Split (1)

train · 5.83k rows

tale_id stringlengths 1 60	content stringlengths 26 371k	source stringlengths 82 200k	created_at stringlengths 19 19	tags listlengths 1 36	title stringlengths 14 145	rating int64 -64 2.07k	references listlengths 0 98	hubs listlengths 0 19	images listlengths 0 144	page_id stringlengths 7 10	url stringlengths 30 89
new-age-2	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <table style="margin:0; padding:0"> <tr> <td style="margin:0; padding:0"> <div id="toc"> <div id="toc-action-bar"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.foldToc(event)">Fold</a><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.unfoldToc(event)" style="display: none">Unfold</a></div> <div class="title">Table of Contents</div> <div id="toc-list"> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc0">Chapter Six: "Breach"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc1">Chapter Seven: "The Necessary Illusion"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc2">Intermission</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc3">Chapter Eight: "Mr Brightside"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc4">Chapter Nine: "Safe as Houses"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc5">Chapter Ten: "The Wedge"</a></div> </div> </div> </td> </tr> </table> <h3 id="toc0"><span>Chapter Six: "Breach"</span></h3> <p>In the end, it was easy. Keagan had noticed in his first days at the facility that D-Class from the other shift on janitorial duty were unaccompanied by guards, and as he expected, shortly after sightings of that shift ceased, security on maintenance duties lightened dramatically, to the extent that he was able to roam the corridors quite freely as long he had his mop in hand. From then on it was a simple case of finding the passage between the blue-line corridors that led to the laboratories and the orange-line dormitories, and equidistant from the two nearest guard posts, and busying himself there for as many days as it took.</p> <p>Time in the facility was something stretching and elastic—the only clocks were watches on the wrists of the staff and the only reason he knew he had been there for two and a half weeks was because a couple of the other prisoners had begun a night watch that marked off sunrises, counting the days until freedom. Even then there was doubt over whether Travis Lemure had marked the same day twice after dozing off. But with some practice you could roughly ascertain the time of day by how many white-coats you saw around and the number of empty mugs of coffee at the guardpost windows.</p> <p>By Keagan's reckoning, it was evening when Patrick Goettsch returned to the dormitories, eyes dark and haunted. He had a charmed life, it seemed—Keagan had learned from Travis that he had returned from his experimentation with 1062 with nothing more serious than a tendency to use Roman numerals and the inexplicable conviction that Cornwall was an overseas territory of Spain. He turned the corner, and Keagan was waiting for him. He grabbed the man by his orange jumpsuit and battered him into the wall. Goettsch immediately started swinging his elbow into Keagan's belly, but Keagan ignored the pain and used his body weight to crush the other man down, an arm bar pressing against his chin.</p> <p>"I was worried the white-coats would get you before I could," Keagan said, his voice hoarse. "But look at you; you're a fucking cockroach. You know they ran out of space on the wall for you? They've had to start a second list."</p> <p>"Please, I don't know anything, you bastard, just leave me alone," begged Goettsch, but even as he spoke he swiped his foot out, hoping to unbalance Keagan enough to get free.</p> <p>Keagan had previously thought about it for a long time and decided brain blows, body shots and choking were the worst way to subdue someone when you had very little time to get information from them. Instead, he stamped on Goettsch's outstretched knee, drawing a piteous wail. He followed it by angling Goettsch's arm and smashing the elbow against the wall. Simple lever action.</p> <p>"Who told you to say I killed the Judge?" Keagan shouted.</p> <p>"I don't know, I don't know…" Goettsch said, trying to twist out of the armlock with a junior-school karate move. Keagan rested a knee on Goettsch's back and braced himself so Goettsch was effectively trying to pull his own arm out of joint, giving an extra tug for good measure.</p> <p>"You don't know? Someone talked to you, you stupid shit. Why don't you describe them?"</p> <p>"I don't—AAGH—please, no, just stop. Don't make me say it. AAAA."</p> <p>Keagan caught Goettsch's watering eyes straying up to the nearest security camera. No alarms yet, but somewhere blue-hats were putting down their sixteenth cup of coffee and picking up their tazers. They hadn't killed Cancer, but then he had neither been outside the dormitory nor started the fight.</p> <p>"That's right, they're coming to save you, Goettsch, but they'll be too late. For the next few seconds, I'm God. Who killed the Judge?!" He heard distant shouts and tore brutally at Goettsch's shoulder, feeling it pop out of joint. The scream emanating from the chubby inmate seemed barely human, then he suddenly went quiet. Worried the shock had killed him, Keagan leaned in and Goettsch grabbed his top with his remaining arm, whispering to him desperately as the sound of running began to drum up the corridor towards them.</p> <p>"It's them! The fucking SCP Foundation! They came to me, told me you and the Judge were in it together, said the Judge didn't have long to live and to say I heard you threatening him. I didn't kill the Judge. I don't know who did it, but <em>they</em> made it happen. Please, please… I'm sorry. I'm sorry."</p> <p>Blue blurs rounded the corner and hands seized Keagan, ploughing him to the ground. Something narrow and sharp hissed into his upper arm and the world began to retreat into the black. Before he lost consciousness, his last view was of Goettsch, lying against the wall like a broken doll, arms and legs at impossible angles, blood pouring from his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue. He looked down at Keagan and said, louder, in a bitter voice:</p> <p>"They said they would protect me."</p> <hr/> <p>When he wakes up, he's standing in a red-lit metal corridor, somewhere that looks a hell of a lot like where he blacked out—or at least a similar facility. There's screaming and shouting, and the sound of klaxons, and he wonders whether they're coming to stop him, stop him—doing what? There's no-one else around. Wasn't he waiting for someone?</p> <p>A squad of black-helmeted men with MP7s run past, not even registering his presence. There's something more important happening here, he thinks, and turns and follows them, finding that he keeps pace easily with the men, even though he's walking—well, floating—and they are running flat out.</p> <p>"…repeat, 1447 is breaching containment. Ablative armour is being compromised," one of them shouts into their shoulder radio.</p> <p>The men take up positions at the entrance of a heavy metal door at the terminus of a single red line. Their leader taps in a code into the keypad, and the door opens.</p> <p>He follows the men into the room and realises he's been here before—something like a converted warehouse with a steel cube suspended at its centre. But something's wrong. Dents are appearing in the cube, the whole space ringing like a bell as whatever is inside strikes the interior of its prison with enough force to deform it. The edges are coming apart—swathes of steel, centimetres thick, peeling away as the whole cube changes shape. The cables absorb a lot of the force—the cube is oscillating wildly in its restraints—but it isn't enough.</p> <p>More black-helmets pour in, taking up fire positions around the cube. The leader of the original squad is calling for a 'backup containment unit', but there seems to be some problems and it's taking longer than expected.</p> <p>"Fuck." says the lead black-helmet. Then to the men around him: "Okay, we've got our orders. Hold the fucking thing in place for as long as possible. Once the auxiliary unit's ready, push it there."</p> <p>The blows from within the cube come with the frequency and force of a pneumatic drill, pulsing and strobing, and there's a sudden popping, rushing noise as one corner of the cube begins to sag. He can hear something behind the blows, now, a droning, keening sound which he is realises is a chant.</p> <p>"Hermetic failure," one of the black-helmets notes with some alarm, and they raise their weapons.</p> <p>"Hold," says the frontman. "Hold."</p> <p>Then all hell breaks loose. Something like a snake or ribbon squirms through the the crack, and the first man begins shooting. All at once, everything <em>judders</em>, as though the foundations of the world have come loose, and the walls of the warehouse are torn to shreds, tiny torn leaves of sheet metal floating through the air. The metal cables anchoring the cube to the walls are severed and it falls to the ground. At least three of the men go down at the same moment, their eyes and throats suddenly empty hollows welling up red. Streaks of blood splattering in lunatic lines, painting spirograph patterns on the floor around them.</p> <p>"Follow the blood!" screams the lead black-helmet. "Tag the fucking thing!"</p> <p>The ragged walls light up with ricochets and another man drops, clutching his knee, and a second later is gone—taken by the hurricane. The droning increases in volume, and he realises he is hearing a voice.</p> <p>Then, abruptly, everything stops, and the thing that has escaped from the cube is before him. It is wearing orange, and for a moment he wonders if it is a D-Class prisoner, then he realises what he is seeing are robes, like a Tibetan monk. Its face is blurred and distorted, but there are two pinpricks of white light in it that might be eyes. It takes him a moment to recognise that he has been seen.</p> <p>The drone resolves itself in his mind into words. <em>Who are you?</em> it asks. It's a good question.</p> <p>"I don't know," he says, "I—I just found myself here."</p> <p>"What is it doing?" shouts one of the soldiers. "It just stopped."</p> <p>He turns to see the men repositioning themselves around the orange-robed thing, guns raised.</p> <p><em>You might be useful</em>, it says, the voice distant in the chaos of the droning chant. He finds he cannot move his arms, his legs. The thing reaches out and takes hold of his head gently, palm over his eyes. Its fingers end in sharp points like talons and he feels them press against his temples.</p> <p>"It's getting ready to do something," decides the lead black-helmet. "Drive it back towards the containment unit!"</p> <p>He hears nothing as the guns fire. He thinks he must have been hit, for his perspective is drawing back, sinking into the ground, dissolving. He watches as bullets ripple through the form of the orange-robed thing as though through a cloud, helical spirals of its substance exploding from the exit wounds before inexorably falling back together, the gaps in its flesh caused by the passage of the bullets knitting as soon as they are opened.</p> <p><em>You needn't be concerned</em>, it says to him. <em>You're not really here, after all</em>. Then it turns and, to the amazement of the watching black-helmets, <em>walks</em> back into its ruined cell.</p> <hr/> <p>Keagan—that was his name, how could he have forgotten it?—woke slowly, each sense reporting for duty one at a time. Touch: cool sheets, crisply laid out, quite luxurious for an inmate until it dawned upon you that you were not merely cool but cold; the sheets attenuated to the point of thermal transparency by regular heavy disinfection and dry cleaning. Hearing: quiet bustling, a sense of purpose, but also the deep breathing of those sleeping under the influence of anaesthetics. Smell: antiseptic tang, an aftertaste of vaporised ink reminiscent of a printer's shop or a tattoo parlour. Keagan didn't even bother opening his eyes; he could place himself in the medical wing of the facility, where the little bald man had engraved Keagan's designation on his wrist and chest.</p> <p>For the first time since the death of the Judge, Keagan had time and clarity enough to think over his situation and weigh up the evidence, as one might assess a car and make an estimate of what it would take to make right.</p> <p>He vaguely recalled hearing of villages on Salisbury plain evacuated during World War 2, handed over to the Americans for training purposes; easy to think there could have been other small conurbations in the area, quietly removed from the records and used for purposes that could not officially be endorsed by the government or military. The important parts of the facility were maintained well—but you only had to look at areas like the D-Class dormitories to see the facility was decades old. Possible, of course, that it had only recently been taken over by the Foundation—possible too, that the use of D-Class as cheap, expendable test subjects in their fucked-up experiments was a new innovation. But he doubted it.</p> <p>From his conversation with the young researcher, Edward, it appeared there were strict restrictions on how and when even staff were permitted to interact with the outside world. Edward seemed like a special case—maybe others were allowed to sign a non-disclosure agreement and went home to their families on weekends. But the notion that convicts would ever be permitted to leave was a nonsense. Under normal circumstances that didn't leave too many options. The prisoners could keep track of time—with a sizeable margin of error, but nevertheless—and each one expected to be released to a gradual programme of fake addiction clinics and offender management schemes in about a fortnight. Could they be simply rounded up and told the promise was a fraud and that they would spend the rest of their lives in the service of the Foundation? Of course they could. But then, why maintain the pretence through the early days of the programme? Why not disabuse them of any notions of freedom at orientation? Keagan remembered the court reporter, Deloitte, saying they recruited 18 shifts a year—some mental arithmetic showed they must overlap for about a week. The restrictions on speaking to other D-Class shifts would make sense if the other shift had been told they would never see the light of day—but thus far everything Keagan had seen exactly fitted the schedule they were on; in another week or so they would begin to see new faces above orange jumpsuits—a new junior Shift A recruited fresh from lifers across the country—and a week after that…</p> <p>Bang. "Can I say that?" Dr Skinner's glib query, the shame-faced lab technicians, Edward's statement about what the Foundation's protection made him overlook—right now there was only one hypothesis, and that was that Keagan, Cameron Moat, Travis Lemure, Cancer, Ronny Feldspar and the rest would be quietly disposed of. Maybe they would be ushered into another decontamination room as an ostensible prelude to getting back on the bus, and the gas would flow out of the showerheads, and that would be it. Perhaps they wouldn't even get that faint hope—they would go to sleep on their last day of service, and petrol exhausts would be hooked up to the slats at the top of the wall, and the next day the blue-hats would clear away the bodies. Maybe that's what the stain around the walls was—some reaction of the paint to carbon monoxide or whatever else they pumped in. Or maybe they would be taken away, one at a time, for a debrief and introduction to their new identities, but the room would be dark to hide the stains on the floor and some grizzled veteran of the Foundation who could say 'I've seen everything' would unholster his gun and press it to the back of their heads…</p> <p>Keagan opened his eyes and watched staff move between beds with clipboards in hand. The light that shone through the windows was real, not artificial, and for a moment he thought of the park he had seen on the bus journey. Ronny and Patrick were here—the former, both legs and one arm in splints, looked away quickly when he saw Keagan's eye on him, but the terror had gone, perhaps sensing that he had at last satisfied Keagan's search for answers. Ronny, on the other hand, was eyeing him as though weighing up his options; the stump of his shattered hand in a sling. Not good, thought Keagan, in a place with surgical implements. Hagman, of course, was nowhere to be seen; Keagan suspected the guards had exercised their full prerogative as soon as he was far enough away from the dormitories.</p> <p>Keagan allowed the people to blur away and sat, feeling the sub-pain granularity of the bruises over his body, the sore pinpricks on his arm where the taser had hit. Suddenly—and there was never a reason, it always seemed to happen on its own strange schedule—everything snapped back again and he realised the young researcher, Edward, was sitting next to his bed and talking to him. He had not registered him drawing up a chair and had no idea of what he might have been saying. Keagan struggled up to a half-sitting position and focused on his words.</p> <p>"…studied Philosophy, which I guess was good enough, so one of my duties is talking to staff, in particular D-Class, whose behaviour might have been out of the ordinary, and making a judgement as to whether it might have been influenced by the skips they have been working on."</p> <p>"You want to know why I attacked Patrick Goettsch," said Keagan slowly.</p> <p>"Yes," said Edward, yawning suddenly and stretching out the arm holding the clipboard. Keagan caught a couple of words on the printed standardised tickboxes—'Gross Material Delusion', 'Undifferentiated Violence'. None were ticked, yet.</p> <p>"And if I don't provide a satisfactory answer?"</p> <p>"I'm sorry," said Edward. "I need you to work with me on this. If I can't provide a mundane reason for the attack they'll assume it was related to the recent experiments you did with Professor Reeds, and you'll be ruled contaminated. They need you to be—'re-usable'. If you're contaminated by a specific skip you'll be handed over to that team for destructive testing."</p> <p>Destructive testing. Keagan saw the scalpels, the endless syringes, the electric saws contained within that euphemistic phrase.</p> <p>"If you survive, you won't be D-Class any more—you'll be reclassified as part of the skip; that is, part of the phenomenon the procedures exist to contain. I've seen it done, and I never want to again. Please, tell me what happened."</p> <p>Keagan took a deep breath. Just the Cliff Notes version, please: "It had nothing to do with Professor Reeds and his fucking dart board. Patrick Goettsch came from the same prison as I did; he snitched on me to the guards about a murder that happened inside; the one I was going down for before I joined the programme. It took me this long to get access to him—he was never in the dormitories the same time I was, and it's only recently I started getting left alone by the guards on maintenance duty."</p> <p>Edward scribbled, eyes bright. "You were just settling an old score."</p> <p>"Yeah."</p> <p>"And is this likely to re-occur? I mean, are you two likely to get into fights in future?"</p> <p>"I don't think so," said Keagan, watching Goettsch out of the corner of his eye. "It's not that I suddenly don't have a problem with what he did anymore, but I'm done if he is."</p> <p>"Okay," said Edward. "Now, I should probably ask you this; it was asked me and I thought it was ridiculous at the time, it covers half a dozen minor conditions that most people don't even seek medical treatment for and describes a good chunk of the UK population and, I imagine, a greater proportion of the prison population. But here goes: have you been experiencing any—" he rattled off the list from memory: "—lost time; hallucinations; sudden mood shifts; encounters with anomalous—that's supernatural—entities, I should point out <em>outside</em> the supervised Special Containment Procedures; rashes or other illness; loss of energy; trouble sleeping; strange or disturbing dreams; perceptions of reality or history that are out of sync with others around you; or emotional or cognitive difficulties?"</p> <p>Keagan thought carefully before speaking: "No. I know I get angry easily, but that's not something new. I wouldn't be here at all if it were."</p> <p>"Good," said Edward. "Thanks. I can take this to the Director. Please, just—try and keep your head down."</p> <p>"Did you say anything?" asked Keagan. "I mean, did you put in a good word? Is that why they didn't just shoot me?"</p> <p>Edward stood up. "Okay," he said, "I've got to get on. Serious injury during experimentation. D-7780. Who the hell is that?"</p> <p>"That's the skinny guy in the corner," said Keagan, gesturing. "Ronny Feldspar. He was the Docklands Shooter." The explication earned a blank stare.</p> <p>"I think I must have missed that," said Edward. "Thanks."</p> <p>He moved away, tapping his pen against his wrist. Keagan watched for a little while as Edward talked to Ronny.</p> <p>"Yes, there is a conspiracy," Edward was saying. "It's bigger than anything you've ever imagined. This organisation alone, in the UK alone, draws down hundreds of billions of pounds a year, including money siphoned from government budgets. The thing is, none of the organisations you're talking about exist."</p> <p>Ronny shook his head violently. "You're wrong," he said, "the Masons control the government, the Royal Family aren't even human…"</p> <p>"If that were true, we would have sent in a strike team and shot them. Then we would have covered it up. It wouldn't even make the Ten O'Clock news. The monarchy would be half-forgotten by the weekend and fictional by next week. Look, forget the Masons. There's a secret society in the UK that includes hundreds of politicians, tycoons, media celebrities. It's a gentleman's club called Marshall, Carter & Dark, and they're the reason I can't leave this place. They're international arms dealers, money launderers and blackmailers, and they have people in every national government and police force. But here's the thing—<em>so do we</em>. And so do the Global Occult Coalition. And the Chaos Insurgency, and the Russians… I admit, I'm not very high up in this thing, but I seriously doubt that the Overseers of the Foundation report to anyone but each other, let alone some sad ring of Bohemian intellectuals."</p> <p>Ronny seemed to take the news badly—after a little while longer he flipped over to face the wall and refused to answer any more of Edward's questions about how his injuries and who he felt was responsible. Keagan turned to look at Patrick, who had been watching him.</p> <p>"I meant what I said," Keagan called over to him. Patrick looked down.</p> <p>"I know," he said. "I'm done too."</p> <hr/> <p>Keagan and Ronny were released at the same time, with Goettsch still laid up with multiple fractures from Keagan's beating. On their return to the dormitories, they were greeted with hushed whispers, as though they had come back from the dead. Others had not. Ronny, snarling at any suggestion he let anyone else handle the red chalk, clambered awkwardly over the bunks and scrawled shaky Xs with his good hand. Seven in total since Keagan had been taken away; including Goettsch, Shift B now consisted of 10 men. Cameron and Travis were gone—dead or transferred to another facility, no-one knew—leaving just Ronny from HMP Wormwood Scrubs.</p> <p>As soon as the situation had settled down, Keagan began to explain what he had reasoned out while convalescing in the medical unit. He met some resistance at first, the way anyone might when trying to persuade eight traumatised men that their only hope of getting out of the nightmare they found themselves in was a fraud.</p> <p>"Why would they do that?" shouted the shaven-headed convict from HMP Belmarsh whose name Keagan had never bothered to learn. "Why bother telling us all that bullshit about low-security facilities and gradually getting out of the system if it wasn't true?"</p> <p>"I think you know that," Keagan said calmly, face angled away from the chunky protrusions in the ceiling he suspected housed the CCTV. "It gave us something to look forward to, something to make us keep our heads down and do what we're told. If they'd said on the first day that we weren't going home, ever, that we'd been lured here on false pretenses, how much co-operation do you think there would have been? Even if you don't believe they're going to kill us when our shift's over, look at the maths. How many of us are going to be left at the end of the month? And then what? At best, you get put together with other survivors and the cycle begins again until everyone is dead anyway."</p> <p>"Way you put it—KAK—” Cancer objected, "doesn't seem like we have a lot of choice in the matter."</p> <p>"There's always a choice," Keagan said. "One of the researchers told me supply trucks come in and out every Thursday. We get a pass or find a way out through the kitchens or something, we can hitch a ride."</p> <p>Cancer laughed, breathlessly. "You're talking about jailbreak."</p> <p>"I'm pretty sure this jail doesn't officially exist. If we can get out, what are they going to do? I know someone on the outside who's looking into this place—she wanted to publish an exposé. All we have to do is get to one of the army bases—the real army, I mean—in the area."</p> <p>Silence.</p> <p>"Come on," he said. "You know what I'm saying makes sense. Surely it's better than waiting to be shot."</p> <p>"I'd rather be shot than gassed," Ronny said in a subdued voice, looking up at the stains on the walls. "Someone told me, you never hear the bullet that kills you. It's just—lights out."</p> <p>No-one responded, but as the evening went on, one after another of the inmates came over to Keagan's bunk and made some non-committal offer to map out the facility or try to figure out what backroutes might exist. What he'd said had hit home—perhaps they realised that with Goettsch's terror at an end they could no longer rely on him to take their place in the Foundation's experiments; had seen what happened to those with not so apparently charmed lives while he had been laid up in the medical unit. But Keagan couldn't rely on them, not really. They were institutionalised, he realised—fortunately for the British public at large, they thought of escaping prison as something that happened in dimly remembered Hollywood movies, not to them. <em>And you're not institutionalised?</em> said the little voice. <em>You had a job at Wormwood Scrubs—two if you counted your failed stint as bodyguard. You were happy to wait out your time.</em> That was different, he thought, angrily, that was outside—and paused for a moment at the thought that HMP Wormwood Scrubs was now 'outside'.</p> <p>The idea that an unguarded back way out might exist was seductive, of course, but probably unlikely given the fortress-like levels of security at the main entrance. Their best chance had to lie in the keycards—if you could wrestle one off a suitably senior guard you could presumably make significant headway towards the entrance, although most likely the attack would be quickly registered and the facility locked down.</p> <p>The first objective, of course, given that Shift B's already tenuous calendar had disintegrated further with the loss of its principal keepers, was to find out the day of the week. Given they had at most two weeks left, there was no opportunity for trial and error. Keagan spent some time thinking—you couldn't use the presence of staff as a barometer without a clear indication of who was allowed home and when, and monitoring supplies was probably out given that they had at most one opportunity to notice a marked replenishment that might suggest a delivery. But the facility's computers would still need to have an accurate time, even if access to the internet was restricted. Patrick Goettsch, on his return from the medical wing, was immediately dispatched again complaining of sharp pains in his dislocated shoulder, and reported having observed the system clock on one of the electronic drips. It was Tuesday, the 16th of August. Soon the replacement Shift A would be here, a fresh batch of quarrelsome lifers, and the guards would be on high alert.</p> <p>Keagan therefore decided that any attempt to be free of the facility had to happen on the eve of the 18th. What he would do if he actually managed to clear the gates was less clear—if he was able to hide long enough to smuggle himself away in one of the supply trucks he could wait there until they reached their destination—most likely one of the regular army bases he had mentioned. Whether he could trust its occupants was another matter—there was every likelihood given how well-entrenched within the country's systems the Foundation seemed to be that they would simply turn him back over to the custody of Dr Skinner. Escape then—but there was a reason the facility in which he now resided had no walls—or rather, its walls were miles thick, a great open expanse of muddy fields and unexploded ordnance, standing between him and civilisation. That part of the plan, Keagan decided, would have to be thought up on the fly. As to getting out of their imposingly sealed dormitories, however, he was reasonably sure that would be the easiest part.</p> <p>Surprisingly, the reconnoitres of the other inmates proved successful—there was indeed another exit that led directly out into the churned-up vehicle yard. A couple of them had been drafted into waste disposal and had caught tantalising glimpses of the outside world. The bad news, of course, was that it was locked down with a series of keycard-activated gates, similar to the main entrance, but Keagan seriously doubted it was as closely monitored.</p> <p>The following night there was an electric atmosphere in the dormitories—the topic on everyone's lips seemed to be what Keagan was going to do, and to Keagan's dismay that was how it was invariably framed—what <em>he</em>, and no-one else, was going to do.</p> <p>"How're you going to get out in the first place?" asked the younger Belmarsh inmate. "Doors look solid to me."</p> <p>"They are." Keagan said. "But if you've listened whenever they open and close them, the bolt is spring-loaded and pulled back with an electromagnet. That means if the power goes out it's locked shut. But D-Class staff don't grow on trees, and they go as far as to treat us when we beat each other up, which makes me think there would be some kind of failsafe if there was a fire that disabled the mains supply. Who has the lighter?"</p> <p>Cancer did, handing it over warily. "I really hope—KAHHK—you're not gonna torch the place."</p> <p>"Hopefully I won't need to. There should be a sensor close to the door mechanism that registers high temperatures and engages a backup battery." He looked along the featureless surface of the wall, imagining the mechanisms behind the concrete.</p> <p>"Right about here." He flicked the lighter on and held it up to the wall. The grey paint flaked and peeled away, turning black and falling to the floor in a neat little circle. The inmates looked on as the little store of lighter fuel diminished.</p> <p>"You're wasting it," Cancer said accusingly.</p> <p>Keagan looked at the little lighter. Was it really powerful enough to heat the wall in that spot sufficiently to simulate a fire? A few seconds later, there was a thin hum, then the familiar click-buzz. Keagan quickly spreadeagled himself over the wall, keeping the lighter in place while wedging the door open with the tip of one shoe. One of the others could have held it open, he thought, but they were too busy watching him. The Great Escape, he thought, back on TV. He tossed the lighter back to Cancer.</p> <p>There was probably a guard watching the feeds—maybe even assisted by an algorithm that picked up on unusual levels of movement or noise, but at this time of night, Keagan hoped his brain was too fried by caffeine to make sense of what he was seeing—an inmate slipping through a narrow crack in a door that should be impregnable.</p> <p>The sudden relief of the corridor—cold air untainted by body odour or the revenant spirit of last night's powdered eggs—sent a thrill through him. He waited a second to see if any other inmate would follow after him—when none were forthcoming he set off at a steady lope down the corridors, remembering the directions he had been given by the reluctant waste disposal technicians.</p> <p>Collect blue lines, keep the green lines to your right… it seemed to make sense, and soon Keagan was running along a corridor with four blue stripes on the walls, green lines falling away as soon as they appeared. The door ahead was locked but not keycard protected, the interior darkened, behind reinforced glass. Keagan looked at the lock for a second then, bracing himself against the opposite wall, kicked the handle hard up and right. The sound of the mortise block splintering told Keagan he'd correctly identified the mechanism and the door swung loosely open as he pushed at it.</p> <p>Keagan emerged into a large, split-level area, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he picked out the faint gleam of computer screens. He swore softly under his breath. The area was plainly somewhere D-Class weren't supposed to be—some kind of administrative area, maybe handling logistics or co-ordinating manpower across the facility—but it was most distinctly not the kitchens or anywhere that might logically lead there.</p> <p>Plan B, he thought. This was an office, which meant during the day there must be staff working here. No matter how strict your security, no matter how inhumanly regimented you try to keep your staff, there'll always be someone who loses their access credentials and gets buzzed through by the guard or swiped out by a colleague. And in a place like this, if you find a keycard, you don't turn it in, you keep it at the bottom of a drawer somewhere so if you lose your own one you aren't immediately screwed. That was the theory, anyway.</p> <p>Keagan began ransacking the desks whilst making as little noise as possible, and when he exhausted the possibilities of the smaller, raised area he descended the staircase and began work on the workstations there. A certain amount of leeway had been allowed to make the workspaces tolerable to exist in—the odd potted plant, amusing parodies of heavy lifting guidance sellotaped to the side of the printers ("Just let your ghost lift the box for you, you fucking idiot", the annotation now read pointing to the dotted outline of the ideal posture overlaying the diagrammed office worker), even, somewhat improbably given what Keagan suspected was true of the Foundation's policies regarding contact with one's family, a couple of World's Best Dad mugs left on the tables. What there were not, however, were any keycards.</p> <p>Come on, come on, he thought, feeling underneath and behind prolapsed drawers in case a spare card had been stuck to it with Blu-Tack. He lifted monitors and shuffled desks, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the Foundation didn't care to conform to his experiences of the outside world. Plan C. He began to dump trays of documents onto the floor, looking through them for anything useful. A map, he thought. A passcode. Any fucking thing. He started scanning the documents.</p> <blockquote> <p>SCP-287 is a Viking longsword, measuring 78cm from pommel to tip, and weighing 1077g.</p> </blockquote> <p>What? No. He threw the paper on the floor and picked up another paperclipped file.</p> <blockquote> <p>When spread onto a surface as paint, the liquid takes on a slight red tone which fades as it dries. The final dry color is a pale white.</p> </blockquote> <p>What is—this?</p> <blockquote> <p>bags often contain multiple parts, such as heart and lungs, while the intestinal tract is usually split into cca 1.5m segments, each packed separately</p> </blockquote> <p>Jesus, no, stop.</p> <blockquote> <p>The blood and tissue is mixed with the food sauce in a manner to suggest it was added to the food prior to consumption.</p> </blockquote> <p>He was making whimpering noises now, kneeling in the middle of the ruined office, scanning each of the useless, lunatic files one by one before hurling them from him. He wanted to cry, he wanted to be sick, he wanted to-</p> <p>"Okay. That's enough. Put your hands behind your head slowly."</p> <p>And—Christ—they snapped in, not all at the same time but in a dizzying <em>wave</em>, the men who had been standing around him, watching him, for—seconds, minutes—pistols drawn. Change blindness, he thought. He probably should have had that checked out, at some point in the last few years. Too late now, of—stop it.</p> <p>"How the hell did you even get out of the dormitory?"</p> <p>Keagan didn't respond, sitting mute in the middle of the floor. It's not something you did, he thought numbly. It's something you are. You don't fuck up, you are a fuckup. Your whole damn life. Why? Why do I deserve…? <em>You know why</em>, said the little voice. What did I do? <em>You know what</em>, said the little voice.</p> <p>One of the blue-hats began talking and he swiveled his head to look at them as though they were something alien.</p> <p>"…about as serious as it gets without killing someone or breaching containment, I mean, he's out of D-Class accomodation, in a secure area, trashing the place. We get a new batch of the fuckers in a few days, we don't need him around pulling any more of this shit."</p> <p>The first speaker, whose greying temples marked him out as the senior officer, addressed Keagan: "You know the drill, D-8671. You violate the rules, we decide what happens to you. Right now. That's our prerogative. You understand?"</p> <p>Keagan spoke, his voice tired. "Yes, I understand."</p> <p>The greying blue-hat raised his gun, but suddenly there seemed to be some disagreement in the ranks. One of the junior blue-hats spoke up:</p> <p>"D-8671. Isn't he the guy they were going to send over to Dr Barker tomorrow?"</p> <p>The gun was lowered. "That right, D-8671? You been assigned to 554?"</p> <p>"I don't know," he said quietly.</p> <p>The lead blue-hat took a few paces back and spoke into the radio clipped to his chest. Keagan caught a few words: "…then wake him up!"</p> <p>The other guards kept Keagan at gunpoint but moved back slightly. Keagan thought he could detect in their distant gazes some hint of the emotion he had seen in the faces of the white-coats when he had been tasked with clearing up the liquefied corpse of one of his fellow inmates.</p> <p>The lead blue-hat had apparently finished his call. "Well, it seems you're needed for the time being. Not my call. Gradley seems to have taken a shine to you—he can babysit you until Barker deigns to show up. Get up! Don't try anything or Skinner and Barker together won't stop me lighting you up."</p> <p>Keagan watched the soft gleam of the nearest P229 barrel, traced the shape of the weapon down to its handle, where a dark cable connected it to the guard's belt. Even if I got hold of it, Keagan thought, I wouldn't make it out of this room. Instead, he got to his feet and bowed his head. The lead blue-hat shoved a pair of plastic handcuffs at his chest; he put them on, and allowed himself to be frogmarched out of the wrecked office. His feet caught a fragment of PC casing, a smashed lampshade. When did I do that, he wondered?</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc1"><span>Chapter Seven: "The Necessary Illusion"</span></h3> <p>Edward was there when they reached the nearest guard post, wearing a blue dressing-gown and a long-suffering expression as he sipped a mug of cocoa. His pale skin looked positively ghostly under the bright lights of the secure panic room.</p> <p>Keagan was bundled in and thrown into a chair, his wrists still bound behind him. One of the blue-hats remained behind at the door, weapon in hand. They sat there for a while, Edward drinking his cocoa and watching him warily.</p> <p>At length Edward looked up. "You're a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?"</p> <p>There was a further silence for the span of about a minute.</p> <p>"…I'm sorry for getting you up so late," Keagan said at last.</p> <p>"Before I came here I was an investment banker in the City," Edward said. "I'm used to late nights. So you tried to break out."</p> <p>"Figured it was better than waiting around to get killed. That's what you do, isn't it, at the end of a D-Class shift? Kill everyone who's left."</p> <p>Edward said nothing.</p> <p>"But seems like I won't have to wait that long. I've been assigned to 554." Keagan saw Edward's eyes widen slightly. "Now, that's a bit of a puzzle, but I've been thinking about it. Did you know us D-Class record the numbers of the Special Containment Procedures we work with on the walls of the dormitories?"</p> <p>"I didn't," Edward said.</p> <p>"Well, we do. Now, that would be an interesting study—who started that tradition? I don't think anyone on my shift ever discussed it, but we all do it, and we all know what it means when someone puts a cross on the end of someone else's list. Now, the numbers on the walls range from the hundreds up to the high thousands; unless they're assigned randomly, 554 must have been known to the Foundation for a long while. Is that reasonable?"</p> <p>Edward looked at the guard at the door. He nodded slowly while taking a sip from his mug.</p> <p>"Okay," Keagan said. "So here's the thing. I haven't seen 554 written anywhere in the dormitory. Not once. I reckon there's years and years of D-Class who've written on those walls. So that means either the Foundation has known about 554 for years but never dared do experiments on it until now because it's so dangerous—or something happens that means no-one who ever works with 554 writes its number on the wall. Am I close?"</p> <p>Edward shifted in his chair. "Keagan, I can't discuss that with you."</p> <p>"Why not? I'm pretty sure it's going to kill me in a few hours."</p> <p>Edward folded his slipped-socked feet up into the chair to get them off the chilly tiled floor of the muster point. "Look, Keagan, let me tell you a story."</p> <p>"As long as it doesn't take the rest of my life." Keagan choked out a bitter bark of a laugh.</p> <p>"It's a story that was told me when I first arrived here," Edward said. "So there's every chance that it's a load of horse shit. But even if it is, it still illustrates exactly what I'm trying to say. Anyway, you know about the amnesiacs?"</p> <p>"No. You mean—people who forget things?"</p> <p>"Well, no, that's what the word <em>should</em> mean. Around here, though, it's what we call what should really be named 'amnestics'. Substances that induce memory loss. Don't ask me why they use the other word, probably someone at the top misspoke early on and no-one ever bothered to correct them. You've seen some of the things we keep here?"</p> <p>Keagan nodded, but the words were an icy shock to him. Did I overlook that, he thought?</p> <p>"Well, most of the time they come on our radar because someone reports having what might be termed a supernatural experience. Something that doesn't fit into the modern idea of a logical universe. People falling through the cracks into the world. They can't cope with what they've seen."</p> <p>"You brainwash them," Keagan said, slowly.</p> <p>"We take away the memories. In many cases it's the only way people can go on. When they work: sometimes they remove the higher levels of cognitive memory but not the emotional connections, and on some people it doesn't work at all. That's why I'm here—I'm immune, apparently. They never figured out why. But anyway, amnesiacs are one of the most important tools in the Foundation's arsenal. They let us cover up things that it would be impossible to explain away otherwise. But because they're not 100% effective, the Foundation is always looking for ways to accomplish the same effect without recourse to chemicals. So anyway, there was a psychiatrist—usually when you hear the story he was in Sector-30, that's Germany, but I've also heard versions where he was in Britain, the US, Argentina… But the name's always the same. Dr Glüt.</p> <p>"He was recruited for his research into behavioural modification. The Foundation told him … there were no such things as amnesiacs, or at least, that the higher level ones were a fraud, designed to make squeamish Foundation agents think we had a magic pill that made bad memories go away. He and his team were led to believe that the only way people were ever persuaded to forget what they'd seen was—" he paused for a second. "Through torture. They told him that the only thing standing between civilisation and anarchy was a room full of scalpels, electrodes, and black hoods. He was told that the people he was … experimenting on were civilians who had to be persuaded that what they had seen wasn't true, that they'd gone insane."</p> <p>Keagan felt his lips peeling back from over his teeth. "And what were they really?"</p> <p>"D-Class, mostly. Mostly. And it worked—at least the story says it worked. Dr Glüt used physical pain and good old fashioned operant conditioning to make people override their own perceptions. He was—a man at the top of his profession. But here's the thing about the story—the Foundation wasn't interested in the people Dr Glüt abused. That wasn't the point of the project. They already knew that extensive torture and psychological abuse could affect recollection. They wanted to learn how someone held up under the pressure of having to inflict terrible pain on another human being, hour after hour, every day."</p> <p>"Milgram," said Keagan, recalling Professor Reeds. "They weren't studying the learner. They were studying the teacher."</p> <p>"Yes. But Dr Glüt lasted longer than anyone thought possible. They kept sending him people to torture, kept making the stakes in the fantasy scenarios they fed him higher. But he continued, year after year. He became an embarrassment to the Overseers; I guess they expected to see <em>some</em> signs of conscience, not just a machine that went on performing the worst acts one human being can do to another for decades. Then he just <em>broke</em>. Completely and utterly. His wife says he woke up one day and his mind was gone. Reduced to a gibbering wreck.</p> <p>"The story is told as a morality tale, but for me it represents something else—the Foundation doesn't tell the truth. Maybe not to anyone. I think I'm working as a researcher and counsellor, studying anomalous objects, talking to D-Class subjects who break the rules. But who knows? Maybe this whole place is here to study me and they're waiting to see how much I can take. They tell me they let someone called Dr Glüt torture people for decades just so they could see whether he could take the strain. They tell me they lie through their teeth to get volunteers for their experiments, most of whom die, then they kill the ones who survive. Maybe the Foundation doesn't do any of those things. What seems to be the end might not be."</p> <p>"That's how you justify being here," Keagan said bitterly. "'It might all be a lie.' That's what you're counting on."</p> <p>Edward flushed, dark red, and tears welled up in his eyes. "The Foundation does good," he said, with a sudden burst of forcefulness. "Even by lying. We keep the necessary illusion going. For everyone."</p> <p>"What illusion?"</p> <p>Edward looked down, starting to shiver. "That science works, that it isn't just a bad approximation of one small part of a universe characterised by madness and illogic. That the ground is firm and won't drop away from you at any moment. Without the illusion—there is no reality, as our civilisation understands it. Without us—no laws of physics, no laws of mathematics. We've decided what is considered part of reality and what is considered supernatural—it's arbitrary, a man-made distinction."</p> <p>Keagan thought for a moment. "Einstein must've really done a number on you."</p> <p>"The atom bomb. Yes. There was a lot of debate amongst the Overseers over whether atomic weapons should be considered anomalous. But it was 'our' side—the Allies—who had developed it, and the Foundation was a lot weaker then, for a number of reasons. Pragmatism won out."</p> <p>They settled back into silence for a while. Keagan closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but found it impossible. After a while he said.</p> <p>"Edward, this is important. The amnesiacs. How powerful are they?"</p> <p>Edward had been staring through the reinforced glass of the guard post office into the dark of the corridor outside. He jolted back to attention as Keagan spoke.</p> <p>"Pretty powerful. Not that I can speak from experience—the one time someone tried to use a Class-A amnesiac on me, it induced a seizure rather than wiping my memory."</p> <p>"Could they wipe out a month's worth of memories?"</p> <p>Edward looked at Keagan and some understanding seemed to pass between them, some recognition of the dim spark of hope represented here. Edward sagged in his chair. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've never known an amnesiac that works like that. Class-C and Class-B induce suggestibility and prevent formation of new memories while under the influence respectively. Class-A blocks recent memories from properly settling into long-term memory—at best you lose about half a day. The only thing more powerful is the Class Omega amnesiac, which induces complete memory and personality destruction—effectively kills you as a personality."</p> <p>Keagan nodded. "I just thought … maybe at the end you're just wiped clean, sent off somewhere to live quietly with no knowledge of the Foundation."</p> <p>"It's a nice thought."</p> <p>"But not true."</p> <p>"…No. I don't think so."</p> <p>"Okay." Keagan leaned back again. Then: "You know, before you asked me whether I had had any strange dreams. I lied when I said I didn't. I don't want you to get in trouble."</p> <p>Edward exhaled heavily and reached for his pad. "How are they unusual?"</p> <p>"They're in a place I've never been before, but I've seen it several times now in different dreams. It's a place like this. There's a big open area, like a warehouse or a hangar, and a metal cube strung up in the middle of it with cables from the corners of the room. There's something in it. Trying to get out."</p> <p>Edward's breath caught, just for a second. "You've seen what's inside?"</p> <p>"Yes. It's like a monk. A Buddhist monk. But its face is fucked up, you can't focus on it at all. No-one else in the dream could see me, but it could. It seemed—surprised, I don't know."</p> <p>"Thank you." Edward said, distantly. "Thank you. I need to talk to someone."</p> <p>He got up, sliding his mug over to the far side of the table. The guard on the door stirred himself.</p> <p>"Agent Moon said you're to remain with D-8671 until Dr Barker gets in."</p> <p>"Well," said Edward, voice sharp-edged, "I need to talk to the Director. Last time I checked, I'm not D-Class. And I certainly don't take orders from you. If Agent Moon doesn't like it, maybe he can shoot me later."</p> <p>The guard shrugged—'on your head be it'—and moved aside. Edward swept by him, hands clenched tightly by his sides.</p> <p>The guard turned his attention back to Keagan but made no attempt to speak. Keagan waited there, drifting in and out of a feather-light, dreamless sleep that would be disturbed by every movement on the silent CCTV monitors. He saw five black-helmets entering the dormitory, MP7s drawn, taking a head-count at gunpoint. Keagan watched helplessly, willing the other inmates not to get themselves killed. But they seemed withdrawn, compliant—perhaps demoralised by the evident failure of Keagan's escape attempt. Even Ronny kneeled down on the floor with his hands beside his head.</p> <p>Later he saw Edward hurrying through a corridor. The blue-hat he identified as Agent Moon meeting a white-coat near the entrance gate, making obsequious gestures as though to placate him for having awoken him earlier. Other white-coats beginning to filter in through the corridors, laboratories. It was morning. The white-coats arrived in the bomb-ruin of the administrative office with postures of disbelief and exasperation, the blue-hat left on duty there making commiseratory nods.</p> <p>"It's time," said the guard at the door—only the second time that night he had spoken—and hauled Keagan up by his forearm, led him out into the corridor again. The little voice was screaming in his head—kick to the knee, shoulder-barge him as he drops, bite his throat until you find the jugular, <em>do something</em>, but he wasn't listening.</p> <hr/> <p>When Keagan and his chaperone reached the laboratory—larger and better-equipped that the ones he'd seen thus far, with banks of computer screens surrounding a central raised platform—he was surprised to see Cancer, standing between two guards on one side of the room. Beside him, Ronny Feldspar, still nursing the stub of his wrist. He wondered whether they had been allowed to mark '554' on the wall before they left the dormitories. They seemed just as surprised to see him, Ronny throwing him a look of fear mixed with hate. However, he was not permitted to join them—instead, he was kept under separate watch at the other end of the laboratory, reinforcing Keagan's impression that he was to play a special role in this experiment.</p> <p>Dr Skinner was there, grey hair gelled up as usual, chatting animatedly to another white-coat, a bespectacled black man with short white hair, the one he had seen Agent Moon greet on the CCTV. The second man seemed irritated at having to be present—no doubt annoyed that Keagan's escape attempt had forced him to bring forward the time of the experiment; he kept glancing at his watch and scowling. This, Keagan surmised, was Dr Barker. At least six younger white-coats were bustling around the monitors, ticking off boxes on clipboards and talking in urgent, clipped tones.</p> <p>Agent Moon and half a dozen blue-hats were present, too—the first time he had seen a heavy guard presence during an experiment; whether for him or for what might be about to happen he could not know.</p> <p>"Okay, people," Dr Skinner announced, quietening the discussions of the junior white-coats. "I know this experiment is particularly complex, so I shan't get in your way more than I have to. I'm just here to observe in my capacity as D-Class personnel supervisor, to make sure sector assets are being expended properly."</p> <p>Expended. Keagan thought. He would have said 'used' if he expected all of us to walk away. He wondered how Ronny felt, so close to the heart of a real conspiracy that considered men's lives resources to be burned through—but so far from the theories he had cherished.</p> <p>The Professor nodded at Dr Barker, who stepped forward, tapping on his lapel mic. "Is this thing on?" The last syllable suddenly boomed throughout the laboratory and one of the junior technicians turned to give him the thumbs up. "Good. For the record, today we'll be testing boundary conditions for 554-Boojum. The object itself is now on high surveillance—” he pointed to one of the screens, which showed a great rusting device, oxidised iron over weather-streaked concrete, resting on what appeared to be a rural hillside "—and we are streaming records live from a backup server at Site-60 to compare the secondary effects of 554-Boojum in real-time. Dr Rolfus is on hand at Site-60 to handle data uploads."</p> <p>A disgruntled-sounding voice boomed out of the speakers, almost entirely incomprehensible though Keagan thought he caught the word 'ingrates'. One of the technicians winced and removed his headphones.</p> <p>Dr Skinner cut in smoothly. "Thank you for your forebearance, Dr Rolfus. We've had to move the experiment forward for security reasons. I'll also thank you to keep focused on your current task rather than going back over the unfortunate circumstances that led to your reassignment up north, hmm?"</p> <p>The voice made a further uncomplimentary-sounding interjection, but it was muted.</p> <p>"Very well," Dr Barker continued, "The subject currently designated 554-2 was euthanised today at 0400 hours; we will effectively be starting with a clean slate. Subject D-8671 will be exposed to the 554 effect and thus redesignated 554-2. In the course of this experiment we will be triggering a 554-Boojum event, which necessarily involves the creation of another 554-2 subject. The most suitable subject for this purpose has been selected as D-7761,"—that was Cancer—"whose limited lifespan due to a medical condition offers possibilities for the future study of 554-Boojum in cases of natural death."</p> <p>Keagan looked over at the other two inmates. Cancer's expression was neutral. He would survive Shift B, then; but would spend what little life he had left locked away, integrated into Special Containment Procedures 554.</p> <p>Dr Barker was still talking, and Keagan forced himself to pay attention: "…will determine the exact threshold 554 considers 'observation', as well as whether an instance of 554-2 is able to prevent a former 554-2 subject from undergoing 554-Boojum. D-8671 will be converted into 554-2, then D-7761 exposed. D-8671, as the former 554-2 subject, will thus be subject to 554-Boojum. Observation of the subject will be gradually diminished through a number of means including reducing ambient light in order to determine the key threshold for observation." He looked over towards the door. "Ah. Thank you, Agent Piper. Please bring in the viewing apparatus." A black box on wheels, the size of a room service trolley, was wheeled into the room and positioned near the central dais. "In order to minimise exposure of other personnel, the two D-Class subjects will be briefly shown an electronic image of 554-1 that has been determined to transmit the effect."