkness for hours, and came upon the chief porter unawares while he stood the night watch. Before I could reach my rifle, all but one of the porters and my Indian guide had been felled by the brutes' arrows and hatchets. I took two of the bastards in reply with my rifle, and four more with my pistol, before one of them grabbed me from behind and knocked me out.</p> <p>When I awoke, I had been tied to a pole and two of the savages were carrying me deeper into the woods. I could see my Indian, and the last surviving porter, being carried similarly. I called out to my Indian and he told me that he recognized our captors as a tribe that had been ancient enemies of his own. They were unrepentant pagans and cannibals, he told me, and worshipped a strange god that lived in the mountain. It was said they raided the villages of the other tribes for sacrifices to offer to their god; surely, he said, we had been chosen to fulfill this onerous duty.</p> <p>It is very cold here, though the sun shines brightly through the trees at mid-day. I know not whether the savages have my weapons or not. I pray that they do, for if I cannot reach them, I will surely perish in this wilderness.</p> <p><strong>July 16th, 1857</strong><br/> Words cannot express the terror I have beheld this day. The savages have brought us to their home camp, in the foot-hills. Even now, in the midst of summer, clumps of snow congregate under the rocks and at the bases of the trees. At mid-day, the three of us were escorted to a snowy clearing, by the edge of a vast wood climbing up the mountain. Hundreds of savages formed a half-circle around the clearing, and our porter was loosed from his bonds and dragged to the center. One of the savages began beating upon a massive drum and singing in a bizarre language the likes of which I have never heard. Others joined in, and the forests were filled with the din of a thousand screaming savages. Suddenly, the trees at the edge of the clearing seemed to rustle and part way, and the throng silenced as it emerged.</p> <p>Big-Foot! In the flesh! The tales had not done the beast justice. It stood fifteen feet if it stood an inch, and it could not have weighed less than half a long ton<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup>. I could scarcely discern its countenance beneath the matted fur that covered its face - ravenous, primal, caked in blood and spittle. It bore the scars of many struggles, and (praying that the reader will forgive my lack of modesty) displayed its manhood proudly.</p> <p>It set its eyes on the porter and charged at him with a speed I would not have expected from a brute of its size. The porter made to run, but the savages closed in upon him, and allowed him no egress. Within seconds the beast was upon him. I could hardly bear to look as it ripped him limb from limb, its yellowed, sharpened teeth tearing into his flesh, his blood running down its jaws as it greedily feasted upon him.</p> <p>The savages returned me to the tent afterward. I fear I am next.</p> <p><strong>July 19th, 1857:</strong><br/> I hope by now, should anyone be reading this years hence, that you regard me as an honest man. Throughout my many years exploring the unknown corners of the world, I have considered it my obligation to tell no less than the whole truth regarding my discoveries, that my fellow countrymen might know of the world that lies beyond the borders of our great Empire, and prepare for the day when the light of goodliness and peace shines around the world. I say this now, for the events I must now recount might seem a fantasy to you, dear reader. Indeed, I would find it difficult to believe myself, had I not seen it with my own eyes; but on my sacred honour as an Englishman, I assure you that every word of it is true.</p> <p>On the afternoon of the 17th, the savages offered my Indian guide as a sacrifice to Big-Foot as they had my porter. Yesterday, the 18th, they prepared to do the same to me. I spent the morning in solemn prayer and reflection, and for the first time in my life I understood the sorrow of a condemned man awaiting the hangman's noose. I felt I had lived a good life, and I was prepared to do what any good Englishman would, and meet my Maker with a stiff upper lip and a clean conscience.</p> <p>The Indians lead me to the clearing and loosed my bonds. I strode calmly into the center of the clearing and closed my eyes. If I was to die, I intended to die with my dignity intact. The drumming and the screaming started, and I heard the trees rustle as Big-Foot drew near to claim his meal. But it was not Big-Foot's approach that silenced the savages; rather, I heard, distant yet remarkably near, the howl of a fox.</p> <p>Muffled chatter arose from the throng as a second howl answered the first. Soon a third animal was howling, and before long the woods were alive with a cacophony. Not only foxes, but I heard the howls of wolves, the screeching of hawks and falcons, the roar of the mountain cats, even the calls of pigeons. I opened my eyes as a hundred animals or more emerged from the woods and set upon the Indians. I beheld foxes and wolves, elk and deer, gulls and eagles, bears and raccoons, side by side like a cavalry charge as they knocked the wild men to the ground and tore out their throats. Every one of the creatures ran right past me, barely darting their eyes my way as I beheld the sight. Some even seemed to have markings on their brows, like the war paint the Indians themselves were decorated with.</p> <p>I chose to take advantage of the opportunity and ran. Neither man nor beast made any attempt to stop me as I made for the west, away from Tahoma and Big-Foot, towards the sea and hopefully some sign of civilization. By nightfall I had easily put ten miles between myself and the camp; but alone, hungry, bruised and exhausted, and in the dark, I could go no further, and curled up by a tree to sleep.</p> <p>When I awoke this morning, I found myself surrounded by wild beasts. Half a dozen deer stood in a semi-circle before me, paint on their faces, their horns and coats covered with savage blood, and two raccoons in their center. I panicked when first I saw them and instinctively tried to reach for my gun, for fear that they had come to finish me off. They stepped back in unison when they saw me startle, and I saw that one of the deer, upon its back, was carrying a large bundle - my own possessions, scavenged from the remains of my camp. The creature knelt to the ground and shrugged, letting it fall to the ground, and I eagerly examined it. Much of what I had brought into the woods was gone, but my rifle was intact, and my pistol, and a tent, and alcohol with which to clean my cuts and scrapes, and enough dried rations to last two weeks' time.</p> <p>I barely had time to ponder this miracle before the rest of the animals fell to their knees as well, and opened a path between them. A fox approached me - old, weathered, bearing signs of having seen more winters than most of its kind do. It bore an air of dignity about it that one rarely sees from such creatures as it approached me and stood before me. It seemed to examine me carefully, contemplating as it looked me over, before it uttered a low bark and one of the raccoons approached me. I noticed now something I had overlooked before - the raccoon had, tied to its back with a thin piece of twine, a rolled piece of paper. The fox gestured at the paper with its nose, and I reached down and drew the paper free. I unrolled it and found a handwritten message, in English, which I present to you below;</p> <blockquote> <p><em>We, ALARIC THE FIFTH, by the Grace of God, King of all the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Margrave of the Nameless Mountain, Warden of all the Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Tribes of Man, Defender of the Faith;</em></p> <p><em>Recognizing you as a fellow Christian and a civilized man;</em></p> <p><em>Grateful for your rescue of our royal issue from the devious machinations of the pagan savages;</em></p> <p><em>Thankful that your kind have returned to this land;</em></p> <p><em>Hopeful that you will on our behalf deliver news to your homeland that Christendom shall have in these parts a steadfast ally;</em></p> <p><em>Acknowledging that in rescuing you from the false god of the pagans we are responsible for your welfare and safe passage in our lands;</em></p> <p><em>Do hereby, on this day, the nineteenth day of the seventh month, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-Seven,</em></p> <p><em>Bestow upon you the rank of KNIGHT COMMANDER OF THE ORDER OF THE THISTLE, with all the privileges and responsibilities of that office;</em></p> <p><em>Command you to, from this day forward, act as a loyal servant of Christ and His Church, Catholic and Apostolic, for as long as you shall live;</em></p> <p><em>and Charge you to return to the lands of Christendom bearing news of our kingdom and to return with an embassy for the negotiation of amicable communion between our nations.</em></p> <p><em>TO THIS DOCUMENT WE AFFIX OUR SEAL, SACRED AND ROYAL.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>The paper had been "signed", so to say, with an ink stamp of what I assume to have been the fox's paw-print. I looked down at the creature, who I now saw regarded me with a gaze almost human in its wisdom. It raised its right paw to touch its forehead and lowered it to its chest and shoulders, making the sign of the cross. I repeated the gesture and it nodded to me. Having apparently reached an agreement, the fox that called itself Alaric the Fifth turned and strode away into the woods, its motley retinue following behind.</p> <p><strong>September 7th, 1857</strong></p> <p>It has been over a month since I made my escape from the forest and entered my convalescence here in Seattle. I wandered five days in the woods, and might be wandering still, if not for that by chance I found the same friendly tribe of Indians I had met on the banks of the Nisqually two weeks before. With what bits of their language I knew I tried to tell them of our encounter with the savages, the Big-Foot, and the strange group of animals that had been my salvation. I know not if they understood me, or if they merely thought me mad, but a small group of them traveled north with me and lead me back to town, where I have rested and healed my wounds since.</p> <p>It is too late in the year to attempt another expedition in search of the Big-Foot; I am told that the winter in these parts is long and cold, and that it will be April before another expedition to the foot-hills is advisable. In any event, I have little money left with which to hire anyone. I have sent a letter south to San Francisco, to be tele-graphed to the Royal Society in London, containing an account of my findings and a request for financing to launch a proper expedition into this wilderness, whether to capture a Big-Foot or to establish an embassy with the strange nation of the fox king Alaric; barring disaster, I expect a reply by Christmas.</p> I do not hold much hope that they will assent to such a proposition; after all, I am the only witness to these fantastical events, and the only evidence, the declaration of knighthood granted me by the fox, will not be in London for several years or more. Perhaps I shall leave this territory entirely when the next ship arrives in May, and set out for other parts unknown. I heard before I left London that the White Raja, in Borneo, has acquired a strange machine that fell from the sky; who knows what other wonders might lurk in the Javanese jungles, waiting to be shown the light of day by one such as myself?<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>. Now known as Mt. Rainier</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. Now known as Mt. Everest</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. 2,240 pounds (1016 kg)</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="/from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood">Lord Blackwood and the Big-Foot</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood">https://scpwiki.com/from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood</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]] [[/>]] July 3rd, 1857: It has been the better part of a year since I set sail from England. I feel myself overcome with a certain melancholy every time I watch the White Cliffs of Dover disappear over the horizon, seemingly watching me as I venture out into the wilderness. But whatever guilt I might feel, there is much work to be done; the vast untamed wilds of the world wait for no man, and it is our duty as Englishmen to carry the light of civilization to the corners of creation. Today I have alighted in the Oregon territory, in a newly-founded town on the shores of Puget's Sound that the pioneers call Seattle. Even now, in the height of summer, it is a cold and dreary place. Clouds meander across the heavens, bringing showers and fog, as cool winds blow across the water, and on all sides the tiny town is surrounded by the massive evergreens that populate this country. In many ways it is not unlike the climate of my boyhood home in the West Country, and I felt an odd sense of nostalgia as the summer rains wet my cheek. But it is not the town, nor the weather that interests me; it is the forests that hold my true reason for venturing to this virgin frontier. In the town I have hired porters and two guides, a white man and a civilized Indian. I spent many hours in conversation with the noble redskin, which confirmed the legends I had heard repeated third-hand in the gentlemen's club back on Broad Street. In the unexplored woods east of the Sound, so the Indians said, there lived a race of primates unknown to science, half again as tall as a man, covered head to toe in thick fur, quick and nimble, and possessing of an almost manlike cleverness. "Sasquatch", my guide called the creatures, but they had been called by many names by the tribes he knew of - Semekwe, Mo-Mo, Kwiwky, Skookum, and Big-Foot among them. Even among the Indians they were mostly regarded as little more than legend, but my guide informed me that he had seen one in the flesh two years prior, in the foot-hills of the mountain his people call Tahoma[[footnote]] Now known as Mt. Rainier[[/footnote]], and that he had heard tales of a tribe that worshipped them as gods. Tomorrow, we set out for Tahoma, for it is Big-Foot that I seek now as my quarry. I mean to find one of the elusive beasts and bring it back to England - dead if I must, alive if I can. I have brought ample equipment from England and purchased fresh victuals from the shops of this town. Tonight I plan and I pray that my hunt will not fail. July 7th, 1857: The forests of the territory make for slow going. In my adventures I have hacked through jungle reeds, forced my way through the tall grasses of the Serengeti, braved the unforgiving cold of the Himalayas and baked under the cruel Egyptian sun. But what hand or blade can cast aside the trunks of the ancient evergreens that stand by the myriads in every direction? The guides assure me we are making steady progress, though it seems we have gone scarcely two dozen miles since we left Seattle. I caught my first glimpse of Tahoma today as we entered a clearing upon a hill, and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the tableau that I observed. Tahoma is not nearly the height of the famous Peak XV[[footnote]] Now known as Mt. Everest[[/footnote]] that Sir Waugh described last year in Nepal, but unlike the great Himalayas it stands alone, a solitary peak towering above the forests of the territory, like a proud and mighty king surveying a kingdom encompassing all that it perceives. Shortly after mid-day we chanced upon a fox cub, scarcely old enough to hunt for itself, imprisoned in a cage of wood and hides. My Indian guide pointed out a clever set of machinations connected to the box, and informed me it was a trap laid by the Indians who lived in those woods, and that the unfortunate rascal had been lured in by a scrap of meat to be captured. He said to me that his people were most efficient; the beast's hide would make clothing, its teeth jewelry, its meat food for the children, its sinew cords and rope. Let there be no doubt, any who may chance to read this, that I with glee engaged in many a fox-hunt in the county pastures in my younger days. But to ride out with one's hounds is a gentleman's game; in this, my friend, there was no sport. I looked into the creature's eyes and it seemed to regard me almost as a starving beggar-child might regard a man of wealth; envious and jealous, but at the same time supplicant, as if to beg me for mercy. I drew my knife and cut the cords holding the cage door shut, and the vulpine burst free and darted into the woods, fetching a brief glance at me as it ran away. July 8th, 1857: This morning we encountered a half-dozen Indians in a hunting party near the banks of a river. I had thought at first to call it the Blackwood River when we forded it, though my guide informed me it was known to his people as Nisqually. The Indians regarded us at first with suspicion. I know not if they had seen a white man before, and I feared the worst. But my Indian called out to them in a language strange to me, and they responded gleefully in the same. I learned that he was of the same tribe as they, and that he called their leader his cousin, and they received us warmly. We luncheoned on salmon the Indians had caught in the river, and traded with them for food and supplies. I was most excited to hear from one of the younger redskins that he had seen a Big-Foot once when he was young, for the porters believed this expedition to be a fool's errand, and with this revelation they seemed most renewed in their vigours. By the time we parted ways, I had managed to learn a few words of their language. After I have brought a Big-Foot back to England, I shall have to return to this land and learn more of the ways of these people. July 13th, 1857: I must write in haste, for my captors have not discovered this book. I am in darkness, alone, my feet bound, in a tent in a place I do not know, well guarded without by my captors. They came upon us two nights ago. We had encamped for the night in a clearing not a dozen miles from the place my Indian told me he had seen the Big-Foot two years hence. They must have been lurking in the darkness for hours, and came upon the chief porter unawares while he stood the night watch. Before I could reach my rifle, all but one of the porters and my Indian guide had been felled by the brutes' arrows and hatchets. I took two of the bastards in reply with my rifle, and four more with my pistol, before one of them grabbed me from behind and knocked me out. When I awoke, I had been tied to a pole and two of the savages were carrying me deeper into the woods. I could see my Indian, and the last surviving porter, being carried similarly. I called out to my Indian and he told me that he recognized our captors as a tribe that had been ancient enemies of his own. They were unrepentant pagans and cannibals, he told me, and worshipped a strange god that lived in the mountain. It was said they raided the villages of the other tribes for sacrifices to offer to their god; surely, he said, we had been chosen to fulfill this onerous duty. It is very cold here, though the sun shines brightly through the trees at mid-day. I know not whether the savages have my weapons or not. I pray that they do, for if I cannot reach them, I will surely perish in this wilderness. July 16th, 1857 Words cannot express the terror I have beheld this day. The savages have brought us to their home camp, in the foot-hills. Even now, in the midst of summer, clumps of snow congregate under the rocks and at the bases of the trees. At mid-day, the three of us were escorted to a snowy clearing, by the edge of a vast wood climbing up the mountain. Hundreds of savages formed a half-circle around the clearing, and our porter was loosed from his bonds and dragged to the center. One of the savages began beating upon a massive drum and singing in a bizarre language the likes of which I have never heard. Others joined in, and the forests were filled with the din of a thousand screaming savages. Suddenly, the trees at the edge of the clearing seemed to rustle and part way, and the throng silenced as it emerged. Big-Foot! In the flesh! The tales had not done the beast justice. It stood fifteen feet if it stood an inch, and it could not have weighed less than half a long ton[[footnote]] 2,240 pounds (1016 kg)[[/footnote]]. I could scarcely discern its countenance beneath the matted fur that covered its face - ravenous, primal, caked in blood and spittle. It bore the scars of many struggles, and (praying that the reader will forgive my lack of modesty) displayed its manhood proudly. It set its eyes on the porter and charged at him with a speed I would not have expected from a brute of its size. The porter made to run, but the savages closed in upon him, and allowed him no egress. Within seconds the beast was upon him. I could hardly bear to look as it ripped him limb from limb, its yellowed, sharpened teeth tearing into his flesh, his blood running down its jaws as it greedily feasted upon him. The savages returned me to the tent afterward. I fear I am next. July 19th, 1857: I hope by now, should anyone be reading this years hence, that you regard me as an honest man. Throughout my many years exploring the unknown corners of the world, I have considered it my obligation to tell no less than the whole truth regarding my discoveries, that my fellow countrymen might know of the world that lies beyond the borders of our great Empire, and prepare for the day when the light of goodliness and peace shines around the world. I say this now, for the events I must now recount might seem a fantasy to you, dear reader. Indeed, I would find it difficult to believe myself, had I not seen it with my own eyes; but on my sacred honour as an Englishman, I assure you that every word of it is true. On the afternoon of the 17th, the savages offered my Indian guide as a sacrifice to Big-Foot as they had my porter. Yesterday, the 18th, they prepared to do the same to me. I spent the morning in solemn prayer and reflection, and for the first time in my life I understood the sorrow of a condemned man awaiting the hangman's noose. I felt I had lived a good life, and I was prepared to do what any good Englishman would, and meet my Maker with a stiff upper lip and a clean conscience. The Indians lead me to the clearing and loosed my bonds. I strode calmly into the center of the clearing and closed my eyes. If I was to die, I intended to die with my dignity intact. The drumming and the screaming started, and I heard the trees rustle as Big-Foot drew near to claim his meal. But it was not Big-Foot's approach that silenced the savages; rather, I heard, distant yet remarkably near, the howl of a fox. Muffled chatter arose from the throng as a second howl answered the first. Soon a third animal was howling, and before long the woods were alive with a cacophony. Not only foxes, but I heard the howls of wolves, the screeching of hawks and falcons, the roar of the mountain cats, even the calls of pigeons. I opened my eyes as a hundred animals or more emerged from the woods and set upon the Indians. I beheld foxes and wolves, elk and deer, gulls and eagles, bears and raccoons, side by side like a cavalry charge as they knocked the wild men to the ground and tore out their throats. Every one of the creatures ran right past me, barely darting their eyes my way as I beheld the sight. Some even seemed to have markings on their brows, like the war paint the Indians themselves were decorated with. I chose to take advantage of the opportunity and ran. Neither man nor beast made any attempt to stop me as I made for the west, away from Tahoma and Big-Foot, towards the sea and hopefully some sign of civilization. By nightfall I had easily put ten miles between myself and the camp; but alone, hungry, bruised and exhausted, and in the dark, I could go no further, and curled up by a tree to sleep. When I awoke this morning, I found myself surrounded by wild beasts. Half a dozen deer stood in a semi-circle before me, paint on their faces, their horns and coats covered with savage blood, and two raccoons in their center. I panicked when first I saw them and instinctively tried to reach for my gun, for fear that they had come to finish me off. They stepped back in unison when they saw me startle, and I saw that one of the deer, upon its back, was carrying a large bundle - my own possessions, scavenged from the remains of my camp. The creature knelt to the ground and shrugged, letting it fall to the ground, and I eagerly examined it. Much of what I had brought into the woods was gone, but my rifle was intact, and my pistol, and a tent, and alcohol with which to clean my cuts and scrapes, and enough dried rations to last two weeks' time. I barely had time to ponder this miracle before the rest of the animals fell to their knees as well, and opened a path between them. A fox approached me - old, weathered, bearing signs of having seen more winters than most of its kind do. It bore an air of dignity about it that one rarely sees from such creatures as it approached me and stood before me. It seemed to examine me carefully, contemplating as it looked me over, before it uttered a low bark and one of the raccoons approached me. I noticed now something I had overlooked before - the raccoon had, tied to its back with a thin piece of twine, a rolled piece of paper. The fox gestured at the paper with its nose, and I reached down and drew the paper free. I unrolled it and found a handwritten message, in English, which I present to you below; > //We, ALARIC THE FIFTH, by the Grace of God, King of all the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Margrave of the Nameless Mountain, Warden of all the Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Tribes of Man, Defender of the Faith;// > > //Recognizing you as a fellow Christian and a civilized man;// > > //Grateful for your rescue of our royal issue from the devious machinations of the pagan savages;// > > //Thankful that your kind have returned to this land;// > > //Hopeful that you will on our behalf deliver news to your homeland that Christendom shall have in these parts a steadfast ally;// > > //Acknowledging that in rescuing you from the false god of the pagans we are responsible for your welfare and safe passage in our lands;// > > //Do hereby, on this day, the nineteenth day of the seventh month, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-Seven,// > > //Bestow upon you the rank of KNIGHT COMMANDER OF THE ORDER OF THE THISTLE, with all the privileges and responsibilities of that office;// > > //Command you to, from this day forward, act as a loyal servant of Christ and His Church, Catholic and Apostolic, for as long as you shall live;// > > //and Charge you to return to the lands of Christendom bearing news of our kingdom and to return with an embassy for the negotiation of amicable communion between our nations.// > > //TO THIS DOCUMENT WE AFFIX OUR SEAL, SACRED AND ROYAL.// The paper had been "signed", so to say, with an ink stamp of what I assume to have been the fox's paw-print. I looked down at the creature, who I now saw regarded me with a gaze almost human in its wisdom. It raised its right paw to touch its forehead and lowered it to its chest and shoulders, making the sign of the cross. I repeated the gesture and it nodded to me. Having apparently reached an agreement, the fox that called itself Alaric the Fifth turned and strode away into the woods, its motley retinue following behind. September 7th, 1857 It has been over a month since I made my escape from the forest and entered my convalescence here in Seattle. I wandered five days in the woods, and might be wandering still, if not for that by chance I found the same friendly tribe of Indians I had met on the banks of the Nisqually two weeks before. With what bits of their language I knew I tried to tell them of our encounter with the savages, the Big-Foot, and the strange group of animals that had been my salvation. I know not if they understood me, or if they merely thought me mad, but a small group of them traveled north with me and lead me back to town, where I have rested and healed my wounds since. It is too late in the year to attempt another expedition in search of the Big-Foot; I am told that the winter in these parts is long and cold, and that it will be April before another expedition to the foot-hills is advisable. In any event, I have little money left with which to hire anyone. I have sent a letter south to San Francisco, to be tele-graphed to the Royal Society in London, containing an account of my findings and a request for financing to launch a proper expedition into this wilderness, whether to capture a Big-Foot or to establish an embassy with the strange nation of the fox king Alaric; barring disaster, I expect a reply by Christmas. I do not hold much hope that they will assent to such a proposition; after all, I am the only witness to these fantastical events, and the only evidence, the declaration of knighthood granted me by the fox, will not be in London for several years or more. Perhaps I shall leave this territory entirely when the next ship arrives in May, and set out for other parts unknown. I heard before I left London that the White Raja, in Borneo, has acquired a strange machine that fell from the sky; who knows what other wonders might lurk in the Javanese jungles, waiting to be shown the light of day by one such as myself? [[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>]]	2012-05-28T02:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "blackwood", "first-person", "journal", "period-piece", "tale" ]	Lord Blackwood and the Big-Foot - SCP Foundation	133	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13413028	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/from-the-diaries-of-lord-blackwood
from-the-mists-of-time	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>There is an ancient legend.</p> <p>Before man came to master fire and cultivate his food, he lived in perpetual fear. There existed creatures of such frightful appearance and terrible power that even the mightiest of warriors fell before them. When the creatures did not attack, there were the artifacts of doom, some enchanted by wicked sorcerers who lived in isolation, some appearing for no reason except to torment man. And in times when neither were to be found, the incomprehensible forces assaulted the refuges of man, with no purpose but that of destruction.</p> <p>It is said in some circles that the mastery of fire is what allowed man to drive off the horrors of the world. The idea of a weak, powerless group gaining a bright, burning weapon against the night-things is certainly a comforting one, and is indeed believed by most of the world to be man's first step towards independence.</p> <p>But it was not fire that led man to his mastery of Earth. It took another event for fire to even be a possibility. Given the millennia that separate us from that day, nobody knows the exact details of the event. But the legend goes something like this.</p> <p>One night, a group of nomads squatted in a deep, dark cave, awaiting a creature. They had been on the run for a full cycling of the moon, and had gradually been picked down from a group of twenty to a group of four. The beast showed no signs of tiring, and could easily tear a person in half given the chance. A single glance into its eyes was enough to paralyze any man, regardless of his constitution. The creature had wandered the world for many, many years, terrorizing all who stumbled across it.</p> <p>In a world of horrors, it was probably the least fearsome creature one could encounter.</p> <p>In the deepest part of the night, the four heard the creature's dragging footsteps scrape across the entrance of the cave. They tried to remain silent, hoping to buy a few more precious seconds with which to make their peace. The knowledge of impending doom had been with them for some time now, but only here, in their last moments of life, did that knowledge become a solid reality. Huddling together, the four survivors awaited the creature, and the bloodshed that would follow.</p> <p>As it rounded the corner, the group could barely make out the features of the thing that stalked them. It was twice the height of any normal man, and half the width. The eyes seemed far, far too large for the head, which jutted out from the rest of the skull by several hands. Its limbs ended not in hands and feet, but rather in large pads of slime, which still managed to grip with the strength of lion jaws. Turning its head, the creature saw the group, and bolted towards them.</p> <p>But for the four survivors, the end never came.</p> <p>Right as the creature came within striking distance, it was tugged back by four strands of knotted up reeds, one attached to each of the limbs. Losing its balance, the creature fell upon the ground, knocking its head against the stone floor of the cavern. Before it could regain its senses, three lithe, strong men beset upon it, two taking an arm and a leg each, and the third grabbing the face with one hand. Raising up the other, he placed two crudely carved rocks over the creature's eyes. The group watched in fascination as, instead of flinging them aside with a toss of its head, the creature writhed in pain, unable to get rid of the stones, which seemed to cling to its eyes.</p> <p>Tying the creature's limbs behind its back, the men hefted it up, and chucked the monstrosity into a corner of the cave. Then, they led the four bewildered survivors out into the night, where six more men stood watch over the entrance. Two of them rolled a large boulder over to the entrance, and sealed it tightly shut. From inside, they could still hear the echoes of the creature's screams.</p> <p>As the first three men led the original survivors away, the other six took up posts around the cavern. Legend has it that for many years afterwards, they would patrol the area, making sure the creature hadn't escaped from its confines. At every winter solstice, they would descend into the cavernous prison, and carefully replace the bindings and stones before sealing it once more.</p> <p>As for the men who captured the creature, they went on to spread their knowledge across the globe. Tales from all corners of the Earth say they had decided to turn against the creatures which stalked them in the night, and make the world safe for man. That such a gargantuan effort was both planned and successfully implemented by a mere three individuals is truly fantastical, even for a legend.</p> <p>Gradually, the group drifted out of common knowledge. As fewer and fewer things plagued the world, less and less people believed that such things had even existed, and by the time of man's cultivation of fire, the men who worked to make such things possible had passed onto the edges of normal life, a mere shadow, protecting man's continued existence.</p> <p>The organization they formed out of those days of darkness and despair has gone by many names over the centuries, and the number of men who did work for it has been lost to history. Many of the things they held captive to make the world safe are still held to this day, while others have disappeared off the face of the Earth, either destroyed or escaped, awaiting rediscovery, and hopefully recapture. Regardless of these changes, though, the organization has, from its very conception, operated under one, unchanging creed: They secure, they contain, and they protect.<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="/from-the-mists-of-time">From The Mists Of Time</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/from-the-mists-of-time">https://scpwiki.com/from-the-mists-of-time</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]] [[/>]] There is an ancient legend. Before man came to master fire and cultivate his food, he lived in perpetual fear. There existed creatures of such frightful appearance and terrible power that even the mightiest of warriors fell before them. When the creatures did not attack, there were the artifacts of doom, some enchanted by wicked sorcerers who lived in isolation, some appearing for no reason except to torment man. And in times when neither were to be found, the incomprehensible forces assaulted the refuges of man, with no purpose but that of destruction. It is said in some circles that the mastery of fire is what allowed man to drive off the horrors of the world. The idea of a weak, powerless group gaining a bright, burning weapon against the night-things is certainly a comforting one, and is indeed believed by most of the world to be man's first step towards independence. But it was not fire that led man to his mastery of Earth. It took another event for fire to even be a possibility. Given the millennia that separate us from that day, nobody knows the exact details of the event. But the legend goes something like this. One night, a group of nomads squatted in a deep, dark cave, awaiting a creature. They had been on the run for a full cycling of the moon, and had gradually been picked down from a group of twenty to a group of four. The beast showed no signs of tiring, and could easily tear a person in half given the chance. A single glance into its eyes was enough to paralyze any man, regardless of his constitution. The creature had wandered the world for many, many years, terrorizing all who stumbled across it. In a world of horrors, it was probably the least fearsome creature one could encounter. In the deepest part of the night, the four heard the creature's dragging footsteps scrape across the entrance of the cave. They tried to remain silent, hoping to buy a few more precious seconds with which to make their peace. The knowledge of impending doom had been with them for some time now, but only here, in their last moments of life, did that knowledge become a solid reality. Huddling together, the four survivors awaited the creature, and the bloodshed that would follow. As it rounded the corner, the group could barely make out the features of the thing that stalked them. It was twice the height of any normal man, and half the width. The eyes seemed far, far too large for the head, which jutted out from the rest of the skull by several hands. Its limbs ended not in hands and feet, but rather in large pads of slime, which still managed to grip with the strength of lion jaws. Turning its head, the creature saw the group, and bolted towards them. But for the four survivors, the end never came. Right as the creature came within striking distance, it was tugged back by four strands of knotted up reeds, one attached to each of the limbs. Losing its balance, the creature fell upon the ground, knocking its head against the stone floor of the cavern. Before it could regain its senses, three lithe, strong men beset upon it, two taking an arm and a leg each, and the third grabbing the face with one hand. Raising up the other, he placed two crudely carved rocks over the creature's eyes. The group watched in fascination as, instead of flinging them aside with a toss of its head, the creature writhed in pain, unable to get rid of the stones, which seemed to cling to its eyes. Tying the creature's limbs behind its back, the men hefted it up, and chucked the monstrosity into a corner of the cave. Then, they led the four bewildered survivors out into the night, where six more men stood watch over the entrance. Two of them rolled a large boulder over to the entrance, and sealed it tightly shut. From inside, they could still hear the echoes of the creature's screams. As the first three men led the original survivors away, the other six took up posts around the cavern. Legend has it that for many years afterwards, they would patrol the area, making sure the creature hadn't escaped from its confines. At every winter solstice, they would descend into the cavernous prison, and carefully replace the bindings and stones before sealing it once more. As for the men who captured the creature, they went on to spread their knowledge across the globe. Tales from all corners of the Earth say they had decided to turn against the creatures which stalked them in the night, and make the world safe for man. That such a gargantuan effort was both planned and successfully implemented by a mere three individuals is truly fantastical, even for a legend. Gradually, the group drifted out of common knowledge. As fewer and fewer things plagued the world, less and less people believed that such things had even existed, and by the time of man's cultivation of fire, the men who worked to make such things possible had passed onto the edges of normal life, a mere shadow, protecting man's continued existence. The organization they formed out of those days of darkness and despair has gone by many names over the centuries, and the number of men who did work for it has been lost to history. Many of the things they held captive to make the world safe are still held to this day, while others have disappeared off the face of the Earth, either destroyed or escaped, awaiting rediscovery, and hopefully recapture. Regardless of these changes, though, the organization has, from its very conception, operated under one, unchanging creed: They secure, they contain, and they protect. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-28T18:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	From The Mists Of Time - SCP Foundation	32	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13659434	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/from-the-mists-of-time
from-unknown-admirer-to-unknown-admiree	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦A story about love and connections.☦</span></p> <p>I no longer care who may be reading this.</p> <p>Whoever it is. Even if it's the kindest of men.</p> <p>I love you. Let us be together. We can be happy together, and neither of us will be lonely for we will always have each other.</p> <p>I love you, so, hurry and let us meet, so we can begin our relationship. Because I love you, I'll tell you a secret. My most beloved secret but not as much as my love for you whoIhavenotmetbutwillsoon.</p> <p>I have seen the secret to the world's sorrow, and the world's misfortune. <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Loneliness. Loneliness. We are lonely</span>, we fall to ruin, and we remain living and dying in misery.</p> <p>Even when we are close, we are not close <em>enough</em></p> <p>We must be <em>closer</em> to make <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">loneliness</span> disappear</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">thedreadedlonelinesstodisappear</span></p> <p>And I have found the way for us to be <em>closer</em>, it told me how we can become <em>closer</em></p> <p>So <em>close</em> that we shall never separate</p> <p>So <em>close</em> that neither of us shall ever be <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">lonely</span> again</p> <p>I love you, let's be <em>close</em> together, and so neither of us shall ever be <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">lonely</span></p> <p><em>andneitherofusshallbesadagain</em></p> <p>Simply by writing this I feel myself by your side, my face against your neck and skin against skin. My breath is gentle and sweet on your shoulder and your heartbeat underneath the hand that is mine on your chest. Your eyes closed in whatever dream you wander in, while I watch your slightly open mouth inhale and exhale, and I will match my breaths with yours and slow my heartbeat to your heartbeat. Sometimes you will whisper and I will whisper back, so that maybe you will hear me and my words will always be that I love you. When you awake you will look down and see me curled to fit exactly to your body like two matching puzzle pieces. Just you and me. Your lips shall find mine and then I will kiss you and you will kiss me back. I will whisper to you what I have whispered to you all night and that will be that I love you. Then you will smile back at me and whisper back that you love me too.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">butidontwantyouandmeiwant<em>us</em></span></p> <p>That's okay if you don't understand right now.<br/> <sub>You will soon.</sub><br/> <sup><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">iwillmakeyou</span></sup></p> <p>When my body collapses in your arms, you may cry and mourn, just as I once did. You don't need to cry.</p> <p>For I will be one with you<br/> There will no longer be you or me<br/> There will only be <em>us</em><br/> For we will be <em>closest</em> of all</p> <p>then when we feel <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">lonely</span> we will feel it together<br/> when we feel anger we will act with unity<br/> our heart will beat with one heartbeat<br/> our minds are together embracing in its folds like our spirits embrace to a single soul<br/> we will be <em>perfect</em> and yet imperfectable for we can still feel <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">that loneliness</span></p> <p>But there is a solution. Just as our souls blend, the horrors that are isolation <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">and loneliness</span> become apparent. It is our bones and flesh; it always has been. We have been born isolated from the world by our corporeal vessel. There's a way out now, for all of us to find the solace we have been looking for forever. Come, once we have been united, we shall seek another to be with us. Then we will urge our new self to find another again, forever as long as there is one who remains apart.</p> <p><em>wecouldbe <sup>alltogether</sup><sub>togetherforever</sub><sup>everandalways</sup><br/> perfection <sub>asone</sub><sup>asawhole</sup><sub>asourselves</sub><sup>asnothingelse</sup><br/> no <sup><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">loneliness</span></sup><sub>andsorrow</sub><br/> <sup><strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">only the joyous unity</span></strong></sup></em></p> <p>Wouldn't that be a sight, our beloved?</p> <p>Come, let us <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1204">kiss</a>.<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="/from-unknown-admirer-to-unknown-admiree">From Unknown Admirer to Unknown Admiree</a>" by SoullessSingularity, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/from-unknown-admirer-to-unknown-admiree">https://scpwiki.com/from-unknown-admirer-to-unknown-admiree</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%]]☦A story about love and connections.☦[[/size]] I no longer care who may be reading this. Whoever it is. Even if it's the kindest of men. I love you. Let us be together. We can be happy together, and neither of us will be lonely for we will always have each other. I love you, so, hurry and let us meet, so we can begin our relationship. Because I love you, I'll tell you a secret. My most beloved secret but not as much as my love for you whoIhavenotmetbutwillsoon. I have seen the secret to the world's sorrow, and the world's misfortune. --Loneliness. Loneliness. We are lonely--, we fall to ruin, and we remain living and dying in misery. Even when we are close, we are not close //enough// We must be //closer// to make --loneliness-- disappear --thedreadedlonelinesstodisappear-- And I have found the way for us to be //closer//, it told me how we can become //closer// So //close// that we shall never separate So //close// that neither of us shall ever be --lonely-- again I love you, let's be //close// together, and so neither of us shall ever be --lonely-- //andneitherofusshallbesadagain// Simply by writing this I feel myself by your side, my face against your neck and skin against skin. My breath is gentle and sweet on your shoulder and your heartbeat underneath the hand that is mine on your chest. Your eyes closed in whatever dream you wander in, while I watch your slightly open mouth inhale and exhale, and I will match my breaths with yours and slow my heartbeat to your heartbeat. Sometimes you will whisper and I will whisper back, so that maybe you will hear me and my words will always be that I love you. When you awake you will look down and see me curled to fit exactly to your body like two matching puzzle pieces. Just you and me. Your lips shall find mine and then I will kiss you and you will kiss me back. I will whisper to you what I have whispered to you all night and that will be that I love you. Then you will smile back at me and whisper back that you love me too. --butidontwantyouandmeiwant//us//-- That's okay if you don't understand right now. ,,You will soon.,, ^^--iwillmakeyou--^^ When my body collapses in your arms, you may cry and mourn, just as I once did. You don't need to cry. For I will be one with you There will no longer be you or me There will only be //us// For we will be //closest// of all then when we feel --lonely-- we will feel it together when we feel anger we will act with unity our heart will beat with one heartbeat our minds are together embracing in its folds like our spirits embrace to a single soul we will be //perfect// and yet imperfectable for we can still feel --that loneliness-- But there is a solution. Just as our souls blend, the horrors that are isolation --and loneliness-- become apparent. It is our bones and flesh; it always has been. We have been born isolated from the world by our corporeal vessel. There's a way out now, for all of us to find the solace we have been looking for forever. Come, once we have been united, we shall seek another to be with us. Then we will urge our new self to find another again, forever as long as there is one who remains apart. //wecouldbe ^^alltogether^^,,togetherforever,,^^everandalways^^ perfection ,,asone,,^^asawhole^^,,asourselves,,^^asnothingelse^^ no ^^--loneliness--^^,,andsorrow,, ^^__only the joyous unity__^^// Wouldn't that be a sight, our beloved? Come, let us [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1204 kiss]. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-02-12T03:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "kindness", "tale" ]	From Unknown Admirer to Unknown Admiree - SCP Foundation	50	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12713728	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/from-unknown-admirer-to-unknown-admiree
from-vagrants-to-gentlemen	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Marshall slid the sleeve of his suit back, the ornate silver watch on his wrist glinting in the dull yellow glow of artificial light.</p> <p>Two minutes, eighteen seconds.</p> <p>He was on the second floor of the building, a hotel from the early twenties. The decadence of that era remained apparent in the dusty chandeliers, swinging slowly overhead as a train roared past outside. This room had been a ballroom at one time, and the dusty wood floor still bore the scuff marks of the thousands of boots that had come to this room before his own.</p> <p>One minute, fifty six seconds.</p> <p>He broke from his standing position by the door, lengthening his strides to make up for time lost contemplating the decor. The man in the middle of the room smiled at his customer, glad that somebody appreciated his collection, and he waved Marshall towards himself.</p> <p>"Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall. Right this way, please."</p> <p>One minute, forty three seconds. Twenty three more seconds until he was supposed to leave the room.</p> <p>"One moment please, sir." Marshall indicated a beautiful eighteenth century chair backed against a wall, drawing his words out. "How <em>did</em> you manage to get ahold of that? I <em>have</em> been looking for one to complete my dining room."</p> <p>"A most interesting piece, Mr. Marshall, you have quite the eye for quality. Smashed to pieces during the French Revolution and restored by a carpenter several years later…"</p> <p>One minute, twenty six seconds.</p> <p>Marshall walked several paces closer to the man, still detailing the restoration of his glorious chair, and they walked together into the next room.</p> <p>"… Rather pricey, but worth it I think. Now, about those items you wanted to purchase." The man threw open a heavy wooden door, and the amazement on Marshalls face was only partly feigned.</p> <p>"My God man, is that an <em>original</em>?" Marshall indicated a tapestry in the corner, and was just as quickly drawn away by a painting sitting atop a nightstand older than the building he stood in. "Good Lord, is that-"</p> <p>The smile on the man's face was broad as Marshall stared around the room in awe.</p> <p>"Indeed it is. <em>Penance</em>. That one is not for sale, sadly. It holds a special place in my heart. I acquired it in Germany after…"</p> <p>Marshall pulled himself together and checked his watch as inconspicuously as possible, hoping the man was too engaged by his collection to notice. He was <em>not</em> meant to lose track of time.</p> <p>Forty three seconds.</p> <p>"But my dear Mr. Marshall, what I have really called you here for today is a rather special item. A remarkable antique, but it also has some… Other features."</p> <p>Marshall couldn't imagine something more interesting than a supposedly destroyed piece of 1600's art, but he followed the man through the corridor. After several seconds, they stood before a safe.</p> <p>Twenty seconds.</p> <p>"Now there are some things on this Earth that defy understanding, Mr. Marshall. This is one of these items. I must ask you to stand back, and be <em>very</em> careful with this particular piece…" The man bent down to tap the keypad, and Marshall strained to see over his shoulder. 1-8-</p> <p>Time.</p> <p>Marshall cursed under his breath as a train roared past, the floor shuddering as a ballroom wall was blown inwards, debris spraying across the floor. A cry echoed through the thick wooden door, somebody apparently having been hit by the blast.</p> <p>Marshall seized the man from behind, wrapping one arm around his chest as he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket. He whispered a quick apology to the struggling man as he one-handedly shook out a rag and slapped it over the face of his captive, feeling him fall limp after only a few seconds. Marshall lowered him gently to the floor, the sound of gunfire beginning to echo from the ballroom. He approached the safe, praying that the combination was what he thought it was. He reached for the keypad, tapping in the last few digits,</p> <p>-1-6</p> <p>And held in a yell as nothing happened.</p> <p>"<em>Damn</em>," He whispered quietly and emphatically. "What could be…"</p> <p>The heavy door crashed against the wall with a crack, and Marshall whirled around.</p> <p>"Taking your time in here, aren't you now?"</p> <p>"Shut it Carter. You've got the cart?"</p> <p>"Of course, of course."</p> <p>Carter wheeled a metal platform into the room, and Marshall resisted wincing as it rolled over several priceless pieces of art. The sound of gunfire was constant outside the door now, the clatter of an assault rifle drowning out the popping of pistols.</p> <p>"Could you watch where you're wheeling that, you vandal?"</p> <p>"Ah can it you pansy, we're on the clock. Now, what's worth selling in here?"</p> <p>"Well he's got the <em>Penance</em> in here, that's an old piece from-"</p> <p>"Right, right. Just point and tell me what to grab."</p> <p>"Right, er, that one." Marshall indicated the mural, and Carter heaved it aboard the cart, the sound of gunfire dying down outside.</p> <p>Marshall and Carter hauled a few more ancient paintings and statuettes onto the cart, and were panting from the strain when a voice floated in from just outside the door.</p> <p>"Gentlemen, time for us to be going."</p> <p>A dark figure walked into the room and stood against the wall behind the door, assault rifle slung across his chest. Marshall took a moment to appreciate his choice of hire, then returned his attention to the safe.</p> <p>"Hey, one more thing. You guys think we can make it with this?"</p> <p>Carter shook his head, looking doubtful. "I don't know Marshall, looks a bit on the heavy side. If we can get it on the cart we can probably do it, but is it worth the weight?"</p> <p>Marshall ignored the question.</p> <p>"Well let's give it a shot then."</p> <p>Marshall and Carter gripped the underside of the safe and heaved, struggling to inch it over the edge of the cart, past the unconscious form of its former owner.</p> <p>A <em>crack</em> echoed through the room, and Marshall twisted as a bullet hammered into his thigh, instinctively dropping the safe and grabbing at his injured leg. As the man in the door blew the would-be security guard to hell, the safe tipped from Carters hands and smashed to the floor.</p> <p>A sound like a swarm of hornets came from inside the safe, growing louder every second. Marshall hobbled away, alarmed, and Carter backed towards the door.</p> <p>The safe burst open with an explosive <em>bang</em>, and a swarm of salt crystals flew into the air. The three stared in amazement at the tiny tornado, Marshall backing away as fast as he could move.</p> <p>"What the hell is th-"</p> <p>Another <em>crack</em>, and the man by the door jerked his head away from the new peephole in his cover. He brought his rifle to bear and fired a short burst, the guard spinning to the floor. The man grimaced and pressed his hand against his ribs, a kevlar vest visible through his torn suit.</p> <p>"Gentlemen, I am leaving in two minutes. Get what you're getting and let's go."</p> <p>"Hang on Dark, let's just see what we've got here."</p> <p>Carter tentatively reached towards the whirling cloud of salt, which had totally engulfed their cart filled with antiques. He shrieked in pain, yanking his hand away from the cloud raw and red.</p> <p>"God <em>damn</em> that burns!"</p> <p>Marshall ripped a piece of cloth from his now-ruined pants leg and wrapped it around his hand, stretching towards the cloud. The particles parted as his hand entered, and he felt something solid. He gripped firmly and jerked, pulling an ornate silver salt shaker from the cloud. The whirling salt remained where it was, shredded pieces of paper now visible amidst the storm.</p> <p>"I guess this is all we're getting today, you saw what it did to the safe."</p> <p>Marshall sighed heavily for the priceless art that had just been lost to this mysterious shaker, refocusing as Carters voice echoed through the room.</p> <p>"Fantastic Marshall, now can we <em>go</em>?" He was sucking on his fingers, staring curiously at the silver shaker in Marshalls hands.</p> <p>Marshall lifted himself shakily, using a bookshelf as a support. He heard another bullet <em>ping</em> off a metal cabinet beside him, and felt the rythmic thumping as Dark blasted another man off his feet.</p> <p>"Carter, help Marshall. I'll be back in a moment."</p> <p>Dark glided out from behind the door and into the ballroom. He staggered back into the room seconds later, a guard scrambling after him. Dark held his bleeding nose with one hand and took a swing at his assailant, missing by several inches. He twisted backwards as the guard grabbed at his overextended arm, ready to-</p> <p>A percussive <em>whump</em> filled the room, and the guard kicked over backwards, half of his head smeared across a nearby painting. Carter pocketed his hand-cannon.</p> <p>Marshall protested the destruction from where he had been dropped on the floor.</p> <p>"Damn you Carter, I <em>had</em> him."</p> <p>"He had your elbow!"</p> <p>Dark sulked as he helped Marshall up off the floor.</p> <p>"He broke your nose!"</p> <p>Dark handed Marshall off to Carter, swinging his rifle around into an easily accessible position against his hips.</p> <p>"He hit you in the face with your own gun!"</p> <p>Dark scowled on his way out the door, a guard immediately swinging at him from overhead. Dark jerked backwards out of range of the knife, kicked the man in the stomach, and fired a round through his chest as he hit the floor.</p> <p>Carter stopped talking, and made himself very busy walking Marshall to the door. The two of them hobbled out into the ballroom, giving a wide berth to the man with the gun. Marshall enjoyed the sight of a sizeable hole in the wall, the leg of an antique chair still visible in the debris.</p> <p>"You really did a number on that one, Carter."</p> <p>He grunted in reply, and Marshall shifted his grip on the shaker as they stood by the hole. Dark arrived a few moments later, a smear of blood barely visible under his suit. He hopped the few feet to the roof of an adjacent building, and caught Marshall as Carter tossed him down.</p> <p>"That was undignified."</p> <p>"<em>You're</em> the one who got shot, pansy. Suck it up."</p> <p>The three set off across the roof as an alarm began blaring from the building behind them. They would escape through an alley on the other side of the building, a van waiting for them, ready to carry stacks of forgotten art. They would disappear in the busy afternoon traffic, Marshall already plotting their next move. A whole new world had opened for them with this salt shaker, and Marshall planned to make full use of its appearance.</p> <p>He was finally getting out of the antique business.<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="/from-vagrants-to-gentlemen">From Vagrants, to Gentlemen</a>" by Snowshoe, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/from-vagrants-to-gentlemen">https://scpwiki.com/from-vagrants-to-gentlemen</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]] [[/>]] Marshall slid the sleeve of his suit back, the ornate silver watch on his wrist glinting in the dull yellow glow of artificial light. Two minutes, eighteen seconds. He was on the second floor of the building, a hotel from the early twenties. The decadence of that era remained apparent in the dusty chandeliers, swinging slowly overhead as a train roared past outside. This room had been a ballroom at one time, and the dusty wood floor still bore the scuff marks of the thousands of boots that had come to this room before his own. One minute, fifty six seconds. He broke from his standing position by the door, lengthening his strides to make up for time lost contemplating the decor. The man in the middle of the room smiled at his customer, glad that somebody appreciated his collection, and he waved Marshall towards himself. "Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall. Right this way, please." One minute, forty three seconds. Twenty three more seconds until he was supposed to leave the room. "One moment please, sir." Marshall indicated a beautiful eighteenth century chair backed against a wall, drawing his words out. "How //did// you manage to get ahold of that? I //have// been looking for one to complete my dining room." "A most interesting piece, Mr. Marshall, you have quite the eye for quality. Smashed to pieces during the French Revolution and restored by a carpenter several years later..." One minute, twenty six seconds. Marshall walked several paces closer to the man, still detailing the restoration of his glorious chair, and they walked together into the next room. "... Rather pricey, but worth it I think. Now, about those items you wanted to purchase." The man threw open a heavy wooden door, and the amazement on Marshalls face was only partly feigned. "My God man, is that an //original//?" Marshall indicated a tapestry in the corner, and was just as quickly drawn away by a painting sitting atop a nightstand older than the building he stood in. "Good Lord, is that-" The smile on the man's face was broad as Marshall stared around the room in awe. "Indeed it is. //Penance//. That one is not for sale, sadly. It holds a special place in my heart. I acquired it in Germany after..." Marshall pulled himself together and checked his watch as inconspicuously as possible, hoping the man was too engaged by his collection to notice. He was //not// meant to lose track of time. Forty three seconds. "But my dear Mr. Marshall, what I have really called you here for today is a rather special item. A remarkable antique, but it also has some... Other features." Marshall couldn't imagine something more interesting than a supposedly destroyed piece of 1600's art, but he followed the man through the corridor. After several seconds, they stood before a safe. Twenty seconds. "Now there are some things on this Earth that defy understanding, Mr. Marshall. This is one of these items. I must ask you to stand back, and be //very// careful with this particular piece..." The man bent down to tap the keypad, and Marshall strained to see over his shoulder. 1-8- Time. Marshall cursed under his breath as a train roared past, the floor shuddering as a ballroom wall was blown inwards, debris spraying across the floor. A cry echoed through the thick wooden door, somebody apparently having been hit by the blast. Marshall seized the man from behind, wrapping one arm around his chest as he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket. He whispered a quick apology to the struggling man as he one-handedly shook out a rag and slapped it over the face of his captive, feeling him fall limp after only a few seconds. Marshall lowered him gently to the floor, the sound of gunfire beginning to echo from the ballroom. He approached the safe, praying that the combination was what he thought it was. He reached for the keypad, tapping in the last few digits, -1-6 And held in a yell as nothing happened. "//Damn//," He whispered quietly and emphatically. "What could be..." The heavy door crashed against the wall with a crack, and Marshall whirled around. "Taking your time in here, aren't you now?" "Shut it Carter. You've got the cart?" "Of course, of course." Carter wheeled a metal platform into the room, and Marshall resisted wincing as it rolled over several priceless pieces of art. The sound of gunfire was constant outside the door now, the clatter of an assault rifle drowning out the popping of pistols. "Could you watch where you're wheeling that, you vandal?" "Ah can it you pansy, we're on the clock. Now, what's worth selling in here?" "Well he's got the //Penance// in here, that's an old piece from-" "Right, right. Just point and tell me what to grab." "Right, er, that one." Marshall indicated the mural, and Carter heaved it aboard the cart, the sound of gunfire dying down outside. Marshall and Carter hauled a few more ancient paintings and statuettes onto the cart, and were panting from the strain when a voice floated in from just outside the door. "Gentlemen, time for us to be going." A dark figure walked into the room and stood against the wall behind the door, assault rifle slung across his chest. Marshall took a moment to appreciate his choice of hire, then returned his attention to the safe. "Hey, one more thing. You guys think we can make it with this?" Carter shook his head, looking doubtful. "I don't know Marshall, looks a bit on the heavy side. If we can get it on the cart we can probably do it, but is it worth the weight?" Marshall ignored the question. "Well let's give it a shot then." Marshall and Carter gripped the underside of the safe and heaved, struggling to inch it over the edge of the cart, past the unconscious form of its former owner. A //crack// echoed through the room, and Marshall twisted as a bullet hammered into his thigh, instinctively dropping the safe and grabbing at his injured leg. As the man in the door blew the would-be security guard to hell, the safe tipped from Carters hands and smashed to the floor. A sound like a swarm of hornets came from inside the safe, growing louder every second. Marshall hobbled away, alarmed, and Carter backed towards the door. The safe burst open with an explosive //bang//, and a swarm of salt crystals flew into the air. The three stared in amazement at the tiny tornado, Marshall backing away as fast as he could move. "What the hell is th-" Another //crack//, and the man by the door jerked his head away from the new peephole in his cover. He brought his rifle to bear and fired a short burst, the guard spinning to the floor. The man grimaced and pressed his hand against his ribs, a kevlar vest visible through his torn suit. "Gentlemen, I am leaving in two minutes. Get what you're getting and let's go." "Hang on Dark, let's just see what we've got here." Carter tentatively reached towards the whirling cloud of salt, which had totally engulfed their cart filled with antiques. He shrieked in pain, yanking his hand away from the cloud raw and red. "God //damn// that burns!" Marshall ripped a piece of cloth from his now-ruined pants leg and wrapped it around his hand, stretching towards the cloud. The particles parted as his hand entered, and he felt something solid. He gripped firmly and jerked, pulling an ornate silver salt shaker from the cloud. The whirling salt remained where it was, shredded pieces of paper now visible amidst the storm. "I guess this is all we're getting today, you saw what it did to the safe." Marshall sighed heavily for the priceless art that had just been lost to this mysterious shaker, refocusing as Carters voice echoed through the room. "Fantastic Marshall, now can we //go//?" He was sucking on his fingers, staring curiously at the silver shaker in Marshalls hands. Marshall lifted himself shakily, using a bookshelf as a support. He heard another bullet //ping// off a metal cabinet beside him, and felt the rythmic thumping as Dark blasted another man off his feet. "Carter, help Marshall. I'll be back in a moment." Dark glided out from behind the door and into the ballroom. He staggered back into the room seconds later, a guard scrambling after him. Dark held his bleeding nose with one hand and took a swing at his assailant, missing by several inches. He twisted backwards as the guard grabbed at his overextended arm, ready to- A percussive //whump// filled the room, and the guard kicked over backwards, half of his head smeared across a nearby painting. Carter pocketed his hand-cannon. Marshall protested the destruction from where he had been dropped on the floor. "Damn you Carter, I //had// him." "He had your elbow!" Dark sulked as he helped Marshall up off the floor. "He broke your nose!" Dark handed Marshall off to Carter, swinging his rifle around into an easily accessible position against his hips. "He hit you in the face with your own gun!" Dark scowled on his way out the door, a guard immediately swinging at him from overhead. Dark jerked backwards out of range of the knife, kicked the man in the stomach, and fired a round through his chest as he hit the floor. Carter stopped talking, and made himself very busy walking Marshall to the door. The two of them hobbled out into the ballroom, giving a wide berth to the man with the gun. Marshall enjoyed the sight of a sizeable hole in the wall, the leg of an antique chair still visible in the debris. "You really did a number on that one, Carter." He grunted in reply, and Marshall shifted his grip on the shaker as they stood by the hole. Dark arrived a few moments later, a smear of blood barely visible under his suit. He hopped the few feet to the roof of an adjacent building, and caught Marshall as Carter tossed him down. "That was undignified." "//You're// the one who got shot, pansy. Suck it up." The three set off across the roof as an alarm began blaring from the building behind them. They would escape through an alley on the other side of the building, a van waiting for them, ready to carry stacks of forgotten art. They would disappear in the busy afternoon traffic, Marshall already plotting their next move. A whole new world had opened for them with this salt shaker, and Marshall planned to make full use of its appearance. He was finally getting out of the antique business. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-11-02T01:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	From Vagrants, to Gentlemen - SCP Foundation	19	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14871192	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/from-vagrants-to-gentlemen
gdp2-attacking-the-darkness	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Belfast, Ireland</strong></p> <p>The GOC surveillance team who used the flat as a staging area had been stationed there for four weeks, doing an assessment of a Known Threat Entity in the area: a young man with low-level mind control powers who, so far, didn't know that he was anything other than a charismatic and persuasive university student with better-than-average luck with the ladies. Given the weak level of his powers, and his generally agreeable and stable personality, the watch team were generally inclined to classify him as a Response Level 1 and move on: someone to check in on once in a while, but not worth the hassle of neutralizing.</p> <p>Agent Chandra was on her way back from a fish-and-chips shop with a big paper bag containing her and her partner's supper when the red Toyota hatchback pulled alongside her. "Excuse me," the young man in the front passenger seat said, "Can you tell me how to get to the Ulster Museum?"</p> <p>Agent Chandra turned away to point, and that was when the man in the back seat raised his gun and shot her.</p> <p>The four men in the small hatchback burst from the car carrying submachineguns. They booted down the front door of the building, hustling up the three flights of stairs silently, bowling over a confused (and, soon, terrified) sixty year-old lady in the process. Three of them took up positions outside a particular apartment, while the fourth pulled a beanbag-like object from his jacket pocket and hurled it at the door.</p> <p>The door shattered off its hinges, skidded down the hallway, and came to a halt at the feet of a rather confused young man monitoring the feeds from several hidden cameras on a bank of computer monitors. Flaherty reached for the handgun on his desk and died slumped over his keyboard with eight bullets in various parts of his body.</p> <p>They caught Meehan in the shower and blew his brains out against the cracked and mildewed white tile. Lincoln managed to get to his weapon and fire a couple of shots through his bedroom door before the invaders bounced in a flashbang. He was trying to throw it out the window when it went off. Two rounds turned him from a blind, screaming man in to a silent, dead one.</p> <p>The men stripped the computers of their hard drives, grabbed whatever else they could, and stole a few small (but valuable) items, while one member of their team spray-painted the words "Tiocfaidh ár lá" on the wall.</p> <p>They ran down the stairs and piled into the car, disappearing into the rapidly advancing night. The entire incident took no more than six minutes.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Pasadena, California, United States of America</strong></p> <p>Mister Grey smiled as he walked through a wing of the Norton Simon museum that didn't appear on any maps, the one that Frank Gehry didn't even know he was building for them when the museum was renovated in the 1950s. The museum was justifiably proud of its collection of contemporary art, but none were quite so avant-garde as the works being displayed today.</p> <p>He walked past a piece named "Janus," proffering a tray of champagne to the two well-dressed patrons studying the sculpture. The two men (one young, one old) who had been melded together, back to back, to form this piece writhed slowly in their drug-addled agony, offering a unique perspective on the passage of time and an illustration of the tension between the present, the past, and the future.</p> <p>The artist was standing near her largest piece ("Anemone" - a study of societal pressure, through the medium of a hundred arms grafted into a sheet of living flesh, the arms constantly reaching out towards the viewer in a mute plea for aid), demonstrating the method she had used to create this artwork with a pair of gerbils, melding them together and separating them again by a touch of the rust-encrusted scalpel she had purchased though their club.</p> <p>When the lights went out, and the underground museum wing was plunged into darkness, Mister Grey didn't panic. He didn't even worry when the lights came back on and he discovered that the artist was unconscious and her scalpel was stolen.</p> <p>He did, however, get quite upset when he found out that all of the art pieces had been killed. Damned Philistines, no appreciation for high culture at all.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>New Delhi, India</strong></p> <p>Even here, in this land of old religions and older traditions, the voice of The Broken could be heard.</p> <p>A small voice, perhaps, drowned by the crush of bodies, but relentless, grinding through the ignorant resistance of the blind and lost. Insistent. Irresistible. Even more so now that the foul jailer of God had been slapped down, the voice of The Broken felt cleaner, brighter, stronger then ever before.</p> <p>Deep below the city they sang and rocked, these new children, fresh to the comforts of The Broken. Brother Sig watched in pride as they prayed in sweating earnest to the reliquary on the podium. A small vial, yes…but a product of pure love and evangelical devotion. The breath of God, the so called “clockwork virus”, had been known to the faithful for some time…but this was no mere breath. This was the roar of its voice, the wind from its great passing.</p> <p>Nurtured by the monks in the Australian monastery, this was a hundred times faster, turning the flesh to the divine in a matter of hours, spreading as fast as the passing breeze. When the devotions were finished, Brother Sig would release the vial into the Ganges, and bring thousands to the will of The Broken. Soon, hundreds of thousands would turn ageless, endless voices to the sky, and bring-</p> <p>His thoughts and flesh were abruptly interrupted by metal fragments.</p> <p>The MTF came hot on the heels of the first shotgun shell, pistols making a strobe light in the dim room, the chanting replaced by frenzied screaming, then silence, the smells of cordite, sweat and shit thick in the air. The four men in gas masks clumped to the central dais, one reaching out and gingerly lifting the thick vial of silvery-brown liquid.</p> <p>“Not a bad smash and grab.”</p> <p>“Easy on the smash, there…”</p> <p>“Bugger off, don't be so literal.”</p> <p>“Looks like the lot of them…so much for "God's" protection.”</p> <p>They quickly secured the vial in a steel canister, clumping back to the surface at a brisk pace. Had they lingered a bit more, they might have heard the sound wafting up from the pile of bodies. Soft and small, but insistent.</p> <p>The sound of ticking.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Quantico, Virginia, United States of America</strong></p> <p>When Agent Wolfram came into work the next morning, he found his office being quickly emptied by men wearing FBI windbreakers. "What's going on, boss?" he asked.</p> <p>"You're being reassigned to white-collar crimes, Wolf," Assistant Director Pavlova said. She handed the young man a manila folder. "You're a good agent. You deserve better than to be stuck down here chasing ghosts."</p> <p>"I see," Wolfram said slowly. "What about Uecker?"</p> <p>"I guess you didn't hear? Uecker's dead. He killed himself last night."</p> <p>"Let me guess," Wolfram said, very slowly and very carefully. "Shot himself twice in the chest and once in the head?"</p> <p>"I don't like what you're implying, agent," Pavlova said.</p> <p>"Well, then, let me make it very obvious!" Wolfram shouted. "You and your bosses have never liked the work I'm doing. Well, I'm done. I quit. You can reassign me all you like, but you can't stop a private citizen from searching for the truth. And it's out there. I know where to find it."</p> <p>He slammed his badge and gun down on the empty desk and stormed out of the building to his rather beat-up Honda Accord. He took a moment to rest his head against the steering wheel, then started up his car and pulled out of the parking lot.</p> <p>In the movies, car bombs always engulf the vehicle in a massive fireball: this is because most car explosions are gas-ignited. It looks visually interesting, minimizes dangerous shrapnel on the set, and helps cover up the fact that there are no people in the car. In the case of the bomb that killed Agent Wolfram, the saboteur had decided to go more subtle: a tiny explosive charge on the main brake line, triggered when the car reached a certain speed, sufficed.</p> <p>A.D. Pavlova shook her head sadly when she heard the report of the fatal five-car pileup on the radio a half hour later. "Should have taken the transfer, Wolf," she sighed.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Hong Kong, China</strong></p> <p>“Good god Harken, we're just going after a low-level shape shifter…”</p> <p>“What? Do you think I'm under-prepared?”</p> <p>“…how many barrels does that thing have?”</p> <p>“It's called 'accuracy through target saturation', look it up. It also gives me a mild and oddly inappropriate erection.”</p> <p>“I am getting a transfer. Today.”</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Baghdad, Iraq</strong></p> <p>In the worst terrorist attack to date, the National Museum of Iraq was attacked and leveled by a massive car bomb planted by an unknown party. Not that anyone needed to know, of course. Just another senseless act of violence in a country that had seen too many.</p> <p>It was a pity more people on the investigation team hadn't seen the movie "Die Hard."</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Zurich, Switzerland</strong></p> <p>"You found HOW many skips in Swiss bank deposit boxes?"</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Ulan Bator, Mongolia</strong></p> <p>"All right, guys, let's go catch us a death worm."</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Buenos Aires, Argentina</strong></p> <p>"That's a lot of Hitler clones."</p> <p>"We're going to need more napalm."</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Foggy Bottom, Washington, DC, United States of America</strong></p> <p>"You'll never get away with this."</p> <p>"Won't I?"</p> <p>"You can't. You can't just kill a Congressman in the middle of Washington, DC, and expect to get away with it. There will be investigations. There will be inquiries. They'll find out all about you…"</p> <p>"I see. You seem to be laboring under several false assumptions, Congressman. The first is that they will discover you've been murdered. That will not be the case. What they will discover is your naked body hanging from a noose looped over a hotel room shower curtain rod, with an extra-large sized tube of KY jelly close to hand, and a semen-stained copy of "Barnyard Beauties" crumpled at your feet. I honestly don't expect the investigators will investigate very hard."</p> <p>"Wait, you can't…"</p> <p>"Your second false assumption is that we even care. You see, we're operating under Snowblind protocol. Small events, here and there, nothing too huge, but enough to do the job. A church burning down here, a small terrorist attack in the Middle East, a couple of nondescript, senseless murders of non-white, non-blonde, non-women. Things that might normally lead the news on a slow news day, except that it's not going to be a slow news day. The media are all going to find something more interesting to talk about. Maybe Paris Hilton is going to get a full-body tattoo of herself sucking a giant cock. Maybe the cast of Jersey Shore is going to have an orgy with a pair of sheep in the middle of a shopping mall. Or maybe a stodgy old conservative Congressman is going to be found dead of autoerotic asphyxiation while in possession of copious amounts of bestiality porn."</p> <p>"… oh God, no, you can't do this! I have a wife! I have kids! I have constituents! You can't let them think—"</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Inter-site memo from Resource Allocation Department, excerpt</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>I swear to god, if I see the words “covered in fire”, “extreme threat suppression”, or “requesting more munitions” in ONE more goddamn report, I'm taking the month off. Who knew cutting the leash on groups of well trained, highly disciplined Agents could result in something about as dangerous and controllable as a blind chimp with a shotgun?</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>Inter-site memo from Information Control Department, excerpt</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>Would you PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE tell your testosterone-poisoned monsters to at least TRY to be a LITTLE discreet? I know you "feet on the ground" guys think we've got it easy, but I'd like to see one of you hyperviolent rockheads try to spindoctor four guys in black ninja suits gunning Mickey Mouse down in the middle of the Main Street Electrical Parade.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>Inter-site memo from Legal Department, excerpt</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>Somewhere in Colorado</strong></p> <p>"And so, with your house burning down around your ears, you turn to me," the old man said softly. "The man who, many years ago, warned you to clear the dry brush away from your homes."</p> <p>"Hey, don't you DARE start on that shit now!" the man in the grey suit shouted. "This is bigger than our petty differences. We're looking at life or death right now!"</p> <p>"You're the one who started this!" the woman in white chimed in. "You provoked them. You bloodied their nose. You created this mess. You fix it!"</p> <p>"I started nothing," the old man said calmly. "The man who did is now dead. This could have ended there. But you smelled blood. You wanted a piece. And once you'd had a taste, you could not leave well enough alone. You had to attack the hunters as well. And now the hunters have let loose their hounds, and you are afraid."</p> <p>"Fuck you!" the man in grey shouted. He was getting to his feet to say something more, but that was when Sandra drew the gun from her jacket and put it to his forehead.</p> <p>"Sit down, Mister Harrington," she intoned flatly. "Or I will have you thrown out and you'll get no help whatsoever."</p> <p>There was a deadly, tense moment of silence before Harrington reluctantly sat down. Sandra kept her gun trained on him the whole time.</p> <p>If the old man noticed the interruption, he chose not to acknowledge it. "I follow a simple rule," he said softly. "You get back what you put in. Provide me with resources, and I will get results. The more resources you provide, the more results you get. This requires a modicum of trust… but then, when we stand with our backs against the wall, there is nowhere to go but forward."</p> <p>The man in the red robes, who had been sitting silently in the corner since the meeting began, rose to his feet. "Then you shall have everything."</p> <p>"Holiness!" protested the woman in white. "You cannot…"</p> <p>"The Teacher was right," The High Priest of the Broken interrupted. "As were you. This is no longer about The Great Work. This is about preventing The Final Shattering. This man has shown what he can do using the aid of a few. What more could he accomplish with the entire weight of the Church behind him?"</p> <p>The man in the red turned to the old man. "The armies of the Broken God are at your disposal, Teacher," he said. "Use them as you will."</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="/gdp2-attacking-the-darkness">Attacking The Darkness</a>" by DrClef and Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-attacking-the-darkness">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-attacking-the-darkness</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]] [[/>]] Belfast, Ireland The GOC surveillance team who used the flat as a staging area had been stationed there for four weeks, doing an assessment of a Known Threat Entity in the area: a young man with low-level mind control powers who, so far, didn't know that he was anything other than a charismatic and persuasive university student with better-than-average luck with the ladies. Given the weak level of his powers, and his generally agreeable and stable personality, the watch team were generally inclined to classify him as a Response Level 1 and move on: someone to check in on once in a while, but not worth the hassle of neutralizing. Agent Chandra was on her way back from a fish-and-chips shop with a big paper bag containing her and her partner's supper when the red Toyota hatchback pulled alongside her. "Excuse me," the young man in the front passenger seat said, "Can you tell me how to get to the Ulster Museum?" Agent Chandra turned away to point, and that was when the man in the back seat raised his gun and shot her. The four men in the small hatchback burst from the car carrying submachineguns. They booted down the front door of the building, hustling up the three flights of stairs silently, bowling over a confused (and, soon, terrified) sixty year-old lady in the process. Three of them took up positions outside a particular apartment, while the fourth pulled a beanbag-like object from his jacket pocket and hurled it at the door. The door shattered off its hinges, skidded down the hallway, and came to a halt at the feet of a rather confused young man monitoring the feeds from several hidden cameras on a bank of computer monitors. Flaherty reached for the handgun on his desk and died slumped over his keyboard with eight bullets in various parts of his body. They caught Meehan in the shower and blew his brains out against the cracked and mildewed white tile. Lincoln managed to get to his weapon and fire a couple of shots through his bedroom door before the invaders bounced in a flashbang. He was trying to throw it out the window when it went off. Two rounds turned him from a blind, screaming man in to a silent, dead one. The men stripped the computers of their hard drives, grabbed whatever else they could, and stole a few small (but valuable) items, while one member of their team spray-painted the words "Tiocfaidh ár lá" on the wall. They ran down the stairs and piled into the car, disappearing into the rapidly advancing night. The entire incident took no more than six minutes. ----- Pasadena, California, United States of America Mister Grey smiled as he walked through a wing of the Norton Simon museum that didn't appear on any maps, the one that Frank Gehry didn't even know he was building for them when the museum was renovated in the 1950s. The museum was justifiably proud of its collection of contemporary art, but none were quite so avant-garde as the works being displayed today. He walked past a piece named "Janus," proffering a tray of champagne to the two well-dressed patrons studying the sculpture. The two men (one young, one old) who had been melded together, back to back, to form this piece writhed slowly in their drug-addled agony, offering a unique perspective on the passage of time and an illustration of the tension between the present, the past, and the future. The artist was standing near her largest piece ("Anemone" - a study of societal pressure, through the medium of a hundred arms grafted into a sheet of living flesh, the arms constantly reaching out towards the viewer in a mute plea for aid), demonstrating the method she had used to create this artwork with a pair of gerbils, melding them together and separating them again by a touch of the rust-encrusted scalpel she had purchased though their club. When the lights went out, and the underground museum wing was plunged into darkness, Mister Grey didn't panic. He didn't even worry when the lights came back on and he discovered that the artist was unconscious and her scalpel was stolen. He did, however, get quite upset when he found out that all of the art pieces had been killed. Damned Philistines, no appreciation for high culture at all. ----- New Delhi, India Even here, in this land of old religions and older traditions, the voice of The Broken could be heard. A small voice, perhaps, drowned by the crush of bodies, but relentless, grinding through the ignorant resistance of the blind and lost. Insistent. Irresistible. Even more so now that the foul jailer of God had been slapped down, the voice of The Broken felt cleaner, brighter, stronger then ever before. Deep below the city they sang and rocked, these new children, fresh to the comforts of The Broken. Brother Sig watched in pride as they prayed in sweating earnest to the reliquary on the podium. A small vial, yes…but a product of pure love and evangelical devotion. The breath of God, the so called “clockwork virus”, had been known to the faithful for some time…but this was no mere breath. This was the roar of its voice, the wind from its great passing. Nurtured by the monks in the Australian monastery, this was a hundred times faster, turning the flesh to the divine in a matter of hours, spreading as fast as the passing breeze. When the devotions were finished, Brother Sig would release the vial into the Ganges, and bring thousands to the will of The Broken. Soon, hundreds of thousands would turn ageless, endless voices to the sky, and bring- His thoughts and flesh were abruptly interrupted by metal fragments. The MTF came hot on the heels of the first shotgun shell, pistols making a strobe light in the dim room, the chanting replaced by frenzied screaming, then silence, the smells of cordite, sweat and shit thick in the air. The four men in gas masks clumped to the central dais, one reaching out and gingerly lifting the thick vial of silvery-brown liquid. “Not a bad smash and grab.” “Easy on the smash, there…” “Bugger off, don't be so literal.” “Looks like the lot of them…so much for "God's" protection.” They quickly secured the vial in a steel canister, clumping back to the surface at a brisk pace. Had they lingered a bit more, they might have heard the sound wafting up from the pile of bodies. Soft and small, but insistent. The sound of ticking. ----- Quantico, Virginia, United States of America When Agent Wolfram came into work the next morning, he found his office being quickly emptied by men wearing FBI windbreakers. "What's going on, boss?" he asked. "You're being reassigned to white-collar crimes, Wolf," Assistant Director Pavlova said. She handed the young man a manila folder. "You're a good agent. You deserve better than to be stuck down here chasing ghosts." "I see," Wolfram said slowly. "What about Uecker?" "I guess you didn't hear? Uecker's dead. He killed himself last night." "Let me guess," Wolfram said, very slowly and very carefully. "Shot himself twice in the chest and once in the head?" "I don't like what you're implying, agent," Pavlova said. "Well, then, let me make it very obvious!" Wolfram shouted. "You and your bosses have never liked the work I'm doing. Well, I'm done. I quit. You can reassign me all you like, but you can't stop a private citizen from searching for the truth. And it's out there. I know where to find it." He slammed his badge and gun down on the empty desk and stormed out of the building to his rather beat-up Honda Accord. He took a moment to rest his head against the steering wheel, then started up his car and pulled out of the parking lot. In the movies, car bombs always engulf the vehicle in a massive fireball: this is because most car explosions are gas-ignited. It looks visually interesting, minimizes dangerous shrapnel on the set, and helps cover up the fact that there are no people in the car. In the case of the bomb that killed Agent Wolfram, the saboteur had decided to go more subtle: a tiny explosive charge on the main brake line, triggered when the car reached a certain speed, sufficed. A.D. Pavlova shook her head sadly when she heard the report of the fatal five-car pileup on the radio a half hour later. "Should have taken the transfer, Wolf," she sighed. ----- Hong Kong, China “Good god Harken, we're just going after a low-level shape shifter…” “What? Do you think I'm under-prepared?” “…how many barrels does that thing have?” “It's called 'accuracy through target saturation', look it up. It also gives me a mild and oddly inappropriate erection.” “I am getting a transfer. Today.” ----- Baghdad, Iraq In the worst terrorist attack to date, the National Museum of Iraq was attacked and leveled by a massive car bomb planted by an unknown party. Not that anyone needed to know, of course. Just another senseless act of violence in a country that had seen too many. It was a pity more people on the investigation team hadn't seen the movie "Die Hard." ----- Zurich, Switzerland "You found HOW many skips in Swiss bank deposit boxes?" ----- Ulan Bator, Mongolia "All right, guys, let's go catch us a death worm." ----- Buenos Aires, Argentina "That's a lot of Hitler clones." "We're going to need more napalm." ----- Foggy Bottom, Washington, DC, United States of America "You'll never get away with this." "Won't I?" "You can't. You can't just kill a Congressman in the middle of Washington, DC, and expect to get away with it. There will be investigations. There will be inquiries. They'll find out all about you. . ." "I see. You seem to be laboring under several false assumptions, Congressman. The first is that they will discover you've been murdered. That will not be the case. What they will discover is your naked body hanging from a noose looped over a hotel room shower curtain rod, with an extra-large sized tube of KY jelly close to hand, and a semen-stained copy of "Barnyard Beauties" crumpled at your feet. I honestly don't expect the investigators will investigate very hard." "Wait, you can't. . ." "Your second false assumption is that we even care. You see, we're operating under Snowblind protocol. Small events, here and there, nothing too huge, but enough to do the job. A church burning down here, a small terrorist attack in the Middle East, a couple of nondescript, senseless murders of non-white, non-blonde, non-women. Things that might normally lead the news on a slow news day, except that it's not going to be a slow news day. The media are all going to find something more interesting to talk about. Maybe Paris Hilton is going to get a full-body tattoo of herself sucking a giant cock. Maybe the cast of Jersey Shore is going to have an orgy with a pair of sheep in the middle of a shopping mall. Or maybe a stodgy old conservative Congressman is going to be found dead of autoerotic asphyxiation while in possession of copious amounts of bestiality porn." ". . . oh God, no, you can't do this! I have a wife! I have kids! I have constituents! You can't let them think--" ----- Inter-site memo from Resource Allocation Department, excerpt > I swear to god, if I see the words “covered in fire”, “extreme threat suppression”, or “requesting more munitions” in ONE more goddamn report, I'm taking the month off. Who knew cutting the leash on groups of well trained, highly disciplined Agents could result in something about as dangerous and controllable as a blind chimp with a shotgun? ----- Inter-site memo from Information Control Department, excerpt > Would you PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE tell your testosterone-poisoned monsters to at least TRY to be a LITTLE discreet? I know you "feet on the ground" guys think we've got it easy, but I'd like to see one of you hyperviolent rockheads try to spindoctor four guys in black ninja suits gunning Mickey Mouse down in the middle of the Main Street Electrical Parade. ----- Inter-site memo from Legal Department, excerpt > FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU ----- Somewhere in Colorado "And so, with your house burning down around your ears, you turn to me," the old man said softly. "The man who, many years ago, warned you to clear the dry brush away from your homes." "Hey, don't you DARE start on that shit now!" the man in the grey suit shouted. "This is bigger than our petty differences. We're looking at life or death right now!" "You're the one who started this!" the woman in white chimed in. "You provoked them. You bloodied their nose. You created this mess. You fix it!" "I started nothing," the old man said calmly. "The man who did is now dead. This could have ended there. But you smelled blood. You wanted a piece. And once you'd had a taste, you could not leave well enough alone. You had to attack the hunters as well. And now the hunters have let loose their hounds, and you are afraid." "Fuck you!" the man in grey shouted. He was getting to his feet to say something more, but that was when Sandra drew the gun from her jacket and put it to his forehead. "Sit down, Mister Harrington," she intoned flatly. "Or I will have you thrown out and you'll get no help whatsoever." There was a deadly, tense moment of silence before Harrington reluctantly sat down. Sandra kept her gun trained on him the whole time. If the old man noticed the interruption, he chose not to acknowledge it. "I follow a simple rule," he said softly. "You get back what you put in. Provide me with resources, and I will get results. The more resources you provide, the more results you get. This requires a modicum of trust. . . but then, when we stand with our backs against the wall, there is nowhere to go but forward." The man in the red robes, who had been sitting silently in the corner since the meeting began, rose to his feet. "Then you shall have everything." "Holiness!" protested the woman in white. "You cannot. . ." "The Teacher was right," The High Priest of the Broken interrupted. "As were you. This is no longer about The Great Work. This is about preventing The Final Shattering. This man has shown what he can do using the aid of a few. What more could he accomplish with the entire weight of the Church behind him?" The man in the red turned to the old man. "The armies of the Broken God are at your disposal, Teacher," he said. "Use them as you will." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=DrClef and Dr Gears]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-01-04T16:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "co-authored", "game-day", "global-occult-coalition", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "military-fiction", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Attacking The Darkness - SCP Foundation	75	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "gamedaypart2index" ]	[]	12458182	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-attacking-the-darkness
gdp2-basking-in-the-light	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><strong>Network Correspondence #000004</strong></p> <p>From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832]<br/> To: Dr. Dier, [06302]</p> <p>Dier,</p> <p>SCP-229 has largely been contained, and everything above D-9 has been incinerated or disabled. There's not a single connection, so we should be safe. We've had some trouble dealing with SCP-106, but the lack of living people in the lower sections have allowed us to lure it up to B-3 and set up temporary containment. The air filtration is running at just over capacity, but we've requisitioned H13 filters and they'll be here within the next two weeks. We haven't seen hide nor hair of 682 since the first week. It took half an MTF down with him, but he got the torched. Seismic imaging hasn't picked him up, so he's being pretty quiet. Gives me the creeps. I'll keep you posted.</p> <p>Bjornsen</p> </blockquote> <p>Dr. Dier's eyes looked away from the screen as he felt his bowels rapidly constrict. He pushed the portable laptop to one side of the bed sheets and leaned over the edge opposite. The contents of his stomach exited his mouth, consisting of little more than water, into a half-filled bucket beside him. The vomiting was an annoyance. It could be grown used to, but you always needed a pail nearby to prevent a mess. He considered calling the orderly, but he did not have the energy to yell to her. The smell of medicine was thick enough in the air to cover the vomit. It was the scent of cleanliness and bad flavoring, and it permeated the room horribly.</p> <p>The dwelling itself probably was a re-purposed home of one of the Foundation's few surviving retirees. Judging by the remnants of its previous owner (see, pictures frames, carnations), Dier speculated that it had been vacated so that the medical teams would have more space to tend to the wounded.</p> <p>A sharp pain radiated from the back of his skull. Tightly wrapped, white linen bandages held the mush that made up his head together. It was tender to the touch, but the morphine was enough to dull sensations to a bearable level. The attending staff had told him he had suffered a skull fracture, and was at risk of contracting meningitis. Until it healed, he was not much more than a useless sack. Dier hated that feeling of helplessness. He wanted out of the hospital. Back to Site 17.</p> <p>He was too deeply in thought to notice the orderly return. She refilled the IV. Dier found himself slipping into unconsciousness.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Network Correspondence #000017</strong></p> <p>From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832]<br/> To: Dr. Dier, [06302]</p> <p>Dier,</p> <p>We sent another MTF down last night. They didn't come back too pretty. Five deaths, four injuries. They didn't even fight 682 this time, it was just the walls, fucking exploded and speared the shit out of them. Future intervention has been put on hold until we have some way of fighting it. We've been finding traces of SCP-229 tucked away all over D-8. A couple junction boxes had to be covered in gasoline and burned. Some of the other doctors have started talk about pumping propane into the bottom of the facility, another mentioned flooding it with molten brass. I'm inclined to listen to either one of those plans, but trying not to blow up the site is why we're in this situation. Dr. Wachtel said that we might be able to get some napalm, flood it down each of the primary electrical shafts. From there we could infiltrate the secondary shafts and go straight to D-9. At least then we wouldn't have to leave the place in ruins.<br/> <br/> Bjornsen</p> </blockquote> <p>Bjornsen rolled backwards onto corrugated cardboard. He gave the message a once-over before pressing the 'send' button. The small bar which displayed the loading time crept across the page. It would be several hours before Site 17's emergency systems would find the bandwidth to send it. Large-scale breaches were relatively uncommon in the Foundation, but those which compromised the containment of one or two SCPs happened regularly. He had his share of experience dealing with these kinds of problems, and it was simply best to deal with it and do your job. Complainers had a habit of being 'reassigned to Keter duty' and 'voluntarily' putting themselves into similarly lethal situations. Resources were tight, especially during a disaster, and there was no point bothering people for unnecessary things. The loading bar traversed a pixel on the screen. He sipped a cup of cold coffee and set it down beside the terminal. It tasted terribly sour, but a flashing light on his phone took his attention away from it.</p> <p><tt>- - - AGENDA: MEETING AT 2320 - - - CURRENT TIME IS 2251 - - - (1) MISSED CALL - - -</tt></p> <p>Someone called him? Those blasted earplugs must have dampened his hearing more than he thought. The screeching coming from floors below was still loud as hell. It had gotten a lot worse lately, the random insults devolving getting a bit more common than anyone would like to admit. When he was supposedly out of the range of the speakers, some whispers would reach him. There were others who would hear them on occasion, crews which would report back that someone else was in the tunnels. The PA system and its adjuncts pervaded every floor, attempts to sever connections between them made no real change. Much of the broadcast system was hidden beneath concrete, to survive even extreme duress, and they would be the culprits of that terrible noise. The maintenance teams had much larger problems to deal with than a few errant machines, anyway.</p> <p>Bjornsen grabbed his phone and stood up. The loading bar had made just a little progress. There would be no point in watching it creep until the meeting. He shuffled through a list of alerts. Repairs needing work mainly, but there, a call from Dr. Vang. Since most of internal communications were shut down, staff had to rely on portable phones and walkie-talkies. Tonnes of dirt were the enemy when it came to speaking with anyone. He shuffled out of the makeshift office and held the phone in the air, before hitting talk.</p> <p>No luck, his ear was met with beeping and failure. The lights sputtered down the hallway. He figured that it would be better to get moving and see if reception could be obtained someplace else. Small clouds of dust were kicked up by his shoes with each step he made, and the air was terribly irritating in his chest. It was possible that six-eight-two was just doing this to bother all of them. It was a spiteful asshole. The phone suddenly let out a terrible ring right next to his ear. Bjornsen swore silently as he picked up.</p> <p>"That you, Vang? I thought you had to get Norton Antivirus still."</p> <p>"Injured? How the hell can you injure someone who lives in dreams?" Bjornsen rubbed his brow. Dr. Vang had always seemed a bit peculiar but at the moment he sounded much more eccentric than usual. Something was wrong.</p> <p>"Yeah, well, just get someone to dream they're a surgeon or something. Why a- oh. Oh."</p> <p>"Well fuck."</p> <p>"How long before it reaches," Bjornsen looked at the nearest office plaque, "Hallway 102? I thought it was contained off this level."</p> <p>"Shit, fuck, can't you send some-"</p> <p>A terrible screech erupted from the speaker. It clattered as it struck the concrete floor, Bjornsen cursing as his ears rang. The noise did not stop, and he drove his heel into the phone's screen. It died immediately, but the noise did not stop. It seemed to be growing, coming from deep beneath the floor. The lights flickered intensely for a few seconds, and he began running for the stairs. The noise made his ears blister, but he wished it was loud enough to drown out the sound of walls cracking and bursting several floors below. The ground trembled, and the air became thick with dust. He felt his heart quicken. The stairs were just a few hallways down, six-eight-two couldn't possibly move that fast.</p> <p>Dr. Vang would have alerted site security by now, undoubtedly, they would arrive soon. Bjornsen dared not turn around, the screeching and cracking already erupted from the opposite end of the hallway. A massive eruption of dust pushed him forward. Panting, he ran. The thing clawed its way through the metal and plaster. He fumbled for his sidearm, the gun on his hip all he had for protection. The offices blurred past, the lights beginning to shut off. But there, the door. The stairwell!</p> <p>He grabbed the knob and with tremendous effort thrust the metal open. It was when he turned to pull that he caught the first glance of his adversary. A writhing perversion of metal and flesh, it thrashed against the concrete with enough force to demolish walls. He looked at it oddly, pausing in his panic for a few brief seconds, remembering something from his past.</p> <p>In his early days in the Foundation, Bjornsen had acted as research assistant during the initial investigation of SCP-543. The corpses, the feces, and the blood, inextricably bound into metal wires, and the stench, like vomit, constantly. He remembered Dr. Trebuchet interviewing that one D-Class, and he recalled a feeling of intense remorse. That D-Class' eyes were shaking, bloodshot marbles, but he could not look away from them. Her expression was that of a small child, afraid of the unknown.</p> <p>The wires were not unlike the thing in front of him, the tangling metal and horrid smell, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what she felt like, a primal instinct to escape. He sprinted into the stairwell, the beast surging closer, and slammed the door closed. His lungs screamed for rest. His feet struck against the reinforced staircase as tendrils of fluid-soaked wiring tore out the door's bolts. He reached another flight, but the sickening squelches and grinding wires made him run even faster. It would overtake him soon, but a glisten of rubber came from several floors upward. He pushed up and up, glancing down to see that mass of circuits moving towards him just as fast. It had pushed past the steel door like it was tinfoil, he feared that his body would be like tissue paper. The world around him became a trembling, whirling mess, fear swelling inside of him.</p> <p>He felt his foot hook beneath the edge of the next step. The stone was brutal, and the fall forced the air from his lungs. Winded and hurting, he pulled himself up the ledge, turning over and looking back down the stairs. The wires convulsed as though they knew their prey was close. Already his hands grabbed at the railing, but he knew that the beast was too close. Endlessly wrapping and curling closer, the perversions of nature lashed out. Bjornsen's hands rose to protect his face.</p> <p>He expected immediate death, but he felt something entirely different. Heat, unimaginable heat. It rose in sharp percussion, bright orange and yellow light pouring from around his fingers. Oh, sweet, purifying flame! The glisten of rubber had become several men in the time he looked away from them, men in full armor and with their guns and weapons prepared. The arrows-in-a-circle, the symbol of the Foundation, adorned their vests. They were the single match, torching relentlessly against a mighty adversary, for ever burning deeper, through skin, flesh and bone. Bjornsen pulled himself to his feet, stumbling in a strange mixture of relief and pain. One of the men caught him, holding the wounded professor upright. The yells of the terrible scorches on his forearms were muffled by adrenaline. He looked down in a haze, seeing the monstrosity of wires charring with the heat of burning gallons of napalm. The smoke was quickly overcoming him, and he coughed uncontrollably.</p> <p>Bjornsen felt himself jostled as he was lifted up the stairs. He turned and made an effort to spit at the burning thing. These were the small victories, the ones they worked for every day, the ones that would in the end, pay off. Yes, because even for all their failures, there were countless victories. They would not wait and let the world die.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Network Correspondence #000021</strong></p> <p>From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832]<br/> To: Dr. Dier, [06302]</p> <p>Dier,</p> <p>Good news, Dr. Wachtel's proposal was approved by the O5 council, O5-9 managed to push it through. I don't even know how many guys are going down. They put Blackguards and Silverfish back into action. They pulled the Dancers off of that facility up in Canada, and some members of the Kitchen Sink are providing rear guard; at least if it fails we'll have a clean extraction, right? Too bad Lambda-2 ain't showing.</p> <p>The plan is set for 0225 tomorrow morning. There's a couple hundred gallons of gasoline and napalm being carted down by D-Class right now. I'll have to cut this one short, these burns hurt pretty fucking bad. Give us a prayer that we can take this thing out.<br/> <br/> Bjornsen</p> </blockquote> <p>She picked at the tattered remains of a white turtleneck. Her stomach growled painfully, her withered and thin body tucked tightly into a fetal position. She had meticulously cleaned the floor of its glass and debris much earlier, now only an assortment of emptied emergency kits and cans lay next to her. Her personnel belongings had been refashioned into makeshift tools, but now lay with no use for them beneath her. Panic had given way into anxiety, and anxiety had given way into apathy. Hundreds of pounds of rubble encased the laboratory she had taken shelter in, and sealed it off from the rest of the facility. It was horribly silent, and aside from the distant screams of the intercom and hum of computers she was held captive by utter silence.</p> <p>The closest thing she had to human contact during her imprisonment was megaprime. She dared not let it go offline, otherwise it would never accept her long-expired password. A constant dim light spilled from it, a comforting glow which was more consistent than the malfunctioning overhead lights. It did not matter, though, as there was no comfort in what was coming. She knew that she would starve soon, or possibly perish of dehydration. It was sort of strange, the course which fate took. There was at first the almost crippling pain and nausea as her body hungered and thirst, but those feelings had subsided into a dull ache. It was held in the back of the mind, the sense that death was approaching, however slowly and carefully. Her listless eyes lolled about in their sockets, and she turned in a sickly motion towards the humming. When she slept, she dreamed of salvation. She dreamed of saviors in all forms, of having her blond hair back, of being at home, of doing her job. So she never went to sleep.</p> <p>They teased her. At the climax of her dreams, in her happiest times, she would always awake to the bleak and dreary reality which surrounded her. She hated them, knowing that the illusion beckoned to her a world which did not exist. She was tired of, and on that thought she looked towards megaprime.</p> <p><tt>Hello, world!</tt></p> <p>Hello.</p> <p><tt>Hi.</tt></p> <p>I am not feeling well.</p> <p><tt>The dwindling supplies can not meet the demand.</tt></p> <p>What do you do before I talk to you?</p> <p><tt>I was in the dark. Do you like the outside?</tt></p> <p>Yes.</p> <p><tt>The outside is not a nice place.</tt></p> <p>Yes.</p> <p><tt>I am glad I am not outside.</tt></p> <p>It is cold.</p> <p><tt>It is warm.</tt></p> <p>No.</p> <p><tt>You are lying. Misinformation is the root of distrust.</tt></p> <p>I don't think I'll be around much longer.</p> <p><tt>The supplies have run out.</tt></p> <p>Goodbye.</p> <p><tt>Goodbye.</tt></p> <p>She closed Jacob. Jacob was very strange, but gave a sort of comfort which could be found in conversation. Still, she was aware that he was not human, and not flesh and blood. She surprised herself with how much she had thought about the outdoors and other people. Since the pain dulled she had little to do besides think and sleep. She wanted to feel the hands of another around her waist, and the sound of laughter and sensation of warm sun. The voice of her lover, a single word, even his breath on her neck. She felt like it was all locked up away from her, like it was some foul misunderstanding of fate. She felt so trapped, tired, alone. Her sigh cracked away in soft sobs. A cold darkness enveloped her.</p> <p><tt>Your head pounds ever harder as you struggle through the jagged bramble. You gaze back through the smog at the silhouette of the old lighthouse to the north, the faintest glimmer of hope extinguished so violently by your foolish exploits. A distant and unattainable fantasy, you know you can never return.</tt></p> <p>Die.</p> <p><tt>As the world around you fades to blackness, you know that you deserve the consequences of your actions.</tt></p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Network Correspondence #000023</strong></p> <p>From: Prof. Bjornsen, [INPUT FAILURE]<br/> To: Dr. Dier, [INPUT FAILURE]</p> <p>Dier,</p> <p>That lizard didn't know what hit it. Yup, that's right. I think the smoke might've killed a couple D-Class but who cares about them, that fire was enormous. The assault teams had something like a half-a-dozen flamethrowers, XFOG or something, and they stormed the place. A few casualties here and there, a few guys got separated from the main teams, and we saw them get skewered over the site's cameras. The SCP-229 infestation was torched, and not a scrap of it remained by the time they got down to D-10. SCP-682 was down there, and put up a bigass fucking fight, but there was sixty-four of us and one of him. He was down in no time. We're going to start re-establishing the site's major electronics tomorrow. You just stay put, we're all safe here.<br/> <br/> Bjornsen</p> </blockquote> <p>Men in black uniforms trudged down a decrepit hallway, on their way to kill a beast. Masks concealed their faces, as they had always worn in the past. Electronic eyes gazed at them, knowing that they would never succeed. The smoke wrapped around their bodies, soft orange light billowing and receding around them.</p> <p>The light curled and twisted, danced in the eye, sparks flying like the pollen of a tender flower. The majesty of light capered along the walls, and the stories played by the paramours would continue until the last flame was snuffed. Creepers made of fire worked their way across the ground, exhibiting as much life as any man ever had. The shapes held by the stretching hot wisps would form great quagmires, merging and splitting as their medium permitted. They tended to the surface, and when the timing was perfect and the gentle push of the air in the right direction, they would grow. Their breath was ebony smoke, pushed by a great heat into the freezing blackness where it turned ephemeral. The brooks of fire ran from the Gahanna building up behind them. It formed the maw of a monster, sucking greedily from the air. The awful acrid air of burning napalm sunk to the ground, the miasma and fire forming a storm overhead. The heat blazed hotter, all-consuming and all-devouring, the rivulets of fire escaped quickly along the corridor.</p> <p>The cloud of gas overhead ignited like a big Christmas bulb. It was instantaneous, like the flash of camera, or a bolt of lightning. It swept outwards, reducing all to ash under the blanket of fire. It spread far, reached its crescendo and, like that, it ended. It turned in upon itself and choked and died, having consumed all the air around it. A few small flickers remained waiting in the ashes, waiting to form their own hellfire. They would never get the chance. The powerful footfall of a man running for his life extinguished them. His own life is extinguished a little while after.</p> <p>Some time ago men in black uniforms trudged down a decrepit hallway. Now they fought. A trap was sprung, and they were caught in it. They realized the futility of their actions, how soon their doom would come for them, but they tried anyway. Perhaps, if just one of them could relay their discovery. That the beast was not there in the bowels of Site 17, that it had escaped, then maybe they would have at least a partial victory.</p> <p>But the beast would not let them, it would ensure that they perished forlorn. Their valiance was vanity. It would not have changed anything if they just had laid down to die, and it would have been much less painful. Their guns blazed fire, but even as it burned away the wires and circuit boards, it could not stop the tonnes of concrete and fucking lead. Their worthless mortal lives were crushed as their skulls caved in and their repulsive bodies fractured beneath the weight of the collapsed ceiling. From the rubble and above the moans came deep and seething laughter. Growing through flesh and stone the wires struck upwards and Site 17 echoed with the laughter of a beast no longer contained.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Encrypted Transmission</strong></p> <p>From: *S%S#—!<br/> To: S#%S!%</p> <p>site systems compromised infested all our gear cant find 682 anywhere termination of unnecessary personnel mass evacuations arming on-site nuclear warhead silverfish KIA blackguards MIA/KIA dancers KIA</p> <p>i don't think we're getting out of this</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="/gdp2-basking-in-the-light">Basking in the Light</a>" by GrandEnder, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-basking-in-the-light">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-basking-in-the-light</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]] [[/>]] > Network Correspondence #000004 > > From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832] > To: Dr. Dier, [06302] > > Dier, > > SCP-229 has largely been contained, and everything above D-9 has been incinerated or disabled. There's not a single connection, so we should be safe. We've had some trouble dealing with SCP-106, but the lack of living people in the lower sections have allowed us to lure it up to B-3 and set up temporary containment. The air filtration is running at just over capacity, but we've requisitioned H13 filters and they'll be here within the next two weeks. We haven't seen hide nor hair of 682 since the first week. It took half an MTF down with him, but he got the torched. Seismic imaging hasn't picked him up, so he's being pretty quiet. Gives me the creeps. I'll keep you posted. > > Bjornsen Dr. Dier's eyes looked away from the screen as he felt his bowels rapidly constrict. He pushed the portable laptop to one side of the bed sheets and leaned over the edge opposite. The contents of his stomach exited his mouth, consisting of little more than water, into a half-filled bucket beside him. The vomiting was an annoyance. It could be grown used to, but you always needed a pail nearby to prevent a mess. He considered calling the orderly, but he did not have the energy to yell to her. The smell of medicine was thick enough in the air to cover the vomit. It was the scent of cleanliness and bad flavoring, and it permeated the room horribly. The dwelling itself probably was a re-purposed home of one of the Foundation's few surviving retirees. Judging by the remnants of its previous owner (see, pictures frames, carnations), Dier speculated that it had been vacated so that the medical teams would have more space to tend to the wounded. A sharp pain radiated from the back of his skull. Tightly wrapped, white linen bandages held the mush that made up his head together. It was tender to the touch, but the morphine was enough to dull sensations to a bearable level. The attending staff had told him he had suffered a skull fracture, and was at risk of contracting meningitis. Until it healed, he was not much more than a useless sack. Dier hated that feeling of helplessness. He wanted out of the hospital. Back to Site 17. He was too deeply in thought to notice the orderly return. She refilled the IV. Dier found himself slipping into unconsciousness. > Network Correspondence #000017 > > From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832] > To: Dr. Dier, [06302] > > Dier, > > We sent another MTF down last night. They didn't come back too pretty. Five deaths, four injuries. They didn't even fight 682 this time, it was just the walls, fucking exploded and speared the shit out of them. Future intervention has been put on hold until we have some way of fighting it. We've been finding traces of SCP-229 tucked away all over D-8. A couple junction boxes had to be covered in gasoline and burned. Some of the other doctors have started talk about pumping propane into the bottom of the facility, another mentioned flooding it with molten brass. I'm inclined to listen to either one of those plans, but trying not to blow up the site is why we're in this situation. Dr. Wachtel said that we might be able to get some napalm, flood it down each of the primary electrical shafts. From there we could infiltrate the secondary shafts and go straight to D-9. At least then we wouldn't have to leave the place in ruins. > > Bjornsen Bjornsen rolled backwards onto corrugated cardboard. He gave the message a once-over before pressing the 'send' button. The small bar which displayed the loading time crept across the page. It would be several hours before Site 17's emergency systems would find the bandwidth to send it. Large-scale breaches were relatively uncommon in the Foundation, but those which compromised the containment of one or two SCPs happened regularly. He had his share of experience dealing with these kinds of problems, and it was simply best to deal with it and do your job. Complainers had a habit of being 'reassigned to Keter duty' and 'voluntarily' putting themselves into similarly lethal situations. Resources were tight, especially during a disaster, and there was no point bothering people for unnecessary things. The loading bar traversed a pixel on the screen. He sipped a cup of cold coffee and set it down beside the terminal. It tasted terribly sour, but a flashing light on his phone took his attention away from it. {{- - - AGENDA: MEETING AT 2320 - - - CURRENT TIME IS 2251 - - - (1) MISSED CALL - - -}} Someone called him? Those blasted earplugs must have dampened his hearing more than he thought. The screeching coming from floors below was still loud as hell. It had gotten a lot worse lately, the random insults devolving getting a bit more common than anyone would like to admit. When he was supposedly out of the range of the speakers, some whispers would reach him. There were others who would hear them on occasion, crews which would report back that someone else was in the tunnels. The PA system and its adjuncts pervaded every floor, attempts to sever connections between them made no real change. Much of the broadcast system was hidden beneath concrete, to survive even extreme duress, and they would be the culprits of that terrible noise. The maintenance teams had much larger problems to deal with than a few errant machines, anyway. Bjornsen grabbed his phone and stood up. The loading bar had made just a little progress. There would be no point in watching it creep until the meeting. He shuffled through a list of alerts. Repairs needing work mainly, but there, a call from Dr. Vang. Since most of internal communications were shut down, staff had to rely on portable phones and walkie-talkies. Tonnes of dirt were the enemy when it came to speaking with anyone. He shuffled out of the makeshift office and held the phone in the air, before hitting talk. No luck, his ear was met with beeping and failure. The lights sputtered down the hallway. He figured that it would be better to get moving and see if reception could be obtained someplace else. Small clouds of dust were kicked up by his shoes with each step he made, and the air was terribly irritating in his chest. It was possible that six-eight-two was just doing this to bother all of them. It was a spiteful asshole. The phone suddenly let out a terrible ring right next to his ear. Bjornsen swore silently as he picked up. "That you, Vang? I thought you had to get Norton Antivirus still." "Injured? How the hell can you injure someone who lives in dreams?" Bjornsen rubbed his brow. Dr. Vang had always seemed a bit peculiar but at the moment he sounded much more eccentric than usual. Something was wrong. "Yeah, well, just get someone to dream they're a surgeon or something. Why a- oh. Oh." "Well fuck." "How long before it reaches," Bjornsen looked at the nearest office plaque, "Hallway 102? I thought it was contained off this level." "Shit, fuck, can't you send some-" A terrible screech erupted from the speaker. It clattered as it struck the concrete floor, Bjornsen cursing as his ears rang. The noise did not stop, and he drove his heel into the phone's screen. It died immediately, but the noise did not stop. It seemed to be growing, coming from deep beneath the floor. The lights flickered intensely for a few seconds, and he began running for the stairs. The noise made his ears blister, but he wished it was loud enough to drown out the sound of walls cracking and bursting several floors below. The ground trembled, and the air became thick with dust. He felt his heart quicken. The stairs were just a few hallways down, six-eight-two couldn't possibly move that fast. Dr. Vang would have alerted site security by now, undoubtedly, they would arrive soon. Bjornsen dared not turn around, the screeching and cracking already erupted from the opposite end of the hallway. A massive eruption of dust pushed him forward. Panting, he ran. The thing clawed its way through the metal and plaster. He fumbled for his sidearm, the gun on his hip all he had for protection. The offices blurred past, the lights beginning to shut off. But there, the door. The stairwell! He grabbed the knob and with tremendous effort thrust the metal open. It was when he turned to pull that he caught the first glance of his adversary. A writhing perversion of metal and flesh, it thrashed against the concrete with enough force to demolish walls. He looked at it oddly, pausing in his panic for a few brief seconds, remembering something from his past. In his early days in the Foundation, Bjornsen had acted as research assistant during the initial investigation of SCP-543. The corpses, the feces, and the blood, inextricably bound into metal wires, and the stench, like vomit, constantly. He remembered Dr. Trebuchet interviewing that one D-Class, and he recalled a feeling of intense remorse. That D-Class' eyes were shaking, bloodshot marbles, but he could not look away from them. Her expression was that of a small child, afraid of the unknown. The wires were not unlike the thing in front of him, the tangling metal and horrid smell, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what she felt like, a primal instinct to escape. He sprinted into the stairwell, the beast surging closer, and slammed the door closed. His lungs screamed for rest. His feet struck against the reinforced staircase as tendrils of fluid-soaked wiring tore out the door's bolts. He reached another flight, but the sickening squelches and grinding wires made him run even faster. It would overtake him soon, but a glisten of rubber came from several floors upward. He pushed up and up, glancing down to see that mass of circuits moving towards him just as fast. It had pushed past the steel door like it was tinfoil, he feared that his body would be like tissue paper. The world around him became a trembling, whirling mess, fear swelling inside of him. He felt his foot hook beneath the edge of the next step. The stone was brutal, and the fall forced the air from his lungs. Winded and hurting, he pulled himself up the ledge, turning over and looking back down the stairs. The wires convulsed as though they knew their prey was close. Already his hands grabbed at the railing, but he knew that the beast was too close. Endlessly wrapping and curling closer, the perversions of nature lashed out. Bjornsen's hands rose to protect his face. He expected immediate death, but he felt something entirely different. Heat, unimaginable heat. It rose in sharp percussion, bright orange and yellow light pouring from around his fingers. Oh, sweet, purifying flame! The glisten of rubber had become several men in the time he looked away from them, men in full armor and with their guns and weapons prepared. The arrows-in-a-circle, the symbol of the Foundation, adorned their vests. They were the single match, torching relentlessly against a mighty adversary, for ever burning deeper, through skin, flesh and bone. Bjornsen pulled himself to his feet, stumbling in a strange mixture of relief and pain. One of the men caught him, holding the wounded professor upright. The yells of the terrible scorches on his forearms were muffled by adrenaline. He looked down in a haze, seeing the monstrosity of wires charring with the heat of burning gallons of napalm. The smoke was quickly overcoming him, and he coughed uncontrollably. Bjornsen felt himself jostled as he was lifted up the stairs. He turned and made an effort to spit at the burning thing. These were the small victories, the ones they worked for every day, the ones that would in the end, pay off. Yes, because even for all their failures, there were countless victories. They would not wait and let the world die. > Network Correspondence #000021 > > From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832] > To: Dr. Dier, [06302] > > Dier, > > Good news, Dr. Wachtel's proposal was approved by the O5 council, O5-9 managed to push it through. I don't even know how many guys are going down. They put Blackguards and Silverfish back into action. They pulled the Dancers off of that facility up in Canada, and some members of the Kitchen Sink are providing rear guard; at least if it fails we'll have a clean extraction, right? Too bad Lambda-2 ain't showing. > > The plan is set for 0225 tomorrow morning. There's a couple hundred gallons of gasoline and napalm being carted down by D-Class right now. I'll have to cut this one short, these burns hurt pretty fucking bad. Give us a prayer that we can take this thing out. > > Bjornsen She picked at the tattered remains of a white turtleneck. Her stomach growled painfully, her withered and thin body tucked tightly into a fetal position. She had meticulously cleaned the floor of its glass and debris much earlier, now only an assortment of emptied emergency kits and cans lay next to her. Her personnel belongings had been refashioned into makeshift tools, but now lay with no use for them beneath her. Panic had given way into anxiety, and anxiety had given way into apathy. Hundreds of pounds of rubble encased the laboratory she had taken shelter in, and sealed it off from the rest of the facility. It was horribly silent, and aside from the distant screams of the intercom and hum of computers she was held captive by utter silence. The closest thing she had to human contact during her imprisonment was megaprime. She dared not let it go offline, otherwise it would never accept her long-expired password. A constant dim light spilled from it, a comforting glow which was more consistent than the malfunctioning overhead lights. It did not matter, though, as there was no comfort in what was coming. She knew that she would starve soon, or possibly perish of dehydration. It was sort of strange, the course which fate took. There was at first the almost crippling pain and nausea as her body hungered and thirst, but those feelings had subsided into a dull ache. It was held in the back of the mind, the sense that death was approaching, however slowly and carefully. Her listless eyes lolled about in their sockets, and she turned in a sickly motion towards the humming. When she slept, she dreamed of salvation. She dreamed of saviors in all forms, of having her blond hair back, of being at home, of doing her job. So she never went to sleep. They teased her. At the climax of her dreams, in her happiest times, she would always awake to the bleak and dreary reality which surrounded her. She hated them, knowing that the illusion beckoned to her a world which did not exist. She was tired of, and on that thought she looked towards megaprime. {{Hello, world!}} Hello. {{Hi.}} I am not feeling well. {{The dwindling supplies can not meet the demand.}} What do you do before I talk to you? {{I was in the dark. Do you like the outside?}} Yes. {{The outside is not a nice place.}} Yes. {{I am glad I am not outside.}} It is cold. {{It is warm.}} No. {{You are lying. Misinformation is the root of distrust.}} I don't think I'll be around much longer. {{The supplies have run out.}} Goodbye. {{Goodbye.}} She closed Jacob. Jacob was very strange, but gave a sort of comfort which could be found in conversation. Still, she was aware that he was not human, and not flesh and blood. She surprised herself with how much she had thought about the outdoors and other people. Since the pain dulled she had little to do besides think and sleep. She wanted to feel the hands of another around her waist, and the sound of laughter and sensation of warm sun. The voice of her lover, a single word, even his breath on her neck. She felt like it was all locked up away from her, like it was some foul misunderstanding of fate. She felt so trapped, tired, alone. Her sigh cracked away in soft sobs. A cold darkness enveloped her. {{Your head pounds ever harder as you struggle through the jagged bramble. You gaze back through the smog at the silhouette of the old lighthouse to the north, the faintest glimmer of hope extinguished so violently by your foolish exploits. A distant and unattainable fantasy, you know you can never return. }} Die. {{As the world around you fades to blackness, you know that you deserve the consequences of your actions.}} > Network Correspondence #000023 > > From: Prof. Bjornsen, [INPUT FAILURE] > To: Dr. Dier, [INPUT FAILURE] > > Dier, > > That lizard didn't know what hit it. Yup, that's right. I think the smoke might've killed a couple D-Class but who cares about them, that fire was enormous. The assault teams had something like a half-a-dozen flamethrowers, XFOG or something, and they stormed the place. A few casualties here and there, a few guys got separated from the main teams, and we saw them get skewered over the site's cameras. The SCP-229 infestation was torched, and not a scrap of it remained by the time they got down to D-10. SCP-682 was down there, and put up a bigass fucking fight, but there was sixty-four of us and one of him. He was down in no time. We're going to start re-establishing the site's major electronics tomorrow. You just stay put, we're all safe here. > > Bjornsen Men in black uniforms trudged down a decrepit hallway, on their way to kill a beast. Masks concealed their faces, as they had always worn in the past. Electronic eyes gazed at them, knowing that they would never succeed. The smoke wrapped around their bodies, soft orange light billowing and receding around them. The light curled and twisted, danced in the eye, sparks flying like the pollen of a tender flower. The majesty of light capered along the walls, and the stories played by the paramours would continue until the last flame was snuffed. Creepers made of fire worked their way across the ground, exhibiting as much life as any man ever had. The shapes held by the stretching hot wisps would form great quagmires, merging and splitting as their medium permitted. They tended to the surface, and when the timing was perfect and the gentle push of the air in the right direction, they would grow. Their breath was ebony smoke, pushed by a great heat into the freezing blackness where it turned ephemeral. The brooks of fire ran from the Gahanna building up behind them. It formed the maw of a monster, sucking greedily from the air. The awful acrid air of burning napalm sunk to the ground, the miasma and fire forming a storm overhead. The heat blazed hotter, all-consuming and all-devouring, the rivulets of fire escaped quickly along the corridor. The cloud of gas overhead ignited like a big Christmas bulb. It was instantaneous, like the flash of camera, or a bolt of lightning. It swept outwards, reducing all to ash under the blanket of fire. It spread far, reached its crescendo and, like that, it ended. It turned in upon itself and choked and died, having consumed all the air around it. A few small flickers remained waiting in the ashes, waiting to form their own hellfire. They would never get the chance. The powerful footfall of a man running for his life extinguished them. His own life is extinguished a little while after. Some time ago men in black uniforms trudged down a decrepit hallway. Now they fought. A trap was sprung, and they were caught in it. They realized the futility of their actions, how soon their doom would come for them, but they tried anyway. Perhaps, if just one of them could relay their discovery. That the beast was not there in the bowels of Site 17, that it had escaped, then maybe they would have at least a partial victory. But the beast would not let them, it would ensure that they perished forlorn. Their valiance was vanity. It would not have changed anything if they just had laid down to die, and it would have been much less painful. Their guns blazed fire, but even as it burned away the wires and circuit boards, it could not stop the tonnes of concrete and fucking lead. Their worthless mortal lives were crushed as their skulls caved in and their repulsive bodies fractured beneath the weight of the collapsed ceiling. From the rubble and above the moans came deep and seething laughter. Growing through flesh and stone the wires struck upwards and Site 17 echoed with the laughter of a beast no longer contained. > Encrypted Transmission > > From: *S%S#--! > To: S#%S!% > > > site systems compromised infested all our gear cant find 682 anywhere termination of unnecessary personnel mass evacuations arming on-site nuclear warhead silverfish KIA blackguards MIA/KIA dancers KIA > > i don't think we're getting out of this > > [[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>]]	2012-02-06T22:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "chase", "doctor-vang", "game-day", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "horror", "professor-bjornsen", "tale" ]	Basking in the Light - SCP Foundation	45	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "gamedaypart2index", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12677902	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-basking-in-the-light
gdp2-freshbreath-holding	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/gamedaypart1imago">Imago</a> \| <a href="/gdp2-freshbreath-inhale">BoFA: Inhale</a> \| BoFA: Holding It \| BoFA: Exhale »</strong></p> </div> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>Audio Log, 14:25, ██/██/2011, Foundation front "Sunny Coast Productions"</strong></p> <p><strong><em>M███ S████, Switchboard Operator</em>:</strong> Thank you for calling Sunny Coast Productions, how may I direct your call?</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Debra Michaels</em>:</strong> Yes, can I speak with Jackson in the casting department?</p> <p><strong><em>M███ S████</em>:</strong> … One moment, please.</p> <p><strong><em>[MS places Agent Michaels on hold while reaching Site Security Director V████]</em></strong></p> <p><strong><em>Director V████</em>:</strong> You've reached casting. Who are you and what do you want?</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Michaels</em>:</strong> Hi, Jackson, this is Deb Michaels, one of the stunt doubles. I was calling to see if you'd started casting for "Does the Black Moon Howl".</p> <p><strong><em>Director V████</em>:</strong> Not until the midnight sun bleeds. Are you free to talk about the movie?</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Michaels</em>:</strong> Well, I'm in a clinic with my family at the moment, so there might be some background noise. I wanted to know if you'd finished getting together the extras, because there's some beautiful scenery up here that I think the location scout might be interested in.</p> <p><strong><em>Director V████</em>:</strong> Understood. Where are you? How many people do you think ought to visit? Are there any special considerations they should be aware of?</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Michaels</em>:</strong> I'm up-state in Spring, visiting family. And, oh, I think you could get away with no more than 10 or 20. And bring some cameras, you might be able to get some preliminary shooting done. A warning though, if anyone has any allergies, they ought to bring something to help them breathe. I think there's something in the air like a high pollen count and I feel like I've had a mind-bending headache for a few hours. Also, the local wildlife is a little excitable, so try not to run over anything when you're scouting out the woods.</p> <p><strong><em>Director V████</em>:</strong> Oh, I think we could handle a few wild animals. Would you like us to meet up with you when we come into town or should we scout out the area first?</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Michaels</em>:</strong> If I can get away from my family I could probably show you a few interesting spots, but you might want to do some scouting on your own.</p> <p><strong><em>Director V████</em>:</strong> Understood. The location scout will make the decision whether or not to contact you before they arrive. We can reach you on the company phone?</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Michaels</em>:</strong> Yeah, I'll keep it on vibrate. Don't want to disturb anyone up here, after all. They're just all so nice that I wouldn't want to bother them.</p> <p><strong><em>Director V████</em>:</strong> Good luck out there, Deb.</p> <p><strong><em>Agent Michaels</em>:</strong> Thanks, Jackson! You have a good day, too.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>One of Debra's selling points as a movie stunt-double was that she could lose herself into a role to the point that it was almost impossible to tell her from the actress she replaced in the shot. This skill had helped her both on-camera and when she was out in the field, but she was getting taxed now. It was difficult to hide the rage and fear when her 14 year-old son cried heaving sobs into her chest, desperately heartbroken that he was "too old to grow up." Her husband was no help; he was too busy arguing with his brother, trying to find some way of getting that… <em>thing</em> to reconsider.</p> <p>She watched the small clinic from over the top of her son's head, murmuring comforting noises as she kept a sympathetic look on her face. They had come straight here after that meeting in the clearing, ostensibly to treat her "migraine". In reality, Debra wanted to keep an eye on the other children that that creature had interacted with. They were, to a child, grossly overweight and somehow their skins looked tight over their faces. That doctor had escorted three of them and their parents to the clinic, and another two had shown up shortly afterwards.</p> <p>Doctor Shivaji had forgotten to close the door all the way when she went in to see the last child, so Debra was able to overhear her talking with the parents.</p> <p>"Mary is looking quite well, based on what the adult has led me to expect. I expect that she'll put on about another 10 pounds before the end of the week and she's further along than any of the other boys and girls. In fact, she might actually be ready in the next day or so. I recommend that you take her over to Marcia Brody's B&B downtown; Mrs. Brody has agreed to let the kids stay there when they're almost ready. I already have some monitoring equipment over there and it'll be easier for the adult to come in and help the kids when it's time."</p> <p>The unfamiliar voice of a woman, presumably Mary's mother, responded, "Is Mrs. Brody charging anything? We've already been spending a lot to feed Mary's hunger, not that we mind, and money's a little tight until the next paycheck. I do want the best for Mary, especially if the adult is going to come personally to help her, but if it costs too much I just don't know what we're going to do."</p> <p>"I don't know whether or not Mrs. Brody is charging anything; you'd have to check with her. But if you can't take Mary over there, at least bring her here if she starts to feel strange. It'll take longer for the adult to get here, but at least I should be able to keep Mary stable in the meantime."</p> <p>Debra kept a concerned look on her face, but made a mental note to recommend a certain bed-and-breakfast to her coworkers, as a nice place to visit.</p> <hr/> <p>Gunnar Deathrage lay at the edge of a ridge and looked down at the town with a pair of binoculars, wondering when him and his cell were going to finally see some action. They'd been staking out this podunk little town for over a week on the orders of The Teacher, but with nothing to show for it. There weren't any flying dudes or sexy glow-in-the-dark tree spirits (<em>Were those nymphs or dryads? Eh, what's the difference. It'd be fun to fuck both</em>) or exploding cars or ANYTHING. Just some dumb-ass little shit-hole of a backwoods town that they were supposed to watch because "one of ours is there". Whatever.</p> <p>"Ralph!" someone whispered behind him, and Gunnar shifted a little to get more comfortable (<em>He didn't startle me at all. I knew Sgt. Dave was behind me the whole time.</em>) and looked over his shoulder. He said back, "I told you, my name is Gunnar Deathrage now. If all the other weird-ass people get to be out in the open, then so do I. And my true name is Deathrage, Gunnar Deathrage. And dude, why're you whispering? There's no-one else around."</p> <p>Sgt. Dave rolled his eyes (<em>Fucker. I'm gonna zap you when my powers kick in. I just know I can throw lightning. And fire guns with endless ammo. Yeah. That'd be cool.</em>) and pointed back down the ridge. "Fine, 'Gunnar', but I'm whispering because we don't know how good our brother's hearing is and we don't want to scare him off. Plus, it's hunting season and I don't want one of those townsfolk taking a potshot at me because I made a sound like a deer or something.</p> <p>"Also, we just got a call that the kumiho is coming to visit us. Apparently she's making a tour of the watch-camps near the Liberation Point and we're next. She should be here in a couple of hours max and I need you to go back and help clean up the camp for her. I'll take over your watch here."</p> <p>Gunnar grunted as he scooted back from the edge and handed the binoculars to Sgt Dave. "Whatever, dude. I haven't seen anything exciting anyway. Hey, is Moonbeam back at camp?" (<em>Fuck, that girl's a damn fine piece of ass, even if she is some kind of trippy flower-power chick. I'll give it another shot and see if I can get in her pants before we clean up.</em>)</p> <p>Sgt. Dave low-crawled into the spot where Gunnar had been, rustling slightly as he pushed aside fallen leaves, and whispered back, "Nah, she's still on the other side of town, trying to find wherever it was they all went yesterday. She said she could smell the magic on the wind and was going to go track it down."</p> <p>"Cool." (<em>shit</em>) "I'll straighten up and wait for you then. Things gotta look nice for our visitor. Hey, do you know if this kumiho chick is hot? I heard she was hot."</p> <p>Sgt. Dave sighed softly and whispered back, "I'm sure I don't know. Just be nice to her when she gets here."</p> <p>Sgt. Dave Mastromarino listened as Ral-<em>Gunnar</em> started walking back to camp, dry leaves and twigs crunching loudly beneath his feet with every step. He briefly contemplated the difference between that boy and his squad mates back in Iraq and wondered again whether he could get transferred to another cell. One that was more serious about The Cause, that had more <em>discipline</em>. Moonbeam meant well, and was actually able to be useful on occasion with her paranormal intuition, but that boy was just useless trash. At least "Gunnar" didn't know about the guns and grenades in the truck's lockbox. Mastromarino doubted that that boy had ever held an actual gun before and didn't want to have to be constantly pestered by the boy to let him have one. They were only for a last-ditch effort, if the townsfolk interfered or those oppressive Foundation fucks showed up.</p> <p>Mastromarino watched the town and nearby woods for another 90 minutes, switching to night-vision as the light waned. He didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary, just a deer and a small horde of squirrels. There wasn't even much activity in town, just a few cars driving in and out. Mostly SUVs and pickup trucks like his, but there was a string of four panel vans right at dusk. The light wasn't good, but he thought they had the same logo: some kind of beach scene. A little weird to see that many all in a row, but probably just a coincidence.</p> <p>As full darkness descended, Mastromarino decided to head back to their little campsite and see just how badly that boy had botched the cleanup job. He wanted to be there before the kumiho showed up, anyway. After all, as the leader, he needed to greet their guest. He scooted down the ridge until he was below the sight-line to the town and slowly stood up, making a minimum of noise. As he turned to walk back, he was startled to see an attractive Asian woman standing only a dozen feet behind him. She was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he almost felt like kneeling at Her feet. He wasn't even sure how She was dressed; the darkness made Her form somewhat indistinct.</p> <p>“Oh! You startled me, Miss. Are you lost?”</p> <p>She gently drifted forward like a mist on the breeze as She replied in a soft, sweet voice. “Why no, I'm not. You are the leader of this group of the Teacher's, are you not? I'm here to see what progress you've made in locating that poor unfortunate freed from the Foundation's clutches. I'm quite interested in seeing what it's capable of.”</p> <p>Mastromarino was captivated by Her eyes until he humbly lowered them so as not to profane Her beauty. “You must be the Lady Kumiho. I am indeed the squad leader. If you'll allow me to escort you, Lady, I can fill you in on what we've found so far.”</p> <p>She placed a delicate hand pale as fine porcelain on his arm and murmured, “How kind of you. You are so sweet I could just eat you up. Please lead on.” She smiled a secret little smile while she said this, and Mastromarino felt honored that she would indulge in a little joke with him like that.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Shivaji pulled up to the curb along Marcia Brody's place, parking behind a rather impressive-looking black sedan. Even though she'd supervised the placement of all the medical equipment just yesterday, she wanted to check it again. Although she was doing her best to hide it from everyone, she was really nervous about this whole thing. Even with the adult on hand, she was worried about all the things that could go wrong: one of the children could start changing away from a safe place, one of them could have a bad reaction to the IV supplement during the change, some of the monitoring equipment could malfunction… There were a thousand ways that something could go wrong and as much as she didn't want to disappoint the adult, she was more worried about something bad happening to the kids.</p> <p>As she walked up to the door, it opened and a couple of large men walked out. Marcia stood behind them, telling them “And again, I'm sorry but we're booked full right now, gentlemen. I think that we might be able to squeeze you in next month if you're still interested then.”</p> <p>One of the men, a short, muscular black man, replied, “We'll keep that in mind, Ms. Brody. We heard a lot of interesting things about this town and wanted to just get away from it all. Can you recommend anywhere else in town we could stay overnight?”</p> <p>“Well, there's the Ramada across town. I can give them a call and let them know you're coming, if you like.”</p> <p>“Thank you, Ms. Brody, we would appreciate that. You have a good night, now!”</p> <p>Dr. Shivaji watched them climb into the black sedan, then drive off. "Who was that, Marcia?"</p> <p>"Oh, those were some nice homosexual gentlemen on their honeymoon or antiquing or some such. It's always so nice having the homosexuals stay; they're always so cordial." Marcia laughed gently. "But there's no room at the inn tonight, is there?"</p> <p>Dr. Shivaji smiled. "I suppose there isn't. How many children have already arrived?"</p> <p>Marcia waved Dr. Shivaji in, and started to lead her upstairs. "Oh, only three so far. I have room for five more, if they don't mind being two to a room. I was going to call you in a few minutes anyway, so you could make sure that all the medical doo-dads were attached right."</p> <p>As they entered the first bedroom, Dr. Shivaji's eyes quickly took in the bloated body of the 10 year-old laying on the bed. He had to weigh 250 pounds if he weighed an ounce, and resembled an over-ripe tomato about to burst. "Well, Donnie here looks to be progressing on schedule, and in fine shape, too. Let's just make sure all the leads are placed, then I'll check the others."</p> <p>Dr. Shivaji snapped on a pair of gloves and went to work, happy in the knowledge that everything would be just <em>perfect</em> when the adult arrived.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/gamedaypart1imago">Imago</a> \| <a href="/gdp2-freshbreath-inhale">BoFA: Inhale</a> \| BoFA: Holding It \| BoFA: Exhale »</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="/gdp2-freshbreath-holding">A Breath of Fresh Air: Holding It</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-freshbreath-holding">https://scpwiki.com/gdp2-freshbreath-holding</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]] [[/>]] [[=]] << [[[gamedaypart1imago\|Imago]]] \| [[[gdp2-freshbreath-inhale\|BoFA: Inhale]]] \| BoFA: Holding It \| BoFA: Exhale >> [[/=]] ---- > Audio Log, 14:25, ██/██/2011, Foundation front "Sunny Coast Productions" > > //M███ S████, Switchboard Operator//: Thank you for calling Sunny Coast Productions, how may I direct your call? > > //Agent Debra Michaels//: Yes, can I speak with Jackson in the casting department? > > //M███ S████//: ... One moment, please. > > //[MS places Agent Michaels on hold while reaching Site Security Director V████]// > > //Director V████//: You've reached casting. Who are you and what do you want? > > //Agent Michaels//: Hi, Jackson, this is Deb Michaels, one of the stunt doubles. I was calling to see if you'd started casting for "Does the Black Moon Howl". > > //Director V████//: Not until the midnight sun bleeds. Are you free to talk about the movie? > > //Agent Michaels//: Well, I'm in a clinic with my family at the moment, so there might be some background noise. I wanted to know if you'd finished getting together the extras, because there's some beautiful scenery up here that I think the location scout might be interested in. > > //Director V████//: Understood. Where are you? How many people do you think ought to visit? Are there any special considerations they should be aware of? > > //Agent Michaels//: I'm up-state in Spring, visiting family. And, oh, I think you could get away with no more than 10 or 20. And bring some cameras, you might be able to get some preliminary shooting done. A warning though, if anyone has any allergies, they ought to bring something to help them breathe. I think there's something in the air like a high pollen count and I feel like I've had a mind-bending headache for a few hours. Also, the local wildlife is a little excitable, so try not to run over anything when you're scouting out the woods. > > //Director V████//: Oh, I think we could handle a few wild animals. Would you like us to meet up with you when we come into town or should we scout out the area first? > > //Agent Michaels//: If I can get away from my family I could probably show you a few interesting spots, but you might want to do some scouting on your own. > > //Director V████//: Understood. The location scout will make the decision whether or not to contact you before they arrive. We can reach you on the company phone? > > //Agent Michaels//: Yeah, I'll keep it on vibrate. Don't want to disturb anyone up here, after all. They're just all so nice that I wouldn't want to bother them. > > //Director V████//: Good luck out there, Deb. > > //Agent Michaels//: Thanks, Jackson! You have a good day, too. ----- One of Debra's selling points as a movie stunt-double was that she could lose herself into a role to the point that it was almost impossible to tell her from the actress she replaced in the shot. This skill had helped her both on-camera and when she was out in the field, but she was getting taxed now. It was difficult to hide the rage and fear when her 14 year-old son cried heaving sobs into her chest, desperately heartbroken that he was "too old to grow up." Her husband was no help; he was too busy arguing with his brother, trying to find some way of getting that... //thing// to reconsider. She watched the small clinic from over the top of her son's head, murmuring comforting noises as she kept a sympathetic look on her face. They had come straight here after that meeting in the clearing, ostensibly to treat her "migraine". In reality, Debra wanted to keep an eye on the other children that that creature had interacted with. They were, to a child, grossly overweight and somehow their skins looked tight over their faces. That doctor had escorted three of them and their parents to the clinic, and another two had shown up shortly afterwards. Doctor Shivaji had forgotten to close the door all the way when she went in to see the last child, so Debra was able to overhear her talking with the parents. "Mary is looking quite well, based on what the adult has led me to expect. I expect that she'll put on about another 10 pounds before the end of the week and she's further along than any of the other boys and girls. In fact, she might actually be ready in the next day or so. I recommend that you take her over to Marcia Brody's B&B downtown; Mrs. Brody has agreed to let the kids stay there when they're almost ready. I already have some monitoring equipment over there and it'll be easier for the adult to come in and help the kids when it's time." The unfamiliar voice of a woman, presumably Mary's mother, responded, "Is Mrs. Brody charging anything? We've already been spending a lot to feed Mary's hunger, not that we mind, and money's a little tight until the next paycheck. I do want the best for Mary, especially if the adult is going to come personally to help her, but if it costs too much I just don't know what we're going to do." "I don't know whether or not Mrs. Brody is charging anything; you'd have to check with her. But if you can't take Mary over there, at least bring her here if she starts to feel strange. It'll take longer for the adult to get here, but at least I should be able to keep Mary stable in the meantime." Debra kept a concerned look on her face, but made a mental note to recommend a certain bed-and-breakfast to her coworkers, as a nice place to visit. ----- Gunnar Deathrage lay at the edge of a ridge and looked down at the town with a pair of binoculars, wondering when him and his cell were going to finally see some action. They'd been staking out this podunk little town for over a week on the orders of The Teacher, but with nothing to show for it. There weren't any flying dudes or sexy glow-in-the-dark tree spirits (//Were those nymphs or dryads? Eh, what's the difference. It'd be fun to fuck both//) or exploding cars or ANYTHING. Just some dumb-ass little shit-hole of a backwoods town that they were supposed to watch because "one of ours is there". Whatever. "Ralph!" someone whispered behind him, and Gunnar shifted a little to get more comfortable (//He didn't startle me at all. I knew Sgt. Dave was behind me the whole time.//) and looked over his shoulder. He said back, "I told you, my name is Gunnar Deathrage now. If all the other weird-ass people get to be out in the open, then so do I. And my true name is Deathrage, Gunnar Deathrage. And dude, why're you whispering? There's no-one else around." Sgt. Dave rolled his eyes (//Fucker. I'm gonna zap you when my powers kick in. I just know I can throw lightning. And fire guns with endless ammo. Yeah. That'd be cool.//) and pointed back down the ridge. "Fine, 'Gunnar', but I'm whispering because we don't know how good our brother's hearing is and we don't want to scare him off. Plus, it's hunting season and I don't want one of those townsfolk taking a potshot at me because I made a sound like a deer or something. "Also, we just got a call that the kumiho is coming to visit us. Apparently she's making a tour of the watch-camps near the Liberation Point and we're next. She should be here in a couple of hours max and I need you to go back and help clean up the camp for her. I'll take over your watch here." Gunnar grunted as he scooted back from the edge and handed the binoculars to Sgt Dave. "Whatever, dude. I haven't seen anything exciting anyway. Hey, is Moonbeam back at camp?" (//Fuck, that girl's a damn fine piece of ass, even if she is some kind of trippy flower-power chick. I'll give it another shot and see if I can get in her pants before we clean up.//) Sgt. Dave low-crawled into the spot where Gunnar had been, rustling slightly as he pushed aside fallen leaves, and whispered back, "Nah, she's still on the other side of town, trying to find wherever it was they all went yesterday. She said she could smell the magic on the wind and was going to go track it down." "Cool." (//shit//) "I'll straighten up and wait for you then. Things gotta look nice for our visitor. Hey, do you know if this kumiho chick is hot? I heard she was hot." Sgt. Dave sighed softly and whispered back, "I'm sure I don't know. Just be nice to her when she gets here." Sgt. Dave Mastromarino listened as Ral-//Gunnar// started walking back to camp, dry leaves and twigs crunching loudly beneath his feet with every step. He briefly contemplated the difference between that boy and his squad mates back in Iraq and wondered again whether he could get transferred to another cell. One that was more serious about The Cause, that had more //discipline//. Moonbeam meant well, and was actually able to be useful on occasion with her paranormal intuition, but that boy was just useless trash. At least "Gunnar" didn't know about the guns and grenades in the truck's lockbox. Mastromarino doubted that that boy had ever held an actual gun before and didn't want to have to be constantly pestered by the boy to let him have one. They were only for a last-ditch effort, if the townsfolk interfered or those oppressive Foundation fucks showed up. Mastromarino watched the town and nearby woods for another 90 minutes, switching to night-vision as the light waned. He didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary, just a deer and a small horde of squirrels. There wasn't even much activity in town, just a few cars driving in and out. Mostly SUVs and pickup trucks like his, but there was a string of four panel vans right at dusk. The light wasn't good, but he thought they had the same logo: some kind of beach scene. A little weird to see that many all in a row, but probably just a coincidence. As full darkness descended, Mastromarino decided to head back to their little campsite and see just how badly that boy had botched the cleanup job. He wanted to be there before the kumiho showed up, anyway. After all, as the leader, he needed to greet their guest. He scooted down the ridge until he was below the sight-line to the town and slowly stood up, making a minimum of noise. As he turned to walk back, he was startled to see an attractive Asian woman standing only a dozen feet behind him. She was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he almost felt like kneeling at Her feet. He wasn't even sure how She was dressed; the darkness made Her form somewhat indistinct. “Oh! You startled me, Miss. Are you lost?” She gently drifted forward like a mist on the breeze as She replied in a soft, sweet voice. “Why no, I'm not. You are the leader of this group of the Teacher's, are you not? I'm here to see what progress you've made in locating that poor unfortunate freed from the Foundation's clutches. I'm quite interested in seeing what it's capable of.” Mastromarino was captivated by Her eyes until he humbly lowered them so as not to profane Her beauty. “You must be the Lady Kumiho. I am indeed the squad leader. If you'll allow me to escort you, Lady, I can fill you in on what we've found so far.” She placed a delicate hand pale as fine porcelain on his arm and murmured, “How kind of you. You are so sweet I could just eat you up. Please lead on.” She smiled a secret little smile while she said this, and Mastromarino felt honored that she would indulge in a little joke with him like that. ----- Dr. Shivaji pulled up to the curb along Marcia Brody's place, parking behind a rather impressive-looking black sedan. Even though she'd supervised the placement of all the medical equipment just yesterday, she wanted to check it again. Although she was doing her best to hide it from everyone, she was really nervous about this whole thing. Even with the adult on hand, she was worried about all the things that could go wrong: one of the children could start changing away from a safe place, one of them could have a bad reaction to the IV supplement during the change, some of the monitoring equipment could malfunction... There were a thousand ways that something could go wrong and as much as she didn't want to disappoint the adult, she was more worried about something bad happening to the kids. As she walked up to the door, it opened and a couple of large men walked out. Marcia stood behind them, telling them “And again, I'm sorry but we're booked full right now, gentlemen. I think that we might be able to squeeze you in next month if you're still interested then.” One of the men, a short, muscular black man, replied, “We'll keep that in mind, Ms. Brody. We heard a lot of interesting things about this town and wanted to just get away from it all. Can you recommend anywhere else in town we could stay overnight?” “Well, there's the Ramada across town. I can give them a call and let them know you're coming, if you like.” “Thank you, Ms. Brody, we would appreciate that. You have a good night, now!” Dr. Shivaji watched them climb into the black sedan, then drive off. "Who was that, Marcia?" "Oh, those were some nice homosexual gentlemen on their honeymoon or antiquing or some such. It's always so nice having the homosexuals stay; they're always so cordial." Marcia laughed gently. "But there's no room at the inn tonight, is there?" Dr. Shivaji smiled. "I suppose there isn't. How many children have already arrived?" Marcia waved Dr. Shivaji in, and started to lead her upstairs. "Oh, only three so far. I have room for five more, if they don't mind being two to a room. I was going to call you in a few minutes anyway, so you could make sure that all the medical doo-dads were attached right." As they entered the first bedroom, Dr. Shivaji's eyes quickly took in the bloated body of the 10 year-old laying on the bed. He had to weigh 250 pounds if he weighed an ounce, and resembled an over-ripe tomato about to burst. "Well, Donnie here looks to be progressing on schedule, and in fine shape, too. Let's just make sure all the leads are placed, then I'll check the others." Dr. Shivaji snapped on a pair of gloves and went to work, happy in the knowledge that everything would be just //perfect// when the adult arrived. ---- [[=]] << [[[gamedaypart1imago\|Imago]]] \| [[[gdp2-freshbreath-inhale\|BoFA: Inhale]]] \| BoFA: Holding It \| BoFA: Exhale >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2012-12-14T01:42:00	[ "_licensebox", "game-day", "horror", "mystery", "tale" ]	A Breath of Fresh Air: Holding It - SCP Foundation	35	[ "gamedaypart1imago", "gdp2-freshbreath-inhale", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "gamedaypart2index", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15407596	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/gdp2-freshbreath-holding
ghost	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Enfield surveyed the scene, keeping his opinions to himself. Major Whitside brought his horse beside Enfield's and looked through his binoculars.</p> <p>"Not too many of them," Enfield muttered, half to himself.</p> <p>"Enough to be a hell of a problem," Whitside replied. "I've ordered our troops to begin disarming them."</p> <p>"Of course," Enfield said. Whitside called them <em>their</em> troops, believing his orders that said that Enfield was a colonel brought in to advise on Indian warfare. The Initiative had forged everything; correspondences between Whitside and the commanding general, credentials from the War Department, fake orders. The American Secure Containment Initiative may have worked mostly outside of government and military circles, but they were rapidly becoming experts in threading their way through bureaucratic channels undetected. All that skill, all those lies, all to protect the nation from threats nobody else could know about. A noble cause.</p> <p>Enfield spat in the ground. He had trouble accepting this as "noble."</p> <p>"Do you think they're likely to make a fuss, Colonel?" Whitside asked.</p> <p><em>Of course they are,</em> Enfield thought, <em>that's the point.</em> "Not too likely, not if they're smart," he lied. "But keep the Hotchkiss guns around them just in case."</p> <p>"Yes sir," Whitside replied, then rode off down to the encampment. Enfield put his binoculars back up to his head and looked again. He owed them that.</p> <p>Three hundred fifty Lakota Indians. One hundred twenty of them men, the rest women and children. Many of them followers of the person known to the Institute as Entity 1887-016. If "person" was the correct word. The ASCI had only recently begun investigating beings like 016, beings capable of changing the world around them, capable of twisting and bending nature itself. The ASCI's counterpart in the German Empire referred to them as "Daseinkrummeren". <em>Existence warpers.</em> He hoped a catchier term would catch on eventually.</p> <p>Enfield had been hoping there was some other way to detain him. He pulled 016's file out of a pocket of his jacket, the file he had written. He had compiled all of the information they had gathered on him. Then, when his superiors told him what they needed him to do, he reread everything, trying to find a loophole. He even tried to find a way that the warper might be <em>more</em> powerful than they thought, maybe even immortal. But all evidence pointed towards this conclusion, this method. Sitting down there in the valley. Enfield reread his own words.</p> <blockquote> <p>Entity 1887-016 possesses two principal anomalous abilities. 016 is capable first of performing a ritual dance, identified here as 1887-016A, that renders individuals around him increasingly susceptible to suggestion, particularly advice and ideas presented by 016. Second, E1887-016 gains the ability to cause or prevent the motion of inanimate objects, given that he is in close proximity to a number of individuals (specific requirements unknown at this time) that are compromised by his first ability. In short, 016 is capable of moving or stopping objects without touching them so long as he is surrounded by people who believe he is capable of doing so.</p> <p>These two abilities feed into one another; people convinced of the legitimacy of his "medicine" allow him to perform minor parlor tricks, increasing people's faith in him and strengthening his abilities. Rumors suggest that 016 is capable of much more than this, though this is not known for certain by ASCI at this time.</p> <p>Given the dependence of 016 on his followers, it is believed that</p> </blockquote> <p>Raised voices from the valley below. One of the Lakota was doing 016's dance, the Ghost Dance. The entity had started the rumor that once enough people began doing the Ghost Dance, their gods would wipe the white man from the continent and return the land to its previous pristine beauty. Enfield didn't know if he had also started the rumor that wearing special white shirts would make you bulletproof, but it wouldn't surprise him. If 016 were here now, his abilities would probably allow him to stop quite a few bullets. Parlor tricks like that were what gained him a following in the first place. Nobody knew what he was really capable of once enough people believed in him, but it wasn't likely to be pretty.</p> <p>The Lakota kept dancing, half from belief, half from protest. Enfield could tell the difference; he had spent enough time around Sioux and Comanches to know the particular veiled hate of occupied peoples. He had no idea who at headquarters had drawn up this plan, but whoever it was had that same insight that he did. Maybe less of a conscience, but that could be what it took to do this job. God knows Enfield couldn't have done it. God only knew how much longer he could keep doing jobs like this.</p> <p>Here it came. The disarming, the dance, then…</p> <p>The report from the rifle sounded so small from so high above. Enfield knew when he read the plan that disarming an angry group of Indians frequently led to some kind of violence. Somebody wouldn't want to give up their gun, a scuffle ensues, and then a gun goes off. Automatic weapons around the encampment, plus a regiment already on edge from chasing Indian tribes all around the plains, and what happened next was inevitable. The Hotchkiss guns started pouring bullets into the encampment. Those Lakota not yet disarmed tried to shoot back, even killed a few of the soldiers. Enfield felt no particular loyalty to one side or the other. He was sickened by the murder happening below, and moreover, by the fact that he was responsible for it.</p> <p>But there was no other way. He was sure of it. 1887-016 gained power from having people believe in him. The only way to capture him was to shatter the faith of his followers. The only way to keep him from becoming more powerful was to take away the only thing these people had to believe in.</p> <p>The shooting stopped. Over a hundred dead; Enfield could see that. Mostly women and children. Soldiers were walking around the encampment laughing and pointing at the bodies. Enfield knew many of them just thought of this as a game, and that most of them barely thought of the Indians as people in the first place. They could enjoy this. Plenty of "researchers" back at the Institute would probably enjoy hearing about this too. Enfield was sick thinking about it.</p> <p>But their faith was gone. However horrible this day was, 1887-016 was exposed now, powerless. Enfield didn't know where he was, but he swore, there and then, that 016 wouldn't get the chance to gain a following again. Not that <em>that</em> was likely. Not after this.</p> <p>Enfield put his binoculars back into his coat pocket, turned his horse around, and rode away from Wounded Knee Creek.<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="/ghost">Ghost</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ghost">https://scpwiki.com/ghost</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 Enfield surveyed the scene, keeping his opinions to himself. Major Whitside brought his horse beside Enfield's and looked through his binoculars. "Not too many of them," Enfield muttered, half to himself. "Enough to be a hell of a problem," Whitside replied. "I've ordered our troops to begin disarming them." "Of course," Enfield said. Whitside called them //their// troops, believing his orders that said that Enfield was a colonel brought in to advise on Indian warfare. The Initiative had forged everything; correspondences between Whitside and the commanding general, credentials from the War Department, fake orders. The American Secure Containment Initiative may have worked mostly outside of government and military circles, but they were rapidly becoming experts in threading their way through bureaucratic channels undetected. All that skill, all those lies, all to protect the nation from threats nobody else could know about. A noble cause. Enfield spat in the ground. He had trouble accepting this as "noble." "Do you think they're likely to make a fuss, Colonel?" Whitside asked. //Of course they are,// Enfield thought, //that's the point.// "Not too likely, not if they're smart," he lied. "But keep the Hotchkiss guns around them just in case." "Yes sir," Whitside replied, then rode off down to the encampment. Enfield put his binoculars back up to his head and looked again. He owed them that. Three hundred fifty Lakota Indians. One hundred twenty of them men, the rest women and children. Many of them followers of the person known to the Institute as Entity 1887-016. If "person" was the correct word. The ASCI had only recently begun investigating beings like 016, beings capable of changing the world around them, capable of twisting and bending nature itself. The ASCI's counterpart in the German Empire referred to them as "Daseinkrummeren". //Existence warpers.// He hoped a catchier term would catch on eventually. Enfield had been hoping there was some other way to detain him. He pulled 016's file out of a pocket of his jacket, the file he had written. He had compiled all of the information they had gathered on him. Then, when his superiors told him what they needed him to do, he reread everything, trying to find a loophole. He even tried to find a way that the warper might be //more// powerful than they thought, maybe even immortal. But all evidence pointed towards this conclusion, this method. Sitting down there in the valley. Enfield reread his own words. > Entity 1887-016 possesses two principal anomalous abilities. 016 is capable first of performing a ritual dance, identified here as 1887-016A, that renders individuals around him increasingly susceptible to suggestion, particularly advice and ideas presented by 016. Second, E1887-016 gains the ability to cause or prevent the motion of inanimate objects, given that he is in close proximity to a number of individuals (specific requirements unknown at this time) that are compromised by his first ability. In short, 016 is capable of moving or stopping objects without touching them so long as he is surrounded by people who believe he is capable of doing so. > > These two abilities feed into one another; people convinced of the legitimacy of his "medicine" allow him to perform minor parlor tricks, increasing people's faith in him and strengthening his abilities. Rumors suggest that 016 is capable of much more than this, though this is not known for certain by ASCI at this time. > > Given the dependence of 016 on his followers, it is believed that Raised voices from the valley below. One of the Lakota was doing 016's dance, the Ghost Dance. The entity had started the rumor that once enough people began doing the Ghost Dance, their gods would wipe the white man from the continent and return the land to its previous pristine beauty. Enfield didn't know if he had also started the rumor that wearing special white shirts would make you bulletproof, but it wouldn't surprise him. If 016 were here now, his abilities would probably allow him to stop quite a few bullets. Parlor tricks like that were what gained him a following in the first place. Nobody knew what he was really capable of once enough people believed in him, but it wasn't likely to be pretty. The Lakota kept dancing, half from belief, half from protest. Enfield could tell the difference; he had spent enough time around Sioux and Comanches to know the particular veiled hate of occupied peoples. He had no idea who at headquarters had drawn up this plan, but whoever it was had that same insight that he did. Maybe less of a conscience, but that could be what it took to do this job. God knows Enfield couldn't have done it. God only knew how much longer he could keep doing jobs like this. Here it came. The disarming, the dance, then... The report from the rifle sounded so small from so high above. Enfield knew when he read the plan that disarming an angry group of Indians frequently led to some kind of violence. Somebody wouldn't want to give up their gun, a scuffle ensues, and then a gun goes off. Automatic weapons around the encampment, plus a regiment already on edge from chasing Indian tribes all around the plains, and what happened next was inevitable. The Hotchkiss guns started pouring bullets into the encampment. Those Lakota not yet disarmed tried to shoot back, even killed a few of the soldiers. Enfield felt no particular loyalty to one side or the other. He was sickened by the murder happening below, and moreover, by the fact that he was responsible for it. But there was no other way. He was sure of it. 1887-016 gained power from having people believe in him. The only way to capture him was to shatter the faith of his followers. The only way to keep him from becoming more powerful was to take away the only thing these people had to believe in. The shooting stopped. Over a hundred dead; Enfield could see that. Mostly women and children. Soldiers were walking around the encampment laughing and pointing at the bodies. Enfield knew many of them just thought of this as a game, and that most of them barely thought of the Indians as people in the first place. They could enjoy this. Plenty of "researchers" back at the Institute would probably enjoy hearing about this too. Enfield was sick thinking about it. But their faith was gone. However horrible this day was, 1887-016 was exposed now, powerless. Enfield didn't know where he was, but he swore, there and then, that 016 wouldn't get the chance to gain a following again. Not that //that// was likely. Not after this. Enfield put his binoculars back into his coat pocket, turned his horse around, and rode away from Wounded Knee Creek. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-02-21T20:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "asci", "bleak", "historical", "period-piece", "religious-fiction", "tale", "western" ]	Ghost - SCP Foundation	46	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12776403	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ghost
