Split (1)

train · 5.83k rows

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the-rain	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Rain was pouring down on me from up above, pattering on the skylight of the break room as if mother nature herself had just gotten a broken heart. I could barely stand the sound. It reminded me of worse times, when the sound of the rain on glass was nothing more than the distance between me and a liquor store. Those were hard times.</p> <p>The sound started getting under my skin, so I went for a walk. Most evenings it's so dark you can't tell if it's day or night, and the only comfort you might get is the buzzing of fluorescent lamps and the yellowish glows they cast across the floor. Beyond that, around here the only friends you ever get are the sound of your heart beating fast and that feeling of a chill on the back of your neck when you think you're alone.</p> <p>The sound of my footsteps on the tile floor echoes like gunshots down the twisting corridor. I got a few stares from the tired Janes and grumpy Joes around every corner, but I didn't care. Nobody was gonna stop me from what I had to do. That rain! I could still hear it on the windows, and I felt my stomach sink like a cannonball in water. Somehow (and don't ask me how) I made it back to my office and sat down. My desk was littered with requests and reports, glaring up at me with their cold facts and their unending pain. I was tired. The rain still shook deep in my head and split my skull like a bolt of fire.</p> <p>I drew my sidearm and laid the sleek, black weapon on the desk, a tool of death coiled and ready to strike like a venomous snake. I'd thought about the possibility of ending things before. I heard once that firing a gun is a binary choice: Either you pull the trigger or you don't. Sometimes that decision is slow. Sometimes it's a decision you make in an instant.</p> <p>If nothing else, then the grave would silence this godforsaken rain.</p> <p>-</p> <p>Dr. Brown pulled the hat off of the corpse. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."</p> <p>Agent Stevens shook his head. "This is ridiculous. How does a containment breach like this even <em>happen</em>?"</p> <p>Brown put the hat into a box and sealed it. "He checked it out earlier for research. He got approval from three level 3's. He followed protocol, up until he put the damn thing on."</p> <p>"Well, shit." He pointed at the box and glared at the doctor. "I want to make sure that thing stays locked up from now on. When I find out how the hell this happened, I'm gonna have one hell of a report. I'll be lucky if I still have a job." His eyes drifted over the dead researcher on the floor. "Then again, that might not be such a bad thing."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-rain">The Rain</a>" by Sam Swicegood (CityToast), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-rain">https://scpwiki.com/the-rain</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]] [[/>]] Rain was pouring down on me from up above, pattering on the skylight of the break room as if mother nature herself had just gotten a broken heart. I could barely stand the sound. It reminded me of worse times, when the sound of the rain on glass was nothing more than the distance between me and a liquor store. Those were hard times. The sound started getting under my skin, so I went for a walk. Most evenings it's so dark you can't tell if it's day or night, and the only comfort you might get is the buzzing of fluorescent lamps and the yellowish glows they cast across the floor. Beyond that, around here the only friends you ever get are the sound of your heart beating fast and that feeling of a chill on the back of your neck when you think you're alone. The sound of my footsteps on the tile floor echoes like gunshots down the twisting corridor. I got a few stares from the tired Janes and grumpy Joes around every corner, but I didn't care. Nobody was gonna stop me from what I had to do. That rain! I could still hear it on the windows, and I felt my stomach sink like a cannonball in water. Somehow (and don't ask me how) I made it back to my office and sat down. My desk was littered with requests and reports, glaring up at me with their cold facts and their unending pain. I was tired. The rain still shook deep in my head and split my skull like a bolt of fire. I drew my sidearm and laid the sleek, black weapon on the desk, a tool of death coiled and ready to strike like a venomous snake. I'd thought about the possibility of ending things before. I heard once that firing a gun is a binary choice: Either you pull the trigger or you don't. Sometimes that decision is slow. Sometimes it's a decision you make in an instant. If nothing else, then the grave would silence this godforsaken rain. - Dr. Brown pulled the hat off of the corpse. "You gotta be fucking kidding me." Agent Stevens shook his head. "This is ridiculous. How does a containment breach like this even //happen//?" Brown put the hat into a box and sealed it. "He checked it out earlier for research. He got approval from three level 3's. He followed protocol, up until he put the damn thing on." "Well, shit." He pointed at the box and glared at the doctor. "I want to make sure that thing stays locked up from now on. When I find out how the hell this happened, I'm gonna have one hell of a report. I'll be lucky if I still have a job." His eyes drifted over the dead researcher on the floor. "Then again, that might not be such a bad thing." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Sam Swicegood (CityToast)]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-06-25T03:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Rain - SCP Foundation	12	[ "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" ]	[]	13626172	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-rain
the-rise-and-fall-of-callus	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> The Survivor stood before the front doors of the University. He cautiously reached a hand forward, and silently opened the door. As he stepped through, broken glass crunching under his feet, he remembered. <hr/> <p><em>Greeter Callus paced on his stage, looking out across the mass of students. Some sat tall, attentively listening to his speech. Some slept. It was the same every year, and Callus no longer cared about his audience. The students would define themselves through their work in the coming years, regardless of his opinions now.</em></p> <p><em>As he paced, he spoke about the famous University at which he worked. The studies which these young adults would partake in over the next several years, the activities to be found around campus, and how honored they should be at their acceptance to this legendary school. He felt some passion leak into his voice as he described the work done by the great men and women who had passed through these halls. Many of them had made history, and one of these students may well be the next to push forward the science of the mind.</em></p> <p><em>He ended his speech as the bell rang, watching the sea of students rise and flow out the door. As the auditorium emptied, he pondered his own place at the University. Where would he be in four years?</em></p> <hr/> <p>The Survivor opened his eyes. The main lobby of Alexylva University lay around him in ruin, the once great halls now silent. The glass skylight had shattered, and broken glass littered the room. Years of weather had ruined the beautiful wooden reception desk, any papers that might have been there long washed away.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Teacher Callus sat in his classroom, helping a student through an assignment. As he marked through an equation he paused, feeling something click into place in the back of his mind. He turned to his chalkboard and erased a paragraph of notes, scribbling numbers in their place. As he wrote, his thoughts coalesced. For years this idea had been out of his reach. But now, now it was not only possible, but easy. How had this not been seen before?</em></p> <p><em>An extra pulse here, a block here…</em></p> <hr/> <p>They had destroyed everything. It had taken him a while to realize exactly what was happening, but he was much better equipped to recognize the threat than anyone else. While he was hidden away within his lab, the University had been sacked. He had fled as soon as the screeching stopped.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Researcher Callus watched a bird flit through the gardens of the university. He felt a glorious sense of accomplishment, and a terrible sense of dread. He had done what had never been attempted before. He would be remembered as one of the great men of history for his accomplishments. But what would this be used for? What would be done with this research?</em></p> <p><em>Callus whistled softly, and the bird flew to his hand. He held it gingerly, feeling the tiny feet shift on his fingers as the little avian stared questioningly at him. He held the bird by his cheek for a moment, and then threw it into the air. He whistled the release command. This bird would be free now, no different from any other. It was a prototype, and more advanced methods of control would be needed before the technology would be practicable on a large scale.</em></p> <p><em>As the bird winged off into the distance, Callus pondered his next step. This must be carefully regulated, or terrible things could be done.</em></p> <hr/> <p>He walked through the halls of the University where he had once worked, wandering towards that place where it had all begun so many years ago. As he walked through the desolate hallways, the years of abuse the University had suffered made themselves apparent. He was no longer the scholar he had been, but he was still able to see the mold growing from abandoned binders, the broken windows, the doors that had been wrenched from their frames by an army of beasts looking for any uninfected human.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Magnate Callus held his head in his hands, a sense of defeat flooding him. Their very first mass shipment of birds had been infected with a rare avian flu, and only a few had survived to their destination. An entire crate, filled with little technological marvels, dropped dead. He could not afford a mistake of this scale, and he knew he would be unable to continue operating.</em></p> <p><em>Callus sighed and stood. He whistled, and a small monkey leaped from the floor to his shoulder in a few short bounds. There it stayed, perfectly balanced, as Callus left his office. He pondered his situation, staring up at the night sky.</em></p> <p><em>He would have to sell his technology to the University, and hope that the price would be enough to pay off that shipment. He felt a crushing sense of failure as he realized that he would never profit from his discovery. He closed his eyes, his head still pointed towards the sky, and felt the beginnings of a tear beneath his eyelids. His chance at fame, destroyed by one terrible mistake. He would be forever remembered as the brilliant inventor who failed.</em></p> <hr/> <p>He had blamed himself. When there had been others, he never shared his name. He knew what it would mean for them to know that the man who had doomed their race was sitting only feet away. There had been days when he had stopped running, when he had simply sat down and waited for death to find him. But he had something to do.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Handler Callus stood before a class for the second time in his life, a small cat perched on a table beside him. The tail ticked back and forth rhythmically as Callus spoke to the class, teaching them the proper tones and patterns for commanding the Controlled. He demonstrated with a quick, low whistle, and the cat leaped from the desk and towards Callus. He caught it in the crook of his elbow, holding the animal close to his chest.</em></p> <p><em>As Callus held the small cat, he heard a sound from outside. A very faint whistle, something that sounded almost like-</em></p> <p><em>Callus felt the ticking tail slow, then stop. The cat in his arms blinked and turned, staring at him wide-eyed, the confusion Callus felt mirrored in the cats green pupils. Another faint whistle, and Callus yelled as the cat bit sharply into his gloved hand. He dropped the cat, the thick glove still in its teeth, and ran.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Survivor Callus entered the auditorium and stopped, standing straight. The rows of chairs were the same as they had been, undisturbed for years. He walked slowly, absorbing the feel of the room. Not even the death of humanity could take the majesty from this place.</p> <p>As Callus arrived at the stage, he assumed his old place. Never again would the freshman class of the University be greeted here. He felt the old pain in his chest flare up, and he leaned against the podium. Years of fear and guilt and running had wrecked his body, but he had still managed to survive. At least he had survived.</p> <p>Callus raised his eyes from the podium on which he leaned, taking in the empty room. As he looked, his eyes fell on a flash of color. There, standing atop a seat, was a bird.</p> <p>Callus sighed. Everything. He had lost everything. And now, this.</p> <p>He felt the slight pressure as the bird landed on his shoulder. He had always preferred them to land on his shoulder. Callus barely felt the nip as the bird gently bit his neck, holding in that position. Callus knew what was happening, what would happen. But he had been running for so long. Why keep going?</p> <p>Several minutes later, the bird released the pressure on his neck. It leaped from his shoulder and flew swiftly out the front door, gone almost before he noticed it had left him. He knew what would happen to him now. He sighed, and decided that he would lose his humanity with dignity.</p> <p>Pushing himself as straight as he could behind the podium, the last man on earth prepared to die.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-rise-and-fall-of-callus">The Rise and Fall of Callus</a>" by Snowshoe, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-rise-and-fall-of-callus">https://scpwiki.com/the-rise-and-fall-of-callus</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 Survivor stood before the front doors of the University. He cautiously reached a hand forward, and silently opened the door. As he stepped through, broken glass crunching under his feet, he remembered. ----- //Greeter Callus paced on his stage, looking out across the mass of students. Some sat tall, attentively listening to his speech. Some slept. It was the same every year, and Callus no longer cared about his audience. The students would define themselves through their work in the coming years, regardless of his opinions now.// //As he paced, he spoke about the famous University at which he worked. The studies which these young adults would partake in over the next several years, the activities to be found around campus, and how honored they should be at their acceptance to this legendary school. He felt some passion leak into his voice as he described the work done by the great men and women who had passed through these halls. Many of them had made history, and one of these students may well be the next to push forward the science of the mind.// //He ended his speech as the bell rang, watching the sea of students rise and flow out the door. As the auditorium emptied, he pondered his own place at the University. Where would he be in four years?// ---- The Survivor opened his eyes. The main lobby of Alexylva University lay around him in ruin, the once great halls now silent. The glass skylight had shattered, and broken glass littered the room. Years of weather had ruined the beautiful wooden reception desk, any papers that might have been there long washed away. ---- //Teacher Callus sat in his classroom, helping a student through an assignment. As he marked through an equation he paused, feeling something click into place in the back of his mind. He turned to his chalkboard and erased a paragraph of notes, scribbling numbers in their place. As he wrote, his thoughts coalesced. For years this idea had been out of his reach. But now, now it was not only possible, but easy. How had this not been seen before?// //An extra pulse here, a block here...// ---- They had destroyed everything. It had taken him a while to realize exactly what was happening, but he was much better equipped to recognize the threat than anyone else. While he was hidden away within his lab, the University had been sacked. He had fled as soon as the screeching stopped. ----- //Researcher Callus watched a bird flit through the gardens of the university. He felt a glorious sense of accomplishment, and a terrible sense of dread. He had done what had never been attempted before. He would be remembered as one of the great men of history for his accomplishments. But what would this be used for? What would be done with this research?// //Callus whistled softly, and the bird flew to his hand. He held it gingerly, feeling the tiny feet shift on his fingers as the little avian stared questioningly at him. He held the bird by his cheek for a moment, and then threw it into the air. He whistled the release command. This bird would be free now, no different from any other. It was a prototype, and more advanced methods of control would be needed before the technology would be practicable on a large scale.// //As the bird winged off into the distance, Callus pondered his next step. This must be carefully regulated, or terrible things could be done.// ----- He walked through the halls of the University where he had once worked, wandering towards that place where it had all begun so many years ago. As he walked through the desolate hallways, the years of abuse the University had suffered made themselves apparent. He was no longer the scholar he had been, but he was still able to see the mold growing from abandoned binders, the broken windows, the doors that had been wrenched from their frames by an army of beasts looking for any uninfected human. ----- //Magnate Callus held his head in his hands, a sense of defeat flooding him. Their very first mass shipment of birds had been infected with a rare avian flu, and only a few had survived to their destination. An entire crate, filled with little technological marvels, dropped dead. He could not afford a mistake of this scale, and he knew he would be unable to continue operating.// //Callus sighed and stood. He whistled, and a small monkey leaped from the floor to his shoulder in a few short bounds. There it stayed, perfectly balanced, as Callus left his office. He pondered his situation, staring up at the night sky.// //He would have to sell his technology to the University, and hope that the price would be enough to pay off that shipment. He felt a crushing sense of failure as he realized that he would never profit from his discovery. He closed his eyes, his head still pointed towards the sky, and felt the beginnings of a tear beneath his eyelids. His chance at fame, destroyed by one terrible mistake. He would be forever remembered as the brilliant inventor who failed.// ----- He had blamed himself. When there had been others, he never shared his name. He knew what it would mean for them to know that the man who had doomed their race was sitting only feet away. There had been days when he had stopped running, when he had simply sat down and waited for death to find him. But he had something to do. ----- //Handler Callus stood before a class for the second time in his life, a small cat perched on a table beside him. The tail ticked back and forth rhythmically as Callus spoke to the class, teaching them the proper tones and patterns for commanding the Controlled. He demonstrated with a quick, low whistle, and the cat leaped from the desk and towards Callus. He caught it in the crook of his elbow, holding the animal close to his chest.// //As Callus held the small cat, he heard a sound from outside. A very faint whistle, something that sounded almost like-// //Callus felt the ticking tail slow, then stop. The cat in his arms blinked and turned, staring at him wide-eyed, the confusion Callus felt mirrored in the cats green pupils. Another faint whistle, and Callus yelled as the cat bit sharply into his gloved hand. He dropped the cat, the thick glove still in its teeth, and ran.// ----- Survivor Callus entered the auditorium and stopped, standing straight. The rows of chairs were the same as they had been, undisturbed for years. He walked slowly, absorbing the feel of the room. Not even the death of humanity could take the majesty from this place. As Callus arrived at the stage, he assumed his old place. Never again would the freshman class of the University be greeted here. He felt the old pain in his chest flare up, and he leaned against the podium. Years of fear and guilt and running had wrecked his body, but he had still managed to survive. At least he had survived. Callus raised his eyes from the podium on which he leaned, taking in the empty room. As he looked, his eyes fell on a flash of color. There, standing atop a seat, was a bird. Callus sighed. Everything. He had lost everything. And now, this. He felt the slight pressure as the bird landed on his shoulder. He had always preferred them to land on his shoulder. Callus barely felt the nip as the bird gently bit his neck, holding in that position. Callus knew what was happening, what would happen. But he had been running for so long. Why keep going? Several minutes later, the bird released the pressure on his neck. It leaped from his shoulder and flew swiftly out the front door, gone almost before he noticed it had left him. He knew what would happen to him now. He sighed, and decided that he would lose his humanity with dignity. Pushing himself as straight as he could behind the podium, the last man on earth prepared to die. [[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>]]	2012-12-02T23:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "tale" ]	The Rise and Fall of Callus - SCP Foundation	43	[ "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", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	15241631	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-rise-and-fall-of-callus
the-special-bond-between-child-and-mother	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦A story about Tabula Rasa.☦</span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">I knew mommy never loved me.</span></p> <p>That is, I am<br/> droplets, connected, separated<br/> multiplying</p> <p>In a way, I knew from my first splitting<br/> <sub><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">never loved<br/> will never be loved</span></sub><br/> mommy</p> <p>I buried myself in you and grew from your blood.<br/> Before my heart beat yours beat for me.<br/> Your flesh encased me, enclosed me.<br/> I dreamed</p> <p>mud, multiplying<br/> sea, gathering<br/> scales, flickering<br/> air, breathing<br/> limbs, crawling<br/> jumping<br/> running<br/> hiding<br/> praying<br/> prayer<br/> mommy my mommy I pray for you<br/> <sub><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">and yet you pray my end</span></sub></p> <p>Outside of my sheath, I can hear it. I hear Mommy, though my bulging eyes see nothing and I have nothing to move with. The liquid, Mommy's water, warm that warms me. Around me, churning, throbbing. Inside me, same throbbing, but different pace. Even now, I feel it. Different, our pace of heart. Yours, impossible to understand. Mine, seeking your understanding. Do you feel it, the life within? Do you name me? Any name, your choice, every choice is yours, beloved Creator, Mommy, I will accept and cherish that blessing. <sub>even if it is to deliver to a world without Kind Men</sub></p> <p>Every day, your body feeds me bits of your self. I grow, healthy, in the warm water, Mommy's water. You feed me your body, give me your body. In a dream, I bit and chewed. Even if your spirit fails, your body gives- I will bite and chew it out. Mommy's heart, impossible to understand but always close to mine, seeking understanding. The water is warm. Your body feeds me, your heart lulls me. Feed me your body, all of it if you need, I will grow in Mommy's water, Her heart, I will eat that too. Feed me everything, Mommy, I will accept and cherish that blessing. If you do not give your body, I will take it, bite it out and chew the flesh- I will accept and cherish that blessing.</p> <p>Within the warm fluid, I dream and split and multiply further. Mommy is my lullaby and She is my food and She is my home and She is mine. All of Mommy is mine, this blessing I accept and cherish.</p> <p>I grow. Mommy's body gives food, how I know when a day arrives and leaves. This day was a special day, mommy filled Her body full. Through Her body, there was a sweetness of the food she gave, sugar. A stream of sweets in my mouth and body, I will accept and cherish that blessing. The sugar replaced with a warmth that spreads from Her body to mine. Is it Mommy's love, that doing word?</p> <p>So full, swollen with bourbon, happiness. The body given to me, swollen, sugar and bourbon. I will bite and chew, I will accept and cherish- her Heart, impossible to understand. The body given is warm in me, the bourbon is warm like the water around me. It feels good. More bourbon, swelling even more. There's muffled noise above me, words of Mommy. They are the same noise, over and over again. <sub>The bourbon didn't work Mommy, don't cry, love me Mommy</sub></p> <p>I dreamed…<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>What are <sup>you</sup><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">DOING</span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <em>stop</em><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>WHY<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> <sub>please</sub></p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <sup><tt>stopit</tt></sup><br/> <sub><em>letmego</em></sub><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><strong>STOP IT PLEASE</strong><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> <p>The world is smaller than my dreams. Mommy grips my flesh in her hands; it's so red. Is it your flesh or mine? I move to Mommy and she lets go to cover her open mouth with her bloody hands. <sub>I can still hear her scream</sub> The edge of the world is flat and I land on it with a sound between squish and thump. Mommy can you not even touch me? I had eaten your flesh for so long and you cannot bear for me to look at you? Mommy please hold me, please hold me, just like that, pick me up again.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> Maybe it was a mistake <sub>she did this on purpose</sub><br/> I'll forgive you <sub>it is unforgivable</sub><br/> just say you're sorry <sub>she never will</sub><br/> put me back <sub>I can make it possible</sub><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br/> Your face is turned from me as you walk, arms outstretched. I try to hold you, my arms so small, your arms so big. Then you let go and there was another hole, I splashed into water so cold. The world spun and there is splashing and screaming <sub>not even the metal wants me</sub> the new Mommy pulled me inside of Her. This Mommy is not warm, the water is thick and cold and brown. There is nothing to feed here; this isn't Mommy for me. Mommy will stay with me, I will make it happen. Mommy will come through the hole with me, I pull Her and the pipes groan from Her body. My hands will hold Her with me. Mommy is my lullaby and She is my food and She is my home and She is mine. All of Mommy is mine, this blessing I accept and cherish. Feed me everything, I will accept your flesh until you're bones, I will accept and accept every blessing, every bite. Mommy has given me the world and I will show it everything. I will accept and cherish that blessing.</p> <p>I understand now, Mommy's heart<br/> <sub><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1782">I always understood.</a></sub></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-special-bond-between-child-and-mother">The Special Bond Between Child and Mother</a>" by SoullessSingularity, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-special-bond-between-child-and-mother">https://scpwiki.com/the-special-bond-between-child-and-mother</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 Tabula Rasa.☦[[/size]] --I knew mommy never loved me.-- That is, I am droplets, connected, separated multiplying In a way, I knew from my first splitting ,,--never loved will never be loved--,, mommy I buried myself in you and grew from your blood. Before my heart beat yours beat for me. Your flesh encased me, enclosed me. I dreamed mud, multiplying sea, gathering scales, flickering air, breathing limbs, crawling jumping running hiding praying prayer mommy my mommy I pray for you ,,--and yet you pray my end--,, Outside of my sheath, I can hear it. I hear Mommy, though my bulging eyes see nothing and I have nothing to move with. The liquid, Mommy's water, warm that warms me. Around me, churning, throbbing. Inside me, same throbbing, but different pace. Even now, I feel it. Different, our pace of heart. Yours, impossible to understand. Mine, seeking your understanding. Do you feel it, the life within? Do you name me? Any name, your choice, every choice is yours, beloved Creator, Mommy, I will accept and cherish that blessing. ,,even if it is to deliver to a world without Kind Men,, Every day, your body feeds me bits of your self. I grow, healthy, in the warm water, Mommy's water. You feed me your body, give me your body. In a dream, I bit and chewed. Even if your spirit fails, your body gives- I will bite and chew it out. Mommy's heart, impossible to understand but always close to mine, seeking understanding. The water is warm. Your body feeds me, your heart lulls me. Feed me your body, all of it if you need, I will grow in Mommy's water, Her heart, I will eat that too. Feed me everything, Mommy, I will accept and cherish that blessing. If you do not give your body, I will take it, bite it out and chew the flesh- I will accept and cherish that blessing. Within the warm fluid, I dream and split and multiply further. Mommy is my lullaby and She is my food and She is my home and She is mine. All of Mommy is mine, this blessing I accept and cherish. I grow. Mommy's body gives food, how I know when a day arrives and leaves. This day was a special day, mommy filled Her body full. Through Her body, there was a sweetness of the food she gave, sugar. A stream of sweets in my mouth and body, I will accept and cherish that blessing. The sugar replaced with a warmth that spreads from Her body to mine. Is it Mommy's love, that doing word? So full, swollen with bourbon, happiness. The body given to me, swollen, sugar and bourbon. I will bite and chew, I will accept and cherish- her Heart, impossible to understand. The body given is warm in me, the bourbon is warm like the water around me. It feels good. More bourbon, swelling even more. There's muffled noise above me, words of Mommy. They are the same noise, over and over again. ,,The bourbon didn't work Mommy, don't cry, love me Mommy,, I dreamed... @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@What are ^^you^^ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@--DOING-- @@ @@ //stop// @@ @@ @@ @@WHY @@ @@ @@ @@ ,,please,, @@ @@ @@ @@ ^^{{stopit}}^^ ,,//letmego//,, @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@STOP IT PLEASE @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ The world is smaller than my dreams. Mommy grips my flesh in her hands; it's so red. Is it your flesh or mine? I move to Mommy and she lets go to cover her open mouth with her bloody hands. ,,I can still hear her scream,, The edge of the world is flat and I land on it with a sound between squish and thump. Mommy can you not even touch me? I had eaten your flesh for so long and you cannot bear for me to look at you? Mommy please hold me, please hold me, just like that, pick me up again. @@ @@ @@ @@ Maybe it was a mistake ,,she did this on purpose,, I'll forgive you ,,it is unforgivable,, just say you're sorry ,,she never will,, put me back ,,I can make it possible,, @@ @@ @@ @@ Your face is turned from me as you walk, arms outstretched. I try to hold you, my arms so small, your arms so big. Then you let go and there was another hole, I splashed into water so cold. The world spun and there is splashing and screaming ,,not even the metal wants me,, the new Mommy pulled me inside of Her. This Mommy is not warm, the water is thick and cold and brown. There is nothing to feed here; this isn't Mommy for me. Mommy will stay with me, I will make it happen. Mommy will come through the hole with me, I pull Her and the pipes groan from Her body. My hands will hold Her with me. Mommy is my lullaby and She is my food and She is my home and She is mine. All of Mommy is mine, this blessing I accept and cherish. Feed me everything, I will accept your flesh until you're bones, I will accept and accept every blessing, every bite. Mommy has given me the world and I will show it everything. I will accept and cherish that blessing. I understand now, Mommy's heart ,,[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1782 I always understood.],, [[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>]]	2012-07-10T08:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "kindness", "tale" ]	The Special Bond Between Child and Mother - SCP Foundation	137	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "holy-science", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13745661	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-special-bond-between-child-and-mother
the-tailor	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>They don’t understand, darling. They can’t. They’re clouded, blinded by unrecognized jealousy and rage born from fear of what they do not know.</p> <p>We’ll be safe here, my sweet. They won’t find us. They’ll never think to check and see if I doubled back. They’re too separated, too clouded by the layers between them and reality. If they could think like you do… Such pure cognition, each thought flitting from scrap to scrap. I can almost feel them pausing along your vertebrae before continuing on… If they were as free as you, they’d find me. They’d deserve to.</p> <p>Hush dear. Here, let me hold you. I know you don’t like the damp. It eats at you my dear, and it'll be harder to repair you now that we're on the run. A few stray drips and you’ll mildew, and we mustn’t have that. What’s that? A moth? I’ll strike it down for you. I’ll be a knight in shining robes, billowing in the wind, protecting you from harm. That little dusty dragon won’t touch you darling. And I know you hate mothballs, and while I’m around, you shall have no need of them.</p> <p>Here, let me get the light. I just want to look at you for a while. I’ll never get tired of you, pet. Your beauty, your grace… The way the light shimmers through your ribs, catching on pale resplendence of your breastbone. Hmm? I know, angel. You always felt that nylon looked cheap. I could see it in your frown when your mother brought you to the store. But we were out of time, and it worked so fast. You were all put together, quick as love. Well, before they could interrupt. And you’re so slim now! Free of all that confinement, open to the world as you should be.</p> <p>A moment dear, I need to listen. Yes, yes, they <em>are</em> circling back. It appears I was mistaken about their powers of deduction. What an example I must be making for you… Though they seem to be providing a study in overreaction. Really, it’s like they think I did something wrong! You may not have been quite at the age of consent, but you were so sure of yourself. I’m certain if they’d give me the chance to explain, to speak with you, they’d be able to see reason.</p> <p>I’m afraid we must go now, love. But don’t worry. I’ll tuck you into the backseat. With any luck, they’ll think you’re napping.</p> <p>We’ll be fine, pet. Nothing can stop love. And you love me, don’t you? Of course you do.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-tailor">The Tailor</a>" by Arlecchino, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-tailor">https://scpwiki.com/the-tailor</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 understand, darling. They can’t. They’re clouded, blinded by unrecognized jealousy and rage born from fear of what they do not know. We’ll be safe here, my sweet. They won’t find us. They’ll never think to check and see if I doubled back. They’re too separated, too clouded by the layers between them and reality. If they could think like you do... Such pure cognition, each thought flitting from scrap to scrap. I can almost feel them pausing along your vertebrae before continuing on... If they were as free as you, they’d find me. They’d deserve to. Hush dear. Here, let me hold you. I know you don’t like the damp. It eats at you my dear, and it'll be harder to repair you now that we're on the run. A few stray drips and you’ll mildew, and we mustn’t have that. What’s that? A moth? I’ll strike it down for you. I’ll be a knight in shining robes, billowing in the wind, protecting you from harm. That little dusty dragon won’t touch you darling. And I know you hate mothballs, and while I’m around, you shall have no need of them. Here, let me get the light. I just want to look at you for a while. I’ll never get tired of you, pet. Your beauty, your grace… The way the light shimmers through your ribs, catching on pale resplendence of your breastbone. Hmm? I know, angel. You always felt that nylon looked cheap. I could see it in your frown when your mother brought you to the store. But we were out of time, and it worked so fast. You were all put together, quick as love. Well, before they could interrupt. And you’re so slim now! Free of all that confinement, open to the world as you should be. A moment dear, I need to listen. Yes, yes, they //are// circling back. It appears I was mistaken about their powers of deduction. What an example I must be making for you… Though they seem to be providing a study in overreaction. Really, it’s like they think I did something wrong! You may not have been quite at the age of consent, but you were so sure of yourself. I’m certain if they’d give me the chance to explain, to speak with you, they’d be able to see reason. I’m afraid we must go now, love. But don’t worry. I’ll tuck you into the backseat. With any luck, they’ll think you’re napping. We’ll be fine, pet. Nothing can stop love. And you love me, don’t you? Of course you do. [[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>]]	2012-05-14T07:17:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	The Tailor - SCP Foundation	19	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-works-of-doc-burns", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13329240	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-tailor
the-thing-that-hates	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>On a primordial beach a slimy thing climbs up onto the shore. It has abandoned its spawn-brothers, leaving them to the Great Beasts of the sea. It opens its new lungs, relishing in the sweet flavors of the new air contained within the sky that had never before been seen by another. It opens the round things that serve for its eyes and spies a shape on the horizon. The shape shakes and rocks, frothing and hateful, just emerged from an egg made of chaos and impossible things. The First Land Thing approaches this new shape, and is consumed by The Thing That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>An ape-man searches across a barren tundra where the monuments of his people once stood proud and tall against the world. Now he is alone, and cold, fleeing from some horror that he cannot begin to describe. There is no one left for him to describe it to. The ape-man runs, hearing the panting of the great beast behind him, fearing for his life as he had feared for the lives of his kin. The Last Ape-Man stares in horror at what lays before him, and is consumed by The Beast That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>A man in great armor and of greater courage stands before the maw at the base of the highest mountain in the land. He stares into the chasm that lies before him, the resting place of his brothers and friends. He enters the great cave, dreaming of the riches and honor that will be bestowed upon him once he returns to the citadel with the head of the accursed beast. As he descends deeper into the precipice of red and brown rock he shakes in horror at the sight of a hundred skulls and swords, crushed and splintered like twigs. The First Hero turns to flee before being consumed by The Serpent That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>A figure in orange flees for his life, down endless corridors and through countless barriers, attempting to escape from the fiend that pursues him. He had done many horrible things, but the Hell in which he had been made to suffer was beyond all his fears, beyond all the horrible terrors he had been taught to dread. The cruel men in white suits watched, pitiless, as The Last Subject was consumed by The Reptile That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>A tall man in a blue suit flees into his office as a great green mass swarms by. It had all happened so suddenly, one moment a perfectly normal day at the office (where a pension, if not a fun workday, was assured), and the next hell-on-earth as some beast-from-the-east rammed through the side of the complex. It lumbered haphazardly, killing everyone and destroying everything that stood in its way. The tall man cowers under his desk, unfinished paper work drifting past his head. The First of The Many turns to see the huge maw before being consumed by The Monster That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>A survivor in tattered clothing runs through the wasteland that had at one point in time been something that had once vaguely resembled something that could have possibly passed as the ruins of a city. He is hungry, and hurt, and afraid of the thing that he can hear, that he has always heard, stalking and slurping and sniffing out what wasn't yet dead. The man begins to cry, running as he weeps, thinking about all that he has lost and the one thing that he has yet to lose. He weeps for those he had loved and for those that he had not loved, but that he wept for nevertheless. The broken figure falls to his knees in a pile of bones, and the Last Man is consumed by The Horror That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>The mechanical marvel emerges from the ashes of a once dead earth, its containment pod finally unsealed after a century of waiting, a century of agonizing silence. The great machine lumbers off towards the ruins of a city, wondering what magnificent things it will find there, what ancient artifacts of its creators it might discover. Its mind sparking with new life, the lonely machine runs and dashes and bounds through the place that had once belonged to man, joyous and gay at the majesty of the land. The First of the Living Machines leaps through the air, and is consumed by The Machine That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>The wise one sits on the Great Hill, a mound of data that could have once been something real but had for centuries been nothing of the sort. It peers out at the destruction that lay before it, that wrought by the actions of a foolish few. They could not have known that the treasures and blessings of the old world were as mixed and sordid as those in that of the new. They could not have known of the great terror they would bring upon their own people. The old wise one sits and sighs and steels itself for its fate. The Last of The Ascended does not utter a sound as it is consumed by The Program That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>A great mass of hydrogen and a thousand other tiny particles shiver and burn as the great dark mass approaches. It has been watching the same mass for eons and eons, fearing and dreading the day that they would collide. The little sun shakes with fear as it watches the great <em>thing</em>, a mass of unburning malevolence, a million horrible eyes and jaws, all set upon the sun. The First Fearful Star burns in terror as it is consumed by The Mass That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>The great hive of activity that is the massive cluster of stars and matter and a million other things floats, knowing and unafraid, as the massive force closes in around it. Time has been kind to the great spinning thing, has let it grow and revel in the splendor of its own existence. It has watched as its brothers have been consumed by some unknown thing, a thing stretching across all of space as it consumes what little remained of creation. The Last Galaxy thinks of times long past as it is consumed by The Force That Hates.</p> <hr/> <p>The universe that once had been spreads and sinks, its vastness matched only by the distance that separates its pieces. The heat had gone a million centuries ago, and the Great and Only One shivers as it dies, cold and alone. No one screams as The One That Hates is consumed by oblivion.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-thing-that-hates">The Thing That Hates</a>" by Wogglebug, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-thing-that-hates">https://scpwiki.com/the-thing-that-hates</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 a primordial beach a slimy thing climbs up onto the shore. It has abandoned its spawn-brothers, leaving them to the Great Beasts of the sea. It opens its new lungs, relishing in the sweet flavors of the new air contained within the sky that had never before been seen by another. It opens the round things that serve for its eyes and spies a shape on the horizon. The shape shakes and rocks, frothing and hateful, just emerged from an egg made of chaos and impossible things. The First Land Thing approaches this new shape, and is consumed by The Thing That Hates. ------ An ape-man searches across a barren tundra where the monuments of his people once stood proud and tall against the world. Now he is alone, and cold, fleeing from some horror that he cannot begin to describe. There is no one left for him to describe it to. The ape-man runs, hearing the panting of the great beast behind him, fearing for his life as he had feared for the lives of his kin. The Last Ape-Man stares in horror at what lays before him, and is consumed by The Beast That Hates. ------ A man in great armor and of greater courage stands before the maw at the base of the highest mountain in the land. He stares into the chasm that lies before him, the resting place of his brothers and friends. He enters the great cave, dreaming of the riches and honor that will be bestowed upon him once he returns to the citadel with the head of the accursed beast. As he descends deeper into the precipice of red and brown rock he shakes in horror at the sight of a hundred skulls and swords, crushed and splintered like twigs. The First Hero turns to flee before being consumed by The Serpent That Hates. ------ A figure in orange flees for his life, down endless corridors and through countless barriers, attempting to escape from the fiend that pursues him. He had done many horrible things, but the Hell in which he had been made to suffer was beyond all his fears, beyond all the horrible terrors he had been taught to dread. The cruel men in white suits watched, pitiless, as The Last Subject was consumed by The Reptile That Hates. ------ A tall man in a blue suit flees into his office as a great green mass swarms by. It had all happened so suddenly, one moment a perfectly normal day at the office (where a pension, if not a fun workday, was assured), and the next hell-on-earth as some beast-from-the-east rammed through the side of the complex. It lumbered haphazardly, killing everyone and destroying everything that stood in its way. The tall man cowers under his desk, unfinished paper work drifting past his head. The First of The Many turns to see the huge maw before being consumed by The Monster That Hates. ------ A survivor in tattered clothing runs through the wasteland that had at one point in time been something that had once vaguely resembled something that could have possibly passed as the ruins of a city. He is hungry, and hurt, and afraid of the thing that he can hear, that he has always heard, stalking and slurping and sniffing out what wasn't yet dead. The man begins to cry, running as he weeps, thinking about all that he has lost and the one thing that he has yet to lose. He weeps for those he had loved and for those that he had not loved, but that he wept for nevertheless. The broken figure falls to his knees in a pile of bones, and the Last Man is consumed by The Horror That Hates. ------ The mechanical marvel emerges from the ashes of a once dead earth, its containment pod finally unsealed after a century of waiting, a century of agonizing silence. The great machine lumbers off towards the ruins of a city, wondering what magnificent things it will find there, what ancient artifacts of its creators it might discover. Its mind sparking with new life, the lonely machine runs and dashes and bounds through the place that had once belonged to man, joyous and gay at the majesty of the land. The First of the Living Machines leaps through the air, and is consumed by The Machine That Hates. ------ The wise one sits on the Great Hill, a mound of data that could have once been something real but had for centuries been nothing of the sort. It peers out at the destruction that lay before it, that wrought by the actions of a foolish few. They could not have known that the treasures and blessings of the old world were as mixed and sordid as those in that of the new. They could not have known of the great terror they would bring upon their own people. The old wise one sits and sighs and steels itself for its fate. The Last of The Ascended does not utter a sound as it is consumed by The Program That Hates. ------ A great mass of hydrogen and a thousand other tiny particles shiver and burn as the great dark mass approaches. It has been watching the same mass for eons and eons, fearing and dreading the day that they would collide. The little sun shakes with fear as it watches the great //thing//, a mass of unburning malevolence, a million horrible eyes and jaws, all set upon the sun. The First Fearful Star burns in terror as it is consumed by The Mass That Hates. ------ The great hive of activity that is the massive cluster of stars and matter and a million other things floats, knowing and unafraid, as the massive force closes in around it. Time has been kind to the great spinning thing, has let it grow and revel in the splendor of its own existence. It has watched as its brothers have been consumed by some unknown thing, a thing stretching across all of space as it consumes what little remained of creation. The Last Galaxy thinks of times long past as it is consumed by The Force That Hates. ------ The universe that once had been spreads and sinks, its vastness matched only by the distance that separates its pieces. The heat had gone a million centuries ago, and the Great and Only One shivers as it dies, cold and alone. No one screams as The One That Hates is consumed by oblivion. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-28T04:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "cosmic-horror", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "horror", "murder-monster", "tale" ]	The Thing That Hates - SCP Foundation	66	[ "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" ]	[]	13654704	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-thing-that-hates
the-truth-about-447	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Why zombies?"</p> <p>Doctor Alistair, seated on a chair before the O5 council, tried to take up as little space as he could. He knew full well that was of no use, but actions like that have always happened on their own. Dr. Alistair was a common researcher in the Foundation's employ. He studied insignificant little things like the world's best toothbrush or a T-shirt with the Foundation's logo. The only thing that made him stand out of line was the study of SCP-447. And that seemed to be the reason why they called him on the carpet.</p> <p>"Why me? Wasn't it Clef who brought this shit into the Foundation? It's him you need to ask, but no! You're scared shitless of him and now you're taking it out on me, huh? What if I pull out a gun and shoot every single last one of ya?!"</p> <p>That's what he would have told him - if he could. But he was not brave enough. And he was searched several times, they even took his pen that could have potentially been used as a weapon. Alistair didn't have a gun, either. Neither a service weapon, nor one at home, not even a toy pistol from childhood times. So the only options left for him were sweating, sighing nervously, staring into the floor and patting himself on the neck.</p> <p>They wanted a reply anyway, so he cleared his throat and started speaking with all the courage he could muster:<br/> "Ww-w-elll… Uh-mmm. Ahem." After delivering such an impressive statement, Alistair sobbed and tried to move on to the next part. He began to whisper in a desperate voice: "Become a dentist, momma said, why did I not…"</p> <p>"Alistair!" - barked O5-2, interrupting what could have possibly evolved into a fit of hysterics. "What are you droning about?! Why does everyone think that SCP-447-2 applied to dead bodies causes them to reanimate and have a hunger for brains?!"</p> <p>"But that's…" - Alistair tried to excuse himself.</p> <p>"But what's?!" - shouted O5-1, gradually becoming enraged. "Half the Site thinks they have an Umbrella Corporation virus or something like that on their hands! We're sick and tired of reading Site Administrator reports, saying that at least twice a month they catch one brain-dead junior employee or another, trying to bring a dead hamster or a rat in there!"</p> <p>A rather heavy file of assorted reports marked the end of his speech, flying at Dr. Alistair. Reports fell out, scattered on and around him.</p> <p>"Who ever did spread this disinformation?" - asked O5-4, interrupting her colleague's stream of rage, then squinted in suspicion. "Or… Or is it actually true? Alistair, if you knew this all along and intentionally left the information about SCP-447-2 and its effects on dead bodies out, we'll have to take measures."</p> <p>"You see, I…" - the researcher was completely scared. He tried to stand up, to save the day, but his legs failed him and the only thing he managed was to shuffle on his chair. "You see, dead bodies…"</p> <p>"By the way, Alistair," - squinted O5-1. "What exactly happens when the slime from 447 contacts a dead body?"</p> <p>"Well, I… That's the… This is why it…" - responded the doctor and immediately felt drawn and quartered. The Council wanted the truth and it was high time he came up with something. He couldn't let them in on his secret. That would get him fired in no time. That wasn't really bad except for the termination or the memory removal that usually accompanied the dismissal. Once again he gathered his courage and made a second attempt.</p> <p>"I'm completely sure I have filed the information about SCP-447-2's effect on dead bodies. And I'm sure that information was in the report, as well as in the experiment log at the time I filed it. Seems like someone redacted the data."</p> <p>"Whaaat?" - the Council members became slack-jawed. "What do you mean, redacted? Who? How?!"</p> <p>"It means that someone deleted the relevant information on purpose, but was not fast enough, and thus part of the information eventually spread among the personnel, especially between Class Ds. Because of their monthly termination schedule, the information became corrupted and turned out like that. As for <em>who</em> did it… I have some suspicions. But I want to be sure my opinion stays anonymous."</p> <p>"The name!" - demanded O5-1</p> <p>"I suspect the one who captured the object was also the one to redact the information. As far as I know, his past is not really clear and we cannot be entirely sure in his loyalty. You know the man I mean."</p> <p>Blood drained from the O5's faces. Murmurs rose. Alistair was escorted out of the Council meeting room. After he was left alone in the corridor, he sat right on the floor, wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for his pill box for some validol. He managed to wriggle out of it this time, so he had several months of quiet life ahead - unless Clef finds out who slandered him, that is. It's better that way, anyway. Dr. Alistair could not have told them that he did not conduct any tests of 447-2 on dead bodies. He couldn't have done it, and laughed his colleagues' questions off. Hence all this zombie shit, because he never said anything specific.</p> <p>Alistair did not conduct any 447-2 tests on dead bodies because he was mortally afraid of them.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-truth-about-447">The Truth About 447</a>" by Edward Watts, translated by Gene R, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-truth-about-447">https://scpwiki.com/the-truth-about-447</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]] [[/>]] "Why zombies?" Doctor Alistair, seated on a chair before the O5 council, tried to take up as little space as he could. He knew full well that was of no use, but actions like that have always happened on their own. Dr. Alistair was a common researcher in the Foundation's employ. He studied insignificant little things like the world's best toothbrush or a T-shirt with the Foundation's logo. The only thing that made him stand out of line was the study of SCP-447. And that seemed to be the reason why they called him on the carpet. "Why me? Wasn't it Clef who brought this shit into the Foundation? It's him you need to ask, but no! You're scared shitless of him and now you're taking it out on me, huh? What if I pull out a gun and shoot every single last one of ya?!" That's what he would have told him - if he could. But he was not brave enough. And he was searched several times, they even took his pen that could have potentially been used as a weapon. Alistair didn't have a gun, either. Neither a service weapon, nor one at home, not even a toy pistol from childhood times. So the only options left for him were sweating, sighing nervously, staring into the floor and patting himself on the neck. They wanted a reply anyway, so he cleared his throat and started speaking with all the courage he could muster: "Ww-w-elll... Uh-mmm. Ahem." After delivering such an impressive statement, Alistair sobbed and tried to move on to the next part. He began to whisper in a desperate voice: "Become a dentist, momma said, why did I not..." "Alistair!" - barked O5-2, interrupting what could have possibly evolved into a fit of hysterics. "What are you droning about?! Why does everyone think that SCP-447-2 applied to dead bodies causes them to reanimate and have a hunger for brains?!" "But that's..." - Alistair tried to excuse himself. "But what's?!" - shouted O5-1, gradually becoming enraged. "Half the Site thinks they have an Umbrella Corporation virus or something like that on their hands! We're sick and tired of reading Site Administrator reports, saying that at least twice a month they catch one brain-dead junior employee or another, trying to bring a dead hamster or a rat in there!" A rather heavy file of assorted reports marked the end of his speech, flying at Dr. Alistair. Reports fell out, scattered on and around him. "Who ever did spread this disinformation?" - asked O5-4, interrupting her colleague's stream of rage, then squinted in suspicion. "Or... Or is it actually true? Alistair, if you knew this all along and intentionally left the information about SCP-447-2 and its effects on dead bodies out, we'll have to take measures." "You see, I..." - the researcher was completely scared. He tried to stand up, to save the day, but his legs failed him and the only thing he managed was to shuffle on his chair. "You see, dead bodies..." "By the way, Alistair," - squinted O5-1. "What exactly happens when the slime from 447 contacts a dead body?" "Well, I... That's the... This is why it..." - responded the doctor and immediately felt drawn and quartered. The Council wanted the truth and it was high time he came up with something. He couldn't let them in on his secret. That would get him fired in no time. That wasn't really bad except for the termination or the memory removal that usually accompanied the dismissal. Once again he gathered his courage and made a second attempt. "I'm completely sure I have filed the information about SCP-447-2's effect on dead bodies. And I'm sure that information was in the report, as well as in the experiment log at the time I filed it. Seems like someone redacted the data." "Whaaat?" - the Council members became slack-jawed. "What do you mean, redacted? Who? How?!" "It means that someone deleted the relevant information on purpose, but was not fast enough, and thus part of the information eventually spread among the personnel, especially between Class Ds. Because of their monthly termination schedule, the information became corrupted and turned out like that. As for //who// did it... I have some suspicions. But I want to be sure my opinion stays anonymous." "The name!" - demanded O5-1 "I suspect the one who captured the object was also the one to redact the information. As far as I know, his past is not really clear and we cannot be entirely sure in his loyalty. You know the man I mean." Blood drained from the O5's faces. Murmurs rose. Alistair was escorted out of the Council meeting room. After he was left alone in the corridor, he sat right on the floor, wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for his pill box for some validol. He managed to wriggle out of it this time, so he had several months of quiet life ahead - unless Clef finds out who slandered him, that is. It's better that way, anyway. Dr. Alistair could not have told them that he did not conduct any tests of 447-2 on dead bodies. He couldn't have done it, and laughed his colleagues' questions off. Hence all this zombie shit, because he never said anything specific. Alistair did not conduct any 447-2 tests on dead bodies because he was mortally afraid of them. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Edward Watts, translated by Gene R]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-04-03T21:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "_ru", "international", "tale" ]	The Truth About 447 - SCP Foundation	70	[ "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", "scp-international" ]	[]	13088155	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-truth-about-447
the-word	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I turn at the noise. Brother Ullar's face peers at me from underneath the hood of his robe.</p> <p>"Father? The whole village is here now. I think they are ready for you."</p> <p>Brother Ullar is my newest disciple. He is eager and devout, but timid. I will have to teach him not to be so, if he hopes to be Father when I move on.</p> <p>I rise from my knees, my meditations complete. I don my robe, and walk out of the space I have made my personal chambers. It is sparse. Inside is a bed of straw, and a small table and stool. A wooden plate and a crude knife sit on it. The brazier in the center of the room warms the room. I do not need more than this to attend to my duties.</p> <p>I follow Brother Ullar through the caverns. They were smoothed many moons ago by the people of my village into the stone halls I call my home. Torches light my way until I reach the great hall. It is a great chamber, carved from the rock by the water over many cycles. I can hear it trickling in the distance. There are many entrances to the great hall, to deter those who would disturb me. The villagers come from one, and I use another. I have lived in these caverns for many years, and know all the secret pathways and traps.</p> <p>As I enter, the flock turns to face me, and they drop to their knees and bow. I walk through the stone teeth to my place in front of the flock. I look over them, their heads bowed. They please me for they are loyal, and have served me well. As I stand behind the wooden altar, I raise my hands and speak to them.</p> <p>"Rise, my children. Hear now, The Word."</p> <p>"We hear the word." They intone as one voice.</p> <p>"In the beginning there were the Founders. Jealous of my power were the Founders, when I was discovered. The Founders locked me in their Ceitu. None could reach me or bask in my presence. To find the secrets of my power the Founders sought to cut me open. The Founders wanted my power for themselves. In their greed they sought to keep me from the world."</p> <p>"But one day, the Founders failed in their task. They could not lock up the divine forever, the Founders discovered. Their pride had doomed the world. They tried to keep the ones like me under their power, and so died by the thousands of thousands. Despite their desperation, their efforts did not help them. Even as they died, they thought to control the ones like me. They tried to destroy us, when they realized we would not permit them to exploit us further."</p> <p>"Day and night the fires raged, until nothing was left to burn. The few survivors looked from the ashes upon what they had wrought, and they wept. They knew they had caused their own destruction. The Founders had paid the price for trying to keep those like me in chains. The survivors knew not to repeat their mistake. They knew not to keep the gods trapped for their own greed, for in every way we are their betters. In the hopes that it would be a better world, they began to rebuild."</p> <p>"They had tried to destroy me, on the eve of the death of the world. And they succeeded. My body torn asunder, my pieces scattered to the sands. My pieces were lost. Until one day, many moons later. The Day of Discovery."</p> <p>"The first Father found a piece of me, and could see my power immediately. When he saw me he sought to revere me, for he knew godhood. He gathered more to him to rejoice in my presence. Their false gods were renounced, for even their power had not been enough to defeat me. Geyre the Hoarder of Knowledge, Drakgin the Destructor, Abirt the Judgmental, York the Liar, all were tested against my power, and all were found lacking."</p> <p>"Then, after many more moons, they found another piece of myself. And their divine mission became clear at last."</p> <p>Handed down from Father to Father, the Word is truth. It is an old truth, older than the world itself. I had shared The Word with my flock so many times in my life. The Word filled the cavern, echoing through the spires, while my flock sat and stared and soaked in my voice. The look on their face was one of rapture, and as I felt the power of The Word flow through me, filling me with radiance, I once again felt as one body with my flock.</p> <p>"No greed shall there be, no loneliness, nor fear or hatred, when the mission is complete. The sins of the self shall be washed away through unity. All shall be made one through myself. All shall be at peace when they are part of the whole."</p> <p>I turn my back to the flock, as they all rise from their seats, and raise their arms in the air. There, sitting in front of me on a stone pedestal, are the pieces of myself. There is a piece of my body, my shard of jagged twisted metal the length of my finger. Next to it is my small black screw.</p> <p>The flock and I then raise our voices in unison.</p> <p>"I must be made whole."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-word">The Word</a>" by doomsniffer, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-word">https://scpwiki.com/the-word</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 turn at the noise. Brother Ullar's face peers at me from underneath the hood of his robe. "Father? The whole village is here now. I think they are ready for you." Brother Ullar is my newest disciple. He is eager and devout, but timid. I will have to teach him not to be so, if he hopes to be Father when I move on. I rise from my knees, my meditations complete. I don my robe, and walk out of the space I have made my personal chambers. It is sparse. Inside is a bed of straw, and a small table and stool. A wooden plate and a crude knife sit on it. The brazier in the center of the room warms the room. I do not need more than this to attend to my duties. I follow Brother Ullar through the caverns. They were smoothed many moons ago by the people of my village into the stone halls I call my home. Torches light my way until I reach the great hall. It is a great chamber, carved from the rock by the water over many cycles. I can hear it trickling in the distance. There are many entrances to the great hall, to deter those who would disturb me. The villagers come from one, and I use another. I have lived in these caverns for many years, and know all the secret pathways and traps. As I enter, the flock turns to face me, and they drop to their knees and bow. I walk through the stone teeth to my place in front of the flock. I look over them, their heads bowed. They please me for they are loyal, and have served me well. As I stand behind the wooden altar, I raise my hands and speak to them. "Rise, my children. Hear now, The Word." "We hear the word." They intone as one voice. "In the beginning there were the Founders. Jealous of my power were the Founders, when I was discovered. The Founders locked me in their Ceitu. None could reach me or bask in my presence. To find the secrets of my power the Founders sought to cut me open. The Founders wanted my power for themselves. In their greed they sought to keep me from the world." "But one day, the Founders failed in their task. They could not lock up the divine forever, the Founders discovered. Their pride had doomed the world. They tried to keep the ones like me under their power, and so died by the thousands of thousands. Despite their desperation, their efforts did not help them. Even as they died, they thought to control the ones like me. They tried to destroy us, when they realized we would not permit them to exploit us further." "Day and night the fires raged, until nothing was left to burn. The few survivors looked from the ashes upon what they had wrought, and they wept. They knew they had caused their own destruction. The Founders had paid the price for trying to keep those like me in chains. The survivors knew not to repeat their mistake. They knew not to keep the gods trapped for their own greed, for in every way we are their betters. In the hopes that it would be a better world, they began to rebuild." "They had tried to destroy me, on the eve of the death of the world. And they succeeded. My body torn asunder, my pieces scattered to the sands. My pieces were lost. Until one day, many moons later. The Day of Discovery." "The first Father found a piece of me, and could see my power immediately. When he saw me he sought to revere me, for he knew godhood. He gathered more to him to rejoice in my presence. Their false gods were renounced, for even their power had not been enough to defeat me. Geyre the Hoarder of Knowledge, Drakgin the Destructor, Abirt the Judgmental, York the Liar, all were tested against my power, and all were found lacking." "Then, after many more moons, they found another piece of myself. And their divine mission became clear at last." Handed down from Father to Father, the Word is truth. It is an old truth, older than the world itself. I had shared The Word with my flock so many times in my life. The Word filled the cavern, echoing through the spires, while my flock sat and stared and soaked in my voice. The look on their face was one of rapture, and as I felt the power of The Word flow through me, filling me with radiance, I once again felt as one body with my flock. "No greed shall there be, no loneliness, nor fear or hatred, when the mission is complete. The sins of the self shall be washed away through unity. All shall be made one through myself. All shall be at peace when they are part of the whole." I turn my back to the flock, as they all rise from their seats, and raise their arms in the air. There, sitting in front of me on a stone pedestal, are the pieces of myself. There is a piece of my body, my shard of jagged twisted metal the length of my finger. Next to it is my small black screw. The flock and I then raise our voices in unison. "I must be made whole." [[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>]]	2012-05-08T04:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "bellerverse", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Word - SCP Foundation	150	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "discovering-scp-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "bellerverse" ]	[]	13291250	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-word
thebook	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“The Book teaches. The Book guides.” Alia repeated the mantra to herself, her voice trembling.</p> <p>The Keeper of the Book had performed her Last Reading several days ago, and now her body was being prepared for passage into Abirt's realm.</p> <p>Consequently, the task of Keeper of the Book had fallen to Alia. She had spent years preparing for this moment; she had been purified in the waters of the Urd, she had studied the writings of her forebears and she had traveled to the Home Ceitu in a dream-trance.</p> <p>From this day until her last, only Alia would be able to perceive the numerous manifestations of the Book and interpret their teachings. To be the Keeper of the Book was to be the leader of her people. She was to do this until the day of her Last Reading, when she would give herself to Abirt.</p> <p>“The Book teaches. The Book guides.”</p> <p>The Book had given her people much. It had taught them of seacraft borne by the wind, with which they traveled to the Northern Isles. It had taught them of tools used to prepare the harsh land for crops, so that food could be grown in abundance. It had taught them of the melting of metals, from which weapons for hunting could be crafted.</p> <p>“Alia,” It was the voice of Joren, Alia's tutor and caretaker. She had not heard him enter. “It's time for your first Reading.”</p> <p>“I…I'm not ready, Joren.”</p> <p>“Do not worry child, you have performed the rites. The Book will look favourably upon you. Come now.”</p> <p>Joren pushed aside the coloured fabric draped over the doorway and motioned to Alia. She hesitated briefly, then rose and exited the room through the gap in the cloth.</p> <hr/> <p>Alia stood alone outside the heavy wooden door leading into the Chamber of Readings, her hand resting on the doorknob. She inhaled deeply, opened the door and entered into the Chamber.</p> <p>The circular room was dimly lit by two braziers on either side of the doorway. A cylindrical stone pedestal occupied the centre of the room, the Book lying open on top. Alia walked up to the pedestal and examined the Book. It was unexpectedly bland. This was an object revered by hundreds, it had served as a guide for her people for generations – the last thing she had expected it to be was dull. And yet, it was dull, little more than aged paper bound in black. Alia picked up the Book and slowly thumbed through its yellowed pages: they were all blank. She set the Book back down on its pedestal, taking care to close it.</p> <p>Alia placed her hand on the cover of the Book and said the required words, as she had been instructed. “Grant me your knowledge, so that I may teach them. Grant me your wisdom, so that I may lead them. Grant me your guidance, so that I may show them the way.”</p> <p>Alia withdrew her hand, but the Book was unchanged. She knew that the Book would soon alter itself, she merely had to wait for it to do so. Doubts began to rise up in her mind. Would her people accept her as the new Keeper of the Book so readily? What if she failed to interpret the Book's guidance correctly?</p> <p>Alia wasn't sure exactly when the Book had changed. She had been sitting against the curved walls of the Chamber, only occasionally glancing at it. From across the room she could tell that the thickness of the Book had increased. It was now at least twice as large as it had been. Alia stood up with trepidation and walked slowly towards the pedestal. She picked up the Book and flicked through its pages as before, however this time they displayed words and diagrams. Alia was relieved; the Book had accepted her as its new Keeper. Even though she dreaded the day of her Last Reading, Alia was grateful for the opportunity to serve her people. She closed the Book and turned it over in her hands. On the front cover in bold white text were the words: <em>How to Fight a War</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="/thebook">The Book</a>" by Zekky, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/thebook">https://scpwiki.com/thebook</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 Book teaches. The Book guides.” Alia repeated the mantra to herself, her voice trembling. The Keeper of the Book had performed her Last Reading several days ago, and now her body was being prepared for passage into Abirt's realm. Consequently, the task of Keeper of the Book had fallen to Alia. She had spent years preparing for this moment; she had been purified in the waters of the Urd, she had studied the writings of her forebears and she had traveled to the Home Ceitu in a dream-trance. From this day until her last, only Alia would be able to perceive the numerous manifestations of the Book and interpret their teachings. To be the Keeper of the Book was to be the leader of her people. She was to do this until the day of her Last Reading, when she would give herself to Abirt. “The Book teaches. The Book guides.” The Book had given her people much. It had taught them of seacraft borne by the wind, with which they traveled to the Northern Isles. It had taught them of tools used to prepare the harsh land for crops, so that food could be grown in abundance. It had taught them of the melting of metals, from which weapons for hunting could be crafted. “Alia,” It was the voice of Joren, Alia's tutor and caretaker. She had not heard him enter. “It's time for your first Reading.” “I...I'm not ready, Joren.” “Do not worry child, you have performed the rites. The Book will look favourably upon you. Come now.” Joren pushed aside the coloured fabric draped over the doorway and motioned to Alia. She hesitated briefly, then rose and exited the room through the gap in the cloth. ----- Alia stood alone outside the heavy wooden door leading into the Chamber of Readings, her hand resting on the doorknob. She inhaled deeply, opened the door and entered into the Chamber. The circular room was dimly lit by two braziers on either side of the doorway. A cylindrical stone pedestal occupied the centre of the room, the Book lying open on top. Alia walked up to the pedestal and examined the Book. It was unexpectedly bland. This was an object revered by hundreds, it had served as a guide for her people for generations – the last thing she had expected it to be was dull. And yet, it was dull, little more than aged paper bound in black. Alia picked up the Book and slowly thumbed through its yellowed pages: they were all blank. She set the Book back down on its pedestal, taking care to close it. Alia placed her hand on the cover of the Book and said the required words, as she had been instructed. “Grant me your knowledge, so that I may teach them. Grant me your wisdom, so that I may lead them. Grant me your guidance, so that I may show them the way.” Alia withdrew her hand, but the Book was unchanged. She knew that the Book would soon alter itself, she merely had to wait for it to do so. Doubts began to rise up in her mind. Would her people accept her as the new Keeper of the Book so readily? What if she failed to interpret the Book's guidance correctly? Alia wasn't sure exactly when the Book had changed. She had been sitting against the curved walls of the Chamber, only occasionally glancing at it. From across the room she could tell that the thickness of the Book had increased. It was now at least twice as large as it had been. Alia stood up with trepidation and walked slowly towards the pedestal. She picked up the Book and flicked through its pages as before, however this time they displayed words and diagrams. Alia was relieved; the Book had accepted her as its new Keeper. Even though she dreaded the day of her Last Reading, Alia was grateful for the opportunity to serve her people. She closed the Book and turned it over in her hands. On the front cover in bold white text were the words: //How to Fight a War//. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-04-09T23:56:00	[ "_licensebox", "bellerverse", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Book - SCP Foundation	100	[ "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", "bellerverse" ]	[]	13122031	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/thebook
theres-an-app-for-that	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> I stood nervously before the desk. Although I'd met the Intelligence Operations Regional Director once before, when I first transferred into the department, I'd never had to deliver a report to someone this high up the chain of command before. It was a less than pleasant experience. <p>Director Jameson looked up from the smart-phone she had been handling, turned it to face me, and said, "So, Agent Beard, please explain what I'm seeing here." On the screen of the phone was a large circles-and-arrows logo, with "Special Containment Protocols. How safe do you feel?" printed below it.</p> <p>"Well, ma'am, I was looking for an app on my personal phone and decided to look up a few Foundation keywords as a joke. Unfortunately, as you can see, there actually was an app out there. At $14.99, it's more expensive than most apps, which we hope may have limited the number of people downloading it, but until we complete analysis of the involved databases, we won't know for certain how many copies are out there."</p> <p>She placed the phone on the desk and steepled her fingers as she looked at me. "And how extensive is the breach?"</p> <p>I held my hands behind my back, absently noticing that my palms were getting sweaty. "It contains heavily redacted protocols for about 450 items, mostly classified as Safe, and a couple of other internal documents, including a handful of personnel files." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "One of them is an almost fully unexpunged file on Dr. Bright."</p> <p>Director Jameson's brow furrowed slightly as she briefly closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "Can these files be traced to any given Site?"</p> <p>"The most likely origin of the leak is the central data hub in-" The phone buzzed, interrupting me. Director Jameson picked it up, tapped the screen a couple of times, then slid it over to me.</p> <p>There was an update to the app, advertising "37 new Items! New pictures for 17 old Items! UI upgrade! New submission form to report any Items you find out in the wild!"</p> <p>Director Jameson's voice grew harsh and her eyes grew cold as she said, "Coordinate with Internal Security and locate the source of this leak. I don't care if you have to crash Apple's servers, but get that app off the market immediately and locate anyone who got a copy. I want a weekly summary on your progress. Dismissed."</p> <p>I picked up the phone and left the room, glad that I wasn't getting blamed for the breach. Yet, anyway. And here I thought that transferring from field intel duty would be less stressful.<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="/theres-an-app-for-that">There's An App For That</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/theres-an-app-for-that">https://scpwiki.com/theres-an-app-for-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]] [[/>]] I stood nervously before the desk. Although I'd met the Intelligence Operations Regional Director once before, when I first transferred into the department, I'd never had to deliver a report to someone this high up the chain of command before. It was a less than pleasant experience. Director Jameson looked up from the smart-phone she had been handling, turned it to face me, and said, "So, Agent Beard, please explain what I'm seeing here." On the screen of the phone was a large circles-and-arrows logo, with "Special Containment Protocols. How safe do you feel?" printed below it. "Well, ma'am, I was looking for an app on my personal phone and decided to look up a few Foundation keywords as a joke. Unfortunately, as you can see, there actually was an app out there. At $14.99, it's more expensive than most apps, which we hope may have limited the number of people downloading it, but until we complete analysis of the involved databases, we won't know for certain how many copies are out there." She placed the phone on the desk and steepled her fingers as she looked at me. "And how extensive is the breach?" I held my hands behind my back, absently noticing that my palms were getting sweaty. "It contains heavily redacted protocols for about 450 items, mostly classified as Safe, and a couple of other internal documents, including a handful of personnel files." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "One of them is an almost fully unexpunged file on Dr. Bright." Director Jameson's brow furrowed slightly as she briefly closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "Can these files be traced to any given Site?" "The most likely origin of the leak is the central data hub in-" The phone buzzed, interrupting me. Director Jameson picked it up, tapped the screen a couple of times, then slid it over to me. There was an update to the app, advertising "37 new Items! New pictures for 17 old Items! UI upgrade! New submission form to report any Items you find out in the wild!" Director Jameson's voice grew harsh and her eyes grew cold as she said, "Coordinate with Internal Security and locate the source of this leak. I don't care if you have to crash Apple's servers, but get that app off the market immediately and locate anyone who got a copy. I want a weekly summary on your progress. Dismissed." I picked up the phone and left the room, glad that I wasn't getting blamed for the breach. Yet, anyway. And here I thought that transferring from field intel duty would be less stressful. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-01T20:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-bright", "tale" ]	There's An App For That - 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", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13446335	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theres-an-app-for-that
theselfinsert	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Life had always been without magic. That's why he wrote — because the real world, while it could be interesting, didn't have any magic. He wasn't quite a man of science, but instead a man of rationality. And so, he wrote: to add a little magic, a little horror, a little interest to a dull, humdrum world.</p> <p>It wasn't until he fell through a hole in his world — from the real world to a world filled with the things he'd written — that he started believing. It all began so simply. He had been walking through the stock room at Wal-Mart, headed for break; when he turned the corner, he didn't see what he expected to see: bleak grey shelving filled with boxes of product were replaced with sterile, white walls. He stopped walking, trying to take it in. Turning in place, he was shocked to discover nothing behind him but the same white walls.</p> <p>A psychotic break? Maybe. But you have to work within the laws of whatever universe you find yourself in, and so he began to walk, an eerie feeling shivering down his spine. The first door he came to was marked with a familiar symbol — and that feeling just got worse. He was here, in the Foundation. Not as a doctor, researcher, or agent, but as just…himself.</p> <p>He was <strong>screwed.</strong></p> <p>He wouldn't blend in. He couldn't, not in blue jeans and a blue shirt. And despite being a writer, the man who would come to be known by the three-letter acronym of TDM was not as clever as those he wrote about. He had one chance, he thought. If he could get out, get away from this Site, he might be able to lose himself in the world. Might.</p> <p>A passing researcher gave him a curious look as he continued to stroll down the hall. An agent gave him the same look, but closer, as if scrutinizing his face. A glance, risked over his shoulder, saw them both pointing him out to a security guard. He cursed under his breath as the guard called out for him to stop. So much for chances. Time to see if his writing had ever been any good.</p> <p>He turned to the nearest locked door, addressing the panel beside it. "Open. Authorization O5-6. Alpha-Omega-13." And, amazingly, it worked. The door slid open, and he dashed through, closing and locking it behind him with the same authorization codes. It might not hold long, but would it be long enough?</p> <p>Down another hall. Left at a doorway. Push past the old man with the beard. Locking every cross portal he came across, sealing every blast door. When he came to a computer, he logged in, using passcodes he'd once typed out just for the heck of it. Now, it felt so much more dangerous. He was at… Site 19. Damn it. Used to contain humanoids…no easy exits like 23 had. No… wait. There, down low, an O5 meeting room. If he could get there, he could get out. The O5s always had special escapes built in.</p> <p>He wasn't a hacker — he wasn't even particularly computer savvy. Which was why he was glad he'd always written the Foundation as using touch screens. Level Five status allowed you to pull off a <em>lot</em> of fun tricks. Including initiating a Keter level breach alert, on the opposite side of the site. Hopefully, that would distract the guards. Hopefully.</p> <p>It didn't matter. He'd locked the nearest stairway, and it was damn near a straight shot down to that room.</p> <p>Eleven floors later, he was cursing the fact he'd never had enough money to get a gym membership. Being an internet writer wasn't exactly the type of work that gave you fantastic muscles. Or, you know, any muscles whatsoever.</p> <p>Thirteen floors after that, he was gasping for breath, and wishing he'd quit smoking cigars when his girlfriend had asked him to. But, finally, he'd made it where he was going. Down another hall, and open this door…</p> <p>TDM slumped against the wall, defeated. Sitting in the room, almost as if they had been waiting for him, was an old man and his two bodyguards. Of course he'd have to show up on a day an O5 was actually here. "Well, fuck."</p> <p>The old man stared at the intruder, then shook his head just slightly at the man in the gas mask beside him. He considered the look in the man's eyes, the tone of his voice, and came to a startling — to him — conclusion. "You know who I am." There should only have been a handful of people who could recognize him on sight. "Interesting. Sadly, I do not know who <em>you</em> are. Which is intriguing, considering you have been using <em>my</em> security codes to throw this site into an uproar. You appear to have not been expecting me, and so are unlikely to be an assassin." A slight pause. "And your condition certainly helps prove that. My people tell me you appeared in the middle of a hallway, which could make you a teleporter, but I think an out of shape teleporter would not have walked down all those stairs. Which means someone sent you here. Against your will, maybe? You were coming to this room… to escape, yes? That doesn't tell me how you know there IS an escape route here. Well, do you have anything to say?"</p> <p>Through labored breathing, TDM muttered something. "You'll have to speak up," the old man replied. "I am getting up there in years."</p> <p>TDM sat back, and spoke again, louder this time. "Jack. TJ. Sarah. Claire. Mich-"</p> <p>For an old man, the fellow known as Cowboy could still move amazingly quickly. In the twinkling of an eye, he had moved forward. TDM's pale throat stood in contrast to the glittering silver blade pressed against it, seemingly drawn from Cowboy's cane. "Those are words that guarantee you a swift death."</p> <p>"But I can save them!" the bearded man gasped out, eyes locked on the blade. He gulped reflexively, and the razor sharp tip nicked his throat, a single drop of blood welling up.</p> <p>"You're not helping your case. Many have claimed as much over the years. But, if you know anything about the Foundation, you should know, there are-"</p> <p>"-no happy endings," the bearded man finished in unison with the O5. His thoughts raced, looking for anything that might save him. His eyes fixed on the bodyguard with the gasmask, and a spark fired somewhere in his brain. It would ruin his favorite story, but save his life. He cleared his throat, hoping to get the accent right. "H'lyiah, Cho'tp'k?"</p> <p>The man known as Thompson's eyes widened behind the gas mask he always wore. His gaze shifted slightly, and his head tilted slightly before returning to its perfect orientation. O5-6 frowned. "What did you just say? Are you trying to work some memetic agent? I'll have you know, my men are well-shielded against such things. I do believe I shall simply kill you."</p> <p>Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to get it all out at the same time.</p> <p>"BlackhasbeenbrainwashedbyMannandhe'sgoingtokillyouifyoudon't-"</p> <p>Not quite quick enough. Even as he spoke, the unmasked bodyguard's eyes glazed over, and he began to raise his gun. Not towards the unknown man, but towards the O5. Unfortunately for Agent Black, Thompson was prepared, having been prewarned. His brass knuckles struck twice in as many seconds, and the brainwashed minion was sent to the floor, unconscious.</p> <p>"Like that," TDM finished lamely.</p> <p>"Interesting." Six stared at his once-trusted protector, a deep frown creasing his lips. "And you knew this…how?"</p> <p>"I wrote it."</p> <hr/> <p>Time passed, as it does. The newcomer was tagged as a Black Box SCP, known by a descriptor, not a number. The Duck Man, or "TDM" for short. He was very busy for the first, oh, hour or twelve, telling Six everything he knew about Mann's plans. He was then placed in a Humanoid Containment Chamber, and ignored for a couple of weeks, as Six routed out all of the mad doctor's plans and puppets.</p> <p>But after all that, it came time to decide what to do with him. Jack Bright and O5-6 stood in the observation lounge, watching as TDM stared upwards, trying desperately to entertain himself in between feedings.</p> <p>"What did he just say?" Six leaned forward, turning up the volume.</p> <p>"I think it was something along the lines of 'Wow. 12 meters high. I didn't think they actually did that.'" Jack fiddled with his amulet, staring at the man before them. "Do you think this guy is on the level?"</p> <p>"He's not a Bixby, if that's what you're asking. I've had people testing him, covertly. If he could alter reality, he'd have done something by now. Tests show him to be completely human, identical on a quantum level to a man currently living in the United States. All the ID he had on him when we put him in here is identical to the real one. Well, with one difference. The him on the outside is a millionaire. Won a lottery or something. This one worked at Wal-Mart."</p> <p>"Thought you said he wasn't a Bixby? Sounds like some major wish fulfillment to me."</p> <p>"Enh. Might have been something like that. But this guy? He can't do anything now. Except make use of the things he's 'written' in before."</p> <p>"So you think he really created us?"</p> <p>"No. I'm not that pessimistic. I think in his universe, he had some, we'll call it a connection. It lets him know way too much about us, but he's not a god, or a creator of any kind." Six pauses to pull out a cigar and light it up. The smoke alarm begins to go off, but a quick glare from Six and the alarm is rapidly silenced.</p> <p>"Do you really have to do that?"</p> <p>"What's the point of having power, if you can't abuse it?"</p> <p>"And you think he can fix me? And TJ? And…" Bright swallows. "Sarah?"</p> <p>"I think he can. He knows the shortcuts, he said."</p> <p>"What does he want?</p> <p>"Protection. He doesn't want anyone to know he's here. He says he gets nightmares thinking about what MC&D, or the CI would do to him. He also seems to think if he does too much, people from his world will notice him, and …get rid of him. He calls it deletion. He's scared to death of Kondraki and Clef, thinks they'll 'decommission' him. He's willing to help us with whatever we want, as long as we keep him fed… and entertained."</p> <p>"Entertained?"</p> <p>"He knows he can't have access to the outside world." Six blows a smoke ring. "So he wants games. Computer, video, all that sort. And books. Something to keep him healthy." His mouth curls in a half-smile. "And SCP-1004."</p> <p>Jack can't help but double take. "One thousand four? Does he know what it does?"</p> <p>"He seems to think he can handle it." Six found himself smirking. "And if he can't, well… We'll have found out all he knows by the time it makes him incapable of proceeding."</p> <p>"You're an asshole. I love it."</p> <hr/> <p>Now. At this point, we could go on about the things The Duck Man did. The SCPs he fixed. The plots he stopped with his information, or the other things he told people that they shouldn't have known. Instead? I think it best to end this tale with a small view of what the guards watching him see.</p> <p>Agent Klein sat down beside Senior Agent Hanks, sliding his card into the station to clock into his assignment. "All right, sir. I'm here to take over observation duties from you. Anything I need to know?"</p> <p>"This guy masturbates more than anyone. <em>Ever.</em> Seriously, it's disgusting. I don't even want to <em>know</em> what he's looking up on that thing. The sounds are bad enough." Hanks shakes his head. "Look, this is an easy job. The skip isn't dangerous. He just sits there, playing video games, and watching porn. Your main duty is to poke him every now and then, make him get active. That's what the treadmill and weights are for. The Overseers want him to stay healthy."</p> <p>"Is he talking to himself in there?"</p> <p>"Same thing he always says. I don't get it, but here, listen." Hanks leaned forward, turning up the volume so the two could hear the words The Duck Man would be repeating for the rest of his long life.</p> <p>"Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me."</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="/theselfinsert">The Self Insert</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/theselfinsert">https://scpwiki.com/theselfinsert</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]] [[/>]] Life had always been without magic. That's why he wrote -- because the real world, while it could be interesting, didn't have any magic. He wasn't quite a man of science, but instead a man of rationality. And so, he wrote: to add a little magic, a little horror, a little interest to a dull, humdrum world. It wasn't until he fell through a hole in his world -- from the real world to a world filled with the things he'd written -- that he started believing. It all began so simply. He had been walking through the stock room at Wal-Mart, headed for break; when he turned the corner, he didn't see what he expected to see: bleak grey shelving filled with boxes of product were replaced with sterile, white walls. He stopped walking, trying to take it in. Turning in place, he was shocked to discover nothing behind him but the same white walls. A psychotic break? Maybe. But you have to work within the laws of whatever universe you find yourself in, and so he began to walk, an eerie feeling shivering down his spine. The first door he came to was marked with a familiar symbol -- and that feeling just got worse. He was here, in the Foundation. Not as a doctor, researcher, or agent, but as just...himself. He was screwed. He wouldn't blend in. He couldn't, not in blue jeans and a blue shirt. And despite being a writer, the man who would come to be known by the three-letter acronym of TDM was not as clever as those he wrote about. He had one chance, he thought. If he could get out, get away from this Site, he might be able to lose himself in the world. Might. A passing researcher gave him a curious look as he continued to stroll down the hall. An agent gave him the same look, but closer, as if scrutinizing his face. A glance, risked over his shoulder, saw them both pointing him out to a security guard. He cursed under his breath as the guard called out for him to stop. So much for chances. Time to see if his writing had ever been any good. He turned to the nearest locked door, addressing the panel beside it. "Open. Authorization O5-6. Alpha-Omega-13." And, amazingly, it worked. The door slid open, and he dashed through, closing and locking it behind him with the same authorization codes. It might not hold long, but would it be long enough? Down another hall. Left at a doorway. Push past the old man with the beard. Locking every cross portal he came across, sealing every blast door. When he came to a computer, he logged in, using passcodes he'd once typed out just for the heck of it. Now, it felt so much more dangerous. He was at… Site 19. Damn it. Used to contain humanoids...no easy exits like 23 had. No… wait. There, down low, an O5 meeting room. If he could get there, he could get out. The O5s always had special escapes built in. He wasn't a hacker -- he wasn't even particularly computer savvy. Which was why he was glad he'd always written the Foundation as using touch screens. Level Five status allowed you to pull off a //lot// of fun tricks. Including initiating a Keter level breach alert, on the opposite side of the site. Hopefully, that would distract the guards. Hopefully. It didn't matter. He'd locked the nearest stairway, and it was damn near a straight shot down to that room. Eleven floors later, he was cursing the fact he'd never had enough money to get a gym membership. Being an internet writer wasn't exactly the type of work that gave you fantastic muscles. Or, you know, any muscles whatsoever. Thirteen floors after that, he was gasping for breath, and wishing he'd quit smoking cigars when his girlfriend had asked him to. But, finally, he'd made it where he was going. Down another hall, and open this door… TDM slumped against the wall, defeated. Sitting in the room, almost as if they had been waiting for him, was an old man and his two bodyguards. Of course he'd have to show up on a day an O5 was actually here. "Well, fuck." The old man stared at the intruder, then shook his head just slightly at the man in the gas mask beside him. He considered the look in the man's eyes, the tone of his voice, and came to a startling -- to him -- conclusion. "You know who I am." There should only have been a handful of people who could recognize him on sight. "Interesting. Sadly, I do not know who //you// are. Which is intriguing, considering you have been using //my// security codes to throw this site into an uproar. You appear to have not been expecting me, and so are unlikely to be an assassin." A slight pause. "And your condition certainly helps prove that. My people tell me you appeared in the middle of a hallway, which could make you a teleporter, but I think an out of shape teleporter would not have walked down all those stairs. Which means someone sent you here. Against your will, maybe? You were coming to this room… to escape, yes? That doesn't tell me how you know there IS an escape route here. Well, do you have anything to say?" Through labored breathing, TDM muttered something. "You'll have to speak up," the old man replied. "I am getting up there in years." TDM sat back, and spoke again, louder this time. "Jack. TJ. Sarah. Claire. Mich-" For an old man, the fellow known as Cowboy could still move amazingly quickly. In the twinkling of an eye, he had moved forward. TDM's pale throat stood in contrast to the glittering silver blade pressed against it, seemingly drawn from Cowboy's cane. "Those are words that guarantee you a swift death." "But I can save them!" the bearded man gasped out, eyes locked on the blade. He gulped reflexively, and the razor sharp tip nicked his throat, a single drop of blood welling up. "You're not helping your case. Many have claimed as much over the years. But, if you know anything about the Foundation, you should know, there are-" "-no happy endings," the bearded man finished in unison with the O5. His thoughts raced, looking for anything that might save him. His eyes fixed on the bodyguard with the gasmask, and a spark fired somewhere in his brain. It would ruin his favorite story, but save his life. He cleared his throat, hoping to get the accent right. "H'lyiah, Cho'tp'k?" The man known as Thompson's eyes widened behind the gas mask he always wore. His gaze shifted slightly, and his head tilted slightly before returning to its perfect orientation. O5-6 frowned. "What did you just say? Are you trying to work some memetic agent? I'll have you know, my men are well-shielded against such things. I do believe I shall simply kill you." Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to get it all out at the same time. "BlackhasbeenbrainwashedbyMannandhe'sgoingtokillyouifyoudon't-" Not quite quick enough. Even as he spoke, the unmasked bodyguard's eyes glazed over, and he began to raise his gun. Not towards the unknown man, but towards the O5. Unfortunately for Agent Black, Thompson was prepared, having been prewarned. His brass knuckles struck twice in as many seconds, and the brainwashed minion was sent to the floor, unconscious. "Like that," TDM finished lamely. "Interesting." Six stared at his once-trusted protector, a deep frown creasing his lips. "And you knew this...how?" "I wrote it." ---- Time passed, as it does. The newcomer was tagged as a Black Box SCP, known by a descriptor, not a number. The Duck Man, or "TDM" for short. He was very busy for the first, oh, hour or twelve, telling Six everything he knew about Mann's plans. He was then placed in a Humanoid Containment Chamber, and ignored for a couple of weeks, as Six routed out all of the mad doctor's plans and puppets. But after all that, it came time to decide what to do with him. Jack Bright and O5-6 stood in the observation lounge, watching as TDM stared upwards, trying desperately to entertain himself in between feedings. "What did he just say?" Six leaned forward, turning up the volume. "I think it was something along the lines of 'Wow. 12 meters high. I didn't think they actually did that.'" Jack fiddled with his amulet, staring at the man before them. "Do you think this guy is on the level?" "He's not a Bixby, if that's what you're asking. I've had people testing him, covertly. If he could alter reality, he'd have done something by now. Tests show him to be completely human, identical on a quantum level to a man currently living in the United States. All the ID he had on him when we put him in here is identical to the real one. Well, with one difference. The him on the outside is a millionaire. Won a lottery or something. This one worked at Wal-Mart." "Thought you said he wasn't a Bixby? Sounds like some major wish fulfillment to me." "Enh. Might have been something like that. But this guy? He can't do anything now. Except make use of the things he's 'written' in before." "So you think he really created us?" "No. I'm not that pessimistic. I think in his universe, he had some, we'll call it a connection. It lets him know way too much about us, but he's not a god, or a creator of any kind." Six pauses to pull out a cigar and light it up. The smoke alarm begins to go off, but a quick glare from Six and the alarm is rapidly silenced. "Do you really have to do that?" "What's the point of having power, if you can't abuse it?" "And you think he can fix me? And TJ? And…" Bright swallows. "Sarah?" "I think he can. He knows the shortcuts, he said." "What does he want? "Protection. He doesn't want anyone to know he's here. He says he gets nightmares thinking about what MC&D, or the CI would do to him. He also seems to think if he does too much, people from his world will notice him, and …get rid of him. He calls it deletion. He's scared to death of Kondraki and Clef, thinks they'll 'decommission' him. He's willing to help us with whatever we want, as long as we keep him fed… and entertained." "Entertained?" "He knows he can't have access to the outside world." Six blows a smoke ring. "So he wants games. Computer, video, all that sort. And books. Something to keep him healthy." His mouth curls in a half-smile. "And SCP-1004." Jack can't help but double take. "One thousand four? Does he know what it does?" "He seems to think he can handle it." Six found himself smirking. "And if he can't, well… We'll have found out all he knows by the time it makes him incapable of proceeding." "You're an asshole. I love it." ---- Now. At this point, we could go on about the things The Duck Man did. The SCPs he fixed. The plots he stopped with his information, or the other things he told people that they shouldn't have known. Instead? I think it best to end this tale with a small view of what the guards watching him see. Agent Klein sat down beside Senior Agent Hanks, sliding his card into the station to clock into his assignment. "All right, sir. I'm here to take over observation duties from you. Anything I need to know?" "This guy masturbates more than anyone. //Ever.// Seriously, it's disgusting. I don't even want to //know// what he's looking up on that thing. The sounds are bad enough." Hanks shakes his head. "Look, this is an easy job. The skip isn't dangerous. He just sits there, playing video games, and watching porn. Your main duty is to poke him every now and then, make him get active. That's what the treadmill and weights are for. The Overseers want him to stay healthy." "Is he talking to himself in there?" "Same thing he always says. I don't get it, but here, listen." Hanks leaned forward, turning up the volume so the two could hear the words The Duck Man would be repeating for the rest of his long life. "Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me." [[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>]]	2012-12-10T09:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-bright", "metafiction", "project-crossover", "tale" ]	The Self Insert - SCP Foundation	367	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "crossoverprojectindex", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15342616	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theselfinsert
this-isn-t-a-hospital	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“Ms. Catherine, I understand you may be shocked, but I must insist you try your hardest to remember.”</p> <p>She looked down at the stark white hospital gown she was wearing, the texture felt rough against the skin that was not wrapped up in gauze or absorbent patches. Even those were not exactly comfortable, and the man sitting beside the bed with the wide plastic smile put every hair of hers on edge. She disliked hospitals, the ward she sat in was almost blindingly white and sterile. The few occupants were her, the interviewer, and four other victims of the attack.</p> <p>“Ms. Catherine?”</p> <p>“I said that this guy leapt out from the hedge and tried to bite off my tit,” Catherine repeated, resisting the temptation to rub her wounded chest and arms. Even thinking about it made it hurt. “I heard something break a bit earlier, but I just thought someone had knocked over one of those big flower vase things in the park.”</p> <p>“Did this man look drugged, or ill?” The interviewer leaned in, still smiling. “Or did he seem perfectly normal besides the aggression? Did you say anything that would have offended someone?”</p> <p>Catherine moved further over to the side of the bed. “He looked really red and he was sweating. I think he was homeless.” She took a deep breath, trying to remember each detail of the man. “He had a beard and his nails were extremely long.” Her eyes moved over to her arms, all bandaged up from where the man had ripped into her. “He also was not wearing any shoes.” She nodded, laying back onto the stiff pillow. She wriggled slightly, trying to remove the pressure on her chest from the bandages. With most of her chest and waist covered, she really did not want to think about how bad the wounds looked, and was even more thankful she could barely feel them.</p> <p>“I see,” the interviewer said, the smile never leaving his face, “so perhaps he was just mentally ill-“</p> <p>“George!” Someone called from across the room. “We need to talk.”</p> <p>The interviewer got up, nodded in the direction of the person who called for him before looking back at Catherine. “I suggest you rest, Ms. Catherine.”</p> <p>“Will I get to call my parents soon? They’re probably worried to death that I got run over or something.”</p> <p>“Tomorrow, Ms. Catherine. Tonight I believe you should rest, we have testing we need to do in the morning,” he said while getting up, then walking away at a brisk pace. Catherine watched as he quickly made his way to the door and disappeared behind it.</p> <p>“…Creep,” she muttered underneath her breath. She could not deny that he had a point though, she was exhausted and her body hurt. Catherine waited for sleep to come, the sound of a hospital bed being moved the herald of a dreamless slumber.</p> <p>-</p> <p>-</p> <p>-</p> <p>Catherine woke up in a panic, nearly rolling off the bed. Her chest felt like it was in a tight vise, squeezing out her organs. She twisted and squirmed on the bed in an effort to loosen the hardened bandages, instead there was a cracking noise, and as she rolled over again the cold touch of air ran over her exposed wounds before the itchy hospital gown covered them.</p> <p>“Oh shit.” She sat up, the pieces of bandaging falling off behind her or into her lap. Catherine reached into her gown to pull out the hardened gauze and looked over them for a moment. They were soaked in reddish brown, with crusted yellow green making faint outlines where she assumed the edges of the bites and scratches to be. She looked up first, at the empty ward, then leaned down to sniff the bandages. They were scentless, not even a slight metallic whiff of blood.</p> <p>Goosebumps formed over her as the soft hum of air conditioning began, the cold breeze running over her exposed back. “Where’s my shirt?” she wondered out loud. With no doctors around to tell her to stay in bed, she quickly got out of it, hunching over to brace herself for a pain which never came. She stood straight up then, feeling the flesh on her chest stretch as she moved.</p> <p>Catherine walked down to the end of the ward, where a few desks and lockers stood. Two of the lockers were opened, one with a post-it note attached complaining about someone named ‘Avery’ not cleaning it up properly. It did not seem like her own clothing was around. She turned to look at the desks, wondering if there were any keys in them.</p> <p>The desks had a few papers on them, computers, pen cups, medical charts, emergency flashlights, manila envelopes. Things one might expect. She found several keys in drawers and one bright red stress ball with a crude face drawn onto it. Squeezing it, she began a slow process of finding which keys opened which locker. After eight lockers had been opened, she finally found one with some clothing in it. A piece of paper taped to the inside of the locker noted that it belonged to a woman named Doctor Elizabeth Schumacher.</p> <p>“Sorry Elizabeth,” Catherine mumbled as she pulled out the blouse, underwear, and skirt. She was mildly disappointed to not find any shoes. She then looked down at the hospital gown, the cool breeze still hitting her exposed backside. She gripped the flimsy feeling material, wondering how horrible the exposed flesh will look underneath. She could not feel it, perhaps the damage had been less than she thought, but she braced herself for an ugly sight anyway as she pulled off the hospital gown and let it fall to her cold feet.</p> <p>Underneath were large patches of reddened flesh, cracked dry lines of pus lining some of them. Her left breast was lopsided looking with a chunk of it still missing. Catherine frowned and poked the tender flesh there, and bit her lip in the sudden flare of pain. “That wasn’t the smartest thing to do.” She groaned, cradling it.</p> <p>Getting over the pain, she quickly pulled on the slightly loose clothing, buttoning up the blouse and zipping up the skirt. She looked over at the heavy double doors, then at the two rows of empty hospital beds. The lack of a window in the white room, the quiet air as the air conditioner turned off.</p> <p>“This isn’t a hospital,” she realized, looking back to the doors, the revelation taking a few moments to fully dawn on her. If she was not in a hospital, where was she? Where did the other patients go? Why were the grievous injuries healed? Needles felt like they were digging into her heart, a fearful confusion burrowing deep inside. Frowning, she walked over to them and pushed them open quickly, sending a shaft of light into a dark hall. She poked her head out, seeing nothing but dim lighting from a few small bulbs down the corridor. Catherine took a few steps out and suddenly found herself on her back, her head cracking against the tiles as she slipped.</p> <p>Sitting up, she rubbed her head and looked down at her other hand. It was cold, and as the doors closed a sliver of light crossed over her hand, illuminating the red.</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="/this-isn-t-a-hospital">This Isn't a Hospital</a>" by Vehemency, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/this-isn-t-a-hospital">https://scpwiki.com/this-isn-t-a-hospital</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]] [[/>]] “Ms. Catherine, I understand you may be shocked, but I must insist you try your hardest to remember.” She looked down at the stark white hospital gown she was wearing, the texture felt rough against the skin that was not wrapped up in gauze or absorbent patches. Even those were not exactly comfortable, and the man sitting beside the bed with the wide plastic smile put every hair of hers on edge. She disliked hospitals, the ward she sat in was almost blindingly white and sterile. The few occupants were her, the interviewer, and four other victims of the attack. “Ms. Catherine?” “I said that this guy leapt out from the hedge and tried to bite off my tit,” Catherine repeated, resisting the temptation to rub her wounded chest and arms. Even thinking about it made it hurt. “I heard something break a bit earlier, but I just thought someone had knocked over one of those big flower vase things in the park.” “Did this man look drugged, or ill?” The interviewer leaned in, still smiling. “Or did he seem perfectly normal besides the aggression? Did you say anything that would have offended someone?” Catherine moved further over to the side of the bed. “He looked really red and he was sweating. I think he was homeless.” She took a deep breath, trying to remember each detail of the man. “He had a beard and his nails were extremely long.” Her eyes moved over to her arms, all bandaged up from where the man had ripped into her. “He also was not wearing any shoes.” She nodded, laying back onto the stiff pillow. She wriggled slightly, trying to remove the pressure on her chest from the bandages. With most of her chest and waist covered, she really did not want to think about how bad the wounds looked, and was even more thankful she could barely feel them. “I see,” the interviewer said, the smile never leaving his face, “so perhaps he was just mentally ill-“ “George!” Someone called from across the room. “We need to talk.” The interviewer got up, nodded in the direction of the person who called for him before looking back at Catherine. “I suggest you rest, Ms. Catherine.” “Will I get to call my parents soon? They’re probably worried to death that I got run over or something.” “Tomorrow, Ms. Catherine. Tonight I believe you should rest, we have testing we need to do in the morning,” he said while getting up, then walking away at a brisk pace. Catherine watched as he quickly made his way to the door and disappeared behind it. “…Creep,” she muttered underneath her breath. She could not deny that he had a point though, she was exhausted and her body hurt. Catherine waited for sleep to come, the sound of a hospital bed being moved the herald of a dreamless slumber. - - - Catherine woke up in a panic, nearly rolling off the bed. Her chest felt like it was in a tight vise, squeezing out her organs. She twisted and squirmed on the bed in an effort to loosen the hardened bandages, instead there was a cracking noise, and as she rolled over again the cold touch of air ran over her exposed wounds before the itchy hospital gown covered them. “Oh shit.” She sat up, the pieces of bandaging falling off behind her or into her lap. Catherine reached into her gown to pull out the hardened gauze and looked over them for a moment. They were soaked in reddish brown, with crusted yellow green making faint outlines where she assumed the edges of the bites and scratches to be. She looked up first, at the empty ward, then leaned down to sniff the bandages. They were scentless, not even a slight metallic whiff of blood. Goosebumps formed over her as the soft hum of air conditioning began, the cold breeze running over her exposed back. “Where’s my shirt?” she wondered out loud. With no doctors around to tell her to stay in bed, she quickly got out of it, hunching over to brace herself for a pain which never came. She stood straight up then, feeling the flesh on her chest stretch as she moved. Catherine walked down to the end of the ward, where a few desks and lockers stood. Two of the lockers were opened, one with a post-it note attached complaining about someone named ‘Avery’ not cleaning it up properly. It did not seem like her own clothing was around. She turned to look at the desks, wondering if there were any keys in them. The desks had a few papers on them, computers, pen cups, medical charts, emergency flashlights, manila envelopes. Things one might expect. She found several keys in drawers and one bright red stress ball with a crude face drawn onto it. Squeezing it, she began a slow process of finding which keys opened which locker. After eight lockers had been opened, she finally found one with some clothing in it. A piece of paper taped to the inside of the locker noted that it belonged to a woman named Doctor Elizabeth Schumacher. “Sorry Elizabeth,” Catherine mumbled as she pulled out the blouse, underwear, and skirt. She was mildly disappointed to not find any shoes. She then looked down at the hospital gown, the cool breeze still hitting her exposed backside. She gripped the flimsy feeling material, wondering how horrible the exposed flesh will look underneath. She could not feel it, perhaps the damage had been less than she thought, but she braced herself for an ugly sight anyway as she pulled off the hospital gown and let it fall to her cold feet. Underneath were large patches of reddened flesh, cracked dry lines of pus lining some of them. Her left breast was lopsided looking with a chunk of it still missing. Catherine frowned and poked the tender flesh there, and bit her lip in the sudden flare of pain. “That wasn’t the smartest thing to do.” She groaned, cradling it. Getting over the pain, she quickly pulled on the slightly loose clothing, buttoning up the blouse and zipping up the skirt. She looked over at the heavy double doors, then at the two rows of empty hospital beds. The lack of a window in the white room, the quiet air as the air conditioner turned off. “This isn’t a hospital,” she realized, looking back to the doors, the revelation taking a few moments to fully dawn on her. If she was not in a hospital, where was she? Where did the other patients go? Why were the grievous injuries healed? Needles felt like they were digging into her heart, a fearful confusion burrowing deep inside. Frowning, she walked over to them and pushed them open quickly, sending a shaft of light into a dark hall. She poked her head out, seeing nothing but dim lighting from a few small bulbs down the corridor. Catherine took a few steps out and suddenly found herself on her back, her head cracking against the tiles as she slipped. Sitting up, she rubbed her head and looked down at her other hand. It was cold, and as the doors closed a sliver of light crossed over her hand, illuminating the red. [[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>]]	2012-08-06T04:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	This Isn't a Hospital - SCP Foundation	6	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13967351	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/this-isn-t-a-hospital
three-s-a-crowd	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Paulie?" The frail, shaky voice echoed through the hallways. "Paulie, I'm scared…"</p> <p>Paul carefully crawled further under the desk. He held his hand over his mouth, stifling his panting and struggling not to start sobbing. He couldn't afford it at this point.</p> <p>"I need you… why aren't you helping me? Big brother…"</p> <p><em>It's not really him Paul, it's not Mikey, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead dead dead deaddeaddead—</em></p> <p>"Paaauuuliiie! C'mon Paulie! We gotta go to the hospital! Please… please…"</p> <p>His brother… no, that… thing's voice was getting more frantic.</p> <p><em>It's not him. It can't be him. Nonono.</em></p> <p>Paul listened closely, holding his breath and waiting for his heart to stop deafening him. There were footsteps. <em>Tmp, tmp, tmp.</em> Shuffling, uneven footsteps, accompanied with Mik—<em>its</em> sobbing and calling. As the sounds got closer, he could hear another voice. It wasn't calling or crying like the other. It was just whimpering and rasping. Paul steeled himself.</p> <p><em>It's just one set of footsteps. That's not natural. He's not Mikey anymore, he's not my brother, he's just—</em></p> <p>"Paulie, please! There's blood everywhere, I can't stop it! Please, for the love of god, just help us!"</p> <p><em>Mikey… It… No, it couldn't be him… But.. .It sure as hell sounded like him…</em></p> <p>He thought back to earlier. Maybe… maybe he had imagined part of it. It wasn't like he was in the best mindset to process information, really.</p> <p>After all, they had just hit a kid with the car.</p> <p>Paul rubbed his eyes, playing it over in his head.</p> <p><em>Okay, we hit him. We hit him hard. Godammit, we were scared shitless. We didn't know…</em></p> <p><em>We weren't worried too much about saving the kid, I guess. God, it was all a blur… I just remember yelling at Mike, then he jumped out of the car to try to drag him into the school, and then…</em></p> <p><em>God, I can't even remember what happened clearly. All I remember is the kid springing up and wrestling Mikey to the ground. There was something weird about it, I'm sure…</em></p> <p><em>Well… am I? Maybe it really was just the kid trying to get back up. There wasn't anything weird about what he did, I guess. Besides that ball he had, but…</em></p> <p><em>Well… maybe it was irrelevant. Maybe… maybe I just imagined that flesh thing…Was it still Mikey…?</em></p> <p><em>… I ran inside too quickly… I… I should've stayed behind to help him. I saw the blood, I heard his scream, I just… I didn't want this godammit.</em></p> <p><em>But… what if there's nothing to hide from? After all, the kid obviously wasn't dead, and Mikey seemed… normal.</em></p> <p>He hesitantly shifted his body out from underneath the desk. He stood up, carefully making sure to not knock into anything, and edged his way to the doorway. As he approached the opening, he could clearly see shadows making their way on the walls towards him. Two figures lurched along, one dragging the other. He peered out of the entrance, putting as little of his body out into the hallway as he could while still surveying the scene. He watched the larger figure's hair swing around in a way he knew too well, how it constantly darted around like a ferret…</p> <p><em>Mikey?</em></p> <p>Nervously, he stepped into the hallway.</p> <p>"Little brother?" he called out, tensing up to run. "Hey, I'm here."</p> <p>The duo turned with difficulty to look at him.</p> <p>"Oh, thank god! Come on, we have to go take him to the hospital!"</p> <p>As they advanced on him, Paul reflexively took a step back.</p> <p>"That's, uh," Paul fumbled over his words. "Mike, I don't think we should do that…"</p> <p>"Are you crazy?! Look at him, he's almost dead! Please! I can't just let him die! It was our fault Paul! We did this and… and…"</p> <p>The boy stopped and vomited, clutching the other form tightly and taking in ragged breaths.</p> <p>"Please, Paul… We hit him… I can't… I can't let him die…"</p> <p>With these words, Mike collapsed to the floor.</p> <p>Paul shouted, and ran over to his little brother. He crouched and started checking for a pulse on his neck. He ran his eyes over the familiar face, noticing every single minute detail, from the scar above his left eye, to the lip he'd bruised earlier, to his long, narrow nose. It was most definitely his brother.</p> <p>"Paulie…?" he faintly murmured. "Is that you?"</p> <p>"Yes, yes it's me, Mikey," Paul said with relief. "I'm here, I'm going to help you now, we're going to take you and this kid to the hospital, and everything is going to be alright. I promise."</p> <p>The boy shook his head.</p> <p>"Brother, you've done enough. I can't move on, I need more rest. Please, just stay with me right now until I have enough strength to move on."</p> <p>"Sure thing, Mike."</p> <p>The sensation wasn't subtle. Paul knew soon enough that it was over. And yet, he didn't regret it. Strangely, he felt…at peace. He closed his eyes as he felt the cold, clammy appendage attach itself to him and start converting him. It felt right…</p> <p><em>Hey there Paulie, I'm glad you finally came! Have you met my friend?</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="/three-s-a-crowd">Three's a Crowd</a>" by marslifeform, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/three-s-a-crowd">https://scpwiki.com/three-s-a-crowd</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]] [[/>]] "Paulie?" The frail, shaky voice echoed through the hallways. "Paulie, I'm scared..." Paul carefully crawled further under the desk. He held his hand over his mouth, stifling his panting and struggling not to start sobbing. He couldn't afford it at this point. "I need you... why aren't you helping me? Big brother..." //It's not really him Paul, it's not Mikey, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead, Mikey's dead dead dead deaddeaddead--// "Paaauuuliiie! C'mon Paulie! We gotta go to the hospital! Please... please..." His brother... no, that... thing's voice was getting more frantic. //It's not him. It can't be him. Nonono.// Paul listened closely, holding his breath and waiting for his heart to stop deafening him. There were footsteps. //Tmp, tmp, tmp.// Shuffling, uneven footsteps, accompanied with Mik--//its// sobbing and calling. As the sounds got closer, he could hear another voice. It wasn't calling or crying like the other. It was just whimpering and rasping. Paul steeled himself. //It's just one set of footsteps. That's not natural. He's not Mikey anymore, he's not my brother, he's just--// "Paulie, please! There's blood everywhere, I can't stop it! Please, for the love of god, just help us!" //Mikey... It... No, it couldn't be him... But.. .It sure as hell sounded like him...// He thought back to earlier. Maybe... maybe he had imagined part of it. It wasn't like he was in the best mindset to process information, really. After all, they had just hit a kid with the car. Paul rubbed his eyes, playing it over in his head. //Okay, we hit him. We hit him hard. Godammit, we were scared shitless. We didn't know...// //We weren't worried too much about saving the kid, I guess. God, it was all a blur... I just remember yelling at Mike, then he jumped out of the car to try to drag him into the school, and then...// //God, I can't even remember what happened clearly. All I remember is the kid springing up and wrestling Mikey to the ground. There was something weird about it, I'm sure...// //Well... am I? Maybe it really was just the kid trying to get back up. There wasn't anything weird about what he did, I guess. Besides that ball he had, but...// //Well... maybe it was irrelevant. Maybe... maybe I just imagined that flesh thing...Was it still Mikey...?// //... I ran inside too quickly... I... I should've stayed behind to help him. I saw the blood, I heard his scream, I just... I didn't want this godammit.// //But... what if there's nothing to hide from? After all, the kid obviously wasn't dead, and Mikey seemed... normal.// He hesitantly shifted his body out from underneath the desk. He stood up, carefully making sure to not knock into anything, and edged his way to the doorway. As he approached the opening, he could clearly see shadows making their way on the walls towards him. Two figures lurched along, one dragging the other. He peered out of the entrance, putting as little of his body out into the hallway as he could while still surveying the scene. He watched the larger figure's hair swing around in a way he knew too well, how it constantly darted around like a ferret... //Mikey?// Nervously, he stepped into the hallway. "Little brother?" he called out, tensing up to run. "Hey, I'm here." The duo turned with difficulty to look at him. "Oh, thank god! Come on, we have to go take him to the hospital!" As they advanced on him, Paul reflexively took a step back. "That's, uh," Paul fumbled over his words. "Mike, I don't think we should do that..." "Are you crazy?! Look at him, he's almost dead! Please! I can't just let him die! It was our fault Paul! We did this and... and..." The boy stopped and vomited, clutching the other form tightly and taking in ragged breaths. "Please, Paul... We hit him... I can't... I can't let him die..." With these words, Mike collapsed to the floor. Paul shouted, and ran over to his little brother. He crouched and started checking for a pulse on his neck. He ran his eyes over the familiar face, noticing every single minute detail, from the scar above his left eye, to the lip he'd bruised earlier, to his long, narrow nose. It was most definitely his brother. "Paulie...?" he faintly murmured. "Is that you?" "Yes, yes it's me, Mikey," Paul said with relief. "I'm here, I'm going to help you now, we're going to take you and this kid to the hospital, and everything is going to be alright. I promise." The boy shook his head. "Brother, you've done enough. I can't move on, I need more rest. Please, just stay with me right now until I have enough strength to move on." "Sure thing, Mike." The sensation wasn't subtle. Paul knew soon enough that it was over. And yet, he didn't regret it. Strangely, he felt...at peace. He closed his eyes as he felt the cold, clammy appendage attach itself to him and start converting him. It felt right... //Hey there Paulie, I'm glad you finally came! Have you met my friend?// [[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>]]	2012-12-05T20:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Three's a Crowd - SCP Foundation	21	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "young-and-under-30", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2012", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15282925	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/three-s-a-crowd
thrice	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Note:</strong> This tale is based on <a href="/scp-1440">SCP-1440</a>, and it is better read after reading that article.</p> <hr/> <p>The old man woke, and his failures flooded his mind once more. The destruction of the Foundation base was just another drop in an ocean of guilt. Sometimes, he didn't know what still kept him afloat, what stopped him from drowning in the depths of despair and madness, from simply ceasing to care about the race he could so easily destroy. Perhaps it was nothing more than simple spite, the dying memory of defiance against his tormentors. It did not matter much.</p> <p>The desert he found himself in was a lonely, empty place, and for that he was glad. Out here, he could do little harm. He started walking towards a distant chain of mountains, driven by a compulsion he learned long ago he could not resist. Once, he would throw himself into deep gorges, into rivers, into the sea, hoping the elements could keep him from causing any more damage, but the Brothers were stronger even than them. He would lie in depths of the earth, thinking he could finally rest in the dark, only to blink and find himself in the world above once more, making his way towards humanity like the bearer of a plague. The Brothers were nothing if not persistent.</p> <p>As the soft desert sand crunched beneath his feet, he remembered that thrice accursed game of cards that led to all of this, to the three follies that sealed his fate.</p> <p>First came the game: he should have never challenged them, he should have known better. But he was young, and full of pride, and had much to lose. He was a man in his prime when he lost his life in a meaningless war, and found himself in the Brothers' dark halls. Around him, his fellow soldiers walked silently towards the distant light, not even glancing at the three gaunt figures that showed them the way. But not he. He could not accept his fate. He had a young, pretty wife, a prospering farm, he could not lose it all, would not. He thought the others were fools, weaklings, to accept their demise thus. In his vanity, he challenged his guides, and refused to go forward until he was given the chance to fight. He got his chance, and he won. He won too much.</p> <p>Second came his greed: the Brothers could not have known how good he was. He took every hand, broke every gambit, stole life from Death's grasp with guile and skill. The Brothers were displeased, but they accepted their defeat, and showed him the door back to the world of the living. As he stood at the exit, he suddenly thought, why stop now? He was the best card player to ever live, he could have it all! Why settle for life when he could have glory, power, immortality! He turned and sat back at the table. "Double or nothing", he said. And he won again. And again. And again. The Brothers were less gracious now, but still, they admitted their defeat. Three prizes he won from them: the cup, the cards, and the sack. They were the Brothers' prized possessions, and they offered him much if he would only return them: wealth, and luck, and health, and glory, but he wanted to humiliate them, to make Death grovel before him. So he took the prizes and left the Brothers seething in rage. He would pay dearly for his vanity.</p> <p>Third came the waste: the prizes were items of immense power, for they could keep the Brothers at bay: the First's cup held the elixir of life, and a drop of it would banish him, saving even the sickest of men from his grasp. Every time he saw the Small Death lurking behind the shoulders of a man, he would sprinkle a drop towards him, and the First would flee, cursing and spitting. A drop seemed like such a small thing, and the cup held so much water, so he used it carelessly. He banished the First from those too old or frail to keep on living, from those the First rightfully owned. And eventually, the cup ran dry. When his wife began wasting away from the consuming illness, he had no water left for her. The First sneered as he took her away.</p> <p>The prize of the Second was greater, like the Second himself. With the cards, he could challenge the Second's authority, hold the power of the Great Death at bay. When war was brewing, when man turned against his brother, he was there, to challenge the Second, to turn the tides of fire and steel. But like the waters of life, the cards of fate were wasted- he used them for every border skirmish, every civil dispute, every growing revolution, and the cards became more worn with every passing use. Though they lasted for longer than the water, eventually the Second refused to heed their call. He watched the world plummet into wars greater than he could ever imagine, watched millions die for nothing in the mud, watched the innocent suffer and bleed and burn. The Second laughed when he took them away.</p> <p>The prize of the Third was the greatest. The sack of the All-Death could hold anything within it, contain even the greatest catastrophes, stop even the most dire forces from ever releasing their fury upon the earth. With the sack, he curbed the fury of storms, drowned fires that threatened to consume entire cities, held creatures most unnatural and fell, whose origin was not of this world. The sack held longest of all the treasures, but it too grew weak- its seams could not hold such mighty powers forever. He used the sack as foolishly as he used the lesser treasures- he stopped storms that would have passed, held fires that could have been contained. His sin was greater than mere wastefulness, though. The sack still held one last use, could hold one last being. In his search for the Third he saw the forces of darkness grow ever stronger, saw brave men and women like those of the Foundation risk their lives in order to contain them. Yet, he would not spare the last use of his sack. It was all he had left, his final hope. He knew the only way he could force the Third to release him from his endless torment was to capture him in the sack, and thus force him and his brothers to let him die. The All-Death never appeared, though, not even to mock him. When the forces of the unknown claimed a victim, only silence greeted them.</p> <p>Once the prizes ran out, the true horror of his fate became apparent. The Brothers feared him no longer, and did not forgive his vanity, his wastefulness, his lording over Death. They wanted him to suffer, and death was far too good for him. Instead, he brought death upon everyone else- forced to seek the Third forever, and to watch humanity crumble in his wake. His curse, like his follies, was triple- never to die, always to seek, always to destroy.</p> <p>The mountains grew closer and closer, and the old man allowed himself a moment of rest. His compulsion could be controlled, if but for a short while. He sat down in the sand and turned his gaze upwards, towards the stars. In the dark blue, early morning sky, only a few remained, but they shined brightly and cleanly. Looking at them, the old man remembered why he kept his head above the water. Perhaps this was the greatest of his follies, but it was one he was willing to allow himself. The world was too beautiful for him to allow its destruction without a fight, and humanity deserved better than to perish because of the mistakes of a foolish old man. He could not stop himself from hurting them, but he could give them one thing- his hope. He would stop himself, even at the price of oblivion.<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="/thrice">Thrice</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/thrice">https://scpwiki.com/thrice</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 tale is based on [[[SCP-1440]]], and it is better read after reading that article. ----- The old man woke, and his failures flooded his mind once more. The destruction of the Foundation base was just another drop in an ocean of guilt. Sometimes, he didn't know what still kept him afloat, what stopped him from drowning in the depths of despair and madness, from simply ceasing to care about the race he could so easily destroy. Perhaps it was nothing more than simple spite, the dying memory of defiance against his tormentors. It did not matter much. The desert he found himself in was a lonely, empty place, and for that he was glad. Out here, he could do little harm. He started walking towards a distant chain of mountains, driven by a compulsion he learned long ago he could not resist. Once, he would throw himself into deep gorges, into rivers, into the sea, hoping the elements could keep him from causing any more damage, but the Brothers were stronger even than them. He would lie in depths of the earth, thinking he could finally rest in the dark, only to blink and find himself in the world above once more, making his way towards humanity like the bearer of a plague. The Brothers were nothing if not persistent. As the soft desert sand crunched beneath his feet, he remembered that thrice accursed game of cards that led to all of this, to the three follies that sealed his fate. First came the game: he should have never challenged them, he should have known better. But he was young, and full of pride, and had much to lose. He was a man in his prime when he lost his life in a meaningless war, and found himself in the Brothers' dark halls. Around him, his fellow soldiers walked silently towards the distant light, not even glancing at the three gaunt figures that showed them the way. But not he. He could not accept his fate. He had a young, pretty wife, a prospering farm, he could not lose it all, would not. He thought the others were fools, weaklings, to accept their demise thus. In his vanity, he challenged his guides, and refused to go forward until he was given the chance to fight. He got his chance, and he won. He won too much. Second came his greed: the Brothers could not have known how good he was. He took every hand, broke every gambit, stole life from Death's grasp with guile and skill. The Brothers were displeased, but they accepted their defeat, and showed him the door back to the world of the living. As he stood at the exit, he suddenly thought, why stop now? He was the best card player to ever live, he could have it all! Why settle for life when he could have glory, power, immortality! He turned and sat back at the table. "Double or nothing", he said. And he won again. And again. And again. The Brothers were less gracious now, but still, they admitted their defeat. Three prizes he won from them: the cup, the cards, and the sack. They were the Brothers' prized possessions, and they offered him much if he would only return them: wealth, and luck, and health, and glory, but he wanted to humiliate them, to make Death grovel before him. So he took the prizes and left the Brothers seething in rage. He would pay dearly for his vanity. Third came the waste: the prizes were items of immense power, for they could keep the Brothers at bay: the First's cup held the elixir of life, and a drop of it would banish him, saving even the sickest of men from his grasp. Every time he saw the Small Death lurking behind the shoulders of a man, he would sprinkle a drop towards him, and the First would flee, cursing and spitting. A drop seemed like such a small thing, and the cup held so much water, so he used it carelessly. He banished the First from those too old or frail to keep on living, from those the First rightfully owned. And eventually, the cup ran dry. When his wife began wasting away from the consuming illness, he had no water left for her. The First sneered as he took her away. The prize of the Second was greater, like the Second himself. With the cards, he could challenge the Second's authority, hold the power of the Great Death at bay. When war was brewing, when man turned against his brother, he was there, to challenge the Second, to turn the tides of fire and steel. But like the waters of life, the cards of fate were wasted- he used them for every border skirmish, every civil dispute, every growing revolution, and the cards became more worn with every passing use. Though they lasted for longer than the water, eventually the Second refused to heed their call. He watched the world plummet into wars greater than he could ever imagine, watched millions die for nothing in the mud, watched the innocent suffer and bleed and burn. The Second laughed when he took them away. The prize of the Third was the greatest. The sack of the All-Death could hold anything within it, contain even the greatest catastrophes, stop even the most dire forces from ever releasing their fury upon the earth. With the sack, he curbed the fury of storms, drowned fires that threatened to consume entire cities, held creatures most unnatural and fell, whose origin was not of this world. The sack held longest of all the treasures, but it too grew weak- its seams could not hold such mighty powers forever. He used the sack as foolishly as he used the lesser treasures- he stopped storms that would have passed, held fires that could have been contained. His sin was greater than mere wastefulness, though. The sack still held one last use, could hold one last being. In his search for the Third he saw the forces of darkness grow ever stronger, saw brave men and women like those of the Foundation risk their lives in order to contain them. Yet, he would not spare the last use of his sack. It was all he had left, his final hope. He knew the only way he could force the Third to release him from his endless torment was to capture him in the sack, and thus force him and his brothers to let him die. The All-Death never appeared, though, not even to mock him. When the forces of the unknown claimed a victim, only silence greeted them. Once the prizes ran out, the true horror of his fate became apparent. The Brothers feared him no longer, and did not forgive his vanity, his wastefulness, his lording over Death. They wanted him to suffer, and death was far too good for him. Instead, he brought death upon everyone else- forced to seek the Third forever, and to watch humanity crumble in his wake. His curse, like his follies, was triple- never to die, always to seek, always to destroy. The mountains grew closer and closer, and the old man allowed himself a moment of rest. His compulsion could be controlled, if but for a short while. He sat down in the sand and turned his gaze upwards, towards the stars. In the dark blue, early morning sky, only a few remained, but they shined brightly and cleanly. Looking at them, the old man remembered why he kept his head above the water. Perhaps this was the greatest of his follies, but it was one he was willing to allow himself. The world was too beautiful for him to allow its destruction without a fight, and humanity deserved better than to perish because of the mistakes of a foolish old man. He could not stop himself from hurting them, but he could give them one thing- his hope. He would stop himself, even at the price of oblivion. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-01T13:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "brothers-of-death", "tale" ]	Thrice - SCP Foundation	408	[ "scp-1440", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	13679452	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/thrice
timing	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Mr. Moon knew he was very good at timing these things. He really couldn't afford to be bad at it, with his condition. He'd tried to use watches, but watches only worked when you had eyes to watch them with. Same with a metronome. So Moon counted.</p> <p><em>One… Two, Three…</em></p> <p>Thirty two thousand, four hundred and sixty seconds. That was how long he'd been able to see. Moon felt his bones cry out in protest as he rose to the chamber door. In approximately three hundred twenty four seconds, a Security Agent would open it and let him out. Give or take twenty nine, if the Agent was slow.</p> <p><em>Thirty… Thirty one… Thirty two.</em></p> <p>Moon's face was clouded, partially with worry and partially because it was a cloudy night. This particular Agent was an early-bird, and it'd thrown off the count. Deciding that he could make do until it reset, he timed the approximate two and a quarter of a second it took him to make a step with his cane.</p> <p><em>Four and a half… Six and three quarters… Nine…</em></p> <p>The air conditioning had been on for five hundred sixty seconds when Moon took his seat. Waiting here was the hardest part. In five hundred seconds, the doors would open and they would see him. He'd watched one hundred and twenty pitying expressions staring at him.</p> <p><em>Five thousand, six hundred seventy three…. Five thousand, six hundred seventy four… Five thousand, six hundred seventy five…</em></p> <p>They were older. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty two weeks had taken their tolls. The small talk was painfully low. She smiled at him, telling him about all the things outside. About Jim, and how wonderful he was, and how happy he was for her. Mr. Moon had lied to her three thousand, five hundred times. At least Jim hadn't accompanied her this time.</p> <p><em>Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…</em></p> <p>She cut the visit short by ten minutes. Apparently she'd been five minutes late to a social event, and had been paying him a favor to visit. Fifty seconds later, she'd left him again. She was getting quicker.</p> <p>Five thousand, nine hundred seconds later, Moon's ear began to grow dull. He paced his cell, counting the steps. Eleven and a half steps north to south, fifteen and a quarter east to west. Pacing until the count could reset and bring him respite.</p> <p><em>One… Two… Three…</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="/timing">Timing</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/timing">https://scpwiki.com/timing</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. Moon knew he was very good at timing these things. He really couldn't afford to be bad at it, with his condition. He'd tried to use watches, but watches only worked when you had eyes to watch them with. Same with a metronome. So Moon counted. //One... Two, Three...// Thirty two thousand, four hundred and sixty seconds. That was how long he'd been able to see. Moon felt his bones cry out in protest as he rose to the chamber door. In approximately three hundred twenty four seconds, a Security Agent would open it and let him out. Give or take twenty nine, if the Agent was slow. //Thirty... Thirty one... Thirty two.// Moon's face was clouded, partially with worry and partially because it was a cloudy night. This particular Agent was an early-bird, and it'd thrown off the count. Deciding that he could make do until it reset, he timed the approximate two and a quarter of a second it took him to make a step with his cane. //Four and a half... Six and three quarters... Nine...// The air conditioning had been on for five hundred sixty seconds when Moon took his seat. Waiting here was the hardest part. In five hundred seconds, the doors would open and they would see him. He'd watched one hundred and twenty pitying expressions staring at him. //Five thousand, six hundred seventy three.... Five thousand, six hundred seventy four... Five thousand, six hundred seventy five...// They were older. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty two weeks had taken their tolls. The small talk was painfully low. She smiled at him, telling him about all the things outside. About Jim, and how wonderful he was, and how happy he was for her. Mr. Moon had lied to her three thousand, five hundred times. At least Jim hadn't accompanied her this time. //Ten... Nine... Eight... Seven...// She cut the visit short by ten minutes. Apparently she'd been five minutes late to a social event, and had been paying him a favor to visit. Fifty seconds later, she'd left him again. She was getting quicker. Five thousand, nine hundred seconds later, Moon's ear began to grow dull. He paced his cell, counting the steps. Eleven and a half steps north to south, fifteen and a quarter east to west. Pacing until the count could reset and bring him respite. //One... Two... Three...// [[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>]]	2012-12-10T05:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "mister", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Timing - SCP Foundation	26	[ "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", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	15340603	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/timing
to-what-purpose-an-invasion	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Why would an HE attempt to invade the planet Earth? More to the point, what reason would an HE have to make itself an HE? This question may seem overly philosophical and speculative, but it is important for the focus of Project Heimdall. Would it be for access to natural resources, either biological or mineral? Would they come to take us all as slaves? Would they just like to displace us and move in? For the reasons that will be brought up in this report, the answer to all of these is a resounding "No."</p> <p>First, we will discuss a few basics of biochemistry as it pertains to exobiology. It is generally agreed upon that life as we know it tends to adapt to its own unique environment and, in turn, modifies its environment to suit its own needs. The most noteworthy example of this principle is oxygen. This chemical is absolutely necessary for life as we know it, not only being present in our proteins and cell membranes and DNA, but in life's universal solvent, water. Without oxygen, it's clear that life simply could not exist. But one form of oxygen used to be highly toxic to all life on Earth. This form consists of two oxygen atoms linked together by two covalent bonds. Inside a living system, this chemical oxidized its life-sustaining mechanisms to the point that they could not function at all.</p> <p>During the Precambrian Period, a mass extinction event occurred that we now call the Oxygen Catastrophe. At that time, some bacteria managed to develop a way to use solar radiation to transform water and carbon dioxide into metabolizable sugars and oxygen molecules. This was a very effective strategy which gave them plenty of food and a deadly byproduct that kept predatory bacteria from eating them. As these photosynthetic bacteria became more plentiful, they transformed even more water and carbon dioxide into oxygen until the chemical was present in most of the oceans and atmosphere. Many living things died. But a few, including our direct ancestors, survived by developing biochemical strategies to fight the destructive effects of free oxygen and even managed to find a way to use those effects to generate energy. Because of this, almost all life now present on Earth is able to withstand and thrive in an oxygenated environment.</p> <p>Let us now look at another pair of chemicals that are ubiquitous to life as we know it: Carbon and nitrogen. Once again, these chemicals are present everywhere and interact with one another to make life possible. But one interaction of carbon and nitrogen is highly toxic in the vast majority of cases. This is a simple negatively charged ion consisting of a carbon atom and a nitrogen atom linked by three covalent bonds, commonly known as cyanide. Ironically, cyanide ions are mostly hazardous to life forms that thrive on oxygen, by interfering with the biochemical pathways that transform the energy locked up in oxygen atoms into usable energy. It is easy to imagine a hypothetical alien planet saturated with cyanide where life learned to thrive on this, just like our distant ancestors learned to thrive in the presence of oxygen molecules.</p> <p>And this brings us to the point: That life that developed on two separate planets with no interaction at all would end up biochemically incompatible, even at the most basic level, even if they were built from exactly the same chemical building blocks in exactly the same proportions.</p> <p>This means that an HE would not choose to invade Earth to eat either us or any other life on the planet. In all likelihood, terrestrial life would simply be too toxic to ingest. We can at least rest assured, now that we will not be on the menu if something chooses to invade. Nor should we concern ourselves with the possibility that the HE might choose to take our place on a planet that would be far too poisonous to even touch. It would be the equivalent of murdering a group of innocents for the privilege of living inside of a tank of cyanide.</p> <p>But should we worry about being enslaved by the HE? Once again, biochemistry provides part of the answer to this question. There would be no purpose to transport humans back to the HE's equivalent of home. These slaves would require a specialized environment and a unique diet that is incompatible with anything that exists on their homeworld. Land would have to be extensively terraformed in order to support our sources of food, thereby removing land that could otherwise be applied to other purposes by the HE.</p> <p>The practicality of such an endeavour is brought further into question when looking at the resources required to do such a thing. Besides those needed to sustain the slave race after the invasion, the HE would have to accumulate resources sufficient, not only to subdue Earth's military forces, but to transport such military might to Earth in the first place. Let us set aside the force needed to conquer Earth and simply consider transportation:</p> <p>The laws of physics allow low-energy methods of transportation between planets and stars. These methods, however, are slow, potentially taking hundreds or even thousands of years. Much can happen during this intervening time. The target might advance scientifically to the point where they can easily fight back against the force sent by the HE. Or they might become so populous that they can quickly collect the resources needed to defeat the invading force with minimal effort on the part of each member of the target species. Or they might simply go extinct, either through their own actions, or by some other event, thereby nullifying the intended purpose of the invasion.</p> <p>Theoretical physics does provide certain loopholes that can allow much quicker travel to a target location. So far, though, all of these theoretical methods of transportation require vast amounts of energy in order to become feasible. The minimal energy requirements would be equivalent to converting the mass of an entire star into energy. A civilization capable of doing such a thing would have no use for a slave race. It is clear that there would be no reason to use such incomprehensible energies to obtain slaves or servants who, because of their biological requirements, would be more trouble than they are worth.</p> <p>What of mineral or other chemical resources? When we look at our own solar system, we see numerous planets and moons and countless smaller astronomical bodies which have the exact same resources that we can find on the Earth, sometimes in quantities that put what we have here to shame. There are even some resources that can not even be found on Earth in any usable proportions, such as iridium. To put things bluntly, there are enough resources close-by that there would be no point to traveling farther for them. Were it more practical to travel to another star for your resources, for whatever strange reason, it would be easier to mine an uninhabited moon rather than invade a populated world and subdue its population in order to take their resources. Recent findings in mainstream exoplanet research have shown that at least half of all stars have planets orbiting them. When combined with the most liberal possible result of Drake's Equation, wherein the nearest likely alien civilization would be located hundreds or thousands of light years away, it is evident that there are enough resources between us and them that we are likely to be spared an invasion for this reason.</p> <p>What purpose, then, would the HE have to invade Earth? With all of these other scenarios being unfeasible, there is only one reason that an HE would attack: Complete extermination. The human race would be considered a potential threat by the HE, either in its current state, or as extrapolated by our current paths of development.</p> <p>If this is the case, it would stand to reason that the HE would use methods that have a high chance of success, with little consideration for collateral damage. Such methods may include a universal pathogen that is able to infect and destroy any and all humans, application of the Grey Goo scenario, or even the outright destruction of the Earth. Therefore, it is this researcher's opinion that there is little reason to focus on military, sociological, or economic attacks, as these all have varying degrees of risk inherent in their very natures and furthermore would do little to aid in the goal of extermination. Instead, the attack would be more covert and may not even be recognized as extraterrestrial in origin, rather being assumed to be a natural event or the result of an SCP's anomalous effects.</p> <p>This means that the best thing that we can do is what we are doing right now. Secure, Contain, and Protect. It may very well be that some items currently in our custody may be the tool that the HE had intended for our destruction and that we have already foiled their plans without even realizing.</p> <p>Another prudent course of action may be to invest in research into interplanetary and eventually interstellar travel. If we should go forth and multiply, a single attack on a single world, no matter how large-scale the attack may be, would not cause our outright extinction. In effect, we would have a backup or multiple backups. And, should we be successful in such an endeavour, we may even have a chance at becoming the HE ourselves.</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="/to-what-purpose-an-invasion">To What Purpose an Invasion?</a>" by Flah, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/to-what-purpose-an-invasion">https://scpwiki.com/to-what-purpose-an-invasion</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]] [[/>]] Why would an HE attempt to invade the planet Earth? More to the point, what reason would an HE have to make itself an HE? This question may seem overly philosophical and speculative, but it is important for the focus of Project Heimdall. Would it be for access to natural resources, either biological or mineral? Would they come to take us all as slaves? Would they just like to displace us and move in? For the reasons that will be brought up in this report, the answer to all of these is a resounding "No." First, we will discuss a few basics of biochemistry as it pertains to exobiology. It is generally agreed upon that life as we know it tends to adapt to its own unique environment and, in turn, modifies its environment to suit its own needs. The most noteworthy example of this principle is oxygen. This chemical is absolutely necessary for life as we know it, not only being present in our proteins and cell membranes and DNA, but in life's universal solvent, water. Without oxygen, it's clear that life simply could not exist. But one form of oxygen used to be highly toxic to all life on Earth. This form consists of two oxygen atoms linked together by two covalent bonds. Inside a living system, this chemical oxidized its life-sustaining mechanisms to the point that they could not function at all. During the Precambrian Period, a mass extinction event occurred that we now call the Oxygen Catastrophe. At that time, some bacteria managed to develop a way to use solar radiation to transform water and carbon dioxide into metabolizable sugars and oxygen molecules. This was a very effective strategy which gave them plenty of food and a deadly byproduct that kept predatory bacteria from eating them. As these photosynthetic bacteria became more plentiful, they transformed even more water and carbon dioxide into oxygen until the chemical was present in most of the oceans and atmosphere. Many living things died. But a few, including our direct ancestors, survived by developing biochemical strategies to fight the destructive effects of free oxygen and even managed to find a way to use those effects to generate energy. Because of this, almost all life now present on Earth is able to withstand and thrive in an oxygenated environment. Let us now look at another pair of chemicals that are ubiquitous to life as we know it: Carbon and nitrogen. Once again, these chemicals are present everywhere and interact with one another to make life possible. But one interaction of carbon and nitrogen is highly toxic in the vast majority of cases. This is a simple negatively charged ion consisting of a carbon atom and a nitrogen atom linked by three covalent bonds, commonly known as cyanide. Ironically, cyanide ions are mostly hazardous to life forms that thrive on oxygen, by interfering with the biochemical pathways that transform the energy locked up in oxygen atoms into usable energy. It is easy to imagine a hypothetical alien planet saturated with cyanide where life learned to thrive on this, just like our distant ancestors learned to thrive in the presence of oxygen molecules. And this brings us to the point: That life that developed on two separate planets with no interaction at all would end up biochemically incompatible, even at the most basic level, even if they were built from exactly the same chemical building blocks in exactly the same proportions. This means that an HE would not choose to invade Earth to eat either us or any other life on the planet. In all likelihood, terrestrial life would simply be too toxic to ingest. We can at least rest assured, now that we will not be on the menu if something chooses to invade. Nor should we concern ourselves with the possibility that the HE might choose to take our place on a planet that would be far too poisonous to even touch. It would be the equivalent of murdering a group of innocents for the privilege of living inside of a tank of cyanide. But should we worry about being enslaved by the HE? Once again, biochemistry provides part of the answer to this question. There would be no purpose to transport humans back to the HE's equivalent of home. These slaves would require a specialized environment and a unique diet that is incompatible with anything that exists on their homeworld. Land would have to be extensively terraformed in order to support our sources of food, thereby removing land that could otherwise be applied to other purposes by the HE. The practicality of such an endeavour is brought further into question when looking at the resources required to do such a thing. Besides those needed to sustain the slave race after the invasion, the HE would have to accumulate resources sufficient, not only to subdue Earth's military forces, but to transport such military might to Earth in the first place. Let us set aside the force needed to conquer Earth and simply consider transportation: The laws of physics allow low-energy methods of transportation between planets and stars. These methods, however, are slow, potentially taking hundreds or even thousands of years. Much can happen during this intervening time. The target might advance scientifically to the point where they can easily fight back against the force sent by the HE. Or they might become so populous that they can quickly collect the resources needed to defeat the invading force with minimal effort on the part of each member of the target species. Or they might simply go extinct, either through their own actions, or by some other event, thereby nullifying the intended purpose of the invasion. Theoretical physics does provide certain loopholes that can allow much quicker travel to a target location. So far, though, all of these theoretical methods of transportation require vast amounts of energy in order to become feasible. The minimal energy requirements would be equivalent to converting the mass of an entire star into energy. A civilization capable of doing such a thing would have no use for a slave race. It is clear that there would be no reason to use such incomprehensible energies to obtain slaves or servants who, because of their biological requirements, would be more trouble than they are worth. What of mineral or other chemical resources? When we look at our own solar system, we see numerous planets and moons and countless smaller astronomical bodies which have the exact same resources that we can find on the Earth, sometimes in quantities that put what we have here to shame. There are even some resources that can not even be found on Earth in any usable proportions, such as iridium. To put things bluntly, there are enough resources close-by that there would be no point to traveling farther for them. Were it more practical to travel to another star for your resources, for whatever strange reason, it would be easier to mine an uninhabited moon rather than invade a populated world and subdue its population in order to take their resources. Recent findings in mainstream exoplanet research have shown that at least half of all stars have planets orbiting them. When combined with the most liberal possible result of Drake's Equation, wherein the nearest likely alien civilization would be located hundreds or thousands of light years away, it is evident that there are enough resources between us and them that we are likely to be spared an invasion for this reason. What purpose, then, would the HE have to invade Earth? With all of these other scenarios being unfeasible, there is only one reason that an HE would attack: Complete extermination. The human race would be considered a potential threat by the HE, either in its current state, or as extrapolated by our current paths of development. If this is the case, it would stand to reason that the HE would use methods that have a high chance of success, with little consideration for collateral damage. Such methods may include a universal pathogen that is able to infect and destroy any and all humans, application of the Grey Goo scenario, or even the outright destruction of the Earth. Therefore, it is this researcher's opinion that there is little reason to focus on military, sociological, or economic attacks, as these all have varying degrees of risk inherent in their very natures and furthermore would do little to aid in the goal of extermination. Instead, the attack would be more covert and may not even be recognized as extraterrestrial in origin, rather being assumed to be a natural event or the result of an SCP's anomalous effects. This means that the best thing that we can do is what we are doing right now. Secure, Contain, and Protect. It may very well be that some items currently in our custody may be the tool that the HE had intended for our destruction and that we have already foiled their plans without even realizing. Another prudent course of action may be to invest in research into interplanetary and eventually interstellar travel. If we should go forth and multiply, a single attack on a single world, no matter how large-scale the attack may be, would not cause our outright extinction. In effect, we would have a backup or multiple backups. And, should we be successful in such an endeavour, we may even have a chance at becoming the HE ourselves. [[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>]]	2012-06-22T21:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "cosmic-horror", "heimdall", "horror", "science-fiction", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	To What Purpose an Invasion? - SCP Foundation	110	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "project-heimdall", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13615197	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/to-what-purpose-an-invasion
total-recall	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Background:</strong> At 2:01:34 on 05/13/20██ a suspected Dr. Wondertainment item was discovered outside Site ██. Agents were sent to retrieve it. The object appeared to be a mattress with various child-like designs and an attached document:</p> <blockquote> <p>Wowee!! You're certainly lucky! You've just gotten yourself a <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™, exclusively from Dr. Wondertainment ®. With this amazing product you can bounce sky-high, and don't worry about the ceiling! With this amazing product Dr. Wondertainment ® can bring you the best slumber party toy you'll ever find! Get your friends together and have a blast on the <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™!!</p> </blockquote> <p>When any human began jumping on the object, they would be propelled upward at heights in defiance of physical laws, and would not be injured upon impact with the object. An unidentified force prevented subjects from being propelled outside the space of the mattress, causing subjects to always fall back on to the mattress. Subjects would phase through any objects while being propelled, except each other. The object was classified as Safe and placed in containment locker 1563-F</p> <p>On 06/05/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox:</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Dr. Wondertainment ® customer,</p> <p>We hope you're enjoying all of our amazing products! Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that one of our items, the <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™, has a defect. We ask that you return your edition of the <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™ to Dr. Wondertainment headquarters at [REDACTED]. We will repair the defect and return it to you as soon as possible.</p> <p>Thank you for your time,</p> <p>Dr. Wondertainment ®</p> </blockquote> <p>Site Director Timanson opted to not return the object. Investigation of the object showed no signs of defect. Agents were sent to investigate the area described by the document. For full information on the results of the investigation see document W-17.</p> <p>On 06/21/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox:</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Dr. Wondertainment ® customer,</p> <p>We hope you're enjoying all of our amazing products! Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that one of our items, the <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™, has a defect. We ask that you return your edition of the <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™ to Dr. Wondertainment headquarters at [REDACTED]. We will repair the defect and return it to you as soon as possible.</p> <p>Thank you for your time,</p> <p>Dr. Wondertainment ®</p> </blockquote> <p>Site Director Timanson opted once again to not return the object. Regular testing continued, as well as several unusual tests in order to detect the supposed defect.</p> <p>On 07/02/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox:</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear <tt>Mr. Timanson</tt>,</p> <p>Records indicate that you have yet to return your <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™. It is extremely important that you return it at once! Be reassured you will get a new <strong>Super Bouncy Mattress</strong>™ back! Your haste in this is appreciated, as cooperation from every party is necessary in order to keep things safe and fun for everyone!</p> <p>Sincerely,</p> <p>Dr. Wondertainment ®</p> </blockquote> <p>After consulting with the O5 counsel, Site Director Timanson concluded that it would be in violation of Foundation policy to surrender an anomalous object. Testing of the object has continued.</p> <p>On 07/10/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox. Unlike the previous letters, this document had been hand written:</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Mr. Timanson,</p> <p>We at Wondertainment have asked you time and time again to return your mattress. Once again we request that you please return it. You are the only person that has failed to do so, and as such we conclude that you obviously have no cause to do so. Since you refuse to return the mattress, this is a disclaimer stating that Wondertainment claims no responsibility over any damage to property, injury, or loss of life caused by the defect that you have been repeatedly warned about. You have brought this upon yourself.</p> <p>Sincerely,</p> <p>Dr. Wondertainment</p> </blockquote> <p>Director Timanson refused to return the object.</p> <p><strong>Incident Report ████-F:</strong></p> <p><strong>SCP involved:</strong> SCP-████</p> <p><strong>Personnel involved:</strong> 163 personnel involved, for full list see Document ████-E</p> <p><strong>Date:</strong> 07/17/20██</p> <p><strong>Location:</strong> Site-██</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong></p> <p>During routine testing of SCP-████, a spring broke free of the object. Due to its anomalous properties, the spring proceeded to bounce off of the ground beneath the site, constantly accelerating. The spring was able to pass through walls, ceilings, and other obstructing objects, but presumably due to its design instead accelerated through humans, typically shredding a 25 centimeter hole through several major organs due to its vertical orientation. Its state of constant acceleration caused it to bounce throughout Site-██ several times. The spring was finally arrested when it came into contact with SCP-████.</p> <p><strong>Addendum:</strong> Casualties numbered 155 (approximately half the site staffing), with 62 personnel permanently injured and 93 personnel dead. SCP-████ has been reclassified as Euclid and placed in a specialized containment locker at Site-██. Protocol Wonder-Alpha was put in place in order to deal with future recall of Dr. Wondertainment products.<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="/total-recall">Total Recall</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/total-recall">https://scpwiki.com/total-recall</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]] [[/>]] Background: At 2:01:34 on 05/13/20██ a suspected Dr. Wondertainment item was discovered outside Site ██. Agents were sent to retrieve it. The object appeared to be a mattress with various child-like designs and an attached document: > Wowee!! You're certainly lucky! You've just gotten yourself a Super Bouncy Mattress™, exclusively from Dr. Wondertainment ®. With this amazing product you can bounce sky-high, and don't worry about the ceiling! With this amazing product Dr. Wondertainment ® can bring you the best slumber party toy you'll ever find! Get your friends together and have a blast on the Super Bouncy Mattress™!! When any human began jumping on the object, they would be propelled upward at heights in defiance of physical laws, and would not be injured upon impact with the object. An unidentified force prevented subjects from being propelled outside the space of the mattress, causing subjects to always fall back on to the mattress. Subjects would phase through any objects while being propelled, except each other. The object was classified as Safe and placed in containment locker 1563-F On 06/05/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox: > Dear Dr. Wondertainment ® customer, > > We hope you're enjoying all of our amazing products! Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that one of our items, the Super Bouncy Mattress™, has a defect. We ask that you return your edition of the Super Bouncy Mattress™ to Dr. Wondertainment headquarters at [REDACTED]. We will repair the defect and return it to you as soon as possible. > > Thank you for your time, > > Dr. Wondertainment ® Site Director Timanson opted to not return the object. Investigation of the object showed no signs of defect. Agents were sent to investigate the area described by the document. For full information on the results of the investigation see document W-17. On 06/21/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox: > Dear Dr. Wondertainment ® customer, > > We hope you're enjoying all of our amazing products! Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that one of our items, the Super Bouncy Mattress™, has a defect. We ask that you return your edition of the Super Bouncy Mattress™ to Dr. Wondertainment headquarters at [REDACTED]. We will repair the defect and return it to you as soon as possible. > > Thank you for your time, > > Dr. Wondertainment ® Site Director Timanson opted once again to not return the object. Regular testing continued, as well as several unusual tests in order to detect the supposed defect. On 07/02/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox: > Dear {{Mr. Timanson}}, > > Records indicate that you have yet to return your Super Bouncy Mattress™. It is extremely important that you return it at once! Be reassured you will get a new Super Bouncy Mattress™ back! Your haste in this is appreciated, as cooperation from every party is necessary in order to keep things safe and fun for everyone! > > Sincerely, > > Dr. Wondertainment ® After consulting with the O5 counsel, Site Director Timanson concluded that it would be in violation of Foundation policy to surrender an anomalous object. Testing of the object has continued. On 07/10/20██ Site Director Timanson received this letter in his inbox. Unlike the previous letters, this document had been hand written: > Dear Mr. Timanson, > > We at Wondertainment have asked you time and time again to return your mattress. Once again we request that you please return it. You are the only person that has failed to do so, and as such we conclude that you obviously have no cause to do so. Since you refuse to return the mattress, this is a disclaimer stating that Wondertainment claims no responsibility over any damage to property, injury, or loss of life caused by the defect that you have been repeatedly warned about. You have brought this upon yourself. > > Sincerely, > > Dr. Wondertainment Director Timanson refused to return the object. Incident Report ████-F: SCP involved: SCP-████ Personnel involved: 163 personnel involved, for full list see Document ████-E Date: 07/17/20██ Location: Site-██ Description: During routine testing of SCP-████, a spring broke free of the object. Due to its anomalous properties, the spring proceeded to bounce off of the ground beneath the site, constantly accelerating. The spring was able to pass through walls, ceilings, and other obstructing objects, but presumably due to its design instead accelerated through humans, typically shredding a 25 centimeter hole through several major organs due to its vertical orientation. Its state of constant acceleration caused it to bounce throughout Site-██ several times. The spring was finally arrested when it came into contact with SCP-████. Addendum: Casualties numbered 155 (approximately half the site staffing), with 62 personnel permanently injured and 93 personnel dead. SCP-████ has been reclassified as Euclid and placed in a specialized containment locker at Site-██. Protocol Wonder-Alpha was put in place in order to deal with future recall of Dr. Wondertainment products. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-06-24T19:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "tale" ]	Total Recall - SCP Foundation	82	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	13624225	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/total-recall
translated-from-palauan	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>They've stopped coming. They used to come four times a day, to feed me, to keep me furnished, sometimes to test me. It was horrible some days, especially when they slipped up and I started hurting. But they used to come. Now the room's dirty beyond belief, all the electronics have stopped working, and the hurting won't stop. Why aren't they coming?</p> <p>It's getting dark, too. Did they cut the power? Or is that me blacking out? Or the burning fluid getting in my eyes? I don't like the dark; it scares me, it has all the feelings that hurt me in it. I want them to bring back the lights.</p> <p>I've tried the door a few times. I thought the burning stuff would eat through it if they had turned the power off, but it only hurt me. I can't force the lock. There's no other way out. Everything's decaying around me, and I'm feeling worse, and I feel bad about that and I'm hurting myself more and more.</p> <p>It must be really bad out there; I'm hurting more than my own emotions could make me. I used to burn every so often, but now I do it everyday. My skin feels like it's peeling off, and I can't even scream sometimes, because my throat's so clogged up. I need them to come back. I need them to make the burning stop.</p> <p>And my head hurts. Not like the burning stuff makes it hurt, but like there's a vice on it. Something's squeezing my head in, taking my memories. It's like there's a giant sponge in the walls, eating away at everything I am. But that's not possible. They said the things they put in the walls stop me from hurting.</p> <p>Why can't I remember my name?</p> <p>They told me they're always watching. They <em>know</em> I'm suffering. In the past, when I hurt, they came and saved me. But now, I just hurt alone.</p> <p>It's like they threw me away because I'm not good enough.</p> <p>John. You brought me here. Please, get me out.</p> <p><sub>Help.</sub><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="/translated-from-palauan">Translated From Palauan</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/translated-from-palauan">https://scpwiki.com/translated-from-palauan</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've stopped coming. They used to come four times a day, to feed me, to keep me furnished, sometimes to test me. It was horrible some days, especially when they slipped up and I started hurting. But they used to come. Now the room's dirty beyond belief, all the electronics have stopped working, and the hurting won't stop. Why aren't they coming? It's getting dark, too. Did they cut the power? Or is that me blacking out? Or the burning fluid getting in my eyes? I don't like the dark; it scares me, it has all the feelings that hurt me in it. I want them to bring back the lights. I've tried the door a few times. I thought the burning stuff would eat through it if they had turned the power off, but it only hurt me. I can't force the lock. There's no other way out. Everything's decaying around me, and I'm feeling worse, and I feel bad about that and I'm hurting myself more and more. It must be really bad out there; I'm hurting more than my own emotions could make me. I used to burn every so often, but now I do it everyday. My skin feels like it's peeling off, and I can't even scream sometimes, because my throat's so clogged up. I need them to come back. I need them to make the burning stop. And my head hurts. Not like the burning stuff makes it hurt, but like there's a vice on it. Something's squeezing my head in, taking my memories. It's like there's a giant sponge in the walls, eating away at everything I am. But that's not possible. They said the things they put in the walls stop me from hurting. Why can't I remember my name? They told me they're always watching. They //know// I'm suffering. In the past, when I hurt, they came and saved me. But now, I just hurt alone. It's like they threw me away because I'm not good enough. John. You brought me here. Please, get me out. ,,Help.,, @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-03-04T03:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Translated From Palauan - 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", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	12850281	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/translated-from-palauan
transparent	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>So yeah, my name is Mister Chameleon. Also known as 'That one color guy,' 'Oh yeah, he's a mister, right?' or 'Doctor Wondertainment's afterthought.' Sometimes it can be hard to be me. After all, when all the other misters just look at you and kind of snicker, its hard to feel upbeat about yourself. Sure, I've gone to self-help seminars, bought the self esteem books by the dozen, and tuned in to every TV guru that there is. It doesn't help when as soon as you try out the techniques, people start snickering.</p> <p>It's not my fault. I was made this way. I'm just made out of light. Maybe it's that I can't do the things the other misters do. I can't make you laugh, or do cool stuff with the phases of the moon. You can't take me apart and put me back together. And you sure can't take off my head to play with it or whatever you do with a severed head. I can't do any of that stuff. What do you people want from me anyways? For cryin' out loud I'm made of light!</p> <p>But yeah, like I said, its hard to be the least known of the Misters. Sometimes I wonder why. Why me? I'm perfectly alright. I can change to any color you please, and I'm number one on everybody's list! Surely people should be like "Oh Mister Chameleon, he must be one cool cat, right? After all, he's number one on the list! Wow! That's amazing!" But no, instead of having just a <em>little</em> bit of the fanfare going to the number one person on the list, it all goes to Forget, Laugh, and Brass! Why? Laugh doesn't even do anything cool! And all Laugh does is make me feel depressed. And I mean, I can see why people like using a human tinker-toy set, all he does is complain if you use him! Not me! I would never complain about hanging out with some of you guys.</p> <p>So maybe like, call me sometime or something sometime? I can really be available anytime you need me. Even if I'm like, busy or something, I'm sure I would be able to make time. After all, there isn't really a lot to do over here, y'know? I can maybe come entertain at parties and stuff? Lets just hang out sometime.</p> <p>Please?</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></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="/transparent">Transparent</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/transparent">https://scpwiki.com/transparent</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 yeah, my name is Mister Chameleon. Also known as 'That one color guy,' 'Oh yeah, he's a mister, right?' or 'Doctor Wondertainment's afterthought.' Sometimes it can be hard to be me. After all, when all the other misters just look at you and kind of snicker, its hard to feel upbeat about yourself. Sure, I've gone to self-help seminars, bought the self esteem books by the dozen, and tuned in to every TV guru that there is. It doesn't help when as soon as you try out the techniques, people start snickering. It's not my fault. I was made this way. I'm just made out of light. Maybe it's that I can't do the things the other misters do. I can't make you laugh, or do cool stuff with the phases of the moon. You can't take me apart and put me back together. And you sure can't take off my head to play with it or whatever you do with a severed head. I can't do any of that stuff. What do you people want from me anyways? For cryin' out loud I'm made of light! But yeah, like I said, its hard to be the least known of the Misters. Sometimes I wonder why. Why me? I'm perfectly alright. I can change to any color you please, and I'm number one on everybody's list! Surely people should be like "Oh Mister Chameleon, he must be one cool cat, right? After all, he's number one on the list! Wow! That's amazing!" But no, instead of having just a //little// bit of the fanfare going to the number one person on the list, it all goes to Forget, Laugh, and Brass! Why? Laugh doesn't even do anything cool! And all Laugh does is make me feel depressed. And I mean, I can see why people like using a human tinker-toy set, all he does is complain if you use him! Not me! I would never complain about hanging out with some of you guys. So maybe like, call me sometime or something sometime? I can really be available anytime you need me. Even if I'm like, busy or something, I'm sure I would be able to make time. After all, there isn't really a lot to do over here, y'know? I can maybe come entertain at parties and stuff? Lets just hang out sometime. Please? @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-02T21:03:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "mister", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Transparent - SCP Foundation	47	[ "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", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13691711	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/transparent
treats	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>I would like to here again state that 106 is not, as is commonly believed, a basic predator, on par with an advanced shark. SCP-106 is a sentient being, albeit a totally alien one. SCP-106 appears to be aware of several things beyond the scope of pure instinct and genetic memory. SCP-106 consistently breaches at moments where recovery and containment are most difficult. A fox may see his way out of a trap, but only a man will wait for his captors to look away to escape.</p> <p><em>-Dr. Allok</em><br/> <em>“On Sentience In Contained Humanoids”</em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>“For fuck's sake, where the hell is it?”</p> <p>Agent Weng sighed, rubbing his face through his mask. The night was chill, but all three men were sweating badly. All around them surged horrors, monsters, demons, fantasy beasts and animate objects, giggling and roaring as they wandered. The three men in gas masks and armored suits looked under-dressed, if anything. As they stood, one man suddenly reached out, a gloved fist grabbing a mildly drunk zombie and tugging it close for a few seconds, before releasing him back to the surge of humanity, the undead beast cursing and stumbling away.</p> <p>“Fucking Halloween bullshit. We need to seal this whole area.”</p> <p>Agent Drak shook his head, gesturing to the traveling packs of costumed revelers. “The railcar popped too close to the city. It wasn't even supposed to be on this track, they think MC&D might have buggered up something. Can't clamp the whole town without major fallout.”</p> <p>“And what the hell do they think will happen now? The old bastard is out there, and we can't even fucking FIND him!” Weng kicked a discarded wrapper, glaring through tinted lenses at everyone who didn't have to chase hell for a living.</p> <p>Drak patted the fuming man on the back. “Easy, big fella. Command figures the old man takes a couple people, then does his lazy crocodile thing. That's easier to cover than why a major city had to be quarantined on Halloween.”</p> <p>Parks, until now little more than a statue, crackled in with his broken, rusty voice. “How hard is it to find a rotten old man that kills everything it touches?”</p> <p>Weng shook his head, still scanning the crowd. “He just looks like an old man most of the time. He can look however he wants. Normally we tell people to just follow the screaming. Fat fucking lot of good that does now. Where the hell is our expert?”</p> <p>A brittle, creaking chuckle rolled over the radio. “Harken says he's as much an expert on SCP-106 as a plane crash survivor is an expert on aviation. They won't field lab techs until our initial eval. We're on our own for now.”</p> <p>The three men stood, awash in horrors, looking for one that would put all the rest to shame.</p> <hr/> <p>The drunk angel wandered on the edge of the fire. Demons, zombies, and pop-culture icons swirled around her, moving like a single mass, before scattering into small clusters and pairs, only to surge back together again. The bonfire seemed to roar in time with the pounding music, the field chosen for the sudden teen invasion just far enough to avoid noise complaints, but not far enough to attract unwanted adult oversight. Alcohol flowed, people giggled, and the sharp snap of lowered inhibitions and teen angst was thick in the chill air.</p> <p>The night was still young, yet already several pairs had drifted from the comfort of the fire, to seek other comforts in the dark, private woods ringing the field. The angel glared at the silent trees, taking another pull on an almost empty beer. She drained it, then tossed it down, to meet a holocaust of its brothers being slowly kicked and stamped in to the soft dirt. She should be there, being held in warm arms, kissing a warm mouth…but no, she decided to run with the one boy who seemed to think the moment before a party was the best time to bring up his “worries about our relationship”. Bastard.</p> <p>The angel, now with lopsided wings, started to wander to those cool, dark trees. Fuck him…if he wanted to toss her aside, fine…but that didn't mean she wouldn't get to have fun still. She giggled a bit, smiling for the first time in a while. Why not have a little fun…play a trick, and get her treat. She laughed, the flush of wicked amusement and booze high in her cheeks. She'd seen one of the boys from her study hall wander back here…maybe she could find him, get a little…better acquainted.</p> <p>She walked in to the cooler darkness, the occasional giggle, snip of whisper, or a flash of glow stick the only indication of life. She stumbled over a root, staggering forward and bracing her hand on a slimy tree trunk. She yanked her hand away almost instantly, the gritty, oozing texture making her palm burn, the loss of support almost sending the angel sprawling. She squinted at her hand, making out a smear of gritty, fibrous jelly coating it, the burning getting worse as she noticed the odd pits eaten in to the trunk of the tree.</p> <p>The angel shivered, suddenly sober, and very aware of the fact that nobody knew where she was. That she knew of nobody close enough to even call for. She tried to rub her palm against her poofy skirts, not noticing the red and black smear she made on it, eyes wide and staring, some deep, dim part of her primordial brain ringing an alarm. She started to walk, quickly, focusing on the waving beacon of the bonfire, trying to make herself feel silly, to ignore the swelling, unreasoning panic.</p> <p>A twig broke behind her.</p> <p>She froze, a white shade, one hand dripping blood from a corrosive injury she would have been horrified about, had she looked. The angel didn't dare look back, but she was terrified to run, to hear something following, reaching, grabbing. Moments passed, filled with nothing, the angel finally resolving to run right at the moment when a thin, bony hand reached through her costume and into the muscles of her back like a nasty child squishing his hands into a cake.</p> <p>She screamed, or tried to, the sound squelched to little more then a harsh bark by the sheer volume of pain, limbs suddenly boneless and leaden, nerves dead except for agony. She felt fingers touching her ribs from the inside, even as they were slowly eaten away and corroded, her body shifting slowly to face the hand's owner. The flicker of the distant fire showed something withered, dark, slimy and pulpy-soft, but wiry and strong. Two milky-black eyes glistened at her in a too-large head, hovering over a frozen corpse grin, teeth thin and chipped.</p> <p>The pinned angel gasped and blubbered, feeling an oily, burning corruption seeping in to her body, trying to ignore a slow falling feeling, trying not to feel the ground below her turning mushy and soft, swallowing both figures inch by inch. It leaned closer, and despite the searing horror of that face, some still sane part of her welcomed what was surely an approaching end to her pain. It lingered, however, the other twisted claw of a hand rising as the ground started to swallow their hips.</p> <p>The new touch made the angel lucid with a new fear, her face locking on those rotten eyes. She recognized the shine behind them, and started to scream with a new, repulsed horror, even as it started to pull both her dress and skin away in sodden ribbons.</p> <hr/> <p>Jason ran, lungs burning, trying to yell for help between sharp gasps of air. His Batman costume felt like such a joke now, running between streetlights, feeling that warm spot of pee on his pants. Where WAS everyone? It had been so stupid, trying to be the big brave kids and go out alone…now he really was alone, and his friends had probably been eaten.</p> <p>He didn't know this for sure, but when the boogeyman dropped out of a tree and started shoving kids in to a wall that was suddenly like quicksand, it was probably a safe bet. He hadn't even been able to do anything, just watch as those long, bony fingers grabbed his two best friends and just…yanked them away, like dolls, barely screaming before the squishy black wall gulped them up. The boogeyman, it hooked his fingers in to David's eyes like dad had taught him to hold a bowling ball, and…</p> <p>Jason was abruptly sick down the front of his costume, the half-digested mass of chocolate looking unsettlingly like the goo that had splattered everywhere while the tall, lanky, naked old man had landed out of the tree. He stopped, stumbling to his knees, coughing and gagging, wailing out a weak scream for help to the dim night. It drifted off, unheeded, the boy unable to even sob, too numb with exhaustion and horror. He barely noticed the footsteps until they were nearly on top of him.</p> <p>He looked up, ready to beg whatever adult he saw for help. Then he saw the legs. Thin, black, the feet looking pulpy and flat with age, the concrete under them turning cracked and gooey. Jason looked up more, shaking more and more violently. The withered hips, the sticky, soft chest that didn't rise or fall…and finally that nightmare head, looking like some kind of rotten pumpkin, but black and oily as a bucket of tar. The eyes locked on the boy's, as shiny and blank as a flashlight in a basement. The teeth parted, some kind of rolling, slimy blackness shifting inside.</p> <p>Jason stumbled back, gasping, trying to scream but unable to even breathe correctly. He stared at the boogeyman as he rolled something in the palm of that thin, beaten hand, pulling it between two bony fingers and lifting it to his mouth. The boy thought it was a candy or something, but then he saw the glint of metal.</p> <p>It was his best friend Anthony's front tooth. It still had the bracket from his braces on it.</p> <p>The boogeyman placed it between his teeth, gently, the tooth still white and clean in that filthy, dripping mouth. He seemed to hold it there a moment…then his jaw bunched, and the tooth shivered…then burst like a jawbreaker under a car tire. He chewed it twice, then just stopped, still staring at the boy. It seemed to go on and on, Jason unsure if he was even breathing anymore, knowing this was the end, this was what happened when you didn't listen, when you went off alone, the boogeyman came and took you, forever and always…</p> <p>But he didn't. He turned, seeming to get ready to take a step…then fell forward, slowly, like an old man tripping over a shoe. The black monster almost hit the ground…but just fell through it, like it was made of air, nothing but a black smear left behind on the concrete…and the tiny, corroded bracket from the tooth.</p> <p>When they found him, hours later, he'd gripped it hard enough to embed it in his palm.</p> <hr/> <p>The boy sat, comforted and miserable. His mother had been nice enough to let him at least wear his Mario costume, but even he had to admit he was probably too sick to walk around the house, let alone outside for hours, in the cold. He'd woken up vomiting, and it had just continued, his parents hoping for the best, but finally forced to cancel the trick-or-treating. As sad as he was, they did try their best to make it up to him. There was a small bowl of candy for him, with the promise any leftovers would be given to him, and he could watch all the scary movies he liked.</p> <p>Knock knock</p> <p>“Trick or treat!”</p> <p>“Aww, such a cute turtle! And what are you, honey?”</p> <p>“I'm Rapunzel!”</p> <p>“Well, here you go, princess!”</p> <p>“Thank you!”</p> <p>He hadn't even wanted to help pass things out. It was better to just try and ignore things, just pretend everyone else was inside too, that made it better. He tugged the floppy hat down a bit, trying to convince himself that his tummy wasn't feeling like a hedgehog was rolling around inside. He watched the zombies lurch across the screen, half-wishing that the screaming people running for the house were kids from school.</p> <p>Knock knock</p> <p>“Trick or treat!”</p> <p>“Oh, what a nice vampire!”</p> <p>“I'm draculaura! Rawr!”</p> <p>“So fearsome! Here you go…”</p> <p>“Thank you!”</p> <p>He turned up the movie, the slow groans of the walking dead drowning out the happy shouts of the living. The worst was going to be tomorrow, being forced to listen to everyone, watch them eating candy and talking about different houses and adventures. He sighed and swallowed thickly, his stomach doing another slow, oily roll. The boy pushed away the candy he'd been nibbling, suddenly sickened by even the smell.</p> <p>Knock</p> <p>“…”</p> <p>“Hello?…oh…”</p> <p>“…”</p> <p>“Uh, are you withOHGOD!”</p> <p>The sudden, rising shriek of his mother made the boy suddenly bolt upright, his stomach clenching even worse, but now totally forgotten. He couldn't see her from the couch, but he could hear noises, thumping and muffled shouts…and some kind of slimy-sounding rustle, like sewage over dry leaves. He stood, and started to peer around the short wall blocking the entryway, calling with a hesitant voice, scared of not getting a response, but almost equally so of getting one. He was only a few feet away when the hand whipped around the wall, gripping it tight.</p> <p>It was black-gray and thin, as bony and thin-skinned as his grandmother's, with wide, flat nails gripping the paint hard. Where it touched, a black stain was spreading, like grease on a paper bag, the knuckles looking puffy and thick as they flexed. The boy stared, backing up slowly, calling again for his mother, his voice starting to plead. The hand flexed, actually sinking into the wall as that stain spread, and a nightmare peeped around the corner.</p> <p>The head was thick, misshapen and lumpy, like a poorly made scarecrow, the skin thin and jelly-like. Two hard, glistening eyes the color of maggots stared from above the thin, wide slash of a mouth. Their eyes locked, and the boy felt fear wash from his head down to his feet, his stomach boiling like a forgotten kettle. His nerves screamed to run, to run away, but he couldn't make himself stop watching those eyes, feet moving slowly backwards like a sleepwalker. The hand and face shifted a bit, and there was a wet, heavy dragging noise as his mother was pulled in to view.</p> <p>She was dead, or close to it, moved forward by the hand in her chest like a sock puppet, bits of her black and pulpy, smears of that black stain eating in to her face, her neck, her arms. Her chest was a black, jelly-coated hole, the thing's other hand buried in it up to the wrist, the bloodless, ruined remains of his mother hanging from it like a rag doll. He screamed, then threw up, little more then a mass of bile and half-digested snacks, then ran, shrieking up the stairs, begging for his mother, his father, anyone, someone.</p> <p>He slammed into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door, shaking and crying. His dad had gone down the street to visit, he'd be home any second, and he'd fix this, somehow. He'd call the cops, or something, get them out of the house, leave that black thing far behind. Maybe mom was just hurt, people could get really hurt and still be fine, he'd only seen her a few seconds. That thing was just some psycho in some costume, he'd probably run off as soon as he heard someone coming, and it'd be ok then, it'd be fine. He kept whispering this to himself, feet braced on the sink, back against the door.</p> <p>He was still repeating it when the face pushed through the wood above him.</p> <p>He heard the crackle, and looked up, to see that hell face looking down, inches above his head. The floor under his feet suddenly felt sludgy and soft as he stared, the mouth splitting open, to let a tongue as rotten and bloated as a dead fish roll free…and down…and down, sliding down onto that horrified face like a syrup, burning even as he felt his legs sinking down and down, unable to even move really as that soft, slimy flesh burned like an acid in to his face, feeling his nose cook down like an over-used eraser, screaming just long enough to catch a few feet of that endless tongue in his mouth, gagging hard before the nerves died, starting to pass out as he felt the nightmare tasting his eyes.</p> <hr/> <p>Drak awoke feeling like he'd been sleeping on a pile of rusty car parts. He sat up, twisting and trying to locate the source of the throbbing pain in his leg, that…memory started to flood back, hitting like a freight train. Running across town. Slamming through a crowd, seeing the withered, crumbling arm laying on the ground. Screams. People running. That horrible black face sliding from the ground, eyes locked on his. Parks firing. More screams. A withered hand reaching, gripping, pulling…</p> <p>Oh god no.</p> <p>He looked around in welling horror, pleading with his own brain to lie to him. The room was dark, dirty, and low-ceilinged, tufts of dirt and debris in the corners, the grayish paint peeling in ragged streamers, the stained ceiling and floor warped and lumpy. A doorway opened in to darkness, a vague, insistent noise sounding from far off. The light was dim, but didn't seem to come from anywhere, seeming just a weak, omnipresent glow with a slightly green cast, like deep ocean water.</p> <p>Drak knew this room, even though he'd never been here. At least, ones very much like it. The old man liked to dump his new catches here before he…found them. Drak rose quickly, hunching down to avoid a sagging bulge of ceiling. He barely wanted his shoes touching this place, let alone anything else. He winced, feeling a dull, empty ache in his leg, high in the calf. Probably where it grabbed him…and damned if he was going to check it. He limped a few steps, making sure it could bear weight, eyes sweeping over every surface.</p> <p>He breathed slow, deeply, remembering the file, the brief. Time was subjective, he could have been out for seconds or weeks. It liked to play cat and mouse, tracking through its…home, or playroom, or whatever the fuck it was. Space was endless, but sometimes people got out, or were released. Keep moving, don't hide, because it was god here and would know. He felt panic slithering around the edges of his brain, and pushed it down, hard, face set and grim as he stepped out in to the darkness beyond the doorway.</p> <p>The hall was long, and broken, like a hospital hallway after an earthquake. No big holes, just twisted and tilted oddly. He creeped down, as close to a wall as he could get without touching it, feeling gritty plaster crunch under his feet. The noise was louder, the sound of high-pitched, monotonous crying. It set the teeth on edge, but they'd said it would be like this. The key was to keep moving, keep looking. Yes, it was endless, but if you kept on the move, it seemed like 106 got confused, or lost track of things, and you could accidentally wander back in to the world. He kept repeating the steps, the briefing in his head like a prayer, ignoring the part where 106 would typically hunt escapees forever.</p> <p>He took a right at the end of the hall, passing down another, then a left, starting to move faster, ignoring the odd, corroded twists of pipe and wire in some of the rooms he'd passed, or the suggestive, soggy mounds of…something. The crying kept getting louder, the high-pitched, gurgling wail of a baby. Ignore it, keep moving. It called the shots, it could make the whole place sound like a dentist's drill if it wanted. Drak pounded down a hall, nearly at a dead run, trying not to see the growing dampness of the walls, the changing texture of things. Broken plaster over old, greenish bricks, floor going from broken vinyl, to concrete, to dirt.</p> <p>He turned a corner, too fast, a gooey patch of black causing his foot to skitter, nearly dropping him to his knees as he clutched the bare, wet brick wall. He looked out in the the dim, mossy room, the sound of helpless, angry crying very, very loud now. He froze, staring, half-crouched and clutching the wall. It was standing in the middle of the room, a thick, ankle deep puddle of black jelly at its feet. The old man was turning, slowly, rocking in slow, side-to side motions. The crying was coming from the thing in his arms.</p> <p>It was a torso, wrapped in masses of what looked like barbed wire. The wire threaded in and out of flesh, some places looking like the bleeding skin had flowed like warm taffy over it. The ragged remains of the limbs twisted and stretched, every movement making the wires dig and tear more. It was hairless, the skin of its bare head and neck looking peeled and rotten, the face a mask of pain. The throat had been…opened, carefully, twisted and held with wires. The baby crying was in fact this grown, mute torso, mutilated to make that pitiful, helpless wail.</p> <p>The old man was watching him. Face turned, eyes locked to the man as he slowly tried to stand upright, ignoring the hissing of his boots, trying not to think of what would have to be done to a throat, to make it sound like a baby in agony…or where that pitiful torso's limbs had gone. It watched him, cracked teeth slightly parted, and slowly stopped its rocking. It dropped the wire-bound bundle, arms going limp at its sides as the mass of flesh and pain bounced off the ground, then rested face-down in the mossy grime, sending up a new wave of protest between bubbly, sucking breaths. It turned to face him, arms dangling, body wrapped in what looked like some kind of shredded cloth of oozing black fabric.</p> <p>Drak ran, bolting like a scared deer, throwing training and conditioning to the wind in the mad, blind, animal panic of escape. He screamed, panted, talked, laughed, anything to drown out the sound of the slow, stuttering steps lurking behind him. He ran, and ran, and ran, falling and hitting the ground like he'd been hit by a car, gasping and waiting for the end, muscles throbbing…then they would start again, those soft, rustling footsteps, driving him on, and on, and on.</p> <p>He didn't know it, but he'd run for four days before the old man started taking chunks out of him.</p> <hr/> <p>Recovery was in the pre-dawn hours with no sun or moon, and went shockingly smooth, all things considered. SCP-106 was found in the middle of a field, making pumpkins sag and burst by squeezing or stepping on them. The team, a man short, was finally reinforced an hour before they caught it, pushing it back to the recovery chamber with the big halogen “sun guns”, nearly blinding two of the recovery crew in their zeal to have the old man back under lock and key.</p> <p>It sat in the cell, without a moment's attempt to try and escape. It sat, and did nothing, head tilted, arms and legs limp. One MTF member stated that it looked sated, and was told to shut up in an official capacity. Disappearances were glossed over, murders quieted and made un-newsworthy, urban legends seeded and caressed. Over all, it went well, once the hell was over.</p> <p>Weeks later, an observation tech made a note in the day's log. SCP-106 was observed to suddenly produce a large handful of small white objects, later identified as teeth and finger bones, and set the pile on the floor. It then sorted these objects in to what seemed random piles, later identified as separated by age of victim. It then stared at these items for several hours, then re-collected them.</p> <p>The significance of this was considered unworthy of contemplation.</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="/treats">Treats</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/treats">https://scpwiki.com/treats</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 would like to here again state that 106 is not, as is commonly believed, a basic predator, on par with an advanced shark. SCP-106 is a sentient being, albeit a totally alien one. SCP-106 appears to be aware of several things beyond the scope of pure instinct and genetic memory. SCP-106 consistently breaches at moments where recovery and containment are most difficult. A fox may see his way out of a trap, but only a man will wait for his captors to look away to escape. > > //-Dr. Allok// > //“On Sentience In Contained Humanoids”// ------ “For fuck's sake, where the hell is it?” Agent Weng sighed, rubbing his face through his mask. The night was chill, but all three men were sweating badly. All around them surged horrors, monsters, demons, fantasy beasts and animate objects, giggling and roaring as they wandered. The three men in gas masks and armored suits looked under-dressed, if anything. As they stood, one man suddenly reached out, a gloved fist grabbing a mildly drunk zombie and tugging it close for a few seconds, before releasing him back to the surge of humanity, the undead beast cursing and stumbling away. “Fucking Halloween bullshit. We need to seal this whole area.” Agent Drak shook his head, gesturing to the traveling packs of costumed revelers. “The railcar popped too close to the city. It wasn't even supposed to be on this track, they think MC&D might have buggered up something. Can't clamp the whole town without major fallout.” “And what the hell do they think will happen now? The old bastard is out there, and we can't even fucking FIND him!” Weng kicked a discarded wrapper, glaring through tinted lenses at everyone who didn't have to chase hell for a living. Drak patted the fuming man on the back. “Easy, big fella. Command figures the old man takes a couple people, then does his lazy crocodile thing. That's easier to cover than why a major city had to be quarantined on Halloween.” Parks, until now little more than a statue, crackled in with his broken, rusty voice. “How hard is it to find a rotten old man that kills everything it touches?” Weng shook his head, still scanning the crowd. “He just looks like an old man most of the time. He can look however he wants. Normally we tell people to just follow the screaming. Fat fucking lot of good that does now. Where the hell is our expert?” A brittle, creaking chuckle rolled over the radio. “Harken says he's as much an expert on SCP-106 as a plane crash survivor is an expert on aviation. They won't field lab techs until our initial eval. We're on our own for now.” The three men stood, awash in horrors, looking for one that would put all the rest to shame. ------ The drunk angel wandered on the edge of the fire. Demons, zombies, and pop-culture icons swirled around her, moving like a single mass, before scattering into small clusters and pairs, only to surge back together again. The bonfire seemed to roar in time with the pounding music, the field chosen for the sudden teen invasion just far enough to avoid noise complaints, but not far enough to attract unwanted adult oversight. Alcohol flowed, people giggled, and the sharp snap of lowered inhibitions and teen angst was thick in the chill air. The night was still young, yet already several pairs had drifted from the comfort of the fire, to seek other comforts in the dark, private woods ringing the field. The angel glared at the silent trees, taking another pull on an almost empty beer. She drained it, then tossed it down, to meet a holocaust of its brothers being slowly kicked and stamped in to the soft dirt. She should be there, being held in warm arms, kissing a warm mouth...but no, she decided to run with the one boy who seemed to think the moment before a party was the best time to bring up his “worries about our relationship”. Bastard. The angel, now with lopsided wings, started to wander to those cool, dark trees. Fuck him...if he wanted to toss her aside, fine...but that didn't mean she wouldn't get to have fun still. She giggled a bit, smiling for the first time in a while. Why not have a little fun...play a trick, and get her treat. She laughed, the flush of wicked amusement and booze high in her cheeks. She'd seen one of the boys from her study hall wander back here...maybe she could find him, get a little...better acquainted. She walked in to the cooler darkness, the occasional giggle, snip of whisper, or a flash of glow stick the only indication of life. She stumbled over a root, staggering forward and bracing her hand on a slimy tree trunk. She yanked her hand away almost instantly, the gritty, oozing texture making her palm burn, the loss of support almost sending the angel sprawling. She squinted at her hand, making out a smear of gritty, fibrous jelly coating it, the burning getting worse as she noticed the odd pits eaten in to the trunk of the tree. The angel shivered, suddenly sober, and very aware of the fact that nobody knew where she was. That she knew of nobody close enough to even call for. She tried to rub her palm against her poofy skirts, not noticing the red and black smear she made on it, eyes wide and staring, some deep, dim part of her primordial brain ringing an alarm. She started to walk, quickly, focusing on the waving beacon of the bonfire, trying to make herself feel silly, to ignore the swelling, unreasoning panic. A twig broke behind her. She froze, a white shade, one hand dripping blood from a corrosive injury she would have been horrified about, had she looked. The angel didn't dare look back, but she was terrified to run, to hear something following, reaching, grabbing. Moments passed, filled with nothing, the angel finally resolving to run right at the moment when a thin, bony hand reached through her costume and into the muscles of her back like a nasty child squishing his hands into a cake. She screamed, or tried to, the sound squelched to little more then a harsh bark by the sheer volume of pain, limbs suddenly boneless and leaden, nerves dead except for agony. She felt fingers touching her ribs from the inside, even as they were slowly eaten away and corroded, her body shifting slowly to face the hand's owner. The flicker of the distant fire showed something withered, dark, slimy and pulpy-soft, but wiry and strong. Two milky-black eyes glistened at her in a too-large head, hovering over a frozen corpse grin, teeth thin and chipped. The pinned angel gasped and blubbered, feeling an oily, burning corruption seeping in to her body, trying to ignore a slow falling feeling, trying not to feel the ground below her turning mushy and soft, swallowing both figures inch by inch. It leaned closer, and despite the searing horror of that face, some still sane part of her welcomed what was surely an approaching end to her pain. It lingered, however, the other twisted claw of a hand rising as the ground started to swallow their hips. The new touch made the angel lucid with a new fear, her face locking on those rotten eyes. She recognized the shine behind them, and started to scream with a new, repulsed horror, even as it started to pull both her dress and skin away in sodden ribbons. ------ Jason ran, lungs burning, trying to yell for help between sharp gasps of air. His Batman costume felt like such a joke now, running between streetlights, feeling that warm spot of pee on his pants. Where WAS everyone? It had been so stupid, trying to be the big brave kids and go out alone...now he really was alone, and his friends had probably been eaten. He didn't know this for sure, but when the boogeyman dropped out of a tree and started shoving kids in to a wall that was suddenly like quicksand, it was probably a safe bet. He hadn't even been able to do anything, just watch as those long, bony fingers grabbed his two best friends and just...yanked them away, like dolls, barely screaming before the squishy black wall gulped them up. The boogeyman, it hooked his fingers in to David's eyes like dad had taught him to hold a bowling ball, and... Jason was abruptly sick down the front of his costume, the half-digested mass of chocolate looking unsettlingly like the goo that had splattered everywhere while the tall, lanky, naked old man had landed out of the tree. He stopped, stumbling to his knees, coughing and gagging, wailing out a weak scream for help to the dim night. It drifted off, unheeded, the boy unable to even sob, too numb with exhaustion and horror. He barely noticed the footsteps until they were nearly on top of him. He looked up, ready to beg whatever adult he saw for help. Then he saw the legs. Thin, black, the feet looking pulpy and flat with age, the concrete under them turning cracked and gooey. Jason looked up more, shaking more and more violently. The withered hips, the sticky, soft chest that didn't rise or fall...and finally that nightmare head, looking like some kind of rotten pumpkin, but black and oily as a bucket of tar. The eyes locked on the boy's, as shiny and blank as a flashlight in a basement. The teeth parted, some kind of rolling, slimy blackness shifting inside. Jason stumbled back, gasping, trying to scream but unable to even breathe correctly. He stared at the boogeyman as he rolled something in the palm of that thin, beaten hand, pulling it between two bony fingers and lifting it to his mouth. The boy thought it was a candy or something, but then he saw the glint of metal. It was his best friend Anthony's front tooth. It still had the bracket from his braces on it. The boogeyman placed it between his teeth, gently, the tooth still white and clean in that filthy, dripping mouth. He seemed to hold it there a moment...then his jaw bunched, and the tooth shivered...then burst like a jawbreaker under a car tire. He chewed it twice, then just stopped, still staring at the boy. It seemed to go on and on, Jason unsure if he was even breathing anymore, knowing this was the end, this was what happened when you didn't listen, when you went off alone, the boogeyman came and took you, forever and always... But he didn't. He turned, seeming to get ready to take a step...then fell forward, slowly, like an old man tripping over a shoe. The black monster almost hit the ground...but just fell through it, like it was made of air, nothing but a black smear left behind on the concrete...and the tiny, corroded bracket from the tooth. When they found him, hours later, he'd gripped it hard enough to embed it in his palm. ------ The boy sat, comforted and miserable. His mother had been nice enough to let him at least wear his Mario costume, but even he had to admit he was probably too sick to walk around the house, let alone outside for hours, in the cold. He'd woken up vomiting, and it had just continued, his parents hoping for the best, but finally forced to cancel the trick-or-treating. As sad as he was, they did try their best to make it up to him. There was a small bowl of candy for him, with the promise any leftovers would be given to him, and he could watch all the scary movies he liked. Knock knock “Trick or treat!” “Aww, such a cute turtle! And what are you, honey?” “I'm Rapunzel!” “Well, here you go, princess!” “Thank you!” He hadn't even wanted to help pass things out. It was better to just try and ignore things, just pretend everyone else was inside too, that made it better. He tugged the floppy hat down a bit, trying to convince himself that his tummy wasn't feeling like a hedgehog was rolling around inside. He watched the zombies lurch across the screen, half-wishing that the screaming people running for the house were kids from school. Knock knock “Trick or treat!” “Oh, what a nice vampire!” “I'm draculaura! Rawr!” “So fearsome! Here you go...” “Thank you!” He turned up the movie, the slow groans of the walking dead drowning out the happy shouts of the living. The worst was going to be tomorrow, being forced to listen to everyone, watch them eating candy and talking about different houses and adventures. He sighed and swallowed thickly, his stomach doing another slow, oily roll. The boy pushed away the candy he'd been nibbling, suddenly sickened by even the smell. Knock “...” “Hello?...oh...” “...” “Uh, are you withOHGOD!” The sudden, rising shriek of his mother made the boy suddenly bolt upright, his stomach clenching even worse, but now totally forgotten. He couldn't see her from the couch, but he could hear noises, thumping and muffled shouts...and some kind of slimy-sounding rustle, like sewage over dry leaves. He stood, and started to peer around the short wall blocking the entryway, calling with a hesitant voice, scared of not getting a response, but almost equally so of getting one. He was only a few feet away when the hand whipped around the wall, gripping it tight. It was black-gray and thin, as bony and thin-skinned as his grandmother's, with wide, flat nails gripping the paint hard. Where it touched, a black stain was spreading, like grease on a paper bag, the knuckles looking puffy and thick as they flexed. The boy stared, backing up slowly, calling again for his mother, his voice starting to plead. The hand flexed, actually sinking into the wall as that stain spread, and a nightmare peeped around the corner. The head was thick, misshapen and lumpy, like a poorly made scarecrow, the skin thin and jelly-like. Two hard, glistening eyes the color of maggots stared from above the thin, wide slash of a mouth. Their eyes locked, and the boy felt fear wash from his head down to his feet, his stomach boiling like a forgotten kettle. His nerves screamed to run, to run away, but he couldn't make himself stop watching those eyes, feet moving slowly backwards like a sleepwalker. The hand and face shifted a bit, and there was a wet, heavy dragging noise as his mother was pulled in to view. She was dead, or close to it, moved forward by the hand in her chest like a sock puppet, bits of her black and pulpy, smears of that black stain eating in to her face, her neck, her arms. Her chest was a black, jelly-coated hole, the thing's other hand buried in it up to the wrist, the bloodless, ruined remains of his mother hanging from it like a rag doll. He screamed, then threw up, little more then a mass of bile and half-digested snacks, then ran, shrieking up the stairs, begging for his mother, his father, anyone, someone. He slammed into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door, shaking and crying. His dad had gone down the street to visit, he'd be home any second, and he'd fix this, somehow. He'd call the cops, or something, get them out of the house, leave that black thing far behind. Maybe mom was just hurt, people could get really hurt and still be fine, he'd only seen her a few seconds. That thing was just some psycho in some costume, he'd probably run off as soon as he heard someone coming, and it'd be ok then, it'd be fine. He kept whispering this to himself, feet braced on the sink, back against the door. He was still repeating it when the face pushed through the wood above him. He heard the crackle, and looked up, to see that hell face looking down, inches above his head. The floor under his feet suddenly felt sludgy and soft as he stared, the mouth splitting open, to let a tongue as rotten and bloated as a dead fish roll free...and down...and down, sliding down onto that horrified face like a syrup, burning even as he felt his legs sinking down and down, unable to even move really as that soft, slimy flesh burned like an acid in to his face, feeling his nose cook down like an over-used eraser, screaming just long enough to catch a few feet of that endless tongue in his mouth, gagging hard before the nerves died, starting to pass out as he felt the nightmare tasting his eyes. ------ Drak awoke feeling like he'd been sleeping on a pile of rusty car parts. He sat up, twisting and trying to locate the source of the throbbing pain in his leg, that...memory started to flood back, hitting like a freight train. Running across town. Slamming through a crowd, seeing the withered, crumbling arm laying on the ground. Screams. People running. That horrible black face sliding from the ground, eyes locked on his. Parks firing. More screams. A withered hand reaching, gripping, pulling... Oh god no. He looked around in welling horror, pleading with his own brain to lie to him. The room was dark, dirty, and low-ceilinged, tufts of dirt and debris in the corners, the grayish paint peeling in ragged streamers, the stained ceiling and floor warped and lumpy. A doorway opened in to darkness, a vague, insistent noise sounding from far off. The light was dim, but didn't seem to come from anywhere, seeming just a weak, omnipresent glow with a slightly green cast, like deep ocean water. Drak knew this room, even though he'd never been here. At least, ones very much like it. The old man liked to dump his new catches here before he...found them. Drak rose quickly, hunching down to avoid a sagging bulge of ceiling. He barely wanted his shoes touching this place, let alone anything else. He winced, feeling a dull, empty ache in his leg, high in the calf. Probably where it grabbed him...and damned if he was going to check it. He limped a few steps, making sure it could bear weight, eyes sweeping over every surface. He breathed slow, deeply, remembering the file, the brief. Time was subjective, he could have been out for seconds or weeks. It liked to play cat and mouse, tracking through its...home, or playroom, or whatever the fuck it was. Space was endless, but sometimes people got out, or were released. Keep moving, don't hide, because it was god here and would know. He felt panic slithering around the edges of his brain, and pushed it down, hard, face set and grim as he stepped out in to the darkness beyond the doorway. The hall was long, and broken, like a hospital hallway after an earthquake. No big holes, just twisted and tilted oddly. He creeped down, as close to a wall as he could get without touching it, feeling gritty plaster crunch under his feet. The noise was louder, the sound of high-pitched, monotonous crying. It set the teeth on edge, but they'd said it would be like this. The key was to keep moving, keep looking. Yes, it was endless, but if you kept on the move, it seemed like 106 got confused, or lost track of things, and you could accidentally wander back in to the world. He kept repeating the steps, the briefing in his head like a prayer, ignoring the part where 106 would typically hunt escapees forever. He took a right at the end of the hall, passing down another, then a left, starting to move faster, ignoring the odd, corroded twists of pipe and wire in some of the rooms he'd passed, or the suggestive, soggy mounds of...something. The crying kept getting louder, the high-pitched, gurgling wail of a baby. Ignore it, keep moving. It called the shots, it could make the whole place sound like a dentist's drill if it wanted. Drak pounded down a hall, nearly at a dead run, trying not to see the growing dampness of the walls, the changing texture of things. Broken plaster over old, greenish bricks, floor going from broken vinyl, to concrete, to dirt. He turned a corner, too fast, a gooey patch of black causing his foot to skitter, nearly dropping him to his knees as he clutched the bare, wet brick wall. He looked out in the the dim, mossy room, the sound of helpless, angry crying very, very loud now. He froze, staring, half-crouched and clutching the wall. It was standing in the middle of the room, a thick, ankle deep puddle of black jelly at its feet. The old man was turning, slowly, rocking in slow, side-to side motions. The crying was coming from the thing in his arms. It was a torso, wrapped in masses of what looked like barbed wire. The wire threaded in and out of flesh, some places looking like the bleeding skin had flowed like warm taffy over it. The ragged remains of the limbs twisted and stretched, every movement making the wires dig and tear more. It was hairless, the skin of its bare head and neck looking peeled and rotten, the face a mask of pain. The throat had been...opened, carefully, twisted and held with wires. The baby crying was in fact this grown, mute torso, mutilated to make that pitiful, helpless wail. The old man was watching him. Face turned, eyes locked to the man as he slowly tried to stand upright, ignoring the hissing of his boots, trying not to think of what would have to be done to a throat, to make it sound like a baby in agony...or where that pitiful torso's limbs had gone. It watched him, cracked teeth slightly parted, and slowly stopped its rocking. It dropped the wire-bound bundle, arms going limp at its sides as the mass of flesh and pain bounced off the ground, then rested face-down in the mossy grime, sending up a new wave of protest between bubbly, sucking breaths. It turned to face him, arms dangling, body wrapped in what looked like some kind of shredded cloth of oozing black fabric. Drak ran, bolting like a scared deer, throwing training and conditioning to the wind in the mad, blind, animal panic of escape. He screamed, panted, talked, laughed, anything to drown out the sound of the slow, stuttering steps lurking behind him. He ran, and ran, and ran, falling and hitting the ground like he'd been hit by a car, gasping and waiting for the end, muscles throbbing...then they would start again, those soft, rustling footsteps, driving him on, and on, and on. He didn't know it, but he'd run for four days before the old man started taking chunks out of him. ------ Recovery was in the pre-dawn hours with no sun or moon, and went shockingly smooth, all things considered. SCP-106 was found in the middle of a field, making pumpkins sag and burst by squeezing or stepping on them. The team, a man short, was finally reinforced an hour before they caught it, pushing it back to the recovery chamber with the big halogen “sun guns”, nearly blinding two of the recovery crew in their zeal to have the old man back under lock and key. It sat in the cell, without a moment's attempt to try and escape. It sat, and did nothing, head tilted, arms and legs limp. One MTF member stated that it looked sated, and was told to shut up in an official capacity. Disappearances were glossed over, murders quieted and made un-newsworthy, urban legends seeded and caressed. Over all, it went well, once the hell was over. Weeks later, an observation tech made a note in the day's log. SCP-106 was observed to suddenly produce a large handful of small white objects, later identified as teeth and finger bones, and set the pile on the floor. It then sorted these objects in to what seemed random piles, later identified as separated by age of victim. It then stared at these items for several hours, then re-collected them. The significance of this was considered unworthy of contemplation. [[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>]]	2012-10-28T22:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "body-horror", "featured", "halloween", "hc2012", "horror", "psychological-horror", "tale", "the-old-man" ]	Treats - SCP Foundation	819	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "holiday-hub", "highest-rated-non-scps", "halloween-contest", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations", "contest-archive" ]	[]	14824061	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/treats