</p> <p>He turned, and began addressing Keagan. "D-8671—is that him? I can't read his designation label from here." A guard briefly confirmed that Keagan was, indeed, D-8671. "Good. D-8671, approach the viewing apparatus and place your head in the viewing chamber, located on the near side of the apparatus."</p> <p>Keagan had never understood why, in films, people willingly co-operated with those they suspected were about to kill them—why they dug their own graves, literally, or figuratively by divulging the information keeping them alive. Now he understood—it was based on a truth. You did what you were told to survive a few more minutes, even if you knew it made your death all the more certain. <em>You killed two men to avoid paying them off,</em> the little voice retorted, <em>but you won't fight for your own life. Pathetic.</em> But there was nothing Keagan could do. He was a car with a dead engine, being pushed up a hill an inch at a time. He walked over to the dark box and took up what he presumed to be the correct position, head lowered into the square notch cut out of the side of the trolley, forehead resting on a curved stand apparently provided for that purpose.</p> <p>"In a few seconds you will see an image on the monitor below you. Please tell us what you see."</p> <p>Keagan waited—the space below him remained black, and some activity around him led him to believe the apparatus wasn't quite ready.</p> <p>"Technician Grant, the question is not whether it's working or not. I can see it's not working. The question is why. Please find that out, and rectify it," Dr Barker snapped from somewhere behind him.</p> <p>"You want me to take a look?" Keagan said, sarcastically. "Electronics aren't my forte, but I'm sure I could get it going, if it's just a monitor. I can give you a fair quote, and I take cash…"</p> <p>"That won't be necessary, D-8671. Please remain quiet unless instructed to speak."</p> <p>But <em>someone</em> wasn't keeping quiet. Someone was shouting something loudly, a long way away, and getting closer. Soon it was possible to make out that what was being shouted was along the lines of 'Stop the experiment! Stop it now!".</p> <p>Dr Barker sighed, the sound distorting into a deep crackle as it fed through his label mike. "Agent Moon, please see what's going on outside.</p> <p>Keagan heard the familiar swipe-ratchet of a keycard-operated door, and the voice suddenly came into focus. "Let me in! Let me—oh."</p> <p>"Researcher Gradley." Moon's voice, more than a note of exasperation in it. "This is a restricted experiment and you aren't permitted to be here, let alone disrupting the procedure by yelling outside."</p> <p>"It's okay," Keagan interjected, still kneeling with his head in the trolley, "They can't get it working anyway. I offered to fix it for them."</p> <p>Edward butted in: "I have compelling reason to believe this experiment is at risk of causing cross-contamination between two different Special Containment Procedures. D-8671 told me just a few hours ago that he's been having unusual dreams. He described them to me. I've been in contact with Site-60, and they've confirmed all the details. It's 1447."</p> <p>"And that is?" asked Moon. "You'll have to excuse me, I don't actually carry around the entire SCP object database in my head."</p> <p>"The tulpa," pressed Edward. "A self-sustaining manifest thought-form, in containment at Site-60. He described its appearance, its containment unit, the surrounding facility—everything. Oh, for the love of Christ, is that Dr Rolfus on the monitor over there? Site-60 is part of this experiment?"</p> <p>"Only to compare personnel records. 554's secondary effects including altering local written and electronic data."</p> <p>Well, that explained the walls, at least.</p> <p>"Look, you have to shut this down, or at least choose another subject. 1447 tried to breach containment a week ago—”</p> <p>"Nothing new there, as I recall." Dr Skinner's voice.</p> <p>"and exhibited highly unusual behaviour while doing so. The Director won't tolerate—”</p> <p>"Look, Edward," Agent Moon interrupted. "The experiment's already in progress. The subjects have already been chosen based on clear criteria of suitability—”</p> <p>"Because D-8671 tried to escape, you mean," Edward challenged.</p> <p>"—yes. That's valid criteria. But also because he had an ongoing case moving through the courts and it saves us quite a bit of bother if all that goes away without us having to do mop-up." The Judge, Keagan thought. So, no-one, not even a plausible suspect, would stand trial for the murder of Wesley Kellogg. What a surprise.</p> <p>"Look, it may come as a shock to you," Agent Moon continued, "but this isn't the US, we don't have the same resources available to us, and we can't afford the same degree of separation between different projects. Every D-Class here, including D-8671, has been involved with multiple skips since they arrived. You want to scrap a highly valuable experiment because one scumbag's been having dreams that happen to sound like another skip out of thousands somewhere else in the world? I'm guessing if the Director felt as strongly as you we wouldn't be hearing this from one junior researcher yelling in the corridor."</p> <p>"I wasn't able to raise him," Edward said. "Professor Gelding said…"</p> <p>"Frankly," Dr Skinner said, "I don't give a damn what Professor Gelding says or thinks. <em>I</em> authorised this experiment, not him, and it will proceed on my say-so. Technician Grant, what the hell is the holdup?"</p> <p>"Sorry sir, should be working now."</p> <p>"Agent Moon, get Gradley out of my—I mean, Dr Barker's—laboratory. And tell him he's lucky I don't initiate disciplinary procedures against him for trying to usurp the chain of command. Dr Barker, please continue."</p> <p>"Thank you, Dr Skinner. Grant, show D-8671 the image."</p> <p>Sudden light, painful after the darkness of the box. A corridor—no, a crawlspace, dirt on the ground. Something inside, a black plastic bag, sealed shut with strips of duct tape. Human-sized. Light shining through at the far end.</p> <p>"What do you see, D-8671? Describe the image?"</p> <p>"It's somewhere dark. Looks like the space underneath something big. There's what looks like a body in a black plastic bin liner underneath it."</p> <p>"Describe the body, D-8671."</p> <p>"I can't. I just told you, it's wrapped in a bin liner."</p> <p>"Does it fill the whole space? Is it large, or small? Does it cover the stains at the centre of the space?"</p> <p>"It looks like it's curled up, but it's pretty big. I don't see any stains."</p> <p>"Good. For the record 554-1 in static images remains unchanged since the last experiment. Technician Grant, please secure the viewing apparatus."</p> <p>The image disappeared again, engulfed by blackness.</p> <p>"D-8671, you are now redesignated 554-2. Please take your head out of the viewing chamber and move over to the testing platform."</p> <p>A blue-hat pulled on Keagan's cuffs and he hit his head on the rim of the trolley, just below the crown of his head at the back. "Shit," he said, unable to rub the area due to his restraints but feeling something trickle down through the short coarse hair.</p> <p>"Agent Matthews, try to avoid undue damage to the subject. Please help him into place on the testing platform."</p> <p>Keagan was led over and through gestures told to escalate the steps up to the central dais.</p> <p>"Technician Grant, please can we test the lighting?"</p> <p>The lights around the dais dimmed, the screens on the walls winking out. Keagan was left illuminated at the centre of the space, bright white lighting beating down on his face and shoulders. Keagan could make out the shine of Dr Barker's spectacles in the darkness, watching him.</p> <p>"Thank you. Please restore regular lighting conditions. Agent Moon, please escort D-7780 to the observation deck around the testing platform."</p> <p>Ronny was led to the central dais, and ushered up to a second, slightly lower ring, separated from the higher platform by a low railing.</p> <p>"D-7780, please keep 554-2 under close observation at all times unless otherwise instructed."</p> <p>Ronny's eyes were quivering, betrayed, flashes of the whites showing. Keagan thought he seemed on the verge of breaking down completely.</p> <p>"D-7761, please position yourself at the viewing apparatus."</p> <p>Keagan watched as Cancer walked over and kneeled by the trolley. He saw the older man flinch as his face was lit up from below by the screen. Keagan felt something—barely perceptible; a slight buzzing-tugging-tingling as though something were softly taking hold of him by his collar and trying to pull him away.</p> <p>"D-7761. What do you see?"</p> <p>"A—KOKK—crawlspace."</p> <p>"Describe the body. Is it large or small? Does it have the legs tucked up under it."</p> <p>"What fucking—KAAK—body? You've shown me an empty crawlspace."</p> <p>"There's a plastic bin liner in the crawlspace. It contains a body. Describe it to me or you will face immediate correctional action."</p> <p>Agent Moon put his hand on his gun.</p> <p>Cancer began chuckling, interspersed with -sucking, wet coughs, as though something inside him was tearing loose. "You mean you'll shoot me, like you're gonna—HAKH—shoot everyone else, right? Doesn't matter. There's no—KKUK—body in the picture. Come and have a look yourself if you got a problem with it."</p> <p>Obviously this wasn't the response the white-coats had been expecting. Dr Barker switched off his lapel mic and went into conference with Dr Skinner for several minutes before turning his mic back on.</p> <p>"Thank you, D-7761. You are now designated 554-2. Please proceed to the observation deck."</p> <p>"So who am I now?" Keagan asked. "If I'm not 554-2 anymore?"</p> <p>Barker seemed momentarily nonplussed by the question. Then: "The subject on the testing platform is once again designated D-9671."</p> <p>"D-8671," Keagan suggested, but the error went uncorrected.</p> <p>"Technician Grant, please dim the facility lighting."</p> <p>Once again the lights around the dais went out. Other than the distant gleam of the Doctor's glasses, all Keagan could see were Cancer and Ronny Feldspar at the edge of the spotlight.</p> <p>"554-2, D-7780, please maintain unbroken observation of D-9671 unless otherwise instructed."</p> <p>Cancer's eyes seemed emptied of everything.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," Keagan said to both of them. "I really am."</p> <p>"Yes, yes," Dr Barker said wearily. "Let's not have any histrionics. Technician Grant, please reduce ambient lighting by 50%. Just as a reminder to researchers and technicians—as well as to our honoured guest Dr Skinner—please view the subject only via the monitors to avoid observer interference."</p> <p>The light beating down on Keagan faded gradually, from bright white to a dimmer yellow. The buzzing, however, rose in his ears, the feeling that something was trying to snatch him away intensifying.</p> <p>"For the record the subject is stable at 840 lumens," noted Dr Barker. "Technician Grant, reduce the lighting by a further 30%."</p> <p>The dim yellow of the light was progressively replaced now by a twilight blue. Cancer and Ronny's faces seemed to float in the darkness, eyes and mouths distorted by shadow. Keagan rubbed his eyes—a darkness was forming, behind the eyes, behind everything. The sensation of being grabbed grew still further—it felt like a dozen hands were slashing out through the darkness, grabbing at his shoulders, his torso, trying to get a good grip, but somehow slipping away, something still stopping them.</p> <p>"Subject still stable at 350 lumens. 554-2, please turn around and move away from the observation deck."</p> <p>Cancer's lip twisted up. For a moment he didn't move. Then he said "I'm sorry too," and turned away.</p> <p>"Subject stable at 350 lumens with a single observer. D-7780, please maintain observation of the subject while we prepare the second part of this experiment. Technician Grant, please prepare the graduated mechanical removal."</p> <p>After a couple of seconds, Keagan's eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the researchers scurrying about, wheeling around cameras and monitors on stands. He turned his attention back to Ronny. The skinny killer was smirking, cradling the ruin of his left hand with the tattooed right one, still hidden in his sleeve as though it were shameful to him. Ronny's chest began to rise and fall in a series of sharp exhalations. Keagan wondered for a moment if he was having some kind of panic attack until he realised he was chuckling under his breath, the movement becoming more and more pronounced until it became audible. <em>Oh no</em>, he thought. <em>You stupid bastard. You're going to do something, aren't you?</em></p> <p>"D-7780? D-7780, what are you doing? Stop that. Maintain unbroken observation of the subject. That's all I want you to do. Just … stop that, now."</p> <p>Ronny was laughing his ass off now, sinking down until his hands were on his knees. He fixed Keagan with one last stare.</p> <p>"Fuck you," he said, and turned around. At that moment, Keagan felt the hands finally catch hold, latching onto fabric, hair, flesh. He was being pulled away.</p> <p>"Lights!" screamed Dr Barker from somewhere very far away. "Turn the fucking lights on! Turn the—”</p> <p>The static rose around Keagan and drowned him in the darkness.</p> <hr/> <p>He tumbled through an icy void, wind howling in his face. He could feel something coming, something cold and sharp and hungry. He looked towards it and could almost imagine seeing it—black knives rushing through the night. Then it was as if two hands had closed around him and shut out the cold. The dark was now the dark of the womb, and Keagan felt himself curl up in it, tucking his legs up under him. He felt a great thrumming pass through the presence that held him and realised he had heard it before, from outside. In here the chant it was slower, deeper, comprehensible, syllables permeating the dark.</p> <p>OM MANE PEMI HUNG OM MANE PEMI HUNG OM MANE PEMI HUNG</p> <p>Just for a moment the chant faltered, a curdled wave of pain washing over Keagan as the entity cried out. Great ragged holes appeared in the hands, the cold rushing in and piercing Keagan, his chest and abdomen lighting up with agony. But whatever wielded those knives in the dark had been slowed by its passage through the substance of those hands—forced to expend more of its rage and hate than it could justify burrowing through them, and even as Keagan felt its blades cutting into his flesh they crumbled to night-black ash, falling away into the dark.</p> <p>And on the edge of the great vibration, like the froth of a wave hitting the rocks, he heard the voice.</p> <p><em>A gift</em>, it said. <em>From a prisoner to a prisoner.</em></p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc2"><span>Intermission</span></h3> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>Sam Deloitte rose and put on a dressing-gown, went through to the kitchen of her flat and put the kettle on, curling up on a beanbag chair with the mail and her laptop. She had two hearings to cover today, but they were both in the afternoon, and neither was particularly challenging—a drink driving case involving the son of a local Labour councillor, and a mugging of a 72-year-old woman, to which the accused was expected to plead guilty. She went through the slightly damp, dog-eared envelopes that had been stuffed her letterbox.</p> <p>Circular. Circular. 'This is not a circular', which in British advertising parlance means 'This is a circular'. An electricity bill and, in the same batch of mail, a demand for payment. Sam had phoned up British Gas three times in the last week and eventually secured an agreement from one Rajay in Customer Services that she would be able to pay over 14 months rather than 12. This had clearly not been passed onto any other part of the organisation. Then something that caught her eye; an envelope with 'FOICOMMONS' stamped in the top right corner. She tore it open excitedly and discovered within a response to one of her Freedom of Information Act requests. This is what it said:</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Ms Deloitte</p> <p>Thank you for your request for information dated 25th July 2011, received by us on 27th July 2011, and is copied below.</p> <p>You asked for information in relation to contact between the SCP Foundation Group and Members of Parliament. The response is given below.</p> <p>The House does not hold the information you are seeking.</p> <p>You may, if dissatisfied with the treatment of your request, ask the House of Commons to conduct an internal review of this decision. Requests for internal review should be addressed to…</p> </blockquote> <p>Sam sighed heavily. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy.</p> <hr/> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>The man in the cell had returned from his shower. He had fifteen minutes to make himself presentable and report for work. His cellmate was probably still at breakfast—he spent as little time in the cell as he could, for the man hadn't quite given up his protective shield, the mannerisms and affectations designed to deflect aggression. In the library, however, he was learning to leave it behind—after a few false starts staring through gaps on the shelves at browsers he suspected were likely to abscond without signing a book out. He had even managed a few civil words with Don Dacyk, between pages of <em>The Sum Of All Fears</em>.</p> <p>The heat of summer was already beginning to drop away, a faint and distant chill entering these dog days. B block had seen an influx of new faces, some of which had quickly disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived. It had become an easy pattern, if you knew what to look for; men receiving unexpected visits and returning excited, skeptical, puzzled by an offer made. A few days later they would be gone, and the guards would affect nonchalant ignorance when anyone asked after them. The man in the cell could no longer remember exactly who had drawn his attention to the disappearances. They came and went, but he remained. And yet he had changed, was changing.</p> <p>For a moment, he stood still at the centre of the cell, then, without knowing exactly what had led to the decision, turned and eased the bunk bed away from the wall, feeling the cracks at the bottom of the wall behind the legs. He withdrew a couple of the drawings, paper hardened and cracking as he unfolded them. He held them up to the light and for a second saw the world behind them again—the river, the skyline, the remembered tiny people making their way through the landscape. He blinked his watery eyes in the bright sunlight filtering through the bars and smiled.</p> <hr/> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>Timothy McGage was halfway between his 134<sup>th</sup> and 136<sup>th</sup> pullup when the doorbell rang. He lowered himself slowly to the floor and roughly towelled off the sweat rolling down his face and shoulders. He was glad of the interruption—he had found himself exercising obsessively, spending hour after hour driving away thought through physical exercise. He relished the notion of someone to talk to—not that he could ever talk about what was pushing him away from friends, his fiancé, his family.</p> <p>The money had arrived in his bank account, just as he had been told it would, but suddenly there seemed nothing to spend it on. All desire, or drive, all ambition seemed to have vanished. Indeed, he felt nauseous every time he logged onto internet banking and saw it sitting there in his current account, under the heading 'Prison Officers Association Annual Raffle—Cash Prize'. He had begun looking over his shoulder at night, sure he had seen the same car before or that someone was following him.</p> <p>Tugging at his damp white wife-beater to allow air to circulate, he approached the door, the atrium lined with modern art pieces he had once thought were the height of sophistication but which he could now barely bring himself to look at. There was a shadow on the other side of the door, and he opened it.</p> <p>"Sorry," he said, "I was just in the middle of my workout. Why don't you—”</p> <p>He trailed off when he registered the face of the man at the door.</p> <p>"You're here," he said. He took a step back, face suddenly grey and jaw slack. "Why are you here? Jesus Christ."</p> <p>The man at the door's arm <em>moved</em>—a blur of motion, barely perceptible, before it stopped with a shudder that seemed to shake the world. He was suddenly holding something—dark brown, about the size of a clenched fist.</p> <p>Pain in McGage's chest, unlike anything he had ever felt. He staggered back, falling heavily against the wall and dislodging a singularly repulsive pottery piece. Already the air in his lungs seemed anoxic, his vision blurring around the edges.</p> <p>He looked at the thing in the man's hand.</p> <p>"You've relied on it for so long," the man said, a faint smile playing around his lips, "but you've never even seen its true colour until now. What insight I give you."</p> <p>It still pulsed, faintly, between the man's fingers—trying to stem the sudden vacuum. If it could, McGage realised, it would push oxygenated blood all the way around the universe for him.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," McGage tried to say to his heart, but what came out of his blue lips was a hiss. <em>I let you down, didn't I?</em></p> <p>"No loose ends," said the man at the door happily, unceremoniously dropping the thing he was holding onto the corpse of Timothy McGage before closing the door carefully with his elbow. He wiped his hand on the immaculately trimmed lawn of the bungalow and walked down the street, humming to himself. It was turning into a beautiful day.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc3"><span>Chapter Eight: "Mr Brightside"</span></h3> <p>He awakened to a sucking, smothering blackness, and he spent a moment lying there, suffocating in it until he realised this was real, that he was lying on soil and dirt and there was something over his face, choking him. He tried to reach up, but his hands were bound to his sides by something clinging and plastic. The thing over his face billowed in and out as he sucked at it, and eventually, though a supreme effort of inhalation, he got it into his mouth and chewed on it until he felt it soften and tear, and he breathed cool, revitalising air through the rent. After a minute more, his eyes began to detect a faint light permeating the black plastic over his face.</p> <p>He thought carefully about his position then arched his back, stretching the plastic around his arms. Further extension was cut short by the painful collision of his ribcage with what seemed to be a low metal ceiling. Instead, he lay down and used the extra slack near his hands to search over the ground. Soon he found what he was looking for—a sharp-edged stone—and, holding it through the plastic, began worrying at the material held taut between his wrists until it gave way, freeing his arms. He turned onto his side and, clawing at the stuff with his hands, began to push with each foot in turn, until the plastic began crinkling up and he wriggled out of it like a newly pupated insect. He was lying in a crawlspace, under a great, rusting metal tank, which made occasional clanking and whirring noises, like someone fiddling with a gearbox. The sun was shining through on either side, illuminating an expanse of green grass that stretched into the distance. He took great, gulping breaths, lying on his back with his arms and legs stretched to the extent that the space under the machine would allow.</p> <p>Soon the desire to leave this cramped place became overwhelming—but it still struggled against the fear he had, that somehow, the universe outside was an illusion, or else a radical misinterpretation by his oxygen-starved brain of some space more in keeping with the world he had come to know. He entertained then for a little while a notion that the thing above him was the suspended chassis of a Renault Clio, that he had somehow fallen asleep in the inspection pit and had a dream; the longest and strangest he had ever experienced, with murder, prison, clandestine organisations and logic-defying experiments. Wasn't it more plausible than the notion he was where his senses still stubbornly insisted on reporting he was? It would surely be OK if he stayed here a little while longer.</p> <p>He couldn't pin down exactly what caused him to move—some play of the light on the grass, the distant susurration of water on rock he heard that brought back in one flash a holiday he had taken once with his family on the south coast, the cry of the birds… Once his body had taken that decision he scrabbled out of the space under the rusting tank like a man possessed, making little whimpering noises as he dragged himself out of that dark space into the light.</p> <p>It blinded him momentarily, and in that second all he could see was light. Then it faded and he saw he knelt on a grassy hillside under a blue sky, a hedgerow of tangled vines and nettles blocking the view over the cliff, but the horizon extending beyond it in a way that can only be experienced when there is truly nothing else there but open water reflecting the light. Above him, he saw little holiday chalets clinging to the hillside, a long way from civilisation for those inclined to be alone. Below him, a distant holiday park, caravans stretching out in neat little rows, a narrow curving path leading off down the cliff. He bowed his head, prostrating himself over the grass, smelling it and the soil beneath.</p> <p>A distant throb of pain caught his attention, and for the first time Keagan—the name jumped back as soon as he turned his attention inward—thought to examine himself. His hands, of course, were pebble-dashed and scraped from clawing his way over the bare earth under the machine; his knees felt similarly ill-used beneath the stained orange jumpsuit. His torso…</p> <p>A series of evenly-spaced puncture wounds dotted his torso, crusted dried blood caking the jumpsuit to his torso. The shock made him sit down on his bottom—he plucked at the cloth with shaking hands to try and get a better look at the injuries, distantly worried that it would cause them to start bleeding again. Once the jumpsuit had been stripped half-off he could see the wounds—deep but not enough to penetrate any organs, and scabbed-over, already healing. Something bothered him, something he'd missed. He looked back at his hands, at his left wrist, then at his chest. No tattoos; his designation, D-8671, had been excised as though it had never existed. He prodded at the areas, as though there might be some residual discomfort from whatever had sucked the ink out of his cells.</p> <p>He looked back at the rusted iron edifice on the hillside. This, then, was 554, the device he had seen on the monitors back in the darkness of Dr Barker's laboratory. He tried to remember whether he or Dr Skinner had given away any indication as to the location of the object, but came up blank. One thing Barker had said stuck with him, though.</p> <p><em>The object itself is now on high surveillance.</em></p> <p>Keagan jolted up, looked around, shaking his head to try and clear change-blindness. He half expected the blue-hats to pull their appearing trick again, reveal that he'd been sitting there like an idiot while they strolled up and surrounded him. What would that mean? It had been abundantly clear that they had not expected him to survive the transition, which as far as he could make out from the convoluted experiment Dr Barker had devised necessarily involved the transformation of the subject from living human to a corpse bundled up in a bin liner. Probably they would decide to take him apart to try and see how he had accomplished the feat of avoiding this process.</p> <p>He glanced up at the cliffs, along the coastal walking paths, but the only people he saw were distant blobs of colour, families walking together in the sun. Even so, he reasoned, the fact that the machine was relatively open, albeit isolated, strongly implied some kind of ongoing surveillance to avoid hikers stumbling over it and its grisly cargo. Accordingly, he decided it would be best to put some distance between himself and it, and he set off at what he judged to be an inconspicuous jog in the direction of the holiday park, quickly joining an overgrown National Trust trail.</p> <p>His first priority was finding out where he was… no, scratch that, he thought, catching sight of his bloody jumpsuit out of the corner of his eye as he jogged, his first priority was to look less like someone fleeing the scene of a gruesome murder. He paused underneath a weeping willow and stripped off the jumpsuit to the waist, ripping the garment away from the waist up and tucking the excess fabric into the waistband of the grey and undoubtedly fifth-hand underwear the Foundation had issued. He held the torn upper half of the jumpsuit in the shallow river running down beside the path and dabbed at his injuries until the crusted blood around them was gone, leaving only the narrow scabs over the wounds themselves.</p> <p>He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of a large conservatory jutting out onto the back of the trail—the remainder of the jumpsuit could pass for a pair of jogging bottoms, at least at a decent distance, and the wounds at least looked merely sore, rather than a reason to call the police. He actually passed another jogger, a middle-aged man isolated from the world by a set of earphones, coming the other way—Keagan nodded to the man and received a perfunctory nod in return.</p> <p>The trees parted ahead of him and a sign proclaimed that he was entering Culver Down Caravan Park—he vaguely tried to remember whether he had heard of Culver Down but decided he had not. There were relatively few holidaymakers around—most of them presumably gone off on various sightseeing expeditions. Keagan slowed to a trot as he passed the first row of caravans and eventually found what he was looking for—each had at its back a simple clothesline suspended between two posts hammered into the ground, and it wasn't long before Keagan found a shirt and trousers that looked like it might be in his size.</p> <p>He stopped, quickly scanning the windows but not taking too long to check he was alone before calmly removing the garments and changing into them behind the shelter of a beach towel. He tried to project the impression of a man on holiday having just completed his morning and changing into the clothes in which he intended to go about his business in the rest of the day. There was nothing he could do about the grubby off-white plimsolls right now, of course, but with any luck they would simply reinforce the impression of the casual but energetic holidaymaker.</p> <p>Thus attired, he walked into the holiday park reception, hoping the owner of the shirt wasn't doing some early morning shopping. He gave a friendly smile and wave to the plump blonde woman at the kiosk and wandered over to the leaflets section. "Wildlife Parks and Zoos on the Isle of Wight", "IOW attractions and things to do", "History of the Island", and so on. Keagan was stunned. 554 had apparently transported him a good 50 miles south and off the mainland. This would present additional challenges, of course. The receptionist saw him staring uncomprehendingly at the leaflets and came over, asking him if he was OK.</p> <p>"Sure," Keagan managed to say. "Just a bit overwhelmed. I haven't been on holiday for a while."</p> <p>She beamed back. "It can be difficult to know what to do first. Did you come in last night? I don't think I saw you."</p> <p>Think. Does that mean she wasn't on duty? Too risky to assume that and say someone else signed him in. He plumped for something generic.</p> <p>"Yeah—thought I'd have a lie-in."</p> <p>That seemed to do the job and she floated back to her desk where she was halfway through a Sudoku puzzle.</p> <p>The leaflets were close enough to the newspaper rack that Keagan was able to peruse the front covers without any reasonable expectation of him buying them. The park shop carried The Times, The Telegraph, the Daily Mail and a couple of local newspapers like the Wight Herald. But it was the date that struck him most—Monday, 15th August. Keagan blinked. As far as he was concerned, it was Thursday—two days after Goettsch had confirmed the date from the computer in the medical wing, the day after he had broken out of D-Block Alpha-2.</p> <p>There were a couple of possibilities:</p> <p>That Goettsch had lied about the date, hoping to disclose Keagan's escape attempt in return for privileges or perhaps a stay of execution at the end of his shift. Possible, but the elusive convict had seemed genuine in the medical wing about a cessation of hostilities.</p> <p>That Culver Down Holiday Park was so laughably isolated that it could not maintain a current stock of newspapers. Unlikely—the shop seemed well stocked with perishables and given the size of the island could not be far from a town or village.</p> <p>That 554 had somehow transported him backwards in time. If this was true, somewhere to the north, another Keagan, or rather his previous self, would be waking up in the medical wing after attacking Patrick Goettsch. Thinking about it made his head ring slightly, and he decided that it probably didn't matter.</p> <p>He left the shop with his questions about his location answered, but a host of seemingly insurmountable obstacles in his place. With no money, even getting off the island and back to the mainland was impossible—with the best will in the world he didn't feel up to swimming the 5 miles from the Isle of Wight to Southampton. And if he did, what then? Questions of chronology aside, he had just escaped from a top secret pseudo-governmental facility, to whose custody he had been transferred from a Category B prison where he had been serving a life sentence. Was he now a fugitive, he wondered?</p> <p>His stomach rumbled, and he realised he was terribly hungry, as though he hadn't eaten for days. Fuck it, he thought. The notion of looting one of the caravans was tempting, and it seemed likely that more than one had been left unlocked as their occupants bundled off to the beach or a local heritage site. However, the layout of the park meant he would be extremely visible while trying the doors, and the receptionist was likely to recognise him as the guy she didn't remember booking in. Instead, he set off again over the countryside, this time walking over the fields in the bright sunlight. He walked uphill, into the sun, and it warmed his skin and made him narrow his eyes.</p> <p>Eventually he found what he was looking for—a lay-by where several cars were parked, unattended, their owners having left to go rambling over the downs. He had been prepared to knock out a window—easy enough if you know where to hit it—and trigger a car alarm but in the end it proved unnecessary. One of the vehicles was a Fiat Eper, a beautifully designed but incompetently produced vehicle from the late 90s that was always a nightmare to find parts for because it had been officially recalled due to a rather glaring security flaw. To whit, if you pressed down on the rubber sealing around the driver's side door window in just the right spot, it actuated the interior locking mechanism. He gouged his thumb hard into the corner of the window, feeling the loose plate that connected directly to the interior door handle mounting, and shoved at it. The door opened with a sleek hydraulic whisper and Keagan got in, hoping any other walkers would just see a man casually opening his own car.</p> <p>The glove compartment was empty, but underneath the passenger seat he found a zip-top bag the owner had presumably deemed too heavy to carry with them while hiking. Opening it, he found water in a Coke bottle—he sucked at it thirstily as he rummaged through the other items—a wallet containing debit and credit cards, the owner's driver's license and about £300, probably the owner's holiday money. Keagan checked the inside of the wallet to make sure the owner hadn't been stupid enough to write his PIN number there, then took the money and tossed the wallet back in the bag. A chunky feature phone, which he pocketed. This seemed to exhaust the possibilities of the bag—he discounted the towel and floppy beach hat as too bulky and incongruous respectively to consider taking with him. Keagan stuffed the bag back under the seat and left the Eper, and the scene of the crime, as swiftly as he dared. The Eper was easy enough to get going without a key—the key mechanism could simply be pried off with a butterknife or similar to reveal the rotation switch—but whilst a stolen car would probably be passed onto the authorities within hours and leave him an easy target, he hoped the missing phone and money might go unnoticed for a little while longer, or even written off by the owner as lost somewhere on their journeys.</p> <p>Accordingly, Keagan continued walking along the road, letting the sun play over him. With the orange jumpsuit discarded behind him and his identification tattoos mysteriously vanished, it was easy to imagine that he had hallucinated everything that had happened to him (<em>but just how far back?</em>, the little voice said in a meaningful tone), been attacked and left for dead in the countryside and in his fever dreams concocted Creepy Bastard, the Judge, the Foundation… But at length he became aware of a dull ache at the back of his head, and reaching up found where he had clocked his head on the rim of the viewing apparatus in Dr Barker's laboratory. The injury was fresh—when he withdrew his hands a little liquid blood adhered to the fingertips. As far as that part of him was concerned, the experiment had taken place mere hours ago at most.</p> <hr/> <p>After a while, the distant caravans began to give way to cottages, which showed increasing signs of permanent occupation, and at length he arrived in a village the signs proclaimed to be Bembridge—he stopped at a pub that looked as though it still existed in the 1950s and ordered a steak and kidney pie and chips. It came doused in a rich gravy that he could feel bulking up the inside of his arteries, but he felt a lot better for the meal. As he paid up with the stolen money he realised it was the first meal in four months he had chosen for himself.</p> <p>He walked out onto the harbour and looked out at the ocean. After a few minutes he tabbed on the phone. It had about half its battery charge remaining. He thumbed in 150 and was greeted with an automated recording informing him he had one pound and eleven pence remaining. He should of course have considered the possibility that the device would be pay-as-you-go and attempted to top it up using the owner's debit card, but he supposed he could always get a new SIM card if need be. The first thought he had was of Lauren, and he entered her landline number (why had he never bothered to remember her mobile number? because it had been the first contact on his list and it was easier to scroll down one notch, of course). He expected to get the answerphone but instead it was picked up within the first three rings.</p> <p>"020 5640 7864. This is Callum." A man's voice again, the one he had heard before.</p> <p>"It's Keagan," Keagan said through gritted teeth. "Is Lauren there?"</p> <p>"Who?"</p> <p>"Keagan O'Neill. Look, I just need to talk to her for a couple of minutes, tops. I'm on pay-as-you-go and…"</p> <p>"This some kind of sales call? I don't think we're interested, mate."</p> <p>"What? No, this is Keagan O'Neill. Her old boyfriend."</p> <p>There was a long pause.</p> <p>"Well," the voice said. "I'm her current boyfriend and I've never heard of you. Think I'd like it to stay that way. I'm gonna hang up now."</p> <p>"Wait, don't—”</p> <p>Dial tone. Keagan stood, watching a distant yacht moving impossibly slowly over the horizon. What, exactly, was he supposed to make of that? He thumbed 150 again.</p> <p>"You have seventy-nine pee remaining."</p> <p>Keagan exhaled and tried to remember the contact details that had been given to him by the court reporter, eventually coming out with what he was reasonably certain was her mobile number. He thumbed it in and listened to it ring.</p> <p>"Sam Deloitte speaking".</p> <p>"Hello, Sam? This is Keagan."</p> <p>"Oh, right. You'll have to remind me, what was this about?"</p> <p>Not this again, thought Keagan. He pressed on, hoping that she had just forgotten about him in the weeks since she had visited him in Wormwood Scrubs.</p> <p>"Err, I was doing a life sentence in Wormwood Scrubs. You came to visit, remember? In July."</p> <p>"Sorry, not ringing any bells. Are you calling from prison?"</p> <p>"No, I'm not."</p> <p>"I see. Are you out on parole?"</p> <p>"Not as such. It's complicated."</p> <p>"Okay. Do you have my email address?" Her voice started to sound a little strained. "If you want to email me over what you wanted to talk about, I'm sure I can arrange…"</p> <p>"I have information about the SCP Foundation," he said, cutting her off.</p> <p>Silence for a moment. Then, in a terse whisper: "How do you know about that?"</p> <p>"You told me about it. Then, for the last month I've been inside one of their facilities. You really don't remember coming to Wormwood Scrubs and talking about this?"</p> <p>"I—I don't. Let me get a pad and I—”</p> <p>"I'm not talking about this over the phone," Keagan said. "I'm going to run out of credit anyway. Look, I'm on the Isle of Wight right now. I need you to book a ticket in my name on a ferry from Cowes tomorrow."</p> <p>"Why can't you just—OK, I take that back. I don't want to know. No, I mean—I do need to know what's going on. Are you an escapee? There are some limits on what I can do ethically as a reporter. And how do I know you have anything relevant to tell me?"</p> <p>"Okay," Keagan said. "As far as I have this worked out, I haven't actually escaped. It was sort of accidental, I think. Or at least, I didn't know it was happening. I don't know if the Foundation understands what's happened, but I'm pretty sure the regular police won't be looking for me. I mean, not for that, though I did take some guy's holiday cash. And his phone."</p> <p>"Oh Christ," said the reporter's voice faintly, but Keagan pressed on.</p> <p>"Anyway, I'm a source. I'm not even asking for money, just a ticket off this island. Look, I'll give you a name. There's a researcher—not a prisoner, a staff member—who entered the Foundation because he was being threatened by another organisation, some sort of club for politicians and rich shits. Edward Gradley. Look into him. He's been there for at least a year or so—he lived in the City but hadn't heard about the Dockland Massacre. He was some kind of banker."</p> <p>"And he's with the Foundation now?"</p> <p>"Yes. He didn't seem very happy."</p> <p>"Right." A scritching in the background as the reporter jotted down details. "If your lead checks out, I'll pay your travel expenses as far as Southampton. Contact me when you're on the mainland and we can arrange a meeting."</p> <p>Keagan thanked the reporter and after agreeing a time for the ferry, should she decide his information was good, gave her his email address to send the ticket details to, which, he realised about five seconds after ending the call, probably no longer existed if the Foundation was as thorough as it seemed. He tried accessing the web through the feature phone, but it took so long that he eventually decided it wasn't going to work and spent the afternoon browsing the shops in Bembridge, keeping an eye open for an internet café. Although unsuccessful in this goal, he did manage to put together a few items he thought would be of use—a hiker's backpack, several packets of nuts and dried fruit, a paper roadmap of the UK, and a new pair of boots, all put together accounting for a good £80 of the money he had swiped from the Eper. He briefly considered hanging onto the plimsolls to show Sam Deloitte, but reasoned that slapping a pair of scuffed-up, odorous gym shoes with no identifying marks on them on the table as proof of the existence of a clandestine organisation with tendrils throughout the UK justice system was unlikely to gain him much credibility. You've still got the underpants if it comes to that, he thought. He turned his head, suddenly—something kept intruding at the edge of his peripheral vision, a presence that seemed to linger as he moved from scene to scene. Nothing seemed out of place, though. He was tempted to dismiss it as nerves, but the thought that someone from the Foundation might have noticed his unexpected departure from 554 and followed him was enough to keep him on edge.</p> <p>He caught a bus to Cowes, arriving as the sun showed signs of setting, and checked into a B&B, ordering bangers and mash from the elderly couple who ran the establishment, on which he slathered enough brown sauce and mustard—<em>condiments</em>, how he missed them!—to draw curious glances from the other guests. The sheets were soft and recently laundered, and it was only by chance that the antiquated phone had an alarm set for 7.30am that prevented him sleeping in. He tried to remember what he had dreamed, but it was already thin and insubstantial, though it had seemed so important at the time. Brief, disjointed flashes came to mind—a door with a name on it, just out of focus, digging with his bare hands, somewhere cold, then, still shivering, somewhere else, pulling himself out of chill, dark water. That was all.</p> <hr/> <p>He was still unable to determine whether or not he was still the account holder of <span class="wiki-email">ku.oc.sriaperotuahtebmal\|llieno.k#ku.oc.sriaperotuahtebmal\|llieno.k</span> by the time the 08.00 ferry from Southampton pulled into the harbour, but he bluffed his way through at the ticket office after the staff were able to pull up the reservation with his name on it. No, no ID, said Keagan ruefully. Some bastard had nicked it, together with his floppy hat and towel, and all his credit cards. They commiserated with him, gave him the ticket (turned out he could have paid in cash on the day after all) and left him to wander the docks for the half hour or so until the ferry set off. The niggling presence at the edge of his vision he had first noticed in Bembridge had followed him, he noticed with some disquiet. He was still unable to focus on who or what might be the source of his misgivings—nobody seemed familiar or out of place—but he was struck by the conviction that they should not be able to trace him to the mainland, and accordingly dawdled until the very last minute before making a dash for the pedestrian boarding platform. The luxuriantly mustachioed boarding official blew his whistle impatiently but held the gate open until Keagan cleared it. Follow that, Keagan thought.</p> <p>The ferry shuddered under Keagan's feet as it set off, and he and the other passengers wandered around the interior until the announcer had completed her rather tinny explanation of the fire and evacuation drills. Thereafter it seemed much too warm to remain inside the glass-walled cabin and Keagan proceeded up the stairs to the observation deck, where the wind whipped at him fiercely, forcing him around to the rear of the vessel where he was protected from the worst of the elements and afforded some shade by the cabin. He watched as the ship left the harbour and the island (the old joke: what's brown and steaming and comes out of Cowes? The Isle of Wight ferry.).</p> <p>A young woman, perhaps five or ten years his junior, strolled over, holding a Dr Pepper presumably purchased from the onboard shop, and came to stand beside him, looking at the waves. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye—she was attractive, broadly Caucasian but with very striking eyes that suggested Asian parentage.</p> <p>"I love looking over the side at the waves hitting the side of the ferry," she said, evidently trying to strike up a conversation. "The wake can be quite hypnotic when the sun hits it."</p> <p>"Oh right," Keagan said, clumsily. "Do you travel this way often?"</p> <p>"I get out to the island whenever I can. My parents own a café on the beach, near a holiday park, then come back to the mainland for the winter."</p> <p>"Sounds like a good idea for a gentle family business."</p> <p>"You'd be surprised," she retorted. "Can be quite cutthroat. There's always several cafés per beach, and they're all competing for custom during the busy period. Dad told me one time during a wet spell someone sneaked in overnight and slashed all his umbrellas."</p> <p>"I see."</p> <p>"And what about you?" she asked, smiling. "You don't strike me as a frequent traveller."</p> <p>"Just on vacation," he said. "I don't get out much, usually."</p> <p>"And are you still on vacation?" She edged a little closer. "I wouldn't mind some company, if you're free?"</p> <p>Keagan looked up at the perfect blue sky and the waves, and across at the woman on the deck. He had made up his mind to say he had a few days free, but then he remembered Lauren and felt vaguely guilty.</p> <p>"Sorry," he said, looking away again. "All business from here on in."</p> <p>"That's a shame," she said, and moved off. Keagan went back inside and ordered a rum and Coke to console himself.</p> <hr/> <p>Southampton harbour was an ugly, jagged mess, concrete docks jutting out from the coast at seemingly random intervals. Relics of a proud naval history, now mostly reduced to ferries and the occasional P&O cruise liner. The city now belonged to men like Cameron Moat. Keagan wondered if anyone had taken over his empire or whether the splinters were still squabbling for territory.</p> <p>When he was safely esconced on the Southern Railway service to London—apologising to the young man in the Che Guevara beret and as-yet unfulfilled promise of a wispy moustache who tripped over him in the aisle—settled himself in a window seat. It was warm but not unpleasantly so and he felt himself beginning to nod off. He was jolted awake by a hideous tinny samba sample he eventually determined was the stolen phone's ringtone, courtesy of the man in the Fiat Eper. It hadn't been cut off yet, then. He took it out and clumsily prodded the resistive screen until he found the precise angle that would allow him to accept the call.</p> <p>"Hello?" a female voice said, "Keagan O'Neill?"</p> <p>"My lead was good then," he grunted, looking out of the window as the world blurred by.</p> <p>Sam's voice when she replied was distant, thoughtful. "Sort of. Edward Gradley's dead. At least officially. There's a murder trial still ongoing involving several partners at his firm—police reckon they were trying to cover up some kind of insider trading scandal. But the case records are full of redactions; there's clearly something going on they don't want the general public knowing about. So yes, it was good enough for me to pay your way. Now, I want everything. Names, dates, locations."</p> <p>"What happened to the meeting? To be honest I'd rather talk about this sort of stuff in person."</p> <p>"Well," she said, "I'm not so happy about it. I spoke to the paper's lawyer…"</p> <p>"Why the hell did you do that?" said Keagan, finding himself getting annoyed.</p> <p>"Let me see, because you say you were serving a life sentence then 'accidentally' escaped? Or because you contacted me out of the blue, claiming to know me, with details of an investigation I've kept off the records? He thinks I should give the police your number."</p> <p>"Look," Keagan said, "there's got to be a mutually agreeable place we can do this. A café or something with lots of people around." And fucking hard to get out of if she just tells the authorities that's where I'll be, he thought, immediately regretting the suggestion.</p> <p>A pause. "Okay," Sam said. "There's a salad bar on Bermondsey Street in Southwark. Called Urbanity. You know it?"</p> <p>"I know the street," he said, though the entire concept of a 'salad' bar had clearly passed him by. "What time?"</p> <p>Having thus agreed to bait what seemed like a very possible trap, Keagan turned the phone off to preserve its already dwindling charge and busied himself reading the 'Quiet' signs above the windows. Apparently he wasn't supposed to have taken a call in this carriage, which probably explained why the purse-lipped old lady across the eye kept glaring at him. The young <em>guevarista</em> behind him didn't seem to be paying much attention to the signs either—Keagan could hear the drum and bass thumping out of his earbuds.</p> <p>The world put itself back together again, one building at a time, and soon they approached the outskirts of London. The meeting had been set for 5.30pm that afternoon, but Keagan had rehearsed another appointment in his mind since the ferry, and it couldn't wait.</p> <p>He got off at Clapham Junction and walked a half mile or so along twisting pavements until he found the route he had driven every day on his way from the shop. He turned his collar up against the thin drizzle which had arrived to ruin the sunshine—or perhaps it had been here in London all along. Welcome home. He let the pedestrians and sluggish traffic fade away into the background until he was walking alone, almost in a trance.</p> <p>He walked up to the apartment building, realising he didn't live there anymore, that the key, if the locks hadn't been changed, would have been handed into the custody of the Foundation with all his other earthly possessions, and if Agent Howard had been telling the truth, had since been consigned to the furnace. A myopically hunched elderly man saw him staring futilely up and down the door, and asked him if he was a resident.</p> <p>"No," Keagan said (<em>you could have lied and said you'd lost your key</em>, the little voice said, <em>why didn't you?</em>), "I'm here to see—to see Lauren Vale. In 212, if she's still here."</p> <p>"Oh!" said the old man with some surprise. "I think she might be out. But I'll let you in—there's a sofa in the entrance hall if you want to wait, if you like."</p> <p>Keagan nodded mute agreement, and as they came through into the space he had traversed every day for almost two years, he found himself compelled to remark, for reasons that baffled him, "It's a lovely place, isn't it?"</p> <p>"Yes, definitely—” agreed the old man. "And very reasonably priced, at least for London. I only moved in recently."</p> <p>Keagan sat on the sofa for a few minutes before he decided the old man might have been wrong about Lauren being out and ascended the staircase. It was true, it had been a lovely place to live. They could never have afforded it on his income from the auto shop; Lauren had contributed the lion's share of the rent from her earnings as a hotel manager.</p> <p>He reached the apartment he had lived in and rapped on the door. When there was no response, he thumped on it with his fist, and when there was still no signs of life, he kicked it, leaving a noticeable dent in the lacquered door about the size and shape of the toecap of his hiking boots. He descended to the reception area and let himself out. He turned right on a whim and began wandering along the streets, having no particular purpose or direction. The feeling of being followed had returned, slightly—certainly not to the same, almost supernatural degree he had felt before on the Isle of Wight, but enough to keep him glancing over his shoulder.</p> <p>When he saw Lauren, he first wondered whether he was imagining it—had superimposed her features in his mind on the top of some other passer-by's face, but when she came closer, walking in the opposite direction alongside a man with short-cropped blond hair, he realised she was real. He had supposed she was still in work (something he had entirely forgotten in the teary reconciliations he had allowed himself to imagine), but obviously she had taken the day off. She was laughing and joking with her compatriot, who wore an awkward grin and a Union Jack T-shirt under a hooded jacket. She leaned in and pecked his cheek, and Keagan felt something in his chest wither away.</p> <p>"Lauren!" he shouted, jogging across the road in front of a white van, the driver of which elected to sound his horn despite the fact that he plainly wasn't moving an inch anyway in the capital's perma-gridlock. "Lauren, wait up."</p> <p>The little voice inside his head decided to weigh in, pointing out how unrealistic, how self-centred his notions had been of knocking on Lauren's door and finding her still tear-streaked, despondent, as though only a night had passed since his trial, only for heaven's light to shine across her features upon seeing him, Keagan, alive and free. More likely, it said, that she would have looked through the peephole, double-locked the door and called the police. But the look she gave him now—of simple, politely confused bafflement—<em>does he mean me?</em>—was if anything more hurtful. Oh no, he thought. No.</p> <p>"Lauren," he said. "It's me. I'm out."</p> <p>Lauren put on a fixed smile, the sort of smile you smile when someone clearly knows you, but you cannot for the life of you place them. "Oh right. I am silly, I can't quite recall where—”</p> <p>The man with her seemed to show more signs of recognition, scanning recent memories to try and find a match. When whatever process in his head found what it was looking for, his eyes seemed to grow more hostile and he stepped forward.</p> <p>"I've heard your voice before, mate. On the phone. Lauren, you know this man at all?"