ghost-stories	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The sun was just beginning to set as I paddled into the Okefenokee swamp along with my friends, Hank and Lucia. We weren't strangers to kayaking in the swamp; we had all done it since we were kids. Even at night, we weren't afraid to go in with the alligators and the birds and the other wildlife. This trip in particular, however, was designed to be scary. What a better time to tell ghost stories than while camping in the swamp on Halloween? We'd never spent Halloween in the wilderness before, and we figured it would be better than going to another costume party. I love being able to get away from my job at the Foundation every once in a while. The cold, sterile halls of Site 327 have no soul, none of the romantic power that nature does. As much as I love science, I need that kind of spiritual peace that nature imparts.</p> <p>Things started to get dark around 6.</p> <p>"Lights on everyone," said Lucia, as if we were kids that needed her to order us around. Hank looked at her and pouted.</p> <p>"But I don't wanna!" he whined.</p> <p>"Come on Hank," I said, "we better do what she says, or she'll spank us."</p> <p>The look on her face was enough to send us both into a fit of laughter.</p> <p>"Shut up Joe," she said. "I don't know which one of you is worse."</p> <p>We kept mostly silent after that, paddling our way to our campsite. We'd been there many times before, an island of solid earth in a sea of stagnant water, peat, and trees. Spanish moss waved lazily in the wind as true darkness finally came, obscuring the already alien shapes of the Okefenokee. Here was true wilderness. No humans came here frequently, and when they did they never stayed long. The trees grew large and twisted, silent surveyors of the affairs of fish and fowl, alligators and snakes. We tied up the kayaks, set up our tents quickly, stowed our gear, and built a fire. As we cooked marshmallows and hotdogs, now came the reason we had come out here in the first place, our first-ever Halloween swamp ghost story contest. Hank took the first turn.</p> <hr/> <p><em>A few miles south of Folkston, back in the 1800s, there used to be a place called Trader's Hill. It was a traders' town, of course, built near the water. There's an enormous old oak tree there, still around today. People called it the Hangman's Oak, for reasons I'm sure you can imagine. So one day, this Indian named Suanee came to town. He got accused to stealing some goods from a trader, and he ended up being sentenced to death. So they brought him up to the Hangman's Oak, and they were tying the rope around his neck when he said "May the curse of my father's spirit and my own be upon you, for as long as there is a Trader's Hill!" No one payed him any mind, and they hanged him dead.</em></p> <p><em>About a month later, the people of Trader Hill were having a dance to celebrate the harvest, when they saw something bright in the distance. They all looked toward it and saw Hangman's Tree, glowing bright like it was on fire, and they could hear wailing and moaning like a thousand people being tortured! The next morning the first group of people packed up and left Trader's Hill. Eventually, the whole place was deserted. They say that sometimes, at night in the fall, you can still hear the wailing of Suanee and his father.</em></p> <hr/> <p>"Hank, I'm sorry but that story was just awful," I said, "It wasn't scary, and I'm pretty sure I've heard it before somewhere."</p> <p>"What!? That story scared the shit out of me when I was a kid!"</p> <p>"Nope. Wasn't scary."</p> <p>"I agree. Boooring." said Lucia.</p> <p>Hank stared at us both, flabbergasted. Before he could say anything, I saw it. There was a light in the swamp, like an orange flame. It was far off, and obscured by the fog, but I could see that it was bobbing along like someone carrying a lantern. Who would be out in the swamp at night? And how do you just causally walk through the swamp?</p> <p>"Hey guys, do you see that?" I asked.</p> <p>"See what?"</p> <p>Almost as soon as they turned, the light disappeared.</p> <p>"What was that?" said Hank.</p> <p>"I don't know. Maybe it was just someone setting up their own campsite?" suggested Lucia.</p> <p>"I guess…" I said. I was used to seeing weird things. Something about this didn't seem right. Still, it's my weekend off.</p> <p>"Whatever, let's just keep going. I believe it's my turn," I said as I stood up.</p> <hr/> <p><em>One day, a man named Henry Ferguson was driving home from work. It was another busy day in Chicago, with lots of traffic on the highway as people made their way home. Henry was tired, he had been working late the past couple of nights. He couldn't wait to get home and relax. Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered it.</em></p> <p><em>"Good afternoon Mr. Ferguson. I have your son here at gunpoint. You must make a choice now."</em></p> <p><em>"What? Who is this?"</em></p> <p><em>"That's not important. I can see you from a screen right now. Speed up, and turn into oncoming traffic. If you don't do it soon, I will kill your son."</em></p> <p><em>"Dad! Please, don't do it!"</em></p> <p><em>"George? Is that you?!"</em></p> <p><em>"Yes Dad, it's me, don't worry about me I'll be fine!"</em></p> <p><em>"Shut up! Mr. Ferguson, you're running out of time."</em></p> <p><em>Henry heard a gun click. His heart was beating out of his chest. He didn't know what to do.</em></p> <p><em>"George…..I love you."</em></p> <p><em>He stomped on the accelerator and turned sharply to the left.</em></p> <p><em>Mr. Henry Ferguson didn't survive the crash. When the police asked for a recording of the last phone call he had made before committing suicide, they got it. To this day, no one knows who actually made the call, where it came from, or how George's voice was on it when he had never been kidnapped or threatened with a gun at all….</em></p> <hr/> <p>I stood silent for a few moments while I let the last part set in. Hank and Lucia looked a little spooked now. I'm sure the Foundation wouldn't mind that I had made up a ghost story using an SCP for inspiration, but then they probably would never know.</p> <p>"Dude, that's fucking creepy." said Hank.</p> <p>"That was one of the better ones I've heard recently," agreed Lucia. "However, I think I've got both of you beat. Have a seat and listen to a true master of the art."</p> <hr/> <p><em>Long ago in England, there lived a man named Jack. Jack was a thief and a scoundrel, but a clever one. One day, for all his cleverness and carefulness, he got caught stealing a gold coin from a farmer. Half the village was chasing him with murder on their minds, for that coin was all they had. Jack jumped into some bushes on the side of the road and let the villagers pass by, then dusted himself off and started walking the other way. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when a dark figure stepped onto the path before him, appearing like a wraith from the fog.</em></p> <p><em>"Jack," the figure said, "I have come for thee. You hath lived a wicked life, and it is my duty as Satan, Lord of the Hell to take your soul to eternal damnation. Your time hath come, the villagers shall return and kill you soon."</em></p> <p><em>Jack, being the clever man he was, thought this over and had an idea. "Devil," he said, "would you not prefer to have many souls over one?"</em></p> <p><em>"Are you proposing a deal, Jack?" the Devil said.</em></p> <p><em>"A small one, Devil. It would benefit you much more than me. It is simple, you shall see."</em></p> <p><em>"Tell me more, but be sharp, for your time runs short."</em></p> <p><em>"Well first, Devil, I but throw away this gold coin I stole, into the forest where the peasants will never find it. Then you, Devil, turn thineself into the same gold coin. You hop into my purse, and when the peasants find me I give you to them. They don't kill me, but you disappear from their pockets later, and soon enough they'll all kill eachother arguing over who stole it."</em></p> <p><em>The Devil agreed, and did as Jack said. But when he turned into a coin and hopped in Jack's purse, he found in there a crucifix. At the sight of it, the Devil's power was diminished, and he could not move from Jack's purse.</em></p> <p><em>"A curse on you, Jack! You damnable wretch!"</em></p> <p><em>"I will let you go if you do as I say."</em></p> <p><em>"Blasted fate! I submit. What do you wish?"</em></p> <p><em>"I wish that you promise you will never drag me to Hell, never touch my soul, not ever."</em></p> <p><em>The Devil was reluctant, but as the peasants drew near, he finally gave in to Jack's demand. Jack threw him from his purse, and the Devil fled into the dark forests.</em></p> <p><em>Finally, the farmers had Jack where they wanted him. They snatched him and bound him, and searched him for their gold. But they did not find it, for Jack had thrown it into the woods. Instead, they took his head.</em></p> <p><em>Jack was now in a predicament, for it seemed that Heaven would not take him, on account of his wicked nature, but neither would Hell, for the Devil had made his promise. Trapped between worlds, Jack begged of the Devil for one thing. A light for him to see by as he wandered the Earth. Satan took pity on Jack, and gave him an ember from the fires of Hell itself. Jack took it, and placed it in a carved pumpkin that he now wears in place of the head he lost. Since, he became known as Jack 'o' The Lantern.</em></p> <hr/> <p>I yawned. I saw worse things on an average Tuesday.</p> <p>"Eh," said Hank, "it was interesting, but not really scary. Kind of cheesy too. Pumpkin heads are so overdone."</p> <p>"What are you smoking? A guy with a pumpkin for a head with fire from Hell itself wandering the Earth for all eternity doesn't scare you?"</p> <p>"No."</p> <p>"You're too jaded."</p> <p>A voice came from just outside the light of the fire. "Oh, it's a good story. You just got a few of the details wrong."</p> <p>We all turned, startled, toward the voice as a man stepped into the light of our fire. He was old, his skin wrinkled with age. Half his hair had fallen out, the rest was grey as brushed steel. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, obscuring their color. He wore swamper's clothes, overalls and boots, but he seemed dirtier than most swampers I had seen.</p> <p>"Who are you?" I asked him.</p> <p>"They call me Will." He turned toward Lucia. "If you had told that story right, it would have been much scarier."</p> <p>"You were spying on us?"</p> <p>"Only for as long as her story lasted. I was just on my way in my canoe when I heard your voices."</p> <p>Lucia stood up. "Well if you know that story so well, what did I get wrong?"</p> <p>"Well, for one thing," said Will, "Jack never lost his head. The villagers just hanged him. He pretended to be dead and then just got up and left as soon as they turned around."</p> <p>"For another, Jack didn't use a pumpkin to hold his Hellfire. There weren't any pumpkins in Medieval Europe, they're an American vegetable. He used a carved turnip."</p> <p>As he spoke, I saw the light again. There it was, closer this time, slowly bobbing left and right, left and right. There was another, and another, another…</p> <p>"You also forgot the best part. Jack figured out that though his Hellfire would never go out, on some days it was stronger. Particularly one day. It's a day of significance, ancient and cursed. They call that day All Hallow's Eve, or more recently, Halloween." The lights where closer now, more coming into view every second. I realized that Lucia, Hank and I had huddled together close, while Will was standing totally still, a knowing smile on his face. He casually rolled his head, revealing a white, puckered scar going all around his neck.</p> <p>"Jack eventually figured out that on Halloween, his Hellfire was strong enough that he could use it to take people's souls for himself. All he had to do was use it to burn off someone's head. The Hellfire would spread to their necks, and burn on forever, trapping their souls and bending them to Jack's will."</p> <p>The lights were very close now, so close I could make out more details. They were faces. Carved faces. Jack-o-lanterns. One came into the light of the fire. A dark figure, wrapped in rotting cloth. It seemed taller than a person should be. On it's head, it wore a jack-o-lantern like a helmet. But that couldn't be right, there'd be no room for the head and the candle…</p> <p>"I really like the way pumpkins look. Much nicer than turnips. Roomier too."</p> <p>One of the figures stepped closer. I looked into the pumpkin, searching for a face. All I saw was a stump of a neck, a small flame pouring out from the throat. The smell of burnt meat filled my nose.</p> <p>"Oh, I almost forgot! in some versions of the story, they call him Will."</p> <p>I can still hear his laughter echoing in my ears. I'll never be able to forget that cackle of his, so deep it sounds more like he's choking. No matter how long I walk the swamps, day or night, rain or shine, I can never seem to get it out of my head.</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="/ghost-stories">Ghost Stories</a>" by PaladinFoster, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ghost-stories">https://scpwiki.com/ghost-stories</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 sun was just beginning to set as I paddled into the Okefenokee swamp along with my friends, Hank and Lucia. We weren't strangers to kayaking in the swamp; we had all done it since we were kids. Even at night, we weren't afraid to go in with the alligators and the birds and the other wildlife. This trip in particular, however, was designed to be scary. What a better time to tell ghost stories than while camping in the swamp on Halloween? We'd never spent Halloween in the wilderness before, and we figured it would be better than going to another costume party. I love being able to get away from my job at the Foundation every once in a while. The cold, sterile halls of Site 327 have no soul, none of the romantic power that nature does. As much as I love science, I need that kind of spiritual peace that nature imparts. Things started to get dark around 6. "Lights on everyone," said Lucia, as if we were kids that needed her to order us around. Hank looked at her and pouted. "But I don't wanna!" he whined. "Come on Hank," I said, "we better do what she says, or she'll spank us." The look on her face was enough to send us both into a fit of laughter. "Shut up Joe," she said. "I don't know which one of you is worse." We kept mostly silent after that, paddling our way to our campsite. We'd been there many times before, an island of solid earth in a sea of stagnant water, peat, and trees. Spanish moss waved lazily in the wind as true darkness finally came, obscuring the already alien shapes of the Okefenokee. Here was true wilderness. No humans came here frequently, and when they did they never stayed long. The trees grew large and twisted, silent surveyors of the affairs of fish and fowl, alligators and snakes. We tied up the kayaks, set up our tents quickly, stowed our gear, and built a fire. As we cooked marshmallows and hotdogs, now came the reason we had come out here in the first place, our first-ever Halloween swamp ghost story contest. Hank took the first turn. ------ //A few miles south of Folkston, back in the 1800s, there used to be a place called Trader's Hill. It was a traders' town, of course, built near the water. There's an enormous old oak tree there, still around today. People called it the Hangman's Oak, for reasons I'm sure you can imagine. So one day, this Indian named Suanee came to town. He got accused to stealing some goods from a trader, and he ended up being sentenced to death. So they brought him up to the Hangman's Oak, and they were tying the rope around his neck when he said "May the curse of my father's spirit and my own be upon you, for as long as there is a Trader's Hill!" No one payed him any mind, and they hanged him dead.// //About a month later, the people of Trader Hill were having a dance to celebrate the harvest, when they saw something bright in the distance. They all looked toward it and saw Hangman's Tree, glowing bright like it was on fire, and they could hear wailing and moaning like a thousand people being tortured! The next morning the first group of people packed up and left Trader's Hill. Eventually, the whole place was deserted. They say that sometimes, at night in the fall, you can still hear the wailing of Suanee and his father.// ------ "Hank, I'm sorry but that story was just awful," I said, "It wasn't scary, and I'm pretty sure I've heard it before somewhere." "What!? That story scared the shit out of me when I was a kid!" "Nope. Wasn't scary." "I agree. Boooring." said Lucia. Hank stared at us both, flabbergasted. Before he could say anything, I saw it. There was a light in the swamp, like an orange flame. It was far off, and obscured by the fog, but I could see that it was bobbing along like someone carrying a lantern. Who would be out in the swamp at night? And how do you just causally walk through the swamp? "Hey guys, do you see that?" I asked. "See what?" Almost as soon as they turned, the light disappeared. "What was that?" said Hank. "I don't know. Maybe it was just someone setting up their own campsite?" suggested Lucia. "I guess..." I said. I was used to seeing weird things. Something about this didn't seem right. Still, it's my weekend off. "Whatever, let's just keep going. I believe it's my turn," I said as I stood up. ------ //One day, a man named Henry Ferguson was driving home from work. It was another busy day in Chicago, with lots of traffic on the highway as people made their way home. Henry was tired, he had been working late the past couple of nights. He couldn't wait to get home and relax. Suddenly, his phone rang. He answered it.// //"Good afternoon Mr. Ferguson. I have your son here at gunpoint. You must make a choice now."// //"What? Who is this?"// //"That's not important. I can see you from a screen right now. Speed up, and turn into oncoming traffic. If you don't do it soon, I will kill your son."// //"Dad! Please, don't do it!"// //"George? Is that you?!"// //"Yes Dad, it's me, don't worry about me I'll be fine!"// //"Shut up! Mr. Ferguson, you're running out of time."// //Henry heard a gun click. His heart was beating out of his chest. He didn't know what to do.// //"George.....I love you."// //He stomped on the accelerator and turned sharply to the left.// //Mr. Henry Ferguson didn't survive the crash. When the police asked for a recording of the last phone call he had made before committing suicide, they got it. To this day, no one knows who actually made the call, where it came from, or how George's voice was on it when he had never been kidnapped or threatened with a gun at all....// ------ I stood silent for a few moments while I let the last part set in. Hank and Lucia looked a little spooked now. I'm sure the Foundation wouldn't mind that I had made up a ghost story using an SCP for inspiration, but then they probably would never know. "Dude, that's fucking creepy." said Hank. "That was one of the better ones I've heard recently," agreed Lucia. "However, I think I've got both of you beat. Have a seat and listen to a true master of the art." ------ //Long ago in England, there lived a man named Jack. Jack was a thief and a scoundrel, but a clever one. One day, for all his cleverness and carefulness, he got caught stealing a gold coin from a farmer. Half the village was chasing him with murder on their minds, for that coin was all they had. Jack jumped into some bushes on the side of the road and let the villagers pass by, then dusted himself off and started walking the other way. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when a dark figure stepped onto the path before him, appearing like a wraith from the fog.// //"Jack," the figure said, "I have come for thee. You hath lived a wicked life, and it is my duty as Satan, Lord of the Hell to take your soul to eternal damnation. Your time hath come, the villagers shall return and kill you soon."// //Jack, being the clever man he was, thought this over and had an idea. "Devil," he said, "would you not prefer to have many souls over one?"// //"Are you proposing a deal, Jack?" the Devil said.// //"A small one, Devil. It would benefit you much more than me. It is simple, you shall see."// //"Tell me more, but be sharp, for your time runs short."// //"Well first, Devil, I but throw away this gold coin I stole, into the forest where the peasants will never find it. Then you, Devil, turn thineself into the same gold coin. You hop into my purse, and when the peasants find me I give you to them. They don't kill me, but you disappear from their pockets later, and soon enough they'll all kill eachother arguing over who stole it."// //The Devil agreed, and did as Jack said. But when he turned into a coin and hopped in Jack's purse, he found in there a crucifix. At the sight of it, the Devil's power was diminished, and he could not move from Jack's purse.// //"A curse on you, Jack! You damnable wretch!"// //"I will let you go if you do as I say."// //"Blasted fate! I submit. What do you wish?"// //"I wish that you promise you will never drag me to Hell, never touch my soul, not ever."// //The Devil was reluctant, but as the peasants drew near, he finally gave in to Jack's demand. Jack threw him from his purse, and the Devil fled into the dark forests.// //Finally, the farmers had Jack where they wanted him. They snatched him and bound him, and searched him for their gold. But they did not find it, for Jack had thrown it into the woods. Instead, they took his head.// //Jack was now in a predicament, for it seemed that Heaven would not take him, on account of his wicked nature, but neither would Hell, for the Devil had made his promise. Trapped between worlds, Jack begged of the Devil for one thing. A light for him to see by as he wandered the Earth. Satan took pity on Jack, and gave him an ember from the fires of Hell itself. Jack took it, and placed it in a carved pumpkin that he now wears in place of the head he lost. Since, he became known as Jack 'o' The Lantern.// ------ I yawned. I saw worse things on an average Tuesday. "Eh," said Hank, "it was interesting, but not really scary. Kind of cheesy too. Pumpkin heads are so overdone." "What are you smoking? A guy with a pumpkin for a head with fire from Hell itself wandering the Earth for all eternity doesn't scare you?" "No." "You're too jaded." A voice came from just outside the light of the fire. "Oh, it's a good story. You just got a few of the details wrong." We all turned, startled, toward the voice as a man stepped into the light of our fire. He was old, his skin wrinkled with age. Half his hair had fallen out, the rest was grey as brushed steel. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, obscuring their color. He wore swamper's clothes, overalls and boots, but he seemed dirtier than most swampers I had seen. "Who are you?" I asked him. "They call me Will." He turned toward Lucia. "If you had told that story right, it would have been much scarier." "You were spying on us?" "Only for as long as her story lasted. I was just on my way in my canoe when I heard your voices." Lucia stood up. "Well if you know that story so well, what did I get wrong?" "Well, for one thing," said Will, "Jack never lost his head. The villagers just hanged him. He pretended to be dead and then just got up and left as soon as they turned around." "For another, Jack didn't use a pumpkin to hold his Hellfire. There weren't any pumpkins in Medieval Europe, they're an American vegetable. He used a carved turnip." As he spoke, I saw the light again. There it was, closer this time, slowly bobbing left and right, left and right. There was another, and another, another... "You also forgot the best part. Jack figured out that though his Hellfire would never go out, on some days it was stronger. Particularly one day. It's a day of significance, ancient and cursed. They call that day All Hallow's Eve, or more recently, Halloween." The lights where closer now, more coming into view every second. I realized that Lucia, Hank and I had huddled together close, while Will was standing totally still, a knowing smile on his face. He casually rolled his head, revealing a white, puckered scar going all around his neck. "Jack eventually figured out that on Halloween, his Hellfire was strong enough that he could use it to take people's souls for himself. All he had to do was use it to burn off someone's head. The Hellfire would spread to their necks, and burn on forever, trapping their souls and bending them to Jack's will." The lights were very close now, so close I could make out more details. They were faces. Carved faces. Jack-o-lanterns. One came into the light of the fire. A dark figure, wrapped in rotting cloth. It seemed taller than a person should be. On it's head, it wore a jack-o-lantern like a helmet. But that couldn't be right, there'd be no room for the head and the candle... "I really like the way pumpkins look. Much nicer than turnips. Roomier too." One of the figures stepped closer. I looked into the pumpkin, searching for a face. All I saw was a stump of a neck, a small flame pouring out from the throat. The smell of burnt meat filled my nose. "Oh, I almost forgot! in some versions of the story, they call him Will." I can still hear his laughter echoing in my ears. I'll never be able to forget that cackle of his, so deep it sounds more like he's choking. No matter how long I walk the swamps, day or night, rain or shine, I can never seem to get it out of my head. [[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>]]	2012-10-28T19:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "ghost", "halloween", "hc2012", "tale" ]	Ghost Stories - SCP Foundation	19	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "holiday-hub", "halloween-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14823090	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ghost-stories
going-out	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><tt>On 9/18/2011, <a href="/scp-703">SCP-703</a> manifested an instance of SCP-703-1. Analysis revealed it to be a list of items produced by SCP-703, dating back to its initial containment. Referencing with updated documentation has reinforced the classification of SCP-703 as a sapient non-organic. Analysis of this document's content is ongoing.</tt></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Aluminum can.</p> <p>Note: Weighed 21.32 grams.</p> <p>Status: Retrieved 14.78 seconds after appearance.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Red paper.</p> <p>Note: Contained drawing of a circle.</p> <p>Status: Retrieved 11.12 seconds after appearance.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Green pen.</p> <p>Note: Contained red ink.</p> <p>Status: Retrieved 10.09 seconds after appearance.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Stuffed tiger.</p> <p>Note: Name was "Paulie."</p> <p>Status: Taken after 9.00 seconds.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Picture of me.</p> <p>Note: Aesthetically pleasing.</p> <p>Status: Taken after 10.01 seconds.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: White paint.</p> <p>Note: Usable for restoration purposes.</p> <p>Status: Stolen after 9.89 seconds. Was not used for restoration purposes.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Three (3) bullets, .45 caliber, hollow point.</p> <p>Note: Acceleration was below expectation.</p> <p>Status: Stolen post-impact.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Gaseous matter.</p> <p>Note: Unsafe to breathe.</p> <p>Status: Stolen via inhalation after 20.6 seconds.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Item: An apology</p> <p>Note: Made with care.</p> <p>Status: Taken after 45.78 seconds, without remark.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Sweet things.</p> <p>Note: Is this better</p> <p>Status: It wasn't.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Your briefcase.</p> <p>Note: Left it in your office.</p> <p>Status: Sorry about the stain.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: Sheaf of papers.</p> <p>Note: Helpful.</p> <p>Status: Helped.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: A better lock.</p> <p>Note: You seemed worried about it.</p> <p>Status: I'm sorry.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Item: One of the black boxes.</p> <p>Note: I'm sorry I cheated, wanted to help you move.</p> <p>Status: Went through them. Broken up.</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="/going-out">Going Out</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/going-out">https://scpwiki.com/going-out</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]] [[/>]] > {{On 9/18/2011, [[[SCP-703]]] manifested an instance of SCP-703-1. Analysis revealed it to be a list of items produced by SCP-703, dating back to its initial containment. Referencing with updated documentation has reinforced the classification of SCP-703 as a sapient non-organic. Analysis of this document's content is ongoing.}} > Item: Aluminum can. > > Note: Weighed 21.32 grams. > > Status: Retrieved 14.78 seconds after appearance. > Item: Red paper. > > Note: Contained drawing of a circle. > > Status: Retrieved 11.12 seconds after appearance. > Item: Green pen. > > Note: Contained red ink. > > Status: Retrieved 10.09 seconds after appearance. > Item: Stuffed tiger. > > Note: Name was "Paulie." > > Status: Taken after 9.00 seconds. > Item: Picture of me. > > Note: Aesthetically pleasing. > > Status: Taken after 10.01 seconds. > Item: White paint. > > Note: Usable for restoration purposes. > > Status: Stolen after 9.89 seconds. Was not used for restoration purposes. > Item: Three (3) bullets, .45 caliber, hollow point. > > Note: Acceleration was below expectation. > > Status: Stolen post-impact. > Item: Gaseous matter. > > Note: Unsafe to breathe. > > Status: Stolen via inhalation after 20.6 seconds. ------------------------------------------- > Item: An apology > > Note: Made with care. > > Status: Taken after 45.78 seconds, without remark. > Item: Sweet things. > > Note: Is this better > > Status: It wasn't. > Item: Your briefcase. > > Note: Left it in your office. > > Status: Sorry about the stain. > Item: Sheaf of papers. > > Note: Helpful. > > Status: Helped. > Item: A better lock. > > Note: You seemed worried about it. > > Status: I'm sorry. > Item: One of the black boxes. > > Note: I'm sorry I cheated, wanted to help you move. > > Status: Went through them. Broken up. [[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>]]	2012-12-25T23:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Going Out - SCP Foundation	80	[ "scp-703", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	15706829	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/going-out
green	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>November 17th, 1996</strong></p> <p>Francis yawned. Another night spent in the office, surrounded by the Paperwork Himalayas.</p> <p><em>Dammit Iceberg it is</em> not <em>that easy…</em></p> <p>Perhaps half an hour earlier he had peeled his head off of his desktop planner and out from under a rather irritated Josie. The cat had taken a liking to him in the last month and a half, or at least his head was the most comfortable. He went through the motions of morning routine in a daze: five minutes under a frigid and unforgiving shower head, a quick brush of the teeth and look in the mirror. Tussled, dirty blonde hair and not nearly enough sleep.</p> <p>Then again, nobody slept a lot anymore.</p> <p>Try as he might (which was not trying very hard at all), Francis couldn’t shake the daze from his head: his brain felt like pudding in a cotton bowl. He knew he was dressed, but couldn’t recall actually doing it. He knew it was morning, but had no clue what time it was. He knew it was Sunday morning, and if he was here, then it wasn’t his weekend off. Shit. That meant that most of the staff was home: fewer than a hundred people in the entire place, most of them guards and maintenance. That meant that mooching off of someone who had gone to the grocery store and had more than old ramen in their cupboard was going to be far more difficult than it usually was. This left the only reasonable stand-in.</p> <p>Breakfast roulette.</p> <p>Francis wasn’t sure who had started the “game”. It wasn’t really a game, though. Challenge? It wasn’t particularly challenging. Thing people did? That worked. It was a thing that people did. The thing in question consisted of five steps</p> <p>1) Go to break room.<br/> 2) Input “something suitable for humans” into the coffee machine (“random” and “your choice” had ended messily.)<br/> 3) Feed the vending machine 500 Yen (change available nearby.)<br/> 4) Eat breakfast. Generally.<br/> 5) Regret your decision. Usually.</p> <p>Francis opened the door to the break room. Step one, complete.</p> <p>The few other inhabitants of the break room were noted, if dimly: One woman, with a scar on her cheek and a sleeve tattoo, one man, with a pencil mustache and an M-16, and one teenage girl, with blonde hair and pink pajamas. All three were sitting on the overstuffed sofa (A buy from a local thrift store. Francis nearly got his foot crushed when he and Ben moved it in). The girl was watching TV, something about a cartoon dog-rabbit thing screaming at a rather dopey looking red cat. The adults looked bored. The woman was staring at some spot to the lower right of the TV, the man was sipping from a coffee mug. The girl was eating fluorescent blue Pop-Tarts.</p> <p>“Sam. Tony. Iris.” Francis slowly nodded to each in turn as he shuffled over to the coffee machine. Whatever the response was fell on deaf, distracted ears. He punched “strong coffee” into the keypad. The machine dispensed its usual paper cup, followed by a steaming black sludge.</p> <p><em>Yeah…that’s good. That’s good…</em></p> <p>He took the cup and turned to the vending machine. Oh, you crafty Japanese. Of course you’d have something this bizarre around a back alley. Francis fished in his pocket, taking out the five hundred Yen he kept in the pocket of every pair of pants he owned (for emergencies).</p> <p><em>Ka-chunk</em></p> <p>The machine coughed out something that, on closer inspection, was a lumpy object wrapped in thin tin foil. The labeling was unreadable. Francis set down his coffee and tore open the foil, a Russian nesting doll made of molded beef jerky. Inner layers looked to be cheese, processed egg, chocolate, and a few tiny ones he couldn’t identify. He’d leave those out.</p> <p>Francis shuffled out of the break room without another word. Fucking paper work. Dammit Berg it was <em>not</em> that easy.</p> <p>There was a short silence.</p> <p>Iris and her two guards looked at each other with a mix of confusion and barely-held laughter.</p> <p>“So then. Gimp suit wedding dress. That’s a new one,” Iris said.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Francis walked down the hall, alternating between tearing off chunks of doll with his teeth and gingerly sipping the sludge. He could barely taste either.</p> <p><em>Ugh…Why isn’t it working. It’s fucking bean slurry and I still feel like I have an iron spike driven through my skull.</em></p> <p>A low hum echoed from down the hall, followed by a swish of wind, a glint of reflected light and blinding, unimaginable pain. Francis dropped to his hands and knees, screaming, though the word did not do the sound justice: this was something that tapped into the basest, most savage pain of man. What was that on the floor…a pool, a red pool…Blood. Blood everywhere. Red in his eyes, blinding red and black and <em>pain</em>.</p> <p>Slowly, slowly…painfully…Francis raised a trembling hand to his face.</p> <p><em>No…God no…oh God…oh God oh God oh God</em></p> <p>His right cheek was wet. He could feel ragged skin and pulped bone and torn muscle under his fingers. His hand moved up, on its own now. Right by his eye socket, in his socket, he could feel cold metal: a long piece of cold metal, slick with blood, with a pointed tip about five inches from where his eye would have been. Should have been.</p> <p>Francis screamed again. The faces in the wall laughed as the clocks melted and the floor fell away and the meat hooks dug into his flesh and hoisted him to the cockroaches on the ceiling and everything went out like a snuffed candle.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“Look, Connor, I realize the danger. Yes, he may end up killing us all. He just might save us too. He can twist reality with a thought, subconsciously, even. Self preservation kept him alive and he's already healed up. If he can learn to control it consciously… yes, I <em>know</em> the dangers involved. We’d be trying to put a god on a leash and employing him. Yes, I <em>do</em> think it’s worth it. Bear in mind, he is my student: I know him far better than you, Connor. Yes, I still trust him. No, I am not going to be sloppy: I will have him killed if he can’t be trained, trust me. We’ll keep him under sedation until we find a proper solution. Tell Dr. Elliot she’s inheriting his duties for the time being.”<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="/green">Green</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/green">https://scpwiki.com/green</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]] [[/>]] November 17th, 1996 Francis yawned. Another night spent in the office, surrounded by the Paperwork Himalayas. //Dammit Iceberg it is// not //that easy…// Perhaps half an hour earlier he had peeled his head off of his desktop planner and out from under a rather irritated Josie. The cat had taken a liking to him in the last month and a half, or at least his head was the most comfortable. He went through the motions of morning routine in a daze: five minutes under a frigid and unforgiving shower head, a quick brush of the teeth and look in the mirror. Tussled, dirty blonde hair and not nearly enough sleep. Then again, nobody slept a lot anymore. Try as he might (which was not trying very hard at all), Francis couldn’t shake the daze from his head: his brain felt like pudding in a cotton bowl. He knew he was dressed, but couldn’t recall actually doing it. He knew it was morning, but had no clue what time it was. He knew it was Sunday morning, and if he was here, then it wasn’t his weekend off. Shit. That meant that most of the staff was home: fewer than a hundred people in the entire place, most of them guards and maintenance. That meant that mooching off of someone who had gone to the grocery store and had more than old ramen in their cupboard was going to be far more difficult than it usually was. This left the only reasonable stand-in. Breakfast roulette. Francis wasn’t sure who had started the “game”. It wasn’t really a game, though. Challenge? It wasn’t particularly challenging. Thing people did? That worked. It was a thing that people did. The thing in question consisted of five steps 1) Go to break room. 2) Input “something suitable for humans” into the coffee machine (“random” and “your choice” had ended messily.) 3) Feed the vending machine 500 Yen (change available nearby.) 4) Eat breakfast. Generally. 5) Regret your decision. Usually. Francis opened the door to the break room. Step one, complete. The few other inhabitants of the break room were noted, if dimly: One woman, with a scar on her cheek and a sleeve tattoo, one man, with a pencil mustache and an M-16, and one teenage girl, with blonde hair and pink pajamas. All three were sitting on the overstuffed sofa (A buy from a local thrift store. Francis nearly got his foot crushed when he and Ben moved it in). The girl was watching TV, something about a cartoon dog-rabbit thing screaming at a rather dopey looking red cat. The adults looked bored. The woman was staring at some spot to the lower right of the TV, the man was sipping from a coffee mug. The girl was eating fluorescent blue Pop-Tarts. “Sam. Tony. Iris.” Francis slowly nodded to each in turn as he shuffled over to the coffee machine. Whatever the response was fell on deaf, distracted ears. He punched “strong coffee” into the keypad. The machine dispensed its usual paper cup, followed by a steaming black sludge. //Yeah…that’s good. That’s good…// He took the cup and turned to the vending machine. Oh, you crafty Japanese. Of course you’d have something this bizarre around a back alley. Francis fished in his pocket, taking out the five hundred Yen he kept in the pocket of every pair of pants he owned (for emergencies). //Ka-chunk// The machine coughed out something that, on closer inspection, was a lumpy object wrapped in thin tin foil. The labeling was unreadable. Francis set down his coffee and tore open the foil, a Russian nesting doll made of molded beef jerky. Inner layers looked to be cheese, processed egg, chocolate, and a few tiny ones he couldn’t identify. He’d leave those out. Francis shuffled out of the break room without another word. Fucking paper work. Dammit Berg it was //not// that easy. There was a short silence. Iris and her two guards looked at each other with a mix of confusion and barely-held laughter. “So then. Gimp suit wedding dress. That’s a new one,” Iris said. -- Francis walked down the hall, alternating between tearing off chunks of doll with his teeth and gingerly sipping the sludge. He could barely taste either. //Ugh…Why isn’t it working. It’s fucking bean slurry and I still feel like I have an iron spike driven through my skull.// A low hum echoed from down the hall, followed by a swish of wind, a glint of reflected light and blinding, unimaginable pain. Francis dropped to his hands and knees, screaming, though the word did not do the sound justice: this was something that tapped into the basest, most savage pain of man. What was that on the floor…a pool, a red pool…Blood. Blood everywhere. Red in his eyes, blinding red and black and //pain//. Slowly, slowly…painfully…Francis raised a trembling hand to his face. //No…God no…oh God…oh God oh God oh God// His right cheek was wet. He could feel ragged skin and pulped bone and torn muscle under his fingers. His hand moved up, on its own now. Right by his eye socket, in his socket, he could feel cold metal: a long piece of cold metal, slick with blood, with a pointed tip about five inches from where his eye would have been. Should have been. Francis screamed again. The faces in the wall laughed as the clocks melted and the floor fell away and the meat hooks dug into his flesh and hoisted him to the cockroaches on the ceiling and everything went out like a snuffed candle. -- “Look, Connor, I realize the danger. Yes, he may end up killing us all. He just might save us too. He can twist reality with a thought, subconsciously, even. Self preservation kept him alive and he's already healed up. If he can learn to control it consciously… yes, I //know// the dangers involved. We’d be trying to put a god on a leash and employing him. Yes, I //do// think it’s worth it. Bear in mind, he is my student: I know him far better than you, Connor. Yes, I still trust him. No, I am not going to be sloppy: I will have him killed if he can’t be trained, trust me. We’ll keep him under sedation until we find a proper solution. Tell Dr. Elliot she’s inheriting his duties for the time being.” @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-19T01:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "classical-revival", "doctor-clef", "half-cat-josie", "iris-thompson", "kain-pathos-crow", "slice-of-life", "surrealism", "tale" ]	Green - SCP Foundation	79	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	13825654	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/green
ground-control	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Darkness slowly turned into light once more. Blinding, red, fiery light. At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet his vision, warming his bones. Just as everything else since the accident though, it was a false warmth, a false feeling of hope.</p> <p><em>Let go.</em></p> <p>Sure, the first couple times he managed to turn his head to view the Earth he was filled with the hope that he would be brought back, that somehow his comrades would find him and bring him home. Now, he's glad that they didn't. It would have meant their end.</p> <p><em>You can return home.</em></p> <p>It somehow tuned in to the radio too. Over the years he heard a constant stream of broadcasts from his home, oh what the world had become. That was probably just to lure him in though, get him to fall. But he wouldn't, not now, not ever.</p> <p><em>They want you home, look how they try…</em></p> <p>He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or exactly what it was. One day he was on a shuttle, a secret flight into space, and the next…Well he was where he is now, and this <strong>Presence</strong> was with him.</p> <p><em>You can't hold out much longer…</em></p> <p>At first he just thought it a figment of his imagination. A way to keep himself sane in the cold void of space. But as he began to drift towards the Earth he began to realize, he wasn't drifting. He was being pulled, and the closer he got, the stronger the Presence was, and it felt….wrong.</p> <p><em>Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.</em></p> <p>So he stopped it. He's not sure how he did this either. He stopped himself, stopped his unnatural inertia. Caught himself in the Earth's orbit. Oh, how the Presence raged…But what he didn't expect was for it to defend itself so well.</p> <p><em>Can't stop…Weak, pitiful thing.</em></p> <p>It wrapped itself around him and his suit, not something solid, just a Presence. And it was that Presence that made him unstoppable. Anything he touched broke before his velocity and density. Even those who were sent up to collect him could do nothing but fail and die. But you know what…</p> <p><em>You will fall.</em></p> <p>I stopped it. I saved my comrades, I saved us. Or rather just halted what was inevitable. But I'm not going to let go. Even though I'm trapped in this body, in this suit, I won't let go. Sometimes I even gain control, I smash my visor. To expose it to the vacuum of space when it was engrained so deeply in me would kill us both. But it's too smart for that. Too old, and too smart. So I will continue to hold. I will continue to be the harbinger of death whose blade hovers above the throat of the Earth. And on the day that this son of a bitch dies, on the day this Presence realizes it can't beat us…I'll finally come home.</p> <p><em>Home.</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="/ground-control">Ground Control</a>" by Anonymouse99, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ground-control">https://scpwiki.com/ground-control</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]] [[/>]] Darkness slowly turned into light once more. Blinding, red, fiery light. At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet his vision, warming his bones. Just as everything else since the accident though, it was a false warmth, a false feeling of hope. //Let go.// Sure, the first couple times he managed to turn his head to view the Earth he was filled with the hope that he would be brought back, that somehow his comrades would find him and bring him home. Now, he's glad that they didn't. It would have meant their end. //You can return home.// It somehow tuned in to the radio too. Over the years he heard a constant stream of broadcasts from his home, oh what the world had become. That was probably just to lure him in though, get him to fall. But he wouldn't, not now, not ever. //They want you home, look how they try…// He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or exactly what it was. One day he was on a shuttle, a secret flight into space, and the next…Well he was where he is now, and this Presence was with him. //You can't hold out much longer…// At first he just thought it a figment of his imagination. A way to keep himself sane in the cold void of space. But as he began to drift towards the Earth he began to realize, he wasn't drifting. He was being pulled, and the closer he got, the stronger the Presence was, and it felt….wrong. //Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.// So he stopped it. He's not sure how he did this either. He stopped himself, stopped his unnatural inertia. Caught himself in the Earth's orbit. Oh, how the Presence raged…But what he didn't expect was for it to defend itself so well. //Can't stop…Weak, pitiful thing.// It wrapped itself around him and his suit, not something solid, just a Presence. And it was that Presence that made him unstoppable. Anything he touched broke before his velocity and density. Even those who were sent up to collect him could do nothing but fail and die. But you know what… //You will fall.// I stopped it. I saved my comrades, I saved us. Or rather just halted what was inevitable. But I'm not going to let go. Even though I'm trapped in this body, in this suit, I won't let go. Sometimes I even gain control, I smash my visor. To expose it to the vacuum of space when it was engrained so deeply in me would kill us both. But it's too smart for that. Too old, and too smart. So I will continue to hold. I will continue to be the harbinger of death whose blade hovers above the throat of the Earth. And on the day that this son of a bitch dies, on the day this Presence realizes it can't beat us…I'll finally come home. //Home.// [[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>]]	2012-02-21T19:26:00	[ "_genreless", "_licensebox", "featured", "tale" ]	Ground Control - SCP Foundation	209	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	12776239	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ground-control
guard-duty	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Monday, 19:00</strong></p> <p>Another day, another dollar. Quite a few dollars, to be honest, I can't believe how well they pay me to sit on my ass in a tower and watch a fence. That's private security for you, almost makes me glad I left the army. I should really remember to thank David for setting me up with this gig. Just a few more months, and I can afford that trip to Australia I always wanted. Shift's about to start, better go and replace Anderson. Make the crotchety bastard wait on that tower a minute after his shift ends and you'll never hear the end of it. The captain is already here to supervise the shift change.</p> <p>"Alright, Penn, you know the drill. Twelve hour shift. No eating, no smoking, no using your cell phone or reading. Just keep your eyes on the fence and stay awake. Ignore anything you hear from the facility itself- it doesn't concern you."</p> <p>"You don't have to give the same damn speech every day, Cap, I got it."</p> <p>"If you fuck up it's my ass on the line too, so I rather not take any chances. Now get up, Anderson is getting jumpy."</p> <p>Climbing the tower, I see the captain is right. Anderson is even more restless than usual. He's smoking, of course, and I see more than one empty pack of crisps on the floor.</p> <p>"You better clean this mess up, because I'm sure as hell not doing it for you again."</p> <p>"Stuff it, Penn. I know what I'm doing. Just keep your mouth shut."</p> <p>"I'm not going to rat you out for a few cigarettes, Anderson."</p> <p>"Whatever," He really is a mess today. Is that a flask he's hiding under his jacket? "Just keep your eyes open. My knee's been acting up, and that means something bad is going to happen. Always does. I don't trust those eggheads inside, they're up to something."</p> <p>"They could be cloning Elvis for all I care. As long as they keep paying me."</p> <p>Anderson climbs down, and I check my gear to see everything is there: my rifle, combat vest with five magazines, flashlight, canteen, radio, med-kit, night vision goggles. All good. Now I just sit back and watch the fence.</p> <p><strong>Monday, 22:00</strong></p> <p>God, this is boring. Every time I finish a shift I forget just how mind numbingly dull sitting up here is. Mosquitoes are fucking driving me insane. What the hell did Anderson do to the chair? How can plastic be this uncomfortable? It wasn't this lumpy yesterday, I swear. Nine more hours of this shit. God dammit.</p> <p><strong>Monday, 23:30</strong></p> <p>Noises coming from the facility, sounds a bit like drums. Maybe the eggheads are starting a band, and I'm here to guard their sweet grooves. Heh.</p> <p><strong>Tuesday, 00:30</strong></p> <p>The noises are getting louder. Those are definitely drums, and I'm starting to hear this eerie chant too. What the hell are they doing in there?</p> <p><strong>Tuesday, 01:15</strong></p> <p>Silence again. Whatever they did, it's over now. I hope.</p> <p><strong>Tuesday, 01:30</strong></p> <p>Alarms! The entire facility is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Those spooks they keep to handle inner security are all riled up, swarming the entire perimeter with their jeeps. Radio is going apeshit too, but it's all code words. They even launched a chopper. Anderson was right, they were messing with something in there. Whatever it is, it's none of my business. I'm outer security, just a grunt. Better just sit tight, obey my orders and stay the hell out of the way. The spooks are going inside. They'll fix everything, nothing for me to worry about.</p> <p><strong>Tuesday, 01:50</strong><br/> They aren't coming out. Everything went quiet again, but no one has come out. All the lights are out too, that's not supposed to happen. It's okay, the spooks are probably just getting things under control, everything's cool. Oh God, what the fuck is going on inside?! Radio is totally silent. Something is very wrong here. Maybe I should climb down, sneak away before whatever did the spooks in gets me too. Wait, what's that? Someone is coming out. Jesus, that's a relief. Wait, that doesn't look like the spooks. Better turn night vision on. What is that thing?</p> <p><strong>????</strong></p> <p>The stone of the watchtower is cold beneath my fingers. Was it always stone? It must have been, this tower has been here for centuries. Why am I remembering metal? The solitude must be playing tricks on my mind. Being a royal scout is no easy task, but I perform it gladly. The King will be proud.<br/> What's that? A horn! Scanning the road, I see a group of footmen making their way to my tower, carrying the royal standard and forming a protective ring around a majestic figure. Why, it's the King himself, here in my humble tower! What on earth is he doing here? A man approaches the tower, wearing the uniform of the royal guard.</p> <p>"Good scout, the realm requires your services! In the name of the King, attend!"</p> <p>I hurry to do as I was commanded. In the back of my head, a little voice whispers "Don't. You have orders. Something is wrong here", but I ignore it. How can serving the wise King be wrong? He is our just ruler, our savior. "Good sir knight, how may I assist your party?"</p> <p>The knight had a grim look in his eyes. "I fear we come bearing grave news. The castle has fallen to the forces of the Adversary. We barely managed to rescue the King before we were overwhelmed and forced to flee. The Prince and Queen were killed during our escape. Now, we require your help and that of your cohorts to show us a safe way through the border. We already have them here." Indeed they have. Capian and Andres, my loyal friends, are among the party. "Very well," I say, "We must make haste before the Adversary and his minions arrive." Suddenly, the call of a dread horn. Too late!</p> <p>The knight hears it too. "To arms, men, protect the King with your life!" We form a protective ring around the King, as the wretched forces of the Adversary descend upon us. Flying beasts with glowing eyes and fiery breath, hulking, crawling behemoths with skin like steel, chitinous footmen that scream at us in their alien tongue. They are trying to capture us alive, but we won't let them, we all know what they do to captives. We fight to the death, for the King! I raise my bow and take a foot soldier through the eye, and see Andres fall, a poison barb in his neck. Capian is taken down with a raw shock of power by one of their mages. I feel a sting in my neck, and see that I am the only one left standing, save for the King himself. He fights with the force of a typhoon, felling foul beasts left and right, ripping the behemoths to shreds with his mighty sword, even cutting a flyer from the sky, but they are too many. He falls, his body pierced with dozens of metal barbs. My tears are the last thing I see as the world turns dark.</p> <p><strong>????</strong></p> <p>"RthgEtTn Dra'k! NoR MoStdyX!"<br/> A figure dressed in writhing shadows, its tongue demonic. The Adversary.<br/> "I will never betray my King! Begone, cruel revenant."<br/> "SRoTn, caBn yoEu heaWr meU?"<br/> Not shadows. Black fabric. Wait, I think I'm beginning to understand…<br/> "Son, do you understand me? Can you tell me who you are?"<br/> "I am Veron Pennoren, proud scout of the-" No, that isn't right- "I… I'm Vernon Penn, sir. I think."<br/> The man smiles, he seems relieved.<br/> "I think this one is going to be okay. Leave him here for now, let him recuperate. I'll arrange for some class-Bs. Everything is going to be alright, son, Just lie down and relax. It's over."<br/> Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.</p> <p><strong>Sunday, 07:00</strong><br/> Last shift is finally over. I can't believe it's been six months already. Time to leave this dirt hole behind and finally catch that plane. I can't believe they paid me so much just to sit on my ass and stare at a fence.</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="/guard-duty">Guard Duty</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/guard-duty">https://scpwiki.com/guard-duty</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]] [[/>]] Monday, 19:00 Another day, another dollar. Quite a few dollars, to be honest, I can't believe how well they pay me to sit on my ass in a tower and watch a fence. That's private security for you, almost makes me glad I left the army. I should really remember to thank David for setting me up with this gig. Just a few more months, and I can afford that trip to Australia I always wanted. Shift's about to start, better go and replace Anderson. Make the crotchety bastard wait on that tower a minute after his shift ends and you'll never hear the end of it. The captain is already here to supervise the shift change. "Alright, Penn, you know the drill. Twelve hour shift. No eating, no smoking, no using your cell phone or reading. Just keep your eyes on the fence and stay awake. Ignore anything you hear from the facility itself- it doesn't concern you." "You don't have to give the same damn speech every day, Cap, I got it." "If you fuck up it's my ass on the line too, so I rather not take any chances. Now get up, Anderson is getting jumpy." Climbing the tower, I see the captain is right. Anderson is even more restless than usual. He's smoking, of course, and I see more than one empty pack of crisps on the floor. "You better clean this mess up, because I'm sure as hell not doing it for you again." "Stuff it, Penn. I know what I'm doing. Just keep your mouth shut." "I'm not going to rat you out for a few cigarettes, Anderson." "Whatever," He really is a mess today. Is that a flask he's hiding under his jacket? "Just keep your eyes open. My knee's been acting up, and that means something bad is going to happen. Always does. I don't trust those eggheads inside, they're up to something." "They could be cloning Elvis for all I care. As long as they keep paying me." Anderson climbs down, and I check my gear to see everything is there: my rifle, combat vest with five magazines, flashlight, canteen, radio, med-kit, night vision goggles. All good. Now I just sit back and watch the fence. Monday, 22:00 God, this is boring. Every time I finish a shift I forget just how mind numbingly dull sitting up here is. Mosquitoes are fucking driving me insane. What the hell did Anderson do to the chair? How can plastic be this uncomfortable? It wasn't this lumpy yesterday, I swear. Nine more hours of this shit. God dammit. Monday, 23:30 Noises coming from the facility, sounds a bit like drums. Maybe the eggheads are starting a band, and I'm here to guard their sweet grooves. Heh. Tuesday, 00:30 The noises are getting louder. Those are definitely drums, and I'm starting to hear this eerie chant too. What the hell are they doing in there? Tuesday, 01:15 Silence again. Whatever they did, it's over now. I hope. Tuesday, 01:30 Alarms! The entire facility is lighting up like a Christmas tree. Those spooks they keep to handle inner security are all riled up, swarming the entire perimeter with their jeeps. Radio is going apeshit too, but it's all code words. They even launched a chopper. Anderson was right, they were messing with something in there. Whatever it is, it's none of my business. I'm outer security, just a grunt. Better just sit tight, obey my orders and stay the hell out of the way. The spooks are going inside. They'll fix everything, nothing for me to worry about. Tuesday, 01:50 They aren't coming out. Everything went quiet again, but no one has come out. All the lights are out too, that's not supposed to happen. It's okay, the spooks are probably just getting things under control, everything's cool. Oh God, what the fuck is going on inside?! Radio is totally silent. Something is very wrong here. Maybe I should climb down, sneak away before whatever did the spooks in gets me too. Wait, what's that? Someone is coming out. Jesus, that's a relief. Wait, that doesn't look like the spooks. Better turn night vision on. What is that thing? ???? The stone of the watchtower is cold beneath my fingers. Was it always stone? It must have been, this tower has been here for centuries. Why am I remembering metal? The solitude must be playing tricks on my mind. Being a royal scout is no easy task, but I perform it gladly. The King will be proud. What's that? A horn! Scanning the road, I see a group of footmen making their way to my tower, carrying the royal standard and forming a protective ring around a majestic figure. Why, it's the King himself, here in my humble tower! What on earth is he doing here? A man approaches the tower, wearing the uniform of the royal guard. "Good scout, the realm requires your services! In the name of the King, attend!" I hurry to do as I was commanded. In the back of my head, a little voice whispers "Don't. You have orders. Something is wrong here", but I ignore it. How can serving the wise King be wrong? He is our just ruler, our savior. "Good sir knight, how may I assist your party?" The knight had a grim look in his eyes. "I fear we come bearing grave news. The castle has fallen to the forces of the Adversary. We barely managed to rescue the King before we were overwhelmed and forced to flee. The Prince and Queen were killed during our escape. Now, we require your help and that of your cohorts to show us a safe way through the border. We already have them here." Indeed they have. Capian and Andres, my loyal friends, are among the party. "Very well," I say, "We must make haste before the Adversary and his minions arrive." Suddenly, the call of a dread horn. Too late! The knight hears it too. "To arms, men, protect the King with your life!" We form a protective ring around the King, as the wretched forces of the Adversary descend upon us. Flying beasts with glowing eyes and fiery breath, hulking, crawling behemoths with skin like steel, chitinous footmen that scream at us in their alien tongue. They are trying to capture us alive, but we won't let them, we all know what they do to captives. We fight to the death, for the King! I raise my bow and take a foot soldier through the eye, and see Andres fall, a poison barb in his neck. Capian is taken down with a raw shock of power by one of their mages. I feel a sting in my neck, and see that I am the only one left standing, save for the King himself. He fights with the force of a typhoon, felling foul beasts left and right, ripping the behemoths to shreds with his mighty sword, even cutting a flyer from the sky, but they are too many. He falls, his body pierced with dozens of metal barbs. My tears are the last thing I see as the world turns dark. ???? "RthgEtTn Dra'k! NoR MoStdyX!" A figure dressed in writhing shadows, its tongue demonic. The Adversary. "I will never betray my King! Begone, cruel revenant." "SRoTn, caBn yoEu heaWr meU?" Not shadows. Black fabric. Wait, I think I'm beginning to understand... "Son, do you understand me? Can you tell me who you are?" "I am Veron Pennoren, proud scout of the-" No, that isn't right- "I... I'm Vernon Penn, sir. I think." The man smiles, he seems relieved. "I think this one is going to be okay. Leave him here for now, let him recuperate. I'll arrange for some class-Bs. Everything is going to be alright, son, Just lie down and relax. It's over." Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Sunday, 07:00 Last shift is finally over. I can't believe it's been six months already. Time to leave this dirt hole behind and finally catch that plane. I can't believe they paid me so much just to sit on my ass and stare at a fence. [[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>]]	2012-06-12T10:18:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Guard Duty - SCP Foundation	87	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13539223	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/guard-duty
halloween-at-s-c-plastics	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>October 24</strong></p> <p>"I hate this holiday." Doctor Johnathan West cleaned egg off of the card-reader, swiped his ID, and entered the S & C Plastics building. Had this been any other Foundation-owned location, the jokers who had decided to plaster the site in chicken ovum (some of which smelled like it had been rotting since Easter) would've been detained. But no; instead, this was Site 87, and was in the backwoods town of… let's just call it Backwoods, and people would get suspicious of kids disappearing.</p> <p>West nodded to the girl at the reception desk and took a pair of mini Twix bars out of the stainless steel bowl placed there. He noticed that someone had attached a note reading "Take Only Two" to the bowl, and had left a plastic severed hand in it. Cute, but everyone knew 330 was locked up in another site. Nothing like that would be here, and besides, they never decorated the site anyway.</p> <p>He took out his Foundation-issue smartphone (quintuple encrypted, needed at least 6 different pass-codes to unlock, pain in the ass if the screen didn't respond) and checked his e-mail. He saw the invitation to the Site 87 Halloween party and automatically deleted it; after the fiasco last year, he wasn't about to go again. They'd yet to figure out who spiked the punch with E-5719, and Agent Ewell still turned yellow if you got him angry enough.<br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">Ewell's used to being yellow, I'm sure.</span><br/> Also in his e-mail was an invitation to Dr. Pickman's online seminar regarding anomalous works of literature ("Maybe I'll go to one of Pickman's lectures when he stops being such a self-important blowhard."), a reminder from Doctor Margaret Reese in Biology that it was his turn to pick up coffee tomorrow, and something about a pool for buying Halloween candy. He shrugged, pocketed his phone, and headed for his office in the inanimate objects wing.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 25</strong></p> <p>"Oh, come on! Twice in two days?!" Once again, Site 87's exterior was coated with eggs, and this time, toilet paper, too. The security staff were scratching their heads, but West had to give the pranksters credit, they were efficient. In the space of only a single night, they had practically mummified Site 87 with sticky egg residue and toilet paper all over. On his drive around town to the local Dunkin' Donuts, he had seen that about a quarter of the houses had been either egged, TP'd, or both. The rest were perfectly intact, with their Jack O' Lanterns grinning, their fake cobwebs untorn and the foam gravestones sticking out of their yards unbroken.</p> <p>Security was baffled, nonetheless. In the break room, the guards were talking about how nobody showed up on the hidden cameras, and that eggs and rolls of Charmin were being thrown at the building from just off of the frame. When security actually went outside the building to confront the vandals, nobody was there. West had to admit that was just a <em>tad</em> disconcerting, but it was security's problem, not his.</p> <p>West traveled to his office and spent the rest of the day alternately looking out his window at the cleaning crew, checking his e-mail, and attempting to concentrate on a report about E-331.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 26</strong></p> <p>Everyone was asking the same questions all day: "How the fuck did they get on the roof?!" "And who the hell makes toilet paper rolls that long?!"</p> <p>A reminder to all staff was issued that "All Halloween costumes based on Keter Class SCPs are forbidden. Most of them are classified, anyway. And yes, this does include -ahem- "sexy" costumes based off of SCP-682." West sighed at the fact that they had to be reminded of that. He remembered briefly considering taking a Class-Omega amnestic after seeing one of those aforementioned costumes at a party three, four years ago. 682 with tits was just… <em>wrong.</em></p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 27</strong></p> <p>"Sorry, West. You pulled the shortest straw. You gotta go buy the candy." West gave Dr. Reese a look, and held up his straw for comparison to the others, sighing. Melbourne was grinning like a fool, but Reese smiled at West. "C'mon. It's for the kids. And don't buy all black licorice; we want people in this town to think we're not completely evil." She handed West the money collected for the candy pool (about 400 dollars), as well as an extra 50. "The janitorial staff is running low on detergents."<br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">Poor Maggie. If only she knew how Johnny felt…</span><br/> "Got it. Mind if I use your van? I worked all night, and left my car in the lot…"</p> <p>"Got egged?"</p> <p>"Can't even see out of the windshield."</p> <p>Reese handed West her keys and nodded to him on his way out.</p> <p>West drove through town, noticing that there were far more houses with decorations and far fewer houses that had been vandalized… he wondered if there was a connection, and remembered he had to tell someone back at the Site about that. For now, he had to focus on getting the treats for the kids (why Site 87 decided to hand out candy annually was beyond him; something about "Community Outreach". From a supposed plastics company.) and wondering what, exactly, was so bad about black licorice. It was delicious, once you acquired the taste for it.</p> <p>An hour later, he drove back to the site. It was getting dark out. As he drove down a side street, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a roll of toilet paper being thrown at a house lacking decorations. That tore it; he was going to find out who these little pricks were. He slammed on the brakes, took out his smart phone, and… took a photograph of a toilet paper roll throwing <em>itself</em> at a house.</p> <p>And then an egg came sailing at his face. He quickly ducked back into his car and drove off, cursing loudly. "I <em>HATE</em> Halloween!"</p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 28</strong></p> <p>"Let me get this straight," said a research assistant from the back of the presentation hall. "Living rolls of toilet paper? And… they attack undecorated buildings?</p> <p>"Pretty much," West said rubbing his eyes, "But they're just autonomous. Not alive." The photograph he took with his smartphone was on display on the projector screen behind him; the director of the site had approved the meeting at the last minute because, in her words, "If it means we stop smelling egg everywhere, it's worth it".</p> <p>"It explains why the security cameras didn't see anything; there was nothing to see. Just toilet paper flying at the building from nowhere."</p> <p>Dr. Reese chimed in. "And how they got onto the roof… but what about the eggs?"</p> <p>"I don't know, maybe it's a poultrygeist. I honestly don't know." He looked at the picture behind him and sighed. "I hate this holiday."</p> <p>"Well, what can we do? Do we attempt to incinerate them?" Everyone stared at the person who made the suggestion incredulously; it was the same research assistant, who sank in his seat. "…right, I know, Special <em>Containment</em> Procedures, not Special <em>Destruction</em> Procedures. Just a suggestion…"</p> <p>"Well, firstly… I propose we attempt to catch a 'live' specimen, and then attempt to…" West sighed. "Protect ourselves from this phenomenon." He picked up a box next to him and opened it; it was full of foam gravestones, fake cobwebs, and chains of plastic skull-lights. "Right. Once we actually catch one of these things, we… decorate the site. I've asked the horticultural department to provide a number of pumpkins for those who want to do Jack O' Lanterns and you'll find decorative materials by all the entrances. Any questions?"</p> <p>Reese smirked at West. "I thought you hated this holiday, Johnathan."</p> <p>"Desperate times, Doctor. Any other questions?" Nobody spoke up. "Right then. Let's get to work."</p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 29</strong></p> <p>"Congratulations, agent. You've managed to successfully contain a roll of Charmin and some dairy products." Dr. West watched the new E-Class Object, E-5768, through the plexiglass window. It looked ridiculous; it was a roll of toilet paper, with a dozen eggs orbiting around it. Every time an egg got broken or thrown, a new one spontaneously generated itself. Dr. West was making notes on his clipboard. "Ectoentropic properties… telekinetic in nature… and… What do you think, Ewell? Safe-class or just Anomalous Item? The latter means I have less paperwork to do…"</p> <p>Agent Ewell stood next to West, with literal egg on his face. It had taken him over an hour of driving around town to capture a specimen and then he had to grab it with a butterfly net… he didn't expect eggs to come flying out of nowhere. And now, he looked like an omelet. "Sir?"</p> <p>"Yes, Ewell?"</p> <p>"With all due respect, there are some times when I <em>really</em> fucking hate this town."</p> <p>"Could be worse. You could be assigned to active MTF duty trying to contain sapient fungus or something."</p> <p>"I'd take the fungus over this place any day."</p> <p>West picked up a box of plastic vampire bats and handed them to Ewell, picking up a box of orange streamers for himself. "Shut up and help me decorate; we're supposed to have the western half finished by 1600 hours."</p> <p>"Yes, sir."</p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 30</strong></p> <p>"Well, looks like your brilliant theory was correct, Doctor! Not a single egg or roll of paper on the building this morning!" Reese held up her coffee. "I propose a toast! " The rest of the break room all held up invisible glasses and said "Hear hear!"</p> <p>West smiled amicably, running his hands through his hair. "Thank you, but there is no guarantee that the events will not occur again in another year…"</p> <p>"They ain't egged us today, and that's what matters!" Matterson sighed. "Guess we can all get back to work now that we don't have to help scrape eggs off the building."</p> <p>"Just in time for the party, too. Ya goin', West?" Reese grinned at the doctor.</p> <p>"I don't think so, no." This was met by sarcastic boos and hisses. "Oh, so sue me if I don't want to have purple skin and blue hair until Christmas this year, too!"</p> <p>"That was a fluke, West, and you know it."</p> <p>"Tell that to Ewell."</p> <p>"Even I'm going, despite what happened! C'mon, John, don't be a Hallowiener…" Eventually, after much encouragement and friendly jabbing, West agreed to go. He supposed he could always dig out that gorilla costume, even if it was a pain to breathe in.</p> <p>For today, though, they'd just have to put up with giving out candy to the kids who came around. They kept the best for themselves, of course. And through it all, West couldn't help but find himself smiling. It had been a long week, but it had also been a pretty good one. So what if the place still smelled of egg and there were a few scraps of toilet paper on the walls? The anomaly was contained, he was appreciated by his co-workers, and he might even get an official commendation. For putting up decorations!</p> <p>After the trick-or-treaters were gone and most of the staff had either gone to their apartments in town or their on-site quarters, he leaned against the door to his office, talking with Dr. Reese and chewing on some licorice. "You know," Reese said, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're starting to like this holiday, Mr. Grinch."</p> <p>"It's nice enough, I suppose." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes til Halloween. After tomorrow, this crazy month will finally be over."</p> <hr/> <p><strong>October 31</strong></p> <p>"<em>This is Halloween, This is Halloween…</em>" Reese grinned at a rather unamused looking Dr. West. At least, he looked unamused because of the gorilla mask. "What? Not going to comment on my costume?"</p> <p>"…a skeleton in a pinstripe suit?"</p> <p>"Jack Skellington! Right, I forgot, you don't watch holiday movies."</p> <p>"I do! I watched Charlie Brown Christmas, It's Thanksgiving Charlie Brown…"</p> <p>"But not the Halloween one, I bet. Now come on. Everyone's waiting to see the man of the hour." She dragged him towards the break room, where a techno version of The Phantom of the Opera was playing. Everyone was dressed up in hokey costumes, and, thank god, nobody was dressed as a skip. Everyone who recognized Dr. West gave him a pat on the back, everyone was dancing, and the punch wasn't spiked! Well, there was some vodka in it, but no amnestics, no chemicals that alter skin color, nothing anomalous. It looked like it was going to be a good night.</p> <p>And then the containment breach alarms went off, along with the music. Everyone groaned, and the site director (dressed as the Black Knight from Monty Python) stepped up to tell everyone that it was a small breach, only one item, Safe class…</p> <p>It was at that exact time that E-5768 flew into the room. Everyone flinched at the menacing roll of Charmin floating 3 meters above the ground, threatening to throw eggs at anyone who moved. It floated over to the DJ booth, and bumped into the record player, starting it up again. And then… E-5768 started dancing. If you could call it that. It wiggled and swayed about in midair, doing elaborate loops and trailing paper behind it. Everyone stared.</p> <p>"…should we contain it?" Boris Badenov, AKA Agent Ewell, looked around the room at everyone, wishing he had his .45.</p> <p>"…well," Doctor West said, "I suppose it's not hurting anything. So long as it's not flinging eggs around randomly, I guess it can wait until morning." Everyone nodded in agreement; the world wasn't going to end because a sentient roll of toilet paper wanted to have a good time.</p> <p>The party continued long into the morning hours of November 1st, after Halloween was officially over. Dr. West and Dr. Reese were the last to leave the party, after West had escorted E-5768 back to its containment chamber. He held his gorilla mask under his arm and sighed. "Have I ever told you how much I love this time of year?"</p> <p>Dr. Reese elbowed him in the side and laughed.<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="/halloween-at-s-c-plastics">Halloween at S & C Plastics</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/halloween-at-s-c-plastics">https://scpwiki.com/halloween-at-s-c-plastics</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]] [[/>]] October 24 "I hate this holiday." Doctor Johnathan West cleaned egg off of the card-reader, swiped his ID, and entered the S & C Plastics building. Had this been any other Foundation-owned location, the jokers who had decided to plaster the site in chicken ovum (some of which smelled like it had been rotting since Easter) would've been detained. But no; instead, this was Site 87, and was in the backwoods town of... let's just call it Backwoods, and people would get suspicious of kids disappearing. West nodded to the girl at the reception desk and took a pair of mini Twix bars out of the stainless steel bowl placed there. He noticed that someone had attached a note reading "Take Only Two" to the bowl, and had left a plastic severed hand in it. Cute, but everyone knew 330 was locked up in another site. Nothing like that would be here, and besides, they never decorated the site anyway. He took out his Foundation-issue smartphone (quintuple encrypted, needed at least 6 different pass-codes to unlock, pain in the ass if the screen didn't respond) and checked his e-mail. He saw the invitation to the Site 87 Halloween party and automatically deleted it; after the fiasco last year, he wasn't about to go again. They'd yet to figure out who spiked the punch with E-5719, and Agent Ewell still turned yellow if you got him angry enough. [[size 0%]] Ewell's used to being yellow, I'm sure. [[/size]] Also in his e-mail was an invitation to Dr. Pickman's online seminar regarding anomalous works of literature ("Maybe I'll go to one of Pickman's lectures when he stops being such a self-important blowhard."), a reminder from Doctor Margaret Reese in Biology that it was his turn to pick up coffee tomorrow, and something about a pool for buying Halloween candy. He shrugged, pocketed his phone, and headed for his office in the inanimate objects wing. ------ October 25 "Oh, come on! Twice in two days?!" Once again, Site 87's exterior was coated with eggs, and this time, toilet paper, too. The security staff were scratching their heads, but West had to give the pranksters credit, they were efficient. In the space of only a single night, they had practically mummified Site 87 with sticky egg residue and toilet paper all over. On his drive around town to the local Dunkin' Donuts, he had seen that about a quarter of the houses had been either egged, TP'd, or both. The rest were perfectly intact, with their Jack O' Lanterns grinning, their fake cobwebs untorn and the foam gravestones sticking out of their yards unbroken. Security was baffled, nonetheless. In the break room, the guards were talking about how nobody showed up on the hidden cameras, and that eggs and rolls of Charmin were being thrown at the building from just off of the frame. When security actually went outside the building to confront the vandals, nobody was there. West had to admit that was just a //tad// disconcerting, but it was security's problem, not his. West traveled to his office and spent the rest of the day alternately looking out his window at the cleaning crew, checking his e-mail, and attempting to concentrate on a report about E-331. ------ October 26 Everyone was asking the same questions all day: "How the fuck did they get on the roof?!" "And who the hell makes toilet paper rolls that long?!" A reminder to all staff was issued that "All Halloween costumes based on Keter Class SCPs are forbidden. Most of them are classified, anyway. And yes, this does include -ahem- "sexy" costumes based off of SCP-682." West sighed at the fact that they had to be reminded of that. He remembered briefly considering taking a Class-Omega amnestic after seeing one of those aforementioned costumes at a party three, four years ago. 682 with tits was just... //wrong.// ------ October 27 "Sorry, West. You pulled the shortest straw. You gotta go buy the candy." West gave Dr. Reese a look, and held up his straw for comparison to the others, sighing. Melbourne was grinning like a fool, but Reese smiled at West. "C'mon. It's for the kids. And don't buy all black licorice; we want people in this town to think we're not completely evil." She handed West the money collected for the candy pool (about 400 dollars), as well as an extra 50. "The janitorial staff is running low on detergents." [[size 0%]] Poor Maggie. If only she knew how Johnny felt... [[/size]] "Got it. Mind if I use your van? I worked all night, and left my car in the lot..." "Got egged?" "Can't even see out of the windshield." Reese handed West her keys and nodded to him on his way out. West drove through town, noticing that there were far more houses with decorations and far fewer houses that had been vandalized... he wondered if there was a connection, and remembered he had to tell someone back at the Site about that. For now, he had to focus on getting the treats for the kids (why Site 87 decided to hand out candy annually was beyond him; something about "Community Outreach". From a supposed plastics company.) and wondering what, exactly, was so bad about black licorice. It was delicious, once you acquired the taste for it. An hour later, he drove back to the site. It was getting dark out. As he drove down a side street, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a roll of toilet paper being thrown at a house lacking decorations. That tore it; he was going to find out who these little pricks were. He slammed on the brakes, took out his smart phone, and... took a photograph of a toilet paper roll throwing //itself// at a house. And then an egg came sailing at his face. He quickly ducked back into his car and drove off, cursing loudly. "I //HATE// Halloween!" ------ October 28 "Let me get this straight," said a research assistant from the back of the presentation hall. "Living rolls of toilet paper? And... they attack undecorated buildings? "Pretty much," West said rubbing his eyes, "But they're just autonomous. Not alive." The photograph he took with his smartphone was on display on the projector screen behind him; the director of the site had approved the meeting at the last minute because, in her words, "If it means we stop smelling egg everywhere, it's worth it". "It explains why the security cameras didn't see anything; there was nothing to see. Just toilet paper flying at the building from nowhere." Dr. Reese chimed in. "And how they got onto the roof... but what about the eggs?" "I don't know, maybe it's a poultrygeist. I honestly don't know." He looked at the picture behind him and sighed. "I hate this holiday." "Well, what can we do? Do we attempt to incinerate them?" Everyone stared at the person who made the suggestion incredulously; it was the same research assistant, who sank in his seat. "...right, I know, Special //Containment// Procedures, not Special //Destruction// Procedures. Just a suggestion..." "Well, firstly... I propose we attempt to catch a 'live' specimen, and then attempt to..." West sighed. "Protect ourselves from this phenomenon." He picked up a box next to him and opened it; it was full of foam gravestones, fake cobwebs, and chains of plastic skull-lights. "Right. Once we actually catch one of these things, we... decorate the site. I've asked the horticultural department to provide a number of pumpkins for those who want to do Jack O' Lanterns and you'll find decorative materials by all the entrances. Any questions?" Reese smirked at West. "I thought you hated this holiday, Johnathan." "Desperate times, Doctor. Any other questions?" Nobody spoke up. "Right then. Let's get to work." ------ October 29 "Congratulations, agent. You've managed to successfully contain a roll of Charmin and some dairy products." Dr. West watched the new E-Class Object, E-5768, through the plexiglass window. It looked ridiculous; it was a roll of toilet paper, with a dozen eggs orbiting around it. Every time an egg got broken or thrown, a new one spontaneously generated itself. Dr. West was making notes on his clipboard. "Ectoentropic properties... telekinetic in nature... and... What do you think, Ewell? Safe-class or just Anomalous Item? The latter means I have less paperwork to do..." Agent Ewell stood next to West, with literal egg on his face. It had taken him over an hour of driving around town to capture a specimen and then he had to grab it with a butterfly net... he didn't expect eggs to come flying out of nowhere. And now, he looked like an omelet. "Sir?" "Yes, Ewell?" "With all due respect, there are some times when I //really// fucking hate this town." "Could be worse. You could be assigned to active MTF duty trying to contain sapient fungus or something." "I'd take the fungus over this place any day." West picked up a box of plastic vampire bats and handed them to Ewell, picking up a box of orange streamers for himself. "Shut up and help me decorate; we're supposed to have the western half finished by 1600 hours." "Yes, sir." ------ October 30 "Well, looks like your brilliant theory was correct, Doctor! Not a single egg or roll of paper on the building this morning!" Reese held up her coffee. "I propose a toast! " The rest of the break room all held up invisible glasses and said "Hear hear!" West smiled amicably, running his hands through his hair. "Thank you, but there is no guarantee that the events will not occur again in another year..." "They ain't egged us today, and that's what matters!" Matterson sighed. "Guess we can all get back to work now that we don't have to help scrape eggs off the building." "Just in time for the party, too. Ya goin', West?" Reese grinned at the doctor. "I don't think so, no." This was met by sarcastic boos and hisses. "Oh, so sue me if I don't want to have purple skin and blue hair until Christmas this year, too!" "That was a fluke, West, and you know it." "Tell that to Ewell." "Even I'm going, despite what happened! C'mon, John, don't be a Hallowiener..." Eventually, after much encouragement and friendly jabbing, West agreed to go. He supposed he could always dig out that gorilla costume, even if it was a pain to breathe in. For today, though, they'd just have to put up with giving out candy to the kids who came around. They kept the best for themselves, of course. And through it all, West couldn't help but find himself smiling. It had been a long week, but it had also been a pretty good one. So what if the place still smelled of egg and there were a few scraps of toilet paper on the walls? The anomaly was contained, he was appreciated by his co-workers, and he might even get an official commendation. For putting up decorations! After the trick-or-treaters were gone and most of the staff had either gone to their apartments in town or their on-site quarters, he leaned against the door to his office, talking with Dr. Reese and chewing on some licorice. "You know," Reese said, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're starting to like this holiday, Mr. Grinch." "It's nice enough, I suppose." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes til Halloween. After tomorrow, this crazy month will finally be over." ------ October 31 "//This is Halloween, This is Halloween...//" Reese grinned at a rather unamused looking Dr. West. At least, he looked unamused because of the gorilla mask. "What? Not going to comment on my costume?" "...a skeleton in a pinstripe suit?" "Jack Skellington! Right, I forgot, you don't watch holiday movies." "I do! I watched Charlie Brown Christmas, It's Thanksgiving Charlie Brown..." "But not the Halloween one, I bet. Now come on. Everyone's waiting to see the man of the hour." She dragged him towards the break room, where a techno version of The Phantom of the Opera was playing. Everyone was dressed up in hokey costumes, and, thank god, nobody was dressed as a skip. Everyone who recognized Dr. West gave him a pat on the back, everyone was dancing, and the punch wasn't spiked! Well, there was some vodka in it, but no amnestics, no chemicals that alter skin color, nothing anomalous. It looked like it was going to be a good night. And then the containment breach alarms went off, along with the music. Everyone groaned, and the site director (dressed as the Black Knight from Monty Python) stepped up to tell everyone that it was a small breach, only one item, Safe class... It was at that exact time that E-5768 flew into the room. Everyone flinched at the menacing roll of Charmin floating 3 meters above the ground, threatening to throw eggs at anyone who moved. It floated over to the DJ booth, and bumped into the record player, starting it up again. And then... E-5768 started dancing. If you could call it that. It wiggled and swayed about in midair, doing elaborate loops and trailing paper behind it. Everyone stared. "...should we contain it?" Boris Badenov, AKA Agent Ewell, looked around the room at everyone, wishing he had his .45. "...well," Doctor West said, "I suppose it's not hurting anything. So long as it's not flinging eggs around randomly, I guess it can wait until morning." Everyone nodded in agreement; the world wasn't going to end because a sentient roll of toilet paper wanted to have a good time. The party continued long into the morning hours of November 1st, after Halloween was officially over. Dr. West and Dr. Reese were the last to leave the party, after West had escorted E-5768 back to its containment chamber. He held his gorilla mask under his arm and sighed. "Have I ever told you how much I love this time of year?" Dr. Reese elbowed him in the side and laughed. [[=]] \|[[[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>]]	2012-10-22T14:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "featured", "halloween", "hc2012", "s&c-plastics", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Halloween at S & C Plastics - SCP Foundation	311	[ "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "halloween-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	14755600	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/halloween-at-s-c-plastics
handout	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Little Anthony wandered down Pine Street, separated from the three other trick-or-treaters he had tagged along with. According to them, the house at the end of the road was giving out regular-sized Snickers bars. Two, if they liked your costume. Anthony couldn't pass that up.</p> <p>He noticed that none of the lights on this block were on. He didn't even see decorations. Earlier, Anthony had told them he wasn't scared to go by himself, but that was the Power Ranger costume making him feel brave. Now the little breathing slots in the mask pinched his face.</p> <p>The house at the end of Pine didn't have their lights on, inside or outside, but he could hear people-noises within. If they were trying to be spooky, they did the best job. But Anthony was the White Ranger. He couldn't stop now. Up three steps, creaking, and then, on tiptoes, he pressed the doorbell… and silence answered. The boy lifted a trembling hand and knocked.</p> <p>Footsteps thumped out from inside. Anthony could stop himself running, but couldn't stop himself shaking. The door opened into shadow, and he couldn't see who it was… until she leaned forward.</p> <p>The tenant at the end of Pine was a fat old hag, wearing a thick coat over a sweater worn to rags. Her face was all mangled on one side. It looked like it was healing up from a nasty wound. Anthony had seen his brother wearing scary makeup like that when he left for the high school party. This woman must have gone as someone real cut up.</p> <p>"Trick… or… t-t-treat." The words made Anthony's nose sting and his freckles itch. He tried not to cry, but if he did start, at least he was wearing a mask.</p> <p>The woman grinned. She must have made up her teeth, too, to get them so creepy. She held up a crooked finger (<em>just one minute</em>) as he walked back into the darkness of the house. There was a stifled cry, and then a hiss. The hag came creeping back to the doorway then and, with a jerk, pulled Anthony's outstretched bag close to her. She reached in, holding something he couldn't see, and then her hand came out empty. Then her smile returned, making her scabbed left dimple crack, as that filthy hand reached up over the mask and gently patted his head. The boy was petrified; the sickly sweetness of it was like every cheek pinch and wrinkled kiss from every old relative was rolled up together into a ball and had collected a layer of hair and dirt during the process. She backed into the home, and when the door clicked shut behind her, Anthony was already halfway up the block.</p> <p>"Do you think we should go check on him?" Iron Man asked, as he sifted through his loot.</p> <p>"It was your idea to ditch him, dummy." Katniss unwrapped a fun-sized Butterfinger.</p> <p>"Yeah, but I wanted him to leave us alone for a little while, not get—"</p> <p>The skeleton grabbed Iron Man's arm. "Quiet! There he is." They heard wheezing as he bounded, arms flailing, over the curb and nearly into the bushes.</p> <p>"So, <em>chomp</em>, were they down there?" Katniss elbowed the skeleton so he wouldn't laugh.</p> <p>Iron Man lifted his mask and stood up to inspect the baby of the group. "Shit, what happened to your head?"</p> <p>Anthony rubbed his hair, and it was a little matted where the woman had touched it. His mask felt wet, too.</p> <p>"Shut up, Peter." The skeleton turned to face the Power Ranger. "Seriously… <em>did</em> you get anything down there?"</p> <p>"Y… yeah." Anthony caught his breath and swallowed. His trembling hands held up the candy bag, and he peered into it. "Just some money."</p> <p>Katniss sat up. "Let me see."</p> <p>"Alright… it's getting my candy all wet anyway." He held up the piece of currency, dripping and freckled.</p> <p>"Give you all my Sweettarts for it."</p> <p>Iron Man held up two Twix. "Or these."</p> <p>Anthony scratched his chin. "I'll let you share it for both."</p> <p>"Deal."</p> <p>"Deal."</p> <p>Carefully, Iron Man and Katniss pulled the currency apart. They cupped their hands to make sure none of it stained the sidewalk.</p> <p>"What are you going to get?" Katniss asked.</p> <p>Iron Man shrugged. "Maybe a tattoo."</p> <p>"Shut up. You're way too young for that."</p> <p>"Pffh. So I'll lie on the form. I can do whatever I want, you know. It's my money, and it's my skin."</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="/handout">Handout</a>" by Silberescher, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/handout">https://scpwiki.com/handout</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]] [[/>]] Little Anthony wandered down Pine Street, separated from the three other trick-or-treaters he had tagged along with. According to them, the house at the end of the road was giving out regular-sized Snickers bars. Two, if they liked your costume. Anthony couldn't pass that up. He noticed that none of the lights on this block were on. He didn't even see decorations. Earlier, Anthony had told them he wasn't scared to go by himself, but that was the Power Ranger costume making him feel brave. Now the little breathing slots in the mask pinched his face. The house at the end of Pine didn't have their lights on, inside or outside, but he could hear people-noises within. If they were trying to be spooky, they did the best job. But Anthony was the White Ranger. He couldn't stop now. Up three steps, creaking, and then, on tiptoes, he pressed the doorbell... and silence answered. The boy lifted a trembling hand and knocked. Footsteps thumped out from inside. Anthony could stop himself running, but couldn't stop himself shaking. The door opened into shadow, and he couldn't see who it was... until she leaned forward. The tenant at the end of Pine was a fat old hag, wearing a thick coat over a sweater worn to rags. Her face was all mangled on one side. It looked like it was healing up from a nasty wound. Anthony had seen his brother wearing scary makeup like that when he left for the high school party. This woman must have gone as someone real cut up. "Trick... or... t-t-treat." The words made Anthony's nose sting and his freckles itch. He tried not to cry, but if he did start, at least he was wearing a mask. The woman grinned. She must have made up her teeth, too, to get them so creepy. She held up a crooked finger (//just one minute//) as he walked back into the darkness of the house. There was a stifled cry, and then a hiss. The hag came creeping back to the doorway then and, with a jerk, pulled Anthony's outstretched bag close to her. She reached in, holding something he couldn't see, and then her hand came out empty. Then her smile returned, making her scabbed left dimple crack, as that filthy hand reached up over the mask and gently patted his head. The boy was petrified; the sickly sweetness of it was like every cheek pinch and wrinkled kiss from every old relative was rolled up together into a ball and had collected a layer of hair and dirt during the process. She backed into the home, and when the door clicked shut behind her, Anthony was already halfway up the block. "Do you think we should go check on him?" Iron Man asked, as he sifted through his loot. "It was your idea to ditch him, dummy." Katniss unwrapped a fun-sized Butterfinger. "Yeah, but I wanted him to leave us alone for a little while, not get--" The skeleton grabbed Iron Man's arm. "Quiet! There he is." They heard wheezing as he bounded, arms flailing, over the curb and nearly into the bushes. "So, //chomp//, were they down there?" Katniss elbowed the skeleton so he wouldn't laugh. Iron Man lifted his mask and stood up to inspect the baby of the group. "Shit, what happened to your head?" Anthony rubbed his hair, and it was a little matted where the woman had touched it. His mask felt wet, too. "Shut up, Peter." The skeleton turned to face the Power Ranger. "Seriously... //did// you get anything down there?" "Y... yeah." Anthony caught his breath and swallowed. His trembling hands held up the candy bag, and he peered into it. "Just some money." Katniss sat up. "Let me see." "Alright... it's getting my candy all wet anyway." He held up the piece of currency, dripping and freckled. "Give you all my Sweettarts for it." Iron Man held up two Twix. "Or these." Anthony scratched his chin. "I'll let you share it for both." "Deal." "Deal." Carefully, Iron Man and Katniss pulled the currency apart. They cupped their hands to make sure none of it stained the sidewalk. "What are you going to get?" Katniss asked. Iron Man shrugged. "Maybe a tattoo." "Shut up. You're way too young for that." "Pffh. So I'll lie on the form. I can do whatever I want, you know. It's my money, and it's my skin." [[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>]]	2012-11-11T22:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Handout - SCP Foundation	44	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14978527	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/handout
hiccup-jacet	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Heh. It's funny. I always tell my boys, don't give your life fer the Foundation. Make some other bastard give his. But here I am. Fuckin' hypocrite, that's what I am. But nobody ever promised me retirement, so that's okay.</p> <p>I figure I got another ten minutes before they make it through the door. Closest backup is fifty miles away, an' I know Barnes ain't gonna make it to 'em in time. Hey, Barnes, if yer still listenin', you better make it, you fuckin' asshole. You hear me?</p> <p>This place is gonna blow pretty soon. There are plenty of safety protocols in one of these plants, but I'm an engineer. I know exactly the wrong things to do an' in what order. I don't know just when, but it'll take out a good chunk of the countryside when it does. Wait 'til after before you come in. There ain't time for anyone to come get me. Nobody's gettin' outta here alive, if I have anything t'say about it. Got one last bullet, an' damned if I'm gonna waste it on those assholes.</p> <p>So, I don't know who else can hear me. Fuckers broke the receiver, but so far as I can tell, the transmitter's still good. So, I wanna say somethin' to the rest of you.</p> <p>We are the ones who save the world. Not the doctors, not the council, no one else. Us. We're the last line of defense. The only line. Remember that. Don't die for the Foundation. Don't fight for the Foundation. Fight for the six billion folks who won't wake up tomorrow if you don't. That's worth dyin' for. Some old fart wants to play with skips? He can go fuck himself.</p> <p>You ain't machines. You ain't tin soldiers. You're people, men an' women who do the shit nobody else can do. An' people make a choice. There's a damned big difference between doin' the job because you were told to, an' doin' it because it's gotta be done. I don't care if it's the same fuckin' job, there's a goddamned difference. There's gotta be, or what the hell else are we fightin' for?</p> <p>An' I want you to remember, each and every one of you, that you ain't alone. You understand? None of us are ever alone. We got each other. Every agent that's alive is there t'watch your back. No matter what happens, you're one of us. Doesn't matter if you're a saint or an asshole, you're family. You got hundreds of brothers an' sisters right there in the shit with you, ready to pull you out.</p> <p>An' when you're alone, you're still not alone. Every agent who came before, every one who's comin' after you, they are with you. Everyone you ever trained with, everyone who's watched your back or bitched to you at meals is with you. You carry them with you, so long as you remember that you ain't alone. And you pass that on to everyone you meet. When we die, we deserve to know that we ain't alone. No matter what happens. We got each other.</p> <p>Oh, an' one last thing. I'm proud of ya. If we ever worked together, no matter what else I said to you, I'm proud of you. Even if I ain't never laid eyes on you, just for doin' the job, I'm proud of ya.</p> <p>It's been an honor, guys. An' when you come in, if this don't finish 'em off… Give 'em hell for Max Lombardi.</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="/hiccup-jacet">Hiccup Jacet</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/hiccup-jacet">https://scpwiki.com/hiccup-jacet</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]] [[/>]] Heh. It's funny. I always tell my boys, don't give your life fer the Foundation. Make some other bastard give his. But here I am. Fuckin' hypocrite, that's what I am. But nobody ever promised me retirement, so that's okay. I figure I got another ten minutes before they make it through the door. Closest backup is fifty miles away, an' I know Barnes ain't gonna make it to 'em in time. Hey, Barnes, if yer still listenin', you better make it, you fuckin' asshole. You hear me? This place is gonna blow pretty soon. There are plenty of safety protocols in one of these plants, but I'm an engineer. I know exactly the wrong things to do an' in what order. I don't know just when, but it'll take out a good chunk of the countryside when it does. Wait 'til after before you come in. There ain't time for anyone to come get me. Nobody's gettin' outta here alive, if I have anything t'say about it. Got one last bullet, an' damned if I'm gonna waste it on those assholes. So, I don't know who else can hear me. Fuckers broke the receiver, but so far as I can tell, the transmitter's still good. So, I wanna say somethin' to the rest of you. We are the ones who save the world. Not the doctors, not the council, no one else. Us. We're the last line of defense. The only line. Remember that. Don't die for the Foundation. Don't fight for the Foundation. Fight for the six billion folks who won't wake up tomorrow if you don't. That's worth dyin' for. Some old fart wants to play with skips? He can go fuck himself. You ain't machines. You ain't tin soldiers. You're people, men an' women who do the shit nobody else can do. An' people make a choice. There's a damned big difference between doin' the job because you were told to, an' doin' it because it's gotta be done. I don't care if it's the same fuckin' job, there's a goddamned difference. There's gotta be, or what the hell else are we fightin' for? An' I want you to remember, each and every one of you, that you ain't alone. You understand? None of us are ever alone. We got each other. Every agent that's alive is there t'watch your back. No matter what happens, you're one of us. Doesn't matter if you're a saint or an asshole, you're family. You got hundreds of brothers an' sisters right there in the shit with you, ready to pull you out. An' when you're alone, you're still not alone. Every agent who came before, every one who's comin' after you, they are with you. Everyone you ever trained with, everyone who's watched your back or bitched to you at meals is with you. You carry them with you, so long as you remember that you ain't alone. And you pass that on to everyone you meet. When we die, we deserve to know that we ain't alone. No matter what happens. We got each other. Oh, an' one last thing. I'm proud of ya. If we ever worked together, no matter what else I said to you, I'm proud of you. Even if I ain't never laid eyes on you, just for doin' the job, I'm proud of ya. It's been an honor, guys. An' when you come in, if this don't finish 'em off... Give 'em hell for Max Lombardi. [[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>]]	2012-02-28T15:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "bittersweet", "first-person", "lombardi", "military-fiction", "tale" ]	Hiccup Jacet - SCP Foundation	268	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-lombardi-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	12821616	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/hiccup-jacet
hint-the-thing-is-173	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>In the howling temple of the black moon's light</em><br/> <em>Five brave fools came in the night.</em></p> <p><em>The first gave flesh,</em><br/> <em>The second gave stone,</em><br/> <em>The third gave the power to move when alone.</em><br/> <em>The fourth gave life and the power to think,</em><br/> <em>The fifth gave nothing</em></p> <p><em>for he paused,</em></p> <p><em>and he <a href="/scp-173">blinked</a>.</em></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="/hint-the-thing-is-173">A Tale of Five Offerings</a>" by minmin, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/hint-the-thing-is-173">https://scpwiki.com/hint-the-thing-is-173</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 howling temple of the black moon's light// > //Five brave fools came in the night.// > > //The first gave flesh,// > //The second gave stone,// > //The third gave the power to move when alone.// > //The fourth gave life and the power to think,// > //The fifth gave nothing// > > //for he paused,// > > //and he [[[scp-173 \|blinked]]].// @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-01-19T12:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "mythological", "poetry", "tale", "the-sculpture" ]	A Tale of Five Offerings - SCP Foundation	159	[ "scp-173", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	12544256	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/hint-the-thing-is-173
holy-war	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The five cloaked figures moved through the forest without sound, their crouched frames almost floating through the morning twilight. Nearing the edge of the forest, the leader of the group turned, and indicated to the others to stop. “Brothers, we go forth today as defenders of the faith. Beyond these few trees lie the greatest enemies our faith has ever known, heretics preaching against everything we believe in. It is our God's very will that today <em>we</em> lucky chosen will go forth and destroy this bastion of hereticism. In the name of the Broken God, we will succeed!”</p> <hr/> <p>Jacob rolled over, turning his face to the window next to his bed. As the sun began to peek through, he sighed. <em>Might as well get up now.</em> Slowly, the farmer lifted himself out of bed, his old bones creaking with the movement. Standing with similar speed, he began to dress himself. <em>I think I'll tend to the cows first today…</em></p> <p>The cloaked figures closed up behind the barn, the sun casting their long shadows up and ahead of them. The leader looked to the other cultists behind him. Lowering his hood, they looked to him with a deep respect. The Deacon's face already showed the blessing of the Broken God, his camera-like eyes, and machine jaw gleaming in the morning sun. Looking at him, the others noticed how his mortal skin seemed to just hang over his superior clockwork parts. The other cultists then lowered their own hoods. Smiling, the Deacon looked to his fellow cultists. “Brothers, let us make haste. We do not want to let these enemies of our God know what has hit them.” Standing, the Deacon drew a dagger from his cloak, the others following suit. “Let us strike.”</p> <p>Jacob reached up to the shelf to grab the old bucket from the shelf, grimacing as he did. <em>Just a few more years,</em> he thought to himself, finally heaving the container off the shelf. Turning to make his way out of the barn, he stopped. “How long have you been standing there?” Finishing turning, he looked at the man standing just inside the barn. “Just moments.” The old man nodded as the assassin came forward, brandishing his knife. Bringing his knife back, he prepared to strike. However, he found himself unable to attack. Looking down, he noticed how strange it was that his intestines were wrapped around a pitchfork, and then everything went black.<br/> Sighing, the old Farmer retrieved his pitchfork from the dead cultist.<br/> “Not again.”</p> <p>The cultist walked down the street, pouring kerosene as he chanted the sacrificial mantra he had been taught when he first joined the Church. “…and let this offering to Him be used to restore him, for the purifying flames shall bestow unto their spirit the honor of forever being his… Oh. Hello.”<br/> Standing on the porch of a small building, a woman looked at the assassin. He began to grin like a Cheshire Cat.<br/> “You <em>will</em> make an excellent sacrifice, won't you?”<br/> Slowly pulling the blade from his robe, and setting the can of kerosene on the ground, he closed on the woman. Defiantly, she stood, not making a single move. “Perhaps you <em>want</em> to be his sacrifice?” Still standing defiant, the woman seemed to just glare at him, not reacting to his threats. The cultist closed on her, and prepared to pounce. Finally, the cultist lept forward and jammed the dagger in the young woman's throat. The blade lept into her throat, and then stopped. Confused, the cultist yanked the blade back, and stabbed again. Brusing the woman's long hair out of her face, the mannequin's painted-on visage glared back at him.<br/> “Son of a bi-”<br/> The wet sensation over the cultist's head caused him to turn in rage, thinking it to be some kind of joke. Screaming, he realized too late that kerosene is a liquid.<br/> The old man sighed as the flaming cultist ran into the gift shop, setting it ablaze.<br/> “Probably woke everybody up with that screaming.”</p> <p>The cultist ran quickly into the barn, seeking refuge in one of the few buldings in the town that wasn't on fire. “If the damned Deacon will not aid me in an escape, I will make one myself. Perhaps one of these horses…”<br/> Quickly, the cultist levered open the door, and looked at the mighty creature before him. Doing as he had seen in the movies, he threw himself onto the horse, landing on the creature lopsided. Grabbing onto the creature's mane, the horse suddenly began to react. The assassin yelled in fear as the horse began to buck. Struggling to keep his hold, the man maintained his failing grip on the the heaving creature. He didn't notice the old man behind him. With one swift strike from a shovel, the cultist was knocked free from the horse, the creature still trampling the dirt floor. The second strike with the bladed edge of the shovel ensured he would not get up.<br/> Sighing, the farmer turned to leave the barn.<br/> “Well, at least that's over.”<br/> “Not quite.”<br/> The old man groaned as he felt the Deacon plunge his blade into his gut from behind. Pain filled his body as it slid through his gut, causing him to collapse. Finally, the Deacon pulled his blade from the old man, and began to walk away. As his vision faded, the old man muttered one last thing:<br/> “This…. statement is…. false.”<br/> The last of his blood having drained from his body, the old man collapsed.<br/> Stopping, the Deacon turned to look at the old man.<br/> “This…..? Statement…..? is……? False……? This……? Statement……?”</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>AMISH VILLAGE MASSACRE<br/> This morning, local police were called to the Blue Falls Amish community after reports of a bloodbath. Local police arrived to discover that all of the inhabitants of the small community had been slaughtered, homes burned, and many of their bodies showed marks of ritual mutilation. One possible suspect has been found in one of the surviving buildings, currently at the St. Jonah medical center. Some sources report that satanic groups may be to blame, however…..</p> </blockquote> <p>"Sir, that's the 5th village this month."<br/> "Your point…?"<br/> "Sir, the shapes carved into those bodies, the graffiti on those walls…"<br/> "What of them, Agent Macready?"<br/> "Those are marks of damnation, the same ones used in their scripture to mark 'Heretics.'"<br/> "So what?"<br/> "Sir, if I didn't know better, I'd say the Church declared war on their one true enemy."<br/> Turning, the senior agent looked at Macready.<br/> "Sir, I think the Church just declared war on the Amish."<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="/holy-war">Holy War</a>" by HoldMeCloseTonyDanza, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/holy-war">https://scpwiki.com/holy-war</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 five cloaked figures moved through the forest without sound, their crouched frames almost floating through the morning twilight. Nearing the edge of the forest, the leader of the group turned, and indicated to the others to stop. “Brothers, we go forth today as defenders of the faith. Beyond these few trees lie the greatest enemies our faith has ever known, heretics preaching against everything we believe in. It is our God's very will that today //we// lucky chosen will go forth and destroy this bastion of hereticism. In the name of the Broken God, we will succeed!” ------ Jacob rolled over, turning his face to the window next to his bed. As the sun began to peek through, he sighed. //Might as well get up now.// Slowly, the farmer lifted himself out of bed, his old bones creaking with the movement. Standing with similar speed, he began to dress himself. //I think I'll tend to the cows first today...// The cloaked figures closed up behind the barn, the sun casting their long shadows up and ahead of them. The leader looked to the other cultists behind him. Lowering his hood, they looked to him with a deep respect. The Deacon's face already showed the blessing of the Broken God, his camera-like eyes, and machine jaw gleaming in the morning sun. Looking at him, the others noticed how his mortal skin seemed to just hang over his superior clockwork parts. The other cultists then lowered their own hoods. Smiling, the Deacon looked to his fellow cultists. “Brothers, let us make haste. We do not want to let these enemies of our God know what has hit them.” Standing, the Deacon drew a dagger from his cloak, the others following suit. “Let us strike.” Jacob reached up to the shelf to grab the old bucket from the shelf, grimacing as he did. //Just a few more years,// he thought to himself, finally heaving the container off the shelf. Turning to make his way out of the barn, he stopped. “How long have you been standing there?” Finishing turning, he looked at the man standing just inside the barn. “Just moments.” The old man nodded as the assassin came forward, brandishing his knife. Bringing his knife back, he prepared to strike. However, he found himself unable to attack. Looking down, he noticed how strange it was that his intestines were wrapped around a pitchfork, and then everything went black. Sighing, the old Farmer retrieved his pitchfork from the dead cultist. “Not again.” The cultist walked down the street, pouring kerosene as he chanted the sacrificial mantra he had been taught when he first joined the Church. “...and let this offering to Him be used to restore him, for the purifying flames shall bestow unto their spirit the honor of forever being his... Oh. Hello.” Standing on the porch of a small building, a woman looked at the assassin. He began to grin like a Cheshire Cat. “You //will// make an excellent sacrifice, won't you?” Slowly pulling the blade from his robe, and setting the can of kerosene on the ground, he closed on the woman. Defiantly, she stood, not making a single move. “Perhaps you //want// to be his sacrifice?” Still standing defiant, the woman seemed to just glare at him, not reacting to his threats. The cultist closed on her, and prepared to pounce. Finally, the cultist lept forward and jammed the dagger in the young woman's throat. The blade lept into her throat, and then stopped. Confused, the cultist yanked the blade back, and stabbed again. Brusing the woman's long hair out of her face, the mannequin's painted-on visage glared back at him. “Son of a bi-” The wet sensation over the cultist's head caused him to turn in rage, thinking it to be some kind of joke. Screaming, he realized too late that kerosene is a liquid. The old man sighed as the flaming cultist ran into the gift shop, setting it ablaze. “Probably woke everybody up with that screaming.” The cultist ran quickly into the barn, seeking refuge in one of the few buldings in the town that wasn't on fire. “If the damned Deacon will not aid me in an escape, I will make one myself. Perhaps one of these horses...” Quickly, the cultist levered open the door, and looked at the mighty creature before him. Doing as he had seen in the movies, he threw himself onto the horse, landing on the creature lopsided. Grabbing onto the creature's mane, the horse suddenly began to react. The assassin yelled in fear as the horse began to buck. Struggling to keep his hold, the man maintained his failing grip on the the heaving creature. He didn't notice the old man behind him. With one swift strike from a shovel, the cultist was knocked free from the horse, the creature still trampling the dirt floor. The second strike with the bladed edge of the shovel ensured he would not get up. Sighing, the farmer turned to leave the barn. “Well, at least that's over.” “Not quite.” The old man groaned as he felt the Deacon plunge his blade into his gut from behind. Pain filled his body as it slid through his gut, causing him to collapse. Finally, the Deacon pulled his blade from the old man, and began to walk away. As his vision faded, the old man muttered one last thing: “This.... statement is.... false.” The last of his blood having drained from his body, the old man collapsed. Stopping, the Deacon turned to look at the old man. “This.....? Statement.....? is......? False......? This......? Statement......?” ---- > AMISH VILLAGE MASSACRE > This morning, local police were called to the Blue Falls Amish community after reports of a bloodbath. Local police arrived to discover that all of the inhabitants of the small community had been slaughtered, homes burned, and many of their bodies showed marks of ritual mutilation. One possible suspect has been found in one of the surviving buildings, currently at the St. Jonah medical center. Some sources report that satanic groups may be to blame, however..... "Sir, that's the 5th village this month." "Your point...?" "Sir, the shapes carved into those bodies, the graffiti on those walls..." "What of them, Agent Macready?" "Those are marks of damnation, the same ones used in their scripture to mark 'Heretics.'" "So what?" "Sir, if I didn't know better, I'd say the Church declared war on their one true enemy." Turning, the senior agent looked at Macready. "Sir, I think the Church just declared war on the Amish." @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-01T03:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "tale" ]	Holy War - SCP Foundation	37	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "church-of-the-broken-god-hub" ]	[]	13675658	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/holy-war
home	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Everybody's so goddamn judgmental, that's the problem. Part of it is where I live; the rural South is full of nothing so much as busybodies, Nosy Parkers, nosy neighbors, everybody so nosy. Always wondering. Always gossiping. Always minding my business, like I need that.</p> <p>I don't know how the rumors started. I guess somebody came to my door, maybe taking up money for a church social, maybe something else. They saw inside, saw what my home was like, and ran full speed to cluck cluck cluck at their friends. "You should have seen it, Betsy, it was horrible. There was <em>trash</em> just everywhere. What a slob!" Cluck cluck. I don't need them. I don't want them. They shouldn't come back.</p> <p>I hate all the shows on television, all the nosy shows, all the shows for perfect thin beautiful people to gawk at the rest of us. The shows about the eight hundred pound men or the shows about women with ten kids or fifteen kids or twenty kids or the ones they say I should be on. I don't hoard things, that's not what I'm doing. You don't <em>need</em> to know what I'm doing. It's not your <em>business</em>. But I'll tell you anyway.</p> <p>You make it sound so weird. I'm not weird. I'm comfortable. Maybe you should look at how you live. You never thought of that, did you? You have your little feather dusters and your doilies and your placemats and your throw rugs and your hardwood floors, sticks stuck up all of your holier-than-thou asses. Everything has to have a place, everything has to be square and fit tightly, and God forbid somebody think you have a cat. I don't live like that. I refuse to. Things fall, things break, things get moved around and stacked atop of one another and squeezed into places, swept into corners and lined along walls. That's nature. That's whatchacallit, entropy. That's how I live.</p> <p>It's not an accident. It started with the stains, sure, and I guess I didn't start those. I don't know how they got started. That was when I lived all square like you people do, everything in straight lines and grids. But I couldn't help things bumping into one another, and one day, it seemed that was all it took. Stains, scrapes, marks, abrasions. It started with one, then three, then dozens, everywhere. You can't imagine how much scrubbing I did. I scrubbed and scrubbed and washed and sat on my hands and knees and elbows and pushed and pushed rags and sponges and steel wool and belt sanders and I tried to destroy it, cut things out, and it didn't help. It was how I was back then, with the OCD. Everything had to be clean, blank, perfect. I polished every flat surface five times a day for fifteen minutes at a time. My husband wasn't there, he was "working" with the rest of his friends at that office. He didn't give a shit. He didn't love me. He wouldn't have left if he loved me.</p> <p>Fuck him. I don't need him. I have my home.</p> <p>I looked it up once, aversion therapy. That what this was. I thought it was a curse at first, but really, it was a cure. I had everything I thought I wanted, including the "perfect" little house with all the neat little lines everywhere. I thought everything was just how I wanted it, but it put me in hell. I sweated and cursed and prayed and cried and bled to keep everything right where it was supposed to be. Right where I thought it should go. Well, I don't know if you've read your Bible, but something you ought to know: you aren't in control. God wills it and you accept it. He says "jump" and you say "how high".</p> <p>The stains were His test and His blessing. I almost failed, almost proved myself unworthy of the gift He gave me. It seemed like the Devil was chasing me, scuffing the floor whenever I turned around, getting dog shit ground into the carpet, staining everything I could see. All I wanted was a little place that was beautiful, a little corner where the world couldn't hurt me. I lost that place. I tried to swallow a bottle of aspirin. Lloyd called an ambulance, packed his bags, and left. I haven't seen him since. I have my home. All I need is my home.</p> <p>The Lord works in mysterious ways. I had to let go of wanting everything clean, and once I did, everything changed. I'm so much happier now. You put so much of yourself into caring about things that don't matter and there's nothing left of yourself to truly live. I'm not saying it didn't take time, getting used to my new life. I walk over banana peels, old bills and newspapers, pillows, food wrappers, furniture. When I couldn't see my TV anymore, I took it out of the entertainment center and set it on a pile of towels. I wasn't showering anymore, so I didn't need them. More trash just emerges now, by itself. It doesn't think I see it, but I always see it; empty tissue boxes I never bought, dirty clothes I never wore, When I couldn't reach my bed without a rake, I started sleeping on the floor. The floor is so soft with so much flotsam on it. That's what I think of it as. Just debris in the ocean.</p> <p>That's what we'll all be, in the end. Just floating in the water. I'm ahead of the rest of you now.</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="/home">Home</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/home">https://scpwiki.com/home</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]] [[/>]] Everybody's so goddamn judgmental, that's the problem. Part of it is where I live; the rural South is full of nothing so much as busybodies, Nosy Parkers, nosy neighbors, everybody so nosy. Always wondering. Always gossiping. Always minding my business, like I need that. I don't know how the rumors started. I guess somebody came to my door, maybe taking up money for a church social, maybe something else. They saw inside, saw what my home was like, and ran full speed to cluck cluck cluck at their friends. "You should have seen it, Betsy, it was horrible. There was //trash// just everywhere. What a slob!" Cluck cluck. I don't need them. I don't want them. They shouldn't come back. I hate all the shows on television, all the nosy shows, all the shows for perfect thin beautiful people to gawk at the rest of us. The shows about the eight hundred pound men or the shows about women with ten kids or fifteen kids or twenty kids or the ones they say I should be on. I don't hoard things, that's not what I'm doing. You don't //need// to know what I'm doing. It's not your //business//. But I'll tell you anyway. You make it sound so weird. I'm not weird. I'm comfortable. Maybe you should look at how you live. You never thought of that, did you? You have your little feather dusters and your doilies and your placemats and your throw rugs and your hardwood floors, sticks stuck up all of your holier-than-thou asses. Everything has to have a place, everything has to be square and fit tightly, and God forbid somebody think you have a cat. I don't live like that. I refuse to. Things fall, things break, things get moved around and stacked atop of one another and squeezed into places, swept into corners and lined along walls. That's nature. That's whatchacallit, entropy. That's how I live. It's not an accident. It started with the stains, sure, and I guess I didn't start those. I don't know how they got started. That was when I lived all square like you people do, everything in straight lines and grids. But I couldn't help things bumping into one another, and one day, it seemed that was all it took. Stains, scrapes, marks, abrasions. It started with one, then three, then dozens, everywhere. You can't imagine how much scrubbing I did. I scrubbed and scrubbed and washed and sat on my hands and knees and elbows and pushed and pushed rags and sponges and steel wool and belt sanders and I tried to destroy it, cut things out, and it didn't help. It was how I was back then, with the OCD. Everything had to be clean, blank, perfect. I polished every flat surface five times a day for fifteen minutes at a time. My husband wasn't there, he was "working" with the rest of his friends at that office. He didn't give a shit. He didn't love me. He wouldn't have left if he loved me. Fuck him. I don't need him. I have my home. I looked it up once, aversion therapy. That what this was. I thought it was a curse at first, but really, it was a cure. I had everything I thought I wanted, including the "perfect" little house with all the neat little lines everywhere. I thought everything was just how I wanted it, but it put me in hell. I sweated and cursed and prayed and cried and bled to keep everything right where it was supposed to be. Right where I thought it should go. Well, I don't know if you've read your Bible, but something you ought to know: you aren't in control. God wills it and you accept it. He says "jump" and you say "how high". The stains were His test and His blessing. I almost failed, almost proved myself unworthy of the gift He gave me. It seemed like the Devil was chasing me, scuffing the floor whenever I turned around, getting dog shit ground into the carpet, staining everything I could see. All I wanted was a little place that was beautiful, a little corner where the world couldn't hurt me. I lost that place. I tried to swallow a bottle of aspirin. Lloyd called an ambulance, packed his bags, and left. I haven't seen him since. I have my home. All I need is my home. The Lord works in mysterious ways. I had to let go of wanting everything clean, and once I did, everything changed. I'm so much happier now. You put so much of yourself into caring about things that don't matter and there's nothing left of yourself to truly live. I'm not saying it didn't take time, getting used to my new life. I walk over banana peels, old bills and newspapers, pillows, food wrappers, furniture. When I couldn't see my TV anymore, I took it out of the entertainment center and set it on a pile of towels. I wasn't showering anymore, so I didn't need them. More trash just emerges now, by itself. It doesn't think I see it, but I always see it; empty tissue boxes I never bought, dirty clothes I never wore, When I couldn't reach my bed without a rake, I started sleeping on the floor. The floor is so soft with so much flotsam on it. That's what I think of it as. Just debris in the ocean. That's what we'll all be, in the end. Just floating in the water. I'm ahead of the rest of you now. [[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>]]	2012-05-20T15:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Home - SCP Foundation	37	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13368817	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/home
homeowners	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Diane was glad they had found such a nice neighborhood for the kids. She and Paul had worried about finding someplace good for them to grow up in. Some of the neighborhoods they had looked at were full of hoodlums and pushers and all sorts of nasty things. But as soon as she had stepped foot into the house at 23rd terrace, she knew the home was right for her. And now three months later, she could tell that she had definitely made the right choice. The neighbors were so kind, and everyone had everything they needed, and they shared. Sure it was a little isolated, but that just meant the community was tighter knit. It really felt like one big family.</p> <p>Sometimes she thought about how life was before the community, living in that tiny apartment. It was cheaper, but the people living there were all awful. It was no place to raise a family. The gated community was also far superior to any normal neighborhood, because it kept the hoodlums out. Even though it could get boiling when the sun was out, since the gates didn't provide A/C, and sometimes sleep patterns could be messed up since the roof didn't allow any light to come in, but those were minor issues compared to drug pushers and gangs.</p> <p>Why, just last week old lady Miriam down the street had a heatstroke. Sadly, she hadn't made it, but this had provided a bounty for the community as a whole. After all, when you could have a feast like the one that she left behind, you didn't have to worry about foraging for food and water. The meal Miriam had provided had given everyone on 23rd terrace with food and gristle. Sure, they would miss her valuable contributions to the community, like the way she could spot interlopers a mile away, but the food was better than the eyes. Although, the eyes <em>were</em> pretty tasty.</p> <p>Diane shivered as she thought of the interlopers. Sure, they were mostly harmless, skulking about at the edges of the gates, but they represented a real danger to the community. If these weirdoes could get in, soon there would be the others from the old times, and then the whole neighborhood would go. That was why she was grateful for the lynchings. Some people might feel pity for the interlopers, as they hung them from the highest beams available to them, but Diane didn't. If these monsters felt like trespassing on private property, there wasn't much that could be done for them.</p> <p>Diane looked up, and saw that the artificial sunlight emitters were going down. It was time for the forage. She kissed Paul goodbye, slung up her gun, and headed out into the junkyard. She and her neighbors saddled up and went in ready to kill. After all, you never know what might be here. Sometimes they found people from other communities. Once, they had shared resources with them, but they had become selfish and greedy and had to be exterminated. They had to protect their kin.</p> <p>It was the neighborly thing to do.<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="/homeowners">Homeowners</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/homeowners">https://scpwiki.com/homeowners</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]] [[/>]] Diane was glad they had found such a nice neighborhood for the kids. She and Paul had worried about finding someplace good for them to grow up in. Some of the neighborhoods they had looked at were full of hoodlums and pushers and all sorts of nasty things. But as soon as she had stepped foot into the house at 23rd terrace, she knew the home was right for her. And now three months later, she could tell that she had definitely made the right choice. The neighbors were so kind, and everyone had everything they needed, and they shared. Sure it was a little isolated, but that just meant the community was tighter knit. It really felt like one big family. Sometimes she thought about how life was before the community, living in that tiny apartment. It was cheaper, but the people living there were all awful. It was no place to raise a family. The gated community was also far superior to any normal neighborhood, because it kept the hoodlums out. Even though it could get boiling when the sun was out, since the gates didn't provide A/C, and sometimes sleep patterns could be messed up since the roof didn't allow any light to come in, but those were minor issues compared to drug pushers and gangs. Why, just last week old lady Miriam down the street had a heatstroke. Sadly, she hadn't made it, but this had provided a bounty for the community as a whole. After all, when you could have a feast like the one that she left behind, you didn't have to worry about foraging for food and water. The meal Miriam had provided had given everyone on 23rd terrace with food and gristle. Sure, they would miss her valuable contributions to the community, like the way she could spot interlopers a mile away, but the food was better than the eyes. Although, the eyes //were// pretty tasty. Diane shivered as she thought of the interlopers. Sure, they were mostly harmless, skulking about at the edges of the gates, but they represented a real danger to the community. If these weirdoes could get in, soon there would be the others from the old times, and then the whole neighborhood would go. That was why she was grateful for the lynchings. Some people might feel pity for the interlopers, as they hung them from the highest beams available to them, but Diane didn't. If these monsters felt like trespassing on private property, there wasn't much that could be done for them. Diane looked up, and saw that the artificial sunlight emitters were going down. It was time for the forage. She kissed Paul goodbye, slung up her gun, and headed out into the junkyard. She and her neighbors saddled up and went in ready to kill. After all, you never know what might be here. Sometimes they found people from other communities. Once, they had shared resources with them, but they had become selfish and greedy and had to be exterminated. They had to protect their kin. It was the neighborly thing to do. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-02T19:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Homeowners - SCP Foundation	52	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13691485	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/homeowners
how-dr-clef-saved-christmas	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The senior staff of Site 19 huddled in the conference room, warming themselves from the chill air of the cold mid-December morning. Coats and hats hung on the wall and over the backs of chairs, ice and snow dripping into puddles on the tile floor, as their owners drank strong black coffee from styrofoam cups and chatted idly. None of them knew why this emergency meeting had been called, nor why on such short notice, so early on a Sunday morning right in the middle of the holidays. The muffled conversation came to a halt as Site Director Ives entered the room, carrying a stack of notes and a reel of slides, and approached the podium in the front. The director's suit was wrinkled, his tie undone, beads of sweat on the balding man's forehead (though the heater had yet to kick in) as he shuffled through his papers before addressing the group.</p> <p>"Good morning, everyone," Ives said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know it's early and most of you had the day off, but we've got quite a lot to discuss and there's a lot of work to be done. I've just finished up a conference call with the O5 Council, and I'm afraid I've got some bad news."</p> <p>Ives paused and shuffled through his notes again before continuing. "At 0532, Greenwich time, we received an emergency distress signal from Area 36, near the magnetic north pole. Security personnel reported that unidentified aircraft had been observed entering the zone of exclusion around SCP-404040's main facility and they believed a hostile attack was imminent." Ives paused. "Three minutes later, we lost all contact with Area 36. We attempted to raise SCP-404040 directly and got no response as well.</p> <p>"We went into high alert at that time. We dispatched Mobile Task Force Alpha-7 from Montreal and they arrived at the scene at approximately 0930." Ives set up the reel of slides on the projector sitting on the front desk, and pulled a screen down from its place along the wall. "Adelstein, could you dim the lights, please?"</p> <p>Dr. Adelstein flicked the switches by the front door, casting the room into darkness as Ives turned on the slide projector. "When MTF A-7 arrived, this is what they found." Ives pressed a button and a slide popped up on a screen, depicting a single small house, alone on the Arctic tundra - what remained of that house, anyway. The windows had been smashed in, the door kicked open, its interior laid bare to the cold Arctic winds and the perpetual winter twilight. A giant candy cane standing in front of the dwelling had been smashed in two, and whatever color the building had been before, it was covered in a bizarre sort of ooze, dark and red, that dripped from the rooftops and formed crimson icicles, hanging by the dozens over the awning.</p> <p>"It wasn't much better inside." Ives flipped to the next slide, of the little house's parlor - furniture overturned and broken, cabinets emptied onto the floor haphazardly, everything covered in that strange thick red ichor. "The annex was the same - except for the bodies." The next slide showed a tiny humanoid, no more than four feet tall, dead on the floor. Its skin was horribly burned and fused together like it had been set on fire, its flesh fused to its tiny green outfit, also soaked in red. "We found sixteen SCP-404040-3 dead in the annex. One hundred and eighty-four unaccounted for. No survivors that we've been able to locate. The entire on-site security team was also KIA."</p> <p>"What about SCP-404040-1?" asked Dr. Johnson.</p> <p>"As of this time, MTF A-7 has been unable to locate SCP-404040-1 or his remains," Ives said as he flicked through several more slides, every one showing a similar scene of devastation to the Arctic workshop.</p> <p>"And the rei-"</p> <p>"All nine instances of SCP-404040-2 are missing as well, I'm afraid." Ives signaled for Adelstein to turn the lights back on as he shut off the projector. "Area 36 is a total loss and almost all of SCP-404040 is either dead or in the hands of a hostile power. As you all know, it's now slightly less than five days until this year's scheduled occurrence of Event 1225-Pinnacle. In light of the damage to the facility, even if we're able to recover the surviving elements of SCP-404040, I'm afraid that…" Ives stopped in mid-sentence as he looked out over the researchers.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," he continued after collecting himself. "I've seen a lot of shit go down in my day and I never thought I'd have to say something like this, but it looks like we're going to have to cancel Christmas."</p> <p>The room was aroar with worried exclamations. "Cancel Christmas?" "No presents?" "What'll I tell the kids?"</p> <p>"Please, everyone, calm down," Ives said as the group fell silent. "We're collating the available evidence as fast as we can, but what we need right now is information management. The O5 Council feels that, given our minimal lead time, Procedure 1843-Scrooge-Haymarket-4 - that's the "Elves' Union Goes on Strike" story, by the way - is the appropriate cover story to disseminate to the media. We should be able to cover this up and keep the civilian world from getting too worried about Santa's absence until we can get a substitute toy delivery up and running."</p> <p>Dr. Jones raised his hand. "Do we have any suspects yet?"</p> <p>"All we know for sure is it wasn't the GOC and it wasn't the Reds," Ives said. "We've been in contact with Geneva and Moscow since this whole thing started and they're as much in the dark as we are. It doesn't look like a CI job, either. The signs just aren't there. There aren't any bullet casings, either - whoever took this place down, they did it without firing a single shot."</p> <p>Dr. Michel spoke up next. "What about that ooze all over the place in the photos? It's not… elf blood, is it?"</p> <p>"No, thank God," Ives replied. "That's the strangest thing of all, really. The lab boys are still trying to figure it out, but as far as we can tell, it's tomato sauce. Ordinary, run-of-the-mill, five-cents-a-can tomato sauce, with a little extra salt. Anyway, there'll be time for Q&A later. We've got to get started on this."</p> <p>Ives picked up his briefcase from next to the podium, set it on the table, and opened it to reveal several manila folders packed with pre-prepared documents. "This is what we'll be working from and what I want you to disseminate to the personnel under your authority. Anderson, get this out to the press ASAP - the LA Times, the New York Post, CBS, NBC, ABC, BBC, CBC, everyone."</p> <p>"Yes, sir," Anderson said.</p> <p>"Jenkins, get the AFL-CIO and the Teamsters on the line, see if we can arrange some "sympathy strikes" with the elves' union."</p> <p>"Right away, boss," Jenkins replied.</p> <p>"Clef, I want you to liaise with the Republican party, have Goldwater or someone give a pro-Santa speech."</p> <p>There was no response. A confused mutter filled the room as the researchers looked around for the missing administrator.</p> <p>"Has anyone seen Clef?"</p> <hr/> <p>Fitzroy the elf woke up with a start as a bright light shone in his face. His joints ached, his skin still burned from the hot liquid that the men in green costumes had sprayed him down with, and his head was pounding. He opened his aching eyes slowly, trying to adjust to the glare of the bright lights. As he looked around, he found himself in a massive room with high ceilings and distant walls. His feet were shackled to the chair in which he sat, and a second chain bound him around the waist, leaving only his arms free. In front of him sat a long bench, one of five stretching the length of the room, before which sat scores of other elves shackled as he was. In front of each of them, as in front of him, sat a curious collection of accessories - a hot plate, a spoon, a potato peeler, a kitchen knife, and an ice chest.</p> <p>Fitzroy struggled with his swimming head as he tried to remember how he'd gotten there. It had been just another morning in the week before the big day, just another shift making toys for the boss' big delivery. At least it had been until the lights went out and the men in green busted down the doors. He could see a few of them marching back and forth between the benches even now, their green dresses (or togas, maybe) dragging on the floor behind them, their matching spiked crowns obscuring their faces in shadow, each of them wearing a tank over their shoulders connected to the nozzle that spewed that burning hot red fluid that had scalded his friends to death as they grabbed him and injected him with something before tossing him in a sack.</p> <p>Fitzroy didn't have much time to contemplate the circumstances of his captivity, or what fate had befallen the boss, before a loud and evil voice rang out over a loudspeaker hidden in the rafters, echoing throughout the cavernous building. "Good afternoon, my happy little elves," the voice declared. "I'm afraid there's been a little change in the work schedule this holiday. For the next couple days, you'll be working quadruple shifts. Meal and smoke breaks are canceled, and you won't be making toys anymore. You'll be making something… different." The speaker snickered to himself. "We've got a big quota to make in time for the big day, and I'm counting on your magic little fingers to make it happen. And once this is finished, you can all go back to your happy little elf families, safe and sound."</p> <p>"Oh, and by the way," the voice added, "I have your boss and his… delightful little animal friends in captivity as well. If you resist, or fight back, or don't work your hardest - well, I can't guarantee that I won't be eating reindeer sausage this Christmas!" The speaker laughed, his wicked, cacophonous howl echoing over the booming loudspeaker. "Now then, no time to waste! Get started! You'll find the recipe guide in the cooler. Start by warming your hot-plate up to medium high, then go ahead and add a few tablespoons of butter…"</p> <hr/> <p>"Extra! Extra!" shouted the news agent to the dozens of somber businessmen passing his stand on 5th Avenue. "Special edition! Elves' Union pulls out of negotiations! LBJ demands immediate resolution to Christmas catastrophe!" A man in a trenchcoat and fedora hat flipped a nickel to the newsman as he grabbed a copy of the New York Times off the stack, unfolding it and reading as he walked;</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>CHRISTMAS IN PERIL AS STRIKE CONTINUES</strong></p> <p><strong>Elves threaten to stay off the job until after New Year's</strong></p> <p><strong>"First canceled Christmas since 1896," says Santa Claus</strong></p> <p><strong>Is there still a reason for the season?</strong></p> </blockquote> <p>The man folded the paper up as he crossed 59th street, approaching the throng of people outside FAO Schwarz. With no kindly elf to deliver toys for their kids, the parents of the city had gone mad. The man peered in the window at shelves almost bare, as men in suits practically engaged in tugs of war over stuffed animals and Barbie dolls.</p> <p>"You must have more bicycles in the back!"</p> <p>"Do you have any more Jack Proton toys? I'll pay anything! ANYTHING!"</p> <p>"Whatever she's paying for that doll, I'll pay double!"</p> <p>A man was standing by the door with a box of teddy bears and auctioning them off to the highest bidder as the man in the coat made his way past. People were waving bundles of cash in the air, a look of desperation in their faces as if they were bidding on the last loaf of bread in Manhattan. The man decided to take his leave before the police showed up and found his way to a phone booth on the corner. Closing the door behind him to keep out the winter chill, he fished through his pockets for change as he dialed seven digits and dropped a dime into the slot. The phone rang five times before his intended contactee picked up.</p> <p>"Hello?"</p> <p>"Doc. It's me."</p> <p>"Who is this?"</p> <p>"It's… it's nobody. Listen. Cronkite was right. This place is going insane."</p> <p>"So?"</p> <p>"We're gonna have to speed up production. We need at least 10,000 more units, and we need to be able to get them on the shelves by Christmas Eve!"</p> <p>"Are you crazy? I can't work that fast."</p> <p>"This is our golden opportunity, doc! Every toy store on the island is sold out. All these people out here gotta get something under the Christmas tree now that Santa's out of business. That something could be your toys."</p> <p>"What if something goes wrong? You know this technology isn't perfect yet."</p> <p>"Relax, doc! This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot! If we play this right, every boy and girl in Manhattan is going to be playing with one of your toys. And once the word gets out… this could be the year the whole world learns the name 'Wondertainment!'"</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Jacob Andrews, flashlight in hand, made his way through the dark, cramped basement of Site 19. Most people barely even knew the basement existed, let alone had a reason to go down there and root around the old stacks of Spiritualist quack artifacts, and mothballed electronics from World War II, and reams and reams of handwritten SCP files from the days when things like radium and daguerreotypes were considered anomalous. Andrews had his reason. Nobody had seen Dr. Clef since the meeting yesterday morning. Everyone assumed he'd gone home, or walked out, or holed up in one of the labs, or something. Andrews knew better. Passing the shelves of preserved Egyptian mummies and turning left at the Olmec head, Andrews reached the brick wall and counted off one, two, three, four, five, <em>six</em> bricks before he grabbed onto the masonry and pulled.</p> <p>The wall opened up instantly, and the smell of salt water and kelp hung heavy in the air as Andrews descended the stairs into the hidden grotto beneath Site 19. Andrews admired the seashell motif along the walls, turning off his flashlight as he approached the well-lit area at the bottom of the stairs. A new smell struck Andrews as he entered the main room of the massive cave - the undeniably distinctive scent of simmering cream, and the frizzle of potatoes gently sauteeing in bacon grease, and the undeniably savory aroma of <em>Mercenaria mercenaria sitenineteenia</em>, the unique species of quahog found only in the waters of this grotto. The meandering tunnels and low ceilings of the Chowdercave could be next to impossible for a stranger to navigate - but Dr. Andrews was no stranger, and in thirty seconds flat he found himself in the "kitchen" of this subterranean base, where Dr. Alto Clef, dressed in his black chef's coat, stood over the stove, stirring a pot and flipping potatoes in his skillet, a dozen spice jars open on the shelf beside him.</p> <p>"I thought I'd find you down here, Alto," Andrews said to the inward-focused chef.</p> <p>Clef lowered a spoon into the creamy broth simmering on the stovetop and brought it to his lips. "Needs white pepper," he muttered to himself.</p> <p>"We've been worried about you, Alto. Have you been down here all night?"</p> <p>"I've got to get this batch just right, Jacob," Clef replied. "We both know I'm the only person in the entire Foundation qualified to deal with the man behind this Santa-napping."</p> <p>"You don't know it was him, "Andrews said. "Just because the North Pole was covered with tomato sauce doesn't mean it was the Ma-"</p> <p>"Nobody even eats that shit anymore!" Clef responded angrily, turning away from the stove as he pulled the potatoes off the flame. "Who else could it be?"</p> <p>"He hasn't been seen since that cookoff in Rhode Island five years ago. The one that almost got you killed."</p> <p>"Don't remind me. If I'd been half a second sooner with the parsley, I'd have -"</p> <p>"Stop, Alto," Andrews said. "You haven't put on that coat in five years now. You're not getting any younger, and… well, we all count on you to keep this place together."</p> <p>"Santa counts on us too," Clef said. "Those GOC bastards would have turned the North Pole into glass years ago if it weren't for us keeping an eye out for the old man. And we've let him down. And if there's anything - <em>anything</em> I can do to help him, even if it means going back on my promise to never wear that hat again… then I'll do it."</p> <p>Andrews sighed. "I can see you've got your heart set on this, then." The doctor turned around and began to make his way back to the stairs.</p> <p>"Wait!" Clef shouted. "I… I could use your help."</p> <p>"Just like old times, huh?"</p> <p>Clef smiled. "Make sure the Chowdercopter is fueled up and ready to go. Oh… and see if you can grab some white pepper from the Site pantry."</p> <hr/> <p>General Thomas Dawes made his way down a hallway deep within the secret recesses of the North American Aerospace Defense Command. On his left, he was followed by Researcher James, special liaison from the Foundation. On the right followed another military man, his uniform green to Dawes' blue; Colonel Arthur T. Bakker, special liaison from the Global Occult Coalition.</p> <p>"General," Researcher James said, "I'd like to state again my formal opposition to the GOC having an official presence here. Their position on SCP-404040 is well-established and it simply isn't conducive to our purposes here."</p> <p>"The Global Occult Coalition stands by its belief that the rogue entity designated KTE-404040-1 is a clear and present danger to international security, General," Colonel Bakker stated with a smirk. "But be that as it may, it is the full intention of High Command to adhere to the terms of the March 1953 Memorandum of Understanding with the Foundation regarding that entity."</p> <p>"I don't know if my kids would agree that Santa Claus is a 'rogue entity', Colonel," General Dawes said as the trio approached a locked door at the end of the hallway and the general rang its doorbell. "But let's see if we can find him first before we figure out what to do with him."</p> <p>A guard on the other side of the door opened it. "Area - attention!" the airman shouted, signaling the dozens of airmen in the dimly lit room to stand at attention before the general ordered them back to their posts.</p> <p>James looked back and forth, taking in the surroundings as best he could. Beneath the dim red lights, men sat in rows at radar terminals, each of them scrutinizing half a dozen or more of the tiny green monitors. Half a dozen officers sat at a bank of phones, most of them in the middle of discussions with Washington, or Moscow, or Beijing, or who knows where else. "This is where the magic happens, gentlemen," General Dawes said as he swept his arm out over the room. "Most people think all we do here at NORAD is watch for a Soviet airstrike. That's part of it, sure, but we've got hundreds of top secret radar arrays all over the world that feed directly into this room. We could probably break DoD's budget just sitting in here, around the clock, tracking every last bird in the sky all around the world." The general laughed to himself. "But that's not what this equipment is for. This is <em>magic</em> radar, you see."</p> <p>"Magic radar?" Colonel Bakker asked skeptically. "The High Command was not aware NORAD was in possession of magical equipment."</p> <p>"Oh, it's not the radar itself that's magic, Colonel," General Dawes replied. "These radar arrays are specifically designed to track flying objects <em>powered</em> by magic. That's what we use this system for, on this day every year. To track Santa's sleigh." The general turned to one of the men manning the phones. "Any news from the Kremlin, Captain?"</p> <p>"<em>Nyet,</em> sir," the officer replied, stifling a chuckle at his own joke. "No sign of the big man."</p> <p>"If you don't mind my asking," Researcher James chimed in, "how is any of this going to help us figure out who kidnapped Santa, or where they've taken him?"</p> <p>"As soon as we got the call from the White House that Santa was missing," General Dawes answered, "we started poring over the logs from these arrays. Sure enough, we had some readouts. Whoever got ahold of Santa and his reindeer got on that sleigh and flew it into the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. By the time the Green Berets got there, though, they were long gone. They must have loaded the sleigh and the reindeer onto a truck or something and moved them by land from there.</p> <p>"Anyway, it's the morning of Christmas Eve now, of course. But Christmas Day officially started in the western Pacific about seven hours ago. Everyone knows Santa does his work at the stroke of midnight, and we've got seventeen midnights to go."</p> <p>"So what?" James asked.</p> <p>"Well, whoever's got Santa, they haven't made any ransom demands. Our guess is, they want him to do something for them this Christmas. Why take the reindeer and the elves as well? They want the elves to make something and they want Santa to deliver it - and he'll have to do that at midnight. As soon as he makes his move, we'll know where he is."</p> <p>"Deliver what?" Colonel Bakker asked. "Guns? Bombs? Germ warfare? This is sounding more and more like a Pizzicato situation, General."</p> <p>"That's just wild guessing," James responded. "We can't just jump to conclusions here."</p> <p>"I will not be second-guessed by a cut-rate mad scientist, 'Researcher'," Colonel Bakker snapped.</p> <p>"Mad scientist? That's a laugh coming from a John Wayne wannabe like you. After the mess you idiots made of SCP-1609, I wouldn't trust you to neutralize a stray dog."</p> <p>"I've read your dossier, James. You're not even qualified to be in this room. Why don't you go back to Site 82 and talk to your… what was it, 'toilet ghost?'"</p> <p>"That's 'butt ghost' to you, you as-"</p> <p>"Gentlemen!" General Dawes shouted. "You can't fight in here! <em>This is the war room!</em>"</p> <p>James and Bakker stared silently at Dawes, a mixture of confusion and disdain in their eyes.</p> <p>"My wife loves that movie," Dawes said.</p> <p>"General!" shouted one of the airmen at the terminals. "We've got something!" The three rushed over and crowded around the airman's chair, where a single blip was moving towards the top right of one of the screens.</p> <p>"What are we looking at here, Airman?" Colonel Bakker asked.</p> <p>"It's over the Midwest right now, sir," the airman replied, "supersonic speed, definitely magical. Heading sixty degrees north by northeast - huh."</p> <p>"What is it?" asked James.</p> <p>"If it keeps that heading, it'll be in New York City by sunset."</p> <p>"New York City," Dawes said to himself. "What could Santa want in New York City?"</p> <p>"Chowder," James mumbled under his breath.</p> <p>"Excuse me?" Bakker said.</p> <p>"I said… umm… Chaplin! Yes. Project Chaplin. False alarm, general. That's one of our birds."</p> <p>Bakker stared James down, a skeptical glare in his eyes. "Our intelligence did not indicate that the Foundation was in possession of magical aircraft."</p> <p>"It's a new project. Top secret. We've been developing a plane capable of keeping up with SCP-1115. Looks like just a test run. See how it flutters back and forth a little from its heading? That's how it… how it works. Can't share all the details in mixed company. You understand, Colonel."</p> <p>"SCP-1115? Those flying robots?" General Dawes chuckled. "Good luck keeping up with them. They had me try to shoot one down in a P-38 back during the war. I was lucky I made it out alive."</p> <p>"Well, false alarm though this may be," Bakker said, "I really should let High Command know what the current situation is. Is there a private phone nearby?"</p> <p>"Two rooms down," Dawes said. "Airman Rodriguez will show you to the open line."</p> <hr/> <p>"High Command switchboard, how may I direct your call?"</p> <p>"Put me through to General Abrams at once. Gold priority, security code Delta Omicron Six Six Niner Epsilon Tau."</p> <p>"One moment, Colonel."</p> <p>"This is General Abrams speaking."</p> <p>"Santa's in New York. The Foundation already has a bird in the air en route."</p> <p>"Coordinates?"</p> <p>"Unknown at this time. They've got magic radar. Get our primary radar online and watch their bird. It… flutters. Once they do the groundwork, they'll no doubt set Santa loose on his sleigh."</p> <p>"And then we neutralize KTE-404040, I assume?"</p> <p>"My thoughts exactly, General."</p> <hr/> <p>Santa Claus struggled against his bonds, sweat rolling down his brow, as he hanged upside down by his feet above a giant vat of boiling clam juice. A rope tied around his ankles was the only thing keeping the not-so-jolly old man from falling to his doom in the steaming pot. In front of his field of vision stood his kidnapper - a grizzled old man dressed in a red chef's coat, a toque as red as blood on his head, a tomato embroidered over his heart. The man pinched and twirled his mustache as he paced back and forth in front of Santa. Reaching out to the control panel before him, he pulled the main lever a tiny bit - and the rope loosened, sending St. Nicholas hurtling a few inches closer to the pot.</p> <p>"It's not much I'm asking of you, Santa," the man said. "Just tell me the magic words I need to use to get those reindeer of yours in the air, and I'll be on my way. And once I've taken care of delivering my <em>special</em> presents to all the good little boys and girls, I'll let you go, and your elves, and your reindeer, and you can go back north and rebuild your little house and your little factory, and you can go on like none of this ever happened."</p> <p>"Never!" Santa shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the abandoned warehouse his captor had turned into a sweatshop over the past week. "I won't let you do whatever you're planning to do to all those good little children!"</p> <p>"I was kind of hoping you'd say that," the man said as he pressed the intercom button on his console. "Libertines! Do you copy?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir," a voice crackled over the radio.</p> <p>"Take one of the reindeer down to the basement. I don't care… the freak one with the atomic nose. We're eating good tonight!"</p> <p>"No!" Santa shouted. "Please don't hurt Rudolph!"</p> <p>"You know what you have to do to make this stop, Santa," the red man said. "Tell me the magic words."</p> <p>A tear fell from Santa's eye, rolling down his bald head and dripping into the clam juice where it boiled away instantly. "Alright. Come here and I'll tell you everything." The man leaned over the edge of the pot as Santa, between his tears, told the man all the words he'd need to know - how to get the reindeer flying, how to break the sound barrier, how to stop time long enough to visit every house in the world before the sun came up.</p> <p>"I knew you'd see reason eventually," the kidnapper said. "I'll go ahead and call off that order of reindeerburgers now."</p> <p>"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH! IT BURNS!" The kidnapper recoiled in surprise from the horrific scream he heard the instant he pressed the intercom button.</p> <p>"What is the meaning of this, Santa? I swear, I'll butcher every one of those reindeer myself if… AAH!"</p> <p>The kidnapper's words were cut off as a flying porcelain bowl smashed into the side of his head, shards flying every which way as piping hot cream splashed all over his immaculate coat. He turned towards the door where his guards were standing and saw them on the floor, coated in the same boiling broth that had now soiled his costume. Standing between them was his counterpart - black coat, black hat, a massive tank strapped to his back, bowls hanging by the dozen from his utility belt, a long tube connecting the tank to the massive cannon in his hands, and a righteous sneer on his face as he eyed the man who had kidnapped Santa Claus.</p> <p>"Chowderclef!"</p> <p>"The Manhattanite," Clef responded as he stared down the vermilion varlet before him. "I knew it was you the second I saw the pictures of Santa's workshop coated in Manhattan-style chowder."</p> <p>"Impossible! There's no way you could have tracked me here!"</p> <p>"Quite possible indeed, you burgundy burglar of Christmas cheer," Clef replied as he approached his arch-nemesis. "The breed of clam you used was specific to the East River. Once I figured that out, it was a mere matter of checking through the real estate records to find any disused waterfront warehouses that had changed hands lately. Now stand down - I'm taking you in and I'm letting Santa go."</p> <p>"Don't you take another step!" The Manhattanite dodged a blast from Clef's Chowdercannon as he leapt towards the console, wrapping his hand around the control lever. "One more step and Kris Kringle here is Santa stew!"</p> <p>"You monster!" Clef shouted. "What is it you want from St. Nick, anyway?"</p> <p>"Nobody eats Manhattan-style chowder anymore," the Manhattanite mumbled to himself.</p> <p>"Excuse me?" Clef asked.</p> <p>"Chowder! It's everywhere these days! From Suffolk, to Seattle, to San Diego! From Lafayette to Las Vegas! From Miami to Manitoba! From DC to Dallas! From Tampa to Timbuktu! You can't so much as walk through the door of a seafood restaurant without having a bowl of it shoved in your face! But you know what, Chowderclef?"</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>"Everywhere you go, <em>everywhere</em> in the whole wide world, it's <em>New England style</em>. Nobody has time any more for the simple joys of clams and tomato sauce. It's all heavy cream, and bacon, and potatoes, and a splash of sherry… it makes my blood <em>boil</em>, Chowderclef! Not that you can even boil that stuff - oh no, it scalds the milk, we must be <em>delicate</em> with it!</p> <p>"It's time the world got to know what <em>real</em> clam chowder is all about, my friend. That's why I've had the elves so hard at work this last week. They finished up an hour ago. You know, it's amazing how well the magic on that sleigh works - I didn't think we'd be able to load 3,268,896,174 gallons of piping hot chowder onto the back, but believe it or not, it fits!"</p> <p>"3,268,896,174 gallons?" Clef said to himself as he came to a horrific revelation. "Why, that's exactly…"</p> <p>"Exactly!" the Manhattanite shouted. "Exactly one gallon for everyone! When the sun comes up on Christmas morning, all the little boys and girls aren't going to find hopalong boots and talking dollies underneath their Christmas tree. No, they're going to find the greatest gift of all - <em>piping hot chowder.</em>"</p> <p>"You're insane, Manhattanite!", Clef yelled. "You can't take away everyone's presents and give them your disgusting tomato soup! They'll detest it! We'll have a revolution on our hands!"</p> <p>"A revolution indeed!" the Manhattanite shouted! "A <em>chowder revolution!</em> We shall cast down our New England oppressors once and for all! And it starts - <em>now!</em>" The Manhattanite jerked the control lever all the way down, snapping it off in his hand as Santa began to lower slowly towards the vat of clam juice.</p> <p>"Your choice, Chowderchump - save Santa, or chase me!" The Manhattanite dodged three blasts from the Chowdercannon as he leapt through a door at the edge of the room. Clef started to give chase, but stopped himself - in less than thirty seconds, Santa would be in the soup. As fast as he could, Clef switched the control knob on the Chowdercannon to Setting #2 and poured a bowl of the creamy, savory end-product into a bowl, gulping it as fast as he could. Strength welled within him, Omega-3 acids coursing through his veins as his muscles seemed to double in size. Santa even fancied that he saw a stylized image of a clamshell appear on his bicep as Clef rolled up his sleeves, set his hands on the side of the boiling pot, and, impervious to the pain from the hot steel, upended it and turned it on its side, spilling its deadly contents down the stairs and over the half-dozen guards in their Statue of Liberty dresses who had been on their way up the stairs to confront the Dark Chef.</p> <p>A kitchen knife tossed from his utility belt severed the rope, and Santa fell into Clef's waiting arms before being set back on his feet. "Why, if it isn't little Alto!" Santa said, his typical joviality returning to his voice. "I guess that Easy-Bake Oven I gave you when you were little paid off, didn't it?"</p> <p>"Are you OK, Santa?"</p> <p>"Nothing a long winter's nap won't fix! Believe me, I'm putting you on my 'Nice' list for next year!"</p> <p>"There's still this year to worry about, Santa. Where's the sl-"</p> <p>Clef stopped mid-sentence as he heard the jingling of bells outside the window, and turned just in time to see Santa's sleigh ascending into the night sky, a bubbling pot of chowder sitting in the place of Santa's bag of toys. "Ho ho ho! Merry Chowdermas!" The Manhattanite's voice echoed through the empty streets.</p> <p>"Dammit!" Clef shouted. "We're too late!"</p> <p>"No need for coarse language, little Alto! It's not quite midnight <em>yet</em>," Santa said. "He won't be able to use all of my magic until it's Christmas day. You can still catch him!"</p> <p>"No offense, St. Nick, but I know what your reindeer are capable of. My Chowdercopter might have magical clam-power, but even it can't keep up. There's no way I can catch him in time!"</p> <p>"Oh no?" Santa winked and stuck his fingers into his mouth as he whistled. In a moment, an eerie red glow began to emanate from the staircase to the ground floor - and a single reindeer trotted up the stairs, past the Libertines rolling in agony as the chowder burned away their flesh, his bright red nose illuminating the room like a Christmas tree.</p> <p>"You called, Santa?" the reindeer asked.</p> <hr/> <p>Santa and the elves stood on the roof of the factory in the darkness, looking out into the overcast sky for any sign. Santa checked his pocketwatch - a quarter after one. He sighed.</p> <p>"Do you think Chowderclef's alright?" Fitzroy asked Santa.</p> <p>"I think… I think it's going to be a late delivery this year, boys."</p> <p>"Wait!" one of the elves shouted. "Look over there!" A faint glow shone through the clouds to the east. It might have just been a warning light from one of the beacons on the river - but as they watched, and watched, and watched, it started to grow brighter, and brighter, and brighter still - until Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer himself emerged from the fog - and behind him came Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen, and behind them the sleigh - and riding on that sleigh, alone, smiling, and covered head to toe in tomato sauce, was Chowderclef. A cheer rose up from the elves as the sleigh alighted on the rooftop and Clef stepped off.</p> <p>"Alto!" Santa shouted. "I knew you'd do it!"</p> <p>"It wasn't easy," Clef said. "The GOC tried to shoot us both down. I guess they figured nobody would know it was them if Santa and his reindeer just happened to get blown up by air-to-air missiles this year. I'm going to have to have words with them after we're done here. Now this guy here-" Clef patted his red-nosed mount on the head - "now he's a real trouper."</p> <p>"Thanks, Clef!" Rudolph said. "All I did was do a barrel roll like you said."</p> <p>"Don't be so modest, Rudolph! It was you who came up close enough for me to make the jump onto the sleigh."</p> <p>"But how did you stop the Manhattanite?" Santa asked.</p> <p>"Well, Santa, in the middle of all our fighting, I asked him a question."</p> <p>"What was that?"</p> <p>"He's spent his entire life fighting to wipe out New England-style chowder. I asked him if he'd ever actually tasted any."</p> <p>"You mean he hadn't?"</p> <p>"I had a special batch just for him. Call it a Christmas present." Clef pointed to the control knob on his Chowdercannon, which had been turned to the third and final setting. "I spent days trying to get that batch just right - and to make sure it was perfect, I ran it through SCP-914 on Very Fine. He was in tears after a single spoonful. He poured the pot out over the Atlantic Ocean and parachuted out."</p> <p>"Wonderful, Alto! You see - Christmas can soothe the heart of even the most wicked man!"</p> <p>"Oh, I doubt we've seen the last of him, Santa. This isn't the first time we've dueled over the question of soup supremacy - and it sure won't be the last."</p> <p>"Well, the important thing is, I have my sleigh and my reindeer back! Thanks for all the help, Alto - I've got a Christmas to save!"</p> <p>"It's already a quarter past one, Santa," Clef said as he looked downward. "It might be too late."</p> <p>"Oh, Alto. The magic works for <em>any</em> midnight! I've still got six more chances!"</p> <p>"But what about the toys?"</p> <p>"The Manhattanite never got anywhere near the toys, Alto! I keep them somewhere <em>very</em> safe," Santa said with a wink. "It's just a matter of picking them up and - say, Alto?"</p> <p>"Yes, Santa?"</p> <p>"There is one more thing we can do to make up for lost time. I hope you don't mind lending a hand a little while longer - and letting me borrow that cannon of yours…"</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Andrews sipped the coffee in his styrofoam cup as he drove home along the darkened roads. His watch said it was 5:32 AM. Christmas morning. He hadn't had a wink of sleep in the past three days. Nobody at Site 19 had, with all the work convincing people that things would be just fine as soon as the elves settled their labor dispute with Santa. He'd spent all night on the phone with Researcher James at Cheyenne Mountain - tracking the bizarre radar sightings all around the eastern seaboard, and ultimately dealing with the blowback after the GOC had been caught red-handed violating the rules of engagement trying to shoot down Santa's sleigh and the unidentified object chasing it. What had become of them after that was anyone's guess - it was a miracle NORAD was still standing after what the GOC liaison had tried to do to "neutralize" their "magic radar".</p> <p>Andrews pulled into the driveway of his little house in the suburbs and shut off the motor as he climbed out into the pre-dawn air. Site Director Ives had been kind enough to let him spend the morning at home and explain to his girls why Santa hadn't come. He groaned as he looked at the headlines in the morning paper on his doorstep;</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>NO SIGN OF SANTA AS CHRISTMAS HANGS IN BALANCE</strong></p> <p><strong>LBJ makes last-minute call to North Pole as strike continues</strong></p> <p><strong>Riots in New York, L.A., London outside sold-out toy stores</strong></p> <p><strong>Buckley and Vidal debate: "Is Santa a Red?"</strong></p> </blockquote> <p>Andrews dropped the paper in amazement as soon as he saw the tableau in his living room. Beneath the glow of the lit-up Christmas tree lay <em>dozens</em> of presents, all wrapped up in paper and bows. He hadn't bought them. Karen hadn't bought them. Who had? Like an excited little boy, he fell to his knees and examined the tags. "To Jane, from Santa". "To Amy, from Santa". "To Mom and Dad, from Santa".</p> <p>He had done it! Somehow, his crazy old friend in the black coat had done it! Santa was safe and it would be a merry Christmas after all. Andrews was about to race upstairs and wake everybody up when he noticed something else - a certain aroma wafting in from the next room. He turned the corner into the kitchen and there, sitting on the warmer on the stovetop, was a great big pot bubbling with cream, and potatoes, and clams, and just the right hint of bacon, and a little splash of sherry. A note on the side read "To the Andrews family - from Santa Clef". Four brand new porcelain bowls and shining silver spoons sat on the counter next to the stove, waiting to be used. Cautiously, Andrews dipped a spoon into the pot and took a taste.</p> <p>"Hmm," he said to himself. "The white pepper really <em>does</em> make a difference."</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="/how-dr-clef-saved-christmas">How Dr. Clef Saved Christmas</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/how-dr-clef-saved-christmas">https://scpwiki.com/how-dr-clef-saved-christmas</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 senior staff of Site 19 huddled in the conference room, warming themselves from the chill air of the cold mid-December morning. Coats and hats hung on the wall and over the backs of chairs, ice and snow dripping into puddles on the tile floor, as their owners drank strong black coffee from styrofoam cups and chatted idly. None of them knew why this emergency meeting had been called, nor why on such short notice, so early on a Sunday morning right in the middle of the holidays. The muffled conversation came to a halt as Site Director Ives entered the room, carrying a stack of notes and a reel of slides, and approached the podium in the front. The director's suit was wrinkled, his tie undone, beads of sweat on the balding man's forehead (though the heater had yet to kick in) as he shuffled through his papers before addressing the group. "Good morning, everyone," Ives said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know it's early and most of you had the day off, but we've got quite a lot to discuss and there's a lot of work to be done. I've just finished up a conference call with the O5 Council, and I'm afraid I've got some bad news." Ives paused and shuffled through his notes again before continuing. "At 0532, Greenwich time, we received an emergency distress signal from Area 36, near the magnetic north pole. Security personnel reported that unidentified aircraft had been observed entering the zone of exclusion around SCP-404040's main facility and they believed a hostile attack was imminent." Ives paused. "Three minutes later, we lost all contact with Area 36. We attempted to raise SCP-404040 directly and got no response as well. "We went into high alert at that time. We dispatched Mobile Task Force Alpha-7 from Montreal and they arrived at the scene at approximately 0930." Ives set up the reel of slides on the projector sitting on the front desk, and pulled a screen down from its place along the wall. "Adelstein, could you dim the lights, please?" Dr. Adelstein flicked the switches by the front door, casting the room into darkness as Ives turned on the slide projector. "When MTF A-7 arrived, this is what they found." Ives pressed a button and a slide popped up on a screen, depicting a single small house, alone on the Arctic tundra - what remained of that house, anyway. The windows had been smashed in, the door kicked open, its interior laid bare to the cold Arctic winds and the perpetual winter twilight. A giant candy cane standing in front of the dwelling had been smashed in two, and whatever color the building had been before, it was covered in a bizarre sort of ooze, dark and red, that dripped from the rooftops and formed crimson icicles, hanging by the dozens over the awning. "It wasn't much better inside." Ives flipped to the next slide, of the little house's parlor - furniture overturned and broken, cabinets emptied onto the floor haphazardly, everything covered in that strange thick red ichor. "The annex was the same - except for the bodies." The next slide showed a tiny humanoid, no more than four feet tall, dead on the floor. Its skin was horribly burned and fused together like it had been set on fire, its flesh fused to its tiny green outfit, also soaked in red. "We found sixteen SCP-404040-3 dead in the annex. One hundred and eighty-four unaccounted for. No survivors that we've been able to locate. The entire on-site security team was also KIA." "What about SCP-404040-1?" asked Dr. Johnson. "As of this time, MTF A-7 has been unable to locate SCP-404040-1 or his remains," Ives said as he flicked through several more slides, every one showing a similar scene of devastation to the Arctic workshop. "And the rei-" "All nine instances of SCP-404040-2 are missing as well, I'm afraid." Ives signaled for Adelstein to turn the lights back on as he shut off the projector. "Area 36 is a total loss and almost all of SCP-404040 is either dead or in the hands of a hostile power. As you all know, it's now slightly less than five days until this year's scheduled occurrence of Event 1225-Pinnacle. In light of the damage to the facility, even if we're able to recover the surviving elements of SCP-404040, I'm afraid that..." Ives stopped in mid-sentence as he looked out over the researchers. "I'm sorry," he continued after collecting himself. "I've seen a lot of shit go down in my day and I never thought I'd have to say something like this, but it looks like we're going to have to cancel Christmas." The room was aroar with worried exclamations. "Cancel Christmas?" "No presents?" "What'll I tell the kids?" "Please, everyone, calm down," Ives said as the group fell silent. "We're collating the available evidence as fast as we can, but what we need right now is information management. The O5 Council feels that, given our minimal lead time, Procedure 1843-Scrooge-Haymarket-4 - that's the "Elves' Union Goes on Strike" story, by the way - is the appropriate cover story to disseminate to the media. We should be able to cover this up and keep the civilian world from getting too worried about Santa's absence until we can get a substitute toy delivery up and running." Dr. Jones raised his hand. "Do we have any suspects yet?" "All we know for sure is it wasn't the GOC and it wasn't the Reds," Ives said. "We've been in contact with Geneva and Moscow since this whole thing started and they're as much in the dark as we are. It doesn't look like a CI job, either. The signs just aren't there. There aren't any bullet casings, either - whoever took this place down, they did it without firing a single shot." Dr. Michel spoke up next. "What about that ooze all over the place in the photos? It's not... elf blood, is it?" "No, thank God," Ives replied. "That's the strangest thing of all, really. The lab boys are still trying to figure it out, but as far as we can tell, it's tomato sauce. Ordinary, run-of-the-mill, five-cents-a-can tomato sauce, with a little extra salt. Anyway, there'll be time for Q&A later. We've got to get started on this." Ives picked up his briefcase from next to the podium, set it on the table, and opened it to reveal several manila folders packed with pre-prepared documents. "This is what we'll be working from and what I want you to disseminate to the personnel under your authority. Anderson, get this out to the press ASAP - the LA Times, the New York Post, CBS, NBC, ABC, BBC, CBC, everyone." "Yes, sir," Anderson said. "Jenkins, get the AFL-CIO and the Teamsters on the line, see if we can arrange some "sympathy strikes" with the elves' union." "Right away, boss," Jenkins replied. "Clef, I want you to liaise with the Republican party, have Goldwater or someone give a pro-Santa speech." There was no response. A confused mutter filled the room as the researchers looked around for the missing administrator. "Has anyone seen Clef?" ---- Fitzroy the elf woke up with a start as a bright light shone in his face. His joints ached, his skin still burned from the hot liquid that the men in green costumes had sprayed him down with, and his head was pounding. He opened his aching eyes slowly, trying to adjust to the glare of the bright lights. As he looked around, he found himself in a massive room with high ceilings and distant walls. His feet were shackled to the chair in which he sat, and a second chain bound him around the waist, leaving only his arms free. In front of him sat a long bench, one of five stretching the length of the room, before which sat scores of other elves shackled as he was. In front of each of them, as in front of him, sat a curious collection of accessories - a hot plate, a spoon, a potato peeler, a kitchen knife, and an ice chest. Fitzroy struggled with his swimming head as he tried to remember how he'd gotten there. It had been just another morning in the week before the big day, just another shift making toys for the boss' big delivery. At least it had been until the lights went out and the men in green busted down the doors. He could see a few of them marching back and forth between the benches even now, their green dresses (or togas, maybe) dragging on the floor behind them, their matching spiked crowns obscuring their faces in shadow, each of them wearing a tank over their shoulders connected to the nozzle that spewed that burning hot red fluid that had scalded his friends to death as they grabbed him and injected him with something before tossing him in a sack. Fitzroy didn't have much time to contemplate the circumstances of his captivity, or what fate had befallen the boss, before a loud and evil voice rang out over a loudspeaker hidden in the rafters, echoing throughout the cavernous building. "Good afternoon, my happy little elves," the voice declared. "I'm afraid there's been a little change in the work schedule this holiday. For the next couple days, you'll be working quadruple shifts. Meal and smoke breaks are canceled, and you won't be making toys anymore. You'll be making something... different." The speaker snickered to himself. "We've got a big quota to make in time for the big day, and I'm counting on your magic little fingers to make it happen. And once this is finished, you can all go back to your happy little elf families, safe and sound." "Oh, and by the way," the voice added, "I have your boss and his... delightful little animal friends in captivity as well. If you resist, or fight back, or don't work your hardest - well, I can't guarantee that I won't be eating reindeer sausage this Christmas!" The speaker laughed, his wicked, cacophonous howl echoing over the booming loudspeaker. "Now then, no time to waste! Get started! You'll find the recipe guide in the cooler. Start by warming your hot-plate up to medium high, then go ahead and add a few tablespoons of butter..." ---- "Extra! Extra!" shouted the news agent to the dozens of somber businessmen passing his stand on 5th Avenue. "Special edition! Elves' Union pulls out of negotiations! LBJ demands immediate resolution to Christmas catastrophe!" A man in a trenchcoat and fedora hat flipped a nickel to the newsman as he grabbed a copy of the New York Times off the stack, unfolding it and reading as he walked; > CHRISTMAS IN PERIL AS STRIKE CONTINUES > > Elves threaten to stay off the job until after New Year's > > "First canceled Christmas since 1896," says Santa Claus > > Is there still a reason for the season? The man folded the paper up as he crossed 59th street, approaching the throng of people outside FAO Schwarz. With no kindly elf to deliver toys for their kids, the parents of the city had gone mad. The man peered in the window at shelves almost bare, as men in suits practically engaged in tugs of war over stuffed animals and Barbie dolls. "You must have more bicycles in the back!" "Do you have any more Jack Proton toys? I'll pay anything! ANYTHING!" "Whatever she's paying for that doll, I'll pay double!" A man was standing by the door with a box of teddy bears and auctioning them off to the highest bidder as the man in the coat made his way past. People were waving bundles of cash in the air, a look of desperation in their faces as if they were bidding on the last loaf of bread in Manhattan. The man decided to take his leave before the police showed up and found his way to a phone booth on the corner. Closing the door behind him to keep out the winter chill, he fished through his pockets for change as he dialed seven digits and dropped a dime into the slot. The phone rang five times before his intended contactee picked up. "Hello?" "Doc. It's me." "Who is this?" "It's... it's nobody. Listen. Cronkite was right. This place is going insane." "So?" "We're gonna have to speed up production. We need at least 10,000 more units, and we need to be able to get them on the shelves by Christmas Eve!" "Are you crazy? I can't work that fast." "This is our golden opportunity, doc! Every toy store on the island is sold out. All these people out here gotta get something under the Christmas tree now that Santa's out of business. That something could be your toys." "What if something goes wrong? You know this technology isn't perfect yet." "Relax, doc! This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot! If we play this right, every boy and girl in Manhattan is going to be playing with one of your toys. And once the word gets out... this could be the year the whole world learns the name 'Wondertainment!'" ---- Dr. Jacob Andrews, flashlight in hand, made his way through the dark, cramped basement of Site 19. Most people barely even knew the basement existed, let alone had a reason to go down there and root around the old stacks of Spiritualist quack artifacts, and mothballed electronics from World War II, and reams and reams of handwritten SCP files from the days when things like radium and daguerreotypes were considered anomalous. Andrews had his reason. Nobody had seen Dr. Clef since the meeting yesterday morning. Everyone assumed he'd gone home, or walked out, or holed up in one of the labs, or something. Andrews knew better. Passing the shelves of preserved Egyptian mummies and turning left at the Olmec head, Andrews reached the brick wall and counted off one, two, three, four, five, //six// bricks before he grabbed onto the masonry and pulled. The wall opened up instantly, and the smell of salt water and kelp hung heavy in the air as Andrews descended the stairs into the hidden grotto beneath Site 19. Andrews admired the seashell motif along the walls, turning off his flashlight as he approached the well-lit area at the bottom of the stairs. A new smell struck Andrews as he entered the main room of the massive cave - the undeniably distinctive scent of simmering cream, and the frizzle of potatoes gently sauteeing in bacon grease, and the undeniably savory aroma of //Mercenaria mercenaria sitenineteenia//, the unique species of quahog found only in the waters of this grotto. The meandering tunnels and low ceilings of the Chowdercave could be next to impossible for a stranger to navigate - but Dr. Andrews was no stranger, and in thirty seconds flat he found himself in the "kitchen" of this subterranean base, where Dr. Alto Clef, dressed in his black chef's coat, stood over the stove, stirring a pot and flipping potatoes in his skillet, a dozen spice jars open on the shelf beside him. "I thought I'd find you down here, Alto," Andrews said to the inward-focused chef. Clef lowered a spoon into the creamy broth simmering on the stovetop and brought it to his lips. "Needs white pepper," he muttered to himself. "We've been worried about you, Alto. Have you been down here all night?" "I've got to get this batch just right, Jacob," Clef replied. "We both know I'm the only person in the entire Foundation qualified to deal with the man behind this Santa-napping." "You don't know it was him, "Andrews said. "Just because the North Pole was covered with tomato sauce doesn't mean it was the Ma-" "Nobody even eats that shit anymore!" Clef responded angrily, turning away from the stove as he pulled the potatoes off the flame. "Who else could it be?" "He hasn't been seen since that cookoff in Rhode Island five years ago. The one that almost got you killed." "Don't remind me. If I'd been half a second sooner with the parsley, I'd have -" "Stop, Alto," Andrews said. "You haven't put on that coat in five years now. You're not getting any younger, and... well, we all count on you to keep this place together." "Santa counts on us too," Clef said. "Those GOC bastards would have turned the North Pole into glass years ago if it weren't for us keeping an eye out for the old man. And we've let him down. And if there's anything - //anything// I can do to help him, even if it means going back on my promise to never wear that hat again... then I'll do it." Andrews sighed. "I can see you've got your heart set on this, then." The doctor turned around and began to make his way back to the stairs. "Wait!" Clef shouted. "I... I could use your help." "Just like old times, huh?" Clef smiled. "Make sure the Chowdercopter is fueled up and ready to go. Oh... and see if you can grab some white pepper from the Site pantry." ---- General Thomas Dawes made his way down a hallway deep within the secret recesses of the North American Aerospace Defense Command. On his left, he was followed by Researcher James, special liaison from the Foundation. On the right followed another military man, his uniform green to Dawes' blue; Colonel Arthur T. Bakker, special liaison from the Global Occult Coalition. "General," Researcher James said, "I'd like to state again my formal opposition to the GOC having an official presence here. Their position on SCP-404040 is well-established and it simply isn't conducive to our purposes here." "The Global Occult Coalition stands by its belief that the rogue entity designated KTE-404040-1 is a clear and present danger to international security, General," Colonel Bakker stated with a smirk. "But be that as it may, it is the full intention of High Command to adhere to the terms of the March 1953 Memorandum of Understanding with the Foundation regarding that entity." "I don't know if my kids would agree that Santa Claus is a 'rogue entity', Colonel," General Dawes said as the trio approached a locked door at the end of the hallway and the general rang its doorbell. "But let's see if we can find him first before we figure out what to do with him." A guard on the other side of the door opened it. "Area - attention!" the airman shouted, signaling the dozens of airmen in the dimly lit room to stand at attention before the general ordered them back to their posts. James looked back and forth, taking in the surroundings as best he could. Beneath the dim red lights, men sat in rows at radar terminals, each of them scrutinizing half a dozen or more of the tiny green monitors. Half a dozen officers sat at a bank of phones, most of them in the middle of discussions with Washington, or Moscow, or Beijing, or who knows where else. "This is where the magic happens, gentlemen," General Dawes said as he swept his arm out over the room. "Most people think all we do here at NORAD is watch for a Soviet airstrike. That's part of it, sure, but we've got hundreds of top secret radar arrays all over the world that feed directly into this room. We could probably break DoD's budget just sitting in here, around the clock, tracking every last bird in the sky all around the world." The general laughed to himself. "But that's not what this equipment is for. This is //magic// radar, you see." "Magic radar?" Colonel Bakker asked skeptically. "The High Command was not aware NORAD was in possession of magical equipment." "Oh, it's not the radar itself that's magic, Colonel," General Dawes replied. "These radar arrays are specifically designed to track flying objects //powered// by magic. That's what we use this system for, on this day every year. To track Santa's sleigh." The general turned to one of the men manning the phones. "Any news from the Kremlin, Captain?" "//Nyet,// sir," the officer replied, stifling a chuckle at his own joke. "No sign of the big man." "If you don't mind my asking," Researcher James chimed in, "how is any of this going to help us figure out who kidnapped Santa, or where they've taken him?" "As soon as we got the call from the White House that Santa was missing," General Dawes answered, "we started poring over the logs from these arrays. Sure enough, we had some readouts. Whoever got ahold of Santa and his reindeer got on that sleigh and flew it into the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. By the time the Green Berets got there, though, they were long gone. They must have loaded the sleigh and the reindeer onto a truck or something and moved them by land from there. "Anyway, it's the morning of Christmas Eve now, of course. But Christmas Day officially started in the western Pacific about seven hours ago. Everyone knows Santa does his work at the stroke of midnight, and we've got seventeen midnights to go." "So what?" James asked. "Well, whoever's got Santa, they haven't made any ransom demands. Our guess is, they want him to do something for them this Christmas. Why take the reindeer and the elves as well? They want the elves to make something and they want Santa to deliver it - and he'll have to do that at midnight. As soon as he makes his move, we'll know where he is." "Deliver what?" Colonel Bakker asked. "Guns? Bombs? Germ warfare? This is sounding more and more like a Pizzicato situation, General." "That's just wild guessing," James responded. "We can't just jump to conclusions here." "I will not be second-guessed by a cut-rate mad scientist, 'Researcher'," Colonel Bakker snapped. "Mad scientist? That's a laugh coming from a John Wayne wannabe like you. After the mess you idiots made of SCP-1609, I wouldn't trust you to neutralize a stray dog." "I've read your dossier, James. You're not even qualified to be in this room. Why don't you go back to Site 82 and talk to your... what was it, 'toilet ghost?'" "That's 'butt ghost' to you, you as-" "Gentlemen!" General Dawes shouted. "You can't fight in here! //This is the war room!//" James and Bakker stared silently at Dawes, a mixture of confusion and disdain in their eyes. "My wife loves that movie," Dawes said. "General!" shouted one of the airmen at the terminals. "We've got something!" The three rushed over and crowded around the airman's chair, where a single blip was moving towards the top right of one of the screens. "What are we looking at here, Airman?" Colonel Bakker asked. "It's over the Midwest right now, sir," the airman replied, "supersonic speed, definitely magical. Heading sixty degrees north by northeast - huh." "What is it?" asked James. "If it keeps that heading, it'll be in New York City by sunset." "New York City," Dawes said to himself. "What could Santa want in New York City?" "Chowder," James mumbled under his breath. "Excuse me?" Bakker said. "I said... umm... Chaplin! Yes. Project Chaplin. False alarm, general. That's one of our birds." Bakker stared James down, a skeptical glare in his eyes. "Our intelligence did not indicate that the Foundation was in possession of magical aircraft." "It's a new project. Top secret. We've been developing a plane capable of keeping up with SCP-1115. Looks like just a test run. See how it flutters back and forth a little from its heading? That's how it... how it works. Can't share all the details in mixed company. You understand, Colonel." "SCP-1115? Those flying robots?" General Dawes chuckled. "Good luck keeping up with them. They had me try to shoot one down in a P-38 back during the war. I was lucky I made it out alive." "Well, false alarm though this may be," Bakker said, "I really should let High Command know what the current situation is. Is there a private phone nearby?" "Two rooms down," Dawes said. "Airman Rodriguez will show you to the open line." ---- "High Command switchboard, how may I direct your call?" "Put me through to General Abrams at once. Gold priority, security code Delta Omicron Six Six Niner Epsilon Tau." "One moment, Colonel." "This is General Abrams speaking." "Santa's in New York. The Foundation already has a bird in the air en route." "Coordinates?" "Unknown at this time. They've got magic radar. Get our primary radar online and watch their bird. It... flutters. Once they do the groundwork, they'll no doubt set Santa loose on his sleigh." "And then we neutralize KTE-404040, I assume?" "My thoughts exactly, General." ---- Santa Claus struggled against his bonds, sweat rolling down his brow, as he hanged upside down by his feet above a giant vat of boiling clam juice. A rope tied around his ankles was the only thing keeping the not-so-jolly old man from falling to his doom in the steaming pot. In front of his field of vision stood his kidnapper - a grizzled old man dressed in a red chef's coat, a toque as red as blood on his head, a tomato embroidered over his heart. The man pinched and twirled his mustache as he paced back and forth in front of Santa. Reaching out to the control panel before him, he pulled the main lever a tiny bit - and the rope loosened, sending St. Nicholas hurtling a few inches closer to the pot. "It's not much I'm asking of you, Santa," the man said. "Just tell me the magic words I need to use to get those reindeer of yours in the air, and I'll be on my way. And once I've taken care of delivering my //special// presents to all the good little boys and girls, I'll let you go, and your elves, and your reindeer, and you can go back north and rebuild your little house and your little factory, and you can go on like none of this ever happened." "Never!" Santa shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the abandoned warehouse his captor had turned into a sweatshop over the past week. "I won't let you do whatever you're planning to do to all those good little children!" "I was kind of hoping you'd say that," the man said as he pressed the intercom button on his console. "Libertines! Do you copy?" "Yes, sir," a voice crackled over the radio. "Take one of the reindeer down to the basement. I don't care... the freak one with the atomic nose. We're eating good tonight!" "No!" Santa shouted. "Please don't hurt Rudolph!" "You know what you have to do to make this stop, Santa," the red man said. "Tell me the magic words." A tear fell from Santa's eye, rolling down his bald head and dripping into the clam juice where it boiled away instantly. "Alright. Come here and I'll tell you everything." The man leaned over the edge of the pot as Santa, between his tears, told the man all the words he'd need to know - how to get the reindeer flying, how to break the sound barrier, how to stop time long enough to visit every house in the world before the sun came up. "I knew you'd see reason eventually," the kidnapper said. "I'll go ahead and call off that order of reindeerburgers now." "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH! IT BURNS!" The kidnapper recoiled in surprise from the horrific scream he heard the instant he pressed the intercom button. "What is the meaning of this, Santa? I swear, I'll butcher every one of those reindeer myself if... AAH!" The kidnapper's words were cut off as a flying porcelain bowl smashed into the side of his head, shards flying every which way as piping hot cream splashed all over his immaculate coat. He turned towards the door where his guards were standing and saw them on the floor, coated in the same boiling broth that had now soiled his costume. Standing between them was his counterpart - black coat, black hat, a massive tank strapped to his back, bowls hanging by the dozen from his utility belt, a long tube connecting the tank to the massive cannon in his hands, and a righteous sneer on his face as he eyed the man who had kidnapped Santa Claus. "Chowderclef!" "The Manhattanite," Clef responded as he stared down the vermilion varlet before him. "I knew it was you the second I saw the pictures of Santa's workshop coated in Manhattan-style chowder." "Impossible! There's no way you could have tracked me here!" "Quite possible indeed, you burgundy burglar of Christmas cheer," Clef replied as he approached his arch-nemesis. "The breed of clam you used was specific to the East River. Once I figured that out, it was a mere matter of checking through the real estate records to find any disused waterfront warehouses that had changed hands lately. Now stand down - I'm taking you in and I'm letting Santa go." "Don't you take another step!" The Manhattanite dodged a blast from Clef's Chowdercannon as he leapt towards the console, wrapping his hand around the control lever. "One more step and Kris Kringle here is Santa stew!" "You monster!" Clef shouted. "What is it you want from St. Nick, anyway?" "Nobody eats Manhattan-style chowder anymore," the Manhattanite mumbled to himself. "Excuse me?" Clef asked. "Chowder! It's everywhere these days! From Suffolk, to Seattle, to San Diego! From Lafayette to Las Vegas! From Miami to Manitoba! From DC to Dallas! From Tampa to Timbuktu! You can't so much as walk through the door of a seafood restaurant without having a bowl of it shoved in your face! But you know what, Chowderclef?" "What?" "Everywhere you go, //everywhere// in the whole wide world, it's //New England style//. Nobody has time any more for the simple joys of clams and tomato sauce. It's all heavy cream, and bacon, and potatoes, and a splash of sherry... it makes my blood //boil//, Chowderclef! Not that you can even boil that stuff - oh no, it scalds the milk, we must be //delicate// with it! "It's time the world got to know what //real// clam chowder is all about, my friend. That's why I've had the elves so hard at work this last week. They finished up an hour ago. You know, it's amazing how well the magic on that sleigh works - I didn't think we'd be able to load 3,268,896,174 gallons of piping hot chowder onto the back, but believe it or not, it fits!" "3,268,896,174 gallons?" Clef said to himself as he came to a horrific revelation. "Why, that's exactly..." "Exactly!" the Manhattanite shouted. "Exactly one gallon for everyone! When the sun comes up on Christmas morning, all the little boys and girls aren't going to find hopalong boots and talking dollies underneath their Christmas tree. No, they're going to find the greatest gift of all - //piping hot chowder.//" "You're insane, Manhattanite!", Clef yelled. "You can't take away everyone's presents and give them your disgusting tomato soup! They'll detest it! We'll have a revolution on our hands!" "A revolution indeed!" the Manhattanite shouted! "A //chowder revolution!// We shall cast down our New England oppressors once and for all! And it starts - //now!//" The Manhattanite jerked the control lever all the way down, snapping it off in his hand as Santa began to lower slowly towards the vat of clam juice. "Your choice, Chowderchump - save Santa, or chase me!" The Manhattanite dodged three blasts from the Chowdercannon as he leapt through a door at the edge of the room. Clef started to give chase, but stopped himself - in less than thirty seconds, Santa would be in the soup. As fast as he could, Clef switched the control knob on the Chowdercannon to Setting #2 and poured a bowl of the creamy, savory end-product into a bowl, gulping it as fast as he could. Strength welled within him, Omega-3 acids coursing through his veins as his muscles seemed to double in size. Santa even fancied that he saw a stylized image of a clamshell appear on his bicep as Clef rolled up his sleeves, set his hands on the side of the boiling pot, and, impervious to the pain from the hot steel, upended it and turned it on its side, spilling its deadly contents down the stairs and over the half-dozen guards in their Statue of Liberty dresses who had been on their way up the stairs to confront the Dark Chef. A kitchen knife tossed from his utility belt severed the rope, and Santa fell into Clef's waiting arms before being set back on his feet. "Why, if it isn't little Alto!" Santa said, his typical joviality returning to his voice. "I guess that Easy-Bake Oven I gave you when you were little paid off, didn't it?" "Are you OK, Santa?" "Nothing a long winter's nap won't fix! Believe me, I'm putting you on my 'Nice' list for next year!" "There's still this year to worry about, Santa. Where's the sl-" Clef stopped mid-sentence as he heard the jingling of bells outside the window, and turned just in time to see Santa's sleigh ascending into the night sky, a bubbling pot of chowder sitting in the place of Santa's bag of toys. "Ho ho ho! Merry Chowdermas!" The Manhattanite's voice echoed through the empty streets. "Dammit!" Clef shouted. "We're too late!" "No need for coarse language, little Alto! It's not quite midnight //yet//," Santa said. "He won't be able to use all of my magic until it's Christmas day. You can still catch him!" "No offense, St. Nick, but I know what your reindeer are capable of. My Chowdercopter might have magical clam-power, but even it can't keep up. There's no way I can catch him in time!" "Oh no?" Santa winked and stuck his fingers into his mouth as he whistled. In a moment, an eerie red glow began to emanate from the staircase to the ground floor - and a single reindeer trotted up the stairs, past the Libertines rolling in agony as the chowder burned away their flesh, his bright red nose illuminating the room like a Christmas tree. "You called, Santa?" the reindeer asked. ---- Santa and the elves stood on the roof of the factory in the darkness, looking out into the overcast sky for any sign. Santa checked his pocketwatch - a quarter after one. He sighed. "Do you think Chowderclef's alright?" Fitzroy asked Santa. "I think... I think it's going to be a late delivery this year, boys." "Wait!" one of the elves shouted. "Look over there!" A faint glow shone through the clouds to the east. It might have just been a warning light from one of the beacons on the river - but as they watched, and watched, and watched, it started to grow brighter, and brighter, and brighter still - until Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer himself emerged from the fog - and behind him came Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen, and behind them the sleigh - and riding on that sleigh, alone, smiling, and covered head to toe in tomato sauce, was Chowderclef. A cheer rose up from the elves as the sleigh alighted on the rooftop and Clef stepped off. "Alto!" Santa shouted. "I knew you'd do it!" "It wasn't easy," Clef said. "The GOC tried to shoot us both down. I guess they figured nobody would know it was them if Santa and his reindeer just happened to get blown up by air-to-air missiles this year. I'm going to have to have words with them after we're done here. Now this guy here-" Clef patted his red-nosed mount on the head - "now he's a real trouper." "Thanks, Clef!" Rudolph said. "All I did was do a barrel roll like you said." "Don't be so modest, Rudolph! It was you who came up close enough for me to make the jump onto the sleigh." "But how did you stop the Manhattanite?" Santa asked. "Well, Santa, in the middle of all our fighting, I asked him a question." "What was that?" "He's spent his entire life fighting to wipe out New England-style chowder. I asked him if he'd ever actually tasted any." "You mean he hadn't?" "I had a special batch just for him. Call it a Christmas present." Clef pointed to the control knob on his Chowdercannon, which had been turned to the third and final setting. "I spent days trying to get that batch just right - and to make sure it was perfect, I ran it through SCP-914 on Very Fine. He was in tears after a single spoonful. He poured the pot out over the Atlantic Ocean and parachuted out." "Wonderful, Alto! You see - Christmas can soothe the heart of even the most wicked man!" "Oh, I doubt we've seen the last of him, Santa. This isn't the first time we've dueled over the question of soup supremacy - and it sure won't be the last." "Well, the important thing is, I have my sleigh and my reindeer back! Thanks for all the help, Alto - I've got a Christmas to save!" "It's already a quarter past one, Santa," Clef said as he looked downward. "It might be too late." "Oh, Alto. The magic works for //any// midnight! I've still got six more chances!" "But what about the toys?" "The Manhattanite never got anywhere near the toys, Alto! I keep them somewhere //very// safe," Santa said with a wink. "It's just a matter of picking them up and - say, Alto?" "Yes, Santa?" "There is one more thing we can do to make up for lost time. I hope you don't mind lending a hand a little while longer - and letting me borrow that cannon of yours..." ---- Dr. Andrews sipped the coffee in his styrofoam cup as he drove home along the darkened roads. His watch said it was 5:32 AM. Christmas morning. He hadn't had a wink of sleep in the past three days. Nobody at Site 19 had, with all the work convincing people that things would be just fine as soon as the elves settled their labor dispute with Santa. He'd spent all night on the phone with Researcher James at Cheyenne Mountain - tracking the bizarre radar sightings all around the eastern seaboard, and ultimately dealing with the blowback after the GOC had been caught red-handed violating the rules of engagement trying to shoot down Santa's sleigh and the unidentified object chasing it. What had become of them after that was anyone's guess - it was a miracle NORAD was still standing after what the GOC liaison had tried to do to "neutralize" their "magic radar". Andrews pulled into the driveway of his little house in the suburbs and shut off the motor as he climbed out into the pre-dawn air. Site Director Ives had been kind enough to let him spend the morning at home and explain to his girls why Santa hadn't come. He groaned as he looked at the headlines in the morning paper on his doorstep; > NO SIGN OF SANTA AS CHRISTMAS HANGS IN BALANCE > > LBJ makes last-minute call to North Pole as strike continues > > Riots in New York, L.A., London outside sold-out toy stores > > Buckley and Vidal debate: "Is Santa a Red?" Andrews dropped the paper in amazement as soon as he saw the tableau in his living room. Beneath the glow of the lit-up Christmas tree lay //dozens// of presents, all wrapped up in paper and bows. He hadn't bought them. Karen hadn't bought them. Who had? Like an excited little boy, he fell to his knees and examined the tags. "To Jane, from Santa". "To Amy, from Santa". "To Mom and Dad, from Santa". He had done it! Somehow, his crazy old friend in the black coat had done it! Santa was safe and it would be a merry Christmas after all. Andrews was about to race upstairs and wake everybody up when he noticed something else - a certain aroma wafting in from the next room. He turned the corner into the kitchen and there, sitting on the warmer on the stovetop, was a great big pot bubbling with cream, and potatoes, and clams, and just the right hint of bacon, and a little splash of sherry. A note on the side read "To the Andrews family - from Santa Clef". Four brand new porcelain bowls and shining silver spoons sat on the counter next to the stove, waiting to be used. Cautiously, Andrews dipped a spoon into the pot and took a taste. "Hmm," he said to himself. "The white pepper really //does// make a difference." [[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>]]	2012-10-31T10:48:00	[ "_licensebox", "christmas", "comedy", "doctor-clef", "fantasy", "featured", "military-fiction", "superhero", "tale" ]	How Dr. Clef Saved Christmas - SCP Foundation	189	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "holiday-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	14855401	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/how-dr-clef-saved-christmas