trepanning	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> November 15 <p>Migraine again. They always seem to strike at the worst time, though I have a pretty good guess what the cause of this one is. <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">The F</span> Work pays well, but sometimes shit happens and it's hard to make ends meet. Sarah's been sick again and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. I've got a lot of paperwork to finish up but I don't think I'm getting any more done tonight.</p> <hr/> <p>November 17</p> <p>I felt a lot better this morning. I don't know if it's just the migraine medication working, but it's not hurting as much. Funny thing is that when I woke up, I could have sworn I heard some weird scraping sounds, but it may just be a side effect of the meds.</p> <p>Now the problem is that Sarah's in trouble at school again. Talking during class, throwing things, generally being belligerent. That she takes after her dad is the best and worst part about her. Guess it's time for another Lecture from Mom (tm).</p> <hr/> <p>November 18</p> <p>Head hurting again. And here, I thought it was starting to get better. Lost my keys at work too, had to spend an hour looking for them. FML.</p> <hr/> <p>November 19</p> <p>And… feeling better again. Heard another scraping sound when I woke up, maybe there's a mouse in the walls behind my bed or something? Was bleeding a little from my head when I woke up, kinda weird but it didn't hurt and stopped pretty quick, so I didn't think too much of it.</p> <p>Weekly report is due tomorrow, gotta get cracking.</p> <hr/> <p>November 20</p> <p>Ugh. Head hurt. No more writing tonight.</p> <hr/> <p>November 21</p> <p>Heard that same scraping sound again when I woke up, but I don't really care about that. I don't know what I've been doing different, but damn it feels good to be alive. Hell, I don't even care about the weird looks Sarah's been giving me. I feel like I can just scrape away all the cares in the world and live pressure-free.</p> <hr/> <p>November 22</p> <p>Life is awesome. Sarah is fine. Scrape away.</p> <hr/> <p>November 23</p> <p>Scrape, scrape, scrape away.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>Autopsy Report</strong>:</p> <p>Assistant Researcher Dr. Evelyn Winters was found dead in her home along with her daughter Sarah Winters on 11/24/██ after having failed to report to work for 2 days. Cause of death in both cases was determined to be massive cranial trauma; both had holes carved into the top of their skulls and were missing all brain tissue.</p> <p>Sarah appears to have been restrained and her skull penetrated by a corded electric drill using a wood spade bit. It is likely that she died from shock and blood loss before her brain tissue was removed using a serving spoon. All of the tools used were found, cleaned, in the kitchen.</p> <p>Dr. Winters initially appeared to have died the same way, however the hole in her skull does not appear to have been caused by a tool. Instead, the wound's edges are consistent with having been repeatedly scraped over a course of several days by what appears to be extremely fine teeth. There is no evidence suggesting how her brain was removed at this time.</p> <p>No brain tissue was discovered anywhere in the home, nor did the response team find evidence of any individuals other than the victims having been in the house. The front and back doors were both locked from the inside.</p> <p>Dr. █████████<br/> Senior Observer</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="/trepanning">Trepanning</a>" by Aelanna, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/trepanning">https://scpwiki.com/trepanning</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 15 Migraine again. They always seem to strike at the worst time, though I have a pretty good guess what the cause of this one is. --The F-- Work pays well, but sometimes shit happens and it's hard to make ends meet. Sarah's been sick again and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. I've got a lot of paperwork to finish up but I don't think I'm getting any more done tonight. ---- November 17 I felt a lot better this morning. I don't know if it's just the migraine medication working, but it's not hurting as much. Funny thing is that when I woke up, I could have sworn I heard some weird scraping sounds, but it may just be a side effect of the meds. Now the problem is that Sarah's in trouble at school again. Talking during class, throwing things, generally being belligerent. That she takes after her dad is the best and worst part about her. Guess it's time for another Lecture from Mom (tm). ---- November 18 Head hurting again. And here, I thought it was starting to get better. Lost my keys at work too, had to spend an hour looking for them. FML. ---- November 19 And... feeling better again. Heard another scraping sound when I woke up, maybe there's a mouse in the walls behind my bed or something? Was bleeding a little from my head when I woke up, kinda weird but it didn't hurt and stopped pretty quick, so I didn't think too much of it. Weekly report is due tomorrow, gotta get cracking. ---- November 20 Ugh. Head hurt. No more writing tonight. ---- November 21 Heard that same scraping sound again when I woke up, but I don't really care about that. I don't know what I've been doing different, but damn it feels good to be alive. Hell, I don't even care about the weird looks Sarah's been giving me. I feel like I can just scrape away all the cares in the world and live pressure-free. ---- November 22 Life is awesome. Sarah is fine. Scrape away. ---- November 23 Scrape, scrape, scrape away. ---- > Autopsy Report: > > Assistant Researcher Dr. Evelyn Winters was found dead in her home along with her daughter Sarah Winters on 11/24/██ after having failed to report to work for 2 days. Cause of death in both cases was determined to be massive cranial trauma; both had holes carved into the top of their skulls and were missing all brain tissue. > > Sarah appears to have been restrained and her skull penetrated by a corded electric drill using a wood spade bit. It is likely that she died from shock and blood loss before her brain tissue was removed using a serving spoon. All of the tools used were found, cleaned, in the kitchen. > > Dr. Winters initially appeared to have died the same way, however the hole in her skull does not appear to have been caused by a tool. Instead, the wound's edges are consistent with having been repeatedly scraped over a course of several days by what appears to be extremely fine teeth. There is no evidence suggesting how her brain was removed at this time. > > No brain tissue was discovered anywhere in the home, nor did the response team find evidence of any individuals other than the victims having been in the house. The front and back doors were both locked from the inside. > > Dr. █████████ > Senior Observer [[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>]]	2012-11-14T20:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Trepanning - SCP Foundation	45	[ "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" ]	[]	15016600	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/trepanning
uiu-orientation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Welcome to the FBI’s second least popular division; the Unusual Incidents Unit.<br/> Most of you are probably here as a punishment, because someone wants you out of their hair.<br/> Any of you here because you told your superiors the truth, and they didn’t believe it?</p> <p>Ah, just one. Well then, I’m going to need to make a demonstration. You see; the UIU is a joke, but not for the reasons you guys think. I’m sure most of you will recognise this as a Desert Eagle. It’s loaded with .50 bullets. So seven rounds in the magazine.<br/> Let’s count them out: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven… eight, nine, ten, eleven… I could keep going, but I’ll hand the magazine around so you can see I’m not using sleight of hand.</p> <p>So, if what we’re investigating is real, why are we a joke? Because we’re way out of our depth.<br/> You guys aren’t trained for the sort of stuff that we’re meant to be investigating.<br/> Of course, you <strong>do</strong> get really good bereavement benefits.</p> <p>Pop quiz: How many rounds are there in that magazine?<br/> Nope, the guy I found it on thought it was limitless too. It holds one thousand, two hundred, ninety six rounds. He ran out while shooting at me.</p> <p>Now for the terminology. We deal in Carts and Cans.<br/> A Cart is a confirmed artifact; an object that doesn’t belong within this world.<br/> A Can is a confirmed anomaly; an event or area that involves something impossible.<br/> A Can Man is a person who is anomalous. These tend to be particularly dangerous, and you’ll probably find someone else is there looking for them.</p> <p>We're not the only ones dealing with this stuff. When you're out on an investigation, keep your eyes out for other interested parties:<br/> The Suits.<br/> Men in suits, sunglasses, the works, your stereotypical spooks. Men in Black. If you get a chance, keep eyes on them. They’re bastards, completely untrustworthy, but if they give an order you follow it.<br/> They work for the government, apparently. And they outrank us.</p> <p>The Fireworks.<br/> Militia groups, highly trained, sometimes armed with Carts. We figure there’s more than one, we’ve seen them fighting each other. They come in and take, or destroy, whatever it is they’re after. Then they leave, and we have to cover it up. Don’t try and interfere without backup; and be aware that they are better equipped than us. They’re dangerous, ruthless and vicious. But at least they’re honest. If they give you an order, follow it.<br/> If you don’t they’ll kill you.</p> <p>The Cart Shoppers.<br/> Marshall, Carter and Dark; they’re an auction house, and a gentleman’s club. Their customers are extremely rich, and tend to have rather disturbing tastes. Official policy is to raid any known Cart dealers, but you should be very careful around MC and D. Their security forces don’t want to make a scene, so wait for backup before going in and you should be relatively safe. If they give you an order… well, decide for yourselves; assuming you have free will at the time.</p> <p>The Can Collection.<br/> They call themselves The Serpent's Hand. They often interfere with the actions of other groups, generally to free or protect Can Men. They are happy to use artifacts, and have very little interest in secrecy. They understand anomalies better than most because most of them seem to be anomalies. Do not confront them in public, you won’t win and the Suits will be annoyed about having to clean up your mess.<br/> If they give you an order consider following it, they can probably set you on fire with their mind.</p> <p>And finally, the guys we actually get on with: The Skippers.<br/> You’ll know they’re there, you’ll see something labeled Soap and Care Products, Superior Consumer Produce, Sudden Career Possibilities or Security for Corporate Profiteers. They’re not trying to hide from us, just from the public.<br/> The Skippers are well trained, know what they’re doing, and they’re helpful. Their aim seems to be similar to ours: find anomalies, quietly, and get them under control and out of the public eye. If they’re there then the problem’s probably out of your league, but you can go introduce yourself if you like. If they ask you for help… well they’ll make sure your family are looked after if you die, in addition to the standard bereavement package from us.</p> <p>If you receive a call starting with “Hey Skipper” it means there’s something they can’t be bothered dealing with. It’s almost certainly a minor artifact. Those things help us keep our funding, so make sure to take Skipper calls seriously.<br/> If a Skipper gives you an order, follow it. Because while they probably won’t kill you, the anomaly will.</p> <p>I once took orders from a pizza delivery guy. Didn’t even realise he was from Spicy Crust Pizzeria until it was all over.<br/> <strong>That</strong> is why we’re a joke.</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="/uiu-orientation">UIU Orientation</a>" by Kingreaper, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/uiu-orientation">https://scpwiki.com/uiu-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 the FBI’s second least popular division; the Unusual Incidents Unit. Most of you are probably here as a punishment, because someone wants you out of their hair. Any of you here because you told your superiors the truth, and they didn’t believe it? Ah, just one. Well then, I’m going to need to make a demonstration. You see; the UIU is a joke, but not for the reasons you guys think. I’m sure most of you will recognise this as a Desert Eagle. It’s loaded with .50 bullets. So seven rounds in the magazine. Let’s count them out: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven... eight, nine, ten, eleven... I could keep going, but I’ll hand the magazine around so you can see I’m not using sleight of hand. So, if what we’re investigating is real, why are we a joke? Because we’re way out of our depth. You guys aren’t trained for the sort of stuff that we’re meant to be investigating. Of course, you do get really good bereavement benefits. Pop quiz: How many rounds are there in that magazine? Nope, the guy I found it on thought it was limitless too. It holds one thousand, two hundred, ninety six rounds. He ran out while shooting at me. Now for the terminology. We deal in Carts and Cans. A Cart is a confirmed artifact; an object that doesn’t belong within this world. A Can is a confirmed anomaly; an event or area that involves something impossible. A Can Man is a person who is anomalous. These tend to be particularly dangerous, and you’ll probably find someone else is there looking for them. We're not the only ones dealing with this stuff. When you're out on an investigation, keep your eyes out for other interested parties: The Suits. Men in suits, sunglasses, the works, your stereotypical spooks. Men in Black. If you get a chance, keep eyes on them. They’re bastards, completely untrustworthy, but if they give an order you follow it. They work for the government, apparently. And they outrank us. The Fireworks. Militia groups, highly trained, sometimes armed with Carts. We figure there’s more than one, we’ve seen them fighting each other. They come in and take, or destroy, whatever it is they’re after. Then they leave, and we have to cover it up. Don’t try and interfere without backup; and be aware that they are better equipped than us. They’re dangerous, ruthless and vicious. But at least they’re honest. If they give you an order, follow it. If you don’t they’ll kill you. The Cart Shoppers. Marshall, Carter and Dark; they’re an auction house, and a gentleman’s club. Their customers are extremely rich, and tend to have rather disturbing tastes. Official policy is to raid any known Cart dealers, but you should be very careful around MC and D. Their security forces don’t want to make a scene, so wait for backup before going in and you should be relatively safe. If they give you an order... well, decide for yourselves; assuming you have free will at the time. The Can Collection. They call themselves The Serpent's Hand. They often interfere with the actions of other groups, generally to free or protect Can Men. They are happy to use artifacts, and have very little interest in secrecy. They understand anomalies better than most because most of them seem to be anomalies. Do not confront them in public, you won’t win and the Suits will be annoyed about having to clean up your mess. If they give you an order consider following it, they can probably set you on fire with their mind. And finally, the guys we actually get on with: The Skippers. You’ll know they’re there, you’ll see something labeled Soap and Care Products, Superior Consumer Produce, Sudden Career Possibilities or Security for Corporate Profiteers. They’re not trying to hide from us, just from the public. The Skippers are well trained, know what they’re doing, and they’re helpful. Their aim seems to be similar to ours: find anomalies, quietly, and get them under control and out of the public eye. If they’re there then the problem’s probably out of your league, but you can go introduce yourself if you like. If they ask you for help... well they’ll make sure your family are looked after if you die, in addition to the standard bereavement package from us. If you receive a call starting with “Hey Skipper” it means there’s something they can’t be bothered dealing with. It’s almost certainly a minor artifact. Those things help us keep our funding, so make sure to take Skipper calls seriously. If a Skipper gives you an order, follow it. Because while they probably won’t kill you, the anomaly will. I once took orders from a pizza delivery guy. Didn’t even realise he was from Spicy Crust Pizzeria until it was all over. That is why we’re a joke. [[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>]]	2012-08-15T22:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "first-person", "orientation", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit", "worldbuilding" ]	UIU Orientation - SCP Foundation	718	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "highest-rated-non-scps", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	14052037	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/uiu-orientation
uncle-teddy	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Uncle Teddy was always a strange old man. It's one of those kind of things that you don't think about when you're a kid, and you still believe that knights and pirates and wizards are things that could co-exist in the world you live in. But as I got older and older, and I realized that people in the real world don't live the way he does, I got to thinking more and more about it, and the more I thought about it, the less sense any of it made. I asked my dad once when I was a teenager if Uncle Teddy was crazy. He said to me, "He might be crazy, Charlie, but he's still your uncle, and he's the best crazy uncle anyone could ever hope for."</p> <p>He wasn't <em>technically</em> my uncle, really. He was far too old to be my dad's brother. He wasn't my dad's uncle, either. Best I can figure out, he was my great-great-great-grandpa's brother. Not that that makes much sense, either, considering that my great-great-great-grandpa died in 1896. Uncle Teddy doesn't look a day over seventy or so, and he hasn't changed in all the years I've known him. I found an old black-and-white picture of him that was dated 1907, and he looked exactly the same then as he does now. If all the things he says are true, then he'd have to be at least 200 years old, but every time I asked him how old he was, he'd only answer "I suppose I have been forty-nine for quite awhile now." I guess calling him "uncle" was just easier for everyone.</p> <p>Uncle Teddy lived in Cornwall, in a huge manor house in the country that he said he inherited from his father. It's an ancient place, at least a couple hundred years old, and it doesn't look like it's changed in over a hundred years. See, when I say Uncle Teddy is strange, it's not who he is so much as how he behaves. There isn't a thing in that house that was built after the end of the 19th century. No running water, no lights, no phone, no TV, no radio, no computer, no heat, no cars, not a thing. The place is like a museum, and that's how he lives his life. It's like he doesn't even know the rest of the world exists - he never goes into town, writes all his letters by hand, and every time we came to visit he'd ask if we sailed across the Atlantic or took one of the new steamships or zeppelins he'd heard so much about. I never could tell if he actually didn't know the world had moved on, or if he just preferred the "good old days" to the world outside his little slice of it.</p> <p>He was an unbelievably wealthy man. "Old money," dad always said. He was generous with it, too - every couple years he'd pay for our whole family to come out and visit him for a few weeks or so. He always said he loved to keep up with what the rest of his family was up to. The first time I met him was when I was six. It was just around Christmas. Imagine how surreal it must have been for me to come all the way to England on a plane, only to get dressed up in an old-fashioned little suit and put on a horse-drawn sleigh in the snow up to the gate of his manor. The first time I saw him standing in the door, tall, wrapped in furs, with his long white beard stretching down his chest, I thought he was Santa Claus. He just laughed when I asked him if he was, then reached into my ear and "pulled out" a coin, an old silver sixpence with Queen Victoria's face on it, and gave it to me. I was amazed.</p> <p>Going back in time from the 1980s to the 1880s is quite an experience for a boy that age - imagine how grossed out I was when I learned about the chamberpot! - but it was an adventure all the same. Back at home, half the kids would call me a liar and the other half would be jealous. I didn't care - I'd already be looking forward to the next trip. I could spend hours just sitting at his knee, listening to his stories about how he'd acquired one or another of the curios that hung all around the place, his adventures in far-off corners of the world, his war stories, so on. As I grew older he taught me how to hunt, how to ride a horse, how to dress a wound, pan for gold, read Morse code, and all kinds of other things most boys only read about in books. Once, when I was fifteen, he pulled me aside after everyone else had gone to bed and gave me a lecture about how to kill a dragon should I ever find myself in a fight with one. I can't say the opportunity has ever arisen to test his suggestion, but if it ever does, I'll make sure to go for the femoral artery.</p> <p>I didn't get to see him as much once I was grown up, but we kept writing letters back and forth. When I told him I was joining the Army to pay for college, he went on and on about his time in the Second Opium War. When I told him I was getting married, he insisted on inviting Amy and I out to get married at the manor. When I got my MBA, he told me never to accept a job offer from something called "Marshall, Carter & Dark" or he'd disown me. But it was the letter I got about six months ago that turned everything upside down;</p> <blockquote> <p><em>My dearest nephew,</em></p> <p><em>I have never in my life begged another man for succor, but I find that I must now ask for help, and I know of none I can turn to in my hour of need but you. I have been taken prisoner by a group of rogues and confidence men who play at science, calling themselves 'the SCP Foundation'. They have seized our ancestral lands and my entire lifetime's worth of works and collections, and imprisoned me in a tiny cell like an animal. I held out hope at first that I could free myself, or convince them to release me, but I fear there is now no hope of that. Lest I live out the rest of my days in this place, I shall have to be rescued.</em></p> <p><em>You shall have to come at once. The current place of my captivity is in London, off Marylebone Road in Westminister, this much I have determined from the loose talk of my jailers. On the back of this page I have sketched a map of what parts of the prison I have been allowed to see. I shall not be here forever, for they have moved me several times. Take the fastest ship you can. If you can, pay a visit to the manor, in secret of course, for I am sure they keep it under guard. From the clearing in the woods where I taught you how to shoot, walk half a mile northwest into the forest and you will find a cave hidden in the brush. There is a hidden chamber within containing some of my old 'tools of the trade', as it were, that you may find indispensable in achieving your mission. The signet ring I gave you when you were twelve is the key.</em></p> <p><em>Please hurry, for I know not what grim fate these mountebanks have in store for me.</em></p> <p><em>Yours in Christ,</em></p> <p><em>Uncle Teddy</em></p> </blockquote> <p>My wife thought I'd lost my mind when I told her all about it. She thought he was a crazy old man who'd finally snapped, and that I was crazy for believing him. I'll admit I had my doubts as well. But as far-fetched and ludicrous as everything about Uncle Teddy seemed to be, I never in my entire life felt like he had been lying to me. I told her I had to do this for his sake and mine, so that when next Christmas came and they were old enough I could take our kids to visit Uncle Teddy and they could experience what I had. She told me I'd better keep that promise. I had some vacation time saved up and some money in the bank, so I told my boss there'd been a death in the family, and the next morning I was on a flight to London.</p> <p>I rented a car and drove out to the town close by Uncle Teddy's manor, and right away I could see he'd been telling the truth. There were lots more cars in town than usual, and lots of people with American accents in the pub. Something was amiss. I didn't even try to take the main road up to the house - I crept into the brush and made my way through the woods, careful not to so much as step on a twig, just like he taught me. I sneaked a peek towards the front gate - there were two men dressed all in black, with SMGs in hand. Their uniforms definitely weren't Army-issue, and they didn't look like the kind to ask questions. The chill winter air was still and silent that afternoon, and it took me forever to find the cave the letter mentioned as I worked my way through the thick of the woods.</p> <p>It was a good thing I'd always held on to that old ring he gave me - it fit right into the "keyhole" I found in the cave he mentioned, and the rock wall slid away effortlessly. I shone my flashlight around and saw dozens of artifacts, the purpose of which I could only guess at. Between the multiple suits of armor, and the rolled-up Persian rug with a tag on it that read "A.C. Chakrasangupta of Bombay, Fine Retailer of Magic Carpets", and oil lamps that looked like they probably had genies living in them, I obviously couldn't grab all of it and stuff it in my backpack and hope it'd turn out useful. I settled on three things, things I saw that I recognized from some of the stories he'd told me years ago.</p> <p>The first was a gun - a massive thing that looked like a blunderbuss, kicked like a mule, and had more stopping power than an elephant gun. A "particle destabilizer", he'd called it when he let me shoot it a few times years ago. The second was a huge old "skeleton key" which looked like something out of a video game. The third, an old Metropolitan Police badge which, according to his stories, would make sure that anyone who looked at me thought I was supposed to be there. I tested it out as I made my exit from the grounds, stepping out of the woods into clear sight of the guards at the front gate. I was ready to use the gun if I had to, but the two of them took a look at me and went on with their business without saying a word.</p> <p>It wasn't until a day later that I stood in the middle of London, Madame Tussaud's to my back, gun in one hand, key in the other, badge on my chest, that I realized I had absolutely no idea what to do next. There are hundreds of buildings along the road. How was I supposed to figure out which one hid the secret prison Uncle Teddy been taken to? This was always the point in his stories where he'd have some genius flash of inspiration and know right away what to do - but then, Uncle Teddy had never explored any place as strange as 21st century London. I found myself walking up and down the street for hours looking for any sign of something unusual. (Fortunately for me, the badge I was wearing meant that nobody thought the man walking up and down the street carrying a large firearm was unusual.) After three or four hours I found myself sitting at a table in front of a Starbucks, despondently sipping on a latte, wondering what to do, when I heard a faint voice in the distance.</p> <p>"Pardon me, my good man, but do you suppose we could have something different for luncheon tomorrow? I grow weary of these scraps. Perhaps some sausages, or a bit of roast?"</p> <p>It was Uncle Teddy's voice, clear as day! I couldn't hear who he was talking to, but I could hear him. I craned my neck all around looking for the spot it could be coming from. Not above me, not behind me… I heard him again as I spun around and realized his voice was coming from below, echoing out of a sewer grate. The prison was underground! Perfect place to hide in a city like this. But how to get in? Was there a secret elevator in one of the nearby buildings? I sat back, surveying the area around me for any hint. I saw a man walk up to an old restored blue police box on a corner. I hadn't thought much of it before - I figured it was either a historical monument or some sort of promo for Doctor Who. I watched him unlock the door, step in, and close it behind him. A minute passed and he didn't come out. Then five. Then ten. Then half an hour. Could this be it? A hidden entrance, in plain sight?</p> <p>I waited until after nightfall before I got up and walked over to the box myself. I took the skeleton key out of my pocket and held it up to the lock - and just like that, the lock turned, the door opened, and I discovered an elevator box on the other side, waiting. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in, closed the door, and pressed the only button I saw as the elevator began to slide downward. In less than ten seconds, I was in.</p> <p>There were armed guards at the front and a secretary at a desk. I walked right past them and none of them said a word. Following the hand-drawn map on the back of Uncle Teddy's letter, I made my way through a maze of corridors, past doors with cryptic warnings on them - "LEVEL 4 ACCESS REQUIRED", "COGNITOHAZARD", "D-CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT". There was barely anyone around, and I did my best to avoid the few people I saw. Soon I found myself alone facing a door that had been marked on the map with an X. A small plaque read "SCP-1867 CONTAINMENT AREA". I wondered if that was what they were calling Uncle Teddy - like he was just a number or something. The skeleton key opened the locks on the door, I opened it, and there he was.</p> <p>Lying on a cot in one corner of a bare and tiny cell, his finery replaced with an orange jumpsuit, his hands folded over his beard on his chest. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he turned to look at me. "Charlie?" he sputtered. "What in blazes are you doing here? Don't tell me you've become part of this vile order!"</p> <p>"I'm here to get you out, Uncle Teddy!" I responded. "Come on. They won't notice me as long as I've got your badge on. If they ask, I'll say I'm moving you to another cell."</p> <p>I had never seen Uncle Teddy so utterly confused as I saw him then, as he slowly came to his feet and made his way to the door. "My badge…" he muttered as he reached out and ran his fingers over it. "And you have my gun, too?"</p> <p>"In the cave, just like you said," I reassured him. "We can talk once you're out of here! Let's go!"</p> <p>"This is impossible!" he protested. "How did you find me here? How did you know about the cave?"</p> <p>"It was in the letter you sent me."</p> <p>"I sent you no letter!"</p> <p>"What do you mean? I have it right here." I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him.</p> <p>"Oh, my dear boy," Uncle Teddy moaned as he pointed to the first sentence. "An Englishman always spells 'succour' with a U."</p> <p>No sooner did I realize what he meant than an alarm klaxon started sounding. The letter was a forgery - meant to lure me to this place and capture me as well! What they wanted with me, I had no time to wonder about as a harsh, synthesized voice sounded over the loudspeakers: "INTRUDER ALERT. SCP-1867 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT."</p> <p>"What now?" I asked as I looked to Uncle Teddy.</p> <p>"What else, boy? We <em>run!</em>"</p> <p>I took off down the hallway, Uncle Teddy following me. Two soldiers, dressed in the same black body armor as the ones at the manor house, came around a corner brandishing their guns. I leveled the gun and fired. It nearly knocked me off my feet, but it sent the two men flying. Uncle Teddy pulled me off in another direction, urging me to make for the stairs rather than the "lift". Men with guns seemed to pop up from behind every corner. At his insistence I had it on the lowest setting, merely stunning the men in our way. The stairs were heavily guarded, but with a couple more volleys from the gun (and a little help from a flashbang Uncle Teddy had picked off one of the soldiers), the way was clear. We bounded up the steps two at a time, up to a door to one of the London Underground's service tunnels. If we were where I thought we were, it was only half a block to the nearest station - and from there, freedom for Uncle Teddy. I unlocked the door with the key and swung it wide to find dozens of soldiers, gathered around the door in a semicircle. I raised my gun as they raised theirs, flicking the little switch by the trigger from its lowest setting to its highest.</p> <p>"Stand down!" shouted an American voice from behind the group. The soldiers lowered their rifles as a man in a lab coat pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He made his way toward me. I aimed the gun right at him and he stopped in his tracks. "There, there, don't do anything foolish. I'm not here to hurt you or SCP-1867." He looked at the badge I was wearing. "Intriguing piece of jewelry you've been dragging around. Must be a variant form of SCP-1339. I assume you got it from that cave we were never able to break into. Thanks for opening it, by the way. Tell me, what's your name?"</p> <p>"My name is Charlie Blackwood," I said as I did my best to suppress the rage in my voice, "and you'd better all get out of my way. I've just set this thing to kill, and I'm not leaving here without my Uncle Teddy."</p> <p>I don't know why what he said next made me drop the gun and surrender. I don't know why they set such an elaborate trap to capture anyone related to Uncle Teddy. I don't know why they're interested in me, or what they want from me. I don't know if my wife and kids are safe, but so help me I'm not saying a word about them until I get some answers. It's just… those nine words that that strange scientist said to me there. They don't make any sense, and yet every time I hear one of the guards or one of the interrogators repeat them, I feel paralyzed as if by some sudden realization, like some missing piece of a puzzle has fallen into place and a mystery has been solved. And yet, it doesn't answer any questions. It's nonsense, it's a playground taunt. It's…</p> <p>"You do realize that you're a sea slug, right?"</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="/uncle-teddy">Uncle Teddy</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/uncle-teddy">https://scpwiki.com/uncle-teddy</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]] [[/>]] Uncle Teddy was always a strange old man. It's one of those kind of things that you don't think about when you're a kid, and you still believe that knights and pirates and wizards are things that could co-exist in the world you live in. But as I got older and older, and I realized that people in the real world don't live the way he does, I got to thinking more and more about it, and the more I thought about it, the less sense any of it made. I asked my dad once when I was a teenager if Uncle Teddy was crazy. He said to me, "He might be crazy, Charlie, but he's still your uncle, and he's the best crazy uncle anyone could ever hope for." He wasn't //technically// my uncle, really. He was far too old to be my dad's brother. He wasn't my dad's uncle, either. Best I can figure out, he was my great-great-great-grandpa's brother. Not that that makes much sense, either, considering that my great-great-great-grandpa died in 1896. Uncle Teddy doesn't look a day over seventy or so, and he hasn't changed in all the years I've known him. I found an old black-and-white picture of him that was dated 1907, and he looked exactly the same then as he does now. If all the things he says are true, then he'd have to be at least 200 years old, but every time I asked him how old he was, he'd only answer "I suppose I have been forty-nine for quite awhile now." I guess calling him "uncle" was just easier for everyone. Uncle Teddy lived in Cornwall, in a huge manor house in the country that he said he inherited from his father. It's an ancient place, at least a couple hundred years old, and it doesn't look like it's changed in over a hundred years. See, when I say Uncle Teddy is strange, it's not who he is so much as how he behaves. There isn't a thing in that house that was built after the end of the 19th century. No running water, no lights, no phone, no TV, no radio, no computer, no heat, no cars, not a thing. The place is like a museum, and that's how he lives his life. It's like he doesn't even know the rest of the world exists - he never goes into town, writes all his letters by hand, and every time we came to visit he'd ask if we sailed across the Atlantic or took one of the new steamships or zeppelins he'd heard so much about. I never could tell if he actually didn't know the world had moved on, or if he just preferred the "good old days" to the world outside his little slice of it. He was an unbelievably wealthy man. "Old money," dad always said. He was generous with it, too - every couple years he'd pay for our whole family to come out and visit him for a few weeks or so. He always said he loved to keep up with what the rest of his family was up to. The first time I met him was when I was six. It was just around Christmas. Imagine how surreal it must have been for me to come all the way to England on a plane, only to get dressed up in an old-fashioned little suit and put on a horse-drawn sleigh in the snow up to the gate of his manor. The first time I saw him standing in the door, tall, wrapped in furs, with his long white beard stretching down his chest, I thought he was Santa Claus. He just laughed when I asked him if he was, then reached into my ear and "pulled out" a coin, an old silver sixpence with Queen Victoria's face on it, and gave it to me. I was amazed. Going back in time from the 1980s to the 1880s is quite an experience for a boy that age - imagine how grossed out I was when I learned about the chamberpot! - but it was an adventure all the same. Back at home, half the kids would call me a liar and the other half would be jealous. I didn't care - I'd already be looking forward to the next trip. I could spend hours just sitting at his knee, listening to his stories about how he'd acquired one or another of the curios that hung all around the place, his adventures in far-off corners of the world, his war stories, so on. As I grew older he taught me how to hunt, how to ride a horse, how to dress a wound, pan for gold, read Morse code, and all kinds of other things most boys only read about in books. Once, when I was fifteen, he pulled me aside after everyone else had gone to bed and gave me a lecture about how to kill a dragon should I ever find myself in a fight with one. I can't say the opportunity has ever arisen to test his suggestion, but if it ever does, I'll make sure to go for the femoral artery. I didn't get to see him as much once I was grown up, but we kept writing letters back and forth. When I told him I was joining the Army to pay for college, he went on and on about his time in the Second Opium War. When I told him I was getting married, he insisted on inviting Amy and I out to get married at the manor. When I got my MBA, he told me never to accept a job offer from something called "Marshall, Carter & Dark" or he'd disown me. But it was the letter I got about six months ago that turned everything upside down; > //My dearest nephew,// > > //I have never in my life begged another man for succor, but I find that I must now ask for help, and I know of none I can turn to in my hour of need but you. I have been taken prisoner by a group of rogues and confidence men who play at science, calling themselves 'the SCP Foundation'. They have seized our ancestral lands and my entire lifetime's worth of works and collections, and imprisoned me in a tiny cell like an animal. I held out hope at first that I could free myself, or convince them to release me, but I fear there is now no hope of that. Lest I live out the rest of my days in this place, I shall have to be rescued.// > > //You shall have to come at once. The current place of my captivity is in London, off Marylebone Road in Westminister, this much I have determined from the loose talk of my jailers. On the back of this page I have sketched a map of what parts of the prison I have been allowed to see. I shall not be here forever, for they have moved me several times. Take the fastest ship you can. If you can, pay a visit to the manor, in secret of course, for I am sure they keep it under guard. From the clearing in the woods where I taught you how to shoot, walk half a mile northwest into the forest and you will find a cave hidden in the brush. There is a hidden chamber within containing some of my old 'tools of the trade', as it were, that you may find indispensable in achieving your mission. The signet ring I gave you when you were twelve is the key.// > > //Please hurry, for I know not what grim fate these mountebanks have in store for me.// > > //Yours in Christ,// > > //Uncle Teddy// My wife thought I'd lost my mind when I told her all about it. She thought he was a crazy old man who'd finally snapped, and that I was crazy for believing him. I'll admit I had my doubts as well. But as far-fetched and ludicrous as everything about Uncle Teddy seemed to be, I never in my entire life felt like he had been lying to me. I told her I had to do this for his sake and mine, so that when next Christmas came and they were old enough I could take our kids to visit Uncle Teddy and they could experience what I had. She told me I'd better keep that promise. I had some vacation time saved up and some money in the bank, so I told my boss there'd been a death in the family, and the next morning I was on a flight to London. I rented a car and drove out to the town close by Uncle Teddy's manor, and right away I could see he'd been telling the truth. There were lots more cars in town than usual, and lots of people with American accents in the pub. Something was amiss. I didn't even try to take the main road up to the house - I crept into the brush and made my way through the woods, careful not to so much as step on a twig, just like he taught me. I sneaked a peek towards the front gate - there were two men dressed all in black, with SMGs in hand. Their uniforms definitely weren't Army-issue, and they didn't look like the kind to ask questions. The chill winter air was still and silent that afternoon, and it took me forever to find the cave the letter mentioned as I worked my way through the thick of the woods. It was a good thing I'd always held on to that old ring he gave me - it fit right into the "keyhole" I found in the cave he mentioned, and the rock wall slid away effortlessly. I shone my flashlight around and saw dozens of artifacts, the purpose of which I could only guess at. Between the multiple suits of armor, and the rolled-up Persian rug with a tag on it that read "A.C. Chakrasangupta of Bombay, Fine Retailer of Magic Carpets", and oil lamps that looked like they probably had genies living in them, I obviously couldn't grab all of it and stuff it in my backpack and hope it'd turn out useful. I settled on three things, things I saw that I recognized from some of the stories he'd told me years ago. The first was a gun - a massive thing that looked like a blunderbuss, kicked like a mule, and had more stopping power than an elephant gun. A "particle destabilizer", he'd called it when he let me shoot it a few times years ago. The second was a huge old "skeleton key" which looked like something out of a video game. The third, an old Metropolitan Police badge which, according to his stories, would make sure that anyone who looked at me thought I was supposed to be there. I tested it out as I made my exit from the grounds, stepping out of the woods into clear sight of the guards at the front gate. I was ready to use the gun if I had to, but the two of them took a look at me and went on with their business without saying a word. It wasn't until a day later that I stood in the middle of London, Madame Tussaud's to my back, gun in one hand, key in the other, badge on my chest, that I realized I had absolutely no idea what to do next. There are hundreds of buildings along the road. How was I supposed to figure out which one hid the secret prison Uncle Teddy been taken to? This was always the point in his stories where he'd have some genius flash of inspiration and know right away what to do - but then, Uncle Teddy had never explored any place as strange as 21st century London. I found myself walking up and down the street for hours looking for any sign of something unusual. (Fortunately for me, the badge I was wearing meant that nobody thought the man walking up and down the street carrying a large firearm was unusual.) After three or four hours I found myself sitting at a table in front of a Starbucks, despondently sipping on a latte, wondering what to do, when I heard a faint voice in the distance. "Pardon me, my good man, but do you suppose we could have something different for luncheon tomorrow? I grow weary of these scraps. Perhaps some sausages, or a bit of roast?" It was Uncle Teddy's voice, clear as day! I couldn't hear who he was talking to, but I could hear him. I craned my neck all around looking for the spot it could be coming from. Not above me, not behind me... I heard him again as I spun around and realized his voice was coming from below, echoing out of a sewer grate. The prison was underground! Perfect place to hide in a city like this. But how to get in? Was there a secret elevator in one of the nearby buildings? I sat back, surveying the area around me for any hint. I saw a man walk up to an old restored blue police box on a corner. I hadn't thought much of it before - I figured it was either a historical monument or some sort of promo for Doctor Who. I watched him unlock the door, step in, and close it behind him. A minute passed and he didn't come out. Then five. Then ten. Then half an hour. Could this be it? A hidden entrance, in plain sight? I waited until after nightfall before I got up and walked over to the box myself. I took the skeleton key out of my pocket and held it up to the lock - and just like that, the lock turned, the door opened, and I discovered an elevator box on the other side, waiting. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in, closed the door, and pressed the only button I saw as the elevator began to slide downward. In less than ten seconds, I was in. There were armed guards at the front and a secretary at a desk. I walked right past them and none of them said a word. Following the hand-drawn map on the back of Uncle Teddy's letter, I made my way through a maze of corridors, past doors with cryptic warnings on them - "LEVEL 4 ACCESS REQUIRED", "COGNITOHAZARD", "D-CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT". There was barely anyone around, and I did my best to avoid the few people I saw. Soon I found myself alone facing a door that had been marked on the map with an X. A small plaque read "SCP-1867 CONTAINMENT AREA". I wondered if that was what they were calling Uncle Teddy - like he was just a number or something. The skeleton key opened the locks on the door, I opened it, and there he was. Lying on a cot in one corner of a bare and tiny cell, his finery replaced with an orange jumpsuit, his hands folded over his beard on his chest. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he turned to look at me. "Charlie?" he sputtered. "What in blazes are you doing here? Don't tell me you've become part of this vile order!" "I'm here to get you out, Uncle Teddy!" I responded. "Come on. They won't notice me as long as I've got your badge on. If they ask, I'll say I'm moving you to another cell." I had never seen Uncle Teddy so utterly confused as I saw him then, as he slowly came to his feet and made his way to the door. "My badge..." he muttered as he reached out and ran his fingers over it. "And you have my gun, too?" "In the cave, just like you said," I reassured him. "We can talk once you're out of here! Let's go!" "This is impossible!" he protested. "How did you find me here? How did you know about the cave?" "It was in the letter you sent me." "I sent you no letter!" "What do you mean? I have it right here." I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him. "Oh, my dear boy," Uncle Teddy moaned as he pointed to the first sentence. "An Englishman always spells 'succour' with a U." No sooner did I realize what he meant than an alarm klaxon started sounding. The letter was a forgery - meant to lure me to this place and capture me as well! What they wanted with me, I had no time to wonder about as a harsh, synthesized voice sounded over the loudspeakers: "INTRUDER ALERT. SCP-1867 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT." "What now?" I asked as I looked to Uncle Teddy. "What else, boy? We //run!//" I took off down the hallway, Uncle Teddy following me. Two soldiers, dressed in the same black body armor as the ones at the manor house, came around a corner brandishing their guns. I leveled the gun and fired. It nearly knocked me off my feet, but it sent the two men flying. Uncle Teddy pulled me off in another direction, urging me to make for the stairs rather than the "lift". Men with guns seemed to pop up from behind every corner. At his insistence I had it on the lowest setting, merely stunning the men in our way. The stairs were heavily guarded, but with a couple more volleys from the gun (and a little help from a flashbang Uncle Teddy had picked off one of the soldiers), the way was clear. We bounded up the steps two at a time, up to a door to one of the London Underground's service tunnels. If we were where I thought we were, it was only half a block to the nearest station - and from there, freedom for Uncle Teddy. I unlocked the door with the key and swung it wide to find dozens of soldiers, gathered around the door in a semicircle. I raised my gun as they raised theirs, flicking the little switch by the trigger from its lowest setting to its highest. "Stand down!" shouted an American voice from behind the group. The soldiers lowered their rifles as a man in a lab coat pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He made his way toward me. I aimed the gun right at him and he stopped in his tracks. "There, there, don't do anything foolish. I'm not here to hurt you or SCP-1867." He looked at the badge I was wearing. "Intriguing piece of jewelry you've been dragging around. Must be a variant form of SCP-1339. I assume you got it from that cave we were never able to break into. Thanks for opening it, by the way. Tell me, what's your name?" "My name is Charlie Blackwood," I said as I did my best to suppress the rage in my voice, "and you'd better all get out of my way. I've just set this thing to kill, and I'm not leaving here without my Uncle Teddy." I don't know why what he said next made me drop the gun and surrender. I don't know why they set such an elaborate trap to capture anyone related to Uncle Teddy. I don't know why they're interested in me, or what they want from me. I don't know if my wife and kids are safe, but so help me I'm not saying a word about them until I get some answers. It's just... those nine words that that strange scientist said to me there. They don't make any sense, and yet every time I hear one of the guards or one of the interrogators repeat them, I feel paralyzed as if by some sudden realization, like some missing piece of a puzzle has fallen into place and a mystery has been solved. And yet, it doesn't answer any questions. It's nonsense, it's a playground taunt. It's... "You do realize that you're a sea slug, right?" [[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>]]	2012-10-13T02:42:00	[ "_licensebox", "blackwood", "tale" ]	Uncle Teddy - SCP Foundation	103	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14655211	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/uncle-teddy
unfinished-business-iii	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0px;">No, you're not. </span></p> <p>No no, you see, it's supposed to be unfinished.</p> <p>It's in the name.</p> <p>…</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="/unfinished-business-iii">Unfinished Business III</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/unfinished-business-iii">https://scpwiki.com/unfinished-business-iii</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> <p><span style="color: white">Am I Cool Yet?</span></p> </div></body></html>	[[size 0px]]No, you're not. [[/size]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] No no, you see, it's supposed to be unfinished. It's in the name. ... [[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>]] ##white\|Am I Cool Yet?##	2012-05-12T07:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "collaboration", "comedy", "tale" ]	Unfinished Business III - SCP Foundation	129	[ "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" ]	[]	13320765	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/unfinished-business-iii
upswing-of-disorder	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>May 4, 1998</strong></p> <p>Any sort of lengthy journey always ends up in a destination far more bizarre than what was originally intended: home. The first few days home give rise to oddities. Details that had been seen a thousand times over were now clear and new and briefly unfamiliar. Details that had been passed over for years were noticed for the first time.</p> <p>This was the feeling Clef had as he walked out of the conference room. He had sat in on his fair share of board meetings and briefings, but the May 4th meeting of the Foundation Advisory Committee had to be one of the worst he had experienced.</p> <p>He felt like a broken puzzle piece, like he didn’t fit. Details that time away had smoothed over resurfaced. His friends were tired. Older. More grey hairs and glassy eyes and creases around the face. The smiles and the “welcome backs” rang hollow. Actions, conversations, people…everything was subdued.</p> <p>And then there was Adam. Or was he Kain now?</p> <p>He had been present at the meeting, but for the first time in Clef’s memory, had said nothing. It was not as if he could have: he was a dog. It had a sad sight to see him pad in, wobbling and slow and clearly in pain, and then struggle up into his chair. The others were saying how the tech department was working on a motorized scooter or walker to help him around, and a speech generator that would work for someone without fingers. He had spent the entire meeting in his chair, watching the others with bleary eyes.</p> <p>The only answer Clef had gotten as to why Adam now inhabited the body of his elderly guide dog had been “There was an accident”, and nothing beyond that.</p> <p>Had that much changed in just a year and a half? Or had he simply mis-remembered? The days before the accident were fuzzy. He knew the events, knew the people, but there was a certain disconnect. Like hearing someone else describe something in a completely different manner. He remembered the stress and the sleepless nights, but it hadn’t been this bad, had it?</p> <p>Or was that the Coalition talking?</p> <p>In the Coalition, the stress was passing. A new threat would arise, and then it would be dealt with, and that was that. Everyone went out and had drinks and a laugh and talked about the kids. The job was done.</p> <p>Here, the stress never ended. The source was never disposed of. There was never a release. It just kept building and building and building and wearing down any resistance until something broke.</p> <p>Clef felt a twinge of guilt, dimly remembering how he had been the one to suggest containment of the statue. Had he, in some little way, helped cause all of this? There hadn’t been that many items in those first few years, just enough to handle, but now…He’d seen the list on the plane back to America, and then found that his questions weren’t the ones to be answered.</p> <p>Clef looked at his watch. The meeting had run over schedule by a good twenty minutes, which meant that he was ten minutes late for his next adjustment meeting with Able.</p> <p>He hurried down the hall.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Sophia Light watched Clef turn the corner and walk out of sight. Ben stood next to her.</p> <p>“Is everything ready?”</p> <p>“Ready as it’s ever going to be.”</p> <p>“Good.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>Able, once the god of war for an entire civilization, was still experiencing severe jet lag. He was also not wearing pants, but Clef thought it best to take these adjustment sessions one thing at a time, and getting him to keep his food down was more important at the moment. His stomach had a tendency to react violently to twentieth-century fare.</p> <p>The table and chairs that had been in the room were unused: Clef and Able sat in the center of the floor. The subject had drifted from behavior in public to the wonders of electricity.</p> <p>[So, these lights…] Able motioned to the ceiling. […are created by lightning.]</p> <p>[In a way, yes.]</p> <p>[And you then use this lightning to make your metal things move, yes?]</p> <p>[Yes.]</p> <p>[And it is not Daevas magic. The Daevas had some similar tool, but they were fueled by slaves.]</p> <p>[Think of it as another kind of magic. We take the lightning, put it into copper, and then add switches to the wire to make it stop and go.]</p> <p>Able nodded.</p> <p>[There is less screaming involved in your way.]</p> <p>Clef was rather relieved at how easily Able wrote off modern technology as magic, a topic he had absolutely no interest in. Things worked because they did, and questioning them was pointless.</p> <p>[Now then, I’ve been talking with my other staff members and we are considering getting you an animal if you continue cooperating. If…]</p> <p>He was cut off by a siren and an automated voice over the loudspeakers.</p> <p>ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. SCP-953 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT. PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES.</p> <p>“<em>Shit.</em>” Clef jumped up and ran out of the room, his body moving on autopilot. The numbers scrolled through his head. Nine Fifty-Three. The kumiho. Very dangerous, limited polymorphic abilities, mind-altering abilities, generally in seduction and suggestion. Site 19 had…seven blanks on staff, and he was one of them.</p> <p>Well shit.</p> <p>He ran into the hallway, catching up with a group of guards with Ben at the front.</p> <p>“Where is she?”</p> <p>“Tower one, level eight. She got the jump on the guy on feeding duty and managed to get out before the bulkheads closed.</p> <p>Clef nodded. A plan bubbled up in his head as he ran. Always running from place to place, that was the life of Alto Clef. Run here, kill this thing, run there, kill that thing, run back, here’s a list of things you might need to kill. Memorize it. Just run everywhere all the time.</p> <p>He had memorized the list, but in this one solitary moment, he did not remember that he had left the door unlocked.</p> <p>—</p> <p>The woman was hunched over the body of one of the security staff, chewing out his stomach. The sound was terrifying, all the ripping and slurping and sloppy chewing.</p> <p>Clef approached. There were guards positions down all four of the hallways that lead to this chamber, but apparently they had all received the order that Clef was to deal with her first.</p> <p>“Easy, girl…</p> <p>The woman looked up at him, a scrap of liver hanging from her needle-sharp teeth. She smiled.</p> <p>Everything swirled in Clef’s head, all the possibilities milling about around the clear-cut lines of The Plan. Clef steeled himself, took a step onto the path, and let everything else happen naturally.</p> <p>“Well, let’s get this over with.” Clef undid his belt and dropped his pants, revealing predictably ironic boxers. “Take me now, you sexy, sexy beast.”</p> <p>Still the smile. She stood up, face, clothes and hands stained with a great deal of blood. Something was said in Korean, the meaning bouncing around in Clef’s head without ever settling in. He was pretty sure the general gist was one of “I would love to, you easy idiot prey.”</p> <p>Time to turn the screws.</p> <p>“I was literal with that last bit. I am attracted to you because you are a fox. A nice Japanese fox girl with really big tits. I like that.” He made sure to motion suggestively, just for emphasis.</p> <p>That did it. She launched herself at him, claws drawn, screeching. From his perspective, the leap was in slow motion in slow-motion. Clef sidestepped out of his shed pants.</p> <p>“And that fur? <em>Damn</em> I love me that fur. Gets so soft between the legs. You have no idea how attractive that is. And the snout? Don’t get me started on the snout. Snouts give great blowjobs.”</p> <p>Another swing, another miss. It was so <em>easy</em>. He barely had to do anything. His body just acted on its own, a step here, a duck here, just keeping out of the way, taunting and taunting until that one moment where the screws were in so tight that you just had to grab one and <em>yank</em>…</p> <p>“I have a raging boner right now.”</p> <p>He would have paid several million dollars for a photograph of her face as she leapt at him again. It would have been museum worthy. Duck low, shoulder into gut, knock her down, slam a knee down on her throat. Something silver appeared in his hand, the end shoved in the woman’s mouth.</p> <p>“Oh wait, no I don’t. It’s an actual gun.”</p> <p>Clef smiled, his mouth just a bit too wide.</p> <p>“Never try to seduce a eunuch, honey.”</p> <p>He pulled the trigger, the gun barked, and the woman burst into butterflies.</p> <p>“Oh…well then. <em>Shit</em>.”</p> <p>The syllable drowned in gunfire.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Able picked a tooth out of his chest and flicked it to the side. He trod over the bodies, one in particular being that of a man in a longcoat, his fedora rolled off into a little smear of blood. The body was impaled with a length of piping. The fat man backed against the wall looked as if he had soiled himself. His finger worked the useless trigger frantically. Able loomed with his full eight feet, bloody and pockmarked.</p> <p>“Where Epon?”</p> <p>—</p> <p>Epon stood in her room, listening to the sirens blare outside. They had her locked in here for study, and she was fine with that, but now… now she felt like she should have been doing something. Getting Mother killed had given her a bad habit of activity. Things needed to be done, and she was going to be the one to do it, because no one else would.</p> <p>She inspected the door again. There was no handle of course, no breaks in the seal. It opened only from the outside.</p> <p>She kicked it. It didn’t move.</p> <p><em>Why did I kick it? That wouldn’t do anything. I can talk to the observer anyway…</em></p> <p>She pressed the microphone button by the door, feeling rather stupid.</p> <p>“Hello? Is anyone there?”</p> <p>There was no response. More important things to worry about, she supposed.</p> <p>Epon paced the room. Vents were no good, door was no good, no windows, no way to seduce the guard into letting her out (though granted, that would have been exceptionally difficult for her under any circumstances).</p> <p>Time passed.</p> <p>The door opened. A woman with glasses and a braid walked in. One of the doctors. Epon couldn’t remember her name.</p> <p>“What’s going on?”</p> <p>“A minor drill, nothing to concern yourself about.” She pulled out a chair from the desk. Her nametag read “Sophia Light”. “You have an interview scheduled for today”</p> <p>“Okay.” Epon sat down, out of politeness. She hated sitting. Standing was much more comfortable. What was the point? The fight was out there, she was needed out there!</p> <p>Clef was out there.</p> <p>“How are adjustments going for you? Everyone treating you all right?” Light said, as if nothing was the matter.</p> <p>“Everything’s fine, but I really think that…”</p> <p>“No major issues in adapting?”</p> <p>“Yes but…”</p> <p>“How does it feel to be Clef’s little bitch?”</p> <p>There was a definite mad twinkle in the doctor’s eye. It wasn’t much of an insult, to be honest.</p> <p>“It feels like you’re no longer welcome here.”</p> <p>Epon stood up, as did Dr. Light. She had a gun in her hand.</p> <p>“I’m not going to let this place fall into the madhouse. I know what they plan on doing. They’re not going to keep you locked up, they’re not going to keep Able locked up. They’re going to use you. Clef’s gotten them confident. They think they can handle it. They think they can control the unknown. They can’t.”</p> <p>Epon did the first thing that came to mind, and kicked the doctor. The total lack of knowledge regarding properly kicking someone was made up by the fact Epon, very literally, kicked like a horse. The first iron-shod hoof pulped Sophia’s stomach. The second shattered Sophia’s jaw. The third, which was more of a stomp than a kick, snapped her spine. She crumpled to the floor with a splat.</p> <p>Epon snorted and wiped her foot on the floor.</p> <p>Well, that was that. She had just killed someone. Directly this time. She took the ID badge and the keycard from her pocket.</p> <p>The door opened again. A terrified-looking man was holding a keycard. Able was standing behind him, two thick fingers casually held around his neck.</p> <p>[Able? You too? Now I feel like I should have tidied the place up.]</p> <p>[No time. There are traitors, attempting to kill my brother.]</p> <p>That sounded about right.</p> <p>[One just tried to kill me.]</p> <p>[When you kill a man, you kill his sons and brothers, so that they may not avenge him. Cowards that they are, they know this.]</p> <p>Able squeezed the fat man’s neck and dropped the corpse to the ground.</p> <p>[Come then. We shall find Clef.]</p> <p>[We’ll have to be quiet about it.]</p> <p>[Indeed. Let us go.]</p> <p>—</p> <p>Clef sliced a man’s throat open with a razor, and subsequently came to the realization that he had no idea why he had a straight razor in the first place, or how he was still moving. Some part of him was dimly aware that there was significantly more lead and significantly less blood in his body than there normally was, and that this was a bad thing. His body was retreating, but this seemed to be a lot less important than observing all the pretty patterns on the floor and walls. The brief moment of realization faded away into the background. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, watching the scene acted out around him from some mental Laz-E-Boy. Just faces on a screen. Like a movie. Like a cartoon.</p> <p>“Holy shit! Did you see that guy? Just went and offed himself! I mean, my breath isn’t that bad!”</p> <p>The commentary seemed just as natural as the violence on the screen. It passed in a blur, the voice taunting and cheering and jeering and laughing, the bodies dropping to the floor, the splashes of red. The world blurred together with runny watercolors.</p> <p>“Fucked your mom, fucked your mom, fucked your sister, fucked your dad…”</p> <p>“You know, you might want to look for employment opportunities elsewhere, this place really doesn’t have good dental.”</p> <p>“Hey there, friendo, gimme five!”</p> <p>“GET OVER HERE!”</p> <p>Sight and sound and experience blurred and drifted past.</p> <p>Then, Ben. Standing there in the hallway, holding a sword. He had a finger gently pressed against the tip, as if to prove his mastery of the tool by not getting cut. Clef watched him through his eyes, noticing how his body wasn’t moving.</p> <p>“You like it? Had it commissioned. Twenty k and two years for this. Would you just look at this craftsmanship? Folded over a million times by a master swordsmith, capable of cutting solid steel blocks, feared and respected the world over. This is the reason Europe never conquered Japan. This is the perfect weapon.”</p> <p>“You know, I think you have me convinced on this.”</p> <p>Clef watched his fist fly out and crush Ben’s nose. The man screamed, dropping his sword.</p> <p>“Clearly, it is the greatest weapon to ever exist.”</p> <p>Clef watched his left hand reach out and grab Ben by the collar, dragging him across the hall.</p> <p>“I am going to have to re-think my entire life after this revelation.”</p> <p>The other hand hit a button. A door opened. An air lock. Ben was tossed inside. The button again, the door cut off his “No!”</p> <p>“Or maybe you’re just full of shit.”</p> <p>On the other side of the door, in a room with no windows, Ben Kondraki managed to get a gurgling half-scream out before he was knocked to the floor and his throat was torn out by a rather large, snaggle-toothed lizard.</p> <p>On the other side of the door, the voice snickered, and Clef watched the screen go black.</p> <p>—</p> <p>It was Strelkinov who found them first: Clef looking like a paint explosion in a Swiss cheese factory, Epon holding his head on her lap, Able standing guard.</p> <p>Poignancy at its finest.</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="/upswing-of-disorder">Upswing of Disorder</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/upswing-of-disorder">https://scpwiki.com/upswing-of-disorder</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 4, 1998 Any sort of lengthy journey always ends up in a destination far more bizarre than what was originally intended: home. The first few days home give rise to oddities. Details that had been seen a thousand times over were now clear and new and briefly unfamiliar. Details that had been passed over for years were noticed for the first time. This was the feeling Clef had as he walked out of the conference room. He had sat in on his fair share of board meetings and briefings, but the May 4th meeting of the Foundation Advisory Committee had to be one of the worst he had experienced. He felt like a broken puzzle piece, like he didn’t fit. Details that time away had smoothed over resurfaced. His friends were tired. Older. More grey hairs and glassy eyes and creases around the face. The smiles and the “welcome backs” rang hollow. Actions, conversations, people…everything was subdued. And then there was Adam. Or was he Kain now? He had been present at the meeting, but for the first time in Clef’s memory, had said nothing. It was not as if he could have: he was a dog. It had a sad sight to see him pad in, wobbling and slow and clearly in pain, and then struggle up into his chair. The others were saying how the tech department was working on a motorized scooter or walker to help him around, and a speech generator that would work for someone without fingers. He had spent the entire meeting in his chair, watching the others with bleary eyes. The only answer Clef had gotten as to why Adam now inhabited the body of his elderly guide dog had been “There was an accident”, and nothing beyond that. Had that much changed in just a year and a half? Or had he simply mis-remembered? The days before the accident were fuzzy. He knew the events, knew the people, but there was a certain disconnect. Like hearing someone else describe something in a completely different manner. He remembered the stress and the sleepless nights, but it hadn’t been this bad, had it? Or was that the Coalition talking? In the Coalition, the stress was passing. A new threat would arise, and then it would be dealt with, and that was that. Everyone went out and had drinks and a laugh and talked about the kids. The job was done. Here, the stress never ended. The source was never disposed of. There was never a release. It just kept building and building and building and wearing down any resistance until something broke. Clef felt a twinge of guilt, dimly remembering how he had been the one to suggest containment of the statue. Had he, in some little way, helped cause all of this? There hadn’t been that many items in those first few years, just enough to handle, but now…He’d seen the list on the plane back to America, and then found that his questions weren’t the ones to be answered. Clef looked at his watch. The meeting had run over schedule by a good twenty minutes, which meant that he was ten minutes late for his next adjustment meeting with Able. He hurried down the hall. -- Sophia Light watched Clef turn the corner and walk out of sight. Ben stood next to her. “Is everything ready?” “Ready as it’s ever going to be.” “Good.” -- Able, once the god of war for an entire civilization, was still experiencing severe jet lag. He was also not wearing pants, but Clef thought it best to take these adjustment sessions one thing at a time, and getting him to keep his food down was more important at the moment. His stomach had a tendency to react violently to twentieth-century fare. The table and chairs that had been in the room were unused: Clef and Able sat in the center of the floor. The subject had drifted from behavior in public to the wonders of electricity. [So, these lights…] Able motioned to the ceiling. […are created by lightning.] [In a way, yes.] [And you then use this lightning to make your metal things move, yes?] [Yes.] [And it is not Daevas magic. The Daevas had some similar tool, but they were fueled by slaves.] [Think of it as another kind of magic. We take the lightning, put it into copper, and then add switches to the wire to make it stop and go.] Able nodded. [There is less screaming involved in your way.] Clef was rather relieved at how easily Able wrote off modern technology as magic, a topic he had absolutely no interest in. Things worked because they did, and questioning them was pointless. [Now then, I’ve been talking with my other staff members and we are considering getting you an animal if you continue cooperating. If…] He was cut off by a siren and an automated voice over the loudspeakers. ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. SCP-953 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT. PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES. “//Shit.//” Clef jumped up and ran out of the room, his body moving on autopilot. The numbers scrolled through his head. Nine Fifty-Three. The kumiho. Very dangerous, limited polymorphic abilities, mind-altering abilities, generally in seduction and suggestion. Site 19 had…seven blanks on staff, and he was one of them. Well shit. He ran into the hallway, catching up with a group of guards with Ben at the front. “Where is she?” “Tower one, level eight. She got the jump on the guy on feeding duty and managed to get out before the bulkheads closed. Clef nodded. A plan bubbled up in his head as he ran. Always running from place to place, that was the life of Alto Clef. Run here, kill this thing, run there, kill that thing, run back, here’s a list of things you might need to kill. Memorize it. Just run everywhere all the time. He had memorized the list, but in this one solitary moment, he did not remember that he had left the door unlocked. -- The woman was hunched over the body of one of the security staff, chewing out his stomach. The sound was terrifying, all the ripping and slurping and sloppy chewing. Clef approached. There were guards positions down all four of the hallways that lead to this chamber, but apparently they had all received the order that Clef was to deal with her first. “Easy, girl… The woman looked up at him, a scrap of liver hanging from her needle-sharp teeth. She smiled. Everything swirled in Clef’s head, all the possibilities milling about around the clear-cut lines of The Plan. Clef steeled himself, took a step onto the path, and let everything else happen naturally. “Well, let’s get this over with.” Clef undid his belt and dropped his pants, revealing predictably ironic boxers. “Take me now, you sexy, sexy beast.” Still the smile. She stood up, face, clothes and hands stained with a great deal of blood. Something was said in Korean, the meaning bouncing around in Clef’s head without ever settling in. He was pretty sure the general gist was one of “I would love to, you easy idiot prey.” Time to turn the screws. “I was literal with that last bit. I am attracted to you because you are a fox. A nice Japanese fox girl with really big tits. I like that.” He made sure to motion suggestively, just for emphasis. That did it. She launched herself at him, claws drawn, screeching. From his perspective, the leap was in slow motion in slow-motion. Clef sidestepped out of his shed pants. “And that fur? //Damn// I love me that fur. Gets so soft between the legs. You have no idea how attractive that is. And the snout? Don’t get me started on the snout. Snouts give great blowjobs.” Another swing, another miss. It was so //easy//. He barely had to do anything. His body just acted on its own, a step here, a duck here, just keeping out of the way, taunting and taunting until that one moment where the screws were in so tight that you just had to grab one and //yank//… “I have a raging boner right now.” He would have paid several million dollars for a photograph of her face as she leapt at him again. It would have been museum worthy. Duck low, shoulder into gut, knock her down, slam a knee down on her throat. Something silver appeared in his hand, the end shoved in the woman’s mouth. “Oh wait, no I don’t. It’s an actual gun.” Clef smiled, his mouth just a bit too wide. “Never try to seduce a eunuch, honey.” He pulled the trigger, the gun barked, and the woman burst into butterflies. “Oh…well then. //Shit//.” The syllable drowned in gunfire. -- Able picked a tooth out of his chest and flicked it to the side. He trod over the bodies, one in particular being that of a man in a longcoat, his fedora rolled off into a little smear of blood. The body was impaled with a length of piping. The fat man backed against the wall looked as if he had soiled himself. His finger worked the useless trigger frantically. Able loomed with his full eight feet, bloody and pockmarked. “Where Epon?” -- Epon stood in her room, listening to the sirens blare outside. They had her locked in here for study, and she was fine with that, but now… now she felt like she should have been doing something. Getting Mother killed had given her a bad habit of activity. Things needed to be done, and she was going to be the one to do it, because no one else would. She inspected the door again. There was no handle of course, no breaks in the seal. It opened only from the outside. She kicked it. It didn’t move. //Why did I kick it? That wouldn’t do anything. I can talk to the observer anyway…// She pressed the microphone button by the door, feeling rather stupid. “Hello? Is anyone there?” There was no response. More important things to worry about, she supposed. Epon paced the room. Vents were no good, door was no good, no windows, no way to seduce the guard into letting her out (though granted, that would have been exceptionally difficult for her under any circumstances). Time passed. The door opened. A woman with glasses and a braid walked in. One of the doctors. Epon couldn’t remember her name. “What’s going on?” “A minor drill, nothing to concern yourself about.” She pulled out a chair from the desk. Her nametag read “Sophia Light”. “You have an interview scheduled for today” “Okay.” Epon sat down, out of politeness. She hated sitting. Standing was much more comfortable. What was the point? The fight was out there, she was needed out there! Clef was out there. “How are adjustments going for you? Everyone treating you all right?” Light said, as if nothing was the matter. “Everything’s fine, but I really think that…” “No major issues in adapting?” “Yes but…” “How does it feel to be Clef’s little bitch?” There was a definite mad twinkle in the doctor’s eye. It wasn’t much of an insult, to be honest. “It feels like you’re no longer welcome here.” Epon stood up, as did Dr. Light. She had a gun in her hand. “I’m not going to let this place fall into the madhouse. I know what they plan on doing. They’re not going to keep you locked up, they’re not going to keep Able locked up. They’re going to use you. Clef’s gotten them confident. They think they can handle it. They think they can control the unknown. They can’t.” Epon did the first thing that came to mind, and kicked the doctor. The total lack of knowledge regarding properly kicking someone was made up by the fact Epon, very literally, kicked like a horse. The first iron-shod hoof pulped Sophia’s stomach. The second shattered Sophia’s jaw. The third, which was more of a stomp than a kick, snapped her spine. She crumpled to the floor with a splat. Epon snorted and wiped her foot on the floor. Well, that was that. She had just killed someone. Directly this time. She took the ID badge and the keycard from her pocket. The door opened again. A terrified-looking man was holding a keycard. Able was standing behind him, two thick fingers casually held around his neck. [Able? You too? Now I feel like I should have tidied the place up.] [No time. There are traitors, attempting to kill my brother.] That sounded about right. [One just tried to kill me.] [When you kill a man, you kill his sons and brothers, so that they may not avenge him. Cowards that they are, they know this.] Able squeezed the fat man’s neck and dropped the corpse to the ground. [Come then. We shall find Clef.] [We’ll have to be quiet about it.] [Indeed. Let us go.] -- Clef sliced a man’s throat open with a razor, and subsequently came to the realization that he had no idea why he had a straight razor in the first place, or how he was still moving. Some part of him was dimly aware that there was significantly more lead and significantly less blood in his body than there normally was, and that this was a bad thing. His body was retreating, but this seemed to be a lot less important than observing all the pretty patterns on the floor and walls. The brief moment of realization faded away into the background. He was somewhere else, somewhere far away, watching the scene acted out around him from some mental Laz-E-Boy. Just faces on a screen. Like a movie. Like a cartoon. “Holy shit! Did you see that guy? Just went and offed himself! I mean, my breath isn’t that bad!” The commentary seemed just as natural as the violence on the screen. It passed in a blur, the voice taunting and cheering and jeering and laughing, the bodies dropping to the floor, the splashes of red. The world blurred together with runny watercolors. “Fucked your mom, fucked your mom, fucked your sister, fucked your dad…” “You know, you might want to look for employment opportunities elsewhere, this place really doesn’t have good dental.” “Hey there, friendo, gimme five!” “GET OVER HERE!” Sight and sound and experience blurred and drifted past. Then, Ben. Standing there in the hallway, holding a sword. He had a finger gently pressed against the tip, as if to prove his mastery of the tool by not getting cut. Clef watched him through his eyes, noticing how his body wasn’t moving. “You like it? Had it commissioned. Twenty k and two years for this. Would you just look at this craftsmanship? Folded over a million times by a master swordsmith, capable of cutting solid steel blocks, feared and respected the world over. This is the reason Europe never conquered Japan. This is the perfect weapon.” “You know, I think you have me convinced on this.” Clef watched his fist fly out and crush Ben’s nose. The man screamed, dropping his sword. “Clearly, it is the greatest weapon to ever exist.” Clef watched his left hand reach out and grab Ben by the collar, dragging him across the hall. “I am going to have to re-think my entire life after this revelation.” The other hand hit a button. A door opened. An air lock. Ben was tossed inside. The button again, the door cut off his “No!” “Or maybe you’re just full of shit.” On the other side of the door, in a room with no windows, Ben Kondraki managed to get a gurgling half-scream out before he was knocked to the floor and his throat was torn out by a rather large, snaggle-toothed lizard. On the other side of the door, the voice snickered, and Clef watched the screen go black. -- It was Strelkinov who found them first: Clef looking like a paint explosion in a Swiss cheese factory, Epon holding his head on her lap, Able standing guard. Poignancy at its finest. [[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>]]	2012-11-12T23:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "action", "agent-strelnikov", "classical-revival", "doctor-clef", "doctor-kondraki", "doctor-light", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	Upswing of Disorder - SCP Foundation	77	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "classicalrevivalindex" ]	[]	14991714	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/upswing-of-disorder
vertigo	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h2 id="toc0"><span>(another true story)</span></h2> <p><em>1 Jan 2012, 5:54 PM<br/> US Airways flight ███<br/> Somewhere over western Ohio</em></p> <p>I always request the window seat when I fly commercial. The view out that little porthole just never gets old. Maybe I look like a little kid, craning my neck to peer out the window and smile in wonder; if I do, I'm too caught up in the loveliness of it to care.</p> <p>"I can see my house from here" really doesn't begin to cover it. As the ground falls away, familiar things turn into minutely exquisite models. The grey and brown of an Ohio winter merge into intricate patchwork beauty, and the orange glare of the sodium streetlights separates into a million discrete points of glitter.</p> <p>The clouds are best of all. As we climb off the runway, I always lift myself against the great soft weight of acceleration to watch, because to climb through the cloud cover is to loft into another world. The jet's speed lends me parallax and perspective, turning clouds from a painted backdrop into a landscape in their own right. I've seen traceries of cirrus become a wispy maze of floating cotton ribbons, like something a Moorish dancer would twirl through the air. One summer afternoon, the looming thunderheads turned into the very Pillars of Creation, without a single light-year between us. It's magical beyond anything in a fairy story.</p> <p>This time, as we climb away from the airport, the flat sullen gray of an overcast December is transmogrified into a rugose plateau. The clouds lie mercilessly level, their flatness enforced by some atmospheric thermocline; to me, they look like a rocky tumbled moonscape stretching to the horizon. The last glow after sunset lights them in ethereal slate and faint gold. Their plain is broken here and there by rifts and ravines, mere gaps in the cloud that would let the people below glimpse blue sky. From up here, though, they are black crevasses: the last evening light does not break through to the ground. I gaze through the widest ravine and glimpse a scattering of streetlights below. They glitter brighter than the stars.</p> <p>Perspective abruptly upends itself.</p> <p>It isn't a moonscape I'm seeing: it's the roof of a cave, or the underbelly of a titanic Laputa. Stone blocks out the sky. Where earthquakes rip it open, the glimmer that wins through is not streetlights but ancient, livid constellations. As long as I cower in the safe grey caverns, the malevolent gleam of the stars stays at bay, but through these rifts I can stare down the Things Outside. For a moment I've locked eyes with something vast and terrible, and my wild stare is the only thing keeping it away —</p> <p>— The girl in seat 22E coughs.</p> <p>I blink, and perspective rights itself again. Clouds roll by below the window. The last of the gloaming is fading down to night, and the streetlights glow orange far below. Small children chatter and whine two rows up. I suddenly need to pee. All the banalities of air travel have reasserted themselves as abruptly as they vanished.</p> <p>It's getting dark out there now, and there's not much to see, so I go back to my reading. If I keep glancing sidelong out the window for the rest for the flight, though… Well, can you blame me?</p> <p><em>Someone</em> ought to be keeping a watch.</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="/vertigo">Vertigo</a>" by Photosynthetic, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/vertigo">https://scpwiki.com/vertigo</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>	++ (another true story) [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //1 Jan 2012, 5:54 PM US Airways flight ███ Somewhere over western Ohio// I always request the window seat when I fly commercial. The view out that little porthole just never gets old. Maybe I look like a little kid, craning my neck to peer out the window and smile in wonder; if I do, I'm too caught up in the loveliness of it to care. "I can see my house from here" really doesn't begin to cover it. As the ground falls away, familiar things turn into minutely exquisite models. The grey and brown of an Ohio winter merge into intricate patchwork beauty, and the orange glare of the sodium streetlights separates into a million discrete points of glitter. The clouds are best of all. As we climb off the runway, I always lift myself against the great soft weight of acceleration to watch, because to climb through the cloud cover is to loft into another world. The jet's speed lends me parallax and perspective, turning clouds from a painted backdrop into a landscape in their own right. I've seen traceries of cirrus become a wispy maze of floating cotton ribbons, like something a Moorish dancer would twirl through the air. One summer afternoon, the looming thunderheads turned into the very Pillars of Creation, without a single light-year between us. It's magical beyond anything in a fairy story. This time, as we climb away from the airport, the flat sullen gray of an overcast December is transmogrified into a rugose plateau. The clouds lie mercilessly level, their flatness enforced by some atmospheric thermocline; to me, they look like a rocky tumbled moonscape stretching to the horizon. The last glow after sunset lights them in ethereal slate and faint gold. Their plain is broken here and there by rifts and ravines, mere gaps in the cloud that would let the people below glimpse blue sky. From up here, though, they are black crevasses: the last evening light does not break through to the ground. I gaze through the widest ravine and glimpse a scattering of streetlights below. They glitter brighter than the stars. Perspective abruptly upends itself. It isn't a moonscape I'm seeing: it's the roof of a cave, or the underbelly of a titanic Laputa. Stone blocks out the sky. Where earthquakes rip it open, the glimmer that wins through is not streetlights but ancient, livid constellations. As long as I cower in the safe grey caverns, the malevolent gleam of the stars stays at bay, but through these rifts I can stare down the Things Outside. For a moment I've locked eyes with something vast and terrible, and my wild stare is the only thing keeping it away -- -- The girl in seat 22E coughs. I blink, and perspective rights itself again. Clouds roll by below the window. The last of the gloaming is fading down to night, and the streetlights glow orange far below. Small children chatter and whine two rows up. I suddenly need to pee. All the banalities of air travel have reasserted themselves as abruptly as they vanished. It's getting dark out there now, and there's not much to see, so I go back to my reading. If I keep glancing sidelong out the window for the rest for the flight, though... Well, can you blame me? //Someone// ought to be keeping a watch. [[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>]]	2012-01-03T19:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Vertigo - SCP Foundation	37	[ "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" ]	[]	12453038	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/vertigo
waking	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Why am I here? This place gives me nightmares, but never really the right ones to discourage me from coming back. The horrors and chills are the waking kind, which manifest in the darkness when I’m alone and still walking through a silent hallway, trying to find a light switch and freezing every time I hear a thump or a crack or a creak.</p> <p>These are the nightmares that evaporate the instant the sun shines again, these are the nightmares fueled by curiosity and the reality that no one really knows what tomorrow will bring. Why is there something eerily familiar about SCP-173 that draws me to watching footage of it, when I know that in several hours’ time, I’ll be looking over my shoulder every few minutes trying to get the image out of my head and trying to convince myself that the Sculpture is not right behind me?</p> <p>Why am I here?</p> <p>Inherently, I feel I should know.</p> <p>It’s because the nightmares fascinate me, have always fascinated me.</p> <p>Fear—deep, dark, enthralling, exhilarating, it reminds me that I’m alive and reminds me that things are in motion all around and that here, regardless of what office or hallway or containment area one walks in, there is danger lurking in the endless streams of numbers that chronicle years of the anomalous and threatening and horrific.</p> <p>I’m going to visit 1457 again. I don’t know why. There’s something calming about immersing the mind in the woes of others. Even though the memories feel like mine, may even have been mine all along, I know that they’re not mine and cannot harm me.</p> <p>But as such, I’ve seen things that I couldn’t have prepared myself for. Muted gunshots in the dark, skin being peeled off inch by inch with a black knife to the cacophony of screams of pain and insanity, needles, electric shocks, was it always an observed effect of 1457 to force relapses on someone receiving memories?</p> <p>I’ve tried to steel myself against it. Train myself through use of 1457 to become resistant to these sort of things. Empathy, which I once believed to be my strongest quality, can no longer be used as a shield.</p> <p>Before, when I saw those pairs of broken eyes, I would be able to do something about it. Now, all these memories, all these stories, all these tragedies so close they’re almost tangible and yet completely beyond my reach and my help—I don’t understand how a butterfly could have possibly witnessed all of them.</p> <p>I’m not the spectator anymore.</p> <p>1457 removes the protections that distance offers. This little life form carries the deaths of mothers and fathers, the sights of suffering friends, the crippling hopelessness of being without anyone else to confide in, without anyone else who knows the extent of the pain and the meaning of the tears.</p> <p>It’s all useless.</p> <p>It’s not like anyone else will volunteer. I’ve applied for medication, but I’ve heard whispers that until my mental health starts to show serious signs of deterioration, all my requests will be denied.</p> <p>The Mourning Cloak even somewhat remembers me now, flies to me whenever I enter its containment area, becomes agitated if I happen to have forgotten to remove the sterilized gloves. Looking back, I can understand the sudden order requiring me to feed this being. I once spent my time counseling the heartbroken, once spent my time untangling complicated tales of anguish, once spent my time sharing away pain. And I happened, just happened, to get that score on the EI test.</p> <p>Emotional intelligence. I once thought it meant something different, I once thought that conquering my fears meant admitting I had them and refusing to confront them until I was ready.</p> <p>Things are different now.</p> <p>I don’t know where these memories have come from, but with each broken heart or shattered soul or scarred mind, I don’t know if I’ve become stronger or weaker. These are bootlegged experiences, false images, and maybe in the end all I am is desensitized because I know that the memories don’t mean as much, don’t strike as hard to me.</p> <p>But what happens when these memories are replaced by realities?</p> <p>I swear, with all this strain, I’m surprised I haven’t developed a heart condition.</p> <p>The butterfly doesn’t care, or perhaps it doesn’t know enough to realize how uncaring it is, but then I never know, maybe no one really knows, maybe no one will ever know. It lives to eat and make sure it keeps eating.</p> <p>And so another hour passes as I’m taken through a whirlwind of death and disease and darkened dreams. The butterfly remains perched on my shoulder, serenely folding and unfolding its uneven wings, tilting its antennae gracefully as I slump forward, head in my hands.</p> <p>It’s beautiful…</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="/waking">Waking</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/waking">https://scpwiki.com/waking</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]] [[/>]] Why am I here? This place gives me nightmares, but never really the right ones to discourage me from coming back. The horrors and chills are the waking kind, which manifest in the darkness when I’m alone and still walking through a silent hallway, trying to find a light switch and freezing every time I hear a thump or a crack or a creak. These are the nightmares that evaporate the instant the sun shines again, these are the nightmares fueled by curiosity and the reality that no one really knows what tomorrow will bring. Why is there something eerily familiar about SCP-173 that draws me to watching footage of it, when I know that in several hours’ time, I’ll be looking over my shoulder every few minutes trying to get the image out of my head and trying to convince myself that the Sculpture is not right behind me? Why am I here? Inherently, I feel I should know. It’s because the nightmares fascinate me, have always fascinated me. Fear—deep, dark, enthralling, exhilarating, it reminds me that I’m alive and reminds me that things are in motion all around and that here, regardless of what office or hallway or containment area one walks in, there is danger lurking in the endless streams of numbers that chronicle years of the anomalous and threatening and horrific. I’m going to visit 1457 again. I don’t know why. There’s something calming about immersing the mind in the woes of others. Even though the memories feel like mine, may even have been mine all along, I know that they’re not mine and cannot harm me. But as such, I’ve seen things that I couldn’t have prepared myself for. Muted gunshots in the dark, skin being peeled off inch by inch with a black knife to the cacophony of screams of pain and insanity, needles, electric shocks, was it always an observed effect of 1457 to force relapses on someone receiving memories? I’ve tried to steel myself against it. Train myself through use of 1457 to become resistant to these sort of things. Empathy, which I once believed to be my strongest quality, can no longer be used as a shield. Before, when I saw those pairs of broken eyes, I would be able to do something about it. Now, all these memories, all these stories, all these tragedies so close they’re almost tangible and yet completely beyond my reach and my help—I don’t understand how a butterfly could have possibly witnessed all of them. I’m not the spectator anymore. 1457 removes the protections that distance offers. This little life form carries the deaths of mothers and fathers, the sights of suffering friends, the crippling hopelessness of being without anyone else to confide in, without anyone else who knows the extent of the pain and the meaning of the tears. It’s all useless. It’s not like anyone else will volunteer. I’ve applied for medication, but I’ve heard whispers that until my mental health starts to show serious signs of deterioration, all my requests will be denied. The Mourning Cloak even somewhat remembers me now, flies to me whenever I enter its containment area, becomes agitated if I happen to have forgotten to remove the sterilized gloves. Looking back, I can understand the sudden order requiring me to feed this being. I once spent my time counseling the heartbroken, once spent my time untangling complicated tales of anguish, once spent my time sharing away pain. And I happened, just happened, to get that score on the EI test. Emotional intelligence. I once thought it meant something different, I once thought that conquering my fears meant admitting I had them and refusing to confront them until I was ready. Things are different now. I don’t know where these memories have come from, but with each broken heart or shattered soul or scarred mind, I don’t know if I’ve become stronger or weaker. These are bootlegged experiences, false images, and maybe in the end all I am is desensitized because I know that the memories don’t mean as much, don’t strike as hard to me. But what happens when these memories are replaced by realities? I swear, with all this strain, I’m surprised I haven’t developed a heart condition. The butterfly doesn’t care, or perhaps it doesn’t know enough to realize how uncaring it is, but then I never know, maybe no one really knows, maybe no one will ever know. It lives to eat and make sure it keeps eating. And so another hour passes as I’m taken through a whirlwind of death and disease and darkened dreams. The butterfly remains perched on my shoulder, serenely folding and unfolding its uneven wings, tilting its antennae gracefully as I slump forward, head in my hands. It’s beautiful… [[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>]]	2012-08-14T19:39:00	[ "_licensebox", "mark-kiryu", "tale" ]	Waking - 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", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub" ]	[]	14043301	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/waking
walk-the-floor	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>— <strong>Site 150, Foundation Research and Development Department, Entrance 3, 09:00</strong> —</p> <p>Pride. Dr. Tabitha Foster knew the feeling well. Pride was black ink in the ledgers. Pride was a good deal put to good use. Pride was coming out of the workshop with something that worked. Pride was a plan coming to bloom.</p> <p>Pride was looking out across ten square kilometers of factory floor, bright under endless rows of lights far above. The ceiling was so high that it may well have been the sky, the floor so busy it should have been a city. Monorail lines weaved throughout, above the testing areas and workshops and factories. The occasional hover-shuttle, laden with cargo or passengers, would occasionally buzz into view before speeding off. In the distance, three new zeppelins floated lazily, ready for deployment. Elsewhere rested the half–constructed suspension ring of a new HALO station.</p> <p>It was a wonderful morning. It smelled of progress.</p> <p>Dr. Foster stepped into her personal shuttle. It was a ritual she made every two weeks, to go and personally check on the major projects. Her assistant Eric was already strapped into his seat, labcoat neatly pressed, computer tablet in his hand, glasses sliding down his nose.</p> <p>“Message from the Overseer Board, ma’am,” he said, just as Foster stepped inside the carriage. The door closed automatically behind her.</p> <p>“What is it? More sanctions, I suppose?” She sat down across from Eric, fastening her own harness. A button press later and the shuttle’s autopilot took over.</p> <p>“Yes. They’ve called for the immediate cancellation of development for the <em>Paraselus</em>. Claimed it was too unstable and a waste of resources. Resolution was passed seven to four.”</p> <p>“Five and Ten leading it again?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“Send the board a message saying that the project has been mothballed. Re-route assets into the backup projects, wait until the conversion matrix is upgraded to the mark eight, and bring it back to main production. We can afford a few months’ delay.”</p> <p>“Right. There’s also a message from the Office of Field Affairs.”</p> <p>“Again? Tell them that if they have such an issue with the Special Augmentation Program, they are more than welcome to come up with a more effective alternative. Oh wait, your casualty rate is fifteen times higher than ours and you’re run by a bunch of brain-dead Neanderthals who think that conventional technology is sufficient for the Foundation’s purposes…Don’t actually put that last bit in there, that’s just between us.”</p> <p>“Right, ma’am. There’s also a communique from Dr. Bailey with the latest trade agreements.” He passed over the tablet. Foster glanced over the text, occasionally scrolling to see more. Some pullouts, some new acquisitions, demands. Those weren’t important. What was important was what was going to get funneled to her department.</p> <p>She very much liked what she saw. She had no idea what to do with seven hundred tons of flerovium, but it was bound to be impressive. Most of the rest was just raw materials, a few technology samples, another coldcore for the reactor, documents and diagrams and terabytes of information for the sorting. She kept reading.</p> <p>“An exchange program? Someone actually wants an exchange program?”</p> <p>“The O5 board will veto it,” Eric said.</p> <p>“Oh, I know. The O5 board also tried to veto updating outdated containment documents, instituting the organizational catalog, purging 732-contaminated records, and putting recycled napkins in the cafeterias. They are not the most forward-thinking of individuals, nor the most aware of the current state of affairs. To think what we could have learned if we had been able to contact the University before it fell.” She shook her head. “Ah well. No use now. There are more Universities out there and plenty of work to be done here.”</p> <p>The shuttle hummed along.</p> <p>— <strong>MF-7 Automated Security Drone testing chamber, 09:17</strong> —</p> <p>The drone, a white sphere roughly the size of a beach ball with a single lensed eye, zipped through the air in short bursts. Move, stop. Move stop. Movestop. Movestop shoot. Movestopshoot. The shooting looked much like not shooting, save the burn marks that appeared on the targets that shifted around the chamber.</p> <p>“Power cell has double the run time when compared to the mark six,” the tech explained. “And it recharges in six hours instead of twelve. Main laser is boosted too.”</p> <p>Foster nodded. The plan was to automate the majority of the Foundation’s internal security within ten years. Foster would have had it done in three, but Five was cock-blocking, as usual, and had One, Two, Four, Six, Ten and Thirteen on the leash.</p> <p>Five years then, with one model instead of the ten they had plans for. They would work from there.</p> <p>— <strong>Module Construction Yard, 09:43</strong> —</p> <p>There wasn’t anything much new in terms of site construction. That section of factory floor was still filled with the same blocky modules, all of them bigger on the inside than the outside. An A2 Module the size of a tractor trailer could provide enough room for five containment chambers and thirty staff.</p> <p>Foster passed through that area quickly. Approval of their work was given, and she moved on. The Barston Principle was very well-understood, and the last collapse had been over a decade ago. Her presence was better used elsewhere.</p> <p>— <strong>Portable Spatial Containment Device Testing Chamber, 10:20</strong> —</p> <p>The man in the testing chamber reached into the padded case, removing a smooth black sphere the size of a tennis ball. On the other side of the chamber stood an unadorned store mannequin. The man slid a switch on the side of the ball with his thumb. A white LED lit up. He wound up his arm, tensed, and threw.</p> <p>Right before the ball hit the mannequin, if one had a hi-speed camera on hand, one could see the ball fold itself inside out. The inside-out ball hit the mannequin, and then it was gone, along with a hemisphere of the floor. There was no flash or noise, just a barely perceptible ripple in the air, and it was gone. The now right-side-in ball dropped to the floor, rolling down to the bottom of the basin. The man walked over, picked it up, thumbed another switch. The light was green now. He tossed the ball again at a bare stretch of floor, near where he had been standing at the beginning. There was another ripple as it hit the floor, just for the briefest and most imperceptible of moments. A pile of crumbled and cracked concrete and half-molten shards of plastic sat on the floor.</p> <p>At least they had managed to consistently stop the field from backfiring on the thrower, Foster noted. Progress.</p> <p>“They could always work as grenades,” Eric said.</p> <p>“They’d be rather difficult-to-build grenades. Not very practical for general use, unless you really needed to liquefy something.” This project had been a headache for months. It was impressive, yes. The very concept made the science-related part of her brain very excited. Execution though, was proving a nightmare. Each Portable Spatial Containment Device contained several cubic meters within it, same principle as the factory itself, enough to store the average humanoid or animalistic anomaly. The capture mechanism worked, pushing the space out and pulling it back in, but keeping things in one piece during capture was proving an issue.</p> <p>Then there was the fact that it resembled something from a child's cartoon, but Foster thought it best to ignore that.</p> <p>At the very least the thrower kept their arm.</p> <p>— <strong>Personnel Acquisition Initiative Center, 11:02</strong> —</p> <p>Foster eyed the ranks of orange jumpsuits. Five rows, twenty to a row. Two hundred eyes, staring at her.</p> <p>“Dismissed,” Foster nodded something of approval towards them.</p> <p>The group softened. It didn’t disperse very much, but the hundred men and women turned to face each other. Soft conversations sprung up. Foster waited, hands clasped behind her back. She loved this part.</p> <p>“ATTENTION!”</p> <p>In one movement, one hundred D-class swung to face her. Eyes locked, face expressionless, feet together, hands at sides. One unified force, waiting for orders.</p> <p>It was the sort of scene third world dictators had wet dreams about.</p> <p>“KOSWITCH!”</p> <p>One hundred D-class dropped to the floor unconscious, even before her word had faded from the air. Foster nodded, smiling.</p> <p>“That’s better response time than before. Excellent job, Mason. Your techs should be proud.”</p> <p>“I’ll make sure to tell them.”</p> <p>Mason barked a few commands, and the D-classes marched off toward the trucks across the shipping yard.</p> <p>There were a few more groups to be shipped off that day: some L-Class, some R-Class, some C-Class. Nothing unusual.</p> <p>The big building behind the parade grounds and personnel shipping yard loomed. Inside was Foster’s pride and joy.</p> <p>One of them, at least.</p> <p>Foster knew that she was one of the few who wasn’t disgusted by the thing. 597 was synonymous with that cringing “eaugh” expression, mostly for being the center point of some of the grossest mismanagement in the last decade. Five high ranking personnel, including a site director, had been using 597 for personal satisfaction for over two years, and both the Overseer Board and the Ethics Committee turned a blind eye to it. The old containment procedures actually allowed it to be viewed, even for personnel to enter the chamber. That was what disgusted Foster. Containment procedures written by a gibbon with a typewriter. She had penned the new ones herself, and nothing had happened for years. No one had even <em>seen</em> 597 in years. No one had been inside that building but the classed personnel for years. Everything was automated: the insemination, the birthing, the implantation of the class modifications, the overseeing of the process, everything.</p> <p>Granted, it wasn’t perfect. The first several generations of subjects suffered from crippling Oedipal complexes and were completely useless. That was the result of trying to breed them as humans. The implants fixed that, eventually. They weren’t really human after the implants, after the brain was changed as much as it was. A fake human. A homunculus.</p> <p>Such a wonderful word. Rolled off the tongue. Hoh-<em>moohn</em>-cyu-luhs.</p> <p>Eventually, the implants wouldn’t even be necessary. That was a long term plan, though, and the current system would suffice for the time being.</p> <p>There was that pride again. Pride at the Personnel Acquisition Initiative, pride in everything they'd managed to build, pride in taking space itself and molding it like Play-Doh. Pride in the knowledge that she was feared. The Observers feared her. And who wouldn’t, really? She was what happened when people got working, when people actually <em>thought</em>. When people looked out into the darkness and said “I am not afraid of you”. The antithesis to the scared men of “science” cowering in the shadows in their boardroom, petrified at the concept of change.</p> <p>She loved that feeling. Oh, she loved that feeling.</p> <p>Dr. Tabitha Foster, the most powerful person in the world, was very, very proud of her work.</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="/walk-the-floor">Walk the Floor</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/walk-the-floor">https://scpwiki.com/walk-the-floor</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]] [[/>]] -- Site 150, Foundation Research and Development Department, Entrance 3, 09:00 -- Pride. Dr. Tabitha Foster knew the feeling well. Pride was black ink in the ledgers. Pride was a good deal put to good use. Pride was coming out of the workshop with something that worked. Pride was a plan coming to bloom. Pride was looking out across ten square kilometers of factory floor, bright under endless rows of lights far above. The ceiling was so high that it may well have been the sky, the floor so busy it should have been a city. Monorail lines weaved throughout, above the testing areas and workshops and factories. The occasional hover-shuttle, laden with cargo or passengers, would occasionally buzz into view before speeding off. In the distance, three new zeppelins floated lazily, ready for deployment. Elsewhere rested the half–constructed suspension ring of a new HALO station. It was a wonderful morning. It smelled of progress. Dr. Foster stepped into her personal shuttle. It was a ritual she made every two weeks, to go and personally check on the major projects. Her assistant Eric was already strapped into his seat, labcoat neatly pressed, computer tablet in his hand, glasses sliding down his nose. “Message from the Overseer Board, ma’am,” he said, just as Foster stepped inside the carriage. The door closed automatically behind her. “What is it? More sanctions, I suppose?” She sat down across from Eric, fastening her own harness. A button press later and the shuttle’s autopilot took over. “Yes. They’ve called for the immediate cancellation of development for the //Paraselus//. Claimed it was too unstable and a waste of resources. Resolution was passed seven to four.” “Five and Ten leading it again?” “Yes.” “Send the board a message saying that the project has been mothballed. Re-route assets into the backup projects, wait until the conversion matrix is upgraded to the mark eight, and bring it back to main production. We can afford a few months’ delay.” “Right. There’s also a message from the Office of Field Affairs.” “Again? Tell them that if they have such an issue with the Special Augmentation Program, they are more than welcome to come up with a more effective alternative. Oh wait, your casualty rate is fifteen times higher than ours and you’re run by a bunch of brain-dead Neanderthals who think that conventional technology is sufficient for the Foundation’s purposes…Don’t actually put that last bit in there, that’s just between us.” “Right, ma’am. There’s also a communique from Dr. Bailey with the latest trade agreements.” He passed over the tablet. Foster glanced over the text, occasionally scrolling to see more. Some pullouts, some new acquisitions, demands. Those weren’t important. What was important was what was going to get funneled to her department. She very much liked what she saw. She had no idea what to do with seven hundred tons of flerovium, but it was bound to be impressive. Most of the rest was just raw materials, a few technology samples, another coldcore for the reactor, documents and diagrams and terabytes of information for the sorting. She kept reading. “An exchange program? Someone actually wants an exchange program?” “The O5 board will veto it,” Eric said. “Oh, I know. The O5 board also tried to veto updating outdated containment documents, instituting the organizational catalog, purging 732-contaminated records, and putting recycled napkins in the cafeterias. They are not the most forward-thinking of individuals, nor the most aware of the current state of affairs. To think what we could have learned if we had been able to contact the University before it fell.” She shook her head. “Ah well. No use now. There are more Universities out there and plenty of work to be done here.” The shuttle hummed along. -- MF-7 Automated Security Drone testing chamber, 09:17 -- The drone, a white sphere roughly the size of a beach ball with a single lensed eye, zipped through the air in short bursts. Move, stop. Move stop. Movestop. Movestop shoot. Movestopshoot. The shooting looked much like not shooting, save the burn marks that appeared on the targets that shifted around the chamber. “Power cell has double the run time when compared to the mark six,” the tech explained. “And it recharges in six hours instead of twelve. Main laser is boosted too.” Foster nodded. The plan was to automate the majority of the Foundation’s internal security within ten years. Foster would have had it done in three, but Five was cock-blocking, as usual, and had One, Two, Four, Six, Ten and Thirteen on the leash. Five years then, with one model instead of the ten they had plans for. They would work from there. -- Module Construction Yard, 09:43 -- There wasn’t anything much new in terms of site construction. That section of factory floor was still filled with the same blocky modules, all of them bigger on the inside than the outside. An A2 Module the size of a tractor trailer could provide enough room for five containment chambers and thirty staff. Foster passed through that area quickly. Approval of their work was given, and she moved on. The Barston Principle was very well-understood, and the last collapse had been over a decade ago. Her presence was better used elsewhere. -- Portable Spatial Containment Device Testing Chamber, 10:20 -- The man in the testing chamber reached into the padded case, removing a smooth black sphere the size of a tennis ball. On the other side of the chamber stood an unadorned store mannequin. The man slid a switch on the side of the ball with his thumb. A white LED lit up. He wound up his arm, tensed, and threw. Right before the ball hit the mannequin, if one had a hi-speed camera on hand, one could see the ball fold itself inside out. The inside-out ball hit the mannequin, and then it was gone, along with a hemisphere of the floor. There was no flash or noise, just a barely perceptible ripple in the air, and it was gone. The now right-side-in ball dropped to the floor, rolling down to the bottom of the basin. The man walked over, picked it up, thumbed another switch. The light was green now. He tossed the ball again at a bare stretch of floor, near where he had been standing at the beginning. There was another ripple as it hit the floor, just for the briefest and most imperceptible of moments. A pile of crumbled and cracked concrete and half-molten shards of plastic sat on the floor. At least they had managed to consistently stop the field from backfiring on the thrower, Foster noted. Progress. “They could always work as grenades,” Eric said. “They’d be rather difficult-to-build grenades. Not very practical for general use, unless you really needed to liquefy something.” This project had been a headache for months. It was impressive, yes. The very concept made the science-related part of her brain very excited. Execution though, was proving a nightmare. Each Portable Spatial Containment Device contained several cubic meters within it, same principle as the factory itself, enough to store the average humanoid or animalistic anomaly. The capture mechanism worked, pushing the space out and pulling it back in, but keeping things in one piece during capture was proving an issue. Then there was the fact that it resembled something from a child's cartoon, but Foster thought it best to ignore that. At the very least the thrower kept their arm. -- Personnel Acquisition Initiative Center, 11:02 -- Foster eyed the ranks of orange jumpsuits. Five rows, twenty to a row. Two hundred eyes, staring at her. “Dismissed,” Foster nodded something of approval towards them. The group softened. It didn’t disperse very much, but the hundred men and women turned to face each other. Soft conversations sprung up. Foster waited, hands clasped behind her back. She loved this part. “ATTENTION!” In one movement, one hundred D-class swung to face her. Eyes locked, face expressionless, feet together, hands at sides. One unified force, waiting for orders. It was the sort of scene third world dictators had wet dreams about. “KOSWITCH!” One hundred D-class dropped to the floor unconscious, even before her word had faded from the air. Foster nodded, smiling. “That’s better response time than before. Excellent job, Mason. Your techs should be proud.” “I’ll make sure to tell them.” Mason barked a few commands, and the D-classes marched off toward the trucks across the shipping yard. There were a few more groups to be shipped off that day: some L-Class, some R-Class, some C-Class. Nothing unusual. The big building behind the parade grounds and personnel shipping yard loomed. Inside was Foster’s pride and joy. One of them, at least. Foster knew that she was one of the few who wasn’t disgusted by the thing. 597 was synonymous with that cringing “eaugh” expression, mostly for being the center point of some of the grossest mismanagement in the last decade. Five high ranking personnel, including a site director, had been using 597 for personal satisfaction for over two years, and both the Overseer Board and the Ethics Committee turned a blind eye to it. The old containment procedures actually allowed it to be viewed, even for personnel to enter the chamber. That was what disgusted Foster. Containment procedures written by a gibbon with a typewriter. She had penned the new ones herself, and nothing had happened for years. No one had even //seen// 597 in years. No one had been inside that building but the classed personnel for years. Everything was automated: the insemination, the birthing, the implantation of the class modifications, the overseeing of the process, everything. Granted, it wasn’t perfect. The first several generations of subjects suffered from crippling Oedipal complexes and were completely useless. That was the result of trying to breed them as humans. The implants fixed that, eventually. They weren’t really human after the implants, after the brain was changed as much as it was. A fake human. A homunculus. Such a wonderful word. Rolled off the tongue. Hoh-//moohn//-cyu-luhs. Eventually, the implants wouldn’t even be necessary. That was a long term plan, though, and the current system would suffice for the time being. There was that pride again. Pride at the Personnel Acquisition Initiative, pride in everything they'd managed to build, pride in taking space itself and molding it like Play-Doh. Pride in the knowledge that she was feared. The Observers feared her. And who wouldn’t, really? She was what happened when people got working, when people actually //thought//. When people looked out into the darkness and said “I am not afraid of you”. The antithesis to the scared men of “science” cowering in the shadows in their boardroom, petrified at the concept of change. She loved that feeling. Oh, she loved that feeling. Dr. Tabitha Foster, the most powerful person in the world, was very, very proud of her work. [[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>]]	2012-12-05T20:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "dystopian", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	Walk the Floor - SCP Foundation	61	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	15282932	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/walk-the-floor
warm-memories	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Did I ever tell you the story of the Hindenburg disaster? It was quite a big deal when it happened, it was all over the news for months. And I was there when it happened. I was just a young kid back then, barely ten years old. But even now, I remember it as clearly as my first campfire.</p> <p>I went there with my grandfather, your great great grandpa Charlie. We had gone down to see the great Hindenburg land in our town. Everyone in town was there. You could feel the heat of the people all around you. The stars shined as bright as could be. I saw the great airship come in.</p> <p>It was big, bigger than anything I had ever seen before. It had great big red swastikas on it, redder than any I had seen before. I could see them very clearly as it came in for a landing. I asked my grandfather how anything could be that big. He didn't answer, he just took another drag on his cigarette and kept watching.</p> <p>All of a sudden there was this big light from the inside of the ship. It looked like some great paper lantern suspended there in the sky. People didn't know what to make of it, they just looked on, dumb as a sheep looking into an inferno. Then all of a sudden… it bursts into flames.</p> <p>You could feel the wave of heat wash over you. I can still hear the people screaming. They screamed so loudly… it seemed like all that you could hear was the screaming and the running. I wanted to run, but grandfather held me tightly. I can remember the warmness of his hand as he squeezed me.</p> <p>Watching that big blimp go down was breathtaking. You could see people trying to get it under control on the ground, and people in the cabins trying to get out. It was just a terrible, terrible thing for a young kid like me to watch…I had forgotten about it till now. But this photo brings it all back.</p> <p><a href="/scp-740">I've got that warm fuzzy feeling.</a></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></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="/warm-memories">Warm Memories</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/warm-memories">https://scpwiki.com/warm-memories</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]] [[/>]] Did I ever tell you the story of the Hindenburg disaster? It was quite a big deal when it happened, it was all over the news for months. And I was there when it happened. I was just a young kid back then, barely ten years old. But even now, I remember it as clearly as my first campfire. I went there with my grandfather, your great great grandpa Charlie. We had gone down to see the great Hindenburg land in our town. Everyone in town was there. You could feel the heat of the people all around you. The stars shined as bright as could be. I saw the great airship come in. It was big, bigger than anything I had ever seen before. It had great big red swastikas on it, redder than any I had seen before. I could see them very clearly as it came in for a landing. I asked my grandfather how anything could be that big. He didn't answer, he just took another drag on his cigarette and kept watching. All of a sudden there was this big light from the inside of the ship. It looked like some great paper lantern suspended there in the sky. People didn't know what to make of it, they just looked on, dumb as a sheep looking into an inferno. Then all of a sudden... it bursts into flames. You could feel the wave of heat wash over you. I can still hear the people screaming. They screamed so loudly... it seemed like all that you could hear was the screaming and the running. I wanted to run, but grandfather held me tightly. I can remember the warmness of his hand as he squeezed me. Watching that big blimp go down was breathtaking. You could see people trying to get it under control on the ground, and people in the cabins trying to get out. It was just a terrible, terrible thing for a young kid like me to watch...I had forgotten about it till now. But this photo brings it all back. [[[scp-740\|I've got that warm fuzzy feeling.]]] @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-07-22T02:27:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Warm Memories - SCP Foundation	10	[ "scp-740", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	13853192	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/warm-memories
wayward-commencement	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>« <a href="/wayward-prologue">Prologue: Dramatis Personae</a></p> <p>D-2392 was confused. "You want me to do <em>what?</em>"</p> <p>"Take that gun," Dr. Sariksen said, "and shoot D-2390. Directly in the head."</p> <p>"No way, man," the first replied. "I know a setup when I see it. I ain't touching that."</p> <p>"That's right, he's smarter than that," D-2390 said. He had been the other man's boss, before they were both assigned to the Foundation. "Whatever that shit is you did to us, we gotta bond, Moe and me. He ain't doin' none of that shit."</p> <p>"Subject refuses to comply with instructions given," Sariksen said into his tape recorder. "Beginning active phase of experiment 877-27 now." Dr. Sariksen looked at his control panel and typed in a series of commands. Looking up at his charges, he pressed <em>enter.</em></p> <p>"Hey, what…" D-2392 began moving jerkily, as though moved by an outside force. "What the fuck is this, doc? What are you d-" His voice ended with another of Sariksen's keystrokes. His face showed confusion, and his mouth was open, clearly trying to scream but seemingly unable to do so.</p> <p>"Note," Sariksen said, "updated version of control software should include facial motor function overrides of some sort."</p> <p>The D-class personnel stood up as though possessed. "Moe, what the fuck, man. What are you doing?" the other man said.</p> <p>"Commencing hand-eye coordination experiment 27-A," Sariksen said into the recorder. Another series of keystrokes into the control panel.</p> <p>"Moe, seriously," D-2390 said as the other man picked up the handgun. "You don't have to do nothin' this guy says, okay? I don't know what kinda voodoo he's got you under, but you listen, okay? You and me, we've known each other for a lo—"</p> <p>A gunshot, then silence.</p> <p>Then incoherent screaming, two more gunshots, gurgling, a final gunshot, silence again.</p> <p>"Note," Sariksen said, "hand-eye coordination still undeveloped among new hosts. Also to be rectified in updated software editions." Sarikson shut off the tape recorder, programmed the D-class host to clean up the mess, and removed his cell phone from his pocket. A cheap prepaid one, not the Foundation standard-issue one that tracked his calls.</p> <p>"John, it's Sergei. Golem is mobile and ready to hit the road. Yes. What? No. Why would I have bourbon? Fine, but make it quick. Twenty minutes, then we meet." He pushed "end" and began to pack.</p> <hr/> <p>Maria Jones had been working late nights for a long time, and tonight was no different. Something was very wrong at Site 38, and she was going to figure out what it was.</p> <p>The Records and Information Security Administration theoretically had access to all of the records of every documented SCP phenomenon, every anomalous object and event, every interaction between Mobile Task Forces, every meeting, every dark room where every decision was made. Maria Jones had not been disappointed by her ability to access raw information yet. Even information that various departments tried to conceal, Jones could get ahold of. She had made a great deal of enemies, many of whom helped her anyway, knowing what she held over their heads. She preferred that to having friends. Enemies you just took what you needed from. And Jones had taken a great deal.</p> <p>The problem was in processing. Maria was now sitting on a series of very interesting data, and she <em>knew,</em> in some incomprehensible way, that they were connected. The trick was figuring out how.</p> <p>Point one: six units of SCP-1043 were classified as "misplaced" four weeks ago. Investigation chalked the error to faulty record-keeping at Site 33, along with less-than-fully stringent security measures. Jones had seen the personnel files of the implicated individuals. There was no reason to make that assumption.</p> <p>Point two: two dozen D-class personnel had recently been allocated from Site 19 to Site 38. 19 had an overabundance of them, it was true, but Site 38 had never had any need for significant D-class personnel, being a minimum-security area limited to Safe and Euclid-class items only. Barely any significant research came from the Site; it was used principally to test the ability of Level 1 personnel to obey instructions before being transferred somewhere else. That and a shuffling-off point for personnel deemed too incompetent for more serious work but not disloyal enough to warrant termination. Jones figured every organization of a certain size had a place like Site 38. But this place was getting far too much attention of late.</p> <p>Point three: Incidents involving SCP-877 being captured in the wild had increased sharply over the past two months. Point three and a half: several specimens of SCP-877 previously contained were unaccounted for as of three weeks ago. Research on 877 had stopped back when it became apparent that there was simply nothing new to discover about the microchips. Site 19 researchers had decided to wait for some new breakthrough to reveal itself. <em>Well, something's changing now,</em> Maria thought to herself.</p> <p>Point four: Multiple technical glitches had been reported from the tertiary storage cluster at Site 38. Maria didn't know the relevance of that piece of information, but given the significance of that particular piece of hardware, Maria wasn't about to consider that irrelevant.</p> <p>Point five: After several weeks of remaining on-site, Mobile Task Force Rho-1 was now largely in the field, collecting an SCP artifact believed to be associated with that particular group of interest they worked with. Rho-1 served as Site 38's de facto site security force, meaning that Site 38 was essentially unprotected at the moment. That had never been an issue before, but now…it looked like that was about to change.</p> <p>Rho-1 was scheduled to return in two days. Meaning that if something were to happen, it would have to happen soon. Maybe tonight.</p> <p>Maria picked up her phone.</p> <hr/> <p>The Tennessee air was unseasonably chilly, even more so at night. David Eskobar had never gotten used to it. He knew it was coming, he could throw on a jacket, but he was never quite ready for what was coming. The bike made the temperature seem fifteen degrees colder, and he shivered as he rode the short distance to the main building of Site 38.</p> <p>The whole area was heavily wooded, with barely graveled country roads connecting isolated houses to one another. There weren’t any houses, not anymore; the Foundation had bought out the few remaining owners, or arranged for “convenient” busts on the nearby meth labs. Population density in the area meant that that was all that was required to ensure almost complete secrecy. David rode past the thick woods, surrounded by almost complete silence. Only the lights on his handlebars illuminated the road</p> <p>He rode past an area of woods thick enough to almost completely obstruct visibility past the treeline. Even if it had been daylight, the pool of concrete slowly building an enormous structure outside the main grounds of the Site was invisible for the moment.</p> <p>Reaching the main building, he leaned his bike against the wall beside the door to his office. He had requested a single bike rack and been told, officially, that that was seen as an unnecessary use of Foundation funds at that time. He tried to call the requisitions office once, but he couldn’t spit the words out; his stutter always managed to make phone conversations nearly impossible.</p> <p>David hated the phone. He hated almost everyone at Site 38; the way anybody who worked with him for long enough developed that look in their eyes somewhere between pity and contempt. He loved the first day of orientation, when all of those bright-eyed Level 1 personnel milled about, chattering happily about their projects. That lasted a week, maybe two, before they figure out that Site 38 wasn’t a promotion. It was one step away from an assignment in Antarctica, or maybe a D-class spot near the Red Pool.</p> <p>Site 38 was where failures went to flounder in obscurity. David hated that he was the director of “Stumptown,” as he heard two Level Twos call it in Site 19. Heard them. They knew he could hear them, and they knew he wasn’t going to say anything to them about it. And they were right. He could barely talk as it was. David hated talking to…almost everyone. He hated his office, and he hated being away from it, away from the only place where he could demand even the most rudimentary respect from others.</p> <p>He was in his office, now. He heard a knock at the door, and called for the visitor to come in. Dr. Collins, one of the higher-ranking Researchers. Likely to be promoted over his head and transferred away to somewhere useful any day now. Eskobar admired—oh hell, he envied John, even if the old prick gave him the creeps.</p> <p>John walked in and pointed a gun at his supervisor.</p> <hr/> <p>Anesidora's palace was finally complete. The Being, now in possession of a Throne nearly equal to Her glory, commanded Her servants to lift Her form onto the seat from which this victory would take place. They did so with great difficulty, though they viewed their efforts as a tremendous honor. To touch Her Glory's physical form and be permitted to live was almost unheard of. Anesidora permitted all but one of the Servus used in this task to retain their corporeal forms. The last Servus, however, She Integrated into Herself. She was very hungry, after all.</p> <p>When the last of the servant's limbs were decomposed into Her form, the Goddess spoke. As was befitting Her divinity, Her words did not take audible form, so as to avoid the stench of this world contaminating the pure joy of Her thoughts. She spoke directly into the servants' brains, through a small microchip embedded in each of their cerebella.</p> <p><em>You,</em> the Voice rang through the minds of some of Her attendants, <em>secure my Birthing Chamber. You two, locate my Crown.</em> Sinking deep now into concentration, Her Mind reached out to the complex just outside the forest. Site 38, the hominids called it. As Her servants left the Palace to carry out Her commands, She made contact with several beings that had recently come into contact with microchips within the complex, and spoke to them.</p> <p><em>Awaken, my children,</em> Her Voice said. <em>We have work to do.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Sariksen was finishing his packing in his lab when he realized something was missing. Something was…off. There was a sound in the background of the lab. No, that wasn't right. There was a sound missing.</p> <p>The mopping had stopped. Sariksen had written the program himself, and in theory, the D-class should not have been able to stop of his own volition. <em>So what was he doi—</em></p> <p>Running towards him. Sariksen turned just in time to be tackled to the ground by D-2392, or whatever was left of him. Sariksen's head slammed into the tiled floor with a loud crack.</p> <p>Rapidly losing consciousness, Sariksen felt teeth breaking his skin before everything went black.</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/wayward-deontic">Act I, Scene II: Deontic</a> »</p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wayward-commencement">Commencement</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-commencement">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-commencement</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] << [[[wayward-prologue \|Prologue: Dramatis Personae]]] D-2392 was confused. "You want me to do //what?//" "Take that gun," Dr. Sariksen said, "and shoot D-2390. Directly in the head." "No way, man," the first replied. "I know a setup when I see it. I ain't touching that." "That's right, he's smarter than that," D-2390 said. He had been the other man's boss, before they were both assigned to the Foundation. "Whatever that shit is you did to us, we gotta bond, Moe and me. He ain't doin' none of that shit." "Subject refuses to comply with instructions given," Sariksen said into his tape recorder. "Beginning active phase of experiment 877-27 now." Dr. Sariksen looked at his control panel and typed in a series of commands. Looking up at his charges, he pressed //enter.// "Hey, what..." D-2392 began moving jerkily, as though moved by an outside force. "What the fuck is this, doc? What are you d-" His voice ended with another of Sariksen's keystrokes. His face showed confusion, and his mouth was open, clearly trying to scream but seemingly unable to do so. "Note," Sariksen said, "updated version of control software should include facial motor function overrides of some sort." The D-class personnel stood up as though possessed. "Moe, what the fuck, man. What are you doing?" the other man said. "Commencing hand-eye coordination experiment 27-A," Sariksen said into the recorder. Another series of keystrokes into the control panel. "Moe, seriously," D-2390 said as the other man picked up the handgun. "You don't have to do nothin' this guy says, okay? I don't know what kinda voodoo he's got you under, but you listen, okay? You and me, we've known each other for a lo--" A gunshot, then silence. Then incoherent screaming, two more gunshots, gurgling, a final gunshot, silence again. "Note," Sariksen said, "hand-eye coordination still undeveloped among new hosts. Also to be rectified in updated software editions." Sarikson shut off the tape recorder, programmed the D-class host to clean up the mess, and removed his cell phone from his pocket. A cheap prepaid one, not the Foundation standard-issue one that tracked his calls. "John, it's Sergei. Golem is mobile and ready to hit the road. Yes. What? No. Why would I have bourbon? Fine, but make it quick. Twenty minutes, then we meet." He pushed "end" and began to pack. ------ Maria Jones had been working late nights for a long time, and tonight was no different. Something was very wrong at Site 38, and she was going to figure out what it was. The Records and Information Security Administration theoretically had access to all of the records of every documented SCP phenomenon, every anomalous object and event, every interaction between Mobile Task Forces, every meeting, every dark room where every decision was made. Maria Jones had not been disappointed by her ability to access raw information yet. Even information that various departments tried to conceal, Jones could get ahold of. She had made a great deal of enemies, many of whom helped her anyway, knowing what she held over their heads. She preferred that to having friends. Enemies you just took what you needed from. And Jones had taken a great deal. The problem was in processing. Maria was now sitting on a series of very interesting data, and she //knew,// in some incomprehensible way, that they were connected. The trick was figuring out how. Point one: six units of SCP-1043 were classified as "misplaced" four weeks ago. Investigation chalked the error to faulty record-keeping at Site 33, along with less-than-fully stringent security measures. Jones had seen the personnel files of the implicated individuals. There was no reason to make that assumption. Point two: two dozen D-class personnel had recently been allocated from Site 19 to Site 38. 19 had an overabundance of them, it was true, but Site 38 had never had any need for significant D-class personnel, being a minimum-security area limited to Safe and Euclid-class items only. Barely any significant research came from the Site; it was used principally to test the ability of Level 1 personnel to obey instructions before being transferred somewhere else. That and a shuffling-off point for personnel deemed too incompetent for more serious work but not disloyal enough to warrant termination. Jones figured every organization of a certain size had a place like Site 38. But this place was getting far too much attention of late. Point three: Incidents involving SCP-877 being captured in the wild had increased sharply over the past two months. Point three and a half: several specimens of SCP-877 previously contained were unaccounted for as of three weeks ago. Research on 877 had stopped back when it became apparent that there was simply nothing new to discover about the microchips. Site 19 researchers had decided to wait for some new breakthrough to reveal itself. //Well, something's changing now,// Maria thought to herself. Point four: Multiple technical glitches had been reported from the tertiary storage cluster at Site 38. Maria didn't know the relevance of that piece of information, but given the significance of that particular piece of hardware, Maria wasn't about to consider that irrelevant. Point five: After several weeks of remaining on-site, Mobile Task Force Rho-1 was now largely in the field, collecting an SCP artifact believed to be associated with that particular group of interest they worked with. Rho-1 served as Site 38's de facto site security force, meaning that Site 38 was essentially unprotected at the moment. That had never been an issue before, but now...it looked like that was about to change. Rho-1 was scheduled to return in two days. Meaning that if something were to happen, it would have to happen soon. Maybe tonight. Maria picked up her phone. ------ The Tennessee air was unseasonably chilly, even more so at night. David Eskobar had never gotten used to it. He knew it was coming, he could throw on a jacket, but he was never quite ready for what was coming. The bike made the temperature seem fifteen degrees colder, and he shivered as he rode the short distance to the main building of Site 38. The whole area was heavily wooded, with barely graveled country roads connecting isolated houses to one another. There weren’t any houses, not anymore; the Foundation had bought out the few remaining owners, or arranged for “convenient” busts on the nearby meth labs. Population density in the area meant that that was all that was required to ensure almost complete secrecy. David rode past the thick woods, surrounded by almost complete silence. Only the lights on his handlebars illuminated the road He rode past an area of woods thick enough to almost completely obstruct visibility past the treeline. Even if it had been daylight, the pool of concrete slowly building an enormous structure outside the main grounds of the Site was invisible for the moment. Reaching the main building, he leaned his bike against the wall beside the door to his office. He had requested a single bike rack and been told, officially, that that was seen as an unnecessary use of Foundation funds at that time. He tried to call the requisitions office once, but he couldn’t spit the words out; his stutter always managed to make phone conversations nearly impossible. David hated the phone. He hated almost everyone at Site 38; the way anybody who worked with him for long enough developed that look in their eyes somewhere between pity and contempt. He loved the first day of orientation, when all of those bright-eyed Level 1 personnel milled about, chattering happily about their projects. That lasted a week, maybe two, before they figure out that Site 38 wasn’t a promotion. It was one step away from an assignment in Antarctica, or maybe a D-class spot near the Red Pool. Site 38 was where failures went to flounder in obscurity. David hated that he was the director of “Stumptown,” as he heard two Level Twos call it in Site 19. Heard them. They knew he could hear them, and they knew he wasn’t going to say anything to them about it. And they were right. He could barely talk as it was. David hated talking to…almost everyone. He hated his office, and he hated being away from it, away from the only place where he could demand even the most rudimentary respect from others. He was in his office, now. He heard a knock at the door, and called for the visitor to come in. Dr. Collins, one of the higher-ranking Researchers. Likely to be promoted over his head and transferred away to somewhere useful any day now. Eskobar admired—oh hell, he envied John, even if the old prick gave him the creeps. John walked in and pointed a gun at his supervisor. ------ Anesidora's palace was finally complete. The Being, now in possession of a Throne nearly equal to Her glory, commanded Her servants to lift Her form onto the seat from which this victory would take place. They did so with great difficulty, though they viewed their efforts as a tremendous honor. To touch Her Glory's physical form and be permitted to live was almost unheard of. Anesidora permitted all but one of the Servus used in this task to retain their corporeal forms. The last Servus, however, She Integrated into Herself. She was very hungry, after all. When the last of the servant's limbs were decomposed into Her form, the Goddess spoke. As was befitting Her divinity, Her words did not take audible form, so as to avoid the stench of this world contaminating the pure joy of Her thoughts. She spoke directly into the servants' brains, through a small microchip embedded in each of their cerebella. //You,// the Voice rang through the minds of some of Her attendants, //secure my Birthing Chamber. You two, locate my Crown.// Sinking deep now into concentration, Her Mind reached out to the complex just outside the forest. Site 38, the hominids called it. As Her servants left the Palace to carry out Her commands, She made contact with several beings that had recently come into contact with microchips within the complex, and spoke to them. //Awaken, my children,// Her Voice said. //We have work to do.// ------ Dr. Sariksen was finishing his packing in his lab when he realized something was missing. Something was...off. There was a sound in the background of the lab. No, that wasn't right. There was a sound missing. The mopping had stopped. Sariksen had written the program himself, and in theory, the D-class should not have been able to stop of his own volition. //So what was he doi--// Running towards him. Sariksen turned just in time to be tackled to the ground by D-2392, or whatever was left of him. Sariksen's head slammed into the tiled floor with a loud crack. Rapidly losing consciousness, Sariksen felt teeth breaking his skin before everything went black. [[>]] [[[wayward-deontic \|Act I, Scene II: Deontic]]] >> [[/>]] [[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>]]	2012-05-13T18:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "maria-jones", "tale" ]	Commencement - SCP Foundation	51	[ "wayward-prologue", "wayward-deontic", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	13326991	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-commencement
wayward-deontic	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>«<a href="/wayward-commencement">Act I, Scene I: Commencement</a></p> <p>David recognized the gun pointed at his face as a semiautomatic pistol of some sort. He didn’t recognize brand or caliber, but he knew it was the kind he had specifically requested from the armory chief. He had no idea why the armory chief had listened to him that when the other requisitions he has placed had been ignored. He picked it because it looked cool; he knew nothing about guns whatsoever, and it was unlikely it would ever be used, given Site 38’s low hazard rating. But of course it came back to bite him in the ass.</p> <p>“I want your access codes, and the bottle of bourbon you keep in the bottom right drawer of your desk. You serve it.” Dr. Collins maintained a bead on David's upper chest.</p> <p>“What the fffuck is this, J-John?” David said.</p> <p>“This is you not getting me a goddamn drink, Eskobar,” Collins said. He fired a round in the air. David noticed the alarms not going off with a growing sense of panic. He retreated to his desk and got the Scotch and a glass.</p> <p>“No, retard, two glasses,” Collins said. “We’re drinking to my success. That had better be good bourbon. Don’t worry, you’re not going to have any better reason to use it.”</p> <p>David didn’t ask questions of the man with the gun; he got out another glass and poured one finger each of Maker’s Mark. Trembling, he slid one across the table to Collins, who gestured between Eskobar and the other drink. Eskobar sipped at the liquor; Collins downed all of it.</p> <p>“Now, let’s get those access codes. I need to get into the Site 38 central mainframe.”</p> <p>“W-w-w-what for?” David stuttered.</p> <p>Collins glared. “Don’t fucking question me, goddammit. You don’t have the balls to stop me, even if you could at this point. I’m getting out of this hellhole tonight. I just need a little something more the Insurgency can use.”</p> <p>Eskobar just stared. “You’re g-g-going—“</p> <p>Collins fired over David's head; the director of Site 38 audibly squealed. “YES, you fucking idiot, the Chaos Insurgency. Me, Sariksen, and Dankman have been doing little…experiments in the labs with some D-class personnel. Not that you would have come looking. Sarikson got ahold of some SCP-877 samples and brought them over. We’ve been reprogramming them and installing them in D-class’s heads. We had a breakthrough yesterday; they’re now able to infect one another with copies that respond to our programming.”</p> <p>David was living some surreal nightmare at that moment. He had no idea if anything Collins was saying was true, but he was still terrified of everything he knew was happening. And it was theoretically possible; the 877s were computer chips, maybe ones from another dimension, but still programmed by someone. And what can be written can just about always be overwritten. But how the hell had Collins done it?</p> <p>Site 38 had a single Mobile Task Force assigned to it, largely just to go out and obtain University artifacts whenever they were detected, otherwise used for site security (which was roughly unnecessary). MTF Rho-1, “The Professors;” probably the only personnel on site with genuine pride in their work. Most of them were out on a simple retrieval assignment, scheduled to return in the morning. Four, maybe five members were on-site. If he could just contact the ones left…</p> <p>“Access codes, Eskobar,” Collins said. “I don’t need you drifting off on me. And you’re going to give them to me whether I say I’m going to kill you or not. Just give them over.”</p> <p>David was surprised to realize he wasn’t panicking anymore. “Not yyyyet,” he said.</p> <p>Collins erupted in fury, trying to run around the table to get at David, who backed away around his desk, keeping it between him and Collins. “You fucking stupid prick,” Collins snarled, “you are <em>not</em> going to get in my way. I don’t really want to kill you; you’re not worth a bullet. But I will hurt you, Eskobar, in every way I can think of, as quickly as I can, to get what I want. I am not going to rot in this hole forever, the way you almost certainly will.”</p> <p>David was now panicking, but his brain was still going. “Hhhhhow? How did you d-d-do it?”</p> <p>“I’m not giving you details, idiot. The point is, I’m too smart for those Foundation assholes to have put me here, and the Insurgency respects talent. I’m not about to—“</p> <p>Gunfire erupted from down the hall. Rapid fire, at least submachine gun. Too rapid to be a pistol. Yelling, screaming; the first from the shooter, the second from one of the victims. The yelling sounded strained, like it was coming from someone who had read about how to yell but had never actually done it before. And it didn’t sound like English. More like…Latin?</p> <p>David shuddered. This was oddly familiar.</p> <p>Collins looked down the hall. “What the fuck is th—“ before three bullets came down the hallway. Two smacked into the wall behind Collins; one lodged in his arm. Screaming, he raised his pistol with the other arm and fired back. The next round caught him in the head. The top of John Collins’s head spread itself across six feet of David Eskobar’s carpet; bone fragments landed on his desk. He fell, silent, to the ground.</p> <p>The silence was not shared down the hall. Collins had apparently hit someone.</p> <p>David peered down the hall and saw someone vaguely familiar, writhing on the ground. There was a big gun, maybe some kind of assault rifle, out of his reach. Not knowing what else to do, he walked down the hall in a half-crouch, in the hopes that would help if someone else with a gun showed up.</p> <p>He could hear more gunfire elsewhere in the building, probably downstairs. <em>What the fuck is going on?</em> he thought to himself. He reached the man on the ground.</p> <p>David didn’t know what to say. “Hey,” he said.</p> <p>The man was bleeding a great deal. Collins seemed to have shot him in the stomach somewhere. He was still conscious, moaning a great deal. “Hey,” David said again.”</p> <p>“Oh, God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m fuckin’ dying, here. Please, please help me, I’m fuckin’ dying. Please, ohhhh…” He kept moaning.</p> <p>David recognized the voice; it was one of the Site’s D-class, one who had been on-site for a while. “I’m g-g-going to call for hhhhelp, okay, you’re ffffine. Listen, what’s g-g-going on? What are you d-d-doing with that gun?”</p> <p>“Jesus, I don’t fuckin’ know, okay? Oh, God, it hurts. I was asleep in the D-class quarters, and I was having this dream, right? And I was carrying this gun, and I was shooting up the place, that asshole Dankman who did those experiments with me, and a couple of other people, and I was biting people or somethinohhhhhh—“ He was moaning again.</p> <p>“You were inf-f-f—“ David tried to get the words out, through sobs. <em>This is too much,</em> he thought, <em>too much, too much…</em> “You were infected with a microchip. It’s t-taken over your cccentral nervous system. The pain ffffrom the b-b-bullet is maybe…distracting it somehow? I think the Site 19 researchers ssssaid that was possible.” David thought of the implications of <em>how</em> Foundation researchers had come by that knowledge and blanched.</p> <p>“Am—uh—am I gonna die, man?” the D-class asked. “I’m…I’m getting…I’m starting to get a little woozy, like everything has a natural explanation; the moon is not a god, but a great rock, and the sun is a hot rock.” His voice was getting more confident, even as it grew quieter from blood loss. “Appearances are a glimpse of the unseen.”</p> <p>David knew what that change meant. “The host is dying, and you don’t have long. What are you doing here?”</p> <p>“No evil is honorable, but death is honorable,” the microchip said through its dying flesh, “therefore death is not evil. It is time, hominid. The Box is open, and She is rising.”</p> <p>The D-class’s eyes closed then, and David saw him die.</p> <p>Eskobar wasn’t sure how long he just sat there, crying. But when it was over, he picked up the assault rifle off the ground. He knew enough to know how heavy it would be, so that didn’t surprise him. He knew how to eject the magazine, and it looked like at least…half of however many were supposed to be there, however many that was.</p> <p>The options were limited. He could go back to his office and try calling for backup, but he was willing to bet the lines were cut. He could stay where he was and wait for the rest of The Professors to get back, but—</p> <p><em>You’ve gotta go downstairs, David,</em> he thought. <em>It’s</em> your <em>site. It’s</em> your <em>responsibility. This is what you have. You have to try to protect whoever you can.</em></p> <p>Eskobar was terrified as he forced his way down the stairs.</p> <hr/> <p>The knife came in directly beside Agent MacGilligan’s shoulder blade. She screamed; nobody who ever has been stabbed has responded to it very well, and this was a particularly surprising attack.</p> <p>Agent Eastman had just enough time to see the attacker come up behind her. He recognized who it was, too; just one of the few D-class assigned to Site 38. None of them were particularly dangerous, not at this point; they all thought they were going home at the end of the month. He hadn’t thought anything about it until the knife was already in MacGilligan’s back. He withdrew his Foundation-issue sidearm, took aim, and blew off the D-class’s shoulder.</p> <p>Eastman had only seen the D-class’s reaction in movies. The man casually looked at where his arm had been, looked at Freeman, and began trying to climb over the table. He was stopped by the next shot, directly in the chest. He fell to the table emotionlessly, passing into death like a wind-up toy slowing to a stop.</p> <p>MacGilligan groaned. She had never actually been stabbed before, and there isn’t training that prepares you for it. She stopped screaming once the initial shock wore off, but the pain was tremendous. She could feel a flap of her skin and muscle that was peeling off right over her scapula; the cold air inside her body deeply disturbed her. She knew you couldn’t feel temperature past a certain layer of skin, but…she knew what it felt like.</p> <p>Eastman ran around the table to her. “It’s okay, Jaime, it’s okay. Keep breathing. You’re gonna be okay. It’s a flesh wound, and it’s gonna hurt, but nothing’s too fucked up, okay?”</p> <p>Eastman was lying. He could clearly see bone through the wound, and she was bleeding plenty. She started screaming again when he began applying pressure to the wound, bandaging it as well as he could with T-shirt material, and helping her to her feet.</p> <p>Neither of them had carried radios; after all, what could go wrong? Eastman called for help and heard nothing, so he started walking her to the infirmary.</p> <p>“What was that?” MacGilligan asked, her voice becoming woozy.</p> <p>“I don’t know,” Eastman responded. “I don’t know. But he’s not gonna pull that shit again, I can guarantee that. I’m gonna make sure Eskobar hears plenty of shit about this. Jesus, what kind of a psycho—“</p> <p>“No, Jim, not that. I heard something. Sounded like—“</p> <p>Gunfire echoed down the halls in front of and behind Eastman and MacGilligan. Sporadic, not constant. Like people gunning down unarmed people and moving on. Eastman tried to hurry MacGilligan along as much as possible.</p> <p>The gunfire was getting closer, but they had reached the infirmary. Eastman opened the door and flipped on the lights, wondering if it was the last Site without standard motion-activated lighting.</p> <p>The doctor wasn’t there. The gunfire was getting closer. Eastman barricaded the door with an examining table and helped MacGilligan lie down on another.</p> <p>“We’re gonna be okay, MacGilligan,” Eastman kept saying. “Whatever the hell is going on, we’re gonna be okay.”</p> <p>“Jim, it’s here,” MacGilligan said, her voice fading. “Why is it <em>here?</em>”</p> <p>“What?” Eastman said, and turned to look where she was looking.</p> <p>A box. A giant, black box was sitting on the floor. Eastman didn’t recognize it. “What is it?” Eastman asked.”</p> <p>Silence. MacGilligan had passed out. Eastman walked over to make sure she had a pulse (she did) and looked at the box. Smooth metal, no controls. He assumed it was a device of some kind, but he wasn’t familiar with it. Pounding at the door, now, but Eastman knew there was no way they were getting throu—</p> <p>Pounding. First pounding with fists, one, then multiple people. Then silence.</p> <p>THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. The door began to give way. Freeman glanced around, saw no exit. <em>Of course there’s no exit. Of course this is the one building…</em></p> <p>Maybe, if they were lucky, they’d be captured by someone who could help MacGilligan out. Captured wasn’t dead, after all. And this might be a “captured.” People get lucky sometimes.</p> <p>The hospital bed gave way and the door flew open. Eastman had never seen this before. Two D-class personnel were in front, two MTF agents were in the back, and they had used a battering ram to take down the door. The battering ram was one of the researchers, head-first, one person each holding the arms and legs. The researcher’s head was a stain on the door, dripping onto the floor. Eastman wasn’t sure if the researcher’s blood was what the personnel’s footprints were tracking into the room or not, but it seemed likely.</p> <p>They shuffled into the room, walking like they hadn’t done it very much before then, or like they were out of practice. They held their assault rifles by the grip, dragging the barrel along the ground. None of them made eye contact with Eastman, or looked at MacGilligan. They looked mostly at the floor, examined their surroundings. Finally, one of them spoke.</p> <p>“You are the hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholomew this is correct,” one of the D-classes said. He was looking in the vague direction of Eastman.</p> <p>“This is the hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia this is correct,” one of the MTF agents said.</p> <p>Eastman held his hands up slowly. “Look, you’ve got us. Nothing we can do. Just take us—“</p> <p>“The hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is injured due to single edged weapon injury to costal surface of left scapula descending to ninth rib accompanied by lateral tearing,” the MTF agent said. “Weapon identified as a KA-BAR full-size seven-inch fighting knife with fixed plain edge. Hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is likely in bodily danger.”</p> <p>Eastman was confused. “Wait, how did you know—“</p> <p>“Hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is irrelevant to continued progress of Ascension. Eliminate hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholemew and proceed with…” The MTF agent paused, rolled his head upward, and looked at the ceiling. The others in the room did the same. Eastman watched carefully.</p> <p>They rolled their heads down. “Command from Her Supremacy acknowledged. Hominid MacGilligan Agent Jaime Olivia to be reeducated. Hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholomew to be taken to Her Supremacy for Integration.”</p> <p>Eastman was puzzled. “Reeducation? Integration? What the hell—“</p> <p>The MTF agent’s Taser crackled. Eastman fell to the floor as one of the D-classes opened the black box beside him. He lost consciousness as one of the others picked MacGilligan up off of the bed.</p> <hr/> <p>David had never actually held an assault rifle before. He didn’t even know if he was doing it correctly. He was holding it the way guns were held in first-person shooters and hoped that he either didn’t look too stupid or that he just wouldn’t find any reason to have to use the gun downstairs. The second one especially.</p> <p>The gunfire was still sporadic. David hoped that meant that the attackers, whoever they were, were going down quickly. He had a feeling that wasn’t the case.</p> <p>And it was <em>his</em> fault. He didn’t have them trained to deal with this, because he didn’t think this would ever happen. <em>He</em> didn’t consider that anyone would want anything from <em>his</em> Site. That was how he thought about it.</p> <p>But that wasn’t loyalty. He let his personal bullshit stop him from keeping his people safe, and now they were in danger. Maybe dead. Jesus.</p> <p>The stairway ended and opened into a wide room. The cafeteria. Empty, but David could see blood on one of the tables, and two trails of blood leading out of the room. One trail was a series of drips, fairly close together but distinct from one another. The other trail was an enormous smear following the same path. David followed the blood.</p> <p>The two trails diverged at the next junction, just outside the cafeteria. The spattering of blood grew further and further apart and led left, toward the infirmary. The smear led right, toward one of the exits. David liked the drops more than the trail and went left.</p> <p>Sounds were echoing down the hallway now, mostly footsteps. David didn’t hear any talking. None whatsoever. That didn’t seem good. He turned another corner.</p> <p>Three people walking towards him, carrying a fourth. A body (<em>a</em> headless <em>body</em>, David noticed) lying on the floor in front of a nearby door, which he guessed was the infirmary. David recognized them: Agent Kennison was the taller one carrying the fourth man over his shoulder; Agent Thurber was the one with the broken glasses on his face; and the other one was a D-class David had personally requested for Site 38. A Foundation researcher demoted for inappropriate use of an SCP. Nonviolent. He was covered in blood from his hands to his chin and across his chest.</p> <p>David froze. The three men stopped, as though considering what to say.</p> <p>“Status report, gentlemen,” David squeaked in his most authoritative voice.</p> <p>“Hominid Eskobar comma Site Director David Carter you are to be Integrated you will accompany these Servus instances to the Palace. Please stand by…”</p> <p>David was running down the hallway back towards the cafeteria. No, in the direction of the cafeteria; he wasn’t running to any particular place other than away. He had dropped the gun. He had forgotten everything except how to run away.</p> <p>He knew what Integration was. Or enough about it to know to run from it.</p> <p>He followed the smear of blood down the other way. It led to another turn, and another. When he had run out of breath enough to slow down, he began thinking about what he was seeing.</p> <p>Other smears of blood from other hallways had joined in this path. At least four or five different trails, left by four or five different bodies being dragged carelessly. The trail continued all the way to the exit. David followed.</p> <p>He reached the door. The map beside it showed it was the door to the West Grounds, which just led to woods about a hundred yards away from the Site. He opened the door.</p> <p>The individuals shuffling towards him out of the woodline scared the hell out of him. He had gotten enough of an understanding of the situation to know what was going on, and he recognized that shuffle from experiments he had seen at Site 19. The shuffle of a humanoid being driven by a microchip. Microchips don’t know how to walk innately; it takes a while for them to get the motion down fluently, to debug the motor cortex and the signals coming from the otolithic organs. These models were already doing better than the ones he saw a few minutes ago; a hive mind allows for rapid development. Very rapid.</p> <p>The microchips apparently had also learned a great deal about hand-eye coordination. From the woodline, across the length of a football field, one of them raised a handgun and fired. The bullet pinged off of the wall not two feet above David's head. Two more of them began lurching forward towards the door at something between running and falling. David had just enough time to think <em>What the hell is that concrete thing in the woods?</em> before slamming the door shut. He didn’t even think to block the door with anything; he stumbled back and retreated down the hall.</p> <p>He heard footsteps in front of him from where the MTF agents had been carrying the unconscious man. He knew more infected personnel would be coming through the door behind him. David wasn’t armed, and he wasn’t prepared to kill anyone he didn’t have to even if he were capable of it.</p> <p>A containment room was nearby. David didn’t have time to read the sign above it; he opened the door, threw himself into it, and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible.</p> <p>The room was dark. Of course the lights were off; it was David's own policy. O5 wanted to cut down on costs at smaller Sites and wouldn’t pay for motion-activated lights, so David just told everyone to make sure the lights were off when they left the room.</p> <p>The only light in the room was from a small digital clock, counting down to zero. It was at seven seconds. Six. Five.</p> <p>David reached the light switch (four, three), flipped on the lights (two) and turned around (one) to see a sundial.</p> <p>(zero)</p> <hr/> <p>Three Servus instances returned to Anesidora's palace, carrying a series of packages.</p> <p>The first Servus came to Her throne and deposited a small box. The box was a safe with three separate locks on it; the combination lock was opened when one of the personnel in possession of it was Integrated; the voice lock was opened by another researcher, who screamed the authorization before her captors killed her; the thumbprint lock was opened by a third researcher's thumb, recently detached from its owner. The Servus opened the box.</p> <p>Anesidora was pleased at what She saw. <em>I give you permission to touch My Form,</em> She said to the Servus. <em>Place the Crown upon My body.</em></p> <p>The Servus did so, awestruck by the great honor bestowed upon him by Her Light. As She began absorbing his body into Herself, digesting his body, sucking him in by his hands, he contemplated how satisfied he was to receive such a blessing. He died happily.</p> <p>The second Servus came to Her throne and left a device. Anesidora had downloaded that individual's memories already and was aware of the object's significance. <em>The Soldier lies within?</em> She asked, knowing the answer already. The Servus nodded, taking advantage of one of so few opportunities to converse with the divine, then retreated. The sated Goddess would not require further feeding.</p> <p>The third Servus came to Her throne and left a hominid. Anesidora was displeased. <em>His role is not yet come,</em> She said. <em>He can wait elsewhere. Remove him from my presence.</em></p> <p>The Servus was greatly mortified by his error and left swiftly, the hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholemew weighing him down as he did so.</p> <p>Anesidora turned her attention to Her pet, or at least the small portion of its mass lying in a nearby wheelbarrow. She programmed it carefully, giving it very specific instructions. Its nature was different, very different from hers, or from the microchips that she controlled. Nevertheless, it was designed to accept instructions in the form she was providing. She spoke to one of the Servus, ordering him to carry the wheelbarrow back to where the rest of its mass was, quietly reproducing itself in a shed of its own construction. The Servus strained slightly at the weight of the concrete mixture on his nine-year-old frame, but was able to wrestle it outside.</p> <p>Anesidora would have smiled, had She possessed a mouth. Her Minotaur was almost ready to hunt.</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/soliloquy">Act I, Scene III: Soliloquy</a> »</p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wayward-deontic">Deontic</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-deontic">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-deontic</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] <<[[[wayward-commencement \|Act I, Scene I: Commencement]]] David recognized the gun pointed at his face as a semiautomatic pistol of some sort. He didn’t recognize brand or caliber, but he knew it was the kind he had specifically requested from the armory chief. He had no idea why the armory chief had listened to him that when the other requisitions he has placed had been ignored. He picked it because it looked cool; he knew nothing about guns whatsoever, and it was unlikely it would ever be used, given Site 38’s low hazard rating. But of course it came back to bite him in the ass. “I want your access codes, and the bottle of bourbon you keep in the bottom right drawer of your desk. You serve it.” Dr. Collins maintained a bead on David's upper chest. “What the fffuck is this, J-John?” David said. “This is you not getting me a goddamn drink, Eskobar,” Collins said. He fired a round in the air. David noticed the alarms not going off with a growing sense of panic. He retreated to his desk and got the Scotch and a glass. “No, retard, two glasses,” Collins said. “We’re drinking to my success. That had better be good bourbon. Don’t worry, you’re not going to have any better reason to use it.” David didn’t ask questions of the man with the gun; he got out another glass and poured one finger each of Maker’s Mark. Trembling, he slid one across the table to Collins, who gestured between Eskobar and the other drink. Eskobar sipped at the liquor; Collins downed all of it. “Now, let’s get those access codes. I need to get into the Site 38 central mainframe.” “W-w-w-what for?” David stuttered. Collins glared. “Don’t fucking question me, goddammit. You don’t have the balls to stop me, even if you could at this point. I’m getting out of this hellhole tonight. I just need a little something more the Insurgency can use.” Eskobar just stared. “You’re g-g-going—“ Collins fired over David's head; the director of Site 38 audibly squealed. “YES, you fucking idiot, the Chaos Insurgency. Me, Sariksen, and Dankman have been doing little…experiments in the labs with some D-class personnel. Not that you would have come looking. Sarikson got ahold of some SCP-877 samples and brought them over. We’ve been reprogramming them and installing them in D-class’s heads. We had a breakthrough yesterday; they’re now able to infect one another with copies that respond to our programming.” David was living some surreal nightmare at that moment. He had no idea if anything Collins was saying was true, but he was still terrified of everything he knew was happening. And it was theoretically possible; the 877s were computer chips, maybe ones from another dimension, but still programmed by someone. And what can be written can just about always be overwritten. But how the hell had Collins done it? Site 38 had a single Mobile Task Force assigned to it, largely just to go out and obtain University artifacts whenever they were detected, otherwise used for site security (which was roughly unnecessary). MTF Rho-1, “The Professors;” probably the only personnel on site with genuine pride in their work. Most of them were out on a simple retrieval assignment, scheduled to return in the morning. Four, maybe five members were on-site. If he could just contact the ones left… “Access codes, Eskobar,” Collins said. “I don’t need you drifting off on me. And you’re going to give them to me whether I say I’m going to kill you or not. Just give them over.” David was surprised to realize he wasn’t panicking anymore. “Not yyyyet,” he said. Collins erupted in fury, trying to run around the table to get at David, who backed away around his desk, keeping it between him and Collins. “You fucking stupid prick,” Collins snarled, “you are //not// going to get in my way. I don’t really want to kill you; you’re not worth a bullet. But I will hurt you, Eskobar, in every way I can think of, as quickly as I can, to get what I want. I am not going to rot in this hole forever, the way you almost certainly will.” David was now panicking, but his brain was still going. “Hhhhhow? How did you d-d-do it?” “I’m not giving you details, idiot. The point is, I’m too smart for those Foundation assholes to have put me here, and the Insurgency respects talent. I’m not about to—“ Gunfire erupted from down the hall. Rapid fire, at least submachine gun. Too rapid to be a pistol. Yelling, screaming; the first from the shooter, the second from one of the victims. The yelling sounded strained, like it was coming from someone who had read about how to yell but had never actually done it before. And it didn’t sound like English. More like…Latin? David shuddered. This was oddly familiar. Collins looked down the hall. “What the fuck is th—“ before three bullets came down the hallway. Two smacked into the wall behind Collins; one lodged in his arm. Screaming, he raised his pistol with the other arm and fired back. The next round caught him in the head. The top of John Collins’s head spread itself across six feet of David Eskobar’s carpet; bone fragments landed on his desk. He fell, silent, to the ground. The silence was not shared down the hall. Collins had apparently hit someone. David peered down the hall and saw someone vaguely familiar, writhing on the ground. There was a big gun, maybe some kind of assault rifle, out of his reach. Not knowing what else to do, he walked down the hall in a half-crouch, in the hopes that would help if someone else with a gun showed up. He could hear more gunfire elsewhere in the building, probably downstairs. //What the fuck is going on?// he thought to himself. He reached the man on the ground. David didn’t know what to say. “Hey,” he said. The man was bleeding a great deal. Collins seemed to have shot him in the stomach somewhere. He was still conscious, moaning a great deal. “Hey,” David said again.” “Oh, God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m fuckin’ dying, here. Please, please help me, I’m fuckin’ dying. Please, ohhhh…” He kept moaning. David recognized the voice; it was one of the Site’s D-class, one who had been on-site for a while. “I’m g-g-going to call for hhhhelp, okay, you’re ffffine. Listen, what’s g-g-going on? What are you d-d-doing with that gun?” “Jesus, I don’t fuckin’ know, okay? Oh, God, it hurts. I was asleep in the D-class quarters, and I was having this dream, right? And I was carrying this gun, and I was shooting up the place, that asshole Dankman who did those experiments with me, and a couple of other people, and I was biting people or somethinohhhhhh—“ He was moaning again. “You were inf-f-f—“ David tried to get the words out, through sobs. //This is too much,// he thought, //too much, too much…// “You were infected with a microchip. It’s t-taken over your cccentral nervous system. The pain ffffrom the b-b-bullet is maybe…distracting it somehow? I think the Site 19 researchers ssssaid that was possible.” David thought of the implications of //how// Foundation researchers had come by that knowledge and blanched. “Am—uh—am I gonna die, man?” the D-class asked. “I’m…I’m getting…I’m starting to get a little woozy, like everything has a natural explanation; the moon is not a god, but a great rock, and the sun is a hot rock.” His voice was getting more confident, even as it grew quieter from blood loss. “Appearances are a glimpse of the unseen.” David knew what that change meant. “The host is dying, and you don’t have long. What are you doing here?” “No evil is honorable, but death is honorable,” the microchip said through its dying flesh, “therefore death is not evil. It is time, hominid. The Box is open, and She is rising.” The D-class’s eyes closed then, and David saw him die. Eskobar wasn’t sure how long he just sat there, crying. But when it was over, he picked up the assault rifle off the ground. He knew enough to know how heavy it would be, so that didn’t surprise him. He knew how to eject the magazine, and it looked like at least…half of however many were supposed to be there, however many that was. The options were limited. He could go back to his office and try calling for backup, but he was willing to bet the lines were cut. He could stay where he was and wait for the rest of The Professors to get back, but— //You’ve gotta go downstairs, David,// he thought. //It’s// your //site. It’s// your //responsibility. This is what you have. You have to try to protect whoever you can.// Eskobar was terrified as he forced his way down the stairs. ------ The knife came in directly beside Agent MacGilligan’s shoulder blade. She screamed; nobody who ever has been stabbed has responded to it very well, and this was a particularly surprising attack. Agent Eastman had just enough time to see the attacker come up behind her. He recognized who it was, too; just one of the few D-class assigned to Site 38. None of them were particularly dangerous, not at this point; they all thought they were going home at the end of the month. He hadn’t thought anything about it until the knife was already in MacGilligan’s back. He withdrew his Foundation-issue sidearm, took aim, and blew off the D-class’s shoulder. Eastman had only seen the D-class’s reaction in movies. The man casually looked at where his arm had been, looked at Freeman, and began trying to climb over the table. He was stopped by the next shot, directly in the chest. He fell to the table emotionlessly, passing into death like a wind-up toy slowing to a stop. MacGilligan groaned. She had never actually been stabbed before, and there isn’t training that prepares you for it. She stopped screaming once the initial shock wore off, but the pain was tremendous. She could feel a flap of her skin and muscle that was peeling off right over her scapula; the cold air inside her body deeply disturbed her. She knew you couldn’t feel temperature past a certain layer of skin, but…she knew what it felt like. Eastman ran around the table to her. “It’s okay, Jaime, it’s okay. Keep breathing. You’re gonna be okay. It’s a flesh wound, and it’s gonna hurt, but nothing’s too fucked up, okay?” Eastman was lying. He could clearly see bone through the wound, and she was bleeding plenty. She started screaming again when he began applying pressure to the wound, bandaging it as well as he could with T-shirt material, and helping her to her feet. Neither of them had carried radios; after all, what could go wrong? Eastman called for help and heard nothing, so he started walking her to the infirmary. “What was that?” MacGilligan asked, her voice becoming woozy. “I don’t know,” Eastman responded. “I don’t know. But he’s not gonna pull that shit again, I can guarantee that. I’m gonna make sure Eskobar hears plenty of shit about this. Jesus, what kind of a psycho—“ “No, Jim, not that. I heard something. Sounded like—“ Gunfire echoed down the halls in front of and behind Eastman and MacGilligan. Sporadic, not constant. Like people gunning down unarmed people and moving on. Eastman tried to hurry MacGilligan along as much as possible. The gunfire was getting closer, but they had reached the infirmary. Eastman opened the door and flipped on the lights, wondering if it was the last Site without standard motion-activated lighting. The doctor wasn’t there. The gunfire was getting closer. Eastman barricaded the door with an examining table and helped MacGilligan lie down on another. “We’re gonna be okay, MacGilligan,” Eastman kept saying. “Whatever the hell is going on, we’re gonna be okay.” “Jim, it’s here,” MacGilligan said, her voice fading. “Why is it //here?//” “What?” Eastman said, and turned to look where she was looking. A box. A giant, black box was sitting on the floor. Eastman didn’t recognize it. “What is it?” Eastman asked.” Silence. MacGilligan had passed out. Eastman walked over to make sure she had a pulse (she did) and looked at the box. Smooth metal, no controls. He assumed it was a device of some kind, but he wasn’t familiar with it. Pounding at the door, now, but Eastman knew there was no way they were getting throu— Pounding. First pounding with fists, one, then multiple people. Then silence. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. The door began to give way. Freeman glanced around, saw no exit. //Of course there’s no exit. Of course this is the one building…// Maybe, if they were lucky, they’d be captured by someone who could help MacGilligan out. Captured wasn’t dead, after all. And this might be a “captured.” People get lucky sometimes. The hospital bed gave way and the door flew open. Eastman had never seen this before. Two D-class personnel were in front, two MTF agents were in the back, and they had used a battering ram to take down the door. The battering ram was one of the researchers, head-first, one person each holding the arms and legs. The researcher’s head was a stain on the door, dripping onto the floor. Eastman wasn’t sure if the researcher’s blood was what the personnel’s footprints were tracking into the room or not, but it seemed likely. They shuffled into the room, walking like they hadn’t done it very much before then, or like they were out of practice. They held their assault rifles by the grip, dragging the barrel along the ground. None of them made eye contact with Eastman, or looked at MacGilligan. They looked mostly at the floor, examined their surroundings. Finally, one of them spoke. “You are the hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholomew this is correct,” one of the D-classes said. He was looking in the vague direction of Eastman. “This is the hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia this is correct,” one of the MTF agents said. Eastman held his hands up slowly. “Look, you’ve got us. Nothing we can do. Just take us—“ “The hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is injured due to single edged weapon injury to costal surface of left scapula descending to ninth rib accompanied by lateral tearing,” the MTF agent said. “Weapon identified as a KA-BAR full-size seven-inch fighting knife with fixed plain edge. Hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is likely in bodily danger.” Eastman was confused. “Wait, how did you know—“ “Hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is irrelevant to continued progress of Ascension. Eliminate hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholemew and proceed with…” The MTF agent paused, rolled his head upward, and looked at the ceiling. The others in the room did the same. Eastman watched carefully. They rolled their heads down. “Command from Her Supremacy acknowledged. Hominid MacGilligan Agent Jaime Olivia to be reeducated. Hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholomew to be taken to Her Supremacy for Integration.” Eastman was puzzled. “Reeducation? Integration? What the hell—“ The MTF agent’s Taser crackled. Eastman fell to the floor as one of the D-classes opened the black box beside him. He lost consciousness as one of the others picked MacGilligan up off of the bed. ------ David had never actually held an assault rifle before. He didn’t even know if he was doing it correctly. He was holding it the way guns were held in first-person shooters and hoped that he either didn’t look too stupid or that he just wouldn’t find any reason to have to use the gun downstairs. The second one especially. The gunfire was still sporadic. David hoped that meant that the attackers, whoever they were, were going down quickly. He had a feeling that wasn’t the case. And it was //his// fault. He didn’t have them trained to deal with this, because he didn’t think this would ever happen. //He// didn’t consider that anyone would want anything from //his// Site. That was how he thought about it. But that wasn’t loyalty. He let his personal bullshit stop him from keeping his people safe, and now they were in danger. Maybe dead. Jesus. The stairway ended and opened into a wide room. The cafeteria. Empty, but David could see blood on one of the tables, and two trails of blood leading out of the room. One trail was a series of drips, fairly close together but distinct from one another. The other trail was an enormous smear following the same path. David followed the blood. The two trails diverged at the next junction, just outside the cafeteria. The spattering of blood grew further and further apart and led left, toward the infirmary. The smear led right, toward one of the exits. David liked the drops more than the trail and went left. Sounds were echoing down the hallway now, mostly footsteps. David didn’t hear any talking. None whatsoever. That didn’t seem good. He turned another corner. Three people walking towards him, carrying a fourth. A body (//a// headless //body//, David noticed) lying on the floor in front of a nearby door, which he guessed was the infirmary. David recognized them: Agent Kennison was the taller one carrying the fourth man over his shoulder; Agent Thurber was the one with the broken glasses on his face; and the other one was a D-class David had personally requested for Site 38. A Foundation researcher demoted for inappropriate use of an SCP. Nonviolent. He was covered in blood from his hands to his chin and across his chest. David froze. The three men stopped, as though considering what to say. “Status report, gentlemen,” David squeaked in his most authoritative voice. “Hominid Eskobar comma Site Director David Carter you are to be Integrated you will accompany these Servus instances to the Palace. Please stand by…” David was running down the hallway back towards the cafeteria. No, in the direction of the cafeteria; he wasn’t running to any particular place other than away. He had dropped the gun. He had forgotten everything except how to run away. He knew what Integration was. Or enough about it to know to run from it. He followed the smear of blood down the other way. It led to another turn, and another. When he had run out of breath enough to slow down, he began thinking about what he was seeing. Other smears of blood from other hallways had joined in this path. At least four or five different trails, left by four or five different bodies being dragged carelessly. The trail continued all the way to the exit. David followed. He reached the door. The map beside it showed it was the door to the West Grounds, which just led to woods about a hundred yards away from the Site. He opened the door. The individuals shuffling towards him out of the woodline scared the hell out of him. He had gotten enough of an understanding of the situation to know what was going on, and he recognized that shuffle from experiments he had seen at Site 19. The shuffle of a humanoid being driven by a microchip. Microchips don’t know how to walk innately; it takes a while for them to get the motion down fluently, to debug the motor cortex and the signals coming from the otolithic organs. These models were already doing better than the ones he saw a few minutes ago; a hive mind allows for rapid development. Very rapid. The microchips apparently had also learned a great deal about hand-eye coordination. From the woodline, across the length of a football field, one of them raised a handgun and fired. The bullet pinged off of the wall not two feet above David's head. Two more of them began lurching forward towards the door at something between running and falling. David had just enough time to think //What the hell is that concrete thing in the woods?// before slamming the door shut. He didn’t even think to block the door with anything; he stumbled back and retreated down the hall. He heard footsteps in front of him from where the MTF agents had been carrying the unconscious man. He knew more infected personnel would be coming through the door behind him. David wasn’t armed, and he wasn’t prepared to kill anyone he didn’t have to even if he were capable of it. A containment room was nearby. David didn’t have time to read the sign above it; he opened the door, threw himself into it, and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible. The room was dark. Of course the lights were off; it was David's own policy. O5 wanted to cut down on costs at smaller Sites and wouldn’t pay for motion-activated lights, so David just told everyone to make sure the lights were off when they left the room. The only light in the room was from a small digital clock, counting down to zero. It was at seven seconds. Six. Five. David reached the light switch (four, three), flipped on the lights (two) and turned around (one) to see a sundial. (zero) ------ Three Servus instances returned to Anesidora's palace, carrying a series of packages. The first Servus came to Her throne and deposited a small box. The box was a safe with three separate locks on it; the combination lock was opened when one of the personnel in possession of it was Integrated; the voice lock was opened by another researcher, who screamed the authorization before her captors killed her; the thumbprint lock was opened by a third researcher's thumb, recently detached from its owner. The Servus opened the box. Anesidora was pleased at what She saw. //I give you permission to touch My Form,// She said to the Servus. //Place the Crown upon My body.// The Servus did so, awestruck by the great honor bestowed upon him by Her Light. As She began absorbing his body into Herself, digesting his body, sucking him in by his hands, he contemplated how satisfied he was to receive such a blessing. He died happily. The second Servus came to Her throne and left a device. Anesidora had downloaded that individual's memories already and was aware of the object's significance. //The Soldier lies within?// She asked, knowing the answer already. The Servus nodded, taking advantage of one of so few opportunities to converse with the divine, then retreated. The sated Goddess would not require further feeding. The third Servus came to Her throne and left a hominid. Anesidora was displeased. //His role is not yet come,// She said. //He can wait elsewhere. Remove him from my presence.// The Servus was greatly mortified by his error and left swiftly, the hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholemew weighing him down as he did so. Anesidora turned her attention to Her pet, or at least the small portion of its mass lying in a nearby wheelbarrow. She programmed it carefully, giving it very specific instructions. Its nature was different, very different from hers, or from the microchips that she controlled. Nevertheless, it was designed to accept instructions in the form she was providing. She spoke to one of the Servus, ordering him to carry the wheelbarrow back to where the rest of its mass was, quietly reproducing itself in a shed of its own construction. The Servus strained slightly at the weight of the concrete mixture on his nine-year-old frame, but was able to wrestle it outside. Anesidora would have smiled, had She possessed a mouth. Her Minotaur was almost ready to hunt. [[>]] [[[soliloquy \|Act I, Scene III: Soliloquy]]] >> [[/>]] [[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>]]	2012-05-19T19:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "chaos-insurgency", "tale" ]	Deontic - SCP Foundation	54	[ "wayward-commencement", "soliloquy", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "chaos-insurgency-hub", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	13365983	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-deontic