</p> <p>Lauren clearly hadn't been told of the exchange and her look of confusion only deepened as she tried to reconcile social politeness with the obvious friction with the man Keagan now identified as the voice on the phone. She took his arm, a security-seeking gesture.</p> <p>"Really, I'm not sure…"</p> <p>"Yeah? That's very interesting that is," said Callum, "given the story he tried to palm me off with. Said he was your old boyfriend." To Keagan: "What are you, some kind of stalker or something?"</p> <p>"Lauren," Keagan said, trying his best to ignore the buzzing behind his eyes. "Please. We went out for eighteen months, we lived together." Then, lamely, "We went to the Lake District, don't you remember?" And for a moment he was no longer sure whether that had been real or a dream he'd had once. "I've—I've been in jail."</p> <p>Lauren's expression changed, polite confusion giving way to fear, and her grip on her boyfriend's arm became tighter. "Callum, let's go."</p> <p>"No." Keagan said, and he realised what he was feeling was also fear, something cold and lonely and dark. "No. You've got a locket around your neck—I gave you that. It's got a picture of both of us in it, unless you've changed that too, like the fucking answerphone message. Look at it. Look at it!"</p> <p>Instead Lauren began to edge behind Callum.</p> <p>"You're clearly mental, mate." Callum said, putting one hand inside his pocket. It might be a phone, to call the police, or it might be something else. "Go away. Right now."</p> <p>"Not until you look at that locket," Keagan said. "Lauren, you were the one who said I had to choose whether we stayed together? Remember? You asked if I still loved you! Look at it!"</p> <p>Keagan lunged forward, elbowing Callum aside, grabbing at the locket. She shrieked, sudden and high, and pulled away, breaking the delicate chain around her neck. Callum immediately rushed back in, barging him to the ground. Keagan hit the pavement hard, leaving bits of tarmac embedded in his palms. The locket remained looped around one of his hands and he kicked Callum away as he bore down on him, trying to flip open its delicate golden clamshell with fingers that seemed too thick and coarse. He found the crack between the two halves of the locket and used one of his fingernails to prise it open. What was inside was a little piece of white card, the sort of thing that a department store might put inside a locket to show you the size of the photo you could insert. It had a little red logo on it, Wild Acres, and he remembered he had seen it before when he first picked out the locket, almost two years ago.</p> <p>"It's empty," he said thickly. Then, to Lauren, who was sagging against Callum, both of them breathing heavily, he bellowed. "See! Why would you have an empty locket! It doesn't make any sense. You put the piece of card back in…" And then he remembered she had never had the card, he had thrown it away before he had given it to her, and everything suddenly seemed to tremble and waver. <em>Falling through the cracks in the world,</em> Edward Gradley had said.</p> <p>A policeman, soft-capped in a day-glo jacket, saw the tableaux the three of them formed and walked over briskly.</p> <p>"Everything OK?" he asked.</p> <p>"I was just leaving," Keagan said, picking himself up.</p> <p>"This creep assaulted my girlfriend and stole her locket," Callum said. "He's fucking mental."</p> <p>"Do you have the lady's locket, sir?" The policeman turned a wary eye on Keagan.</p> <p>"Yes," he said, holding it out. He hadn't meant to hand it over, but the policeman took it, roughly, and fingered the broken ends of the chain. "But I bought it," he added, quietly.</p> <p>The policeman turned back to Lauren. He didn't say anything, but she flushed red, oddly, and looked at the ground. "I don't remember where I got the locket," she said carefully, as though exploring the edges of an abscess. "But I've never seen this man before in my life."</p> <p>"Do you have any identification?" This from the policeman to Keagan.</p> <p>"No," he said. "It all got burned up." He wasn't entirely sure why he added that detail, but it probably didn't help matters. <em>Show him the underpants</em>, the little voice said sarcastically. That'll make it all right.</p> <p>"Come on sir," the policeman said to Keagan, his tone revealingly gentle. "I think we ought to get you down the station, don't you? Figure out where you live and whether you're getting any help."</p> <p>"No," Keagan said, shaking his head. "No, I've got a meeting."</p> <p>"AA, is it sir? I'm sure we can get your sponsor in if you need to talk to someone. Come on now."</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc4"><span>Chapter Nine: "Safe as Houses"</span></h3> <p>Callum initially insisted on following Keagan to the station to 'press charges', as he put it, but as they waited for a patrol car the policeman persuaded him that he need only take their contact details and would be in touch if they had more questions—especially pertaining to the matter of the locket which seemed to him very strange indeed, that Lauren couldn't account for its purchase despite it being as far as he could see brand new, not even a photo in it, but which he restored to her possession nonetheless.</p> <p>The back of the police car was soft and quiet, and the policeman hadn't cuffed him, but it was no less a cell than the prison van, and Keagan sat slumped, face in his hands. Half a day, he thought. That's the best the Foundation's memory drugs could do, if Edward Gradley was to be believed. This wasn't, couldn't be the Foundation's doing.</p> <p>When he arrived at the police station, he was parked in a small interview room with Ikea furniture and no windows, and left there while station staff dealt with other menaces to society, whose voices he occasionally heard raised in the corridor outside. Eventually a female PCSO with a notepad came in and tried to coax various details out of him while a police constable stood at the back. He considered giving them made-up information, but reasoned that was as likely to attract the attention of the Foundation if they were looking for an escaped D-Class prisoner who might have gone back to his old haunts as coming clean. Instead, he gave them his name, the address of the apartment he'd shared with Lauren, his auto-shop. He didn't give them a next of kin, partially because he suspected how that telephone conversation might now go and couldn't bear to be told 'Sir, we've spoken to Mrs O'Neill and she doesn't recall having a son'. He told them he had been in a fight at the shop and didn't elaborate.</p> <p>The PCSO went away and dutifully returned about half an hour later with a hopeless expression. He just about caught the edge of her conversation with the constable, which included the phrases 'delusional' and 'an estate agent's', which he guessed accounted for Lambeth Auto Repairs; a twinge of pain there, something else dear to him lost. She spoke to him quietly and patiently, explaining they weren't quite able to verify the details he'd provided, and gave him the option of trying again, perhaps, she suggested, with a different name? When he proffered a muttered decline to this offer, she informed him that they had contacted Maudsley Hospital and that he would be taken there in the first instance until they could figure out where he was staying. Keagan listened. He hadn't learned anything new, but it had confirmed everything he'd suspected. He had been erased, completely. Ironically the Foundation's offer seemed to have worked out after all for him, since the police's evident failure to find any trace of him presumably meant that his criminal record had indeed been quietly disappeared. Otherwise, he thought, the Metropolitan Police Force were about to discharge an escaped multiple murderer who had clearly identified himself to them into the care of the NHS; an embarassing lapse of vigilance there unless he had truly been wiped from the criminal justice system.</p> <p>The PCSO made her excuses and left to write up the paperwork before her shift ended. The mobile he'd been using as a watch had been taken away from him together with his carefully assembled rucksack of supplies and the residue of the stolen money (he suspected from the bumpiness of the chair that there was still some change in his back pocket from the train fare but feared to check it in case it was noticed). However, there was an analogue clock on the wall, which read quarter to five. Looks like Sam Deloitte's going to be ordering salad for one, he thought.</p> <p>There was an odd clattering sound in the hallway, clearly audible through the interview room door, and the constable left, warning Keagan to behave himself, lest, presumably, he make himself an imaginary fort out of the table or other such mischief. There seemed to suddenly be an acrid smell in the air, and a lot of people shouting and running. Then, the door clicked. Keagan got up and walked over to it—the handle turned and it opened, but what was beyond was an abyss of smoke, dense black and choking. He couldn't see any flames, and when he hurriedly closed the door again and put his palm to its surface it was still cool. The tendrils of smoke he had already admitted into the room rose up and gathered around the ceiling, where they refused to set off any kind of alarm or sprinkler.</p> <p>Okay, Keagan thought. You could stay here and hope it's not a fire or chemical fumes, and hope someone finds you before you run out of oxygen, so they can cart you off to a hospital for sectioning. Or, if that doesn't appeal, you could try to leave. He called up in his mind the path he had taken through the building, and for a moment it seemed very clear and lucid, until he hit a snag just before he reached the interview rooms—he'd been distracted by a mohawk'd young man refusing to be ushered into another such room, being held almost horizontal by a constable and planting skinny legs either side of the doorway while howling about the Magna Carta. He couldn't remember whether he had subsequently been led left or right. Oh well, he thought, 50-50 is better than nothing.</p> <p>He pulled his shirt up over his head and, taking a deep breath, blundered out into the corridor, feeling his way along the wall and trying to avoid making a turn into another interview room. The smoke clung to him, smothering even without trying to take a breath. He jarred his shin on what he identified as one of the low, magazine-strewn tables in the waiting area, provided for the benefit of family members waiting to talk to an arrestee and involuntarily exhaled, losing a good half of his precious hoarded oxygen.</p> <p>He limped on in the dark, until he collided bodily with what he supposed to be the reception desk, and was suddenly able to navigate by a dim, smoky light shining through the shirt. Blinking against the smoke that was still managing to permeate the weave of the garment he pressed on until he encountered and felt his way around the glass frontage before finding egress. After removing his head from the shirt he found himself amidst absolute bedlam, visitors mixed up with arrestees evacuated from the cells, all milling around inside a notional cordon created by equally confused-looking police and community support officers. There was still no indication of a fire alarm and half the police appeared to be on their mobiles, presumably making 999 calls ("What services do you require?" "This is the police. We need the fire service."). What the hell just happened, he thought? It took him a moment to realise no-one seemed to be looking in his direction, and began moving off towards the edge of the car park.</p> <p>The lack of attention didn't last long. "Hey," shouted a PCSO. "Were you inside? No-one leaves until everyone's accounted for!"</p> <p>No use denying it, with his smoke-blackened shirt and watering eyes. "I'm an engineer," he said, gesturing expansively as if to indicate that given a moment he could go get his tools and pitch in. The PCSO seemed unsure how to take this declaration, but at that moment Mr Mohawk, a kindred spirit, it appeared, of Ronny Feldspar, started shouting 'lawful rebellion!' and bit a police constable's ear, and Keagan took the opportunity to walk—calmly, confidently, not attracting any attention at all—out of the car park and onto the thoroughfare. The remaining two pound and forty-nine pence in his pocket sufficed to purchase a garish British Bulldog shirt from a street vendor; he rolled up the one he had stolen from a washing line on the Isle of Wight, wiped his face with it and threw it in a dog litter bin. The sensation of a pursuer had resumed and he looped around a tenement block to ensure one of the PCSOs had not taken it upon themselves to re-apprehend him. At one point he thought he saw someone ducking back into an archway when he turned—hardly police behaviour. But if he had been erased so thoroughly by 554, did even the Foundation retain any record of his existence? He thus almost managed to persuade himself he was being paranoid.</p> <p>Keagan had no means of telling the time as he approached Bermondsey Street (short of asking a policeman, which he thought might be pressing his luck), though the reader may be interested to know it was 17.47. Urbanity was a sleek, stylish vegan café slightly set back from the street with silver lettering on a black banner and rich purple furnishings around glass tables. He saw Sam Deloitte, kicking her legs under a slightly oversized bar seat and tucking into a large bowl of spring greens with a grim expression. He was about to enter when something drew his eye to the large men seated at two opposite corners of the café, sipping soy shakes. Something in the way they glanced at each other and Sam made Keagan uneasy. Police, or just friends brought along in case of trouble? He doubted anyone could connect the dots between the obviously disturbed man who had engaged in a street brawl earlier in the day and the informant Sam Deloitte was due to meet—based on everything he had learned thus far, she likely no longer even knew what he looked like—but still, he found he dare not go in.</p> <p>The persistent presence in his peripheral vision suddenly forced itself in on his awareness and he focused on it in the Urbanity storefront glass. Someone was standing a good distance away, constantly changing angle but always keeping Keagan in their field of view. Black beret, red Guerrillero Heroico T-shirt, pretending to be listening to music on his iPhone. The fucking college kid on the bus! Keagan turned away from the café and began walking towards the kid, who tried to wander off to one side and let Keagan pass. Keagan changed direction. Keagan saw the kid pale as he realised he'd been made and try to slip off into the crowd, but Keagan sprinted after him as fast as he dared moving against the flow of pedestrian traffic, and pursued him up a back street. Keagan rounded a corner—there was no sign of his tail, but it was a narrow, cobbled street, with no offshoots, and as he approached a substantial awning in front of a closed antique store he heard the sound of someone sucking air, trying to get their breath back. Keagan swung left as he passed the shop and barrelled into the kid, who had been crouched in the doorway. The kid pushed back with surprising strength and tried to squirm away around the edges of the awning, but Keagan reached out, grabbed his ankle and unbalanced him, bringing him down painfully on the cobblestones. Keagan hauled the tail up and grabbed both his arms behind his back, pushing him against the storefront.</p> <p>"Why were you following me?" he asked through clenched teeth, wrenching at the kid's shoulders.</p> <p>"Wasn't—I swear—OH SHIT—” the kid broke off into whimpering as Keagan held his forearm a couple of millimeters short of dislocation.</p> <p>"I think we both know that's untrue. Did you do something back at the police station? Set off a smoke grenade or something?" A startled look in the kid's eyes made Keagan loosen his grip slightly and the kid retaliated by kicking Keagan in the chest. Keagan staggered back but found he still blocked off the kid's exit from the awning, spreading his arms wide like a rugby player.</p> <p>"Are you with the Foundation?" he asked.</p> <p>"I'm not with the guys who abducted and experimented on you, if that's what you mean," the kid said with sudden fierceness. "We're the real Foundation. The good Foundation. We're trying to help you."</p> <hr/> <p>The 'safe house', as the kid described it, was a shabby Georgian two-storey that might once have been a linen bleachers. Lime had soaked its way into the pale, peeling walls, and the smell lingered, even a century on. There was no handle or lock on the door—from the outside one might have taken it for one of the many derelict period buildings littering Southwark's streets. The kid rapped out 'Shave and a Haircut' on the door and thirty seconds or so later it was opened to them by a rangy older man who in a more flattering light—say, lying on a street corner—might have passed for a member of the unhomed. The ground floor was unlit, dingy narrow hallways littered with discarded pizza boxes.</p> <p>The kid led Keagan upstairs, where, set back from the street, a number of more orderly rooms had been lit with desklamps, a distant chugging betraying the presence of a generator.</p> <p>"The building's officially empty, so we can't be seen drawing power from the grid," the kid explained. He pushed open a door. "This is the situation room."</p> <p>The 'situation room' had once been a parlour, and later, perhaps the location of the bleaching vats, as the smell of hydrogen peroxide was almost overpowering. A number of mismatched tables had been pushed together into the centre of the room, on top of which was spread a wide array of papers, books, CDs and mobile phones. "Burners," the kid explained when he saw Keagan looking at them. "Any communication with other cells has to be completely untraceable."</p> <p>Other than the shabbily dressed individual who seemed to act as the doorman, there were three other men in the building other than the kid and Keagan. He quickly began to think of them as Walrus—the professorial gentleman with the Wilford Brimley mustache and elbow-patches, Jitters—the twitchy guy in a City suit, and Bones, a gaunt, clean-shaven man with a thin mouth, who occupied himself by picking his fingernails with a knife. Though not a lot of import actually seemed to be taking place in the situation room, the three men did their best to give the impression of uninterrupted activity, plotting points on road maps, scribbling notes, and occasionally making phonecalls on the burner mobiles and taking brief status reports. Certainly no-one seemed to have time to spare for the new arrival, with the result that the kid was left to find Keagan a seat and fire up the camp stove to make a pot of tea.</p> <p>"I'm Renton," the kid said once the saucepan of water had boiled and been poured over the Tetley's packets in the chipped mugs he'd fished out of a cardboard box. "Mark Renton."</p> <p>"Keagan O'Neill," Keagan responded. "Look, this is all rather confusing. You said you were with the real Foundation?"</p> <p>"Yes," Renton nodded furiously. "The original SCP Foundation, the one before the war."</p> <p>"If you don't mind me saying, this doesn't look a lot like the place I was in. It looks a lot less … well funded."</p> <p>Renton had the good grace to looked embarassed. "Um. Well, you see, I should probably clue you in on the situation here." He gestured to a large and slightly dog-eared map Blu-Tacked to the wall, made up of numerous printed pieces of A4. It was a map of the world, divided into various semi-regular quadrilaterals delineated by dotted lines. Each had a number—the lowest numbers started from the US eastern seaboard, spiralling more or less counter-clockwise, taking in the rest of the Americas, Europe and Africa, then Asia and the Far East and lastly Russia and the former Soviet Union states. The British Isles, Iceland and Greenland occupied a distorted wedge-shape that comprehended most of the North Sea, labelled '25'.</p> <p>Most of the world was coloured in a vivid red. Spots of blue stood out in the sea of red, almost hidden by a forest of pins pushed into them. The Baltic, central Africa, Cuba and Central America. Paraguay. Papua New Guinea.</p> <p>"Blue countries are the ones that still recognise and work with us. Red countries have switched to recognising the reactionaries." Renton pouted, as though offended that his favourite colour had been used to denote the enemy.</p> <p>"Reactionaries?" Keagan asked.</p> <p>"Guess they didn't tell you any of this while you were at the Sector-25 facility, huh?"</p> <p>Keagan looked blank.</p> <p>"That's the place on Salisbury plain. Wow, they seriously don't believe in letting people know what they're getting into, huh? Anyway, the Foundation is the successor to a whole bunch of societies and trusts set up to investigate and contain the preternatural. You've probably seen some of the stuff that gets hushed up."</p> <p>"Sure."</p> <p>"One of those precursors, ASCI—” he pronounced it 'asskey', like the web coding language “—that's the American Supernatural Containment Initiative—goes back to before the American Civil War. The Foundation itself was formed in the early 1900s and in the early years it was mostly American. There's a long story behind the Foundation's involvement in the First World War, and it has a lot to do with what happened in 1911 and something called the Feypact, but to cut it short, a <em>lot</em> of good people in the Foundation weren't happy with the way we'd handled it, including several members of the O5 Council."</p> <p>"The what?"</p> <p>"The Overseers. The people with the top level clearance in the Foundation. At least, they used to be, and still are in the real Foundation. Anyway, in 1924 one of our guys anonymously published a memorandum that argued we couldn't just keep the stuff we found in dark rooms and experiment on them—we had to use them for the benefit of mankind. That kind of set off a shitstorm."</p> <p>"Other people actually disagreed with that?"</p> <p>"Well, there was a little more to it, but yeah. These guys—what we call the reactionaries, real totalitarian hardcases—banned owning copies of the memorandum and tried to demote members of the O5 Council who supported it. All the way down to D-Class."</p> <p>Keagan thought for a moment. "But I thought the O5s were supposed to be the highest authority. You're talking about a coup."</p> <p>"Damn right. It all came to a head on 10<sup>th</sup> June 1924. Our O5s knew the reactionary O5s had no support so they called for a vote of no confidence in the whole Council. If successful, it triggers new elections for every Overseer position except the one who called for the measure—and everyone with level 5 clearance gets to vote, not just the Overseers. Well, everyone voted, and they started counting. It got to 53% in our favour, then they—the reactionary O5s—stopped the count. Just straight up had security guards march in and take the ballot boxes away at gunpoint. Well, our guys declared the reactionary O5s traitors and ordered them arrested, except they'd already run off to facilities loyal to them when they got wind the count wasn't going their way. Then they sent the task forces loyal to them to take over Foundation HQ."</p> <p>"What happened?"</p> <p>"Civil war is what happened. We had the upper hand until 1925—I mean, we outnumbered them three to two. Then the reactionaries suckered in most of our forces by leaking evidence they were going to weaponise—well, we knew it was probably a hoax but we couldn't take the risk. Basically they were threatening to use this thing to destroy human consciousness—everywhere—unless we showed. They keep it in Pyongyang now in co-operation with the North Korean government, which should tell you something about the sort of people we're up against. We went in and basically we got slaughtered. Since then, the reactionaries have taken back almost all the pre-war sites and assets—at least, the ones they knew about. The reactionaries say the civil war ended in 1926, but as far as we're concerned, we're still here and still fighting!" Renton raised his voice to a passionate shout at the end of this summation as though he had been personally involved, which Keagan thought was rich coming from someone who probably wasn't alive 20 years ago let alone 60. Walrus looked over and gave a thumbs-up.</p> <p>"Since then, world governments have been steadily shifting to supporting the reactionaries. I guess you can't really blame them—the other guys got the bases and most of the supernatural stuff. But all that's gonna change, pretty soon."</p> <p>"What do you mean?"</p> <p>But before Renton could elaborate, the thrum of the generator, which Keagan had all but tuned out, choked and stuttered, and the lamps around the room began to flicker.</p> <p>"Oh, for god's sake, not this again," Walrus exclaimed wearily before the entire room was cast into pitch blackness. After a couple of seconds Keagan's eyes adjusted enough to pick out the faint traces of light shining through from the side of the building that faced the street, but not enough to see with.</p> <p>"Renton, get the stove on for light," someone else—probably Jitters—called.</p> <p>There was a lot of blundering and crashing around near Keagan before Renton called, in solemn tones, "I think I've just broken it."</p> <p>Keagan exhaled. "Look, just turn on some of the phones and use the screens as torches so we can see what we're doing. Where do you keep the generator?"</p> <p>In a few seconds, enough of the burners had been flicked on to provide a low level of radiance and Walrus, carrying a Blackberry before him for light, led Keagan further into the depths of the building where the generator sat lifeless on the floor of what had probably been a bedroom and, given the sleeping bag in one corner, apparently still was despite the racket the thing must output. A snaggled mass of splitters and extension cables spilled out into the corridor, strands snaking off into the four rooms used by the cell.</p> <p>"I try to keep it going, but there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to when it goes out," Walrus complained. "As far as I can see there's nothing wrong with it. A kick often works."</p> <p>Keagan flicked the breaker and turned the generator on again. It made what sounded like a three-quarter turn before shorting again.</p> <p>"See what I mean?" Walrus said.</p> <p>Keagan took the phone and held it close to the dead generator, prodding the click wheel every few seconds to keep the screen lit. After a few seconds he took the power cable, gently, and followed it along to the small black box, half-buried by wiring. He picked it up and shook it, listening to the rattle.</p> <p>"You're right, there's nothing wrong with it. The problem's with the inverter. These things are all solid state, so that rattling's probably the inside of the power switch come loose. Every time someone pulls on one of those wires, or trips over them in the corridor this thing's getting bashed about and it's pretty random whether the switch ends up touching the contacts. Right now it seems to be trapped in the back here and I can't shake it into place. I'll need a screwdriver—” he squinted at the box—"cross-head for preference—and something metal and fairly pliable I can wedge into the gap. The back plate of one of those phones would work."</p> <p>Walrus looked at Keagan for a moment, then disappeared, feeling his way along the wall. He emerged a few minutes later with Bones, who carried more burners for light and a toolbox. They pried the aluminium back off a T-Mobile Jive and Keagan bent it between his fingers into a rough U-shape, so it filled the space the switch had taken up and bridged the two contacts. He slid it back into place and reset the breaker before turning the generator on again. The rough chugging and smell of diesel resumed, half a second before the lights came back on.</p> <p>"Man of the hour," Renton commented drily, leaning against the doorway of the generator room. Then: "I wonder whether Schaeffer couldn't use someone like you on the Project."</p> <p>"The what?" Keagan asked.</p> <p>"What I was telling you about. Our latest and greatest attempt to get one over on the reactionaries. Yeah, I think he'd love to have you onboard. You seem to have the technical know-how and you've been inside a Foundation—well, reactionary-controlled—facility, so you've got some insight into this sort of stuff. We'd need to get our guy in Whitehall to approve it, though."</p> <p>"Look," said Keagan, "this all sounds great, but I'm not sure I'm cut out for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. You know, I think I'm going to head off now."</p> <p>Renton cleared his throat and Jitters strolled across the doorway in a manner calculated to appear casual but which Keagan realised conclusively cut off his means of escape.</p> <p>"I really don't think that's such a great idea," the kid said nonchalantly. "If our observers saw you crawl out of 882 alive—”</p> <p>"You mean 554," Keagan said, increasingly baffled.</p> <p>"No, I mean 882. 554 is what the reactionaries call it, because they don't have the original 554 any more. That's because we got it back in the 70s. It's a mirror that swaps you with a duplicate from a dimension with reversed chirality, for reference. Utterly fucking useless. Anyway, if we saw you, the reactionaries probably did, too. They don't have our easygoing attitude towards people who've got up close and personal with the preternatural, but you probably know that. Right now, we're offering you a job. You turn that down, we put you back on the streets and let you take your chances with the reactionaries." Renton stretched his hands wide. "Really, we're your best bet right now."</p> <p>Keagan thought for a moment. The men's demeanour told him they weren't as willing to let him risk capture by the Foundation as Renton implied—at the very least he knew about the cell's safe house and he could deduce from what they'd said that they either had some kind of listening post on the Isle of Wight, or informants within the Foundation itself. Best, then, to play along, at least until a moment presented itself to slip away.</p> <p>"Then I guess I'm in," he said warily. "So what next?"</p> <p>"Next?" Renton grinned widely. "I already told you. Now you meet our man in Whitehall. But first, we need to debrief you."</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc5"><span>Chapter Ten: "The Wedge"</span></h3> <p>'Debriefing' involved several days of recounting his experiences at the Sector-25 facility on Salisbury Plain—each of the cell members would take turns asking questions and noting the answers down on a reporter's pad. Hours passed strangely in the safe house, lit perpetually by desklamps—if you wanted to sleep, you went to an unlit room for a while, with the cell members generally taking it in shifts over an eighteen-hour period, with another six hours a day when all four were working at the same time—but Keagan reckoned it was Friday before the questions began feeling strained and the cell members started spending more time talking to each other and distributing the information he had provided throughout their organisation. Somewhere between the Chinese takeaways and the attempts to get him to sketch out a map of the facility on the back of a Liberal Democrat local election flyer from 2010, he had caught up with himself. There's my chance to cause a time paradox gone, he thought.</p> <p>The immaculately polished black BMW drew up to the front of the safe house about twenty minutes after Renton disappeared into one of the abandoned rooms with a mobile they kept locked in a medicine cabinet, presumably to avoid mixing it up with the sixty or so other disposable phones scattered throughout the safe house. It was quickly decided that Renton would accompany Keagan while the rest remained behind co-ordinating the rollout of the new intelligence.</p> <p>How incongruous it seemed to walk out of the nearly derelict safe house into the plush leatherette of the BMW, the driver a large clean-shaven man in a tailored suit who watched them over dark glasses. Keagan stopped for a moment, his hand on the open door. He looked up and down the street, calculating vaguely whether he stood a fighting chance of being able to run off. Renton interrupted his thoughts by shoving Keagan into the nearside seat in a fashion that was only calculated to appear playful then jumped in himself, so Keagan was forced over to the far door of the vehicle, where he noticed central locking was engaged.</p> <p>"Just get in, will you? Sir Malcolm doesn't like to be kept waiting."</p> <p>Keagan had seen London through the windows of his own Volkswagen Jetta (which now probably no longer existed), of a prison bus, of a police car. Now he saw it through the tinted windows of a sleek politician's taxi. It was raining slightly, and the last of the rush-hour crush was limping on, painfully, to its destination, secure in the knowledge that whilst they were at least forty-five minutes late, the weekend was only eight (or rather, seven and a quarter) hours away. Keagan had never understood the comments office-working clients made, often as early as Tuesday afternoon—how they wished the weekend was here! Oh for it to be a few hours further towards that goal. Then, when they returned the next Monday for their ride, they seemed none the happier for having had their wish—how quickly the weekend goes, they said, and then, back to the horror that they seemed to consider to constitute their lives. Of course, he had started in his trade as an apprentice at 14 and been self-employed as a vehicle repairman by 19, so maybe there was some crucial difference between owning a business and being subject to the whims of an employer.</p> <p>Keagan turned his attention from the glum faces at the steering wheels around them to the BMW's other passenger. Renton kept shifting in his seat, looking at his reflection in the window and adjusting his ridiculous beret.</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm's your man in Whitehall, then?" The name rung a dim bell, but nothing more—the sort of name that might come up in passing in a news report dealing with some intricate Constitutional question, five seconds before Keagan flicked over to something lighter.</p> <p>"Yes. Malcolm Urquhart. That's who we're going to speak to."</p> <p>"So he's in charge of—the real Foundation?"</p> <p>"No way." Renton's raised voice attracted the attention of the driver, who flicked a look over his shoulder. Renton suddenly looked very sheepish and continued in a lower voice. "I already told you. The O5 Council is the supreme authority. Even if—well, Commodore Schaeffer, seems to take his orders directly from Sir Malcolm these days."</p> <p>"Schaeffer? He's the guy behind the 'Project' you want me to help with."</p> <p>"Yes. If it goes to plan, the reactionaries will be severely embarrassed, and the UK government will have to change its recognition to us. It might even bring down the Coalition, which is why Sir Malcolm is so important, and why we have to give him consideration. He's the highest-ranking government official in Britain to acknowledge us for <em>decades</em>. If he could get the Government to recognise us as the legitimate Foundation—well, it's never happened before. No national government has switched back to recognising us after the reactionaries got hold of them. Anything could happen. We could be talking about the British Army expelling the reactionaries from Foundation facilities by force."</p> <p>"So how did you get into all this? If you'll excuse me asking."</p> <p>Renton looked out through the car door window. "Well, I haven't been in the Foundation very long." No surprise there, thought Keagan. "I started out with Socialist Students, then someone got me into the Art Violence movement. Have you ever heard of it?"</p> <p>Keagan searched his memory for a moment, then remembered Fredericka Mendelbrot and her bizarre list of supposed terrorist groups. "I think someone mentioned it once."</p> <p>"It's all about organising active resistance against an ossified political and art establishment order. You know, Art is Politics and Politics is Art. By making people confront Art—real Art, which is political thought manifest in a physical <em>statement</em>—you get them to wake up and see they've been supporting a political class that just imitates what it thinks they want to hear, just like old-order representational artists just copy what they see." He sounded like he was reading from a pamphlet. "I kind of burned a few bridges doing it. Metaphorically, I mean. Well, mostly. Then I started getting into environmentalist protest movements. I travelled across the country hooking up with other people who wanted to fight back against exploitation of our countryside. One of those ended…" he shuddered. "Not well. People ended up dead. I guess that's what you get…" he mumbled something mostly to himself that Keagan thought sounded a lot like 'taking orders from a tree'.</p> <p>"Anyway, that put me on the Foundation radar—both the reactionaries and the real ones. Fortunately for me, the real Foundation got to me first. They fixed my head, made it so I didn't hear … well anyway, they set me right. The Art Violence group I was with used preternatural items to try and cause chaos. The Foundation wants to use them to make life better for everyone."</p> <p>"The real Foundation, you mean."</p> <p>"Of course. Like I said, the reactionaries just want to lock it away and decide what's 'real' and what's 'supernatural' for everyone else. They're a bunch of fascists when you get down to it. But I guess you already know that. Were you D-Class?"</p> <p>Keagan nodded. "They said the D means Disposable."</p> <p>"Really? Is that what they said it stands for? Heh." He suddenly looked awkward. "I mean, that sort of makes sense. Wouldn't want people to know what racist fucks they are."</p> <p>"What?"</p> <p>"The D. No, it goes all the way back to ASCI. The American Civil War. Back then, when they needed people to go into these sort of situations—preternatural, I mean—they would use black slaves. Then they invented a new psychological disorder to 'explain' the disappearances, said it caused sufferers to spontaneously escape into the wilderness, with the inference they'd just run away and died somewhere. They called it Drapetomania."</p> <p>"I see." Keagan actually thought it sounded like an after-the-fact explanation, the sort of thing that might circulate amongst people with a reason to believe it—because, say, it suits you to believe your opponents are the successors of vile slaveowners (ignoring the fact that by your own story your side has the better claim to descend from those same slaveowners). The same went for the 'Disposable' explanation Dr Skinner had proffered. Far more likely that when the phrase 'D-Class' had first been used the higher security clearances had followed a similar format—'B-Class', 'A-Class', etc. The higher rungs had been revamped, with the lowliest researcher now at level 1. Civilians, of course, are level 0. But what do you do with the people who had no clearance—no rights at all, in fact—but who inexplicably seem to take part in highly dangerous and sensitive experiments? You keep the old terminology and you make up various explanations for why it doesn't fit the pattern of the other clearance levels.</p> <p>"So where did you learn how to tail people?" Keagan asked. "Is that something the Foundation taught you? I mean, I thought someone was following me but I didn't notice you at all until I got to Southampton."</p> <p>Renton's brow crinkled. "What do you mean?"</p> <p>"Well," Keagan said, "you followed me all the way from 554—I mean, 882 or whatever—all the way to Cowes without me getting a clear look at you once. I thought I'd shaken you for sure. Then I saw you on the Southampton bus but had no idea you were following me. It's only when I saw you on Bermondsey Street I put two and two together."</p> <p>"No, I was given your photo and told to track you when you got off the boat at Southampton. I was meeting with a cell in the West Country. Camped out the ferry for the best part of a day watching for you. I thought you might have hitched a ride on one of the cars coming off the ferry and got past me. As far as I know you ditched our man at Culver Down—ducked onto a nature trail or something. You're saying someone was following you before you saw me?"</p> <p>"Yes—I mean, I'm not sure. I never actually saw anyone clearly. It was just a feeling."</p> <p>"Shit. Driver, pull over for a minute." The driver initially didn't respond and Keagan had to rap his shoulder with his knuckles and repeat the order. The driver eventually complied, rolling his eyes. They sat at the side of the road for a couple of minutes, the driver complaining that he was liable to be ticketed for stopping on double yellow lines, until Renton had satisfied himself that none of the vehicles behind them had pulled over or circled around.</p> <p>"Like I said," Keagan continued wearily, "I'm pretty sure I lost them when I got on the ferry, four days ago. You think they were with the Foun…—with the reactionaries?"</p> <p>"Maybe," Renton said. He was quiet for the rest of the ride.</p> <hr/> <p>The car purred into a reserved parking bay at the front of one of the many neoclassical stone piles on Horse Guards Avenue; from the armed police on the elegantly stepped entrance Keagan guessed it was something to do with the Ministry of Defence, if not actually part of Main Building. If anyone thought it odd that a teenager dressed like a Daily Mail reader's fever dream of a leftist student and a slightly disheveled man in his early thirties and a shirt with a cartoon bulldog on the front were ushered quickly and respectfully inside, no-one commented on it. Renton glanced in Keagan's direction, critically. "I should have had you neaten yourself up," he said. They were given visitor badges—Keagan noticed with some chagrin they had spelt his name 'Cagan'—and escorted up several levels of modern, open-plan workspaces before they reached a number of more private personal offices near the top of the building, wood-panelled with rich carpet underfoot.</p> <p>The name on the panel of the door at the end of the corridor read 'Sir Malcolm Urquhart MP—Minister Without Portfolio'. The guard rapped briskly on the door with his knuckles then stood by, hands clasped behind his back.</p> <p>"Okay," Renton said to Keagan, exhaling. "Let me do the talking. If he asks you something, try to be polite, OK? Don't make him angry."</p> <p>Keagan found himself suppressing a chuckle. "What is this, a job interview?"</p> <p>Renton scowled.</p> <p>"Enter," said the man inside. The guard pushed the door open and permitted Renton and Keagan to enter.</p> <p>The man at the desk set aside a stack of papers he had been working on and looked up, gesturing widely that they should take a seat. The first thing that struck Keagan about the man were the eyes—piercingly blue and vaguely uncomfortable to look at. He had a full head of dark hair, little twists of grey insinuating themselves in the forelock, and a sort of blandly handsome politician's face with a pencil moustache of the sort worn by British pilots in old war movies. He was smiling, and the teeth were brilliantly white and even, but the effect was rather spoilt by an unfortunate case of diastema, splitting the smile in two.</p> <p>Keagan sat down in the plush, dark green chair, a relic of Victoriana, as was much of the rest of the room. Sir Malcolm had outfitted his office with two dark oak bookshelves, densely lined with faded cloth back tomes. Keagan caught glimpses of <em>On the Origin of Species</em> nestling alongside <em>The Pilgrim's Progress</em> and other volumes he didn't recognise, the <em>Bhagavad Gita</em> and <em>Tripitaka</em>. A man of eclectic tastes, then. Sir Malcolm rose from his chair and walked around the desk, clasping his hands together.</p> <p>"Such a pleasure to see you again, my dear boy—Benton, was it? Or was it Brent?" He seemed not to notice the visitor badges.</p> <p>"Renton, sir," Renton said. "Mark Renton."</p> <p>"Of course, of course. You must excuse me, it's been a hellish few days." He put his hand gently on Renton's shoulders and the kid suddenly went stiff, jaw clenched involuntarily. Keagan thought Sir Malcolm's hands remained there just a little longer than seemed justifiable. Sir Malcolm suddenly clucked his tongue and turned to Keagan.</p> <p>"And this is the man you've been telling me about! So you've seen what's happening on the other side of the curtain and lived to tell about it. I'd like to shake your hand."</p> <p>Keagan extended a hand almost by reflex and Sir Malcolm grabbed it firmly, eyes searching, measuring, evaluating.</p> <p>"I-I thought he could be of some use up North," Renton said hesitantly. "Commodore Schaeffer keeps sending messages saying he's short of skilled engineers. Keagan seems pretty handy at that sort of thing."</p> <p>"Hmm," Sir Malcolm said. "A good thought that. Try to hold it a little longer." He took his seat again, picked up the phone on his desk. "Samantha, please tell Matthew we're ready for tea."</p> <p>"Oh, we really couldn't…" Renton began.</p> <p>"I wouldn't dream of letting you go until you'd had something warming. I imagine it can get pretty miserable in those unheated safe houses."</p> <p>A few seconds later there was a knock on the door and Sir Malcolm clapped. A young man in a suit and tie entered with a silver tray bearing a number of rough-hewn dark vessels and two packets of green powder.</p> <p>"It's <em>maccha</em>," Sir Malcolm explained in response to Keagan's dubious gaze. "Milled green tea. First taken thick, then a thinner tea in the second cup."</p> <p>He thanked the aide, who bowed and left quietly. Sir Malcolm exhaled audibly as he snipped the first packet open with a slim pair of scissors and stirred the mixture into the cups. The vivid green spiral pattern it made as the silver spoon whisked at it reminded Keagan of something, but then it dissolved, melting into the water until it became a uniform opaque green. The tea was warm and vaguely sweet, but seemed to Keagan oddly insubstantial, the flavour constantly verging on perceptible then disappearing like smoke. The second cup, produced from the finer-milled powder in the other packet, was even fainter, seeming to him to be little more than hot water. Renton made attempts to appear enthralled by the drink but evidently found the texture disagreeable, as he kept making little coughing-retching spasms as he choked it down. After they had finished they sat quietly, Sir Malcolm smiling beatifically.</p> <p>"If you'll excuse me saying," Keagan said, and Renton looked over at him with an alarmed expression, "isn't there normally more to a tea ceremony? I don't know, I'm just going off the TV here."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm's smile wavered for a moment before returning in full force. "Oh yes, there's a lot of nonsense about time and place, and taking your shoes off and ritual washing. To be honest, I've never seen the point. Who has time for it? No, I've boiled it down to its essence, if you'll excuse the pun—green tea taken hot, twice a day, to sharpen the mind. Now," he continued, "to business. How much has the young man here told you about the Project?"</p> <p>Keagan thought for a moment before he spoke, neither wishing to imply that Renton had given too much away nor that he had failed to brief Keagan for the meeting adequately.</p> <p>"That it's a plan to embarass the Foundation—I mean, the faction currently recognised as the Foundation—and get the UK Government to flip its recognition to your side."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm chuckled. "A little simplistic, but that's the general notion. Now, I imagine having been inside a Foundation facility you've seen that the world we're operating in doesn't exactly conform to the notions of Western materialism." He paused for a moment, and Keagan nodded to prompt him to continue. "Well, our fundamental problem is that at its root, the government doesn't <em>want</em> to believe the supernatural exists. Most of my fellow parliamentarians would rather exist in the world of their constituents, where the main problems in life are pot holes and the credit crunch. The Foundation, you see, just does <em>too good</em> a job—any preternatural outbreaks get stamped out in quick order, forgetfulness-pills get passed out and everyone goes home. Until a few years ago the Government didn't even require the Foundation to notify it after an incident."</p> <p>"What happened a few years ago?"</p> <p>"Let's just say Her Majesty got an up-close-and-personal experience with a rather extreme outbreak—some sort of self-help book gone literally viral—and refused to take the pills from anyone but her personal medical staff. She summoned the PM—that was Major—and he threw a hissy fit when he discovered that his security clearance was five levels too low to be briefed on the existence of the Foundation. He went to Maggie, who of course had been involved with the Ronald Reagan thing and knew a fair bit, and that was that; these days GCHQ liaises between the Home Secretary and the Foundation and produces a report for Cabinet meetings. That's the crack. And now we have the wedge."</p> <p>Keagan blinked. "I think you've lost me."</p> <p>"Then I'll be quite plain. There a number of things out there that the Foundation knows about but doesn't really contain or control in any significant way. Dormant things, not quite sleeping, not quite dead. Things that would strain even the copious ability of the Foundation to cover over. We're going to wake one up!"</p> <p>"Erm, are we talking Godzilla here? This all seems pretty far-fetched…"</p> <p>"Keagan," Renton began coldly, but Sir Malcolm cut him off.</p> <p>"Actually, my dear fellow, you're not far off the mark. Up in Greenland, there's something that really has to be seen to be believed—a monster that's been sleeping since the start of the last Ice Age. Commodore Schaeffer is up there now, working on rousing it from its slumber. A lot of politicians in this country and in the Nordics are going to be brought very rudely face-to-face with the supernatural, and they won't be able to rely on the Foundation to keep it from becoming common knowledge. I will be able to make the case that the Foundation has simply failed in its duties to the common good—that Britain needs to take a good, long look at whom it trusts to keep it safe. Can we continue to rely on unproved spinoffs who since taking the reins have recklessly endangered our nation and its friends and allies?" His voice rose and Keagan realised he had seamlessly shifted into a rehearsed speech. Sir Malcolm slapped the table with his palm. "No! We <em>must</em> act to take the <em>unquantifiably</em> dangerous and unpredictable supernatural arsenal being stockpiled in this country out of the hands of these renegades and return it to the Foundation that was first established to secure our freedom and prosperity. Furthermore, Mister Speaker—” he's mad, Keagan realised. Completely mad. “—I call for a full and frank public inquiry into when and how the transfer of this country's support to the unlawful clique who now engage in paramilitary action on British soil was approved and abetted!"</p> <p>Keagan clapped, weakly, unsure how to respond.</p> <p>"Anyway—” Sir Malcolm swayed slightly, slightly taken aback it seemed by his own fit of impromptu rhetoric. "Anyway. This young man seems to have volunteered you for the general effort. Are you any good with vehicles?"</p> <p>"I was a mechanic," Keagan ventured. "A good one. I'd supply references but I don't think my clients would remember me."</p> <p>"He's been through 882," Renton explained, quickly. "The history-erasing machine." What Keagan had felt hadn't been a machine, but he kept silent.</p> <p>Sir Malcolm began explaining the details of what Keagan would be required to do—maintaining equipment under punishing conditions and helping out in any way besides—but Keagan felt his gaze and attention slipping away. Sir Malcolm's head seemed to balloon in size relative to his body, his facial features shrinking until they occupied an area the size of a postage stamp on his face. Visual distortion, a part of him thought distantly. That's a new one. He realised he couldn't move—the chair was the size of a continent and he sat precariously at the edge, feet dangling over an infinite precipice. The room retreated and it roared out of the darkness:</p> <p>OM</p> <p>Please, I don't know what you want.</p> <p>MANI</p> <p>You're 1447, aren't you? The thing in the box.</p> <p>PEME</p> <p><em>Is that him?</em></p> <p>HUNG</p> <p>Is that… what? What do you want with me?</p> <p>OM</p> <p><em>Help me stop him.</em></p> <p>Please, I can't, I can't, <em>there's too many of us in here</em></p> <p>"actually below the freezing point of petrol, if you can imagine it, so I understand they have a system of windbreaks."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm snapped into focus and proportion, and incredibly he was still talking. Some part of Keagan had remained focused enough to nod knowledgeably, and he heard himself say:</p> <p>"You know, I think it would do me a lot of good. It definitely sounds bracing; I'm not much of a summer person anyway."</p> <p>"Well then, it's settled!" Sir Malcolm said. "Benton, send one of your chaps to escort him on the way north; he'll stay with Schaeffer's lot. You, I want back with the Bath group. The rest of your South West London lot should report to the general South East operations corps."</p> <p>"You're breaking up the cell?" Renton looked heartbroken. "I—I would need to get permission from the chain of command…"</p> <p>"No need, no need," Sir Malcolm brushed aside the suggestion. "There are two types of people in this world, my boy, those who act, and those who fear to act. After this, the whole world is going to be different. You should align yourself with those who have the power to shape it."</p> <p>Something in what Sir Malcolm had said made the hairs on the back of Keagan's neck stand on end. Carefully, quietly, he said:</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm, may I ask you a question?"</p> <p>Sir Malcolm turned back to Keagan, and smiled his broken smile. "Of course. Fire away."</p> <p>"You said most MPs and Lords and whatever don't want to believe that the Foundation is real—that all this supernatural stuff is going on. What makes you different?"</p> <p>Sir Malcolm rose again from his chair and began to orbit the office. "Well, I've always been a little more open-minded than my peers. When I was younger I became interested in spiritualism, and metaphysics. Later, I looked to eastern religions. Siddhartha Gautama, Lao Tzu. I discovered that I had a certain acuity of mind that acquitted itself well in the <em>deeper</em> exercises of these disciplines. I spent some time in Tibet with a group of monks there—they taught me the art of externalising my thoughts, manifesting them into something visible. To do it you have to be able to precisely visualise what you are creating down to the smallest detail. It can take pupils years to master, but I found a shortcut. I thought—whom do I know so intimately I can visualise every part of their body—and even their mind?" He waited for guesses. When none were forthcoming from Keagan or Renton he went on, triumphantly. "Myself! I visualised and externalised <em>myself</em>. The monks said to choose something else, but I think they say that to everyone. I could tell they were cross I had short-circuited their windy lectures."</p> <p>Keagan sat there, listening to Sir Malcolm pouring out his lunatic ideas, feeling more certain and more sick every moment.</p> <p>The phone on Sir Malcolm desk began to ring. "Just a second," he said. He picked it up and listened to the voice on the other end.</p> <p>"I'm sorry," he said, brow furrowing, "but this is a personal call. I don't think you need anything further from me?"</p> <p>Renton mutely shook his head and began to rise. Keagan sat in near-shock for a moment until Renton pulled at the sleeve of his T-shirt to get him to his feet.</p> <p>Sir Malcolm waved distractedly in their direction then turned towards the window with the phone in his hand, cord spiralling from him back to the desk. The door was opened for them a fraction of a second before they reached it by the guard, who ushered them out into the corridor.</p> <p>"What the hell was that?" Renton hissed, as enough space opened up between them and the guard for conversation. "You completely spaced out in there."</p> <p>"It's nothing, really. Just—I remembered something important."</p> <p>"Really?" Renton asked scornfully. "More important than being sent to Greenland to help in a plan to topple governments and overthrow a secret conspiracy? You must have some interesting priorities going for you there."</p> <p>Keagan didn't reply. It was currently taking a certain amount of self-control not to turn around, run back through the offices, kick open Sir Malcolm's door and throttle him until he confessed to being the man who had corresponded with 'Jacky' just days before the Judge's murder. He was reasonably sure given the police presence on the premises that he wouldn't get very far afterwards. It was all circumstantial, but Keagan himself had no doubt that he had seen and talked to the Judge's last mark. What did that mean? He had assumed since attacking and interrogating Patrick Goettsch that it had been the organisation that had approached him that had enticed Goettsch into perjury with the promise of freedom and protection—had naturally called up in his mind the image of Fredericka Mendelbrot sitting opposite Goettsch, telling him he would be taken far away from the man he was about to accuse. But thinking back, Goettsch had never actually identified the individual who had fed him the information about the scam—only that they represented the Foundation. <em>Which one?