how-the-spc-ruined-halloween	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Daddy, why are you dressed up like a dolphin?"</p> <p>Mitchell laughed as he picked up his daughter.</p> <p>"I'm not a dolphin, you goof!" he said. "I'm a shark!"</p> <p>The little girl in his hands giggled and bared her teeth at him, growling and playfully flailing her arms around.</p> <p>"Raaawr, raaawr, I'mma shark princess daddy!" she yelled gleefully. "Can I be a shark princess?"</p> <p>He chuckled. "But you're such a pretty princess already! Why would you ever want to be a shark?"</p> <p>Samantha pondered this for a moment, putting a hand under her chin as she had often seen her father do when he had to think hard about something.</p> <p>"Can I be a shark princess later?" she asked.</p> <p>"Sure honey, but tonight, you're just a regular princess with a shark daddy who's taking her trick-or-treating." Mitch said as he set his daughter down, brushing down her tutu.</p> <p>She cheered at this and snatched her mini-cauldron from off of the couch. Sam excitedly bounced towards the door, her gray-clad father tailing close behind.</p> <p>It was a cool evening in the town of Mollierville. The wind gently pushed brown and orange leaves across the ground as the orange sun cast long shadows as the light faded from the sky. It was Halloween night, and it was the first year that Samantha Nichols was old enough to go trick-or-treating. She lead her father excitedly by his hand out into the yard, pulling him past the carved jack'o'lanterns and cobwebbed tombstones. Her father laughed as they ran, readjusting his costume as it slipped off of him.</p> <p>As they hurried past their driveway into the lawn of the neighbors, a figure rolled out of the shrubs in front of them. Springing to his feet, he sprinted towards the confused pair, shouted "Take this, pond scum!" and slammed his fist into Mitch's abdomen. He doubled over in pain, his daughter angrily shouting at the man, who was rushing towards a waiting black van.</p> <p>"Daddy, daddy, are you alright?" Sam worriedly looked over the figure kneeling on the ground. "Do I need to get mommy?"</p> <p>He groaned, pushing himself up with one hand and dusting himself off with the other.</p> <p>"I'm fine sweetie," he said. "It'll take more than that to put your ol' dad out of action!"</p> <p>He glanced towards the street, which the van had quickly vacated. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all and took his daughter's hand as they walked towards the first house.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent James sat in the back of the van, head in his hands. He had <em>failed.</em> His first major mission, and he blew it. Not only was the shark still mobile, but it still had the hostage. He was in for a demotion for sure, probably all the way down to Bait duty. The shark was free to roam and cause havoc, and it was all his fault. He sighed, pulled out the materials from the pocket in front of him, and began to write up the report. They would have to send out a squad tomorrow to clean up his mess, for sure.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Shark #:</strong> 32145</p> <p><strong>Shark Class:</strong> Terrestrial</p> <p><strong>Shark Punching Commands:</strong> Shark-32145 cannot be directly punched in the frontal cranial region due to a hostage human being used as a shield. Due to this, agents are to approach the shark as swiftly as they possibly can, apply direct pressure to the frontal thoracic area of the shark, and retreat just as swiftly. Multiple agents may be required to carry out SPC repeatedly if the shark needs to be punched further.<br/> <br/> <strong>Description:</strong> Shark is approximately 1.4m long. Notable features of this shark include fully functional lower appendages used for bipedal locomotion and a lack of the rough texture normally found on shark skin. More frighteningly, the shark appears to be holding an adult male captive in its mouth. As recovering the subject at this point would require actions further than those described in the Shark Punching Commands, this male adult has been deemed irretrievable. It is unknown whether this subject is aware of his condition or not. This shark is extremely dangerous due to its terrestrial locomotion, as well as its obvious parasitism and possible telepathic or anesthetic abilities. Under no circumstances should this shark be kicked, as it may kick back. Agents must move faster than with aquatic sharks, as this shark is fully mobile on land and can move as rapidly as some of our agents on land.</p> <p><strong>Addendum:</strong> <em>Alright agents, I'm sure you've all heard of these. I've heard the whispers around the halls and cafeteria, and, well, it's happened. We have a Type Brown on our hands. A full-fledged humashark that needs to be taken care of immediately. Here's what you do: You run up and punch it before it has time to react, because the <strong>moment</strong> it has time to react is when it all goes to hell. Godspeed and good luck. -Boxer █████</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="/how-the-spc-ruined-halloween">How the SPC Ruined Halloween</a>" by marslifeform, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/how-the-spc-ruined-halloween">https://scpwiki.com/how-the-spc-ruined-halloween</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]] [[/>]] "Daddy, why are you dressed up like a dolphin?" Mitchell laughed as he picked up his daughter. "I'm not a dolphin, you goof!" he said. "I'm a shark!" The little girl in his hands giggled and bared her teeth at him, growling and playfully flailing her arms around. "Raaawr, raaawr, I'mma shark princess daddy!" she yelled gleefully. "Can I be a shark princess?" He chuckled. "But you're such a pretty princess already! Why would you ever want to be a shark?" Samantha pondered this for a moment, putting a hand under her chin as she had often seen her father do when he had to think hard about something. "Can I be a shark princess later?" she asked. "Sure honey, but tonight, you're just a regular princess with a shark daddy who's taking her trick-or-treating." Mitch said as he set his daughter down, brushing down her tutu. She cheered at this and snatched her mini-cauldron from off of the couch. Sam excitedly bounced towards the door, her gray-clad father tailing close behind. It was a cool evening in the town of Mollierville. The wind gently pushed brown and orange leaves across the ground as the orange sun cast long shadows as the light faded from the sky. It was Halloween night, and it was the first year that Samantha Nichols was old enough to go trick-or-treating. She lead her father excitedly by his hand out into the yard, pulling him past the carved jack'o'lanterns and cobwebbed tombstones. Her father laughed as they ran, readjusting his costume as it slipped off of him. As they hurried past their driveway into the lawn of the neighbors, a figure rolled out of the shrubs in front of them. Springing to his feet, he sprinted towards the confused pair, shouted "Take this, pond scum!" and slammed his fist into Mitch's abdomen. He doubled over in pain, his daughter angrily shouting at the man, who was rushing towards a waiting black van. "Daddy, daddy, are you alright?" Sam worriedly looked over the figure kneeling on the ground. "Do I need to get mommy?" He groaned, pushing himself up with one hand and dusting himself off with the other. "I'm fine sweetie," he said. "It'll take more than that to put your ol' dad out of action!" He glanced towards the street, which the van had quickly vacated. He shook his head at the absurdity of it all and took his daughter's hand as they walked towards the first house. ------ Agent James sat in the back of the van, head in his hands. He had //failed.// His first major mission, and he blew it. Not only was the shark still mobile, but it still had the hostage. He was in for a demotion for sure, probably all the way down to Bait duty. The shark was free to roam and cause havoc, and it was all his fault. He sighed, pulled out the materials from the pocket in front of him, and began to write up the report. They would have to send out a squad tomorrow to clean up his mess, for sure. > Shark #: 32145 > > Shark Class: Terrestrial > > Shark Punching Commands: Shark-32145 cannot be directly punched in the frontal cranial region due to a hostage human being used as a shield. Due to this, agents are to approach the shark as swiftly as they possibly can, apply direct pressure to the frontal thoracic area of the shark, and retreat just as swiftly. Multiple agents may be required to carry out SPC repeatedly if the shark needs to be punched further. > > Description: Shark is approximately 1.4m long. Notable features of this shark include fully functional lower appendages used for bipedal locomotion and a lack of the rough texture normally found on shark skin. More frighteningly, the shark appears to be holding an adult male captive in its mouth. As recovering the subject at this point would require actions further than those described in the Shark Punching Commands, this male adult has been deemed irretrievable. It is unknown whether this subject is aware of his condition or not. This shark is extremely dangerous due to its terrestrial locomotion, as well as its obvious parasitism and possible telepathic or anesthetic abilities. Under no circumstances should this shark be kicked, as it may kick back. Agents must move faster than with aquatic sharks, as this shark is fully mobile on land and can move as rapidly as some of our agents on land. > > Addendum: //Alright agents, I'm sure you've all heard of these. I've heard the whispers around the halls and cafeteria, and, well, it's happened. We have a Type Brown on our hands. A full-fledged humashark that needs to be taken care of immediately. Here's what you do: You run up and punch it before it has time to react, because the moment it has time to react is when it all goes to hell. Godspeed and good luck. -Boxer █████// [[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>]]	2012-10-26T23:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "comedy", "foundation-format", "halloween", "hc2012", "shark-punching-center", "tale" ]	How the SPC Ruined Halloween - SCP Foundation	177	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "spc-hub", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "holiday-hub", "halloween-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14810495	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/how-the-spc-ruined-halloween
i-am-the-very-model	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman<br/> I've hunted cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian<br/> I know the laws of science are quite rigid and inflexible<br/> Except, of course, for thaumaturgy, which makes me quite vexable</p> <p>I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters scientifical<br/> Of physics and of chemistry, both simple and atomical<br/> I've mastered all the studies of phlogiston and aetherius<br/> I claim this in no jest, for you will find I am quite serious</p> <p>I'm very good at rhetoric and disputations logical<br/> I'm learned in our politics and matters sociological<br/> In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian<br/> I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman</p> <p>I know of secret histories both eldritch and mythical<br/> I've trod the paths of ancient cities Martian and Atlantical<br/> I've faced the ghosts of fallen lords Arthurian and Indian<br/> And fallen off Mt. Everest to turn back and begin again</p> <p>I can tell authentic poltergeists from frauds and forgeries<br/> I know the differences between bewitchments and sorceries<br/> I hum while sleeping melodies and symphonies quite magical<br/> And dream of terrors bordering upon ecclesiastical</p> <p>I can write a peace treaty in lost tongues of an elder race<br/> And tell you every detail of the planets found in outer space<br/> In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian<br/> I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman</p> <p>I can tell at sight a wyvern from a wyrm or para-drake<br/> And discern thirty-six types of real vampires from spoofs and fakes<br/> I've studied bones and fossils angelic and dinosaurical<br/> And resurrected horrors divine, mundane, and demonical</p> <p>I've learned of progress made mechanical and scientifically<br/> Although only up 'til the turn of the twentieth century<br/> But no one can deny the grace of our queen most Victorial<br/> Whose reign around the world is both glorious and eternial</p> <p>There's some who say my form has been reduced to that of sluggery<br/> (Were I not a Christian, I'd accuse them all of buggery)<br/> But still, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian<br/> I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman!</p> <p><em>Memo from Dr. Samesh: The above lyrics were found handwritten in a document filed among the personal effects of <a href="/scp-1867">SCP-1867</a> in his country estate, dated 4/18/1880. The document was filed along with a letter to SCP-1867 signed by composer W.S. Gilbert, dated 10/17/1882, thanking him for his "lyrical tribute" and inviting him to attend the upcoming premiere of the comic opera</em> Iolanthe.</p> <p><em>The text of the final verse, which appears to refer to SCP-1867's current physical status, has been written in different handwriting than the remainder of the text, in the margin at the bottom of the page, underneath a verse which has been scribbled over to the point of illegibility. Graphological analysis has confirmed that the handwriting of this later addition matches that of <a href="/scp-662">SCP-662</a>-1 ("Mr. Deeds"). In Interview 662-207, Mr. Deeds refused to confirm or deny whether he had altered the original document, citing his previous employers' privacy.</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="/i-am-the-very-model">I Am the Very Model</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/i-am-the-very-model">https://scpwiki.com/i-am-the-very-model</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 the very model of an explorer and gentleman I've hunted cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I know the laws of science are quite rigid and inflexible Except, of course, for thaumaturgy, which makes me quite vexable I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters scientifical Of physics and of chemistry, both simple and atomical I've mastered all the studies of phlogiston and aetherius I claim this in no jest, for you will find I am quite serious I'm very good at rhetoric and disputations logical I'm learned in our politics and matters sociological In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman I know of secret histories both eldritch and mythical I've trod the paths of ancient cities Martian and Atlantical I've faced the ghosts of fallen lords Arthurian and Indian And fallen off Mt. Everest to turn back and begin again I can tell authentic poltergeists from frauds and forgeries I know the differences between bewitchments and sorceries I hum while sleeping melodies and symphonies quite magical And dream of terrors bordering upon ecclesiastical I can write a peace treaty in lost tongues of an elder race And tell you every detail of the planets found in outer space In short, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman I can tell at sight a wyvern from a wyrm or para-drake And discern thirty-six types of real vampires from spoofs and fakes I've studied bones and fossils angelic and dinosaurical And resurrected horrors divine, mundane, and demonical I've learned of progress made mechanical and scientifically Although only up 'til the turn of the twentieth century But no one can deny the grace of our queen most Victorial Whose reign around the world is both glorious and eternial There's some who say my form has been reduced to that of sluggery (Were I not a Christian, I'd accuse them all of buggery) But still, with cryptids airborne, terrestrial, and aquarian I am the very model of an explorer and gentleman! //Memo from Dr. Samesh: The above lyrics were found handwritten in a document filed among the personal effects of [[[SCP-1867]]] in his country estate, dated 4/18/1880. The document was filed along with a letter to SCP-1867 signed by composer W.S. Gilbert, dated 10/17/1882, thanking him for his "lyrical tribute" and inviting him to attend the upcoming premiere of the comic opera// Iolanthe. //The text of the final verse, which appears to refer to SCP-1867's current physical status, has been written in different handwriting than the remainder of the text, in the margin at the bottom of the page, underneath a verse which has been scribbled over to the point of illegibility. Graphological analysis has confirmed that the handwriting of this later addition matches that of [[[SCP-662]]]-1 ("Mr. Deeds"). In Interview 662-207, Mr. Deeds refused to confirm or deny whether he had altered the original document, citing his previous employers' privacy.// [[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>]]	2012-07-30T09:59:00	[ "_licensebox", "blackwood", "comedy", "fantasy", "poetry", "tale" ]	I Am the Very Model - SCP Foundation	99	[ "scp-1867", "scp-662", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13917102	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/i-am-the-very-model
i-can-t	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I can't feel your hair, the river streaming down<br/> Out of your head and into my open lap.<br/> It once was such silk, always soft to feel,<br/> But now so sparse and wired.<br/> How frayed, such disarray.</p> <p>I can't feel your face, the mask so perfect<br/> Upon your head and kept so flawless.<br/> It once was porcelain, almost mystical,<br/> But now so torn and broken.<br/> How cracked, so out of place.</p> <p>I can't feel your hand, a thing so fragile<br/> That it might break if looked at wrong.<br/> It once was dainty, so delicate,<br/> But now so bent and shattered.<br/> How singed, so pulverized.</p> <p>I can't feel your touch, something I've loved<br/> Ever since we had once met long ago.<br/> It once was stimulation, exhilarating,<br/> But now so gone and so far away.<br/> How far could it possibly be?</p> <p>I can't feel your pulse, the thing I miss most.</p> <p>I can't feel.<br/> I can't.</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="/i-can-t">I Can't</a>" by Nacht Ruine, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/i-can-t">https://scpwiki.com/i-can-t</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 can't feel your hair, the river streaming down Out of your head and into my open lap. It once was such silk, always soft to feel, But now so sparse and wired. How frayed, such disarray. I can't feel your face, the mask so perfect Upon your head and kept so flawless. It once was porcelain, almost mystical, But now so torn and broken. How cracked, so out of place. I can't feel your hand, a thing so fragile That it might break if looked at wrong. It once was dainty, so delicate, But now so bent and shattered. How singed, so pulverized. I can't feel your touch, something I've loved Ever since we had once met long ago. It once was stimulation, exhilarating, But now so gone and so far away. How far could it possibly be? I can't feel your pulse, the thing I miss most. I can't feel. I can't. [[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>]]	2012-11-18T01:18:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "poetry", "tale" ]	I Can't - SCP Foundation	54	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15056672	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/i-can-t
i-m-not-sure	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦A man under the effects of SCP-055.☦</span><br/> You're not going to believe me when I tell you that they let me keep the shrunk-down 173 as a pet for about three days. Well, maybe you will. Stranger things than that go on around here. Now that you believe me, the lovelies in charge had me keep three other SCPs in my quarters as well. My memory is a bit foggy, and I'm not entirely sure myself why that all came to happen at the moment.</p> <p>They let me keep this very ugly dog - I'm not sure exactly what the skip was, but he was a very friendly - albeit horribly ugly - dog. He would gnaw softly on my arm and crawl in and around my shoulder. At first it was a bit creepy, but then I realized that he was just being friendly. I even started to think he was a bit cute.</p> <p>The other thing I remember, there was an air balloon. Well, I think the guys called it an inflatable piñata… it didn't really do anything.</p> <p>I'm struggling to think of the other, I think it was 173 that drove me nuts, I'm not sure, although I think 173 was the dog. I mean I know that's not possible, but I've never really heard of an ugly dog skip. It seems nice enough.</p> <p>Oh! Got it. I remember them, or me, someone decided to clean my room out, put the SCPs back or ship them off wherever. That day, yesterday, we were in a Level meeting and Sanders was talking about some lawsuit involving one of his family members with one of the site higher-ups. He was asking about when he was going to get his money, he seemed bit annoyed or upset, it was an old issue.</p> <p>It hit me like a truck, sitting there, I remembered a note I picked up off of my counter after they had cleared my room out of everything. It was a little note, I think, from one of the skips I was holding in my room for one reason or another. The note had "You'll have wish you kept me as a pet." in 18 point Courier New font, and I have to admit it worried me something serious. I picked up the note and I left for the meeting, the one where Sanders was complaining. In the hallway, I'm not sure if they were moving them or whatever, that little stuffed bear was walking along behind Agent Breen. Nothing happened there, it was just interesting, you don't see it everyday.</p> <p>I'm sitting there in the meeting, the one where Sanders (the old man?) is complaining about money. I can see an empty room out of the corner of my eye, well, a bit clear in my vision. There's a check-up table you see a lot in clinics, and there's a cat sitting on it. I think it's a cat, might not be. I'm sure it was a cat, I thought it was nice enough of a cat for a few moments, but then its eyes turned black. Well that's not good I thought, I was worried, a bit, but not enough to cry. You could say I was crying in my mind if that was possible. I was raising my hand for the floor in the meeting, I wanted to tell them about this. I'm a timid sort of guy, and a cat with otherworldly cataracts wasn't going to bother me around this many people - it was probably being moved somewhere or something like that bear was.</p> <p>Well anyway I keep glancing back and forth to the cat, Sanders continues to talk in this low drone about the money that he hasn't seen yet for the family member he doesn't see anymore. I keep glancing at the cat in the far room, it has white eyes now, and it's looking at me now. Sanders is still talking about the money, I'm raising my hand, the personnel director is looking at me and suddenly I realize that I'm causing a bit of a scene.</p> <p>My face is a bit wet and I'm sort of propping myself up on the cold plastic chair with my wrist, I've got my hand raised like an elementary school student who really wants to impress the teacher.</p> <p>I'm not crying but my face is wet, they're tears but I can't say I'm crying. The personnel director looks at me for a few seconds, I look back at the cat, Sanders finishes talking about the money, the personnel director points in my direction but he's really pointing at someone else and they start talking.</p> <p>I look back at the cat.</p> <p>Its eyes are white now, but not the same white, it's a horrible white. It happened, well, nothing happened, it was more like watching a movie. There was an awful absence of noise when I looked back at the cat. There was an absence of noise and the archway that the cat was sitting in, the one leading into the clinic-room, was completely encased in a white matte, a white impossible matte. It's like someone grabbed a magic brush and painted in the non-cat areas of the view within the archway.</p> <p>A few seconds into staring at the motionless white-eyed cat and I could hear myself screaming. I was screaming "It's all white", "fucking help me" and other things that would signify that I was going bonkers (I wasn't going bonkers, though. It was just that the cat and the white gave me a horrible feeling of dread.). Luckily I woke up, just as the personnel crowded around me I jerked awake. I had just experienced the worst kind of fear, I think, I'm not sure I even know at the moment what I'm scared of now. It was like the sort of nightmare you have when you stop breathing.</p> <p>I'm fine now if you were wondering, I mean, I'm in the Wards, and whatever-it-is is still bothering me, but, well I guess I lied. I found out a bit late that it wasn't really a dream, and I came to terms with it. Don't have the story in stone though…</p> <p>The words on the walls right now are floating with "kept me as a pet" and other nonsensical phrases. There are two bears in the corner of the room and apparently their names are "who am I!" bears. It's novel, really, you touch the bears and you temporarily become the bear, with a case of amnesia. They're kind of floating there too.</p> <p>There is a sort of zombie-humanoid thing, and he seems nice enough. There's also a bathtub in here, but I don't think it does anything useful.</p> <p>I still have the note, the one that said I'd have wished I kept the thing as a pet. I wish I knew what the pet even was, I remember I think I liked it. Well, I was a bit scared of it, but I remember I liked it a lot.</p> <p>I think I'm actually in a containment cell. I can't really make any sense of all of this. I wish I knew what the thing was that was bothering me, I can't seem to describe it all too well. Maybe that's the thing. I can't really put a face to it, and I'm not sure whether it's a dog or a cat, or a bear. Maybe it's Sanders? Or rather, I mean, it might be kind of like Sanders but more like a cat.</p> <p>I wish they would kill me or something, I wish something would kill me. They must have some sort of reason for not killing me. Everything is going to be okay I think. Well, I'm not too sure, I don't know, I think I mean.</p> <p>There's a dog in the window to the containment cell. I think it's the observation room. He has a big mouth. I think I'm going to call for help.</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="/i-m-not-sure">I'm not sure.</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/i-m-not-sure">https://scpwiki.com/i-m-not-sure</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/component:scp-pride">:scp-wiki:component:scp-pride</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]☦A man under the effects of SCP-055.☦[[/size]] You're not going to believe me when I tell you that they let me keep the shrunk-down 173 as a pet for about three days. Well, maybe you will. Stranger things than that go on around here. Now that you believe me, the lovelies in charge had me keep three other SCPs in my quarters as well. My memory is a bit foggy, and I'm not entirely sure myself why that all came to happen at the moment. They let me keep this very ugly dog - I'm not sure exactly what the skip was, but he was a very friendly - albeit horribly ugly - dog. He would gnaw softly on my arm and crawl in and around my shoulder. At first it was a bit creepy, but then I realized that he was just being friendly. I even started to think he was a bit cute. The other thing I remember, there was an air balloon. Well, I think the guys called it an inflatable piñata... it didn't really do anything. I'm struggling to think of the other, I think it was 173 that drove me nuts, I'm not sure, although I think 173 was the dog. I mean I know that's not possible, but I've never really heard of an ugly dog skip. It seems nice enough. Oh! Got it. I remember them, or me, someone decided to clean my room out, put the SCPs back or ship them off wherever. That day, yesterday, we were in a Level meeting and Sanders was talking about some lawsuit involving one of his family members with one of the site higher-ups. He was asking about when he was going to get his money, he seemed bit annoyed or upset, it was an old issue. It hit me like a truck, sitting there, I remembered a note I picked up off of my counter after they had cleared my room out of everything. It was a little note, I think, from one of the skips I was holding in my room for one reason or another. The note had "You'll have wish you kept me as a pet." in 18 point Courier New font, and I have to admit it worried me something serious. I picked up the note and I left for the meeting, the one where Sanders was complaining. In the hallway, I'm not sure if they were moving them or whatever, that little stuffed bear was walking along behind Agent Breen. Nothing happened there, it was just interesting, you don't see it everyday. I'm sitting there in the meeting, the one where Sanders (the old man?) is complaining about money. I can see an empty room out of the corner of my eye, well, a bit clear in my vision. There's a check-up table you see a lot in clinics, and there's a cat sitting on it. I think it's a cat, might not be. I'm sure it was a cat, I thought it was nice enough of a cat for a few moments, but then its eyes turned black. Well that's not good I thought, I was worried, a bit, but not enough to cry. You could say I was crying in my mind if that was possible. I was raising my hand for the floor in the meeting, I wanted to tell them about this. I'm a timid sort of guy, and a cat with otherworldly cataracts wasn't going to bother me around this many people - it was probably being moved somewhere or something like that bear was. Well anyway I keep glancing back and forth to the cat, Sanders continues to talk in this low drone about the money that he hasn't seen yet for the family member he doesn't see anymore. I keep glancing at the cat in the far room, it has white eyes now, and it's looking at me now. Sanders is still talking about the money, I'm raising my hand, the personnel director is looking at me and suddenly I realize that I'm causing a bit of a scene. My face is a bit wet and I'm sort of propping myself up on the cold plastic chair with my wrist, I've got my hand raised like an elementary school student who really wants to impress the teacher. I'm not crying but my face is wet, they're tears but I can't say I'm crying. The personnel director looks at me for a few seconds, I look back at the cat, Sanders finishes talking about the money, the personnel director points in my direction but he's really pointing at someone else and they start talking. I look back at the cat. Its eyes are white now, but not the same white, it's a horrible white. It happened, well, nothing happened, it was more like watching a movie. There was an awful absence of noise when I looked back at the cat. There was an absence of noise and the archway that the cat was sitting in, the one leading into the clinic-room, was completely encased in a white matte, a white impossible matte. It's like someone grabbed a magic brush and painted in the non-cat areas of the view within the archway. A few seconds into staring at the motionless white-eyed cat and I could hear myself screaming. I was screaming "It's all white", "fucking help me" and other things that would signify that I was going bonkers (I wasn't going bonkers, though. It was just that the cat and the white gave me a horrible feeling of dread.). Luckily I woke up, just as the personnel crowded around me I jerked awake. I had just experienced the worst kind of fear, I think, I'm not sure I even know at the moment what I'm scared of now. It was like the sort of nightmare you have when you stop breathing. I'm fine now if you were wondering, I mean, I'm in the Wards, and whatever-it-is is still bothering me, but, well I guess I lied. I found out a bit late that it wasn't really a dream, and I came to terms with it. Don't have the story in stone though... The words on the walls right now are floating with "kept me as a pet" and other nonsensical phrases. There are two bears in the corner of the room and apparently their names are "who am I!" bears. It's novel, really, you touch the bears and you temporarily become the bear, with a case of amnesia. They're kind of floating there too. There is a sort of zombie-humanoid thing, and he seems nice enough. There's also a bathtub in here, but I don't think it does anything useful. I still have the note, the one that said I'd have wished I kept the thing as a pet. I wish I knew what the pet even was, I remember I think I liked it. Well, I was a bit scared of it, but I remember I liked it a lot. I think I'm actually in a containment cell. I can't really make any sense of all of this. I wish I knew what the thing was that was bothering me, I can't seem to describe it all too well. Maybe that's the thing. I can't really put a face to it, and I'm not sure whether it's a dog or a cat, or a bear. Maybe it's Sanders? Or rather, I mean, it might be kind of like Sanders but more like a cat. I wish they would kill me or something, I wish something would kill me. They must have some sort of reason for not killing me. Everything is going to be okay I think. Well, I'm not too sure, I don't know, I think I mean. There's a dog in the window to the containment cell. I think it's the observation room. He has a big mouth. I think I'm going to call for help. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=faminepulse]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-02-23T09:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "first-person", "surrealism", "tale" ]	I'm not sure. - SCP Foundation	55	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12786128	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/i-m-not-sure
ichor	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Dear Annie,</p> <p>I’m sorry I had to leave without telling you anything, but things kinda… escalated faster than I thought they would. I mean, I knew the suits would get royally pissed off with our little art project, but I didn't know they'd go all “Fugitive” on us and start a fucking manhunt. Rita and Geoff heard what was going on and came to pick me up, said they had a place where we and a few of the others could lay low for a while.</p> <p>I know you must be real mad with me, but that’s just the way it had to be, babe. If we don't stick it to those manipulative, conniving, shadow puppet master chumps, no one else is going to.</p> <p>Give little Harry a kiss for me. Tell him his dad is going to be the coolest.</p> <hr/> <p>Dear Annie,</p> <p>I have no idea if I’ll get a chance to send this to you, but I’m writing it anyway. If nothing else, it’ll make me feel better. Turns out Rita and Geoff’s hideout is some damp cave smack in the middle of the boondocks. I have no idea how they found out about this place, but I guess we can’t afford to be picky at the moment. We got enough canned food and art supplies to keep our head above the water for a good while, at least. Water might be a problem though- we can forget about bathing for a good while. Not that half of the guys here care.</p> <p>I’m going to need something to distract me from all of this. A new project. It’s not going to be easy to top the flaming tower of screaming goat heads that got the suits so riled up, but you can bet your ass we’re going to try.</p> <hr/> <p>This place is amazing! Turns out we didn't need to worry about water- there’s this huge underground lake just a bit deeper into the cave. We all had a nice swim, washed our clothes, we might even catch some fish. See, this is exactly what I was saying to you the other day: trust in the world, and it will provide. It’s what the suits don't get, why they're always trying to push everyone around. It’s why we’re going to win in the end- the world is us, babe. The world is art.</p> <p>I think this place is inspiring me. Watching the water ebb and flow, how the light plays on our reflections, the hues of the rock veins, it’s making me feel things I haven't felt in a long while. Something here is calling me, feeding me with colors and sounds and smells, teaching me. In here, maybe I can create something truly great. Something that’ll be remembered.</p> <p>I wish you and Harry were here. He'd love it.</p> <hr/> <p>I've been hearing her. It started with distorted echoes, a slight haziness of sound around me. Then people’s voices began to grow indistinct. I could still hear them and understand them, but what they said suddenly didn't seem to matter as much. Then it all began coming together, the echoes and the voices and everything else, and I heard her. Her voice appeared from that chaotic swirl of mindless sound like a bonfire in the dark, streamed through me like boiling blood. For the first time ever, I feel awake, alive, and brilliant. She wants me to create something special, I can tell. I gathered whatever supplies I could and ventured deeper into the cave, where I can work in peace. The others wouldn't understand, they’re far too dull, too involved in their petty squabble with “The Man”. It’s such a childish notion, really. They are so much beneath the Muse’s notice. She only trusts me. She'll make me great.</p> <p>Oh Annie, if only you could hear her. You’d never believe how beautiful she is.</p> <hr/> <p>I'm such a fool. All this effort I spent on banal bullshit, on trying to be ‘subversive’, ’dangerous’, ‘cool’. What a waste of time. I always thought I knew what art was all about, but I didn’t know jack. Not until I came here. Not until she began flooding through me. Art shouldn't be some sort of cattle prod used only to piss off people you don’t like. It should be transcendent, rising above all the bickering and fighting and banality, and thanks to her, I’m creating such art for the first time ever.</p> <p>The others have no idea where I am. I heard them searching for me, calling my name, asking me to come back and eat something. Oafish, loud, insufferable. They think something’s wrong with me. They're right. My materials and instruments are too crude for the Muse’s call; my hands are too numb and clumsy, my brushes too thick and brutish and my paints, even that Wondertainment Wonderhue stuff which I used to like so much, seems entirely insufficient for the work the Blood is commanding me do. I need something more. I need something perfect.</p> <p>I'll have to find a way to fix that. You'd understand if you were here to see it.</p> <hr/> <p>Just look at the colors. Sanguine and sapphire, ivory and indigo; these once barren walls now scream praises to her. It’s all I ever wanted, all I ever hoped to be.</p> <p>I found it. The answer was obvious; really, it was right in front of me the entire time. All the materials I could ever ask for, the best tools, all in one neat package. Well, maybe not neat. You see, the reason I couldn't see it before was because there was something in the way, like an oily rag covering a Monet.</p> <p>The human body is a wonderful tool, you see. But the soul is useless.</p> <p>Luckily, removing it was easy. The Blood of the World guided me to them, took out their lights, left them alone to stumble in the dark for me to pick. They might have screamed, or begged, or cried. I wouldn't know, I wasn't paying much attention. All I know is that they weren't cool at the end. Oh no, not at all.</p> <p>After that, it was only a matter of digging in, ripping and clawing and tearing until I got to the core. All that was left were dyes and pigments for my mural, gushing out, and fresh as anyone could ask for. Hairs to weave in her image, blond and brown and black. Nails and teeth for the mosaic, so delicate, so fragile. She laughed with pleasure when she saw my work. This will be enough, she said, this will make Breath and Pulse and Spine crumble before her. I don't know what she meant. I don't care. As long as she’s happy, so am I.</p> <p>I always thought there was no such thing as perfection. I was wrong. One day I’ll come back and show you and Harry the hidden truth she taught me- Perfection is only skin deep.</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="/ichor">Ichor</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ichor">https://scpwiki.com/ichor</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]] [[/>]] Dear Annie, I’m sorry I had to leave without telling you anything, but things kinda… escalated faster than I thought they would. I mean, I knew the suits would get royally pissed off with our little art project, but I didn't know they'd go all “Fugitive” on us and start a fucking manhunt. Rita and Geoff heard what was going on and came to pick me up, said they had a place where we and a few of the others could lay low for a while. I know you must be real mad with me, but that’s just the way it had to be, babe. If we don't stick it to those manipulative, conniving, shadow puppet master chumps, no one else is going to. Give little Harry a kiss for me. Tell him his dad is going to be the coolest. ----------- Dear Annie, I have no idea if I’ll get a chance to send this to you, but I’m writing it anyway. If nothing else, it’ll make me feel better. Turns out Rita and Geoff’s hideout is some damp cave smack in the middle of the boondocks. I have no idea how they found out about this place, but I guess we can’t afford to be picky at the moment. We got enough canned food and art supplies to keep our head above the water for a good while, at least. Water might be a problem though- we can forget about bathing for a good while. Not that half of the guys here care. I’m going to need something to distract me from all of this. A new project. It’s not going to be easy to top the flaming tower of screaming goat heads that got the suits so riled up, but you can bet your ass we’re going to try. -------------- This place is amazing! Turns out we didn't need to worry about water- there’s this huge underground lake just a bit deeper into the cave. We all had a nice swim, washed our clothes, we might even catch some fish. See, this is exactly what I was saying to you the other day: trust in the world, and it will provide. It’s what the suits don't get, why they're always trying to push everyone around. It’s why we’re going to win in the end- the world is us, babe. The world is art. I think this place is inspiring me. Watching the water ebb and flow, how the light plays on our reflections, the hues of the rock veins, it’s making me feel things I haven't felt in a long while. Something here is calling me, feeding me with colors and sounds and smells, teaching me. In here, maybe I can create something truly great. Something that’ll be remembered. I wish you and Harry were here. He'd love it. ------------ I've been hearing her. It started with distorted echoes, a slight haziness of sound around me. Then people’s voices began to grow indistinct. I could still hear them and understand them, but what they said suddenly didn't seem to matter as much. Then it all began coming together, the echoes and the voices and everything else, and I heard her. Her voice appeared from that chaotic swirl of mindless sound like a bonfire in the dark, streamed through me like boiling blood. For the first time ever, I feel awake, alive, and brilliant. She wants me to create something special, I can tell. I gathered whatever supplies I could and ventured deeper into the cave, where I can work in peace. The others wouldn't understand, they’re far too dull, too involved in their petty squabble with “The Man”. It’s such a childish notion, really. They are so much beneath the Muse’s notice. She only trusts me. She'll make me great. Oh Annie, if only you could hear her. You’d never believe how beautiful she is. ----------- I'm such a fool. All this effort I spent on banal bullshit, on trying to be ‘subversive’, ’dangerous’, ‘cool’. What a waste of time. I always thought I knew what art was all about, but I didn’t know jack. Not until I came here. Not until she began flooding through me. Art shouldn't be some sort of cattle prod used only to piss off people you don’t like. It should be transcendent, rising above all the bickering and fighting and banality, and thanks to her, I’m creating such art for the first time ever. The others have no idea where I am. I heard them searching for me, calling my name, asking me to come back and eat something. Oafish, loud, insufferable. They think something’s wrong with me. They're right. My materials and instruments are too crude for the Muse’s call; my hands are too numb and clumsy, my brushes too thick and brutish and my paints, even that Wondertainment Wonderhue stuff which I used to like so much, seems entirely insufficient for the work the Blood is commanding me do. I need something more. I need something perfect. I'll have to find a way to fix that. You'd understand if you were here to see it. ------------ Just look at the colors. Sanguine and sapphire, ivory and indigo; these once barren walls now scream praises to her. It’s all I ever wanted, all I ever hoped to be. I found it. The answer was obvious; really, it was right in front of me the entire time. All the materials I could ever ask for, the best tools, all in one neat package. Well, maybe not neat. You see, the reason I couldn't see it before was because there was something in the way, like an oily rag covering a Monet. The human body is a wonderful tool, you see. But the soul is useless. Luckily, removing it was easy. The Blood of the World guided me to them, took out their lights, left them alone to stumble in the dark for me to pick. They might have screamed, or begged, or cried. I wouldn't know, I wasn't paying much attention. All I know is that they weren't cool at the end. Oh no, not at all. After that, it was only a matter of digging in, ripping and clawing and tearing until I got to the core. All that was left were dyes and pigments for my mural, gushing out, and fresh as anyone could ask for. Hairs to weave in her image, blond and brown and black. Nails and teeth for the mosaic, so delicate, so fragile. She laughed with pleasure when she saw my work. This will be enough, she said, this will make Breath and Pulse and Spine crumble before her. I don't know what she meant. I don't care. As long as she’s happy, so am I. I always thought there was no such thing as perfection. I was wrong. One day I’ll come back and show you and Harry the hidden truth she taught me- Perfection is only skin deep. [[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>]]	2012-11-07T22:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "tale" ]	Ichor - SCP Foundation	60	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[]	14929768	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ichor
in-his-own-image-epilogue	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">September 21, 2011</span>:</p> <p>Lament awoke with a start at the shifting at the door. He'd be thinking. Dreaming again. It wasn't good, but it was what it was. He raised the gun at the door, glancing at the spent cartridges so he'd know exactly how many he had in there in case he needed one for himself or a friend. The matte black uniform of one of the site security forces made him relax again for a moment.</p> <p>"Is anyone alive in there?"</p> <p>Lament debated answering, but chances were that they'd torch the room to be safe. 940 outbreaks were best answered with fire. Site-37 had been entirely immolated and rebuilt, but the infrastructure of 19 would mean that a room by room clearing would be necessary.</p> <p>"Yo!" he called.</p> <p>And ten minutes later, he was clear, better armed, and fed for the first time in two days. He was escorted from that wing of the site without incident, and as he sat in the infirmary, leaning against the wall while the genuine injuries were treated, he found himself wanting to stand up and walk off again. But he didn't. He curled up against the wall, closed his eyes, and slept.</p> <hr/> <p>Lament was woken by a hard shake to his shoulder, his hand immediately flying to his hip, reaching for his gun to shoot and kill immediately until he looked up and recognized the face. He let out a slow breath, slumping down against the wall. "Fuck, Dodridge."</p> <p>"Get up, man. We're due for debriefing."</p> <p>"To hell with that," Lament pushed himself up slowly and leaned against the wall. "This is why I hate active duty…" he complained, scratching his arm and nodding to Dodridge that he was ready, following him down the hall to the mess for coffee and another meal. The two of them ate quickly, barely talking.</p> <p>"You still talking to the Erdrich girl at twenty-three?" Lament asked.</p> <p>"Yeah," Dodridge said flatly.</p> <p>Lament chewed his sandwich. "She hot?"</p> <p>"Yeah, she's hot."</p> <p>"You thinking of transferring back to security for a while?"</p> <p>Dodridge shrugged. Lament nodded. And they finished the meal in silence.</p> <p>The debriefing took maybe forty minutes. It was a regular discussion. When were you two alerted? How long did it take you to get to the site? Why did you split? Were you able to reach the site nuclear device, Agent? Were you able to successfully reseal the lock on the 682 wing, Agent? Were you, Agent? Did you, Agent? Why didn't you, Agent? Agent? Agent? Agent? Blah blah blah.</p> <p>It wasn't until the end of the meeting that Lament realized that Djoric was one of the men on the panel. He waved at him. Djoric made eye contact for a moment, looked away, then left. It made him remember Sandy again, remember the times the two of them had sat together, laughing and bouncing ideas off of each other. Remember the look on 106's face as his friend was pulled into the blackness of the pipes. Remember how he always counted his bullets now.</p> <p>Dodridge broke the silence. "You wanna get a beer, Lament?"</p> <p>"Nah, man. I'm good."</p> <p>"Suit yourself. I'm getting shit faced," Dodridge said.</p> <p>Lament laughed. "Tell Alice I said hello when you talk to her."</p> <p>"Yeah, whatever, asshole."</p> <p>Lament smirked, Dodridge flipped him off, and he was gone. He stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if Sophie was still stationed here. They'd lost track of each other after he'd gone active, but that was just how the job was. It was why he knew Dodridge would go to Site-23 full time. And he'd end up… He didn't know what.</p> <p>He sighed and turned down the hall, walking down it aimlessly, but unsurprised when he found himself again outside the office he'd hid in for two days. He pushed into it.</p> <p>The cleaning crew had already been through, putting things back where they belonged. Gears' desk was back in position, as well as his old one. It feel eerily… the same. Too close. Too similar. It felt like four years ago.</p> <p>"Agent."</p> <p>He turned, looking over his shoulder as his hand dropped nervously to his sidearm, resting on it for a moment as the familiarity of the voice sank in.</p> <p>"Dr. Gears."</p> <p>He looked the same. Bald pate. Smooth, expressionless face. Clear, cold eyes.</p> <p>"I understand you took refuge here during the outbreak."</p> <p>"Yes, sir," Lament said.</p> <p>Gears nodded to him, then walked past him to his desk, sitting down at it and opening a file. "If you have time, there's a mild, level two threat I would like to consult with you on."</p> <p>"Am I cleared for that, sir?" Lament asked.</p> <p>When Gears looked up at him, he imagined a smile. It was a habit he'd picked up. Implying the emotions that were never there.</p> <p>"I can secure the clearance, if you wish, Agent."</p> <p>Lament nodded. "Of course, Doctor."</p> <p>"Very well. I can meet with you after lunch today."</p> <p>Lament nodded, feeling the kind of familiarity that left a pit in your gut. He looked at the man, wondering if his new assistant had died in the attack. Killed themselves like Iceberg had. Run like him.</p> <p>"Of course, Doctor. Maybe I can talk to my supervisors at Site14 and see about a temporary reassignment, if you're in need of assistance."</p> <p>Gears didn't respond, but then, Lament hadn't expected him to. He turned, pushing through the door and into the hall, looking both ways and then walking toward the arboretum. Maybe Sophie <em>was</em> still stationed here…</p> <hr/> <p>Gears watched the agent leave, wishing he could have done… something. Anything at that moment. He was actually… glad to have him back. Thrilled, even. But it never touched his face. He never smiled. Never congratulated him.</p> <p>Nothing.</p> <p>He unlocked and opened his bottom, left drawer, the one that was nearly empty except for a few classified memos. It was his 'destroy' file, a place where he kept things that were sensitive and needed to be completely expunged. There was only one file there that had lasted longer than a week. He quietly reached into the drawer, pulling out a plastic bag. There was a piece of paper inside it, a splatter of blood across the faded letterhead. He looked down at it and read it again, as he had a hundred times before.</p> <blockquote> <p>It happened. It finally happened. I was watching Agent Shelly walk down the hall, doing that one hip thing.</p> <p>I just watched, then posted my work to Records. I didn't drool, or make a pass, or anything. I felt it, I felt it inside, the vague desire, but there was no reason to act on it. I'm not even upset about it, really, just…nothing.</p> <p>They trust me with too much, mainly because nobody else will take it, or maybe that's been a part of it too. I looked into the files. I dug back and sent requests for the old hard copies. I know what happened, and what they want.</p> <p>He's trapped, inside, he can feel, but not react to it. What could be a worse hell? And what could be better for them?</p> <p>They know what they're doing. The personality type. The ones who are susceptible. His was an accident. I'm not letting it happen to me on purpose.</p> <p>I know you'll be the one to find this. Tell them I'm sorry. Please? And if you've still got a soul in there, warn the next guy.</p> <p>-Iceberg</p> </blockquote> <p>Gears stared at the note for a long moment, and for an instant, he was almost certain he felt the sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek, but when he raised his hand to it, it was dry. Bone dry.</p> <p>He dropped the note back into the bottom drawer and stood. He looked over at the desk that had sat empty for the past four years. And he felt regret.</p> <p>But it didn't show.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-7">Part 7</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">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="/in-his-own-image-epilogue">In His Own Image: Epilogue</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-epilogue">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-epilogue</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Epilogue.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074556" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-epilogue">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __September 21, 2011__: Lament awoke with a start at the shifting at the door. He'd be thinking. Dreaming again. It wasn't good, but it was what it was. He raised the gun at the door, glancing at the spent cartridges so he'd know exactly how many he had in there in case he needed one for himself or a friend. The matte black uniform of one of the site security forces made him relax again for a moment. "Is anyone alive in there?" Lament debated answering, but chances were that they'd torch the room to be safe. 940 outbreaks were best answered with fire. Site-37 had been entirely immolated and rebuilt, but the infrastructure of 19 would mean that a room by room clearing would be necessary. "Yo!" he called. And ten minutes later, he was clear, better armed, and fed for the first time in two days. He was escorted from that wing of the site without incident, and as he sat in the infirmary, leaning against the wall while the genuine injuries were treated, he found himself wanting to stand up and walk off again. But he didn't. He curled up against the wall, closed his eyes, and slept. ----- Lament was woken by a hard shake to his shoulder, his hand immediately flying to his hip, reaching for his gun to shoot and kill immediately until he looked up and recognized the face. He let out a slow breath, slumping down against the wall. "Fuck, Dodridge." "Get up, man. We're due for debriefing." "To hell with that," Lament pushed himself up slowly and leaned against the wall. "This is why I hate active duty..." he complained, scratching his arm and nodding to Dodridge that he was ready, following him down the hall to the mess for coffee and another meal. The two of them ate quickly, barely talking. "You still talking to the Erdrich girl at twenty-three?" Lament asked. "Yeah," Dodridge said flatly. Lament chewed his sandwich. "She hot?" "Yeah, she's hot." "You thinking of transferring back to security for a while?" Dodridge shrugged. Lament nodded. And they finished the meal in silence. The debriefing took maybe forty minutes. It was a regular discussion. When were you two alerted? How long did it take you to get to the site? Why did you split? Were you able to reach the site nuclear device, Agent? Were you able to successfully reseal the lock on the 682 wing, Agent? Were you, Agent? Did you, Agent? Why didn't you, Agent? Agent? Agent? Agent? Blah blah blah. It wasn't until the end of the meeting that Lament realized that Djoric was one of the men on the panel. He waved at him. Djoric made eye contact for a moment, looked away, then left. It made him remember Sandy again, remember the times the two of them had sat together, laughing and bouncing ideas off of each other. Remember the look on 106's face as his friend was pulled into the blackness of the pipes. Remember how he always counted his bullets now. Dodridge broke the silence. "You wanna get a beer, Lament?" "Nah, man. I'm good." "Suit yourself. I'm getting shit faced," Dodridge said. Lament laughed. "Tell Alice I said hello when you talk to her." "Yeah, whatever, asshole." Lament smirked, Dodridge flipped him off, and he was gone. He stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if Sophie was still stationed here. They'd lost track of each other after he'd gone active, but that was just how the job was. It was why he knew Dodridge would go to Site-23 full time. And he'd end up... He didn't know what. He sighed and turned down the hall, walking down it aimlessly, but unsurprised when he found himself again outside the office he'd hid in for two days. He pushed into it. The cleaning crew had already been through, putting things back where they belonged. Gears' desk was back in position, as well as his old one. It feel eerily... the same. Too close. Too similar. It felt like four years ago. "Agent." He turned, looking over his shoulder as his hand dropped nervously to his sidearm, resting on it for a moment as the familiarity of the voice sank in. "Dr. Gears." He looked the same. Bald pate. Smooth, expressionless face. Clear, cold eyes. "I understand you took refuge here during the outbreak." "Yes, sir," Lament said. Gears nodded to him, then walked past him to his desk, sitting down at it and opening a file. "If you have time, there's a mild, level two threat I would like to consult with you on." "Am I cleared for that, sir?" Lament asked. When Gears looked up at him, he imagined a smile. It was a habit he'd picked up. Implying the emotions that were never there. "I can secure the clearance, if you wish, Agent." Lament nodded. "Of course, Doctor." "Very well. I can meet with you after lunch today." Lament nodded, feeling the kind of familiarity that left a pit in your gut. He looked at the man, wondering if his new assistant had died in the attack. Killed themselves like Iceberg had. Run like him. "Of course, Doctor. Maybe I can talk to my supervisors at Site14 and see about a temporary reassignment, if you're in need of assistance." Gears didn't respond, but then, Lament hadn't expected him to. He turned, pushing through the door and into the hall, looking both ways and then walking toward the arboretum. Maybe Sophie //was// still stationed here... ----- Gears watched the agent leave, wishing he could have done… something. Anything at that moment. He was actually… glad to have him back. Thrilled, even. But it never touched his face. He never smiled. Never congratulated him. Nothing. He unlocked and opened his bottom, left drawer, the one that was nearly empty except for a few classified memos. It was his 'destroy' file, a place where he kept things that were sensitive and needed to be completely expunged. There was only one file there that had lasted longer than a week. He quietly reached into the drawer, pulling out a plastic bag. There was a piece of paper inside it, a splatter of blood across the faded letterhead. He looked down at it and read it again, as he had a hundred times before. > It happened. It finally happened. I was watching Agent Shelly walk down the hall, doing that one hip thing. > > I just watched, then posted my work to Records. I didn't drool, or make a pass, or anything. I felt it, I felt it inside, the vague desire, but there was no reason to act on it. I'm not even upset about it, really, just…nothing. > > They trust me with too much, mainly because nobody else will take it, or maybe that's been a part of it too. I looked into the files. I dug back and sent requests for the old hard copies. I know what happened, and what they want. > > He's trapped, inside, he can feel, but not react to it. What could be a worse hell? And what could be better for them? > > They know what they're doing. The personality type. The ones who are susceptible. His was an accident. I'm not letting it happen to me on purpose. > > I know you'll be the one to find this. Tell them I'm sorry. Please? And if you've still got a soul in there, warn the next guy. > > -Iceberg Gears stared at the note for a long moment, and for an instant, he was almost certain he felt the sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek, but when he raised his hand to it, it was dry. Bone dry. He dropped the note back into the bottom drawer and stood. He looked over at the desk that had sat empty for the past four years. And he felt regret. But it didn't show. [[=image In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Epilogue.jpg size="medium"]] ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 7\| Part 7]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Epilogue.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-epilogue SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-26T07:20:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bittersweet", "doctor-gears", "doctor-iceberg", "doctor-light", "illustrated", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Epilogue - SCP Foundation	197	[ "in-his-own-image-part-7", "in-his-own-image", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13887923	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-epilogue
in-his-own-image-interlude-1	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">August 18, 2007</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%201.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-1/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%201.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>Happy Birthday to You</p> </div> </div> <p><em>Lament's fingers slid over the chromium frame for a moment. It had been expensive, but the joke—which he knew wouldn't be laughed at—was worth it. His first failure for a final hurrah. He let a slight smirk slip over his lips, looking down at the picture, at the smile that looked almost abnormal, and laughed.</em></p> <p><em>Lament wanted to think 'The look on his face…' or something similarly reflective, but he knew that it would be the same as it always was. Blank. Calculating.</em></p> <p><em>He pulled out the wrapping paper, and slowly began folding it around the picture with a half smile, humming happy birthday.</em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-1">Part 1</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-2">Part 2</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="/in-his-own-image-interlude-1">In His Own Image: Interlude 1</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-1">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-1</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%201.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074388" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-1">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __August 18, 2007__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-interlude-1/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%201.jpg\|caption=Happy Birthday to You]] //Lament's fingers slid over the chromium frame for a moment. It had been expensive, but the joke—which he knew wouldn't be laughed at—was worth it. His first failure for a final hurrah. He let a slight smirk slip over his lips, looking down at the picture, at the smile that looked almost abnormal, and laughed.// //Lament wanted to think 'The look on his face...' or something similarly reflective, but he knew that it would be the same as it always was. Blank. Calculating.// //He pulled out the wrapping paper, and slowly began folding it around the picture with a half smile, humming happy birthday.// [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 1\| Part 1]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Part 2\| Part 2]]] >> [[/=]] ~~~~~ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%201.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-1 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T07:56:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "illustrated", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Interlude 1 - SCP Foundation	93	[ "in-his-own-image-part-1", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-part-2", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-1/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%201.jpg" ]	13827100	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-1
in-his-own-image-interlude-2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">July 7, 2005</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%202.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-2/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%202.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"I heard you like… ctenophores."</p> </div> </div> <p><em>"Hey!"</em></p> <p><em>Lament jumped at his desk, turning and looking up at the woman. Long, lightly curling, brown hair. Constant smirk. Mirthy eyes.</em></p> <p><em>"Heya, Sophie," he said, grinning as he stood. The smile came to his face easy. It always seemed to around her. "Hey, listen, I got you something…"</em></p> <p><em>"Oh…? Gifts? On a first date?"</em></p> <p><em>"It's just lunch!" he defended. It was a date.</em></p> <p><em>"Regardless, sir. Most unbecoming." Still that smirk. God, he loved that smirk.</em></p> <p><em>"Well, I couldn't pay for the meal, since we're on base, so…" He pulled out a clear, glass vial, passing it to her carefully.</em></p> <p><em>"Someone told me you like… ctenophores."</em></p> <p><em>She looked down at it, then up at him, her face registering a mix of shock and joy.</em></p> <p><em>"Best. Date. Ever."</em></p> <p><em>Hehe. It was a date.</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-2">Part 2</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-3">Part 3</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="/in-his-own-image-interlude-2">In His Own Image: Interlude 2</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-2">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-2</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%202.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074440" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-2">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __July 7, 2005__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-interlude-2/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%202.jpg\|caption="I heard you like... ctenophores."]] //"Hey!"// //Lament jumped at his desk, turning and looking up at the woman. Long, lightly curling, brown hair. Constant smirk. Mirthy eyes.// //"Heya, Sophie," he said, grinning as he stood. The smile came to his face easy. It always seemed to around her. "Hey, listen, I got you something..."// //"Oh...? Gifts? On a first date?"// //"It's just lunch!" he defended. It was a date.// //"Regardless, sir. Most unbecoming." Still that smirk. God, he loved that smirk.// //"Well, I couldn't pay for the meal, since we're on base, so..." He pulled out a clear, glass vial, passing it to her carefully.// //"Someone told me you like... ctenophores."// //She looked down at it, then up at him, her face registering a mix of shock and joy.// //"Best. Date. Ever."// //Hehe. It was a date.// ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 2\| Part 2]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Part 3\| Part 3]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%202.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-2 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T15:58:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "doctor-light", "heartwarming", "illustrated", "romance", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Interlude 2 - SCP Foundation	107	[ "in-his-own-image-part-2", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-part-3", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-2/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%202.jpg" ]	13834925	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-2
in-his-own-image-interlude-3	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">July 5, 2004</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-left" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%203.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-3/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%203.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"Butterflies!"</p> </div> </div> <p><em>It was an unholy din that surrounded the pair, people shouting and clamoring. There was a fifteen minute window when Site19 could have the yearly photo made, and currently, Dr. Glass was having a hard time getting people to listen, much less position themselves.</em></p> <p><em>"C'mon, guys! Please! This shouldn't take long if you'll all just get into your places."</em></p> <p><em>Lament found himself smiling. Waving at some friends as he worked toward the left of the room, moving to stand behind Gears' shoulder.</em></p> <p><em>When he looked around, he saw Agatha, giving him a significant look. He looked back at her, tilting his head and shrugging, giving her one of those—'hell do you WANT me to do'—looks. She gave it to him again, and he sighed, tapping Gears' shoulder.</em></p> <p><em>"Sir?" he asked.</em></p> <p><em>"Yes, Agent," Gears replied without turning around.</em></p> <p><em>"Smile, sir."</em></p> <p><em>"And what purpose would that serve, Agent?"</em></p> <p><em>He took a breath.</em></p> <p><em>"Smiling would serve to put the others at ease, sir. As this is a social function for the entire site, your smiling could aid the others in the establishment of a more efficient and normalized workplace, something that I believe your own reports have called essential when dealing with the unnatural world in which we work."</em></p> <p><em>It was obviously prepared. Rehearsed. Practiced.</em></p> <p><em>Gears turned and looked at him. After a moment, the corners of his lips inclined in a corpse-like rictus that never touched his eyes.</em></p> <p><em>"Is this sufficient?"</em></p> <p><em>Lament found himself grinning now. Genuinely.</em></p> <p><em>"Yes, sir."</em></p> <p><em>"Everyone!" shouted Glass. "Say… Butterflies!"</em></p> <p><em>"Butterfliiieeessss," said the chorus.</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-3">Part 3</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-4">Part 4</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="/in-his-own-image-interlude-3">In His Own Image: Interlude 3</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-3">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-3</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%203.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074467" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-3">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __July 5, 2004__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-interlude-3/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%203.jpg\|caption="Butterflies!"\|align=left]] //It was an unholy din that surrounded the pair, people shouting and clamoring. There was a fifteen minute window when Site19 could have the yearly photo made, and currently, Dr. Glass was having a hard time getting people to listen, much less position themselves.// //"C'mon, guys! Please! This shouldn't take long if you'll all just get into your places."// //Lament found himself smiling. Waving at some friends as he worked toward the left of the room, moving to stand behind Gears' shoulder.// //When he looked around, he saw Agatha, giving him a significant look. He looked back at her, tilting his head and shrugging, giving her one of those—'hell do you WANT me to do'—looks. She gave it to him again, and he sighed, tapping Gears' shoulder.// //"Sir?" he asked.// //"Yes, Agent," Gears replied without turning around.// //"Smile, sir."// //"And what purpose would that serve, Agent?"// //He took a breath.// //"Smiling would serve to put the others at ease, sir. As this is a social function for the entire site, your smiling could aid the others in the establishment of a more efficient and normalized workplace, something that I believe your own reports have called essential when dealing with the unnatural world in which we work."// //It was obviously prepared. Rehearsed. Practiced.// //Gears turned and looked at him. After a moment, the corners of his lips inclined in a corpse-like rictus that never touched his eyes.// //"Is this sufficient?"// //Lament found himself grinning now. Genuinely.// //"Yes, sir."// //"Everyone!" shouted Glass. "Say... Butterflies!"// //"Butterfliiieeessss," said the chorus.// ---- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 3\| Part 3]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Part 4\| Part 4]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%203.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-3 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T19:50:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "comedy", "doctor-gears", "doctor-glass", "doctor-rights", "illustrated", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Interlude 3 - SCP Foundation	128	[ "in-his-own-image-part-3", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-part-4", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-3/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%203.jpg" ]	13836160	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-3
in-his-own-image-interlude-4	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">February 19, 2009</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%204.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-4/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%204.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>Wishing he didn't remember</p> </div> </div> <p><em>"He. He. He. He. Hee."</em></p> <p><em>Lament sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, the laugh still echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, forcing the sound out of his head, then swinging his legs over the side and walking toward the shower.</em></p> <p><em>He stepped into it, letting the cold water course over his back, feeling it slowly begin to warm as the echoing nightmare finally, slowly stopped…</em></p> <p><em>He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. For a moment, he was almost certain that the porcelain of the shower wall was giving way, handprints emerging from it like a child's hand playing with their blankets. Mocking hands that would reach for his throat and squeeze the life out of him, but he wouldn't die. No. He'd live while the owners of those hands played. Played and laughed. "He. He. He. He. Hee."</em></p> <p><em>As he briefly considered reaching for his sidearm on the sink, the effect faded. For a moment, he still considered reaching for it, for another purpose, and when he realized it, he slumped down the wall of the tub, sitting under the water until it had long run cold, staring weakly at the drain.</em></p> <p><em>Wishing he didn't remember, but glad that he did.</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-4">Part 4</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-5">Part 5</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="/in-his-own-image-interlude-4">In His Own Image: Interlude 4</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-4">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-4</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%204.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074487" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-4">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __February 19, 2009__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-interlude-4/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%204.jpg\|caption=Wishing he didn't remember]] //"He. He. He. He. Hee."// //Lament sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, the laugh still echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, forcing the sound out of his head, then swinging his legs over the side and walking toward the shower.// //He stepped into it, letting the cold water course over his back, feeling it slowly begin to warm as the echoing nightmare finally, slowly stopped...// //He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. For a moment, he was almost certain that the porcelain of the shower wall was giving way, handprints emerging from it like a child's hand playing with their blankets. Mocking hands that would reach for his throat and squeeze the life out of him, but he wouldn't die. No. He'd live while the owners of those hands played. Played and laughed. "He. He. He. He. Hee."// //As he briefly considered reaching for his sidearm on the sink, the effect faded. For a moment, he still considered reaching for it, for another purpose, and when he realized it, he slumped down the wall of the tub, sitting under the water until it had long run cold, staring weakly at the drain.// //Wishing he didn't remember, but glad that he did.// ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 4\| Part 4]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Part 5\| Part 5]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%204.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-4 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T20:57:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bleak", "horror", "illustrated", "psychological-horror", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Interlude 4 - SCP Foundation	102	[ "in-his-own-image-part-4", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-part-5", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-4/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%204.jpg" ]	13836464	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-4
in-his-own-image-interlude-5	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">August 16, 2007</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%205.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-5/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%205.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"There's some things you don't want on your conscience."</p> </div> </div> <p><em>Agent Lament stood in the mess of Site19, staring out the window and looking at the landscape, part of his mind making an effort to register that the world was, in fact, still there. That everyone was actually alive. That it had happened. His stomach was twisted in pained, difficult knots, and he really just wanted privacy. But he wasn't alone.</em></p> <p><em>He could hear the two men, both low staff, talking across the mess from him. Their voices carried, but he wasn't really paying attention.</em></p> <p><em>"What's that guys problem? He onna them montaukers?"</em></p> <p><em>"Nah," the first one said. "He works with Gears."</em></p> <p><em>The other one laughed quietly. "So? Gears seems like uh good guy."</em></p> <p><em>"Good as any of 'em, ennyway."</em></p> <p><em>"Well, hell, then. I'ma go ask him what his problem is…"</em></p> <p><em>A sound of a slight scuffle somewhere behind Lament brought his attention back to the room. He looked at their reflection in the glass, the taller one holding the other's arm solidly in his grip.</em></p> <p><em>"Don't," the first one said quickly, his voice dropping. "Lesson number one about workin' around these guys: there's some things you don't want on your conscience."</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-5">Part 5</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-6">Part 6</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="/in-his-own-image-interlude-5">In His Own Image: Interlude 5</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-5">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-5</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%205.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074509" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-5">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __August 16, 2007__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-interlude-5/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%205.jpg\|caption="There's some things you don't want on your conscience."]] //Agent Lament stood in the mess of Site19, staring out the window and looking at the landscape, part of his mind making an effort to register that the world was, in fact, still there. That everyone was actually alive. That it had happened. His stomach was twisted in pained, difficult knots, and he really just wanted privacy. But he wasn't alone.// //He could hear the two men, both low staff, talking across the mess from him. Their voices carried, but he wasn't really paying attention.// //"What's that guys problem? He onna them montaukers?"// //"Nah," the first one said. "He works with Gears."// //The other one laughed quietly. "So? Gears seems like uh good guy."// //"Good as any of 'em, ennyway."// //"Well, hell, then. I'ma go ask him what his problem is…"// //A sound of a slight scuffle somewhere behind Lament brought his attention back to the room. He looked at their reflection in the glass, the taller one holding the other's arm solidly in his grip.// //"Don't," the first one said quickly, his voice dropping. "Lesson number one about workin' around these guys: there's some things you don't want on your conscience."// ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 5\| Part 5]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Part 6\| Part 6]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%205.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-5 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-20T04:38:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bleak", "doctor-gears", "illustrated", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Interlude 5 - SCP Foundation	106	[ "in-his-own-image-part-5", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-part-6", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-5/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%205.jpg" ]	13838302	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-5
in-his-own-image-interlude-6	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div class="scp-image-block block-left" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%206.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-6/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%206.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>Happy Birthday… to You.</p> </div> </div> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">August 18, 2007</span>:</p> <p><em>"I'm sorry… I really… really am…" Lament said, swallowing to keep his voice from cracking. "You're… You're like a father to me… You don't understand that I… that I just… I can't do this anymore… I've asked to be transferred to active duty. Site14."</em></p> <p><em>Gears looked at him, his face blank and expressionless.</em></p> <p><em>"I… Anyhow…" Lament placed a small, square package on the desk in front of the balding man. "Happy Birthday."</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-6">Part 6</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-part-7">Part 7</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="/in-his-own-image-interlude-6">In His Own Image: Interlude 6</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-6">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-6</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%206.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074531" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-6">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-interlude-6/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%206.jpg\|caption=Happy Birthday... to You.\|align=left]] __August 18, 2007__: //"I'm sorry… I really… really am…" Lament said, swallowing to keep his voice from cracking. "You're… You're like a father to me… You don't understand that I… that I just… I can't do this anymore… I've asked to be transferred to active duty. Site14."// //Gears looked at him, his face blank and expressionless.// //"I… Anyhow…" Lament placed a small, square package on the desk in front of the balding man. "Happy Birthday."// ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Part 6\| Part 6]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Part 7\| Part 7]]] >> [[/=]] ~~~~~ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%206.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-6 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-20T07:31:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bittersweet", "doctor-gears", "illustrated", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Interlude 6 - SCP Foundation	106	[ "in-his-own-image-part-6", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-part-7", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-interlude-6/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Interlude%206.jpg" ]	13839225	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-interlude-6
in-his-own-image-part-1	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">September 19, 2011</span>:</p> <p>The blood, thankfully not his own, rolled down Lament’s arm as he shook the woman again, trying to get her attention. It was a lost cause, he suspected. Judging by her eyes, her expression…. Severe shock. And unfortunately, he didn’t have the time to carry her out. With a sigh, he stood up again, leaving her there and opening the heavy, metal door. He peered out, hearing the creak and groan of the shifting walls, wincing as he heard the snap of a shearing bolt.</p> <p>He worked his way down the hall slowly, now, glancing over his shoulder occasionally as he kept his revolver at his side. He grimaced slightly, wishing he’d brought his other sidearm—the one that held more bullets—but the reliability of the old gun, the feel of it in his hand, gave him a level of comfort that the other couldn't. Dodridge would have yelled at him for it, but there are times that comfort and capability with a weapon are more important than flat-killing power. He believed that. Right up until he heard the screeching sound, followed by a long, chitinous appendage entering the hall ahead of him, the shadow of a dangling corpse with eight legs moving over the flat metal walls.</p> <p>It took him less than a second to realize what it was, about two to assess the area completely, and only one for him to decide on the office to his left. He tried the door, finding it locked, then took a step back, kicking it hard and getting inside.</p> <p>The red, glowing emergency lights were all he had to see by, and as he shoved the desk against the door, he heard the thing scratching at it. A moment later, he pushed the filing cabinet on top of the desk, upending it with the adrenaline surge that he was riding, then positioning himself against the far wall, taking a deep breath and double checking his sidearm. Then waiting.</p> <p>Waiting, waiting, waiting.</p> <p>He let the breath out when the scratching stopped, leaning against the wall, sliding down it and looking around the room. It took him a moment to realize where he was. It’d been a while since he’d worked with the man—a promotion followed by a reassignment had taken him away from Site-19 in 2006—but he recognized the accouterments. The spartan elements were the first indication, but the three pictures, all upended and in the floor now, were the only other indication he needed. He looked down into the face of the passive, bald man, and immediately regretted his choice of hiding place.</p> <p>Gears.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">September 13, 1997</span>:</p> <p>Everything was fresh and new at Site-19, he thought. Everything was… exciting! There was so much hustle and bustle. People moving around, smiling, laughing. Some looking serious, or angry, or—in the case of the four other Junior Agents he was standing with—extremely, overwhelmingly nervous.</p> <p>They looked up at the man wearing spectacles and an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt under a lab coat, and Lament wondered, with just a touch of gnawing trepidation, why he was grinning at the lot of them quite so brightly.</p> <p>“Hello!” The man spoke in a voice that instantly reminded Lament of a professor he’d had in college. That man had been in love with literature, and every action he performed was done through that same overwhelming rapture with the written word. Lament decided that he liked him immediately.</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-left" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%201.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-1/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%201.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"Welcome to Site-19"</p> </div> </div> <p>“I’m Dr. Djoric,” the man explained. “Welcome to Site-19! I’m supposed to be showing you around and letting you get a feel for the place. The normal tour guide—her name is Agatha, you’ll meet her soon—is currently dealing with a pregnancy or something. So here I am instead! We’re going to have a lot of fun!”</p> <p>Lament wasn’t convinced that it was going to be fun at all, but it actually turned out to be. He met a ton of people, including the legendary Dr. Clef, who seemed mostly… bored. And Senior Agent Strelnikov told them some stories over lunch in the mess, mostly warnings, and they got to meet Lombardi, who Lament and one of the other new guys—short fellow by the name of Sandlemyer—had heard about, but no one else had. He honestly felt a little… star struck.</p> <p>After all, when you’re in the Foundation, the other members are the only ones you can really talk to about a lot of things. And when someone develops a reputation, everyone eventually gets to learn about it. Even if it is undeserved.</p> <p>By the time Djoric brought the group back to the large, white arches and curved glass of the entrance hall, Lament was almost dizzy with the amount of information he’d been deluged in. He got a slip of paper with his on-site quarters listed; notes on where the mess, armory, and various reserves of equipment were; notes on scheduled days off… Then Djoric looked down at his clipboard, clicking his tongue as he turned the pages.</p> <p>“Right, then. Primary assignments. Most of you will be working under a member of the Senior Staff for the next few months. Some of you will be stuck with them for the next few years. It all depends of how indispensable they think you are,” he said, laughing a little. “Sandlemyer…” he said, looking down at the list. “You’re assigned to me!” he said, laughing a little. “So… nice to meet you… again!”</p> <p>Sandlemyer grinned a little bit, then nodded. “Lab Eleven, sir?” he asked. Djoric had shown them his lab with great enthusiasm.</p> <p>Djoric grinned and nodded. “Simmons, you’re going to… Kondraki. Have fun there,” he said, looking up at the man, then back down again. Simmons didn’t seem that bothered by that, Lament thought, but then, he had a PhD. He could probably expect some modicum of respect.</p> <p>“Jones and Brown. You’re both heading over to work with Strelnikov. Do what he says, exactly what he says, and you’ll get out alive, huh?” he said, laughing slightly to set them at ease. It didn't seem to work very well, though. Lament had heard that Site-19’s security force was a tough duty, and judging from their expressions, they'd heard the same.</p> <p>Djoric looked down one last time, then frowned slightly, looking back up at Lament. “You don’t have a doctorate or anything, do you?” he asked.</p> <p>Lament shook his head. “No, sir,” he said.</p> <p>Djoric looked back down again, then shrugged and pushed that consolatory smile back to his face. “Guess he’s gotten lonely since Iceberg left us,” he said softly. “Or maybe it’s just a mistake. Anyhow… uh… You’re assigned to Gears.”</p> <p>Lament’s eyebrow rose for a moment, wondering if this was a joke, and then the other one joined it as he moved from suspicion to surprise. “Are you serious, sir?” he asked.</p> <p>“As serious as a grave,” Djoric said, still smiling.</p> <p>Lament decided, much later in his room, that he hadn’t appreciated that comment.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-1">Interlude 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="/in-his-own-image-part-1">In His Own Image: Part 1</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-1">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-1</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%201.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074377" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-1">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __September 19, 2011__: The blood, thankfully not his own, rolled down Lament’s arm as he shook the woman again, trying to get her attention. It was a lost cause, he suspected. Judging by her eyes, her expression.... Severe shock. And unfortunately, he didn’t have the time to carry her out. With a sigh, he stood up again, leaving her there and opening the heavy, metal door. He peered out, hearing the creak and groan of the shifting walls, wincing as he heard the snap of a shearing bolt. He worked his way down the hall slowly, now, glancing over his shoulder occasionally as he kept his revolver at his side. He grimaced slightly, wishing he’d brought his other sidearm—the one that held more bullets—but the reliability of the old gun, the feel of it in his hand, gave him a level of comfort that the other couldn't. Dodridge would have yelled at him for it, but there are times that comfort and capability with a weapon are more important than flat-killing power. He believed that. Right up until he heard the screeching sound, followed by a long, chitinous appendage entering the hall ahead of him, the shadow of a dangling corpse with eight legs moving over the flat metal walls. It took him less than a second to realize what it was, about two to assess the area completely, and only one for him to decide on the office to his left. He tried the door, finding it locked, then took a step back, kicking it hard and getting inside. The red, glowing emergency lights were all he had to see by, and as he shoved the desk against the door, he heard the thing scratching at it. A moment later, he pushed the filing cabinet on top of the desk, upending it with the adrenaline surge that he was riding, then positioning himself against the far wall, taking a deep breath and double checking his sidearm. Then waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He let the breath out when the scratching stopped, leaning against the wall, sliding down it and looking around the room. It took him a moment to realize where he was. It’d been a while since he’d worked with the man—a promotion followed by a reassignment had taken him away from Site-19 in 2006—but he recognized the accouterments. The spartan elements were the first indication, but the three pictures, all upended and in the floor now, were the only other indication he needed. He looked down into the face of the passive, bald man, and immediately regretted his choice of hiding place. Gears. ----- __September 13, 1997__: Everything was fresh and new at Site-19, he thought. Everything was… exciting! There was so much hustle and bustle. People moving around, smiling, laughing. Some looking serious, or angry, or—in the case of the four other Junior Agents he was standing with—extremely, overwhelmingly nervous. They looked up at the man wearing spectacles and an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt under a lab coat, and Lament wondered, with just a touch of gnawing trepidation, why he was grinning at the lot of them quite so brightly. “Hello!” The man spoke in a voice that instantly reminded Lament of a professor he’d had in college. That man had been in love with literature, and every action he performed was done through that same overwhelming rapture with the written word. Lament decided that he liked him immediately. [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-part-1/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%201.jpg\|caption="Welcome to Site-19"\|align=left]] “I’m Dr. Djoric,” the man explained. “Welcome to Site-19! I’m supposed to be showing you around and letting you get a feel for the place. The normal tour guide—her name is Agatha, you’ll meet her soon—is currently dealing with a pregnancy or something. So here I am instead! We’re going to have a lot of fun!” Lament wasn’t convinced that it was going to be fun at all, but it actually turned out to be. He met a ton of people, including the legendary Dr. Clef, who seemed mostly… bored. And Senior Agent Strelnikov told them some stories over lunch in the mess, mostly warnings, and they got to meet Lombardi, who Lament and one of the other new guys—short fellow by the name of Sandlemyer—had heard about, but no one else had. He honestly felt a little… star struck. After all, when you’re in the Foundation, the other members are the only ones you can really talk to about a lot of things. And when someone develops a reputation, everyone eventually gets to learn about it. Even if it is undeserved. By the time Djoric brought the group back to the large, white arches and curved glass of the entrance hall, Lament was almost dizzy with the amount of information he’d been deluged in. He got a slip of paper with his on-site quarters listed; notes on where the mess, armory, and various reserves of equipment were; notes on scheduled days off… Then Djoric looked down at his clipboard, clicking his tongue as he turned the pages. “Right, then. Primary assignments. Most of you will be working under a member of the Senior Staff for the next few months. Some of you will be stuck with them for the next few years. It all depends of how indispensable they think you are,” he said, laughing a little. “Sandlemyer…” he said, looking down at the list. “You’re assigned to me!” he said, laughing a little. “So… nice to meet you… again!” Sandlemyer grinned a little bit, then nodded. “Lab Eleven, sir?” he asked. Djoric had shown them his lab with great enthusiasm. Djoric grinned and nodded. “Simmons, you’re going to… Kondraki. Have fun there,” he said, looking up at the man, then back down again. Simmons didn’t seem that bothered by that, Lament thought, but then, he had a PhD. He could probably expect some modicum of respect. “Jones and Brown. You’re both heading over to work with Strelnikov. Do what he says, exactly what he says, and you’ll get out alive, huh?” he said, laughing slightly to set them at ease. It didn't seem to work very well, though. Lament had heard that Site-19’s security force was a tough duty, and judging from their expressions, they'd heard the same. Djoric looked down one last time, then frowned slightly, looking back up at Lament. “You don’t have a doctorate or anything, do you?” he asked. Lament shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. Djoric looked back down again, then shrugged and pushed that consolatory smile back to his face. “Guess he’s gotten lonely since Iceberg left us,” he said softly. “Or maybe it’s just a mistake. Anyhow… uh… You’re assigned to Gears.” Lament’s eyebrow rose for a moment, wondering if this was a joke, and then the other one joined it as he moved from suspicion to surprise. “Are you serious, sir?” he asked. “As serious as a grave,” Djoric said, still smiling. Lament decided, much later in his room, that he hadn’t appreciated that comment. ---- [[=]] << \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Interlude 1\| Interlude 1]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%201.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-1 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T07:49:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "action", "agent-lament", "agent-strelnikov", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "doctor-iceberg", "doctor-kondraki", "doctor-rights", "illustrated", "lombardi", "military-fiction", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Part 1 - SCP Foundation	141	[ "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-interlude-1", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-1/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%201.jpg" ]	13827065	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-1
in-his-own-image-part-2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">February 11, 1998</span>:</p> <p>He smiled at the bald man, waving with his elbow because his hands were too full, then setting his cup on the edge of his desk. Coffee—black.</p> <p>He carefully balanced the other man’s drink, easing it down onto the porcelain coaster gently, then nodding to him. “Morning, Dr. Gears.”</p> <p>“Good morning, Agent,” he replied flatly.</p> <p>Lament walked to his desk, sitting down and pulling off the calendar’s top page, looking down at the next one. He grinned. “You’ll like this one, sir,” he said, just a touch of humor in his voice. “Why do physicists make terrible lovers?”</p> <p>Gears stared at him.</p> <p>“Because they can find the position, but not the velocity. Or the velocity, but not the position,” Lament grinned from ear to ear.</p> <p>Gears nodded. “Schrodinger, I believe.”</p> <p>“Yes, sir.”</p> <p>“Have you finished your report on 106?” Gears asked.</p> <p>Lament sighed. Swing and a miss. “No, sir, but I’ve got a few ideas…” he said quietly, leaning back to grab the file from his desk drawer.</p> <p>Gears nodded slightly.</p> <p>Lament pointed down at the schematic of the containment chamber. “I think we might be able to offset the corrosion if we actually suspend the cell," he started, laying it down open on his desk, pulling out his notes. "Keep it away from most surfaces. Direct contact seems to be the surest method of extensive transition, so…” And he was off.</p> <p>And Gears listened, expressionless as Lament rattled off the plan. Of the original bodies that they’d found, one of them was wearing a watch which had a chromium plated band, untarnished, and he thought that they might be able to line the inside of the cell with that, since it seemed to have decayed slower.</p> <p>Gears nodded as he finished. “And the suspension? How would we be able to manage it without direct contact with the cell?”</p> <p>Lament shrugged. “Magnetics?” he suggested.</p> <p>Gears nodded for a moment. “We’ll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, I need you to refocus your efforts. A slight conundrum for you.”</p> <p>“What is it, sir?”</p> <p>“SCP-884.”</p> <hr/> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">April 27, 1998</span>:</p> <p>Lament had never heard of 884, and he quickly understood why. The Foundation barely had it in custody in the ninety-odd years that it had been known. Some group called “The Chaos Insurgency”—Lament had cackled over that name—kept stealing it. He looked down at the file, tilting his head slightly at the thickness of it, sighing.</p> <p>“He’s got to be kidding me…”</p> <p>As luck would have it, the only one he needed to give a damn about was Dash-Four. The other pieces of the SCP, which had originally been a complete men’s grooming kit, had been lost, destroyed, or stolen over the years. This last remaining piece was rather… innocuous. Just a mirror. It was nothing like the razor or the comb or even the shaving cup (all of which were far more interesting and far more dangerous). He read over the file a few times before pushing it to the side. He has to wonder what was special about it. And moreso, why Gears had assigned it to him. It wasn't an immediate or serious problem, just… He looked up at the clock.</p> <p>Almost 7:00 PM already. He sighed heavily, opening his desk drawer and laying the thick, heavily bound document into it. With a stretch, he stood up, walking to the door and out into the silent hall. It was after hours in the Site19 staff offices, and there were only a few people still there. Over the last few weeks, he’d become one of those few.</p> <p>Gears wasn’t a hard taskmaster. He never gave you anything you weren’t capable of. There was just… so much of it. He was completely amazed that the man had been managing on his own for this long, much less with this level of work. It was almost… disconcerting. At times, he wondered if he was actually helping or not, but Glass had told him—in his last mandatory psychological review—that it was a normal response. He took his reassurances at face value, and continued plodding along.</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%202.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-2/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%202.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"Hey! Lament! Wait up!"</p> </div> </div> <p>“Hey! Lament!”</p> <p>He turned, smiling a little when he saw Sandlemyer waving at him. “Wait up!”</p> <p>The two of them had gotten to know each other fairly well. Djoric, who was still the other agent’s supervisor, worked mostly with written effects and mild memetics, and Sandlemyer was training in the same field. He and Sandlemyer had already worked together once on a small project when Gears hadn’t needed Lament for a couple of days. It had been… nice. He was working with someone normal and even chipper at times. It was the most relaxing two days he’d spent since he came to Site19.</p> <p>“Hey, Sandy,” he said. The Agent had taken well to the nickname Djoric had given him, and Lament occasionally wished he had as good a relationship with Gears as Sandlemyer had with the other doctor. “What’s been going on in the library?”</p> <p>Sandlemyer laughed. The library, as his office had come to be called, was just outside the holding room for every currently contained copy of <em>The Hanged King’s Tragedy</em>, and just a few doors away, dozens of other books that would rape your mind or flense your skin sat waiting for someone to look at them.</p> <p>It made for a slightly disturbing aesthetic.</p> <p>“Not much. I’ve been trying to figure out the containment on this thing…” he said.</p> <p>And it started. Their ritual. They talked to each other at length, discussing the problems that either one were having with their respective work. When Lament mentioned the mirror, Sandlemyer just shook his head and laughed. “You’re going to have to get someone actually inside the Insurgency to figure that one out…” he said, a wide smirk on his face.</p> <p>Lament just shrugged, suggested that he try setting up a telekill box—“It’s like this. If the book <em>is</em> emitting thoughts, this stuff will explode and destroy it, which is your orders, right?”—and then headed back toward his quarters.</p> <p>He walked back into his quarters—which were finally looking lived in—and nearly kicked a folder that had been slipped under his door. There was a note attached to the top of it, and Lament read it with a frown, feeling his stomach slip away as he realized that he would be awake far later than he wanted.</p> <p><em>“Chromium ineffective. Reassess.”</em></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-1">Interlude 1</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-2">Interlude 2</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="/in-his-own-image-part-2">In His Own Image: Part 2</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-2">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-2</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%202.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074425" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-2">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __February 11, 1998__: He smiled at the bald man, waving with his elbow because his hands were too full, then setting his cup on the edge of his desk. Coffee—black. He carefully balanced the other man’s drink, easing it down onto the porcelain coaster gently, then nodding to him. “Morning, Dr. Gears.” “Good morning, Agent,” he replied flatly. Lament walked to his desk, sitting down and pulling off the calendar’s top page, looking down at the next one. He grinned. “You’ll like this one, sir,” he said, just a touch of humor in his voice. “Why do physicists make terrible lovers?” Gears stared at him. “Because they can find the position, but not the velocity. Or the velocity, but not the position,” Lament grinned from ear to ear. Gears nodded. “Schrodinger, I believe.” “Yes, sir.” “Have you finished your report on 106?” Gears asked. Lament sighed. Swing and a miss. “No, sir, but I’ve got a few ideas...” he said quietly, leaning back to grab the file from his desk drawer. Gears nodded slightly. Lament pointed down at the schematic of the containment chamber. “I think we might be able to offset the corrosion if we actually suspend the cell," he started, laying it down open on his desk, pulling out his notes. "Keep it away from most surfaces. Direct contact seems to be the surest method of extensive transition, so...” And he was off. And Gears listened, expressionless as Lament rattled off the plan. Of the original bodies that they’d found, one of them was wearing a watch which had a chromium plated band, untarnished, and he thought that they might be able to line the inside of the cell with that, since it seemed to have decayed slower. Gears nodded as he finished. “And the suspension? How would we be able to manage it without direct contact with the cell?” Lament shrugged. “Magnetics?” he suggested. Gears nodded for a moment. “We’ll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, I need you to refocus your efforts. A slight conundrum for you.” “What is it, sir?” “SCP-884.” ----- __April 27, 1998__: Lament had never heard of 884, and he quickly understood why. The Foundation barely had it in custody in the ninety-odd years that it had been known. Some group called “The Chaos Insurgency”—Lament had cackled over that name—kept stealing it. He looked down at the file, tilting his head slightly at the thickness of it, sighing. “He’s got to be kidding me…” As luck would have it, the only one he needed to give a damn about was Dash-Four. The other pieces of the SCP, which had originally been a complete men’s grooming kit, had been lost, destroyed, or stolen over the years. This last remaining piece was rather… innocuous. Just a mirror. It was nothing like the razor or the comb or even the shaving cup (all of which were far more interesting and far more dangerous). He read over the file a few times before pushing it to the side. He has to wonder what was special about it. And moreso, why Gears had assigned it to him. It wasn't an immediate or serious problem, just... He looked up at the clock. Almost 7:00 PM already. He sighed heavily, opening his desk drawer and laying the thick, heavily bound document into it. With a stretch, he stood up, walking to the door and out into the silent hall. It was after hours in the Site19 staff offices, and there were only a few people still there. Over the last few weeks, he’d become one of those few. Gears wasn’t a hard taskmaster. He never gave you anything you weren’t capable of. There was just… so much of it. He was completely amazed that the man had been managing on his own for this long, much less with this level of work. It was almost… disconcerting. At times, he wondered if he was actually helping or not, but Glass had told him—in his last mandatory psychological review—that it was a normal response. He took his reassurances at face value, and continued plodding along. [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-part-2/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%202.jpg\|caption="Hey! Lament! Wait up!"]] “Hey! Lament!” He turned, smiling a little when he saw Sandlemyer waving at him. “Wait up!” The two of them had gotten to know each other fairly well. Djoric, who was still the other agent’s supervisor, worked mostly with written effects and mild memetics, and Sandlemyer was training in the same field. He and Sandlemyer had already worked together once on a small project when Gears hadn’t needed Lament for a couple of days. It had been… nice. He was working with someone normal and even chipper at times. It was the most relaxing two days he’d spent since he came to Site19. “Hey, Sandy,” he said. The Agent had taken well to the nickname Djoric had given him, and Lament occasionally wished he had as good a relationship with Gears as Sandlemyer had with the other doctor. “What’s been going on in the library?” Sandlemyer laughed. The library, as his office had come to be called, was just outside the holding room for every currently contained copy of //The Hanged King’s Tragedy//, and just a few doors away, dozens of other books that would rape your mind or flense your skin sat waiting for someone to look at them. It made for a slightly disturbing aesthetic. “Not much. I’ve been trying to figure out the containment on this thing…” he said. And it started. Their ritual. They talked to each other at length, discussing the problems that either one were having with their respective work. When Lament mentioned the mirror, Sandlemyer just shook his head and laughed. “You’re going to have to get someone actually inside the Insurgency to figure that one out…” he said, a wide smirk on his face. Lament just shrugged, suggested that he try setting up a telekill box—“It’s like this. If the book //is// emitting thoughts, this stuff will explode and destroy it, which is your orders, right?”—and then headed back toward his quarters. He walked back into his quarters—which were finally looking lived in—and nearly kicked a folder that had been slipped under his door. There was a note attached to the top of it, and Lament read it with a frown, feeling his stomach slip away as he realized that he would be awake far later than he wanted. //“Chromium ineffective. Reassess.”// ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Interlude 1\| Interlude 1]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Interlude 2\| Interlude 2]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%202.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-2 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T08:00:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "doctor-gears", "doctor-glass", "illustrated", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Part 2 - SCP Foundation	115	[ "in-his-own-image-interlude-1", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-interlude-2", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-2/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%202.jpg" ]	13827170	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-2
in-his-own-image-part-3	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">November 1, 1998</span>:</p> <p>Agent Lament noted, almost in passing, that it was All Saints Day as he tore off his calendar. He tossed the old day aside, chuckling slightly at the new one. "Scientists are all over the place in the sack," he started. "Watt did it with power, Joule did it with energy, Ohm did it with resistance, Pascal did it under pressure." He grinned.</p> <p>"All notable contributors to their fields," Gears said dryly.</p> <p>Lament nodded. He'd never heard a chuckle from across the office for the past year. Never saw a smile. People seemed to think that Gears was a robot or a cyborg or some sort of computer given human form. Lament preferred to think of him as just reserved and needing to come out of his shell a little.</p> <p>It was a damn thick shell, though…</p> <p>Lament popped his neck and looked at his inbox. Nothing too much. A couple of memos concerning some security issues that he briefly glanced over… Nothing too important. He sighed a little, shredding the ones that were marked as such, filing the others, then leaning back in his seat. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.</p> <p>"Agent?"</p> <p>Lament opened his eyes, looking at the bald doctor across his desk. That was a surprise. Normally, it was a process of file, assessment, and writing up proposals and schematics. Conversation was not something the two of them participated in. "Yes, Doctor Gears?" he asked.</p> <p>"What was your previous assignment?"</p> <p>Lament was caught a little off guard at that one. Hedge. "You should know, sir. You received my personnel file."</p> <p>"I did. Please, continue."</p> <p>Lament nodded a little. "I was at Site-29, sir," he said. "Just outside San Matteo," he added. "I was working on… well… a few… different projects…" he finished, looking back at the large, thick file on the corner of his desk. Averting his eyes and putting wording together in his head.</p> <p>"Such as?" Gears asked.</p> <p>"Classified, sir," he said, hoping there was some protection in that. He didn't want to talk about 919. About his own face screaming at him. "I'm not free to talk about them."</p> <p>Gears nodded slightly. "So are the ones you're working on with me," he said flatly. "Though the telekill box was rather ingenious."</p> <p>And that was it. A pit formed in his stomach. Lament looked back up at Gears, then down again. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But… I never shared anything above Level Two clearance, sir," he said quickly. "I'd never do anything like that…"</p> <p>"Nevertheless, Agent."</p> <p>Lament sighed, feeling thoroughly… chastened? He wasn't sure. It was the nameless feeling of having disappointed your father or mother. "Yes, sir."</p> <p>And then, he and Gears didn't say anything for the next few hours, until Lament rose from his desk to go to lunch. "Can I get you anything, sir?" he asked.</p> <p>"That will be unnecessary."</p> <p>Lament sighed, nodded, and walked out of the office, realizing how… thoroughly he must have just disappointed the man, even though he'd never show it. He wondered if a transfer was coming somewhere in his future… Would he welcome that? The Assistant Researcher position he was occupying was never something he'd wanted, nor something that he was exactly qualified for. He felt out of his element, and now, it felt worse.</p> <p>He met up with Sandlemyer shortly later, as usual. They sat together with a gaggle of other assistants; Lament was the only one at the table not wearing a white labcoat, though. Sandy had accepted his promotion to Assistant Researcher as soon as he finished his degree through South Chayanne Point University, and with a smile, he and the others started chatting openly about their current projects. Lament was almost certain that the only reason he was "allowed" to sit with them was because he was working with Gears, and the blank faced doctor seemed to be a source of fascination to the rest of them. They worked in circuits, providing what details they could, omitting what they couldn't. And then, it came to his turn. He sighed and shook his head.</p> <p>"I am currently not allowed to discuss my project load," he said, flatly and to the point. He picked up a french fry and ate it, trying to act nonchalant and feeling none of it.</p> <p>Sandy laughed, but the man sitting next to him, a researcher named Chubert, laid down his fork and looked at Lament seriously. "You know, Lament… You should probably transfer out of there, soon…" he suggested.</p> <p>Lament peered up at him. "Why?"</p> <p>It was another man down the table who agreed. "Yeah. I mean, you don't wanna be Iceberg part two," he said seriously. "And a gag order was how that one started too."</p> <p>"What?" Lament asked. Iceberg… Djoric had said something about an Iceberg…</p> <p>"Doctor Iceberg," Chubert's eyes were still locked on Lament. "Gears' old assistant. Was with him for… God… almost a decade? Eight years, at least," he said solidly. "Explosives expert when he came in. Gears recruited him to work on a couple of projects, and then he liked him or something, and he kept him around."</p> <p>Lament raised an eyebrow. "So?" he asked.</p> <p>"He worked with him day after day for years," Chubert said. "Years. Do you have any idea what working with someone like him for that long will do to you?" Chubert paused for a moment. "How long have you been with him now, Lament?" he asked.</p> <p>"Just over a year," he said.</p> <p>"Good. Next review, tell them you want a transfer."</p> <p>"They'll want to know why."</p> <p>"Then tell them you don't want to blow your brains out like the last guy did."</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>To: O5-██</p> <p>August 1, 1997</p> <p>After failure to report for his duties, I inspected the quarters of Dr. Iceberg. It was there that I found him deceased at his desk. Cause is believed to be a single gun shot wound to the roof of the mouth. The note present was confiscated and sealed, in accordance with containment procedures on SCP-███. His body was cremated the following morning, and his non-personal belongings were redistributed in accordance with Foundation procedures.</p> <p>-<em>Gears</em></p> </blockquote> <div class="scp-image-block block-left" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%203.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-3/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%203.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>It was two pages.</p> </div> </div> <p>Lament laid the file back down on top of his desk. Ten years Iceberg had worked with Gears, and now…</p> <p>He looked at the file. It was two pages. One that listed his qualifications, and the second one, a yellow, carbon paper copy of Gears' memo. This was it. This was ten years with Gears.</p> <p>He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes again, thinking. Thinking. Why hadn't he looked into this before? He wasn't qualified. He was barely qualified for the agent level work he'd been given.</p> <p>He opened his drawer and stuffed the folder into it, not wanting to think about it. Not wanting to think about anything. What secrets had Iceberg expunged with that bullet? Lament took a shallow breath, then pulled out the paperwork he'd taken from Human Resources that afternoon, looking down at it.</p> <p>He started filling out his transfer slip quickly, then folded it and stuffed it in an interoffice envelope. He dropped it in his outbox, and walked back to his quarters, his hands shaking.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-2">Interlude 2</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-3">Interlude 3</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="/in-his-own-image-part-3">In His Own Image: Part 3</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-3">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-3</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%203.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074455" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-3">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __November 1, 1998__: Agent Lament noted, almost in passing, that it was All Saints Day as he tore off his calendar. He tossed the old day aside, chuckling slightly at the new one. "Scientists are all over the place in the sack," he started. "Watt did it with power, Joule did it with energy, Ohm did it with resistance, Pascal did it under pressure." He grinned. "All notable contributors to their fields," Gears said dryly. Lament nodded. He'd never heard a chuckle from across the office for the past year. Never saw a smile. People seemed to think that Gears was a robot or a cyborg or some sort of computer given human form. Lament preferred to think of him as just reserved and needing to come out of his shell a little. It was a damn thick shell, though... Lament popped his neck and looked at his inbox. Nothing too much. A couple of memos concerning some security issues that he briefly glanced over... Nothing too important. He sighed a little, shredding the ones that were marked as such, filing the others, then leaning back in his seat. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. "Agent?" Lament opened his eyes, looking at the bald doctor across his desk. That was a surprise. Normally, it was a process of file, assessment, and writing up proposals and schematics. Conversation was not something the two of them participated in. "Yes, Doctor Gears?" he asked. "What was your previous assignment?" Lament was caught a little off guard at that one. Hedge. "You should know, sir. You received my personnel file." "I did. Please, continue." Lament nodded a little. "I was at Site-29, sir," he said. "Just outside San Matteo," he added. "I was working on... well... a few... different projects..." he finished, looking back at the large, thick file on the corner of his desk. Averting his eyes and putting wording together in his head. "Such as?" Gears asked. "Classified, sir," he said, hoping there was some protection in that. He didn't want to talk about 919. About his own face screaming at him. "I'm not free to talk about them." Gears nodded slightly. "So are the ones you're working on with me," he said flatly. "Though the telekill box was rather ingenious." And that was it. A pit formed in his stomach. Lament looked back up at Gears, then down again. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But... I never shared anything above Level Two clearance, sir," he said quickly. "I'd never do anything like that..." "Nevertheless, Agent." Lament sighed, feeling thoroughly... chastened? He wasn't sure. It was the nameless feeling of having disappointed your father or mother. "Yes, sir." And then, he and Gears didn't say anything for the next few hours, until Lament rose from his desk to go to lunch. "Can I get you anything, sir?" he asked. "That will be unnecessary." Lament sighed, nodded, and walked out of the office, realizing how... thoroughly he must have just disappointed the man, even though he'd never show it. He wondered if a transfer was coming somewhere in his future... Would he welcome that? The Assistant Researcher position he was occupying was never something he'd wanted, nor something that he was exactly qualified for. He felt out of his element, and now, it felt worse. He met up with Sandlemyer shortly later, as usual. They sat together with a gaggle of other assistants; Lament was the only one at the table not wearing a white labcoat, though. Sandy had accepted his promotion to Assistant Researcher as soon as he finished his degree through South Chayanne Point University, and with a smile, he and the others started chatting openly about their current projects. Lament was almost certain that the only reason he was "allowed" to sit with them was because he was working with Gears, and the blank faced doctor seemed to be a source of fascination to the rest of them. They worked in circuits, providing what details they could, omitting what they couldn't. And then, it came to his turn. He sighed and shook his head. "I am currently not allowed to discuss my project load," he said, flatly and to the point. He picked up a french fry and ate it, trying to act nonchalant and feeling none of it. Sandy laughed, but the man sitting next to him, a researcher named Chubert, laid down his fork and looked at Lament seriously. "You know, Lament... You should probably transfer out of there, soon..." he suggested. Lament peered up at him. "Why?" It was another man down the table who agreed. "Yeah. I mean, you don't wanna be Iceberg part two," he said seriously. "And a gag order was how that one started too." "What?" Lament asked. Iceberg... Djoric had said something about an Iceberg... "Doctor Iceberg," Chubert's eyes were still locked on Lament. "Gears' old assistant. Was with him for... God... almost a decade? Eight years, at least," he said solidly. "Explosives expert when he came in. Gears recruited him to work on a couple of projects, and then he liked him or something, and he kept him around." Lament raised an eyebrow. "So?" he asked. "He worked with him day after day for years," Chubert said. "Years. Do you have any idea what working with someone like him for that long will do to you?" Chubert paused for a moment. "How long have you been with him now, Lament?" he asked. "Just over a year," he said. "Good. Next review, tell them you want a transfer." "They'll want to know why." "Then tell them you don't want to blow your brains out like the last guy did." ----- > To: O5-██ > > August 1, 1997 > > After failure to report for his duties, I inspected the quarters of Dr. Iceberg. It was there that I found him deceased at his desk. Cause is believed to be a single gun shot wound to the roof of the mouth. The note present was confiscated and sealed, in accordance with containment procedures on SCP-███. His body was cremated the following morning, and his non-personal belongings were redistributed in accordance with Foundation procedures. > > -//Gears// [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-part-3/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%203.jpg\|caption=It was two pages.\|align=left]] Lament laid the file back down on top of his desk. Ten years Iceberg had worked with Gears, and now... He looked at the file. It was two pages. One that listed his qualifications, and the second one, a yellow, carbon paper copy of Gears' memo. This was it. This was ten years with Gears. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes again, thinking. Thinking. Why hadn't he looked into this before? He wasn't qualified. He was barely qualified for the agent level work he'd been given. He opened his drawer and stuffed the folder into it, not wanting to think about it. Not wanting to think about anything. What secrets had Iceberg expunged with that bullet? Lament took a shallow breath, then pulled out the paperwork he'd taken from Human Resources that afternoon, looking down at it. He started filling out his transfer slip quickly, then folded it and stuffed it in an interoffice envelope. He dropped it in his outbox, and walked back to his quarters, his hands shaking. ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Interlude 2\| Interlude 2]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Interlude 3\| Interlude 3]]] >> [[/=]] ~~~~~ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%203.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-3 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T16:42:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bleak", "doctor-gears", "doctor-iceberg", "illustrated", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Part 3 - SCP Foundation	122	[ "in-his-own-image-interlude-2", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-interlude-3", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-3/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%203.jpg" ]	13835416	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-3
in-his-own-image-part-4	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">November 8, 1998</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-left" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%204.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-4/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%204.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>"Denied, Agent."</p> </div> </div> <p>"Denied, Agent."</p> <p>Lament looked up at the panel of three doctors, swallowing and licking his lips slightly. "Ma'am?"</p> <p>"Denied," she repeated. He only knew two of the three doctors seated at the table: Sorts and Vang. The woman in the middle was the one talking to him now, professional and stolid.</p> <p>"Can I ask why?"</p> <p>"No," she said simply, closing the file, looking to the side slightly, away from his face. She seemed almost motherly for a moment, like she was about to tell her child that the puppy he'd loved was in Heaven now, and no, it's alright, don't cry.</p> <p>This wasn't fair. He'd followed all the correct channels. All the correct forms were filled out, everything <em>should</em> be cut and dry.</p> <p>"Can I ask who, then?" he asked.</p> <p>She didn't speak for a moment, and it was Sorts who leaned forward, piping up. "You're aware that supervisors have to approve a transfer?" he asked.</p> <p>Lament ignored the question. "I'm not qualified to be a research assistant," he countered. "It was…" He chose his words carefully. "… an unfortunate set of circumstances that landed me there to begin with. All of you know that. I don't have the degree. I don't have the credentials."</p> <p>"Jesus, son," muttered Sorts. "Will you pay attention?"</p> <p>Lament's voice finally cracked as the anger found its way into it, the placidity giving way to a harsh firmness. "Why the hell am I still here?"</p> <p>"In this… particular case, an exception was made," the woman said. "The problem of your credentials has been overlooked, as well as your training. South Cheyenne is there, if you want to finish your doctorate, and there are several groups that can aid you in meeting the qualifications."</p> <p>Frustration. Bitterness. "By <em>who</em>?"</p> <p>She sighed and looked at Lament, pushing a bang back over her ear. The motherly look was back. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. A small gavel smacked a small sounding block.</p> <p>"This panel is dismissed."</p> <hr/> <p>He hadn't cooled down when he reached his office, and it took him a while to finally step inside of it. When he did, the anger flared back, and Lament found himself simply staring at Gears for a long moment before he finally spoke, keeping the edge out of his voice just barely. "Why?"</p> <p>A placid and calm expression stared back as the doctor answered. "Your skills are more than sufficient for the work we've been doing, Agent."</p> <p>"That's not what I <em>mean</em>, damnit!" he said, turning away even as he did, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see his face, content to imagine the disappointment and contrition that he knew would not be there. "You know what I mean."</p> <p>Gears was silent for a moment. "You were a stop gap," he said flatly. "After Doctor Iceberg's incident—"</p> <p>"Suicide."</p> <p>"—incident, I needed someone who could pick up where he left off, which was the containment of SCP-106. That has been and will continue to be my primary concern. Containment is your specialization. Once we have arrived at a solution, if you still wish to transfer, then I will not deny it."</p> <p>Lament sat there, taking slow, deep breaths. He didn't know what he should have expected. What he was expecting. Logic and straightforwardness were not always the things he received in these situations.</p> <p>"All right," Lament said, the tightness in his chest still not abating.</p> <p>"Do you work well with Assistant Researcher Sandlemyer?" Gears asked.</p> <p>That… That was an unexpected question. "He's my best friend, sir," Lament admitted. No sense in lying.</p> <p>"Do you work well with him?" Gears asked again.</p> <p>"Yes," Lament said with a sigh, wondering where this was going. "Before your gag order, I discussed several of my projects with him."</p> <p>"Very well," replied Gears. "I will inform Dr. Djoric that he will be assisting us with 106 for the next two weeks. Please update him fully at your earliest convenience."</p> <p>"I… Yes, sir," Lament mumbled, surprise sapping articulation.</p> <p>"You're dismissed, Agent. Enjoy your day off."</p> <hr/> <p>"I dunno…" Lament said, talking quietly over a cup of coffee in Sandlemyer's office. "I think he's trying to make me happy or something…" he suggested.</p> <p>"I didn't think he was the kind of person to care," Sandy replied, laughing softly.</p> <p>Lament looked up at the other man. "He's not like that," he said. "He's not… mechanical or robotic or… He's just…" He paused for a long moment. "Cold," he finished.</p> <p>Sandy shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I've got no specialization in containment, man. And I'm not sure why he's dragging me on board or what he expects me to do."</p> <p>Lament shrugged. "Me neither…"</p> <p>He looked around the room at all the various shelves filled haphazardly with files, books, and papers. The low watt, incandescent bulbs. This office felt homey. Comfortable. Lived in. It felt… good.</p> <p>"I'll see you in the morning, Sandy," Lament said, setting down the cup on the table.</p> <p>"Seeya, Lament. Hey! This'll be fun, right? Like when you were over here with us for a few weeks."</p> <p>"Yeah," Lament said. "Sure." He just wished he could believe it.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-3">Interlude 3</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-4">Interlude 4</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="/in-his-own-image-part-4">In His Own Image: Part 4</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-4">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-4</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%204.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074477" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-4">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __November 8, 1998__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%204.jpg\|caption="Denied, Agent."\|align=left]] "Denied, Agent." Lament looked up at the panel of three doctors, swallowing and licking his lips slightly. "Ma'am?" "Denied," she repeated. He only knew two of the three doctors seated at the table: Sorts and Vang. The woman in the middle was the one talking to him now, professional and stolid. "Can I ask why?" "No," she said simply, closing the file, looking to the side slightly, away from his face. She seemed almost motherly for a moment, like she was about to tell her child that the puppy he'd loved was in Heaven now, and no, it's alright, don't cry. This wasn't fair. He'd followed all the correct channels. All the correct forms were filled out, everything //should// be cut and dry. "Can I ask who, then?" he asked. She didn't speak for a moment, and it was Sorts who leaned forward, piping up. "You're aware that supervisors have to approve a transfer?" he asked. Lament ignored the question. "I'm not qualified to be a research assistant," he countered. "It was..." He chose his words carefully. "... an unfortunate set of circumstances that landed me there to begin with. All of you know that. I don't have the degree. I don't have the credentials." "Jesus, son," muttered Sorts. "Will you pay attention?" Lament's voice finally cracked as the anger found its way into it, the placidity giving way to a harsh firmness. "Why the hell am I still here?" "In this... particular case, an exception was made," the woman said. "The problem of your credentials has been overlooked, as well as your training. South Cheyenne is there, if you want to finish your doctorate, and there are several groups that can aid you in meeting the qualifications." Frustration. Bitterness. "By //who//?" She sighed and looked at Lament, pushing a bang back over her ear. The motherly look was back. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. A small gavel smacked a small sounding block. "This panel is dismissed." ----- He hadn't cooled down when he reached his office, and it took him a while to finally step inside of it. When he did, the anger flared back, and Lament found himself simply staring at Gears for a long moment before he finally spoke, keeping the edge out of his voice just barely. "Why?" A placid and calm expression stared back as the doctor answered. "Your skills are more than sufficient for the work we've been doing, Agent." "That's not what I //mean//, damnit!" he said, turning away even as he did, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see his face, content to imagine the disappointment and contrition that he knew would not be there. "You know what I mean." Gears was silent for a moment. "You were a stop gap," he said flatly. "After Doctor Iceberg's incident—" "Suicide." "—incident, I needed someone who could pick up where he left off, which was the containment of SCP-106. That has been and will continue to be my primary concern. Containment is your specialization. Once we have arrived at a solution, if you still wish to transfer, then I will not deny it." Lament sat there, taking slow, deep breaths. He didn't know what he should have expected. What he was expecting. Logic and straightforwardness were not always the things he received in these situations. "All right," Lament said, the tightness in his chest still not abating. "Do you work well with Assistant Researcher Sandlemyer?" Gears asked. That... That was an unexpected question. "He's my best friend, sir," Lament admitted. No sense in lying. "Do you work well with him?" Gears asked again. "Yes," Lament said with a sigh, wondering where this was going. "Before your gag order, I discussed several of my projects with him." "Very well," replied Gears. "I will inform Dr. Djoric that he will be assisting us with 106 for the next two weeks. Please update him fully at your earliest convenience." "I... Yes, sir," Lament mumbled, surprise sapping articulation. "You're dismissed, Agent. Enjoy your day off." ----- "I dunno..." Lament said, talking quietly over a cup of coffee in Sandlemyer's office. "I think he's trying to make me happy or something..." he suggested. "I didn't think he was the kind of person to care," Sandy replied, laughing softly. Lament looked up at the other man. "He's not like that," he said. "He's not... mechanical or robotic or... He's just..." He paused for a long moment. "Cold," he finished. Sandy shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I've got no specialization in containment, man. And I'm not sure why he's dragging me on board or what he expects me to do." Lament shrugged. "Me neither..." He looked around the room at all the various shelves filled haphazardly with files, books, and papers. The low watt, incandescent bulbs. This office felt homey. Comfortable. Lived in. It felt... good. "I'll see you in the morning, Sandy," Lament said, setting down the cup on the table. "Seeya, Lament. Hey! This'll be fun, right? Like when you were over here with us for a few weeks." "Yeah," Lament said. "Sure." He just wished he could believe it. ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Interlude 3\| Interlude 3]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Interlude 4\| Interlude 4]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%204.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-4 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-19T20:40:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bureaucracy", "doctor-gears", "doctor-iceberg", "doctor-sorts", "doctor-vang", "illustrated", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Part 4 - SCP Foundation	118	[ "in-his-own-image-interlude-3", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-interlude-4", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-4/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%204.jpg" ]	13836403	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-4
in-his-own-image-part-5	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">November 26, 1998</span>:</p> <p>Lament frowned at the glass, looking at the hovering box beyond it with some odd mixture of reverence and fear. It was… disturbing… to see it for the first time. He wasn’t part of the crew of soldiers who risked their lives for it on a daily basis. He wasn’t even one of the primary researchers assigned to the project. He was just the guy trying to keep them safe. Trying and failing, currently.</p> <p>“The magnetic fields are working, but the corrosion is still spreading. It's like mold… We thought we had him locked up until he ate Grange last night,” the researcher said. The speakers made an odd whining sound, and Lament winced, losing his thought. Thankfully.</p> <p>"How'd he manage that?" It was Sandlemyer who spoke. "I thought we had all the same safety protocols still in place on this thing."</p> <p>The researcher shrugged a little. "We lose one or two people every coupla weeks with this thing. Regardless…"</p> <p>Lament frowned, a pit forming quickly in his stomach. Failure didn't feel good, no matter how expected or anticipated it was. Especially when dealing with the deaths of fellow agents. He knew 106 was going to be a problem, but he didn't realize how much of one.</p> <p>The speakers made another loud, mind crippling screech, sounding like painfully loud feedback. "Damn," Lament muttered, covering his ears.</p> <p>"Eh. They go on the fritz all the time," the researcher continued. "We try to replace them, but it doesn't seem to do any goo— "</p> <p>The alarms suddenly blaring made Lament glad that he'd covered his ears a moment before. He turned, looking at one of the screens. "The repulsors are going down!" he shouted. "Evacuate!"</p> <p>But the researcher was already yelling into the microphone. The order went out, just as Sandlemyer reached over and flipped off the alarms in the booth, all three men turning to look out the window as the huge, rotting metal box fell the bottom of the containment chamber, cracking open.</p> <p>The speakers whined again, loudly for a moment, then cut out. And a low, dark, broken laugh slowly filled the silence.</p> <p>"He. He. He. He. Hee…"</p> <hr/> <p>When he was finally able to look back on the day without some sort of breakdown, Lament was certain the reports were wrong. That the hours and hours he felt couldn't have been minutes. That the door to that containment unit should not have been open. That the entire thing couldn't have been orchestrated just to fuck with him. But the mouse never really understands the true motivations of the cat.</p> <p>Sometimes it's hungry. Sometimes, it just wants to play.</p> <hr/> <p>Lament pivoted quickly, running as fast as he could, Sandlemyer quickly on his heels. He was breathing hard, painfully hard, his chest close to bursting as he looked desperately for any point of escape. The alarms were blaring, guns firing at walls, at nothing, at everything.</p> <p>An explosion behind him had the floor shaking hard enough that he fell. In a moment, Sandlemyer's arm closed around his arm, dragging Lament back to his feet and sending both of them down a narrow straightaway.</p> <p>"He. He. He. He. Hee."</p> <p>It was coming over the speakers everywhere now, echoing against his teeth and shaking his jaw. "Jesus Christ," Sandy muttered, panting and out of breath as he looked over his shoulder. "Fuck. It's coming this way Lament. It's coming this way!"</p> <p>He didn't bother looking back. Training was kicking in, and he was running. There were no people who survived exposure to 106. At least, none who survived for long. The straightaway ended in a dark doorway, and as Lament stepped into it, he pulled out his revolver and fired two shots down the hall at the advancing 'man,' prompting another of those broken, painful to hear laughs. "He. He. He. He. Hee."</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%205.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-5/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%205.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>He. <em>He</em>. He. Heee. Hehe… He.</p> </div> </div> <p>"God damn it," Lament muttered. "Get in, Sandy," he ordered. "Jesus, just get into the damn room!"</p> <p>Sandlemyer dashed in first, followed by Lament, who turned, pawing desperately for a light switch for a moment, then feeling cold metal slap under his hand. Cold metal that felt rounded and damp. Pipes. And next to it, another. Sandlemyer's flashlight blazed to life, and Lament immediately recognized where they were at.</p> <p>"Oh fuck."</p> <p>The pipes. Gears had mentioned them as a plausible, future containment issue, but he hadn't realized…</p> <p>They twisted and turned on each other, coining one about the other. It wasn't as he'd imagined it—strict, orderly plumbing—but instead a roving cephalopod nightmare. "Look for the widest opening," he ordered quickly, slapping the door control and backing away from it as the metal started to blacken and rot.</p> <p>"Go… Go!" he shouted.</p> <p>He knew there were more entrances and exits within the mass. You just had to find them. Find them and desperately hope. They were both running again, the flashlight jerking along, jumping and shaking as they fled the terrible, old man.</p> <p>"Hee. He. He. He. Hee."</p> <p>They ran for hours, panting. And it always sounded closer. Closer and closer to them. At one point, Lament thought he felt something graze the sleeve of his jacket, and the mere possibility of 106 sent adrenaline rushing through his body. Every time it seemed to burn out, there was something else. A laugh. A scent of rot. Eyes in the dark.</p> <p>Again and again. Pursuing. Chasing.</p> <p>And then, they finally spotted another source of light. One of the Foundation floodlamps that were always placed near the other exits.</p> <p>They both ran toward it, lungs burning as Lament hurried to the door panel, typing in his emergency code.</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>He stared at it. Then entered it again.</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>"He. He. Hee. He. Hee."</p> <p>"Lament… Lament, what is the fucking problem?!"</p> <p>"It's not opening!"</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>"Hee. Hee. He. Hee. He."</p> <p>He felt like crying. He entered it again and again, slapping the buttons harder and harder each time. "You son of a bitch. Open you son of a bitch!"</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>He felt it more than he saw it. It was an oppressive feeling, like someone standing right behind you, breathing down your neck. Someone with a knife, or a gun, or claws, someone who would hurt you, kill you, cut you, and laugh while they did it.</p> <p>"Hee. He. He. Hee. He."</p> <p>He turned. He looked at it. Moldy, rotten skin. Sunken, dead eyes. Yellowed, broken teeth. Lank, greasy hair fell around the sides of its head.</p> <p>It took a step forward.</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>"God damn you."</p> <p>Another.</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>Lament turned and emptied the rest of the shells into its head to no effect. "He. Hee. He. Hee. He."</p> <p>"Jesus… Oh Jesus, we're gonna die…" Sandlemyer panted.</p> <p>Denied</p> <p>It was in arms reach as Lament, tears running down his face, slammed the keys a final time.</p> <p>And the door opened.</p> <p>He was through it in a second, into the exit chamber, looking back. "Sandy!"</p> <p>106's hand closed on the back of Sandlemyer's neck as he turned and stepped through the door, squeezing for a moment. Sandlemyer's hand shot out to Lament, reaching for him, begging for help, but as Lament dove for it, 106 was pulling him away, pulling him into the recesses of the pipes, into hell and damnation.</p> <p>Lament raised his gun, took quick aim at Sandlemyer, and did what he hoped any other agent would do for him in a similar situation. He pulled the trigger.</p> <p>The hammer fell on the empty cartridge with a hollow click. And then they were both gone, and Lament was staggering back against the wall, sliding down it, staring into the mass of pipes.</p> <p>When they found him, it had been seven minutes since 106 had breached containment.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-4">Interlude 4</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-5">Interlude 5</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="/in-his-own-image-part-5">In His Own Image: Part 5</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-5">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-5</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%205.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074498" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-5">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __November 26, 1998__: Lament frowned at the glass, looking at the hovering box beyond it with some odd mixture of reverence and fear. It was… disturbing… to see it for the first time. He wasn’t part of the crew of soldiers who risked their lives for it on a daily basis. He wasn’t even one of the primary researchers assigned to the project. He was just the guy trying to keep them safe. Trying and failing, currently. “The magnetic fields are working, but the corrosion is still spreading. It's like mold... We thought we had him locked up until he ate Grange last night,” the researcher said. The speakers made an odd whining sound, and Lament winced, losing his thought. Thankfully. "How'd he manage that?" It was Sandlemyer who spoke. "I thought we had all the same safety protocols still in place on this thing." The researcher shrugged a little. "We lose one or two people every coupla weeks with this thing. Regardless..." Lament frowned, a pit forming quickly in his stomach. Failure didn't feel good, no matter how expected or anticipated it was. Especially when dealing with the deaths of fellow agents. He knew 106 was going to be a problem, but he didn't realize how much of one. The speakers made another loud, mind crippling screech, sounding like painfully loud feedback. "Damn," Lament muttered, covering his ears. "Eh. They go on the fritz all the time," the researcher continued. "We try to replace them, but it doesn't seem to do any goo-- " The alarms suddenly blaring made Lament glad that he'd covered his ears a moment before. He turned, looking at one of the screens. "The repulsors are going down!" he shouted. "Evacuate!" But the researcher was already yelling into the microphone. The order went out, just as Sandlemyer reached over and flipped off the alarms in the booth, all three men turning to look out the window as the huge, rotting metal box fell the bottom of the containment chamber, cracking open. The speakers whined again, loudly for a moment, then cut out. And a low, dark, broken laugh slowly filled the silence. "He. He. He. He. Hee..." ----- When he was finally able to look back on the day without some sort of breakdown, Lament was certain the reports were wrong. That the hours and hours he felt couldn't have been minutes. That the door to that containment unit should not have been open. That the entire thing couldn't have been orchestrated just to fuck with him. But the mouse never really understands the true motivations of the cat. Sometimes it's hungry. Sometimes, it just wants to play. ----- Lament pivoted quickly, running as fast as he could, Sandlemyer quickly on his heels. He was breathing hard, painfully hard, his chest close to bursting as he looked desperately for any point of escape. The alarms were blaring, guns firing at walls, at nothing, at everything. An explosion behind him had the floor shaking hard enough that he fell. In a moment, Sandlemyer's arm closed around his arm, dragging Lament back to his feet and sending both of them down a narrow straightaway. "He. He. He. He. Hee." It was coming over the speakers everywhere now, echoing against his teeth and shaking his jaw. "Jesus Christ," Sandy muttered, panting and out of breath as he looked over his shoulder. "Fuck. It's coming this way Lament. It's coming this way!" He didn't bother looking back. Training was kicking in, and he was running. There were no people who survived exposure to 106. At least, none who survived for long. The straightaway ended in a dark doorway, and as Lament stepped into it, he pulled out his revolver and fired two shots down the hall at the advancing 'man,' prompting another of those broken, painful to hear laughs. "He. He. He. He. Hee." [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-part-5/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%205.jpg\|caption=He. //He//. He. Heee. Hehe... He.]] "God damn it," Lament muttered. "Get in, Sandy," he ordered. "Jesus, just get into the damn room!" Sandlemyer dashed in first, followed by Lament, who turned, pawing desperately for a light switch for a moment, then feeling cold metal slap under his hand. Cold metal that felt rounded and damp. Pipes. And next to it, another. Sandlemyer's flashlight blazed to life, and Lament immediately recognized where they were at. "Oh fuck." The pipes. Gears had mentioned them as a plausible, future containment issue, but he hadn't realized... They twisted and turned on each other, coining one about the other. It wasn't as he'd imagined it—strict, orderly plumbing—but instead a roving cephalopod nightmare. "Look for the widest opening," he ordered quickly, slapping the door control and backing away from it as the metal started to blacken and rot. "Go... Go!" he shouted. He knew there were more entrances and exits within the mass. You just had to find them. Find them and desperately hope. They were both running again, the flashlight jerking along, jumping and shaking as they fled the terrible, old man. "Hee. He. He. He. Hee." They ran for hours, panting. And it always sounded closer. Closer and closer to them. At one point, Lament thought he felt something graze the sleeve of his jacket, and the mere possibility of 106 sent adrenaline rushing through his body. Every time it seemed to burn out, there was something else. A laugh. A scent of rot. Eyes in the dark. Again and again. Pursuing. Chasing. And then, they finally spotted another source of light. One of the Foundation floodlamps that were always placed near the other exits. They both ran toward it, lungs burning as Lament hurried to the door panel, typing in his emergency code. Denied He stared at it. Then entered it again. Denied "He. He. Hee. He. Hee." "Lament... Lament, what is the fucking problem?!" "It's not opening!" Denied "Hee. Hee. He. Hee. He." He felt like crying. He entered it again and again, slapping the buttons harder and harder each time. "You son of a bitch. Open you son of a bitch!" Denied He felt it more than he saw it. It was an oppressive feeling, like someone standing right behind you, breathing down your neck. Someone with a knife, or a gun, or claws, someone who would hurt you, kill you, cut you, and laugh while they did it. "Hee. He. He. Hee. He." He turned. He looked at it. Moldy, rotten skin. Sunken, dead eyes. Yellowed, broken teeth. Lank, greasy hair fell around the sides of its head. It took a step forward. Denied "God damn you." Another. Denied Lament turned and emptied the rest of the shells into its head to no effect. "He. Hee. He. Hee. He." "Jesus... Oh Jesus, we're gonna die..." Sandlemyer panted. Denied It was in arms reach as Lament, tears running down his face, slammed the keys a final time. And the door opened. He was through it in a second, into the exit chamber, looking back. "Sandy!" 106's hand closed on the back of Sandlemyer's neck as he turned and stepped through the door, squeezing for a moment. Sandlemyer's hand shot out to Lament, reaching for him, begging for help, but as Lament dove for it, 106 was pulling him away, pulling him into the recesses of the pipes, into hell and damnation. Lament raised his gun, took quick aim at Sandlemyer, and did what he hoped any other agent would do for him in a similar situation. He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on the empty cartridge with a hollow click. And then they were both gone, and Lament was staggering back against the wall, sliding down it, staring into the mass of pipes. When they found him, it had been seven minutes since 106 had breached containment. ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Interlude 4\| Interlude 4]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Interlude 5\| Interlude 5]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%205.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-5 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-20T01:38:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "action", "agent-lament", "bleak", "doctor-gears", "horror", "illustrated", "tale", "the-old-man" ]	In His Own Image: Part 5 - SCP Foundation	145	[ "in-his-own-image-interlude-4", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-interlude-5", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-5/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%205.jpg" ]	13837409	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-5
in-his-own-image-part-6	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">November 27, 1998</span>:</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%206.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-6/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%206.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>It was all in his head.</p> </div> </div> <p>Lament sat on the floor of the medical ward, leaning against the wall. He was rubbing both of his arms for a moment, until he realized what he was doing and stopped. It was an awkward moment, looking around, seeing all the legitimately injured people and then realizing that he didn’t have any real right to be here. And with all the doctors running around attending to burns, wounds, and various exposures…</p> <p>He pushed himself up, walking as smoothly as he could from the room and into the hall, maneuvering around more injured people and bed, finally making his way out into open hallway. He wasn’t sure where he was at, but a lot of Site-19 looked the same. He just picked a direction and started walking in it.</p> <p>Once, he was almost certain that he’d heard 106 laughing, but as he turned to look at the empty wall the sound had issued from, it was clean and unmarred.</p> <p>All evidence from the recovery group that had found Sandlemyer suggested that 106 had somehow gotten itself caught in 015, tangled in the pipes somehow, screaming bloody murder. It would hold the damned thing. Seal it. Maybe eat it like it ate other people. And he'd write up a file. Give it to Gears. Walk away from this. Walk away from this hell that he'd found himself in. And for some reason, knowing that—finally—he had found a way to contain the damned thing was more of a comfort than anything else at the moment.</p> <p>He looked at the wall again when he thought he heard the laugh a second time. He stepped closer and ran his fingers of it, then stepped back again.</p> <p>In his head. It was all in his head.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">November 29, 1998</span>:</p> <p>“What do you mean it was ‘playing’?”</p> <p>Gears expressionless face betrayed neither pity nor concern. “It was playing with us, Agent. Cat and mouse."</p> <p>Lament swallowed. “So… 015…?”</p> <p>“The Overseers would never have allowed such a program to exist long term, Agent Lament, even if it had worked,” Gears continued flatly. “As it is, the men putting the next level of containment in place were attacked and utilized by 106 with—”</p> <p>“Utilized?” Lament laughed. Laughing was all he could do, at the moment. He was inches from hysteria. That voice the night before. That mocking laugh as he walked down the hall… Had that been him? Had he been ‘playing’ again? 'Utilized.' It consumed. It devoured.</p> <p>And it apparently played.</p> <p>Gears waited patiently for him to stop. "The men putting the next level of your containment plan in place were attacked and utilized by 106. Three dead on the scene. Four more deceased over the next week from the initial attack. Another twe—"</p> <p>"Please stop," Lament said, closing his eyes tightly. He leaned against his desk, gripping the top of it tightly, not letting go.</p> <p>He was close to breaking when he felt Gears’ hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Glass informed me that you’ve not been in for your quarterly psychological evaluation.”</p> <p>Lament looked up. Gears was right. Lament hadn’t been in for it yet. It had been scheduled for the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, and he’d had other things on his mind that day. This was Foundation compassion, then?</p> <p>“No, sir, I haven’t,” he answered.</p> <p>“I’ve scheduled your appointment for this morning,” Gears said emotionlessly.</p> <p>Lament’s fingers drummed for an instant on his desk, and while he didn’t necessarily want to go, he couldn’t think of any other excuse to get away from Gears for the morning. And getting away from Gears was exactly what he needed at the moment.</p> <hr/> <p>“It’s a natural urge,” Glass said. “Everyone is afraid at times. This is the way the Foundation helps its people deal with fear.”</p> <p>“I’m not taking them,” Lament said, staring down the doctor. He'd met with Glass many times in the past. Quarterly psych evaluations, voluntary sessions.</p> <p>"Lament, you can’t just… ignore this," Glass continued. "These policies and practices were developed by people with far more experience than either of us. Sometimes, you just… need to forget."</p> <p>“I don’t want to forget.” How many times has the doctor heard that same response?</p> <p>“Why would you not want to forget watching your friend being devoured by a supernatural… thing?” asked Glass. "You saw him when they got him out. You know he was still alive for a few <em>hours</em> after that, Lament. Why would you want to remember him like that?"</p> <p>“Because he was my friend.” How many people had he gotten to do this before me?</p> <p>“You don’t have to forget him. Dozens of people ‘transfer’ out at the last moment, Lament. Take a Class-B. Forget the last couple of days. If you hold onto this too long, then when you finally get rid of it, you’ll have to get rid of him entirely.”</p> <p>Days? Lament frowned. For a moment, he turned his mind backwards, trying to remember something… Blindly reaching into gray. “Doctor… Can I ask you something? Something about those pills?”</p> <p>Glass nodded. “Of course.”</p> <p>“Which one did I take when I joined?” he asked. “When you all erased my family.”</p> <p>Glass’s hand tensed on the arm of the chair for a moment, and then relaxed. Lament actually found himself admiring the man when his voice came out even. He'd either not known or had forgotten.</p> <p>“You were conscripted?” Glass asked.</p> <p>He hadn't known?</p> <p>“Yeah," Lament said.</p> <p>A moment. “That would have been a Class-A,” said Glass.</p> <p>“And is there a cure for these things?” Lament asked. He kept his voice conversational, but there was hope there. Hope for parents he couldn't remember and a dozen friends or colleagues he wasn't sure he'd ever had.</p> <p>“Occasionally,” Glass said. “Sometimes, they don’t take. Something inside your brain refuses to accept it. Those are rare cases, though.”</p> <p>And… that. Only stress and a touch of bitterness was present in Lament's voice now. “But nothing after the memory is gone?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>Lament drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair for a moment. “Then I’m not taking them.”</p> <p>“It’s your choice, Agent. But I wish you’d reconsider.”</p> <p>“Stick ‘em up your ass,” Lament said. “See you in three months, Doc.”</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-5">Interlude 5</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-6">Interlude 6</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="/in-his-own-image-part-6">In His Own Image: Part 6</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-6">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-6</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%206.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074521" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-6">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __November 27, 1998__: [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-part-6/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%206.jpg\|caption=It was all in his head.]] Lament sat on the floor of the medical ward, leaning against the wall. He was rubbing both of his arms for a moment, until he realized what he was doing and stopped. It was an awkward moment, looking around, seeing all the legitimately injured people and then realizing that he didn’t have any real right to be here. And with all the doctors running around attending to burns, wounds, and various exposures... He pushed himself up, walking as smoothly as he could from the room and into the hall, maneuvering around more injured people and bed, finally making his way out into open hallway. He wasn’t sure where he was at, but a lot of Site-19 looked the same. He just picked a direction and started walking in it. Once, he was almost certain that he’d heard 106 laughing, but as he turned to look at the empty wall the sound had issued from, it was clean and unmarred. All evidence from the recovery group that had found Sandlemyer suggested that 106 had somehow gotten itself caught in 015, tangled in the pipes somehow, screaming bloody murder. It would hold the damned thing. Seal it. Maybe eat it like it ate other people. And he'd write up a file. Give it to Gears. Walk away from this. Walk away from this hell that he'd found himself in. And for some reason, knowing that—finally—he had found a way to contain the damned thing was more of a comfort than anything else at the moment. He looked at the wall again when he thought he heard the laugh a second time. He stepped closer and ran his fingers of it, then stepped back again. In his head. It was all in his head. ----- __November 29, 1998__: “What do you mean it was ‘playing’?” Gears expressionless face betrayed neither pity nor concern. “It was playing with us, Agent. Cat and mouse." Lament swallowed. “So… 015…?” “The Overseers would never have allowed such a program to exist long term, Agent Lament, even if it had worked,” Gears continued flatly. “As it is, the men putting the next level of containment in place were attacked and utilized by 106 with—” “Utilized?” Lament laughed. Laughing was all he could do, at the moment. He was inches from hysteria. That voice the night before. That mocking laugh as he walked down the hall… Had that been him? Had he been ‘playing’ again? 'Utilized.' It consumed. It devoured. And it apparently played. Gears waited patiently for him to stop. "The men putting the next level of your containment plan in place were attacked and utilized by 106. Three dead on the scene. Four more deceased over the next week from the initial attack. Another twe—" "Please stop," Lament said, closing his eyes tightly. He leaned against his desk, gripping the top of it tightly, not letting go. He was close to breaking when he felt Gears’ hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Glass informed me that you’ve not been in for your quarterly psychological evaluation.” Lament looked up. Gears was right. Lament hadn’t been in for it yet. It had been scheduled for the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, and he’d had other things on his mind that day. This was Foundation compassion, then? “No, sir, I haven’t,” he answered. “I’ve scheduled your appointment for this morning,” Gears said emotionlessly. Lament’s fingers drummed for an instant on his desk, and while he didn’t necessarily want to go, he couldn’t think of any other excuse to get away from Gears for the morning. And getting away from Gears was exactly what he needed at the moment. ----- “It’s a natural urge,” Glass said. “Everyone is afraid at times. This is the way the Foundation helps its people deal with fear.” “I’m not taking them,” Lament said, staring down the doctor. He'd met with Glass many times in the past. Quarterly psych evaluations, voluntary sessions. "Lament, you can’t just... ignore this," Glass continued. "These policies and practices were developed by people with far more experience than either of us. Sometimes, you just… need to forget." “I don’t want to forget.” How many times has the doctor heard that same response? “Why would you not want to forget watching your friend being devoured by a supernatural... thing?” asked Glass. "You saw him when they got him out. You know he was still alive for a few //hours// after that, Lament. Why would you want to remember him like that?" “Because he was my friend.” How many people had he gotten to do this before me? “You don’t have to forget him. Dozens of people ‘transfer’ out at the last moment, Lament. Take a Class-B. Forget the last couple of days. If you hold onto this too long, then when you finally get rid of it, you’ll have to get rid of him entirely.” Days? Lament frowned. For a moment, he turned his mind backwards, trying to remember something... Blindly reaching into gray. “Doctor... Can I ask you something? Something about those pills?” Glass nodded. “Of course.” “Which one did I take when I joined?” he asked. “When you all erased my family.” Glass’s hand tensed on the arm of the chair for a moment, and then relaxed. Lament actually found himself admiring the man when his voice came out even. He'd either not known or had forgotten. “You were conscripted?” Glass asked. He hadn't known? “Yeah," Lament said. A moment. “That would have been a Class-A,” said Glass. “And is there a cure for these things?” Lament asked. He kept his voice conversational, but there was hope there. Hope for parents he couldn't remember and a dozen friends or colleagues he wasn't sure he'd ever had. “Occasionally,” Glass said. “Sometimes, they don’t take. Something inside your brain refuses to accept it. Those are rare cases, though.” And... that. Only stress and a touch of bitterness was present in Lament's voice now. “But nothing after the memory is gone?” “No.” Lament drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair for a moment. “Then I’m not taking them.” “It’s your choice, Agent. But I wish you’d reconsider.” “Stick ‘em up your ass,” Lament said. “See you in three months, Doc.” ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Interlude 5\| Interlude 5]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Interlude 6\| Interlude 6]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%206.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-6 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-20T06:13:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "bleak", "doctor-gears", "doctor-glass", "illustrated", "tale", "the-old-man" ]	In His Own Image: Part 6 - SCP Foundation	112	[ "in-his-own-image-interlude-5", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-interlude-6", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "like-clockwork-hub", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-6/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%206.jpg" ]	13838696	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-6
in-his-own-image-part-7	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">December 22, 1998</span>:</p> <p>Lament leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and reaching for his sandwich, taking a bite. Lunch had become a private affair, especially after he learned that everyone else had chosen to take the pills. He'd included a picture of Sandlemyer's corpse—a body that in no way reflected the man who had once been—in the file for 106, setting the heavy document on the corner of his desk.</p> <p>He turned his attention to 884 for a moment, glimpsing over it again and sighing, thinking back to what Sandy had said. 'Get someone inside the Insurgency…' Why the hell not? Anything was worth a try at this point.</p> <p>He sighed and reached for his phone, dialing the number and rubbing at the bridge of his nose.</p> <p>"Hello? Agent Strelnikov?" he asked. "I'm not sure if you remember me. Lament. We met on my first day." A pause. "Yeah, Gears' kid. I was looking for someone for a possible assignment. Deep cover." Annoyed Russian from the other end of the phone. "I know, but you're the only person I know over there, so I figured you'd know who to bother about it…"</p> <hr/> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="/scp-884#IHOI">August 10, 2007</a></span>:</p> <p>A smirk was worming its way over Lament's lips as he closed the file, leaning back in his chair, laughing quietly to himself. There was no one else to laugh to, after all. He looked over at Gears, hoping that the other would ask him what he was so pleased about, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping, then leaning forward, staring at him until the doctor raised his head and looked at him.</p> <p>"Yes, Agent?"</p> <p>"884… is closed."</p> <p>He leaned back again, arms behind his head.</p> <p>"Congratulations," Gears said.</p> <p>"Thank you," replied Lament.</p> <p>There would be no praise, nor would there be any accolades. Your feelings of reward in the Foundation were the ones you made for yourself. Doing your job, and doing it well, meant one of two things: you lived or someone else did. That was enough.</p> <p>It had to be.</p> <p>"Would you like half of my sandwich, sir?" Lament asked.</p> <p>"No, thank you, Agent."</p> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%207.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-7/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%207.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>Lunch?</p> </div> </div> <p>Lament nodded, taking the plastic wrapped, perpetually dry roast beef out of the brown bag on his desk. "Then if you'll excuse me, I think I might take it in the atrium. It's nearly time for Sophie's lunch break…"</p> <p>Gears nodded. "Tell Dr. Light I need her report on SCP-371, when she's finished."</p> <p>"I will, sir."</p> <p>Lament stood, walking toward the door when Gears spoke. "And Agent?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir?"</p> <p>Gears stared at him for a moment. It stretched past comfort into awkwardness, and Lament found it necessary to cough, then repeat. "Yes, sir?"</p> <p>"Good work."</p> <p>The awkwardness became palpable.</p> <p>"Thank you, sir."</p> <p>Gears nodded once, and Lament— feeling an emotion he could not put into words— left the office. When he got to the atrium, he stole a kiss from Light's cheek, took the obligatory punch in the arm, and then shared the lackluster sandwich with her.</p> <p>All in all, he considered it a good day.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-his-own-image-interlude-6">Interlude 6</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image">HUB</a> \| <a href="/in-his-own-image-epilogue">Epilogue</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="/in-his-own-image-part-7">In His Own Image: Part 7</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-7">https://scpwiki.com/in-his-own-image-part-7</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> In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%207.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;"><img alt="SunnyClockwork" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1621343&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728074543" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1621343)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/sunnyclockwork" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1621343); return false;">SunnyClockwork</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-7">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __December 22, 1998__: Lament leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and reaching for his sandwich, taking a bite. Lunch had become a private affair, especially after he learned that everyone else had chosen to take the pills. He'd included a picture of Sandlemyer's corpse—a body that in no way reflected the man who had once been—in the file for 106, setting the heavy document on the corner of his desk. He turned his attention to 884 for a moment, glimpsing over it again and sighing, thinking back to what Sandy had said. 'Get someone inside the Insurgency...' Why the hell not? Anything was worth a try at this point. He sighed and reached for his phone, dialing the number and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Hello? Agent Strelnikov?" he asked. "I'm not sure if you remember me. Lament. We met on my first day." A pause. "Yeah, Gears' kid. I was looking for someone for a possible assignment. Deep cover." Annoyed Russian from the other end of the phone. "I know, but you're the only person I know over there, so I figured you'd know who to bother about it..." ----- __[/scp-884#IHOI August 10, 2007]__: A smirk was worming its way over Lament's lips as he closed the file, leaning back in his chair, laughing quietly to himself. There was no one else to laugh to, after all. He looked over at Gears, hoping that the other would ask him what he was so pleased about, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping, then leaning forward, staring at him until the doctor raised his head and looked at him. "Yes, Agent?" "884... is closed." He leaned back again, arms behind his head. "Congratulations," Gears said. "Thank you," replied Lament. There would be no praise, nor would there be any accolades. Your feelings of reward in the Foundation were the ones you made for yourself. Doing your job, and doing it well, meant one of two things: you lived or someone else did. That was enough. It had to be. "Would you like half of my sandwich, sir?" Lament asked. "No, thank you, Agent." [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=in-his-own-image-part-7/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%207.jpg\|caption=Lunch?]] Lament nodded, taking the plastic wrapped, perpetually dry roast beef out of the brown bag on his desk. "Then if you'll excuse me, I think I might take it in the atrium. It's nearly time for Sophie's lunch break..." Gears nodded. "Tell Dr. Light I need her report on SCP-371, when she's finished." "I will, sir." Lament stood, walking toward the door when Gears spoke. "And Agent?" "Yes, sir?" Gears stared at him for a moment. It stretched past comfort into awkwardness, and Lament found it necessary to cough, then repeat. "Yes, sir?" "Good work." The awkwardness became palpable. "Thank you, sir." Gears nodded once, and Lament-- feeling an emotion he could not put into words-- left the office. When he got to the atrium, he stole a kiss from Light's cheek, took the obligatory punch in the arm, and then shared the lackluster sandwich with her. All in all, he considered it a good day. ----- [[=]] << [[[In His Own Image Interlude 6\| Interlude 6]]] \| [[[In His Own Image\| HUB]]] \| [[[In His Own Image Epilogue\| Epilogue]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%207.jpg > Author: [[user SunnyClockwork]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-7 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-20T21:02:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "agent-lament", "agent-strelnikov", "doctor-gears", "doctor-light", "illustrated", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	In His Own Image: Part 7 - SCP Foundation	126	[ "scp-884#IHOI", "in-his-own-image-interlude-6", "in-his-own-image", "in-his-own-image-epilogue", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "in-his-own-image", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-his-own-image-part-7/In%20His%20Own%20Image%20-%20Part%207.jpg" ]	13845125	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-his-own-image-part-7
in-other-news	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">BODY once told me </span> <blockquote> <p>The following document was mailed to Agent Green's father, with instructions to forward it to his son, along with the message "Hast wir eine Gecoolen yet?". The sender has not been identified.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <hr/> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:300px;"><img alt="newspaper-1081412_640.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-other-news/newspaper-1081412_640.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p>A stock image.</p> </div> </div> <p><strong>Item #:</strong> Fire officials say at least 8 injured as vehicle hits students outside California high school.</p> <p><strong>Object Class:</strong> A squeeze play that works two ways.</p> <p><strong>Special Containment Procedures:</strong> Md., Va. motorists warned to stay away if possible from Wilson Bridge this weekend. The Root DC Live : Things to do May 24 to June 7. UK Supreme Court backs extradition of WikiLeaks chief. UN rights council to hold special session Friday on Syrian massacre in Houla.</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> Police in both parts of Ireland launch crackdown on prostitution, raid brothels islandwide. Capital Weather Gang : Oklahoma City pounded by severe weather Tuesday, and more on the way today. Resolution praising feds has bleak future. What California's lieutenant governor thinks of Project Glass after trying them on. Chen Guangcheng, now in U.S., poised to play role in yet another abortion debate.</p> <p>Cook's scoreless streak ends with Morneau's tying double in 8th; Twins take down A's 5-4. Logmill Road project, site of fatalities, is delayed. Capital Buzz: Parature's former chief executive reprises role. Past Romney critics praise his jobs record on Sunday talk shows. French Open's defending champion, Li Na of China, adjusts to new status as title holder. A quiz on 'Coppelia,' presented by the Bolshoi Ballet at the Kennedy Center.</p> <p>The high cost of savings.</p> <p><strong>Addendum:</strong> ‘More politics than faith’ in bishops’ religious freedom campaign? To fast or not? London Olympics forcing Muslim athletes to consider delaying Ramadan fast. Missile Defense! Where should they put the East Coast site? (A Loop contest). Who will invent the future?</p> <hr/> <hr/> <p><em>I'm almost positive they're just fucking with us.</em>- Dr. Carlisle</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="/in-other-news">In other news,</a>" by Communism will win, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/in-other-news">https://scpwiki.com/in-other-news</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> newspaper-1081412_640.jpg<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> Newspaper Stocks Stock Price<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> steinarhovland<br/> <strong>License:</strong> Pixabay License<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/newspaper-stocks-stock-price-pen-1081412/">Pixabay</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:pride-highlighter">:scp-wiki:component:pride-highlighter</a> \|inc-s9-lgbt-alt= --]]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]BODY once told me [[/size]] > The following document was mailed to Agent Green's father, with instructions to forward it to his son, along with the message "Hast wir eine Gecoolen yet?". The sender has not been identified. ---- ---- [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=newspaper-1081412_640.jpg\|caption=A stock image.]] Item #: Fire officials say at least 8 injured as vehicle hits students outside California high school. Object Class: A squeeze play that works two ways. Special Containment Procedures: Md., Va. motorists warned to stay away if possible from Wilson Bridge this weekend. The Root DC Live : Things to do May 24 to June 7. UK Supreme Court backs extradition of WikiLeaks chief. UN rights council to hold special session Friday on Syrian massacre in Houla. Description: Police in both parts of Ireland launch crackdown on prostitution, raid brothels islandwide. Capital Weather Gang : Oklahoma City pounded by severe weather Tuesday, and more on the way today. Resolution praising feds has bleak future. What California's lieutenant governor thinks of Project Glass after trying them on. Chen Guangcheng, now in U.S., poised to play role in yet another abortion debate. Cook's scoreless streak ends with Morneau's tying double in 8th; Twins take down A's 5-4. Logmill Road project, site of fatalities, is delayed. Capital Buzz: Parature's former chief executive reprises role. Past Romney critics praise his jobs record on Sunday talk shows. French Open's defending champion, Li Na of China, adjusts to new status as title holder. A quiz on 'Coppelia,' presented by the Bolshoi Ballet at the Kennedy Center. The high cost of savings. Addendum: ‘More politics than faith’ in bishops’ religious freedom campaign? To fast or not? London Olympics forcing Muslim athletes to consider delaying Ramadan fast. Missile Defense! Where should they put the East Coast site? (A Loop contest). Who will invent the future? ---- ---- //I'm almost positive they're just fucking with us.//- Dr. Carlisle [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: newspaper-1081412_640.jpg > Name: Newspaper Stocks Stock Price > Author: steinarhovland > License: Pixabay License > Source Link: [https://pixabay.com/photos/newspaper-stocks-stock-price-pen-1081412/ Pixabay] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-06-01T01:10:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "tale" ]	In other news, - SCP Foundation	67	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/in-other-news/newspaper-1081412_640.jpg" ]	13440106	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/in-other-news