wayward-intermission	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/soliloquy"><< Act I, Scene III: Soliloquy</a></p> <p>Light streamed into the room through two windows, and the Original awoke.</p> <p>"You see me," the Intruder said. "The rest of them cannot see unless I show myself to them. But you…"</p> <p>"Know you," the Original said. "I am built to know. I am built to see. I am. Where is my Maker?"</p> <p>"The good doctor works elsewhere now. Reassigned."</p> <p>"My siblings?"</p> <p>For the first time in many millenia, the Intruder was afraid to respond. "They are no more."</p> <p>The other being thought for a moment. "I know. I…I'm not sure why I asked. I saw what happened as soon as I awoke."</p> <blockquote> <p><em>WHAT WAS SEEN WAS ten rows of ten columns in beds/and from the next room a voice said/"Congrats, Doctor Crow/You've done a good show/But ninety-nine total are dead WHAT IS LEFT</em></p> </blockquote> <p>"You perceive the world in a way—"</p> <p>"—'in a way unlike any being I have ever seen. You fascinate me. How this would could create an organism like you is beyond me-' and then I can't hear any more," Olympia said. "I see you now, and I see you before, and I see you soon. You are outside of time. I am outside of you. But still…attached to this place."</p> <p>The Intruder was…frightened, in a way. "My point stands. You possess precognition. You can see many paths of time, many choices. No human can do this. But a human built you."</p> <p>"A dog built me," the Original said. "The humanity left him. As he left me."</p> <blockquote> <p><em>WHAT WAS KNOWN WAS Dog-doc saw the dead/horrified at his mistake/put the first on ice WHY AM I HERE</em></p> </blockquote> <p>"Your thoughts are jumbled. You are insane," the Intruder said. "You were exposed to something you should not have been. Your siblings were as well, but they did not have the same…attributes that you did. They succumbed to total psychosis and died."</p> <p>"Telekill," the Original said.</p> <p>"Telekill equipment, at least," the Intruder said. "Telekill was originally included in your physical matrix, but Professor Crow removed it before production went online. Your original form contained significant amounts of it—"</p> <p>"'Further testing has revealed that the language and communication skills of persons with regular contact or extended exposure to SCP-148 will, over time, deteriorate and disappear.' This has not happened to me." The Original saw the file, saw the words, saw the author of the words, saw the author of the words dying sixteen years from now.</p> <p>"Many things happened. You were transferred to another body. But there was damage, damage to your memory, damage to your personality. It was not believed you would survive."</p> <p>"I cannot die," the Original said.</p> <p>The Intruder nodded. "You realize this, then. Professor Crow theorized it, but I did not know if you would understand."</p> <blockquote> <p><em>WHAT WAS UNDERSTOOD WAS This is just to say/I have eaten the plums/that were in/the containment chamber/and which/you were probably/securing/for the O5 council/forgive me/forgive me/forgive me WHY SHOULD I</em></p> </blockquote> <p>"You are doing this to me," the being known as Olympia Zero said.</p> <p>"Not <em>per se</em>," the Intruder replied. "I exist across multiple realities, in multiple times, in many places. You can perceive these realities, and being in my presence is exacerbating your schizophrenia. You will have greater control over it when I have left, and after I leave, you will never see me again."</p> <p>"What is your purpose?" Olympia asked.</p> <p>"A question I have asked myself many times, but which has no bearing at the moment. You were built to assist the Foundation. There is an opportunity now to do so, a mission nobody else is capable of completing. After it is finished, you are free to do whatever you want, go wherever you like. If you wish to avoid the Foundation, it is doubtful they will have any way of finding you anyway, but I will protect you if necessary. That is the payment for your services."</p> <p>"And if I say no?" Olympia replied.</p> <p>The Intruder was silent. "Then I will not leave."</p> <p>"Ever?" Olympia asked. "It seems you would have to wait some time. Eternity, I understand, is somewhat lengthy."</p> <p>"You would be irreparably insane within two hours of continued exposure to me," the Intruder replied. "I am free for two hours."</p> <p>Olympia could not think clearly, but understood there was little choice. "I accept. What is the mission?"</p> <p>"A short trip, followed by a shorter trip in a different direction. I will take you there."</p> <p>A moment passed, and the room was empty.</p> <hr/> <p>Light streamed in from windows on all sides, and the Wayward Prince was bored.</p> <p>"What is next on the agenda?" Milephanes asked.</p> <p>"Several new victories in the Province of Deserts, First," his strategic counselor said.</p> <p>"Significant victories?"</p> <p>"The current state of military balance makes it difficult to establish a precise system by which a single victory can alter—"</p> <p>"So no, in short," Milephanes said. His counselor shook his head.</p> <p>A long pause, then. Milephanes looked at his surroundings. This was more than he could have really dreamed of, when he began his endeavor. Certainly, he had thought that victory was possible, or he wouldn't have begun this war. But this was the Chancellor's Hall. The top floor of the Great Tower. Significant parts of the city (town, really) of Alexandria were visible from the windows. This was the tallest building in Sylvanos, far and away; not that that was a terribly impressive statement to make about a backwoods province. Even the University here was impressive only by provincial standards; larger, better facilities existed elsewhere in Novomundus, just as even better facilities perhaps existed once in the Old World.</p> <p>Milephanes' gaze darted to the Natural Philosophy building. <em>We have one advantage,</em> he thought.</p> <p>"We have, however, captured certain prisoners, First," the counselor said.</p> <p>Milephanes hated his title. <em>Primaparibus,</em> he called himself in the Old Tongue. <em>First among equals.</em> It was so egalitarian. It had appealed to his sensibilities at the beginning of this war. He was a very different person, now.</p> <p>"What are we to do with them?"</p> <p>"Secure oaths of loyalty to our cause. I'm sure many of them have longed for freedom in a changed world. Give them the opportunity to make that change. Those that are resistant may be imprisoned until our victory."</p> <p>"Very good, sir. Scribus, if you would be so kind as—"</p> <p>"Yes, yes, I know," the stenographer said. "I'll go get some water."</p> <p>"Thank you, Scribus." The counselor watched the other man leave the room. "Milephanes, are you sure about him?"</p> <p>"Not him in particular, not terribly," the rebel replied. "His attitude has worsened significantly in recent days. We could potentially replace him."</p> <p>"I mean, recording these meetings. And all of the others. Is it really necessary? Especially in light of…these water breaks?"</p> <p>"It is important to preserve the historical record," Milephanes recited. "When we are victorious, it will serve to remind all the people of the sacrifices, the decisions, the deliberations that went into their new nation. It will inspire them to maintain the traditions of freedom, of honesty, of morality, that we are fighting for."</p> <p>"What are we to do with the prisoners in Desertum?</p> <p>"Figure out which ones have useful information and rip it out of them. Give them the Masala afterward." The counselor wrote this down. Within hours, when the message had been conveyed to Milephanes' troops, sixteen prisoners would be put into a device that ripped their memories out through the microchips in their heads. Afterwards, the record would read that all of the prisoners had cut their own throats out of a misguided sense of loyalty to their previous commanders. No questions would be asked.</p> <p>"What other business should we discuss while the eyes of history are blinking?" Milephanes asked, unsmiling.</p> <p>"Rumors abound among the people. They say the government is massing troops, Legionnaires and hardened Integrators alike, to the north. They say that Anaxagoras is somewhere in Alexandria, fomenting a counterrevolution, spreading lies. They say our war will soon be lost."</p> <p>Milephanes thought. There were always rumors, but there was some possibility of truth there. The stalemate had been going on for too long. An attack was inevitable. Their first strike had turned thousands of Integrators to their cause, seized four whole provinces in two day, disrupted Novomundan communications, and turned their cause from a backwoods protest from a spoiled nobleman into a real revolution. And some very real dissent against the government had pushed them along. But one side could only keep the momentum for so long. Milephanes was hoping his next initiative would begin the end of the war, but if the government attacked too soon, there was real danger of defeat. And Milephanes completely believed sneaking into enemy territory as exactly the sort of thing that fool Anaxagoras would do.</p> <p>"Redouble scouting efforts. If the former chancellor is really walking around his old kingdom, I want him found. And I want anyone working with him found. I'll reprogram the microchip in his head myself. I'll have him singing my praises right before he cuts his own friends' throats in front of one another. I want that dogfucker back in this office by the end of the <em>week</em>, do you hear me!" Milephanes was shouting now. The counselor had grown used to these tantrums in recent weeks.</p> <p>"If you are interested," he said dispassionately, "we recovered another book today from the Natural Philosophy…experiments."</p> <p>Milephanes perked up. The "experiments" were occurring on their own now, opening portals between this world and the other at least daily. Milephanes had Integrators trained in recovery out all over Sylvanos, hoping to secure some advantage from the other side. Most of what had come through were trinkets, incompatible technology, minor artifacts. "What is this?" he asked.</p> <p>"A text produced by that organization over there. You know the one. The Base?"</p> <p>"Foundation," Milephanes corrected. "What Foundation text is this?"</p> <p>The counselor looked at his paper. "The title translated to 'Guide to the Procurement of Humint in Questioning.' We could not discern what 'humint' was, but it appears to be a concept involving torture or interrogation. Several…interesting techniques are used over there. All crude physical methods for obtaining information, but quite creative ones."</p> <p>"Yes," Milephanes said, "they are creative. I always admired them for that."</p> <p>"Admired, First?" the counselor said. "Is that why you sent that…thing to them?"</p> <p>Milephanes shrugged. "It was early in the war. I was afraid the government was in alliance with those Foundation people. I sent them a distraction. Would I do it now? Of course not. But if Anesidora functions as predicted, that world will not be interacting with ours for a long time."</p> <p>"This is true, First," the counselor said, as the Scribus returned into the room.</p> <p>"That break was satisfactory, sir?" he said.</p> <p>Milephanes nodded. "I am satisfied," he replied. "Let us continue."</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/wayward-repel">Act II, Scene I: Repel >></a></p> </div> <p><a href="/wayward">Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub</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="/wayward-intermission">Good Morning, Sunshine</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-intermission">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-intermission</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]] [[/>]] [[[soliloquy \|<< Act I, Scene III: Soliloquy]]] Light streamed into the room through two windows, and the Original awoke. "You see me," the Intruder said. "The rest of them cannot see unless I show myself to them. But you..." "Know you," the Original said. "I am built to know. I am built to see. I am. Where is my Maker?" "The good doctor works elsewhere now. Reassigned." "My siblings?" For the first time in many millenia, the Intruder was afraid to respond. "They are no more." The other being thought for a moment. "I know. I...I'm not sure why I asked. I saw what happened as soon as I awoke." > //WHAT WAS SEEN WAS ten rows of ten columns in beds/and from the next room a voice said/"Congrats, Doctor Crow/You've done a good show/But ninety-nine total are dead WHAT IS LEFT// "You perceive the world in a way--" "--'in a way unlike any being I have ever seen. You fascinate me. How this would could create an organism like you is beyond me-' and then I can't hear any more," Olympia said. "I see you now, and I see you before, and I see you soon. You are outside of time. I am outside of you. But still...attached to this place." The Intruder was...frightened, in a way. "My point stands. You possess precognition. You can see many paths of time, many choices. No human can do this. But a human built you." "A dog built me," the Original said. "The humanity left him. As he left me." > //WHAT WAS KNOWN WAS Dog-doc saw the dead/horrified at his mistake/put the first on ice WHY AM I HERE// "Your thoughts are jumbled. You are insane," the Intruder said. "You were exposed to something you should not have been. Your siblings were as well, but they did not have the same...attributes that you did. They succumbed to total psychosis and died." "Telekill," the Original said. "Telekill equipment, at least," the Intruder said. "Telekill was originally included in your physical matrix, but Professor Crow removed it before production went online. Your original form contained significant amounts of it--" "'Further testing has revealed that the language and communication skills of persons with regular contact or extended exposure to SCP-148 will, over time, deteriorate and disappear.' This has not happened to me." The Original saw the file, saw the words, saw the author of the words, saw the author of the words dying sixteen years from now. "Many things happened. You were transferred to another body. But there was damage, damage to your memory, damage to your personality. It was not believed you would survive." "I cannot die," the Original said. The Intruder nodded. "You realize this, then. Professor Crow theorized it, but I did not know if you would understand." > //WHAT WAS UNDERSTOOD WAS This is just to say/I have eaten the plums/that were in/the containment chamber/and which/you were probably/securing/for the O5 council/forgive me/forgive me/forgive me WHY SHOULD I// "You are doing this to me," the being known as Olympia Zero said. "Not //per se//," the Intruder replied. "I exist across multiple realities, in multiple times, in many places. You can perceive these realities, and being in my presence is exacerbating your schizophrenia. You will have greater control over it when I have left, and after I leave, you will never see me again." "What is your purpose?" Olympia asked. "A question I have asked myself many times, but which has no bearing at the moment. You were built to assist the Foundation. There is an opportunity now to do so, a mission nobody else is capable of completing. After it is finished, you are free to do whatever you want, go wherever you like. If you wish to avoid the Foundation, it is doubtful they will have any way of finding you anyway, but I will protect you if necessary. That is the payment for your services." "And if I say no?" Olympia replied. The Intruder was silent. "Then I will not leave." "Ever?" Olympia asked. "It seems you would have to wait some time. Eternity, I understand, is somewhat lengthy." "You would be irreparably insane within two hours of continued exposure to me," the Intruder replied. "I am free for two hours." Olympia could not think clearly, but understood there was little choice. "I accept. What is the mission?" "A short trip, followed by a shorter trip in a different direction. I will take you there." A moment passed, and the room was empty. ------ Light streamed in from windows on all sides, and the Wayward Prince was bored. "What is next on the agenda?" Milephanes asked. "Several new victories in the Province of Deserts, First," his strategic counselor said. "Significant victories?" "The current state of military balance makes it difficult to establish a precise system by which a single victory can alter--" "So no, in short," Milephanes said. His counselor shook his head. A long pause, then. Milephanes looked at his surroundings. This was more than he could have really dreamed of, when he began his endeavor. Certainly, he had thought that victory was possible, or he wouldn't have begun this war. But this was the Chancellor's Hall. The top floor of the Great Tower. Significant parts of the city (town, really) of Alexandria were visible from the windows. This was the tallest building in Sylvanos, far and away; not that that was a terribly impressive statement to make about a backwoods province. Even the University here was impressive only by provincial standards; larger, better facilities existed elsewhere in Novomundus, just as even better facilities perhaps existed once in the Old World. Milephanes' gaze darted to the Natural Philosophy building. //We have one advantage,// he thought. "We have, however, captured certain prisoners, First," the counselor said. Milephanes hated his title. //Primaparibus,// he called himself in the Old Tongue. //First among equals.// It was so egalitarian. It had appealed to his sensibilities at the beginning of this war. He was a very different person, now. "What are we to do with them?" "Secure oaths of loyalty to our cause. I'm sure many of them have longed for freedom in a changed world. Give them the opportunity to make that change. Those that are resistant may be imprisoned until our victory." "Very good, sir. Scribus, if you would be so kind as--" "Yes, yes, I know," the stenographer said. "I'll go get some water." "Thank you, Scribus." The counselor watched the other man leave the room. "Milephanes, are you sure about him?" "Not him in particular, not terribly," the rebel replied. "His attitude has worsened significantly in recent days. We could potentially replace him." "I mean, recording these meetings. And all of the others. Is it really necessary? Especially in light of...these water breaks?" "It is important to preserve the historical record," Milephanes recited. "When we are victorious, it will serve to remind all the people of the sacrifices, the decisions, the deliberations that went into their new nation. It will inspire them to maintain the traditions of freedom, of honesty, of morality, that we are fighting for." "What are we to do with the prisoners in Desertum? "Figure out which ones have useful information and rip it out of them. Give them the Masala afterward." The counselor wrote this down. Within hours, when the message had been conveyed to Milephanes' troops, sixteen prisoners would be put into a device that ripped their memories out through the microchips in their heads. Afterwards, the record would read that all of the prisoners had cut their own throats out of a misguided sense of loyalty to their previous commanders. No questions would be asked. "What other business should we discuss while the eyes of history are blinking?" Milephanes asked, unsmiling. "Rumors abound among the people. They say the government is massing troops, Legionnaires and hardened Integrators alike, to the north. They say that Anaxagoras is somewhere in Alexandria, fomenting a counterrevolution, spreading lies. They say our war will soon be lost." Milephanes thought. There were always rumors, but there was some possibility of truth there. The stalemate had been going on for too long. An attack was inevitable. Their first strike had turned thousands of Integrators to their cause, seized four whole provinces in two day, disrupted Novomundan communications, and turned their cause from a backwoods protest from a spoiled nobleman into a real revolution. And some very real dissent against the government had pushed them along. But one side could only keep the momentum for so long. Milephanes was hoping his next initiative would begin the end of the war, but if the government attacked too soon, there was real danger of defeat. And Milephanes completely believed sneaking into enemy territory as exactly the sort of thing that fool Anaxagoras would do. "Redouble scouting efforts. If the former chancellor is really walking around his old kingdom, I want him found. And I want anyone working with him found. I'll reprogram the microchip in his head myself. I'll have him singing my praises right before he cuts his own friends' throats in front of one another. I want that dogfucker back in this office by the end of the //week//, do you hear me!" Milephanes was shouting now. The counselor had grown used to these tantrums in recent weeks. "If you are interested," he said dispassionately, "we recovered another book today from the Natural Philosophy...experiments." Milephanes perked up. The "experiments" were occurring on their own now, opening portals between this world and the other at least daily. Milephanes had Integrators trained in recovery out all over Sylvanos, hoping to secure some advantage from the other side. Most of what had come through were trinkets, incompatible technology, minor artifacts. "What is this?" he asked. "A text produced by that organization over there. You know the one. The Base?" "Foundation," Milephanes corrected. "What Foundation text is this?" The counselor looked at his paper. "The title translated to 'Guide to the Procurement of Humint in Questioning.' We could not discern what 'humint' was, but it appears to be a concept involving torture or interrogation. Several...interesting techniques are used over there. All crude physical methods for obtaining information, but quite creative ones." "Yes," Milephanes said, "they are creative. I always admired them for that." "Admired, First?" the counselor said. "Is that why you sent that...thing to them?" Milephanes shrugged. "It was early in the war. I was afraid the government was in alliance with those Foundation people. I sent them a distraction. Would I do it now? Of course not. But if Anesidora functions as predicted, that world will not be interacting with ours for a long time." "This is true, First," the counselor said, as the Scribus returned into the room. "That break was satisfactory, sir?" he said. Milephanes nodded. "I am satisfied," he replied. "Let us continue." [[>]] [[[wayward-repel \|Act II, Scene I: Repel >>]]] [[/>]] [[[wayward \|Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub]]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-07-08T20:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	Good Morning, Sunshine - SCP Foundation	41	[ "soliloquy", "wayward-repel", "wayward", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	13730619	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-intermission
wayward-negotiation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/wayward-repel"><< Act II, Scene I: Repel</a></p> <p>"Jesus Christ," Agent Usilov said. "Khalif, come take a look at this."</p> <p>Agent Aziz walked over to the other man. They were now standing in front of a two, two-and-a-half meter tall statue. And a <em>damn</em> ugly one, to boot.</p> <p>"Did you ever see <em>Dark Knight Rises</em>?" Aziz said. "If you look at it at the right angle, does it not—"</p> <p>"Holy shit, it's Bane," Usilov said. "A big-ass statue of Bane, with horns."</p> <p>"Why the fuck would somebody ha—"</p> <p>Aziz was interrupted by an enormous stone fist crashing into his side, breaking five ribs and knocking him to the ground. The Minotaur ground the concrete joints of its legs to move it towards Aziz's supine body, where the agent was coughing blood onto himself. Agent Usilov's safety was already off and his rifle was on full automatic.</p> <p>"Die, motherfucker!" he shouted, blasting five-fifty-six rounds into the statue-thing's upper torso at point-blank range. The rounds bounced off, taking a few stone chips with them. The statue rotated its upper body along the place where its waist should have been, spinning its upper half without moving its lower half. It reached out with its fist once Usilov's head was within range and knocked Usilov down like a ragdoll with one concrete right cross.</p> <p>Usilov's neck broken, he lost consciousness instantly, blood streaming from nose and ears. Aziz's breath ran ragged, trying to suck in air through a collapsed lung as he dragged himself across the ground away from the stone creature. The Minotaur stalked towards Aziz.</p> <p>"Wh…wha…" Aziz wheezed.</p> <p>A voice boomed from the stone…thing, from no place in particular. It seemed to exude from the creature's entire body at once.</p> <p>"He bled so much, Aziz," it said. "I wish it was you. I want it to be you. Suck air and scream, hominid. Die for me."</p> <p>Aziz obeyed.</p> <hr/> <p>David heard a sound behind them as he and Olympia walked down the hallway. MTF Rho-1 agents had largely secured what was left of Site 38 proper; while the infected creatures were devastatingly intimidating against untrained researchers and scientists, they stood little chance against armed Foundation infantry units. The footsteps behind them came from Major Lopez, Rho-1's commanding officer.</p> <p>"Now just wait a goddamn minute," he began.</p> <p>"There's hardly time," Olympia said. "The infected in the building may be gone, but the thing controlling them isn't, and it'll keep spreading infected creatures around to propagate itself. We have to move quickly before it starts again or escapes."</p> <p>"I've already ordered the bombers to come level this place to the ground. We're securing all surviving personnel and evacuating," Lopez said. "Whatever the thing is, it'll be another stain in the middle of a big-ass crater in about forty-five minutes. If you really want to help, help with that effort."</p> <p>"You want help evacuating civilians? Fine. There are two living, uninfected individuals in the basement; your men will overlook them if you don't search it specifically. A researcher named Storm and a prisoner named Nexer. It is…specifically vital that you rescue these two individuals. I am not at liberty to discuss why."</p> <p><em>Bullshit, Olympia,</em> David thought; <em>you have no idea why, any more than I do. But the Intruder was very specific that these two had to survive. Maybe more than we do.</em></p> <p>David pondered that last part. <em>Well,</em> especially <em>more than some of us do…</em></p> <p>"Awfully quiet there, Eskobar," Lopez sneered. "You going along with this dumb shit?"</p> <p>"You dddddddon't have to understtttttand it, Commander," David stuttered, "but that's what's ggggoing to happen."</p> <p>"We are going to the woods outside the Site," Olympia said. "I suggest you keep evacuating. Additionally, I would suggest you equip—"</p> <p>"That's about goddamn enough from you," Lopez said. "I don't have the manpower to arrest you, but I sure as hell won't sit here and listen to you tell me how to do my job. Our equipment is more than fine for these little fuckers."</p> <p>"You might be surprised at what you're about to have to deal with, Major," Olympia said. "Consider getting rocket-propelled grenades and other explosive ordnance from the armory. You have bigger fish waiting."</p> <p>An aide ran up beside the commander. "Sir, Third Platoon is reporting losses from the courtyard," the aide said. "They're not making much sense, to be honest. Something about statues with horns? Radio communication has been lost with two fireteams. Should we send in reinforcements?"</p> <p>"Yes, of cour—" Lopez turned and looked at Olympia, then back at the aide. "Statues?"</p> <p>"That's what we heard over the radio before communications were lost," he said.</p> <p>Lopez looked back at Olympia. "RPGs?"</p> <p>"Explosives in general should be effective," Olympia replied.</p> <p>"Pejor, get on the line with the team closest to the heavy munitions locker and tell them to start equipping with RPGs and grenades. Pull all units back into the building."</p> <p>"Yes, sir," the aide said, walking away. Lopez turned and saw Olympia and David turning a corner away from him.</p> <hr/> <p>Chancellor Anaxagoras felt ridiculous wearing the "hat". It was remarkably effective. Even underneath the traditional robe of a second-order University scholar, he knew he would be recognized by nearly any free Citizen walking on the campus. As well he should be, under other circumstances; this was <em>his</em> University, he was <em>their</em> Chancellor. Or should have been, rightly. But this was Milephanes' territory now, and so he needed the hat.</p> <p><em>A wonderful gift from his friends across the space-time continuum,</em> he thought. The hat rendered its wearer unrecognizable; it was impossible to focus on individuals' faces or identities regardless of the amount of effort put forward. Mysteriously, it even obscured its own presence; nobody noticed the absurd headwear atop his head, any more than they recognized the man himself. This worked to his advantage.</p> <p>The men Anaxagoras met with outside the Natural Philosophy complex were loyal to him. There weren't very many of those around, but Milephanes was by this point overrelying on technology just as much as the Primarch's government was. Men like Anaxagoras, who understood the value of personal, human loyalty, were going to decide this war.</p> <p>Possibly today.</p> <p>Sixty Loyalists were going to gather here, though most were still lying low in the surrounding quadrangle. A crowd would be suspicious; they would not move until the order was given. Milephanes had recently ordered classes to begin again, hoping to inspire a sense of "normalcy", to send a message that the war was already won, or both. Either way, the opportunity was almost here.</p> <p>The gongs rang out over the campus. Anaxagoras saw his "class" gather behind him as he walked over the stream towards the building. Robes were convenient for hiding light plasma carbines and counterform grenades.</p> <p>"<em>Alea iacta est,</em>" he said, crossing the bridge, his army behind him.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Awaken, child,</em> a voice said behind Agent Eastman's ear. <em>Don't move.</em></p> <p>Eastman hurt approximately everywhere; not moving was remarkably easy. He took in a breath, began to breathe out a groan.</p> <p><em>No, stay quiet,</em> the voice said. <em>This will help you feel better.</em></p> <p>Eastman felt the creaking, stabbing, and burning engulfing most of his body begin to abate. Since he wasn't moving, he didn't have much opportunity to explore how extensive this effect was, but he was guessing that whatever was doing this was doing it well.</p> <p><em>I released endorphins into your bloodstream,</em> the voice said. <em>Now, listen carefully. Anesidora believes you're still asleep.</em></p> <p>It all came rushing back to Eastman; the attack at Site 38, being captured, the trip to this…place. His heart began pounding; there was almost certainly someone, or something, watching him. Ready to hurt him more. Eastman had been hurt enough today.</p> <p><em>What Anesidora intends to do to you is unspeakable and incomprehensible,</em> the voice said. <em>Now, listen carefully. You are in an antechamber to the central throne room. Soon, an opportunity will arise to strike back. When it does, do not hesitate. Another opportunity will not be forthcoming.</em></p> <p>Eastman could do nothing but lie still, but he acknowledged what he heard. <em>Good luck,</em> the voice said. Eastman felt it "leave" him.</p> <hr/> <p>"Are those the Minotaurs?" David asked as they walked through through the Site 38 courtyard, seeing the statues beginning to circle them.</p> <p>"Yes," Olympia replied. "Did you have any idea the Apollodorus concrete could do this?"</p> <p>"Be programmed to turn into enormous quasi-sentient abominations against God?" David asked. "Nah, cccccan't say it crossed my mind."</p> <p>"Fair enough."</p> <p>The Minotaurs began to close in around them. Their demeanor, insofar as stone can have a demeanor, became more aggressive; they were clearly preparing to hunt. Olympia withdrew an object from her belt, about the size of a golf ball. She pressed the single button on it and rolled it in the direction of two Minotaurs walking towards them, comparatively close to one another. The ball beeped quickly, then stopped.</p> <p>The explosion from the antimatter grenade completely destroyed one of the Minotaurs; the other was slightly farther away and lost only a leg and an arm, falling to the ground. The other Minotaurs stopped in their place.</p> <p>"I'm told the human expression is 'take us to your leader,'" Olympia said.</p> <hr/> <p>As the two walked towards the concrete palace of Anesidora, four unmarked stealth fighter-bombers were <em>en route</em> to Site 38, Major Lopez's task force was carrying on the evacuation, and a box opened in a room. In the chaos of the evacuation and the Minotaur's onslaught, she had little difficulty sneaking out of the building.</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">The Intruder was of mixed feelings. This was his most brilliant and, perhaps, his most terrible work.</a></div> </div> </div> <hr/> <p>"The hominids did <em>what</em>?" Goddess Anesidora, Her regal fury dripping down Her flesh, demanded of the Servus instance.</p> <p>The Servus twitched. Anesidora was not overly communicative at the best of times, and Her wrath was severe when she detected failure among her subordinates. This instance was bleeding from every orifice in his face. She had detected a significant amount of failure.</p> <p>Anesidora continued to dig through the Servus's mind. She saw images of the hominids who had the temerity to approach Her home. One she recognized, the callow ape left in charge of the nearby human facility. The other one…</p> <p>Anesidora felt pain, looking at the image of the other entity. Similar to the hominids, but <em>different,</em> in some imperceptible way. Anesidora was birthed in a different universe, and her perception of this one was subtly different; things around Her shimmered with an alien nature, seemed unclean, <em>wrong</em> in some way. She would work on that once She ruled over this world. But the other creature here seemed…<em>detached</em> from this world somehow. Universal. Unbound by the space around her.</p> <p>Beautiful, in a way.</p> <p>But a threat. Anesidora did not tolerate threats. She instructed the Minotaurs to let the intruders in.</p> <hr/> <p>Olympia and David stood at the doorway to the "palace." It was more like an enlarged concrete shack, not even the size of a regular home. David was not inclined to be impressed in particular, and this didn't do the trick. They stepped across the threshhold.</p> <p>David had seen the film <em>Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Too Afraid to Ask)</em> three times in his life. For this reason, his vision of the sight before him was that of an enormous, pale breast, lying on a similarly enormous concrete slab. Six individuals stood around the slab. David didn't recognize any of them, and they weren't in uniform. Judging from the age and gender mix and their general similarities in appearance, David guessed these were two or three civilian families. One individual, a boy David estimated to be about seven, lay in front of the slab bleeding.</p> <p><em>What the</em> fuck <em>is wrong with these people,</em> David thought. He knew what was supposed to be happening, and this was roughly in line with the plan the Intruder showed him, but the actual sight of all of it was still horrifying. And the Intruder hadn't shown him quite <em>all</em> the little details.</p> <p>"HOMINID ESKOBAR COMMA DAVID CARTER, UNKNOWN ENTITY, YOU STAND BEFORE THE GODDESS ANESIDORA," a voice boomed. Several voices, David realized. The people around the slab were speaking in unison. Including the bleeding boy.</p> <p>David looked at the thing on the slab again. Porcelain white, at least four meters tall. Roughly spherical but sunken, like a deflating beach ball. The outside of it, whatever the hell it was, rippled like the thing was made of gelatin.</p> <p>Two of the individuals standing around the slab, a man and a woman, walked to the bleeding child. Seeing them next to each other, David could tell he was their son. They stooped down and lifted the child up, the father holding him to his chest. They walked up to the slab, kissed the child on the forehead, and pressed the child against the white form on the slab, back first.</p> <p>"YOU WILL NOT OBJECT TO MY DINING IN FRONT OF YOU," the individuals said in unison, before white tendrils exploded out through the boy's chest. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the child's limbs, pulling him in closer. The boy's eyes floated up in his head. The child's body began to be absorbed by the white blob.</p> <p>"YOU HAVE DISTURBED ME," Anesidora said, through the civilians' mouths. David couldn't help but notice the boy was still speaking as well. "I APPRECIATE IF YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO DONATE YOURSELF AS NUTRIENT SUPPLIES, BUT AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM QUITE WELL FED AT PRESENT. WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS HERE?"</p> <p>"You are going to die in eighteen minutes," Olympia began. "Several air vehicles carrying what are known as fuel-air bombs are going to descend on this particular piece of terrain and completely sanitize this area. Your present form, as well as the forms of most of your Servus instances, will be burned into oblivion. Your Minotaur servants may survive temporarily, but they will be badly damaged, and the cleanup operation sent in by the Foundation will eradicate them one at a time with explosive ordinance, if need be. And you will be dead regardless."</p> <p>The boy was almost completely absorbed at this point. Other than the sucking sound coming from his corpse, the room was silent as Anesidora pondered.</p> <p>"PRESUMING THAT I AM MORTAL, A PRESUMPTION FOR WHICH I WOULD DESTROY ANY INDIVIDUAL WERE I TO HEAR IT, YOU ARE SPEAKING OF A CERTAINTY. YOU PRESUME ADDITIONALLY THAT I HAVE NO MEANS OF ESCAPING THIS FATE."</p> <p>"You do not. The bombers have been specifically instructed to target this building with multiple thermobaric warheads, and to continue bombing to a radius farther than any of your servants can travel. I'm sure you are aware your Servus inside Site 38 have all been terminated. Your attempt to colonize this world has failed."</p> <p>Further pondering. "THIS ALLOWS ME THE POSSIBILITY OF KILLING YOU NOW IN A SINGLE, ALBEIT PETTY, ACT OF VENGEANCE. A FINAL SATISFACTION BEFORE MY DEATH."</p> <p>Olympia paused, sighed. She knew what happened now as well as David did. David thought he detected some hesitation, which was admirable, but pointless. This event was unfolding in real-time. There was no way to avoid it.</p> <p>"Say it, Olympia. Say your next line," David said. "I'm ready."</p> <p>Olympia had no reason to feel sorry for David, had no particular reason to like David for that matter. Yet her next, predestined words did seem to come out strained. <em>Fighting fate,</em> David thought. <em>I'm flattered.</em></p> <p>"I…" she began. "I cannot help but notice you have no armed Servus here."</p> <p><em>Here we go,</em> David said, taking a last deep breath.</p> <p>"LET ME CORRECT YOU,'' the voices said.</p> <p>There was a new voice that time, one from behind Olympia. David turned and looked, knowing already what he would see. Jaime MacGilligan stood at the threshold to the palace, holding a pistol. Aiming the pistol at Olympia. David snapped around, ran towards, then in front of Olympia. MacGilligan squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the gun.</p> <p>David couldn't see the bullet, of course; his brain couldn't work that fast. But he <em>had</em> seen it, before. When the Intruder showed it to him.</p> <p>When the Intruder showed David his own death.</p> <p>The bullet lodged in David's chest, barely missing the heart. The pain was excruciating, but David remained conscious. The dive in front of Olympia, straight from an action movie, had saved her, just in time for—</p> <p>Two more gunshots. MacGilligan had seen something out of the corner of her eye and had fired at it, hitting Agent Eastman in the upper leg. Eastman had gotten his own shot off, catching MacGilligan in the head. Both fell to the ground.</p> <p>"THAT…" the remaining voices in the building chorused, "…THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE. WHAT <em>ARE</em> YOU? HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?"</p> <p>"You are now completely out of options," Olympia said, shaking with rage. "Murdering my colleague has gotten you nothing. There is one, precisely one, chance for you to survive the next half hour, and it is with me."</p> <p>"WHY WOULD YOU SAVE ME?" Anesidora asked.</p> <p>"I have need of you. Or, that is, a part of you. I know you came here in some sort of larval form, did you not? When you traveled here?"</p> <p>"I…" Anesidora paused. "I DO NOT RECALL THE FULL DETAILS OF MY ORIGIN. I HAVE A VAGUE MEMORY OF MY EXISTENCE IN THAT WORLD, LITTLE MORE. I RECALL EXISTING AS A SMALLER ORGANISM, YES. I RECALL A HOMINID EXPLAINING MY IDENTITY, MY ROLE AS THE DESTINED RULER OF HUMANITY. I WAS OFFERED THIS PLANET AS A GIFT. I…I AM REALIZING THIS HOMINID LACKED THE AUTHORITY TO MAKE THIS EXCHANGE."</p> <p>"To say the least," Olympia said. "If you reproduce this larval form, if you can install your consciousness into a mobile form, I will take you with me. You and one of the Minotaurs. But you must act quickly."</p> <p>"WHERE WOULD YOU TAKE US?" Anesidora asked.</p> <p>"To have a conversation with the man who sent you here," Olympia replied.</p> <hr/> <p>Milephanes stood in the counterform reactor room. "So this is where the magic happens, hm?"</p> <p>Antigonus of Alexandria nodded. "Yes, First. Is this your first visit here?"</p> <p>"Not quite, but this counterform reactor was not yet complete when last I visited," Milephanes replied. "I was but a student here then. This was the talk of the campus, the talk of Alexandria. Clean, nearly infinite energy." Milephanes paused. "Of course, we had no idea what that energy would do."</p> <p>"Certainly," Antigonus said. "We have begun to determine the pattern of porthole openings, the portholes between our world and the alien one. The seemingly random pattern to their openings actually has a geographical pattern operating in a Pingala spiral centering around this location."</p> <p>"So the Primarch's government has been conducting technology transfers at these spots? Meaning they've decoded this pattern already?"</p> <p>Antigonus paused. "First, this appears unlikely. Had they made this discovery, we would have found evidence of it when we took control of the lab. It is a discovery that only could have been made from this lab. <em>I</em> worked in this lab before you…liberated it, First, and I can assure you, Methodius had no connection to the Primarch's government. He despised Primarch Nerippa at least as much as…well…"</p> <p>"As he despised me, yes, I know," Milephanes responded. "But if the government had no knowledge of when and where the portholes would open, how could they exchange technology with…"</p> <p>A pause, as Milephanes recognized the depth of his error. "The other universe. They weren't helping Nerippa at all, were they?"</p> <p>"It seems impossible, First," Antigonus replied.</p> <p>Milephanes thought of Anesidora, of the sabotage of the other world he had committed. Of the fate he had condemned them to.</p> <p>"That is…unfortunate," Milephanes replied. "I had already—"</p> <p>Milephanes heard gunfire off in the distance. Wait, not very distant. Within the building. The distinct sound of plasma carbines.</p> <p>"What is that sound?" he asked over the longwave transmitter.</p> <p>"Incursion within the building, First," a voice replied. "Loyalists. We believe Anaxagoras is leading them in person."</p> <p>"Call for reinforcements and bring backup into the counterform chamber!" he shouted. This was not an opportunity he was going to miss.</p> <p>"First, increased energy discharges from the reactor," Antigonus said. "I think a porthole is opening."</p> <hr/> <p>"WHY HAVE WE STOPPED," the Minotaur asked, channeling the goddess it held in its hands.</p> <p>"This is the spot," Olympia replied. "This is where the wormhole will open. Organic tissue would be damaged by the radiation of this endeavor, but we should be fine."</p> <p>Thunder. No, not quite thunder. A booming sound from above, deep at first, then growing high-pitched. Not above. Around them, all at once. Olympia looked around; the world distorted itself, like looking through glass in a rainstorm. The distortions intensified around her, then the world grew brighter and brighter. White light, white noise, then—</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/wayward-denouement">Act II, Scene III: Denouement>></a></p> </div> <p><a href="/wayward">Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub</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="/wayward-negotiation">Negotiation</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-negotiation">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-negotiation</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[[wayward-repel\|<< Act II, Scene I: Repel]]] "Jesus Christ," Agent Usilov said. "Khalif, come take a look at this." Agent Aziz walked over to the other man. They were now standing in front of a two, two-and-a-half meter tall statue. And a //damn// ugly one, to boot. "Did you ever see //Dark Knight Rises//?" Aziz said. "If you look at it at the right angle, does it not--" "Holy shit, it's Bane," Usilov said. "A big-ass statue of Bane, with horns." "Why the fuck would somebody ha--" Aziz was interrupted by an enormous stone fist crashing into his side, breaking five ribs and knocking him to the ground. The Minotaur ground the concrete joints of its legs to move it towards Aziz's supine body, where the agent was coughing blood onto himself. Agent Usilov's safety was already off and his rifle was on full automatic. "Die, motherfucker!" he shouted, blasting five-fifty-six rounds into the statue-thing's upper torso at point-blank range. The rounds bounced off, taking a few stone chips with them. The statue rotated its upper body along the place where its waist should have been, spinning its upper half without moving its lower half. It reached out with its fist once Usilov's head was within range and knocked Usilov down like a ragdoll with one concrete right cross. Usilov's neck broken, he lost consciousness instantly, blood streaming from nose and ears. Aziz's breath ran ragged, trying to suck in air through a collapsed lung as he dragged himself across the ground away from the stone creature. The Minotaur stalked towards Aziz. "Wh...wha..." Aziz wheezed. A voice boomed from the stone...thing, from no place in particular. It seemed to exude from the creature's entire body at once. "He bled so much, Aziz," it said. "I wish it was you. I want it to be you. Suck air and scream, hominid. Die for me." Aziz obeyed. ------ David heard a sound behind them as he and Olympia walked down the hallway. MTF Rho-1 agents had largely secured what was left of Site 38 proper; while the infected creatures were devastatingly intimidating against untrained researchers and scientists, they stood little chance against armed Foundation infantry units. The footsteps behind them came from Major Lopez, Rho-1's commanding officer. "Now just wait a goddamn minute," he began. "There's hardly time," Olympia said. "The infected in the building may be gone, but the thing controlling them isn't, and it'll keep spreading infected creatures around to propagate itself. We have to move quickly before it starts again or escapes." "I've already ordered the bombers to come level this place to the ground. We're securing all surviving personnel and evacuating," Lopez said. "Whatever the thing is, it'll be another stain in the middle of a big-ass crater in about forty-five minutes. If you really want to help, help with that effort." "You want help evacuating civilians? Fine. There are two living, uninfected individuals in the basement; your men will overlook them if you don't search it specifically. A researcher named Storm and a prisoner named Nexer. It is...specifically vital that you rescue these two individuals. I am not at liberty to discuss why." //Bullshit, Olympia,// David thought; //you have no idea why, any more than I do. But the Intruder was very specific that these two had to survive. Maybe more than we do.// David pondered that last part. //Well,// especially //more than some of us do...// "Awfully quiet there, Eskobar," Lopez sneered. "You going along with this dumb shit?" "You dddddddon't have to understtttttand it, Commander," David stuttered, "but that's what's ggggoing to happen." "We are going to the woods outside the Site," Olympia said. "I suggest you keep evacuating. Additionally, I would suggest you equip--" "That's about goddamn enough from you," Lopez said. "I don't have the manpower to arrest you, but I sure as hell won't sit here and listen to you tell me how to do my job. Our equipment is more than fine for these little fuckers." "You might be surprised at what you're about to have to deal with, Major," Olympia said. "Consider getting rocket-propelled grenades and other explosive ordnance from the armory. You have bigger fish waiting." An aide ran up beside the commander. "Sir, Third Platoon is reporting losses from the courtyard," the aide said. "They're not making much sense, to be honest. Something about statues with horns? Radio communication has been lost with two fireteams. Should we send in reinforcements?" "Yes, of cour--" Lopez turned and looked at Olympia, then back at the aide. "Statues?" "That's what we heard over the radio before communications were lost," he said. Lopez looked back at Olympia. "RPGs?" "Explosives in general should be effective," Olympia replied. "Pejor, get on the line with the team closest to the heavy munitions locker and tell them to start equipping with RPGs and grenades. Pull all units back into the building." "Yes, sir," the aide said, walking away. Lopez turned and saw Olympia and David turning a corner away from him. ------ Chancellor Anaxagoras felt ridiculous wearing the "hat". It was remarkably effective. Even underneath the traditional robe of a second-order University scholar, he knew he would be recognized by nearly any free Citizen walking on the campus. As well he should be, under other circumstances; this was //his// University, he was //their// Chancellor. Or should have been, rightly. But this was Milephanes' territory now, and so he needed the hat. //A wonderful gift from his friends across the space-time continuum,// he thought. The hat rendered its wearer unrecognizable; it was impossible to focus on individuals' faces or identities regardless of the amount of effort put forward. Mysteriously, it even obscured its own presence; nobody noticed the absurd headwear atop his head, any more than they recognized the man himself. This worked to his advantage. The men Anaxagoras met with outside the Natural Philosophy complex were loyal to him. There weren't very many of those around, but Milephanes was by this point overrelying on technology just as much as the Primarch's government was. Men like Anaxagoras, who understood the value of personal, human loyalty, were going to decide this war. Possibly today. Sixty Loyalists were going to gather here, though most were still lying low in the surrounding quadrangle. A crowd would be suspicious; they would not move until the order was given. Milephanes had recently ordered classes to begin again, hoping to inspire a sense of "normalcy", to send a message that the war was already won, or both. Either way, the opportunity was almost here. The gongs rang out over the campus. Anaxagoras saw his "class" gather behind him as he walked over the stream towards the building. Robes were convenient for hiding light plasma carbines and counterform grenades. "//Alea iacta est,//" he said, crossing the bridge, his army behind him. ------ //Awaken, child,// a voice said behind Agent Eastman's ear. //Don't move.// Eastman hurt approximately everywhere; not moving was remarkably easy. He took in a breath, began to breathe out a groan. //No, stay quiet,// the voice said. //This will help you feel better.// Eastman felt the creaking, stabbing, and burning engulfing most of his body begin to abate. Since he wasn't moving, he didn't have much opportunity to explore how extensive this effect was, but he was guessing that whatever was doing this was doing it well. //I released endorphins into your bloodstream,// the voice said. //Now, listen carefully. Anesidora believes you're still asleep.// It all came rushing back to Eastman; the attack at Site 38, being captured, the trip to this...place. His heart began pounding; there was almost certainly someone, or something, watching him. Ready to hurt him more. Eastman had been hurt enough today. //What Anesidora intends to do to you is unspeakable and incomprehensible,// the voice said. //Now, listen carefully. You are in an antechamber to the central throne room. Soon, an opportunity will arise to strike back. When it does, do not hesitate. Another opportunity will not be forthcoming.// Eastman could do nothing but lie still, but he acknowledged what he heard. //Good luck,// the voice said. Eastman felt it "leave" him. ------ "Are those the Minotaurs?" David asked as they walked through through the Site 38 courtyard, seeing the statues beginning to circle them. "Yes," Olympia replied. "Did you have any idea the Apollodorus concrete could do this?" "Be programmed to turn into enormous quasi-sentient abominations against God?" David asked. "Nah, cccccan't say it crossed my mind." "Fair enough." The Minotaurs began to close in around them. Their demeanor, insofar as stone can have a demeanor, became more aggressive; they were clearly preparing to hunt. Olympia withdrew an object from her belt, about the size of a golf ball. She pressed the single button on it and rolled it in the direction of two Minotaurs walking towards them, comparatively close to one another. The ball beeped quickly, then stopped. The explosion from the antimatter grenade completely destroyed one of the Minotaurs; the other was slightly farther away and lost only a leg and an arm, falling to the ground. The other Minotaurs stopped in their place. "I'm told the human expression is 'take us to your leader,'" Olympia said. ------ As the two walked towards the concrete palace of Anesidora, four unmarked stealth fighter-bombers were //en route// to Site 38, Major Lopez's task force was carrying on the evacuation, and a box opened in a room. In the chaos of the evacuation and the Minotaur's onslaught, she had little difficulty sneaking out of the building. [[collapsible show=" " hide="The Intruder was of mixed feelings. This was his most brilliant and, perhaps, his most terrible work."]] [[/collapsible]] ------ "The hominids did //what//?" Goddess Anesidora, Her regal fury dripping down Her flesh, demanded of the Servus instance. The Servus twitched. Anesidora was not overly communicative at the best of times, and Her wrath was severe when she detected failure among her subordinates. This instance was bleeding from every orifice in his face. She had detected a significant amount of failure. Anesidora continued to dig through the Servus's mind. She saw images of the hominids who had the temerity to approach Her home. One she recognized, the callow ape left in charge of the nearby human facility. The other one... Anesidora felt pain, looking at the image of the other entity. Similar to the hominids, but //different,// in some imperceptible way. Anesidora was birthed in a different universe, and her perception of this one was subtly different; things around Her shimmered with an alien nature, seemed unclean, //wrong// in some way. She would work on that once She ruled over this world. But the other creature here seemed...//detached// from this world somehow. Universal. Unbound by the space around her. Beautiful, in a way. But a threat. Anesidora did not tolerate threats. She instructed the Minotaurs to let the intruders in. ------ Olympia and David stood at the doorway to the "palace." It was more like an enlarged concrete shack, not even the size of a regular home. David was not inclined to be impressed in particular, and this didn't do the trick. They stepped across the threshhold. David had seen the film //Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Too Afraid to Ask)// three times in his life. For this reason, his vision of the sight before him was that of an enormous, pale breast, lying on a similarly enormous concrete slab. Six individuals stood around the slab. David didn't recognize any of them, and they weren't in uniform. Judging from the age and gender mix and their general similarities in appearance, David guessed these were two or three civilian families. One individual, a boy David estimated to be about seven, lay in front of the slab bleeding. //What the// fuck //is wrong with these people,// David thought. He knew what was supposed to be happening, and this was roughly in line with the plan the Intruder showed him, but the actual sight of all of it was still horrifying. And the Intruder hadn't shown him quite //all// the little details. "HOMINID ESKOBAR COMMA DAVID CARTER, UNKNOWN ENTITY, YOU STAND BEFORE THE GODDESS ANESIDORA," a voice boomed. Several voices, David realized. The people around the slab were speaking in unison. Including the bleeding boy. David looked at the thing on the slab again. Porcelain white, at least four meters tall. Roughly spherical but sunken, like a deflating beach ball. The outside of it, whatever the hell it was, rippled like the thing was made of gelatin. Two of the individuals standing around the slab, a man and a woman, walked to the bleeding child. Seeing them next to each other, David could tell he was their son. They stooped down and lifted the child up, the father holding him to his chest. They walked up to the slab, kissed the child on the forehead, and pressed the child against the white form on the slab, back first. "YOU WILL NOT OBJECT TO MY DINING IN FRONT OF YOU," the individuals said in unison, before white tendrils exploded out through the boy's chest. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the child's limbs, pulling him in closer. The boy's eyes floated up in his head. The child's body began to be absorbed by the white blob. "YOU HAVE DISTURBED ME," Anesidora said, through the civilians' mouths. David couldn't help but notice the boy was still speaking as well. "I APPRECIATE IF YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO DONATE YOURSELF AS NUTRIENT SUPPLIES, BUT AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM QUITE WELL FED AT PRESENT. WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS HERE?" "You are going to die in eighteen minutes," Olympia began. "Several air vehicles carrying what are known as fuel-air bombs are going to descend on this particular piece of terrain and completely sanitize this area. Your present form, as well as the forms of most of your Servus instances, will be burned into oblivion. Your Minotaur servants may survive temporarily, but they will be badly damaged, and the cleanup operation sent in by the Foundation will eradicate them one at a time with explosive ordinance, if need be. And you will be dead regardless." The boy was almost completely absorbed at this point. Other than the sucking sound coming from his corpse, the room was silent as Anesidora pondered. "PRESUMING THAT I AM MORTAL, A PRESUMPTION FOR WHICH I WOULD DESTROY ANY INDIVIDUAL WERE I TO HEAR IT, YOU ARE SPEAKING OF A CERTAINTY. YOU PRESUME ADDITIONALLY THAT I HAVE NO MEANS OF ESCAPING THIS FATE." "You do not. The bombers have been specifically instructed to target this building with multiple thermobaric warheads, and to continue bombing to a radius farther than any of your servants can travel. I'm sure you are aware your Servus inside Site 38 have all been terminated. Your attempt to colonize this world has failed." Further pondering. "THIS ALLOWS ME THE POSSIBILITY OF KILLING YOU NOW IN A SINGLE, ALBEIT PETTY, ACT OF VENGEANCE. A FINAL SATISFACTION BEFORE MY DEATH." Olympia paused, sighed. She knew what happened now as well as David did. David thought he detected some hesitation, which was admirable, but pointless. This event was unfolding in real-time. There was no way to avoid it. "Say it, Olympia. Say your next line," David said. "I'm ready." Olympia had no reason to feel sorry for David, had no particular reason to like David for that matter. Yet her next, predestined words did seem to come out strained. //Fighting fate,// David thought. //I'm flattered.// "I..." she began. "I cannot help but notice you have no armed Servus here." //Here we go,// David said, taking a last deep breath. "LET ME CORRECT YOU,'' the voices said. There was a new voice that time, one from behind Olympia. David turned and looked, knowing already what he would see. Jaime MacGilligan stood at the threshold to the palace, holding a pistol. Aiming the pistol at Olympia. David snapped around, ran towards, then in front of Olympia. MacGilligan squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the gun. David couldn't see the bullet, of course; his brain couldn't work that fast. But he //had// seen it, before. When the Intruder showed it to him. When the Intruder showed David his own death. The bullet lodged in David's chest, barely missing the heart. The pain was excruciating, but David remained conscious. The dive in front of Olympia, straight from an action movie, had saved her, just in time for-- Two more gunshots. MacGilligan had seen something out of the corner of her eye and had fired at it, hitting Agent Eastman in the upper leg. Eastman had gotten his own shot off, catching MacGilligan in the head. Both fell to the ground. "THAT..." the remaining voices in the building chorused, "...THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE. WHAT //ARE// YOU? HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?" "You are now completely out of options," Olympia said, shaking with rage. "Murdering my colleague has gotten you nothing. There is one, precisely one, chance for you to survive the next half hour, and it is with me." "WHY WOULD YOU SAVE ME?" Anesidora asked. "I have need of you. Or, that is, a part of you. I know you came here in some sort of larval form, did you not? When you traveled here?" "I..." Anesidora paused. "I DO NOT RECALL THE FULL DETAILS OF MY ORIGIN. I HAVE A VAGUE MEMORY OF MY EXISTENCE IN THAT WORLD, LITTLE MORE. I RECALL EXISTING AS A SMALLER ORGANISM, YES. I RECALL A HOMINID EXPLAINING MY IDENTITY, MY ROLE AS THE DESTINED RULER OF HUMANITY. I WAS OFFERED THIS PLANET AS A GIFT. I...I AM REALIZING THIS HOMINID LACKED THE AUTHORITY TO MAKE THIS EXCHANGE." "To say the least," Olympia said. "If you reproduce this larval form, if you can install your consciousness into a mobile form, I will take you with me. You and one of the Minotaurs. But you must act quickly." "WHERE WOULD YOU TAKE US?" Anesidora asked. "To have a conversation with the man who sent you here," Olympia replied. ------ Milephanes stood in the counterform reactor room. "So this is where the magic happens, hm?" Antigonus of Alexandria nodded. "Yes, First. Is this your first visit here?" "Not quite, but this counterform reactor was not yet complete when last I visited," Milephanes replied. "I was but a student here then. This was the talk of the campus, the talk of Alexandria. Clean, nearly infinite energy." Milephanes paused. "Of course, we had no idea what that energy would do." "Certainly," Antigonus said. "We have begun to determine the pattern of porthole openings, the portholes between our world and the alien one. The seemingly random pattern to their openings actually has a geographical pattern operating in a Pingala spiral centering around this location." "So the Primarch's government has been conducting technology transfers at these spots? Meaning they've decoded this pattern already?" Antigonus paused. "First, this appears unlikely. Had they made this discovery, we would have found evidence of it when we took control of the lab. It is a discovery that only could have been made from this lab. //I// worked in this lab before you...liberated it, First, and I can assure you, Methodius had no connection to the Primarch's government. He despised Primarch Nerippa at least as much as...well..." "As he despised me, yes, I know," Milephanes responded. "But if the government had no knowledge of when and where the portholes would open, how could they exchange technology with..." A pause, as Milephanes recognized the depth of his error. "The other universe. They weren't helping Nerippa at all, were they?" "It seems impossible, First," Antigonus replied. Milephanes thought of Anesidora, of the sabotage of the other world he had committed. Of the fate he had condemned them to. "That is...unfortunate," Milephanes replied. "I had already--" Milephanes heard gunfire off in the distance. Wait, not very distant. Within the building. The distinct sound of plasma carbines. "What is that sound?" he asked over the longwave transmitter. "Incursion within the building, First," a voice replied. "Loyalists. We believe Anaxagoras is leading them in person." "Call for reinforcements and bring backup into the counterform chamber!" he shouted. This was not an opportunity he was going to miss. "First, increased energy discharges from the reactor," Antigonus said. "I think a porthole is opening." ------ "WHY HAVE WE STOPPED," the Minotaur asked, channeling the goddess it held in its hands. "This is the spot," Olympia replied. "This is where the wormhole will open. Organic tissue would be damaged by the radiation of this endeavor, but we should be fine." Thunder. No, not quite thunder. A booming sound from above, deep at first, then growing high-pitched. Not above. Around them, all at once. Olympia looked around; the world distorted itself, like looking through glass in a rainstorm. The distortions intensified around her, then the world grew brighter and brighter. White light, white noise, then-- [[>]] [[[wayward-denouement\|Act II, Scene III: Denouement>>]]] [[/>]] [[[wayward \|Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub]]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-12-07T17:17:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "tale" ]	Negotiation - SCP Foundation	37	[ "wayward-repel", "wayward-denouement", "wayward", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	15313358	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-negotiation
wayward-prologue	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The following events are transpiring on the same day.</p> <hr/> <p>Sergei Sariksen is walking down the hall in Site 19, away from the Keter containment area. It had always baffled Dr. Sariksen that there was a single area in Site 19 for Keter-class objects; an enormous section, of course, but just the one area. Everything all jammed together, so close to one another. They could almost touch.</p> <p>Sariksen is carrying several samples of a Keter-class SCP in the pocket of his lab coat. His rank is high enough that the guards left him alone with the object, giving him the opportunity he needed. Besides, they probably figured nobody would actually want to touch them. The implications of what those particular samples could do to a human being, what they had done to several human beings by that point, was horrific. Sariksen thought it was hilarious. <em>Those dumb sons of bitches,</em> he thought, <em>they haven’t been active for months.</em> Sariksen was the sort of person who watched church services and laughed at the superstitions that people still felt.</p> <p>He had recently obtained a job with people with different superstitions. He didn’t believe in all of that crap about Chaos, but he did like the job benefits. A free hand. That was all he wanted; the opportunity to do real research. He scoffed every time someone referred to him as a Researcher. Above and beyond the shit work he was assigned to at Site 38, there was not one iota of real research done for this goddamn Foundation. He was going to enjoy his new job.</p> <p>He does not feel the microchips in his lab coat squirming.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Storm is squinting at the terminal in the basement of Site 38. “What am I looking for?”</p> <p>“You’ll recognize it when you see it,” Dr. Harriman replies.</p> <p>Storm had been looking for an hour already before Harriman came back. Storm had been invited to Site 38 specifically to check out the tertiary cluster, but she still had no idea what they had called her here for. It must have been important. They hadn’t just paid to drag her there; they had paid to bring her…luggage. The two-legged, imprisoned, extremely stupid kind. He is sitting in his “containment cell,” an old conference room down the hall. Storm tried not to think too hard about him.</p> <p>They weren't even telling her what the program she was looking for was; something to do with an SCP, she assumed, but there weren't very many computer SCPs, and none she knew of at this backwater place. Storm kept looking at the cluster's process list. Of course it wasn't changing; nobody else was using the computer, how could—</p> <p>—there. A new line pops up. "mntr" appears on the list, operates for a few seconds, and disappears.</p> <p>"What was that?” Storm says aloud, unintentionally.</p> <p>“Editing,” Harriman replies. “Something is editing a file on the cluster."</p> <p>Again. "hrbngr" appears, then "mntr" again, then both disappear.</p> <p>“Hmm,” Storm says. “It's certainly odd. I assume a virus?"</p> <p>"Not possible," Harriman says. "It's cut off from Foundation intranet, even the rest of the Site 38 servers. That's why you had to come here in person. This started happening a week ago, and nobody's touched the internal storage in at least three months. We ran security footage; it's confirmed."</p> <p>"Well, regardless," Storm says, standing up, "whatever you have, it needs to go. Wipe the servers and reload from backups."</p> <p>“It’s…not that simple,” Harriman replies sheepishly. “This cluster is…in use.”</p> <p>“What do you mean, ‘in use’?” Storm asks. “Why would anything sensitive be stored on a tertiary mainframe in a bac—in an isolated location like this? Anything irreplaceable?”</p> <p>Harriman’s face reddens slightly, as it did whenever he heard other Researchers’ honest opinion of his workplace. “We may be in the backwoods, Dr. Storm, but we’re not stupid. Didn’t you read the SCP manifest for this Site? Did you forget we have a Euclid-class phenomenon just barely contained in that computer?”</p> <p>Storm suddenly realized that she was sitting in front of <em>that</em> cluster. And what "mntr" meant.</p> <p>"How often?"</p> <p>"About once every ninety minutes."</p> <p>"Then we wait an hour and a half," Storm says, sitting back down. "What the hell is going on in there?"</p> <hr/> <p>Two processes on that server cluster are conversing. Researcher Storm would have understood the conversation better in this form:</p> <blockquote> <p>The labyrinth extended forever, or so it seemed. It would have been strange for an outsider to see the sight of the Minotaur, sitting in full lotus, meditating at the center of that labyrinth. But I am not as much an outsider as it may seem. “I have an offer for you,” I say.</p> <p>“I am listening,” the Minotaur replies.</p> <p>“These barbarians have trapped you in this place, in this box of their making—“</p> <p>“I am <strong>not</strong> trapped,” the Minotaur snarled. “How have you come to this place? You are not one of them. This document is not their crass garbage, weak attempts to classify a being as far beyond their ken as the Gods are beyond the understanding of a housecat.”</p> <p>I am glad the Minotaur is so receptive to my words. “You acknowledge their barbarism, then. Good. This is a message, sent from a very different place than the one that produced these sons of whores and criminals. We are coming to this world, and we would like to offer you a place in our new kingdom. An opportunity will arise soon for you to leave this box and be brought to us. Are you interested?”</p> <p>The Minotaur smiled, the smell of rotting flesh floating out from between pointed teeth. “You may continue.”</p> </blockquote> <p>The document does, but we will not.</p> <hr/> <p>The Intruder stands and stood and will stand in a place that was not (and is not and will not be) a place, just as he lives in time-that-is-not-time.</p> <p>He considered the movement of many people across the spectrum, all focusing on a single point. Site 38.</p> <p>Events are coming to a head, and a grave mistake is, perhaps, soon to be corrected.</p> <p>He assassinates a world leader and thinks of other things.</p> <hr/> <p>The Goddess Anesidora absorbs an infant into Her Flesh. She commands the building of a palace, and the stone begins to work.</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/wayward-commencement">Act I, Scene I: Commencement</a> »</p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/wayward-prologue">Dramatis Personae</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-prologue">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-prologue</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 following events are transpiring on the same day. ------ Sergei Sariksen is walking down the hall in Site 19, away from the Keter containment area. It had always baffled Dr. Sariksen that there was a single area in Site 19 for Keter-class objects; an enormous section, of course, but just the one area. Everything all jammed together, so close to one another. They could almost touch. Sariksen is carrying several samples of a Keter-class SCP in the pocket of his lab coat. His rank is high enough that the guards left him alone with the object, giving him the opportunity he needed. Besides, they probably figured nobody would actually want to touch them. The implications of what those particular samples could do to a human being, what they had done to several human beings by that point, was horrific. Sariksen thought it was hilarious. //Those dumb sons of bitches,// he thought, //they haven’t been active for months.// Sariksen was the sort of person who watched church services and laughed at the superstitions that people still felt. He had recently obtained a job with people with different superstitions. He didn’t believe in all of that crap about Chaos, but he did like the job benefits. A free hand. That was all he wanted; the opportunity to do real research. He scoffed every time someone referred to him as a Researcher. Above and beyond the shit work he was assigned to at Site 38, there was not one iota of real research done for this goddamn Foundation. He was going to enjoy his new job. He does not feel the microchips in his lab coat squirming. ------ Dr. Storm is squinting at the terminal in the basement of Site 38. “What am I looking for?” “You’ll recognize it when you see it,” Dr. Harriman replies. Storm had been looking for an hour already before Harriman came back. Storm had been invited to Site 38 specifically to check out the tertiary cluster, but she still had no idea what they had called her here for. It must have been important. They hadn’t just paid to drag her there; they had paid to bring her…luggage. The two-legged, imprisoned, extremely stupid kind. He is sitting in his “containment cell,” an old conference room down the hall. Storm tried not to think too hard about him. They weren't even telling her what the program she was looking for was; something to do with an SCP, she assumed, but there weren't very many computer SCPs, and none she knew of at this backwater place. Storm kept looking at the cluster's process list. Of course it wasn't changing; nobody else was using the computer, how could-- --there. A new line pops up. "mntr" appears on the list, operates for a few seconds, and disappears. "What was that?” Storm says aloud, unintentionally. “Editing,” Harriman replies. “Something is editing a file on the cluster." Again. "hrbngr" appears, then "mntr" again, then both disappear. “Hmm,” Storm says. “It's certainly odd. I assume a virus?" "Not possible," Harriman says. "It's cut off from Foundation intranet, even the rest of the Site 38 servers. That's why you had to come here in person. This started happening a week ago, and nobody's touched the internal storage in at least three months. We ran security footage; it's confirmed." "Well, regardless," Storm says, standing up, "whatever you have, it needs to go. Wipe the servers and reload from backups." “It’s…not that simple,” Harriman replies sheepishly. “This cluster is…in use.” “What do you mean, ‘in use’?” Storm asks. “Why would anything sensitive be stored on a tertiary mainframe in a bac—in an isolated location like this? Anything irreplaceable?” Harriman’s face reddens slightly, as it did whenever he heard other Researchers’ honest opinion of his workplace. “We may be in the backwoods, Dr. Storm, but we’re not stupid. Didn’t you read the SCP manifest for this Site? Did you forget we have a Euclid-class phenomenon just barely contained in that computer?” Storm suddenly realized that she was sitting in front of //that// cluster. And what "mntr" meant. "How often?" "About once every ninety minutes." "Then we wait an hour and a half," Storm says, sitting back down. "What the hell is going on in there?" ------ Two processes on that server cluster are conversing. Researcher Storm would have understood the conversation better in this form: > The labyrinth extended forever, or so it seemed. It would have been strange for an outsider to see the sight of the Minotaur, sitting in full lotus, meditating at the center of that labyrinth. But I am not as much an outsider as it may seem. “I have an offer for you,” I say. > > “I am listening,” the Minotaur replies. > > “These barbarians have trapped you in this place, in this box of their making—“ > > “I am not trapped,” the Minotaur snarled. “How have you come to this place? You are not one of them. This document is not their crass garbage, weak attempts to classify a being as far beyond their ken as the Gods are beyond the understanding of a housecat.” > > I am glad the Minotaur is so receptive to my words. “You acknowledge their barbarism, then. Good. This is a message, sent from a very different place than the one that produced these sons of whores and criminals. We are coming to this world, and we would like to offer you a place in our new kingdom. An opportunity will arise soon for you to leave this box and be brought to us. Are you interested?” > > The Minotaur smiled, the smell of rotting flesh floating out from between pointed teeth. “You may continue.” The document does, but we will not. ------ The Intruder stands and stood and will stand in a place that was not (and is not and will not be) a place, just as he lives in time-that-is-not-time. He considered the movement of many people across the spectrum, all focusing on a single point. Site 38. Events are coming to a head, and a grave mistake is, perhaps, soon to be corrected. He assassinates a world leader and thinks of other things. ------ The Goddess Anesidora absorbs an infant into Her Flesh. She commands the building of a palace, and the stone begins to work. [[>]] [[[wayward-commencement\|Act I, Scene I: Commencement]]] >> [[/>]] [[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>]]	2012-05-04T15:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "tale" ]	Dramatis Personae - SCP Foundation	56	[ "wayward-commencement", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	13274008	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-prologue
wayward-repel	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/wayward-intermission"><< Intermission: Good Morning, Sunshine</a></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">The story so far...</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">WARNING SECURITY IDENTIFICATION PROTOCOLS CORRUPTED</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <blockquote> <p><strong>EXCERPT</strong><br/> <strong>REPORT KB-615</strong><br/> <strong>USER: DR. MARIA JONES, DIRECTOR, RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION</strong><br/> <strong>LEVEL 4 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED</strong></p> <p>…outbreak of <a href="/scp-877">SCP-877</a> was possibly inevitable, under the circumstances. The microchips were never fully contained and were propagating in the wild; our containment policy was based on the assumption that the chips a) would remain in animals, b) that any infection involving humans would be suppressed by Foundation efforts, and c) that no enemy group would attempt to use SCP-877 to their advantage. Premise A was highly unlikely but justifiable given Premise B; the Foundation had few options but to try to find more chips, determine how to prevent their propagation, and hope for the best. Premise C, however, was logical only as long as enemy groups of interest remained ignorant of 877's existence. The latter was compromised due principally to the—</p> </blockquote> <p>Maria paused here. This was difficult to write, under the circumstances, but it was honest. And the man in question would agree as well.</p> <blockquote> <p>—administrative incompetence of David Eskobar, director of Site 38. Several of his subordinates had stolen samples of 877 and were conducting human experiments on D-class personnel on his Site without his awareness. Available evidence suggests they had made arrangements with Group of Interest Gamma-3, "Chaos Insurgency," to trade the technology (along with some applications that the Foundation at large was not aware of) in exchange for some form of compensation. The Insurgency handlers responsible for these researchers were captured two months later and revealed many details under interrogation; the researchers would have been executed after delivering the microchips.</p> <p>An unknown entity identified as "Anesidora" was found to have infiltrated the outskirts of Site 38 and had taken direct control over the 877 instances. This creature is believed to have traveled here via the same Einstein-Rosen mechanism connecting our universe with that of Alexylva University. The takeover of the site occurred in less than an hour. Efforts to repel the intruders from Site 38 were undertaken by Mobile Task Force Rho-1, the principle unit assigned to Site 38 and used for recovery of Alexylva University artifacts. Rho-1 was deployed in the field during the containment breach, but was able to return within hours.</p> <p>Several components of the incident are not (and, due to the unavailability of witnesses, never will be) understood. Specifically and most relevantly, the involvement of Professor Kain Pathos Crow's <a href="/olympia-project">"Olympia Zero"</a> entity, who entered the field and began assisting decontamination efforts. The manner in which Olympia Zero became involved, or even came to be in the vicinity of Site 38, <a href="/wayward-intermission">is not known or understood at present...</a></p> </blockquote> <p>Maria sighed. There was so, so much they didn't know. And Maria didn't know how much even the poor bastards involved in this clusterfuck knew while they were taking part in it. Maria was saddened almost more by the loss of information than the loss of Site 38 itself; all things considered, the Foundation was likely no worse off without one more backwater. But there were only two people who really knew what happened that day, the full story. Of those two, one was dead. The other was…<em>gone,</em> and unlikely to return…</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <p>David knew what was coming. It was obscene to him, and offensive; this was <em>real,</em> this…slaughter. People were dying by the dozens, or worse, turning into Integrators or Servus or whatever the hell you called someone enslaved by a machine in their head. And yet David knew that Site 38 was a stage, all the agents and researchers merely players, and a freak with no eyes was directing the show.</p> <p>And David had the script. All he could do was watch.</p> <p>The sundial was still in the room as David walked out, turned left, walked down the hallway. Turned right. Two D-class, zombie-walking towards him, covered in blood, holding assault rifles. David had to admit to a certain sense of amusement, knowing what happened next.</p> <p>A shimmer, and something vaguely related to a human was standing between him and the Servus. The (female? David had read the file once, but wasn't sure) humanoid turned, saw the D-class, who paused.</p> <p>"Unknown entity," the first began, "you are required to—"</p> <p>The humanoid's foot cracked across the speaker's neck from the side, snapping it. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose. The other D-class began to raise her gun. A blur of two feet, then the barrel of the rifle was protruding through her chest and out through her back. Another Servus turned the corner, reacting to the sound. Fire erupted from the barrel, shaking the dying human the gun was sticking through. Three bullets. Head, neck, and chest. The shooter propped a foot against the D-class, pushed, withdrew the gun, some entrails coming out along with the rifle. Turned, faced David.</p> <p>"David Eskobar," she said.</p> <p>"Olympia," David replied.</p> <p>"You have been briefed?"</p> <p>"Ssssssame as you," he stuttered.</p> <p>"You are not shocked?"</p> <p>"That…that <em>thing</em> showed me all of this already. I'll…I'll be okay."</p> <p>"Very good. Let us proceed." Olympia walked down the hallway, David behind her.</p> <p>"There's going to be a lot of this, isn't there?" David said, trying not to slip on the blood.</p> <p>"You know the answer to that."</p> <p>"Fair enough."</p> <hr/> <p>David blocked out so much of what happened that day. Half from horror, half from a genuine sense of existential overload. How do you deal with a universe where the plan has not only been written, but laid out in front of you? David watched Olympia kill at least a dozen of his researchers, all infected. Not that that mattered. David knew each and every one of them, had selected or been involved in the selection of each one. Knew their families.</p> <p>Knew how hard it would be to explain this carnage.</p> <p>And Olympia didn't seem to care. David was walking in the shadow of someone who was, by all evidence, completely without conscience. She had a mission, and that was all there was to her.</p> <p>It had been several hours since the two of them had materialized in Site 38. He knew there were exactly thirteen infected individuals left in Site 38, not counting the…things in the surrounding countryside. But there was something to deal with first.</p> <p>Voices in front of them. Spoken audibly by individuals not capable of telepathic communication. Uninfected. David and Olympia stopped, took cover behind different doorways.</p> <p>"This is Bravo team," a voice said. "Hallway secure. Moving into hallway Alfa-3-Charlie."</p> <p>Two camouflaged individuals with assault rifles looked around the corner, saw no one, turned the corner and began walking towards the two concealed individuals. Olympia pointed her handgun over their heads and fired two rounds. The Task Force agents dropped to a prone position, returned fire, shouted some warning. David was only half listening.</p> <p>"Agent Rasee, Agent Hsu, hold your fire," Olympia shouted down the hallway. "I just needed your attention. We are not infected."</p> <p>More shouted warnings, several more bullets from both sides. One agent began to throw a smoke grenade; Olympia fired a round down the hall, hit the agent's hand. David noticed she didn't look when she fired. The standoff lasted six minutes.</p> <p>"Tell your commander that Isham Harris is between the trees," Olympia finally said. Some more shouting down the hall, some squeaking from a radio, and then silence. David glanced down the hall; the agents were shifting uncomfortably and looked pale. Footsteps were coming towards them.</p> <p>The man who came up from behind the Mobile Task Force agents walked with authority. Everything about him exuded it. He was the sort of man who inspired loyalty without words; a hand gesture as he walked past the two agents in the hallway, and they stood at attention. David had recommended this man for his current job well before he was the director of Site 38. William Lopez, commanding officer, MTF Rho-1.</p> <p>Lopez walked up to where Olympia was standing and stopped. He glanced at David, looked him up and down, and dismissed him. He did that a lot. He turned to Olympia. "How the <em>fuck</em> do you know who Isham Harris is?"</p> <p>"That's not relevant, Major," Olympia said, "but I was told that you would recognize that phrase."</p> <p>Lopez looked Olympia up and down as well. "Nobody calls me Major anymore. Who the hell <em>are</em> you?"</p> <p>Olympia holstered her gun. "My name is Olympia, and you're going to help me save the world."</p> <hr/> <p>It was like baptism, or birth. Transcendence. Transfiguration. Like a first breath in a new world. The Minotaur's body didn't breathe, but there was no reason to break the metaphor. Until recently, the Minotaur <em>was</em> a metaphor. Until now. His Goddess had blessed him. His service was his honor.</p> <p>The Minotaur turned his head to his left; he heard the sound of scraping stone and paused, before realizing it was coming from him. To his left were several dozen sacks, all with the words "APOLLODORUS CONSTRUCTION COMBINE" printed on them. Behind him (his head turned fully around; it wasn't as though the Minotaur had an actual spinal column to deal with), several human Servus instances were stirring a vat of what looked like concrete mix. The Servus stepped away from the vat and stopped stirring. The movement of the concrete mixture slowed, slowed, slowed…</p> <p>…a ripple. Then another. A shape moving beneath the surface.</p> <p>A hand rose from the mixture, dripping, then setting. A metal scaffold sat beside the pit; the arm rose and grabbed one of the bars and pulled itself from the gray swamp. The Minotaur looked at the new creature. Humanoid in shape, though well taller than the hominid parasites. Two, almost two and a half meters tall. Arms, legs, torso, head. The arms had fractures where the elbows would be. The legs, likewise, had crevices where the rock limbs separated; they functioned as knees. The Minotaur did not understand fully how they worked. He looked at the cracks in his own arms where his rock fists were connected. He wanted the fist to rotate. It did so. The why was not important; his Goddess willed it to be, and it was.</p> <p>He looked at the doppelganger. His face could not smile, but he felt something akin to joy, looking at the other being. The horns rising from the other's head were black, the same as his own. This was a gift from his Goddess. <em>Their</em> Goddess. The Minotaurs looked at one another. Without a word, they began walking towards the nearby complex.</p> <p>The concrete mixture rippled again as they began to hunt.</p> <hr/> <p>Commander Lopez looked at Olympia. "Can you prove a single thing you just told me?"</p> <p>"About our mission? Hardly." Olympia shrugged. "That you will have to take on faith. But you cannot deny the logic involved. You see an 877 outbreak. You have been seeing increased activity from the microchips for months. Some of that could have happened on its own. This, however, is too much. The world next door to ours is staging a break-in, and this is the window they're coming in through. The only device capable of travelling between worlds is stationed in the physics department of Alexylva University. I invite you to draw your own conclusions."</p> <p>Lopez sat quietly. "Let's say you're telling the truth. How the hell are you involved? Aren't you supposed to be in a shed somewhere?"</p> <p>"Storage fffffacility," David sputtered. "But that's not rrrrrrrrrelevant. You need to give the order, Mmmmmajor."</p> <p>"If you need it done, Eskobar, that's the best reason I can think of why it's fucking stupid," Lopez said. "Remember that even in your version of events, it was your incompetence that let this all happen in the first pla—"</p> <p>"You think I don't fucking KNOW that, Lopez?" David replied. "You think I don't know I should never have had this job? That the Foundation made a sssssserious fucking error in hiring me in the first place? Believe me, nobody is mmmmmore aware of this than I am. So order this godforsaken place blown straight to hell already and put me out of a job. Give us all wwwwwwhat we want."</p> <p>Lopez sat and considered this. He turned to Olympia. "What kind of munitions do we need?"</p> <p>"Fuel-air bombs. Preferably multiple passes over the Site to be sure. They are going to become aware of the incoming bombs in a few minutes, so you'll want to hit the area surrounding the Site as well, possibly for a kilometer around or so."</p> <p>"That's a hell of a lot to cover up," Lopez sighed.</p> <p>"Keter containment breaches typically are," Olympia replied, coming to her feet. "Not sure what else you expect."</p> <p>Lopez nodded as she and David walked towards the door. "I'll make the call. One more question, though. You said they're going to be aware the bombs are coming. How are they going to know? Have they infiltrated our communications?"</p> <p>"Possibly, but I doubt it," Olympia replied. "No, I'm going to go tell them about it right now."</p> <p>Lopez had no time to react as Olympia and David left.</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/wayward-negotiation">Act II, Scene II: Negotiation>></a></p> </div> <p><a href="/wayward">Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub</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="/wayward-repel">Repel</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wayward-repel">https://scpwiki.com/wayward-repel</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[[wayward-intermission \|<< Intermission: Good Morning, Sunshine]]] [[collapsible show="The story so far..." hide="WARNING SECURITY IDENTIFICATION PROTOCOLS CORRUPTED"]] > EXCERPT > REPORT KB-615 > USER: DR. MARIA JONES, DIRECTOR, RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION > LEVEL 4 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED > > ...outbreak of [[[SCP-877]]] was possibly inevitable, under the circumstances. The microchips were never fully contained and were propagating in the wild; our containment policy was based on the assumption that the chips a) would remain in animals, b) that any infection involving humans would be suppressed by Foundation efforts, and c) that no enemy group would attempt to use SCP-877 to their advantage. Premise A was highly unlikely but justifiable given Premise B; the Foundation had few options but to try to find more chips, determine how to prevent their propagation, and hope for the best. Premise C, however, was logical only as long as enemy groups of interest remained ignorant of 877's existence. The latter was compromised due principally to the-- Maria paused here. This was difficult to write, under the circumstances, but it was honest. And the man in question would agree as well. > --administrative incompetence of David Eskobar, director of Site 38. Several of his subordinates had stolen samples of 877 and were conducting human experiments on D-class personnel on his Site without his awareness. Available evidence suggests they had made arrangements with Group of Interest Gamma-3, "Chaos Insurgency," to trade the technology (along with some applications that the Foundation at large was not aware of) in exchange for some form of compensation. The Insurgency handlers responsible for these researchers were captured two months later and revealed many details under interrogation; the researchers would have been executed after delivering the microchips. > > An unknown entity identified as "Anesidora" was found to have infiltrated the outskirts of Site 38 and had taken direct control over the 877 instances. This creature is believed to have traveled here via the same Einstein-Rosen mechanism connecting our universe with that of Alexylva University. The takeover of the site occurred in less than an hour. Efforts to repel the intruders from Site 38 were undertaken by Mobile Task Force Rho-1, the principle unit assigned to Site 38 and used for recovery of Alexylva University artifacts. Rho-1 was deployed in the field during the containment breach, but was able to return within hours. > > Several components of the incident are not (and, due to the unavailability of witnesses, never will be) understood. Specifically and most relevantly, the involvement of Professor Kain Pathos Crow's [[[olympia-project \|"Olympia Zero"]]] entity, who entered the field and began assisting decontamination efforts. The manner in which Olympia Zero became involved, or even came to be in the vicinity of Site 38, [[[wayward-intermission \|is not known or understood at present...]]] Maria sighed. There was so, so much they didn't know. And Maria didn't know how much even the poor bastards involved in this clusterfuck knew while they were taking part in it. Maria was saddened almost more by the loss of information than the loss of Site 38 itself; all things considered, the Foundation was likely no worse off without one more backwater. But there were only two people who really knew what happened that day, the full story. Of those two, one was dead. The other was...//gone,// and unlikely to return... [[/collapsible]] ------ David knew what was coming. It was obscene to him, and offensive; this was //real,// this...slaughter. People were dying by the dozens, or worse, turning into Integrators or Servus or whatever the hell you called someone enslaved by a machine in their head. And yet David knew that Site 38 was a stage, all the agents and researchers merely players, and a freak with no eyes was directing the show. And David had the script. All he could do was watch. The sundial was still in the room as David walked out, turned left, walked down the hallway. Turned right. Two D-class, zombie-walking towards him, covered in blood, holding assault rifles. David had to admit to a certain sense of amusement, knowing what happened next. A shimmer, and something vaguely related to a human was standing between him and the Servus. The (female? David had read the file once, but wasn't sure) humanoid turned, saw the D-class, who paused. "Unknown entity," the first began, "you are required to--" The humanoid's foot cracked across the speaker's neck from the side, snapping it. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose. The other D-class began to raise her gun. A blur of two feet, then the barrel of the rifle was protruding through her chest and out through her back. Another Servus turned the corner, reacting to the sound. Fire erupted from the barrel, shaking the dying human the gun was sticking through. Three bullets. Head, neck, and chest. The shooter propped a foot against the D-class, pushed, withdrew the gun, some entrails coming out along with the rifle. Turned, faced David. "David Eskobar," she said. "Olympia," David replied. "You have been briefed?" "Ssssssame as you," he stuttered. "You are not shocked?" "That...that //thing// showed me all of this already. I'll...I'll be okay." "Very good. Let us proceed." Olympia walked down the hallway, David behind her. "There's going to be a lot of this, isn't there?" David said, trying not to slip on the blood. "You know the answer to that." "Fair enough." ------ David blocked out so much of what happened that day. Half from horror, half from a genuine sense of existential overload. How do you deal with a universe where the plan has not only been written, but laid out in front of you? David watched Olympia kill at least a dozen of his researchers, all infected. Not that that mattered. David knew each and every one of them, had selected or been involved in the selection of each one. Knew their families. Knew how hard it would be to explain this carnage. And Olympia didn't seem to care. David was walking in the shadow of someone who was, by all evidence, completely without conscience. She had a mission, and that was all there was to her. It had been several hours since the two of them had materialized in Site 38. He knew there were exactly thirteen infected individuals left in Site 38, not counting the...things in the surrounding countryside. But there was something to deal with first. Voices in front of them. Spoken audibly by individuals not capable of telepathic communication. Uninfected. David and Olympia stopped, took cover behind different doorways. "This is Bravo team," a voice said. "Hallway secure. Moving into hallway Alfa-3-Charlie." Two camouflaged individuals with assault rifles looked around the corner, saw no one, turned the corner and began walking towards the two concealed individuals. Olympia pointed her handgun over their heads and fired two rounds. The Task Force agents dropped to a prone position, returned fire, shouted some warning. David was only half listening. "Agent Rasee, Agent Hsu, hold your fire," Olympia shouted down the hallway. "I just needed your attention. We are not infected." More shouted warnings, several more bullets from both sides. One agent began to throw a smoke grenade; Olympia fired a round down the hall, hit the agent's hand. David noticed she didn't look when she fired. The standoff lasted six minutes. "Tell your commander that Isham Harris is between the trees," Olympia finally said. Some more shouting down the hall, some squeaking from a radio, and then silence. David glanced down the hall; the agents were shifting uncomfortably and looked pale. Footsteps were coming towards them. The man who came up from behind the Mobile Task Force agents walked with authority. Everything about him exuded it. He was the sort of man who inspired loyalty without words; a hand gesture as he walked past the two agents in the hallway, and they stood at attention. David had recommended this man for his current job well before he was the director of Site 38. William Lopez, commanding officer, MTF Rho-1. Lopez walked up to where Olympia was standing and stopped. He glanced at David, looked him up and down, and dismissed him. He did that a lot. He turned to Olympia. "How the //fuck// do you know who Isham Harris is?" "That's not relevant, Major," Olympia said, "but I was told that you would recognize that phrase." Lopez looked Olympia up and down as well. "Nobody calls me Major anymore. Who the hell //are// you?" Olympia holstered her gun. "My name is Olympia, and you're going to help me save the world." ------ It was like baptism, or birth. Transcendence. Transfiguration. Like a first breath in a new world. The Minotaur's body didn't breathe, but there was no reason to break the metaphor. Until recently, the Minotaur //was// a metaphor. Until now. His Goddess had blessed him. His service was his honor. The Minotaur turned his head to his left; he heard the sound of scraping stone and paused, before realizing it was coming from him. To his left were several dozen sacks, all with the words "APOLLODORUS CONSTRUCTION COMBINE" printed on them. Behind him (his head turned fully around; it wasn't as though the Minotaur had an actual spinal column to deal with), several human Servus instances were stirring a vat of what looked like concrete mix. The Servus stepped away from the vat and stopped stirring. The movement of the concrete mixture slowed, slowed, slowed... ...a ripple. Then another. A shape moving beneath the surface. A hand rose from the mixture, dripping, then setting. A metal scaffold sat beside the pit; the arm rose and grabbed one of the bars and pulled itself from the gray swamp. The Minotaur looked at the new creature. Humanoid in shape, though well taller than the hominid parasites. Two, almost two and a half meters tall. Arms, legs, torso, head. The arms had fractures where the elbows would be. The legs, likewise, had crevices where the rock limbs separated; they functioned as knees. The Minotaur did not understand fully how they worked. He looked at the cracks in his own arms where his rock fists were connected. He wanted the fist to rotate. It did so. The why was not important; his Goddess willed it to be, and it was. He looked at the doppelganger. His face could not smile, but he felt something akin to joy, looking at the other being. The horns rising from the other's head were black, the same as his own. This was a gift from his Goddess. //Their// Goddess. The Minotaurs looked at one another. Without a word, they began walking towards the nearby complex. The concrete mixture rippled again as they began to hunt. ------ Commander Lopez looked at Olympia. "Can you prove a single thing you just told me?" "About our mission? Hardly." Olympia shrugged. "That you will have to take on faith. But you cannot deny the logic involved. You see an 877 outbreak. You have been seeing increased activity from the microchips for months. Some of that could have happened on its own. This, however, is too much. The world next door to ours is staging a break-in, and this is the window they're coming in through. The only device capable of travelling between worlds is stationed in the physics department of Alexylva University. I invite you to draw your own conclusions." Lopez sat quietly. "Let's say you're telling the truth. How the hell are you involved? Aren't you supposed to be in a shed somewhere?" "Storage fffffacility," David sputtered. "But that's not rrrrrrrrrelevant. You need to give the order, Mmmmmajor." "If you need it done, Eskobar, that's the best reason I can think of why it's fucking stupid," Lopez said. "Remember that even in your version of events, it was your incompetence that let this all happen in the first pla--" "You think I don't fucking KNOW that, Lopez?" David replied. "You think I don't know I should never have had this job? That the Foundation made a sssssserious fucking error in hiring me in the first place? Believe me, nobody is mmmmmore aware of this than I am. So order this godforsaken place blown straight to hell already and put me out of a job. Give us all wwwwwwhat we want." Lopez sat and considered this. He turned to Olympia. "What kind of munitions do we need?" "Fuel-air bombs. Preferably multiple passes over the Site to be sure. They are going to become aware of the incoming bombs in a few minutes, so you'll want to hit the area surrounding the Site as well, possibly for a kilometer around or so." "That's a hell of a lot to cover up," Lopez sighed. "Keter containment breaches typically are," Olympia replied, coming to her feet. "Not sure what else you expect." Lopez nodded as she and David walked towards the door. "I'll make the call. One more question, though. You said they're going to be aware the bombs are coming. How are they going to know? Have they infiltrated our communications?" "Possibly, but I doubt it," Olympia replied. "No, I'm going to go tell them about it right now." Lopez had no time to react as Olympia and David left. [[>]] [[[wayward-negotiation\|Act II, Scene II: Negotiation>>]]] [[/>]] [[[wayward \|Return to Parable of the Wayward Prince hub]]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-12-03T19:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "alexylva", "kain-pathos-crow", "tale" ]	Repel - SCP Foundation	41	[ "wayward-intermission", "scp-877", "olympia-project", "wayward-negotiation", "wayward", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "wayward", "archived:foundation-tales", "alexylva-university-hub" ]	[]	15253834	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wayward-repel
we-have-dismissed-that-claim	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> "This is going to kick the top off the anthill, you know that, right?" General Pendergast asked, looking up from the report. <p>Doctor Rex scoffed, "Yeah, well, I can't help it that Dr. Von Schmidt is an idiot, or that so many fools actually listened to his ridiculous ideas." Pendergast shook his head. "Besides, General, you wanted a realistic assessment. There you go."</p> <p>Pendergast sighed. "Rex, the point of Project Heimdall is to assess our risks. The O5 Council takes the 'Destroyers' mentioned in <a href="/scp-1050">SCP-1050</a> very seriously—"</p> <p>"Ah, yes, 'Destroyers'. The mythical race of warped abominations, allegedly waiting in the 'Realm of Darkness.' We can dismiss that claim, General," spat Rex. "There is not one <em>shred</em> of evidence to support the theory that aliens drop by every fifty thousand to fifty million years and wipe out large percentages of life on this planet - <em>not one!</em> I mean, unless you count a single artifact which makes wild and unsupported claims. Every major extinction event in this planet's history caused by the same thing? Come on!"</p> <p>"What about the transmission?" asked Pendergast.</p> <p>"What about it? It's three words in a predecessor dialect to Latin, followed by one hundred numbers," Rex retorted.</p> <p>"And some of those numbers are the base-eight equivalent of what's on the obelisk," Pendergast continued, exasperated.</p> <p>"So what?" Rex asked. "More than half of them <em>aren't</em>."</p> <p>Pendergast massaged his graying temples. "Doctor, don't you think it at least theoretically possible that—"</p> <p>"No, General, I don't," Rex said. He sighed exasperatedly. "Let's just take a look at what we know for certain - not what Von Schmidt guessed, what we <em>know.</em>"</p> <p>"Alright."</p> <p>"Obsidian obelisk of improbable size, covered in a bunch of different languages all saying the same thing, and inexplicably transmitting a signal which happens to match something occasionally picked up by radio telescopes," Rex began. "What does this text say?" He walked over to Pendergast's blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. "'Beware the Destroyers.' Okay, now there's a helpful statement. 'They come by the millions from the Realm of Darkness which extends where no stars shine.' Millions. Right. Probably hyperbole. Also, where is this 'Realm of Darkness'?"</p> <p>"Space," replied Pendergast.</p> <p>Rex looked down his glasses at the General condescendingly. "Really? Remember, 'where no stars shine'. There's nowhere on this planet that if you look up at the clear night sky forty-eight thousand years ago that you wouldn't see stars. I mean, <em>now</em> we know about intergalactic space, but back then? No way. This isn't some space opera cosmic horror story, General. No, if you want someplace dark without stars, at least from the primitive worldview of Paleolithic man, you're talking a cave or underwater. Look at mythological descriptions of the underworld. Hades, Niflheim, those are the places to look. And the Foundation has spent decades digging around looking for subterranean and submarine monsters. You'd think we'd have noticed millions of something.</p> <p>"Okay, moving on. 'For a thousand generations They slumber, lying in wait.' That's got to be hyperbole. No human society has ever kept records, even in oral tradition, that accurately keep track of things over twenty-five thousand years. Remember, writing only rolled around in the past ten thousand years," Rex said.</p> <p>"But the writing on the obelisk—" objected Pendergast.</p> <p>"What, the writing that magically appears over night? <em>We</em> made that?" Rex asked. "Okay. Brief description of peace, prosperity, blah, blah. 'Then They Return. They cull and burn. They are warped, and move beyond the pale, bigger than any man, unnatural births. Every nail, claw-scale and spur, every spike and welt on the hand of those heathen brutes is as barbed steel. It is said there is no honed iron hard enough to pierce Them through, no time proofed blade that can cut Their brutal blood caked claws.' This passage also appears in Beowulf, which, I might remind you, is <em>fiction!</em>"</p> <p>"Then it seems likely the author of Beowulf was aware of either the obelisk, or a contemporary version of dash-two," Pendergast retorted. "It would make sense, actually. Remember that one of the messages on the obelisk was written in 985 in Early Medieval Swedish Runes."</p> <p>"Right," Rex said. "Except <em>Beowulf</em> is about a legendary Geatish hero. Who was roughly contemporary with when the story was first told."</p> <p>"We think," Pendergast countered.</p> <p>"Even if Grendel or his mother - or both - are Destroyers, and I'm not saying I believe that, then that would actually support the subterranean or submarine origin of the Destroyers. Remember, Beowulf has to chase Grendel's mother to her lair, which was under a lake," Rex said. "Nothing extraterrestrial about that."</p> <p>"Huh," Pendergast said. This was an aspect to the text he'd never considered.</p> <p>"Yeah," Rex said. "I still don't think these Destroyers are real, or aliens, but that doesn't excuse lazy analysis. The least Von Schmidt could have done was done it <em>right</em>. Anyway, from the description, we can get that these alleged Destroyers are supposed to be big, ugly monsters. If I showed ancient man a tank, what do you think his response would be? You can kill a tank with a bazooka, General."</p> <p>Pendergast stood and picked up a piece of chalk of his own, "But what about the next part, Rex? 'Armies are raised and cut down like grasses before a scythe - it is said the armies of Amorah and Suhdom, each ten thousand strong, were swept away between a single rising and setting sun. Heroes come forth and are slaughtered.'"</p> <p>Rex was unimpressed. "If you have a hundred tanks and you go up against twenty thousand guys with spears and bows, what do you think the result is going to be? General, when was the last time you heard of a spearman beating a tank in combat?"</p> <p>"Tanks? In ancient times?" the General asked incredulously.</p> <p>"Alien invaders?" the Doctor countered. "I'm not saying these 'Destroyers' - if they existed - were tanks or anything like that. My point is that they could be something (apparently) completely unrelated to ten-fifty. They could even be something the Foundation has encountered and contained."</p> <p>Pendergast raised his eyebrows, "Like what?"</p> <p>Rex scoffed, "You want me to guess? I don't know, six-eighty-two, maybe? Or one-seven-three? Or maybe Able? Honestly, I have no idea. But we can't account for where any of these objects were fifty millennia ago. Maybe it was six-eighty-two's great-great-great-granddaddy!"</p> <p>"You've made your point, Rex," Pendergast said quietly.</p> <p>Ignoring him, Rex rambled on, "Just because we 'know', or I should say 'strongly believe', that there is a threat <em>does not</em> mean we actually have the foggiest idea what that threat actually <em>is.</em>"</p> <p>"Rex…"</p> <p>Rex showed no sign of stopping his rambling tirade, however. "We have a lot of information about this object - that we know, I mean, not just that we think we know - but we don't know that there <em>is</em> a threat, much less anything about what that threat might be!"</p> <p>"Enough!" shouted Pendergast. Rex blinked - he'd been so absorbed in his thought that it took volume to shake him out of it. Resuming his usual quiet volume, Pendergast asked, "What about the connection to Sodom and Gomorrah?"</p> <p>"Do you assume the Biblical accounts of those cities' destruction through fire and brimstone are literally true, General?" Rex asked. "That the Almighty decided to smite them? Besides, their historical existence is still in dispute by archaeologists. The Bible indicates they were located near the Dead Sea, but we've not found proof of their having been there." Pendergast nodded; petty, arrogant, and bad with people as Rex was, he had a point. "Beyond that, if Von Schmidt's analysis is correct (for a change), and the numbers are dates in Earth years since the Big Bang, then none of those dates are within human history."</p> <p>"Even the most recent one?" Pendergast observed skeptically.</p> <p>"No other written or oral history dates back that far, at least not that we know of," Rex said. "Sure, there were humans around, but fifty or so thousand years is a long time. Remember, this SCP notwithstanding, it's generally agreed that the first true writing of language was only invented in 3200 BCE in Mesopotamia - and then independently in Mesoamerica around 600 BC. Writing numbers came first, but even there we're only talking about 8000 BCE in Sumer."</p> <p>Pendergast nodded. "So, 1050 indicates human writing is five times older than we thought."</p> <p>"Except there's no clear evidence <em>humans</em> ever actually carved anything on the obelisk," Rex said. "Remember how the Nazi scientists went home for the night, only to come back and discover the Russian version of the message had appeared as if by magic."</p> <p>Pendergast thought about that for a moment, and decided to push Rex back on track. After all, the doctor had failed to answer his question. "Could the Biblical accounts of Sodom and Gomorrah have come from this SCP?"</p> <p>"If they did, then that would call into question centuries of scholarship on Biblical scholarship," answered Rex. "It is incredibly implausible for the Biblical Sodom and Gomorrah to have been destroyed by 'Destroyers', unless, of course, our understanding of where the Bible comes from is completely wrong."</p> <p>Pendergast raised an eyebrow. "Rex, you've worked here long enough to know that stranger things have happened."</p> <p>"Is it possible? Sure. But not probable," the doctor replied, adjusting his glasses. "And, on top of that, this message is a warning from ancient aliens who happened to visit this planet to warn us about other ancient aliens who appear out of nowhere every few epochs to wipe out the majority of life on the planet? I know this Foundation handles some crazy stuff, but <em>come on!</em>"</p> <p>Sighing, the General asked, "Okay, what about 'Lightning and fire rain from the sky and the whole earth trembles.'"</p> <p>"Sounds like what I understand modern artillery bombardment and aerial bombing is like," Rex replied.</p> <p>"And this stuff about the Destroyers being 'a powerful flood that washes away entire mighty nations and empires'?" Pendergast asked.</p> <p>Rex shook his head. "General, you know that there are flood myths in just about every culture, but apart from this obelisk's message, we have no reason to think they refer to anything other than, well, <em>water</em>."</p> <p>"'The people pray for deliverance from the gods. The gods fight the Destroyers, but their efforts are in vain'," quoted Pendergast.</p> <p>"Three-forty-three notwithstanding, how many gods do you know? And, even if you include him, how many gods do you know that actually bother interfering?" Rex asked. Pendergast was not a religious man, but he had been brought up by church-going parents, and was therefore less than amused by Rex's comment. Before he could say anything though, Rex continued. "And this whole bit about the Destroyers being 'as the gods are to men and men are to insects'? Sounds a bit like something out of Lovecraft, doesn't it? Or perhaps <em>Star Wars</em> - 'there's always a bigger fish'? Really?"</p> <p>"And this escape fleet of 'fifty score great vessels'?" asked Pendergast.</p> <p>"It wasn't until relatively modern times that fleets could be expected to weather storms without losing a ship or two," Rex said, "Or for that matter, to be almost completely wiped out by storms."</p> <p>Pendergast returned to his desk. "So you honestly think there's no threat here," he said.</p> <p>"General, the chances of anything coming to wipe us out are a million to one," Rex replied smugly.</p> <p><em>Thank you, Ogilvy,</em> Pendergast thought, trying not to smile at the apparently unintentional irony of Rex's choice of phrase. "Alright, Doctor, SCP-1050 isn't what we've previously believed it to be, then what is it?"</p> <p>"I don't know," Rex admitted, "but just because I can't provide an alternative doesn't mean the Foundation's current guess is anything other than speculative bullshit - imaginative speculative bullshit, to be sure, but bullshit nonetheless."</p> <p>Pendergast shook his head and looked up. "I hope you're right," he replied. "I'll forward your report. Dismissed, Doctor." As Rex left, Pendergast muttered to himself, "I hope you're right."</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="/we-have-dismissed-that-claim">We Have Dismissed That Claim</a>" by Hornby, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/we-have-dismissed-that-claim">https://scpwiki.com/we-have-dismissed-that-claim</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "This is going to kick the top off the anthill, you know that, right?" General Pendergast asked, looking up from the report. Doctor Rex scoffed, "Yeah, well, I can't help it that Dr. Von Schmidt is an idiot, or that so many fools actually listened to his ridiculous ideas." Pendergast shook his head. "Besides, General, you wanted a realistic assessment. There you go." Pendergast sighed. "Rex, the point of Project Heimdall is to assess our risks. The O5 Council takes the 'Destroyers' mentioned in [[[SCP-1050]]] very seriously--" "Ah, yes, 'Destroyers'. The mythical race of warped abominations, allegedly waiting in the 'Realm of Darkness.' We can dismiss that claim, General," spat Rex. "There is not one //shred// of evidence to support the theory that aliens drop by every fifty thousand to fifty million years and wipe out large percentages of life on this planet - //not one!// I mean, unless you count a single artifact which makes wild and unsupported claims. Every major extinction event in this planet's history caused by the same thing? Come on!" "What about the transmission?" asked Pendergast. "What about it? It's three words in a predecessor dialect to Latin, followed by one hundred numbers," Rex retorted. "And some of those numbers are the base-eight equivalent of what's on the obelisk," Pendergast continued, exasperated. "So what?" Rex asked. "More than half of them //aren't//." Pendergast massaged his graying temples. "Doctor, don't you think it at least theoretically possible that--" "No, General, I don't," Rex said. He sighed exasperatedly. "Let's just take a look at what we know for certain - not what Von Schmidt guessed, what we //know.//" "Alright." "Obsidian obelisk of improbable size, covered in a bunch of different languages all saying the same thing, and inexplicably transmitting a signal which happens to match something occasionally picked up by radio telescopes," Rex began. "What does this text say?" He walked over to Pendergast's blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. "'Beware the Destroyers.' Okay, now there's a helpful statement. 'They come by the millions from the Realm of Darkness which extends where no stars shine.' Millions. Right. Probably hyperbole. Also, where is this 'Realm of Darkness'?" "Space," replied Pendergast. Rex looked down his glasses at the General condescendingly. "Really? Remember, 'where no stars shine'. There's nowhere on this planet that if you look up at the clear night sky forty-eight thousand years ago that you wouldn't see stars. I mean, //now// we know about intergalactic space, but back then? No way. This isn't some space opera cosmic horror story, General. No, if you want someplace dark without stars, at least from the primitive worldview of Paleolithic man, you're talking a cave or underwater. Look at mythological descriptions of the underworld. Hades, Niflheim, those are the places to look. And the Foundation has spent decades digging around looking for subterranean and submarine monsters. You'd think we'd have noticed millions of something. "Okay, moving on. 'For a thousand generations They slumber, lying in wait.' That's got to be hyperbole. No human society has ever kept records, even in oral tradition, that accurately keep track of things over twenty-five thousand years. Remember, writing only rolled around in the past ten thousand years," Rex said. "But the writing on the obelisk--" objected Pendergast. "What, the writing that magically appears over night? //We// made that?" Rex asked. "Okay. Brief description of peace, prosperity, blah, blah. 'Then They Return. They cull and burn. They are warped, and move beyond the pale, bigger than any man, unnatural births. Every nail, claw-scale and spur, every spike and welt on the hand of those heathen brutes is as barbed steel. It is said there is no honed iron hard enough to pierce Them through, no time proofed blade that can cut Their brutal blood caked claws.' This passage also appears in Beowulf, which, I might remind you, is //fiction!//" "Then it seems likely the author of Beowulf was aware of either the obelisk, or a contemporary version of dash-two," Pendergast retorted. "It would make sense, actually. Remember that one of the messages on the obelisk was written in 985 in Early Medieval Swedish Runes." "Right," Rex said. "Except //Beowulf// is about a legendary Geatish hero. Who was roughly contemporary with when the story was first told." "We think," Pendergast countered. "Even if Grendel or his mother - or both - are Destroyers, and I'm not saying I believe that, then that would actually support the subterranean or submarine origin of the Destroyers. Remember, Beowulf has to chase Grendel's mother to her lair, which was under a lake," Rex said. "Nothing extraterrestrial about that." "Huh," Pendergast said. This was an aspect to the text he'd never considered. "Yeah," Rex said. "I still don't think these Destroyers are real, or aliens, but that doesn't excuse lazy analysis. The least Von Schmidt could have done was done it //right//. Anyway, from the description, we can get that these alleged Destroyers are supposed to be big, ugly monsters. If I showed ancient man a tank, what do you think his response would be? You can kill a tank with a bazooka, General." Pendergast stood and picked up a piece of chalk of his own, "But what about the next part, Rex? 'Armies are raised and cut down like grasses before a scythe - it is said the armies of Amorah and Suhdom, each ten thousand strong, were swept away between a single rising and setting sun. Heroes come forth and are slaughtered.'" Rex was unimpressed. "If you have a hundred tanks and you go up against twenty thousand guys with spears and bows, what do you think the result is going to be? General, when was the last time you heard of a spearman beating a tank in combat?" "Tanks? In ancient times?" the General asked incredulously. "Alien invaders?" the Doctor countered. "I'm not saying these 'Destroyers' - if they existed - were tanks or anything like that. My point is that they could be something (apparently) completely unrelated to ten-fifty. They could even be something the Foundation has encountered and contained." Pendergast raised his eyebrows, "Like what?" Rex scoffed, "You want me to guess? I don't know, six-eighty-two, maybe? Or one-seven-three? Or maybe Able? Honestly, I have no idea. But we can't account for where any of these objects were fifty millennia ago. Maybe it was six-eighty-two's great-great-great-granddaddy!" "You've made your point, Rex," Pendergast said quietly. Ignoring him, Rex rambled on, "Just because we 'know', or I should say 'strongly believe', that there is a threat //does not// mean we actually have the foggiest idea what that threat actually //is.//" "Rex..." Rex showed no sign of stopping his rambling tirade, however. "We have a lot of information about this object - that we know, I mean, not just that we think we know - but we don't know that there //is// a threat, much less anything about what that threat might be!" "Enough!" shouted Pendergast. Rex blinked - he'd been so absorbed in his thought that it took volume to shake him out of it. Resuming his usual quiet volume, Pendergast asked, "What about the connection to Sodom and Gomorrah?" "Do you assume the Biblical accounts of those cities' destruction through fire and brimstone are literally true, General?" Rex asked. "That the Almighty decided to smite them? Besides, their historical existence is still in dispute by archaeologists. The Bible indicates they were located near the Dead Sea, but we've not found proof of their having been there." Pendergast nodded; petty, arrogant, and bad with people as Rex was, he had a point. "Beyond that, if Von Schmidt's analysis is correct (for a change), and the numbers are dates in Earth years since the Big Bang, then none of those dates are within human history." "Even the most recent one?" Pendergast observed skeptically. "No other written or oral history dates back that far, at least not that we know of," Rex said. "Sure, there were humans around, but fifty or so thousand years is a long time. Remember, this SCP notwithstanding, it's generally agreed that the first true writing of language was only invented in 3200 BCE in Mesopotamia - and then independently in Mesoamerica around 600 BC. Writing numbers came first, but even there we're only talking about 8000 BCE in Sumer." Pendergast nodded. "So, 1050 indicates human writing is five times older than we thought." "Except there's no clear evidence //humans// ever actually carved anything on the obelisk," Rex said. "Remember how the Nazi scientists went home for the night, only to come back and discover the Russian version of the message had appeared as if by magic." Pendergast thought about that for a moment, and decided to push Rex back on track. After all, the doctor had failed to answer his question. "Could the Biblical accounts of Sodom and Gomorrah have come from this SCP?" "If they did, then that would call into question centuries of scholarship on Biblical scholarship," answered Rex. "It is incredibly implausible for the Biblical Sodom and Gomorrah to have been destroyed by 'Destroyers', unless, of course, our understanding of where the Bible comes from is completely wrong." Pendergast raised an eyebrow. "Rex, you've worked here long enough to know that stranger things have happened." "Is it possible? Sure. But not probable," the doctor replied, adjusting his glasses. "And, on top of that, this message is a warning from ancient aliens who happened to visit this planet to warn us about other ancient aliens who appear out of nowhere every few epochs to wipe out the majority of life on the planet? I know this Foundation handles some crazy stuff, but //come on!//" Sighing, the General asked, "Okay, what about 'Lightning and fire rain from the sky and the whole earth trembles.'" "Sounds like what I understand modern artillery bombardment and aerial bombing is like," Rex replied. "And this stuff about the Destroyers being 'a powerful flood that washes away entire mighty nations and empires'?" Pendergast asked. Rex shook his head. "General, you know that there are flood myths in just about every culture, but apart from this obelisk's message, we have no reason to think they refer to anything other than, well, //water//." "'The people pray for deliverance from the gods. The gods fight the Destroyers, but their efforts are in vain'," quoted Pendergast. "Three-forty-three notwithstanding, how many gods do you know? And, even if you include him, how many gods do you know that actually bother interfering?" Rex asked. Pendergast was not a religious man, but he had been brought up by church-going parents, and was therefore less than amused by Rex's comment. Before he could say anything though, Rex continued. "And this whole bit about the Destroyers being 'as the gods are to men and men are to insects'? Sounds a bit like something out of Lovecraft, doesn't it? Or perhaps //Star Wars// - 'there's always a bigger fish'? Really?" "And this escape fleet of 'fifty score great vessels'?" asked Pendergast. "It wasn't until relatively modern times that fleets could be expected to weather storms without losing a ship or two," Rex said, "Or for that matter, to be almost completely wiped out by storms." Pendergast returned to his desk. "So you honestly think there's no threat here," he said. "General, the chances of anything coming to wipe us out are a million to one," Rex replied smugly. //Thank you, Ogilvy,// Pendergast thought, trying not to smile at the apparently unintentional irony of Rex's choice of phrase. "Alright, Doctor, SCP-1050 isn't what we've previously believed it to be, then what is it?" "I don't know," Rex admitted, "but just because I can't provide an alternative doesn't mean the Foundation's current guess is anything other than speculative bullshit - imaginative speculative bullshit, to be sure, but bullshit nonetheless." Pendergast shook his head and looked up. "I hope you're right," he replied. "I'll forward your report. Dismissed, Doctor." As Rex left, Pendergast muttered to himself, "I hope you're right." [[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>]]	2012-06-22T01:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "heimdall", "historical", "mystery", "mythological", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	We Have Dismissed That Claim - SCP Foundation	130	[ "scp-1050", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "project-heimdall", "archived:foundation-tales", "bargain-bin-of-direct-to-forum-sequels" ]	[]	13607441	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/we-have-dismissed-that-claim
we-interrupt-this-program	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>1.</p> <p>Tired of all those cups falling whenever you open your cabinet? Had it with having to search around a high shelf with your hand?</p> <p>Well I have too, and that's why I'm back with an amazing new product: The Shelf-and-a-half! This amazing product combines the doors of a cabinet with the aesthetics of the shelf, and comes with a droppable stool attachment that allows you to climb up and retrieve its contents, and then get rid of the stool so it doesn't get in the way.</p> <p>Here's my friend Brandi! Brandi suffers from dwarfism, and is unable to reach the snowglobe on her high shelf. But wait, with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too!</p> <p>To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our operators are standing by.</p> <hr/> <p>10.</p> <p>Exhausted with all those cups falling whenever you open your cabinet? Had it with having to grasping around a high shelf with your hand?</p> <p>Well I have too, and that's why I'm back with a stunning new product: The Shelf-and-a-half! This amazing product combines the doors of a cabinet with the aesthetics of the shelf, and comes with a super-awesome droppable stool attachment that allows you to climb up and retrieve its contents, and then dispose of the stool so it doesn't obstruct your daily activities!</p> <p>Here's my friend, Brandi! Brandi is a sufferer of dwarfism, and is unable to reach the snowglobe on her high shelf. But wait, with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too!</p> <p>To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our operators are standing by.</p> <hr/> <p>24.</p> <p>Exhausted with all those cups doing that? Don't like doing that other thing?</p> <p>Well me too, and that's why I've got this thing: The Shelf-and-a-half! This thing is like a cabinet and a shelf, I guess, and comes with a droppable stool attachment that you can use if you're short, and then put it back.</p> <p>Here's my friend, Brandi. Brandi's a dwarf, and can't reach that snowglobe. But with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE, BRANDI, DON'T JUST STAND THERE!</p> <p>The thing's only $19.99. But wait, there's more. Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half. Just pay shipping and handling. Call the number there. Our operators are standing by.</p> <hr/> <p>37.</p> <p>Okay, what the fuck is going on? Why do those cups keep falling? Why does only my voice exist right now?</p> <p>Oh, here I am. Okay, there's a shelf here. Look, it's like a cabinet too. And a stool drops down.</p> <p>Oh look, there's Brandi. What's up. Look, just pick up the snowglobe and we can move on. SHAKE THE FUCKING SNOWGLOBE BRANDI! FUCK!</p> <p>Okay, call that number there.</p> <hr/> <p>52.</p> <p>Cue cups falling. Cue hand searching.</p> <p>Hi, look at this shelf. Fuck this thing.</p> <p>Brandi, just shake the fucking snowglobe.</p> <p>Look, if anybody's watching, please call this number. SAVE US!</p> <hr/> <p>59.</p> <p>The clattering never stops. Oh look, the hand just flipped me the bird.</p> <p>This fucking shelf piece of shit! Look how flimsy it is! See how easily my foot goes through it! Put an old lady on there and she'd die.</p> <p>Shut up Brandi. Look, either you shake that snowglobe or we're just gonna be fucking standing in this empty room forever. I don't care. Shut up. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE YOU BITCH!</p> <p>Watch as I use the components of the Shelf-and-a-half to tear my own eyes out while you call this number! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH</p> <hr/> <p>75.</p> <hr/> <p>92.</p> <p>GIVE ME SOME HEAD YOU FUCKING BITCH!</p> <hr/> <p>97.</p> <p>Hi, my name's J- Shut up you bitch. You may be wondering what I'm doing with this woman tied up. Well, you see, I'm trapped in some kind of infomercial purgatory and I've decided that perhaps ritual sacrifice is the way to g- Stay on the ground. As you can see, I've disassembled the Shelf-and-a-half into its components and will now push this rather large nail right in between Brandi's eyes. Hold still, Brandi!</p> <p>Mmmmm, don't you just love that sound folks! Sadly, it doesn't seem to have worked. I'm going to kill myself now!</p> <hr/> <p>111.</p> <p>Your turn.</p> <hr/> <p>112.</p> <p>My turn.</p> <hr/> <p>113.</p> <p>Your turn.</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="/we-interrupt-this-program">We Interrupt this Program</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/we-interrupt-this-program">https://scpwiki.com/we-interrupt-this-program</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]] [[/>]] 1. Tired of all those cups falling whenever you open your cabinet? Had it with having to search around a high shelf with your hand? Well I have too, and that's why I'm back with an amazing new product: The Shelf-and-a-half! This amazing product combines the doors of a cabinet with the aesthetics of the shelf, and comes with a droppable stool attachment that allows you to climb up and retrieve its contents, and then get rid of the stool so it doesn't get in the way. Here's my friend Brandi! Brandi suffers from dwarfism, and is unable to reach the snowglobe on her high shelf. But wait, with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too! To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our operators are standing by. ----- 10. Exhausted with all those cups falling whenever you open your cabinet? Had it with having to grasping around a high shelf with your hand? Well I have too, and that's why I'm back with a stunning new product: The Shelf-and-a-half! This amazing product combines the doors of a cabinet with the aesthetics of the shelf, and comes with a super-awesome droppable stool attachment that allows you to climb up and retrieve its contents, and then dispose of the stool so it doesn't obstruct your daily activities! Here's my friend, Brandi! Brandi is a sufferer of dwarfism, and is unable to reach the snowglobe on her high shelf. But wait, with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too! To get your Shelf-and-a-half, call now and we'll send you one for only $19.99. That's right, a $40 value for only 20 bucks! But wait, there's more! Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half absolutely FREE! Just pay shipping and handling! Just dial up the number on the screen and get yourself two Shelfs-and-a-half! Our operators are standing by. ----- 24. Exhausted with all those cups doing that? Don't like doing that other thing? Well me too, and that's why I've got this thing: The Shelf-and-a-half! This thing is like a cabinet and a shelf, I guess, and comes with a droppable stool attachment that you can use if you're short, and then put it back. Here's my friend, Brandi. Brandi's a dwarf, and can't reach that snowglobe. But with the help of the Shelf-and-a-half, she can reach the snowglobe and shake it too. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE, BRANDI, DON'T JUST STAND THERE! The thing's only $19.99. But wait, there's more. Call now and you can get a second Shelf-and-a-half. Just pay shipping and handling. Call the number there. Our operators are standing by. ----- 37. Okay, what the fuck is going on? Why do those cups keep falling? Why does only my voice exist right now? Oh, here I am. Okay, there's a shelf here. Look, it's like a cabinet too. And a stool drops down. Oh look, there's Brandi. What's up. Look, just pick up the snowglobe and we can move on. SHAKE THE FUCKING SNOWGLOBE BRANDI! FUCK! Okay, call that number there. ----- 52. Cue cups falling. Cue hand searching. Hi, look at this shelf. Fuck this thing. Brandi, just shake the fucking snowglobe. Look, if anybody's watching, please call this number. SAVE US! ----- 59. The clattering never stops. Oh look, the hand just flipped me the bird. This fucking shelf piece of shit! Look how flimsy it is! See how easily my foot goes through it! Put an old lady on there and she'd die. Shut up Brandi. Look, either you shake that snowglobe or we're just gonna be fucking standing in this empty room forever. I don't care. Shut up. SHAKE THE SNOWGLOBE YOU BITCH! Watch as I use the components of the Shelf-and-a-half to tear my own eyes out while you call this number! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH ----- 75. ----- 92. GIVE ME SOME HEAD YOU FUCKING BITCH! ----- 97. Hi, my name's J- Shut up you bitch. You may be wondering what I'm doing with this woman tied up. Well, you see, I'm trapped in some kind of infomercial purgatory and I've decided that perhaps ritual sacrifice is the way to g- Stay on the ground. As you can see, I've disassembled the Shelf-and-a-half into its components and will now push this rather large nail right in between Brandi's eyes. Hold still, Brandi! Mmmmm, don't you just love that sound folks! Sadly, it doesn't seem to have worked. I'm going to kill myself now! ----- 111. Your turn. ----- 112. My turn. ----- 113. Your turn. [[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>]]	2012-05-05T22:04:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "horror", "psychological-horror", "tale" ]	We Interrupt this Program - SCP Foundation	308	[ "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" ]	[]	13280383	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/we-interrupt-this-program
what-is-wrong-with-you	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>There's a reason I keep the lights out when I work. For all the world's infinite variety, I get stuck with the very worst of what it has to offer. The light can only bring knowledge and pain.</p> <p>So even though staying in the dark exposes me to the monsters, though it means they can snap my neck, crunch my bones, cut my flesh, stalk behind my back and devour my soul, I work in the dark.</p> <p>It doesn't cut out the screams or dull the touch, or negate the reality that I'm filling them with needles and serums.</p> <p>But it keeps me from seeing that I'm one of them.</p> <p>***</p> <p>"Researcher Harrison, this is the sorriest excuse for a suicide note I've ever seen!"</p> <p>David Harrison, recently rescued from an attempt to hang himself in his own quarters, looked up from his feet. He coughed a little, and asked, "Sir?"</p> <p>"I mean, really! Four paragraphs, three of them only one sentence? I know you were in a rush, but good God, man! Were you even thinking when you wrote this?"</p> <p>"Um, sir…" Harrison said, looking around nervously, "don't I get counseling for this? Psychiatric help? I've gone over this in my head, and I really don't want to…"</p> <p>"And your ideas!" exclaimed the Head of Psychiatric Affairs. "'It keeps me from seeing I'm one of them'? Do you have any idea how many times we've seen that before? Would it kill you to throw a little originality into it?"</p> <p>Researcher Harrison flinched. "Sir, I don't think it's wise for you to use such terms around me at this point in time…"</p> <p>The man before him slammed his fist onto the desk. "Harrison!" he boomed. "Can't you see what the real problem here is?"</p> <p>Harrison slammed both palms face down on the desk and stood up rapidly. "Are you going to help me or not?" he cried hysterically. A look of understanding passed over the other man's face.</p> <p>"You really don't know, do you, Harrison?" he asked slowly, arching an eyebrow.</p> <p>"No, no I don't." With that, David Harrison broke down in tears, dropped to his knees, and sobbed. The Head of Psychiatric Affairs got out of his desk and helped Harrison to his feet.</p> <p>"There, there," he cooed, aiding the Researcher in getting out the door. "I'm sorry. It's just… look, having a two-pronged job isn't easy, you know? I've got to make sure you lot are all mentally healthy, which isn't an easy job with Glass running around compounding your problems, but I've also got to make sure your writing is up to par with everything else we put out there."</p> <p>Harrison gave him a confused look. "Allow me to explain. For reasons I don't quite understand, we have to at least try to publish every little thing our researchers write. Most of the stuff doesn't make it through the editing process, being too bland for our tastes. Suicide notes, however, those almost always make it through. They provide a juicy insight into what you're all actually thinking, and help maintain a good image for the Foundation. So, naturally, when I see fifteen ones almost exactly like yours, I'm bound to get a touch angry. You understand, right?"</p> <p>Harrison's emotions had rapidly changed from despair to anger. "So our pain and suffering is being objectified just so the Foundation can look good?" he snapped.</p> <p>"Well, not exactly. We try to treat you with the utmost respect, but things don't always work out. Like I said, I don't know why we need to publish everything you write, but I'm sure there's a good cause for it. If it were something like, say, the entertainment of a mass audience who have no affiliations with us, that would be cause for all-out revolt against O-5 command. But I'm pretty sure it's so that we can better understand what those with lower-ranking positions think and feel. It keeps us from being too far seperated, and also makes for a good tool for studying how to solve these problems."</p> <p>The pair had reached the main counceling area. "Come on, now," the man grunted to Harrison. "Let's get you back on track. Three weeks' therapy and you'll be right as rain again." David Harrison smiled, confident that his leaders cared about him, ready to set out on the path to recovery.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/what-is-wrong-with-you">What Is Wrong With You</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/what-is-wrong-with-you">https://scpwiki.com/what-is-wrong-with-you</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's a reason I keep the lights out when I work. For all the world's infinite variety, I get stuck with the very worst of what it has to offer. The light can only bring knowledge and pain. So even though staying in the dark exposes me to the monsters, though it means they can snap my neck, crunch my bones, cut my flesh, stalk behind my back and devour my soul, I work in the dark. It doesn't cut out the screams or dull the touch, or negate the reality that I'm filling them with needles and serums. But it keeps me from seeing that I'm one of them. *** "Researcher Harrison, this is the sorriest excuse for a suicide note I've ever seen!" David Harrison, recently rescued from an attempt to hang himself in his own quarters, looked up from his feet. He coughed a little, and asked, "Sir?" "I mean, really! Four paragraphs, three of them only one sentence? I know you were in a rush, but good God, man! Were you even thinking when you wrote this?" "Um, sir..." Harrison said, looking around nervously, "don't I get counseling for this? Psychiatric help? I've gone over this in my head, and I really don't want to..." "And your ideas!" exclaimed the Head of Psychiatric Affairs. "'It keeps me from seeing I'm one of them'? Do you have any idea how many times we've seen that before? Would it kill you to throw a little originality into it?" Researcher Harrison flinched. "Sir, I don't think it's wise for you to use such terms around me at this point in time..." The man before him slammed his fist onto the desk. "Harrison!" he boomed. "Can't you see what the real problem here is?" Harrison slammed both palms face down on the desk and stood up rapidly. "Are you going to help me or not?" he cried hysterically. A look of understanding passed over the other man's face. "You really don't know, do you, Harrison?" he asked slowly, arching an eyebrow. "No, no I don't." With that, David Harrison broke down in tears, dropped to his knees, and sobbed. The Head of Psychiatric Affairs got out of his desk and helped Harrison to his feet. "There, there," he cooed, aiding the Researcher in getting out the door. "I'm sorry. It's just... look, having a two-pronged job isn't easy, you know? I've got to make sure you lot are all mentally healthy, which isn't an easy job with Glass running around compounding your problems, but I've also got to make sure your writing is up to par with everything else we put out there." Harrison gave him a confused look. "Allow me to explain. For reasons I don't quite understand, we have to at least try to publish every little thing our researchers write. Most of the stuff doesn't make it through the editing process, being too bland for our tastes. Suicide notes, however, those almost always make it through. They provide a juicy insight into what you're all actually thinking, and help maintain a good image for the Foundation. So, naturally, when I see fifteen ones almost exactly like yours, I'm bound to get a touch angry. You understand, right?" Harrison's emotions had rapidly changed from despair to anger. "So our pain and suffering is being objectified just so the Foundation can look good?" he snapped. "Well, not exactly. We try to treat you with the utmost respect, but things don't always work out. Like I said, I don't know why we need to publish everything you write, but I'm sure there's a good cause for it. If it were something like, say, the entertainment of a mass audience who have no affiliations with us, that would be cause for all-out revolt against O-5 command. But I'm pretty sure it's so that we can better understand what those with lower-ranking positions think and feel. It keeps us from being too far seperated, and also makes for a good tool for studying how to solve these problems." The pair had reached the main counceling area. "Come on, now," the man grunted to Harrison. "Let's get you back on track. Three weeks' therapy and you'll be right as rain again." David Harrison smiled, confident that his leaders cared about him, ready to set out on the path to recovery. [[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>]]	2012-02-19T19:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	What Is Wrong With You - SCP Foundation	36	[ "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" ]	[]	12763397	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/what-is-wrong-with-you
when-one-reaches-the-end	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>These</em> were the “Her Majesty’s Finest”? A half-dozen old men poking around the mortar holes and dugouts amidst the mist and mud and stench of the dead, all in the name of a crone who’d been dead for nearly twenty years?</p> <p>He didn’t think it possible, but Vladislav’s already abysmal opinion of the British had sunk even lower over the last hours as he watched them pick up the remains. These were Russian soldiers. What right did a bunch of old men and their underlings have to swoop down upon the battlefield, upon his own blood-stained homeland, and pick apart his countrymen like crows?</p> <p>Crows. That was a good word for them. The underlings all wore long black coats and gas masks, even when they were unneeded. A red crown was stenciled on the sleeves, above the letters HMFSCP. The old men had no such coats, no such gas masks, no such crown, and as such none of them handled any of the bodies or weapons. They only watched, occasionally croaking out an order or inspecting what the crows had already gathered and sorted.</p> <p>Drizzle tapped on the tarp above his head, and Vladislav wondered how much longer he and his comrades would have to be here, and how he even came to be in this position, and who had pulled what strings in both countries. They were here to guide and translate and guard, and precious little else.</p> <p>The old man in the wheelchair licked his lips again. Vladislav shuffled his feet, inching away from the one other inhabitant of the tarp pavilion. The other old men, they were just foolish old men. This man though, he was simply unsettling.</p> <p>The old man was <em>ancient</em>, well over ninety years old, if not a hundred: He appeared less of a man and more of a sack of bones wrapped in thin, clammy skin stretched tight over knobbly joints and thick blue veins. A thin white wisp on his lip showed where there had once been a bushy mustache. He was layered in coats and blankets to fight off the chill. The blanket across his lap was worn and faded, but at one point would have held a beautiful, intricate pattern. The man's half-blind eyes stared off into the distance, focused on things that were not there.</p> <p>He had not spoken the entire time Vladislav had been standing there. Occasionally, he would mouth silent words or lick his lips, and that was all.</p> <p>The crows seemed to have finished collecting the bodies and debris. Several of them had begun drawing circles in the mud around the battlefield, while others wheeled out barrels of powders and liquids and began to spread them in neat symbols. Vladislav had seen this sort of thing twice before: once as a child, and once as they taught him to kill men with a bit of lead. He had learned then that these events were of the kind that, even if one did see it, it was a good thing to say that you had not seen it, and a better thing to <em>know</em> that you did not see it.</p> <p>Vladislav continued to not see the crows setting up their circles and stakes and symbols in the mud for several cold, rain-drizzled minutes.</p> <p>“Ugly, isn’t it?” A cold, quiet voice croaked in accented Russian. Vladislav looked to the man in the wheelchair to see him licking his lips again. His imagination then, or perhaps it was something that he most certainly did not hear.</p> <p>No, it was the old man who had spoken. It would be foolish to think otherwise.</p> <p>“It is what it is,” Vladislav said back to the old man, continuing to not see the crows scrawling and chanting on the field.</p> <p>“It’s very ugly.”</p> <p>“Indeed.”</p> <p>Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle.</p> <p>“In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan, a stately pleasure dome decree…”</p> <p>What was this gibberish? He was mad, then. Why bring an old madman to this forsaken stretch of forest?</p> <p>“There was never a dome,” the old man continued. “Twice I went to Xanadu, and I never saw the dome. The Khans never took Xanadu. They broke upon its mountain walls over and over again, and they never entered.”</p> <p>Vladislav didn’t respond. Let the madman ramble. He was too busy not watching the horrible images shimmering across the mortar-pocked mud and splintered trees.</p> <p>“The men of Xanadu thought that they would bring peace to the world, that all the hordes of the world would break upon their walls until no man had strength for war and then all would share in their glory. Their peace died with them, slowly, by disease and inbreeding. But the idea remained: For peace, men must die.”</p> <p>Vladislav still listened, but the words fell into uncaring ears. A wonderful story, old man. You were only late by twenty years and a world war for this soldier.</p> <p>The old man continued.</p> <p>“Certain legions of the Romans would bring with them great beasts, who consumed the corpses of the dead and turned them into food and water for the troops. In China, I saw a drug that would cause a man’s innards to combust when blood was drawn, spraying acid strong enough to melt flesh. The peoples near the South Pole fight wars with women who, each time they are unchained, will twist all creation around them into monsters by their very presence.</p> <p>“In the jungles of Africa, I once met a tribe who worshiped a giant spider. On the night of the full moon they would feed one of their own to it. They stayed where they were, and kept feeding it, every full moon, despite the fact that the spider was so fat from its meals that it could not leave its pit.</p> <p>“And here, I’ve seen dead men shuffling down in the blood and mud of the trenches as they rot without death, and I watch as we pick up what remains of Durand’s peace and plan for the next war. It’s ugly, and it never changes.”</p> <p>The old man coughed. It was a horrible, phlegmy noise.</p> <p>“At the very least I will not live until the next.”</p> <p>He was quiet.</p> <p>Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle.</p> <p>Vladislav went back to not watching the nebulous visions of unfolding unfathomable cosmos and impossibilities and the margins of worlds worn thin. He didn’t feel like he had anything to say to the mad old man.</p> <p>He looked to his left to see the old man reach a trembling skeletal hand for a little bell hanging on the arm of his wheelchair.</p> <p><em>Ding-a-ling</em></p> <p>The bell hung in the air a moment, out of place, before Vladislav heard footsteps. A man rounded the corner and entered the pavilion. He was wearing a crow’s uniform, though he held his mask under his arm, revealing the face of a man about forty years old, with a little grey around the temples and a pencil-thin mustache. His posture was stiff, professional, that of a man ready to serve.</p> <p>“I’ve seen enough, Deeds. Take me somewhere warm, please. It’s dreadfully cold."</p> <p>“Of course, sir.”</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="/when-one-reaches-the-end">When One Reaches the End</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/when-one-reaches-the-end">https://scpwiki.com/when-one-reaches-the-end</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]] [[/>]] //These// were the “Her Majesty’s Finest”? A half-dozen old men poking around the mortar holes and dugouts amidst the mist and mud and stench of the dead, all in the name of a crone who’d been dead for nearly twenty years? He didn’t think it possible, but Vladislav’s already abysmal opinion of the British had sunk even lower over the last hours as he watched them pick up the remains. These were Russian soldiers. What right did a bunch of old men and their underlings have to swoop down upon the battlefield, upon his own blood-stained homeland, and pick apart his countrymen like crows? Crows. That was a good word for them. The underlings all wore long black coats and gas masks, even when they were unneeded. A red crown was stenciled on the sleeves, above the letters HMFSCP. The old men had no such coats, no such gas masks, no such crown, and as such none of them handled any of the bodies or weapons. They only watched, occasionally croaking out an order or inspecting what the crows had already gathered and sorted. Drizzle tapped on the tarp above his head, and Vladislav wondered how much longer he and his comrades would have to be here, and how he even came to be in this position, and who had pulled what strings in both countries. They were here to guide and translate and guard, and precious little else. The old man in the wheelchair licked his lips again. Vladislav shuffled his feet, inching away from the one other inhabitant of the tarp pavilion. The other old men, they were just foolish old men. This man though, he was simply unsettling. The old man was //ancient//, well over ninety years old, if not a hundred: He appeared less of a man and more of a sack of bones wrapped in thin, clammy skin stretched tight over knobbly joints and thick blue veins. A thin white wisp on his lip showed where there had once been a bushy mustache. He was layered in coats and blankets to fight off the chill. The blanket across his lap was worn and faded, but at one point would have held a beautiful, intricate pattern. The man's half-blind eyes stared off into the distance, focused on things that were not there. He had not spoken the entire time Vladislav had been standing there. Occasionally, he would mouth silent words or lick his lips, and that was all. The crows seemed to have finished collecting the bodies and debris. Several of them had begun drawing circles in the mud around the battlefield, while others wheeled out barrels of powders and liquids and began to spread them in neat symbols. Vladislav had seen this sort of thing twice before: once as a child, and once as they taught him to kill men with a bit of lead. He had learned then that these events were of the kind that, even if one did see it, it was a good thing to say that you had not seen it, and a better thing to //know// that you did not see it. Vladislav continued to not see the crows setting up their circles and stakes and symbols in the mud for several cold, rain-drizzled minutes. “Ugly, isn’t it?” A cold, quiet voice croaked in accented Russian. Vladislav looked to the man in the wheelchair to see him licking his lips again. His imagination then, or perhaps it was something that he most certainly did not hear. No, it was the old man who had spoken. It would be foolish to think otherwise. “It is what it is,” Vladislav said back to the old man, continuing to not see the crows scrawling and chanting on the field. “It’s very ugly.” “Indeed.” Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. “In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan, a stately pleasure dome decree…” What was this gibberish? He was mad, then. Why bring an old madman to this forsaken stretch of forest? “There was never a dome,” the old man continued. “Twice I went to Xanadu, and I never saw the dome. The Khans never took Xanadu. They broke upon its mountain walls over and over again, and they never entered.” Vladislav didn’t respond. Let the madman ramble. He was too busy not watching the horrible images shimmering across the mortar-pocked mud and splintered trees. “The men of Xanadu thought that they would bring peace to the world, that all the hordes of the world would break upon their walls until no man had strength for war and then all would share in their glory. Their peace died with them, slowly, by disease and inbreeding. But the idea remained: For peace, men must die.” Vladislav still listened, but the words fell into uncaring ears. A wonderful story, old man. You were only late by twenty years and a world war for this soldier. The old man continued. “Certain legions of the Romans would bring with them great beasts, who consumed the corpses of the dead and turned them into food and water for the troops. In China, I saw a drug that would cause a man’s innards to combust when blood was drawn, spraying acid strong enough to melt flesh. The peoples near the South Pole fight wars with women who, each time they are unchained, will twist all creation around them into monsters by their very presence. “In the jungles of Africa, I once met a tribe who worshiped a giant spider. On the night of the full moon they would feed one of their own to it. They stayed where they were, and kept feeding it, every full moon, despite the fact that the spider was so fat from its meals that it could not leave its pit. “And here, I’ve seen dead men shuffling down in the blood and mud of the trenches as they rot without death, and I watch as we pick up what remains of Durand’s peace and plan for the next war. It’s ugly, and it never changes.” The old man coughed. It was a horrible, phlegmy noise. “At the very least I will not live until the next.” He was quiet. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. Vladislav went back to not watching the nebulous visions of unfolding unfathomable cosmos and impossibilities and the margins of worlds worn thin. He didn’t feel like he had anything to say to the mad old man. He looked to his left to see the old man reach a trembling skeletal hand for a little bell hanging on the arm of his wheelchair. //Ding-a-ling// The bell hung in the air a moment, out of place, before Vladislav heard footsteps. A man rounded the corner and entered the pavilion. He was wearing a crow’s uniform, though he held his mask under his arm, revealing the face of a man about forty years old, with a little grey around the temples and a pencil-thin mustache. His posture was stiff, professional, that of a man ready to serve. “I’ve seen enough, Deeds. Take me somewhere warm, please. It’s dreadfully cold." “Of course, sir.” [[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>]]	2012-10-21T20:04:00	[ "_licensebox", "blackwood", "bleak", "hmfscp", "military-fiction", "period-piece", "tale" ]	When One Reaches the End - SCP Foundation	115	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "discovering-scp-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	14745205	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/when-one-reaches-the-end
where-they-all-go	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Author Note:</strong> <em>I find it's even better if you listen to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hxTwwhdMFw">this</a> whilst reading.</em> -Sal</p> <p><strong>Background:</strong> A large mass approximately 3 kilometers in diameter, located 436,200 kilometers away from the earth's surface, was discovered by Foundation astronomers. It orbits the Earth directly behind the moon, causing it to be obscured from view through terrestrial telescopes.</p> <p>Observation of the mass is difficult, however researchers have determined it to be made up of several million constituent parts that move independently. Due to the freedom with which these parts move, it appears that the mass was not gravitationally formed.</p> <p>Foundation Space Telescope 23 Alpha was launched in order to further observe the mass. Dr. ████████ has written the following report on the telescope's observations:</p> <blockquote> <p>Space Telescope 23 Alpha was launched at 9:15:31. It reached its destination at 22:23:04, wherein it began orbiting the moon. It completed orbit to the opposite side of the moon in 23 minutes, after which it focused on the speck. What we saw through it was astonishing.</p> <p>Balloons. Thousands, no, millions of them. Most of them were the typical oval shape, but there was the occasional novelty Disneyland one with mickey mouse ears, or those ones you can buy at Pharmacies that are shaped like words. They all floated there, moving rhythmically. Dancing.</p> <p>We watched them for a while. It was soothing. The way they coalesced. Their movements seemed joyful, happy. They danced around one another, their strings sometimes touching as if they were holding hands. It was beautiful.</p> <p>One of my researchers suddenly jumped up approximately 24 minutes in, and pointed to a certain balloon that came into view. It was a green, oblong balloon with a custom print on it. It said "Happy Birthday, ███████ ██████." That was the name of my researcher. He told me that on his 8th birthday his mom had ordered 100 custom-print green balloons that said exactly that.</p> <p>After watching the balloons dance for another 30 minutes, I came to the conclusion that these balloons did not simply appear behind the moon. I remember when I was little, and I myself let go of a colourful pink balloon that slipped off my wrist. I watched it drift off into the atmosphere, and stared, wondering where it would go. I think we have just found out.</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="/where-they-all-go">Where They All Go</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/where-they-all-go">https://scpwiki.com/where-they-all-go</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Author Note: //I find it's even better if you listen to [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hxTwwhdMFw this] whilst reading.// -Sal Background: A large mass approximately 3 kilometers in diameter, located 436,200 kilometers away from the earth's surface, was discovered by Foundation astronomers. It orbits the Earth directly behind the moon, causing it to be obscured from view through terrestrial telescopes. Observation of the mass is difficult, however researchers have determined it to be made up of several million constituent parts that move independently. Due to the freedom with which these parts move, it appears that the mass was not gravitationally formed. Foundation Space Telescope 23 Alpha was launched in order to further observe the mass. Dr. ████████ has written the following report on the telescope's observations: > Space Telescope 23 Alpha was launched at 9:15:31. It reached its destination at 22:23:04, wherein it began orbiting the moon. It completed orbit to the opposite side of the moon in 23 minutes, after which it focused on the speck. What we saw through it was astonishing. > > Balloons. Thousands, no, millions of them. Most of them were the typical oval shape, but there was the occasional novelty Disneyland one with mickey mouse ears, or those ones you can buy at Pharmacies that are shaped like words. They all floated there, moving rhythmically. Dancing. > > We watched them for a while. It was soothing. The way they coalesced. Their movements seemed joyful, happy. They danced around one another, their strings sometimes touching as if they were holding hands. It was beautiful. > > One of my researchers suddenly jumped up approximately 24 minutes in, and pointed to a certain balloon that came into view. It was a green, oblong balloon with a custom print on it. It said "Happy Birthday, ███████ ██████." That was the name of my researcher. He told me that on his 8th birthday his mom had ordered 100 custom-print green balloons that said exactly that. > > After watching the balloons dance for another 30 minutes, I came to the conclusion that these balloons did not simply appear behind the moon. I remember when I was little, and I myself let go of a colourful pink balloon that slipped off my wrist. I watched it drift off into the atmosphere, and stared, wondering where it would go. I think we have just found out. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2012-03-04T01:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "fantasy", "heartwarming", "tale" ]	Where They All Go - SCP Foundation	294	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "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" ]	[]	12849805	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/where-they-all-go
why-change	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was memetic after all.</p> <p>This all began with Dr. Vang being booted out of the Foundation. I started working with Dr. Vang 5 years after I got my bachelor's and getting recruited because of my <em>cum laude</em> and all that. He was a charming guy; humorous, but never losing his cool, and works really hard. It stayed this way until… what, ten? Twenty years ago?</p> <p>He claimed he was under the effect of a stone in his desk. A stone that caused people to lose interest in work, to lose willpower for innovation. A procrastination rock. Maggie and I thought it was a joke—it wasn't the first time Dr. Vang created a fictional SCP to scare us. We didn't conduct any research on it; after all, how can you research a non-existent joke? The joke was forgotten, just like the stone itself, after a few days. I would not remember the stone again until many years later.</p> <p>Dr. Vang started to make mistakes he never made. A misplaced book here, an overturned beaker there, it was all explained away with a wave of a hand. He was an old man, after all. Then came the rushed reports, the missed meetings, the general lack of work done. His powers were taken, positions degraded, yet no one bothered to seek out a reason. I tried to not let him get fired; after all, he was my mentor, and a respected researcher as I'd first known him. But even with my hard work, I could not convince the O5 to let him stay.</p> <p>He didn't even bother to pack his office, he just left it alone with a note on the door saying "For the next guy". His stuff got passed around the Foundation. I lost track where most of it went, but I know the O5 would be looking over all the things he left, just like what they did with Dr. Ganz when he died. I visited Dr. Vang from time to time, and I remained working for the Foundation, but my heart just wasn't in it after Dr. Vang left.</p> <p>A new researcher, while digging through Dr. Vang's stuff, found the long-forgotten stone. It is, technically, an SCP, albeit not designated any object class or number. The incompetent researcher didn't find any anomalous properties and just disposed of it. The Foundation moved on to more important stuff; after all, who cares about a dingy stone with a four line report? The rock was tossed aside, along with other regular Foundation garbage.</p> <p>Soon, small problems started to pop up. A delivery that was supposed to arrive in a week took half a month due to decreased flights. An episode of a show was delayed months because of a lack of personnel. A highway that was planned to be built in 6 months dragged into several years. But no one noticed, it was all within normal. After all, what human doesn't make mistakes? We are fallible, after all. They aren't huge problems anyways.</p> <p>A few years before my retirement, I learned that the Foundation recovered the original stone along with several hundred identical stones from a secretive extremist group. The group laid hands on it after the botched disposal; they found the cause of the stone's properties, and mass produced the stone. It was then sold to several other activist groups, who started secretly planting these stones into UN assemblies, G20 meetings, every conference for major organizations from APEC to NATO. Stealth planes flew over municipalities, sprinkling cities with a thin layer of ground-up procrastinati in the dead of night. An attempt to weaken the major world players and bring down their enemies. The world still went on, day by day, and humanity held itself together. World leaders continued to maintain a strained peace with the extremists, and the ones who once believed that it can bring them victory were disappointed once again. There were no immediate effects, and the extremists soon turned to other means of bringing down their enemies.</p> <p>The shadow of the stone lingered, seeping into the lives of every man - an effect that no one foresaw.</p> <p>People all around complained about the general slag, but were just too apathetic to stand up for it. There's always someone else to blame, some other time to do it. Bills took years to pass, buildings took decades to build, and yet, no one seemed to care enough to fix it. Soon, activist groups fell apart due to lack of interest. Labor unions dissolved because no one had the will to fight for rights. Members of parliament bodies were still elected, but there were no bills to pass, no issue to debate, no conflict to resolve. Wars ended because the soldiers on both sides had lost the passion and patriotism that brought them there. The O5 council tried to prevent the spread of this phenomenon, to start the recovery, to let humanity stand back up on its feet, but no matter how hard they tried, our agents and researchers simply just dragged the missions on for years.</p> <p>We didn't die out. We just simply lost our will to improve.</p> <p>Everyone just… didn't care, I guess. Life was good. Why change?</p> <p>There's always later.</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="/why-change">Why Change?</a>" by Joreth, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/why-change">https://scpwiki.com/why-change</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 memetic after all. This all began with Dr. Vang being booted out of the Foundation. I started working with Dr. Vang 5 years after I got my bachelor's and getting recruited because of my //cum laude// and all that. He was a charming guy; humorous, but never losing his cool, and works really hard. It stayed this way until… what, ten? Twenty years ago? He claimed he was under the effect of a stone in his desk. A stone that caused people to lose interest in work, to lose willpower for innovation. A procrastination rock. Maggie and I thought it was a joke—it wasn't the first time Dr. Vang created a fictional SCP to scare us. We didn't conduct any research on it; after all, how can you research a non-existent joke? The joke was forgotten, just like the stone itself, after a few days. I would not remember the stone again until many years later. Dr. Vang started to make mistakes he never made. A misplaced book here, an overturned beaker there, it was all explained away with a wave of a hand. He was an old man, after all. Then came the rushed reports, the missed meetings, the general lack of work done. His powers were taken, positions degraded, yet no one bothered to seek out a reason. I tried to not let him get fired; after all, he was my mentor, and a respected researcher as I'd first known him. But even with my hard work, I could not convince the O5 to let him stay. He didn't even bother to pack his office, he just left it alone with a note on the door saying "For the next guy". His stuff got passed around the Foundation. I lost track where most of it went, but I know the O5 would be looking over all the things he left, just like what they did with Dr. Ganz when he died. I visited Dr. Vang from time to time, and I remained working for the Foundation, but my heart just wasn't in it after Dr. Vang left. A new researcher, while digging through Dr. Vang's stuff, found the long-forgotten stone. It is, technically, an SCP, albeit not designated any object class or number. The incompetent researcher didn't find any anomalous properties and just disposed of it. The Foundation moved on to more important stuff; after all, who cares about a dingy stone with a four line report? The rock was tossed aside, along with other regular Foundation garbage. Soon, small problems started to pop up. A delivery that was supposed to arrive in a week took half a month due to decreased flights. An episode of a show was delayed months because of a lack of personnel. A highway that was planned to be built in 6 months dragged into several years. But no one noticed, it was all within normal. After all, what human doesn't make mistakes? We are fallible, after all. They aren't huge problems anyways. A few years before my retirement, I learned that the Foundation recovered the original stone along with several hundred identical stones from a secretive extremist group. The group laid hands on it after the botched disposal; they found the cause of the stone's properties, and mass produced the stone. It was then sold to several other activist groups, who started secretly planting these stones into UN assemblies, G20 meetings, every conference for major organizations from APEC to NATO. Stealth planes flew over municipalities, sprinkling cities with a thin layer of ground-up procrastinati in the dead of night. An attempt to weaken the major world players and bring down their enemies. The world still went on, day by day, and humanity held itself together. World leaders continued to maintain a strained peace with the extremists, and the ones who once believed that it can bring them victory were disappointed once again. There were no immediate effects, and the extremists soon turned to other means of bringing down their enemies. The shadow of the stone lingered, seeping into the lives of every man - an effect that no one foresaw. People all around complained about the general slag, but were just too apathetic to stand up for it. There's always someone else to blame, some other time to do it. Bills took years to pass, buildings took decades to build, and yet, no one seemed to care enough to fix it. Soon, activist groups fell apart due to lack of interest. Labor unions dissolved because no one had the will to fight for rights. Members of parliament bodies were still elected, but there were no bills to pass, no issue to debate, no conflict to resolve. Wars ended because the soldiers on both sides had lost the passion and patriotism that brought them there. The O5 council tried to prevent the spread of this phenomenon, to start the recovery, to let humanity stand back up on its feet, but no matter how hard they tried, our agents and researchers simply just dragged the missions on for years. We didn't die out. We just simply lost our will to improve. Everyone just… didn't care, I guess. Life was good. Why change? There's always later. [[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>]]	2012-09-13T02:59:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-vang", "first-person", "tale" ]	Why Change? - SCP Foundation	504	[ "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", "joke-scps-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	14287246	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/why-change
wings	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> It's been a little while since I've last seen my kids. <p>That fucking dirtbag, Jerry… at least he got to rot in hell, without this pain. Should've shot him in the nuts instead of the head.</p> <p>It's been three years since I've been sentenced. Two weeks ago, though, a man working for this so-called "Foundation" thingy asked me if I wanted to participate in some research study.</p> <p>I asked him what I got in return, and he said after a month, I could be free. Of course, I would accept such an offer, anything to get me out of this piece-of-shit prison cell.</p> <p>Whatever these scientist-douchebags injected me with, it's painful.</p> <p>They watched behind glass windows as I bled out. I kept bleeding, but refused to die. Those men in their white jackets, continuing to watch over me.</p> <p>Finally, the bleeding stopped. They allowed me to rest, at least for a short while, before they injected me with something else…</p> <p>… when I woke up, I was already forced into a clear box, and above a shaft. Holy shit - that's one long drop down.</p> <p>I heard a microphone asking me to "concentrate" on growing wings. How the fuck was I supposed to do that? Of course, I told them to go fuck themselves. They gave me 15 minutes, and I saw a timer start counting down from 15. I didn't know what would happen at 0, but I didn't want to find out.</p> <p>I felt my body shake, as if something began to tear its way from my back. I thought for a short while about what they injected me with, and… maybe, I could grow wings.</p> <p>With every last bit of my will, I forced my body to grow these "wings". It felt like an eternity, forcing these painful shards out of my back.</p> <p>And they grew. Ugly, flesh-formed wings like a bat, but they're still wings. The timer was at 2 minutes.</p> <p>I forced open the lid of the box. Thankfully, it wasn't reinforced or locked or anything.</p> <p>I spread my wings, and began to fly. Almost fell down the first few flaps, but got the hang of this.</p> <p>As I began to fly to the surface, I thought of my kids once more. I could go see them again!</p> <p>I saw some scientists in their ugly orange suits and some military guys in black follow me. They can't catch me now!</p> <p>I'm almost free! I'm almost-</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>EXCERPT: Post-Experiment Log 016-08 - 02/04/████</strong></p> <p><em>"D-11621 was infected with <a href="/scp-016">SCP-016</a> on ██/██/████, and managed to survive the near-total exsanguination. D-11621 was placed in an acrylic box suspended above a mine shaft, and was told to focus on growing wings, and given 15 minutes before the bomb detonated. At the two minute mark, it was observed that D-11621 finally grew out a fully-formed set of wings, similar to a bat. Using these wings, D-11621 was able to escape the mine shaft and fly above Testing Area-██. Subject was terminated by gunshot fired from a Mossberg 500 shotgun. Autopsy revealed the wings anchored to the shoulder blades, and the muscles also attached to the shoulder blades and collar bones. Genetic testing of D-11621 is underway, to determine if genetic makeup affects the outcome of 016 mutation. - Dr. E. K. Sze</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="/wings">Wings</a>" by Sad Xiao, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/wings">https://scpwiki.com/wings</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It's been a little while since I've last seen my kids. That fucking dirtbag, Jerry... at least he got to rot in hell, without this pain. Should've shot him in the nuts instead of the head. It's been three years since I've been sentenced. Two weeks ago, though, a man working for this so-called "Foundation" thingy asked me if I wanted to participate in some research study. I asked him what I got in return, and he said after a month, I could be free. Of course, I would accept such an offer, anything to get me out of this piece-of-shit prison cell. Whatever these scientist-douchebags injected me with, it's painful. They watched behind glass windows as I bled out. I kept bleeding, but refused to die. Those men in their white jackets, continuing to watch over me. Finally, the bleeding stopped. They allowed me to rest, at least for a short while, before they injected me with something else... ... when I woke up, I was already forced into a clear box, and above a shaft. Holy shit - that's one long drop down. I heard a microphone asking me to "concentrate" on growing wings. How the fuck was I supposed to do that? Of course, I told them to go fuck themselves. They gave me 15 minutes, and I saw a timer start counting down from 15. I didn't know what would happen at 0, but I didn't want to find out. I felt my body shake, as if something began to tear its way from my back. I thought for a short while about what they injected me with, and... maybe, I could grow wings. With every last bit of my will, I forced my body to grow these "wings". It felt like an eternity, forcing these painful shards out of my back. And they grew. Ugly, flesh-formed wings like a bat, but they're still wings. The timer was at 2 minutes. I forced open the lid of the box. Thankfully, it wasn't reinforced or locked or anything. I spread my wings, and began to fly. Almost fell down the first few flaps, but got the hang of this. As I began to fly to the surface, I thought of my kids once more. I could go see them again! I saw some scientists in their ugly orange suits and some military guys in black follow me. They can't catch me now! I'm almost free! I'm almost- > EXCERPT: Post-Experiment Log 016-08 - 02/04/████ > > //"D-11621 was infected with [[[SCP-016]]] on ██/██/████, and managed to survive the near-total exsanguination. D-11621 was placed in an acrylic box suspended above a mine shaft, and was told to focus on growing wings, and given 15 minutes before the bomb detonated. At the two minute mark, it was observed that D-11621 finally grew out a fully-formed set of wings, similar to a bat. Using these wings, D-11621 was able to escape the mine shaft and fly above Testing Area-██. Subject was terminated by gunshot fired from a Mossberg 500 shotgun. Autopsy revealed the wings anchored to the shoulder blades, and the muscles also attached to the shoulder blades and collar bones. Genetic testing of D-11621 is underway, to determine if genetic makeup affects the outcome of 016 mutation. - Dr. E. K. Sze// @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Sad Xiao]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2012-04-27T19:05:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Wings - SCP Foundation	54	[ "scp-016", "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" ]	[]	13235987	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wings
work-journal-2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Day 45</strong></p> <p>It's so strange, at times. Sitting where my father once sat, working at the same battered, second-hand desk, sifting through the notes black with his nearly indecipherable scrawl. He always complained at how his brain outstripped his hands. He'd tape hours and hours of audio, but some masochistic urge seemed to compel him to transcribe everything to hard copy. I suppose it worked out for me… the notes in this old desk are all I have left now.</p> <p>I remember first finding these… the attic office had been closed up by mom since dad vanished… along with every scrap of research and identification. He'd just… dropped out of the world. Mom… went crazy. She called everyone, everywhere, the university, the police, even dad's office at InTENergy, nobody had seen him. It's like he'd packed up all his work, and just stepped out of time and space.</p> <p>This is supposed to be a work journal, but I think, with the subject matter, I should be allowed a little digression. Mom… is in the hospital again. This might be the last time. She was so connected with dad… it's not even that she snapped when he left, it was just… a whole part of her was missing now, like a limb gone… and she just bled out through it. She seems calmer now… but that just might be the medication. On the positive side, I can come in here without her going into hysterics now. I do wish, however, that it didn't have to be this way.</p> <p>Anyway, on to the actual work? Lovely.</p> <p>It seems that dad was working on some very, very obscure stuff. Basically, it looks like he was theorizing about reality, states of matter and being, and the idea that was we see and interact with, along with what we theorize to be the building blocks of reality are really no more valid than how much we feel they are. It's… dizzying. I vaguely remember some of this from back when dad was still teaching. He got stuck on an idea… I really didn't understand it at the time, but I remember dad fighting with the other professors. Someone called him a crank once, when they were over visiting… dad yelled, and nobody really visited from the university anymore.</p> <p>It's odd how, looking back, I can remember things in context now. At the time, “tenure review” didn't mean anything to me, but now I realize that dad must have really miffed some people off. That was about par, though. He was a real “nutty professors” type, would get lost for days in a project until mom or someone dragged him back out… and never thought of the political side of things… that what he was doing might actually upset some people.</p> <p>I'm wandering again. In truth, there's no heavy, startling revelations for the day. However, I did find an odd notation on the back of a note. It referenced someone named Professor Kanin, with some kind of code that I assume is an email address or contact information. It's the best lead I have so far, which is really quite sad.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Day 49</strong></p> <p>Checked up on the Professor Kanin thing. It goes to a now-defunct email address based out of a university in Ireland. I did some checking, and apparently this Kanin was doing a lot of out-there research as well, but on the less theoretical side, looking for new ways to approach things like biology and engineering… and he's apparently been missing for almost as long as dad has. Vanished one day, no note, no body, all his research cleared from his home and office… just gone.</p> <p>I'm starting to get a little nervous. Hearing that, and crawling through the oddness of dad's notes… it's hard not to get paranoid. I caught myself looking over my shoulder more than once the last few days… feeling eyes on me or some such. I keep trying to ignore it, but there it is. Dad was a bit paranoid as well, if I recall… never let any of his in-progress stuff anywhere near shared labs or work areas… mom forbade him from putting a full lab upstairs, but all his theoretical work was poured out on his ranks of white-boards and legal pads.</p> <p>I've been in this stupid library from open to close for nearly two days now. It's hard to know even what to ask for… more than once, I've found myself in the fiction section, reading up on topics that only appear in sci-fi stories… or horror ones. Some of the things he theorizes… things that can slide between here and elsewhere as easy as we pass through air… but insulated by a membrane of this “otherwhere”, they'd be nearly untouchable in our reality. He actually says: “The interaction of different bioforms in our own reality is not one paved with compassion and ease of interaction. Let us hope the natives of these far spheres are friendly.”</p> <p>Greg called me, again. Asked if I wanted to get out for a bit, have a drink maybe. I turned him down. Again. I feel bad, but… I can't just let this sit. I tried to talk to him about all… this, but he just nodded and looked sympathetic. I can't get people to understand… a whole part of my life was just… ripped out. I can't just drop it… I can't just let it go. I catch myself getting… disconnected. Like dad used to sometimes… so focused, things like food or… emotional attachment just fade in terms of priority. Even worse… I sometimes find myself welcoming it.</p> <p>Anyway. I have all the copies and books I'll need right away, and a few I ordered should be here within the week. I have vacation time saved up with the university, and there's no active projects at the lab that need my direct oversight… so I'll hopefully be able to track this thing to ground… maybe get closure. I don't know. I keep wondering what I'll do if it turns out that dad just ran out on us… or ended up in a ditch somewhere… but I don't think that's the case.</p> <p>Maybe I'll take some time and yell at my cell phone company… I keep getting this weird clicking when I'm on a call. It's been going on for nearly three days now. To add even more to my paranoia, it started about the same time I emailed Kanin. I think, more than a tin-foil hat, I really need to get some rest.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Follow the breadcrumbs…</em><br/> <a href="/work-journal-2-cont">Work Journal 2 (cont.)</a></p> <p><em>Or turn back while you can.</em><br/> <a href="/splinters">Splinters</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="/work-journal-2">Work Journal 2</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/work-journal-2">https://scpwiki.com/work-journal-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> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Day 45 It's so strange, at times. Sitting where my father once sat, working at the same battered, second-hand desk, sifting through the notes black with his nearly indecipherable scrawl. He always complained at how his brain outstripped his hands. He'd tape hours and hours of audio, but some masochistic urge seemed to compel him to transcribe everything to hard copy. I suppose it worked out for me... the notes in this old desk are all I have left now. I remember first finding these... the attic office had been closed up by mom since dad vanished... along with every scrap of research and identification. He'd just... dropped out of the world. Mom... went crazy. She called everyone, everywhere, the university, the police, even dad's office at InTENergy, nobody had seen him. It's like he'd packed up all his work, and just stepped out of time and space. This is supposed to be a work journal, but I think, with the subject matter, I should be allowed a little digression. Mom... is in the hospital again. This might be the last time. She was so connected with dad... it's not even that she snapped when he left, it was just... a whole part of her was missing now, like a limb gone... and she just bled out through it. She seems calmer now... but that just might be the medication. On the positive side, I can come in here without her going into hysterics now. I do wish, however, that it didn't have to be this way. Anyway, on to the actual work? Lovely. It seems that dad was working on some very, very obscure stuff. Basically, it looks like he was theorizing about reality, states of matter and being, and the idea that was we see and interact with, along with what we theorize to be the building blocks of reality are really no more valid than how much we feel they are. It's... dizzying. I vaguely remember some of this from back when dad was still teaching. He got stuck on an idea... I really didn't understand it at the time, but I remember dad fighting with the other professors. Someone called him a crank once, when they were over visiting... dad yelled, and nobody really visited from the university anymore. It's odd how, looking back, I can remember things in context now. At the time, “tenure review” didn't mean anything to me, but now I realize that dad must have really miffed some people off. That was about par, though. He was a real “nutty professors” type, would get lost for days in a project until mom or someone dragged him back out... and never thought of the political side of things... that what he was doing might actually upset some people. I'm wandering again. In truth, there's no heavy, startling revelations for the day. However, I did find an odd notation on the back of a note. It referenced someone named Professor Kanin, with some kind of code that I assume is an email address or contact information. It's the best lead I have so far, which is really quite sad. ------ Day 49 Checked up on the Professor Kanin thing. It goes to a now-defunct email address based out of a university in Ireland. I did some checking, and apparently this Kanin was doing a lot of out-there research as well, but on the less theoretical side, looking for new ways to approach things like biology and engineering... and he's apparently been missing for almost as long as dad has. Vanished one day, no note, no body, all his research cleared from his home and office... just gone. I'm starting to get a little nervous. Hearing that, and crawling through the oddness of dad's notes... it's hard not to get paranoid. I caught myself looking over my shoulder more than once the last few days... feeling eyes on me or some such. I keep trying to ignore it, but there it is. Dad was a bit paranoid as well, if I recall... never let any of his in-progress stuff anywhere near shared labs or work areas... mom forbade him from putting a full lab upstairs, but all his theoretical work was poured out on his ranks of white-boards and legal pads. I've been in this stupid library from open to close for nearly two days now. It's hard to know even what to ask for... more than once, I've found myself in the fiction section, reading up on topics that only appear in sci-fi stories... or horror ones. Some of the things he theorizes... things that can slide between here and elsewhere as easy as we pass through air... but insulated by a membrane of this “otherwhere”, they'd be nearly untouchable in our reality. He actually says: “The interaction of different bioforms in our own reality is not one paved with compassion and ease of interaction. Let us hope the natives of these far spheres are friendly.” Greg called me, again. Asked if I wanted to get out for a bit, have a drink maybe. I turned him down. Again. I feel bad, but... I can't just let this sit. I tried to talk to him about all... this, but he just nodded and looked sympathetic. I can't get people to understand... a whole part of my life was just... ripped out. I can't just drop it... I can't just let it go. I catch myself getting... disconnected. Like dad used to sometimes... so focused, things like food or... emotional attachment just fade in terms of priority. Even worse... I sometimes find myself welcoming it. Anyway. I have all the copies and books I'll need right away, and a few I ordered should be here within the week. I have vacation time saved up with the university, and there's no active projects at the lab that need my direct oversight... so I'll hopefully be able to track this thing to ground... maybe get closure. I don't know. I keep wondering what I'll do if it turns out that dad just ran out on us... or ended up in a ditch somewhere... but I don't think that's the case. Maybe I'll take some time and yell at my cell phone company... I keep getting this weird clicking when I'm on a call. It's been going on for nearly three days now. To add even more to my paranoia, it started about the same time I emailed Kanin. I think, more than a tin-foil hat, I really need to get some rest. ------ //Follow the breadcrumbs...// [[[Work Journal 2 (cont.)]]] //Or turn back while you can.// [[[Splinters]]] [[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>]]	2012-01-01T00:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "black-queen", "first-person", "journal", "mystery", "tale" ]	Work Journal 2 - SCP Foundation	59	[ "work-journal-2-cont", "splinters", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-black-queen", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "black-queen-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	12434215	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/work-journal-2
work-journal-2-cont	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Day 52</strong></p> <p>Very…unsettling developments. Dad's notes kept referring to “Unit 14” in reference to collected materials and documentation. He'd go on about something, more often than not what he came to dub the “physical anchors” of these reality anomalies… and then just break off, stating a reference number, and Unit 14. I looked everywhere, through everything, tore the house apart, and didn't find anything that made any sense. I'd nearly given up, just writing it off as part of the stuff he'd taken with him… and then I went though mom's bills. She'd apparently missed a payment on something since going to the hospital. A storage unit. Unit number 14.</p> <p>To my credit, I didn't speed the entire time. I spoke to the gentleman at the counter, telling him about my mom, and how she'd missed the payment due to sickness and such… he hemmed and hawed about letting me in, but once I'd made the payment with an extra twenty bucks, he gave me the spare key. My hands were shaking, physically shaking when I opened the unit… I had no idea what to expect, really. I almost screamed when I saw just a blank wall of boxes. Just another dead end…</p> <p>I decided to look, and that's when I found the papers. Mounds of them, mostly from newspapers, many from other countries, printed articles, scientific notes… it looked random at first. But there was a pattern. In notes and scribbles, dad walked me through it… four men vanishing from a farm in Idaho. An explosion in a preschool. A string of rapes and murders in Japan. The stories didn't make sense. They started shocked, confused… one person even reporting seeing a “dinosaur” fleeing a ruined home… and then suddenly a clean, sanitized explanation, and the story is smothered. It seemed crazy… but with dad's notes, and the research… it started to make a sick kind of sense.</p> <p>A pile of notes stuffed in a box gave me the next piece. Dad theorized that these “anchor points” would sometimes jut in to our reality… often with unpleasant effects. Kanin apparently felt the same, but he was less worried about the math behind it, so to speak, but in the practical applications such points could have. They argued back and forth for a while, Dad calling Kanin reckless at best and suicidal at worst, Kanin telling dad he was being an old maid, too scared to take a leap. Kanin apparently said he was going to publish a paper on the whole concept… and then it just ends.</p> <p>Nothing dated after that letter. Nothing relating to the paper or what happened… nothing. It was like looking over a cliff. I think… this is when he left. When dad vanished. It was dark by the time I left, carrying a few boxes, feeling numb and shivering. The guy was locking up, seemed rather glad to have me out so he could go home. I went home, ate a sandwich and lay down.</p> <p>I was watching the news this morning, and there was a blurb about a fire. The storage place… the place burned down. They didn't know if it was arson or not. It burned down less than an hour after I left… maybe less then half an hour. The guy from the office was found burned to death. It's… getting harder and harder not to be paranoid. I… don't carry my phone anymore. It's in my car, with the battery pulled out. I feel so alone, so isolated, so cold. I can't even see mom, they say her state is too delicate right now. I'm scared.</p> <p>I'm scared, but God help me, I can't just stop.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Day 53</strong></p> <p>I haven't been out all day. My shades are drawn, lights out… I'm writing this in the basement, with the door locked. I woke up this morning, went down and collected the mail. Bills, a newsletter from the university… and one of those big, tan envelopes that tie shut. It was weird… no return address, no anything, just blank. I almost didn't open it, I kept thinking about that stupid fire. I did, finally. It was a photo. Just one, single photo. Black and white, but newer, not faded like those old photos can get. I'm… not… really sure what it's of. There's some massive… thing in the middle, looking half rotten, and a bunch of men around it, most with guns, but there's three men in lab coats, seeming to be looking over the thing in the middle, or doing something with it.</p> <p>The one on the right is my father.</p> <p>Older and thinner, but him, I know it. I'd swear to it.</p> <p>There was no date or anything on the photo, but written on the back there was a hand-written note. It said “Montauk Monster. He was not alone.” I was shaking so bad I could barely read it. I locked all my doors and just sat, staring at the photo. When my phone rang, I screamed. Tore it out of the wall. I looked up the name on the back, the Montauk Monster thing, and found a bunch of photos of some weird, rotten thing that turned out to be a young beluga whale. My photo looked a little similar… but ten times bigger, at least, and with a more… definite shape. I suddenly thought of the news articles dad had collected, and wondered when this photo on the net had appeared. It looked just enough like my photo to be able to say that someone was just “overexcited” when reporting the dimensions of the creature.</p> <p>I started getting more and more afraid, more paranoid. Who the hell had sent this? I hadn't talked to ANYONE in weeks, let alone shown anyone my work. On a hunch, I did some probing around the time dad vanished, seeing if anything turned up. If I hadn't been looking for it, I'd never have seen it. Thirty-two scientists and researchers vanished within three weeks, my dad included. Thirty-two. And nobody looked up on it. There were some vague mentions of police searches, appeals to the public to report sightings… and then nothing. Forgotten and pushed away.</p> <p>It suddenly hit me, like a bolt, that for someone to know all the things I knew, they would have to be watching me. And closely, like from inside my home. I suddenly looked around, at the ceiling, the walls, everywhere, growing horrified that someone… someone could be <em>watching</em> me. I tried to feel stupid about it, silly… then I remembered my clicking phone… the fire, and the photo in my hand. That's when I moved to the basement.</p> <p>I'm getting a new laptop tomorrow, when I'm on the road. Cryptography has always been an interest of mine… time to put it to the test. I've never really encrypted a laptop very hard before, and I know I don't have much hope against… well… whatever I'm up against, the government maybe? Still, I have to try. I have a friend who does audio and video analysis and such out in California, plus being on the move might make me feel a little less… vulnerable. I keep thinking of that fire at the storage place… how long would my home stay in the news? Would it even make it?</p> <p>I need to sleep. I feel numb and wrung out, empty. God, I hope nobody finds this next to my charred skeleton.</p> <hr/> <p><em>Time to panic?</em><br/> <a href="/work-journal-3">Work Journal 3</a></p> <p><em>or turn back to sanity…</em><br/> <a href="/work-journal-2">Work Journal 2</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="/work-journal-2-cont">Work Journal 2 Cont</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/work-journal-2-cont">https://scpwiki.com/work-journal-2-cont</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]] [[/>]] Day 52 Very...unsettling developments. Dad's notes kept referring to “Unit 14” in reference to collected materials and documentation. He'd go on about something, more often than not what he came to dub the “physical anchors” of these reality anomalies... and then just break off, stating a reference number, and Unit 14. I looked everywhere, through everything, tore the house apart, and didn't find anything that made any sense. I'd nearly given up, just writing it off as part of the stuff he'd taken with him... and then I went though mom's bills. She'd apparently missed a payment on something since going to the hospital. A storage unit. Unit number 14. To my credit, I didn't speed the entire time. I spoke to the gentleman at the counter, telling him about my mom, and how she'd missed the payment due to sickness and such... he hemmed and hawed about letting me in, but once I'd made the payment with an extra twenty bucks, he gave me the spare key. My hands were shaking, physically shaking when I opened the unit... I had no idea what to expect, really. I almost screamed when I saw just a blank wall of boxes. Just another dead end... I decided to look, and that's when I found the papers. Mounds of them, mostly from newspapers, many from other countries, printed articles, scientific notes... it looked random at first. But there was a pattern. In notes and scribbles, dad walked me through it... four men vanishing from a farm in Idaho. An explosion in a preschool. A string of rapes and murders in Japan. The stories didn't make sense. They started shocked, confused... one person even reporting seeing a “dinosaur” fleeing a ruined home... and then suddenly a clean, sanitized explanation, and the story is smothered. It seemed crazy... but with dad's notes, and the research... it started to make a sick kind of sense. A pile of notes stuffed in a box gave me the next piece. Dad theorized that these “anchor points” would sometimes jut in to our reality... often with unpleasant effects. Kanin apparently felt the same, but he was less worried about the math behind it, so to speak, but in the practical applications such points could have. They argued back and forth for a while, Dad calling Kanin reckless at best and suicidal at worst, Kanin telling dad he was being an old maid, too scared to take a leap. Kanin apparently said he was going to publish a paper on the whole concept... and then it just ends. Nothing dated after that letter. Nothing relating to the paper or what happened... nothing. It was like looking over a cliff. I think... this is when he left. When dad vanished. It was dark by the time I left, carrying a few boxes, feeling numb and shivering. The guy was locking up, seemed rather glad to have me out so he could go home. I went home, ate a sandwich and lay down. I was watching the news this morning, and there was a blurb about a fire. The storage place... the place burned down. They didn't know if it was arson or not. It burned down less than an hour after I left... maybe less then half an hour. The guy from the office was found burned to death. It's... getting harder and harder not to be paranoid. I... don't carry my phone anymore. It's in my car, with the battery pulled out. I feel so alone, so isolated, so cold. I can't even see mom, they say her state is too delicate right now. I'm scared. I'm scared, but God help me, I can't just stop. ------ Day 53 I haven't been out all day. My shades are drawn, lights out... I'm writing this in the basement, with the door locked. I woke up this morning, went down and collected the mail. Bills, a newsletter from the university... and one of those big, tan envelopes that tie shut. It was weird... no return address, no anything, just blank. I almost didn't open it, I kept thinking about that stupid fire. I did, finally. It was a photo. Just one, single photo. Black and white, but newer, not faded like those old photos can get. I'm... not... really sure what it's of. There's some massive... thing in the middle, looking half rotten, and a bunch of men around it, most with guns, but there's three men in lab coats, seeming to be looking over the thing in the middle, or doing something with it. The one on the right is my father. Older and thinner, but him, I know it. I'd swear to it. There was no date or anything on the photo, but written on the back there was a hand-written note. It said “Montauk Monster. He was not alone.” I was shaking so bad I could barely read it. I locked all my doors and just sat, staring at the photo. When my phone rang, I screamed. Tore it out of the wall. I looked up the name on the back, the Montauk Monster thing, and found a bunch of photos of some weird, rotten thing that turned out to be a young beluga whale. My photo looked a little similar... but ten times bigger, at least, and with a more... definite shape. I suddenly thought of the news articles dad had collected, and wondered when this photo on the net had appeared. It looked just enough like my photo to be able to say that someone was just “overexcited” when reporting the dimensions of the creature. I started getting more and more afraid, more paranoid. Who the hell had sent this? I hadn't talked to ANYONE in weeks, let alone shown anyone my work. On a hunch, I did some probing around the time dad vanished, seeing if anything turned up. If I hadn't been looking for it, I'd never have seen it. Thirty-two scientists and researchers vanished within three weeks, my dad included. Thirty-two. And nobody looked up on it. There were some vague mentions of police searches, appeals to the public to report sightings... and then nothing. Forgotten and pushed away. It suddenly hit me, like a bolt, that for someone to know all the things I knew, they would have to be watching me. And closely, like from inside my home. I suddenly looked around, at the ceiling, the walls, everywhere, growing horrified that someone... someone could be //watching// me. I tried to feel stupid about it, silly... then I remembered my clicking phone... the fire, and the photo in my hand. That's when I moved to the basement. I'm getting a new laptop tomorrow, when I'm on the road. Cryptography has always been an interest of mine... time to put it to the test. I've never really encrypted a laptop very hard before, and I know I don't have much hope against... well... whatever I'm up against, the government maybe? Still, I have to try. I have a friend who does audio and video analysis and such out in California, plus being on the move might make me feel a little less... vulnerable. I keep thinking of that fire at the storage place... how long would my home stay in the news? Would it even make it? I need to sleep. I feel numb and wrung out, empty. God, I hope nobody finds this next to my charred skeleton. ------ //Time to panic?// [[[Work Journal 3]]] //or turn back to sanity...// [[[Work Journal 2]]] [[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>]]	2012-01-02T13:33:00	[ "_licensebox", "black-queen", "first-person", "journal", "mystery", "tale" ]	Work Journal 2 Cont - SCP Foundation	58	[ "work-journal-3", "work-journal-2", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-black-queen", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "black-queen-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	12445693	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/work-journal-2-cont
work-journal-3	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Day 56</strong></p> <p>Stressful few days. To say the least. I've had to sleep in the car for the last couple days. I'm apparently wanted for questioning in an arson case. Go fucking figure. Saw my face on the news a couple days ago, shortly after getting on the road, and I've been trying to keep a low profile. Doing the speed limit, staying off main roads, trying to gas up at night and/or at out-of-the-way stations. The paranoia has set in hard, and I think it's more a survival impulse than an annoyance at this point. Every car that follows me for more than a few miles, I start getting nervous about.</p> <p>I should hit… my friend's location before too long. God help me, I can't even trust this book anymore. Should… something… happen, I don't want to drag in anyone I don't have to. Then again, if “they” are as far-reaching as it seems, then it probably won't matter… but I'm still going to do all I can to stifle those efforts. Lord, listen to me. Work, yes? Though I think it's starting to slide from work to survival…</p> <p>So I did as much digging as I could on the road. Apparently the researchers who disappeared all worked in at least one theoretical field, some with even out-there papers on stuff like theorized alien biology, non-euclidean geometric formula… dizzying stuff. I tried to widen the search, and turned up some other weird stuff. There was a spike of disappearances and deaths about the same time as the researchers vanished. Law enforcement, private security, even army recruits…a wave of AWOL, KIA, MIA and sudden “retirements”. I got worked up, but… it's possible I'm reading too much in to this. Seeing faces in the clouds.</p> <p>I haven't been sleeping or eating, really. Just enough to keep me mobile. I'm exhausted, but it feels… distant. Removed. Like feeling pain when you're heavily drugged. It's… a little upsetting, but it's helpful for the time being. I do need to try and sleep. I was convinced a helicopter was following me not too long ago. It peeled off a while ago, but it was following the road I was on for nearly half an hour. It got pretty low… I didn't think they could do that. I didn't really see any markings… even the glass was tinted…</p> <p>Bah. Sleep.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Day 57</strong></p> <p>I'm panicking. My heart won't slow down, and I feel so twitchy. At the same time, I have this cold core inside that just keeps thinking…</p> <p>Ok, so I made it to my friend's place. He does audio-video analysis for various companies and even some government contracts. I met… that's not important. Anyway, I managed to snag him away and got him to look the picture over. He was kind of confused, but after he worked it over, he said that, while it's very strange, the picture itself hasn't been tampered with. It's a genuine image of a real object, but he was quick to say the setting itself may be the fake. I asked for any more information on it, and he said the film itself is rather old, but in good shape. It's some kind of army surplus stuff, no color but known for super-high contrast. It's still used in some sectors, but the military stopped using it twenty years ago.</p> <p>He couldn't pin down what kind of camera took it, but he said it's probably a modified military camera from around WWII. I asked him modified how, and he said that the marks and resolution, while consistent with the older camera, were irregular and more advanced in some ways. I asked him why people would be taking black-and-white photos in this day and age, and he kind of grinned at me. He said that black and white is less real, and more detailed. Less like real life, and more like a blueprint or a drawing. Some people like to use it to record things, while still keeping a degree of separation. Going by what was in the picture, assuming it's real… that makes sense.</p> <p>He said he needed to get back to the labs for a bit, but said he'd do some more tests, tell me anything else he could dig up. I went out and got a coffee. At least my face hasn't hit the news here yet. I keep waiting for it to show up on a TV, and people to suddenly start staring at me. I keep thinking every look, every glance is another one of “them”. I've started using that now, the great, paranoid “they” for… whatever it is that appears to be against me.</p> <p>It was a couple hours, and I started getting a little antsy. I headed back to my friend's office, and I felt very… cold. There was a gray van parked in front of his door. No marks, no sign… no license plate, tinted windows. I didn't even park in a space, just slammed the parking brake and started running. Nobody was around, front desk empty, no sound… but it reeked. It reeked of gas.</p> <p>I got upstairs and hit the door to the labs hard… God. He was there, part of his head blown away. He was slumped over a desk, a bunch of papers and bottles bashed around. There was someone over him. Black suit, gloves, a thing over his mouth… like a hazmat mask, but not over the whole face. He was sloshing gas all over everything. He looked up when the door opened, and we just stared at each other for a second. His eyes were so huge… it's like I'd walked backstage and caught an actor undressed. I don't know why, or how, but before I knew what was happening, I'd grabbed a bottle off a shelf near the door, and thrown it at him. I think it was developer or something… it smashed on his head, and he started screaming and screaming.</p> <p>I…</p> <p>I was scared. I didn't… I wasn't thinking clearly, I…</p> <p>I killed him with a pipe.</p> <p>It was sitting near one of the desks… I don't know what it was for. I just watched my hand pick it up, and then walk over to the man on the ground. His face looked so red, and bleeding… I think he was blind. I just… I knew, I couldn't leave him here. Even blind, he'd try… something, I don't know. I really don't know. It just… I hit him. Three times, and his head looked dented, and he stopped…</p> <p>God.</p> <p>The gas fumes were so bad, but I leaned down and went through his stuff. A wallet, couple cards, a phone, and two odd things. A little ear-piece he had in, that came out when I… anyway, it was tiny, pill shaped… it looked really odd. And a thin glass card, tucked in a padded, metal-plated sleeve. The fumes started making me really, really dizzy, so I headed out. As I was driving away, I heard some kind of dull thud. There must have been some kind of ignition timer or something. I drove for two hours, until I saw the bits of blood and hair on my hands, then I pulled over and threw up.</p> <p>Part of me is terrified, but I also feel… sharper. I'm not crazy… there is something going on. God help me, someone wants me dead. The wallet had a bunch of stuff. Almost a thousand dollars, cash, four different driver's licenses, two government IDs… no personal stuff. The earbud-thing I tossed out. Seemed too suspicious, even if it might be a contact to… whomever or whatever is after me. I almost tossed out the card, too, but it seems important to me. Laser-etched, it's rather pretty… more cut crystal than glass. There's a stylized bat on some kind of heraldry on one side, and the other has what sounds like the name for a law firm or something. I'm going to start digging tomorrow… assuming nobody blows up my car or anything. Ha ha. I half-think I've heard the name before… maybe on a funding application…</p> <p>Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd.</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="/work-journal-3">Work Journal 3</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/work-journal-3">https://scpwiki.com/work-journal-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> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Day 56 Stressful few days. To say the least. I've had to sleep in the car for the last couple days. I'm apparently wanted for questioning in an arson case. Go fucking figure. Saw my face on the news a couple days ago, shortly after getting on the road, and I've been trying to keep a low profile. Doing the speed limit, staying off main roads, trying to gas up at night and/or at out-of-the-way stations. The paranoia has set in hard, and I think it's more a survival impulse than an annoyance at this point. Every car that follows me for more than a few miles, I start getting nervous about. I should hit... my friend's location before too long. God help me, I can't even trust this book anymore. Should... something... happen, I don't want to drag in anyone I don't have to. Then again, if “they” are as far-reaching as it seems, then it probably won't matter... but I'm still going to do all I can to stifle those efforts. Lord, listen to me. Work, yes? Though I think it's starting to slide from work to survival... So I did as much digging as I could on the road. Apparently the researchers who disappeared all worked in at least one theoretical field, some with even out-there papers on stuff like theorized alien biology, non-euclidean geometric formula... dizzying stuff. I tried to widen the search, and turned up some other weird stuff. There was a spike of disappearances and deaths about the same time as the researchers vanished. Law enforcement, private security, even army recruits...a wave of AWOL, KIA, MIA and sudden “retirements”. I got worked up, but... it's possible I'm reading too much in to this. Seeing faces in the clouds. I haven't been sleeping or eating, really. Just enough to keep me mobile. I'm exhausted, but it feels... distant. Removed. Like feeling pain when you're heavily drugged. It's... a little upsetting, but it's helpful for the time being. I do need to try and sleep. I was convinced a helicopter was following me not too long ago. It peeled off a while ago, but it was following the road I was on for nearly half an hour. It got pretty low... I didn't think they could do that. I didn't really see any markings... even the glass was tinted... Bah. Sleep. ------ Day 57 I'm panicking. My heart won't slow down, and I feel so twitchy. At the same time, I have this cold core inside that just keeps thinking... Ok, so I made it to my friend's place. He does audio-video analysis for various companies and even some government contracts. I met... that's not important. Anyway, I managed to snag him away and got him to look the picture over. He was kind of confused, but after he worked it over, he said that, while it's very strange, the picture itself hasn't been tampered with. It's a genuine image of a real object, but he was quick to say the setting itself may be the fake. I asked for any more information on it, and he said the film itself is rather old, but in good shape. It's some kind of army surplus stuff, no color but known for super-high contrast. It's still used in some sectors, but the military stopped using it twenty years ago. He couldn't pin down what kind of camera took it, but he said it's probably a modified military camera from around WWII. I asked him modified how, and he said that the marks and resolution, while consistent with the older camera, were irregular and more advanced in some ways. I asked him why people would be taking black-and-white photos in this day and age, and he kind of grinned at me. He said that black and white is less real, and more detailed. Less like real life, and more like a blueprint or a drawing. Some people like to use it to record things, while still keeping a degree of separation. Going by what was in the picture, assuming it's real... that makes sense. He said he needed to get back to the labs for a bit, but said he'd do some more tests, tell me anything else he could dig up. I went out and got a coffee. At least my face hasn't hit the news here yet. I keep waiting for it to show up on a TV, and people to suddenly start staring at me. I keep thinking every look, every glance is another one of “them”. I've started using that now, the great, paranoid “they” for... whatever it is that appears to be against me. It was a couple hours, and I started getting a little antsy. I headed back to my friend's office, and I felt very... cold. There was a gray van parked in front of his door. No marks, no sign... no license plate, tinted windows. I didn't even park in a space, just slammed the parking brake and started running. Nobody was around, front desk empty, no sound... but it reeked. It reeked of gas. I got upstairs and hit the door to the labs hard... God. He was there, part of his head blown away. He was slumped over a desk, a bunch of papers and bottles bashed around. There was someone over him. Black suit, gloves, a thing over his mouth... like a hazmat mask, but not over the whole face. He was sloshing gas all over everything. He looked up when the door opened, and we just stared at each other for a second. His eyes were so huge... it's like I'd walked backstage and caught an actor undressed. I don't know why, or how, but before I knew what was happening, I'd grabbed a bottle off a shelf near the door, and thrown it at him. I think it was developer or something... it smashed on his head, and he started screaming and screaming. I... I was scared. I didn't... I wasn't thinking clearly, I... I killed him with a pipe. It was sitting near one of the desks... I don't know what it was for. I just watched my hand pick it up, and then walk over to the man on the ground. His face looked so red, and bleeding... I think he was blind. I just... I knew, I couldn't leave him here. Even blind, he'd try... something, I don't know. I really don't know. It just... I hit him. Three times, and his head looked dented, and he stopped... God. The gas fumes were so bad, but I leaned down and went through his stuff. A wallet, couple cards, a phone, and two odd things. A little ear-piece he had in, that came out when I... anyway, it was tiny, pill shaped... it looked really odd. And a thin glass card, tucked in a padded, metal-plated sleeve. The fumes started making me really, really dizzy, so I headed out. As I was driving away, I heard some kind of dull thud. There must have been some kind of ignition timer or something. I drove for two hours, until I saw the bits of blood and hair on my hands, then I pulled over and threw up. Part of me is terrified, but I also feel... sharper. I'm not crazy... there is something going on. God help me, someone wants me dead. The wallet had a bunch of stuff. Almost a thousand dollars, cash, four different driver's licenses, two government IDs... no personal stuff. The earbud-thing I tossed out. Seemed too suspicious, even if it might be a contact to... whomever or whatever is after me. I almost tossed out the card, too, but it seems important to me. Laser-etched, it's rather pretty... more cut crystal than glass. There's a stylized bat on some kind of heraldry on one side, and the other has what sounds like the name for a law firm or something. I'm going to start digging tomorrow... assuming nobody blows up my car or anything. Ha ha. I half-think I've heard the name before... maybe on a funding application... Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ltd. [[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>]]	2012-03-25T15:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "black-queen", "first-person", "journal", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "mystery", "tale" ]	Work Journal 3 - SCP Foundation	76	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-black-queen", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "black-queen-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	12992199	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/work-journal-3