</em>, he thought.</p> <p>They waited in the reception, at Renton's urging, to see whether there might be any further word from Sir Malcolm after he had finished his call, and his instincts proved good—a crumpled note was borne down to them by one of the security guards, which on folding turned out to be a napkin enclosing three £50 notes. On it had been written, in perfect copperplate, 'get him kitted out'.</p> <p>"I guess you can't really have credit cards," Keagan reflected, "because then they could trace where the money was coming from."</p> <p>"No," Renton agreed. "Got to be cash. Come on, we'll hit up some outdoor stores." He looked thoroughly miserable as they walked down the steps.</p> <p>"No offence, but it seems like Sir Malcolm is giving out quite a few orders. Not just to this Schaeffer guy."</p> <p>"It seems that way, doesn't it?" Renton said, bitterly. "Doesn't it just seem that way?"</p> <p>Any thoughts Keagan had of escape had for the moment gone into hiding—as he followed Renton through a series of clothing and shoe-shops, drawing strange looks from the cashiers and other customers as he walked out into the late summer heat carrying thermal jackets, ski goggles and snowshoes. I can't stop, he thought. Not before I know why.</p> <p>"I don't have to put all this on now, do I?" Keagan asked, only half-jokingly. When they returned to the safehouse Renton shooed Keagan off into one of the unused rooms and broke the news to the other cell members. They seemed to take it, if possible, even worse than Renton, and Keagan heard shouting building to a fever-pitch before a table was overturned with a number of soft, plinking crunches that could well have been a dozen or so of the cell's burners calling it a day. Eventually Bones, haggard-eyed and lips curled into a snarl, opened the door of the room Keagan was in and barked they had better set off straight away. Keagan insisted it was only humane that he be allowed at least a wash first, and on reflection Bones conceded that sharing a car with a man who hadn't even seen a flannel in four days straight might not be such a brilliant idea. Accordingly, they boiled some water in an electric kettle and sent him off with a shaving mirror, a piece of wadded-up shirt and a comb. When he was finished, he thought the week's worth of stubble he was sporting still made him look like someone you wouldn't give a lift to, but at least he was somewhat cleaner and more presentable.</p> <p>It was midday by the time the rent-a-car arrived, driven by what was presumably a member of another London-based cell, or perhaps of the more general regional cadre Sir Malcolm had mentioned. Bones said nothing to him as he got in the passenger seat; Keagan had barely clambered into the back and closed the door before the driver hit the pedal and started a vigorous but ultimately futile attempt to navigate the streets of London at speed, which resulted in a nauseating stop-start motion as he thrust forward then slammed on the brakes in the face of traffic lights and queues. Given the limited communication that seemed to be taking place Keagan presumed he knew where he was going, otherwise he was going to look pretty silly. His concerns multiplied as the driver crossed Westminster Bridge, beeping at slow-moving traffic and jockeying between lanes the whole way, then made efforts to join the southbound New Kent Road.</p> <p>"Maybe I've got this wrong," Keagan said, "but aren't we supposed to be going to Greenland?"</p> <p>"We are," Bones said, and apparently considered that ample information to satisfy his petitioner's curiosity.</p> <p>Keagan sat watching people walk across a pedestrian crossing in front of them while the driver revved the car impatiently. Bones at least seemed satisfied, unless, of course, he had absolutely no idea which direction they were, in fact, going. When they passed Elephant and Castle with no signs of changing direction, Keagan felt it his duty to speak again.</p> <p>"I'm probably a novice at this. Isn't Iceland generally more—I don't know, north?"</p> <p>Bones responded, voice drenched in a corrosive sarcasm that left Keagan's mild attempt looking distinctly weedy. "Is it? I had no fucking idea."</p> <p>Finally, the lunatic at the wheel was able to distract himself from trying to run over grandmothers long enough to put Keagan out of his misery. "You don't go north from London if you wanna get to Iceland, mate. We're going through the Eurotunnel, driving through the Low Countries, then getting the ferry from Denmark."</p> <p>That's me told, Keagan thought. They joined the M20 at Dartford and once again the buildings evaporated, this time into the heat-hazed tarmac wilderness of the motorway. They stopped at a petrol station in Aylesford—Bones got out and would return a few minutes later with Lucozade and Polos—apparently his idea of a balanced meal on the move—and copies of The Sun. The headline: 'I still hear his awful scream when I close my eyes'. Something about a shark attack. Keagan opted not to pick up the copy Bones chucked him—he'd always been more of an Evening Standard man in any case. The sports, anyway.</p> <p>They reached Folkestone at about 3.30pm, and Keagan discovered the reason for the driver's haste. Somehow Keagan had imagined that one <em>drove</em> through the Chunnel, had prepared himself for just mile after mile of lights flashing by in darkness on enclosing brick walls, like Blackwall writ large. Of course, that was a nonsense—imagine the effect of a pileup 15 miles in, deep under the English Channel, tangled wreckage cutting Britain off from the continent, impossible to recover and stranding hundreds of people below the English Channel, all slowly suffocating. Instead, a vehicle shuttle whisked 600 vehicles at a time back and forth between Folkestone and Calais.</p> <p>"Erm, don't we need passports?" Keagan suddenly realised with some alarm as they drew up in the line to roll onto the shuttle. He couldn't be entirely sure that his own would not have expired had it not almost certainly been utterly erased from existence; the last time he had used it had been a senior year University jaunt, a decade ago. Bones tossed him something dark blue over his shoulder. Keagan caught it; no mention of European Union, 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland' rather than 'Northern Ireland'. Pre-2006, which meant pre-biometric.</p> <p>"You're Martin Bell," Bones said without further explanation.</p> <p>The customs official didn't even ask to see in the trunk—I thought they were supposed to be doing that now, Keagan thought vaguely—he just waved them through when he saw three UK passports pressed to the windows. The interior of the shuttle was brightly lit and the walls a savagely cheerful yellow but the sudden relief from the maniac at the wheel's driving style was such that Keagan felt immediately drowsy and curled up on the back seat, and in the absence of conversation from his fellow travellers was soon asleep.</p> <hr/> <p>The two men entered Lambeth Auto Repairs where he was working in the auto shop. The long-handled wrench was in his hand; levering off the rusted wheel nuts on a 2004 Suzuki Swift. Last time they had visited him they had worn expensive suits but seemed ill at ease in them, one rolling cigarette papers in clammy hands.</p> <p>He didn't look at them, because they didn't exist for him, yet. If he had to look at them, think about them again, they would become real and he would have to make a decision.</p> <p>I didn't get your call, Theo Megali said. Our offer only has a limited time period.</p> <p>There was a clatter from the back of the shop as Steven Crae began picking things up and dropping them on the floor like an animal, taking his world away from him, one properly knolled array of spanners at a time.</p> <p>I'm not interested in what you're selling. Get out of my shop.</p> <p>I've tried to be absolutely as clear as I can be.</p> <p>I reckon I get you.</p> <p>I don't think you get us at all.</p> <p>Just one more moment, please, just let me stay asleep one more moment.</p> <p>Something rustled nearby, Megali's jacket, and he couldn't put it off any longer. A hand on his shoulder. He turned and swung the wrench, but it went wide. Megali drew the knife out of his jacket as Crae stepped in with the bat, hit his hand just above the knuckles. He dropped the wrench on the floor.</p> <p>Megali stepped in and he watched him slide the silver thing in his hand into his abdomen once, twice, four times, six times. There's no pain at first, something strangely academic. Then there is pain; unimaginable, icy cold. He's drawing back, sinking into the ground, dissolving.</p> <p>"Oh shit," he heard Megali say. "Oh shit. Why the fuck did you do that?"</p> <p>"Me? You stabbed him, you fucking wanker, why the hell did you bring that thing?"</p> <p>His vision faded but he heard footsteps, running from the shop. At least close the door, he thinks.</p> <p><em>You didn't notice when you died, did you?</em></p> <p>Shut up, you bastard.</p> <p><em>What's your name?</em></p> <p>Martin Bell.</p> <p><em>What's your name?</em></p> <p>D-8671.</p> <p><em>What's your name?</em></p> <p>Keagan O'Neill.</p> <p><em>What's your name?</em></p> <p>He awoke shivering, and folded his arms over his chest and belly, the scabbed-over wounds aching with cold. There was daylight outside the carriage windows.</p> <hr/> <p>The French customs was the next hurdle, but it seemed the fix was already in. Bones waved out of his window at a customs official—a tubby man with greasy black hair and a goatee—and told him in carefully enunciated tones, appropos it seemed of nothing for any ticket had surely been arranged in advance—"Second Class, Please." The French official suddenly adjusted his cap, muttered 'Ce n'est pas grave, monsieur' and gestured for them to move on.</p> <p>Other than the disconcerting sensation of driving on the right hand side of the road there seemed to be little to differentiate the hours that subsequently passed from those Keagan had spent recently being driven through English countryside, save only that Bones spent more time fiddling with a sat-nav and giving directions such as 'north for fifty kilometres' which were, in the stated opinion of the driver whose name Keagan had still not learned, 'completely fucking useless'. They reached Belgium as it was getting dark and Bones took his shift at the wheel. His driving style was considerably smoother than the man he replaced but he made up for this by making repeated turns onto the wrong side of the road, then having to reverse back out into Antwerp traffic which made the journey if anything more nerve-splitting. Only once they reached the German Autobahnen did he come into his own, cruising past Osnabrück, Bremen and Hamburg as his co-driver snored in the passenger seat.</p> <p>Keagan remembered hearing that Denmark had vowed to beef up its border controls with Germany despite being in the Schengen Zone—this however presented no impediment to their progress, as rather than go through customs Bones abruptly stopped the car and roused his passengers with the words "Get out." He then proceeded to stride away over a starlit field with Keagan and the other cell member lagging behind Keagan managed to bruise his elbow after tripping in a narrow stream which on reflection was probably the border. On the other side, Bones began wandering, apparently aimlessly, holding his arm outstretched. Keagan was about to ask his compatriot if Bones was feeling alright when suddenly a brief flicker of light from his hand was matched by a flash and unlocking tone from what he had assumed to be a boulder but was in fact a Ford C-Max with Danish plates parked underneath a tree. They drove north as day broke, and as Keagan watched through the windows of the car it seemed as though time had been accelerated, each hour colder and greyer than the last, Summer giving way to Autumn as they passed through Aalborg and over the bridge to Jutland.</p> <p>The water beneath the ferry departing Hirtshals was clear and silvery, the light from a sun that seemed unnaturally low in the sky gleaming off it. Keagan had asked off-hand how long the journey would take and was astonished to learn he would be on the ferry for two days. The food was palatable if blandly prepared and Keagan slept well and dreamlessly, luxuriating in the fact that for the first time since being convicted he had a cabin to himself, even if Bones contrived to manifest every time Keagan entered or left. They arrived in Seyðisfjørð, Iceland after a brief stopover in the Faroes—the locals were friendly and photogenic, and spoke excellent English, even if they seemed slightly dubious of Bones' explanations that the three rough-looking men with overnight bags and one case of clothes between them were researchers going to study global warming in the glaciers of north-east Greenland. They should have sent Renton, Keagan reflected, he could probably have sold them on the environmental angle. But they didn't need to convince the Icelanders of their intentions—one taxi drive later they made Egilsstaðir Airport where a Cessna stood ready. The pilot, a man Bones hailed as Blaer, was swaddled in padded thermals, his face all but hidden by a thick woolen scarf.</p> <p>"You should wear anything warm you have now," he said, "I tell the Commodore, if you freeze to death, not my problem." This prompted Bones to crack open the briefcase and apportion what outdoors garments they had not already donned, though Keagan still felt alarmingly underdressed next to the Icelander. The propeller spun up and they creaked forward along the single airstrip, gaining speed until they rose into the grey sky. It didn't take long before the cold, which Keagan had thought oppressive in Iceland, began to settle on them, biting at their bones. Blaer spent much of the journey on the radio, talking in urgent, clipped Danish.</p> <p>"He's telling them we're landing at Kulusuk Airport," Bones explained. "Actually, we're going to tragically lose contact with air traffic control and crash about 20 miles north near the Kangerdlugssuaq Glacier."</p> <p>This was the longest sustained speech Keagan had heard Bones produce, and its content hardly reassured him. He watched the horizon for signs of land. About fifteen minutes later, Blaer brought the pantomime to a climax, several times yelling what sounded for all the world like 'motorfail' before flicking the radio off.</p> <p>"Hold onto something," Blaer said cheerfully before wrenching the plane onto a new course with what seemed like an excessive degree of violence. The bag with the satnav and skiing goggles started sliding around below the seat and bashing them in the shins until Keagan stepped on it. He wiped the condensation on the window away with his sleeve and saw they were passing over land—snowbound, but <em>terra firma</em> nonetheless.</p> <p>"That's it," Bones said fifteen minutes later, pointing out a distant flicker of light which as they approached resolved itself into a collection of buildings. Fortunately, their purported fatal crash turned out to be a relatively controlled and moderately comfortable landing at a small concrete runway at the edge of the compound after obtaining permission to land from the English-speaking voice that answered when Blaer retuned the radio. As they descended Keagan noted two low buildings which might have been barracks and a garage, a taller structure which looked like it did double duty as a command post and traffic control, and a curious collection of tumbledown buildings ringed by a high fence, the whole camp surrounded by short sections of cinderblock wall that were probably the windbreak Sir Malcolm had mentioned.</p> <p>"Isn't it a bit risky to give the impression we've crashed?" Keagan asked. "I mean, won't the authorities send out a search party? They'll expect to find a burned out Cessna with three dead bodies in it."</p> <p>"Already organised that," Bones said, and Keagan decided he and the cell member probably weren't destined to be the best of friends.</p> <p>Once the Cessna had come to a halt they bundled out and were greeted by five men in large parkas, two with Colt C8 Carbines slung over their shoulders.</p> <p>The centre figure approached and shook hands with Blaer and Bones before dislodging just enough of his scarf to speak. "Welcome to Greenland, gentlemen," he said in cut-glass tones that could have secured him a career as a 1970s BBC newsreader. "Are you ready to change the world?"</p> <hr/> <p>The warmth inside the radio station hit them like a blast furnace and they quickly shed their outer layers. The man who had addressed them removed his hood to reveal an alarming profusity of ginger hair and beard, surrounding crinkled blue eyes and an aquiline nose. This, Keagan surmised, must be Commodore Schaeffer.</p> <p>"You'll be bunked with the men in the barracks," he boomed, "but tonight you'll dine with me. Just a little ritual. This is the engineer, yes?" He looked Keagan up and down. A bulky blond man emerged from the kitchen area with steaming mugs of Bovril and the four new arrivals accepted them gratefully.</p> <p>"Yes," Bones said. "Sir Malcolm thought he might be of use."</p> <p>"He will be, if he's any good. Kaali, give him a quick tour of the place with particular emphasis on the garage. That's where he'll be working. Two of the 88s broke down last week, so he can start on those first thing tomorrow." Then, to Keagan, "I didn't catch the name."</p> <p>"Keagan, sir." Keagan wasn't sure exactly how one addressed a Commodore, if indeed the rank was legitimate and not simply a nickname. Schaeffer chuckled.</p> <p>"Good to make your acquaintance. Come on, let Kaali give you a tour. I think the others have seen the camp before—yes?—well then, I can give you a rundown of our current progress in the map room." With that, Schaeffer turned heel and vigorously strode upstairs, leaving Bones, Blaer and the driver to trot after him. The large blond man who was presumably Kaali shrugged and began re-donning his outer layers. Keagan was hardly thrilled by the notion of going back outside so soon but reasoning that dawdling probably wouldn't go over too well likewise redressed, and they plunged back into the cold, now accompanied by snowflakes swirling in the large spotlights that had come on to illuminate the base.</p> <p>"The concrete breakers around the base protect us from the worst of the chill," Kaali said, which Keagan found hard to believe given how biting the wind was even within the barrier. "Out there the wind can be strong enough to tip over even a Unimog if it's on rough terrain." He rewound the scarf around his face, only speaking again when they had attained the shelter of the barracks.</p> <p>"There's 32 Foundation men on the base, mostly Danish ex-military. They oversee the work and keep the peace."</p> <p>"Is Schaeffer a real Commodore?" Keagan asked, gulping what still seemed like mostly frozen air.</p> <p>"He held that rank in the West German Navy. Whether the <em>Bundeswehr</em> still considers him an officer I couldn't say."</p> <p>The barracks were built longways, with open-ended partition walls dividing the area into pods, each containing two bunk beds. At the end, a smaller kitchen and dining area showed some signs of activity, iron vessels on gas stoves boiling up what smelt like a lamb hotpot. Keagan was minded to stay a little longer but Kaali was already pushing back out. He walked quickly past the large fenced area and its shacks with Keagan lagging behind—he saw the occasional wisp of smoke rising from amongst the buildings.</p> <p>"Who lives there?" Keagan asked, looking through the wire mesh.</p> <p>"The workers," said Kaali, muffled through his scarf, and did not elaborate. The garage was a large, corrugated iron-clad building at the edge of the complex with a concrete floor, and was every bit as cold as Keagan imagined it would be. Even with a few oil heaters scattered around the floor providing sharp, prickly heat, probably for the benefit of the vehicles, he'd definitely be working in gloves. The Project's vehicle fleet was an eclectic assortment of jeeps, snow ploughs, half-tracks and trucks, all by the looks of them military surplus. Most of the models were unfamiliar to him but he saw what the Colonel had described as 88s—three half-ton Land-Rovers with fully enclosed carriages, two of which had been all but dismembered, parts strewn around on the floor.</p> <p>"Broke down, huh?" Keagan commented. "Looks like someone's ripped the things apart."</p> <p>"That's Teitur for you. Try to stay on his good side. He's not the best vehicle mechanic but he's been the one holding everything together up until now. He's probably out at one of the the drill sites."</p> <p>"You know," Keagan said, trying to pre-empt Kaali before he strode back out into what was threatening to become a blizzard, "I don't think anyone's actually explained to me what we're doing here. Drill sites? Sir Malcolm seemed to think there was some kind of 'monster' out here."</p> <p>Kaali grinned. "The Commodore will want to take you out onto the glacier tomorrow. You'll see it for yourself then. If I tried to explain it now, you wouldn't believe it."</p> <hr/> <p>Dinner was a steaming roast poulet with stuffing balls laced with orange rind and crisp roasted parsnips. To celebrate the arrival of the newcomers Commodore Schaeffer had them open a bottle of 1936 cognac, which went a long way towards restoring Keagan's spirits after his tour of the frozen base.</p> <p>They ate in the map room at the top of the radar tower—the table covered in aerial photography and topographic maps of the area had been quickly cleared away by two of Schaeffer's men and replaced with a spotless white tablecloth. The room had large windows set into each wall, against which white snowflakes beat continually in front of a black sky, but the whole room was warmed by the kitchen below, giving the strange impression of eating on the top of a rocky plateau, exposed to the elements yet warm and dry.</p> <p>Schaeffer played a charming and sophisticated host, and the discussion rapidly escalated out of Keagan's grasp, covering topics as diverse as monetary policy and the Impressionist movement. At length the discussion swung around to the Foundation itself and the civil war.</p> <p>"What I don't quite understand," Keagan ventured between mouthfuls, "is how the reactionaries see all this. I was told that the Foundation—I mean, the faction recognised by the UK and I guess Danish Governments—basically considers the Civil War over, but how can they take that position when all this," he waved his arm around the room to suggest the base, the cells, the whole organisation, feeling slightly lightheaded from the cognac, "is going on. Do they really not know anything about what you're doing?"</p> <p>"Our greatest ally is the reactionaries' arrogance," Schaeffer said. "They know we exist—probably have a vague idea of where we are and that we're planning something big. The problem they have is they want to control everything, even the minds of the people who work for them. Only a few of the reactionaries are told the truth about what happened in the 1920s—even then they aren't given the full story. Most of them are just told that we are a 'rogue cell' of agents who quietly disappeared one day and took confidential knowledge and preternatural assets with them. They even impugn us with a name that as far as I know no-one in the real Foundation ever used before they invented it. Invented it to create the impression of a splintered, confused terrorist movement, united by ideology, no organisation."</p> <p>"What was the name?"</p> <p>"They call us the Chaos Insurgency. Like something out of a child's story."</p> <p>Keagan remembered it had been one of the groups Fredericka Mendelbrot had mentioned. "So they don't try and shut you—us—down? From what I've seen these people seem to have eyes everywhere."</p> <p>Commodore Schaeffer smiled, wiping a morsel of stuffing out of his moustache. "I didn't say they aren't coming after us. But there's a lot of other people who want what the Foundation has, as the reactionaries see it more powerful and organised than we are. The Global Occult Coalition, the Iranians, Marshall, Carter & Dark. One upside to our unfortunate exile has been that we aren't the ones being targeted by these groups. That will, of course, change once we get a foothold back on the international stage, but for now we benefit from other players in the preternatural world believing the reactionary line."</p> <p>"Seems to me if you get it all back you'll be very vulnerable," Keagan said. "I mean, even if the government turfs out the reactionaries for you, you'll be starting from scratch organisationally. You'd either have to let a lot of the reactionaries back into the warm to keep things going or recruit a whole load of people at once, which I'm guessing would defeat the whole secrecy thing the Foundation has going on."</p> <p>Schaeffer frowned. "A concern for another day, I think. For now, let's eat, drink. And let's toast Sir Malcolm, without whom the Project could never have been undertaken."</p> <p>The bottle of cognac was recirculated and glasses refilled as Commodore Schaeffer's toast was taken up in somewhat muted tones by the other men around the table. By the time they had finished, Keagan's ears were buzzing from the drink and rich food and he wanted nothing more than sleep. Kaali showed him and the other newcomers back to the barracks, where a pod had been cleared for them—the bunk was hard but the sheets soft and clean, and Keagan quickly succumbed to unconsciousness.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/new-age-1">Book I - "Cells"</a> \| <a href="/new-age-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/new-age-3">Book III - "Gunning For The Buddha"</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="/new-age-2">New Age - Book II: "Mr Brightside"</a>" by SRegan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/new-age-2">https://scpwiki.com/new-age-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]] [[/>]] [[toc]] +++ Chapter Six: "Breach" In the end, it was easy. Keagan had noticed in his first days at the facility that D-Class from the other shift on janitorial duty were unaccompanied by guards, and as he expected, shortly after sightings of that shift ceased, security on maintenance duties lightened dramatically, to the extent that he was able to roam the corridors quite freely as long he had his mop in hand. From then on it was a simple case of finding the passage between the blue-line corridors that led to the laboratories and the orange-line dormitories, and equidistant from the two nearest guard posts, and busying himself there for as many days as it took. Time in the facility was something stretching and elastic—the only clocks were watches on the wrists of the staff and the only reason he knew he had been there for two and a half weeks was because a couple of the other prisoners had begun a night watch that marked off sunrises, counting the days until freedom. Even then there was doubt over whether Travis Lemure had marked the same day twice after dozing off. But with some practice you could roughly ascertain the time of day by how many white-coats you saw around and the number of empty mugs of coffee at the guardpost windows. By Keagan's reckoning, it was evening when Patrick Goettsch returned to the dormitories, eyes dark and haunted. He had a charmed life, it seemed—Keagan had learned from Travis that he had returned from his experimentation with 1062 with nothing more serious than a tendency to use Roman numerals and the inexplicable conviction that Cornwall was an overseas territory of Spain. He turned the corner, and Keagan was waiting for him. He grabbed the man by his orange jumpsuit and battered him into the wall. Goettsch immediately started swinging his elbow into Keagan's belly, but Keagan ignored the pain and used his body weight to crush the other man down, an arm bar pressing against his chin. "I was worried the white-coats would get you before I could," Keagan said, his voice hoarse. "But look at you; you're a fucking cockroach. You know they ran out of space on the wall for you? They've had to start a second list." "Please, I don't know anything, you bastard, just leave me alone," begged Goettsch, but even as he spoke he swiped his foot out, hoping to unbalance Keagan enough to get free. Keagan had previously thought about it for a long time and decided brain blows, body shots and choking were the worst way to subdue someone when you had very little time to get information from them. Instead, he stamped on Goettsch's outstretched knee, drawing a piteous wail. He followed it by angling Goettsch's arm and smashing the elbow against the wall. Simple lever action. "Who told you to say I killed the Judge?" Keagan shouted. "I don't know, I don't know..." Goettsch said, trying to twist out of the armlock with a junior-school karate move. Keagan rested a knee on Goettsch's back and braced himself so Goettsch was effectively trying to pull his own arm out of joint, giving an extra tug for good measure. "You don't know? Someone talked to you, you stupid shit. Why don't you describe them?" "I don't—AAGH—please, no, just stop. Don't make me say it. AAAA." Keagan caught Goettsch's watering eyes straying up to the nearest security camera. No alarms yet, but somewhere blue-hats were putting down their sixteenth cup of coffee and picking up their tazers. They hadn't killed Cancer, but then he had neither been outside the dormitory nor started the fight. "That's right, they're coming to save you, Goettsch, but they'll be too late. For the next few seconds, I'm God. Who killed the Judge?!" He heard distant shouts and tore brutally at Goettsch's shoulder, feeling it pop out of joint. The scream emanating from the chubby inmate seemed barely human, then he suddenly went quiet. Worried the shock had killed him, Keagan leaned in and Goettsch grabbed his top with his remaining arm, whispering to him desperately as the sound of running began to drum up the corridor towards them. "It's them! The fucking SCP Foundation! They came to me, told me you and the Judge were in it together, said the Judge didn't have long to live and to say I heard you threatening him. I didn't kill the Judge. I don't know who did it, but //they// made it happen. Please, please... I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Blue blurs rounded the corner and hands seized Keagan, ploughing him to the ground. Something narrow and sharp hissed into his upper arm and the world began to retreat into the black. Before he lost consciousness, his last view was of Goettsch, lying against the wall like a broken doll, arms and legs at impossible angles, blood pouring from his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue. He looked down at Keagan and said, louder, in a bitter voice: "They said they would protect me." ---- When he wakes up, he's standing in a red-lit metal corridor, somewhere that looks a hell of a lot like where he blacked out—or at least a similar facility. There's screaming and shouting, and the sound of klaxons, and he wonders whether they're coming to stop him, stop him—doing what? There's no-one else around. Wasn't he waiting for someone? A squad of black-helmeted men with MP7s run past, not even registering his presence. There's something more important happening here, he thinks, and turns and follows them, finding that he keeps pace easily with the men, even though he's walking—well, floating—and they are running flat out. "...repeat, 1447 is breaching containment. Ablative armour is being compromised," one of them shouts into their shoulder radio. The men take up positions at the entrance of a heavy metal door at the terminus of a single red line. Their leader taps in a code into the keypad, and the door opens. He follows the men into the room and realises he's been here before—something like a converted warehouse with a steel cube suspended at its centre. But something's wrong. Dents are appearing in the cube, the whole space ringing like a bell as whatever is inside strikes the interior of its prison with enough force to deform it. The edges are coming apart—swathes of steel, centimetres thick, peeling away as the whole cube changes shape. The cables absorb a lot of the force—the cube is oscillating wildly in its restraints—but it isn't enough. More black-helmets pour in, taking up fire positions around the cube. The leader of the original squad is calling for a 'backup containment unit', but there seems to be some problems and it's taking longer than expected. "Fuck." says the lead black-helmet. Then to the men around him: "Okay, we've got our orders. Hold the fucking thing in place for as long as possible. Once the auxiliary unit's ready, push it there." The blows from within the cube come with the frequency and force of a pneumatic drill, pulsing and strobing, and there's a sudden popping, rushing noise as one corner of the cube begins to sag. He can hear something behind the blows, now, a droning, keening sound which he is realises is a chant. "Hermetic failure," one of the black-helmets notes with some alarm, and they raise their weapons. "Hold," says the frontman. "Hold." Then all hell breaks loose. Something like a snake or ribbon squirms through the the crack, and the first man begins shooting. All at once, everything //judders//, as though the foundations of the world have come loose, and the walls of the warehouse are torn to shreds, tiny torn leaves of sheet metal floating through the air. The metal cables anchoring the cube to the walls are severed and it falls to the ground. At least three of the men go down at the same moment, their eyes and throats suddenly empty hollows welling up red. Streaks of blood splattering in lunatic lines, painting spirograph patterns on the floor around them. "Follow the blood!" screams the lead black-helmet. "Tag the fucking thing!" The ragged walls light up with ricochets and another man drops, clutching his knee, and a second later is gone—taken by the hurricane. The droning increases in volume, and he realises he is hearing a voice. Then, abruptly, everything stops, and the thing that has escaped from the cube is before him. It is wearing orange, and for a moment he wonders if it is a D-Class prisoner, then he realises what he is seeing are robes, like a Tibetan monk. Its face is blurred and distorted, but there are two pinpricks of white light in it that might be eyes. It takes him a moment to recognise that he has been seen. The drone resolves itself in his mind into words. //Who are you?// it asks. It's a good question. "I don't know," he says, "I—I just found myself here." "What is it doing?" shouts one of the soldiers. "It just stopped." He turns to see the men repositioning themselves around the orange-robed thing, guns raised. //You might be useful//, it says, the voice distant in the chaos of the droning chant. He finds he cannot move his arms, his legs. The thing reaches out and takes hold of his head gently, palm over his eyes. Its fingers end in sharp points like talons and he feels them press against his temples. "It's getting ready to do something," decides the lead black-helmet. "Drive it back towards the containment unit!" He hears nothing as the guns fire. He thinks he must have been hit, for his perspective is drawing back, sinking into the ground, dissolving. He watches as bullets ripple through the form of the orange-robed thing as though through a cloud, helical spirals of its substance exploding from the exit wounds before inexorably falling back together, the gaps in its flesh caused by the passage of the bullets knitting as soon as they are opened. //You needn't be concerned//, it says to him. //You're not really here, after all//. Then it turns and, to the amazement of the watching black-helmets, //walks// back into its ruined cell. ---- Keagan—that was his name, how could he have forgotten it?—woke slowly, each sense reporting for duty one at a time. Touch: cool sheets, crisply laid out, quite luxurious for an inmate until it dawned upon you that you were not merely cool but cold; the sheets attenuated to the point of thermal transparency by regular heavy disinfection and dry cleaning. Hearing: quiet bustling, a sense of purpose, but also the deep breathing of those sleeping under the influence of anaesthetics. Smell: antiseptic tang, an aftertaste of vaporised ink reminiscent of a printer's shop or a tattoo parlour. Keagan didn't even bother opening his eyes; he could place himself in the medical wing of the facility, where the little bald man had engraved Keagan's designation on his wrist and chest. For the first time since the death of the Judge, Keagan had time and clarity enough to think over his situation and weigh up the evidence, as one might assess a car and make an estimate of what it would take to make right. He vaguely recalled hearing of villages on Salisbury plain evacuated during World War 2, handed over to the Americans for training purposes; easy to think there could have been other small conurbations in the area, quietly removed from the records and used for purposes that could not officially be endorsed by the government or military. The important parts of the facility were maintained well—but you only had to look at areas like the D-Class dormitories to see the facility was decades old. Possible, of course, that it had only recently been taken over by the Foundation—possible too, that the use of D-Class as cheap, expendable test subjects in their fucked-up experiments was a new innovation. But he doubted it. From his conversation with the young researcher, Edward, it appeared there were strict restrictions on how and when even staff were permitted to interact with the outside world. Edward seemed like a special case—maybe others were allowed to sign a non-disclosure agreement and went home to their families on weekends. But the notion that convicts would ever be permitted to leave was a nonsense. Under normal circumstances that didn't leave too many options. The prisoners could keep track of time—with a sizeable margin of error, but nevertheless—and each one expected to be released to a gradual programme of fake addiction clinics and offender management schemes in about a fortnight. Could they be simply rounded up and told the promise was a fraud and that they would spend the rest of their lives in the service of the Foundation? Of course they could. But then, why maintain the pretence through the early days of the programme? Why not disabuse them of any notions of freedom at orientation? Keagan remembered the court reporter, Deloitte, saying they recruited 18 shifts a year—some mental arithmetic showed they must overlap for about a week. The restrictions on speaking to other D-Class shifts would make sense if the other shift had been told they would never see the light of day—but thus far everything Keagan had seen exactly fitted the schedule they were on; in another week or so they would begin to see new faces above orange jumpsuits—a new junior Shift A recruited fresh from lifers across the country—and a week after that... Bang. "Can I say that?" Dr Skinner's glib query, the shame-faced lab technicians, Edward's statement about what the Foundation's protection made him overlook—right now there was only one hypothesis, and that was that Keagan, Cameron Moat, Travis Lemure, Cancer, Ronny Feldspar and the rest would be quietly disposed of. Maybe they would be ushered into another decontamination room as an ostensible prelude to getting back on the bus, and the gas would flow out of the showerheads, and that would be it. Perhaps they wouldn't even get that faint hope—they would go to sleep on their last day of service, and petrol exhausts would be hooked up to the slats at the top of the wall, and the next day the blue-hats would clear away the bodies. Maybe that's what the stain around the walls was—some reaction of the paint to carbon monoxide or whatever else they pumped in. Or maybe they would be taken away, one at a time, for a debrief and introduction to their new identities, but the room would be dark to hide the stains on the floor and some grizzled veteran of the Foundation who could say 'I've seen everything' would unholster his gun and press it to the back of their heads... Keagan opened his eyes and watched staff move between beds with clipboards in hand. The light that shone through the windows was real, not artificial, and for a moment he thought of the park he had seen on the bus journey. Ronny and Patrick were here—the former, both legs and one arm in splints, looked away quickly when he saw Keagan's eye on him, but the terror had gone, perhaps sensing that he had at last satisfied Keagan's search for answers. Ronny, on the other hand, was eyeing him as though weighing up his options; the stump of his shattered hand in a sling. Not good, thought Keagan, in a place with surgical implements. Hagman, of course, was nowhere to be seen; Keagan suspected the guards had exercised their full prerogative as soon as he was far enough away from the dormitories. Keagan allowed the people to blur away and sat, feeling the sub-pain granularity of the bruises over his body, the sore pinpricks on his arm where the taser had hit. Suddenly—and there was never a reason, it always seemed to happen on its own strange schedule—everything snapped back again and he realised the young researcher, Edward, was sitting next to his bed and talking to him. He had not registered him drawing up a chair and had no idea of what he might have been saying. Keagan struggled up to a half-sitting position and focused on his words. "...studied Philosophy, which I guess was good enough, so one of my duties is talking to staff, in particular D-Class, whose behaviour might have been out of the ordinary, and making a judgement as to whether it might have been influenced by the skips they have been working on." "You want to know why I attacked Patrick Goettsch," said Keagan slowly. "Yes," said Edward, yawning suddenly and stretching out the arm holding the clipboard. Keagan caught a couple of words on the printed standardised tickboxes—'Gross Material Delusion', 'Undifferentiated Violence'. None were ticked, yet. "And if I don't provide a satisfactory answer?" "I'm sorry," said Edward. "I need you to work with me on this. If I can't provide a mundane reason for the attack they'll assume it was related to the recent experiments you did with Professor Reeds, and you'll be ruled contaminated. They need you to be—'re-usable'. If you're contaminated by a specific skip you'll be handed over to that team for destructive testing." Destructive testing. Keagan saw the scalpels, the endless syringes, the electric saws contained within that euphemistic phrase. "If you survive, you won't be D-Class any more—you'll be reclassified as part of the skip; that is, part of the phenomenon the procedures exist to contain. I've seen it done, and I never want to again. Please, tell me what happened." Keagan took a deep breath. Just the Cliff Notes version, please: "It had nothing to do with Professor Reeds and his fucking dart board. Patrick Goettsch came from the same prison as I did; he snitched on me to the guards about a murder that happened inside; the one I was going down for before I joined the programme. It took me this long to get access to him—he was never in the dormitories the same time I was, and it's only recently I started getting left alone by the guards on maintenance duty." Edward scribbled, eyes bright. "You were just settling an old score." "Yeah." "And is this likely to re-occur? I mean, are you two likely to get into fights in future?" "I don't think so," said Keagan, watching Goettsch out of the corner of his eye. "It's not that I suddenly don't have a problem with what he did anymore, but I'm done if he is." "Okay," said Edward. "Now, I should probably ask you this; it was asked me and I thought it was ridiculous at the time, it covers half a dozen minor conditions that most people don't even seek medical treatment for and describes a good chunk of the UK population and, I imagine, a greater proportion of the prison population. But here goes: have you been experiencing any—" he rattled off the list from memory: "—lost time; hallucinations; sudden mood shifts; encounters with anomalous—that's supernatural—entities, I should point out //outside// the supervised Special Containment Procedures; rashes or other illness; loss of energy; trouble sleeping; strange or disturbing dreams; perceptions of reality or history that are out of sync with others around you; or emotional or cognitive difficulties?" Keagan thought carefully before speaking: "No. I know I get angry easily, but that's not something new. I wouldn't be here at all if it were." "Good," said Edward. "Thanks. I can take this to the Director. Please, just—try and keep your head down." "Did you say anything?" asked Keagan. "I mean, did you put in a good word? Is that why they didn't just shoot me?" Edward stood up. "Okay," he said, "I've got to get on. Serious injury during experimentation. D-7780. Who the hell is that?" "That's the skinny guy in the corner," said Keagan, gesturing. "Ronny Feldspar. He was the Docklands Shooter." The explication earned a blank stare. "I think I must have missed that," said Edward. "Thanks." He moved away, tapping his pen against his wrist. Keagan watched for a little while as Edward talked to Ronny. "Yes, there is a conspiracy," Edward was saying. "It's bigger than anything you've ever imagined. This organisation alone, in the UK alone, draws down hundreds of billions of pounds a year, including money siphoned from government budgets. The thing is, none of the organisations you're talking about exist." Ronny shook his head violently. "You're wrong," he said, "the Masons control the government, the Royal Family aren't even human..." "If that were true, we would have sent in a strike team and shot them. Then we would have covered it up. It wouldn't even make the Ten O'Clock news. The monarchy would be half-forgotten by the weekend and fictional by next week. Look, forget the Masons. There's a secret society in the UK that includes hundreds of politicians, tycoons, media celebrities. It's a gentleman's club called Marshall, Carter & Dark, and they're the reason I can't leave this place. They're international arms dealers, money launderers and blackmailers, and they have people in every national government and police force. But here's the thing—//so do we//. And so do the Global Occult Coalition. And the Chaos Insurgency, and the Russians... I admit, I'm not very high up in this thing, but I seriously doubt that the Overseers of the Foundation report to anyone but each other, let alone some sad ring of Bohemian intellectuals." Ronny seemed to take the news badly—after a little while longer he flipped over to face the wall and refused to answer any more of Edward's questions about how his injuries and who he felt was responsible. Keagan turned to look at Patrick, who had been watching him. "I meant what I said," Keagan called over to him. Patrick looked down. "I know," he said. "I'm done too." ---- Keagan and Ronny were released at the same time, with Goettsch still laid up with multiple fractures from Keagan's beating. On their return to the dormitories, they were greeted with hushed whispers, as though they had come back from the dead. Others had not. Ronny, snarling at any suggestion he let anyone else handle the red chalk, clambered awkwardly over the bunks and scrawled shaky Xs with his good hand. Seven in total since Keagan had been taken away; including Goettsch, Shift B now consisted of 10 men. Cameron and Travis were gone—dead or transferred to another facility, no-one knew—leaving just Ronny from HMP Wormwood Scrubs. As soon as the situation had settled down, Keagan began to explain what he had reasoned out while convalescing in the medical unit. He met some resistance at first, the way anyone might when trying to persuade eight traumatised men that their only hope of getting out of the nightmare they found themselves in was a fraud. "Why would they do that?" shouted the shaven-headed convict from HMP Belmarsh whose name Keagan had never bothered to learn. "Why bother telling us all that bullshit about low-security facilities and gradually getting out of the system if it wasn't true?" "I think you know that," Keagan said calmly, face angled away from the chunky protrusions in the ceiling he suspected housed the CCTV. "It gave us something to look forward to, something to make us keep our heads down and do what we're told. If they'd said on the first day that we weren't going home, ever, that we'd been lured here on false pretenses, how much co-operation do you think there would have been? Even if you don't believe they're going to kill us when our shift's over, look at the maths. How many of us are going to be left at the end of the month? And then what? At best, you get put together with other survivors and the cycle begins again until everyone is dead anyway." "Way you put it—KAK—” Cancer objected, "doesn't seem like we have a lot of choice in the matter." "There's always a choice," Keagan said. "One of the researchers told me supply trucks come in and out every Thursday. We get a pass or find a way out through the kitchens or something, we can hitch a ride." Cancer laughed, breathlessly. "You're talking about jailbreak." "I'm pretty sure this jail doesn't officially exist. If we can get out, what are they going to do? I know someone on the outside who's looking into this place—she wanted to publish an exposé. All we have to do is get to one of the army bases—the real army, I mean—in the area." Silence. "Come on," he said. "You know what I'm saying makes sense. Surely it's better than waiting to be shot." "I'd rather be shot than gassed," Ronny said in a subdued voice, looking up at the stains on the walls. "Someone told me, you never hear the bullet that kills you. It's just—lights out." No-one responded, but as the evening went on, one after another of the inmates came over to Keagan's bunk and made some non-committal offer to map out the facility or try to figure out what backroutes might exist. What he'd said had hit home—perhaps they realised that with Goettsch's terror at an end they could no longer rely on him to take their place in the Foundation's experiments; had seen what happened to those with not so apparently charmed lives while he had been laid up in the medical unit. But Keagan couldn't rely on them, not really. They were institutionalised, he realised—fortunately for the British public at large, they thought of escaping prison as something that happened in dimly remembered Hollywood movies, not to them. //And you're not institutionalised?// said the little voice. //You had a job at Wormwood Scrubs—two if you counted your failed stint as bodyguard. You were happy to wait out your time.