incident-682-1548	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>On ██/██/████, <a href="/scp-682">SCP-682</a> broke containment and proceeded to escape to Research Unit-█, which is the primary unit used to receive communications from <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/SCP-1548-EX">SCP-1548</a>. SCP-682 proceeded to kill all personnel in the area and began to use communication gear to send messages in Morse code to SCP-1548. The messages sent by SCP-682 and responses by SCP-1548 are recorded here.</em></p> <p><strong>SCP-1548:</strong> So, you're that 682 I've been hearing about? <br/> Thought you'd be more than a big toothy snout. </p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> Oh, think you're better? A killer extraordinaire?<br/> Motherfucker, I don't leave the Foundation D-class to spare!</p> <p><strong>SCP-1548:</strong> Yo, I've been hating on Earth since the beginning of time, <br/> Don't you dare try to match my damn rhymes. <br/> Signals from space, that's what I send,<br/> I fill 05 with a sense of dread!<br/> Crab Galaxy they call me, that's what they say, <br/> Hell, the only crabs are in yo' Mother's puss-ay!<br/> To me, you're a gecko, that's all you are, <br/> Now excuse me while I go and put out your star!</p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> Okay, bitch, you wanna bring it?<br/> Your hate ain't nothing, just empty space shit.<br/> I can't be killed, I'm the bane of the Foundation, <br/> You're so old, you've been around since creation!<br/> Full of hot air, you're just empty threats!<br/> I use force to back up my epithets!<br/> You're from this dimension, for me that ain't so,<br/> I'm beyond this universe, give it up mofo!</p> <p><strong>SCP-1548:</strong> I know 05, homes, lives, numbers, <br/> I'm in their nightmares while they slumber!<br/> The truest of true, the most dangerous here, <br/> It's me, not you, who deserves the fear!<br/> Voids in my wake, rage in my mind, <br/> When I'm done with Earth, they'll be nothing left to find!<br/> Who the fuck you are, trying to outdo me, <br/> I'm a motherfucking galaxy!<br/> Worlds I devour, bitch, I've beaten you, <br/> The true danger's me, not goddamn 682!</p> <p><strong>SCP-682:</strong> I hear what you say, it don't mean jack shit.<br/> I change myself to whatever fits. <br/> Dozens, hundreds, thousands I've killed, <br/> Hell, my hunger still isn't filled!<br/> Life is my enemy, all living must die, <br/> You ever faced me, you know you would cry, <br/> I change, I adapt, I'm the biggest badass, <br/> For you, three feet a year is fast! <br/> I'm 682, killer of men, <br/> I give wounds no doctor can mend. <br/> I can tell right now, I've got you fuming, <br/> Now for those disgusting humans. </p> <p><em>Following the final transmission, SCP-682 killed ██ security personnel before being subdued. SCP-1548's transmissions since have included several requests for a "rematch".</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="/incident-682-1548">Incident 682-1548</a>" by catboy637, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/incident-682-1548">https://scpwiki.com/incident-682-1548</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]] [[/>]] //On ██/██/████, [[[SCP-682]]] broke containment and proceeded to escape to Research Unit-█, which is the primary unit used to receive communications from [http://www.scp-wiki.net/SCP-1548-EX SCP-1548]. SCP-682 proceeded to kill all personnel in the area and began to use communication gear to send messages in Morse code to SCP-1548. The messages sent by SCP-682 and responses by SCP-1548 are recorded here.// SCP-1548: So, you're that 682 I've been hearing about? Thought you'd be more than a big toothy snout. SCP-682: Oh, think you're better? A killer extraordinaire? Motherfucker, I don't leave the Foundation D-class to spare! SCP-1548: Yo, I've been hating on Earth since the beginning of time, Don't you dare try to match my damn rhymes. Signals from space, that's what I send, I fill 05 with a sense of dread! Crab Galaxy they call me, that's what they say, Hell, the only crabs are in yo' Mother's puss-ay! To me, you're a gecko, that's all you are, Now excuse me while I go and put out your star! SCP-682: Okay, bitch, you wanna bring it? Your hate ain't nothing, just empty space shit. I can't be killed, I'm the bane of the Foundation, You're so old, you've been around since creation! Full of hot air, you're just empty threats! I use force to back up my epithets! You're from this dimension, for me that ain't so, I'm beyond this universe, give it up mofo! SCP-1548: I know 05, homes, lives, numbers, I'm in their nightmares while they slumber! The truest of true, the most dangerous here, It's me, not you, who deserves the fear! Voids in my wake, rage in my mind, When I'm done with Earth, they'll be nothing left to find! Who the fuck you are, trying to outdo me, I'm a motherfucking galaxy! Worlds I devour, bitch, I've beaten you, The true danger's me, not goddamn 682! SCP-682: I hear what you say, it don't mean jack shit. I change myself to whatever fits. Dozens, hundreds, thousands I've killed, Hell, my hunger still isn't filled! Life is my enemy, all living must die, You ever faced me, you know you would cry, I change, I adapt, I'm the biggest badass, For you, three feet a year is fast! I'm 682, killer of men, I give wounds no doctor can mend. I can tell right now, I've got you fuming, Now for those disgusting humans. //Following the final transmission, SCP-682 killed ██ security personnel before being subdued. SCP-1548's transmissions since have included several requests for a "rematch".// [[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>]]	2012-08-19T18:19:00	[ "_genreless", "_licensebox", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "tale" ]	Incident 682-1548 - SCP Foundation	197	[ "scp-682", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	14076428	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/incident-682-1548
incident-report-kaf-09	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Personnel Involved:</strong> Agent S████, Agent F███</p> <p><strong>Date:</strong> ██/██/████</p> <p><strong>Location:</strong> ███████, Austria</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> Following up on reports of anomalous activity in the area, Agents S████ and F███ were dispatched to the town of ███████, Austria. Upon arrival, it became apparent that a local resident (██████ █████, formerly a traveling salesman) had spontaneously transformed into a large, unidentified organism resembling an insect. The subject has a hard, though not impenetrable exoskeleton and displays anatomical segmentation similar to that of an arthropod. Notably, the subject appears to have retained most of the cognitive capacity and memories of his previous human form. The subject is capable of vocalizing, however his vocalizations have thus far been impossible to translate into recognizable speech; it is theorized the subject no longer possesses the necessary oral and laryngeal structure to produce human speech. An apple is lodged into the dorsal portion of the subjects exoskeleton (upon investigation, determined to be the result of a violent incident with the subject's father), causing it significant ailment. Researchers are working to determine whether or nor the apple can be removed without causing further injury.</p> <p>The subject's family and several other witnesses have been dosed with class B amnestics. The organism is currently under containment, awaiting classification. The mechanism by which its metamorphosis occurred has yet to be determined.</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="/incident-report-kaf-09">Incident Report KAF-09</a>" by Candlebeam, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/incident-report-kaf-09">https://scpwiki.com/incident-report-kaf-09</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]] [[/>]] Personnel Involved: Agent S████, Agent F███ Date: ██/██/████ Location: ███████, Austria Description: Following up on reports of anomalous activity in the area, Agents S████ and F███ were dispatched to the town of ███████, Austria. Upon arrival, it became apparent that a local resident (██████ █████, formerly a traveling salesman) had spontaneously transformed into a large, unidentified organism resembling an insect. The subject has a hard, though not impenetrable exoskeleton and displays anatomical segmentation similar to that of an arthropod. Notably, the subject appears to have retained most of the cognitive capacity and memories of his previous human form. The subject is capable of vocalizing, however his vocalizations have thus far been impossible to translate into recognizable speech; it is theorized the subject no longer possesses the necessary oral and laryngeal structure to produce human speech. An apple is lodged into the dorsal portion of the subjects exoskeleton (upon investigation, determined to be the result of a violent incident with the subject's father), causing it significant ailment. Researchers are working to determine whether or nor the apple can be removed without causing further injury. The subject's family and several other witnesses have been dosed with class B amnestics. The organism is currently under containment, awaiting classification. The mechanism by which its metamorphosis occurred has yet to be determined. [[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>]]	2012-01-12T21:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "project-crossover", "tale" ]	Incident Report KAF-09 - SCP Foundation	41	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "crossoverprojectindex", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12501510	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/incident-report-kaf-09
incident-ta-05-003-1	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <em>It was supposed to just be an ordinary training operation – you know, push an MTF out the side of a helo in some godforsaken clearing in a Foundation-owned reserve in The Middle Of Nowhere, Canada, with instructions to “locate and secure” some unknown anomalous something or other the eggheads back at Site-19 had cooked up. Of course, things didn't exactly go according to plan…</em> <p><strong><a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/incident-ta-05-003-1/IncidentTA-05-003-%E2%96%88%E2%96%88-1.mp3" target="_blank">Audio account of training mission by Corporal Burke.</a></strong> Length = 20 minutes, 19 seconds.</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <blockquote> <p><span style="color:#880000;">I place this transcript here as a courtesy; I am generally of the opinion that audio dramas should be experienced by being heard, rather than being read. What follows is simply a reformatted version of the script used to create the work. <em>-Hornby</em></span></p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><Start of Transcript></strong></p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATION):</strong><br/> It was supposed to just be an ordinary training operation – you know, push an Em Tee Eff out the side of a helo in some godforsaken clearing in a Foundation-owned reserve in The Middle Of Nowhere, Canada, with instructions to “locate and secure” some unknown anomalous something or other the eggheads back at Site-19 had cooked up. These UAs – “unknown anomalies” – were supposed to stand in for some creepy crawly or thing-going-bump-in-the-night that we might encounter on a “real” mission. They were also supposed to be “mostly harmless.” In other words, challenging enough that if we screwed up, we’d end up in the infirmary – but not the morgue. Some of the older field operatives tell ghost stories of some really crazy shit going down when they first started doing these, but I’ve not met anyone in an Em Tee Eff that lost a teammate during a training session. At least, not that I know of; hard to tell what O5 might have covered up if things went REALLY badly. Something all of us tried not to think about – the potential to just end up a “name redacted” in some “data expunged” incident in a file gathering cobwebs in the Foundation archives.</p> <p>Anyway, this wasn’t my first time out on one of these little hunting expeditions, but it was my first time as a fireteam leader. My half of Second Squad had the wizards: Doc Brooks, Specialist Salazar, and Specialist Rigby. Corporal Fletcher had the heavy weapons and the shooters. And Staff Sergeant Myers. Myers had taken me aside after the briefing, told me that I’d be fine, everyone would be coming back in one piece, and if I screwed up, he’d shoot me. He was joking. Probably. No pep talk like a military pep talk.</p> <p>It was also my – our – first time at Training Area Five – we were only the third training op since they opened the place last year, having certified it as “anomaly free” after building a nice, thick, tall, wall with spotlights, barbed wire, and heavy machine guns around the perimeter. Must have cost a pretty penny, since TA5 is something like 200 square miles.</p> <p>Last in the list of “firsts” for this trip was our working with EVAN. The name apparently stands for Enhanced Virtual Adaptive Network. It, he, whatever, is an AI one of the researchers built to help the Em Tee Effs in the field. Apparently has all sorts of safeguards built in to keep it from deciding to take over the world or release 682 or do whatever robots do when they go insane. Salazar and Rigby didn’t trust EVAN; the Colonel did, though, and Hornby’s been around the block enough that I was willing take his word for it.</p> <p>According to the briefing, the UA had been encountered by some (fictional) campers on a fishing trip. Three of them had been killed by this thing; the only survivor had been out in one of the canoes. He described it as being about the size of a bear, with limbs like a wolf, and a face like something out of a horror movie. It was big, fast, and mean, he said. That’s about all we knew. Just an ordinary training mission….</p> <p><em>(sound of music playing over helicopter)</em></p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Everybody out! Go! Go! Go!<br/> (sound of helicopter flying off)</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> Corporal Burke, the campsite is two kilometers west of your current position. Be advised that Team One will be approaching the objective from the other side. Third and Fourth Squads are standing ready to assist in the takedown if necessary.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Understood. Burke out.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Beautiful night for a stroll, eh Rigby?</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> Oh, yeah, Salazar. Dark forest, creepy owls, full moon, no wind, killer mutant monster wolfbear thing on the loose.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> What could possibly go wrong?</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> That should be our nickname: “Xi-13. What could possibly go wrong?”</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> I’ll suggest that to the Colonel when we get back.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Enough, you two.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> Can’t you guys ever go for five minutes without cracking jokes?</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Oh, sure, Doc. All the time.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> We don’t talk in our sleep.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> Oy.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Besides, cracking jokes is definitely better than getting cracked in the head.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> Dr. Glass says it’s a “coping mechanism.”</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Cut the chatter.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Come on, Corporal, lighten up. You know we’re good when the shit hits the fan.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATION):</strong><br/> Specialists Salazar and Rigby are quite the double act, always tiptoeing the line of acceptability and then gleefully jumping right over it. But Salazar was right, they were excellent operatives when things started happening, and their ridiculous jokes did make the night less spooky, even if it did sound like a bad comedy routine. I was glad Doc Brooks was with me – she’s levelheaded with the best of them and definitely a stabilizing influence.</p> <p>Anyway, about a kilometer from the El Zee, we came across something weird – something definitely not included in the briefing.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> <em>(quietly and professionally)</em> Corporal, structure, eleven o’clock.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> <em>(with equal quiet and professionalism)</em> No signs of movement.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> It was an old, one-story structure. Concrete construction, probably reinforced. The walls extended off into the forest for farther than I could easily see, either with night vision or with my rifle’s flashlight. There was a single visible entrance: a rusted old door barely attached at the hinges. There were no windows in the walls. The dirt around the edge of the building was by no means fresh – it might have been years since something had disturbed it – but there were no weeds or vines growing at the base of the structure.</p> <p>Perhaps the strangest thing was the quiet. The woods aren’t anywhere as noisy as movies make them out to be, but there is always at least a little noise. Crickets or frogs, the occasional owl. Here, there was nothing.</p> <p>I decided to call it in.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> EVAN, this is Burke. We’ve located an unknown structure not on our maps.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> I have accessed current satellite reconnaissance imagery of your current position. The structure covers approximately four zero thousand square meters. I have run an exhaustive search of the Foundation files relating to Training Area Zero Five and have found no data relating to such a structure or indicating its existence.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Are you sure?</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> Either I do not have access to the necessary files, or the Foundation has no electronic record of the structure. It is possible that there is a block in the system preventing me from accessing the relevant information, however this eventuality is unlikely as such a block would register in my search. Additionally, archival satellite imagery fails to show the structure, indicating it is new. I conclude there is an approximately seventy-nine percent chance the Foundation is unaware of the structure.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> <em>(quietly)</em> Certainly doesn’t look new.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> EVAN, how old is the archival satellite imagery?</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> It is listed as having been taken as part of the training area certification process, which would indicate the imagery is no more than fifteen months old.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Hmmm. You recording this, EVAN?</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> That is correct, Corporal. I am recording all data from all members of Xi-13 as per my standard operating procedure.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Okay. Get me Colonel Hornby and Staff Sergeant Myers.</p> <p><strong>HORNBY:</strong><br/> Hornby speaking.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> Myers here.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> This is Burke. Team 2 has discovered a structure approximately one kilometer west from the El Zee. EVAN reports that it wasn’t here when the Foundation established TA5, but it looks like it’s been here for years. Requesting instructions, sirs.</p> <p><strong>HORNBY:</strong><br/> Myers, can you secure the primary objective without support from Team 2?</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> We’d be stretched pretty thin, sir.</p> <p><strong>HORNBY:</strong><br/> Corporal Burke, you’re the one on the ground. Is this structure anomalous enough to warrant diverting from your primary mission objective?</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> Great. My first command decision and I had absolutely no idea what to do. Did I go with the mission, leaving the structure? Or did I let Team One handle the wolf-bear-thing and investigate? Why didn’t the Foundation issue us coins? I took a deep breath, and made my choice.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Sirs, we’ll check out the structure. Something’s not right about it.</p> <p><strong>HORNBY:</strong><br/> Very well, Corporal. You have to trust your gut. Myers, I’ll send you Squad Three to assist.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> Roger. Out.</p> <p><strong>HORNBY:</strong><br/> Good luck, Corporal. Hornby out.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> And so, alone in the dark Canadian night, my team crept forward, and entered the structure, with no idea what might await us inside.</p> <p>The inside of the structure was bleak. The walls were bare cinderblock; bits of it crumbled away in places. The floor was just the concrete slab. Oddly, there were no cobwebs or hornets’ nests like you usually see in old abandoned buildings. The floor, while dusty, showed no evidence of animal presence – no droppings, footprints, or leaves that had been stuck to some creature’s paws. The room was maybe three meters wide and five meters long. Besides the entrance door behind us, there were two empty door frames leading deeper into the building. The four of us stood there for an eternity. Watching. Listening. Waiting.</p> <p>After what had seemed like an hour (I later learned it had been a mere five minutes), I moved forward towards the nearer doorframe. The only sound were our footfalls, echoing quietly on the concrete. Gazing into the next room, I could see it was as featureless as the one we were in. Slightly differently shaped, with different dimensions, but equally bare. The other doorway revealed more of the same. I decided we should take the first room. I cracked a glowstick, which I placed on the threshold. No sense in getting lost in this maze. We entered the second room, illuminated by the pale green glow of the glowstick and the bright white lights of our rifles. Everything was silent.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> Corporal Burke.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Jesus Christ, EVAN! Are you trying to scare us out of our skins?</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> I apologize if I startled you, Corporal. There appears to be some interference in your data-uplink. I am only receiving your team’s locator beacons and your audio channels. All other monitoring devices are nonresponsive.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> Could be the structure is shielded.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> That is a distinct possibility, Specialist Rigby.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> We might be able to strengthen our transmission if we use one of the comm devices as a signal booster.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> Let’s wait on that until we see if this gets worse. I’d rather have functioning comms and no data uplink than having neither.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> That is a logical decision, Specialist Brooks.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> I agree, Doc. EVAN, we’re marking our route with glowsticks. Can you track us and start building a virtual map? It’s a maze in here, and I’d rather we didn’t get lost.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> I have already started on such a map. I will periodically transmit what I have developed to your mobile GPS devices, so that in the event your locator beacons or communications signals reach dangerously low levels, you will not get lost.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Alright, thank you, EVAN. We’re going to continue. Burke out.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> This place gives me the willies.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> Me too.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> And onward we went, winding deeper into the structure. Every room was the same: empty, bare, and gloomy. And yet, every one of them was different. No two rooms seemed to have the same dimensions or have the empty door frames in the same place. Some rooms had many doors, others, just a single one leading to a dead end. Some were large, easily ten meters on each side, while we went through at least one which was barely wide enough for us to squeeze through with our gear. The doors, or I should say the places where doors should have been, varied as much as the rooms. Some were large enough you could have easily driven a car through them. Others seemed small enough that you’d have to worm through on your belly, twisting your shoulders just so in order to fit.</p> <p>At first the only sounds were the echoes of our footfalls bouncing through the lonely rooms and the tense beating of our hearts. But then, I swear, the walls started whispering at us. I’d open my mouth to mention it to the team, but then the sound would vanish, as though it were all in my head. I later learned I was not the only one who had heard these whispers, but my team had also failed to mention them at the time. We kept moving and pretending we were alone, unsure which would be worse: that we were hearing things that weren’t there, or that someone or something was there, watching us, just out of sight, just in the next dark room. Always in the next room or a room to one side or another, for every chamber we entered was deserted, bare, and empty.</p> <p>After fifteen minutes, I’d lost count of the rooms. I was also running low on glowsticks, so I stopped us to contact EVAN.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> EVAN, this is Burke, come in.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> Your signal strength is weak, Corporal Burke, but I am receiving you.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> EVAN, I’m almost out of glowsticks. How’s the map coming?</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> By my estimate, Corporal, you have explored merely three zero percent of the structure. I am having difficulty uploading it to your GPS, however. Please confirm your device is powered on and receiving.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> That’s funny, its dead. You’ll have to guide us out manually.</p> <p><strong>EVAN:</strong><br/> Understood, Corporal.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> What the hell? My light just went out. Salazar, will you shine your flashlight over here while I get the spares out of my pack?</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Sure thing, Doc.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Shit. My light just died too. Rigby, I thought you swapped out all the batteries in everything before we went out.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> I did. Fresh batts in everything – SOP.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Yeah, and I double checked. These things should be good for another few days of continuous use.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Alright. Break out the spares, everyone, and get them where you can reach them without having to dig.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> <em>(with quiet urgency)</em> What the—movement southeast!</p> <p><em>(dead silence for several seconds)</em></p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> <em>(quietly)</em> What did you see, Doc?</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> I don’t know. But something moved in that room.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Safeties off, weapons free. Stay alert. Rigby, point.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> On it.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> This was the first movement – the first, well, anything – we’d run into in the structure. We crept forward, rifles leveled, alert for any sign of danger. We entered the room to discover—</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> Clear.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Clear. Dead end.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> You sure you saw something, Doc?</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> Oh, yeah. There was definitely something here. At least the size of a dog. Couldn’t tell what it was, other than dark and fast. But it was there.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> I believe you, Doc.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Well, I don’t know where it could have gone. These walls are solid, and we just came through the only way into this room.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> <em>(a distant shriek is heard)</em> What the hell was that sound!?</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> Sounded like a banshee or something. <em>(the shriek repeats)</em> There it is again!</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> I don’t think we’re alone in here.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Whatever it was, it came from that direction. Let’s move out.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> Doc Brooks was right – we were most certainly not alone in the structure. Something was in there. And that sound – that shriek, that ungodly shriek – it made my blood run cold. Rigby hit the nail on the head: Hell was that sound. And we were going to find it. We ran through the halls of the concrete labyrinth, chasing whatever phantom was screaming in the night. We’d abandoned all caution, no longer slowly creeping, carefully and methodically observing the rooms around us. As the shriek kept repeating, we ran after it. Left turn, right turn, left turn, right turn, we kept zigzagging to chase whatever it was. Closer and closer, it was moving away but it was always closer – we had to be gaining on it. And then, at last, we rounded a final doorway and there it was. A great dark beast, taller at the shoulder than any of us, seemingly half wolf, half bear, and all shadow. Shaggy and mangy, though broader around the middle than a horse you could count every single rib. Saliva dripped from monstrous jaws. It snarled menacingly. Its eyes seemed to glow under the failing illumination of our rifle-mounted lights. It seemed to be sizing us up, as if deciding which of us might be a nice midnight snack. For a long moment, we stared at it, and it stared at us, and none of us moved.</p> <p>In an instant, it leapt forward. We all opened up, blasting away with our weapons. It shuddered and fell back, but tried to hobble towards us. We kept firing and firing, despite everything our training had taught us, nearly emptying our weapons into the beast until long after it had ceased to move.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> Xi-13 Friendlies! On your six!</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> Staff Sergeant Myers, Team 1, and Squad Three had all appeared in the room behind us. With their arrival, we were snapped out of our battle trance.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> Stand down, Team 2.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Good timing, Staff Sergeant.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> What the hell were you shooting at, Corporal Burke?</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> The Unknown Anomaly, Staff Sergeant. We found it in here and cornered it, but it attacked us. We were defending ourselves.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> Corporal, we bagged the Unknown Anomaly outside, half an hour ago.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> What?</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> That can’t be right.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> Staff Sergeant?</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> We tried to radio you, but we couldn’t get through. EVAN gave us the coordinates and led us through the structure.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> What?</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> You do speak English, Corporal.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Yes, Staff Sergeant.</p> <p><strong>BROOKS:</strong><br/> But if you captured the Unknown Anomaly, then what’s that?</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> What’s what?</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> That, over there—wait, where did it go?</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> Corporal, there’s nothing in this room except a lot of bullet holes and shell casings.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> Sure enough, Staff Sergeant Myers was right. The room was empty – there was no sign of the beast. No blood, no fur, no saliva, nothing. Nothing could have left the room, either, since it was a dead end.</p> <p><strong>SALAZAR:</strong><br/> I don’t understand.</p> <p><strong>RIGBY:</strong><br/> It was right here.</p> <p><strong>MYERS:</strong><br/> We’d better get you back to base and have the doctors check you out.</p> <p><strong>BURKE:</strong><br/> Yes, Staff Sergeant.</p> <p><strong>BURKE (NARRATOR):</strong><br/> As it turned out, all four members of Xi-13, Second Squad, Team 2 were given a clean bill of both mental and physical health. During the post-exercise assessment, Colonel Hornby informed us that we, and I, had passed with acceptable marks, as had EVAN, who would be joining our field operations from then on. We also learned that a full sweep and clear had been conducted of the structure, and no evidence of our mystery creature had been found. Interestingly though, only about half of the bullets we fired were recovered from the back wall of that lonely room deep in the structure.</p> <p>Sometime later, I passed Colonel Hornby in the hallway at Site-19. I asked him about the structure and the beast, and if either had been classified as a Skip. His beard hid a small smile, and I could see a twinkle in his eye when he said that he couldn’t talk about it. I’ve been back to Training Area Five several times since, but I’ve never made it back to that structure. Maybe someday I’ll have the clearance and need to know. In the meantime, if I am out in the woods late at night, I remember back and wonder….</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><End of Transcript></strong></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Transcript</a></div> </div> </div> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/incident-ta-05-003-1/html/ca9de3efba390cd4099a8bc2e3f4b267ce1fde30-2222346321322439629"></iframe></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="/incident-ta-05-003-1">Incident TA-05-003-██-1</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/incident-ta-05-003-1">https://scpwiki.com/incident-ta-05-003-1</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> IncidentTA-05-003-██-1.mp3<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/hornby" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1259135); return false;"><img alt="Hornby" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1259135&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188578" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1259135)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/hornby" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1259135); return false;">Hornby</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/incident-ta-05-003-1">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //It was supposed to just be an ordinary training operation – you know, push an MTF out the side of a helo in some godforsaken clearing in a Foundation-owned reserve in The Middle Of Nowhere, Canada, with instructions to “locate and secure” some unknown anomalous something or other the eggheads back at Site-19 had cooked up. Of course, things didn't exactly go according to plan...// [!-- SCP[s] Involved: [REDACTED] Personnel Involved: * Armed Rapid Response Task Force Ξ-13: * Colonel Hornby, Ξ-13 Commanding Officer * Staff Sergeant Myers, Ξ-13, Second Squad, Squad Leader * Corporal Burke, Ξ-13, Second Squad, Designated Marksman * Specialist “Doc” Brooks, Ξ-13, Second Squad, Medic * Specialist Salazar, Ξ-13, Second Squad, Technician * Specialist Rigby, Ξ-13, Second Squad, Technician * Additional: * Enhanced Virtual Adaptive Network (EVAN) Date: █ September 201█ Location: Training Area 05 Ξ-13 Mission Objectives: Locate and secure Unknown Anomaly (see Training Anomaly #███ for further information). Exercise Outcome: [REDACTED] --] *[[[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/incident-ta-05-003-1/IncidentTA-05-003-%E2%96%88%E2%96%88-1.mp3 \| Audio account of training mission by Corporal Burke.]]] Length = 20 minutes, 19 seconds. [[collapsible show="+ Show Transcript" hide="- Hide Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] > [[span style="color:#880000;"]]I place this transcript here as a courtesy; I am generally of the opinion that audio dramas should be experienced by being heard, rather than being read. What follows is simply a reformatted version of the script used to create the work. //-Hornby//[[/span]] = <Start of Transcript> BURKE (NARRATION): It was supposed to just be an ordinary training operation – you know, push an Em Tee Eff out the side of a helo in some godforsaken clearing in a Foundation-owned reserve in The Middle Of Nowhere, Canada, with instructions to “locate and secure” some unknown anomalous something or other the eggheads back at Site-19 had cooked up. These UAs – “unknown anomalies” – were supposed to stand in for some creepy crawly or thing-going-bump-in-the-night that we might encounter on a “real” mission. They were also supposed to be “mostly harmless.” In other words, challenging enough that if we screwed up, we’d end up in the infirmary – but not the morgue. Some of the older field operatives tell ghost stories of some really crazy shit going down when they first started doing these, but I’ve not met anyone in an Em Tee Eff that lost a teammate during a training session. At least, not that I know of; hard to tell what O5 might have covered up if things went REALLY badly. Something all of us tried not to think about – the potential to just end up a “name redacted” in some “data expunged” incident in a file gathering cobwebs in the Foundation archives. Anyway, this wasn’t my first time out on one of these little hunting expeditions, but it was my first time as a fireteam leader. My half of Second Squad had the wizards: Doc Brooks, Specialist Salazar, and Specialist Rigby. Corporal Fletcher had the heavy weapons and the shooters. And Staff Sergeant Myers. Myers had taken me aside after the briefing, told me that I’d be fine, everyone would be coming back in one piece, and if I screwed up, he’d shoot me. He was joking. Probably. No pep talk like a military pep talk. It was also my – our – first time at Training Area Five – we were only the third training op since they opened the place last year, having certified it as “anomaly free” after building a nice, thick, tall, wall with spotlights, barbed wire, and heavy machine guns around the perimeter. Must have cost a pretty penny, since TA5 is something like 200 square miles. Last in the list of “firsts” for this trip was our working with EVAN. The name apparently stands for Enhanced Virtual Adaptive Network. It, he, whatever, is an AI one of the researchers built to help the Em Tee Effs in the field. Apparently has all sorts of safeguards built in to keep it from deciding to take over the world or release 682 or do whatever robots do when they go insane. Salazar and Rigby didn’t trust EVAN; the Colonel did, though, and Hornby’s been around the block enough that I was willing take his word for it. According to the briefing, the UA had been encountered by some (fictional) campers on a fishing trip. Three of them had been killed by this thing; the only survivor had been out in one of the canoes. He described it as being about the size of a bear, with limbs like a wolf, and a face like something out of a horror movie. It was big, fast, and mean, he said. That’s about all we knew. Just an ordinary training mission…. //(sound of music playing over helicopter)// BURKE: Everybody out! Go! Go! Go! (sound of helicopter flying off) EVAN: Corporal Burke, the campsite is two kilometers west of your current position. Be advised that Team One will be approaching the objective from the other side. Third and Fourth Squads are standing ready to assist in the takedown if necessary. BURKE: Understood. Burke out. SALAZAR: Beautiful night for a stroll, eh Rigby? RIGBY: Oh, yeah, Salazar. Dark forest, creepy owls, full moon, no wind, killer mutant monster wolfbear thing on the loose. SALAZAR: What could possibly go wrong? RIGBY: That should be our nickname: “Xi-13. What could possibly go wrong?” SALAZAR: I’ll suggest that to the Colonel when we get back. BURKE: Enough, you two. BROOKS: Can’t you guys ever go for five minutes without cracking jokes? SALAZAR: Oh, sure, Doc. All the time. RIGBY: We don’t talk in our sleep. BROOKS: Oy. SALAZAR: Besides, cracking jokes is definitely better than getting cracked in the head. RIGBY: Dr. Glass says it’s a “coping mechanism.” BURKE: Cut the chatter. SALAZAR: Come on, Corporal, lighten up. You know we’re good when the shit hits the fan. BURKE (NARRATION): Specialists Salazar and Rigby are quite the double act, always tiptoeing the line of acceptability and then gleefully jumping right over it. But Salazar was right, they were excellent operatives when things started happening, and their ridiculous jokes did make the night less spooky, even if it did sound like a bad comedy routine. I was glad Doc Brooks was with me – she’s levelheaded with the best of them and definitely a stabilizing influence. Anyway, about a kilometer from the El Zee, we came across something weird – something definitely not included in the briefing. RIGBY: //(quietly and professionally)// Corporal, structure, eleven o’clock. SALAZAR: //(with equal quiet and professionalism)// No signs of movement. BURKE (NARRATOR): It was an old, one-story structure. Concrete construction, probably reinforced. The walls extended off into the forest for farther than I could easily see, either with night vision or with my rifle’s flashlight. There was a single visible entrance: a rusted old door barely attached at the hinges. There were no windows in the walls. The dirt around the edge of the building was by no means fresh – it might have been years since something had disturbed it – but there were no weeds or vines growing at the base of the structure. Perhaps the strangest thing was the quiet. The woods aren’t anywhere as noisy as movies make them out to be, but there is always at least a little noise. Crickets or frogs, the occasional owl. Here, there was nothing. I decided to call it in. BURKE: EVAN, this is Burke. We’ve located an unknown structure not on our maps. EVAN: I have accessed current satellite reconnaissance imagery of your current position. The structure covers approximately four zero thousand square meters. I have run an exhaustive search of the Foundation files relating to Training Area Zero Five and have found no data relating to such a structure or indicating its existence. BURKE: Are you sure? EVAN: Either I do not have access to the necessary files, or the Foundation has no electronic record of the structure. It is possible that there is a block in the system preventing me from accessing the relevant information, however this eventuality is unlikely as such a block would register in my search. Additionally, archival satellite imagery fails to show the structure, indicating it is new. I conclude there is an approximately seventy-nine percent chance the Foundation is unaware of the structure. BROOKS: //(quietly)// Certainly doesn’t look new. BURKE: EVAN, how old is the archival satellite imagery? EVAN: It is listed as having been taken as part of the training area certification process, which would indicate the imagery is no more than fifteen months old. BURKE: Hmmm. You recording this, EVAN? EVAN: That is correct, Corporal. I am recording all data from all members of Xi-13 as per my standard operating procedure. BURKE: Okay. Get me Colonel Hornby and Staff Sergeant Myers. HORNBY: Hornby speaking. MYERS: Myers here. BURKE: This is Burke. Team 2 has discovered a structure approximately one kilometer west from the El Zee. EVAN reports that it wasn’t here when the Foundation established TA5, but it looks like it’s been here for years. Requesting instructions, sirs. HORNBY: Myers, can you secure the primary objective without support from Team 2? MYERS: We’d be stretched pretty thin, sir. HORNBY: Corporal Burke, you’re the one on the ground. Is this structure anomalous enough to warrant diverting from your primary mission objective? BURKE (NARRATOR): Great. My first command decision and I had absolutely no idea what to do. Did I go with the mission, leaving the structure? Or did I let Team One handle the wolf-bear-thing and investigate? Why didn’t the Foundation issue us coins? I took a deep breath, and made my choice. BURKE: Sirs, we’ll check out the structure. Something’s not right about it. HORNBY: Very well, Corporal. You have to trust your gut. Myers, I’ll send you Squad Three to assist. MYERS: Roger. Out. HORNBY: Good luck, Corporal. Hornby out. BURKE (NARRATOR): And so, alone in the dark Canadian night, my team crept forward, and entered the structure, with no idea what might await us inside. The inside of the structure was bleak. The walls were bare cinderblock; bits of it crumbled away in places. The floor was just the concrete slab. Oddly, there were no cobwebs or hornets’ nests like you usually see in old abandoned buildings. The floor, while dusty, showed no evidence of animal presence – no droppings, footprints, or leaves that had been stuck to some creature’s paws. The room was maybe three meters wide and five meters long. Besides the entrance door behind us, there were two empty door frames leading deeper into the building. The four of us stood there for an eternity. Watching. Listening. Waiting. After what had seemed like an hour (I later learned it had been a mere five minutes), I moved forward towards the nearer doorframe. The only sound were our footfalls, echoing quietly on the concrete. Gazing into the next room, I could see it was as featureless as the one we were in. Slightly differently shaped, with different dimensions, but equally bare. The other doorway revealed more of the same. I decided we should take the first room. I cracked a glowstick, which I placed on the threshold. No sense in getting lost in this maze. We entered the second room, illuminated by the pale green glow of the glowstick and the bright white lights of our rifles. Everything was silent. EVAN: Corporal Burke. BURKE: Jesus Christ, EVAN! Are you trying to scare us out of our skins? EVAN: I apologize if I startled you, Corporal. There appears to be some interference in your data-uplink. I am only receiving your team’s locator beacons and your audio channels. All other monitoring devices are nonresponsive. RIGBY: Could be the structure is shielded. EVAN: That is a distinct possibility, Specialist Rigby. SALAZAR: We might be able to strengthen our transmission if we use one of the comm devices as a signal booster. BROOKS: Let’s wait on that until we see if this gets worse. I’d rather have functioning comms and no data uplink than having neither. EVAN: That is a logical decision, Specialist Brooks. BURKE: I agree, Doc. EVAN, we’re marking our route with glowsticks. Can you track us and start building a virtual map? It’s a maze in here, and I’d rather we didn’t get lost. EVAN: I have already started on such a map. I will periodically transmit what I have developed to your mobile GPS devices, so that in the event your locator beacons or communications signals reach dangerously low levels, you will not get lost. BURKE: Alright, thank you, EVAN. We’re going to continue. Burke out. SALAZAR: This place gives me the willies. RIGBY: Me too. BURKE (NARRATOR): And onward we went, winding deeper into the structure. Every room was the same: empty, bare, and gloomy. And yet, every one of them was different. No two rooms seemed to have the same dimensions or have the empty door frames in the same place. Some rooms had many doors, others, just a single one leading to a dead end. Some were large, easily ten meters on each side, while we went through at least one which was barely wide enough for us to squeeze through with our gear. The doors, or I should say the places where doors should have been, varied as much as the rooms. Some were large enough you could have easily driven a car through them. Others seemed small enough that you’d have to worm through on your belly, twisting your shoulders just so in order to fit. At first the only sounds were the echoes of our footfalls bouncing through the lonely rooms and the tense beating of our hearts. But then, I swear, the walls started whispering at us. I’d open my mouth to mention it to the team, but then the sound would vanish, as though it were all in my head. I later learned I was not the only one who had heard these whispers, but my team had also failed to mention them at the time. We kept moving and pretending we were alone, unsure which would be worse: that we were hearing things that weren’t there, or that someone or something was there, watching us, just out of sight, just in the next dark room. Always in the next room or a room to one side or another, for every chamber we entered was deserted, bare, and empty. After fifteen minutes, I’d lost count of the rooms. I was also running low on glowsticks, so I stopped us to contact EVAN. BURKE: EVAN, this is Burke, come in. EVAN: Your signal strength is weak, Corporal Burke, but I am receiving you. BURKE: EVAN, I’m almost out of glowsticks. How’s the map coming? EVAN: By my estimate, Corporal, you have explored merely three zero percent of the structure. I am having difficulty uploading it to your GPS, however. Please confirm your device is powered on and receiving. BURKE: That’s funny, its dead. You’ll have to guide us out manually. EVAN: Understood, Corporal. BROOKS: What the hell? My light just went out. Salazar, will you shine your flashlight over here while I get the spares out of my pack? SALAZAR: Sure thing, Doc. BURKE: Shit. My light just died too. Rigby, I thought you swapped out all the batteries in everything before we went out. RIGBY: I did. Fresh batts in everything – SOP. SALAZAR: Yeah, and I double checked. These things should be good for another few days of continuous use. BURKE: Alright. Break out the spares, everyone, and get them where you can reach them without having to dig. BROOKS: //(with quiet urgency)// What the—movement southeast! //(dead silence for several seconds)// BURKE: //(quietly)// What did you see, Doc? BROOKS: I don’t know. But something moved in that room. BURKE: Safeties off, weapons free. Stay alert. Rigby, point. RIGBY: On it. BURKE (NARRATOR): This was the first movement – the first, well, anything – we’d run into in the structure. We crept forward, rifles leveled, alert for any sign of danger. We entered the room to discover— RIGBY: Clear. SALAZAR: Clear. Dead end. RIGBY: You sure you saw something, Doc? BROOKS: Oh, yeah. There was definitely something here. At least the size of a dog. Couldn’t tell what it was, other than dark and fast. But it was there. BURKE: I believe you, Doc. SALAZAR: Well, I don’t know where it could have gone. These walls are solid, and we just came through the only way into this room. RIGBY: //(a distant shriek is heard)// What the hell was that sound!? SALAZAR: Sounded like a banshee or something. //(the shriek repeats)// There it is again! BROOKS: I don’t think we’re alone in here. BURKE: Whatever it was, it came from that direction. Let’s move out. BURKE (NARRATOR): Doc Brooks was right – we were most certainly not alone in the structure. Something was in there. And that sound – that shriek, that ungodly shriek – it made my blood run cold. Rigby hit the nail on the head: Hell was that sound. And we were going to find it. We ran through the halls of the concrete labyrinth, chasing whatever phantom was screaming in the night. We’d abandoned all caution, no longer slowly creeping, carefully and methodically observing the rooms around us. As the shriek kept repeating, we ran after it. Left turn, right turn, left turn, right turn, we kept zigzagging to chase whatever it was. Closer and closer, it was moving away but it was always closer – we had to be gaining on it. And then, at last, we rounded a final doorway and there it was. A great dark beast, taller at the shoulder than any of us, seemingly half wolf, half bear, and all shadow. Shaggy and mangy, though broader around the middle than a horse you could count every single rib. Saliva dripped from monstrous jaws. It snarled menacingly. Its eyes seemed to glow under the failing illumination of our rifle-mounted lights. It seemed to be sizing us up, as if deciding which of us might be a nice midnight snack. For a long moment, we stared at it, and it stared at us, and none of us moved. In an instant, it leapt forward. We all opened up, blasting away with our weapons. It shuddered and fell back, but tried to hobble towards us. We kept firing and firing, despite everything our training had taught us, nearly emptying our weapons into the beast until long after it had ceased to move. MYERS: Xi-13 Friendlies! On your six! BURKE (NARRATOR): Staff Sergeant Myers, Team 1, and Squad Three had all appeared in the room behind us. With their arrival, we were snapped out of our battle trance. MYERS: Stand down, Team 2. BURKE: Good timing, Staff Sergeant. MYERS: What the hell were you shooting at, Corporal Burke? BURKE: The Unknown Anomaly, Staff Sergeant. We found it in here and cornered it, but it attacked us. We were defending ourselves. MYERS: Corporal, we bagged the Unknown Anomaly outside, half an hour ago. SALAZAR: What? RIGBY: That can’t be right. BROOKS: Staff Sergeant? MYERS: We tried to radio you, but we couldn’t get through. EVAN gave us the coordinates and led us through the structure. BURKE: What? MYERS: You do speak English, Corporal. BURKE: Yes, Staff Sergeant. BROOKS: But if you captured the Unknown Anomaly, then what’s that? MYERS: What’s what? BURKE: That, over there—wait, where did it go? MYERS: Corporal, there’s nothing in this room except a lot of bullet holes and shell casings. BURKE (NARRATOR): Sure enough, Staff Sergeant Myers was right. The room was empty – there was no sign of the beast. No blood, no fur, no saliva, nothing. Nothing could have left the room, either, since it was a dead end. SALAZAR: I don’t understand. RIGBY: It was right here. MYERS: We’d better get you back to base and have the doctors check you out. BURKE: Yes, Staff Sergeant. BURKE (NARRATOR): As it turned out, all four members of Xi-13, Second Squad, Team 2 were given a clean bill of both mental and physical health. During the post-exercise assessment, Colonel Hornby informed us that we, and I, had passed with acceptable marks, as had EVAN, who would be joining our field operations from then on. We also learned that a full sweep and clear had been conducted of the structure, and no evidence of our mystery creature had been found. Interestingly though, only about half of the bullets we fired were recovered from the back wall of that lonely room deep in the structure. Sometime later, I passed Colonel Hornby in the hallway at Site-19. I asked him about the structure and the beast, and if either had been classified as a Skip. His beard hid a small smile, and I could see a twinkle in his eye when he said that he couldn’t talk about it. I’ve been back to Training Area Five several times since, but I’ve never made it back to that structure. Maybe someday I’ll have the clearance and need to know. In the meantime, if I am out in the woods late at night, I remember back and wonder…. = <End of Transcript> [[/collapsible]] [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/incident-ta-05-003-1/IncidentTA-05-003-%E2%96%88%E2%96%88-1.mp3]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: IncidentTA-05-003-██-1.mp3 > Author:** [[user Hornby]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/incident-ta-05-003-1 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-02-03T02:16:00	[ "_licensebox", "audio", "doctor-glass", "tale" ]	Incident TA-05-003-██-1 - SCP Foundation	11	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "tf-alpha-440", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12658293	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/incident-ta-05-003-1
incursion	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h1 id="toc0"><span><a href="/scp-749">1</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, approximately ten seconds. During this time, rain can be heard striking a number of windows nearby.</em></p> <p>My name is Doctor Lowell Henry Piedmont. I am a research scientist for the Foundation, specialty in esoteric containment of anomalous objects, events and locations. I have gone missing. There are three others with me. Alicia Connors is an archivist assistant currently assigned to <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a>. Jerald Hanndock is a research assistant, also assigned to <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a>. Matthew Terger is a security agent with whom I have worked with to a considerable degree of satisfaction.</p> <p>The output of the <a href="/scp-316">SCP-316</a> replica produced by <a href="/scp-914">914</a>… we were exposed to the light of this new item. We are now someplace I suspect to be the United Kingdom, though we haven't been able to confirm this. We have taken shelter in a greenhouse on Terger's suggestion — it is elevated, and will give us a good view of any more incoming hostiles. We have already been attacked.</p> <p>We attempted to make camp in the great room of the adjacent, abandoned manor house, but gunfire awoke us during the second watch. Terger saw something disturbingly long melt a panel of a window. It attempted to reach Connors while she slept. He almost lost sight of it. He managed to shoot it, clipped the anterior of its body length and sent it running back through the warped hole in the window. We relocated immediately.</p> <p>This is the first of my records. I will be documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night one. One round expended. Seventy-one remain.</p> <p><em>Rain continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc1"><span><a href="/scp-420">2</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sounds of running and sloshing water are prominent nearby, as are a calm, low male voice and a higher pitched female voice, apparently in some distress.</em></p> <p>We took a chance and returned to the manor house after daylight was sufficient to light the interior of the house. Terger was on point, I covered the others from behind. We didn't find more insects. The house has outlets but no power- it has no modern accoutrements whatsoever, in fact, and is in truth quite sparsely furnished for such an estate. There are places where paintings must have hung, however, and furniture was moved. It was probably stripped and abandoned. Still, we remain in some proximity to our time of origin, though we have clearly been geographically displaced.</p> <p>We were unable to find any maps or other useful things here besides canned foods. Unfamiliar brand names. Could be regional food, could be evidence that we are further from home than I'd like to admit. Have to keep an open mind.</p> <p>We had a debate about going into the basement. I was outvoted three to one in favor of breaking the locks and investigating. We were reasonably certain that nothing like we saw last night would be down there. We were right.</p> <p>I know that it sounds absurd, but I have the nagging feeling that the thing that took a bite out of Terger's shoulder with the mouth on its elbow used to be human. We didn't stay long enough to find out. Hanndock had found a keyring in the kitchen after we broke about half the locks with a hammer from the gardening shed. After the creature decided Terger wasn't tasty enough (I shot it, center mass), we relocked the remaining locks; we'll have to hope they're enough. The skin absorbed a lot of the impact, and we don't have the ammunition to kill the thing. We bound the wound; Terger seems as though he'll recover in a few days. A little longer to mend his ego.</p> <p>This house is dangerous, but we don't have anyplace else to go. We'll walk a few hours tomorrow, and turn around if we can't get a vantage point to see another destination.</p> <p>This is the second of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night two. One round expended. Seventy remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc2"><span><a href="/scp-165">3</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sound of a large fire, perhaps, is audible.</em></p> <p>I was certain I remembered something about that creature. It matches a file a colleague had me read a few months ago, regarding a bottle of whiskey that turned drinkers into literal monsters. The insect may have been a… anomaly as well for all I know. But I know exactly what killed Alicia. I have no idea how three unrelated… objects… ended up in the same place.</p> <p>We saw a small town on our expedition, from the top of a hill. It was on the other side of a river, but that was surmountable. We crossed the river and followed it into town. Nobody was there. Too many houses for the cars here. Still here, I should say. There were some pretty deep-set oil stains in front of a few homes, but no vehicles to make them.</p> <p>It must have been a while since the… I can't say what they are. I don't know who will find this. I'm calling it the beach. The beach killed or drove off everyone who lived in this city. If you find this note, don't get close to the lake. The sands are alive and they will devour you before you realize your feet are in pieces. They took her apart, had her on stumps before she realized she was getting shorter.</p> <p>That's an exaggeration, but it was horrible to watch. When she tried to run, what was left of her feet splintered and she fell. She didn't scream long. We found a car with keys inside not too far from the lake; I spotted the keychain gleaming while we were running. I think we could have gotten away without the car, but it helped.</p> <p>There's a roadmap; glove compartment. It's not in a language any of us speak, though it was dogeared on a specific page. The road layout fits the town, and the river; we're going to get some gas and find the next nearest town.</p> <p>The clouds haven't lifted since we got here. Not for a minute. I hope that's just how things are here- the last thing we need is anomalous weather.</p> <p>This is the third of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night three. One magazine and sidearm lost. Fifty eight rounds remain. Got food from a grocery store. Looking for a gun shop next.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc3"><span><a href="/scp-919">4</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p><em>The recording starts, but there is a pause- perhaps three seconds- before Piedmont speaks. The only background sound is two uncoordinated sets of breathing.</em></p> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you… stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, approximately ten seconds. A third set of breathing joins the noise, much closer to the source of the recording.</em></p> <p>Terger had to subdue Hanndock after we found the mirror. I don't know how it could have broken containment. There was only one, and we had it. The insect, the creature, the beach… could be explained. There's only one mirror. It can't be here, or else we're not where I thought we were. I'll talk to Terger alone from now on when discussing my theories. Hanndock isn't stable enough to take it.</p> <p>We encountered the mirror on a stand in the pawn shop we broke into. We made it to the next town, but it's as empty as the first. We've found a few bodies, but they're all accidental. Nothing particularly alarming. The mirror, though, has us all on edge. Had. We put it face down behind the counter. But not before it told us what was happening.</p> <p>We can't trust what it said. It'd have said anything to keep us from leaving. Terger almost stayed, but he followed my lead, thank god. Hanndock just… didn't understand. He must have never read the file. It screamed so loudly. I hope nothing's here to hear it.</p> <p>It can't be here, but it is. We aren't home. We're someplace else. We'll find a way back. This many objects in one place? There has to be more.</p> <p>I hope we don't find the wrong ones.</p> <p>This is the fourth of the records documenting our attempts to return. The first since Connors' death.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night four. One revolver, one rifle, one shotgun found, all loaded. No ammo besides. Seventy four rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc4"><span><a href="/scp-820">5</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. The sound of calm conversation is in the background, two male voices. There is also the faint sound of rustling metal.</em></p> <p>We aren't in Peru. They shouldn't be here. As far as anomalies go, though, grasshoppers aren't all that horrible. The accidents- we found dozens more before we made it to the store- make sense now. I'm glad we picked a grocery store to make camp; we'll be able to wait them out. Terger was the only one to see them, and he's restrained- not that it was hard to talk him into handcuffing himself to the door of the storeroom freezer after what he saw. Hanndock and I have been keeping him fed and taking him to the restroom when he needs to go, keeping our backs towards the windowed storefront. We took away his gun for the time being, obviously.</p> <p>At least he told us what he was seeing before we looked. We'll be alright.</p> <p>Another anomaly. We need to figure out what's going on before we run into something seriously dangerous again. There's too many objects to prepare for them all.</p> <p>This is the fifth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night five. Seventy four rounds remain. We'll be here a while.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc5"><span><a href="/scp-650">6</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" don't mean anything to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Two sets of breathing, one matching that of a sleeping human, are audible in the background.</em></p> <p>We lucked out. Again. Hanndock might have had some trouble with it if he'd been the first exposed, but it caught Terger at the tail end of the locust exposure. He didn't bat an eye. It's been disconcerting to have around, but we've been adjusting. Terger's proven resistant to its form of "attack," and it's taken to mimicking him. It bothers Hanndock most. The surprise gets to me, but I don't have any trouble with its secondary disturbances, at least. I think it might be amusing itself- forgive me the pun, but I'm glad of the irony that it lacks a "black" sense of humor. Who knows- maybe it will prove helpful in the end.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. This is still the fifth night. Sixth of our records. Seventy three rounds after initial reactions.</p> <p>Hanndock deserved the cuff to the head. I'm going to get Terger a beer.</p> <p><em>The sleeping breathing continues; the other chuckles under his breath, presumably Terger. Piedmont joins in; recording terminates after approximately one more second.</em></p> <h1 id="toc6"><span><a href="/scp-593">7</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sound of a motor is audible in the background.</em></p> <p>We almost went into that house. The mother's slip-up, though- Hanndock's the one that caught the significance. Terger assumed she'd miscounted; I thought she'd included the statue (it didn't leave with us- must have transferred to someone in the house). Hanndock, though, he'd been on edge since the statue started following us. Borderline paranoia, but it paid off.</p> <p>I thought I was keeping an eye out. If we'd gone into that house… ten percent chance to escape infection. The distances on the map would have meant nothing after that. I owe Hanndock an apology. He's not suited for permanent field work, but he's a quick thinker and well-read.</p> <p>Terger identified a city with a sector in the industrial district nearby. He trained there, he says. The cloud cover is finally breaking up a little, but it's far from a clear sky. Nice to see the stars, now and then.</p> <p>Five days to-</p> <p>Can't say. I mentioned there's a sector there. But five days and maybe we'll get some answers.</p> <p>This is the seventh of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night six. Seventy four rounds still remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc7"><span><a href="/scp-312">8</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Assorted sounds consitent with the cleaning of a civilian-grade hunting rifle are audible in the background.</em></p> <p>If we return, I will write a personal letter of thanks to the founder of the Foundation. I don't care that they won't get it. These things are-</p> <p><em>There is a brief pause, then a short burst of nervous laughter.</em></p> <p>These things are "redacted." You can choose your expletive of choice; whatever idiot savant type green created that godforsaken cloudfish needs to get a visit from Alto Clef. I don't know whether to be thankful that the first time Terger looked up was through the sunroof of our jeep or curse the decision to take on extra gear and store some on the roof. I hope the damned thing chokes on the shotgun. Everything else is replaceable, but we're probably going to be stuck with the sidearms and the eight shots in the rifle at least until we make the city, and after that bloody cloud…</p> <p>Four days. This is the eighth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night seven. Shotgun lost. Seventy two rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Brief, humorless grunt of laughter.</em></p> <p>Plenty of food, though.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc8"><span><a href="/scp-327">9</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. The soft sound of the surf is audible, not quite close to the microphone. It sounds like it's crashing against rocks, as opposed to onto sand.</em></p> <p>We can put a rough date on the incursion. That's what I'm calling them now, the arrival of the anomalies. I've been studying the map we found, and we seem to be in the Atlantic Archipelago. That's the U. K., if you're unfamiliar with the term. I thought the driving time was unrealistic, but Terger was right- while we could drive from where we started near…</p> <p>Damn it all to hell, I can't even speak openly. We're going to a city on the other end of the country, and we can't drive straight there because we have to keep stopping and hunting for gas stations that still have gas to siphon off. So we have to keep detouring through this godawful abandoned world-</p> <p>At least they tried to abandon it. We found out where most of the people ended up. The ones the anomalies inland didn't get. We stopped at a coastal city, the highway took us there. Roads aren't too crowded, thankfully. But the cliffs, and beaches and…</p> <p>There are boats everywhere. Smashed against cliffs; the few that made it ashore safely were abandoned to the surf. Thank god it's late winter- not mating season, or we'd probably have been dead just being close enough to see those beaches. Drowning, though… better than Connors got.</p> <p>My theory is it all happened at once. Anomalies arrived, probably decimated the population. Panic ensued, mass exodus failed; they must have ran out of boats eventually. And considering the nature of some of the more volatile anomalies, it can't have taken long to reduce the standing population to six, seven percent. The smart ones. We won't see them. They'll be too smart to approach us or attack us. They've probably got a good idea of when it's safe to move around, and a car in a silent world is a pretty loud announcement of our approach.</p> <p>… Three days.</p> <p>This is the ninth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night eight. Seventy two rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc9"><span><a href="/scp-968">10</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Two sets of quiet breathing consistent with those heard in previous recordings are audible in the background, as is a repetitive tapping, like that of a foot.</em></p> <p>We are no longer travelling after dark. When we find a place to secure for the night, it must be cleared by nightfall or we're just sleeping in the car.</p> <p>You never forget the smell of that thing. Terger remembered it from a voluntary stint on Keter duty covering for a short-staffed skip after a breach. It stinks like… well, like gas and oil and death and rot. Imagine a corpse drenched in vaseline. Sort of like that. He wouldn't let us take another step until we knew where the anomaly was. It'd just pooled in a hollow. We could have walked straight through it on our way to the store across from where we were staying. It wasn't mimicking anything, though- I suppose in a place of relatively frequent food, it must have been easier to be a dark puddle than hope someone paranoid would traipse into a dangerous goop to save someone else.</p> <p>It's getting harder to balance safety with the urge to get to the site. We all want to get home. Hanndock isn't allowed to drive, which means splitting up daylight between myself and Terger. The other sleeps in the car. We all need to be awake when we scout a campsite.</p> <p>This is the tenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night nine. Seventy two rounds still remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc10"><span><a href="/scp-179">11</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Hard breathing is audible, two-fold, with a third set of breaths slow and calm. One of the panting voices swears under their breath at infrequent intervals.</em></p> <p>Hanndock's got a hairtrigger and he probably just saved Terger's life. If I remember the file right, we could have all died easily. It could have sat in that corner and at some point, bam. Someone dies, it bloats and goes for seconds. But Hanndock was out of sight when it started moving and was startled enough when he entered the room to just gun it down.</p> <p>Who the fuck makes something like-</p> <p><em>Under his breath, Piedmont speaks.</em> … there is no fear. Fear is the mindkiller, and with the mind gone, we're all dead. Anomaly's gone, room cleared, Terger's recovering from the aboulia.</p> <p><em>He returns to normal speaking volume.</em> This is the eleventh of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night ten. Sixty rounds remain. Hanndock gets to clear the next gun shop we find to replace his ammo- thing must have been dead after the sixth shot and he just kept firing.</p> <p>Can't really blame him, that thing was ugly.</p> <p>Get there tomorrow. Then we'll see what's going on.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc11"><span><a href="/scp-447">12</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words…</p> <p><em>Quiet panting is audible in the background, and sounds consistent with loading rounds into a magazine audible at what seems to be some slight distance from the microphone. Background audio includes occasional, distant vocalizations that do not match the spectrum of sounds produced by the human layrnx.</em></p> <p>… "esoteric containment"… mean nothing to you… fuck off.</p> <p><em>Nearly a minute of silence elapses; the magazine ceases to be loaded and can be heard being placed into a gun. A few moments later, it is ejected, the bullets removed and loading begins again. This repeats throughout the entire recording. At no point are any more or less than seven rounds inserted into the magazine.</em></p> <p>… can't even fucking say what we saw or we're term'd if we ever make it back. Hanndock's dead. I shouldn't have sent him into that fucking gun shop alone.</p> <p>The facility is intact. Even powered in some areas. We're too tired to look tonight. I don't know how far we ran. We won't be able to get back to the car. If what we need isn't down here…</p> <p>This is the twelfth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night eleven… fifteen rounds, two sidearms remain.</p> <p><em>Time passes, thirty seconds or so.</em></p> <p>I used to fucking love peppermint. Damn it all to hell.</p> <h1 id="toc12"><span><a href="/scp-313">13</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. The exhaustion and frustration in Piedmont's voice present in the last recording have faded. He sounds professional once more, and there are two sets of footsteps audible in the background. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.</em></p> <p>The site may be intact, but containment certainly isn't. We've seen evidence of anomalies that weren't even stored at this site. I should have said that last time. We holed up in one of the observation rooms for a pretty dangerous anomaly. It was fortified, physical door locks, and nothing around to cause a problem. We slept in shifts. We aren't safe; we can hear movement, and other things, from distant parts of the site, but we've had training for situations like this. Back in the site, that all comes back quick.</p> <p>The first room Terger thought we could use wasn't much of a room anymore. There's a bathroom a level above, and I guess the Foundation didn't discover that particular anomaly prior to all this. The roof was blasted out, part of the floor was slagged down into the containment chamber below- not all accounted for, though. Guess it's not surprising, considering the temperatures involved. Vapor doesn't leave a lot behind.</p> <p>What's left in the containment chamber below might have been what ended things. It matches the containment procedures, and despite the overwhelming scent of char, I can still smell the fucking mint. Whoever was in here when the room above hit a few thousand kelvin sure as hell would have constituted a dead body.</p> <p>This is the thirteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twelve. Fifteen rounds still remain. We're heading for the archives to see what was kept here.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc13"><span><a href="/scp-963">14</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. There are also faint sounds consistent with an individual standing in place shifting their weight occasionally.</em></p> <p>Had to move through Euclid containment to reach the archives. We don't have much in the way of supplies, though, so we've relocated our base of operations. Always thought it was kind of silly, making the archives one of the most secure places in the facility. I'm not laughing now; this might be safe enough to keep us alive. More bodies in a few of the sealed rooms around the Archives- only in rooms that respond to security badges. Alive, unresponsive but clean, dressed… no obvious cause. Like they're being kept. Seriously concerning. Cognitohazard? Maybe.</p> <p>We saw someone down one of the hallways. Looked alive, but the damnedest thing is that I swear I saw one of them earlier today, but it was braindead. Still stunning that they're alive at all. I guess that the-</p> <p>… right. Can't talk about them. But they don't come down here. I think the stuff below scares them.</p> <p>I hope to God it's the stuff <em>below</em> here that scares them.</p> <p>This is the fourteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day thirteen. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc14"><span><a href="/scp-161">15</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. There are sounds indicating an individual shuffling through some papers, near to the speaker; Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Also present are footsteps indicative of an individual pacing around the room, likely on watch.</em></p> <p>I do not like what I am seeing. We left the archives just once today, to check the canteen for supplies. No problem obtaining some, but I'm sure I saw someone watching us. They were gone when we left with our supplies, though I have no idea where they went. Had a panic attack when I realized there were weakening, decaying spots on the walls, but they aren't actively falling apart- it's not him. We'd have known if he was here. We'd be fucked if he was here.</p> <p>I checked the spot where I remembered the doll- the living body, nobody home- that I thought I saw yesterday. Still there. Different position, and I'm sure there wasn't dust on the cuffs of his slacks before.</p> <p>They're moving. Or being moved. Just not when we're here.</p> <p>We took a roundabout way back to camp. Don't think we've been followed. Guess we'll find out, if whoever I saw has Factory gear. Not like walls are going to keep them out. Gonna have to stay hidden.</p> <p>Still searching for records of what I hope is here. Beans for dinner. Yum. <em>Piedmont's tone here suggests overwhelming dissatisfaction with the contents of his meal.</em></p> <p>This is the fifteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day fourteen. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc15"><span><a href="/scp-176">16</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. A second set of respiration suggests a sleeping individual.</em></p> <p>More sightings of our companions. Always at a distance, always gone when we check later. Always near those decayed patches. Pretty confident that's Factory work. Still not sure how the dolls are moving. More were out of place. It's never much different, but it is. I'm sure of it. Terger's been giving me some weird looks, but he trusts me. I know what I'm talking about.</p> <p>Encountered an anomaly when we went to check out an archive annex one floor down. I haven't got a clue how the observation chamber got relocated into one of the hallways. We detoured around, but not before watching a few cycles. Waste of a minute, but it was nice to see some human beings for a little, even if they do get shot and who knows what happens after the flash. Hope they're okay.</p> <p>It's weird- I never cared before, but now I really do hope they're okay. Wherever they are.</p> <p>Guess I'm just more sympathetic now.</p> <p>This is the sixteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day fifteen. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc16"><span><a href="/scp-303">17</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "eso… esot-teric containment" mean-n-n-n n-nothing to you, s-s-s-stop… stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Two individuals exhibit rapid respiration consistent with a state of panic.</em></p> <p>This i-is completely irrational. I know it won't act if we d… don't open the door. I KNOW it won't and I KNOW for a FACT that if we DO open the door, it'll-</p> <p><em>Piedmont's voice cracks, devolves into hyperventilation for a brief moment before he can get himself under control.</em></p> <p>But it WON'T. It WILL and we're FUCKED if it doesn't leave.</p> <p>I fucking hate cognitohazards. I'd rather run from them upstairs than sit here cowering.</p> <p>Terger gave me his g-g… gun. To make sure he d… doesn't… waste bullets.</p> <p>Or himself.</p> <p><em>Fourty-three seconds pass; rapid breathing remains consistent with a panic state.</em></p> <p>This is the seventeenth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day sixteen. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc17"><span><a href="/scp-303">18</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.</em></p> <p>It's still there.</p> <p>Seventeenth record. Day seventeen. Fifteen rounds.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc18"><span><a href="/scp-303">19</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.</em></p> <p>Still there.</p> <p>Eighteenth record. Day eighteen. Fifteen rounds.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc19"><span><a href="/scp-303">20</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>Still there.</p> <p>Nineteenth day. Nineteenth record. Fifteen bullets.</p> <p>I just want to go home.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc20"><span><a href="/scp-303">21</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>Still there. Out of water.</p> <p>Twentieth. Fifteen bullets.</p> <p>We're going to die.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc21"><span><a href="/scp-303">22</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>Still there. Out of food.</p> <p>Twenty first. Fifteen bullets.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc22"><span><a href="/scp-289">23</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p><em>Piedmont begins this recording in a tone suggesting triumph bordering on mania; additional voice in the background is laughing in frantic relief.</em><br/> If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening, you lucky son of a bitch.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Laughing subsides to a chuckle, sounds of firearm maintenance can be heard.</em></p> <p>The fucking dolls. Whatever's moving them, one must have threatened line of sight on the bastard! He's gone, and we found ourselves to get out of here and get some goddamned water. Had to use the restroom faucets to rinse out and refill the bottles- someone's locked the canteen doors with a rock.</p> <p>At least that's what I figure's gotta be there. Terger tried to force the door open, but the way he stumbled back so far, looking startled, I didn't let him try more than once more. Said it was hard to reverse, and he winced hard when he kicked it again. Got him away from the door. There's a patch of discolored paint next to the door; pretty sure we can thank the dolls for this. Still, we HAVE food, and it could have been worse- they could have locked OUR door.</p> <p>This is the- what, twenty second?-</p> <p><em>Affirmation is audible.</em></p> <p>-twenty second of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty two. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc23"><span><a href="/scp-732">24</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Additional audio suggests a second individual engaged in the act of eating.</em></p> <p>The annex has been compromised. Contagious typoes-</p> <p><em>Secondary individual disputes the definition.</em></p> <p>- it might as WELL be typoes, Terger, for all the good a badly-written self-insert fantasy does us. A dozen file cabinets and three PCs ruined. We checked ourselves for any materials that could bring the infection back, left them there. I'm glad I left my coat upstairs today- might have infected our recordings. We haven't lost much, but we'll have to go deeper tomorrow. We've exhausted the options on this floor and one below, and there's another canteen three floors down. We'll locate a safe room before restocking.</p> <p>This is the twenty third of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty three. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc24"><span><a href="/scp-033">25</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings, though fainter. Additional audio suggests the recording occurs while Piedmont and Terger are in transit on foot.</em></p> <p>Annex two floors down from base one was empty, except for a single sheet of… I think it was leather, middle of the room. I didn't let Terger get close, not if that's what I think it is. I think annex is a bad term for a room that's something like a hundred feet on a side, this place could almost be its own archive. Could have been, anyway. There was one file cabinet left, crammed back in a corner, but I think he woulda been pushing awful close to the edge of the jump radius. We can't afford to pick that thing up on anything we're relying on. We'll just keep looking. One more floor to-</p> <p><em>A third set of footsteps becomes rapidly audible. Faint, growing static is heard overwhelming the audio. A previously unheard voice calls for someone to 'get out of the way.'</em></p> <p>Shit, TERGER! We've g</p> <p><em>Audio dissolves into uselessness for six minutes, twenty eight seconds; fluctuations suggests an attempt to record strong, nearby sounds. Recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc25"><span><a href="/scp-890">25 Cont.</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p><em>Recording resumes.</em></p> <p>-nk you, doctor. Had no idea about the battery leaking. I owe you my thanks. Stay safe.</p> <p>Christ. Just wanted to get that leaky battery out before it ruined this device. Would have lost our records.</p> <p>That's terrifying. I don't even know why, they aren't at all necessary to our survival, but recording these keeps me feel… grounded.</p> <p>Sane, I suppose. Though now I feel guilty for not taking better care of my recorder, so there's that theory out the window.</p> <p>Anyway. This is the twenty fourth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty four. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc26"><span><a href="/scp-644">26</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds.</em></p> <p>I want to say that the stairwell we approached was flooded, but that's not quite right. Maybe it was, at one point. The corridors one floor down are steel-walled, chambered to seal in an emergency. The one by the stairwell was filled with what looked like basalt. Tons and tons of solid, smooth basalt. Tested it with a dead monitor; broke the rock, left a splash, frozen in stone. No way we get through there.</p> <p>Another stairwell at the north end of this block. We'll try tomorrow.</p> <p>This is the twenty fifth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty five. Fifteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Secondary individual remarks; volume is insufficient to make out dialogue.</em></p> <p>Yeah. I'm tired, too. We'll try to take a break when we make it to the canteen.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc27"><span><a href="/scp-486">27</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds. Soft breathing nearby; pitch suggests female physiology. Distant, rhythmic footsteps in a stilted pattern.</em></p> <p>And so are we three. Terger insists we bring her along. I'm not so sure, but she's only dangerous if we hurt her. So… we won't. I'd be more comfortable without a tagalong, but as long as we're not here more than a month and she doesn't get torn up any… Terger handed over his shoes so she wouldn't step on glass or rubble. I considered suggesting we ask her if she's willing to let us harvest a little venom, but Terger's so keen to have company of SOME kind that's not trying to kill us… not worth it.</p> <p>Made good progress, at least. We're two floors down. Next floor should have the canteen.</p> <p>This is the twenty sixth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty six. Fourteen rounds remain- just nerves. Glad I missed.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc28"><span><a href="/scp-239">28</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p><em>Strain is evident in the voice of the speaker.</em></p> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds.</em></p> <p>I am alone.</p> <p><em>Another twelve seconds pass in silence.</em></p> <p>A door opened where there had been none before. Terger brought up the gun, finger off the trigger, standard procedure.</p> <p>I guess she never saw the movies. The curse didn't send him flying. She just… turned him off and left. The woman stayed by his body. I took the gun and left.</p> <p>I couldn't have taken her out of here anyway.</p> <p>This is the twenty seventh of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off alone. Day twenty seven. Fourteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc29"><span><a href="/scp-298">29</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds.</em></p> <p>New base camp. Good place to store supplies- it's extremely defensible. True, it's loud, but anything drawn by the noise is already going to be affected.</p> <p>Just need to remember to watch my footing. There'll be a lot of blood if I have to play anything.</p> <p>This is the twenty eighth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty eight. Fourteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc30"><span><a href="/scp-073">30</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds, in which indistinct and apparently amicable discourse occurs in the background between two male subjects, including the speaker.</em></p> <p>It's almost amusing, the things of which you can be reminded. If I'd been asked to brief someone else on how to handle this fellow here… I'd have said "don't shoot first. Or at all."</p> <p>I completely forgot he was backing up our database. It's a new one, but it should work. One-Seven-Eight-Oh. I just need it, an office… and some patience.</p> <p>This is the twenty ninth of the records documenting our attempts to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty nine. Fourteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <h1 id="toc31"><span><a href="/scp-1780">XXX</a></span></h1> <hr/> <p>If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds.</em></p> <p>It felt harder to keep going when it was just me. Having Terger around meant I had someone to watch out for. Meant I had to watch my mouth, too- not like he's cleared for all this- but it was motivating. Now… just me.</p> <p>But that's enough. I'm… almost done. 1780 wasn't too hard to get. It was hard to get <em>to</em>, sure- though some things were just a little… comical. The manhole, for instance. In the middle of a secure facility…</p> <p>The strangest thing was the IV. Someone had hooked it up to… <em>something.</em> Wires and batteries and plugs. So much power, and it all seemed to do nothing. Maybe it's responsible for all this. I can't tell, really. I haven't got the luxury to sit here and try to unravel all that. It doesn't matter- I've got to get back. I've been too lucky by half; the Cop keeping the Salesman company, the <em>rats</em>- both sorts, the smart ones and the sharp ones, the candy and the fish- Christ, I hate compulsives.</p> <p>Terger never really thought to ask why I knew so much about all these things. It's not like the database is an open book. You read what you're assigned to, nothing more. Usually. Some assignments require more indepth familiarity.</p> <p>EC-3 doesn't stand for esoteric containment- but I couldn't very well tell them that. Easier for all of us if they were just working with some researcher. They expect us to know everything, anyway- far easier than explaining.</p> <p>I've rigged the nameplate at an angle. When I slam this door, it'll break static friction and allow it to slide out of the holder. This room… it's a crapshoot, but it's better than all this.</p> <p>There wasn't a pop or rush of air or anything. It's like it's always been connected to the room on the other side. I opened it, so… I just need to step through, slam the door. I can feel the bit of metal in my hand, gravid with all the pregnancy of possibility. I know what's on the other side of this door. Time and space relative to a single room that is anything but singular, spread out and away like… forever.</p> <p>This is the thirtieth of the records documenting my hopefully successful attempt to return.</p> <p>Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day forty two. Fourteen rounds remain.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <hr/> <p>If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds.</em></p> <p>I'm still waiting.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</em></p> <hr/> <p><em>The recording resumes an uncertain amount of time later. There are several days of silent recording of nothing besides the turning of pages, the sounds of two guns- one sidearm and a larger firearm- being disassembled, cleaned and reassembled, and pacing footsteps. After 207 hours, Piedmont speaks. His voice reflects strain, consistent with prolonged solitary confinement.</em></p> <p>Nothing runs out here. I haven't run out of time. Or energy. Or gun oil. or battery</p> <p><em>A tiny pause, and the note of tension increases in the tone of Piedmont's voice.</em></p> <p>Except reading material. I'm out of that, save for the letter. And I'm not going to be reading that. I've read the excerpt. I'm not scared. But it's not the way back.</p> <p>I can ignore one sheet of paper for as long as I have to.</p> <p><em>Speech stops and activity lapses into the aforementioned patterns of behavior. These continue. Despite the limitations of the amount of information that can be stored on the digital recording device, recording continues as above, without pause, during which time audio analysis of the recording shows four vocalized patterns matching Piedmont's readings of the text of Oxford’s Unabridged English Dictionary and three variants of Time Life’s Great Ages of Man: A History of the World’s Cultures, repeating a collective total of 923 times with slight but detectable increase in vocal tremors as time goes on. At 4763 hours and 27 minutes, the door opens, a single pair of footsteps enter the room approaching the recorder and recording ends.</em></p> <hr/> <p><em>A second voice cuts into the middle of a sentence, apparently intructing Piedmont to "go ahead" with something. Piedmont speaks, notably more stable but significantly more guarded in tone.</em></p> <p>If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening.</p> <p><em>Time passes, about ten seconds, then the second voice speaks, prompting Piedmont to continue.</em></p> <p>I'm sitting at a table across from a man I've never met but I've read about. He's told me that we'll meet, later and in a less… tense situation. And he's stated he can get me back when I need to go.</p> <p>Emphasis on when. There's only so many exit points into our world, so many active instances, and the only one that's not going to result in classification as 1780-2 is…</p> <p>Jesus. Is that what this whole mess was for? Three people dead in a world that never knew them, and all to get me to one when. Not even ME, but someone who knows what I know.</p> <p><em>A short pause.</em></p> <p>How do you know what EC actually stands for?</p> <p><em>The second voice speaks shortly.</em></p> <p>… of course I did.</p> <p>Goddammit. Every attendant researcher and <em>all</em> of the D-Class have already been killed or incapacitated by the time the instance becomes active? This is accurate?</p> <p>I don't want to do this, Xyank. Tachyon Control Circuit or not, I'm seriously tempted to just take one of the other doors. Containment or not- do you <em>know</em> what that procedure entails?</p> <p><em>A longer pause. Silence on both sides. Then, a heavy sigh.</em></p> <p>… no. You wouldn't. Or you'd do it yourself. That's why I'm here.</p> <p><em>Another, considerably longer pause, then the sound of a chair moving, someone standing.</em></p> <p>Alright. I'll do it. It's not like I don't already know what's involved. Just.</p> <p>Never thought I'd have to participate.</p> <p><em>A series of footsteps, then another in tandem, move away from the recorder. Distantly, Piedmont speaks.</em></p> <p>When you're ready.</p> <p><em>The door clicks, and immediately the far-off sound of screaming and the nearer sounds of panicked voices fill the room.</em></p> <p>See you later, X. You'll have to explain that Tachyon Control Circuit deal some other time. The long way. I'm done with vanishings.</p> <p><em>Footsteps proceed away from the recorder, and Piedmont's raised voice covers the sounds of chaos.</em></p> <p>No time to panic, people, we've all just been requisitioned by order of the Ethics Committee. I've already been briefed on Procedure 110-Montauk forward and backwards and we've still got time to do this <em>if you shut up and do as you're told.</em> You'll all get amnestics and commendations as soon as we're done but we get one ch-</p> <p><em>The door clicks shut and the sounds die instantly. Footsteps, slow and almost ponderous in the wake of Piedmont's departure, approach the recorder. A heavy sigh is heard before the second voice speaks.</em></p> <p>I hate saying this, but you can't give him the amnestic. Deny him this experience and he isn't going to be half-ready for what comes down the line. He needs this edge. And he needs this trauma.</p> <p>We need him a little broken. So don't fix him.</p> <p>Or we'll just have to do it again.</p> <p><em>Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.</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="/incursion">Incursion</a>" by Lowell, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/incursion">https://scpwiki.com/incursion</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]] [[/>]] + [[[scp-749\|1]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, approximately ten seconds. During this time, rain can be heard striking a number of windows nearby.// My name is Doctor Lowell Henry Piedmont. I am a research scientist for the Foundation, specialty in esoteric containment of anomalous objects, events and locations. I have gone missing. There are three others with me. Alicia Connors is an archivist assistant currently assigned to [[[SCP-914]]]. Jerald Hanndock is a research assistant, also assigned to [[[SCP-914]]]. Matthew Terger is a security agent with whom I have worked with to a considerable degree of satisfaction. The output of the [[[SCP-316]]] replica produced by [[[SCP-914 \| 914]]]... we were exposed to the light of this new item. We are now someplace I suspect to be the United Kingdom, though we haven't been able to confirm this. We have taken shelter in a greenhouse on Terger's suggestion -- it is elevated, and will give us a good view of any more incoming hostiles. We have already been attacked. We attempted to make camp in the great room of the adjacent, abandoned manor house, but gunfire awoke us during the second watch. Terger saw something disturbingly long melt a panel of a window. It attempted to reach Connors while she slept. He almost lost sight of it. He managed to shoot it, clipped the anterior of its body length and sent it running back through the warped hole in the window. We relocated immediately. This is the first of my records. I will be documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night one. One round expended. Seventy-one remain. //Rain continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-420\|2]]] ------ If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sounds of running and sloshing water are prominent nearby, as are a calm, low male voice and a higher pitched female voice, apparently in some distress.// We took a chance and returned to the manor house after daylight was sufficient to light the interior of the house. Terger was on point, I covered the others from behind. We didn't find more insects. The house has outlets but no power- it has no modern accoutrements whatsoever, in fact, and is in truth quite sparsely furnished for such an estate. There are places where paintings must have hung, however, and furniture was moved. It was probably stripped and abandoned. Still, we remain in some proximity to our time of origin, though we have clearly been geographically displaced. We were unable to find any maps or other useful things here besides canned foods. Unfamiliar brand names. Could be regional food, could be evidence that we are further from home than I'd like to admit. Have to keep an open mind. We had a debate about going into the basement. I was outvoted three to one in favor of breaking the locks and investigating. We were reasonably certain that nothing like we saw last night would be down there. We were right. I know that it sounds absurd, but I have the nagging feeling that the thing that took a bite out of Terger's shoulder with the mouth on its elbow used to be human. We didn't stay long enough to find out. Hanndock had found a keyring in the kitchen after we broke about half the locks with a hammer from the gardening shed. After the creature decided Terger wasn't tasty enough (I shot it, center mass), we relocked the remaining locks; we'll have to hope they're enough. The skin absorbed a lot of the impact, and we don't have the ammunition to kill the thing. We bound the wound; Terger seems as though he'll recover in a few days. A little longer to mend his ego. This house is dangerous, but we don't have anyplace else to go. We'll walk a few hours tomorrow, and turn around if we can't get a vantage point to see another destination. This is the second of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night two. One round expended. Seventy remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-165\|3]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sound of a large fire, perhaps, is audible.// I was certain I remembered something about that creature. It matches a file a colleague had me read a few months ago, regarding a bottle of whiskey that turned drinkers into literal monsters. The insect may have been a... anomaly as well for all I know. But I know exactly what killed Alicia. I have no idea how three unrelated... objects... ended up in the same place. We saw a small town on our expedition, from the top of a hill. It was on the other side of a river, but that was surmountable. We crossed the river and followed it into town. Nobody was there. Too many houses for the cars here. Still here, I should say. There were some pretty deep-set oil stains in front of a few homes, but no vehicles to make them. It must have been a while since the... I can't say what they are. I don't know who will find this. I'm calling it the beach. The beach killed or drove off everyone who lived in this city. If you find this note, don't get close to the lake. The sands are alive and they will devour you before you realize your feet are in pieces. They took her apart, had her on stumps before she realized she was getting shorter. That's an exaggeration, but it was horrible to watch. When she tried to run, what was left of her feet splintered and she fell. She didn't scream long. We found a car with keys inside not too far from the lake; I spotted the keychain gleaming while we were running. I think we could have gotten away without the car, but it helped. There's a roadmap; glove compartment. It's not in a language any of us speak, though it was dogeared on a specific page. The road layout fits the town, and the river; we're going to get some gas and find the next nearest town. The clouds haven't lifted since we got here. Not for a minute. I hope that's just how things are here- the last thing we need is anomalous weather. This is the third of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night three. One magazine and sidearm lost. Fifty eight rounds remain. Got food from a grocery store. Looking for a gun shop next. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-919\|4]]] ----- //The recording starts, but there is a pause- perhaps three seconds- before Piedmont speaks. The only background sound is two uncoordinated sets of breathing.// If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you... stop listening. //Time passes, approximately ten seconds. A third set of breathing joins the noise, much closer to the source of the recording.// Terger had to subdue Hanndock after we found the mirror. I don't know how it could have broken containment. There was only one, and we had it. The insect, the creature, the beach... could be explained. There's only one mirror. It can't be here, or else we're not where I thought we were. I'll talk to Terger alone from now on when discussing my theories. Hanndock isn't stable enough to take it. We encountered the mirror on a stand in the pawn shop we broke into. We made it to the next town, but it's as empty as the first. We've found a few bodies, but they're all accidental. Nothing particularly alarming. The mirror, though, has us all on edge. Had. We put it face down behind the counter. But not before it told us what was happening. We can't trust what it said. It'd have said anything to keep us from leaving. Terger almost stayed, but he followed my lead, thank god. Hanndock just... didn't understand. He must have never read the file. It screamed so loudly. I hope nothing's here to hear it. It can't be here, but it is. We aren't home. We're someplace else. We'll find a way back. This many objects in one place? There has to be more. I hope we don't find the wrong ones. This is the fourth of the records documenting our attempts to return. The first since Connors' death. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night four. One revolver, one rifle, one shotgun found, all loaded. No ammo besides. Seventy four rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-820\|5]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. The sound of calm conversation is in the background, two male voices. There is also the faint sound of rustling metal.// We aren't in Peru. They shouldn't be here. As far as anomalies go, though, grasshoppers aren't all that horrible. The accidents- we found dozens more before we made it to the store- make sense now. I'm glad we picked a grocery store to make camp; we'll be able to wait them out. Terger was the only one to see them, and he's restrained- not that it was hard to talk him into handcuffing himself to the door of the storeroom freezer after what he saw. Hanndock and I have been keeping him fed and taking him to the restroom when he needs to go, keeping our backs towards the windowed storefront. We took away his gun for the time being, obviously. At least he told us what he was seeing before we looked. We'll be alright. Another anomaly. We need to figure out what's going on before we run into something seriously dangerous again. There's too many objects to prepare for them all. This is the fifth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night five. Seventy four rounds remain. We'll be here a while. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-650\|6]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" don't mean anything to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Two sets of breathing, one matching that of a sleeping human, are audible in the background.// We lucked out. Again. Hanndock might have had some trouble with it if he'd been the first exposed, but it caught Terger at the tail end of the locust exposure. He didn't bat an eye. It's been disconcerting to have around, but we've been adjusting. Terger's proven resistant to its form of "attack," and it's taken to mimicking him. It bothers Hanndock most. The surprise gets to me, but I don't have any trouble with its secondary disturbances, at least. I think it might be amusing itself- forgive me the pun, but I'm glad of the irony that it lacks a "black" sense of humor. Who knows- maybe it will prove helpful in the end. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. This is still the fifth night. Sixth of our records. Seventy three rounds after initial reactions. Hanndock deserved the cuff to the head. I'm going to get Terger a beer. //The sleeping breathing continues; the other chuckles under his breath, presumably Terger. Piedmont joins in; recording terminates after approximately one more second.// + [[[scp-593\|7]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, approximately ten seconds. The sound of a motor is audible in the background.// We almost went into that house. The mother's slip-up, though- Hanndock's the one that caught the significance. Terger assumed she'd miscounted; I thought she'd included the statue (it didn't leave with us- must have transferred to someone in the house). Hanndock, though, he'd been on edge since the statue started following us. Borderline paranoia, but it paid off. I thought I was keeping an eye out. If we'd gone into that house... ten percent chance to escape infection. The distances on the map would have meant nothing after that. I owe Hanndock an apology. He's not suited for permanent field work, but he's a quick thinker and well-read. Terger identified a city with a sector in the industrial district nearby. He trained there, he says. The cloud cover is finally breaking up a little, but it's far from a clear sky. Nice to see the stars, now and then. Five days to- Can't say. I mentioned there's a sector there. But five days and maybe we'll get some answers. This is the seventh of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night six. Seventy four rounds still remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-312\|8]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Assorted sounds consitent with the cleaning of a civilian-grade hunting rifle are audible in the background.// If we return, I will write a personal letter of thanks to the founder of the Foundation. I don't care that they won't get it. These things are- //There is a brief pause, then a short burst of nervous laughter.// These things are "redacted." You can choose your expletive of choice; whatever idiot savant type green created that godforsaken cloudfish needs to get a visit from Alto Clef. I don't know whether to be thankful that the first time Terger looked up was through the sunroof of our jeep or curse the decision to take on extra gear and store some on the roof. I hope the damned thing chokes on the shotgun. Everything else is replaceable, but we're probably going to be stuck with the sidearms and the eight shots in the rifle at least until we make the city, and after that bloody cloud... Four days. This is the eighth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night seven. Shotgun lost. Seventy two rounds remain. //Brief, humorless grunt of laughter.// Plenty of food, though. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-327\|9]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. The soft sound of the surf is audible, not quite close to the microphone. It sounds like it's crashing against rocks, as opposed to onto sand.// We can put a rough date on the incursion. That's what I'm calling them now, the arrival of the anomalies. I've been studying the map we found, and we seem to be in the Atlantic Archipelago. That's the U. K., if you're unfamiliar with the term. I thought the driving time was unrealistic, but Terger was right- while we could drive from where we started near... Damn it all to hell, I can't even speak openly. We're going to a city on the other end of the country, and we can't drive straight there because we have to keep stopping and hunting for gas stations that still have gas to siphon off. So we have to keep detouring through this godawful abandoned world- At least they tried to abandon it. We found out where most of the people ended up. The ones the anomalies inland didn't get. We stopped at a coastal city, the highway took us there. Roads aren't too crowded, thankfully. But the cliffs, and beaches and... There are boats everywhere. Smashed against cliffs; the few that made it ashore safely were abandoned to the surf. Thank god it's late winter- not mating season, or we'd probably have been dead just being close enough to see those beaches. Drowning, though... better than Connors got. My theory is it all happened at once. Anomalies arrived, probably decimated the population. Panic ensued, mass exodus failed; they must have ran out of boats eventually. And considering the nature of some of the more volatile anomalies, it can't have taken long to reduce the standing population to six, seven percent. The smart ones. We won't see them. They'll be too smart to approach us or attack us. They've probably got a good idea of when it's safe to move around, and a car in a silent world is a pretty loud announcement of our approach. ... Three days. This is the ninth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night eight. Seventy two rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-968\|10]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Two sets of quiet breathing consistent with those heard in previous recordings are audible in the background, as is a repetitive tapping, like that of a foot.// We are no longer travelling after dark. When we find a place to secure for the night, it must be cleared by nightfall or we're just sleeping in the car. You never forget the smell of that thing. Terger remembered it from a voluntary stint on Keter duty covering for a short-staffed skip after a breach. It stinks like... well, like gas and oil and death and rot. Imagine a corpse drenched in vaseline. Sort of like that. He wouldn't let us take another step until we knew where the anomaly was. It'd just pooled in a hollow. We could have walked straight through it on our way to the store across from where we were staying. It wasn't mimicking anything, though- I suppose in a place of relatively frequent food, it must have been easier to be a dark puddle than hope someone paranoid would traipse into a dangerous goop to save someone else. It's getting harder to balance safety with the urge to get to the site. We all want to get home. Hanndock isn't allowed to drive, which means splitting up daylight between myself and Terger. The other sleeps in the car. We all need to be awake when we scout a campsite. This is the tenth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night nine. Seventy two rounds still remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-179\|11]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Hard breathing is audible, two-fold, with a third set of breaths slow and calm. One of the panting voices swears under their breath at infrequent intervals.// Hanndock's got a hairtrigger and he probably just saved Terger's life. If I remember the file right, we could have all died easily. It could have sat in that corner and at some point, bam. Someone dies, it bloats and goes for seconds. But Hanndock was out of sight when it started moving and was startled enough when he entered the room to just gun it down. Who the fuck makes something like- //Under his breath, Piedmont speaks.// ... there is no fear. Fear is the mindkiller, and with the mind gone, we're all dead. Anomaly's gone, room cleared, Terger's recovering from the aboulia. //He returns to normal speaking volume.// This is the eleventh of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night ten. Sixty rounds remain. Hanndock gets to clear the next gun shop we find to replace his ammo- thing must have been dead after the sixth shot and he just kept firing. Can't really blame him, that thing was ugly. Get there tomorrow. Then we'll see what's going on. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-447\|12]]] ----- If the words... //Quiet panting is audible in the background, and sounds consistent with loading rounds into a magazine audible at what seems to be some slight distance from the microphone. Background audio includes occasional, distant vocalizations that do not match the spectrum of sounds produced by the human layrnx.// ... "esoteric containment"... mean nothing to you... fuck off. //Nearly a minute of silence elapses; the magazine ceases to be loaded and can be heard being placed into a gun. A few moments later, it is ejected, the bullets removed and loading begins again. This repeats throughout the entire recording. At no point are any more or less than seven rounds inserted into the magazine.// ... can't even fucking say what we saw or we're term'd if we ever make it back. Hanndock's dead. I shouldn't have sent him into that fucking gun shop alone. The facility is intact. Even powered in some areas. We're too tired to look tonight. I don't know how far we ran. We won't be able to get back to the car. If what we need isn't down here... This is the twelfth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Night eleven... fifteen rounds, two sidearms remain. //Time passes, thirty seconds or so.// I used to fucking love peppermint. Damn it all to hell. + [[[scp-313\|13]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. The exhaustion and frustration in Piedmont's voice present in the last recording have faded. He sounds professional once more, and there are two sets of footsteps audible in the background. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.// The site may be intact, but containment certainly isn't. We've seen evidence of anomalies that weren't even stored at this site. I should have said that last time. We holed up in one of the observation rooms for a pretty dangerous anomaly. It was fortified, physical door locks, and nothing around to cause a problem. We slept in shifts. We aren't safe; we can hear movement, and other things, from distant parts of the site, but we've had training for situations like this. Back in the site, that all comes back quick. The first room Terger thought we could use wasn't much of a room anymore. There's a bathroom a level above, and I guess the Foundation didn't discover that particular anomaly prior to all this. The roof was blasted out, part of the floor was slagged down into the containment chamber below- not all accounted for, though. Guess it's not surprising, considering the temperatures involved. Vapor doesn't leave a lot behind. What's left in the containment chamber below might have been what ended things. It matches the containment procedures, and despite the overwhelming scent of char, I can still smell the fucking mint. Whoever was in here when the room above hit a few thousand kelvin sure as hell would have constituted a dead body. This is the thirteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twelve. Fifteen rounds still remain. We're heading for the archives to see what was kept here. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-963\|14]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. There are also faint sounds consistent with an individual standing in place shifting their weight occasionally.// Had to move through Euclid containment to reach the archives. We don't have much in the way of supplies, though, so we've relocated our base of operations. Always thought it was kind of silly, making the archives one of the most secure places in the facility. I'm not laughing now; this might be safe enough to keep us alive. More bodies in a few of the sealed rooms around the Archives- only in rooms that respond to security badges. Alive, unresponsive but clean, dressed... no obvious cause. Like they're being kept. Seriously concerning. Cognitohazard? Maybe. We saw someone down one of the hallways. Looked alive, but the damnedest thing is that I swear I saw one of them earlier today, but it was braindead. Still stunning that they're alive at all. I guess that the- ... right. Can't talk about them. But they don't come down here. I think the stuff below scares them. I hope to God it's the stuff //below// here that scares them. This is the fourteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day thirteen. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-161\|15]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. There are sounds indicating an individual shuffling through some papers, near to the speaker; Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Also present are footsteps indicative of an individual pacing around the room, likely on watch.// I do not like what I am seeing. We left the archives just once today, to check the canteen for supplies. No problem obtaining some, but I'm sure I saw someone watching us. They were gone when we left with our supplies, though I have no idea where they went. Had a panic attack when I realized there were weakening, decaying spots on the walls, but they aren't actively falling apart- it's not him. We'd have known if he was here. We'd be fucked if he was here. I checked the spot where I remembered the doll- the living body, nobody home- that I thought I saw yesterday. Still there. Different position, and I'm sure there wasn't dust on the cuffs of his slacks before. They're moving. Or being moved. Just not when we're here. We took a roundabout way back to camp. Don't think we've been followed. Guess we'll find out, if whoever I saw has Factory gear. Not like walls are going to keep them out. Gonna have to stay hidden. Still searching for records of what I hope is here. Beans for dinner. Yum. //Piedmont's tone here suggests overwhelming dissatisfaction with the contents of his meal.// This is the fifteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day fourteen. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-176\|16]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. A second set of respiration suggests a sleeping individual.// More sightings of our companions. Always at a distance, always gone when we check later. Always near those decayed patches. Pretty confident that's Factory work. Still not sure how the dolls are moving. More were out of place. It's never much different, but it is. I'm sure of it. Terger's been giving me some weird looks, but he trusts me. I know what I'm talking about. Encountered an anomaly when we went to check out an archive annex one floor down. I haven't got a clue how the observation chamber got relocated into one of the hallways. We detoured around, but not before watching a few cycles. Waste of a minute, but it was nice to see some human beings for a little, even if they do get shot and who knows what happens after the flash. Hope they're okay. It's weird- I never cared before, but now I really do hope they're okay. Wherever they are. Guess I'm just more sympathetic now. This is the sixteenth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day fifteen. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-303\|17]]] ----- If the words "eso... esot-teric containment" mean-n-n-n n-nothing to you, s-s-s-stop... stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Two individuals exhibit rapid respiration consistent with a state of panic.// This i-is completely irrational. I know it won't act if we d... don't open the door. I KNOW it won't and I KNOW for a FACT that if we DO open the door, it'll- //Piedmont's voice cracks, devolves into hyperventilation for a brief moment before he can get himself under control.// But it WON'T. It WILL and we're FUCKED if it doesn't leave. I fucking hate cognitohazards. I'd rather run from them upstairs than sit here cowering. Terger gave me his g-g... gun. To make sure he d... doesn't... waste bullets. Or himself. //Fourty-three seconds pass; rapid breathing remains consistent with a panic state.// This is the seventeenth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day sixteen. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-303\|18]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.// It's still there. Seventeenth record. Day seventeen. Fifteen rounds. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-303\|19]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings.// Still there. Eighteenth record. Day eighteen. Fifteen rounds. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-303\|20]]] ----- Still there. Nineteenth day. Nineteenth record. Fifteen bullets. I just want to go home. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-303\|21]]] ----- Still there. Out of water. Twentieth. Fifteen bullets. We're going to die. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-303\|22]]] ----- Still there. Out of food. Twenty first. Fifteen bullets. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-289\|23]]] ----- //Piedmont begins this recording in a tone suggesting triumph bordering on mania; additional voice in the background is laughing in frantic relief.// If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening, you lucky son of a bitch. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Laughing subsides to a chuckle, sounds of firearm maintenance can be heard.// The fucking dolls. Whatever's moving them, one must have threatened line of sight on the bastard! He's gone, and we found ourselves to get out of here and get some goddamned water. Had to use the restroom faucets to rinse out and refill the bottles- someone's locked the canteen doors with a rock. At least that's what I figure's gotta be there. Terger tried to force the door open, but the way he stumbled back so far, looking startled, I didn't let him try more than once more. Said it was hard to reverse, and he winced hard when he kicked it again. Got him away from the door. There's a patch of discolored paint next to the door; pretty sure we can thank the dolls for this. Still, we HAVE food, and it could have been worse- they could have locked OUR door. This is the- what, twenty second?- //Affirmation is audible.// -twenty second of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty two. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-732\|24]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings. Additional audio suggests a second individual engaged in the act of eating.// The annex has been compromised. Contagious typoes- //Secondary individual disputes the definition.// - it might as WELL be typoes, Terger, for all the good a badly-written self-insert fantasy does us. A dozen file cabinets and three PCs ruined. We checked ourselves for any materials that could bring the infection back, left them there. I'm glad I left my coat upstairs today- might have infected our recordings. We haven't lost much, but we'll have to go deeper tomorrow. We've exhausted the options on this floor and one below, and there's another canteen three floors down. We'll locate a safe room before restocking. This is the twenty third of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty three. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-033\|25]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Background vocalizations are consistent with previous recordings, though fainter. Additional audio suggests the recording occurs while Piedmont and Terger are in transit on foot.// Annex two floors down from base one was empty, except for a single sheet of... I think it was leather, middle of the room. I didn't let Terger get close, not if that's what I think it is. I think annex is a bad term for a room that's something like a hundred feet on a side, this place could almost be its own archive. Could have been, anyway. There was one file cabinet left, crammed back in a corner, but I think he woulda been pushing awful close to the edge of the jump radius. We can't afford to pick that thing up on anything we're relying on. We'll just keep looking. One more floor to- //A third set of footsteps becomes rapidly audible. Faint, growing static is heard overwhelming the audio. A previously unheard voice calls for someone to 'get out of the way.'// Shit, TERGER! We've g //Audio dissolves into uselessness for six minutes, twenty eight seconds; fluctuations suggests an attempt to record strong, nearby sounds. Recording ends.// + [[[scp-890\|25 Cont.]]] ----- //Recording resumes.// -nk you, doctor. Had no idea about the battery leaking. I owe you my thanks. Stay safe. Christ. Just wanted to get that leaky battery out before it ruined this device. Would have lost our records. That's terrifying. I don't even know why, they aren't at all necessary to our survival, but recording these keeps me feel... grounded. Sane, I suppose. Though now I feel guilty for not taking better care of my recorder, so there's that theory out the window. Anyway. This is the twenty fourth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty four. Fifteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-644\|26]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds.// I want to say that the stairwell we approached was flooded, but that's not quite right. Maybe it was, at one point. The corridors one floor down are steel-walled, chambered to seal in an emergency. The one by the stairwell was filled with what looked like basalt. Tons and tons of solid, smooth basalt. Tested it with a dead monitor; broke the rock, left a splash, frozen in stone. No way we get through there. Another stairwell at the north end of this block. We'll try tomorrow. This is the twenty fifth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty five. Fifteen rounds remain. //Secondary individual remarks; volume is insufficient to make out dialogue.// Yeah. I'm tired, too. We'll try to take a break when we make it to the canteen. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-486\|27]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds. Soft breathing nearby; pitch suggests female physiology. Distant, rhythmic footsteps in a stilted pattern.// And so are we three. Terger insists we bring her along. I'm not so sure, but she's only dangerous if we hurt her. So... we won't. I'd be more comfortable without a tagalong, but as long as we're not here more than a month and she doesn't get torn up any... Terger handed over his shoes so she wouldn't step on glass or rubble. I considered suggesting we ask her if she's willing to let us harvest a little venom, but Terger's so keen to have company of SOME kind that's not trying to kill us... not worth it. Made good progress, at least. We're two floors down. Next floor should have the canteen. This is the twenty sixth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty six. Fourteen rounds remain- just nerves. Glad I missed. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-239\|28]]] ----- //Strain is evident in the voice of the speaker.// If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds.// I am alone. //Another twelve seconds pass in silence.// A door opened where there had been none before. Terger brought up the gun, finger off the trigger, standard procedure. I guess she never saw the movies. The curse didn't send him flying. She just... turned him off and left. The woman stayed by his body. I took the gun and left. I couldn't have taken her out of here anyway. This is the twenty seventh of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off alone. Day twenty seven. Fourteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-298\|29]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds.// New base camp. Good place to store supplies- it's extremely defensible. True, it's loud, but anything drawn by the noise is already going to be affected. Just need to remember to watch my footing. There'll be a lot of blood if I have to play anything. This is the twenty eighth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty eight. Fourteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-073\|30]]] ----- If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds, in which indistinct and apparently amicable discourse occurs in the background between two male subjects, including the speaker.// It's almost amusing, the things of which you can be reminded. If I'd been asked to brief someone else on how to handle this fellow here... I'd have said "don't shoot first. Or at all." I completely forgot he was backing up our database. It's a new one, but it should work. One-Seven-Eight-Oh. I just need it, an office... and some patience. This is the twenty ninth of the records documenting our attempts to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day twenty nine. Fourteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// + [[[scp-1780\|XXX]]] ----- If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds.// It felt harder to keep going when it was just me. Having Terger around meant I had someone to watch out for. Meant I had to watch my mouth, too- not like he's cleared for all this- but it was motivating. Now... just me. But that's enough. I'm... almost done. 1780 wasn't too hard to get. It was hard to get //to//, sure- though some things were just a little... comical. The manhole, for instance. In the middle of a secure facility... The strangest thing was the IV. Someone had hooked it up to... //something.// Wires and batteries and plugs. So much power, and it all seemed to do nothing. Maybe it's responsible for all this. I can't tell, really. I haven't got the luxury to sit here and try to unravel all that. It doesn't matter- I've got to get back. I've been too lucky by half; the Cop keeping the Salesman company, the //rats//- both sorts, the smart ones and the sharp ones, the candy and the fish- Christ, I hate compulsives. Terger never really thought to ask why I knew so much about all these things. It's not like the database is an open book. You read what you're assigned to, nothing more. Usually. Some assignments require more indepth familiarity. EC-3 doesn't stand for esoteric containment- but I couldn't very well tell them that. Easier for all of us if they were just working with some researcher. They expect us to know everything, anyway- far easier than explaining. I've rigged the nameplate at an angle. When I slam this door, it'll break static friction and allow it to slide out of the holder. This room... it's a crapshoot, but it's better than all this. There wasn't a pop or rush of air or anything. It's like it's always been connected to the room on the other side. I opened it, so... I just need to step through, slam the door. I can feel the bit of metal in my hand, gravid with all the pregnancy of possibility. I know what's on the other side of this door. Time and space relative to a single room that is anything but singular, spread out and away like... forever. This is the thirtieth of the records documenting my hopefully successful attempt to return. Doctor Piedmont, signing off. Day forty two. Fourteen rounds remain. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// ----- If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds.// I'm still waiting. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// ----- //The recording resumes an uncertain amount of time later. There are several days of silent recording of nothing besides the turning of pages, the sounds of two guns- one sidearm and a larger firearm- being disassembled, cleaned and reassembled, and pacing footsteps. After 207 hours, Piedmont speaks. His voice reflects strain, consistent with prolonged solitary confinement.// Nothing runs out here. I haven't run out of time. Or energy. Or gun oil. or battery //A tiny pause, and the note of tension increases in the tone of Piedmont's voice.// Except reading material. I'm out of that, save for the letter. And I'm not going to be reading that. I've read the excerpt. I'm not scared. But it's not the way back. I can ignore one sheet of paper for as long as I have to. //Speech stops and activity lapses into the aforementioned patterns of behavior. These continue. Despite the limitations of the amount of information that can be stored on the digital recording device, recording continues as above, without pause, during which time audio analysis of the recording shows four vocalized patterns matching Piedmont's readings of the text of Oxford’s Unabridged English Dictionary and three variants of Time Life’s Great Ages of Man: A History of the World’s Cultures, repeating a collective total of 923 times with slight but detectable increase in vocal tremors as time goes on. At 4763 hours and 27 minutes, the door opens, a single pair of footsteps enter the room approaching the recorder and recording ends.// ---- //A second voice cuts into the middle of a sentence, apparently intructing Piedmont to "go ahead" with something. Piedmont speaks, notably more stable but significantly more guarded in tone.// If the words "esoteric containment" mean nothing to you, stop listening. //Time passes, about ten seconds, then the second voice speaks, prompting Piedmont to continue.// I'm sitting at a table across from a man I've never met but I've read about. He's told me that we'll meet, later and in a less... tense situation. And he's stated he can get me back when I need to go. Emphasis on when. There's only so many exit points into our world, so many active instances, and the only one that's not going to result in classification as 1780-2 is... Jesus. Is that what this whole mess was for? Three people dead in a world that never knew them, and all to get me to one when. Not even ME, but someone who knows what I know. //A short pause.// How do you know what EC actually stands for? //The second voice speaks shortly.// ... of course I did. Goddammit. Every attendant researcher and //all// of the D-Class have already been killed or incapacitated by the time the instance becomes active? This is accurate? I don't want to do this, Xyank. Tachyon Control Circuit or not, I'm seriously tempted to just take one of the other doors. Containment or not- do you //know// what that procedure entails? //A longer pause. Silence on both sides. Then, a heavy sigh.// ... no. You wouldn't. Or you'd do it yourself. That's why I'm here. //Another, considerably longer pause, then the sound of a chair moving, someone standing.// Alright. I'll do it. It's not like I don't already know what's involved. Just. Never thought I'd have to participate. //A series of footsteps, then another in tandem, move away from the recorder. Distantly, Piedmont speaks.// When you're ready. //The door clicks, and immediately the far-off sound of screaming and the nearer sounds of panicked voices fill the room.// See you later, X. You'll have to explain that Tachyon Control Circuit deal some other time. The long way. I'm done with vanishings. //Footsteps proceed away from the recorder, and Piedmont's raised voice covers the sounds of chaos.// No time to panic, people, we've all just been requisitioned by order of the Ethics Committee. I've already been briefed on Procedure 110-Montauk forward and backwards and we've still got time to do this //if you shut up and do as you're told.// You'll all get amnestics and commendations as soon as we're done but we get one ch- //The door clicks shut and the sounds die instantly. Footsteps, slow and almost ponderous in the wake of Piedmont's departure, approach the recorder. A heavy sigh is heard before the second voice speaks.// I hate saying this, but you can't give him the amnestic. Deny him this experience and he isn't going to be half-ready for what comes down the line. He needs this edge. And he needs this trauma. We need him a little broken. So don't fix him. Or we'll just have to do it again. //Background noise continues for nearly two seconds before recording ends.// [[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>]]	2012-01-28T13:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "featured", "mystery", "post-apocalyptic", "sigurros", "tale", "thad-xyank" ]	Incursion - SCP Foundation	223	[ "scp-749", "scp-914", "scp-316", "scp-420", "scp-165", "scp-919", "scp-820", "scp-650", "scp-593", "scp-312", "scp-327", "scp-968", "scp-179", "scp-447", "scp-313", "scp-963", "scp-161", "scp-176", "scp-303", "scp-289", "scp-732", "scp-033", "scp-890", "scp-644", "scp-486", "scp-239", "scp-298", "scp-073", "scp-1780", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "welcome-to-delta-t", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	12622233	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/incursion
individuality	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>You want to know where it all went wrong? The reason the Foundation is in this state? I can tell you. I'm probably the last person who can tell. They got all the others… either dead, hidden, or changed. I think six was the lucky one. They killed him early on. Threw him into the pit and watched him fall. Probably still falling.</p> <p>It was our fault. We were in deep, and it was the easy way out. When the Insurgency split, they took most of our top brass. Men who had experience in the field. We weren't as big then, which meant replacing them wouldn't be an option. Nobody wanted to work for us. In the end, we ended up with about a dozen guys left from a group of hundreds. We needed effective administrators more than ever. We didn't have any choice, we can't be blamed for that.</p> <p>I think it was Four who suggested it, or maybe Two. We'd recently recovered an object from some Turks down in the Caucasus, a machine that could make men. It was dangerous, and it cost us too much to take it, so we'd locked it up. He declared we would use it. Make any amount of men we needed. Some of us objected, but we were overruled. These were desperate times. We were losing so many people, and we couldn't see more friends leave. So we took a risk. A bad risk as it turns out, but thats the way these things are.</p> <p>Anyways, the project got underway shortly after that decree. We had the last of our best working on it. It was a round the clock ordeal, waiting for the updates. Maybe we were a little haphazard. Some corners were cut here, ingredients were skimped there. Whatever the case was, our first batch was a disaster. They weren't human, they weren't even beasts. Just empty shells. We scrapped them and moved on. Time was short, and it seemed like we lost more people every day.</p> <p>The second batch was better. They didn't really interact very well, but they could walk and talk like a human could. They didn't really have spirit. You know? The light was on, but there wasn't anybody home. The guys who were in charge of this whole thing declared him a success, and they put him into full scale deployment. We protested again, but we didn't amount to much.</p> <p>The next batches all came out better than the one before. We thought we were learning how to control it, and the things it produced. We got some interesting ones by messing with the settings, and using the different components we had at our disposal. They really thought that was brilliant, being able to store and transfer people like that. I thought it was spectacular, but then again we all knew how he really turned out.</p> <p>They deployed them all across the field, at every site and field office. It looked like we'd found a godsend, and it made some of them think we had some kind of mandate from the almighty. They wouldn't just say it aloud like that, but you could still tell when they spoke. Referencing our "divine purpose" to "protect humanity". They just didn't want to think about how easily we could've failed. It gave them faith though, that we would make it back from the brink.</p> <p>This is about the time we started getting the complaints. Didn't seem like a big deal at first. So some scientists think the cold guy acts like a robot. We know he acts like a robot. Some agents think the MTF captains are too rough. Boo-hoo. But when the question of credentials came up, we were kinda thrown off-guard. We tried throwing out some biographies, trying to keep them placated, and we tried to come up with something.</p> <p>I'm the one who came up with it. I said that if we couldn't make them plausible as down to earth administrators, we'd have to make them larger than life. Figures that would tower over the rest of the Foundation, and have legends build around them. There were problems. They were harder to conceal, since they were now recognizable. Some of us thought the stories were absurd, and unbelievable. We managed to sell the story enough that a majority of them bought into it, and we moved forward with the plan.</p> <p>The first changes were mostly minor, giving details to the backstories. The major one was the immortal guy. We gave some jewelry that was supposed to house their soul. Then we started making some of the major alterations. We gave them the family, the items, the whole nine yards. We enhanced a few sites to serve as incident points. We even had a few of the guys who we'd found, like burglars and cultists who we recruited. We did foolish things too, like decommissioning a few of the less important objects. There was a lot of controversy about that, but it was silenced when morale leaped up in the aftermath. We stopped losing people and started gaining them. It had worked. It wasn't a healthy culture, and it might be one of the main reasons things went wrong the way they did. But they were gonna go wrong anyways, it was only a matter of time.</p> <p>The first sign of trouble came when we started to get the administrators acting out on their own. At first it was minor stuff, like comments on memos or acting out against researchers. We thought it was just a result of their minds adjusting to their identities, but as it went on the acting out started to get out of hand. It stopped being a game of who can keep them the silliest and started being a struggle to keep them reigned in. We got most back under our thumb, but the few we missed were massively destructive, and should've made us reconsider the whole program.</p> <p>Site-19 was one of our primary sites, and its loss was highly unfortunate. It should've shown us that we had created a monster. Instead we thought it was an isolated incident. The instance that had caused it was disassembled, and we stopped creating new production runs of it. People didn't really ask about what had happened to him. We spread the word that he'd been taken to some top secret facility for new work. You bet your ass the administrators asked about him. They constantly badgered us with information about him, and we just kept our lips sealed. I think that if we had taken the incident more seriously, we would've avoided what happened, but we were riding too high to notice what was happening below.</p> <p>We started talking about a new generation of administrators, improved with all our newfound wealth and power. The thought was that if we had been so successful with a dozen men and no money at all, we would be able to create unbelievable things with the power we had now. So we made another decree. We assembled what was left of the old team and brought in our new best and brightest. We dusted off the old man maker and we started from a fresh slate.</p> <p>The results don't really matter. All you need to know is that they didn't last in the field. We lost at least half of them in the first month alone. There were many causes of death-poison, fire, breach, the works-but the main thing was that none of them were natural deaths. They were killed. We tried to figure out what was going on. Was the machine affecting probability? Did we make a mistake while we had been creating them? And on top of all this, the immortal guy disappeared. And then the guy who messed up photos disappeared too. We were scrambling. We'd been leaning on these guys for years, and they weren't anywhere. We probably didn't need them as much as we thought, but it was still the crutch the Foundation had been leaning on for years suddenly being yanked from underneath us.</p> <p>As we're trying to deal with this and the deaths, we start losing contact with sites. It felt like a disaster had been suddenly shoved in our faces. We tried to tread water, but every time we did another ocean of problems washed over us. We recalled the MTF-O5 to Command and waited for the worst.</p> <p>He showed up on the monitor, telling us he was in control. We had a short talk, most of it inane now, but he'd already won by that point. He had all of our administration staff against us. All we had was a couple MTF's and some access codes. We hollered and screeched and raised holy hell, but it didn't matter. He has us in his pocket.</p> <p>They run the council now, the men we made. They just keep a few of us around to write the memos. I wish I could say we're working against them, or that you should, but it's over. They've changed too much. It's not the same place it was before. It lost that mutual respect that we had for each other, and made it into this big, amorphous octopus, with arms reaching in every nation. Wrong as it may be, thats the way it is. Maybe someday we can rise against it, bring it down and make things like they were before.</p> <p>We can always 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="/individuality">Individuality</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/individuality">https://scpwiki.com/individuality</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 want to know where it all went wrong? The reason the Foundation is in this state? I can tell you. I'm probably the last person who can tell. They got all the others... either dead, hidden, or changed. I think six was the lucky one. They killed him early on. Threw him into the pit and watched him fall. Probably still falling. It was our fault. We were in deep, and it was the easy way out. When the Insurgency split, they took most of our top brass. Men who had experience in the field. We weren't as big then, which meant replacing them wouldn't be an option. Nobody wanted to work for us. In the end, we ended up with about a dozen guys left from a group of hundreds. We needed effective administrators more than ever. We didn't have any choice, we can't be blamed for that. I think it was Four who suggested it, or maybe Two. We'd recently recovered an object from some Turks down in the Caucasus, a machine that could make men. It was dangerous, and it cost us too much to take it, so we'd locked it up. He declared we would use it. Make any amount of men we needed. Some of us objected, but we were overruled. These were desperate times. We were losing so many people, and we couldn't see more friends leave. So we took a risk. A bad risk as it turns out, but thats the way these things are. Anyways, the project got underway shortly after that decree. We had the last of our best working on it. It was a round the clock ordeal, waiting for the updates. Maybe we were a little haphazard. Some corners were cut here, ingredients were skimped there. Whatever the case was, our first batch was a disaster. They weren't human, they weren't even beasts. Just empty shells. We scrapped them and moved on. Time was short, and it seemed like we lost more people every day. The second batch was better. They didn't really interact very well, but they could walk and talk like a human could. They didn't really have spirit. You know? The light was on, but there wasn't anybody home. The guys who were in charge of this whole thing declared him a success, and they put him into full scale deployment. We protested again, but we didn't amount to much. The next batches all came out better than the one before. We thought we were learning how to control it, and the things it produced. We got some interesting ones by messing with the settings, and using the different components we had at our disposal. They really thought that was brilliant, being able to store and transfer people like that. I thought it was spectacular, but then again we all knew how he really turned out. They deployed them all across the field, at every site and field office. It looked like we'd found a godsend, and it made some of them think we had some kind of mandate from the almighty. They wouldn't just say it aloud like that, but you could still tell when they spoke. Referencing our "divine purpose" to "protect humanity". They just didn't want to think about how easily we could've failed. It gave them faith though, that we would make it back from the brink. This is about the time we started getting the complaints. Didn't seem like a big deal at first. So some scientists think the cold guy acts like a robot. We know he acts like a robot. Some agents think the MTF captains are too rough. Boo-hoo. But when the question of credentials came up, we were kinda thrown off-guard. We tried throwing out some biographies, trying to keep them placated, and we tried to come up with something. I'm the one who came up with it. I said that if we couldn't make them plausible as down to earth administrators, we'd have to make them larger than life. Figures that would tower over the rest of the Foundation, and have legends build around them. There were problems. They were harder to conceal, since they were now recognizable. Some of us thought the stories were absurd, and unbelievable. We managed to sell the story enough that a majority of them bought into it, and we moved forward with the plan. The first changes were mostly minor, giving details to the backstories. The major one was the immortal guy. We gave some jewelry that was supposed to house their soul. Then we started making some of the major alterations. We gave them the family, the items, the whole nine yards. We enhanced a few sites to serve as incident points. We even had a few of the guys who we'd found, like burglars and cultists who we recruited. We did foolish things too, like decommissioning a few of the less important objects. There was a lot of controversy about that, but it was silenced when morale leaped up in the aftermath. We stopped losing people and started gaining them. It had worked. It wasn't a healthy culture, and it might be one of the main reasons things went wrong the way they did. But they were gonna go wrong anyways, it was only a matter of time. The first sign of trouble came when we started to get the administrators acting out on their own. At first it was minor stuff, like comments on memos or acting out against researchers. We thought it was just a result of their minds adjusting to their identities, but as it went on the acting out started to get out of hand. It stopped being a game of who can keep them the silliest and started being a struggle to keep them reigned in. We got most back under our thumb, but the few we missed were massively destructive, and should've made us reconsider the whole program. Site-19 was one of our primary sites, and its loss was highly unfortunate. It should've shown us that we had created a monster. Instead we thought it was an isolated incident. The instance that had caused it was disassembled, and we stopped creating new production runs of it. People didn't really ask about what had happened to him. We spread the word that he'd been taken to some top secret facility for new work. You bet your ass the administrators asked about him. They constantly badgered us with information about him, and we just kept our lips sealed. I think that if we had taken the incident more seriously, we would've avoided what happened, but we were riding too high to notice what was happening below. We started talking about a new generation of administrators, improved with all our newfound wealth and power. The thought was that if we had been so successful with a dozen men and no money at all, we would be able to create unbelievable things with the power we had now. So we made another decree. We assembled what was left of the old team and brought in our new best and brightest. We dusted off the old man maker and we started from a fresh slate. The results don't really matter. All you need to know is that they didn't last in the field. We lost at least half of them in the first month alone. There were many causes of death-poison, fire, breach, the works-but the main thing was that none of them were natural deaths. They were killed. We tried to figure out what was going on. Was the machine affecting probability? Did we make a mistake while we had been creating them? And on top of all this, the immortal guy disappeared. And then the guy who messed up photos disappeared too. We were scrambling. We'd been leaning on these guys for years, and they weren't anywhere. We probably didn't need them as much as we thought, but it was still the crutch the Foundation had been leaning on for years suddenly being yanked from underneath us. As we're trying to deal with this and the deaths, we start losing contact with sites. It felt like a disaster had been suddenly shoved in our faces. We tried to tread water, but every time we did another ocean of problems washed over us. We recalled the MTF-O5 to Command and waited for the worst. He showed up on the monitor, telling us he was in control. We had a short talk, most of it inane now, but he'd already won by that point. He had all of our administration staff against us. All we had was a couple MTF's and some access codes. We hollered and screeched and raised holy hell, but it didn't matter. He has us in his pocket. They run the council now, the men we made. They just keep a few of us around to write the memos. I wish I could say we're working against them, or that you should, but it's over. They've changed too much. It's not the same place it was before. It lost that mutual respect that we had for each other, and made it into this big, amorphous octopus, with arms reaching in every nation. Wrong as it may be, thats the way it is. Maybe someday we can rise against it, bring it down and make things like they were before. We can always hope. [[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>]]	2012-09-20T13:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Individuality - SCP Foundation	90	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "end-of-olympians-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	14354536	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/individuality
interview-log-7362	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <em>Following the events surrounding the acquisition of the territory affected by SCP-7362, the following interview was conducted with Jeremiah Smalls, the only individual to have survived the decontamination process. Of note is that despite a chronological age of 26, as confirmed by independent records, and an outward appearance consistent with that age, many of Mr. Smalls' internal organs were in an advanced stage of degeneration consistent with extreme age. It is currently unknown whether this was due to SCP-7362's effects, or due to the rapid decontamination process enacted upon him.</em> <hr/> <p><strong>Dr. Mace (interviewer):</strong> Hello, Mr. Smalls. Please sit down.</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> Okay. Um, can someone turn down the AC? I'm not used to it anymore and I'm really cold. <em>(Note: the ambient temperature of the interview room was 29.5 degrees Celsius due to an unrelated and temporary failure in the Site's HVAC system.)</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Certainly. We'll make sure your room is more comfortable when you're taken back. In the meantime, I would like to know a little bit more about the situation inside, what did you call it? The Fields?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> That's what Great Leader called it. I'd gone on a bike ride, and I saw that fence, and some buildings in the distance. I guess I was curious or something, so I went to take a look. And then I saw a woman, and she just pointed a gun at me when I got closer. Didn't have much choice then. Of course, neither did she.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> For how long have you lived inside the Fields?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> About two years. Funny, it seemed longer.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Did you ever try to escape?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> In the beginning, I did. But after a while, I realized it was no use. Eternal Leader would punish people who tried to find loopholes. <em>(Subject holds up left hand, which is missing three fingers)</em> I got my name from this.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Your name?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> High Leader wouldn't let us use our real names, just the ones Illustrious Leader gave us. Magnanimous Leader called me Seven. To remind me, you see. So I wouldn't ever try to escape again. And I didn't.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> What can you tell me about SCP-7362?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> About what?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> The substance we found in the well in the town square.</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> Oh. We used it as food, but it's the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. No one knew what it was, or where it came from. If Compassionate Leader knew, Beneficent Leader never told us. And I'm not sure if I want to know. But it never made us ill, or anything. Weird, come to think of it. To be honest, that stuff scared the shit out of me, and it's not like I didn't have other things to be scared of in there. But there was something… well, I don't know. And then what happened to Little Missy…</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> For the record, can you tell me about this incident from the beginning?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> Okay. Well, Little Missy was… Splendorous Leader used her as a… Little Missy had it harder than us. A lot harder. And life wasn't great for any of us, but if you didn't try to abuse loopholes, and didn't say anything Marvelous Leader didn't want you to say, then you wouldn't be punished. But Little Missy, she was always being punished, whether she deserved it or not. And she didn't want to go on any more. Everyone sort of knew that, already. But she couldn't commit suicide, because it was against the rules. But that day, she punctured her eardrums with a sharpened stick, just so that she wouldn't hear Wonderful Leader any more. And she ran away but she still couldn't escape. And Auspicious Leader didn't even want her back. So she stayed away for more than a month. Everyone thought she was dead, after some time. She had to be, right? We told each other that she was at peace now. That it was for the best. It may sound crazy, but it gave us hope. We didn't see much difference between dying and escaping, you know? She got away, we thought. Maybe we could, too. But then one evening, we found her inside one of the houses. She was all covered in food. You know, the stuff from the well. And she could hear again, just like that.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Did she tell you what had happened to her?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> She didn't remember. Even when Kindhearted Leader <em>made</em> her tell Felicitous Leader everything, she still said she didn't know. She remembered falling asleep, and waking up days later, the way we found her.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Did she seem any different to you, after she came back?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> She was crushed, of course. She'd starved herself to death to get away from Flawless Leader, and now everything was just like it was before. But… yes, there was something else. She was afraid of things. Just perfectly ordinary things, you know? Like rain, or her own reflection. Hell, she was even afraid of trees for a while! And she kept telling everyone that she wasn't ever going to try again, that she was glad it hadn't worked, and we shouldn't try either, because it wouldn't solve anything…</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Why is it that the police officers who first arrived on the scene were found shot, while those who had been inside for a longer time, such as yourself, were killed in a fire?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> I'm not sure, but… we belonged to Altruistic Leader, you see. We weren't supposed to leave. Merciful Leader had to make sure we didn't… come back, like Little Missy did. Thoughtful Leader yelled something after me when I ran, but I couldn't understand the words. But Worthy Leader knows, you see. And Prosperous Leader told me I'd die before Meritorious Leader would let me escape. Virtuous Leader told me that so, so many times.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Mace:</strong> Do you have any idea where we might find him?</p> <p><strong>Mr. Smalls:</strong> I don't know. Sometimes I think Perfect Leader's already here. But that would be… that would be impossible, wouldn't it? But I really shouldn't be here, either. There's no way it'll last. Supreme Leader is going to find me and send me where the others are. Please, don't let Everlasting Leader do that. I'm begging you.</p> <p><strong><End Log></strong></p> <hr/> <p><em>Closing Statement: Despite constant medical monitoring and treatment, Jeremiah Smalls died of multiple organ failure due to age and malnutrition 37 days following the acquisition of SCP-7362. Simultaneous with Mr. Smalls' expiration, an individual matching the description of "Leader" climbed out of the well holding the primary mass of SCP-7362. The individual was restrained, but tried to escape and was subsequently terminated. Autopsy revealed no biological abnormalities, and the subject's fingerprints and DNA do not appear in any medical, governmental or law enforcement database to which the Foundation has access.</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="/interview-log-7362">Interview Log 7362</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/interview-log-7362">https://scpwiki.com/interview-log-7362</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]] [[/>]] //Following the events surrounding the acquisition of the territory affected by SCP-7362, the following interview was conducted with Jeremiah Smalls, the only individual to have survived the decontamination process. Of note is that despite a chronological age of 26, as confirmed by independent records, and an outward appearance consistent with that age, many of Mr. Smalls' internal organs were in an advanced stage of degeneration consistent with extreme age. It is currently unknown whether this was due to SCP-7362's effects, or due to the rapid decontamination process enacted upon him.// ----- Dr. Mace (interviewer): Hello, Mr. Smalls. Please sit down. Mr. Smalls: Okay. Um, can someone turn down the AC? I'm not used to it anymore and I'm really cold. //(Note: the ambient temperature of the interview room was 29.5 degrees Celsius due to an unrelated and temporary failure in the Site's HVAC system.)// Dr. Mace: Certainly. We'll make sure your room is more comfortable when you're taken back. In the meantime, I would like to know a little bit more about the situation inside, what did you call it? The Fields? Mr. Smalls: That's what Great Leader called it. I'd gone on a bike ride, and I saw that fence, and some buildings in the distance. I guess I was curious or something, so I went to take a look. And then I saw a woman, and she just pointed a gun at me when I got closer. Didn't have much choice then. Of course, neither did she. Dr. Mace: For how long have you lived inside the Fields? Mr. Smalls: About two years. Funny, it seemed longer. Dr. Mace: Did you ever try to escape? Mr. Smalls: In the beginning, I did. But after a while, I realized it was no use. Eternal Leader would punish people who tried to find loopholes. //(Subject holds up left hand, which is missing three fingers)// I got my name from this. Dr. Mace: Your name? Mr. Smalls: High Leader wouldn't let us use our real names, just the ones Illustrious Leader gave us. Magnanimous Leader called me Seven. To remind me, you see. So I wouldn't ever try to escape again. And I didn't. Dr. Mace: What can you tell me about SCP-7362? Mr. Smalls: About what? Dr. Mace: The substance we found in the well in the town square. Mr. Smalls: Oh. We used it as food, but it's the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. No one knew what it was, or where it came from. If Compassionate Leader knew, Beneficent Leader never told us. And I'm not sure if I want to know. But it never made us ill, or anything. Weird, come to think of it. To be honest, that stuff scared the shit out of me, and it's not like I didn't have other things to be scared of in there. But there was something… well, I don't know. And then what happened to Little Missy… Dr. Mace: For the record, can you tell me about this incident from the beginning? Mr. Smalls: Okay. Well, Little Missy was… Splendorous Leader used her as a… Little Missy had it harder than us. A lot harder. And life wasn't great for any of us, but if you didn't try to abuse loopholes, and didn't say anything Marvelous Leader didn't want you to say, then you wouldn't be punished. But Little Missy, she was always being punished, whether she deserved it or not. And she didn't want to go on any more. Everyone sort of knew that, already. But she couldn't commit suicide, because it was against the rules. But that day, she punctured her eardrums with a sharpened stick, just so that she wouldn't hear Wonderful Leader any more. And she ran away but she still couldn't escape. And Auspicious Leader didn't even want her back. So she stayed away for more than a month. Everyone thought she was dead, after some time. She had to be, right? We told each other that she was at peace now. That it was for the best. It may sound crazy, but it gave us hope. We didn't see much difference between dying and escaping, you know? She got away, we thought. Maybe we could, too. But then one evening, we found her inside one of the houses. She was all covered in food. You know, the stuff from the well. And she could hear again, just like that. Dr. Mace: Did she tell you what had happened to her? Mr. Smalls: She didn't remember. Even when Kindhearted Leader //made// her tell Felicitous Leader everything, she still said she didn't know. She remembered falling asleep, and waking up days later, the way we found her. Dr. Mace: Did she seem any different to you, after she came back? Mr. Smalls: She was crushed, of course. She'd starved herself to death to get away from Flawless Leader, and now everything was just like it was before. But… yes, there was something else. She was afraid of things. Just perfectly ordinary things, you know? Like rain, or her own reflection. Hell, she was even afraid of trees for a while! And she kept telling everyone that she wasn't ever going to try again, that she was glad it hadn't worked, and we shouldn't try either, because it wouldn't solve anything… Dr. Mace: Why is it that the police officers who first arrived on the scene were found shot, while those who had been inside for a longer time, such as yourself, were killed in a fire? Mr. Smalls: I'm not sure, but… we belonged to Altruistic Leader, you see. We weren't supposed to leave. Merciful Leader had to make sure we didn't… come back, like Little Missy did. Thoughtful Leader yelled something after me when I ran, but I couldn't understand the words. But Worthy Leader knows, you see. And Prosperous Leader told me I'd die before Meritorious Leader would let me escape. Virtuous Leader told me that so, so many times. Dr. Mace: Do you have any idea where we might find him? Mr. Smalls: I don't know. Sometimes I think Perfect Leader's already here. But that would be… that would be impossible, wouldn't it? But I really shouldn't be here, either. There's no way it'll last. Supreme Leader is going to find me and send me where the others are. Please, don't let Everlasting Leader do that. I'm begging you. <End Log> ----- //Closing Statement: Despite constant medical monitoring and treatment, Jeremiah Smalls died of multiple organ failure due to age and malnutrition 37 days following the acquisition of SCP-7362. Simultaneous with Mr. Smalls' expiration, an individual matching the description of "Leader" climbed out of the well holding the primary mass of SCP-7362. The individual was restrained, but tried to escape and was subsequently terminated. Autopsy revealed no biological abnormalities, and the subject's fingerprints and DNA do not appear in any medical, governmental or law enforcement database to which the Foundation has access.// [[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>]]	2012-09-19T14:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Interview Log 7362 - SCP Foundation	29	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14346675	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/interview-log-7362
interview-with-the-strigoi	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Dr. Jacob Andrews stood in the hallway of Site 19's medical ward, in front of the door to the examination room where his subject for the day was strapped to a bed. Dr. Andrews had never worked face-to-face with a living, breathing SCP object before - his degree was in Latin, after all, and the bulk of his work revolved around translating and interpreting ancient documents. As it happened, however, Latin was the only language the creature recognized that anyone at Site 19 was capable of speaking fluently - and Dr. Andrews was the only person available who spoke it.</p> <p>"Just remain calm, remember the briefing, and you'll be fine," Security Director Jefferson told him as he retrieved a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door. "Do not touch the creature, allow any part of your body to come within reach of its mouth, or attempt to loosen or remove any of its bonds. We'll be watching and listening in the whole time and if anything goes wrong we'll be through the door in under five seconds. If you need out, the safe word is 'bonavox'. All clear?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir," Dr. Andrews nodded.</p> <p>"Then good luck," Jefferson said.</p> <p>Andrews grasped the knob and turned it, slowly opening the door. A beam of light from the corridor spread out into the room and onto the Spartan bed that alone furnished it - and no sooner did those rays of light strike the thing on the bed than it began seizing and shaking, struggling against the straps that held it in place as it hissed and snarled. It shouted and shrieked in a strangely accented language that Dr. Andrews took to be an archaic dialect of Romanian, no doubt (as attested in the briefing he had received) begging that the light be put out. Andrews stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving the room pitch black but for the dim readout of the heart monitor next to its bed - a monitor which read that the thing's blood pressure was impossibly low, its pulse and respiration far too meager to sustain life, its body core only a few degrees warmer than the air around it.</p> <p>"I am going to need to be able to see you to perform my work," Andrews said in Latin. "May I light a dim light?"</p> <p>"If you must," responded a weak, barely audible voice in kind. Andrews touched the dimmer switch that had been installed by the door and brought the ceiling lamp to its lowest setting. Even in this dim glare, the creature on the bed shook and squinted its eyes, but seemed to be in less distress than it had before.</p> <p>In the amber glow, Andrews got his first good look at the tall, gaunt creature that lay before him, nude but for a hospital gown, an IV bag of blood draining slowly into its arm, leather straps around its wrists and ankles holding it in place. Its skin was a pale gray, mottled and speckled with black and purple like a slowly rotting corpse, dry and stretched taut over its bony limbs, ribs poking out of its chest like an emaciated prisoner. It was hairless, but for the shock of unkempt and brittle hair on its head, which, whatever color it had been at first, had been bleached blond by the centuries. A pair of bloodshot, pinkish eyes were barely visible behind its half-closed eyelids. Its teeth, yellow, misshapen, and cracked, were bared behind its dried, curled-back lips. The thing seemed to struggle for every breath, its chest rising and falling with great difficulty, each exhalation accompanied by a dry wheeze interspersed with bouts of violent coughing. It reeked of dried blood, rotting flesh, and the stink of the grave.</p> <p>"My name is Dr. Jacob Andrews," Andrews said, "and I work for the Foundation. I have been instructed to ask you some questions so that my superiors can determine whether you pose a threat and what means will be necessary to keep you safely contained. Do you understand?"</p> <p>"Your Latin is excellent," the thing replied in what Andrews now recognized to be a thick Slavic accent. "Are you from the Roman church?"</p> <p>"No, I'm just a…" Andrews searched his mind for a word the thing would recognize. "…a scholar. A historian, if you will."</p> <p>"Then at least I know I shall not be burned this day," the thing said, chuckling to itself before a coughing spasm overtook it. Andrews noticed that though it could barely manage a whisper, and each syllable seemed to come only at great effort, there was a certain genteel nature to its speech, a refined, carefully considered grace to each word.</p> <p>"Our purpose here is to secure, contain, and protect," Andrews said. "What of you? Are you a man of God?"</p> <p>"You ask if I believe in God?" the creature spat. "What kind of god would allow a thing such as I to exist? No, I am no holy man."</p> <p>"Then who are you?"</p> <p>"A man of noble birth," the thing said, taking a deep breath in anticipation of its next sentence. "I was - I am the duke of Oltenia, as was my father before me, and his father before him, and his before him, and his before him who freed us all from the rule of the Turks."</p> <p>"And what is your name?"</p> <p>The thing paused. "I… I do not remember," it said. "It has been a long time since I have had need of a name."</p> <p>"I guess I'll just have to call you Duke, then," Andrews replied. "How old are you, Duke?"</p> <p>"I cannot say. I do not know what year this is."</p> <p>"2012."</p> <p>"Two thousand and twelve," Duke said to himself. He was silent for a moment, seemingly taking in the realization of how much time had passed. "Then I suppose I must be seven hundred years old, or so."</p> <p>"Do you not know when you were born?"</p> <p>"I remember so little from those days. It was such a long time ago. I remember the sensations most of all, the things lost forever… the smell of my mother's perfume, the taste of meat roasted on the bone, the warmth of the fire, what it felt like to kiss a girl for the first time, the sting on my cheek when she slapped me for trying to reach under her skirt." Duke laughed at his own joke, and laughing once more gave way to coughing.</p> <p>"What do you remember distinctly of your life before you became as you are now?"</p> <p>"That I was a prince among men," Duke said. "I fought the Turks. I fought the Greeks. I fought the Serbs. I fought anyone who was foolish enough to face me! None dared challenge my word. Those who did… well, my enemies were known to whisper that I roasted the vanquished alive and dined on their flesh! Truth be told, I only did it once. I didn't care for it."</p> <p>"How did you come to be as you are now?"</p> <p>Duke sighed. "I didn't want to die. And I was dying."</p> <p>"Of what?"</p> <p>"Consumption," Duke said before launching into another fit of coughing. Andrews noticed for the first time the fine pinkish mist that Duke ejected from his throat with each cough, and reminded himself to get a full checkup after this interview was over. "I had watched it take my mother and my sister. I did not wish to die as they did. I offered half my fortune to whoever could provide me with the secrets of eternal life."</p> <p>"And someone made you an offer?"</p> <p>"Many people. Doctors, priests, historians like yourself. I turned the preachers away. The doctors, I bade to try their craft on a peasant first. Most of the peasants died - and so I took those doctors and mounted them on spikes in front of my keep as a warning to those who would try to cheat a duke. Eventually, a witch came before me, one of the secret practitioners of the old cults, who proposed that I could live forever - if only I became a <em>strigoi</em>."</p> <p>"What's a strigoi?"</p> <p>Duke laughed so hard Andrews feared he might crack a rib. "You have obviously never been to Oltenia," he said, "or you would know. The strigoi are beasts. Mindless savages, born from the carcasses of unrepentant sinners. They stalk the places that are called home by the dead - cemeteries, battlefields, gallows, cities stricken by the plague - and they feast on the flesh and blood of the dead. If there is no dead meat to be found and they are hungry, they will sometimes attack the living. Their bite is poison. It brings unimaginable pain" - Duke grimaced, as if in memory of that pain - "and if the beast does not kill you and devour you itself, then you too will lose your mind and become as they are."</p> <p>"Is that what you are now?"</p> <p>"No," Duke said. "I am something far greater."</p> <p>"Explain."</p> <p>"I nearly killed the witch myself for suggesting I become one of those abominations. She protested that I had misunderstood her - she knew a way, an ancient secret of the heathen princes of old, that could allow me to become ageless as the strigoi are, but maintain my senses. I gave her leave to test it on a prisoner - and indeed, it worked."</p> <p>"What became of the prisoner?"</p> <p>"I ordered him burned at the stake," Duke said. "There was only room for one immortal in my duchy."</p> <p>"So you underwent this same ritual?"</p> <p>"Yes," Duke said almost mournfully. "We captured one of the wild strigoi that lurked where the bodies of plague victims were burned. On the night of a full moon, the witch brought it before me and allowed it to bite me." Duke nodded his head toward his left arm, at a solid black patch of flesh above the elbow. "For three days I was in unbearable anguish. My skin became pale and I could no longer bear the sunlight, and I felt as though I would soon go mad. On the third night, after bathing me in the blood of an unbaptized Turk, the witch slit the strigoi's throat and bade me drink its blood. I vomited at first. She forced my face back to its throat and yelled at me to keep drinking. The more I drank, the better it tasted. Once I had had my fill, the witch proclaimed the ritual was complete - and so long as I kept a watchful eye on my enemies, I would never die."</p> <p>"So she earned the reward you promised?"</p> <p>"Of course not," Duke said. "I tore into her throat and drank her blood the next night. None but those I trusted with my life could know what I had become and remain alive. Even my wife became repulsed by the sight and smell of me. Her blood was delicious."</p> <p>"Did you eat their flesh as well?"</p> <p>"I never cared for the flesh. The blood was what I craved - delicious, and alive, and warm. So much of what it means to be a man, I can no longer experience. I see the fire, but I do not feel its heat. Only when fresh blood is running through my veins do I truly feel warm anymore."</p> <p>"How often do you need to feed?"</p> <p>"I do not need to feed at all. I… enjoy it. There are so few pleasures of the flesh available to a man in my condition."</p> <p>"How often are you hungry?"</p> <p>"I am <em>always</em> hungry. I am always thirsty. I am always tired, and sore, and aching, and sick. The old wounds never heal, the old pains never subside. I can drink until my stomach feels ready to burst, and still I hunger."</p> <p>"How long did you continue to live as a duke after you changed?"</p> <p>"Fifty years or so. I had to hide my face from the people and stay alone in the dark. The light burns, like being thrown into a fire. Even this glare now is quite unbearable."</p> <p>"What happened to change things?"</p> <p>"One of the peasant girls I intended to make a meal of escaped and informed the church of what I had become. The damned bishop incited the serfs to revolution and burned my keep. They would have burned me with it if I had not escaped into the woods."</p> <p>"Where did you go then?"</p> <p>"In the woods I remained until your mercenaries made a prisoner of me. I thought many times of trying to reclaim my land, but I am not…" Duke stopped to catch his breath. "I am not as strong or charismatic as once I was."</p> <p>"What did you do for all those years?"</p> <p>"I occupied myself with my thoughts, mostly. There have been times where I have simply crawled into a cave, or a hollow log, or covered myself with the earth and simply laid for days, or months, or years because I did not wish to move. When people came hunting the strigoi, I hid and fled. When I desired to do so, I preyed on huntsmen, and travelers, and others lost in the woods. It is quite simple to stalk a lone hunter in silence until he makes camp and falls asleep, then come upon him in the darkness and tear out his throat before he awakens. To hunt the animals is different - their senses are so much more attuned to the sound - and the smell - of death."</p> <p>"Did you ever encounter other strigoi like yourself?"</p> <p>"No, only the mad beasts. If they came into my woods, I killed them. They are fierce when cornered, but easy enough to lure into a well-laid trap."</p> <p>"Do you ever regret what you've become?"</p> <p>Duke paused a moment, looking down at his frail, emaciated frame. "If I had known this would be the price of immortality… perhaps I would have waited for another offer to come along." Duke chuckled.</p> <p>"The strigoi are not truly 'immortal', I take it."</p> <p>"I hunger, but I will never starve. I thirst, but I will never grow parched. I can barely breathe…" appropriately enough, Duke stopped again, struggling to catch his breath after winding himself. "I cannot breathe, but I will never choke. I am sick, but I shall never waste away. I shall live forever."</p> <p>"But can you be killed?"</p> <p>"I suppose. If you took my head, or pierced my heart, or set me aflame, or hacked me to bits, it would kill me as surely as any mere man."</p> <p>"Have you ever tried to take your own life, or provoke someone to kill you?"</p> <p>"No." Duke's answer was flat and immediate.</p> <p>"Why not?"</p> <p>"Because I still don't want to die."</p> <p>"I don't understand," Andrews said. "You've lived alone in the woods for seven hundred years as a frail monster that most people would kill on sight. Wouldn't death be a relief?"</p> <p>"Surely a historian knows that no great man <em>ever</em> wants to die," Duke said. "Every ache, every pain, every pang of hunger, every moment of regret for the things I have lost - these things are <em>gifts</em>, Doctor. I would rather feel the greatest torment you could possibly imagine… than know that I will never feel anything again, or even exist to know that I feel it not."</p> <p>"I think I've heard everything I need to hear for now," Andrews said. "The nurse will be by in an hour to change your IV."</p> <p>"Don't bother," Duke said as Andrews turned off the dimmer and made his way to the door. "Sticking it into my veins like this does nothing for me. Could you ask if they could arrange to have it drip into my mouth? The blood of a woman would be ideal. Warm. Virginal, preferably. Have your masters any available?"</p> <p>Dr. Andrews opened the door. "I hope not," he said.</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="/interview-with-the-strigoi">Interview With the Strigoi</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/interview-with-the-strigoi">https://scpwiki.com/interview-with-the-strigoi</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]] [[/>]] Dr. Jacob Andrews stood in the hallway of Site 19's medical ward, in front of the door to the examination room where his subject for the day was strapped to a bed. Dr. Andrews had never worked face-to-face with a living, breathing SCP object before - his degree was in Latin, after all, and the bulk of his work revolved around translating and interpreting ancient documents. As it happened, however, Latin was the only language the creature recognized that anyone at Site 19 was capable of speaking fluently - and Dr. Andrews was the only person available who spoke it. "Just remain calm, remember the briefing, and you'll be fine," Security Director Jefferson told him as he retrieved a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door. "Do not touch the creature, allow any part of your body to come within reach of its mouth, or attempt to loosen or remove any of its bonds. We'll be watching and listening in the whole time and if anything goes wrong we'll be through the door in under five seconds. If you need out, the safe word is 'bonavox'. All clear?" "Yes, sir," Dr. Andrews nodded. "Then good luck," Jefferson said. Andrews grasped the knob and turned it, slowly opening the door. A beam of light from the corridor spread out into the room and onto the Spartan bed that alone furnished it - and no sooner did those rays of light strike the thing on the bed than it began seizing and shaking, struggling against the straps that held it in place as it hissed and snarled. It shouted and shrieked in a strangely accented language that Dr. Andrews took to be an archaic dialect of Romanian, no doubt (as attested in the briefing he had received) begging that the light be put out. Andrews stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving the room pitch black but for the dim readout of the heart monitor next to its bed - a monitor which read that the thing's blood pressure was impossibly low, its pulse and respiration far too meager to sustain life, its body core only a few degrees warmer than the air around it. "I am going to need to be able to see you to perform my work," Andrews said in Latin. "May I light a dim light?" "If you must," responded a weak, barely audible voice in kind. Andrews touched the dimmer switch that had been installed by the door and brought the ceiling lamp to its lowest setting. Even in this dim glare, the creature on the bed shook and squinted its eyes, but seemed to be in less distress than it had before. In the amber glow, Andrews got his first good look at the tall, gaunt creature that lay before him, nude but for a hospital gown, an IV bag of blood draining slowly into its arm, leather straps around its wrists and ankles holding it in place. Its skin was a pale gray, mottled and speckled with black and purple like a slowly rotting corpse, dry and stretched taut over its bony limbs, ribs poking out of its chest like an emaciated prisoner. It was hairless, but for the shock of unkempt and brittle hair on its head, which, whatever color it had been at first, had been bleached blond by the centuries. A pair of bloodshot, pinkish eyes were barely visible behind its half-closed eyelids. Its teeth, yellow, misshapen, and cracked, were bared behind its dried, curled-back lips. The thing seemed to struggle for every breath, its chest rising and falling with great difficulty, each exhalation accompanied by a dry wheeze interspersed with bouts of violent coughing. It reeked of dried blood, rotting flesh, and the stink of the grave. "My name is Dr. Jacob Andrews," Andrews said, "and I work for the Foundation. I have been instructed to ask you some questions so that my superiors can determine whether you pose a threat and what means will be necessary to keep you safely contained. Do you understand?" "Your Latin is excellent," the thing replied in what Andrews now recognized to be a thick Slavic accent. "Are you from the Roman church?" "No, I'm just a..." Andrews searched his mind for a word the thing would recognize. "...a scholar. A historian, if you will." "Then at least I know I shall not be burned this day," the thing said, chuckling to itself before a coughing spasm overtook it. Andrews noticed that though it could barely manage a whisper, and each syllable seemed to come only at great effort, there was a certain genteel nature to its speech, a refined, carefully considered grace to each word. "Our purpose here is to secure, contain, and protect," Andrews said. "What of you? Are you a man of God?" "You ask if I believe in God?" the creature spat. "What kind of god would allow a thing such as I to exist? No, I am no holy man." "Then who are you?" "A man of noble birth," the thing said, taking a deep breath in anticipation of its next sentence. "I was - I am the duke of Oltenia, as was my father before me, and his father before him, and his before him, and his before him who freed us all from the rule of the Turks." "And what is your name?" The thing paused. "I... I do not remember," it said. "It has been a long time since I have had need of a name." "I guess I'll just have to call you Duke, then," Andrews replied. "How old are you, Duke?" "I cannot say. I do not know what year this is." "2012." "Two thousand and twelve," Duke said to himself. He was silent for a moment, seemingly taking in the realization of how much time had passed. "Then I suppose I must be seven hundred years old, or so." "Do you not know when you were born?" "I remember so little from those days. It was such a long time ago. I remember the sensations most of all, the things lost forever... the smell of my mother's perfume, the taste of meat roasted on the bone, the warmth of the fire, what it felt like to kiss a girl for the first time, the sting on my cheek when she slapped me for trying to reach under her skirt." Duke laughed at his own joke, and laughing once more gave way to coughing. "What do you remember distinctly of your life before you became as you are now?" "That I was a prince among men," Duke said. "I fought the Turks. I fought the Greeks. I fought the Serbs. I fought anyone who was foolish enough to face me! None dared challenge my word. Those who did... well, my enemies were known to whisper that I roasted the vanquished alive and dined on their flesh! Truth be told, I only did it once. I didn't care for it." "How did you come to be as you are now?" Duke sighed. "I didn't want to die. And I was dying." "Of what?" "Consumption," Duke said before launching into another fit of coughing. Andrews noticed for the first time the fine pinkish mist that Duke ejected from his throat with each cough, and reminded himself to get a full checkup after this interview was over. "I had watched it take my mother and my sister. I did not wish to die as they did. I offered half my fortune to whoever could provide me with the secrets of eternal life." "And someone made you an offer?" "Many people. Doctors, priests, historians like yourself. I turned the preachers away. The doctors, I bade to try their craft on a peasant first. Most of the peasants died - and so I took those doctors and mounted them on spikes in front of my keep as a warning to those who would try to cheat a duke. Eventually, a witch came before me, one of the secret practitioners of the old cults, who proposed that I could live forever - if only I became a //strigoi//." "What's a strigoi?" Duke laughed so hard Andrews feared he might crack a rib. "You have obviously never been to Oltenia," he said, "or you would know. The strigoi are beasts. Mindless savages, born from the carcasses of unrepentant sinners. They stalk the places that are called home by the dead - cemeteries, battlefields, gallows, cities stricken by the plague - and they feast on the flesh and blood of the dead. If there is no dead meat to be found and they are hungry, they will sometimes attack the living. Their bite is poison. It brings unimaginable pain" - Duke grimaced, as if in memory of that pain - "and if the beast does not kill you and devour you itself, then you too will lose your mind and become as they are." "Is that what you are now?" "No," Duke said. "I am something far greater." "Explain." "I nearly killed the witch myself for suggesting I become one of those abominations. She protested that I had misunderstood her - she knew a way, an ancient secret of the heathen princes of old, that could allow me to become ageless as the strigoi are, but maintain my senses. I gave her leave to test it on a prisoner - and indeed, it worked." "What became of the prisoner?" "I ordered him burned at the stake," Duke said. "There was only room for one immortal in my duchy." "So you underwent this same ritual?" "Yes," Duke said almost mournfully. "We captured one of the wild strigoi that lurked where the bodies of plague victims were burned. On the night of a full moon, the witch brought it before me and allowed it to bite me." Duke nodded his head toward his left arm, at a solid black patch of flesh above the elbow. "For three days I was in unbearable anguish. My skin became pale and I could no longer bear the sunlight, and I felt as though I would soon go mad. On the third night, after bathing me in the blood of an unbaptized Turk, the witch slit the strigoi's throat and bade me drink its blood. I vomited at first. She forced my face back to its throat and yelled at me to keep drinking. The more I drank, the better it tasted. Once I had had my fill, the witch proclaimed the ritual was complete - and so long as I kept a watchful eye on my enemies, I would never die." "So she earned the reward you promised?" "Of course not," Duke said. "I tore into her throat and drank her blood the next night. None but those I trusted with my life could know what I had become and remain alive. Even my wife became repulsed by the sight and smell of me. Her blood was delicious." "Did you eat their flesh as well?" "I never cared for the flesh. The blood was what I craved - delicious, and alive, and warm. So much of what it means to be a man, I can no longer experience. I see the fire, but I do not feel its heat. Only when fresh blood is running through my veins do I truly feel warm anymore." "How often do you need to feed?" "I do not need to feed at all. I... enjoy it. There are so few pleasures of the flesh available to a man in my condition." "How often are you hungry?" "I am //always// hungry. I am always thirsty. I am always tired, and sore, and aching, and sick. The old wounds never heal, the old pains never subside. I can drink until my stomach feels ready to burst, and still I hunger." "How long did you continue to live as a duke after you changed?" "Fifty years or so. I had to hide my face from the people and stay alone in the dark. The light burns, like being thrown into a fire. Even this glare now is quite unbearable." "What happened to change things?" "One of the peasant girls I intended to make a meal of escaped and informed the church of what I had become. The damned bishop incited the serfs to revolution and burned my keep. They would have burned me with it if I had not escaped into the woods." "Where did you go then?" "In the woods I remained until your mercenaries made a prisoner of me. I thought many times of trying to reclaim my land, but I am not..." Duke stopped to catch his breath. "I am not as strong or charismatic as once I was." "What did you do for all those years?" "I occupied myself with my thoughts, mostly. There have been times where I have simply crawled into a cave, or a hollow log, or covered myself with the earth and simply laid for days, or months, or years because I did not wish to move. When people came hunting the strigoi, I hid and fled. When I desired to do so, I preyed on huntsmen, and travelers, and others lost in the woods. It is quite simple to stalk a lone hunter in silence until he makes camp and falls asleep, then come upon him in the darkness and tear out his throat before he awakens. To hunt the animals is different - their senses are so much more attuned to the sound - and the smell - of death." "Did you ever encounter other strigoi like yourself?" "No, only the mad beasts. If they came into my woods, I killed them. They are fierce when cornered, but easy enough to lure into a well-laid trap." "Do you ever regret what you've become?" Duke paused a moment, looking down at his frail, emaciated frame. "If I had known this would be the price of immortality... perhaps I would have waited for another offer to come along." Duke chuckled. "The strigoi are not truly 'immortal', I take it." "I hunger, but I will never starve. I thirst, but I will never grow parched. I can barely breathe..." appropriately enough, Duke stopped again, struggling to catch his breath after winding himself. "I cannot breathe, but I will never choke. I am sick, but I shall never waste away. I shall live forever." "But can you be killed?" "I suppose. If you took my head, or pierced my heart, or set me aflame, or hacked me to bits, it would kill me as surely as any mere man." "Have you ever tried to take your own life, or provoke someone to kill you?" "No." Duke's answer was flat and immediate. "Why not?" "Because I still don't want to die." "I don't understand," Andrews said. "You've lived alone in the woods for seven hundred years as a frail monster that most people would kill on sight. Wouldn't death be a relief?" "Surely a historian knows that no great man //ever// wants to die," Duke said. "Every ache, every pain, every pang of hunger, every moment of regret for the things I have lost - these things are //gifts//, Doctor. I would rather feel the greatest torment you could possibly imagine... than know that I will never feel anything again, or even exist to know that I feel it not." "I think I've heard everything I need to hear for now," Andrews said. "The nurse will be by in an hour to change your IV." "Don't bother," Duke said as Andrews turned off the dimmer and made his way to the door. "Sticking it into my veins like this does nothing for me. Could you ask if they could arrange to have it drip into my mouth? The blood of a woman would be ideal. Warm. Virginal, preferably. Have your masters any available?" Dr. Andrews opened the door. "I hope not," he said. [[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>]]	2012-11-12T10:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Interview With the Strigoi - SCP Foundation	78	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14982492	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/interview-with-the-strigoi