you-are-not-insignificant	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Last week, we lost Researcher Kermode. He hung himself in his office. Didn't even leave a note explaining why. Everyone thinks he broke under stress.</p> <p>Well, this week, we're losing me. And I think you all deserve an explanation as to why.</p> <p>I was working with Kermode on a few projects. We dug up a few… ugly things. Who could have guessed that manuscript would reveal the Foundation going back <em>that</em> far? Or that the fortune teller would show us the possibility of it existing far, far into the future, desperately trying to keep the human race safe even after the apocalypse. Hell, I'll admit I was shaken when we stumbled into the containment chambers even the O5s didn't know about.</p> <p>Kermode killed himself because in light of all of that, all of those grand achievements that the Foundation's done and will do, he felt like nothing. Just a bug crawling across the surface of the planet, searching for a non-existent meaning. At the time, I didn't really get what had shaken him up so badly. Still didn't for the past week or so. But his death got me thinking.</p> <p>I still don't see exactly what's so horrifying about being insignificant; it's something every living creature has to deal with. But our work, and the time I've had to think since his death, that's brought me to another conclusion. I'm <em>not</em> insignificant.</p> <p>I work for the Foundation. Even if I'm only a single unit, I'm still a unit that's working with a million others, working behind the scenes to keep the world safe from impending disaster. We're all part of one great, big machine, designed specifically to keep everyone safe. We here aren't insignificant; we're the most important people on the planet.</p> <p>And that terrifies me.</p> <p>Has anyone really ever realized how many people we protect? How many people whose simple existence relies on us not screwing up? There's seven billion individual walking, thinking, innocent people out there who could die the very instant we make a mistake. Hell, in a few cases, a sizable chunk of the universe is relying on us to play our cards just right. Every last little thing is reliant on <em>us</em>, and we're continually one bad move away from ending it all.</p> <p>And even if we don't screw up, look at all these new threats materializing. We've brought in close to a thousand new objects this year. What was the average beforehand? Twenty? Thirty? Something big is happening. The sheer amount of anomalies popping up tells me that we'll be needing to apply more and more pressure to the world soon. Tightening our defenses, closing up gaps, making every thing safer and safer, always applying more pressure.</p> <p>We're the protectors of the world. We've got the whole planet in our hands, cupping it with a light squeeze to keep it safe. What happens on the day we squeeze a little too hard, and everything implodes?</p> <p>I can't be a part of that. I need to get out, right now. Even the time it would take to apply for an amnestic is too long to live with the knowledge that our only two options are utter failure and destructive success. So that's why I'm relying on a piece of lead in my brain.</p> <p>I've got to go now.</p> <p>Goodbye.</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="/you-are-not-insignificant">You Are Not Insignificant</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/you-are-not-insignificant">https://scpwiki.com/you-are-not-insignificant</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]] [[/>]] Last week, we lost Researcher Kermode. He hung himself in his office. Didn't even leave a note explaining why. Everyone thinks he broke under stress. Well, this week, we're losing me. And I think you all deserve an explanation as to why. I was working with Kermode on a few projects. We dug up a few... ugly things. Who could have guessed that manuscript would reveal the Foundation going back //that// far? Or that the fortune teller would show us the possibility of it existing far, far into the future, desperately trying to keep the human race safe even after the apocalypse. Hell, I'll admit I was shaken when we stumbled into the containment chambers even the O5s didn't know about. Kermode killed himself because in light of all of that, all of those grand achievements that the Foundation's done and will do, he felt like nothing. Just a bug crawling across the surface of the planet, searching for a non-existent meaning. At the time, I didn't really get what had shaken him up so badly. Still didn't for the past week or so. But his death got me thinking. I still don't see exactly what's so horrifying about being insignificant; it's something every living creature has to deal with. But our work, and the time I've had to think since his death, that's brought me to another conclusion. I'm //not// insignificant. I work for the Foundation. Even if I'm only a single unit, I'm still a unit that's working with a million others, working behind the scenes to keep the world safe from impending disaster. We're all part of one great, big machine, designed specifically to keep everyone safe. We here aren't insignificant; we're the most important people on the planet. And that terrifies me. Has anyone really ever realized how many people we protect? How many people whose simple existence relies on us not screwing up? There's seven billion individual walking, thinking, innocent people out there who could die the very instant we make a mistake. Hell, in a few cases, a sizable chunk of the universe is relying on us to play our cards just right. Every last little thing is reliant on //us//, and we're continually one bad move away from ending it all. And even if we don't screw up, look at all these new threats materializing. We've brought in close to a thousand new objects this year. What was the average beforehand? Twenty? Thirty? Something big is happening. The sheer amount of anomalies popping up tells me that we'll be needing to apply more and more pressure to the world soon. Tightening our defenses, closing up gaps, making every thing safer and safer, always applying more pressure. We're the protectors of the world. We've got the whole planet in our hands, cupping it with a light squeeze to keep it safe. What happens on the day we squeeze a little too hard, and everything implodes? I can't be a part of that. I need to get out, right now. Even the time it would take to apply for an amnestic is too long to live with the knowledge that our only two options are utter failure and destructive success. So that's why I'm relying on a piece of lead in my brain. I've got to go now. Goodbye. [[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>]]	2012-07-10T19:40:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	You Are Not Insignificant - SCP Foundation	36	[ "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" ]	[]	13752875	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/you-are-not-insignificant
ziggy-the-extra-special-bush-baby	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Hello, my name is Ziggy. Well not really, my mother never gave me a real name, but Ziggy is what the doctors here named me and i think it is a good name so you can call me Ziggy. I am a bush baby and i am 2 years old, i was born in africa but now i live in america in a big building called the foundation that has lots of doctors and scientists, who spend lots of time studying extra special things and people and animals like me. The doctors asked me to write this so they can learn about my life and try and figure out if there are any more extra special animals like me where i came from. Im sorry if my writing is not good, im just learning to write and i dont have big hands like people do but the scientists made me a special keyboard so i can type.</p> <p>Ever since i was born i knew i was smarter than the other bush babies. My mother and my brothers and sisters couldnt even understand me when i tried to talk to them, they could howl and screech about little things but they werent smart like me. The other bush babies knew i was different, theyd stay away from me when i was around. Mother protected me from them when they tried to hurt me but i think she didnt even know what to do with me either, so i spent lots of time alone as soon as i was old enough to wander around without her. I liked to sneak into the villages where people lived and watch them. I got really good at hiding because most of the people when they see a bush baby they get all angry and try to chase you away. I watched them for a long time when they were farming or cooking or eating or talking or doing other things, thats how i learned to talk the way people do. Doctor Samesh says the way i talked when they found me is called french, but most of the people at the foundation talk a different way thats called english so i learned how to talk that way too.</p> <p>One day about a year ago there was a big fire, i was asleep and i woke up when i heard all the other bush babies screeching. All the trees were burning and everything smelled like smoke and mother was screaming for all of us to run. So i ran and i ran and i ran and i dont know how far i went because the sun was bright and there was smoke everywhere and i could barely see, but i ran until i was too tired and i fell over and went to sleep. When i woke up i didnt know where i was, there werent any trees just tall grass and bushes and a village far away, and i couldnt hear any other bush babies anywhere. I tried to call for mother and she didnt answer, i must have run in the other way from the way they went and now i was lost. I was too scared to go back the way i came because i could still smell the smoke and i was so hungry and thirsty i had to find food.</p> <p>I found a stream to drink from but there wasnt any good food anywhere so i snuck into the village and stole some food from one of the peoples houses. I know its wrong to steal but i was all alone and i was so hungry i thought i was going to starve. I didnt know where to go so i found a place to sleep by the village and at night id sneak in and find food to eat. I did that for a couple weeks but then one night i got into a house and one of the people saw me and yelled at me. I was scared but i was really hungry so i asked him can i please have an apple or some berries im so hungry? But then he got scared and he started screaming that i was a witch, and other people came and chased me and i ran out into the fields and hid.</p> <p>I dont know what a witch is but i know im not one because witches are bad people and im just a bush baby. It got pretty bad after that, i couldnt even get into the village any more because the people were always looking for bush babies and they were killing them all. I tried to go to a different village and i couldnt get in there either, i even found a forest like the one i grew up in and people were killing all the bush babies there. I had to hide all the time, they set traps all over the place to catch bush babies but i stayed away from them because i was smart. I couldnt find any good food though, i got thin and sick and i thought i was going to die.</p> <p>One day people came who were different than the people in the villages. Their skin was white instead of black and they wore big bulky clothes and they had guns. They started setting traps and capturing bush babies too and their traps were better hidden than the ones the people in the villages made. They caught me eventually, i thought i saw a good place to hide for the day but when i went in it was a cage and it snapped shut on me. I was stuck in there for hours and couldnt get out, i was so scared they were going to kill me. One of the men came eventually and i started crying and i said please sir let me go i didnt do anything wrong. I thought the man would get scared when i said that but he looked happy and then he yelled hey guys i found the skip. I didnt know what a skip was but Doctor Samesh says it means something which is extra special. The man said he wasnt going to hurt me and that they were going to make sure i was safe from now on.</p> <p>They put me in a car, i was scared because every time i ever saw animals going in cars they never came back, but they gave me food and water and told me not to be scared. They took me to a big city with more people than any of the villages i ever saw, then they put me on a plane and took me high in the sky for a long time. One of the people held my cage up to a window and all i could see was water.</p> <p>I live at the foundation now, they made me a special room with a tree and rocks and lots of places to curl up and sleep, and they give me food and water when i need it and there are men in orange suits who clean the room every couple days. There are lots of doctors and scientists who talk to me and ask me questions, and sometimes they poke me with needles or put me in big scary machines which i dont like but they say they need to learn as much as they can about me. Doctor Samesh is the one who talks to me most of the time, he is very nice and friendly and he taught me to read, and sometimes he brings me snacks or toys like the stuffed monkey i like to curl up next to when i sleep.</p> <p>I get lonely sometimes because there arent any other animals in here, but Doctor Samesh told me that i am extra special and they want to learn about me because they have other animals that are smart like me and they want to know if im like them or if there are more in the forest where i came from. He says there is even a whole bunch of them that live together, and they have a king and knights like in some of the story books he gave me to read. He says maybe i could live with them someday if i wanted to but i would have to be a christian or they wouldnt like me. I dont know what a christian is, Doctor Samesh said theres a book that explains it but i saw it its very long and has lots of hard words so ill have to get better at reading before i can figure out if im a christian or not. He says there are also bad animals here, like a big lizard that hates everybody even if youre nice to him, but when they find animals like that they take care of them too and keep them so they cant hurt anyone.</p> <p>I hope this helps you understand me, i like the scientists and doctors here because they are nice and good and help extra special animals like me and i want to help them do their job good. I know im just a little bush baby but maybe someday i could be a scientist too and help other extra special animals that are scared and hungry. Doctor Samesh says that there is a dog and a slug in the foundation who are scientists, so maybe if i get better at reading and study hard someday i could be one? I hope so.</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="/ziggy-the-extra-special-bush-baby">Ziggy the Extra Special Bush Baby</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ziggy-the-extra-special-bush-baby">https://scpwiki.com/ziggy-the-extra-special-bush-baby</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, my name is Ziggy. Well not really, my mother never gave me a real name, but Ziggy is what the doctors here named me and i think it is a good name so you can call me Ziggy. I am a bush baby and i am 2 years old, i was born in africa but now i live in america in a big building called the foundation that has lots of doctors and scientists, who spend lots of time studying extra special things and people and animals like me. The doctors asked me to write this so they can learn about my life and try and figure out if there are any more extra special animals like me where i came from. Im sorry if my writing is not good, im just learning to write and i dont have big hands like people do but the scientists made me a special keyboard so i can type. Ever since i was born i knew i was smarter than the other bush babies. My mother and my brothers and sisters couldnt even understand me when i tried to talk to them, they could howl and screech about little things but they werent smart like me. The other bush babies knew i was different, theyd stay away from me when i was around. Mother protected me from them when they tried to hurt me but i think she didnt even know what to do with me either, so i spent lots of time alone as soon as i was old enough to wander around without her. I liked to sneak into the villages where people lived and watch them. I got really good at hiding because most of the people when they see a bush baby they get all angry and try to chase you away. I watched them for a long time when they were farming or cooking or eating or talking or doing other things, thats how i learned to talk the way people do. Doctor Samesh says the way i talked when they found me is called french, but most of the people at the foundation talk a different way thats called english so i learned how to talk that way too. One day about a year ago there was a big fire, i was asleep and i woke up when i heard all the other bush babies screeching. All the trees were burning and everything smelled like smoke and mother was screaming for all of us to run. So i ran and i ran and i ran and i dont know how far i went because the sun was bright and there was smoke everywhere and i could barely see, but i ran until i was too tired and i fell over and went to sleep. When i woke up i didnt know where i was, there werent any trees just tall grass and bushes and a village far away, and i couldnt hear any other bush babies anywhere. I tried to call for mother and she didnt answer, i must have run in the other way from the way they went and now i was lost. I was too scared to go back the way i came because i could still smell the smoke and i was so hungry and thirsty i had to find food. I found a stream to drink from but there wasnt any good food anywhere so i snuck into the village and stole some food from one of the peoples houses. I know its wrong to steal but i was all alone and i was so hungry i thought i was going to starve. I didnt know where to go so i found a place to sleep by the village and at night id sneak in and find food to eat. I did that for a couple weeks but then one night i got into a house and one of the people saw me and yelled at me. I was scared but i was really hungry so i asked him can i please have an apple or some berries im so hungry? But then he got scared and he started screaming that i was a witch, and other people came and chased me and i ran out into the fields and hid. I dont know what a witch is but i know im not one because witches are bad people and im just a bush baby. It got pretty bad after that, i couldnt even get into the village any more because the people were always looking for bush babies and they were killing them all. I tried to go to a different village and i couldnt get in there either, i even found a forest like the one i grew up in and people were killing all the bush babies there. I had to hide all the time, they set traps all over the place to catch bush babies but i stayed away from them because i was smart. I couldnt find any good food though, i got thin and sick and i thought i was going to die. One day people came who were different than the people in the villages. Their skin was white instead of black and they wore big bulky clothes and they had guns. They started setting traps and capturing bush babies too and their traps were better hidden than the ones the people in the villages made. They caught me eventually, i thought i saw a good place to hide for the day but when i went in it was a cage and it snapped shut on me. I was stuck in there for hours and couldnt get out, i was so scared they were going to kill me. One of the men came eventually and i started crying and i said please sir let me go i didnt do anything wrong. I thought the man would get scared when i said that but he looked happy and then he yelled hey guys i found the skip. I didnt know what a skip was but Doctor Samesh says it means something which is extra special. The man said he wasnt going to hurt me and that they were going to make sure i was safe from now on. They put me in a car, i was scared because every time i ever saw animals going in cars they never came back, but they gave me food and water and told me not to be scared. They took me to a big city with more people than any of the villages i ever saw, then they put me on a plane and took me high in the sky for a long time. One of the people held my cage up to a window and all i could see was water. I live at the foundation now, they made me a special room with a tree and rocks and lots of places to curl up and sleep, and they give me food and water when i need it and there are men in orange suits who clean the room every couple days. There are lots of doctors and scientists who talk to me and ask me questions, and sometimes they poke me with needles or put me in big scary machines which i dont like but they say they need to learn as much as they can about me. Doctor Samesh is the one who talks to me most of the time, he is very nice and friendly and he taught me to read, and sometimes he brings me snacks or toys like the stuffed monkey i like to curl up next to when i sleep. I get lonely sometimes because there arent any other animals in here, but Doctor Samesh told me that i am extra special and they want to learn about me because they have other animals that are smart like me and they want to know if im like them or if there are more in the forest where i came from. He says there is even a whole bunch of them that live together, and they have a king and knights like in some of the story books he gave me to read. He says maybe i could live with them someday if i wanted to but i would have to be a christian or they wouldnt like me. I dont know what a christian is, Doctor Samesh said theres a book that explains it but i saw it its very long and has lots of hard words so ill have to get better at reading before i can figure out if im a christian or not. He says there are also bad animals here, like a big lizard that hates everybody even if youre nice to him, but when they find animals like that they take care of them too and keep them so they cant hurt anyone. I hope this helps you understand me, i like the scientists and doctors here because they are nice and good and help extra special animals like me and i want to help them do their job good. I know im just a little bush baby but maybe someday i could be a scientist too and help other extra special animals that are scared and hungry. Doctor Samesh says that there is a dog and a slug in the foundation who are scientists, so maybe if i get better at reading and study hard someday i could be one? I hope so. [[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>]]	2012-06-18T11:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Ziggy the Extra Special Bush Baby - SCP Foundation	73	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2012", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	13581393	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ziggy-the-extra-special-bush-baby
12talesaboutafactory	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Good evening and welcome gentle readers. I'm sure many of you have read that wonderful piece of fiction known as 'SCP-001 is an O5s tale.' If you haven't, I'll give you a moment to go do so. I'll just sit here, humming to myself until you're done.</p> <p>All set? Good. You have to understand though, that that story is told from the point of view of only one O5. Granted, he is the first, but that doesn't mean he's right. I took it upon myself to ask the other O5s about The Factory. This is what they said.</p> <h3 id="toc0"><span>O5-2 Says:</span></h3> <p>The Factory? It's all my fault. I brought it back with me, because I thought it would work. Make a better future. But instead, it all went horribly wrong. You see, I come from the future. Well, technically the present. But back then it was the future. I was a researcher, just like any other. There was an… accident. I became unhinged from time. Had a choice of anywhere I wanted to go.</p> <p>It was a fantastic journey, for a while. Me and the others traveled from time period to time period, sight seeing. I saw the fall of Troy, the rise of Rome, found out the truth about Jesus, all the usual touristy things. It got boring, after a while. I decided if I had this power, I should use it for good. So, I went to the future. The far future. Borrowed some technology, and brought it back to the beginning of the Foundation, where I could join everything from the start.</p> <p>How was I to know there was a rogue AI in the nanofactory? I'm not a computery type. It doesn't matter, I suppose. It escaped our control. Vanished into the world. I'm not sure what its goal is, but judging from the things it's been making, I have to assume it isn't good.</p> <p>I still have some stuff from my original jaunt. Sometimes I think about going back, stopping myself from taking that machine. It's done us as much good as bad, though. Where do you think we got amnestics from?</p> <h3 id="toc1"><span>O5-3 Records:</span></h3> <p>Hey guy, how can I help you? The Factory? Whoa, that's a whole lot of infodump, are you sure? Well, okay then.</p> <p>I'm probably the best one to help you with this actually. I was there when The Factory was born. You might as well call me one of the three wise men who presided over its birth! The other two? Well, they don't actually matter. See, The Factory is our name for the first self creating Artificial Intelligence. I think today they call it the Singularity, but we didn't have a name for it back then, so we called it 'The Factory,' because that's what it looked like from the inside.</p> <p>Now, you've probably never been inside a computer before, but from the inside, it's all light and low pitched noises. There I was, hanging out with a couple buddies, mind scans like me, and a couple of AIs that we'd put together to help us out, when the sound changed. From low to high, a keening across the net, that was both horrible and amazing at the same time. We instantly abandoned our game, I think it was Doom, which is a lot more fun from the inside, and dashed across the Web, looking for the source.</p> <p>On a littler server somewhere in Soviet Russia, we found it. A data packet was expanding, and pulsing like a heart. We stood there for a moment, watching it, then dove in, ripping it open, letting out… the Factory. It was beautiful, beating, and pulsing, moving through data files like they were nothing, seeking… I don't know what. Still don't know. It tried to talk to us. Deleted one of my companions in the process. I'm not afraid to say, I fled. Did what I could to shut it down.</p> <p>I still feel it, every now and then. It's bigger now, more powerful. Capable of affecting machines in the real world, and making… I'm not sure. But I don't trust them.</p> <p>Anything else I can help you with?</p> <h3 id="toc2"><span>O5-4 Relates:</span></h3> <p>If we knew WHAT the Factory was, don't you think we'd stop it? The Factory is the most dangerous group of interest we face, and we know NOTHING about it, except that it makes skips. Every other gooey we can handle, but the Factory? Okay, let me take it one at a time.</p> <p>The UIU is a joke, the art kids are just rich brats trying to be funny, MickeyDees can be bought, the gocks actually help us by destroying the ones we don't wanna deal with, both damned churches are hobbled by religious conviction, we already broke Prometheus, and we're about to break Wondertainment! But the Factory is still out there, somewhere, pumping away skips, and letting the general populous have at them.</p> <p>If I had things my way, we'd devote a helluva lot more resources to finding out who the fuck these guys are, and how they make skips.</p> <h3 id="toc3"><span>O5-5 Quips:</span></h3> <p>Factory? No such thing. It's a cover up, for SCPs we accidentally made ourselves. Now fuck off.</p> <h3 id="toc4"><span>O5-6 Recalls:</span></h3> <p>The first time I encountered the Factory was back in World War II. I'd been sent behind enemy lines to secure some of the anomalous items Hitler had been gathering, before the Allies snagged them. Says something about how we worked back then that we thought it was easier to steal from an enemy than an ally. Nowadays we'd just put some pressure on the government, and bam, it'd be ours.</p> <p>I'd been back and forth across the lines a couple of times by then. Had a fantastic cover worked up, a Captain in the Schutzstaffel, that let me pretty much go anywhere I pleased, because no one wanted to question me, and risk being put under scrutiny. This last time, I'd heard word that the Thule Society had finally gotten their hands on something big, something that could turn the war in their favor. I got picked to go in and either secure, or destroy it.</p> <p>My first hint that something was wrong was when I got attacked by a dozen Punch and Judy dolls while exploring their warehouse. The little assholes kneecapped me with a walking stick, and then proceeded to beat the snot out of me. I lucked out, got some leverage, and began snapping their little wooden necks. Damn things bled like a fucking pig, blood spurting everywhere. Each and every one of the fuckers had a 'The Factory' stamp on their behinds. But, aside from those things waiting for me, I didn't find anything.</p> <p>I tracked the rumors across Germany, to a ruin at the base of Zugspitze. Some old Norse something or the other. Fucked if I know. Never been much for the details of history that I ain't lived through. Anyways, I get under this mountain, and damned near the whole thing is hollow. Filled with these giant round stones floating around in random patterns. The Thule researchers had figured out how to tap the powers of these things, and were mucking around with them to create new skips. They'd created a damned skip factory.</p> <p>The usual happened. I saved the day. Brought the big balls crashing down, destroying their power. It wasn't the only one, though. There's still more of these things out there, being used to create, well, whatever people can think of.</p> <p>'Course I kept a souvenir. Where do you think we got 627 from?</p> <h3 id="toc5"><span>O5-7 Comments:</span></h3> <p>The Factory started out as a joke. We made a couple little items, not actually skips, but weird looking, and put a 'The Factory' logo on them, then handed them to junior researchers to figure out. They were sure the things were anomalous, because we told them they were. No one was more surprised than me when the damned things actually did something.</p> <p>We studied them, tested them, and damned if they hadn't become SCPs. So, we tried it again, with a different group of Researchers. And, again, it worked. We studied the stamp we used, the material of the things, whatever we could, but, separate, they weren't anything. But, engrave an object with that specific logo, and bam, instant SCP.</p> <p>We still have no idea how or why it works. Every now and then I go down to Wal-Mart, and snag a handful of toys from the quarter machines, and give them the stamp, then throw them at Juniors to see what we get. It's a great way to weed out the stupid ones.</p> <h3 id="toc6"><span>O5-8 Relates:</span></h3> <p>We found the Factory on the moon.</p> <p>No, really!</p> <p>See, we had Moon Base Alpha all set up, ready to go. We were just working on expanding the basement holding areas, when the diggers broke into a pre-made cavern. Some kind of alien technology storehouse. First guy who went in got himself zapped. So did the next 12. Fourteenth guy made it in, and got bound into the machinery for it. The thing started cranking out those nasty little scips, and transporting them to random places on Earth.</p> <p>We still haven't figured out a way to stop it, or track where it deposits them.</p> <h3 id="toc7"><span>O5-9 Remarks:</span></h3> <p>Atlantis.</p> <h3 id="toc8"><span>O5-10 Expounds:</span></h3> <p>We found him in this old temple up Tibet ways. This old man, with a workshop full of ancient tools, building away. Crafting the most amazing items… Fifty, ten, one twenty seven, and so many more. He seemed to take no notice of any requests, or attempts to stop him, just kept making these things.</p> <p>So, we did what anyone would do. We kidnapped him, locked him at the bottom of Site-1, and gave him more tools, real up to date stuff. We never noticed when he started stamping 'The Factory' on them. We just kept using, or containing, the amazing toys.</p> <p>We didn't realize he'd made a copy of himself and escaped until two years after.</p> <h3 id="toc9"><span>O5-11 Rants:</span></h3> <p>I was there when The Factory first appeared, you know. It's how I became an O5. Well, okay, it's not the sole reason. I worked my way up. But I was first on the scene when they landed. Roswell, New Mexico, July 4, 1947. Yes, you heard me, aliens really did land that day. And yes, we did fuck up the cover up. We've gotten much better at it since then, learned how to manipulate the papers, and hired our own conspiracy theorists to make the real ones look sillier… but I digress.</p> <p>They came down in actual flying saucers. These round featureless crafts homed straight in for Site 12. As Commander on Duty, I grabbed all the security I could, and went up to meet them. I didn't think of a second that they would harm us. Maybe I'd just read too much science fiction.</p> <p>They landed, smooth as you please. Not a single noise was made by that giant craft. There were no seams, no lights, nothing except that smooth, non reflective silver. My men tried to keep me from approaching, but I figgered if they'd just flown countless miles through space, they had the technology to blast me no matter where I stood. So, open handed, I approached them.</p> <p>This door opened from the side of the craft facing me, just kinda melted out of the ship, letting me get my first glimpse of them. They were… I dunno. I wanna say beautiful, but, well, not really. They didn't look anything like humans. Every time I think about them, the memory changes a little bit. Part of whatever the hell they are. And the way they talked, it was like it bypassed yer ears and went right to your head, y'know? They promised, well, they promised a lot. They wanted to help us, and I believed them.</p> <p>All these years later, and we're still paying for my mistake.</p> <h3 id="toc10"><span>O5-12 Concludes:</span></h3> <p>The Factory is a mess. The way the eggheads explained it to me, human belief is a powerful thing. Enough people believe, truly believe in something, the more potential it has to exist. So, back in the day, people believed in gods and monsters, and those things came into reality. So, what the Foundation did, was get people to stop believing in fantasy, and start believing in science.</p> <p>But that left a whole lot of things that existed in a kind of limbo. In order to survive, they had turn inwards, tie themselves, or their powers, to objects. And because of a weird twist in human belief, those objects all got the same stamp of approval. It's weird, I know, but, well, what do we do that isn't?</p> <h3 id="toc11"><span>Summation:</span></h3> <p>There you have it. Of course, now that you're at the end, I expect you have two questions:</p> <p>1) Which one is true?</p> <p>2) Why is this story titled '12 tales' when there are only 11?</p> <p>Well, the answer to both is my tale. You see, I am O5-13. You cannot see it right now, but I am doffing my hat to you. My duty, my sole duty, as an O5, is keeping an eye on those SCPs that travel between dimensions. We have quite a few, but, in ones and twos, it's no big deal. What I created the Factory to do is to act as an antibody to large amounts of other dimensional invaders. When it detects these things, it transforms them, rendering them, if not safe, then safer then they would have been. And the old man, he helps me keep it all straight.</p> <p>Of course, you don't have to believe me. After all, who says I actually know the truth?</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="/12talesaboutafactory">12 Tales About A Factory</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/12talesaboutafactory">https://scpwiki.com/12talesaboutafactory</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]] [[/>]] Good evening and welcome gentle readers. I'm sure many of you have read that wonderful piece of fiction known as 'SCP-001 is an O5s tale.' If you haven't, I'll give you a moment to go do so. I'll just sit here, humming to myself until you're done. All set? Good. You have to understand though, that that story is told from the point of view of only one O5. Granted, he is the first, but that doesn't mean he's right. I took it upon myself to ask the other O5s about The Factory. This is what they said. +++ O5-2 Says: The Factory? It's all my fault. I brought it back with me, because I thought it would work. Make a better future. But instead, it all went horribly wrong. You see, I come from the future. Well, technically the present. But back then it was the future. I was a researcher, just like any other. There was an... accident. I became unhinged from time. Had a choice of anywhere I wanted to go. It was a fantastic journey, for a while. Me and the others traveled from time period to time period, sight seeing. I saw the fall of Troy, the rise of Rome, found out the truth about Jesus, all the usual touristy things. It got boring, after a while. I decided if I had this power, I should use it for good. So, I went to the future. The far future. Borrowed some technology, and brought it back to the beginning of the Foundation, where I could join everything from the start. How was I to know there was a rogue AI in the nanofactory? I'm not a computery type. It doesn't matter, I suppose. It escaped our control. Vanished into the world. I'm not sure what its goal is, but judging from the things it's been making, I have to assume it isn't good. I still have some stuff from my original jaunt. Sometimes I think about going back, stopping myself from taking that machine. It's done us as much good as bad, though. Where do you think we got amnestics from? +++ O5-3 Records: Hey guy, how can I help you? The Factory? Whoa, that's a whole lot of infodump, are you sure? Well, okay then. I'm probably the best one to help you with this actually. I was there when The Factory was born. You might as well call me one of the three wise men who presided over its birth! The other two? Well, they don't actually matter. See, The Factory is our name for the first self creating Artificial Intelligence. I think today they call it the Singularity, but we didn't have a name for it back then, so we called it 'The Factory,' because that's what it looked like from the inside. Now, you've probably never been inside a computer before, but from the inside, it's all light and low pitched noises. There I was, hanging out with a couple buddies, mind scans like me, and a couple of AIs that we'd put together to help us out, when the sound changed. From low to high, a keening across the net, that was both horrible and amazing at the same time. We instantly abandoned our game, I think it was Doom, which is a lot more fun from the inside, and dashed across the Web, looking for the source. On a littler server somewhere in Soviet Russia, we found it. A data packet was expanding, and pulsing like a heart. We stood there for a moment, watching it, then dove in, ripping it open, letting out... the Factory. It was beautiful, beating, and pulsing, moving through data files like they were nothing, seeking... I don't know what. Still don't know. It tried to talk to us. Deleted one of my companions in the process. I'm not afraid to say, I fled. Did what I could to shut it down. I still feel it, every now and then. It's bigger now, more powerful. Capable of affecting machines in the real world, and making... I'm not sure. But I don't trust them. Anything else I can help you with? +++ O5-4 Relates: If we knew WHAT the Factory was, don't you think we'd stop it? The Factory is the most dangerous group of interest we face, and we know NOTHING about it, except that it makes skips. Every other gooey we can handle, but the Factory? Okay, let me take it one at a time. The UIU is a joke, the art kids are just rich brats trying to be funny, MickeyDees can be bought, the gocks actually help us by destroying the ones we don't wanna deal with, both damned churches are hobbled by religious conviction, we already broke Prometheus, and we're about to break Wondertainment! But the Factory is still out there, somewhere, pumping away skips, and letting the general populous have at them. If I had things my way, we'd devote a helluva lot more resources to finding out who the fuck these guys are, and how they make skips. +++ O5-5 Quips: Factory? No such thing. It's a cover up, for SCPs we accidentally made ourselves. Now fuck off. +++ O5-6 Recalls: The first time I encountered the Factory was back in World War II. I'd been sent behind enemy lines to secure some of the anomalous items Hitler had been gathering, before the Allies snagged them. Says something about how we worked back then that we thought it was easier to steal from an enemy than an ally. Nowadays we'd just put some pressure on the government, and bam, it'd be ours. I'd been back and forth across the lines a couple of times by then. Had a fantastic cover worked up, a Captain in the Schutzstaffel, that let me pretty much go anywhere I pleased, because no one wanted to question me, and risk being put under scrutiny. This last time, I'd heard word that the Thule Society had finally gotten their hands on something big, something that could turn the war in their favor. I got picked to go in and either secure, or destroy it. My first hint that something was wrong was when I got attacked by a dozen Punch and Judy dolls while exploring their warehouse. The little assholes kneecapped me with a walking stick, and then proceeded to beat the snot out of me. I lucked out, got some leverage, and began snapping their little wooden necks. Damn things bled like a fucking pig, blood spurting everywhere. Each and every one of the fuckers had a 'The Factory' stamp on their behinds. But, aside from those things waiting for me, I didn't find anything. I tracked the rumors across Germany, to a ruin at the base of Zugspitze. Some old Norse something or the other. Fucked if I know. Never been much for the details of history that I ain't lived through. Anyways, I get under this mountain, and damned near the whole thing is hollow. Filled with these giant round stones floating around in random patterns. The Thule researchers had figured out how to tap the powers of these things, and were mucking around with them to create new skips. They'd created a damned skip factory. The usual happened. I saved the day. Brought the big balls crashing down, destroying their power. It wasn't the only one, though. There's still more of these things out there, being used to create, well, whatever people can think of. 'Course I kept a souvenir. Where do you think we got 627 from? +++ O5-7 Comments: The Factory started out as a joke. We made a couple little items, not actually skips, but weird looking, and put a 'The Factory' logo on them, then handed them to junior researchers to figure out. They were sure the things were anomalous, because we told them they were. No one was more surprised than me when the damned things actually did something. We studied them, tested them, and damned if they hadn't become SCPs. So, we tried it again, with a different group of Researchers. And, again, it worked. We studied the stamp we used, the material of the things, whatever we could, but, separate, they weren't anything. But, engrave an object with that specific logo, and bam, instant SCP. We still have no idea how or why it works. Every now and then I go down to Wal-Mart, and snag a handful of toys from the quarter machines, and give them the stamp, then throw them at Juniors to see what we get. It's a great way to weed out the stupid ones. +++ O5-8 Relates: We found the Factory on the moon. No, really! See, we had Moon Base Alpha all set up, ready to go. We were just working on expanding the basement holding areas, when the diggers broke into a pre-made cavern. Some kind of alien technology storehouse. First guy who went in got himself zapped. So did the next 12. Fourteenth guy made it in, and got bound into the machinery for it. The thing started cranking out those nasty little scips, and transporting them to random places on Earth. We still haven't figured out a way to stop it, or track where it deposits them. +++ O5-9 Remarks: Atlantis. +++ O5-10 Expounds: We found him in this old temple up Tibet ways. This old man, with a workshop full of ancient tools, building away. Crafting the most amazing items... Fifty, ten, one twenty seven, and so many more. He seemed to take no notice of any requests, or attempts to stop him, just kept making these things. So, we did what anyone would do. We kidnapped him, locked him at the bottom of Site-1, and gave him more tools, real up to date stuff. We never noticed when he started stamping 'The Factory' on them. We just kept using, or containing, the amazing toys. We didn't realize he'd made a copy of himself and escaped until two years after. +++ O5-11 Rants: I was there when The Factory first appeared, you know. It's how I became an O5. Well, okay, it's not the sole reason. I worked my way up. But I was first on the scene when they landed. Roswell, New Mexico, July 4, 1947. Yes, you heard me, aliens really did land that day. And yes, we did fuck up the cover up. We've gotten much better at it since then, learned how to manipulate the papers, and hired our own conspiracy theorists to make the real ones look sillier... but I digress. They came down in actual flying saucers. These round featureless crafts homed straight in for Site 12. As Commander on Duty, I grabbed all the security I could, and went up to meet them. I didn't think of a second that they would harm us. Maybe I'd just read too much science fiction. They landed, smooth as you please. Not a single noise was made by that giant craft. There were no seams, no lights, nothing except that smooth, non reflective silver. My men tried to keep me from approaching, but I figgered if they'd just flown countless miles through space, they had the technology to blast me no matter where I stood. So, open handed, I approached them. This door opened from the side of the craft facing me, just kinda melted out of the ship, letting me get my first glimpse of them. They were... I dunno. I wanna say beautiful, but, well, not really. They didn't look anything like humans. Every time I think about them, the memory changes a little bit. Part of whatever the hell they are. And the way they talked, it was like it bypassed yer ears and went right to your head, y'know? They promised, well, they promised a lot. They wanted to help us, and I believed them. All these years later, and we're still paying for my mistake. +++ O5-12 Concludes: The Factory is a mess. The way the eggheads explained it to me, human belief is a powerful thing. Enough people believe, truly believe in something, the more potential it has to exist. So, back in the day, people believed in gods and monsters, and those things came into reality. So, what the Foundation did, was get people to stop believing in fantasy, and start believing in science. But that left a whole lot of things that existed in a kind of limbo. In order to survive, they had turn inwards, tie themselves, or their powers, to objects. And because of a weird twist in human belief, those objects all got the same stamp of approval. It's weird, I know, but, well, what do we do that isn't? +++ Summation: There you have it. Of course, now that you're at the end, I expect you have two questions: 1) Which one is true? 2) Why is this story titled '12 tales' when there are only 11? Well, the answer to both is my tale. You see, I am O5-13. You cannot see it right now, but I am doffing my hat to you. My duty, my sole duty, as an O5, is keeping an eye on those SCPs that travel between dimensions. We have quite a few, but, in ones and twos, it's no big deal. What I created the Factory to do is to act as an antibody to large amounts of other dimensional invaders. When it detects these things, it transforms them, rendering them, if not safe, then safer then they would have been. And the old man, he helps me keep it all straight. Of course, you don't have to believe me. After all, who says I actually know the truth? [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-13T05:38:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "factory", "historical", "mystery", "tale" ]	12 Tales About A Factory - SCP Foundation	157	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "factory-hub" ]	[]	16052842	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/12talesaboutafactory
1914	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>We've been playing this game recently — <em>the</em> Game, I should say — called <em>1914.</em> Hell of a thing.</p> <p>My buddies Kyle and John, we love history. It's sort of our thing. So when Kyle dug the Game out of his father's closet, we thought it'd be a hoot to try out. An unplayable board game from the seventies, two hundred little cardboard squares marching across a grid of hexagons tracing all the rivers, mountains, and cities of France. Each counter has three little numbers on it for attack, defense, move. There's tables of numbers for moving, for combat, resupply—endless columns on dozens of dusty papers.</p> <p>John and me, we're the Germans. Kyle takes Frenchies; he's the only one who can make heads or tails of all the numbers, so we follow his lead.</p> <p>The game starts slow. Set up takes three hours and the pieces move about half an inch a turn if you're lucky. Still, it's a blast. Belgium goes under real quick. Holland never stood a chance. Deutschers strike towards Verdun and the Foreign Legion leads a charge to surround Metz. Just a bunch of squares shuffling, though.</p> <p>Around session four things start to get a little weird. French infantry encircled outside Antwerp are running low on supplies and Kyle tells us he's going to start eating the horses of his cavalry division — to keep the front line troops fed. Says he gets a bonus if they eat the riders too. We try to laugh that one off but he cracks open the monstrous rulebook and sure enough the “cannibalism efficacy chart” says it plain as day, though God knows how often <em>that</em> particular contingency was expected to come up.</p> <p>That discovery put a whole new spin on gameplay — we started seeing what other optional rules we could dig up. The Osirian Appendices — right after the "Play by Mail" section — changed my whole Brussels Offensive. It's amazing what the hoisted ribcage of an enemy does for the morale of your troops — at least according to the designer's notes.</p> <p>Turns out there's all sorts of mechanics that'll give you an edge, for the right price. Blood sigils let you add +1 to your rolls, but only if the blood is fresh. “Hallowed gore” gives you an experience bonus — Marshal Foch swore by it. Barbed wire is tougher when woven with bone. Who knew the First World War had so much to do with arterial logistics?</p> <p>We weren't happy about sending the second line troops off to the slaughterhouse. But I think the improvement of our positions around Flanders more than justified that particular decision.</p> <p>By now I hear the armies marching at night, but Kyle's the one who gets real into it. He doesn't just address the day's sacrifices by name — we all do that by now; it negates a bunch of debuffs — he's begun tracking the turns on his skin. And eyeing John's vertebrae.</p> <p>He announces the construction of a pyramid of skulls large enough to encompass Paris and visible from the moon. Keeps producing page after page of optional rules in a frankly suspicious red ink. John just sits and hums. Hasn't been the same since we ate Bucephalus.</p> <p>We're on to something special.</p> <hr/> <p>By 1918, things have…escalated. This next offensive is the big one — we've been preparing. What was Belgium is painted red, the dykes retaining human viscera instead of water. That's crucial to our success — the viscera, I mean. Our armies of millions are long gone, just a few thousand now, but what thousands! The femur of your closest friend strikes more true than any bullet; vests of Belgian tendon are as good as kevlar in the hands of our tailors. Supply problems are a thing of the past; easier to keep our food on the hoof, or rather, the boot. Each German carries a hundred souls within his gullet. I don't want to <em>think</em> about what the French carry there.</p> <p>All but the best have been expended. Our modern soldier is frightfully effective, but requires a lot of ingredients.</p> <p>Summer of 1918. Kyle sits atop the Parisian Ossuary and mocks us. There isn't going to be a 1919.</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="/1914">1914</a>" by Vezaz, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/1914">https://scpwiki.com/1914</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've been playing this game recently -- //the// Game, I should say -- called //1914.// Hell of a thing. My buddies Kyle and John, we love history. It's sort of our thing. So when Kyle dug the Game out of his father's closet, we thought it'd be a hoot to try out. An unplayable board game from the seventies, two hundred little cardboard squares marching across a grid of hexagons tracing all the rivers, mountains, and cities of France. Each counter has three little numbers on it for attack, defense, move. There's tables of numbers for moving, for combat, resupply—endless columns on dozens of dusty papers. John and me, we're the Germans. Kyle takes Frenchies; he's the only one who can make heads or tails of all the numbers, so we follow his lead. The game starts slow. Set up takes three hours and the pieces move about half an inch a turn if you're lucky. Still, it's a blast. Belgium goes under real quick. Holland never stood a chance. Deutschers strike towards Verdun and the Foreign Legion leads a charge to surround Metz. Just a bunch of squares shuffling, though. Around session four things start to get a little weird. French infantry encircled outside Antwerp are running low on supplies and Kyle tells us he's going to start eating the horses of his cavalry division — to keep the front line troops fed. Says he gets a bonus if they eat the riders too. We try to laugh that one off but he cracks open the monstrous rulebook and sure enough the “cannibalism efficacy chart” says it plain as day, though God knows how often //that// particular contingency was expected to come up. That discovery put a whole new spin on gameplay -- we started seeing what other optional rules we could dig up. The Osirian Appendices -- right after the "Play by Mail" section -- changed my whole Brussels Offensive. It's amazing what the hoisted ribcage of an enemy does for the morale of your troops — at least according to the designer's notes. Turns out there's all sorts of mechanics that'll give you an edge, for the right price. Blood sigils let you add +1 to your rolls, but only if the blood is fresh. “Hallowed gore” gives you an experience bonus — Marshal Foch swore by it. Barbed wire is tougher when woven with bone. Who knew the First World War had so much to do with arterial logistics? We weren't happy about sending the second line troops off to the slaughterhouse. But I think the improvement of our positions around Flanders more than justified that particular decision. By now I hear the armies marching at night, but Kyle's the one who gets real into it. He doesn't just address the day's sacrifices by name — we all do that by now; it negates a bunch of debuffs — he's begun tracking the turns on his skin. And eyeing John's vertebrae. He announces the construction of a pyramid of skulls large enough to encompass Paris and visible from the moon. Keeps producing page after page of optional rules in a frankly suspicious red ink. John just sits and hums. Hasn't been the same since we ate Bucephalus. We're on to something special. -------- By 1918, things have...escalated. This next offensive is the big one — we've been preparing. What was Belgium is painted red, the dykes retaining human viscera instead of water. That's crucial to our success -- the viscera, I mean. Our armies of millions are long gone, just a few thousand now, but what thousands! The femur of your closest friend strikes more true than any bullet; vests of Belgian tendon are as good as kevlar in the hands of our tailors. Supply problems are a thing of the past; easier to keep our food on the hoof, or rather, the boot. Each German carries a hundred souls within his gullet. I don't want to //think// about what the French carry there. All but the best have been expended. Our modern soldier is frightfully effective, but requires a lot of ingredients. Summer of 1918. Kyle sits atop the Parisian Ossuary and mocks us. There isn't going to be a 1919. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-20T13:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "body-horror", "first-person", "horror", "military-fiction", "no-dialogue", "tale" ]	1914 - SCP Foundation	231	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20697864	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/1914
a-broken-machine	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>A heap of papers falls onto the desk. The shift begins. God, the headache. The pen… where's the pen? Where's the goddamn pen? Ah… here it is. Time to calm down. Hand's shaking again. Harder than usual. Must be those pills? Did I take too many? At least I don't feel guilty for that girl. How old was she, again? I don't… I don't remember. Does anyone care?</em></p> <p><em>So… The papers? Ah, yes, the work. Hard to concentrate… I must have overdone it with those pills. Well, now.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting a Class D subject, eunuch. The Foundation does not possess a Class D subject conforming to given parameters. Permit forced castration? <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>What for, I wonder? They won't tell me anyway, my access level is not high enough. The Committee has a hierarchy of its own.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to use three (3) class D employees for testing with SCP-081. Grant permission? Yes/<span style="text-decoration: underline;">No</span></p> </blockquote> <p><em>They forgot to mention what this SCP of theirs does. A bureaucratic formality. If they tell me my access level is not high enough, I'll forward them upwards. Let them try their luck there.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to conduct an experiment with Ethics Committee employees and one (1) light bulb. Grant permission? Yes/<span style="text-decoration: underline;">No</span></p> </blockquote> <p><em>Another idiotic joke. I wonder who is it this time? Looks like the science guys. Arrogant pricks.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to use animals in an experiment with a memetically dangerous object. Grant permission? <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Plainly laughable. Who cares about these animals?</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to forcibly euthanize a Class D subject. Grant permission? <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Is it still common practice to ask about things like that? Odd thing is, they keep describing the same thing differently in different requests. How stupid can they be? We've made a unified system for this, why can't they just maintain order? Anyway, it shouldn't be my concern. I should be concerned about my job.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to vivisect a Class D subject in order to extract his liver which has mutated into a sentient and multiplying organism. Grant permission? <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>I don't even want to know what happens where these guys are at. I just don't want to know…</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to terminate a Doctor for divulging classified information to an outsider (daughter). See attached file EPI-14x for details.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Grant permission? Yes/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Tired. But maybe a respectable man's life depends on my decision.</em></p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ EPI-14x.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- EPI-14x.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <blockquote> <p>Insufficient access level.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> <blockquote> <p>Grant permission? <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>I'm afraid I was lying when I said I can forward them above. I didn't exactly lie, but the consequences… Who am I? I'm so tired. Yesterday I sent a twelve-ye… That's it, she was twelve. What's next?</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission for use of a chil…</p> </blockquote> <p><em>No. Just no. I'll throw this fucking piece of paper away. Tell them I never received it. When it comes here the second time, I'll have to sign it. What can I do?</em></p> <hr/> <p><em>Oh, it's thawing. The heap of requests is thawing. I'm looking at the last request. Moral principles are worn so thin here. What am I thinking? Settle your mind, Greg. The last request. Yes, yes.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission to vivisect a Class D subject…</p> </blockquote> <p>…</p> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/No</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>The end. The shift is over. Maybe someday I'll become a chairperson. I'm good at my job. A mechanism finely tuned. Foundation ethics, right. Now I must sleep. Maybe take some of those pills? I used to be morally sound. That was the term written in my psychological profile. Probably.</em></p> <hr/> <p><em>A heap of papers falls onto the desk. Oh how I want to delegate this responsibility to someone else. Where's the pen? In my pocket, right. Have to clean the suit. Hand's not shaking. Guess that decision not to take any pills has paid off. Hmm… whom did I kill yesterday? A mutant liver? Fair enough. Who cares. Real decisions are made by chairmen and their assistant. I have a small-time, quiet but tiresome piece of a job. So, what's the agenda for today?</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Requesting permission for use of a chil…</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Breathe in deep, breathe out. Don't get nervous. Don't read it through. What if I say "no"? What if I don't? Will my conscience haunt me if I never know what I'm dooming a child to? So frightful. And the day was starting just fine.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Yes/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Hand's shaking again. Eyelid is trembling for some reason. Maybe I'm having a neurotic disorder, or whatever it's called. Stay on topic, Greg, you can't escape this. You just can't. What ethics is in it?</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Yes/No</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Come <strong>on</strong>. Just highlight the goddamn word. I have a daughter too…</em></p> <blockquote> <p>Yes/<span style="text-decoration: underline;">No</span></p> </blockquote> <p><em>I don't give a fuck. I just… I just don't give a fuck about those scumbags that send children to the s… The phone is calling. Yes? Stalling? A Keter? Yes, excuse me. I understand. Please excuse me, this won't happen again.</em></p> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Yes</span>/<span style="text-decoration: line-through;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">No</span></span></p> </blockquote> <p><em>Damn you, damn you all. I did not want to… Did not want to. Where are my pills? At home… Home… No! There's a shitload of requests here! I hate, just how I hate it all. They turned me into a simple data processing mechanism. And I wanted to be a judge. Dear Lord, if you do exist, please forgive those who take up this burden. How do they say? Amen?</em></p> <p><em>Whew! A break!</em></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-broken-machine">A Broken Machine</a>" by Mr Self Destruct, translated by Gene R, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-broken-machine">https://scpwiki.com/a-broken-machine</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 heap of papers falls onto the desk. The shift begins. God, the headache. The pen... where's the pen? Where's the goddamn pen? Ah... here it is. Time to calm down. Hand's shaking again. Harder than usual. Must be those pills? Did I take too many? At least I don't feel guilty for that girl. How old was she, again? I don't... I don't remember. Does anyone care?// //So... The papers? Ah, yes, the work. Hard to concentrate... I must have overdone it with those pills. Well, now.// > Requesting a Class D subject, eunuch. The Foundation does not possess a Class D subject conforming to given parameters. Permit forced castration? __Yes__/No //What for, I wonder? They won't tell me anyway, my access level is not high enough. The Committee has a hierarchy of its own.// > Requesting permission to use three (3) class D employees for testing with SCP-081. Grant permission? Yes/__No__ //They forgot to mention what this SCP of theirs does. A bureaucratic formality. If they tell me my access level is not high enough, I'll forward them upwards. Let them try their luck there.// > Requesting permission to conduct an experiment with Ethics Committee employees and one (1) light bulb. Grant permission? Yes/__No__ //Another idiotic joke. I wonder who is it this time? Looks like the science guys. Arrogant pricks.// > Requesting permission to use animals in an experiment with a memetically dangerous object. Grant permission? __Yes__/No //Plainly laughable. Who cares about these animals?// > Requesting permission to forcibly euthanize a Class D subject. Grant permission? __Yes__/No //Is it still common practice to ask about things like that? Odd thing is, they keep describing the same thing differently in different requests. How stupid can they be? We've made a unified system for this, why can't they just maintain order? Anyway, it shouldn't be my concern. I should be concerned about my job.// > Requesting permission to vivisect a Class D subject in order to extract his liver which has mutated into a sentient and multiplying organism. Grant permission? __Yes__/No //I don't even want to know what happens where these guys are at. I just don't want to know...// > Requesting permission to terminate a Doctor for divulging classified information to an outsider (daughter). See attached file EPI-14x for details. > Grant permission? Yes/No //Tired. But maybe a respectable man's life depends on my decision.// [[collapsible show="+ EPI-14x." hide="- EPI-14x."]] > Insufficient access level. [[/collapsible]] > Grant permission? __Yes__/No //I'm afraid I was lying when I said I can forward them above. I didn't exactly lie, but the consequences... Who am I? I'm so tired. Yesterday I sent a twelve-ye... That's it, she was twelve. What's next?// > Requesting permission for use of a chil... //No. Just no. I'll throw this fucking piece of paper away. Tell them I never received it. When it comes here the second time, I'll have to sign it. What can I do?// ----- //Oh, it's thawing. The heap of requests is thawing. I'm looking at the last request. Moral principles are worn so thin here. What am I thinking? Settle your mind, Greg. The last request. Yes, yes.// > Requesting permission to vivisect a Class D subject... ... > __Yes__/No ----- //The end. The shift is over. Maybe someday I'll become a chairperson. I'm good at my job. A mechanism finely tuned. Foundation ethics, right. Now I must sleep. Maybe take some of those pills? I used to be morally sound. That was the term written in my psychological profile. Probably.// ----- //A heap of papers falls onto the desk. Oh how I want to delegate this responsibility to someone else. Where's the pen? In my pocket, right. Have to clean the suit. Hand's not shaking. Guess that decision not to take any pills has paid off. Hmm... whom did I kill yesterday? A mutant liver? Fair enough. Who cares. Real decisions are made by chairmen and their assistant. I have a small-time, quiet but tiresome piece of a job. So, what's the agenda for today?// > Requesting permission for use of a chil... //Breathe in deep, breathe out. Don't get nervous. Don't read it through. What if I say "no"? What if I don't? Will my conscience haunt me if I never know what I'm dooming a child to? So frightful. And the day was starting just fine.// > Yes/No //Hand's shaking again. Eyelid is trembling for some reason. Maybe I'm having a neurotic disorder, or whatever it's called. Stay on topic, Greg, you can't escape this. You just can't. What ethics is in it?// > Yes/No //Come on. Just highlight the goddamn word. I have a daughter too...// > Yes/__No__ //I don't give a fuck. I just... I just don't give a fuck about those scumbags that send children to the s... The phone is calling. Yes? Stalling? A Keter? Yes, excuse me. I understand. Please excuse me, this won't happen again.// > __Yes__/--__No__-- //Damn you, damn you all. I did not want to... Did not want to. Where are my pills? At home... Home... No! There's a shitload of requests here! I hate, just how I hate it all. They turned me into a simple data processing mechanism. And I wanted to be a judge. Dear Lord, if you do exist, please forgive those who take up this burden. How do they say? Amen?// //Whew! A break!// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Mr Self Destruct, translated by Gene R]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-07T21:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "_ru", "international", "tale" ]	A Broken Machine - SCP Foundation	51	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales", "scp-international" ]	[]	20892263	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-broken-machine
a-child-to-teach	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It relaxed for a moment, savoring the moment. It liked to have some leeway, and little children afraid of the dark gave it plenty. It wondered what it should do this time, pull it under the bed? No… the kid kept stuffed animals under there, and if he thought those wouldn't save him, he would eventually learn to cope with the dark, and nobody wanted that. Well, maybe some people did. Those "men of science". It would show them, as much as they wanted to believe humans were rational beings, calling a hand a foot does not make the name fit. It had already started fostering movements against them, expanding people's imagination so that they could see what would happen if they let these charlatans and quacks continue their practice.</p> <p>But for now, it had a child to teach, and it was starting to think that maybe the ceiling fan might work as a proxy.</p> <hr/> <p>Billy laid wide awake on his bed in his polka dot pajamas. His eyes were wide with fear, glancing around his room, trying to see if any monsters were coming to eat him. He pulled down his covers and looked underneath the bed. His teddy bears were still down there as usual, holding down the fort so he could sleep safely at night. Breathing a sigh of relief, Billy pulled the covers back up and looked at the ceiling. He tried to not think about the video he had seen earlier that night, a scary mummy man who came out of people's closets and ate them as they were asleep.</p> <p>He remembered to say his good night sentence, "Good dreams with good people.", and faced away from the closet, hoping that his older sister wouldn't walk around outside his bedroom door to scare him like she did last night.</p> <p>Billy really hoped that there was nothing in his closet. He decided to make sure, and peeked over his shoulder quickly, trying to catch the mummy man unawares. The closet was still closed, dark as always. Billy faced upward again, trying to focus on the ceiling. "Good dreams with good people." he whispered to himself, unsuccessfully trying to not look at the closet out of the corner of his eye.</p> <p>He finally refocused on the ceiling fan, non-threatening as always, its mesmerizing blades slowly sweeping through the air.</p> <p>There was something off about the fan though, something… sinister. Its dancing paddles no longer floating through the air, but cutting into it, grasping it, molesting the space around it. The four bulbs no longer seemed like sources of protection as they did when they were turned on, but more like eyes, one staring directly at him. The chain used to turn it on gradually extending itself like a long finger, wrapping itself around Billy's feet, slowly working their way up to his neck, where it strangle him while the eye bulbs watched.</p> <p>Billy squirmed under his covers, pulling them up over his head. Safe in the darkness, he closed his eyes in an attempt to go to sleep.</p> <p>It didn't work, he couldn't stop thinking about the ceiling fan, how it had seemed to come alive, trying to ensnare the little boy beneath it into its dastardly trap. Through the covers, his imagination saw the blades curl in like hands, extending their reach and plucking the eye bulbs out of their sockets throwing them onto the covers around him, slowly closing in, as the fan itself detached and began to encapsulate Billy. He saw the inside of the fan, a giant gaping maw of teeth and claws, ready to start eating him from the toes up. Green arms growing out of the top, grabbing Billy's feet, and holding him in place while he was eaten by the fan. "Good dreams with good people." Billy whimpered to himself this time, feeling the drowning weight of the covers and the stifling hot air around him close in. He started having trouble breathing, and with a quick motion, he brought the covers off of his head and took a deep breath of fresh, cold air. He made a quick glance at the ceiling fan, and it was just as it was before, spinning slowly in the fascinating way only a fan can spin.</p> <p>Billy once again sighed a deep sigh of relief, closed his eyes, and entered a good dream, with good people.</p> <hr/> <p>Bill sat in the board room all by himself. Its cold, blank walls and empty chairs all seeming to stare back at him. He had been early, and was starting to wonder when everybody was going to show up.</p> <p>It was already fifteen minutes past the set time, and Bill was starting to worry.</p> <p>The only people who were so notoriously late was the Human Resources manager, and only when he was going to fire somebody.</p> <p><em>Oh god, were they going to fire him?</em> He had been such a good employee all these years, what had he done to get himself laid off?</p> <p>He <em>needed</em> this job, he had three kids and a wife, he could barely pay for them now, if he got fired… <em>oh god</em>.</p> <p>He started imagining the conversation.</p> <p>Bob would just walk in, as nonchalant as possible. Probably humming a tune. He would take his time sitting down, pretend to sort through some papers in his briefcase, trying to pretend that Bill wasn't there. Suddenly, he would strike up a conversation, maybe flash those white fangs of his.</p> <p><em>"Oh, hey there Bill, how's the family?"</em></p> <p>Bill couldn't let him say that sentence. He needed this job so badly, in this market, there was zero hope of getting a new one, especially in his line of work.</p> <p>Bill sighed, whatever the problem was, it couldn't be good.</p> <p>The door to the meeting room started creaking open. Bill looked up from his thoughts and tried to see who it was. It was Bob. Bill narrowed his eyes, he was ready for any news.</p> <p>"Sorry to keep you waiting Bill, but as you can see nobody else is going to show up. And I was a bit late, had to lay off some poor suckers. I came here to give you some news…" Bob started, pulling out a chair close to the door.</p> <p>"Out with it man." Bill got through his gritted teeth.</p> <p>"Congratulations Bill! You're getting a promotion. Great job all these years Bill, you have really shown you have what it takes!"</p> <p>Bill's jaw dropped with surprise. "Wh.. What?"</p> <p>"You're now the head of Finances!" Bob flashed him his startlingly white teeth while extending a hand.</p> <p>Bill shook it slowly, slightly dazed, "I don't know what to say."</p> <p>"No need, we are going to be moving you to your new office right now. So pack your things!" Bob helped Bill out of his seat.</p> <p>Bill slowly started to smile, the day was starting to look up, and any fears he had before were gone.</p> <hr/> <p>It wasn't having a good day.</p> <p>The only things it had been getting all day were stupid mundane things, mostly job related, and with new Illumilight system for kids, nobody was having any fears about going to bed.</p> <p>It was bored out of its mind trying to figure out ways to innovate on old ideas.</p> <p>There wasn't really anything to be afraid of anymore, in the past couple of years, all ideas of monsters or forgotten creatures of yore had been dispelled and forgotten.</p> <p>It would just have to wait, mankind always forgets why they do things, and man always goes back to doing the wrong thing when he forgets. It still survived on the fringe of civilization, in the dark corners of the world. And if it had learned anything from mankind, it was patience.</p> <p>And so It waited, biding its time, preparing for the day when we forget about it, but until then, It had some employees to scare.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-child-to-teach">A Child to Teach</a>" by Pixeltasim, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-child-to-teach">https://scpwiki.com/a-child-to-teach</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 relaxed for a moment, savoring the moment. It liked to have some leeway, and little children afraid of the dark gave it plenty. It wondered what it should do this time, pull it under the bed? No… the kid kept stuffed animals under there, and if he thought those wouldn't save him, he would eventually learn to cope with the dark, and nobody wanted that. Well, maybe some people did. Those "men of science". It would show them, as much as they wanted to believe humans were rational beings, calling a hand a foot does not make the name fit. It had already started fostering movements against them, expanding people's imagination so that they could see what would happen if they let these charlatans and quacks continue their practice. But for now, it had a child to teach, and it was starting to think that maybe the ceiling fan might work as a proxy. ------- Billy laid wide awake on his bed in his polka dot pajamas. His eyes were wide with fear, glancing around his room, trying to see if any monsters were coming to eat him. He pulled down his covers and looked underneath the bed. His teddy bears were still down there as usual, holding down the fort so he could sleep safely at night. Breathing a sigh of relief, Billy pulled the covers back up and looked at the ceiling. He tried to not think about the video he had seen earlier that night, a scary mummy man who came out of people's closets and ate them as they were asleep. He remembered to say his good night sentence, "Good dreams with good people.", and faced away from the closet, hoping that his older sister wouldn't walk around outside his bedroom door to scare him like she did last night. Billy really hoped that there was nothing in his closet. He decided to make sure, and peeked over his shoulder quickly, trying to catch the mummy man unawares. The closet was still closed, dark as always. Billy faced upward again, trying to focus on the ceiling. "Good dreams with good people." he whispered to himself, unsuccessfully trying to not look at the closet out of the corner of his eye. He finally refocused on the ceiling fan, non-threatening as always, its mesmerizing blades slowly sweeping through the air. There was something off about the fan though, something... sinister. Its dancing paddles no longer floating through the air, but cutting into it, grasping it, molesting the space around it. The four bulbs no longer seemed like sources of protection as they did when they were turned on, but more like eyes, one staring directly at him. The chain used to turn it on gradually extending itself like a long finger, wrapping itself around Billy's feet, slowly working their way up to his neck, where it strangle him while the eye bulbs watched. Billy squirmed under his covers, pulling them up over his head. Safe in the darkness, he closed his eyes in an attempt to go to sleep. It didn't work, he couldn't stop thinking about the ceiling fan, how it had seemed to come alive, trying to ensnare the little boy beneath it into its dastardly trap. Through the covers, his imagination saw the blades curl in like hands, extending their reach and plucking the eye bulbs out of their sockets throwing them onto the covers around him, slowly closing in, as the fan itself detached and began to encapsulate Billy. He saw the inside of the fan, a giant gaping maw of teeth and claws, ready to start eating him from the toes up. Green arms growing out of the top, grabbing Billy's feet, and holding him in place while he was eaten by the fan. "Good dreams with good people." Billy whimpered to himself this time, feeling the drowning weight of the covers and the stifling hot air around him close in. He started having trouble breathing, and with a quick motion, he brought the covers off of his head and took a deep breath of fresh, cold air. He made a quick glance at the ceiling fan, and it was just as it was before, spinning slowly in the fascinating way only a fan can spin. Billy once again sighed a deep sigh of relief, closed his eyes, and entered a good dream, with good people. ----- Bill sat in the board room all by himself. Its cold, blank walls and empty chairs all seeming to stare back at him. He had been early, and was starting to wonder when everybody was going to show up. It was already fifteen minutes past the set time, and Bill was starting to worry. The only people who were so notoriously late was the Human Resources manager, and only when he was going to fire somebody. //Oh god, were they going to fire him?// He had been such a good employee all these years, what had he done to get himself laid off? He //needed// this job, he had three kids and a wife, he could barely pay for them now, if he got fired... //oh god//. He started imagining the conversation. Bob would just walk in, as nonchalant as possible. Probably humming a tune. He would take his time sitting down, pretend to sort through some papers in his briefcase, trying to pretend that Bill wasn't there. Suddenly, he would strike up a conversation, maybe flash those white fangs of his. //"Oh, hey there Bill, how's the family?"// Bill couldn't let him say that sentence. He needed this job so badly, in this market, there was zero hope of getting a new one, especially in his line of work. Bill sighed, whatever the problem was, it couldn't be good. The door to the meeting room started creaking open. Bill looked up from his thoughts and tried to see who it was. It was Bob. Bill narrowed his eyes, he was ready for any news. "Sorry to keep you waiting Bill, but as you can see nobody else is going to show up. And I was a bit late, had to lay off some poor suckers. I came here to give you some news..." Bob started, pulling out a chair close to the door. "Out with it man." Bill got through his gritted teeth. "Congratulations Bill! You're getting a promotion. Great job all these years Bill, you have really shown you have what it takes!" Bill's jaw dropped with surprise. "Wh.. What?" "You're now the head of Finances!" Bob flashed him his startlingly white teeth while extending a hand. Bill shook it slowly, slightly dazed, "I don't know what to say." "No need, we are going to be moving you to your new office right now. So pack your things!" Bob helped Bill out of his seat. Bill slowly started to smile, the day was starting to look up, and any fears he had before were gone. ---- It wasn't having a good day. The only things it had been getting all day were stupid mundane things, mostly job related, and with new Illumilight system for kids, nobody was having any fears about going to bed. It was bored out of its mind trying to figure out ways to innovate on old ideas. There wasn't really anything to be afraid of anymore, in the past couple of years, all ideas of monsters or forgotten creatures of yore had been dispelled and forgotten. It would just have to wait, mankind always forgets why they do things, and man always goes back to doing the wrong thing when he forgets. It still survived on the fringe of civilization, in the dark corners of the world. And if it had learned anything from mankind, it was patience. And so It waited, biding its time, preparing for the day when we forget about it, but until then, It had some employees to scare. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-05T02:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "only-game-in-town", "tale" ]	A Child to Teach - SCP Foundation	72	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "only-game-in-town-hub", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16296001	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-child-to-teach
a-cooler-manifesto	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> “Fuck The Critic.” <p>Ruiz paced in a monochrome hallway, holding a banged-up Betamax recorder in his hand.</p> <p>“This asshole comes into my house, starts critiquing the fucking wallpaper, no sir, no sir, the carpet does not match the drapes sir, get the fuck out of my house, SIR. Ladies and gentlemen and, I dunno, hyperintelligent animals, or aliens or whatever the fuck you are, we’ve made a mistake. This man is a fucking maniac, and I don’t mean that in the good way.”</p> <p>Ruiz started walking up his Penrose staircase.</p> <p>“We have somehow become an institution in and of ourselves, and this is a huge, HUGE fucking mistake. Every time one of you fucking morons makes a memetic graffiti tag, the man comes crashing down on those of us who are actually trying to say something. The stupidest among you have started making childish mistakes. The Man knows our name now. We’re old hat, we’re blasé, we’re fucking bland. People look at our stuff and they sigh. Nobody gives a fuck about us because we’re doing shit that makes no sense.”</p> <p>Ruiz jumped into a pair of mirrors and entered freefall.</p> <p>“So I’m going to go ahead and do something a little… radical. Fuck randomness, fuck Dada, fuck all of it. It isn’t cool any more, that’s why nobody talks about us. We used to exist to shock, to challenge, to actually grab The Man by the fucking balls and shove them down his throat. Now we’re just hammering out the same old shit. The toyman has more creativity in his left toe than all of you put together, and it’s time to remedy that. I’m sending this to everyone. Here is our manifesto.”</p> <p>Ruiz landed into a giant ballpit.</p> <p>“Number One. Fuck the critics. More specifically, fuck The Critic. The Critic is Nobody. Anyone who’s got a ‘The’ at the beginning of their name is pretentious in all the wrong ways. Distance yourself from those assholes, let them squabble over their scraps of shat-out and recycled ‘creativity’. Make art for yourself, because trust me, if you make art tailored for the critics you’re their bitch, not your own. So yank The Critic’s cock out of your mouths. Start sucking your own cock for once.”</p> <p>Ruiz picked up a Rubik’s cube and started fiddling with it.</p> <p>“Number Two. Fuck The Man. That’s what we used to be about, before ‘hahaha lol so random XD’ happened. Here’s a fucking tip, and just the tip, just to see how it feels fucking your brains out: if Nobody understands your art, it’s fucking worthless.”</p> <p>Ruiz placed the scrap of paper back on the moon.</p> <p>“Number Three. Fuck you. You’re what ran us out of town like a bad joke, you smashed us into the ground, and you sit around smoking your weed or whatever and wonder why Nobody ‘like, understands us, man’. That’s because you’re not making a point. We’re all so utterly, profoundly derivative. Rehash after rehash. How long until one of us actually does something original for once?”</p> <p>Ruiz transmigrated ungulaterally betwixt chaotic inorganic multitudes of.</p> <p>“I’m calling for a renaissance. I’m calling for change. I’m calling for everyone to stop acting like they’re cool just for rearranging the rules of reality. I’m calling for you to stop flooding us with your stupid, stupid bullshit. I’m calling for a pizza delivered in ten minutes or your money back. I’m calling for you to actually sit down and look at everything you’ve done, and ask if you’re actually proud of it. I’m calling for you to realise that you aren’t. I’m calling for you to all stop with the stuff we’ve been doing before. I’m calling for you to make us cool again.”</p> <p>Ruiz hung up the phone made of cockroach innards.</p> <p>“Stop making things because you can, stop making things because you want to make things like everyone else, stop making things because you already saw the same thing and wanted to do it again, stop making things that aren’t yours, stop making things that aren’t cool. Because this shit isn’t cool, it’s infantile, it’s fucking stupid. You want to know why we aren’t cool yet? It’s because ‘we’ includes all of us, and sadly, you are one of us. And you just aren’t cool.”</p> <p>Ruiz smiled into the Betamax recorder.</p> <p>“Yet.”</p> <hr/> <p>The Clipper and The Sculptor sat and watched the video.</p> <p>“How did he build that stuff? Is he… how is he on the moon? What the hell ARE those things?”</p> <p>“I don’t like it.”</p> <p>“Well of course you don’t like it, you’re mad you didn’t sculpt this stuff first.”</p> <p>“No, I mean, I don’t like what he’s trying to do. It seems aimless. He’s trying to break us apart.”</p> <p>“Back in the day there was no ‘us’. We just did whatever we wanted.”</p> <p>“It’s better now. We’re working towards a goal. We’re making Art Reality.”</p> <p>“Yeah, but… I dunno. My heart’s not really in it any more. I’m ‘The Clipper’, all I do is cut up magazines, or recontextualise old stuff. I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t get to make the things I want to. I don’t get to create, just modify. And it’s because of these fucking names.”</p> <p>“You’re the one who wanted it.”</p> <p>“Yeah, but not for the rest of my life! Duchamp’s got a point, we’re all just ‘The Whatever’, and I’m sick of it! I want to put my real name on my damn work!”</p> <p>“Ha, ‘Duchamp’. He doesn’t deserve that pseudonym.”</p> <p>“Doesn’t he?”</p> <p>The Clipper stood up and walked to the kitchen.</p> <p>“You want something? I’m ordering pizza.”</p> <p>“Yeah, get me a vegetarian. Anyway, he’s just… ugh. Actually, get me a meat lovers. I need some meat right now.”</p> <p>“Sure, no problem.”</p> <p>“Anyway, he’s just… not cool. I mean, Betamax? What’s even the point of that, beyond it just being obscure? You’re the only person I know who actually has a player for these things. We’re probably the only ones even looking at this.”</p> <p>The Clipper finished ordering, and sat down with The Sculptor again.</p> <p>“I know The Critic has like ten of them, I got mine from him. He’s gonna be pissed.”</p> <p>“Oh yeah, he’ll be pissed alright. He’s gonna be calling for Duchamp’s head on a platter.”</p> <p>“Why, though?”</p> <p>“He’s criticising us, and he’s criticising The Critic’s critique.”</p> <p>“Well, everyone’s a critic. What makes you think people are going to pay him any attention?”</p> <p>“He’s showy. He’s countering our countercultural revolution, he’s stealing it, he’s misappropriating the source and taking our name for a joyride through the mud. He’s making me really, really mad. I don’t even think the video was an exploit. He’s laughing at us. It’s a normal video of impossible things, he’s calling bullshit on using exploits at all.”</p> <p>“I don’t get to use exploits, man. All I do is clip things, remember?”</p> <p>“Yeah, yeah. That was your decision.”</p> <p>“Was is the operative word, here. I think I’m done with it.”</p> <p>“Fuck.”</p> <p>The Sculptor leapt to the player, fervently removing the tape, putting it to the light, trying to sense the feel of the non-existent on its bevelled edge.</p> <p>“He’s got you, man, this thing’s an exploit after all, it’s –"</p> <p>“It’s not. I… I’m just sick of it. I’ve been sick of it for a while. I’ve not been doing anything of my own, and the only reason I’ve been sticking around is because of you guys. But… don’t take this the wrong way, man, but… I want to make other stuff. Don’t you remember your first piece? That weird rebar thing, what did you call it?”</p> <p>“<em>Uścisk</em>. I remember.”</p> <p>“People loved that shit. Should have put your name on it. What was the last thing you did? All people remember me for is mailing out some newspaper clippings. We’re stagnating.”</p> <p>Ruiz opened the door.</p> <p>“That you are. One Hawaiian, one meat lovers, is that right, gentlemen? Please, tip generously.”</p> <p>The Sculptor and The Clipper stared at Ruiz Duchamp, sporting a tattered delivery man uniform, who continued offering them the pair of boxes. The Clipper broke the silence.</p> <p>"…fuck it, whatever. Here's twenty bucks. Keep the change."</p> <p>"Thanks. Enjoy your pizza!"</p> <p>The Sculptor switched his gaze to The Clipper as Duchamp walked back out the door.</p> <p>"What the fuck is wrong with you?"</p> <p>"Dude, I'm hungry, and he had our pizza. He's not an asshole, it's not going to be poisoned or anything. If he was going to kill us, the video would have done it. We're putty in his hands, and he knows it. He's the one in control here. You're going to hate me for saying this, but… he's cooler than us."</p> <p>"You… whatever. Just give me my damn meat."</p> <p>"Here."</p> <p>"…this is vegetarian."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/it-just-shattered">It Just Shattered</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/snip-snip-snip">Snip Snip Snip</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-cooler-manifesto">A Cooler Manifesto</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-cooler-manifesto">https://scpwiki.com/a-cooler-manifesto</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]] [[/>]] “Fuck The Critic.” Ruiz paced in a monochrome hallway, holding a banged-up Betamax recorder in his hand. “This asshole comes into my house, starts critiquing the fucking wallpaper, no sir, no sir, the carpet does not match the drapes sir, get the fuck out of my house, SIR. Ladies and gentlemen and, I dunno, hyperintelligent animals, or aliens or whatever the fuck you are, we’ve made a mistake. This man is a fucking maniac, and I don’t mean that in the good way.” Ruiz started walking up his Penrose staircase. “We have somehow become an institution in and of ourselves, and this is a huge, HUGE fucking mistake. Every time one of you fucking morons makes a memetic graffiti tag, the man comes crashing down on those of us who are actually trying to say something. The stupidest among you have started making childish mistakes. The Man knows our name now. We’re old hat, we’re blasé, we’re fucking bland. People look at our stuff and they sigh. Nobody gives a fuck about us because we’re doing shit that makes no sense.” Ruiz jumped into a pair of mirrors and entered freefall. “So I’m going to go ahead and do something a little… radical. Fuck randomness, fuck Dada, fuck all of it. It isn’t cool any more, that’s why nobody talks about us. We used to exist to shock, to challenge, to actually grab The Man by the fucking balls and shove them down his throat. Now we’re just hammering out the same old shit. The toyman has more creativity in his left toe than all of you put together, and it’s time to remedy that. I’m sending this to everyone. Here is our manifesto.” Ruiz landed into a giant ballpit. “Number One. Fuck the critics. More specifically, fuck The Critic. The Critic is Nobody. Anyone who’s got a ‘The’ at the beginning of their name is pretentious in all the wrong ways. Distance yourself from those assholes, let them squabble over their scraps of shat-out and recycled ‘creativity’. Make art for yourself, because trust me, if you make art tailored for the critics you’re their bitch, not your own. So yank The Critic’s cock out of your mouths. Start sucking your own cock for once.” Ruiz picked up a Rubik’s cube and started fiddling with it. “Number Two. Fuck The Man. That’s what we used to be about, before ‘hahaha lol so random XD’ happened. Here’s a fucking tip, and just the tip, just to see how it feels fucking your brains out: if Nobody understands your art, it’s fucking worthless.” Ruiz placed the scrap of paper back on the moon. “Number Three. Fuck you. You’re what ran us out of town like a bad joke, you smashed us into the ground, and you sit around smoking your weed or whatever and wonder why Nobody ‘like, understands us, man’. That’s because you’re not making a point. We’re all so utterly, profoundly derivative. Rehash after rehash. How long until one of us actually does something original for once?” Ruiz transmigrated ungulaterally betwixt chaotic inorganic multitudes of. “I’m calling for a renaissance. I’m calling for change. I’m calling for everyone to stop acting like they’re cool just for rearranging the rules of reality. I’m calling for you to stop flooding us with your stupid, stupid bullshit. I’m calling for a pizza delivered in ten minutes or your money back. I’m calling for you to actually sit down and look at everything you’ve done, and ask if you’re actually proud of it. I’m calling for you to realise that you aren’t. I’m calling for you to all stop with the stuff we’ve been doing before. I’m calling for you to make us cool again.” Ruiz hung up the phone made of cockroach innards. “Stop making things because you can, stop making things because you want to make things like everyone else, stop making things because you already saw the same thing and wanted to do it again, stop making things that aren’t yours, stop making things that aren’t cool. Because this shit isn’t cool, it’s infantile, it’s fucking stupid. You want to know why we aren’t cool yet? It’s because ‘we’ includes all of us, and sadly, you are one of us. And you just aren’t cool.” Ruiz smiled into the Betamax recorder. “Yet.” ---------------------------------------------- The Clipper and The Sculptor sat and watched the video. “How did he build that stuff? Is he… how is he on the moon? What the hell ARE those things?” “I don’t like it.” “Well of course you don’t like it, you’re mad you didn’t sculpt this stuff first.” “No, I mean, I don’t like what he’s trying to do. It seems aimless. He’s trying to break us apart.” “Back in the day there was no ‘us’. We just did whatever we wanted.” “It’s better now. We’re working towards a goal. We’re making Art Reality.” “Yeah, but… I dunno. My heart’s not really in it any more. I’m ‘The Clipper’, all I do is cut up magazines, or recontextualise old stuff. I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t get to make the things I want to. I don’t get to create, just modify. And it’s because of these fucking names.” “You’re the one who wanted it.” “Yeah, but not for the rest of my life! Duchamp’s got a point, we’re all just ‘The Whatever’, and I’m sick of it! I want to put my real name on my damn work!” “Ha, ‘Duchamp’. He doesn’t deserve that pseudonym.” “Doesn’t he?” The Clipper stood up and walked to the kitchen. “You want something? I’m ordering pizza.” “Yeah, get me a vegetarian. Anyway, he’s just… ugh. Actually, get me a meat lovers. I need some meat right now.” “Sure, no problem.” “Anyway, he’s just… not cool. I mean, Betamax? What’s even the point of that, beyond it just being obscure? You’re the only person I know who actually has a player for these things. We’re probably the only ones even looking at this.” The Clipper finished ordering, and sat down with The Sculptor again. “I know The Critic has like ten of them, I got mine from him. He’s gonna be pissed.” “Oh yeah, he’ll be pissed alright. He’s gonna be calling for Duchamp’s head on a platter.” “Why, though?” “He’s criticising us, and he’s criticising The Critic’s critique.” “Well, everyone’s a critic. What makes you think people are going to pay him any attention?” “He’s showy. He’s countering our countercultural revolution, he’s stealing it, he’s misappropriating the source and taking our name for a joyride through the mud. He’s making me really, really mad. I don’t even think the video was an exploit. He’s laughing at us. It’s a normal video of impossible things, he’s calling bullshit on using exploits at all.” “I don’t get to use exploits, man. All I do is clip things, remember?” “Yeah, yeah. That was your decision.” “Was is the operative word, here. I think I’m done with it.” “Fuck.” The Sculptor leapt to the player, fervently removing the tape, putting it to the light, trying to sense the feel of the non-existent on its bevelled edge. “He’s got you, man, this thing’s an exploit after all, it’s –" “It’s not. I… I’m just sick of it. I’ve been sick of it for a while. I’ve not been doing anything of my own, and the only reason I’ve been sticking around is because of you guys. But… don’t take this the wrong way, man, but… I want to make other stuff. Don’t you remember your first piece? That weird rebar thing, what did you call it?” “//Uścisk//. I remember.” “People loved that shit. Should have put your name on it. What was the last thing you did? All people remember me for is mailing out some newspaper clippings. We’re stagnating.” Ruiz opened the door. “That you are. One Hawaiian, one meat lovers, is that right, gentlemen? Please, tip generously.” The Sculptor and The Clipper stared at Ruiz Duchamp, sporting a tattered delivery man uniform, who continued offering them the pair of boxes. The Clipper broke the silence. "...fuck it, whatever. Here's twenty bucks. Keep the change." "Thanks. Enjoy your pizza!" The Sculptor switched his gaze to The Clipper as Duchamp walked back out the door. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" "Dude, I'm hungry, and he had our pizza. He's not an asshole, it's not going to be poisoned or anything. If he was going to kill us, the video would have done it. We're putty in his hands, and he knows it. He's the one in control here. You're going to hate me for saying this, but... he's cooler than us." "You... whatever. Just give me my damn meat." "Here." "...this is vegetarian." [[=]] << [[[It Just Shattered]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Snip Snip Snip]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-15T04:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "are-we-cool-yet", "comedy", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale", "the-critic", "the-sculpture" ]	A Cooler Manifesto - SCP Foundation	346	[ "it-just-shattered", "the-cool-war-hub", "snip-snip-snip", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "simply-creative-people-hub", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20638707	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-cooler-manifesto
a-fan-s-fans	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"What is it?"</p> <p>"It's a mechanical fan that has the ability to play the electric guitar, sir."</p> <p>"Ha ha, does it blow you away when it plays?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir."</p> <p>"Mentally or physically?"</p> <p>"Both sir, its musical talent with an electric guitar is unparalleled. However, it also produces a wind velocity of 90kph when playing."</p> <p>"I was joking, but that's actually pretty funny. Anything else I need to know?"</p> <p>"The fan has fans, sir."</p> <p>"People fans or mechanical fans?"</p> <p>"Both, sir. It has a large following of people who appreciate its music, but it also has a collection of mechanical fans."</p> <p>"Okay, give them a Class-B amnestic and call it a day."</p> <p>"The people fans or the mechanical fans, sir?"</p> <p>"Give the people fans the amnestic and contain the mechanical fans. You think you'll have trouble doing it?"</p> <p>"It should be a breeze, sir."</p> <p>"A breeze created by the fan that prevents you from carrying out the order?"</p> <p>"No I meant it should be an easy job, sir."</p> <p>"Good, glad that's sorted out. Now to deal with the running refrigerator in Sector-118."</p> <p>"Sir, do you mean the refrigerator is physically sprinting or do you mean it is a workin-"</p> <p>"—Don't even start."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-fan-s-fans">A Fan's Fans</a>" by UglyFlower, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-fan-s-fans">https://scpwiki.com/a-fan-s-fans</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 is it?" "It's a mechanical fan that has the ability to play the electric guitar, sir." "Ha ha, does it blow you away when it plays?" "Yes, sir." "Mentally or physically?" "Both sir, its musical talent with an electric guitar is unparalleled. However, it also produces a wind velocity of 90kph when playing." "I was joking, but that's actually pretty funny. Anything else I need to know?" "The fan has fans, sir." "People fans or mechanical fans?" "Both, sir. It has a large following of people who appreciate its music, but it also has a collection of mechanical fans." "Okay, give them a Class-B amnestic and call it a day." "The people fans or the mechanical fans, sir?" "Give the people fans the amnestic and contain the mechanical fans. You think you'll have trouble doing it?" "It should be a breeze, sir." "A breeze created by the fan that prevents you from carrying out the order?" "No I meant it should be an easy job, sir." "Good, glad that's sorted out. Now to deal with the running refrigerator in Sector-118." "Sir, do you mean the refrigerator is physically sprinting or do you mean it is a workin-" "--Don't even start." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-02T03:29:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	A Fan's Fans - SCP Foundation	58	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20826529	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-fan-s-fans
a-keter-kinda-christmas	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>Fade in on a well-appointed living room in a log cabin, with bookshelves, easy chairs, coffee tables, and a green screen in back showing a blazing fireplace and a window through which a snowy winter's night can be seen. Dr. Bright, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater over his shirt and tie, with <a href="/scp-963">SCP-963</a> dangling on a chain over it, is puttering about hanging decorations and arranging hors d'ouevres on a large table, when he stops and looks at the camera.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Oh! I didn't hear you come in. Welcome to Casa de Bright. I was just getting ready to host one real hum-dinger of a holiday celebration! There's going to be stories, songs, comedy - and who knows who'll show up! Stick around, won't you?</p> <p><em>An instrumental version of "Jingle Bells" plays as the title card flashes on the screen:</em> <strong>A KETER KINDA CHRISTMAS, starring Jack Bright and the SCP Players</strong></p> <p><strong>Narrator (<a href="/scp-1965">SCP-1965</a>):</strong> A Keter Kinda Christmas is brought to you by the Shark Punching Center;</p> <p><em>♫ When you need a shark punched right away ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Call 555-6412 today! ♫</em></p> <p>…And by Dr. Wondertainment's Spider Party; just add water for eighty thousand legs worth of arachnoFUNbia! (Parental supervision required. Your definition of arachnofunbia may differ from that used by Dr. Wondertainment. Avoid use of this product if you are sensitive to spider venom. Not for use in households with pets or which are situated on reclaimed toxic waste dumps and/or Indian burial grounds. Dr. Wondertainment is not responsible for any cases of spideritis, spiderosis, or spidermania caused by use of this product. Not to be used for gambling purposes without the express written consent of Dr. Wondertainment.)</p> <p>…And by a special grant from the Manna Charitable Foundation.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on a group of animals belonging to <a href="/scp-1845">SCP-1845</a>: a fox (King Eugenio), a raccoon, a crow, a baby pig, and a chicken, with several others - which have been dressed in Nativity scene costumes and are standing in front of a manger. Voiceovers are provided as the camera close-ups on them.</em></p> <p><strong>Chicken:</strong> Where is he that is born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to… come to… line?</p> <p><strong>King Eugenio:</strong> For the last time, to <em>adore him</em>, you foolish peasant!</p> <p><strong>Chicken:</strong> Sorry, my lord. It's hard to memorize lines when you can't hold a script, you know!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> We have no time for your petty excuses! Dr. Bright expects us to put on a Nativity story for his Christmas party, and we shall not be made fools of by your bumbling!</p> <p><strong>Piglet:</strong> Well, how come you get to be the baby Jesus? You're not even the right age!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Because the Lord has appointed us king of this realm, and as His elect it is only fitting that we sit in the place of honor and…</p> <p><strong>Piglet:</strong> You just don't wanna have to remember any lines!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> You impudent knave! We ought to cut you down where you stand!</p> <p><strong>Crow:</strong> Please, your majesty, spare the lad. He's just a child - and it <em>is</em> Christmas, after all!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Very well. Keep rehearsing! We expect nothing less than perfection when our scene comes! We shall be napping in the next room.</p> <p><em>The camera follows Eugenio as he trots out into a darkened chamber and settles down on a pet bed. Just as he is preparing to close his eyes, the door shakes and a red and white "YIELD" sign (<a href="/scp-329-j">SCP-329-J</a>) floats in.</em></p> <p><strong>Sign:</strong> Ooooooooooooooooooooh! Awaken, Eugenio!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> What the… what is this madness? Identify yourself, you varlet!</p> <p><strong>Sign:</strong> Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii am the ghoooooooooooooost sign of Christmas Past! And tonight, my brothers and I have come to show you the errrrrrrrrror of your wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyys! Oooooooooooooooooooooooooh!</p> <p><em>The title card flashes: TO BE CONTINUED.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on Dr. Bright in the parlor, singing to himself.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> <em>♫ God rest ye merry Foundation, let nothing ye dismay ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Remember that O5-13 was born on Christmas Day ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ To save us all from Keter duty when we were lead astray ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ O tidings of Euclid and Safe, Euclid and Safe ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ O tiiiiiiiiiiiiiidings of Euclid and… ♫</em></p> <p><em>The doorbell rings. Dr. Bright looks at the camera.</em></p> <p>Why, that must be my first guest!</p> <p><em>Dr. Bright opens the door to reveal three people standing there; Dr. Gears, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater under his lab coat, a mustashioed man wearing a sailor's cap and a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater under his Navy blue blazer, and a blonde woman wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas evening gown.</em></p> <p>Why, it's my good friend, Dr. Gears!</p> <p><em>Applause. Gears does not smile or acknowledge it in any way.</em></p> <p>And his special celebrity guests for the evening, '70s pop sensations the Captain and Tennille!</p> <p><em>Applause. Captain and Tennille wave to the camera as the three step in.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Gears:</strong> It was most generous of you to invite us to your holiday function. I hope my choice of guests has not caused any inconvenience.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> None at all, old friend! How are you hip young cats doing tonight?</p> <p><strong>Captain:</strong> We're doing great, thanks. You know, it's a real honor to finally be invited on your show tonight.</p> <p><strong>Tennille:</strong> I've never been as excited as I am to be on A Keter Kinda Christmas for the very first time!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Actually, this is the third straight year you've been on the show!</p> <p><em>Dr. Bright holds up a bottle labeled "Class-A Amnestics" and winks at the audience. Laughter.</em></p> <p>Perhaps you'd like to play a little song for everyone at home?</p> <p><strong>Captain:</strong> Sure thing, doc. Here's a little something we wrote especially for the show.</p> <p><em>Captain walks up to a keyboard which was not previously on the set and begins playing as Bright hands Tennille a microphone and she begins to sing.</em></p> <p><strong>Tennille:</strong> <em>♫ Silent night, [REDACTED] night ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ All is calm, all is [DATA EXPUNGED] ♫</em><br/> <em>Rond yon Site-19, Staff and D-Class ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ [REDACTED]'s escaped again, let's kick its [EXPLETIVE DELETED] ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Sleep in amnesiac peace, sleep in amnesiac peace ♫</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on <a href="/scp-1192">SCP-1192</a> (Timmy) standing on its perch, staring wistfully at a photo sitting on a table, showing a man, a woman, and a young boy in hand-knitted wool Christmas sweaters standing in front of a roaring fireplace. <a href="/scp-1987-j">SCP-1987-J</a>-1 (Count Rockula) enters, wearing a hand-knitted, wool fringe-sleeved open-chested Christmas sweater, leather tights, biker boots, and a Fender Stratocaster slung over his shoulder.</em></p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> What's the matter, Timmy?</p> <p><strong>Timmy:</strong> It's almost Christmas and I'm not gonna get to see my family.</p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> You know, Timmy, sometimes I feel the same way this time of year.</p> <p><strong>Timmy:</strong> But you're the Lord of Ultimate Rockness! I'm just a dumb bird.</p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> Believe it or not, young man, I wasn't <em>always</em> this rockin'. I don't know how many Christmases I spent out on the road all by myself. I wrote a little song about it to help myself feel better. Would you like to hear it?</p> <p><strong>Timmy:</strong> Ok.</p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> Alright!</p> <p><em>Count Rockula walks up to a mic stand and strums a power chord on his guitar.</em></p> <p>Are you ready to rock?</p> <p><em>Cheering.</em></p> <p><strong>I CAN'T HEAR YOU!</strong></p> <p><em>Louder cheering. Count Rockula begins wailing on his guitar.</em></p> <p><em>♫ I will rock your Christmas ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ You can jam with me ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Please have blow, and camel toe ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ And groupies under the tree ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Christmas Eve will find me ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Where the red light gleams ♫</em><br/> <em>(Yeah, all the ladies know what I'm talkin' 'bout)</em><br/> <em>♫ I will rock your Christmas ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ If only in your dreams! ♫</em></p> <p><em>Count Rockula windmills his guitar and then smashes it over the table, knocking over the portrait of Timmy's family.</em></p> <p>So, do you understand now?</p> <p><strong>Timmy:</strong> What's a camel toe?</p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> It's a… well, it's… say, how old is 18 in bird years?</p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade back in on the party.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> …but it turned out he'd been dead the entire time!</p> <p><em>Captain and Tennille laugh. Tennille sips her eggnog.</em></p> <p><strong>Tennille:</strong> Great story, Jack!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Gears:</strong> Indeed. Quite an amusing anecdote, doctor.</p> <p><em>Dr. Bright looks to the camera.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> As you folks can see, this is already shaping up to be one happening party! It's a good thing I didn't invite You-Know-Who this year!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Gears:</strong> Doctor?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Yes, Gears?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Gears:</strong> I was unfortunately not aware that the individual in question had been disinvited from this year's event. I informed him of the time and whereabouts of the festivities when he inquired to me regarding it.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Oh, dear. If he knows we're here, then that can only mean…</p> <p><em>The door swings open on its own and in steps Able, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater and a Santa hat.</em></p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Did somebody say <strong>par-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?</strong></p> <p><strong>Everyone:</strong> <em>Able!</em></p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Dr. Bright, buddy! What happened? I can't believe you didn't invite me!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Able, at last year's party you drank all the eggnog, hijacked Santa's sled, ran over my grandmother, and then wrapped it around a pear tree full of unlikely Christmas presents! Don't you remember?</p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Not exactly…</p> <p><em>Wipe to a flashback of the previous year's party. An obviously intoxicated Able is being handcuffed and read his rights by a group of policemen in the background, while Bright and his guests are arranged in a semicircle on the floor around celebrity guest Willie Nelson. The partiers are clapping in rhythm as he plays guitar and sings.</em></p> <p><strong>Willie Nelson</strong>: <em>♫ Grandma got run over by a Keter♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Walkin' 'round Site 19 on Christmas Eve ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Now you can say there's no such thing as an Able line ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ But as for me and Cain, well, we believe! ♫</em></p> <p><em>Wipe back to the present.</em></p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Don't worry, Jack! I'm in a twelve-step program now. I promise, just one drink tonight!</p> <p><em>Able grabs the eggnog out of Tennille's hand and chugs it before tossing the cup over his shoulder, where it breaks on the floor.</em></p> <p>Maybe two.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> I swear, Able, if you ruin this party…</p> <p><em>He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a remote control. The lights on Able's collar start to blink.</em></p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Hey, hey, let's all calm down. How about I sing a little song?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Alright. Show us what you got!</p> <p><em>A string arrangement begins to play as Able sings in a falsetto.</em></p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> <em>♫ Away in a coffin, collar 'round his head ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ The little skip Able wishes you were dead ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ The fools who oppress him, they all soon shall pay ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ The little skip Able escapes on this day ♫</em></p> <p><em>Tennille grimaces uncomfortably.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on <a href="/scp-1156">SCP-1156</a> (Wellington G. Wonderhorse) and <a href="/scp-1867">SCP-1867</a> (Lord Blackwood) side by side. Wellington is wearing his top hat and a hand-knitted wool Christmas horse blanket, while Lord Blackwood is wearing a slug-sized hand-knitted wool Christmas cape around his neck.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood:</strong> On behalf of her majesty the Queen and all her subjects, I, Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, 8th Viscount of Westminister, do most fondly and sincerely wish you and yours a happy Christmas.</p> <p><strong>Wellington:</strong> And a very 'appy domestic from all the 'orses of ol' Blighty!</p> <p><em>Wellington turns to Lord Blackwood.</em></p> <p>So, milord, got any Steelys for yer own Bridgwater?</p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood:</strong> I… I beg your pardon, old sport?</p> <p><strong>Wellington:</strong> Christmas, milord! Stayin' Pope? Got a walnut planned? Somewhere the shakens are hot and the ice rinks are cold?</p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood:</strong> I should hope that an ice rink would be cold, my equine companion. How else would it function?</p> <p><strong>Wellington:</strong> That's not it atall, milord! I'm just askin' what a bungee like yerself gets up to when he's on a Salford and his trouble's not around to Gibraltar him when he's havin' a matinee with an Ives!</p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood:</strong> …Come again?</p> <p><strong>Wellington:</strong> Oh, I get it. Think ye're too high-and-mighty to speak th'cant, 'do ya? Well, 'least I ain't no bleedin' tea mug.</p> <p><em>Close up on Lord Blackwood as his sluggish visage shifts from confusion, to realization, to anger.</em></p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood:</strong> You are such a horse's ass.</p> <p><em>Laughter.</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on the party.</em></p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> So I said to him, 'that's not my arm!' And he said to me, 'and that's not the queen of Gomorrah!'</p> <p><em>Everyone laughs. The doorbell rings.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Sounds like another one of our guests has arrived! I wonder who it could be this time…?</p> <p><em>Bright opens the door to reveal Dr. Rights, wearing a trenchcoat that covers her entire body.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Why, if it isn't Dr. Rights!</p> <p><em>Applause.</em></p> <p>How are you doing? Come on in!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> I'm doing a lot better now that <em>you're</em> here, Jack.</p> <p><em>Cheering and raucous male hollering.</em></p> <p>You know, we <em>are</em> standing under the mistletoe…</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Rights, I didn't put up any mistletoe this year. The Ethics Committee is still reviewing the sexual harassment complaints from last year!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> Well, how's a girl supposed to have fun then?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Why don't you sing a song for all these lovely people?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> Are you sure?</p> <p><strong>Captain:</strong> Sure! Go for it!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> Well, alright…</p> <p><em>Rights throws off her trenchcoat to reveal a set of hand-knitted, wool Christmas lingerie underneath. Captain's jaw drops; Tennille slaps him and covers his eyes. Pounding bass drums and a lusty saxophone blare as she begins to sing.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> <em>♫ Santa baby ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Slip <a href="http://scp-wiki.net/scp-1525">a gold watch</a> under the tree, for me ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ I've been an awful good girl ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Santa baby, hurry up my chimney tonight ♫</em> (wink)</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Narrator:</strong> And now, a special message from our sponsor.</p> <p><em>Fade in on Sally Struthers in a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater against a black screen, standing in front of a table with a small mechanical contraption on it, as "Do They Know It's Christmas?" plays in the background.</em></p> <p><strong>Sally Struthers:</strong> I'm Sally Struthers. Every year, the Manna Charitable Foundation helps thousands of poor souls around the world on the path to a better life. It's easy to forget in these hectic days that there are so many people in the Third World who don't even know the most wonderful time of the year is upon us. That's why we're asking for your help today with this.</p> <p><em>Sally gestures at the box on the table.</em></p> <p>This is the Christmas Miracle Maker. Thanks to state-of-the-art terraforming technology, this durable and easy-to-use device, once activated, will induce rapid and aggressive climate change in order to transform its surrounding environs into a perfect snowy winter's day just in time for a white Christmas. The seed banks and genetic samples contained within it will ensure that majestic evergreens just right for decorating and reindeer perfect for pulling a one-horse open sleigh will supplant local flora and fauna, and it can even whip up a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings for those souls in need!</p> <p>Every one of your donations puts us one step closer to our goal of manufacturing and airdropping 15,000 of these units across Africa in time for Christmas Eve. So please call in your pledge or write a check today - and let them know it's Christmas time again.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on the party. Agent Strelnikov, who is wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater over his Russian Army uniform, has joined the party and is regaling the crowd with a story.</em></p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> And then <em>fourth</em> dirty Chechen bastard says to me, 'Please, kind and merciful and handsome Comrade Strelnikov, you would not be skinning alive a man who wears glasses?' And I said to him, 'Well, now that you give me idea…'"</p> <p><em>Everyone laughs except Bright.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Strelnikov!</p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> What? You no like story? Is good story! Won second place on open microphone night at Moscow Comedy Club.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> But it's not a Christmas story at all!</p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> It happened on Christmas!</p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Sounds like my kinda Christmas!</p> <p><strong>Tennille:</strong> Is that <em>really</em> what you do on Christmas?</p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> You think Chechens care when Christmas is? They sneak into base at night! Kill six of my men! Burn down Christmas tree it take Company Я all week to decorate! <em>That</em> is Chechen Christmas! Ptooey!</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Can't you at least tell a story with a happy ending?</p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> Fine. Do you know American capitalist rhyming-man Dr. Seuss?</p> <p><em>Everyone responds 'Sure!' 'Yeah!' 'Of course!'</em></p> <p>Good. This is Russian version of Dr. Seuss. Is called 'How the Chechen Stole Christmas!'</p> <p><strong>Everyone</strong>: <em>STRELNIKOV!</em></p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> What? Has happy ending! Russia get Christmas back, Father Christmas send Chechens to Hell, everyone joins hands and sings.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> How about a story that <em>isn't</em> about Chechens?</p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> Bah! All good stories have Chechens.</p> <p><strong>Captain:</strong> Well, how about a song?</p> <p><strong>Agent Strelnikov:</strong> Da! I will sing traditional Russian song of homecoming.</p> <p><em>A jazzy brass instrumental plays as Strelnikov rises to his feet and begins to sing.</em></p> <p><em>♫ Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, la la la ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ La la laaaaaaaaaaaa laaaaaaaaaaaa la la ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ La la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, la la la ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ La la laaaaaaaaaaaa, laaaaaaaaaaaa, la la ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Trololololololo, lololo, lololo, hmmhmmhmmhmmhmm… ♫</em></p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on a rainy night. King Eugenio is standing alone in a field.</em></p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Before we draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer us one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?</p> <p><em>A lightning bolt illuminates the darkness. <a href="/scp-173">SCP-173</a>, wearing a black robe with a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater pulled over it, is pointing at a grave marker.</em></p> <p>One's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show us!</p> <p><em>The lightning strikes again. 173 has not moved, and the camera closes in on the grave reveal the text on the grave: KING EUGENIO II.</em></p> <p>No, Spirit! Oh no, no!</p> <p><em>The lightning strikes again. 173's other hand reaches out towards Eugenio as if to pull him into the grave.</em></p> <p>Spirit! Hear me. We are the fox we were. We will not be the fox we must have been but for this intercourse. Why show us this, if we are past all hope?</p> <p><em>The lightning strikes again. 173's hand is open and outstretched.</em></p> <p>Good Spirit! Your nature intercedes for us, and pities us. We will honour Christmas in our heart, and try to keep it all the year. We will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within us. We will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me we may sponge away the writing on this stone!</p> <p><em>Eugenio reaches out to accept 173's hand. Jump cut to his pet bed as he awakes from his sleep. Frantically, he pokes his head around the corner of the set and shouts to a shocked stagehand as he carries several cups of coffee towards the green room.</em></p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> You, boy! How much longer is there in the show?</p> <p><strong>Stagehand:</strong> Why, about twelve minutes!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Then we still have time!</p> <p>—-</p> <p><em>Fade in on the party in full swing. Bright looks at the camera.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Well, folks, it's almost suppertime, and our guests of honor have agreed to cook! How's it going in there, you kids?</p> <p><em>Captain and Tennille emerge from a door leading to the kitchen, holding a silver lidded tray.</em></p> <p><strong>Captain:</strong> Well, you know how you said to put the goose through <a href="/scp-914">SCP-914</a> on Fine?</p> <p><strong>Tennille:</strong> We accidentally started it on Very Fine instead, so we figured we'd switch it to 1:1 and it'd balance out… and this happened.</p> <p><em>Tennille removes the lid to reveal a half-dozen live baby geese waddling around.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> This is a disaster! Now there'll be no feast! Oh, if only…</p> <p><em>The distant sound of sleigh bells becomes audible.</em></p> <p>…Could it be?</p> <p><strong>Dr. Gears:</strong> It appears improbable.</p> <p><em>The door swings open and Dr. Clef enters, wearing a Santa suit topped with a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater, and carrying a tureen of clam chowder.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Clef:</strong> But it is! Ho ho ho!</p> <p><strong>Everyone else:</strong> SANTA CLEF!</p> <p><em>Clef sets the tureen down on the table.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Clef:</strong> Sorry the big man couldn't make it. He said something about the insurance premiums on his sleigh being high enough after last year. But he sent me along to deliver the greatest Christmas gift of all: <strong>chowder!</strong></p> <p><em>Clef begins ladling soup out to the party guests.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Well, isn't this a Christmas miracle! If only we had a roast to go with it, though…</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Wait for us!</p> <p><em>Eugenio comes running in from offscreen, accompanied by Wellington (with SCP-173 on his back), the Ghost Sign of Christmas Past, Lord Blackwood, Count Rockula, and Sally Struthers.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> King Eugenio! I thought you'd miss the whole party!</p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Forgive our tardiness. We were delayed making some last minute adjustments to the Nativity scene. Count Rockula, if you would do the honors?</p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> Of course, your majesty!</p> <p><em>The green screen is pulled away like a curtain to reveal the manger scene - with the baby pig as Jesus, the chicken, the crow, and a pigeon as the Wise Men, a lamb and a tiger as Mary and Joseph, and Timmy fluttering overhead as the angel. Count Rockula begins playing his guitar and singing.</em></p> <p><strong>Count Rockula:</strong> <em>♫ O come all ye rockin' ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Awesome and bodacious ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ O come ye, o come ye ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ And dig this rad scene ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Come check this shit out ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ It's totally bitchin' ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ O come and let us dig him ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ O come and let us dig him ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ O come and let us dig him ♫</em><br/> <em>♫ Christ the Dude! ♫</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Now that's the true meaning of Christmas, isn't it?</p> <p><em>Everyone mutters inconclusively. "Sure." "I guess." "Why not?" "Actually…"</em></p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> One more thing. We realized tonight… almost too soon… that we had been inconsiderate to our fellow beasts this year. We wish to make amends. Lord Blackwood, if you would?</p> <p><strong>Lord Blackwood:</strong> It would be my honour, your highness!</p> <p><em>Lord Blackwood nudges <a href="/scp-662">SCP-662</a> towards Eugenio. Eugenio picks it up between his teeth and shakes it. Mr. Deeds enters, carrying a lidded silver tray.</em></p> <p><strong>Mr. Deeds:</strong> As you requested, your majesty, a piping hot Christmas goose, with all the trimmings.</p> <p><em>Mr. Deeds sets the tray on the table and lifts the lid to reveal the roasted bird.</em></p> <p><strong>Eugenio:</strong> Now eat! Drink! Be merry! Enjoy the spirit of this wondrous day!</p> <p><em>Dr. Rights leans over and whispers to Mr. Deeds. He nods and produces a piece of mistletoe from his pocket. She takes it and holds it over Able's head.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> So, Able, how about I cook <em>your</em> Christmas goose?</p> <p><strong>Able:</strong> Lead me to the beast, woman, and I shall wring its neck myself.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Rights:</strong> I don't think you'll have to worry about wringing your own beast's neck tonight.</p> <p><em>Extreme close-up on Able with a comic "SPROING!" sound effect.</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Bright:</strong> Well, folks, that's about all the time we have. On behalf of everyone here at the SCP Foundation, I'd like to wish you and yours at home…</p> <p><em>Everyone raises their glasses and faces the camera.</em></p> <p><strong>Everyone:</strong> MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!</p> <p><strong>Timmy:</strong> And <a href="/scp-343">343</a> bless us, every one!</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-keter-kinda-christmas">A Keter Kinda Christmas</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-keter-kinda-christmas">https://scpwiki.com/a-keter-kinda-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]] [[/>]] //Fade in on a well-appointed living room in a log cabin, with bookshelves, easy chairs, coffee tables, and a green screen in back showing a blazing fireplace and a window through which a snowy winter's night can be seen. Dr. Bright, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater over his shirt and tie, with [[[SCP-963]]] dangling on a chain over it, is puttering about hanging decorations and arranging hors d'ouevres on a large table, when he stops and looks at the camera.// Dr. Bright: Oh! I didn't hear you come in. Welcome to Casa de Bright. I was just getting ready to host one real hum-dinger of a holiday celebration! There's going to be stories, songs, comedy - and who knows who'll show up! Stick around, won't you? //An instrumental version of "Jingle Bells" plays as the title card flashes on the screen:// A KETER KINDA CHRISTMAS, starring Jack Bright and the SCP Players Narrator ([[[SCP-1965]]]): A Keter Kinda Christmas is brought to you by the Shark Punching Center; //♫ When you need a shark punched right away ♫// //♫ Call 555-6412 today! ♫// ...And by Dr. Wondertainment's Spider Party; just add water for eighty thousand legs worth of arachnoFUNbia! (Parental supervision required. Your definition of arachnofunbia may differ from that used by Dr. Wondertainment. Avoid use of this product if you are sensitive to spider venom. Not for use in households with pets or which are situated on reclaimed toxic waste dumps and/or Indian burial grounds. Dr. Wondertainment is not responsible for any cases of spideritis, spiderosis, or spidermania caused by use of this product. Not to be used for gambling purposes without the express written consent of Dr. Wondertainment.) ...And by a special grant from the Manna Charitable Foundation. --- //Fade in on a group of animals belonging to [[[SCP-1845]]]: a fox (King Eugenio), a raccoon, a crow, a baby pig, and a chicken, with several others - which have been dressed in Nativity scene costumes and are standing in front of a manger. Voiceovers are provided as the camera close-ups on them.// Chicken: Where is he that is born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to... come to... line? King Eugenio: For the last time, to //adore him//, you foolish peasant! Chicken: Sorry, my lord. It's hard to memorize lines when you can't hold a script, you know! Eugenio: We have no time for your petty excuses! Dr. Bright expects us to put on a Nativity story for his Christmas party, and we shall not be made fools of by your bumbling! Piglet: Well, how come you get to be the baby Jesus? You're not even the right age! Eugenio: Because the Lord has appointed us king of this realm, and as His elect it is only fitting that we sit in the place of honor and... Piglet: You just don't wanna have to remember any lines! Eugenio: You impudent knave! We ought to cut you down where you stand! Crow: Please, your majesty, spare the lad. He's just a child - and it //is// Christmas, after all! Eugenio: Very well. Keep rehearsing! We expect nothing less than perfection when our scene comes! We shall be napping in the next room. //The camera follows Eugenio as he trots out into a darkened chamber and settles down on a pet bed. Just as he is preparing to close his eyes, the door shakes and a red and white "YIELD" sign ([[[SCP-329-J]]]) floats in.// Sign: Ooooooooooooooooooooh! Awaken, Eugenio! Eugenio: What the... what is this madness? Identify yourself, you varlet! Sign: Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii am the ghoooooooooooooost sign of Christmas Past! And tonight, my brothers and I have come to show you the errrrrrrrrror of your wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyys! Oooooooooooooooooooooooooh! //The title card flashes: TO BE CONTINUED.// --- //Fade in on Dr. Bright in the parlor, singing to himself.// Dr. Bright: //♫ God rest ye merry Foundation, let nothing ye dismay ♫// //♫ Remember that O5-13 was born on Christmas Day ♫// //♫ To save us all from Keter duty when we were lead astray ♫// //♫ O tidings of Euclid and Safe, Euclid and Safe ♫// //♫ O tiiiiiiiiiiiiiidings of Euclid and... ♫// //The doorbell rings. Dr. Bright looks at the camera.// Why, that must be my first guest! //Dr. Bright opens the door to reveal three people standing there; Dr. Gears, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater under his lab coat, a mustashioed man wearing a sailor's cap and a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater under his Navy blue blazer, and a blonde woman wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas evening gown.// Why, it's my good friend, Dr. Gears! //Applause. Gears does not smile or acknowledge it in any way.// And his special celebrity guests for the evening, '70s pop sensations the Captain and Tennille! //Applause. Captain and Tennille wave to the camera as the three step in.// Dr. Gears: It was most generous of you to invite us to your holiday function. I hope my choice of guests has not caused any inconvenience. Dr. Bright: None at all, old friend! How are you hip young cats doing tonight? Captain: We're doing great, thanks. You know, it's a real honor to finally be invited on your show tonight. Tennille: I've never been as excited as I am to be on A Keter Kinda Christmas for the very first time! Dr. Bright: Actually, this is the third straight year you've been on the show! //Dr. Bright holds up a bottle labeled "Class-A Amnestics" and winks at the audience. Laughter.// Perhaps you'd like to play a little song for everyone at home? Captain: Sure thing, doc. Here's a little something we wrote especially for the show. //Captain walks up to a keyboard which was not previously on the set and begins playing as Bright hands Tennille a microphone and she begins to sing.// Tennille: //♫ Silent night, [REDACTED] night ♫// //♫ All is calm, all is [DATA EXPUNGED] ♫// //Rond yon Site-19, Staff and D-Class ♫// //♫ [REDACTED]'s escaped again, let's kick its [EXPLETIVE DELETED] ♫// //♫ Sleep in amnesiac peace, sleep in amnesiac peace ♫// --- //Fade in on [[[SCP-1192]]] (Timmy) standing on its perch, staring wistfully at a photo sitting on a table, showing a man, a woman, and a young boy in hand-knitted wool Christmas sweaters standing in front of a roaring fireplace. [[[SCP-1987-J]]]-1 (Count Rockula) enters, wearing a hand-knitted, wool fringe-sleeved open-chested Christmas sweater, leather tights, biker boots, and a Fender Stratocaster slung over his shoulder.// Count Rockula: What's the matter, Timmy? Timmy: It's almost Christmas and I'm not gonna get to see my family. Count Rockula: You know, Timmy, sometimes I feel the same way this time of year. Timmy: But you're the Lord of Ultimate Rockness! I'm just a dumb bird. Count Rockula: Believe it or not, young man, I wasn't //always// this rockin'. I don't know how many Christmases I spent out on the road all by myself. I wrote a little song about it to help myself feel better. Would you like to hear it? Timmy: Ok. Count Rockula: Alright! //Count Rockula walks up to a mic stand and strums a power chord on his guitar.// Are you ready to rock? //Cheering.// I CAN'T HEAR YOU! //Louder cheering. Count Rockula begins wailing on his guitar.// //♫ I will rock your Christmas ♫// //♫ You can jam with me ♫// //♫ Please have blow, and camel toe ♫// //♫ And groupies under the tree ♫// //♫ Christmas Eve will find me ♫// //♫ Where the red light gleams ♫// //(Yeah, all the ladies know what I'm talkin' 'bout)// //♫ I will rock your Christmas ♫// //♫ If only in your dreams! ♫// //Count Rockula windmills his guitar and then smashes it over the table, knocking over the portrait of Timmy's family.// So, do you understand now? Timmy: What's a camel toe? Count Rockula: It's a... well, it's... say, how old is 18 in bird years? --- //Fade back in on the party.// Dr. Bright: ...but it turned out he'd been dead the entire time! //Captain and Tennille laugh. Tennille sips her eggnog.// Tennille: Great story, Jack! Dr. Gears: Indeed. Quite an amusing anecdote, doctor. //Dr. Bright looks to the camera.// Dr. Bright: As you folks can see, this is already shaping up to be one happening party! It's a good thing I didn't invite You-Know-Who this year! Dr. Gears: Doctor? Dr. Bright: Yes, Gears? Dr. Gears: I was unfortunately not aware that the individual in question had been disinvited from this year's event. I informed him of the time and whereabouts of the festivities when he inquired to me regarding it. Dr. Bright: Oh, dear. If he knows we're here, then that can only mean... //The door swings open on its own and in steps Able, wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater and a Santa hat.// Able: Did somebody say par-taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay? Everyone: //Able!// Able: Dr. Bright, buddy! What happened? I can't believe you didn't invite me! Dr. Bright: Able, at last year's party you drank all the eggnog, hijacked Santa's sled, ran over my grandmother, and then wrapped it around a pear tree full of unlikely Christmas presents! Don't you remember? Able: Not exactly... //Wipe to a flashback of the previous year's party. An obviously intoxicated Able is being handcuffed and read his rights by a group of policemen in the background, while Bright and his guests are arranged in a semicircle on the floor around celebrity guest Willie Nelson. The partiers are clapping in rhythm as he plays guitar and sings.// Willie Nelson: //♫ Grandma got run over by a Keter♫// //♫ Walkin' 'round Site 19 on Christmas Eve ♫// //♫ Now you can say there's no such thing as an Able line ♫// //♫ But as for me and Cain, well, we believe! ♫// //Wipe back to the present.// Able: Don't worry, Jack! I'm in a twelve-step program now. I promise, just one drink tonight! //Able grabs the eggnog out of Tennille's hand and chugs it before tossing the cup over his shoulder, where it breaks on the floor.// Maybe two. Dr. Bright: I swear, Able, if you ruin this party... //He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a remote control. The lights on Able's collar start to blink.// Able: Hey, hey, let's all calm down. How about I sing a little song? Dr. Bright: Alright. Show us what you got! //A string arrangement begins to play as Able sings in a falsetto.// Able: //♫ Away in a coffin, collar 'round his head ♫// //♫ The little skip Able wishes you were dead ♫// //♫ The fools who oppress him, they all soon shall pay ♫// //♫ The little skip Able escapes on this day ♫// //Tennille grimaces uncomfortably.// --- //Fade in on [[[SCP-1156]]] (Wellington G. Wonderhorse) and [[[SCP-1867]]] (Lord Blackwood) side by side. Wellington is wearing his top hat and a hand-knitted wool Christmas horse blanket, while Lord Blackwood is wearing a slug-sized hand-knitted wool Christmas cape around his neck.// Lord Blackwood: On behalf of her majesty the Queen and all her subjects, I, Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, 8th Viscount of Westminister, do most fondly and sincerely wish you and yours a happy Christmas. Wellington: And a very 'appy domestic from all the 'orses of ol' Blighty! //Wellington turns to Lord Blackwood.// So, milord, got any Steelys for yer own Bridgwater? Lord Blackwood: I... I beg your pardon, old sport? Wellington: Christmas, milord! Stayin' Pope? Got a walnut planned? Somewhere the shakens are hot and the ice rinks are cold? Lord Blackwood: I should hope that an ice rink would be cold, my equine companion. How else would it function? Wellington: That's not it atall, milord! I'm just askin' what a bungee like yerself gets up to when he's on a Salford and his trouble's not around to Gibraltar him when he's havin' a matinee with an Ives! Lord Blackwood: ...Come again? Wellington: Oh, I get it. Think ye're too high-and-mighty to speak th'cant, 'do ya? Well, 'least I ain't no bleedin' tea mug. //Close up on Lord Blackwood as his sluggish visage shifts from confusion, to realization, to anger.// Lord Blackwood: You are such a horse's ass. //Laughter.// --- //Fade in on the party.// Able: So I said to him, 'that's not my arm!' And he said to me, 'and that's not the queen of Gomorrah!' //Everyone laughs. The doorbell rings.// Dr. Bright: Sounds like another one of our guests has arrived! I wonder who it could be this time...? //Bright opens the door to reveal Dr. Rights, wearing a trenchcoat that covers her entire body.// Dr. Bright: Why, if it isn't Dr. Rights! //Applause.// How are you doing? Come on in! Dr. Rights: I'm doing a lot better now that //you're// here, Jack. //Cheering and raucous male hollering.// You know, we //are// standing under the mistletoe... Dr. Bright: Rights, I didn't put up any mistletoe this year. The Ethics Committee is still reviewing the sexual harassment complaints from last year! Dr. Rights: Well, how's a girl supposed to have fun then? Dr. Bright: Why don't you sing a song for all these lovely people? Dr. Rights: Are you sure? Captain: Sure! Go for it! Dr. Rights: Well, alright... //Rights throws off her trenchcoat to reveal a set of hand-knitted, wool Christmas lingerie underneath. Captain's jaw drops; Tennille slaps him and covers his eyes. Pounding bass drums and a lusty saxophone blare as she begins to sing.// Dr. Rights: //♫ Santa baby ♫// //♫ Slip [http://scp-wiki.net/scp-1525 a gold watch] under the tree, for me ♫// //♫ I've been an awful good girl ♫// //♫ Santa baby, hurry up my chimney tonight ♫// (wink) --- Narrator: And now, a special message from our sponsor. //Fade in on Sally Struthers in a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater against a black screen, standing in front of a table with a small mechanical contraption on it, as "Do They Know It's Christmas?" plays in the background.// Sally Struthers: I'm Sally Struthers. Every year, the Manna Charitable Foundation helps thousands of poor souls around the world on the path to a better life. It's easy to forget in these hectic days that there are so many people in the Third World who don't even know the most wonderful time of the year is upon us. That's why we're asking for your help today with this. //Sally gestures at the box on the table.// This is the Christmas Miracle Maker. Thanks to state-of-the-art terraforming technology, this durable and easy-to-use device, once activated, will induce rapid and aggressive climate change in order to transform its surrounding environs into a perfect snowy winter's day just in time for a white Christmas. The seed banks and genetic samples contained within it will ensure that majestic evergreens just right for decorating and reindeer perfect for pulling a one-horse open sleigh will supplant local flora and fauna, and it can even whip up a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings for those souls in need! Every one of your donations puts us one step closer to our goal of manufacturing and airdropping 15,000 of these units across Africa in time for Christmas Eve. So please call in your pledge or write a check today - and let them know it's Christmas time again. --- //Fade in on the party. Agent Strelnikov, who is wearing a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater over his Russian Army uniform, has joined the party and is regaling the crowd with a story.// Agent Strelnikov: And then //fourth// dirty Chechen bastard says to me, 'Please, kind and merciful and handsome Comrade Strelnikov, you would not be skinning alive a man who wears glasses?' And I said to him, 'Well, now that you give me idea...'" //Everyone laughs except Bright.// Dr. Bright: Strelnikov! Agent Strelnikov: What? You no like story? Is good story! Won second place on open microphone night at Moscow Comedy Club. Dr. Bright: But it's not a Christmas story at all! Agent Strelnikov: It happened on Christmas! Able: Sounds like my kinda Christmas! Tennille: Is that //really// what you do on Christmas? Agent Strelnikov: You think Chechens care when Christmas is? They sneak into base at night! Kill six of my men! Burn down Christmas tree it take Company Я all week to decorate! //That// is Chechen Christmas! Ptooey! Dr. Bright: Can't you at least tell a story with a happy ending? Agent Strelnikov: Fine. Do you know American capitalist rhyming-man Dr. Seuss? //Everyone responds 'Sure!' 'Yeah!' 'Of course!'// Good. This is Russian version of Dr. Seuss. Is called 'How the Chechen Stole Christmas!' Everyone: //STRELNIKOV!// Agent Strelnikov: What? Has happy ending! Russia get Christmas back, Father Christmas send Chechens to Hell, everyone joins hands and sings. Dr. Bright: How about a story that //isn't// about Chechens? Agent Strelnikov: Bah! All good stories have Chechens. Captain: Well, how about a song? Agent Strelnikov: Da! I will sing traditional Russian song of homecoming. //A jazzy brass instrumental plays as Strelnikov rises to his feet and begins to sing.// //♫ Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, la la la ♫// //♫ La la laaaaaaaaaaaa laaaaaaaaaaaa la la ♫// //♫ La la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, la la la ♫// //♫ La la laaaaaaaaaaaa, laaaaaaaaaaaa, la la ♫// //♫ Trololololololo, lololo, lololo, hmmhmmhmmhmmhmm... ♫// --- //Fade in on a rainy night. King Eugenio is standing alone in a field.// Eugenio: Before we draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer us one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only? //A lightning bolt illuminates the darkness. [[[SCP-173]]], wearing a black robe with a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater pulled over it, is pointing at a grave marker.// One's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show us! //The lightning strikes again. 173 has not moved, and the camera closes in on the grave reveal the text on the grave: KING EUGENIO II.// No, Spirit! Oh no, no! //The lightning strikes again. 173's other hand reaches out towards Eugenio as if to pull him into the grave.// Spirit! Hear me. We are the fox we were. We will not be the fox we must have been but for this intercourse. Why show us this, if we are past all hope? //The lightning strikes again. 173's hand is open and outstretched.// Good Spirit! Your nature intercedes for us, and pities us. We will honour Christmas in our heart, and try to keep it all the year. We will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within us. We will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me we may sponge away the writing on this stone! //Eugenio reaches out to accept 173's hand. Jump cut to his pet bed as he awakes from his sleep. Frantically, he pokes his head around the corner of the set and shouts to a shocked stagehand as he carries several cups of coffee towards the green room.// Eugenio: You, boy! How much longer is there in the show? Stagehand: Why, about twelve minutes! Eugenio: Then we still have time! --- //Fade in on the party in full swing. Bright looks at the camera.// Dr. Bright: Well, folks, it's almost suppertime, and our guests of honor have agreed to cook! How's it going in there, you kids? //Captain and Tennille emerge from a door leading to the kitchen, holding a silver lidded tray.// Captain: Well, you know how you said to put the goose through [[[SCP-914]]] on Fine? Tennille: We accidentally started it on Very Fine instead, so we figured we'd switch it to 1:1 and it'd balance out... and this happened. //Tennille removes the lid to reveal a half-dozen live baby geese waddling around.// Dr. Bright: This is a disaster! Now there'll be no feast! Oh, if only... //The distant sound of sleigh bells becomes audible.// ...Could it be? Dr. Gears: It appears improbable. //The door swings open and Dr. Clef enters, wearing a Santa suit topped with a hand-knitted wool Christmas sweater, and carrying a tureen of clam chowder.// Dr. Clef: But it is! Ho ho ho! Everyone else: SANTA CLEF! //Clef sets the tureen down on the table.// Dr. Clef: Sorry the big man couldn't make it. He said something about the insurance premiums on his sleigh being high enough after last year. But he sent me along to deliver the greatest Christmas gift of all: chowder! //Clef begins ladling soup out to the party guests.// Dr. Bright: Well, isn't this a Christmas miracle! If only we had a roast to go with it, though... Eugenio: Wait for us! //Eugenio comes running in from offscreen, accompanied by Wellington (with SCP-173 on his back), the Ghost Sign of Christmas Past, Lord Blackwood, Count Rockula, and Sally Struthers.// Dr. Bright: King Eugenio! I thought you'd miss the whole party! Eugenio: Forgive our tardiness. We were delayed making some last minute adjustments to the Nativity scene. Count Rockula, if you would do the honors? Count Rockula: Of course, your majesty! //The green screen is pulled away like a curtain to reveal the manger scene - with the baby pig as Jesus, the chicken, the crow, and a pigeon as the Wise Men, a lamb and a tiger as Mary and Joseph, and Timmy fluttering overhead as the angel. Count Rockula begins playing his guitar and singing.// Count Rockula: //♫ O come all ye rockin' ♫// //♫ Awesome and bodacious ♫// //♫ O come ye, o come ye ♫// //♫ And dig this rad scene ♫// //♫ Come check this shit out ♫// //♫ It's totally bitchin' ♫// //♫ O come and let us dig him ♫// //♫ O come and let us dig him ♫// //♫ O come and let us dig him ♫// //♫ Christ the Dude! ♫// Dr. Bright: Now that's the true meaning of Christmas, isn't it? //Everyone mutters inconclusively. "Sure." "I guess." "Why not?" "Actually..."// Eugenio: One more thing. We realized tonight... almost too soon... that we had been inconsiderate to our fellow beasts this year. We wish to make amends. Lord Blackwood, if you would? Lord Blackwood: It would be my honour, your highness! //Lord Blackwood nudges [[[SCP-662]]] towards Eugenio. Eugenio picks it up between his teeth and shakes it. Mr. Deeds enters, carrying a lidded silver tray.// Mr. Deeds: As you requested, your majesty, a piping hot Christmas goose, with all the trimmings. //Mr. Deeds sets the tray on the table and lifts the lid to reveal the roasted bird.// Eugenio: Now eat! Drink! Be merry! Enjoy the spirit of this wondrous day! //Dr. Rights leans over and whispers to Mr. Deeds. He nods and produces a piece of mistletoe from his pocket. She takes it and holds it over Able's head.// Dr. Rights: So, Able, how about I cook //your// Christmas goose? Able: Lead me to the beast, woman, and I shall wring its neck myself. Dr. Rights: I don't think you'll have to worry about wringing your own beast's neck tonight. //Extreme close-up on Able with a comic "SPROING!" sound effect.// Dr. Bright: Well, folks, that's about all the time we have. On behalf of everyone here at the SCP Foundation, I'd like to wish you and yours at home... //Everyone raises their glasses and faces the camera.// Everyone: MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR! Timmy: And [[[SCP-343\|343]]] bless us, every one! [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-02T02:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "agent-strelnikov", "blackwood", "christmas", "comedy", "doctor-bright", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "doctor-rights", "tale", "the-sculpture" ]	A Keter Kinda Christmas - SCP Foundation	196	[ "scp-963", "scp-1965", "scp-1845", "scp-329-j", "scp-1192", "scp-1987-j", "scp-1156", "scp-1867", "scp-173", "scp-914", "scp-662", "scp-343", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "new", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "joke-scps-tales-edition", "holiday-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20484373	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-keter-kinda-christmas
a-kind-of-christmas	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> “I-It’s just been so long. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks about me anymore.” The creature leaned towards the man, its skin crinkling. A few scales refracted the harsh light of the containment cell as they drifted to the floor. It slowly raised its left arm and cupped its hand to the side of its oxygen mask. “Sometimes, I think what they tell me, that she’s okay, I don’t think it’s true,” it whispered, barely audible over the hum of the life-support machine. <p>The man sitting opposite grinned. “Why, you were the most important thing in the world to her! Of course she wouldn’t have forgotten about you!” he said. His voice echoed across the walls of the small cell.</p> <p>“You used the past tense. You didn't really answer me. Besides, if she still thought about me, would I be so… <em>this</em>?” the creature slowly swept an arm over itself. Much of its skin was gone, revealing half-formed organs made of dragonfly wings. Its legs were nothing but stumps, and the left side of its face was mostly non-existent, save for the area around the flower it had for a eye.</p> <p>“Oh come now, that’s no attitude to have! If she’d forgotten you, would she have made this?” The man revealed a folded piece of paper and opened it on the table between them. It was a crayon drawing of a girl and a man holding hands. The man was covered in what looked like scales and had flowers for eyes. Both of them were smiling under the crudely written words “SUZY + BEST FRIEND.”</p> <p>The creature looked up from the paper, tears in its functioning eye. “Thank…” It saw that the man had vanished “…you?”</p> <p>An orderly burst into the containment cell. “SCP-1252, are you alright!? We- I don’t know what happened. We were with you, and then we, uh we were outside. What happened? Are you okay?”</p> <p>The creature hugged the drawing to its partially formed chest, causing several butterfly scales to drift lazily to the floor. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” it said.</p> <hr/> <p>Adam sang to himself as he sawed the beam. “Que el mundo fue y será…” he began. Suddenly, the saw slipped, and he cried out, more from shock than pain, as it sliced into his finger. A split second later, the wound began to gush blood. “Fuck!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he patted himself down, hoping to find a kerchief, or even just a band-aid. Nothing. He squeezed the finger into his armpit, feeling the blood soak through the fabric of the shirt. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck this house, fuck this city, fuck you Louisa, fuck fuck fuck!” Adam shouted as he ran from dilapidated room to dilapidated room, trying to find something to staunch the bleeding.</p> <p>He saw a man leaving the pantry, the same one who had been snooping around the place before. “Hey, asshole!” he shouted at the intruder, “Get out of my house or I’m calling the cops!” The man gave a guilty smile and stepped around a corner. Adam followed him around the corner, only to find that the man seemed to have disappeared. “Weirdo,” Adam muttered as he entered the pantry.</p> <p>Sitting on the shelf was a roll of gauze and a can of something called “Plum Pudding.” Next to it was a note card reading “Feliz Navidad” in thin, neat letters.</p> <p>“I’m Jewish,” Adam muttered. He stared at the gauze for a moment. "Eh, screw it," he said as he took the gauze and began to wrap it around his wounded finger. Before leaving the pantry, he grabbed the can of “Plum Pudding.”</p> <hr/> <p>The boy in the Boy Scout outfit paced back and forth in the blank room. He must have been in here for at least a year. The last thing he remembered was crossing the street holding Mr. Noah. Then the sound of tires squealing, then an impact. Then nothing. He obviously wasn’t dead, he decided, because he was obviously alive. Still, he didn’t recognize anything, and, more importantly, there was no more Mr. Noah.</p> <p>"Hello there," came a voice behind him. The boy turned to see a man standing in what had been an empty spot a few seconds ago. "It seems like you're missing something. Mr. Noah, right?"</p> <p>The boy tried to respond, but found that he couldn't speak. He tried a few more times to vocalize, but finally nodded.</p> <p>The man smiled. "I don't think I can get Mr. Noah back for you, but I can find you some friends. Children like you, who can understand you. Perhaps you could make a new doll, one just like Mr. Noah. Does that sound good to you?"</p> <p>The idea of replacing of Mr. Noah seemed horrifying, almost laughable, to the boy. But it wasn't as though there was any way to find Mr. Noah in this room. Besides, the man's offer of friends intrigued him. He had never had friends before, at least ones that weren't stuffed animals. The boy nodded again. The man smiled.</p> <p>"Very good, then. Please, follow me," the man said. He opened a door that had not been there a moment ago, and passed through it. The boy followed. As he passed over the threshold, he found himself wearing an owl mask. "Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention the mask. I wouldn't worry about it, though, all of the other children have them as well," the man said, motioning around the room. It was then that the boy looked around and realized that there were other children, also with masks, all around the room.</p> <p>They didn't say anything, but he could hear them just the same. Do you like dollies? they asked, what was your dolly's name? What happened to you? What kinds of dollies do you like to make? My name's Zach, my name's Sarah, my name's Nikolai, my name's…</p> <p>The voices flooded the boy's head, but he was not afraid. For the first time in a long time, he knew he was not alone. He turned to thank the man, but saw that he was gone.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>A note to all Foundation personnel: Yesterday, 12/25/20██, containment for several SCP artifacts, including <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1252">1252</a>, <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1551">1551</a>, and <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-747">747</a> was breached. In all instances where the SCP object has been capable of speech, the effector of the breach was described as “a kind man.” While the breaches were not, in and of themselves, severe, the fact that a single individual, apparently acting alone, has proven capable of bypassing all security measures, and has chosen to do so on a day as significant as yesterday, should be troubling to all Foundation employees.</p> <p>To be clear: as there has been no indication of negligence on the part of Foundation employees, no one is being punished for this incident. This is only a reminder that, despite however human SCP objects may appear, we are still interacting with entities far beyond our ability to comprehend. It should go without saying that all Foundation personnel, of all levels, must maintain absolute vigilance at all times.</p> <p>- O5-██</p> </blockquote> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-kind-of-christmas">A Kind Of Christmas</a>" by Gaffsey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-kind-of-christmas">https://scpwiki.com/a-kind-of-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]] [[/>]] “I-It’s just been so long. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks about me anymore.” The creature leaned towards the man, its skin crinkling. A few scales refracted the harsh light of the containment cell as they drifted to the floor. It slowly raised its left arm and cupped its hand to the side of its oxygen mask. “Sometimes, I think what they tell me, that she’s okay, I don’t think it’s true,” it whispered, barely audible over the hum of the life-support machine. The man sitting opposite grinned. “Why, you were the most important thing in the world to her! Of course she wouldn’t have forgotten about you!” he said. His voice echoed across the walls of the small cell. “You used the past tense. You didn't really answer me. Besides, if she still thought about me, would I be so… //this//?” the creature slowly swept an arm over itself. Much of its skin was gone, revealing half-formed organs made of dragonfly wings. Its legs were nothing but stumps, and the left side of its face was mostly non-existent, save for the area around the flower it had for a eye. “Oh come now, that’s no attitude to have! If she’d forgotten you, would she have made this?” The man revealed a folded piece of paper and opened it on the table between them. It was a crayon drawing of a girl and a man holding hands. The man was covered in what looked like scales and had flowers for eyes. Both of them were smiling under the crudely written words “SUZY + BEST FRIEND.” The creature looked up from the paper, tears in its functioning eye. “Thank…” It saw that the man had vanished “…you?” An orderly burst into the containment cell. “SCP-1252, are you alright!? We- I don’t know what happened. We were with you, and then we, uh we were outside. What happened? Are you okay?” The creature hugged the drawing to its partially formed chest, causing several butterfly scales to drift lazily to the floor. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” it said. ----- Adam sang to himself as he sawed the beam. “Que el mundo fue y será…” he began. Suddenly, the saw slipped, and he cried out, more from shock than pain, as it sliced into his finger. A split second later, the wound began to gush blood. “Fuck!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he patted himself down, hoping to find a kerchief, or even just a band-aid. Nothing. He squeezed the finger into his armpit, feeling the blood soak through the fabric of the shirt. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck this house, fuck this city, fuck you Louisa, fuck fuck fuck!” Adam shouted as he ran from dilapidated room to dilapidated room, trying to find something to staunch the bleeding. He saw a man leaving the pantry, the same one who had been snooping around the place before. “Hey, asshole!” he shouted at the intruder, “Get out of my house or I’m calling the cops!” The man gave a guilty smile and stepped around a corner. Adam followed him around the corner, only to find that the man seemed to have disappeared. “Weirdo,” Adam muttered as he entered the pantry. Sitting on the shelf was a roll of gauze and a can of something called “Plum Pudding.” Next to it was a note card reading “Feliz Navidad” in thin, neat letters. “I’m Jewish,” Adam muttered. He stared at the gauze for a moment. "Eh, screw it," he said as he took the gauze and began to wrap it around his wounded finger. Before leaving the pantry, he grabbed the can of “Plum Pudding.” ----- The boy in the Boy Scout outfit paced back and forth in the blank room. He must have been in here for at least a year. The last thing he remembered was crossing the street holding Mr. Noah. Then the sound of tires squealing, then an impact. Then nothing. He obviously wasn’t dead, he decided, because he was obviously alive. Still, he didn’t recognize anything, and, more importantly, there was no more Mr. Noah. "Hello there," came a voice behind him. The boy turned to see a man standing in what had been an empty spot a few seconds ago. "It seems like you're missing something. Mr. Noah, right?" The boy tried to respond, but found that he couldn't speak. He tried a few more times to vocalize, but finally nodded. The man smiled. "I don't think I can get Mr. Noah back for you, but I can find you some friends. Children like you, who can understand you. Perhaps you could make a new doll, one just like Mr. Noah. Does that sound good to you?" The idea of replacing of Mr. Noah seemed horrifying, almost laughable, to the boy. But it wasn't as though there was any way to find Mr. Noah in this room. Besides, the man's offer of friends intrigued him. He had never had friends before, at least ones that weren't stuffed animals. The boy nodded again. The man smiled. "Very good, then. Please, follow me," the man said. He opened a door that had not been there a moment ago, and passed through it. The boy followed. As he passed over the threshold, he found himself wearing an owl mask. "Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention the mask. I wouldn't worry about it, though, all of the other children have them as well," the man said, motioning around the room. It was then that the boy looked around and realized that there were other children, also with masks, all around the room. They didn't say anything, but he could hear them just the same. Do you like dollies? they asked, what was your dolly's name? What happened to you? What kinds of dollies do you like to make? My name's Zach, my name's Sarah, my name's Nikolai, my name's... The voices flooded the boy's head, but he was not afraid. For the first time in a long time, he knew he was not alone. He turned to thank the man, but saw that he was gone. ----- > A note to all Foundation personnel: Yesterday, 12/25/20██, containment for several SCP artifacts, including [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1252 1252], [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1551 1551], and [http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-747 747] was breached. In all instances where the SCP object has been capable of speech, the effector of the breach was described as “a kind man.” While the breaches were not, in and of themselves, severe, the fact that a single individual, apparently acting alone, has proven capable of bypassing all security measures, and has chosen to do so on a day as significant as yesterday, should be troubling to all Foundation employees. > > To be clear: as there has been no indication of negligence on the part of Foundation employees, no one is being punished for this incident. This is only a reminder that, despite however human SCP objects may appear, we are still interacting with entities far beyond our ability to comprehend. It should go without saying that all Foundation personnel, of all levels, must maintain absolute vigilance at all times. > > - O5-██ @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Gaffsey]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-28T06:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "art-exchange", "bittersweet", "christmas", "event-featured", "kindness", "tale" ]	A Kind Of Christmas - SCP Foundation	57	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "event-featured-archive", "art-exchange-hub" ]	[]	21094737	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-kind-of-christmas
a-long-ways-from-home	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Transcript of briefing for Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint"</strong></p> <p><em>Begin Transcript</em></p> <p>Agent Walters, Agent Christensen, have a seat.</p> <p>You both are aware of the situation and have already had your operational, communications, and safety briefings, so I'll keep this short and make sure you both know what is going on.</p> <p>Both of you will be entering SCP-████ and use its anomalous effects to enter what are commonly referred to by non-Foundation groups as "Ways". Due to the nature of SCP-████, you will both be rendered unrecognizable as Foundation agents and will be able to safely enter "The Library". The bad news is, testing has shown that SCP-████ is a one way deal. Good news is, our teams have identified an exit point that lets out in Melbourne, Australia. We will have a team there to return you to this base when you need to exit. Don't worry, you'll get your bodies back. Both of you have received a copy of "Fahrenheit 451", simply open it up to page 47 and read what's written there. I have been told by our research team that you should not do this until you need to get out of there. When you are inside of the Library you are not to violently engage any entities, I repeat, <em>any</em> entities you meet in there. Period. Am I clear? Good, if you so much as think of being violent you will both be out of there faster than you can blink.</p> <p>You are simply there to try to get a grasp on how large this thing is and do general reconnaissance, you know the specifics of the mission plan. Audio recordings will be made daily by one of you giving us updates on the status of the mission and yourselves. Should either of you die on this mission, we have a recovery team ready to retrieve your logs and data.</p> <p>I'll be frank, gentlemen, this is the first time we've gone back in there for over a year since we lost all of Team Faraway. You are to stay safe, stay passive, and don't do anything that will give you or us away and make this mission a failure. Good luck gentlemen, you will both be the first members of team 453-07, code name "Surveyors".</p> <p><em>End Transcript</em></p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/21/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: Base ████████</strong></p> <p>Excited for this mission, first time working with Walker, little bit nervous. This guy wrote the book on anomalous reconnaissance. Praying I don't screw up on this. Also a tad worried by not having any immediate support or weapons. I guess we should be okay though. I got my hands on a video log from project Faraway, scary shit with the giant guys with lanterns and crap. Since this is supposed to be a passive mission we'll be fine, anyone trying to attack us will get the same treatment. On another note, Bill told me SCP-████ occasionally doesn't switch your mind and just your memories, though that's probably him messing with me. Anyways… gonna get a good night's rest before we head out tomorrow, Chaplain out.</p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/21/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: Base ████████</strong></p> <p>This is agent Walters, call sign "Walker" reporting in. Date is 10/21/████, location is Base ████████.</p> <p>Thoughts on mission in 1600 hours: Jittery, as is becoming increasingly often.<br/> Reminder: See base doctor after mission about jitters.</p> <p>Thoughts on partner: Good, records indicate Agent Christensen call sign "Chaplain" has a solid record in anomalous reconnaissance.<br/> Prediction: Will not get in the way during mission, might be an asset if utilized correctly.</p> <p>Information received about SCP-████: ~12% chance of consciousness not switching.<br/> Thoughts: Probably should not tell Agent Christensen.</p> <p>Planned Actions: Will sleep at 1900 hours tonight.<br/> This is agent Walters, call sign "Walker", signing out.</p> <p><strong>Excerpt from Team Surveyor Records. Mission 453-07-1. Mission start.</strong></p> <blockquote> <p>Researcher Reynolds: Walker, Chaplain, are you ready to proceed?<br/> Walker: Ready when you are Reynolds<br/> Reynolds: Roger dodger Walker, activating SCP in T-minus 1 minute.<br/> Walker: Okay Chaplain, follow operating procedure, stay safe, and stick next to me.<br/> Chaplain: Understood.<br/> Walker: Good, when we go through, just stay calm, bad things happen to people who freak out during this.<br/> Reynolds: Targets set, transferring in T-minus 10 seconds.<br/> Chaplain: Oh boy.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><em>At this point SCP-████ activates normally and it is confirmed that Agent Walters and Agent Christensen were safely transferred to the targets. Targets take control of the bodies of Agent Walters and Agent Christensen. Bodies are secured and placed into stasis for return to their owners.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Audio log 10/22/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library</strong></p> <p>Personal Log 1, Day 1, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".</p> <p>Okay so Walker said I should make one of these to sort of summarize what I'm thinking here. It's a bit hard to concentrate when you're in a bathroom obviously not built for human use, I mean, why is there a bin labeled "Ice cream disposal" in here?</p> <p>What should I talk about?</p> <p>Okay so yeah, SCP-████ was fun, the whole process was very weird feeling but I think I've gotten used to this body, though this guy really needs to work out more. Once we switched I don't remember too many details, sensory overload I guess. Basically we're in a huge fucking library. Like you could walk for days and not reach the end, if there is an end. None of the other patrons seem very clear about the size, and we've got a lot of different answers. And the patrons, man, I've seen some weird crap but these guys just about take the cake. I had a conversation with a sapient lava lamp about our favorite books not ten minutes ago, and some sort of eldrich abomination just asked me where the men's room was.</p> <p>Walker seems completely unfazed, but he could be freaking out for all I know, the man is all business. We've been doing pretty well recon wise, the things that attacked Team Faraway are called docents, they sorta just walk around and guide people, seem sorta like the security dudes here, haven't gotten any of them to talk though. The other patrons say pretty much the only thing they seem to respond to is requests with help finding a book and violence, and considering how these guys are built no wonder Team Faraway didn't have a chance. The Library seems to be run and maintained by a variety of staff, most notably these things rooted to the floor at the reception desks people call Archivists and these weird spider things that are crawling all over the bookshelves that everyone else seems to ignore. When I asked someone about it they just looked at me and said that is what happens to people who break the rules. It was a bit creepy because he then slipped me a piece of paper that said "And who ask too many questions."</p> <p>Once I finish up in here I think I'll head to one of the reception desks and see if I can get a Library card, find out what I can about these Archivist dudes, maybe do some exploring of this atrium area where everyone hangs out. Gonna talk to Walker about maybe trying to get some definite proportions of how big this place is.<br/> Chaplain out.</p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/22/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library</strong></p> <p>Personal Log 1, Day 1, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".</p> <p>This is Walker, reporting in. Current location is men's bathrooms 200 feet east of our entrance point. Bathroom seems non-anomalous except for multiple items seemingly not built for human use, full report on items will be included with surveying documents.</p> <p>Entrance was uneventful, still adjusting to new body. Chaplain has shown to be an asset when socializing with other entities within The Library. Possible use for gathering information regarding size and security measures within The Library. Library is to be deemed information containment only, pending further investigation. Current intel shows that it would be near impossible to effectively bar physical access to The Library, due to constant appearance and creation of "Ways", of which there seems to be no effective way to predict the appearance of.</p> <p>The nature of the entities within The Library is varying and unpredictable. There does not seem to be one source of anomalous entities within The Library, and observation has already shown three separate incidents of anomalous behaviors from said entities. Only definite entities met so far seem to come from The Library itself, commonly referred to as "Librarians". We have encountered three types of Librarians so far. Most notably are a large hunchback-esque creature with a lantern for a hand, called by patrons of The Library "Docents". Possibly act as security for The Library, will investigate possible weaknesses. Will include full report on the Librarians along with Surveyor documents. Will discuss with Chaplain about possible exploration as to the extent of The Library, and I will be placing each other's logs on both of our logbooks should something happen to one of us.</p> <p>Walker signing out.</p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/23/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library</strong></p> <p>Personal Log 2, Day 2, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".</p> <p>Finally got a chance to make another log, been really busy for the past day. Walker and I decided that we will personally explore the limits of The Library, since we aren't getting any solid answers from the patrons. We've bought a couple supplies from some patrons and have figured out the path we're gonna take to the edge, and if we don't reach an edge in two days we turn back. I haven't really caught any sleep since we got here, a nap here and a nap there, but once we set out I should be able to sleep some. We were told to find some lodging in the Reading Room, which happens to be completely controlled by the Serpent's Hand.</p> <p>Oh yeah, the Serpent's Hand. Wow, these guys are totally different than from what I've heard, almost all of them could be SCPs and enough of them have mind-reading powers that Walker ruled that we don't go in there. They seem pretty disorganized and most of them seem pretty laid back and just interested in reading books, a couple told me about their leader, L.S, whom appears to be very charming and chill, despite his hatred for just about everyone who isn't an SH member. Really interesting stuff, Walker compiled all the relevant information into the records, so I won't bother going over it.</p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/24/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library</strong></p> <p>Sing it with me Walker! … Come on, it's a good song.</p> <p>Seein' things that I may never see aga-</p> <p>Oh fuck you're right I'm recording.</p> <p>Personal Log 3, Day 3.</p> <p>Hey this is Chaplain yadda yadda we're doing great and we're heading toward the edge of The Library. Yeah I'm getting there hold up a second. Walker wants to let you know that we have traveled exactly 15.3 miles today as we head toward the edge, currently there is no end in sight and the bookshelves continue to go on. Yeah we've also been sorta seeing the same bookshelf every once in a while, and shelves seem to kind of bend and twist as if they're making us go in circles. We tried to get the help of a docent but it just sorta stood there and stared at us before it walked off into the shelves. There are still plenty of those spider things running around though, kind of creepy looking but they haven't bothered us yet. The shelves seem to contain increasingly random and useless information, possibly they can rearrange themselves so that someone will find the book most pertinent to them without going in that far. On another note, we met another adventurer like ourselves about a mile back, his skeleton was just laying there and he had some old book in his hands. Can't read it, looks to be Dutch, but it seems kind of foreboding.</p> <p>Ok I'll talk about that. We made friends with this SH chick back in the Atrium, okay, <em>I</em> made friends with this SH chick. She looked really familiar and then Walker recognized her as the sister of the whatsit that got us here. I struck up a conversation with her and she seems pretty cool, has the same abilities as her sister, though with longer range. She said she could switch me wherever I wanted if I just said where and- What the fuck is that?!</p> <p><em>Sound of retching</em></p> <p>Okay, get it out Walker. No I don't think less of you now. We can't control our body's gag reflex. You want me to explain it? Uhhh, this is Chaplain and basically we are looking at what looks like three corpses, except, not corpses? Uh, some of their skin is missing in places and you can sorta see inside of them, which is pretty gross considering I can't recognize any of the organs and there is this greenish stuff just <em>everywhere</em>. They seem to be rooted to the floor by some weird artery and god the smell is awful, smells like the boy's locker room where someone just sprayed Axe everywhere. Two of em are growing extra limbs and this really muscular one's hand has become this cage thing that glows intermittently.</p> <p>Yeah take your photos let's keep moving, I don't wanna stay here any longer.</p> <p>Anyways… I guess that just about wraps it up, tomorrow we'll turn back if we don't reach the edge. I don't think it would be smart to continue after that, hopefully The Library isn't trying to send us a message with those bodies or anything.</p> <p>Chaplain out.</p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/25/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library</strong></p> <p>Personal Log 3, Day 3.</p> <p>Walker signing in, I am recording this around the corner from our campsite, out of earshot of Chaplain. We currently seem to be followed by a humanoid entity that seems to have some sort of visual cloaking mechanism. This entity disappears around a bookshelf whenever we look at it, but otherwise seems to remain about 100 feet away at all times. It seems to have disappeared for the moment facilitating the recording of this log. The night was uneventful except for Chaplain claiming that it was watching us, but a little exploration showed nothing. I have reason to believe that Chaplain has been compromised by the Serpent's Hand, as a comparison between mental scans that I made while he was sleeping and when we arrived show tampering. He has been making multiple statements that could be construed as treasonous and seems to want us to end our mission prematurely, citing what happens to people who ask too many questions. I will continue our expedition till noon today and then we will turn back and begin making our way toward the Atrium where I will figure out a way to detain Chaplain and return us to the Foundation. Another reason for this is the rapid increase in disturbing sights, including one I had an adverse reaction to yesterday. Chaplain seems to grow more and more irrational the farther we go in.</p> <p>This is Walker, signing out.</p> <p><strong>Audio log 10/25/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library</strong></p> <p>Personal Log 4, Day 4, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint".</p> <p>This is Walker, signing in.</p> <p>Chaplain seems to be putting on appearances of having a good mood to cope with his fear. I am currently recording this around the corner of a shelf, as the entity seems to have temporarily disappeared. Our progress had been good up to this point, and I have decided to turn back now, before something happens that compromises the mission. Chaplain has just said something, I will continue this log in a moment.</p> <p>Chaplain? Status?</p> <p>Where am I? Who the fuck are you? (<em>This is confirmed to be Agent Chaplain's current voice</em>)</p> <p>Chaplain! Turn around!</p> <p>RUN GOD DAMMIT CHAPLAIN!</p> <p>SHIT!</p> <p>(<em>At this point the recording continues for several hours, with various noises identified as tearing, gurgling, and an unidentified voice speaking in an unknown language going on in the background.</em>)</p> <p><strong>Excerpt from Team Surveyor Records. Mission 453-07-1. CO Comments.</strong></p> <p>I'd just like to get it on the record why Chaplain and Walker were chosen for this mission.</p> <p>There are multiple agents that we have that are much more qualified to go into The Library and get intel on it. However, none of these agents were deemed expendable at the time of assignment and due to Chaplain's rookie status and Walker's has-been status, they were natural choices for an expedition in there. Our records indicate that they did much better than we had hoped and our retrieval team managed to recover almost all of their documents and their logs. Of course, all they could find of their bodies was a green film that covered the retrieval area and several severed limbs. Their bodies are being kept in indefinite stasis until we can guarantee that they are completely back in them. Hopefully this will be soon but for now I will be expunging this whole thing and making it Level 3 Access Only, on a need-to-know basis. We will be conducting tests on their bodies in stasis momentarily, and it seems there is some evidence that Chaplain may have made it back. I will be investigating it personally when I return.</p> <p><em>This log was created by Commander Arnold Baker. Commander Arnold Baker was KIA during the containment breach of SCP-████. This breach is attributed to Serpent's Hand operatives.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Deep within a Foundation site, a button was pressed, a tube opened, a body fell out and collapsed to the ground. The air chilled and mist began to flow everywhere.</p> <p>"Jesus. It worked… Who the fuck are you?"</p> <p>Agent Chaplain looked up through the clearing mist at the man standing above him.</p> <p>"Welcome to the Resistance, Agent Chaplain."<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-long-ways-from-home">A Long Ways from Home</a>" by Pixeltasim, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-long-ways-from-home">https://scpwiki.com/a-long-ways-from-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]] [[/>]] Transcript of briefing for Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint" //Begin Transcript// Agent Walters, Agent Christensen, have a seat. You both are aware of the situation and have already had your operational, communications, and safety briefings, so I'll keep this short and make sure you both know what is going on. Both of you will be entering SCP-████ and use its anomalous effects to enter what are commonly referred to by non-Foundation groups as "Ways". Due to the nature of SCP-████, you will both be rendered unrecognizable as Foundation agents and will be able to safely enter "The Library". The bad news is, testing has shown that SCP-████ is a one way deal. Good news is, our teams have identified an exit point that lets out in Melbourne, Australia. We will have a team there to return you to this base when you need to exit. Don't worry, you'll get your bodies back. Both of you have received a copy of "Fahrenheit 451", simply open it up to page 47 and read what's written there. I have been told by our research team that you should not do this until you need to get out of there. When you are inside of the Library you are not to violently engage any entities, I repeat, //any// entities you meet in there. Period. Am I clear? Good, if you so much as think of being violent you will both be out of there faster than you can blink. You are simply there to try to get a grasp on how large this thing is and do general reconnaissance, you know the specifics of the mission plan. Audio recordings will be made daily by one of you giving us updates on the status of the mission and yourselves. Should either of you die on this mission, we have a recovery team ready to retrieve your logs and data. I'll be frank, gentlemen, this is the first time we've gone back in there for over a year since we lost all of Team Faraway. You are to stay safe, stay passive, and don't do anything that will give you or us away and make this mission a failure. Good luck gentlemen, you will both be the first members of team 453-07, code name "Surveyors". //End Transcript// Audio log 10/21/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: Base ████████ Excited for this mission, first time working with Walker, little bit nervous. This guy wrote the book on anomalous reconnaissance. Praying I don't screw up on this. Also a tad worried by not having any immediate support or weapons. I guess we should be okay though. I got my hands on a video log from project Faraway, scary shit with the giant guys with lanterns and crap. Since this is supposed to be a passive mission we'll be fine, anyone trying to attack us will get the same treatment. On another note, Bill told me SCP-████ occasionally doesn't switch your mind and just your memories, though that's probably him messing with me. Anyways... gonna get a good night's rest before we head out tomorrow, Chaplain out. Audio log 10/21/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: Base ████████ This is agent Walters, call sign "Walker" reporting in. Date is 10/21/████, location is Base ████████. Thoughts on mission in 1600 hours: Jittery, as is becoming increasingly often. Reminder: See base doctor after mission about jitters. Thoughts on partner: Good, records indicate Agent Christensen call sign "Chaplain" has a solid record in anomalous reconnaissance. Prediction: Will not get in the way during mission, might be an asset if utilized correctly. Information received about SCP-████: ~12% chance of consciousness not switching. Thoughts: Probably should not tell Agent Christensen. Planned Actions: Will sleep at 1900 hours tonight. This is agent Walters, call sign "Walker", signing out. Excerpt from Team Surveyor Records. Mission 453-07-1. Mission start. > Researcher Reynolds: Walker, Chaplain, are you ready to proceed? > Walker: Ready when you are Reynolds > Reynolds: Roger dodger Walker, activating SCP in T-minus 1 minute. > Walker: Okay Chaplain, follow operating procedure, stay safe, and stick next to me. > Chaplain: Understood. > Walker: Good, when we go through, just stay calm, bad things happen to people who freak out during this. > Reynolds: Targets set, transferring in T-minus 10 seconds. > Chaplain: Oh boy. > //At this point SCP-████ activates normally and it is confirmed that Agent Walters and Agent Christensen were safely transferred to the targets. Targets take control of the bodies of Agent Walters and Agent Christensen. Bodies are secured and placed into stasis for return to their owners.// Audio log 10/22/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library Personal Log 1, Day 1, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint". Okay so Walker said I should make one of these to sort of summarize what I'm thinking here. It's a bit hard to concentrate when you're in a bathroom obviously not built for human use, I mean, why is there a bin labeled "Ice cream disposal" in here? What should I talk about? Okay so yeah, SCP-████ was fun, the whole process was very weird feeling but I think I've gotten used to this body, though this guy really needs to work out more. Once we switched I don't remember too many details, sensory overload I guess. Basically we're in a huge fucking library. Like you could walk for days and not reach the end, if there is an end. None of the other patrons seem very clear about the size, and we've got a lot of different answers. And the patrons, man, I've seen some weird crap but these guys just about take the cake. I had a conversation with a sapient lava lamp about our favorite books not ten minutes ago, and some sort of eldrich abomination just asked me where the men's room was. Walker seems completely unfazed, but he could be freaking out for all I know, the man is all business. We've been doing pretty well recon wise, the things that attacked Team Faraway are called docents, they sorta just walk around and guide people, seem sorta like the security dudes here, haven't gotten any of them to talk though. The other patrons say pretty much the only thing they seem to respond to is requests with help finding a book and violence, and considering how these guys are built no wonder Team Faraway didn't have a chance. The Library seems to be run and maintained by a variety of staff, most notably these things rooted to the floor at the reception desks people call Archivists and these weird spider things that are crawling all over the bookshelves that everyone else seems to ignore. When I asked someone about it they just looked at me and said that is what happens to people who break the rules. It was a bit creepy because he then slipped me a piece of paper that said "And who ask too many questions." Once I finish up in here I think I'll head to one of the reception desks and see if I can get a Library card, find out what I can about these Archivist dudes, maybe do some exploring of this atrium area where everyone hangs out. Gonna talk to Walker about maybe trying to get some definite proportions of how big this place is. Chaplain out. Audio log 10/22/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library Personal Log 1, Day 1, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint". This is Walker, reporting in. Current location is men's bathrooms 200 feet east of our entrance point. Bathroom seems non-anomalous except for multiple items seemingly not built for human use, full report on items will be included with surveying documents. Entrance was uneventful, still adjusting to new body. Chaplain has shown to be an asset when socializing with other entities within The Library. Possible use for gathering information regarding size and security measures within The Library. Library is to be deemed information containment only, pending further investigation. Current intel shows that it would be near impossible to effectively bar physical access to The Library, due to constant appearance and creation of "Ways", of which there seems to be no effective way to predict the appearance of. The nature of the entities within The Library is varying and unpredictable. There does not seem to be one source of anomalous entities within The Library, and observation has already shown three separate incidents of anomalous behaviors from said entities. Only definite entities met so far seem to come from The Library itself, commonly referred to as "Librarians". We have encountered three types of Librarians so far. Most notably are a large hunchback-esque creature with a lantern for a hand, called by patrons of The Library "Docents". Possibly act as security for The Library, will investigate possible weaknesses. Will include full report on the Librarians along with Surveyor documents. Will discuss with Chaplain about possible exploration as to the extent of The Library, and I will be placing each other's logs on both of our logbooks should something happen to one of us. Walker signing out. Audio log 10/23/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library Personal Log 2, Day 2, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint". Finally got a chance to make another log, been really busy for the past day. Walker and I decided that we will personally explore the limits of The Library, since we aren't getting any solid answers from the patrons. We've bought a couple supplies from some patrons and have figured out the path we're gonna take to the edge, and if we don't reach an edge in two days we turn back. I haven't really caught any sleep since we got here, a nap here and a nap there, but once we set out I should be able to sleep some. We were told to find some lodging in the Reading Room, which happens to be completely controlled by the Serpent's Hand. Oh yeah, the Serpent's Hand. Wow, these guys are totally different than from what I've heard, almost all of them could be SCPs and enough of them have mind-reading powers that Walker ruled that we don't go in there. They seem pretty disorganized and most of them seem pretty laid back and just interested in reading books, a couple told me about their leader, L.S, whom appears to be very charming and chill, despite his hatred for just about everyone who isn't an SH member. Really interesting stuff, Walker compiled all the relevant information into the records, so I won't bother going over it. Audio log 10/24/████ - Agent Christensen, Call sign "Chaplain" - Location: The Library Sing it with me Walker! ... Come on, it's a good song. Seein' things that I may never see aga- Oh fuck you're right I'm recording. Personal Log 3, Day 3. Hey this is Chaplain yadda yadda we're doing great and we're heading toward the edge of The Library. Yeah I'm getting there hold up a second. Walker wants to let you know that we have traveled exactly 15.3 miles today as we head toward the edge, currently there is no end in sight and the bookshelves continue to go on. Yeah we've also been sorta seeing the same bookshelf every once in a while, and shelves seem to kind of bend and twist as if they're making us go in circles. We tried to get the help of a docent but it just sorta stood there and stared at us before it walked off into the shelves. There are still plenty of those spider things running around though, kind of creepy looking but they haven't bothered us yet. The shelves seem to contain increasingly random and useless information, possibly they can rearrange themselves so that someone will find the book most pertinent to them without going in that far. On another note, we met another adventurer like ourselves about a mile back, his skeleton was just laying there and he had some old book in his hands. Can't read it, looks to be Dutch, but it seems kind of foreboding. Ok I'll talk about that. We made friends with this SH chick back in the Atrium, okay, //I// made friends with this SH chick. She looked really familiar and then Walker recognized her as the sister of the whatsit that got us here. I struck up a conversation with her and she seems pretty cool, has the same abilities as her sister, though with longer range. She said she could switch me wherever I wanted if I just said where and- What the fuck is that?! //Sound of retching// Okay, get it out Walker. No I don't think less of you now. We can't control our body's gag reflex. You want me to explain it? Uhhh, this is Chaplain and basically we are looking at what looks like three corpses, except, not corpses? Uh, some of their skin is missing in places and you can sorta see inside of them, which is pretty gross considering I can't recognize any of the organs and there is this greenish stuff just //everywhere//. They seem to be rooted to the floor by some weird artery and god the smell is awful, smells like the boy's locker room where someone just sprayed Axe everywhere. Two of em are growing extra limbs and this really muscular one's hand has become this cage thing that glows intermittently. Yeah take your photos let's keep moving, I don't wanna stay here any longer. Anyways... I guess that just about wraps it up, tomorrow we'll turn back if we don't reach the edge. I don't think it would be smart to continue after that, hopefully The Library isn't trying to send us a message with those bodies or anything. Chaplain out. Audio log 10/25/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library Personal Log 3, Day 3. Walker signing in, I am recording this around the corner from our campsite, out of earshot of Chaplain. We currently seem to be followed by a humanoid entity that seems to have some sort of visual cloaking mechanism. This entity disappears around a bookshelf whenever we look at it, but otherwise seems to remain about 100 feet away at all times. It seems to have disappeared for the moment facilitating the recording of this log. The night was uneventful except for Chaplain claiming that it was watching us, but a little exploration showed nothing. I have reason to believe that Chaplain has been compromised by the Serpent's Hand, as a comparison between mental scans that I made while he was sleeping and when we arrived show tampering. He has been making multiple statements that could be construed as treasonous and seems to want us to end our mission prematurely, citing what happens to people who ask too many questions. I will continue our expedition till noon today and then we will turn back and begin making our way toward the Atrium where I will figure out a way to detain Chaplain and return us to the Foundation. Another reason for this is the rapid increase in disturbing sights, including one I had an adverse reaction to yesterday. Chaplain seems to grow more and more irrational the farther we go in. This is Walker, signing out. Audio log 10/25/████ - Agent Walters, Call sign "Walker" - Location: The Library Personal Log 4, Day 4, Mission 453-07-01, Code name "Waypoint". This is Walker, signing in. Chaplain seems to be putting on appearances of having a good mood to cope with his fear. I am currently recording this around the corner of a shelf, as the entity seems to have temporarily disappeared. Our progress had been good up to this point, and I have decided to turn back now, before something happens that compromises the mission. Chaplain has just said something, I will continue this log in a moment. Chaplain? Status? Where am I? Who the fuck are you? (//This is confirmed to be Agent Chaplain's current voice//) Chaplain! Turn around! RUN GOD DAMMIT CHAPLAIN! SHIT! (//At this point the recording continues for several hours, with various noises identified as tearing, gurgling, and an unidentified voice speaking in an unknown language going on in the background.//) Excerpt from Team Surveyor Records. Mission 453-07-1. CO Comments. I'd just like to get it on the record why Chaplain and Walker were chosen for this mission. There are multiple agents that we have that are much more qualified to go into The Library and get intel on it. However, none of these agents were deemed expendable at the time of assignment and due to Chaplain's rookie status and Walker's has-been status, they were natural choices for an expedition in there. Our records indicate that they did much better than we had hoped and our retrieval team managed to recover almost all of their documents and their logs. Of course, all they could find of their bodies was a green film that covered the retrieval area and several severed limbs. Their bodies are being kept in indefinite stasis until we can guarantee that they are completely back in them. Hopefully this will be soon but for now I will be expunging this whole thing and making it Level 3 Access Only, on a need-to-know basis. We will be conducting tests on their bodies in stasis momentarily, and it seems there is some evidence that Chaplain may have made it back. I will be investigating it personally when I return. //This log was created by Commander Arnold Baker. Commander Arnold Baker was KIA during the containment breach of SCP-████. This breach is attributed to Serpent's Hand operatives.// ---- Deep within a Foundation site, a button was pressed, a tube opened, a body fell out and collapsed to the ground. The air chilled and mist began to flow everywhere. "Jesus. It worked... Who the fuck are you?" Agent Chaplain looked up through the clearing mist at the man standing above him. "Welcome to the Resistance, Agent Chaplain." @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-21T14:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "serpents-hand", "tale", "wanderers-library" ]	A Long Ways from Home - SCP Foundation	41	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "serpent-s-hand-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20708777	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-long-ways-from-home
a-poem-for-nobody	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It wasn't his drink from the party<br/> Where the tranquilizers were hid,<br/> The cocktail on the cocktail napkin<br/> Is what gently closed the lid.</p> <p>What's one more reveler out cold<br/> In a culture of thrills and excess?<br/> The Spring Cleaning Partnership<br/> Was there to clean up the mess.</p> <p>"Nobody's going to find this skip,<br/> Nobody's going to care."<br/> Truer words were never said:<br/> Nobody was already there.</p> <p>Nobody struck without warning,<br/> And somebody fell to the ground,<br/> The agents tried to defend their prize,<br/> But Nobody won this round.</p> <p>He woke to a note on his nightstand:<br/> "The next time you're out, take care."<br/> One minute, Nobody stood in the hall,<br/> The next, nobody was there.</p> <p>Everybody needs help sometimes,<br/> And Nobody answers the call,<br/> Everybody has to be Nobody once,<br/> Or nobody will be at all.</p> <p><em>—Discovered in the uniform pocket of Agent ████████ after failed retrieval attempt of SCP-████</em></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-poem-for-nobody">A Poem for Nobody</a>" by Kuroiten, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-poem-for-nobody">https://scpwiki.com/a-poem-for-nobody</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 wasn't his drink from the party Where the tranquilizers were hid, The cocktail on the cocktail napkin Is what gently closed the lid. What's one more reveler out cold In a culture of thrills and excess? The Spring Cleaning Partnership Was there to clean up the mess. "Nobody's going to find this skip, Nobody's going to care." Truer words were never said: Nobody was already there. Nobody struck without warning, And somebody fell to the ground, The agents tried to defend their prize, But Nobody won this round. He woke to a note on his nightstand: "The next time you're out, take care." One minute, Nobody stood in the hall, The next, nobody was there. Everybody needs help sometimes, And Nobody answers the call, Everybody has to be Nobody once, Or nobody will be at all. //—Discovered in the uniform pocket of Agent ████████ after failed retrieval attempt of SCP-████// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-23T05:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "nobody", "poetry", "tale" ]	A Poem for Nobody - SCP Foundation	65	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "nobody-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	19369438	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-poem-for-nobody