// That was different, he thought, angrily, that was outside—and paused for a moment at the thought that HMP Wormwood Scrubs was now 'outside'. The idea that an unguarded back way out might exist was seductive, of course, but probably unlikely given the fortress-like levels of security at the main entrance. Their best chance had to lie in the keycards—if you could wrestle one off a suitably senior guard you could presumably make significant headway towards the entrance, although most likely the attack would be quickly registered and the facility locked down. The first objective, of course, given that Shift B's already tenuous calendar had disintegrated further with the loss of its principal keepers, was to find out the day of the week. Given they had at most two weeks left, there was no opportunity for trial and error. Keagan spent some time thinking—you couldn't use the presence of staff as a barometer without a clear indication of who was allowed home and when, and monitoring supplies was probably out given that they had at most one opportunity to notice a marked replenishment that might suggest a delivery. But the facility's computers would still need to have an accurate time, even if access to the internet was restricted. Patrick Goettsch, on his return from the medical wing, was immediately dispatched again complaining of sharp pains in his dislocated shoulder, and reported having observed the system clock on one of the electronic drips. It was Tuesday, the 16th of August. Soon the replacement Shift A would be here, a fresh batch of quarrelsome lifers, and the guards would be on high alert. Keagan therefore decided that any attempt to be free of the facility had to happen on the eve of the 18th. What he would do if he actually managed to clear the gates was less clear—if he was able to hide long enough to smuggle himself away in one of the supply trucks he could wait there until they reached their destination—most likely one of the regular army bases he had mentioned. Whether he could trust its occupants was another matter—there was every likelihood given how well-entrenched within the country's systems the Foundation seemed to be that they would simply turn him back over to the custody of Dr Skinner. Escape then—but there was a reason the facility in which he now resided had no walls—or rather, its walls were miles thick, a great open expanse of muddy fields and unexploded ordnance, standing between him and civilisation. That part of the plan, Keagan decided, would have to be thought up on the fly. As to getting out of their imposingly sealed dormitories, however, he was reasonably sure that would be the easiest part. Surprisingly, the reconnoitres of the other inmates proved successful—there was indeed another exit that led directly out into the churned-up vehicle yard. A couple of them had been drafted into waste disposal and had caught tantalising glimpses of the outside world. The bad news, of course, was that it was locked down with a series of keycard-activated gates, similar to the main entrance, but Keagan seriously doubted it was as closely monitored. The following night there was an electric atmosphere in the dormitories—the topic on everyone's lips seemed to be what Keagan was going to do, and to Keagan's dismay that was how it was invariably framed—what //he//, and no-one else, was going to do. "How're you going to get out in the first place?" asked the younger Belmarsh inmate. "Doors look solid to me." "They are." Keagan said. "But if you've listened whenever they open and close them, the bolt is spring-loaded and pulled back with an electromagnet. That means if the power goes out it's locked shut. But D-Class staff don't grow on trees, and they go as far as to treat us when we beat each other up, which makes me think there would be some kind of failsafe if there was a fire that disabled the mains supply. Who has the lighter?" Cancer did, handing it over warily. "I really hope—KAHHK—you're not gonna torch the place." "Hopefully I won't need to. There should be a sensor close to the door mechanism that registers high temperatures and engages a backup battery." He looked along the featureless surface of the wall, imagining the mechanisms behind the concrete. "Right about here." He flicked the lighter on and held it up to the wall. The grey paint flaked and peeled away, turning black and falling to the floor in a neat little circle. The inmates looked on as the little store of lighter fuel diminished. "You're wasting it," Cancer said accusingly. Keagan looked at the little lighter. Was it really powerful enough to heat the wall in that spot sufficiently to simulate a fire? A few seconds later, there was a thin hum, then the familiar click-buzz. Keagan quickly spreadeagled himself over the wall, keeping the lighter in place while wedging the door open with the tip of one shoe. One of the others could have held it open, he thought, but they were too busy watching him. The Great Escape, he thought, back on TV. He tossed the lighter back to Cancer. There was probably a guard watching the feeds—maybe even assisted by an algorithm that picked up on unusual levels of movement or noise, but at this time of night, Keagan hoped his brain was too fried by caffeine to make sense of what he was seeing—an inmate slipping through a narrow crack in a door that should be impregnable. The sudden relief of the corridor—cold air untainted by body odour or the revenant spirit of last night's powdered eggs—sent a thrill through him. He waited a second to see if any other inmate would follow after him—when none were forthcoming he set off at a steady lope down the corridors, remembering the directions he had been given by the reluctant waste disposal technicians. Collect blue lines, keep the green lines to your right... it seemed to make sense, and soon Keagan was running along a corridor with four blue stripes on the walls, green lines falling away as soon as they appeared. The door ahead was locked but not keycard protected, the interior darkened, behind reinforced glass. Keagan looked at the lock for a second then, bracing himself against the opposite wall, kicked the handle hard up and right. The sound of the mortise block splintering told Keagan he'd correctly identified the mechanism and the door swung loosely open as he pushed at it. Keagan emerged into a large, split-level area, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he picked out the faint gleam of computer screens. He swore softly under his breath. The area was plainly somewhere D-Class weren't supposed to be—some kind of administrative area, maybe handling logistics or co-ordinating manpower across the facility—but it was most distinctly not the kitchens or anywhere that might logically lead there. Plan B, he thought. This was an office, which meant during the day there must be staff working here. No matter how strict your security, no matter how inhumanly regimented you try to keep your staff, there'll always be someone who loses their access credentials and gets buzzed through by the guard or swiped out by a colleague. And in a place like this, if you find a keycard, you don't turn it in, you keep it at the bottom of a drawer somewhere so if you lose your own one you aren't immediately screwed. That was the theory, anyway. Keagan began ransacking the desks whilst making as little noise as possible, and when he exhausted the possibilities of the smaller, raised area he descended the staircase and began work on the workstations there. A certain amount of leeway had been allowed to make the workspaces tolerable to exist in—the odd potted plant, amusing parodies of heavy lifting guidance sellotaped to the side of the printers ("Just let your ghost lift the box for you, you fucking idiot", the annotation now read pointing to the dotted outline of the ideal posture overlaying the diagrammed office worker), even, somewhat improbably given what Keagan suspected was true of the Foundation's policies regarding contact with one's family, a couple of World's Best Dad mugs left on the tables. What there were not, however, were any keycards. Come on, come on, he thought, feeling underneath and behind prolapsed drawers in case a spare card had been stuck to it with Blu-Tack. He lifted monitors and shuffled desks, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the Foundation didn't care to conform to his experiences of the outside world. Plan C. He began to dump trays of documents onto the floor, looking through them for anything useful. A map, he thought. A passcode. Any fucking thing. He started scanning the documents. > SCP-287 is a Viking longsword, measuring 78cm from pommel to tip, and weighing 1077g. What? No. He threw the paper on the floor and picked up another paperclipped file. > When spread onto a surface as paint, the liquid takes on a slight red tone which fades as it dries. The final dry color is a pale white. What is—this? > bags often contain multiple parts, such as heart and lungs, while the intestinal tract is usually split into cca 1.5m segments, each packed separately Jesus, no, stop. > The blood and tissue is mixed with the food sauce in a manner to suggest it was added to the food prior to consumption. He was making whimpering noises now, kneeling in the middle of the ruined office, scanning each of the useless, lunatic files one by one before hurling them from him. He wanted to cry, he wanted to be sick, he wanted to- "Okay. That's enough. Put your hands behind your head slowly." And—Christ—they snapped in, not all at the same time but in a dizzying //wave//, the men who had been standing around him, watching him, for—seconds, minutes—pistols drawn. Change blindness, he thought. He probably should have had that checked out, at some point in the last few years. Too late now, of—stop it. "How the hell did you even get out of the dormitory?" Keagan didn't respond, sitting mute in the middle of the floor. It's not something you did, he thought numbly. It's something you are. You don't fuck up, you are a fuckup. Your whole damn life. Why? Why do I deserve...? //You know why//, said the little voice. What did I do? //You know what//, said the little voice. One of the blue-hats began talking and he swiveled his head to look at them as though they were something alien. "...about as serious as it gets without killing someone or breaching containment, I mean, he's out of D-Class accomodation, in a secure area, trashing the place. We get a new batch of the fuckers in a few days, we don't need him around pulling any more of this shit." The first speaker, whose greying temples marked him out as the senior officer, addressed Keagan: "You know the drill, D-8671. You violate the rules, we decide what happens to you. Right now. That's our prerogative. You understand?" Keagan spoke, his voice tired. "Yes, I understand." The greying blue-hat raised his gun, but suddenly there seemed to be some disagreement in the ranks. One of the junior blue-hats spoke up: "D-8671. Isn't he the guy they were going to send over to Dr Barker tomorrow?" The gun was lowered. "That right, D-8671? You been assigned to 554?" "I don't know," he said quietly. The lead blue-hat took a few paces back and spoke into the radio clipped to his chest. Keagan caught a few words: "...then wake him up!" The other guards kept Keagan at gunpoint but moved back slightly. Keagan thought he could detect in their distant gazes some hint of the emotion he had seen in the faces of the white-coats when he had been tasked with clearing up the liquefied corpse of one of his fellow inmates. The lead blue-hat had apparently finished his call. "Well, it seems you're needed for the time being. Not my call. Gradley seems to have taken a shine to you—he can babysit you until Barker deigns to show up. Get up! Don't try anything or Skinner and Barker together won't stop me lighting you up." Keagan watched the soft gleam of the nearest P229 barrel, traced the shape of the weapon down to its handle, where a dark cable connected it to the guard's belt. Even if I got hold of it, Keagan thought, I wouldn't make it out of this room. Instead, he got to his feet and bowed his head. The lead blue-hat shoved a pair of plastic handcuffs at his chest; he put them on, and allowed himself to be frogmarched out of the wrecked office. His feet caught a fragment of PC casing, a smashed lampshade. When did I do that, he wondered? ---- +++ Chapter Seven: "The Necessary Illusion" Edward was there when they reached the nearest guard post, wearing a blue dressing-gown and a long-suffering expression as he sipped a mug of cocoa. His pale skin looked positively ghostly under the bright lights of the secure panic room. Keagan was bundled in and thrown into a chair, his wrists still bound behind him. One of the blue-hats remained behind at the door, weapon in hand. They sat there for a while, Edward drinking his cocoa and watching him warily. At length Edward looked up. "You're a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?" There was a further silence for the span of about a minute. "...I'm sorry for getting you up so late," Keagan said at last. "Before I came here I was an investment banker in the City," Edward said. "I'm used to late nights. So you tried to break out." "Figured it was better than waiting around to get killed. That's what you do, isn't it, at the end of a D-Class shift? Kill everyone who's left." Edward said nothing. "But seems like I won't have to wait that long. I've been assigned to 554." Keagan saw Edward's eyes widen slightly. "Now, that's a bit of a puzzle, but I've been thinking about it. Did you know us D-Class record the numbers of the Special Containment Procedures we work with on the walls of the dormitories?" "I didn't," Edward said. "Well, we do. Now, that would be an interesting study—who started that tradition? I don't think anyone on my shift ever discussed it, but we all do it, and we all know what it means when someone puts a cross on the end of someone else's list. Now, the numbers on the walls range from the hundreds up to the high thousands; unless they're assigned randomly, 554 must have been known to the Foundation for a long while. Is that reasonable?" Edward looked at the guard at the door. He nodded slowly while taking a sip from his mug. "Okay," Keagan said. "So here's the thing. I haven't seen 554 written anywhere in the dormitory. Not once. I reckon there's years and years of D-Class who've written on those walls. So that means either the Foundation has known about 554 for years but never dared do experiments on it until now because it's so dangerous—or something happens that means no-one who ever works with 554 writes its number on the wall. Am I close?" Edward shifted in his chair. "Keagan, I can't discuss that with you." "Why not? I'm pretty sure it's going to kill me in a few hours." Edward folded his slipped-socked feet up into the chair to get them off the chilly tiled floor of the muster point. "Look, Keagan, let me tell you a story." "As long as it doesn't take the rest of my life." Keagan choked out a bitter bark of a laugh. "It's a story that was told me when I first arrived here," Edward said. "So there's every chance that it's a load of horse shit. But even if it is, it still illustrates exactly what I'm trying to say. Anyway, you know about the amnesiacs?" "No. You mean—people who forget things?" "Well, no, that's what the word //should// mean. Around here, though, it's what we call what should really be named 'amnestics'. Substances that induce memory loss. Don't ask me why they use the other word, probably someone at the top misspoke early on and no-one ever bothered to correct them. You've seen some of the things we keep here?" Keagan nodded, but the words were an icy shock to him. Did I overlook that, he thought? "Well, most of the time they come on our radar because someone reports having what might be termed a supernatural experience. Something that doesn't fit into the modern idea of a logical universe. People falling through the cracks into the world. They can't cope with what they've seen." "You brainwash them," Keagan said, slowly. "We take away the memories. In many cases it's the only way people can go on. When they work: sometimes they remove the higher levels of cognitive memory but not the emotional connections, and on some people it doesn't work at all. That's why I'm here—I'm immune, apparently. They never figured out why. But anyway, amnesiacs are one of the most important tools in the Foundation's arsenal. They let us cover up things that it would be impossible to explain away otherwise. But because they're not 100% effective, the Foundation is always looking for ways to accomplish the same effect without recourse to chemicals. So anyway, there was a psychiatrist—usually when you hear the story he was in Sector-30, that's Germany, but I've also heard versions where he was in Britain, the US, Argentina... But the name's always the same. Dr Glüt. "He was recruited for his research into behavioural modification. The Foundation told him ... there were no such things as amnesiacs, or at least, that the higher level ones were a fraud, designed to make squeamish Foundation agents think we had a magic pill that made bad memories go away. He and his team were led to believe that the only way people were ever persuaded to forget what they'd seen was—" he paused for a second. "Through torture. They told him that the only thing standing between civilisation and anarchy was a room full of scalpels, electrodes, and black hoods. He was told that the people he was ... experimenting on were civilians who had to be persuaded that what they had seen wasn't true, that they'd gone insane." Keagan felt his lips peeling back from over his teeth. "And what were they really?" "D-Class, mostly. Mostly. And it worked—at least the story says it worked. Dr Glüt used physical pain and good old fashioned operant conditioning to make people override their own perceptions. He was—a man at the top of his profession. But here's the thing about the story—the Foundation wasn't interested in the people Dr Glüt abused. That wasn't the point of the project. They already knew that extensive torture and psychological abuse could affect recollection. They wanted to learn how someone held up under the pressure of having to inflict terrible pain on another human being, hour after hour, every day." "Milgram," said Keagan, recalling Professor Reeds. "They weren't studying the learner. They were studying the teacher." "Yes. But Dr Glüt lasted longer than anyone thought possible. They kept sending him people to torture, kept making the stakes in the fantasy scenarios they fed him higher. But he continued, year after year. He became an embarrassment to the Overseers; I guess they expected to see //some// signs of conscience, not just a machine that went on performing the worst acts one human being can do to another for decades. Then he just //broke//. Completely and utterly. His wife says he woke up one day and his mind was gone. Reduced to a gibbering wreck. "The story is told as a morality tale, but for me it represents something else—the Foundation doesn't tell the truth. Maybe not to anyone. I think I'm working as a researcher and counsellor, studying anomalous objects, talking to D-Class subjects who break the rules. But who knows? Maybe this whole place is here to study me and they're waiting to see how much I can take. They tell me they let someone called Dr Glüt torture people for decades just so they could see whether he could take the strain. They tell me they lie through their teeth to get volunteers for their experiments, most of whom die, then they kill the ones who survive. Maybe the Foundation doesn't do any of those things. What seems to be the end might not be." "That's how you justify being here," Keagan said bitterly. "'It might all be a lie.' That's what you're counting on." Edward flushed, dark red, and tears welled up in his eyes. "The Foundation does good," he said, with a sudden burst of forcefulness. "Even by lying. We keep the necessary illusion going. For everyone." "What illusion?" Edward looked down, starting to shiver. "That science works, that it isn't just a bad approximation of one small part of a universe characterised by madness and illogic. That the ground is firm and won't drop away from you at any moment. Without the illusion—there is no reality, as our civilisation understands it. Without us—no laws of physics, no laws of mathematics. We've decided what is considered part of reality and what is considered supernatural—it's arbitrary, a man-made distinction." Keagan thought for a moment. "Einstein must've really done a number on you." "The atom bomb. Yes. There was a lot of debate amongst the Overseers over whether atomic weapons should be considered anomalous. But it was 'our' side—the Allies—who had developed it, and the Foundation was a lot weaker then, for a number of reasons. Pragmatism won out." They settled back into silence for a while. Keagan closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but found it impossible. After a while he said. "Edward, this is important. The amnesiacs. How powerful are they?" Edward had been staring through the reinforced glass of the guard post office into the dark of the corridor outside. He jolted back to attention as Keagan spoke. "Pretty powerful. Not that I can speak from experience—the one time someone tried to use a Class-A amnesiac on me, it induced a seizure rather than wiping my memory." "Could they wipe out a month's worth of memories?" Edward looked at Keagan and some understanding seemed to pass between them, some recognition of the dim spark of hope represented here. Edward sagged in his chair. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've never known an amnesiac that works like that. Class-C and Class-B induce suggestibility and prevent formation of new memories while under the influence respectively. Class-A blocks recent memories from properly settling into long-term memory—at best you lose about half a day. The only thing more powerful is the Class Omega amnesiac, which induces complete memory and personality destruction—effectively kills you as a personality." Keagan nodded. "I just thought ... maybe at the end you're just wiped clean, sent off somewhere to live quietly with no knowledge of the Foundation." "It's a nice thought." "But not true." "...No. I don't think so." "Okay." Keagan leaned back again. Then: "You know, before you asked me whether I had had any strange dreams. I lied when I said I didn't. I don't want you to get in trouble." Edward exhaled heavily and reached for his pad. "How are they unusual?" "They're in a place I've never been before, but I've seen it several times now in different dreams. It's a place like this. There's a big open area, like a warehouse or a hangar, and a metal cube strung up in the middle of it with cables from the corners of the room. There's something in it. Trying to get out." Edward's breath caught, just for a second. "You've seen what's inside?" "Yes. It's like a monk. A Buddhist monk. But its face is fucked up, you can't focus on it at all. No-one else in the dream could see me, but it could. It seemed—surprised, I don't know." "Thank you." Edward said, distantly. "Thank you. I need to talk to someone." He got up, sliding his mug over to the far side of the table. The guard on the door stirred himself. "Agent Moon said you're to remain with D-8671 until Dr Barker gets in." "Well," said Edward, voice sharp-edged, "I need to talk to the Director. Last time I checked, I'm not D-Class. And I certainly don't take orders from you. If Agent Moon doesn't like it, maybe he can shoot me later." The guard shrugged—'on your head be it'—and moved aside. Edward swept by him, hands clenched tightly by his sides. The guard turned his attention back to Keagan but made no attempt to speak. Keagan waited there, drifting in and out of a feather-light, dreamless sleep that would be disturbed by every movement on the silent CCTV monitors. He saw five black-helmets entering the dormitory, MP7s drawn, taking a head-count at gunpoint. Keagan watched helplessly, willing the other inmates not to get themselves killed. But they seemed withdrawn, compliant—perhaps demoralised by the evident failure of Keagan's escape attempt. Even Ronny kneeled down on the floor with his hands beside his head. Later he saw Edward hurrying through a corridor. The blue-hat he identified as Agent Moon meeting a white-coat near the entrance gate, making obsequious gestures as though to placate him for having awoken him earlier. Other white-coats beginning to filter in through the corridors, laboratories. It was morning. The white-coats arrived in the bomb-ruin of the administrative office with postures of disbelief and exasperation, the blue-hat left on duty there making commiseratory nods. "It's time," said the guard at the door—only the second time that night he had spoken—and hauled Keagan up by his forearm, led him out into the corridor again. The little voice was screaming in his head—kick to the knee, shoulder-barge him as he drops, bite his throat until you find the jugular, //do something//, but he wasn't listening. ---- When Keagan and his chaperone reached the laboratory—larger and better-equipped that the ones he'd seen thus far, with banks of computer screens surrounding a central raised platform—he was surprised to see Cancer, standing between two guards on one side of the room. Beside him, Ronny Feldspar, still nursing the stub of his wrist. He wondered whether they had been allowed to mark '554' on the wall before they left the dormitories. They seemed just as surprised to see him, Ronny throwing him a look of fear mixed with hate. However, he was not permitted to join them—instead, he was kept under separate watch at the other end of the laboratory, reinforcing Keagan's impression that he was to play a special role in this experiment. Dr Skinner was there, grey hair gelled up as usual, chatting animatedly to another white-coat, a bespectacled black man with short white hair, the one he had seen Agent Moon greet on the CCTV. The second man seemed irritated at having to be present—no doubt annoyed that Keagan's escape attempt had forced him to bring forward the time of the experiment; he kept glancing at his watch and scowling. This, Keagan surmised, was Dr Barker. At least six younger white-coats were bustling around the monitors, ticking off boxes on clipboards and talking in urgent, clipped tones. Agent Moon and half a dozen blue-hats were present, too—the first time he had seen a heavy guard presence during an experiment; whether for him or for what might be about to happen he could not know. "Okay, people," Dr Skinner announced, quietening the discussions of the junior white-coats. "I know this experiment is particularly complex, so I shan't get in your way more than I have to. I'm just here to observe in my capacity as D-Class personnel supervisor, to make sure sector assets are being expended properly." Expended. Keagan thought. He would have said 'used' if he expected all of us to walk away. He wondered how Ronny felt, so close to the heart of a real conspiracy that considered men's lives resources to be burned through—but so far from the theories he had cherished. The Professor nodded at Dr Barker, who stepped forward, tapping on his lapel mic. "Is this thing on?" The last syllable suddenly boomed throughout the laboratory and one of the junior technicians turned to give him the thumbs up. "Good. For the record, today we'll be testing boundary conditions for 554-Boojum. The object itself is now on high surveillance—” he pointed to one of the screens, which showed a great rusting device, oxidised iron over weather-streaked concrete, resting on what appeared to be a rural hillside "—and we are streaming records live from a backup server at Site-60 to compare the secondary effects of 554-Boojum in real-time. Dr Rolfus is on hand at Site-60 to handle data uploads." A disgruntled-sounding voice boomed out of the speakers, almost entirely incomprehensible though Keagan thought he caught the word 'ingrates'. One of the technicians winced and removed his headphones. Dr Skinner cut in smoothly. "Thank you for your forebearance, Dr Rolfus. We've had to move the experiment forward for security reasons. I'll also thank you to keep focused on your current task rather than going back over the unfortunate circumstances that led to your reassignment up north, hmm?" The voice made a further uncomplimentary-sounding interjection, but it was muted. "Very well," Dr Barker continued, "The subject currently designated 554-2 was euthanised today at 0400 hours; we will effectively be starting with a clean slate. Subject D-8671 will be exposed to the 554 effect and thus redesignated 554-2. In the course of this experiment we will be triggering a 554-Boojum event, which necessarily involves the creation of another 554-2 subject. The most suitable subject for this purpose has been selected as D-7761,"—that was Cancer—"whose limited lifespan due to a medical condition offers possibilities for the future study of 554-Boojum in cases of natural death." Keagan looked over at the other two inmates. Cancer's expression was neutral. He would survive Shift B, then; but would spend what little life he had left locked away, integrated into Special Containment Procedures 554. Dr Barker was still talking, and Keagan forced himself to pay attention: "...will determine the exact threshold 554 considers 'observation', as well as whether an instance of 554-2 is able to prevent a former 554-2 subject from undergoing 554-Boojum. D-8671 will be converted into 554-2, then D-7761 exposed. D-8671, as the former 554-2 subject, will thus be subject to 554-Boojum. Observation of the subject will be gradually diminished through a number of means including reducing ambient light in order to determine the key threshold for observation." He looked over towards the door. "Ah. Thank you, Agent Piper. Please bring in the viewing apparatus." A black box on wheels, the size of a room service trolley, was wheeled into the room and positioned near the central dais. "In order to minimise exposure of other personnel, the two D-Class subjects will be briefly shown an electronic image of 554-1 that has been determined to transmit the effect." He turned, and began addressing Keagan. "D-8671—is that him? I can't read his designation label from here." A guard briefly confirmed that Keagan was, indeed, D-8671. "Good. D-8671, approach the viewing apparatus and place your head in the viewing chamber, located on the near side of the apparatus." Keagan had never understood why, in films, people willingly co-operated with those they suspected were about to kill them—why they dug their own graves, literally, or figuratively by divulging the information keeping them alive. Now he understood—it was based on a truth. You did what you were told to survive a few more minutes, even if you knew it made your death all the more certain. //You killed two men to avoid paying them off,// the little voice retorted, //but you won't fight for your own life. Pathetic.// But there was nothing Keagan could do. He was a car with a dead engine, being pushed up a hill an inch at a time. He walked over to the dark box and took up what he presumed to be the correct position, head lowered into the square notch cut out of the side of the trolley, forehead resting on a curved stand apparently provided for that purpose. "In a few seconds you will see an image on the monitor below you. Please tell us what you see." Keagan waited—the space below him remained black, and some activity around him led him to believe the apparatus wasn't quite ready. "Technician Grant, the question is not whether it's working or not. I can see it's not working. The question is why. Please find that out, and rectify it," Dr Barker snapped from somewhere behind him. "You want me to take a look?" Keagan said, sarcastically. "Electronics aren't my forte, but I'm sure I could get it going, if it's just a monitor. I can give you a fair quote, and I take cash..." "That won't be necessary, D-8671. Please remain quiet unless instructed to speak." But //someone// wasn't keeping quiet. Someone was shouting something loudly, a long way away, and getting closer. Soon it was possible to make out that what was being shouted was along the lines of 'Stop the experiment! Stop it now!". Dr Barker sighed, the sound distorting into a deep crackle as it fed through his label mike. "Agent Moon, please see what's going on outside. Keagan heard the familiar swipe-ratchet of a keycard-operated door, and the voice suddenly came into focus. "Let me in! Let me—oh." "Researcher Gradley." Moon's voice, more than a note of exasperation in it. "This is a restricted experiment and you aren't permitted to be here, let alone disrupting the procedure by yelling outside." "It's okay," Keagan interjected, still kneeling with his head in the trolley, "They can't get it working anyway. I offered to fix it for them." Edward butted in: "I have compelling reason to believe this experiment is at risk of causing cross-contamination between two different Special Containment Procedures. D-8671 told me just a few hours ago that he's been having unusual dreams. He described them to me. I've been in contact with Site-60, and they've confirmed all the details. It's 1447." "And that is?" asked Moon. "You'll have to excuse me, I don't actually carry around the entire SCP object database in my head." "The tulpa," pressed Edward. "A self-sustaining manifest thought-form, in containment at Site-60. He described its appearance, its containment unit, the surrounding facility—everything. Oh, for the love of Christ, is that Dr Rolfus on the monitor over there? Site-60 is part of this experiment?" "Only to compare personnel records. 554's secondary effects including altering local written and electronic data." Well, that explained the walls, at least. "Look, you have to shut this down, or at least choose another subject. 1447 tried to breach containment a week ago—” "Nothing new there, as I recall." Dr Skinner's voice. "and exhibited highly unusual behaviour while doing so. The Director won't tolerate—” "Look, Edward," Agent Moon interrupted. "The experiment's already in progress. The subjects have already been chosen based on clear criteria of suitability—” "Because D-8671 tried to escape, you mean," Edward challenged. "—yes. That's valid criteria. But also because he had an ongoing case moving through the courts and it saves us quite a bit of bother if all that goes away without us having to do mop-up." The Judge, Keagan thought. So, no-one, not even a plausible suspect, would stand trial for the murder of Wesley Kellogg. What a surprise. "Look, it may come as a shock to you," Agent Moon continued, "but this isn't the US, we don't have the same resources available to us, and we can't afford the same degree of separation between different projects. Every D-Class here, including D-8671, has been involved with multiple skips since they arrived. You want to scrap a highly valuable experiment because one scumbag's been having dreams that happen to sound like another skip out of thousands somewhere else in the world? I'm guessing if the Director felt as strongly as you we wouldn't be hearing this from one junior researcher yelling in the corridor." "I wasn't able to raise him," Edward said. "Professor Gelding said..." "Frankly," Dr Skinner said, "I don't give a damn what Professor Gelding says or thinks. //I// authorised this experiment, not him, and it will proceed on my say-so. Technician Grant, what the hell is the holdup?" "Sorry sir, should be working now." "Agent Moon, get Gradley out of my—I mean, Dr Barker's—laboratory. And tell him he's lucky I don't initiate disciplinary procedures against him for trying to usurp the chain of command. Dr Barker, please continue." "Thank you, Dr Skinner. Grant, show D-8671 the image." Sudden light, painful after the darkness of the box. A corridor—no, a crawlspace, dirt on the ground. Something inside, a black plastic bag, sealed shut with strips of duct tape. Human-sized. Light shining through at the far end. "What do you see, D-8671? Describe the image?" "It's somewhere dark. Looks like the space underneath something big. There's what looks like a body in a black plastic bin liner underneath it." "Describe the body, D-8671." "I can't. I just told you, it's wrapped in a bin liner." "Does it fill the whole space? Is it large, or small? Does it cover the stains at the centre of the space?" "It looks like it's curled up, but it's pretty big. I don't see any stains." "Good. For the record 554-1 in static images remains unchanged since the last experiment. Technician Grant, please secure the viewing apparatus." The image disappeared again, engulfed by blackness. "D-8671, you are now redesignated 554-2. Please take your head out of the viewing chamber and move over to the testing platform." A blue-hat pulled on Keagan's cuffs and he hit his head on the rim of the trolley, just below the crown of his head at the back. "Shit," he said, unable to rub the area due to his restraints but feeling something trickle down through the short coarse hair. "Agent Matthews, try to avoid undue damage to the subject. Please help him into place on the testing platform." Keagan was led over and through gestures told to escalate the steps up to the central dais. "Technician Grant, please can we test the lighting?" The lights around the dais dimmed, the screens on the walls winking out. Keagan was left illuminated at the centre of the space, bright white lighting beating down on his face and shoulders. Keagan could make out the shine of Dr Barker's spectacles in the darkness, watching him. "Thank you. Please restore regular lighting conditions. Agent Moon, please escort D-7780 to the observation deck around the testing platform." Ronny was led to the central dais, and ushered up to a second, slightly lower ring, separated from the higher platform by a low railing. "D-7780, please keep 554-2 under close observation at all times unless otherwise instructed." Ronny's eyes were quivering, betrayed, flashes of the whites showing. Keagan thought he seemed on the verge of breaking down completely. "D-7761, please position yourself at the viewing apparatus." Keagan watched as Cancer walked over and kneeled by the trolley. He saw the older man flinch as his face was lit up from below by the screen. Keagan felt something—barely perceptible; a slight buzzing-tugging-tingling as though something were softly taking hold of him by his collar and trying to pull him away. "D-7761. What do you see?" "A—KOKK—crawlspace." "Describe the body. Is it large or small? Does it have the legs tucked up under it." "What fucking—KAAK—body? You've shown me an empty crawlspace." "There's a plastic bin liner in the crawlspace. It contains a body. Describe it to me or you will face immediate correctional action." Agent Moon put his hand on his gun. Cancer began chuckling, interspersed with -sucking, wet coughs, as though something inside him was tearing loose. "You mean you'll shoot me, like you're gonna—HAKH—shoot everyone else, right? Doesn't matter. There's no—KKUK—body in the picture. Come and have a look yourself if you got a problem with it." Obviously this wasn't the response the white-coats had been expecting. Dr Barker switched off his lapel mic and went into conference with Dr Skinner for several minutes before turning his mic back on. "Thank you, D-7761. You are now designated 554-2. Please proceed to the observation deck." "So who am I now?" Keagan asked. "If I'm not 554-2 anymore?" Barker seemed momentarily nonplussed by the question. Then: "The subject on the testing platform is once again designated D-9671." "D-8671," Keagan suggested, but the error went uncorrected. "Technician Grant, please dim the facility lighting." Once again the lights around the dais went out. Other than the distant gleam of the Doctor's glasses, all Keagan could see were Cancer and Ronny Feldspar at the edge of the spotlight. "554-2, D-7780, please maintain unbroken observation of D-9671 unless otherwise instructed." Cancer's eyes seemed emptied of everything. "I'm sorry," Keagan said to both of them. "I really am." "Yes, yes," Dr Barker said wearily. "Let's not have any histrionics. Technician Grant, please reduce ambient lighting by 50%. Just as a reminder to researchers and technicians—as well as to our honoured guest Dr Skinner—please view the subject only via the monitors to avoid observer interference." The light beating down on Keagan faded gradually, from bright white to a dimmer yellow. The buzzing, however, rose in his ears, the feeling that something was trying to snatch him away intensifying. "For the record the subject is stable at 840 lumens," noted Dr Barker. "Technician Grant, reduce the lighting by a further 30%." The dim yellow of the light was progressively replaced now by a twilight blue. Cancer and Ronny's faces seemed to float in the darkness, eyes and mouths distorted by shadow. Keagan rubbed his eyes—a darkness was forming, behind the eyes, behind everything. The sensation of being grabbed grew still further—it felt like a dozen hands were slashing out through the darkness, grabbing at his shoulders, his torso, trying to get a good grip, but somehow slipping away, something still stopping them. "Subject still stable at 350 lumens. 554-2, please turn around and move away from the observation deck." Cancer's lip twisted up. For a moment he didn't move. Then he said "I'm sorry too," and turned away. "Subject stable at 350 lumens with a single observer. D-7780, please maintain observation of the subject while we prepare the second part of this experiment. Technician Grant, please prepare the graduated mechanical removal." After a couple of seconds, Keagan's eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the researchers scurrying about, wheeling around cameras and monitors on stands. He turned his attention back to Ronny. The skinny killer was smirking, cradling the ruin of his left hand with the tattooed right one, still hidden in his sleeve as though it were shameful to him. Ronny's chest began to rise and fall in a series of sharp exhalations. Keagan wondered for a moment if he was having some kind of panic attack until he realised he was chuckling under his breath, the movement becoming more and more pronounced until it became audible. //Oh no//, he thought. //You stupid bastard. You're going to do something, aren't you?// "D-7780? D-7780, what are you doing? Stop that. Maintain unbroken observation of the subject. That's all I want you to do. Just ... stop that, now." Ronny was laughing his ass off now, sinking down until his hands were on his knees. He fixed Keagan with one last stare. "Fuck you," he said, and turned around. At that moment, Keagan felt the hands finally catch hold, latching onto fabric, hair, flesh. He was being pulled away. "Lights!" screamed Dr Barker from somewhere very far away. "Turn the fucking lights on! Turn the—” The static rose around Keagan and drowned him in the darkness. ---- He tumbled through an icy void, wind howling in his face. He could feel something coming, something cold and sharp and hungry. He looked towards it and could almost imagine seeing it—black knives rushing through the night. Then it was as if two hands had closed around him and shut out the cold. The dark was now the dark of the womb, and Keagan felt himself curl up in it, tucking his legs up under him. He felt a great thrumming pass through the presence that held him and realised he had heard it before, from outside. In here the chant it was slower, deeper, comprehensible, syllables permeating the dark. OM MANE PEMI HUNG OM MANE PEMI HUNG OM MANE PEMI HUNG Just for a moment the chant faltered, a curdled wave of pain washing over Keagan as the entity cried out. Great ragged holes appeared in the hands, the cold rushing in and piercing Keagan, his chest and abdomen lighting up with agony. But whatever wielded those knives in the dark had been slowed by its passage through the substance of those hands—forced to expend more of its rage and hate than it could justify burrowing through them, and even as Keagan felt its blades cutting into his flesh they crumbled to night-black ash, falling away into the dark. And on the edge of the great vibration, like the froth of a wave hitting the rocks, he heard the voice. //A gift//, it said. //From a prisoner to a prisoner.// ---- +++ Intermission Elsewhere: Sam Deloitte rose and put on a dressing-gown, went through to the kitchen of her flat and put the kettle on, curling up on a beanbag chair with the mail and her laptop. She had two hearings to cover today, but they were both in the afternoon, and neither was particularly challenging—a drink driving case involving the son of a local Labour councillor, and a mugging of a 72-year-old woman, to which the accused was expected to plead guilty. She went through the slightly damp, dog-eared envelopes that had been stuffed her letterbox. Circular. Circular. 'This is not a circular', which in British advertising parlance means 'This is a circular'. An electricity bill and, in the same batch of mail, a demand for payment. Sam had phoned up British Gas three times in the last week and eventually secured an agreement from one Rajay in Customer Services that she would be able to pay over 14 months rather than 12. This had clearly not been passed onto any other part of the organisation. Then something that caught her eye; an envelope with 'FOICOMMONS' stamped in the top right corner. She tore it open excitedly and discovered within a response to one of her Freedom of Information Act requests. This is what it said: > Dear Ms Deloitte > > Thank you for your request for information dated 25th July 2011, received by us on 27th July 2011, and is copied below. > > You asked for information in relation to contact between the SCP Foundation Group and Members of Parliament. The response is given below. > > The House does not hold the information you are seeking. > > You may, if dissatisfied with the treatment of your request, ask the House of Commons to conduct an internal review of this decision. Requests for internal review should be addressed to... Sam sighed heavily. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. ---- Elsewhere: The man in the cell had returned from his shower. He had fifteen minutes to make himself presentable and report for work. His cellmate was probably still at breakfast—he spent as little time in the cell as he could, for the man hadn't quite given up his protective shield, the mannerisms and affectations designed to deflect aggression. In the library, however, he was learning to leave it behind—after a few false starts staring through gaps on the shelves at browsers he suspected were likely to abscond without signing a book out. He had even managed a few civil words with Don Dacyk, between pages of //The Sum Of All Fears//. The heat of summer was already beginning to drop away, a faint and distant chill entering these dog days. B block had seen an influx of new faces, some of which had quickly disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived. It had become an easy pattern, if you knew what to look for; men receiving unexpected visits and returning excited, skeptical, puzzled by an offer made. A few days later they would be gone, and the guards would affect nonchalant ignorance when anyone asked after them. The man in the cell could no longer remember exactly who had drawn his attention to the disappearances. They came and went, but he remained. And yet he had changed, was changing. For a moment, he stood still at the centre of the cell, then, without knowing exactly what had led to the decision, turned and eased the bunk bed away from the wall, feeling the cracks at the bottom of the wall behind the legs. He withdrew a couple of the drawings, paper hardened and cracking as he unfolded them. He held them up to the light and for a second saw the world behind them again—the river, the skyline, the remembered tiny people making their way through the landscape. He blinked his watery eyes in the bright sunlight filtering through the bars and smiled. ---- Elsewhere: Timothy McGage was halfway between his 134^^th^^ and 136^^th^^ pullup when the doorbell rang. He lowered himself slowly to the floor and roughly towelled off the sweat rolling down his face and shoulders. He was glad of the interruption—he had found himself exercising obsessively, spending hour after hour driving away thought through physical exercise. He relished the notion of someone to talk to—not that he could ever talk about what was pushing him away from friends, his fiancé, his family. The money had arrived in his bank account, just as he had been told it would, but suddenly there seemed nothing to spend it on. All desire, or drive, all ambition seemed to have vanished. Indeed, he felt nauseous every time he logged onto internet banking and saw it sitting there in his current account, under the heading 'Prison Officers Association Annual Raffle—Cash Prize'. He had begun looking over his shoulder at night, sure he had seen the same car before or that someone was following him. Tugging at his damp white wife-beater to allow air to circulate, he approached the door, the atrium lined with modern art pieces he had once thought were the height of sophistication but which he could now barely bring himself to look at. There was a shadow on the other side of the door, and he opened it. "Sorry," he said, "I was just in the middle of my workout. Why don't you—” He trailed off when he registered the face of the man at the door. "You're here," he said. He took a step back, face suddenly grey and jaw slack. "Why are you here? Jesus Christ." The man at the door's arm //moved//—a blur of motion, barely perceptible, before it stopped with a shudder that seemed to shake the world. He was suddenly holding something—dark brown, about the size of a clenched fist. Pain in McGage's chest, unlike anything he had ever felt. He staggered back, falling heavily against the wall and dislodging a singularly repulsive pottery piece. Already the air in his lungs seemed anoxic, his vision blurring around the edges. He looked at the thing in the man's hand. "You've relied on it for so long," the man said, a faint smile playing around his lips, "but you've never even seen its true colour until now. What insight I give you." It still pulsed, faintly, between the man's fingers—trying to stem the sudden vacuum. If it could, McGage realised, it would push oxygenated blood all the way around the universe for him. "I'm sorry," McGage tried to say to his heart, but what came out of his blue lips was a hiss. //I let you down, didn't I?// "No loose ends," said the man at the door happily, unceremoniously dropping the thing he was holding onto the corpse of Timothy McGage before closing the door carefully with his elbow. He wiped his hand on the immaculately trimmed lawn of the bungalow and walked down the street, humming to himself. It was turning into a beautiful day. ---- +++ Chapter Eight: "Mr Brightside" He awakened to a sucking, smothering blackness, and he spent a moment lying there, suffocating in it until he realised this was real, that he was lying on soil and dirt and there was something over his face, choking him. He tried to reach up, but his hands were bound to his sides by something clinging and plastic. The thing over his face billowed in and out as he sucked at it, and eventually, though a supreme effort of inhalation, he got it into his mouth and chewed on it until he felt it soften and tear, and he breathed cool, revitalising air through the rent. After a minute more, his eyes began to detect a faint light permeating the black plastic over his face. He thought carefully about his position then arched his back, stretching the plastic around his arms. Further extension was cut short by the painful collision of his ribcage with what seemed to be a low metal ceiling. Instead, he lay down and used the extra slack near his hands to search over the ground. Soon he found what he was looking for—a sharp-edged stone—and, holding it through the plastic, began worrying at the material held taut between his wrists until it gave way, freeing his arms. He turned onto his side and, clawing at the stuff with his hands, began to push with each foot in turn, until the plastic began crinkling up and he wriggled out of it like a newly pupated insect. He was lying in a crawlspace, under a great, rusting metal tank, which made occasional clanking and whirring noises, like someone fiddling with a gearbox. The sun was shining through on either side, illuminating an expanse of green grass that stretched into the distance. He took great, gulping breaths, lying on his back with his arms and legs stretched to the extent that the space under the machine would allow. Soon the desire to leave this cramped place became overwhelming—but it still struggled against the fear he had, that somehow, the universe outside was an illusion, or else a radical misinterpretation by his oxygen-starved brain of some space more in keeping with the world he had come to know. He entertained then for a little while a notion that the thing above him was the suspended chassis of a Renault Clio, that he had somehow fallen asleep in the inspection pit and had a dream; the longest and strangest he had ever experienced, with murder, prison, clandestine organisations and logic-defying experiments. Wasn't it more plausible than the notion he was where his senses still stubbornly insisted on reporting he was? It would surely be OK if he stayed here a little while longer. He couldn't pin down exactly what caused him to move—some play of the light on the grass, the distant susurration of water on rock he heard that brought back in one flash a holiday he had taken once with his family on the south coast, the cry of the birds... Once his body had taken that decision he scrabbled out of the space under the rusting tank like a man possessed, making little whimpering noises as he dragged himself out of that dark space into the light. It blinded him momentarily, and in that second all he could see was light. Then it faded and he saw he knelt on a grassy hillside under a blue sky, a hedgerow of tangled vines and nettles blocking the view over the cliff, but the horizon extending beyond it in a way that can only be experienced when there is truly nothing else there but open water reflecting the light. Above him, he saw little holiday chalets clinging to the hillside, a long way from civilisation for those inclined to be alone. Below him, a distant holiday park, caravans stretching out in neat little rows, a narrow curving path leading off down the cliff. He bowed his head, prostrating himself over the grass, smelling it and the soil beneath. A distant throb of pain caught his attention, and for the first time Keagan—the name jumped back as soon as he turned his attention inward—thought to examine himself. His hands, of course, were pebble-dashed and scraped from clawing his way over the bare earth under the machine; his knees felt similarly ill-used beneath the stained orange jumpsuit. His torso... A series of evenly-spaced puncture wounds dotted his torso, crusted dried blood caking the jumpsuit to his torso. The shock made him sit down on his bottom—he plucked at the cloth with shaking hands to try and get a better look at the injuries, distantly worried that it would cause them to start bleeding again. Once the jumpsuit had been stripped half-off he could see the wounds—deep but not enough to penetrate any organs, and scabbed-over, already healing. Something bothered him, something he'd missed. He looked back at his hands, at his left wrist, then at his chest. No tattoos; his designation, D-8671, had been excised as though it had never existed. He prodded at the areas, as though there might be some residual discomfort from whatever had sucked the ink out of his cells. He looked back at the rusted iron edifice on the hillside. This, then, was 554, the device he had seen on the monitors back in the darkness of Dr Barker's laboratory. He tried to remember whether he or Dr Skinner had given away any indication as to the location of the object, but came up blank. One thing Barker had said stuck with him, though. //The object itself is now on high surveillance.// Keagan jolted up, looked around, shaking his head to try and clear change-blindness. He half expected the blue-hats to pull their appearing trick again, reveal that he'd been sitting there like an idiot while they strolled up and surrounded him. What would that mean? It had been abundantly clear that they had not expected him to survive the transition, which as far as he could make out from the convoluted experiment Dr Barker had devised necessarily involved the transformation of the subject from living human to a corpse bundled up in a bin liner. Probably they would decide to take him apart to try and see how he had accomplished the feat of avoiding this process. He glanced up at the cliffs, along the coastal walking paths, but the only people he saw were distant blobs of colour, families walking together in the sun. Even so, he reasoned, the fact that the machine was relatively open, albeit isolated, strongly implied some kind of ongoing surveillance to avoid hikers stumbling over it and its grisly cargo. Accordingly, he decided it would be best to put some distance between himself and it, and he set off at what he judged to be an inconspicuous jog in the direction of the holiday park, quickly joining an overgrown National Trust trail. His first priority was finding out where he was... no, scratch that, he thought, catching sight of his bloody jumpsuit out of the corner of his eye as he jogged, his first priority was to look less like someone fleeing the scene of a gruesome murder. He paused underneath a weeping willow and stripped off the jumpsuit to the waist, ripping the garment away from the waist up and tucking the excess fabric into the waistband of the grey and undoubtedly fifth-hand underwear the Foundation had issued. He held the torn upper half of the jumpsuit in the shallow river running down beside the path and dabbed at his injuries until the crusted blood around them was gone, leaving only the narrow scabs over the wounds themselves. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of a large conservatory jutting out onto the back of the trail—the remainder of the jumpsuit could pass for a pair of jogging bottoms, at least at a decent distance, and the wounds at least looked merely sore, rather than a reason to call the police. He actually passed another jogger, a middle-aged man isolated from the world by a set of earphones, coming the other way—Keagan nodded to the man and received a perfunctory nod in return. The trees parted ahead of him and a sign proclaimed that he was entering Culver Down Caravan Park—he vaguely tried to remember whether he had heard of Culver Down but decided he had not. There were relatively few holidaymakers around—most of them presumably gone off on various sightseeing expeditions. Keagan slowed to a trot as he passed the first row of caravans and eventually found what he was looking for—each had at its back a simple clothesline suspended between two posts hammered into the ground, and it wasn't long before Keagan found a shirt and trousers that looked like it might be in his size. He stopped, quickly scanning the windows but not taking too long to check he was alone before calmly removing the garments and changing into them behind the shelter of a beach towel. He tried to project the impression of a man on holiday having just completed his morning and changing into the clothes in which he intended to go about his business in the rest of the day. There was nothing he could do about the grubby off-white plimsolls right now, of course, but with any luck they would simply reinforce the impression of the casual but energetic holidaymaker. Thus attired, he walked into the holiday park reception, hoping the owner of the shirt wasn't doing some early morning shopping. He gave a friendly smile and wave to the plump blonde woman at the kiosk and wandered over to the leaflets section. "Wildlife Parks and Zoos on the Isle of Wight", "IOW attractions and things to do", "History of the Island", and so on. Keagan was stunned. 554 had apparently transported him a good 50 miles south and off the mainland. This would present additional challenges, of course. The receptionist saw him staring uncomprehendingly at the leaflets and came over, asking him if he was OK. "Sure," Keagan managed to say. "Just a bit overwhelmed. I haven't been on holiday for a while." She beamed back. "It can be difficult to know what to do first. Did you come in last night? I don't think I saw you." Think. Does that mean she wasn't on duty? Too risky to assume that and say someone else signed him in. He plumped for something generic. "Yeah—thought I'd have a lie-in." That seemed to do the job and she floated back to her desk where she was halfway through a Sudoku puzzle. The leaflets were close enough to the newspaper rack that Keagan was able to peruse the front covers without any reasonable expectation of him buying them. The park shop carried The Times, The Telegraph, the Daily Mail and a couple of local newspapers like the Wight Herald. But it was the date that struck him most—Monday, 15th August. Keagan blinked. As far as he was concerned, it was Thursday—two days after Goettsch had confirmed the date from the computer in the medical wing, the day after he had broken out of D-Block Alpha-2. There were a couple of possibilities: That Goettsch had lied about the date, hoping to disclose Keagan's escape attempt in return for privileges or perhaps a stay of execution at the end of his shift. Possible, but the elusive convict had seemed genuine in the medical wing about a cessation of hostilities. That Culver Down Holiday Park was so laughably isolated that it could not maintain a current stock of newspapers. Unlikely—the shop seemed well stocked with perishables and given the size of the island could not be far from a town or village. That 554 had somehow transported him backwards in time. If this was true, somewhere to the north, another Keagan, or rather his previous self, would be waking up in the medical wing after attacking Patrick Goettsch. Thinking about it made his head ring slightly, and he decided that it probably didn't matter. He left the shop with his questions about his location answered, but a host of seemingly insurmountable obstacles in his place. With no money, even getting off the island and back to the mainland was impossible—with the best will in the world he didn't feel up to swimming the 5 miles from the Isle of Wight to Southampton. And if he did, what then? Questions of chronology aside, he had just escaped from a top secret pseudo-governmental facility, to whose custody he had been transferred from a Category B prison where he had been serving a life sentence. Was he now a fugitive, he wondered? His stomach rumbled, and he realised he was terribly hungry, as though he hadn't eaten for days. Fuck it, he thought. The notion of looting one of the caravans was tempting, and it seemed likely that more than one had been left unlocked as their occupants bundled off to the beach or a local heritage site. However, the layout of the park meant he would be extremely visible while trying the doors, and the receptionist was likely to recognise him as the guy she didn't remember booking in. Instead, he set off again over the countryside, this time walking over the fields in the bright sunlight. He walked uphill, into the sun, and it warmed his skin and made him narrow his eyes. Eventually he found what he was looking for—a lay-by where several cars were parked, unattended, their owners having left to go rambling over the downs. He had been prepared to knock out a window—easy enough if you know where to hit it—and trigger a car alarm but in the end it proved unnecessary. One of the vehicles was a Fiat Eper, a beautifully designed but incompetently produced vehicle from the late 90s that was always a nightmare to find parts for because it had been officially recalled due to a rather glaring security flaw. To whit, if you pressed down on the rubber sealing around the driver's side door window in just the right spot, it actuated the interior locking mechanism. He gouged his thumb hard into the corner of the window, feeling the loose plate that connected directly to the interior door handle mounting, and shoved at it. The door opened with a sleek hydraulic whisper and Keagan got in, hoping any other walkers would just see a man casually opening his own car. The glove compartment was empty, but underneath the passenger seat he found a zip-top bag the owner had presumably deemed too heavy to carry with them while hiking. Opening it, he found water in a Coke bottle—he sucked at it thirstily as he rummaged through the other items—a wallet containing debit and credit cards, the owner's driver's license and about £300, probably the owner's holiday money. Keagan checked the inside of the wallet to make sure the owner hadn't been stupid enough to write his PIN number there, then took the money and tossed the wallet back in the bag. A chunky feature phone, which he pocketed. This seemed to exhaust the possibilities of the bag—he discounted the towel and floppy beach hat as too bulky and incongruous respectively to consider taking with him. Keagan stuffed the bag back under the seat and left the Eper, and the scene of the crime, as swiftly as he dared. The Eper was easy enough to get going without a key—the key mechanism could simply be pried off with a butterknife or similar to reveal the rotation switch—but whilst a stolen car would probably be passed onto the authorities within hours and leave him an easy target, he hoped the missing phone and money might go unnoticed for a little while longer, or even written off by the owner as lost somewhere on their journeys. Accordingly, Keagan continued walking along the road, letting the sun play over him. With the orange jumpsuit discarded behind him and his identification tattoos mysteriously vanished, it was easy to imagine that he had hallucinated everything that had happened to him (//but just how far back?