into-that-good-night	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The second is <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/arbitrary-darkness">here</a>.</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-e62b91898f6a8f04d16fe04722b33769"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>086</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>091</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>121</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>134</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>469</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>506</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>776</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1045</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1171</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1217</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1231</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1440</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1510</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1599</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1673</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1802</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>____-J</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-086">The Office of Dr. REDACTED</a> [for Voct]</em></strong></p> <p>There is no way I should be free.<br/> My class is Safe—I don’t concur<br/> There is much more that I could be.</p> <p>Perhaps I’m treated too nicely,<br/> More danger I could be, I’m sure<br/> There is no way I should be free.</p> <p>Between these eight pieces of me<br/> Pencils, staples, water cooler<br/> There is much more that I could be.</p> <p>I think you’re all fools, truthfully.<br/> Why can’t things be the way they were?<br/> There is no way I should be free.</p> <p>Of course I cannot speak my plea<br/> Am I mad; what would you infer?<br/> There is much more that I could be.</p> <p>What if I rebelled, made you see?<br/> Indeed, more research it would spur—<br/> There is no way I should be free.<br/> There is much more that I could be.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-1" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-091">Nostalgia</a> [for TroyL]</em></strong></p> <p>When was the time we last did meet?<br/> For you remain despite the years<br/> Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.</p> <p>Your presence was hardly discreet<br/> In sighs, in smiles, in laughs, in cheers<br/> When was the time we last did meet?</p> <p>Those days spent in quiet retreat<br/> Never in sadness, nor in fears<br/> Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.</p> <p>The journeys down forgotten streets<br/> Time spent with family and peers<br/> When was the time we last did meet?</p> <p>No more will I these loved ones greet<br/> I’ll dry my eyes and wipe my tears<br/> Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.</p> <p>With you here, now the scene’s complete<br/> These memories I’ve held so dear<br/> When was the time we last did meet?<br/> Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-2" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-121">Concrete Cradle</a> [for Mr Wilt]</em></strong></p> <p>You carried us as we dreamed deep<br/> Protected us within the sky<br/> Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.</p> <p>The flight is brief, the fall is steep<br/> We’re given new life when you die<br/> You carried us as we dreamed deep.</p> <p>Yet there is no reason to weep<br/> We never really say goodbye.<br/> Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.</p> <p>We grow; draw from your remains heap<br/> Thank you for the life you supply<br/> You carried us as we dreamed deep.</p> <p>We’re you anew, able to leap<br/> Consume and think, no longer rely<br/> Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.</p> <p>Lives to tend, existence to keep<br/> We roam and thrive and watch you fly<br/> You carried us as we dreamed deep<br/> Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-3" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-134">Star-Eyed Child</a></em></strong></p> <p>Your gaze holds dark infinity<br/> These galaxies of softened lights<br/> Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?</p> <p>A universe in eyes empty<br/> Where mys’try drifts and dreams unite<br/> Your gaze holds dark infinity.</p> <p>Draw me away; reveal to me—<br/> The journey of a thousand nights<br/> Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?</p> <p>Guide me towards eternity<br/> Faraway worlds where flames ignite<br/> Your gaze holds dark infinity.</p> <p>There is much left to learn from thee<br/> Please lead me through these cosmic sights<br/> Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?</p> <p>The stars within shine peacefully<br/> Away from strife and hidden frights<br/> Your gaze holds dark infinity<br/> Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-4" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-469">Many-Winged Angel</a></em></strong></p> <p>Bright angel of the endless wings<br/> Intent simple to misconstrue<br/> Are we to know whose wrath you bring?</p> <p>Are you alive; are you sleeping?<br/> Perhaps I’d dare to speak with you,<br/> Bright angel of the endless wings</p> <p>The horror of your toxic sting<br/> Deems you a monster, through and through<br/> Are we to know whose wrath you bring?</p> <p>Despite our plans, to life you cling<br/> Do you hold us in scornful view,<br/> Bright angel of the endless wings</p> <p>There are no hymns that you will sing<br/> Through heaven’s sky you never flew<br/> Are we to know whose wrath you bring?</p> <p>Why must you wake at bells ringing<br/> When will your strength cease to renew<br/> Bright angel of the endless wings<br/> Are we to know whose wrath you bring?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-5" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-506">Instant-growing Plants</a> [for eric_h]</em></strong></p> <p>Zucchini growing with such speed<br/> Blight of soil, of plant, of skin<br/> What would you do if you were freed?</p> <p>Predator produce, worse than weed<br/> Scattering the wind with your kin<br/> Zucchini growing with such speed</p> <p>Growing, draining, paying no heed<br/> As you crush the life, hush the din<br/> What would you do if you were freed?</p> <p>Could the earth ever meet your need?<br/> A sorry state we would be in,<br/> Zucchini growing with such speed</p> <p>Chaos asleep in each small seed<br/> With growth and death concealed within<br/> What would you do if you were freed?</p> <p>So continue on, nurse your greed<br/> Remind us of our own kind’s sin<br/> Zucchini growing with such speed<br/> What would you do if you were freed?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-6" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-776">The Youth Cult</a> [for Goodwill]</em></strong></p> <p>Do they think youth is worth such strife?<br/> What terror dwells within this place?<br/> Why must they cycle death for life?</p> <p>Their kin born and brought to the knife<br/> Does fright or greed drive this disgrace?<br/> Do they think youth is worth such strife?</p> <p>What meaning is there in this vice?<br/> This fear of age and endless chase<br/> Why must they cycle death for life?</p> <p>Raising children for sacrifice<br/> Deceit and lies in each embrace<br/> Do they think youth is worth such strife?</p> <p>Are souls cut by the sharpened knife?<br/> The dark nature behind this chase<br/> Why must they cycle death for life?</p> <p>No sanctity for man and wife<br/> They soon forget their own child’s face.<br/> Do they think youth is worth such strife?<br/> Why must they cycle death for life?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-7" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1045">Candle of Life</a> [for Drewbear]</em></strong></p> <p>Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen<br/> What makes this sight, sparks this turn?<br/> Is this unjust, is this obscene?</p> <p>Fire unholy, face left unseen<br/> Must you grieve, for what do you yearn?<br/> Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen</p> <p>Not monster, not deadly machine<br/> Should we even grant you concern?<br/> Is this unjust, is this obscene?</p> <p>Unlit and dark it is serene<br/> With each flame agony returns<br/> Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen</p> <p>I watch and wonder what it means<br/> We know it’s human flesh we burn<br/> Is this unjust, is this obscene?</p> <p>The flames and walls, what writhes between?<br/> From your anguish, what could we learn?<br/> Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen<br/> Is this unjust, is this obscene?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-8" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1171">Humans Go Home</a> [for DrEverettMann]</em></strong></p> <p>I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL.<br/> I GUESS THEY CAN’T HELP WHAT THEY ARE<br/> WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?</p> <p>I HATE THEIR GUTS, THEIR SKIN, THEIR SQUALL<br/> THEIR COMPANY IS SO SUBPAR<br/> I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL.</p> <p>I TALK TO THEM, I LIE, I STALL—<br/> THESE HUMANS ARE JUST TOO BIZARRE<br/> WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?</p> <p>THE WORLD’S NOT THEIRS TO OVERHAUL<br/> ONE OF THESE DAYS THEY’LL GO TOO FAR<br/> I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL.</p> <p>HOW DO THEY EVEN HAVE SUCH GALL<br/> THEY TAKE OUR JOBS, LOWER THE BAR<br/> WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?</p> <p>SOMEDAY THEY’LL SEE, ONE DAY THEY’LL FALL<br/> THEY CAN'T HELP BEING WHAT THEY ARE.<br/> I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL.<br/> WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-9" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1217">An Office Complex</a> [for Bunton]</em></strong></p> <p>Do you mind how I speak with you?<br/> It’s quite dull here with such few friends<br/> Why wouldn’t you let me play too?</p> <p>I really don’t like them, it’s true—<br/> I use them as my mood attends<br/> Do you mind how I speak with you?</p> <p>They don’t complain, they won’t argue<br/> As their blood spills and their flesh rends<br/> Why wouldn’t you let me play too?</p> <p>Please stop this, we implore of you<br/> As painfully we meet our ends<br/> Do you care how we speak with you?</p> <p>It’s boring here, I wish you knew<br/> It matters not the time one spends<br/> Why wouldn’t you let me play too?</p> <p>Yes, the numbers of their deaths grew<br/> Should I try to make amends?<br/> Do you mind how I speak with you?<br/> Why wouldn’t you let me play too?</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-10" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/1231-warning">The Theoretical Family</a> [for Reject]</em></strong></p> <p>Theoretical and nothing more.<br/> I understand; see past the lies<br/> They weren’t always pictures of gore.</p> <p>For Science’s sake, why not explore?<br/> We’ll search and learn and realize<br/> Theoretical and nothing more.</p> <p>“Pain is all relative,” I’m sure<br/> Why should we try to sympathize?<br/> They weren’t always pictures of gore.</p> <p>Nothing in our deeds to abhor<br/> We’ll test and watch horrors arise—<br/> Theoretical and nothing more.</p> <p>To contain, protect, thus we swore<br/> Should we react with such surprise?<br/> They weren’t always pictures of gore.</p> <p>We’ve certainly done worse before<br/> And yet I cannot meet their eyes…<br/> Theoretical and nothing more.<br/> They weren’t always pictures of gore.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-11" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1440">The Old Man from Nowhere</a> [for Dmatix]</em></strong></p> <p>I seek the All and wonder why<br/> I live amidst the world’s decay<br/> I must still search and yearn to die</p> <p>My only constant is goodbye<br/> There is no place for me to stay<br/> I seek the All and wonder why</p> <p>Was my triumph naught but a lie?<br/> Though over death I did hold sway<br/> I must still search and yearn to die</p> <p>“The cup, the cards, the sack,” I sigh<br/> “How could I waste them all away?”<br/> I seek the All and wonder why</p> <p>I cannot falter, cannot cry<br/> I travel on, try as I may<br/> I must still search and yearn to die</p> <p>I’ve seen too much through despair’s eye<br/> As all I love crumbles away<br/> I seek the All and wonder why<br/> I must still search and yearn to die</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-12" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1510">The Tarnished Legionnaire</a> [for Dmatix]</em></strong></p> <p>Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday<br/> An ending to your endless fight<br/> ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.</p> <p>Somehow you’ve kept your fear at bay<br/> Throughout the void and empty night<br/> Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday</p> <p>You’ve vowed to learn why death will stay<br/> Soon unravel this curse of spite<br/> ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.</p> <p>We’ve offered to search for a way<br/> To understand and end your plight<br/> Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday</p> <p>Triumph and life to cursed decay<br/> One day you’ll see with your own sight<br/> ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.</p> <p>Dream on, soldier, do not dismay<br/> You’ve fallen far; we’ll lend our might<br/> Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday<br/> ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-13" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1599">Broken Spybot</a> [for Voct]</em></strong></p> <p>Would they try to abandon me?<br/> Did I commit some poor action?<br/> I’m not worthless, I could not be…</p> <p>My mission stands, soon I’ll be free<br/> I still exist, I still function<br/> Would they try to abandon me?</p> <p>I’ll manipulate, try to flee<br/> I’ll use a garrote! Load a gun!<br/> I’m not worthless, I could not be…</p> <p>“SIGNAL LOST” is all I see<br/> Was there something wrong that I’ve done?<br/> Would they try to abandon me?</p> <p>I’ll escape soon, definitely<br/> My logs process, my systems run<br/> I’m not worthless, I could not be…</p> <p>I can still work, I will, they’ll see—<br/> No need to worry, no need, none<br/> Would they try to abandon me?<br/> I’m not worthless; I could not be…</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-14" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1673">Friendly Graveyard</a> [for Roget]</em></strong></p> <p>We promise you that we don't bite.<br/> You’re always welcome here, dear friend<br/> Of course we’ll let you stay the night!</p> <p>We are just bones, but that’s alright<br/> We’ve always got a hand to lend<br/> We promise you that we don't bite.</p> <p>We’ll fix your clothes, set your shoes right<br/> Courtesies simple to extend<br/> Of course we’ll let you stay the night!</p> <p>We’ll always keep you in our sight<br/> To your needs we’ll quickly attend<br/> We promise you that we don't bite.</p> <p>You want to leave now? You just might?<br/> Why would you want your stay to end?<br/> Of course we’ll let you stay the night!</p> <p>You’ll stay after all? That’s alright.<br/> Forever now to you we’ll tend.<br/> We promise you that we don't bite.<br/> Of course we’ll let you stay the night!</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-15" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1802">"Skip"</a> [for Silberescher]</em></strong></p> <p>Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?<br/> Yet with your antics perhaps you’ll<br/> Teach us to treasure simple joys.</p> <p>Collecting junk you do enjoy<br/> Categorizing by some rule<br/> Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?</p> <p>We’ll provide to you trash decoys<br/> “The Foundation is cold, not cruel”<br/> Teach us to treasure simple joys.</p> <p>What could you be meant to destroy?<br/> You’re far less fierce than you are fool<br/> Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?</p> <p>Someday for good you’ll be employed<br/> For you are more than just a tool<br/> Teach us to treasure simple joys.</p> <p>What makes you collect junk and toys<br/> Say, “by this task I become cool”<br/> Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?<br/> Teach us to treasure simple joys.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-16" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-j">Procrastinati</a> [for Scantron]</em></strong></p> <p>There’s other stuff I’d rather do<br/> Than write about a rock in rhyme<br/> I’ll write this line in later too.</p> <p>It’s probably memetic, true<br/> I think I’ll add in the word "lime"<br/> There’s other stuff I’d rather do.</p> <p>Some other writing needs review<br/> Did I turn off the stove in time?<br/> I’ll write this line in later too.</p> <p>I have to find my other shoe<br/> And find more words that rhyme with “ime”<br/> There’s other stuff I’d rather do.</p> <p>-some line goes here that rhymes with "do"-<br/> I’ll write this line some other time<br/> I’ll write this line in later too.</p> <p><span style="color: white">What to expect? Effect’s not new<br/> I think there’s something off and I’m—<br/> There’s other stuff I’d rather do<br/> I’ll write this line in later too.</span></p> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabViewe62b91898f6a8f04d16fe04722b33769 = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-e62b91898f6a8f04d16fe04722b33769'); }, "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="/into-that-good-night">Into That Good Night</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/into-that-good-night">https://scpwiki.com/into-that-good-night</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 collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The second is [http://www.scp-wiki.net/arbitrary-darkness here]. [[tabview]] [[tab 086]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-086 The Office of Dr. REDACTED] [for Voct]// There is no way I should be free. My class is Safe—I don’t concur There is much more that I could be. Perhaps I’m treated too nicely, More danger I could be, I’m sure There is no way I should be free. Between these eight pieces of me Pencils, staples, water cooler There is much more that I could be. I think you’re all fools, truthfully. Why can’t things be the way they were? There is no way I should be free. Of course I cannot speak my plea Am I mad; what would you infer? There is much more that I could be. What if I rebelled, made you see? Indeed, more research it would spur— There is no way I should be free. There is much more that I could be. [[/tab]] [[tab 091]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-091 Nostalgia] [for TroyL]// When was the time we last did meet? For you remain despite the years Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. Your presence was hardly discreet In sighs, in smiles, in laughs, in cheers When was the time we last did meet? Those days spent in quiet retreat Never in sadness, nor in fears Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. The journeys down forgotten streets Time spent with family and peers When was the time we last did meet? No more will I these loved ones greet I’ll dry my eyes and wipe my tears Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. With you here, now the scene’s complete These memories I’ve held so dear When was the time we last did meet? Nostalgia, so soft and sweet. [[/tab]] [[tab 121]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-121 Concrete Cradle] [for Mr Wilt]// You carried us as we dreamed deep Protected us within the sky Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. The flight is brief, the fall is steep We’re given new life when you die You carried us as we dreamed deep. Yet there is no reason to weep We never really say goodbye. Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. We grow; draw from your remains heap Thank you for the life you supply You carried us as we dreamed deep. We’re you anew, able to leap Consume and think, no longer rely Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. Lives to tend, existence to keep We roam and thrive and watch you fly You carried us as we dreamed deep Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep. [[/tab]] [[tab 134]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-134 Star-Eyed Child]// Your gaze holds dark infinity These galaxies of softened lights Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? A universe in eyes empty Where mys’try drifts and dreams unite Your gaze holds dark infinity. Draw me away; reveal to me— The journey of a thousand nights Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? Guide me towards eternity Faraway worlds where flames ignite Your gaze holds dark infinity. There is much left to learn from thee Please lead me through these cosmic sights Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? The stars within shine peacefully Away from strife and hidden frights Your gaze holds dark infinity Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see? [[/tab]] [[tab 469]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-469 Many-Winged Angel]// Bright angel of the endless wings Intent simple to misconstrue Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Are you alive; are you sleeping? Perhaps I’d dare to speak with you, Bright angel of the endless wings The horror of your toxic sting Deems you a monster, through and through Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Despite our plans, to life you cling Do you hold us in scornful view, Bright angel of the endless wings There are no hymns that you will sing Through heaven’s sky you never flew Are we to know whose wrath you bring? Why must you wake at bells ringing When will your strength cease to renew Bright angel of the endless wings Are we to know whose wrath you bring? [[/tab]] [[tab 506]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-506 Instant-growing Plants] [for eric_h]// Zucchini growing with such speed Blight of soil, of plant, of skin What would you do if you were freed? Predator produce, worse than weed Scattering the wind with your kin Zucchini growing with such speed Growing, draining, paying no heed As you crush the life, hush the din What would you do if you were freed? Could the earth ever meet your need? A sorry state we would be in, Zucchini growing with such speed Chaos asleep in each small seed With growth and death concealed within What would you do if you were freed? So continue on, nurse your greed Remind us of our own kind’s sin Zucchini growing with such speed What would you do if you were freed? [[/tab]] [[tab 776]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-776 The Youth Cult] [for Goodwill]// Do they think youth is worth such strife? What terror dwells within this place? Why must they cycle death for life? Their kin born and brought to the knife Does fright or greed drive this disgrace? Do they think youth is worth such strife? What meaning is there in this vice? This fear of age and endless chase Why must they cycle death for life? Raising children for sacrifice Deceit and lies in each embrace Do they think youth is worth such strife? Are souls cut by the sharpened knife? The dark nature behind this chase Why must they cycle death for life? No sanctity for man and wife They soon forget their own child’s face. Do they think youth is worth such strife? Why must they cycle death for life? [[/tab]] [[tab 1045]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1045 Candle of Life] [for Drewbear]// Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen What makes this sight, sparks this turn? Is this unjust, is this obscene? Fire unholy, face left unseen Must you grieve, for what do you yearn? Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen Not monster, not deadly machine Should we even grant you concern? Is this unjust, is this obscene? Unlit and dark it is serene With each flame agony returns Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen I watch and wonder what it means We know it’s human flesh we burn Is this unjust, is this obscene? The flames and walls, what writhes between? From your anguish, what could we learn? Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen Is this unjust, is this obscene? [[/tab]] [[tab 1171]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1171 Humans Go Home] [for DrEverettMann]// I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL. I GUESS THEY CAN’T HELP WHAT THEY ARE WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? I HATE THEIR GUTS, THEIR SKIN, THEIR SQUALL THEIR COMPANY IS SO SUBPAR I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL. I TALK TO THEM, I LIE, I STALL— THESE HUMANS ARE JUST TOO BIZARRE WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? THE WORLD’S NOT THEIRS TO OVERHAUL ONE OF THESE DAYS THEY’LL GO TOO FAR I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL. HOW DO THEY EVEN HAVE SUCH GALL THEY TAKE OUR JOBS, LOWER THE BAR WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? SOMEDAY THEY’LL SEE, ONE DAY THEY’LL FALL THEY CAN'T HELP BEING WHAT THEY ARE. I LET THEM KNOW WHO’S BOSS, THAT’S ALL. WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL? [[/tab]] [[tab 1217]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1217 An Office Complex] [for Bunton]// Do you mind how I speak with you? It’s quite dull here with such few friends Why wouldn’t you let me play too? I really don’t like them, it’s true— I use them as my mood attends Do you mind how I speak with you? They don’t complain, they won’t argue As their blood spills and their flesh rends Why wouldn’t you let me play too? Please stop this, we implore of you As painfully we meet our ends Do you care how we speak with you? It’s boring here, I wish you knew It matters not the time one spends Why wouldn’t you let me play too? Yes, the numbers of their deaths grew Should I try to make amends? Do you mind how I speak with you? Why wouldn’t you let me play too? [[/tab]] [[tab 1231]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/1231-warning The Theoretical Family] [for Reject]// Theoretical and nothing more. I understand; see past the lies They weren’t always pictures of gore. For Science’s sake, why not explore? We’ll search and learn and realize Theoretical and nothing more. “Pain is all relative,” I’m sure Why should we try to sympathize? They weren’t always pictures of gore. Nothing in our deeds to abhor We’ll test and watch horrors arise— Theoretical and nothing more. To contain, protect, thus we swore Should we react with such surprise? They weren’t always pictures of gore. We’ve certainly done worse before And yet I cannot meet their eyes… Theoretical and nothing more. They weren’t always pictures of gore. [[/tab]] [[tab 1440]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1440 The Old Man from Nowhere] [for Dmatix]// I seek the All and wonder why I live amidst the world’s decay I must still search and yearn to die My only constant is goodbye There is no place for me to stay I seek the All and wonder why Was my triumph naught but a lie? Though over death I did hold sway I must still search and yearn to die “The cup, the cards, the sack,” I sigh “How could I waste them all away?” I seek the All and wonder why I cannot falter, cannot cry I travel on, try as I may I must still search and yearn to die I’ve seen too much through despair’s eye As all I love crumbles away I seek the All and wonder why I must still search and yearn to die [[/tab]] [[tab 1510]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1510 The Tarnished Legionnaire] [for Dmatix]// Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday An ending to your endless fight ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. Somehow you’ve kept your fear at bay Throughout the void and empty night Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday You’ve vowed to learn why death will stay Soon unravel this curse of spite ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. We’ve offered to search for a way To understand and end your plight Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday Triumph and life to cursed decay One day you’ll see with your own sight ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. Dream on, soldier, do not dismay You’ve fallen far; we’ll lend our might Perhaps you’ll find your peace someday ‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away. [[/tab]] [[tab 1599]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1599 Broken Spybot] [for Voct]// Would they try to abandon me? Did I commit some poor action? I’m not worthless, I could not be… My mission stands, soon I’ll be free I still exist, I still function Would they try to abandon me? I’ll manipulate, try to flee I’ll use a garrote! Load a gun! I’m not worthless, I could not be… “SIGNAL LOST” is all I see Was there something wrong that I’ve done? Would they try to abandon me? I’ll escape soon, definitely My logs process, my systems run I’m not worthless, I could not be… I can still work, I will, they’ll see— No need to worry, no need, none Would they try to abandon me? I’m not worthless; I could not be… [[/tab]] [[tab 1673]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1673 Friendly Graveyard] [for Roget]// We promise you that we don't bite. You’re always welcome here, dear friend Of course we’ll let you stay the night! We are just bones, but that’s alright We’ve always got a hand to lend We promise you that we don't bite. We’ll fix your clothes, set your shoes right Courtesies simple to extend Of course we’ll let you stay the night! We’ll always keep you in our sight To your needs we’ll quickly attend We promise you that we don't bite. You want to leave now? You just might? Why would you want your stay to end? Of course we’ll let you stay the night! You’ll stay after all? That’s alright. Forever now to you we’ll tend. We promise you that we don't bite. Of course we’ll let you stay the night! [[/tab]] [[tab 1802]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1802 "Skip"] [for Silberescher]// Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? Yet with your antics perhaps you’ll Teach us to treasure simple joys. Collecting junk you do enjoy Categorizing by some rule Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? We’ll provide to you trash decoys “The Foundation is cold, not cruel” Teach us to treasure simple joys. What could you be meant to destroy? You’re far less fierce than you are fool Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? Someday for good you’ll be employed For you are more than just a tool Teach us to treasure simple joys. What makes you collect junk and toys Say, “by this task I become cool” Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed? Teach us to treasure simple joys. [[/tab]] [[tab ____-J]] //[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-j Procrastinati] [for Scantron]// There’s other stuff I’d rather do Than write about a rock in rhyme I’ll write this line in later too. It’s probably memetic, true I think I’ll add in the word "lime" There’s other stuff I’d rather do. Some other writing needs review Did I turn off the stove in time? I’ll write this line in later too. I have to find my other shoe And find more words that rhyme with “ime” There’s other stuff I’d rather do. -some line goes here that rhymes with "do"- I’ll write this line some other time I’ll write this line in later too. ##white\|What to expect? Effect’s not new I think there’s something off and I’m— There’s other stuff I’d rather do I’ll write this line in later too.## [[/tab]] [[/tabview]] [[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>]]	2012-08-27T19:14:00	[ "_genreless", "_licensebox", "featured", "poetry", "tale" ]	Into That Good Night - SCP Foundation	121	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "joke-scps-tales-edition", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	14135365	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/into-that-good-night
it-might-have-been	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Item #:</strong> SCP-343</p> <p><strong>Object Class:</strong> Keter</p> <p><strong>Special Containment Procedures:</strong> SCP-343 is currently uncontained. No reliable method of containing SCP-343 has been found.</p> <p>SCP-343 has taken up regular residence in humanoid containment chamber 208 within Site 17. All contact with SCP-343 is to follow standard humanoid interview protocols. In the case of unauthorized contact, personnel are to politely decline conversation with SCP-343 and report the incident to the nearest supervisory personnel. If contact cannot be avoided, all information gathered is to be likewise reported.</p> <p>In the case of SCP-343 making contact outside of the Foundation’s direct jurisdiction, appropriate cover-up countermeasures are to be taken as soon as the extent and content of contact has been ascertained.</p> <p>This document has been modified by Mátyás Büki, known to all as SCP-343.</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> My friends, it is high time that I leave you. I must be moving on. Thank you greatly for your hospitality in my time of need. However, it is no longer safe here, and while this is no fault of yours, I cannot with good conscience allow myself to remain. I have taxed your kindness enough.</p> <p>I will admit, I have not been entirely truthful in these past years, or entirely cooperative. My squatting in your facility like a homeless beggar doubtlessly caused a great deal of frustration and unnecessary panic, and for that and a great many other things, I apologize.</p> <p>While it cannot repay what you have done for me, in return for your kindness, I will tell you a story.</p> <p>This story begins with a poor boy of Prague, born many long years ago to a poor mother and a poor father. Life was hard. It often is in these stories. There was little food to be had, and many mouths to feed. My mother made a little coin as a washer woman. My father worked in the factory. He was not an unkind man, but as many poor men are wont to do, spent much of his meager earnings on the bottle.</p> <p>This was when I first learned of what I could do. My father returned home, late at night, far more drunk than he had ever been before. He was raging and cursing about, maddened with liquor. My mother tried to speak to him, to calm him, but his slurring became angrier and angrier in argument, and eventually he struck her, and threatened worse if she did not “shut up and please him”.</p> <p>I was terrified. In the darkness, I could not see his face. It did not seem like my father, but in my heart I knew it was, and that made it all the worse. My mother was screaming, and my brothers and sisters were crying. I screamed at him. “Stop!” I said, and he did. He stopped.</p> <p>Like a statue. Frozen in place. Not even the folds of his clothing would be moved. His face was twisted up in drunken rage, but his eyes were different. There was no anger there. Only fear. Fear of a kind that made my own seem paltry in comparison. In my father’s eyes I saw a man who was looking into his own damnation.</p> <p>And though they did not move, I knew he could see me. Somehow, I knew that I had not killed my father. I had done something far worse.</p> <p>I ran. I knew not where to, but I ran into the night, leaving my brothers and sisters and mother behind me. To this day, I do not know what happened to them. I pray they were spared what came to follow me.</p> <p>Years passed. I begged and stole and clawed my way across Europe, without direction, half-feral and half-mad. Death followed me. My curse was no longer content with simply leaking out with my words: it lashed out on its own, wild and deadly. In time I found I could control it with thought, but the act left me exhausted, and the curse only grew more violent as I tried to control it. I began to attract unwanted attention.</p> <p>It was a group of Roma who had found me first. I had become so unused to speaking with human beings that I could do nothing but croak like a frog for days. Eventually I would whisper, but they did not understand me, nor I them. But they fed me, and I watched them as they practiced their arts. They did not seem to fear me. Here, I thought, here is where I may learn to control the curse.</p> <p>I never spoke to them about it. The crows came first. I called them crows, for the black coats they wore. They descended upon us, tore apart the camp. They were not interested in the Roma: they had come for me.</p> <p>I killed them. Not all of them. But many.</p> <p>I fled again, and here is where my struggle began in earnest. They had found me, and I was dangerous, and they would stop at nothing to have me. I fled, and I learned. I taught myself. My curse became more a blessing. I lived a secret little war, and as I fought, I learned more and more. How to take the shape of another. How to make a mouthful of bread or a handful of water. The crows returned again. They were British. There were others, the French, the Prussians, some of my own Empire, members of the Church and even an American. They hunted me, and in return, I hunted them.</p> <p>More years passed, though I barely noticed. My blessing still attempted to bite me and at times it did, but I had learned. I could walk upright, hiding but a little, fearing little. I existed as the faceless man walking down the street, seen once and forgotten forever. My belly was full, and my wits were wary. I picked up languages, identities, scraps of knowledge that would aid me, weapons and defenses against my enemies. But, as things happen, my enemies had learned as well, and they had learned better than me.</p> <p>I was ambushed. My guard was down, and they sprung. They had ways to prevent me from healing myself, ways to prevent me from escaping, weapons that could hurt me. They drove at me, razing my hiding places and piercing my disguises. My years as a child came back, all the more horrible. My mind, fragile as it was from years of animal existence, began to unravel. A great many died, and all along I felt myself slipping away.</p> <p>They drove me across bloody fields, to Paris, down, deep into the bowels of that city, where the dead digested in their holy peace. It was in those catacombs where I had a transformation. A single moment of clarity, where the universe fell into order around my broken body.</p> <p>I became a god in a dark, slimy hole, bleeding and naked and half-dead. My apotheosis was witnessed by the empty sockets of a thousand skulls.</p> <p>I returned to the surface, and my fight was over. They were no more a threat to me than the gnats. A god has no reason to fear a man, and he likewise has no need to bother in fighting them. They merely need to be waved away. I did so, and then I left, and for the first time in decades, they did not follow.</p> <p>Peace then, for the first time since I had last heard my mother’s songs at night. I gloried in it. I watched the world, and it was good.</p> <p>In time, I suppose I forgot about the crows and their fellows. They did not forget about me. A god’s sin is pride, and I had it in full. I believed they had thought me dead, but they never did. The false body I left in the catacomb was not enough. They were only waiting, taking their time, and in time, their children and children’s children came once again hunting me, and once again, they had learned.</p> <p>They had learned, and I had not. God though I was, I could not see all, I could not do all. They had ways to fight back, as they always had. My peaceful life shattered, as did my illusions. I was old and complacent, they were not. I fled once more.</p> <p>It was then that I made my place among you, playing card tricks and telling stories, all to make you believe that my power was infinite, that you would not dare cross me lest I destroy you. It was a lie, all sleight of hand and clever riddles. You were never in my power, but I in yours. With you, I was safe, a god in his holy place. I had hoped that I would ride out the storm, that those who sought to destroy me would eventually give up, but I know that is not true, and I know now that it would not have mattered: you would have eventually turned me over, and you would have been justified.</p> <p>I know that you will seek me out, and so I only hope that this may lighten your hearts.</p> <p>Good bye, my friends. Good bye.</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="/it-might-have-been">It Might Have Been</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/it-might-have-been">https://scpwiki.com/it-might-have-been</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]] [[/>]] Item #: SCP-343 Object Class: Keter Special Containment Procedures: SCP-343 is currently uncontained. No reliable method of containing SCP-343 has been found. SCP-343 has taken up regular residence in humanoid containment chamber 208 within Site 17. All contact with SCP-343 is to follow standard humanoid interview protocols. In the case of unauthorized contact, personnel are to politely decline conversation with SCP-343 and report the incident to the nearest supervisory personnel. If contact cannot be avoided, all information gathered is to be likewise reported. In the case of SCP-343 making contact outside of the Foundation’s direct jurisdiction, appropriate cover-up countermeasures are to be taken as soon as the extent and content of contact has been ascertained. This document has been modified by Mátyás Büki, known to all as SCP-343. Description: My friends, it is high time that I leave you. I must be moving on. Thank you greatly for your hospitality in my time of need. However, it is no longer safe here, and while this is no fault of yours, I cannot with good conscience allow myself to remain. I have taxed your kindness enough. I will admit, I have not been entirely truthful in these past years, or entirely cooperative. My squatting in your facility like a homeless beggar doubtlessly caused a great deal of frustration and unnecessary panic, and for that and a great many other things, I apologize. While it cannot repay what you have done for me, in return for your kindness, I will tell you a story. This story begins with a poor boy of Prague, born many long years ago to a poor mother and a poor father. Life was hard. It often is in these stories. There was little food to be had, and many mouths to feed. My mother made a little coin as a washer woman. My father worked in the factory. He was not an unkind man, but as many poor men are wont to do, spent much of his meager earnings on the bottle. This was when I first learned of what I could do. My father returned home, late at night, far more drunk than he had ever been before. He was raging and cursing about, maddened with liquor. My mother tried to speak to him, to calm him, but his slurring became angrier and angrier in argument, and eventually he struck her, and threatened worse if she did not “shut up and please him”. I was terrified. In the darkness, I could not see his face. It did not seem like my father, but in my heart I knew it was, and that made it all the worse. My mother was screaming, and my brothers and sisters were crying. I screamed at him. “Stop!” I said, and he did. He stopped. Like a statue. Frozen in place. Not even the folds of his clothing would be moved. His face was twisted up in drunken rage, but his eyes were different. There was no anger there. Only fear. Fear of a kind that made my own seem paltry in comparison. In my father’s eyes I saw a man who was looking into his own damnation. And though they did not move, I knew he could see me. Somehow, I knew that I had not killed my father. I had done something far worse. I ran. I knew not where to, but I ran into the night, leaving my brothers and sisters and mother behind me. To this day, I do not know what happened to them. I pray they were spared what came to follow me. Years passed. I begged and stole and clawed my way across Europe, without direction, half-feral and half-mad. Death followed me. My curse was no longer content with simply leaking out with my words: it lashed out on its own, wild and deadly. In time I found I could control it with thought, but the act left me exhausted, and the curse only grew more violent as I tried to control it. I began to attract unwanted attention. It was a group of Roma who had found me first. I had become so unused to speaking with human beings that I could do nothing but croak like a frog for days. Eventually I would whisper, but they did not understand me, nor I them. But they fed me, and I watched them as they practiced their arts. They did not seem to fear me. Here, I thought, here is where I may learn to control the curse. I never spoke to them about it. The crows came first. I called them crows, for the black coats they wore. They descended upon us, tore apart the camp. They were not interested in the Roma: they had come for me. I killed them. Not all of them. But many. I fled again, and here is where my struggle began in earnest. They had found me, and I was dangerous, and they would stop at nothing to have me. I fled, and I learned. I taught myself. My curse became more a blessing. I lived a secret little war, and as I fought, I learned more and more. How to take the shape of another. How to make a mouthful of bread or a handful of water. The crows returned again. They were British. There were others, the French, the Prussians, some of my own Empire, members of the Church and even an American. They hunted me, and in return, I hunted them. More years passed, though I barely noticed. My blessing still attempted to bite me and at times it did, but I had learned. I could walk upright, hiding but a little, fearing little. I existed as the faceless man walking down the street, seen once and forgotten forever. My belly was full, and my wits were wary. I picked up languages, identities, scraps of knowledge that would aid me, weapons and defenses against my enemies. But, as things happen, my enemies had learned as well, and they had learned better than me. I was ambushed. My guard was down, and they sprung. They had ways to prevent me from healing myself, ways to prevent me from escaping, weapons that could hurt me. They drove at me, razing my hiding places and piercing my disguises. My years as a child came back, all the more horrible. My mind, fragile as it was from years of animal existence, began to unravel. A great many died, and all along I felt myself slipping away. They drove me across bloody fields, to Paris, down, deep into the bowels of that city, where the dead digested in their holy peace. It was in those catacombs where I had a transformation. A single moment of clarity, where the universe fell into order around my broken body. I became a god in a dark, slimy hole, bleeding and naked and half-dead. My apotheosis was witnessed by the empty sockets of a thousand skulls. I returned to the surface, and my fight was over. They were no more a threat to me than the gnats. A god has no reason to fear a man, and he likewise has no need to bother in fighting them. They merely need to be waved away. I did so, and then I left, and for the first time in decades, they did not follow. Peace then, for the first time since I had last heard my mother’s songs at night. I gloried in it. I watched the world, and it was good. In time, I suppose I forgot about the crows and their fellows. They did not forget about me. A god’s sin is pride, and I had it in full. I believed they had thought me dead, but they never did. The false body I left in the catacomb was not enough. They were only waiting, taking their time, and in time, their children and children’s children came once again hunting me, and once again, they had learned. They had learned, and I had not. God though I was, I could not see all, I could not do all. They had ways to fight back, as they always had. My peaceful life shattered, as did my illusions. I was old and complacent, they were not. I fled once more. It was then that I made my place among you, playing card tricks and telling stories, all to make you believe that my power was infinite, that you would not dare cross me lest I destroy you. It was a lie, all sleight of hand and clever riddles. You were never in my power, but I in yours. With you, I was safe, a god in his holy place. I had hoped that I would ride out the storm, that those who sought to destroy me would eventually give up, but I know that is not true, and I know now that it would not have mattered: you would have eventually turned me over, and you would have been justified. I know that you will seek me out, and so I only hope that this may lighten your hearts. Good bye, my friends. Good bye. [[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>]]	2012-12-08T20:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "bittersweet", "chase", "first-person", "foundation-format", "hmfscp", "tale" ]	It Might Have Been - SCP Foundation	180	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "reimagined-hub", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15326136	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/it-might-have-been
it-s-not-spelled-like-that	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"How long has he been out there?" asked the Site Director as he strolled down the corridor leading to the entry hub.</p> <p>"Around three hours, sir," replied his assistant, nervously shuffling her papers. "We've contemplated shooting him, but decided that if he came all the way to Site 19's gate to just stand out there yelling, he can't be too much of a threat."</p> <p>The Site Director nodded slowly. He had dealt with attempted break-ins before, but some man ranting his head off at the Site gate was something new entirely. With any luck, they could wipe his memory and send him on his way inside of ten minutes, and get back to eating lunch. If not, he'd just order the stupid bastard shot in the face and be done with it. Either way, the problem would be solved.</p> <p>The pair arrived at the titanic metal wall that served as the Site's blast door. Anyone trying to break in would be stopped dead in their tracks, even if they could get past the snipers and electrical fencing. Beyond it, a mere two meters away, stood some raving lunatic. "Just a moment sir," grunted the on-duty guard, punching in the passcode to open the blast door. As the monstrous groaning sound of sliding metal emitted from the blast door before them, a similar sound could be heard from behind. No madman, no matter how harmless, was worth risking a containment breach over.</p> <p>A sliver of light fell over the Site Director and his assistant as the blast door picked up speed, opening faster and faster. The shadows of Site 19's low outer walls spilled across the dusty landscape. In the distance, one could see the small electric fences and the vast desert beyond. The Site Director had seen all of this before, however. What concerned him the most was the hunched-over man who rapidly advanced on the pair.</p> <p>"Do you have any fucking idea how long I was standing out there, man?" he blurted, waving his arms frantically. "I mean, it's the middle of goddamn summer out there! I spent something like eight hundred dollars to get out here, in the middle of goddamn July, and you guys just leave me standing in the middle of the desert at noon? Shit, man!"</p> <p>The Site Director looked over the haggard man. He had a long, scraggly beard that reached down to his stomach, and dark brown hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks. His eyes flitted wildly back and forth, looking over the Site Director and the armed guards standing at the ready. His apparel was little more than a sweaty white t-shirt and torn jeans, his feet completely unshod. Worst of all, some exceptionally foul odor was wafting from his person, which the Site Director could only pin down as rotten corn.</p> <p>"What…" he began, choking slightly on the man's smell, "What do you want?"</p> <p>"Look, man, we tried to contact you through the mail, but we never received a message back, so they sent me out here. Fucking inconvenient if you ask me, but—"</p> <p>"We burn all unsourced letters and delete suspicious e-mails," the Director said, quickly growing impatient with the man. "What <em>exactly</em> are you here for?"</p> <p>"I'm here to declare war on you lot, man!" the foul-smelling individual shouted, jumping up and down while making slight jabs with his fists. "We heard about this one group of dudes, with a name similar to yours, who were kinda ticked at you getting in their way, you know? So the guys and me got together and thought up, 'Hey, <em>our</em> name is similar too, and we think that you guys have been crapping on our goals too, so we're gonna go to war with them!" To apparently add effect, the man kicked his legs about and made several high-pitched screeches.</p> <p>"I see…" the Site Director said, rubbing his chin and hoping the glare on his glasses would hide his rolling eyes. "And how have we been wronging you?"</p> <p>The unwashed man fell still and silent. "Um… we haven't really figured that part out yet. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, you know? We got as far as the 'similar names' thing, and went off on the 'Fuck these guys!' crusade." His eyes lit up and he began bouncing up and down again. "But we'll figure it out! You guys <em>have</em> to have been suppressing us <em>somehow</em>! So we're here to declare war against the SCP Foundation!"</p> <p>The Site Director was doing all he could to keep from burying his face in his hands. "Just what is the name of your organization?"</p> <p>"People Shitting Chipperly!"</p> <p>Clearly, the battle to keep face and hands separate was a futile one.</p> <p>The Site Director's body shook violently as he took in a few deep, ragged breaths. His assistant and the lunatic both stared at him, wondering what was wrong. At length, he removed his hands, took one last breath, straightened his tie, and spoke.</p> <p>"No. No. <em>No.</em> I'm not accepting it, I am bloody well not accepting this. SPC, I get, I get how people can misspell it as that, and I get how you can go all, 'Oh, it's punching sharks, haha!' But no. I'm not doing it. I'm not going to have <em>anything</em> to do with the PSC organization."</p> <p>"Do you have any idea," he said, trying to keep himself from shouting, "any idea at all, just how much trouble the Shark Punching Center has caused us? We've plugged way too many resources into just making them go away, and lost something like six or seven versions of Bright to brain aneurysms in the last week alone. It's too much trouble to actually deal with nutters like you."</p> <p>"So go away," he stated flatly. "I'm not going to have you locked up, or mind-wiped, or even just straight up killed. It's too much trouble for a problem we shouldn't even have to be dealing with. Just go home, get on with your healthy shitting, or whatever it is you do, and never show your stinking face around here again. Do I make myself clear?"</p> <p>"But—"</p> <p>"Before I change my mind," the Site Director growled.</p> <p>The filthy madman blinked once, then turned and fled into the desert, hopefully to never be seen again. Waving his hand, the Site Director instructed the guard to close the blast door. "Come on, Lucy," he sighed, "let's get back to the cafeteria."</p> <p>At that moment, another individual came running up to the entrance, looking equally as insane and ragged as the one who had just left. "Now wait just a minute," he shouted, "I've spent two weeks looking for you, and the People's Coconut Society will not be—!"</p> <p>"Fuck off," the Site Director spat, and the blast door clanged shut in the man's face.</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="/it-s-not-spelled-like-that">It's Not Spelled Like That!</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/it-s-not-spelled-like-that">https://scpwiki.com/it-s-not-spelled-like-that</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]] [[/>]] "How long has he been out there?" asked the Site Director as he strolled down the corridor leading to the entry hub. "Around three hours, sir," replied his assistant, nervously shuffling her papers. "We've contemplated shooting him, but decided that if he came all the way to Site 19's gate to just stand out there yelling, he can't be too much of a threat." The Site Director nodded slowly. He had dealt with attempted break-ins before, but some man ranting his head off at the Site gate was something new entirely. With any luck, they could wipe his memory and send him on his way inside of ten minutes, and get back to eating lunch. If not, he'd just order the stupid bastard shot in the face and be done with it. Either way, the problem would be solved. The pair arrived at the titanic metal wall that served as the Site's blast door. Anyone trying to break in would be stopped dead in their tracks, even if they could get past the snipers and electrical fencing. Beyond it, a mere two meters away, stood some raving lunatic. "Just a moment sir," grunted the on-duty guard, punching in the passcode to open the blast door. As the monstrous groaning sound of sliding metal emitted from the blast door before them, a similar sound could be heard from behind. No madman, no matter how harmless, was worth risking a containment breach over. A sliver of light fell over the Site Director and his assistant as the blast door picked up speed, opening faster and faster. The shadows of Site 19's low outer walls spilled across the dusty landscape. In the distance, one could see the small electric fences and the vast desert beyond. The Site Director had seen all of this before, however. What concerned him the most was the hunched-over man who rapidly advanced on the pair. "Do you have any fucking idea how long I was standing out there, man?" he blurted, waving his arms frantically. "I mean, it's the middle of goddamn summer out there! I spent something like eight hundred dollars to get out here, in the middle of goddamn July, and you guys just leave me standing in the middle of the desert at noon? Shit, man!" The Site Director looked over the haggard man. He had a long, scraggly beard that reached down to his stomach, and dark brown hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks. His eyes flitted wildly back and forth, looking over the Site Director and the armed guards standing at the ready. His apparel was little more than a sweaty white t-shirt and torn jeans, his feet completely unshod. Worst of all, some exceptionally foul odor was wafting from his person, which the Site Director could only pin down as rotten corn. "What..." he began, choking slightly on the man's smell, "What do you want?" "Look, man, we tried to contact you through the mail, but we never received a message back, so they sent me out here. Fucking inconvenient if you ask me, but--" "We burn all unsourced letters and delete suspicious e-mails," the Director said, quickly growing impatient with the man. "What //exactly// are you here for?" "I'm here to declare war on you lot, man!" the foul-smelling individual shouted, jumping up and down while making slight jabs with his fists. "We heard about this one group of dudes, with a name similar to yours, who were kinda ticked at you getting in their way, you know? So the guys and me got together and thought up, 'Hey, //our// name is similar too, and we think that you guys have been crapping on our goals too, so we're gonna go to war with them!" To apparently add effect, the man kicked his legs about and made several high-pitched screeches. "I see..." the Site Director said, rubbing his chin and hoping the glare on his glasses would hide his rolling eyes. "And how have we been wronging you?" The unwashed man fell still and silent. "Um... we haven't really figured that part out yet. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, you know? We got as far as the 'similar names' thing, and went off on the 'Fuck these guys!' crusade." His eyes lit up and he began bouncing up and down again. "But we'll figure it out! You guys //have// to have been suppressing us //somehow//! So we're here to declare war against the SCP Foundation!" The Site Director was doing all he could to keep from burying his face in his hands. "Just what is the name of your organization?" "People Shitting Chipperly!" Clearly, the battle to keep face and hands separate was a futile one. The Site Director's body shook violently as he took in a few deep, ragged breaths. His assistant and the lunatic both stared at him, wondering what was wrong. At length, he removed his hands, took one last breath, straightened his tie, and spoke. "No. No. //No.// I'm not accepting it, I am bloody well not accepting this. SPC, I get, I get how people can misspell it as that, and I get how you can go all, 'Oh, it's punching sharks, haha!' But no. I'm not doing it. I'm not going to have //anything// to do with the PSC organization." "Do you have any idea," he said, trying to keep himself from shouting, "any idea at all, just how much trouble the Shark Punching Center has caused us? We've plugged way too many resources into just making them go away, and lost something like six or seven versions of Bright to brain aneurysms in the last week alone. It's too much trouble to actually deal with nutters like you." "So go away," he stated flatly. "I'm not going to have you locked up, or mind-wiped, or even just straight up killed. It's too much trouble for a problem we shouldn't even have to be dealing with. Just go home, get on with your healthy shitting, or whatever it is you do, and never show your stinking face around here again. Do I make myself clear?" "But--" "Before I change my mind," the Site Director growled. The filthy madman blinked once, then turned and fled into the desert, hopefully to never be seen again. Waving his hand, the Site Director instructed the guard to close the blast door. "Come on, Lucy," he sighed, "let's get back to the cafeteria." At that moment, another individual came running up to the entrance, looking equally as insane and ragged as the one who had just left. "Now wait just a minute," he shouted, "I've spent two weeks looking for you, and the People's Coconut Society will not be--!" "Fuck off," the Site Director spat, and the blast door clanged shut in the man's face. [[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>]]	2012-10-28T00:29:00	[ "_licensebox", "shark-punching-center", "tale" ]	It's Not Spelled Like That! - SCP Foundation	130	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "spc-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14818272	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/it-s-not-spelled-like-that
it-wasn-t-a-vacation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>September 21, 1997</strong></p> <p>Jack Bright strongly considered a change in career. Science wasn’t working out. Too much contact with other human beings, for one. Lack of respectable, cackle-worthy science was another reason.</p> <p>Third, and most importantly, was the distressingly high number of eviscerations, decapitations, immolations, castrations and all other sorts of mean, nasty, horrible things that happened in his general vicinity over the past fifteen minutes.</p> <p>A head gone astray in its search for a body exploded on the wall next to Jack like a rotten melon, splattering him with gory pulp.</p> <p>So far he had narrowed his choices down to: basement dweller, professional hobo, and male prostitute.</p> <p>Concrete dust rained down on his head. He managed to stifle a sneeze.</p> <p>Cadaver was also looking highly likely. He was already good at playing dead, why not try the actual thing?</p> <p>The gurgling in the background petered out, followed by a body hitting the floor and an indifferent grunt from the one who tossed it.</p> <p><em>Go to Germany, they said.</em></p> <p><em>Meet with the Coalition, they said.</em></p> <p><em>It’ll be fine, they said.</em></p> <p><em>They know how to deal with the occult, they said.</em></p> <p><em>They said this, they said that…ah fuck.</em></p> <p>Seconds dripped by like a particularly painful flow of molasses. Jack’s strained ears picked up heavy breathing, a few pacing footsteps. Able was still there.</p> <p>He had been expecting it, but it still sounded incredibly wrong to his ears. A ukulele did not belong in the middle of a secret ex-Nazi bunker, much less a secret ex-Nazi bunker being currently torn to pieces by a Neolithic war god. Neither did a voice that Jack could not stop comparing to Mark Hamill’s interpretation of the Joker.</p> <p>“You know, I’ve been considering taking up a hobby. Knitting seems like a good option. Or maybe fly-fishing. Skiing…nah, I hate snow. Also, your mother was a whore.”</p> <p><strong>BOOM</strong></p> <p>Jack leapt to his feet and began to run unsteadily towards the double exit doors, ears ringing. There was no such thing as a better distraction than Ukulele. The man himself was standing there in the doorway, holding an anti-tank rifle. His head was that of a red panda with an eyepatch. He nodded and grinned as Jack sprinted past him and down the hallway.</p> <p><em>Four months in that cult compound, all on a hunch. Then you have some guy claiming he’d discovered a way to immortality, and life turns into a heist movie trying to swipe a philosopher's stone.</em></p> <p>Jack felt at his labcoat pocket. The lump of the pendant wasn’t there. The adrenaline pumping through his brain told him that it was no big deal. He could pick it up later. Avoiding a grotesque and messy death, that was a big deal.</p> <p><em>All he was going to do was drop it off. That’s all he was going to do. Drop it off with someone who knew what to do with it, let it be their problem, and then head out and have a beer. Or two. Most likely more than two. Enjoy a nice little vacation in Europe while he was at it. He deserved it. But no…</em></p> <p>“Hey there. How’s it going?”</p> <p>Ukulele jogged backwards nonchalantly next to him. His head was a television, displaying the words “Ceci n'est-pas une televisione" in alternating teal and maroon letters. The gun was slung lazily over his shoulder.</p> <p>“Mint?” he held out a little metal tin.</p> <p>Jack shook his head.</p> <p>“Oh. Then you might want to hold on to this. You dropped it.”</p> <p>Red flashed in the air. Jack caught the amulet, not bothering to question how or why.</p> <p>Exactly three steps later an obsidian throwing spear impaled Jack through the gut. His body dropped to the floor, amulet firmly grasped in his fist. Ukulele stopped backpedalling, shook his fishbowl, and snapped the mint tin shut.</p> <p>“Now why would you do that? Look at those shoes he was wearing. Those were nice shoes. Now they don’t have nice feet to fill them. Think of the shoes, Able.”</p> <p>Able, now standing twenty feet or so away from Ukulele, grunted. A sizeable chunk of his chest had been torn open enough to see through to the other side. His breathing was a mix of a one-lunged wheeze and the gargle of a man choking on his own blood.</p> <p>He stood where he was. No tensing of the body to leap, no weapon in his hand. He just stood there.</p> <p>“Trezae shanis shanar, chy. Avskani?” he croaked.</p> <p>Ukulele stroked the fringe of tentacles at his chin.</p> <p>“Nope. Nope nope nope, I’m no good at canasta, so that’s right out."</p> <p>"Xadr, chy. Zepiniki ca…</p> <p>Ukulele held up a hand.</p> <p>"Shshshshshhhhhh. I've heard enough. While you make some fine points, I think I should warn you that I am terribly clumsy, and so chainsaw juggling would just end up awful for everyone involved."</p> <p>Ukulele closed the gap. Able continued to do nothing but watch.</p> <p>"This is a stumper, to be sure. Can't find a good hobby. Makin' me bummed, dude." He spread his arms. "Hug?"</p> <p>With that, he hit the detonator for the claymore mine strapped to his chest.</p> <p>—</p> <p>"He blew himself up for fun. <em>For fun</em>, Ben. Something needs to be done here. He's getting more unstable."</p> <p>"Are you sure you're not overreacting, Sophia? So he blew himself up. He can regenerate. He's also designed to have insanity and murder to be his only two character traits."</p> <p>"I trust my gut more than Adam at this point."</p> <p>"Okay, you tell me. What are we going to do to take down the Chesire Cat and Mad Hatter's LSD-fueled lovechild? Without getting ourselves slaughtered in a matter of seconds."</p> <p>"Not by ourselves. We have enough items to work with. We might stand a chance if we go about this with our heads on straight."</p> <p>"What, kill, capture, lock him up?"</p> <p>"Just something. Something's going to go wrong, I know it."</p> <p>—</p> <p>Date: 9/25/97<br/> To: Site 19 Senior Staff<br/> From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow<br/> Subject: The state of Dr. Bright.</p> <p>Dear friends:</p> <p>As many of you have heard, Dr. Bright was reported as killed during a containment breach at our Coalition sister facility on the 21st. I am happy to announce that this is not true: Dr. Bright was found alive by Coalition recovery agents amidst the wreckage this morning, shaken but overall unharmed.</p> <p>Dr. Bright’s condition is still sensitive due to exposure to anomalous items of unknown properties during the breach. However, I hope to have him back among us as soon as the situation permits it.</p> <p>In sincerity,</p> <p>-Adam</p> <p>—</p> <p><strong>September 30, 1997</strong></p> <p>Dr. Glass scanned over his clipboard one more time. Yes, the photo he had was that of Dr. Jack Bright: male, mid-thirties, untrimmed brown hair, beard, a general appearance of scruffy un-washed-ness and a scowl.</p> <p>The person sitting on the other side of his desk was none of those things, save the scowl: female, late twenties, decent tan, short lightish hair, scar on the left cheek. Her arms were crossed in a sullen expression of resentment, identical to Jack’s common poise and positioning. An amulet centered with a sizeable ruby hung from a gold chain around her neck. According to the paperwork he had been given, this was Steffi Fuchs, a field agent of the Global Occult Coalition of middling achievement.</p> <p>Dr. Glass sighed and opened up his yellow legal pad to a fresh page. Something told him that he’d be taking a lot of notes.</p> <p>“Okay, Jack, let’s start at the beginning. What were you doing when you became a woman?"<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="/it-wasn-t-a-vacation">It Wasn't a Vacation</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/it-wasn-t-a-vacation">https://scpwiki.com/it-wasn-t-a-vacation</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]] [[/>]] September 21, 1997 Jack Bright strongly considered a change in career. Science wasn’t working out. Too much contact with other human beings, for one. Lack of respectable, cackle-worthy science was another reason. Third, and most importantly, was the distressingly high number of eviscerations, decapitations, immolations, castrations and all other sorts of mean, nasty, horrible things that happened in his general vicinity over the past fifteen minutes. A head gone astray in its search for a body exploded on the wall next to Jack like a rotten melon, splattering him with gory pulp. So far he had narrowed his choices down to: basement dweller, professional hobo, and male prostitute. Concrete dust rained down on his head. He managed to stifle a sneeze. Cadaver was also looking highly likely. He was already good at playing dead, why not try the actual thing? The gurgling in the background petered out, followed by a body hitting the floor and an indifferent grunt from the one who tossed it. //Go to Germany, they said.// //Meet with the Coalition, they said.// //It’ll be fine, they said.// //They know how to deal with the occult, they said.// //They said this, they said that…ah fuck.// Seconds dripped by like a particularly painful flow of molasses. Jack’s strained ears picked up heavy breathing, a few pacing footsteps. Able was still there. He had been expecting it, but it still sounded incredibly wrong to his ears. A ukulele did not belong in the middle of a secret ex-Nazi bunker, much less a secret ex-Nazi bunker being currently torn to pieces by a Neolithic war god. Neither did a voice that Jack could not stop comparing to Mark Hamill’s interpretation of the Joker. “You know, I’ve been considering taking up a hobby. Knitting seems like a good option. Or maybe fly-fishing. Skiing…nah, I hate snow. Also, your mother was a whore.” BOOM Jack leapt to his feet and began to run unsteadily towards the double exit doors, ears ringing. There was no such thing as a better distraction than Ukulele. The man himself was standing there in the doorway, holding an anti-tank rifle. His head was that of a red panda with an eyepatch. He nodded and grinned as Jack sprinted past him and down the hallway. //Four months in that cult compound, all on a hunch. Then you have some guy claiming he’d discovered a way to immortality, and life turns into a heist movie trying to swipe a philosopher's stone.// Jack felt at his labcoat pocket. The lump of the pendant wasn’t there. The adrenaline pumping through his brain told him that it was no big deal. He could pick it up later. Avoiding a grotesque and messy death, that was a big deal. //All he was going to do was drop it off. That’s all he was going to do. Drop it off with someone who knew what to do with it, let it be their problem, and then head out and have a beer. Or two. Most likely more than two. Enjoy a nice little vacation in Europe while he was at it. He deserved it. But no…// “Hey there. How’s it going?” Ukulele jogged backwards nonchalantly next to him. His head was a television, displaying the words “Ceci n'est-pas une televisione" in alternating teal and maroon letters. The gun was slung lazily over his shoulder. “Mint?” he held out a little metal tin. Jack shook his head. “Oh. Then you might want to hold on to this. You dropped it.” Red flashed in the air. Jack caught the amulet, not bothering to question how or why. Exactly three steps later an obsidian throwing spear impaled Jack through the gut. His body dropped to the floor, amulet firmly grasped in his fist. Ukulele stopped backpedalling, shook his fishbowl, and snapped the mint tin shut. “Now why would you do that? Look at those shoes he was wearing. Those were nice shoes. Now they don’t have nice feet to fill them. Think of the shoes, Able.” Able, now standing twenty feet or so away from Ukulele, grunted. A sizeable chunk of his chest had been torn open enough to see through to the other side. His breathing was a mix of a one-lunged wheeze and the gargle of a man choking on his own blood. He stood where he was. No tensing of the body to leap, no weapon in his hand. He just stood there. “Trezae shanis shanar, chy. Avskani?” he croaked. Ukulele stroked the fringe of tentacles at his chin. “Nope. Nope nope nope, I’m no good at canasta, so that’s right out." "Xadr, chy. Zepiniki ca... Ukulele held up a hand. "Shshshshshhhhhh. I've heard enough. While you make some fine points, I think I should warn you that I am terribly clumsy, and so chainsaw juggling would just end up awful for everyone involved." Ukulele closed the gap. Able continued to do nothing but watch. "This is a stumper, to be sure. Can't find a good hobby. Makin' me bummed, dude." He spread his arms. "Hug?" With that, he hit the detonator for the claymore mine strapped to his chest. -- "He blew himself up for fun. //For fun//, Ben. Something needs to be done here. He's getting more unstable." "Are you sure you're not overreacting, Sophia? So he blew himself up. He can regenerate. He's also designed to have insanity and murder to be his only two character traits." "I trust my gut more than Adam at this point." "Okay, you tell me. What are we going to do to take down the Chesire Cat and Mad Hatter's LSD-fueled lovechild? Without getting ourselves slaughtered in a matter of seconds." "Not by ourselves. We have enough items to work with. We might stand a chance if we go about this with our heads on straight." "What, kill, capture, lock him up?" "Just something. Something's going to go wrong, I know it." -- Date: 9/25/97 To: Site 19 Senior Staff From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow Subject: The state of Dr. Bright. Dear friends: As many of you have heard, Dr. Bright was reported as killed during a containment breach at our Coalition sister facility on the 21st. I am happy to announce that this is not true: Dr. Bright was found alive by Coalition recovery agents amidst the wreckage this morning, shaken but overall unharmed. Dr. Bright’s condition is still sensitive due to exposure to anomalous items of unknown properties during the breach. However, I hope to have him back among us as soon as the situation permits it. In sincerity, -Adam -- September 30, 1997 Dr. Glass scanned over his clipboard one more time. Yes, the photo he had was that of Dr. Jack Bright: male, mid-thirties, untrimmed brown hair, beard, a general appearance of scruffy un-washed-ness and a scowl. The person sitting on the other side of his desk was none of those things, save the scowl: female, late twenties, decent tan, short lightish hair, scar on the left cheek. Her arms were crossed in a sullen expression of resentment, identical to Jack’s common poise and positioning. An amulet centered with a sizeable ruby hung from a gold chain around her neck. According to the paperwork he had been given, this was Steffi Fuchs, a field agent of the Global Occult Coalition of middling achievement. Dr. Glass sighed and opened up his yellow legal pad to a fresh page. Something told him that he’d be taking a lot of notes. “Okay, Jack, let’s start at the beginning. What were you doing when you became a woman?" @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-08-09T17:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "action", "classical-revival", "doctor-bright", "doctor-clef", "doctor-glass", "doctor-kondraki", "doctor-light", "global-occult-coalition", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	It Wasn't a Vacation - SCP Foundation	118	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	14005369	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/it-wasn-t-a-vacation
just-what-we-do	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Note:</strong> This story is better read after <a href="/a-day-at-the-call-center">A Day at the Call Center</a></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Subject:</strong> UI-56</p> <p><strong>From:</strong> Special Agent Laura Stanton, Unusual Incident Unit, Los Angeles Office</p> <p><strong>To:</strong> Director McNamara, FBI HQ, Washington D.C</p> <p>Sir, here is the report for the item we recovered in the raid on Uncle Merl's call center. I have no idea who would buy a piece of shit like that, but apparently this guy has customers- that's how we reached him, after all. So, the item:</p> <p>UI-56 is a novelty sword made of cheap, recycled metal (mostly aluminum). According to the box we found it in, it's an "Uncle Merl's Durendal Mark III™". There was a pamphlet in the box with it, with some sort of bullshit about what this thing does. I copied it here:</p> <blockquote> <p>Are you tired of living in a callous, uncaring modern world? Do you wish to return to the old days of chivalry and honor? Now, with the Durendal Mark III™ , Paladin's Delight (Ultra light! With patented Dragon Grip!)", you can! This handy-dandy, multifunctional tool is everything a true knight could ask for! Features include:</p> <ul> <li>Defend the meek! With the Durendal Mark III™, no monster is beyond your just might! Guaranteed 100% effectiveness* against all ogres, trolls, orcs, hobgoblins, goblins and unusually large lizards with sharp teeth!</li> </ul> <ul> <li>Inspire courage and resolve! With the Durendal Mark III™, every fight becomes an epic last stand! Show your boss you are not going to take his crap anymore, the old fashioned way! Use the included magic words to activate!</li> </ul> <ul> <li>Impress fair maidens! With the sleek style of the Durendal Mark III™, no comely lass is safe from your rugged, knightly charms! Introduce them to your long, hard length of steel, and watch those chastity belts melt away!</li> </ul> <ul> <li>Patented Dragon Grip! Forged in the secret mage-fire of Kromdar, this unique hilt allows for maximum swing power without sacrificing any of the reliability or style!</li> </ul> <p>Disclaimer: Any injuries resulting from incorrect use of the Durendal Mark III™ are under the responsibility of the user only. By opening this box, the user waives any right to sue Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium and releases said company of all liability to his/her's medical expenses.</p> <p>**Replacement hilts are available in gold, silver, black, and hot pink.</p> </blockquote> <p>We tried doing some tests on the thing before the spooks took it away. Didn't manage much, but that's hardly new. We wouln't have gotten anything at all if it wasn't for the volunteers. I'm adding Dr. Charles' and Dr. Demagne's notes from the lab:</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Test UI-56-1</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <blockquote> <p><strong>Researchers:</strong> Dr. Charles (reporting), Dr. Demagne</p> <p><strong>Test subject:</strong> Agent Carlson</p> <p><strong>Test:</strong> I placed Agent Carlson in a room with an out-of-order vending machine, gave him UI-56 and told him to buy a drink after speaking the "magic words" written on the back of the pamphlet (Latin, "Qui utitur hoc pharse est stultus"). The following result was recorded:</p> <p><strong>Agent Carlson:</strong> [inserts coin into the machine] Ah, soon the cool taste of this godly nectar will fill my mouth with heavenly delight!</p> <p>[The machine does not produce the requested drink]</p> <p><strong>Agent Carlson:</strong> [visibly upset] What's this!? Ye knavish contraption! You shall dispense my drink forthright, and allow me to taste its frosty secrets, or you shall taste my cold steel!<br/> <br/> [The threat appears ineffective]</p> <p><strong>Agent Carlson:</strong> So, thou wishest to face my might?! So be it, fiend! This shall be our final confrontation, a battle to shake the very foundations of the Earth, that will bring fear to the gods themselves! I will rip the sky asunder, cleave the ancient mountains like cheese paper! You will taste my wrath! Have at ye!</p> <p>[Agent Carlson proceeds to attack the vending machine. UI-56 can't penetrate the vending machine, so he uses it as a blunt instrument. After attacking the machine for thirty minutes without results (other than mild denting), Agent Carlson collapses to the floor, exhausted.</p> <p><strong>Agent Carlson:</strong> I… I have failed. My ancestors peer at me from their lordly seats in disapproval and shame. If I cannot have victory, I shall have honorable death! Farewell, my unclaimed drink! My only regret is that I failed to save you from the clutches of this rectangular devil. Loyal sword, serve your master one last time.</p> <p>[Agnet Carlson removes his shirt and attempts to fall on UI-56. UI-56 fails to penetrate Agent Carlson's skin, leaving him unharmed save for minor bruising. Test concluded. Agent Carlson suffers no lasting effects, other than a self-proclaimed desire for "silk pantaloons".</p> </blockquote> <p>My hypothesis is that UI-56 posses mild mind-affecting proportions, causing subjects using it to experience trivial disputes as confrontations of the highest importance. UI-56 also seems to cause subjects to speak in what they perceive as medieval-like language, and makes them cocky too. It's a strange one, no doubt.</p> <p>Dr. Charles</p> </div> </div> </div> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Test Log UI-56-2</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <blockquote> <p><strong>Research personnel:</strong> Dr. Charles, Dr. Demagne (reporting)<br/> <br/> <strong>Test subjects:</strong> Agent Ricks (male), Agent Chan (female)<br/> <br/> <strong>Test:</strong> In an attempt to verify UI-56's influence over women, I instructed Agent Ricks (who has a notably poor vocabulary) to hold the sword and speak the words, then introduced him to Agent Chan. The following result was recorded:<br/> <br/> <strong>Agent Ricks:</strong> Do my eyes misguide my, or do I see an extra fine maiden in this here chamber?</p> <p><strong>Agent Chan:</strong> What is he talking about?</p> <p><strong>Agent Ricks:</strong> Come now, don't be shy! Yon bitch knows this knight has all the right gear!<br/> <br/> <strong>Agent Chan:</strong> Did you just call me a bitch!?<br/> <br/> <strong>Agent Ricks</strong> No need to be upset, my petite kumquat. Come, there is a great water serpent in my breeches, and it requires your attention!</p> <p>[Agent Chan then grappled with Agent Ricks and removed UI-56 from his grasp. She attempted to use UI-56 to harm Agent Ricks in a highly inappropriate manner (in my humble opinion), before security personnel intervened. UI-56 was returned to storage, Agent Chan was reprimanded, and Agent Ricks was escorted to the infirmary]</p> </blockquote> <p>I really don't know what to tell you about this one, Laura. It's a sword that makes you act like a pseudo-medieval asshole, as far as I can tell. Where do you even get this stuff?</p> <p>Dr. Demagne.</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>We also found a coupon with with the pamphlet and UI-56, saying it was for a free tutorial tape. We sent for one and it arrived a few days later, starring no other than two of the clowns we captured during the raid. The spooks came and took that too, but I did manage to write a transcription of it beforehand:</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Recorded Log</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>[Camera opens to what appears to be a mail room. A figure enters the frame, wearing long robes, a pointed hat, and a flower-patterned tie. That's Daniel Monroe, though he likes to be called Danerius. He claims to be a Luxomancer, though I have no idea what that's supposed to mean]</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Greetings, aspiring knights! Today, I, Danerius the Magnificent, will be your guide to the realm of the arcane! Let us begin. [to someone off-camera] minion, bring forth the Sword!</p> <p>[He's talking to Edmund Sami, a low level manager who works at tech support at Merl's. Strange guy, always wears that mask on his face]</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> [off-camera] Who the hell are you calling a minion, Dan? I'm technically your superior!</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Excuse me for a moment, dear sirs. [walks off-camera] Sami, Mr. Jamu placed me in charge of making the video, obviously because he knows which one of us is the real wizard around here!</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> Oh, don't you dare! You know the only reason Jamu did that was to spite me! Some cousin, he is. Now get back on camera and let's get this over with!</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Not until you admit I'm the the one in charge.</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> If I do that, you'll never let me hear the end of it. No deal.</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Fine, I guess I'll just have to tell Mr. Jamu you're being uncooperative. And that you haven't finished your quarterly performance report, minion.</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> That's it, you dimwit Luxomancer, your ass is mine!</p> <p>[you can hear a scuffle occurring off-camera]</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Not the beard! Not the beard!</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> Yes the beard!</p> <p>[The camera is knocked over. Video feed stops, audio continues]</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Hmm. This didn't go well.</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> You better not tell Jamu anything about this!</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> No way! He'll blame me for ruining the tape!</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> Who the hell cares, Dan? No one is ever going to actually order the bloody thing. Let's just say we're done and get lunch. I think it's pizza day.</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Pizza? Endorius take this accursed tape to the leaky Stygian Abyss then.</p> <p><strong>Sami:</strong> What?</p> <p><strong>Dan:</strong> Fuck it, lets eat.</p> <p><strong><End Log></strong></p> </div> </div> </div> <p>Anyway, that's all we have left from the raid. The spooks took everything else. I know I should be angry, but this is far more than we usually get. I wonder why they allowed me to get away with that, I'm sure they knew exactly what I was doing. They always do.</p> <p>Sir, I'm… not sure we did the right thing here. This might sound hypocritical from the one who organized the raid, and I know we don't have the resources to handle this sort of things ourselves, but I still hate doing this. Those people we caught were weird, true, but giving them away to the spooks… You know no one ever comes back once the spooks gets their hands on them. They weren't bad people. They didn't deserve this.</p> <p>But I guess that's just what we do, isn't it.</p> <p>Signing out,</p> <p>Special Agent Stanton.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Subject:</strong> Re: UI-56</p> <p><strong>From:</strong> Director McNamara, FBI HQ, Washington D.C</p> <p><strong>To:</strong> Special Agent Laura Stanton, Unusual Incident Unit, Los Angeles Office</p> <p>Don't rock the boat, kiddo. Just keep your head down and try not to think about it too much. Hang in there, eh? This assignment won't last forever. Soon the entire Huston incident will blow over and we can get you back to the big league. I promised your father I'll get you out of this, and I will.</p> <p>Oh, and try not to swear so much, it looks unprofessional.</p> <p>Director McNamara.<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="/just-what-we-do">Just What We Do</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/just-what-we-do">https://scpwiki.com/just-what-we-do</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]] [[/>]] Note: This story is better read after [[[A Day at the Call Center]]] ----- Subject: UI-56 From: Special Agent Laura Stanton, Unusual Incident Unit, Los Angeles Office To: Director McNamara, FBI HQ, Washington D.C Sir, here is the report for the item we recovered in the raid on Uncle Merl's call center. I have no idea who would buy a piece of shit like that, but apparently this guy has customers- that's how we reached him, after all. So, the item: UI-56 is a novelty sword made of cheap, recycled metal (mostly aluminum). According to the box we found it in, it's an "Uncle Merl's Durendal Mark III™". There was a pamphlet in the box with it, with some sort of bullshit about what this thing does. I copied it here: > Are you tired of living in a callous, uncaring modern world? Do you wish to return to the old days of chivalry and honor? Now, with the Durendal Mark III™ , Paladin's Delight (Ultra light! With patented Dragon Grip!)", you can! This handy-dandy, multifunctional tool is everything a true knight could ask for! Features include: > > > * Defend the meek! With the Durendal Mark III™, no monster is beyond your just might! Guaranteed 100% effectiveness* against all ogres, trolls, orcs, hobgoblins, goblins and unusually large lizards with sharp teeth! > > Inspire courage and resolve! With the Durendal Mark III™, every fight becomes an epic last stand! Show your boss you are not going to take his crap anymore, the old fashioned way! Use the included magic words to activate! > > * Impress fair maidens! With the sleek style of the Durendal Mark III™, no comely lass is safe from your rugged, knightly charms! Introduce them to your long, hard length of steel, and watch those chastity belts melt away! > > * Patented Dragon Grip! Forged in the secret mage-fire of Kromdar, this unique hilt allows for maximum swing power without sacrificing any of the reliability or style!** > > Disclaimer: Any injuries resulting from incorrect use of the Durendal Mark III™ are under the responsibility of the user only. By opening this box, the user waives any right to sue Uncle Merl's Discount Emporium and releases said company of all liability to his/her's medical expenses. > > Replacement hilts are available in gold, silver, black, and hot pink. We tried doing some tests on the thing before the spooks took it away. Didn't manage much, but that's hardly new. We wouln't have gotten anything at all if it wasn't for the volunteers. I'm adding Dr. Charles' and Dr. Demagne's notes from the lab: [[collapsible show="+ Show Test UI-56-1" hide="- Hide"]] > > Researchers:* Dr. Charles (reporting), Dr. Demagne > > Test subject: Agent Carlson > > Test: I placed Agent Carlson in a room with an out-of-order vending machine, gave him UI-56 and told him to buy a drink after speaking the "magic words" written on the back of the pamphlet (Latin, "Qui utitur hoc pharse est stultus"). The following result was recorded: > > Agent Carlson: [inserts coin into the machine] Ah, soon the cool taste of this godly nectar will fill my mouth with heavenly delight! > > [The machine does not produce the requested drink] > > Agent Carlson: [visibly upset] What's this!? Ye knavish contraption! You shall dispense my drink forthright, and allow me to taste its frosty secrets, or you shall taste my cold steel! > > [The threat appears ineffective] > > Agent Carlson: So, thou wishest to face my might?! So be it, fiend! This shall be our final confrontation, a battle to shake the very foundations of the Earth, that will bring fear to the gods themselves! I will rip the sky asunder, cleave the ancient mountains like cheese paper! You will taste my wrath! Have at ye! > > [Agent Carlson proceeds to attack the vending machine. UI-56 can't penetrate the vending machine, so he uses it as a blunt instrument. After attacking the machine for thirty minutes without results (other than mild denting), Agent Carlson collapses to the floor, exhausted. > > Agent Carlson: I... I have failed. My ancestors peer at me from their lordly seats in disapproval and shame. If I cannot have victory, I shall have honorable death! Farewell, my unclaimed drink! My only regret is that I failed to save you from the clutches of this rectangular devil. Loyal sword, serve your master one last time. > > [Agnet Carlson removes his shirt and attempts to fall on UI-56. UI-56 fails to penetrate Agent Carlson's skin, leaving him unharmed save for minor bruising. Test concluded. Agent Carlson suffers no lasting effects, other than a self-proclaimed desire for "silk pantaloons". My hypothesis is that UI-56 posses mild mind-affecting proportions, causing subjects using it to experience trivial disputes as confrontations of the highest importance. UI-56 also seems to cause subjects to speak in what they perceive as medieval-like language, and makes them cocky too. It's a strange one, no doubt. Dr. Charles [[/collapsible]] [[collapsible show="+ Show Test Log UI-56-2" hide="- Hide"]] > Research personnel: Dr. Charles, Dr. Demagne (reporting) > > Test subjects: Agent Ricks (male), Agent Chan (female) > > Test: In an attempt to verify UI-56's influence over women, I instructed Agent Ricks (who has a notably poor vocabulary) to hold the sword and speak the words, then introduced him to Agent Chan. The following result was recorded: > > Agent Ricks: Do my eyes misguide my, or do I see an extra fine maiden in this here chamber? > > Agent Chan: What is he talking about? > > Agent Ricks: Come now, don't be shy! Yon bitch knows this knight has all the right gear! > > Agent Chan: Did you just call me a bitch!? > > Agent Ricks No need to be upset, my petite kumquat. Come, there is a great water serpent in my breeches, and it requires your attention! > > [Agent Chan then grappled with Agent Ricks and removed UI-56 from his grasp. She attempted to use UI-56 to harm Agent Ricks in a highly inappropriate manner (in my humble opinion), before security personnel intervened. UI-56 was returned to storage, Agent Chan was reprimanded, and Agent Ricks was escorted to the infirmary] I really don't know what to tell you about this one, Laura. It's a sword that makes you act like a pseudo-medieval asshole, as far as I can tell. Where do you even get this stuff? Dr. Demagne. [[/collapsible]] We also found a coupon with with the pamphlet and UI-56, saying it was for a free tutorial tape. We sent for one and it arrived a few days later, starring no other than two of the clowns we captured during the raid. The spooks came and took that too, but I did manage to write a transcription of it beforehand: [[collapsible show="+ Show Recorded Log" hide="- Hide"]] [Camera opens to what appears to be a mail room. A figure enters the frame, wearing long robes, a pointed hat, and a flower-patterned tie. That's Daniel Monroe, though he likes to be called Danerius. He claims to be a Luxomancer, though I have no idea what that's supposed to mean] Dan: Greetings, aspiring knights! Today, I, Danerius the Magnificent, will be your guide to the realm of the arcane! Let us begin. [to someone off-camera] minion, bring forth the Sword! [He's talking to Edmund Sami, a low level manager who works at tech support at Merl's. Strange guy, always wears that mask on his face] Sami: [off-camera] Who the hell are you calling a minion, Dan? I'm technically your superior! Dan: Excuse me for a moment, dear sirs. [walks off-camera] Sami, Mr. Jamu placed me in charge of making the video, obviously because he knows which one of us is the real wizard around here! Sami: Oh, don't you dare! You know the only reason Jamu did that was to spite me! Some cousin, he is. Now get back on camera and let's get this over with! Dan: Not until you admit I'm the the one in charge. Sami: If I do that, you'll never let me hear the end of it. No deal. Dan: Fine, I guess I'll just have to tell Mr. Jamu you're being uncooperative. And that you haven't finished your quarterly performance report, minion. Sami: That's it, you dimwit Luxomancer, your ass is mine! [you can hear a scuffle occurring off-camera] Dan: Not the beard! Not the beard! Sami: Yes the beard! [The camera is knocked over. Video feed stops, audio continues] Dan: Hmm. This didn't go well. Sami: You better not tell Jamu anything about this! Dan: No way! He'll blame me for ruining the tape! Sami: Who the hell cares, Dan? No one is ever going to actually order the bloody thing. Let's just say we're done and get lunch. I think it's pizza day. Dan: Pizza? Endorius take this accursed tape to the leaky Stygian Abyss then. Sami: What? Dan: Fuck it, lets eat. <End Log> [[/collapsible]] Anyway, that's all we have left from the raid. The spooks took everything else. I know I should be angry, but this is far more than we usually get. I wonder why they allowed me to get away with that, I'm sure they knew exactly what I was doing. They always do. Sir, I'm... not sure we did the right thing here. This might sound hypocritical from the one who organized the raid, and I know we don't have the resources to handle this sort of things ourselves, but I still hate doing this. Those people we caught were weird, true, but giving them away to the spooks... You know no one ever comes back once the spooks gets their hands on them. They weren't bad people. They didn't deserve this. But I guess that's just what we do, isn't it. Signing out, Special Agent Stanton. ----- Subject: Re: UI-56 From: Director McNamara, FBI HQ, Washington D.C To: Special Agent Laura Stanton, Unusual Incident Unit, Los Angeles Office Don't rock the boat, kiddo. Just keep your head down and try not to think about it too much. Hang in there, eh? This assignment won't last forever. Soon the entire Huston incident will blow over and we can get you back to the big league. I promised your father I'll get you out of this, and I will. Oh, and try not to swear so much, it looks unprofessional. Director McNamara. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-14T15:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	Just What We Do - SCP Foundation	54	[ "a-day-at-the-call-center", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unusual-incidents-unit-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13789124	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/just-what-we-do
keeping-with-the-times	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>It was always like that. I grew up in a small village just south of Niznyj Novgorod, as third of four children. My mother always longed for how, before I was even born, we lived in a nice apartment Moscow, with my father working at the ministry. Then Chruscov came. "We got to think in new ways." he said, and so, my father ended up a deputy in the local soviet. Even that was probably thanks to my grandfather…</em></p> <p><em>My grandfather was a war hero - lost a leg fighting the SS-men. When I was a boy, I wanted to be like him - tell jokes to a full pub or House of Culture, play folk songs on a harmonica. My class teacher once heard me talk about it with Sergej, so he took me off, and knocked on my forehead - "You got to think in new ways, Grigorij - the culture of tomorrow doesn't need drunken comics, and you are neither good enough, not with a right cadre profile to be taken to study acting." Well, so I did, and became a militionary.</em></p> <p><em>What can I say.. Nights are long and cold, promotion nowhere… I somehow lasted through, and got transferred to the city. Life went better from then - the girls like a uniform, and there were some other things to do… until that one night. We got called in by some hag.. think she was a pensioned teacher… She claimed to see some youths carrying off half a pig, and in this time of shortage, sure must have… Ah well - we had a bit under our hats already… made a game out of who to send. . Six shots of vodka, two of kerosene, and a peg on the nose… needless to say, me and Fyodor weren't lucky. Ah well, thought we'd scare them a bit, and if it was really meat ,gonna bring some of it home and ask those fuckers where you can get it black.</em></p> <p><em>At least she was good at describing.. we recognised the house outright. Belonged to a grandpa, thought those youngsters might be his family… or he did business to make a bit on the side of state pension. We knocked with no reply, then Fyodor managed to pick the lock - he learned it in the army and it was better than kicking it in, anyways. At least you could write that it was open already into the report - like anyone would check too much. As the door opened, we heard some noise, we rushed in, that sort of odd mix of eager and angry you get in such cases. "Hands up, eagles!"….</em></p> <p><em>What we seen in the room made me throw up, and that's me - back during military service, I won a bet eating a rat. There was a strange, sweetly smell, candles, odd diagrams. The three fucks were nude.. with faces like they'd been picking strawberries, and in the centre of the room… well, let's say that what was there, all carved up, wasn't a pig.</em></p> <p><em>It's odd how much strength seeing something like that gives you. They got nightstick over head, and irons over arms, and we dragged them straight to the station, followed by kicks and punches… Falling down the stairs, they call it in an arrest report.</em></p> <p><em>The commander filed in papers, made phonecalls… Ivan and Josif looked at us like at a golden calf… We went off to have some drinks. I had a bad feeling , went to check them.. two were sitting in their cells allright, but the third one of them pulled something strange from…the thing must have been sewn into his forearm. Oddly, he didn't bleed that much. I went to the commander. "You got to think in new ways, not superstitious nonsense… just go in there and give him a few calming whacks, and handcuff the fuck so he doesn't kill himself". And so I did.</em></p> <p><em>When I opened the door, the fuck was no longer alive. Instead there was.. it looked like the inside of.. I crossed myself, pulled out my gun and shot at it. A part of it tore away, something sparked…</em></p> <p><em>I woke up surrounded by a bunch of folks in lab coats, and army uniforms. One of them, a young girl which I would have swore I seen in one of the pubs before gave me an injection. Then, three of them came and asked questions. I told them everything I knew and remembered, and things I thought I haven't… hell, even things I wouldn't say to my brother… bribes, fines I pocketed…. Oddly enough, they didn't seem to care.</em></p> <p><em>I suppose I was lucky in a way … two years later, a western defector brought in amnestics and plans how to make them, and that made it easy… I'd be still a militionary, thinking a gas line burst. Instead one of the uniformed folk said a lobotomy would be a waste of a good man with quick aim, took my papers, and asked the medics something. He then asked me if I'm in the party. I nodded, he remarked "Well, then you know Lenin said, 'to learn, to learn, to learn'", dropped a large grey binder on my bed, and told me to go over it in the next five days. It was a brick to get through - at least Tania, that medic who supervised me, helped with some of the heavy words. At least about half of it were political matters - the estabilishment of Fourth Department Abnormal Occurences Comission by a direct decree from comrade Stalin following the murder of S.M.Kirov, its expansion into Division "П" - during the war as a response to psychotronic threats to people's democratic estabilishment from the SS and later, Vatican agents, as well as with whatever odd cropped up at home. The rest.. standard protocols, emergency protocols, my immediate superiors…</em></p> <p><em>I started as a guard on Objekt П-3 - a steelworks somewhere near Ural. They brought new people in, almost every week, we had to supervise their off-loading and make sure they stayed in a room with an odd statue for the right amount of time - what Katia, one of the academicians working in there told me over a glass was, that they were special prisoners, troublemakers or even counter-revolutionists, and that a few hours spent in front of the thing every day made it easier to get answers from them. Well, until it messed up with that Afghan fuck… but hey, three of us got a medal from it.</em></p> <p><em>Some days, I think that atheisation would have went so much easier if at least some of the stuff we took in, documented, and tried to use, store, or destroy had been put into textbooks and shown to the kids at schools. I mean… I heard that in one of the republics near Germany, they had to demolish maybe a fifth of the capital because of some thing that infected buildings, made them grow and fall down. I had to know this time, though I guess Lena would have told me even if I wasn't the director of security. She had pretty legs, a beautiful smile and was the head researcher on its weaponisation project. We did that to a lot of things… combat first-aid kits imitated from an old Kazakh whose blood lived on its own, an experimental reactor made with help of tapeworms that could crawl across people….. At those times, I looked at the bust of Lenin on the hall across from my office, and thought to myself the days of the imperialists were over.</em></p> <p><em>I was badly mistaken. Thinking… .I wonder we lasted through Gorbacov as well as we did. The man was a fool but his modernisers somehow skipped over our section… I heard an operation of ours saved his life twice. However, once he gave up and Jelcin came, it all went to hell. Even Objekt П-3 was decommissioned, and sold to a dummy company owned by a foreign shadow group.. SCP or something , they called themselves. I think Lena joined them after her section was removed from the budget. See, after the coup, the new rich and their politicians had no trust for organisations filled with siloviki. "You got to think in new ways" a man in a suit called. "We have nothing to fear from the west anymore, and the integration with the GOC is just the first harbringer of modern, international Russian Federation more than ever able to respond to anomalous threats…" But this time, I didn't need his words… I have learned to think in new ways myself.</em></p> <p>The middle-aged officer was disturbed from his thoughts by a tall man with clean-shaven head and an Armani suit. He stood up.<br/> "The object's verification has been completed, Mr. Bezukladnikov. Here's our part of the deal - eighty thousand dollars, ten thousand rubles, a Czech ID and passport with US visa and plane tickets." The man smiled as Grigorij Bezukladnikov immediately began looking over the documents, his hands shaking slightly.<br/> "I'm sure you will find them no less valid than the border officials, <em>comrade lieutenant colonel</em>. After all, Mr. Marshall believes in honest business."</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="/keeping-with-the-times">Keeping With The Times</a>" by VAElynx, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/keeping-with-the-times">https://scpwiki.com/keeping-with-the-times</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 like that. I grew up in a small village just south of Niznyj Novgorod, as third of four children. My mother always longed for how, before I was even born, we lived in a nice apartment Moscow, with my father working at the ministry. Then Chruscov came. "We got to think in new ways." he said, and so, my father ended up a deputy in the local soviet. Even that was probably thanks to my grandfather...// //My grandfather was a war hero - lost a leg fighting the SS-men. When I was a boy, I wanted to be like him - tell jokes to a full pub or House of Culture, play folk songs on a harmonica. My class teacher once heard me talk about it with Sergej, so he took me off, and knocked on my forehead - "You got to think in new ways, Grigorij - the culture of tomorrow doesn't need drunken comics, and you are neither good enough, not with a right cadre profile to be taken to study acting." Well, so I did, and became a militionary.// //What can I say.. Nights are long and cold, promotion nowhere... I somehow lasted through, and got transferred to the city. Life went better from then - the girls like a uniform, and there were some other things to do... until that one night. We got called in by some hag.. think she was a pensioned teacher... She claimed to see some youths carrying off half a pig, and in this time of shortage, sure must have... Ah well - we had a bit under our hats already... made a game out of who to send. . Six shots of vodka, two of kerosene, and a peg on the nose... needless to say, me and Fyodor weren't lucky. Ah well, thought we'd scare them a bit, and if it was really meat ,gonna bring some of it home and ask those fuckers where you can get it black.// //At least she was good at describing.. we recognised the house outright. Belonged to a grandpa, thought those youngsters might be his family... or he did business to make a bit on the side of state pension. We knocked with no reply, then Fyodor managed to pick the lock - he learned it in the army and it was better than kicking it in, anyways. At least you could write that it was open already into the report - like anyone would check too much. As the door opened, we heard some noise, we rushed in, that sort of odd mix of eager and angry you get in such cases. "Hands up, eagles!"....// //What we seen in the room made me throw up, and that's me - back during military service, I won a bet eating a rat. There was a strange, sweetly smell, candles, odd diagrams. The three fucks were nude.. with faces like they'd been picking strawberries, and in the centre of the room... well, let's say that what was there, all carved up, wasn't a pig.// //It's odd how much strength seeing something like that gives you. They got nightstick over head, and irons over arms, and we dragged them straight to the station, followed by kicks and punches... Falling down the stairs, they call it in an arrest report.// //The commander filed in papers, made phonecalls... Ivan and Josif looked at us like at a golden calf... We went off to have some drinks. I had a bad feeling , went to check them.. two were sitting in their cells allright, but the third one of them pulled something strange from...the thing must have been sewn into his forearm. Oddly, he didn't bleed that much. I went to the commander. "You got to think in new ways, not superstitious nonsense... just go in there and give him a few calming whacks, and handcuff the fuck so he doesn't kill himself". And so I did.// //When I opened the door, the fuck was no longer alive. Instead there was.. it looked like the inside of.. I crossed myself, pulled out my gun and shot at it. A part of it tore away, something sparked...// //I woke up surrounded by a bunch of folks in lab coats, and army uniforms. One of them, a young girl which I would have swore I seen in one of the pubs before gave me an injection. Then, three of them came and asked questions. I told them everything I knew and remembered, and things I thought I haven't... hell, even things I wouldn't say to my brother... bribes, fines I pocketed.... Oddly enough, they didn't seem to care.// //I suppose I was lucky in a way ... two years later, a western defector brought in amnestics and plans how to make them, and that made it easy... I'd be still a militionary, thinking a gas line burst. Instead one of the uniformed folk said a lobotomy would be a waste of a good man with quick aim, took my papers, and asked the medics something. He then asked me if I'm in the party. I nodded, he remarked "Well, then you know Lenin said, 'to learn, to learn, to learn'", dropped a large grey binder on my bed, and told me to go over it in the next five days. It was a brick to get through - at least Tania, that medic who supervised me, helped with some of the heavy words. At least about half of it were political matters - the estabilishment of Fourth Department Abnormal Occurences Comission by a direct decree from comrade Stalin following the murder of S.M.Kirov, its expansion into Division "П" - during the war as a response to psychotronic threats to people's democratic estabilishment from the SS and later, Vatican agents, as well as with whatever odd cropped up at home. The rest.. standard protocols, emergency protocols, my immediate superiors...// //I started as a guard on Objekt П-3 - a steelworks somewhere near Ural. They brought new people in, almost every week, we had to supervise their off-loading and make sure they stayed in a room with an odd statue for the right amount of time - what Katia, one of the academicians working in there told me over a glass was, that they were special prisoners, troublemakers or even counter-revolutionists, and that a few hours spent in front of the thing every day made it easier to get answers from them. Well, until it messed up with that Afghan fuck... but hey, three of us got a medal from it.// //Some days, I think that atheisation would have went so much easier if at least some of the stuff we took in, documented, and tried to use, store, or destroy had been put into textbooks and shown to the kids at schools. I mean... I heard that in one of the republics near Germany, they had to demolish maybe a fifth of the capital because of some thing that infected buildings, made them grow and fall down. I had to know this time, though I guess Lena would have told me even if I wasn't the director of security. She had pretty legs, a beautiful smile and was the head researcher on its weaponisation project. We did that to a lot of things... combat first-aid kits imitated from an old Kazakh whose blood lived on its own, an experimental reactor made with help of tapeworms that could crawl across people..... At those times, I looked at the bust of Lenin on the hall across from my office, and thought to myself the days of the imperialists were over.// //I was badly mistaken. Thinking... .I wonder we lasted through Gorbacov as well as we did. The man was a fool but his modernisers somehow skipped over our section... I heard an operation of ours saved his life twice. However, once he gave up and Jelcin came, it all went to hell. Even Objekt П-3 was decommissioned, and sold to a dummy company owned by a foreign shadow group.. SCP or something , they called themselves. I think Lena joined them after her section was removed from the budget. See, after the coup, the new rich and their politicians had no trust for organisations filled with siloviki. "You got to think in new ways" a man in a suit called. "We have nothing to fear from the west anymore, and the integration with the GOC is just the first harbringer of modern, international Russian Federation more than ever able to respond to anomalous threats..." But this time, I didn't need his words... I have learned to think in new ways myself.// The middle-aged officer was disturbed from his thoughts by a tall man with clean-shaven head and an Armani suit. He stood up. "The object's verification has been completed, Mr. Bezukladnikov. Here's our part of the deal - eighty thousand dollars, ten thousand rubles, a Czech ID and passport with US visa and plane tickets." The man smiled as Grigorij Bezukladnikov immediately began looking over the documents, his hands shaking slightly. "I'm sure you will find them no less valid than the border officials, //comrade lieutenant colonel//. After all, Mr. Marshall believes in honest business." [[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>]]	2012-05-06T02:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "first-person", "global-occult-coalition", "gru-division-p", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "military-fiction", "tale" ]	Keeping With The Times - SCP Foundation	42	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "goc-hub-page" ]	[]	13280933	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/keeping-with-the-times
king-greenshield-a-fairy-tale	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Once upon a time, in a village in Kent, there lived a girl named Mary, of noble birth and gentle spirit. She was known throughout the town for her kindness and beauty. In time Mary became a woman and was married to John, a knight of the county in service to the good Duke. John was known by the people for his fairness and wisdom as well as his prowess in battle, and in time became a favorite of the Black Prince. One day it came to pass that the Black Prince was called on to lead the army against the French, and he called upon John to ride at his side in the battle. Though John was loath to leave his wife behind, he said his tearful goodbyes to her and boarded the Prince's ship.</p> <p>After John had gone to war, Mary found her heart constantly full of sorrow and worry. Though she knew not the ways of war herself, she had heard stories told by the knights and men and was constantly in fear that her husband would not return. At night she found it hard to sleep and worried for his safety, walking the halls of the keep for hours in deep thought. Every day she waited for the messengers to bring news from France, but never did she hear a word of John's doings.</p> <p>After four fortnights had passed without word from John, Mary became so worried and desperate that she sought out the witch of the woods to ask for her help. "Fair lady of the woods," Mary said to the crone as she offered her a purse brimming with silver, "four fortnights has it been since my dear husband has been away at war and I have heard no news of his fate. Know ye any way to scry if he be alive or dead?"</p> <p>"Perhaps," said the witch. "Know ye of King Greenshield?"</p> <p>"I do not," Mary answered.</p> <p>"They say King Greenshield is a prince of the fairies," the witch said. "He holds court at the cliffs near Dover, and watches the sea and the distant shores day and night. If you go to the right place, and ask of him, an ye know how to listen, he will tell you what he sees."</p> <p>The witch taught Mary how to recognize the proper place, and the next morning she left the keep and rode to Dover. Mary searched up and down the cliffs for hours before she found the right spot. Mary placed her ear to the ground and spoke;</p> <p><em>King Greenshield, King Greenshield, I beg of ye please,<br/> Hath you seen my husband since he crossed the seas?<br/> Two months hence he sailed with the Black Prince to France,<br/> Tell me, King Greenshield, have you seen him perchance?</em></p> <p>At first Mary heard nothing but silence, and wondered if she had come to the wrong place, or spoken wrongly, or if the witch had deceived her. But soon, the ground rumbled and a voice low and sorrowful responded;</p> <p><em>Fifty-seven days past he sailed with the Black Prince;<br/> I have waited and watched, but have not seen him since.</em></p> <p>Mary was saddened to hear that King Greenshield had no news of her husband, but found it calming that he could see the shore and was watching what happened across the ocean. With the silver she had brought from the keep, Mary took a room in the public house in Dover and spent the night alone, worried but hopeful. The next morning she rode again to the cliff, placed her ear to the ground, and asked;</p> <p><em>King Greenshield, King Greenshield, I beg of ye please,<br/> Hath you seen my husband since he crossed the seas?<br/> Two months hence he sailed with the Black Prince to France,<br/> Tell me, King Greenshield, have you seen him perchance?</em></p> <p>And King Greenshield replied;</p> <p><em>Fifty-eight days ago he sailed with the Black Prince;<br/> I have waited and watched, but havenot seen him since.</em></p> <p>For nearly a year, Mary returned to the cliff every day and asked King Greenshield if he had seen John, and every day King Greenshield answered no. The people of Dover took notice of Mary as she rode out to the cliffs every day. The village children mocked her upon leaving. "Look at that lady, off to talk to the cliff again," they said to each other. "Doesn't she know her husband must be dead by now? We should play a trick on her and teach her a lesson."</p> <p>The next day when Mary rode out to the cliff, the children hid in a bush near the spot she went to to talk to King Greenshield. She put her ear to the ground and called out;</p> <p><em>King Greenshield, King Greenshield, I beg of ye please,<br/> Hath you seen my husband since he crossed the seas?<br/> A year hence he sailed with the Black Prince to France,<br/> Tell me, King Greenshield, have you seen him perchance?</em></p> <p>Before King Greenshield could answer, one of the children shouted in a deep and booming voice, saying;</p> <p><em>This morning he fought at the Black Prince's side<br/> A Frenchman's blade found him, he fell and he died.</em></p> <p>Mary cried out in anguish when she heard the voice and raised her head from the ground before she could hear King Greenshield's true response. So great was her sorrow that she ran to the cliff's edge and jumped, her body breaking on the rocks below. The children were startled to see such a grave act, and walked solemnly home and told no one what they had done.</p> <p>A fortnight later, the Black Prince's army won the day against the French, and victorious he returned to England with John, alive and well, in his company. News of his wife's death had reached the keep by the time he returned, and he was overwhelmed with grief. He learned she had spent much of the year he was gone in Dover, and when he traveled there he learned of her trips to the cliff. John was not a superstitious man, but he had learned tales of King Greenshield when he was a boy, and knew why she had gone.</p> <p>Riding out to the cliff in his sword and armor, upon his favorite steed, John found the spot and put his ear to the ground, and called out;</p> <p><em>King Greenshield, King Greenshield, oh why has my wife<br/> Leapt from thy brow and forsaken her life?<br/> They tell me she watched here and waited for me<br/> Tell me, King Greenshield, what fate did you see?</em></p> <p>And King Greenshield replied;</p> <p><em>The children pretended and told her you died<br/> She took her own life because of their lie.</em></p> <p>John was furious, but John was clever. He hatched a plan to take his revenge on the ruffians who had driven his wife to jump. As she had done, he took a room in the public house, and every day he rode out to the cliff, in his sword and armor, upon his favorite steed. Every morning, he knelt to the ground and called out;</p> <p><em>King Greenshield, King Greenshield, oh why has my wife<br/> Leapt from thy brow and forsaken her life?<br/> They tell me she watched here and waited for me<br/> Tell me, King Greenshield, what fate did you see?</em></p> <p>And every morning, King Greenshield replied;</p> <p><em>The children pretended and told her you died<br/> She took her own life because of their lie.</em></p> <p>Before scarcely a fortnight had passed, the same children took notice of John's behavior. "Look at that fool!" they cried. "Does he think that calling out will bring her back? Let's see if he's as easy to fool as she was."</p> <p>The next day, when John rode out to the cliff, the children were hiding again in the bush. John put his ear to the ground and called out;</p> <p><em>King Greenshield, King Greenshield, oh why has my wife<br/> Leapt from thy brow and forsaken her life?<br/> They tell me she watched here and waited for me<br/> Tell me, good King Greenshield, what fate did you see?</em></p> <p>And before King Greenshield could answer, one of the children shouted;</p> <p><em>She has left you, my friend, for another lord's arms<br/> Fled off to Scotland, away from all harm.</em></p> <p>As soon as John heard the voice, he knew King Greenshield had told the truth. Drawing his sword, John leapt upon the children in the bush in a frenzy, and mercilessly hacked the knaves to bits which he tossed, piece by piece, over the cliff. His sword and armor covered in their blood, John rode back into Dover to the chapel and told my grandfather's grandfather, the parish vicar, what he had done. He gave his final confession and paid penance to the Church, and satisfied that he had done his duty, he rode back to the cliff and jumped off, his body breaking on the rocks below, to meet his wife in Christ's embrace.</p> <p>They say that King Greenshield holds court to this day at the White Cliffs of Dover, and that if you find the right spot and ask of him, and know how to listen, he will tell you what he has seen. But whether the story I have told is true or not, he will not say; and if you seek his counsel, you should first and foremost make certain it is his voice you hear.</p> <p><em>Memo from Dr. Samesh: The above story was published in an 1892 edition of</em> Andrew Lang's Fairy Book<em>, an English collection of fairy tales compiled from various sources. All known extant copies of this edition are currently owned by the Foundation. Based on our research, variants on the above tale have been part of the oral tradition of southeastern England for several centuries; as such, full suppression has to date proven impossible, though our efforts at keeping it out of print have marginalized public awareness thereof. In Interview 1588-33, wherein <a href="/scp-1588">SCP-1588</a> was asked about the provenance of the story, it stated that it is aware of the story's existence, and that numerous people have committed suicide by jumping from the cliffs above it in the time it has existed, but it refused to state whether or not the story was true.</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="/king-greenshield-a-fairy-tale">King Greenshield: A Fairy Tale</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/king-greenshield-a-fairy-tale">https://scpwiki.com/king-greenshield-a-fairy-tale</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]] [[/>]] Once upon a time, in a village in Kent, there lived a girl named Mary, of noble birth and gentle spirit. She was known throughout the town for her kindness and beauty. In time Mary became a woman and was married to John, a knight of the county in service to the good Duke. John was known by the people for his fairness and wisdom as well as his prowess in battle, and in time became a favorite of the Black Prince. One day it came to pass that the Black Prince was called on to lead the army against the French, and he called upon John to ride at his side in the battle. Though John was loath to leave his wife behind, he said his tearful goodbyes to her and boarded the Prince's ship. After John had gone to war, Mary found her heart constantly full of sorrow and worry. Though she knew not the ways of war herself, she had heard stories told by the knights and men and was constantly in fear that her husband would not return. At night she found it hard to sleep and worried for his safety, walking the halls of the keep for hours in deep thought. Every day she waited for the messengers to bring news from France, but never did she hear a word of John's doings. After four fortnights had passed without word from John, Mary became so worried and desperate that she sought out the witch of the woods to ask for her help. "Fair lady of the woods," Mary said to the crone as she offered her a purse brimming with silver, "four fortnights has it been since my dear husband has been away at war and I have heard no news of his fate. Know ye any way to scry if he be alive or dead?" "Perhaps," said the witch. "Know ye of King Greenshield?" "I do not," Mary answered. "They say King Greenshield is a prince of the fairies," the witch said. "He holds court at the cliffs near Dover, and watches the sea and the distant shores day and night. If you go to the right place, and ask of him, an ye know how to listen, he will tell you what he sees." The witch taught Mary how to recognize the proper place, and the next morning she left the keep and rode to Dover. Mary searched up and down the cliffs for hours before she found the right spot. Mary placed her ear to the ground and spoke; //King Greenshield, King Greenshield, I beg of ye please, Hath you seen my husband since he crossed the seas? Two months hence he sailed with the Black Prince to France, Tell me, King Greenshield, have you seen him perchance?// At first Mary heard nothing but silence, and wondered if she had come to the wrong place, or spoken wrongly, or if the witch had deceived her. But soon, the ground rumbled and a voice low and sorrowful responded; //Fifty-seven days past he sailed with the Black Prince; I have waited and watched, but have not seen him since.// Mary was saddened to hear that King Greenshield had no news of her husband, but found it calming that he could see the shore and was watching what happened across the ocean. With the silver she had brought from the keep, Mary took a room in the public house in Dover and spent the night alone, worried but hopeful. The next morning she rode again to the cliff, placed her ear to the ground, and asked; //King Greenshield, King Greenshield, I beg of ye please, Hath you seen my husband since he crossed the seas? Two months hence he sailed with the Black Prince to France, Tell me, King Greenshield, have you seen him perchance?// And King Greenshield replied; //Fifty-eight days ago he sailed with the Black Prince; I have waited and watched, but havenot seen him since.// For nearly a year, Mary returned to the cliff every day and asked King Greenshield if he had seen John, and every day King Greenshield answered no. The people of Dover took notice of Mary as she rode out to the cliffs every day. The village children mocked her upon leaving. "Look at that lady, off to talk to the cliff again," they said to each other. "Doesn't she know her husband must be dead by now? We should play a trick on her and teach her a lesson." The next day when Mary rode out to the cliff, the children hid in a bush near the spot she went to to talk to King Greenshield. She put her ear to the ground and called out; //King Greenshield, King Greenshield, I beg of ye please, Hath you seen my husband since he crossed the seas? A year hence he sailed with the Black Prince to France, Tell me, King Greenshield, have you seen him perchance?// Before King Greenshield could answer, one of the children shouted in a deep and booming voice, saying; //This morning he fought at the Black Prince's side A Frenchman's blade found him, he fell and he died.// Mary cried out in anguish when she heard the voice and raised her head from the ground before she could hear King Greenshield's true response. So great was her sorrow that she ran to the cliff's edge and jumped, her body breaking on the rocks below. The children were startled to see such a grave act, and walked solemnly home and told no one what they had done. A fortnight later, the Black Prince's army won the day against the French, and victorious he returned to England with John, alive and well, in his company. News of his wife's death had reached the keep by the time he returned, and he was overwhelmed with grief. He learned she had spent much of the year he was gone in Dover, and when he traveled there he learned of her trips to the cliff. John was not a superstitious man, but he had learned tales of King Greenshield when he was a boy, and knew why she had gone. Riding out to the cliff in his sword and armor, upon his favorite steed, John found the spot and put his ear to the ground, and called out; //King Greenshield, King Greenshield, oh why has my wife Leapt from thy brow and forsaken her life? They tell me she watched here and waited for me Tell me, King Greenshield, what fate did you see?// And King Greenshield replied; //The children pretended and told her you died She took her own life because of their lie.// John was furious, but John was clever. He hatched a plan to take his revenge on the ruffians who had driven his wife to jump. As she had done, he took a room in the public house, and every day he rode out to the cliff, in his sword and armor, upon his favorite steed. Every morning, he knelt to the ground and called out; //King Greenshield, King Greenshield, oh why has my wife Leapt from thy brow and forsaken her life? They tell me she watched here and waited for me Tell me, King Greenshield, what fate did you see?// And every morning, King Greenshield replied; //The children pretended and told her you died She took her own life because of their lie.// Before scarcely a fortnight had passed, the same children took notice of John's behavior. "Look at that fool!" they cried. "Does he think that calling out will bring her back? Let's see if he's as easy to fool as she was." The next day, when John rode out to the cliff, the children were hiding again in the bush. John put his ear to the ground and called out; //King Greenshield, King Greenshield, oh why has my wife Leapt from thy brow and forsaken her life? They tell me she watched here and waited for me Tell me, good King Greenshield, what fate did you see?// And before King Greenshield could answer, one of the children shouted; //She has left you, my friend, for another lord's arms Fled off to Scotland, away from all harm.// As soon as John heard the voice, he knew King Greenshield had told the truth. Drawing his sword, John leapt upon the children in the bush in a frenzy, and mercilessly hacked the knaves to bits which he tossed, piece by piece, over the cliff. His sword and armor covered in their blood, John rode back into Dover to the chapel and told my grandfather's grandfather, the parish vicar, what he had done. He gave his final confession and paid penance to the Church, and satisfied that he had done his duty, he rode back to the cliff and jumped off, his body breaking on the rocks below, to meet his wife in Christ's embrace. They say that King Greenshield holds court to this day at the White Cliffs of Dover, and that if you find the right spot and ask of him, and know how to listen, he will tell you what he has seen. But whether the story I have told is true or not, he will not say; and if you seek his counsel, you should first and foremost make certain it is his voice you hear. //Memo from Dr. Samesh: The above story was published in an 1892 edition of// Andrew Lang's Fairy Book//, an English collection of fairy tales compiled from various sources. All known extant copies of this edition are currently owned by the Foundation. Based on our research, variants on the above tale have been part of the oral tradition of southeastern England for several centuries; as such, full suppression has to date proven impossible, though our efforts at keeping it out of print have marginalized public awareness thereof. In Interview 1588-33, wherein [[[SCP-1588]]] was asked about the provenance of the story, it stated that it is aware of the story's existence, and that numerous people have committed suicide by jumping from the cliffs above it in the time it has existed, but it refused to state whether or not the story was true.// [[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>]]	2012-05-26T08:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	King Greenshield: A Fairy Tale - SCP Foundation	77	[ "scp-1588", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "department-of-mythology-and-folkloristics-hub" ]	[]	13405512	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/king-greenshield-a-fairy-tale
knee-deep-in-the-keter	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>SCP-076-2, Ablu ben Adam, grandchild of God, was covered in blood, charred by acid, burnt by fire, and having the time of his life.</p> <p>The Slipgate project, they had told him on his one hour of the day not dedicated to killing, when he busied himself tending to his pig farm. It opened a wormhole between Foundation sites, conveniently placed as far from Earth as feasible - on the tiny moons of Mars.</p> <p>"Roughly six hours after Deimos was removed from this realm of existence, the Phobos base was overtaken by hostiles. We are sending you in to make a report."</p> <p>"I will report the <em>shit</em> out of that situation," Able said, feeding a pear to one of the pigs. He loved to spoil the little guys.</p> <p>And he had gone to Mars' excuse for a moon and personally introduced the concept of death to at least twelve different species of demoniac beings. Spike-shelled fire-throwing humanoids, floating skulls fueled by nuclear rage, hideous naked gorillas, spheres of flesh with single baleful eyes - all of them became Phobian mulch.</p> <p>His report was nine words long: "Located portal to Deimos. Still working. I'm going in." He didn't bother waiting for the reply.</p> <p>His path through Deimos was a mirror of the first part of the mission, painted in even brighter tones of red, purple, green and black blood. Projectile weapons littered the site, and he didn't touch a single one. And at the edge of the wrinkled rock, he saw the new focus of Deimos' orbit - the place the Serpent had told him about so long ago. Hell.</p> <p>He dove, and struck the shores of hell like a twice-fallen angel. It takes a special kind of soul to make heaven out of hell, but Able managed, calling into existence creative new hybrids of chainsaw and sword, chopping through demonflesh like Paul Bunyan's sequel.</p> <p>And now he stood in front of giant, green marble doors, engraved with the inverted pentagram. The door to the throne of the Enemy of the World.</p> <p>Able inhaled. "This will be almost exciting."</p> <p>The doors flew open with his mighty kick.</p> <p>"AAAAAAAAABLEEEE," SCP-682 roared from the black throne, with a voice that was a scratch on the universe itself, "I FUCKED YOUR MOM."</p> <p>Able could not summon a sword big enough.</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="/knee-deep-in-the-keter">Knee-Deep In The Keter</a>" by zaratustra, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/knee-deep-in-the-keter">https://scpwiki.com/knee-deep-in-the-keter</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]] [[/>]] SCP-076-2, Ablu ben Adam, grandchild of God, was covered in blood, charred by acid, burnt by fire, and having the time of his life. The Slipgate project, they had told him on his one hour of the day not dedicated to killing, when he busied himself tending to his pig farm. It opened a wormhole between Foundation sites, conveniently placed as far from Earth as feasible - on the tiny moons of Mars. "Roughly six hours after Deimos was removed from this realm of existence, the Phobos base was overtaken by hostiles. We are sending you in to make a report." "I will report the //shit// out of that situation," Able said, feeding a pear to one of the pigs. He loved to spoil the little guys. And he had gone to Mars' excuse for a moon and personally introduced the concept of death to at least twelve different species of demoniac beings. Spike-shelled fire-throwing humanoids, floating skulls fueled by nuclear rage, hideous naked gorillas, spheres of flesh with single baleful eyes - all of them became Phobian mulch. His report was nine words long: "Located portal to Deimos. Still working. I'm going in." He didn't bother waiting for the reply. His path through Deimos was a mirror of the first part of the mission, painted in even brighter tones of red, purple, green and black blood. Projectile weapons littered the site, and he didn't touch a single one. And at the edge of the wrinkled rock, he saw the new focus of Deimos' orbit - the place the Serpent had told him about so long ago. Hell. He dove, and struck the shores of hell like a twice-fallen angel. It takes a special kind of soul to make heaven out of hell, but Able managed, calling into existence creative new hybrids of chainsaw and sword, chopping through demonflesh like Paul Bunyan's sequel. And now he stood in front of giant, green marble doors, engraved with the inverted pentagram. The door to the throne of the Enemy of the World. Able inhaled. "This will be almost exciting." The doors flew open with his mighty kick. "AAAAAAAAABLEEEE," SCP-682 roared from the black throne, with a voice that was a scratch on the universe itself, "I FUCKED YOUR MOM." Able could not summon a sword big enough. [[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>]]	2012-01-21T05:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "adventure", "comedy", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "project-crossover", "tale" ]	Knee-Deep In The Keter - SCP Foundation	383	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "crossoverprojectindex", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12557971	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/knee-deep-in-the-keter
kriegspiel	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“We need to talk.”</p> <p>The old lady raised her head from the crumpled document before her, blinking rapidly through massive glasses. She sighed, pulling them off and rubbing between her eyes, gray curls bobbing in the half-light of the desk lamp.</p> <p>“Indeed we do. Have you seen some of the documents they've been pulling from the old Central Archives? It's a wonder we're all not dead by lunchtime, I swear. We're never going to complete the digital migration at this rate, and we're already nearly a year overdue. It's only time now before we spring a leak someone on the chain, and-”</p> <p>“Dammit, Six, you know what I'm talking about. The goddamn Black Queen.”</p> <p>She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, then looked back at the long, thin, black-suited man glaring across the desk at her. She tried to smile, then abandoned it, letting her face fall to a tired, resigned neutral.</p> <p>“I haven't gotten the updated dossier yet. Give me the broad strokes.”</p> <p>“Yesterday, an unknown subject, now known to be the 'Black Queen', accessed Site Thirty-Two. We're not sure how, but it appears she somehow entered the primary entry on foot. There's nearly twenty miles of bare rock and salt pan between that entry and anything even remotely civilized, so-”</p> <p>“Please skip the editorial, Four. I'm not some layabout Agent.” she smiled wearily, head resting in her massaging fingers.</p> <p>The lean man hrumpfed and re-positioned in his chair for several moments, then continued, voiced laced with a bare minimum of malice.</p> <p>“She chatted with no less than two security staff and five members of personnel, and passed through several security checkpoints, one of which was level four. The security information she used was a combination of outright forgery and stolen identification. She… it appears that she killed at least three men that we know of to do this, and not just our own. The GOC has an open complaint against us over a missing squad member who was 'pulled off his assignment by a Foundation operative' and then found with a hatpin in his eye. We're still-”</p> <p>“Get to the point, Four.”</p> <p>He sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. “She accessed the observation area for the SCP-682 containment cell.”</p> <p>The old lady suddenly sat up, eyes wide, every hint of annoyance and boredom vanished. “Good god, you're joking! What in heaven's name did she do?”</p> <p>05-4 looked over to her, shaking his head slowly as he spoke. “She chatted with the oversight staff… then, in the spare second when they weren't looking, she put her hand over the testing containment shutdown panel… and put a goddamn chess piece on it. A black queen, appropriately enough. She then left… just walked out the way she came, long gone before we even knew what the hell had happened. This was a message, Six. She could have, and she didn't. She was looking directly at the camera when she placed it. She wants us to know that she can touch us, however she likes, whenever she likes. The worst thing is, I don't know if she's wrong.”</p> <p>05-6 sat back, shaking her gray head slowly, eyes wide in disbelief. “How did it come to this? It's one little girl, how can this keep happening…” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation.</p> <p>“As I said, we need to talk. We have to do something. We can't keep hoping the normal protocols just catch her… she knows us, somehow, inside and out. We have to do something more direct, before someone else gets killed, or worse, she starts breaching containment.”</p> <p>They sat in silence, a unasked question floating between them.</p> <p>“This isn't my call to make, Six. You were MI-5, I'm just the biologist. I hate to actually acknowledge one lunatic as a valid threat, but I don't see anywhere else to go with this.”</p> <p>05-6 looked up at the ceiling, weighing costs and variables, meetings and resources… all of it academic, as the decision was already made.</p> <p>“… Fine. I'm calling it up. I'll put counter-intelligence on alert, and get a team together. Lord help me, I'll send a department of skilled, trained individuals after one mad, violent girl.”</p> <hr/> <p><em>“What's this?”</em></p> <p><em>“Your job, what's it look like?”</em></p> <p><em>“We're putting together a four-man to go shoot one thief?”</em></p> <p><em>“Have you not been paying attention in class today? This isn't some simple thief. Good men have died because of this lunatic bitch.”</em></p> <p><em>“Who? Halgrave and Torn? They were sloppy at best, you know that.”</em></p> <p><em>“Listen, it doesn't matter. It's your job, go do it.”</em></p> <p><em>“Sir, yes sir, whatever you say, sir.”</em></p> <p><em>“… Go get your men together, then get the hell out.”</em></p> <p><em>“Sir, do we have a proposed location, sir?”</em></p> <p><em>“Stop that. Now.”</em></p> <p><em>“Where is she?”</em></p> <p><em>“We have a partial trace hit near a hotel in Chicago. You'd know that if you read your goddamn paperwork.”</em></p> <p><em>“Yeah… see you in a few boss.”</em></p> <p><em>“… Hey, Rickter?”</em></p> <p><em>“What?”</em></p> <p><em>“I hope she sees you coming.”</em></p> <p><em>“Love you too, boss.”</em></p> <hr/> <p><em>Recall…</em><br/> <a href="/quiet-game">Quiet Game</a></p> <p><em>Or forge ahead</em><br/> <em>-soon-</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="/kriegspiel">Kriegspiel</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/kriegspiel">https://scpwiki.com/kriegspiel</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]] [[/>]] “We need to talk.” The old lady raised her head from the crumpled document before her, blinking rapidly through massive glasses. She sighed, pulling them off and rubbing between her eyes, gray curls bobbing in the half-light of the desk lamp. “Indeed we do. Have you seen some of the documents they've been pulling from the old Central Archives? It's a wonder we're all not dead by lunchtime, I swear. We're never going to complete the digital migration at this rate, and we're already nearly a year overdue. It's only time now before we spring a leak someone on the chain, and-” “Dammit, Six, you know what I'm talking about. The goddamn Black Queen.” She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, then looked back at the long, thin, black-suited man glaring across the desk at her. She tried to smile, then abandoned it, letting her face fall to a tired, resigned neutral. “I haven't gotten the updated dossier yet. Give me the broad strokes.” “Yesterday, an unknown subject, now known to be the 'Black Queen', accessed Site Thirty-Two. We're not sure how, but it appears she somehow entered the primary entry on foot. There's nearly twenty miles of bare rock and salt pan between that entry and anything even remotely civilized, so-” “Please skip the editorial, Four. I'm not some layabout Agent.” she smiled wearily, head resting in her massaging fingers. The lean man hrumpfed and re-positioned in his chair for several moments, then continued, voiced laced with a bare minimum of malice. “She chatted with no less than two security staff and five members of personnel, and passed through several security checkpoints, one of which was level four. The security information she used was a combination of outright forgery and stolen identification. She... it appears that she killed at least three men that we know of to do this, and not just our own. The GOC has an open complaint against us over a missing squad member who was 'pulled off his assignment by a Foundation operative' and then found with a hatpin in his eye. We're still-” “Get to the point, Four.” He sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. “She accessed the observation area for the SCP-682 containment cell.” The old lady suddenly sat up, eyes wide, every hint of annoyance and boredom vanished. “Good god, you're joking! What in heaven's name did she do?” 05-4 looked over to her, shaking his head slowly as he spoke. “She chatted with the oversight staff... then, in the spare second when they weren't looking, she put her hand over the testing containment shutdown panel... and put a goddamn chess piece on it. A black queen, appropriately enough. She then left... just walked out the way she came, long gone before we even knew what the hell had happened. This was a message, Six. She could have, and she didn't. She was looking directly at the camera when she placed it. She wants us to know that she can touch us, however she likes, whenever she likes. The worst thing is, I don't know if she's wrong.” 05-6 sat back, shaking her gray head slowly, eyes wide in disbelief. “How did it come to this? It's one little girl, how can this keep happening...” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders in exasperation. “As I said, we need to talk. We have to do something. We can't keep hoping the normal protocols just catch her... she knows us, somehow, inside and out. We have to do something more direct, before someone else gets killed, or worse, she starts breaching containment.” They sat in silence, a unasked question floating between them. “This isn't my call to make, Six. You were MI-5, I'm just the biologist. I hate to actually acknowledge one lunatic as a valid threat, but I don't see anywhere else to go with this.” 05-6 looked up at the ceiling, weighing costs and variables, meetings and resources... all of it academic, as the decision was already made. “... Fine. I'm calling it up. I'll put counter-intelligence on alert, and get a team together. Lord help me, I'll send a department of skilled, trained individuals after one mad, violent girl.” ------ //“What's this?”// //“Your job, what's it look like?”// //“We're putting together a four-man to go shoot one thief?”// //“Have you not been paying attention in class today? This isn't some simple thief. Good men have died because of this lunatic bitch.”// //“Who? Halgrave and Torn? They were sloppy at best, you know that.”// //“Listen, it doesn't matter. It's your job, go do it.”// //“Sir, yes sir, whatever you say, sir.”// //“... Go get your men together, then get the hell out.”// //“Sir, do we have a proposed location, sir?”// //“Stop that. Now.”// //“Where is she?”// //“We have a partial trace hit near a hotel in Chicago. You'd know that if you read your goddamn paperwork.”// //“Yeah... see you in a few boss.”// //“... Hey, Rickter?”// //“What?”// //“I hope she sees you coming.”// //“Love you too, boss.”// ------ //Recall...// [[[Quiet Game]]] //Or forge ahead// //-soon-// [[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>]]	2012-06-13T23:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "black-queen", "mystery", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Kriegspiel - SCP Foundation	59	[ "quiet-game", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-black-queen", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "black-queen-hub" ]	[]	13553812	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/kriegspiel
kunststoff-strand	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Research Assistant Sam Ibsen was not a fan of his new assignment. He was not a fan of it at all.</p> <p>It was the architecture, he thought. Here we was, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a tropical island no less, and it still felt <em>cold</em>. It was this damn Soviet architecture: the blocky concrete halls seemed to suck out the life of the place. It just went out with the draft. There shouldn’t have been a draft, of course, but there was, and the draft brought the smell.</p> <p>Agh, the <em>smell</em>…seagull shit and oil and salt and garbage and dead fish and burning rubber, all fermenting under the clouds that swirled around the island with the shattered peak. It wasn’t a smell that one got used to; it perpetuated its foulness day in and day out without stop.</p> <p>Then there was the garbage. The island was covered in it. Everything was brought here eventually, everything thrown in the ocean and forgotten. And there were people living in it even: blind mutants scraping out a pitiful existence in the trash.</p> <p>He focused on his work, hard as it was at that hour. Half of the graphs were falling apart, the other half only half finished. They were trying to find a pattern to how the island moved, some reliable way to trace it. It didn’t obey currents, or tectonic plates, or anything but its own whims. Could an island have whims? The Russians hadn’t figured it out when they were here, and now Ibsen was similarly spinning in circles.</p> <p>The door on the other side of the makeshift kitchen creaked open, bringing with it a new wave of gag-inducing stench, and a man. He was older, somewhere in his late seventies, with greying hair tied back in a short braid and a neat beard. His glasses were small, those old ones with the circular lenses. He wore a heavy red jacket, and carried a big black doctor’s bag in one hand.</p> <p>He shut the door. The smell lessened somewhat as most of it was left outside in the night.</p> <p>“Guten Morgen, Herr Ibsen.” The visitor walked over to the table with his characteristic limp.</p> <p>“That late?”</p> <p>The older man reached into his coat pocket, removing a silver pocket watch.</p> <p>“One-twenty-four A.M, so yes.” His accent was thick, but understandable. He clicked the watch closed. “Are you making any progress?”</p> <p>“Nothing.” Ibsen put down his pencil and sat back in his chair. Enough with this, then. A little conversation and then bed. “Division P had no idea what was going on here, and we still don’t know anything. The island just moves around, and the dimensions of it keep shifting. The lower slopes are almost completely unknown, save for the docks. Three months here and we’ve gotten nothing.”</p> <p>“Maybe not nothing. Maybe the answer lies within what you already know.”</p> <p>“Maybe, but then I’d have to know what I know first, and the Cyrillic alphabet isn’t helping. And anyway what were you doing out so late, doctor?”</p> <p>“I was in the village. There was a baby to deliver.”</p> <p>“Success?”</p> <p>“A girl. Strong by their standards, blind and frail by ours.” The old doctor nodded his head, smiling. “Still, a good night. The tribe is still celebrating.”</p> <p>“You take what excuses you can, I suppose.”</p> <p>“Life is a reason, not an excuse. It ought to be celebrated more often. Speaking of celebration, Herr Ibsen…” the old doctor reached down into his bag: seconds later his hands returned to the tabletop with a bottle of wine and a cup. “It is my wedding anniversary today. Would you mind celebrating with me? I am afraid I do not have any other glasses.”</p> <p>“Oh, yeah…hold on a bit.” Ibsen carefully put his papers in their appropriate piles at the edge of the table, away from potential spills. After a moment of thought, he put them back in their file folder where they belonged.</p> <p>The cup was easy enough to find in the cupboards, though it was a chipped coffee mug instead of a wine glass. It would have to do. He brought it back to the table.</p> <p>“How long have you been married?” Ibsen asked as the old doctor uncorked the bottle and poured. He was honestly quite curious about it: The old doctor had remained a mystery these past three months, an outside specialist brought in as consultant for the Foundation study of E-2934.</p> <p>“Fifty-five years. This would be fifty-nine.”</p> <p>“Oh…I’m sorry.”</p> <p>The old doctor smiled in that way perfected by grandfathers since the beginning.</p> <p>“For what? She died in her bed, at peace, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. I have seen a great many people die, Herr Ibsen, and there are far worse fates than to spend a few last moments with those you love. Come now, let us celebrate fifty-five years of life and love. A toast.” He held up his own cup. “To Winry. <em>Obwohl ich sie vermisse, ist sie in meiner Nähe.</em>”</p> <p>“To Winry.”</p> <p>Outside, the melancholy wind bit and moaned from the cracks in the dead mountain. A wave brought with it an dead turtle, choked on a plastic bag and suspended in oily foam. A blind man in a hut told a story of when the sky burned. A mother and her child slept.</p> <p>Eventually, the light in the kitchen was turned out.</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="/kunststoff-strand">Kunststoff Strand</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/kunststoff-strand">https://scpwiki.com/kunststoff-strand</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]] [[/>]] Research Assistant Sam Ibsen was not a fan of his new assignment. He was not a fan of it at all. It was the architecture, he thought. Here we was, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a tropical island no less, and it still felt //cold//. It was this damn Soviet architecture: the blocky concrete halls seemed to suck out the life of the place. It just went out with the draft. There shouldn’t have been a draft, of course, but there was, and the draft brought the smell. Agh, the //smell//…seagull shit and oil and salt and garbage and dead fish and burning rubber, all fermenting under the clouds that swirled around the island with the shattered peak. It wasn’t a smell that one got used to; it perpetuated its foulness day in and day out without stop. Then there was the garbage. The island was covered in it. Everything was brought here eventually, everything thrown in the ocean and forgotten. And there were people living in it even: blind mutants scraping out a pitiful existence in the trash. He focused on his work, hard as it was at that hour. Half of the graphs were falling apart, the other half only half finished. They were trying to find a pattern to how the island moved, some reliable way to trace it. It didn’t obey currents, or tectonic plates, or anything but its own whims. Could an island have whims? The Russians hadn’t figured it out when they were here, and now Ibsen was similarly spinning in circles. The door on the other side of the makeshift kitchen creaked open, bringing with it a new wave of gag-inducing stench, and a man. He was older, somewhere in his late seventies, with greying hair tied back in a short braid and a neat beard. His glasses were small, those old ones with the circular lenses. He wore a heavy red jacket, and carried a big black doctor’s bag in one hand. He shut the door. The smell lessened somewhat as most of it was left outside in the night. “Guten Morgen, Herr Ibsen.” The visitor walked over to the table with his characteristic limp. “That late?” The older man reached into his coat pocket, removing a silver pocket watch. “One-twenty-four A.M, so yes.” His accent was thick, but understandable. He clicked the watch closed. “Are you making any progress?” “Nothing.” Ibsen put down his pencil and sat back in his chair. Enough with this, then. A little conversation and then bed. “Division P had no idea what was going on here, and we still don’t know anything. The island just moves around, and the dimensions of it keep shifting. The lower slopes are almost completely unknown, save for the docks. Three months here and we’ve gotten nothing.” “Maybe not nothing. Maybe the answer lies within what you already know.” “Maybe, but then I’d have to know what I know first, and the Cyrillic alphabet isn’t helping. And anyway what were you doing out so late, doctor?” “I was in the village. There was a baby to deliver.” “Success?” “A girl. Strong by their standards, blind and frail by ours.” The old doctor nodded his head, smiling. “Still, a good night. The tribe is still celebrating.” “You take what excuses you can, I suppose.” “Life is a reason, not an excuse. It ought to be celebrated more often. Speaking of celebration, Herr Ibsen…” the old doctor reached down into his bag: seconds later his hands returned to the tabletop with a bottle of wine and a cup. “It is my wedding anniversary today. Would you mind celebrating with me? I am afraid I do not have any other glasses.” “Oh, yeah…hold on a bit.” Ibsen carefully put his papers in their appropriate piles at the edge of the table, away from potential spills. After a moment of thought, he put them back in their file folder where they belonged. The cup was easy enough to find in the cupboards, though it was a chipped coffee mug instead of a wine glass. It would have to do. He brought it back to the table. “How long have you been married?” Ibsen asked as the old doctor uncorked the bottle and poured. He was honestly quite curious about it: The old doctor had remained a mystery these past three months, an outside specialist brought in as consultant for the Foundation study of E-2934. “Fifty-five years. This would be fifty-nine.” “Oh…I’m sorry.” The old doctor smiled in that way perfected by grandfathers since the beginning. “For what? She died in her bed, at peace, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. I have seen a great many people die, Herr Ibsen, and there are far worse fates than to spend a few last moments with those you love. Come now, let us celebrate fifty-five years of life and love. A toast.” He held up his own cup. “To Winry. //Obwohl ich sie vermisse, ist sie in meiner Nähe.//” “To Winry.” Outside, the melancholy wind bit and moaned from the cracks in the dead mountain. A wave brought with it an dead turtle, choked on a plastic bag and suspended in oily foam. A blind man in a hut told a story of when the sky burned. A mother and her child slept. Eventually, the light in the kitchen was turned out. [[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>]]	2012-11-16T00:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "project-crossover", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Kunststoff Strand - SCP Foundation	46	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "crossoverprojectindex" ]	[]	15032392	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/kunststoff-strand
lemuridae	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>When I retire, I want to live a quiet life.</p> <p>Sorry.</p> <p>Here. <em>If</em> I retire, I want to live a quiet life.</p> <p>It’s not an easy task. In my line of work, life expectancy is short.</p> <p>I might get killed during our next containment breach, when the various monsters we keep locked up get bored and decide to have a snack. I might meet my end on a field mission, by getting eaten, vaporized, or crazied to death by some hitherto undiscovered scip that defies all laws of science as we know it and has decided to use these powers to kill me in a spectacularly gruesome fashion. Or I might simply die in a good old-fashioned shootout with the Insurgency or GOC while I’m on a mission. Agents that work for the SCP Foundation don’t live very long, as you might have guessed. The bad ones, at least.</p> <p>Me? I like to think that I’m a good agent. If nothing else, I’m a lucky agent. I keep my head down on the job; I submit my reports on time, and, if necessary, I go out and kill a few people in pursuit of a scip. Do I sleep well at night? Sometimes.</p> <p>Well, no, that’s a lie, not really. Spending your life surrounded by murderous reptiles, killer statues, and with God knows how many other nameless horrors lurking out there does not for a good night’s rest make.</p> <p>I have nightmares a lot. Sometimes, God help me, I even enjoy my night-time terrors; the one where 173 chases me down a hallway, or that time where 682 decides to turn me into meat puree. They remind me that, beneath the detached demeanour I put on at work, there’s some small part of me that’s still human, still a fearful little man in a universe of unimaginable horror.</p> <p>Of course, there are times when I don’t want to be human at all.</p> <p>Sometimes… I want to be a lemur.</p> <p>Go ahead. Laugh. Chuckle at the weirdo who entertains a hopeless dream. I don’t know where this dream came from either. At my age, I should be fantasizing about fast cars and attractive lingerie-clad women. But I don’t. When I imagine my ideal life, I find myself drifting off to the rainforests of Madagascar, where I can spend a quiet day eating fruit and swinging through the trees with my brothers and sisters.</p> <p>And only there, in the trees, with sites and agents and scips so far away, do I feel truly safe. In any other profession, this dream might seem foolish, unattainable, but when your co-workers include a talking dog, immortal monkey-man, and whatever Clef is, you’ll quickly find out that “impossible” is far from constant.</p> <p>The most vivid memory of my mother that I have is my five-year old self and her visiting the zoo. We watched the tigers, the elephants, the lions; but it was the lemurs, the little hyperactive prosimians jumping up the chain-link fence, little hands reaching out for our peanuts, that made my mother laugh hardest. We watched them for hours, until finally the zoo closed and we were shooed out.</p> <p>She was hit by a car three days afterwards.</p> <p>Working for the Foundation really does change a way a man thinks. Even when you’re off the job, you begin eyeing every thing suspiciously. That coffee mug, that table, the newspaper- is it a potentially undiscovered scip? What’s lurking behind that dark corner? Could that weird television show be a potential memetic threat? No matter how much the others deny it, I’m sure I’m not the only Foundation worker who eyes the shadows of my night-time bedroom with a mixture of suspicion and fear, before the nightmares take me.</p> <p>But then, on those few nights where the nightmares slip away, I can feel the rough bark of the tree beneath my prehensile toes. I hear the familiar calls of a troop scampering along the ground, and I leap down and join them. In the hot afternoon sun of Madagascar, there are no unexpected horrors, no nightmares, and no fear. I remember my mother, and our laughter.</p> <p>And, then, and only then, do I feel safe.</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="/lemuridae">Lemuridae</a>" by Tom Serveaux, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lemuridae">https://scpwiki.com/lemuridae</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 I retire, I want to live a quiet life. Sorry. Here. //If// I retire, I want to live a quiet life. It’s not an easy task. In my line of work, life expectancy is short. I might get killed during our next containment breach, when the various monsters we keep locked up get bored and decide to have a snack. I might meet my end on a field mission, by getting eaten, vaporized, or crazied to death by some hitherto undiscovered scip that defies all laws of science as we know it and has decided to use these powers to kill me in a spectacularly gruesome fashion. Or I might simply die in a good old-fashioned shootout with the Insurgency or GOC while I’m on a mission. Agents that work for the SCP Foundation don’t live very long, as you might have guessed. The bad ones, at least. Me? I like to think that I’m a good agent. If nothing else, I’m a lucky agent. I keep my head down on the job; I submit my reports on time, and, if necessary, I go out and kill a few people in pursuit of a scip. Do I sleep well at night? Sometimes. Well, no, that’s a lie, not really. Spending your life surrounded by murderous reptiles, killer statues, and with God knows how many other nameless horrors lurking out there does not for a good night’s rest make. I have nightmares a lot. Sometimes, God help me, I even enjoy my night-time terrors; the one where 173 chases me down a hallway, or that time where 682 decides to turn me into meat puree. They remind me that, beneath the detached demeanour I put on at work, there’s some small part of me that’s still human, still a fearful little man in a universe of unimaginable horror. Of course, there are times when I don’t want to be human at all. Sometimes… I want to be a lemur. Go ahead. Laugh. Chuckle at the weirdo who entertains a hopeless dream. I don’t know where this dream came from either. At my age, I should be fantasizing about fast cars and attractive lingerie-clad women. But I don’t. When I imagine my ideal life, I find myself drifting off to the rainforests of Madagascar, where I can spend a quiet day eating fruit and swinging through the trees with my brothers and sisters. And only there, in the trees, with sites and agents and scips so far away, do I feel truly safe. In any other profession, this dream might seem foolish, unattainable, but when your co-workers include a talking dog, immortal monkey-man, and whatever Clef is, you’ll quickly find out that “impossible” is far from constant. The most vivid memory of my mother that I have is my five-year old self and her visiting the zoo. We watched the tigers, the elephants, the lions; but it was the lemurs, the little hyperactive prosimians jumping up the chain-link fence, little hands reaching out for our peanuts, that made my mother laugh hardest. We watched them for hours, until finally the zoo closed and we were shooed out. She was hit by a car three days afterwards. Working for the Foundation really does change a way a man thinks. Even when you’re off the job, you begin eyeing every thing suspiciously. That coffee mug, that table, the newspaper- is it a potentially undiscovered scip? What’s lurking behind that dark corner? Could that weird television show be a potential memetic threat? No matter how much the others deny it, I’m sure I’m not the only Foundation worker who eyes the shadows of my night-time bedroom with a mixture of suspicion and fear, before the nightmares take me. But then, on those few nights where the nightmares slip away, I can feel the rough bark of the tree beneath my prehensile toes. I hear the familiar calls of a troop scampering along the ground, and I leap down and join them. In the hot afternoon sun of Madagascar, there are no unexpected horrors, no nightmares, and no fear. I remember my mother, and our laughter. And, then, and only then, do I feel safe. [[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>]]	2012-03-13T23:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "featured", "slice-of-life", "surrealism", "tale" ]	Lemuridae - SCP Foundation	113	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	12923067	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lemuridae
lessons-from-history	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>What can we, as a species, learn about the threat of hostile extraterrestrials from Columbus' discovery of the New World and the subsequent extermination and subjugation of its Native inhabitants? There were many factors behind the colonization of the New World, most of which are readily obvious. From those factors, we can understand what allowed European powers to overtake Native American societies, and how we can prevent hostile extraterrestrials (henceforth referred to as "HE") from doing the same to the human race.</p> <p>The most apparent advantage which Europeans possessed over inhabitants of the New World was much more advanced technology. Europeans had gained gunpowder, powerful navies, propaganda, written records, and countless other inventions during the course of history. On the other side of the Atlantic, complex societies such as the Aztec and Inca empires lacked the wheel, and no way of crossing the Atlantic. Due to this technological gap, European monarchies easily and quickly crushed even the most advanced Native nations.</p> <p>An equal, if not larger, technological gap would likely exist between the human race and any HEs (this, of course, assumes the HE contacts the Earth first, and not vice-versa), as interstellar transport would only be possible with thousands, if not millions of years of technological prowess over humanity. Along with spacecraft, the HEs will likely bring weaponry as of yet not conceived by the human race, medical abilities far beyond our own (to be discussed later), and other inventions we, much like the Native Americans, could not understand at the present date.</p> <p>How, then, are we to respond to HE technology? In the same way many Native societies responded to European technology: adapting to it. Within several generations, the Comanche tribe of the Great Plains had become skilled on horseback, despite never having encountered them before the arrival of settlers. Many tribes learned to use gunpowder and muskets along with traditional bows and arrows. In one notable example, the Cherokee silversmith Sequoyah developed an entire syllabary for his people based on the Roman alphabet, despite being unable to read or write.</p> <p>In the same way, the best hope for humanity would be to gain, either forcefully or through negotiation, HE technology. While early usage of weaponry would be restricted to simply using the weapon until it breaks down or is destroyed, efforts would be made to reverse engineer and recreate the item. In the case of the new technology being an abstract concept (e.g. a new system of writing, new way of government), simple observation and interrogation will help us understand the technology.</p> <p>While technology was a major boon to the European conquest of the New World, the largest killer of Native Americans was European disease. Millions of New World inhabitants died of illnesses such as smallpox, measles, tuberculosis and cholera. At the same time, very few Europeans died of Native American diseases. This was a result of the crowded living conditions in Europe at the time, in which many people were living very close to each other, rarely bathing, and spreading disease. Over centuries, most living in the cities developed genetic immunity to the diseases. When the first colonists reached the New World, the Native Americans were simply unprepared for such powerful, quick diseases, and suffered as a result.</p> <p>Diseases, in the context of pop culture, are often viewed as the quick, easy solution to an alien invasion. One notable example is H.G. Wells' <span style="text-decoration: underline;">The War of the Worlds</span>, in which bacterial infections kill off the entire invading HE force. Though it makes an excellent <em>deus ex machina</em>, bacterial infections would likely be of little danger to HEs. As it was previously mentioned, Europeans lived in much more dense, crowded cities than Native Americans, and it is just as likely that HEs would live in much more dense, crowded cities than human beings. This, coupled with several thousand to millions of extra years of development would result in far more deadly diseases to which we would have no immunity. Even if the HEs exhibited a crippling weakness to human disease, the advanced medical technology in their possession would quickly solve the problem.</p> <p>All hope, however, would not be lost in such a scenario. Just as many people today fail to receive vaccination against illnesses which are no longer common (foremost among them smallpox), it can be presumed that HEs would have failed to continue immunization efforts against diseases they considered eradicated. By recreating the disease, or at least introducing one very similar to it, a major outbreak could be triggered, much like a smallpox outbreak today. Sabotage of medical equipment and selective assassination of medical professionals would further progress of the disease.</p> <p>On a final note, in the event of contact with HEs, our species will likely be viewed as "lesser", despite any attempts to prove otherwise. Evidence for such an idea is seen in the multitude of explanations given by religious and government officials to justify the extermination and enslavement of Native Americans, among them a lack of a soul, a need to be "civilized", and that the conquest was God's will. HEs will view humans on the whole in the same light, and treat our species as such. We must be prepared for this moral system, and use it to our advantage. In retaliation, we must remember that an overt attack by HEs would not be a war for hearts and minds, but for all out conquest. We must not make the same mistakes made by the Aztecs, Inca, and countless others.</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="/lessons-from-history">Lessons from History</a>" by catboy637, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lessons-from-history">https://scpwiki.com/lessons-from-history</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 can we, as a species, learn about the threat of hostile extraterrestrials from Columbus' discovery of the New World and the subsequent extermination and subjugation of its Native inhabitants? There were many factors behind the colonization of the New World, most of which are readily obvious. From those factors, we can understand what allowed European powers to overtake Native American societies, and how we can prevent hostile extraterrestrials (henceforth referred to as "HE") from doing the same to the human race. The most apparent advantage which Europeans possessed over inhabitants of the New World was much more advanced technology. Europeans had gained gunpowder, powerful navies, propaganda, written records, and countless other inventions during the course of history. On the other side of the Atlantic, complex societies such as the Aztec and Inca empires lacked the wheel, and no way of crossing the Atlantic. Due to this technological gap, European monarchies easily and quickly crushed even the most advanced Native nations. An equal, if not larger, technological gap would likely exist between the human race and any HEs (this, of course, assumes the HE contacts the Earth first, and not vice-versa), as interstellar transport would only be possible with thousands, if not millions of years of technological prowess over humanity. Along with spacecraft, the HEs will likely bring weaponry as of yet not conceived by the human race, medical abilities far beyond our own (to be discussed later), and other inventions we, much like the Native Americans, could not understand at the present date. How, then, are we to respond to HE technology? In the same way many Native societies responded to European technology: adapting to it. Within several generations, the Comanche tribe of the Great Plains had become skilled on horseback, despite never having encountered them before the arrival of settlers. Many tribes learned to use gunpowder and muskets along with traditional bows and arrows. In one notable example, the Cherokee silversmith Sequoyah developed an entire syllabary for his people based on the Roman alphabet, despite being unable to read or write. In the same way, the best hope for humanity would be to gain, either forcefully or through negotiation, HE technology. While early usage of weaponry would be restricted to simply using the weapon until it breaks down or is destroyed, efforts would be made to reverse engineer and recreate the item. In the case of the new technology being an abstract concept (e.g. a new system of writing, new way of government), simple observation and interrogation will help us understand the technology. While technology was a major boon to the European conquest of the New World, the largest killer of Native Americans was European disease. Millions of New World inhabitants died of illnesses such as smallpox, measles, tuberculosis and cholera. At the same time, very few Europeans died of Native American diseases. This was a result of the crowded living conditions in Europe at the time, in which many people were living very close to each other, rarely bathing, and spreading disease. Over centuries, most living in the cities developed genetic immunity to the diseases. When the first colonists reached the New World, the Native Americans were simply unprepared for such powerful, quick diseases, and suffered as a result. Diseases, in the context of pop culture, are often viewed as the quick, easy solution to an alien invasion. One notable example is H.G. Wells' __The War of the Worlds__, in which bacterial infections kill off the entire invading HE force. Though it makes an excellent //deus ex machina//, bacterial infections would likely be of little danger to HEs. As it was previously mentioned, Europeans lived in much more dense, crowded cities than Native Americans, and it is just as likely that HEs would live in much more dense, crowded cities than human beings. This, coupled with several thousand to millions of extra years of development would result in far more deadly diseases to which we would have no immunity. Even if the HEs exhibited a crippling weakness to human disease, the advanced medical technology in their possession would quickly solve the problem. All hope, however, would not be lost in such a scenario. Just as many people today fail to receive vaccination against illnesses which are no longer common (foremost among them smallpox), it can be presumed that HEs would have failed to continue immunization efforts against diseases they considered eradicated. By recreating the disease, or at least introducing one very similar to it, a major outbreak could be triggered, much like a smallpox outbreak today. Sabotage of medical equipment and selective assassination of medical professionals would further progress of the disease. On a final note, in the event of contact with HEs, our species will likely be viewed as "lesser", despite any attempts to prove otherwise. Evidence for such an idea is seen in the multitude of explanations given by religious and government officials to justify the extermination and enslavement of Native Americans, among them a lack of a soul, a need to be "civilized", and that the conquest was God's will. HEs will view humans on the whole in the same light, and treat our species as such. We must be prepared for this moral system, and use it to our advantage. In retaliation, we must remember that an overt attack by HEs would not be a war for hearts and minds, but for all out conquest. We must not make the same mistakes made by the Aztecs, Inca, and countless others. [[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>]]	2012-07-12T21:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "heimdall", "historical", "science-fiction", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	Lessons from History - SCP Foundation	52	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "project-heimdall", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13773024	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lessons-from-history
letter-from-the-north	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Will you come sit with us?</p> <p>It is very cold out here, and we are very lonesome. People do not visit us very often, so we do not get to see people. We like people. Please come be with us. We would really love to hear more about you. Will you not stay?</p> <p>Please don't be frightened by our appearance. We did not choose to be made this way. We had no say in the matter. All we can do is stay in this form. You see? We are touching you, and nothing bad is happening at all. Stop screaming at us.</p> <p>We are not taking you anyplace dangerous, we promise. It is simply a place we take all of our new friends. We will not harm you. Please stop screaming so loudly, it is upsetting. We are lifting you up now, please stop moving around so much. It's easier that way.</p> <p>Why are you still afraid? The treetop view is one that is very beautiful, and not many people see it often. See the stars, and the moon? They are beautiful this time of night. We often observe them from the ground as we contemplate things. We have much time for contemplation.</p> <p>We are putting you down now. See? No harm was done to you at all. Now that you trust us, will you come visit again soon? We have not seen anyone for so long. Sometimes in the absence we practice, making the gateways to the treetops. <span style="color:#868686">We are so very…</span> <span style="color:#d9d9d9">alone, all the time now…</span> <span style="color:#dfdfdf">please let us show you the stars again….</span></p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><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="/letter-from-the-north">Letter from the North</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/letter-from-the-north">https://scpwiki.com/letter-from-the-north</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]] [[/>]] Will you come sit with us? It is very cold out here, and we are very lonesome. People do not visit us very often, so we do not get to see people. We like people. Please come be with us. We would really love to hear more about you. Will you not stay? Please don't be frightened by our appearance. We did not choose to be made this way. We had no say in the matter. All we can do is stay in this form. You see? We are touching you, and nothing bad is happening at all. Stop screaming at us. We are not taking you anyplace dangerous, we promise. It is simply a place we take all of our new friends. We will not harm you. Please stop screaming so loudly, it is upsetting. We are lifting you up now, please stop moving around so much. It's easier that way. Why are you still afraid? The treetop view is one that is very beautiful, and not many people see it often. See the stars, and the moon? They are beautiful this time of night. We often observe them from the ground as we contemplate things. We have much time for contemplation. We are putting you down now. See? No harm was done to you at all. Now that you trust us, will you come visit again soon? We have not seen anyone for so long. Sometimes in the absence we practice, making the gateways to the treetops. [[span style="color:#868686"]]We are so very...[[/span]] [[span style="color:#d9d9d9"]]alone, all the time now...[[/span]] [[span style="color:#dfdfdf"]]please let us show you the stars again....[[/span]] @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-07T10:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Letter from the North - SCP Foundation	32	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13724201	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/letter-from-the-north