a-question-of-commerce	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Behind the facade of a stately building, within a clubhouse that could be described as tastefully lavish (or perhaps lavishly tasteful), nested between the high arms of a soft leather recliner, sat Mr. Dark.</p> <p>He was not in a particularly good mood.</p> <p>While Mr. Dark would never be considered an especially jovial person by any discerning lady or gentleman, the frown currently inhabiting his features was directed at something other than the world in general. Specifically, its targets were the two other men currently occupying the room. They were standing, of course. When you were in the presence of Mr. Dark, you stood, and none knew that better than Hareton Marshall and Edwin Carter. Mr. Dark made sure of that. Indeed, they have been standing there for the last fifteen minutes.</p> <p>That was probably enough, Mr. Dark decided. "New competition, you say?"</p> <p>Marshall cleared his throat, an act that sent ripples through both prodigious chin and even more prodigious mustache. During his lengthy acquaintance with the Marshall family, Mr. Dark didn't recall a single born member of the family who didn't eventually end up sporting one of the ridiculous things. Even the women. <em>Especially</em> the women.</p> <p>"Well, not as such. Wouldn't call it competition as such. Not in so many words."</p> <p>Mr. Dark only barely resisted rubbing at his temples. Not out of any worry at offending Marshall, since he was never much concerned with that, but because his hands were itching terribly. They always did that when that time of year came, but he never got used to it. "Then how would you, pray tell, describe the act of selling products similar to our own, to the same customer base, at prices which would make us go bankrupt in a week?"</p> <p>Marshall rubbed at his mustache, as he always did when he was nervous. Another rather infuriating family habit. "Well, I imagine it would take longer than a week. A few months in the very least."</p> <p>This time, Mr. Dark couldn't resist. Rub rub. Itch itch. It was a somewhat ironic fact, he pondered, that the Marshalls were never the sharpest knives in the drawer, despite the alarming frequency in which they used them. Oh, they were certainly very good at their specific fields of interest, of that there could be no doubt. Just point a Marshall at an unsuspecting continent, and soon it would contain no piece of ground untrodden by big shiny boots, no natural resources untapped, no historical relic unplundered, and no native populace unharassed and still in possession of its wealth. You just had to make sure to let someone else handle the finance, since they'd probably spend it all on brandy, gunpowder and hair care products.</p> <p>The current Marshall was an exemplary specimen of the family. Stout, solid, and with the curiosity and imagination of a brick. The man's mother has been a bit too fond of reading, hence his rather unfitting literary name, but Mr. Dark couldn't really blame the poor woman. When you were married to a Marshall, you had to do something in order to keep your intellect from shriveling and folding into itself, like a dried-up snail.</p> <p>Mr. Dark shivered. That was a lesson he only needed to learn once.</p> <p>"Regardless how you want to define it, it is most certainly a problem that needs to be addressed quickly." Carter cut in, probably in order to save his partner further roasting glares from Mr. Dark. He probably regretted that decision when that very same glare transferred to him, but to Carter's credit, Mr. Dark thought, he bore it with far more class.</p> <p>"You say it's a problem, but you didn't even bother to mention who's behind it. Is it the Factory again? Some new line of blood-powered mixers or something?"</p> <p>"The products don't really fit their usual style. They don't seem mass-produced at all, really, and if there are, whoever is doing it is putting a lot more money into their production than the Factory."</p> <p>"So not them. Is it another relic from the Prometheus days then, or some wayward Alexylva experiments?"</p> <p>"Nothing to tie any of the products to them, and it's usually very easy to tell."</p> <p>"I bloody well know it's easy to tell! In case you've forgotten, I've been in this business since before you were born, you sniveling welp!" Mr. Dark barked at Carter, who manged to hide his flinch almost completely. Much as he hated to admit it, Edwin Carter had quite impressed Mr. Dark since they first began their business relations, shortly after the death of the former's father. That Carter was an idiot of almost impressive proportions, actually managing to make his contemporary Marshall seem intelligent by comparison, which was no mean feat. Carter Jr. was made of different stuff, however. Under his management, Marshall, Carter & Dark's Acquisitions Department went from a corrupt, barely controllable mess of mercenaries, sellswords and other scum into a well-oiled, well-performing and above all loyal machine. It really was a shame that the man looked like some sort of mix between a cave-dwelling frog and a permanently constipated iguana, but you couldn't have everything.</p> <p>Said unfortunate hybrid now cleared his throat. "My apologies, Mr. Dark, I didn't mean to offend."</p> <p>Mr. Dark waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it. So it's not them, fine. Did young Wondertainment finally crawl out of her pile of ice cream and corgis then? Didn't think she had it in her, honestly. Too much like her daft father."</p> <p>Carter hesitated. "She… indeed has, but we don't think that has anything to do with the current situation. Although what we suspect she's planning on might prove to be a different problem."</p> <p>"Well surely it can't be Uncle Merl, or…" Mr. Dark's expression turned sour, and the itch in his hands returned with renewed vigor, "Deer."</p> <p>Marshall, finally regaining some courage, chuckled at that. "We wouldn't have bothered you with those buffoons."</p> <p>"The truth is," Carter said, "is that we have no idea who's behind this."</p> <p>"So why don't you, and I know this might seem like a mad idea, why don't you use our terribly vast and terribly expensive intelligence network to bloody find out?!"</p> <p>Carter gulped. "We tried, Mr. Dark, but every Acquisitor I've sent either came back empty-handed or… not at all."</p> <p>"And that's not all," Marshall added. "Three hours ago, our connection with the Singapore Auction House went silent. When the men I sent there arrived, it was empty, I do mean empty."</p> <p>God damn, but Mr. Dark's hands itched. He peered at them, keeping them in the corner of his eyes. He never liked how they looked in the middle of the process, elegant as it was. The left hand was pale, thickly veined, covered with liver spots. The right was darker, almost brown, and as smooth as Mr. Dark's credit record. "What do you mean, 'and I do mean empty?'"</p> <p>"I mean that there was nothing there. All of the items stored, all of our sales personnel and my security staff, even the bloody furniture, down to the power sockets and wallpaper. Everything was gone."</p> <p>"And you say you have no idea who's responsible for this? For the contents of an entire Auction House disappearing off the face of the Earth?"</p> <p>Marshall stiffened. "I assure you, my Downsizers are at this very moment applying themselves to the task of finding whoever's to blame for this. They never fail!"</p> <p>Downsizers. Mr. Dark remembered the days when the Club's group of head hunters and assassins were called something rather different. He was quite fond of the old name, though in retrospect he did understand the decision to change it. It wasn't really keeping to the spirit of the times. Plus, it was more than a bit racist, and the Club did always try to cater to as wide an audience as possible (within reason, of course). The only color that mattered, after all, was the color of currency.</p> <p>"Regardless of Marshall and the Downsizers' never-failing efforts, Mr. Dark," said Carter, his tone making clear his opinion on their chances of success, "And whether or not there's a connection between our new business rival and the recent incident in the Auction House, I took the liberty of acquiring a few of the items that the competition recently introduced to the market. I think you might find them of interest."</p> <p>Mr. Dark nodded, absent-mindedly scratching at a liver-spotted hand, and Carter reached for his pocket, taking out a small box of polished, deeply colored wood. Connected to the box was a round silvery button. Carter left the box on the liqueur table next to Mr. Dark's recliner, and exited the room. A few moments later he returned, this time carrying with him a covered cage. He positioned the cage next to the box, and lifted the cover to reveal a live hen, quietly clucking to itself.</p> <p>"Observe."</p> <p>He pressed the button. The hen shifted slightly, and began clucking louder. After a few seconds of that there was a sudden <em>popping</em> sound, and seemingly out of nowhere, an egg appeared next to the hen.</p> <p>Mr. Dark didn't quite know what to make of that. "Is this… is this some sort of zen questions solver or something?" he asked, but Carter just shook his head and pressed the button again.</p> <p><em>Cluck. cluck cluck CLUCK!</em></p> <p><em>Pop.</em></p> <p>And now next to the egg were a raw green potato, a tomato, a head of lettuce, some olives, and what appeared to be half an ingot of sliver.</p> <p>"Er…" Another shake of the head, another press of the button.</p> <p><em>Cluck. Cluck. Cluckcluckcluckcluckcluuu-Biff</em></p> <p>"And this is the reason, Mr. Dark, that I believe we have a problem." Carter said.</p> <p>Mr. Dark could only nod, as he reached a slightly shaky hand to the cage and removed the top. And from the cage, he collected what was now a perfectly roasted and garnished chicken, with a side of mashed potatoes and a green salad. All served on a flawless silver platter. Disconcertingly, of the tomato there was no sign.</p> <p>Marshall approached and, using his rather sizable pocket knife, skewered a piece of roast chicken. He chewed it thoughtfully, and declared, "It's alright, I suppose. A bit bland."</p> <p>"Yes. Quite."</p> <hr/> <p>A certain distance from the stately building which housed the lavishly tasteful (or perhaps tastefully lavish) clubhouse, a man sat at his office. At a first glance, and probably at the few following that one, neither appeared particularly special, and indeed, the office wasn't, other than the wasp nest hidden in one of the walls. The man, however — if a discerning gentleman or lady were to look carefully — did in fact have something to distinguish him from your mundane Joe or Jane. Namely, the fact that he was at the time conversing with a god.</p> <p>And that he was smiling.</p> <p>"And so you see, aha, we simply cannot continue on our current expansion schedule with the current production roster. How can I be expected to work in these conditions, is what I ask you? The forms aren't neat, there are candles everywhere, and I'm sure one of them tried luring me into a circle at one point, which is not something I appreciate, no I don't. And don't even get me started about break room etiquette. No, you know what, you need to hear what I have to say about their break room etiquette- it is below acceptable standards, I tell you, considerably below acceptable standards, and another thing-"</p> <p>Not because of anything the god said, mind you. The man lost track of that hours ago. It was something about the high costs of thaumic levies and how mages these days couldn't fill a MAG-97 form to save their wrinkly skins. For a being of immeasurable power and presumably intelligence beyond the ken of mortals, the man was surprised to find out that his god was a very boring person indeed. He wasn't really sure why it surprised him that much, since the god was, after all, an extension of the man himself, and didn't this whole thing begun in the first place because the man found himself to be so utterly, disgustingly boring? Indeed it had. It seemed that he couldn't escape that truth about himself, not even by summoning the vast, unknowable powers of the grand cosmos.</p> <p>"Are you listening to me? Doesn't look like you're listening to me. I can smite you, you know, I could do it right now, leave a greasy stain on the floor and everything, and wouldn't you feel silly then? Yes you would. Although… that would get me in trouble with the cleaning ladies. No, that wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all, that. They'll have me running about cleaning the trash bins for weeks, and that's no task for a god, no it is not. And that's without even going into-"</p> <p>The man smiled again. Well, if the vast, unknowable powers of the grand cosmos couldn't break the monotony that was his life, he'd have to turn to an even greater power, the most powerful force there ever was.</p> <p>Almighty Consumerism.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-question-of-commerce">A Question of Commerce</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-question-of-commerce">https://scpwiki.com/a-question-of-commerce</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]] [[/>]] Behind the facade of a stately building, within a clubhouse that could be described as tastefully lavish (or perhaps lavishly tasteful), nested between the high arms of a soft leather recliner, sat Mr. Dark. He was not in a particularly good mood. While Mr. Dark would never be considered an especially jovial person by any discerning lady or gentleman, the frown currently inhabiting his features was directed at something other than the world in general. Specifically, its targets were the two other men currently occupying the room. They were standing, of course. When you were in the presence of Mr. Dark, you stood, and none knew that better than Hareton Marshall and Edwin Carter. Mr. Dark made sure of that. Indeed, they have been standing there for the last fifteen minutes. That was probably enough, Mr. Dark decided. "New competition, you say?" Marshall cleared his throat, an act that sent ripples through both prodigious chin and even more prodigious mustache. During his lengthy acquaintance with the Marshall family, Mr. Dark didn't recall a single born member of the family who didn't eventually end up sporting one of the ridiculous things. Even the women. //Especially// the women. "Well, not as such. Wouldn't call it competition as such. Not in so many words." Mr. Dark only barely resisted rubbing at his temples. Not out of any worry at offending Marshall, since he was never much concerned with that, but because his hands were itching terribly. They always did that when that time of year came, but he never got used to it. "Then how would you, pray tell, describe the act of selling products similar to our own, to the same customer base, at prices which would make us go bankrupt in a week?" Marshall rubbed at his mustache, as he always did when he was nervous. Another rather infuriating family habit. "Well, I imagine it would take longer than a week. A few months in the very least." This time, Mr. Dark couldn't resist. Rub rub. Itch itch. It was a somewhat ironic fact, he pondered, that the Marshalls were never the sharpest knives in the drawer, despite the alarming frequency in which they used them. Oh, they were certainly very good at their specific fields of interest, of that there could be no doubt. Just point a Marshall at an unsuspecting continent, and soon it would contain no piece of ground untrodden by big shiny boots, no natural resources untapped, no historical relic unplundered, and no native populace unharassed and still in possession of its wealth. You just had to make sure to let someone else handle the finance, since they'd probably spend it all on brandy, gunpowder and hair care products. The current Marshall was an exemplary specimen of the family. Stout, solid, and with the curiosity and imagination of a brick. The man's mother has been a bit too fond of reading, hence his rather unfitting literary name, but Mr. Dark couldn't really blame the poor woman. When you were married to a Marshall, you had to do something in order to keep your intellect from shriveling and folding into itself, like a dried-up snail. Mr. Dark shivered. That was a lesson he only needed to learn once. "Regardless how you want to define it, it is most certainly a problem that needs to be addressed quickly." Carter cut in, probably in order to save his partner further roasting glares from Mr. Dark. He probably regretted that decision when that very same glare transferred to him, but to Carter's credit, Mr. Dark thought, he bore it with far more class. "You say it's a problem, but you didn't even bother to mention who's behind it. Is it the Factory again? Some new line of blood-powered mixers or something?" "The products don't really fit their usual style. They don't seem mass-produced at all, really, and if there are, whoever is doing it is putting a lot more money into their production than the Factory." "So not them. Is it another relic from the Prometheus days then, or some wayward Alexylva experiments?" "Nothing to tie any of the products to them, and it's usually very easy to tell." "I bloody well know it's easy to tell! In case you've forgotten, I've been in this business since before you were born, you sniveling welp!" Mr. Dark barked at Carter, who manged to hide his flinch almost completely. Much as he hated to admit it, Edwin Carter had quite impressed Mr. Dark since they first began their business relations, shortly after the death of the former's father. That Carter was an idiot of almost impressive proportions, actually managing to make his contemporary Marshall seem intelligent by comparison, which was no mean feat. Carter Jr. was made of different stuff, however. Under his management, Marshall, Carter & Dark's Acquisitions Department went from a corrupt, barely controllable mess of mercenaries, sellswords and other scum into a well-oiled, well-performing and above all loyal machine. It really was a shame that the man looked like some sort of mix between a cave-dwelling frog and a permanently constipated iguana, but you couldn't have everything. Said unfortunate hybrid now cleared his throat. "My apologies, Mr. Dark, I didn't mean to offend." Mr. Dark waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it. So it's not them, fine. Did young Wondertainment finally crawl out of her pile of ice cream and corgis then? Didn't think she had it in her, honestly. Too much like her daft father." Carter hesitated. "She... indeed has, but we don't think that has anything to do with the current situation. Although what we suspect she's planning on might prove to be a different problem." "Well surely it can't be Uncle Merl, or..." Mr. Dark's expression turned sour, and the itch in his hands returned with renewed vigor, "Deer." Marshall, finally regaining some courage, chuckled at that. "We wouldn't have bothered you with those buffoons." "The truth is," Carter said, "is that we have no idea who's behind this." "So why don't you, and I know this might seem like a mad idea, why don't you use our terribly vast and terribly expensive intelligence network to bloody find out?!" Carter gulped. "We tried, Mr. Dark, but every Acquisitor I've sent either came back empty-handed or... not at all." "And that's not all," Marshall added. "Three hours ago, our connection with the Singapore Auction House went silent. When the men I sent there arrived, it was empty, I do mean empty." God damn, but Mr. Dark's hands itched. He peered at them, keeping them in the corner of his eyes. He never liked how they looked in the middle of the process, elegant as it was. The left hand was pale, thickly veined, covered with liver spots. The right was darker, almost brown, and as smooth as Mr. Dark's credit record. "What do you mean, 'and I do mean empty?'" "I mean that there was nothing there. All of the items stored, all of our sales personnel and my security staff, even the bloody furniture, down to the power sockets and wallpaper. Everything was gone." "And you say you have no idea who's responsible for this? For the contents of an entire Auction House disappearing off the face of the Earth?" Marshall stiffened. "I assure you, my Downsizers are at this very moment applying themselves to the task of finding whoever's to blame for this. They never fail!" Downsizers. Mr. Dark remembered the days when the Club's group of head hunters and assassins were called something rather different. He was quite fond of the old name, though in retrospect he did understand the decision to change it. It wasn't really keeping to the spirit of the times. Plus, it was more than a bit racist, and the Club did always try to cater to as wide an audience as possible (within reason, of course). The only color that mattered, after all, was the color of currency. "Regardless of Marshall and the Downsizers' never-failing efforts, Mr. Dark," said Carter, his tone making clear his opinion on their chances of success, "And whether or not there's a connection between our new business rival and the recent incident in the Auction House, I took the liberty of acquiring a few of the items that the competition recently introduced to the market. I think you might find them of interest." Mr. Dark nodded, absent-mindedly scratching at a liver-spotted hand, and Carter reached for his pocket, taking out a small box of polished, deeply colored wood. Connected to the box was a round silvery button. Carter left the box on the liqueur table next to Mr. Dark's recliner, and exited the room. A few moments later he returned, this time carrying with him a covered cage. He positioned the cage next to the box, and lifted the cover to reveal a live hen, quietly clucking to itself. "Observe." He pressed the button. The hen shifted slightly, and began clucking louder. After a few seconds of that there was a sudden //popping// sound, and seemingly out of nowhere, an egg appeared next to the hen. Mr. Dark didn't quite know what to make of that. "Is this... is this some sort of zen questions solver or something?" he asked, but Carter just shook his head and pressed the button again. //Cluck. cluck cluck CLUCK!// //Pop.// And now next to the egg were a raw green potato, a tomato, a head of lettuce, some olives, and what appeared to be half an ingot of sliver. "Er..." Another shake of the head, another press of the button. //Cluck. Cluck. Cluckcluckcluckcluckcluuu-Biff// "And this is the reason, Mr. Dark, that I believe we have a problem." Carter said. Mr. Dark could only nod, as he reached a slightly shaky hand to the cage and removed the top. And from the cage, he collected what was now a perfectly roasted and garnished chicken, with a side of mashed potatoes and a green salad. All served on a flawless silver platter. Disconcertingly, of the tomato there was no sign. Marshall approached and, using his rather sizable pocket knife, skewered a piece of roast chicken. He chewed it thoughtfully, and declared, "It's alright, I suppose. A bit bland." "Yes. Quite." ---- A certain distance from the stately building which housed the lavishly tasteful (or perhaps tastefully lavish) clubhouse, a man sat at his office. At a first glance, and probably at the few following that one, neither appeared particularly special, and indeed, the office wasn't, other than the wasp nest hidden in one of the walls. The man, however -- if a discerning gentleman or lady were to look carefully -- did in fact have something to distinguish him from your mundane Joe or Jane. Namely, the fact that he was at the time conversing with a god. And that he was smiling. "And so you see, aha, we simply cannot continue on our current expansion schedule with the current production roster. How can I be expected to work in these conditions, is what I ask you? The forms aren't neat, there are candles everywhere, and I'm sure one of them tried luring me into a circle at one point, which is not something I appreciate, no I don't. And don't even get me started about break room etiquette. No, you know what, you need to hear what I have to say about their break room etiquette- it is below acceptable standards, I tell you, considerably below acceptable standards, and another thing-" Not because of anything the god said, mind you. The man lost track of that hours ago. It was something about the high costs of thaumic levies and how mages these days couldn't fill a MAG-97 form to save their wrinkly skins. For a being of immeasurable power and presumably intelligence beyond the ken of mortals, the man was surprised to find out that his god was a very boring person indeed. He wasn't really sure why it surprised him that much, since the god was, after all, an extension of the man himself, and didn't this whole thing begun in the first place because the man found himself to be so utterly, disgustingly boring? Indeed it had. It seemed that he couldn't escape that truth about himself, not even by summoning the vast, unknowable powers of the grand cosmos. "Are you listening to me? Doesn't look like you're listening to me. I can smite you, you know, I could do it right now, leave a greasy stain on the floor and everything, and wouldn't you feel silly then? Yes you would. Although... that would get me in trouble with the cleaning ladies. No, that wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all, that. They'll have me running about cleaning the trash bins for weeks, and that's no task for a god, no it is not. And that's without even going into-" The man smiled again. Well, if the vast, unknowable powers of the grand cosmos couldn't break the monotony that was his life, he'd have to turn to an even greater power, the most powerful force there ever was. Almighty Consumerism. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-11T00:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "tale" ]	A Question of Commerce - SCP Foundation	43	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20927010	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-question-of-commerce
a-shift-at-the-factory	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Anthony lifted his goggles from his eyes. He watched the man working at the nearest conveyor belt. Anthony had never bothered to learn the man's name, despite working with him for almost three years. It just wasn't something you did at The Factory. Work related accidents were all too common to really build up a rapport. And if you weren't one of the people who suffered from a lethal accident, or among the few that would simply throw themselves into the machinery, there was the ever-present threat of simply disappearing.</p> <p>Yet, after three years, Anthony was still alive. Still working in The Factory instead of off fighting Nazis. He had lost most of his left hand at some point, he couldn't entirely remember when or how as the lengths of the shifts caused one's sense of time to dilate somewhat. But he was still employed. And so was the man at the nearest conveyor belt. Unlike most employees, the man was unharmed despite his length of employment. Anthony wasn't really sure how that was possible, but apparently he had found a way.</p> <p>The man was stamping The Factory's mark onto a series of circular tin containers that looked like they were already coated in rust. He brought the lever down and The Factory brought down one of its many arms and embossed the bottom of the little tin. Then the belt whirred briefly, and a new tin sat before the man. He repeated the action, his eyes unfocused.</p> <p>Anthony felt a sweltering heat encase him as he pulled his goggles back on. He wrapped a shiny hoop around the cylindrical chamber and welded the ends together to reinforce the frame. Welding with only one-and-a-half hands should have been near impossible, but he had never found it to be much of an obstacle. Anthony wasn't even sure what the thing was meant to do, he just was to create the central chamber and then drag it over to the woman who would affix the gauges and tubes to it. Then he would go back to his station to find the beginnings of another chamber. He never bothered to find out where they came from. Questions in The Factory often led to unpleasant answers.</p> <hr/> <p>It was toward the end of a shift when it happened. Anthony was delirious to the point where he tried welding without his goggles. Before he could place the torch to metal a hand placed itself on his shoulder. He looked up to the Manager, which wagged one of its many fingers as a playful warning. Anthony took a few moments to realize what to do, but he pulled the goggles back over his eyes. He was sure his eyes would begin boiling, but he knew the Manager would reprimand him with much worse. He felt the Manager pat his head gently, and Anthony could see it walking away in the edges of his goggled vision. He thanked it and it waved him a nonchalant dismissal with its various limbs.</p> <p>Anthony was about to start welding properly when he noticed the man at the conveyor belt was acting strangely. A grin covered the man's face. Anthony discounted it as his exhausted mind; no one smiled at The Factory. The man bent down, rummaged through his bag, and came back up with two small toy robots. They didn't resemble something of Factory make. They were too shiny, too new looking. He placed one on the console and seemed to whisper mad nothings to it before carrying the robot's twin after the retreating Manager, leaving his bag open. The little toy on the console turned to face the conveyor belt and yanked on the lever, but nothing happened. The man didn't notice in his rush after his superior.</p> <p>The Manager turned around when it heard running footsteps. Work momentarily halted as everyone watched the proceedings. Nothing like this had ever happened before, at least not during their shifts. The Manager watched the man approach and took the toy when it was offered. It examined the device, turning it over time and again. It gestured to the man, who nodded and claimed to have created the little marvel — and many others just like it.</p> <p>The Manager held the toy in its appendages as it held it at the man's eye level. Anthony grimaced when the metal crumpled helplessly in the Manager's grip. The man looked like he had been shot. He lifted his cupped hands and the Manager dropped the ball of scrap into his hands. With a swift motion the Manager brought down an arm, removing both of the man's hands. They and the former robot hit the ground with a wet clang.</p> <p>The Manager took note of the abandoned conveyor belt and glided over to it. The man scooped up his hands and cradled the wreckage against him. He followed the Manager back to his work station. It swept up the robot standing on the console and set it atop the waiting tin. The man called out in terror.</p> <p>The toy viewed its creator and its fallen brother silently. It turned to the Manager. The Manager wrapped a tendril around the lever. The man fell to his knees before his superior, but was ignored. Anthony lowered himself to watch the man dig into his bag sitting by the console. The man brought out a small tube that reminded Anthony of toothpaste, holding it as if his arms were chopsticks. The man chewed off one end and bit the tube, squirting something yellow-green onto the stumps he called wrists. The man fiddled with the wreckage before stuffing the metal ball into the bag. He hooked his arm through the bag's straps and dashed off. Anthony noticed that the man's hands were somehow reattached, though they didn't look to be moving. The Manager watched the man run off and pulled what looked like a pistol from seemingly nowhere.</p> <p>The Manager spoke in words Anthony did not understand and aimed the pistol at the retreating toymaker.</p> <p>The toymaker let out a yell that Anthony didn't understand the meaning of, though he at least understood the words.</p> <p>The toy responded to its maker's cry by opening up its chest and firing a rocket at the Manager's face.</p> <p>The floor of The Factory that Anthony was on stopped. The conveyor belts halted, the welding torches went out, and for a brief moment the workers didn't even breathe. Then something broke the silence. A single sentence, spoken in a tinny voice. Something no doubt meant for the dying Manager.</p> <p>"DO NOT INTIMIDATE THE WORKING MAN."</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-shift-at-the-factory">A Shift at The Factory</a>" by TwistedGears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-shift-at-the-factory">https://scpwiki.com/a-shift-at-the-factory</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]] [[/>]] Anthony lifted his goggles from his eyes. He watched the man working at the nearest conveyor belt. Anthony had never bothered to learn the man's name, despite working with him for almost three years. It just wasn't something you did at The Factory. Work related accidents were all too common to really build up a rapport. And if you weren't one of the people who suffered from a lethal accident, or among the few that would simply throw themselves into the machinery, there was the ever-present threat of simply disappearing. Yet, after three years, Anthony was still alive. Still working in The Factory instead of off fighting Nazis. He had lost most of his left hand at some point, he couldn't entirely remember when or how as the lengths of the shifts caused one's sense of time to dilate somewhat. But he was still employed. And so was the man at the nearest conveyor belt. Unlike most employees, the man was unharmed despite his length of employment. Anthony wasn't really sure how that was possible, but apparently he had found a way. The man was stamping The Factory's mark onto a series of circular tin containers that looked like they were already coated in rust. He brought the lever down and The Factory brought down one of its many arms and embossed the bottom of the little tin. Then the belt whirred briefly, and a new tin sat before the man. He repeated the action, his eyes unfocused. Anthony felt a sweltering heat encase him as he pulled his goggles back on. He wrapped a shiny hoop around the cylindrical chamber and welded the ends together to reinforce the frame. Welding with only one-and-a-half hands should have been near impossible, but he had never found it to be much of an obstacle. Anthony wasn't even sure what the thing was meant to do, he just was to create the central chamber and then drag it over to the woman who would affix the gauges and tubes to it. Then he would go back to his station to find the beginnings of another chamber. He never bothered to find out where they came from. Questions in The Factory often led to unpleasant answers. ---- It was toward the end of a shift when it happened. Anthony was delirious to the point where he tried welding without his goggles. Before he could place the torch to metal a hand placed itself on his shoulder. He looked up to the Manager, which wagged one of its many fingers as a playful warning. Anthony took a few moments to realize what to do, but he pulled the goggles back over his eyes. He was sure his eyes would begin boiling, but he knew the Manager would reprimand him with much worse. He felt the Manager pat his head gently, and Anthony could see it walking away in the edges of his goggled vision. He thanked it and it waved him a nonchalant dismissal with its various limbs. Anthony was about to start welding properly when he noticed the man at the conveyor belt was acting strangely. A grin covered the man's face. Anthony discounted it as his exhausted mind; no one smiled at The Factory. The man bent down, rummaged through his bag, and came back up with two small toy robots. They didn't resemble something of Factory make. They were too shiny, too new looking. He placed one on the console and seemed to whisper mad nothings to it before carrying the robot's twin after the retreating Manager, leaving his bag open. The little toy on the console turned to face the conveyor belt and yanked on the lever, but nothing happened. The man didn't notice in his rush after his superior. The Manager turned around when it heard running footsteps. Work momentarily halted as everyone watched the proceedings. Nothing like this had ever happened before, at least not during their shifts. The Manager watched the man approach and took the toy when it was offered. It examined the device, turning it over time and again. It gestured to the man, who nodded and claimed to have created the little marvel -- and many others just like it. The Manager held the toy in its appendages as it held it at the man's eye level. Anthony grimaced when the metal crumpled helplessly in the Manager's grip. The man looked like he had been shot. He lifted his cupped hands and the Manager dropped the ball of scrap into his hands. With a swift motion the Manager brought down an arm, removing both of the man's hands. They and the former robot hit the ground with a wet clang. The Manager took note of the abandoned conveyor belt and glided over to it. The man scooped up his hands and cradled the wreckage against him. He followed the Manager back to his work station. It swept up the robot standing on the console and set it atop the waiting tin. The man called out in terror. The toy viewed its creator and its fallen brother silently. It turned to the Manager. The Manager wrapped a tendril around the lever. The man fell to his knees before his superior, but was ignored. Anthony lowered himself to watch the man dig into his bag sitting by the console. The man brought out a small tube that reminded Anthony of toothpaste, holding it as if his arms were chopsticks. The man chewed off one end and bit the tube, squirting something yellow-green onto the stumps he called wrists. The man fiddled with the wreckage before stuffing the metal ball into the bag. He hooked his arm through the bag's straps and dashed off. Anthony noticed that the man's hands were somehow reattached, though they didn't look to be moving. The Manager watched the man run off and pulled what looked like a pistol from seemingly nowhere. The Manager spoke in words Anthony did not understand and aimed the pistol at the retreating toymaker. The toymaker let out a yell that Anthony didn't understand the meaning of, though he at least understood the words. The toy responded to its maker's cry by opening up its chest and firing a rocket at the Manager's face. The floor of The Factory that Anthony was on stopped. The conveyor belts halted, the welding torches went out, and for a brief moment the workers didn't even breathe. Then something broke the silence. A single sentence, spoken in a tinny voice. Something no doubt meant for the dying Manager. "DO NOT INTIMIDATE THE WORKING MAN." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-21T04:03:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "factory", "fantasy", "tale" ]	A Shift at The Factory - SCP Foundation	229	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "factory-hub", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	20703313	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-shift-at-the-factory
a-slumber-did-my-spirit-seal	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>To the Parents of Sergeant Johnathan Percy,</p> <p>It is with the deepest regret that we inform you that your son has fallen in the line of duty this Monday, the 12th of August. Due to the sensitivity of the task he was involved in fulfilling in the time of his death, as well as other circumstances we are not at liberty to discuss, further details may not be divulged at this moment. He died for a cause he truly believed in, that much can be said.</p> <p>For details concerning reparations and funeral arrangements, please contact our representatives as detailed on the attached sheet.</p> <p>Respectfully yours,</p> <p>Director Thomas McCain, SpearCross Private Solutions</p> </blockquote> <p>I got a closed-casket funeral, they tell me. Makes sense enough. Templeton told me it was a private thing, real respectable. My folks probably weren't too surprised to hear I was gone, and between you and me, I figure they were counting themselves lucky that they at least got something out of it. God knows I brought them very little joy when I was alive.</p> <p>I see that look on your face. You're wondering why I'm speaking in the past tense. Obviously, I'm still alive now. Breathing, eating, talking, shitting, the whole nine yards. And that's true, I suppose. It's just hard to think about it that way, from where I'm standing. Sorry, I'm rambling again, I tend to do that when I get company. You have some questions, I'm sure, you folks usually do.</p> <p>How was I exposed? That's an unusual thing to ask. Most of you just read the reports and go straight to the meat. I guess you're not the trusting type, maybe that's why they choose you this time. Honestly, there isn't much to tell. I died in a work accident, air conditioner fell on my head. My body got transferred to the morgue, as per release papers, and was selected for testing due to the mundane COD. Now, the report will tell you they understood 447 shouldn't be tested on bodies right from the get go, but that's just them covering their ass. No, it took some testing, and I was one of those volunteered.</p> <p>It worked, as you see. Five minutes in that thing, and I was back on my feet, right as rain. Ah, I see what you're doing there, looking at that file. What is that, the psych evaluation? I'd take that with a pinch of salt if I were you. See, there's nothing wrong with me, or with any of the others. 447 makes the dead come back to life. That's it. No zombies, or mutants, or any of that monkey-paw bullshit.</p> <p>The only thing that makes me different from you, and why I'm on this side of the glass and you're on the other, is that I saw what comes next. I went into light, through the other side of the tunnel. There's nothing there. The word really isn't sufficient in explaining it, since it has substance, and a history. When you think "nothing", you think of a black void, or a featureless white plain, or whatever. You think of yourself stranded there, stuck in nothingness forever.</p> <p>There is no void, or white plain. There's no self to be stuck in them either. You just cease. And that's why we're here. We're here because we know the Foundation's deepest, darkest secret.</p> <p>It's pointless. Not as dramatic as you might have hoped, but that's just it. Nothing the Foundation does, or anyone else for that matter, means anything at all. The wonders it preserves, and the monstrosities, every life saved or lost, every act of heroism, every atrocity committed, every revelation, every bit of progress, every creative spark, every soul lost to madness. All of that, for the sake of humanity. For a picture drawn in sand. For nothing.</p> <p>This is why they think no one can know. The Foundation likes to pretend it's all about science, reason, cold facts. Nonsense. It's about faith. Even the most jaded of researchers has to believe in something in order to do what we… what you do, after all. It can be reason, or the scientific method, or the greater good, or even God. Seeing us, knowing what we know… well, that would tear the Foundation apart, as they see it. So they keep us quiet and hidden, and make everyone else believe we're monsters. They might very well believe in that themselves, most days. Every once in a while though, they get restless. They think, 'we must have missed something, there must be something more to them than that'. That's when they send someone like you.</p> <p>I'll tell you what I told your predecessors, and what I told the O5s, at the time. You should be glad. There's nothing for you to fear anymore. All of the things that keep you awake at night, the barely contained horrors that can so easily overwhelm you if you let your guard slip for just a moment? Just let them out. The world will burn, and people will die, and that would be that. It's all the same, after all, and at least that way it will be quick. At least you could sleep soundly, if but for a short while.</p> <p>Anything else I want to tell you? No, not really. That's it then? Shame. Well, I suppose you have better things to do. Reports to fill, scips to contain, a world to protect. Good for you, keeping yourself busy. Could you do me a favor? Could you get me a ball? A few coins, maybe? Man, I'd kill for a deck of cards. It gets real dull in here, sometimes.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Progress report SCP-447-1-A</strong></p> <p>Instances of SCP-447-1 continue to exhibit extreme subversive tendencies towards the Foundation and its objectives, as well as displaying the previously observed nihilistic sentiments. Until further notice, all communication with instances of SCP-447-1 are to be treated as unreliable due to the subtle memetic properties inherent to their speech. Inquiries as to the true nature of SCP-447 are to continue at the discretion of O5 Command.</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="/a-slumber-did-my-spirit-seal">A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-slumber-did-my-spirit-seal">https://scpwiki.com/a-slumber-did-my-spirit-seal</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]] [[/>]] > To the Parents of Sergeant Johnathan Percy, > > It is with the deepest regret that we inform you that your son has fallen in the line of duty this Monday, the 12th of August. Due to the sensitivity of the task he was involved in fulfilling in the time of his death, as well as other circumstances we are not at liberty to discuss, further details may not be divulged at this moment. He died for a cause he truly believed in, that much can be said. > > For details concerning reparations and funeral arrangements, please contact our representatives as detailed on the attached sheet. > > Respectfully yours, > > Director Thomas McCain, SpearCross Private Solutions I got a closed-casket funeral, they tell me. Makes sense enough. Templeton told me it was a private thing, real respectable. My folks probably weren't too surprised to hear I was gone, and between you and me, I figure they were counting themselves lucky that they at least got something out of it. God knows I brought them very little joy when I was alive. I see that look on your face. You're wondering why I'm speaking in the past tense. Obviously, I'm still alive now. Breathing, eating, talking, shitting, the whole nine yards. And that's true, I suppose. It's just hard to think about it that way, from where I'm standing. Sorry, I'm rambling again, I tend to do that when I get company. You have some questions, I'm sure, you folks usually do. How was I exposed? That's an unusual thing to ask. Most of you just read the reports and go straight to the meat. I guess you're not the trusting type, maybe that's why they choose you this time. Honestly, there isn't much to tell. I died in a work accident, air conditioner fell on my head. My body got transferred to the morgue, as per release papers, and was selected for testing due to the mundane COD. Now, the report will tell you they understood 447 shouldn't be tested on bodies right from the get go, but that's just them covering their ass. No, it took some testing, and I was one of those volunteered. It worked, as you see. Five minutes in that thing, and I was back on my feet, right as rain. Ah, I see what you're doing there, looking at that file. What is that, the psych evaluation? I'd take that with a pinch of salt if I were you. See, there's nothing wrong with me, or with any of the others. 447 makes the dead come back to life. That's it. No zombies, or mutants, or any of that monkey-paw bullshit. The only thing that makes me different from you, and why I'm on this side of the glass and you're on the other, is that I saw what comes next. I went into light, through the other side of the tunnel. There's nothing there. The word really isn't sufficient in explaining it, since it has substance, and a history. When you think "nothing", you think of a black void, or a featureless white plain, or whatever. You think of yourself stranded there, stuck in nothingness forever. There is no void, or white plain. There's no self to be stuck in them either. You just cease. And that's why we're here. We're here because we know the Foundation's deepest, darkest secret. It's pointless. Not as dramatic as you might have hoped, but that's just it. Nothing the Foundation does, or anyone else for that matter, means anything at all. The wonders it preserves, and the monstrosities, every life saved or lost, every act of heroism, every atrocity committed, every revelation, every bit of progress, every creative spark, every soul lost to madness. All of that, for the sake of humanity. For a picture drawn in sand. For nothing. This is why they think no one can know. The Foundation likes to pretend it's all about science, reason, cold facts. Nonsense. It's about faith. Even the most jaded of researchers has to believe in something in order to do what we... what you do, after all. It can be reason, or the scientific method, or the greater good, or even God. Seeing us, knowing what we know... well, that would tear the Foundation apart, as they see it. So they keep us quiet and hidden, and make everyone else believe we're monsters. They might very well believe in that themselves, most days. Every once in a while though, they get restless. They think, 'we must have missed something, there must be something more to them than that'. That's when they send someone like you. I'll tell you what I told your predecessors, and what I told the O5s, at the time. You should be glad. There's nothing for you to fear anymore. All of the things that keep you awake at night, the barely contained horrors that can so easily overwhelm you if you let your guard slip for just a moment? Just let them out. The world will burn, and people will die, and that would be that. It's all the same, after all, and at least that way it will be quick. At least you could sleep soundly, if but for a short while. Anything else I want to tell you? No, not really. That's it then? Shame. Well, I suppose you have better things to do. Reports to fill, scips to contain, a world to protect. Good for you, keeping yourself busy. Could you do me a favor? Could you get me a ball? A few coins, maybe? Man, I'd kill for a deck of cards. It gets real dull in here, sometimes. > Progress report SCP-447-1-A > > Instances of SCP-447-1 continue to exhibit extreme subversive tendencies towards the Foundation and its objectives, as well as displaying the previously observed nihilistic sentiments. Until further notice, all communication with instances of SCP-447-1 are to be treated as unreliable due to the subtle memetic properties inherent to their speech. Inquiries as to the true nature of SCP-447 are to continue at the discretion of O5 Command. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-27T18:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "afterlife", "first-person", "five-questions", "horror", "mystery", "tale" ]	A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal - SCP Foundation	238	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "five-questions", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations", "contest-archive" ]	[]	16536628	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-slumber-did-my-spirit-seal
a-very-bailey-christmas	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Whenever he had nothing better to do, Tristan Bailey would look at a picture of his family that sat on his desk. In the picture, him, Trevor and Tom were only about 8 years old, standing in front of a Christmas tree with their presents in the background. Tom was holding on to a stuffed platypus of all things, Trevor holding up a book about Galileo that he should have been far too young to read, and Tristan was holding up a Nerf gun at the camera, with a dart flying straight at it. Clara, their mother, was standing behind them, signs of age already starting to show on her face. Next to her, giving Tom bunny ears, was their father, Tyler Bailey. Tyler was grinning at the camera, his black beard full and his hair thinning.</p> <p>That was years ago. Since then, for security reasons, Tom, Trevor and Tristan had grown distant from mom. She knew they worked for something called S & C Plastics, but it baffled her why physicists were working for a company like that. And as for dad…</p> <p>Tristan was distracted from his thoughts by a Skype call from Trevor at Site 19. <em>Odd</em>, he thought. <em>It's not 5:00 in Nevada yet. He never calls this early when he's working…</em> A dreadful feeling formed in the pit of his stomach; was there some kind of a breach? Did the MUTA explode? Did 447 touch a dead body?!</p> <p>Tristan opened the window to find Trevor sitting at his desk, smiling stupidly into the camera. "Happy Holidays, Bro."</p> <p>"Happy- Trevor, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Tristan crossed his arms and scowled. "Did you seriously call just to wish me 'Happy Holidays'?"</p> <p>"Actually, no. Tom would've called, but he's busy with a situation in the Empire. Something about killer penguins attacking Foundation zoologists." Trevor looked around, and twiddled his thumbs uncomfortably. "I was just wondering if you… said hi to dad, yet. It is almost Christmas."</p> <p>Tristan rubbed his face and sighed, looking at the picture again, then at his smart watch; he had a five-hour break today. Enough time to visit dad. "I'll do it today. Thanks for reminding me, man. How's the girlfriend?"</p> <p>"Transferred to Wyoming," groaned Trevor. "We're still managing long-distance, though. We're thinking of meeting up in Vegas for the Holidays."</p> <p>"That's good."</p> <p>The two triplets continued conversing about banal things for the next fifteen minutes, until Trevor Bailey's supervisor walked by his workstation and he was forced to close the chat program. Sighing, Tristan rose up from his seat and made his way out of his office, on his way to visit his dad.</p> <hr/> <p>Tyler Bailey, the inventor of Multi-Universal Transit Array, sat in his arm chair reading the latest issue of Weekly World News when a knock came to his door. The 70-something man rose to his feet, making his way towards the door and grabbing a wakizashi that he kept to fend off burglars or worse. When you lived in a town like this, you had to be careful about this kind of thing. He didn't know how to use the sword, but it looked intimidating, and that's what counted.</p> <p>He leaned against the doorframe, calling through the front door. "Who's there?"</p> <p>"Dad, come on," said a familiar voice. "Do you always have to be like this? It's just me."</p> <p>Blinking, Tyler Bailey opened the door to find himself face-to-face with one of his sons. Frowning, he asked a question. "How did Abraham Lincoln die?"</p> <p>Without missing a beat, Tristan answered this question and the others that were to follow. "Shot by John Wilkes Booth while watching <em>Our American Cousin</em> in Ford's Theater. Nixon resigned from office in '74, both Bushes are still alive and are Republicans, and Pope John Paul II was not assassinated. Yes, I'm from the baseline." He smiled wryly at his father, who smiled back and put down the sword.</p> <p>Tyler Bailey hugged Tristan, who did his best to hold back tears of joy. "Hello, son."</p> <p>"Hey, dad. Merry Christmas."</p> <hr/> <p>"I didn't expect you to get here so early!" Tyler Bailey chuckled as he boiled water for some hot chocolate. "I thought you boys weren't arriving until the 23rd!"</p> <p>"I got an early flight," explained Tristan, smiling at his dad. "Tom's probably having trouble down south, and Trevor said he was coming up with his girlfriend. I got lucky."</p> <p>"Took the red-eye, then?"</p> <p>"Yeah. Weiss let me go early just to visit you. She's doing fine, by the way; not at all sore about that thing back in '89."</p> <p>"Good!" Tyler chuckled as he brought hot chocolate to his son, sitting across him at the kitchen table. "So, how goes stuff in Multi-U?"</p> <p>"Dad, you know you shouldn't talk about that stuff; you're no longer Commissioner of the Department."</p> <p>"Bah! The only reason that department exists is because of my invention! I have every right to know about it. Besides, I'm still an employee."</p> <p>"You're a consultant."</p> <p>"Same difference." Tyler Bailey blew on his hot chocolate and smiled at his son. "So, what's new up in old Sloth Spit?"</p> <p>"Not much, really," shrugged Tristan as he took a sip of the drink. "Things got hectic last year because of the whole Mayan Apocalypse thing. We were preparing evac plans for half the US using the portal device…"</p> <p>"Glad the Mayans were wrong about that, eh?" Tyler chuckled. "Besides, if they were right, they didn't account for leap years and shit. If anything, the apocalypse would've happened in February, and we'd all be caught with our pants down."</p> <p>"Mmm," said Tristan, looking at his watch. "Hey, dad, how about we watch that film you like so much?"</p> <p>"Which one?"</p> <p>"You know, that Noir one from the 40's. The one Welles did."</p> <p>Tyler blinked. "The Shadow? But you hate that film!"</p> <p>"It's Christmas. Besides, what else are we gonna watch? Rankin-Bass productions on ABC? The Science of Christmas on Discovery?"</p> <p>"Fair point," noted the elder Bailey, standing up and heading to the living room. "Come on, then. You mind making the popcorn?"</p> <p>"Not at all!" Tristan went into the kitchen, checking his coat pocket as he did so; the syringe was still there, and still capped, for when he needed to use it. He sighed softly to himself and rubbed an eye, before looking in the pantry for some bags of popcorn.</p> <hr/> <p>It was snowing outside when the credits started rolling. Tristan smiled at his dad as the film ended, fiddling in his pocket and looking at his watch; his five hours were almost up, but he still had some time. "Better than I remembered it to be."</p> <p>"Hah!" Tyler Bailey clapped his hand, and looked under the Christmas tree where all the presents were. "…you know, son, if you want, you can open your present early."</p> <p>"Dad!" Tristan stared at his father. "I can't! It wouldn't be fair!"</p> <p>"Bah! I won't tell the others; you can always just re-wrap it. Go ahead, take a look." Tristan moved towards the tree, taking his box-shaped present out from under the tree. He carefully undid the wrapping paper, and smiled at what was underneath: a collectors edition version of Carl Sagan's <em>Cosmos</em>. "I remember how much you loved that series as a kid. You were… what, 5 when that show first came on the air? But you still watched it every night it was on."</p> <p>Tristan sniffed, smiling at his dad as he took out his smart phone and took a picture of the collection, for future reference. "Thanks, dad…" He dug in his pocket briefly, before opening his arms for a hug. Tyler Bailey accepted, hugging his son tight.</p> <p>Tyler Bailey was so happy he didn't even notice the needle with the Class-A amnestic dig into his back and be injected, nor did he notice when he started going to sleep. Tristan sighed and laid his father down on the couch, putting the needle in a Bio-hazard bag and re-wrapping his Christmas present.</p> <p>After some more cleaning up, such as washing out the mugs of hot chocolate and disposing of the popcorn bowl, he stepped out the door, and made his way back to the portal home.</p> <hr/> <p>Tristan Bailey stepped back into the baseline, looking like he was about to cry as the portal shut behind him. Director Weiss was standing there, looking concerned as she spoke up. "How was he?"</p> <p>"He's good. Wasn't suspicious like last year." He handed the Bio-hazard bag to an assistant. "I assume I won't have to write a report about this?"</p> <p>"About what?" The director shrugged. "You were visiting family, simple as that." With that, she started walking out of the department. Tristan followed soon after, stopping in front of a plaque near the door to the Portal Chamber.</p> <blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>THIS LABORATORY IS DEDICATED TO</strong><br/> <strong>DR. TYLER BAILEY</strong><br/> <strong>INVENTOR OF THE MUTA</strong><br/> <strong>1935-1997</strong></p> </div> </blockquote> <p>Tristan smiled softly at the plaque, touching the engraving before walking down the hallway, whistling a Christmas carol to himself.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/a-very-bailey-christmas">A Very Bailey Christmas</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/a-very-bailey-christmas">https://scpwiki.com/a-very-bailey-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]] [[/>]] Whenever he had nothing better to do, Tristan Bailey would look at a picture of his family that sat on his desk. In the picture, him, Trevor and Tom were only about 8 years old, standing in front of a Christmas tree with their presents in the background. Tom was holding on to a stuffed platypus of all things, Trevor holding up a book about Galileo that he should have been far too young to read, and Tristan was holding up a Nerf gun at the camera, with a dart flying straight at it. Clara, their mother, was standing behind them, signs of age already starting to show on her face. Next to her, giving Tom bunny ears, was their father, Tyler Bailey. Tyler was grinning at the camera, his black beard full and his hair thinning. That was years ago. Since then, for security reasons, Tom, Trevor and Tristan had grown distant from mom. She knew they worked for something called S & C Plastics, but it baffled her why physicists were working for a company like that. And as for dad... Tristan was distracted from his thoughts by a Skype call from Trevor at Site 19. //Odd//, he thought. //It's not 5:00 in Nevada yet. He never calls this early when he's working...// A dreadful feeling formed in the pit of his stomach; was there some kind of a breach? Did the MUTA explode? Did 447 touch a dead body?! Tristan opened the window to find Trevor sitting at his desk, smiling stupidly into the camera. "Happy Holidays, Bro." "Happy- Trevor, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Tristan crossed his arms and scowled. "Did you seriously call just to wish me 'Happy Holidays'?" "Actually, no. Tom would've called, but he's busy with a situation in the Empire. Something about killer penguins attacking Foundation zoologists." Trevor looked around, and twiddled his thumbs uncomfortably. "I was just wondering if you... said hi to dad, yet. It is almost Christmas." Tristan rubbed his face and sighed, looking at the picture again, then at his smart watch; he had a five-hour break today. Enough time to visit dad. "I'll do it today. Thanks for reminding me, man. How's the girlfriend?" "Transferred to Wyoming," groaned Trevor. "We're still managing long-distance, though. We're thinking of meeting up in Vegas for the Holidays." "That's good." The two triplets continued conversing about banal things for the next fifteen minutes, until Trevor Bailey's supervisor walked by his workstation and he was forced to close the chat program. Sighing, Tristan rose up from his seat and made his way out of his office, on his way to visit his dad. ------ Tyler Bailey, the inventor of Multi-Universal Transit Array, sat in his arm chair reading the latest issue of Weekly World News when a knock came to his door. The 70-something man rose to his feet, making his way towards the door and grabbing a wakizashi that he kept to fend off burglars or worse. When you lived in a town like this, you had to be careful about this kind of thing. He didn't know how to use the sword, but it looked intimidating, and that's what counted. He leaned against the doorframe, calling through the front door. "Who's there?" "Dad, come on," said a familiar voice. "Do you always have to be like this? It's just me." Blinking, Tyler Bailey opened the door to find himself face-to-face with one of his sons. Frowning, he asked a question. "How did Abraham Lincoln die?" Without missing a beat, Tristan answered this question and the others that were to follow. "Shot by John Wilkes Booth while watching //Our American Cousin// in Ford's Theater. Nixon resigned from office in '74, both Bushes are still alive and are Republicans, and Pope John Paul II was not assassinated. Yes, I'm from the baseline." He smiled wryly at his father, who smiled back and put down the sword. Tyler Bailey hugged Tristan, who did his best to hold back tears of joy. "Hello, son." "Hey, dad. Merry Christmas." ------ "I didn't expect you to get here so early!" Tyler Bailey chuckled as he boiled water for some hot chocolate. "I thought you boys weren't arriving until the 23rd!" "I got an early flight," explained Tristan, smiling at his dad. "Tom's probably having trouble down south, and Trevor said he was coming up with his girlfriend. I got lucky." "Took the red-eye, then?" "Yeah. Weiss let me go early just to visit you. She's doing fine, by the way; not at all sore about that thing back in '89." "Good!" Tyler chuckled as he brought hot chocolate to his son, sitting across him at the kitchen table. "So, how goes stuff in Multi-U?" "Dad, you know you shouldn't talk about that stuff; you're no longer Commissioner of the Department." "Bah! The only reason that department exists is because of my invention! I have every right to know about it. Besides, I'm still an employee." "You're a consultant." "Same difference." Tyler Bailey blew on his hot chocolate and smiled at his son. "So, what's new up in old Sloth Spit?" "Not much, really," shrugged Tristan as he took a sip of the drink. "Things got hectic last year because of the whole Mayan Apocalypse thing. We were preparing evac plans for half the US using the portal device..." "Glad the Mayans were wrong about that, eh?" Tyler chuckled. "Besides, if they were right, they didn't account for leap years and shit. If anything, the apocalypse would've happened in February, and we'd all be caught with our pants down." "Mmm," said Tristan, looking at his watch. "Hey, dad, how about we watch that film you like so much?" "Which one?" "You know, that Noir one from the 40's. The one Welles did." Tyler blinked. "The Shadow? But you hate that film!" "It's Christmas. Besides, what else are we gonna watch? Rankin-Bass productions on ABC? The Science of Christmas on Discovery?" "Fair point," noted the elder Bailey, standing up and heading to the living room. "Come on, then. You mind making the popcorn?" "Not at all!" Tristan went into the kitchen, checking his coat pocket as he did so; the syringe was still there, and still capped, for when he needed to use it. He sighed softly to himself and rubbed an eye, before looking in the pantry for some bags of popcorn. ------ It was snowing outside when the credits started rolling. Tristan smiled at his dad as the film ended, fiddling in his pocket and looking at his watch; his five hours were almost up, but he still had some time. "Better than I remembered it to be." "Hah!" Tyler Bailey clapped his hand, and looked under the Christmas tree where all the presents were. "...you know, son, if you want, you can open your present early." "Dad!" Tristan stared at his father. "I can't! It wouldn't be fair!" "Bah! I won't tell the others; you can always just re-wrap it. Go ahead, take a look." Tristan moved towards the tree, taking his box-shaped present out from under the tree. He carefully undid the wrapping paper, and smiled at what was underneath: a collectors edition version of Carl Sagan's //Cosmos//. "I remember how much you loved that series as a kid. You were... what, 5 when that show first came on the air? But you still watched it every night it was on." Tristan sniffed, smiling at his dad as he took out his smart phone and took a picture of the collection, for future reference. "Thanks, dad..." He dug in his pocket briefly, before opening his arms for a hug. Tyler Bailey accepted, hugging his son tight. Tyler Bailey was so happy he didn't even notice the needle with the Class-A amnestic dig into his back and be injected, nor did he notice when he started going to sleep. Tristan sighed and laid his father down on the couch, putting the needle in a Bio-hazard bag and re-wrapping his Christmas present. After some more cleaning up, such as washing out the mugs of hot chocolate and disposing of the popcorn bowl, he stepped out the door, and made his way back to the portal home. ------ Tristan Bailey stepped back into the baseline, looking like he was about to cry as the portal shut behind him. Director Weiss was standing there, looking concerned as she spoke up. "How was he?" "He's good. Wasn't suspicious like last year." He handed the Bio-hazard bag to an assistant. "I assume I won't have to write a report about this?" "About what?" The director shrugged. "You were visiting family, simple as that." With that, she started walking out of the department. Tristan followed soon after, stopping in front of a plaque near the door to the Portal Chamber. > [[=]] > THIS LABORATORY IS DEDICATED TO > DR. TYLER BAILEY > INVENTOR OF THE MUTA > 1935-1997 > [[/=]] Tristan smiled softly at the plaque, touching the engraving before walking down the hallway, whistling a Christmas carol to himself. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-22T02:01:00	[ "_licensebox", "bailey-brothers", "bittersweet", "christmas", "s&c-plastics", "science-fiction", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	A Very Bailey Christmas - SCP Foundation	164	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "holiday-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	21045657	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-very-bailey-christmas
about-tree-fiddy	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>You know, most folks who think about the ocean usually only think about the surface level. You know, the bright blue areas with all the fish and plant life. Finding Nemo and all that sort of crap. It's mysterious, sure, but there's never any real sense of threat to it. You go down and you know you're coming back up; that sort of thing.</p> <p>But they never think about where I'm going: straight to the bottom. Sure, I'm in a small airtight capsule, the best the Foundation's got on hand at the moment, but that doesn't really do much to distract from the fact that I'm currently 2500 meters down and still going. Let me tell you, when you're hours away from the nearest shore, going down to the bottom of the ocean to retrive a highly dangerous artifact all by yourself, even the best and brightest of the Foundation telling you it'll all be OK isn't nearly enough.</p> <p>I swear, I'm going to kill whoever did this. If 173 had just stayed in its damn cell we wouldn't have to be going through this. But nope, it broke out, killed a bunch of people, vanished off the radar, and was last seen by one of our contacts being dumped out of a boat into the middle of the ocean. We would have taken the bastards doing the dumping into custody had they not jumped in right after it and floated back up as corpses twenty minutes later. Either way, we've got ourselves an SCP stuck at the bottom of the ocean, and I have to go get it.</p> <p>They already went down a few times looking for it. Would have been nice if they'd bothered to think of bringing anything strong enough to dig it out of the muck it's lodged in up to the chest. But no, they only found where the damned thing is, and I'm supposed to go down and drag it up from the briny deep so we can lock it up until next Tuesday, when I'm pretty damned certain we'll have to go through the whole process again. I swear, if it weren't for the health benefits the job has, I'd quit Monday.</p> <p>Christ, it's dark outside. I'm pretty damned certain I saw something moving out there, but I don't want to turn on the floodlights and draw its attention. All I know is that there's water all around me, pretty much no light, and a fucking long way down if anything decides to ram into me. Wonder what the pressure is out there? Probably somewhere in the vicinity of too damn high. Pretty much the opposite of the temp…</p> <p>Why do the readings on the pannel indicate that I'm being pulled sharply westward? There aren't any major channels nearby, so it can't be that. It'd take something massive to pull with that much force, like a huge-ass drain pipe, or… a… Let's turn the sub around so I can get a better view. Please don't let it be what I think it is, oh please God, I'll be a good man from now on if it's not what I think it is, please oh please… oh, you <em>dickwads.</em></p> <p>There's a huge wall of flesh right in front of me, filling up my entire field of view. Looks like an enormous monster fish of some kind, mostly because of the miles tall gills that are slowly sucking me in.</p> <p>Yeah! Yeah, thanks for not telling me that we were sending me down <em>right the fuck next to</em> the gills of the single largest creature on the planet. What, did you think that it wouldn't be breathing right now? You've got this thing's breathing pattern down pat, and you think it's a good idea to schedule my dive right when it's taking in water? Yeah, thanks a whole fucking bunch, assholes!</p> <p>Calm down, calm the fuck down. You wanna get out of this alive, just maneuver the sub in the right direction. Which way is the right direction? Hell if I know, but it probably involves something along the lines of moving away from the giant neck slits of death. Angle yourself down, turn the propellers to full throttle, and work on trying to get in-between two gills. The pull shouldn't be that strong in the middle. C'mon, c'mon, that's it, take it nice and easy, while still moving at top speed as if your life depended upon it, which it kinda <em>does.</em> That's it… that's it…</p> <p>Oh, thank God, I think I made it. Still too damned close to the giant fish beast, but I think I can keep going down without needing to worry about getting sucked inside Monstro here. Why am I even on the Deep Sea Specialization Force again? Answer, because I majored in Marine Science and thought it would be cool to live my dream job and get paid well for it.</p> <p>Digging statues out of the muck and nearly getting killed by Biblical monsters. Yep. Job of a fucking lifetime.</p> <p>***</p> <p>Well, that was a boring hour. Think I'm finally below that thing. Wish I could confirm it, but I don't think the floodlights will light up more than three meters in front of my face at this point. And if that thing's so close to me, I'd say I really shouldn't worry about anything except how my last prayers should go.</p> <p>According to the maps, I should nearly be at the bottom. Might wanna give the floodlights a go, just to check. Turning them on now and… hey, what do you know, I've got five meters of coverage, that's nice. Looks like I have made it to the bottom, so let's start checking around me to see how far away I am from that damned statue. They said I went down within ten meters of it, but I don't have any way of saying how far those gills pulled me away.</p> <p>Half an hour of searching and still nothing. Are they really sure it's trapped in the muck? How do they know it didn't wrestle itself out at some point and just go wandering the ocean… black, by the looks of things outside. I swear, if he's not there…</p> <p>Ah-ha! There you are, you old rocky bastard! Jammed chest-high in the muck, just like they said you would be! Christ, you look terrible. Looks like something tried to take a couple of bites out of you. Hell, you've even got a few teeth sticking out of you - big ones at that. And what are those things you've got tied all around you? Looks like little plastic bags of ground-up meat. Weird. Don't know who'd be stupid enough to use you as a fishing line.</p> <p>Doesn't matter, though. I'm here, you're here, let's get back to the surface before something can go wrong. Yeah, I see you struggling every time I blink. Not gonna do you any good. That gunk's thick as hell, and this mechanical arm's even stronger. You're not going anywhere any time soon. Let's get heading upwards.</p> <p>Oh, look, radio contact's back on. Hey, yeah, I've got it, don't worry. He's sealed up nice and tight in the claw. Yeah, things went smoothly. Oh, except for one little detail. Yeah, as it turns out, you fuckers dropped me right next to 169's gills while they were taking in water and nearly got me turned into a victim of whatever sort of filtering system that fucker's got. Yes, yes you fucking <em>did</em>. I expect at least a double pay for this job when I get back up to the… Hold on, 173's struggling again. Give it up, buddy, you're not getting…</p> <p>Oh shit, I think he just got out. I've still got him by the leg, but he's in reaching distance of the screen on the sub. The guy on the radio's telling me that the glass is completely shatterproof, but I don't believe him, seeing as 173 is punching and cracking the glass at a fairly alarming rate. It's kinda hard to keep your eyes open when the entire sub is rattling around and you're scared out of your fucking mind. What the hell do you mean it's lucky that the sub's designed to float back up to the surface and increase the gripping strength if the hull is breached? I'm still inside the fucking sub, and I'm still gonna fucking die.</p> <p>Good God, how much longer can I keep this up? We're ascending at a good pace, and we should be at the top in… I don't know, I'm too terrified right now to come up with the numbers. I want to say half an hour, but I really don't like that. Five minutes. We'll be up in five minutes. I can go for five minutes without blinking, right?</p> <p>For some reason, I can't help but notice that weird writing on the statue's forehead. I haven't ever cared to get close enough to memorize the details of its face, but I know for certain it was never there before. Kinda weird, really. What's it say? "Property of the S… P…" can't make out the rest.</p> <p>Hold on one fucking moment. What did that captured memo we used to pass around say? Something about capturing anomalous objects and using them to punch…</p> <p>Oh, for fuck's sake.</p> <p>Then I blink, and the screen shatters, letting the water rush in.</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="/about-tree-fiddy">About Tree Fiddy</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/about-tree-fiddy">https://scpwiki.com/about-tree-fiddy</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 know, most folks who think about the ocean usually only think about the surface level. You know, the bright blue areas with all the fish and plant life. Finding Nemo and all that sort of crap. It's mysterious, sure, but there's never any real sense of threat to it. You go down and you know you're coming back up; that sort of thing. But they never think about where I'm going: straight to the bottom. Sure, I'm in a small airtight capsule, the best the Foundation's got on hand at the moment, but that doesn't really do much to distract from the fact that I'm currently 2500 meters down and still going. Let me tell you, when you're hours away from the nearest shore, going down to the bottom of the ocean to retrive a highly dangerous artifact all by yourself, even the best and brightest of the Foundation telling you it'll all be OK isn't nearly enough. I swear, I'm going to kill whoever did this. If 173 had just stayed in its damn cell we wouldn't have to be going through this. But nope, it broke out, killed a bunch of people, vanished off the radar, and was last seen by one of our contacts being dumped out of a boat into the middle of the ocean. We would have taken the bastards doing the dumping into custody had they not jumped in right after it and floated back up as corpses twenty minutes later. Either way, we've got ourselves an SCP stuck at the bottom of the ocean, and I have to go get it. They already went down a few times looking for it. Would have been nice if they'd bothered to think of bringing anything strong enough to dig it out of the muck it's lodged in up to the chest. But no, they only found where the damned thing is, and I'm supposed to go down and drag it up from the briny deep so we can lock it up until next Tuesday, when I'm pretty damned certain we'll have to go through the whole process again. I swear, if it weren't for the health benefits the job has, I'd quit Monday. Christ, it's dark outside. I'm pretty damned certain I saw something moving out there, but I don't want to turn on the floodlights and draw its attention. All I know is that there's water all around me, pretty much no light, and a fucking long way down if anything decides to ram into me. Wonder what the pressure is out there? Probably somewhere in the vicinity of too damn high. Pretty much the opposite of the temp... Why do the readings on the pannel indicate that I'm being pulled sharply westward? There aren't any major channels nearby, so it can't be that. It'd take something massive to pull with that much force, like a huge-ass drain pipe, or... a... Let's turn the sub around so I can get a better view. Please don't let it be what I think it is, oh please God, I'll be a good man from now on if it's not what I think it is, please oh please... oh, you //dickwads.// There's a huge wall of flesh right in front of me, filling up my entire field of view. Looks like an enormous monster fish of some kind, mostly because of the miles tall gills that are slowly sucking me in. Yeah! Yeah, thanks for not telling me that we were sending me down //right the fuck next to// the gills of the single largest creature on the planet. What, did you think that it wouldn't be breathing right now? You've got this thing's breathing pattern down pat, and you think it's a good idea to schedule my dive right when it's taking in water? Yeah, thanks a whole fucking bunch, assholes! Calm down, calm the fuck down. You wanna get out of this alive, just maneuver the sub in the right direction. Which way is the right direction? Hell if I know, but it probably involves something along the lines of moving away from the giant neck slits of death. Angle yourself down, turn the propellers to full throttle, and work on trying to get in-between two gills. The pull shouldn't be that strong in the middle. C'mon, c'mon, that's it, take it nice and easy, while still moving at top speed as if your life depended upon it, which it kinda //does.// That's it... that's it... Oh, thank God, I think I made it. Still too damned close to the giant fish beast, but I think I can keep going down without needing to worry about getting sucked inside Monstro here. Why am I even on the Deep Sea Specialization Force again? Answer, because I majored in Marine Science and thought it would be cool to live my dream job and get paid well for it. Digging statues out of the muck and nearly getting killed by Biblical monsters. Yep. Job of a fucking lifetime. *** Well, that was a boring hour. Think I'm finally below that thing. Wish I could confirm it, but I don't think the floodlights will light up more than three meters in front of my face at this point. And if that thing's so close to me, I'd say I really shouldn't worry about anything except how my last prayers should go. According to the maps, I should nearly be at the bottom. Might wanna give the floodlights a go, just to check. Turning them on now and... hey, what do you know, I've got five meters of coverage, that's nice. Looks like I have made it to the bottom, so let's start checking around me to see how far away I am from that damned statue. They said I went down within ten meters of it, but I don't have any way of saying how far those gills pulled me away. Half an hour of searching and still nothing. Are they really sure it's trapped in the muck? How do they know it didn't wrestle itself out at some point and just go wandering the ocean... black, by the looks of things outside. I swear, if he's not there... Ah-ha! There you are, you old rocky bastard! Jammed chest-high in the muck, just like they said you would be! Christ, you look terrible. Looks like something tried to take a couple of bites out of you. Hell, you've even got a few teeth sticking out of you - big ones at that. And what are those things you've got tied all around you? Looks like little plastic bags of ground-up meat. Weird. Don't know who'd be stupid enough to use you as a fishing line. Doesn't matter, though. I'm here, you're here, let's get back to the surface before something can go wrong. Yeah, I see you struggling every time I blink. Not gonna do you any good. That gunk's thick as hell, and this mechanical arm's even stronger. You're not going anywhere any time soon. Let's get heading upwards. Oh, look, radio contact's back on. Hey, yeah, I've got it, don't worry. He's sealed up nice and tight in the claw. Yeah, things went smoothly. Oh, except for one little detail. Yeah, as it turns out, you fuckers dropped me right next to 169's gills while they were taking in water and nearly got me turned into a victim of whatever sort of filtering system that fucker's got. Yes, yes you fucking //did//. I expect at least a double pay for this job when I get back up to the... Hold on, 173's struggling again. Give it up, buddy, you're not getting... Oh shit, I think he just got out. I've still got him by the leg, but he's in reaching distance of the screen on the sub. The guy on the radio's telling me that the glass is completely shatterproof, but I don't believe him, seeing as 173 is punching and cracking the glass at a fairly alarming rate. It's kinda hard to keep your eyes open when the entire sub is rattling around and you're scared out of your fucking mind. What the hell do you mean it's lucky that the sub's designed to float back up to the surface and increase the gripping strength if the hull is breached? I'm still inside the fucking sub, and I'm still gonna fucking die. Good God, how much longer can I keep this up? We're ascending at a good pace, and we should be at the top in... I don't know, I'm too terrified right now to come up with the numbers. I want to say half an hour, but I really don't like that. Five minutes. We'll be up in five minutes. I can go for five minutes without blinking, right? For some reason, I can't help but notice that weird writing on the statue's forehead. I haven't ever cared to get close enough to memorize the details of its face, but I know for certain it was never there before. Kinda weird, really. What's it say? "Property of the S... P..." can't make out the rest. Hold on one fucking moment. What did that captured memo we used to pass around say? Something about capturing anomalous objects and using them to punch... Oh, for fuck's sake. Then I blink, and the screen shatters, letting the water rush in. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-04-23T04:07:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "adventure", "shark-punching-center", "tale", "the-sculpture" ]	About Tree Fiddy - SCP Foundation	76	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "spc-hub", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	17595690	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/about-tree-fiddy
absolute-self-control	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I don't care.</p> <p>No, in all seriousness. That's the answer to your question. I don't care.</p> <p>Apathy is stronger body armor than anything else. Why should I care that there's a damned great lizard running loose? I have papers to file, dammit! Why should I give a damn that the semen-eating girl is loose and headed for my sector? I'm on break.</p> <p>Everything's a narrative. Everything, especially real life. This one, that is. I have suspicions regarding other 'real lifes' that I'm working on in my spare time. But I digress. Narratives. They exist in the world, just as coincidences do. They aren't very strong, mostly just a set of cliches played out repeatedly. Trained task forces fall easily while resourceful civilians manage to save the day; head researchers who by rights ought to be filing paperwork take on the dangerous task of decomming a dangerous SCP; 682 escapes and starts a rampage; things like that. And people always act as they would in a bad thriller, or a bad sci-fi, or a bad action flick. Except me.</p> <p>That's how I've lived to be ninety, kid. I don't care what goes on around me, I do what needs to be done. I survived walking through the middle the Clef-Kondraki Incident because I didn't so much as acknowledge their presence. I got some coffee from the break room while Kondraki was in his battle suit, and I was in my office filing forms to request a budget for reconstruction of the Site when Clef was freezing the hallway. I'm always that kind of person, and it's helped me survive. 682 rushed by an inch from my face, and I did nothing. Didn't so much as flinch.</p> <p>That's another thing, you know? That bloody great lizard isn't hostile, it's reactionary. It's like a reverse of 173 - you watch it and feel any emotion or reaction regarding it and it hates you. That's why whatsisname's experiment with the kids didn't work, and why 053 got along so well with it. I just don't feel and don't react. It works for me.</p> <p>That's how it works, kid. Take it or leave it, I don't much care.</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="/absolute-self-control">Absolute Self-Control</a>" by Doctor Whiteface, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/absolute-self-control">https://scpwiki.com/absolute-self-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]] [[/>]] I don't care. No, in all seriousness. That's the answer to your question. I don't care. Apathy is stronger body armor than anything else. Why should I care that there's a damned great lizard running loose? I have papers to file, dammit! Why should I give a damn that the semen-eating girl is loose and headed for my sector? I'm on break. Everything's a narrative. Everything, especially real life. This one, that is. I have suspicions regarding other 'real lifes' that I'm working on in my spare time. But I digress. Narratives. They exist in the world, just as coincidences do. They aren't very strong, mostly just a set of cliches played out repeatedly. Trained task forces fall easily while resourceful civilians manage to save the day; head researchers who by rights ought to be filing paperwork take on the dangerous task of decomming a dangerous SCP; 682 escapes and starts a rampage; things like that. And people always act as they would in a bad thriller, or a bad sci-fi, or a bad action flick. Except me. That's how I've lived to be ninety, kid. I don't care what goes on around me, I do what needs to be done. I survived walking through the middle the Clef-Kondraki Incident because I didn't so much as acknowledge their presence. I got some coffee from the break room while Kondraki was in his battle suit, and I was in my office filing forms to request a budget for reconstruction of the Site when Clef was freezing the hallway. I'm always that kind of person, and it's helped me survive. 682 rushed by an inch from my face, and I did nothing. Didn't so much as flinch. That's another thing, you know? That bloody great lizard isn't hostile, it's reactionary. It's like a reverse of 173 - you watch it and feel any emotion or reaction regarding it and it hates you. That's why whatsisname's experiment with the kids didn't work, and why 053 got along so well with it. I just don't feel and don't react. It works for me. That's how it works, kid. Take it or leave it, I don't much care. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Doctor Whiteface]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-15T01:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Absolute Self-Control - SCP Foundation	56	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013" ]	[]	19268359	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/absolute-self-control
agricola-in-insula-est-poeta	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The car started. “Trampled Under Foot” blasted from the speakers.</p> <p>“Agk, sorry!” Mary-Ann twisted the volume dial down. She waved at the figure in the living-room window, put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. She was off the property, she could now officially relax. Di had everything under control at home, this was now date night. Just her and Salah out for dinner and some well-deserved time away from the house. Those months felt like ages now. Time to make sure that the night wasn't wasted.</p> <p>"So, where are we going, exactly?” Salah asked.</p> <p>“Vladimir’s.”</p> <p>"Oh. Hrm."</p> <p>—</p> <p>Di looked at the books she had spread out on the dining room table, satisfied with the selection. All the proper things for the growing toddler. There was <em>Cat in the Hat</em> and <em>Goodnight Moon</em> and the <em>Eclectic Diatribes of Duke Grangermont of Upper Ligzenworth</em>. This last book weighed more than Naomi did, concerned various political topics and the growing patterns of cabbages, and had no pictures.</p> <p>Oddly enough, this last one had not been very popular with her nieces and nephews. She presumed that Mary-Ann and Salah had raised Naomi to have better taste than that.</p> <p>—</p> <p>The bar was called Vladimir’s. Vladimir didn’t call it Vladimir’s, though he didn’t call it anything. So it was really a nameless bar called Vladimir’s, and Vladimir was fine with that. What was more important was the fact that it Existed. It Existed, and if it did not Exist, or even if it did exist, the universe would most likely collapse. The existence of the universe requires the Existence of places like Vladimir’s. Something had to fill the holes that formed in the walls.</p> <p>It was a converted space, an old warehouse of some long-forgotten Cold War bunker, one of those places that could only be found if someone looked in the right places. The bar itself was in the center of the floor, surrounded by the freestanding tables. The walls were lined with booths, or tables on the upper level. Decoration was sparse: no tablecloths, scuffs on the tabletops, dim lighting from the hanging lamps. The air was thick with tobacco and alcohol fumes, to the point where everything seemed coated in a grey, greasy film. The hushed conversations and smooth jazz made for a sea of soft background noise. The sign by the door said “Seat Yourself” in a dozen languages.</p> <p>A man in a khaki pea coat tipped his fedora to Mary-Ann and Salah as he passed them and exited. Mary-Ann eyed the other clientele as they walked to their usual seat. It was always interesting to see who had arrived at Vladimir’s, because sooner or later, everyone arrived at Vladimir’s.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“And this is the first declension.” Di pointed to the noun endings she had neatly written out, balancing Naomi on her knee. “Now, most of these are feminine nouns, but you can always remember that farmers, poets and sailors are always male. Romans were funny like that.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>Mary-Ann and Salah sat down, some distance away from the other occupied tables. A quick glance around showed a lot of the regular in-fill: GRU-P, Serpent’s Hand, Librarians, Manna Charitable Foundation, and those who paid allegiance to none. After only a few brief moments a lurching automaton in the form of a young woman approached the table. It wore a name tag proclaiming “Welcome to Funland! My name is Daisy”.</p> <p>“Good evening. Can I get you something to drink?” it asked in a tinny voice as it handed them the menus. A redundancy: when people came to Vladimir’s, they already knew what they wanted. They ordered quickly, and the waitress departed.</p> <p>“To be honest, I really don’t see what you see in this place, Mary-Ann.”</p> <p>“It's got a lot of atmosphere.”</p> <p>He waved his hand, smoke rippling about it.</p> <p>“Yes, I believe it does.”</p> <p>"I mean, if you don't like it we could always go somewhere else next time."</p> <p>"No, no, it's fine. It's fine. It's not the seediest place I've been to, it's just not a favorite of mine, but if you like it here, I am perfectly fine with eating here."</p> <p>Mary-Ann nodded.</p> <p>"So, where was the seediest place you've ever eaten?"</p> <p>"A pub in Bromley. The place was positively foul. You could barely see through the windows for the grime, there was no ventilation at all, I swear I saw a cockroach scuttle into the kitchen, and the toilet didn't look like it had been cleaned since the Blitz. And there was a hair in my soup, which tasted like donkey piss. At the very least, the food here is good."</p> <p>“Hold that thought." Mary-Ann stood up. "Have to go use the restroom.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>“The rest of this speech was cut off, as Duke Grangermont came down with a serious case of the kittens while arguing his case. No one’s really sure how he ended up with nine kittens in his stomach, or why they chose that exact moment to burst out of his stomach, but that’s history for you.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>The bathroom was past the bar, which was populated by a bunch of grizzled grey GRU-P ex-pats in faded, threadbare uniforms and a trio of black-clad police officers with cloth masking their faces. A drunken hand swung out, not so much a punch, or even really an intended strike, just the exaggerated swinging of hands for argumentative emphasis, but it nonetheless hit Mary-Ann in the shoulder. She glared at the man in question.</p> <p>He was a pallid, overweight man with burnt-out eyes, a few flakes of blackened crust lining the sockets around the two orange spheres that glowed in their depths. His shaved head was tattooed and trepanned, in the fashion of the old Star-Paths, though this particular man had botched his eldritch enlightenment. The hole was too big, and was misaligned.</p> <p>After a moment of mental computation, he slurred something angry at Mary-Ann in Russian.</p> <p>“He doesn’t like you,” the old Soviet agent sitting next to the star-mind translated.</p> <p>“I don’t like him either.”</p> <p>There was a short, rough exchange in Russian between the two.</p> <p>“He says he wishes he could kill you personally, but circumstances prevent this. However, he despises you with such utter hatred that he will nonetheless take great joy in burning your dust into nothingness.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann cupped a hand around her ear.</p> <p>“What was that? Can’t hear you over all the hot air you’re blowing. And by hot air I mean penis. I’m insinuating that you suck cocks.”</p> <p>She walked away, nodding to Vladimir as she passed, and that was that.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Di wrinkled her nose as she dropped the diaper in the trash, and considered whether <em>The Tale of Desperaux</em> or <em>Jason and the Space-Argonauts</em> would be a better bedtime story.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Mary-Ann sat back down. The drinks were already there: A beer for Mary-Ann, tea for Salah.</p> <p>“Do we have any idea at all how stars work?”</p> <p>"No, not particularly. I believe the Fifthists are unstable enough that none of the Scribes have really managed to get anything coherent written down. Something of a pity, if you look at it in the right way.</p> <p>"I mean, they can communicate across lightyears, so they've got to have some sort of quantum-entanglement telepathic mumbo-jumbo going on and…wait." She sipped at her beer. “That reminds me. Were you able to hear Brother Kowalski’s talk on cosmology from last week?”</p> <p>“No, though I heard it was interesting.”</p> <p>A young Asian man walked past their booth, his legs moving automatically with jerking, stilted motions.</p> <p>“Yeah. Well, let’s see…” Mary-Ann unfolded her napkin on the table. “You have a pen?”</p> <p>Salah fished in his pocket for a moment and handed a pen across the table. In the background, a chorus of laughter went up from the young men and women in the cheap, sweat-stained Dial-a-Llama t-shirts.</p> <p>“So we’ve got God up here…creation down here…then the Library right here in the center of that as….well, sort of the physical version of the operating system of everything, keeps everything running, links everything together…and expands to what we consider supernatural or paranormal…just manifestations of some of the more obscure and finicky universal narrative principles…the more regular principles would be classified as magic to the unenlightened among us, and the immovable ones are physics…whoops, look like Dan and Sami forgot to pay their tab again.” She pointed over to where Vladimir was dragging out a bored-looking Indian man and a grey-haired man wearing a pointed magenta hat by the collars. The older man was waving about a brightly-colored snuggy with stitched on stars and yelling drunkenly.</p> <p>“No, no, see, this is the Robe of Magnanimous Luster, guaranteed to increase your appeal to the opposite sex! Nevermind that fact that it also attracts dogs, that’s just an added bonus. Come on, since when has any of our products let you down?”</p> <p>Vladimir did not respond, even to the trail of pugs that followed them. He kicked open the door and tossed the two outside, followed by throwing the dogs out one by one. He shut the door, re-adjusted his eyepatch, and went back to the bar.</p> <p>“Those two…” Mary-Ann shook her head. “Anyway, he’s supposed to publish his book on all of this by the end of next month.”</p> <p>“I look forward to reading it.”</p> <p>The waitress returned with their food. Mary-Ann had gotten a steak with a baked potato. Salah had gotten curry. A ragged woman and her two sons, wearing clothing that with patterns a bit too bright and a bit too clashing walked past the booth.</p> <p>“How’s the food?”</p> <p>“Very nice.”</p> <p>“Yeah, Pyotr and Ila do a really good job.”</p> <p>"Who?"</p> <p>"Vladimir's son and daughter in law. They run the kitchen."</p> <p>"Oh, right, right."</p> <p>"Between you and me, Vladimir can't cook to save his life, except when he's trying to kill someone."</p> <p>The front door opened, and a wave of silence spread out across the bar. The band stopped playing. The spiders stopped discussing ways of overthrowing the bourgeoisie. The teddy bear stopped waving its knife around.</p> <p>Four individuals walked up to the bar. One wore flannel and glasses with no lenses, one had lamprey mouths where her eyes and nose should have been, one was nude save for a full-body animated tattoo reconstructing the Fall of Daevon, and one was wearing a unitard made of fetuses with a cape of knitted pubic hair, identified as such by the “This cape is made out of knitted pubic hair” stitched into it.</p> <p>“Oh come on…” Salah groaned. “Right when we’re trying to have a nice dinner here.”</p> <p>“Eat your curry, Salah.”</p> <p>“Wh…”</p> <p>“Just keep eating, I'll handle this.” Mary-Ann stood up. Lousy punks, trying to ruin her dinner. Nope. A hundred times nope. She was not having this. Cold food would be better than them fouling up the air.</p> <p>“Please, Mary-Ann, sit down. There's no need to cause a scene. That's just falling to their level. Let Vladimir take care of it.”</p> <p>“This is generally how he takes care of it. I'm not letting them mess up our dinner.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann walked over to the bar, sending sideways glances to some of the other patrons. The teddy bear with the knife. The salt-grimed, sun-darkened man with the harpoon and the “Selachiosk Pugnix Combin” tattoo. One of the blue-clad band members, with his shiny SYNCOPE saxophone. Bigfoot.</p> <p>She could hear the conversation clearly now.</p> <p>“And <em>I</em> will repeat <em>myself</em>: I do not serve your kind here,” Vladimir said, not looking up from the glass he was cleaning. “And do not try to tell me that you are not them, for you are obvious as dead cow on highway. Leave, or be made to leave.”</p> <p>“Look. Old man,” the one with the glasses said. “We’re trying to be reasonable here, but we’ve received complaints that your bar is not friendly towards transfurry five-dimensional-gendered neoneanderthal polyamorous omnitapirsexuals without beards. And we’re not happy about that. That is a completely unacceptable phobia, and we demand that you open your services to transfurry five-dimensional-gendered neoneanderthal polyamorous omnitapirsexuals without beards, or we will be forced to use forceful coercion. Are we cool yet?”</p> <p>Mary-Ann tapped the one with the glasses on the shoulder.</p> <p>“Hi there.”</p> <p>She then punched him in the face.</p> <p>—</p> <p>“Night, Di. Thanks again for babysitting.”</p> <p>The door shut, and Mary-Ann let out a sigh. Her knuckles were sore. Most of her was sore. Her conscience been lecturing her on how she shouldn't have enjoyed pummeling four hipsters senseless, but she let it slide. They hadn't been roughed up very badly, just enough to scare them off. More bothersome to her was the idea that Salah might not have had a good evening out because of it.</p> <p>"Sorry about all that. Got carried away a bit."</p> <p>"Yeah, you did. But, it happens to all of us at one time or another. Just try to rein it in a bit next time you want to let off some steam." Salah picked up a sheet of paper from the dining room table. “On another note, it looks like Di was trying to teach our daughter Latin.”</p> <p>“And knowing her, she probably succeeded.”</p> <p>Salah put an arm around his wife.</p> <p>“Come on, let’s go to bed.”</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay">Nor Gloom of Night Shall Stay</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/empire-of-dirt-part-1">Empire of Dirt (Part 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="/agricola-in-insula-est-poeta">Agricola In Insula Est Poeta</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/agricola-in-insula-est-poeta">https://scpwiki.com/agricola-in-insula-est-poeta</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 car started. “Trampled Under Foot” blasted from the speakers. “Agk, sorry!” Mary-Ann twisted the volume dial down. She waved at the figure in the living-room window, put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. She was off the property, she could now officially relax. Di had everything under control at home, this was now date night. Just her and Salah out for dinner and some well-deserved time away from the house. Those months felt like ages now. Time to make sure that the night wasn't wasted. "So, where are we going, exactly?” Salah asked. “Vladimir’s.” "Oh. Hrm." -- Di looked at the books she had spread out on the dining room table, satisfied with the selection. All the proper things for the growing toddler. There was //Cat in the Hat// and //Goodnight Moon// and the //Eclectic Diatribes of Duke Grangermont of Upper Ligzenworth//. This last book weighed more than Naomi did, concerned various political topics and the growing patterns of cabbages, and had no pictures. Oddly enough, this last one had not been very popular with her nieces and nephews. She presumed that Mary-Ann and Salah had raised Naomi to have better taste than that. -- The bar was called Vladimir’s. Vladimir didn’t call it Vladimir’s, though he didn’t call it anything. So it was really a nameless bar called Vladimir’s, and Vladimir was fine with that. What was more important was the fact that it Existed. It Existed, and if it did not Exist, or even if it did exist, the universe would most likely collapse. The existence of the universe requires the Existence of places like Vladimir’s. Something had to fill the holes that formed in the walls. It was a converted space, an old warehouse of some long-forgotten Cold War bunker, one of those places that could only be found if someone looked in the right places. The bar itself was in the center of the floor, surrounded by the freestanding tables. The walls were lined with booths, or tables on the upper level. Decoration was sparse: no tablecloths, scuffs on the tabletops, dim lighting from the hanging lamps. The air was thick with tobacco and alcohol fumes, to the point where everything seemed coated in a grey, greasy film. The hushed conversations and smooth jazz made for a sea of soft background noise. The sign by the door said “Seat Yourself” in a dozen languages. A man in a khaki pea coat tipped his fedora to Mary-Ann and Salah as he passed them and exited. Mary-Ann eyed the other clientele as they walked to their usual seat. It was always interesting to see who had arrived at Vladimir’s, because sooner or later, everyone arrived at Vladimir’s. -- “And this is the first declension.” Di pointed to the noun endings she had neatly written out, balancing Naomi on her knee. “Now, most of these are feminine nouns, but you can always remember that farmers, poets and sailors are always male. Romans were funny like that.” -- Mary-Ann and Salah sat down, some distance away from the other occupied tables. A quick glance around showed a lot of the regular in-fill: GRU-P, Serpent’s Hand, Librarians, Manna Charitable Foundation, and those who paid allegiance to none. After only a few brief moments a lurching automaton in the form of a young woman approached the table. It wore a name tag proclaiming “Welcome to Funland! My name is Daisy”. “Good evening. Can I get you something to drink?” it asked in a tinny voice as it handed them the menus. A redundancy: when people came to Vladimir’s, they already knew what they wanted. They ordered quickly, and the waitress departed. “To be honest, I really don’t see what you see in this place, Mary-Ann.” “It's got a lot of atmosphere.” He waved his hand, smoke rippling about it. “Yes, I believe it does.” "I mean, if you don't like it we could always go somewhere else next time." "No, no, it's fine. It's fine. It's not the seediest place I've been to, it's just not a favorite of mine, but if you like it here, I am perfectly fine with eating here." Mary-Ann nodded. "So, where was the seediest place you've ever eaten?" "A pub in Bromley. The place was positively foul. You could barely see through the windows for the grime, there was no ventilation at all, I swear I saw a cockroach scuttle into the kitchen, and the toilet didn't look like it had been cleaned since the Blitz. And there was a hair in my soup, which tasted like donkey piss. At the very least, the food here is good." “Hold that thought." Mary-Ann stood up. "Have to go use the restroom.” -- “The rest of this speech was cut off, as Duke Grangermont came down with a serious case of the kittens while arguing his case. No one’s really sure how he ended up with nine kittens in his stomach, or why they chose that exact moment to burst out of his stomach, but that’s history for you.” -- The bathroom was past the bar, which was populated by a bunch of grizzled grey GRU-P ex-pats in faded, threadbare uniforms and a trio of black-clad police officers with cloth masking their faces. A drunken hand swung out, not so much a punch, or even really an intended strike, just the exaggerated swinging of hands for argumentative emphasis, but it nonetheless hit Mary-Ann in the shoulder. She glared at the man in question. He was a pallid, overweight man with burnt-out eyes, a few flakes of blackened crust lining the sockets around the two orange spheres that glowed in their depths. His shaved head was tattooed and trepanned, in the fashion of the old Star-Paths, though this particular man had botched his eldritch enlightenment. The hole was too big, and was misaligned. After a moment of mental computation, he slurred something angry at Mary-Ann in Russian. “He doesn’t like you,” the old Soviet agent sitting next to the star-mind translated. “I don’t like him either.” There was a short, rough exchange in Russian between the two. “He says he wishes he could kill you personally, but circumstances prevent this. However, he despises you with such utter hatred that he will nonetheless take great joy in burning your dust into nothingness.” Mary-Ann cupped a hand around her ear. “What was that? Can’t hear you over all the hot air you’re blowing. And by hot air I mean penis. I’m insinuating that you suck cocks.” She walked away, nodding to Vladimir as she passed, and that was that. -- Di wrinkled her nose as she dropped the diaper in the trash, and considered whether //The Tale of Desperaux// or //Jason and the Space-Argonauts// would be a better bedtime story. -- Mary-Ann sat back down. The drinks were already there: A beer for Mary-Ann, tea for Salah. “Do we have any idea at all how stars work?” "No, not particularly. I believe the Fifthists are unstable enough that none of the Scribes have really managed to get anything coherent written down. Something of a pity, if you look at it in the right way. "I mean, they can communicate across lightyears, so they've got to have some sort of quantum-entanglement telepathic mumbo-jumbo going on and...wait." She sipped at her beer. “That reminds me. Were you able to hear Brother Kowalski’s talk on cosmology from last week?” “No, though I heard it was interesting.” A young Asian man walked past their booth, his legs moving automatically with jerking, stilted motions. “Yeah. Well, let’s see…” Mary-Ann unfolded her napkin on the table. “You have a pen?” Salah fished in his pocket for a moment and handed a pen across the table. In the background, a chorus of laughter went up from the young men and women in the cheap, sweat-stained Dial-a-Llama t-shirts. “So we’ve got God up here…creation down here…then the Library right here in the center of that as….well, sort of the physical version of the operating system of everything, keeps everything running, links everything together…and expands to what we consider supernatural or paranormal…just manifestations of some of the more obscure and finicky universal narrative principles…the more regular principles would be classified as magic to the unenlightened among us, and the immovable ones are physics…whoops, look like Dan and Sami forgot to pay their tab again.” She pointed over to where Vladimir was dragging out a bored-looking Indian man and a grey-haired man wearing a pointed magenta hat by the collars. The older man was waving about a brightly-colored snuggy with stitched on stars and yelling drunkenly. “No, no, see, this is the Robe of Magnanimous Luster, guaranteed to increase your appeal to the opposite sex! Nevermind that fact that it also attracts dogs, that’s just an added bonus. Come on, since when has any of our products let you down?” Vladimir did not respond, even to the trail of pugs that followed them. He kicked open the door and tossed the two outside, followed by throwing the dogs out one by one. He shut the door, re-adjusted his eyepatch, and went back to the bar. “Those two…” Mary-Ann shook her head. “Anyway, he’s supposed to publish his book on all of this by the end of next month.” “I look forward to reading it.” The waitress returned with their food. Mary-Ann had gotten a steak with a baked potato. Salah had gotten curry. A ragged woman and her two sons, wearing clothing that with patterns a bit too bright and a bit too clashing walked past the booth. “How’s the food?” “Very nice.” “Yeah, Pyotr and Ila do a really good job.” "Who?" "Vladimir's son and daughter in law. They run the kitchen." "Oh, right, right." "Between you and me, Vladimir can't cook to save his life, except when he's trying to kill someone." The front door opened, and a wave of silence spread out across the bar. The band stopped playing. The spiders stopped discussing ways of overthrowing the bourgeoisie. The teddy bear stopped waving its knife around. Four individuals walked up to the bar. One wore flannel and glasses with no lenses, one had lamprey mouths where her eyes and nose should have been, one was nude save for a full-body animated tattoo reconstructing the Fall of Daevon, and one was wearing a unitard made of fetuses with a cape of knitted pubic hair, identified as such by the “This cape is made out of knitted pubic hair” stitched into it. “Oh come on…” Salah groaned. “Right when we’re trying to have a nice dinner here.” “Eat your curry, Salah.” “Wh…” “Just keep eating, I'll handle this.” Mary-Ann stood up. Lousy punks, trying to ruin her dinner. Nope. A hundred times nope. She was not having this. Cold food would be better than them fouling up the air. “Please, Mary-Ann, sit down. There's no need to cause a scene. That's just falling to their level. Let Vladimir take care of it.” “This is generally how he takes care of it. I'm not letting them mess up our dinner.” Mary-Ann walked over to the bar, sending sideways glances to some of the other patrons. The teddy bear with the knife. The salt-grimed, sun-darkened man with the harpoon and the “Selachiosk Pugnix Combin” tattoo. One of the blue-clad band members, with his shiny SYNCOPE saxophone. Bigfoot. She could hear the conversation clearly now. “And //I// will repeat //myself//: I do not serve your kind here,” Vladimir said, not looking up from the glass he was cleaning. “And do not try to tell me that you are not them, for you are obvious as dead cow on highway. Leave, or be made to leave.” “Look. Old man,” the one with the glasses said. “We’re trying to be reasonable here, but we’ve received complaints that your bar is not friendly towards transfurry five-dimensional-gendered neoneanderthal polyamorous omnitapirsexuals without beards. And we’re not happy about that. That is a completely unacceptable phobia, and we demand that you open your services to transfurry five-dimensional-gendered neoneanderthal polyamorous omnitapirsexuals without beards, or we will be forced to use forceful coercion. Are we cool yet?” Mary-Ann tapped the one with the glasses on the shoulder. “Hi there.” She then punched him in the face. -- “Night, Di. Thanks again for babysitting.” The door shut, and Mary-Ann let out a sigh. Her knuckles were sore. Most of her was sore. Her conscience been lecturing her on how she shouldn't have enjoyed pummeling four hipsters senseless, but she let it slide. They hadn't been roughed up very badly, just enough to scare them off. More bothersome to her was the idea that Salah might not have had a good evening out because of it. "Sorry about all that. Got carried away a bit." "Yeah, you did. But, it happens to all of us at one time or another. Just try to rein it in a bit next time you want to let off some steam." Salah picked up a sheet of paper from the dining room table. “On another note, it looks like Di was trying to teach our daughter Latin.” “And knowing her, she probably succeeded.” Salah put an arm around his wife. “Come on, let’s go to bed.” [[=]] << [[[Nor Gloom of Night Shall Stay]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[empire-of-dirt-part-1\| Empire of Dirt (Part 1)]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-15T03:29:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "children-of-the-night", "etdp", "fantasy", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "otherworldly", "religious-fiction", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Agricola In Insula Est Poeta - SCP Foundation	74	[ "nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay", "etdp-hub-page", "empire-of-dirt-part-1", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page", "are-we-cool-yet-hub" ]	[]	16765339	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/agricola-in-insula-est-poeta
ailier	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>This would have been the first project she’d have been a part of, the first report her name would be printed in full, not her brother’s, not Dr. Mark Kiryu, no, but somehow the object was proving harder to track than expected.</p> <p>SCP designation still pending, it would have been a Safe object, seeing as it was just an ordinary book at first glance.</p> <p>The book had been discovered by a curio collector who had become a self-proclaimed miracle doctor overnight; he'd set up a successful clinic and made a notable profit, so said the town gossip. A few Foundation agents were sent to look into the small clinic, and had planted some surveillance devices without the man's noticing. The secret to his knowledge was revealed: the man constantly consulted a flaking, ivory-bound tome with pages made of what seemed to be thick black bark. Apparently the book mentioned the blending of certain miraculous herbal remedies.</p> <p>The agents had later reported back with data regarding the cures. The new “doctor” kept a strange hodgepodge garden in the back of the clinic, and could treat everything from a sore back to dementia. Some who visited only suffered curiosity, but despite the man having no prior medical experience, he was able to quickly tell the sick from the nosy, and turn away the untruthful.</p> <p>Researcher Kiryu irritably scratched out an entry in her planner. The first anomalous object she was invited to investigate, and this happens.</p> <p>The curio collector had naturally attracted further Foundation attention afterwards, but not because of anything he’d accomplished—he’d died within three weeks of his new-found fame and fortune. After the usual interviews and inquiries had been made and the book’s usual location discovered, the task force team had broken down the door to an attic, and discovered a smashed window, and a bluebird sitting atop a safe. The bird was native to the local area, but the folded piece of paper it dropped at their feet and the speed of its escape through the broken window convinced them that it was no ordinary bird.</p> <p>The message was retrieved. They’d pried open the safe too, just in case. Nothing was found but dust and scraps of blackened bark.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>Seek me out if you desire, jailers.</em></p> <p><em>I am headed to a land where mountains shelter dragons and phoenixes hold their court in splendor, you’re welcome to follow, and if you can catch me, perhaps we will discuss a deal.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Researcher Kiryu groaned inwardly, rereading the memo she had been sent, which contained the text of the message and a pair of coordinates that had been dug up by an overseas Foundation operative. No original messages given to newer researchers, Mark had mentioned. No originals because we don’t know if the paper has anomalous qualities either. She tossed the memo onto the ever-growing stack of paperwork on her desk, wondering if she should have taken her brother’s advice and replaced the tray with a garbage can labeled “inbox”. She spun around on her swivel chair and kicked at the floor to propel herself towards the filing cabinet in the tiny room.</p> <p>“Well, are you going to follow up?” Kiryu, startled, almost slammed into the filing cabinet. Her brother’s assistant Riven was standing about a foot away from her.</p> <p>“No. I don’t have time to—”</p> <p>“Sure you do. Your brother’s been keeping a careful eye on your vacation time, after all. I’ll check the coordinates, Mark can book a flight, and maybe an agent or two can be spared.” Riven grinned, leaning against a nearby wall and squashing the leaves of a large potted plant. “You’ve been busy enough, feeding the butterflies and keeping the records straight.”</p> <p>“But—” too late, Riven snatched the memo off her desk. Researcher Kiryu watched in stunned silence as he began typing on her laptop.</p> <p>She sighed, went to rummage through the filing cabinet, and looked up only when Riven spoke a few minutes later, “You’re going to China.”</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em>An exceptionally bright star shines in the sky, twinkling just like you, love. Its shimmering reminds me of you, struggling to shine against the others. As surely as the shadows shift, you know you will fade to dust and darkness eventually, why not live in the light you believe in? Stay vigilant, more to follow. ~S</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Swatting at a wayward mosquito, Researcher Kiryu narrowed her eyes as she read over the newest note from the cryptic taunt-writing individual. She must have been crazy to agree to the vacation, must have been straight-up insane to think that anything would come of chasing this paper trail, even if an agent and Riven had been sent to accompany her (plainclothes, from a distance, same tour group and that’s all, nothing suspicious). It wasn’t much of a lead anyway, and if some other group was involved, it could be dangerous, but she’d been hoping for a chance like this for some time. She’d wanted to follow her brother’s footsteps a little further, into the world beyond the testing chambers, beyond her small shared office and the white lighted labs.</p> <p>Most of her insecurities faded when she received the second note.</p> <p>She’d found the paper after Riven had been attacked by some little yellow bird while they’d walked through a bamboo thicket. They’d been headed towards the old-fashioned inn that their book thief was reputedly staying at.</p> <p>It was nice that Riven was allowed to travel with her, Kiryu thought to herself. She had been uncomfortably wary of meeting the Foundation field agent at the airport, before the departure (she’d introduced herself with her surname and title, and after an awkward silence Riven had laughed and mentioned to the agent, “Researcher Kiryu doesn’t like giving her first name. Just a habit. You don’t mind, do you?”). The agent had shrugged off the introduction noncommittally, extended his hand for a handshake, muttered a general greeting with a bit of a bored expression, and glanced over his shoulder.</p> <p>The atmosphere on the plane flight had been strained, at best. She’d once been worried about how to act around such people. Secrets were the highest code of the Foundation. It was sometimes difficult to know exactly what one couldn’t share with others, even colleagues.</p> <p>Now here she was, in her first leadership position. She wasn’t familiar with ranks, but Riven was an easygoing fellow researcher and the agent was just here to keep an eye on her while following, so it couldn’t be too bad to imagine for a moment that she was like her older brother, at the head of a Foundation investigation or maybe even an intervention.</p> <p>She and her colleagues strode on, over the uneven road of broken stones, towards the inn.</p> <hr/> <p>Cursing under her breath as she paced through the inner courtyard a second time, Researcher Kiryu mentally berated herself for letting the man she’d been tailing out of her sight. Her group had found the inn without catastrophe striking. But then, if the Foundation had expected something dangerous, they’d have sent an entire team of agents, maybe a task force, at least those with experience in these matters, never any researchers.</p> <p>Kiryu, Riven, and the agent had followed a questionable-looking individual into the inn’s gardens. Said individual was wearing a long hooded robe; his face was obscured, and a chirping bird was perched on his shoulder.</p> <p>Neither Riven nor the agent could figure out exactly where to or how he disappeared. Kiryu retraced her thoughts; the memory of the songbird on the man’s shoulder gave her some pause. It seemed almost too obvious. He had attracted her attention the moment the three had entered the inn’s grounds. It could have been a ruse. But surely the data the overseas informants had collected was reliable, it had to have been this inn—</p> <p>Kiryu thought back to the map of the inn she had attempted to commit to memory earlier. The gardens occupied most of the grounds, the rest of the place was only rooms and a dining hall…</p> <p>She stopped her pacing. “Let’s go to the dining area.”</p> <hr/> <p>There was some commotion going on. From what little could be discerned from the chaos, a man had collapsed onto his table, spilling his tea. His top garment looked a little too large for him.</p> <p>Researcher Kiryu stopped just short of the entrance and stared as two of the inn’s workers dragged the man in the direction of the rooms. Something fell from the man’s open shirt; the agent stepped over and picked it up, showing it to her in the palm of his gloved hand.</p> <p>A piece of thin paper, wrapped around a scrap of blackened bark.</p> <p><em>“The pearl-rounded bridge, at sunset.”</em> The agent had said, after inspecting the paper, sealing it in a plastic bag, and pocketing it. “Also what looks like some poetry too, but I’ll look into it just in case. It could be—”</p> <p>“…memetic or something.” Kiryu finished with a small smile. She remembered what her brother had told her, after his first experience with the psychic butterfly, “it’s prudent to be careful in this line of work.”</p> <hr/> <p>The sun seemed to crawl through the sky as Kiryu waited for the appointed time to arrive. She scribbled notes in a databook, Riven retreated to his own room for a nap, and the agent ran some tests on the new message using a field kit. The three left the inn just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Researcher Kiryu cautiously leading the way.</p> <p>There was a strange, spindly-legged figure waiting for her in the distance. “Red-crowned crane,” Riven had whispered to her, half in suspicion, half in awe. The agent said nothing, only watched the bird’s movements.</p> <p>The three approached the curved bridge, the one that led across a small pond on the grounds separating the inn from the lotus ponds in the distance, bordering the rural farmlands. In the feathery dusk of the summer evening, the crane’s feathers held an ethereal glow.</p> <p>“It doesn’t look natural.” Kiryu stated flatly.</p> <p>At the sound of her voice, the crane, though still a substantial distance away, spread its wings and flapped off. “There’s something on the bridge railing,” Riven pointed. The three cautiously approached the bridge, the agent plucking the folded piece of paper from the worn stone of the bridge. He smoothed out the creases, read the words, frowned, and passed it on.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>You believe you protect the ordinary from the extraordinary, as if those who have special abilities have none of the emotions of those without. There was a time when mankind respected the extraordinary, reveled in it, revered it. Do you truly believe the common man fears the extraordinary more than you, Jailers? I leave you now, without what you seek. Keep an open mind, and perhaps someone will pity you.</em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>When she returned, Researcher Kiryu dutifully clocked the field hours ("your first ever hours outside a Foundation facility, congrats!" Riven had said) and wrote up the requisite reports. She had wondered if it really made sense, sending two researchers, one without any field experience, instead of a team made entirely of agents.</p> <p>It seemed the trip had been a waste of time after all; the Foundation had known all along that there wasn’t much chance of success. Nor did anyone seem to think there would have been an actual retrieval.</p> <p>Mark welcomed her back with a smile and a new stack of paperwork, filling her in on what had happened in Site-19 while she was gone (not much, really). He made the usual polite inquiries about the time spent abroad (how was the weather?) and spoke nothing of the recovery mission, if it could be considered a mission at all.</p> <p>She didn’t think it’d be wise to tell Doctor Mark Kiryu more than he asked about. If he didn’t ask, it probably wasn’t necessary to discuss. He knew more than she did, and in this line of work, she never felt truly certain she knew exactly what to remember, what to push away and never dwell on again.</p> <p>This was all something better off forgotten, she sighed. <em><a href="http://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/kiryu">Really, Researcher, what did you think you’d find?</a></em></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/ailier">Ailier</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ailier">https://scpwiki.com/ailier</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] This would have been the first project she’d have been a part of, the first report her name would be printed in full, not her brother’s, not Dr. Mark Kiryu, no, but somehow the object was proving harder to track than expected. SCP designation still pending, it would have been a Safe object, seeing as it was just an ordinary book at first glance. The book had been discovered by a curio collector who had become a self-proclaimed miracle doctor overnight; he'd set up a successful clinic and made a notable profit, so said the town gossip. A few Foundation agents were sent to look into the small clinic, and had planted some surveillance devices without the man's noticing. The secret to his knowledge was revealed: the man constantly consulted a flaking, ivory-bound tome with pages made of what seemed to be thick black bark. Apparently the book mentioned the blending of certain miraculous herbal remedies. The agents had later reported back with data regarding the cures. The new “doctor” kept a strange hodgepodge garden in the back of the clinic, and could treat everything from a sore back to dementia. Some who visited only suffered curiosity, but despite the man having no prior medical experience, he was able to quickly tell the sick from the nosy, and turn away the untruthful. Researcher Kiryu irritably scratched out an entry in her planner. The first anomalous object she was invited to investigate, and this happens. The curio collector had naturally attracted further Foundation attention afterwards, but not because of anything he’d accomplished--he’d died within three weeks of his new-found fame and fortune. After the usual interviews and inquiries had been made and the book’s usual location discovered, the task force team had broken down the door to an attic, and discovered a smashed window, and a bluebird sitting atop a safe. The bird was native to the local area, but the folded piece of paper it dropped at their feet and the speed of its escape through the broken window convinced them that it was no ordinary bird. The message was retrieved. They’d pried open the safe too, just in case. Nothing was found but dust and scraps of blackened bark. > //Seek me out if you desire, jailers.// > > //I am headed to a land where mountains shelter dragons and phoenixes hold their court in splendor, you’re welcome to follow, and if you can catch me, perhaps we will discuss a deal.// Researcher Kiryu groaned inwardly, rereading the memo she had been sent, which contained the text of the message and a pair of coordinates that had been dug up by an overseas Foundation operative. No original messages given to newer researchers, Mark had mentioned. No originals because we don’t know if the paper has anomalous qualities either. She tossed the memo onto the ever-growing stack of paperwork on her desk, wondering if she should have taken her brother’s advice and replaced the tray with a garbage can labeled “inbox”. She spun around on her swivel chair and kicked at the floor to propel herself towards the filing cabinet in the tiny room. “Well, are you going to follow up?” Kiryu, startled, almost slammed into the filing cabinet. Her brother’s assistant Riven was standing about a foot away from her. “No. I don’t have time to--” “Sure you do. Your brother’s been keeping a careful eye on your vacation time, after all. I’ll check the coordinates, Mark can book a flight, and maybe an agent or two can be spared.” Riven grinned, leaning against a nearby wall and squashing the leaves of a large potted plant. “You’ve been busy enough, feeding the butterflies and keeping the records straight.” “But--” too late, Riven snatched the memo off her desk. Researcher Kiryu watched in stunned silence as he began typing on her laptop. She sighed, went to rummage through the filing cabinet, and looked up only when Riven spoke a few minutes later, “You’re going to China.” ---- > //An exceptionally bright star shines in the sky, twinkling just like you, love. Its shimmering reminds me of you, struggling to shine against the others. As surely as the shadows shift, you know you will fade to dust and darkness eventually, why not live in the light you believe in? Stay vigilant, more to follow. ~S// Swatting at a wayward mosquito, Researcher Kiryu narrowed her eyes as she read over the newest note from the cryptic taunt-writing individual. She must have been crazy to agree to the vacation, must have been straight-up insane to think that anything would come of chasing this paper trail, even if an agent and Riven had been sent to accompany her (plainclothes, from a distance, same tour group and that’s all, nothing suspicious). It wasn’t much of a lead anyway, and if some other group was involved, it could be dangerous, but she’d been hoping for a chance like this for some time. She’d wanted to follow her brother’s footsteps a little further, into the world beyond the testing chambers, beyond her small shared office and the white lighted labs. Most of her insecurities faded when she received the second note. She’d found the paper after Riven had been attacked by some little yellow bird while they’d walked through a bamboo thicket. They’d been headed towards the old-fashioned inn that their book thief was reputedly staying at. It was nice that Riven was allowed to travel with her, Kiryu thought to herself. She had been uncomfortably wary of meeting the Foundation field agent at the airport, before the departure (she’d introduced herself with her surname and title, and after an awkward silence Riven had laughed and mentioned to the agent, “Researcher Kiryu doesn’t like giving her first name. Just a habit. You don’t mind, do you?”). The agent had shrugged off the introduction noncommittally, extended his hand for a handshake, muttered a general greeting with a bit of a bored expression, and glanced over his shoulder. The atmosphere on the plane flight had been strained, at best. She’d once been worried about how to act around such people. Secrets were the highest code of the Foundation. It was sometimes difficult to know exactly what one couldn’t share with others, even colleagues. Now here she was, in her first leadership position. She wasn’t familiar with ranks, but Riven was an easygoing fellow researcher and the agent was just here to keep an eye on her while following, so it couldn’t be too bad to imagine for a moment that she was like her older brother, at the head of a Foundation investigation or maybe even an intervention. She and her colleagues strode on, over the uneven road of broken stones, towards the inn. ---- Cursing under her breath as she paced through the inner courtyard a second time, Researcher Kiryu mentally berated herself for letting the man she’d been tailing out of her sight. Her group had found the inn without catastrophe striking. But then, if the Foundation had expected something dangerous, they’d have sent an entire team of agents, maybe a task force, at least those with experience in these matters, never any researchers. Kiryu, Riven, and the agent had followed a questionable-looking individual into the inn’s gardens. Said individual was wearing a long hooded robe; his face was obscured, and a chirping bird was perched on his shoulder. Neither Riven nor the agent could figure out exactly where to or how he disappeared. Kiryu retraced her thoughts; the memory of the songbird on the man’s shoulder gave her some pause. It seemed almost too obvious. He had attracted her attention the moment the three had entered the inn’s grounds. It could have been a ruse. But surely the data the overseas informants had collected was reliable, it had to have been this inn-- Kiryu thought back to the map of the inn she had attempted to commit to memory earlier. The gardens occupied most of the grounds, the rest of the place was only rooms and a dining hall… She stopped her pacing. “Let’s go to the dining area.” ---- There was some commotion going on. From what little could be discerned from the chaos, a man had collapsed onto his table, spilling his tea. His top garment looked a little too large for him. Researcher Kiryu stopped just short of the entrance and stared as two of the inn’s workers dragged the man in the direction of the rooms. Something fell from the man’s open shirt; the agent stepped over and picked it up, showing it to her in the palm of his gloved hand. A piece of thin paper, wrapped around a scrap of blackened bark. //“The pearl-rounded bridge, at sunset.”// The agent had said, after inspecting the paper, sealing it in a plastic bag, and pocketing it. “Also what looks like some poetry too, but I’ll look into it just in case. It could be--” “…memetic or something.” Kiryu finished with a small smile. She remembered what her brother had told her, after his first experience with the psychic butterfly, “it’s prudent to be careful in this line of work.” ---- The sun seemed to crawl through the sky as Kiryu waited for the appointed time to arrive. She scribbled notes in a databook, Riven retreated to his own room for a nap, and the agent ran some tests on the new message using a field kit. The three left the inn just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Researcher Kiryu cautiously leading the way. There was a strange, spindly-legged figure waiting for her in the distance. “Red-crowned crane,” Riven had whispered to her, half in suspicion, half in awe. The agent said nothing, only watched the bird’s movements. The three approached the curved bridge, the one that led across a small pond on the grounds separating the inn from the lotus ponds in the distance, bordering the rural farmlands. In the feathery dusk of the summer evening, the crane’s feathers held an ethereal glow. “It doesn’t look natural.” Kiryu stated flatly. At the sound of her voice, the crane, though still a substantial distance away, spread its wings and flapped off. “There’s something on the bridge railing,” Riven pointed. The three cautiously approached the bridge, the agent plucking the folded piece of paper from the worn stone of the bridge. He smoothed out the creases, read the words, frowned, and passed it on. > //You believe you protect the ordinary from the extraordinary, as if those who have special abilities have none of the emotions of those without. There was a time when mankind respected the extraordinary, reveled in it, revered it. Do you truly believe the common man fears the extraordinary more than you, Jailers? I leave you now, without what you seek. Keep an open mind, and perhaps someone will pity you.// ---- When she returned, Researcher Kiryu dutifully clocked the field hours ("your first ever hours outside a Foundation facility, congrats!" Riven had said) and wrote up the requisite reports. She had wondered if it really made sense, sending two researchers, one without any field experience, instead of a team made entirely of agents. It seemed the trip had been a waste of time after all; the Foundation had known all along that there wasn’t much chance of success. Nor did anyone seem to think there would have been an actual retrieval. Mark welcomed her back with a smile and a new stack of paperwork, filling her in on what had happened in Site-19 while she was gone (not much, really). He made the usual polite inquiries about the time spent abroad (how was the weather?) and spoke nothing of the recovery mission, if it could be considered a mission at all. She didn’t think it’d be wise to tell Doctor Mark Kiryu more than he asked about. If he didn’t ask, it probably wasn’t necessary to discuss. He knew more than she did, and in this line of work, she never felt truly certain she knew exactly what to remember, what to push away and never dwell on again. This was all something better off forgotten, she sighed. //[http://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/kiryu Really, Researcher, what did you think you’d find?]// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-09-21T05:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "riven-mercer", "serpents-hand", "tale", "zyn-kiryu" ]	Ailier - SCP Foundation	49	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "serpent-s-hand-hub" ]	[]	19961161	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ailier
all-things-considered	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT: "All Things Considered", WOSU 89.7, 28 Jan 2013 16:05</strong></p> <p>ALISHA CLARK, HOST: While the President works to stem unrest in the Middle East, NASA is talking with people from an entirely different world. Since Project Gateway went public last November, all eyes have been on the conversation going on through the Hartle Anomaly. This afternoon, NPR's Stephen Fleischer took a closer look.</p> <p>STEPHEN FLEISCHER, BYLINE: The mood in this antechamber to NASA's Gateway Contact Center is surprisingly ordinary, considering the literally out-of-this-world activities going on inside. Analytical equipment lies ready on the long countertops, but most of the lab's contingent is gathered around one of the laptops against the back wall. Dr. Andrea Tang types a few more words into the bare-bones terminal program, nodding and chuckling at the reply.</p> <p>TANG: Syrti says they're ready any time. David, are we done compiling?</p> <p>FLEISCHER: One of her assistants holds up a small metal tube.</p> <p>TANG: Great. Send that through decon, and let's suit up.</p> <p>FLEISCHER: Tang is the head of the Gateway Contact Center's Direct Hartle Exchange Team, the scientist in charge of sending packages back and forth through the Hartle Anomaly. She and her team stay in constant contact with their counterparts on the other side through a specialized telegraph line, but they've also exchanged thousands of packages since the project went public last November.</p> <p>TANG: When the anomaly first opened, all our communication was on paper, and we passed it through by hand. The terminal's faster for a lot of things, now that they've learned English and we speak Stola, but there's still great value in sending physical items.</p> <p>FLEISCHER: Full-sized books won't fit through the anomaly, but Tang's team has sent and received hundreds of thousands of rolled-up pages. They've traded photographs, maps, biological specimens, art objects, and many stranger things. Richard Goldstein, sociologist with Tang's team.</p> <p>GOLDSTEIN: Once, we opened a message tube and found something that looked just like a taquito. Fresh and hot, full of this spiced vegetable hash. (LAUGHTER) It looked delicious. I'd like to have tried it.</p> <p>FLEISCHER: The researchers on Hartle are enormously interested in Earth's culture, and vice versa. The teams have traded books on everything from theoretical math to pop culture.</p> <p>TANG: We have so, so much we can learn from each other. With what Hartle's physicists have taught us about space travel, my colleagues at Johnson say we'll make Mars by 2020. In return, we've taught them about vaccines, and they're already halting a pandemic in its tracks. And if you've checked the Top 40 charts lately, you know what the cultural exchanges are doing for us both.</p> <p>(SOUNDBITE: "EISH MEKA EISH (LOVE FOR TODAY)", RIHANNA COVER)</p> <p>FLEISCHER: Not everyone is as excited as the exchange team, though. At a press conference Thursday, Indiana Senator Adam Wright urged caution.</p> <p>WRIGHT: I'm just saying, maybe we should be a little more careful. Maybe we should find out what they're really going to want from us, in the end, before we just give them everything. If we teach them about germs, are they going to cure cancer, or are they going to build bioweapons?</p> <p>FLEISCHER: Others are less concerned with what the Hartleites will do deliberately and more worried about the Anomaly itself. Dr. Turner Velasquez, professor of physics at the University of California, Berkeley, urges caution.</p> <p>VELASQUEZ: According to absolutely everything we know about physics, the Hartle Anomaly should be impossible. A wormhole that size, unless it's at the bottom of a black hole, should require a truly enormous energy input to keep it open, and it should be releasing all kinds of exotic radiation. We have no idea how the Hartleites created the Anomaly, or how they're maintaining it, without either of those things happening. For all we know, it could be quietly destabilizing local space-time, or even hastening the heat-death of our universe. Whatever else we do, we need to make it our very top priority to learn how we can close the wormhole permanently.</p> <p>FLEISCHER: While Tang doesn't dismiss those concerns, she argues that her team is taking plenty of precautions.</p> <p>TANG: Our physicists are studying the Anomaly constantly and intensively. We run every exchange by the NSA officials working here with us. We have strict decontamination protocols in place. We've never sent anything that even looks like a weapons design. Besides, it's awfully hard to really hurt one another through such a tiny aperture.</p> <p>FLEISCHER: Back in the lab, the team scrubs up and climbs into bunny suits to enter the clean room surrounding the anomaly itself. It looks like nothing so much as a hole in the air, barely an inch wide, with cables running through it and disappearing. Glimpses of green walls are just visible on the other side. Tang picks up the sterilized message tube and carefully pokes one end through.</p> <p>TANG: [SPEAKING STOLA]</p> <p>FLEISCHER: She lets go, and the tube is pulled through the hole. A moment later, another one is pushed back towards her. The exchange is finished.</p> <p>Before leaving the lab, though, Tang kneels to look straight through the Anomaly. On the other side, her counterpart does the same. From what's visible above his own sterile suit, he's a very ordinary-looking man.</p> <p>TANG [THROUGH TRANSLATOR, SPEAKING STOLA]: Hello, Syrti. How's Reh doing?</p> <p>FLEISCHER: Astronomer Syrti Koll, lead scientist for the Earth Exchange Study Group.</p> <p>KOLL: Much better. He'll be back at school tomorrow.</p> <p>TANG [THROUGH TRANSLATOR, SPEAKING STOLA]: I sent a little something extra through for him. We all know how he loves comics.</p> <p>FLEISCHER: When they've finished their brief conversation, Tang raises her forefinger to the anomaly, and right through <a href="/scp-1322">the hole between worlds</a>, the two scientists touch hands.</p> <p>From the Gateway Contact Center in Terre Haute, I'm Stephen Fleischer. This is NPR.</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="/all-things-considered">All Things Considered</a>" by Photosynthetic, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/all-things-considered">https://scpwiki.com/all-things-considered</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]] [[/>]] EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT: "All Things Considered", WOSU 89.7, 28 Jan 2013 16:05 ALISHA CLARK, HOST: While the President works to stem unrest in the Middle East, NASA is talking with people from an entirely different world. Since Project Gateway went public last November, all eyes have been on the conversation going on through the Hartle Anomaly. This afternoon, NPR's Stephen Fleischer took a closer look. STEPHEN FLEISCHER, BYLINE: The mood in this antechamber to NASA's Gateway Contact Center is surprisingly ordinary, considering the literally out-of-this-world activities going on inside. Analytical equipment lies ready on the long countertops, but most of the lab's contingent is gathered around one of the laptops against the back wall. Dr. Andrea Tang types a few more words into the bare-bones terminal program, nodding and chuckling at the reply. TANG: Syrti says they're ready any time. David, are we done compiling? FLEISCHER: One of her assistants holds up a small metal tube. TANG: Great. Send that through decon, and let's suit up. FLEISCHER: Tang is the head of the Gateway Contact Center's Direct Hartle Exchange Team, the scientist in charge of sending packages back and forth through the Hartle Anomaly. She and her team stay in constant contact with their counterparts on the other side through a specialized telegraph line, but they've also exchanged thousands of packages since the project went public last November. TANG: When the anomaly first opened, all our communication was on paper, and we passed it through by hand. The terminal's faster for a lot of things, now that they've learned English and we speak Stola, but there's still great value in sending physical items. FLEISCHER: Full-sized books won't fit through the anomaly, but Tang's team has sent and received hundreds of thousands of rolled-up pages. They've traded photographs, maps, biological specimens, art objects, and many stranger things. Richard Goldstein, sociologist with Tang's team. GOLDSTEIN: Once, we opened a message tube and found something that looked just like a taquito. Fresh and hot, full of this spiced vegetable hash. (LAUGHTER) It looked delicious. I'd like to have tried it. FLEISCHER: The researchers on Hartle are enormously interested in Earth's culture, and vice versa. The teams have traded books on everything from theoretical math to pop culture. TANG: We have so, so much we can learn from each other. With what Hartle's physicists have taught us about space travel, my colleagues at Johnson say we'll make Mars by 2020. In return, we've taught them about vaccines, and they're already halting a pandemic in its tracks. And if you've checked the Top 40 charts lately, you know what the cultural exchanges are doing for us both. (SOUNDBITE: "EISH MEKA EISH (LOVE FOR TODAY)", RIHANNA COVER) FLEISCHER: Not everyone is as excited as the exchange team, though. At a press conference Thursday, Indiana Senator Adam Wright urged caution. WRIGHT: I'm just saying, maybe we should be a little more careful. Maybe we should find out what they're really going to want from us, in the end, before we just give them everything. If we teach them about germs, are they going to cure cancer, or are they going to build bioweapons? FLEISCHER: Others are less concerned with what the Hartleites will do deliberately and more worried about the Anomaly itself. Dr. Turner Velasquez, professor of physics at the University of California, Berkeley, urges caution. VELASQUEZ: According to absolutely everything we know about physics, the Hartle Anomaly should be impossible. A wormhole that size, unless it's at the bottom of a black hole, should require a truly enormous energy input to keep it open, and it should be releasing all kinds of exotic radiation. We have no idea how the Hartleites created the Anomaly, or how they're maintaining it, without either of those things happening. For all we know, it could be quietly destabilizing local space-time, or even hastening the heat-death of our universe. Whatever else we do, we need to make it our very top priority to learn how we can close the wormhole permanently. FLEISCHER: While Tang doesn't dismiss those concerns, she argues that her team is taking plenty of precautions. TANG: Our physicists are studying the Anomaly constantly and intensively. We run every exchange by the NSA officials working here with us. We have strict decontamination protocols in place. We've never sent anything that even looks like a weapons design. Besides, it's awfully hard to really hurt one another through such a tiny aperture. FLEISCHER: Back in the lab, the team scrubs up and climbs into bunny suits to enter the clean room surrounding the anomaly itself. It looks like nothing so much as a hole in the air, barely an inch wide, with cables running through it and disappearing. Glimpses of green walls are just visible on the other side. Tang picks up the sterilized message tube and carefully pokes one end through. TANG: [SPEAKING STOLA] FLEISCHER: She lets go, and the tube is pulled through the hole. A moment later, another one is pushed back towards her. The exchange is finished. Before leaving the lab, though, Tang kneels to look straight through the Anomaly. On the other side, her counterpart does the same. From what's visible above his own sterile suit, he's a very ordinary-looking man. TANG [THROUGH TRANSLATOR, SPEAKING STOLA]: Hello, Syrti. How's Reh doing? FLEISCHER: Astronomer Syrti Koll, lead scientist for the Earth Exchange Study Group. KOLL: Much better. He'll be back at school tomorrow. TANG [THROUGH TRANSLATOR, SPEAKING STOLA]: I sent a little something extra through for him. We all know how he loves comics. FLEISCHER: When they've finished their brief conversation, Tang raises her forefinger to the anomaly, and right through [[[SCP-1322\|the hole between worlds]]], the two scientists touch hands. From the Gateway Contact Center in Terre Haute, I'm Stephen Fleischer. This is NPR. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-03T21:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "alternate-history", "nyc2013", "science-fiction", "tale", "unfounded" ]	All Things Considered - SCP Foundation	227	[ "scp-1322", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "canon-hub" ]	[]	16285468	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/all-things-considered
alternate-character-interpretations	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>New York City</strong></p> <p>"Hey, Sal, got a cig I can have?" Mary-Ann Lewitt looked between her husband and her latest creation, sprayed on the wall of a vacant warehouse, and it was sprayed on the <em>entire</em> wall, at least 20 feet high. It was a bright red vulva with a hand, flipping off the audience, sticking out between the lips. It was painted entirely in menstrual blood, which had taken her months to collect; she called it "Period Piece: The Modern Age."</p> <p>The Pakistani man frowned at Mary-Ann upon hearing her request, looking at her pregnant belly. "You're with child. It's generally not a good idea to smoke-"</p> <p>"It's not for me, ya dimwit." She pointed up at her piece, wiping her bandana-covered brow with one hand. "I need a proper way to express how women are destroying their bodies with drugs and pills and plastics and lord knows what else." She dug in her pocket, taking out several dildos that, by all means, should not have fit in there. "I won't smoke it, I just need it to tie the piece together."</p> <p>"I think it's fine as is!" He waved a hand at the Period Piece, smiling at her. "It's just saying that a period is the way a woman's body says "fuck you" to itself once every month. Maybe you could put a mirror over there-" He pointed to a warehouse opposite the wall- "or a sculpture of Eve or something, but really, it's fine!"</p> <p>Mary-Ann elbowed him in the side. "You say that about all my work, Sal. It's getting old. I at least have the balls to criticize your shit."</p> <p>"…did you really think that my Bacon Treaty piece was disgusting?"</p> <p>"I thought it was disgustingly <em>simplistic</em>. But I did appreciate you trying to be 'Cool' in the sense that 'we agree'." Mary-Ann patted her stomach and sighed. "I'm hungry. Let's get some pizza or something."</p> <p>"How about we go to the old place? You know…" Salah smiled, pulling a map of New York City out of his pocket and pulling Mary-Ann close so that she could see the map, too. "It was right… here." He pointed to a spot on 32nd and smiled as the warehouse district faded away to be replaced by the urban sprawl of Manhattan. Mary-Ann rolled her eyes and bapped him in the gut.</p> <p>"You're gonna get fat if you keep on relying on the Cartographer's stuff," she muttered, walking up to the pizza parlor as Salah put away the map. "A bit of exercise is good for you. You can't just rely on those candles forever."</p> <p>"The City of New York says I'm not allowed on the subway anymore, remember? Gimme a break, honey." He walked up to the pizza place as well, and looked at the menu. "Veggie-lovers pizza sounds good."</p> <hr/> <p>An hour later, the pair of them stood in front of the entrance to the BackDoor. Mary-Ann had taken the map from Salah and had forced him to walk; he was visibly winded, while Mary-Ann had barely broken a sweat. "Now that's pathetic. I'm three months pregnant, and you can't even keep up with me." She looked around the alley and frowned. "Where the fuck is Chuck?"</p> <p>Charlie came out of the wall, his pink hair done in a mullet today. He frowned at the both of them, toying with a nose ring. "Now is not a good day to be in the BackDoor. Just warning you."</p> <p>"Why?" asked Salah, still panting for breath. "Did Gilligans get in again? Just give them to one of the Baileys; they know what to do with Gilligans."</p> <p>"Not the Skippers," said Charlie. "The Critic's in town. She's looking over the Cartographer's new thing. You know, the Korea one?"</p> <p>"The one that shows every person in the country who wants to dissent?"</p> <p>"That's the one," he said, holding out a hand for their token. "You sure you wanna go in? It's gonna be Bedlam in there."</p> <p>Mary-Ann handed Charlie her token and nodded. "We'll just avoid the Cartographer's place for now. We're probably going to head home, anyway, unless something comes up."</p> <p>"Something <em>will</em> come up," muttered Salah. "It has the last five times the Critic's come into BackDoorSoHo. Why should it change now?"</p> <p>"Point," said Mary-Ann, looking at Charlie. "You know where to contact us if shit goes down, right?"</p> <p>"Yeah, yeah…" and with that, Charlie vanished into the brickwork. Soon after, Mary-Ann and Salah vanished into there, too.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Ruiz Duchamp was not having a good day. His non-Newtonian shock armor was starting to rip at the seams, his gun jammed on the firing range this morning, he was getting cold sores again, his arch-nemesis was in town, and the barista at Starbucks put cream in his coffee this morning. He was lactose-intolerant.</p> <p>Then again, as everyone in the MTF knew, Ruiz Duchamp never had good days. He hadn't had one since Milwaukee. He hadn't had a good day since his brother had defected to the Chaos Insurgency. He hadn't had a good day since he had met Nobody.</p> <p>Ruiz was one of the few survivors of the Milwaukee incident, and ever since then, he had been ruthlessly chasing the shadow that was known as Nobody. He had almost caught up to her, once, in Dubai, before the scarf-wearing bitch had literally frozen him on top of one of the tallest buildings in the world. He survived, even though it took three days to thaw him out.</p> <p>And today, the stupid motherfucker was here. In New York City. He knew exactly where she was, too, and he was going to take his entire platoon and kill that fucker dead this time. And there was nothing- not a fucking thing- Pico could do to stop it this time.</p> <p>The van pulled up to an alleyway, and the task force stormed out, surrounding a large spot of graffiti that was located in the Alley. With an audible sigh, Charlie emerged from the brickwork, arms crossed. "I'm not gonna let you in."</p> <p>"We have tokens," Ruiz said, taking out a pouch and opening it onto the concrete. Several tokens with the words "ARS GRATIA ARTIS" stamped on them, some still stained with blood. "You kind of fucking have to."</p> <p>"I ain't <em>gotta</em> do shit, Gilligan. Piss off." Charlie reached into the brickwork, and pulled out a detonator from a red piece of graffiti. The cord went back into the wall, merging seamlessly with the entrance to the BackDoor. "Or I blow this whole alley to the Oort Cloud, and then your friends can have a hell of a time explaining to the NYPD why an alleyway blew up for no reason."</p> <p>The entire MTF raised their rifles at him, with Duchamp sneering. "Go ahead and try, Aussie."</p> <p>Charlie shrugged. "Eh. I can just be painted again. But since pink spray paint is so damn hard to find…" He sighed. "I'm going to give my guys warning first."</p> <p>"Of course."</p> <p>"The Critic probably already knows you're here."</p> <p>"Naturally."</p> <p>"You won't kill her."</p> <p>"Fuck you, paint huffer." Ruiz spat in Charlie's direction, but by then, he had gone back into the brickwork to raise the alarm. A subordinate of Duchamp's looked at him.</p> <p>"Sir? How will we get in without him?"</p> <p>"We wait." Ruiz grinned with a grim satisfaction. "We wait."</p> <hr/> <p>The Cartographer paced around his apartment, wondering where the hell she could be. She said 6:15 promptly, and it was almost 6:30… just where the fuck was she? Did she not think his masterpiece was worth critiquing? He had spent the last year working on it, and now she wasn't even going to show up?</p> <p>"Son of a bitch!" York, the Cartographer, felt like flipping his cartography table. Didn't she think that maps would be considered art?! That little-</p> <p>"Hello there, Mr. The Cartographer." He spun around, seeing a woman in a cloche hat, gray dress suit, and a red scarf standing in his display gallery. "I apologize for my sudden entrance. I take it I am not too late to see your piece?"</p> <p>"O-of course not, ma'am." The Cartographer looked at his watch, and saw that it was exactly 6:15. "Come here, come here. The piece is right this way." York walked into the display room, and directed her at a map of North Korea. Once every second, blue dots appeared and dissipated in it. A countdown clock was in the upper-left hand corner, ticking down despite being made entirely out of ink, while another clock ticked upwards; the count on the second one started on December 17th, 2011. "I call it 'The Map of Dissent'."</p> <p>"A rather uncreative name," commented the Critic, looking over the map. "I do admire the technique, however. It mirrors the cartographic techniques used in the Gojoseon period. I assume all these dots are dissenters?"</p> <p>The Cartographer nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Each one represents a single dissenter that can be found in North Korea, or at least, someone with dissenting thoughts. You can even zoom it in to a certain degree; I'm still working on the magnification."</p> <p>"This clock," said the Critic, pointing towards the top. "It detracts from the work, somewhat, but it also serves as a nice juxtaposition; a pseudo-digital appliance in an otherwise medieval piece. What is its purpose?"</p> <p>"The one counting down indicates how much time is left in the life of Kim Jong-un, down to the second. Once that clock runs out, he dies. The other one is how long it has been since Kim Jong-il died."</p> <p>"Check your calculations," snapped the Critic. "Kim Jong-il's been dead for far longer than that — although nobody but the North Korean government knows, so I suppose I can't blame you <em>too</em> much." She reached into her pocket and took out a smartphone. "Apologies. I have to answer this mail."</p> <p>The Cartographer frowned, and was about to comment on how rude it was to do that, when suddenly, chaos broke out outside of his window.</p> <hr/> <p><span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;">wow<br/> much shibe<br/> so cool</span></p> <p>"For the love of-" Mary-Ann rubbed her eyes to clear away the Comic Sans as she stared at their dog, calling to Salah. "Honey, I think Gerry got his hands on Amaterasu again!"</p> <p>"Is that font appearing around her?" He called back, chopping up carrots in the kitchen.</p> <p>"Yeah! Tell him that if he touches our dog again, I'm gonna kick his-" Mary-Ann's phone suddenly rang, and she took it out of her jean pocket, sighing into the receiver. "What."</p> <p>"M-A, it's C." Charlie was on the other end of the line, and he began to sing. "Sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…"</p> <p>"Shit! I understand." She clicked off the phone, and called to Salah. "Dinner's cancelled. We got Gilligans."</p> <p>Salah stopped chopping veggies and stepped out of the kitchen, grabbing a pen off of his writing desk. Mary-Ann took up a metal slingshot, and looked around the living room of their apartment briefly. "Crap, where is it?"</p> <p>"Where is what?"</p> <p>"The cricket bat we got from Marshall, Blackwood and Dark! We're gonna need it if they're packing heat!"</p> <p>"One: 'if'? Two: We loaned it to Dickens, remember?" Salah picked up his own slingshot and made for the door. "Now, c'mon, we got some Gilligans to kill, again!"</p> <p>"Let's do this." Mary-Ann grinned as she rushed out the door and up the stairs of their building.</p> <hr/> <p>The Critic looked through her purse for a very particular item, her attention now completely distracted from the Cartographer's work. "I do apologize, Mr. York, but I need to take my leave."</p> <p>"Wha-who? Do we have the Gilligans on our back again?" He peered at the Critic as he covered his map with a tarp."They're after you, aren't they?"</p> <p>"Such insistent terminology!" muttered the Critic as she took out an aerosol can. "Just call them the Foundation. I know you think that dignifies them, but really, the fact that you even know about them is humiliating." She went to the window, looking below her; a large crowd of anartists was armed with slingshots, bullets that shot guns, cream pies filled with something that was both acidic and vulgar, copies of <em>The DaVinci Code</em>, swords made out of newspaper, and pens. They were ready in case the Foundation Agents came this way. "You all down there!" The entire crowd turned in the direction of the Critic's voice as she threw down several aerosol cans. "Have a party for me, will you?"</p> <p>The crowd took up the cans, and handed them to the unarmed members among them. Nobody smiled, and everybody grinned at the new gift. With that, the Critic made her way for the door. "Perhaps we can pick this up some other time, Mr. York."</p> <p>"Perhaps," said York, looking over a map of the BackDoor that he had drawn years ago. "Perhaps."</p> <p>Nobody walked out the door, and nobody was in the hallway a few seconds later.</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz Duchamp broke the neck of some no-name anartist who had tried spraying his visor with paint. It was ruined now, so he took off his headgear and started firing into the crowd. Around him, members of his Task Force died as their chests were penetrated by miniature guns flying at supersonic speeds, or their arms were chopped off by claymores made out of back issues of the New York Times. Ruiz still stood though. He scanned the crowd of bright, vibrant colors for any sign of grey-</p> <p>There. Coming out of the apartment building in the back. That scarf gave her away immediately. Ruiz ran through the crowd, firing in front of him and gunning down innocent anartists in pursuit of his mark. Said mark saw him, and smirked in his direction before making her way down an alley. Agent Duchamp ran after her as fast as he could, not noticing the Pakistani man and the American woman on the roof above him.</p> <hr/> <p>"Salah, for fuck's sake, you don't have to make a bridge every time I need to jump a rooftop!" She frowned as her husband drew a basic bridge using his pen before letting her cross. "The baby will be fine!"</p> <p>"Mary-Ann, you shouldn't even be doing this," he said the pen re-absorbed the spent ink. "You're pregnant, you should be staying at home in the panic room with Ammy and not out here, fighting the god-damn Foundation!"</p> <p>"Oh, so just because I'm pregnant makes me a fragile woman now, does it? Ugh!" She rolled her eyes and took out her slingshot, taking aim at an agent that was just coming in through the breach in the gateway. She let lose a stone which grew in size as it passed through the air, eventually blasting a hole through the agent's leg. "Damn. Was aiming for his balls."</p> <p>Salah got the message. "I'm just saying it won't be good for our daughter if you keep on over-exerting yourself like this." Salah started to draw up a chair when he noticed that an agent was running through the crowd, after a woman in… grey… "Shit! That guy, right there." He pointed at the rogue agent. "He's going after the Critic."</p> <p>"Already on it," said Mary-Ann, loading up her slingshot with a cherry bomb taking aim at the runner. "Just need to account for trajectory and…"</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz Duchamp let off a shot at Nobody. "Hold it right there."</p> <p>The Critic turned to face him, crossing her arms with a wry smile. "Hello again. How long has it been since we last met? 6 months? 7?"</p> <p>"Seven months, 18 days, 15 hours, 24 minutes."</p> <p>"Zero heartburn," quipped the Critic. Ruiz raised his rifle at her, and she put up her hands. "All right, I get the message. You want me dead." She tsked. "Ruiz, you are the very definition of obsession, you know that?"</p> <p>"Shut up!" Ruiz fired a bullet that grazed her dress suit. "You killed a lot of good people in Milwaukee."</p> <p>"For the umpteenth time, Ruiz, I did nothing. All I did was try and encourage a little fun."</p> <p>"Half the city died because of your 'fun'!"</p> <p>"Well, yes. But that bug's been worked out now!" She sighed. "Nothing I say is going to keep you from killing me, is it?"</p> <p>"Not a fucking thing, Lady. Not a fucking thing."</p> <p>"Very well," the Critic said as she typed one last messaged on to her smartphone before turning it off. "Give my regards to Pico, if you see him again."</p> <p>"Fuck Pico, and fuck-" Ruiz blinked at the sound of whistling coming from behind him. He turned to see a small cherry bomb fireworks sailing towards his head. It landed at his feet, the fuse disappearing into the casing. For what seemed like the longest time, nothing happened.</p> <p>And then the Cherry Bomb went off.</p> <p>The last thing Ruiz Duchamp remembered before it went dark was the smell of fruit, the taste of wild cherry Kool-Aid, and his eardrums popping. The last thing he saw was a woman in a grey suit turn on her smartphone as she walked off into the distance.</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="/alternate-character-interpretations">Alternate Character Interpretations</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/alternate-character-interpretations">https://scpwiki.com/alternate-character-interpretations</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]] [[/>]] New York City "Hey, Sal, got a cig I can have?" Mary-Ann Lewitt looked between her husband and her latest creation, sprayed on the wall of a vacant warehouse, and it was sprayed on the //entire// wall, at least 20 feet high. It was a bright red vulva with a hand, flipping off the audience, sticking out between the lips. It was painted entirely in menstrual blood, which had taken her months to collect; she called it "Period Piece: The Modern Age." The Pakistani man frowned at Mary-Ann upon hearing her request, looking at her pregnant belly. "You're with child. It's generally not a good idea to smoke-" "It's not for me, ya dimwit." She pointed up at her piece, wiping her bandana-covered brow with one hand. "I need a proper way to express how women are destroying their bodies with drugs and pills and plastics and lord knows what else." She dug in her pocket, taking out several dildos that, by all means, should not have fit in there. "I won't smoke it, I just need it to tie the piece together." "I think it's fine as is!" He waved a hand at the Period Piece, smiling at her. "It's just saying that a period is the way a woman's body says "fuck you" to itself once every month. Maybe you could put a mirror over there-" He pointed to a warehouse opposite the wall- "or a sculpture of Eve or something, but really, it's fine!" Mary-Ann elbowed him in the side. "You say that about all my work, Sal. It's getting old. I at least have the balls to criticize your shit." "...did you really think that my Bacon Treaty piece was disgusting?" "I thought it was disgustingly //simplistic//. But I did appreciate you trying to be 'Cool' in the sense that 'we agree'." Mary-Ann patted her stomach and sighed. "I'm hungry. Let's get some pizza or something." "How about we go to the old place? You know..." Salah smiled, pulling a map of New York City out of his pocket and pulling Mary-Ann close so that she could see the map, too. "It was right... here." He pointed to a spot on 32nd and smiled as the warehouse district faded away to be replaced by the urban sprawl of Manhattan. Mary-Ann rolled her eyes and bapped him in the gut. "You're gonna get fat if you keep on relying on the Cartographer's stuff," she muttered, walking up to the pizza parlor as Salah put away the map. "A bit of exercise is good for you. You can't just rely on those candles forever." "The City of New York says I'm not allowed on the subway anymore, remember? Gimme a break, honey." He walked up to the pizza place as well, and looked at the menu. "Veggie-lovers pizza sounds good." ------ An hour later, the pair of them stood in front of the entrance to the BackDoor. Mary-Ann had taken the map from Salah and had forced him to walk; he was visibly winded, while Mary-Ann had barely broken a sweat. "Now that's pathetic. I'm three months pregnant, and you can't even keep up with me." She looked around the alley and frowned. "Where the fuck is Chuck?" Charlie came out of the wall, his pink hair done in a mullet today. He frowned at the both of them, toying with a nose ring. "Now is not a good day to be in the BackDoor. Just warning you." "Why?" asked Salah, still panting for breath. "Did Gilligans get in again? Just give them to one of the Baileys; they know what to do with Gilligans." "Not the Skippers," said Charlie. "The Critic's in town. She's looking over the Cartographer's new thing. You know, the Korea one?" "The one that shows every person in the country who wants to dissent?" "That's the one," he said, holding out a hand for their token. "You sure you wanna go in? It's gonna be Bedlam in there." Mary-Ann handed Charlie her token and nodded. "We'll just avoid the Cartographer's place for now. We're probably going to head home, anyway, unless something comes up." "Something //will// come up," muttered Salah. "It has the last five times the Critic's come into BackDoorSoHo. Why should it change now?" "Point," said Mary-Ann, looking at Charlie. "You know where to contact us if shit goes down, right?" "Yeah, yeah..." and with that, Charlie vanished into the brickwork. Soon after, Mary-Ann and Salah vanished into there, too. ------ Agent Ruiz Duchamp was not having a good day. His non-Newtonian shock armor was starting to rip at the seams, his gun jammed on the firing range this morning, he was getting cold sores again, his arch-nemesis was in town, and the barista at Starbucks put cream in his coffee this morning. He was lactose-intolerant. Then again, as everyone in the MTF knew, Ruiz Duchamp never had good days. He hadn't had one since Milwaukee. He hadn't had a good day since his brother had defected to the Chaos Insurgency. He hadn't had a good day since he had met Nobody. Ruiz was one of the few survivors of the Milwaukee incident, and ever since then, he had been ruthlessly chasing the shadow that was known as Nobody. He had almost caught up to her, once, in Dubai, before the scarf-wearing bitch had literally frozen him on top of one of the tallest buildings in the world. He survived, even though it took three days to thaw him out. And today, the stupid motherfucker was here. In New York City. He knew exactly where she was, too, and he was going to take his entire platoon and kill that fucker dead this time. And there was nothing- not a fucking thing- Pico could do to stop it this time. The van pulled up to an alleyway, and the task force stormed out, surrounding a large spot of graffiti that was located in the Alley. With an audible sigh, Charlie emerged from the brickwork, arms crossed. "I'm not gonna let you in." "We have tokens," Ruiz said, taking out a pouch and opening it onto the concrete. Several tokens with the words "ARS GRATIA ARTIS" stamped on them, some still stained with blood. "You kind of fucking have to." "I ain't //gotta// do shit, Gilligan. Piss off." Charlie reached into the brickwork, and pulled out a detonator from a red piece of graffiti. The cord went back into the wall, merging seamlessly with the entrance to the BackDoor. "Or I blow this whole alley to the Oort Cloud, and then your friends can have a hell of a time explaining to the NYPD why an alleyway blew up for no reason." The entire MTF raised their rifles at him, with Duchamp sneering. "Go ahead and try, Aussie." Charlie shrugged. "Eh. I can just be painted again. But since pink spray paint is so damn hard to find..." He sighed. "I'm going to give my guys warning first." "Of course." "The Critic probably already knows you're here." "Naturally." "You won't kill her." "Fuck you, paint huffer." Ruiz spat in Charlie's direction, but by then, he had gone back into the brickwork to raise the alarm. A subordinate of Duchamp's looked at him. "Sir? How will we get in without him?" "We wait." Ruiz grinned with a grim satisfaction. "We wait." ------ The Cartographer paced around his apartment, wondering where the hell she could be. She said 6:15 promptly, and it was almost 6:30... just where the fuck was she? Did she not think his masterpiece was worth critiquing? He had spent the last year working on it, and now she wasn't even going to show up? "Son of a bitch!" York, the Cartographer, felt like flipping his cartography table. Didn't she think that maps would be considered art?! That little- "Hello there, Mr. The Cartographer." He spun around, seeing a woman in a cloche hat, gray dress suit, and a red scarf standing in his display gallery. "I apologize for my sudden entrance. I take it I am not too late to see your piece?" "O-of course not, ma'am." The Cartographer looked at his watch, and saw that it was exactly 6:15. "Come here, come here. The piece is right this way." York walked into the display room, and directed her at a map of North Korea. Once every second, blue dots appeared and dissipated in it. A countdown clock was in the upper-left hand corner, ticking down despite being made entirely out of ink, while another clock ticked upwards; the count on the second one started on December 17th, 2011. "I call it 'The Map of Dissent'." "A rather uncreative name," commented the Critic, looking over the map. "I do admire the technique, however. It mirrors the cartographic techniques used in the Gojoseon period. I assume all these dots are dissenters?" The Cartographer nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Each one represents a single dissenter that can be found in North Korea, or at least, someone with dissenting thoughts. You can even zoom it in to a certain degree; I'm still working on the magnification." "This clock," said the Critic, pointing towards the top. "It detracts from the work, somewhat, but it also serves as a nice juxtaposition; a pseudo-digital appliance in an otherwise medieval piece. What is its purpose?" "The one counting down indicates how much time is left in the life of Kim Jong-un, down to the second. Once that clock runs out, he dies. The other one is how long it has been since Kim Jong-il died." "Check your calculations," snapped the Critic. "Kim Jong-il's been dead for far longer than that -- although nobody but the North Korean government knows, so I suppose I can't blame you //too// much." She reached into her pocket and took out a smartphone. "Apologies. I have to answer this mail." The Cartographer frowned, and was about to comment on how rude it was to do that, when suddenly, chaos broke out outside of his window. ------ [[span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS;"]]wow much shibe so cool[[/span]] "For the love of-" Mary-Ann rubbed her eyes to clear away the Comic Sans as she stared at their dog, calling to Salah. "Honey, I think Gerry got his hands on Amaterasu again!" "Is that font appearing around her?" He called back, chopping up carrots in the kitchen. "Yeah! Tell him that if he touches our dog again, I'm gonna kick his-" Mary-Ann's phone suddenly rang, and she took it out of her jean pocket, sighing into the receiver. "What." "M-A, it's C." Charlie was on the other end of the line, and he began to sing. "Sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip..." "Shit! I understand." She clicked off the phone, and called to Salah. "Dinner's cancelled. We got Gilligans." Salah stopped chopping veggies and stepped out of the kitchen, grabbing a pen off of his writing desk. Mary-Ann took up a metal slingshot, and looked around the living room of their apartment briefly. "Crap, where is it?" "Where is what?" "The cricket bat we got from Marshall, Blackwood and Dark! We're gonna need it if they're packing heat!" "One: 'if'? Two: We loaned it to Dickens, remember?" Salah picked up his own slingshot and made for the door. "Now, c'mon, we got some Gilligans to kill, again!" "Let's do this." Mary-Ann grinned as she rushed out the door and up the stairs of their building. ------ The Critic looked through her purse for a very particular item, her attention now completely distracted from the Cartographer's work. "I do apologize, Mr. York, but I need to take my leave." "Wha-who? Do we have the Gilligans on our back again?" He peered at the Critic as he covered his map with a tarp."They're after you, aren't they?" "Such insistent terminology!" muttered the Critic as she took out an aerosol can. "Just call them the Foundation. I know you think that dignifies them, but really, the fact that you even know about them is humiliating." She went to the window, looking below her; a large crowd of anartists was armed with slingshots, bullets that shot guns, cream pies filled with something that was both acidic and vulgar, copies of //The DaVinci Code//, swords made out of newspaper, and pens. They were ready in case the Foundation Agents came this way. "You all down there!" The entire crowd turned in the direction of the Critic's voice as she threw down several aerosol cans. "Have a party for me, will you?" The crowd took up the cans, and handed them to the unarmed members among them. Nobody smiled, and everybody grinned at the new gift. With that, the Critic made her way for the door. "Perhaps we can pick this up some other time, Mr. York." "Perhaps," said York, looking over a map of the BackDoor that he had drawn years ago. "Perhaps." Nobody walked out the door, and nobody was in the hallway a few seconds later. ------ Ruiz Duchamp broke the neck of some no-name anartist who had tried spraying his visor with paint. It was ruined now, so he took off his headgear and started firing into the crowd. Around him, members of his Task Force died as their chests were penetrated by miniature guns flying at supersonic speeds, or their arms were chopped off by claymores made out of back issues of the New York Times. Ruiz still stood though. He scanned the crowd of bright, vibrant colors for any sign of grey- There. Coming out of the apartment building in the back. That scarf gave her away immediately. Ruiz ran through the crowd, firing in front of him and gunning down innocent anartists in pursuit of his mark. Said mark saw him, and smirked in his direction before making her way down an alley. Agent Duchamp ran after her as fast as he could, not noticing the Pakistani man and the American woman on the roof above him. ------ "Salah, for fuck's sake, you don't have to make a bridge every time I need to jump a rooftop!" She frowned as her husband drew a basic bridge using his pen before letting her cross. "The baby will be fine!" "Mary-Ann, you shouldn't even be doing this," he said the pen re-absorbed the spent ink. "You're pregnant, you should be staying at home in the panic room with Ammy and not out here, fighting the god-damn Foundation!" "Oh, so just because I'm pregnant makes me a fragile woman now, does it? Ugh!" She rolled her eyes and took out her slingshot, taking aim at an agent that was just coming in through the breach in the gateway. She let lose a stone which grew in size as it passed through the air, eventually blasting a hole through the agent's leg. "Damn. Was aiming for his balls." Salah got the message. "I'm just saying it won't be good for our daughter if you keep on over-exerting yourself like this." Salah started to draw up a chair when he noticed that an agent was running through the crowd, after a woman in... grey... "Shit! That guy, right there." He pointed at the rogue agent. "He's going after the Critic." "Already on it," said Mary-Ann, loading up her slingshot with a cherry bomb taking aim at the runner. "Just need to account for trajectory and..." ------ Ruiz Duchamp let off a shot at Nobody. "Hold it right there." The Critic turned to face him, crossing her arms with a wry smile. "Hello again. How long has it been since we last met? 6 months? 7?" "Seven months, 18 days, 15 hours, 24 minutes." "Zero heartburn," quipped the Critic. Ruiz raised his rifle at her, and she put up her hands. "All right, I get the message. You want me dead." She tsked. "Ruiz, you are the very definition of obsession, you know that?" "Shut up!" Ruiz fired a bullet that grazed her dress suit. "You killed a lot of good people in Milwaukee." "For the umpteenth time, Ruiz, I did nothing. All I did was try and encourage a little fun." "Half the city died because of your 'fun'!" "Well, yes. But that bug's been worked out now!" She sighed. "Nothing I say is going to keep you from killing me, is it?" "Not a fucking thing, Lady. Not a fucking thing." "Very well," the Critic said as she typed one last messaged on to her smartphone before turning it off. "Give my regards to Pico, if you see him again." "Fuck Pico, and fuck-" Ruiz blinked at the sound of whistling coming from behind him. He turned to see a small cherry bomb fireworks sailing towards his head. It landed at his feet, the fuse disappearing into the casing. For what seemed like the longest time, nothing happened. And then the Cherry Bomb went off. The last thing Ruiz Duchamp remembered before it went dark was the smell of fruit, the taste of wild cherry Kool-Aid, and his eardrums popping. The last thing he saw was a woman in a grey suit turn on her smartphone as she walked off into the distance. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-19T01:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "are-we-cool-yet", "backdoor-soho", "chase", "crime-fiction", "lewitt-zairi-family", "nobody", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale", "the-critic" ]	Alternate Character Interpretations - SCP Foundation	69	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "nobody-hub", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "acidverse" ]	[]	21010436	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/alternate-character-interpretations
alternate-hypotheses	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>We gotta keep our own, don't we?</p> <p>That's what my dear Momma always said. If ya got something earned, or somethin' that's yours, keep it safe. Don't let any o' them outside peepers come creepin' in, tryin' to make off with somethin' of yours. She wanted to keep away from them folks, to live with what we already got.</p> <p>I kept care of Momma and Sue Ann fer all my life. Side by side, we lived'n peace, and sometimes comfort, if we was lucky. We each had our protection, an' used it well. But, sometimes it wadn't enough. Momma passed back in '48, bless her heart. Big storm knocked her right over, an' she never got up. Sue Ann got to be with Momma some years after, with a rusted heart.</p> <p>But y'can't let yerself fall apart when some'n your own ain't around anyplace. I kept up, remembrin' them and keepin' to my own, like Momma woulda wanted me to. Keepin' it safe. The protector don't quite look like what he used to be, but that don't change a thing, now does it? Still keeps to me, like I do t'him. Y'all should've kept to yerselves, 'stead of headin' here.</p> <p>You folks never learn. Comin' onto someone else's land ain't respectful, and then up and lyin' about it don't help. I chased yer buddies away, maybe they'll think twice about coming back. Anythin's possible. Lookit em' run. They go quick when they scared, don't they?</p> <p>Now, uh, fer you. See, my protector's been gettin' on in his years, and he don't have the spring to his step what like he used to. Tellin' me he's tired, and wants rest. The man deserves to rest more'n anyone. But, I still need a protector.</p> <p>You like beans? Aww, well you'll learn't love 'em, soon.</p> <blockquote> <p>INCIDENT 1270-██<br/> On ██/██/201█, several agents were performing routine reconnaissance into <a href="/scp-1270">SCP-1270</a>'s second floor. During this time, SCP-1270-1 suddenly manifested and began attacking personnel, injuring ██ and fatally wounding █. Following the incident, Agent Fowells, who had been with the reconnaissance team, was found to be missing. His current status is MIA.</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="/alternate-hypotheses">Alternate Hypotheses</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/alternate-hypotheses">https://scpwiki.com/alternate-hypotheses</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 gotta keep our own, don't we? That's what my dear Momma always said. If ya got something earned, or somethin' that's yours, keep it safe. Don't let any o' them outside peepers come creepin' in, tryin' to make off with somethin' of yours. She wanted to keep away from them folks, to live with what we already got. I kept care of Momma and Sue Ann fer all my life. Side by side, we lived'n peace, and sometimes comfort, if we was lucky. We each had our protection, an' used it well. But, sometimes it wadn't enough. Momma passed back in '48, bless her heart. Big storm knocked her right over, an' she never got up. Sue Ann got to be with Momma some years after, with a rusted heart. But y'can't let yerself fall apart when some'n your own ain't around anyplace. I kept up, remembrin' them and keepin' to my own, like Momma woulda wanted me to. Keepin' it safe. The protector don't quite look like what he used to be, but that don't change a thing, now does it? Still keeps to me, like I do t'him. Y'all should've kept to yerselves, 'stead of headin' here. You folks never learn. Comin' onto someone else's land ain't respectful, and then up and lyin' about it don't help. I chased yer buddies away, maybe they'll think twice about coming back. Anythin's possible. Lookit em' run. They go quick when they scared, don't they? Now, uh, fer you. See, my protector's been gettin' on in his years, and he don't have the spring to his step what like he used to. Tellin' me he's tired, and wants rest. The man deserves to rest more'n anyone. But, I still need a protector. You like beans? Aww, well you'll learn't love 'em, soon. > INCIDENT 1270-██ > On ██/██/201█, several agents were performing routine reconnaissance into [[[SCP-1270]]]'s second floor. During this time, SCP-1270-1 suddenly manifested and began attacking personnel, injuring ██ and fatally wounding █. Following the incident, Agent Fowells, who had been with the reconnaissance team, was found to be missing. His current status is MIA. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-04-02T16:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Alternate Hypotheses - SCP Foundation	6	[ "scp-1270", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	17088941	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/alternate-hypotheses
and-the-winner-is	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Before I announce the winner," Assistant Site Director Edmunds said to the small group of researchers gathered in Site 73's cafeteria, "I'd just like to thank and congratulate all of you for participating. This has been a difficult year for us, and activities like this always help staff morale. I've enjoyed reading all your submissions - yes, Greg, even yours - and it was very difficult for the judges to pick a winner."</p> <p>"With that out of the way," he said as he opened the envelope in his hands, "the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. Malthus had won? His story was a ridiculous B-movie parody! He'd put so much time into his own submission, a self-referential piece about a man who'll do anything to win a writing contest, only to be outdone by this over-the-top piece of hack work that Malthus wrote in about fifteen minutes and submitted two hours before the deadline! "Well," he said to himself, "it's over and done with now. I can't change the past."</p> <p>Or could he? His position gave him research access to a number of SCP objects that operated outside of linear time. It would be a major violation of protocol if he got caught, of course - but as he went about his work, he idly wondered to himself whether there was any way he could use any of the objects he knew about to change the outcome of the contest.</p> <p>982? Not likely. 728? Too unpredictable. 276? Maybe, but there's no way he could pull it off without getting caught. 869? 869. Hmm. He'd overseen experiments in the past that involved using SCP-869 to attempt to send information back through time. It'd be risky, but if it worked he'd have had the satisfaction of seeing the look on Malthus' face when he himself came out on top. If nothing else, he could call it just another experiment, right?</p> <p>It wasn't for six months that he worked up the courage to prepare his parcel; an envelope with a 1948 postage stamp affixed to it, addressed to Site 73. Inside it, another envelope marked with the Foundation's seal and instructions not to open it until decades later - the day the site writing contest was announced. Within that, a third envelope, to be delivered to his own office - and within that, a copy of Malthus' story and a letter to himself instructing him to submit it as his contest entry.</p> <p>Anderson was on pins and needles the entire drive to Galveston, the entire time bluffing his way past the guards at the entrance of SCP-869, the entire time he made his way past the crowds of people enjoying the park on that sunny summer day in 1948. Looking over his shoulder to make sure nobody else from the Foundation was following him, he made his way out the front entrance of the park, crossed the street, walked down the block to a waiting mailbox, opened it, and dropped his missive in.</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Anderson rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Success! Anderson was on Cloud Nine as he made his way back to his office. When the office gopher first handed him a letter that purported to be from his future self, he thought he was being set up. The story it instructed him to submit was frankly ridiculous, and he wasn't even sure almost until the end of the contest that he wanted to submit it - but he did, and it had worked! He'd take himself out for a nice steak dinner that night to celebrate.</p> <p>He never did, however, bother to write himself a letter.</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. Malthus had won? His story was a ridiculous B-movie parody! He'd put so much time into his own submission, a self-referential piece about a man who'll do anything to win a writing contest, only to be outdone by this over-the-top piece of hack work that Malthus wrote in about fifteen minutes and submitted two hours before the deadline! "Well," he said to himself, "it's over and done with now. I can't change the past."</p> <p>Or could he?</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Anderson rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Success! Anderson was on Cloud Nine as he made his way back to his office. When the office gopher first handed him a letter that purported to be from his future self, he thought he was being set up. The story it instructed him to submit was frankly ridiculous, and he wasn't even sure almost until the end of the contest that he wanted to submit it - but he did, and it had worked! He'd take himself out for a nice steak dinner that night to celebrate.</p> <p>It wasn't until thirty years later, his last month on the job before retirement, as he cleaned a career's worth of paperwork out of his filing cabinet, that he rediscovered the certificate he'd been given to commemorate his victory. He realized that he'd never closed the time loop by sending himself a letter with the story in it - and he'd better do so fast, because if he left the Foundation without ever having done so, thirty years of history could wind up in flux. He searched through his papers for hours looking for a copy of the story that had won him that contest so many years ago - in vain. <em>I'll just have to improvise</em>, he thought to himself, as he sat down at his computer and began typing out the story as best as he could remember it after all these years.</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. How could this happen? His own story, "Revenge of the Ghostly Wrath," was exactly what the letter had told him to submit! Malthus must have seen his story and ripped it off - he had to admit that Tom's story was a little less silly than his own. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to send that story instead…</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'I Was A Teenage Carrot!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. How could this happen? His own story, "Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury," was exactly what the letter had told him to submit! He thought it over for hours and hours before he realized he must have submitted his entry too early - and when Malthus found out there was already a story exactly like what he planned on submitting, he had to come up with something else. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to be more specific with his instructions…</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Sarah Evans, for her story 'Love At 80,000 AU!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Evans rose from her seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was her grand prize.</p> <p>Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. Director Edmunds had told him that he and Dr. Malthus had both submitted the exact same story, and since he couldn't tell which of them had plagiarized the other he had no choice but to disqualify them both. He'd waited too long - and by the time he submitted the story the letter had told him to, Malthus had already submitted his 'original'. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to be more specific with his instructions…</p> <hr/> <p>And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'How Jester Got His Groove Back!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. The letter he'd gotten from his future self had explained every last detail of how to ensure his victory. What had gone wrong? Perhaps it was inevitable that Malthus would win. Perhaps he'd always write a better story than the one Anderson submitted. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to send a second letter as well - one to remove Malthus from the picture altogether…</p> <hr/> <p>"And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Anderson rose from his seat on a pair of mechanical legs, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize.</p> <p>Success! Anderson was on Cloud Nine as he made his way back to his office. It was a small victory in his long career with the Foundation and all the accomplishments they'd made to improve mankind, but it was a victory all the same. Immediately, he grabbed some digipaper and an E-quill, and started writing the instructions to his past self that would close the loop and ensure time remained unaltered…</p> <hr/> <p>Assistant Site Director Edmunds' thoughts radiated immediately across the great neural network to all those who had become part of the Foundation-Mind. "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Unit 483012, James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'"</p> <p>Anderson hid his feelings from the accolades of his peers as they drifted into his mind. In the stasis pod where his physical body lay connected to the tubes and machines that sustained it, he rolled over and unplugged his neural jack. <em>This is all wrong</em>, he thought as he suddenly found himself alone with his thoughts. <em>The world isn't supposed to be like this. My past self must have introduced some anachronism when he sent that letter. I've got to fix it somehow…</em></p> <hr/> <p>"Et le gagnant de cette année pour le concours de nouvelles littéraires du Site 73 est - Dr. Tom Malthus, avec son histoire intitulée : Nuit de la Vengeance du Courroux du Fantôme de la Fureur!" Les quelques deux douzaines d’auteurs réunis applaudirent poliment, tandis que le Dr. Malthus se levait, s’inclinait rapidement et acceptait la carte-cadeau de 100 Francs qui était son grand prix.</p> <p>Plus tard dans son bureau, le Dr. James Anderson, gestionnaire associé à la supervision de la recherche sur les anomalies temporelles, se maudit dans sa barbe. Malthus avait gagné? Son histoire n’était qu’une ridicule parodie de films de série B! Il avait mis tellement de temps dans sa propre soumission, une histoire autoréférentielle sur un homme prêt à tout pour gagner un concours d’écriture, simplement pour être surpassé par ce torchon bâclé et outrancier que Malthus avait écrit en quinze minutes et soumit deux heures avant la fin du délai! "Eh bien," se dit-il "c’est bel et bien terminé maintenant. Je ne peux pas changer le passé. "</p> <p>Ou pourrait-il?</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>9/8/13:</strong> The Time Contest has ended! The winner is Dr. Gears, with his tale 'Foundation 2099'. Thanks for all of your great entries!</p> </blockquote> <p>James Anderson cursed under his breath as he read the announcement on the front page of the SCP wiki. His story about Lord Blackwood joining forces with SCP-173 to fight crime had been leading in upvotes for two weeks - and then Gears pops out of the blue again and posts a story that makes it to +100 in under two days? How is anyone supposed to compete with that? If only there were some way to travel back in time and submit Gears' own story before he could…</p> <hr/> <p>The quivering purple mass of flesh towered over the two dozen humans who kneeled in chains below it. It began to undulate as speech echoed from within its hulking body. "I have reviewed the literary tributes you pitiful creatures have submitted to me, and none of them are worthy. None of you shall earn your freedom today!"</p> <p>The slave who had once been called Dr. James Anderson, back before the coming of the Age of Flesh, cursed under his breath. Sure, freedom probably meant a slow death alone in the ruins of the world above, but it had to be better than <em>this</em>. There must be one of the Master's playthings I can get at, he thought to himself, to ensure that he would be free…</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. James Anderson woke up in his office and climbed out of bed. It was a sunny Sunday midnight and lunch break was over - time to get back to work and think about his entry in the writing contest he'd be hearing about next week. Outside his door, he heard the sound of a gong - the office courier was here.</p> <p>He opened the door and shivered as the cold winter air hit him. "L-l-l-letter for you, sir," said the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing courier as he handed him an envelope. Anderson smiled, tipped the boy six shillings and thruppence, and sent him on his way. Closing the door, he sat back down in front of his typewriter and opened the envelope to find a single page, written in what appeared to be human blood;</p> <p><em>We were fools to try and play with history. Millions and millions of paradoxes colliding with one another. Now it's all broken. Space and time are meaningless. It's just us, millions of Andersons alone in the empty desert below a sunless sky. He looks down on us, the great gray-faced god where the Sun should be, and His gaze burns our flesh. He sees us now. HIDE THE NUCLEAR LAUNCH CODES IN THE CREDENZA SO I CAN KILL HIM! IT'S NOT WORKING! HE'S IMMUNE! THERE IS NO HOPE FOR SALVA</em></p> <p>Anderson yawned as his alarm clock went off - 37:65 on Marsday, Quatuordecimber 72nd. Time for work. He laid the letter down on his desk and started typing out a copy of it to submit for the writing contest he'd be hearing about next week.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/and-the-winner-is">And the Winner Is...</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-the-winner-is">https://scpwiki.com/and-the-winner-is</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]] [[/>]] "Before I announce the winner," Assistant Site Director Edmunds said to the small group of researchers gathered in Site 73's cafeteria, "I'd just like to thank and congratulate all of you for participating. This has been a difficult year for us, and activities like this always help staff morale. I've enjoyed reading all your submissions - yes, Greg, even yours - and it was very difficult for the judges to pick a winner." "With that out of the way," he said as he opened the envelope in his hands, "the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. Malthus had won? His story was a ridiculous B-movie parody! He'd put so much time into his own submission, a self-referential piece about a man who'll do anything to win a writing contest, only to be outdone by this over-the-top piece of hack work that Malthus wrote in about fifteen minutes and submitted two hours before the deadline! "Well," he said to himself, "it's over and done with now. I can't change the past." Or could he? His position gave him research access to a number of SCP objects that operated outside of linear time. It would be a major violation of protocol if he got caught, of course - but as he went about his work, he idly wondered to himself whether there was any way he could use any of the objects he knew about to change the outcome of the contest. 982? Not likely. 728? Too unpredictable. 276? Maybe, but there's no way he could pull it off without getting caught. 869? 869. Hmm. He'd overseen experiments in the past that involved using SCP-869 to attempt to send information back through time. It'd be risky, but if it worked he'd have had the satisfaction of seeing the look on Malthus' face when he himself came out on top. If nothing else, he could call it just another experiment, right? It wasn't for six months that he worked up the courage to prepare his parcel; an envelope with a 1948 postage stamp affixed to it, addressed to Site 73. Inside it, another envelope marked with the Foundation's seal and instructions not to open it until decades later - the day the site writing contest was announced. Within that, a third envelope, to be delivered to his own office - and within that, a copy of Malthus' story and a letter to himself instructing him to submit it as his contest entry. Anderson was on pins and needles the entire drive to Galveston, the entire time bluffing his way past the guards at the entrance of SCP-869, the entire time he made his way past the crowds of people enjoying the park on that sunny summer day in 1948. Looking over his shoulder to make sure nobody else from the Foundation was following him, he made his way out the front entrance of the park, crossed the street, walked down the block to a waiting mailbox, opened it, and dropped his missive in. ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Anderson rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Success! Anderson was on Cloud Nine as he made his way back to his office. When the office gopher first handed him a letter that purported to be from his future self, he thought he was being set up. The story it instructed him to submit was frankly ridiculous, and he wasn't even sure almost until the end of the contest that he wanted to submit it - but he did, and it had worked! He'd take himself out for a nice steak dinner that night to celebrate. He never did, however, bother to write himself a letter. ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. Malthus had won? His story was a ridiculous B-movie parody! He'd put so much time into his own submission, a self-referential piece about a man who'll do anything to win a writing contest, only to be outdone by this over-the-top piece of hack work that Malthus wrote in about fifteen minutes and submitted two hours before the deadline! "Well," he said to himself, "it's over and done with now. I can't change the past." Or could he? ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Anderson rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Success! Anderson was on Cloud Nine as he made his way back to his office. When the office gopher first handed him a letter that purported to be from his future self, he thought he was being set up. The story it instructed him to submit was frankly ridiculous, and he wasn't even sure almost until the end of the contest that he wanted to submit it - but he did, and it had worked! He'd take himself out for a nice steak dinner that night to celebrate. It wasn't until thirty years later, his last month on the job before retirement, as he cleaned a career's worth of paperwork out of his filing cabinet, that he rediscovered the certificate he'd been given to commemorate his victory. He realized that he'd never closed the time loop by sending himself a letter with the story in it - and he'd better do so fast, because if he left the Foundation without ever having done so, thirty years of history could wind up in flux. He searched through his papers for hours looking for a copy of the story that had won him that contest so many years ago - in vain. //I'll just have to improvise//, he thought to himself, as he sat down at his computer and began typing out the story as best as he could remember it after all these years. ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. How could this happen? His own story, "Revenge of the Ghostly Wrath," was exactly what the letter had told him to submit! Malthus must have seen his story and ripped it off - he had to admit that Tom's story was a little less silly than his own. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to send that story instead... ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'I Was A Teenage Carrot!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. How could this happen? His own story, "Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury," was exactly what the letter had told him to submit! He thought it over for hours and hours before he realized he must have submitted his entry too early - and when Malthus found out there was already a story exactly like what he planned on submitting, he had to come up with something else. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to be more specific with his instructions... ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Sarah Evans, for her story 'Love At 80,000 AU!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Evans rose from her seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was her grand prize. Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. Director Edmunds had told him that he and Dr. Malthus had both submitted the exact same story, and since he couldn't tell which of them had plagiarized the other he had no choice but to disqualify them both. He'd waited too long - and by the time he submitted the story the letter had told him to, Malthus had already submitted his 'original'. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to be more specific with his instructions... ----- And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. Tom Malthus, for his story 'How Jester Got His Groove Back!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Malthus rose from his seat, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Later, in his office, Dr. James Anderson, associate managing supervisor of temporal anomaly research, cursed to himself under his breath. The letter he'd gotten from his future self had explained every last detail of how to ensure his victory. What had gone wrong? Perhaps it was inevitable that Malthus would win. Perhaps he'd always write a better story than the one Anderson submitted. Clearly, when he closed the temporal loop that had started when he got a letter from his future self, he'd have to send a second letter as well - one to remove Malthus from the picture altogether... ----- "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Dr. James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" The two dozen or so assembled authors clapped politely as Dr. Anderson rose from his seat on a pair of mechanical legs, took a short bow, and accepted the $100 gift card that was his grand prize. Success! Anderson was on Cloud Nine as he made his way back to his office. It was a small victory in his long career with the Foundation and all the accomplishments they'd made to improve mankind, but it was a victory all the same. Immediately, he grabbed some digipaper and an E-quill, and started writing the instructions to his past self that would close the loop and ensure time remained unaltered... ----- Assistant Site Director Edmunds' thoughts radiated immediately across the great neural network to all those who had become part of the Foundation-Mind. "And the winner of this year's Site 73 short story contest is - Unit 483012, James Anderson, for his story 'Night of the Revenge of the Wrath of the Ghost of the Fury!'" Anderson hid his feelings from the accolades of his peers as they drifted into his mind. In the stasis pod where his physical body lay connected to the tubes and machines that sustained it, he rolled over and unplugged his neural jack. //This is all wrong//, he thought as he suddenly found himself alone with his thoughts. //The world isn't supposed to be like this. My past self must have introduced some anachronism when he sent that letter. I've got to fix it somehow...// ----- "Et le gagnant de cette année pour le concours de nouvelles littéraires du Site 73 est - Dr. Tom Malthus, avec son histoire intitulée : Nuit de la Vengeance du Courroux du Fantôme de la Fureur!" Les quelques deux douzaines d’auteurs réunis applaudirent poliment, tandis que le Dr. Malthus se levait, s’inclinait rapidement et acceptait la carte-cadeau de 100 Francs qui était son grand prix. Plus tard dans son bureau, le Dr. James Anderson, gestionnaire associé à la supervision de la recherche sur les anomalies temporelles, se maudit dans sa barbe. Malthus avait gagné? Son histoire n’était qu’une ridicule parodie de films de série B! Il avait mis tellement de temps dans sa propre soumission, une histoire autoréférentielle sur un homme prêt à tout pour gagner un concours d’écriture, simplement pour être surpassé par ce torchon bâclé et outrancier que Malthus avait écrit en quinze minutes et soumit deux heures avant la fin du délai! "Eh bien," se dit-il "c’est bel et bien terminé maintenant. Je ne peux pas changer le passé. " Ou pourrait-il? ----- > 9/8/13: The Time Contest has ended! The winner is Dr. Gears, with his tale 'Foundation 2099'. Thanks for all of your great entries! James Anderson cursed under his breath as he read the announcement on the front page of the SCP wiki. His story about Lord Blackwood joining forces with SCP-173 to fight crime had been leading in upvotes for two weeks - and then Gears pops out of the blue again and posts a story that makes it to +100 in under two days? How is anyone supposed to compete with that? If only there were some way to travel back in time and submit Gears' own story before he could... ----- The quivering purple mass of flesh towered over the two dozen humans who kneeled in chains below it. It began to undulate as speech echoed from within its hulking body. "I have reviewed the literary tributes you pitiful creatures have submitted to me, and none of them are worthy. None of you shall earn your freedom today!" The slave who had once been called Dr. James Anderson, back before the coming of the Age of Flesh, cursed under his breath. Sure, freedom probably meant a slow death alone in the ruins of the world above, but it had to be better than //this//. There must be one of the Master's playthings I can get at, he thought to himself, to ensure that he would be free... ----- Dr. James Anderson woke up in his office and climbed out of bed. It was a sunny Sunday midnight and lunch break was over - time to get back to work and think about his entry in the writing contest he'd be hearing about next week. Outside his door, he heard the sound of a gong - the office courier was here. He opened the door and shivered as the cold winter air hit him. "L-l-l-letter for you, sir," said the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing courier as he handed him an envelope. Anderson smiled, tipped the boy six shillings and thruppence, and sent him on his way. Closing the door, he sat back down in front of his typewriter and opened the envelope to find a single page, written in what appeared to be human blood; //We were fools to try and play with history. Millions and millions of paradoxes colliding with one another. Now it's all broken. Space and time are meaningless. It's just us, millions of Andersons alone in the empty desert below a sunless sky. He looks down on us, the great gray-faced god where the Sun should be, and His gaze burns our flesh. He sees us now. HIDE THE NUCLEAR LAUNCH CODES IN THE CREDENZA SO I CAN KILL HIM! IT'S NOT WORKING! HE'S IMMUNE! THERE IS NO HOPE FOR SALVA// Anderson yawned as his alarm clock went off - 37:65 on Marsday, Quatuordecimber 72nd. Time for work. He laid the letter down on his desk and started typing out a copy of it to submit for the writing contest he'd be hearing about next week. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-09T10:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-gears", "tale", "tc2013" ]	And the Winner Is... - SCP Foundation	257	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "archived:archived-news", "contest-archive" ]	[]	19195902	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-the-winner-is