//, the little voice said in a meaningful tone), been attacked and left for dead in the countryside and in his fever dreams concocted Creepy Bastard, the Judge, the Foundation... But at length he became aware of a dull ache at the back of his head, and reaching up found where he had clocked his head on the rim of the viewing apparatus in Dr Barker's laboratory. The injury was fresh—when he withdrew his hands a little liquid blood adhered to the fingertips. As far as that part of him was concerned, the experiment had taken place mere hours ago at most. ---- After a while, the distant caravans began to give way to cottages, which showed increasing signs of permanent occupation, and at length he arrived in a village the signs proclaimed to be Bembridge—he stopped at a pub that looked as though it still existed in the 1950s and ordered a steak and kidney pie and chips. It came doused in a rich gravy that he could feel bulking up the inside of his arteries, but he felt a lot better for the meal. As he paid up with the stolen money he realised it was the first meal in four months he had chosen for himself. He walked out onto the harbour and looked out at the ocean. After a few minutes he tabbed on the phone. It had about half its battery charge remaining. He thumbed in 150 and was greeted with an automated recording informing him he had one pound and eleven pence remaining. He should of course have considered the possibility that the device would be pay-as-you-go and attempted to top it up using the owner's debit card, but he supposed he could always get a new SIM card if need be. The first thought he had was of Lauren, and he entered her landline number (why had he never bothered to remember her mobile number? because it had been the first contact on his list and it was easier to scroll down one notch, of course). He expected to get the answerphone but instead it was picked up within the first three rings. "020 5640 7864. This is Callum." A man's voice again, the one he had heard before. "It's Keagan," Keagan said through gritted teeth. "Is Lauren there?" "Who?" "Keagan O'Neill. Look, I just need to talk to her for a couple of minutes, tops. I'm on pay-as-you-go and..." "This some kind of sales call? I don't think we're interested, mate." "What? No, this is Keagan O'Neill. Her old boyfriend." There was a long pause. "Well," the voice said. "I'm her current boyfriend and I've never heard of you. Think I'd like it to stay that way. I'm gonna hang up now." "Wait, don't—” Dial tone. Keagan stood, watching a distant yacht moving impossibly slowly over the horizon. What, exactly, was he supposed to make of that? He thumbed 150 again. "You have seventy-nine pee remaining." Keagan exhaled and tried to remember the contact details that had been given to him by the court reporter, eventually coming out with what he was reasonably certain was her mobile number. He thumbed it in and listened to it ring. "Sam Deloitte speaking". "Hello, Sam? This is Keagan." "Oh, right. You'll have to remind me, what was this about?" Not this again, thought Keagan. He pressed on, hoping that she had just forgotten about him in the weeks since she had visited him in Wormwood Scrubs. "Err, I was doing a life sentence in Wormwood Scrubs. You came to visit, remember? In July." "Sorry, not ringing any bells. Are you calling from prison?" "No, I'm not." "I see. Are you out on parole?" "Not as such. It's complicated." "Okay. Do you have my email address?" Her voice started to sound a little strained. "If you want to email me over what you wanted to talk about, I'm sure I can arrange..." "I have information about the SCP Foundation," he said, cutting her off. Silence for a moment. Then, in a terse whisper: "How do you know about that?" "You told me about it. Then, for the last month I've been inside one of their facilities. You really don't remember coming to Wormwood Scrubs and talking about this?" "I—I don't. Let me get a pad and I—” "I'm not talking about this over the phone," Keagan said. "I'm going to run out of credit anyway. Look, I'm on the Isle of Wight right now. I need you to book a ticket in my name on a ferry from Cowes tomorrow." "Why can't you just—OK, I take that back. I don't want to know. No, I mean—I do need to know what's going on. Are you an escapee? There are some limits on what I can do ethically as a reporter. And how do I know you have anything relevant to tell me?" "Okay," Keagan said. "As far as I have this worked out, I haven't actually escaped. It was sort of accidental, I think. Or at least, I didn't know it was happening. I don't know if the Foundation understands what's happened, but I'm pretty sure the regular police won't be looking for me. I mean, not for that, though I did take some guy's holiday cash. And his phone." "Oh Christ," said the reporter's voice faintly, but Keagan pressed on. "Anyway, I'm a source. I'm not even asking for money, just a ticket off this island. Look, I'll give you a name. There's a researcher—not a prisoner, a staff member—who entered the Foundation because he was being threatened by another organisation, some sort of club for politicians and rich shits. Edward Gradley. Look into him. He's been there for at least a year or so—he lived in the City but hadn't heard about the Dockland Massacre. He was some kind of banker." "And he's with the Foundation now?" "Yes. He didn't seem very happy." "Right." A scritching in the background as the reporter jotted down details. "If your lead checks out, I'll pay your travel expenses as far as Southampton. Contact me when you're on the mainland and we can arrange a meeting." Keagan thanked the reporter and after agreeing a time for the ferry, should she decide his information was good, gave her his email address to send the ticket details to, which, he realised about five seconds after ending the call, probably no longer existed if the Foundation was as thorough as it seemed. He tried accessing the web through the feature phone, but it took so long that he eventually decided it wasn't going to work and spent the afternoon browsing the shops in Bembridge, keeping an eye open for an internet café. Although unsuccessful in this goal, he did manage to put together a few items he thought would be of use—a hiker's backpack, several packets of nuts and dried fruit, a paper roadmap of the UK, and a new pair of boots, all put together accounting for a good £80 of the money he had swiped from the Eper. He briefly considered hanging onto the plimsolls to show Sam Deloitte, but reasoned that slapping a pair of scuffed-up, odorous gym shoes with no identifying marks on them on the table as proof of the existence of a clandestine organisation with tendrils throughout the UK justice system was unlikely to gain him much credibility. You've still got the underpants if it comes to that, he thought. He turned his head, suddenly—something kept intruding at the edge of his peripheral vision, a presence that seemed to linger as he moved from scene to scene. Nothing seemed out of place, though. He was tempted to dismiss it as nerves, but the thought that someone from the Foundation might have noticed his unexpected departure from 554 and followed him was enough to keep him on edge. He caught a bus to Cowes, arriving as the sun showed signs of setting, and checked into a B&B, ordering bangers and mash from the elderly couple who ran the establishment, on which he slathered enough brown sauce and mustard—//condiments//, how he missed them!—to draw curious glances from the other guests. The sheets were soft and recently laundered, and it was only by chance that the antiquated phone had an alarm set for 7.30am that prevented him sleeping in. He tried to remember what he had dreamed, but it was already thin and insubstantial, though it had seemed so important at the time. Brief, disjointed flashes came to mind—a door with a name on it, just out of focus, digging with his bare hands, somewhere cold, then, still shivering, somewhere else, pulling himself out of chill, dark water. That was all. ---- He was still unable to determine whether or not he was still the account holder of [email protected] by the time the 08.00 ferry from Southampton pulled into the harbour, but he bluffed his way through at the ticket office after the staff were able to pull up the reservation with his name on it. No, no ID, said Keagan ruefully. Some bastard had nicked it, together with his floppy hat and towel, and all his credit cards. They commiserated with him, gave him the ticket (turned out he could have paid in cash on the day after all) and left him to wander the docks for the half hour or so until the ferry set off. The niggling presence at the edge of his vision he had first noticed in Bembridge had followed him, he noticed with some disquiet. He was still unable to focus on who or what might be the source of his misgivings—nobody seemed familiar or out of place—but he was struck by the conviction that they should not be able to trace him to the mainland, and accordingly dawdled until the very last minute before making a dash for the pedestrian boarding platform. The luxuriantly mustachioed boarding official blew his whistle impatiently but held the gate open until Keagan cleared it. Follow that, Keagan thought. The ferry shuddered under Keagan's feet as it set off, and he and the other passengers wandered around the interior until the announcer had completed her rather tinny explanation of the fire and evacuation drills. Thereafter it seemed much too warm to remain inside the glass-walled cabin and Keagan proceeded up the stairs to the observation deck, where the wind whipped at him fiercely, forcing him around to the rear of the vessel where he was protected from the worst of the elements and afforded some shade by the cabin. He watched as the ship left the harbour and the island (the old joke: what's brown and steaming and comes out of Cowes? The Isle of Wight ferry.). A young woman, perhaps five or ten years his junior, strolled over, holding a Dr Pepper presumably purchased from the onboard shop, and came to stand beside him, looking at the waves. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye—she was attractive, broadly Caucasian but with very striking eyes that suggested Asian parentage. "I love looking over the side at the waves hitting the side of the ferry," she said, evidently trying to strike up a conversation. "The wake can be quite hypnotic when the sun hits it." "Oh right," Keagan said, clumsily. "Do you travel this way often?" "I get out to the island whenever I can. My parents own a café on the beach, near a holiday park, then come back to the mainland for the winter." "Sounds like a good idea for a gentle family business." "You'd be surprised," she retorted. "Can be quite cutthroat. There's always several cafés per beach, and they're all competing for custom during the busy period. Dad told me one time during a wet spell someone sneaked in overnight and slashed all his umbrellas." "I see." "And what about you?" she asked, smiling. "You don't strike me as a frequent traveller." "Just on vacation," he said. "I don't get out much, usually." "And are you still on vacation?" She edged a little closer. "I wouldn't mind some company, if you're free?" Keagan looked up at the perfect blue sky and the waves, and across at the woman on the deck. He had made up his mind to say he had a few days free, but then he remembered Lauren and felt vaguely guilty. "Sorry," he said, looking away again. "All business from here on in." "That's a shame," she said, and moved off. Keagan went back inside and ordered a rum and Coke to console himself. ---- Southampton harbour was an ugly, jagged mess, concrete docks jutting out from the coast at seemingly random intervals. Relics of a proud naval history, now mostly reduced to ferries and the occasional P&O cruise liner. The city now belonged to men like Cameron Moat. Keagan wondered if anyone had taken over his empire or whether the splinters were still squabbling for territory. When he was safely esconced on the Southern Railway service to London—apologising to the young man in the Che Guevara beret and as-yet unfulfilled promise of a wispy moustache who tripped over him in the aisle—settled himself in a window seat. It was warm but not unpleasantly so and he felt himself beginning to nod off. He was jolted awake by a hideous tinny samba sample he eventually determined was the stolen phone's ringtone, courtesy of the man in the Fiat Eper. It hadn't been cut off yet, then. He took it out and clumsily prodded the resistive screen until he found the precise angle that would allow him to accept the call. "Hello?" a female voice said, "Keagan O'Neill?" "My lead was good then," he grunted, looking out of the window as the world blurred by. Sam's voice when she replied was distant, thoughtful. "Sort of. Edward Gradley's dead. At least officially. There's a murder trial still ongoing involving several partners at his firm—police reckon they were trying to cover up some kind of insider trading scandal. But the case records are full of redactions; there's clearly something going on they don't want the general public knowing about. So yes, it was good enough for me to pay your way. Now, I want everything. Names, dates, locations." "What happened to the meeting? To be honest I'd rather talk about this sort of stuff in person." "Well," she said, "I'm not so happy about it. I spoke to the paper's lawyer..." "Why the hell did you do that?" said Keagan, finding himself getting annoyed. "Let me see, because you say you were serving a life sentence then 'accidentally' escaped? Or because you contacted me out of the blue, claiming to know me, with details of an investigation I've kept off the records? He thinks I should give the police your number." "Look," Keagan said, "there's got to be a mutually agreeable place we can do this. A café or something with lots of people around." And fucking hard to get out of if she just tells the authorities that's where I'll be, he thought, immediately regretting the suggestion. A pause. "Okay," Sam said. "There's a salad bar on Bermondsey Street in Southwark. Called Urbanity. You know it?" "I know the street," he said, though the entire concept of a 'salad' bar had clearly passed him by. "What time?" Having thus agreed to bait what seemed like a very possible trap, Keagan turned the phone off to preserve its already dwindling charge and busied himself reading the 'Quiet' signs above the windows. Apparently he wasn't supposed to have taken a call in this carriage, which probably explained why the purse-lipped old lady across the eye kept glaring at him. The young //guevarista// behind him didn't seem to be paying much attention to the signs either—Keagan could hear the drum and bass thumping out of his earbuds. The world put itself back together again, one building at a time, and soon they approached the outskirts of London. The meeting had been set for 5.30pm that afternoon, but Keagan had rehearsed another appointment in his mind since the ferry, and it couldn't wait. He got off at Clapham Junction and walked a half mile or so along twisting pavements until he found the route he had driven every day on his way from the shop. He turned his collar up against the thin drizzle which had arrived to ruin the sunshine—or perhaps it had been here in London all along. Welcome home. He let the pedestrians and sluggish traffic fade away into the background until he was walking alone, almost in a trance. He walked up to the apartment building, realising he didn't live there anymore, that the key, if the locks hadn't been changed, would have been handed into the custody of the Foundation with all his other earthly possessions, and if Agent Howard had been telling the truth, had since been consigned to the furnace. A myopically hunched elderly man saw him staring futilely up and down the door, and asked him if he was a resident. "No," Keagan said (//you could have lied and said you'd lost your key//, the little voice said, //why didn't you?//), "I'm here to see—to see Lauren Vale. In 212, if she's still here." "Oh!" said the old man with some surprise. "I think she might be out. But I'll let you in—there's a sofa in the entrance hall if you want to wait, if you like." Keagan nodded mute agreement, and as they came through into the space he had traversed every day for almost two years, he found himself compelled to remark, for reasons that baffled him, "It's a lovely place, isn't it?" "Yes, definitely—” agreed the old man. "And very reasonably priced, at least for London. I only moved in recently." Keagan sat on the sofa for a few minutes before he decided the old man might have been wrong about Lauren being out and ascended the staircase. It was true, it had been a lovely place to live. They could never have afforded it on his income from the auto shop; Lauren had contributed the lion's share of the rent from her earnings as a hotel manager. He reached the apartment he had lived in and rapped on the door. When there was no response, he thumped on it with his fist, and when there was still no signs of life, he kicked it, leaving a noticeable dent in the lacquered door about the size and shape of the toecap of his hiking boots. He descended to the reception area and let himself out. He turned right on a whim and began wandering along the streets, having no particular purpose or direction. The feeling of being followed had returned, slightly—certainly not to the same, almost supernatural degree he had felt before on the Isle of Wight, but enough to keep him glancing over his shoulder. When he saw Lauren, he first wondered whether he was imagining it—had superimposed her features in his mind on the top of some other passer-by's face, but when she came closer, walking in the opposite direction alongside a man with short-cropped blond hair, he realised she was real. He had supposed she was still in work (something he had entirely forgotten in the teary reconciliations he had allowed himself to imagine), but obviously she had taken the day off. She was laughing and joking with her compatriot, who wore an awkward grin and a Union Jack T-shirt under a hooded jacket. She leaned in and pecked his cheek, and Keagan felt something in his chest wither away. "Lauren!" he shouted, jogging across the road in front of a white van, the driver of which elected to sound his horn despite the fact that he plainly wasn't moving an inch anyway in the capital's perma-gridlock. "Lauren, wait up." The little voice inside his head decided to weigh in, pointing out how unrealistic, how self-centred his notions had been of knocking on Lauren's door and finding her still tear-streaked, despondent, as though only a night had passed since his trial, only for heaven's light to shine across her features upon seeing him, Keagan, alive and free. More likely, it said, that she would have looked through the peephole, double-locked the door and called the police. But the look she gave him now—of simple, politely confused bafflement—//does he mean me?//—was if anything more hurtful. Oh no, he thought. No. "Lauren," he said. "It's me. I'm out." Lauren put on a fixed smile, the sort of smile you smile when someone clearly knows you, but you cannot for the life of you place them. "Oh right. I am silly, I can't quite recall where—” The man with her seemed to show more signs of recognition, scanning recent memories to try and find a match. When whatever process in his head found what it was looking for, his eyes seemed to grow more hostile and he stepped forward. "I've heard your voice before, mate. On the phone. Lauren, you know this man at all?" Lauren clearly hadn't been told of the exchange and her look of confusion only deepened as she tried to reconcile social politeness with the obvious friction with the man Keagan now identified as the voice on the phone. She took his arm, a security-seeking gesture. "Really, I'm not sure..." "Yeah? That's very interesting that is," said Callum, "given the story he tried to palm me off with. Said he was your old boyfriend." To Keagan: "What are you, some kind of stalker or something?" "Lauren," Keagan said, trying his best to ignore the buzzing behind his eyes. "Please. We went out for eighteen months, we lived together." Then, lamely, "We went to the Lake District, don't you remember?" And for a moment he was no longer sure whether that had been real or a dream he'd had once. "I've—I've been in jail." Lauren's expression changed, polite confusion giving way to fear, and her grip on her boyfriend's arm became tighter. "Callum, let's go." "No." Keagan said, and he realised what he was feeling was also fear, something cold and lonely and dark. "No. You've got a locket around your neck—I gave you that. It's got a picture of both of us in it, unless you've changed that too, like the fucking answerphone message. Look at it. Look at it!" Instead Lauren began to edge behind Callum. "You're clearly mental, mate." Callum said, putting one hand inside his pocket. It might be a phone, to call the police, or it might be something else. "Go away. Right now." "Not until you look at that locket," Keagan said. "Lauren, you were the one who said I had to choose whether we stayed together? Remember? You asked if I still loved you! Look at it!" Keagan lunged forward, elbowing Callum aside, grabbing at the locket. She shrieked, sudden and high, and pulled away, breaking the delicate chain around her neck. Callum immediately rushed back in, barging him to the ground. Keagan hit the pavement hard, leaving bits of tarmac embedded in his palms. The locket remained looped around one of his hands and he kicked Callum away as he bore down on him, trying to flip open its delicate golden clamshell with fingers that seemed too thick and coarse. He found the crack between the two halves of the locket and used one of his fingernails to prise it open. What was inside was a little piece of white card, the sort of thing that a department store might put inside a locket to show you the size of the photo you could insert. It had a little red logo on it, Wild Acres, and he remembered he had seen it before when he first picked out the locket, almost two years ago. "It's empty," he said thickly. Then, to Lauren, who was sagging against Callum, both of them breathing heavily, he bellowed. "See! Why would you have an empty locket! It doesn't make any sense. You put the piece of card back in..." And then he remembered she had never had the card, he had thrown it away before he had given it to her, and everything suddenly seemed to tremble and waver. //Falling through the cracks in the world,// Edward Gradley had said. A policeman, soft-capped in a day-glo jacket, saw the tableaux the three of them formed and walked over briskly. "Everything OK?" he asked. "I was just leaving," Keagan said, picking himself up. "This creep assaulted my girlfriend and stole her locket," Callum said. "He's fucking mental." "Do you have the lady's locket, sir?" The policeman turned a wary eye on Keagan. "Yes," he said, holding it out. He hadn't meant to hand it over, but the policeman took it, roughly, and fingered the broken ends of the chain. "But I bought it," he added, quietly. The policeman turned back to Lauren. He didn't say anything, but she flushed red, oddly, and looked at the ground. "I don't remember where I got the locket," she said carefully, as though exploring the edges of an abscess. "But I've never seen this man before in my life." "Do you have any identification?" This from the policeman to Keagan. "No," he said. "It all got burned up." He wasn't entirely sure why he added that detail, but it probably didn't help matters. //Show him the underpants//, the little voice said sarcastically. That'll make it all right. "Come on sir," the policeman said to Keagan, his tone revealingly gentle. "I think we ought to get you down the station, don't you? Figure out where you live and whether you're getting any help." "No," Keagan said, shaking his head. "No, I've got a meeting." "AA, is it sir? I'm sure we can get your sponsor in if you need to talk to someone. Come on now." ---- +++ Chapter Nine: "Safe as Houses" Callum initially insisted on following Keagan to the station to 'press charges', as he put it, but as they waited for a patrol car the policeman persuaded him that he need only take their contact details and would be in touch if they had more questions—especially pertaining to the matter of the locket which seemed to him very strange indeed, that Lauren couldn't account for its purchase despite it being as far as he could see brand new, not even a photo in it, but which he restored to her possession nonetheless. The back of the police car was soft and quiet, and the policeman hadn't cuffed him, but it was no less a cell than the prison van, and Keagan sat slumped, face in his hands. Half a day, he thought. That's the best the Foundation's memory drugs could do, if Edward Gradley was to be believed. This wasn't, couldn't be the Foundation's doing. When he arrived at the police station, he was parked in a small interview room with Ikea furniture and no windows, and left there while station staff dealt with other menaces to society, whose voices he occasionally heard raised in the corridor outside. Eventually a female PCSO with a notepad came in and tried to coax various details out of him while a police constable stood at the back. He considered giving them made-up information, but reasoned that was as likely to attract the attention of the Foundation if they were looking for an escaped D-Class prisoner who might have gone back to his old haunts as coming clean. Instead, he gave them his name, the address of the apartment he'd shared with Lauren, his auto-shop. He didn't give them a next of kin, partially because he suspected how that telephone conversation might now go and couldn't bear to be told 'Sir, we've spoken to Mrs O'Neill and she doesn't recall having a son'. He told them he had been in a fight at the shop and didn't elaborate. The PCSO went away and dutifully returned about half an hour later with a hopeless expression. He just about caught the edge of her conversation with the constable, which included the phrases 'delusional' and 'an estate agent's', which he guessed accounted for Lambeth Auto Repairs; a twinge of pain there, something else dear to him lost. She spoke to him quietly and patiently, explaining they weren't quite able to verify the details he'd provided, and gave him the option of trying again, perhaps, she suggested, with a different name? When he proffered a muttered decline to this offer, she informed him that they had contacted Maudsley Hospital and that he would be taken there in the first instance until they could figure out where he was staying. Keagan listened. He hadn't learned anything new, but it had confirmed everything he'd suspected. He had been erased, completely. Ironically the Foundation's offer seemed to have worked out after all for him, since the police's evident failure to find any trace of him presumably meant that his criminal record had indeed been quietly disappeared. Otherwise, he thought, the Metropolitan Police Force were about to discharge an escaped multiple murderer who had clearly identified himself to them into the care of the NHS; an embarassing lapse of vigilance there unless he had truly been wiped from the criminal justice system. The PCSO made her excuses and left to write up the paperwork before her shift ended. The mobile he'd been using as a watch had been taken away from him together with his carefully assembled rucksack of supplies and the residue of the stolen money (he suspected from the bumpiness of the chair that there was still some change in his back pocket from the train fare but feared to check it in case it was noticed). However, there was an analogue clock on the wall, which read quarter to five. Looks like Sam Deloitte's going to be ordering salad for one, he thought. There was an odd clattering sound in the hallway, clearly audible through the interview room door, and the constable left, warning Keagan to behave himself, lest, presumably, he make himself an imaginary fort out of the table or other such mischief. There seemed to suddenly be an acrid smell in the air, and a lot of people shouting and running. Then, the door clicked. Keagan got up and walked over to it—the handle turned and it opened, but what was beyond was an abyss of smoke, dense black and choking. He couldn't see any flames, and when he hurriedly closed the door again and put his palm to its surface it was still cool. The tendrils of smoke he had already admitted into the room rose up and gathered around the ceiling, where they refused to set off any kind of alarm or sprinkler. Okay, Keagan thought. You could stay here and hope it's not a fire or chemical fumes, and hope someone finds you before you run out of oxygen, so they can cart you off to a hospital for sectioning. Or, if that doesn't appeal, you could try to leave. He called up in his mind the path he had taken through the building, and for a moment it seemed very clear and lucid, until he hit a snag just before he reached the interview rooms—he'd been distracted by a mohawk'd young man refusing to be ushered into another such room, being held almost horizontal by a constable and planting skinny legs either side of the doorway while howling about the Magna Carta. He couldn't remember whether he had subsequently been led left or right. Oh well, he thought, 50-50 is better than nothing. He pulled his shirt up over his head and, taking a deep breath, blundered out into the corridor, feeling his way along the wall and trying to avoid making a turn into another interview room. The smoke clung to him, smothering even without trying to take a breath. He jarred his shin on what he identified as one of the low, magazine-strewn tables in the waiting area, provided for the benefit of family members waiting to talk to an arrestee and involuntarily exhaled, losing a good half of his precious hoarded oxygen. He limped on in the dark, until he collided bodily with what he supposed to be the reception desk, and was suddenly able to navigate by a dim, smoky light shining through the shirt. Blinking against the smoke that was still managing to permeate the weave of the garment he pressed on until he encountered and felt his way around the glass frontage before finding egress. After removing his head from the shirt he found himself amidst absolute bedlam, visitors mixed up with arrestees evacuated from the cells, all milling around inside a notional cordon created by equally confused-looking police and community support officers. There was still no indication of a fire alarm and half the police appeared to be on their mobiles, presumably making 999 calls ("What services do you require?" "This is the police. We need the fire service."). What the hell just happened, he thought? It took him a moment to realise no-one seemed to be looking in his direction, and began moving off towards the edge of the car park. The lack of attention didn't last long. "Hey," shouted a PCSO. "Were you inside? No-one leaves until everyone's accounted for!" No use denying it, with his smoke-blackened shirt and watering eyes. "I'm an engineer," he said, gesturing expansively as if to indicate that given a moment he could go get his tools and pitch in. The PCSO seemed unsure how to take this declaration, but at that moment Mr Mohawk, a kindred spirit, it appeared, of Ronny Feldspar, started shouting 'lawful rebellion!' and bit a police constable's ear, and Keagan took the opportunity to walk—calmly, confidently, not attracting any attention at all—out of the car park and onto the thoroughfare. The remaining two pound and forty-nine pence in his pocket sufficed to purchase a garish British Bulldog shirt from a street vendor; he rolled up the one he had stolen from a washing line on the Isle of Wight, wiped his face with it and threw it in a dog litter bin. The sensation of a pursuer had resumed and he looped around a tenement block to ensure one of the PCSOs had not taken it upon themselves to re-apprehend him. At one point he thought he saw someone ducking back into an archway when he turned—hardly police behaviour. But if he had been erased so thoroughly by 554, did even the Foundation retain any record of his existence? He thus almost managed to persuade himself he was being paranoid. Keagan had no means of telling the time as he approached Bermondsey Street (short of asking a policeman, which he thought might be pressing his luck), though the reader may be interested to know it was 17.47. Urbanity was a sleek, stylish vegan café slightly set back from the street with silver lettering on a black banner and rich purple furnishings around glass tables. He saw Sam Deloitte, kicking her legs under a slightly oversized bar seat and tucking into a large bowl of spring greens with a grim expression. He was about to enter when something drew his eye to the large men seated at two opposite corners of the café, sipping soy shakes. Something in the way they glanced at each other and Sam made Keagan uneasy. Police, or just friends brought along in case of trouble? He doubted anyone could connect the dots between the obviously disturbed man who had engaged in a street brawl earlier in the day and the informant Sam Deloitte was due to meet—based on everything he had learned thus far, she likely no longer even knew what he looked like—but still, he found he dare not go in. The persistent presence in his peripheral vision suddenly forced itself in on his awareness and he focused on it in the Urbanity storefront glass. Someone was standing a good distance away, constantly changing angle but always keeping Keagan in their field of view. Black beret, red Guerrillero Heroico T-shirt, pretending to be listening to music on his iPhone. The fucking college kid on the bus! Keagan turned away from the café and began walking towards the kid, who tried to wander off to one side and let Keagan pass. Keagan changed direction. Keagan saw the kid pale as he realised he'd been made and try to slip off into the crowd, but Keagan sprinted after him as fast as he dared moving against the flow of pedestrian traffic, and pursued him up a back street. Keagan rounded a corner—there was no sign of his tail, but it was a narrow, cobbled street, with no offshoots, and as he approached a substantial awning in front of a closed antique store he heard the sound of someone sucking air, trying to get their breath back. Keagan swung left as he passed the shop and barrelled into the kid, who had been crouched in the doorway. The kid pushed back with surprising strength and tried to squirm away around the edges of the awning, but Keagan reached out, grabbed his ankle and unbalanced him, bringing him down painfully on the cobblestones. Keagan hauled the tail up and grabbed both his arms behind his back, pushing him against the storefront. "Why were you following me?" he asked through clenched teeth, wrenching at the kid's shoulders. "Wasn't—I swear—OH SHIT—” the kid broke off into whimpering as Keagan held his forearm a couple of millimeters short of dislocation. "I think we both know that's untrue. Did you do something back at the police station? Set off a smoke grenade or something?" A startled look in the kid's eyes made Keagan loosen his grip slightly and the kid retaliated by kicking Keagan in the chest. Keagan staggered back but found he still blocked off the kid's exit from the awning, spreading his arms wide like a rugby player. "Are you with the Foundation?" he asked. "I'm not with the guys who abducted and experimented on you, if that's what you mean," the kid said with sudden fierceness. "We're the real Foundation. The good Foundation. We're trying to help you." ---- The 'safe house', as the kid described it, was a shabby Georgian two-storey that might once have been a linen bleachers. Lime had soaked its way into the pale, peeling walls, and the smell lingered, even a century on. There was no handle or lock on the door—from the outside one might have taken it for one of the many derelict period buildings littering Southwark's streets. The kid rapped out 'Shave and a Haircut' on the door and thirty seconds or so later it was opened to them by a rangy older man who in a more flattering light—say, lying on a street corner—might have passed for a member of the unhomed. The ground floor was unlit, dingy narrow hallways littered with discarded pizza boxes. The kid led Keagan upstairs, where, set back from the street, a number of more orderly rooms had been lit with desklamps, a distant chugging betraying the presence of a generator. "The building's officially empty, so we can't be seen drawing power from the grid," the kid explained. He pushed open a door. "This is the situation room." The 'situation room' had once been a parlour, and later, perhaps the location of the bleaching vats, as the smell of hydrogen peroxide was almost overpowering. A number of mismatched tables had been pushed together into the centre of the room, on top of which was spread a wide array of papers, books, CDs and mobile phones. "Burners," the kid explained when he saw Keagan looking at them. "Any communication with other cells has to be completely untraceable." Other than the shabbily dressed individual who seemed to act as the doorman, there were three other men in the building other than the kid and Keagan. He quickly began to think of them as Walrus—the professorial gentleman with the Wilford Brimley mustache and elbow-patches, Jitters—the twitchy guy in a City suit, and Bones, a gaunt, clean-shaven man with a thin mouth, who occupied himself by picking his fingernails with a knife. Though not a lot of import actually seemed to be taking place in the situation room, the three men did their best to give the impression of uninterrupted activity, plotting points on road maps, scribbling notes, and occasionally making phonecalls on the burner mobiles and taking brief status reports. Certainly no-one seemed to have time to spare for the new arrival, with the result that the kid was left to find Keagan a seat and fire up the camp stove to make a pot of tea. "I'm Renton," the kid said once the saucepan of water had boiled and been poured over the Tetley's packets in the chipped mugs he'd fished out of a cardboard box. "Mark Renton." "Keagan O'Neill," Keagan responded. "Look, this is all rather confusing. You said you were with the real Foundation?" "Yes," Renton nodded furiously. "The original SCP Foundation, the one before the war." "If you don't mind me saying, this doesn't look a lot like the place I was in. It looks a lot less ... well funded." Renton had the good grace to looked embarassed. "Um. Well, you see, I should probably clue you in on the situation here." He gestured to a large and slightly dog-eared map Blu-Tacked to the wall, made up of numerous printed pieces of A4. It was a map of the world, divided into various semi-regular quadrilaterals delineated by dotted lines. Each had a number—the lowest numbers started from the US eastern seaboard, spiralling more or less counter-clockwise, taking in the rest of the Americas, Europe and Africa, then Asia and the Far East and lastly Russia and the former Soviet Union states. The British Isles, Iceland and Greenland occupied a distorted wedge-shape that comprehended most of the North Sea, labelled '25'. Most of the world was coloured in a vivid red. Spots of blue stood out in the sea of red, almost hidden by a forest of pins pushed into them. The Baltic, central Africa, Cuba and Central America. Paraguay. Papua New Guinea. "Blue countries are the ones that still recognise and work with us. Red countries have switched to recognising the reactionaries." Renton pouted, as though offended that his favourite colour had been used to denote the enemy. "Reactionaries?" Keagan asked. "Guess they didn't tell you any of this while you were at the Sector-25 facility, huh?" Keagan looked blank. "That's the place on Salisbury plain. Wow, they seriously don't believe in letting people know what they're getting into, huh? Anyway, the Foundation is the successor to a whole bunch of societies and trusts set up to investigate and contain the preternatural. You've probably seen some of the stuff that gets hushed up." "Sure." "One of those precursors, ASCI—” he pronounced it 'asskey', like the web coding language “—that's the American Supernatural Containment Initiative—goes back to before the American Civil War. The Foundation itself was formed in the early 1900s and in the early years it was mostly American. There's a long story behind the Foundation's involvement in the First World War, and it has a lot to do with what happened in 1911 and something called the Feypact, but to cut it short, a //lot// of good people in the Foundation weren't happy with the way we'd handled it, including several members of the O5 Council." "The what?" "The Overseers. The people with the top level clearance in the Foundation. At least, they used to be, and still are in the real Foundation. Anyway, in 1924 one of our guys anonymously published a memorandum that argued we couldn't just keep the stuff we found in dark rooms and experiment on them—we had to use them for the benefit of mankind. That kind of set off a shitstorm." "Other people actually disagreed with that?" "Well, there was a little more to it, but yeah. These guys—what we call the reactionaries, real totalitarian hardcases—banned owning copies of the memorandum and tried to demote members of the O5 Council who supported it. All the way down to D-Class." Keagan thought for a moment. "But I thought the O5s were supposed to be the highest authority. You're talking about a coup." "Damn right. It all came to a head on 10^^th^^ June 1924. Our O5s knew the reactionary O5s had no support so they called for a vote of no confidence in the whole Council. If successful, it triggers new elections for every Overseer position except the one who called for the measure—and everyone with level 5 clearance gets to vote, not just the Overseers. Well, everyone voted, and they started counting. It got to 53% in our favour, then they—the reactionary O5s—stopped the count. Just straight up had security guards march in and take the ballot boxes away at gunpoint. Well, our guys declared the reactionary O5s traitors and ordered them arrested, except they'd already run off to facilities loyal to them when they got wind the count wasn't going their way. Then they sent the task forces loyal to them to take over Foundation HQ." "What happened?" "Civil war is what happened. We had the upper hand until 1925—I mean, we outnumbered them three to two. Then the reactionaries suckered in most of our forces by leaking evidence they were going to weaponise—well, we knew it was probably a hoax but we couldn't take the risk. Basically they were threatening to use this thing to destroy human consciousness—everywhere—unless we showed. They keep it in Pyongyang now in co-operation with the North Korean government, which should tell you something about the sort of people we're up against. We went in and basically we got slaughtered. Since then, the reactionaries have taken back almost all the pre-war sites and assets—at least, the ones they knew about. The reactionaries say the civil war ended in 1926, but as far as we're concerned, we're still here and still fighting!" Renton raised his voice to a passionate shout at the end of this summation as though he had been personally involved, which Keagan thought was rich coming from someone who probably wasn't alive 20 years ago let alone 60. Walrus looked over and gave a thumbs-up. "Since then, world governments have been steadily shifting to supporting the reactionaries. I guess you can't really blame them—the other guys got the bases and most of the supernatural stuff. But all that's gonna change, pretty soon." "What do you mean?" But before Renton could elaborate, the thrum of the generator, which Keagan had all but tuned out, choked and stuttered, and the lamps around the room began to flicker. "Oh, for god's sake, not this again," Walrus exclaimed wearily before the entire room was cast into pitch blackness. After a couple of seconds Keagan's eyes adjusted enough to pick out the faint traces of light shining through from the side of the building that faced the street, but not enough to see with. "Renton, get the stove on for light," someone else—probably Jitters—called. There was a lot of blundering and crashing around near Keagan before Renton called, in solemn tones, "I think I've just broken it." Keagan exhaled. "Look, just turn on some of the phones and use the screens as torches so we can see what we're doing. Where do you keep the generator?" In a few seconds, enough of the burners had been flicked on to provide a low level of radiance and Walrus, carrying a Blackberry before him for light, led Keagan further into the depths of the building where the generator sat lifeless on the floor of what had probably been a bedroom and, given the sleeping bag in one corner, apparently still was despite the racket the thing must output. A snaggled mass of splitters and extension cables spilled out into the corridor, strands snaking off into the four rooms used by the cell. "I try to keep it going, but there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to when it goes out," Walrus complained. "As far as I can see there's nothing wrong with it. A kick often works." Keagan flicked the breaker and turned the generator on again. It made what sounded like a three-quarter turn before shorting again. "See what I mean?" Walrus said. Keagan took the phone and held it close to the dead generator, prodding the click wheel every few seconds to keep the screen lit. After a few seconds he took the power cable, gently, and followed it along to the small black box, half-buried by wiring. He picked it up and shook it, listening to the rattle. "You're right, there's nothing wrong with it. The problem's with the inverter. These things are all solid state, so that rattling's probably the inside of the power switch come loose. Every time someone pulls on one of those wires, or trips over them in the corridor this thing's getting bashed about and it's pretty random whether the switch ends up touching the contacts. Right now it seems to be trapped in the back here and I can't shake it into place. I'll need a screwdriver—” he squinted at the box—"cross-head for preference—and something metal and fairly pliable I can wedge into the gap. The back plate of one of those phones would work." Walrus looked at Keagan for a moment, then disappeared, feeling his way along the wall. He emerged a few minutes later with Bones, who carried more burners for light and a toolbox. They pried the aluminium back off a T-Mobile Jive and Keagan bent it between his fingers into a rough U-shape, so it filled the space the switch had taken up and bridged the two contacts. He slid it back into place and reset the breaker before turning the generator on again. The rough chugging and smell of diesel resumed, half a second before the lights came back on. "Man of the hour," Renton commented drily, leaning against the doorway of the generator room. Then: "I wonder whether Schaeffer couldn't use someone like you on the Project." "The what?" Keagan asked. "What I was telling you about. Our latest and greatest attempt to get one over on the reactionaries. Yeah, I think he'd love to have you onboard. You seem to have the technical know-how and you've been inside a Foundation—well, reactionary-controlled—facility, so you've got some insight into this sort of stuff. We'd need to get our guy in Whitehall to approve it, though." "Look," said Keagan, "this all sounds great, but I'm not sure I'm cut out for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. You know, I think I'm going to head off now." Renton cleared his throat and Jitters strolled across the doorway in a manner calculated to appear casual but which Keagan realised conclusively cut off his means of escape. "I really don't think that's such a great idea," the kid said nonchalantly. "If our observers saw you crawl out of 882 alive—” "You mean 554," Keagan said, increasingly baffled. "No, I mean 882. 554 is what the reactionaries call it, because they don't have the original 554 any more. That's because we got it back in the 70s. It's a mirror that swaps you with a duplicate from a dimension with reversed chirality, for reference. Utterly fucking useless. Anyway, if we saw you, the reactionaries probably did, too. They don't have our easygoing attitude towards people who've got up close and personal with the preternatural, but you probably know that. Right now, we're offering you a job. You turn that down, we put you back on the streets and let you take your chances with the reactionaries." Renton stretched his hands wide. "Really, we're your best bet right now." Keagan thought for a moment. The men's demeanour told him they weren't as willing to let him risk capture by the Foundation as Renton implied—at the very least he knew about the cell's safe house and he could deduce from what they'd said that they either had some kind of listening post on the Isle of Wight, or informants within the Foundation itself. Best, then, to play along, at least until a moment presented itself to slip away. "Then I guess I'm in," he said warily. "So what next?" "Next?" Renton grinned widely. "I already told you. Now you meet our man in Whitehall. But first, we need to debrief you." ---- +++ Chapter Ten: "The Wedge" 'Debriefing' involved several days of recounting his experiences at the Sector-25 facility on Salisbury Plain—each of the cell members would take turns asking questions and noting the answers down on a reporter's pad. Hours passed strangely in the safe house, lit perpetually by desklamps—if you wanted to sleep, you went to an unlit room for a while, with the cell members generally taking it in shifts over an eighteen-hour period, with another six hours a day when all four were working at the same time—but Keagan reckoned it was Friday before the questions began feeling strained and the cell members started spending more time talking to each other and distributing the information he had provided throughout their organisation. Somewhere between the Chinese takeaways and the attempts to get him to sketch out a map of the facility on the back of a Liberal Democrat local election flyer from 2010, he had caught up with himself. There's my chance to cause a time paradox gone, he thought. The immaculately polished black BMW drew up to the front of the safe house about twenty minutes after Renton disappeared into one of the abandoned rooms with a mobile they kept locked in a medicine cabinet, presumably to avoid mixing it up with the sixty or so other disposable phones scattered throughout the safe house. It was quickly decided that Renton would accompany Keagan while the rest remained behind co-ordinating the rollout of the new intelligence. How incongruous it seemed to walk out of the nearly derelict safe house into the plush leatherette of the BMW, the driver a large clean-shaven man in a tailored suit who watched them over dark glasses. Keagan stopped for a moment, his hand on the open door. He looked up and down the street, calculating vaguely whether he stood a fighting chance of being able to run off. Renton interrupted his thoughts by shoving Keagan into the nearside seat in a fashion that was only calculated to appear playful then jumped in himself, so Keagan was forced over to the far door of the vehicle, where he noticed central locking was engaged. "Just get in, will you? Sir Malcolm doesn't like to be kept waiting." Keagan had seen London through the windows of his own Volkswagen Jetta (which now probably no longer existed), of a prison bus, of a police car. Now he saw it through the tinted windows of a sleek politician's taxi. It was raining slightly, and the last of the rush-hour crush was limping on, painfully, to its destination, secure in the knowledge that whilst they were at least forty-five minutes late, the weekend was only eight (or rather, seven and a quarter) hours away. Keagan had never understood the comments office-working clients made, often as early as Tuesday afternoon—how they wished the weekend was here! Oh for it to be a few hours further towards that goal. Then, when they returned the next Monday for their ride, they seemed none the happier for having had their wish—how quickly the weekend goes, they said, and then, back to the horror that they seemed to consider to constitute their lives. Of course, he had started in his trade as an apprentice at 14 and been self-employed as a vehicle repairman by 19, so maybe there was some crucial difference between owning a business and being subject to the whims of an employer. Keagan turned his attention from the glum faces at the steering wheels around them to the BMW's other passenger. Renton kept shifting in his seat, looking at his reflection in the window and adjusting his ridiculous beret. "Sir Malcolm's your man in Whitehall, then?" The name rung a dim bell, but nothing more—the sort of name that might come up in passing in a news report dealing with some intricate Constitutional question, five seconds before Keagan flicked over to something lighter. "Yes. Malcolm Urquhart. That's who we're going to speak to." "So he's in charge of—the real Foundation?" "No way." Renton's raised voice attracted the attention of the driver, who flicked a look over his shoulder. Renton suddenly looked very sheepish and continued in a lower voice. "I already told you. The O5 Council is the supreme authority. Even if—well, Commodore Schaeffer, seems to take his orders directly from Sir Malcolm these days." "Schaeffer? He's the guy behind the 'Project' you want me to help with." "Yes. If it goes to plan, the reactionaries will be severely embarrassed, and the UK government will have to change its recognition to us. It might even bring down the Coalition, which is why Sir Malcolm is so important, and why we have to give him consideration. He's the highest-ranking government official in Britain to acknowledge us for //decades//. If he could get the Government to recognise us as the legitimate Foundation—well, it's never happened before. No national government has switched back to recognising us after the reactionaries got hold of them. Anything could happen. We could be talking about the British Army expelling the reactionaries from Foundation facilities by force." "So how did you get into all this? If you'll excuse me asking." Renton looked out through the car door window. "Well, I haven't been in the Foundation very long." No surprise there, thought Keagan. "I started out with Socialist Students, then someone got me into the Art Violence movement. Have you ever heard of it?" Keagan searched his memory for a moment, then remembered Fredericka Mendelbrot and her bizarre list of supposed terrorist groups. "I think someone mentioned it once." "It's all about organising active resistance against an ossified political and art establishment order. You know, Art is Politics and Politics is Art. By making people confront Art—real Art, which is political thought manifest in a physical //statement//—you get them to wake up and see they've been supporting a political class that just imitates what it thinks they want to hear, just like old-order representational artists just copy what they see." He sounded like he was reading from a pamphlet. "I kind of burned a few bridges doing it. Metaphorically, I mean. Well, mostly. Then I started getting into environmentalist protest movements. I travelled across the country hooking up with other people who wanted to fight back against exploitation of our countryside. One of those ended..." he shuddered. "Not well. People ended up dead. I guess that's what you get..." he mumbled something mostly to himself that Keagan thought sounded a lot like 'taking orders from a tree'. "Anyway, that put me on the Foundation radar—both the reactionaries and the real ones. Fortunately for me, the real Foundation got to me first. They fixed my head, made it so I didn't hear ... well anyway, they set me right. The Art Violence group I was with used preternatural items to try and cause chaos. The Foundation wants to use them to make life better for everyone." "The real Foundation, you mean." "Of course. Like I said, the reactionaries just want to lock it away and decide what's 'real' and what's 'supernatural' for everyone else. They're a bunch of fascists when you get down to it. But I guess you already know that. Were you D-Class?" Keagan nodded. "They said the D means Disposable." "Really? Is that what they said it stands for? Heh." He suddenly looked awkward. "I mean, that sort of makes sense. Wouldn't want people to know what racist fucks they are." "What?" "The D. No, it goes all the way back to ASCI. The American Civil War. Back then, when they needed people to go into these sort of situations—preternatural, I mean—they would use black slaves. Then they invented a new psychological disorder to 'explain' the disappearances, said it caused sufferers to spontaneously escape into the wilderness, with the inference they'd just run away and died somewhere. They called it Drapetomania." "I see." Keagan actually thought it sounded like an after-the-fact explanation, the sort of thing that might circulate amongst people with a reason to believe it—because, say, it suits you to believe your opponents are the successors of vile slaveowners (ignoring the fact that by your own story your side has the better claim to descend from those same slaveowners). The same went for the 'Disposable' explanation Dr Skinner had proffered. Far more likely that when the phrase 'D-Class' had first been used the higher security clearances had followed a similar format—'B-Class', 'A-Class', etc. The higher rungs had been revamped, with the lowliest researcher now at level 1. Civilians, of course, are level 0. But what do you do with the people who had no clearance—no rights at all, in fact—but who inexplicably seem to take part in highly dangerous and sensitive experiments? You keep the old terminology and you make up various explanations for why it doesn't fit the pattern of the other clearance levels. "So where did you learn how to tail people?" Keagan asked. "Is that something the Foundation taught you? I mean, I thought someone was following me but I didn't notice you at all until I got to Southampton." Renton's brow crinkled. "What do you mean?" "Well," Keagan said, "you followed me all the way from 554—I mean, 882 or whatever—all the way to Cowes without me getting a clear look at you once. I thought I'd shaken you for sure. Then I saw you on the Southampton bus but had no idea you were following me. It's only when I saw you on Bermondsey Street I put two and two together." "No, I was given your photo and told to track you when you got off the boat at Southampton. I was meeting with a cell in the West Country. Camped out the ferry for the best part of a day watching for you. I thought you might have hitched a ride on one of the cars coming off the ferry and got past me. As far as I know you ditched our man at Culver Down—ducked onto a nature trail or something. You're saying someone was following you before you saw me?" "Yes—I mean, I'm not sure. I never actually saw anyone clearly. It was just a feeling." "Shit. Driver, pull over for a minute." The driver initially didn't respond and Keagan had to rap his shoulder with his knuckles and repeat the order. The driver eventually complied, rolling his eyes. They sat at the side of the road for a couple of minutes, the driver complaining that he was liable to be ticketed for stopping on double yellow lines, until Renton had satisfied himself that none of the vehicles behind them had pulled over or circled around. "Like I said," Keagan continued wearily, "I'm pretty sure I lost them when I got on the ferry, four days ago. You think they were with the Foun...