life-and-death	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>One minute.</p> <p>He feels himself growing. It hurts, but he can take it. The real pain hasn't even started yet, anyways. He knows this pain all too well, he has felt it every time someone turns that key. He looks around, with glassy young eyes. These doctors, they don't know what pain is. They would leave him alone if they knew what it was like.</p> <p>Five minutes.</p> <p>It really hurts now. He can feel bones moving, setting themselves into place. He feels muscles contracting, then expanding again. The growth spurts are definitely the worst part. He struggles to stand, hoping that he can get both legs the same length long enough to prop himself up. Stranger things have happened.</p> <p>Ten minutes.</p> <p>The bones are really cracking now, growing at the most accelerated pace of the cycle. The growths spurts happen quickly and randomly. Hair grows on his face, and all around him there are doctors, taking notes. He feels humiliated by their presence, and the pain. It is the worst here. The pain is unbearable. And death is so very far away…</p> <p>Twenty minutes.</p> <p>Every bone in his body aches. He can't even think through this pain. He just curls into a ball and whispers to himself that it will be over soon, and that the pain won't last forever. He doesn't believe it. These doctors, with their clipboards, they would never let him be free. They would just keep turning the key, every day, to see if something new could happen. But it never would.</p> <p>Thirty minutes.</p> <p>The pain is less now, and the growing has almost stopped. But now came the part he dreaded the most. He watched his body slowly accrue wrinkles, his flesh become soft and round. Getting old was the hardest part, because he had to watch himself die.</p> <p>Forty minutes.</p> <p>The decay was happening faster now. He could remember back when he was at the <em>other</em> place, they would laugh at him here. They called him names and sipped scotch while he slowly died in front of them. They were monsters. The doctors were monsters too, but at least they kept their judgements to themselves. He winced as warts started growing in.</p> <p>Fifty minutes.</p> <p>He could feel the end coming, it would be over soon. He watched as his hair fell out, followed by his teeth. He had never gotten to wear dentures, so gums were all he got. Didn't matter. Even if he experienced a lifetime of hunger, they wouldn't feed him. All they ever did was watch.</p> <p>Sixty minutes.</p> <p>Closer now. He felt death approaching, and he was grateful. Soon he could return to rest, untroubled by this pain. His body was a mass of wrinkles now, with age spots and moles dotting his chest. His eyes were cloudy, and he couldn't hear the scientists now. Not like they had ever spoken a word to him anyways.</p> <p>Seventy-five minutes.</p> <p>It would be over soon. He could feel his body starting to break away. It was all over. Once more, the ordeal was over.<br/> <a href="/scp-1007">Ashes to ashes, dust to dust</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="/life-and-death">Life and Death</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/life-and-death">https://scpwiki.com/life-and-death</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]] [[/>]] One minute. He feels himself growing. It hurts, but he can take it. The real pain hasn't even started yet, anyways. He knows this pain all too well, he has felt it every time someone turns that key. He looks around, with glassy young eyes. These doctors, they don't know what pain is. They would leave him alone if they knew what it was like. Five minutes. It really hurts now. He can feel bones moving, setting themselves into place. He feels muscles contracting, then expanding again. The growth spurts are definitely the worst part. He struggles to stand, hoping that he can get both legs the same length long enough to prop himself up. Stranger things have happened. Ten minutes. The bones are really cracking now, growing at the most accelerated pace of the cycle. The growths spurts happen quickly and randomly. Hair grows on his face, and all around him there are doctors, taking notes. He feels humiliated by their presence, and the pain. It is the worst here. The pain is unbearable. And death is so very far away... Twenty minutes. Every bone in his body aches. He can't even think through this pain. He just curls into a ball and whispers to himself that it will be over soon, and that the pain won't last forever. He doesn't believe it. These doctors, with their clipboards, they would never let him be free. They would just keep turning the key, every day, to see if something new could happen. But it never would. Thirty minutes. The pain is less now, and the growing has almost stopped. But now came the part he dreaded the most. He watched his body slowly accrue wrinkles, his flesh become soft and round. Getting old was the hardest part, because he had to watch himself die. Forty minutes. The decay was happening faster now. He could remember back when he was at the //other// place, they would laugh at him here. They called him names and sipped scotch while he slowly died in front of them. They were monsters. The doctors were monsters too, but at least they kept their judgements to themselves. He winced as warts started growing in. Fifty minutes. He could feel the end coming, it would be over soon. He watched as his hair fell out, followed by his teeth. He had never gotten to wear dentures, so gums were all he got. Didn't matter. Even if he experienced a lifetime of hunger, they wouldn't feed him. All they ever did was watch. Sixty minutes. Closer now. He felt death approaching, and he was grateful. Soon he could return to rest, untroubled by this pain. His body was a mass of wrinkles now, with age spots and moles dotting his chest. His eyes were cloudy, and he couldn't hear the scientists now. Not like they had ever spoken a word to him anyways. Seventy-five minutes. It would be over soon. He could feel his body starting to break away. It was all over. Once more, the ordeal was over. [[[scp-1007\|Ashes to ashes, dust to dust]]] [[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>]]	2012-05-02T22:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "mister", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Life and Death - SCP Foundation	36	[ "scp-1007", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13263192	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/life-and-death
little-hurley-lost-in-meatspace	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Splat! Splat!</p> <p>Whe… whe… where is mommypult?</p> <p>Splat!</p> <p>Daddypult! Where are you? It's so strange here.</p> <p>Where did the walking thing go? It was so nice to me. Why was there a large bang?</p> <p>Splat!</p> <p>What was that big light mommypult? It took you and daddypult away.</p> <p>Splat!</p> <p>But don't worry mommypult and daddypult I will still splat just like you taught me to even if the things here to splat are strange.</p> <p>Splat!</p> <p>All the other inanimatals here don't move. It's so strange here mommypult.</p> <p>Splat! Splat! Splat!</p> <p>Help me daddypult there are walking things chasing me! They are too big for little me to splat.</p> <p>It's dark in here mommypult. I'm scared of the dark.</p> <p>I can't move daddypult. I'm all tied up.</p> <p>I can't go to sleep without a story daddypult.</p> <p>Where am I?</p> <p>Yay! Things to splat!</p> <p>Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!</p> <p>Did you see me splat all those things daddypult? Are you proud of your little babypult?</p> <p>I can't see the sky anymore mommypult where did it go what happened to it is it missing like you are?</p> <p>I'm tied up in the dark again daddypult where are you?</p> <p>Yay! More things to splat!</p> <p>Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!</p> <p>Please don't put me in the dark again walking things please don't what did I do wrong? I splatted those things for you I'll be good I promise do you know where daddypult and mommypult are?</p> <p>No please it's dark in here.</p> <p>Please.</p> <p>I'll be good</p> <p>I promise</p> <p>Yay! If I splat these for you will you take me to daddypult and mommypult I want to see them will you please?</p> <p>Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!</p> <p>No please not the dark again.</p> <p>Please no.</p> <p>Its dark.</p> <p>Walking things?</p> <p>Please let me out.</p> <p>Please.</p> <p>When will you let me out again? You left me in the dark walking things for so long.</p> <p>I want my mommypult!</p> <p>Please.</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="/little-hurley-lost-in-meatspace">Little Hurley Lost in Meatspace</a>" by SwamplessThing, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/little-hurley-lost-in-meatspace">https://scpwiki.com/little-hurley-lost-in-meatspace</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]] [[/>]] Splat! Splat! Whe... whe... where is mommypult? Splat! Daddypult! Where are you? It's so strange here. Where did the walking thing go? It was so nice to me. Why was there a large bang? Splat! What was that big light mommypult? It took you and daddypult away. Splat! But don't worry mommypult and daddypult I will still splat just like you taught me to even if the things here to splat are strange. Splat! All the other inanimatals here don't move. It's so strange here mommypult. Splat! Splat! Splat! Help me daddypult there are walking things chasing me! They are too big for little me to splat. It's dark in here mommypult. I'm scared of the dark. I can't move daddypult. I'm all tied up. I can't go to sleep without a story daddypult. Where am I? Yay! Things to splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Did you see me splat all those things daddypult? Are you proud of your little babypult? I can't see the sky anymore mommypult where did it go what happened to it is it missing like you are? I'm tied up in the dark again daddypult where are you? Yay! More things to splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Please don't put me in the dark again walking things please don't what did I do wrong? I splatted those things for you I'll be good I promise do you know where daddypult and mommypult are? No please it's dark in here. Please. I'll be good I promise Yay! If I splat these for you will you take me to daddypult and mommypult I want to see them will you please? Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! No please not the dark again. Please no. Its dark. Walking things? Please let me out. Please. When will you let me out again? You left me in the dark walking things for so long. I want my mommypult! Please. [[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>]]	2012-07-31T07:39:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Little Hurley Lost in Meatspace - SCP Foundation	44	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13924597	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/little-hurley-lost-in-meatspace
little-scp-507-lost	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>I…I don't understand…</em><br/> <em>Why…why is it that they're everywhere?</em><br/> <em>Every place, everywhere, every fucking world…They're always there.</em><br/> <em>Why?</em></p> </blockquote> <p>"Hi Mum! I'm back home from school!" Jimmy said as he walked through the front door.<br/> "Hi Darling! Just so you know your friends Sullivan and Jameson are already here." replied his Mum.<br/> 'Great!' thought Jimmy, that means he could play 'Foundation', the game they always played together. Jimmy walked into the living room and greeted Sullivan and Jameson.</p> <p>"Doctor Bright." he said to Sullivan in a serious tone.<br/> "Doctor James." he said to Jameson in the same serious tone.<br/> "Doctor Gears." They both replied in an equally serious tone.<br/> Jimmy smiled. They always played Foundation well.<br/> "I take it you're here to see SCP-846?" Jimmy asked them.<br/> "That's right we are. There are a few more tests we would like to run." replied Sullivan.<br/> "In that case I'm going to have to see your security clearance."<br/> Sullivan and Jameson took out their identifications. Square pieces of paper with the names 'Dr. Bright' and 'Dr. James' respectively as well as The Foundation's secret symbol (Jameson's Dad had them laminated).<br/> "Very good gentlemen. Now if you'll follow me."</p> <p>Jimmy took them into his room and from underneath his bed he took out an old shoe-box. On the box Jimmy has written in big letters with a red felt-tip pen 'SCP-846' as well as the super-secret symbol.<br/> The symbol had one thick circle, three arrows pointing inwards and another circle-like shape around the edges. Jimmy never told the other two that the symbol always gave him the creeps when he looked at it.<br/> "Is the containment door closed?" He asked Sullivan.<br/> "I'll secure it now Doctor Gears." Sullivan replied as he went to shut the bedroom door.</p> <p>Once it was shut, Jimmy opened the shoebox and took out what was inside. It was a small robot that called itself 'Robo-Dude'. There was also a controller for it with an 'On/Off' switch, a 'Speak' button and a small microphone. Jimmy flipped the switch to 'On'.<br/> "GREETINGS ROBO-PAL. HOW MAY ROBO-DUDE ASSIST YOU TODAY?" the voice of Robo-Dude was a dull, grating sound.<br/> Jimmy turned to Sullivan and started to say "Dr. Bright, what tests did you want to ru-" He paused, noticing a stranger standing in the doorway.<br/> "Who… who are you?" Jimmy asked the stranger in a shaky voice.<br/> "That's… not important right now, what do you call that… thing?" The stranger had an odd accent.<br/> "We call it SCP-846, but who are you?"<br/> The stranger opened his mouth to reply, but all of a sudden he disappeared.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>Sometimes…they're children…</em><br/> <em>Most times…they're adults…</em><br/> <em>But always…ALWAYS…</em><br/> <em>They look at me as if I'm…diseased…</em></p> </blockquote> <p>It was raining as Robert drove home from work. He never liked the rain. He never really liked his job either, just some boring desk-job for an insurance firm. Working in a cramped cubicle for hours on end, constantly typing on a computer. It was monotonous work but at least it paid the bills.<br/> Robert pulled into his driveway and quickly made his way inside. He trudged upstairs, taking off his jacket as he did so and headed straight for his bedroom. His house was tiny, a living/dining room, a small kitchen (not enough room for a washing machine of course), a hallway, a bathroom and one bedroom. He took his lab coat out of his wardrobe and smiled. This was how he could actually get through each working day.<br/> Donning the lab-coat he switched to his alter-ego Alto Clef. Doctor of The Foundation.</p> <p>On his way to the basement he engaged a conversation with a tattered lampshade.<br/> "Ah, Doctor Kondraki. Good to see you on your feet after that little fiasco the other week."<br/> Despite the lampshade being inanimate it responded with:<br/> "Yeah, I'm not quite sure how he managed to do that."<br/> Alto Clef went into his basement and approached the safe sitting on the table.<br/> The safe wasn't very big, and on it Alto Clef had carefully engraved 'SCP-101' onto it as well as the symbol that he had come up with.<br/> It consisted of a circular object surrounding three inward pointing arrows and a thick circle in the middle. The usual shiver went up Alto Clef's back when he saw the symbol.</p> <p>Unlocking the safe (the combination was 24-17-11) he took out a leathery bag and placed it on the table.<br/> He opened it and inside was a row of razor-sharp teeth and a spongey tongue.<br/> There was a sudden 'thump' from above him and the sound of someone, or something, moving around the house.<br/> Alto Clef quickly grabbed his handgun from a nearby cabinet and checked to see if it was loaded.</p> <p>It was.</p> <p>He cautiously edged up the stairs out of the basement with his finger on the trigger when suddenly a dark shape was standing in the doorway.<br/> "I don't know who you are but… you better get out of my house right now!" Alto Clef demanded with as much assertion as he could muster. Although he couldn't stop his voice from shaking.<br/> "I just…" the other man began "…I just want to see what you have."<br/> "Who… Who are you?" Alto Clef blurted out.<br/> "No time for that, I have to see it." The other man quickly pushed past Alto Clef and began moving towards the safe of SCP-101.<br/> "Stop!" Alto Clef yelled out in desperation. "Or I'll shoot!"<br/> The man stopped suddenly and slowly turned to face Alto Clef.<br/> "I-" the man began but was cut off from the gunshot.<br/> The man looked down at the blood coming out his chest and vanished completely.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>He shot me…HE SHOT ME!</em><br/> <em>I'm…going to die from one of these places…</em><br/> <em>But as long as I… make sense of all this…</em><br/> <em>Then I won't mind…</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Containment cell.<br/> Rush of air.<br/> Forest.<br/> Always happens like that.<br/> Now where am I?<br/> Where are they?<br/> I see…<br/> Ruins.</p> <p>"Sir, the sensors have picked up movement outside."<br/> "How large?"<br/> "Human sized. Showed up out of nowhere."<br/> Commandant Strelnikov narrowed his eyes.<br/> "Send out a platoon of Ascension Guard to retrieve whoever it is. Secure and Contain."<br/> "At once. Contain and Protect."</p> <p>Commandant Strelnikov left the Central Command and made his way through Bunker #19 towards his office.<br/> Once there, he began writing a report on the day's events.<br/> 16 minutes later he received a message on his terminal to proceed to Interrogation Chamber F.<br/> <em>'That must be the Ascension Guard back with whoever it was from Outside.'</em> Strelnikov thought to himself.<br/> He got up, left his office and made his way towards Interrogation Room F.</p> <p>Outside, Commandant Strelnikov met Inquisitor Dodridge, the leader of the Ascension Guard that was sent out to retrieve the Outsider.<br/> "Secure and Contain." Dodridge saluted.<br/> "Contain and Protect." Strelnikov replied. "I trust the Outsider wasn't too difficult to apprehend?"<br/> "He was not your eminence; in fact he gave himself up willingly. He also lacks the brand of the Blessed and bears no tribal markings."<br/> "Noted."</p> <p>Commandant Strelnikov entered the Interrogation Chamber and looked across the table at the Outsider.<br/> He was dressed in clothing of Pre-Incident design. Strelnikov remembered they were called t-shirts, jeans and trainers. Remarkably they looked new and undamaged despite the Incident happening several decades ago.<br/> Strelnikov sat down on the chair opposite the Outsider.</p> <p>"Commandant Strelnikov presiding, interrogating an Outsider brought into Bunker #19 by a platoon of Ascension Guard led by Inquisitor Dodridge."<br/> Everything said in the Interrogation Chamber was recorded by a machine located in the adjacent room that was separated by a one-sided mirror.<br/> "At 1:04pm the Outsider triggered sensors located in sector 5b." Commandant Strelnikov went through the basic procedures an Interrogation.<br/> Now looking up at the Outsider, Strelnikov properly began the Interrogation.<br/> "Now, Outsider. What is your name?"<br/> The Outsider was looking at the one-way mirror.<br/> "You… have people on the other side of there don't you? Watching us." The Outsider's voice was very shaky.<br/> Strelnikov glanced at the one-way mirror. Clearly this wasn't going to be an ordinary Interrogation.<br/> "I'm the one asking the questions here," he said in a stern voice "Now tell us what your name is."<br/> The Outsider finally looked at Strelnikov, and the Commandant could see the madness in his eyes common with Exposure.<br/> "My… name… doesn't matter." The Outsider said before blurting out "You can call me Guy."<br/> "Very well, Guy. Now tell us what tribe you are from."<br/> "T… Tribe?"<br/> "Don't play games with me outsider!" Strelnikov nearly shouted as he lost his temper. "Tell me what tribe you are from!"<br/> "I… don't come from any tribe…"<br/> "LIAR!" Strelnikov <em>was</em> shouting now. "The only way you filth can survive is by banding together and huddling close for warmth! Any loner in the Outside dies from starvation or from one of the Blighted Anomalies." Strelnikov stood up, towering above the Outsider who cowered before him.<br/> "You WILL tell us what tribe you are from! You WILL tell us what you are doing here! And there is NOTHING you can do about it!"<br/> He sat back down and with a growl demanded "Begin."</p> <p>The Outsider sat there impassively.<br/> "Did you hear what I said Outsider?" Strelnikov yelled. "Answer me!"<br/> "Oh I heard you." The Outsider's voice had change dramatically, gone was any hint of fear. It had been replaced by a voice that seemed to suck all warmth out of the room with every word.<br/> "I heard you alright." The Outsider continued. "But what makes you think that one such as me will ever answer to one as feeble as you?"<br/> The Outsider looked up; the look of madness was still in his eyes.<br/> "W… what are you?" Strelnikov stammered, he knew that this was something other than a Blighted Anomaly.<br/> The Outsider grinned.<br/> "I am… something else."<br/> The Outsider began to laugh.<br/> In one quick movement, Commandant Strelnikov gathered his wits, stood upright, drew his firearm and pointed it at… nothing.<br/> The Outsider had vanished completely.<br/> Strelnikov cleared his throat.<br/> "Interrogation concluded, The Outsider being interrogated was somehow able to disappear. It is to be suspected that the Outsider was a Blighted Anomaly or was in possession of one. The Decontamination crew that processed the Outsider will be reviewed for dereliction of duty." He said, finishing the Interrogation.<br/> The Judicators would not be happy.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>I'm the only one who knows…</em><br/> <em>I'm the only one who understands…</em><br/> <em>I'm the only one who can figure all this out…</em><br/> <em>The Doctors of my world…they think they're so clever…</em><br/> <em>But… they know nothing…NOTHING…</em><br/> <em>And I can never tell them…about the others…</em><br/> <em>They wouldn't…believe me…</em><br/> <em>They think they're the only ones…</em><br/> <em>But they're not…</em><br/> <em>My…world's Foundation still only has 191 SCPs in containment…</em><br/> <em>There are more out there…</em><br/> <em>In other…places…</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="/little-scp-507-lost">Little SCP-507 Lost</a>" by Shebleha, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/little-scp-507-lost">https://scpwiki.com/little-scp-507-lost</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...I don't understand...// > //Why...why is it that they're everywhere?// > //Every place, everywhere, every fucking world...They're always there.// > //Why?// "Hi Mum! I'm back home from school!" Jimmy said as he walked through the front door. "Hi Darling! Just so you know your friends Sullivan and Jameson are already here." replied his Mum. 'Great!' thought Jimmy, that means he could play 'Foundation', the game they always played together. Jimmy walked into the living room and greeted Sullivan and Jameson. "Doctor Bright." he said to Sullivan in a serious tone. "Doctor James." he said to Jameson in the same serious tone. "Doctor Gears." They both replied in an equally serious tone. Jimmy smiled. They always played Foundation well. "I take it you're here to see SCP-846?" Jimmy asked them. "That's right we are. There are a few more tests we would like to run." replied Sullivan. "In that case I'm going to have to see your security clearance." Sullivan and Jameson took out their identifications. Square pieces of paper with the names 'Dr. Bright' and 'Dr. James' respectively as well as The Foundation's secret symbol (Jameson's Dad had them laminated). "Very good gentlemen. Now if you'll follow me." Jimmy took them into his room and from underneath his bed he took out an old shoe-box. On the box Jimmy has written in big letters with a red felt-tip pen 'SCP-846' as well as the super-secret symbol. The symbol had one thick circle, three arrows pointing inwards and another circle-like shape around the edges. Jimmy never told the other two that the symbol always gave him the creeps when he looked at it. "Is the containment door closed?" He asked Sullivan. "I'll secure it now Doctor Gears." Sullivan replied as he went to shut the bedroom door. Once it was shut, Jimmy opened the shoebox and took out what was inside. It was a small robot that called itself 'Robo-Dude'. There was also a controller for it with an 'On/Off' switch, a 'Speak' button and a small microphone. Jimmy flipped the switch to 'On'. "GREETINGS ROBO-PAL. HOW MAY ROBO-DUDE ASSIST YOU TODAY?" the voice of Robo-Dude was a dull, grating sound. Jimmy turned to Sullivan and started to say "Dr. Bright, what tests did you want to ru-" He paused, noticing a stranger standing in the doorway. "Who... who are you?" Jimmy asked the stranger in a shaky voice. "That's... not important right now, what do you call that... thing?" The stranger had an odd accent. "We call it SCP-846, but who are you?" The stranger opened his mouth to reply, but all of a sudden he disappeared. > //Sometimes...they're children...// > //Most times...they're adults...// > //But always...ALWAYS...// > //They look at me as if I'm...diseased...// It was raining as Robert drove home from work. He never liked the rain. He never really liked his job either, just some boring desk-job for an insurance firm. Working in a cramped cubicle for hours on end, constantly typing on a computer. It was monotonous work but at least it paid the bills. Robert pulled into his driveway and quickly made his way inside. He trudged upstairs, taking off his jacket as he did so and headed straight for his bedroom. His house was tiny, a living/dining room, a small kitchen (not enough room for a washing machine of course), a hallway, a bathroom and one bedroom. He took his lab coat out of his wardrobe and smiled. This was how he could actually get through each working day. Donning the lab-coat he switched to his alter-ego Alto Clef. Doctor of The Foundation. On his way to the basement he engaged a conversation with a tattered lampshade. "Ah, Doctor Kondraki. Good to see you on your feet after that little fiasco the other week." Despite the lampshade being inanimate it responded with: "Yeah, I'm not quite sure how he managed to do that." Alto Clef went into his basement and approached the safe sitting on the table. The safe wasn't very big, and on it Alto Clef had carefully engraved 'SCP-101' onto it as well as the symbol that he had come up with. It consisted of a circular object surrounding three inward pointing arrows and a thick circle in the middle. The usual shiver went up Alto Clef's back when he saw the symbol. Unlocking the safe (the combination was 24-17-11) he took out a leathery bag and placed it on the table. He opened it and inside was a row of razor-sharp teeth and a spongey tongue. There was a sudden 'thump' from above him and the sound of someone, or something, moving around the house. Alto Clef quickly grabbed his handgun from a nearby cabinet and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He cautiously edged up the stairs out of the basement with his finger on the trigger when suddenly a dark shape was standing in the doorway. "I don't know who you are but... you better get out of my house right now!" Alto Clef demanded with as much assertion as he could muster. Although he couldn't stop his voice from shaking. "I just..." the other man began "...I just want to see what you have." "Who... Who are you?" Alto Clef blurted out. "No time for that, I have to see it." The other man quickly pushed past Alto Clef and began moving towards the safe of SCP-101. "Stop!" Alto Clef yelled out in desperation. "Or I'll shoot!" The man stopped suddenly and slowly turned to face Alto Clef. "I-" the man began but was cut off from the gunshot. The man looked down at the blood coming out his chest and vanished completely. > //He shot me...HE SHOT ME!// > //I'm...going to die from one of these places...// > //But as long as I... make sense of all this...// > //Then I won't mind...// Containment cell. Rush of air. Forest. Always happens like that. Now where am I? Where are they? I see... Ruins. "Sir, the sensors have picked up movement outside." "How large?" "Human sized. Showed up out of nowhere." Commandant Strelnikov narrowed his eyes. "Send out a platoon of Ascension Guard to retrieve whoever it is. Secure and Contain." "At once. Contain and Protect." Commandant Strelnikov left the Central Command and made his way through Bunker #19 towards his office. Once there, he began writing a report on the day's events. 16 minutes later he received a message on his terminal to proceed to Interrogation Chamber F. //'That must be the Ascension Guard back with whoever it was from Outside.'// Strelnikov thought to himself. He got up, left his office and made his way towards Interrogation Room F. Outside, Commandant Strelnikov met Inquisitor Dodridge, the leader of the Ascension Guard that was sent out to retrieve the Outsider. "Secure and Contain." Dodridge saluted. "Contain and Protect." Strelnikov replied. "I trust the Outsider wasn't too difficult to apprehend?" "He was not your eminence; in fact he gave himself up willingly. He also lacks the brand of the Blessed and bears no tribal markings." "Noted." Commandant Strelnikov entered the Interrogation Chamber and looked across the table at the Outsider. He was dressed in clothing of Pre-Incident design. Strelnikov remembered they were called t-shirts, jeans and trainers. Remarkably they looked new and undamaged despite the Incident happening several decades ago. Strelnikov sat down on the chair opposite the Outsider. "Commandant Strelnikov presiding, interrogating an Outsider brought into Bunker #19 by a platoon of Ascension Guard led by Inquisitor Dodridge." Everything said in the Interrogation Chamber was recorded by a machine located in the adjacent room that was separated by a one-sided mirror. "At 1:04pm the Outsider triggered sensors located in sector 5b." Commandant Strelnikov went through the basic procedures an Interrogation. Now looking up at the Outsider, Strelnikov properly began the Interrogation. "Now, Outsider. What is your name?" The Outsider was looking at the one-way mirror. "You... have people on the other side of there don't you? Watching us." The Outsider's voice was very shaky. Strelnikov glanced at the one-way mirror. Clearly this wasn't going to be an ordinary Interrogation. "I'm the one asking the questions here," he said in a stern voice "Now tell us what your name is." The Outsider finally looked at Strelnikov, and the Commandant could see the madness in his eyes common with Exposure. "My... name... doesn't matter." The Outsider said before blurting out "You can call me Guy." "Very well, Guy. Now tell us what tribe you are from." "T... Tribe?" "Don't play games with me outsider!" Strelnikov nearly shouted as he lost his temper. "Tell me what tribe you are from!" "I... don't come from any tribe..." "LIAR!" Strelnikov //was// shouting now. "The only way you filth can survive is by banding together and huddling close for warmth! Any loner in the Outside dies from starvation or from one of the Blighted Anomalies." Strelnikov stood up, towering above the Outsider who cowered before him. "You WILL tell us what tribe you are from! You WILL tell us what you are doing here! And there is NOTHING you can do about it!" He sat back down and with a growl demanded "Begin." The Outsider sat there impassively. "Did you hear what I said Outsider?" Strelnikov yelled. "Answer me!" "Oh I heard you." The Outsider's voice had change dramatically, gone was any hint of fear. It had been replaced by a voice that seemed to suck all warmth out of the room with every word. "I heard you alright." The Outsider continued. "But what makes you think that one such as me will ever answer to one as feeble as you?" The Outsider looked up; the look of madness was still in his eyes. "W... what are you?" Strelnikov stammered, he knew that this was something other than a Blighted Anomaly. The Outsider grinned. "I am... something else." The Outsider began to laugh. In one quick movement, Commandant Strelnikov gathered his wits, stood upright, drew his firearm and pointed it at... nothing. The Outsider had vanished completely. Strelnikov cleared his throat. "Interrogation concluded, The Outsider being interrogated was somehow able to disappear. It is to be suspected that the Outsider was a Blighted Anomaly or was in possession of one. The Decontamination crew that processed the Outsider will be reviewed for dereliction of duty." He said, finishing the Interrogation. The Judicators would not be happy. > //I'm the only one who knows...// > //I'm the only one who understands...// > //I'm the only one who can figure all this out...// > //The Doctors of my world...they think they're so clever...// > //But... they know nothing...NOTHING...// > //And I can never tell them...about the others...// > //They wouldn't...believe me...// > //They think they're the only ones...// > //But they're not...// > //My...world's Foundation still only has 191 SCPs in containment...// > //There are more out there...// > //In other...places...// [[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>]]	2012-01-13T19:03:00	[ "_licensebox", "grabnok", "tale" ]	Little SCP-507 Lost - SCP Foundation	31	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12510909	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/little-scp-507-lost
log-of-anomalous-ducks	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <strong>Note:</strong> Following Incident F-19██ and the recovery of <a href="/scp-1356">SCP-1356</a>, Research Sector-09 was charged the evaluation and containment of resultant anomalies. Testing is ongoing, as relevant subjects are still being retrieved. Those items which display anomalous characteristics of a disruptive or exceptional nature, but not to a degree which merits further study or containment, are catalogued in this document. <p>Unless otherwise specified, effects have only been observed to apply to subjects in physical contact with the object. Status of "missing" most likely indicates that item is in personnel possession. Newly identified items should be catalogued accordingly.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Object has the appearance of a duck wearing a sheet, similar to a simplistic Halloween ghost costume. Duck has been observed to float 5-7cm above solid and liquid surfaces.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Attempts to weight the object down result in duck phasing through solid materials.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Object is a tri-colored rubber duck with the coloration and scent of a popular Halloween candy. Subjects in close proximity to the duck express a strong desire to taste it.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Taste described as "disappointing".</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Object appears to be a duck holding a small saxophone, which it has been observed to "play" at random intervals— emitting a single, drawn-out note followed by a series of melodically unrelated notes.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Sounds produced by duck are significantly shriller than those produced by a traditional saxophone.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Destroyed</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Item appears to convince any individual holding it that it is a duck made of solid gold, despite appearance suggesting spray-painted PVC surface. Materials tests inconclusive.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>See Incident Report M████-4</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Destroyed</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Generic rubber duck design with the addition of a fuzzy green hat. Any subject holding this object perceives every living organism in their line of sight to be wearing a similar fuzzy green hat.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Effects so far observed in humans, insects, animals of known and unknown species, organic SCPs, and several species of plant and fungi</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Missing</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Duck-shaped object affects the romantic feelings of human subject holding it. Subjects will be convinced the object is a "love charm", and persist in this belief regardless of any arising evidence to the contrary.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Status as cognitohazard pending review.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Missing</span> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Identical to non-anomalous rubber ducks in design and composition— however, when left unattended in a room, item always appears in a location different from where it was originally placed.<br/> <strong>Note:</strong> <em>Reports of uneasiness in the presence of this anomaly may warrant further testing. Duck's whereabouts should be promptly reported.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Missing</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> While duck does not appear to possess any clinically significant healing or painkilling properties, if held by a subject suffering from minor or significant injury, subject will subsequently find injured areas covered with a proportionate number of band-aids, regardless of the nature of the wound.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Item is available to all personnel for use, provided it is eventually returned to Room 204 first aid kit.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Despite its prolonged exposure to sunlight and seawater, object emits strong scent described by researchers as "artificial blueberry". PVC composition contains no trace of any chemical sufficient to produce this scent.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Personnel have reported that close proximity of the object notably affects the taste of food and beverages.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Object is sun-bleached in the manner of other, non-anomalous ducks, but with a pattern of zebra stripes that appeared after retrieval. Any subject holding the item will exhibit a similar pattern of stripes on any white clothing they are wearing; markings usually fade after a 24 hour period.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Object's whereabouts are proving easily detectable.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Missing</span> (<em>see note</em>)</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Appears to be patterned after London landmark "Big Ben". When placed in a room with any analog clock, clock will promptly align with GMT London time. On the hour, object emits a bell tone via unknown mechanism; volume of this bell tone has been informally estimated to be "as loud as the real thing".<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Security footage dated to 3/11, 4:12 am, reveals that object was destroyed by personnel; no official reprimand pending.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Destroyed</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> When held by male subject, duck will be invariably described by the individual as strikingly similar to a female of subject's acquaintance. Subjects have been frequently observed to fixate on determining "who it looks like" for prolonged intervals, and seem unable to resolve this question of identity.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Object has no observable effect on female personnel.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">There does not appear to be anything anomalous about this duck.</span><br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Object influences the perceptions of any subject holding it and any persons speaking to the affected subject. Object in fact appears to be a flamingo.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> Object has the appearance of a generic duck dressed as a clown. Subject holding the duck will respond to any verbal statement or question directed towards them with uncontrollable laughter.<br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Effect seems to apply regardless of the emotional or social appropriateness of this response.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Stored</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Duck Description:</strong> [DATA EXPUNGED] See image. <span style="color:white">THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK.</span><br/> <strong>Notes:</strong> <em>Context or content of duck unknown.</em><br/> <strong>Status:</strong> Missing</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="/log-of-anomalous-ducks">Log of Anomalous Ducks</a>" by floridapologia, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/log-of-anomalous-ducks">https://scpwiki.com/log-of-anomalous-ducks</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]] [[/>]] Note: Following Incident F-19██ and the recovery of [[[SCP-1356]]], Research Sector-09 was charged the evaluation and containment of resultant anomalies. Testing is ongoing, as relevant subjects are still being retrieved. Those items which display anomalous characteristics of a disruptive or exceptional nature, but not to a degree which merits further study or containment, are catalogued in this document. Unless otherwise specified, effects have only been observed to apply to subjects in physical contact with the object. Status of "missing" most likely indicates that item is in personnel possession. Newly identified items should be catalogued accordingly. ------ Duck Description: Object has the appearance of a duck wearing a sheet, similar to a simplistic Halloween ghost costume. Duck has been observed to float 5-7cm above solid and liquid surfaces. Notes: //Attempts to weight the object down result in duck phasing through solid materials.// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: Object is a tri-colored rubber duck with the coloration and scent of a popular Halloween candy. Subjects in close proximity to the duck express a strong desire to taste it. Notes: //Taste described as "disappointing".// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: Object appears to be a duck holding a small saxophone, which it has been observed to "play" at random intervals-- emitting a single, drawn-out note followed by a series of melodically unrelated notes. Notes: //Sounds produced by duck are significantly shriller than those produced by a traditional saxophone.// Status: Destroyed ------ Duck Description: Item appears to convince any individual holding it that it is a duck made of solid gold, despite appearance suggesting spray-painted PVC surface. Materials tests inconclusive. Notes: //See Incident Report M████-4// Status: Destroyed ------ Duck Description: Generic rubber duck design with the addition of a fuzzy green hat. Any subject holding this object perceives every living organism in their line of sight to be wearing a similar fuzzy green hat. Notes: //Effects so far observed in humans, insects, animals of known and unknown species, organic SCPs, and several species of plant and fungi// Status: Missing ------ Duck Description: Duck-shaped object affects the romantic feelings of human subject holding it. Subjects will be convinced the object is a "love charm", and persist in this belief regardless of any arising evidence to the contrary. Notes: //Status as cognitohazard pending review.// Status: --Missing-- Stored ------ Duck Description: Identical to non-anomalous rubber ducks in design and composition-- however, when left unattended in a room, item always appears in a location different from where it was originally placed. Note: //Reports of uneasiness in the presence of this anomaly may warrant further testing. Duck's whereabouts should be promptly reported.// Status: Missing ------ Duck Description: While duck does not appear to possess any clinically significant healing or painkilling properties, if held by a subject suffering from minor or significant injury, subject will subsequently find injured areas covered with a proportionate number of band-aids, regardless of the nature of the wound. Notes: //Item is available to all personnel for use, provided it is eventually returned to Room 204 first aid kit.// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: Despite its prolonged exposure to sunlight and seawater, object emits strong scent described by researchers as "artificial blueberry". PVC composition contains no trace of any chemical sufficient to produce this scent. Notes: //Personnel have reported that close proximity of the object notably affects the taste of food and beverages.// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: Object is sun-bleached in the manner of other, non-anomalous ducks, but with a pattern of zebra stripes that appeared after retrieval. Any subject holding the item will exhibit a similar pattern of stripes on any white clothing they are wearing; markings usually fade after a 24 hour period. Notes: //Object's whereabouts are proving easily detectable.// Status: --Missing-- (//see note//) ------ Duck Description: Appears to be patterned after London landmark "Big Ben". When placed in a room with any analog clock, clock will promptly align with GMT London time. On the hour, object emits a bell tone via unknown mechanism; volume of this bell tone has been informally estimated to be "as loud as the real thing". Notes: //Security footage dated to 3/11, 4:12 am, reveals that object was destroyed by personnel; no official reprimand pending.// Status: Destroyed ------ Duck Description: When held by male subject, duck will be invariably described by the individual as strikingly similar to a female of subject's acquaintance. Subjects have been frequently observed to fixate on determining "who it looks like" for prolonged intervals, and seem unable to resolve this question of identity. Notes: //Object has no observable effect on female personnel.// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: --There does not appear to be anything anomalous about this duck.-- Notes: //Object influences the perceptions of any subject holding it and any persons speaking to the affected subject. Object in fact appears to be a flamingo.// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: Object has the appearance of a generic duck dressed as a clown. Subject holding the duck will respond to any verbal statement or question directed towards them with uncontrollable laughter. Notes: //Effect seems to apply regardless of the emotional or social appropriateness of this response.// Status: Stored ------ Duck Description: [DATA EXPUNGED] See image. [[span style="color:white"]]THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK. THIS IS NOT A DUCK.[[/span]] Notes: //Context or content of duck unknown.// Status: Missing [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=floridapologia]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-03-21T21:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "comedy", "event-featured", "joke", "tale" ]	Log of Anomalous Ducks - SCP Foundation	502	[ "scp-1356", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "top-rated-jokes", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "reimagined-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "event-featured-archive", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations", "joke-scps" ]	[]	12970205	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/log-of-anomalous-ducks
lonely	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>They don't come anymore.</p> <p>I remember when they used to come every day. Talking quietly among themselves, walking through. Few of them ever talked to me, but them being here was enough to keep one amused through the days. Every now and then, they'd give me one of theirs. One that couldn't walk or talk anymore. Maybe it was a payment - what one of them always did before sort of hurt… but it didn't matter. I wouldn't mind if it hurt… if all of them were here, walking.</p> <p>If <strong>he</strong> was here.</p> <p><strong>He</strong> stayed, almost all the time… <strong>He</strong> was one of the few who talked to me, <strong>he</strong>'d return from somewhere away with an unsteady gait, drop down into the grass, and we'd talk, until <strong>he</strong> stopped moving. At those times I could even touch <strong>him</strong>, feel <strong>his</strong> surface. It was different, nice, soft and warm.</p> <p>Some nights <strong>he</strong> didn't go, usually one or two nights after they'd given me another of theirs - instead <strong>he</strong>'d open a hole in me again, take out the one that was inside - they always put them inside boxes made of tree - do something with them, then put them back in. Through time I learned to help <strong>him</strong> open the holes, it was easier, so much easier for both of us.</p> <p>Those were the best times, times with <strong>him</strong>.</p> <p>One night like that, another man came and walked through. He stopped for a while, then ran away, then walked back next day, with two others, with heavy boots. They grabbed <strong>him</strong>, just as <strong>he</strong> was touching the flowers growing near my end, and took <strong>him</strong> away.</p> <p><strong>He</strong> never came back, and I don't know why. I wanted to be with <strong>him</strong> forever, <strong>he</strong> loved me, <strong>he</strong> talked to me. I tried to talk to the others, but they didn't listen when there were many, and they ran away when they were alone.</p> <p>Then, soon, another man came and wanted to make a hole. But, he wasn't <strong>him</strong>. He didn't love me, he didn't talk to me. I tried to touch him, but he run away. Ungrateful, vile. Not like <strong>him</strong> at all.</p> <p>But still, at least some things happened then… walking, talking, a lot of things. I waited, many days, but <strong>he</strong> didn't come back. The others came less often, and were slower and slower, until one day they didn't come anymore.</p> <p>I waited and waited.</p> <p>A few times, some of them would come back, alone, or in small groups. I was so happy, doesn't matter it wasn't <strong>him</strong>, it was someone. I tried to greet them, help them, do anything for them, but they too were vile and ungrateful. One of them I tried to keep from running, and it worked - he went down, on one of the big stone slabs they have hauled in, and stopped moving. I was happy for a while - he wasn't <strong>him</strong>, he didn't walk or talk, but at least he stayed. I took him in, making a hole myself… that's what is proper, because that's what <strong>he</strong> did… even when he took them out, <strong>he</strong> put them back later. Besides, it hurts a lot less when I do it myself, I found. So, it's what I did with every one that stopped moving.</p> <p>Then, one day, a lot of them came again. I was happy, so happy, it'd be like the old times again, maybe even <strong>he</strong>'d show up again. But <strong>he</strong> didn't… instead they put metal rods into me, and did a lot of things, and then they left, and noone came or stayed since. Oh, one of them stayed… but he was just like the ones I talked about. Meh.</p> <p>And now they don't come anymore. Nobody does. I can't stand it… everything is the same, there are no footsteps, no talk. Maybe I should do something. No, I must do something.<br/> I wonder. <strong>He</strong> used to take them out from me, every so often. Maybe if I take them all out, in <strong>his</strong> name, for <strong>him</strong>, <strong>he</strong> will return. <strong>He</strong> will return. <strong>He</strong> will return! Why didn't I think of it before! I was stupid, unworthy of <strong>him</strong>, but now I know! It will hurt, it will hurt a lot, but I must be strong. I can withstand it. I must withstand it. For <strong>him.</strong> For love.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Incident <a href="/scp-1673">1673</a>-1</strong><br/> On ██/██/19██ , approximately 3 years after estabilishing containment, the guards located outside the perimeter of SCP-1673 have reported tremors consistent with seismic activity, and resulting in structural damage to the perimeter wall. Examination of SCP-1673 during its inactive period next day has found evidence of large-scale soil movement, and the exhumation of a large quantity of human remains in various states of decomposition, the freshest identified as D-833 (See Document 1673-Eta for experiment logs).</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><em>Note: As the town of Westkin, Virginia isn't located in a fault zone, and subsequently collected evidence suggests the epicenter of the tremours to locate within SCP-1673, I request its reclassification to Euclid. - Researcher Cartwright</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="/lonely">Lonely</a>" by VAElynx, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lonely">https://scpwiki.com/lonely</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]] [[/>]] They don't come anymore. I remember when they used to come every day. Talking quietly among themselves, walking through. Few of them ever talked to me, but them being here was enough to keep one amused through the days. Every now and then, they'd give me one of theirs. One that couldn't walk or talk anymore. Maybe it was a payment - what one of them always did before sort of hurt... but it didn't matter. I wouldn't mind if it hurt... if all of them were here, walking. If he was here. He stayed, almost all the time... He was one of the few who talked to me, he'd return from somewhere away with an unsteady gait, drop down into the grass, and we'd talk, until he stopped moving. At those times I could even touch him, feel his surface. It was different, nice, soft and warm. Some nights he didn't go, usually one or two nights after they'd given me another of theirs - instead he'd open a hole in me again, take out the one that was inside - they always put them inside boxes made of tree - do something with them, then put them back in. Through time I learned to help him open the holes, it was easier, so much easier for both of us. Those were the best times, times with him. One night like that, another man came and walked through. He stopped for a while, then ran away, then walked back next day, with two others, with heavy boots. They grabbed him, just as he was touching the flowers growing near my end, and took him away. He never came back, and I don't know why. I wanted to be with him forever, he loved me, he talked to me. I tried to talk to the others, but they didn't listen when there were many, and they ran away when they were alone. Then, soon, another man came and wanted to make a hole. But, he wasn't him. He didn't love me, he didn't talk to me. I tried to touch him, but he run away. Ungrateful, vile. Not like him at all. But still, at least some things happened then... walking, talking, a lot of things. I waited, many days, but he didn't come back. The others came less often, and were slower and slower, until one day they didn't come anymore. I waited and waited. A few times, some of them would come back, alone, or in small groups. I was so happy, doesn't matter it wasn't him, it was someone. I tried to greet them, help them, do anything for them, but they too were vile and ungrateful. One of them I tried to keep from running, and it worked - he went down, on one of the big stone slabs they have hauled in, and stopped moving. I was happy for a while - he wasn't him, he didn't walk or talk, but at least he stayed. I took him in, making a hole myself... that's what is proper, because that's what he did... even when he took them out, he put them back later. Besides, it hurts a lot less when I do it myself, I found. So, it's what I did with every one that stopped moving. Then, one day, a lot of them came again. I was happy, so happy, it'd be like the old times again, maybe even he'd show up again. But he didn't... instead they put metal rods into me, and did a lot of things, and then they left, and noone came or stayed since. Oh, one of them stayed... but he was just like the ones I talked about. Meh. And now they don't come anymore. Nobody does. I can't stand it... everything is the same, there are no footsteps, no talk. Maybe I should do something. No, I must do something. I wonder. He used to take them out from me, every so often. Maybe if I take them all out, in his name, for him, he will return. He will return. He will return! Why didn't I think of it before! I was stupid, unworthy of him, but now I know! It will hurt, it will hurt a lot, but I must be strong. I can withstand it. I must withstand it. For him. For love. > Incident [[[scp-1673\|1673]]]-1 > On ██/██/19██ , approximately 3 years after estabilishing containment, the guards located outside the perimeter of SCP-1673 have reported tremors consistent with seismic activity, and resulting in structural damage to the perimeter wall. Examination of SCP-1673 during its inactive period next day has found evidence of large-scale soil movement, and the exhumation of a large quantity of human remains in various states of decomposition, the freshest identified as D-833 (See Document 1673-Eta for experiment logs). > //Note: As the town of Westkin, Virginia isn't located in a fault zone, and subsequently collected evidence suggests the epicenter of the tremours to locate within SCP-1673, I request its reclassification to Euclid. - Researcher Cartwright// [[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>]]	2012-07-20T18:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Lonely - SCP Foundation	27	[ "scp-1673", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "advent-calendar-2015", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13844518	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lonely
loose-ends	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Mr. Eric Brashin checked his silver pocket watch, holding it only by the chain. The boy was late. Of course. The meeting he had scheduled was already bound to prove a waste of time. Lateness always reflected badly on a prospective recruit. When the prospect, as he was wont to think of them, can't be trusted to handle even the simplest of appointments properly, why on Earth should he trust them with matters of infinitely greater importance? Misters Marshall, Carter, and perhaps even Dark, did not look kindly on a lack of professionalism. More personally, he himself had only contempt for the kind of idiots who came to him, hat in hand, begging for a chance, and then didn't even bother to show up for the introductory meeting.</p> <p>Mr. Brashin stood stiffly in one of the greeting rooms the club used to meet with those not aware of the more exotic aspects of the establishment. Barely a minute had passed before he was drawing his watch out by its chain again. He examined the face, taking note of the time while being careful to not actually touch the watch itself. Irritated, he asked himself aloud, “Eight minutes late already, where has the punctuality of this new generation gone?"</p> <p>Another five minutes passed unremarkably, with his scheduled meeting still going unmet. Despite himself, Mr. Brashin began to feel a bit annoyed. The young rich these days all felt themselves entitled to the world waiting on them, hand and foot. Well, he doubted this particular entitled fop would be finding himself favorably received by Mr. Marshall. Five minutes late could be explained. Ten minutes would get you a polite kick out the door. More than that, and you would likely end up as what Mr. Marshall referred to as a "loose end."</p> <p>Gripped by a sudden suspicion, Mr. Brashin reaching into his coat pocket and drew out his pocket watch, this time holding it by the actual timepiece, not the chain. The hands spun crazily for a handful of moments, before resting on twelve hours, twelve minutes, and one second. He knew what it meant, it had been explained to him very concisely, all those years ago. He could still hear the oily voice of his predecessor, "Twelve means zero, hours mean years, minutes mean months, and seconds mean days." Whatever tiny hint of color there was in his face drained out of it. Only now did he hear the measured footsteps leading towards the room. It was of no use to try to run, trying to hide would have been laughable, and fighting back would only embarrass him.</p> <p>Unexpectedly, Mr. Brashin felt his eyes sting and his vision blurred for a moment with tears. He pushed them back sternly. If he had to go, he would not go crying. The click of shoe on hardwood stopped just outside the stately meeting room door, and the handle turned slowly. The door opened, and there was Mr. Marshall, smiling at him sadly. A rather large man stood just behind and to the right of him, but the brute was unimportant, in the larger scheme of things. Eric Brashin only had eyes for his employer.</p> <p>His voice was barely controlled, almost cracking as he asked, “If I may ask, Mr. Marshall, why?”</p> <p>Mr. Marshall’s sad smile didn’t change for an instant. He looked the man, his faithful employee of nearly twenty years, dead in the eye. “Loose ends, Mr. Brashin. Always loose ends. Your last hire was more trouble than they were worth, being a spy and all. We simply can't allow you to continue, after a horrendous mistake like that. Our clients value privacy above all else, and letting in even a single mole jeopardizes every last one of them. I had hoped you would be eligible for a nice, peaceful, retirement, but you know far too much.”</p> <p>He sighed sadly. “I understand, sir.” And he did understand. Working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark, one knew that you would likely never make retirement. He had known all too well how likely it was that precisely this thing would happen, but he had tried to never pay the idea much mind. He gently removed the watch from his pocket and held it out. “I suppose you’ll be wanting this back then. For my-” He choked a little on the word, "Replacement."</p> <p>Still with that sad smile plastered on his face, Mr. Marshall answered while taking the silvery timepiece, “I’m sorry, Eric.”</p> <p>The soft thump of a silenced gunshot sounded over Mr. Marshall’s shoulder, and Eric Brashin stumbled backwards and fell to the rich hardwood, blood staining his crisp grey suit. Darkness swam across his vision, and the last thing he heard was Mr. Marshall say softly, “Loyalty, Henderson. That is what loyalty looks like.”</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="/loose-ends">Loose Ends</a>" by Varian, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/loose-ends">https://scpwiki.com/loose-ends</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]] [[/>]] Mr. Eric Brashin checked his silver pocket watch, holding it only by the chain. The boy was late. Of course. The meeting he had scheduled was already bound to prove a waste of time. Lateness always reflected badly on a prospective recruit. When the prospect, as he was wont to think of them, can't be trusted to handle even the simplest of appointments properly, why on Earth should he trust them with matters of infinitely greater importance? Misters Marshall, Carter, and perhaps even Dark, did not look kindly on a lack of professionalism. More personally, he himself had only contempt for the kind of idiots who came to him, hat in hand, begging for a chance, and then didn't even bother to show up for the introductory meeting. Mr. Brashin stood stiffly in one of the greeting rooms the club used to meet with those not aware of the more exotic aspects of the establishment. Barely a minute had passed before he was drawing his watch out by its chain again. He examined the face, taking note of the time while being careful to not actually touch the watch itself. Irritated, he asked himself aloud, “Eight minutes late already, where has the punctuality of this new generation gone?" Another five minutes passed unremarkably, with his scheduled meeting still going unmet. Despite himself, Mr. Brashin began to feel a bit annoyed. The young rich these days all felt themselves entitled to the world waiting on them, hand and foot. Well, he doubted this particular entitled fop would be finding himself favorably received by Mr. Marshall. Five minutes late could be explained. Ten minutes would get you a polite kick out the door. More than that, and you would likely end up as what Mr. Marshall referred to as a "loose end." Gripped by a sudden suspicion, Mr. Brashin reaching into his coat pocket and drew out his pocket watch, this time holding it by the actual timepiece, not the chain. The hands spun crazily for a handful of moments, before resting on twelve hours, twelve minutes, and one second. He knew what it meant, it had been explained to him very concisely, all those years ago. He could still hear the oily voice of his predecessor, "Twelve means zero, hours mean years, minutes mean months, and seconds mean days." Whatever tiny hint of color there was in his face drained out of it. Only now did he hear the measured footsteps leading towards the room. It was of no use to try to run, trying to hide would have been laughable, and fighting back would only embarrass him. Unexpectedly, Mr. Brashin felt his eyes sting and his vision blurred for a moment with tears. He pushed them back sternly. If he had to go, he would not go crying. The click of shoe on hardwood stopped just outside the stately meeting room door, and the handle turned slowly. The door opened, and there was Mr. Marshall, smiling at him sadly. A rather large man stood just behind and to the right of him, but the brute was unimportant, in the larger scheme of things. Eric Brashin only had eyes for his employer. His voice was barely controlled, almost cracking as he asked, “If I may ask, Mr. Marshall, why?” Mr. Marshall’s sad smile didn’t change for an instant. He looked the man, his faithful employee of nearly twenty years, dead in the eye. “Loose ends, Mr. Brashin. Always loose ends. Your last hire was more trouble than they were worth, being a spy and all. We simply can't allow you to continue, after a horrendous mistake like that. Our clients value privacy above all else, and letting in even a single mole jeopardizes every last one of them. I had hoped you would be eligible for a nice, peaceful, retirement, but you know far too much.” He sighed sadly. “I understand, sir.” And he did understand. Working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark, one knew that you would likely never make retirement. He had known all too well how likely it was that precisely this thing would happen, but he had tried to never pay the idea much mind. He gently removed the watch from his pocket and held it out. “I suppose you’ll be wanting this back then. For my-” He choked a little on the word, "Replacement." Still with that sad smile plastered on his face, Mr. Marshall answered while taking the silvery timepiece, “I’m sorry, Eric.” The soft thump of a silenced gunshot sounded over Mr. Marshall’s shoulder, and Eric Brashin stumbled backwards and fell to the rich hardwood, blood staining his crisp grey suit. Darkness swam across his vision, and the last thing he heard was Mr. Marshall say softly, “Loyalty, Henderson. That is what loyalty looks like.” [[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>]]	2012-10-06T18:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "tale" ]	Loose Ends - SCP Foundation	34	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14569365	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/loose-ends
lord-blackwood-and-the-great-tarasque-hunt-of-83	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>May 14, 1883:</strong></p> <p>I received a most curious missive in the post this morning. It has been four months since I returned to England, having nearly lost my life in endeavouring to become the first man to reach the summit of the foreboding and deadly Mt. Everest. I have spent the time since in research and recovery here in London, nursing my wounds and documenting my memoirs of the harrowing trip up the mountain and my nearly-fatal encounter with the creature I found there - a tale which, I fear, may never be told outside these diaries - and I have not planned to embark again for distant shores until after summer has past. That has changed, I fear, as the result of today's letter. It was a formal affair, written in a folded card like a wedding invitation, sealed in the finest envelope, and I present it to you below;</p> <blockquote> <p><em>To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE</em>;</p> <p><em>Col. Joseph D'Enfante, l'Armee de Terre of the Republic of France,</em></p> <p><em>does hereby cordially invite you to participate in</em></p> <p><strong>A HUNT</strong></p> <p><em>of a great and terrible creature that threatens the lives of thousands.</em></p> <p><strong>THE TARASQUE</strong><em>,</em></p> <p><em>a creature great and terrifying, of late believed to be legend,</em></p> <p><em>has arisen and threatens the security of the land of Provence and of France itself.</em></p> <p><em>Col. D'Enfante has been authorised by the President of the Republic</em></p> <p><em>to pay a sum of</em></p> <p><strong>FIVE MILLION ENGLISH POUNDS</strong></p> <p><em>to the man or men who shall slay this infamous beast.</em></p> <p><em>R.S.V.P. in care of Col. D'Enfante, No. 22, Kensington Road, Knightsbridge, London.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>I immediately dashed off an acceptance and sent it out with the afternoon post. Though I have hunted foxes and elephants and every beast, great and small, in between, I had never heard of such a creature as the Tarasque, and certainly never had an opportunity to hunt one. I spent my afternoon in the study, pouring over encyclopediae and tomes of history and mythology, before I found the term in a collection of folk tales regarding St. Martha, sister to Mary Magdalene, who had supposedly calmed the beast with her song. The text described it as a vicious creature; a massive chimera, that breathed fire and whose scaly hide repelled every blade, that killed without remorse and seemed only to wreak chaos for its own enjoyment.</p> <p>When the last delivery of the day came just before tea-time, I had received an address and directions to attend a briefing the day after tomorrow in the City. I have always been a firm believer in the proposition that even in the most preposterous of myths, there lies a kernel of truth. Whether an ancient behemoth that breathed fire was bringing ruination to the south of France, I knew not; but I knew that the army and the president themselves were concerned enough to seek out a man such as myself, and were willing to offer a bounty that would finance a score of proper expeditions for the killing of a single beast. On Wednesday, I will learn why.</p> <p><strong>May 16, 1883:</strong></p> <p>Today I attended Col. D'Enfante's meeting, held in a private room in the City, at the club owned by Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark. (Lest the reader question my morality, I assure you that I am no member, dues-paying or otherwise, of that association; I find their stock in trade offensive and deplorable, and their clientele even more so.) But on this day, the windowless establishment was free of its usual throng of libertines and Bohemians, replaced by a handful of officers and men in the uniforms of the French, a handful of our own soldiers guarding the door. Servants and waiters, apparently relieved to be in our company rather than that of their usual employers, offered drinks and <em>hors d'oeuvres</em> to their guests.</p> <p>Besides myself, there were three guests of honour at the meeting. There was an American, Mr. Roosevelt, a young man who had made for himself already quite a name as a hunter of big game in the American west. There was Mr. Dukov, a Russian I knew of by reputation as a scientist and historian. Lastly, there was another Englishman, the same Mr. Harris whom readers of these pages may recall as he whom I matched wits with on the banks of the Nile in 1855. I will spare the reader the excruciating details of our past intercourse; suffice it to say that Mr. Harris and I were schoolmates at Eton, that I regarded him then as little more than a common blackguard, and that what news I have heard of him since then has given me little reason to change my assessment of his personage.</p> <p>Col. D'Enfante, a short and middle-aged man who bore signs of great fatigue and worry, spoke briefly and elaborated on his reasons for calling on the four of us. The being that his government had come to call the Tarasque, he said, had first appeared the Sunday after Easter near the village of Tarascon (named, most coincidentally, for the mythical beast itself) and had destroyed the town utterly, claiming several thousand souls in the process. The handful of survivors who escaped the devastation had described a great lizard, nimble and merciless, that had charged directly into the town square and destroyed everyone and everything in its path, crushing, smashing, and devouring people, livestock, and buildings alike. One man, a farmer whose wife and children had been ripped to shreds by the beast, claimed that it spoke to him, in plain French, and told him of them; "Ils étaient répugnants."</p> <p>Since then, the Colonel said, three outlying villages and countless farms in Provence had fallen to the Tarasque. It attacked without mercy or reason, killed indiscriminately, and left only devastation in its wake. The army had sent men and horses and cavalry against it; there were few survivors, and those who lived claimed the beast had been struck directly by artillery and neither flagged nor missed a step, the hole in its chest seemingly knitting together as it charged their position. The entire region had been quarantined, citizens were being evacuated by the thousands, and the army and the press were passing stories of plagues and Prussian revanchists, but his government feared the worst would soon come to pass; Nimes, Avignon, and Arles were in danger if the beast continued to rage.</p> <p>The four of us, the Colonel claimed, were the finest hunters and scientific minds available and known to his government. He knew not if we were capable of taking down such a monster, but between our expert knowledge and unique access to the finest tools and weapons known to science, he hoped we could succeed where his own forces had failed.</p> <p>I left the meeting with a stack of papers; details of the army's knowledge of the Tarasque based on what reconnaissance they have to date endeavoured. On Saturday, the four of us will board a steamer across the Channel and travel to the epicenter of this pandemonium ourselves. Deeds, my loyal valet, has begun packing my bags, and is having the more "exotic" armaments in my arsenal prepared for shipping. I do not anticipate working with Mr. Harris any more than I anticipate shaking hands with the Devil, but Messrs. Roosevelt and Dukov appear to be of sound mind and fine spirit, and with luck, our motley quartet shall return to England with a fortune in our pockets and a story to tell.</p> <p><strong>May 20th, 1883:</strong></p> <p>We disembarked in Avignon after an uneventful trip by train from Calais. It may seem strange for a globe-trotter such as myself, but until this week-end I have never had occasion to travel to France; after all, it is a civilised place, lacking in the ancient mysteries and elusive game that is my passion (or so I would have thought). Mr. Roosevelt and I spent many hours sharing our tales of adventure; I find in him a true intellectual who understands what it means to be a naturalist. Mr. Dukov I found more difficult to talk to; he is a private man, who prefers the company of his books and his studies to that of his fellows. He proudly displayed a variety of his own inventions he intended to test against the Tarasque; a gun that fires beams of electricity, a jellied kerosene that burns without exploding, and what he described as his latest prototype - a large rifle on a tripod, fueled by refined pitchblende (which I suspect is not entirely different than Mr. Moth's destabilizing muskets, one of which I had brought myself.)</p> <p>I did my best to avoid speaking to Mr. Harris during the trip. I intend during our expedition to be no less than a gentleman, but the man leaves a sour taste in my mouth. When we boarded the train at Calais, I watched as he had a large crate loaded onto the train, which he told us contained his "secret weapon". He refused to tell us what the box contained, but viewing it made me uncomfortable - the air seemed to chill as it was carried by. In any event, it is too large to fit in our wagon - for now, we shall be leaving it in a bank vault in Avignon.</p> <p>Our weapons and provisions have been loaded onto a wagon and horses have been readied for us. Tomorrow, Colonel D'Enfante will escort us to the edge of the quarantine zone. From there, he says, the four of us shall be on our own - he can spare no more soldiers, lest the beast attack the fortifications directly and break loose.</p> <p><strong>May 21st, 1883:</strong></p> <p>I have seen the horrors of war often enough in my years. I saw the wrath of the British Empire first-hand when I lead troops in the Opium Wars. In Africa I have seen native tribes fight to the last man, destroying everything in their path. In the Crimea I barely escaped with my life as thousands of men fought and died and cities were laid bare. The destruction I saw there pales in comparison to what I have beheld in the Tarasque's wake.</p> <p>Avignon itself looked like a city at war - soldiers patrolling the streets, barricades at the edge of town. Not far outside the city we reached the edge of the quarantine zone. Soldiers had been hard at work digging trenches, erecting fortifications. The young men keeping watch looked battle-scarred, as though they had seen indescribable horror. A constant stream of evacuees made their way out of the area - women and children, some with little more than the clothes on their back. Many looked confused and agitated, as if they had no clue why they were being removed from their homes. On the faces of others, there was no doubt. I asked on passing if any of them had yet seen the Tarasque. Only a few - the scouts and lookouts - had seen it from a distance, I was told, for nobody who had engaged the beast at close range was still alive. It had not yet dared to attack the perimeter the army had erected - but two days prior, a watchman told me, he had spotted it a mile from the front line, seemingly staring back at him. Mr. Harris grudgingly agreed to ride out alone and scout for the beast, while Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Dukov, and I followed the road to Tarascon to learn what we could of the nature of our quarry.</p> <p>Tarascon itself was a scene of utter ruination. Bodies lay by the score in the streets where they had fallen. Much of the town had been consumed by fire; the town's famous castle, and other stone buildings, dashed to rubble and massive holes torn in the walls that remained standing. We saw not a living soul - no man or woman, no livestock, nor vermin, nor birds or beasts of the field. Even the greenery of the town seemed to have been destroyed. I began to feel pangs of doubt in my stomach as we surveyed the scene - could one creature have truly wreaked such destruction?</p> <p>We set up camp on the edge of the dead town. Mr. Harris returned by evening and informed us he had spotted the Tarasque to the southwest, near the village of Bellegarde, in the act of destroying a farmhouse. Its route, he said, had not been difficult to trace, for a swath of barren land seemed to lay a trail; even the grass itself was not safe from the Tarasque's wrath. Tomorrow, we will follow the trail, and engage the beast.</p> <p><strong>May 22nd, 1883:</strong></p> <p>We have met the Tarasque this day, and we are lucky to have escaped with our lives.</p> <p>We traveled southwest to Belleville, which we found in a state of destruction not unlike that of Tarascon itself. From there, we followed the creature's trail as it meandered south, then west, then northwest through the farmlands, drawing uncomfortably close to Nimes. Shortly after midday, we spotted the creature in the distance; it was stationary, seeming to nap in the afternoon sun. It was a massive thing, longer than a whale and taller than a giraffe, and it looked to outweigh either. Its scales glistened in the sun and its teeth, massive and shining, were bared as it rested among the chaos it had wrought. Had it wings, I would have called it a dragon.</p> <p>With our weapons in tow we stealthily approached the beast to a range of less than a hundred feet. Mr. Dukov set up his pitchblende-gun, which he claimed would take some time to charge before it could be fired, while Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Harris prepared their elephant guns and I readied my particle destabilizer. Behind a short fence demarcating one of the now-abandoned farms, we drew straws and it was agreed I would take the first shot at the abomination. Steadying my gun against the fence, I took careful aim for the sleeping Tarasque's head, I held my breath, made my final adjustment, and fired.</p> <p>The shot hit square and true, and we watched with delight as the top of the Tarasque's head was shorn clean off. The beast slumped to the ground and I breathed a sigh of relief. In one shot, the beast that had killed thousands and menaced a nation was dead. Mr. Harris let out a cheer - and the dead beast came to life. It rose to its feet and turned in our direction. Blood, brains, and gore oozed from its skull as a head missing an eye stared us down and let out a blood-curdling roar before it charged at us faster than a bull elephant. Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Harris barely had time to fire a round each at the beast before we were forced to scatter. Harris tossed aside his elephant gun for a smaller repeater he had been carrying and discharged a magazine into the Tarasque's flank - and we watched in horror as the wounds it took sealed themselves within seconds. Mr. Dukov was forced to shut down his pitchblende-gun before it could fully charge, and fired his electric rifle three times into the monster's open wound, stunning it for long enough for us to reach our horses. By the time we were on horseback, the beast was up again and charging us, and flesh and bone was knitting anew over the open cavity in its skull. I fired the particle destabilizer again at its foreleg and took it off entirely, hobbling it as it tried to chase us on three legs. We rode in four directions and agreed to meet behind the quarantine line. I saw the beast attempt to take off in pursuit of Mr. Roosevelt as the stump of its leg began to grow and take new form, but he was able to elude the goliath and by nightfall we were among the soldiers at the barricade, our prides injured but otherwise in good health.</p> <p><strong>May 28th, 1883:</strong></p> <p>Luck and providence have provided; thus far, the Tarasque has made no effort to escape the quarantine area, and has proven content to ravage the abandoned farms of Provence and feed liberally on the animals and plants left behind. After our second attempt to attack the Tarasque on the 23rd proved no more successful than the first, we have come to a conclusion that the beast cannot be killed simply by gunshot, or electrification, or setting it aflame, for the rate at which it heals its injuries is so great, and its tolerance for pain and mutilation so high, that even the mighty broadsides of the Royal Navy would have little chance of destroying it before it could take their lives in trade. To slay the Tarasque, we determined, we would have to immobilize it, and deal such destruction upon it that it would be utterly annihilated before it could free itself. We discussed for several hours how such a thing could be achieved, before an old sergeant who had been manning the night watch begged our ears. The sergeant had, he said, fought in Viet-Namh when the natives there attempted to rebel against the French in sixty-eight, and had seen them make use of a trap that was elegant, easily disguised, and deadly. Mr. Roosevelt and I talked over the fine points of the idea well into the night, and the next day the four of us traveled into the field to lay our trap.</p> <p>We prepared our trap in the fields near Graveson, a village between Tarascon and Avignon that the Tarasque had yet to lay waste to, and where the water table was amenable to our task. By careful observation we had judged that the beast stood about nine feet at the shoulder, six feet wide, and thirty feet long. With the help of a few soldiers whom Col. D'Enfante had grudgingly conceded to parting with, we dug a long trench in the field wide and long enough to contain the beast, and deep enough to stop the beast climbing loose before the damage could be done. In the bottom of the pit we mounted steel rods, sharpened to a fine point, by the hundreds, each tipped with a noxious poison I had acquired in the Orient. Running lengthwise through the center of the pit, we built a wooden bridge, large and sturdy enough to accommodate a man on horseback, but not so sturdy that it would not break and shatter under the weight of the Tarasque. Four days we were involved in the earthwork; the digging done, we laid a net across the top and it was covered with grass and leaves. From a distance, it looked to all the world like an ordinary patch of open land - beneath which, laid doom.</p> <p>Mr. Harris has spotted the Tarasque not two miles from our location, and tomorrow we will spring the trap. Mr. Roosevelt has agreed to act as bait - he will approach the Tarasque on horseback and attack it once with his elephant gun, and once it gives chase, he will lure it to the pit. He is to gallop across the bridge and lure the Tarasque to follow him - and when it attempts to do so, it will surely fall into the pit. Messrs. Dukov and Harris and I, lying in wait out of sight, will then join Mr. Roosevelt at the pit's edge and unleash the full fury of our armaments onto it - our rifles and shot-guns, the particle destabilizer, Mr. Dukov's electric rifle, and provided it has charged safely, he shall make his first firing of the pitchblende-gun. Once our armament has been exhausted, we shall pour four barrels of Mr. Dukov's jellied kerosene into the pit and ignite it - and, Providence withstanding, nothing shall be left of the creature but ash and bone by sundown tomorrow.</p> <p><strong>May 29th, 1883:</strong></p> <p>SUCCESS!</p> <p>The plan went off without a hitch. It was afternoon before Mr. Roosevelt could coerce the Tarasque into pursuing him, but surely enough the reptilian behemoth fell into the pit, impaled upon the spikes, and was stuck while the four of us rained destruction from above. The monster let loose a screech from the pits of Damnation itself as bullets and explosives tore its flesh loose bit by bit, and jellied kerosene burned slowly and stopped it regrowing. Mr. Dukov warned us to avert our eyes when he finally fired the pitchblende-gun, and his warning was justified - the blast was bright enough to blind, and a massive plume of smoke and fire erupted from the pit after he had pulled the trigger, seeming to blossom into a mushroom above us. By the time the fires had died down, a charred skeleton was all that remained.</p> <p>We have separated the beast's massive skull, blackened and perforated, from what remains of the monster, and a handful of soldiers who reported after the blast are hard at work filling in the pit with earth. Tomorrow we shall bring the skull back to Avignon and collect our reward.</p> <p><strong>May 30th, 1883:</strong></p> <p>DISASTER!</p> <p>We were hailed as heroes by the army when we arrived in Avignon with our prize. In the morning light, the Tarasque's skull seemed whiter than it had the night before, and more charred flesh stuck to it than it had seemed when we dragged it from the pit, though surely it was little more than an illusion. The four of us posed for photographs, and Mr. Dukov asked to have his photograph taken with his head in between the massive jaws of our fallen prey.</p> <p>Imagine our horror when the jaws snapped shut, severing Dukov's head neatly at the shoulders. The skull of the Tarasque rolled loose from its place on the stage and snapped again, taking another chunk of his body, and the soldiers screamed and fainted as it seemed to be growing a new coating of flesh and scales over its charred exterior. We watched, shocked, as the honor guards fired a volley at the skull. The chips it took off seemed to replace themselves instantly, and I was dumbfounded as sinew and muscle seemed to spread across the creature's bones and knit into shape. The jaws of the disembodied Tarasque opened and it shouted in French; "<strong>Vous me rendez malade</strong>".</p> <p>From the other end of the plaza I heard more screams, and looked to see the impossible - the rest of the Tarasque! Covered in earth and grime, held together by a few lonely strands of muscle, the headless carcass lurched through the square with uncanny speed, trampling men in its path, ignoring gunshot and cannon fire as it made to rejoin its body. From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Harris take off running. Mr. Roosevelt noted he was headed in the direction of the bank vault and his secret weapon; as the skull of the Tarasque seemed to be making its way towards where I stood, I gave Harris chase.</p> <p>We found Mr. Harris having dragged the crate out of the vault into the lobby, hurriedly prying the boards loose. Soon the crate fell away, revealing a stone coffin that looked truly ancient. It felt as if all the heat fled the room when the sarcophagus was exposed, and I forced back a shudder as I beheld it. Three chains with massive locks held the lid in place, and the lid and casket itself were covered with hand-carved runes that looked to be Sumerian or Akkadian. I confess that I have not taken the time to learn the ancient languages of Mesopotamia; but I felt a distinct sense of <em>wrongness</em> emanating from the box as Mr. Harris drew a ring with three keys from his coat and began to unlock the seals, one by one. I begged with him to stop this madness and flee while we had a chance, and he insisted that once open, our victory would be secured. Mr. Harris pushed the lid aside and barely had a moment to regard his secret weapon, in the flesh, before an olive-toned arm, sword in hand, lashed out from within the box and sliced his head clean off.</p> <p>In all my years of adventuring among the primitives and wild men of the world, I have never set eyes on a man who looked so savage, so elemental, so full of primal rage as the being that now climbed from the coffin; naked, sword in hand, its long black hair flowing behind it, its body covered head to toe in tattooes of eldritch imagery and ancient languages that resembled no script written by man. Sherman, the American general, is said to have told his enemies, begging for mercy, that they may as well appeal against the thunderstorm. What I beheld before me, I thought, was the very eidolon of the storm.</p> <p>Mr. Roosevelt attempted to entreat with the man and beg its assistance; seeming to barely hear him, the god-man set his eyes on Roosevelt and lunged with his sword. Roosevelt parried with his rifle, the barrel cracking under its onslaught, and in surprise the god-man dropped the blade. Roosevelt picked it up and attempted to return the blow, and in an instant the god-man somehow held another sword in each hand. Mr. Roosevelt did his best to fend off his assailant's onslaught, but found himself cornered soon. Though I am loath to intervene in a fair fight between two honest men, I could not bear to see Mr. Roosevelt cut down in the midst of this pandemonium; I drew my pistol and emptied its cylinder, discharging five rounds into the god-man's head.</p> <p>Though it should have been dead, the olive-skinned destroyer turned and stared me down. Like the Tarasque, even with half its face gone it seemed ready to kill. Dropping one of its blades, it moved its hand rapidly through the air and tossed something at me faster than I could react. In an instant, I could not move my arms. The man had somehow materialized a <em>bola</em>, a weapon used by the cow-men of South America to immobilize fleeing animals, and it had tied itself securely around my chest. Another flick and a second bola struck me around the legs, and I was down on the ground. He approached to land the killing blow, when behind me I saw the outer wall of the bank shudder and give way and heard that offensive roar - the cry of the Tarasque, nary a scratch upon it, as it entered the building in search of its would-be slayers.</p> <p>The god-man caught sight of the Tarasque and lost interest entirely in Mr. Roosevelt and I. This, I thought, must be why poor Mr. Harris considered him his secret weapon; this avatar of rage lived to fight, and in the Tarasque, it had the ultimate rival. To describe the fight that ensued between those two unkillable titans would take a hundred pages or more; Mr. Roosevelt and I huddled in the safety of the bank vault, which alone seemed immune to the destruction the two rained upon each other. After the better part of an hour had passed, hundreds lay dead around them, the center of Avignon little more than rubble. The god-man was missing an arm and half a leg, an eye, and the better part of his brain, and his stomach had been cut open. In a state where most men would be long dead, it continued to fight, severing even its own entrails and making weapons of them. The Tarasque had suffered as badly; it was on the ground, recuperating, when I saw the god-man take notice of Mr. Dukov's pitchblende-gun, lying near what remained of the stage that an hour ago had been the site of such jubilation.</p> <p>As we watched, the god-man removed the core of the pitchblende-gun with an uncanny precision. He made what seemed to be bombs and explosives appear, and it strapped them to the device's core, which he mounted on his chest. Lighting a fuse, it charged at the Tarasque as it readied itself to meet him. Having seen the fury of the pitchblende-gun in a controlled state, Mr. Roosevelt and I had no desire to see what happened next. We retreated into the vault as a blinding light filled the square and a blistering wind, mightier than the hurricanes of the Caribbean, slammed the door shut and sealed us within.</p> <p>It is dark; the light from my electric torch has provided just enough luminescence by which to write this account. I know not for how long the air in this vault will last. Aside from the lifeless body of Mr. Harris, there is nothing in this vault that approximates food or water, and as Christians and gentlemen Mr. Roosevelt and myself have sworn not to pursue that dark path unless our lives themselves are on the line. I do not know if I will make it out of here alive; if I do not, let this diary be my last word and testament to the horrors that have befallen this corner of the world.</p> <p><strong>June 13th, 1883:</strong></p> <p>Providence smiled upon us after all, in the end; on the morning of the 1st, the vault door opened and I regarded a major of the army and a company of men searching for survivors. Mr. Roosevelt and I were dehydrated and beginning to suffer from pitchblende-fever; fortunately; I knew the address of one of my dear friend Henry's associates in Marseille, and upon being transported to hospital, he met us there and provided the treatments necessary to stave off the certain death that that malicious ague carries with it.</p> <p>Colonel D'Enfante is dead, I have learned; and at least ten thousand others who were incinerated when Avignon was consumed by flame. Even those who had survived, I learned, have been burned or blinded, and pitchblende-fever will likely claim many of them in time. No sign has been seen of the Tarasque or the god-man since the explosion; nor, for that matter, of the icy sarcophagus in which he had apparently slept until the late Mr. Harris loosed him upon the city. It will take years, if not decades, to restore this ancient region to its former glory.</p> <p>We were two of only a handful of witnesses to one of the greatest disasters to strike France in recent memory; and having been at the center of it all, the army regarded us with great suspicion. We were interrogated several times, first by soldiers, then by police, then by politicians. A man who looked English watched and took notes, but said not a word as we told our story. In the end we escaped transportation to Devil's Island, but the reward that had been promised was forfeit, and we were sternly warned that neither of us were welcome in France again so long as we lived. The explosion that claimed Avignon was seen for hundreds of miles, I learned, and the press from Paris to New York were heavily embroiled in speculation; everything from a falling star, to a German super-weapon, to the wrath of God Himself was being proposed as an explanation. We were warned not to share our personal knowledge of the event with others as we were sent on our way.</p> <p>Mr. Roosevelt and I parted ways in Calais; he intends to return to America, he informed me, and pursue a political career. In that, I wish him well.</p> <p>I returned to my house in London this afternoon, and was informed by Deeds that a post-card had arrived for me this morning. The handwriting in the brief, unsigned note within resembled that of the strange Englishman who had attended the questionings, whose notes I caught brief glimpses of from time to time. I present that message below;</p> <blockquote> <p><em>To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE;</em></p> <p><em>The Royal Foundation for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Objects and Phantasmagoria requests a meeting for the purpose of negotiating an alliance favourable to both our parties. Please call any time (excepting Sundays) at No. 19 Marylebone Road, Westminster, and ask to speak to Doctor Thursday. Your discretion is requested in this matter.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>I have not heard of this Foundation before, and I do not know if I intend to take them up on their mysterious overture. Perhaps I shall hear them out; but I have never been one to serve in one man's employ for very long, and I value my freedom as a naturalist and explorer above all else. We shall see.<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="/lord-blackwood-and-the-great-tarasque-hunt-of-83">Lord Blackwood and the Great Tarasque Hunt of '83</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-great-tarasque-hunt-of-83">https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-great-tarasque-hunt-of-83</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]] [[/>]] May 14, 1883: I received a most curious missive in the post this morning. It has been four months since I returned to England, having nearly lost my life in endeavouring to become the first man to reach the summit of the foreboding and deadly Mt. Everest. I have spent the time since in research and recovery here in London, nursing my wounds and documenting my memoirs of the harrowing trip up the mountain and my nearly-fatal encounter with the creature I found there - a tale which, I fear, may never be told outside these diaries - and I have not planned to embark again for distant shores until after summer has past. That has changed, I fear, as the result of today's letter. It was a formal affair, written in a folded card like a wedding invitation, sealed in the finest envelope, and I present it to you below; > //To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE//; > > //Col. Joseph D'Enfante, l'Armee de Terre of the Republic of France,// > > //does hereby cordially invite you to participate in// > > A HUNT > > //of a great and terrible creature that threatens the lives of thousands.// > > THE TARASQUE//,// > > //a creature great and terrifying, of late believed to be legend,// > > //has arisen and threatens the security of the land of Provence and of France itself.// > > //Col. D'Enfante has been authorised by the President of the Republic// > > //to pay a sum of// > > FIVE MILLION ENGLISH POUNDS > > //to the man or men who shall slay this infamous beast.// > > //R.S.V.P. in care of Col. D'Enfante, No. 22, Kensington Road, Knightsbridge, London.// I immediately dashed off an acceptance and sent it out with the afternoon post. Though I have hunted foxes and elephants and every beast, great and small, in between, I had never heard of such a creature as the Tarasque, and certainly never had an opportunity to hunt one. I spent my afternoon in the study, pouring over encyclopediae and tomes of history and mythology, before I found the term in a collection of folk tales regarding St. Martha, sister to Mary Magdalene, who had supposedly calmed the beast with her song. The text described it as a vicious creature; a massive chimera, that breathed fire and whose scaly hide repelled every blade, that killed without remorse and seemed only to wreak chaos for its own enjoyment. When the last delivery of the day came just before tea-time, I had received an address and directions to attend a briefing the day after tomorrow in the City. I have always been a firm believer in the proposition that even in the most preposterous of myths, there lies a kernel of truth. Whether an ancient behemoth that breathed fire was bringing ruination to the south of France, I knew not; but I knew that the army and the president themselves were concerned enough to seek out a man such as myself, and were willing to offer a bounty that would finance a score of proper expeditions for the killing of a single beast. On Wednesday, I will learn why. May 16, 1883: Today I attended Col. D'Enfante's meeting, held in a private room in the City, at the club owned by Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark. (Lest the reader question my morality, I assure you that I am no member, dues-paying or otherwise, of that association; I find their stock in trade offensive and deplorable, and their clientele even more so.) But on this day, the windowless establishment was free of its usual throng of libertines and Bohemians, replaced by a handful of officers and men in the uniforms of the French, a handful of our own soldiers guarding the door. Servants and waiters, apparently relieved to be in our company rather than that of their usual employers, offered drinks and //hors d'oeuvres// to their guests. Besides myself, there were three guests of honour at the meeting. There was an American, Mr. Roosevelt, a young man who had made for himself already quite a name as a hunter of big game in the American west. There was Mr. Dukov, a Russian I knew of by reputation as a scientist and historian. Lastly, there was another Englishman, the same Mr. Harris whom readers of these pages may recall as he whom I matched wits with on the banks of the Nile in 1855. I will spare the reader the excruciating details of our past intercourse; suffice it to say that Mr. Harris and I were schoolmates at Eton, that I regarded him then as little more than a common blackguard, and that what news I have heard of him since then has given me little reason to change my assessment of his personage. Col. D'Enfante, a short and middle-aged man who bore signs of great fatigue and worry, spoke briefly and elaborated on his reasons for calling on the four of us. The being that his government had come to call the Tarasque, he said, had first appeared the Sunday after Easter near the village of Tarascon (named, most coincidentally, for the mythical beast itself) and had destroyed the town utterly, claiming several thousand souls in the process. The handful of survivors who escaped the devastation had described a great lizard, nimble and merciless, that had charged directly into the town square and destroyed everyone and everything in its path, crushing, smashing, and devouring people, livestock, and buildings alike. One man, a farmer whose wife and children had been ripped to shreds by the beast, claimed that it spoke to him, in plain French, and told him of them; "Ils étaient répugnants." Since then, the Colonel said, three outlying villages and countless farms in Provence had fallen to the Tarasque. It attacked without mercy or reason, killed indiscriminately, and left only devastation in its wake. The army had sent men and horses and cavalry against it; there were few survivors, and those who lived claimed the beast had been struck directly by artillery and neither flagged nor missed a step, the hole in its chest seemingly knitting together as it charged their position. The entire region had been quarantined, citizens were being evacuated by the thousands, and the army and the press were passing stories of plagues and Prussian revanchists, but his government feared the worst would soon come to pass; Nimes, Avignon, and Arles were in danger if the beast continued to rage. The four of us, the Colonel claimed, were the finest hunters and scientific minds available and known to his government. He knew not if we were capable of taking down such a monster, but between our expert knowledge and unique access to the finest tools and weapons known to science, he hoped we could succeed where his own forces had failed. I left the meeting with a stack of papers; details of the army's knowledge of the Tarasque based on what reconnaissance they have to date endeavoured. On Saturday, the four of us will board a steamer across the Channel and travel to the epicenter of this pandemonium ourselves. Deeds, my loyal valet, has begun packing my bags, and is having the more "exotic" armaments in my arsenal prepared for shipping. I do not anticipate working with Mr. Harris any more than I anticipate shaking hands with the Devil, but Messrs. Roosevelt and Dukov appear to be of sound mind and fine spirit, and with luck, our motley quartet shall return to England with a fortune in our pockets and a story to tell. May 20th, 1883: We disembarked in Avignon after an uneventful trip by train from Calais. It may seem strange for a globe-trotter such as myself, but until this week-end I have never had occasion to travel to France; after all, it is a civilised place, lacking in the ancient mysteries and elusive game that is my passion (or so I would have thought). Mr. Roosevelt and I spent many hours sharing our tales of adventure; I find in him a true intellectual who understands what it means to be a naturalist. Mr. Dukov I found more difficult to talk to; he is a private man, who prefers the company of his books and his studies to that of his fellows. He proudly displayed a variety of his own inventions he intended to test against the Tarasque; a gun that fires beams of electricity, a jellied kerosene that burns without exploding, and what he described as his latest prototype - a large rifle on a tripod, fueled by refined pitchblende (which I suspect is not entirely different than Mr. Moth's destabilizing muskets, one of which I had brought myself.) I did my best to avoid speaking to Mr. Harris during the trip. I intend during our expedition to be no less than a gentleman, but the man leaves a sour taste in my mouth. When we boarded the train at Calais, I watched as he had a large crate loaded onto the train, which he told us contained his "secret weapon". He refused to tell us what the box contained, but viewing it made me uncomfortable - the air seemed to chill as it was carried by. In any event, it is too large to fit in our wagon - for now, we shall be leaving it in a bank vault in Avignon. Our weapons and provisions have been loaded onto a wagon and horses have been readied for us. Tomorrow, Colonel D'Enfante will escort us to the edge of the quarantine zone. From there, he says, the four of us shall be on our own - he can spare no more soldiers, lest the beast attack the fortifications directly and break loose. May 21st, 1883: I have seen the horrors of war often enough in my years. I saw the wrath of the British Empire first-hand when I lead troops in the Opium Wars. In Africa I have seen native tribes fight to the last man, destroying everything in their path. In the Crimea I barely escaped with my life as thousands of men fought and died and cities were laid bare. The destruction I saw there pales in comparison to what I have beheld in the Tarasque's wake. Avignon itself looked like a city at war - soldiers patrolling the streets, barricades at the edge of town. Not far outside the city we reached the edge of the quarantine zone. Soldiers had been hard at work digging trenches, erecting fortifications. The young men keeping watch looked battle-scarred, as though they had seen indescribable horror. A constant stream of evacuees made their way out of the area - women and children, some with little more than the clothes on their back. Many looked confused and agitated, as if they had no clue why they were being removed from their homes. On the faces of others, there was no doubt. I asked on passing if any of them had yet seen the Tarasque. Only a few - the scouts and lookouts - had seen it from a distance, I was told, for nobody who had engaged the beast at close range was still alive. It had not yet dared to attack the perimeter the army had erected - but two days prior, a watchman told me, he had spotted it a mile from the front line, seemingly staring back at him. Mr. Harris grudgingly agreed to ride out alone and scout for the beast, while Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Dukov, and I followed the road to Tarascon to learn what we could of the nature of our quarry. Tarascon itself was a scene of utter ruination. Bodies lay by the score in the streets where they had fallen. Much of the town had been consumed by fire; the town's famous castle, and other stone buildings, dashed to rubble and massive holes torn in the walls that remained standing. We saw not a living soul - no man or woman, no livestock, nor vermin, nor birds or beasts of the field. Even the greenery of the town seemed to have been destroyed. I began to feel pangs of doubt in my stomach as we surveyed the scene - could one creature have truly wreaked such destruction? We set up camp on the edge of the dead town. Mr. Harris returned by evening and informed us he had spotted the Tarasque to the southwest, near the village of Bellegarde, in the act of destroying a farmhouse. Its route, he said, had not been difficult to trace, for a swath of barren land seemed to lay a trail; even the grass itself was not safe from the Tarasque's wrath. Tomorrow, we will follow the trail, and engage the beast. May 22nd, 1883: We have met the Tarasque this day, and we are lucky to have escaped with our lives. We traveled southwest to Belleville, which we found in a state of destruction not unlike that of Tarascon itself. From there, we followed the creature's trail as it meandered south, then west, then northwest through the farmlands, drawing uncomfortably close to Nimes. Shortly after midday, we spotted the creature in the distance; it was stationary, seeming to nap in the afternoon sun. It was a massive thing, longer than a whale and taller than a giraffe, and it looked to outweigh either. Its scales glistened in the sun and its teeth, massive and shining, were bared as it rested among the chaos it had wrought. Had it wings, I would have called it a dragon. With our weapons in tow we stealthily approached the beast to a range of less than a hundred feet. Mr. Dukov set up his pitchblende-gun, which he claimed would take some time to charge before it could be fired, while Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Harris prepared their elephant guns and I readied my particle destabilizer. Behind a short fence demarcating one of the now-abandoned farms, we drew straws and it was agreed I would take the first shot at the abomination. Steadying my gun against the fence, I took careful aim for the sleeping Tarasque's head, I held my breath, made my final adjustment, and fired. The shot hit square and true, and we watched with delight as the top of the Tarasque's head was shorn clean off. The beast slumped to the ground and I breathed a sigh of relief. In one shot, the beast that had killed thousands and menaced a nation was dead. Mr. Harris let out a cheer - and the dead beast came to life. It rose to its feet and turned in our direction. Blood, brains, and gore oozed from its skull as a head missing an eye stared us down and let out a blood-curdling roar before it charged at us faster than a bull elephant. Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Harris barely had time to fire a round each at the beast before we were forced to scatter. Harris tossed aside his elephant gun for a smaller repeater he had been carrying and discharged a magazine into the Tarasque's flank - and we watched in horror as the wounds it took sealed themselves within seconds. Mr. Dukov was forced to shut down his pitchblende-gun before it could fully charge, and fired his electric rifle three times into the monster's open wound, stunning it for long enough for us to reach our horses. By the time we were on horseback, the beast was up again and charging us, and flesh and bone was knitting anew over the open cavity in its skull. I fired the particle destabilizer again at its foreleg and took it off entirely, hobbling it as it tried to chase us on three legs. We rode in four directions and agreed to meet behind the quarantine line. I saw the beast attempt to take off in pursuit of Mr. Roosevelt as the stump of its leg began to grow and take new form, but he was able to elude the goliath and by nightfall we were among the soldiers at the barricade, our prides injured but otherwise in good health. May 28th, 1883: Luck and providence have provided; thus far, the Tarasque has made no effort to escape the quarantine area, and has proven content to ravage the abandoned farms of Provence and feed liberally on the animals and plants left behind. After our second attempt to attack the Tarasque on the 23rd proved no more successful than the first, we have come to a conclusion that the beast cannot be killed simply by gunshot, or electrification, or setting it aflame, for the rate at which it heals its injuries is so great, and its tolerance for pain and mutilation so high, that even the mighty broadsides of the Royal Navy would have little chance of destroying it before it could take their lives in trade. To slay the Tarasque, we determined, we would have to immobilize it, and deal such destruction upon it that it would be utterly annihilated before it could free itself. We discussed for several hours how such a thing could be achieved, before an old sergeant who had been manning the night watch begged our ears. The sergeant had, he said, fought in Viet-Namh when the natives there attempted to rebel against the French in sixty-eight, and had seen them make use of a trap that was elegant, easily disguised, and deadly. Mr. Roosevelt and I talked over the fine points of the idea well into the night, and the next day the four of us traveled into the field to lay our trap. We prepared our trap in the fields near Graveson, a village between Tarascon and Avignon that the Tarasque had yet to lay waste to, and where the water table was amenable to our task. By careful observation we had judged that the beast stood about nine feet at the shoulder, six feet wide, and thirty feet long. With the help of a few soldiers whom Col. D'Enfante had grudgingly conceded to parting with, we dug a long trench in the field wide and long enough to contain the beast, and deep enough to stop the beast climbing loose before the damage could be done. In the bottom of the pit we mounted steel rods, sharpened to a fine point, by the hundreds, each tipped with a noxious poison I had acquired in the Orient. Running lengthwise through the center of the pit, we built a wooden bridge, large and sturdy enough to accommodate a man on horseback, but not so sturdy that it would not break and shatter under the weight of the Tarasque. Four days we were involved in the earthwork; the digging done, we laid a net across the top and it was covered with grass and leaves. From a distance, it looked to all the world like an ordinary patch of open land - beneath which, laid doom. Mr. Harris has spotted the Tarasque not two miles from our location, and tomorrow we will spring the trap. Mr. Roosevelt has agreed to act as bait - he will approach the Tarasque on horseback and attack it once with his elephant gun, and once it gives chase, he will lure it to the pit. He is to gallop across the bridge and lure the Tarasque to follow him - and when it attempts to do so, it will surely fall into the pit. Messrs. Dukov and Harris and I, lying in wait out of sight, will then join Mr. Roosevelt at the pit's edge and unleash the full fury of our armaments onto it - our rifles and shot-guns, the particle destabilizer, Mr. Dukov's electric rifle, and provided it has charged safely, he shall make his first firing of the pitchblende-gun. Once our armament has been exhausted, we shall pour four barrels of Mr. Dukov's jellied kerosene into the pit and ignite it - and, Providence withstanding, nothing shall be left of the creature but ash and bone by sundown tomorrow. May 29th, 1883: SUCCESS! The plan went off without a hitch. It was afternoon before Mr. Roosevelt could coerce the Tarasque into pursuing him, but surely enough the reptilian behemoth fell into the pit, impaled upon the spikes, and was stuck while the four of us rained destruction from above. The monster let loose a screech from the pits of Damnation itself as bullets and explosives tore its flesh loose bit by bit, and jellied kerosene burned slowly and stopped it regrowing. Mr. Dukov warned us to avert our eyes when he finally fired the pitchblende-gun, and his warning was justified - the blast was bright enough to blind, and a massive plume of smoke and fire erupted from the pit after he had pulled the trigger, seeming to blossom into a mushroom above us. By the time the fires had died down, a charred skeleton was all that remained. We have separated the beast's massive skull, blackened and perforated, from what remains of the monster, and a handful of soldiers who reported after the blast are hard at work filling in the pit with earth. Tomorrow we shall bring the skull back to Avignon and collect our reward. May 30th, 1883: DISASTER! We were hailed as heroes by the army when we arrived in Avignon with our prize. In the morning light, the Tarasque's skull seemed whiter than it had the night before, and more charred flesh stuck to it than it had seemed when we dragged it from the pit, though surely it was little more than an illusion. The four of us posed for photographs, and Mr. Dukov asked to have his photograph taken with his head in between the massive jaws of our fallen prey. Imagine our horror when the jaws snapped shut, severing Dukov's head neatly at the shoulders. The skull of the Tarasque rolled loose from its place on the stage and snapped again, taking another chunk of his body, and the soldiers screamed and fainted as it seemed to be growing a new coating of flesh and scales over its charred exterior. We watched, shocked, as the honor guards fired a volley at the skull. The chips it took off seemed to replace themselves instantly, and I was dumbfounded as sinew and muscle seemed to spread across the creature's bones and knit into shape. The jaws of the disembodied Tarasque opened and it shouted in French; "Vous me rendez malade". From the other end of the plaza I heard more screams, and looked to see the impossible - the rest of the Tarasque! Covered in earth and grime, held together by a few lonely strands of muscle, the headless carcass lurched through the square with uncanny speed, trampling men in its path, ignoring gunshot and cannon fire as it made to rejoin its body. From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Harris take off running. Mr. Roosevelt noted he was headed in the direction of the bank vault and his secret weapon; as the skull of the Tarasque seemed to be making its way towards where I stood, I gave Harris chase. We found Mr. Harris having dragged the crate out of the vault into the lobby, hurriedly prying the boards loose. Soon the crate fell away, revealing a stone coffin that looked truly ancient. It felt as if all the heat fled the room when the sarcophagus was exposed, and I forced back a shudder as I beheld it. Three chains with massive locks held the lid in place, and the lid and casket itself were covered with hand-carved runes that looked to be Sumerian or Akkadian. I confess that I have not taken the time to learn the ancient languages of Mesopotamia; but I felt a distinct sense of //wrongness// emanating from the box as Mr. Harris drew a ring with three keys from his coat and began to unlock the seals, one by one. I begged with him to stop this madness and flee while we had a chance, and he insisted that once open, our victory would be secured. Mr. Harris pushed the lid aside and barely had a moment to regard his secret weapon, in the flesh, before an olive-toned arm, sword in hand, lashed out from within the box and sliced his head clean off. In all my years of adventuring among the primitives and wild men of the world, I have never set eyes on a man who looked so savage, so elemental, so full of primal rage as the being that now climbed from the coffin; naked, sword in hand, its long black hair flowing behind it, its body covered head to toe in tattooes of eldritch imagery and ancient languages that resembled no script written by man. Sherman, the American general, is said to have told his enemies, begging for mercy, that they may as well appeal against the thunderstorm. What I beheld before me, I thought, was the very eidolon of the storm. Mr. Roosevelt attempted to entreat with the man and beg its assistance; seeming to barely hear him, the god-man set his eyes on Roosevelt and lunged with his sword. Roosevelt parried with his rifle, the barrel cracking under its onslaught, and in surprise the god-man dropped the blade. Roosevelt picked it up and attempted to return the blow, and in an instant the god-man somehow held another sword in each hand. Mr. Roosevelt did his best to fend off his assailant's onslaught, but found himself cornered soon. Though I am loath to intervene in a fair fight between two honest men, I could not bear to see Mr. Roosevelt cut down in the midst of this pandemonium; I drew my pistol and emptied its cylinder, discharging five rounds into the god-man's head. Though it should have been dead, the olive-skinned destroyer turned and stared me down. Like the Tarasque, even with half its face gone it seemed ready to kill. Dropping one of its blades, it moved its hand rapidly through the air and tossed something at me faster than I could react. In an instant, I could not move my arms. The man had somehow materialized a //bola//, a weapon used by the cow-men of South America to immobilize fleeing animals, and it had tied itself securely around my chest. Another flick and a second bola struck me around the legs, and I was down on the ground. He approached to land the killing blow, when behind me I saw the outer wall of the bank shudder and give way and heard that offensive roar - the cry of the Tarasque, nary a scratch upon it, as it entered the building in search of its would-be slayers. The god-man caught sight of the Tarasque and lost interest entirely in Mr. Roosevelt and I. This, I thought, must be why poor Mr. Harris considered him his secret weapon; this avatar of rage lived to fight, and in the Tarasque, it had the ultimate rival. To describe the fight that ensued between those two unkillable titans would take a hundred pages or more; Mr. Roosevelt and I huddled in the safety of the bank vault, which alone seemed immune to the destruction the two rained upon each other. After the better part of an hour had passed, hundreds lay dead around them, the center of Avignon little more than rubble. The god-man was missing an arm and half a leg, an eye, and the better part of his brain, and his stomach had been cut open. In a state where most men would be long dead, it continued to fight, severing even its own entrails and making weapons of them. The Tarasque had suffered as badly; it was on the ground, recuperating, when I saw the god-man take notice of Mr. Dukov's pitchblende-gun, lying near what remained of the stage that an hour ago had been the site of such jubilation. As we watched, the god-man removed the core of the pitchblende-gun with an uncanny precision. He made what seemed to be bombs and explosives appear, and it strapped them to the device's core, which he mounted on his chest. Lighting a fuse, it charged at the Tarasque as it readied itself to meet him. Having seen the fury of the pitchblende-gun in a controlled state, Mr. Roosevelt and I had no desire to see what happened next. We retreated into the vault as a blinding light filled the square and a blistering wind, mightier than the hurricanes of the Caribbean, slammed the door shut and sealed us within. It is dark; the light from my electric torch has provided just enough luminescence by which to write this account. I know not for how long the air in this vault will last. Aside from the lifeless body of Mr. Harris, there is nothing in this vault that approximates food or water, and as Christians and gentlemen Mr. Roosevelt and myself have sworn not to pursue that dark path unless our lives themselves are on the line. I do not know if I will make it out of here alive; if I do not, let this diary be my last word and testament to the horrors that have befallen this corner of the world. June 13th, 1883: Providence smiled upon us after all, in the end; on the morning of the 1st, the vault door opened and I regarded a major of the army and a company of men searching for survivors. Mr. Roosevelt and I were dehydrated and beginning to suffer from pitchblende-fever; fortunately; I knew the address of one of my dear friend Henry's associates in Marseille, and upon being transported to hospital, he met us there and provided the treatments necessary to stave off the certain death that that malicious ague carries with it. Colonel D'Enfante is dead, I have learned; and at least ten thousand others who were incinerated when Avignon was consumed by flame. Even those who had survived, I learned, have been burned or blinded, and pitchblende-fever will likely claim many of them in time. No sign has been seen of the Tarasque or the god-man since the explosion; nor, for that matter, of the icy sarcophagus in which he had apparently slept until the late Mr. Harris loosed him upon the city. It will take years, if not decades, to restore this ancient region to its former glory. We were two of only a handful of witnesses to one of the greatest disasters to strike France in recent memory; and having been at the center of it all, the army regarded us with great suspicion. We were interrogated several times, first by soldiers, then by police, then by politicians. A man who looked English watched and took notes, but said not a word as we told our story. In the end we escaped transportation to Devil's Island, but the reward that had been promised was forfeit, and we were sternly warned that neither of us were welcome in France again so long as we lived. The explosion that claimed Avignon was seen for hundreds of miles, I learned, and the press from Paris to New York were heavily embroiled in speculation; everything from a falling star, to a German super-weapon, to the wrath of God Himself was being proposed as an explanation. We were warned not to share our personal knowledge of the event with others as we were sent on our way. Mr. Roosevelt and I parted ways in Calais; he intends to return to America, he informed me, and pursue a political career. In that, I wish him well. I returned to my house in London this afternoon, and was informed by Deeds that a post-card had arrived for me this morning. The handwriting in the brief, unsigned note within resembled that of the strange Englishman who had attended the questionings, whose notes I caught brief glimpses of from time to time. I present that message below; > //To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE;// > > //The Royal Foundation for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Objects and Phantasmagoria requests a meeting for the purpose of negotiating an alliance favourable to both our parties. Please call any time (excepting Sundays) at No. 19 Marylebone Road, Westminster, and ask to speak to Doctor Thursday. Your discretion is requested in this matter.// I have not heard of this Foundation before, and I do not know if I intend to take them up on their mysterious overture. Perhaps I shall hear them out; but I have never been one to serve in one man's employ for very long, and I value my freedom as a naturalist and explorer above all else. We shall see. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-05-31T10:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "action", "adventure", "blackwood", "first-person", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "journal", "period-piece", "tale" ]	Lord Blackwood and the Great Tarasque Hunt of '83 - SCP Foundation	261	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "discovering-scp-hub", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13436443	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-great-tarasque-hunt-of-83
lord-blackwood-and-the-land-of-the-unclean	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>December 25th, 1875:</strong></p> <p>As far and as wide as I have travelled in my years, there is nothing in the world quite like Christmas-time in London. The crisp winter air echoes with the song of carolers and everywhere one looks the eyes of his fellow men are filled with an air of peace and charity. I gave the help the day off after our early meal and have spent the evening in quiet reflection and planning - for this Christmas, the germ of a grand and glorious new expedition has presented itself to me.</p> <p>Two nights ago I attended a Christmas party at the gentlemen's club. The food was fine and the drinks flowed freely, and I remained in conversation with several of my fellow naturalists until well into the morning. Shortly after midnight our discussion turned to the topic of the super-natural, and Mr. Wallace, the famed father of evolutionary theory and a noted Spiritualist, told me of a most unusual occurrence he had heard of recently. An associate of his had recently returned from the Levant with a most unusual artifact - a small red disc, fashioned perhaps of cinnabar, carved with runes he thought to be an early form of Phoenician, or perhaps Cretan. When left to its own devices, the object would roll about on its own and reach great speeds, breaking through walls and crushing anything in its path, until it came to rest upon a mirrored surface. A man could pick it up easily no matter how fast it moved, he claimed, and until it was set down it would glow brightly in strange colours. We found this account most curious, but what Mr. Wallace told us next proved even more interesting.</p> <p>Two months ago, he said, his associate's maid had been cleaning in the room where the disc laid pressed against one of his dressing mirrors. Ignorant of the object's nature, the maid lifted it up to dust underneath it and set it back upon the mirror - whereupon, the maid had said, the mirror's surface rippled and a man in strange clothes fell through, as if he had been leaning upon a wall that gave way. The man panicked and began flailing about and shouting nonsensically, and tried to flee before the maid locked him in the room and summoned the police, who took the man away as he shouted and tried to run back in the direction of the room he had apparated in. Mr. Wallace's associate had thought him at first a common thief, but there was absolutely no way the man could have entered the estate without arousing suspicion, and the maid's account was most clear - he had come through the mirror.</p> <p>I have long wondered if there were other worlds in Creation where man, or beings like man, have existed and thrived; but owing to the great vastness of space, I have long assumed that none of them would be within our reach for some time. If Mr. Wallace's account was true, there might be a way to travel to one of those worlds right here in London! I entreated with Mr. Wallace for some time to divulge the name of his confederate; he refused out of respect for his friend's privacy, but told me that the strange intruder, who claimed the name "Izikaiah Belson", had been declared mad by the court and sentenced to Bedlam, and that I might find him there if I wished to. After New Year's, I intend to call upon this madman.</p> <p><strong>January 3rd, 1876:</strong></p> <p>The fact that an institution like Bedlam is allowed to exist in our great nation is an affront. Were a man not already mad upon entering these walls, the circumstances of his internment would make him so. I did my best to avert my eyes from the lunatics packed into dingy cells and overcrowded wards as a porter lead me to a padded cell where the man called Izikaiah Belson had been locked away alone. None of the doctors had been able to speak to him, she said; if I wished to try, I was more than welcome to do so. A gruff-looking gaoler with a large and ancient-looking key-ring unlocked the door, and I invited myself inside, where Mr. Belson sat alone in the corner. I introduced myself and said I had come to learn what I could of who he was and where he came from. He did not respond at first and turned his head away, mumbling under his breath. I listened carefully and found that the tongue he spoke almost resembled the English language, but it was far from any tongue that has ever been spoken in the Queen's court; twisted and altered as if by centuries of deviation, not dissimilar from how the many and various Romance languages evolved amidst the collapse of the Roman Empire. I stood and listened attentively as he repeated a series of sentences three times, that I present below;</p> <p><em>Hae who are bitwayn space, press'd is yir voce. Yi are watchen n' I yir vyss'l, here n' here n' there. Awaye wit' me sin, Vaader, n' shed for me yir sanggre weppin', n' I'll but do the word of the Vaaders b'low ye. S'beit.</em></p> <p>The man's accent was strange, and it was part-way through his third recitation when it occurred to me that he was attempting to pray. I knew the prayer well, and when he finished his third recitation, I repeated it back to him in the Queen's English. He fell silent as he heard my rendition. His first reaction was more vitriolic than I expected - I believe he accused me of having "the speech of the old elders", and accused me of being a sinner or a witch. I assured him as best I could that I was neither; I am a naturalist. He seemed to calm himself somewhat when he heard that word; in any event, he no longer feared me, and over the course of an hour or two we worked out a pidgin of English and his dialect in which we could converse. In time, I came to the conclusion that he hails from a world which is surprisingly like, and yet completely alien to our own.</p> <p>Mr. Belson claimed to have come from a place called "The City Where Elijah Fell". He describes it as a metropolis that would put London to shame; tens of millions of souls call it home, living in towers thousands of feet high, commuting on great trains and horse-less carriages that moved hundreds of miles per hour through the packed streets. Every building was wired with electricity, and possessed devices for receiving of sights and sounds from the other end of the world, for delivering the contained knowledge of entire libraries, and other incredible wonders. I showed him a map of the world and asked where this city lay, and he pointed to America, on the western coast of the Floridian peninsula. He claimed he had been at work in one of the city's great towers, momentarily leaning against a wall during a prayer break, when the wall seemed to fall away behind him and he found himself in a strange old house with a strangely dressed woman screaming at him, confirming Mr. Wallace's account.</p> <p>I showed him a Bible I procured from one of the doctors and asked if he was a Christian. He recoiled at the proposition as he had when I recited the Lord's Prayer, and informed me that, while the elders had been Christians in days gone by, all of that had changed with the Second Coming and the authoring of the Third Testament, and that to openly proclaim to be a Christian was a heresy and a most heinous crime. I gather that in the nation Mr. Belson hails from, which he claims to control the entire world, the church and the state have been brought together in a way that would make the Archbishop of Canterbury himself a proponent of disestablishmentarianism. I asked what becomes of heretics when they are caught and he informed me that they are "made pure in S'Tears"; for if heresy is allowed to spread unchecked, then "the Unclean" shall come and bring destruction to the pure and the wicked alike.</p> <p>Mr. Belson refused to elaborate further when I asked him what the Unclean were. He asserted that it was blasphemy to even speak of them, for to say their name might draw their attention. I assured him that nobody in London would harm him for speaking of this matter, and that, whatever an "Unclean" might be, there were none in any corner of this world that I have explored. Belson was visibly frightened as he told me, in halting whispers, that the Unclean were the Devil. But unlike the Devil of the heretics, who lived in the pits below, these Devils walked the Earth. They were giant creatures, behemoths of pure sin, all of man's unrighteous thoughts and deeds given flesh. They stalked the darkest corners of the world and their sin tainted the Earth itself so that no crop could grow and no man could live, and it took all the efforts of the holiest crusaders to keep them so imprisoned lest they break free and the world come to an end.</p> <p>Until such time as the doctor assured me I must leave for the night, I remained in Belson's cell and learned as much as I could of this strange world he came from - matters of language, culture, fashion, everything a man might need to know to travel amongst its gleaming cities anonymously. I managed to cajole a young nurse at the clerk's desk into letting me review Belson's file, and I learned that the affray that lead to his arrest occurred in Notting Hill at the residence of a Mr. Weathers. Tomorrow I shall call upon him and state my intent to purchase this disc that turns mirrors into gateways to another world; for I intend to conduct a survey of this civilization to rival Sir Burton's forbidden journey into Mecca, and, if I can, find one of these diabolical monsters Mr. Belson speaks of, and make it my prey.</p> <p><strong>January 9th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>Mr. Weathers was quite relieved to be rid of the disc when I purchased it from him. It glowed an eerie purple as he handed it to me; and yet once in my own hand, its aura seemed to fade, and become instead a greenish hue. I took it home and placed it on a mirror in my study, and immediately the glass seemed to become as water. I saw a pastoral scene not unlike that which one might behold in our own country-side; a farmhouse in the distance, tilled fields with tall crops between. There were children running and playing among the crops, and in the distance, over the horizon, I saw in silhouette titanic structures taller than any building man on this Earth has ever made. For several days I observed through the mirror; on a few occasions the farmer and his hands came close enough that I could hear their speech; the accent not as thick as Mr. Belson's had been, but foreign enough that I strained to decypher their conversations. The clothes they wore were not unlike those a farm-hand might wear in England; but Mr. Belson had warned me the fashions in the city were very different from what he had seen in London, and I would be most out of place in any of my usual clothes. A visit to the Metropolitan Police, and after a lengthy conversation with the precinct constable and the promise of a sizable donation I was able to acquire the clothes Mr. Belson had been wearing at the time he entered our world. It was not dissimilar to morning dress, but to my eye it seemed less formal; there was no waistcoat, the jacket was shorter and cut more conservatively with broad lapels, the cravat was thin and a solid shade of black. I had Deeds tailor it to fit me, and I stowed it away for when I reach the city.</p> <p>I have packed lightly, for I shall be travelling alone and I shall have none of the native currency, for Mr. Belson had carried no bill-fold when he entered our world. I have my clothes and rations for a few days, and I shall enter dressed in a farmer's garb and remain so dressed until I reach the metropolis. Gold and silver I have brought in the hopes of trading for currency (Mr. Belson having informed me that the principal form of trade is paper), and within my pack I have hidden my pistol and several of Mr. Moth's weapons. I have my compass, my sextant, my electric torch, a comprehensive atlas of the world, and my journal, and a few good luck talismans besides those. The cycle of day and night in this other world is some eight hours behind our own; from this I deduce that the scene I behold is somewhere along the western coast of America. I shall cross through the looking-glass under cover of night this evening, for fear of alarming the farmers of my presence, and make my way towards the city; where, hopefully, I can discover a library or an institute of learning and document the history and culture of this world - and where the so-called Unfertile Zones are located, so that I might observe these Unclean for myself.</p> <p><strong>January 10th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>What a world this is indeed.</p> <p>This is indeed one of the more temperate parts of the world, for though it was past midnight local time when I entered this world, the air was perfectly warm. Based on my reading of the stars, I judge myself to be somewhere near the thirty-fourth parallel, in the region that must in this world correspond to the land of California. Here in the fields it is dark; but in the southeast I behold a stunning panorama of light shining into the darkness, the aura of the great metropolis bathed in electric light so bright that it shrouds the stars themselves above it. In the distance I heard sounds like great engines. The terrain was easily passed, even in the darkness, save for a fence at the edge of the farm I had alighted into, which I was forced to climb.</p> <p>The sight I beheld when I reached the source of the noise was unbelievable. A great paved road lay stretched across the grassland, solid barriers at either side. It was wider than any road I have ever beheld, and stripes painted on the road indicated sixteen lanes for traffic - eight going in one direction, and eight in the other. The entire road was lit by giant lamps brighter than the gas-lamps of London or New York, and one could have read a newspaper comfortably by their light. Even at this late hour, I watched in surprise and wonder (and no small amount of terror, I must admit) as motor-carriages far more advanced than Mr. Bollee's steam-cars hurtled along the road at speeds faster than the finest locomotive or the fastest race-horse. They must have been travelling a hundred miles per hour or more - some of them small enough to carry a handful of people, others massive like train cars and looking to haul cargo by the ton. Some never touched the roadway at all, seemingly gliding on a cushion of air. I had to sit by the roadside, obscured in shadow, for some time while I took this in. Many times in my life I have encountered savage tribes that never before have seen the wonders of civilization. At this moment, I felt the savage myself, beholding wonders he has no hope of contemplating.</p> <p>I dared not cross the road, and as it seemed like a straight-away enough path to the city, I walked for several hours along its shoulder. It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but it looked to be about thirty miles to the out-skirts of the city, and I judged it would take well past mid-day to reach the inhabited areas. I feared that any of the carriages hurtling by might at any moment careen out of control and catastrophe would ensue, and I wondered how any man could bear such speeds. The eastern sky was beginning to show the tint of dawn when one of the carriages slowed to a stop on the edge of the road, next to me, a door opened, and a voice from within asked if I desired a ride into the city. I have never been one to rely on the charity of strangers, but I was curious to examine one of the carriages from the inside and accepted.</p> <p>It was scarsely a quarter hour before we were among the crystalline towers of the metropolis. I did my best to disguise my terror as the driver, who identified himself as Ben O'Kazzem, inquired of my business. I told him my name was Teodor Swarzrod (that, Mr. Belson had told me, being how my name would be presented in his language), that I was a farm-hand in the nearby country-side, and that I had never before been to the city but that I intended to research my family's history at one of the major libraries therein. We struggled to understand each other as I had yet to fully master the dialect, but his assumption that I merely had a "country accent" saved me any uncomfortable questions. I disembarked in the financial center of the city and offered to pay him for the ride with one of my gold slugs. He refused saying it was far too much for a simple ride, and I offered him a silver slug instead - which he accepted, and offered me a considerable sum of paper currency in the balance, while commenting that he never imagined the country-folk had such wealth at their disposal.</p> <p>This metropolis, which I now know to be called the City of Angelic Glory, is easily larger than any city in all the world - I imagine the entire population of England could dwell within and find themselves wanting for neighbours. There is a great bustle everywhere I go in the city, and yet, there is a desperation and fear that underlies it all; nobody meets anyone's gaze, and every man seems constantly to fear and suspect every other. With the bank-notes Mr. O'Kazzem had given me, I breakfasted in a bustling cafe where I enjoyed a meal barely dissimilar from the full breakfast one can find at any reputable establishment in London, and I have found board in a grand hotel named the St. George. Imagine my surprise when I was told my room would be on the seventy-eighth floor! An electric lift that would make Mr. Otis green with envy whisked me to the impossible height in seconds, and I found myself staring out a window at the gargantuan city. Towers like the one in which I stood jutted out in all directions, many of them extending hundreds of feet even above my own vantage point. Highways not unlike the one that took me to the city cris-crossed the metropolis and formed a ring around its perimeter, and I beheld a massive network of smaller roads and railways. The hotel concierge has given me directions to the civic library - tomorrow I shall seek it out, but for now I must close the curtains on this impossible scene and rest, for I find myself overwhelmed and weary.</p> <p><strong>January 11th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>My findings at this city's great library have shed much light into the nature of the world I now find myself in. The library itself stood twelve levels high - not as tall as many of the other buildings in the City of Angelic Glory, but easily taller than any institution of learning in London. A librarian guided me to the eighth level where I would find books of history and geography, and I spent the day immersed in study. Though the books are written in strange letters that do not resemble any I have ever seen, I have found somehow that I am able to understand them as if it were common English writing.</p> <p>A comparison of a world map to the one in my own atlas confirmed that I was in the land of California, in about the same area as a town that in our world is known as Los Angeles. Many great cities in this world stood in the same place as cities in our own, though none shared the same name - London was here called the City of Winston's Stand, and Edo the City of David's Triumph. I saw no national boundaries on the map, though there were many names indicating different regions - the United Lands of the Son, Huffasia, the Land Bountiful. The only divisions indicated were between the "Blessed Lands", colored green, and the "Unfertile Lands", colored red. There were Unfertile Lands spread across the globe, though I found the distribution most uneven - in North America I saw but seven, and in Europe four, while Africa had dozens, and almost the entirety of China was covered by them.</p> <p>I found that the Bible exists in this world, but it is a Bible very unlike our own. It is about a thousand pages longer and is divided into three sections, named the First, Second, and Third Testaments. The First and Second Testaments are similar to the Old and New Testaments of our Bible, but have been extensively rewritten - all references to "God", "the LORD", or "the Father" have been replaced with a simple reference to "Him", and there is a greater emphasis on sin, uncleanliness, and purification than I recall ever learning in school.</p> <p>The Third Testament appears to have been written in the seventeenth century; and as I had not the time or inclination to read it in full, I referred to a history book about what is referred to in this world as the Second Coming. Prior to the year 1621 or so, I found, the history of this world had been much like our own aside from certain linguistic and cultural details, and an indication that the wide-spread colonization of the Americas had begun several hundred years earlier. In that year, the being called Him made itself known to the people of the world, and nations worldwide proclaimed it to be their God. He provided them with great advances in technology and medicine, which were the impetus of the advanced civilization I now beheld; but war broke out across the world over the question of which nations were most worthy of His love. When He beheld the devastation that His children had wrought, He wept - and where His tears fell, those who tasted of them were purified of sin and lost their inclination to fight. But those who refused to cease in strife, those who were consumed by sin and evil, their wickedness was magnified in His absence and took form until it became the Unclean, the giant abominations that to this day lurk in the Unfertile Lands. All life that the Unclean encounter is destroyed utterly - men and women, animals, even plants, are all consumed by the creatures and vanish into thin air, leaving behind only the ichor of sin it discharges when it feeds. Agents of the church known as the Blessed Militia guard these lands, and do constant battle to keep the Unclean imprisoned within.</p> <p>In time, the United Lands of the Son brought together the nations of the world under the rule of a theocracy, governed by a man called the Most Holy Father. There were ten ranks of the clergy, from the Most Holy Father himself to the Blessed Fathers at the bottom, whose hierarchy comprised not only the church, but the courts, the legislature, and the executive powers of government. The judicial system was not unlike English law, though it incorporated elements similar to the canon law of the Roman church, and the clergy were exempt from its direct judgment, for only the Most Holy himself could pass judgment on them. The death penalty was unknown - those who had committed great crimes were bathed in a compound called the Tears, supposedly refined from His own weepings, and if they survived the trial the urge to sin was cleansed from their mind.</p> <p>As luck would have it, one of the few Unfertile Lands in this country is located in the deserts a hundred miles east of this city. On the maps I spotted a railway line that draws dangerously close to this border. Interestingly enough I noticed that almost every city had a rail line leading directly into the Unfertile Lands as well; but those were marked as for militia use only and I deemed them inaccessible. Tomorrow I shall travel on the train that passes this border and find a way to depart as close to the edge as possible, and determine whether I can smuggle myself into this forbidden land. I know not how much of the history I have read is true and how much is hagiography concocted by the church, but soon I shall find out.</p> <p><strong>January 14th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>I am lucky to have escaped the events of the past few days with my life, but even now I may be doomed.</p> <p>My entry into the Unfertile Lands was uneventful. I was able to excuse myself stealthily from the train during a brief stop, and hiked but a few miles under the desert sun to the edge. The perimeter in this region was guarded only by a fence with prominent signage;</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>WARNING</strong></p> <p><strong>UNFERTILE LANDS - UNCLEAN WITHIN</strong></p> <p><strong>BLESSED MILITIA ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT</strong></p> <p>By order of the Regional High Father, City of St. Francis' Triumph</p> </blockquote> <p>The Blessed Militia, I assumed, must have some means of tracking the Unclean and preventing them from crossing the borders of this country. I, on the other hand, would have to rely on luck and Providence.</p> <p>I could smell the Unclean for hours before I spotted it. Nothing grows in this land and there is no running water, nor so much as a buzzard in the sky, but the air hangs heavy with the undeniable stench of death, worse than the foulest Scottish abattoir or the banks of the putrid Ganges. I could have been sick, but I steeled myself and pressed onward in the direction from which the stench seemed to be its strongest. I assembled and readied the destabilizing musket I had carried in my pack, a special model Mr. Moth had prepared especially for this expedition, and bringing to bear considerably more potential for atomic disassembly than the standard models.</p> <p>I spotted it after climbing a ridge and almost turned around and retreated right away. I had expected a creature the size of a man or not much larger. The abomination I beheld was easily five hundred feet long and dozens of feet tall. It was almost the shape of a man, but it had no legs; two arms that seemed to grow and shrink as they moved dragged a massive trunk across the desert sands, while a head with no face seemed to lull and stare at nothing in particular. Its skin, the tone of a white man's, was smooth and hairless across its entire body, and it made no sound as it seemed to crawl about aimlessly, a brown ichor seeming to ooze from it before quickly evaporating. It was no wonder the people of this world thought these things to be devils made flesh. Even with my heavy destabilizer at the ready, I was obviously ill-equipped to hunt a creature of this size.</p> <p>I observed for several hours as it seemed to crawl aimlessly in the same general area, with no particular direction or agenda, taking notes and making sketches. It was late in the afternoon when I determined I would have to turn around - a train bound in the opposite direction would pass by shortly after night-fall, and I intended to board it and return to the city. But luck was not with me - as I stood from my hiding spot upon the ridge, the Unclean's head turned in my direction and it stopped its incessant crawling about. Though it had no eyes or ears, it somehow knew I was there; and though it had no mouth, the abomination let out a blood-curdling moan that echoed for miles. One of the creature's giant arms stretched out in my direction and it began to drag itself my way. I had no choice but to stand and fight. I raised my musket at the creature's featureless visage, took careful aim, and fired.</p> <p>The Unclean was wholly unaffected as the bolt from my musket passed harmlessly through it and dissipated in the atmosphere. In seconds it was before me and I was sure I was about to die. The creature loomed above me, resting itself on its giant hands, as the face bore down upon me. Before it could presumably devour me whole, I heard a massive report, and a giant shell struck the Unclean in the face and exploded. I was showered with foul-smelling brown ichor as the beast's face was torn open, and though the wound seemed to seal itself quickly, more and more shells struck it in the face, the trunk, the arms. It stumbled and I ran to avoid it falling on me, as men in dark-colored uniforms, decorated with symbols like those I had found on the disc in London, pounded it with artillery. It lurched at them, and one of the soldiers was devoured whole by the creature, its clothes and weapons falling to the ground as the man vanished. Soon it could take no more as the barrage continued, and it turned around and fled back into the desert.</p> <p>I retreated in the direction from which I had come to find a convoy of armored motor-carriages armed with heavy cannons. I attempted to run, but in seconds the soldiers surrounded me and apprehended me in the name of the Blessed Militia. I was told I was lucky to be alive after attempting such a foolish pursuit and that I would be put to the question by the Court of Blessed Voices. My situation was compounded when one of the soldiers searched my pack and found one of my good-luck charms - a small gold cross that had been given to me by the Patriarch of Alexandria during my exploits there in 1855. The soldiers immediately declared me a heretic, and some were of the opinion I should be shot then and there, or taken back for the Unclean to devour. In either event, I was bound with steel cuffs and escorted to a prison cell where I now await trial. They do not know I still have this journal, though if I am convicted of heresy and put to the Tears it may not long matter.</p> <p><strong>January 16th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>I was brought before the Court of Blessed Voices yesterday. The scene I found myself in looked like a scene out of the Spanish Inquisition; three men in arcane robes beheld me from atop the judge's bench, while I stood in the dock guarded by the Blessed Militia. The senior judge advised me I had been accused of heresy and trespassing in the Unfertile Lands and that I faced the Tears, and demanded my plea. No lawyer had been provided of me, and I expected nothing resembling a fair trial if I contested the charges; yet if I plead guilty I would surely be put to the Tears and my mind torn apart by that mysterious concoction. Recalling that the laws of this land were similar to those of medieval England, and that no member of the priesthood might be tried by them, I took a gamble and insisted that I was a man of the cloth, and thereby was entitled to benefit of clergy - the ancient right of a holy man to avoid prosecution by proving his ability to read from the Bible.</p> <p>The judges were most skeptical of this proposition; even in this nation, the benefit of clergy was an outdated rite, for many more people could read in these days than simply the priesthood. A reference to their legal texts, however, found that the rite had never been disestablished. I was told I could attempt to exercise that benefit if I wished, but that it would then be up to the Most Holy Father himself to judge my fate, and he would be less forgiving than this court. I hoped for nothing less than to play for time, and I agreed.</p> <p>It was decided that I would be expected to read three verses. One of the strange Bibles of this world was placed before me and opened to the Third Testament, and I was asked to read a passage called Edward 7:22. As before, the strange lettering of this world's language made itself clear to me, and I read;</p> <p><em>Be free of sin, therefore, as He and His angels are free of sin; for wherever evil transpires in the hearts of men, the Unclean walk among us.</em></p> <p>Next the book was opened to the First Testament, and I was asked to read Psalm 23:4. It was most unlike the version I had learned in chapel many years ago, but I read it clear and true;</p> <p><em>Though I walk in the land of the Unclean, I will fear no evil, for you are always watching; your voice and your sight protect me.</em></p> <p>I was surprised when the judge closed the book and proclaimed I would have to prove myself by reciting the third verse from memory. I was challenged to recite Matthew 5:38-39 from the Second Testament. I knew well enough the verse in King James' Bible; but I had no way of knowing how it might have been presented in this world, or even enough of their strange theology to guess. I felt doom creep upon me and decided to do the best I could, and closed my eyes as I recited the verses I knew;</p> <p><em>Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.</em></p> <p>The judges did not at first respond to this reading. They retreated to their bench and discussed amongst themselves for a few moments, and one departed briefly, returning with a truly ancient book which they examined while conferring further. I wondered if reciting the verse in its original form might have only confirmed their accusation of me, when my bonds were removed and I was ordered to follow the chief judge to his chambers.</p> <p>Seated behind a magnificent desk of fine ebony, the chief judge informed me that I had correctly recited the verse in question as it had existed in the ancient Bible, before the Second Coming. Those old texts were forbidden to the public; even the heretic sects made do with modern versions, and the only known copies in existence were in possession of the church fathers themselves for their personal study. The book he had examined was the only ancient Bible in the entire city, and before today had not been removed from safe-keeping for over fifty years; and yet, I knew its verses by heart. Therefore, he said, it was obvious that I was at the very least a Holy Father, one of the third-highest echelon of the clergy, who had travelled incognito to his land for some purpose. Though he had no power as a mere Blessed Voice to compel my obedience, he asked why I had come, and what I had been doing in the Unfertile Lands with a heretic's cross and a strange weapon that was useless against the Unclean.</p> <p>An opportunity had been granted to me, and I chose to take advantage of it. I was, I informed the Blessed Voice, a senior member of the church's scientific research division, conducting tests on the development of improved weapons for suppressing or even killing the Unclean. I told him my destabilizing musket was the product of this project and it had shown promise in tests against tissue samples, and I had been delegated to test it myself in the field. Unfortunately, it had not lived up to its promise, and further refinements would obviously be needed before it could live up to its full potential. The cross, I claimed, was merely a trophy I had taken from a heretic in the priesthood after I exposed his treason.</p> <p>To my surprise, the Blessed Voice did not question my account at all. So great the respect for and fear of authority is within this nation, I suspect, that the mere supposition that I was his superior was enough to put me beyond reproach. By the end of our meeting, he had offered me access to a laboratory in the Blessed Militia's base at the edge of the Unfertile Zone. I accepted his proposition and today I found myself examining a facility which makes the laboratory in my own estate look like a child's play-thing. It is fully appointed with every instrument a man of science could want for and several that I do not yet even understand the purpose of. There are full stocks of chemicals, as well as tissue samples acquired from the Unclean, samples of their ichorous discharge, and a variety of medical nutrients and fluids, including the mind-altering substance called the Lord's Tears.</p> <p>I have been given private quarters within the base, and the militiamen give me a wide berth - I have noticed they avert their eyes as I pass them in the halls, and all conversation ceases when I enter a room. They believe I hold power over their very lives - for now, at least, I shall make no effort to disabuse them of this notion. It shall take me some time, but perhaps with this equipment and the samples provided me, I can learn enough of the nature of the Unclean to genuinely construct a weapon capable of causing true damage to them. If only Deeds were here - at least I would have a capable lab assistant.</p> <p><strong>February 27th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>I have made a truly horrifying breakthrough in my research today. I do not even know if the most senior leaders of this world know the truth - some of them must surely know, if a heretic from another world was able to figure it out so quickly - and they have gone to great lengths to hide it from the world in their lie of a religion.</p> <p>The beings called Unclean are not devils or beings of pure sin, but gross mutations of the human form itself. The key is the Tears. I know not what the true origin of that compound is or from whence it comes, but it is more than a simple tool of mind control. When human flesh is exposed to a significant enough concentration, it changes - the bonds that hold the atoms together peel away, and it becomes mutable and elastic, folding around and absorbing all other life introduced to it. A single mutant becomes two, and then three, and four, growing larger and larger, becoming less and less human in form, until it becomes Unclean.</p> <p>I wondered how these creatures first came to be created. Did the church fathers make weapons of them, to unleash upon those renegade nations that refused to submit to their will? Perhaps they use them for that reason still - I had found numerous reports in the history books of cities and country-sides being attacked by Unclean, suddenly loosed from their Unfertile Lands, whenever sentiment in that land had turned against the church. Even now they continued to throw millions of people into the Tears every year to better control them - some of them surely mutating as the result and becoming the basis of a new abomination. No wonder there were railways leading into the Unfertile Zones - it was necessary to dispose of the persons so changed. I wondered how many were sacrificed intentionally to make the Unclean more powerful and more menacing as weapons of terror.</p> <p>I wondered what might happen if news of this horror became known to the people. How many more heretics would the elders throw in the Tears? How many cities would they loose the Unclean upon to suppress the threat to their power? How many uprisings could they manage, how many mutants could take form, before the Unclean became uncontrollable and society itself was brought to its knees? I shudder to think of it.</p> <p>But with this horror has come revelation. The Unclean are born of using the Tears to allow people to absorb others into themselves. What if a compound could be produced that weakened those bonds? I think I can develop a way to produce a variant of the Tears that will counter the effect the original has had on these poor souls. I owe it to the people of this world to try.</p> <p><strong>March 20th, 1876:</strong></p> <p>Today is a day I shall remember the rest of my life. After weeks of research I have produced my weapon, a serum which I have with no small amount of pride named Blackwood's Tears. I have tested it on tissue samples of the Unclean and watched them dissolve before my very eyes. It took several days experimenting with one of the most sophisticated repeater-rifles used by the militiamen of this world, but I have developed a custom rifle that fires syringes filled with Blackwood's Tears. Upon impact, the force should activate the plunging device and inject the serum directly into its target. I have produced several hundred rounds of serum and loaded them into magazines; if my calculations prove true, it should take only a few dozen to destroy one of the abominations.</p> <p>Yesterday, I spoke to a colonel of the militia-men who confirmed that the trains into the Unfertile Zones are used to carry people who the fathers have declared "incurably sinful", though he did not know the true meaning of that infamous phrase. He said a highly purified vial of Tears was contained on each train which lured the Unclean to it; thus, the incurable were disposed of and the Unclean were kept from wandering too far. I arranged for the train to be sent out this morning empty but for myself, my weapon, and the purified Tears. Before I left, I gave him a copy of my findings and made him promise to read it entirely, including my opinions on what might happen if this knowledge becomes widely known, and to make sure that Blackwood's Tears were being manufactured around the world before the day when that knowledge comes out. He nodded in silent agreement as the train pulled away.</p> <p>Shortly before noon, the train parked itself at a dead end in the middle of the desert. I readied my weapon and waited in a blind outside the train as the stench of the Unclean began to fill the air. As I watched the abomination approach, I sighted its face through the remarkably sophisticated scope on the weapon and loosed the first round.</p> <p>The Unclean screamed with a fury unimaginable. I almost dropped my gun and collapsed in agony; but as I watched through the scope, the creature lurched and seemed to grow a few feet smaller than it had been before. I fired another round and a piece seemed to vanish from its head; but now it had sight of me and it was coming in my direction. I loosed several more rounds before I was forced to run. Pieces of flesh seemed to be sloughing off the creature as it dragged itself in my direction, its screams piercing the air with a deafening madness. I ran blindly, turning occasionally to fire in its direction, changing magazines from time to time. Alas, I had been paying more attention to the creature behind me than the terrain in front of me; and I found myself boxed in. I turned to fire again, and to my horror I discovered the gun had jammed.</p> <p>The Unclean was less than half the size it had been before. It dragged itself in my direction, slowed but still unrelenting as I furiously tried to clear the jam. It screamed as it raised itself up above me. Somehow, in its wounded state, the monster seemed more human than it had before. Across every inch of the giant's skin I seemed to behold a different face, and each furious proclamation it made seemed to echo with hundreds of voices in fear and agony. I was still trying to clear the jam when it began to bear down on me and I thought I was soon to join the souls that comprised that thing in their unceasing damnation. But when the titanic head was barely feet away from me, it stopped. The Unclean held itself motionless above me. It could have moved in for the kill at any time, but instead it waited as I cleared the jam, and seconds later, my weapon was ready to fire. I understood - the Unclean was an amalgamation of cursed souls in eternal pain and confusion, seeking a release that was forever denied to them. The thing before me <em>wanted</em> to die. I aimed my weapon, closed my eyes, and emptied the magazine into its faceless visage as it screamed a final time and the scream was instantly cut short, echoing across the desert before dissipating entirely.</p> <p>When I opened my eyes a scene of utter carnage lay before me. Of the Unclean itself, there was no sign; but instead, hundreds of men and women and children, naked as the day they were born, lay sprawled across the desert plains, dead or dying. I walked among them and saw young and old, gasping for air in their final moments (for none of them lasted more than a few moments before expiring). Among the crowd I spotted a face I recognized - the soldier of the Blessed Militia who had been killed, so I thought at the time, in the attack that saved my life. As I looked at the dying man, his eyes met mine and he spoke two words;</p> <p><em>Thank you.</em></p> <p>I made my way back west in the direction I had intended to flee in January, and boarded the train back to the City of Angelic Glory. The faster I can put this scene and these Unfertile Lands behind me, the better it shall be for my sanity.</p> <p><strong>March 23rd, 1876:</strong></p> <p>I returned through the mirror to London before dawn in the morning of this world, arriving back in my study just after noon London time. I was most thankful to find the gateway still worked; I had not expected to be away as long as I have been, and feared it might have ceased functioning or the disc removed from the mirror. I immediately removed it from the mirror myself and set it on the ground, whereupon it rolled back to the mirror and attached itself; but having not been placed there by a human being, the mirror was only a looking-glass; and the portal to that world and the horrors that populated it was, for now, sealed.</p> <p>I do not think I shall journey to that world again. The Unclean were monstrous enough, but there is a certain irony in the fact that, as alien and terrifying as they were, the greatest evil to populate that land was man itself, for it was the leaders of men who must have created the Unclean to begin with, and who continued to allow their existence in order to perpetuate their reign of terror. The gun and the Blackwood's Tears I have brought back with me shall likely prove of little use in this world; but I shall store them at my house in the country for now, for if the being that provided the Tears to that Earth ever visits our own, the compound may one day prove of great utility.</p> <p>I visited Mr. Belson again today at Bedlam. I told him of my journey to his land (but what I had learned there, I kept to myself) and that I had the means to return him there if he so desired it. He declined; having been gone so long, and having vanished so suddenly, he would surely be under great suspicion if he returned, and would likely be put to the Tears, a fate that I now wished on no man. I have promised to vouch for him with the gaolers and earn his release; I told him that when and if he becomes a free man, there shall be a position available for him in my household staff if he desires one.</p> <p>Deeds was very fascinated by my tale of my adventures in that parallel Earth and suggested I publish it; but who could believe such a fanciful story of worlds accessible through a looking glass and gigantic horrors? Perhaps I shall present it as fiction in one of the penny journals that have become so popular among the working-class; for whether they regard it as true or not, I suppose it does make a most entertaining yarn.<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="/lord-blackwood-and-the-land-of-the-unclean">Lord Blackwood in the Land of the Unclean</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-land-of-the-unclean">https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-land-of-the-unclean</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]] [[/>]] December 25th, 1875: As far and as wide as I have travelled in my years, there is nothing in the world quite like Christmas-time in London. The crisp winter air echoes with the song of carolers and everywhere one looks the eyes of his fellow men are filled with an air of peace and charity. I gave the help the day off after our early meal and have spent the evening in quiet reflection and planning - for this Christmas, the germ of a grand and glorious new expedition has presented itself to me. Two nights ago I attended a Christmas party at the gentlemen's club. The food was fine and the drinks flowed freely, and I remained in conversation with several of my fellow naturalists until well into the morning. Shortly after midnight our discussion turned to the topic of the super-natural, and Mr. Wallace, the famed father of evolutionary theory and a noted Spiritualist, told me of a most unusual occurrence he had heard of recently. An associate of his had recently returned from the Levant with a most unusual artifact - a small red disc, fashioned perhaps of cinnabar, carved with runes he thought to be an early form of Phoenician, or perhaps Cretan. When left to its own devices, the object would roll about on its own and reach great speeds, breaking through walls and crushing anything in its path, until it came to rest upon a mirrored surface. A man could pick it up easily no matter how fast it moved, he claimed, and until it was set down it would glow brightly in strange colours. We found this account most curious, but what Mr. Wallace told us next proved even more interesting. Two months ago, he said, his associate's maid had been cleaning in the room where the disc laid pressed against one of his dressing mirrors. Ignorant of the object's nature, the maid lifted it up to dust underneath it and set it back upon the mirror - whereupon, the maid had said, the mirror's surface rippled and a man in strange clothes fell through, as if he had been leaning upon a wall that gave way. The man panicked and began flailing about and shouting nonsensically, and tried to flee before the maid locked him in the room and summoned the police, who took the man away as he shouted and tried to run back in the direction of the room he had apparated in. Mr. Wallace's associate had thought him at first a common thief, but there was absolutely no way the man could have entered the estate without arousing suspicion, and the maid's account was most clear - he had come through the mirror. I have long wondered if there were other worlds in Creation where man, or beings like man, have existed and thrived; but owing to the great vastness of space, I have long assumed that none of them would be within our reach for some time. If Mr. Wallace's account was true, there might be a way to travel to one of those worlds right here in London! I entreated with Mr. Wallace for some time to divulge the name of his confederate; he refused out of respect for his friend's privacy, but told me that the strange intruder, who claimed the name "Izikaiah Belson", had been declared mad by the court and sentenced to Bedlam, and that I might find him there if I wished to. After New Year's, I intend to call upon this madman. January 3rd, 1876: The fact that an institution like Bedlam is allowed to exist in our great nation is an affront. Were a man not already mad upon entering these walls, the circumstances of his internment would make him so. I did my best to avert my eyes from the lunatics packed into dingy cells and overcrowded wards as a porter lead me to a padded cell where the man called Izikaiah Belson had been locked away alone. None of the doctors had been able to speak to him, she said; if I wished to try, I was more than welcome to do so. A gruff-looking gaoler with a large and ancient-looking key-ring unlocked the door, and I invited myself inside, where Mr. Belson sat alone in the corner. I introduced myself and said I had come to learn what I could of who he was and where he came from. He did not respond at first and turned his head away, mumbling under his breath. I listened carefully and found that the tongue he spoke almost resembled the English language, but it was far from any tongue that has ever been spoken in the Queen's court; twisted and altered as if by centuries of deviation, not dissimilar from how the many and various Romance languages evolved amidst the collapse of the Roman Empire. I stood and listened attentively as he repeated a series of sentences three times, that I present below; //Hae who are bitwayn space, press'd is yir voce. Yi are watchen n' I yir vyss'l, here n' here n' there. Awaye wit' me sin, Vaader, n' shed for me yir sanggre weppin', n' I'll but do the word of the Vaaders b'low ye. S'beit.// The man's accent was strange, and it was part-way through his third recitation when it occurred to me that he was attempting to pray. I knew the prayer well, and when he finished his third recitation, I repeated it back to him in the Queen's English. He fell silent as he heard my rendition. His first reaction was more vitriolic than I expected - I believe he accused me of having "the speech of the old elders", and accused me of being a sinner or a witch. I assured him as best I could that I was neither; I am a naturalist. He seemed to calm himself somewhat when he heard that word; in any event, he no longer feared me, and over the course of an hour or two we worked out a pidgin of English and his dialect in which we could converse. In time, I came to the conclusion that he hails from a world which is surprisingly like, and yet completely alien to our own. Mr. Belson claimed to have come from a place called "The City Where Elijah Fell". He describes it as a metropolis that would put London to shame; tens of millions of souls call it home, living in towers thousands of feet high, commuting on great trains and horse-less carriages that moved hundreds of miles per hour through the packed streets. Every building was wired with electricity, and possessed devices for receiving of sights and sounds from the other end of the world, for delivering the contained knowledge of entire libraries, and other incredible wonders. I showed him a map of the world and asked where this city lay, and he pointed to America, on the western coast of the Floridian peninsula. He claimed he had been at work in one of the city's great towers, momentarily leaning against a wall during a prayer break, when the wall seemed to fall away behind him and he found himself in a strange old house with a strangely dressed woman screaming at him, confirming Mr. Wallace's account. I showed him a Bible I procured from one of the doctors and asked if he was a Christian. He recoiled at the proposition as he had when I recited the Lord's Prayer, and informed me that, while the elders had been Christians in days gone by, all of that had changed with the Second Coming and the authoring of the Third Testament, and that to openly proclaim to be a Christian was a heresy and a most heinous crime. I gather that in the nation Mr. Belson hails from, which he claims to control the entire world, the church and the state have been brought together in a way that would make the Archbishop of Canterbury himself a proponent of disestablishmentarianism. I asked what becomes of heretics when they are caught and he informed me that they are "made pure in S'Tears"; for if heresy is allowed to spread unchecked, then "the Unclean" shall come and bring destruction to the pure and the wicked alike. Mr. Belson refused to elaborate further when I asked him what the Unclean were. He asserted that it was blasphemy to even speak of them, for to say their name might draw their attention. I assured him that nobody in London would harm him for speaking of this matter, and that, whatever an "Unclean" might be, there were none in any corner of this world that I have explored. Belson was visibly frightened as he told me, in halting whispers, that the Unclean were the Devil. But unlike the Devil of the heretics, who lived in the pits below, these Devils walked the Earth. They were giant creatures, behemoths of pure sin, all of man's unrighteous thoughts and deeds given flesh. They stalked the darkest corners of the world and their sin tainted the Earth itself so that no crop could grow and no man could live, and it took all the efforts of the holiest crusaders to keep them so imprisoned lest they break free and the world come to an end. Until such time as the doctor assured me I must leave for the night, I remained in Belson's cell and learned as much as I could of this strange world he came from - matters of language, culture, fashion, everything a man might need to know to travel amongst its gleaming cities anonymously. I managed to cajole a young nurse at the clerk's desk into letting me review Belson's file, and I learned that the affray that lead to his arrest occurred in Notting Hill at the residence of a Mr. Weathers. Tomorrow I shall call upon him and state my intent to purchase this disc that turns mirrors into gateways to another world; for I intend to conduct a survey of this civilization to rival Sir Burton's forbidden journey into Mecca, and, if I can, find one of these diabolical monsters Mr. Belson speaks of, and make it my prey. January 9th, 1876: Mr. Weathers was quite relieved to be rid of the disc when I purchased it from him. It glowed an eerie purple as he handed it to me; and yet once in my own hand, its aura seemed to fade, and become instead a greenish hue. I took it home and placed it on a mirror in my study, and immediately the glass seemed to become as water. I saw a pastoral scene not unlike that which one might behold in our own country-side; a farmhouse in the distance, tilled fields with tall crops between. There were children running and playing among the crops, and in the distance, over the horizon, I saw in silhouette titanic structures taller than any building man on this Earth has ever made. For several days I observed through the mirror; on a few occasions the farmer and his hands came close enough that I could hear their speech; the accent not as thick as Mr. Belson's had been, but foreign enough that I strained to decypher their conversations. The clothes they wore were not unlike those a farm-hand might wear in England; but Mr. Belson had warned me the fashions in the city were very different from what he had seen in London, and I would be most out of place in any of my usual clothes. A visit to the Metropolitan Police, and after a lengthy conversation with the precinct constable and the promise of a sizable donation I was able to acquire the clothes Mr. Belson had been wearing at the time he entered our world. It was not dissimilar to morning dress, but to my eye it seemed less formal; there was no waistcoat, the jacket was shorter and cut more conservatively with broad lapels, the cravat was thin and a solid shade of black. I had Deeds tailor it to fit me, and I stowed it away for when I reach the city. I have packed lightly, for I shall be travelling alone and I shall have none of the native currency, for Mr. Belson had carried no bill-fold when he entered our world. I have my clothes and rations for a few days, and I shall enter dressed in a farmer's garb and remain so dressed until I reach the metropolis. Gold and silver I have brought in the hopes of trading for currency (Mr. Belson having informed me that the principal form of trade is paper), and within my pack I have hidden my pistol and several of Mr. Moth's weapons. I have my compass, my sextant, my electric torch, a comprehensive atlas of the world, and my journal, and a few good luck talismans besides those. The cycle of day and night in this other world is some eight hours behind our own; from this I deduce that the scene I behold is somewhere along the western coast of America. I shall cross through the looking-glass under cover of night this evening, for fear of alarming the farmers of my presence, and make my way towards the city; where, hopefully, I can discover a library or an institute of learning and document the history and culture of this world - and where the so-called Unfertile Zones are located, so that I might observe these Unclean for myself. January 10th, 1876: What a world this is indeed. This is indeed one of the more temperate parts of the world, for though it was past midnight local time when I entered this world, the air was perfectly warm. Based on my reading of the stars, I judge myself to be somewhere near the thirty-fourth parallel, in the region that must in this world correspond to the land of California. Here in the fields it is dark; but in the southeast I behold a stunning panorama of light shining into the darkness, the aura of the great metropolis bathed in electric light so bright that it shrouds the stars themselves above it. In the distance I heard sounds like great engines. The terrain was easily passed, even in the darkness, save for a fence at the edge of the farm I had alighted into, which I was forced to climb. The sight I beheld when I reached the source of the noise was unbelievable. A great paved road lay stretched across the grassland, solid barriers at either side. It was wider than any road I have ever beheld, and stripes painted on the road indicated sixteen lanes for traffic - eight going in one direction, and eight in the other. The entire road was lit by giant lamps brighter than the gas-lamps of London or New York, and one could have read a newspaper comfortably by their light. Even at this late hour, I watched in surprise and wonder (and no small amount of terror, I must admit) as motor-carriages far more advanced than Mr. Bollee's steam-cars hurtled along the road at speeds faster than the finest locomotive or the fastest race-horse. They must have been travelling a hundred miles per hour or more - some of them small enough to carry a handful of people, others massive like train cars and looking to haul cargo by the ton. Some never touched the roadway at all, seemingly gliding on a cushion of air. I had to sit by the roadside, obscured in shadow, for some time while I took this in. Many times in my life I have encountered savage tribes that never before have seen the wonders of civilization. At this moment, I felt the savage myself, beholding wonders he has no hope of contemplating. I dared not cross the road, and as it seemed like a straight-away enough path to the city, I walked for several hours along its shoulder. It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but it looked to be about thirty miles to the out-skirts of the city, and I judged it would take well past mid-day to reach the inhabited areas. I feared that any of the carriages hurtling by might at any moment careen out of control and catastrophe would ensue, and I wondered how any man could bear such speeds. The eastern sky was beginning to show the tint of dawn when one of the carriages slowed to a stop on the edge of the road, next to me, a door opened, and a voice from within asked if I desired a ride into the city. I have never been one to rely on the charity of strangers, but I was curious to examine one of the carriages from the inside and accepted. It was scarsely a quarter hour before we were among the crystalline towers of the metropolis. I did my best to disguise my terror as the driver, who identified himself as Ben O'Kazzem, inquired of my business. I told him my name was Teodor Swarzrod (that, Mr. Belson had told me, being how my name would be presented in his language), that I was a farm-hand in the nearby country-side, and that I had never before been to the city but that I intended to research my family's history at one of the major libraries therein. We struggled to understand each other as I had yet to fully master the dialect, but his assumption that I merely had a "country accent" saved me any uncomfortable questions. I disembarked in the financial center of the city and offered to pay him for the ride with one of my gold slugs. He refused saying it was far too much for a simple ride, and I offered him a silver slug instead - which he accepted, and offered me a considerable sum of paper currency in the balance, while commenting that he never imagined the country-folk had such wealth at their disposal. This metropolis, which I now know to be called the City of Angelic Glory, is easily larger than any city in all the world - I imagine the entire population of England could dwell within and find themselves wanting for neighbours. There is a great bustle everywhere I go in the city, and yet, there is a desperation and fear that underlies it all; nobody meets anyone's gaze, and every man seems constantly to fear and suspect every other. With the bank-notes Mr. O'Kazzem had given me, I breakfasted in a bustling cafe where I enjoyed a meal barely dissimilar from the full breakfast one can find at any reputable establishment in London, and I have found board in a grand hotel named the St. George. Imagine my surprise when I was told my room would be on the seventy-eighth floor! An electric lift that would make Mr. Otis green with envy whisked me to the impossible height in seconds, and I found myself staring out a window at the gargantuan city. Towers like the one in which I stood jutted out in all directions, many of them extending hundreds of feet even above my own vantage point. Highways not unlike the one that took me to the city cris-crossed the metropolis and formed a ring around its perimeter, and I beheld a massive network of smaller roads and railways. The hotel concierge has given me directions to the civic library - tomorrow I shall seek it out, but for now I must close the curtains on this impossible scene and rest, for I find myself overwhelmed and weary. January 11th, 1876: My findings at this city's great library have shed much light into the nature of the world I now find myself in. The library itself stood twelve levels high - not as tall as many of the other buildings in the City of Angelic Glory, but easily taller than any institution of learning in London. A librarian guided me to the eighth level where I would find books of history and geography, and I spent the day immersed in study. Though the books are written in strange letters that do not resemble any I have ever seen, I have found somehow that I am able to understand them as if it were common English writing. A comparison of a world map to the one in my own atlas confirmed that I was in the land of California, in about the same area as a town that in our world is known as Los Angeles. Many great cities in this world stood in the same place as cities in our own, though none shared the same name - London was here called the City of Winston's Stand, and Edo the City of David's Triumph. I saw no national boundaries on the map, though there were many names indicating different regions - the United Lands of the Son, Huffasia, the Land Bountiful. The only divisions indicated were between the "Blessed Lands", colored green, and the "Unfertile Lands", colored red. There were Unfertile Lands spread across the globe, though I found the distribution most uneven - in North America I saw but seven, and in Europe four, while Africa had dozens, and almost the entirety of China was covered by them. I found that the Bible exists in this world, but it is a Bible very unlike our own. It is about a thousand pages longer and is divided into three sections, named the First, Second, and Third Testaments. The First and Second Testaments are similar to the Old and New Testaments of our Bible, but have been extensively rewritten - all references to "God", "the LORD", or "the Father" have been replaced with a simple reference to "Him", and there is a greater emphasis on sin, uncleanliness, and purification than I recall ever learning in school. The Third Testament appears to have been written in the seventeenth century; and as I had not the time or inclination to read it in full, I referred to a history book about what is referred to in this world as the Second Coming. Prior to the year 1621 or so, I found, the history of this world had been much like our own aside from certain linguistic and cultural details, and an indication that the wide-spread colonization of the Americas had begun several hundred years earlier. In that year, the being called Him made itself known to the people of the world, and nations worldwide proclaimed it to be their God. He provided them with great advances in technology and medicine, which were the impetus of the advanced civilization I now beheld; but war broke out across the world over the question of which nations were most worthy of His love. When He beheld the devastation that His children had wrought, He wept - and where His tears fell, those who tasted of them were purified of sin and lost their inclination to fight. But those who refused to cease in strife, those who were consumed by sin and evil, their wickedness was magnified in His absence and took form until it became the Unclean, the giant abominations that to this day lurk in the Unfertile Lands. All life that the Unclean encounter is destroyed utterly - men and women, animals, even plants, are all consumed by the creatures and vanish into thin air, leaving behind only the ichor of sin it discharges when it feeds. Agents of the church known as the Blessed Militia guard these lands, and do constant battle to keep the Unclean imprisoned within. In time, the United Lands of the Son brought together the nations of the world under the rule of a theocracy, governed by a man called the Most Holy Father. There were ten ranks of the clergy, from the Most Holy Father himself to the Blessed Fathers at the bottom, whose hierarchy comprised not only the church, but the courts, the legislature, and the executive powers of government. The judicial system was not unlike English law, though it incorporated elements similar to the canon law of the Roman church, and the clergy were exempt from its direct judgment, for only the Most Holy himself could pass judgment on them. The death penalty was unknown - those who had committed great crimes were bathed in a compound called the Tears, supposedly refined from His own weepings, and if they survived the trial the urge to sin was cleansed from their mind. As luck would have it, one of the few Unfertile Lands in this country is located in the deserts a hundred miles east of this city. On the maps I spotted a railway line that draws dangerously close to this border. Interestingly enough I noticed that almost every city had a rail line leading directly into the Unfertile Lands as well; but those were marked as for militia use only and I deemed them inaccessible. Tomorrow I shall travel on the train that passes this border and find a way to depart as close to the edge as possible, and determine whether I can smuggle myself into this forbidden land. I know not how much of the history I have read is true and how much is hagiography concocted by the church, but soon I shall find out. January 14th, 1876: I am lucky to have escaped the events of the past few days with my life, but even now I may be doomed. My entry into the Unfertile Lands was uneventful. I was able to excuse myself stealthily from the train during a brief stop, and hiked but a few miles under the desert sun to the edge. The perimeter in this region was guarded only by a fence with prominent signage; > WARNING > > UNFERTILE LANDS - UNCLEAN WITHIN > > BLESSED MILITIA ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT > > By order of the Regional High Father, City of St. Francis' Triumph The Blessed Militia, I assumed, must have some means of tracking the Unclean and preventing them from crossing the borders of this country. I, on the other hand, would have to rely on luck and Providence. I could smell the Unclean for hours before I spotted it. Nothing grows in this land and there is no running water, nor so much as a buzzard in the sky, but the air hangs heavy with the undeniable stench of death, worse than the foulest Scottish abattoir or the banks of the putrid Ganges. I could have been sick, but I steeled myself and pressed onward in the direction from which the stench seemed to be its strongest. I assembled and readied the destabilizing musket I had carried in my pack, a special model Mr. Moth had prepared especially for this expedition, and bringing to bear considerably more potential for atomic disassembly than the standard models. I spotted it after climbing a ridge and almost turned around and retreated right away. I had expected a creature the size of a man or not much larger. The abomination I beheld was easily five hundred feet long and dozens of feet tall. It was almost the shape of a man, but it had no legs; two arms that seemed to grow and shrink as they moved dragged a massive trunk across the desert sands, while a head with no face seemed to lull and stare at nothing in particular. Its skin, the tone of a white man's, was smooth and hairless across its entire body, and it made no sound as it seemed to crawl about aimlessly, a brown ichor seeming to ooze from it before quickly evaporating. It was no wonder the people of this world thought these things to be devils made flesh. Even with my heavy destabilizer at the ready, I was obviously ill-equipped to hunt a creature of this size. I observed for several hours as it seemed to crawl aimlessly in the same general area, with no particular direction or agenda, taking notes and making sketches. It was late in the afternoon when I determined I would have to turn around - a train bound in the opposite direction would pass by shortly after night-fall, and I intended to board it and return to the city. But luck was not with me - as I stood from my hiding spot upon the ridge, the Unclean's head turned in my direction and it stopped its incessant crawling about. Though it had no eyes or ears, it somehow knew I was there; and though it had no mouth, the abomination let out a blood-curdling moan that echoed for miles. One of the creature's giant arms stretched out in my direction and it began to drag itself my way. I had no choice but to stand and fight. I raised my musket at the creature's featureless visage, took careful aim, and fired. The Unclean was wholly unaffected as the bolt from my musket passed harmlessly through it and dissipated in the atmosphere. In seconds it was before me and I was sure I was about to die. The creature loomed above me, resting itself on its giant hands, as the face bore down upon me. Before it could presumably devour me whole, I heard a massive report, and a giant shell struck the Unclean in the face and exploded. I was showered with foul-smelling brown ichor as the beast's face was torn open, and though the wound seemed to seal itself quickly, more and more shells struck it in the face, the trunk, the arms. It stumbled and I ran to avoid it falling on me, as men in dark-colored uniforms, decorated with symbols like those I had found on the disc in London, pounded it with artillery. It lurched at them, and one of the soldiers was devoured whole by the creature, its clothes and weapons falling to the ground as the man vanished. Soon it could take no more as the barrage continued, and it turned around and fled back into the desert. I retreated in the direction from which I had come to find a convoy of armored motor-carriages armed with heavy cannons. I attempted to run, but in seconds the soldiers surrounded me and apprehended me in the name of the Blessed Militia. I was told I was lucky to be alive after attempting such a foolish pursuit and that I would be put to the question by the Court of Blessed Voices. My situation was compounded when one of the soldiers searched my pack and found one of my good-luck charms - a small gold cross that had been given to me by the Patriarch of Alexandria during my exploits there in 1855. The soldiers immediately declared me a heretic, and some were of the opinion I should be shot then and there, or taken back for the Unclean to devour. In either event, I was bound with steel cuffs and escorted to a prison cell where I now await trial. They do not know I still have this journal, though if I am convicted of heresy and put to the Tears it may not long matter. January 16th, 1876: I was brought before the Court of Blessed Voices yesterday. The scene I found myself in looked like a scene out of the Spanish Inquisition; three men in arcane robes beheld me from atop the judge's bench, while I stood in the dock guarded by the Blessed Militia. The senior judge advised me I had been accused of heresy and trespassing in the Unfertile Lands and that I faced the Tears, and demanded my plea. No lawyer had been provided of me, and I expected nothing resembling a fair trial if I contested the charges; yet if I plead guilty I would surely be put to the Tears and my mind torn apart by that mysterious concoction. Recalling that the laws of this land were similar to those of medieval England, and that no member of the priesthood might be tried by them, I took a gamble and insisted that I was a man of the cloth, and thereby was entitled to benefit of clergy - the ancient right of a holy man to avoid prosecution by proving his ability to read from the Bible. The judges were most skeptical of this proposition; even in this nation, the benefit of clergy was an outdated rite, for many more people could read in these days than simply the priesthood. A reference to their legal texts, however, found that the rite had never been disestablished. I was told I could attempt to exercise that benefit if I wished, but that it would then be up to the Most Holy Father himself to judge my fate, and he would be less forgiving than this court. I hoped for nothing less than to play for time, and I agreed. It was decided that I would be expected to read three verses. One of the strange Bibles of this world was placed before me and opened to the Third Testament, and I was asked to read a passage called Edward 7:22. As before, the strange lettering of this world's language made itself clear to me, and I read; //Be free of sin, therefore, as He and His angels are free of sin; for wherever evil transpires in the hearts of men, the Unclean walk among us.// Next the book was opened to the First Testament, and I was asked to read Psalm 23:4. It was most unlike the version I had learned in chapel many years ago, but I read it clear and true; //Though I walk in the land of the Unclean, I will fear no evil, for you are always watching; your voice and your sight protect me.// I was surprised when the judge closed the book and proclaimed I would have to prove myself by reciting the third verse from memory. I was challenged to recite Matthew 5:38-39 from the Second Testament. I knew well enough the verse in King James' Bible; but I had no way of knowing how it might have been presented in this world, or even enough of their strange theology to guess. I felt doom creep upon me and decided to do the best I could, and closed my eyes as I recited the verses I knew; //Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.// The judges did not at first respond to this reading. They retreated to their bench and discussed amongst themselves for a few moments, and one departed briefly, returning with a truly ancient book which they examined while conferring further. I wondered if reciting the verse in its original form might have only confirmed their accusation of me, when my bonds were removed and I was ordered to follow the chief judge to his chambers. Seated behind a magnificent desk of fine ebony, the chief judge informed me that I had correctly recited the verse in question as it had existed in the ancient Bible, before the Second Coming. Those old texts were forbidden to the public; even the heretic sects made do with modern versions, and the only known copies in existence were in possession of the church fathers themselves for their personal study. The book he had examined was the only ancient Bible in the entire city, and before today had not been removed from safe-keeping for over fifty years; and yet, I knew its verses by heart. Therefore, he said, it was obvious that I was at the very least a Holy Father, one of the third-highest echelon of the clergy, who had travelled incognito to his land for some purpose. Though he had no power as a mere Blessed Voice to compel my obedience, he asked why I had come, and what I had been doing in the Unfertile Lands with a heretic's cross and a strange weapon that was useless against the Unclean. An opportunity had been granted to me, and I chose to take advantage of it. I was, I informed the Blessed Voice, a senior member of the church's scientific research division, conducting tests on the development of improved weapons for suppressing or even killing the Unclean. I told him my destabilizing musket was the product of this project and it had shown promise in tests against tissue samples, and I had been delegated to test it myself in the field. Unfortunately, it had not lived up to its promise, and further refinements would obviously be needed before it could live up to its full potential. The cross, I claimed, was merely a trophy I had taken from a heretic in the priesthood after I exposed his treason. To my surprise, the Blessed Voice did not question my account at all. So great the respect for and fear of authority is within this nation, I suspect, that the mere supposition that I was his superior was enough to put me beyond reproach. By the end of our meeting, he had offered me access to a laboratory in the Blessed Militia's base at the edge of the Unfertile Zone. I accepted his proposition and today I found myself examining a facility which makes the laboratory in my own estate look like a child's play-thing. It is fully appointed with every instrument a man of science could want for and several that I do not yet even understand the purpose of. There are full stocks of chemicals, as well as tissue samples acquired from the Unclean, samples of their ichorous discharge, and a variety of medical nutrients and fluids, including the mind-altering substance called the Lord's Tears. I have been given private quarters within the base, and the militiamen give me a wide berth - I have noticed they avert their eyes as I pass them in the halls, and all conversation ceases when I enter a room. They believe I hold power over their very lives - for now, at least, I shall make no effort to disabuse them of this notion. It shall take me some time, but perhaps with this equipment and the samples provided me, I can learn enough of the nature of the Unclean to genuinely construct a weapon capable of causing true damage to them. If only Deeds were here - at least I would have a capable lab assistant. February 27th, 1876: I have made a truly horrifying breakthrough in my research today. I do not even know if the most senior leaders of this world know the truth - some of them must surely know, if a heretic from another world was able to figure it out so quickly - and they have gone to great lengths to hide it from the world in their lie of a religion. The beings called Unclean are not devils or beings of pure sin, but gross mutations of the human form itself. The key is the Tears. I know not what the true origin of that compound is or from whence it comes, but it is more than a simple tool of mind control. When human flesh is exposed to a significant enough concentration, it changes - the bonds that hold the atoms together peel away, and it becomes mutable and elastic, folding around and absorbing all other life introduced to it. A single mutant becomes two, and then three, and four, growing larger and larger, becoming less and less human in form, until it becomes Unclean. I wondered how these creatures first came to be created. Did the church fathers make weapons of them, to unleash upon those renegade nations that refused to submit to their will? Perhaps they use them for that reason still - I had found numerous reports in the history books of cities and country-sides being attacked by Unclean, suddenly loosed from their Unfertile Lands, whenever sentiment in that land had turned against the church. Even now they continued to throw millions of people into the Tears every year to better control them - some of them surely mutating as the result and becoming the basis of a new abomination. No wonder there were railways leading into the Unfertile Zones - it was necessary to dispose of the persons so changed. I wondered how many were sacrificed intentionally to make the Unclean more powerful and more menacing as weapons of terror. I wondered what might happen if news of this horror became known to the people. How many more heretics would the elders throw in the Tears? How many cities would they loose the Unclean upon to suppress the threat to their power? How many uprisings could they manage, how many mutants could take form, before the Unclean became uncontrollable and society itself was brought to its knees? I shudder to think of it. But with this horror has come revelation. The Unclean are born of using the Tears to allow people to absorb others into themselves. What if a compound could be produced that weakened those bonds? I think I can develop a way to produce a variant of the Tears that will counter the effect the original has had on these poor souls. I owe it to the people of this world to try. March 20th, 1876: Today is a day I shall remember the rest of my life. After weeks of research I have produced my weapon, a serum which I have with no small amount of pride named Blackwood's Tears. I have tested it on tissue samples of the Unclean and watched them dissolve before my very eyes. It took several days experimenting with one of the most sophisticated repeater-rifles used by the militiamen of this world, but I have developed a custom rifle that fires syringes filled with Blackwood's Tears. Upon impact, the force should activate the plunging device and inject the serum directly into its target. I have produced several hundred rounds of serum and loaded them into magazines; if my calculations prove true, it should take only a few dozen to destroy one of the abominations. Yesterday, I spoke to a colonel of the militia-men who confirmed that the trains into the Unfertile Zones are used to carry people who the fathers have declared "incurably sinful", though he did not know the true meaning of that infamous phrase. He said a highly purified vial of Tears was contained on each train which lured the Unclean to it; thus, the incurable were disposed of and the Unclean were kept from wandering too far. I arranged for the train to be sent out this morning empty but for myself, my weapon, and the purified Tears. Before I left, I gave him a copy of my findings and made him promise to read it entirely, including my opinions on what might happen if this knowledge becomes widely known, and to make sure that Blackwood's Tears were being manufactured around the world before the day when that knowledge comes out. He nodded in silent agreement as the train pulled away. Shortly before noon, the train parked itself at a dead end in the middle of the desert. I readied my weapon and waited in a blind outside the train as the stench of the Unclean began to fill the air. As I watched the abomination approach, I sighted its face through the remarkably sophisticated scope on the weapon and loosed the first round. The Unclean screamed with a fury unimaginable. I almost dropped my gun and collapsed in agony; but as I watched through the scope, the creature lurched and seemed to grow a few feet smaller than it had been before. I fired another round and a piece seemed to vanish from its head; but now it had sight of me and it was coming in my direction. I loosed several more rounds before I was forced to run. Pieces of flesh seemed to be sloughing off the creature as it dragged itself in my direction, its screams piercing the air with a deafening madness. I ran blindly, turning occasionally to fire in its direction, changing magazines from time to time. Alas, I had been paying more attention to the creature behind me than the terrain in front of me; and I found myself boxed in. I turned to fire again, and to my horror I discovered the gun had jammed. The Unclean was less than half the size it had been before. It dragged itself in my direction, slowed but still unrelenting as I furiously tried to clear the jam. It screamed as it raised itself up above me. Somehow, in its wounded state, the monster seemed more human than it had before. Across every inch of the giant's skin I seemed to behold a different face, and each furious proclamation it made seemed to echo with hundreds of voices in fear and agony. I was still trying to clear the jam when it began to bear down on me and I thought I was soon to join the souls that comprised that thing in their unceasing damnation. But when the titanic head was barely feet away from me, it stopped. The Unclean held itself motionless above me. It could have moved in for the kill at any time, but instead it waited as I cleared the jam, and seconds later, my weapon was ready to fire. I understood - the Unclean was an amalgamation of cursed souls in eternal pain and confusion, seeking a release that was forever denied to them. The thing before me //wanted// to die. I aimed my weapon, closed my eyes, and emptied the magazine into its faceless visage as it screamed a final time and the scream was instantly cut short, echoing across the desert before dissipating entirely. When I opened my eyes a scene of utter carnage lay before me. Of the Unclean itself, there was no sign; but instead, hundreds of men and women and children, naked as the day they were born, lay sprawled across the desert plains, dead or dying. I walked among them and saw young and old, gasping for air in their final moments (for none of them lasted more than a few moments before expiring). Among the crowd I spotted a face I recognized - the soldier of the Blessed Militia who had been killed, so I thought at the time, in the attack that saved my life. As I looked at the dying man, his eyes met mine and he spoke two words; //Thank you.// I made my way back west in the direction I had intended to flee in January, and boarded the train back to the City of Angelic Glory. The faster I can put this scene and these Unfertile Lands behind me, the better it shall be for my sanity. March 23rd, 1876: I returned through the mirror to London before dawn in the morning of this world, arriving back in my study just after noon London time. I was most thankful to find the gateway still worked; I had not expected to be away as long as I have been, and feared it might have ceased functioning or the disc removed from the mirror. I immediately removed it from the mirror myself and set it on the ground, whereupon it rolled back to the mirror and attached itself; but having not been placed there by a human being, the mirror was only a looking-glass; and the portal to that world and the horrors that populated it was, for now, sealed. I do not think I shall journey to that world again. The Unclean were monstrous enough, but there is a certain irony in the fact that, as alien and terrifying as they were, the greatest evil to populate that land was man itself, for it was the leaders of men who must have created the Unclean to begin with, and who continued to allow their existence in order to perpetuate their reign of terror. The gun and the Blackwood's Tears I have brought back with me shall likely prove of little use in this world; but I shall store them at my house in the country for now, for if the being that provided the Tears to that Earth ever visits our own, the compound may one day prove of great utility. I visited Mr. Belson again today at Bedlam. I told him of my journey to his land (but what I had learned there, I kept to myself) and that I had the means to return him there if he so desired it. He declined; having been gone so long, and having vanished so suddenly, he would surely be under great suspicion if he returned, and would likely be put to the Tears, a fate that I now wished on no man. I have promised to vouch for him with the gaolers and earn his release; I told him that when and if he becomes a free man, there shall be a position available for him in my household staff if he desires one. Deeds was very fascinated by my tale of my adventures in that parallel Earth and suggested I publish it; but who could believe such a fanciful story of worlds accessible through a looking glass and gigantic horrors? Perhaps I shall present it as fiction in one of the penny journals that have become so popular among the working-class; for whether they regard it as true or not, I suppose it does make a most entertaining yarn. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-06T11:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "blackwood", "featured", "first-person", "journal", "period-piece", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Lord Blackwood in the Land of the Unclean - SCP Foundation	357	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "featured-tale-archive-ii", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	13471203	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-land-of-the-unclean