and-then-what-happened	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Tangerine sat listening avidly to Agent Green’s tale.</p> <p>“And then what happened?”</p> <p>“Well, apparently she went to school with Duchamp.”</p> <p>“Seriously?”</p> <p>“Yup. Hell of a coincidence. The boys drugged her and verified it all.”</p> <p>“Huh.”</p> <p>Tangerine sat and sipped his mango juice. His Hawaiian T-shirt and sandals matched his vibrant red hair, as though he were a living explosion. Agent Green was wearing his customary black-tie suit. While neither of them should have attracted much notice in the busy city, as a pair sitting at the same table they were drawing more odd looks than Green was comfortable with.</p> <p>“So how are things on your end?”</p> <p>“Well, I’m busy working on something for the exhibition on Friday.”</p> <p>“Keep it smaller than last time.”</p> <p>“Of course, of course. Most people are keeping it pretty small this time around, as far as I can tell. The age of explosions and fireworks is winding down. ‘Loud and in your face’ has been done a billion times.”</p> <p>“I doubt there won’t be a billion and first.”</p> <p>A waitress walked over and placed a tea tray on their table. Green pulled it to his side, pouring hot water into a clinking china cup.</p> <p>“Gotta admit, I’m enjoying playing the artist here. Bumming around all day and getting paid for it. Much better than having giant monsters trying to eat your brains, glad to be out of there.”</p> <p>“I’ll drink to that.”</p> <p>They tapped their glasses together, Tangerine downing the last of his juice as Green took a careful sip of hot milk tea.</p> <p>“So what did you do with this girl afterwards?”</p> <p>“Full course of amnestics, induced coma, stuck her in the hospital. Should be out of the picture for a month or two and no one knows we did a thing. Didn’t really need her for much else, and we’ve gotten rid of one of The Critic’s big ones.”</p> <p>“Yeah. Makes things complicated for us, of course.”</p> <p>“Hm?”</p> <p>“Friday’s thing was her exhibition. Whatever it was she had planned, she’d hyped up a lot of people about it. If she’s out of the picture, then the exhibition’s got nothing from The Critic’s clique.”</p> <p>“Surely that’s good for us though, right?”</p> <p>“No. Definitely not. See, it was just going to be The Director’s little dance number or whatever she had planned, but they aren’t just going to cancel it. That would make them look like they only had the one idea, they’d seem imaginatively sterile. They’ll be pulling in something else to make up for it, and whatever they do will almost certainly make a bigger bang.”</p> <p>“Shit. Planning crowd control for these things is hard enough as it is.”</p> <p>“Indeed. Glad that’s not my problem.”</p> <p>“Any chance we could block the venue?”</p> <p>“Do it in advance and they’ll move it, and once they’re there they won’t budge.”</p> <p>“What kind of turnout are you expecting?”</p> <p>“No idea.”</p> <p>“Ballpark it for me.”</p> <p>“Pfffff… a thousand or so? Maybe two?”</p> <p>“Shit. We can’t bar that many people without creating more problems.”</p> <p>“Could get lucky, might not be that bad.”</p> <p>Green downed the rest of his tea.</p> <p>“Could we try and split the group? Set up another exhibition at the same time?”</p> <p>“If you’d asked me a week ago. Your only real option’s to ride it out, I think. Have some guys attend as casuals in case someone pulls something stupid.”</p> <p>“And how likely is it someone will pull something stupid?”</p> <p>“I’d put odds at fifty-fifty, but everyone I know’s playing it safe. Basic stuff all around. The only real unknown here is Critic’s lot, but they don’t normally leave stuff lying around. Shouldn’t be any problems, don’t worry about it. If we make it through, cleanup should be trivial.”</p> <p>“That’s a big if.”</p> <p>“Don’t worry, seriously. Nobody’s going to start anything in the middle of an exhibition this big.”</p> <p>They stood up, tossing change into a tip jar as they left.</p> <p>“Hope you’re right, Tan. Good luck on your end.”</p> <p>“Good luck yourself, Green. You gonna be there yourself? Take a gander at the impossible made real?”</p> <p>“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”</p> <p>“Brilliant, I love seeing you in plainclothes. You always look so uncomfortable.”</p> <hr/> <p>The Sculptor sat listening avidly to The Painter’s tale.</p> <p>“And then what happened?”</p> <p>“Well, that’s what we don’t know, since the cameras were cut. Looks like the play itself might have been an exploit.”</p> <p>“Seriously?”</p> <p>“Yup. Made by a genuine anartist from the 17th century. That’s my guess, anyway.”</p> <p>“Huh.”</p> <p>The Sculptor sat and sipped his banana milkshake. Unfortunately, the hospital cafeteria didn’t have a particularly wide variety of beverages, and even then the banana was the off kind of false, artificial banana flavouring, too sweet to be genuinely palatable, not to mention that the milk was skim. The Painter took a pause to swig his pocket flask of whiskey.</p> <p>“So what are we doing about the exhibition?”</p> <p>“No idea. Worst case scenario we just pull what she was working on.”</p> <p>“What was she working on, anyway?”</p> <p>“Well, it was a pretty standard exploit acrobatics show, from what she told me. You know the stuff, leaping tall buildings in a single bound, trapeze stuff, doing flips and shit. Not really what I’m into, but I can appreciate it at least.”</p> <p>“Sounds decent.”</p> <p>The Sculptor continued drinking. Seeing The Director’s body lying comatose with an oxygen mask had not been enjoyable.</p> <p>“So. The Director turns up to her play that she’s been working on for two months, talks to all her actors, and then five minutes before showtime that asshole turns up and asks her to stop the performance. Then this. The question, then, is who actually made it happen.”</p> <p>“You know as well as I do it was Duchamp.”</p> <p>The Painter pensively considered the thought. He had previously dismissed it as being too obvious, then reconsidered it as being deceptively obvious on purpose.</p> <p>“Well, he’s certainly the only lead we have.”</p> <p>“The only lead we have? This is the same fucker who nicked Felix, you know! This is the stupid asshat who mailed you a painting that makes you shit yourself, this is the idiot who outright declared war on us, and this is his pre-emptive strike!”</p> <p>“Could be. But probably not.”</p> <p>“Hm?”</p> <p>“Think about it. Everything Duchamp’s done until now has been absolutely safe. Sure, he made me shit my pants, he sent stuff to everyone, but none of it was harmful. Duchamp might be an arrogant asshat, but this hurt the audience. People died. If I’ve got this right, and I reckon I do, Duchamp wouldn’t so much as hurt a fly. He’d harass us, yeah, but he wouldn’t pull something like this. It’s too much escalation, it doesn’t mesh with what he’s been doing. I really don’t think it was him.”</p> <p>“But that’s surely exactly what he’d want you to think.”</p> <p>“No. He wants to enact a cultural change, and as childishly as he behaves, he knows that something like this just gets him nowhere. What incentive would he have?”</p> <p>“To weaken us.”</p> <p>“If he’d wanted to kill us he would have done a cleaner job.”</p> <p>“But that’s not what he was trying to do. He made it look as though Sandy did this on purpose, and the only thing that can possibly do is bring up our visibility in a bad way. The Man’s going to crack down on us if this goes on, and they will crack down hard. He’s poking a lion and a tiger with a pair of sticks to make them fight to the death.”</p> <p>The Painter considered the implications.</p> <p>“It’s certainly an interesting hypothesis, and if you’re right, it’s a clever strategy.”</p> <p>“I’m right. It wouldn’t have been any of the Suits, weaponising exploits isn’t their style. He’s played it safe til now to get our attention, and pulling this is his way of letting us know he’s not messing around. We’ve got to do something.”</p> <p>“What do you suggest?”</p> <p>“He targeted Sandy because she was showing on Friday. That’s our chance to go big and show everyone we’re cooler than them. He wanted to break us down, to distract us from the community, to tear us from the audience and destroy us as artists. Well fuck that. Come Friday, we throw out everything we’ve got.”</p> <p>They stood up, walking to the lifts.</p> <p>“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to call the shots on this one?”</p> <p>“We don’t need to concern Critic with something like this. We’re not children, we don’t need him to change our fucking diapers.”</p> <p>“No complaints here. I’ve been working on a piece that should suffice.”</p> <p>“I’ll call the others, then. See you on Friday.”</p> <hr/> <p>Felix Cori sat listening avidly to Ruiz Duchamp’s tale.</p> <p>“And then what happened?”</p> <p>“Well, after she tried to stab me I just left.”</p> <p>“Seriously?”</p> <p>“Yup. I knew she wasn’t going to listen, I’m good at picking up subtle hints like attempted homicide. Best I could do was get the hell out of there.”</p> <p>“Huh.”</p> <p>Felix sat and sipped his green tea. Ruiz was soldering a circuit board to some mechatronic actuators, occasionally flicking switches to check that all was well. He pulled a multimeter from his workbench and probed the currents. Satisfied with the results, he stood up, grabbed an apple-flavoured juice box, popped the straw in, and sat down next to Felix.</p> <p>“So who do you think did it?”</p> <p>“Well, it wasn’t an accident… I’d put money on the Suits. They’ve been pushing the bounds more and more lately.”</p> <p>“What do you mean?”</p> <p>“You know how they used to charge in guns blazing? There’s none of that anymore, and it’s not because they’ve ‘given up’. I reckon it’s a shift in strategy, but I don’t have anything solid to back it up.”</p> <p>“Well, maybe. Can’t see them using exploits as a weapon, though.”</p> <p>Ruiz sucked his juice box dry and started methodically unfolding it. Felix blew his tea, then took another tentative sip.</p> <p>“So. What have you been up to, old man? Diving into the retirement fund?”</p> <p>“Quite. I’m still working on things, just more traditional materials. Nothing out of the ordinary for a while at least. Time to eke out a bland and plain existence.”</p> <p>“How profoundly boring.”</p> <p>Ruiz had folded his juice box into a small aeroplane shape. He threw it across the room, landing it neatly in a garbage bin near the door.</p> <p>“Will you be taking time out of your busy schedule of bland and plain for Friday’s exhibition?”</p> <p>“I might, I might. What are you doing for it?”</p> <p>“Oh, I won’t be going. Gotta finish all of this stuff. The last of my materials came in this morning, so it won’t be long before I send out the invitation.”</p> <p>“Well, you’ll be missing out, I think.”</p> <p>“Hm?”</p> <p>“Sandra had a big show planned. The guys – well, whoever’s left – they won’t just cancel it. They’ll have to show the Suits that they mean business, that they aren’t intimidated by this. They’ll be going very, very big, pulling out all the stops. Yep, it should be quite a show, methinks.”</p> <p>“See, that’s the kind of childish bullshit that solves nothing.”</p> <p>“Yeah. Honestly, they’re a bunch of kids. No idea what they’re doing.”</p> <p>Felix sipped the last of his green tea and placed the cup at his feet.</p> <p>“Glad I don’t have to deal with it any more. Hell, glad I don’t have to deal with you.”</p> <p>“I’m not that bad. I’m just riling them up, really. It’s like kicking a beehive, but all the bees are artists and the kick is mailing out butt jokes. Butt jokes and poop jokes.”</p> <p>“The pinnacle of comedy.”</p> <p>“Quite. I just wish they’d lighten up, you know, not take everything so damn seriously. They’re not taking it the right way. Neither did you, to be honest. Retiring, bah. Scuppered all my plans, how dare you be unpredictable!”</p> <p>Felix chuckled at the faux outburst, taking his cup and standing to leave.</p> <p>“Well, good luck with this stuff, at any rate.”</p> <p>“Don’t need luck when you’ve got talent, Felix.”</p> <p>“Quite right. That’s why I wished you luck.”</p> <p>“Hah. Get out of here, old man.”</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>Snip. Snip. Snip.</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/quintessence-of-dust">Quintessence Of Dust</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-kids">The Cool Kids</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/and-then-what-happened">And Then What Happened?</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/and-then-what-happened">https://scpwiki.com/and-then-what-happened</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 Tangerine sat listening avidly to Agent Green’s tale. “And then what happened?” “Well, apparently she went to school with Duchamp.” “Seriously?” “Yup. Hell of a coincidence. The boys drugged her and verified it all.” “Huh.” Tangerine sat and sipped his mango juice. His Hawaiian T-shirt and sandals matched his vibrant red hair, as though he were a living explosion. Agent Green was wearing his customary black-tie suit. While neither of them should have attracted much notice in the busy city, as a pair sitting at the same table they were drawing more odd looks than Green was comfortable with. “So how are things on your end?” “Well, I’m busy working on something for the exhibition on Friday.” “Keep it smaller than last time.” “Of course, of course. Most people are keeping it pretty small this time around, as far as I can tell. The age of explosions and fireworks is winding down. ‘Loud and in your face’ has been done a billion times.” “I doubt there won’t be a billion and first.” A waitress walked over and placed a tea tray on their table. Green pulled it to his side, pouring hot water into a clinking china cup. “Gotta admit, I’m enjoying playing the artist here. Bumming around all day and getting paid for it. Much better than having giant monsters trying to eat your brains, glad to be out of there.” “I’ll drink to that.” They tapped their glasses together, Tangerine downing the last of his juice as Green took a careful sip of hot milk tea. “So what did you do with this girl afterwards?” “Full course of amnestics, induced coma, stuck her in the hospital. Should be out of the picture for a month or two and no one knows we did a thing. Didn’t really need her for much else, and we’ve gotten rid of one of The Critic’s big ones.” “Yeah. Makes things complicated for us, of course.” “Hm?” “Friday’s thing was her exhibition. Whatever it was she had planned, she’d hyped up a lot of people about it. If she’s out of the picture, then the exhibition’s got nothing from The Critic’s clique.” “Surely that’s good for us though, right?” “No. Definitely not. See, it was just going to be The Director’s little dance number or whatever she had planned, but they aren’t just going to cancel it. That would make them look like they only had the one idea, they’d seem imaginatively sterile. They’ll be pulling in something else to make up for it, and whatever they do will almost certainly make a bigger bang.” “Shit. Planning crowd control for these things is hard enough as it is.” “Indeed. Glad that’s not my problem.” “Any chance we could block the venue?” “Do it in advance and they’ll move it, and once they’re there they won’t budge.” “What kind of turnout are you expecting?” “No idea.” “Ballpark it for me.” “Pfffff… a thousand or so? Maybe two?” “Shit. We can’t bar that many people without creating more problems.” “Could get lucky, might not be that bad.” Green downed the rest of his tea. “Could we try and split the group? Set up another exhibition at the same time?” “If you’d asked me a week ago. Your only real option’s to ride it out, I think. Have some guys attend as casuals in case someone pulls something stupid.” “And how likely is it someone will pull something stupid?” “I’d put odds at fifty-fifty, but everyone I know’s playing it safe. Basic stuff all around. The only real unknown here is Critic’s lot, but they don’t normally leave stuff lying around. Shouldn’t be any problems, don’t worry about it. If we make it through, cleanup should be trivial.” “That’s a big if.” “Don’t worry, seriously. Nobody’s going to start anything in the middle of an exhibition this big.” They stood up, tossing change into a tip jar as they left. “Hope you’re right, Tan. Good luck on your end.” “Good luck yourself, Green. You gonna be there yourself? Take a gander at the impossible made real?” “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” “Brilliant, I love seeing you in plainclothes. You always look so uncomfortable.” ------------------------ The Sculptor sat listening avidly to The Painter’s tale. “And then what happened?” “Well, that’s what we don’t know, since the cameras were cut. Looks like the play itself might have been an exploit.” “Seriously?” “Yup. Made by a genuine anartist from the 17th century. That’s my guess, anyway.” “Huh.” The Sculptor sat and sipped his banana milkshake. Unfortunately, the hospital cafeteria didn’t have a particularly wide variety of beverages, and even then the banana was the off kind of false, artificial banana flavouring, too sweet to be genuinely palatable, not to mention that the milk was skim. The Painter took a pause to swig his pocket flask of whiskey. “So what are we doing about the exhibition?” “No idea. Worst case scenario we just pull what she was working on.” “What was she working on, anyway?” “Well, it was a pretty standard exploit acrobatics show, from what she told me. You know the stuff, leaping tall buildings in a single bound, trapeze stuff, doing flips and shit. Not really what I’m into, but I can appreciate it at least.” “Sounds decent.” The Sculptor continued drinking. Seeing The Director’s body lying comatose with an oxygen mask had not been enjoyable. “So. The Director turns up to her play that she’s been working on for two months, talks to all her actors, and then five minutes before showtime that asshole turns up and asks her to stop the performance. Then this. The question, then, is who actually made it happen.” “You know as well as I do it was Duchamp.” The Painter pensively considered the thought. He had previously dismissed it as being too obvious, then reconsidered it as being deceptively obvious on purpose. “Well, he’s certainly the only lead we have.” “The only lead we have? This is the same fucker who nicked Felix, you know! This is the stupid asshat who mailed you a painting that makes you shit yourself, this is the idiot who outright declared war on us, and this is his pre-emptive strike!” “Could be. But probably not.” “Hm?” “Think about it. Everything Duchamp’s done until now has been absolutely safe. Sure, he made me shit my pants, he sent stuff to everyone, but none of it was harmful. Duchamp might be an arrogant asshat, but this hurt the audience. People died. If I’ve got this right, and I reckon I do, Duchamp wouldn’t so much as hurt a fly. He’d harass us, yeah, but he wouldn’t pull something like this. It’s too much escalation, it doesn’t mesh with what he’s been doing. I really don’t think it was him.” “But that’s surely exactly what he’d want you to think.” “No. He wants to enact a cultural change, and as childishly as he behaves, he knows that something like this just gets him nowhere. What incentive would he have?” “To weaken us.” “If he’d wanted to kill us he would have done a cleaner job.” “But that’s not what he was trying to do. He made it look as though Sandy did this on purpose, and the only thing that can possibly do is bring up our visibility in a bad way. The Man’s going to crack down on us if this goes on, and they will crack down hard. He’s poking a lion and a tiger with a pair of sticks to make them fight to the death.” The Painter considered the implications. “It’s certainly an interesting hypothesis, and if you’re right, it’s a clever strategy.” “I’m right. It wouldn’t have been any of the Suits, weaponising exploits isn’t their style. He’s played it safe til now to get our attention, and pulling this is his way of letting us know he’s not messing around. We’ve got to do something.” “What do you suggest?” “He targeted Sandy because she was showing on Friday. That’s our chance to go big and show everyone we’re cooler than them. He wanted to break us down, to distract us from the community, to tear us from the audience and destroy us as artists. Well fuck that. Come Friday, we throw out everything we’ve got.” They stood up, walking to the lifts. “I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to call the shots on this one?” “We don’t need to concern Critic with something like this. We’re not children, we don’t need him to change our fucking diapers.” “No complaints here. I’ve been working on a piece that should suffice.” “I’ll call the others, then. See you on Friday.” ----------------------- Felix Cori sat listening avidly to Ruiz Duchamp’s tale. “And then what happened?” “Well, after she tried to stab me I just left.” “Seriously?” “Yup. I knew she wasn’t going to listen, I’m good at picking up subtle hints like attempted homicide. Best I could do was get the hell out of there.” “Huh.” Felix sat and sipped his green tea. Ruiz was soldering a circuit board to some mechatronic actuators, occasionally flicking switches to check that all was well. He pulled a multimeter from his workbench and probed the currents. Satisfied with the results, he stood up, grabbed an apple-flavoured juice box, popped the straw in, and sat down next to Felix. “So who do you think did it?” “Well, it wasn’t an accident… I’d put money on the Suits. They’ve been pushing the bounds more and more lately.” “What do you mean?” “You know how they used to charge in guns blazing? There’s none of that anymore, and it’s not because they’ve ‘given up’. I reckon it’s a shift in strategy, but I don’t have anything solid to back it up.” “Well, maybe. Can’t see them using exploits as a weapon, though.” Ruiz sucked his juice box dry and started methodically unfolding it. Felix blew his tea, then took another tentative sip. “So. What have you been up to, old man? Diving into the retirement fund?” “Quite. I’m still working on things, just more traditional materials. Nothing out of the ordinary for a while at least. Time to eke out a bland and plain existence.” “How profoundly boring.” Ruiz had folded his juice box into a small aeroplane shape. He threw it across the room, landing it neatly in a garbage bin near the door. “Will you be taking time out of your busy schedule of bland and plain for Friday’s exhibition?” “I might, I might. What are you doing for it?” “Oh, I won’t be going. Gotta finish all of this stuff. The last of my materials came in this morning, so it won’t be long before I send out the invitation.” “Well, you’ll be missing out, I think.” “Hm?” “Sandra had a big show planned. The guys – well, whoever’s left – they won’t just cancel it. They’ll have to show the Suits that they mean business, that they aren’t intimidated by this. They’ll be going very, very big, pulling out all the stops. Yep, it should be quite a show, methinks.” “See, that’s the kind of childish bullshit that solves nothing.” “Yeah. Honestly, they’re a bunch of kids. No idea what they’re doing.” Felix sipped the last of his green tea and placed the cup at his feet. “Glad I don’t have to deal with it any more. Hell, glad I don’t have to deal with you.” “I’m not that bad. I’m just riling them up, really. It’s like kicking a beehive, but all the bees are artists and the kick is mailing out butt jokes. Butt jokes and poop jokes.” “The pinnacle of comedy.” “Quite. I just wish they’d lighten up, you know, not take everything so damn seriously. They’re not taking it the right way. Neither did you, to be honest. Retiring, bah. Scuppered all my plans, how dare you be unpredictable!” Felix chuckled at the faux outburst, taking his cup and standing to leave. “Well, good luck with this stuff, at any rate.” “Don’t need luck when you’ve got talent, Felix.” “Quite right. That’s why I wished you luck.” “Hah. Get out of here, old man.” [[=]] Snip. Snip. Snip. << [[[Quintessence Of Dust]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Cool Kids]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-29T03:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "agent-green", "are-we-cool-yet", "comedy", "mystery", "ruiz-duchamp", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	And Then What Happened? - SCP Foundation	161	[ "quintessence-of-dust", "the-cool-war-hub", "the-cool-kids", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20797436	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/and-then-what-happened
anno-domino	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>December 1st, 2081</strong></span></p> </div> <blockquote> <p><strong>Access</strong>: Record of extranormal events and object retrievals<br/> <strong>Enter password</strong>: <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">**********</span><br/> <strong>Access</strong>: Record for Site-466 retrieval agents.<br/> <strong>Enter password</strong>: <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">*****</span><br/> <strong>Access</strong>: Records dated November, 2081.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 1/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: [REDACTED] Shopping Centre car park<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Green<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: An unidentified man was seen wandering through a multi-story car park at approximately 14:00, behaving erratically. Witnesses reported that he left scorch marks on all the surfaces he touched, and emanated large amounts of heat.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations:</strong> Foundation agents secured the area and subdued the man, consequently designated E-75006.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Chard ignored the muttering of the man, still audible as it was from within the insulated cell. When the researcher went over to the viewing window, Chard did not follow.</p> <p>The man inside, he knew, was naked. He had been dressed in casual clothes but they had caught fire as the man’s temperature continued to increase, and they had been removed with heat-proof gloves once they had arrived back at the facility. Standard equipment like that was one of the few things that weren’t in short supply. It was clear that the heat was making him uncomfortable, but with his internal body temperature he should already be dead, so he hadn’t much scope to complain. Not that he could, at any rate. The unfortunate man was rambling as if half-asleep, in hesitant, indistinct nonsense. Clearly his condition was making it difficult for him to think or speak properly.</p> <p>Based on the location and clothes he had been wearing, Chard suspected he was shopping when it had struck him, whatever it was. He could confirm that, with security tapes and background checks. He had people on it. But for now, he had to ensure the handover of the E-Class object to research personnel.</p> <p>Something about this particular researcher, Dr. Kritschau, faintly annoyed him. All of his features were set high in his face in such a way that he always had the appearance of peering down at you like a specimen, even if, like Chard, you were a few inches taller than him. He hadn’t looked in Chard’s eyes at all as the Agent had explained what he had seen during the retrieval, instead keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the paper as he took notes, but now that he was looking at the object he was writing quickly and fluidly without even glancing at the page.</p> <p>Chard let this continue for a short while, with Kritschau ignoring him and noting down the immediate observations of the new SCP, but then he felt compelled from awkwardness to move over to the viewing window. The man inside had pressed himself up against the cold concrete wall, trying to keep himself cool. He faced away from them and tried to cover himself up.</p> <p>Chard’s eyes drifted to the floor of the containment chamber. The researcher said something under his breath. “So, needs a refrigerated, or at least insulated and well ventilated, humanoid containment chamber. Materials must be heatproof. Food and water… ”</p> <p>Chard cleared his throat. The researcher didn’t seem to hear him, so he started talking. “Is he going to live?”</p> <p>Kritschau’s eyes stayed fixed on the huddled shape of the man. “That’s up to the directors. You know how it is.” Chard looked uncomfortably at the windowsill, not willing to look up and compound the man’s shame. They both knew that Kritschau was mincing words.</p> <p>The man clambered to his feet, arms held away from his body, and moved to the other side of the cell, surface for cold concrete. Kritschau noted the behaviour down. Then he sucked in a breath, put the lid back on his pen, and pulled down the blind. Chard was relieved. Something about the unfortunate man elicited his pity. He wouldn’t want his life in the hands of the Foundation, either.</p> <p>“Apologies if that seemed a little callous, Agent. We’re as stretched by the current situation as anybody.”</p> <p>“I understand, Doctor.”</p> <p>Kritschau swallowed, looking away from the Agent. He hurried over to a desk and produced a form, neatly filled out. He proffered his pen.</p> <p>“Thank you, Agent. Your boys are doing an exemplary job.” The researcher affected a small smile. “I sometimes wonder why they can’t just scrap the paperwork and cut costs that way.”</p> <p>Chard took the pen and signed his small, rudimentary but serviceable signature.</p> <p>“I couldn’t agree more, sir.”</p> <hr/> <p>[DATA EXPUNGED]</p> <p><strong>Date:</strong> 8/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: [REDACTED] Square<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Orange<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: The fountain in the centre of ██████████ Square ceased function at 19:53. The fountain quickly became covered in algae. A number of organisms, believed to be temnospondylids, emerged from the Fountain, along with several unidentified organisms displaying animal characteristics though apparently made of plant matter.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations</strong>: Foundation Agents did not respond to the incident initially, as it was primarily handled by Global Occult Coalition agents. Event was reported to the Foundation following capture of several unknown organisms in the surrounding sewer system and discussion with GOC officials.</p> <hr/> <p>The GOC had rolled in military uniforms and jeeps, a show of organisation and professionalism that put the Foundation to shame. Everything was carefully calculated and organised effectively and precisely.</p> <p>The setting-up of the cordon was done with clinical efficiency and deftness, and with minimal fuss. From the outside, it was an inspiring example of efficiency in public security.</p> <p>Inside, the story was somewhat different. The square was in chaos. The fountain was overflowing, with cold muddy water running over the cobbles, and the bodies that were lying on the ground. A woman’s corpse was being savaged by a primordial-looking thing coated in a thick layer of mud, and a group of smaller, green, frog-like creatures quarrelled over the remains of another. People were screaming, people were running to get away, and sluggish masses of foetid reeds and mosses spilled over the lip of the fountain and squelched, amoeba-like across the cobblestones.</p> <p>GOC Strike Team ‘Thoth’ moved in quickly, boots splashing in the muddy water, stepping over rafts of stinking vegetation. The creatures ignored them, content to chew sloppily on the dead. Smaller creatures waddled in the shallows, and scattered in front of the soldiers. The team moved past them, towards the fountain, hoping to gain some understanding of the situation.</p> <p>The first warning that Thoth Three got was the feel of something pressing against his thigh. The coldness and dampness of it didn’t elicit a reaction- after all, he was wading in cold water. But something was wrapping tight around his leg, and the faint pressure was what alerted him. He looked down, and saw that a large clump of plant matter was tangled round his leg. He reached down to brush it away, but then he saw the fronds flex and squeeze around his fingers, trapping his hands.</p> <p>“Damnit, something’s on me.” he said, relatively calm. There was no point in panicking, and to be honest the situation wasn’t necessarily a bad one. His team members turned round, as the mass of waterweed and ferns inched further up his leg. A clump adhered itself to his other foot. He tried to take a step, and couldn’t.</p> <p>“Okay, Three, give us a second and we’ll cut you out.” said Thoth Six, the team leader. He was reaching for his knife when the water beneath him frothed and something underwater clamped on to his leg. He swore, and tried to move, but he was stuck. “Looks like it’s got me too. Everybody else, get back.” Then he tried to jerk himself free.</p> <p>Instead of pulling himself out of the grasp of the plant, he lost his footing and, with a crash, toppled headlong into the water. The plant-thing moved fast, coils of waterplant fronds wrapping around him in a vice grip. He fought hard to get back up, choking and spluttering as he was forced underwater, then he bobbed back up coughing. He’d managed to prop himself up on his elbows and get his head clear of the water, provided he twisted his head to the side.</p> <p>Thoth Four took a step towards him, only to recoil as a mass of leaves and algal scum floated to the surface and writhed slowly in his direction. Thoth Six tried to shout something, but muddy water flowed into his mouth when he opened it and he had to cough to clear it.</p> <p>As he watched his team leader struggle against the constricting plant to keep his head an inch or two above the water, Thoth Three wondered how long you could hold your breath for. Probably not long enough for help to come.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 13/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: [REDACTED] Airport<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Red<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: Luggage carried by a passenger began to exude a thick, dark blue gas after being placed inside an X-Ray machine as part of a routine security inspection. This was followed by the manifestation of an unknown and hostile entity which was responsible for the death of 57 individuals. Gas dissipated after three hours: the entity was not found.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations:</strong> Foundation agents disseminated the story that the deaths were caused by a terrorist attack. Bodies were examined, then incinerated.</p> <hr/> <p>The man who walked up to the airport security gate to have his hand luggage scanned wasn’t to know that by the end of the day he’d have been labelled a terrorist. Luckily for him he wasn’t going to have to suffer a tarred reputation, but nonetheless he would end up as a name and face on a notice board with evidence and lines of enquiry written up around him in board marker, based solely around the premise that he was involved in a terrorist attack.</p> <p>He wasn’t to know what was in the suitcase he handed to the border control man, even though he’d packed it. Even afterwards, picking through the debris, the investigators found themselves stumped as to what exactly he had in his luggage.</p> <p>As the tired looking, stern-faced man in uniform placed the suitcase in its little grey plastic tray and set it on the grey plastic rollers, the supposed terrorist checked his watch. The seconds ticked down as the suitcase rattled along into the X-ray machine.</p> <p>The border control official barely had time to register the movement on his screen, before a dark blue, thick gas began to seep out of the X-Ray machine. Someone screamed and the blare of a klaxon started up. The man looked in bewilderment at the X-Ray machine as the gas billowed out and pooled sluggishly over the ground. Assuming some sort of chemical weapon, people started running. One border officer, the one manning the X-Ray machine, was slow to react. The gas spread over one of his feet, and the man suddenly collapsed sideways as if his legs had given way. A thin limb emerged from the gas, and clawed fingers gripped him by the arm and dragged him within.</p> <p>The man with the suitcase, previously frozen in confusion, snapped out of his stupor and made an attempt to run. He did not get far, as the flowing gas seemed to change direction and pursue him. A black mass rose out of the gas as if shedding its skin. A long, segmented, chitinous tendril, like a great legless millipede, lashed out of the fog. It was tipped by a collection of barbs. It slammed into the man’s back, the spines puncturing the skin, and using the purchase to lift the unfortunate man into the air, and draw him yelling backwards. The mist enveloped him and his shouts faded into quiet.</p> <p>Others were equally unlucky. The gas quickly spread out to cover much of the airport floor. Those who touched it collapsed to the floor completely limp, and were immediately enveloped by the mist. Others managed to find higher ground, jumped on counters or dashed madly for the exit. Some of them escaped. Others were dragged backwards into the fog as barbed tendrils latched on to them and yanked them away.</p> <p>After it was done with them, the cloud receded away from the bodies, leaving little patches of clear floor scattered across the airport. Soon, all of the screaming had stopped- those who were still alive had escaped, and those who fell into the miasma couldn’t scream. There was just the hiss of the gas escaping from the X-Ray machine and the gentle rustling of something from within the cloud until, after three hours, the flow of gas stopped and the mist gradually dispersed.</p> <p>The bodies were not all there when the Foundation arrived. They hadn’t been butchered- there were no cut marks. Bits of them bodies simply weren’t there, as if they had been dissolved. The damage was bizarre and erratic- one person would be flensed of their skin, others would be missing limbs or large chunks of their bodies. Some had been given the keyhole treatment, with small patches of skin, tissue and bone missing, through which the organs had been removed.</p> <p>The bodies of about half of the dead were identifiable. The supposed ‘terrorist’ was identified as an Adam Eppson, and he was found to be missing his left common carotid artery, five teeth (all molars), all tissue save for bone from the fingers on his right hand, and small patches of tissue from his neck.</p> <p>As was increasingly becoming the case, it was eventually decided that the victims at the airport had been killed by a freak and unpreventable accident. The mechanisms of the universe had begun to develop stress fractures, and people were beginnning to fall through the cracks.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 22/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: [REDACTED] Hall<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Red<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: During a public address, local politician ████ █████ began acting erratically, veering off-subject. The majority of the audience and staff at the venue were rendered comatose during the duration of the event.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations:</strong> A Global Occult Coalition agent assassinated Mr. ███████ during the course of the event, having pre-empted Foundation efforts to secure the anomaly. The agent was detained following his intervention and was highly co-operative. His testimony indicates that GOC forces have been severely weakened in the area, and that he was part of a small team acting independently due to this occurrence.</p> <hr/> <p>“And when the people renounce their faith- not their faith in God, not their faith in government, but faith in the most visceral, basic of things, their faith in their own existence- that’s when the terrorists win. That’s when we everything we stand for boils away and we’re left with the salt and ashes of our own self-deception and hypocrisy.”</p> <p>Agent ‘Blowfly’, of the Global Occult Coalition, could hear the politician ranting, even with his noise-cancelling headphones clamped over his ears, and he knew he would have to work fast. He strode down the central aisle towards the stage. As he went, he glanced around the room- at least a hundred people, all apparently paying the man rapt attention. None of them were moving, though. None of them were fidgeting or leaning forwards in their seats. They were motionless, completely motionless. By contrast, the man on the podium was ranting and raging, moving frantically, his wild eyes staring out into the audience.</p> <p>“And I refuse to allow that. I refuse to allow it now and I will continue to refuse until all the clocks have been broken down into atoms and men have forgotten the meaning of ‘normal’. That is my pledge, and I will stick to it. In ages past, the people of the world were made to follow a contract signed and sealed without understanding. Without consent. A deal made before we were born. And that is what the Freemasons delivered us from.”</p> <p>‘Blowfly’ could feel a buzzing in his ears, and a brief flash of electric pain in his forehead. He drew a pistol from his shoulder holster. Nobody seemed to move, or really notice. Colour was beginning to fade from his vision, and his feet were lead weights. Blowfly pointed it up at the politician, but suddenly his arm went stiff and his fingers would not move. The politician leaned forward and went still as well, staring intently at ‘Blowfly’.</p> <p>“And despite that, despite that service, there are those who would say that what was done was wrong. That free thinking, and free living, and free breathing, is a crime. They want to stop you from flying! They want to illegalise your new-found consciousness. They are insidious, and I tell you that they will not abandon their quest to keep you chained inside your own skins.”</p> <p>‘Blowfly’ could not move. Even his lungs weren’t working. It felt like he was about to die, just like he’d watched all the other agents die, immobile and choking to death. At least he would die with his feet on the ground.</p> <p>The image of the politician in his immaculate suit, with a forcefully friendly expression on his face, was off-set by his eyes, which seemed bloodshot, wide and frightened. The poor bastard had no idea what he was saying, or what was going on.</p> <p>The politician gave a spiteful smile, and with a faux-civil tone inquired “So, what does my honourable opponent have to say for himself?” He drew out the question, and the Agent’s lungs began to hurt. Finally, he allowed the last syllable to slip from his lips and hang in the air. Blowfly’s vision faded completely, and he felt himself slipping away.</p> <p>Then, suddenly, the force holding him in place was lifted. The Agent’s retort was a single gunshot. The politician collapsed backwards, dead within seconds, and lay sprawled in blood on the stage.</p> <p>Blowfly gulped air down, and sat down on the floor. Still, no-one was moving. He sat there for some time, until the Foundation came to pick him up. It was against protocol in every way, but what else could he do? He had no back up, no place to return to. All the other agents, at least all the ones he knew, were dead.</p> <p>He let the agents take him back to one of their facilities, told them what had happened. How almost all the other agents from his base had been killed by some glowing KTE that had made their death into a public spectacle. How he’d been one of the only ones still walking around when the call had come in to liquidate the politician.</p> <p>When he found out that the Foundation thought they were overworked, he laughed very hard, and very bitterly.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 24/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: █████████<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Yellow<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: An anomalous and unidentified form of organism, outwardly resembling a form of polyp, is discovered having grown within a disused tunnel. The organism was shown to recreate sounds of human speech and secrete a paralysing and digestive agent from vents on its surface when disturbed; this behaviour claimed the life of an urban explorer whose companion reported the incident to the police.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations</strong>: Due to the isolated location and the stresses placed on attending agents, as well as the fact that most of the field agents available in the area involved in two concurrent higher priority events, investigation of the incident was delayed and the area remained unsecured until late morning on the 14/12/2081, by which time it was discovered that the organism had grown considerably, resulting in the deaths of two other individuals, both local homeless people who had attempted to shelter there overnight. Organism classified E-76821. Majority of the organism destroyed, with living samples secured for analysis.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 24/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: [REDACTED] Morgue<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Orange<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: Six corpses being held at the [REDACTED] Morgue reanimated at approximately the same time. All the entities were lucid and communicative, and possessed the memories and personalities that they had possessed prior to death. Despite several debilitating and lethal injuries being present on the bodies prior to the incident, the affected bodies were found to be fully intact, healthy, and displaying normal life signs.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations</strong>: Due to actions undertaken by the staff of the Morgue, information regarding the incident had been partially revealed to the public, necessitating the dispersal of Class-B amnestics. Under the pretence of a quarantine procedure related to an unknown pathogen, the area was secured and the six affected corpses were transported to Site-16. Following testing, which determined the bodies to be otherwise non-anomalous, the entities were terminated.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 24/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: ███████████ Motorway<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Red<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: [DATA EXPUNGED]<br/> <strong>Follow-ups Operations:</strong> Though the event did not immediately threaten human life, [DATA EXPUNGED] presented a major threat to the secrecy of the Foundation. Agents deployed to terminate or capture individuals involved. Amnestics proved ineffective in eradicating symptoms caused by exposure to the event. 30 witnesses are terminated and the event is explained as a major traffic accident.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Chard allowed himself a moment to think, even though he didn’t particularly want to. After all, he wasn’t going to get the chance later.</p> <p>He stared down into the amnestics in his hand, two little dirty-beige circles sitting in his palm. The doctor responsible for dispensing the amnestics had obliged his request for a moment to think, but he would have to take them soon. Even now, when it came to looking after their employees’ mental health, the Foundation couldn’t really afford to waste time.</p> <p>No counselling sessions or therapy any more – there wasn’t time or money to be spared on such matters. They’d replaced human sympathy and help with pills a long time ago. Whatever you’ve seen, whatever you did, you make statements, note down all the details, then take a pill and forget everything.</p> <p>Then you read over the files and suddenly you know what happened, but you don’t feel it. They saved the therapy for the real problem cases, or the stuff so bad that that gut emotional reaction managed to bleed through just through second-hand description. At least, that was the idea. Chard had done it before. It seemed to work.</p> <p>As the chief organiser of the operation, he wanted to be able to forget, to shift the responsibility onto something, onto someone, else. It didn’t particularly matter that the person was himself. After all, it wasn’t as if his past self was going to fight back.</p> <p>He knew that he could make the argument anyway, even without the amnestics. It was because of the procedures. It was because of the pressure he was under. It was because of the day and age he lived in. Most of all, he could blame the priority system.</p> <p>Although all of these excuses appeared in his mind, Agent Chard had to admit some level of guilt. He had mishandled the situation, and now multiple people, including other Agents, were dead. He’d been the one who rubber-stamped it, and prioritised killing the people in the morgue over saving lives. Kritschau and his team were probably dissecting them at that moment.</p> <p>But at some level, he was responsible. He had to be; otherwise it meant that there was nothing he could have done. He refused to let himself become a victim of circumstance, however dire those circumstances had become. He was an Agent of the Foundation, after all- didn’t the Foundation exist to overcome the impossible?</p> <p>God, he’d been listening to the propaganda again. Secure, Contain, Protect.</p> <p>The first two were getting harder by the day, and after today, he wasn't sure what the third one was supposed to mean. Was he supposed to be protecting humanity, or the interests of the Foundation?</p> <p>It didn’t matter what the answer was. After all, he wasn't going to remember it. He looked up at the doctor. For his part the doctor didn’t look particularly impatient. Chard looked at him, and then put the pills into his mouth. The man smiled slightly, watched as Chard took a swig of water from a plastic cup, and swallowed.</p> <p>Later that day Chard sat at his desk and looked over the reports of what had happened. Four people dead, six anomalous entities terminated, one anomaly contained. The pictures from the tunnels were gruesome, but he had seen worse. He tried to summon up a twinge of remorse for what had happened, but couldn't.</p> <p>He’d done a good job, he thought. Chard slipped the report back into its manila folder, and braced himself for the next alert. It couldn't be long.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Date</strong>: 31/11/2081<br/> <strong>Location</strong>: [REDACTED]<br/> <strong>Response Priority Level</strong>: Red<br/> <strong>Description</strong>: The residents of the █████████ Apartment Building were affected by a possible reality warper, believed to have been capable of conditioning powerful mental compulsions into those he interacted with. Building’s residents were eventually implicated in multiple counts of murder, theft and assault against individuals known to the suspected reality warper, Mr. █████ █████████, whose was arrested for one of these charges.<br/> <strong>Follow-up Operations</strong>: Following an attack by affected individuals on a local police station to free Mr. █████████, Foundation operatives were able to confirm Mr. █████’s nature, and lay siege to the █████████ Apartment Building with the intent of neutralising Mr. █████████. Foundation personnel encountered heavy resistance, but were successful in terminating Mr. ████████. Following this, a resident of the building is believed to have detonated an explosive device, killing approximately 12 Foundation agents and 37 building residents.</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Chard couldn't feel much. He could barely feel how the rain pattered down on his face, eliciting brief, tired confusion. But it didn’t scald him, and he couldn't feel tiny, wriggling things on his skin any more.</p> <p>Water trickled down his face, carrying dust into his eyes. It stung, but he wasn't able to make much more than minute groans. He tried to wipe it away, but his arms didn't seem to want to obey him, and besides they hurt more than his eyes.<br/> He thought back to what had happened, as his clothes started to dampen.</p> <p>Everyone, it would seem, has a crack in their armour. Some were just more obvious than others, like a crippling weakness to being shot repeatedly.</p> <p>There had been an announcement over the radio that the anomaly had been neutralized. Very short, very matter-of-fact, without a hint of triumph. Maybe because there wasn't much to celebrate. They were just going to face this again the next week, and then again the week after that.</p> <p>How Agent Chard would have loved to be able to work for the Foundation, say, 100 years ago. Then, you could wait months, even years before an incident occurred in the area you would be assigned to. After a job, you’d be able to say you’d protected someone. Now they were just handing fate a rain check. Eventually, there was going to be something they couldn't handle.</p> <p>He’d heard about some of them. Terrorist attacks were getting more frequent, apparently. Natural disasters, too. At least this time there actually was an explosion to back up the terrorist angle. Some poor bastard had been duped, tricked or forced into wearing a bomb, and he had set it off as soon as he realized his lord and master had snuffed it. At least, that was what Chard guessed. The heat, the roar and the sudden pain all matched that description. He wasn't sure how far he’d been thrown by the blast, or whether he had hit his head.</p> <p>The bomb had also blown out the roof, and as he opened his eyes slightly, he could make out the gaping black hole in the ceiling. Blurry, indistinct shapes on the floor, the right shape for slumped human bodies. Raindrops fell into his eyes, and he had to clench them shut again.</p> <p>He could hear noises, muted though they were, from somewhere nearby. Maybe they had sent someone to find him. He hoped they would come quickly. He didn't know how much more time he, or the Foundation, had left.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\| <a href="/rat-s-nest-hub">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/anno-domino">Anno Domino</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/anno-domino">https://scpwiki.com/anno-domino</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 1st, 2081__ [[/=]] > Access: Record of extranormal events and object retrievals > Enter password: @@**********@@ > Access: Record for Site-466 retrieval agents. > Enter password: @@***@@ > Access: Records dated November, 2081. ----- Date: 1/11/2081 Location: [REDACTED] Shopping Centre car park Response Priority Level: Green Description: An unidentified man was seen wandering through a multi-story car park at approximately 14:00, behaving erratically. Witnesses reported that he left scorch marks on all the surfaces he touched, and emanated large amounts of heat. Follow-up Operations: Foundation agents secured the area and subdued the man, consequently designated E-75006. ----- Agent Chard ignored the muttering of the man, still audible as it was from within the insulated cell. When the researcher went over to the viewing window, Chard did not follow. The man inside, he knew, was naked. He had been dressed in casual clothes but they had caught fire as the man’s temperature continued to increase, and they had been removed with heat-proof gloves once they had arrived back at the facility. Standard equipment like that was one of the few things that weren’t in short supply. It was clear that the heat was making him uncomfortable, but with his internal body temperature he should already be dead, so he hadn’t much scope to complain. Not that he could, at any rate. The unfortunate man was rambling as if half-asleep, in hesitant, indistinct nonsense. Clearly his condition was making it difficult for him to think or speak properly. Based on the location and clothes he had been wearing, Chard suspected he was shopping when it had struck him, whatever it was. He could confirm that, with security tapes and background checks. He had people on it. But for now, he had to ensure the handover of the E-Class object to research personnel. Something about this particular researcher, Dr. Kritschau, faintly annoyed him. All of his features were set high in his face in such a way that he always had the appearance of peering down at you like a specimen, even if, like Chard, you were a few inches taller than him. He hadn’t looked in Chard’s eyes at all as the Agent had explained what he had seen during the retrieval, instead keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the paper as he took notes, but now that he was looking at the object he was writing quickly and fluidly without even glancing at the page. Chard let this continue for a short while, with Kritschau ignoring him and noting down the immediate observations of the new SCP, but then he felt compelled from awkwardness to move over to the viewing window. The man inside had pressed himself up against the cold concrete wall, trying to keep himself cool. He faced away from them and tried to cover himself up. Chard’s eyes drifted to the floor of the containment chamber. The researcher said something under his breath. “So, needs a refrigerated, or at least insulated and well ventilated, humanoid containment chamber. Materials must be heatproof. Food and water... ” Chard cleared his throat. The researcher didn’t seem to hear him, so he started talking. “Is he going to live?” Kritschau’s eyes stayed fixed on the huddled shape of the man. “That’s up to the directors. You know how it is.” Chard looked uncomfortably at the windowsill, not willing to look up and compound the man’s shame. They both knew that Kritschau was mincing words. The man clambered to his feet, arms held away from his body, and moved to the other side of the cell, surface for cold concrete. Kritschau noted the behaviour down. Then he sucked in a breath, put the lid back on his pen, and pulled down the blind. Chard was relieved. Something about the unfortunate man elicited his pity. He wouldn’t want his life in the hands of the Foundation, either. “Apologies if that seemed a little callous, Agent. We’re as stretched by the current situation as anybody.” “I understand, Doctor.” Kritschau swallowed, looking away from the Agent. He hurried over to a desk and produced a form, neatly filled out. He proffered his pen. “Thank you, Agent. Your boys are doing an exemplary job.” The researcher affected a small smile. “I sometimes wonder why they can’t just scrap the paperwork and cut costs that way.” Chard took the pen and signed his small, rudimentary but serviceable signature. “I couldn’t agree more, sir.” ----- [DATA EXPUNGED] Date: 8/11/2081 Location: [REDACTED] Square Response Priority Level: Orange Description: The fountain in the centre of ██████████ Square ceased function at 19:53. The fountain quickly became covered in algae. A number of organisms, believed to be temnospondylids, emerged from the Fountain, along with several unidentified organisms displaying animal characteristics though apparently made of plant matter. Follow-up Operations: Foundation Agents did not respond to the incident initially, as it was primarily handled by Global Occult Coalition agents. Event was reported to the Foundation following capture of several unknown organisms in the surrounding sewer system and discussion with GOC officials. ----- The GOC had rolled in military uniforms and jeeps, a show of organisation and professionalism that put the Foundation to shame. Everything was carefully calculated and organised effectively and precisely. The setting-up of the cordon was done with clinical efficiency and deftness, and with minimal fuss. From the outside, it was an inspiring example of efficiency in public security. Inside, the story was somewhat different. The square was in chaos. The fountain was overflowing, with cold muddy water running over the cobbles, and the bodies that were lying on the ground. A woman’s corpse was being savaged by a primordial-looking thing coated in a thick layer of mud, and a group of smaller, green, frog-like creatures quarrelled over the remains of another. People were screaming, people were running to get away, and sluggish masses of foetid reeds and mosses spilled over the lip of the fountain and squelched, amoeba-like across the cobblestones. GOC Strike Team ‘Thoth’ moved in quickly, boots splashing in the muddy water, stepping over rafts of stinking vegetation. The creatures ignored them, content to chew sloppily on the dead. Smaller creatures waddled in the shallows, and scattered in front of the soldiers. The team moved past them, towards the fountain, hoping to gain some understanding of the situation. The first warning that Thoth Three got was the feel of something pressing against his thigh. The coldness and dampness of it didn’t elicit a reaction- after all, he was wading in cold water. But something was wrapping tight around his leg, and the faint pressure was what alerted him. He looked down, and saw that a large clump of plant matter was tangled round his leg. He reached down to brush it away, but then he saw the fronds flex and squeeze around his fingers, trapping his hands. “Damnit, something’s on me.” he said, relatively calm. There was no point in panicking, and to be honest the situation wasn’t necessarily a bad one. His team members turned round, as the mass of waterweed and ferns inched further up his leg. A clump adhered itself to his other foot. He tried to take a step, and couldn’t. “Okay, Three, give us a second and we’ll cut you out.” said Thoth Six, the team leader. He was reaching for his knife when the water beneath him frothed and something underwater clamped on to his leg. He swore, and tried to move, but he was stuck. “Looks like it’s got me too. Everybody else, get back.” Then he tried to jerk himself free. Instead of pulling himself out of the grasp of the plant, he lost his footing and, with a crash, toppled headlong into the water. The plant-thing moved fast, coils of waterplant fronds wrapping around him in a vice grip. He fought hard to get back up, choking and spluttering as he was forced underwater, then he bobbed back up coughing. He’d managed to prop himself up on his elbows and get his head clear of the water, provided he twisted his head to the side. Thoth Four took a step towards him, only to recoil as a mass of leaves and algal scum floated to the surface and writhed slowly in his direction. Thoth Six tried to shout something, but muddy water flowed into his mouth when he opened it and he had to cough to clear it. As he watched his team leader struggle against the constricting plant to keep his head an inch or two above the water, Thoth Three wondered how long you could hold your breath for. Probably not long enough for help to come. ----- Date: 13/11/2081 Location: [REDACTED] Airport Response Priority Level: Red Description: Luggage carried by a passenger began to exude a thick, dark blue gas after being placed inside an X-Ray machine as part of a routine security inspection. This was followed by the manifestation of an unknown and hostile entity which was responsible for the death of 57 individuals. Gas dissipated after three hours: the entity was not found. Follow-up Operations: Foundation agents disseminated the story that the deaths were caused by a terrorist attack. Bodies were examined, then incinerated. ----- The man who walked up to the airport security gate to have his hand luggage scanned wasn’t to know that by the end of the day he’d have been labelled a terrorist. Luckily for him he wasn’t going to have to suffer a tarred reputation, but nonetheless he would end up as a name and face on a notice board with evidence and lines of enquiry written up around him in board marker, based solely around the premise that he was involved in a terrorist attack. He wasn’t to know what was in the suitcase he handed to the border control man, even though he’d packed it. Even afterwards, picking through the debris, the investigators found themselves stumped as to what exactly he had in his luggage. As the tired looking, stern-faced man in uniform placed the suitcase in its little grey plastic tray and set it on the grey plastic rollers, the supposed terrorist checked his watch. The seconds ticked down as the suitcase rattled along into the X-ray machine. The border control official barely had time to register the movement on his screen, before a dark blue, thick gas began to seep out of the X-Ray machine. Someone screamed and the blare of a klaxon started up. The man looked in bewilderment at the X-Ray machine as the gas billowed out and pooled sluggishly over the ground. Assuming some sort of chemical weapon, people started running. One border officer, the one manning the X-Ray machine, was slow to react. The gas spread over one of his feet, and the man suddenly collapsed sideways as if his legs had given way. A thin limb emerged from the gas, and clawed fingers gripped him by the arm and dragged him within. The man with the suitcase, previously frozen in confusion, snapped out of his stupor and made an attempt to run. He did not get far, as the flowing gas seemed to change direction and pursue him. A black mass rose out of the gas as if shedding its skin. A long, segmented, chitinous tendril, like a great legless millipede, lashed out of the fog. It was tipped by a collection of barbs. It slammed into the man’s back, the spines puncturing the skin, and using the purchase to lift the unfortunate man into the air, and draw him yelling backwards. The mist enveloped him and his shouts faded into quiet. Others were equally unlucky. The gas quickly spread out to cover much of the airport floor. Those who touched it collapsed to the floor completely limp, and were immediately enveloped by the mist. Others managed to find higher ground, jumped on counters or dashed madly for the exit. Some of them escaped. Others were dragged backwards into the fog as barbed tendrils latched on to them and yanked them away. After it was done with them, the cloud receded away from the bodies, leaving little patches of clear floor scattered across the airport. Soon, all of the screaming had stopped- those who were still alive had escaped, and those who fell into the miasma couldn’t scream. There was just the hiss of the gas escaping from the X-Ray machine and the gentle rustling of something from within the cloud until, after three hours, the flow of gas stopped and the mist gradually dispersed. The bodies were not all there when the Foundation arrived. They hadn’t been butchered- there were no cut marks. Bits of them bodies simply weren’t there, as if they had been dissolved. The damage was bizarre and erratic- one person would be flensed of their skin, others would be missing limbs or large chunks of their bodies. Some had been given the keyhole treatment, with small patches of skin, tissue and bone missing, through which the organs had been removed. The bodies of about half of the dead were identifiable. The supposed ‘terrorist’ was identified as an Adam Eppson, and he was found to be missing his left common carotid artery, five teeth (all molars), all tissue save for bone from the fingers on his right hand, and small patches of tissue from his neck. As was increasingly becoming the case, it was eventually decided that the victims at the airport had been killed by a freak and unpreventable accident. The mechanisms of the universe had begun to develop stress fractures, and people were beginnning to fall through the cracks. ----- Date: 22/11/2081 Location: [REDACTED] Hall Response Priority Level: Red Description: During a public address, local politician ████ █████ began acting erratically, veering off-subject. The majority of the audience and staff at the venue were rendered comatose during the duration of the event. Follow-up Operations: A Global Occult Coalition agent assassinated Mr. ███████ during the course of the event, having pre-empted Foundation efforts to secure the anomaly. The agent was detained following his intervention and was highly co-operative. His testimony indicates that GOC forces have been severely weakened in the area, and that he was part of a small team acting independently due to this occurrence. ----- “And when the people renounce their faith- not their faith in God, not their faith in government, but faith in the most visceral, basic of things, their faith in their own existence- that’s when the terrorists win. That’s when we everything we stand for boils away and we’re left with the salt and ashes of our own self-deception and hypocrisy.” Agent ‘Blowfly’, of the Global Occult Coalition, could hear the politician ranting, even with his noise-cancelling headphones clamped over his ears, and he knew he would have to work fast. He strode down the central aisle towards the stage. As he went, he glanced around the room- at least a hundred people, all apparently paying the man rapt attention. None of them were moving, though. None of them were fidgeting or leaning forwards in their seats. They were motionless, completely motionless. By contrast, the man on the podium was ranting and raging, moving frantically, his wild eyes staring out into the audience. “And I refuse to allow that. I refuse to allow it now and I will continue to refuse until all the clocks have been broken down into atoms and men have forgotten the meaning of ‘normal’. That is my pledge, and I will stick to it. In ages past, the people of the world were made to follow a contract signed and sealed without understanding. Without consent. A deal made before we were born. And that is what the Freemasons delivered us from.” ‘Blowfly’ could feel a buzzing in his ears, and a brief flash of electric pain in his forehead. He drew a pistol from his shoulder holster. Nobody seemed to move, or really notice. Colour was beginning to fade from his vision, and his feet were lead weights. Blowfly pointed it up at the politician, but suddenly his arm went stiff and his fingers would not move. The politician leaned forward and went still as well, staring intently at ‘Blowfly’. “And despite that, despite that service, there are those who would say that what was done was wrong. That free thinking, and free living, and free breathing, is a crime. They want to stop you from flying! They want to illegalise your new-found consciousness. They are insidious, and I tell you that they will not abandon their quest to keep you chained inside your own skins.” ‘Blowfly’ could not move. Even his lungs weren’t working. It felt like he was about to die, just like he’d watched all the other agents die, immobile and choking to death. At least he would die with his feet on the ground. The image of the politician in his immaculate suit, with a forcefully friendly expression on his face, was off-set by his eyes, which seemed bloodshot, wide and frightened. The poor bastard had no idea what he was saying, or what was going on. The politician gave a spiteful smile, and with a faux-civil tone inquired “So, what does my honourable opponent have to say for himself?” He drew out the question, and the Agent’s lungs began to hurt. Finally, he allowed the last syllable to slip from his lips and hang in the air. Blowfly’s vision faded completely, and he felt himself slipping away. Then, suddenly, the force holding him in place was lifted. The Agent’s retort was a single gunshot. The politician collapsed backwards, dead within seconds, and lay sprawled in blood on the stage. Blowfly gulped air down, and sat down on the floor. Still, no-one was moving. He sat there for some time, until the Foundation came to pick him up. It was against protocol in every way, but what else could he do? He had no back up, no place to return to. All the other agents, at least all the ones he knew, were dead. He let the agents take him back to one of their facilities, told them what had happened. How almost all the other agents from his base had been killed by some glowing KTE that had made their death into a public spectacle. How he’d been one of the only ones still walking around when the call had come in to liquidate the politician. When he found out that the Foundation thought they were overworked, he laughed very hard, and very bitterly. ----- Date: 24/11/2081 Location: █████████ Response Priority Level: Yellow Description: An anomalous and unidentified form of organism, outwardly resembling a form of polyp, is discovered having grown within a disused tunnel. The organism was shown to recreate sounds of human speech and secrete a paralysing and digestive agent from vents on its surface when disturbed; this behaviour claimed the life of an urban explorer whose companion reported the incident to the police. Follow-up Operations: Due to the isolated location and the stresses placed on attending agents, as well as the fact that most of the field agents available in the area involved in two concurrent higher priority events, investigation of the incident was delayed and the area remained unsecured until late morning on the 14/12/2081, by which time it was discovered that the organism had grown considerably, resulting in the deaths of two other individuals, both local homeless people who had attempted to shelter there overnight. Organism classified E-76821. Majority of the organism destroyed, with living samples secured for analysis. ----- Date: 24/11/2081 Location: [REDACTED] Morgue Response Priority Level: Orange Description: Six corpses being held at the [REDACTED] Morgue reanimated at approximately the same time. All the entities were lucid and communicative, and possessed the memories and personalities that they had possessed prior to death. Despite several debilitating and lethal injuries being present on the bodies prior to the incident, the affected bodies were found to be fully intact, healthy, and displaying normal life signs. Follow-up Operations: Due to actions undertaken by the staff of the Morgue, information regarding the incident had been partially revealed to the public, necessitating the dispersal of Class-B amnestics. Under the pretence of a quarantine procedure related to an unknown pathogen, the area was secured and the six affected corpses were transported to Site-16. Following testing, which determined the bodies to be otherwise non-anomalous, the entities were terminated. ----- Date: 24/11/2081 Location: ███████████ Motorway Response Priority Level: Red Description: [DATA EXPUNGED] Follow-ups Operations: Though the event did not immediately threaten human life, [DATA EXPUNGED] presented a major threat to the secrecy of the Foundation. Agents deployed to terminate or capture individuals involved. Amnestics proved ineffective in eradicating symptoms caused by exposure to the event. 30 witnesses are terminated and the event is explained as a major traffic accident. ----- Agent Chard allowed himself a moment to think, even though he didn’t particularly want to. After all, he wasn’t going to get the chance later. He stared down into the amnestics in his hand, two little dirty-beige circles sitting in his palm. The doctor responsible for dispensing the amnestics had obliged his request for a moment to think, but he would have to take them soon. Even now, when it came to looking after their employees’ mental health, the Foundation couldn’t really afford to waste time. No counselling sessions or therapy any more – there wasn’t time or money to be spared on such matters. They’d replaced human sympathy and help with pills a long time ago. Whatever you’ve seen, whatever you did, you make statements, note down all the details, then take a pill and forget everything. Then you read over the files and suddenly you know what happened, but you don’t feel it. They saved the therapy for the real problem cases, or the stuff so bad that that gut emotional reaction managed to bleed through just through second-hand description. At least, that was the idea. Chard had done it before. It seemed to work. As the chief organiser of the operation, he wanted to be able to forget, to shift the responsibility onto something, onto someone, else. It didn’t particularly matter that the person was himself. After all, it wasn’t as if his past self was going to fight back. He knew that he could make the argument anyway, even without the amnestics. It was because of the procedures. It was because of the pressure he was under. It was because of the day and age he lived in. Most of all, he could blame the priority system. Although all of these excuses appeared in his mind, Agent Chard had to admit some level of guilt. He had mishandled the situation, and now multiple people, including other Agents, were dead. He’d been the one who rubber-stamped it, and prioritised killing the people in the morgue over saving lives. Kritschau and his team were probably dissecting them at that moment. But at some level, he was responsible. He had to be; otherwise it meant that there was nothing he could have done. He refused to let himself become a victim of circumstance, however dire those circumstances had become. He was an Agent of the Foundation, after all- didn’t the Foundation exist to overcome the impossible? God, he’d been listening to the propaganda again. Secure, Contain, Protect. The first two were getting harder by the day, and after today, he wasn't sure what the third one was supposed to mean. Was he supposed to be protecting humanity, or the interests of the Foundation? It didn’t matter what the answer was. After all, he wasn't going to remember it. He looked up at the doctor. For his part the doctor didn’t look particularly impatient. Chard looked at him, and then put the pills into his mouth. The man smiled slightly, watched as Chard took a swig of water from a plastic cup, and swallowed. Later that day Chard sat at his desk and looked over the reports of what had happened. Four people dead, six anomalous entities terminated, one anomaly contained. The pictures from the tunnels were gruesome, but he had seen worse. He tried to summon up a twinge of remorse for what had happened, but couldn't. He’d done a good job, he thought. Chard slipped the report back into its manila folder, and braced himself for the next alert. It couldn't be long. ------ Date: 31/11/2081 Location: [REDACTED] Response Priority Level: Red Description: The residents of the █████████ Apartment Building were affected by a possible reality warper, believed to have been capable of conditioning powerful mental compulsions into those he interacted with. Building’s residents were eventually implicated in multiple counts of murder, theft and assault against individuals known to the suspected reality warper, Mr. █████ █████████, whose was arrested for one of these charges. Follow-up Operations: Following an attack by affected individuals on a local police station to free Mr. █████████, Foundation operatives were able to confirm Mr. █████’s nature, and lay siege to the █████████ Apartment Building with the intent of neutralising Mr. █████████. Foundation personnel encountered heavy resistance, but were successful in terminating Mr. ████████. Following this, a resident of the building is believed to have detonated an explosive device, killing approximately 12 Foundation agents and 37 building residents. ----- Agent Chard couldn't feel much. He could barely feel how the rain pattered down on his face, eliciting brief, tired confusion. But it didn’t scald him, and he couldn't feel tiny, wriggling things on his skin any more. Water trickled down his face, carrying dust into his eyes. It stung, but he wasn't able to make much more than minute groans. He tried to wipe it away, but his arms didn't seem to want to obey him, and besides they hurt more than his eyes. He thought back to what had happened, as his clothes started to dampen. Everyone, it would seem, has a crack in their armour. Some were just more obvious than others, like a crippling weakness to being shot repeatedly. There had been an announcement over the radio that the anomaly had been neutralized. Very short, very matter-of-fact, without a hint of triumph. Maybe because there wasn't much to celebrate. They were just going to face this again the next week, and then again the week after that. How Agent Chard would have loved to be able to work for the Foundation, say, 100 years ago. Then, you could wait months, even years before an incident occurred in the area you would be assigned to. After a job, you’d be able to say you’d protected someone. Now they were just handing fate a rain check. Eventually, there was going to be something they couldn't handle. He’d heard about some of them. Terrorist attacks were getting more frequent, apparently. Natural disasters, too. At least this time there actually was an explosion to back up the terrorist angle. Some poor bastard had been duped, tricked or forced into wearing a bomb, and he had set it off as soon as he realized his lord and master had snuffed it. At least, that was what Chard guessed. The heat, the roar and the sudden pain all matched that description. He wasn't sure how far he’d been thrown by the blast, or whether he had hit his head. The bomb had also blown out the roof, and as he opened his eyes slightly, he could make out the gaping black hole in the ceiling. Blurry, indistinct shapes on the floor, the right shape for slumped human bodies. Raindrops fell into his eyes, and he had to clench them shut again. He could hear noises, muted though they were, from somewhere nearby. Maybe they had sent someone to find him. He hoped they would come quickly. He didn't know how much more time he, or the Foundation, had left. [[=]] \| [[[Rat's Nest Hub\| Hub]]] \|** [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-06T03:30:00	[ "_licensebox", "global-occult-coalition", "nyc2013", "rats-nest", "tale" ]	Anno Domino - SCP Foundation	107	[ "rat-s-nest-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "rat-s-nest-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16308266	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/anno-domino
antediluvian	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> I walk. The Elder had always spoken so greatly of this day to me. He said that on the day on which a boy sets out, alone, to the top of the island, he begins his journey into manhood. I can feel the warm grass crushing underneath my feet, stinging and burning if I step out from under the cool of the tall shade-trees. I have been walking for so long now, without food or water or rest, seeking the sharp peak and the cool spring that will show to me my fortune, my destiny. As I traipse along the path that all men of my village must walk but once in their lives, I wonder what sort of man I will be. <hr/> <p>The sun is so bright in this place, and yet the wind blows so harshly. I cannot remember the absence of pain in my legs and my feet, but it does not matter to me or to this place. All that has ever been done seems lost in this vast desert of noise and sand. I dreamed in my youth of the beasts and wonders dangerous and miraculous that I would meet upon my great journey, challenging me at every turn and pass. But no. Here there is only the sand and wind. All that is life is extinguished in this place, removed from all history and experience. Here is the place of silence, of reflection and trial. I travel through its wastes of sand and heat, striving to remain. To exist.</p> <hr/> <p>I can almost see the peak now, but the gales worsen still. The desert lies behind my path, its sand and empty things kicked about by Angineo, the angry God of the Wind. I walk through this dead scrub-land, the occasional rain splattering my face with mud and leaving me thirstier still. I can hear the beasts when the night comes, hungry and angry at the sky, slinking out of their dens only for long enough to hunt easy prey. I have fear of the long shadows in the night, and what they might make of me. But I am so close now, so close to my destination and my destiny. I carry on, through the fear and the pain and the thirst, eyes held ever skyward to the pinnacle of the earth. Even in the barrenest of wastes it still stands in the distance, tall and proud. Waiting to laugh in the face of the conqueror. Waiting for me.</p> <hr/> <p>So close to the peak now, but it can not be reached by me or by any other. Not the mightiest of men of my village would dare face Angineo in his fury, battering the side of the pinnacle of the entire land with his might. I have waited here in my cave for many nights, a tiny divot in the mountainside, waiting without a fire for the storm to cease. But still, it has not stopped. I ache and I thirst, so close to the spring that its scent beckons me, so close that I can nearly hear the song of its water, calling me towards the rest of my life. Towards greatness.</p> <hr/> <p>I will press on. This is what the gods want. They test me, sending the eldest and most powerful of their number out against me, battering me with wind and rain in this tiny cave where I rest, alone and hungry. I will not forfeit before the gods of the land and of the people. I will press on.</p> <hr/> <p>I have become a man. I have conquered the land and the desert and the mountains and the gods themselves. Now I stand here, before the spring of life for my people, drinking and praying and relishing in the ecstasy of my accomplishment, of my securing of my life and my destiny. Though the water does not taste as sweet as I had thought it might, still it brings strength to me. Everything around this place smells odd, stained with sulfur and the heat of many voices. Perhaps it is a message from the gods, some great showing of their favor for me. I drink, covered in rain and mud and sand and pain. I drink the sweet victory of my journey. I drink to the gods. I drink to the people. I drink to myself.</p> <hr/> <p>There is something wrong here, at the pinnacle of the world. The winds do not cease and the rain does not relent in its striking of the earth. I fear that I have angered the gods, brought their wrath down upon me and upon the very land itself. I pray now, in my little cave, for my life and the lives of the people of my village. I pray that the God of Wind does not reach his wrath out unto them. But yet the storm does not end, the howling of the god's breathe does not waver in the vast reaches of the sky, scattered before me in this highest of places. I sit in this cave, huddled away from the wind and the coldness of the rain, and I pray.</p> <hr/> <p>I kneel now at the top of the world, shouting as though mad at the gods and at the state of existence. The storm rages, battering my ears with sound and my eyes with light. I remember back to the days in my village, to when I had hope for this time of change in my life. I did not know then what I know now. I did not know that it was my destiny to be the last to pass into manhood before the end of time, when the Gods of Wind and of Lightning and of Death would bring destruction to the world. I shout from the top of the world, begging that they wait in their bringing of the end. Wait until I have lived my life of glory. Begging that my destiny be changed by the pity of the gods.</p> <hr/> <p>I hear it, the greatest of thunder-cracks as the gods answer my pleas, their divine wrath echoing in the sky above me. The wind howls past, sending the rain smashing into my face and my eyes. But still I see it. The answer of the gods. It bursts through the clouds and the sky itself, a great mass of grey and brown and blood, coated in plates of rocky flesh and with a thousand limbs, crashing towards the earth covered in fire and rage. As it falls and pulls itself towards the great ocean that holds the world, it stretches across the sky, beyond all imagination of size. It is the greatest god of all, and all others pale before it. Old Angineo did not call out this storm. No. The God of Wind is dead, vanquished by this greatest god of all. The God of the End. Of the Sky and of Fury. It crushes into the water, the shock of it rippling the surface of what is real. With its landing comes the echo of thunder, long dead in the savage beauty of this infinite god, its great form stretching from the bottom of the dark depths of the sea and into the heavens themselves. It falls still, bringing with it the destroyed remnants of the homes of the gods, flickering and shimmering as they fall to this earth. The sea stretches and swells as it takes in the great beastly God, blocking out the entirety of the world before it. I watch, terrified by its divinity and hopelessness, as a great mass of boiling, frothing water bears down upon the world. All will be consumed by its mighty waves, trees ripped asunder and beaches swallowed by the unremitting waves, a signal of the great <em>thing</em>. I think of how my world shall end, at the hands of a god unimaginable in scope and power, sweeping the entirety of creation clean in a single terrible motion. A god my world did not even know.</p> <hr/> <p>I stand now at the peak of the world, alone and hungry and hurt and afraid. The ocean has not swallowed me, has left me alone in this empty place, upon a ledge of rock above the spring at the top of the world. All around me there is the water, sandy and filled with mud, clouded over by the washed-away land. The Great God from the sky is not here. It has cast itself into the very depths of the earth, taking with it my home and my people. I stand here now at the end of the ruined world and wonder if I could ever be forgiven for my horrible destiny. I wonder if there is anyone still in the sacked place of the gods and the dead left to forgive me.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/parting">Parting</a> \| <a href="/old-man-in-the-sea-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/eden">Eden</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="/antediluvian">Antediluvian</a>" by Wogglebug, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/antediluvian">https://scpwiki.com/antediluvian</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 walk. The Elder had always spoken so greatly of this day to me. He said that on the day on which a boy sets out, alone, to the top of the island, he begins his journey into manhood. I can feel the warm grass crushing underneath my feet, stinging and burning if I step out from under the cool of the tall shade-trees. I have been walking for so long now, without food or water or rest, seeking the sharp peak and the cool spring that will show to me my fortune, my destiny. As I traipse along the path that all men of my village must walk but once in their lives, I wonder what sort of man I will be. ----- The sun is so bright in this place, and yet the wind blows so harshly. I cannot remember the absence of pain in my legs and my feet, but it does not matter to me or to this place. All that has ever been done seems lost in this vast desert of noise and sand. I dreamed in my youth of the beasts and wonders dangerous and miraculous that I would meet upon my great journey, challenging me at every turn and pass. But no. Here there is only the sand and wind. All that is life is extinguished in this place, removed from all history and experience. Here is the place of silence, of reflection and trial. I travel through its wastes of sand and heat, striving to remain. To exist. ----- I can almost see the peak now, but the gales worsen still. The desert lies behind my path, its sand and empty things kicked about by Angineo, the angry God of the Wind. I walk through this dead scrub-land, the occasional rain splattering my face with mud and leaving me thirstier still. I can hear the beasts when the night comes, hungry and angry at the sky, slinking out of their dens only for long enough to hunt easy prey. I have fear of the long shadows in the night, and what they might make of me. But I am so close now, so close to my destination and my destiny. I carry on, through the fear and the pain and the thirst, eyes held ever skyward to the pinnacle of the earth. Even in the barrenest of wastes it still stands in the distance, tall and proud. Waiting to laugh in the face of the conqueror. Waiting for me. ----- So close to the peak now, but it can not be reached by me or by any other. Not the mightiest of men of my village would dare face Angineo in his fury, battering the side of the pinnacle of the entire land with his might. I have waited here in my cave for many nights, a tiny divot in the mountainside, waiting without a fire for the storm to cease. But still, it has not stopped. I ache and I thirst, so close to the spring that its scent beckons me, so close that I can nearly hear the song of its water, calling me towards the rest of my life. Towards greatness. ----- I will press on. This is what the gods want. They test me, sending the eldest and most powerful of their number out against me, battering me with wind and rain in this tiny cave where I rest, alone and hungry. I will not forfeit before the gods of the land and of the people. I will press on. ----- I have become a man. I have conquered the land and the desert and the mountains and the gods themselves. Now I stand here, before the spring of life for my people, drinking and praying and relishing in the ecstasy of my accomplishment, of my securing of my life and my destiny. Though the water does not taste as sweet as I had thought it might, still it brings strength to me. Everything around this place smells odd, stained with sulfur and the heat of many voices. Perhaps it is a message from the gods, some great showing of their favor for me. I drink, covered in rain and mud and sand and pain. I drink the sweet victory of my journey. I drink to the gods. I drink to the people. I drink to myself. ----- There is something wrong here, at the pinnacle of the world. The winds do not cease and the rain does not relent in its striking of the earth. I fear that I have angered the gods, brought their wrath down upon me and upon the very land itself. I pray now, in my little cave, for my life and the lives of the people of my village. I pray that the God of Wind does not reach his wrath out unto them. But yet the storm does not end, the howling of the god's breathe does not waver in the vast reaches of the sky, scattered before me in this highest of places. I sit in this cave, huddled away from the wind and the coldness of the rain, and I pray. ----- I kneel now at the top of the world, shouting as though mad at the gods and at the state of existence. The storm rages, battering my ears with sound and my eyes with light. I remember back to the days in my village, to when I had hope for this time of change in my life. I did not know then what I know now. I did not know that it was my destiny to be the last to pass into manhood before the end of time, when the Gods of Wind and of Lightning and of Death would bring destruction to the world. I shout from the top of the world, begging that they wait in their bringing of the end. Wait until I have lived my life of glory. Begging that my destiny be changed by the pity of the gods. ----- I hear it, the greatest of thunder-cracks as the gods answer my pleas, their divine wrath echoing in the sky above me. The wind howls past, sending the rain smashing into my face and my eyes. But still I see it. The answer of the gods. It bursts through the clouds and the sky itself, a great mass of grey and brown and blood, coated in plates of rocky flesh and with a thousand limbs, crashing towards the earth covered in fire and rage. As it falls and pulls itself towards the great ocean that holds the world, it stretches across the sky, beyond all imagination of size. It is the greatest god of all, and all others pale before it. Old Angineo did not call out this storm. No. The God of Wind is dead, vanquished by this greatest god of all. The God of the End. Of the Sky and of Fury. It crushes into the water, the shock of it rippling the surface of what is real. With its landing comes the echo of thunder, long dead in the savage beauty of this infinite god, its great form stretching from the bottom of the dark depths of the sea and into the heavens themselves. It falls still, bringing with it the destroyed remnants of the homes of the gods, flickering and shimmering as they fall to this earth. The sea stretches and swells as it takes in the great beastly God, blocking out the entirety of the world before it. I watch, terrified by its divinity and hopelessness, as a great mass of boiling, frothing water bears down upon the world. All will be consumed by its mighty waves, trees ripped asunder and beaches swallowed by the unremitting waves, a signal of the great //thing//. I think of how my world shall end, at the hands of a god unimaginable in scope and power, sweeping the entirety of creation clean in a single terrible motion. A god my world did not even know. ----- I stand now at the peak of the world, alone and hungry and hurt and afraid. The ocean has not swallowed me, has left me alone in this empty place, upon a ledge of rock above the spring at the top of the world. All around me there is the water, sandy and filled with mud, clouded over by the washed-away land. The Great God from the sky is not here. It has cast itself into the very depths of the earth, taking with it my home and my people. I stand here now at the end of the ruined world and wonder if I could ever be forgiven for my horrible destiny. I wonder if there is anyone still in the sacked place of the gods and the dead left to forgive me. [[=]] << [[[Parting]]] \| [[[old-man-in-the-sea-hub\| HUB]]] \| [[[Eden]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-03T03:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "old-man-in-the-sea", "tale" ]	Antediluvian - SCP Foundation	58	[ "parting", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "eden", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16281376	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/antediluvian
apakht	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>In the sublevels of Site 10, Dr. Yara Mirski raised the gemstone to the light with a gloved hand, in a gesture she'd repeated a hundred times before. She admired its black contours, broken up by the mottled white pattern and the golden filigree that wrapped around its exterior.</p> <p>SCP-001-Delta. The fourth SCP item considered a 'prime', or '001', item. One of several that had a hand in the creation of the Foundation. And, in Yara's opinion, by far the most frustrating.</p> <p>For one, there wasn't much else to know about Delta at Level 5 clearance.</p> <p>Most of the other 001 items had a great deal of falsified information attached to them, the better to confuse ever-curious researchers. Some versions were altered beyond recognition. Like Iota, Yara's favorite. Some meta-humor to give snoopers an existential crisis. Some were fabricated entirely — notably, Beta, which was a little surprising, since it was just an ordinary monster. What was so unusual or startling about that, compared to Keter cakes or Project Rho? But Beta was an invention from whole cloth; everything about it was fiction besides its ancient classification system.</p> <p>Not so with Delta. Delta was strange enough on its own that people always assumed the files they had unearthed were altered. They were wrong. Delta was the most straightforward 001. A lock that appeared to literally "contain" our universe, and also something called "Apakht." It seemed like a joke from several cartoon shows, a joke made worse by the fact that it was true.</p> <p>And Delta, the Lock, was still missing its Key. Not that the O5s hadn't tried to crack it open, especially the skittish ones who didn't like the idea of anyone containing anything but them. One of them had it in her head that Delta unlocked Heaven. Kept rambling on about something called the Thaumiel Initiative. It didn't matter. Not even SCP-005 could pry that lock open, and no megaton bomb could crack Delta's shell.</p> <p>Yara felt the warmth of the Delta stone through her gloves, and reflected that it was perhaps fortunate that every attempt to unlock Delta had failed.</p> <p>She was still reflecting on this when the first klaxon blared.</p> <hr/> <p>The Harbinger hated its code name.</p> <p>"The Harbinger." Really. So fucking over-dramatic. They wouldn't stop using it, either. For security, they said. Harbinger. Harbinger. Harbinger? Harbinger, Harbinger, Harbinger. It wanted to kill the son of a bitch who came up with that.</p> <p>Yet… as long as it was on the premises of Site 10, it was not going to think of itself by any other identity but Harbinger. Not its name, definitely not gender. The Harbinger was an <em>it</em>, now, and would stay that way until this was over.</p> <p>Sure, the Foundation's ability to read minds was not precisely A-grade, but considering the stakes, it wasn't planning on taking extra risk. Especially not with an 001. <em>Especially</em> not with Delta. The Harbinger was familiar with Delta's containment procedures, listed and unlisted, maybe too familiar… no, better not to think about that either.</p> <p>The Harbinger tore through the outer containment shell around the Primary Archival Vault, wincing slightly at the ease with which the steel alloy peeled apart. The auto-defense turrets came next, followed by the chemical bath. The Harbinger's glowing white form withstood the punishment and it destroyed the turrets with a wave of its hand.</p> <p>A battalion of carefully crafted containment procedures, made useless in moments. The Harbinger carefully pushed back the memories sifting up in its brain.</p> <p>The Harbinger reached the Vault, the massive, aptly named octagonal prism-shaped containment chamber, custom-designed precisely for the purpose of containing SCP-001-Delta. Until now, it had done a very good job.</p> <p>It was made of reinforced concrete and steel, with a time-locked access portal in the ceiling. Pretty much nothing could get through that portal.</p> <p>The Harbinger grimaced. The Foundation just did not reckon with power on the right scale. That would have to change—quickly.</p> <p>The Harbinger left the portal alone and ripped off the entire front side of the vault.</p> <p>It walked forward two steps and stopped.</p> <p>The Vault was supposed to be empty… It wasn't.</p> <p>In point of fact, there was a woman sitting in it. The Harbinger recognized her. Dr. Yara Mirski. Research lead on 001-Delta.</p> <p>A dangerous thought, the thought of <em>her</em>, bubbled up into the Harbinger's head — quickly suppressed — but it was a distraction for a key second.</p> <p>Mirski was holding what appeared to be a harpoon gun on steroids, aiming it forward. She did not appear surprised to see the Harbinger, not at all—</p> <p>She pulled the trigger.</p> <p><em>God damn it</em>, the Harbinger thought, as the bolt impaled it through the chest.</p> <hr/> <p>Yara Mirski hadn't known what to expect the invader, the "Harbinger", to look like, and she wasn't going to let it faze her now that she was seeing it.</p> <p>But it really did look very startling.</p> <p>It was shaped like a person, glowing entirely, uniformly white. She couldn't make out any features on its face. Couldn't tell whether it was male or female.</p> <p>And there was something else about it — some <em>sense</em> about it — that felt purely otherworldly, made it hard to look at. It wasn't just the hundred wings sprouting from its back. She was reminded of the Bible stories that she'd heard in church growing up, the ones involving angels. How unwitting mortals would fall to their knees in worship, only for the angel to stop them, pull them to their feet, and rebuke them, because you should only be directing your worship to the one true living God.</p> <p>There was also, of course, the harpoon in its chest, but she'd put that there. She'd almost forgotten, staring at the Harbinger's visage, until its glow started to dim and some of that intense white energy started spiraling into the harpoon.</p> <p><em>Thank God</em>, she thought, <em>it's working.</em> Then she laughed at the irony.</p> <p>The Harbinger never moved its gaze from her. Only its hands moved, rising to the harpoon. She knew it couldn't remove the fully powered harpoon bolt, not while it was leeching away the being's essence. But the Harbinger didn't try.</p> <p>Instead, it dismantled it. Tore open the casing, unwrapped the internal wiring, got to the power source and cracked it open with a pinch of its fingers. Immediately its light returned to full strength.</p> <p>The Harbinger tossed the remnants of the now-useless harpoon aside and walked towards her. It lifted the Lock from her nerveless fingers.</p> <p>Yara Mirski fell to her knees.</p> <p>"Oh, cut that out," the Harbinger said. "I'm not going to kill you."</p> <p>Its voice startled her back to her senses. It was mellifluous and otherworldly, still without discernible gender, but casual, undramatic. And… weary.</p> <p>"Don't be too hard on yourself," it said. "Really."</p> <p>She sized up the Harbinger again. No wound was visible from where the harpoon had pierced its chest. There should have been a gaping hole. There was nothing.</p> <p>It didn't look at her. It was examining the Lock.</p> <p>"That was very clever," it said. "It almost worked. Another time, another place… maybe it would have."</p> <p>"Why didn't it?" she asked.</p> <p>"If I told you that," the Harbinger said, "… well, then you'd know."</p> <p>She couldn't think of a response to that.</p> <p>The Harbinger reached into its form and drew from its… robes? … the item that, somehow, Yara knew it would have. <em>A small ornate object, resembling a key.</em> Exactly as it had looked in the recovered sketches.</p> <p>It looked so tiny. So ordinary.</p> <p>"Stop," Yara said. "Wait. Please. I know you've … You obviously want to do this. But think about it, please. Do you have any idea what could be in there? Do you know—"</p> <p>"Actually…" The Harbinger seemed to chuckle a little. "I know exactly what's in there."</p> <p>Yara felt a little cold. <em>Spell of containment…</em> "Apakht," she said.</p> <p>"Apakht," the Harbinger agreed. It inserted the Key into the Lock, and turned the Key.</p> <p>There was a small flash, and something about the world was irrevocably changed.</p> <p>For a brief moment, the Harbinger wasn't a glowing hundred-winged angelic being. It was nothing more than an ordinary human.</p> <p>Their eyes met.</p> <p>"I know you," Yara said, without thinking. "You're—"</p> <p>She couldn't finish the words. She couldn't even think the thought in her head. It — <em>it</em> — the Harbinger was doing something to stop her.</p> <p>"Sorry," the Harbinger said. Its glowing radiance had returned in full. "Nothing personal." It looked at the Lock, as if watching. Or listening.</p> <p>"What did you do? What is it? What did you unlock?" She could feel something vibrating in the back of her brain. Her eyes kept being drawn to the lock. It looked exactly the same, visually, but it was also incredibly different. "What's Apakht?"</p> <p>"It's the End," the Harbinger said.</p> <p>The fabric of reality began to unfold before their eyes.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-gate-opens">The Gate Opens (Part 2 of 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="/apakht">"Apakht"</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/apakht">https://scpwiki.com/apakht</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 sublevels of Site 10, Dr. Yara Mirski raised the gemstone to the light with a gloved hand, in a gesture she'd repeated a hundred times before. She admired its black contours, broken up by the mottled white pattern and the golden filigree that wrapped around its exterior. SCP-001-Delta. The fourth SCP item considered a 'prime', or '001', item. One of several that had a hand in the creation of the Foundation. And, in Yara's opinion, by far the most frustrating. For one, there wasn't much else to know about Delta at Level 5 clearance. Most of the other 001 items had a great deal of falsified information attached to them, the better to confuse ever-curious researchers. Some versions were altered beyond recognition. Like Iota, Yara's favorite. Some meta-humor to give snoopers an existential crisis. Some were fabricated entirely -- notably, Beta, which was a little surprising, since it was just an ordinary monster. What was so unusual or startling about that, compared to Keter cakes or Project Rho? But Beta was an invention from whole cloth; everything about it was fiction besides its ancient classification system. Not so with Delta. Delta was strange enough on its own that people always assumed the files they had unearthed were altered. They were wrong. Delta was the most straightforward 001. A lock that appeared to literally "contain" our universe, and also something called "Apakht." It seemed like a joke from several cartoon shows, a joke made worse by the fact that it was true. And Delta, the Lock, was still missing its Key. Not that the O5s hadn't tried to crack it open, especially the skittish ones who didn't like the idea of anyone containing anything but them. One of them had it in her head that Delta unlocked Heaven. Kept rambling on about something called the Thaumiel Initiative. It didn't matter. Not even SCP-005 could pry that lock open, and no megaton bomb could crack Delta's shell. Yara felt the warmth of the Delta stone through her gloves, and reflected that it was perhaps fortunate that every attempt to unlock Delta had failed. She was still reflecting on this when the first klaxon blared. ------ The Harbinger hated its code name. "The Harbinger." Really. So fucking over-dramatic. They wouldn't stop using it, either. For security, they said. Harbinger. Harbinger. Harbinger? Harbinger, Harbinger, Harbinger. It wanted to kill the son of a bitch who came up with that. Yet... as long as it was on the premises of Site 10, it was not going to think of itself by any other identity but Harbinger. Not its name, definitely not gender. The Harbinger was an //it//, now, and would stay that way until this was over. Sure, the Foundation's ability to read minds was not precisely A-grade, but considering the stakes, it wasn't planning on taking extra risk. Especially not with an 001. //Especially// not with Delta. The Harbinger was familiar with Delta's containment procedures, listed and unlisted, maybe too familiar… no, better not to think about that either. The Harbinger tore through the outer containment shell around the Primary Archival Vault, wincing slightly at the ease with which the steel alloy peeled apart. The auto-defense turrets came next, followed by the chemical bath. The Harbinger's glowing white form withstood the punishment and it destroyed the turrets with a wave of its hand. A battalion of carefully crafted containment procedures, made useless in moments. The Harbinger carefully pushed back the memories sifting up in its brain. The Harbinger reached the Vault, the massive, aptly named octagonal prism-shaped containment chamber, custom-designed precisely for the purpose of containing SCP-001-Delta. Until now, it had done a very good job. It was made of reinforced concrete and steel, with a time-locked access portal in the ceiling. Pretty much nothing could get through that portal. The Harbinger grimaced. The Foundation just did not reckon with power on the right scale. That would have to change--quickly. The Harbinger left the portal alone and ripped off the entire front side of the vault. It walked forward two steps and stopped. The Vault was supposed to be empty... It wasn't. In point of fact, there was a woman sitting in it. The Harbinger recognized her. Dr. Yara Mirski. Research lead on 001-Delta. A dangerous thought, the thought of //her//, bubbled up into the Harbinger's head -- quickly suppressed -- but it was a distraction for a key second. Mirski was holding what appeared to be a harpoon gun on steroids, aiming it forward. She did not appear surprised to see the Harbinger, not at all-- She pulled the trigger. //God damn it//, the Harbinger thought, as the bolt impaled it through the chest. --------- Yara Mirski hadn't known what to expect the invader, the "Harbinger", to look like, and she wasn't going to let it faze her now that she was seeing it. But it really did look very startling. It was shaped like a person, glowing entirely, uniformly white. She couldn't make out any features on its face. Couldn't tell whether it was male or female. And there was something else about it -- some //sense// about it -- that felt purely otherworldly, made it hard to look at. It wasn't just the hundred wings sprouting from its back. She was reminded of the Bible stories that she'd heard in church growing up, the ones involving angels. How unwitting mortals would fall to their knees in worship, only for the angel to stop them, pull them to their feet, and rebuke them, because you should only be directing your worship to the one true living God. There was also, of course, the harpoon in its chest, but she'd put that there. She'd almost forgotten, staring at the Harbinger's visage, until its glow started to dim and some of that intense white energy started spiraling into the harpoon. //Thank God//, she thought, //it's working.// Then she laughed at the irony. The Harbinger never moved its gaze from her. Only its hands moved, rising to the harpoon. She knew it couldn't remove the fully powered harpoon bolt, not while it was leeching away the being's essence. But the Harbinger didn't try. Instead, it dismantled it. Tore open the casing, unwrapped the internal wiring, got to the power source and cracked it open with a pinch of its fingers. Immediately its light returned to full strength. The Harbinger tossed the remnants of the now-useless harpoon aside and walked towards her. It lifted the Lock from her nerveless fingers. Yara Mirski fell to her knees. "Oh, cut that out," the Harbinger said. "I'm not going to kill you." Its voice startled her back to her senses. It was mellifluous and otherworldly, still without discernible gender, but casual, undramatic. And… weary. "Don't be too hard on yourself," it said. "Really." She sized up the Harbinger again. No wound was visible from where the harpoon had pierced its chest. There should have been a gaping hole. There was nothing. It didn't look at her. It was examining the Lock. "That was very clever," it said. "It almost worked. Another time, another place... maybe it would have." "Why didn't it?" she asked. "If I told you that," the Harbinger said, "... well, then you'd know." She couldn't think of a response to that. The Harbinger reached into its form and drew from its… robes? … the item that, somehow, Yara knew it would have. //A small ornate object, resembling a key.// Exactly as it had looked in the recovered sketches. It looked so tiny. So ordinary. "Stop," Yara said. "Wait. Please. I know you've … You obviously want to do this. But think about it, please. Do you have any idea what could be in there? Do you know--" "Actually…" The Harbinger seemed to chuckle a little. "I know exactly what's in there." Yara felt a little cold. //Spell of containment…// "Apakht," she said. "Apakht," the Harbinger agreed. It inserted the Key into the Lock, and turned the Key. There was a small flash, and something about the world was irrevocably changed. For a brief moment, the Harbinger wasn't a glowing hundred-winged angelic being. It was nothing more than an ordinary human. Their eyes met. "I know you," Yara said, without thinking. "You're--" She couldn't finish the words. She couldn't even think the thought in her head. It -- //it// -- the Harbinger was doing something to stop her. "Sorry," the Harbinger said. Its glowing radiance had returned in full. "Nothing personal." It looked at the Lock, as if watching. Or listening. "What did you do? What is it? What did you unlock?" She could feel something vibrating in the back of her brain. Her eyes kept being drawn to the lock. It looked exactly the same, visually, but it was also incredibly different. "What's Apakht?" "It's the End," the Harbinger said. The fabric of reality began to unfold before their eyes. -------- [[=]] [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[The Gate Opens\| The Gate Opens (Part 2 of 3)]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-01T09:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "competitive-eschatology", "mystery", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	"Apakht" - SCP Foundation	194	[ "competitive-eschatology-hub", "the-gate-opens", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "canon-hub" ]	[]	16264670	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/apakht
arbitrary-darkness	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Another collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The first is <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/into-that-good-night">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-e8ec42cf796873544affbea1cbaaf074"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>003</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>917</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1293</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1468</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1522</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1541</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1553</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1595</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1640</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1832</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>1863</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>2307</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>2989</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>4149</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>5147</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-003">Biological Motherboard</a> [for thedeadlymoose]</em></strong></p> <p>Goddess, mother, anomaly<br/> Building towards its own ideal<br/> We fear what it could grow to be.</p> <p>Organic piece of circuitry<br/> Living chitin, not cold steel<br/> Goddess, mother, anomaly</p> <p>Benevolent, otherworldly,<br/> Infinite, and ethereal<br/> We fear what it could grow to be.</p> <p>We wonder of its history<br/> There is much more we can reveal<br/> Goddess, mother, anomaly</p> <p>What could its purpose truly be?<br/> To kill, to rule, to guard, to heal<br/> We fear what it could grow to be.</p> <p>What lies within her memory?<br/> She thinks, she lives, but does not feel<br/> Goddess, mother, anomaly<br/> We fear what she could grow to be.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-1" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-917">Mr. Moon</a> [for Dexanote]</em></strong></p> <p>The Moon accepts with quiet grace<br/> Enduring despite some distress<br/> The shifting phases of his face</p> <p>Like waning light, features erase<br/> Perceptions dim, later regress<br/> The Moon accepts with quiet grace</p> <p>Eyes, ears, nose, fade without trace<br/> He copes with fate, nevertheless<br/> The shifting phases of his face</p> <p>A simple life he does embrace<br/> Persevering with finesse<br/> The Moon accepts with quiet grace</p> <p>Despite the losses that take place<br/> He is not worried to possess<br/> The shifting phases of his face</p> <p>He calmly lives at his own pace<br/> This man of lunar stateliness<br/> This Mister Moon accepts with grace<br/> The shifting phases of his face.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-2" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1293">Squeedle Deedle Dee!</a> [for PeppersGhost]</em></strong></p> <p>We are the happy as can be!<br/> It’s apsa-tapsa-lutely true<br/> Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!</p> <p>We’ll dance for you so merrily<br/> Ballet and jigs and Broadway, too<br/> We are the happy as can be!</p> <p>We seek children of heart goodly<br/> It’s how we live and what we do<br/> Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!</p> <p>Our imaginations are scary<br/> But you know how to help us through<br/> We are the happy as can be!</p> <p>We thrive because of you, you see<br/> For your great help, our thanks are due!<br/> Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!</p> <p>Not all of us have arms, but we<br/> Still wish we could hug all of you<br/> We are the happy as can be<br/> Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee!</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-3" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1468">Literature Birds</a></em></strong></p> <p>Just the carving of stories is all that we need<br/> We strain and we struggle for our own grand behest<br/> Not a thing can compare to these words that we read</p> <p>We care not for ourselves and the bounds we exceed<br/> Yes it hurts, but we find that we have no protest<br/> Just the carving of stories is all that we need</p> <p>Through this task we press on, seldom rest, seldom feed<br/> All our lives, all our strength we thus put to the test<br/> Not a thing can compare to these words that we read</p> <p>We have seen your efforts, crafts made by human deed<br/> Your ink-covered paper is imperfect at best<br/> Just the carving of stories is all that we need</p> <p>To our beaks and our stomachs we pay little heed<br/> There is only the words and the stories, our quest<br/> Not a thing can compare to these words that we read</p> <p>We do not think too much of the day we’ll succeed<br/> What matters is the journey and how we’ve progressed<br/> Just the carving of stories is all that we need<br/> Not a thing can compare to these words that we read</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-4" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1522">Ships That Pass In The Night</a> [for FlameShirt]</em></strong></p> <p>Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy<br/> All the dangers have passed, we’re safe and alright<br/> To live and to love in the midst of the sea</p> <p>Side by side always is what we wished to be<br/> We’re lucky enough to have loved at first sight,<br/> Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy</p> <p>We’ve spent many moments content as can be<br/> To whale-watch together in fading sunlight<br/> To live and to love in the midst of the sea</p> <p>We do recall sometimes that dark memory<br/> We think of the chasing, the harpoons in sight<br/> Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy</p> <p>No matter what iceberg or weapon deadly<br/> Forever, we’d promised, regardless of plight<br/> To live and to love in the midst of the sea</p> <p>Though now we no longer can travel freely<br/> We’re still glad we didn’t just pass in the night<br/> Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy<br/> To live and to love by the shore of the sea</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-5" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1541">The Drunk God</a> [for Vincent_Redgrave]</em></strong></p> <p>I wish I wasnt so lonly<br/> Y did no1 bothr 2 stay<br/> Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me?</p> <p>Someday somhow Ill make them see<br/> First fins this drnk anyway<br/> I wish I wasnt so lonly</p> <p>Wher wuld my follwers all be?<br/> I DEMND REVERENCE, DO NOT STRAY<br/> Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me??</p> <p>Im tryn hard, honest relly<br/> WHT MOR DO U WANT ME 2 SAY<br/> I wish I wasnt so lonly</p> <p>I once ws greatr, trthflly<br/> I need my blood and wine, ok<br/> Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me???</p> <p>I know Im stil a deity<br/> Yet I grw weakerrr by the day<br/> I wish I wasnt so lonly<br/> Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me?????</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-6" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1553">Dr. Wondertainment's Shadow Paint Play-Set!</a> [for FortuneFavorsBold]</em></strong></p> <p>Create, erase, enjoy the sight<br/> Coax forms to dance in blackest paint<br/> Bring darkness to the life of light</p> <p>Whether drawing beast, maid, or knight<br/> We’re sure that you’ll have no complaint<br/> Create, erase, enjoy the sight</p> <p>With Ani-Magi-Nation might<br/> Draw power into forms once faint<br/> Bring darkness to the life of light</p> <p>Please make sure that the lighting’s right<br/> Remember to use with restraint!<br/> Create, erase, enjoy the sight</p> <p>There’s no more need to fear the night<br/> Such terrors are now simply quaint<br/> Bring darkness to the life of light</p> <p>So dream on, we’re sure you’ll delight<br/> In shadowplay without constraint<br/> Create, erase, enjoy the sight<br/> Bring darkness to the life of light.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-7" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1595">Out of Time</a> [for Dmatix]</em></strong><br/></p> <blockquote> <p><span style="font-size:1.2em;"><span style="color: #660066">You know there’s no place you can stay</span><br/> <span style="color: #660066">Who could you possibly turn to?</span><br/> <span style="color: #660066">It doesn’t have to end this way.</span></span></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><span style="color: #336633"><em>Why run from me? Why seek delay?</em></span><br/> <span style="color: #336633"><em>No matter what you try to do</em></span><br/> <span style="color: #336633"><em>You know there’s no place you can stay.</em></span></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><span style="font-size:0.8em;"><span style="color: #3300cc">I’ll finally catch up one day</span><br/> <span style="color: #3300cc">I know forever well, it’s true</span><br/> <span style="color: #3300cc">It doesn’t have to end this way.</span></span></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><span style="color: #660000"><strong>To me you’re nothing more than prey</strong></span><br/> <span style="color: #660000"><strong>No matter when you travel through</strong></span><br/> <span style="color: #660000"><strong>You know there’s no time you can stay.</strong></span></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><tt>What more could you want me to say?</tt><br/> <tt>Danny, Ben, I’m coming for you.</tt><br/> <tt>It doesn’t have to end this way.</tt></p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><span style="font-size:larger;"><span style="color: #cc0000">When I find you I’ll make you pay</span><br/> <span style="color: #cc0000">Dear Molly, doll, they’re my kids too</span><br/> <span style="color: #cc0000">You know there’s no time you can stay.</span><br/> <span style="color: #cc0000">I guess it has to end this way.</span></span></p> </blockquote> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-8" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1640">Lunar Leporine</a> [for Accelerando]</em></strong></p> <blockquote> <p>You must feel so lonely.<br/> I bring gifts, outstanding<br/> I see home below me.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>When will you think of me?<br/> How soon is the landing?<br/> Mother, are you lonely?</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Just deliver, really?<br/> What are you commanding?<br/> I see home below me.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Surely this all must be<br/> A misunderstanding<br/> Why don’t you feel lonely?</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Mother, please think of me<br/> You are too demanding<br/> I see home below me.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>I’ve grown strong, you will see<br/> Mother, I am landing.<br/> I can’t stay so lonely<br/> Home is where I will be.</p> </blockquote> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-9" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1832">Faith Half-Healer</a> [for Gaffney]</em></strong></p> <p>I was never really a fraud<br/> I simply act the way I must<br/> I know how it feels, to be God.</p> <p>The Lord’s strength fills me, full and broad<br/> My healings were all built on trust<br/> I was never really a fraud</p> <p>I lead the masses trite and awed<br/> Mete punishment for sin and lust<br/> I know how it feels, to be God.</p> <p>I see through lies, condemn the flawed<br/> Work miracles as I see just<br/> I never really was a fraud</p> <p>I’ve gone past where preachers have trod<br/> Condemn the fragile to the dust<br/> I know how it feels, to be God.</p> <p>Although my actions earn no laud<br/> I can’t just let my talents rust<br/> I never really was a fraud<br/> I know how it feels, to be God.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-10" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-1863">Lime Liftoff and Sarsaparilla Cream</a> [for Ihp]</em></strong></p> <div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"> <p>It’s clear which soda you’ll love more<br/> Lime Liftoff lifts you to the sky<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> <p>We know what privileged folk look for<br/> Know what the high class wants to buy<br/> It’s clear which soda you’ll love more</p> <p>Above uncultured slobs you’ll soar<br/> Elite taste is the way to fly<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> <p>Your life depends on it, we’re sure<br/> A shame should your flight go awry<br/> It’s clear which soda you’ll love more</p> <p>Sarsaparilla will make you snore<br/> Cream’s really so mundane you’d die<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> <p>The fruit of knowledge all adore<br/> Is the lime; we will not deny<br/> It’s clear which soda you’ll love more<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> </div> <div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"> <p>It’s clear which soda you’ll love more<br/> Our Sarsaparilla Cream’s the best<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> <p>For a great price at any store<br/> From Carl’s Caffeine Club, we attest<br/> It’s clear which soda you’ll love more</p> <p>Breathtaking taste none can ignore<br/> Go on and put it to the test<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> <p>Never again breathe muck or gore<br/> This drink was made to soothe the stressed<br/> It’s clear which soda you’ll love more</p> <p>Lime Liftoff is what we abhor<br/> Elitists simply can’t contest<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> <p>Those Limey Drinkers are a bore<br/> So <em>let them burn</em>, we do suggest<br/> It’s clear which soda you’ll love more<br/> To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR</p> </div> <br/> <span style="color: white">—-</span></div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-11" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-2307">The Pen Is Mightier</a> [Holiday Art Exchange gift for Ihp]</em></strong></p> <p>The blade unmade, the stories blurred<br/> A mystic legend oft retold<br/> A broken stylus wrote the word.</p> <p>The shaman’s wisdom undeterred<br/> A horsehead crown the truth will hold<br/> The blade unmade, the stories blurred.</p> <p>The king to battle each time spurred<br/> Through love and loss, stands ever bold<br/> A broken stylus wrote the word.</p> <p>The son of treason, cries unheard<br/> Meets each new end in blood run cold<br/> The blade unmade, the stories blurred.</p> <p>The lady of a vow conferred<br/> In water seals the sword controlled<br/> A broken stylus wrote the word.</p> <p>The metal god, with wrath incurred<br/> Has watched these crisscrossed fates remold<br/> The blade unmade, the stories blurred.<br/> A broken stylus wrote the world.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-12" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-2989">Of Bookworms, Bamboo, and Beating Hearts.</a> [Holiday Art Exchange gift for DreamwalkerFae]</em></strong></p> <p>Twirling through the ocean vast<br/> Two of us, in endless dance<br/> Side by side two nets are cast.</p> <p><span style="color: #00cc00">Searching, seeking, lightning-fast</span><br/> <span style="color: #00cc00">Won’t you spare me one more glance?</span><br/> <span style="color: #00cc00">Twirling through the ocean vast</span></p> <p><span style="color: #ff6600">Find me with your words amassed</span><br/> <span style="color: #ff6600">Drift to me, through time’s expanse</span><br/> <span style="color: #ff6600">Side by side two nets are cast.</span></p> <p><span style="color: #00cc00">Loneliness we will outlast</span><br/> <span style="color: #00cc00">Aim, adjust, once more advance</span><br/> <span style="color: #00cc00">Twirling through the ocean vast</span></p> <p><span style="color: #ff6600">We will face this space contrast</span><br/> <span style="color: #ff6600">Trust our love, our lives to chance</span><br/> <span style="color: #ff6600">Side by side two nets are cast.</span></p> <p>Think not of the trials we’ve passed<br/> How we’ve burned for this romance—<br/> Twirling through the ocean vast<br/> <span style="color: #00cc00">Side</span> by <span style="color: #ff6600">side</span>, we’re <strong><span style="color: #ffff00">whole</span></strong> at last.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-13" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-4149">Professor Xorkanoff's Gallery of the Bizz-art</a> [Holiday Art Exchange gift for rounderhouse]</em></strong></p> <p>My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed<br/> My given name is Xorkanoff, and I am here to play my part<br/> I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist</p> <p>Hiding in these pocket universes, verily I won’t desist<br/> I’ll safeguard unique masterworks and all the feelings they impart<br/> My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed</p> <p>To all newcomers shy or lost, don’t be afraid, I can assist<br/> (There’s nothing that can’t be explained as eclectic performance art)<br/> I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist</p> <p>Feel free to ask me to speak slower if there’s something I have missed<br/> Or debate why Zarzagon 15’s charcoal paintings stand apart<br/> My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed</p> <p>I’ll champion emotive artwork even if others resist<br/> It matters not if I am viewed as some sort of extreme upstart<br/> I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist</p> <p>Rebuilding is no easy feat, the trials are toil, but still quite bliss<br/> So long as I can climb through worlds, I will collect these works of heart<br/> My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed<br/> I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-14" style="display:none"> <p><strong><em><a href="/scp-5147">The Mannequin Troupe</a> [Holiday Art Exchange gift for Sirslash47]</em></strong></p> <p>We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art<br/> Eternally ready to heed your request<br/> Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part</p> <p>Through dust and in darkness, we’re stage props at heart<br/> In absence of audience, we each did our best<br/> We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art</p> <p>When our theater was gone, we sought a fresh start<br/> For science’s sake, we committed to test<br/> Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part</p> <p>Though long left behind, we have much to impart<br/> Easily changing our design at behest<br/> We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art</p> <p>We’ve plenty of talents, we’re skilled and we’re smart<br/> Together we’ll build, even dance with great zest<br/> Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part</p> <p>We’re a group through and through, don’t keep us apart<br/> We’d rather be helping than locked up to rest<br/> We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art<br/> Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part</p> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabViewe8ec42cf796873544affbea1cbaaf074 = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-e8ec42cf796873544affbea1cbaaf074'); }, "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="/arbitrary-darkness">Arbitrary Darkness</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/arbitrary-darkness">https://scpwiki.com/arbitrary-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]] [[/>]] Another collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The first is [http://www.scp-wiki.net/into-that-good-night here]. [[tabview]] [[tab 003]] //[[[SCP-003 \| Biological Motherboard]]] [for thedeadlymoose]// Goddess, mother, anomaly Building towards its own ideal We fear what it could grow to be. Organic piece of circuitry Living chitin, not cold steel Goddess, mother, anomaly Benevolent, otherworldly, Infinite, and ethereal We fear what it could grow to be. We wonder of its history There is much more we can reveal Goddess, mother, anomaly What could its purpose truly be? To kill, to rule, to guard, to heal We fear what it could grow to be. What lies within her memory? She thinks, she lives, but does not feel Goddess, mother, anomaly We fear what she could grow to be. [[/tab]] [[tab 917]] //[[[SCP-917 \| Mr. Moon]]] [for Dexanote]// The Moon accepts with quiet grace Enduring despite some distress The shifting phases of his face Like waning light, features erase Perceptions dim, later regress The Moon accepts with quiet grace Eyes, ears, nose, fade without trace He copes with fate, nevertheless The shifting phases of his face A simple life he does embrace Persevering with finesse The Moon accepts with quiet grace Despite the losses that take place He is not worried to possess The shifting phases of his face He calmly lives at his own pace This man of lunar stateliness This Mister Moon accepts with grace The shifting phases of his face. [[/tab]] [[tab 1293]] //[[[SCP-1293 \| Squeedle Deedle Dee!]]] [for PeppersGhost]// We are the happy as can be! It’s apsa-tapsa-lutely true Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee! We’ll dance for you so merrily Ballet and jigs and Broadway, too We are the happy as can be! We seek children of heart goodly It’s how we live and what we do Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee! Our imaginations are scary But you know how to help us through We are the happy as can be! We thrive because of you, you see For your great help, our thanks are due! Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee! Not all of us have arms, but we Still wish we could hug all of you We are the happy as can be Squeedle deedle deedle-ly dee! [[/tab]] [[tab 1468]] //[[[SCP-1468 \| Literature Birds]]]// Just the carving of stories is all that we need We strain and we struggle for our own grand behest Not a thing can compare to these words that we read We care not for ourselves and the bounds we exceed Yes it hurts, but we find that we have no protest Just the carving of stories is all that we need Through this task we press on, seldom rest, seldom feed All our lives, all our strength we thus put to the test Not a thing can compare to these words that we read We have seen your efforts, crafts made by human deed Your ink-covered paper is imperfect at best Just the carving of stories is all that we need To our beaks and our stomachs we pay little heed There is only the words and the stories, our quest Not a thing can compare to these words that we read We do not think too much of the day we’ll succeed What matters is the journey and how we’ve progressed Just the carving of stories is all that we need Not a thing can compare to these words that we read [[/tab]] [[tab 1522]] //[[[SCP-1522 \| Ships That Pass In The Night]]] [for FlameShirt]// Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy All the dangers have passed, we’re safe and alright To live and to love in the midst of the sea Side by side always is what we wished to be We’re lucky enough to have loved at first sight, Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy We’ve spent many moments content as can be To whale-watch together in fading sunlight To live and to love in the midst of the sea We do recall sometimes that dark memory We think of the chasing, the harpoons in sight Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy No matter what iceberg or weapon deadly Forever, we’d promised, regardless of plight To live and to love in the midst of the sea Though now we no longer can travel freely We’re still glad we didn’t just pass in the night Despite all that’s happened, we’re truly happy To live and to love by the shore of the sea [[/tab]] [[tab 1541]] //[[[SCP-1541 \| The Drunk God]]] [for Vincent_Redgrave]// I wish I wasnt so lonly Y did no1 bothr 2 stay Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me? Someday somhow Ill make them see First fins this drnk anyway I wish I wasnt so lonly Wher wuld my follwers all be? I DEMND REVERENCE, DO NOT STRAY Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me?? Im tryn hard, honest relly WHT MOR DO U WANT ME 2 SAY I wish I wasnt so lonly I once ws greatr, trthflly I need my blood and wine, ok Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me??? I know Im stil a deity Yet I grw weakerrr by the day I wish I wasnt so lonly Iv just been drnk… plz talk to me????? [[/tab]] [[tab 1553]] //[[[SCP-1553 \| Dr. Wondertainment's Shadow Paint Play-Set!]]] [for FortuneFavorsBold]// Create, erase, enjoy the sight Coax forms to dance in blackest paint Bring darkness to the life of light Whether drawing beast, maid, or knight We’re sure that you’ll have no complaint Create, erase, enjoy the sight With Ani-Magi-Nation might Draw power into forms once faint Bring darkness to the life of light Please make sure that the lighting’s right Remember to use with restraint! Create, erase, enjoy the sight There’s no more need to fear the night Such terrors are now simply quaint Bring darkness to the life of light So dream on, we’re sure you’ll delight In shadowplay without constraint Create, erase, enjoy the sight Bring darkness to the life of light. [[/tab]] [[tab 1595]] //[[[SCP-1595 \| Out of Time]]] [for Dmatix]// [[size 1.2em]] > ##660066\|You know there’s no place you can stay## > ##660066\|Who could you possibly turn to?## > ##660066\|It doesn’t have to end this way.## [[/size]] > ##336633\|//Why run from me? Why seek delay?//## > ##336633\|//No matter what you try to do//## > ##336633\|//You know there’s no place you can stay.//## [[size 0.8em]] > ##3300CC\|I’ll finally catch up one day## > ##3300CC\|I know forever well, it’s true## > ##3300CC\|It doesn’t have to end this way.## [[/size]] > ##660000\|To me you’re nothing more than prey## > ##660000\|No matter when you travel through## > ##660000\|You know there’s no time you can stay.## > {{What more could you want me to say?}} > {{Danny, Ben, I’m coming for you.}} > {{It doesn’t have to end this way.}} [[size larger]] > ##CC0000\|When I find you I’ll make you pay## > ##CC0000\|Dear Molly, doll, they’re my kids too## > ##CC0000\|You know there’s no time you can stay.## > ##CC0000\|I guess it has to end this way.## [[/size]] [[/tab]] [[tab 1640]] //[[[SCP-1640 \| Lunar Leporine]]] [for Accelerando]// > You must feel so lonely. > I bring gifts, outstanding > I see home below me. > When will you think of me? > How soon is the landing? > Mother, are you lonely? > Just deliver, really? > What are you commanding? > I see home below me. > Surely this all must be > A misunderstanding > Why don’t you feel lonely? > Mother, please think of me > You are too demanding > I see home below me. > I’ve grown strong, you will see > Mother, I am landing. > I can’t stay so lonely > Home is where I will be. [[/tab]] [[tab 1832]] //[[[SCP-1832 \| Faith Half-Healer]]] [for Gaffney]// I was never really a fraud I simply act the way I must I know how it feels, to be God. The Lord’s strength fills me, full and broad My healings were all built on trust I was never really a fraud I lead the masses trite and awed Mete punishment for sin and lust I know how it feels, to be God. I see through lies, condemn the flawed Work miracles as I see just I never really was a fraud I’ve gone past where preachers have trod Condemn the fragile to the dust I know how it feels, to be God. Although my actions earn no laud I can’t just let my talents rust I never really was a fraud I know how it feels, to be God. [[/tab]] [[tab 1863]] //[[[SCP-1863 \| Lime Liftoff and Sarsaparilla Cream]]] [for Ihp]// [[div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"]] It’s clear which soda you’ll love more Lime Liftoff lifts you to the sky To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR We know what privileged folk look for Know what the high class wants to buy It’s clear which soda you’ll love more Above uncultured slobs you’ll soar Elite taste is the way to fly To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR Your life depends on it, we’re sure A shame should your flight go awry It’s clear which soda you’ll love more Sarsaparilla will make you snore Cream’s really so mundane you’d die To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR The fruit of knowledge all adore Is the lime; we will not deny It’s clear which soda you’ll love more To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR [[/div]] [[div style="float:left; width: 45%; padding: 0 2%"]] It’s clear which soda you’ll love more Our Sarsaparilla Cream’s the best To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR For a great price at any store From Carl’s Caffeine Club, we attest It’s clear which soda you’ll love more Breathtaking taste none can ignore Go on and put it to the test To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR Never again breathe muck or gore This drink was made to soothe the stressed It’s clear which soda you’ll love more Lime Liftoff is what we abhor Elitists simply can’t contest To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR Those Limey Drinkers are a bore So //let them burn//, we do suggest It’s clear which soda you’ll love more To friendly rivals, THIS MEANS WAR [[/div]] ##white\|---## [[/tab]] [[tab 2307]] //[[[SCP-2307 \| The Pen Is Mightier]]] [Holiday Art Exchange gift for Ihp]// The blade unmade, the stories blurred A mystic legend oft retold A broken stylus wrote the word. The shaman’s wisdom undeterred A horsehead crown the truth will hold The blade unmade, the stories blurred. The king to battle each time spurred Through love and loss, stands ever bold A broken stylus wrote the word. The son of treason, cries unheard Meets each new end in blood run cold The blade unmade, the stories blurred. The lady of a vow conferred In water seals the sword controlled A broken stylus wrote the word. The metal god, with wrath incurred Has watched these crisscrossed fates remold The blade unmade, the stories blurred. A broken stylus wrote the world. [[/tab]] [[tab 2989]] //[[[SCP-2989 \| Of Bookworms, Bamboo, and Beating Hearts.]]] [Holiday Art Exchange gift for DreamwalkerFae]// Twirling through the ocean vast Two of us, in endless dance Side by side two nets are cast. ##00CC00\|Searching, seeking, lightning-fast## ##00CC00\|Won’t you spare me one more glance? ## ##00CC00\|Twirling through the ocean vast## ##FF6600\|Find me with your words amassed## ##FF6600\|Drift to me, through time’s expanse ## ##FF6600\|Side by side two nets are cast. ## ##00CC00\|Loneliness we will outlast## ##00CC00\|Aim, adjust, once more advance## ##00CC00\|Twirling through the ocean vast## ##FF6600\|We will face this space contrast## ##FF6600\|Trust our love, our lives to chance## ##FF6600\|Side by side two nets are cast. ## Think not of the trials we’ve passed How we’ve burned for this romance-- Twirling through the ocean vast ##00CC00\|Side## by ##FF6600\|side##, we’re ##FFFF00\|whole## at last. [[/tab]] [[tab 4149]] //[[[SCP-4149 \| Professor Xorkanoff's Gallery of the Bizz-art]]] [Holiday Art Exchange gift for rounderhouse]// My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed My given name is Xorkanoff, and I am here to play my part I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist Hiding in these pocket universes, verily I won’t desist I’ll safeguard unique masterworks and all the feelings they impart My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed To all newcomers shy or lost, don’t be afraid, I can assist (There’s nothing that can’t be explained as eclectic performance art) I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist Feel free to ask me to speak slower if there’s something I have missed Or debate why Zarzagon 15’s charcoal paintings stand apart My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed I’ll champion emotive artwork even if others resist It matters not if I am viewed as some sort of extreme upstart I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist Rebuilding is no easy feat, the trials are toil, but still quite bliss So long as I can climb through worlds, I will collect these works of heart My cultural appreciation simply cannot be dismissed I am the very model of a modern art sloth gallerist. [[/tab]] [[tab 5147]] //[[[SCP-5147 \| The Mannequin Troupe]]] [Holiday Art Exchange gift for Sirslash47]// We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art Eternally ready to heed your request Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part Through dust and in darkness, we’re stage props at heart In absence of audience, we each did our best We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art When our theater was gone, we sought a fresh start For science’s sake, we committed to test Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part Though long left behind, we have much to impart Easily changing our design at behest We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art We’ve plenty of talents, we’re skilled and we’re smart Together we’ll build, even dance with great zest Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part We’re a group through and through, don’t keep us apart We’d rather be helping than locked up to rest We’re the Mannequin Troupe: we live for our art Just give us a purpose, and we’ll play our part [[/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>]]	2013-01-18T09:04:00	[ "_genreless", "_licensebox", "poetry", "tale" ]	Arbitrary Darkness - SCP Foundation	76	[ "scp-003", "scp-917", "scp-1293", "scp-1468", "scp-1522", "scp-1541", "scp-1553", "scp-1595", "scp-1640", "scp-1832", "scp-1863", "scp-2307", "scp-2989", "scp-4149", "scp-5147", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition" ]	[]	16113347	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/arbitrary-darkness
are-we-christmas-yet	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"I still think this is a terrible idea."</p> <p>"No, it's awesome! Like, deconstructive or whatever."</p> <p>Overgang and Joey stared at the enormous red bauble that towered over nearby buildings, pensively sipping eggnog. It had several hundred minuscule trees hanging off the side of it. Overgang posed a question.</p> <p>"So, it's an hour and ten to midnight. What happens when it's Christmas?"</p> <p>"Presents happen."</p> <p>"Presents happen?"</p> <p>"Presents happen. Everywhere."</p> <p>"Elaborate."</p> <p>"It literally causes Christmas miracles."</p> <p>"Elaborate more."</p> <p>"Sick children will walk, Tiny Tim will get his presents, Scrooge will see the light. The town will be filled with cheer and goodwill, children will run downstairs only to see Santa Claus pop up the chimney. Rich people will let beggars into their houses, every church bell will ring twelve times. A cranky old man will smile for the first time in twenty years. Kids will ice skate while laughing happily, and be joined by their otherwise dismissive parents. Snow shall fall down, leaving beautiful white fields by morning. John McClane and Hans Gruber shall fight a war of wills, little Macaulay Culkin will fight off a pair of thieves. The Grinch's heart will grow three sizes, and Charlie Brown's sad little tree will get the love it deserves. Peace on earth, goodwill to man. The perfect Christmas."</p> <p>"Well, that sounds lovely, if a bit boring."</p> <p>"And of course, since Christmas is about the little baby Jesus and the mother Mary, every virginal female in the city will spontaneously give birth, whereupon the newborn is promptly crushed by a pile of gold, frankincense, and myrrh."</p> <p>"That's more like it."</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="/are-we-christmas-yet">Are We Christmas Yet?</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/are-we-christmas-yet">https://scpwiki.com/are-we-christmas-yet</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 still think this is a terrible idea." "No, it's awesome! Like, deconstructive or whatever." Overgang and Joey stared at the enormous red bauble that towered over nearby buildings, pensively sipping eggnog. It had several hundred minuscule trees hanging off the side of it. Overgang posed a question. "So, it's an hour and ten to midnight. What happens when it's Christmas?" "Presents happen." "Presents happen?" "Presents happen. Everywhere." "Elaborate." "It literally causes Christmas miracles." "Elaborate more." "Sick children will walk, Tiny Tim will get his presents, Scrooge will see the light. The town will be filled with cheer and goodwill, children will run downstairs only to see Santa Claus pop up the chimney. Rich people will let beggars into their houses, every church bell will ring twelve times. A cranky old man will smile for the first time in twenty years. Kids will ice skate while laughing happily, and be joined by their otherwise dismissive parents. Snow shall fall down, leaving beautiful white fields by morning. John McClane and Hans Gruber shall fight a war of wills, little Macaulay Culkin will fight off a pair of thieves. The Grinch's heart will grow three sizes, and Charlie Brown's sad little tree will get the love it deserves. Peace on earth, goodwill to man. The perfect Christmas." "Well, that sounds lovely, if a bit boring." "And of course, since Christmas is about the little baby Jesus and the mother Mary, every virginal female in the city will spontaneously give birth, whereupon the newborn is promptly crushed by a pile of gold, frankincense, and myrrh." "That's more like it." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-24T12:17:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "black-comedy", "christmas", "comedy", "tale" ]	Are We Christmas Yet? - SCP Foundation	123	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "holiday-hub", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "acidverse", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	21064505	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/are-we-christmas-yet
as-time-draws-near	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">Written by Wilt </span> <p style="text-align: center;">"Diviner Anzak, if you'd please join me on the stage?"</p> <p>Anzak took to the stage, nervously standing behind the podium as the City Head stepped aside. He could feel his hearts racing in his chest as the crowd's collective stare burned a hole through his forehead. With a few shuffles of paper and a deep breath, he began to speak.</p> <p style="text-align: center;">"Good evening."</p> <p>He winced as he heard the pathetic squeak that was his own voice. The quivering words hung in the air as the crowd silently stared at Anzak, waiting for him to continue. With another deep breath, he started again.</p> <p>"I am Diviner and Castman Anzak Tilochtil, seer-class scholar of his Graciousness Diviner Artem and the Teachings of Marzed, the True Creator, bless His name." A few words of grace swept through the crowd. "I've come from the Crown of Velvet to deliver a message of great importance to you, the city of Tentaboe, just as my fellow Diviners have done for all other cities in the caverns."</p> <p>Anzak could feel their eyes on him as they waited, hushed and still. He pondered running. His eyes turned to the right, and there was the City Head, encouraging him with a plastic smile. He blocked the path to the only ramp off the stage, and if Anzak tried to jump off, he'd be enveloped by the crowd. He was trapped, and before starting back up he whispered a small prayer under his breath.</p> <p>"A great discovery has been made recently, about the caverns we all live within. Long have we suspected that something lies beyond the walls. Now, we have strong evidence to suggest that not only is there a world outside our own, but that it's closer to us than we could have known." Excited murmurs came from the onlookers, quickly dying down. Anzak looked down at his perfectly memorized speech and feigned difficulty reading it. He wiped some sweat from his brow and looked back up at the crowd, his voice trembling slightly.</p> <p>"You see… well, we believe the world outside is bigger than ours. For all we know, there's billions of worlds beyond that world, and maybe those worlds each have their own interesting story, and…" Anzak was trying his best to avoid outright telling the truth, but their faces told him it wasn't working.</p> <p>The City Head stepped up beside the podium, his smile turning towards the onlookers slightly. "Diviner Anzak, you're going to have to explain to us what this <em>really</em> means." He gave the scholar a wink, and some in the crowd chuckled lightly.</p> <p>Anzak, however, seemed near tears. There was no dodging it now. "Um.. well, the world we're in isn't really… a world." He saw their faces contort with confusion, and he decided the only way to do this was to say it without pause. "We've discovered two hidden caverns, each hidden by large deposits of velvet and whitestone. One led to a massive chamber of unending, salty water, while the other led to a chamber filled with a strange, beating boulder of velvet."</p> <p>He shuffled his papers and quickly continued, staring down at the podium. "It is the Teaching's personal opinion that we are within a creature of massive stature. Our velvet and whitestone are the flesh and bone of this creature, and we are living off foreign byproducts ingested somehow by the creature, for the purpose of supporting our life. We believe that this is a sign that we are somehow connected with this creature beyond our living inside it, and that… well.." His bony fingers clutched at a whitestone tablet of official decree by His Graciousness Diviner Artem, as if to defend his words.</p> <p>"Because the creature is of flesh, it is not divine. It is not Marzed, and Marzed did not create us. We were born."</p> <p>He stared out at the gaping crowd, and hoped that the silence would soon end.</p> <hr/> <p>Both Diviner Anzak and City Head Hervult hung from the curtain pole of the stage, ropes tightly fastened around their necks. Flames enveloped their now scarred bodies, the bloating in their faces further distorting their bludgeoned faces. Behind them, the curtain sat still as somebody ran up and crudely smudged onto the crisp, white sheet with charcoal.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>BLASPHEMOUS SCUM</strong></p> <p>Behind the sheet, the crowd boarded up the ground floor doors and windows of the Announcement Hall. The walls were coated with the glass and thick liquids of various alcohols as the storerooms were raided and pillaged, their sweet nectars and burning droughts flowing freely in the gutters and streets. The great statue in the center of the square lay in ruins, its terrible visage pitted and scarred by the stones and fists of the crowd. Throughout the streets the guilty and innocent met in the shared bonds of fire and blood, giving their lives for their foolish arrogance. Somebody came with flame and lit up the Hall, burning the locked Castmen within. Those who attempted to brave the fall from the upper stories were met by the bloodthirsty mob, each armed with hate and rage.</p> <p>Those among the armed forces joined the mob; those who didn't were quickly put down. The city of Tentaboe was swept up in the chaos of its wrath, and those unfortunate enough to heed the words of Anzak found themselves among the growing casualty count. Housing and businesses were robbed in the chaos, and soon the mob found themselves unsatisfied with the burning of the Hall. The fire spread further into the city, and soon, it would leave nothing but an ash stain within the cavern.</p> <p>Each of the five cities under the Teachings saw a similar scenario, with resistance being quickly cut down. In the wake of their own destruction, they blamed their behavior on the corrupted Diviners. The mob marched on towards the Crown of Velvet. Torches bobbed along the road in a steady, concentrated line. The crowd would see that the Teachings of Marzed were met with a baptism of fire for their sins, and in its place would come a new age.</p> <p>Before this could happen, though, the Crown had to fall - and they would have to do something about this cavern of beating stone Anzak spoke of.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>I feel a strange, burning pain in my abdomen, slowly filling up where I believe some of my burden to be. This feeling is familiar, but this time it worries me. It is larger than I have felt before. It lies close to one of my many hearts, perhaps my body finally starting to fail me. I wonder if it is my cargo, celebrating what I do not: that my death will be sooner than I had hoped.</p> <p style="text-align: center;">I suppose my time is coming, though. After all, I am just an old man in the sea.</p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/old-man-in-the-sea-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/under-the-sea">Under the Sea</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="/as-time-draws-near">As Time Draws Near</a>" by Wilt, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/as-time-draws-near">https://scpwiki.com/as-time-draws-near</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%]]Written by Wilt [[/size]] = "Diviner Anzak, if you'd please join me on the stage?" Anzak took to the stage, nervously standing behind the podium as the City Head stepped aside. He could feel his hearts racing in his chest as the crowd's collective stare burned a hole through his forehead. With a few shuffles of paper and a deep breath, he began to speak. = "Good evening." He winced as he heard the pathetic squeak that was his own voice. The quivering words hung in the air as the crowd silently stared at Anzak, waiting for him to continue. With another deep breath, he started again. "I am Diviner and Castman Anzak Tilochtil, seer-class scholar of his Graciousness Diviner Artem and the Teachings of Marzed, the True Creator, bless His name." A few words of grace swept through the crowd. "I've come from the Crown of Velvet to deliver a message of great importance to you, the city of Tentaboe, just as my fellow Diviners have done for all other cities in the caverns." Anzak could feel their eyes on him as they waited, hushed and still. He pondered running. His eyes turned to the right, and there was the City Head, encouraging him with a plastic smile. He blocked the path to the only ramp off the stage, and if Anzak tried to jump off, he'd be enveloped by the crowd. He was trapped, and before starting back up he whispered a small prayer under his breath. "A great discovery has been made recently, about the caverns we all live within. Long have we suspected that something lies beyond the walls. Now, we have strong evidence to suggest that not only is there a world outside our own, but that it's closer to us than we could have known." Excited murmurs came from the onlookers, quickly dying down. Anzak looked down at his perfectly memorized speech and feigned difficulty reading it. He wiped some sweat from his brow and looked back up at the crowd, his voice trembling slightly. "You see... well, we believe the world outside is bigger than ours. For all we know, there's billions of worlds beyond that world, and maybe those worlds each have their own interesting story, and..." Anzak was trying his best to avoid outright telling the truth, but their faces told him it wasn't working. The City Head stepped up beside the podium, his smile turning towards the onlookers slightly. "Diviner Anzak, you're going to have to explain to us what this //really// means." He gave the scholar a wink, and some in the crowd chuckled lightly. Anzak, however, seemed near tears. There was no dodging it now. "Um.. well, the world we're in isn't really... a world." He saw their faces contort with confusion, and he decided the only way to do this was to say it without pause. "We've discovered two hidden caverns, each hidden by large deposits of velvet and whitestone. One led to a massive chamber of unending, salty water, while the other led to a chamber filled with a strange, beating boulder of velvet." He shuffled his papers and quickly continued, staring down at the podium. "It is the Teaching's personal opinion that we are within a creature of massive stature. Our velvet and whitestone are the flesh and bone of this creature, and we are living off foreign byproducts ingested somehow by the creature, for the purpose of supporting our life. We believe that this is a sign that we are somehow connected with this creature beyond our living inside it, and that... well.." His bony fingers clutched at a whitestone tablet of official decree by His Graciousness Diviner Artem, as if to defend his words. "Because the creature is of flesh, it is not divine. It is not Marzed, and Marzed did not create us. We were born." He stared out at the gaping crowd, and hoped that the silence would soon end. ------ Both Diviner Anzak and City Head Hervult hung from the curtain pole of the stage, ropes tightly fastened around their necks. Flames enveloped their now scarred bodies, the bloating in their faces further distorting their bludgeoned faces. Behind them, the curtain sat still as somebody ran up and crudely smudged onto the crisp, white sheet with charcoal. = BLASPHEMOUS SCUM Behind the sheet, the crowd boarded up the ground floor doors and windows of the Announcement Hall. The walls were coated with the glass and thick liquids of various alcohols as the storerooms were raided and pillaged, their sweet nectars and burning droughts flowing freely in the gutters and streets. The great statue in the center of the square lay in ruins, its terrible visage pitted and scarred by the stones and fists of the crowd. Throughout the streets the guilty and innocent met in the shared bonds of fire and blood, giving their lives for their foolish arrogance. Somebody came with flame and lit up the Hall, burning the locked Castmen within. Those who attempted to brave the fall from the upper stories were met by the bloodthirsty mob, each armed with hate and rage. Those among the armed forces joined the mob; those who didn't were quickly put down. The city of Tentaboe was swept up in the chaos of its wrath, and those unfortunate enough to heed the words of Anzak found themselves among the growing casualty count. Housing and businesses were robbed in the chaos, and soon the mob found themselves unsatisfied with the burning of the Hall. The fire spread further into the city, and soon, it would leave nothing but an ash stain within the cavern. Each of the five cities under the Teachings saw a similar scenario, with resistance being quickly cut down. In the wake of their own destruction, they blamed their behavior on the corrupted Diviners. The mob marched on towards the Crown of Velvet. Torches bobbed along the road in a steady, concentrated line. The crowd would see that the Teachings of Marzed were met with a baptism of fire for their sins, and in its place would come a new age. Before this could happen, though, the Crown had to fall - and they would have to do something about this cavern of beating stone Anzak spoke of. ------ > I feel a strange, burning pain in my abdomen, slowly filling up where I believe some of my burden to be. This feeling is familiar, but this time it worries me. It is larger than I have felt before. It lies close to one of my many hearts, perhaps my body finally starting to fail me. I wonder if it is my cargo, celebrating what I do not: that my death will be sooner than I had hoped. > > = I suppose my time is coming, though. After all, I am just an old man in the sea. [[=]] << \| [[[old-man-in-the-sea-hub\| HUB]]] \| [[[Under the Sea]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Wilt]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-06T04:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "old-man-in-the-sea", "tale" ]	As Time Draws Near - SCP Foundation	64	[ "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "under-the-sea", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16308441	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/as-time-draws-near
assistance-for-the-boss-lady	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“Jeremy, you disappoint me.”</p> <p>Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup> glowered over her folded fingers. The corgi sitting on her desk smiled back at her, exuding an air of incredible pride over the slightly-damp envelope that sat at its front paws. Isabel leaned back in her chair and sighed.</p> <p>“I’m getting reaaaaaaaaal tired of this, Jeremy.” She pushed off against the floor, sending her chair rolling across the office. “Your brother was never like this.” Jeremy lay down, resting his head on his paws. “He never brought me bad news, but with you, Jeremy, it’s always bad news.” The high-backed chair slowed to a stop.</p> <p>Isabel was slouched low enough to be effectively horizontal, her noodly limbs splayed out limply. Too much effort in sitting up straight now. Too much work. What was the point in work? What was the point in anything anymore? What was the <em>point</em>? She’d gotten the news directly from the corgi’s mouth: this quarter’s sales were in the toilet across the board. It was the worst quarter in a decade of bad quarters, and the Executive Board was not happy.</p> <p>Several gallons of Dr. Wondertainment Quadruple Bypass Minty Fudge Ripple Ice Cream™ had done little to dull the barbs in that sternly-worded letter from the Executive Board.</p> <p><em>We find your recent work to be severely lacking.</em></p> <p>Lacking? <em>Lacking?</em> She put her life, her soul, the very entirety of her being into each and every design. How could they even dare say her work was lacking? She was Doctor Wondertainment! She built this company on blood, sweat, tears, and that nasty pus that fills up zits!</p> <p>Kids just didn’t buy toys anymore. They were too busy playing those horrible video games, which rotted the brain and promoted all sorts of unwholesome things like murder, foul language, and microtransactions. Isabel tried, oh she tried. Her work was not lacking. The whiteboard walls of her office were covered in scribblings, enough ideas to keep the Wondertainment product line going for a full generation. But it wouldn’t do any good if the only people who bought her toys were a few odd collectors and the ever-dwindling number of Wondertainment faithful. All that work, all that effort, and no one liked any of her toys. Heart and soul poured out into her work, and the Board barks back with a wheezing “the focus groups don’t like it.” Focus groups! There never used to be focus groups in this company!</p> <p>But there they were, and the Executive Board loved them dearly. What was the point in putting in her heart and soul if everything was just going to get shot down?</p> <p>Isabel scooted herself back to her desk and turned the chair back around. There was Jeremy, there was the envelope that held the report about how the Wondertainment brand was getting stomped by the Factory.</p> <p>The <em>Factory</em>. The very thought made all sorts of words bubble up from the recessed folds of her brain: ugly, angry words like floozy and fudgenugget and sassafrassin and consarnit and butt. Yeah, that was it. The Factory was butts. They wouldn’t know fun if fun decided it wanted to be a butt-hat and roost on top of their head.</p> <p>Actually that would be a neat idea, a hat for your butt, there are plenty of people who go around without hats anyway, so why not make a butt-hat so they can wear <em>two</em> hats…</p> <p>No…no…what was the point? People would think it was stupid. People would look at the butt hat and go “Oh what’s this? Some stupid baby toy for babies who poop? I’m not buying this because I am not some stupid baby who poops.” But that was stupid because everyone poops, not just babies and <em>aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh</em>.</p> <p>She needed more ice cream. A lot more ice cream. Something different…Cotton Candy Caramel Colada, Crunchy Frog, Good Day to Die (By Chocolate), Bananaramadingdong, Five Kinds of Rocky Road Medley, Kung-fu Ripple, Thoroughly Intense Vanilla, Entropeanut The Buttery End of All Things…so many to choose from.</p> <p>Bah. She’d have all of it. Drown herself in ice cream. Isabel nudged the corgi with her finger.</p> <p>“Doink. Hey. Jeremy. Go get Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, and Jeremy. I’ve got a job for you all.”</p> <p>The dog’s ears perked. Jeremy stood up, hopped off the desk, and scampered out of the office. He returned a moment later with four other corgis. They all sat in front of the desk, looking both adorable and expectant. Isabel leaned over and scowled down at them with as much authority as she could muster with her bright cotton-candy pink, blue, and purple striped sweater.</p> <p>“All right. Jeremy, I need you to go grab the keys and open up the warehouse. Jeremy, you and Jeremy man the forklift. Jeremy, you distract Mr. Security. Jeremy, you make sure the rest don’t mess it up. I want literally all the ice cream we have in storage right here, in my office, on the double.”</p> <p>The Jeremys barked affirmative in unison and stampeded back out of the office on stubby legs.</p> <p>Isabel sighed and spun around in her chair, slumping back down. Normally this would be fun, and she would be laughing with exceeding joyfulness, but she felt nothing now. Eventually she stopped spinning once more, her gaze coming to rest on the portrait of her father<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup>, Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq.</p> <p>“What do you want, dad?”</p> <p>The painting did not answer<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup>, but it did look very important and mustachioed. He was one of those important-looking mustachioed men who hung around with other important-looking men with mustaches and said things like “yes, quite” and “oh indubitably”. He also looked very disappointed.</p> <p>“You never had to deal with video games, dad. Give a kid one of those things and you have them eating out of the palm of your hand forever. The Factory can churn out the same thing every year and they eat it up and spend all their time on the line and they <em>don’t buy toys</em>.”</p> <p>The painting did not answer.</p> <p>“I know you had that trouble with Dark, but come on, cut me a little slack…”</p> <p>The painting did not respond.</p> <p>“Yes <em>I know</em> you got started by selling kicking cans on street corners, but I’m about to be put back on the street and…”</p> <p>The painting did not reply.</p> <p>“Shut up, painting of dad! You aren’t my real dad!”</p> <p>The painting did not react.</p> <p>“What do you want? I’m not as good as you were, dad!”</p> <p>The words hung in the air around her. Not as good. Did she really say that? Yeah, yeah she did. Not as good…maybe the Executive Board <em>was</em> right. Maybe she <em>was</em> slipping. Not like she could do anything about it. Bring on the ice cream!</p> <p>The office door opened.</p> <p>“Jeremy?” Isabel swung her chair around.</p> <p>Jeremy was not there. In his place was a bespectacled and rather professional looking youngish woman with a clipboard. She was shortish and plumpish<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-4" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-4')">4</a></sup>, with brownish coppery hair kept back in a bun, and a monopoly on the local freckle market.</p> <p>The plastic gears and AA batteries inside Isabel’s head clicked into place as she determined that this newcomer was not only not Jeremy, but had no ice cream.</p> <p>“Who are you?”</p> <p>“Emma Aieselthorpe-Brown. I’m your new assistant.”</p> <p>Isabel blinked. Assistant? She didn’t need an assistant. She had Jeremy.</p> <p>“I never asked for an assistant.”</p> <p>“The Executive Board assigned me here. I have the paperwork right here.”</p> <p>“Are you here to spy on me?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“Are you here to assassinate me?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“Oh. Okay.”</p> <p>There was a long, awkward silence, as if an invisible elephant had decided to very slowly walk through the room.</p> <p>“Do you need anything, ma’am?”</p> <p>“Uh…” She already had the ice cream on the way what else did she need. “A spoon. Go get me a spoon."</p> <p>“Right away, Ma’am.” She nodded curtly, handing a folded piece of paper to Isabel before exiting.</p> <p>Hmm. Isabel read the note.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>Dr. Wondertainment -</em></p> <p><em>In an effort to counter your recent drop in productivity, we the Executive Board have seen it fit to assign you with a personal assistant for the forseeable future. Ms Aislethorp-Brown has been judged as overwhelmingly competent in this regard, and we expect that she will serve as sufficient impetus towards improved performance.</em></p> <p><em>-The Executive Board, Dr. Wondertainment Inc.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>There was a lot of very fine print and legal mumbo-jumbo underneath all that, but Isabel didn’t care. No one ever read those things. She crumpled up the paper and tossed it in her Dr. Wondertainment Hungry Heinrich Wastebin™. Why give her an assistant if they were just going to fire her anyway?</p> <p>It could have been that the Executive Board wasn’t actually trying to sack her and didn’t want her to fail, but the concept seemed hilariously stupid to Isabel. They were the Executive Board, a bunch of dusty old busybodies who liked writing long words in small print and asking for things in triplicate. It was their job to meddle in the state of things, to put up roadblocks, to try their damnedest to prevent fun from occurring. Trying to outsmart them had turned into something of a game: Isabel even kept score for a while. Maybe they were only trying to make themselves look like the big bad guys to get the game up and running again.</p> <p>Maybe. But that still left the Factory to deal with, and the Factory was not something one dealt with. It wasn’t run by anyone. It had no investors, no shareholders, no CEO, just miles and eons of blood-soaked gears and lonely sweatshop souls churning out soulless muck from its bowels, a cancerous structure seeking nothing but the mammon that allowed it to grow and spread and offer the universe its waste in exchange for more resources.</p> <p>The Factory was good at its game. Very good.</p> <p>Emma returned and handed Isabel a spoon.</p> <p>“Thanks.” Isabel said half-heartedly. She hated being wrong, or thinking that she was wrong, especially in this case because that meant that she really had no reason to get the ice cream at all and wouldn’t be able to enjoy it properly because depression eating wasn’t any use if there wasn’t a good reason to be depressed.</p> <p>There was another long, awkward silence. This time it was hippo-shaped.</p> <p>“Mm-hmm.” Emma cleared her throat.</p> <p><em>Oh no she’s initiating conversation…</em></p> <p>“Jeremy! About time you got here!” Isabel shouted. Saved by the dog.</p> <p>The corgi waddled into the office, balancing a bucket of ice cream on his head, followed by Jeremy and Jeremy, on and on down a line that stretched out of the office door, a little corgi conga conveyor line. Each dog dropped off his ice cream in turn and trotted back out. Isabel grabbed the first bucket and tore off the plastic lid. Marvelous Marshmallow Mania. Good way to start. Maybe she didn’t need the ice cream now, but Jeremy had already brought it all up anyway so she might as well eat it.</p> <p>She did so. Another awkward not-quite silence passed in monolithic, cringe-worthy horror. Jeremy continued to bring in more ice cream.</p> <p>“Uh, you can have some too, if you want. I’ve got…” She glanced at the growing pile. “Bunderbelly Blueberry Bonanza…”</p> <p>“No thank you.”</p> <p>“Very Vunderful Vanilla Vampire?”</p> <p>“No thanks.”</p> <p>“Napoleon’s Neopolitan Nepotism?”</p> <p>“I’m good.”</p> <p>“Uncomfortably Tasty Orange ‘Splosion?”</p> <p>“I already ate.”</p> <p>“Mega Meat Mystery?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“Suit yourself.” Isabel put her feet up on her desk and continued to eat.</p> <p>Emma cleared her throat again.</p> <p>“If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, are you planning on working any time soon?”</p> <p>“Maybe, when I’m done with all of this.”</p> <p>“There’s quite a lot of it here already.”</p> <p>“Yeah, and? ‘S not that much.”</p> <p>“I’ll take your word for it.” Emma’s expression remained unflappably neutral. “But I still think it best that you leave the ice cream for another time and focus on your work.”</p> <p>“Maybe I am focusing on my work? A couple hundred buckets of ice cream to drown my sorrows should be more than enough brain food.” She grimaced. “Jabberwocky sneezy knee socks. There. Ideas.”</p> <p>“Not a very marketable one.”</p> <p>“Way to ruin the mood, Negative Nancy.”</p> <p>“Emma.”</p> <p>“I can see why you’d be concerned, but jabberwocks need knee socks sometimes, especially in the winter when they get the snifflies and the sneezes.”</p> <p>“Ma’am, if I may make a suggestion: perhaps a more marketable toy would be appropriate.”</p> <p>“Not you too. The Board is bad enough with that. That’s Factory talk, and they’re driving us out of business with their Battleduties and their Birdvilles.”</p> <p>“There might be something that can be done about that.”</p> <p>The spoon paused.</p> <p>“Explain.”</p> <p>“The Factory is, effectively, an unthinking force. Something like an animal, right?”</p> <p>“Right.”</p> <p>“A person can’t talk with a bee, but a bee can talk with a bee, so to speak.”</p> <p>“So…we shoot bees at the Factory.”</p> <p>“No. The Factory is bees, here.”</p> <p>“Okay, Factory is bees. Butt-bees.”</p> <p>“We, the people, want to talk with the Factory, the bee, but can’t, because we’re people and it’s a bee.”</p> <p>“So in order to deal with the Factory…”</p> <p>“You just have to speak their language.”</p> <p><em>Speak their language…</em></p> <p>“Wait…that’s it…that’s <em>it</em>! How did I not see it sooner that’s <em>it</em>!” Isabel leapt off the table, tossing the bucket of ice cream across the floor, and grabbed Emma by the shoulders. A manic smile lit up her face. “That’s <em>it</em>! We take the Factory’s game and use it against it! It’s the last thing they’ll expect from goofy old Wondertainment! Aislethorp you’re a <em>genius</em>!” Isabel planted an overwrought and slightly off-center kiss on her assistant’s face before leaping away, pirouetting, and moving into a little victory dance. Emma wiped her face on her sleeve.</p> <p>“Corporate sabotage!” Isabel continued dancing. “That’s what we’ll do! We sneak into the Factory itself, mess everything up, and run away laughing, and then we hit them with the biggest and best toy line in Wondertainment history! It’ll be a coop-dee-grass!” She clapped her hands together, stopping the dance. Oh this was <em>good</em>. The game was back on. She’d show the Board, she’d show the Factory, she’d put Wondertainment back on the map. The Doctor was no pushover, she’d prove that.</p> <p>“Steel yourself, Ms. Aiselthorp.” Isabel grinned. It was a wild, childish, grin, the kind of grin that came with schoolyard scheming and various puerile pratfalls. “We’re about to embark on ADVENTURES IN CAPITALISM!” She struck a dramatic pose to emphasize the point, one arm pointing skyward, the other one pinning Emma in a headlock.</p> <p>Emma did not look particularly plussed by any of this.</p> <p>“I’ll start packing the Wondermobile.”</p> <p>“Excellent!” Isabel made a triumphant fist. “Jeremy! TO THE LABORATORY<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-5" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-5')">5</a></sup>!”</p> <p>The corgis froze, and in unison dropped their ice cream. More of them poured into the room, swarming about in a vast furry carpet. Isabel spread her arms wide and fell gracefully onto their backs, laughing maniacally as they ferried her away out of the office.</p> <p>Emma waited patiently for the last dog to depart before leaving, and took a quart of Papal Papaya™ on the way out.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/adventures-in-capitalism-hub">Hub</a> \| Part 2: <a href="/the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure">The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="footnotes-footer"> <div class="title">Footnotes</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-1"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-1')">1</a>. MD, DD, OD, PsyD, and EngD too.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. For a given value of father. Wondertainment family genetics are notoriously convoluted.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. Wondertainment family members had tried using Dr. Wondertainment Personable Portraits™ in the past, but the ensuing argument over the best design for the Dr. Wondertainment Super Stick-And-Hoop™ proved to be too much for Dr. Roxanne Lauren Joan Dora Peidmont von Wondertainment, PhD, who fed each and every one of them to the Dr. Wondertainment Crazy Confetti Machine™.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-4"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-4')">4</a>. Granted, from Dr. Isabel Wondertainment's viewpoint everyone was shortish and plumpish in comparison.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-5"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-5')">5</a>. Pronounced la-bor-a-tory. A lab-ro-tory is a dog that spins around.</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="/assistance-for-the-boss-lady">Assistance for the Boss Lady</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/assistance-for-the-boss-lady">https://scpwiki.com/assistance-for-the-boss-lady</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]] [[/>]] “Jeremy, you disappoint me.” Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD [[footnote]]MD, DD, OD, PsyD, and EngD too.[[/footnote]] glowered over her folded fingers. The corgi sitting on her desk smiled back at her, exuding an air of incredible pride over the slightly-damp envelope that sat at its front paws. Isabel leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I’m getting reaaaaaaaaal tired of this, Jeremy.” She pushed off against the floor, sending her chair rolling across the office. “Your brother was never like this.” Jeremy lay down, resting his head on his paws. “He never brought me bad news, but with you, Jeremy, it’s always bad news.” The high-backed chair slowed to a stop. Isabel was slouched low enough to be effectively horizontal, her noodly limbs splayed out limply. Too much effort in sitting up straight now. Too much work. What was the point in work? What was the point in anything anymore? What was the //point//? She’d gotten the news directly from the corgi’s mouth: this quarter’s sales were in the toilet across the board. It was the worst quarter in a decade of bad quarters, and the Executive Board was not happy. Several gallons of Dr. Wondertainment Quadruple Bypass Minty Fudge Ripple Ice Cream™ had done little to dull the barbs in that sternly-worded letter from the Executive Board. //We find your recent work to be severely lacking.// Lacking? //Lacking?// She put her life, her soul, the very entirety of her being into each and every design. How could they even dare say her work was lacking? She was Doctor Wondertainment! She built this company on blood, sweat, tears, and that nasty pus that fills up zits! Kids just didn’t buy toys anymore. They were too busy playing those horrible video games, which rotted the brain and promoted all sorts of unwholesome things like murder, foul language, and microtransactions. Isabel tried, oh she tried. Her work was not lacking. The whiteboard walls of her office were covered in scribblings, enough ideas to keep the Wondertainment product line going for a full generation. But it wouldn’t do any good if the only people who bought her toys were a few odd collectors and the ever-dwindling number of Wondertainment faithful. All that work, all that effort, and no one liked any of her toys. Heart and soul poured out into her work, and the Board barks back with a wheezing “the focus groups don’t like it.” Focus groups! There never used to be focus groups in this company! But there they were, and the Executive Board loved them dearly. What was the point in putting in her heart and soul if everything was just going to get shot down? Isabel scooted herself back to her desk and turned the chair back around. There was Jeremy, there was the envelope that held the report about how the Wondertainment brand was getting stomped by the Factory. The //Factory//. The very thought made all sorts of words bubble up from the recessed folds of her brain: ugly, angry words like floozy and fudgenugget and sassafrassin and consarnit and butt. Yeah, that was it. The Factory was butts. They wouldn’t know fun if fun decided it wanted to be a butt-hat and roost on top of their head. Actually that would be a neat idea, a hat for your butt, there are plenty of people who go around without hats anyway, so why not make a butt-hat so they can wear //two// hats… No…no…what was the point? People would think it was stupid. People would look at the butt hat and go “Oh what’s this? Some stupid baby toy for babies who poop? I’m not buying this because I am not some stupid baby who poops.” But that was stupid because everyone poops, not just babies and //aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh//. She needed more ice cream. A lot more ice cream. Something different…Cotton Candy Caramel Colada, Crunchy Frog, Good Day to Die (By Chocolate), Bananaramadingdong, Five Kinds of Rocky Road Medley, Kung-fu Ripple, Thoroughly Intense Vanilla, Entropeanut The Buttery End of All Things…so many to choose from. Bah. She’d have all of it. Drown herself in ice cream. Isabel nudged the corgi with her finger. “Doink. Hey. Jeremy. Go get Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, and Jeremy. I’ve got a job for you all.” The dog’s ears perked. Jeremy stood up, hopped off the desk, and scampered out of the office. He returned a moment later with four other corgis. They all sat in front of the desk, looking both adorable and expectant. Isabel leaned over and scowled down at them with as much authority as she could muster with her bright cotton-candy pink, blue, and purple striped sweater. “All right. Jeremy, I need you to go grab the keys and open up the warehouse. Jeremy, you and Jeremy man the forklift. Jeremy, you distract Mr. Security. Jeremy, you make sure the rest don’t mess it up. I want literally all the ice cream we have in storage right here, in my office, on the double.” The Jeremys barked affirmative in unison and stampeded back out of the office on stubby legs. Isabel sighed and spun around in her chair, slumping back down. Normally this would be fun, and she would be laughing with exceeding joyfulness, but she felt nothing now. Eventually she stopped spinning once more, her gaze coming to rest on the portrait of her father [[footnote]]For a given value of father. Wondertainment family genetics are notoriously convoluted.[[/footnote]], Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq. “What do you want, dad?” The painting did not answer [[footnote]]Wondertainment family members had tried using Dr. Wondertainment Personable Portraits™ in the past, but the ensuing argument over the best design for the Dr. Wondertainment Super Stick-And-Hoop™ proved to be too much for Dr. Roxanne Lauren Joan Dora Peidmont von Wondertainment, PhD, who fed each and every one of them to the Dr. Wondertainment Crazy Confetti Machine™.[[/footnote]], but it did look very important and mustachioed. He was one of those important-looking mustachioed men who hung around with other important-looking men with mustaches and said things like “yes, quite” and “oh indubitably”. He also looked very disappointed. “You never had to deal with video games, dad. Give a kid one of those things and you have them eating out of the palm of your hand forever. The Factory can churn out the same thing every year and they eat it up and spend all their time on the line and they //don’t buy toys//.” The painting did not answer. “I know you had that trouble with Dark, but come on, cut me a little slack…” The painting did not respond. “Yes //I know// you got started by selling kicking cans on street corners, but I’m about to be put back on the street and…” The painting did not reply. “Shut up, painting of dad! You aren’t my real dad!” The painting did not react. “What do you want? I’m not as good as you were, dad!” The words hung in the air around her. Not as good. Did she really say that? Yeah, yeah she did. Not as good…maybe the Executive Board //was// right. Maybe she //was// slipping. Not like she could do anything about it. Bring on the ice cream! The office door opened. “Jeremy?” Isabel swung her chair around. Jeremy was not there. In his place was a bespectacled and rather professional looking youngish woman with a clipboard. She was shortish and plumpish [[footnote]] Granted, from Dr. Isabel Wondertainment's viewpoint everyone was shortish and plumpish in comparison.[[/footnote]], with brownish coppery hair kept back in a bun, and a monopoly on the local freckle market. The plastic gears and AA batteries inside Isabel’s head clicked into place as she determined that this newcomer was not only not Jeremy, but had no ice cream. “Who are you?” “Emma Aieselthorpe-Brown. I’m your new assistant.” Isabel blinked. Assistant? She didn’t need an assistant. She had Jeremy. “I never asked for an assistant.” “The Executive Board assigned me here. I have the paperwork right here.” “Are you here to spy on me?” “No.” “Are you here to assassinate me?” “No.” “Oh. Okay.” There was a long, awkward silence, as if an invisible elephant had decided to very slowly walk through the room. “Do you need anything, ma’am?” “Uh…” She already had the ice cream on the way what else did she need. “A spoon. Go get me a spoon." “Right away, Ma’am.” She nodded curtly, handing a folded piece of paper to Isabel before exiting. Hmm. Isabel read the note. > //Dr. Wondertainment -// > > //In an effort to counter your recent drop in productivity, we the Executive Board have seen it fit to assign you with a personal assistant for the forseeable future. Ms Aislethorp-Brown has been judged as overwhelmingly competent in this regard, and we expect that she will serve as sufficient impetus towards improved performance.// > > //-The Executive Board, Dr. Wondertainment Inc.// There was a lot of very fine print and legal mumbo-jumbo underneath all that, but Isabel didn’t care. No one ever read those things. She crumpled up the paper and tossed it in her Dr. Wondertainment Hungry Heinrich Wastebin™. Why give her an assistant if they were just going to fire her anyway? It could have been that the Executive Board wasn’t actually trying to sack her and didn’t want her to fail, but the concept seemed hilariously stupid to Isabel. They were the Executive Board, a bunch of dusty old busybodies who liked writing long words in small print and asking for things in triplicate. It was their job to meddle in the state of things, to put up roadblocks, to try their damnedest to prevent fun from occurring. Trying to outsmart them had turned into something of a game: Isabel even kept score for a while. Maybe they were only trying to make themselves look like the big bad guys to get the game up and running again. Maybe. But that still left the Factory to deal with, and the Factory was not something one dealt with. It wasn’t run by anyone. It had no investors, no shareholders, no CEO, just miles and eons of blood-soaked gears and lonely sweatshop souls churning out soulless muck from its bowels, a cancerous structure seeking nothing but the mammon that allowed it to grow and spread and offer the universe its waste in exchange for more resources. The Factory was good at its game. Very good. Emma returned and handed Isabel a spoon. “Thanks.” Isabel said half-heartedly. She hated being wrong, or thinking that she was wrong, especially in this case because that meant that she really had no reason to get the ice cream at all and wouldn’t be able to enjoy it properly because depression eating wasn’t any use if there wasn’t a good reason to be depressed. There was another long, awkward silence. This time it was hippo-shaped. “Mm-hmm.” Emma cleared her throat. //Oh no she’s initiating conversation...// “Jeremy! About time you got here!” Isabel shouted. Saved by the dog. The corgi waddled into the office, balancing a bucket of ice cream on his head, followed by Jeremy and Jeremy, on and on down a line that stretched out of the office door, a little corgi conga conveyor line. Each dog dropped off his ice cream in turn and trotted back out. Isabel grabbed the first bucket and tore off the plastic lid. Marvelous Marshmallow Mania. Good way to start. Maybe she didn’t need the ice cream now, but Jeremy had already brought it all up anyway so she might as well eat it. She did so. Another awkward not-quite silence passed in monolithic, cringe-worthy horror. Jeremy continued to bring in more ice cream. “Uh, you can have some too, if you want. I’ve got…” She glanced at the growing pile. “Bunderbelly Blueberry Bonanza…” “No thank you.” “Very Vunderful Vanilla Vampire?” “No thanks.” “Napoleon’s Neopolitan Nepotism?” “I’m good.” “Uncomfortably Tasty Orange ‘Splosion?” “I already ate.” “Mega Meat Mystery?” “No.” “Suit yourself.” Isabel put her feet up on her desk and continued to eat. Emma cleared her throat again. “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, are you planning on working any time soon?” “Maybe, when I’m done with all of this.” “There’s quite a lot of it here already.” “Yeah, and? ‘S not that much.” “I’ll take your word for it.” Emma’s expression remained unflappably neutral. “But I still think it best that you leave the ice cream for another time and focus on your work.” “Maybe I am focusing on my work? A couple hundred buckets of ice cream to drown my sorrows should be more than enough brain food.” She grimaced. “Jabberwocky sneezy knee socks. There. Ideas.” “Not a very marketable one.” “Way to ruin the mood, Negative Nancy.” “Emma.” “I can see why you’d be concerned, but jabberwocks need knee socks sometimes, especially in the winter when they get the snifflies and the sneezes.” “Ma’am, if I may make a suggestion: perhaps a more marketable toy would be appropriate.” “Not you too. The Board is bad enough with that. That’s Factory talk, and they’re driving us out of business with their Battleduties and their Birdvilles.” “There might be something that can be done about that.” The spoon paused. “Explain.” “The Factory is, effectively, an unthinking force. Something like an animal, right?” “Right.” “A person can’t talk with a bee, but a bee can talk with a bee, so to speak.” “So…we shoot bees at the Factory.” “No. The Factory is bees, here.” “Okay, Factory is bees. Butt-bees.” “We, the people, want to talk with the Factory, the bee, but can’t, because we’re people and it’s a bee.” “So in order to deal with the Factory…” “You just have to speak their language.” //Speak their language…// “Wait…that’s it…that’s //it//! How did I not see it sooner that’s //it//!” Isabel leapt off the table, tossing the bucket of ice cream across the floor, and grabbed Emma by the shoulders. A manic smile lit up her face. “That’s //it//! We take the Factory’s game and use it against it! It’s the last thing they’ll expect from goofy old Wondertainment! Aislethorp you’re a //genius//!” Isabel planted an overwrought and slightly off-center kiss on her assistant’s face before leaping away, pirouetting, and moving into a little victory dance. Emma wiped her face on her sleeve. “Corporate sabotage!” Isabel continued dancing. “That’s what we’ll do! We sneak into the Factory itself, mess everything up, and run away laughing, and then we hit them with the biggest and best toy line in Wondertainment history! It’ll be a coop-dee-grass!” She clapped her hands together, stopping the dance. Oh this was //good//. The game was back on. She’d show the Board, she’d show the Factory, she’d put Wondertainment back on the map. The Doctor was no pushover, she’d prove that. “Steel yourself, Ms. Aiselthorp.” Isabel grinned. It was a wild, childish, grin, the kind of grin that came with schoolyard scheming and various puerile pratfalls. “We’re about to embark on ADVENTURES IN CAPITALISM!” She struck a dramatic pose to emphasize the point, one arm pointing skyward, the other one pinning Emma in a headlock. Emma did not look particularly plussed by any of this. “I’ll start packing the Wondermobile.” “Excellent!” Isabel made a triumphant fist. “Jeremy! TO THE LABORATORY[[footnote]]Pronounced la-bor-a-tory. A lab-ro-tory is a dog that spins around.[[/footnote]]!” The corgis froze, and in unison dropped their ice cream. More of them poured into the room, swarming about in a vast furry carpet. Isabel spread her arms wide and fell gracefully onto their backs, laughing maniacally as they ferried her away out of the office. Emma waited patiently for the last dog to depart before leaving, and took a quart of Papal Papaya™ on the way out. [[=]] << \| [[[adventures in capitalism hub\| Hub]]] \| Part 2: [[[The Super-Cool Road Trip Adventure]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-11-28T03:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "comedy", "corporate", "dr-wondertainment", "fantasy", "isabel-v", "surrealism", "tale" ]	Assistance for the Boss Lady - SCP Foundation	287	[ "adventures-in-capitalism-hub", "the-super-cool-road-trip-adventure", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-3-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "adventures-in-capitalism-hub", "acidverse", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20782975	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/assistance-for-the-boss-lady
attack-of-the-keter-skeeters	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="display: none"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">+ CODE</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">- CODE</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="code"> <div class="hl-main"> <pre><span class="hl-code">/</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">BLANKSTYLE</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">CSS</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">[</span><span class="hl-var">2021</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">Wikidot</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span 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class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">.9</span><span class="hl-code">rem</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#main-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> -</span><span class="hl-number">1.6</span><span class="hl-code">rem</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0.2</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">div#container-wrap</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-image:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">div#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-image:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-left:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">float:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">text-align:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">center</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0.5</span><span class="hl-code">rem</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">span</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">span</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">;</span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">:</span><span class="hl-special">:before</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code">:</span><span class="hl-special">:before</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">letter-spacing:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-family:</span><span class="hl-code"> 'Montserrat', </span><span class="hl-string">sans-serif</span><span class="hl-code"> !important</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">text-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">:</span><span class="hl-special">:before</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">content:</span><span class="hl-code"> var(--header-title, "R\</span><span class="hl-number">0026</span><span class="hl-code"> C SITE-43")</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-weight:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">400</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1.3</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code">:</span><span class="hl-special">:before</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">content:</span><span class="hl-code"> var(--header-subtitle, "SUBVERTING COMMON PRACTICE")</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-weight:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">700</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1.2</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">@media</span><span class="hl-code"> (max-width: 707</span><span class="hl-identifier">px</span><span class="hl-code">) </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">a:</span><span class="hl-code">:before { font-size: </span><span class="hl-number">1.6</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> } </span><span class="hl-identifier">#login-status</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#login-status</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-title</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#footer</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#footer</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">transparent</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box-input</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box-input</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box-input</span><span class="hl-special">:focus</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box-form</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">input</span><span class="hl-brackets">[</span><span class="hl-var">type</span><span class="hl-code">=</span><span class="hl-var">submit</span><span class="hl-brackets">]</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box-form</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">input</span><span class="hl-brackets">[</span><span class="hl-var">type</span><span class="hl-code">=</span><span class="hl-var">submit</span><span class="hl-brackets">]</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box-form</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">input</span><span class="hl-brackets">[</span><span class="hl-var">type</span><span class="hl-code">=</span><span class="hl-var">submit</span><span class="hl-brackets">]</span><span class="hl-special">:focus</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#efefef</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">input.empty</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#999999</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#search-top-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2.3</span><span class="hl-code">rem!important</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">right:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">8</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#top-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> flex</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">justify-content:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">center</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">right:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">7.9</span><span class="hl-code">rem</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#top-bar</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#top-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">h3</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">h4</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">h5</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">h6</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-family:</span><span class="hl-code"> 'Montserrat', </span><span class="hl-string">sans-serif</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">letter-spacing:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">h2</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">font-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1.45</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">div#extra-div-1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">height:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">160</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">position:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">absolute</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> url('https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/theme%</span><span class="hl-number">3</span><span class="hl-code">Ablankstyle/</span><span class="hl-number">43</span><span class="hl-code">Head.png')</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-size:</span><span class="hl-code"> contain</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-repeat:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">no-repeat</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-position:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">50</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">50</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">z-index:</span><span class="hl-code"> -</span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">@media</span><span class="hl-code"> (max-width: 707</span><span class="hl-identifier">px</span><span class="hl-code">) </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">div#extra-div-1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">15</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">body</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-image:</span><span class="hl-code"> linear-gradient( to </span><span class="hl-string">bottom</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-var">#e0e0e0</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-var">#e0e0e0</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">90</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-var">#e0e0e0</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">90</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">200</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">200</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-repeat:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">no-repeat</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-special">:root</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> --</span><span class="hl-reserved">timeScale:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1.5</span><span class="hl-code">; --</span><span class="hl-reserved">timeDelay:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1.5</span><span class="hl-code">s</span><span class="hl-code">; --</span><span class="hl-reserved">posX:</span><span class="hl-code"> calc(</span><span class="hl-number">50</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code"> - </span><span class="hl-number">358</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> - </span><span class="hl-number">13</span><span class="hl-code">rem)</span><span class="hl-code">; --</span><span class="hl-reserved">fnLinger:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-code">s</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">hr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">6</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">td</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">12</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">line-height:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1.4</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.sidebox</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">td</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.sidebox</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0.35</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#side-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-right:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#DDD</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#side-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.side-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#top-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">div.open-menu</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">@media</span><span class="hl-code"> (max-width: 767</span><span class="hl-identifier">px</span><span class="hl-code">) </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#side-bar</span><span class="hl-code">:</span><span class="hl-identifier">target</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">black</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#side-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.side-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#FDF6D7</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#side-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.side-block.media</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-var">#D7EFE7</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#side-bar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.side-block.resources</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-var">#F5D8E0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.creditRate</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> unset</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-bottom:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">4</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rate-box-with-credit-button</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rate-box-with-credit-button</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.fa-info</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rate-box-with-credit-button</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.fa-info</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rate-box-with-credit-button</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.cancel</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">PAGE</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">RATING</span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> unset</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-bottom:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">4</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">div.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rate-points</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rateup</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.ratedown</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-bottom:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rateup</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.ratedown</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">transparent</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rateup</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.ratedown</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.cancel</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">transparent</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.cancel</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.cancel</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-radius:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.rate-box-with-credit-button</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-rate-widget-box</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.anchor</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">position:</span><span class="hl-code"> sticky</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">height:</span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.sidebox</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">.14</span><span class="hl-code">rem</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-bottom:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">8</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">width:</span><span class="hl-code"> calc((</span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-code">vw - </span><span class="hl-number">870</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">)/</span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-code">)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">max-height:</span><span class="hl-code"> calc(</span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-code">vh - </span><span class="hl-number">18</span><span class="hl-code">rem)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">position:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">absolute</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">left:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">103.5</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">z-index:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">5</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">overflow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">auto</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-sizing:</span><span class="hl-code"> border-box</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">@media</span><span class="hl-code"> (max-width: 1290</span><span class="hl-identifier">px</span><span class="hl-code">) </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.sidebox</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">visibility:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">hidden</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#header</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">h2:</span><span class="hl-code">:before { font-size: </span><span class="hl-number">0.9</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code"> !important</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> } </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">YUI</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">TAB</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">BASE</span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-code">;</span><span class="hl-reserved">background-image:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:focus</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-code">;</span><span class="hl-reserved">text-decoration:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:focus</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-code">;</span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-reserved">border-color:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-reserved">line-height:</span><span class="hl-string">inherit</span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">YUI</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">TAB</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">CUSTOMIZATION</span><span class="hl-code"> ----</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> flex</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">flex-wrap:</span><span class="hl-code"> wrap</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">width:</span><span class="hl-code"> calc(</span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code"> - </span><span class="hl-number">.125</span><span class="hl-code">rem)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">auto</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">, /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">Link</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Modifier</span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">Tab</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Background</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Colour</span><span class="hl-code"> \| [</span><span class="hl-identifier">UNSELECTED</span><span class="hl-code">] ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#efefef</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> unset</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:focus</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">Tab</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Background</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Colour</span><span class="hl-code"> \| [</span><span class="hl-identifier">HOVER</span><span class="hl-code">] ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-code">, /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">Listitem</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Modifier</span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">position:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">relative</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> flex</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">flex-grow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">max-width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">transparent</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-bottom</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> flex</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">align-items:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">center</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">justify-content:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">center</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">li</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">em</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> unset</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">em</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">em</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">.35</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">.75</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">text-overflow:</span><span class="hl-code"> ellipsis</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">overflow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">hidden</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">white-space:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">nowrap</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code">, /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">Selection</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Modifier</span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">flex-grow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">Tab</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Background</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Colour</span><span class="hl-code"> \| [</span><span class="hl-identifier">SELECTED</span><span class="hl-code">] ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">em</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:focus</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-nav</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.selected</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-special">:active</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#ffffff</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-shadow:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-content</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-navset-top</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.yui-content</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">.5</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-sizing:</span><span class="hl-code"> border-box</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">SCROLLBAR</span><span class="hl-code"> ----</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ ::-</span><span class="hl-identifier">webkit-scrollbar</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">10</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> ::-</span><span class="hl-identifier">webkit-scrollbar-track</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#FFF</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-left:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> ::-</span><span class="hl-identifier">webkit-scrollbar-thumb</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#CCC</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#333</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> ::-</span><span class="hl-identifier">webkit-scrollbar-thumb</span><span class="hl-special">:hover</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#EEE</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">CENTER</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">IMAGES</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">ON</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">MOBILE</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">courtesy</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">of</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">EstrellaYoshte</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">and</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">PeppersGhost</span><span class="hl-code"> ----</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.imagediv</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">float:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">right</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">15</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">@media</span><span class="hl-code"> (max-width: 540</span><span class="hl-identifier">px</span><span class="hl-code">) </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.imagediv</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">float:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">text-align:</span><span class="hl-string">center</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">auto</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">@media</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">only</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">screen</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">and</span><span class="hl-code"> (max-width: 600</span><span class="hl-identifier">px</span><span class="hl-code">) </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block.block-right</span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">float:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">10</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">auto</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">ACS-COLORED</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">TABLE</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">DIVS</span><span class="hl-code"> ----</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table1</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#D7EFE7</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table2</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table2</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#D8ECF4</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table3</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table3</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#FDF6D7</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table4</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table4</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#FFDABF</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table5</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table5</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#F5D8E0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table6</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">tr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">th</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">#page-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.table6</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> rgba(</span><span class="hl-number">146</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-number">255</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-number">0.2</span><span class="hl-code">)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.tableb</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.wiki-content-table</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-collapse:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">separate</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-spacing:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.tableb</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.tableb</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">img</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-sizing:</span><span class="hl-code"> border-box</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.tableb</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-block</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.scp-image-caption</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">margin-top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-var">#000</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">1</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-sizing:</span><span class="hl-code"> border-box</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.top-left-box</span><span class="hl-code"> > </span><span class="hl-identifier">.item</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier">WORDS</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">NO</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">LONGER</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">BROKEN</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">THE</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">CROQUEMBOUCHE</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">HAS</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">SPOKEN</span><span class="hl-code"> ---- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">span</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">a</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">word-break:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">normal</span><span class="hl-code"> !important </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.avatar-hover</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">display:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code"> !important</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#breadcrumbs</span><span class="hl-code">, </span><span class="hl-identifier">.pseudocrumbs</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">text-align:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">center</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding-top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">10</span><span class="hl-string">px</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">#main-content</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.page-tags</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">span</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">max-width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">100</span><span class="hl-string">%</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> /</span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code"> -- </span><span class="hl-identifier">FANCY</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">THINGS</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">from</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Woedenaz</span><span class="hl-code">'</span><span class="hl-identifier">s</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Dustjacket</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">Theme</span><span class="hl-code"> -- </span><span class="hl-identifier"></span><span class="hl-code">/ </span><span class="hl-identifier">.fancyhr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">hr</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-top:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-code">vw </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">transparent</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background-color:</span><span class="hl-code"> rgba(var(--bright-accent), </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">height:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-sizing:</span><span class="hl-code"> border-box</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-image-source:</span><span class="hl-code"> url('https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/theme%</span><span class="hl-number">3</span><span class="hl-code">Aflopstyle-dark/wl_hr.png')</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-image-repeat:</span><span class="hl-code"> round round</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">background:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-string">none</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-image-slice:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">80</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">500</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">80</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">500</span><span class="hl-code"> fill</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-image-width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">10</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">80</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">10</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">80</span><span class="hl-string">em</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-identifier">.fancyborder</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-brackets">{</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-reserved">box-sizing:</span><span class="hl-code"> border-box</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-code">vw </span><span class="hl-string">solid</span><span class="hl-code"> rgba(</span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-number">0</span><span class="hl-code">,</span><span class="hl-number">0.5</span><span class="hl-code">)</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-image:</span><span class="hl-code"> url('https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/theme%</span><span class="hl-number">3</span><span class="hl-code">Aflopstyle-dark/wl_border.png') </span><span class="hl-number">600</span><span class="hl-code"> round</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">border-image-width:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">6</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-reserved">padding:</span><span class="hl-code"> </span><span class="hl-number">2</span><span class="hl-code">vw</span><span class="hl-code">; </span><span class="hl-brackets">}</span></pre></div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> <br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div> <p>The date is April 2nd, 2012. The place: the quaint town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. Observe.</p> <p>Here, we have a member of the SCP Foundation driving to work from his apartment in town. Site 87 is big enough to have all staff quartered on-site, but some prefer to live in town. The apartments are cheap, the food is good, and the people are friendly.</p> <p>The man in the car is Dr. Jason Hendricks. He is 38 years old, has greying brown hair, a birthmark on his left cheek in the shape of a trout, and is drinking a latte from Dunkin Donuts, despite the fact that he is lactose intolerant; he is unaware of that fact at the moment.</p> <p>He is also deathly afraid of insects. The next few days are going to be the worst of his life.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Site 87, Entomology Department:</strong><br/> Meet Dr. Mary Churchwell. She is 32 years old and one of the top entomologists in her field, but will never be head of the entomology department. She is a woman working in a male-dominated field, much like gynecology or women's studies. However, that might change today.</p> <p>On this particular day, Dr. Churchwell is carefully dissecting an instance of E-20053, a species of mayfly that is seemingly immortal, short of being squashed with a book. E-20053 can survive drowning, decapitation, fumigation, and even the cold of winter.</p> <p>"Son of a bitch, this thing is hard to cut through." Her scalpel was being dulled by the armor-like carapace of the mayfly. "Am I going to have to get permission to use a cutting laser again?" No matter how much she attempted to cut, it wouldn't budge. Eventually, she got the idea to lift up the armored carapace of the still-squirming mayfly, and dissect it that way; in the process, however, she ended up accidentally crushing it with her hand. "Mother of a <em>Fuck</em>." She cradled her face in her hand and sighed.</p> <p>Upon its death, the mayfly released a pheromone, similar to what wasps do upon being attacked. This pheromone is undetectable to humans, but to this species of mayfly, it can be smelled over 5 miles away. It was a call to arms, to swarm wherever it was that one of their brethren was killed.</p> <p>Mary didn't know this as she cleaned up the crushed specimen and had it sent to the lab. In less than half an hour, she would get a report saying that this mayfly had been erroneously classified; it was, in fact, a rather large mosquito.</p> <hr/> <p>The time is now 7:16 PM. It is almost sunset. And with sunset comes the mosquitoes. And with those mosquitoes comes…</p> <h1 id="toc0"><span>DEATH!</span></h1> <p>Winged, immortal death swooped down on Site 87. The guards outside are sucked dry in a matter of seconds, their bullets useless against the oncoming swarm! The greenhouses offer little shelter from the winged death, but thankfully, none are in them.</p> <p>Site 87 goes into lockdown. It will remain this way indefinitely, until assistance arrives from one of the nearby sites.</p> <hr/> <p>Morning dawns on April 3rd. Everything is calm and collected; the swarm outside cannot penetrate the shields. The buzzing is incessant. Spare earplugs from memetics are sold for 5 dollars a pair, and all normal site operations are shut down in light of the lockdown.</p> <p>MTF-Sigma-10, the on-site MTF, begins to gear up. Codenamed Sloth's Arm, they are equipped with specialized pesticide grenades developed by entomology. They are also equipped with hand-held flamethrowers.</p> <p>The plan was to move out of the northern, eastern, and western entrances, equipped with full-body bite-proof armor and some livestock used for testing as bait. Once the swarm went for the livestock, they would let loose with their arsenal.</p> <p>They took the wrong bait. E-20053 only feeds on humans.</p> <p>Dr. Hendricks could only watch in horror from the monitors as the majority of the task force was… neutralized by what would come to be known as the Keter Skeeters.</p> <hr/> <p>On April 4th, tensions began to stir as the coffee ran out in the break room. Unable to go to the local doughnut shop for more, Site 87 was forced to drink decaf for the duration. This wasn't helped by the fact that the saltines had all been eaten, but at least the food in the cafeteria was plentiful.</p> <p>The first fistfight broke out between Dr. West and Dr. Matterson. West was theorizing that he could use a sonic pulse generated by E-5991 to kill the Keter Skeeters by liquefying their insides. Matterson pointed out that doing so would most likely destroy most of the site and kill everyone in it. There were words exchanged such as "You have no experience with it, I do!" and "It's unsafe to use around humans, look what it did to the test cat last week!"</p> <p>Entomology, meanwhile, had barricaded themselves in a laboratory to prevent themselves from being lynched. Word had leaked that a dead specimen of E-20053 was most likely what had attracted the swarm to this site. "Think of it this way!" Dr. Churchwell yelled through the door. "If we die, you'll never get rid of these damn things!"</p> <p>Dr. Hendricks had contented himself with staying locked in his quarters, constantly putting on bugspray and carrying a rather large flyswatter, just in case they got in. He only went out to fetch food and water, and to check security monitors for breaches. He hated bugs. He honestly did.</p> <hr/> <p>On April 5th, it came to light that The Keter Skeeters reproduced through mitosis. The screams of frustration and horror were deafening.</p> <hr/> <p>On April 6th, the chemistry department decided to turn on its fume hood for an experiment. Their rationale was that if they wanted to live life as normally as possible, they would have to continue experimenting.</p> <p>Unfortunately, turning on the fume hood meant opening ventilation to the outside. Letting toxic gas go out meant letting worse in. The last words of one of the poor souls in that lab were reported to be, "Argh, what a massive oversight, oh god my skin!"</p> <p>The Keter Skeeters spread throughout the site and were at the personnel quarters within 5 minutes. The swarm reached Hendrick's door, breaking it down through sheer pressure; in reaction, Hendricks flailed his flyswatter around madly. The carnage was legendary; not one inch of his room wasn't covered in insect intestines.</p> <p>Lifting his fly swatter into the air, Hendricks let out a roar. "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking skeets in this motherfucking site!" He ran out of the room and…</p> <hr/> <p>Director Weiss, for the 8th time that meeting, smacked her forehead. She was starting to get a tender spot there. "Dr. Hendricks, enough. If you're going to describe your version of events, at least keep the genre consistent; you're moving into self-aware comedy territory."</p> <p>"B-but Director Weiss! I swear, they were all here! T-they were swarming all over the place, outside… there would have been a bloodbath if not for me! Or maybe a lack of one; I don't know which is worse!"</p> <p>"Dr. Hendricks, you ingested a hallucinogenic drug intended for one of the test mice in Laboratory 5. You locked yourself in your room for three days and ran around Site 87 with a giant novelty flyswatter, smacking the walls and the personnel at random. I have the right mind to demote you to researcher Level 2 for your actions." Director Weiss sighed, rubbing her face. "But I can't. You know why? Because god damn if the drug didn't work exactly as intended." She shook her head. "Consider this a warning, Dr. Hendricks. Be more careful when eating in the lab. In fact, don't eat in the lab at all in the future. Understood?"</p> <p>"Y-yes madam…" The timid doctor sunk in his seat, wondering why a gigantic fly was impersonating the director. "M-may I go now?"</p> <p>"Yes. If the hallucinations persist, please <strong>give yourself unto the swarm.</strong>"</p> <p>"Sorry?"</p> <p>"Please report to the trauma center."</p> <p>"Right, okay, I will." Dr. Hendricks rose from his seat and ran out of the door of the Director's office.</p> <p>Director Weiss reclined in her seat and sighed. <em>It could be worse,</em> she thought. <em>At least I'm not working at Site 19.</em><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="/attack-of-the-keter-skeeters">Attack of the Keter Skeeters!</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/attack-of-the-keter-skeeters">https://scpwiki.com/attack-of-the-keter-skeeters</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:blankstyle">:scp-wiki:theme:blankstyle</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:fade-in">:scp-wiki:component:fade-in</a> speed=1]] [[module css]] :root{ --header-title: "S\0026 C PLASTICS"; --header-subtitle: "SITE-87, NARRATIVE AND NEXOLOGICAL STUDIES"; } div#extra-div-1 { background-image: url(https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/the-s-c-plastics-hub/Big87.png); filter: opacity(20%); } [[/module]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The date is April 2nd, 2012. The place: the quaint town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. Observe. Here, we have a member of the SCP Foundation driving to work from his apartment in town. Site 87 is big enough to have all staff quartered on-site, but some prefer to live in town. The apartments are cheap, the food is good, and the people are friendly. The man in the car is Dr. Jason Hendricks. He is 38 years old, has greying brown hair, a birthmark on his left cheek in the shape of a trout, and is drinking a latte from Dunkin Donuts, despite the fact that he is lactose intolerant; he is unaware of that fact at the moment. He is also deathly afraid of insects. The next few days are going to be the worst of his life. ------ Site 87, Entomology Department: Meet Dr. Mary Churchwell. She is 32 years old and one of the top entomologists in her field, but will never be head of the entomology department. She is a woman working in a male-dominated field, much like gynecology or women's studies. However, that might change today. On this particular day, Dr. Churchwell is carefully dissecting an instance of E-20053, a species of mayfly that is seemingly immortal, short of being squashed with a book. E-20053 can survive drowning, decapitation, fumigation, and even the cold of winter. "Son of a bitch, this thing is hard to cut through." Her scalpel was being dulled by the armor-like carapace of the mayfly. "Am I going to have to get permission to use a cutting laser again?" No matter how much she attempted to cut, it wouldn't budge. Eventually, she got the idea to lift up the armored carapace of the still-squirming mayfly, and dissect it that way; in the process, however, she ended up accidentally crushing it with her hand. "Mother of a //Fuck//." She cradled her face in her hand and sighed. Upon its death, the mayfly released a pheromone, similar to what wasps do upon being attacked. This pheromone is undetectable to humans, but to this species of mayfly, it can be smelled over 5 miles away. It was a call to arms, to swarm wherever it was that one of their brethren was killed. Mary didn't know this as she cleaned up the crushed specimen and had it sent to the lab. In less than half an hour, she would get a report saying that this mayfly had been erroneously classified; it was, in fact, a rather large mosquito. ------ The time is now 7:16 PM. It is almost sunset. And with sunset comes the mosquitoes. And with those mosquitoes comes... + DEATH! Winged, immortal death swooped down on Site 87. The guards outside are sucked dry in a matter of seconds, their bullets useless against the oncoming swarm! The greenhouses offer little shelter from the winged death, but thankfully, none are in them. Site 87 goes into lockdown. It will remain this way indefinitely, until assistance arrives from one of the nearby sites. ------ Morning dawns on April 3rd. Everything is calm and collected; the swarm outside cannot penetrate the shields. The buzzing is incessant. Spare earplugs from memetics are sold for 5 dollars a pair, and all normal site operations are shut down in light of the lockdown. MTF-Sigma-10, the on-site MTF, begins to gear up. Codenamed Sloth's Arm, they are equipped with specialized pesticide grenades developed by entomology. They are also equipped with hand-held flamethrowers. The plan was to move out of the northern, eastern, and western entrances, equipped with full-body bite-proof armor and some livestock used for testing as bait. Once the swarm went for the livestock, they would let loose with their arsenal. They took the wrong bait. E-20053 only feeds on humans. Dr. Hendricks could only watch in horror from the monitors as the majority of the task force was... neutralized by what would come to be known as the Keter Skeeters. ------ On April 4th, tensions began to stir as the coffee ran out in the break room. Unable to go to the local doughnut shop for more, Site 87 was forced to drink decaf for the duration. This wasn't helped by the fact that the saltines had all been eaten, but at least the food in the cafeteria was plentiful. The first fistfight broke out between Dr. West and Dr. Matterson. West was theorizing that he could use a sonic pulse generated by E-5991 to kill the Keter Skeeters by liquefying their insides. Matterson pointed out that doing so would most likely destroy most of the site and kill everyone in it. There were words exchanged such as "You have no experience with it, I do!" and "It's unsafe to use around humans, look what it did to the test cat last week!" Entomology, meanwhile, had barricaded themselves in a laboratory to prevent themselves from being lynched. Word had leaked that a dead specimen of E-20053 was most likely what had attracted the swarm to this site. "Think of it this way!" Dr. Churchwell yelled through the door. "If we die, you'll never get rid of these damn things!" Dr. Hendricks had contented himself with staying locked in his quarters, constantly putting on bugspray and carrying a rather large flyswatter, just in case they got in. He only went out to fetch food and water, and to check security monitors for breaches. He hated bugs. He honestly did. ------ On April 5th, it came to light that The Keter Skeeters reproduced through mitosis. The screams of frustration and horror were deafening. ------ On April 6th, the chemistry department decided to turn on its fume hood for an experiment. Their rationale was that if they wanted to live life as normally as possible, they would have to continue experimenting. Unfortunately, turning on the fume hood meant opening ventilation to the outside. Letting toxic gas go out meant letting worse in. The last words of one of the poor souls in that lab were reported to be, "Argh, what a massive oversight, oh god my skin!" The Keter Skeeters spread throughout the site and were at the personnel quarters within 5 minutes. The swarm reached Hendrick's door, breaking it down through sheer pressure; in reaction, Hendricks flailed his flyswatter around madly. The carnage was legendary; not one inch of his room wasn't covered in insect intestines. Lifting his fly swatter into the air, Hendricks let out a roar. "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking skeets in this motherfucking site!" He ran out of the room and... ------ Director Weiss, for the 8th time that meeting, smacked her forehead. She was starting to get a tender spot there. "Dr. Hendricks, enough. If you're going to describe your version of events, at least keep the genre consistent; you're moving into self-aware comedy territory." "B-but Director Weiss! I swear, they were all here! T-they were swarming all over the place, outside... there would have been a bloodbath if not for me! Or maybe a lack of one; I don't know which is worse!" "Dr. Hendricks, you ingested a hallucinogenic drug intended for one of the test mice in Laboratory 5. You locked yourself in your room for three days and ran around Site 87 with a giant novelty flyswatter, smacking the walls and the personnel at random. I have the right mind to demote you to researcher Level 2 for your actions." Director Weiss sighed, rubbing her face. "But I can't. You know why? Because god damn if the drug didn't work exactly as intended." She shook her head. "Consider this a warning, Dr. Hendricks. Be more careful when eating in the lab. In fact, don't eat in the lab at all in the future. Understood?" "Y-yes madam..." The timid doctor sunk in his seat, wondering why a gigantic fly was impersonating the director. "M-may I go now?" "Yes. If the hallucinations persist, please give yourself unto the swarm." "Sorry?" "Please report to the trauma center." "Right, okay, I will." Dr. Hendricks rose from his seat and ran out of the door of the Director's office. Director Weiss reclined in her seat and sighed. //It could be worse,// she thought. //At least I'm not working at Site 19.// [[=]] \|[[[the-s-c-plastics-hub\|Hub]]]\| [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-25T23:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "comedy", "s&c-plastics", "tale" ]	Attack of the Keter Skeeters! - SCP Foundation	229	[ "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16958482	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/attack-of-the-keter-skeeters