—with the reactionaries?" "Maybe," Renton said. He was quiet for the rest of the ride. ---- The car purred into a reserved parking bay at the front of one of the many neoclassical stone piles on Horse Guards Avenue; from the armed police on the elegantly stepped entrance Keagan guessed it was something to do with the Ministry of Defence, if not actually part of Main Building. If anyone thought it odd that a teenager dressed like a Daily Mail reader's fever dream of a leftist student and a slightly disheveled man in his early thirties and a shirt with a cartoon bulldog on the front were ushered quickly and respectfully inside, no-one commented on it. Renton glanced in Keagan's direction, critically. "I should have had you neaten yourself up," he said. They were given visitor badges—Keagan noticed with some chagrin they had spelt his name 'Cagan'—and escorted up several levels of modern, open-plan workspaces before they reached a number of more private personal offices near the top of the building, wood-panelled with rich carpet underfoot. The name on the panel of the door at the end of the corridor read 'Sir Malcolm Urquhart MP—Minister Without Portfolio'. The guard rapped briskly on the door with his knuckles then stood by, hands clasped behind his back. "Okay," Renton said to Keagan, exhaling. "Let me do the talking. If he asks you something, try to be polite, OK? Don't make him angry." Keagan found himself suppressing a chuckle. "What is this, a job interview?" Renton scowled. "Enter," said the man inside. The guard pushed the door open and permitted Renton and Keagan to enter. The man at the desk set aside a stack of papers he had been working on and looked up, gesturing widely that they should take a seat. The first thing that struck Keagan about the man were the eyes—piercingly blue and vaguely uncomfortable to look at. He had a full head of dark hair, little twists of grey insinuating themselves in the forelock, and a sort of blandly handsome politician's face with a pencil moustache of the sort worn by British pilots in old war movies. He was smiling, and the teeth were brilliantly white and even, but the effect was rather spoilt by an unfortunate case of diastema, splitting the smile in two. Keagan sat down in the plush, dark green chair, a relic of Victoriana, as was much of the rest of the room. Sir Malcolm had outfitted his office with two dark oak bookshelves, densely lined with faded cloth back tomes. Keagan caught glimpses of //On the Origin of Species// nestling alongside //The Pilgrim's Progress// and other volumes he didn't recognise, the //Bhagavad Gita// and //Tripitaka//. A man of eclectic tastes, then. Sir Malcolm rose from his chair and walked around the desk, clasping his hands together. "Such a pleasure to see you again, my dear boy—Benton, was it? Or was it Brent?" He seemed not to notice the visitor badges. "Renton, sir," Renton said. "Mark Renton." "Of course, of course. You must excuse me, it's been a hellish few days." He put his hand gently on Renton's shoulders and the kid suddenly went stiff, jaw clenched involuntarily. Keagan thought Sir Malcolm's hands remained there just a little longer than seemed justifiable. Sir Malcolm suddenly clucked his tongue and turned to Keagan. "And this is the man you've been telling me about! So you've seen what's happening on the other side of the curtain and lived to tell about it. I'd like to shake your hand." Keagan extended a hand almost by reflex and Sir Malcolm grabbed it firmly, eyes searching, measuring, evaluating. "I-I thought he could be of some use up North," Renton said hesitantly. "Commodore Schaeffer keeps sending messages saying he's short of skilled engineers. Keagan seems pretty handy at that sort of thing." "Hmm," Sir Malcolm said. "A good thought that. Try to hold it a little longer." He took his seat again, picked up the phone on his desk. "Samantha, please tell Matthew we're ready for tea." "Oh, we really couldn't..." Renton began. "I wouldn't dream of letting you go until you'd had something warming. I imagine it can get pretty miserable in those unheated safe houses." A few seconds later there was a knock on the door and Sir Malcolm clapped. A young man in a suit and tie entered with a silver tray bearing a number of rough-hewn dark vessels and two packets of green powder. "It's //maccha//," Sir Malcolm explained in response to Keagan's dubious gaze. "Milled green tea. First taken thick, then a thinner tea in the second cup." He thanked the aide, who bowed and left quietly. Sir Malcolm exhaled audibly as he snipped the first packet open with a slim pair of scissors and stirred the mixture into the cups. The vivid green spiral pattern it made as the silver spoon whisked at it reminded Keagan of something, but then it dissolved, melting into the water until it became a uniform opaque green. The tea was warm and vaguely sweet, but seemed to Keagan oddly insubstantial, the flavour constantly verging on perceptible then disappearing like smoke. The second cup, produced from the finer-milled powder in the other packet, was even fainter, seeming to him to be little more than hot water. Renton made attempts to appear enthralled by the drink but evidently found the texture disagreeable, as he kept making little coughing-retching spasms as he choked it down. After they had finished they sat quietly, Sir Malcolm smiling beatifically. "If you'll excuse me saying," Keagan said, and Renton looked over at him with an alarmed expression, "isn't there normally more to a tea ceremony? I don't know, I'm just going off the TV here." Sir Malcolm's smile wavered for a moment before returning in full force. "Oh yes, there's a lot of nonsense about time and place, and taking your shoes off and ritual washing. To be honest, I've never seen the point. Who has time for it? No, I've boiled it down to its essence, if you'll excuse the pun—green tea taken hot, twice a day, to sharpen the mind. Now," he continued, "to business. How much has the young man here told you about the Project?" Keagan thought for a moment before he spoke, neither wishing to imply that Renton had given too much away nor that he had failed to brief Keagan for the meeting adequately. "That it's a plan to embarass the Foundation—I mean, the faction currently recognised as the Foundation—and get the UK Government to flip its recognition to your side." Sir Malcolm chuckled. "A little simplistic, but that's the general notion. Now, I imagine having been inside a Foundation facility you've seen that the world we're operating in doesn't exactly conform to the notions of Western materialism." He paused for a moment, and Keagan nodded to prompt him to continue. "Well, our fundamental problem is that at its root, the government doesn't //want// to believe the supernatural exists. Most of my fellow parliamentarians would rather exist in the world of their constituents, where the main problems in life are pot holes and the credit crunch. The Foundation, you see, just does //too good// a job—any preternatural outbreaks get stamped out in quick order, forgetfulness-pills get passed out and everyone goes home. Until a few years ago the Government didn't even require the Foundation to notify it after an incident." "What happened a few years ago?" "Let's just say Her Majesty got an up-close-and-personal experience with a rather extreme outbreak—some sort of self-help book gone literally viral—and refused to take the pills from anyone but her personal medical staff. She summoned the PM—that was Major—and he threw a hissy fit when he discovered that his security clearance was five levels too low to be briefed on the existence of the Foundation. He went to Maggie, who of course had been involved with the Ronald Reagan thing and knew a fair bit, and that was that; these days GCHQ liaises between the Home Secretary and the Foundation and produces a report for Cabinet meetings. That's the crack. And now we have the wedge." Keagan blinked. "I think you've lost me." "Then I'll be quite plain. There a number of things out there that the Foundation knows about but doesn't really contain or control in any significant way. Dormant things, not quite sleeping, not quite dead. Things that would strain even the copious ability of the Foundation to cover over. We're going to wake one up!" "Erm, are we talking Godzilla here? This all seems pretty far-fetched..." "Keagan," Renton began coldly, but Sir Malcolm cut him off. "Actually, my dear fellow, you're not far off the mark. Up in Greenland, there's something that really has to be seen to be believed—a monster that's been sleeping since the start of the last Ice Age. Commodore Schaeffer is up there now, working on rousing it from its slumber. A lot of politicians in this country and in the Nordics are going to be brought very rudely face-to-face with the supernatural, and they won't be able to rely on the Foundation to keep it from becoming common knowledge. I will be able to make the case that the Foundation has simply failed in its duties to the common good—that Britain needs to take a good, long look at whom it trusts to keep it safe. Can we continue to rely on unproved spinoffs who since taking the reins have recklessly endangered our nation and its friends and allies?" His voice rose and Keagan realised he had seamlessly shifted into a rehearsed speech. Sir Malcolm slapped the table with his palm. "No! We //must// act to take the //unquantifiably// dangerous and unpredictable supernatural arsenal being stockpiled in this country out of the hands of these renegades and return it to the Foundation that was first established to secure our freedom and prosperity. Furthermore, Mister Speaker—” he's mad, Keagan realised. Completely mad. “—I call for a full and frank public inquiry into when and how the transfer of this country's support to the unlawful clique who now engage in paramilitary action on British soil was approved and abetted!" Keagan clapped, weakly, unsure how to respond. "Anyway—” Sir Malcolm swayed slightly, slightly taken aback it seemed by his own fit of impromptu rhetoric. "Anyway. This young man seems to have volunteered you for the general effort. Are you any good with vehicles?" "I was a mechanic," Keagan ventured. "A good one. I'd supply references but I don't think my clients would remember me." "He's been through 882," Renton explained, quickly. "The history-erasing machine." What Keagan had felt hadn't been a machine, but he kept silent. Sir Malcolm began explaining the details of what Keagan would be required to do—maintaining equipment under punishing conditions and helping out in any way besides—but Keagan felt his gaze and attention slipping away. Sir Malcolm's head seemed to balloon in size relative to his body, his facial features shrinking until they occupied an area the size of a postage stamp on his face. Visual distortion, a part of him thought distantly. That's a new one. He realised he couldn't move—the chair was the size of a continent and he sat precariously at the edge, feet dangling over an infinite precipice. The room retreated and it roared out of the darkness: OM Please, I don't know what you want. MANI You're 1447, aren't you? The thing in the box. PEME //Is that him?// HUNG Is that... what? What do you want with me? OM //Help me stop him.// Please, I can't, I can't, //there's too many of us in here// "actually below the freezing point of petrol, if you can imagine it, so I understand they have a system of windbreaks." Sir Malcolm snapped into focus and proportion, and incredibly he was still talking. Some part of Keagan had remained focused enough to nod knowledgeably, and he heard himself say: "You know, I think it would do me a lot of good. It definitely sounds bracing; I'm not much of a summer person anyway." "Well then, it's settled!" Sir Malcolm said. "Benton, send one of your chaps to escort him on the way north; he'll stay with Schaeffer's lot. You, I want back with the Bath group. The rest of your South West London lot should report to the general South East operations corps." "You're breaking up the cell?" Renton looked heartbroken. "I—I would need to get permission from the chain of command..." "No need, no need," Sir Malcolm brushed aside the suggestion. "There are two types of people in this world, my boy, those who act, and those who fear to act. After this, the whole world is going to be different. You should align yourself with those who have the power to shape it." Something in what Sir Malcolm had said made the hairs on the back of Keagan's neck stand on end. Carefully, quietly, he said: "Sir Malcolm, may I ask you a question?" Sir Malcolm turned back to Keagan, and smiled his broken smile. "Of course. Fire away." "You said most MPs and Lords and whatever don't want to believe that the Foundation is real—that all this supernatural stuff is going on. What makes you different?" Sir Malcolm rose again from his chair and began to orbit the office. "Well, I've always been a little more open-minded than my peers. When I was younger I became interested in spiritualism, and metaphysics. Later, I looked to eastern religions. Siddhartha Gautama, Lao Tzu. I discovered that I had a certain acuity of mind that acquitted itself well in the //deeper// exercises of these disciplines. I spent some time in Tibet with a group of monks there—they taught me the art of externalising my thoughts, manifesting them into something visible. To do it you have to be able to precisely visualise what you are creating down to the smallest detail. It can take pupils years to master, but I found a shortcut. I thought—whom do I know so intimately I can visualise every part of their body—and even their mind?" He waited for guesses. When none were forthcoming from Keagan or Renton he went on, triumphantly. "Myself! I visualised and externalised //myself//. The monks said to choose something else, but I think they say that to everyone. I could tell they were cross I had short-circuited their windy lectures." Keagan sat there, listening to Sir Malcolm pouring out his lunatic ideas, feeling more certain and more sick every moment. The phone on Sir Malcolm desk began to ring. "Just a second," he said. He picked it up and listened to the voice on the other end. "I'm sorry," he said, brow furrowing, "but this is a personal call. I don't think you need anything further from me?" Renton mutely shook his head and began to rise. Keagan sat in near-shock for a moment until Renton pulled at the sleeve of his T-shirt to get him to his feet. Sir Malcolm waved distractedly in their direction then turned towards the window with the phone in his hand, cord spiralling from him back to the desk. The door was opened for them a fraction of a second before they reached it by the guard, who ushered them out into the corridor. "What the hell was that?" Renton hissed, as enough space opened up between them and the guard for conversation. "You completely spaced out in there." "It's nothing, really. Just—I remembered something important." "Really?" Renton asked scornfully. "More important than being sent to Greenland to help in a plan to topple governments and overthrow a secret conspiracy? You must have some interesting priorities going for you there." Keagan didn't reply. It was currently taking a certain amount of self-control not to turn around, run back through the offices, kick open Sir Malcolm's door and throttle him until he confessed to being the man who had corresponded with 'Jacky' just days before the Judge's murder. He was reasonably sure given the police presence on the premises that he wouldn't get very far afterwards. It was all circumstantial, but Keagan himself had no doubt that he had seen and talked to the Judge's last mark. What did that mean? He had assumed since attacking and interrogating Patrick Goettsch that it had been the organisation that had approached him that had enticed Goettsch into perjury with the promise of freedom and protection—had naturally called up in his mind the image of Fredericka Mendelbrot sitting opposite Goettsch, telling him he would be taken far away from the man he was about to accuse. But thinking back, Goettsch had never actually identified the individual who had fed him the information about the scam—only that they represented the Foundation. //Which one?//, he thought. They waited in the reception, at Renton's urging, to see whether there might be any further word from Sir Malcolm after he had finished his call, and his instincts proved good—a crumpled note was borne down to them by one of the security guards, which on folding turned out to be a napkin enclosing three £50 notes. On it had been written, in perfect copperplate, 'get him kitted out'. "I guess you can't really have credit cards," Keagan reflected, "because then they could trace where the money was coming from." "No," Renton agreed. "Got to be cash. Come on, we'll hit up some outdoor stores." He looked thoroughly miserable as they walked down the steps. "No offence, but it seems like Sir Malcolm is giving out quite a few orders. Not just to this Schaeffer guy." "It seems that way, doesn't it?" Renton said, bitterly. "Doesn't it just seem that way?" Any thoughts Keagan had of escape had for the moment gone into hiding—as he followed Renton through a series of clothing and shoe-shops, drawing strange looks from the cashiers and other customers as he walked out into the late summer heat carrying thermal jackets, ski goggles and snowshoes. I can't stop, he thought. Not before I know why. "I don't have to put all this on now, do I?" Keagan asked, only half-jokingly. When they returned to the safehouse Renton shooed Keagan off into one of the unused rooms and broke the news to the other cell members. They seemed to take it, if possible, even worse than Renton, and Keagan heard shouting building to a fever-pitch before a table was overturned with a number of soft, plinking crunches that could well have been a dozen or so of the cell's burners calling it a day. Eventually Bones, haggard-eyed and lips curled into a snarl, opened the door of the room Keagan was in and barked they had better set off straight away. Keagan insisted it was only humane that he be allowed at least a wash first, and on reflection Bones conceded that sharing a car with a man who hadn't even seen a flannel in four days straight might not be such a brilliant idea. Accordingly, they boiled some water in an electric kettle and sent him off with a shaving mirror, a piece of wadded-up shirt and a comb. When he was finished, he thought the week's worth of stubble he was sporting still made him look like someone you wouldn't give a lift to, but at least he was somewhat cleaner and more presentable. It was midday by the time the rent-a-car arrived, driven by what was presumably a member of another London-based cell, or perhaps of the more general regional cadre Sir Malcolm had mentioned. Bones said nothing to him as he got in the passenger seat; Keagan had barely clambered into the back and closed the door before the driver hit the pedal and started a vigorous but ultimately futile attempt to navigate the streets of London at speed, which resulted in a nauseating stop-start motion as he thrust forward then slammed on the brakes in the face of traffic lights and queues. Given the limited communication that seemed to be taking place Keagan presumed he knew where he was going, otherwise he was going to look pretty silly. His concerns multiplied as the driver crossed Westminster Bridge, beeping at slow-moving traffic and jockeying between lanes the whole way, then made efforts to join the southbound New Kent Road. "Maybe I've got this wrong," Keagan said, "but aren't we supposed to be going to Greenland?" "We are," Bones said, and apparently considered that ample information to satisfy his petitioner's curiosity. Keagan sat watching people walk across a pedestrian crossing in front of them while the driver revved the car impatiently. Bones at least seemed satisfied, unless, of course, he had absolutely no idea which direction they were, in fact, going. When they passed Elephant and Castle with no signs of changing direction, Keagan felt it his duty to speak again. "I'm probably a novice at this. Isn't Iceland generally more—I don't know, north?" Bones responded, voice drenched in a corrosive sarcasm that left Keagan's mild attempt looking distinctly weedy. "Is it? I had no fucking idea." Finally, the lunatic at the wheel was able to distract himself from trying to run over grandmothers long enough to put Keagan out of his misery. "You don't go north from London if you wanna get to Iceland, mate. We're going through the Eurotunnel, driving through the Low Countries, then getting the ferry from Denmark." That's me told, Keagan thought. They joined the M20 at Dartford and once again the buildings evaporated, this time into the heat-hazed tarmac wilderness of the motorway. They stopped at a petrol station in Aylesford—Bones got out and would return a few minutes later with Lucozade and Polos—apparently his idea of a balanced meal on the move—and copies of The Sun. The headline: 'I still hear his awful scream when I close my eyes'. Something about a shark attack. Keagan opted not to pick up the copy Bones chucked him—he'd always been more of an Evening Standard man in any case. The sports, anyway. They reached Folkestone at about 3.30pm, and Keagan discovered the reason for the driver's haste. Somehow Keagan had imagined that one //drove// through the Chunnel, had prepared himself for just mile after mile of lights flashing by in darkness on enclosing brick walls, like Blackwall writ large. Of course, that was a nonsense—imagine the effect of a pileup 15 miles in, deep under the English Channel, tangled wreckage cutting Britain off from the continent, impossible to recover and stranding hundreds of people below the English Channel, all slowly suffocating. Instead, a vehicle shuttle whisked 600 vehicles at a time back and forth between Folkestone and Calais. "Erm, don't we need passports?" Keagan suddenly realised with some alarm as they drew up in the line to roll onto the shuttle. He couldn't be entirely sure that his own would not have expired had it not almost certainly been utterly erased from existence; the last time he had used it had been a senior year University jaunt, a decade ago. Bones tossed him something dark blue over his shoulder. Keagan caught it; no mention of European Union, 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland' rather than 'Northern Ireland'. Pre-2006, which meant pre-biometric. "You're Martin Bell," Bones said without further explanation. The customs official didn't even ask to see in the trunk—I thought they were supposed to be doing that now, Keagan thought vaguely—he just waved them through when he saw three UK passports pressed to the windows. The interior of the shuttle was brightly lit and the walls a savagely cheerful yellow but the sudden relief from the maniac at the wheel's driving style was such that Keagan felt immediately drowsy and curled up on the back seat, and in the absence of conversation from his fellow travellers was soon asleep. ---- The two men entered Lambeth Auto Repairs where he was working in the auto shop. The long-handled wrench was in his hand; levering off the rusted wheel nuts on a 2004 Suzuki Swift. Last time they had visited him they had worn expensive suits but seemed ill at ease in them, one rolling cigarette papers in clammy hands. He didn't look at them, because they didn't exist for him, yet. If he had to look at them, think about them again, they would become real and he would have to make a decision. I didn't get your call, Theo Megali said. Our offer only has a limited time period. There was a clatter from the back of the shop as Steven Crae began picking things up and dropping them on the floor like an animal, taking his world away from him, one properly knolled array of spanners at a time. I'm not interested in what you're selling. Get out of my shop. I've tried to be absolutely as clear as I can be. I reckon I get you. I don't think you get us at all. Just one more moment, please, just let me stay asleep one more moment. Something rustled nearby, Megali's jacket, and he couldn't put it off any longer. A hand on his shoulder. He turned and swung the wrench, but it went wide. Megali drew the knife out of his jacket as Crae stepped in with the bat, hit his hand just above the knuckles. He dropped the wrench on the floor. Megali stepped in and he watched him slide the silver thing in his hand into his abdomen once, twice, four times, six times. There's no pain at first, something strangely academic. Then there is pain; unimaginable, icy cold. He's drawing back, sinking into the ground, dissolving. "Oh shit," he heard Megali say. "Oh shit. Why the fuck did you do that?" "Me? You stabbed him, you fucking wanker, why the hell did you bring that thing?" His vision faded but he heard footsteps, running from the shop. At least close the door, he thinks. //You didn't notice when you died, did you?// Shut up, you bastard. //What's your name?// Martin Bell. //What's your name?// D-8671. //What's your name?// Keagan O'Neill. //What's your name?// He awoke shivering, and folded his arms over his chest and belly, the scabbed-over wounds aching with cold. There was daylight outside the carriage windows. ---- The French customs was the next hurdle, but it seemed the fix was already in. Bones waved out of his window at a customs official—a tubby man with greasy black hair and a goatee—and told him in carefully enunciated tones, appropos it seemed of nothing for any ticket had surely been arranged in advance—"Second Class, Please." The French official suddenly adjusted his cap, muttered 'Ce n'est pas grave, monsieur' and gestured for them to move on. Other than the disconcerting sensation of driving on the right hand side of the road there seemed to be little to differentiate the hours that subsequently passed from those Keagan had spent recently being driven through English countryside, save only that Bones spent more time fiddling with a sat-nav and giving directions such as 'north for fifty kilometres' which were, in the stated opinion of the driver whose name Keagan had still not learned, 'completely fucking useless'. They reached Belgium as it was getting dark and Bones took his shift at the wheel. His driving style was considerably smoother than the man he replaced but he made up for this by making repeated turns onto the wrong side of the road, then having to reverse back out into Antwerp traffic which made the journey if anything more nerve-splitting. Only once they reached the German Autobahnen did he come into his own, cruising past Osnabrück, Bremen and Hamburg as his co-driver snored in the passenger seat. Keagan remembered hearing that Denmark had vowed to beef up its border controls with Germany despite being in the Schengen Zone—this however presented no impediment to their progress, as rather than go through customs Bones abruptly stopped the car and roused his passengers with the words "Get out." He then proceeded to stride away over a starlit field with Keagan and the other cell member lagging behind Keagan managed to bruise his elbow after tripping in a narrow stream which on reflection was probably the border. On the other side, Bones began wandering, apparently aimlessly, holding his arm outstretched. Keagan was about to ask his compatriot if Bones was feeling alright when suddenly a brief flicker of light from his hand was matched by a flash and unlocking tone from what he had assumed to be a boulder but was in fact a Ford C-Max with Danish plates parked underneath a tree. They drove north as day broke, and as Keagan watched through the windows of the car it seemed as though time had been accelerated, each hour colder and greyer than the last, Summer giving way to Autumn as they passed through Aalborg and over the bridge to Jutland. The water beneath the ferry departing Hirtshals was clear and silvery, the light from a sun that seemed unnaturally low in the sky gleaming off it. Keagan had asked off-hand how long the journey would take and was astonished to learn he would be on the ferry for two days. The food was palatable if blandly prepared and Keagan slept well and dreamlessly, luxuriating in the fact that for the first time since being convicted he had a cabin to himself, even if Bones contrived to manifest every time Keagan entered or left. They arrived in Seyðisfjørð, Iceland after a brief stopover in the Faroes—the locals were friendly and photogenic, and spoke excellent English, even if they seemed slightly dubious of Bones' explanations that the three rough-looking men with overnight bags and one case of clothes between them were researchers going to study global warming in the glaciers of north-east Greenland. They should have sent Renton, Keagan reflected, he could probably have sold them on the environmental angle. But they didn't need to convince the Icelanders of their intentions—one taxi drive later they made Egilsstaðir Airport where a Cessna stood ready. The pilot, a man Bones hailed as Blaer, was swaddled in padded thermals, his face all but hidden by a thick woolen scarf. "You should wear anything warm you have now," he said, "I tell the Commodore, if you freeze to death, not my problem." This prompted Bones to crack open the briefcase and apportion what outdoors garments they had not already donned, though Keagan still felt alarmingly underdressed next to the Icelander. The propeller spun up and they creaked forward along the single airstrip, gaining speed until they rose into the grey sky. It didn't take long before the cold, which Keagan had thought oppressive in Iceland, began to settle on them, biting at their bones. Blaer spent much of the journey on the radio, talking in urgent, clipped Danish. "He's telling them we're landing at Kulusuk Airport," Bones explained. "Actually, we're going to tragically lose contact with air traffic control and crash about 20 miles north near the Kangerdlugssuaq Glacier." This was the longest sustained speech Keagan had heard Bones produce, and its content hardly reassured him. He watched the horizon for signs of land. About fifteen minutes later, Blaer brought the pantomime to a climax, several times yelling what sounded for all the world like 'motorfail' before flicking the radio off. "Hold onto something," Blaer said cheerfully before wrenching the plane onto a new course with what seemed like an excessive degree of violence. The bag with the satnav and skiing goggles started sliding around below the seat and bashing them in the shins until Keagan stepped on it. He wiped the condensation on the window away with his sleeve and saw they were passing over land—snowbound, but //terra firma// nonetheless. "That's it," Bones said fifteen minutes later, pointing out a distant flicker of light which as they approached resolved itself into a collection of buildings. Fortunately, their purported fatal crash turned out to be a relatively controlled and moderately comfortable landing at a small concrete runway at the edge of the compound after obtaining permission to land from the English-speaking voice that answered when Blaer retuned the radio. As they descended Keagan noted two low buildings which might have been barracks and a garage, a taller structure which looked like it did double duty as a command post and traffic control, and a curious collection of tumbledown buildings ringed by a high fence, the whole camp surrounded by short sections of cinderblock wall that were probably the windbreak Sir Malcolm had mentioned. "Isn't it a bit risky to give the impression we've crashed?" Keagan asked. "I mean, won't the authorities send out a search party? They'll expect to find a burned out Cessna with three dead bodies in it." "Already organised that," Bones said, and Keagan decided he and the cell member probably weren't destined to be the best of friends. Once the Cessna had come to a halt they bundled out and were greeted by five men in large parkas, two with Colt C8 Carbines slung over their shoulders. The centre figure approached and shook hands with Blaer and Bones before dislodging just enough of his scarf to speak. "Welcome to Greenland, gentlemen," he said in cut-glass tones that could have secured him a career as a 1970s BBC newsreader. "Are you ready to change the world?" ---- The warmth inside the radio station hit them like a blast furnace and they quickly shed their outer layers. The man who had addressed them removed his hood to reveal an alarming profusity of ginger hair and beard, surrounding crinkled blue eyes and an aquiline nose. This, Keagan surmised, must be Commodore Schaeffer. "You'll be bunked with the men in the barracks," he boomed, "but tonight you'll dine with me. Just a little ritual. This is the engineer, yes?" He looked Keagan up and down. A bulky blond man emerged from the kitchen area with steaming mugs of Bovril and the four new arrivals accepted them gratefully. "Yes," Bones said. "Sir Malcolm thought he might be of use." "He will be, if he's any good. Kaali, give him a quick tour of the place with particular emphasis on the garage. That's where he'll be working. Two of the 88s broke down last week, so he can start on those first thing tomorrow." Then, to Keagan, "I didn't catch the name." "Keagan, sir." Keagan wasn't sure exactly how one addressed a Commodore, if indeed the rank was legitimate and not simply a nickname. Schaeffer chuckled. "Good to make your acquaintance. Come on, let Kaali give you a tour. I think the others have seen the camp before—yes?—well then, I can give you a rundown of our current progress in the map room." With that, Schaeffer turned heel and vigorously strode upstairs, leaving Bones, Blaer and the driver to trot after him. The large blond man who was presumably Kaali shrugged and began re-donning his outer layers. Keagan was hardly thrilled by the notion of going back outside so soon but reasoning that dawdling probably wouldn't go over too well likewise redressed, and they plunged back into the cold, now accompanied by snowflakes swirling in the large spotlights that had come on to illuminate the base. "The concrete breakers around the base protect us from the worst of the chill," Kaali said, which Keagan found hard to believe given how biting the wind was even within the barrier. "Out there the wind can be strong enough to tip over even a Unimog if it's on rough terrain." He rewound the scarf around his face, only speaking again when they had attained the shelter of the barracks. "There's 32 Foundation men on the base, mostly Danish ex-military. They oversee the work and keep the peace." "Is Schaeffer a real Commodore?" Keagan asked, gulping what still seemed like mostly frozen air. "He held that rank in the West German Navy. Whether the //Bundeswehr// still considers him an officer I couldn't say." The barracks were built longways, with open-ended partition walls dividing the area into pods, each containing two bunk beds. At the end, a smaller kitchen and dining area showed some signs of activity, iron vessels on gas stoves boiling up what smelt like a lamb hotpot. Keagan was minded to stay a little longer but Kaali was already pushing back out. He walked quickly past the large fenced area and its shacks with Keagan lagging behind—he saw the occasional wisp of smoke rising from amongst the buildings. "Who lives there?" Keagan asked, looking through the wire mesh. "The workers," said Kaali, muffled through his scarf, and did not elaborate. The garage was a large, corrugated iron-clad building at the edge of the complex with a concrete floor, and was every bit as cold as Keagan imagined it would be. Even with a few oil heaters scattered around the floor providing sharp, prickly heat, probably for the benefit of the vehicles, he'd definitely be working in gloves. The Project's vehicle fleet was an eclectic assortment of jeeps, snow ploughs, half-tracks and trucks, all by the looks of them military surplus. Most of the models were unfamiliar to him but he saw what the Colonel had described as 88s—three half-ton Land-Rovers with fully enclosed carriages, two of which had been all but dismembered, parts strewn around on the floor. "Broke down, huh?" Keagan commented. "Looks like someone's ripped the things apart." "That's Teitur for you. Try to stay on his good side. He's not the best vehicle mechanic but he's been the one holding everything together up until now. He's probably out at one of the the drill sites." "You know," Keagan said, trying to pre-empt Kaali before he strode back out into what was threatening to become a blizzard, "I don't think anyone's actually explained to me what we're doing here. Drill sites? Sir Malcolm seemed to think there was some kind of 'monster' out here." Kaali grinned. "The Commodore will want to take you out onto the glacier tomorrow. You'll see it for yourself then. If I tried to explain it now, you wouldn't believe it." ---- Dinner was a steaming roast poulet with stuffing balls laced with orange rind and crisp roasted parsnips. To celebrate the arrival of the newcomers Commodore Schaeffer had them open a bottle of 1936 cognac, which went a long way towards restoring Keagan's spirits after his tour of the frozen base. They ate in the map room at the top of the radar tower—the table covered in aerial photography and topographic maps of the area had been quickly cleared away by two of Schaeffer's men and replaced with a spotless white tablecloth. The room had large windows set into each wall, against which white snowflakes beat continually in front of a black sky, but the whole room was warmed by the kitchen below, giving the strange impression of eating on the top of a rocky plateau, exposed to the elements yet warm and dry. Schaeffer played a charming and sophisticated host, and the discussion rapidly escalated out of Keagan's grasp, covering topics as diverse as monetary policy and the Impressionist movement. At length the discussion swung around to the Foundation itself and the civil war. "What I don't quite understand," Keagan ventured between mouthfuls, "is how the reactionaries see all this. I was told that the Foundation—I mean, the faction recognised by the UK and I guess Danish Governments—basically considers the Civil War over, but how can they take that position when all this," he waved his arm around the room to suggest the base, the cells, the whole organisation, feeling slightly lightheaded from the cognac, "is going on. Do they really not know anything about what you're doing?" "Our greatest ally is the reactionaries' arrogance," Schaeffer said. "They know we exist—probably have a vague idea of where we are and that we're planning something big. The problem they have is they want to control everything, even the minds of the people who work for them. Only a few of the reactionaries are told the truth about what happened in the 1920s—even then they aren't given the full story. Most of them are just told that we are a 'rogue cell' of agents who quietly disappeared one day and took confidential knowledge and preternatural assets with them. They even impugn us with a name that as far as I know no-one in the real Foundation ever used before they invented it. Invented it to create the impression of a splintered, confused terrorist movement, united by ideology, no organisation." "What was the name?" "They call us the Chaos Insurgency. Like something out of a child's story." Keagan remembered it had been one of the groups Fredericka Mendelbrot had mentioned. "So they don't try and shut you—us—down? From what I've seen these people seem to have eyes everywhere." Commodore Schaeffer smiled, wiping a morsel of stuffing out of his moustache. "I didn't say they aren't coming after us. But there's a lot of other people who want what the Foundation has, as the reactionaries see it more powerful and organised than we are. The Global Occult Coalition, the Iranians, Marshall, Carter & Dark. One upside to our unfortunate exile has been that we aren't the ones being targeted by these groups. That will, of course, change once we get a foothold back on the international stage, but for now we benefit from other players in the preternatural world believing the reactionary line." "Seems to me if you get it all back you'll be very vulnerable," Keagan said. "I mean, even if the government turfs out the reactionaries for you, you'll be starting from scratch organisationally. You'd either have to let a lot of the reactionaries back into the warm to keep things going or recruit a whole load of people at once, which I'm guessing would defeat the whole secrecy thing the Foundation has going on." Schaeffer frowned. "A concern for another day, I think. For now, let's eat, drink. And let's toast Sir Malcolm, without whom the Project could never have been undertaken." The bottle of cognac was recirculated and glasses refilled as Commodore Schaeffer's toast was taken up in somewhat muted tones by the other men around the table. By the time they had finished, Keagan's ears were buzzing from the drink and rich food and he wanted nothing more than sleep. Kaali showed him and the other newcomers back to the barracks, where a pod had been cleared for them—the bunk was hard but the sheets soft and clean, and Keagan quickly succumbed to unconsciousness. ---- [[=]] << [[[new-age-1 \| Book I - "Cells"]]] \| [[[new-age-hub \| HUB]]] \| [[[new-age-3 \| Book III - "Gunning For The Buddha"]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-08-10T14:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "breakout", "chaos-insurgency", "crime-fiction", "mystery", "political", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	New Age - Book II: "Mr Brightside" - SCP Foundation	57	[ "new-age-2#toc0", "new-age-2#toc1", "new-age-2#toc2", "new-age-2#toc3", "new-age-2#toc4", "new-age-2#toc5", "new-age-1", "new-age-hub", "new-age-3", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-age-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "explained-scps-tales-edition", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	19215862	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/new-age-2
new-age-3	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <table style="margin:0; padding:0"> <tr> <td style="margin:0; padding:0"> <div id="toc"> <div id="toc-action-bar"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.foldToc(event)">Fold</a><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.unfoldToc(event)" style="display: none">Unfold</a></div> <div class="title">Table of Contents</div> <div id="toc-list"> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc0">Chapter Eleven: "Breakers"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc1">Interlude II</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc2">Chapter Twelve: "Foundations"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc3">Chapter Thirteen: "Breakdown"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc4">Chapter Fourteen: "Keagan and the Bomb"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc5">Chapter Fifteen: "Gunning for the Buddha"</a></div> <div style="margin-left: 3em;"><a href="#toc6">Epilogue</a></div> </div> </div> </td> </tr> </table> <h3 id="toc0"><span>Chapter Eleven: "Breakers"</span></h3> <p>There was no reveille, but Keagan was woken early with the slightest pangs of a headache by the purposeful activity around him of the other men, who rose, dressed, made their beds to the most exacting standards, ate breakfast and filed out with barely a word exchanged. The other newcomers were not quite as regimented but still seemed to have a relatively good idea where they were expected and had similarly exchanged farewells and left before Keagan had entirely regained his wits. Keagan remembered he was supposed to be working in the garage and, swaddling himself up as best as he could, helped himself to some rapidly cooling but still appetising salted porridge from the tureen left at the kitchen end of the barracks and braved the elements again.</p> <p>The sun was bright—dazzlingly so, reflecting from the pure white glacier that Keagan now saw dominated the landscape, hills and crests of snow-covered ice, like a great inland sea—but gave off very little warmth, and though the wind had died down Keagan still found himself rushing for the shelter of the garage. He caught a few glimpses of the inhabitants of the huts, filing into the back of trucks presumably being driven by Schaeffer's men.</p> <p>Teitur turned out to be a grizzled-looking older man with one eye—the other was just a poorly healed fused hollow—and wild greying blond hair in a corona around his head, thinning on top. He grunted something in Danish when Keagan arrived then turned back to what he was doing. Keagan coughed to attract his attention and pantomimed putting the parts back in the Land-Rovers. Teitur shrugged, which Keagan took to mean <em>go ahead, no-one else is going to do it</em>. Teitur ignored a couple of attempts at conversation—the possibility didn't escape Keagan that he might not understand English—but seemed happy to give Keagan the task of reversing his aggressive disassembly of the faulty engines while he focused on less demanding tasks such as replacing the chains on the wheels of the huge trucks Keagan guessed were the Unimogs Kaali had mentioned.</p> <p>Around 1030 Blaer dropped by to tell Keagan that Commodore Schaeffer was ready for him to take a trip up to the iceface. Keagan left immediately, but when they arrived back at the radio tower were met by a rather confused Kaali, who asked where the truck was. It emerged they had expected Keagan to bring around the necessary transport, requiring a second trip before all was in order to depart. Commodore Schaeffer, sealed against the elements in his vast parka, swung himself up into the passenger seat with two more of his men climbing up behind them, and indicated that Keagan should drive out of the base on the north road—one might call it a dirt track except the dirt was covered by a good inch of ice and snow—uphill to the glacier. Keagan had driven trucks on a semi-regular basis to deliver them back to clients but on icy roads only sparingly, and found the Unimog devastatingly difficult to control, slipping from side to side of the track. He glanced at Schaeffer, wondering what a fool he was making of himself.</p> <p>"You're doing fine," he said. "How are you doing on the 88s?"</p> <p>"Um," Keagan struggled to correct the course of the truck to guide it through the gate being held open by another of Schaeffer's men, "from what I can see the carburettor on one of them is busted. The cam's broken." He wasn't sure whether that was due to weakening from repeated exposure to freezing conditions or Teitur's violent maintenance. "It's a Weber, so it's not really designed for these conditions anyway. I can try and improvise something but it would be best if I were able to get spares in; I only saw a few bulbs and spark plugs in the garage."</p> <p>Schaeffer waved a hand. "I can have Blaer pick some up when he flies to Kulusuk for supplies. Just tell him what you need."</p> <p>The wind outside the cinderblock breakers was as ferocious as Kaali had claimed—buffeting the vehicle so badly that at times he could hear the suspension creaking as two wheels on one side came close to leaving the surface of the road. Commodore Schaeffer took to these conditions with practiced ease, leaning towards the side being lifted up by the wind to help keep the truck level.</p> <p>"Up ahead," he said, pointing to a number of distant pinpricks on the side of the mountainous glacier. "Those are the boreholes. In the summer we spray black paint and let the sun do the work—in winter we have to rely on pneumatic drills and pickaxes."</p> <p>As they got closer, the nearest site resolved itself into a number of trucks and a field tent, surrounded by a number of smaller windbreakers—sheet metal over wooden frames driven into the ground at an angle to slow the wind without taking the full brunt themselves. Schaeffer got out and bid Keagan to follow, ducking between the breakers. Even inside Keagan's hood the sound of the drills was deafening, and a sharp smell of burning plastic filled the air. The glacier loomed in front of them—a frozen tidal wave, pouring over the land in smooth undulations twenty feet high. A tunnel—perhaps six feet high, four or five feet wide, and angled sharply downwards had been cut into the ice and it was from here that the drills sounded.</p> <p>Heavy cables had been laid from the tent into the borehole and as they ducked inside Keagan saw they powered a string of mining lights, receding down into the glacier. Keagan was shocked at the scale of the enterprise—upwards of twenty men were working in the tunnel, passing up buckets of ice from deeper down and reinforcing the roof of the tunnel with a wooden crib.</p> <p>"Watch where you put your feet," Schaeffer shouted over the drills as he navigated the steep slope down into the glacier. Keagan followed, his soles losing their grip in places with the result that his descent was not so much a climb as a controlled slither. What was at the bottom—a patch a couple of feet square now but rapidly being expanded by workers chipping away at the ice—was a dull greyish-green substance, composed of several layers of large, roughly leaf-shaped chunks of material, each about the size of a fist.</p> <p>"That's what we're here for," Schaeffer said. Keagan reached out to touch the material, noting the way it seemed to exude a dull heat of its own, but Schaeffer reached out and grabbed his hand.</p> <p>"It's scales," Keagan said. "Gigantic scales. This is the monster Sir Malcolm was talking about. You're digging it up."</p> <p>"Yes, or part of it. It's not actually a snake—it's a species of glass lizard, a limbless reptile with a lot in common with the Komodo dragon, and it's the largest terrestrial organism on the planet. The reactionaries have known about it since Greenpeace tried to do a documentary on the glacier in 2010, around the same time they sent the <em>Esperanza</em> to protest the oil platforms. The filmmakers found part of it coiled through a number of caverns deep in the glacier. The reactionaries covered it up and secured the crevasse that leads down into the caverns, but most of it is still buried in the glacier."</p> <p>"How big is it?" Keagan wondered at the notion of a creature so big the Foundation could only secure part of it.</p> <p>"Our best guess is somewhere between 8 and 12km long. We're near the head here, which is where we want to be."</p> <p>"And Sir Malcolm says you plan to wake it up. What are you planning to use, napalm?" He had meant it to be a joke.</p> <p>"Actually, napalm would be far too weak. Have you heard of the square-cube law?"</p> <p>Keagan shook his head.</p> <p>"It's the principle that the larger a structure is, the stronger the materials you need to make it out of." To Keagan it just seemed like common sense. "It's why you don't see insects the size of cars—their exoskeletons couldn't support a body that size. Whales can be much larger than elephants because gravity doesn't affect them the same way in water. To put it another way, think of the size of the steel girders needed to support a skyscraper." Keagan had seen the construction of The Shard in London and nodded. "Well, the tallest building in Europe is 340m high. Imagine how strong the bones and flesh of this thing has to be. Even the blood vessels must be harder than steel to withstand the pressures needed."</p> <p>"So how will you even get it to feel anything you do to it?" Keagan yelled. He noticed the way the pneumatic drills pulverised the ice around the minehead but jarred away in a shower of sparks when they hit the edge of a scale.</p> <p>"When all the boreholes have been completed," Commodore Schaeffer said, eyes shining, "we will lower a nuclear device into each one and detonate them simultaneously."</p> <p>"You're kidding," Keagan said. "It can take a nuclear explosion?"</p> <p>"Quite easily," responded Commodore Schaeffer. "Just the pressure of the glacier shifting on top of it is immense. We think given the current rate the glacier is melting that it would start to be exposed from 2050 anyway. But the Foundation can't wait that long. This is our chance to reverse the decline."</p> <p>Suddenly, there was a distant explosion—a thudding, hissing sound like a gas tank going up in flames—and Commodore Schaeffer looked back up the small rectangle of daylight at the top of the tunnel.</p> <p>"Damn it," he said. "There's been another blow. I need to handle this at the command tent. You should be safe down here—just don't touch the scales." With that he began to clamber up the rough-hewn steps leading back to the surface.</p> <p>Keagan took a look around the semicircular chamber adjoining the great scaled wall of the beast's flank. One of Schaeffer's men stood on duty with what looked like a shock baton, face grim. The three workers wielding the drills were slumped over their tools, the judder when the drill tips struck the scales passing right their bodies with no resistance. Keagan looked at what he could see of the face of the nearest man under his hood—it looked terribly thin and tired-looking, lines of overwork scored into it.</p> <p>"Hey," he said gently, not wishing to alarm the man with the stunstick. "Are you OK? You look like you need a rest."</p> <p>The man turned to him, jaw slack. "Englænder," he concluded after a moment's reflection, then turned back to his work.</p> <p>"Don't talk to them," advised the man with the stunstick in a thick accent. "They don't know English."</p> <p>Keagan sat down on a rough chunk of ice and waited until the Commodore returned and gestured from the surface for Keagan to climb back out.</p> <p>"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "This thing exhales and perspires a potent neurotoxin, which is why I didn't want you touching it, even with gloves. Over time the venom has become impregnated into the ice around the creature—when it's heated the impregnated ice sublimates explosively. Three men are dead in the next borehole."