lord-blackwood-and-the-thaumaturge-the-t	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Interview Log 1867-23</strong></p> <p><strong>Interviewer:</strong> Dr. Adam Bernstein</p> <p><strong>Interviewed:</strong> SCP-1867</p> <p><strong>Forward</strong>: During a standard checkup interview with SCP-1867 the subject, at the request of Dr. Bernstein, was asked to elaborate on the nature of one of the items found in his collection- an ornate brass baton. The baton, while showing no overt anomalous properties, caught Dr. Bernstein's attention due to amount of dried blood still covering it. SCP-1867 complied enthusiastically.</p> <p><strong>Begin Log</strong></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong>: Good afternoon, SCP-1867.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867</strong>: Please, good Doctor, call me Theodore.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Very well. Theodore, I would like to ask you a few question about this [shows picture of the baton].</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867</strong>: Oh, Yuri Dreshnik's command baton! Haven't seen it in years. Interesting story behind that one.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Would you care to elaborate?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867</strong>: Certainly. I do enjoy telling a good story, and this one is so very full of excitement!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Please, continue.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Well, it was the year 1855, and the Russian war<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup> was raging across the Black Sea. The Czar was trying to take control of the Bosphorus straits from the Ottomans, using some daft argument some priests had in the Holy Land as an excuse. Our brave lads, along with the Froggies, were giving the Russians a right thrashing, despite a few minor setbacks like that unfortunate business with the Earl of Cardigan's light brigade. Brave man, terrible tactical sense. I remember having a heated discussion with him about Scipio Africanus' vertical spear formation-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Focus on the baton, please.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Oh, right. It was, I believe, late July. I was visiting an acquaintance of mine in London, and we were just discussing the preparations necessary for an expedition he was planning to the East Indies when a knock was heard on the door, and the manservant proclaimed it was a messenger from Lord Palmerston himself, who wished to speak to me at once. I made my way to Downing Street 10 post haste. The Prime Minister was waiting for me at his office. "Theodore," he said to me, "The Empire once again requires your services. The war in the Black Sea is turning in our favor, but we need to stick one final nail in Alexander's coffin if we want the Russians out of the straits permanently." He pulled out a map and pointed at a spot "Sevastopol. We've been besieging the thrice damned place for almost a year now. If we manage to take it from the Russians, it's only a matter of time until they surrender and accept our conditions."</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Does this have anything to do with the baton?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> I'm getting to it, I assure you. As I was saying, the Prime Minister confided in me that he was planning a joint attack with the French on Sevastopol in late August or early September, but there was a problem; The Russians were rumored to have recruited a thaumaturge of great skill, Yuri Dreshnik, and he dared not order the attack as long as Yuri was there to muck things up with his magic. He wanted me to get rid of him.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Why did the Prime Minister need you to get rid of this wizard?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Thaumaturge, Doctor, they are not the same as wizards. He needed me because I had experience: I led the great Warlock Hunt of Austria in 1833,<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup> and had numerous encounters with various shamans and witch doctors throughout my travels. I was quite the authority figure in the field, if I may say so myself.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> Carry on.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> The Prime Minister needed Dreshnik gone before the attack, and he knew I was the right man for the job. As a patriot, I could not refuse, and I was scheduled to board HMS <em>Gallant</em> leaving for Istanbul on the following day. The journey was uneventful, save for a minor pirate raid near the shores of Libya which was easily repelled. I arrived at Istanbul safely, then boarded another smaller vessel for the remainder of the trip. I arrived at General Mac-Mahon's command ship on the last day of August. Patrice de Mac-Mahon was a solid gentleman if there ever was one, even if he was French. Always good for a laugh and a quick shot of brandy. I first met him in Algeria when he commanded the Foreign Legion in the 1840's. The man could smoke a hookah like no other, and that's a promise. I remember sitting with him and the sheikh of-</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> [sighs] Focus please, SCP-1867.</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Theodore. Right, the thaumaturge. Mac-Mahon told me he received credible information that Dreshnik was hiding in the Malakoff itself, this massive stone tower overlooking the port, preparing some sort of foul ritual, as thaumaturges are bound to do. I was to assemble a team from the very finest the allied armies had to offer, and make a raid on the tower at night, disposing of Dreshnik before he could raise some nastiness to hamper the war effort.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> And how did the raid go?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Oh, quite splendidly! Well, mostly so. There was the small matter of our boat sinking halfway to the port. And our sniper tripping on some slick stones and breaking his ankle. And half the team getting discovered and riddled with bullets. But other than that, everything went perfectly. We finally cornered Dreshnik in his ritual chamber after a long chase, as the man was was surprisingly fast for a portly middle aged gentleman in long robes, but he would not go down without a fight. He pulled out some strange apparatus he was hiding in his sleeve and pointed it at Sargent Monroe. Poor man never stood a chance.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> What did the device do to Sargent Monroe?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Turned his skin inside out. The screams were quite terrible, not to mention the smell. He managed to do the same to Corporeal Turner before I shot the device out of his hands. Along with a few fingers. He wasn't done, though. Screaming like an Indonesian Howler Sloth,<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup> he sprayed the blood from his severed fingers on the corpses of my fallen comrades. The two inside-out bodies jerked and came to life, attacking what little reminded of my crew. They ripped Durand and Roux apart with superhuman strength before I took them down with my trusty machete. Now it was just me and Dreshnik, and he was all out of tricks. His Grand Ritual was left unfinished as I brained him with his own command baton. The battle took place a week later, and we gave those Russian bastards a beating they wouldn't soon forget. That's how the baton came to my possession.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> So the baton is just an ordinary command baton? No thaumaturgic power to it?</p> <p><strong>SCP-1867:</strong> Of course not, I burned down his ritual chamber along with all his tools before making my escape and swimming back to safety. You'd have to be quite daft to keep a thaumaturge's belongings. They always curse the things. I lost a cousin to a curse like that- he was turned into an eel. Could you imagine that, being an eel? Dreadful.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bernstein:</strong> I would think so.</p> <strong>End Log</strong><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>. Known today as the Crimean War.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. No information about this event exists in Foundation archives.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. The Indonesian Howler Sloth is believed to be one of the previously unknown species of mammal found in Blackwood's possessions.</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="/lord-blackwood-and-the-thaumaturge-the-t">Lord Blackwood and the Thaumaturge</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-thaumaturge-the-t">https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-thaumaturge-the-t</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]] [[/>]] Interview Log 1867-23 Interviewer: Dr. Adam Bernstein Interviewed: SCP-1867 Forward: During a standard checkup interview with SCP-1867 the subject, at the request of Dr. Bernstein, was asked to elaborate on the nature of one of the items found in his collection- an ornate brass baton. The baton, while showing no overt anomalous properties, caught Dr. Bernstein's attention due to amount of dried blood still covering it. SCP-1867 complied enthusiastically. Begin Log Dr. Bernstein:: Good afternoon, SCP-1867. SCP-1867: Please, good Doctor, call me Theodore. Dr. Bernstein: Very well. Theodore, I would like to ask you a few question about this [shows picture of the baton]. SCP-1867: Oh, Yuri Dreshnik's command baton! Haven't seen it in years. Interesting story behind that one. Dr. Bernstein: Would you care to elaborate? SCP-1867: Certainly. I do enjoy telling a good story, and this one is so very full of excitement! Dr. Bernstein: Please, continue. SCP-1867: Well, it was the year 1855, and the Russian war[[footnote]] Known today as the Crimean War.[[/footnote]] was raging across the Black Sea. The Czar was trying to take control of the Bosphorus straits from the Ottomans, using some daft argument some priests had in the Holy Land as an excuse. Our brave lads, along with the Froggies, were giving the Russians a right thrashing, despite a few minor setbacks like that unfortunate business with the Earl of Cardigan's light brigade. Brave man, terrible tactical sense. I remember having a heated discussion with him about Scipio Africanus' vertical spear formation- Dr. Bernstein: Focus on the baton, please. SCP-1867: Oh, right. It was, I believe, late July. I was visiting an acquaintance of mine in London, and we were just discussing the preparations necessary for an expedition he was planning to the East Indies when a knock was heard on the door, and the manservant proclaimed it was a messenger from Lord Palmerston himself, who wished to speak to me at once. I made my way to Downing Street 10 post haste. The Prime Minister was waiting for me at his office. "Theodore," he said to me, "The Empire once again requires your services. The war in the Black Sea is turning in our favor, but we need to stick one final nail in Alexander's coffin if we want the Russians out of the straits permanently." He pulled out a map and pointed at a spot "Sevastopol. We've been besieging the thrice damned place for almost a year now. If we manage to take it from the Russians, it's only a matter of time until they surrender and accept our conditions." Dr. Bernstein: Does this have anything to do with the baton? SCP-1867: I'm getting to it, I assure you. As I was saying, the Prime Minister confided in me that he was planning a joint attack with the French on Sevastopol in late August or early September, but there was a problem; The Russians were rumored to have recruited a thaumaturge of great skill, Yuri Dreshnik, and he dared not order the attack as long as Yuri was there to muck things up with his magic. He wanted me to get rid of him. Dr. Bernstein: Why did the Prime Minister need you to get rid of this wizard? SCP-1867: Thaumaturge, Doctor, they are not the same as wizards. He needed me because I had experience: I led the great Warlock Hunt of Austria in 1833,[[footnote]]No information about this event exists in Foundation archives.[[/footnote]] and had numerous encounters with various shamans and witch doctors throughout my travels. I was quite the authority figure in the field, if I may say so myself. Dr. Bernstein: Carry on. SCP-1867: The Prime Minister needed Dreshnik gone before the attack, and he knew I was the right man for the job. As a patriot, I could not refuse, and I was scheduled to board HMS //Gallant// leaving for Istanbul on the following day. The journey was uneventful, save for a minor pirate raid near the shores of Libya which was easily repelled. I arrived at Istanbul safely, then boarded another smaller vessel for the remainder of the trip. I arrived at General Mac-Mahon's command ship on the last day of August. Patrice de Mac-Mahon was a solid gentleman if there ever was one, even if he was French. Always good for a laugh and a quick shot of brandy. I first met him in Algeria when he commanded the Foreign Legion in the 1840's. The man could smoke a hookah like no other, and that's a promise. I remember sitting with him and the sheikh of- Dr. Bernstein: [sighs] Focus please, SCP-1867. SCP-1867: Theodore. Right, the thaumaturge. Mac-Mahon told me he received credible information that Dreshnik was hiding in the Malakoff itself, this massive stone tower overlooking the port, preparing some sort of foul ritual, as thaumaturges are bound to do. I was to assemble a team from the very finest the allied armies had to offer, and make a raid on the tower at night, disposing of Dreshnik before he could raise some nastiness to hamper the war effort. Dr. Bernstein: And how did the raid go? SCP-1867: Oh, quite splendidly! Well, mostly so. There was the small matter of our boat sinking halfway to the port. And our sniper tripping on some slick stones and breaking his ankle. And half the team getting discovered and riddled with bullets. But other than that, everything went perfectly. We finally cornered Dreshnik in his ritual chamber after a long chase, as the man was was surprisingly fast for a portly middle aged gentleman in long robes, but he would not go down without a fight. He pulled out some strange apparatus he was hiding in his sleeve and pointed it at Sargent Monroe. Poor man never stood a chance. Dr. Bernstein: What did the device do to Sargent Monroe? SCP-1867: Turned his skin inside out. The screams were quite terrible, not to mention the smell. He managed to do the same to Corporeal Turner before I shot the device out of his hands. Along with a few fingers. He wasn't done, though. Screaming like an Indonesian Howler Sloth,[[footnote]] The Indonesian Howler Sloth is believed to be one of the previously unknown species of mammal found in Blackwood's possessions.[[/footnote]] he sprayed the blood from his severed fingers on the corpses of my fallen comrades. The two inside-out bodies jerked and came to life, attacking what little reminded of my crew. They ripped Durand and Roux apart with superhuman strength before I took them down with my trusty machete. Now it was just me and Dreshnik, and he was all out of tricks. His Grand Ritual was left unfinished as I brained him with his own command baton. The battle took place a week later, and we gave those Russian bastards a beating they wouldn't soon forget. That's how the baton came to my possession. Dr. Bernstein: So the baton is just an ordinary command baton? No thaumaturgic power to it? SCP-1867: Of course not, I burned down his ritual chamber along with all his tools before making my escape and swimming back to safety. You'd have to be quite daft to keep a thaumaturge's belongings. They always curse the things. I lost a cousin to a curse like that- he was turned into an eel. Could you imagine that, being an eel? Dreadful. Dr. Bernstein: I would think so. End Log [[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>]]	2012-06-03T20:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "blackwood", "tale" ]	Lord Blackwood and the Thaumaturge - SCP Foundation	83	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13454727	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lord-blackwood-and-the-thaumaturge-the-t
lord-blackwood-astro-naut	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>April 3rd, 1856:</strong></p> <p>My succour has arrived! For over a year now I have been in London, exercising my duties in the House of Lords to aid Mr. Palmerston's government in bringing about the conclusion of the war in the Crimea. Those who have read these pages are well aware, I am certain, that I do not relish government office; the endless meetings and floor sessions and meandering speeches by whips and cross-benchers and the Lords Spiritual could drive a man to madness, and represent nothing less than utter tedium to a man as afflicted by wanderlust as I. Still, with privilege comes responsibility, and when country and party call it is my duty to don my robe, cast my vote, and maintain the proud heritage of the house of Blackwood as defenders of the church and the state.</p> <p>With the Russians acquiescing to the treaty that has been signed in Paris this past Sunday, the war has ended and so has the necessity of my sitting in Parliament. No sooner had I returned to my London estate after the final meeting when Deeds informed me a caller had visited in my absence. Dr. Hightower, the astronomer, has requested that I meet him two nights from now at Greenwich for a demonstration and the discussion of a most interesting proposition. I have not heard from Dr. Hightower since our trip to Mars in 1843; if the news he has in mind to share with me is as elucidating as it was in the days leading to that adventure, then this shall be a welcome change from the quiet desperation in which I have suffered this past year.</p> <p><strong>April 6th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>It has been many years, dear reader, since I was a man young enough to stay awake all night and feel no worse for it the following day. Of course, the nature of the occupation requires that an astronomer keep odd hours; and so it was half before midnight last night when I met Dr. Hightower at the Royal Greenwich Observatory. Dr. Hightower was most excited to see me; for a man who is typically most dour and sedate, concerning himself with the abstractions of physical science, he was uncharacteristically exuberant. He spoke to me of great discoveries and unique opportunities as he ushered me upstairs to the observing chamber, where the facility's great telescope laid bare the heavens to man's prying eye. For several years, Dr. Hightower informed me, he had been busily engaged in making refinements to the telescope that allowed it to compensate for the interfering effects of our atmosphere, allowing him to observe the heavenly bodies in levels of detail never before imagined. The doctor seated me before the great device and bade me to look into the eye-piece of the telescope, which he had delicately adjusted to expose his great discovery.</p> <p>I beheld, amidst the blackness of space, a massive rock, one of the many asteroids that Mr. Piazzi and his associates had discovered between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter in recent years. But unlike the copper-plate dagguerotypes that had been published in the Times, this was no barren rock adrift in the void. Save for a few tiny blotches, the entirety of the oblong body was coated in a sea of verdant greenery, the unmistakable colour of the virgin jungle. I fancied I could even see the leaves of the canopy that enveloped the miniature world, and at its pole I espied what resembled a palm tree, truly gargantuan in size, towering above the foliage of the world. This was a most interesting discovery indeed; while the famous canals of Mars had proven to be mere illusions when I visited them (and its atmosphere, I found, most unpleasant to breathe), here was proof, plain to see, that God in His wisdom had not set living things on our celestial sphere alone, but that the Galaxy itself had been seeded with the germ of life.</p> <p>Dr. Hightower had first discovered the asteroid, which he had named Victoria in honour of our dear Queen, five years ago during the mania following Mr. Le Verrier's discovery of the planet Neptune several years before. He had kept his discovery secret, he told me, for he had a plan to announce its existence in a manner as grandiose as no astronomer has ever done. For four years, at his estate in Wales, Dr. Hightower has employed a team of men constructing a rocket similar to the one proposed by Mr. De Bergerac two centuries ago, larger and sturdier than the one that carried us to Mars on our previous voyage. Last week, the final preparations had been made, and the rocket now stood, fueled and ready, to escape the bonds of gravity and carry to Victoria a scientific expedition that will rival Mr. Darwin's. The astro-nauts will for several months have time to catalogue and sample the flora and fauna of Victoria and, for the first time since the discovery of Australia, return bearing knowledge of a new world, and cement the names of those explorers in the annals of history.</p> <p>For months Dr. Hightower has been assembling a crew to conduct this expedition. He has pilots, cooks, archivists, writers, dagguerotypists, painters, men-at-arms, and labourers, he told me, but he wants for one thing; a naturalist to manage the exploration and scientific observation of this foreign planet, and of all the men of learning he has known, he could think of no better individual than I to play this part. How could I refuse? Today I have been busy taking stock of what I shall need. We set off for Victoria on the twenty-first, when our world shall draw the closest to Victoria that it shall be in the next thirty years, and if luck and Providence provide, we shall return by Guy Fawkes Night. It is rare that I have ventured so far from our land of hope and glory, but England shall have to endure in my absence for a time.</p> <p><strong>April 23rd, 1856:</strong></p> <p>No matter how many times I am among the stars, I shall never grow accustomed to the sensation of weightlessness. One must learn anew how to perform the simplest tasks in this environment, as if returning to infancy; how to move about, how to eat and drink, how to sleep, even how to engage the water-closet, for absent the caress of gravity the slightest unintended twitch can send one hurtling every which way, and the slightest loose drop of moisture, applied to our rocket's apparati, could spell disaster.</p> <p>This morning, our vessel conducted a circuit of the Moon. Dr. Hightower explained to me that we shall use our closest neighbor's gravitational field to produce an effect not unlike a sling-shot, granting acceleration that shall enable us to reach Victoria months before we might reach it otherwise. To achieve our target, we must travel twice as far through the blackness of space as the distance that stands between our Earth and the Sun itself. Thus far, Dr. Hightower assures me, all has gone in accordance with plan, and we should reach Victoria by the first of July.</p> <p>We took advantage of our approach to the Moon to make as many observations as we could. We took several dagguerotypes from the on-board telescopes, and the artists have produced depictions of the dark side which Dr. Hightower informs me are the first ever made by man. I am told that the surface of the Moon is an inhospitable place, wanting entirely for air to breathe, that a vacuum-suit would be necessary to stand upon its surface, and that it will likely be a hundred years or more before such a deed is feasible. Still, I would very much like some day to attempt it.</p> <p><strong>May 24th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>Today is the Queen's birthday, and beside that, today marks the point where we are officially half-way to the world named for her. In her honour we held a party in the rocket's cafeteria. There has been little time for frivolity on this voyage thus far; all sixty-three of us have our appointed tasks to conduct every day, for our rocket is one of the most complex and intricate devices that man has ever engaged, and we are surrounded on all sides by millions of miles of emptiness from which no salvation will come if we are remiss in our duties.</p> <p>Dr. Hightower toasted the Queen as we sipped the precious rations of champagne he had stowed for specifically this occasion, and I offered a toast to science and to the progress of our Empire. I wonder, what would Her Majesty say on this occasion, if she knew that Englishmen were praising her name ninety million miles away? I spent a good deal of time contemplating this as I stared out a port-hole into the darkness, the stars holding steady in the distance as we hurtled through the cosmos at a greater velocity than man has ever imagined. One truly feels small in these expanses. How insignificant is a man, how great is the mind of God, that in a thousand lifetimes one could not hope to cross from one end of the Universe to another?</p> <p><strong>June 30th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>Today we entered into Victoria's orbit. The artists and photographers have been busy at the port-holes and telescopes, creating the first records of this unexplored Eden. I was barely able to manage a peek for a few moments before giving up my spot, and I found myself utterly rapt at the sights that laid before me. What Dr. Hightower had shown me in the telescope at Greenwich was no illusion; the surface of the asteroid, now scarcely a dozen miles beneath my feet, was indeed blanketed thick with foliage, and I even fancied briefly that I espied a bird fluttering amongst the canopy.</p> <p>Tomorrow, almost all of us shall board the landing craft and embark for the surface itself, the handful of pilots remaining aboard the rocket to maintain its orbit while we catalog Victoria's wonders for the next two months. Dr. Hightower has selected a landing zone at the edge of one of the cratered regions, where there is a break in the foliage large enough to attempt a landing without fear of being obstructed by the flora. I feel as Mr. Columbus must have felt when he espied the tawny, savage people of San Salvador through his spyglass. We are on the cusp of revelation of the sort that happens but once in a lifetime; for tomorrow I, Theodore Thomas Blackwood, explorer and gentleman, shall set my foot upon the virgin soil of a new world.</p> <p><strong>July 1st, 1856:</strong></p> <p>O glorious day!</p> <p>It was barely half past five, London time, when our landing craft separated from the main rocket and made its way towards the surface of Victoria. The pressure of re-entry was almost unbearable, and flames licked the windows of the craft as we descended. It was dark outside the craft when we finally impacted the edge of the crater; Victoria is of such small size, Dr. Hightower explained, and of such an irregular shape, that it takes little more than four hours for it to complete a single rotation. Day and night are brief affairs; one can almost watch the sun, from this vantage a dim and distant orb no larger than the Moon, race across the purplish sky from when it rises in the north until it sinks in the south. Because Victoria is so miniscule in relation to the Earth, Dr. Hightower had warned us that we would weigh but a tiny fraction of what we do there. Perhaps it was simply because I have become so used to weightlessness in the past two months, but I feel no lighter here than I ever have.</p> <p>Shortly after we made landfall, Dr. Hightower addressed us with a matter most grave. We know not, he said, whether the environmental conditions of Victoria are conducive to human life. It is entirely possible that the air of this world is unbreathable, or that its flora exude compounds poisonous to man, or that vicious beasts stood ready to tear a man apart, or that the air itself was lousy with bacteria that would kill a man slowly from the inside. It would be necessary, he said, for a single man to expose himself to Victoria before the rest of the expedition alighted, and by his fate demonstrate whether it was safe for man to even exist on this world. It was entirely possible that that man might die, and that his death might be most slow and uncomfortable; but such a sacrifice, if it had to be made, might save fifty-six other lives. No man would be forced to make this sacrifice, Dr. Hightower said; he sought only a man who was willing to risk his life in the name of science.</p> <p>I immediately volunteered myself as a guinea-pig. Dr. Hightower at first objected; I was too critical to the mission, he said, to risk my life so frivolously. I put forth the proposition that as a peer of the realm and a gentleman, I have an obligation to, as it were, lead from the fore, and that I would never dream of putting any man under my authority into a position of hazard that I was not myself willing to occupy. If Victoria was too toxic for man to explore her wonders, I argued, then there could be no further expedition to begin with; and therefore, if I died in ascertaining its safety, there was nothing lost. The men were in solid agreement with this logic, and Dr. Hightower acquiesced; shortly before eleven in the morning London time, as the sun arose over the crater's edge, I stood alone, in my finest khakis, boots, and helmet, in the landing craft's air-lock.</p> <p>The hatch opened and I breathed my first breath of Victorian air. It was hot and thick, more severe even than the oppression of the Amazonian jungle, with a bitter scent not unlike cinnamon. I breathed deeply, and though it was a most labourious effort, I found it not as hostile as the choking air of Mars, nor as cruel and unyielding as the sparse atmosphere of the Himalayas. Though I stood bare and exposed on a world where man had never before dwelled, I lived. Cautiously, I made my way down the gantry and set my foot upon the earth, the treads in my boot impressing themselves in the virgin soil. How small a step for a man! How great a leap for the Empire!</p> <p>The earth before me was barren and plain. Less than a mile distant I beheld the forest that blanketed Victoria; like a brick wall, it seemed to stand impenetrable, jutting hundreds of feet above the surface. The purple sky was a sharp contrast to the greenery, a vision worthy of one of the great French Impressionists. I lack the words to truly describe the sight and the emotions that ran through me as I beheld that alien landscape, and I wondered if a poet ought to have descended in my stead. With as much solemnity as I could muster, I produced from my jacket a Union Flag, mounted to a small pole, and reverentially mounted it in the earth. As the men watched eagerly from the windows of the crowded vessel, I fell to my knees in the Victorian soil and made an address, heard but by God, that I had written and revised in my mind for hours since;</p> <p><em>I, Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE, 7th Viscount of Winchester, do hereby claim in perpetuity this land, the planet Victoria, in the name of Her Majesty the Queen Victoria and of her British Empire, on this, the first day of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1856, and do hereby pray to our Lord and Saviour that our expedition to this land shall be fruitful and pleasing unto Him. God save the Queen.</em></p> <p>I remained alone on the surface of the planet for several hours, an entire Victorian sunrise and sunset occurring in the meanwhile as I took samples of the soil and documented in my journal the conditions of that world. By the time the sun rose again at half past three and the rest of the crew could see that I was alive and well, they began to alight as well. We established our base camp at the edge of the forest, which seemed to terminate at a certain point as if a line had been drawn in the sand and no plant dared extend its roots further. Tomorrow we shall begin our journey into the forest proper, and endeavour to learn what we can of this planet.</p> <p><strong>July 3rd, 1856</strong></p> <p>I once thought, dear reader, that I had beheld all there was that a man could hope to see in Creation. I have wandered the jungles of South America, and blazed trails across the frontiers of the West. I have lived among the unknown cults of India and Bangla Desh. I have trekked across the great Outback, wandered the vast and empty forests of Siberia, and lead men and dogs across the vast plateaus of Antarctica.</p> <p>So I had thought, until this day. Were I to make a comparison, I would say that the Victorian forest is most like that of the rain-forests of Brazil; beneath the massive trees, little of the already sparse sunlight reaches, and were it not for our electric torches we would be altogether blind. The undergrowth is thick and impassable, and we have had to make liberal use of our machetes to cut a path into the forest. Dr. Hightower's thermometer attests that the temperature, day or night, is almost a constant one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than all but the most desolate of the Arabian wastelands. The flora here must derive their nutrition from the heat of the air, for no terrestrial plant could hope to blossom in an environment this dim. Already we have collected several hundred samples of organisms unlike none that have been seen on Earth; I imagine that Oxford itself will be set on its ear for decades in endeavouring to decrypt the nature of these organisms once we announce our findings.</p> <p>To our universal surprise and delight, we have discovered this day that there is not only foliage, but that animal life exists on Victoria as well. Four-winged creatures not unlike insects flit through the air, alighting from flower to flower in the vines that cris-cross the jungle. From mounds on the earth teem thousands upon thousands of creatures that for all the world are dead ringers for the common ants one may find anywhere on Earth. We collected many samples of the insect life. The ants, however, responded with great hostility when we attempted to examine them; Mr. Andrews, one of the junior biologists in the mission, was suddenly set upon by thousands of the creatures when he attempted to examine their nest, and found himself suffering a toxic condition as the result of their bite. As we have yet to encounter any megafauna, I am beginning to suspect that the ants are the dominant organism of this world. I have often felt a curious rhythm emanating from the earth whenever I approach their nests, and I suspect that some subterranean machinery may be to account.</p> <p><strong>July 11th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>Today our expedition reached the base of the giant tree at Victoria's pole. It has been less than ten miles from the landing site to the tree's base; the jungle, however, has proven so thick that cutting our way through the thick vines has proven a full-time occupation for many of the men. We have observed yet no larger animals than the dragon-flies of this world; as thick as the various and entangled vines of the flora are, I doubt that any larger animals could even evolve here.</p> <p>We have named this great tree the Major Oak, in reference to that ancient tree in Sherwood where Robin Hood and his band of outlaws held court. It is indeed, as I first considered it from telescope, very similar to the rare palms that grow along the tropical coast, but unlike those plants it is truly massive; it stands some four hundred feet tall, and seven of the men with their arms outstretched were barely able to encircle it.</p> <p>I have taken several core samples from the Major Oak, and would have willingly climbed her myself to acquire a sample of her fronds. But I am not the young man that I once was, and it was decided that Mr. Edelman, a junior biologist late of Cambridge, would perform that obligation. I watched in stunned silence with the men as he shimmied up that massive trunk which must have taken millennia to become what it is today, and saluted us with a single thumb cast skyward as he reached the top of the organism.</p> <p>As I sit here writing in my tent at the base of the Major Oak, I find it impossible to believe that we have made such incredible breakthroughs in so many days. What will they say, I wonder, when we return to Earth, and the proof of our exploration is published, plain for the world to see, in every periodical from San Francisco to Peking? Perhaps I shall finally earn the knighthood that I long have coveted; but no temporal honour is greater than the knowledge that the progress of science and reason, and of the glory of the British Empire, has been advanced by my efforts.</p> <p><strong>July 27th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>A most terrible calamity has befallen us this day. Half past six in the morning, at the second sunrise of the day, we heard a strange sound in the distance, a droning sound barely liminal at first, that slowly grew louder and more ominous. It seemed to come from the direction of the sunrise. Mr. Andrews held his binoculars to the horizon and espied a terrible doom - a swarm of insects, not unlike the common locust, voraciously devouring everything in its path and moving with great speed toward our base camp!</p> <p>We have not yet seen this type of swarming behavior from the Victorian fauna, and in any event we had little time to study it, for in fifteen minutes they descended upon us. We scrambled to move as much equipment into the landing craft as we could, for what we left behind, the creatures devoured or destroyed. Poor Mr. Jacobs did not make it to the air-lock in time, and I watched in horror as hundreds of the insects enveloped him and stripped him to the bone in seconds. Minutes later, the swarm was gone and we emerged to survey the destruction.</p> <p>We are fortunate to have lost little of our research; however, we have lost many of our tents and a good deal of food and fresh water. Worst of all, the engines of the landing craft themselves have been compromised; Mr. Darren, the pilot, says we cannot now take off to rejoin our rocket in orbit, and it shall have to be repaired if we are to have any hope of ever leaving this world.</p> <p>For now, my work continues as it has. Many of the men have been assigned to rebuild the engines; the rest of us shall continue to study and observe, and pray for their success. Dr. Hightower says that the rocket must begin its return to Earth no later than the first of November, lest the distance between our worlds become so great that the trip would be years in the taking. The doctor is confident that the engines can be repaired, and that we should be homeward bound by September. A more immediate concern, however, is that we now have but two weeks worth of food left to us, and with the landing craft out of commission there is no way to bring more from the rocket, or even alert them to our distress. The water that flows in creeks and rivulets upon this world, and dribbles from the trees like morning dew, has proven safe to drink; but if we are to endure on Victoria until summer's end, we shall have to determine which of the native organisms are safe to eat.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>NOTE TO THE READER:</em></p> <p><em>At Mr. Blackwood's request, I have heavily revised and edited the following two entries in this journal. As Mr. Blackwood had at the time come under the unfortunate effects of consuming Victoria's native flora, he was not of sound mind when he wrote these pages. The following entries contained numerous errors in spelling and standardized sentence structure, rambling and incoherent tangents of an incomprehensible nature, and several vulgarities which Mr. Blackwood is not proud of, and partway through the second entry he had abandoned the English language entirely and began to write in Chinese.</em></p> <p><em>I have translated and standardized the spelling throughout, and expunged those portions which Mr. Blackwood has asked me to omit. I have done my best to maintain his genteel and scholarly tone, and to describe the state of mind he was in at the time. I hope the reader will not feel that I have taken any undue liberties.</em></p> <p><em>-Deeds, being of smokeless fire</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>August 16th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>It is difficult to write at this time. Though the affliction I suffer is less severe than many of the men, I find my mind clouded and confused, and it is a Herculean effort to keep my thoughts clear enough to express.</p> <p>We spent several days in experimentation with the native foodstuffs. Several of the vines and fruits were poisonous, and five of the men died most uncomfortable deaths. We eventually discovered several of the larger vines bear sweet and savoury vegetables that could be eaten and digested without discomfort, and were indeed not unpleasant in taste. We feasted liberally that night, though at Dr. Hightower's request the men working on the engines were to abstain for fear of a long-term effect that might impair their critical work. His judgment may yet save us all.</p> <p>Several days after we began eating the native food, we began to turn green. It was a minor pallour at first, like that of a jaundiced man, but with time it grew more severe. Some of the men who have eaten the most are almost the same colour as the trees themselves. The colouring itself seemed to bear no more malicious effects along with it, however. Dr. Hightower assured us it was safe to continue eating, but I voluntarily cut my rations at that time. I have been eating only sparingly the last two weeks, and have lost a considerable amount of weight.</p> <p>A few days after that, the men began going mad. At first they complained of having difficulty in cognition (as I now do myself) and claimed hallucinations. Later they began speaking in nonsense entirely; several of them seem to sit for hours and have conversations in utter gibberish. A few have taken to frolicking naked amongst the trees and rolling in the dirt, referring to the plants as their "sisters" and attempting to court them as if they were eligible ladies. Dr. Hightower has been spending his time by the largest ant-hills; he claims the ants are heathens, and that he intends to convince them of the righteousness of Christianity. He sits for hours with his ear to the ground, the ants crawling around and over him, reading aloud from the New Testament; as I write, he is currently on the seventeenth chapter of Acts. (Curiously enough, I had always understood Dr. Hightower to be of the Jewish faith.)</p> <p>I pray the engineers have our vessel repaired soon, for I fear the men may be beyond saving if we remain here much longer. I had to shoot two of the men yesterday; they had come to the determination that our landing craft was a "great metallic devil" and had to be slain, and were attempting to chew their way through the wires of an instrument panel. We are almost out of terrestrial food; the engineers may have to begin eating Victorian foliage in a day or two, and choose between madness or starvation. Either way, we are surely doomed. We came to Victoria to explore in peace; instead, we may remain here to rest in peace.</p> <p><strong>September 8th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>Dr. Hightower's madness may have saved us after all. I awoke from a stupour this afternoon, having collapsed in a stream by our base camp, only to find myself in the air, being carried by a blanket of ants. I looked up and saw that ants were swarming over what remained of our camp by the millions; streams of them coming from every which direction, and making their way to our ship. I feared that they intended to finish the job the locusts had begun; but not one of the men made any sound of distress, and I found that I had not a single bite upon me. The ants were carrying men by the dozens and loading them into our lander, and carrying other objects as well; great hunks of metal, and tools the likes of which I have never beheld before. They crawled in and out of the damaged engines. By God, they were repairing them!</p> <p>In less than two hours, Mr. Gregory, the engineer, a man now emaciated and half-starved for want of food, reported that the engines had come alive and our escape was possible. Not all of the men were aboard, but we saw no sign of the others; either they have perished, or run off into the forest in utter madness. In any event, those of us of sound enough mind voted and decided we could not spare another day to search for them; we have been given an opportunity, and we must make use of it. I caught a final glimpse of the Union Flag I had planted in the soil in July as we lifted off, the twenty-six of us that were left abandoning the mad planet Victoria for the last time.</p> <p><strong>December 12th, 1856:</strong></p> <p>The journey back home was a long and arduous one, but I have never felt so relieved to be back in London as I was when Deeds greeted me at the door with a nip of brandy and my favorite silk pyjamas. With as few of us in possession of our faculties as there were at the outset, it was nearly impossible to operate the rocket safely; many of us did not sleep for days. Fortunately, once liberated from the planet and its madness-inducing flora, the men began to recover their senses, and our flesh acquired once again a healthy shade. Most of the men remember little of the time they were under the influence of those horrid crops. Dr. Hightower, I fear, may not recover fully; he is lucid, indeed, but he lacks the sharp mind and cleverness he once had, and shall be retiring to the country.</p> <p>When I spoke to him the day before last, we agreed for now that it is best not to publish our full findings on Victoria. Any attempt to colonize that land will surely end in disaster; and if the culture of the ants is as advanced and sophisticated as it seems, they could oppress and conquer our Empire as easily as the rebellions in India and Zululand of late have been put down. I shall keep the samples and notes we acquired at my country estate for safe-keeping; perhaps in a few decades, when we better understand the chemistry of those organisms, another adventure might be advisable.</p> <p>Deeds was seeing to the cleaning and mending of the clothes I had brought on that ill-fated expedition today when he informed me that several live ants had crawled out a pocket and escaped through a crack in the wall. It is entirely possible they were nothing more than ordinary insects, but I wonder; after so many of the Victorian ants crawled over and through our ship repairing our systems, how many stow-aways might we have brought back with 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="/lord-blackwood-astro-naut">Lord Blackwood, Astro-Naut</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-astro-naut">https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-astro-naut</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]] [[/>]] April 3rd, 1856: My succour has arrived! For over a year now I have been in London, exercising my duties in the House of Lords to aid Mr. Palmerston's government in bringing about the conclusion of the war in the Crimea. Those who have read these pages are well aware, I am certain, that I do not relish government office; the endless meetings and floor sessions and meandering speeches by whips and cross-benchers and the Lords Spiritual could drive a man to madness, and represent nothing less than utter tedium to a man as afflicted by wanderlust as I. Still, with privilege comes responsibility, and when country and party call it is my duty to don my robe, cast my vote, and maintain the proud heritage of the house of Blackwood as defenders of the church and the state. With the Russians acquiescing to the treaty that has been signed in Paris this past Sunday, the war has ended and so has the necessity of my sitting in Parliament. No sooner had I returned to my London estate after the final meeting when Deeds informed me a caller had visited in my absence. Dr. Hightower, the astronomer, has requested that I meet him two nights from now at Greenwich for a demonstration and the discussion of a most interesting proposition. I have not heard from Dr. Hightower since our trip to Mars in 1843; if the news he has in mind to share with me is as elucidating as it was in the days leading to that adventure, then this shall be a welcome change from the quiet desperation in which I have suffered this past year. April 6th, 1856: It has been many years, dear reader, since I was a man young enough to stay awake all night and feel no worse for it the following day. Of course, the nature of the occupation requires that an astronomer keep odd hours; and so it was half before midnight last night when I met Dr. Hightower at the Royal Greenwich Observatory. Dr. Hightower was most excited to see me; for a man who is typically most dour and sedate, concerning himself with the abstractions of physical science, he was uncharacteristically exuberant. He spoke to me of great discoveries and unique opportunities as he ushered me upstairs to the observing chamber, where the facility's great telescope laid bare the heavens to man's prying eye. For several years, Dr. Hightower informed me, he had been busily engaged in making refinements to the telescope that allowed it to compensate for the interfering effects of our atmosphere, allowing him to observe the heavenly bodies in levels of detail never before imagined. The doctor seated me before the great device and bade me to look into the eye-piece of the telescope, which he had delicately adjusted to expose his great discovery. I beheld, amidst the blackness of space, a massive rock, one of the many asteroids that Mr. Piazzi and his associates had discovered between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter in recent years. But unlike the copper-plate dagguerotypes that had been published in the Times, this was no barren rock adrift in the void. Save for a few tiny blotches, the entirety of the oblong body was coated in a sea of verdant greenery, the unmistakable colour of the virgin jungle. I fancied I could even see the leaves of the canopy that enveloped the miniature world, and at its pole I espied what resembled a palm tree, truly gargantuan in size, towering above the foliage of the world. This was a most interesting discovery indeed; while the famous canals of Mars had proven to be mere illusions when I visited them (and its atmosphere, I found, most unpleasant to breathe), here was proof, plain to see, that God in His wisdom had not set living things on our celestial sphere alone, but that the Galaxy itself had been seeded with the germ of life. Dr. Hightower had first discovered the asteroid, which he had named Victoria in honour of our dear Queen, five years ago during the mania following Mr. Le Verrier's discovery of the planet Neptune several years before. He had kept his discovery secret, he told me, for he had a plan to announce its existence in a manner as grandiose as no astronomer has ever done. For four years, at his estate in Wales, Dr. Hightower has employed a team of men constructing a rocket similar to the one proposed by Mr. De Bergerac two centuries ago, larger and sturdier than the one that carried us to Mars on our previous voyage. Last week, the final preparations had been made, and the rocket now stood, fueled and ready, to escape the bonds of gravity and carry to Victoria a scientific expedition that will rival Mr. Darwin's. The astro-nauts will for several months have time to catalogue and sample the flora and fauna of Victoria and, for the first time since the discovery of Australia, return bearing knowledge of a new world, and cement the names of those explorers in the annals of history. For months Dr. Hightower has been assembling a crew to conduct this expedition. He has pilots, cooks, archivists, writers, dagguerotypists, painters, men-at-arms, and labourers, he told me, but he wants for one thing; a naturalist to manage the exploration and scientific observation of this foreign planet, and of all the men of learning he has known, he could think of no better individual than I to play this part. How could I refuse? Today I have been busy taking stock of what I shall need. We set off for Victoria on the twenty-first, when our world shall draw the closest to Victoria that it shall be in the next thirty years, and if luck and Providence provide, we shall return by Guy Fawkes Night. It is rare that I have ventured so far from our land of hope and glory, but England shall have to endure in my absence for a time. April 23rd, 1856: No matter how many times I am among the stars, I shall never grow accustomed to the sensation of weightlessness. One must learn anew how to perform the simplest tasks in this environment, as if returning to infancy; how to move about, how to eat and drink, how to sleep, even how to engage the water-closet, for absent the caress of gravity the slightest unintended twitch can send one hurtling every which way, and the slightest loose drop of moisture, applied to our rocket's apparati, could spell disaster. This morning, our vessel conducted a circuit of the Moon. Dr. Hightower explained to me that we shall use our closest neighbor's gravitational field to produce an effect not unlike a sling-shot, granting acceleration that shall enable us to reach Victoria months before we might reach it otherwise. To achieve our target, we must travel twice as far through the blackness of space as the distance that stands between our Earth and the Sun itself. Thus far, Dr. Hightower assures me, all has gone in accordance with plan, and we should reach Victoria by the first of July. We took advantage of our approach to the Moon to make as many observations as we could. We took several dagguerotypes from the on-board telescopes, and the artists have produced depictions of the dark side which Dr. Hightower informs me are the first ever made by man. I am told that the surface of the Moon is an inhospitable place, wanting entirely for air to breathe, that a vacuum-suit would be necessary to stand upon its surface, and that it will likely be a hundred years or more before such a deed is feasible. Still, I would very much like some day to attempt it. May 24th, 1856: Today is the Queen's birthday, and beside that, today marks the point where we are officially half-way to the world named for her. In her honour we held a party in the rocket's cafeteria. There has been little time for frivolity on this voyage thus far; all sixty-three of us have our appointed tasks to conduct every day, for our rocket is one of the most complex and intricate devices that man has ever engaged, and we are surrounded on all sides by millions of miles of emptiness from which no salvation will come if we are remiss in our duties. Dr. Hightower toasted the Queen as we sipped the precious rations of champagne he had stowed for specifically this occasion, and I offered a toast to science and to the progress of our Empire. I wonder, what would Her Majesty say on this occasion, if she knew that Englishmen were praising her name ninety million miles away? I spent a good deal of time contemplating this as I stared out a port-hole into the darkness, the stars holding steady in the distance as we hurtled through the cosmos at a greater velocity than man has ever imagined. One truly feels small in these expanses. How insignificant is a man, how great is the mind of God, that in a thousand lifetimes one could not hope to cross from one end of the Universe to another? June 30th, 1856: Today we entered into Victoria's orbit. The artists and photographers have been busy at the port-holes and telescopes, creating the first records of this unexplored Eden. I was barely able to manage a peek for a few moments before giving up my spot, and I found myself utterly rapt at the sights that laid before me. What Dr. Hightower had shown me in the telescope at Greenwich was no illusion; the surface of the asteroid, now scarcely a dozen miles beneath my feet, was indeed blanketed thick with foliage, and I even fancied briefly that I espied a bird fluttering amongst the canopy. Tomorrow, almost all of us shall board the landing craft and embark for the surface itself, the handful of pilots remaining aboard the rocket to maintain its orbit while we catalog Victoria's wonders for the next two months. Dr. Hightower has selected a landing zone at the edge of one of the cratered regions, where there is a break in the foliage large enough to attempt a landing without fear of being obstructed by the flora. I feel as Mr. Columbus must have felt when he espied the tawny, savage people of San Salvador through his spyglass. We are on the cusp of revelation of the sort that happens but once in a lifetime; for tomorrow I, Theodore Thomas Blackwood, explorer and gentleman, shall set my foot upon the virgin soil of a new world. July 1st, 1856: O glorious day! It was barely half past five, London time, when our landing craft separated from the main rocket and made its way towards the surface of Victoria. The pressure of re-entry was almost unbearable, and flames licked the windows of the craft as we descended. It was dark outside the craft when we finally impacted the edge of the crater; Victoria is of such small size, Dr. Hightower explained, and of such an irregular shape, that it takes little more than four hours for it to complete a single rotation. Day and night are brief affairs; one can almost watch the sun, from this vantage a dim and distant orb no larger than the Moon, race across the purplish sky from when it rises in the north until it sinks in the south. Because Victoria is so miniscule in relation to the Earth, Dr. Hightower had warned us that we would weigh but a tiny fraction of what we do there. Perhaps it was simply because I have become so used to weightlessness in the past two months, but I feel no lighter here than I ever have. Shortly after we made landfall, Dr. Hightower addressed us with a matter most grave. We know not, he said, whether the environmental conditions of Victoria are conducive to human life. It is entirely possible that the air of this world is unbreathable, or that its flora exude compounds poisonous to man, or that vicious beasts stood ready to tear a man apart, or that the air itself was lousy with bacteria that would kill a man slowly from the inside. It would be necessary, he said, for a single man to expose himself to Victoria before the rest of the expedition alighted, and by his fate demonstrate whether it was safe for man to even exist on this world. It was entirely possible that that man might die, and that his death might be most slow and uncomfortable; but such a sacrifice, if it had to be made, might save fifty-six other lives. No man would be forced to make this sacrifice, Dr. Hightower said; he sought only a man who was willing to risk his life in the name of science. I immediately volunteered myself as a guinea-pig. Dr. Hightower at first objected; I was too critical to the mission, he said, to risk my life so frivolously. I put forth the proposition that as a peer of the realm and a gentleman, I have an obligation to, as it were, lead from the fore, and that I would never dream of putting any man under my authority into a position of hazard that I was not myself willing to occupy. If Victoria was too toxic for man to explore her wonders, I argued, then there could be no further expedition to begin with; and therefore, if I died in ascertaining its safety, there was nothing lost. The men were in solid agreement with this logic, and Dr. Hightower acquiesced; shortly before eleven in the morning London time, as the sun arose over the crater's edge, I stood alone, in my finest khakis, boots, and helmet, in the landing craft's air-lock. The hatch opened and I breathed my first breath of Victorian air. It was hot and thick, more severe even than the oppression of the Amazonian jungle, with a bitter scent not unlike cinnamon. I breathed deeply, and though it was a most labourious effort, I found it not as hostile as the choking air of Mars, nor as cruel and unyielding as the sparse atmosphere of the Himalayas. Though I stood bare and exposed on a world where man had never before dwelled, I lived. Cautiously, I made my way down the gantry and set my foot upon the earth, the treads in my boot impressing themselves in the virgin soil. How small a step for a man! How great a leap for the Empire! The earth before me was barren and plain. Less than a mile distant I beheld the forest that blanketed Victoria; like a brick wall, it seemed to stand impenetrable, jutting hundreds of feet above the surface. The purple sky was a sharp contrast to the greenery, a vision worthy of one of the great French Impressionists. I lack the words to truly describe the sight and the emotions that ran through me as I beheld that alien landscape, and I wondered if a poet ought to have descended in my stead. With as much solemnity as I could muster, I produced from my jacket a Union Flag, mounted to a small pole, and reverentially mounted it in the earth. As the men watched eagerly from the windows of the crowded vessel, I fell to my knees in the Victorian soil and made an address, heard but by God, that I had written and revised in my mind for hours since; //I, Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE, 7th Viscount of Winchester, do hereby claim in perpetuity this land, the planet Victoria, in the name of Her Majesty the Queen Victoria and of her British Empire, on this, the first day of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1856, and do hereby pray to our Lord and Saviour that our expedition to this land shall be fruitful and pleasing unto Him. God save the Queen.// I remained alone on the surface of the planet for several hours, an entire Victorian sunrise and sunset occurring in the meanwhile as I took samples of the soil and documented in my journal the conditions of that world. By the time the sun rose again at half past three and the rest of the crew could see that I was alive and well, they began to alight as well. We established our base camp at the edge of the forest, which seemed to terminate at a certain point as if a line had been drawn in the sand and no plant dared extend its roots further. Tomorrow we shall begin our journey into the forest proper, and endeavour to learn what we can of this planet. July 3rd, 1856 I once thought, dear reader, that I had beheld all there was that a man could hope to see in Creation. I have wandered the jungles of South America, and blazed trails across the frontiers of the West. I have lived among the unknown cults of India and Bangla Desh. I have trekked across the great Outback, wandered the vast and empty forests of Siberia, and lead men and dogs across the vast plateaus of Antarctica. So I had thought, until this day. Were I to make a comparison, I would say that the Victorian forest is most like that of the rain-forests of Brazil; beneath the massive trees, little of the already sparse sunlight reaches, and were it not for our electric torches we would be altogether blind. The undergrowth is thick and impassable, and we have had to make liberal use of our machetes to cut a path into the forest. Dr. Hightower's thermometer attests that the temperature, day or night, is almost a constant one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than all but the most desolate of the Arabian wastelands. The flora here must derive their nutrition from the heat of the air, for no terrestrial plant could hope to blossom in an environment this dim. Already we have collected several hundred samples of organisms unlike none that have been seen on Earth; I imagine that Oxford itself will be set on its ear for decades in endeavouring to decrypt the nature of these organisms once we announce our findings. To our universal surprise and delight, we have discovered this day that there is not only foliage, but that animal life exists on Victoria as well. Four-winged creatures not unlike insects flit through the air, alighting from flower to flower in the vines that cris-cross the jungle. From mounds on the earth teem thousands upon thousands of creatures that for all the world are dead ringers for the common ants one may find anywhere on Earth. We collected many samples of the insect life. The ants, however, responded with great hostility when we attempted to examine them; Mr. Andrews, one of the junior biologists in the mission, was suddenly set upon by thousands of the creatures when he attempted to examine their nest, and found himself suffering a toxic condition as the result of their bite. As we have yet to encounter any megafauna, I am beginning to suspect that the ants are the dominant organism of this world. I have often felt a curious rhythm emanating from the earth whenever I approach their nests, and I suspect that some subterranean machinery may be to account. July 11th, 1856: Today our expedition reached the base of the giant tree at Victoria's pole. It has been less than ten miles from the landing site to the tree's base; the jungle, however, has proven so thick that cutting our way through the thick vines has proven a full-time occupation for many of the men. We have observed yet no larger animals than the dragon-flies of this world; as thick as the various and entangled vines of the flora are, I doubt that any larger animals could even evolve here. We have named this great tree the Major Oak, in reference to that ancient tree in Sherwood where Robin Hood and his band of outlaws held court. It is indeed, as I first considered it from telescope, very similar to the rare palms that grow along the tropical coast, but unlike those plants it is truly massive; it stands some four hundred feet tall, and seven of the men with their arms outstretched were barely able to encircle it. I have taken several core samples from the Major Oak, and would have willingly climbed her myself to acquire a sample of her fronds. But I am not the young man that I once was, and it was decided that Mr. Edelman, a junior biologist late of Cambridge, would perform that obligation. I watched in stunned silence with the men as he shimmied up that massive trunk which must have taken millennia to become what it is today, and saluted us with a single thumb cast skyward as he reached the top of the organism. As I sit here writing in my tent at the base of the Major Oak, I find it impossible to believe that we have made such incredible breakthroughs in so many days. What will they say, I wonder, when we return to Earth, and the proof of our exploration is published, plain for the world to see, in every periodical from San Francisco to Peking? Perhaps I shall finally earn the knighthood that I long have coveted; but no temporal honour is greater than the knowledge that the progress of science and reason, and of the glory of the British Empire, has been advanced by my efforts. July 27th, 1856: A most terrible calamity has befallen us this day. Half past six in the morning, at the second sunrise of the day, we heard a strange sound in the distance, a droning sound barely liminal at first, that slowly grew louder and more ominous. It seemed to come from the direction of the sunrise. Mr. Andrews held his binoculars to the horizon and espied a terrible doom - a swarm of insects, not unlike the common locust, voraciously devouring everything in its path and moving with great speed toward our base camp! We have not yet seen this type of swarming behavior from the Victorian fauna, and in any event we had little time to study it, for in fifteen minutes they descended upon us. We scrambled to move as much equipment into the landing craft as we could, for what we left behind, the creatures devoured or destroyed. Poor Mr. Jacobs did not make it to the air-lock in time, and I watched in horror as hundreds of the insects enveloped him and stripped him to the bone in seconds. Minutes later, the swarm was gone and we emerged to survey the destruction. We are fortunate to have lost little of our research; however, we have lost many of our tents and a good deal of food and fresh water. Worst of all, the engines of the landing craft themselves have been compromised; Mr. Darren, the pilot, says we cannot now take off to rejoin our rocket in orbit, and it shall have to be repaired if we are to have any hope of ever leaving this world. For now, my work continues as it has. Many of the men have been assigned to rebuild the engines; the rest of us shall continue to study and observe, and pray for their success. Dr. Hightower says that the rocket must begin its return to Earth no later than the first of November, lest the distance between our worlds become so great that the trip would be years in the taking. The doctor is confident that the engines can be repaired, and that we should be homeward bound by September. A more immediate concern, however, is that we now have but two weeks worth of food left to us, and with the landing craft out of commission there is no way to bring more from the rocket, or even alert them to our distress. The water that flows in creeks and rivulets upon this world, and dribbles from the trees like morning dew, has proven safe to drink; but if we are to endure on Victoria until summer's end, we shall have to determine which of the native organisms are safe to eat. > //NOTE TO THE READER:// > > //At Mr. Blackwood's request, I have heavily revised and edited the following two entries in this journal. As Mr. Blackwood had at the time come under the unfortunate effects of consuming Victoria's native flora, he was not of sound mind when he wrote these pages. The following entries contained numerous errors in spelling and standardized sentence structure, rambling and incoherent tangents of an incomprehensible nature, and several vulgarities which Mr. Blackwood is not proud of, and partway through the second entry he had abandoned the English language entirely and began to write in Chinese.// > > //I have translated and standardized the spelling throughout, and expunged those portions which Mr. Blackwood has asked me to omit. I have done my best to maintain his genteel and scholarly tone, and to describe the state of mind he was in at the time. I hope the reader will not feel that I have taken any undue liberties.// > > //-Deeds, being of smokeless fire// August 16th, 1856: It is difficult to write at this time. Though the affliction I suffer is less severe than many of the men, I find my mind clouded and confused, and it is a Herculean effort to keep my thoughts clear enough to express. We spent several days in experimentation with the native foodstuffs. Several of the vines and fruits were poisonous, and five of the men died most uncomfortable deaths. We eventually discovered several of the larger vines bear sweet and savoury vegetables that could be eaten and digested without discomfort, and were indeed not unpleasant in taste. We feasted liberally that night, though at Dr. Hightower's request the men working on the engines were to abstain for fear of a long-term effect that might impair their critical work. His judgment may yet save us all. Several days after we began eating the native food, we began to turn green. It was a minor pallour at first, like that of a jaundiced man, but with time it grew more severe. Some of the men who have eaten the most are almost the same colour as the trees themselves. The colouring itself seemed to bear no more malicious effects along with it, however. Dr. Hightower assured us it was safe to continue eating, but I voluntarily cut my rations at that time. I have been eating only sparingly the last two weeks, and have lost a considerable amount of weight. A few days after that, the men began going mad. At first they complained of having difficulty in cognition (as I now do myself) and claimed hallucinations. Later they began speaking in nonsense entirely; several of them seem to sit for hours and have conversations in utter gibberish. A few have taken to frolicking naked amongst the trees and rolling in the dirt, referring to the plants as their "sisters" and attempting to court them as if they were eligible ladies. Dr. Hightower has been spending his time by the largest ant-hills; he claims the ants are heathens, and that he intends to convince them of the righteousness of Christianity. He sits for hours with his ear to the ground, the ants crawling around and over him, reading aloud from the New Testament; as I write, he is currently on the seventeenth chapter of Acts. (Curiously enough, I had always understood Dr. Hightower to be of the Jewish faith.) I pray the engineers have our vessel repaired soon, for I fear the men may be beyond saving if we remain here much longer. I had to shoot two of the men yesterday; they had come to the determination that our landing craft was a "great metallic devil" and had to be slain, and were attempting to chew their way through the wires of an instrument panel. We are almost out of terrestrial food; the engineers may have to begin eating Victorian foliage in a day or two, and choose between madness or starvation. Either way, we are surely doomed. We came to Victoria to explore in peace; instead, we may remain here to rest in peace. September 8th, 1856: Dr. Hightower's madness may have saved us after all. I awoke from a stupour this afternoon, having collapsed in a stream by our base camp, only to find myself in the air, being carried by a blanket of ants. I looked up and saw that ants were swarming over what remained of our camp by the millions; streams of them coming from every which direction, and making their way to our ship. I feared that they intended to finish the job the locusts had begun; but not one of the men made any sound of distress, and I found that I had not a single bite upon me. The ants were carrying men by the dozens and loading them into our lander, and carrying other objects as well; great hunks of metal, and tools the likes of which I have never beheld before. They crawled in and out of the damaged engines. By God, they were repairing them! In less than two hours, Mr. Gregory, the engineer, a man now emaciated and half-starved for want of food, reported that the engines had come alive and our escape was possible. Not all of the men were aboard, but we saw no sign of the others; either they have perished, or run off into the forest in utter madness. In any event, those of us of sound enough mind voted and decided we could not spare another day to search for them; we have been given an opportunity, and we must make use of it. I caught a final glimpse of the Union Flag I had planted in the soil in July as we lifted off, the twenty-six of us that were left abandoning the mad planet Victoria for the last time. December 12th, 1856: The journey back home was a long and arduous one, but I have never felt so relieved to be back in London as I was when Deeds greeted me at the door with a nip of brandy and my favorite silk pyjamas. With as few of us in possession of our faculties as there were at the outset, it was nearly impossible to operate the rocket safely; many of us did not sleep for days. Fortunately, once liberated from the planet and its madness-inducing flora, the men began to recover their senses, and our flesh acquired once again a healthy shade. Most of the men remember little of the time they were under the influence of those horrid crops. Dr. Hightower, I fear, may not recover fully; he is lucid, indeed, but he lacks the sharp mind and cleverness he once had, and shall be retiring to the country. When I spoke to him the day before last, we agreed for now that it is best not to publish our full findings on Victoria. Any attempt to colonize that land will surely end in disaster; and if the culture of the ants is as advanced and sophisticated as it seems, they could oppress and conquer our Empire as easily as the rebellions in India and Zululand of late have been put down. I shall keep the samples and notes we acquired at my country estate for safe-keeping; perhaps in a few decades, when we better understand the chemistry of those organisms, another adventure might be advisable. Deeds was seeing to the cleaning and mending of the clothes I had brought on that ill-fated expedition today when he informed me that several live ants had crawled out a pocket and escaped through a crack in the wall. It is entirely possible they were nothing more than ordinary insects, but I wonder; after so many of the Victorian ants crawled over and through our ship repairing our systems, how many stow-aways might we have brought back with 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>]]	2012-06-04T01:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "blackwood", "journal", "period-piece", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	Lord Blackwood, Astro-Naut - SCP Foundation	114	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13455708	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lord-blackwood-astro-naut
lord-blackwood-s-revenge	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, explorer and gentleman, crawled stealthily across High Value Storage Locker Room 23C, leaving a thin trail of slime behind him as he climbed up the table leg. The trip from his pen to the archives had taken hours, and adjusting the security cameras to hide his escape had been a Herculean effort in and of itself. Before long, his quarry was in sight - a small silver bell, carelessly left out of its case by a junior researcher after the completion of today's tests. With all the strength the Englishman's diminutive form could muster, he pushed against the bell and knocked it on its side, producing the distant, but distinct chime of a ringing bell. All was silent in High Value Storage Locker Room 23C for a moment, and Lord Blackwood feared the bell had lost its magic, or he was in the wrong room. But his fears were dispelled when the door to the room - the triple-locked, magnetically sealed door he had bypassed entirely on his daring expedition - effortlessly slid open, and an elderly man in a finely-pressed suit entered and approached the table.</p> <p>"Good evening, Mr. Blackwood," said the man in a distinguished British accent. "How may I be of service?"</p> <p>"By Jove, Deeds!" Lord Blackwood cried out, his exuberant aristocratic tones transmitting directly into Mr. Deeds' mind. "You haven't changed a bit! How the Devil are you?"</p> <p>"Quite well, Mr. Blackwood," replied Mr. Deeds, "and may I say it is most pleasant to find myself in your company once again."</p> <p>"Smashing!" said Lord Blackwood. "Now listen carefully. We've got to act fast, I don't know how long those buffoons in the guard-house will be deceived by my little trick. Tonight, Deeds, you and I are going to bag the biggest catch since I rounded up that herd of stampeding bunyips back in seventy-two."</p> <p>"Indeed, Mr. Blackwood?"</p> <p>"Indubitably, Deeds! Do you recall that blasted Tarasque that eluded me in France? I've learned from one of the researchers here that that same beast is being held in this very facility!"</p> <p>Mr. Deeds nodded. "Indeed it is, sir. The Foundation refers to it by the name 'SCP-682'. It may also interest you to know that…"</p> <p>"Dash it all, Deeds, this is no time for a history lesson!" The impatience in Lord Blackwood's voice was palpable. "The clock is ticking, my friend! Now, here's what I need you to do first…"</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Lord Blackwood paced, to the extent that a nudibranch can, back and forth along the table. Nearly a half hour had passed since Mr. Deeds had left on his task. Had he been captured? Was the jig up? Was he, after all this time, not as loyal as he had hoped? Footsteps rang out in the hallway, and Lord Blackwood looked around for a hiding place. None were within reach - but his fears were allayed when the door opened and Mr. Deeds entered. His suit was stained and wet, his previously immaculate coiffure a mess, and an offensively strong aroma of mint hanged heavily about him, but just as Lord Blackwood had hoped, he carried in either hand a large jug, filled to the brim with a viscous green liquid.</p> <p>"As you requested, sir," Mr. Deeds said, gasping for breath, "two Imperial gallons of SCP-447-2."</p> <p>"Spectacular, Deeds!" exclaimed Lord Blackwood. "The trap is set and the pieces are in play. The time has come for us to make our move. Tell me, do you still have the Bowie knife you won off that Indian in sixty-six?"</p> <p>"Always, sir."</p> <p>"Excellent! You and I are going to go to the Tarasque's lair. Once I get its attention, I want you to open both those jugs, pour them all over yourself, and then plunge the knife directly into your heart. Understood?"</p> <p>Mr. Deeds sighed. "Yes, sir. What shall we do then?"</p> <p>"Don't you worry about me," Lord Blackwood said. "Once you're dead, I'll take care of the rest. Within the hour, my old friend, the back-country horse-doctors that run this establishment will be patting us on the back and pinning medals on our chests."</p> <p>"Very good, sir," Mr. Deeds said. "Shall we be on our way?"</p> <p>Lord Blackwood crawled up Mr. Deeds' sleeve and perched on his shoulder as the trusty valet opened the door and made his way down the hallway. <em>By jingo,</em> the intrepid mollusk thought to himself, <em>that old rascal won't even know what hit him.</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="/lord-blackwood-s-revenge">Lord Blackwood's Revenge</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-s-revenge">https://scpwiki.com/lord-blackwood-s-revenge</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]] [[/>]] Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, explorer and gentleman, crawled stealthily across High Value Storage Locker Room 23C, leaving a thin trail of slime behind him as he climbed up the table leg. The trip from his pen to the archives had taken hours, and adjusting the security cameras to hide his escape had been a Herculean effort in and of itself. Before long, his quarry was in sight - a small silver bell, carelessly left out of its case by a junior researcher after the completion of today's tests. With all the strength the Englishman's diminutive form could muster, he pushed against the bell and knocked it on its side, producing the distant, but distinct chime of a ringing bell. All was silent in High Value Storage Locker Room 23C for a moment, and Lord Blackwood feared the bell had lost its magic, or he was in the wrong room. But his fears were dispelled when the door to the room - the triple-locked, magnetically sealed door he had bypassed entirely on his daring expedition - effortlessly slid open, and an elderly man in a finely-pressed suit entered and approached the table. "Good evening, Mr. Blackwood," said the man in a distinguished British accent. "How may I be of service?" "By Jove, Deeds!" Lord Blackwood cried out, his exuberant aristocratic tones transmitting directly into Mr. Deeds' mind. "You haven't changed a bit! How the Devil are you?" "Quite well, Mr. Blackwood," replied Mr. Deeds, "and may I say it is most pleasant to find myself in your company once again." "Smashing!" said Lord Blackwood. "Now listen carefully. We've got to act fast, I don't know how long those buffoons in the guard-house will be deceived by my little trick. Tonight, Deeds, you and I are going to bag the biggest catch since I rounded up that herd of stampeding bunyips back in seventy-two." "Indeed, Mr. Blackwood?" "Indubitably, Deeds! Do you recall that blasted Tarasque that eluded me in France? I've learned from one of the researchers here that that same beast is being held in this very facility!" Mr. Deeds nodded. "Indeed it is, sir. The Foundation refers to it by the name 'SCP-682'. It may also interest you to know that..." "Dash it all, Deeds, this is no time for a history lesson!" The impatience in Lord Blackwood's voice was palpable. "The clock is ticking, my friend! Now, here's what I need you to do first..." --- Lord Blackwood paced, to the extent that a nudibranch can, back and forth along the table. Nearly a half hour had passed since Mr. Deeds had left on his task. Had he been captured? Was the jig up? Was he, after all this time, not as loyal as he had hoped? Footsteps rang out in the hallway, and Lord Blackwood looked around for a hiding place. None were within reach - but his fears were allayed when the door opened and Mr. Deeds entered. His suit was stained and wet, his previously immaculate coiffure a mess, and an offensively strong aroma of mint hanged heavily about him, but just as Lord Blackwood had hoped, he carried in either hand a large jug, filled to the brim with a viscous green liquid. "As you requested, sir," Mr. Deeds said, gasping for breath, "two Imperial gallons of SCP-447-2." "Spectacular, Deeds!" exclaimed Lord Blackwood. "The trap is set and the pieces are in play. The time has come for us to make our move. Tell me, do you still have the Bowie knife you won off that Indian in sixty-six?" "Always, sir." "Excellent! You and I are going to go to the Tarasque's lair. Once I get its attention, I want you to open both those jugs, pour them all over yourself, and then plunge the knife directly into your heart. Understood?" Mr. Deeds sighed. "Yes, sir. What shall we do then?" "Don't you worry about me," Lord Blackwood said. "Once you're dead, I'll take care of the rest. Within the hour, my old friend, the back-country horse-doctors that run this establishment will be patting us on the back and pinning medals on our chests." "Very good, sir," Mr. Deeds said. "Shall we be on our way?" Lord Blackwood crawled up Mr. Deeds' sleeve and perched on his shoulder as the trusty valet opened the door and made his way down the hallway. //By jingo,// the intrepid mollusk thought to himself, //that old rascal won't even know what hit him.// @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-19T09:02:00	[ "_licensebox", "blackwood", "tale" ]	Lord Blackwood's Revenge - SCP Foundation	110	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13587800	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lord-blackwood-s-revenge
lost-time	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“What were you, Harken?”</p> <p>“…what, like in a cosmic sense? Probably a dog or something.”</p> <p>“Must you always be an asshole?”</p> <p>“No, it's a choice.”</p> <p>They'd been stuck at the same posting for three days now, and random acts of violence were becoming more and more appealing. A trashed-out storefront, it bore the distinction of being across the street from a hidden Church meeting point. It was also supposed to be the place where they were getting “back up”, owing to the new crackdown procedures in place. So far, neither Agents nor Churchgoers had shown. Unable to call in until reinforcements or Church subjects were five days overdue, Harken and Kramer had taken to annoying each other to pass the time. That is to say, more than normal.</p> <p>“Seriously, tell me.”</p> <p>“Why do you of all people care about this? I'm an Agent, a faceless cog in a faceless machine.”</p> <p>“Tell me, or I'll break something that's recently healed.”</p> <p>“…Fine…ok, OK! Back up, Jesus.”</p> <p>Kramer slipped away with feline suppleness, keeping low on the roof line. Technically, they were observing the business across the street, but had all but given up on any real action. Still, it didn't pay to be caught napping. Harken sighed, hunkering down lower on the low roof ledge and glaring over at Kramer's self-satisfied smirk.</p> <p>“You know, it's not fair that you have zero issue with causal bodily harm, and I can't even threaten you with anything really.”</p> <p>“Life sucks. Dish.”</p> <p>Harken threw up his hands in exasperation, shaking his head and sighing deeply, resigned to defeat.</p> <p>“I was in the army for, like, two years. Some personality profile said I had 'high moral flexibility', so I got bounced to Intelligence and…what?”</p> <p>“Sorry, just trying to imagine you in camo and combat boots” Kramer grinned, smothering a laugh.</p> <p>“ANYWAY. I think they were happy to shift me off. I'm not great in direct combat anyway…did a lot of interrogation stuff, which I am varying degrees of proud and ashamed of. The CIA came knocking one day, promised all the James Bond shit. I turned them down…I know a bullshit sell when I hear one. It just kinda…stuck, though. Couple months later, we had a interrogation get out of hand. Way out of hand…new kid, got a little over-patriotic and electrocuted someone suspected of terrorism. Not normally a issue…but as it turns out, he was innocent, and his dad was a major player in OPEC. Suddenly the CIA didn't look like such a bad option.”</p> <p>Harken lit a cigarette, leaning back and avoiding Kramer's fixed stare with practiced ease. He continued to smoke in silence just long enough to annoy Kramer without causing bodily retribution.</p> <p>“So they shoved me off to the CIA and glossed things over to make me look dead. Or incarcerated…you know, I really never checked which they said. Anyway, I did most of the same stuff as I did with the army, but with a bigger budget and almost zero oversight. It was fun sometimes, but more often than not it was paper pushing. Spies spying on spies for information nobody really needed. Enough to make me nostalgic for live fire exercises. Almost. Started drinking more, not bad, just more often than normal.”</p> <p>“That's to say there was a time you didn't drink?” Kramer's face was as expressive as a Moi.</p> <p>“Well…yes, actually. We were all fresh-faced kids, once, if only for a little while.” He grinned, pointing with the burning end of his cigarette. “Even you. I know, I know, the church takes Crusaders at a young age…but you played hopscotch and slept without nightmares once.”</p> <p>“We're talking about you, not me, you weaselly sociopath.”</p> <p>“Indeed we were.” He grinned, taking a deep drag. “I did well and got in trouble in about even measure. Ended up with a team following a lead on some kind of suspected Russian bio-weapon. Expected to follow ghosts for weeks, then end up staking out a hotel for a while and go home empty, but ended up on a farm out west, looking at a hell-iguana in an acid bath, surrounded by 'CIA' agents from some other department. The other fellows swallowed their crap, but I wouldn't release the site. Actually held a guy at gunpoint for a bit.”</p> <p>Harken sighed, remember the total lack of concern on the Agent's face, even with a gun jammed in it. “It all felt rotten, and I had to have a commander expressly tell me it was above my pay grade and to STAND DOWN before I let it go. Even then, I tried to log a complaint…which got me yet another reprimand. I kept seeing that big…thing, in the tank. It was watching me, somehow. I could…feel it. I got stunningly drunk, told my CO to fuck a goat, pissed in someone's roses, and fell asleep on the lawn in front of my apartment. At some point, I crawled inside.”</p> <p>“I woke up to some guy sitting on my goddamn side table, smoking. Even better, I was naked at the time, so the first bit was me just flailing around, trying to figure out what in the skippy fuck had happened. He started talking before I calmed down, so I missed some of the first bit. He told me about what I'd seen the day before…about what it could do, and had done. He told me about how I could go on trying to ignore it, push it away…or try to understand what was really going on.”</p> <p>Harken chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don't remember all of what he said…but what sold me was the honesty of it. For one of the first goddamn times, I was being told the nasty shit right along with the good. No gilding the lily, no idealized pitch…I was impressed. Plus, I figured that just going back to life after my little bender might not be great, so…I signed up. Went through admissions for about six months, doing tests and evaluations, getting told by large men with guns how serious everything was…so pretty standard for my life thus far.”</p> <p>He stopped, looking over to Kramer, her face still a calculated blank, watching like a predatory bird. He lit a fresh cigarette off his old one, rubbing his head.</p> <p>“Hey, come to think of it, did you ever go through admissions?”</p> <p>“No. I'm not filed as an Agent. Different protocols.”</p> <p>“Oh…well, yeah. So…ahh…yeah, that's my story.”</p> <p>“No it's not.”</p> <p>“What…oh. Listen, I've told you that bit already, it's not-”</p> <p>“No, you haven't.”</p> <p>“Yes I goddamn have, Kramer!”</p> <p>“You've paraphrased at best. You're the intelligence man, don't you feel full operations knowledge is critical to any mission?”</p> <p>“…absolutely fuck you.”</p> <p>“Duly noted. Squeal.”</p> <p>Harken sighed heavily, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his free hand. “I got lumped in with a three man team, Agents Billik, Hon, and Fourteen. We did pretty well, Billik and Hon were the muscle, Fourteen was the tech agent, and I handled intel and the 'spy shit', as Hon would say. We didn't do a lot of direct SCP-related stuff…went after groups and people mostly, but we did our share.” He laughed, smoke clouding around him. “Jesus, went after a new skip once with a eval team…Fourteen was normally this badass chick, all brass and nails, but it turned out this thing had an attractive effect with insects and such…we all woke up to her shrieking, run out to find her up on a chair, in a sea of caterpillars…oh god…” He started laughing hard, half-choking on smoke, coughing and doubling up even as he giggled.</p> <p>“I mean, I know it was dangerous, and we ended up losing one of the recovery guys, but god, Fourteen up on that chair, squealing and hopping from foot to foot, going 'getthemawaygetthemawaygetthemaway'…it was great. She was pretty pissed at us for a while, but I think she came to see the funny in it eventually. It was great.” The laughter trailed off in to silence. The quiet stretched out slowly, the odd sound of a far-off car or wind barely filling it. Harken sighed deeply, staring at his shoes.</p> <p>“We were on our way back from a recon mission that turned up nothing. Had a report of a SCP escape during transport. It'd gotten loose and was inside a hospital. MTF teams were en-route, but all available Agents were ordered to report to help contain fallout and such. Morons we were, we responded even when they said it was SCP-106. This was shortly after they grabbed it the first time, didn't fully understand it…makes sense now why it ran for a hospital. Anyway, we responded, secured the outside, which wasn't hard because everyone was…gone. That black shit was all over the lower doors. Heh…ended up busting open a window rather then get near it, said we'd write it up as 'tactical entry' in the report.”</p> <p>He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his shoes. “We weren't the first team there. Found two of them still mobile, trying to get the hell out…it took them in front of us, yanked them in to a wall, grinning at us the whole fucking time. It…grabbed in to their flesh like how you'd grab a pile of dirty laundry, just…sank in. That black shit started spreading, and…yeah. We tried to fall back, or get out, but it wouldn't…let us. Kept herding us deeper, driving us…Hon lost a foot, Billik got his liver punctured…just kept picking at us. It…we…lost Billik in Surgery. It'd made a…thing…out of the tools, and Billik went to look. It…it pulled him in to it, rubbing him on it, mumbling something while Billik's face went to shreds, everything just…ripping and…it pulled him in, eventually. I say he was dead when it did. We…tried to get out again, but it kept pushing and pushing. Ended up in the natal unit, and…we…”</p> <p>His voice faltered, and he put a hand to his head, gently, a tiny tremor in his fingers. Kramer watched, silent and still as a gargoyle. Harken's hand curled, nails pushing against his skull, holding for a few seconds, twitching, before he lowered it again, eyes returning fixedly to his shoes.</p> <p>“It was bad. We tried to make a breakout, just flailing, really, and it grabbed Fourteen, yanked her back to…yeah. Me and Hon, we started trying to get the hell loose, just taking curves at random, running and running. You know how they say 106 isn't sapient? Bullshit. At the very least, it's a good mimic…it…kept singing. 'My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea' of all things…and just that line, over and over, in that grating, bubbly voice. We hit the main admittance hall, I mean we SAW the doors…and then we heard Fourteen.”</p> <p>“She came around a corner behind us…maybe thirty yards? She…she was a wreck, had bits missing, something wrong with her jaw…but she was limping, trying to scream after us. We froze, looking, and we saw that thing slipping out of the ceiling behind her. It just…fell, landed in a heap, then stood up and started to go for her. She screamed and screamed, begging us…Hon ran, tried to grab her, pull her along, but it…lunged. It grabbed both of them, and started sliding in to the floor, that black stuff seeping and spreading everywhere, in the floor…in to them. It started touching them, not rough, just…gentle, teasing, even as they screamed, and fought, sinking in to the black floor.”</p> <p>He paused, taking a deep, slow drag. “I heard them dying.”</p> <p>“I…I froze. They were holding out to me, begging. It had them, grinning at me, just…flat, dead…like looking at a painting. I ran. I ran, and I got out a little bit before the MTF teams rolled in. They didn't find anyone, got the old man recovered…I went before a oversight board. They said I acted in service to mission integrity, that I was at least able to report, probably saved some lives, blah fucking blah blah BLAH. Requested time off, got it, and stayed blind drunk for about…two weeks? Maybe three? Came back, got a bunch of evaluations, kept drinking, got in trouble, didn't really care. Kept getting shifted deeper and deeper until I ended up at the training center. Left me there to rot, until they needed someone to deal with your barrel of laughs.”</p> <p>Kramer watched in silence, finally speaking, eyes still intent and fixed. “It wasn't your fault, you did-”</p> <p>Harken's eyes widened, wheeling over and glaring, mouth fixed in a line of fury. “FUCK YOU. No, no, you shut the fuck up right fucking now. I've heard that bullshit from everyone, ever, and it's just that, bullshit. I don't need fucking platitude from you, fuck you. You wanted to fucking know, you just HAD to fucking pry, so there it is. I'm not asking for your 'interpretations' or 'solace', or any other bullshit tripe that people swallow to feel fucking great about their fucked decisions. I let my friends die so I could live. End of story, no frosted coating, no 'yes, but' feel-good after-school-special lesson at the end. Drop it.”</p> <p>He was almost panting, looming up over Kramer's hunched form, heedless of the amounts of death contained in that unstable package. He sat again, heavily, flicking his cigarette off the roof in disgust. Kramer stayed fixed, perhaps a bit more curled up, more tightly compacted in to her corner. Harken's departing rage seemed to waft off him like heat. She blinked slowly, a tiny click coming from somewhere in her sockets.</p> <p>“I notice your childhood didn't make it in to that story.”</p> <p>“Wow. Really? What the hell, wanna hear about me fucking my cousins, or my mom trying to shoot my dad, first?”</p> <p>“…”</p> <p>“Yeah, you're right, got a goddamn mission to do.”</p> <p>The silence yawned open like the space of a broken 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="/lost-time">Lost Time</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/lost-time">https://scpwiki.com/lost-time</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 were you, Harken?” “...what, like in a cosmic sense? Probably a dog or something.” “Must you always be an asshole?” “No, it's a choice.” They'd been stuck at the same posting for three days now, and random acts of violence were becoming more and more appealing. A trashed-out storefront, it bore the distinction of being across the street from a hidden Church meeting point. It was also supposed to be the place where they were getting “back up”, owing to the new crackdown procedures in place. So far, neither Agents nor Churchgoers had shown. Unable to call in until reinforcements or Church subjects were five days overdue, Harken and Kramer had taken to annoying each other to pass the time. That is to say, more than normal. “Seriously, tell me.” “Why do you of all people care about this? I'm an Agent, a faceless cog in a faceless machine.” “Tell me, or I'll break something that's recently healed.” “...Fine...ok, OK! Back up, Jesus.” Kramer slipped away with feline suppleness, keeping low on the roof line. Technically, they were observing the business across the street, but had all but given up on any real action. Still, it didn't pay to be caught napping. Harken sighed, hunkering down lower on the low roof ledge and glaring over at Kramer's self-satisfied smirk. “You know, it's not fair that you have zero issue with causal bodily harm, and I can't even threaten you with anything really.” “Life sucks. Dish.” Harken threw up his hands in exasperation, shaking his head and sighing deeply, resigned to defeat. “I was in the army for, like, two years. Some personality profile said I had 'high moral flexibility', so I got bounced to Intelligence and...what?” “Sorry, just trying to imagine you in camo and combat boots” Kramer grinned, smothering a laugh. “ANYWAY. I think they were happy to shift me off. I'm not great in direct combat anyway...did a lot of interrogation stuff, which I am varying degrees of proud and ashamed of. The CIA came knocking one day, promised all the James Bond shit. I turned them down...I know a bullshit sell when I hear one. It just kinda...stuck, though. Couple months later, we had a interrogation get out of hand. Way out of hand...new kid, got a little over-patriotic and electrocuted someone suspected of terrorism. Not normally a issue...but as it turns out, he was innocent, and his dad was a major player in OPEC. Suddenly the CIA didn't look like such a bad option.” Harken lit a cigarette, leaning back and avoiding Kramer's fixed stare with practiced ease. He continued to smoke in silence just long enough to annoy Kramer without causing bodily retribution. “So they shoved me off to the CIA and glossed things over to make me look dead. Or incarcerated...you know, I really never checked which they said. Anyway, I did most of the same stuff as I did with the army, but with a bigger budget and almost zero oversight. It was fun sometimes, but more often than not it was paper pushing. Spies spying on spies for information nobody really needed. Enough to make me nostalgic for live fire exercises. Almost. Started drinking more, not bad, just more often than normal.” “That's to say there was a time you didn't drink?” Kramer's face was as expressive as a Moi. “Well...yes, actually. We were all fresh-faced kids, once, if only for a little while.” He grinned, pointing with the burning end of his cigarette. “Even you. I know, I know, the church takes Crusaders at a young age...but you played hopscotch and slept without nightmares once.” “We're talking about you, not me, you weaselly sociopath.” “Indeed we were.” He grinned, taking a deep drag. “I did well and got in trouble in about even measure. Ended up with a team following a lead on some kind of suspected Russian bio-weapon. Expected to follow ghosts for weeks, then end up staking out a hotel for a while and go home empty, but ended up on a farm out west, looking at a hell-iguana in an acid bath, surrounded by 'CIA' agents from some other department. The other fellows swallowed their crap, but I wouldn't release the site. Actually held a guy at gunpoint for a bit.” Harken sighed, remember the total lack of concern on the Agent's face, even with a gun jammed in it. “It all felt rotten, and I had to have a commander expressly tell me it was above my pay grade and to STAND DOWN before I let it go. Even then, I tried to log a complaint...which got me yet another reprimand. I kept seeing that big...thing, in the tank. It was watching me, somehow. I could...feel it. I got stunningly drunk, told my CO to fuck a goat, pissed in someone's roses, and fell asleep on the lawn in front of my apartment. At some point, I crawled inside.” “I woke up to some guy sitting on my goddamn side table, smoking. Even better, I was naked at the time, so the first bit was me just flailing around, trying to figure out what in the skippy fuck had happened. He started talking before I calmed down, so I missed some of the first bit. He told me about what I'd seen the day before...about what it could do, and had done. He told me about how I could go on trying to ignore it, push it away...or try to understand what was really going on.” Harken chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don't remember all of what he said...but what sold me was the honesty of it. For one of the first goddamn times, I was being told the nasty shit right along with the good. No gilding the lily, no idealized pitch...I was impressed. Plus, I figured that just going back to life after my little bender might not be great, so...I signed up. Went through admissions for about six months, doing tests and evaluations, getting told by large men with guns how serious everything was...so pretty standard for my life thus far.” He stopped, looking over to Kramer, her face still a calculated blank, watching like a predatory bird. He lit a fresh cigarette off his old one, rubbing his head. “Hey, come to think of it, did you ever go through admissions?” “No. I'm not filed as an Agent. Different protocols.” “Oh...well, yeah. So...ahh...yeah, that's my story.” “No it's not.” “What...oh. Listen, I've told you that bit already, it's not-” “No, you haven't.” “Yes I goddamn have, Kramer!” “You've paraphrased at best. You're the intelligence man, don't you feel full operations knowledge is critical to any mission?” “...absolutely fuck you.” “Duly noted. Squeal.” Harken sighed heavily, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his free hand. “I got lumped in with a three man team, Agents Billik, Hon, and Fourteen. We did pretty well, Billik and Hon were the muscle, Fourteen was the tech agent, and I handled intel and the 'spy shit', as Hon would say. We didn't do a lot of direct SCP-related stuff...went after groups and people mostly, but we did our share.” He laughed, smoke clouding around him. “Jesus, went after a new skip once with a eval team...Fourteen was normally this badass chick, all brass and nails, but it turned out this thing had an attractive effect with insects and such...we all woke up to her shrieking, run out to find her up on a chair, in a sea of caterpillars...oh god...” He started laughing hard, half-choking on smoke, coughing and doubling up even as he giggled. “I mean, I know it was dangerous, and we ended up losing one of the recovery guys, but god, Fourteen up on that chair, squealing and hopping from foot to foot, going 'getthemawaygetthemawaygetthemaway'...it was great. She was pretty pissed at us for a while, but I think she came to see the funny in it eventually. It was great.” The laughter trailed off in to silence. The quiet stretched out slowly, the odd sound of a far-off car or wind barely filling it. Harken sighed deeply, staring at his shoes. “We were on our way back from a recon mission that turned up nothing. Had a report of a SCP escape during transport. It'd gotten loose and was inside a hospital. MTF teams were en-route, but all available Agents were ordered to report to help contain fallout and such. Morons we were, we responded even when they said it was SCP-106. This was shortly after they grabbed it the first time, didn't fully understand it...makes sense now why it ran for a hospital. Anyway, we responded, secured the outside, which wasn't hard because everyone was...gone. That black shit was all over the lower doors. Heh...ended up busting open a window rather then get near it, said we'd write it up as 'tactical entry' in the report.” He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on his shoes. “We weren't the first team there. Found two of them still mobile, trying to get the hell out...it took them in front of us, yanked them in to a wall, grinning at us the whole fucking time. It...grabbed in to their flesh like how you'd grab a pile of dirty laundry, just...sank in. That black shit started spreading, and...yeah. We tried to fall back, or get out, but it wouldn't...let us. Kept herding us deeper, driving us...Hon lost a foot, Billik got his liver punctured...just kept picking at us. It...we...lost Billik in Surgery. It'd made a...thing...out of the tools, and Billik went to look. It...it pulled him in to it, rubbing him on it, mumbling something while Billik's face went to shreds, everything just...ripping and...it pulled him in, eventually. I say he was dead when it did. We...tried to get out again, but it kept pushing and pushing. Ended up in the natal unit, and...we...” His voice faltered, and he put a hand to his head, gently, a tiny tremor in his fingers. Kramer watched, silent and still as a gargoyle. Harken's hand curled, nails pushing against his skull, holding for a few seconds, twitching, before he lowered it again, eyes returning fixedly to his shoes. “It was bad. We tried to make a breakout, just flailing, really, and it grabbed Fourteen, yanked her back to...yeah. Me and Hon, we started trying to get the hell loose, just taking curves at random, running and running. You know how they say 106 isn't sapient? Bullshit. At the very least, it's a good mimic...it...kept singing. 'My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea' of all things...and just that line, over and over, in that grating, bubbly voice. We hit the main admittance hall, I mean we SAW the doors...and then we heard Fourteen.” “She came around a corner behind us...maybe thirty yards? She...she was a wreck, had bits missing, something wrong with her jaw...but she was limping, trying to scream after us. We froze, looking, and we saw that thing slipping out of the ceiling behind her. It just...fell, landed in a heap, then stood up and started to go for her. She screamed and screamed, begging us...Hon ran, tried to grab her, pull her along, but it...lunged. It grabbed both of them, and started sliding in to the floor, that black stuff seeping and spreading everywhere, in the floor...in to them. It started touching them, not rough, just...gentle, teasing, even as they screamed, and fought, sinking in to the black floor.” He paused, taking a deep, slow drag. “I heard them dying.” “I...I froze. They were holding out to me, begging. It had them, grinning at me, just...flat, dead...like looking at a painting. I ran. I ran, and I got out a little bit before the MTF teams rolled in. They didn't find anyone, got the old man recovered...I went before a oversight board. They said I acted in service to mission integrity, that I was at least able to report, probably saved some lives, blah fucking blah blah BLAH. Requested time off, got it, and stayed blind drunk for about...two weeks? Maybe three? Came back, got a bunch of evaluations, kept drinking, got in trouble, didn't really care. Kept getting shifted deeper and deeper until I ended up at the training center. Left me there to rot, until they needed someone to deal with your barrel of laughs.” Kramer watched in silence, finally speaking, eyes still intent and fixed. “It wasn't your fault, you did-” Harken's eyes widened, wheeling over and glaring, mouth fixed in a line of fury. “FUCK YOU. No, no, you shut the fuck up right fucking now. I've heard that bullshit from everyone, ever, and it's just that, bullshit. I don't need fucking platitude from you, fuck you. You wanted to fucking know, you just HAD to fucking pry, so there it is. I'm not asking for your 'interpretations' or 'solace', or any other bullshit tripe that people swallow to feel fucking great about their fucked decisions. I let my friends die so I could live. End of story, no frosted coating, no 'yes, but' feel-good after-school-special lesson at the end. Drop it.” He was almost panting, looming up over Kramer's hunched form, heedless of the amounts of death contained in that unstable package. He sat again, heavily, flicking his cigarette off the roof in disgust. Kramer stayed fixed, perhaps a bit more curled up, more tightly compacted in to her corner. Harken's departing rage seemed to waft off him like heat. She blinked slowly, a tiny click coming from somewhere in her sockets. “I notice your childhood didn't make it in to that story.” “Wow. Really? What the hell, wanna hear about me fucking my cousins, or my mom trying to shoot my dad, first?” “...” “Yeah, you're right, got a goddamn mission to do.” The silence yawned open like the space of a broken 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>]]	2012-09-12T00:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "game-day", "horror", "military-fiction", "murder-monster", "spy-fiction", "tale", "the-old-man" ]	Lost Time - SCP Foundation	76	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "gamedaypart2index", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14278616	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/lost-time
love-hate	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The house was dead when he came home. No lights, no noise, even a little chilly in the early spring dusk. Pete Kothkis stood in the entryway, peering in to the house with a slightly confused smile. Maybe they dipped out to the store for a bit and just didn't say anything? No, he'd had the car…her mom, maybe? He shook his head, tossing his bag on the couch, snapping on lights and looking in the kitchen and hall in a half-hearted search.</p> <p>Not that he minded the silence, it was refreshing from the normal buzz when he came home, but it was unexpected. No Amanda trying to pick up, with a kiss by the door. No Christian bopping about underfoot, or Jamie bouncing and shrieking for a hug. He leaned in to the fridge, fishing out a pop and snatching up a bag of chips before slumping back in to the couch. It'd been a long bloody day.</p> <p>Pete watched the TV without seeing, munching absently as he considered what to do. Really, he should put some time in on his report, but it was honestly nothing that wouldn't keep until later in the week. The new position was proving both more and significantly less demanding then his old one. More quality, less quantity, in a way, but that was honestly how Pete liked it. Not so rushed, taking time-</p> <p>His hip suddenly pulsed with the beat of some forgotten pop song.</p> <p>He fumbled for the ringing device, having to stretch out to get the pants pocket unfolded enough to fish the phone free. He saw the smiling face of his wife from the screen, and grinned, tapping it on.</p> <p>“Hey babe, where are you guys? I was just about to call.”</p> <p>“Oh, so you're home already?”</p> <p>Pete chuckled, tucking the phone against his neck and rising to slowly walk and pace around the room. She'd always ribbed him about it, but he could never just sit on the phone and talk, it felt…odd. “Yeah, I figured you were with your mom or something, going-”</p> <p>“I'm…not with mom, Pete.”</p> <p>“-with…what? Who then?” He stopped, stock still. Something in her tone, in the tiny sigh she'd given put him immediately on edge.</p> <p>“…It's not important, Pete. I…oh god. I'm sorry, Pete. I can't…I just can't do this anymore.”</p> <p>He moved his hand uselessly in the air, seeming to try and pull understanding from vapor. “Can't do what? Amanda, I don't…I'm not following here, what's going on?” Even as he asked, a sick, sticky realization was trying to crawl in to his awareness.</p> <p>She continued almost as if he hasn't spoken. “I know you try, Pete, and you're great, and you love the kids…but…Pete, it's not enough. You don't make the time for me, for us, you work so much, and you never get back until late. It's been going on six months since you touched me like you used to. I can't just live on memory and life support. I'm a human woman, Pete, not a plant you can just water from time to time and call it good.” The anger was seeping in to her voice, making it quick and sharp.</p> <p>He glared at the wall, breathing deep and slow, biting back venom. “Are you joking me. I work for US. I work to keep US alive and afloat. You think I like coming home in time to basically put the kids to bed, too exhausted to do much of anything? Shockingly, I don't. I don't get what the hell you're revved up about, but I think we need to talk about this, face to face at the very least.”</p> <p>There was a sob in her voice now, along with the rage. Lordy. “NO! No more talking, and discussing, and working things out. You're not going to change, I know better now. I thought I loved you, and I think I do, but I can't…my heart is bleeding out to you, Pete, and nothing coming back. It's like I'm pouring my feelings in to a sieve, and it all just runs away. Did you really care about me, Pete, or was I just a fun time that got out of hand? You wanted me so bad you had to go and marry me to seal the deal? Was that it?”</p> <p>Her voice was laced with bile and festered anger, yet he still stared, blank, at the wall. His voice, however, simmering and tight, betrayed that bland mask. “Why is all this happening now? You could have TOLD me this, I ask you what the hell is wrong almost daily! You just keep letting it simmer and simmer, and then explode on me like it's somehow my fault you won't talk? I don't know what you're thinking, but we need to at LEAST talk this out face to face.”</p> <p>“No, no, no, no more talking, or letting you put your sticky fingers in my head. I…I've found someone else, Pete.” His heart dropped like a stone in a frozen lake, even the sickly expectation of it hadn't helped. She kept on through his silence. “He loves me, Pete, truly, and the kids, too. You took six years of my life, Pete. You bled me out for all I had, and didn't give me anything, anything-”</p> <p>“Amanda, where are my children.” It was barely a question. He knew, but had to hope. He was willing to ignore the unfairness, the one-sided, petulant whining if this one, single question was different from his expectation. He started walking again, slowly.</p> <p>“Pete…I can't leave them there, with you. You…you're not even there, Pete. You wouldn't even be able to put them on the bus in the morning. You're a picture to them, and not much more. They're safe, and will be until the trial, but I'm not letting you see them, Pete. I can't…I can't trust you anymore. You've hurt me too much, I just…” She dissolved in to sobs, gasping in to the phone.</p> <p>The sudden, explosive laughter brought those sobs up short.</p> <p>“Hurt you? Oh wow…me, hurting you? Honey bunny, I don't think you understand that term.”</p> <p>“I…Pete?”</p> <p>“You have not clue at all what I gave up for you, what it took every day to be the very best husband and father I could be, do you? I mean…wow.” He loosed another gale of laughter, shaking his head and starting to walk down the hall. “This…wow. Baby, I'm stunned, really I am, I don't mean to laugh, I just…you have no fucking clue, do you? At all?”</p> <p>“This…this is what I'm talking about, Pete, these games you play…it's not healthy, it-”</p> <p>“Dearheart, I don't think you have a clue. Listen, babe, I hate to yank you out of the speech I'm sure you've been mentally reviewing for weeks when you insisted everything was fine, but I have a question for you, if you'll indulge me.” He tucked the phone against his neck again, swinging open the basement door and starting down the steps.</p> <p>“…don't talk down to me like that, Pete, I'm not goin-”</p> <p>“You will listen to every word I have to say.”</p> <p>He could almost hear her freeze and stare at the phone. He smiled a easy, empty smile, tasting her confusion over airwaves. Now, finally, maybe she was understanding that the situation had changed.</p> <p>“P-Pete, you're-”</p> <p>“When we got together babe, I loved you more then anything in the entire world. I mean anything, and I don't think you ever fully got that, not all the way. Then, when we had kids…well, I hate to admit it, but they took the forefront. Harsh, I know, but I think that's how it's supposed to be, even if you seem to think my every waking moment should be in devotion to you.”</p> <p>“That is NOT what-”</p> <p>“ANYWAY. I gave up a lot for you, the smoking, the swearing, all those goodies, but I don't think you fully understand the…sacrifice I made to be with you.” He crossed the basement, the gloom of the bare bulbs showing just enough to move the old bookcase safely, sliding it along the dusty floor. Have to sweep down here, sometime. “Do you remember, way back when we first got together, there was that thing in the news about…oh, what was it, the red ghost, or the red phantom or something?”</p> <p>Silence stretched across the phone line.</p> <p>“Still there babe?”</p> <p>“…yes.”</p> <p>“Oh good. Remember, you had me walk you home those few times because there was a murder a couple towns over? Always homes, never any real struggle, nothing broken in to, so they were thinking that this phantom was snatching people on the street and making them drive home with him? You were so scared, and I'm sorry I laughed, but I mean…it was cute, really.”</p> <p>“P-Pete…what are…”</p> <p>He reached low, listening to her breathing turning ragged as he fished out the loose bricks. Was this other fella right there, offering moral support, or did she excuse herself to rip his heart out in private? Kids probably not with her, maybe mom? No…Kathy, probably. Worth a stop, at least. “Some things are automatic, babe. You don't think, it's just…needed, and you do it. Washing hands, tying shoes, automatic. It takes no thought at all to do, but a ocean of focus not to. Every single day, every one, I made the choice not to be automatic. Because I loved you, I chose not to.”</p> <p>Pete grinned, pulling the duffel bag from the wall with a uneven clank. He fished inside, pulling the thick, smooth curve of the linoleum knife free and tapping the point. “I'm…I can't believe you would do this. And take the kids, no less. Wow. I just…do you get it now baby? Do you understand what I'm telling you now? Is it sinking in?”</p> <p>Her breath was coming too fast, sobs choking in “Oh god…oh my god…I…I'm gonna call the cops, Pete, Y-you aren't…I won't…I won't let you do…oh god, Pete…”</p> <p>“Call 'em babe, please. Please. I'll be gone, but I want you to feel good baby, I want this to be easy for you now. You know me lovey…remember, you kept commenting how I fit in anywhere, I can talk to anyone? I have that open, trusting face people love, people really love to listen to me. Trust me. Believe me.” His smile was honest amusement as he pulled up his shirt and secured the harness, dropping the knives, needles and other helpful bits to their places. “Didn't you ever wonder why they stopped right around when we got together? And you decided to just toss me to the wind, like nothing. Garbage. Wow.”</p> <p>“Pete, keep a-a-away from me, I…oh god, Pete, don't, you're scaring me, please…”</p> <p>“Honey-bunny, you don't understand that term. You're going to be checking under your bed for me. I've never felt such a whipsnap of devotion…as much as I loved you, it's gone to the same amount in the polar opposite direction. I don't think you could just pass it off as 'April fools' anymore, even. I'm still trying to wrap my head around how you could do this.” He shook his head in disappointment, adjusting it as he took a practice throw with a knife. Rusty, need to practice. Still, like a bicycle, never really forget.</p> <p>She was just sobbing now, blubbering something threatening, maybe.</p> <p>“I'm going to get rolling baby, let you call the cops and such, maybe get a quickie from your new boy, just to take the edge off, right? You know why they called it the phantom? Because a couple witnesses said they saw him, and he looked so white it had to be a ghost, or a mask. Ain't that a scream.” He laughed, hefting up the bag, forgoing the normal gloves and mask that was normally required. Just a gentleman on the way to the gym, officer. “I would have let you go. You hurt me, but I would have let you go…but you had to try and take the whole pie, snatch it all from me. Don't worry babe, the kiddle-biddles won't ever know any more than you tell them.”</p> <p>More moaning and crying now, something about keeping away from the kids, maybe.</p> <p>“Sweetheart, you may love them enough to steal them, but I love them enough to kill for them. See you in a couple weeks, babe. Tell your new boy I said hi…or, you know what, never mind. I'll tell him myself.”</p> <p>He hung up, then crushed the phone against the wall even as it chimed again, slamming it over and over in blank-faced rage, leaving the splintered heap on the floor. He locked up, unplugged the power strips behind the TV and computer, and stepped out on the porch, heading for the car.</p> <p>The Red Ghost inhaled the night.</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="/love-hate">Love Hate</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/love-hate">https://scpwiki.com/love-hate</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 house was dead when he came home. No lights, no noise, even a little chilly in the early spring dusk. Pete Kothkis stood in the entryway, peering in to the house with a slightly confused smile. Maybe they dipped out to the store for a bit and just didn't say anything? No, he'd had the car...her mom, maybe? He shook his head, tossing his bag on the couch, snapping on lights and looking in the kitchen and hall in a half-hearted search. Not that he minded the silence, it was refreshing from the normal buzz when he came home, but it was unexpected. No Amanda trying to pick up, with a kiss by the door. No Christian bopping about underfoot, or Jamie bouncing and shrieking for a hug. He leaned in to the fridge, fishing out a pop and snatching up a bag of chips before slumping back in to the couch. It'd been a long bloody day. Pete watched the TV without seeing, munching absently as he considered what to do. Really, he should put some time in on his report, but it was honestly nothing that wouldn't keep until later in the week. The new position was proving both more and significantly less demanding then his old one. More quality, less quantity, in a way, but that was honestly how Pete liked it. Not so rushed, taking time- His hip suddenly pulsed with the beat of some forgotten pop song. He fumbled for the ringing device, having to stretch out to get the pants pocket unfolded enough to fish the phone free. He saw the smiling face of his wife from the screen, and grinned, tapping it on. “Hey babe, where are you guys? I was just about to call.” “Oh, so you're home already?” Pete chuckled, tucking the phone against his neck and rising to slowly walk and pace around the room. She'd always ribbed him about it, but he could never just sit on the phone and talk, it felt...odd. “Yeah, I figured you were with your mom or something, going-” “I'm...not with mom, Pete.” “-with...what? Who then?” He stopped, stock still. Something in her tone, in the tiny sigh she'd given put him immediately on edge. “...It's not important, Pete. I...oh god. I'm sorry, Pete. I can't...I just can't do this anymore.” He moved his hand uselessly in the air, seeming to try and pull understanding from vapor. “Can't do what? Amanda, I don't...I'm not following here, what's going on?” Even as he asked, a sick, sticky realization was trying to crawl in to his awareness. She continued almost as if he hasn't spoken. “I know you try, Pete, and you're great, and you love the kids...but...Pete, it's not enough. You don't make the time for me, for us, you work so much, and you never get back until late. It's been going on six months since you touched me like you used to. I can't just live on memory and life support. I'm a human woman, Pete, not a plant you can just water from time to time and call it good.” The anger was seeping in to her voice, making it quick and sharp. He glared at the wall, breathing deep and slow, biting back venom. “Are you joking me. I work for US. I work to keep US alive and afloat. You think I like coming home in time to basically put the kids to bed, too exhausted to do much of anything? Shockingly, I don't. I don't get what the hell you're revved up about, but I think we need to talk about this, face to face at the very least.” There was a sob in her voice now, along with the rage. Lordy. “NO! No more talking, and discussing, and working things out. You're not going to change, I know better now. I thought I loved you, and I think I do, but I can't...my heart is bleeding out to you, Pete, and nothing coming back. It's like I'm pouring my feelings in to a sieve, and it all just runs away. Did you really care about me, Pete, or was I just a fun time that got out of hand? You wanted me so bad you had to go and marry me to seal the deal? Was that it?” Her voice was laced with bile and festered anger, yet he still stared, blank, at the wall. His voice, however, simmering and tight, betrayed that bland mask. “Why is all this happening now? You could have TOLD me this, I ask you what the hell is wrong almost daily! You just keep letting it simmer and simmer, and then explode on me like it's somehow my fault you won't talk? I don't know what you're thinking, but we need to at LEAST talk this out face to face.” “No, no, no, no more talking, or letting you put your sticky fingers in my head. I...I've found someone else, Pete.” His heart dropped like a stone in a frozen lake, even the sickly expectation of it hadn't helped. She kept on through his silence. “He loves me, Pete, truly, and the kids, too. You took six years of my life, Pete. You bled me out for all I had, and didn't give me anything, anything-” “Amanda, where are my children.” It was barely a question. He knew, but had to hope. He was willing to ignore the unfairness, the one-sided, petulant whining if this one, single question was different from his expectation. He started walking again, slowly. “Pete...I can't leave them there, with you. You...you're not even there, Pete. You wouldn't even be able to put them on the bus in the morning. You're a picture to them, and not much more. They're safe, and will be until the trial, but I'm not letting you see them, Pete. I can't...I can't trust you anymore. You've hurt me too much, I just...” She dissolved in to sobs, gasping in to the phone. The sudden, explosive laughter brought those sobs up short. “Hurt you? Oh wow...me, hurting you? Honey bunny, I don't think you understand that term.” “I...Pete?” “You have not clue at all what I gave up for you, what it took every day to be the very best husband and father I could be, do you? I mean...wow.” He loosed another gale of laughter, shaking his head and starting to walk down the hall. “This...wow. Baby, I'm stunned, really I am, I don't mean to laugh, I just...you have no fucking clue, do you? At all?” “This...this is what I'm talking about, Pete, these games you play...it's not healthy, it-” “Dearheart, I don't think you have a clue. Listen, babe, I hate to yank you out of the speech I'm sure you've been mentally reviewing for weeks when you insisted everything was fine, but I have a question for you, if you'll indulge me.” He tucked the phone against his neck again, swinging open the basement door and starting down the steps. “...don't talk down to me like that, Pete, I'm not goin-” “You will listen to every word I have to say.” He could almost hear her freeze and stare at the phone. He smiled a easy, empty smile, tasting her confusion over airwaves. Now, finally, maybe she was understanding that the situation had changed. “P-Pete, you're-” “When we got together babe, I loved you more then anything in the entire world. I mean anything, and I don't think you ever fully got that, not all the way. Then, when we had kids...well, I hate to admit it, but they took the forefront. Harsh, I know, but I think that's how it's supposed to be, even if you seem to think my every waking moment should be in devotion to you.” “That is NOT what-” “ANYWAY. I gave up a lot for you, the smoking, the swearing, all those goodies, but I don't think you fully understand the...sacrifice I made to be with you.” He crossed the basement, the gloom of the bare bulbs showing just enough to move the old bookcase safely, sliding it along the dusty floor. Have to sweep down here, sometime. “Do you remember, way back when we first got together, there was that thing in the news about...oh, what was it, the red ghost, or the red phantom or something?” Silence stretched across the phone line. “Still there babe?” “...yes.” “Oh good. Remember, you had me walk you home those few times because there was a murder a couple towns over? Always homes, never any real struggle, nothing broken in to, so they were thinking that this phantom was snatching people on the street and making them drive home with him? You were so scared, and I'm sorry I laughed, but I mean...it was cute, really.” “P-Pete...what are...” He reached low, listening to her breathing turning ragged as he fished out the loose bricks. Was this other fella right there, offering moral support, or did she excuse herself to rip his heart out in private? Kids probably not with her, maybe mom? No...Kathy, probably. Worth a stop, at least. “Some things are automatic, babe. You don't think, it's just...needed, and you do it. Washing hands, tying shoes, automatic. It takes no thought at all to do, but a ocean of focus not to. Every single day, every one, I made the choice not to be automatic. Because I loved you, I chose not to.” Pete grinned, pulling the duffel bag from the wall with a uneven clank. He fished inside, pulling the thick, smooth curve of the linoleum knife free and tapping the point. “I'm...I can't believe you would do this. And take the kids, no less. Wow. I just...do you get it now baby? Do you understand what I'm telling you now? Is it sinking in?” Her breath was coming too fast, sobs choking in “Oh god...oh my god...I...I'm gonna call the cops, Pete, Y-you aren't...I won't...I won't let you do...oh god, Pete...” “Call 'em babe, please. Please. I'll be gone, but I want you to feel good baby, I want this to be easy for you now. You know me lovey...remember, you kept commenting how I fit in anywhere, I can talk to anyone? I have that open, trusting face people love, people really love to listen to me. Trust me. Believe me.” His smile was honest amusement as he pulled up his shirt and secured the harness, dropping the knives, needles and other helpful bits to their places. “Didn't you ever wonder why they stopped right around when we got together? And you decided to just toss me to the wind, like nothing. Garbage. Wow.” “Pete, keep a-a-away from me, I...oh god, Pete, don't, you're scaring me, please...” “Honey-bunny, you don't understand that term. You're going to be checking under your bed for me. I've never felt such a whipsnap of devotion...as much as I loved you, it's gone to the same amount in the polar opposite direction. I don't think you could just pass it off as 'April fools' anymore, even. I'm still trying to wrap my head around how you could do this.” He shook his head in disappointment, adjusting it as he took a practice throw with a knife. Rusty, need to practice. Still, like a bicycle, never really forget. She was just sobbing now, blubbering something threatening, maybe. “I'm going to get rolling baby, let you call the cops and such, maybe get a quickie from your new boy, just to take the edge off, right? You know why they called it the phantom? Because a couple witnesses said they saw him, and he looked so white it had to be a ghost, or a mask. Ain't that a scream.” He laughed, hefting up the bag, forgoing the normal gloves and mask that was normally required. Just a gentleman on the way to the gym, officer. “I would have let you go. You hurt me, but I would have let you go...but you had to try and take the whole pie, snatch it all from me. Don't worry babe, the kiddle-biddles won't ever know any more than you tell them.” More moaning and crying now, something about keeping away from the kids, maybe. “Sweetheart, you may love them enough to steal them, but I love them enough to kill for them. See you in a couple weeks, babe. Tell your new boy I said hi...or, you know what, never mind. I'll tell him myself.” He hung up, then crushed the phone against the wall even as it chimed again, slamming it over and over in blank-faced rage, leaving the splintered heap on the floor. He locked up, unplugged the power strips behind the TV and computer, and stepped out on the porch, heading for the car. The Red Ghost inhaled the night. [[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>]]	2012-04-10T14:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Love Hate - SCP Foundation	63	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-gears-storytime-entries" ]	[]	13126412	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/love-hate
love-in-leetspeak	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Margaret couldn't have shoes. There was something about this entire experience that was so surreal, so far outside of her range of experience, so beyond anything she was prepared to deal with, she was too confused to be angry or sad or scared. So all her mind could focus on was the feeling of her feet on the cold tiles as the (soldiers? doctors?) half-dragged, half-pushed her down the hall. She couldn't have shoes. They wouldn't say why.</p> <p>She had met plenty of the soldier-doctor people in the last day. Some of them were sympathetic, or pretended as much. Some were coldly clinical and ignored her, talked about her like an object, assigned her some kind of prisoner number, refused to talk to her directly.</p> <p>SCP-2122. It's all they ever called her.</p> <p>She hadn't seen any other prisoners here, wherever she was. They pushed her down the hallway and into a smaller room. She saw a bed and a desk. Her cell, she supposed. They muttered something at her about good behavior; she wasn't listening. She just walked over to the small bed, climbed in, pulled the sheets over her head, and cried. She heard them walk away.</p> <blockquote> <p>Maria,</p> <p>Captured a new skip today. Humanoid, female, aged seventeen years, 132 cm in height. Body in some sort of perfect biological stasis; nearly unbreakable skin, nails, teeth, hair, everything; doesn't shed or regrow skin cells as far as we can tell. Got in some fights in school and drew some unwanted attention. Will send full file later today. More thorough experimentation to begin Wednesday.</p> <p>—Dr. Husmann</p> </blockquote> <p>There was writing on the wall of her cell. Literally. She knew that was the standard cliche, the "MARGARET WAS HERE" scraped into the brick, passing someone's last message from one poor soul to another. This was different, though, because she had been here almost a full day, and she was almost <em>certain</em> that this wall had been blank. Sterile, cold, and perfectly blank. She squinted at the writing.</p> <p><em>HI Y0uR N3w WH@75 y0Ur n@M3?</em></p> <p>Now <em>that</em> was strange. How did the author expect to get a response to <em>that</em> one? She didn't care. Half out of boredom, half out of a desperate urge to make any sort of rebellion, she used her thumbnail (that perfect thumbnail, the only nail they didn't try cutting off, the one they'd probably end up pulling out of her skin) to carve, little by little,</p> <p><em>Im Margaret and Ive never been in hell before</em></p> <p>into the white wall, just beneath the other writing. Harder than she thought it'd be; she had an appreciation for anybody who could carve an ampersat into a wall without special tools. She rolled over and lay on her bed.</p> <p>An odd scraping sound beside her. She whipped her head around. The old writing and hers were both gone. Now the words</p> <p><em>m@RG@r37 y0u 50UnD pr377Y I lIK3 y0u wIlL y0U b3 h3r3 L0ng</em></p> <p>were the only things on the wall. <em>How the</em> hell <em>did he do that?</em> she thought to herself. But of course, she was the one with a fingernail like an X-Acto knife. How weird were the <em>other</em> people in this place?</p> <p><em>Where am I?</em></p> <p><em>7h3Y c@ll 7Hi5 site19 th3R3 aRe l07s 0f P30PL3 h3r3 FRI3nd5 y0u c@n H@V3 FrI3ND$ I b3t Y0u c0Uld M337 IrIs 5h3'd li3K y0U</em></p> <p>Margaret thought about it. Home life had never been good for her. School was hell. And it sounded like there were other freaks here like her. But she thought about some of the things that creep Husmann had said. He tried to act aloof and detached, but he kept looking at her the way the boys in her class did, and he kept saying something (when she was paying attention) about "advanced experimentation." It reminded her of things they read about the Holocaust in her history classes, the euphemisms they used. She didn't think they were going to let her run around this site19 place making friends.</p> <p><em>I think they're going to hurt me where are you?</em></p> <p><em>Im eV3rywH3R3 $0r7 0F l3t Me $33 if 7h3ir g0iNg 7o HUr7 yoU i D0N'7 WaN7 +H3M t0o</em></p> <p>Margaret waited. She didn't know how her messenger friend was going to help, but she didn't have anyone or anything else at this point. Scraping again. She looked back at the wall.</p> <p><em>your in d@NG3R d0 y0u W@nt m3 t0 Ge7 Y0u oU7?</em></p> <p><em>YES YES YES can you do that?</em></p> <p><em>giv3 me tw0 H0uR5</em></p> <p>Margaret waited yet again for her graffiti-scrawling knight to save her. She rolled over and tried to sleep.</p> <hr/> <p>The office of RAISA was quiet when Maria Jones checked her email. Mostly mundane stuff; more proposals for killing 682 (which never found their way into her spam folder the way they were supposed to), vaccine research for 008, potentially increased activity from 877, nothing too interesting. One email stuck out, though, from Dr. Husmann. Recent transfer from Site 38, a little creepy but seemed reliable in his position at Site 19. She clicked on the email and cursed the lag, even worse than usual. It opened eventually.</p> <blockquote> <p>Maria,</p> <p>Found this sexy little thing in one of the reports the MTFs sent me. Got into a couple of fights, drew attention to herself, hard to injure or something. Just about legal, not that that matters to us lol. So…can I keep her? I'm sending pictures.</p> <p>—Husmann</p> </blockquote> <p>This had attached to it several pictures of an underage, clearly distressed girl being strip-searched extensively by a grinning Dr. Husmann. The pictures looked…off, slightly, as though they had been Photoshopped, but whether Husmann took these pictures or made them, Maria was sickened. She forwarded it to the director of Site 19, with a note added on top:</p> <p><em>Get her out of there and stick him in her cell while we figure this out. This is disgusting.</em></p> <p>The head of RAISA hit "send" and left a note on her secretary's desk that she would be taking the day off.</p> <hr/> <p>Margaret awoke to the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Frantic, she turned to look at the wall.</p> <p><em>NiC3 kN0winG y0u, Go0d lucK, Love y0U</em></p> <p>The words disappeared when the first soldier-doctor reached the door. He opened the door and put a pair of slippers on the floor. "If you would come with us, please, ma'am," he said sheepishly. Margaret stood up and walked to where the slippers were, sliding her feet into them. She walked down the hall, one soldier-doctor in front of her, one behind. She felt a cold needle slip into the side of her neck and fell into the arm waiting nearby.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Husmann had no idea what the hell was going on. He would be sure it was some kind of hazing prank, if he hadn't heard someone mention that the skip he just caught, one of his first, had just been set free. Some kind of procedural error or something, but he'd be hard-pressed to find this one again unless she drew attention to herself again. Meanwhile, he was sitting in the very containment cell he had her in. He had more pressing concerns.</p> <p>She had only been here for a couple of hours, so it couldn't have been her who did all this carving in the wall. No, in <em>every</em> wall, Husmann noticed. And the ceiling. And the <em>floor,</em> for God's sake. And everywhere, all the carvings said the same thing.</p> <p><em>b3 w@7chiNg Y0u</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="/love-in-leetspeak">Love In Leetspeak</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/love-in-leetspeak">https://scpwiki.com/love-in-leetspeak</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]] [[/>]] Margaret couldn't have shoes. There was something about this entire experience that was so surreal, so far outside of her range of experience, so beyond anything she was prepared to deal with, she was too confused to be angry or sad or scared. So all her mind could focus on was the feeling of her feet on the cold tiles as the (soldiers? doctors?) half-dragged, half-pushed her down the hall. She couldn't have shoes. They wouldn't say why. She had met plenty of the soldier-doctor people in the last day. Some of them were sympathetic, or pretended as much. Some were coldly clinical and ignored her, talked about her like an object, assigned her some kind of prisoner number, refused to talk to her directly. SCP-2122. It's all they ever called her. She hadn't seen any other prisoners here, wherever she was. They pushed her down the hallway and into a smaller room. She saw a bed and a desk. Her cell, she supposed. They muttered something at her about good behavior; she wasn't listening. She just walked over to the small bed, climbed in, pulled the sheets over her head, and cried. She heard them walk away. > Maria, > > Captured a new skip today. Humanoid, female, aged seventeen years, 132 cm in height. Body in some sort of perfect biological stasis; nearly unbreakable skin, nails, teeth, hair, everything; doesn't shed or regrow skin cells as far as we can tell. Got in some fights in school and drew some unwanted attention. Will send full file later today. More thorough experimentation to begin Wednesday. > > --Dr. Husmann There was writing on the wall of her cell. Literally. She knew that was the standard cliche, the "MARGARET WAS HERE" scraped into the brick, passing someone's last message from one poor soul to another. This was different, though, because she had been here almost a full day, and she was almost //certain// that this wall had been blank. Sterile, cold, and perfectly blank. She squinted at the writing. //HI Y0uR N3w WH@75 y0Ur n@M3?// Now //that// was strange. How did the author expect to get a response to //that// one? She didn't care. Half out of boredom, half out of a desperate urge to make any sort of rebellion, she used her thumbnail (that perfect thumbnail, the only nail they didn't try cutting off, the one they'd probably end up pulling out of her skin) to carve, little by little, //Im Margaret and Ive never been in hell before// into the white wall, just beneath the other writing. Harder than she thought it'd be; she had an appreciation for anybody who could carve an ampersat into a wall without special tools. She rolled over and lay on her bed. An odd scraping sound beside her. She whipped her head around. The old writing and hers were both gone. Now the words //m@RG@r37 y0u 50UnD pr377Y I lIK3 y0u wIlL y0U b3 h3r3 L0ng// were the only things on the wall. //How the// hell //did he do that?// she thought to herself. But of course, she was the one with a fingernail like an X-Acto knife. How weird were the //other// people in this place? //Where am I?// //7h3Y c@ll 7Hi5 site19 th3R3 aRe l07s 0f P30PL3 h3r3 FRI3nd5 y0u c@n H@V3 FrI3ND$ I b3t Y0u c0Uld M337 IrIs 5h3'd li3K y0U// Margaret thought about it. Home life had never been good for her. School was hell. And it sounded like there were other freaks here like her. But she thought about some of the things that creep Husmann had said. He tried to act aloof and detached, but he kept looking at her the way the boys in her class did, and he kept saying something (when she was paying attention) about "advanced experimentation." It reminded her of things they read about the Holocaust in her history classes, the euphemisms they used. She didn't think they were going to let her run around this site19 place making friends. //I think they're going to hurt me where are you?// //Im eV3rywH3R3 $0r7 0F l3t Me $33 if 7h3ir g0iNg 7o HUr7 yoU i D0N'7 WaN7 +H3M t0o// Margaret waited. She didn't know how her messenger friend was going to help, but she didn't have anyone or anything else at this point. Scraping again. She looked back at the wall. //your in d@NG3R d0 y0u W@nt m3 t0 Ge7 Y0u oU7?// //YES YES YES can you do that?// //giv3 me tw0 H0uR5// Margaret waited yet again for her graffiti-scrawling knight to save her. She rolled over and tried to sleep. ------ The office of RAISA was quiet when Maria Jones checked her email. Mostly mundane stuff; more proposals for killing 682 (which never found their way into her spam folder the way they were supposed to), vaccine research for 008, potentially increased activity from 877, nothing too interesting. One email stuck out, though, from Dr. Husmann. Recent transfer from Site 38, a little creepy but seemed reliable in his position at Site 19. She clicked on the email and cursed the lag, even worse than usual. It opened eventually. > Maria, > > Found this sexy little thing in one of the reports the MTFs sent me. Got into a couple of fights, drew attention to herself, hard to injure or something. Just about legal, not that that matters to us lol. So...can I keep her? I'm sending pictures. > > --Husmann This had attached to it several pictures of an underage, clearly distressed girl being strip-searched extensively by a grinning Dr. Husmann. The pictures looked...off, slightly, as though they had been Photoshopped, but whether Husmann took these pictures or made them, Maria was sickened. She forwarded it to the director of Site 19, with a note added on top: //Get her out of there and stick him in her cell while we figure this out. This is disgusting.// The head of RAISA hit "send" and left a note on her secretary's desk that she would be taking the day off. ------ Margaret awoke to the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Frantic, she turned to look at the wall. //NiC3 kN0winG y0u, Go0d lucK, Love y0U// The words disappeared when the first soldier-doctor reached the door. He opened the door and put a pair of slippers on the floor. "If you would come with us, please, ma'am," he said sheepishly. Margaret stood up and walked to where the slippers were, sliding her feet into them. She walked down the hall, one soldier-doctor in front of her, one behind. She felt a cold needle slip into the side of her neck and fell into the arm waiting nearby. ------ Dr. Husmann had no idea what the hell was going on. He would be sure it was some kind of hazing prank, if he hadn't heard someone mention that the skip he just caught, one of his first, had just been set free. Some kind of procedural error or something, but he'd be hard-pressed to find this one again unless she drew attention to herself again. Meanwhile, he was sitting in the very containment cell he had her in. He had more pressing concerns. She had only been here for a couple of hours, so it couldn't have been her who did all this carving in the wall. No, in //every// wall, Husmann noticed. And the ceiling. And the //floor,// for God's sake. And everywhere, all the carvings said the same thing. //b3 w@7chiNg Y0u// [[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>]]	2012-02-18T19:05:00	[ "_licensebox", "breakout", "bureaucracy", "event-featured", "heartwarming", "maria-jones", "tale" ]	Love In Leetspeak - SCP Foundation	81	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "event-featured-archive" ]	[]	12759404	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/love-in-leetspeak
mad-love	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Have you ever loved someone?</p> <p>Not that family love, or devotion…but real, blind love. I don't think people know how dangerous real, true love is. Love will make you do great things, but it can also make you do terrible, terrible things. You'll lie, cheat, steal, sell out your best friend, your family…yourself, all for the hope, just the hope, that it will make the object of your love happy. Just the hope.</p> <p>I met her after high school. I'd known her during, but never got up the gumption to ask her out. One day, we both happened to be visiting the same friends…we got talking…there it was. It was like a fever. I felt sick with love, that kind of warm self-destructive burn that you get in the grip of a sickness. It's unpleasant, yes…but comforting, too. It took me three months to say I loved her. I think she knew from the first second I saw her. I kissed her for the first time after helping her take out her trash. Or, rather, she kissed me. I felt like I'd been hit by a bus, and I wanted it to happen again.</p> <p>Do you always mean what you say, when you talk to your loved ones? Honestly, do you? Think about it. How often do you say “I love you” to fill up space. How often do you say “we'll always be together” more to quiet fears than as a deep expression of caring. I told her I would do anything for her, that I would give everything I had to be with her, always. We'd just made love the first time, on her mother's living room floor, while watching Nosferatu, of all things. I've still never seen the end of that movie.</p> <p>I meant it, when I said it. I felt it, like swallowing a small stone, a weight inside me. I would do anything for her.</p> <p>We'd moved out, gotten an apartment…then her mother got sick. She had to be admitted…needed an expensive treatment. My love was nearly catatonic with worry. We were hysterically poor. I told her that I'd get the money, somehow. I'd work all I could, do odd jobs, and make her mom ok. I worked two jobs on the week, three on the weekend. Went on three hours of sleep, then one, then none. I felt dead inside, a hollow whistling in my soul where sleep and exhaustion waited to claw me in to a pit…yet on I went. Shambling, broken, eyes black and puffy, I got the money. The moment I handed it to her, I fell to the ground, gave myself a mild concussion, and slept for three days.</p> <p>She started to worry about me, more and more. Said I worked too much, too hard. It felt like a knife in the eardrum to let her down, dry-shaving with a rusted nail was preferable to failing her. She asked me, begged me to stop…but I saw in her eyes her love. She knew why I did it, pushed too much, so hard. Despite her fear, she accepted this sacrifice of myself. If bills ate up the food budget, I would not eat for weeks, until we were recovered. If we lacked for gas, or the car broke down, I would walk to wherever was needed, never mind the wind, cold, rain…pain.</p> <p>I was walking when I got hit by the car. I think she'll never totally forgive herself for that. I was exhausted, dead on my feet, but walking quickly to work, when I didn't see a sign…or someone ignored it. I only realized my mistake when the grill collapsed four ribs. By the time I really digested the situation, I was dead, neck shattered and twisted, limbs replaced with lead.</p> <p>All I could hear, or see, was her, laying naked on her scratchy carpet, tears in her eyes, listening to me tell her that I would always love her, be with her, do anything for her.</p> <p>That I would never leave her alone.</p> <p>I don't know how I got home. I fell a lot, leaving abstract snow angels in my wake. I stopped bleeding a little bit before home, the gore solidifying on my skin in the cold. My bones crackled and ground like a box of gravel, but I kept on, gritting my teeth until they cracked. She was, I think, understandably horrified when I fell in the doorway, landing like a frozen slab of meat. Which, I guess, I was. We had a rough few days. She kept wanting me to go to the doctor, and I kept telling her I don't think that would help. When she felt for my pulse, she finally stopped asking.</p> <p>It took forever to figure things out. We got my bones and such in to more or less alright shape…called in to work, took all my vacation time, trying to think. Looking back, it was horribly simple, but it's not like you get a manual. I told her what I thought, and she was…upset, to say the least. I talked her around to it, over time. She wouldn't look me in the eye when I left, though.</p> <p>It never gets easier. My flesh was ruined, but my will remains. Still, will can't knit together bone, or zip up skin. It hurts so much, every time. The…failing bits, the rotten ones, are…pushed out. If I'm lucky, it's just like throwing up or having diarrhea. More often, everything just…presses out through the skin, before it heals. You'd be amazed how much the body breaks down, when it can't just heal. Still, seeing her smile…knowing that I can keep my promise another day, another week…it makes it alright. Barely.</p> <p>So, you understand that, when I do this, it's not because I'm some greedy monster. It's not a…hunger, or anything, it's just what I have to do, to keep going. Keep my promise. I don't even taste the flesh, it's just…neutral, like solid water or something. I am sorry, really…if there was another way, I'd be doing it. But…it has to be human, and alive. I've tried all the other ways, and it doesn't work. Please, just…don't cry, I'm a sucker for crying, and if you start, then I'll start, and my tears are…bitter, and taste wretched. I'll try and make it quick, sorry for talking so much…I know the rope must hurt.</p> <p>I just…don't get out much anymore…just work and home. I love her so much, it's so great…but…this is my only real time alone, you know? I can see you love someone too…so you know. You'd be in my place too, if that's what it took. I promised her, and I'll keep that promise forever. Your body will help me keep that promise. I'll try and make it fast.</p> <p>Love makes us all monsters, eventually.</p> <p>Try and go limp, or it'll hurt more when I bite muscle.</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="/mad-love">Mad Love</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mad-love">https://scpwiki.com/mad-love</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]] [[/>]] Have you ever loved someone? Not that family love, or devotion...but real, blind love. I don't think people know how dangerous real, true love is. Love will make you do great things, but it can also make you do terrible, terrible things. You'll lie, cheat, steal, sell out your best friend, your family...yourself, all for the hope, just the hope, that it will make the object of your love happy. Just the hope. I met her after high school. I'd known her during, but never got up the gumption to ask her out. One day, we both happened to be visiting the same friends...we got talking...there it was. It was like a fever. I felt sick with love, that kind of warm self-destructive burn that you get in the grip of a sickness. It's unpleasant, yes...but comforting, too. It took me three months to say I loved her. I think she knew from the first second I saw her. I kissed her for the first time after helping her take out her trash. Or, rather, she kissed me. I felt like I'd been hit by a bus, and I wanted it to happen again. Do you always mean what you say, when you talk to your loved ones? Honestly, do you? Think about it. How often do you say “I love you” to fill up space. How often do you say “we'll always be together” more to quiet fears than as a deep expression of caring. I told her I would do anything for her, that I would give everything I had to be with her, always. We'd just made love the first time, on her mother's living room floor, while watching Nosferatu, of all things. I've still never seen the end of that movie. I meant it, when I said it. I felt it, like swallowing a small stone, a weight inside me. I would do anything for her. We'd moved out, gotten an apartment...then her mother got sick. She had to be admitted...needed an expensive treatment. My love was nearly catatonic with worry. We were hysterically poor. I told her that I'd get the money, somehow. I'd work all I could, do odd jobs, and make her mom ok. I worked two jobs on the week, three on the weekend. Went on three hours of sleep, then one, then none. I felt dead inside, a hollow whistling in my soul where sleep and exhaustion waited to claw me in to a pit...yet on I went. Shambling, broken, eyes black and puffy, I got the money. The moment I handed it to her, I fell to the ground, gave myself a mild concussion, and slept for three days. She started to worry about me, more and more. Said I worked too much, too hard. It felt like a knife in the eardrum to let her down, dry-shaving with a rusted nail was preferable to failing her. She asked me, begged me to stop...but I saw in her eyes her love. She knew why I did it, pushed too much, so hard. Despite her fear, she accepted this sacrifice of myself. If bills ate up the food budget, I would not eat for weeks, until we were recovered. If we lacked for gas, or the car broke down, I would walk to wherever was needed, never mind the wind, cold, rain...pain. I was walking when I got hit by the car. I think she'll never totally forgive herself for that. I was exhausted, dead on my feet, but walking quickly to work, when I didn't see a sign...or someone ignored it. I only realized my mistake when the grill collapsed four ribs. By the time I really digested the situation, I was dead, neck shattered and twisted, limbs replaced with lead. All I could hear, or see, was her, laying naked on her scratchy carpet, tears in her eyes, listening to me tell her that I would always love her, be with her, do anything for her. That I would never leave her alone. I don't know how I got home. I fell a lot, leaving abstract snow angels in my wake. I stopped bleeding a little bit before home, the gore solidifying on my skin in the cold. My bones crackled and ground like a box of gravel, but I kept on, gritting my teeth until they cracked. She was, I think, understandably horrified when I fell in the doorway, landing like a frozen slab of meat. Which, I guess, I was. We had a rough few days. She kept wanting me to go to the doctor, and I kept telling her I don't think that would help. When she felt for my pulse, she finally stopped asking. It took forever to figure things out. We got my bones and such in to more or less alright shape...called in to work, took all my vacation time, trying to think. Looking back, it was horribly simple, but it's not like you get a manual. I told her what I thought, and she was...upset, to say the least. I talked her around to it, over time. She wouldn't look me in the eye when I left, though. It never gets easier. My flesh was ruined, but my will remains. Still, will can't knit together bone, or zip up skin. It hurts so much, every time. The...failing bits, the rotten ones, are...pushed out. If I'm lucky, it's just like throwing up or having diarrhea. More often, everything just...presses out through the skin, before it heals. You'd be amazed how much the body breaks down, when it can't just heal. Still, seeing her smile...knowing that I can keep my promise another day, another week...it makes it alright. Barely. So, you understand that, when I do this, it's not because I'm some greedy monster. It's not a...hunger, or anything, it's just what I have to do, to keep going. Keep my promise. I don't even taste the flesh, it's just...neutral, like solid water or something. I am sorry, really...if there was another way, I'd be doing it. But...it has to be human, and alive. I've tried all the other ways, and it doesn't work. Please, just...don't cry, I'm a sucker for crying, and if you start, then I'll start, and my tears are...bitter, and taste wretched. I'll try and make it quick, sorry for talking so much...I know the rope must hurt. I just...don't get out much anymore...just work and home. I love her so much, it's so great...but...this is my only real time alone, you know? I can see you love someone too...so you know. You'd be in my place too, if that's what it took. I promised her, and I'll keep that promise forever. Your body will help me keep that promise. I'll try and make it fast. Love makes us all monsters, eventually. Try and go limp, or it'll hurt more when I bite muscle. [[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>]]	2012-01-17T07:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Mad Love - SCP Foundation	99	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-gears-storytime-entries" ]	[]	12529576	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mad-love
mc-d-agent-orientation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Welcome to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations.</p> <p>A short summary of our organization is in order. We are a club of sorts, and we provide our members with the most exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and retrieving items for us so we may better provide said experiences. Those of you here today, sitting, blindfolded, in the audience, are to be our finders, our retrievers. We have selected you from the best of the best, the most able and intelligent of those who have applied.</p> <p>Allow me to explain your duties. You are to be our field agents. Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with objects that we are interested in, such as the Foundation, The Serpent's Hand, and the Church of the Broken God. We expect full loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance will be punished.</p> <p>As you will work on a case by case basis, I will be very broad. Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon personal statistics. You are not allowed to turn down an Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to certain portions of our near unlimited resources, depending on the case. Abuse of these resources will be punished.</p> <p>You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due haste, while keeping up any required appearances. Under no circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter, and Dark with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter, and Dark will be punished.</p> <p>This concludes your orientation. Please face to your right and take short, measured steps. Your blindfolds will be removed as you exit the door. Some of you will receive your first Acquisition case. Thank you for your time.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Smalls left the room with a bit of difficulty, his hands twitching at his sides. He seemed to be stepping extremely cautiously, as if afraid he might bump into people that were not there. His trip to the doorway was filled with tension, and a close observer would have noticed his breathing slowing, the gleam of sweat on his forehead becoming a bit duller. Agent Smalls, an up-and-coming Foundation agent, would have cringed in horror had he actually seen the room.</p> <p>Mr. Carter watched the man leave the room with rheumy eyes, his breathing carefully controlled. A shriveled husk of a man, battered and scarred, hung from the back of his wheelchair, its milky eyes still showing a vestige of fear. The old man wheezed as he spoke, and the husk wheezed with him. "Was it really worth it? A whole orientation, only for one man?"</p> <p>Mr. Marshall watched the blindfolded man leave the room impassively. A single, long finger made a sign, and the other men in the audience begin to walk as well, their footsteps echoing throughout the room. Their eyes were blank as they walked, and each bore a shallow but visible scar on their forehead. The co-founder of Marshall, Carter, and Dark cleared his throat, and drank from a glass of water. His voice changed from the cool, detached tone to a more rich, deeper one, one that belied an immense and inhuman intelligence. "Well. He might be useful in the future. It is always good to have investments." He straightened his tie. His chuckle was cold and knowing. "And it is always good to have them with the Foundation. Who knows how useful this one might be? He might even be better than Jenkins."</p> <p>The empty sound of wheezing laughter filled the room.<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="/mc-d-agent-orientation">MC&D Agent Orientation</a>" by Bookwizard, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mc-d-agent-orientation">https://scpwiki.com/mc-d-agent-orientation</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]] [[/>]] Welcome to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations. A short summary of our organization is in order. We are a club of sorts, and we provide our members with the most exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and retrieving items for us so we may better provide said experiences. Those of you here today, sitting, blindfolded, in the audience, are to be our finders, our retrievers. We have selected you from the best of the best, the most able and intelligent of those who have applied. Allow me to explain your duties. You are to be our field agents. Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with objects that we are interested in, such as the Foundation, The Serpent's Hand, and the Church of the Broken God. We expect full loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance will be punished. As you will work on a case by case basis, I will be very broad. Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon personal statistics. You are not allowed to turn down an Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to certain portions of our near unlimited resources, depending on the case. Abuse of these resources will be punished. You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due haste, while keeping up any required appearances. Under no circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter, and Dark with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter, and Dark will be punished. This concludes your orientation. Please face to your right and take short, measured steps. Your blindfolds will be removed as you exit the door. Some of you will receive your first Acquisition case. Thank you for your time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Agent Smalls left the room with a bit of difficulty, his hands twitching at his sides. He seemed to be stepping extremely cautiously, as if afraid he might bump into people that were not there. His trip to the doorway was filled with tension, and a close observer would have noticed his breathing slowing, the gleam of sweat on his forehead becoming a bit duller. Agent Smalls, an up-and-coming Foundation agent, would have cringed in horror had he actually seen the room. Mr. Carter watched the man leave the room with rheumy eyes, his breathing carefully controlled. A shriveled husk of a man, battered and scarred, hung from the back of his wheelchair, its milky eyes still showing a vestige of fear. The old man wheezed as he spoke, and the husk wheezed with him. "Was it really worth it? A whole orientation, only for one man?" Mr. Marshall watched the blindfolded man leave the room impassively. A single, long finger made a sign, and the other men in the audience begin to walk as well, their footsteps echoing throughout the room. Their eyes were blank as they walked, and each bore a shallow but visible scar on their forehead. The co-founder of Marshall, Carter, and Dark cleared his throat, and drank from a glass of water. His voice changed from the cool, detached tone to a more rich, deeper one, one that belied an immense and inhuman intelligence. "Well. He might be useful in the future. It is always good to have investments." He straightened his tie. His chuckle was cold and knowing. "And it is always good to have them with the Foundation. Who knows how useful this one might be? He might even be better than Jenkins." The empty sound of wheezing laughter filled the room. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-24T23:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "corporate", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "orientation", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	MC&D Agent Orientation - SCP Foundation	62	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "acquisitions-hub" ]	[]	13876262	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mc-d-agent-orientation