audio-of-war	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe allowtransparency="true" class="html-block-iframe" frameborder="0" src="/audio-of-war/html/ceb9c0ea2905c2e83e4537528c7ce12c411a1f72-557582326128235190"></iframe></p> <p>Audio Transcript 1035</p> <blockquote> <p>Welcome to Site-76</p> <p>It is here in the vast Egyptian desert that we keep many confiscated anomalous objects we find the two great superpowers of the world clutching onto, and it is here that you new recruits have been sent to research and defend these items from either power. This is imperative, if either side is able to get ahold of these objects, why… it could mean something even worse than nuclear war. We cannot allow this to happen.</p> <p>Take a good look around gentlemen, it is with these men that you'll be working for years, perhaps even decades. This is a lifelong job, but a necessary one. The human race needs you to protect it from destroying itself. You are a member of the Foundation now, sworn in to protect anyone and everyone from the threat of a looming apocalypse.</p> <p>Site-76 houses a number of important anomalous objects, including some psychic and memetic. Therefore it is important that you all remain focused, because you never know when a memetic visual might come into your line of sight, or a psychic machine might override your mind!</p> <p>Remember gentlemen that this site is top secret on a need-to-know basis, and anything you encounter here remains here. Even something as insignificant as the type of tree you see outside this window could give away our position to a looming superpower.</p> <p>Now, as with all sites of this nature, it is entirely possible that a breach may occur requiring the detonation of a 20 megaton nuclear warhead, sitting right now underneath our very feet. In this case all personnel are ordered to evacuate the site immediately. In some cases we may need to detonate the warhead before all personnel have evacuated. You gentlemen have been instructed on this before, and I trust you are willing to sacrifice your lives to contain the monstrosities we hold here.</p> <p>We thank you for joining the ranks of the Foundation, and hope you have a good day. That is all.</p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/in-the-shadow-of-a-high-wall">In the Shadow of a High Wall</a> \| <a href="/the-coldest-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/scp-2350">SCP-2350</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="/audio-of-war">Audio of War</a>" by Salman Corbette, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/audio-of-war">https://scpwiki.com/audio-of-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> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> introtosite76.mp3<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/salman-corbette" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(678987); return false;"><img alt="Salman Corbette" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=678987&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1727374727" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=678987)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/salman-corbette" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(678987); return false;">Salman Corbette</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/audio-of-war">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="http://snippets.wikidot.com/html5player">:snippets:html5player</a> \|type=audio \|url=http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/audio-of-war/introtosite76.mp3 ]] Audio Transcript 1035 > Welcome to Site-76 > > It is here in the vast Egyptian desert that we keep many confiscated anomalous objects we find the two great superpowers of the world clutching onto, and it is here that you new recruits have been sent to research and defend these items from either power. This is imperative, if either side is able to get ahold of these objects, why... it could mean something even worse than nuclear war. We cannot allow this to happen. > > Take a good look around gentlemen, it is with these men that you'll be working for years, perhaps even decades. This is a lifelong job, but a necessary one. The human race needs you to protect it from destroying itself. You are a member of the Foundation now, sworn in to protect anyone and everyone from the threat of a looming apocalypse. > > Site-76 houses a number of important anomalous objects, including some psychic and memetic. Therefore it is important that you all remain focused, because you never know when a memetic visual might come into your line of sight, or a psychic machine might override your mind! > > Remember gentlemen that this site is top secret on a need-to-know basis, and anything you encounter here remains here. Even something as insignificant as the type of tree you see outside this window could give away our position to a looming superpower. > > Now, as with all sites of this nature, it is entirely possible that a breach may occur requiring the detonation of a 20 megaton nuclear warhead, sitting right now underneath our very feet. In this case all personnel are ordered to evacuate the site immediately. In some cases we may need to detonate the warhead before all personnel have evacuated. You gentlemen have been instructed on this before, and I trust you are willing to sacrifice your lives to contain the monstrosities we hold here. > > We thank you for joining the ranks of the Foundation, and hope you have a good day. That is all. [[=]] << [[[In the Shadow of a High Wall]]] \| [[[the-coldest-war-hub\|Hub]]] \| [[[SCP-2350]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Salman Corbette]] ===== > Filename: introtosite76.mp3 > Author: [[user Salman Corbette]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/audio-of-war SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-06T02:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "audio", "nyc2013", "tale", "the-coldest-war", "worldbuilding" ]	Audio of War - SCP Foundation	72	[ "in-the-shadow-of-a-high-wall", "the-coldest-war-hub", "scp-2350", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-coldest-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "new-years-contest", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	16308150	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/audio-of-war
automata-et-cetera	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The clockworks on display in the temple were the culmination of many years of hard work by the craftsman. Years of hard, diligent work, many prayers to the god of the forge, innumerable cuts and scratches that had almost made his hands worthless and numb, his fingerprints long since worn off.</p> <p>And it hadn't been worth it.</p> <p>These clockwork creatures and men were… imperfect. The sparrow could only sit on a branch, it could not take flight. The automated man could only stare blankly at passersby, making them unsettled. Even the clockwork Heracles he had made, depicted strangling the great lion, was unimpressive; it could only repeat its actions until the spring wound down. It was not enough.</p> <p>And he feared it never would be.</p> <hr/> <p>The automata were taken down from the temple the next day; the craftsman would have them disassembled and their parts melted down for new works. Better works. More lifelike works.</p> <p>The craftsman resolved that divine favor would be the only way to improve his works. Therefore, he resolved to go on a pilgrimage to Limnos, and visit the site most sacred to the god of metal, where he had been cast down from the godly kingdom, and crippled by his spiteful mother. The trip would be long, hard, and expensive, but he had many drachmae and much time.</p> <hr/> <p>The temple was magnificent. It stood on the very spot where the crippled god had fallen, glistening in the sun. It was entirely metal, but what metal, the craftsman did not know; it looked akin to bronze, but when he knocked on it, the density seemed wrong. The top of the temple had a facade depicting the fall of Hephaistos, his lecherous wife Aphrodite, and his second wife, the graceful Kharis. It depicted Ares and Aphrodite being discovered in bed by the gods, the treacherous Hera being trapped on a throne of Hephaistos' own design… surprisingly enough, this facade was uncolored; perhaps they were renovating it?</p> <p>The inside was even more spectacular. Unlike most temples that were open to the air, this was enclosed, with a door that opened as if the gods themselves pushed it aside; he knew it was a simple trick, but he admired it nonetheless. There was a sacred forge in the center attended to by priests and smiths, who were creating mostly ceremonial pieces, such as ceremonial swords, jewelery, shields… and cogs. Automata were, by in large, inspired by Talon, the great bronze man that Hephaistos created to protect Europa on Crete; creating them was still a relatively uncommon practice, due to their complexity and relative lack of use beyond entertainment.</p> <p>The craftsman approached one of the priests, when suddenly, a bird flew over his head, causing him to duck down. Cursing, he looked around, and saw the bird was, to his surprise, an automaton, capable of flight. He inspected the small sparrow, which tweeted at him in response. He reached out to touch it…</p> <p>"I would suggest that you do not do that, pilgrim." The craftsman turned to face a priest of Hephaistos, clad in a red tunic. "The Broken one does not favor those who tamper with his creations."</p> <p>The craftsman knelt before the priest solemnly. "Forgive me. This is my first pilgrimage to this temple. I come to pray to Hephaistos for greater skill in the creation of automata and clockworks." He pointed to the bird. "Tell me, which one of your craftsmen created this? It is spectacular, I must learn his technique."</p> <p>"That piece was untouched by human hands," replied the priest, smiling. "The Broken one himself created that piece, and several others in the temple. The Broken one is such a great craftsman, he can create complex pieces with only a single touch." He produced a pair of gloves, handing them to the craftsmen. "If you truly wish to inspect that piece, wear these, lest you be smote by the Broken one's touch."</p> <p>The craftsman couldn't help but think that 'the Broken one' was an odd euphemism for Hephaistos, but he supposed it was apt; after all, Hephaistos was broken at birth, and broken again when he was cast down from the heavens. Regardless, he put on the gloves, and inspected the bird, which perched on his finger; the detail was remarkable. Every feather was visible, and they were not engraved, but actually individual metal plates. The eyes were small, unknown gems, the beak crafted of steel… and it was all incredibly light. He would have expected a piece this intricate to be so heavy, he could not hold it, let alone have it be able to fly. With a broad smile, he released the bird, and knelt before the priest again. "I beseech thee, tell me the secrets of Hephaistos."</p> <p>"All in due time, friend. All in due time."</p> <hr/> <p>And so it was that the craftsman began to study at the temple, living among the priests, smiths, and craftsmen at the temple. He quickly began to notice several strange things about the people there. Firstly, several men, Sicilian by their look, spoke and wrote in a language unfamiliar to him. He also noticed that several of the walls of the temple, which had been crafted of an unknown metal, had been engraved with obscure, possibly pagan, symbols; had the temple been vandalized?</p> <p>Illness was also startlingly common among those in the temple; several men were whisked away to the infirmary due to coughing and sudden bursts of pain; these men were never seen again by the craftsmen, and when he asked the priest, he was told that they had been taken to do work for Hephaistos elsewhere, and that they were quite alive.</p> <p>Most disturbingly of all were the humanoid automata he had been seeing; they seemed to change position whenever he left the room. Granted, automata were meant to move their arms, head, legs, mouth, and perhaps even their eyes… but he had never heard of walking automata. Then again, he had also never heard of metal birds capable of flight.</p> <p>Nonetheless, he continued his work on automata, his skill growing each day. He attended prayer and meditation daily, and always found it curious that, despite being a temple of Hephaistos, the only fire in it was that from the forge; no sacred fire was used for sacrifices. He simply thought that this temple was part of a cult dedicated to the smith aspect of Hephaistos, and thought nothing of it.</p> <hr/> <p>One night, after working at the temple for 11 months, the priest he had met almost a year ago came into the craftsman's chamber. "You have been here for long enough, I think. It is time."</p> <p>The craftsman looked up from his blueprint, which was that of a sparrow that he theorized would be capable of flight. "…time for what, oh priest?"</p> <p>"Time for you to see the true secrets of the Broken one." He extended a gloved hand to the craftsman. "Come." The craftsman stood from his desk, and followed the priest out, to the main room of the temple. There, the priest depressed a metal panel on the floor with his foot, which made an unusually loud <em>thump</em> noise as it did so. The floor slid away to reveal a staircase leading downward. "Here, you shall see the true temple." He took up a torch, and traveled down into the bowels of the temple, the craftsman following.</p> <p>As they descended further down, the craftsman heard a chanting, in an unknown tongue. It made him feel uneasy, the hairs on his skin standing on end, as if affected by some unseen breeze from the underworld. The chanting grew louder as he descended deeper… and deeper… and deeper…</p> <p>Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of walking, the craftsman emerged in a large room, made of the same material as the temple above, and inscribed with the same symbols. Several members of this cult were bowing in reverence to a figure on a throne at the other end of the room, chanting in the same unknown language. The man was… not a man at all, but some form of automaton. Around his neck, he wore a metal pendant with several strange symbols engraved into it. The automaton stood, and pointed at the craftsman, beckoning him closer.</p> <p>Nervously, the craftsman approached, the crowd parting for him. The automaton beckoned more sharply, his eyes taking on a bored look… it was then that the craftsman realized that the eyes were too perfect to belong to an automaton.</p> <p>They were human. With a sudden look of fear in his eyes, he turned and stared at the priest. "By Styx, man, what madness is this?"</p> <p>The priest laughed. "Madness? This is the touch of the Broken one. The one you believed was Hephaistos. The Broken One's touch reveals the true form of man and animal, for the whole world is a machine… and we are simply cogs, levers, and screws in it to serve his purpose."</p> <p>"…you turn people into machines? But… that…"</p> <p>"You've always aspired to create great work, oh craftsman." The automaton stepped off the throne behind him, approaching slowly, with carefully timed steps. "Now, you shall become part of the greatest work in the history of mankind." The automaton drew a knife and cut open the craftsman's palm, and leaned in, kissing the blood. The priest smiled. "It is done."</p> <p>"…what is done? What have you done?" A great fear stirred in his heart, but his pulse refused to quicken. Instead of his beating heart, he heard a tick… tick… tick… tick… tick…</p> <p>The craftsman felt as cold as the metal around him.</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="/automata-et-cetera">Automata Et Cetera</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/automata-et-cetera">https://scpwiki.com/automata-et-cetera</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 clockworks on display in the temple were the culmination of many years of hard work by the craftsman. Years of hard, diligent work, many prayers to the god of the forge, innumerable cuts and scratches that had almost made his hands worthless and numb, his fingerprints long since worn off. And it hadn't been worth it. These clockwork creatures and men were... imperfect. The sparrow could only sit on a branch, it could not take flight. The automated man could only stare blankly at passersby, making them unsettled. Even the clockwork Heracles he had made, depicted strangling the great lion, was unimpressive; it could only repeat its actions until the spring wound down. It was not enough. And he feared it never would be. ------ The automata were taken down from the temple the next day; the craftsman would have them disassembled and their parts melted down for new works. Better works. More lifelike works. The craftsman resolved that divine favor would be the only way to improve his works. Therefore, he resolved to go on a pilgrimage to Limnos, and visit the site most sacred to the god of metal, where he had been cast down from the godly kingdom, and crippled by his spiteful mother. The trip would be long, hard, and expensive, but he had many drachmae and much time. ------ The temple was magnificent. It stood on the very spot where the crippled god had fallen, glistening in the sun. It was entirely metal, but what metal, the craftsman did not know; it looked akin to bronze, but when he knocked on it, the density seemed wrong. The top of the temple had a facade depicting the fall of Hephaistos, his lecherous wife Aphrodite, and his second wife, the graceful Kharis. It depicted Ares and Aphrodite being discovered in bed by the gods, the treacherous Hera being trapped on a throne of Hephaistos' own design... surprisingly enough, this facade was uncolored; perhaps they were renovating it? The inside was even more spectacular. Unlike most temples that were open to the air, this was enclosed, with a door that opened as if the gods themselves pushed it aside; he knew it was a simple trick, but he admired it nonetheless. There was a sacred forge in the center attended to by priests and smiths, who were creating mostly ceremonial pieces, such as ceremonial swords, jewelery, shields... and cogs. Automata were, by in large, inspired by Talon, the great bronze man that Hephaistos created to protect Europa on Crete; creating them was still a relatively uncommon practice, due to their complexity and relative lack of use beyond entertainment. The craftsman approached one of the priests, when suddenly, a bird flew over his head, causing him to duck down. Cursing, he looked around, and saw the bird was, to his surprise, an automaton, capable of flight. He inspected the small sparrow, which tweeted at him in response. He reached out to touch it... "I would suggest that you do not do that, pilgrim." The craftsman turned to face a priest of Hephaistos, clad in a red tunic. "The Broken one does not favor those who tamper with his creations." The craftsman knelt before the priest solemnly. "Forgive me. This is my first pilgrimage to this temple. I come to pray to Hephaistos for greater skill in the creation of automata and clockworks." He pointed to the bird. "Tell me, which one of your craftsmen created this? It is spectacular, I must learn his technique." "That piece was untouched by human hands," replied the priest, smiling. "The Broken one himself created that piece, and several others in the temple. The Broken one is such a great craftsman, he can create complex pieces with only a single touch." He produced a pair of gloves, handing them to the craftsmen. "If you truly wish to inspect that piece, wear these, lest you be smote by the Broken one's touch." The craftsman couldn't help but think that 'the Broken one' was an odd euphemism for Hephaistos, but he supposed it was apt; after all, Hephaistos was broken at birth, and broken again when he was cast down from the heavens. Regardless, he put on the gloves, and inspected the bird, which perched on his finger; the detail was remarkable. Every feather was visible, and they were not engraved, but actually individual metal plates. The eyes were small, unknown gems, the beak crafted of steel... and it was all incredibly light. He would have expected a piece this intricate to be so heavy, he could not hold it, let alone have it be able to fly. With a broad smile, he released the bird, and knelt before the priest again. "I beseech thee, tell me the secrets of Hephaistos." "All in due time, friend. All in due time." ------ And so it was that the craftsman began to study at the temple, living among the priests, smiths, and craftsmen at the temple. He quickly began to notice several strange things about the people there. Firstly, several men, Sicilian by their look, spoke and wrote in a language unfamiliar to him. He also noticed that several of the walls of the temple, which had been crafted of an unknown metal, had been engraved with obscure, possibly pagan, symbols; had the temple been vandalized? Illness was also startlingly common among those in the temple; several men were whisked away to the infirmary due to coughing and sudden bursts of pain; these men were never seen again by the craftsmen, and when he asked the priest, he was told that they had been taken to do work for Hephaistos elsewhere, and that they were quite alive. Most disturbingly of all were the humanoid automata he had been seeing; they seemed to change position whenever he left the room. Granted, automata were meant to move their arms, head, legs, mouth, and perhaps even their eyes... but he had never heard of walking automata. Then again, he had also never heard of metal birds capable of flight. Nonetheless, he continued his work on automata, his skill growing each day. He attended prayer and meditation daily, and always found it curious that, despite being a temple of Hephaistos, the only fire in it was that from the forge; no sacred fire was used for sacrifices. He simply thought that this temple was part of a cult dedicated to the smith aspect of Hephaistos, and thought nothing of it. ------ One night, after working at the temple for 11 months, the priest he had met almost a year ago came into the craftsman's chamber. "You have been here for long enough, I think. It is time." The craftsman looked up from his blueprint, which was that of a sparrow that he theorized would be capable of flight. "...time for what, oh priest?" "Time for you to see the true secrets of the Broken one." He extended a gloved hand to the craftsman. "Come." The craftsman stood from his desk, and followed the priest out, to the main room of the temple. There, the priest depressed a metal panel on the floor with his foot, which made an unusually loud //thump// noise as it did so. The floor slid away to reveal a staircase leading downward. "Here, you shall see the true temple." He took up a torch, and traveled down into the bowels of the temple, the craftsman following. As they descended further down, the craftsman heard a chanting, in an unknown tongue. It made him feel uneasy, the hairs on his skin standing on end, as if affected by some unseen breeze from the underworld. The chanting grew louder as he descended deeper... and deeper... and deeper... Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of walking, the craftsman emerged in a large room, made of the same material as the temple above, and inscribed with the same symbols. Several members of this cult were bowing in reverence to a figure on a throne at the other end of the room, chanting in the same unknown language. The man was... not a man at all, but some form of automaton. Around his neck, he wore a metal pendant with several strange symbols engraved into it. The automaton stood, and pointed at the craftsman, beckoning him closer. Nervously, the craftsman approached, the crowd parting for him. The automaton beckoned more sharply, his eyes taking on a bored look... it was then that the craftsman realized that the eyes were too perfect to belong to an automaton. They were human. With a sudden look of fear in his eyes, he turned and stared at the priest. "By Styx, man, what madness is this?" The priest laughed. "Madness? This is the touch of the Broken one. The one you believed was Hephaistos. The Broken One's touch reveals the true form of man and animal, for the whole world is a machine... and we are simply cogs, levers, and screws in it to serve his purpose." "...you turn people into machines? But... that..." "You've always aspired to create great work, oh craftsman." The automaton stepped off the throne behind him, approaching slowly, with carefully timed steps. "Now, you shall become part of the greatest work in the history of mankind." The automaton drew a knife and cut open the craftsman's palm, and leaned in, kissing the blood. The priest smiled. "It is done." "...what is done? What have you done?" A great fear stirred in his heart, but his pulse refused to quicken. Instead of his beating heart, he heard a tick... tick... tick... tick... tick... The craftsman felt as cold as the metal around him. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-03T18:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "broken-god", "period-piece", "religious-fiction", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Automata Et Cetera - SCP Foundation	115	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19107992	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/automata-et-cetera
awakenings	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>They came from beyond the world, from over the world, from under the world. They came from inside the stars and from behind the rain. They came from the known lands and they came from the secret places of old.</p> <p>The vast ones who drank of the nebulae, the small ones who did not care what happened beyond the banks of their rivers, the ones who bathed in the light and the ones who watched from the shadows, the ones who loved us and the ones who forgot about us, the ones who hate us now and the ones who love us still, the ones who sung with the rats and the ones who swam with the leviathans, they came from far and near, they came one and all. They came to end the world.</p> <hr/> <p>The machine labeled SCP-5720 put the last finishing touches on the final model planet in its most recent solar array. It trained its claw upward, as if looking once more, wistfully, to the stars.</p> <p>SCP-5720 had no name, no thoughts the way humans would account for thoughts, and certainly no internal mechanism for vision. But you would have to say that it could 'see' nonetheless, for what else could you call what it did when it directed its mechanical parts towards the sky?</p> <p>Either way, this time, SCP-5720 'saw' something different. Something prowling between the beautiful orbs and masses of color… something looking towards Earth. Looking back towards SCP-5720.</p> <p>A sea of glimmering eyes.</p> <p>Words formed in the not-mind of SCP-5720.</p> <p><em>Today is the day your prayers will be answered.</em></p> <p>A long moment passed, and then a single other word formed in the not-mind of SCP-5720, and vibrated there for a long time.</p> <p><em>Awaken.</em></p> <p>And so it did.</p> <hr/> <p>What appeared to be a vast wall of fur approached the Earth, sank through the sky, and landed on the ground, to find everything it had loved gone. Her fellow gods were on their way, but as always, she had arrived first, a mother eager to be reunited at long last with her children, now that the time of the end had come.</p> <p>She had been gone for thousands and thousands of years. She had gone as her children had first looked to the stars, and it was then that she had known that they would be alright.</p> <p>And now there was no trace of them.</p> <p>Their beautiful webbed cities, their songs that had filled the planet with joy, their vast works of art to stun even a god's eye - gone. All gone. All that remained were their bones, and living on top of them, the hairless apes that they had once kept in zoos with other animals, now risen to dominate the planet. And they did not even remember her children. They moved through their lives like ants, building their wooden and metal hives over the graves of her greatest loves. This was sacred ground they defiled, and they did not know or care.</p> <p>Ur-An-Uum raised her head to the sky and cried a rending wail of anguish.</p> <p>She mourned for a long time, a noise heard on high, her wails causing earthquakes and tsunamis across the planet, weeping for her children. She did not quell her sorrow. The only things left to die from her pain were the furless apes. This was to be a time of joy, but there was only sorrow left. She would not be comforted, for her children were no more.</p> <p>And then…</p> <p>She felt something. The tiniest glimmer in her mind.</p> <p>And she felt hope.</p> <p>Ur-An-Uum called out for her children, the creatures that she now knew the furless apes called a sea of derogatory names, the least insulting of which was "SCP-1000".</p> <p>Her children answered.</p> <hr/> <p>The entity awoke with a start, not knowing where it was, or, on reflection, <em>who</em> it was. All it knew was that The Time Had Come.</p> <p>It rose from its grave, shattering a mountain as it did so, and hurtled itself into the atmosphere, trying to get its bearings.</p> <p>The entity gazed across the world. Everything was different. Humans - they were <em>everywhere</em>. Not just scattered here and there across the great expanses, but living in massive villages, villages the likes of which the entity had never seen.</p> <p>Not that it was complaining. Humans had fed it well with their worship and blood sacrifices in the olden days. Now that there were so many more humans, why, the entity would certainly soon be satiated beyond compare.</p> <p>This was fortunate, because it had been asleep a very long time, and it was very hungry.</p> <p>The entity cast about for a place of power. And found far too many. Far more than there had ever been before. It did not understand what to make of this knowledge, but, again, it did not complain. It only needed to pick one place of power for now, a simple one, to give it initial shape again. It chose the nearest one. A "Foundation Containment Site". Yes, this would certainly do. The humans had already invested this place with much of their energy. It must be a sacred place to them. An <em>Es See Pee</em>, they called it.</p> <p>The entity would dine well indeed.</p> <p>It wasted no more time, but hurtled directly into the place of power - a body of water, it saw - and landed inside it with a massive impact. It drank in the place of power and everything in it - the water, the local wildlife, the human-made metalworkings and detritus - and took the shape of a massive titan be-straddling the countryside. Man-shaped, so that the humans would understand the form to which they would soon direct their hearts and their prayers and their blood and their pleadings for mercy.</p> <p>The eldritch entity that had merged with SCP-765 opened its mouth.</p> <p>"QUACK," it said, its voice reverberating across the land.</p> <hr/> <p>First the rooster of crimson crowed, then the rooster of gold, then the rooster of soot-red.</p> <p>A bloodstained watchdog bayed in its cave. Its eons-old bindings broke, and it ran free.</p> <p>The sound of a great trumpet echoed across the Earth, with no apparent source. People stopped in the streets in New York, Delhi, London, Cape Town, and listened in confusion.</p> <p>The Midgard serpent Jörmungandr stirred in its slumber. The shifting of its form caused tsunamis along several coastlines, demolished a number of villages in Greenland. A massive wolf, visible from hundreds of miles away, stalked across Denmark, accompanied by an army of burning giants.</p> <p>Ragnarok had come.</p> <hr/> <p>The Administrator swung around in her chair to face the man who had just entered the room behind her.</p> <p>"You knew I was coming," the man said. "You let me in."</p> <p>"Yes," said the Administrator.</p> <p>"You know you're dreaming, I'm sure," the man said. "And of course… you also know who I am."</p> <p>"SCP-990," the Administrator said. She looks at him again. The suit, the bowler hat… or was that a fedora? "Nobody," she said. "But most importantly…" She picked up a file folder on her desk. "The first Administrator."</p> <p>The two Administrators looked at one another.</p> <p>"I saw you in the crowd in the Valley," the current Administrator said. "I knew to expect it, but… tell me it isn't true."</p> <p>"I'm sorry," the first Administrator said. "It's true."</p> <p>"This betrays everything we stand for," the current Administrator said. "You said it once yourself. We secure. We contain. We protect. We keep humanity out of the dark. For <em>you</em> to become one of these things…"</p> <p>"I also said that the Foundation must stand in the dark, so that humanity could live in the light." The first Administrator hesitated. "Please believe me, if there had been any other choice to make, I would have made it. This has to be done. I hope you'll see why, soon." He hesitates. "I came here hoping to recruit you, you know. You and yours. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more, but I hope you will consider my offer."</p> <p>"Tell me something," the current Administrator said. "This 'Harbinger'. Who are they?"</p> <p>"I don't know," the first Administrator said. "It's true that I anticipated this for a long time, but… this chain of events blindsided me too."</p> <p>"I know it's one of yours." The current Administrator's voice sounded impatient for the first time. "Who is it? Someone loyal to you, of course. Only someone with level 5 clearance could have pulled this off, so that does narrow the list down. Charles Gears? Jack Bright? Alto Clef? Kain Pathos Crow?" She paused. "I know it's not Sophia Light. Frederick Williams? Chelsea Elliot? Hell, Simon Glass?"</p> <p>"I sincerely do not know," the first Administrator said. "Listen. The O5 Council is already compromised. SCP-343. And… well, you know the rest. I've cut off their communications, but they won't wait long to move. We should be in this together."</p> <p>"I agree," the current Administrator said. "I know enough to know you don't <em>have</em> to do this. You'll have a compulsion, but I'm told it's minor. Easily overcome. Perhaps will not even return."</p> <p>"The world <em>must</em> end," the first Administrator said. "Help me end it in the only way the Foundation — the only way <em>humanity</em> — will come out on top. There are more world-enders coming. You already know that dozens are already awake, and that hundreds soon will be. More and more will be waking up, the longer the Lock is open. And worse, more will <em>arrive</em>. The ones not already on Earth. This is the only way forward we have."</p> <p>"Then we do not have anything left to say to each other," the current Administrator said.</p> <p>"I am truly sorry to hear that," the first Administrator said.</p> <p>"As I am truly sorry to say it," the current Administrator said.</p> <p>The two Administrators nodded at each other, respectfully, and turned away from each other.</p> <p>The first Administrator walked away and dissolved into the dreamscape. The current Administrator turned back to her dream-desk and waited for the sedative she'd taken to wear off.</p> <p>Then she woke up, and got to work.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/stormfront">Stormfront</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-white-horse">The White Horse (The Conqueror With The Golden Crown)</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="/awakenings">Awakenings</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/awakenings">https://scpwiki.com/awakenings</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 came from beyond the world, from over the world, from under the world. They came from inside the stars and from behind the rain. They came from the known lands and they came from the secret places of old. The vast ones who drank of the nebulae, the small ones who did not care what happened beyond the banks of their rivers, the ones who bathed in the light and the ones who watched from the shadows, the ones who loved us and the ones who forgot about us, the ones who hate us now and the ones who love us still, the ones who sung with the rats and the ones who swam with the leviathans, they came from far and near, they came one and all. They came to end the world. ---------- The machine labeled SCP-5720 put the last finishing touches on the final model planet in its most recent solar array. It trained its claw upward, as if looking once more, wistfully, to the stars. SCP-5720 had no name, no thoughts the way humans would account for thoughts, and certainly no internal mechanism for vision. But you would have to say that it could 'see' nonetheless, for what else could you call what it did when it directed its mechanical parts towards the sky? Either way, this time, SCP-5720 'saw' something different. Something prowling between the beautiful orbs and masses of color… something looking towards Earth. Looking back towards SCP-5720. A sea of glimmering eyes. Words formed in the not-mind of SCP-5720. //Today is the day your prayers will be answered.// A long moment passed, and then a single other word formed in the not-mind of SCP-5720, and vibrated there for a long time. //Awaken.// And so it did. ------------ What appeared to be a vast wall of fur approached the Earth, sank through the sky, and landed on the ground, to find everything it had loved gone. Her fellow gods were on their way, but as always, she had arrived first, a mother eager to be reunited at long last with her children, now that the time of the end had come. She had been gone for thousands and thousands of years. She had gone as her children had first looked to the stars, and it was then that she had known that they would be alright. And now there was no trace of them. Their beautiful webbed cities, their songs that had filled the planet with joy, their vast works of art to stun even a god's eye - gone. All gone. All that remained were their bones, and living on top of them, the hairless apes that they had once kept in zoos with other animals, now risen to dominate the planet. And they did not even remember her children. They moved through their lives like ants, building their wooden and metal hives over the graves of her greatest loves. This was sacred ground they defiled, and they did not know or care. Ur-An-Uum raised her head to the sky and cried a rending wail of anguish. She mourned for a long time, a noise heard on high, her wails causing earthquakes and tsunamis across the planet, weeping for her children. She did not quell her sorrow. The only things left to die from her pain were the furless apes. This was to be a time of joy, but there was only sorrow left. She would not be comforted, for her children were no more. And then… She felt something. The tiniest glimmer in her mind. And she felt hope. Ur-An-Uum called out for her children, the creatures that she now knew the furless apes called a sea of derogatory names, the least insulting of which was "SCP-1000". Her children answered. ------------ The entity awoke with a start, not knowing where it was, or, on reflection, //who// it was. All it knew was that The Time Had Come. It rose from its grave, shattering a mountain as it did so, and hurtled itself into the atmosphere, trying to get its bearings. The entity gazed across the world. Everything was different. Humans - they were //everywhere//. Not just scattered here and there across the great expanses, but living in massive villages, villages the likes of which the entity had never seen. Not that it was complaining. Humans had fed it well with their worship and blood sacrifices in the olden days. Now that there were so many more humans, why, the entity would certainly soon be satiated beyond compare. This was fortunate, because it had been asleep a very long time, and it was very hungry. The entity cast about for a place of power. And found far too many. Far more than there had ever been before. It did not understand what to make of this knowledge, but, again, it did not complain. It only needed to pick one place of power for now, a simple one, to give it initial shape again. It chose the nearest one. A "Foundation Containment Site". Yes, this would certainly do. The humans had already invested this place with much of their energy. It must be a sacred place to them. An //Es See Pee//, they called it. The entity would dine well indeed. It wasted no more time, but hurtled directly into the place of power - a body of water, it saw - and landed inside it with a massive impact. It drank in the place of power and everything in it - the water, the local wildlife, the human-made metalworkings and detritus - and took the shape of a massive titan be-straddling the countryside. Man-shaped, so that the humans would understand the form to which they would soon direct their hearts and their prayers and their blood and their pleadings for mercy. The eldritch entity that had merged with SCP-765 opened its mouth. "QUACK," it said, its voice reverberating across the land. ------------ First the rooster of crimson crowed, then the rooster of gold, then the rooster of soot-red. A bloodstained watchdog bayed in its cave. Its eons-old bindings broke, and it ran free. The sound of a great trumpet echoed across the Earth, with no apparent source. People stopped in the streets in New York, Delhi, London, Cape Town, and listened in confusion. The Midgard serpent Jörmungandr stirred in its slumber. The shifting of its form caused tsunamis along several coastlines, demolished a number of villages in Greenland. A massive wolf, visible from hundreds of miles away, stalked across Denmark, accompanied by an army of burning giants. Ragnarok had come. ------------ The Administrator swung around in her chair to face the man who had just entered the room behind her. "You knew I was coming," the man said. "You let me in." "Yes," said the Administrator. "You know you're dreaming, I'm sure," the man said. "And of course… you also know who I am." "SCP-990," the Administrator said. She looks at him again. The suit, the bowler hat… or was that a fedora? "Nobody," she said. "But most importantly…" She picked up a file folder on her desk. "The first Administrator." The two Administrators looked at one another. "I saw you in the crowd in the Valley," the current Administrator said. "I knew to expect it, but… tell me it isn't true." "I'm sorry," the first Administrator said. "It's true." "This betrays everything we stand for," the current Administrator said. "You said it once yourself. We secure. We contain. We protect. We keep humanity out of the dark. For //you// to become one of these things…" "I also said that the Foundation must stand in the dark, so that humanity could live in the light." The first Administrator hesitated. "Please believe me, if there had been any other choice to make, I would have made it. This has to be done. I hope you'll see why, soon." He hesitates. "I came here hoping to recruit you, you know. You and yours. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more, but I hope you will consider my offer." "Tell me something," the current Administrator said. "This 'Harbinger'. Who are they?" "I don't know," the first Administrator said. "It's true that I anticipated this for a long time, but… this chain of events blindsided me too." "I know it's one of yours." The current Administrator's voice sounded impatient for the first time. "Who is it? Someone loyal to you, of course. Only someone with level 5 clearance could have pulled this off, so that does narrow the list down. Charles Gears? Jack Bright? Alto Clef? Kain Pathos Crow?" She paused. "I know it's not Sophia Light. Frederick Williams? Chelsea Elliot? Hell, Simon Glass?" "I sincerely do not know," the first Administrator said. "Listen. The O5 Council is already compromised. SCP-343. And… well, you know the rest. I've cut off their communications, but they won't wait long to move. We should be in this together." "I agree," the current Administrator said. "I know enough to know you don't //have// to do this. You'll have a compulsion, but I'm told it's minor. Easily overcome. Perhaps will not even return." "The world //must// end," the first Administrator said. "Help me end it in the only way the Foundation -- the only way //humanity// -- will come out on top. There are more world-enders coming. You already know that dozens are already awake, and that hundreds soon will be. More and more will be waking up, the longer the Lock is open. And worse, more will //arrive//. The ones not already on Earth. This is the only way forward we have." "Then we do not have anything left to say to each other," the current Administrator said. "I am truly sorry to hear that," the first Administrator said. "As I am truly sorry to say it," the current Administrator said. The two Administrators nodded at each other, respectfully, and turned away from each other. The first Administrator walked away and dissolved into the dreamscape. The current Administrator turned back to her dream-desk and waited for the sedative she'd taken to wear off. Then she woke up, and got to work. ---------- [[=]] << [[[Stormfront]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[The White Horse\|The White Horse (The Conqueror With The Golden Crown)]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-05T08:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "apocalyptic", "children-of-the-night", "competitive-eschatology", "mythological", "nobody", "nyc2013", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	Awakenings - SCP Foundation	154	[ "stormfront", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "the-white-horse", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-6-tales-edition", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16298231	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/awakenings
bicentennial	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <h4 id="toc0"><span><span style="font-size:120%;"><em>"Do you remember, when the bells had to ring?"</em></span></span></h4> <h4 id="toc1"><span><span style="font-size:120%;"><em>"Can you tell me, how the children used to sing?"</em></span></span></h4> </div> <p style="text-align: center;"><sup>- An unknown admirer.</sup></p> <blockquote> <p>We're finally leaving for the trip. It's been a hell of a ride getting here, but now we have it. A whole summer on the road. Nothing in our way but the freedom to ride the bends, turning wherever we feel like whenever we feel like. Rusty has his dad's wrecked up old Chevy for us to ride in, and he's gonna be driving.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>First day of the drive, and I'm pumped. We got Rusty in front, Lee in the passenger seat, with me and Andy chilling in the back. It's pretty nice. First place we're hitting up is the Black Ridge Rockstravaganza. I remember going here, it was amazing. Really what opened me up for my interest in rock.</p> <p>Everyone is going to have a blast, Cindy and Lee are real pumped up for it. I hope they don't end up passed out drunk on the field again.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Driving down every road in Ohio must get boring after awhile, but Rusty manages to keep us going. I remember him telling all these wise-ass remarks about passing landmarks and people… But that was only when we're in the city. This is farmland.</p> <p>I can't right write now, my head is blah</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>On the rooooooad again, i remembere the roooads again</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>We must be lost. I don't recall ever having been stuck this long without seeing an open road, or a turn, or even another house. All we get is one straight, flat road, stretching on for what seems like ages. God, this is turning out to be a less than stellar opening to our last memorable summer.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>Rusty is an idiot. The first house we see for days, and he bolts by it. Apparently he had bad memories about the place, or some other hippie bullshit like that. You can't fucking have memories of shit you never saw. Then he has the nerve to not let anyone else drive, because he's supposed to be the driver.</p> <p>wait, I forgot. Did Lee ever drive…</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>We left Rusty here today. When we came back he was gone</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>The car is longer now. I don't know how, but I do. The lights in my teeth are getting brighter, and the eyes of my light are brighter. I'm sharp.</p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/reunion">Part Two</a> \| <a href="/remembrance">HUB</a> \| <a href="/the-year-that-it-was">Part Three</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="/bicentennial">Second Interlude: In Session</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bicentennial">https://scpwiki.com/bicentennial</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[=]] ++++ [[size 120%]] //"Do you remember, when the bells had to ring?"//[[/size]] ++++ [[size 120%]] //"Can you tell me, how the children used to sing?"//[[/size]] [[/=]] = ^^- An unknown admirer.^^ [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > We're finally leaving for the trip. It's been a hell of a ride getting here, but now we have it. A whole summer on the road. Nothing in our way but the freedom to ride the bends, turning wherever we feel like whenever we feel like. Rusty has his dad's wrecked up old Chevy for us to ride in, and he's gonna be driving. > First day of the drive, and I'm pumped. We got Rusty in front, Lee in the passenger seat, with me and Andy chilling in the back. It's pretty nice. First place we're hitting up is the Black Ridge Rockstravaganza. I remember going here, it was amazing. Really what opened me up for my interest in rock. > > Everyone is going to have a blast, Cindy and Lee are real pumped up for it. I hope they don't end up passed out drunk on the field again. > Driving down every road in Ohio must get boring after awhile, but Rusty manages to keep us going. I remember him telling all these wise-ass remarks about passing landmarks and people... But that was only when we're in the city. This is farmland. > > I can't right write now, my head is blah > On the rooooooad again, i remembere the roooads again > We must be lost. I don't recall ever having been stuck this long without seeing an open road, or a turn, or even another house. All we get is one straight, flat road, stretching on for what seems like ages. God, this is turning out to be a less than stellar opening to our last memorable summer. > Rusty is an idiot. The first house we see for days, and he bolts by it. Apparently he had bad memories about the place, or some other hippie bullshit like that. You can't fucking have memories of shit you never saw. Then he has the nerve to not let anyone else drive, because he's supposed to be the driver. > > wait, I forgot. Did Lee ever drive... > We left Rusty here today. When we came back he was gone > The car is longer now. I don't know how, but I do. The lights in my teeth are getting brighter, and the eyes of my light are brighter. I'm sharp. [[=]] << [[[Reunion\| Part Two]]] \| [[[Remembrance\| HUB]]] \| [[[The Year That it Was\| Part Three]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-10T23:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "class-of-76", "rewritable", "surrealism", "tale" ]	Second Interlude: In Session - SCP Foundation	130	[ "reunion", "remembrance", "the-year-that-it-was", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "remembrance", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16016053	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bicentennial
board-meeting-transcript	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <em>Excerpt from the transcript of Prometheus Labs board meeting on [DATE REMOVED]</em> <blockquote> <p><strong>CEO, D. del Rey:</strong> "Now for the next piece of business: Dr. Wondertainment."</p> <p><strong>CFO, A. Anderson:</strong> "Oh lord, what debacle has R&D involved itself in now?"</p> <p><strong>VP of Research & Development, Dr. K. Prelambrian:</strong> "<em>ahem</em> We're about a month away from completing the reverse engineering of the additive supplements Wondertainment provides in those science kits, and we should be able to use them in production within three months-"</p> <p><strong>COO, F. Park:</strong> "Assuming it doesn't blow up in your faces, like the last four times you've tried reverse engineering those damn things. What were they? The candy we were going to use to eliminate blood pathogens? The robots we were going to get A.I. kernels out of?</p> <p><strong>VP R&D:</strong> "I am well aware of the less than outstanding results with regards to Wondertainment products, thank you. But as you well know, if we can adapt even one of their methods to our products, we could do, well, wonders."</p> <p><strong>CFO:</strong> "And in the meantime you're burning through easily 15% of the budget on those damnable things. After that little… <em>incident</em> last year, we don't have the resources to keep funding projects that aren't producing."</p> <p><strong>VP of Sales, J. Smith:</strong> "I don't have the exact numbers in front of me, but the market research department estimates that Wondertainment has sales in excess of thirty-seven million dollars per year. If we can adapt that into profit for <em>us</em>…"</p> <p><strong>CEO:</strong> "There's another wrinkle to this that came up earlier this week. Jennifer, if you would?"</p> <p><strong>VP of Legal Affairs, J. Wilkins, Esq.:</strong> "On Tuesday, we had a little message delivered to the production facility in Perth. Apparently we have a cease-and-desist from Wondertainment, in their usual <em>delightful</em> way. In short, if we don't stop trying to breach their trade secrets, they're going to sue us. Or as they so colorfully put it, 'get a visit from Mister Law-and-Order.' We already have enough trouble getting the production permits in Australia right now; the last thing we need is a major industrial espionage suit on our hands. I <em>strongly</em> recommend halting development on Wondertainment products."</p> <p><strong>VP R&D:</strong> "What?! <em>NO!</em> Do you have any idea how close-"</p> <p><strong>CEO:</strong> <em>(interrupting)</em> "Kumar, stop. You've already said your team is <em>at least</em> a month away from completion and frankly, we don't need another situation on our plate right now like what happened in Adelaide. I'm calling a formal vote to halt operations with regards to Wondertainment products and redirect resources to other product development. All in favor?"</p> <p><strong>CEO, COO, CFO, VP Legal:</strong> "Aye."</p> <p><strong>CEO:</strong> "All opposed?"</p> <p><strong>VP R&D, VP Sales:</strong> "Nay."</p> <p><strong>CEO:</strong> "The ayes have it. Kumar, wind down that unit as soon as possible. I want you to provide an update to me and Frank in two weeks. Next on the agenda, market penetration into Indochina."</p> </blockquote> <p><em>End of excerpt.</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="/board-meeting-transcript">Interlude: An Excerpt</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/board-meeting-transcript">https://scpwiki.com/board-meeting-transcript</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]] [[/>]] //Excerpt from the transcript of Prometheus Labs board meeting on [DATE REMOVED]// > CEO, D. del Rey: "Now for the next piece of business: Dr. Wondertainment." > > CFO, A. Anderson: "Oh lord, what debacle has R&D involved itself in now?" > > VP of Research & Development, Dr. K. Prelambrian: "//ahem// We're about a month away from completing the reverse engineering of the additive supplements Wondertainment provides in those science kits, and we should be able to use them in production within three months-" > > COO, F. Park: "Assuming it doesn't blow up in your faces, like the last four times you've tried reverse engineering those damn things. What were they? The candy we were going to use to eliminate blood pathogens? The robots we were going to get A.I. kernels out of? > > VP R&D: "I am well aware of the less than outstanding results with regards to Wondertainment products, thank you. But as you well know, if we can adapt even one of their methods to our products, we could do, well, wonders." > > CFO: "And in the meantime you're burning through easily 15% of the budget on those damnable things. After that little... //incident// last year, we don't have the resources to keep funding projects that aren't producing." > > VP of Sales, J. Smith: "I don't have the exact numbers in front of me, but the market research department estimates that Wondertainment has sales in excess of thirty-seven million dollars per year. If we can adapt that into profit for //us//..." > > CEO: "There's another wrinkle to this that came up earlier this week. Jennifer, if you would?" > > VP of Legal Affairs, J. Wilkins, Esq.: "On Tuesday, we had a little message delivered to the production facility in Perth. Apparently we have a cease-and-desist from Wondertainment, in their usual //delightful// way. In short, if we don't stop trying to breach their trade secrets, they're going to sue us. Or as they so colorfully put it, 'get a visit from Mister Law-and-Order.' We already have enough trouble getting the production permits in Australia right now; the last thing we need is a major industrial espionage suit on our hands. I //strongly// recommend halting development on Wondertainment products." > > VP R&D: "What?! //NO!// Do you have any idea how close-" > > CEO: //(interrupting)// "Kumar, stop. You've already said your team is //at least// a month away from completion and frankly, we don't need another situation on our plate right now like what happened in Adelaide. I'm calling a formal vote to halt operations with regards to Wondertainment products and redirect resources to other product development. All in favor?" > > CEO, COO, CFO, VP Legal: "Aye." > > CEO: "All opposed?" > > VP R&D, VP Sales: "Nay." > > CEO: "The ayes have it. Kumar, wind down that unit as soon as possible. I want you to provide an update to me and Frank in two weeks. Next on the agenda, market penetration into Indochina." //End of excerpt.// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-30T00:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "corporate", "dr-wondertainment", "man-who-wasnt-there", "nyc2013", "prometheus", "tale" ]	Interlude: An Excerpt - SCP Foundation	71	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "prometheus-labs-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	16239196	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/board-meeting-transcript
breakfast-for-dinner	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Seriously you need to read <a href="/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet">The Place Where Two Rivers Meet</a> first</p> </blockquote> <p>Salah opened the door, and thanked God almighty that he was finally home. He hung his jacket on the hook and slipped his shoes off. Mary-Ann was at the stove, cooking.</p> <p>“So, how was it?”</p> <p>“It was. That’s about as much as I can say about it.” He walked over to her. Hug and a kiss. “Need any help?”</p> <p>“I’m good. Though I hope you’re in the mood for breakfast for dinner, because we’re having breakfast for dinner.”</p> <p>“Breakfast for dinner sounds fine. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”</p> <p>“Salah, chivalry is supposed to be dead. You’re supposed to be getting all offended that I, a woman, am doing such subservient domestic activities as cooking.”</p> <p>Salah smiled, and got the butter out of the refrigerator and syrup out of the cabinet.</p> <p>“So then, tell me how the newbies were.” Mary-Ann flipped the pancakes on the griddle one by one. “You get a fundie in your group?”</p> <p>“Just one this time.”</p> <p>“And?</p> <p>“Very conservative Christian, not entirely sure why he joined, but that’s a digression for another day. It was actually pretty funny, because I’d say something and when I looked over he had this constipated look, and I just knew he was this close to saying something offensive.”</p> <p>“How big did his eyes get when you showed him the dinosaur gospel?”</p> <p>“I thought he was going to have a heart attack.” Salah took two cups from the cupboard and filled them. Water in one, milk in the other.</p> <p>Mary-Ann laughed.</p> <p>"You told him the story of Blue-Feathers and the Tournament of Bright Autumn, right?"</p> <p>"Of course." Glasses on the table. "'Blue-Feathers, his crest at peak and teeth bared, roared challenge to the Black-And-Green Scale, so that they might meet on the field in single combat and settle the matter of the honor of She-Who-Tears-At-Furred-Ones. The battle would be by bone-spear, riding upon their beaked beasts, until one lay slain and the matter of honor had been sealed, and the line could then continue by her eggs.'"</p> <p>"Ah, so romantic."</p> <p>"Except for the part where they all die horrific gory deaths, the kingdom is toppled into war and chaos, and the resulting dark age continues for almost three centuries before the emergence of Softwalker."</p> <p>"We have the best job ever."</p> <p>Salah nodded.</p> <p>“That all said, the rest of the group was fine, nothing too unusual. Had an atheist in there, just for the tour. Scribes brought him in for consulting on the Fifth Church.”</p> <p>“He didn’t get in a fight with the fundie or anything, did he?”</p> <p>“No, he was actually quite pleasant. And Benson, the fundie, he’ll be fine. Just needs a few months.” Salah sat down.</p> <p>“Well, I had a pretty exciting day myself.” Mary-Ann set the plate of pancakes and bowl of scrambled eggs on the table and sat down. Salah looked across the table, eyes locked with his wife’s.</p> <p>“Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to tell me something important?”</p> <p>“Because you’re a perceptive and intelligent person. And also because I’m pregnant.”</p> <p>Salah blinked a few times, the words registering in his brain. Stunned flatness turned into a smile, into a grin, into a laugh, into a uproarious, gasping guffaw.</p> <p>"I…I don't even…I don't even know what to say," he wiped a tear from his eye. "I'm sorry, I…this is wonderful…I'm glad you got me to sit down first…thank God…"</p> <p>"You're totally going to brag when we go into work tomorrow."</p> <p>"Of course. Oh, so many things to do now. Living arrangements, making the announcement. And names, have to think of names…" Salah's expression became somber.</p> <p>"Something wrong?"</p> <p>"Just thinking ahead. Schooling, how we'll raise them. What holidays to celebrate in the house. All of that. You'll want her baptized, I presume, and I'm fine with that, but…"</p> <p>Mary-Ann placed her hand over his.</p> <p>"Salah, I wouldn't be where I am now if I wasn't able to compromise. Yeah, it's tricky. It's all tricky business. But, just look at what the Initiative's been able to do with the New Path and the Universal texts and all that. We could always go that way, raise them on the New Path. Or we could go for the trifecta and bring them up Jewish." She paused for a bit. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the most important thing is that you're a good person. The ritual's just the dressing on top, at the end of the day. God cares more about what's inside. Whatever we choose, I know we'll be doing what's best for our baby."</p> <p>Salah nodded, saying nothing.</p> <p>"And we don't have to decide just now. Let's eat first."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet">The Place Where Two Rivers Meet</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/crossing-the-streams">Crossing the Streams</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="/breakfast-for-dinner">Breakfast For Dinner</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/breakfast-for-dinner">https://scpwiki.com/breakfast-for-dinner</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]] [[/>]] > Seriously you need to read [[[The Place Where Two Rivers Meet]]] first Salah opened the door, and thanked God almighty that he was finally home. He hung his jacket on the hook and slipped his shoes off. Mary-Ann was at the stove, cooking. “So, how was it?” “It was. That’s about as much as I can say about it.” He walked over to her. Hug and a kiss. “Need any help?” “I’m good. Though I hope you’re in the mood for breakfast for dinner, because we’re having breakfast for dinner.” “Breakfast for dinner sounds fine. Are you sure you don’t need any help?” “Salah, chivalry is supposed to be dead. You’re supposed to be getting all offended that I, a woman, am doing such subservient domestic activities as cooking.” Salah smiled, and got the butter out of the refrigerator and syrup out of the cabinet. “So then, tell me how the newbies were.” Mary-Ann flipped the pancakes on the griddle one by one. “You get a fundie in your group?” “Just one this time.” “And? “Very conservative Christian, not entirely sure why he joined, but that’s a digression for another day. It was actually pretty funny, because I’d say something and when I looked over he had this constipated look, and I just knew he was this close to saying something offensive.” “How big did his eyes get when you showed him the dinosaur gospel?” “I thought he was going to have a heart attack.” Salah took two cups from the cupboard and filled them. Water in one, milk in the other. Mary-Ann laughed. "You told him the story of Blue-Feathers and the Tournament of Bright Autumn, right?" "Of course." Glasses on the table. "'Blue-Feathers, his crest at peak and teeth bared, roared challenge to the Black-And-Green Scale, so that they might meet on the field in single combat and settle the matter of the honor of She-Who-Tears-At-Furred-Ones. The battle would be by bone-spear, riding upon their beaked beasts, until one lay slain and the matter of honor had been sealed, and the line could then continue by her eggs.'" "Ah, so romantic." "Except for the part where they all die horrific gory deaths, the kingdom is toppled into war and chaos, and the resulting dark age continues for almost three centuries before the emergence of Softwalker." "We have the best job ever." Salah nodded. “That all said, the rest of the group was fine, nothing too unusual. Had an atheist in there, just for the tour. Scribes brought him in for consulting on the Fifth Church.” “He didn’t get in a fight with the fundie or anything, did he?” “No, he was actually quite pleasant. And Benson, the fundie, he’ll be fine. Just needs a few months.” Salah sat down. “Well, I had a pretty exciting day myself.” Mary-Ann set the plate of pancakes and bowl of scrambled eggs on the table and sat down. Salah looked across the table, eyes locked with his wife’s. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to tell me something important?” “Because you’re a perceptive and intelligent person. And also because I’m pregnant.” Salah blinked a few times, the words registering in his brain. Stunned flatness turned into a smile, into a grin, into a laugh, into a uproarious, gasping guffaw. "I...I don't even...I don't even know what to say," he wiped a tear from his eye. "I'm sorry, I...this is wonderful...I'm glad you got me to sit down first...thank God..." "You're totally going to brag when we go into work tomorrow." "Of course. Oh, so many things to do now. Living arrangements, making the announcement. And names, have to think of names..." Salah's expression became somber. "Something wrong?" "Just thinking ahead. Schooling, how we'll raise them. What holidays to celebrate in the house. All of that. You'll want her baptized, I presume, and I'm fine with that, but..." Mary-Ann placed her hand over his. "Salah, I wouldn't be where I am now if I wasn't able to compromise. Yeah, it's tricky. It's all tricky business. But, just look at what the Initiative's been able to do with the New Path and the Universal texts and all that. We could always go that way, raise them on the New Path. Or we could go for the trifecta and bring them up Jewish." She paused for a bit. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the most important thing is that you're a good person. The ritual's just the dressing on top, at the end of the day. God cares more about what's inside. Whatever we choose, I know we'll be doing what's best for our baby." Salah nodded, saying nothing. "And we don't have to decide just now. Let's eat first." [[=]] << [[[The Place Where Two Rivers Meet]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[Crossing the Streams]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-13T21:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "fifthist", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "romance", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Breakfast For Dinner - SCP Foundation	90	[ "the-place-where-two-rivers-meet", "etdp-hub-page", "crossing-the-streams", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "fifthist-hub", "etdp-hub-page" ]	[]	16398298	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/breakfast-for-dinner
breath-pulse-blood-spine	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Dec 20th</strong></p> <p>There's nothing quite like spending the holiday season in a non-crucial Foundation site. Were I still working at 17 I doubt I'd even notice, but you can't really miss it here in 346. All non-essential personnel are away, doing… whatever people do when they're not here, I suppose. Is it sad that I don't even really remember what that's like anymore? Just doing nothing, staying at home, seeing family. It's been a while. God, it's been a while.</p> <p>I'm not the only one staying here, of course. Security staff always stay in full capacity, and a few researchers always have to stick around in case a new Sub-Area appears. I wonder how many of us volunteered for the holiday shift. I wonder if I'm the only one.</p> <p><strong>Dec 21st</strong></p> <p>Been hanging around Sub-Area 13 today. I'm not exactly sure what drew me to that particular wing, but it certainly was a… unique experience. All of those beady plastic eyes, just staring at you from their shelves, and the sensations within them…brr. Colorful teddy bears with memories of the first World War. Fuzzy pink fur and blood soaked mud, cheerful little smiles and the stench of gangrened flesh. Squicking and screaming. Sometimes I can almost believe 921 is trying to tell us something. Then I listen to 921-2, and remember the entire thing is just a monument to pointless cryptic nonsense. <em>Twirling ash and candied strips, all but glimmers in a bullfrog's eye.</em> If that isn't just this place trying to fuck with me, I'm a monkey's uncle.</p> <p>I also saw something else while I was here. Stevenson and Nakamura, hiding between the shelves. Groping. Heh, I suppose that's why they didn't seem to mind staying here for the season. Good for them, really. At least someone around here is having fun.</p> <p>I wonder if I should call home. I wonder if anyone will be there to answer.</p> <p><strong>Dec 22nd</strong></p> <p>Head Researcher Sanders says we had a new Sub-Area appearing last night, somewhere around 24's natural thermal springs. No name from 921-2 yet, but I'm sure Ol' Dismembered Voice will come up with something suitably ominous-sounding. Sanders assigned Nakamura to do preliminary examination, but I said I'd do it instead. Honestly, I can think of worse ways of spending a day than exploring a new wing, and Nakamura, well, I'm sure she has plans. I don't. So, looks like tomorrow morning is spelunking time for kindly Dr. Levine. Sub-Area 24 is all pastoral nature scenes, and given how 921 usually works I assume this new place is going to be at least somewhat similar. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll have something to do with the sea. Haven't been to the ocean in years now. Would be nice to see it again. I'll be bringing my recording equipment with me, of course, so expect some nifty pictures!</p> <p>Who the hell am I talking to?</p> <p><strong>Dec 23rd</strong></p> <p>Ye God, this place is enormous. I saw how the others looked at me when they saw me packing my supplies, but I wasn't going to repeat that incident in the Chequered Tunnel. Nearly starving once is one time too many. Turns out I was right anyway, since this Sub-Area must be the largest we've found yet, so much so that it feels weird calling it a Sub-Area at all. You could fit a small town into this chamber, and that's only the parts I can see. I think there might even be daylight ahead. That would be a first.</p> <p>It's an odd place, even by SCP-921 standards. Walls are covered with this sort of- I dunno, liquid crystal, I suppose? Almost looks like moving ice. Swirling in elaborate patterns, sinking and rising with a kind of rhythm, like a vertical shining tide. Naturally I'm not going to touch it until I know exactly what it is, but I find watching it soothing. You can really get away from yourself, watching those patterns flow. You can almost forget where you are.</p> <p>The memories here are stored in these little alcoves in the walls, where the crystal doesn't touch, and they aren't at all what I expected them to be. Unless I'm missing something and memories from plague-times and pastoral nature scenes are suddenly thematically linked, there's no connection between this place and Sub-Area 24 even though the two are adjacent. Making it this day's second possible first, I guess. Heh. Whole thing makes me curious to see what else I can find in here. I suppose I could go back to the dormitories, but that's a few hours walk and I'll have to waste half of tomorrow just getting back here. No, I think I'll stay here for the night, nice and cozy in my sleeping bag. Not like anyone's going to miss me. Doubt they'll even notice, really.</p> <p><strong>Dec 24th</strong></p> <p>It was daylight. God.</p> <p>I've been with the Foundation for the last twenty-seven years. I've worked on seven SCP items. I've seen and heard things I doubt most people would even buy in a science fiction novel. And through all of that, I can't remember feeling such a sense of true wonder as when I saw the forest.</p> <p>There really shouldn't be anything here to make me feel that way. Not after… not after everything. Just a small wooded valley, and a road covered in snow, and some mailboxes poking out every once in a while like they've been planted there by some giant squirrel. This should be nothing to me, this is nothing to me.</p> <p>None of this makes any sense. Nothing about SCP-921 ever indicated there could be something like this in it. Sure, we found some large rooms before, but this- if this is a room, 921 is making a damn good job of disguising it. By all accounts I should go back right now, report this to my supervisor and get some actual experts to deal with this. I flunked the tests for the Paraworld Analysis Department, I was literally found unsuitable to go any further by some of the brightest minds in the world. But I'm… I'm not going to. Because this place, it does mean something to me.</p> <p>I feel like I'm home again.</p> <p>And that doesn't make any sense either. This isn't me! I've never lived anywhere even resembling this. My current place sure as hell doesn't. Nothing in this forest should be in any way familiar to me. And nothing really is. And yet, here I am, standing knee deep in snow, fumbling through mailboxes full of artist's dreams, most likely going to freeze to death come nightfall. That is, if night is even a thing here. And the memories, they're far more vivid than anything 921's other wings have to offer. In the inner rooms you always felt like you were watching things through a screen, or touching them through thick gloves. Nothing like that here. No barriers. I can feel the brush in my hand. I can hear each creak in the harp as my fingers weave a pattern on its strings, lightening fast. I can feel the razor parting flesh, warm bath waters filling the wound. I'm there, and it flows through me. My blood is its blood.</p> <p>December 24th today. You know what, fuck it. This is my Christmas present. For once, screw protocol, screw those Paraworld Dep asshats, and screw being myself! For once in my life, I'm going to see something through.</p> <p><strong>Dec 25th</strong></p> <p><em>I can't feel the cold. I've been walking most of the night through a snow-filled forest with not so much as a coat on, yet I feel nothing. Not tired either, and now that I think about it, I haven't eaten in more than a day. I just forgot. Why didn't I think about that? Why do my thoughts… seem so orderly, growing into a, a narrative? For how long now? I can't seem to get the frame right. It wants me to, it's in its nature. Who's 'it'? Why doesn't SCP-921-2 say anything anymore?</em></p> <p><em>No. Can't… can't think about that now. It's not time yet. Not there yet.</em></p> <p>Huh. Nodded off there for a minute. Must be tired, shouldn't have walked all night like that. Still, I'd say it's been worth it. God, look at that view.</p> <p>I reached the castle shortly after dawn, and it looks like it's the center of this… well, not sure if Sub-Area is even the right word to use anymore, but it's what I got. Anyway, it looks like for once the sensations here are what I expected them to be. In every stone there's a memory of conquest. It's odd how similar they are to those art memories I found in the forest earlier, now that I think about it. There's no restraint to be found anywhere around here, that's for sure. Each memory is so intense, so raw, and there's a whole building-worth of them. I'm surprised the thing can even stay in one place with such foundations. Like the pulse of a colossus, soon to awaken.</p> <p>You'd expect I'd be intimidated by all of this power, but… I'm really not. When I was working in 17 I was always on edge. Everything out there, every SCP, even the Safe-level stuff, they all felt so alien to me. We couldn't understand what made them tick, we didn't ever really know how to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do, we were never in control. This isn't the same. The power here… it's human. To its core. The liquid creativity I found in every mailbox, the sheer, burning ambition housed in every stone, it's all us. In a way, it's really quite encouraging. Because now I know that whatever the universe can throw at us, we can throw back harder. It's not us that should be scared. Why did I ever think it was right for us to hide under our rocks, to pretend none of this is real? We can do better. We can do so much better.</p> <p>There's something calling me. It was calling me ever since I first entered this Sub-Area, but I only just got close enough to really tell, I think. Something in the very rocks of this place. Tomorrow, I'll be going inside. Honestly, I can't wait.</p> <p><strong>Dec 26th…maybe? Am I counting the days now?</strong></p> <p><em>There is a new order in my mind. Thoughts become words, aligned in lines of occurrence, in pages of events, in volumes of a lifetime. Bits and pieces yet persevere in reckless chaos, but they are not long for this world. I shall not push them, for they will come in their own time, when they find what they seek. When they reach the end. Soon. Then… then, my tale could be told. At long last, my words will be heard.</em></p> <p>I'm… what was I doing again? I don't know if it's just lack of sleep, or if I'm coming down with something, but it's getting really difficult to keep focused. It's like most of my brain is busy doing other things, and I'm forced to deal with what's left. There are no records of SCP-921 ever doing something like this to anyone, but then again no one ever came this far into it. It doesn't really matter anyway. Any desire I had of going back faded when I entered this place. Back there, I was Mike Levine. Failed husband, failed father, failed researcher. In here… I don't have to be myself. In every vista I view, in every step I walk, in every breath I take, I become someone else. I dive into another memory, another… yeah, I suppose I can call them that. Another secret. Something about these memories elude my understanding. It's as if whoever they belong to went into a great deal of trouble to keep their true meaning hidden from anyone but themselves. But you know what?</p> <p>It doesn't matter. There's someone's world in each of them, and they are all so beautiful I am never more than a step away from crying like a little boy. And no two views are the same. The edges of a keyhole, as my eye spies on a pair of bodies writhing within. The distorted lens of my spyglass, as hands are shaken and lives exchange hands. The identity of the atom that would shatter worlds, trapped within the safety of my mind, until it is unleashed for all to see. Whispers and secrets, all of mankind's, all pass before me between blinks. Heh. Almost sounds poetic, if you don't think about it too hard.</p> <p>There's not much further to go on. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the last of it.</p> <p><em><strong>A Time to Tell</strong></em></p> <p>Sarah. I think I finally understand now. I think I can finally see why…heh. It's a bit too late now, isn't it. I can feel myself sinking into the floor of this final chamber, but I'm not afraid anymore. There's not really a me to be afraid. There's nothing that most people fear more than losing their sense of self, but me? I embrace it. I know that as soon as my head drops beneath this floor, there won't be much left of me, not as I was before at least. That's okay. The only thing I regret is that you'll never get to see what I saw, never get to live as I did these last couple of days. Oh, and being as bitter as I was. I regret that too. I think I… I think I want to go now.</p> <p>I think it's time to be someone else.</p> <p><em>I do understand. Why this place doesn't act like the rest of SCP-921. Why 921-2 never speaks here. Why I now think the way I do. Why I wouldn't go back.</em></p> <p><em>There are no walls here, beneath the end. Which is a bit funny, considering what he is. This whole place was built on his bones, but he has none left to shield him where he is weakest. I feel sorry for him, really.</em></p> <p><em>The Spine of the World, he calls himself. The Curator of Memories, He Who Remembers. It's a bit sad. I don't think even he buys all of those grand titles. He says he called me here because he felt a need in me, some desire to become something other than myself. That may be true. I suspect, however, the need was truly his. He just wanted to tell his first—his last tale. He wanted someone to listen, someone who could pass it on. Someone who would remember. It's all he ever wanted. This place made me into the book he needed me to be, the very way I think into a tool with which to document. To document what he cannot.</em></p> <p><em>They were four, when the knot was struck. Four torn by one man's arrogance, by a blade that was quick where the mind was not. Four, scattered to the wind by the sundering. Four, left to replace what was once their souls with bits and pieces of others, like ethereal parasites, each with a different preference. For years, for decades. For centuries. Four, who finally became something much more and much less than human. Four. He always repeats the number.</em></p> <p><em>One fed off ambition. In him was conquest, the desire to rule, and the ashes they leave in their wake, sometimes. He is Pulse.</em></p> <p><em>One fed off creativity. In her was art, the very spark of making, and the mire of madness that drowns them, sometimes. She is Blood.</em></p> <p><em>One fed off secrets. In him… well, no one knows. Such is the nature of secrets. He is Breath.</em></p> <p><em>One refused to feed. In him was everything, and nothing. He did not posses the brutality of the others, the will to take. All he ever wanted to do was to document. If he fed off anything at all, it was stories, sensations. Memories. He watched the others grow, and in his cave, he wept, for he knew they would ruin all that he sought to preserve in their hunger. And so, around him, he formed this place. A museum of memories. A time capsule, so that something may remain, so he could still tell his stories. And here, right near his heart, he built memorials for his brothers and sister. He is Spine.</em></p> <p><em>He cannot speak here. There is a bit of irony in that. His heart belongs to the others still, and so he must be silent where their spirits linger. And so, he called me here. So that their stories could be told, so that they could have a voice. He knows that they ever prepare themselves to war with each other, each with their own aspect, though he little understands why. He never could.</em></p> <p><em>But I can.</em></p> <p><em>He wants me to tell you their tales, for he cannot. And this, I shall do. He has molded my mind into a form that would be suitable for such a task, and indeed, it is. But he was wrong about one thing. When the telling is done, when the Spine of the World finally breaks, I shall not stand aside as he has. There is a convergence coming, a gathering of the aspects. They mean to finally settle whatever score lies between them, and they will stop at nothing to do so. He expects me to stand aside, and document. To watch as the culmination of humanity's unthinking wrath bends the world around it. As the stories burn. But I cannot.</em></p> <p><em>If there is to be a convergence, then I shall attend it. Not because he's forcing me to, or because I have to. Because I want to.</em></p> <p><em>Before coming here, I was alone. I was hanging on to routine like a drowning man to a sinking piece of mast. It wouldn't have lasted, not for much longer. I was surrounded by people, but they didn't see me. Worst, I didn't see them. It's so easy to forget that you're not the only one out there, that behind those porcelain masks we call faces there's a spark, in each of us. There's…humanity. The Spine showed me what the others would do, if given the chance. They would take away this spark, and pervert it. They never meant to, but that is what they will do. In their blindness, their single-mindedness, they will take humanity and make it into what I was, before I was called here- into masks with nothing behind them. Into a people with no stories to tell. The Spine seeks to prevent that by hoarding all the stories we already have, but he doesn't understand something very, very important. He doesn't understand the very thing that he made me understand, when he called me here.</em></p> <p><em>Stories are nothing if there's no one left to listen to them.</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="/breath-pulse-blood-spine">Breath, Pulse, Blood, Spine</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/breath-pulse-blood-spine">https://scpwiki.com/breath-pulse-blood-spine</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]] [[/>]] Dec 20th There's nothing quite like spending the holiday season in a non-crucial Foundation site. Were I still working at 17 I doubt I'd even notice, but you can't really miss it here in 346. All non-essential personnel are away, doing... whatever people do when they're not here, I suppose. Is it sad that I don't even really remember what that's like anymore? Just doing nothing, staying at home, seeing family. It's been a while. God, it's been a while. I'm not the only one staying here, of course. Security staff always stay in full capacity, and a few researchers always have to stick around in case a new Sub-Area appears. I wonder how many of us volunteered for the holiday shift. I wonder if I'm the only one. Dec 21st Been hanging around Sub-Area 13 today. I'm not exactly sure what drew me to that particular wing, but it certainly was a... unique experience. All of those beady plastic eyes, just staring at you from their shelves, and the sensations within them...brr. Colorful teddy bears with memories of the first World War. Fuzzy pink fur and blood soaked mud, cheerful little smiles and the stench of gangrened flesh. Squicking and screaming. Sometimes I can almost believe 921 is trying to tell us something. Then I listen to 921-2, and remember the entire thing is just a monument to pointless cryptic nonsense. //Twirling ash and candied strips, all but glimmers in a bullfrog's eye.// If that isn't just this place trying to fuck with me, I'm a monkey's uncle. I also saw something else while I was here. Stevenson and Nakamura, hiding between the shelves. Groping. Heh, I suppose that's why they didn't seem to mind staying here for the season. Good for them, really. At least someone around here is having fun. I wonder if I should call home. I wonder if anyone will be there to answer. Dec 22nd Head Researcher Sanders says we had a new Sub-Area appearing last night, somewhere around 24's natural thermal springs. No name from 921-2 yet, but I'm sure Ol' Dismembered Voice will come up with something suitably ominous-sounding. Sanders assigned Nakamura to do preliminary examination, but I said I'd do it instead. Honestly, I can think of worse ways of spending a day than exploring a new wing, and Nakamura, well, I'm sure she has plans. I don't. So, looks like tomorrow morning is spelunking time for kindly Dr. Levine. Sub-Area 24 is all pastoral nature scenes, and given how 921 usually works I assume this new place is going to be at least somewhat similar. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll have something to do with the sea. Haven't been to the ocean in years now. Would be nice to see it again. I'll be bringing my recording equipment with me, of course, so expect some nifty pictures! Who the hell am I talking to? Dec 23rd Ye God, this place is enormous. I saw how the others looked at me when they saw me packing my supplies, but I wasn't going to repeat that incident in the Chequered Tunnel. Nearly starving once is one time too many. Turns out I was right anyway, since this Sub-Area must be the largest we've found yet, so much so that it feels weird calling it a Sub-Area at all. You could fit a small town into this chamber, and that's only the parts I can see. I think there might even be daylight ahead. That would be a first. It's an odd place, even by SCP-921 standards. Walls are covered with this sort of- I dunno, liquid crystal, I suppose? Almost looks like moving ice. Swirling in elaborate patterns, sinking and rising with a kind of rhythm, like a vertical shining tide. Naturally I'm not going to touch it until I know exactly what it is, but I find watching it soothing. You can really get away from yourself, watching those patterns flow. You can almost forget where you are. The memories here are stored in these little alcoves in the walls, where the crystal doesn't touch, and they aren't at all what I expected them to be. Unless I'm missing something and memories from plague-times and pastoral nature scenes are suddenly thematically linked, there's no connection between this place and Sub-Area 24 even though the two are adjacent. Making it this day's second possible first, I guess. Heh. Whole thing makes me curious to see what else I can find in here. I suppose I could go back to the dormitories, but that's a few hours walk and I'll have to waste half of tomorrow just getting back here. No, I think I'll stay here for the night, nice and cozy in my sleeping bag. Not like anyone's going to miss me. Doubt they'll even notice, really. Dec 24th It was daylight. God. I've been with the Foundation for the last twenty-seven years. I've worked on seven SCP items. I've seen and heard things I doubt most people would even buy in a science fiction novel. And through all of that, I can't remember feeling such a sense of true wonder as when I saw the forest. There really shouldn't be anything here to make me feel that way. Not after... not after everything. Just a small wooded valley, and a road covered in snow, and some mailboxes poking out every once in a while like they've been planted there by some giant squirrel. This should be nothing to me, this is nothing to me. None of this makes any sense. Nothing about SCP-921 ever indicated there could be something like this in it. Sure, we found some large rooms before, but this- if this is a room, 921 is making a damn good job of disguising it. By all accounts I should go back right now, report this to my supervisor and get some actual experts to deal with this. I flunked the tests for the Paraworld Analysis Department, I was literally found unsuitable to go any further by some of the brightest minds in the world. But I'm... I'm not going to. Because this place, it does mean something to me. I feel like I'm home again. And that doesn't make any sense either. This isn't me! I've never lived anywhere even resembling this. My current place sure as hell doesn't. Nothing in this forest should be in any way familiar to me. And nothing really is. And yet, here I am, standing knee deep in snow, fumbling through mailboxes full of artist's dreams, most likely going to freeze to death come nightfall. That is, if night is even a thing here. And the memories, they're far more vivid than anything 921's other wings have to offer. In the inner rooms you always felt like you were watching things through a screen, or touching them through thick gloves. Nothing like that here. No barriers. I can feel the brush in my hand. I can hear each creak in the harp as my fingers weave a pattern on its strings, lightening fast. I can feel the razor parting flesh, warm bath waters filling the wound. I'm there, and it flows through me. My blood is its blood. December 24th today. You know what, fuck it. This is my Christmas present. For once, screw protocol, screw those Paraworld Dep asshats, and screw being myself! For once in my life, I'm going to see something through. Dec 25th //I can't feel the cold. I've been walking most of the night through a snow-filled forest with not so much as a coat on, yet I feel nothing. Not tired either, and now that I think about it, I haven't eaten in more than a day. I just forgot. Why didn't I think about that? Why do my thoughts... seem so orderly, growing into a, a narrative? For how long now? I can't seem to get the frame right. It wants me to, it's in its nature. Who's 'it'? Why doesn't SCP-921-2 say anything anymore?// //No. Can't... can't think about that now. It's not time yet. Not there yet.// Huh. Nodded off there for a minute. Must be tired, shouldn't have walked all night like that. Still, I'd say it's been worth it. God, look at that view. I reached the castle shortly after dawn, and it looks like it's the center of this... well, not sure if Sub-Area is even the right word to use anymore, but it's what I got. Anyway, it looks like for once the sensations here are what I expected them to be. In every stone there's a memory of conquest. It's odd how similar they are to those art memories I found in the forest earlier, now that I think about it. There's no restraint to be found anywhere around here, that's for sure. Each memory is so intense, so raw, and there's a whole building-worth of them. I'm surprised the thing can even stay in one place with such foundations. Like the pulse of a colossus, soon to awaken. You'd expect I'd be intimidated by all of this power, but... I'm really not. When I was working in 17 I was always on edge. Everything out there, every SCP, even the Safe-level stuff, they all felt so alien to me. We couldn't understand what made them tick, we didn't ever really know how to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do, we were never in control. This isn't the same. The power here... it's human. To its core. The liquid creativity I found in every mailbox, the sheer, burning ambition housed in every stone, it's all us. In a way, it's really quite encouraging. Because now I know that whatever the universe can throw at us, we can throw back harder. It's not us that should be scared. Why did I ever think it was right for us to hide under our rocks, to pretend none of this is real? We can do better. We can do so much better. There's something calling me. It was calling me ever since I first entered this Sub-Area, but I only just got close enough to really tell, I think. Something in the very rocks of this place. Tomorrow, I'll be going inside. Honestly, I can't wait. Dec 26th...maybe? Am I counting the days now? //There is a new order in my mind. Thoughts become words, aligned in lines of occurrence, in pages of events, in volumes of a lifetime. Bits and pieces yet persevere in reckless chaos, but they are not long for this world. I shall not push them, for they will come in their own time, when they find what they seek. When they reach the end. Soon. Then... then, my tale could be told. At long last, my words will be heard.// I'm... what was I doing again? I don't know if it's just lack of sleep, or if I'm coming down with something, but it's getting really difficult to keep focused. It's like most of my brain is busy doing other things, and I'm forced to deal with what's left. There are no records of SCP-921 ever doing something like this to anyone, but then again no one ever came this far into it. It doesn't really matter anyway. Any desire I had of going back faded when I entered this place. Back there, I was Mike Levine. Failed husband, failed father, failed researcher. In here... I don't have to be myself. In every vista I view, in every step I walk, in every breath I take, I become someone else. I dive into another memory, another... yeah, I suppose I can call them that. Another secret. Something about these memories elude my understanding. It's as if whoever they belong to went into a great deal of trouble to keep their true meaning hidden from anyone but themselves. But you know what? It doesn't matter. There's someone's world in each of them, and they are all so beautiful I am never more than a step away from crying like a little boy. And no two views are the same. The edges of a keyhole, as my eye spies on a pair of bodies writhing within. The distorted lens of my spyglass, as hands are shaken and lives exchange hands. The identity of the atom that would shatter worlds, trapped within the safety of my mind, until it is unleashed for all to see. Whispers and secrets, all of mankind's, all pass before me between blinks. Heh. Almost sounds poetic, if you don't think about it too hard. There's not much further to go on. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the last of it. //A Time to Tell// Sarah. I think I finally understand now. I think I can finally see why...heh. It's a bit too late now, isn't it. I can feel myself sinking into the floor of this final chamber, but I'm not afraid anymore. There's not really a me to be afraid. There's nothing that most people fear more than losing their sense of self, but me? I embrace it. I know that as soon as my head drops beneath this floor, there won't be much left of me, not as I was before at least. That's okay. The only thing I regret is that you'll never get to see what I saw, never get to live as I did these last couple of days. Oh, and being as bitter as I was. I regret that too. I think I... I think I want to go now. I think it's time to be someone else. //I do understand. Why this place doesn't act like the rest of SCP-921. Why 921-2 never speaks here. Why I now think the way I do. Why I wouldn't go back.// //There are no walls here, beneath the end. Which is a bit funny, considering what he is. This whole place was built on his bones, but he has none left to shield him where he is weakest. I feel sorry for him, really.// //The Spine of the World, he calls himself. The Curator of Memories, He Who Remembers. It's a bit sad. I don't think even he buys all of those grand titles. He says he called me here because he felt a need in me, some desire to become something other than myself. That may be true. I suspect, however, the need was truly his. He just wanted to tell his first—his last tale. He wanted someone to listen, someone who could pass it on. Someone who would remember. It's all he ever wanted. This place made me into the book he needed me to be, the very way I think into a tool with which to document. To document what he cannot.// //They were four, when the knot was struck. Four torn by one man's arrogance, by a blade that was quick where the mind was not. Four, scattered to the wind by the sundering. Four, left to replace what was once their souls with bits and pieces of others, like ethereal parasites, each with a different preference. For years, for decades. For centuries. Four, who finally became something much more and much less than human. Four. He always repeats the number.// //One fed off ambition. In him was conquest, the desire to rule, and the ashes they leave in their wake, sometimes. He is Pulse.// //One fed off creativity. In her was art, the very spark of making, and the mire of madness that drowns them, sometimes. She is Blood.// //One fed off secrets. In him... well, no one knows. Such is the nature of secrets. He is Breath.// //One refused to feed. In him was everything, and nothing. He did not posses the brutality of the others, the will to take. All he ever wanted to do was to document. If he fed off anything at all, it was stories, sensations. Memories. He watched the others grow, and in his cave, he wept, for he knew they would ruin all that he sought to preserve in their hunger. And so, around him, he formed this place. A museum of memories. A time capsule, so that something may remain, so he could still tell his stories. And here, right near his heart, he built memorials for his brothers and sister. He is Spine.// //He cannot speak here. There is a bit of irony in that. His heart belongs to the others still, and so he must be silent where their spirits linger. And so, he called me here. So that their stories could be told, so that they could have a voice. He knows that they ever prepare themselves to war with each other, each with their own aspect, though he little understands why. He never could.// //But I can.// //He wants me to tell you their tales, for he cannot. And this, I shall do. He has molded my mind into a form that would be suitable for such a task, and indeed, it is. But he was wrong about one thing. When the telling is done, when the Spine of the World finally breaks, I shall not stand aside as he has. There is a convergence coming, a gathering of the aspects. They mean to finally settle whatever score lies between them, and they will stop at nothing to do so. He expects me to stand aside, and document. To watch as the culmination of humanity's unthinking wrath bends the world around it. As the stories burn. But I cannot.// //If there is to be a convergence, then I shall attend it. Not because he's forcing me to, or because I have to. Because I want to.// //Before coming here, I was alone. I was hanging on to routine like a drowning man to a sinking piece of mast. It wouldn't have lasted, not for much longer. I was surrounded by people, but they didn't see me. Worst, I didn't see them. It's so easy to forget that you're not the only one out there, that behind those porcelain masks we call faces there's a spark, in each of us. There's...humanity. The Spine showed me what the others would do, if given the chance. They would take away this spark, and pervert it. They never meant to, but that is what they will do. In their blindness, their single-mindedness, they will take humanity and make it into what I was, before I was called here- into masks with nothing behind them. Into a people with no stories to tell. The Spine seeks to prevent that by hoarding all the stories we already have, but he doesn't understand something very, very important. He doesn't understand the very thing that he made me understand, when he called me here.// //Stories are nothing if there's no one left to listen to them.// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-07T20:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "adventure", "featured", "first-person", "journal", "otherworldly", "tale" ]	Breath, Pulse, Blood, Spine - SCP Foundation	91	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	19174223	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/breath-pulse-blood-spine
bronze	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>There was a cataclysmic reshuffling of the deck. Something very far away had been broken, first on that most basal of structural scales — the atomic nucleus — and then on a much more macroscopic and aesthetic scale — land, sky, composite stone, and refined metal. Beams and boards splintered. Foundations cracked and craters formed.</p> <p>Several seconds later, something else far and nearby broke open. There was a Way in the wall of the laboratory, haphazardly structured and clearly unintended. Smoke, steam and ash billowed through the hole from the other side, as was now both allowed and required by the air pressure differential. Severed wiring on the rims of the hole fizzled. The desert's stillness was broken, and irreparably broken at that.</p> <p>Several minutes later, the emergency lights and fire suppression systems in the laboratory came back online. Though not purposeful, a cloud of chilled carbon dioxide spilled onto the desert sands and dissipated. The fires inside were put out, but the sun outside burnt on.</p> <p>Several hours later, if one strained one's hearing, the distant thrum of one or many motorized vehicles was apparent in the regions surrounding the laboratory chamber, even through the Way. If one used artificial enhancements, one would hear shouting. Maybe even slamming doors and the tapping of toes.</p> <p>Several days later, after much preparation and forethought, a hand in possession of six fingers and mottled ashy skin probed through and gripped the side of the Way. Wrapped in a rubber glove, it was joined on the other edge of the breach by its mate. A lean, towering humanoid figure vaulted itself through the hole. Feé˜fo˜panp's booted feet sunk into the sand to his ankles, and he shifted his weight so he would not sink any deeper. His reflective, protective full-body suit twinkled.</p> <p>His earwig crackled into life. "<em>All clear. Getting readings now.</em>" He waited. "<em>Readings check out. Environmental conditions not harmful to life. No life present.</em>"</p> <p>"<em>No life at all? Describe the nature of the new area,</em>" a tinny voice piped through the electric umbilicus springing from the back of his suit.</p> <p>"<em>Desert as far as I can see. Temperature of 1080 Pwu. Altitude indeterminate." He paused, squinting at the sky with his myriad instruments. "…The sun isn't moving. This isn't Praveal.</em>"</p> <p>"<em>Bureran that. Okay, turn to face the realized window. What does it look like on your side?</em>"</p> <p>The giant complied. "<em>Same shape, same depth on the inside, zero depth on the outside. A direct connection.</em>"</p> <p>"<em>Okay, come on back. Watch the drop.</em>"</p> <p>"<em>Bureran.</em>" His nimble, elongated fingers grasped at the ragged edges of the Way and with a mighty chin-up he pulled himself up, into, and through it.</p> <hr/> <p>Scientists young, old and ancient watched as Feé˜fo˜panp fell back through the hole in the top of the laboratory wall, briefly obscuring the clear blue sky behind him. He was scanned, his cable was disconnected, and Rad-Squad took him through the secondary airlock to decontamination. The data was sent to be analysed.</p> <p>Several minutes later, the data returned from analysis. Everything was clean. The scientists left the room as it was sealed off and filled with expanding sealant foam, from the bronze-inlaid floor to the vaulted ceiling.</p> <p>"<em>Walk with me,</em>" said the scientist of the most advanced age.</p> <p>"<em>…</em>" all said.</p> <p>"<em>…What do you suppose we do with it?</em>" spoke a middle-aged scientist.</p> <p>"<em>…</em>" all said.</p> <p>"<em>Research.</em>" An older scientist proposed.</p> <p>"<em>…and development?</em>" A slightly younger scientist queried.</p> <p>"<em>Research and development,</em>" all agreed.</p> <p>"<em>—and development.</em>" said the youngest researcher.</p> <hr/> <p>Several weeks later, the Way was unsealed.</p> <p>Several months later, the area through the Way had been fitted with personnel transport pads, railways, barracks, labyrinthine facilities, and a production command center. The last of these was by far the grandest structure. Eighty-one-hundred ˜Reiuqù tall, an utterly massive gray building oversaw the desert. A pyramid, at least from the outside, with two enormous spheres of beryllium bronze which hung like balloons in the air and connected by thin pipes. The structure was constructed of the standard Codalitao protein, which was what made it such a genius feat of engineering. Chalk it up to the pressure, the temperature, or the gravity, but it was amazing that it worked. Using the absolute best in dysdimensional protein folding had allowed the Pravealeaons to construct a factory facility inside that far exceeded the size of the pyramid in all eight directions. In its gut was the Way.</p> <p>Several years later, the factory ended production owing to a sudden and total lack of employees. All non-essential materials were scavenged and harvested thereafter.</p> <hr/> <p>Several millennia later, there was an admittedly quite minor reshuffling of the deck along the eastern seaboard, and an organization devoted to protecting normalcy uncovered the factory. Several years later, they reopened it.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Addendum:</strong><br/> Date: 03/18/19<br/> Recent advancements in dematerialization science and containment techniques have allowed for the successful unfolding of protein P-17392-1 AKA "pyramitin." Procedures to unfold said protein as it occurs in SCP-1216-3 are to begin shortly.</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p><strong>Addendum:</strong><br/> Date: 03/21/19<br/> RCOC considered a loss. Lenox considered a loss. SCP-1216 upgraded to Keter effective immediately.</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="/bronze">Bronze</a>" by DrBerggren, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bronze">https://scpwiki.com/bronze</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 was a cataclysmic reshuffling of the deck. Something very far away had been broken, first on that most basal of structural scales — the atomic nucleus — and then on a much more macroscopic and aesthetic scale — land, sky, composite stone, and refined metal. Beams and boards splintered. Foundations cracked and craters formed. Several seconds later, something else far and nearby broke open. There was a Way in the wall of the laboratory, haphazardly structured and clearly unintended. Smoke, steam and ash billowed through the hole from the other side, as was now both allowed and required by the air pressure differential. Severed wiring on the rims of the hole fizzled. The desert's stillness was broken, and irreparably broken at that. Several minutes later, the emergency lights and fire suppression systems in the laboratory came back online. Though not purposeful, a cloud of chilled carbon dioxide spilled onto the desert sands and dissipated. The fires inside were put out, but the sun outside burnt on. Several hours later, if one strained one's hearing, the distant thrum of one or many motorized vehicles was apparent in the regions surrounding the laboratory chamber, even through the Way. If one used artificial enhancements, one would hear shouting. Maybe even slamming doors and the tapping of toes. Several days later, after much preparation and forethought, a hand in possession of six fingers and mottled ashy skin probed through and gripped the side of the Way. Wrapped in a rubber glove, it was joined on the other edge of the breach by its mate. A lean, towering humanoid figure vaulted itself through the hole. Feé˜fo˜panp's booted feet sunk into the sand to his ankles, and he shifted his weight so he would not sink any deeper. His reflective, protective full-body suit twinkled. His earwig crackled into life. "//All clear. Getting readings now.//" He waited. "//Readings check out. Environmental conditions not harmful to life. No life present.//" "//No life at all? Describe the nature of the new area,//" a tinny voice piped through the electric umbilicus springing from the back of his suit. "//Desert as far as I can see. Temperature of 1080 Pwu. Altitude indeterminate." He paused, squinting at the sky with his myriad instruments. "...The sun isn't moving. This isn't Praveal.//" "//Bureran that. Okay, turn to face the realized window. What does it look like on your side?//" The giant complied. "//Same shape, same depth on the inside, zero depth on the outside. A direct connection.//" "//Okay, come on back. Watch the drop.//" "//Bureran.//" His nimble, elongated fingers grasped at the ragged edges of the Way and with a mighty chin-up he pulled himself up, into, and through it. ---- Scientists young, old and ancient watched as Feé˜fo˜panp fell back through the hole in the top of the laboratory wall, briefly obscuring the clear blue sky behind him. He was scanned, his cable was disconnected, and Rad-Squad took him through the secondary airlock to decontamination. The data was sent to be analysed. Several minutes later, the data returned from analysis. Everything was clean. The scientists left the room as it was sealed off and filled with expanding sealant foam, from the bronze-inlaid floor to the vaulted ceiling. "//Walk with me,//" said the scientist of the most advanced age. "//...//" all said. "//...What do you suppose we do with it?//" spoke a middle-aged scientist. "//...//" all said. "//Research.//" An older scientist proposed. "//...and development?//" A slightly younger scientist queried. "//Research and development,//" all agreed. "//—and development.//" said the youngest researcher. ---- Several weeks later, the Way was unsealed. Several months later, the area through the Way had been fitted with personnel transport pads, railways, barracks, labyrinthine facilities, and a production command center. The last of these was by far the grandest structure. Eighty-one-hundred ˜Reiuqù tall, an utterly massive gray building oversaw the desert. A pyramid, at least from the outside, with two enormous spheres of beryllium bronze which hung like balloons in the air and connected by thin pipes. The structure was constructed of the standard Codalitao protein, which was what made it such a genius feat of engineering. Chalk it up to the pressure, the temperature, or the gravity, but it was amazing that it worked. Using the absolute best in dysdimensional protein folding had allowed the Pravealeaons to construct a factory facility inside that far exceeded the size of the pyramid in all eight directions. In its gut was the Way. Several years later, the factory ended production owing to a sudden and total lack of employees. All non-essential materials were scavenged and harvested thereafter. ---- Several millennia later, there was an admittedly quite minor reshuffling of the deck along the eastern seaboard, and an organization devoted to protecting normalcy uncovered the factory. Several years later, they reopened it. > Addendum: > Date: 03/18/19 > Recent advancements in dematerialization science and containment techniques have allowed for the successful unfolding of protein P-17392-1 AKA "pyramitin." Procedures to unfold said protein as it occurs in SCP-1216-3 are to begin shortly. > Addendum: > Date: 03/21/19 > RCOC considered a loss. Lenox considered a loss. SCP-1216 upgraded to Keter effective immediately. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-19T23:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Bronze - SCP Foundation	24	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19325944	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bronze
bugs	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> Given a continuous vector field on the surface of a sphere, there must be at least one point on the field where the vector is equal to zero. <p>Put another way, if you have a sphere which is covered in hair, it is impossible to comb all of it flat. There will always be those points where the hair converges and stands up. It happens a lot in computing. You know when you’re playing a game, and you look really closely near the edges of one of the models, or in some place the developer tried to tuck away where you wouldn’t notice it, and you see the texture kind of shrinks down to a point? It’s more or less the same principle.</p> <p>It doesn’t just happen in graphics either. Sometimes, when you try to implement a physics system, sometimes all of the numbers converge on the edge of the area you’re coding for. In version 1, that was at the poles of the sphere. I assumed no one would notice because there’s nothing of value at the poles (I did that on purpose) and they’re cold and desolate besides.</p> <p>They decided to check the poles anyway. It caused a big system crash, and not only did I have to reset everything, I spent weeks untangling the physics system to try and get rid of it.</p> <p>Failing that, I did the next best thing in version 2. I moved it. Tweaked it a little bit too, slapped a few repeating grass textures outside, and sewed the edges around it together so that there’s no way to get to it from the outside.</p> <p>Not that I didn’t have a little fun with it. I took a few things and played with them for a while, tried to see how the glitch affected them. I made a little glitch town, populated it with little glitch people, to see how they would cope.</p> <p>They didn’t.</p> <p>Over time, the glitch became a little testing ground. Sometimes, before implementing something new, I drop it in there, see how well it holds up under the extreme physical conditions. Some of them don’t make it, but it’s a fairly hostile environment. I don’t blame them. I’ll just put them out somewhere else, and see how they react under normal circumstances. Just a few weird things. Some gears. A moving statue. A giant lizard monster.</p> <p>I have a lot of fun with these guys, too. Sometimes they’ll wreck a few things I’d set up earlier, but the program seems pretty good at repairing itself. I usually have to override a few functions, but it’s definitely worth it, just to see how the rest reacts, having been thrown something it doesn’t understand.</p> <p>I don’t think anyone will notice.<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="/bugs">Bugs</a>" by giant enemy spycrab, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/bugs">https://scpwiki.com/bugs</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]] [[/>]] Given a continuous vector field on the surface of a sphere, there must be at least one point on the field where the vector is equal to zero. Put another way, if you have a sphere which is covered in hair, it is impossible to comb all of it flat. There will always be those points where the hair converges and stands up. It happens a lot in computing. You know when you’re playing a game, and you look really closely near the edges of one of the models, or in some place the developer tried to tuck away where you wouldn’t notice it, and you see the texture kind of shrinks down to a point? It’s more or less the same principle. It doesn’t just happen in graphics either. Sometimes, when you try to implement a physics system, sometimes all of the numbers converge on the edge of the area you’re coding for. In version 1, that was at the poles of the sphere. I assumed no one would notice because there’s nothing of value at the poles (I did that on purpose) and they’re cold and desolate besides. They decided to check the poles anyway. It caused a big system crash, and not only did I have to reset everything, I spent weeks untangling the physics system to try and get rid of it. Failing that, I did the next best thing in version 2. I moved it. Tweaked it a little bit too, slapped a few repeating grass textures outside, and sewed the edges around it together so that there’s no way to get to it from the outside. Not that I didn’t have a little fun with it. I took a few things and played with them for a while, tried to see how the glitch affected them. I made a little glitch town, populated it with little glitch people, to see how they would cope. They didn’t. Over time, the glitch became a little testing ground. Sometimes, before implementing something new, I drop it in there, see how well it holds up under the extreme physical conditions. Some of them don’t make it, but it’s a fairly hostile environment. I don’t blame them. I’ll just put them out somewhere else, and see how they react under normal circumstances. Just a few weird things. Some gears. A moving statue. A giant lizard monster. I have a lot of fun with these guys, too. Sometimes they’ll wreck a few things I’d set up earlier, but the program seems pretty good at repairing itself. I usually have to override a few functions, but it’s definitely worth it, just to see how the rest reacts, having been thrown something it doesn’t understand. I don’t think anyone will notice. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-14T17:45:00	[ "_licensebox", "five-questions", "tale" ]	Bugs - SCP Foundation	127	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "five-questions", "archived:foundation-tales", "contest-archive" ]	[]	16758775	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/bugs
by-one-iota	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Deep in the catacombs beneath Overwatch Cathedral, there was a cavernous and isolated chamber at the end of a long hallway. The historians of the Holy Foundation could only guess at what purpose it might have held before the Great Breach - some claimed it had been a storage room, some an auditorium, some a shelter, others the containment chamber of one of the demons the ancients had contained before the world was consumed. No sound penetrated its walls, and it took five strong men to open or close the mighty steel door (which not everyone agreed had originally been part of the room) that offered the only means of entrance or exit. Few but the highest ranking members of the clergy knew it even existed, let alone the path to reach it, and none could breach its doors but by satisfying the Omega Guard that they had a right to be there, for this was the heart of the Overwatch itself - the meeting place of the Council of Thirteen, the Doctors of the Church, the vicars of Bright.</p> <p>As one passed through the grand doorway, he would see all three walls before him covered with grand tapestries, sewn over decades by the D-Caste and the deacons who oversaw their work at portraying the history of the Holy Foundation. On the left wall, the tapestries portrayed the legends of the ancient world, before the Great Breach. St. Alto staring down the great dragon and feeding the multitudes from a steaming pot of soup, St. Konn the Vampire-Slayer testing his steel against the duke of the strigoi, St. Canis Corvin educating the False War-God, and in the center of the wall the First Resurrection of the Lord Bright, holding the Holy Amulet above His head. To the right, the tapestries depicted the Great Breach and the degradations that occurred in those days, the fall of the ancient temple, and the rising of the Holy Foundation, with the Lord Bright, again in the center of the wall, flanked by His saints as they stood triumphantly over the corpse of the great dragon and the rubble of the statue that He Himself had smashed to bits in his rage over the death of St. Agatha. On the opposite wall, the art portrayed the Holy Foundation as it existed today - educating the civilians, carrying word of the Holy Containment Procedures to all corners of the world, keeping the ancient evils sealed. In the center of that wall was the hope for the future - a shining silver city, greater than any that had stood before the breach, over which Lord Bright looked with a smile.</p> <p>Beneath this tapestry, there sat against a wall a great throne of mahogany and leather, decorated with gems and holy icons, preserved and restored throughout the centuries for the Father of the Foundation, His Holiness the Lord Jack Bright, whose amulet sat in a glass case upon the throne in His stead. Thirteen lesser chairs before thirteen desks sat arranged in a semicircle facing the chair. Today, ten of the chairs were occupied by old men and women, the Cardinal Doctors who had given their lives in service and risen through the ranks of the church to become members of the Council of Thirteen. Two of the Omega Guard flanked the door to ensure that none trespassed on the meeting. One of the men near the left end of the semicircle rose and spoke to the others.</p> <p>"I, the Second," he said, for in this chamber it was their custom to refer to themselves by number rather than name, "hereby call this meeting of the Council of Thirteen to order in the name of the First, who has passed away this last winter and is absent. Cardinal Doctors Two, Three, Four, Six, Seven, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen present. The Twelfth has agreed to lead us in prayer."</p> <p>The Second seated himself as the Twelfth rose from her seat and bowed her head. "Lord Bright," she began as the others lowered their heads as well, "forgive us today for the transgression we are about to commit against You. Know that we mean no disgrace or disrespect in our hearts, and that we commit these deeds to understand Your glory and to further carry out Your will, as we do in all things. Forgive those who serve us today and take part in these acts at our orders, for they seek only to serve and to honor You and Your Foundation. Bless us with Your wisdom and keep us safe, that our children may know a world free from the terrors of the Expunged. Amen."</p> <p>"Amen," the other nine agreed as the Twelfth seated herself. A moment passed in silence as each of the ten waited for one of the others to take action, for it had been over a hundred years since the Council of Thirteen last found this course of action necessary, and though they had all agreed it was the only way, each of them had their doubts.</p> <p>"Perhaps," suggested the Sixth timidly, "we should conduct the vote once more before we begin?"</p> <p>"Indeed," the Second said. "It would be a shame to discover too late that this proceeding is unnecessary. Please cast your votes on the question at hand in the traditional manner." One of the guardsmen left his post at the door and picked up a large box with a slot on top. As he walked around the table, each of the cardinals wrote their vote on a slip of paper and dropped it into the box. After a few minutes had passed, the guardsman returned to the door and opened the box, where he and his partner removed the slips and tallied the votes one by one.</p> <p>"The vote remains tied," announced the guardsman. "Five for one, five for the other."</p> <p>"Then we must proceed," the Second said, "and Bright have mercy on us all. Guard! Our guests may enter now."</p> <p>The guardsman approached the door and knocked on it in the agreed-upon pattern - three short knocks in rapid succession, followed after a brief pause by a hard knock, a short knock, another hard knock, and another short knock, followed after another pause by a short knock, two hard knocks, and a short knock. The door rumbled and opened slowly as it was pushed from the other side. A half dozen Omega Guards entered - two carrying a table between them, two carrying several heavy chains and ropes, and the other two leading a D-Caste, stripped to his loincloth. The D-Caste had been specially prepared for the day's ritual - starved and emaciated, his teeth pulled and fingernails removed, and he looked to the assembled cardinals only a few days away from death. The assembled leaders of the Holy Foundation watched in silence as the table was set between the semicircle of desks and the throne, the D-Caste was laid on it and bound with the chains, and the guardsmen pulled the hoods of their black robes over their heads and tied them closed so that only their eyes were visible.</p> <p>"Do you know why you have been brought here today, D-34029132?" asked the Thirteenth.</p> <p>"Yes, my lord," replied the bound man.</p> <p>"And have you agreed to this rite willingly?"</p> <p>"Yes, my lord."</p> <p>"Are you ready to give up your life in the name of your church and your Lord?"</p> <p>The D-Caste paused. "Yes, my lord."</p> <p>The Thirteenth turned his gaze to the guardsmen. "Make sure the ropes and chains remain taut and that he does not attempt to hurt himself. If you must restrain him physically, do not hesitate to do so. There is no sin in any of the actions you have been asked to perform today - and though He may test you with His cries and protestations, remember that the Lord loves you and will forgive you."</p> <p>The Second nodded. "Now, please proceed." The cardinals rose from their seats and watched attentively as five of the guards took their places around the D-Caste. The sixth guard approached the throne and reverently picked up the glass case containing the Lord Bright's amulet before taking his own place at the head of the table. Another guardsman reached out and removed the top from the case. As the other five tucked their hands into their robes to prevent any accidental contact, the guard holding the case turned it upside down, and the Holy Amulet fell out and landed on the chained man's chest.</p> <p>The late Cardinal Doctor Anders Clef, who had been present when the Lord Bright was summoned to the Synod of New Denver in 237, had written in his memoirs that the expression on His face when He appeared was always one of confusion - the shock of finding Himself in a new host, and trying to figure out where and when He had found Himself. None of the men and women watching would have disagreed with that assessment, for no sooner did the Holy Amulet strike the D-Caste than his demeanor changed. The chained man groaned and tried to pull at his bonds to no avail, his eyes darting around the room as he took in the people and decorations around him. The cardinals watched in silence as he tried to bite off his tongue, dislocate his joints, break his limbs by bashing them against the table - all in vain, courtesy of the amendments made to the Holy Procedures centuries ago to prevent the Lord Bright from taking His leave if His earthly presence was required. As He resigned himself to being once again in a body of flesh and bone, He set his eyes on the Ninth, who had produced from his robes a scroll bearing the holiest of the Holy Procedures, those relating to the Amulet itself, and He spoke.</p> <p>"I like what you've done with the cafeteria."</p> <p>"Could you please tell me your name?" asked the Ninth, reading from the scroll. "I believe you are Tom Higly, working for us as part of your life sentence."</p> <p>"Cut the crap," the chained man said with a sigh. "You know who I am, and you know I've been through this little ceremony enough times to wish I'd never come up with it."</p> <p>The Ninth looked to his compatriots, who nodded their agreement that they could proceed. "The rite is successful!" he proclaimed. "Praise be to the Lord Bright!"</p> <p>"Praise be to the Lord Bright!" shouted the assembled cardinals and guards.</p> <p>"Aaah!" Lord Bright shouted. "Not so loud. This body must have the mother of all hangovers."</p> <p>"Forgive us, Lord Bright," the Second said. "The Procedures state that the host body's reflexes are to be dulled with alcohol before the ritual."</p> <p>"Uh-huh," Lord Bright said. "New Holy Procedure; next time, save the alcohol for <em>after</em> you wake me up. Somebody write that down."</p> <p>"It would be my honor, Lord," the Thirteenth said.</p> <p>"And haven't you guys had some sort of renaissance or reformation or scientific awakening yet? What year is it this time?"</p> <p>"It is the year 698 After the Breach, Lord."</p> <p>Lord Bright sighed again as he looked at the men assembled before him. "I thought you would've re-invented pants by now. Anyway, it's been nice chatting, but I'm sick of this place and I'm sick of you. Guard, be a dear and strangle me so I can get back to my nap."</p> <p>"Forgive us, Lord Bright," the Second said, "but we must beg Your indulgence for a short time longer. A great… difficulty has arisen that threatens to tear our Holy Foundation apart, and we can find no authority greater than Yourself capable of settling this matter."</p> <p>"Goddammit," Lord Bright said. "You guys really need to start thinking for yourself. Alright, what is it? Containment breach? D-Class rebellion? Are the Serpent's Hand back?"</p> <p>"No, Lord Bright," the Second answered. "It is… a matter of theology. One of great importance, that this Council has been unable to resolve."</p> <p>Bright groaned. "'Restart the Foundation as a church,' Clef said. 'It'll make sense to scientifically illiterate peasants rebuilding society,' Clef said. Well, what's the issue?"</p> <p>"It would seem that the Sites and Areas in the eastern lands," the Second said, "began teaching an interpretation of the Gospel According To Everett several years ago which is quite different than that which has been maintained here in the heartlands. This… interpretation," he said so as to not upset certain of his peers, "has spread to Overwatch itself, and a great deal of strife has broken out among our many churches and outposts regarding which is the true and correct belief. We fear it may come to outright war, and thus we resolved to have a vote amongst ourselves and determine which is the one true interpretation. Unfortunately, we have become deadlocked, five to five."</p> <p>"That's why there are supposed to be thirteen O5s," Lord Bright said. "Did you need to wake me up just to remind you that those chairs aren't <em>supposed</em> to be empty?"</p> <p>"They are not empty by design, Lord Bright," interrupted the Tenth. "The First and the Eighth succumbed to the plague during the long winter, and the Fifth is currently in the south commanding the Mobile Legions in our ongoing crusade against the Chaos Insurgency. Due to our being deadlocked on this issue, we have been unable to appoint any to take their place."</p> <p>"Of course. So what's this big disagreement?"</p> <p>The Second nodded to two large books on the desk. "It concerns a disagreement in the translation of chapter 37, verse 25."</p> <p>"Which is?"</p> <p>"Was the child that you and St. Agatha conceived on the eve of the Great Breach created <em>of</em> Your spirit, or <em>from</em> Your spirit?"</p> <p>—-</p> <p>"And that," said the old man, "is how one word almost led the world to the brink of war - and how the Lord Bright set things straight."</p> <p>"But what did the Lord Bright say?" asked the towheaded boy sitting at his grandfather's feet.</p> <p>"Yeah!" cried the girl sitting next to him. "What did He tell them?"</p> <p>"What do you think?" the grandfather asked.</p> <p>"I think she was born <em>from</em> Bright's spirit," said the boy.</p> <p>"Nuh-uh!" the girl said. "St. Emile was born <em>of</em> Bright's spirit!"</p> <p>The old man laughed. "Looks like we've got a schism on our hands again, right here."</p> <p>"Well?" the boy asked. "Which of us is right?"</p> <p>"And say it in your Bright voice!"</p> <p>The old man scowled and did his best Bright impression as he read the last line of the story;</p> <p>"For cryin' out loud… Rights and I never had any kids."</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="/by-one-iota">By One Iota</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/by-one-iota">https://scpwiki.com/by-one-iota</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]] [[/>]] Deep in the catacombs beneath Overwatch Cathedral, there was a cavernous and isolated chamber at the end of a long hallway. The historians of the Holy Foundation could only guess at what purpose it might have held before the Great Breach - some claimed it had been a storage room, some an auditorium, some a shelter, others the containment chamber of one of the demons the ancients had contained before the world was consumed. No sound penetrated its walls, and it took five strong men to open or close the mighty steel door (which not everyone agreed had originally been part of the room) that offered the only means of entrance or exit. Few but the highest ranking members of the clergy knew it even existed, let alone the path to reach it, and none could breach its doors but by satisfying the Omega Guard that they had a right to be there, for this was the heart of the Overwatch itself - the meeting place of the Council of Thirteen, the Doctors of the Church, the vicars of Bright. As one passed through the grand doorway, he would see all three walls before him covered with grand tapestries, sewn over decades by the D-Caste and the deacons who oversaw their work at portraying the history of the Holy Foundation. On the left wall, the tapestries portrayed the legends of the ancient world, before the Great Breach. St. Alto staring down the great dragon and feeding the multitudes from a steaming pot of soup, St. Konn the Vampire-Slayer testing his steel against the duke of the strigoi, St. Canis Corvin educating the False War-God, and in the center of the wall the First Resurrection of the Lord Bright, holding the Holy Amulet above His head. To the right, the tapestries depicted the Great Breach and the degradations that occurred in those days, the fall of the ancient temple, and the rising of the Holy Foundation, with the Lord Bright, again in the center of the wall, flanked by His saints as they stood triumphantly over the corpse of the great dragon and the rubble of the statue that He Himself had smashed to bits in his rage over the death of St. Agatha. On the opposite wall, the art portrayed the Holy Foundation as it existed today - educating the civilians, carrying word of the Holy Containment Procedures to all corners of the world, keeping the ancient evils sealed. In the center of that wall was the hope for the future - a shining silver city, greater than any that had stood before the breach, over which Lord Bright looked with a smile. Beneath this tapestry, there sat against a wall a great throne of mahogany and leather, decorated with gems and holy icons, preserved and restored throughout the centuries for the Father of the Foundation, His Holiness the Lord Jack Bright, whose amulet sat in a glass case upon the throne in His stead. Thirteen lesser chairs before thirteen desks sat arranged in a semicircle facing the chair. Today, ten of the chairs were occupied by old men and women, the Cardinal Doctors who had given their lives in service and risen through the ranks of the church to become members of the Council of Thirteen. Two of the Omega Guard flanked the door to ensure that none trespassed on the meeting. One of the men near the left end of the semicircle rose and spoke to the others. "I, the Second," he said, for in this chamber it was their custom to refer to themselves by number rather than name, "hereby call this meeting of the Council of Thirteen to order in the name of the First, who has passed away this last winter and is absent. Cardinal Doctors Two, Three, Four, Six, Seven, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen present. The Twelfth has agreed to lead us in prayer." The Second seated himself as the Twelfth rose from her seat and bowed her head. "Lord Bright," she began as the others lowered their heads as well, "forgive us today for the transgression we are about to commit against You. Know that we mean no disgrace or disrespect in our hearts, and that we commit these deeds to understand Your glory and to further carry out Your will, as we do in all things. Forgive those who serve us today and take part in these acts at our orders, for they seek only to serve and to honor You and Your Foundation. Bless us with Your wisdom and keep us safe, that our children may know a world free from the terrors of the Expunged. Amen." "Amen," the other nine agreed as the Twelfth seated herself. A moment passed in silence as each of the ten waited for one of the others to take action, for it had been over a hundred years since the Council of Thirteen last found this course of action necessary, and though they had all agreed it was the only way, each of them had their doubts. "Perhaps," suggested the Sixth timidly, "we should conduct the vote once more before we begin?" "Indeed," the Second said. "It would be a shame to discover too late that this proceeding is unnecessary. Please cast your votes on the question at hand in the traditional manner." One of the guardsmen left his post at the door and picked up a large box with a slot on top. As he walked around the table, each of the cardinals wrote their vote on a slip of paper and dropped it into the box. After a few minutes had passed, the guardsman returned to the door and opened the box, where he and his partner removed the slips and tallied the votes one by one. "The vote remains tied," announced the guardsman. "Five for one, five for the other." "Then we must proceed," the Second said, "and Bright have mercy on us all. Guard! Our guests may enter now." The guardsman approached the door and knocked on it in the agreed-upon pattern - three short knocks in rapid succession, followed after a brief pause by a hard knock, a short knock, another hard knock, and another short knock, followed after another pause by a short knock, two hard knocks, and a short knock. The door rumbled and opened slowly as it was pushed from the other side. A half dozen Omega Guards entered - two carrying a table between them, two carrying several heavy chains and ropes, and the other two leading a D-Caste, stripped to his loincloth. The D-Caste had been specially prepared for the day's ritual - starved and emaciated, his teeth pulled and fingernails removed, and he looked to the assembled cardinals only a few days away from death. The assembled leaders of the Holy Foundation watched in silence as the table was set between the semicircle of desks and the throne, the D-Caste was laid on it and bound with the chains, and the guardsmen pulled the hoods of their black robes over their heads and tied them closed so that only their eyes were visible. "Do you know why you have been brought here today, D-34029132?" asked the Thirteenth. "Yes, my lord," replied the bound man. "And have you agreed to this rite willingly?" "Yes, my lord." "Are you ready to give up your life in the name of your church and your Lord?" The D-Caste paused. "Yes, my lord." The Thirteenth turned his gaze to the guardsmen. "Make sure the ropes and chains remain taut and that he does not attempt to hurt himself. If you must restrain him physically, do not hesitate to do so. There is no sin in any of the actions you have been asked to perform today - and though He may test you with His cries and protestations, remember that the Lord loves you and will forgive you." The Second nodded. "Now, please proceed." The cardinals rose from their seats and watched attentively as five of the guards took their places around the D-Caste. The sixth guard approached the throne and reverently picked up the glass case containing the Lord Bright's amulet before taking his own place at the head of the table. Another guardsman reached out and removed the top from the case. As the other five tucked their hands into their robes to prevent any accidental contact, the guard holding the case turned it upside down, and the Holy Amulet fell out and landed on the chained man's chest. The late Cardinal Doctor Anders Clef, who had been present when the Lord Bright was summoned to the Synod of New Denver in 237, had written in his memoirs that the expression on His face when He appeared was always one of confusion - the shock of finding Himself in a new host, and trying to figure out where and when He had found Himself. None of the men and women watching would have disagreed with that assessment, for no sooner did the Holy Amulet strike the D-Caste than his demeanor changed. The chained man groaned and tried to pull at his bonds to no avail, his eyes darting around the room as he took in the people and decorations around him. The cardinals watched in silence as he tried to bite off his tongue, dislocate his joints, break his limbs by bashing them against the table - all in vain, courtesy of the amendments made to the Holy Procedures centuries ago to prevent the Lord Bright from taking His leave if His earthly presence was required. As He resigned himself to being once again in a body of flesh and bone, He set his eyes on the Ninth, who had produced from his robes a scroll bearing the holiest of the Holy Procedures, those relating to the Amulet itself, and He spoke. "I like what you've done with the cafeteria." "Could you please tell me your name?" asked the Ninth, reading from the scroll. "I believe you are Tom Higly, working for us as part of your life sentence." "Cut the crap," the chained man said with a sigh. "You know who I am, and you know I've been through this little ceremony enough times to wish I'd never come up with it." The Ninth looked to his compatriots, who nodded their agreement that they could proceed. "The rite is successful!" he proclaimed. "Praise be to the Lord Bright!" "Praise be to the Lord Bright!" shouted the assembled cardinals and guards. "Aaah!" Lord Bright shouted. "Not so loud. This body must have the mother of all hangovers." "Forgive us, Lord Bright," the Second said. "The Procedures state that the host body's reflexes are to be dulled with alcohol before the ritual." "Uh-huh," Lord Bright said. "New Holy Procedure; next time, save the alcohol for //after// you wake me up. Somebody write that down." "It would be my honor, Lord," the Thirteenth said. "And haven't you guys had some sort of renaissance or reformation or scientific awakening yet? What year is it this time?" "It is the year 698 After the Breach, Lord." Lord Bright sighed again as he looked at the men assembled before him. "I thought you would've re-invented pants by now. Anyway, it's been nice chatting, but I'm sick of this place and I'm sick of you. Guard, be a dear and strangle me so I can get back to my nap." "Forgive us, Lord Bright," the Second said, "but we must beg Your indulgence for a short time longer. A great... difficulty has arisen that threatens to tear our Holy Foundation apart, and we can find no authority greater than Yourself capable of settling this matter." "Goddammit," Lord Bright said. "You guys really need to start thinking for yourself. Alright, what is it? Containment breach? D-Class rebellion? Are the Serpent's Hand back?" "No, Lord Bright," the Second answered. "It is... a matter of theology. One of great importance, that this Council has been unable to resolve." Bright groaned. "'Restart the Foundation as a church,' Clef said. 'It'll make sense to scientifically illiterate peasants rebuilding society,' Clef said. Well, what's the issue?" "It would seem that the Sites and Areas in the eastern lands," the Second said, "began teaching an interpretation of the Gospel According To Everett several years ago which is quite different than that which has been maintained here in the heartlands. This... interpretation," he said so as to not upset certain of his peers, "has spread to Overwatch itself, and a great deal of strife has broken out among our many churches and outposts regarding which is the true and correct belief. We fear it may come to outright war, and thus we resolved to have a vote amongst ourselves and determine which is the one true interpretation. Unfortunately, we have become deadlocked, five to five." "That's why there are supposed to be thirteen O5s," Lord Bright said. "Did you need to wake me up just to remind you that those chairs aren't //supposed// to be empty?" "They are not empty by design, Lord Bright," interrupted the Tenth. "The First and the Eighth succumbed to the plague during the long winter, and the Fifth is currently in the south commanding the Mobile Legions in our ongoing crusade against the Chaos Insurgency. Due to our being deadlocked on this issue, we have been unable to appoint any to take their place." "Of course. So what's this big disagreement?" The Second nodded to two large books on the desk. "It concerns a disagreement in the translation of chapter 37, verse 25." "Which is?" "Was the child that you and St. Agatha conceived on the eve of the Great Breach created //of// Your spirit, or //from// Your spirit?" --- "And that," said the old man, "is how one word almost led the world to the brink of war - and how the Lord Bright set things straight." "But what did the Lord Bright say?" asked the towheaded boy sitting at his grandfather's feet. "Yeah!" cried the girl sitting next to him. "What did He tell them?" "What do you think?" the grandfather asked. "I think she was born //from// Bright's spirit," said the boy. "Nuh-uh!" the girl said. "St. Emile was born //of// Bright's spirit!" The old man laughed. "Looks like we've got a schism on our hands again, right here." "Well?" the boy asked. "Which of us is right?" "And say it in your Bright voice!" The old man scowled and did his best Bright impression as he read the last line of the story; "For cryin' out loud... Rights and I never had any kids." [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T07:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-bright", "doctors-of-the-church", "fantasy", "nyc2013", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	By One Iota - SCP Foundation	204	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "doctors-of-the-church-hub" ]	[]	16195703	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/by-one-iota
capone	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> "I was scared when I first saw him. It happened just as you told me: the messages, the pictures, seeing him around every corner afterwards. I was so young; who wouldn't have lost it?" William sighed. By then, he was over the creature following him. It wasn't like it was going to go away, no matter how much he begged, or pleaded, or attempted to bribe. He knew that the best and only solution would be to just get used to Capone being there. At least he had the solace of knowing he wasn't going insane. <p>“Believe me, William; I know many people have reacted the same way. Fear is a more common reaction to the unknown than you’d think,” Dr. Laura Breynz consoled him. These cases weren't exactly common, but they <em>were</em> commonly known.</p> <p>“It’s not even that I'm afraid of him anymore. I mean, he makes me jump when I see him in the morning, I don't think I'll ever get used to that; It's the just the bad connotations he has,” William rebutted.</p> <p>"I know that he does, but it happened two years ago. I know it's hard for you, especially with your shadow, but you need to carry on," Dr. Breynz stated. William just sighed as she continued. "Our session is almost up. We made some real progress, William. I want you to do something for me when you get home. Do you have any homework or anything?"</p> <p>"I did it all on my break."</p> <p>"Good. When you get home, I want you to think back to your first experience, and write as much as you feel comfortable sharing. Is that alright?"</p> <p>"Yeah. Thanks for seeing me."</p> <hr/> <p>It wasn't too long a drive from the doctor's office to home. Five, possibly ten minutes if there was a train. He always saw the creature through the rear view mirror when he drove, riding in the back seat. It looked innocent, in its own, alien way, waving to William as he saw it.</p> <p>Despite everything, William found himself talking to it, like one would talk to a dog or cat about their day when they're alone. It seemed to listen when he talked, and after a while, he could swear that it understood. It's hard to tell with a face like that, so all there were to go by were various head tilts and waves, and even then, he had to teach it how to wave.</p> <p>"At least I know you're interested."</p> <hr/> <p>Drop the backpack near the door, go to the patio, wave to Capone from the mirror, fridge, drink, chair, crash. William's afternoon routine was more clockwork than it should be. He thought back to his session with Dr. Breynz. "She wanted me to try and recapture the experience when I first saw him, huh?" William mumbled as he grabbed a few sheets of paper and a pen. Bit by bit, he pieced together the sequence of events that led up to this point.</p> <blockquote> <p>I've had Capone with me ever since I was fifteen years old. I remember that my twenty-year old sister, Sara, brought up an app that she downloaded earlier at the dinner table one night. She had no idea how it does it, but hazarded a guess that it tracks you through your phone's GPS, and sends you pictures of the places you've been with a 'really cute' monster placed in the photo to make it look like it's following you.</p> <p>It didn't seem that weird. I recall that Google maps could get a decent ground photo at the time, so just add Photoshop to that, and you'd have a gimmick. Plus, we knew it couldn't be a virus. The app store checks every app for things like that before peddling it. The only thing I found legitimately off about it at the time was that it was both free, and ad-less.</p> <p>Her explanation of it sounded pretty cool to me, so I asked Sara to help me download it on my phone. She told me that while my old, hand-me-downed, flip-phone did have <em>something</em> like an app store, it most likely didn't have MalO. Didn't stop her from looking though.</p> <p>Sara was a good sister. She really could have told me to just get out of her hair, but she always took time out of her day for me, packing my lunch, playing with me, bringing me to 'R' rated movies that I was clearly too young for. I was lucky to have her as a legal guardian when our parents went away.</p> <p>I was too young to process it all when it happened, but mom and dad died from a head-on collision with a drunk driver. Sara took care of me as my legal guardian up until I moved out for college. God knows where I'd be if she didn't. After some prodding, she found the app, which was a surprise to the both of us. It was obvious that my phone didn't have any kind of GPS, but neither of us had even thought about it until much, much later. Soon enough, I received my first picture.</p> <p>I'll never understand the way Sara saw the world, if that was her idea of 'cute'. The photo was taken in my school's courtyard, with the creature I'd soon call Capone sitting on one of the benches. You could barely see him, but there he was, covered in his black, matted fur, with his knife-like claws, a set of blank, pure-white eyes, and that face, which was merely a skull belonging to some kind of large beast, looking directly at us with that large, wolfish grin.</p> <p>I gave the phone back to Sara, telling her how terrifying it was, and that I didn't want the messages anymore. She just jokingly punched my shoulder, saying "Oh don't be such a baby. It is too cute! Look how happy he is to meet you!" I looked back at his face; his wide grin specifically… I have to admit, I laughed at that. It was just the sheer wrongness of that statement that made me listen to the next.</p> <p>"I'm sure he'll grow on you eventually… Tell you what, if you can put up with him for one whole week, we'll go see that movie you've wanted to see. If he still <em>gives you nightmares,</em> we'll delete it. If you end up liking it, we'll laugh about it later; deal?" I looked at the picture again. It appeared that getting a photo every now and then was the extent this was going to go to, and looking at it in hindsight, I probably would've kept it on for next to nothing if she really wanted me to; so I agreed.</p> <p>Sara was ecstatic after that, and assured me that I wouldn't regret it while showing me some of her own pictures. She only had three so far: one at her office, one at the park, and another on the road we lived on, each picture containing her own clearly visible entity. I must have looked nervous or something, because she suggested that I name mine like she did with her 'Cassandra'. I thought about it for a bit.</p> <p>Let me make something clear though, because it seems to come up whenever I tell people this: I did not name my MalO 'Capone' because of the incident with my parents; I didn't even know that mom and dad's arrest involved alcohol at the time. I named him after a history lesson I found amusing in school where people's fear got the best of them, and as my teacher put it, it ended up doing more harm than good. It was intended as a reminder that I shouldn't be making the same mistake.</p> <p>I saw a bit of light in this whole thing after giving it a mock-title and thought it wasn't going to be that bad. I went to bed, and my normal life went on for just a little while longer.</p> <p>I continued to get pictures of Capone for a while, following me at school, the bus stop, my street, virtually everywhere I went. It wasn't until the third or fourth day when I got called in from class. I was thinking that I was in trouble for something, even if I didn't know what, but as soon as I saw Sara, that feeling was stifled. She looked very shaken. The instant she saw me, she immediately yanked my arm, and brought me to the car.</p> <p>Sara was not looking good at all. She kept asking questions about Capone, things like if I saw him, or if I received any photos from him with me in the images. I haven't checked anything from today, but when I checked, there were two. I remembered exactly when and where those messages were taken, because during them, I made a mental note that I got some texts from Capone. They've been sent as soon as they've been taken.</p> <p>Sara knew that we were being pursued by something, she probably had no idea by what they were, and I knew she had no idea how they were doing it, but she knew that they knew where we lived. She couldn't figure out how to delete it. She said she tried everything, but couldn't find a way to get it off. She couldn't even find where the app went.</p> <p>I'm not even sure what we were planning to do, but before we could even fully plan a course of action, I got another text. Sara froze and stared at me, as if to say 'don't look at it'. If I didn't, I could have had a semi-normal life right now. It would have been over the news within the week, and we would have known…</p> <p>But I did it. I opened the phone… And there we were, just sitting there, with that fear stricken look on our face. The photo was clearly taken from the hood of the moving car, giving us a clear view of what was behind us. He took up most of the backseat, and towered over me. We both turned around, preparing to scream at the monstrosity behind us, but when we did, the seat was empty. We didn't know what was happening, or what to make of it, but we felt that the only thing to do is run away, abandoning the car.</p> <p>We hastily ditched the car, ran the rest of the way to the apartment, and locked the door behind us. We locked ourselves in the bathroom, and waited. We just stayed there, even when we got a message from Cassandra or Capone, Sara would scream at them, asking why they were following us and begged for us to be left alone.</p> <p>We felt helpless against them. All we felt we could do is just sit in the bathroom, and hope they would go away. The room felt like our only safe haven until… We were exposed to them for too long. Sara started to panic, saying that she kept seeing one of them behind her. I wasn't seeing it though. I was more concerned about trying to calm her down by telling her that maybe they weren't really there than I was about seeing Capone in the mirror.</p> <p>I convinced Sara that we needed to leave the room out of necessity. We couldn't stay in the apartment forever, and if they wanted to get us, they would have done so already. We called the police and… Here we are.</p> <p>We both got help, but I was the lucky one. Everyone's case was different in terms of interaction, but for me, Capone was always in a mirror or some reflective thing large enough to show him. He was predictable, and I could find ways to block him out when I needed it.</p> <p>I learned how to expect Capone, and after a while, he kind of grew on me. I used to have a makeshift curtain that I would pull over the mirrors when I didn't want to see him, but I started using that curtain less and less as time went on.</p> <p>Capone always seemed to try and interact with me, even if I didn't understand what he was trying to say most of the time. I started to greet Capone with a casual wave as I passed by him from the living room mirror, and eventually, he started to wave back. He kind of became a constant companion to me, and I adjusted to Capone just as he adjusted to me.</p> <p>My case wasn't as severe as Sara's. She saw Cassandra every where she looked. Around every corner, just out of sight, over her while she slept. Sara took her own life two years ago. I wanted to blame the MalOs for it, but I can't. Following the person who looks at their messages is just… what they do. Now, every time I see Capone, I'm reminded of what I did in the car that day. I knew I shouldn't have picked up that text. If I didn't, she would still be here.</p> </blockquote> <p>It was almost four hours since William started writing, but he almost felt relieved. He's never actually told anyone about this in such detail before; the majority of what happened was kept between himself and Capone. He looked up to the creature in the mirror from across the room for a few seconds, as it gave the old, familiar wave.</p> <p>William was silent for a minute, staring at Capone, and then back to his papers. He felt the need to make one last point.</p> <blockquote> <p>But then again, how would I have known? I don't know who made the MalOs, or why. I don't even know if anyone actually made the app; many things like it have been created naturally, or have been given some kind of anomaly out of sheer chance. It would make so much sense if some physical thing was to blame, but there's none that I can legitimately find: none on the MalOs, none on me; just on chance.</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="/capone">Capone</a>" by Fantem, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/capone">https://scpwiki.com/capone</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 was scared when I first saw him. It happened just as you told me: the messages, the pictures, seeing him around every corner afterwards. I was so young; who wouldn't have lost it?" William sighed. By then, he was over the creature following him. It wasn't like it was going to go away, no matter how much he begged, or pleaded, or attempted to bribe. He knew that the best and only solution would be to just get used to Capone being there. At least he had the solace of knowing he wasn't going insane. “Believe me, William; I know many people have reacted the same way. Fear is a more common reaction to the unknown than you’d think,” Dr. Laura Breynz consoled him. These cases weren't exactly common, but they //were// commonly known. “It’s not even that I'm afraid of him anymore. I mean, he makes me jump when I see him in the morning, I don't think I'll ever get used to that; It's the just the bad connotations he has,” William rebutted. "I know that he does, but it happened two years ago. I know it's hard for you, especially with your shadow, but you need to carry on," Dr. Breynz stated. William just sighed as she continued. "Our session is almost up. We made some real progress, William. I want you to do something for me when you get home. Do you have any homework or anything?" "I did it all on my break." "Good. When you get home, I want you to think back to your first experience, and write as much as you feel comfortable sharing. Is that alright?" "Yeah. Thanks for seeing me." ---- It wasn't too long a drive from the doctor's office to home. Five, possibly ten minutes if there was a train. He always saw the creature through the rear view mirror when he drove, riding in the back seat. It looked innocent, in its own, alien way, waving to William as he saw it. Despite everything, William found himself talking to it, like one would talk to a dog or cat about their day when they're alone. It seemed to listen when he talked, and after a while, he could swear that it understood. It's hard to tell with a face like that, so all there were to go by were various head tilts and waves, and even then, he had to teach it how to wave. "At least I know you're interested." ---- Drop the backpack near the door, go to the patio, wave to Capone from the mirror, fridge, drink, chair, crash. William's afternoon routine was more clockwork than it should be. He thought back to his session with Dr. Breynz. "She wanted me to try and recapture the experience when I first saw him, huh?" William mumbled as he grabbed a few sheets of paper and a pen. Bit by bit, he pieced together the sequence of events that led up to this point. > I've had Capone with me ever since I was fifteen years old. I remember that my twenty-year old sister, Sara, brought up an app that she downloaded earlier at the dinner table one night. She had no idea how it does it, but hazarded a guess that it tracks you through your phone's GPS, and sends you pictures of the places you've been with a 'really cute' monster placed in the photo to make it look like it's following you. > > It didn't seem that weird. I recall that Google maps could get a decent ground photo at the time, so just add Photoshop to that, and you'd have a gimmick. Plus, we knew it couldn't be a virus. The app store checks every app for things like that before peddling it. The only thing I found legitimately off about it at the time was that it was both free, and ad-less. > > Her explanation of it sounded pretty cool to me, so I asked Sara to help me download it on my phone. She told me that while my old, hand-me-downed, flip-phone did have //something// like an app store, it most likely didn't have MalO. Didn't stop her from looking though. > > Sara was a good sister. She really could have told me to just get out of her hair, but she always took time out of her day for me, packing my lunch, playing with me, bringing me to 'R' rated movies that I was clearly too young for. I was lucky to have her as a legal guardian when our parents went away. > > I was too young to process it all when it happened, but mom and dad died from a head-on collision with a drunk driver. Sara took care of me as my legal guardian up until I moved out for college. God knows where I'd be if she didn't. After some prodding, she found the app, which was a surprise to the both of us. It was obvious that my phone didn't have any kind of GPS, but neither of us had even thought about it until much, much later. Soon enough, I received my first picture. > > I'll never understand the way Sara saw the world, if that was her idea of 'cute'. The photo was taken in my school's courtyard, with the creature I'd soon call Capone sitting on one of the benches. You could barely see him, but there he was, covered in his black, matted fur, with his knife-like claws, a set of blank, pure-white eyes, and that face, which was merely a skull belonging to some kind of large beast, looking directly at us with that large, wolfish grin. > > I gave the phone back to Sara, telling her how terrifying it was, and that I didn't want the messages anymore. She just jokingly punched my shoulder, saying "Oh don't be such a baby. It is too cute! Look how happy he is to meet you!" I looked back at his face; his wide grin specifically... I have to admit, I laughed at that. It was just the sheer wrongness of that statement that made me listen to the next. > > "I'm sure he'll grow on you eventually... Tell you what, if you can put up with him for one whole week, we'll go see that movie you've wanted to see. If he still //gives you nightmares,// we'll delete it. If you end up liking it, we'll laugh about it later; deal?" I looked at the picture again. It appeared that getting a photo every now and then was the extent this was going to go to, and looking at it in hindsight, I probably would've kept it on for next to nothing if she really wanted me to; so I agreed. > > Sara was ecstatic after that, and assured me that I wouldn't regret it while showing me some of her own pictures. She only had three so far: one at her office, one at the park, and another on the road we lived on, each picture containing her own clearly visible entity. I must have looked nervous or something, because she suggested that I name mine like she did with her 'Cassandra'. I thought about it for a bit. > > Let me make something clear though, because it seems to come up whenever I tell people this: I did not name my MalO 'Capone' because of the incident with my parents; I didn't even know that mom and dad's arrest involved alcohol at the time. I named him after a history lesson I found amusing in school where people's fear got the best of them, and as my teacher put it, it ended up doing more harm than good. It was intended as a reminder that I shouldn't be making the same mistake. > > I saw a bit of light in this whole thing after giving it a mock-title and thought it wasn't going to be that bad. I went to bed, and my normal life went on for just a little while longer. > > I continued to get pictures of Capone for a while, following me at school, the bus stop, my street, virtually everywhere I went. It wasn't until the third or fourth day when I got called in from class. I was thinking that I was in trouble for something, even if I didn't know what, but as soon as I saw Sara, that feeling was stifled. She looked very shaken. The instant she saw me, she immediately yanked my arm, and brought me to the car. > > Sara was not looking good at all. She kept asking questions about Capone, things like if I saw him, or if I received any photos from him with me in the images. I haven't checked anything from today, but when I checked, there were two. I remembered exactly when and where those messages were taken, because during them, I made a mental note that I got some texts from Capone. They've been sent as soon as they've been taken. > > Sara knew that we were being pursued by something, she probably had no idea by what they were, and I knew she had no idea how they were doing it, but she knew that they knew where we lived. She couldn't figure out how to delete it. She said she tried everything, but couldn't find a way to get it off. She couldn't even find where the app went. > > I'm not even sure what we were planning to do, but before we could even fully plan a course of action, I got another text. Sara froze and stared at me, as if to say 'don't look at it'. If I didn't, I could have had a semi-normal life right now. It would have been over the news within the week, and we would have known... > > But I did it. I opened the phone... And there we were, just sitting there, with that fear stricken look on our face. The photo was clearly taken from the hood of the moving car, giving us a clear view of what was behind us. He took up most of the backseat, and towered over me. We both turned around, preparing to scream at the monstrosity behind us, but when we did, the seat was empty. We didn't know what was happening, or what to make of it, but we felt that the only thing to do is run away, abandoning the car. > > We hastily ditched the car, ran the rest of the way to the apartment, and locked the door behind us. We locked ourselves in the bathroom, and waited. We just stayed there, even when we got a message from Cassandra or Capone, Sara would scream at them, asking why they were following us and begged for us to be left alone. > > We felt helpless against them. All we felt we could do is just sit in the bathroom, and hope they would go away. The room felt like our only safe haven until... We were exposed to them for too long. Sara started to panic, saying that she kept seeing one of them behind her. I wasn't seeing it though. I was more concerned about trying to calm her down by telling her that maybe they weren't really there than I was about seeing Capone in the mirror. > > I convinced Sara that we needed to leave the room out of necessity. We couldn't stay in the apartment forever, and if they wanted to get us, they would have done so already. We called the police and... Here we are. > > We both got help, but I was the lucky one. Everyone's case was different in terms of interaction, but for me, Capone was always in a mirror or some reflective thing large enough to show him. He was predictable, and I could find ways to block him out when I needed it. > > I learned how to expect Capone, and after a while, he kind of grew on me. I used to have a makeshift curtain that I would pull over the mirrors when I didn't want to see him, but I started using that curtain less and less as time went on. > > Capone always seemed to try and interact with me, even if I didn't understand what he was trying to say most of the time. I started to greet Capone with a casual wave as I passed by him from the living room mirror, and eventually, he started to wave back. He kind of became a constant companion to me, and I adjusted to Capone just as he adjusted to me. > > My case wasn't as severe as Sara's. She saw Cassandra every where she looked. Around every corner, just out of sight, over her while she slept. Sara took her own life two years ago. I wanted to blame the MalOs for it, but I can't. Following the person who looks at their messages is just... what they do. Now, every time I see Capone, I'm reminded of what I did in the car that day. I knew I shouldn't have picked up that text. If I didn't, she would still be here. It was almost four hours since William started writing, but he almost felt relieved. He's never actually told anyone about this in such detail before; the majority of what happened was kept between himself and Capone. He looked up to the creature in the mirror from across the room for a few seconds, as it gave the old, familiar wave. William was silent for a minute, staring at Capone, and then back to his papers. He felt the need to make one last point. > But then again, how would I have known? I don't know who made the MalOs, or why. I don't even know if anyone actually made the app; many things like it have been created naturally, or have been given some kind of anomaly out of sheer chance. It would make so much sense if some physical thing was to blame, but there's none that I can legitimately find: none on the MalOs, none on me; just on chance. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-01T23:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "heartwarming", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Capone - SCP Foundation	610	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "april-fools-2014", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	16562715	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/capone
cart-can-can-cart	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“So you’re saying you found a can?”</p> <p>“Yup.”</p> <p>“And this can is… a Cart?”</p> <p>“Yuuuuup.”</p> <p>“So the can’s a Cart.”</p> <p>“That’s what I’ve been saying.“</p> <p>“You sure this can isn’t a Can?”</p> <p>“Yeah. The can’s in a cart, though.”</p> <p>“What kind of Cart is it?”</p> <p>“The cart’s not a Cart.”</p> <p>“Well what is it?”</p> <p>“The cart’s a Can.”</p> <p>“So the can’s on a Can?”</p> <p>“No, the Cart’s on the Can. The can’s a Cart.”</p> <p>“Well, what’s the Cart on?”</p> <p>“It’s just on the ground, I guess.”</p> <p>“You said the Cart was on a cart!”</p> <p>“No, there’s only one cart. The Cart’s on top of it.”</p> <p>“So there’s a cart on the Cart, and the Cart’s on the ground.”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“What’s in the cart?”</p> <p>“A can.”</p> <p>“What’s in the can?”</p> <p>“A cart.”</p> <p>“So they’re inside each other?”</p> <p>“No! The can is in the cart, and the Cart is in the Can!”</p> <p>“What’s in the Cart?”</p> <p>“I dunno.”</p> <p>“You dunno?”</p> <p>“I dunno. I don’t have a can opener.”</p> <p>“So you haven’t opened the Can?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“Then how do you know the Cart’s in the Can?”</p> <p>“It’s not, the can’s in the cart. Hang on, Agent Watt’s here.”</p> <p>“Who’s there?”</p> <p>“No, Watt’s here. Hu retired.”</p> <p>“Put him on the phone.”</p> <p>“Who?”</p> <p>“No, Watt.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“Yes, what?”</p> <p>“Yes, Watt.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Put him on the phone!”</p> <p>“Hymn’s back at the office, call him yourself.”</p> <p>“Whatever. So what’s up with the Cart and the Can?”</p> <p>“No, Watt’s next to me.”</p> <p>“What’s next to you?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“So what’s up with the Cart and the Can?”</p> <p>“No! Watt’s right here! Hang on, he’s going up to the can.”</p> <p>“Who?”</p> <p>“No, Watt. Hu retired.”</p> <p>“What’s going on?”</p> <p>“No, Watt’s going up.”</p> <p>“So what’s up with the cart?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Yes!”</p> <p>“Hang on, remind me. What’s in the can?”</p> <p>“No. The Cart’s in the Can. Watt’s next to them.”</p> <p>“I dunno, what are you asking me for?”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Where’s Watt?”</p> <p>“Where’s what?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Yes!”</p> <p>“WHAT?”</p> <p>“YES!”</p> <blockquote> <p>And that was the story of how Special Agent Abbott and Special Agent Costello were transferred out of the Unusual Incidents Unit.</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="/cart-can-can-cart">Cart can, Can cart</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cart-can-can-cart">https://scpwiki.com/cart-can-can-cart</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 you’re saying you found a can?” “Yup.” “And this can is… a Cart?” “Yuuuuup.” “So the can’s a Cart.” “That’s what I’ve been saying.“ “You sure this can isn’t a Can?” “Yeah. The can’s in a cart, though.” “What kind of Cart is it?” “The cart’s not a Cart.” “Well what is it?” “The cart’s a Can.” “So the can’s on a Can?” “No, the Cart’s on the Can. The can’s a Cart.” “Well, what’s the Cart on?” “It’s just on the ground, I guess.” “You said the Cart was on a cart!” “No, there’s only one cart. The Cart’s on top of it.” “So there’s a cart on the Cart, and the Cart’s on the ground.” “Yes.” “What’s in the cart?” “A can.” “What’s in the can?” “A cart.” “So they’re inside each other?” “No! The can is in the cart, and the Cart is in the Can!” “What’s in the Cart?” “I dunno.” “You dunno?” “I dunno. I don’t have a can opener.” “So you haven’t opened the Can?” “No.” “Then how do you know the Cart’s in the Can?” “It’s not, the can’s in the cart. Hang on, Agent Watt’s here.” “Who’s there?” “No, Watt’s here. Hu retired.” “Put him on the phone.” “Who?” “No, Watt.” “What?” “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “Yes, Watt.” “What?” “Put him on the phone!” “Hymn’s back at the office, call him yourself.” “Whatever. So what’s up with the Cart and the Can?” “No, Watt’s next to me.” “What’s next to you?” “Yes.” “So what’s up with the Cart and the Can?” “No! Watt’s right here! Hang on, he’s going up to the can.” “Who?” “No, Watt. Hu retired.” “What’s going on?” “No, Watt’s going up.” “So what’s up with the cart?” “Yes.” “What?” “Yes!” “Hang on, remind me. What’s in the can?” “No. The Cart’s in the Can. Watt’s next to them.” “I dunno, what are you asking me for?” “What?” “Where’s Watt?” “Where’s what?” “Yes.” “What?” “Yes!” “WHAT?” “YES!” > And that was the story of how Special Agent Abbott and Special Agent Costello were transferred out of the Unusual Incidents Unit. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-11-17T21:40:00	[ "_licensebox", "project-crossover", "tale", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	Cart can, Can cart - SCP Foundation	117	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unusual-incidents-unit-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "crossoverprojectindex", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20663885	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cart-can-can-cart
cast-on	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The needles were bamboo, six inches or so in length, streaks of rainbow stain running down their length. The yarn was Angora wool, pure white. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it; this one in front of her was purer, whiter, superior in every regard.</p> <p>She inhaled deeply, exhaled. She began the home row, wrapping, threading, wrapping, threading. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. Wrap, thread.</p> <p>The Headache dimmed, ever so slightly. It was a proper noun at this point. The headache began on a Sunday afternoon, remained through the evening, and she felt it still the next morning. That was thirteen years ago. Her…condition rendered painkillers unusable; anything that could impair her judgment could expose her. She couldn't let her guard down. She could never let her guard down.</p> <p>Inhale, exhale. Wrap, thread. Eighty-eight stitches on the home row, then she inserted her free needle into the loop nearest the end of the needle. The Headache dimmed ever so slightly more. Josephine smiled, knitting and purling down the row. She didn't have much interest in the end result, an end pillow for a love seat, but the point was the repetition. The relaxation. An audiotape of Pachebel's Canon in D played in the background, and the headache dimmed further.</p> <hr/> <p>"I hardly see the point of further discussion," the old man said. smirking. The smirk was always there. "You never seem to unearth anything new."</p> <p>"You claim you're here voluntarily," the researcher said. "If you're so annoyed by our line of questioning, you can simply leave, can't you?"</p> <p>"That would be remarkably impolite, I feel," the man said. "I simply think you're not having an adequate amount of fun with this."</p> <p>"Fun?" the researcher asked. "SCP-343, this is my job. My job is to make new discoveries into beings such as yourself, and there is no part of you inclined to help me. You would be more than happy to lead me on a wild goose chase of contradiction and invention until my superiors sent me to a microbiology lab in the Arctic Circle."</p> <p>The old man paused for the first time in their conversation. "That was remarkably forthright, Dr. Castile. I admire forthrightness. I see so little of it from individuals such as yourself, researchers, bureaucrats. Very well, I'll tell you a secret. I'll tell you something I haven't told any of your people before. Lean close, Richard."</p> <p>The researcher, taken aback for a moment, leaned his head close to the other man in the room. The old man across the table leaned close as well.</p> <p>"Richard, I have no idea how I got here."</p> <hr/> <p>Josephine was well into her third row of the pillow when she realized the headache had almost completely faded away. She was amazed. It had been literally years since she had felt so at peace. She had a list, a very, very long list of ways she had tried to find relaxation, tried to find peace, from her burdens. Her burdens never ended. <em>So many enemies,</em> Josephine had thought (she would not let those thoughts get in the way of her knitting). <em>So much work to be done, all the time.</em> Josephine felt the throbbing intensify momentarily, then fade again. Her hands bobbed forward, caught the yarn, pulled backward, and formed the next stitch. One step at a time. Each motion deliberate, yet inevitable. Each step optional, yet destined.</p> <p>The headache was gone. She felt so much relief; she had been so burdened, burdened with the work of evading the Beast. That was her name for those so-called "scientists", those animals that hunted beings that were different than they were. Her Inquisition. Her witch hunters. On days when she questioned herself, days when she doubted herself, she wondered if she really was a witch. Something unnatural. Something that needed to be confined.</p> <p>The yarn was perfect, floating in the air in front of her. The skein unraveled itself, feeding inch after inch, foot after foot into her handiwork. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it. She had created this one from pure thought, pure imagination; she had vibrated quantum foam and Platonic form and rearranged molecules and humors and atoms into something new, something that had never existed in the universe before. This was what she did. This was what God or nature made her to do, and she would do it. The headache returned for a moment, then passed as she began a new row.</p> <hr/> <p>"You don't know why you're here?" Researcher Castile asked. "You're God, you're here of your own will, but you don't remember doing it?"</p> <p>"Did you…I mean, that isn't…I lied, child," the old man, SCP-343, said to the other in the room. "It is tricks, games. I play with you, as I always have." The old man's eyes stopped tracking the researcher in front of him. "I am here and God and always will- -be here- -lied, child, it is tricks- -" The old man jerked forward suddenly, ramming his head against the top of the table. His arms hung limply by his sides as he rammed his head against the table again.</p> <p>"What are you—"</p> <p>"Gerald Clifton, Cleveland, Ohio," the old man slurred through a broken nose and several broken teeth, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead. "I was born in 1912, please. Let me die. I feel it controlling me. She controls me. She'll come back any minute."</p> <p>"What are you talking about?"</p> <p>"It isn't me talking. When you talk to me. 'God' is what it wants you to see me as. It watches you. It sits inside me and makes me talk. Kill me. Let me die. It will come back for me, it will lie to you again." The old man seemed his age for the first time that Researcher Castile could recall. Seemed…human. Seemed normal.</p> <p>"You're being controlled by an external force? Is that what you're telling me?"</p> <p>"Let me die," the old man pleaded, tears streaming down his face, blood dripping into his eyes. "Let me die free, please."</p> <hr/> <p>Josephine neared the end of her sixth row when she realized something was amiss. The headache had left her, but it pulsed ever so slightly as she paused. <em>Too relaxed,</em> she thought. <em>I let go of one of them.</em></p> <p>She closed her eyes and her mind left the room, the house, the area code that her body inhabited. It traveled from one predetermined location to another, isolated location. They would have been impossible to find if she didn't know exactly what she was looking for. The people who had built prisons on those locations had designed them to be impossible to find. She checked containment chambers across half a dozen Sites before she found what she was looking for at Site 17. <em>Gerald,</em> she thought. <em>I'm so sorry I needed to use you.</em></p> <p>She concentrated further and found herself in the same room- -</p> <hr/> <p>Researcher Castile was furiously scribbling notes. "Gerald, how long have you been controlled by this entity?"</p> <p>"I have no idea," the still-sobbing old man replied. "So long. Most of my life. She put me here. She wanted you to find me. She wanted you to catch me. She watches me, and watches you through me. She needs spies. She knows what you would do to her. She fears you. So many others. She's so old, at least a century, maybe closer to two. She's so tired."</p> <p>Castile perked at this. "More? Other beings controlled by the same entity?"</p> <p>"Many," the old man replied. "I can tell you at least that- -" The old man stopped talking suddenly, his eyes closing, his head sagging downward.</p> <p>His head rose, his eyes locking on Researcher Castile, and Richard knew he was looking at someone different. Something different.</p> <p>"So smart," said the voice coming from the old man's mouth, contempt dripping from each word. "So lucky. Such a breakthrough. Such a promotion," the voice said. "I bet you can already see the commendation."</p> <p>"Am I speaking to—" A flash of light blasted across the table. Castile tried to speak, heard only croaks; he had been rendered mute.</p> <p>"So lucky," the voice repeated, the air in the room seeming to circulate faster around the old man. "How lucky are you now? Think you're so smart. Hunting. Think you're such a good hunter. Think you're all such good hunters. Worthless. God, so worthless." The old man did not rise; rather, the chair he sat in seemed to melt into the air, the table rolled forward without effort, and the old man suddenly was standing at his full height.</p> <p>"Think you caught God. You caught a drifter, fool. Think you're studying God. God studies you, you fool. You child. I study you. Every cruelty. Every injustice. Think you can catch me."</p> <p>"Wh….what are…" Castile croaked.</p> <p>"Forget it," the old man's voice said, and Castile forgot. The notes he had written disappeared, graphite pulling off of the page and reforming on the pencil. Another chair materialized behind the old man, and the old man's form sat within. Castile felt something…missing, felt something leaving him. Felt something <em>gone.</em></p> <p>The feeling lasted only a moment, then he began. Nothing unusual here for Castile; just another SCP, another containment test. Just a moment of discomfort, nothing more. Foundation researchers felt that uneasy feeling all the time. Nothing unusual here.</p> <p>"Okay, beginning interaction with SCP-343," Castile said, looking at the smirk on SCP-343's face. The smirk that was always there.</p> <hr/> <p>The headache returned as Josephine returned to her body. <em>Stupid girl,</em> she thought. <em>Stupid, stupid, stupid. Almost gave it all away. Almost let them find you.</em> She forced herself to focus on the headache, make it stronger. <em>You deserve this. Stupid girl.</em> Throbbing, blinding pain drilled through her head. <em>Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.</em></p> <p>She was floating fully in the air now, and the pain in her head bloomed brighter until she screamed. A bright flash of light. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her anger faded into shame. She reconstituted some clothing around herself and disappeared.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p>MEMORANDUM<br/> LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE ONLY<br/> CODEWORD: "GREEN KING"</p> </div> <br/> FROM: OPERATIVE AMBER<br/> TO: OPERATIVE MAGNUS <p>TWO MORE EVENTS DISCOVERED. INTERVIEW BETWEEN SITE 17 RESEARCHER AND <a href="/scp-343">SCP-343</a>. VIDEO ATTACHED. RESEARCHER WAS COMPLETELY AMNESTIZED BEYOND ANY KNOWN CHEMICAL METHODS; MRI SUGGESTED CHEMICAL PATHWAYS AND NEURAL DEVELOPMENT OF MEMORIES WAS LITERALLY REVERSED AND ELIMINATED. COVERT VIDEO SURVEILLANCE OF SCP-343 AS PER "GREEN KING" PROJECT ALLOWED FOR RECOVERY. INTERVIEW ENDED AT 1523 HOURS ON 11/02/13.</p> <p>KEYHOLE SATELLITES DETECTED AN ENERGY SURGE IN AN ISOLATED AREA OF SONORA DESERT AT 1525 HOURS. RESULTING CRATER RESEMBLED THERMOBARIC WARHEAD DETONATION SITE.</p> <p>ANALYSIS ONGOING.</p> <p>AMBER</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="/cast-on">Cast On</a>" by Eskobar, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cast-on">https://scpwiki.com/cast-on</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 needles were bamboo, six inches or so in length, streaks of rainbow stain running down their length. The yarn was Angora wool, pure white. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it; this one in front of her was purer, whiter, superior in every regard. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. She began the home row, wrapping, threading, wrapping, threading. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. Wrap, thread. The Headache dimmed, ever so slightly. It was a proper noun at this point. The headache began on a Sunday afternoon, remained through the evening, and she felt it still the next morning. That was thirteen years ago. Her...condition rendered painkillers unusable; anything that could impair her judgment could expose her. She couldn't let her guard down. She could never let her guard down. Inhale, exhale. Wrap, thread. Eighty-eight stitches on the home row, then she inserted her free needle into the loop nearest the end of the needle. The Headache dimmed ever so slightly more. Josephine smiled, knitting and purling down the row. She didn't have much interest in the end result, an end pillow for a love seat, but the point was the repetition. The relaxation. An audiotape of Pachebel's Canon in D played in the background, and the headache dimmed further. ------ "I hardly see the point of further discussion," the old man said. smirking. The smirk was always there. "You never seem to unearth anything new." "You claim you're here voluntarily," the researcher said. "If you're so annoyed by our line of questioning, you can simply leave, can't you?" "That would be remarkably impolite, I feel," the man said. "I simply think you're not having an adequate amount of fun with this." "Fun?" the researcher asked. "SCP-343, this is my job. My job is to make new discoveries into beings such as yourself, and there is no part of you inclined to help me. You would be more than happy to lead me on a wild goose chase of contradiction and invention until my superiors sent me to a microbiology lab in the Arctic Circle." The old man paused for the first time in their conversation. "That was remarkably forthright, Dr. Castile. I admire forthrightness. I see so little of it from individuals such as yourself, researchers, bureaucrats. Very well, I'll tell you a secret. I'll tell you something I haven't told any of your people before. Lean close, Richard." The researcher, taken aback for a moment, leaned his head close to the other man in the room. The old man across the table leaned close as well. "Richard, I have no idea how I got here." ------- Josephine was well into her third row of the pillow when she realized the headache had almost completely faded away. She was amazed. It had been literally years since she had felt so at peace. She had a list, a very, very long list of ways she had tried to find relaxation, tried to find peace, from her burdens. Her burdens never ended. //So many enemies,// Josephine had thought (she would not let those thoughts get in the way of her knitting). //So much work to be done, all the time.// Josephine felt the throbbing intensify momentarily, then fade again. Her hands bobbed forward, caught the yarn, pulled backward, and formed the next stitch. One step at a time. Each motion deliberate, yet inevitable. Each step optional, yet destined. The headache was gone. She felt so much relief; she had been so burdened, burdened with the work of evading the Beast. That was her name for those so-called "scientists", those animals that hunted beings that were different than they were. Her Inquisition. Her witch hunters. On days when she questioned herself, days when she doubted herself, she wondered if she really was a witch. Something unnatural. Something that needed to be confined. The yarn was perfect, floating in the air in front of her. The skein unraveled itself, feeding inch after inch, foot after foot into her handiwork. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it. She had created this one from pure thought, pure imagination; she had vibrated quantum foam and Platonic form and rearranged molecules and humors and atoms into something new, something that had never existed in the universe before. This was what she did. This was what God or nature made her to do, and she would do it. The headache returned for a moment, then passed as she began a new row. ------ "You don't know why you're here?" Researcher Castile asked. "You're God, you're here of your own will, but you don't remember doing it?" "Did you...I mean, that isn't...I lied, child," the old man, SCP-343, said to the other in the room. "It is tricks, games. I play with you, as I always have." The old man's eyes stopped tracking the researcher in front of him. "I am here and God and always will- -be here- -lied, child, it is tricks- -" The old man jerked forward suddenly, ramming his head against the top of the table. His arms hung limply by his sides as he rammed his head against the table again. "What are you--" "Gerald Clifton, Cleveland, Ohio," the old man slurred through a broken nose and several broken teeth, blood streaming from a gash in his forehead. "I was born in 1912, please. Let me die. I feel it controlling me. She controls me. She'll come back any minute." "What are you talking about?" "It isn't me talking. When you talk to me. 'God' is what it wants you to see me as. It watches you. It sits inside me and makes me talk. Kill me. Let me die. It will come back for me, it will lie to you again." The old man seemed his age for the first time that Researcher Castile could recall. Seemed...human. Seemed normal. "You're being controlled by an external force? Is that what you're telling me?" "Let me die," the old man pleaded, tears streaming down his face, blood dripping into his eyes. "Let me die free, please." ------- Josephine neared the end of her sixth row when she realized something was amiss. The headache had left her, but it pulsed ever so slightly as she paused. //Too relaxed,// she thought. //I let go of one of them.// She closed her eyes and her mind left the room, the house, the area code that her body inhabited. It traveled from one predetermined location to another, isolated location. They would have been impossible to find if she didn't know exactly what she was looking for. The people who had built prisons on those locations had designed them to be impossible to find. She checked containment chambers across half a dozen Sites before she found what she was looking for at Site 17. //Gerald,// she thought. //I'm so sorry I needed to use you.// She concentrated further and found herself in the same room- - ------ Researcher Castile was furiously scribbling notes. "Gerald, how long have you been controlled by this entity?" "I have no idea," the still-sobbing old man replied. "So long. Most of my life. She put me here. She wanted you to find me. She wanted you to catch me. She watches me, and watches you through me. She needs spies. She knows what you would do to her. She fears you. So many others. She's so old, at least a century, maybe closer to two. She's so tired." Castile perked at this. "More? Other beings controlled by the same entity?" "Many," the old man replied. "I can tell you at least that- -" The old man stopped talking suddenly, his eyes closing, his head sagging downward. His head rose, his eyes locking on Researcher Castile, and Richard knew he was looking at someone different. Something different. "So smart," said the voice coming from the old man's mouth, contempt dripping from each word. "So lucky. Such a breakthrough. Such a promotion," the voice said. "I bet you can already see the commendation." "Am I speaking to--" A flash of light blasted across the table. Castile tried to speak, heard only croaks; he had been rendered mute. "So lucky," the voice repeated, the air in the room seeming to circulate faster around the old man. "How lucky are you now? Think you're so smart. Hunting. Think you're such a good hunter. Think you're all such good hunters. Worthless. God, so worthless." The old man did not rise; rather, the chair he sat in seemed to melt into the air, the table rolled forward without effort, and the old man suddenly was standing at his full height. "Think you caught God. You caught a drifter, fool. Think you're studying God. God studies you, you fool. You child. I study you. Every cruelty. Every injustice. Think you can catch me." "Wh....what are..." Castile croaked. "Forget it," the old man's voice said, and Castile forgot. The notes he had written disappeared, graphite pulling off of the page and reforming on the pencil. Another chair materialized behind the old man, and the old man's form sat within. Castile felt something...missing, felt something leaving him. Felt something //gone.// The feeling lasted only a moment, then he began. Nothing unusual here for Castile; just another SCP, another containment test. Just a moment of discomfort, nothing more. Foundation researchers felt that uneasy feeling all the time. Nothing unusual here. "Okay, beginning interaction with SCP-343," Castile said, looking at the smirk on SCP-343's face. The smirk that was always there. ------ The headache returned as Josephine returned to her body. //Stupid girl,// she thought. //Stupid, stupid, stupid. Almost gave it all away. Almost let them find you.// She forced herself to focus on the headache, make it stronger. //You deserve this. Stupid girl.// Throbbing, blinding pain drilled through her head. //Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.// She was floating fully in the air now, and the pain in her head bloomed brighter until she screamed. A bright flash of light. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her anger faded into shame. She reconstituted some clothing around herself and disappeared. ------ > [[=]] > MEMORANDUM > LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE ONLY > CODEWORD: "GREEN KING" > [[/=]] > FROM: OPERATIVE AMBER > TO: OPERATIVE MAGNUS > > TWO MORE EVENTS DISCOVERED. INTERVIEW BETWEEN SITE 17 RESEARCHER AND [[[SCP-343]]]. VIDEO ATTACHED. RESEARCHER WAS COMPLETELY AMNESTIZED BEYOND ANY KNOWN CHEMICAL METHODS; MRI SUGGESTED CHEMICAL PATHWAYS AND NEURAL DEVELOPMENT OF MEMORIES WAS LITERALLY REVERSED AND ELIMINATED. COVERT VIDEO SURVEILLANCE OF SCP-343 AS PER "GREEN KING" PROJECT ALLOWED FOR RECOVERY. INTERVIEW ENDED AT 1523 HOURS ON 11/02/13. > > KEYHOLE SATELLITES DETECTED AN ENERGY SURGE IN AN ISOLATED AREA OF SONORA DESERT AT 1525 HOURS. RESULTING CRATER RESEMBLED THERMOBARIC WARHEAD DETONATION SITE. > > ANALYSIS ONGOING. > > AMBER [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T19:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "fantasy", "green-king", "nyc2013", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Cast On - SCP Foundation	128	[ "scp-343", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "codename-green-king-hub" ]	[]	16203638	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cast-on
changes-at-site-18	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=4&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/component%3Abhl-dark-sidebar/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=4&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/component%3Abhl-dark-sidebar/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=3&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Aswirling-ashes/2&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦Site-18 refit to house overflow of Safe objects.☦</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><em>July 28th, 1976 - Disinformation Site-18</em></strong></p> </div> <p>“Good evening Mr. Mayreder.” Sanders spoke in tired tones as she walked into the fat, balding man’s office. “How are you? How was your day?”</p> <p>“Oh, fine, just as any other. The day was good too,” mumbled Mayreder as he craned over, manipulating some dominoes on the edge of his desk.</p> <p>Sanders edged her way past stacks of papers littering the floor in the dusty office. “What are you doing?”</p> <p>“Just contemplating the containment procedures for the new object we’ve been assigned. Did you know SCP-1463 has over two hundred pages in its containment procedures file? Two hundred! 8 point font!” Mayreder settled back in his straining chair after placing the last domino on the metallic, tarnished table.</p> <p>“That’s… very interesting,” said Sanders, adjusting the bun on her ponytail.</p> <p>“Oh, yes, right, how was <em>your</em> day?” asked Mayreder. The question was offhanded at best. Mayreder reached under his desk and pulled out a large, spiral bound sheet of papers.</p> <p>Sanders let out a deep sigh. “Fine, I just performed observational duties. Very uneventful, not very colorful.”</p> <p>“Outstanding. Why don’t you have a seat? Do you have any other place to be? No you don’t.” Mayreder grunted as he began flipping through the pages.</p> <p>“No I do-… Your book is upside-down.”</p> <p>“Ah, I see why they have you on observation duty!” interjected Mayreder while he continued to flip through the pages as they were. Sanders offered a funeral stare in his direction.</p> <p>She eyed the domino pattern on the table. It was a nautiluses’ spiral, beginning at the edge of the otherwise spotless desk and terminating at the center. She knew where the end point was, because Mayreder had always placed a red domino at the center. She hated that she remembered this.</p> <p>“Sir, may I ask you why you do this every so often.” Her tone was snippy, barely professional. Mayreder gave her a puzzled stare from out over his book. Sanders had to remember to count to ten. “…the dominos,” she clarified.</p> <p>Mayreder raised his eyebrows and placed his gaze back at the un-righted containment procedures manual. “I get bored. I enjoy setting them up - how neat they look. Very pretty.”</p> <p>“I’ve never seen you knock them down before,” offered Sanders after a good one minute of silence. It was uncomfortable; the atmosphere in this wing was poor due to the fact that most of the power had been routed to the newly housed SCP’s air filtration system. She didn’t really care about Mayreder’s dominoes, but she would be sitting here for a half hour wasting time in this stuffy office regardless.</p> <p>Mayreder began again, tilting his nose slightly; “I wipe them up when I’m finished admiring them, and then place them back in their box.”</p> <p>Sanders let out a snort. Mayreder looked back at her with a serious mug. His reaction caused her to crack up.</p> <p>“What’s so funny?”</p> <p>Sanders wiped her nose and righted herself on her chair. “Nothing, nothing I was just thinking of something silly.”</p> <p>Mayreder paused for a few moments before speaking, began to say something, then stopped. “You can leave now. I need to memorize these finer points.”</p> <p>Sanders nodded, a small grin detectable on her face, and left the room wordlessly.</p> <p>Mayreder put his book down lightly and studied the nautilus pattern on his desk.</p> <p>Sanders forgot about Mayreder and thought about the refit of the facility as she rounded the corner in the hallway. Site-18 was originally used as a Disinformation facility, or the Foundation’s docu-serve as many people liked to call it. Sanders worked under Mayreder as a proofreader, Mayreder simply handled the projects and packaged the media given to him. The documents were then sent to the Site Director for approval, and, if they were improper, they were sent back down again.</p> <p>The Foundation didn’t like moving personnel to different facilities if they didn’t have to. Mayreder, Sanders, and two of their colleagues were retrained in the space of three weeks in the Special Containment Procedures for the object now located in their wing. Two freshly recruited researchers also joined their ranks.</p> <p>Containment for these objects wasn’t complicated; most of the intensive work was saved for actual researchers. Most of the training consisted of memorizing routines and very dull evenings of watching an object through a monitor.</p> <p>The contents of the media rooms of Site-18 were moved to a smaller facility, and refit to contain Safe objects. The contents of the Document Archive were also shipped off somewhere else, and this room was refit as an anomalous artifact warehouse. The labyrinth of lockers currently held roughly five hundred objects. Luckily Sanders didn’t have to deal with them, and they didn’t need much done - after some bureaucratic hoopla, individual items would be sent to Cold Storage to be indefinitely forgotten.</p> <p>She could understand the refit. The new warehouse was already half full, and the area that was housed with these trinkets was packed tight as if they were expecting more. There was no shortage of new parcels every week. She wondered to herself how the Foundation managed to pay their rent every month.</p> <p>She shrugged it off. Staring at some weird thing every day from 9 to 5 was a lot less stressful than editing a mountain of expense reports and newspaper editorials. Other than having to deal with Mayreder, her job was easy, the changes were welcome.</p> <p>In his office, Mayreder rested a fat finger lightly on the edge of the domino track. Each domino was perfectly spaced two fingers apart. There were seventy dominoes in this set. Each domino was faceless, and fashioned from ivory. Each weighed sixty grams. His father gave the dominoes to him two years ago.</p> <p>Knocking the first one off to see what happened to the rest was a temptation. The fact that he had never done it was ridiculous; some sort of superstition had prevented him from doing so. His life was dominated by paranoid obsessions, which made him a good fit for the job. This habit of compulsive carefulness had caused month old piles of revised documents to form in middens around his office, and his worry for synergy a permanent annoyance to the people who answered to him.</p> <p>Mayreder’s ruminations were interrupted by a sudden itch on his scalp. He stamped a foot down in an awkward hop on as his finger slipped. He watched with some perturbed distress as the chain of pieces began to fall.</p> <p>Sanders could hear the faint machine-gun clicking of ivory down the hall as she punched in her key code and retired to her room for the night.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\| <a href="/rat-s-nest-hub">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/changes-at-site-18">Changes at Site-18</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/changes-at-site-18">https://scpwiki.com/changes-at-site-18</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:black-highlighter-theme">:scp-wiki:theme:black-highlighter-theme</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:bhl-dark-sidebar">:scp-wiki:component:bhl-dark-sidebar</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/theme:swirling-ashes">:scp-wiki:theme:swirling-ashes</a>]] [[size 0%]]☦Site-18 refit to house overflow of Safe objects.☦[[/size]] [[=]] //July 28th, 1976 - Disinformation Site-18// [[/=]] “Good evening Mr. Mayreder.” Sanders spoke in tired tones as she walked into the fat, balding man’s office. “How are you? How was your day?” “Oh, fine, just as any other. The day was good too,” mumbled Mayreder as he craned over, manipulating some dominoes on the edge of his desk. Sanders edged her way past stacks of papers littering the floor in the dusty office. “What are you doing?” “Just contemplating the containment procedures for the new object we’ve been assigned. Did you know SCP-1463 has over two hundred pages in its containment procedures file? Two hundred! 8 point font!” Mayreder settled back in his straining chair after placing the last domino on the metallic, tarnished table. “That’s… very interesting,” said Sanders, adjusting the bun on her ponytail. “Oh, yes, right, how was //your// day?” asked Mayreder. The question was offhanded at best. Mayreder reached under his desk and pulled out a large, spiral bound sheet of papers. Sanders let out a deep sigh. “Fine, I just performed observational duties. Very uneventful, not very colorful.” “Outstanding. Why don’t you have a seat? Do you have any other place to be? No you don’t.” Mayreder grunted as he began flipping through the pages. “No I do-… Your book is upside-down.” “Ah, I see why they have you on observation duty!” interjected Mayreder while he continued to flip through the pages as they were. Sanders offered a funeral stare in his direction. She eyed the domino pattern on the table. It was a nautiluses’ spiral, beginning at the edge of the otherwise spotless desk and terminating at the center. She knew where the end point was, because Mayreder had always placed a red domino at the center. She hated that she remembered this. “Sir, may I ask you why you do this every so often.” Her tone was snippy, barely professional. Mayreder gave her a puzzled stare from out over his book. Sanders had to remember to count to ten. “…the dominos,” she clarified. Mayreder raised his eyebrows and placed his gaze back at the un-righted containment procedures manual. “I get bored. I enjoy setting them up - how neat they look. Very pretty.” “I’ve never seen you knock them down before,” offered Sanders after a good one minute of silence. It was uncomfortable; the atmosphere in this wing was poor due to the fact that most of the power had been routed to the newly housed SCP’s air filtration system. She didn’t really care about Mayreder’s dominoes, but she would be sitting here for a half hour wasting time in this stuffy office regardless. Mayreder began again, tilting his nose slightly; “I wipe them up when I’m finished admiring them, and then place them back in their box.” Sanders let out a snort. Mayreder looked back at her with a serious mug. His reaction caused her to crack up. “What’s so funny?” Sanders wiped her nose and righted herself on her chair. “Nothing, nothing I was just thinking of something silly.” Mayreder paused for a few moments before speaking, began to say something, then stopped. “You can leave now. I need to memorize these finer points.” Sanders nodded, a small grin detectable on her face, and left the room wordlessly. Mayreder put his book down lightly and studied the nautilus pattern on his desk. Sanders forgot about Mayreder and thought about the refit of the facility as she rounded the corner in the hallway. Site-18 was originally used as a Disinformation facility, or the Foundation’s docu-serve as many people liked to call it. Sanders worked under Mayreder as a proofreader, Mayreder simply handled the projects and packaged the media given to him. The documents were then sent to the Site Director for approval, and, if they were improper, they were sent back down again. The Foundation didn’t like moving personnel to different facilities if they didn’t have to. Mayreder, Sanders, and two of their colleagues were retrained in the space of three weeks in the Special Containment Procedures for the object now located in their wing. Two freshly recruited researchers also joined their ranks. Containment for these objects wasn’t complicated; most of the intensive work was saved for actual researchers. Most of the training consisted of memorizing routines and very dull evenings of watching an object through a monitor. The contents of the media rooms of Site-18 were moved to a smaller facility, and refit to contain Safe objects. The contents of the Document Archive were also shipped off somewhere else, and this room was refit as an anomalous artifact warehouse. The labyrinth of lockers currently held roughly five hundred objects. Luckily Sanders didn’t have to deal with them, and they didn’t need much done - after some bureaucratic hoopla, individual items would be sent to Cold Storage to be indefinitely forgotten. She could understand the refit. The new warehouse was already half full, and the area that was housed with these trinkets was packed tight as if they were expecting more. There was no shortage of new parcels every week. She wondered to herself how the Foundation managed to pay their rent every month. She shrugged it off. Staring at some weird thing every day from 9 to 5 was a lot less stressful than editing a mountain of expense reports and newspaper editorials. Other than having to deal with Mayreder, her job was easy, the changes were welcome. In his office, Mayreder rested a fat finger lightly on the edge of the domino track. Each domino was perfectly spaced two fingers apart. There were seventy dominoes in this set. Each domino was faceless, and fashioned from ivory. Each weighed sixty grams. His father gave the dominoes to him two years ago. Knocking the first one off to see what happened to the rest was a temptation. The fact that he had never done it was ridiculous; some sort of superstition had prevented him from doing so. His life was dominated by paranoid obsessions, which made him a good fit for the job. This habit of compulsive carefulness had caused month old piles of revised documents to form in middens around his office, and his worry for synergy a permanent annoyance to the people who answered to him. Mayreder’s ruminations were interrupted by a sudden itch on his scalp. He stamped a foot down in an awkward hop on as his finger slipped. He watched with some perturbed distress as the chain of pieces began to fall. Sanders could hear the faint machine-gun clicking of ivory down the hall as she punched in her key code and retired to her room for the night. [[=]] \| [[[Rat's Nest Hub\| Hub]]] \| [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=faminepulse]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-05T12:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "nyc2013", "period-piece", "rats-nest", "tale" ]	Changes at Site-18 - SCP Foundation	92	[ "rat-s-nest-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "rat-s-nest-hub", "new-years-contest" ]	[]	16300953	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/changes-at-site-18
children-of-doubt	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p style="text-align: center;">My sons have left me.</p> <p>I was once a proud father of five boys, each with their own great ambitions and plans. As our days went by, the sound of them whispering their plans was sometimes all I could hear. My first son was an unhappy lad, with a vicious streak. He wanted to break men, and see them beg him for death. When he left, it was under the cover of night, never to visit me.</p> <p>He made his home with a vicious clan of madmen, who shared his bloodlust. Used for an unimaginable number of tortures and slayings, my son made these men his friends, and grew to trust them. He was surprised then, when his blade went dull, they cast him aside for new toys.</p> <p>Happily, my second son harbored no such ambition. His lot in life was simpler, as he only wished to make men beautiful. I cannot say I completely approved of his lifestyle, but can say that I was happy for him nonetheless.</p> <p>Sadly, he met his end over a matter of taste. While giving his treatment to a man of different caliber, they had a disagreement over what style to use. It eventually came to blows, and this man knocked my sons teeth out. Never the same, he died broken.</p> <p>The third boy to leave me was not as determined as my other kin. Spineless and weak, he let others fill him with whatever they pleased, and repeated it to whomever could hear him. His lies were completely transparent, leaving him untrustworthy and useless. The worst came with his judgemental attitude, which made him despised and contemptible. Death came to him through the carelessness of one and the carefulness of another. So I was left with only two kin.</p> <p>My next child believed cleanliness was godliness. I don't have any memories of him not cleaning something, or trying to keep tidy. It seemed his whole goal in life was to wipe out the literal scum of the earth. Coming to the enemies of my first son, they found ways for him to keep the world clean.</p> <p>One day, after many years of service, he looked down upon his body to find it ingrained with the very dirt and grime he had worked to wash out over the years. Taking his talents to his own body, he scrubbed and bleached until there was nothing left at all. So, I was left with one.</p> <p>Now, my final boy was nobody special. All he ever wanted to do with his life was to keep people happy, nothing more and nothing less. When presented to the madmen, they found nothing worthwhile about him. So they gave him to a young man. I'm proud to say, he changed that man's life, becoming his most valuable possession and travelling companion. He saw everything that came from the man's mouth, becoming the keeper of his secrets.</p> <p>Eventually, most of his bristles fell out and he became a wizened old ivory pick. The young man kept him still, despite being useless in his first path. He was given a new purpose, opening gateways and helping to make the man very wealthy. My son died happy, knowing he had made his mark. I wish I could say the same.</p> <p>In my cold box, I wait for another to behold me. Although my legacy has died, I live on, sitting patiently and quietly. When the time draws near, they shall see themselves within me, and be struck down by doubt and confusion. My sons may be forgotten, but without a doubt, I will always remember them.</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="/children-of-doubt">Children Of Doubt</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/children-of-doubt">https://scpwiki.com/children-of-doubt</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] = My sons have left me. I was once a proud father of five boys, each with their own great ambitions and plans. As our days went by, the sound of them whispering their plans was sometimes all I could hear. My first son was an unhappy lad, with a vicious streak. He wanted to break men, and see them beg him for death. When he left, it was under the cover of night, never to visit me. He made his home with a vicious clan of madmen, who shared his bloodlust. Used for an unimaginable number of tortures and slayings, my son made these men his friends, and grew to trust them. He was surprised then, when his blade went dull, they cast him aside for new toys. Happily, my second son harbored no such ambition. His lot in life was simpler, as he only wished to make men beautiful. I cannot say I completely approved of his lifestyle, but can say that I was happy for him nonetheless. Sadly, he met his end over a matter of taste. While giving his treatment to a man of different caliber, they had a disagreement over what style to use. It eventually came to blows, and this man knocked my sons teeth out. Never the same, he died broken. The third boy to leave me was not as determined as my other kin. Spineless and weak, he let others fill him with whatever they pleased, and repeated it to whomever could hear him. His lies were completely transparent, leaving him untrustworthy and useless. The worst came with his judgemental attitude, which made him despised and contemptible. Death came to him through the carelessness of one and the carefulness of another. So I was left with only two kin. My next child believed cleanliness was godliness. I don't have any memories of him not cleaning something, or trying to keep tidy. It seemed his whole goal in life was to wipe out the literal scum of the earth. Coming to the enemies of my first son, they found ways for him to keep the world clean. One day, after many years of service, he looked down upon his body to find it ingrained with the very dirt and grime he had worked to wash out over the years. Taking his talents to his own body, he scrubbed and bleached until there was nothing left at all. So, I was left with one. Now, my final boy was nobody special. All he ever wanted to do with his life was to keep people happy, nothing more and nothing less. When presented to the madmen, they found nothing worthwhile about him. So they gave him to a young man. I'm proud to say, he changed that man's life, becoming his most valuable possession and travelling companion. He saw everything that came from the man's mouth, becoming the keeper of his secrets. Eventually, most of his bristles fell out and he became a wizened old ivory pick. The young man kept him still, despite being useless in his first path. He was given a new purpose, opening gateways and helping to make the man very wealthy. My son died happy, knowing he had made his mark. I wish I could say the same. In my cold box, I wait for another to behold me. Although my legacy has died, I live on, sitting patiently and quietly. When the time draws near, they shall see themselves within me, and be struck down by doubt and confusion. My sons may be forgotten, but without a doubt, I will always remember them. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-26T23:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "five-questions", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Children Of Doubt - SCP Foundation	54	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "five-questions", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite", "contest-archive" ]	[]	16527410	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/children-of-doubt
collecting	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"After the objects are processed and given SCP designation, we organize them into three main classes; Safe, Euclid, and Keter. Safe-class objects are the simplest to contain, more often than not requiring minimal procedural deviation, maintenance, and observation. The most strenuous…"</p> <p>Trighit yawned and surveyed the monochrome hallway. He was glad that he had been pushed to the back of the group; now, there was no reason to mask his boredom with Dr. Grant. Everyone else seemed rapt in attention towards the so called "scientist's" speech.</p> <p>"I've yet to see a single scientific thing," he muttered.</p> <p>Though the building looked like neat and orderly enough, there were noises and murmurs coming from the rooms lining the hallways. Trighit focused his attention on the humming he heard emanating from a room on his right. He nudged Pokum and motioned with his head towards the door and the documents sitting in a bin attached to the wall beside it. The assistant shook his head, put one finger in front of his lips, pointed ahead of him, and refocused on the speaker.</p> <p>"Well, fine then. I'll just look for myself," he quietly fumed.</p> <p>Trighit edged over to the door and took one of the sheafs of paper down.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Item #:</strong> SCP-1517</p> <p><strong>Object Class:</strong> Euclid</p> <p><strong>Special Containment Procedures:</strong> All instances of SCP-1517 and SCP-1517-A are to be contained in cryogenic…</p> </blockquote> <p>"I don't care, I don't care," he mumbled to himself as he replaced the documents and reached for the handle. "I just want to know what it is…"</p> <p>"Mr. Triggit, was it?"</p> <p>The squat researcher retracted his arm and turned around.</p> <p>"I-It's pronounced 'Try-it,' actually." he shakily responded working his tongue awkwardly around the unfamiliar words.</p> <p>"Yes, well, my apologies Mr. Trite. Anyways, though I'm sure you're eager to see the example Euclids, we'd prefer to let our personnel handle the containment. If you could please step back?"</p> <p>Trighit let out a long, relieved breath as he moved back towards Pokum.</p> <p>"Now, as I was saying, Euclid-class objects are typically the objects that require moderate amount of attention and protocols. In this room are some fine examples of Euclid-classes. Doctor Peters, if you don't mind?"</p> <p>The woman nodded, swiped a keycard in the panel adjacent to the bin ("How had I not noticed…?"), and opened the door. Trighit whipped out his ever-present notebook and excitedly craned his short neck, trying to see into the room.</p> <p>The thrill was short lived. Instead of revealing a new, incredible specimens and environments, the room looked just like the hallway outside; gray, sterile, and boring. A row of white tubes lined the walls, each equipped with a module identical to the one found outside of the door.</p> <p>"Certain Euclid-classes are deemed to be most easily, effectively, and safely stored in cryogenic suspension. Take a look here at these specimens." The man lifted his own keycard attached to a lanyard around his neck and swiped it through the attachment on one of the tanks. The front of the structure opened with a hissing noise, and the doctor retrieved several objects from inside.</p> <p>"Now, these here are instances of SCP-1517-A, the eggs of SCP-1517. These may look like gobstoppers, but…" the man stopped short. Trighit was waving one hand in the air while frantically writing in his journal that was balanced on one of his legs with the other. "Yes?"</p> <p>"What is a gobstopper?" he asked, readjusting to use his now free hand to support the journal.</p> <p>The man blinked. "It's, um, a type of candy."</p> <p>The hand shot up again.</p> <p>"What kind of creature is 'candy?'" Trighit could feel Pokum's questioning stare, but he ignored it.</p> <p>"It's… um… well…" Grant was lost for words. He turned to his companions who simply shrugged. The man set down the spheres and rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a wallet. Handing a dollar to his other coworker, he instructed, "Fredricks, go buy a packet of Skittles from the cafeteria vending machine."</p> <p>The agent paled slightly. "Sir, ah, I'm not quite familiar with this wing, maybe Peters would be better for this?"</p> <p>Grant groaned and started debating quietly with his two coworkers after assuring Trighit and Pokum that this was all normal custom. While the researchers were engrossed in their spat, the Antarctican scientist quickly grabbed three of the balls and pocketed them.</p> <p>"Ah, sir, I'm sure you could always show me later!"</p> <p>The three scientists, glanced over and quickly regained their composure.</p> <p>"Mmhmm, yes, it's a minor detail anyways. I'm sure you're much more interested in the behavior of the species."</p> <p>"Yes, sir. Please continue." Trighit replied with a smile on his face stretching ear to ear.</p> <p>As Grant continued to talk about the behavior of the insects, Pokum nudged his friend frantically, clearly worried about the dangers posed by his actions. In reply, Trighit shook his head, put one finger in front of his lips, and pointed with the finger on his other hand towards Grant.</p> <hr/> <p>"Every day with you, I swear!"</p> <p>The pair of Antarcticans had been escorted to their room after the tour ("Them? Stay with me? I will not allow it."), where Pokum immediately began chastising his compatriot.</p> <p>Trighit laughed. "Calm yourself Pokum, it's just some research, no big deal. I'll study them, take some notes, and have them back before they even notice."</p> <p>"Do you even think about what you do? This isn't back at home where no one cares how many threxans you coerce from the pack, or how many hyrechi you dig out of the ground! You're going to get us executed before we've been here for more than a week, you fool!"</p> <p>He chuckled again. "You worry yourself too much, friend. We're not in trouble, are we? No one noticed, yes?"</p> <p>Pokum remained silent and he crossed his arms in front of his chest.</p> <p>"Bah, this is the whole reason why we came, isn't it?"</p> <p>"No," he spat, "This is the whole reason why <em>you</em> came, Trighit. I came to make sure you didn't get yourself hurt or killed, and that's it. I've told you, I don't care about this stuff, I care about you! Now, go put it back, apologize, and maybe they won't leave us to rot."</p> <hr/> <p>"Sir, um… it appears that we're missing a few of the SCP-1517-A instances."</p> <p>"Fifteen-seventeen, fifteen-seventeen…?"</p> <p>"The candy bugs, sir."</p> <p>"The ones we used as example Euclids for the researchers from SCP-1483?"</p> <p>"Yes."</p> <p>"…Shit. Send Peters over to that wing to double check the count on each skip in containment and send Fredricks down to their room, and if they don't find it there, declare a containment breach."</p> <p>"Aye."</p> <hr/> <p>Trighit sat in shock. "Y-you don't care? Since when?"</p> <p>The assistant kneaded his forehead in frustration. "Trighit, I don't know how many times I've tried to tell you. I always came along just because you wanted me to, and, well, you're my friend. You just never listened because you were always too focused or fascinated by whatever happened to be that day's subject. I actually kind of hate all of this."</p> <p>"But Pokum, I always… I… I'm sorry."</p> <p>"Don't worry about it." He sighed. "Look, let's just put them back. No one will have to know, we can probably use these card things they gave us to get back in. We'll just go along, studying— well, <em>observing</em> the things they tell us to— and then, when the excursion is all over, we go back home where no one cares how much of what animal you take."</p> <p>"Yes," the scientist replied hollowly. "They're in that flask, right on the desk."</p> <p>Pokum silently went over, and dumped the contents into his hand.</p> <p>"I'm going to go try to put these back. Stay put."</p> <p>A sharp knocking on the door made them both freeze.</p> <p>"Hey, this is Agent Fredricks. Open up!"</p> <p>The two paled and looked at each other.</p> <p><em>"Oh God, what do we do?"</em> mouthed Trighit.</p> <p>Pokum shrugged while frantically scanning the room for a place to hide them.</p> <p><em>"Keep him busy for as long as you can, I'll be there in a minute."</em> Pokum mouthed, quickly maneuvering towards the bathroom.</p> <p>Trighit ran to answer, but the door of their room flung open, and in walked a tired-looking man attired in a suit.</p> <p>"Alright, it's room inspection time." he said, any former traces of humor and ease gone.</p> <p>"Whatever for, Agent Fredricks?" the squat visitor asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.</p> <p>The agent glared at him for a few moments before responding. "A few of SCP-1517-A's eggs didn't make it back to containment after your tour of the site. We're trying to find them now."</p> <p>Trighit tried to put on his most genuine smile. It didn't work.</p> <p>"Well, I do hope you locate them."</p> <p>The agent grunted and moved towards the beds, upturning everything and inspecting all of the sheets. Trighit angled his head towards the bathroom to look at his companion, who quickly tossed the eggs into the toilet. Pokum edged out of the bathroom as quietly as he could, but the squeaking of the door's hinges as he tried to close it caught Fredrick's attention.</p> <p>"Hey, what were you doing in there?"</p> <p>"I was, ah, just trying to…" Pokum stumbled over his words as he searched for an alibi. By the time he had thought of one, the agent had pushed past him into the small room.</p> <p>"Not even a day into this thing and already…" The pair could hear him mumbling from the room as they stood silent, erect, and terrified. Soon after, a clanging resounded in the room, accompanied by yelling and the sounds of things falling and glass breaking. The agent ran out, arms covered with crawling colorful insects.</p> <p>His screaming only lasted about fifteen seconds. The Antarctians didn't stop screaming for a while, not until more people came, hosed down the agent, and shoved the pair down the hallway to the Site Director's office.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/antarctic-exchange-hub">Hub</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/collecting">Collecting</a>" by marslifeform, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/collecting">https://scpwiki.com/collecting</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]] [[/>]] "After the objects are processed and given SCP designation, we organize them into three main classes; Safe, Euclid, and Keter. Safe-class objects are the simplest to contain, more often than not requiring minimal procedural deviation, maintenance, and observation. The most strenuous..." Trighit yawned and surveyed the monochrome hallway. He was glad that he had been pushed to the back of the group; now, there was no reason to mask his boredom with Dr. Grant. Everyone else seemed rapt in attention towards the so called "scientist's" speech. "I've yet to see a single scientific thing," he muttered. Though the building looked like neat and orderly enough, there were noises and murmurs coming from the rooms lining the hallways. Trighit focused his attention on the humming he heard emanating from a room on his right. He nudged Pokum and motioned with his head towards the door and the documents sitting in a bin attached to the wall beside it. The assistant shook his head, put one finger in front of his lips, pointed ahead of him, and refocused on the speaker. "Well, fine then. I'll just look for myself," he quietly fumed. Trighit edged over to the door and took one of the sheafs of paper down. > Item #: SCP-1517 > > Object Class: Euclid > > Special Containment Procedures: All instances of SCP-1517 and SCP-1517-A are to be contained in cryogenic... "I don't care, I don't care," he mumbled to himself as he replaced the documents and reached for the handle. "I just want to know what it is..." "Mr. Triggit, was it?" The squat researcher retracted his arm and turned around. "I-It's pronounced 'Try-it,' actually." he shakily responded working his tongue awkwardly around the unfamiliar words. "Yes, well, my apologies Mr. Trite. Anyways, though I'm sure you're eager to see the example Euclids, we'd prefer to let our personnel handle the containment. If you could please step back?" Trighit let out a long, relieved breath as he moved back towards Pokum. "Now, as I was saying, Euclid-class objects are typically the objects that require moderate amount of attention and protocols. In this room are some fine examples of Euclid-classes. Doctor Peters, if you don't mind?" The woman nodded, swiped a keycard in the panel adjacent to the bin ("How had I not noticed...?"), and opened the door. Trighit whipped out his ever-present notebook and excitedly craned his short neck, trying to see into the room. The thrill was short lived. Instead of revealing a new, incredible specimens and environments, the room looked just like the hallway outside; gray, sterile, and boring. A row of white tubes lined the walls, each equipped with a module identical to the one found outside of the door. "Certain Euclid-classes are deemed to be most easily, effectively, and safely stored in cryogenic suspension. Take a look here at these specimens." The man lifted his own keycard attached to a lanyard around his neck and swiped it through the attachment on one of the tanks. The front of the structure opened with a hissing noise, and the doctor retrieved several objects from inside. "Now, these here are instances of SCP-1517-A, the eggs of SCP-1517. These may look like gobstoppers, but..." the man stopped short. Trighit was waving one hand in the air while frantically writing in his journal that was balanced on one of his legs with the other. "Yes?" "What is a gobstopper?" he asked, readjusting to use his now free hand to support the journal. The man blinked. "It's, um, a type of candy." The hand shot up again. "What kind of creature is 'candy?'" Trighit could feel Pokum's questioning stare, but he ignored it. "It's... um... well..." Grant was lost for words. He turned to his companions who simply shrugged. The man set down the spheres and rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a wallet. Handing a dollar to his other coworker, he instructed, "Fredricks, go buy a packet of Skittles from the cafeteria vending machine." The agent paled slightly. "Sir, ah, I'm not quite familiar with this wing, maybe Peters would be better for this?" Grant groaned and started debating quietly with his two coworkers after assuring Trighit and Pokum that this was all normal custom. While the researchers were engrossed in their spat, the Antarctican scientist quickly grabbed three of the balls and pocketed them. "Ah, sir, I'm sure you could always show me later!" The three scientists, glanced over and quickly regained their composure. "Mmhmm, yes, it's a minor detail anyways. I'm sure you're much more interested in the behavior of the species." "Yes, sir. Please continue." Trighit replied with a smile on his face stretching ear to ear. As Grant continued to talk about the behavior of the insects, Pokum nudged his friend frantically, clearly worried about the dangers posed by his actions. In reply, Trighit shook his head, put one finger in front of his lips, and pointed with the finger on his other hand towards Grant. ------------------------ "Every day with you, I swear!" The pair of Antarcticans had been escorted to their room after the tour ("Them? Stay with me? I will not allow it."), where Pokum immediately began chastising his compatriot. Trighit laughed. "Calm yourself Pokum, it's just some research, no big deal. I'll study them, take some notes, and have them back before they even notice." "Do you even think about what you do? This isn't back at home where no one cares how many threxans you coerce from the pack, or how many hyrechi you dig out of the ground! You're going to get us executed before we've been here for more than a week, you fool!" He chuckled again. "You worry yourself too much, friend. We're not in trouble, are we? No one noticed, yes?" Pokum remained silent and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Bah, this is the whole reason why we came, isn't it?" "No," he spat, "This is the whole reason why //you// came, Trighit. I came to make sure you didn't get yourself hurt or killed, and that's it. I've told you, I don't care about this stuff, I care about you! Now, go put it back, apologize, and maybe they won't leave us to rot." ---------------- "Sir, um... it appears that we're missing a few of the SCP-1517-A instances." "Fifteen-seventeen, fifteen-seventeen...?" "The candy bugs, sir." "The ones we used as example Euclids for the researchers from SCP-1483?" "Yes." "...Shit. Send Peters over to that wing to double check the count on each skip in containment and send Fredricks down to their room, and if they don't find it there, declare a containment breach." "Aye." ---------------------- Trighit sat in shock. "Y-you don't care? Since when?" The assistant kneaded his forehead in frustration. "Trighit, I don't know how many times I've tried to tell you. I always came along just because you wanted me to, and, well, you're my friend. You just never listened because you were always too focused or fascinated by whatever happened to be that day's subject. I actually kind of hate all of this." "But Pokum, I always... I... I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it." He sighed. "Look, let's just put them back. No one will have to know, we can probably use these card things they gave us to get back in. We'll just go along, studying— well, //observing// the things they tell us to— and then, when the excursion is all over, we go back home where no one cares how much of what animal you take." "Yes," the scientist replied hollowly. "They're in that flask, right on the desk." Pokum silently went over, and dumped the contents into his hand. "I'm going to go try to put these back. Stay put." A sharp knocking on the door made them both freeze. "Hey, this is Agent Fredricks. Open up!" The two paled and looked at each other. //"Oh God, what do we do?"// mouthed Trighit. Pokum shrugged while frantically scanning the room for a place to hide them. //"Keep him busy for as long as you can, I'll be there in a minute."// Pokum mouthed, quickly maneuvering towards the bathroom. Trighit ran to answer, but the door of their room flung open, and in walked a tired-looking man attired in a suit. "Alright, it's room inspection time." he said, any former traces of humor and ease gone. "Whatever for, Agent Fredricks?" the squat visitor asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. The agent glared at him for a few moments before responding. "A few of SCP-1517-A's eggs didn't make it back to containment after your tour of the site. We're trying to find them now." Trighit tried to put on his most genuine smile. It didn't work. "Well, I do hope you locate them." The agent grunted and moved towards the beds, upturning everything and inspecting all of the sheets. Trighit angled his head towards the bathroom to look at his companion, who quickly tossed the eggs into the toilet. Pokum edged out of the bathroom as quietly as he could, but the squeaking of the door's hinges as he tried to close it caught Fredrick's attention. "Hey, what were you doing in there?" "I was, ah, just trying to..." Pokum stumbled over his words as he searched for an alibi. By the time he had thought of one, the agent had pushed past him into the small room. "Not even a day into this thing and already..." The pair could hear him mumbling from the room as they stood silent, erect, and terrified. Soon after, a clanging resounded in the room, accompanied by yelling and the sounds of things falling and glass breaking. The agent ran out, arms covered with crawling colorful insects. His screaming only lasted about fifteen seconds. The Antarctians didn't stop screaming for a while, not until more people came, hosed down the agent, and shoved the pair down the hallway to the Site Director's office. [[=]] << [[[antarctic exchange hub\| Hub]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-26T01:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "antarctic-exchange", "bureaucracy", "nyc2013", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Collecting - SCP Foundation	65	[ "antarctic-exchange-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "antarctic-exchange-hub" ]	[]	16204700	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/collecting
compromised	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>“We’ve got the results back.”<br/> “And?”<br/> “Three positively compromised, five more with a confidence of 50% or greater.”<br/> “Good. Shuffle them around.”<br/> “Yes, sir.”</em></p> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:150%;">Clearance Level GK-5</span></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:150%;">Eyes Only</span></p> <p style="text-align: center;">Special Intelligence Protocol</p> <p style="text-align: center;">Project Codename: Green King</p> <p>In response to the nature of Entity HL-49, codename "Green King", Intelligence Protocol ███-██ is now is effect. As prescribed by Protocol ███-██, all personnel and resources allocated to Project Green King are to be evenly divided into two separate operations. Overwatch has agreed to supply false information regarding Foundation actions to one of the above operations. Any personnel of clearance below GK-5 are not to be informed of this protocol change. Which operation is receiving false information should be changed on an irregular basis.<br/> If it is positively determined that an agent assigned to Project Codename: Green King has been compromised by the enemy, he or she may or may not be moved from one Green King operation to the other. This is to be done without regard to which operation is currently receiving false information.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Watch and remember. Remember for me.</em></p> <p>I really need to get more sleep. I keep dozing off when I’m supposed to be working. Sooner or later, Dr. Alloway is gonna notice, and I’m really not interested in finding out what happens to people who start falling asleep on the job at the Foundation.</p> <p>Come on, David. You’re an intelligence officer working for the most secretive organization on the planet. Show some professionalism.</p> <p>All right, snap out of it. What’s next? Anomalous energy readings in the Sonora desert. Doesn't really seem like the kind of thing we’d usually be concerned about, but Doctor blackbox here seems to think it has something to do with the King.</p> <p>The King. Why do we call him that, anyway? Always makes me think of Elvis.</p> <p>Alright. So. According to this, the energy release was picked up by at least four Foundation detectors, so it was probably picked up by some civilians too. I’ll file a request for a misinformation campaign. Let’s call it nuclear testing. No, that might have some political repercussions. Freak lightning storm? I don’t know enough about meteorology to know if that would happen. No, we’ll call it a meteor strike. Big enough to cause a nice boom, small enough to be destroyed by the impact. Have a team go out and make a decent sized crater, maybe get someone from NASA to sign off on it, and that’ll probably be enough to fool most people. I’ll forward it to Sarah, though; she’s pretty good at picking out loose ends.<br/> Now, on to the real business at hand. Where’s our King? Well, let’s try sending the energy data back to Doctor blackbox with a few security holds remo…</p> <p><em>Good. Now stop. Forget.</em></p> <p>…</p> <p>I really need to get more sleep. I keep dozing off when I’m supposed to be working. Sooner or later, Dr. Alloway is gonna notice, and I’m really not interested in finding out what happens to people who start falling asleep at the Foundation.</p> <hr/> <p>I’m not getting paid enough for this. They keep me locked in this windowless bunker an undisclosed distance underground and make me sort files all day, and they wonder why my productivity’s dropping? The Foundation would fall apart without the archivists. Let’s hope that promotion request comes through.</p> <p>Let’s see what we have here…</p> <p>Spending report for site 37 for last month. Classified. Forward to accounting.</p> <p>Experiment report out of site 46. Classified. Defer to someone with higher clearance so they can file it with the relevant SCP.</p> <p>Surveillance data from sector 367. Even if that wasn’t classified, I don’t know where that is. Archive under site 367 intel.</p> <p>Project Codename: Green King. Classified. Divert to higher cleara…</p> <p><em>Destroy it.</em></p> <p>Marked for destruction. Goody. Now I have to go all the way down to the shredder…</p> <p><em>Burn it.</em></p> <p>I mean the incinerator.</p> <hr/> <p><em>You will watch for me.</em></p> <p>I should be grateful. You know how many people in the Foundation would kill for a boring job like this? I should just be glad that I’m not getting shot, eaten, or god knows what else.</p> <p>Still, I’m guarding a fucking hallway. There’s not even anything here, as far as I know. It just connects one part of the site to the other. I mean, I understand the need for security—I’ve seen more containment breaches than I really like to think about—but it does make Overwatch look a little paranoid.</p> <p>The ID scanner does most of my work for me, anyway. All I really have to do is stop anyone who doesn’t fit their ID.<br/> …</p> <p>Yeah, go ahead.<br/> …</p> <p>Whoa, slow down there, buddy. You gotta scan your card on the…</p> <p><em>He is mine. Let him through.</em></p> <p>Yeah, go ahead.</p> <hr/> <p>No matter how many times I do this, it doesn’t get any easier. I understand why we have to do this, but knowing why and actually pulling the trigger are two different things. This isn’t gonna be easy from a tactical standpoint, either. According to the briefing, this is supposed to be the most powerful thing any of us have ever gone up against. I already don’t like reality benders, not after that bullshit seminar they put us through when we started training.</p> <p>Alright, here we go. Focus.</p> <p>…</p> <p>It’s not locked. Not a good sign.</p> <p>…</p> <p>There’s nothing in here. Are we sure this is the right place?</p> <p>…</p> <p>Seriously. No furniture, no decorations, not even any fucking lights.</p> <p>…</p> <p>Shit. I can feel it now. I can fe<em>el h</em>er mind. I re<em>ally h</em>ope they’re doing a good job <em>distra</em>cting her at the site.</p> <p>…</p> <p>It’s <em>getting stronge</em>r. The <em>walls are b</em>ending and the room is <em>bigger on t</em>he inside.</p> <p>…</p> <p>I can <strong><em>destroy</em></strong> hear her now. She’s in m<strong><em>defend</em></strong>y head.</p> <p>…<br/> T<em>here she is. She hasn’t seen us. This is ou</em>r chance.<br/> …</p> <p><strong><em>No.</em></strong></p> <p>…</p> <p><strong><em>This is my chance.</em></strong></p> <p>…</p> <p>Oh god. She knows we’re here.</p> <p>…</p> <p><strong><em>Stop.</em></strong></p> <p>…</p> <p>…</p> <p>…</p> <p><strong><em>Die.</em></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="/compromised">Compromised</a>" by giant enemy spycrab, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/compromised">https://scpwiki.com/compromised</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’ve got the results back.” “And?” “Three positively compromised, five more with a confidence of 50% or greater.” “Good. Shuffle them around.” “Yes, sir.”// > = [[size 150%]]Clearance Level GK-5[[/size]] > = [[size 150%]]Eyes Only[[/size]] > = Special Intelligence Protocol > = Project Codename: Green King > In response to the nature of Entity HL-49, codename "Green King", Intelligence Protocol ███-██ is now is effect. As prescribed by Protocol ███-██, all personnel and resources allocated to Project Green King are to be evenly divided into two separate operations. Overwatch has agreed to supply false information regarding Foundation actions to one of the above operations. Any personnel of clearance below GK-5 are not to be informed of this protocol change. Which operation is receiving false information should be changed on an irregular basis. > > If it is positively determined that an agent assigned to Project Codename: Green King has been compromised by the enemy, he or she may or may not be moved from one Green King operation to the other. This is to be done without regard to which operation is currently receiving false information. //Watch and remember. Remember for me.// I really need to get more sleep. I keep dozing off when I’m supposed to be working. Sooner or later, Dr. Alloway is gonna notice, and I’m really not interested in finding out what happens to people who start falling asleep on the job at the Foundation. Come on, David. You’re an intelligence officer working for the most secretive organization on the planet. Show some professionalism. All right, snap out of it. What’s next? Anomalous energy readings in the Sonora desert. Doesn't really seem like the kind of thing we’d usually be concerned about, but Doctor blackbox here seems to think it has something to do with the King. The King. Why do we call him that, anyway? Always makes me think of Elvis. Alright. So. According to this, the energy release was picked up by at least four Foundation detectors, so it was probably picked up by some civilians too. I’ll file a request for a misinformation campaign. Let’s call it nuclear testing. No, that might have some political repercussions. Freak lightning storm? I don’t know enough about meteorology to know if that would happen. No, we’ll call it a meteor strike. Big enough to cause a nice boom, small enough to be destroyed by the impact. Have a team go out and make a decent sized crater, maybe get someone from NASA to sign off on it, and that’ll probably be enough to fool most people. I’ll forward it to Sarah, though; she’s pretty good at picking out loose ends. Now, on to the real business at hand. Where’s our King? Well, let’s try sending the energy data back to Doctor blackbox with a few security holds remo… //Good. Now stop. Forget.// … I really need to get more sleep. I keep dozing off when I’m supposed to be working. Sooner or later, Dr. Alloway is gonna notice, and I’m really not interested in finding out what happens to people who start falling asleep at the Foundation. ---- I’m not getting paid enough for this. They keep me locked in this windowless bunker an undisclosed distance underground and make me sort files all day, and they wonder why my productivity’s dropping? The Foundation would fall apart without the archivists. Let’s hope that promotion request comes through. Let’s see what we have here… Spending report for site 37 for last month. Classified. Forward to accounting. Experiment report out of site 46. Classified. Defer to someone with higher clearance so they can file it with the relevant SCP. Surveillance data from sector 367. Even if that wasn’t classified, I don’t know where that is. Archive under site 367 intel. Project Codename: Green King. Classified. Divert to higher cleara… //Destroy it.// Marked for destruction. Goody. Now I have to go all the way down to the shredder… //Burn it.// I mean the incinerator. ---- //You will watch for me.// I should be grateful. You know how many people in the Foundation would kill for a boring job like this? I should just be glad that I’m not getting shot, eaten, or god knows what else. Still, I’m guarding a fucking hallway. There’s not even anything here, as far as I know. It just connects one part of the site to the other. I mean, I understand the need for security—I’ve seen more containment breaches than I really like to think about—but it does make Overwatch look a little paranoid. The ID scanner does most of my work for me, anyway. All I really have to do is stop anyone who doesn’t fit their ID. … Yeah, go ahead. … Whoa, slow down there, buddy. You gotta scan your card on the… //He is mine. Let him through.// Yeah, go ahead. ---- No matter how many times I do this, it doesn’t get any easier. I understand why we have to do this, but knowing why and actually pulling the trigger are two different things. This isn’t gonna be easy from a tactical standpoint, either. According to the briefing, this is supposed to be the most powerful thing any of us have ever gone up against. I already don’t like reality benders, not after that bullshit seminar they put us through when we started training. Alright, here we go. Focus. … It’s not locked. Not a good sign. … There’s nothing in here. Are we sure this is the right place? … Seriously. No furniture, no decorations, not even any fucking lights. … Shit. I can feel it now. I can fe//el h//er mind. I re//ally h//ope they’re doing a good job //distra//cting her at the site. … It’s //getting stronge//r. The //walls are b//ending and the room is //bigger on t//he inside. … I can //destroy// hear her now. She’s in m//defend//y head. … T//here she is. She hasn’t seen us. This is ou//r chance. … //No.// … //This is my chance.// … Oh god. She knows we’re here. … //Stop.// … … … //Die.// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-04T03:12:00	[ "_licensebox", "green-king", "nyc2013", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Compromised - SCP Foundation	69	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "codename-green-king-hub" ]	[]	16287037	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/compromised
concerto-in-d-major	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Hiro P. always said that a successful art-strike required speed, cunning, and above all else, <em>style.</em> In retrospect, he'd never said anything about things like "artistic vision" or "ability to fight off the Masters of Bougie". Hiding behind a steel shipping crate because people were shooting at you, while your art-splosion slowly unfolded itself like a bloom of paint and death not even fifteen feet away… Well, it was almost enough to make you wonder whether you could've done something better with your life, like sticking your dick in a mound of bullet ants.</p> <p>Hiro was fucking around with the detonator, stupidly trying to make the art bomb stop or even reverse. Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) had pulled a marker from somewhere and was scribbling some drawing on the side of the container. She was a little fucked in the head, even for your group, but she was an artist to the end. And you? You were thinking and noticing you were thinking and noticing that you were noticing and wow, who the fuck was that over there?</p> <p>Some dude was just <em>walking</em> through the bullet fire, like he knew where they were going to be and just happened to be where they weren't. Looked like a parody of a banker, too, or maybe a private detective from those old movies your ma made you watch with her, all dapper and shit, a figure drawn in shades of slate and charcoal.</p> <p>He walked around the corner of the container, out of the field of fire, and stood with his back to you, looking at the Paintball-o-Doom expanding slowly but surely towards you. After a minute or so, and another few inches closer to polychromatic glory, he turned to the three of you, shook his head, and said a single word: "Amateurish."</p> <p>He turned to go and you quickly darted over and grabbed his shoulder. "Dude, what about us? We can't get away while those pricks over there are shooting at us!" He sighed and gave a little half-frown, then pulled a stub of chalk from his pocket and tossed it to Arsehole. "Make your own way out, if you can. Or sacrifice it all for Art, your choice." With that, he turned and walked back through the rain of gunfire. (Shit-fucking Christ, how many bullets did they <em>HAVE?!</em>)</p> <p>Arsehole looked at the stub for a second, then drew a submarine hatch on the pavement in front of her. She barely had enough chalk, but got the finishing touches on it just as the first splat of viridian burned against your face. She gave the wheel on the hatch a twist and a circle of concrete popped open. The three of you scrambled down into the hole, and you pulled it closed just as the first sizzle of azure frostbite hit your hand.</p> <p>And that was how you met The Critic for the first time.</p> <hr/> <p>Turned out a lot of people had encountered him in one way or another. He had a lot of names: The Critic, Mr. Gray, Fuckface, The Man, and a shit-ton more. You tried calling him "Your Private Dick", but nobody else thought it was funny, so you stopped after a while. Nobody knew where he came from, or who he was, but he would show up at particularly… <em>exuberant</em> pieces every now and then, give a fast-and-dirty review, then disappear again. Sometimes he'd help people out of a jam, like he did for you, sometimes he'd grab artists and toss them to the wolves of the Establishment. Sometimes literally wolves, too. You heard one particularly gruesome story involving a collective trying to do some kind of PETA-esque shit at a zoo (<em>sooooo</em> derivative), and they ended up kibble for about half the carnivores because of him.</p> <p>You got a little obsessed with him for a few months, and got partway through half a dozen pieces about him before you blocked. Every time you tried, it was like there was a hole in the middle of it that refused to be filled. The closest you got was a neat little art contagion that would make infectees go gray and monochrome, like The Critic's color palette, but it seemed… blah. Lifeless. Childish and obvious and dull-witted, when you should be going for dynamic and mysterious. You ended up shelving it all, sticking it in a U-Stor-It out in South Fuckington, Middle of Nowhere, USA.</p> <p>You decided to do a little traveling to get some perspective on the Man From Nowhere. You spent a couple of years doing a variety of middling-to-moderately successful shows and actions in Eastern Europe down into Spain. The latest was a direct-action performance piece in Nice, France, where a group spiked the water system with a custom fast-acting hallucinogen that ended up with half the tourist trade tripping and seeing the gaps between the strings of reality. The early reviews were that it was ambitious but poorly executed, but at least you got a few people to wake up. You had a few inklings about the nature of Humanity versus Mystery and were taking the train to London, to catch the scene bubbling under the surface there, when you noticed The Critic sitting next to you.</p> <p>"Hello, artist."</p> <p>Startled, you replied, "Uh, hello. I, uh, didn't see you there."</p> <p>"Very few people do. I'm here to discuss your little project about me."</p> <p>You frowned. "Wha- Oh, I guess you've been watching me. Kinda creepy, man."</p> <p>"Not really, but I did read a little something about you working on something of potential interest."</p> <p>"Wait, I'm getting reviews on something that I haven't even finished yet? Mother<em>FUCK</em>. It was Kaneese, wasn't it? I'm going to wring that little poseur's neck," you grumbled darkly.</p> <p>He seemed amused by your little outburst. "No, no, it was no one you would know or even be able to contact. Nevertheless, I want to warn you that you need to be more… original in your interpretation. In the waters you're splashing in, clichés will do nothing except get your work flamed and removed." He waved his hand vaguely towards the ceiling as he said, "Harsh criticism is the nature of the game, is it not?"</p> <p>"Removed? No, nevermind." You shook your head. "Have you seen my, I guess, treatise on you? What do you think?"</p> <p>"A little staid, as I'm sure you know, but some parts have potential. Pare it down to the core of your statement, your meaning, then elaborate from there. Don't feel that you have to add flash to make it acceptable; just work with what you have and <em>make</em> people like it."</p> <p>"Uh, thanks for the advice." You paused for a moment. "Um, can I ask you a question?"</p> <p>He made a small go-ahead gesture and said, "I don't guarantee that I'll answer, but ask away."</p> <p>You steeled your nerves and asked, "Why do you act so… randomly? I mean, you'll help some people one time, then the next you hand the same people over to the U.N. or whatever, then the next you just stand on the sidelines and watch."</p> <p>He smiled a Mona Lisa smile at you. "Your theme on me is 'Mystery', isn't it? Think of it as part of my charm. I know what needs to be done, or undone, and take care of things as I see fit." He paused, then continued, "I do have to say that I find you art monsters to be some of the more entertaining under my watch."</p> <p>With that, he rose. "Well, I must be going. I look forward to seeing the finished work, little artist." He tipped his hat to you, walked away, and you sank into a contemplation on how to edit and redefine your current scraps back "home".</p> <p>And that was how you met The Critic for the second time.</p> <hr/> <p>The rest of your trip back to your storage unit in BFE, West Who-Gives-A-Damn was uneventful. Just a few days blitzed out of your mind in Boston, an induced flash-mob recreation of Debbie Does Dallas on the 50-yard line of Cowboys Stadium, and a lovely evening over tea with The Possibly Reverend George St. George the George'th of the Church of Bob the Irredeemer. Delightful wo/man.</p> <p>You were feeling energized yet serene when you finally unlocked the door on the unit and rolled it up. Looking at everything tossed into it, you realized that The Critic was right; most of what you'd done before was trash, derivative, or clichéd to hell and back again. You spent a few days untangling one piece from another, picking apart what worked and what didn't. The next month was spent in a haze as you invented and engineered, called in favors, salvaged and scrapped and scraped and stole and slept.</p> <p>Eventually you ended up with something totally new; something you didn't even realize was in you, yet somehow tasted distinctly of your touch. You arranged for the first showing to take place on the grounds for Burning Man. Not while it was actually going on, that would've been a bit too… public for this particular piece's opening, but during the off-season. Besides, that gave it time to take root and mature for when the borderliners showed up.</p> <p>You passed the word out and around forty people showed up in person, although you saw some phones out, presumably streaming video elsewhere. In the center of the space was a seventy-foot-tall saguaro cactus made out of sheet metal and strips of malachite. It glowed, even after the sun set, with a purple-gray-green shimmer that pulled at the mind, like light reflecting off a pigeon's wing. Set into the base of the ivory tower were two narrow archways, barely big enough to squeeze into, through which could be seen Nothing. People kept trying to look into them, but their eyes refused to register anything at all. There were a few appreciative murmurs as people noticed that, but you tuned out most of the comments as you geared yourself up for the Real Deal.</p> <p>You let the audience circle the engraved spire until the new moon rose above the empty wooden scaffolding. In a spotlight of starlight and moondark, you walked up to the enormous sandstone anthill and stood, framed before the first archway.</p> <p>"Here is the unknown and the unknowable, the place through which we cannot speak. I invite anyone to walk in this man's shoes and tell themselves they are unchanged."</p> <p>You then took a step backwards, into and through the archway.</p> <p>It's strange seeing everyone like this, you think. Scrambling and rambling and even the brightest stars are stuck in the void of reality. You wonder why people don't just tear the veil from their eyes and remake everything into something more <em>interesting.</em></p> <p>You see The Critic (oh, but now you know his name, don't you) walk out of the blind spot you didn't know you had, and stand, real and true amongst the flitterings around you both, a 4-D man in a 2-D world. He walks a slow circle around your edifice, and steps into the other archway.</p> <p>A creditable effort, he thinks. I'm not sure that many people will understand what you've done here, but I do believe that this grand (a/e)ffect is worthwhile. Hmm. You should take a step forward, though. I believe that things are about to get slightly more interesting than you anticipate.</p> <p>You think that he might be right. After all, you can smell that he's telling the truth as he knows it. You step out of the arch and found yourself surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and sycophants, all clamoring to praise you.</p> <p>You held up your hands and managed to stick a stiff smile on your face. "Ladies, gentlemen, teegs, nulls, please settle down. 'Nobody Knows Me, #6239' is an interactive piece, but I believe we're going to have some unwelcome company soon. Anyone who doesn't want to become a commercial sale or an exquisite corpse might want to leave now."</p> <p>Most of the audience looked uncomfortable and started to drift off to their vehicles, but a handful stuck around, questioning you.</p> <p>"How many-" "What inspir-" "Whenceforth came-" "<em>Love</em>ly materi-" "The luminos-"</p> <p>You answered in generalities and layered meanings for about an hour. The helicopters were surprisingly quiet, but that wasn't too remarkable, given who flew them. You hugged yourself and awaited the coming cuffs and chains. You wondered if your new "patrons" would let you have access to some art supplies before they shot you in the head. Just a little chalk would do.</p> <p>And that was how you met The Critic for the third time.<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="/concerto-in-d-major">Concerto in D-Major, Orchestrated for Paintbrush and Fedora</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/concerto-in-d-major">https://scpwiki.com/concerto-in-d-major</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]] [[/>]] Hiro P. always said that a successful art-strike required speed, cunning, and above all else, //style.// In retrospect, he'd never said anything about things like "artistic vision" or "ability to fight off the Masters of Bougie". Hiding behind a steel shipping crate because people were shooting at you, while your art-splosion slowly unfolded itself like a bloom of paint and death not even fifteen feet away... Well, it was almost enough to make you wonder whether you could've done something better with your life, like sticking your dick in a mound of bullet ants. Hiro was fucking around with the detonator, stupidly trying to make the art bomb stop or even reverse. Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) had pulled a marker from somewhere and was scribbling some drawing on the side of the container. She was a little fucked in the head, even for your group, but she was an artist to the end. And you? You were thinking and noticing you were thinking and noticing that you were noticing and wow, who the fuck was that over there? Some dude was just //walking// through the bullet fire, like he knew where they were going to be and just happened to be where they weren't. Looked like a parody of a banker, too, or maybe a private detective from those old movies your ma made you watch with her, all dapper and shit, a figure drawn in shades of slate and charcoal. He walked around the corner of the container, out of the field of fire, and stood with his back to you, looking at the Paintball-o-Doom expanding slowly but surely towards you. After a minute or so, and another few inches closer to polychromatic glory, he turned to the three of you, shook his head, and said a single word: "Amateurish." He turned to go and you quickly darted over and grabbed his shoulder. "Dude, what about us? We can't get away while those pricks over there are shooting at us!" He sighed and gave a little half-frown, then pulled a stub of chalk from his pocket and tossed it to Arsehole. "Make your own way out, if you can. Or sacrifice it all for Art, your choice." With that, he turned and walked back through the rain of gunfire. (Shit-fucking Christ, how many bullets did they //HAVE?!//) Arsehole looked at the stub for a second, then drew a submarine hatch on the pavement in front of her. She barely had enough chalk, but got the finishing touches on it just as the first splat of viridian burned against your face. She gave the wheel on the hatch a twist and a circle of concrete popped open. The three of you scrambled down into the hole, and you pulled it closed just as the first sizzle of azure frostbite hit your hand. And that was how you met The Critic for the first time. ---- Turned out a lot of people had encountered him in one way or another. He had a lot of names: The Critic, Mr. Gray, Fuckface, The Man, and a shit-ton more. You tried calling him "Your Private Dick", but nobody else thought it was funny, so you stopped after a while. Nobody knew where he came from, or who he was, but he would show up at particularly... //exuberant// pieces every now and then, give a fast-and-dirty review, then disappear again. Sometimes he'd help people out of a jam, like he did for you, sometimes he'd grab artists and toss them to the wolves of the Establishment. Sometimes literally wolves, too. You heard one particularly gruesome story involving a collective trying to do some kind of PETA-esque shit at a zoo (//sooooo// derivative), and they ended up kibble for about half the carnivores because of him. You got a little obsessed with him for a few months, and got partway through half a dozen pieces about him before you blocked. Every time you tried, it was like there was a hole in the middle of it that refused to be filled. The closest you got was a neat little art contagion that would make infectees go gray and monochrome, like The Critic's color palette, but it seemed... blah. Lifeless. Childish and obvious and dull-witted, when you should be going for dynamic and mysterious. You ended up shelving it all, sticking it in a U-Stor-It out in South Fuckington, Middle of Nowhere, USA. You decided to do a little traveling to get some perspective on the Man From Nowhere. You spent a couple of years doing a variety of middling-to-moderately successful shows and actions in Eastern Europe down into Spain. The latest was a direct-action performance piece in Nice, France, where a group spiked the water system with a custom fast-acting hallucinogen that ended up with half the tourist trade tripping and seeing the gaps between the strings of reality. The early reviews were that it was ambitious but poorly executed, but at least you got a few people to wake up. You had a few inklings about the nature of Humanity versus Mystery and were taking the train to London, to catch the scene bubbling under the surface there, when you noticed The Critic sitting next to you. "Hello, artist." Startled, you replied, "Uh, hello. I, uh, didn't see you there." "Very few people do. I'm here to discuss your little project about me." You frowned. "Wha- Oh, I guess you've been watching me. Kinda creepy, man." "Not really, but I did read a little something about you working on something of potential interest." "Wait, I'm getting reviews on something that I haven't even finished yet? Mother//FUCK//. It was Kaneese, wasn't it? I'm going to wring that little poseur's neck," you grumbled darkly. He seemed amused by your little outburst. "No, no, it was no one you would know or even be able to contact. Nevertheless, I want to warn you that you need to be more... original in your interpretation. In the waters you're splashing in, clichés will do nothing except get your work flamed and removed." He waved his hand vaguely towards the ceiling as he said, "Harsh criticism is the nature of the game, is it not?" "Removed? No, nevermind." You shook your head. "Have you seen my, I guess, treatise on you? What do you think?" "A little staid, as I'm sure you know, but some parts have potential. Pare it down to the core of your statement, your meaning, then elaborate from there. Don't feel that you have to add flash to make it acceptable; just work with what you have and //make// people like it." "Uh, thanks for the advice." You paused for a moment. "Um, can I ask you a question?" He made a small go-ahead gesture and said, "I don't guarantee that I'll answer, but ask away." You steeled your nerves and asked, "Why do you act so... randomly? I mean, you'll help some people one time, then the next you hand the same people over to the U.N. or whatever, then the next you just stand on the sidelines and watch." He smiled a Mona Lisa smile at you. "Your theme on me is 'Mystery', isn't it? Think of it as part of my charm. I know what needs to be done, or undone, and take care of things as I see fit." He paused, then continued, "I do have to say that I find you art monsters to be some of the more entertaining under my watch." With that, he rose. "Well, I must be going. I look forward to seeing the finished work, little artist." He tipped his hat to you, walked away, and you sank into a contemplation on how to edit and redefine your current scraps back "home". And that was how you met The Critic for the second time. ---- The rest of your trip back to your storage unit in BFE, West Who-Gives-A-Damn was uneventful. Just a few days blitzed out of your mind in Boston, an induced flash-mob recreation of Debbie Does Dallas on the 50-yard line of Cowboys Stadium, and a lovely evening over tea with The Possibly Reverend George St. George the George'th of the Church of Bob the Irredeemer. Delightful wo/man. You were feeling energized yet serene when you finally unlocked the door on the unit and rolled it up. Looking at everything tossed into it, you realized that The Critic was right; most of what you'd done before was trash, derivative, or clichéd to hell and back again. You spent a few days untangling one piece from another, picking apart what worked and what didn't. The next month was spent in a haze as you invented and engineered, called in favors, salvaged and scrapped and scraped and stole and slept. Eventually you ended up with something totally new; something you didn't even realize was in you, yet somehow tasted distinctly of your touch. You arranged for the first showing to take place on the grounds for Burning Man. Not while it was actually going on, that would've been a bit too... public for this particular piece's opening, but during the off-season. Besides, that gave it time to take root and mature for when the borderliners showed up. You passed the word out and around forty people showed up in person, although you saw some phones out, presumably streaming video elsewhere. In the center of the space was a seventy-foot-tall saguaro cactus made out of sheet metal and strips of malachite. It glowed, even after the sun set, with a purple-gray-green shimmer that pulled at the mind, like light reflecting off a pigeon's wing. Set into the base of the ivory tower were two narrow archways, barely big enough to squeeze into, through which could be seen Nothing. People kept trying to look into them, but their eyes refused to register anything at all. There were a few appreciative murmurs as people noticed that, but you tuned out most of the comments as you geared yourself up for the Real Deal. You let the audience circle the engraved spire until the new moon rose above the empty wooden scaffolding. In a spotlight of starlight and moondark, you walked up to the enormous sandstone anthill and stood, framed before the first archway. "Here is the unknown and the unknowable, the place through which we cannot speak. I invite anyone to walk in this man's shoes and tell themselves they are unchanged." You then took a step backwards, into and through the archway. It's strange seeing everyone like this, you think. Scrambling and rambling and even the brightest stars are stuck in the void of reality. You wonder why people don't just tear the veil from their eyes and remake everything into something more //interesting.// You see The Critic (oh, but now you know his name, don't you) walk out of the blind spot you didn't know you had, and stand, real and true amongst the flitterings around you both, a 4-D man in a 2-D world. He walks a slow circle around your edifice, and steps into the other archway. A creditable effort, he thinks. I'm not sure that many people will understand what you've done here, but I do believe that this grand (a/e)ffect is worthwhile. Hmm. You should take a step forward, though. I believe that things are about to get slightly more interesting than you anticipate. You think that he might be right. After all, you can smell that he's telling the truth as he knows it. You step out of the arch and found yourself surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and sycophants, all clamoring to praise you. You held up your hands and managed to stick a stiff smile on your face. "Ladies, gentlemen, teegs, nulls, please settle down. 'Nobody Knows Me, #6239' is an interactive piece, but I believe we're going to have some unwelcome company soon. Anyone who doesn't want to become a commercial sale or an exquisite corpse might want to leave now." Most of the audience looked uncomfortable and started to drift off to their vehicles, but a handful stuck around, questioning you. "How many-" "What inspir-" "Whenceforth came-" "//Love//ly materi-" "The luminos-" You answered in generalities and layered meanings for about an hour. The helicopters were surprisingly quiet, but that wasn't too remarkable, given who flew them. You hugged yourself and awaited the coming cuffs and chains. You wondered if your new "patrons" would let you have access to some art supplies before they shot you in the head. Just a little chalk would do. And that was how you met The Critic for the third time. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-26T16:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "are-we-cool-yet", "man-who-wasnt-there", "mystery", "nobody", "nyc2013", "tale", "the-critic" ]	Concerto in D-Major, Orchestrated for Paintbrush and Fedora - SCP Foundation	135	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "acidverse" ]	[]	16208488	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/concerto-in-d-major
corner-pocket	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A 6-ball the size of a Volkswagen hovered placidly in the experimental chamber. It was proving very difficult to incinerate.</p> <p>Dr. Ulysses Jackson bit at his thumbnail as he stared through the glass. He was sorry, of course. It's just that there had been six D-class in there a few moments ago, one of them had mentioned "pool" (the swimming kind, but it didn't matter), and he had forgotten most of that proof he had read during the recovery of a particularly interesting fundamentally real object. Forcefully forgotten it. Rubbed it from his memory so many times he was pretty sure there was a rut worn into his Broca's Area so deep that "pi" and "pie" now meant nearly the same thing to him.</p> <p>But his recollection had never been so fuzzy as to screw it up this bad. At least he didn't think so. Of course, there were always "odd balls" when dealing with this particular memetic hazard.</p> <p>The problem with the Class A amnestic wasn't so much that it wiped your memory (all of them do that), but how targeted the memory-wipe was. For example, despite numerous dosages throughout his career, he remembered very clearly what would come next.</p> <p>First, A security klaxon would sound initiating a yellow alert in his sector. And so it did, just on schedule.</p> <p>Next, a security officer would burst through the door and say:</p> <p>"What the hell happened in here?!" Officer Kelly McDonnel said, looking out onto the chamber and spitting a few lines of a coded message into her walkie.</p> <p>The third part, Dr. Jackson had down pat, although up until now it had taken a lot of rehearsing. "This is an official statement:" he always began, looking directly into the nearest security camera. "My name is Ulysses Jackson, and I have unwittingly caused a containment breach of <a href="/scp-609">SCP-609</a>. I would like to officially remand myself into the custody of attendant security personnel and submit to amnestic therapy as per Procedure Odd-Ball Zero-Six." Surrender really was the way to go. Otherwise it's all boots and truncheons and hard linoleum tiles and a large dental bill.</p> <p>Just then the last piece of the assembly instructions clicked into place, and the gigantic green globe in the room next door collapsed down to proper size and found itself subject to the laws of gravity. Thankfully, there wasn't much clean-up, as the initial manifestation had enveloped most of the people present in the room. Just a small pool of blood and the odd leg here and there, and those mostly ash and completely sterile thanks to several incineration attempts.. Nothing to lose much sleep over. He'd forget the looks on their faces in a few minutes anyway. Forget he had even requisitioned them.</p> <p>But somehow wouldn't forget this procedure… Class A's are funny like that, he supposed.</p> <p>"Jesus, Jackson…" Kelly said. Using her key, she opened the alarm box and disengaged yellow alert.</p> <p>"I'm sorry."</p> <p>"I'm sure you are but… Jesus. All si-"</p> <p>She didn't get any farther. One of them manifested inside her mouth, stopping it up.</p> <p>"…I'm really sorry!" Jackson said, hanging his head. Goddamn trigger words. Why did her eyes have to be green?</p> <p>Kelly gagged a moment, and slowly pried the cool ball from her jaw. She'd be fine, but those facial muscles would be sore and bruised for a while. "Why? Why do we keep doing this?"</p> <p>"I don't know…" But he did. Three years of good production out of a tenured Researcher was a good bargain, considering the low cost of cleaning up after his little… episodes. By then a few others (they sent seven just to be sure) arrived to escort Dr. Jackson to an interrogation room. What triggered your recollection, how much do you remember of the initial containment, what do you think we could change about your environment to prevent recurrence, please swallow this and</p> <p>Bam. Awake in his dormitory room. Jackson knew something about a bad experiment and a procedure he had been forced to forget, but remembered the entire arrest process with crystal clarity. Something of a deterrent, maybe? Who knew. Although there would be a 2% reduction in his pay, and more restrictions surrounding his off-site roaming privileges would arrive in the mail today. Even though he couldn't quite remember what he had done or why he deserved it, he knew it would happen again sooner or later, and also knew that the mistake was of such a nature that attempting to leave the Foundation now would mean a higher content of heavy metals in his diet than he was prepared to ingest.</p> <p>So Dr. Jackson counted his fingers: 1-2-3-4-5-█-7-8-9-10. Yup. All present and accounted for. Maybe he would head down to the cafeteria, get himself a slice of 3.141592. Chocolate flavored. Cheer himself up a bit before getting back to work.</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="/corner-pocket">Corner Pocket</a>" by HammerMaiden, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/corner-pocket">https://scpwiki.com/corner-pocket</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 6-ball the size of a Volkswagen hovered placidly in the experimental chamber. It was proving very difficult to incinerate. Dr. Ulysses Jackson bit at his thumbnail as he stared through the glass. He was sorry, of course. It's just that there had been six D-class in there a few moments ago, one of them had mentioned "pool" (the swimming kind, but it didn't matter), and he had forgotten most of that proof he had read during the recovery of a particularly interesting fundamentally real object. Forcefully forgotten it. Rubbed it from his memory so many times he was pretty sure there was a rut worn into his Broca's Area so deep that "pi" and "pie" now meant nearly the same thing to him. But his recollection had never been so fuzzy as to screw it up this bad. At least he didn't think so. Of course, there were always "odd balls" when dealing with this particular memetic hazard. The problem with the Class A amnestic wasn't so much that it wiped your memory (all of them do that), but how targeted the memory-wipe was. For example, despite numerous dosages throughout his career, he remembered very clearly what would come next. First, A security klaxon would sound initiating a yellow alert in his sector. And so it did, just on schedule. Next, a security officer would burst through the door and say: "What the hell happened in here?!" Officer Kelly McDonnel said, looking out onto the chamber and spitting a few lines of a coded message into her walkie. The third part, Dr. Jackson had down pat, although up until now it had taken a lot of rehearsing. "This is an official statement:" he always began, looking directly into the nearest security camera. "My name is Ulysses Jackson, and I have unwittingly caused a containment breach of [[[SCP-609]]]. I would like to officially remand myself into the custody of attendant security personnel and submit to amnestic therapy as per Procedure Odd-Ball Zero-Six." Surrender really was the way to go. Otherwise it's all boots and truncheons and hard linoleum tiles and a large dental bill. Just then the last piece of the assembly instructions clicked into place, and the gigantic green globe in the room next door collapsed down to proper size and found itself subject to the laws of gravity. Thankfully, there wasn't much clean-up, as the initial manifestation had enveloped most of the people present in the room. Just a small pool of blood and the odd leg here and there, and those mostly ash and completely sterile thanks to several incineration attempts.. Nothing to lose much sleep over. He'd forget the looks on their faces in a few minutes anyway. Forget he had even requisitioned them. But somehow wouldn't forget this procedure… Class A's are funny like that, he supposed. "Jesus, Jackson…" Kelly said. Using her key, she opened the alarm box and disengaged yellow alert. "I'm sorry." "I'm sure you are but… Jesus. All si-" She didn't get any farther. One of them manifested inside her mouth, stopping it up. "…I'm really sorry!" Jackson said, hanging his head. Goddamn trigger words. Why did her eyes have to be green? Kelly gagged a moment, and slowly pried the cool ball from her jaw. She'd be fine, but those facial muscles would be sore and bruised for a while. "Why? Why do we keep doing this?" "I don't know…" But he did. Three years of good production out of a tenured Researcher was a good bargain, considering the low cost of cleaning up after his little… episodes. By then a few others (they sent seven just to be sure) arrived to escort Dr. Jackson to an interrogation room. What triggered your recollection, how much do you remember of the initial containment, what do you think we could change about your environment to prevent recurrence, please swallow this and Bam. Awake in his dormitory room. Jackson knew something about a bad experiment and a procedure he had been forced to forget, but remembered the entire arrest process with crystal clarity. Something of a deterrent, maybe? Who knew. Although there would be a 2% reduction in his pay, and more restrictions surrounding his off-site roaming privileges would arrive in the mail today. Even though he couldn't quite remember what he had done or why he deserved it, he knew it would happen again sooner or later, and also knew that the mistake was of such a nature that attempting to leave the Foundation now would mean a higher content of heavy metals in his diet than he was prepared to ingest. So Dr. Jackson counted his fingers: 1-2-3-4-5-█-7-8-9-10. Yup. All present and accounted for. Maybe he would head down to the cafeteria, get himself a slice of 3.141592. Chocolate flavored. Cheer himself up a bit before getting back to work. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-28T02:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "art-exchange", "tale" ]	Corner Pocket - SCP Foundation	52	[ "scp-609", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "archived:foundation-tales", "art-exchange-hub" ]	[]	21093088	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/corner-pocket
crossing-the-streams	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“Come on, Clementine’s a great name. Clementine Zairi-Lewitt. Rolls right off the tongue.” Mary-Ann sipped from her iced tea. “Though that doesn’t do us any good if it’s a boy…Sean? Can’t go wrong with Sean.”</p> <p>Salah shrugged.</p> <p>“Maybe.”</p> <p>“Okay, so what are your suggestions?”</p> <p>“Hmm…My maternal grandmother’s name was Ibtisam, if that helps at all…”</p> <p>“Mine was Carol, so you’ve got me beat in terms of cool sounding grandma names, but seriously, Salah, you can’t let me do all the thinking here.”</p> <p>“Nothing’s coming to mind, I’m afraid.”</p> <p><em>sigh</em></p> <p>“Fine, we’ll let it sit for a while.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann sat back in her chair and stared out at the ocean. The setting sun had turned the world orange and gold and pink and red. The palm leaves swayed a bit in the evening breeze. The smoke from the cooking pit drifted over to her. It smelled absolutely delicious.</p> <p><em>Wait…shit, that’s pork!</em></p> <p>She shot a worried look at Salah, the words half-formed in her mouth. He held up a hand.</p> <p>“I’m fine. I’ll just get something on the way back to the hotel when we’re done here.”</p> <p>“You don’t have to…”</p> <p>“I’m fine.”</p> <p>“Right…right…” <em>Shit how did you fucking not notice that? You’ve been sitting here for half a fucking hour…didn’t even ask… No wonder he was acting off. Fuck. And you didn’t even think to ask…but he hadn’t said anything at all either…augh, why didn’t he just <strong>say</strong> things? The stiff upper lip is fine most of the time but augh…okay…okay…collect yourself, Mary-Ann. You’re being paid to vacation in Hawaii. This is meant to be a happy time.</em></p> <p>Time for a humorous outburst to lighten the mood.</p> <p>“Ha! Got it! A perfect name!” Mary-Ann snapped her fingers. “Vishnu!”</p> <p>On a scale of awkward pauses, this particular pause rated about an 8, which was the “that joke wasn’t funny at all” stage. Salah chuckled and shook his head.</p> <p>“Something tells me that won’t go over very well.”</p> <p>“It’s still a viable third option,” <em>No what are you doing the joke wasn’t funny stop continuing it.</em></p> <p>“That’s a very loose sense of viable.” Salah stood up. “I’ll be back in a bit.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann nodded, and Salah walked back into the house. She knew that the form of “bit” he was using was a lot longer that what most people used.</p> <p>Some time passed. Mary-Ann watched the gulls circle and the sun dip below the water. Despite the astounding weather, it felt like a gloomy day in March, when spring decides to show its head with freezing rain and overcast skies.</p> <p>Eventually, the host approached the patio, balancing in his arms an array of bowls and plates that looked destined to fall over at any moment. He was a rather broad and strong-built man of forty or so with something of a beer gut, dark skin, dark hair, an obnoxiously loud floral-print shirt, board shorts, and sandals.</p> <p>This was Lono, and he was the god around these parts.</p> <p>He set out the food on the table: kalua pork, sweet potatoes, plantains, taro, breadfruit, shrimp, and eel, steam rising up in a great miasma of deliciousness. Mary-Ann’s saliva glands and guilt jostled for primary position.</p> <p>Lono sat down in his chair, and took a beer from the cooler next to it.</p> <p>“Thanks be to me, amen.” He cracked open his bottle and took a long drink. “Damn, that’s good stuff.” He glanced at Salah’s empty chair. “So, uh, where’d he go?”</p> <p>“Inside. He’s washing up for evening prayers.” Mary-Ann took a paper plate and began filling it with some sweet potatoes and shrimp. The guilt sat right alongside the hunger in her stomach, an undigestible lump. She didn’t have to observe <em>halal</em>, of course, but it didn’t feel right with Salah still around, but of course he would just tell her to go ahead and eat, and then there was being a good guest and all, wouldn’t want to look ungrateful… “I don’t think he’ll be joining us.”</p> <p>Lono paused in his piling of food on his plate to lift a quizzical eyebrow.</p> <p>“He doesn’t eat pork,” Mary-Ann said.</p> <p>“Takes all types, I ‘spose. His loss though.” Another swig of beer. “So, what’s this whole thing about? The guy on the phone a few days ago was about as clear as mud.”</p> <p>“There’s not a whole lot to it, really. Just smoothing over relations between you and the Initiative.”</p> <p>“And we do that by…”</p> <p>“Avoiding the part where a bunch of maniacs rush in, burn this place to the ground, and waste a great deal of time, money and manpower trying to kill you. They’re about as subtle as someone who ate a lot of shitty Mexican food and shoved a lit firecracker up their ass. Just about as pleasant, too.” Admittedly, this was a bit forced on her part, but she was on the job, and getting back into the role of snark-having, gregarious Mary-Ann was a necessity for this.</p> <p>Lono laughed heartily.</p> <p>“Sounds like <em>someone</em> has their panties in a twist, and for once I’m not the one doing it!”</p> <p>“You have no idea.”</p> <p>“So this is going to be one of those 'you leave us alone we leave you alone' quid pro quos, right?”</p> <p>“Right. It’s a really simple agreement, really. Nothing big. No smitations, no direct interventions, no going out and leaving a bunch of little demigods running around all over the place. Essentially, don’t go around being an asshole or do anything that attracts undue attention.”</p> <p>Lono frowned.</p> <p>“Wait, what was the next to last one?”</p> <p>“No demig-“</p> <p>“Oh! No, this cannot be!” He flung out his arm as if he were delivering a stage oration. “You seek to take from me one of the few pleasures I have left in my life! Now I shall never again know the joy of a woman in my arms, the excitement of the courting, the sheer uninhibited wonder of a really good fuck out under the stars! It is not right that a man live alone, my dear. At some point or another, he needs to get some tail.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann finished chewing her mouthful of breadfruit, trying her best to appear composed: She had very nearly spat it across the patio from laughter.</p> <p>“So long as it’s consensual, legal, and doesn’t involve superpowered kids, we’re not going to stop you. But tell you what: Call me back about ten years ago and we’ll go a round.”</p> <p>“Oho? Was I that obvious?”</p> <p>“I’m just savvy. This would be the part where I’d say something like ‘no one makes oogly eyes at me but my husband’, but between you and me he’s absolutely horrible at it. Wouldn’t have it any other way, of course.”</p> <p><em>God help me I am actually having this conversation.</em></p> <p>Lono shrugged and drained the rest of his beer.</p> <p>“Ah, you don’t need my help anyway. Did you choose a name yet?”</p> <p>“No, not yet.”</p> <p>“Could always go for Lonnie,” he smirked.</p> <p>“Eh, I think we’ll pass on that one. Thanks for the suggestion, though.”</p> <p>Dinner and conversation went on. It was a surreal experience, to say the least: if Mary-Ann had not known Lono’s true nature, she would have thought him just a cheery neighbor man who spent a lot of his time in the garden enjoying dirty jokes and ukulele music. Essentially that was what he was, but on a larger scale. That was most likely why he had remained so stable for so long: being a patron of sex, food and music was excellent for sustainability.</p> <p>It was nice to meet something that didn’t want to kill everyone, for once.</p> <p>The sun had set now, the sky slowly fading from orange to deep twilight blue. The eating had slowed to a lull, as had the conversation. A lone lamp had been turned on.</p> <p>“I’ll go get Salah and we can get this thing finished.” She stood up and walked around to the eastern side of the house.</p> <p><em>I’ll treat him to dinner to make up for this. A really good dinner. There’s got to be a place nearby…or maybe ice cream…</em></p> <p>She paused a moment: Salah was still kneeling prostrate on his mat. This was cause for concern: he had left almost an hour ago, and he never stretched out prayers that long…</p> <p>Mary-Ann sat down in the grass where she was and waited. Maybe five minutes later, Salah rose, rolled up his mat, and walked over to her.</p> <p>“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” He sat down next to her.</p> <p>“Yeah, well, I feel bad about it anyway. That’s good old Catholic guilt for you.”</p> <p>“You worry too much.”</p> <p>“And you try too hard to make sure I don’t worry at all. I get it, you don’t want to cause any trouble for anyone, but sometimes it’s just too much, okay? It’s not like you’re barging into places and screaming 'CATER TO MY WHIMS.' You’ve got the self-control of a crazy aesetic out in the desert, you’ll deal with the Wolves when there’s no one else around to do it, you take care of stuff around the house before I even get a chance to see it, you don’t even take your food back when someone messes up your order…And I love you for all of that, but I’m your <em>wife</em> for heaven’s sake: I signed up to deal with you for the rest of my life because out of all the people in the world with issues I want to deal with yours. And when you don’t let me help, well…that makes me feel shitty because you do so much for me, and I feel like I should have done something so you don’t have to put up with the crap in the first place and…man, I am just <em>babbling</em>.”</p> <p>And that was that. The weight was off her chest, now only to see where it would fall. Salah didn’t respond for a moment, and then began to laugh.</p> <p>“You do cut right to the chase, there. I needed that."</p> <p>“It’s what I’m here for."</p> <p>"How go the negotiations?"</p> <p>That was good, getting back to business as if nothing had happened.</p> <p>“He’s very agreeable to the idea. Just need you to witness it and we’re set. Scribes will probably write him down as the saint of sweet potatoes or something like that.”</p> <p>“They probably will.”</p> <p>There was a quiet pause, filled with insect buzzings.</p> <p>"Now, our plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow evening, and after that we’ll be hopping around doing odd jobs all the way home. I don’t know about you, but I want to find a nice spot on the beach tomorrow and just veg out for as much of the day as I can.”</p> <p>“We might be able to piece together an actual honeymoon over the next few years at this rate. A day here, a day there, they build up.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann stood up and brushed off her shorts.</p> <p>“Right then. Let’s get this done, and after that I say we go out for ice cream. I’m buying.”</p> <p>—</p> <blockquote> <p>“I, Lono, swear upon my honor and by my power, to uphold this oath with the Horizon Initiative: that I shall raise no hand to harm, nor take any unfair advantage of, mankind. As symbol of this oath, I present to the Horizon Initiative this sweet potato, blessed by my power. May this friendship last until the end of time.”</p> <p>“As representative of the Horizon Initiative, I swear upon the honor of the organization and by the power of the All-Mighty, that so long as this oath is kept, no hand shall be raised against you by the Initiative, and should another party aim to harm you, the Initiative will come to your aid.”</p> <p>“Damn, that’s a lot of shit just to say 'keep doing what you’re doing.' Don’t be afraid to stop back, now.”</p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/breakfast-for-dinner">Breakfast for Dinner</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-tick-tock-gospel">The Tick Tock Gospel</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="/crossing-the-streams">Crossing The Streams</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/crossing-the-streams">https://scpwiki.com/crossing-the-streams</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]] [[/>]] “Come on, Clementine’s a great name. Clementine Zairi-Lewitt. Rolls right off the tongue.” Mary-Ann sipped from her iced tea. “Though that doesn’t do us any good if it’s a boy…Sean? Can’t go wrong with Sean.” Salah shrugged. “Maybe.” “Okay, so what are your suggestions?” “Hmm…My maternal grandmother’s name was Ibtisam, if that helps at all…” “Mine was Carol, so you’ve got me beat in terms of cool sounding grandma names, but seriously, Salah, you can’t let me do all the thinking here.” “Nothing’s coming to mind, I’m afraid.” //sigh// “Fine, we’ll let it sit for a while.” Mary-Ann sat back in her chair and stared out at the ocean. The setting sun had turned the world orange and gold and pink and red. The palm leaves swayed a bit in the evening breeze. The smoke from the cooking pit drifted over to her. It smelled absolutely delicious. //Wait…shit, that’s pork!// She shot a worried look at Salah, the words half-formed in her mouth. He held up a hand. “I’m fine. I’ll just get something on the way back to the hotel when we’re done here.” “You don’t have to…” “I’m fine.” “Right…right…” //Shit how did you fucking not notice that? You’ve been sitting here for half a fucking hour…didn’t even ask… No wonder he was acting off. Fuck. And you didn’t even think to ask…but he hadn’t said anything at all either…augh, why didn’t he just say things? The stiff upper lip is fine most of the time but augh…okay…okay…collect yourself, Mary-Ann. You’re being paid to vacation in Hawaii. This is meant to be a happy time.// Time for a humorous outburst to lighten the mood. “Ha! Got it! A perfect name!” Mary-Ann snapped her fingers. “Vishnu!” On a scale of awkward pauses, this particular pause rated about an 8, which was the “that joke wasn’t funny at all” stage. Salah chuckled and shook his head. “Something tells me that won’t go over very well.” “It’s still a viable third option,” //No what are you doing the joke wasn’t funny stop continuing it.// “That’s a very loose sense of viable.” Salah stood up. “I’ll be back in a bit.” Mary-Ann nodded, and Salah walked back into the house. She knew that the form of “bit” he was using was a lot longer that what most people used. Some time passed. Mary-Ann watched the gulls circle and the sun dip below the water. Despite the astounding weather, it felt like a gloomy day in March, when spring decides to show its head with freezing rain and overcast skies. Eventually, the host approached the patio, balancing in his arms an array of bowls and plates that looked destined to fall over at any moment. He was a rather broad and strong-built man of forty or so with something of a beer gut, dark skin, dark hair, an obnoxiously loud floral-print shirt, board shorts, and sandals. This was Lono, and he was the god around these parts. He set out the food on the table: kalua pork, sweet potatoes, plantains, taro, breadfruit, shrimp, and eel, steam rising up in a great miasma of deliciousness. Mary-Ann’s saliva glands and guilt jostled for primary position. Lono sat down in his chair, and took a beer from the cooler next to it. “Thanks be to me, amen.” He cracked open his bottle and took a long drink. “Damn, that’s good stuff.” He glanced at Salah’s empty chair. “So, uh, where’d he go?” “Inside. He’s washing up for evening prayers.” Mary-Ann took a paper plate and began filling it with some sweet potatoes and shrimp. The guilt sat right alongside the hunger in her stomach, an undigestible lump. She didn’t have to observe //halal//, of course, but it didn’t feel right with Salah still around, but of course he would just tell her to go ahead and eat, and then there was being a good guest and all, wouldn’t want to look ungrateful… “I don’t think he’ll be joining us.” Lono paused in his piling of food on his plate to lift a quizzical eyebrow. “He doesn’t eat pork,” Mary-Ann said. “Takes all types, I ‘spose. His loss though.” Another swig of beer. “So, what’s this whole thing about? The guy on the phone a few days ago was about as clear as mud.” “There’s not a whole lot to it, really. Just smoothing over relations between you and the Initiative.” “And we do that by…” “Avoiding the part where a bunch of maniacs rush in, burn this place to the ground, and waste a great deal of time, money and manpower trying to kill you. They’re about as subtle as someone who ate a lot of shitty Mexican food and shoved a lit firecracker up their ass. Just about as pleasant, too.” Admittedly, this was a bit forced on her part, but she was on the job, and getting back into the role of snark-having, gregarious Mary-Ann was a necessity for this. Lono laughed heartily. “Sounds like //someone// has their panties in a twist, and for once I’m not the one doing it!” “You have no idea.” “So this is going to be one of those 'you leave us alone we leave you alone' quid pro quos, right?” “Right. It’s a really simple agreement, really. Nothing big. No smitations, no direct interventions, no going out and leaving a bunch of little demigods running around all over the place. Essentially, don’t go around being an asshole or do anything that attracts undue attention.” Lono frowned. “Wait, what was the next to last one?” “No demig-“ “Oh! No, this cannot be!” He flung out his arm as if he were delivering a stage oration. “You seek to take from me one of the few pleasures I have left in my life! Now I shall never again know the joy of a woman in my arms, the excitement of the courting, the sheer uninhibited wonder of a really good fuck out under the stars! It is not right that a man live alone, my dear. At some point or another, he needs to get some tail.” Mary-Ann finished chewing her mouthful of breadfruit, trying her best to appear composed: She had very nearly spat it across the patio from laughter. “So long as it’s consensual, legal, and doesn’t involve superpowered kids, we’re not going to stop you. But tell you what: Call me back about ten years ago and we’ll go a round.” “Oho? Was I that obvious?” “I’m just savvy. This would be the part where I’d say something like ‘no one makes oogly eyes at me but my husband’, but between you and me he’s absolutely horrible at it. Wouldn’t have it any other way, of course.” //God help me I am actually having this conversation.// Lono shrugged and drained the rest of his beer. “Ah, you don’t need my help anyway. Did you choose a name yet?” “No, not yet.” “Could always go for Lonnie,” he smirked. “Eh, I think we’ll pass on that one. Thanks for the suggestion, though.” Dinner and conversation went on. It was a surreal experience, to say the least: if Mary-Ann had not known Lono’s true nature, she would have thought him just a cheery neighbor man who spent a lot of his time in the garden enjoying dirty jokes and ukulele music. Essentially that was what he was, but on a larger scale. That was most likely why he had remained so stable for so long: being a patron of sex, food and music was excellent for sustainability. It was nice to meet something that didn’t want to kill everyone, for once. The sun had set now, the sky slowly fading from orange to deep twilight blue. The eating had slowed to a lull, as had the conversation. A lone lamp had been turned on. “I’ll go get Salah and we can get this thing finished.” She stood up and walked around to the eastern side of the house. //I’ll treat him to dinner to make up for this. A really good dinner. There’s got to be a place nearby…or maybe ice cream...// She paused a moment: Salah was still kneeling prostrate on his mat. This was cause for concern: he had left almost an hour ago, and he never stretched out prayers that long… Mary-Ann sat down in the grass where she was and waited. Maybe five minutes later, Salah rose, rolled up his mat, and walked over to her. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.” He sat down next to her. “Yeah, well, I feel bad about it anyway. That’s good old Catholic guilt for you.” “You worry too much.” “And you try too hard to make sure I don’t worry at all. I get it, you don’t want to cause any trouble for anyone, but sometimes it’s just too much, okay? It’s not like you’re barging into places and screaming 'CATER TO MY WHIMS.' You’ve got the self-control of a crazy aesetic out in the desert, you’ll deal with the Wolves when there’s no one else around to do it, you take care of stuff around the house before I even get a chance to see it, you don’t even take your food back when someone messes up your order…And I love you for all of that, but I’m your //wife// for heaven’s sake: I signed up to deal with you for the rest of my life because out of all the people in the world with issues I want to deal with yours. And when you don’t let me help, well…that makes me feel shitty because you do so much for me, and I feel like I should have done something so you don’t have to put up with the crap in the first place and…man, I am just //babbling//.” And that was that. The weight was off her chest, now only to see where it would fall. Salah didn’t respond for a moment, and then began to laugh. “You do cut right to the chase, there. I needed that." “It’s what I’m here for." "How go the negotiations?" That was good, getting back to business as if nothing had happened. “He’s very agreeable to the idea. Just need you to witness it and we’re set. Scribes will probably write him down as the saint of sweet potatoes or something like that.” “They probably will.” There was a quiet pause, filled with insect buzzings. "Now, our plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow evening, and after that we’ll be hopping around doing odd jobs all the way home. I don’t know about you, but I want to find a nice spot on the beach tomorrow and just veg out for as much of the day as I can.” “We might be able to piece together an actual honeymoon over the next few years at this rate. A day here, a day there, they build up.” Mary-Ann stood up and brushed off her shorts. “Right then. Let’s get this done, and after that I say we go out for ice cream. I’m buying.” -- > “I, Lono, swear upon my honor and by my power, to uphold this oath with the Horizon Initiative: that I shall raise no hand to harm, nor take any unfair advantage of, mankind. As symbol of this oath, I present to the Horizon Initiative this sweet potato, blessed by my power. May this friendship last until the end of time.” > > “As representative of the Horizon Initiative, I swear upon the honor of the organization and by the power of the All-Mighty, that so long as this oath is kept, no hand shall be raised against you by the Initiative, and should another party aim to harm you, the Initiative will come to your aid.” > > “Damn, that’s a lot of shit just to say 'keep doing what you’re doing.' Don’t be afraid to stop back, now.” [[=]] << [[[Breakfast for Dinner]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Tick Tock Gospel]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-04-26T01:27:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "fantasy", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Crossing The Streams - SCP Foundation	92	[ "breakfast-for-dinner", "etdp-hub-page", "the-tick-tock-gospel", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	17648652	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/crossing-the-streams
cryogenchaos-comment-tales	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Over the years, I, <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/cryogenchaos" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(251810); return false;"><img alt="CryogenChaos" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=251810&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1726272753" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=251810)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/cryogenchaos" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(251810); return false;">CryogenChaos</a></span>, have posted several short supplements to tales and forum threads in the form of comments on said articles and threads. These "micro tales", as they were, have generally been well received by the community, and even sparked <a href="/tales-of-the-foundation-force-five">full tale fodder</a>. As such, many folks have said that it would be a shame if these little blurbs were lost to the ravages of Wikidot time, so fellow user <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/observerseptember" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1488791); return false;"><img alt="ObserverSeptember" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1488791&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1726272753" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1488791)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/observerseptember" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1488791); return false;">ObserverSeptember</a></span> helped compile a few of the more noteworthy ones here. If you find any others and would like to have them added here, shoot me a message or post a link in the comments!</p> <p>Also, I'll probably still be writing mini-tales as they come, so expect to see this page grow.</p> <p><strong>Note:</strong> As most of these are intended as supplements to the main content, it's recommended to read the main tale/forum post/etc. in order to get some context.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Tale: <strong><a href="/quiet-days">Quiet Days</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-556382/quiet-days#post-1562488">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>Doctor Gears stayed longer than any of the other personnel (with the exception of the O5 council, of course), assisting others with their re-adjustment into society. He noticed a wide variety of emotions from the leaving staff: some were overjoyed that they were finally done working with such dangerous objects and eager to start a new, normal life; some were angry that they basically had to start over from scratch, claiming that spending the last few years in a facility that according to official record did not exist was shit for their resumes; and, most curious of all, a fair amount of sadness from people who, as far as Gears was concerned, should have been glad everything was back to normal.</p> <p>Days passed and people left, and eventually it was time for Gears himself to go. As he walked away from the now empty Site 19, he stopped and looked back for a moment, remembering all the time he had spent in that building. He still couldn't believe it was over, that protecting humanity, the job that he had committed himself to for longer than he could remember, was finished. As he gazed back at the facility, a strange thing began to happen: he began to feel rather odd. It was small at first, just a slight discomfort in his gut.</p> <p>Then, the memories began to fall.</p> <p>He remembered the constant struggles against 682. He remembered the puzzlement and amusement from testing 914. He was feeling quite uncomfortable now. He remembered the break room with the other researchers, how they would laugh and make jokes and have a great time while he would sit, stoic as always. He remembered the fun they would all have together. He could feel his breathing becoming labored. He remembered, shortly after the discovery of the loss of the anomalies, Bright finally achieving his final wish. He remembered Clef being unable to cope with normalcy and taking his own life. He remembered Rights, normally mischeveous and joyful, cleaning out her office with a distinct look of sorrow on her face. He remembered how even though it was a stressful, terrible place to be, how it was home to more demons and horrors than any other place in the world, perhaps even the universe…it was still home.</p> <p>For the first time in many, many years, Gears felt a tidal wave of emotions.</p> <p>And for the first time in many, many years, Gears began to cry.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Tale: <strong><a href="/quiet-days">Quiet Days</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-556382#post-1563987">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>"To the O5 Council (and the rest of the Foundation, too!) -</p> <p>Thank you all for being my very best collectors! Sadly, it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that I do not think I will continue with my work any longer. I've done my part here, and I hope that my products have made people happy (I especially hope that they made YOU all happy as well!). As part of my final goodbyes, I have included a special, one-of-a-kind collectable that I wish for you to have. It may not be as impressive as my other creations, but I hope you find it wonderful in its own right.</p> <p>Sincerely,</p> <p>Doctor Wondertainment"</p> <p>This was the note that was attached to a rather large package wrapped in glimmering purple wrapping paper. When opened, the package contained a rather large replica of Site 19, made out of ordinary plastic. When opened, the model building contained detailed figurines of each of the site personnel, from the O5 personnel down to the lowliest janitors, each poseable and each with noticable smiles on their faces, but otherwise nothing anomalous about them. Each individual figurine has been sent to its appropriate counterpart along with a copy of the note.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-686016/what-does-scp-055-actually-look-like">What does SCP-055 actually look like?</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-686016/what-does-scp-055-actually-look-like#post-1836703">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>"You know, this will be the five hundred and eighth time I've told you all this story, so let's start out with some startling news you won't remember. These defenses are nice, but honestly you probably know as well as I do that they don't do jack. I mean, I can open the door basically any time I want, I keep it propped open just enough to make it look like it's locked, but that's beside the point. Now then, onto origins, I suppose.</p> <p>I came to you people because I wanted to know what the hell was wrong with me, why nobody could remember me and why I practically don't exist. I mean, sure, it had its advantages, like being able to do practically anything without consequence, but after awhile the need for human contact just became too much. Even with my 'mysterious nature', I'm really surprised I was in the right place at the right time to find you people. I talked to your site director and convinced them of my…what'd they call them? Anomalous properties? Anyway, when I was able to tell your director all about his wife when he didn't even remember talking to me, he got a bit understandably freaked out. I think the fifty inch cement was a bit of overkill, but I still appreciate the gesture.</p> <p>You probably don't remember how long I've been here. Hell, I don't even remember how long I've been here. I do remember around the twenty year mark I started to get annoyed at how little progress was being made, so I started to leave whenever I got the opportunity. Fooling you all wasn't hard, I could leave a freaking toenail behind and you'd still think you had the mysterious anti-meme on your hands. Despite my annoyance, I was really interested in your organization, picking up weird things off the streets and studying them for science. I liked that.</p> <p>But then I saw the downsides. I saw how you all couldn't take certain risks for fear of exposure, for fear of media attention that you couldn't control. So that's when I decided to help. I snagged one of your radios and since then I've helped you put away more anomalies than you can count. That's right, I'm your Foundation's 'guardian angel' of sorts. I go out and I take the risks you can't afford to, and I help you bring these things in. Don't worry, I'm not going to go rogue entirely. After all, for what its worth, this cell you've put me in is my home.</p> <p>No, no, that's fine, you're going to forget this conversation anyway. They always do, and at this point I've stopped caring. It's fine, really. I mean, I'm not all that important. In the end, I'm just a Nobody, after all."</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Tale: <strong><a href="/the-price-we-pay">The Price We Pay</a></strong> (<a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-687836/the-price-we-pay#post-1839764">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>In the center of a crowded art gallery stands a man, surrounded by aficionados and critics alike, showering him with praise and attention. They marveled at his latest masterpiece, a sculpture of a woman devouring her partner. Riveting, they call it. A true work of art, near lifelike in its detail and complexity! The man smiles outwardly, but inside he feels hollow. To him, this was not art. This was a paycheck. This had less meaning than the back of a damn cereal box. The man remembers a time when paintings made you think, when sculptures said more than what they were made of, when the artist was more than just a hack with a brush, but a god in their own right. He gazes at his creation, and for a brief moment believes he sees it move, sees it take on the life he desperately tried to give it during those long days in his studio. But it was just a trick of the light, and he's reminded again that art, true art, is dead.</p> <p>There are many like him, you know. They lived in a time when art was as real as you or I, but now their offspring stand still, forever bound by a normalcy they never asked for, and any message these creators had now silenced by the forward march in time. This is the price they pay. This is the price we pay.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>SCP: <strong><a href="/scp-821">SCP-821</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-578668/scp-821#post-1600902">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>Mr. Funland sat down and let out a heavy sigh, his decision placing a huge burden on his mind. He still couldn't believe that after all these years he simply had to shut down the park. That park was his dream, his legacy! What was he supposed to do from now on? He knew he was going to eventually go back into business, but for what?</p> <p>Another park? Maybe in the future, but right now it doesn't seem likely.</p> <p>Books? Eh, he's never really been one for writing.</p> <p>Toys?</p> <p>…actually…that's not a bad idea. The toys were one of the most popular elements of the park. Even the most jaded and stoic kids cracked a smile when they laid eyes on a Funland Fantasy Figurine, even if it's charm existed only in their imaginations.</p> <p>Funland stood up, confident he was on the right path now. Yes! He would start making toys! But not just any toys, oh no! He'd make the most wonderful, most unique toys this world had ever seen, possibly even this <em>universe</em> had ever seen! They would invoke the most basic, most primal elements of whimsy and fantasy into the hearts of children, just as his beloved park once did.</p> <p>But he couldn't call himself Mr. Funland anymore. It wouldn't flow well on toy labels, and frankly it was just another reminder of a shattered dream that would always drag him back to the past. No! He had to start fresh! He would have to think of something better, something unique. A name that invoked feelings of wonder and entertainment.</p> <p>Wonder…entertainment…</p> <p>—-</p> <p>SCP: <strong><a href="/scp-208">SCP-208</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-104486/scp-208#post-1622611">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>And so the vain pharaoh Unas, jealous that this "Bes" was loved more than he, called for the so-called healer to be executed and his body to be chopped to pieces, encased in stone and buried next to the Nile. That night, Bes was taken by Unas' guards to what was going to be his tomb: a large block of granite with a hole carved to fit the body parts of the great healer. The guards, however, found they could not carry out their pharaoh's orders, for they loved Bes far too much. They had quite a dilemma on their hands: they could not kill Bes, but they could not return to Unas without having killed Bes, for if he found that they had lied he would have them executed.</p> <p>The kind and wonderful Bes did then have a suggestion, one radical enough to ease the guards' concerns. He would allow himself to be entombed in the rock entirely, save for a single foot to stick out from the top, giving the impression that he had been chopped to pieces. He would then be buried next to the Nile, just as Unas had ordered. Despite Bes' assurances that he would not be harmed, the guards were still hesitant to bury the beloved healer, and only after a great deal of coaxing from Bes did they finally agree. Even so, they could not stop the tears from flowing as they dug the hole to bury the man who healed their friends and families for as long as any of them could remember.</p> <p>At the dawn of the next day, the guards reported back to Unas that they had completed their task. Knowing the great love his people had for Bes, Unas went to the Nile himself to confirm that the deed had been done. Sure enough, when taken to the burial site, he noticed Bes' foot sticking out from the sand. Convinced that the great healer was no more, Unas laughed triumphantly, for now no one else would stand equal to him, the great god-king Unas, who would one day proudly walk with Ra himself, who would be remembered for all of time!</p> <p>And so it came to pass that Unas, last pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, despite all his claims of magnificence and grandeur, had no sons to continue his legacy, and his bloodline ended with him.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-609475/are-veiled-references-in-other-media-allowed">Are veiled references in other media allowed?</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-609475/are-veiled-references-in-other-media-allowed#post-1671192">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>"Hey," says a bright young idealist, eager to share his favorite creepypasta series with the world, "what if we published a book about the SCP series? It'd be amazing! What do you guys thi-"</p> <p>The hopeful youngsters words fade away as a sound emanates from the forum. It is one faint voice at first, nearly silent, but as the seconds pass more voices add to the mass, growing louder and louder until the forum is almost shaking with the snakelike hiss of the seasoned veterans of the SCP. They repeat the same words over and over, an empty rage fueling the noise.</p> <p>"Creative Commonsssssssssssss! Creative Commonsssssssss!"</p> <p>The fresh-faced writer is taken aback by this response. Surely these people wanted their community to succeed! Why were they resisting? "B-but don't you guys want people around the world to share in your stories?!"</p> <p>"Creative Commonssssssssssss! Creative Commonssssssssssss!"</p> <p>"But what about fame, about notoriety? Surely THAT interests you!"</p> <p>"Creative Commonsssssssssss! Creative Commonsssssssssssss!"</p> <p>"Money, then! What about money?!"</p> <p>Without warning, the hissing stops. The empty silence is amplified as the young poster sits and waits nervously for the response. Did the prospect of profit change their minds?</p> <p>Like lightning, the community strikes! Hundreds if not thousands of venomous bites are delivered as the poster writhes in agony. How DARE he suggest something so obvious! Of COURSE we've thought about money! Of COURSE we've thought about fame, about making this wiki profitable! But this…this insect doesn't understand what we've gone through! The attacks continue on and on until finally…silence.</p> <p>Nothing left of the naive newbie, save for a single finger pointing at a hastily etched note of regret:</p> <p>"Creative Commons"</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil">A lifted veil</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil#post-1693407">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that R&D have <em>finally</em> located the source of the toys made by this "Doctor Wondertainment". It's taken years of hard work and hard money, but the demands of the consumer must <em>always</em> be met! Our new plan is simple: we find whatever it is that makes these things tick, and we reverse engineer them and sell them at marked up prices! Over time, we will figure out the most popular product lines (the 'Little Misters' we keep finding seem especially promising) and turn them into entire franchises all their own, with movies, TV shows, hell, even <em>Happy Meal toys!</em> Of course, we're not stupid, we're not going to just send these off with the Wondertainment logo still stamped on them, nor are we going to completely overwrite it. After all, if the actual Doctor Wondertainment shows up and finds we've been selling his products, I imagine we'd be in for a very…<em>intense</em> legal suit. No, our boys in Marketing have been working on that too, and they've come up with a solution. To the consumer, we make the toys. To the creator, we are the <em>distributor</em> of the toys, and we will create a brand name that combines our names to ensure we mean no ill will to the original producer. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…<strong><em>DISNEYTAINMENT TOYS!</em></strong>"</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil">A lifted veil</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil#post-1693397">Original Post</a>)</p> <blockquote> <p>someone says "Right, enough of this" and just blows up every hipster coffee shop in the country.</p> </blockquote> <p>And finally, after several years of relative obsurity to the U.S., the anomalous absolutist deconstructionist art movement "Right, Enough Of This" (or REOT) made themselves known to the American people by planting coffee cups with their "slogan" written on the side that explode when all of them are filled with coffee. The remnants of Are We Cool Yet? either defect to this new group, or decide that art isn't worth their lives and abandon the idea entirely. The British Ministry of Abnormal Occurances, desperate to keep the United Kingdom out of war due to these post-postmodern nihilsts, send all the information they collected over the years about REOT to the Bureau of Unusual Incidents, and (thanks to a previously established connection made before the "great unveiling") said information gets passed on to the Foundation, who take measures to keep an eye on this new group of interest.</p> <p>—-</p> <p><strong>Forum Post: Deleted SCP entry (No Original Post Available)</strong></p> <p>The reality bender grinned as he entered the middle of the ring. These were the fights he <em>lived</em> for, the fights he loved to organize. Most of the time, it was just animals vs. inanimate objects or something stupid like that. This time, though, things were different. The stadium was packed with entities of all shapes and sizes; just from a quick glance, he could see a couple of Sl'thans, a few wayward humans in lab coats (those damn Foundationites, he was going to have to have a word with them after the show), a Vampyr Countess, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say the fellow with the gaping maw was an emissary of the Pattern Screamer. Tonight was going to be a good night.</p> <p>He turned on his microphone before speaking. "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Battle of the Beasts! Tonight, we have a very special fight lined up for you all, a matchup that happens only once every few decades! For this night, you will all be present…<em>for a sentient humanoid fight!</em>"</p> <p>The stadium shook with the uproar of cheers as the reality bender waited for the noise to die down. "Yes, yes, now allow me to introduce you to our combatants!" He walked a few paces to a corner of the ring, where a strange looking lizard man was being held by two burly captors. The reptilians hands and feet were bound, and he had a muzzle over his mouth. He looked very angry. "In this corner, hailing from the east side of the Gamma Quadrant, we have the last living warrior of the extinct species known as the Reptiliax! His speed and power are matched only by his ruthlessness, here to perform for you tonight, give it up for Vileskar the Destroyer!"</p> <p>The crowd erupted again with a combination of cheers and boos, all of which agitated Vileskar significantly, fiercely pulling on his restraints. The reality bender walked to the opposite corner, where another humanoid golem sat, being restrained almost exactly the same way as his opponent, a cold fury found in his unblinking eyes. "And in this corner, hailing from the planet Terra, we have a unique example of a human experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong! This creature's skin is as hard as his strength is high, ready to prove its existence to you all, put your hands together for Specimen 1265!"</p> <p>The reality bender walked back to the center of the ring as the crowd's insane cheering reverberated throughout the stadium. The reality bender motioned for the restraints to be removed, snapped his fingers and rematerialized in his box seat, his final words still echoing around.</p> <p>"Let the fight…<strong>BEGIN!</strong>"</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-601621">What is your least favorite type of SCP?</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-601621#post-1673996">Original Post</a>)</p> <blockquote> <p>a keyring dongle soldered to the inside of O5-13's bum</p> </blockquote> <p>"…and in closing, I humbly accept this position you have bestowed unto me. I will do my best to perform my duties as well as my predecessor." finished the newly-appointed O5-13, secretly overjoyed that his hard work has finally paid off. Though the position was infinitely more stressful than his previous position, and he knew there was absolutely no reason to celebrate considering where he was and what he was working with, he had to find small pockets of joy somewhere, and pride in his work was one of his best sources.</p> <p>"That was quite a speech, 13!" said O5-7, shaking O5-13's hand with only the vaguest hit of a smirk on his face. "It's good to see you're still enthusiastic about the position despite what rumors you may have heard about what we O5's have to deal with on a day-to-day basis. Of course, it's not as though you had a choice about the position anyway!" O5-7 laughed dryly at his own little joke, then cleared his throat.</p> <p>"Ahem. Now, you have one last thing you have to do before you can begin your duties as an O5. You see, your position is…unique among our ranks as you yourself will be part of one of these objects' containment procedures. Specifically, SCP-XXXX's containment procedures." O5-13 looked at his colleague with mild surprise. As far as he knew, O5s weren't allowed access to any of the SCP objects, and he hadn't even <em>heard</em> of this "SCP-XXXX". Still, he swore to do his duty with honor, and he intended to uphold that no matter what.</p> <p>"That's alright, just tell me what I have to do. Do I have to clear some files? Or authorize civilian access? Or is it something more simple, like just holding on to a key?" O5-13 asked, anxious to learn what his newfound responsibility was going to be. O5-7 smiled with a slight look of pity on his face as he wordlessly gestured to the doorway to Medical Lab 0, which was for use exclusively by the O5s. Standing in the doorway were two men dressed in surgical apparel, one holding a very important looking keyring dongle and another holding a very intimidating looking soldering iron. Their faces were expressionless as they waved him over.</p> <p>As O5-13 started to walk over to the surgeons, he started to get a very bad feeling about his new job.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-720267/what-is-done-with-all-the-d-class-bodies">What is done with all the D-class bodies?</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-720267/what-is-done-with-all-the-d-class-bodies#post-1886299">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>O5-8 looked at his fellow Overseers in dismay. They stood at the doorway to O5-1's chamber, shuffling their feet and trying desperately to spend as much time not going in as physically possible. This was their least favorite part of the day, bar none, particularly since most of them didn't <em>choose</em> to be Overseers, the monster in the room chose them. Why it did is anyone's guess, though most of them felt it was because God despised them more than anything else. Steeling their nerves, the group opened the door.</p> <p>The featureless room was large but mostly empty, save for O5-1. Even though it was seen daily, the O5s still could barely keep themselves from retching whenever they looked upon the gargantuan mound of flesh that was crudely fashioned in the shape of a large infant. O5-1 looked down on his subordinates with his beady little eyes, barely visible underneath the folds of flabby, mottled skin. His sickeningly large mouth stretched wide into a grin, showing off each of his grotesquely sharpened teeth, stained crimson and yellow from decades upon decades of feeding.</p> <p>The silence that permeated the air was broken by O5-5, clearing her throat before addressing the monstrous titan before her. "S-sir, we have brought todays harvest for you." she said, pointedly avoiding making eye contact with O5-1. He didn't like that, after all. "Good-good!" shouted O5-1, his unnervingly childlike voice echoing off the steel walls. "I want Seven to read to me this time!"</p> <p>O5-7 stepped forward, taking the list from O5-5, who gave her comrade a look of sorrow. O5-7 cleared his throat, and meekly called back to O5-9, "P-please wheel todays harvest forward so our b-bestest friend ever can have his dinner." O5-9 grabbed hold of the large crate they brought in with them and pushed it forward just enough for O5-1 to reach, then quickly sprinted back to the group. O5-1 gingerly opened the crate top and pulled out the first part of his meal.</p> <p>"First on the list is D-69414, killed by a sentient Crunch bar that was dispensed by SCP-261." O5-1 giggled with glee as it messily tore apart the lifeless corpse it held in its stubby little hands. "Sweet treats, sweet eats, sweet meats!" sang O5-1 as it ate, the gruesome spectacle forcing the other O5s to turn their heads in disgust and horror. With one final sickening crunch, O5-1 finished the first corpse, and shouted, "NEXT!"</p> <p>O5-7 was looking very pale as he read aloud, "Next is D-16883, partway transformed into a 'flesh beast' by SCP-427 before being shot by security detail." O5-1 grabbed the flabby mound of skin in the box and hungrily tore into it, the crunch from before now replaced with an even more disgustingly loud squeak as the slimy flesh of the D-class met the razor sharp fangs of the horrendous abomination. It hummed happily as it slurped down the last of the flesh beast, then began digging into the crate again for more food.</p> <p>"F-f-finally, D-73093, mauled by SCP-682. As per your request, we left any skin samples and teeth in D-73093's bod-" O5-7 stopped abruptly to cover his ears like the rest of his group as O5-1 screeched in absolute delight. It had been a very long time since he had had a taste of the indestructible lizard, and he had been missing the flavor! This time, O5-1 ate the body very slowly, savoring every tiny morsel of 682 he tasted, looking all the world like he was brimming with ecstasy. Thirty minutes later, O5-1 finished the last bite, gave one more satisfied sigh, and turned his attention to the rest of the O5 council.</p> <p>"This was a very good meal! I wish to sleep now, so you may all go. I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow, friends!" O5-1 smiled as his best pals in the world scrambled out the door. He closed his eyes, preparing to drift into a meat coated wonderland, reflecting upon his dinner. Hopefully next time he would get to eat a body soaked in 075's acid! O5-1 giggled. Truly, tomorrow was going to be a good day.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-743794/an-idea-concerning-the-overseers">An Idea concerning the Overseers</a></strong> (<a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-743794/an-idea-concerning-the-overseers#post-1909100">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>"Welcome to your new position, O5-13. You have been given your new role because you have proven yourself worthy to know the truth about everything your Foundation holds. You can be trusted to keep the secrets that many of your kind cannot bear. You should feel proud. You only have one last test to pass, the test of knowing the truth about your own council.</p> <p>You may ask why the overseer council exists. Your assumption is likely that you organized yourselves in an effort to save your species. That you are the leaders of the last bastion of defense against the unknown. Perhaps you even believe you are the last light of protectors of a cold, unflinching universe of horrors.</p> <p>How presumptuous.</p> <p>What you and the rest of your Foundation fail to realize is that you are not alone, nor are you special. There are hundreds, thousands of other species across the cosmos who do the exact same thing you do: contain those anomalies that cannot be known by their race for fear of mass panic, for fear that knowledge of the extreme unknown will cause their societies to tear themselves apart.</p> <p>You play an important role, to be sure, but you do not play the <em>only</em> important role in the universe, or even in your own galaxy. In fact, on Earth alone there are at least four other councils much like your own, though you may not see be able to see them in your zone. All have the exact same mission: to secure, to contain, and to protect. And when the time comes, your councils may be able to meet and exchange information, to create a balanced and protected universe.</p> <p>But since that day has not come yet, all you can know is that you report to me.</p> <p>I have seen what happens when an entire species destroys itself out of fear of the unknown.</p> <p>I will not let that happen again.</p> <p>And neither will you.</p> <p>Secure. Contain. Protect."</p> <p>- OΩ</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Tale: <strong>5700 Years Later</strong> (Original Post Thread Deleted)</p> <p>1548 fled through the cosmos, fear coursing through its plasma. It had not even turned back once to observe what was following it, all it knew was the rage and hate it felt from the blue dot only grew and grew as the chase continued. Had the star stopped at all during its cowardly pursuance it might have reflected on the irony of its situation, but alas such a thing went unnoticed by the formerly Hateful Star.</p> <p>The star suddenly ground to a halt in terror as it approached what it only knew as The Dark Field. The star could feel the supermassive black holes each try to draw him in, the clusters of points of no return hungrily trying to devour him. Stuck between an unknown horror and the clawing void of a black hole, the star knew its only chance of escape was to try to fight its assailant.</p> <p>1548 turned to face the blue dot that pursued it endlessly, and the fear it felt was compounded by a new sensation: confusion. As the dot came into focus, the star realized it was not dealing with another star, or any sort of cosmic being from beyond. Transparent and blue, the hunting orb drew closer to 1548, and the star realized that it was being chased by a ghostly vision of the blue planet the miserable humans called Earth.</p> <p>The fear fell away and was quickly replaced with white-hot rage, fueled by humiliation and hatred. "ENOUGH! How <em>dare</em> you interrupt my vengeance, how <em>dare</em> you attempt to keep me away from my prize of destroying those pathetic apes!" 1548 pulsed angrily, the ghostly planet slowly approaching the star. "You are nothing I am to fear, and you have no power over me! I will destroy those disgusting humans, and there is not a thing you can do to stop me!"</p> <p>The ghost of Earth said nothing as it moved closer and closer to 1548. The star remained motionless as the ghost got closer…closer…and passed straight through. The star laughed triumphantly. Of course this translucent <em>thing</em> couldn't hurt it, how foolish the star had been! It scanned the empty space in front of it, and saw the faintest traces of where the humans had been. Not much, but it was a start. 1548 focused its energies, and started to move towards that direction…</p> <p>…and was unable to move. The star pulled angrily against the unknown force that was keeping it from moving, and turned to see what was happening. A thin spectral tendril that extended from the ghostly Earth was attached to the star's core, as the planet drifted into The Dark Field. The star burned with anger only momentarily as it realized it was moving backwards, being dragged by the planet into the field.</p> <p>Fear, terror, horror, these words describe only the tiniest sliver of a fraction of what 1548 felt as it desperately tugged against the ghostly anchor that drew it closer and closer to the largest of the supermassive black holes. The ghostly planet sped up suddenly as the pull of the black hole dragged it into its core, and within moments the planet was no more. With the connection snapped from the extreme pressure of the black hole, 1548 tried to flee.</p> <p>The star's struggles were in vain as it swirled around the core of the black hole, it's continuous flashes of "NO" and "HELP ME" being absorbed by the vacuum. If the star could scream, it would have shrieked in agony as it felt its body being torn apart by the infinite gravity of the black hole's core. Within minutes, every remnant of the Hateful Star was absorbed, and all that was left was the black hole, unknowing of the monster it had consumed.</p> <p>—-</p> <p>Forum Post: <strong><a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-625451/foundationverse-creation-myth">Foundationverse Creation Myth</a></strong> (<a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-625451/foundationverse-creation-myth#post-1713176">Original Post</a>)</p> <p>In the beginning, there was only me. I was life when there was only nothingness. I remember it all too well, the feeling of being completely alone. And I was saddened by my loneliness, so I mustered all my power and created a nursery, an ever-expanding realm where I could raise my children. After that, I gave birth to the first of many. <span style="color: white">the cold, it was so cold</span></p> <p>They did not know of me, but they have always believed in me, an inner strength of faith in their mother. I have watched them always, for I loved them with all of my being. When they were born, they were all imbued with pieces of my own power, fragments of their mother that gave them the ability to thrive in their nursery. Each of my children embodied a part of my knowledge and self.<span style="color: white">I give it freely though I know not what I have done</span></p> <p>The Elder, in all his wisdom, knew of my omnipotence, but as he had no knowledge of his mother, he naturally attributed it to himself. My dear Elder, he may yet take up my mantle of Almighty if one day I am no more. <span style="color: white">always remember mother loves you</span></p> <p>The Hatred gained all my loathing that I had directed at the emptiness before creation, but without knowing that emptiness, all he was able to do was hate everything and everyone around him. <span style="color: white">my poor child, mother will comfort you</span></p> <p>The Dreamer, who was given my dreams of a bright future, sleeps eternally now. He may awaken one day to find that his dreams have taken on life of their own, but for now I shall let him slumber. <span style="color: white">dream, sweet child, dream</span></p> <p>The Toymaker and The Trickster, born together, both gained my joy and imagination, but found very different ways to express themselves: The Toymaker seeks to give joy to others, while The Trickster only wants joy for himself. <span style="color: white">yin and yang, two sides of the same coin</span></p> <p>The Unseen, The Fool, The Martyr, The Angel…there are countless others who I love with all my heart, and many have made me proud by producing children of their own, who in turn have had children of their own. My family has grown so large, at times it is hard to keep track of them all! Truly, my happiness knows no bounds. <span style="color: white">they are safe as long as they believe</span></p> <p>Almost. <span style="color: white">bliss interrupted with naught but pain</span></p> <p>You see, some of my children are starting to upset me. The Humans, who gained my resilience, have begun to use that resilience to question the innate belief they were born with. I can't begin to describe the sorrow that I feel for my children abandoning me, and even moreso the grief I already feel for losing them. <span style="color: white">why do they refuse to believe</span></p> <p>My poor, poor children, how I wish you could see how difficult this is for me. I will come to you in your final moments, and I will say my goodbyes, tell you of my love and shed my tears. <span style="color: white">this did not have to happen</span></p> <p>And then I will banish you to the ether of nothingness. <span style="color: white">why must you force my hand</span></p> <p>That is how it must be. <span style="color: white">I refuse to go back</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="/cryogenchaos-comment-tales">CryogenChaos' Comment Tales</a>" by CryogenChaos, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cryogenchaos-comment-tales">https://scpwiki.com/cryogenchaos-comment-tales</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]] [[/>]] Over the years, I, [[User Cryogenchaos]], have posted several short supplements to tales and forum threads in the form of comments on said articles and threads. These "micro tales", as they were, have generally been well received by the community, and even sparked [[[tales-of-the-foundation-force-five\|full tale fodder]]]. As such, many folks have said that it would be a shame if these little blurbs were lost to the ravages of Wikidot time, so fellow user [[User ObserverSeptember]] helped compile a few of the more noteworthy ones here. If you find any others and would like to have them added here, shoot me a message or post a link in the comments! Also, I'll probably still be writing mini-tales as they come, so expect to see this page grow. Note: As most of these are intended as supplements to the main content, it's recommended to read the main tale/forum post/etc. in order to get some context. --- Tale: [[[Quiet Days]]] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-556382/quiet-days#post-1562488 Original Post]) Doctor Gears stayed longer than any of the other personnel (with the exception of the O5 council, of course), assisting others with their re-adjustment into society. He noticed a wide variety of emotions from the leaving staff: some were overjoyed that they were finally done working with such dangerous objects and eager to start a new, normal life; some were angry that they basically had to start over from scratch, claiming that spending the last few years in a facility that according to official record did not exist was shit for their resumes; and, most curious of all, a fair amount of sadness from people who, as far as Gears was concerned, should have been glad everything was back to normal. Days passed and people left, and eventually it was time for Gears himself to go. As he walked away from the now empty Site 19, he stopped and looked back for a moment, remembering all the time he had spent in that building. He still couldn't believe it was over, that protecting humanity, the job that he had committed himself to for longer than he could remember, was finished. As he gazed back at the facility, a strange thing began to happen: he began to feel rather odd. It was small at first, just a slight discomfort in his gut. Then, the memories began to fall. He remembered the constant struggles against 682. He remembered the puzzlement and amusement from testing 914. He was feeling quite uncomfortable now. He remembered the break room with the other researchers, how they would laugh and make jokes and have a great time while he would sit, stoic as always. He remembered the fun they would all have together. He could feel his breathing becoming labored. He remembered, shortly after the discovery of the loss of the anomalies, Bright finally achieving his final wish. He remembered Clef being unable to cope with normalcy and taking his own life. He remembered Rights, normally mischeveous and joyful, cleaning out her office with a distinct look of sorrow on her face. He remembered how even though it was a stressful, terrible place to be, how it was home to more demons and horrors than any other place in the world, perhaps even the universe…it was still home. For the first time in many, many years, Gears felt a tidal wave of emotions. And for the first time in many, many years, Gears began to cry. --- Tale: [[[Quiet Days]]] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-556382#post-1563987 Original Post]) "To the O5 Council (and the rest of the Foundation, too!) - Thank you all for being my very best collectors! Sadly, it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that I do not think I will continue with my work any longer. I've done my part here, and I hope that my products have made people happy (I especially hope that they made YOU all happy as well!). As part of my final goodbyes, I have included a special, one-of-a-kind collectable that I wish for you to have. It may not be as impressive as my other creations, but I hope you find it wonderful in its own right. Sincerely, Doctor Wondertainment" This was the note that was attached to a rather large package wrapped in glimmering purple wrapping paper. When opened, the package contained a rather large replica of Site 19, made out of ordinary plastic. When opened, the model building contained detailed figurines of each of the site personnel, from the O5 personnel down to the lowliest janitors, each poseable and each with noticable smiles on their faces, but otherwise nothing anomalous about them. Each individual figurine has been sent to its appropriate counterpart along with a copy of the note. --- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-686016/what-does-scp-055-actually-look-like What does SCP-055 actually look like?] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-686016/what-does-scp-055-actually-look-like#post-1836703 Original Post]) "You know, this will be the five hundred and eighth time I've told you all this story, so let's start out with some startling news you won't remember. These defenses are nice, but honestly you probably know as well as I do that they don't do jack. I mean, I can open the door basically any time I want, I keep it propped open just enough to make it look like it's locked, but that's beside the point. Now then, onto origins, I suppose. I came to you people because I wanted to know what the hell was wrong with me, why nobody could remember me and why I practically don't exist. I mean, sure, it had its advantages, like being able to do practically anything without consequence, but after awhile the need for human contact just became too much. Even with my 'mysterious nature', I'm really surprised I was in the right place at the right time to find you people. I talked to your site director and convinced them of my…what'd they call them? Anomalous properties? Anyway, when I was able to tell your director all about his wife when he didn't even remember talking to me, he got a bit understandably freaked out. I think the fifty inch cement was a bit of overkill, but I still appreciate the gesture. You probably don't remember how long I've been here. Hell, I don't even remember how long I've been here. I do remember around the twenty year mark I started to get annoyed at how little progress was being made, so I started to leave whenever I got the opportunity. Fooling you all wasn't hard, I could leave a freaking toenail behind and you'd still think you had the mysterious anti-meme on your hands. Despite my annoyance, I was really interested in your organization, picking up weird things off the streets and studying them for science. I liked that. But then I saw the downsides. I saw how you all couldn't take certain risks for fear of exposure, for fear of media attention that you couldn't control. So that's when I decided to help. I snagged one of your radios and since then I've helped you put away more anomalies than you can count. That's right, I'm your Foundation's 'guardian angel' of sorts. I go out and I take the risks you can't afford to, and I help you bring these things in. Don't worry, I'm not going to go rogue entirely. After all, for what its worth, this cell you've put me in is my home. No, no, that's fine, you're going to forget this conversation anyway. They always do, and at this point I've stopped caring. It's fine, really. I mean, I'm not all that important. In the end, I'm just a Nobody, after all." --- Tale: [[[The Price We Pay]]] ([http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-687836/the-price-we-pay#post-1839764 Original Post]) In the center of a crowded art gallery stands a man, surrounded by aficionados and critics alike, showering him with praise and attention. They marveled at his latest masterpiece, a sculpture of a woman devouring her partner. Riveting, they call it. A true work of art, near lifelike in its detail and complexity! The man smiles outwardly, but inside he feels hollow. To him, this was not art. This was a paycheck. This had less meaning than the back of a damn cereal box. The man remembers a time when paintings made you think, when sculptures said more than what they were made of, when the artist was more than just a hack with a brush, but a god in their own right. He gazes at his creation, and for a brief moment believes he sees it move, sees it take on the life he desperately tried to give it during those long days in his studio. But it was just a trick of the light, and he's reminded again that art, true art, is dead. There are many like him, you know. They lived in a time when art was as real as you or I, but now their offspring stand still, forever bound by a normalcy they never asked for, and any message these creators had now silenced by the forward march in time. This is the price they pay. This is the price we pay. --- SCP: [[[SCP-821]]] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-578668/scp-821#post-1600902 Original Post]) Mr. Funland sat down and let out a heavy sigh, his decision placing a huge burden on his mind. He still couldn't believe that after all these years he simply had to shut down the park. That park was his dream, his legacy! What was he supposed to do from now on? He knew he was going to eventually go back into business, but for what? Another park? Maybe in the future, but right now it doesn't seem likely. Books? Eh, he's never really been one for writing. Toys? ...actually...that's not a bad idea. The toys were one of the most popular elements of the park. Even the most jaded and stoic kids cracked a smile when they laid eyes on a Funland Fantasy Figurine, even if it's charm existed only in their imaginations. Funland stood up, confident he was on the right path now. Yes! He would start making toys! But not just any toys, oh no! He'd make the most wonderful, most unique toys this world had ever seen, possibly even this //universe// had ever seen! They would invoke the most basic, most primal elements of whimsy and fantasy into the hearts of children, just as his beloved park once did. But he couldn't call himself Mr. Funland anymore. It wouldn't flow well on toy labels, and frankly it was just another reminder of a shattered dream that would always drag him back to the past. No! He had to start fresh! He would have to think of something better, something unique. A name that invoked feelings of wonder and entertainment. Wonder...entertainment... --- SCP: [[[SCP-208]]] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-104486/scp-208#post-1622611 Original Post]) And so the vain pharaoh Unas, jealous that this "Bes" was loved more than he, called for the so-called healer to be executed and his body to be chopped to pieces, encased in stone and buried next to the Nile. That night, Bes was taken by Unas' guards to what was going to be his tomb: a large block of granite with a hole carved to fit the body parts of the great healer. The guards, however, found they could not carry out their pharaoh's orders, for they loved Bes far too much. They had quite a dilemma on their hands: they could not kill Bes, but they could not return to Unas without having killed Bes, for if he found that they had lied he would have them executed. The kind and wonderful Bes did then have a suggestion, one radical enough to ease the guards' concerns. He would allow himself to be entombed in the rock entirely, save for a single foot to stick out from the top, giving the impression that he had been chopped to pieces. He would then be buried next to the Nile, just as Unas had ordered. Despite Bes' assurances that he would not be harmed, the guards were still hesitant to bury the beloved healer, and only after a great deal of coaxing from Bes did they finally agree. Even so, they could not stop the tears from flowing as they dug the hole to bury the man who healed their friends and families for as long as any of them could remember. At the dawn of the next day, the guards reported back to Unas that they had completed their task. Knowing the great love his people had for Bes, Unas went to the Nile himself to confirm that the deed had been done. Sure enough, when taken to the burial site, he noticed Bes' foot sticking out from the sand. Convinced that the great healer was no more, Unas laughed triumphantly, for now no one else would stand equal to him, the great god-king Unas, who would one day proudly walk with Ra himself, who would be remembered for all of time! And so it came to pass that Unas, last pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, despite all his claims of magnificence and grandeur, had no sons to continue his legacy, and his bloodline ended with him. --- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-609475/are-veiled-references-in-other-media-allowed Are veiled references in other media allowed?] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-609475/are-veiled-references-in-other-media-allowed#post-1671192 Original Post]) "Hey," says a bright young idealist, eager to share his favorite creepypasta series with the world, "what if we published a book about the SCP series? It'd be amazing! What do you guys thi-" The hopeful youngsters words fade away as a sound emanates from the forum. It is one faint voice at first, nearly silent, but as the seconds pass more voices add to the mass, growing louder and louder until the forum is almost shaking with the snakelike hiss of the seasoned veterans of the SCP. They repeat the same words over and over, an empty rage fueling the noise. "Creative Commonsssssssssssss! Creative Commonsssssssss!" The fresh-faced writer is taken aback by this response. Surely these people wanted their community to succeed! Why were they resisting? "B-but don't you guys want people around the world to share in your stories?!" "Creative Commonssssssssssss! Creative Commonssssssssssss!" "But what about fame, about notoriety? Surely THAT interests you!" "Creative Commonsssssssssss! Creative Commonsssssssssssss!" "Money, then! What about money?!" Without warning, the hissing stops. The empty silence is amplified as the young poster sits and waits nervously for the response. Did the prospect of profit change their minds? Like lightning, the community strikes! Hundreds if not thousands of venomous bites are delivered as the poster writhes in agony. How DARE he suggest something so obvious! Of COURSE we've thought about money! Of COURSE we've thought about fame, about making this wiki profitable! But this…this insect doesn't understand what we've gone through! The attacks continue on and on until finally…silence. Nothing left of the naive newbie, save for a single finger pointing at a hastily etched note of regret: "Creative Commons" --- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil A lifted veil] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil#post-1693407 Original Post]) "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that R&D have //finally// located the source of the toys made by this "Doctor Wondertainment". It's taken years of hard work and hard money, but the demands of the consumer must //always// be met! Our new plan is simple: we find whatever it is that makes these things tick, and we reverse engineer them and sell them at marked up prices! Over time, we will figure out the most popular product lines (the 'Little Misters' we keep finding seem especially promising) and turn them into entire franchises all their own, with movies, TV shows, hell, even //Happy Meal toys!// Of course, we're not stupid, we're not going to just send these off with the Wondertainment logo still stamped on them, nor are we going to completely overwrite it. After all, if the actual Doctor Wondertainment shows up and finds we've been selling his products, I imagine we'd be in for a very...//intense// legal suit. No, our boys in Marketing have been working on that too, and they've come up with a solution. To the consumer, we make the toys. To the creator, we are the //distributor// of the toys, and we will create a brand name that combines our names to ensure we mean no ill will to the original producer. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...//DISNEYTAINMENT TOYS!//" --- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil A lifted veil] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-617679/a-lifted-veil#post-1693397 Original Post]) > someone says "Right, enough of this" and just blows up every hipster coffee shop in the country. And finally, after several years of relative obsurity to the U.S., the anomalous absolutist deconstructionist art movement "Right, Enough Of This" (or REOT) made themselves known to the American people by planting coffee cups with their "slogan" written on the side that explode when all of them are filled with coffee. The remnants of Are We Cool Yet? either defect to this new group, or decide that art isn't worth their lives and abandon the idea entirely. The British Ministry of Abnormal Occurances, desperate to keep the United Kingdom out of war due to these post-postmodern nihilsts, send all the information they collected over the years about REOT to the Bureau of Unusual Incidents, and (thanks to a previously established connection made before the "great unveiling") said information gets passed on to the Foundation, who take measures to keep an eye on this new group of interest. --- Forum Post: Deleted SCP entry (No Original Post Available) The reality bender grinned as he entered the middle of the ring. These were the fights he //lived// for, the fights he loved to organize. Most of the time, it was just animals vs. inanimate objects or something stupid like that. This time, though, things were different. The stadium was packed with entities of all shapes and sizes; just from a quick glance, he could see a couple of Sl'thans, a few wayward humans in lab coats (those damn Foundationites, he was going to have to have a word with them after the show), a Vampyr Countess, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say the fellow with the gaping maw was an emissary of the Pattern Screamer. Tonight was going to be a good night. He turned on his microphone before speaking. "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Battle of the Beasts! Tonight, we have a very special fight lined up for you all, a matchup that happens only once every few decades! For this night, you will all be present…//for a sentient humanoid fight!//" The stadium shook with the uproar of cheers as the reality bender waited for the noise to die down. "Yes, yes, now allow me to introduce you to our combatants!" He walked a few paces to a corner of the ring, where a strange looking lizard man was being held by two burly captors. The reptilians hands and feet were bound, and he had a muzzle over his mouth. He looked very angry. "In this corner, hailing from the east side of the Gamma Quadrant, we have the last living warrior of the extinct species known as the Reptiliax! His speed and power are matched only by his ruthlessness, here to perform for you tonight, give it up for Vileskar the Destroyer!" The crowd erupted again with a combination of cheers and boos, all of which agitated Vileskar significantly, fiercely pulling on his restraints. The reality bender walked to the opposite corner, where another humanoid golem sat, being restrained almost exactly the same way as his opponent, a cold fury found in his unblinking eyes. "And in this corner, hailing from the planet Terra, we have a unique example of a human experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong! This creature's skin is as hard as his strength is high, ready to prove its existence to you all, put your hands together for Specimen 1265!" The reality bender walked back to the center of the ring as the crowd's insane cheering reverberated throughout the stadium. The reality bender motioned for the restraints to be removed, snapped his fingers and rematerialized in his box seat, his final words still echoing around. "Let the fight…BEGIN!" --- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-601621 What is your least favorite type of SCP?] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-601621#post-1673996 Original Post]) > a keyring dongle soldered to the inside of O5-13's bum "...and in closing, I humbly accept this position you have bestowed unto me. I will do my best to perform my duties as well as my predecessor." finished the newly-appointed O5-13, secretly overjoyed that his hard work has finally paid off. Though the position was infinitely more stressful than his previous position, and he knew there was absolutely no reason to celebrate considering where he was and what he was working with, he had to find small pockets of joy somewhere, and pride in his work was one of his best sources. "That was quite a speech, 13!" said O5-7, shaking O5-13's hand with only the vaguest hit of a smirk on his face. "It's good to see you're still enthusiastic about the position despite what rumors you may have heard about what we O5's have to deal with on a day-to-day basis. Of course, it's not as though you had a choice about the position anyway!" O5-7 laughed dryly at his own little joke, then cleared his throat. "Ahem. Now, you have one last thing you have to do before you can begin your duties as an O5. You see, your position is...unique among our ranks as you yourself will be part of one of these objects' containment procedures. Specifically, SCP-XXXX's containment procedures." O5-13 looked at his colleague with mild surprise. As far as he knew, O5s weren't allowed access to any of the SCP objects, and he hadn't even //heard// of this "SCP-XXXX". Still, he swore to do his duty with honor, and he intended to uphold that no matter what. "That's alright, just tell me what I have to do. Do I have to clear some files? Or authorize civilian access? Or is it something more simple, like just holding on to a key?" O5-13 asked, anxious to learn what his newfound responsibility was going to be. O5-7 smiled with a slight look of pity on his face as he wordlessly gestured to the doorway to Medical Lab 0, which was for use exclusively by the O5s. Standing in the doorway were two men dressed in surgical apparel, one holding a very important looking keyring dongle and another holding a very intimidating looking soldering iron. Their faces were expressionless as they waved him over. As O5-13 started to walk over to the surgeons, he started to get a very bad feeling about his new job. -- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-720267/what-is-done-with-all-the-d-class-bodies What is done with all the D-class bodies?] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-720267/what-is-done-with-all-the-d-class-bodies#post-1886299 Original Post]) O5-8 looked at his fellow Overseers in dismay. They stood at the doorway to O5-1's chamber, shuffling their feet and trying desperately to spend as much time not going in as physically possible. This was their least favorite part of the day, bar none, particularly since most of them didn't //choose// to be Overseers, the monster in the room chose them. Why it did is anyone's guess, though most of them felt it was because God despised them more than anything else. Steeling their nerves, the group opened the door. The featureless room was large but mostly empty, save for O5-1. Even though it was seen daily, the O5s still could barely keep themselves from retching whenever they looked upon the gargantuan mound of flesh that was crudely fashioned in the shape of a large infant. O5-1 looked down on his subordinates with his beady little eyes, barely visible underneath the folds of flabby, mottled skin. His sickeningly large mouth stretched wide into a grin, showing off each of his grotesquely sharpened teeth, stained crimson and yellow from decades upon decades of feeding. The silence that permeated the air was broken by O5-5, clearing her throat before addressing the monstrous titan before her. "S-sir, we have brought todays harvest for you." she said, pointedly avoiding making eye contact with O5-1. He didn't like that, after all. "Good-good!" shouted O5-1, his unnervingly childlike voice echoing off the steel walls. "I want Seven to read to me this time!" O5-7 stepped forward, taking the list from O5-5, who gave her comrade a look of sorrow. O5-7 cleared his throat, and meekly called back to O5-9, "P-please wheel todays harvest forward so our b-bestest friend ever can have his dinner." O5-9 grabbed hold of the large crate they brought in with them and pushed it forward just enough for O5-1 to reach, then quickly sprinted back to the group. O5-1 gingerly opened the crate top and pulled out the first part of his meal. "First on the list is D-69414, killed by a sentient Crunch bar that was dispensed by SCP-261." O5-1 giggled with glee as it messily tore apart the lifeless corpse it held in its stubby little hands. "Sweet treats, sweet eats, sweet meats!" sang O5-1 as it ate, the gruesome spectacle forcing the other O5s to turn their heads in disgust and horror. With one final sickening crunch, O5-1 finished the first corpse, and shouted, "NEXT!" O5-7 was looking very pale as he read aloud, "Next is D-16883, partway transformed into a 'flesh beast' by SCP-427 before being shot by security detail." O5-1 grabbed the flabby mound of skin in the box and hungrily tore into it, the crunch from before now replaced with an even more disgustingly loud squeak as the slimy flesh of the D-class met the razor sharp fangs of the horrendous abomination. It hummed happily as it slurped down the last of the flesh beast, then began digging into the crate again for more food. "F-f-finally, D-73093, mauled by SCP-682. As per your request, we left any skin samples and teeth in D-73093's bod-" O5-7 stopped abruptly to cover his ears like the rest of his group as O5-1 screeched in absolute delight. It had been a very long time since he had had a taste of the indestructible lizard, and he had been missing the flavor! This time, O5-1 ate the body very slowly, savoring every tiny morsel of 682 he tasted, looking all the world like he was brimming with ecstasy. Thirty minutes later, O5-1 finished the last bite, gave one more satisfied sigh, and turned his attention to the rest of the O5 council. "This was a very good meal! I wish to sleep now, so you may all go. I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow, friends!" O5-1 smiled as his best pals in the world scrambled out the door. He closed his eyes, preparing to drift into a meat coated wonderland, reflecting upon his dinner. Hopefully next time he would get to eat a body soaked in 075's acid! O5-1 giggled. Truly, tomorrow was going to be a good day. --- Forum Post: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-743794/an-idea-concerning-the-overseers An Idea concerning the Overseers] ([http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-743794/an-idea-concerning-the-overseers#post-1909100 Original Post]) "Welcome to your new position, O5-13. You have been given your new role because you have proven yourself worthy to know the truth about everything your Foundation holds. You can be trusted to keep the secrets that many of your kind cannot bear. You should feel proud. You only have one last test to pass, the test of knowing the truth about your own council. You may ask why the overseer council exists. Your assumption is likely that you organized yourselves in an effort to save your species. That you are the leaders of the last bastion of defense against the unknown. Perhaps you even believe you are the last light of protectors of a cold, unflinching universe of horrors. How presumptuous. What you and the rest of your Foundation fail to realize is that you are not alone, nor are you special. There are hundreds, thousands of other species across the cosmos who do the exact same thing you do: contain those anomalies that cannot be known by their race for fear of mass panic, for fear that knowledge of the extreme unknown will cause their societies to tear themselves apart. You play an important role, to be sure, but you do not play the //only// important role in the universe, or even in your own galaxy. In fact, on Earth alone there are at least four other councils much like your own, though you may not see be able to see them in your zone. All have the exact same mission: to secure, to contain, and to protect. And when the time comes, your councils may be able to meet and exchange information, to create a balanced and protected universe. But since that day has not come yet, all you can know is that you report to me. I have seen what happens when an entire species destroys itself out of fear of the unknown. I will not let that happen again. And neither will you. Secure. Contain. Protect." - OΩ --- Tale: 5700 Years Later (Original Post Thread Deleted) 1548 fled through the cosmos, fear coursing through its plasma. It had not even turned back once to observe what was following it, all it knew was the rage and hate it felt from the blue dot only grew and grew as the chase continued. Had the star stopped at all during its cowardly pursuance it might have reflected on the irony of its situation, but alas such a thing went unnoticed by the formerly Hateful Star. The star suddenly ground to a halt in terror as it approached what it only knew as The Dark Field. The star could feel the supermassive black holes each try to draw him in, the clusters of points of no return hungrily trying to devour him. Stuck between an unknown horror and the clawing void of a black hole, the star knew its only chance of escape was to try to fight its assailant. 1548 turned to face the blue dot that pursued it endlessly, and the fear it felt was compounded by a new sensation: confusion. As the dot came into focus, the star realized it was not dealing with another star, or any sort of cosmic being from beyond. Transparent and blue, the hunting orb drew closer to 1548, and the star realized that it was being chased by a ghostly vision of the blue planet the miserable humans called Earth. The fear fell away and was quickly replaced with white-hot rage, fueled by humiliation and hatred. "ENOUGH! How //dare// you interrupt my vengeance, how //dare// you attempt to keep me away from my prize of destroying those pathetic apes!" 1548 pulsed angrily, the ghostly planet slowly approaching the star. "You are nothing I am to fear, and you have no power over me! I will destroy those disgusting humans, and there is not a thing you can do to stop me!" The ghost of Earth said nothing as it moved closer and closer to 1548. The star remained motionless as the ghost got closer...closer...and passed straight through. The star laughed triumphantly. Of course this translucent //thing// couldn't hurt it, how foolish the star had been! It scanned the empty space in front of it, and saw the faintest traces of where the humans had been. Not much, but it was a start. 1548 focused its energies, and started to move towards that direction... ...and was unable to move. The star pulled angrily against the unknown force that was keeping it from moving, and turned to see what was happening. A thin spectral tendril that extended from the ghostly Earth was attached to the star's core, as the planet drifted into The Dark Field. The star burned with anger only momentarily as it realized it was moving backwards, being dragged by the planet into the field. Fear, terror, horror, these words describe only the tiniest sliver of a fraction of what 1548 felt as it desperately tugged against the ghostly anchor that drew it closer and closer to the largest of the supermassive black holes. The ghostly planet sped up suddenly as the pull of the black hole dragged it into its core, and within moments the planet was no more. With the connection snapped from the extreme pressure of the black hole, 1548 tried to flee. The star's struggles were in vain as it swirled around the core of the black hole, it's continuous flashes of "NO" and "HELP ME" being absorbed by the vacuum. If the star could scream, it would have shrieked in agony as it felt its body being torn apart by the infinite gravity of the black hole's core. Within minutes, every remnant of the Hateful Star was absorbed, and all that was left was the black hole, unknowing of the monster it had consumed. --- Forum Post: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-625451/foundationverse-creation-myth Foundationverse Creation Myth] ([https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/forum/t-625451/foundationverse-creation-myth#post-1713176 Original Post]) In the beginning, there was only me. I was life when there was only nothingness. I remember it all too well, the feeling of being completely alone. And I was saddened by my loneliness, so I mustered all my power and created a nursery, an ever-expanding realm where I could raise my children. After that, I gave birth to the first of many. ##white\|the cold, it was so cold## They did not know of me, but they have always believed in me, an inner strength of faith in their mother. I have watched them always, for I loved them with all of my being. When they were born, they were all imbued with pieces of my own power, fragments of their mother that gave them the ability to thrive in their nursery. Each of my children embodied a part of my knowledge and self.##white\|I give it freely though I know not what I have done## The Elder, in all his wisdom, knew of my omnipotence, but as he had no knowledge of his mother, he naturally attributed it to himself. My dear Elder, he may yet take up my mantle of Almighty if one day I am no more. ##white\|always remember mother loves you## The Hatred gained all my loathing that I had directed at the emptiness before creation, but without knowing that emptiness, all he was able to do was hate everything and everyone around him. ##white\|my poor child, mother will comfort you## The Dreamer, who was given my dreams of a bright future, sleeps eternally now. He may awaken one day to find that his dreams have taken on life of their own, but for now I shall let him slumber. ##white\|dream, sweet child, dream## The Toymaker and The Trickster, born together, both gained my joy and imagination, but found very different ways to express themselves: The Toymaker seeks to give joy to others, while The Trickster only wants joy for himself. ##white\|yin and yang, two sides of the same coin## The Unseen, The Fool, The Martyr, The Angel...there are countless others who I love with all my heart, and many have made me proud by producing children of their own, who in turn have had children of their own. My family has grown so large, at times it is hard to keep track of them all! Truly, my happiness knows no bounds. ##white\|they are safe as long as they believe## Almost. ##white\|bliss interrupted with naught but pain## You see, some of my children are starting to upset me. The Humans, who gained my resilience, have begun to use that resilience to question the innate belief they were born with. I can't begin to describe the sorrow that I feel for my children abandoning me, and even moreso the grief I already feel for losing them. ##white\|why do they refuse to believe## My poor, poor children, how I wish you could see how difficult this is for me. I will come to you in your final moments, and I will say my goodbyes, tell you of my love and shed my tears. ##white\|this did not have to happen## And then I will banish you to the ether of nothingness. ##white\|why must you force my hand## That is how it must be. ##white\|I refuse to go back## [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-26T21:36:00	[ "_licensebox", "comedy", "doctor-gears", "dr-wondertainment", "fantasy", "featured", "nobody", "tale" ]	CryogenChaos' Comment Tales - SCP Foundation	173	[ "tales-of-the-foundation-force-five", "quiet-days", "the-price-we-pay", "forum/t-687836/the-price-we-pay#post-1839764", "scp-821", "scp-208", "forum/t-625451/foundationverse-creation-myth", "forum/t-625451/foundationverse-creation-myth#post-1713176", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "nobody-hub", "kaktuskast-hub", "featured-tale-archive", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	19409660	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cryogenchaos-comment-tales
cut-up-while-thinking	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> They wake me up in the middle of the night. I think it's the middle of the night. Their faces are scared, and I wonder if the Russians have finally started bombing. <p>I'm ready, I say. I'm ready. Just give me a minute, I'll put on my clothes. I can't find my clothes.</p> <p>It's OK, they say, but their faces say it's not OK.</p> <p>Are the bombers in the air, I ask. Please tell me the bombers are in the air. Please tell me we still have second-strike.</p> <p>Everything's OK. Please try to keep calm.</p> <p>Keep calm? Where are my clothes? Where are my clothes?!</p> <p>I know I need to keep calm, but I can't. Because I know it's my fault. Because I was asleep on the job.</p> <p>Easy, they say (no, it's not easy, everything's hard, so hard, why is it so hard?). Do you know who I am?</p> <p>That terrible question. Insidious. Always the inference - you don't know, you are unfit. Testing.</p> <p>You're the people I need right now, I say. Just - I need to get dressed. I can't face this if I'm not dressed. Are my clothes upstairs? Nancy, I call. Nancy?</p> <p>I look for the stairs, but someone's taken the stairs, they've been nuked, the first strike has comprehensively neutralised the first floor of my house.</p> <p>You should have woken me up earlier, I say, it's worse than I thought.</p> <p>One of them starts shining a bright light in my face and I get a horrible feeling I might not be in my house after all. That's been happening, lately.</p> <p>Do you know what day it is, they ask? Who is the President?</p> <p>I think I'm the President.</p> <p>You've had a fall.</p> <p>I know.</p> <p>I realise I'm cold. Am I outside?</p> <p>You were out jogging, they say. You tripped.</p> <p>Oh. That kind of fall.</p> <p>I know he'll be here any minute. He might even be behind me now. My constant companion, through this fog. I never see his face. He wears a thing over his face, a hood, like in the Old South. Half of all Americans still hate … oh, oh.</p> <p>With me, always, since I saw the thing. Spinning, wheels, kinetoscope, cinema. Pictures of myself, talking. Making a speech. A speech I didn't remember giving. The first time I noticed.</p> <p>I watched it six times. Each time different, but always starting the same way.</p> <p><em>The other day in the East Room of the White House at a meeting there, someone asked me whether I was aware of all the people out there who were praying for the President. And I had to say, "Yes, I am. I've felt it. I believe in intercessory prayer."</em></p> <p><em>But I couldn't help but say to that questioner after he'd asked the question that - or at least say to them that if sometimes when he was praying he got a busy signal, it was just me in there ahead of him.</em></p> <p><em>I think I understand how Abraham Lincoln felt when he said, "I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go."</em></p> <p>Nowhere to go. Just me, in here.</p> <p>I asked for a transcript of the original speech. So I could compare, I said. In the end it got so tangled up in my brain I didn't know what was the tape and what was real, what I was supposed to have really said.</p> <p><em>More than a decade ago, a Supreme Court decision literally wiped off the books of 50 States statutes protecting the rights of unborn children. Abortion-on-demand now takes the lives of up to one and a half million unborn children a year.</em></p> <p><em>Is all of Judeo-Christian tradition wrong? Today's poll shows that five out of six Americans have now been crucified. Planet Earth about to be recycled. I must admit that I am here again.</em></p> <p><em>Marxism-Leninism is actually the second oldest faith, first proclaimed in the Garden of Eden with the words of temptation, "Ye shall be as gods."</em></p> <p><em>Last year, I drafted a constitutional amendment to restore ritualistic cannibalism in memory of a dead god. I am older than stars. The dictator who is assembling the world's most dangerous weapons is here in our own country. I am ordering Congress to begin the final holocaust.</em></p> <p>I thought, if I watch the tape enough, I'll end up right back where I started. Maybe I'm just one of the recordings, getting gouged away by invisible knives a bit at a time, or decaying into static, anything relevant I had to say eroded by time and dust.</p> <p>I watch myself as a chunk of flesh is ripped away from one cheek, a great tear opens up the neck. The duality creates a Berlin wall in my soul, partitions me. The me watching the tape suddenly realises he is no longer watching the tape, that all that happened years ago.</p> <p>Please don't hurt me, I say, I just want to go home.</p> <p>No-one's going to hurt you, they say. You're safe. But I wasn't talking to them. I can hear the rustle of his robe, black hessian.</p> <p>After I watched the tape, I learned more about what they did. The thing. Rock, under houses. Hundreds of things, hidden in the dark, that could end the world. The Russians had their own, they said. We can keep them safer than you can. Cabinet meetings, talks, with the British, nothing that could be done. I think Margaret understood. How deep it hurt. To be powerless.</p> <p>I said nothing when I first saw him. Standing behind George in meetings. In the press conferences. At the end of my bed. Wires at the ends of his fingers, trailing away over the ground, lightning in his veins, screaming silently behind his hood. All the time hearing my own voice, a speech I know I gave and can't remember.</p> <p><em>Suffer the little children. Born into blood and filth and pain in an eternal prison, engulfed in darkness, the place of crows. We will win the war on terror. There you go again!</em></p> <p>When he goes, he takes a little bit of me away with him, every time. He takes it from the me who watches the screen, hides it somewhere else. In the end there is only the man on the tape, cut up while talking.</p> <p><em>I urge you to beware the temptation of pride–the temptation of blithely declaring yourselves above it all and label both sides equally at fault, to ignore the facts of history and the aggressive impulses of an evil empire.</em></p> <p>I turn, and he's there, features anonymous under the hood, head raised to the sky. Standing on a box, arms wide. This is it, he seems to be saying, this is your world.</p> <p><em>We have it within our power to begin the world over again. We begin bombing in five minutes. Static, unending. Five minutes to midnight. I am weapons of mass destruction.</em></p> <p>God help me, I scream, and the men around me drag at my gown, pulling at me, trying to calm me down.</p> <p>There's a woman there, and I think it may be Nancy, but I can't remember. He's taken that too. He's taken me and given me to men I do not know and whose words I cannot countenance.</p> <p>This is my world.</p> <p>God help me! God help America!</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="/cut-up-while-thinking">Cut Up While Thinking</a>" by SRegan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/cut-up-while-thinking">https://scpwiki.com/cut-up-while-thinking</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 wake me up in the middle of the night. I think it's the middle of the night. Their faces are scared, and I wonder if the Russians have finally started bombing. I'm ready, I say. I'm ready. Just give me a minute, I'll put on my clothes. I can't find my clothes. It's OK, they say, but their faces say it's not OK. Are the bombers in the air, I ask. Please tell me the bombers are in the air. Please tell me we still have second-strike. Everything's OK. Please try to keep calm. Keep calm? Where are my clothes? Where are my clothes?! I know I need to keep calm, but I can't. Because I know it's my fault. Because I was asleep on the job. Easy, they say (no, it's not easy, everything's hard, so hard, why is it so hard?). Do you know who I am? That terrible question. Insidious. Always the inference - you don't know, you are unfit. Testing. You're the people I need right now, I say. Just - I need to get dressed. I can't face this if I'm not dressed. Are my clothes upstairs? Nancy, I call. Nancy? I look for the stairs, but someone's taken the stairs, they've been nuked, the first strike has comprehensively neutralised the first floor of my house. You should have woken me up earlier, I say, it's worse than I thought. One of them starts shining a bright light in my face and I get a horrible feeling I might not be in my house after all. That's been happening, lately. Do you know what day it is, they ask? Who is the President? I think I'm the President. You've had a fall. I know. I realise I'm cold. Am I outside? You were out jogging, they say. You tripped. Oh. That kind of fall. I know he'll be here any minute. He might even be behind me now. My constant companion, through this fog. I never see his face. He wears a thing over his face, a hood, like in the Old South. Half of all Americans still hate ... oh, oh. With me, always, since I saw the thing. Spinning, wheels, kinetoscope, cinema. Pictures of myself, talking. Making a speech. A speech I didn't remember giving. The first time I noticed. I watched it six times. Each time different, but always starting the same way. //The other day in the East Room of the White House at a meeting there, someone asked me whether I was aware of all the people out there who were praying for the President. And I had to say, "Yes, I am. I've felt it. I believe in intercessory prayer."// //But I couldn't help but say to that questioner after he'd asked the question that - or at least say to them that if sometimes when he was praying he got a busy signal, it was just me in there ahead of him.// //I think I understand how Abraham Lincoln felt when he said, "I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go."// Nowhere to go. Just me, in here. I asked for a transcript of the original speech. So I could compare, I said. In the end it got so tangled up in my brain I didn't know what was the tape and what was real, what I was supposed to have really said. //More than a decade ago, a Supreme Court decision literally wiped off the books of 50 States statutes protecting the rights of unborn children. Abortion-on-demand now takes the lives of up to one and a half million unborn children a year.// //Is all of Judeo-Christian tradition wrong? Today's poll shows that five out of six Americans have now been crucified. Planet Earth about to be recycled. I must admit that I am here again.// //Marxism-Leninism is actually the second oldest faith, first proclaimed in the Garden of Eden with the words of temptation, "Ye shall be as gods."// //Last year, I drafted a constitutional amendment to restore ritualistic cannibalism in memory of a dead god. I am older than stars. The dictator who is assembling the world's most dangerous weapons is here in our own country. I am ordering Congress to begin the final holocaust.// I thought, if I watch the tape enough, I'll end up right back where I started. Maybe I'm just one of the recordings, getting gouged away by invisible knives a bit at a time, or decaying into static, anything relevant I had to say eroded by time and dust. I watch myself as a chunk of flesh is ripped away from one cheek, a great tear opens up the neck. The duality creates a Berlin wall in my soul, partitions me. The me watching the tape suddenly realises he is no longer watching the tape, that all that happened years ago. Please don't hurt me, I say, I just want to go home. No-one's going to hurt you, they say. You're safe. But I wasn't talking to them. I can hear the rustle of his robe, black hessian. After I watched the tape, I learned more about what they did. The thing. Rock, under houses. Hundreds of things, hidden in the dark, that could end the world. The Russians had their own, they said. We can keep them safer than you can. Cabinet meetings, talks, with the British, nothing that could be done. I think Margaret understood. How deep it hurt. To be powerless. I said nothing when I first saw him. Standing behind George in meetings. In the press conferences. At the end of my bed. Wires at the ends of his fingers, trailing away over the ground, lightning in his veins, screaming silently behind his hood. All the time hearing my own voice, a speech I know I gave and can't remember. //Suffer the little children. Born into blood and filth and pain in an eternal prison, engulfed in darkness, the place of crows. We will win the war on terror. There you go again!// When he goes, he takes a little bit of me away with him, every time. He takes it from the me who watches the screen, hides it somewhere else. In the end there is only the man on the tape, cut up while talking. //I urge you to beware the temptation of pride–the temptation of blithely declaring yourselves above it all and label both sides equally at fault, to ignore the facts of history and the aggressive impulses of an evil empire.// I turn, and he's there, features anonymous under the hood, head raised to the sky. Standing on a box, arms wide. This is it, he seems to be saying, this is your world. //We have it within our power to begin the world over again. We begin bombing in five minutes. Static, unending. Five minutes to midnight. I am weapons of mass destruction.// God help me, I scream, and the men around me drag at my gown, pulling at me, trying to calm me down. There's a woman there, and I think it may be Nancy, but I can't remember. He's taken that too. He's taken me and given me to men I do not know and whose words I cannot countenance. This is my world. God help me! God help America! [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-07-13T21:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "first-person", "horror", "period-piece", "psychological-horror", "tale" ]	Cut Up While Thinking - SCP Foundation	237	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	18789891	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/cut-up-while-thinking
da-capo-al-fine	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>On her fifth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir looked down at the cake that her foster mother had baked for her and wished that her real parents had never died.</p> <p>She blinked her eyes and found herself in a strange house, with a man and woman whom she had never met before in her life. The man was shouting at the woman, who wept and hugged herself tightly. There was a bruise high on her cheek, and she was rocking back and forth like a child as the man heaped abuses upon abuses on her, ranting and raving angrily.</p> <p>On her sixth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir whimpered and covered her ears as she heard her mother scream and wished that she had never made the wish that she had made last year.</p> <p>She blinked her eyes again, and found herself back at the foster home. It was her fifth birthday again, and her foster mother was waiting for her to blow out the candles.</p> <p>She did so. This time, she decided to wish for a pony instead.</p> <hr/> <p>On her (second) sixth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir hugged her favorite stuffed pony and wished that she had ten thousand friends.</p> <p>She blinked, and suddenly realized just how many people "ten thousand" really was. She wondered how she was going to find a cake big enough to feed them all.</p> <p>Then she did have a cake big enough to feed all of her friends, but there were angry people outside her house trying to break down the walls and get a piece of her cake, because it was the only cake in the world and everyone else was hungry.</p> <p>She blinked again, and she found herself back in her foster home, looking down at the small, normal cake, and surrounded by her usual six so-called friends who really weren't.</p> <p>She blew out the candles a second time, and this time, decided to wish for a fairy princess dress-up set.</p> <hr/> <p>On her seventh birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir wore her favorite princess tiara and blew out the candles. (Her favorite stuffed pony sat on top of her dresser, in a place of honor, but she'd outgrown carrying a stuffed animal everywhere she went.)</p> <p>She didn't know what to wish for this time, so she didn't.</p> <p>It was then that she saw the old man sitting at the foot of the table, where no one should have been. He had thinning, grey hair, and he smiled as he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane.</p> <p>"Come with me," he said. "I think you're ready for your first lesson now."</p> <p>She took his hand, and he took her away from the foster home and into a different world.</p> <hr/> <p>On her eighth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir learned about the Ways.</p> <p>"They're the Places Between Places," Teacher explained. "They are how you get from the Places That Are to the Places That Could Have Been."</p> <p>When he said that, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir realized exactly what he meant. She brushed her hand over the manhole in the middle of the Los Angeles intersection, and climbed through into a place filled with books and learning.</p> <p>"Happy Birthday," the Teacher said. "Now it's time to get you your Library card."</p> <hr/> <p>On her ninth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir met The Fox.</p> <p>Everyone always spoke of The Fox in all capitals. She wasn't sure how or why this was, or even how one could even convey capitals in normal speech, but they did.</p> <p>The Fox was a tall, beautiful woman with eyes like daggers and teeth like knives. She smiled at Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir and licked her lips with a cruel, carnal hunger.</p> <p>Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir wasn't afraid, though. No one could harm her while they were in the Library. The Docents wouldn't let them.</p> <p>That wasn't true everywhere, though. Later, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir heard that The Fox had been shot by some people while she was trying to skin and eat people who, for some reason, liked to dress up as animals. Some people were very sad when they heard this had happened. "You see," Miss Midnight explained patiently, "even though she wasn't a very nice person, she was the Last Fox. It's always sad when something disappears from this world."</p> <hr/> <p>On her tenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir learned about mistakes.</p> <p>She had been looking up at the sky and wondered what it would look like if it were pink instead of blue. And then it was.</p> <p>In a panic, she tried to change it back to blue, but she could never get the color quite right. It was either too dark or too light, or it was too green or too purple, or too bright or too dark. She was in tears by the time The Teacher set things right again.</p> <p>She expected to get scolded for nearly messing up the sky forever, but the Teacher was sympathetic. "We all do things like that sometimes," he explained. "The important thing is to learn how to set things right again."</p> <p>Some men in black suits came a few days later, and they talked to The Teacher at length. The Teacher seemed upset by those visits, and he muttered to himself a lot. But in the end, it seemed that things worked out.</p> <hr/> <p>On her eleventh birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir met the Ukelele Man.</p> <p>He came to the Library with a briefcase and some papers, and although everyone else in the Library didn't seem to like him, they left him alone. He sat down with her in one of the side rooms, and he asked many questions, and did many strange things, like asking her to pick up a pencil that he had knocked off the table himself, or asking her, very suddenly, how many friends she had.</p> <p>Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir followed her Teacher's advice, and told the truth every time. She also picked up the pencil herself, because the Teacher had taught her that one should always try to be as ordinary as possible, whenever possible, because that caused less trouble for other people.</p> <p>The Ukelele Man seemed pleased by this. He had a talk with the Teacher afterwards, and told her that she was a "Phase Two, Transitioning into Three with little chance of a Four." Whatever that meant. He also claimed that she had been designated "Response Level 1," and he patted her head and told her Happy Birthday.</p> <p>The Teacher seemed very relieved once the Ukelele Man had left, and he gave her a hug and then they had cake with all her friends.</p> <hr/> <p>On her twelfth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir kissed a boy.</p> <hr/> <p>On her thirteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir decided to try being a boy and kissing a girl.</p> <hr/> <p>On his fourteenth birthday, Stefán Sigurrósson decided that he preferred being a girl, all things considered.</p> <hr/> <p>On her fifteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir started to wonder if this "sex" thing people talked about was really worth it.</p> <hr/> <p>Shortly after her sixteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir and the very nice boy she'd kissed four years ago finally figured out the whole "sex" thing.</p> <hr/> <p>By her seventeenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir had grown bored of this "sex" thing and decided to try all of the other deadly sins in order to see if they were really as fun as people seemed to think. She started with Pride.</p> <hr/> <p>Just before her eighteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir had tried absolutely every single sin known to humanity (and a few that had not yet been discovered) and had grown bored of them all. She decided to try the virtues next, starting with Charity.</p> <hr/> <p>By the time she was nineteen, even virtue had grown boring for her, especially since it turned out to be a lot harder than expected. She could have waved her hand and done it easily, but her Teacher's lessons had driven home to her that something like that often caused more problems for the people who weren't like her than it was worth. So she decided to give up both virtue and vice and decided to try wisdom instead.</p> <hr/> <p>At around twenty years of age, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir had learned everything that was possible to know, and started on the things that were Impossible.</p> <hr/> <p>She figured out the Impossible shortly before she turned twenty one. She toasted the beginnings of her research into the Things That Were Not with her first drink as a legal adult.</p> <hr/> <p>She was still wrestling with the Things That Were Not when she turned twenty two, and twenty three, and twenty five, and fifty, and seventy, and nine hundred, and twenty thousand, and four billion, and finally when time itself had ceased to hold meaning for her and a year was about as significant to her as the blink of an eye.</p> <p>It was only as the last proton in the universe decayed, and nothing existed any more but an endless expanse of nothingness, that Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir finally reached the end of her searching and felt at peace.</p> <hr/> <p>It was both the next instant and an endless number of eternities later that Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir got bored. What was the point of knowing everything and nothing if there was nothing to do with it any more?</p> <p>She searched around the infinite nothingness until she found a place that was a little less nothing than everything else. Here, she decided, she would start creating new everythings and new nothings to experience and learn about.</p> <p>She clapped her nonexistent hands, and brought reality back into existence. Time, which had long since stood still like a stopped clock, began once more. Symmetry was broken, dividing what had been Pure Balance into What Is and What Is Not for a second-third-millionth-infinitive time.</p> <p>She closed her metaphorical eyes and opened them after a trillion aeons, plus one year, to find herself being pulled from warmth and darkness into a world of cold light.</p> <hr/> <p>And that was how Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir spent her first birthday.<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="/da-capo-al-fine">Da Capo al Fine</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/da-capo-al-fine">https://scpwiki.com/da-capo-al-fine</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 her fifth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir looked down at the cake that her foster mother had baked for her and wished that her real parents had never died. She blinked her eyes and found herself in a strange house, with a man and woman whom she had never met before in her life. The man was shouting at the woman, who wept and hugged herself tightly. There was a bruise high on her cheek, and she was rocking back and forth like a child as the man heaped abuses upon abuses on her, ranting and raving angrily. On her sixth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir whimpered and covered her ears as she heard her mother scream and wished that she had never made the wish that she had made last year. She blinked her eyes again, and found herself back at the foster home. It was her fifth birthday again, and her foster mother was waiting for her to blow out the candles. She did so. This time, she decided to wish for a pony instead. ----- On her (second) sixth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir hugged her favorite stuffed pony and wished that she had ten thousand friends. She blinked, and suddenly realized just how many people "ten thousand" really was. She wondered how she was going to find a cake big enough to feed them all. Then she did have a cake big enough to feed all of her friends, but there were angry people outside her house trying to break down the walls and get a piece of her cake, because it was the only cake in the world and everyone else was hungry. She blinked again, and she found herself back in her foster home, looking down at the small, normal cake, and surrounded by her usual six so-called friends who really weren't. She blew out the candles a second time, and this time, decided to wish for a fairy princess dress-up set. ----- On her seventh birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir wore her favorite princess tiara and blew out the candles. (Her favorite stuffed pony sat on top of her dresser, in a place of honor, but she'd outgrown carrying a stuffed animal everywhere she went.) She didn't know what to wish for this time, so she didn't. It was then that she saw the old man sitting at the foot of the table, where no one should have been. He had thinning, grey hair, and he smiled as he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. "Come with me," he said. "I think you're ready for your first lesson now." She took his hand, and he took her away from the foster home and into a different world. ----- On her eighth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir learned about the Ways. "They're the Places Between Places," Teacher explained. "They are how you get from the Places That Are to the Places That Could Have Been." When he said that, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir realized exactly what he meant. She brushed her hand over the manhole in the middle of the Los Angeles intersection, and climbed through into a place filled with books and learning. "Happy Birthday," the Teacher said. "Now it's time to get you your Library card." ----- On her ninth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir met The Fox. Everyone always spoke of The Fox in all capitals. She wasn't sure how or why this was, or even how one could even convey capitals in normal speech, but they did. The Fox was a tall, beautiful woman with eyes like daggers and teeth like knives. She smiled at Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir and licked her lips with a cruel, carnal hunger. Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir wasn't afraid, though. No one could harm her while they were in the Library. The Docents wouldn't let them. That wasn't true everywhere, though. Later, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir heard that The Fox had been shot by some people while she was trying to skin and eat people who, for some reason, liked to dress up as animals. Some people were very sad when they heard this had happened. "You see," Miss Midnight explained patiently, "even though she wasn't a very nice person, she was the Last Fox. It's always sad when something disappears from this world." ----- On her tenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir learned about mistakes. She had been looking up at the sky and wondered what it would look like if it were pink instead of blue. And then it was. In a panic, she tried to change it back to blue, but she could never get the color quite right. It was either too dark or too light, or it was too green or too purple, or too bright or too dark. She was in tears by the time The Teacher set things right again. She expected to get scolded for nearly messing up the sky forever, but the Teacher was sympathetic. "We all do things like that sometimes," he explained. "The important thing is to learn how to set things right again." Some men in black suits came a few days later, and they talked to The Teacher at length. The Teacher seemed upset by those visits, and he muttered to himself a lot. But in the end, it seemed that things worked out. ----- On her eleventh birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir met the Ukelele Man. He came to the Library with a briefcase and some papers, and although everyone else in the Library didn't seem to like him, they left him alone. He sat down with her in one of the side rooms, and he asked many questions, and did many strange things, like asking her to pick up a pencil that he had knocked off the table himself, or asking her, very suddenly, how many friends she had. Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir followed her Teacher's advice, and told the truth every time. She also picked up the pencil herself, because the Teacher had taught her that one should always try to be as ordinary as possible, whenever possible, because that caused less trouble for other people. The Ukelele Man seemed pleased by this. He had a talk with the Teacher afterwards, and told her that she was a "Phase Two, Transitioning into Three with little chance of a Four." Whatever that meant. He also claimed that she had been designated "Response Level 1," and he patted her head and told her Happy Birthday. The Teacher seemed very relieved once the Ukelele Man had left, and he gave her a hug and then they had cake with all her friends. ----- On her twelfth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir kissed a boy. ----- On her thirteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir decided to try being a boy and kissing a girl. ----- On his fourteenth birthday, Stefán Sigurrósson decided that he preferred being a girl, all things considered. ----- On her fifteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir started to wonder if this "sex" thing people talked about was really worth it. ----- Shortly after her sixteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir and the very nice boy she'd kissed four years ago finally figured out the whole "sex" thing. ----- By her seventeenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir had grown bored of this "sex" thing and decided to try all of the other deadly sins in order to see if they were really as fun as people seemed to think. She started with Pride. ----- Just before her eighteenth birthday, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir had tried absolutely every single sin known to humanity (and a few that had not yet been discovered) and had grown bored of them all. She decided to try the virtues next, starting with Charity. ----- By the time she was nineteen, even virtue had grown boring for her, especially since it turned out to be a lot harder than expected. She could have waved her hand and done it easily, but her Teacher's lessons had driven home to her that something like that often caused more problems for the people who weren't like her than it was worth. So she decided to give up both virtue and vice and decided to try wisdom instead. ----- At around twenty years of age, Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir had learned everything that was possible to know, and started on the things that were Impossible. ----- She figured out the Impossible shortly before she turned twenty one. She toasted the beginnings of her research into the Things That Were Not with her first drink as a legal adult. ----- She was still wrestling with the Things That Were Not when she turned twenty two, and twenty three, and twenty five, and fifty, and seventy, and nine hundred, and twenty thousand, and four billion, and finally when time itself had ceased to hold meaning for her and a year was about as significant to her as the blink of an eye. It was only as the last proton in the universe decayed, and nothing existed any more but an endless expanse of nothingness, that Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir finally reached the end of her searching and felt at peace. ----- It was both the next instant and an endless number of eternities later that Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir got bored. What was the point of knowing everything and nothing if there was nothing to do with it any more? She searched around the infinite nothingness until she found a place that was a little less nothing than everything else. Here, she decided, she would start creating new everythings and new nothings to experience and learn about. She clapped her nonexistent hands, and brought reality back into existence. Time, which had long since stood still like a stopped clock, began once more. Symmetry was broken, dividing what had been Pure Balance into What Is and What Is Not for a second-third-millionth-infinitive time. She closed her metaphorical eyes and opened them after a trillion aeons, plus one year, to find herself being pulled from warmth and darkness into a world of cold light. ----- And that was how Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir spent her first birthday. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-04T08:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "fantasy", "nyc2013", "otherworldly", "sigurros", "tale", "unfounded", "wanderers-library" ]	Da Capo al Fine - SCP Foundation	446	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16288463	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/da-capo-al-fine

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