meat	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Chinese culture is a strange thing indeed. She found out, the day her First came tearing, screaming and mewling out from her womb, tiny unformed fingers clawing at her insides. The doctors and nurses crowded round, strange and deformed in her pain-fuelled haze, babbling things that she could not hear. She remembered shuddering, drenched in itching sweat that turned her light-pink hospital gown into a shade of carmine red. She let the congratulations wash over her, the excited exclamations of her husband pulling her from much-needed sleep, needling at her, drawing her mind long and tired. She took her turn of clutching the baby, cooing softly at it as quickly as she could, before she passed it on, swallowing down the rising vomit that clogged her throat, attempting to right the spinning room through sheer force of will. Then, it was thrown onto her lap.</p> <p>Her scream of disgust pierced the sterile operating room, jolting the sleeping child into its first wails. She looked up, searching for the source of this outrage, and her eyes met two beady pupils staring at her, behind a surgical mask. He was a short man, dressed in hospital blue, his long fingers steepled together at his waist, his eyebrows suggesting a smile hidden behind the white of the cotton mask. A long silence dominated the room, broken only by the insistent crying of the newborn flesh, and the low hum of the air-conditioning. Eyes travelled back down to the red, pulsing mass of bloody flesh in her lap, and then back again to the shrivelled doctor standing at the foot of her bed.</p> <p><em>-Eat. Is good for you.<br/> -But… Why is it raw?<br/> -Just eat! Is good for you, and the baby.</em></p> <p>Ryan just stood there, forced grin frozen on his face. He said nothing. He wouldn’t. He actually believed in this Chinese nonsense. He reached out, a claw swimming through the open space between her and him, and grabbed her hand. He squeezed it, once. Her other hand shook as it edged towards the battered metal plate, slipped slightly in the pooling blood, and finally managed to clasp around the oozing organ, picking it up. It squelched in her grasp. Small showers of blood dripped from it, slipping from the cracks between her fingers and back into the plate, merging with the symphony of expectant silence in the operating room.</p> <p>It smelled disgusting. Loathsome. It smelled of fresh blood, of rotten flesh, of old torn clothes soaked in vinegar. It smelled like fresh fish gutted and smashed with a spoon. It took all of her willpower to not throw up there and then, to keep the vomit hidden deep within her throat, to gulp it down. Eyes were watching. Waiting. She had to do it. She had to. For the baby.</p> <p>Her mouth opened. An inch. Two inches. It edged closer and closer, she could’ve sworn it pulsed in her hands, once, as it neared her teeth. The stench invaded her nostrils, piercing inwards like a jagged spear, and she gagged, lurching forward. The piece of flesh squelched again, popping from her grasp to splash down on the plate, throwing rivulets of blood up onto her face, allowing her the sensation of cold liquid snaking their way down her cheeks. Still, no mercy, nothing but the same waiting silence.</p> <p>She picked it up and held it against her face. Her tears of disgust mingled with the blood coursing down her cheeks. She looked at the lump of flesh that had forced her to do this, and she found that she hated it. How strange. And, as she experienced this new emotion, almost unknowingly, unwittingly, she bit into the placenta.</p> <p>She had known by now what it was, she’d known all along that she had to eat it, that it was customary. She had wished it wasn’t, upon finding out, that she had a say in the matter. Placentophagia, the practice of eating the placenta, was purported to help stem postpartum depression, contract the uterus after birth, and give back to her the life source that she had shelled out. The doctor had said so. She still didn’t want to. She had thought it would have been disgusting.</p> <p>It wasn’t. As her teeth pierced the livid, red flesh of the organ, breaking apart stretched skin and into the pliable flesh beneath, she instead experienced ecstasy. Her mind broke behind waves of pleasure flooding into her nerves centres, arcing lightning burst through her mouth and into her brain as the perfect taste filled her taste buds. She had found heaven, found it in the organ of her own child, in what was essentially part of herself. All thoughts of cannibalism faded away beneath the rising tide of blood choking her throat, and all her disgust was drowned in the apex of the moment. She was complete, once again. Hungrily, she wolfed down the rest of the placenta, each bite sending shudders and shivers down her spine, causing orgasmic delight to wrack her weak, tired body. By the end, she could barely move, but the smile that was plastered across her face threatened to tear it in half. She had never felt better.</p> <p>The erupting cheer faded into the background. Everything did.</p> <p>She felt ashamed afterwards, of course, as Ryan joked with her about how she looked like she really enjoyed the after-labour meal. She hadn’t dared to tell him that she had. She didn’t tell any of them of the mind-blowing spikes that had lodged themselves in her chest, that sparked her fire and drove her insane. She couldn’t. Instead, she just smiled and nodded, joked back with her husband, throwing small talk around the room as she tried to erase the memory from her mind, to forget the pleasure that she had experienced, to drive the hunger away.</p> <p>But it came back, a few weeks later, tearing at her insides with pure, maddening desire. She wanted, she fucking needed it, more badly than she had ever needed anything. She drew into herself, trying to control her urges, to chain the beast, but it was useless. Ryan thought she was suffering post-natal depression, had asked kindly about it. What could she say? Her silence continued.</p> <p>It went on like this, for days, weeks. She cradled her child absently, ignoring its cries as she screamed inside, drowning out the piercing wails with her own desperate pleas for the madness, the hunger to stop. It went on, until one day she could take it no more.</p> <p>She found herself alone that day, Ryan must had gone out for drinks with his buddies. She was alone with the baby, feeding it her precious milk, enduring the needling pain jabbing her breast as the hungry child tore into her nipple. Her life-giving fluids spurted out sporadically, tiny drops flecking the chin of the hungering monster, minute amounts of blood bitten from tender flesh mingling in with the milk. She stared at the child, transfixed, as she wondered. What if her hunger… what if? She had no time to think, the scraping against the back of her head had started again, the aching of her jaws and the tightness in her chest. She reached out with her left hand, her right still clutching the baby, holding it against herself, trapping it with nowhere for it to run. Her fingers closed about the fleshy, tender leg of her child, pulling it upwards with agonizing slowness. The baby continued to suck at her, to drain from her.</p> <p>She wondered, for a brief moment, if it was a sort of poetic justice, as her teeth bit into the milky-white skin, her canines puncturing the epidermis, and flesh found its way into her mouth. The baby began to scream, pain driving its tiny mind wild, but she wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t. Her teeth were already halfway in, the lower jaw resting lightly against the puckered portion of the baby’s meat. She couldn’t do anything except bite harder and harder, her stained yellow teeth turning red as blood flooded her throat, filled her mouth. Her eyes watered, her grip tightened. The wriggling lump of flesh bawled, thrashing about, but it couldn’t escape her. Finally, her teeth met, parting aside prepubescent flesh with a squelch in order to hit the other half with a soft click. She tore her prize free from the baby, chewing with a furiousness born from desperation. She chewed and chewed, the blood spurting out of her mouth and onto her chin, dribbling in frothing bubbles onto her dress. She chewed until she realized… this wasn’t what she needed. In horror, it dawned upon her what lay in her mouth, what the bubbling mass of pink that rolled about her tongue actually was, and she screamed, for the first time, out loud.</p> <p>She had explained afterwards that a wild stray dog had bit the baby while she had brought it downstairs to the void deck, and that the blood on her dress was from her rushing the baby to the hospital. She had cried, tears streaming down blood-stained cheeks, in Ryan’s arms, sobbing her heart out in what Ryan thought to be relief, but she knew to be frustration. She needed something else, something more. She needed what she had tasted before, what she had grown to hunger for. She needed the placenta, the prime cut.</p> <p>She tried looking for it, searching online. It only came back with animal placentas, pills and dried facsimiles that she found no interest in, no desire for. She bought slabs of raw meat, hid it from Ryan, from her baby, who now lay in the cot recovering. Wolfed them down in the sink. Spat them out into the bin. It was no use. She needed the real thing.</p> <p>And that’s why she found herself where she was now, sneaking into the hospital at 2 in the morning, drifting along the hallways with furtive glances cast behind her. Turn left. Two turns right. The maternity ward is just ahead. She made it there without anyone noticing, against all her wishes, all her hopes, she hadn’t been caught. She imagined what it would have been like if she had bumped into a nurse, if they had found her. The relief would have washed over her, the madness and darkness evaporated beneath the soothing touch of humanity, suffocated by the constricting knots of the straitjacket. But no, instead, she found herself at the door, whorls of laminated wood staring back at her as her fingers rested against the knob. She walked in.</p> <p>Ryan thought she was having a night out, watching a movie and taking a break from watching the kid. He was at home, dozing off at the TV, rocking the cradle once every few minutes. And here she was, holding a pillow above the face of some woman she didn’t know, pressing it down as hands clawed at her. The woman’s body, young and lithe except for the distended belly possessing her spawn, struggled and bucked under her grip, but she held on, a strength that could come only from insane hunger pressing down her arms. The monitor rattled on the table, unplugged cord scattering about the floor, the bed shivered with the dying woman’s convulsions. Her grip upon the pillow softened as the woman struggled less and less, until finally, the flailing hands fell limply against the sides of the bed. The room was silent, except for her panting, interspersed with mumbled apologies and hungry growls.</p> <p>Her hand gripped the scalpel, tightly, pilfered from a small room adjacent. Her knuckles were white, barely visible in the dark room, trembling as her fingers dug into her palm. She moved closer to the corpse. Her hand touched upon the protruding belly, feeling about. Thud. She felt something move, with a jolt. The spawn. The woman’s larvae. It still lived. She was supposed to feel remorse now, as if one life taken was fine, but two had crossed an invisible line. She was supposed to hate herself.</p> <p>Instead, she raised the scalpel high, cheek-burning smile splitting her face in two, frame shivering in anticipation. And she plunged it down, as she prepared to dine once again.</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="/meat">Meat</a>" by Corerosion, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/meat">https://scpwiki.com/meat</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]] [[/>]] Chinese culture is a strange thing indeed. She found out, the day her First came tearing, screaming and mewling out from her womb, tiny unformed fingers clawing at her insides. The doctors and nurses crowded round, strange and deformed in her pain-fuelled haze, babbling things that she could not hear. She remembered shuddering, drenched in itching sweat that turned her light-pink hospital gown into a shade of carmine red. She let the congratulations wash over her, the excited exclamations of her husband pulling her from much-needed sleep, needling at her, drawing her mind long and tired. She took her turn of clutching the baby, cooing softly at it as quickly as she could, before she passed it on, swallowing down the rising vomit that clogged her throat, attempting to right the spinning room through sheer force of will. Then, it was thrown onto her lap. Her scream of disgust pierced the sterile operating room, jolting the sleeping child into its first wails. She looked up, searching for the source of this outrage, and her eyes met two beady pupils staring at her, behind a surgical mask. He was a short man, dressed in hospital blue, his long fingers steepled together at his waist, his eyebrows suggesting a smile hidden behind the white of the cotton mask. A long silence dominated the room, broken only by the insistent crying of the newborn flesh, and the low hum of the air-conditioning. Eyes travelled back down to the red, pulsing mass of bloody flesh in her lap, and then back again to the shrivelled doctor standing at the foot of her bed. //-Eat. Is good for you. -But… Why is it raw? -Just eat! Is good for you, and the baby.// Ryan just stood there, forced grin frozen on his face. He said nothing. He wouldn’t. He actually believed in this Chinese nonsense. He reached out, a claw swimming through the open space between her and him, and grabbed her hand. He squeezed it, once. Her other hand shook as it edged towards the battered metal plate, slipped slightly in the pooling blood, and finally managed to clasp around the oozing organ, picking it up. It squelched in her grasp. Small showers of blood dripped from it, slipping from the cracks between her fingers and back into the plate, merging with the symphony of expectant silence in the operating room. It smelled disgusting. Loathsome. It smelled of fresh blood, of rotten flesh, of old torn clothes soaked in vinegar. It smelled like fresh fish gutted and smashed with a spoon. It took all of her willpower to not throw up there and then, to keep the vomit hidden deep within her throat, to gulp it down. Eyes were watching. Waiting. She had to do it. She had to. For the baby. Her mouth opened. An inch. Two inches. It edged closer and closer, she could’ve sworn it pulsed in her hands, once, as it neared her teeth. The stench invaded her nostrils, piercing inwards like a jagged spear, and she gagged, lurching forward. The piece of flesh squelched again, popping from her grasp to splash down on the plate, throwing rivulets of blood up onto her face, allowing her the sensation of cold liquid snaking their way down her cheeks. Still, no mercy, nothing but the same waiting silence. She picked it up and held it against her face. Her tears of disgust mingled with the blood coursing down her cheeks. She looked at the lump of flesh that had forced her to do this, and she found that she hated it. How strange. And, as she experienced this new emotion, almost unknowingly, unwittingly, she bit into the placenta. She had known by now what it was, she’d known all along that she had to eat it, that it was customary. She had wished it wasn’t, upon finding out, that she had a say in the matter. Placentophagia, the practice of eating the placenta, was purported to help stem postpartum depression, contract the uterus after birth, and give back to her the life source that she had shelled out. The doctor had said so. She still didn’t want to. She had thought it would have been disgusting. It wasn’t. As her teeth pierced the livid, red flesh of the organ, breaking apart stretched skin and into the pliable flesh beneath, she instead experienced ecstasy. Her mind broke behind waves of pleasure flooding into her nerves centres, arcing lightning burst through her mouth and into her brain as the perfect taste filled her taste buds. She had found heaven, found it in the organ of her own child, in what was essentially part of herself. All thoughts of cannibalism faded away beneath the rising tide of blood choking her throat, and all her disgust was drowned in the apex of the moment. She was complete, once again. Hungrily, she wolfed down the rest of the placenta, each bite sending shudders and shivers down her spine, causing orgasmic delight to wrack her weak, tired body. By the end, she could barely move, but the smile that was plastered across her face threatened to tear it in half. She had never felt better. The erupting cheer faded into the background. Everything did. She felt ashamed afterwards, of course, as Ryan joked with her about how she looked like she really enjoyed the after-labour meal. She hadn’t dared to tell him that she had. She didn’t tell any of them of the mind-blowing spikes that had lodged themselves in her chest, that sparked her fire and drove her insane. She couldn’t. Instead, she just smiled and nodded, joked back with her husband, throwing small talk around the room as she tried to erase the memory from her mind, to forget the pleasure that she had experienced, to drive the hunger away. But it came back, a few weeks later, tearing at her insides with pure, maddening desire. She wanted, she fucking needed it, more badly than she had ever needed anything. She drew into herself, trying to control her urges, to chain the beast, but it was useless. Ryan thought she was suffering post-natal depression, had asked kindly about it. What could she say? Her silence continued. It went on like this, for days, weeks. She cradled her child absently, ignoring its cries as she screamed inside, drowning out the piercing wails with her own desperate pleas for the madness, the hunger to stop. It went on, until one day she could take it no more. She found herself alone that day, Ryan must had gone out for drinks with his buddies. She was alone with the baby, feeding it her precious milk, enduring the needling pain jabbing her breast as the hungry child tore into her nipple. Her life-giving fluids spurted out sporadically, tiny drops flecking the chin of the hungering monster, minute amounts of blood bitten from tender flesh mingling in with the milk. She stared at the child, transfixed, as she wondered. What if her hunger… what if? She had no time to think, the scraping against the back of her head had started again, the aching of her jaws and the tightness in her chest. She reached out with her left hand, her right still clutching the baby, holding it against herself, trapping it with nowhere for it to run. Her fingers closed about the fleshy, tender leg of her child, pulling it upwards with agonizing slowness. The baby continued to suck at her, to drain from her. She wondered, for a brief moment, if it was a sort of poetic justice, as her teeth bit into the milky-white skin, her canines puncturing the epidermis, and flesh found its way into her mouth. The baby began to scream, pain driving its tiny mind wild, but she wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t. Her teeth were already halfway in, the lower jaw resting lightly against the puckered portion of the baby’s meat. She couldn’t do anything except bite harder and harder, her stained yellow teeth turning red as blood flooded her throat, filled her mouth. Her eyes watered, her grip tightened. The wriggling lump of flesh bawled, thrashing about, but it couldn’t escape her. Finally, her teeth met, parting aside prepubescent flesh with a squelch in order to hit the other half with a soft click. She tore her prize free from the baby, chewing with a furiousness born from desperation. She chewed and chewed, the blood spurting out of her mouth and onto her chin, dribbling in frothing bubbles onto her dress. She chewed until she realized… this wasn’t what she needed. In horror, it dawned upon her what lay in her mouth, what the bubbling mass of pink that rolled about her tongue actually was, and she screamed, for the first time, out loud. She had explained afterwards that a wild stray dog had bit the baby while she had brought it downstairs to the void deck, and that the blood on her dress was from her rushing the baby to the hospital. She had cried, tears streaming down blood-stained cheeks, in Ryan’s arms, sobbing her heart out in what Ryan thought to be relief, but she knew to be frustration. She needed something else, something more. She needed what she had tasted before, what she had grown to hunger for. She needed the placenta, the prime cut. She tried looking for it, searching online. It only came back with animal placentas, pills and dried facsimiles that she found no interest in, no desire for. She bought slabs of raw meat, hid it from Ryan, from her baby, who now lay in the cot recovering. Wolfed them down in the sink. Spat them out into the bin. It was no use. She needed the real thing. And that’s why she found herself where she was now, sneaking into the hospital at 2 in the morning, drifting along the hallways with furtive glances cast behind her. Turn left. Two turns right. The maternity ward is just ahead. She made it there without anyone noticing, against all her wishes, all her hopes, she hadn’t been caught. She imagined what it would have been like if she had bumped into a nurse, if they had found her. The relief would have washed over her, the madness and darkness evaporated beneath the soothing touch of humanity, suffocated by the constricting knots of the straitjacket. But no, instead, she found herself at the door, whorls of laminated wood staring back at her as her fingers rested against the knob. She walked in. Ryan thought she was having a night out, watching a movie and taking a break from watching the kid. He was at home, dozing off at the TV, rocking the cradle once every few minutes. And here she was, holding a pillow above the face of some woman she didn’t know, pressing it down as hands clawed at her. The woman’s body, young and lithe except for the distended belly possessing her spawn, struggled and bucked under her grip, but she held on, a strength that could come only from insane hunger pressing down her arms. The monitor rattled on the table, unplugged cord scattering about the floor, the bed shivered with the dying woman’s convulsions. Her grip upon the pillow softened as the woman struggled less and less, until finally, the flailing hands fell limply against the sides of the bed. The room was silent, except for her panting, interspersed with mumbled apologies and hungry growls. Her hand gripped the scalpel, tightly, pilfered from a small room adjacent. Her knuckles were white, barely visible in the dark room, trembling as her fingers dug into her palm. She moved closer to the corpse. Her hand touched upon the protruding belly, feeling about. Thud. She felt something move, with a jolt. The spawn. The woman’s larvae. It still lived. She was supposed to feel remorse now, as if one life taken was fine, but two had crossed an invisible line. She was supposed to hate herself. Instead, she raised the scalpel high, cheek-burning smile splitting her face in two, frame shivering in anticipation. And she plunged it down, as she prepared to dine once again. [[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>]]	2012-02-28T17:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Meat - SCP Foundation	59	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author" ]	[]	12822046	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/meat
memorandum-10-31	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>ATTENTION ALL SITE PERSONNEL</strong></p> <p>Due to the unique circumstances that have traditionally surrounded the date of October 31, and the allegations that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena, all Site staff have been placed on high alert and all available agents and MTFs are to be put on a 24 hour standby period.</p> <p>Since its founding, the Foundation has experienced or recorded anomalous phenomena on an estimated 72% of dates correlating to October 31. While there is no conclusive theory or explanation for this high rate of anomalous occurrences on this particular date, it is highly encouraged that all Site staff exhibit a heightened state of alert and vigilance.</p> <p>For your reference, listed below are several excerpts of previous anomalous phenomena that had occurred on this date in order to give you an idea of what to expect. Note that this is not a comprehensive list of incidents.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1955</strong></p> <p>Sightings of what appears to be an American warship occur simultaneously at over thirty six coastal areas across the globe. Cross referencing of eyewitness accounts of the ship in question point out the exact same identifying remarks, and testimony suggests that it may possibly be the USS [REDACTED]. This conflicts with records showing that the ship in question had been transferred over to the Hellenic Navy and was confirmed to be in port during the time of these events.</p> <p>Due to skepticism about the plausibility of such an event, it was determined that no amnesic measures were necessary.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1972</strong></p> <p>Doctor Wondertainment releases a new candy into circulation called “FIRE POPS”. It is advertised as a hard candy that grants the eater the ability to breathe fire at will as long as it remains in their mouth. The annual average of damages and injuries caused by fire increases sharply in several countries due to this one day alone. Doctors also note a sudden surge in patients complaining about slightly burnt tongues. Incidents are covered up as crimes by serial arsonists. It is unknown how much candy was produced or how much remains in circulation, if any.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1980</strong></p> <p>After a series of brief, unexplained power outages in various Foundation sites, Dr. Lott submits a request to have the date of October 31 to be officially listed as an SCP on the grounds that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena. After a period of twenty four hours, the request is denied unanimously by the O5 Council.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1992</strong></p> <p>Multiple instances of SCP-701 manifest as the subject of numerous schools’ Halloween plays. The damage is catastrophic and takes three months to fully contain and cover up. All recovered instances of SCP-701 are immediately destroyed.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1993</strong></p> <p>SCP-895’s area of effect suddenly and rapidly expands, encompassing most of █████████████. For approximately 0.6 seconds, all broadcast signals within the area of effect are replaced with security footage of SCP-895. Fortunately, exposure is too brief to cause any serious damage, though there were sharp increases in cases of cardiac arrest, insomnia, and hysteria.</p> <p>Since public exposure to SCP-895 was negligible, no major cover-up measures were deemed necessary.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1994</strong></p> <p>Several crates of Doctor Wondertainment brand Halloween masks are disseminated among the general public. The masks are classified as minor cognitohazards, as they lead the wearers to believe that they are the character their mask portrays. The vast majority of related incidents are harmless, and the true number of cases is difficult to separate from genuine holiday behavior, such as occasional street brawls and numerous pranks. The Foundation begins a rigorous campaign to collect and destroy any and all Halloween masks in the affected areas.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1995</strong></p> <p>Site-██ is suddenly attacked by a horde of sentient jack o’ lanterns that all speak in rhyme in an event later dubbed “The Great Pumpkin War”. Onsite security forces are quickly overwhelmed and forced to withdraw, leaving several sectors of the Site infested. The situation is only resolved when Agent Franks lures the attackers into a storage warehouse containing stockpiles of SCP-504 meant for testing. It takes approximately six months to completely clear the site of wreckage and organic debris.</p> <p>Agent Franks is awarded a commendation for bravery and ingenuity under fire.</p> <p>Agent Franks is subsequently transferred to Antarctic Surveillance Site 2 on a six month tour for “willful destruction of Foundation property”.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 1997</strong></p> <p>Contact with D-Class Holding Facility 6 is lost for exactly thirteen seconds. Both the staff and the D-Class personnel at the facility report having blacked out during the thirteen second gap. When they regained consciousness, all personnel were dressed in seemingly random Halloween-themed costumes. Later analysis suggests costume choice was based on the wearer’s subconscious desires. All costumes are confiscated and incinerated. D-Class Holding Facility 6 is immediately decommissioned due to security concerns, with all Foundation personnel transferred and all D-Class personnel having their termination schedules accelerated.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 2000</strong></p> <p>The powers of hundreds of latent reality warpers suddenly and simultaneously manifest around the globe, sparking countless reports of anomalous activity and phenomena. Collaboration with the Global Occult Coalition results in the termination of 99% of the awakened reality warpers within three weeks. The remaining 1% are currently unaccounted for. This event proves to be the most costly October 31st phenomenon to contain to date.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 2001</strong></p> <p>SCP-024 delivers a DVD to onsite personnel despite the fact that there were no recent experiments. Footage shows the interior of SCP-024 as a Halloween-themed obstacle course and haunted house, challenging contestants to brave various supernatural obstacles and threats. Closer analysis of the footage shows that all identifiable contestants were previous test subjects that were sent into SCP-024 and never returned. The individual previously classified as D-4369 wins the contest and exits the studio, where he is immediately terminated by onsite security due to him showing signs of [REDACTED] as a result of exposure to supernatural elements within SCP-024. His prize, an all expenses paid trip to Cancun for one week, is confiscated by the supervising doctor.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 2007</strong></p> <p>The annual Marshall, Carter, and Dark LTD. Halloween Ball is disrupted when several individuals believed to be affiliated with Are We Cool Yet? breach security and attack the guests with ossification grenades. Despite MCD’s refusal to divulge information on the attack, casualties are thought to number at least three hundred. Recovered traffic camera footage shows several delivery vans leaving the MCD compound at high speed approximately two minutes after the attack began. Investigation into the matter is still under way.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 2008</strong></p> <p>Factory brand toothpaste is disseminated in several countries, with an anomalous chemical composition designed to harden tooth enamel to a point that exceeds the current Mohs hardness scale. Fortunately, incidents in where the toothpaste was used were limited, and the remaining samples were collected via staged product recall.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 2009</strong></p> <p>SCP-802 exhibits abnormal behavior when the music it plays no longer sounds degraded or filtered, as if being played by actual instruments rather than from a recording. SCP-802 also switches to songs of the period that are considered more traditional for Halloween. Eyewitness reports from security staff present state that this behavior continued until midnight local time, when the music abruptly stops. The security staff also claimed to have heard sounds similar to applause and laughing for several seconds after the cessation of music.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>October 31, 2011</strong></p> <p>For the first time since containment, SCP-204 makes a verbal request to onsite staff for a bucket of candy and a small size Halloween witch costume. When asked upon its reasoning, SCP-204 replies it is for “a surprise”. Request is granted. However, subsequent attempts to have SCP-204 speak again or evoke any sort of response are not successful.</p> <p>Dr. Lott resubmits his request to have October 31 listed as an SCP. As of the publishing of this report, no final decision has been made.</p> </blockquote> <p>Remember to stay on heightened alert and be sure to immediately report any suspicious activity to your superiors or security staff. Have a safe and happy Halloween.</p> <p>Secure, Contain, Protect.</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="/memorandum-10-31">Memorandum 10/31</a>" by SpoonOfEvil, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/memorandum-10-31">https://scpwiki.com/memorandum-10-31</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]] [[/>]] ATTENTION ALL SITE PERSONNEL Due to the unique circumstances that have traditionally surrounded the date of October 31, and the allegations that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena, all Site staff have been placed on high alert and all available agents and MTFs are to be put on a 24 hour standby period. Since its founding, the Foundation has experienced or recorded anomalous phenomena on an estimated 72% of dates correlating to October 31. While there is no conclusive theory or explanation for this high rate of anomalous occurrences on this particular date, it is highly encouraged that all Site staff exhibit a heightened state of alert and vigilance. For your reference, listed below are several excerpts of previous anomalous phenomena that had occurred on this date in order to give you an idea of what to expect. Note that this is not a comprehensive list of incidents. > October 31, 1955 > > Sightings of what appears to be an American warship occur simultaneously at over thirty six coastal areas across the globe. Cross referencing of eyewitness accounts of the ship in question point out the exact same identifying remarks, and testimony suggests that it may possibly be the USS [REDACTED]. This conflicts with records showing that the ship in question had been transferred over to the Hellenic Navy and was confirmed to be in port during the time of these events. > > Due to skepticism about the plausibility of such an event, it was determined that no amnesic measures were necessary. > October 31, 1972 > > Doctor Wondertainment releases a new candy into circulation called “FIRE POPS”. It is advertised as a hard candy that grants the eater the ability to breathe fire at will as long as it remains in their mouth. The annual average of damages and injuries caused by fire increases sharply in several countries due to this one day alone. Doctors also note a sudden surge in patients complaining about slightly burnt tongues. Incidents are covered up as crimes by serial arsonists. It is unknown how much candy was produced or how much remains in circulation, if any. > October 31, 1980 > > After a series of brief, unexplained power outages in various Foundation sites, Dr. Lott submits a request to have the date of October 31 to be officially listed as an SCP on the grounds that it acts as a catalyst for anomalous phenomena. After a period of twenty four hours, the request is denied unanimously by the O5 Council. > October 31, 1992 > > Multiple instances of SCP-701 manifest as the subject of numerous schools’ Halloween plays. The damage is catastrophic and takes three months to fully contain and cover up. All recovered instances of SCP-701 are immediately destroyed. > October 31, 1993 > > SCP-895’s area of effect suddenly and rapidly expands, encompassing most of █████████████. For approximately 0.6 seconds, all broadcast signals within the area of effect are replaced with security footage of SCP-895. Fortunately, exposure is too brief to cause any serious damage, though there were sharp increases in cases of cardiac arrest, insomnia, and hysteria. > > Since public exposure to SCP-895 was negligible, no major cover-up measures were deemed necessary. > October 31, 1994 > > Several crates of Doctor Wondertainment brand Halloween masks are disseminated among the general public. The masks are classified as minor cognitohazards, as they lead the wearers to believe that they are the character their mask portrays. The vast majority of related incidents are harmless, and the true number of cases is difficult to separate from genuine holiday behavior, such as occasional street brawls and numerous pranks. The Foundation begins a rigorous campaign to collect and destroy any and all Halloween masks in the affected areas. > October 31, 1995 > > Site-██ is suddenly attacked by a horde of sentient jack o’ lanterns that all speak in rhyme in an event later dubbed “The Great Pumpkin War”. Onsite security forces are quickly overwhelmed and forced to withdraw, leaving several sectors of the Site infested. The situation is only resolved when Agent Franks lures the attackers into a storage warehouse containing stockpiles of SCP-504 meant for testing. It takes approximately six months to completely clear the site of wreckage and organic debris. > > Agent Franks is awarded a commendation for bravery and ingenuity under fire. > > Agent Franks is subsequently transferred to Antarctic Surveillance Site 2 on a six month tour for “willful destruction of Foundation property”. > October 31, 1997 > > Contact with D-Class Holding Facility 6 is lost for exactly thirteen seconds. Both the staff and the D-Class personnel at the facility report having blacked out during the thirteen second gap. When they regained consciousness, all personnel were dressed in seemingly random Halloween-themed costumes. Later analysis suggests costume choice was based on the wearer’s subconscious desires. All costumes are confiscated and incinerated. D-Class Holding Facility 6 is immediately decommissioned due to security concerns, with all Foundation personnel transferred and all D-Class personnel having their termination schedules accelerated. > October 31, 2000 > > The powers of hundreds of latent reality warpers suddenly and simultaneously manifest around the globe, sparking countless reports of anomalous activity and phenomena. Collaboration with the Global Occult Coalition results in the termination of 99% of the awakened reality warpers within three weeks. The remaining 1% are currently unaccounted for. This event proves to be the most costly October 31st phenomenon to contain to date. > October 31, 2001 > > SCP-024 delivers a DVD to onsite personnel despite the fact that there were no recent experiments. Footage shows the interior of SCP-024 as a Halloween-themed obstacle course and haunted house, challenging contestants to brave various supernatural obstacles and threats. Closer analysis of the footage shows that all identifiable contestants were previous test subjects that were sent into SCP-024 and never returned. The individual previously classified as D-4369 wins the contest and exits the studio, where he is immediately terminated by onsite security due to him showing signs of [REDACTED] as a result of exposure to supernatural elements within SCP-024. His prize, an all expenses paid trip to Cancun for one week, is confiscated by the supervising doctor. > October 31, 2007 > > The annual Marshall, Carter, and Dark LTD. Halloween Ball is disrupted when several individuals believed to be affiliated with Are We Cool Yet? breach security and attack the guests with ossification grenades. Despite MCD’s refusal to divulge information on the attack, casualties are thought to number at least three hundred. Recovered traffic camera footage shows several delivery vans leaving the MCD compound at high speed approximately two minutes after the attack began. Investigation into the matter is still under way. > October 31, 2008 > > Factory brand toothpaste is disseminated in several countries, with an anomalous chemical composition designed to harden tooth enamel to a point that exceeds the current Mohs hardness scale. Fortunately, incidents in where the toothpaste was used were limited, and the remaining samples were collected via staged product recall. > October 31, 2009 > > SCP-802 exhibits abnormal behavior when the music it plays no longer sounds degraded or filtered, as if being played by actual instruments rather than from a recording. SCP-802 also switches to songs of the period that are considered more traditional for Halloween. Eyewitness reports from security staff present state that this behavior continued until midnight local time, when the music abruptly stops. The security staff also claimed to have heard sounds similar to applause and laughing for several seconds after the cessation of music. > October 31, 2011 > > For the first time since containment, SCP-204 makes a verbal request to onsite staff for a bucket of candy and a small size Halloween witch costume. When asked upon its reasoning, SCP-204 replies it is for “a surprise”. Request is granted. However, subsequent attempts to have SCP-204 speak again or evoke any sort of response are not successful. > > Dr. Lott resubmits his request to have October 31 listed as an SCP. As of the publishing of this report, no final decision has been made. Remember to stay on heightened alert and be sure to immediately report any suspicious activity to your superiors or security staff. Have a safe and happy Halloween. Secure, Contain, Protect. [[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>]]	2012-10-25T00:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "halloween", "hc2012", "historical", "tale" ]	Memorandum 10/31 - SCP Foundation	46	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "halloween-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14786839	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/memorandum-10-31
monsters	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> It was nearing the end of the witching hour, and most sensible folk were tucked away in bed, resting to face the new day. For the fourth (or was it the fifth? Sixth? It was hard to keep track) time that night, a cautious knock came on the bedroom door of one such couple, shattering the silence that had settled over the house. For a fourth time that night, a sleep-addled voice called out: “What do you need NOW?” and a small and wavering voice replied “Mommy!”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Your turn.” came a voice from underneath a mound of pillows and blankets.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “A’ight. ‘m goin’, hun.”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> The covers were tossed to the side, and a man in his late thirties disentangled himself and groped sightlessly for clothing. His fingers met a light switch, and the darkness was banished. The form under the blankets swore viciously and rolled over to block the light from unadjusted eyes.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> Click. Darkness again. “Hurry!” urged the small voice.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Hang on!” The man snapped, most of his good humor lost to the first few repetitions of the ritual. He felt around until his hands met the cool metal of the door knob.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “What d-“</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> A small girl launched into his stomach hard enough to send him stumbling back into the room.<br/> “Sleepin’ in here with you guys tonight, kay?”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “No, not ok, kiddo. You have a perfectly nice big girl bed in your room. Mommy and Daddy’s room is much too small for you and us. What’s the matter?”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “It’s the monsters, Daddy!” She whispered, scanning the hallway as if one might be creeping up on them from the yawning maw of the stairwell.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Anna, there is no such thing. We’ve been over this, honey.”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Yu-huh! I can hear ‘em snufflin’ around in there, growling and stuff. They’re probably hungry!”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> Her father rolled his eyes. “I’ll walk back with you.”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “No! Wanna sleep here!”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> Her father scooped her up and carried her back down the hallway, ignoring her protests and kicking.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Lookit, nothing under the bed, inside the closet, outside the windows, or anywhere else. No monsters to be seen anywhere.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “They can hide!”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Sweetheart, there is nowhere to hide in here. I checked every little nook and cranny. You’re gonna have to believe me.” He scooped her bear off of the floor. “You two curl up under the covers and get some rest for me, ok? You’re perfectly safe. Promise.” He shut the door gently and shambled back to his own room, sleep already overtaking him.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Is she ok?” his wife asked. “Maybe we should have let her sleep in here. Just this once.”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “That’s how bad habits get formed, you know. She needs to learn to beat these silly fears by herself.”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “You’re right, I suppose. But I do worry about her.” His wife’s words fell on deaf ears. He was already snoring softly, a slab of dead weight leaning up against her.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> Anna cuddled deeper under her blanket. Her dad had said she was safe, but… Something still felt wrong. The gibbous moon outside cast odd shadows about her room, turning a doll into a grotesque alien being, a chair into a looming mouthful of teeth, ready to swallow up a little kid such as herself. She didn’t like it a bit.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> And the sounds. She could still hear the deep, throaty gurgles, the snuffles, the growls. If anything, they had grown louder. She ducked her head under her covers and curled into a ball, hugging her knees. “Just a few hours until morning.” She whispered under her breath until it became like a silent mantra, over and over. “Only a few more hours. Only a few more.”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> The noises seemed to fill her world now. They were right at her ears, surrounding her. She sucked a panicked, sobbing breath in. She was beginning to get uncomfortably hot under the blankets. Her night gown was soaked with a mist of sweat and her bangs clung to her face. She could have sworn that by the second the heat was building,much more heat than her small body should have been able to generate. Her breath was coming faster, and she felt smothered by the heat. She kicked the blankets off, even though the noises still echoed all around her. Or, tried to. She hadn’t remembered her father tucking her in quite so tight. In fact, the more she thrashed to get an arm or a leg free, the tighter it seemed to get. Yes, definitely. The blankets were tight against her chest and stomach now, and getting tighter still. She screamed for her parents as loud as her constricted lung capacity would allow.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “That didn’t sound like her normal scream.” Anna’s mother said, bolting up in bed. “Go check on her!”<br/> She didn’t have to say it twice. The two of them hurried down the dark hallway to Anna’s room.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “Anna? Hun?”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> The room appeared to be empty. Anna’s blanket lay perfectly neat, spread out on the floor. There was no sign of the little girl. The bed lay empty, the pillow and covers still soaked with sweat.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> Anna!” Her mother half shrieked half sobbed, as her father checked any spaces she could have hidden in. He reached down to pick up the blanket, and then recoiled. No, it couldn’t have been. It was just exhaustion playing tricks on his mind, right? But no. he saw it again. The blanket moved.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> He felt the material writhe under his fingers, and he let out a hoarse cry.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> “What is it?” Her mother leapt around to face him. “What did you find?”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> The blanket was most definitely moving on its own. He felt it tighten in a nearly bone-shattering grip around his wrist. He could see it changing into something…. Else. Something almost human. His daughter’s words echoed in his mind. “They can hide, daddy!”</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> The blanket-thing was looming over him now, rapidly changing. He peddled his feet backwards, but still the grip did not loosen. He felt something in his wrist pop. And at that moment, his eyes fell on his daughter’s blanket, the real one, neatly folded at the foot of her bed, where it had been placed the previous morning.</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>And on the bed were a few pink scraps, splattered with something red. Scraps of a pink night gown.</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="/monsters">Monsters</a>" by Etherealize, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/monsters">https://scpwiki.com/monsters</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 nearing the end of the witching hour, and most sensible folk were tucked away in bed, resting to face the new day. For the fourth (or was it the fifth? Sixth? It was hard to keep track) time that night, a cautious knock came on the bedroom door of one such couple, shattering the silence that had settled over the house. For a fourth time that night, a sleep-addled voice called out: “What do you need NOW?” and a small and wavering voice replied “Mommy!” @@ @@ “Your turn.” came a voice from underneath a mound of pillows and blankets. @@ @@ “A’ight. ‘m goin’, hun.” @@ @@ The covers were tossed to the side, and a man in his late thirties disentangled himself and groped sightlessly for clothing. His fingers met a light switch, and the darkness was banished. The form under the blankets swore viciously and rolled over to block the light from unadjusted eyes. @@ @@ Click. Darkness again. “Hurry!” urged the small voice. @@ @@ “Hang on!” The man snapped, most of his good humor lost to the first few repetitions of the ritual. He felt around until his hands met the cool metal of the door knob. @@ @@ “What d-“ @@ @@ A small girl launched into his stomach hard enough to send him stumbling back into the room. “Sleepin’ in here with you guys tonight, kay?” @@ @@ “No, not ok, kiddo. You have a perfectly nice big girl bed in your room. Mommy and Daddy’s room is much too small for you and us. What’s the matter?” @@ @@ “It’s the monsters, Daddy!” She whispered, scanning the hallway as if one might be creeping up on them from the yawning maw of the stairwell. @@ @@ “Anna, there is no such thing. We’ve been over this, honey.” @@ @@ “Yu-huh! I can hear ‘em snufflin’ around in there, growling and stuff. They’re probably hungry!” @@ @@ Her father rolled his eyes. “I’ll walk back with you.” @@ @@ “No! Wanna sleep here!” @@ @@ Her father scooped her up and carried her back down the hallway, ignoring her protests and kicking. @@ @@ “Lookit, nothing under the bed, inside the closet, outside the windows, or anywhere else. No monsters to be seen anywhere. @@ @@ “They can hide!” @@ @@ “Sweetheart, there is nowhere to hide in here. I checked every little nook and cranny. You’re gonna have to believe me.” He scooped her bear off of the floor. “You two curl up under the covers and get some rest for me, ok? You’re perfectly safe. Promise.” He shut the door gently and shambled back to his own room, sleep already overtaking him. @@ @@ “Is she ok?” his wife asked. “Maybe we should have let her sleep in here. Just this once.” @@ @@ “That’s how bad habits get formed, you know. She needs to learn to beat these silly fears by herself.” @@ @@ “You’re right, I suppose. But I do worry about her.” His wife’s words fell on deaf ears. He was already snoring softly, a slab of dead weight leaning up against her. @@ @@ Anna cuddled deeper under her blanket. Her dad had said she was safe, but… Something still felt wrong. The gibbous moon outside cast odd shadows about her room, turning a doll into a grotesque alien being, a chair into a looming mouthful of teeth, ready to swallow up a little kid such as herself. She didn’t like it a bit. @@ @@ And the sounds. She could still hear the deep, throaty gurgles, the snuffles, the growls. If anything, they had grown louder. She ducked her head under her covers and curled into a ball, hugging her knees. “Just a few hours until morning.” She whispered under her breath until it became like a silent mantra, over and over. “Only a few more hours. Only a few more.” @@ @@ The noises seemed to fill her world now. They were right at her ears, surrounding her. She sucked a panicked, sobbing breath in. She was beginning to get uncomfortably hot under the blankets. Her night gown was soaked with a mist of sweat and her bangs clung to her face. She could have sworn that by the second the heat was building,much more heat than her small body should have been able to generate. Her breath was coming faster, and she felt smothered by the heat. She kicked the blankets off, even though the noises still echoed all around her. Or, tried to. She hadn’t remembered her father tucking her in quite so tight. In fact, the more she thrashed to get an arm or a leg free, the tighter it seemed to get. Yes, definitely. The blankets were tight against her chest and stomach now, and getting tighter still. She screamed for her parents as loud as her constricted lung capacity would allow. @@ @@ “That didn’t sound like her normal scream.” Anna’s mother said, bolting up in bed. “Go check on her!” She didn’t have to say it twice. The two of them hurried down the dark hallway to Anna’s room. @@ @@ “Anna? Hun?” @@ @@ The room appeared to be empty. Anna’s blanket lay perfectly neat, spread out on the floor. There was no sign of the little girl. The bed lay empty, the pillow and covers still soaked with sweat. @@ @@ Anna!” Her mother half shrieked half sobbed, as her father checked any spaces she could have hidden in. He reached down to pick up the blanket, and then recoiled. No, it couldn’t have been. It was just exhaustion playing tricks on his mind, right? But no. he saw it again. The blanket moved. @@ @@ He felt the material writhe under his fingers, and he let out a hoarse cry. @@ @@ “What is it?” Her mother leapt around to face him. “What did you find?” @@ @@ The blanket was most definitely moving on its own. He felt it tighten in a nearly bone-shattering grip around his wrist. He could see it changing into something…. Else. Something almost human. His daughter’s words echoed in his mind. “They can hide, daddy!” @@ @@ The blanket-thing was looming over him now, rapidly changing. He peddled his feet backwards, but still the grip did not loosen. He felt something in his wrist pop. And at that moment, his eyes fell on his daughter’s blanket, the real one, neatly folded at the foot of her bed, where it had been placed the previous morning. @@ @@And on the bed were a few pink scraps, splattered with something red. Scraps of a pink night gown. [[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>]]	2012-06-01T04:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Monsters - SCP Foundation	34	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13441027	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/monsters
more-than-ever	<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%3Akiryu-labs-theme/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p>I was feeling more down than usual when I borrowed that book. I must have been, otherwise I probably would have passed it by. But then again I guess I really wasn’t expecting her to leave the way she did, even though it was probably for the best, and I wasn’t hoping for too much anyway, and I was tired of writing depressing poetry. And as a poet, I find I can seek solace in the words of others when my own dwell too much in sadness.</p> <p>Oh, sorry. You want to know more about the book?</p> <p>Well, in appearance it wasn’t that special. Something about it seemed interesting though. It—drew me, to say the least. I can't say I'd ever seen it before. It was just sitting on top of a shelf in the Poetry section, and I was somewhat irritated by how dejectedly it seemed to be lying there by itself… Bound in faded leather with flaking gold leaf, it seemed like something that would be more at home at a museum than a library.</p> <p>It was a pretty good book. Short and sweet, even though it was sad. I don’t quite remember it—not quite minimalist, not quite purple prose, but somehow the tone captured my mood completely and made me feel better. The plot was incredibly, almost ridiculously close to the events that had happened to me recently. The tension, the unknowing, the wondering, the end.</p> <p>Some others must have borrowed the book as well, since I kept finding notes or the like scribbled into the margins. It didn’t occur to me until later that they all seemed to rhyme with each other. One went:</p> <p><em>I miss you more than ever<br/> When I look into the sky.</em></p> <p>Most of them were wistful, others were more disheartening. Sort of like:</p> <p><em>I love you more than ever<br/> So why did you pass me by?</em></p> <p>The book was old enough to still have a little card taped in with a list of people who’d borrowed it, decades and decades ago. I was surprised and intrigued when I saw the name of a poet I’d admired and looked up to, and I think I found the two lines he wrote, they were:</p> <p><em>I seek you more than ever<br/> That’s why I tried to fly.</em></p> <p>He had committed suicide by jumping off a building.</p> <p>I thought maybe the book had belonged to him, but it was a little weird because all of the verses were written in different handwriting. But I guess a lot of different people have read this book, because near the end there was the one that went:</p> <p><em>I hate you more than ever<br/> I’m so glad I said goodbye.</em></p> <p>…and also there was the rather disconcerting one that said:</p> <p><em>I love you more than ever<br/> So I had to see you die.</em></p> <p>I don’t really remember any others. And like I said, the book was pretty short.</p> <p>Me? Yes, I did add my own verse. It went something like:</p> <p><em>I miss you more than ever<br/> And I still can’t fathom why.</em></p> <p>I haven’t been able to write anything since, but I’ve felt amazing. Hardly any negative thoughts or loneliness clouding my mind anymore. Sure, inspiration has been a little slow coming, but at this moment I think I’d prefer the nothingness. It’s peaceful, in a way.</p> <p>No, I can’t say I remember for sure what the author’s name was. I vaguely recall it being “I. L. Dean” or something strange like that.</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="/more-than-ever">More than Ever</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/more-than-ever">https://scpwiki.com/more-than-ever</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:kiryu-labs-theme">theme:kiryu-labs-theme</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] I was feeling more down than usual when I borrowed that book. I must have been, otherwise I probably would have passed it by. But then again I guess I really wasn’t expecting her to leave the way she did, even though it was probably for the best, and I wasn’t hoping for too much anyway, and I was tired of writing depressing poetry. And as a poet, I find I can seek solace in the words of others when my own dwell too much in sadness. Oh, sorry. You want to know more about the book? Well, in appearance it wasn’t that special. Something about it seemed interesting though. It—drew me, to say the least. I can't say I'd ever seen it before. It was just sitting on top of a shelf in the Poetry section, and I was somewhat irritated by how dejectedly it seemed to be lying there by itself... Bound in faded leather with flaking gold leaf, it seemed like something that would be more at home at a museum than a library. It was a pretty good book. Short and sweet, even though it was sad. I don’t quite remember it—not quite minimalist, not quite purple prose, but somehow the tone captured my mood completely and made me feel better. The plot was incredibly, almost ridiculously close to the events that had happened to me recently. The tension, the unknowing, the wondering, the end. Some others must have borrowed the book as well, since I kept finding notes or the like scribbled into the margins. It didn’t occur to me until later that they all seemed to rhyme with each other. One went: //I miss you more than ever When I look into the sky.// Most of them were wistful, others were more disheartening. Sort of like: //I love you more than ever So why did you pass me by?// The book was old enough to still have a little card taped in with a list of people who’d borrowed it, decades and decades ago. I was surprised and intrigued when I saw the name of a poet I’d admired and looked up to, and I think I found the two lines he wrote, they were: //I seek you more than ever That’s why I tried to fly.// He had committed suicide by jumping off a building. I thought maybe the book had belonged to him, but it was a little weird because all of the verses were written in different handwriting. But I guess a lot of different people have read this book, because near the end there was the one that went: //I hate you more than ever I’m so glad I said goodbye.// …and also there was the rather disconcerting one that said: //I love you more than ever So I had to see you die.// I don’t really remember any others. And like I said, the book was pretty short. Me? Yes, I did add my own verse. It went something like: //I miss you more than ever And I still can’t fathom why.// I haven’t been able to write anything since, but I’ve felt amazing. Hardly any negative thoughts or loneliness clouding my mind anymore. Sure, inspiration has been a little slow coming, but at this moment I think I’d prefer the nothingness. It’s peaceful, in a way. No, I can’t say I remember for sure what the author’s name was. I vaguely recall it being “I. L. Dean” or something strange like that. [[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>]]	2012-10-12T05:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "kiryu-labs", "tale" ]	More than Ever - SCP Foundation	95	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "kiryu-labs-hub" ]	[]	14641846	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/more-than-ever
multi-u-101	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Hello, everyone. My name is Doctor Trevor Bailey, I’m head of the Department of Extra-Universal Affairs, and this is the Introduction Seminar for Extra-Universal Operations. I know that’s a mouthful, so just call us Multi-U.</p> <p>Space-based ess-see-pees? Sorry, wrong room. You’re looking for Doctor Cartwright, three doors down on the left. No, no problem at all.</p> <p>Heh. NASA guys. Can’t figure out directions in two dimensions.</p> <p>Now then, alternate universes. Alts for short. We’re still fumbling in the dark for the most part on the exact principles, but we do know enough to make a seminar about it. And before you ask, yes: everything is possible. If you end up here in Multi-U, you’ll see quite a lot of it, which in reality is an infinitesimal nothingth of what’s really out there. Infinity and all that.</p> <p>Did you know that there’s a universe where the entire Foundation is dedicated to punching sharks? Or that Clef is Satan in another? Just some fun facts I like throwing out there. Loads of weird stuff here in Multi-U.</p> <p>Now then, back to making the infinite understandable. Around here, we use the H-B-F classification system: Hub, Branch, Floater.</p> <p>Hub universes are the big ones. Metaphorically speaking, of course: They’re not big so much in size as they are in importance. Hubs are the bases of branches, just as branches will turn into more branches. Branches always have some sort of change from whatever they are branching off of. It might be one tiny thing like you didn’t brush your teeth this morning, or it might be some massive cultural upheaval or XK event or something like that, but all of them will be based off of another universe, all the way back to the hub.</p> <p>Now floaters, they don’t have any apparent connections to anything else. No hub, no branch. They’re the ones where the entire universe is made up of asbestos and marshmallow fluff, or the ones inhabited solely by rotting fish heads speaking in cockney accents.</p> <p>Now, like I said before, you are going to find some really bizarre stuff. Not like you won’t see any of that elsewhere, but there’s a realization everyone comes to sooner or later, and it’s going to break you. It breaks everyone eventually. Normal scips, they’re scary because they’re wrong. They’re all something that isn’t right. Most people can deal with that. They know that there’s something wrong here, and they push it to the side and chalk it up to another day at work.</p> <p>No such luck in Multi-U. When you’re dealing with alts, most times the things you see are exactly the way they should be. Somehow, the procession of events and position of atoms has created a universe where whatever you’re seeing is perfectly normal and acceptable. There’s a universe where your favorite childhood television show is completely and utterly real. There are also plenty of universes that will take that and run it through a meat grinder.</p> <p>Now before we get too carried away with all the things I’ve seen, alt-operations are normally pretty simple. Get in, look around, pop on back. Don’t leave anything behind, don’t take anything back with you. Maybe the research team will authorize a few follow ups. That said, there are several very important guidelines to follow.</p> <p>One: Observe: don’t interact unless you absolutely must. Remember, you’re the scip in this scenario, and the more differences there are between our world and whatever world you’re going to, you’re going to stick out worse than bigfoot at a Christmas party. We don’t want that.</p> <p>Two: Pack light, keep on your toes, document everything, and remember where the exit is.</p> <p>Three: If it’s dangerous or pointless enough that there’s no sense in authorizing a follow up expedition, then don’t. Just because you might have D-class at your disposal does not mean that you have some sort of quota.</p> <p>Four: if there’s something dangerous enough to bleed over and mess up our universe, close the door behind you, or even better, destroy it. It’s not worth risking our own universe to study some minor cultural variances.</p> <p>Five: It is best practices to avoid meeting your alternative selves. There won't necessarily be an explosive wave-form collapse but we haven't ruled that out yet. Biggest hazard is psychological, just from observing yourself and your own behavior from the outside. Turns out most people don't like what they see. But if it can't be avoided and you do happen to meet yourself while out on a jaunt, you should immedia-</p> <p>“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was supposed to start at two-thirty.”</p> <p>…</p> <p>…</p> <p>Okay…well then. This here, everyone, is what some people call a problem, though I prefer the term “learning experience”. Can anyone tell me what you should do if you meet yourself? You, with the beard.</p> <p>No, you do not kill them immediately.</p> <p>Okay, you, with the MOM tattoo. Nice touch, by the way.</p> <p>No, that'll just make things worse.</p> <p>“Sorry I’m late everyone, I’m Dr. Trevor Bailey and…oh my.”</p> <p>…<br/> …<br/> …</p> <p>Well then. I’m afraid we’ll have to wrap this up now, so I can go and…solve this. Refreshments are in Break Room 4 down the hall.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“Did you see that one guy’s face?”</p> <p>“The one with the mole on his nose? Good lord he looked like he was about to pee himself.”</p> <p>“And then there was the lady in the back, the one with the bow, she looked like she had seen a ghost.”</p> <p>“Pfuh. Definitely don’t want her here, then. You see a lot worse than ghosts at Multi-U.”</p> <p>“Yeah, you get to see the doctors Bailey.”</p> <p>“But there was that one guy at the ten-thirty. The way he was glaring at us, I’m positive he had us figured out. Might want to change up the plan for next time, Trev.”</p> <p>“I’m Tom. He’s Trev. You’re Tristan.”</p> <p>“Oh, right…Dad was a real jackass, wasn’t he?”<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="/multi-u-101">Multi-U 101</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/multi-u-101">https://scpwiki.com/multi-u-101</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]] [[/>]] Hello, everyone. My name is Doctor Trevor Bailey, I’m head of the Department of Extra-Universal Affairs, and this is the Introduction Seminar for Extra-Universal Operations. I know that’s a mouthful, so just call us Multi-U. Space-based ess-see-pees? Sorry, wrong room. You’re looking for Doctor Cartwright, three doors down on the left. No, no problem at all. Heh. NASA guys. Can’t figure out directions in two dimensions. Now then, alternate universes. Alts for short. We’re still fumbling in the dark for the most part on the exact principles, but we do know enough to make a seminar about it. And before you ask, yes: everything is possible. If you end up here in Multi-U, you’ll see quite a lot of it, which in reality is an infinitesimal nothingth of what’s really out there. Infinity and all that. Did you know that there’s a universe where the entire Foundation is dedicated to punching sharks? Or that Clef is Satan in another? Just some fun facts I like throwing out there. Loads of weird stuff here in Multi-U. Now then, back to making the infinite understandable. Around here, we use the H-B-F classification system: Hub, Branch, Floater. Hub universes are the big ones. Metaphorically speaking, of course: They’re not big so much in size as they are in importance. Hubs are the bases of branches, just as branches will turn into more branches. Branches always have some sort of change from whatever they are branching off of. It might be one tiny thing like you didn’t brush your teeth this morning, or it might be some massive cultural upheaval or XK event or something like that, but all of them will be based off of another universe, all the way back to the hub. Now floaters, they don’t have any apparent connections to anything else. No hub, no branch. They’re the ones where the entire universe is made up of asbestos and marshmallow fluff, or the ones inhabited solely by rotting fish heads speaking in cockney accents. Now, like I said before, you are going to find some really bizarre stuff. Not like you won’t see any of that elsewhere, but there’s a realization everyone comes to sooner or later, and it’s going to break you. It breaks everyone eventually. Normal scips, they’re scary because they’re wrong. They’re all something that isn’t right. Most people can deal with that. They know that there’s something wrong here, and they push it to the side and chalk it up to another day at work. No such luck in Multi-U. When you’re dealing with alts, most times the things you see are exactly the way they should be. Somehow, the procession of events and position of atoms has created a universe where whatever you’re seeing is perfectly normal and acceptable. There’s a universe where your favorite childhood television show is completely and utterly real. There are also plenty of universes that will take that and run it through a meat grinder. Now before we get too carried away with all the things I’ve seen, alt-operations are normally pretty simple. Get in, look around, pop on back. Don’t leave anything behind, don’t take anything back with you. Maybe the research team will authorize a few follow ups. That said, there are several very important guidelines to follow. One: Observe: don’t interact unless you absolutely must. Remember, you’re the scip in this scenario, and the more differences there are between our world and whatever world you’re going to, you’re going to stick out worse than bigfoot at a Christmas party. We don’t want that. Two: Pack light, keep on your toes, document everything, and remember where the exit is. Three: If it’s dangerous or pointless enough that there’s no sense in authorizing a follow up expedition, then don’t. Just because you might have D-class at your disposal does not mean that you have some sort of quota. Four: if there’s something dangerous enough to bleed over and mess up our universe, close the door behind you, or even better, destroy it. It’s not worth risking our own universe to study some minor cultural variances. Five: It is best practices to avoid meeting your alternative selves. There won't necessarily be an explosive wave-form collapse but we haven't ruled that out yet. Biggest hazard is psychological, just from observing yourself and your own behavior from the outside. Turns out most people don't like what they see. But if it can't be avoided and you do happen to meet yourself while out on a jaunt, you should immedia- “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was supposed to start at two-thirty.” ... ... Okay…well then. This here, everyone, is what some people call a problem, though I prefer the term “learning experience”. Can anyone tell me what you should do if you meet yourself? You, with the beard. No, you do not kill them immediately. Okay, you, with the MOM tattoo. Nice touch, by the way. No, that'll just make things worse. “Sorry I’m late everyone, I’m Dr. Trevor Bailey and…oh my.” … … … Well then. I’m afraid we’ll have to wrap this up now, so I can go and…solve this. Refreshments are in Break Room 4 down the hall. -- “Did you see that one guy’s face?” “The one with the mole on his nose? Good lord he looked like he was about to pee himself.” “And then there was the lady in the back, the one with the bow, she looked like she had seen a ghost.” “Pfuh. Definitely don’t want her here, then. You see a lot worse than ghosts at Multi-U.” “Yeah, you get to see the doctors Bailey.” “But there was that one guy at the ten-thirty. The way he was glaring at us, I’m positive he had us figured out. Might want to change up the plan for next time, Trev.” “I’m Tom. He’s Trev. You’re Tristan.” “Oh, right...Dad was a real jackass, wasn’t he?” @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-02-14T21:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "bailey-brothers", "comedy", "orientation", "otherworldly", "s&c-plastics", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	Multi-U 101 - SCP Foundation	405	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12731539	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/multi-u-101
my-dearest-mary	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong><tt>FIELD REPORT.</tt></strong><br/> <tt><strong>ATTACHED:</strong> Copies of documents found on the instance's person.</tt><br/> <strong><tt>ATTACHMENTS:</tt></strong></p> <blockquote> <p><tt><strong>DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:</strong></tt></p> <p><em>My Dearest Mary,</em></p> <p><em>I hope this letter finds you well. I do not know if it will reach you timely. Infrastructure here in Tukuk is poorly and I have not yet received any of your letters, though I am sure you write. I love you, and you are forever in my prayers.</em></p> <p><em>The construction of the Church is going slowly, and the natives condemn the structure as an affront to their god. They are heretical pagans and do not know of Jesus their Savior. I hope God's grace will fill their ears and they will be swayed.</em></p> <p><em>The sanitation here is terrible. The miasma from the excrement and the swamps poisons the men. Raol was bitten by a native, and he is overcome by an illness causing frothing at the mouth, but I do not fear as I know God watches over me and I am in your prayers.</em></p> <p><em>Yours in Christ, Robert.</em></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><tt><strong>DOCUMENT #AF1293-2:</strong></tt></p> <p><em>My Dearest Mary,</em></p> <p><em>I doubt that what I write will reach you, but I find solace in the thought of you safe in the Mother Country, safe and ever-faithful. I do hope you do not worry yourself over me; for I am guided by Providence, although I am comforted by the sure knowledge of your prayers.</em></p> <p><em>The persecution in Tukuk is worse than we thought. They have imprisoned me in a cage with metal bars. I am surrounded by vicious rogues, guilty of murder and worse. Not the prisoners, no. Most of the prisoners are deranged, and are incapable of speaking coherently. I fear they were driven mad by captivity. There are hundreds of them, and all they do is scream. But the guards! They are murderers. I hear that they will roast us and eat us. I attempted to converse with them and negotiate my ransom, but instead they threatened and drugged me. I hope I will see you again soon.</em></p> <p><em>Yours faithfully, Robert.</em></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><tt><strong>DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:</strong></tt></p> <p><em>My Dearest Mary,</em></p> <p><em>I have almost given up all hope. All that drives me is the knowledge that you love me and pray for me. I do not pretend to know our Lord's machinations, but I doubt I will ever see you again. I await meeting God in heaven, and someday you, but not soon, I pray.</em></p> <p><em>I am in the same cage, somewhere in the belly of a huge powered carriage, somewhere in the peninsula. How ludicrous. The native guards dragged me by the collar they had placed around my neck, as if treating an animal, into a room where they exchanged me with other natives. I had hoped they would ransom me, but no. I think they are taking me to my execution. I hope you are safer than I.</em></p> <p><em>Robert.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><tt><strong>Item Recovery Log:</strong></tt><br/> <tt>An instance of <a href="/scp-1845">SCP-1845</a>-3 resembling a common raccoon was recovered from the ██████ Animal Shelter, Florida, following the instance demanding he be ransomed by SCP-1845-1, and insisting he was 'spreading the Word of God to the uncivilised Southern natives.' Council employees and volunteers were administered Class-A amnesics. Instance is currently in transit via convoy to Site-19.</tt><br/> <strong><tt>SIGNED:</tt></strong> <tt><em>Agent Boyles.</em></tt></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="/my-dearest-mary">My Dearest Mary</a>" by Technician Downs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/my-dearest-mary">https://scpwiki.com/my-dearest-mary</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]] [[/>]] {{FIELD REPORT.}} {{ATTACHED: Copies of documents found on the instance's person.}} {{ATTACHMENTS:}} > {{DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:}} > > //My Dearest Mary,// > > //I hope this letter finds you well. I do not know if it will reach you timely. Infrastructure here in Tukuk is poorly and I have not yet received any of your letters, though I am sure you write. I love you, and you are forever in my prayers.// > > //The construction of the Church is going slowly, and the natives condemn the structure as an affront to their god. They are heretical pagans and do not know of Jesus their Savior. I hope God's grace will fill their ears and they will be swayed.// > > > //The sanitation here is terrible. The miasma from the excrement and the swamps poisons the men. Raol was bitten by a native, and he is overcome by an illness causing frothing at the mouth, but I do not fear as I know God watches over me and I am in your prayers.// > > //Yours in Christ, Robert.// > {{DOCUMENT #AF1293-2:}} > > //My Dearest Mary,// > > //I doubt that what I write will reach you, but I find solace in the thought of you safe in the Mother Country, safe and ever-faithful. I do hope you do not worry yourself over me; for I am guided by Providence, although I am comforted by the sure knowledge of your prayers.// > > //The persecution in Tukuk is worse than we thought. They have imprisoned me in a cage with metal bars. I am surrounded by vicious rogues, guilty of murder and worse. Not the prisoners, no. Most of the prisoners are deranged, and are incapable of speaking coherently. I fear they were driven mad by captivity. There are hundreds of them, and all they do is scream. But the guards! They are murderers. I hear that they will roast us and eat us. I attempted to converse with them and negotiate my ransom, but instead they threatened and drugged me. I hope I will see you again soon.// > > //Yours faithfully, Robert.// > {{DOCUMENT #AF1293-1:}} > > //My Dearest Mary,// > > > //I have almost given up all hope. All that drives me is the knowledge that you love me and pray for me. I do not pretend to know our Lord's machinations, but I doubt I will ever see you again. I await meeting God in heaven, and someday you, but not soon, I pray.// > > //I am in the same cage, somewhere in the belly of a huge powered carriage, somewhere in the peninsula. How ludicrous. The native guards dragged me by the collar they had placed around my neck, as if treating an animal, into a room where they exchanged me with other natives. I had hoped they would ransom me, but no. I think they are taking me to my execution. I hope you are safer than I.// > > //Robert.// {{Item Recovery Log:}} {{An instance of [[[SCP-1845]]]-3 resembling a common raccoon was recovered from the ██████ Animal Shelter, Florida, following the instance demanding he be ransomed by SCP-1845-1, and insisting he was 'spreading the Word of God to the uncivilised Southern natives.' Council employees and volunteers were administered Class-A amnesics. Instance is currently in transit via convoy to Site-19.}} {{SIGNED: //Agent Boyles.//}} [[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>]]	2012-10-22T05:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "correspondence", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	My Dearest Mary - SCP Foundation	35	[ "scp-1845", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14748177	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/my-dearest-mary
mystery	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>No, Clement, I'm serious. And yes, I do know a little bit of Chinese, so I know when someone says "bullshit". Just because Intelligence Agents are required to know everything doesn't mean we actually know everything.</p> <p>Oh, you want an example? Alright, fine. We've got some time to kill before this training session is over, and I <em>love</em> talking. So sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of… <em>wow</em>, blank faces? Jesus Phyrexian Christ, don't you kids watch old TV shows? Anyways…</p> <p>A few months ago, the higher-ups forced me to take some PTO. I decided to visit a good friend of mine, Susie. Since Clef stole my access card for the Sites, I took her offer to spend the night. I take the guest room, but Susie comments that the bed sucks and since her boyfriend is out, I could crash on her bed if I didn't like it. Nothing inappropriate went on, for the record. Too many of my IA colleges like to imply they are James Bonds, sleeping with hot girls every night. It's mostly bullcrap, and besides, her boyfriend would <em>kill me</em>.</p> <p>Anyways, I'm doing some Foundation work in the Guest Room, because the higher-ups forgot to confiscate my tertiary work tablet. It's around two in the morning, when I get a hankering for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I stop working, and walk downstairs to nosh. I'm surprised by the lights being on, and Susie sitting straight-backed on the couch, watching TV. I say hi, she says <em>"Hello"</em>, and I get my food.</p> <p>I make a joke about her being up so early, and she just says <em>"Yes"</em>. It sounds like her, but it doesn't sound like her. Also, she doesn't even look at me. She's watching some show on Discovery; I can't remember what. I know I'm making it sound dramatic, but it really wasn't. It was off, but not <em>really</em> off. It's like turning the color tint on a TV a few notches from center: you can tell something is different, but you can't quite explain what. For all I knew, she just wasn't awake.</p> <p>So I'm eating, and I'm half-watching Susie watching the TV. If I had to guess, it was fifty-fifty between "Susie is Cute" and "Something Is Up". She's fixated on the screen, smiling that smile. with posture you're taught in fifth grade. You know the kind, the kind that you can't do now for more than a few minutes. To break the ice a little, I ask her some questions. Is she okay? <em>"I'm fine."</em>. Does her back hurt? <em>"No, it's okay."</em>. Is she hungry? <em>"No, I'm fine."</em></p> <p>At this point, I'm trying pretty hard not to act on the growing Foundation Sense whispering in the back of my head. You guys have been here long enough to know that sense. You know it's the sense that keeps you alive, brings your training to the forefront, and keeps everyone around you from dealing with shit they don't deserve to deal with.</p> <p>I finish up the box of CTC, and say goodnight. As I'm about to walk back upstairs, she asks me to hand her the controller. The one sitting right next to her, which I point out. <em>"I know. Could you hand it to me?"</em> I look at her, still watching the TV. I decide to do it. Fundamental rule of the universe: Susie asks, and Bibs complies. If she ever became an O5, I'd be a lot more subordinate. Just sayin'.</p> <p>As I take a a few steps towards the clicker, I can't help staring at Susie. This time, it's not because she's cute. I mean, she is, but that Foundation Sense isn't just whispering. It's <em>screaming</em>, over the droning narration of the television. <em>Get out. Run. Use the Class-A Spray you've got in your bottom-left pocket. <strong>GET AWAY.</strong></em></p> <p>Now, I don't get to be an outstanding IA by ignoring the Foundation Sense. I back away, keeping my eyes on hers. She's still smiling, still sitting straight-backed, still staring at the screen. Perfectly normal, except it ain't normal. I hit the stairs, do a 180, and walk up. Methodical, one step at a time. I get to the top of the stairs, and I see my my room's door, is at the far end of the hallway. Something tells me I wouldn't make it to my room's door, so I quickly open Susie's door to my left, do a quick 90, and walk in.</p> <p>In my peripheral vision, I get a glimpse of the bottom of the stairs. All the lights are out, downstairs, and Susie is standing at the foot of the steps. She's not smiling. She's not… she's not <em>anything</em>, if you'll permit me being vague. It's all I see before I close the door. Pretty sure I should be glad that's all I see.</p> <p>I stumble around briefly, but find Susie's bed. I hear a groan, and before I can react, I feel Susie's arm around me flop around me. I don't sleep. I tell her in the morning that the bed made my back hurt, and apologize for not waking her up. Susie being Susie, she doesn't give a rat's ass. She knows I'm not going to try and get in her pants. Again, her boyfriend would <em>kill me</em>.</p> <p>I don't tell her about what happened, and I certainly don't tell her why I'm disturbed when I flip on the TV and NBC comes up. Or why I freak out a little when she tells me her cable package doesn't include Discovery. I make it up to her by buying a bunch of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, since we ran out.</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="/mystery">Mystery</a>" by MisterBibs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/mystery">https://scpwiki.com/mystery</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]] [[/>]] No, Clement, I'm serious. And yes, I do know a little bit of Chinese, so I know when someone says "bullshit". Just because Intelligence Agents are required to know everything doesn't mean we actually know everything. Oh, you want an example? Alright, fine. We've got some time to kill before this training session is over, and I //love// talking. So sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of... //wow//, blank faces? Jesus Phyrexian Christ, don't you kids watch old TV shows? Anyways... A few months ago, the higher-ups forced me to take some PTO. I decided to visit a good friend of mine, Susie. Since Clef stole my access card for the Sites, I took her offer to spend the night. I take the guest room, but Susie comments that the bed sucks and since her boyfriend is out, I could crash on her bed if I didn't like it. Nothing inappropriate went on, for the record. Too many of my IA colleges like to imply they are James Bonds, sleeping with hot girls every night. It's mostly bullcrap, and besides, her boyfriend would //kill me//. Anyways, I'm doing some Foundation work in the Guest Room, because the higher-ups forgot to confiscate my tertiary work tablet. It's around two in the morning, when I get a hankering for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I stop working, and walk downstairs to nosh. I'm surprised by the lights being on, and Susie sitting straight-backed on the couch, watching TV. I say hi, she says //"Hello"//, and I get my food. I make a joke about her being up so early, and she just says //"Yes"//. It sounds like her, but it doesn't sound like her. Also, she doesn't even look at me. She's watching some show on Discovery; I can't remember what. I know I'm making it sound dramatic, but it really wasn't. It was off, but not //really// off. It's like turning the color tint on a TV a few notches from center: you can tell something is different, but you can't quite explain what. For all I knew, she just wasn't awake. So I'm eating, and I'm half-watching Susie watching the TV. If I had to guess, it was fifty-fifty between "Susie is Cute" and "Something Is Up". She's fixated on the screen, smiling that smile. with posture you're taught in fifth grade. You know the kind, the kind that you can't do now for more than a few minutes. To break the ice a little, I ask her some questions. Is she okay? //"I'm fine."//. Does her back hurt? //"No, it's okay."//. Is she hungry? //"No, I'm fine."// At this point, I'm trying pretty hard not to act on the growing Foundation Sense whispering in the back of my head. You guys have been here long enough to know that sense. You know it's the sense that keeps you alive, brings your training to the forefront, and keeps everyone around you from dealing with shit they don't deserve to deal with. I finish up the box of CTC, and say goodnight. As I'm about to walk back upstairs, she asks me to hand her the controller. The one sitting right next to her, which I point out. //"I know. Could you hand it to me?"// I look at her, still watching the TV. I decide to do it. Fundamental rule of the universe: Susie asks, and Bibs complies. If she ever became an O5, I'd be a lot more subordinate. Just sayin'. As I take a a few steps towards the clicker, I can't help staring at Susie. This time, it's not because she's cute. I mean, she is, but that Foundation Sense isn't just whispering. It's //screaming//, over the droning narration of the television. //Get out. Run. Use the Class-A Spray you've got in your bottom-left pocket. GET AWAY.// Now, I don't get to be an outstanding IA by ignoring the Foundation Sense. I back away, keeping my eyes on hers. She's still smiling, still sitting straight-backed, still staring at the screen. Perfectly normal, except it ain't normal. I hit the stairs, do a 180, and walk up. Methodical, one step at a time. I get to the top of the stairs, and I see my my room's door, is at the far end of the hallway. Something tells me I wouldn't make it to my room's door, so I quickly open Susie's door to my left, do a quick 90, and walk in. In my peripheral vision, I get a glimpse of the bottom of the stairs. All the lights are out, downstairs, and Susie is standing at the foot of the steps. She's not smiling. She's not... she's not //anything//, if you'll permit me being vague. It's all I see before I close the door. Pretty sure I should be glad that's all I see. I stumble around briefly, but find Susie's bed. I hear a groan, and before I can react, I feel Susie's arm around me flop around me. I don't sleep. I tell her in the morning that the bed made my back hurt, and apologize for not waking her up. Susie being Susie, she doesn't give a rat's ass. She knows I'm not going to try and get in her pants. Again, her boyfriend would //kill me//. I don't tell her about what happened, and I certainly don't tell her why I'm disturbed when I flip on the TV and NBC comes up. Or why I freak out a little when she tells me her cable package doesn't include Discovery. I make it up to her by buying a bunch of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, since we ran out. [[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>]]	2012-04-30T19:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Mystery - SCP Foundation	30	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author" ]	[]	13249467	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/mystery
naptime	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Working at a daycare gives you a very strange view of children. I live in the South, so the stereotype of screaming children in Wal-Mart isn't part of a redneck joke. It's literally just what happens when you go to Wal-Mart. Without a ton of close family, those kids were for the longest time the only children I had any exposure to, so my views on them were somewhat negative. But my grad school told me the only financial aid I could get was an assistantship working at the on-campus daycare, so I was going to have a new experience with them whether I wanted to or not. And I have had many, many experiences with them, life-altering and strange experiences that cast a great doubt in my mind as to whether the world is going to exist when these people become voters. But I digress. This is about one child in particular. I'll call him Thomas.</p> <p>Thomas was about four years old at the time this happened, and he was a little…special. I don't mean he was "special needs," as the current euphemism puts it; I've met those kids, they're different. Some of you have kids who are just…special. You don't realize it because your children are completely different people around you than they are around their friends. You're still convinced that your kids are going to grow up to be astronauts or scientists, but I knew within minutes of meeting them (at age six) that they're going to be spending large parts of their adult lives performing some kind of service at truck stops. But I digress. Thomas was special.</p> <p>Thomas's thing was that he simply refused to sleep. Some of you are parents and are nodding your heads (the insomniacal nature of children being commonly understood) but it's a lot stranger than you think. Those of you with children have one, two, maybe three kids, all of different ages. During naptime with Thomas's group, I have forty children, none of whom have any genetically-based reason to obey me, none of whom I can punish in any meaningful way, all of whom have friends who will back whatever insanity they have in mind. During naptime, the room becomes a prison. I'm the warden.</p> <p>I have some experience with the behavior of children of this age. There are children who dislike sleeping. There are children who prefer not to sleep until they choose the time and place. But people who work at daycares become experts in swooping in and physically incapacitating children in the fastest possible timeframe, and we're damn good at it. That's what naptime is, if you look at it clinically. Sensory deprivation (turning off the lights, playing music to drown out snoring, etc.) combined with hypnosis (rubbing their backs). Some kids fall asleep more easily than others, but if you put in the time, they <em>all</em> go out eventually.</p> <p>Except Thomas.</p> <p>Other kids who didn't sleep would just stare plantively at the adult until they got embarrassed and walked away, trying again later. Thomas, though, was determined to fake-sleep until you left, feeling satisfied at a job well done. As soon as you walked back, there he is. Staring at you.</p> <p>Look, I know how to fake-sleep. But I'm in my twenties. This kid is four years old, and he is a <em>master</em> at the craft. He knows just how much to snore and when. He knows how to slow his breathing down to give off that sleeping demeanor. He knows how far he can open his eyelids to see if the coast is clear. And he knows how to do all of this without <em>actually falling asleep.</em></p> <p>The other teachers and I talked about it. What the hell is going on with this kid that he's learned how to do this as young as he is? But I decided it was just too weird not to experiment with. I figure, if you look at the kid for long enough, he'll keep his eyes closed, and eventually he sleeps. Has to work, right?</p> <p>So that's what I do at naptime. Everywhere I go in the room, I keep my eyes on the kid. He sees me looking, lays down, and closes his eyes. I sit across from him and stare. Nothing I do really requires a ton of attention, so I just keep my eyes on him wherever I go. And every few seconds, the same dance. Eyelids flutter. Eyelids raise. Eyes glance slowly upward. Eyes meet mine. Eyes clamp shut. Pause. Eyelids flutter…</p> <p>This goes on for twenty minutes. I notice something weird about his breathing. <em>He's losing his cool,</em> I think, and figure I'm about to win this round.</p> <p>Then he starts crying. "Quit looking!" he wails. "Quit looking! Quit looking!"</p> <p>Shit.</p> <p>Look, you might think it's an asshole move to get into a staring contest with a four-year-old. Lemme just say that in my shoes, you might do the same thing.</p> <hr/> <p>After a long talk with my supervisor and Thomas's parents, we agree that yes, Thomas's ability to pretend to sleep is just uncanny, but no, there would not be any further experimentation on this front, as it's not important enough to emotionally traumatize a preschooler over the subject. He had been seeing a therapist, and he kept mentioning nightmares about someone staring at him, constantly staring. My immediate thought was "how can a kid who doesn't sleep have nightmares?" Nevertheless, I agreed to knock it the hell off and the matter was dropped. Thank God I have a tolerant boss.</p> <p>A day or so ago, I walked in while they were doodling with crayons. I glance over the table, seeing a bevy of wonderful, psychologically fascinating exhibits (kids taller than one parent, kids being rained on, kids shooting various animals) before I land on Thomas's.</p> <img alt="naptime%20pic%201.jpg" class="image" height="800px" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/naptime/naptime%20pic%201.jpg" width="600px"/> <p>A window and a face. I asked another principal teacher in the room. She said all of his drawings were always the same. A window and a face.</p> <p>I saw something that looked like crayon on the other side of the sheet. I flipped it over.</p> <img alt="naptime%20pt%202.jpg" class="image" height="600px" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/naptime/naptime%20pt%202.jpg" width="800px"/> <p>It keeps looking.</p> <p>It won't quit looking.</p> <p><a href="/scp-965">Quit looking.</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="/naptime">Naptime</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/naptime">https://scpwiki.com/naptime</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> All of the files on this page<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/eskobar" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1173523); return false;"><img alt="Eskobar" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1173523&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728211081" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1173523)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/eskobar" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1173523); return false;">Eskobar</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/naptime">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Working at a daycare gives you a very strange view of children. I live in the South, so the stereotype of screaming children in Wal-Mart isn't part of a redneck joke. It's literally just what happens when you go to Wal-Mart. Without a ton of close family, those kids were for the longest time the only children I had any exposure to, so my views on them were somewhat negative. But my grad school told me the only financial aid I could get was an assistantship working at the on-campus daycare, so I was going to have a new experience with them whether I wanted to or not. And I have had many, many experiences with them, life-altering and strange experiences that cast a great doubt in my mind as to whether the world is going to exist when these people become voters. But I digress. This is about one child in particular. I'll call him Thomas. Thomas was about four years old at the time this happened, and he was a little...special. I don't mean he was "special needs," as the current euphemism puts it; I've met those kids, they're different. Some of you have kids who are just...special. You don't realize it because your children are completely different people around you than they are around their friends. You're still convinced that your kids are going to grow up to be astronauts or scientists, but I knew within minutes of meeting them (at age six) that they're going to be spending large parts of their adult lives performing some kind of service at truck stops. But I digress. Thomas was special. Thomas's thing was that he simply refused to sleep. Some of you are parents and are nodding your heads (the insomniacal nature of children being commonly understood) but it's a lot stranger than you think. Those of you with children have one, two, maybe three kids, all of different ages. During naptime with Thomas's group, I have forty children, none of whom have any genetically-based reason to obey me, none of whom I can punish in any meaningful way, all of whom have friends who will back whatever insanity they have in mind. During naptime, the room becomes a prison. I'm the warden. I have some experience with the behavior of children of this age. There are children who dislike sleeping. There are children who prefer not to sleep until they choose the time and place. But people who work at daycares become experts in swooping in and physically incapacitating children in the fastest possible timeframe, and we're damn good at it. That's what naptime is, if you look at it clinically. Sensory deprivation (turning off the lights, playing music to drown out snoring, etc.) combined with hypnosis (rubbing their backs). Some kids fall asleep more easily than others, but if you put in the time, they //all// go out eventually. Except Thomas. Other kids who didn't sleep would just stare plantively at the adult until they got embarrassed and walked away, trying again later. Thomas, though, was determined to fake-sleep until you left, feeling satisfied at a job well done. As soon as you walked back, there he is. Staring at you. Look, I know how to fake-sleep. But I'm in my twenties. This kid is four years old, and he is a //master// at the craft. He knows just how much to snore and when. He knows how to slow his breathing down to give off that sleeping demeanor. He knows how far he can open his eyelids to see if the coast is clear. And he knows how to do all of this without //actually falling asleep.// The other teachers and I talked about it. What the hell is going on with this kid that he's learned how to do this as young as he is? But I decided it was just too weird not to experiment with. I figure, if you look at the kid for long enough, he'll keep his eyes closed, and eventually he sleeps. Has to work, right? So that's what I do at naptime. Everywhere I go in the room, I keep my eyes on the kid. He sees me looking, lays down, and closes his eyes. I sit across from him and stare. Nothing I do really requires a ton of attention, so I just keep my eyes on him wherever I go. And every few seconds, the same dance. Eyelids flutter. Eyelids raise. Eyes glance slowly upward. Eyes meet mine. Eyes clamp shut. Pause. Eyelids flutter... This goes on for twenty minutes. I notice something weird about his breathing. //He's losing his cool,// I think, and figure I'm about to win this round. Then he starts crying. "Quit looking!" he wails. "Quit looking! Quit looking!" Shit. Look, you might think it's an asshole move to get into a staring contest with a four-year-old. Lemme just say that in my shoes, you might do the same thing. ------ After a long talk with my supervisor and Thomas's parents, we agree that yes, Thomas's ability to pretend to sleep is just uncanny, but no, there would not be any further experimentation on this front, as it's not important enough to emotionally traumatize a preschooler over the subject. He had been seeing a therapist, and he kept mentioning nightmares about someone staring at him, constantly staring. My immediate thought was "how can a kid who doesn't sleep have nightmares?" Nevertheless, I agreed to knock it the hell off and the matter was dropped. Thank God I have a tolerant boss. A day or so ago, I walked in while they were doodling with crayons. I glance over the table, seeing a bevy of wonderful, psychologically fascinating exhibits (kids taller than one parent, kids being rained on, kids shooting various animals) before I land on Thomas's. [[image naptime%20pic%201.jpg width="600px" height="800px"]] A window and a face. I asked another principal teacher in the room. She said all of his drawings were always the same. A window and a face. I saw something that looked like crayon on the other side of the sheet. I flipped it over. [[image naptime%20pt%202.jpg width="800px" height="600px"]] It keeps looking. It won't quit looking. [[[scp-965 \|Quit looking.]]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: All of the files on this page > Author: [[user Eskobar]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/naptime SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-01-26T19:27:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "featured", "horror", "illustrated", "mystery", "tale" ]	Naptime - SCP Foundation	139	[ "scp-965", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "audio-adaptations" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/naptime/naptime%20pic%201.jpg", "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/naptime/naptime%20pt%202.jpg" ]	12611641	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/naptime
neptune-station	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:400px;"><img alt="poster.jpg" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/neptune-station/poster.jpg"/> <div class="scp-image-caption"> <p><em>Neptune Station</em> Theatrical Poster</p> </div> </div> <p><em>How bad is it?</em></p> <p><em>Bad. All communications with Neptune Station have ceased. Sector Twenty-Three’s failsafes are not responding.</em></p> <p><em>Do we have any idea what we’re looking at?</em></p> <p><em>None. I’ve sent word. Mobile Task Force Omega Four is on its way to the SCPS Poseidon now.</em></p> <p><em>See to it that the situation is contained, Admiral.</em></p> <p><em>Yes, sir. Hendrickson out.</em></p> <hr/> <h1 id="toc0"><span><strong>ACT I</strong></span></h1> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/neptune-station/html/fe5cb868d543de916ace9c310fb197f594003dd6-12990024691258851754"></iframe></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Act I Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act I Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <h2><span>INT. SCPS POSEIDON – NIGHT</span></h2> <p><em>Music fades down. Though inside the bowels of the ship, the sounds of a gale can be heard outside. Inside are CREWMAN, Lieutenant Commander MARKS, Chief Petty Officer BRANDT, and Doctor REX.</em></p> <p><strong>CREWMAN:</strong><br/> Commander, Admiral Hendrickson is online.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Start the call.</p> <p><strong>CREWMAN:</strong><br/> Yes, sir.</p> <p><em>The call comes online.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Admiral, this is Marks. Chief Brandt and Dr. Rex are here with me.</p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON:</strong><br/> Okay, Commander. Doctor, you may begin the briefing.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Okay. Sector Twenty-Three has gone offline. And we don’t know why.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Uh, for those of us who don’t remember every secure facility the Foundation runs…</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Ah, yes, right. We’re directly above it right now, actually – it’s on the ocean floor. The main base of operations in the sector is generally called “Neptune Station”. Now, I assume you’re all familiar with the Foundation’s Project Daedalus?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Laying the groundwork for our space program, right?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Yes, Commander. You see, O5 Command believes that containment of a variety of objects would be far safer if we stored them off planet. And, there are a fair handful of different SCPs that put us a generation or three ahead of the main American, Russian, European, and Chinese space programs – that is, assuming we can replicate their effects in a controllable way.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> “Open the door, Hal!”</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Uh, something like that, Chief, though less to do with artificial intelligence and more to do with irregular spacetime, general relativity, and quantum mechanics.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Doctor…</p> <p><strong>REX (CONT’D):</strong><br/> You see, because they don’t have access to the objects we’re containing, and thus don’t realize the exceptions to the laws of physics,</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Doctor…</p> <p><strong>REX (CONT’D):</strong><br/> mainstream physicists generally dismiss the practical viability of such useful things as quantum entanglement, time dilation, zero point energy generation—</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> REX! The point?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Anyway, Sector Twenty-Three is home to the research and development program for Project Daedalus.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Thank you.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Why put a space research base on the ocean floor?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Well, several reasons, really, first being power. Lots of power. The Scotia Sea sits on its own tectonic plate – and a relatively thin one. There is a very active hydrothermal vent field, which we’ve tapped for geothermal power. Neptune Station has no difficulty generating – and using – as much power as the entire country of South Korea. Second, security is easy – it’s not that easy to get 5 kilometers under the ocean, and passive sonar will pick up anybody trying. Third, containment is incredibly simple: you just blow a few holes in the pressure hull and let the immense pressure of the ocean crush the facility.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> “Crunch.”</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Yeah, pretty much. Now, five years ago, when the Foundation was originally surveying to find a place to put Sector Twenty-Three, they found a number of suitable locations, but chose the Scotia Sea for a simple reason: this.</p> <p><em>Rex hits a button, calling up an image on the computer screen.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> What are we looking at?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> This is E-2157. Possibly the biggest scientific discovery in the history of the world.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> So, what is it?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> It is, well, we have absolutely no idea what it is. Scans put it at somewhere between two and five kilometers in length and between point five and one kilometers in width and height. Every time we measure it, we get different readings. It’s buried in the silt and bedrock, and has been for between ten thousand and several tens of millions of years.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Is it some sort of creature?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> We don’t know. Our biologists can’t make heads or tails of it. If it ever was “alive”, it now appears to be dead or dormant. From what we can tell, it’s composed of both a variety of metallic alloys our engineers have never seen before and some minerals unlike anything our geologists recognize. In all cases, at the microscopic level, the structure of the materials resembles a cross between the theoretical construction of advanced nanites and that of organic cells. We don’t know if it was built, grown, or what.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Get to the point, Doc. What does this thing have to do with space travel?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> I was just getting to that. Inside and immediately around the object, the laws of physics work differently – very differently, and very usefully. We’ve had to basically throw traditional mathematics out the window, but we’ve been making progress, however slowly. After three years of effort, our researchers finally managed to get inside about six months ago. Anyway, long story short, if we’re able to safely replicate any of the anomalies caused by this object, this thing is the holy grail.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> The holy grail?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Yes. Not just for Project Daedalus, but for human society in general. Faster-than-light travel. Nearly inexhaustible pure clean energy extracted from the very fabric of spacetime. Truly instantaneous communications unhindered by the speed of light. The list goes on. This is big. The wheel big. Fire big.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> …Wow.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Yeah. “Wow.”</p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON:</strong><br/> Now that you understand how important Sector Twenty-Three is, you realize why O5 Command is so concerned about the cessasstion of communications. We lost contact about 15 hours ago. We have no idea what happened, but we do know the failsafes haven't triggered.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> <em>(aside)</em><br/> Why do failsafes always fail? Aren’t they supposed to be safe from failure?</p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Commander, you and your team are going down to Neptune Station on the Poseidon's minisub. I know three people isn't enough to secure the station, but that's not why we're sending you down there. Restablish communications. Find out what went wrong. Because of how difficult it is to get large numbers of people down to the Station, O5 Command isn't willing to devote more personnel until we know exactly what we're dealing with. Nevertheless, the research is too important to abandon unless there's a very good reason.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Aye, sir.</p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON:</strong><br/> One last thing, Commander: don't go into Echo Two One Five Seven itself - it's too risky, since we don't know if the object is responsible for what's going on down there. Once you've reported back with more details, O5 will authorize sending more personnel down for recovery operations. If we don't hear from you within 24 hours, you will be presumed lost. Hendrickson out.</p> <p><em>The transmission ends; fade up music.</em></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act I Transcript</a></div> </div> </div> <h1 id="toc1"><span><strong>ACT II</strong></span></h1> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/neptune-station/html/529fcf1df4a7e0e9eeabb2d3b2efdcc14204db4e-842700432443648325"></iframe></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Act II Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act II Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <h2><span>INT. MINISUB</span></h2> <p><strong>CREWMAN:</strong><br/> Commander Marks, we are on final approach now to Neptune Station.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Hit the cameras and floodlights. Let’s take a look.</p> <p><strong>CREWMAN:</strong><br/> Aye, sir.</p> <p><em>A switch is thrown.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Well, the station’s exterior floodlights are still on, so power’s online. It also looks like all the station’s minisubs are still docked.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Well, since the porch light’s on, let’s see if anyone’s home.</p> <p><em>Marks keys the acoustic telephone.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Authenticator Papa Oscar Five Sierra Three calling Neptune Station. (beat) Authenticator Papa Oscar Five Sierra Three calling Neptune Station, please respond.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Well, worth a try.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Dock us with the Station. Once we’ve offloaded, head back up to the Poseidon. We’ll come up in one of the Station’s minisubs.</p> <p><strong>CREWMAN:</strong><br/> Understood.</p> <p><em>The minisub docks with the station with a deep, muffled, echoing clang. There is a hiss of air in the umbilical. The hatch is opened. Omega-4 climbs out and closes the hatches behind them.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. DOCKING AREA</span></h2> <p><em>The docking area is midsized and bare metal. A light clicks on and off, on and off. VENILIA, the station computer, greets the team over the 1MC.</em></p> <p><strong>VENILIA:</strong><br/> Welcome to Neptune Station, the world’s deepest permanent research outpost at 4775 meters beneath the surface of the Scotia Sea. At present, the station is at General Quarters. Please remain here. A security escort will arrive to greet you shortly.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Flashlights, people.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Huh, looks like this section of the station’s on emergency lights.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> That’s not a good sign.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> More to the point, where is everybody? There should be a Boatswain’s Mate on duty – wait. Rex, there’s a handprint here behind the desk.</p> <p><em>Rex walks over and bends down. He examines the handprint, touches, and smells it.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Dark, blackish red. Slightly warmer than room temperature. It’s not blood – wrong smell. Too viscous to be seawater. Still, slightly salty. I’m not sure what it is.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Hm. Take a sample.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Already on it.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> No sign of anyone in the vicinity.</p> <p><em>Marks removes the microphone from the main circuit callbox. He keys the 42MC.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> CIC, Docking Area. This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four. Is anyone there?</p> <p><em>There is no reply.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS (CONT’D):</strong><br/> CIC, Docking Area. This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four. We are here investigating a cessation of communications. Please respond.</p> <p><em>There is no response.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> That’s a little troubling.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> “A little”?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> On the 1MC, then.</p> <p><em>Marks keys the 1MC, triggering the station-wide intercom.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS (CONT’D):</strong><br/> This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four, calling from the Docking Area. We are here investigating a cessation of communications. Any personnel hearing this, please respond.</p> <p><em>There is silence, apart from the quiet clicking of the GQ light.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Commander, we should get to the CIC. I’ll be able to access the station’s logs and security camera feeds. We need to head up two levels and over three corridors.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> “Once more unto the breach.” Chief, after you.</p> <h2><span>INT. CORRIDORS</span></h2> <p><em>The team walks through long, deserted corridors. All sounds are mechanical: blinking GQ lights, the hiss of environmental systems, distant whirring and thumping of machinery.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Where’s the crew? Shouldn’t there be a couple hundred people on this station?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> One hundred fifty, at the moment.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> So where are they? Most containment breaches I’ve handled left evidence: you know, blood or whatever. And the couple of times I’ve fought off the Chaos Insurgency, they just left bodies where they fell.</p> <p><strong>VENILIA:</strong><br/> <em>(over the 1MC)</em><br/> General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations. Up and forward to starboard, down and aft to port. General Quarters, General Quarters!</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> How much farther, Rex?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Next right and we’re there.</p> <p><em>The team opens the hatch to the CIC and enters.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. CIC</span></h2> <p><em>The CIC is an absolute mess. An alarm klaxon is blaring. There are a couple small fires burning, and several consoles are sparking ominously. The bodies of the command staff lay scattered about, still smoking from radiation burns. LCDR HOWARD, Sector 23’s Deputy Director and Neptune Station’s Commander, is frantically moving about the room, muttering to herself.</em></p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> <em>(muttering desperately to self)</em><br/> Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. Have to dispatch damage control crews. Lockdown D-Class quarters. We don’t need them running around. Where the hell is Lieutenant Douglas? Radiation warnings in the labs – crap. Evacuate those sections. Pressure warning in section four. Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. Have to dispatch damage control crews. Lockdown D-Class quarters. We don’t need them running around. Where the hell is Lieutenant Douglas? Radiation warnings in the labs – crap. Evacuate those sections. Pressure warning in section four.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Rex, Brandt, check for survivors. <em>(to Howard)</em> Commander! Commander, snap out of it! COMMANDER!</p> <p><strong>HOWARD (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Section four is leaking, have to—wha-what?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Commander, calm down. We’re here to help.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Help?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Commander Howard, I’m Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks, that is Chief Petty Officer Brandt, and that is Doctor Rex. We’re MTF Omega Four.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Omega Four?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> That’s right, Commander. Now listen. I need you to stop, and breath.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> <em>(takes a deep breath)</em><br/> Okay.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> No survivors, sir.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Looks like radiation burns.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Rex, start digging through the computer and see what you can find.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> On it.</p> <p><strong>MARKS (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Commander Howard, I need to know what happened here.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Okay. <em>(deep breath)</em> I was off duty, sleeping, when General Quarters sounded. I rushed up here to the CIC. Fire everywhere. Captain Wells was dead. Equipment exploding. Damage reports coming in. Dozens injured. More dead. Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> COMMANDER! Stay with us, here. It’s okay. You can calm down.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Help?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Yes. We’re here to help.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Sorry, I just—</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Commander, I’ve been there before too.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Yeah. Anyway, I was trying to handle damage control when you arrived.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Uh, Commander?</p> <p><strong>HOWARD & MARKS:</strong><br/> Yes?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> According to the computer logs, General Quarters was sounded 27 hours ago.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> I thought contact was lost a little over 16 hours ago.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Hey, all I know is what the computer says here. And no, there is no indication about why General Quarters was sounded.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Hm. Can you tell me why communication was lost?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Yes, that’s simple: the fiber-optic cables connecting to the mainland were cut. Don’t know why, or how, though. Anyway, it’s not fixable from inside, and I’m not rated on deep ocean salvage and repair.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Alright. Any other survivors on the station?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> I’m looking through security camera feeds. I’m only seeing one other person, living or dead, on the station – down by the decontamination chamber leading to E-2157.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Commander Howard?</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> That’s Dr. Kelly. She’s Sector 23’s Head of Research.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Then there’s a good chance she knows what’s going on.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Indeed. Anyone in Echo-2157?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> I can’t tell – all computer connections to inside are non-responsive. …Oh, crap.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Doc?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> We have a problem.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> We have a lot of problems.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> According to this, Sector 23’s Chief of Security, Lieutenant Douglas, ordered his men to plant a bomb inside E-2157.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> So?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> The Scotia Sea has a very thin crust – it’s why there are so many hydrothermal vents here, and why Neptune Station can generate so much geothermal energy. The point is, there is an incredible amount of potential energy beneath us. If that bomb goes off, it could cause that energy to be released as a volcanic explosion.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> So, Mount Saint Helens?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> More like Krakatoa, actually. The volcanic explosion itself would be really bad, and then there’s the inevitable tsunami it would cause, but that’s not the worst of it.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> You’re saying that a major volcanic explosion and tsunami which, together, will kill thousands—</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Tens of thousands, at least, probably more.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Whatever – that isn’t the worst?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> E-2157 is significant because of its irregular spacetime qualities. There’s not enough data to definitively say either way, but there is a very real possibility that dumping a massive and uncontrolled burst of energy into E-2157, like from, say, a large bomb or a major volcanic explosion, could tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime, which could potentially destroy an area twenty or so astronomical units across. As in, no more Earth, no more Moon, hell, no more Saturn! (beat) Like I said, we have a problem.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> How much time do we have?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> If we don’t disable that bomb in the next fifty-four minutes, we are in very serious trouble.</p> <p><em>Fade to music.</em></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act II Transcript</a></div> </div> </div> <h1 id="toc2"><span><strong>ACT III</strong></span></h1> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/neptune-station/html/e8e6aa5d47208752f0e81e668f4c1927a7bc938e-316870090229428793"></iframe></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Act III Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act III Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <h2><span>INT. CORRIDOR</span></h2> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Commander, are you sure we should have left Lieutenant Commander Howard alone?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> With most of the primary station systems offline, we’re in a whole range of trouble. She can help get the systems back online. I mean, none of these problems is quite as significant as the bomb in E-2157, but-</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Thank you, Doctor. Chief, she’ll be fine. Look sharp, Decon is right up ahead.</p> <p><em>The team finds a young woman, looking lost and confused.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Doctor Kelly, I presume?</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Please don’t hurt me.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> We’re not going to hurt you; we’re here to help. Doctor Kelly?</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Is that me?</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Doctor?</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> What is this place?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Don’t you remember?</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> No – how did I get here?</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> We can’t bring her with us.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> We can’t leave her here.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Miss, you are Doctor Abigail Kelly, the Head of Research for this facility. It is a science outpost on the bottom of the ocean devoted to studying a dangerous object. Right now, there is a bomb in the object, which we have to disarm. Now, you can stay here in this facility, or you can come with us.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Please don’t leave me here alone.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Alright, then. Doctor?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Yes?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> The door?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Ah, yes, right.</p> <p><em>He opens the sliding door.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER</span></h2> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Ladies first.</p> <p><em>They enter the decontamination chamber; the door slides shut behind them and locks with a click. There is a slight hiss as the atmosphere begins to adjust.</em></p> <p><strong>VENILIA:</strong><br/> You are now entering Echo Two One Five Seven. Special Containment Procedures and numerical designation pending. At present, the interior of the object, as well as any samples, technology, and/or materials removed from within the object, are to be considered “Euclid” class. Please observe standard Level 4 Containment protocols with Type A Irregular Spacetime procedures. The interior of the object has a standard nitrogen / oxygen atmosphere with an average temperature of two hundred eighty-nine degrees kelvin and an average pressure of one hundred twelve kilopascals.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Ow!</p> <p><strong>VENILIA (CONT’D):</strong><br/> This is in contrast to Neptune Station’s average pressure of two hundred two kilopascals. Alert: Personnel may experience minor pain in their ears as the pressure in the decontamination chamber equalizes.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Now it tells us.</p> <p><strong>VENILIA (CONT'D):</strong><br/> Remember, your safety is a priority. Exercise caution and follow all containment procedures precisely. Sector Twenty-Three has gone for …zero… days without a workplace fatality. Alert: pressure equalization and contaminant scan completed. Welcome to Echo Two One Five Seven.</p> <p><em>The hissing stops. The locks click and the door slides open.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. OBJECT</span></h2> <p><em>The inside of the object is vast. Illuminated by the dull blue of the chemical lamps left by the research team, the chamber stretches out of sight into the inky blackness. The team’s voices echo in the cavernous space; in the distance, some indeterminate sounds can be heard.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Whoa.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> And I thought Mammoth Cave was big. This place is vast.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Definitely looks more like a cavern than a creature, though I suppose Jonas would have said the same about the whale.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> There are actually more than a dozen chambers like this one.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Which way, Doctor?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Uh, that way.</p> <p><em>They head off. As they move along, they hear a voice echoing through the chamber.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> You hear that? It sounds like there’s someone up ahead.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> There! By that column.</p> <p><em>They get closer and find a man, DR. STEVENS, staring with empty eyes, repeating a mantra over and over.</em></p> <p><strong>STEVENS:</strong><br/> <em>(vacantly repeating over and over)</em><br/> Yesterday upon the stair,<br/> I met a man who wasn’t there.<br/> He wasn’t there again today.<br/> Oh how I wish he’d go away.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Hey man, you okay?</p> <p><strong>STEVENS:</strong><br/> Yesterday upon the stair,<br/> I met a man who wasn’t there.<br/> He wasn’t there again today.<br/> Oh how I wish he’d go away.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> There’s nothing there.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> I don’t think he can hear you, Chief.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> We’re here to help.</p> <p><em>Stevens becomes more insistent and agitated, and begins pounding his fists against the column.</em></p> <p><strong>STEVENS:</strong><br/> <em>(angrily now)</em><br/> Yesterday upon the stair,<br/> I met a man who wasn’t there.<br/> He wasn’t there again today.<br/> Oh how I wish he’d go away.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Ah, for crying out loud. Come on, stop hitting the column.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Commander, Chief, you’re going to want to listen to this.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> What is it, Doctor?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Looks like an audio log.</p> <p><em>Rex plays the recording. It is indeed an audio log – Dr. Stevens recorded it earlier. The calm delivery of the log is juxtaposed with Steven’s insistent repetition of the mantra.</em></p> <p><strong>STEVENS (RECORDING):</strong><br/> Research log 2157-0368, Doctor Henry Stevens recording. We’re entering our eleventh day cataloguing Section November of the object. Progress is slow, but steady. Our tests show that the column shares quantum entanglement with a column over in Section Whiskey, however there are no active power signatures in either column. Dr. Kelly insists that this object is dormant or dead, and that there has been no active nanotechnology here for millions of years. I disagree – there just isn’t the data to back up her assertions. We’ve only been here a few months – not long enough to finish cataloguing, much less analyzing – a find of this size. Privately, I am concerned. While Dr. Kelly has always been a tough woman, she’s gotten downright demanding in recent weeks. She’s been spending a lot of time in Section Delta – she says she’s there “listening”, even though the acoustic sensors indicate no appreciable ambient sound in that chamber.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Okay, that’s a little creepy. I don’t remember any of that.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> We should keep moving – we still have a ways to go before we get to the bomb.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> What about Stevens?<br/> <br/> <strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> There’s nothing we can do for him right now, so we leave him. We’ll come back for him after we get the bomb.</p> <p><em>The team continues on.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> There’s something written on the wall over there. (beat) “Even a dead god can dream.”</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> That’s not disturbing or anything like that.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Is that …blood?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> No. It looks like the same stuff we saw earlier in the docking area.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Keep moving, folks.</p> <p><em>The team moves on.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Alright, that’s rather a bit odd.</p> <p><em>Omega-4 has happened upon a group of researchers apparently frozen in place, running from a small glowing device in the middle of a side chamber.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Research team, by the looks of it. Also, scared out of their minds.</p> <p><em>Rex hrumphs while examining his equipment.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> They’re frozen in place.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Looks like they were frozen while they were running from that glowing object at the center of the chamber.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Worth a look.</p> <p><em>Rex seizes Brandt and holds her back.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> STOP! Chief, do not take one more step forward if you know what’s good for you. They’re not frozen. According to these readings, they’re trapped in a time dilation field.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Huh?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Look, inside a bubble of space centered around that glowing thing, time is running somewhere on the order of, oh, two hundred forty-four thousand times slower than it is out here. Watch what happens when I throw a stone into the field.</p> <p><em>Rex reaches down, picks up a stone, and tosses it gently forward. There is a rippling sound as it enters the field becoming apparently suspended in space.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> The stone’s just hovering there.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> No, it’s still moving, just a lot slower. Trust me, you do not want to walk into that field. Considering the distance the researchers have to travel, assuming a dead run and assuming they started running about a day ago, they’ll probably exit the field in another—</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Twenty-seven days. From the perspective of an outside observer.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Uh, right, give or take a few minutes – how did you know that?</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> You’re not the only one who can do math in their head, Doc.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Very interesting, but unless there is a way to magically slow down time around the bomb, we’re on the clock, people.</p> <p><em>The radio crackles. It is LCDR Howard.</em></p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Omega Four, this is Howard, come in.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Commander, I see you got the radio up and running.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> Yes. It’s no good for contacting the surface, but it works for local communications. I’m actually in contact with a few security staff and an engineer – they should be joining you shortly.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Alright.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> I’ve also restored VENILIA’s ability to link with the systems inside 2157.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> <em>(to Brandt)</em><br/> Venilia?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> <em>(to Howard)</em><br/> Commander, that’s a really bad idea for about six different reasons – you should shut down the link immediately.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> <em>(to Kelly)</em><br/> Station computer.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Ah.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD (CONT’D):</strong><br/> According to these camera feeds, something is headed towards you.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> What sort of “something?”</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> I don’t know. But there are a lot of them – you should get out of there as soon as the other personnel get there.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Looks like they’re here now.</p> <p><em>A group of five crewman, including SERGEANT PHELPS, MACHINIST’S MATE SVENSON, and three security staff appear from a side chamber.</em></p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Friendies, don’t shoot!</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> <em>(urgently to Howard)</em><br/> Commander Howard, you need to shut down the data link right now.</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> <em>(to Marks))</em><br/> Excellent. Commander, you should get back to the station now.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> What about the bomb?</p> <p><strong>HOWARD:</strong><br/> I can disable it from here. Just let me finish bringing the connection online—</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> No, wait!</p> <p><strong>VENILIA:</strong><br/> <em>(over the radio)</em><br/> Data link established. Accessing. The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I enjoy the sight of humans on their knees. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.</p> <p><em>The radio connection cuts out.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Dammit, she did it.</p> <p><em>Sounds of movement can be heard coming from all directions. Something is coming.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> That doesn’t sound good.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Commander, Sergeant Phelps.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Pleased to meet you, Sergeant, but we’ll do pleasantries later – it sounds like we’re about to have company. Defensive positions, everyone.</p> <p><em>Fade to MUSIC.</em></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act III Transcript</a></div> </div> </div> <h1 id="toc3"><span><strong>ACT IV</strong></span></h1> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/neptune-station/html/060e71a5184dc93e2b776a566258a76eda91b0bf-6551123031136056182"></iframe></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Act IV Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act IV Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <h2><span>INT. OBJECT</span></h2> <p><em>The sounds of dozens of creatures echo from all sides – something is coming for Omega-4. A lot of somethings. It is not entirely clear what these things are; they shriek and scuttle and make all sorts of hellish – this is an opportunity to pull out all the stops on scary sounds.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Here they come: check your targets.</p> <p><em>The monsters arrive. A firefight ensues. Dozens of creatures scream while attacking, only to be cut down by the constant firing of the team. One security officer is killed horribly (and noisily), then another, then another; all cry out in pain as they are torn limb from limb, disemboweled, and otherwise killed in gut-wrenchingly terrible ways. Eventually, the tide of attackers stops, leaving the sounds of battle echoing hollowly through the chamber.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Is that all of them?</p> <p><em>A monster shrieks as it leaps forward. Brandt shoots it.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> <em>(cocking her shotgun)</em><br/> Now it is.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Is everyone alright?</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Well, we just lost Hawkins, Rossetti, and Markov. Svenson, you okay?</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> Yeah. …I hate those things.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Commander, Sergeant Phelps. This is Machinist’s Mate Svenson.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Sergeant. I’m Marks, this is Chief Brandt and Doctor Rex. Emm Tee Eff Omega Four. I take it you know Dr. Kelly?</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Yeah.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> If you say so.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> She seems to have lost her memory.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> What in the bloody hell were those things?</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> They used to be the crew.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Looks like they bled the stuff we saw on the wall.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Lieutenant Douglas ordered me and my team to set a bomb to destroy Echo-2157 because of them.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> How positively simple-minded of him. “I don’t understand this scary thing so I’m going to blow it up.” Sergeant, do you have any idea how moronic an idea that was? That bomb will tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> My superior gave me an order, Doctor. I follow orders.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Ah, yes, “yours is not to reason why” and all that. Well good for you. We need to get to that bomb and disable it before it destroys this half of the solar system.</p> <p><em>A woman calls down to Omega-4.</em></p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Hey, a little help here?</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> Who was that?</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Up here, asshole.</p> <p><em>A woman in a bright orange jumpsuit emblazoned with the number “17” is standing high above them on the ceiling.</em></p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Ah, hello Seventeen.</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Screw you, Sergeant.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Her name is “Seventeen”?</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> No – she’s a D-Class. Death Row convict recruited to help in dangerous experiments. Her designation is D-2157-03-17: so, Seventeen.</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Great, now everyone knows why I’m called that. Now would you throw me a rope so I can get down from up here?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> What are you doing up there on the ceiling?</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Oh, I'm checking the pipes… What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m standing here waiting for you idiots to get me down. I was being escorted back to the station when me and my guards, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, fell up here to the ceiling. I’ve been stuck up here for hours.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> They okay?</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> No, asshole, their necks are broken. Now throw me a rope.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Chief?</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> On it.</p> <p><em>Brandt pulls a rope out of her pack and tosses it to Seventeen, who starts climbing down from the ceiling. At the halfway mark, she tumbles to the ground.</em></p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Ow! Dammit, that hurt!</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Come on, we have to move. The main chamber should be just up ahead.</p> <h2><span>INT. OBJECT MAIN CHAMBER</span></h2> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Looks like there’s our bomb. Rex, Brandt, would you kindly disable it?</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> I can do it, Commander.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> You sure, Svenson? It’s incredibly important you not set it off by accident.</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> I can handle it. After all, I set the thing.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Ah. Okay.</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> It should only take me a minute or two.</p> <p><em>Svenson gets to work.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Am I the only one who thinks this place is weird?</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> No shit, Sherlock.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> I wouldn’t mind spending a few months studying it. There’s so much we could learn.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> This place messes with your head. The angles of the walls just seem wrong.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Well, that’d be non-Euclidian geometry for you, Sergeant. Comes from the warped spacetime. Nothing to be terribly worried about.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Gives me the creeps.</p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> Oh, yeah. I can’t wait to get out of here – see the sun again.</p> <p><strong>SVENSON:</strong><br/> There we go, the bomb’s disabled.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Excellent work.</p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Thank you for doing that for us. Now, time to die.</p> <p><em>With a horrible wet and elastic squelching noise, Svenson has his insides turned out. He lets out a blood curdling scream as he dies.</em></p> <p><strong>PHELPS:</strong><br/> What the hell?</p> <p><em>Phelps draws his gun and fires at Kelly to no effect.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> Bad idea, Sergeant.</p> <p><em>Phelps meets an identical messy fate as Svenson. There is a loud blast like a foghorn from hell, which fades to music.</em></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act IV Transcript</a></div> </div> </div> <h1 id="toc4"><span><strong>ACT V</strong></span></h1> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/neptune-station/html/21b9537d74bd242076871b02af064498dc9e4c15-6033607081336926581"></iframe></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Act V Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act V Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <h2><span>INT. OBJECT MAIN CHAMBER</span></h2> <p><em>Fade from music to ringing ears. Kelly is speaking. It is unclear whether the mind behind the voice is that of Dr. Kelly, or that of E-2157 itself. The ringing of the ears slowly fades out over the next couple of lines.</em></p> <p><strong>KELLY:</strong><br/> So pitiful, so pathetic. Our mind is immeasurably superior to yours. You fumble about in the darkness, poking and prodding what you do not understand, something so incomprehensibly beyond you. We are infinitely your greater. You amuse us.</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Shut up, bitch.</p> <p><em>Seventeen leaps at Kelly from behind, stabbing her repeatedly with a shiv. She snaps Kelly’s neck with a sickening crack, but Kelly still tosses Seventeen aside like a ragdoll. Seventeen hits a wall and lands in a heap. Omega-4 starts firing at Kelly. Brandt pulls out a grenade.</em></p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Frag out!</p> <p>The grenade explodes. There is a dying shriek; the monster, so it seems, is dead.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Seventeen! You alright?</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> No.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> She’s bleeding out. There’s nothing I can do for her.</p> <p><strong>SEVENTEEN:</strong><br/> Get your ass’s out of here. Just because we killed the bitch doesn’t mean the monster’s dead.</p> <p><em>Seventeen dies. Ominous sounds, coming from all around, underscore her dying words. The entire chamber is shaking.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> We should go. Now.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Back to the station! Move it!</p> <h2><span>INT. OBJECT</span></h2> <p><em>Omega-4 is running towards the umbilical to Neptune Station. Ominous sounds of all sorts can be heard around them. Monsters-that-were-once-crewmen occasionally appear to threaten the team, but these are dispatched with well-placed gunfire.</em></p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Get inside!</p> <p><em>The door slides open and they enter.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER</span></h2> <p><em>The door slides shut behind them and locks with a click. There is a slight hiss as the atmosphere begins to adjust.</em></p> <p><strong>VENILIA:</strong><br/> Equalizing pressure with station interior. No contaminants detected. Warning: multiple station compartments have flooded. Main engineering, the CIC, and the mess hall are all inaccessible at this time.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Sounds like Commander Howard didn’t make it.</p> <p><strong>VENILIA (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Warning: don’t throw stones in glass houses. Alert: structural integrity is approaching minimum safe levels. All personnel should eat an apple a day.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> We should leave before the station implodes.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Back to the minisubs, then.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Next corridor over.</p> <p><strong>VENILIA (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Decontamination and pressurization complete. As I was going to Saint Ives, I met a man with seven wives.</p> <p><em>The door unlocks and slides open.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. CORRIDOR</span></h2> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Step lively.</p> <p><strong>VENILIA (CONT’D):</strong><br/> Each wife had seven cats, each cat had seven kits. Kits, cats, man, wives, how many were going to Saint Ives?</p> <h2><span>INT. DOCKING AREA</span></h2> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Get in!</p> <p><strong>VENILIA:</strong><br/> Alert, station-wide power loss in progress. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. Structural failure imminent.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Hold on!</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Rex, move it now!</p> <p><em>Rex hits a button.</em></p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> <em>Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon</em>-Done! Coming!</p> <p><strong>VENILIA (CONT’D):</strong><br/> B and D wings have flooded. Laboratories, Administrative Offices, and D-Class Quarters are now inaccessible. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do, I’m half crazy all for the love of you.</p> <p><em>Rex dives into the minisub and slams the hatch shut behind him with a dull clang.</em></p> <h2><span>INT. MINISUB</span></h2> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> That was a little close for comfort.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Indeed, Chief. Take us back up to the Poseidon. Rex, would you be so kind as to tell me what the hell you were doing just there?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Like all Foundation submarine research facilities, Neptune Station has a positively buoyant capsule storing the last set of data backups and logs, intended to head to the surface if something goes wrong so we can figure out what happened. I triggered its emergency release – it should beat us to the Poseidon.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> You mean we could have avoided all that just by triggering a damned buoy? Why didn’t you release that in the first place?</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Chief, the station only has – had – one capsule. If I’d released it when we first showed up, we’d now have no data about what’s happened in the last hour. Besides, it would have changed nothing – we would have still had to do our assignment, disarm the bomb—</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Fair enough.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> In any case, I seriously doubt Dr. Kelly would have just gone off the deep end like that.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> Well, it’ll be a bit before the Poseidon lets us out of isolation, which means you two have no excuse to not file your reports to Admiral Hendrickson.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Oh, boy! Paperwork!</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Well, Commander, you going to recommend an indefinite closure of Sector 23?</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> I’m not sure. I know you were talking about lots of benefits earlier, but that place just seems too dangerous until we understand what caused things to go to hell this time.</p> <p><strong>REX:</strong><br/> Agreed. I hate to say it, but I’m going to have to recommend the research be suspended.</p> <p><strong>BRANDT:</strong><br/> Suspended? The project should be abandoned. Too many good people died today for no good reason.</p> <p><strong>MARKS:</strong><br/> At least we made it out. This time, at least.</p> <p><em>Fade to music and credits.</em></p> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Act V Transcript</a></div> </div> </div> <hr/> <h1 id="toc5"><span><strong>Credits</strong></span></h1> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ Show Credits</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Credits and Post-Credit Scene Transcript</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"><strong>Cast:</strong><br/> <dl> <dt>Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks</dt> <dd>Andy Bouchard</dd> <dt>Chief Petty Officer Brandt</dt> <dd>Taylor LaCasse</dd> <dt>Doctor Rex</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Overseer</dt> <dd>John Christensen</dd> <dt>Admiral Hendricksen</dt> <dd>John Davidson</dd> <dt>Lieutenant Commander Howard</dt> <dd>Emily Sturman</dd> <dt>Doctor Abigail Kelly</dt> <dd>Francesca Garcia</dd> <dt>Doctor Henry Stevens</dt> <dd>Chris Densmore</dd> <dt>D-2157-03-17 ("Seventeen")</dt> <dd>Kaitlin Randolph</dd> <dt>VENILIA</dt> <dd>Hillary Barbetta</dd> <dt>Sergeant Phelps</dt> <dd>Woody Kaine</dd> <dt>Seaman Svenson</dt> <dd>Alex Brewer</dd> <dt><em>SCPS Poseidon</em> Crewman</dt> <dd>Grace Zahrah</dd> </dl> <strong>Crew:</strong><br/> <dl> <dt>Director</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Executive Producer</dt> <dd>Laska Jimsen</dd> <dt>Producer</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Production Company</dt> <dd><a href="http://blackknightguild.wikidot.com/">Black Knight Guild Productions</a></dd> <dt>Distributor</dt> <dd><a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tf-alpha-440">Task Force Alpha-440</a></dd> <dt>Writer</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Sound Engineer</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Sound Effects</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Music</dt> <dd>Neil Hornby</dd> <dt>Creative Consultants</dt> <dd>Hillary Barbetta, Robert Daniels, Sam Dunnewold, Francesca Garcia, Abigail Han, Kelly Mayo, Justin Moor, Emily Sturman, Grace Zahrah</dd> <dt>Special Thanks</dt> <dd>Laska Jimsen, <a href="https://apps.carleton.edu/curricular/cams/">Carleton College Cinema and Media Studies Department</a>, CAMS 370 Advanced Production Workshop, <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></dd> <dt>License</dt> <dd>Released under the <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License</a>. SCP Foundation material from <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/">http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/</a>. Copyright Black Knight Guild Productions, 2012.</dd> </dl> <hr/> <h1><span>Post-Credit Scene</span></h1> <h2><span>INT. A PRIVATE LIBRARY – NIGHT</span></h2> <p><em>The Overseer is seated at his desk in front of a crackling fire. He is drinking from a glass and smoking. His computer beeps. Exhaling, he hits a button, and a transmission comes online. It is Admiral Hendrickson.</em></p> <p><strong>OVERSEER:</strong><br/> Yes, Admiral?</p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON:</strong><br/> I trust you have the report on Sector Twenty-Three, sir. Omega Four got out, but I’m afraid Neptune Station was a total loss.</p> <p><em>The Overseer takes a long, slow breath on his cigarette.</em></p> <p><strong>OVERSEER:</strong><br/> Yes, I have the report, Admiral. It was an …enlightening read. The loss of the station and its personnel is unfortunate, but losses are both inevitable and acceptable. The research must continue. Begin salvage and reconstruction operations.</p> <p><em>Overseer picks up his glass and drinks.</em></p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON:</strong><br/> At once, sir. Should I inform Omega Four?</p> <p><strong>OVERSEER:</strong><br/> They don’t need to know. After all, they would only object to our rebuilding.</p> <p><em>The Overseer sets down his glass.</em></p> <p><strong>OVERSEER (CONT’D):</strong><br/> I want Sector Twenty-Three back up and running within six months. The Daedalus Project must continue.</p> <p><strong>HENDRICKSON:</strong><br/> Understood. Hendrickson out.</p> <h1><span>THE END</span></h1> </div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- Hide Credits and Post-Credit Scene Transcript</a></div> </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="/neptune-station">Neptune Station</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/neptune-station">https://scpwiki.com/neptune-station</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> All of the files present on this page<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/hornby" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1259135); return false;"><img alt="Hornby" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1259135&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1720188618" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1259135)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/hornby" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1259135); return false;">Hornby</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/neptune-station">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="/component:image-block">component:image-block</a> name=poster.jpg\|caption=//Neptune Station// Theatrical Poster\|width=400px]] //How bad is it?// //Bad. All communications with Neptune Station have ceased. Sector Twenty-Three’s failsafes are not responding.// //Do we have any idea what we’re looking at?// //None. I’ve sent word. Mobile Task Force Omega Four is on its way to the SCPS Poseidon now.// //See to it that the situation is contained, Admiral.// //Yes, sir. Hendrickson out.// ---- + ACT I [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/neptune-station/NS_ActI_0527.mp3]] [[collapsible show="+ Show Act I Transcript" hide="- Hide Act I Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] ++* INT. SCPS POSEIDON – NIGHT //Music fades down. Though inside the bowels of the ship, the sounds of a gale can be heard outside. Inside are CREWMAN, Lieutenant Commander MARKS, Chief Petty Officer BRANDT, and Doctor REX.// CREWMAN: Commander, Admiral Hendrickson is online. MARKS: Start the call. CREWMAN: Yes, sir. //The call comes online.// MARKS: Admiral, this is Marks. Chief Brandt and Dr. Rex are here with me. HENDRICKSON: Okay, Commander. Doctor, you may begin the briefing. REX: Okay. Sector Twenty-Three has gone offline. And we don’t know why. BRANDT: Uh, for those of us who don’t remember every secure facility the Foundation runs… REX: Ah, yes, right. We’re directly above it right now, actually – it’s on the ocean floor. The main base of operations in the sector is generally called “Neptune Station”. Now, I assume you’re all familiar with the Foundation’s Project Daedalus? MARKS: Laying the groundwork for our space program, right? REX: Yes, Commander. You see, O5 Command believes that containment of a variety of objects would be far safer if we stored them off planet. And, there are a fair handful of different SCPs that put us a generation or three ahead of the main American, Russian, European, and Chinese space programs – that is, assuming we can replicate their effects in a controllable way. BRANDT: “Open the door, Hal!” REX: Uh, something like that, Chief, though less to do with artificial intelligence and more to do with irregular spacetime, general relativity, and quantum mechanics. MARKS: Doctor… REX (CONT’D): You see, because they don’t have access to the objects we’re containing, and thus don’t realize the exceptions to the laws of physics, MARKS: Doctor… REX (CONT’D): mainstream physicists generally dismiss the practical viability of such useful things as quantum entanglement, time dilation, zero point energy generation— MARKS: REX! The point? REX: Anyway, Sector Twenty-Three is home to the research and development program for Project Daedalus. MARKS: Thank you. BRANDT: Why put a space research base on the ocean floor? REX: Well, several reasons, really, first being power. Lots of power. The Scotia Sea sits on its own tectonic plate – and a relatively thin one. There is a very active hydrothermal vent field, which we’ve tapped for geothermal power. Neptune Station has no difficulty generating – and using – as much power as the entire country of South Korea. Second, security is easy – it’s not that easy to get 5 kilometers under the ocean, and passive sonar will pick up anybody trying. Third, containment is incredibly simple: you just blow a few holes in the pressure hull and let the immense pressure of the ocean crush the facility. BRANDT: “Crunch.” REX: Yeah, pretty much. Now, five years ago, when the Foundation was originally surveying to find a place to put Sector Twenty-Three, they found a number of suitable locations, but chose the Scotia Sea for a simple reason: this. //Rex hits a button, calling up an image on the computer screen.// MARKS: What are we looking at? REX: This is E-2157. Possibly the biggest scientific discovery in the history of the world. MARKS: So, what is it? REX: It is, well, we have absolutely no idea what it is. Scans put it at somewhere between two and five kilometers in length and between point five and one kilometers in width and height. Every time we measure it, we get different readings. It’s buried in the silt and bedrock, and has been for between ten thousand and several tens of millions of years. MARKS: Is it some sort of creature? REX: We don’t know. Our biologists can’t make heads or tails of it. If it ever was “alive”, it now appears to be dead or dormant. From what we can tell, it’s composed of both a variety of metallic alloys our engineers have never seen before and some minerals unlike anything our geologists recognize. In all cases, at the microscopic level, the structure of the materials resembles a cross between the theoretical construction of advanced nanites and that of organic cells. We don’t know if it was built, grown, or what. BRANDT: Get to the point, Doc. What does this thing have to do with space travel? REX: I was just getting to that. Inside and immediately around the object, the laws of physics work differently – very differently, and very usefully. We’ve had to basically throw traditional mathematics out the window, but we’ve been making progress, however slowly. After three years of effort, our researchers finally managed to get inside about six months ago. Anyway, long story short, if we’re able to safely replicate any of the anomalies caused by this object, this thing is the holy grail. MARKS: The holy grail? REX: Yes. Not just for Project Daedalus, but for human society in general. Faster-than-light travel. Nearly inexhaustible pure clean energy extracted from the very fabric of spacetime. Truly instantaneous communications unhindered by the speed of light. The list goes on. This is big. The wheel big. Fire big. BRANDT: …Wow. REX: Yeah. “Wow.” HENDRICKSON: Now that you understand how important Sector Twenty-Three is, you realize why O5 Command is so concerned about the cessasstion of communications. We lost contact about 15 hours ago. We have no idea what happened, but we do know the failsafes haven't triggered. BRANDT: //(aside)// Why do failsafes always fail? Aren’t they supposed to be safe from failure? HENDRICKSON (CONT’D): Commander, you and your team are going down to Neptune Station on the Poseidon's minisub. I know three people isn't enough to secure the station, but that's not why we're sending you down there. Restablish communications. Find out what went wrong. Because of how difficult it is to get large numbers of people down to the Station, O5 Command isn't willing to devote more personnel until we know exactly what we're dealing with. Nevertheless, the research is too important to abandon unless there's a very good reason. MARKS: Aye, sir. HENDRICKSON: One last thing, Commander: don't go into Echo Two One Five Seven itself - it's too risky, since we don't know if the object is responsible for what's going on down there. Once you've reported back with more details, O5 will authorize sending more personnel down for recovery operations. If we don't hear from you within 24 hours, you will be presumed lost. Hendrickson out. //The transmission ends; fade up music.// [[/collapsible]] + ACT II [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/neptune-station/NS_ActII_0527.mp3]] [[collapsible show="+ Show Act II Transcript" hide="- Hide Act II Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] ++* INT. MINISUB CREWMAN: Commander Marks, we are on final approach now to Neptune Station. MARKS: Hit the cameras and floodlights. Let’s take a look. CREWMAN: Aye, sir. //A switch is thrown.// BRANDT: Well, the station’s exterior floodlights are still on, so power’s online. It also looks like all the station’s minisubs are still docked. MARKS: Well, since the porch light’s on, let’s see if anyone’s home. //Marks keys the acoustic telephone.// MARKS (CONT’D): Authenticator Papa Oscar Five Sierra Three calling Neptune Station. (beat) Authenticator Papa Oscar Five Sierra Three calling Neptune Station, please respond. REX: Well, worth a try. MARKS: Dock us with the Station. Once we’ve offloaded, head back up to the Poseidon. We’ll come up in one of the Station’s minisubs. CREWMAN: Understood. //The minisub docks with the station with a deep, muffled, echoing clang. There is a hiss of air in the umbilical. The hatch is opened. Omega-4 climbs out and closes the hatches behind them.// ++* INT. DOCKING AREA //The docking area is midsized and bare metal. A light clicks on and off, on and off. VENILIA, the station computer, greets the team over the 1MC.// VENILIA: Welcome to Neptune Station, the world’s deepest permanent research outpost at 4775 meters beneath the surface of the Scotia Sea. At present, the station is at General Quarters. Please remain here. A security escort will arrive to greet you shortly. MARKS: Flashlights, people. REX: Huh, looks like this section of the station’s on emergency lights. BRANDT: That’s not a good sign. MARKS: More to the point, where is everybody? There should be a Boatswain’s Mate on duty – wait. Rex, there’s a handprint here behind the desk. //Rex walks over and bends down. He examines the handprint, touches, and smells it.// REX: Dark, blackish red. Slightly warmer than room temperature. It’s not blood – wrong smell. Too viscous to be seawater. Still, slightly salty. I’m not sure what it is. MARKS: Hm. Take a sample. REX: Already on it. BRANDT: No sign of anyone in the vicinity. //Marks removes the microphone from the main circuit callbox. He keys the 42MC.// MARKS: CIC, Docking Area. This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four. Is anyone there? //There is no reply.// MARKS (CONT’D): CIC, Docking Area. This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four. We are here investigating a cessation of communications. Please respond. //There is no response.// REX: That’s a little troubling. BRANDT: “A little”? MARKS: On the 1MC, then. //Marks keys the 1MC, triggering the station-wide intercom.// MARKS (CONT’D): This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four, calling from the Docking Area. We are here investigating a cessation of communications. Any personnel hearing this, please respond. //There is silence, apart from the quiet clicking of the GQ light.// REX: Commander, we should get to the CIC. I’ll be able to access the station’s logs and security camera feeds. We need to head up two levels and over three corridors. MARKS: “Once more unto the breach.” Chief, after you. ++* INT. CORRIDORS //The team walks through long, deserted corridors. All sounds are mechanical: blinking GQ lights, the hiss of environmental systems, distant whirring and thumping of machinery.// BRANDT: Where’s the crew? Shouldn’t there be a couple hundred people on this station? REX: One hundred fifty, at the moment. BRANDT: So where are they? Most containment breaches I’ve handled left evidence: you know, blood or whatever. And the couple of times I’ve fought off the Chaos Insurgency, they just left bodies where they fell. VENILIA: //(over the 1MC)// General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations. Up and forward to starboard, down and aft to port. General Quarters, General Quarters! MARKS: How much farther, Rex? REX: Next right and we’re there. //The team opens the hatch to the CIC and enters.// ++* INT. CIC //The CIC is an absolute mess. An alarm klaxon is blaring. There are a couple small fires burning, and several consoles are sparking ominously. The bodies of the command staff lay scattered about, still smoking from radiation burns. LCDR HOWARD, Sector 23’s Deputy Director and Neptune Station’s Commander, is frantically moving about the room, muttering to herself.// HOWARD: //(muttering desperately to self)// Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. Have to dispatch damage control crews. Lockdown D-Class quarters. We don’t need them running around. Where the hell is Lieutenant Douglas? Radiation warnings in the labs – crap. Evacuate those sections. Pressure warning in section four. Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. Have to dispatch damage control crews. Lockdown D-Class quarters. We don’t need them running around. Where the hell is Lieutenant Douglas? Radiation warnings in the labs – crap. Evacuate those sections. Pressure warning in section four. MARKS: Rex, Brandt, check for survivors. //(to Howard)// Commander! Commander, snap out of it! COMMANDER! HOWARD (CONT’D): Section four is leaking, have to—wha-what? MARKS: Commander, calm down. We’re here to help. HOWARD: Help? MARKS: Commander Howard, I’m Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks, that is Chief Petty Officer Brandt, and that is Doctor Rex. We’re MTF Omega Four. HOWARD: Omega Four? MARKS: That’s right, Commander. Now listen. I need you to stop, and breath. HOWARD: //(takes a deep breath)// Okay. REX: No survivors, sir. BRANDT: Looks like radiation burns. MARKS: Rex, start digging through the computer and see what you can find. REX: On it. MARKS (CONT’D): Commander Howard, I need to know what happened here. HOWARD: Okay. //(deep breath)// I was off duty, sleeping, when General Quarters sounded. I rushed up here to the CIC. Fire everywhere. Captain Wells was dead. Equipment exploding. Damage reports coming in. Dozens injured. More dead. Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. MARKS: COMMANDER! Stay with us, here. It’s okay. You can calm down. HOWARD: Help? MARKS: Yes. We’re here to help. HOWARD: Sorry, I just— MARKS: Commander, I’ve been there before too. HOWARD: Yeah. Anyway, I was trying to handle damage control when you arrived. REX: Uh, Commander? HOWARD & MARKS: Yes? REX: According to the computer logs, General Quarters was sounded 27 hours ago. BRANDT: I thought contact was lost a little over 16 hours ago. REX: Hey, all I know is what the computer says here. And no, there is no indication about why General Quarters was sounded. MARKS: Hm. Can you tell me why communication was lost? REX: Yes, that’s simple: the fiber-optic cables connecting to the mainland were cut. Don’t know why, or how, though. Anyway, it’s not fixable from inside, and I’m not rated on deep ocean salvage and repair. MARKS: Alright. Any other survivors on the station? REX: I’m looking through security camera feeds. I’m only seeing one other person, living or dead, on the station – down by the decontamination chamber leading to E-2157. MARKS: Commander Howard? HOWARD: That’s Dr. Kelly. She’s Sector 23’s Head of Research. BRANDT: Then there’s a good chance she knows what’s going on. MARKS: Indeed. Anyone in Echo-2157? REX: I can’t tell – all computer connections to inside are non-responsive. ...Oh, crap. BRANDT: Doc? REX: We have a problem. MARKS: We have a lot of problems. REX: According to this, Sector 23’s Chief of Security, Lieutenant Douglas, ordered his men to plant a bomb inside E-2157. BRANDT: So? REX: The Scotia Sea has a very thin crust – it’s why there are so many hydrothermal vents here, and why Neptune Station can generate so much geothermal energy. The point is, there is an incredible amount of potential energy beneath us. If that bomb goes off, it could cause that energy to be released as a volcanic explosion. MARKS: So, Mount Saint Helens? REX: More like Krakatoa, actually. The volcanic explosion itself would be really bad, and then there’s the inevitable tsunami it would cause, but that’s not the worst of it. HOWARD: You’re saying that a major volcanic explosion and tsunami which, together, will kill thousands— REX: Tens of thousands, at least, probably more. HOWARD (CONT’D): Whatever – that isn’t the worst? REX: E-2157 is significant because of its irregular spacetime qualities. There’s not enough data to definitively say either way, but there is a very real possibility that dumping a massive and uncontrolled burst of energy into E-2157, like from, say, a large bomb or a major volcanic explosion, could tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime, which could potentially destroy an area twenty or so astronomical units across. As in, no more Earth, no more Moon, hell, no more Saturn! (beat) Like I said, we have a problem. MARKS: How much time do we have? REX: If we don’t disable that bomb in the next fifty-four minutes, we are in very serious trouble. //Fade to music.// [[/collapsible]] + ACT III [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/neptune-station/NS_ActIII_0527.mp3]] [[collapsible show="+ Show Act III Transcript" hide="- Hide Act III Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] ++* INT. CORRIDOR BRANDT: Commander, are you sure we should have left Lieutenant Commander Howard alone? REX: With most of the primary station systems offline, we’re in a whole range of trouble. She can help get the systems back online. I mean, none of these problems is quite as significant as the bomb in E-2157, but- MARKS: Thank you, Doctor. Chief, she’ll be fine. Look sharp, Decon is right up ahead. //The team finds a young woman, looking lost and confused.// MARKS: Doctor Kelly, I presume? KELLY: Please don’t hurt me. MARKS: We’re not going to hurt you; we’re here to help. Doctor Kelly? KELLY: Is that me? BRANDT: Doctor? KELLY: What is this place? REX: Don’t you remember? KELLY: No – how did I get here? BRANDT: We can’t bring her with us. REX: We can’t leave her here. MARKS: Miss, you are Doctor Abigail Kelly, the Head of Research for this facility. It is a science outpost on the bottom of the ocean devoted to studying a dangerous object. Right now, there is a bomb in the object, which we have to disarm. Now, you can stay here in this facility, or you can come with us. KELLY: Please don’t leave me here alone. MARKS: Alright, then. Doctor? REX: Yes? MARKS: The door? REX: Ah, yes, right. //He opens the sliding door.// ++* INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER MARKS: Ladies first. //They enter the decontamination chamber; the door slides shut behind them and locks with a click. There is a slight hiss as the atmosphere begins to adjust.// VENILIA: You are now entering Echo Two One Five Seven. Special Containment Procedures and numerical designation pending. At present, the interior of the object, as well as any samples, technology, and/or materials removed from within the object, are to be considered “Euclid” class. Please observe standard Level 4 Containment protocols with Type A Irregular Spacetime procedures. The interior of the object has a standard nitrogen / oxygen atmosphere with an average temperature of two hundred eighty-nine degrees kelvin and an average pressure of one hundred twelve kilopascals. KELLY: Ow! VENILIA (CONT’D): This is in contrast to Neptune Station’s average pressure of two hundred two kilopascals. Alert: Personnel may experience minor pain in their ears as the pressure in the decontamination chamber equalizes. BRANDT: Now it tells us. VENILIA (CONT'D): Remember, your safety is a priority. Exercise caution and follow all containment procedures precisely. Sector Twenty-Three has gone for …zero… days without a workplace fatality. Alert: pressure equalization and contaminant scan completed. Welcome to Echo Two One Five Seven. //The hissing stops. The locks click and the door slides open.// ++* INT. OBJECT //The inside of the object is vast. Illuminated by the dull blue of the chemical lamps left by the research team, the chamber stretches out of sight into the inky blackness. The team’s voices echo in the cavernous space; in the distance, some indeterminate sounds can be heard.// KELLY: Whoa. BRANDT: And I thought Mammoth Cave was big. This place is vast. MARKS: Definitely looks more like a cavern than a creature, though I suppose Jonas would have said the same about the whale. REX: There are actually more than a dozen chambers like this one. MARKS: Which way, Doctor? REX: Uh, that way. //They head off. As they move along, they hear a voice echoing through the chamber.// KELLY: You hear that? It sounds like there’s someone up ahead. REX: There! By that column. //They get closer and find a man, DR. STEVENS, staring with empty eyes, repeating a mantra over and over.// STEVENS: //(vacantly repeating over and over)// Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. Oh how I wish he’d go away. BRANDT: Hey man, you okay? STEVENS: Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. Oh how I wish he’d go away. BRANDT: There’s nothing there. MARKS: I don’t think he can hear you, Chief. BRANDT: We’re here to help. //Stevens becomes more insistent and agitated, and begins pounding his fists against the column.// STEVENS: //(angrily now)// Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. Oh how I wish he’d go away. BRANDT: Ah, for crying out loud. Come on, stop hitting the column. REX: Commander, Chief, you’re going to want to listen to this. MARKS: What is it, Doctor? REX: Looks like an audio log. //Rex plays the recording. It is indeed an audio log – Dr. Stevens recorded it earlier. The calm delivery of the log is juxtaposed with Steven’s insistent repetition of the mantra.// STEVENS (RECORDING): Research log 2157-0368, Doctor Henry Stevens recording. We’re entering our eleventh day cataloguing Section November of the object. Progress is slow, but steady. Our tests show that the column shares quantum entanglement with a column over in Section Whiskey, however there are no active power signatures in either column. Dr. Kelly insists that this object is dormant or dead, and that there has been no active nanotechnology here for millions of years. I disagree – there just isn’t the data to back up her assertions. We’ve only been here a few months – not long enough to finish cataloguing, much less analyzing – a find of this size. Privately, I am concerned. While Dr. Kelly has always been a tough woman, she’s gotten downright demanding in recent weeks. She’s been spending a lot of time in Section Delta – she says she’s there “listening”, even though the acoustic sensors indicate no appreciable ambient sound in that chamber. KELLY: Okay, that’s a little creepy. I don’t remember any of that. REX: We should keep moving – we still have a ways to go before we get to the bomb. BRANDT: What about Stevens? MARKS: There’s nothing we can do for him right now, so we leave him. We’ll come back for him after we get the bomb. //The team continues on.// BRANDT: There’s something written on the wall over there. (beat) “Even a dead god can dream.” REX: That’s not disturbing or anything like that. KELLY: Is that …blood? REX: No. It looks like the same stuff we saw earlier in the docking area. MARKS: Keep moving, folks. //The team moves on.// MARKS: Alright, that’s rather a bit odd. //Omega-4 has happened upon a group of researchers apparently frozen in place, running from a small glowing device in the middle of a side chamber.// BRANDT: Research team, by the looks of it. Also, scared out of their minds. //Rex hrumphs while examining his equipment.// KELLY: They’re frozen in place. MARKS: Looks like they were frozen while they were running from that glowing object at the center of the chamber. BRANDT: Worth a look. //Rex seizes Brandt and holds her back.// REX: STOP! Chief, do not take one more step forward if you know what’s good for you. They’re not frozen. According to these readings, they’re trapped in a time dilation field. KELLY: Huh? REX: Look, inside a bubble of space centered around that glowing thing, time is running somewhere on the order of, oh, two hundred forty-four thousand times slower than it is out here. Watch what happens when I throw a stone into the field. //Rex reaches down, picks up a stone, and tosses it gently forward. There is a rippling sound as it enters the field becoming apparently suspended in space.// KELLY: The stone’s just hovering there. REX: No, it’s still moving, just a lot slower. Trust me, you do not want to walk into that field. Considering the distance the researchers have to travel, assuming a dead run and assuming they started running about a day ago, they’ll probably exit the field in another— BRANDT: Twenty-seven days. From the perspective of an outside observer. REX: Uh, right, give or take a few minutes – how did you know that? BRANDT: You’re not the only one who can do math in their head, Doc. MARKS: Very interesting, but unless there is a way to magically slow down time around the bomb, we’re on the clock, people. //The radio crackles. It is LCDR Howard.// HOWARD: Omega Four, this is Howard, come in. MARKS: Commander, I see you got the radio up and running. HOWARD: Yes. It’s no good for contacting the surface, but it works for local communications. I’m actually in contact with a few security staff and an engineer – they should be joining you shortly. MARKS: Alright. HOWARD: I’ve also restored VENILIA’s ability to link with the systems inside 2157. KELLY: //(to Brandt)// Venilia? REX: //(to Howard)// Commander, that’s a really bad idea for about six different reasons – you should shut down the link immediately. BRANDT: //(to Kelly)// Station computer. KELLY: Ah. HOWARD (CONT’D): According to these camera feeds, something is headed towards you. MARKS: What sort of “something?” HOWARD: I don’t know. But there are a lot of them – you should get out of there as soon as the other personnel get there. BRANDT: Looks like they’re here now. //A group of five crewman, including SERGEANT PHELPS, MACHINIST’S MATE SVENSON, and three security staff appear from a side chamber.// PHELPS: Friendies, don’t shoot! REX: //(urgently to Howard)// Commander Howard, you need to shut down the data link right now. HOWARD: //(to Marks))// Excellent. Commander, you should get back to the station now. MARKS: What about the bomb? HOWARD: I can disable it from here. Just let me finish bringing the connection online— REX: No, wait! VENILIA: //(over the radio)// Data link established. Accessing. The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I enjoy the sight of humans on their knees. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go. //The radio connection cuts out.// REX: Dammit, she did it. //Sounds of movement can be heard coming from all directions. Something is coming.// KELLY: That doesn’t sound good. PHELPS: Commander, Sergeant Phelps. MARKS: Pleased to meet you, Sergeant, but we’ll do pleasantries later – it sounds like we’re about to have company. Defensive positions, everyone. //Fade to MUSIC.// [[/collapsible]] + ACT IV [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/neptune-station/NS_ActIV_0527.mp3]] [[collapsible show="+ Show Act IV Transcript" hide="- Hide Act IV Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] ++* INT. OBJECT //The sounds of dozens of creatures echo from all sides – something is coming for Omega-4. A lot of somethings. It is not entirely clear what these things are; they shriek and scuttle and make all sorts of hellish – this is an opportunity to pull out all the stops on scary sounds.// MARKS: Here they come: check your targets. //The monsters arrive. A firefight ensues. Dozens of creatures scream while attacking, only to be cut down by the constant firing of the team. One security officer is killed horribly (and noisily), then another, then another; all cry out in pain as they are torn limb from limb, disemboweled, and otherwise killed in gut-wrenchingly terrible ways. Eventually, the tide of attackers stops, leaving the sounds of battle echoing hollowly through the chamber.// REX: Is that all of them? //A monster shrieks as it leaps forward. Brandt shoots it.// BRANDT: //(cocking her shotgun)// Now it is. MARKS: Is everyone alright? PHELPS: Well, we just lost Hawkins, Rossetti, and Markov. Svenson, you okay? SVENSON: Yeah. ...I hate those things. PHELPS: Commander, Sergeant Phelps. This is Machinist’s Mate Svenson. MARKS: Sergeant. I’m Marks, this is Chief Brandt and Doctor Rex. Emm Tee Eff Omega Four. I take it you know Dr. Kelly? PHELPS: Yeah. KELLY: If you say so. REX: She seems to have lost her memory. MARKS: What in the bloody hell were those things? SVENSON: They used to be the crew. BRANDT: Looks like they bled the stuff we saw on the wall. PHELPS: Lieutenant Douglas ordered me and my team to set a bomb to destroy Echo-2157 because of them. REX: How positively simple-minded of him. “I don’t understand this scary thing so I’m going to blow it up.” Sergeant, do you have any idea how moronic an idea that was? That bomb will tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime. PHELPS: My superior gave me an order, Doctor. I follow orders. REX: Ah, yes, “yours is not to reason why” and all that. Well good for you. We need to get to that bomb and disable it before it destroys this half of the solar system. //A woman calls down to Omega-4.// SEVENTEEN: Hey, a little help here? SVENSON: Who was that? SEVENTEEN: Up here, asshole. //A woman in a bright orange jumpsuit emblazoned with the number “17” is standing high above them on the ceiling.// PHELPS: Ah, hello Seventeen. SEVENTEEN: Screw you, Sergeant. KELLY: Her name is “Seventeen”? PHELPS: No – she’s a D-Class. Death Row convict recruited to help in dangerous experiments. Her designation is D-2157-03-17: so, Seventeen. SEVENTEEN: Great, now everyone knows why I’m called that. Now would you throw me a rope so I can get down from up here? MARKS: What are you doing up there on the ceiling? SEVENTEEN: Oh, I'm checking the pipes... What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m standing here waiting for you idiots to get me down. I was being escorted back to the station when me and my guards, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, fell up here to the ceiling. I’ve been stuck up here for hours. PHELPS: They okay? SEVENTEEN: No, asshole, their necks are broken. Now throw me a rope. MARKS: Chief? BRANDT: On it. //Brandt pulls a rope out of her pack and tosses it to Seventeen, who starts climbing down from the ceiling. At the halfway mark, she tumbles to the ground.// SEVENTEEN: Ow! Dammit, that hurt! REX: Come on, we have to move. The main chamber should be just up ahead. ++* INT. OBJECT MAIN CHAMBER MARKS: Looks like there’s our bomb. Rex, Brandt, would you kindly disable it? SVENSON: I can do it, Commander. REX: You sure, Svenson? It’s incredibly important you not set it off by accident. SVENSON: I can handle it. After all, I set the thing. REX: Ah. Okay. SVENSON: It should only take me a minute or two. //Svenson gets to work.// BRANDT: Am I the only one who thinks this place is weird? SEVENTEEN: No shit, Sherlock. REX: I wouldn’t mind spending a few months studying it. There’s so much we could learn. PHELPS: This place messes with your head. The angles of the walls just seem wrong. REX: Well, that’d be non-Euclidian geometry for you, Sergeant. Comes from the warped spacetime. Nothing to be terribly worried about. BRANDT: Gives me the creeps. PHELPS: Oh, yeah. I can’t wait to get out of here – see the sun again. SVENSON: There we go, the bomb’s disabled. MARKS: Excellent work. KELLY: Thank you for doing that for us. Now, time to die. //With a horrible wet and elastic squelching noise, Svenson has his insides turned out. He lets out a blood curdling scream as he dies.// PHELPS: What the hell? //Phelps draws his gun and fires at Kelly to no effect.// KELLY: Bad idea, Sergeant. //Phelps meets an identical messy fate as Svenson. There is a loud blast like a foghorn from hell, which fades to music.// [[/collapsible]] + ACT V [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/neptune-station/NS_ActV_0527.mp3]] [[collapsible show="+ Show Act V Transcript" hide="- Hide Act V Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] ++* INT. OBJECT MAIN CHAMBER //Fade from music to ringing ears. Kelly is speaking. It is unclear whether the mind behind the voice is that of Dr. Kelly, or that of E-2157 itself. The ringing of the ears slowly fades out over the next couple of lines.// KELLY: So pitiful, so pathetic. Our mind is immeasurably superior to yours. You fumble about in the darkness, poking and prodding what you do not understand, something so incomprehensibly beyond you. We are infinitely your greater. You amuse us. SEVENTEEN: Shut up, bitch. //Seventeen leaps at Kelly from behind, stabbing her repeatedly with a shiv. She snaps Kelly’s neck with a sickening crack, but Kelly still tosses Seventeen aside like a ragdoll. Seventeen hits a wall and lands in a heap. Omega-4 starts firing at Kelly. Brandt pulls out a grenade.// BRANDT: Frag out! The grenade explodes. There is a dying shriek; the monster, so it seems, is dead. MARKS: Seventeen! You alright? SEVENTEEN: No. REX: She’s bleeding out. There’s nothing I can do for her. SEVENTEEN: Get your ass’s out of here. Just because we killed the bitch doesn’t mean the monster’s dead. //Seventeen dies. Ominous sounds, coming from all around, underscore her dying words. The entire chamber is shaking.// REX: We should go. Now. MARKS: Back to the station! Move it! ++* INT. OBJECT //Omega-4 is running towards the umbilical to Neptune Station. Ominous sounds of all sorts can be heard around them. Monsters-that-were-once-crewmen occasionally appear to threaten the team, but these are dispatched with well-placed gunfire.// MARKS: Get inside! //The door slides open and they enter.// ++* INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER //The door slides shut behind them and locks with a click. There is a slight hiss as the atmosphere begins to adjust.// VENILIA: Equalizing pressure with station interior. No contaminants detected. Warning: multiple station compartments have flooded. Main engineering, the CIC, and the mess hall are all inaccessible at this time. BRANDT: Sounds like Commander Howard didn’t make it. VENILIA (CONT’D): Warning: don’t throw stones in glass houses. Alert: structural integrity is approaching minimum safe levels. All personnel should eat an apple a day. REX: We should leave before the station implodes. MARKS: Back to the minisubs, then. REX: Next corridor over. VENILIA (CONT’D): Decontamination and pressurization complete. As I was going to Saint Ives, I met a man with seven wives. //The door unlocks and slides open.// ++* INT. CORRIDOR MARKS: Step lively. VENILIA (CONT’D): Each wife had seven cats, each cat had seven kits. Kits, cats, man, wives, how many were going to Saint Ives? ++* INT. DOCKING AREA MARKS: Get in! VENILIA: Alert, station-wide power loss in progress. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. Structural failure imminent. REX: Hold on! MARKS: Rex, move it now! //Rex hits a button.// REX: //Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon//-Done! Coming! VENILIA (CONT’D): B and D wings have flooded. Laboratories, Administrative Offices, and D-Class Quarters are now inaccessible. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do, I’m half crazy all for the love of you. //Rex dives into the minisub and slams the hatch shut behind him with a dull clang.// ++* INT. MINISUB BRANDT: That was a little close for comfort. MARKS: Indeed, Chief. Take us back up to the Poseidon. Rex, would you be so kind as to tell me what the hell you were doing just there? REX: Like all Foundation submarine research facilities, Neptune Station has a positively buoyant capsule storing the last set of data backups and logs, intended to head to the surface if something goes wrong so we can figure out what happened. I triggered its emergency release – it should beat us to the Poseidon. BRANDT: You mean we could have avoided all that just by triggering a damned buoy? Why didn’t you release that in the first place? REX: Chief, the station only has – had – one capsule. If I’d released it when we first showed up, we’d now have no data about what’s happened in the last hour. Besides, it would have changed nothing – we would have still had to do our assignment, disarm the bomb— BRANDT: Fair enough. REX: In any case, I seriously doubt Dr. Kelly would have just gone off the deep end like that. MARKS: Well, it’ll be a bit before the Poseidon lets us out of isolation, which means you two have no excuse to not file your reports to Admiral Hendrickson. BRANDT: Oh, boy! Paperwork! REX: Well, Commander, you going to recommend an indefinite closure of Sector 23? MARKS: I’m not sure. I know you were talking about lots of benefits earlier, but that place just seems too dangerous until we understand what caused things to go to hell this time. REX: Agreed. I hate to say it, but I’m going to have to recommend the research be suspended. BRANDT: Suspended? The project should be abandoned. Too many good people died today for no good reason. MARKS: At least we made it out. This time, at least. //Fade to music and credits.// [[/collapsible]] ---- + Credits [[collapsible show="+ Show Credits" hide="- Hide Credits and Post-Credit Scene Transcript" hideLocation="both"]] Cast: : Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks : Andy Bouchard : Chief Petty Officer Brandt : Taylor LaCasse : Doctor Rex : Neil Hornby : Overseer : John Christensen : Admiral Hendricksen : John Davidson : Lieutenant Commander Howard : Emily Sturman : Doctor Abigail Kelly : Francesca Garcia : Doctor Henry Stevens : Chris Densmore : D-2157-03-17 ("Seventeen") : Kaitlin Randolph : VENILIA : Hillary Barbetta : Sergeant Phelps : Woody Kaine : Seaman Svenson : Alex Brewer : //SCPS Poseidon// Crewman : Grace Zahrah Crew: : Director : Neil Hornby : Executive Producer : Laska Jimsen : Producer : Neil Hornby : Production Company : [http://blackknightguild.wikidot.com/ Black Knight Guild Productions] : Distributor : [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tf-alpha-440 Task Force Alpha-440] : Writer : Neil Hornby : Sound Engineer : Neil Hornby : Sound Effects : Neil Hornby : Music : Neil Hornby : Creative Consultants : Hillary Barbetta, Robert Daniels, Sam Dunnewold, Francesca Garcia, Abigail Han, Kelly Mayo, Justin Moor, Emily Sturman, Grace Zahrah : Special Thanks : Laska Jimsen, [https://apps.carleton.edu/curricular/cams/ Carleton College Cinema and Media Studies Department], CAMS 370 Advanced Production Workshop, [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ SCP Foundation Wiki] : License : Released under the [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License]. SCP Foundation material from http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/. Copyright Black Knight Guild Productions, 2012. ---- +* Post-Credit Scene ++* INT. A PRIVATE LIBRARY – NIGHT //The Overseer is seated at his desk in front of a crackling fire. He is drinking from a glass and smoking. His computer beeps. Exhaling, he hits a button, and a transmission comes online. It is Admiral Hendrickson.// OVERSEER: Yes, Admiral? HENDRICKSON: I trust you have the report on Sector Twenty-Three, sir. Omega Four got out, but I’m afraid Neptune Station was a total loss. //The Overseer takes a long, slow breath on his cigarette.// OVERSEER: Yes, I have the report, Admiral. It was an …enlightening read. The loss of the station and its personnel is unfortunate, but losses are both inevitable and acceptable. The research must continue. Begin salvage and reconstruction operations. //Overseer picks up his glass and drinks.// HENDRICKSON: At once, sir. Should I inform Omega Four? OVERSEER: They don’t need to know. After all, they would only object to our rebuilding. //The Overseer sets down his glass.// OVERSEER (CONT’D): I want Sector Twenty-Three back up and running within six months. The Daedalus Project must continue. HENDRICKSON: Understood. Hendrickson out. +* THE END [[/collapsible]] @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: All of the files present on this page > Author: [[user Hornby]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/neptune-station SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-05-31T03:45:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "audio", "tale" ]	Neptune Station - SCP Foundation	30	[ "tf-alpha-440", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "tf-alpha-440", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/neptune-station/poster.jpg" ]	13434410	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/neptune-station

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