</p> <p>"I'm sorry," Keagan said. Nothing about this makes sense, he thought. Not only is this thing far too tough to kill by any reasonable means, it breathes fucking sarin or VX or whatever? What the hell are they trying to do waking it up? But there was a more pressing question on his mind, and he asked it: "Commodore, are these men here voluntarily?"</p> <p>Schaeffer breathed out heavily, his breath a sharp plume of white. "The reactionaries would probably lie to you and tell you, yes, these are volunteers who believe in our cause. But I am an honourable man. No, they are not here voluntarily. They were taken from the village of Kangertitivatsiaq some 5km south of here and compelled to serve. I promise you, it is a just cause and the greater good is being served."</p> <p>Keagan felt something black move within him. "They're D-Class then," he said bitterly.</p> <p>What he could see of Schaeffer's expression behind his goggles and beard looked disappointed, frustrated. "The real Foundation doesn't use D-Class. Only the reactionaries still do that sort of thing."</p> <p>They were out in the sun again now, and Keagan could see a distant plume of smoke from a far ridge.</p> <p>"So when the Project's over," he said quietly, "what will you do with them?"</p> <p>Schaeffer remained silent for a moment, then turned away. "Drive me back to the camp."</p> <p>"What are you going to do?" Keagan repeated, louder.</p> <p>Schaeffer looked back at him. "Drive me back to the camp," he said, "or I will drive myself and leave you here. It's my fault, I should have trusted you to do your duties without knowing the final end. I thought it would inspire you. It was my mistake."</p> <hr/> <p>The parts for the 88s arrived two days later and Keagan was finally able to get to work on the Land-Rovers. As expected, the replacement carburettors were also Webers—notoriously prone to freezing—and not very well-machined ones either. Keagan spent a good half-hour filing away the flash in the drillings and enlarging the choke. One of the Land-Rovers turned over straight away, but the second resisted all attempts to diagnose the problem, which seemed to give Teitur endless amusement. In desperation, Keagan stripped down and cleaned the head gasket with petrol, and after putting it back together again he was finally able to tickle it into operation. Keagan sat back and took a celebratory swig from his water bottle, grinning widely with the simple pleasure of a problem solved. He looked around and saw Teitur leaning over the bonnet of one of the Unimogs, watching him.</p> <p>"Du tror du er noget godt, hva' neger?"</p> <p>Keagan didn't understand the words, though he had a pretty good idea what the last was supposed to be, and the sour tone was ample confirmation of the sentiment behind it.</p> <p>"What did you say?" Keagan got up. "Come on, you one-eyed piece of shit, what was that?"</p> <p>"Intet, men skide neger," Teitur continued bitterly. "du kommer her, uden at vide noget…"</p> <p>"You know what, I'm sick of this. Shut up and let me do my job or else—” he pantomimed knocking Teitur's brains out with the carjack in his hand. Teitur seemed to take this as a serious threat and grabbed a long-handled screwdriver, leaving Keagan unsure how to proceed without escalating matters further. Fortunately, at that moment Kaali entered the garage and Teitur spat and turned away.</p> <p>"Hum," he said, observing the obvious tension between the men, "I was really hoping to report that some progress had been made on the immobilised vehicles."</p> <p>"They're done," Keagan said. "All three 88s are ready to go, and I fixed the suspension on the GMC. Really, we should be using Zenith carburettors in these sorts of conditions, though."</p> <p>"That's good to hear," Kaali said, "it means the men won't have to ride in the trucks with the workers. Fortunately there have been no incidents, but I'm glad security can get back to normal."</p> <p>I bet, thought Keagan gloomily. Kaali left and Keagan eyed the other mechanic, but Teitur had retreated to a corner and was occupying himself with an old copy of <em>DV</em>. There seemed to be nothing else for Keagan to do but to get back to work.</p> <hr/> <p>Later, he finds himself sitting in the shade of a pagoda in a fragrant garden, surrounded by spiralling plots of yellow flowers. The air is warm and a honeybee buzzes into the shade of the pagoda and out the other side. He tries to remember how he got here—the last thing he remembers is being somewhere cold, freezing in fact, clawing at something with his hands. Did he hit someone? Everything since then—which feels like a very long time—has been an odd blur. There is a jug of cool water on the table and he pours some out into the glass he finds by his hands.</p> <p>He realises there is someone sitting on the other side of the table—he's sure they weren't there before, though that's been happening to him recently. They're wearing orange, but he can't make out their face; it's out of focus, the eyes just two pinpricks of white.</p> <p>"You escaped too?" he hears himself say, and wonders what that even means. He looks down and sees he's wearing a t-shirt with a bulldog on it. It snuffles at him and he remembers he's not supposed to make eye contact with it.</p> <p><em>No-one escapes.</em></p> <p>He looks up at the garden and takes a sip of the water. "This doesn't look like a cell to me."</p> <p><em>Everyone is in a cell. You are in trillions of them, right now.</em></p> <p>"I know you," he says. "You're the man in the box."</p> <p><em>I am. I am also here.</em> The person shrugs, and he notices its fingers are sharp.</p> <p>"You saved me," he says, though he isn't sure why, or even, come to think of it, who is speaking. "Why me?"</p> <p><em>I told you, I recognised a fellow prisoner. I need your help.</em></p> <p>"My help."</p> <p><em>You've seen him. The madman. Can't you feel what he's doing?</em></p> <p>He realises the buzzing isn't coming from the bees; it's emanating from everything around him. He closes his eyes for a moment before answering and catches the edge of the chant: <em>gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha…</em></p> <p>"The man with the spiral eyes."</p> <p><em>He's changing everything. It took a long time for me to sense him and exclude myself from his changes. He's killed me dozens, hundreds of times without me ever knowing it. And everyone else.</em></p> <p>A sudden sense of vertigo passes through him. "Me too?"</p> <p><em>In your case 'killed' is the wrong word, but, yes. I need you to be my eyes and ears. An assassin for reality.</em></p> <p>"You want me to kill him?"</p> <p><em>No. I just need you to get me close enough. I can't follow the others because they aren't thoughtforms. But you're carrying one around with you.</em></p> <p>"I don't know if I can even remember this once I wake up," he says. He's already sinking back, melting into the icy marble floor of the pagoda, but he's done this enough times now not to worry about it.</p> <p><em>That's what Zhuangzi said.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Keagan was awoken by shouting and motion. He squinted against the electric lights at the digital clock on the pod's central table. 02:30.</p> <p>"Keagan," Bones said urgently from somewhere behind his head.</p> <p>"What is it? What's happening?" He became aware of a howling, rushing sound, the small rectangular window panes rattling in their frames.</p> <p>"One of the breakers came down during the night. There's a gale building. I gather Schaeffer has a dozen or so workers out there trying to get it upright again but they're not having much success. If you've got any ideas this is probably a good time."</p> <p>Keagan dragged himself out of bed and threw on what thermal clothing he could find—Schaeffer's men had grabbed whatever was to hand without particularly worrying about whose it was.</p> <p>"Is this a major problem?" he asked wearily.</p> <p>"Last time it happened Schaeffer had to rebuild from scratch, so yeah, I'd say so. Right now the wind's being channelled straight into the camp through the breach."</p> <p>Outside a number of mobile search lights had been trained on the fallen section of windbreaker—the wind was howling over it and had already half-buried it in snow. The lights turned the figures swarming around the wall into phantasms, shimmering in and out of existence as the light caught them. The wind plucked at Keagan and Bones as they staggered over the base towards the breach, making them sway from side to side like stop-motion puppets. Keagan slid and almost lost his footing on the path, where the snow was becoming hard and slippery, but the stumble proved to his advantage—with a clatter a tile slid off the roof of the other barracks and shattered on the spot where he had been standing.</p> <p>As they got closer he recognised Commodore Schaeffer, striding between the various small groups trying to raise the wall, bellowing commands over the gale. A small tunnel had already been dug underneath the breaker block to facilitate ropes being tied around it—two of these had been tied to the back bumpers of a pair of 88s while a further two were being pulled taught by groups of workers. But the Land-Rovers' wheels were spinning ineffectually on the snow-blasted earth and the ropes were simply being pulled down over the block, biting into the ice at the side of the tunnel and getting stuck there.</p> <p>This is all wrong, Keagan thought. There's no lever action, no actual force being applied to the block.</p> <p>"Keagan," Colonel Schaeffer hailed him, "we can't get the traction to pull it upright. We considered using a Unimog but Teitur thinks a single rope would risk it overbalancing in the other direction."</p> <p>"It's not going to work anyway," Keagan shouted, "the angle's all wrong. Do you have a crane, or something with the height to actually haul one end of the block up rather than just dragging it?"</p> <p>Schaeffer shook his head. "The teams had to leave it at Site B when the wind got up—which means it's probably been smashed to pieces by now."</p> <p>"Let me think," Keagan said. Use a snowplough's scoop as a pivot? It probably wouldn't fare that much better than the 88s—it would slide on the ice before the block actually pivoted around it. Besides, just getting it upright won't work—these things are sunk into the ground so if it's come loose there's nothing to hold it firm against the wind. You would need to compact the snow again, pack it in and—wait.</p> <p>"Forget the block," Keagan said. "There's no way you're getting it up again in this weather. We need to make a berm out of compacted snow to divert the wind up and over the base—braced against the breakers that are still standing."</p> <p>Schaeffer frowned. "What do you mean?" he bellowed.</p> <p>Keagan tried to draw as best he could in the air with his mitten-like gloves. "Right-angled triangle," he said. "Slope facing the wind; back to the base."</p> <p>"Okay," Schaeffer said, "For want of anything better, let's do it. Keagan, it's your idea—you tell them what to do."</p> <p>This proved more difficult thanks to the deafening wind and the language barrier than might have otherwise been expected but eventually with Kaali as translator Keagan was able to get the workers to understand what he needed them to do. The maniac Teitur volunteered, seemingly without pause, to drive the snowplough out into the gale and shunt a vast quantity of snow into the space between the remaining windbreakers, and the workers were quickly equipped with shovels, with which they began to press it into a solid mass. The wind was intensifying, but the berm already seemed to be having an effect, the only issue now being whether they could reinforce it faster than it was being blown away.</p> <p>Keagan surveyed the berm as it took shape and saw a problem—although the sloped face of the berm was channelling the gale adequately over the top, the sides were being rapidly eroded by wind rushing around the sides of the adjoining breakers. He ran as fast as he dared over to the team nearest to the growing breach.</p> <p>"We need to curve the berm in at the edges," he shouted to Blaer, the nearest person he was sure spoke English. Not that it helped, as Blaer immediately started making alarming hand gestures to the workers to indicate that the edges should be curved out in front of the other blocks, which would only accelerate the erosion.</p> <p>"No, no, that's wrong," Keagan said, trying and failing to make a lasting diagram in the shifting snow with his boot. "look, does anyone have anything to write on, a pen and paper?"</p> <p>Blaer did—an aviator's pad and a biro—but when at length he was able to extricate it from his garments, Keagan found it impossible to write on, several times dropping the pen between the fingers of the thick gloves and having to quickly retrieve it before it blew away. In desperation he shrugged off his gloves into the snow and with the temperature of his digits dropping rapidly sketched out the remaining breaker blocks and the curving shape the berm needed to take between them to avoid taking the wind head-on.</p> <p>"The way the blocks are currently set up, the wind can escape on both sides. The berm needs to work the same way. See?" He held it out to Blaer but he seemed to be looking at something behind them. There was a slow, shifting sound, and Keagan turned around to see a large chunk of material, probably more than half a ton, begin to slide from the top of the berm under the force of the gale.</p> <p>"Get of the way!" Keagan screamed at the man working beneath it, but he either didn't hear or understand the command. Keagan rushed forward to pull him out of the way, but was too late—the area of berm sagged and collapsed in a sudden tidal wave, burying the area in chunks of compacted snow, each the size of a man's head. Keagan fell onto his knees from the force of the collapse and when the initial burst of snow subsided he could see no trace of the man who had been working there.</p> <p>"Someone's been buried," Keagan called out, "get over here!" No-one responded. "Blaer!" he shouted. "Bring a shovel, or something. Don't just—” Blaer just looked at him blankly. Keagan staggered forward into the path of the blizzard, clawing at the snow and ice with his bare hands, throwing aside boulders in search of the engulfed worker. His hands almost immediately burst into such extreme pain that he thought the skin was about to split open, but he continued to dig into the snow, and soon the pain was replaced by a numbness, the hands no longer opening and closing but simply flippers of unfeeling flesh, shovelling at the snow. He felt a hand on his collar, someone pulling him away.</p> <p>"Stop it, Keagan. Let him be," Schaeffer said roughly.</p> <p>"He's under there," Keagan said, breathlessly. "He could still be alive."</p> <p>"No, he couldn't. The impact would have killed him instantly. They're here to take the risks—all the workers' lives aren't worth one of our own," Schaeffer said through cracked lips and snow-rimed beard. "It worked, Keagan. Your plan worked. The embankment is going to hold."</p> <p>Keagan looked up. It was true. The rest of the berm was holding steady despite the collapse, and the breach seemed to have provided enough of an outlet that the erosion at the edges of the barrier had slowed to the point where the snow the blizzard brought in was building the berm up faster than the wind scoured it away.</p> <p>Schaeffer looked down at Keagan's bare hands, which were swollen and criss-crossed with red scratches where the edges of the compacted ice had sliced into them. "You bloody idiot. What use are you to us as a mechanic if you cripple yourself? Blaer, get Keagan into the barracks and warm him <em>slowly</em>."</p> <hr/> <p>Over the next few days the men in the barracks didn't seem to know whether to treat Keagan like the gifted engineer who had saved the camp and probably the Project, or the moron who had managed to give himself second-degree frostbite taking off his gloves in a minus sixty gale and subsequently plunging his hands into snow and ice. Teitur came by with a smirk on his face but Blaer told him that the other mechanic had offered his congratulations on the success of the berm. The numbness in Keagan's hands had given way to pain once more—a deep-seated, persistent pain that he took to be his body's way of saying 'actually, you've really screwed up this time'. They were covered in large blisters which Keagan could feel bursting every so often underneath the dressing that the camp medic had applied, and they had regained only the vaguest degree of mobility. There was not, he realised, an awful lot you could do around the base with hands that didn't work—he suggested several times he could continue to service the Project's vehicles if someone else acted as his hands, but only Teitur was available and Keagan didn't think it was likely to work, given neither spoke the other's language and they had come close to bludgeoning and stabbing each other before.</p> <p>Eventually his right hand improved to the point where he was able to hold a ladle and he immediately became Stirrer-in-Chief of A-Barracks. Kaali would stop by every so often to update him on the technical situation—a Unimog with a broken axle, what sounded like a clogged air filter on the snow plough—and Keagan would pass on his suggestions for Teitur to ignore as he saw fit. It was simple, untaxing work, and Keagan realised that he was coming to think of the camp as his home. They've given you a place, he thought, somewhere to belong. Will you become like Edward Gradley, overlooking what's going on out there, in the fenced area, because you're grateful?</p> <p>It was around 1500 hours when Keagan heard the hissing, popping sound and thought it was one of the tureens in the kitchen boiling over. He was still careful around hot things larger than a ladle of stew—firstly because he didn't have enough feeling back to tell when something was burning him and secondly because his hands were still clumsy enough that he was likely to drop it—not good when 'it' is a pan of boiling water. Accordingly he called for his co-chef but found everything seemed to be in order. He thought little more of the sound until he heard the sound of the Unimogs and Land-Rovers returning from the drill sites. There seemed to be more activity than usual, shouts and screams, and then gunshots. The offshift men in the barracks responded immediately, arming up and rushing to the muster points. Kaali entered, out of breath and carrying a carbine—the first time Keagan had seen the man armed.</p> <p>"There's been another venom blow," Kaali explained to the barracks in general. "A whole boulder of impregnated ice exploded in Site C—four men dead, another dozen seriously injured. When the workers got back to the camp they started rioting and refused to get back in the secure area. Ragnar shot one of them and they jumped him; we don't know if he'll survive. We need absolutely everyone outside to get this under control. Keagan, that's you too." He opened a locker and grabbed another rifle, holding it by the barrel and thrusting the stock in Keagan's direction.</p> <p>"Erm, I'm not sure I'm going to be any good at firing this thing," he said carefully, waving his bandaged hands.</p> <p>"You don't need to be—just hold it up and look mean. Say 'Grrr'."</p> <p>"Grrr," Keagan said, nonplussed.</p> <p>"That's right. Make sure you wear gloves this time."</p> <p>Outside the camp was utter pandemonium, people running backwards and forwards, some with guns, some without. The gate to the fenced shanty-town where the workers ate and slept was unlocked and the area seemed deserted. Commodore Schaeffer was trying to reimpose order, a slowly growing group of people on the floor with their hands behind their backs at the centre of the camp, but Keagan could see it was proving a nightmare to separate friend and foe. If only they had given the workers some sort of distinguishing clothing, Keagan thought, like orange jumpsuits…</p> <p>After surveying the situation for a moment Keagan saw a pattern emerging; the workers would try to group together in an area, 4-5 strong at a time, then one of Schaeffer's men would approach with gun raised and instead of surrendering they would scatter again when they saw the guards were unwilling to fire. Bones and another man had cornered one worker near a Land-Rover; when he found the key had been taken he started ripping at the interior of the vehicle, screaming and crying, until Bones stepped forward, grabbed him, and flung him to the ground before dragging him forcibly back to Schaeffer's group.</p> <p>Near the trucks, Keagan noticed a number of men lying out in the open on blankets—their clothing looked burned as though by acid, and what he could see of their faces was a fused lump of flesh. The medic tending to them stepped back and shook his head, and one of Schaeffer's men stepped forward with a rifle, drawing fresh howls of outrage from the other workers…</p> <p>Keagan felt the pressure in his head growing and walked behind the barracks, leaning against the insulated exterior and exhaling deeply, watching the crystals fall out of the air onto the ground. A flash of movement to his left and he turned, raising the rifle. Two workers, one of them with burned patches across the front of his coat but not completely incapacitated, being supported by the other. They were making their way towards the ring of breaker blocks. They stopped, stared at him, eyes too tired to be afraid. Keagan raised his weapon, the index finger of his right hand curled uselessly around the trigger guard.</p> <p><em>Is this what you are now?</em>, the little voice asked, and he realised he hadn't heard it since London. A guard, you mean, he thought. Seeing things from the other side. <em>You're an idiot</em>, said the little voice. <em>You honestly think you're a guard? Why not ask Schaeffer if you can leave? Ask him to drop you off at the nearest village. Prisoners guarding prisoners. Thus it is and ever shall be.</em></p> <p>Keagan looked down the barrel of the rifle for a second more, then lowered the weapon, abandoned even the pretence that he could stop them. The two workers hurried on and disappeared beyond the breakers. He wondered how far they would get, then decided it didn't matter. At least they would die where they chose to die. He loped back around the barracks and joined the other men training weapons on the group at the centre while the final few rioters were dragged out of vehicles or beaten down with stunsticks. The workers were herded back into the fenced area, a detail assigned to bury the shot and venom-melted bodies, and then it was time for dinner, which that night was a lamb stew with onions.</p> <hr/> <p>Time passed, and Keagan regained enough mobility in at least his right hand to return to his mechanical duties, where he was kept busy repairing the damage done by the workers during the riot. Teitur once again seemed to be keeping to himself, though whether out of respect for Keagan's solution with the berm or not he couldn't tell. A new crane arrived at the camp after a few days, and Keagan was charged with getting it set up and masterminding the elevation of the fallen breaker block.</p> <p>About a week after the riot, all base staff were summoned to Site F, the furthest from the camp. Kaali wouldn't say anything more than that a critical stage in the Project had been reached and Schaeffer wanted everyone there to see it. Keagan along with Teitur, Blaer, the medic and cooks, and the radio operator all clambered onto a Unimog, leaving the base oddly deserted. The wind had died down considerably, but Keagan could still hear it buffeting at the sides of the truck, the driver battling the headwinds throughout the journey along the base of the glacier.</p> <p>Site F was the largest drill site he'd seen thus far. The crane towered over a small complex of field tents, sheltered from the wind by a network of compacted snow berms—nice to see I've made an impact, Keagan thought. A couple of the tractors were busily engaged transferring vast piles of ice from the entrance of the shaft onto the berms, building them up as the shaft sank deeper into the glacier. As they got closer Keagan saw some of Schaeffer's men mixed in with the workers, operating power tools and swinging pickaxes. Probably filling in for Greenlanders who died during the blow, or who still refused to work after the riots, Keagan reasoned. Schaeffer was there, face full of anticipation as he looked down at the rapidly receding iceface. The other base staff gathered around him expectantly.</p> <p>"There!" Schaeffer said suddenly. "Can you see it?" The onlookers craned their necks around the workers at the iceface. There didn't seem to be much to look at—a generally convex front of ice with what seemed a long horizontal crack along the bottom edge, the whole face about twice the height of a man.</p> <p>"We've almost reached the head," Schaeffer said confidently. Then Keagan saw it—dull glimpses of green behind the sharp splinters of remaining ice, and suddenly his mind made sense of the shape.</p> <p>"Its eye," he said in amazement. "That's its eye."</p> <p>"Its upper eyelid, to be exact." Schaeffer responded. "It gives you some sense of scale, doesn't it? How powerful, how primordial it is."</p> <p>"How did it even get down there in the first place?" Keagan asked.</p> <p>"I would be lying if I said we had a workable theory. Something that big simply shouldn't be able to survive based on conventional materials science and thermodynamic theory. Its location suggests it's been there since the formation of the glacier two and a half million years ago. Some of the workers call it <em>jörmangandr</em>, the World Serpent from the old Norse religion. I sometimes wonder whether the myth was based on this thing—seeing it in the caverns and making up stories about it."</p> <p>"It seems impossible that there would be just one," Keagan thought.</p> <p>"If you believe the legends, it was the child of a shapeshifting god. But maybe it was not the only one of its kind. There are legends of World Serpents throughout the old religions—not only did the Norse believe in <em>jörmangandr</em>, they also thought a dragon, <em>niddhogg</em>, lay underneath the earth, gnawing the roots of the World Tree. The serpent and the tree. It forms a pattern. In the Bible, early man falls from favour with God because he eats the fruit of a forbidden tree, guarded by a great serpent. The serpent and the tree. The Maya, like the Norse, believed in a World Tree, in whose branches coils the Vision Serpent. Sir Malcolm thinks of it as Mucalinda, the serpent king who sheltered Buddha from a storm while he meditated underneath the Bodhi tree."</p> <p>With himself as Buddha, no doubt, Keagan thought. "So where's the tree?" he asked, half-jokingly.</p> <p>"Maybe it's beneath the ice too," Schaeffer responded.</p> <p>The assembly watched as workers switched from drills to hand-tools, chipping away at the remaining ice that covered the creature's eye.</p> <p>"Are the weapons here?" asked Bones.</p> <p>Schaeffer nodded. "Six uranium gun-type bombs, spirited out of South Africa at the end of apartheid. The powers that be couldn't stand the idea of a black-run country having nuclear weapons, so they turned a blind eye. Said they had dismantled them and voluntarily disarmed."</p> <p>How wonderful, Keagan thought sarcastically. But it's the other side that's supposed to work with repressive regimes, isn't it?</p> <p>"Each has a load of 150 kilotons, which on something this tough is like flicking it with your finger. But our best hopes are for this site—no matter how big you are, how far you are asleep, you wake up when someone flicks your eyeball."</p> <p>Keagan decided now was as good a time as any to ask the question that had occured to him the first time he had seen the scale of the creature.</p> <p>"And then what happens? After you wake it up, I mean. I know it's supposed to be an embarassment to the reactionaries, and be a wakeup call to governments that they can't rely on the Foundation keep all this quiet. But how are you going to stop it once it's awake? How can you cover up something this big?"</p> <p>Schaeffer chuckled. "Is that what you've been told? No, there will be no coverup. The world is going to change. Everyone will know what has happened here."</p> <p>"But—something this big, this powerful, if it wanted to attack, say, a city, there's nothing that could be done to stop it."</p> <p>"Yes. We're counting on that. There will be a state of emergency declared across the Nordic countries and in Britain. Sir Malcolm will assume control of a government of national unity…"</p> <p>"No, listen to me," said Keagan sharply, drawing a frown from the Commodore and askance looks from those around him, "even if a Minister without Portfolio who personally I had never heard of before all this is able to become PM somehow, how are you going to stop the giant fucking monster you're planning to wake up?"</p> <p>Schaeffer looked baffled for a moment, then a look of understanding came over his face. "You mean you don't know?"</p> <p>"Don't know what?"</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm will stop it. He possesses the power to re-organise reality, reshape it according to his will. No matter how large that thing is, it will cease to exist if he wills it to do so. That's his power. It's weak now, but growing stronger all the time. I'm surprised he didn't explain all this to you."</p> <p>Keagan remained silent for a minute or so. It was, of course, pure lunacy, but then, what hadn't been since he had signed Fredericka Mendelbrot's piece of paper? Let's assume this is all true, he thought. Sir Malcolm plans to wake up a monster than use some kind of reality-altering power to make it disappear, in front of an audience of billions of people. But why go to all the trouble of finding and awakening a real monster if you have all that power yourself? Unless—unless you intend for it to provide a demonstration first of what you're saving everyone from. A demonstration you're not willing to provide, because you really do think of yourself as the good guy.</p> <p>"How many people," he said falteringly. "How many people does Sir Malcolm intend for it to kill before he comes in and 'rescues' us?"</p> <p>Commodore Schaeffer shrugged. "Perhaps millions. But life and death won't mean very much once he has reached his full potential."</p> <p>Keagan thought of Renton and the cell in London. Nothing they had done had given any indication they expected this to happen. <em>The Foundation lies</em>, he remembered Edward saying, <em>to everyone</em>. "Does the—” he tried to remember the term “—O5 Council know what Sir Malcolm intends? Aren't they supposed to be the highest authority?"</p> <p>Commodore Schaeffer didn't answer, instead moving away to another group of onlookers.</p> <p>Kaali had been present to hear the conversation and answered on his behalf: "At the present time Commodore Schaeffer answers only to Sir Malcolm."</p> <p>What a long and strange road, Keagan thought. One more question, then: "Kaali, this is probably going to sound strange, but do you know Sir Malcolm's wife's name? Is it Francesca?"</p> <p>"No," Kaali said. "Francesca Urquhart is his daughter. Sir Malcolm is estranged from his wife. I don't know her name. Why do you ask? Did someone say something about her?"</p> <p>Keagan looked down at the massive eyelid—it shuddered slightly, a slow ripple that passed from the top to the bottom. Keagan thought, what dreams do you dream?</p> <hr/> <p>Later that night, Blaer awakens with a crimp in his ankle and finds after stretching himself into various incongruous but no less uncomfortable positions on the bed that he cannot get back to sleep. He gets up without turning on the light to avoid waking the other men in the pod. There is a pack of cigarettes in his bag and he withdraws them guiltily—the Commodore cannot abide the habit and forbids the possession of them in the base. He puts on just his coat and gloves—his intention is to remain in the shelter of the barracks where the wind will blow away the smell of the tobacco but not chill him too quickly.</p> <p>When he walks outside he sees a faint glimmer of light in the direction of the garage—not enough for the whole building, just someone moving around inside with a torch. Happy to find someone else up he might be able to talk to, he pulls up his hood and walks out over the camp grounds, frozen snow crinkling under his feet. The door of the garage swings open at a touch and he enters. Keagan is there, and at first he has the bizarre idea that the British man is drinking petrol from a Land-Rover—he is sucking on the end of a piece of plastic tubing, the other end of which goes into the fuel tank of the vehicle.</p> <p>Then he takes his mouth off the end and releases the crimp he has been holding in the tubing with his good hand. Dark liquid rises into the tubing and down the other side—Keagan puts the end of the tubing in a shallow bowl and lets it puddle out. Blaer looks around and sees other bowls underneath the other vehicles. Most of them have their engine hood up and a number of anonymous pieces have been removed and carefully placed in a line in front of them.</p> <p>"Keagan," Blaer says carefully. "Keagan, what are you doing?"</p> <p>Keagan stands, picking up something from beside him. He doesn't look at Blaer, instead addressing a point somewhere on the opposite wall of the garage.</p> <p>"Blaer? Is that you?"</p> <p>"Yes. What is all this?" Blaer edges closer. Keagan still doesn't look at him.</p> <p>"You know, I'm actually quite sorry it was you. I almost wouldn't have minded if it had been Bones, or Teitur, or one of the others. I don't have any real problem with you. I want you to know that."</p> <p>"What are you talking about?" Blaer gets close enough to reach out and touch Keagan's shoulder.</p> <p>"I need you to tell me where the bombs are." Keagan turns around. There is a wrench in his hand.</p> <hr/> <p>It was the practice of Commodore Schaeffer to be woken at 0630 hours, having slept for exactly 6 hours and 30 minutes. Those who ventured to wake him for matters he considered insufficiently vital tended to find themselves assigned to the earliest details and there was thus an impassionated debate between the relevant parties on whether the crisis that now engulfed them was one on which the Commodore needed to be consulted, particular since as far as they could see there was nothing further that could be done to alleviate matters. It was thus 0615 before Kiartan Hallers, the responsible officer for B-Barracks, entered his quarters and woke him.</p> <p>"What time do you call this," Schaeffer complained groggily as Kiartan took him by the shoulder and shook him gently.</p> <p>"Apologies, Commodore," Kiartan said, "but a situation has arisen and although steps have already been taken to handle matters I thought it best to ensure you were notified."</p> <p>Such circuitous language from Kiartan, a man Schaeffer knew for directness, to the point of being blunt, was alarming enough to the Commodore that he sat bolt upright.</p> <p>"What is it? What's happened?"</p> <p>"There's been a fire, sir. In the supply hut, which is why there was no general alarm. The chef discovered it at 0515 and tried the extinguisher, but it had already taken hold."</p> <p>"That's it? Have Blaer fly over to Kulusuk and get some bare essentials, porridge oats, beans, et cetera until we can spare one of the trucks."</p> <p>"There is more, unfortunately. I ordered that the hose be fetched from the garage, where it was discovered that the vehicles appear to have been sabotaged."</p> <p>"Sabotaged?"</p> <p>"We haven't done a full inventory, but most of them seem to have parts missing. Teitur says it's the components we don't have replacements for. And one of the 88s is gone."</p> <p>"What about the Cessna?"</p> <p>"Working, as far as we know. But, sir, we found Blaer in the garage. He's dead."</p> <p>"Take a head-count. Now."</p> <p>"We've already done it, sir. Blaer Gunarsson and Keagan O'Neill were the only two unaccounted for."</p> <p>"Well, that's fairly conclusive, isn't it?" Schaeffer struggled into his clothes, hair and beard in disarray, and strode out into the main area of the tower. "Now we have to find a way of dealing with this mess."</p> <p>Kaali was standing over the controls for the radio transmitter, face grim. "It might not be connected, but the radio's down. Looks like there's no power going to the array."</p> <p>"It just keeps getting better," Schaeffer muttered as he donned his outer garments and walked outside. "He'll have cut the cables. Get Teitur to look at that as his first priority. We need to let other cells in the region know what's happened. We still have the bombs—the Project is not impeded. But Sir Malcolm needs to be informed that this will put us back some weeks."</p> <p>There was an awkward silence from his companion. "The bombs," Schaeffer repeated. "We still have the bombs, yes?"</p> <p>"No-one has yet been able to get into the munitions shed to verify that, sir," Kaali said quietly. "Everything has been drenched with petrol. We think O'Neill intended to start a fire there too. We've left it to air before we take an inventory."</p> <p>There was a sudden yelping from somewhere in the darkness and the sound of something heavy and metallic falling to the ground, then the sounds of people running, scattering. Schaeffer froze, listening, then turned.</p> <p>"Sir?"</p> <p>Shapes began to approach in the darkness, some walking, some limping. Most of them carried a spade or pick.</p> <p>"He's taken the bolts out of the gate to the workers' camp. Get everyone into the radio tower with any dry ammunition you can find."</p> <p>At 0624, the large block of ice Keagan had placed on top of the bar heater in the munitions shed melted sufficiently to create a spark. At 0624 and twenty seconds, approximately 250 STANAG magazines and 150 individual 9mm sidearm rounds cooked off, turning the six large lead-lined boxes stacked at the centre of the reinforced metal shed into so much confetti.</p> <p>Schaeffer and his men held the dead radio tower for four days—after the lights went out, after the last bullet was spent, after the last icicle had been cracked from the window and melted with body heat. At the last, he lost his faith. He climbed the ladder up to the roof and shouted at the sky. But his God was in Westminster—at that moment in fact in a meeting of the Royal Aeronautical Society—and did not hear this final repudiation.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc1"><span>Interlude II</span></h3> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>Sam Deloitte had finished brushing her teeth and grabbed her court reporter's bag. Despite no particular effort on her part to delay proceedings she was already running late—she knew the early morning traffic meant an 8.30am start from her apartment on New Park Road in Brixton meant an arrival at Tower Bridge Magi Court of around 9.07am, with her first scheduled hearing at nine. Somehow over time the same routine—rise, charge phone, wash, eat breakfast (bowl of muesli, half English muffin with Marmite), brush teeth, get bag, leave, seemed to result in an increasingly late departure time.</p> <p>The first case of the day was to be a simple traffic violation—a white van driver accused of violating a temporary parking suspension sign on Pall Mall. Hardly the sort of thing that ordinarily attracted attention from the local press—a relatively minor offence and one that the defendant's solicitor had indicated he would seek have dismissed on the basis that the sign was out of date and had been reported as such to Transport for London by at least one other road user. However, it now appeared that the defendant had dismissed his counsel and would instead be contesting the charge on the basis that he was not travelling on 'the State's roads' but 'the King's roads' and this verbal distinction (no doubt derived from a conspiracy theory website) allegedly conferred ancient freeman's rights protecting his freedom of movement. Such self-representation was always entertaining, though it rarely ended well for the defendant.</p> <p>As she was slipping her shoes on, her mobile started vibrating in her handbag, and, sighing, she bent down and rummaged through the stationery and other bric-a-brac within. She didn't recognise the number. <em>Please be the Lambeth Times</em>, she thought, <em>'Ms Deloitte, after reviewing the CV you sent through we would be happy to offer you an interview…'</em></p> <p>Instead of the melodious tones of the Times' Legal Editor offering her a ticket out of Brixton, a crackly, poor-quality voice said "Sam D-itte, this is K-ag O-ll".</p> <p>"Who?" She closed the apartment door again and put a finger in the other ear to drown out the traffic.</p> <p>"Oh for—sake, n-t this again."</p> <p>"You're on a very bad line, I can't hear you at all."</p> <p>"It's <em>Kea-n O'Neill</em>. I c-tacted you a couple of w- ago about the Foun-tion."</p> <p>"Keagan? You stood me up, as I recall. At Urbanicity."</p> <p>"Oh y-s. I se-m to recall you br-t along a couple of friends. You r- need to learn -w to treat informants."</p> <p>"They were just for protection. I didn't mean to scare you off. You were really there?" Sam put down her handbag and moved back inside, pulling out a notepad.</p> <p>"Yes, but I got pulled away. -k, this is probably going to seem cheeky, but I n-d another favour."</p> <p>"I get the distinct feeling I'm being strung along. How much is it this time?"</p> <p>"W-l, I've bribed a fisherman to g- me as far as Iceland, but I d- actually have -y money to pay him. He tak-s Paypal, if that's any use. Forty-six thous-nd kr-na, which I gather is around two hundred and fifty quid. Then I'll need a t-k-t for the Smyril Line—that's from G-nland to Denm-—then some kind of tr-n ticket from there to London. I don't—know how much that comes to, s-ry. I'll be tr-lling under the name 'Martin Ball'."</p> <p>Sam burst out laughing, drawing a strange look from the man who lived opposite her as he shouldered past out of the door. "You're kidding. You get about a lot, don't you? Look, even if I believed you and felt inclined to pay for you to travel across Europe at my personal expense—'cos there's no way the Brixton Herald is covering this—what could you possibly have to say about the Foundation or anything else that would warrant me going to all that trouble?"</p> <p>Silence for a moment. "Look. For-t the Foundation. There's no way the people invol-d would let you publish that story. I've got somet-g else. Something that'll get you i- the national newspapers, easy. How does a Cab-et Minister organising a pris-n m-r sound?"</p> <p>"Wow, this line is incredibly bad. That <em>almost</em> sounded like you saying you had a story about a Cabinet Minister involved in a prison murder." She clicked her pen open.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc2"><span>Chapter Twelve: "Foundations"</span></h3> <p>The Cabinet Minister in question sighed deeply as he transferred another pile of papers over to the right hand side of his desk. Gone, he reflected, were the days when Minister Without Portfolio was a sinecure position; these days it was solid, nose-to-the-grindstone work, assisting the Ministry of Defence and the Home Secretary by taking on the worst of the mind-numbing paperwork. He had been offered the role alongside Kenneth Clarke as a compromise candidate—the Lib Dems didn't want (as they saw it) another thrusting, ambitious Tory in the role but the Conservatives were loath to give up another Cabinet place to their junior partners in Coalition. Who better to fill the gap than Sir Malcolm Urquhart, a man who had retained his seat with an increased majority in 2010 against a dismal Labour showing but who was widely known as a harmless eccentric, someone without the will to go onto higher things?</p> <p>More fool them, of course. It was a mistake to dismiss the Chief Whip of the Conservative Party as a dead-end position—he was responsible for cajoling, bullying, threatening MPs to toe the party line, and was always the first port of call whenever a Member of the House had done something stupid and needed disaster management. A drunken racist remark, a dalliance with a prostitute, a few hundred thousand in fiddled expenses… In short, one became a knower of secrets—one was, of course, trusted to be discreet, which in the world of politics is a very shaky and fragile word.</p> <p>How he longed for word from the Project! In that moment, when everything his fellow parliamentarians thought they knew crumbled around them, he would strike. He would use them all up at once, the hoarded blackmail, the incriminating conversations in his office—all taped, of course, on the little recorder the Chief Whip kept in a little Japanese ceramic on his window. Even Cameron, at the last. He would enter his office, quietly, <em>discreetly</em>, and remind him about the little things. His personal interest in the downgrading of Ecstacy, as he had advised so passionately in the Select Committee Report in 2002. Then, the real reason he failed to make the shortlist for the Kensington and Chelsea seat in 1999 and the true extent to which he had supported Carlton's bid for the DTT franchise. The summer of '88, when a freshfaced David Cameron had graduated from Oxford. Then, finally, he would talk about Heatherdown and the class of '76. Such <em>precocity</em>, there, such delightful <em>promise</em>.</p> <p>One by one they would drop away. To the outside world it would look like cowardice—the born and bred politicos the red-tops so maligned falling back in the face of the unknown, the supernatural, when in fact it was the <em>known</em> that would terrify them most of all. Twenty-nine men stood between him and absolute power, and he had dirt on every one of them. Then the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom would stand on the shores of Scapa Flow and stare down a monster. Nothing like it seen since the days of Siddhartha Gautama, Jesus, Mohammad, divine right <em>shown</em> not merely asserted. And then… Tomorrow belongs to me, he thought, scratching his signature through some dismal wiretap order against a bunch of Occupy protesters who couldn't even spell that right, unless they thought poor literacy was 'cool'. Tomorrow belongs to me. He paused for a moment, unlocked his drawer, and removed a few sheaves of paper. On top, the latest letter from the Commodore, and he re-read it to strengthen his spirits. It said:</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Sir Malcolm</p> </blockquote> <p>(So formal, dear Ronald?)</p> <blockquote> <p>I write to report that the Project is proceeding as planned, and we are ready to take receipt of the Verwoerd Contingency. There has been some setback to our timetable.</p> </blockquote> <p>(Though he had read it before the words fluttered in his chest with trepidation.)</p> <blockquote> <p>There has been a riot at the camp during which the workers have done us a great deal of damage, and we have buried a good man. Nevertheless I anticipate we will be back on schedule within the week and ready to complete the final boreholes. You will have your Mucalinda.</p> <p>Yours<br/> Ronald Schaeffer</p> </blockquote> <p>He lifted the paper, breathing it in, imagining he could smell that cold, crisp air and behind it, the acrid venom of the marvellous beast. His eyes strayed for a moment back to the more mundane papers on his desk and his spirits immediately sank again. It seemed an eternity since his last infusion of green tea—he longed to call Matthew, to beg for an advance on the afternoon's sachet… No, he thought, there must be discipline, there must be sharpness of mind. He closed his eyes, muttered the words of the Heart Sutra, but the buzzing of the intercom distracted him. So much for serenity.</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm, there's someone to see you at reception. A Mr Keagan O'Neill. He says it's about your subsidence problem. There's someone else with him. Shall I have them arrange an appointment?"</p> <p>Subsidence? Sir Malcolm had received no trouble from his lovely little domicile on Eaton Square and didn't recall calling any workmen. No, no, he realised, there was more to it than that, it was a crude attempt at wordplay. Subsidence was what, a weakness in the bedrock underneath a house? A disturbance in the Foundations. Now he came to think about it he vaguely recalled meeting the man. Hadn't Schaeffer said something about him recently? He flicked back through the letters from the Commodore and found the line he recalled reading:</p> <blockquote> <p>The engineer you sent, Keagan O'Neill, has been a most excellent addition to the team after some earlier unease with the Project, and can be credited with bringing our vehicle fleet up to full efficiency and contributing a most novel and effective solution after a failure of the windbreaks which averted major damage to Foundation property with minimal expenditure of workers.</p> </blockquote> <p>Maybe this was communication from the Project, then! Although, he thought, he had failed to use any of the known codewords. A meeting about the Foundation should have been arranged with reference to 'fundamental matters', the Project with reference to 'greenfield projects'. And who was the second person? Perhaps the Linton boy… Had it been Linton? Bedford, Rendon… He thumbed the intercomm greedily.</p> <p>"That's no trouble, Samantha. Please send them up."</p> <p>He put the letters back inside his drawer and waited for the security staff to show the visitors up.</p> <p>Keagan entered first, and Sir Malcolm recognised him—a dark-complexioned chap with a slightly disagreeable way of not exactly meeting your eyes. His companion was, he realised with disappointment, not the delightful young man who had accompanied him last but a somewhat androgynous female, short blonde hair cropped around a freckled face and a brown pant suit. Her nametag made her out to be 'Samantha Deloitte'. He resolved to differentiate her from his receptionist by the use of the masculine diminutive.</p> <p>"Keagan," he said warmly, "and Sam. Please do come in, sit down. Can I offer you anything?"</p> <p>"No thanks," Keagan said, and there was something in his tone that made Sir Malcolm hesitate.</p> <p>"Do you bring word from the Commodore?" he asked, seeing no reason not to get right to business in the face of such brusqueness.</p> <p>"Not really. I think Schaeffer is going to have his hands busy for a while. You're a piece of work, you know that?"</p> <p>"Excuse me?"</p> <p>"I'm amazed you managed to find people to go along with your lunacy. Well, it's not going to happen. I made sure of that. Now it's your turn. I don't think I introduced you to Sam here."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm bridled at this piece of affrontery but still shifted a wary gaze onto the woman, who smiled quite prettily and said:</p> <p>"Pleased to meet you, Sir Malcolm. I'm Sam Deloitte, from the Brixton Herald. I've been told quite a story about you and I'd love to get a quote."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm fell silent for a moment. Every politician, of course, had to carefully choose his words in the presence of the press at least once during his career. That this particular situation involved someone with presumably extensive knowledge of the Project and the Foundation more generally, and of Sir Malcolm's part in it, with no way of knowing exactly how much he had communicated to this local hack, further complicated the situation.</p> <p>"I see," he said slowly. "Exactly what story—no, wait, first I'd like to hear more from Keagan about what exactly he's done to inconvenience my good friend Commodore Schaeffer."</p> <p>"I ended the Project," Keagan said. "What you were doing in Greenland was insane. The Commodore was a sociopathic bastard and he got exactly what he deserved. Anyway, it's over. No more Project. The camp is gone, the mineshafts collapsed."</p> <p>The words stabbed Sir Malcolm to the heart though he knew from the Commodore's last letter they were a grotesque exaggeration, his only consolation that Sam Deloitte seemed utterly baffled by this exchange. If not the Project, what exactly does she think she's uncovered, he thought? Some petty scandal, perhaps, some tax return with the i's left undotted and t's left uncrossed…</p> <p>Sir Malcolm allowed himself a low chuckle. "Oh, that was you, was it?" His lips cracked open, teeth gleaming. "You have a very high estimation of yourself. Last I heard, the Commodore estimated he had been set back a week, at most. One death—was that by your hand? The Project is far too large to be defeated by one man."</p> <p>He watched with glee as Keagan visibly crumpled in his seat, face going grey with the shock of defeat.</p> <p>"The poisonous snake becomes still before it can strike against the designs of the Buddha. Don't feel bad. You're on the wrong side of history. Now, you've deserted your post, forsaken the Foundation, and come to me with the intent of doing me harm. What exactly do you imagine you can do to me?"</p> <p>"Keagan, what's all this he's talking about?" Sam asked. The reporter, Sir Malcolm noted, had become particularly agitated at the mention of the death in the Commodore's camp. This Keagan fellow had been with the reactionaries, hadn't he—ah, Sir Malcolm, you've been a poor judge of character, you should have known that those rats never jump ship, not even the ones due for extermination. He had been D-Class, D for Dalit, untouchable, untrustworthy. That was a secret, which meant it was a weapon. He would use it now, shake this silly little female's confidence in what she no doubt considered her informant. He's a convicted killer, perhaps a rapist! What do you know about him, what…</p> <p>"It doesn't matter," Keagan said, cutting off Sir Malcolm's train of thought quite adeptly. "What matters is a correspondence between yourself and someone called Jacky, who you believed to be a 15 year old boy in Medway STC. A quite intimate correspondence."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm stopped moving. A block of ice had appeared in his brain, freezing his thoughts to sluggishness as surely as if he had been transported in that moment to the glacier, buried in it like Mucalinda. How… how… This wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. He had forgotten all about it, that piece of final stupidity he had allowed himself before, as he saw it, the world ended and he ruled over a new age. He had seen the classified ad, the beautiful face, the cheekily knowing words. No-one would find out, he had thought. He had used aliases, printed everything rather than risk his handwriting giving him away, travelled miles out of his way to post the letters from letterboxes in Kingston upon Thames. Then the letter from 'Jan', Jan Crucnik, the supposed conman who had turned out to be another phantom, the front for some seedy old ex-judge who had killed his wife and now thought to prey on his betters from behind bars. The blackmail. But hadn't it been taken care of? Hadn't absolutely everyone—<em>everyone</em>—who could have known been tidied away?</p> <p>"Who are you?" Sir Malcolm snarled. "How is—this?!" He saw to his dismay the woman's manner had changed again, leaning forward intently, pen resting on the accursed journalist's pad that had ruined so many Members of Parliament.</p> <p>"I think I might just be the man who wasn't there," Keagan said. "You might know me as—Mr Greengoss. QC."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm's eyes widened. Mr Greengoss. After the messy part had been taken care of, Sir Malcolm had been forced to look into the mechanism of the scam—Wesley Kellogg had worked in partnership with a solicitor, who had operated under the alias of Mr Sackshaw. But there had been another party—£7,500 a month of Kellogg's ill-gotten gains were posted off in envelopes bearing the name of the distinguished Mr Greengoss QC. Except he didn't exist either and the trail went nowhere. The money, as far as Sir Malcolm's agent had determined, had been taken into a bank every week and deposited—nowhere. No name. No account. Nothing. He had some vague notion that a cashier might have been involved, but that had gone nowhere. At last he had dismissed the matter—with the principal actors dead, there seemed no way his letters could be traced back to him. How clear it now seemed. Keagan O'Neill—Mr Greengoss—had been the judge's confidant in prison. He had disappeared when he had entered the reactionaries' accursed D-Class programme then, somehow, miraculously, re-emerged without even the courtesy of getting himself gassed, to haunt him. If not for his incompetence and Schaeffer's unquestioned loyalty and efficiency, who knew how much damage he could have done?</p> <p>"You cheap little thug," Sir Malcolm whispered. "You've walked into the Ministry of Defence of the United Kingdom to threaten a government minister. I could have you arrested right now." His finger hovered over the intercom.</p> <p>"For what, exactly?" Keagan asked brightly. "Because I'm reasonably certain you can't admit to carrying out what looks a lot like covert military operations on foreign soil. Or, for that matter, being blackmailed by a guy who subsequently got stabbed to death in prison."</p> <p>Calm, calm. Why is he here? Why bring this low-level, trash-publication reporter—probably the only one who would believe you—to watch your reaction, get a quote? Because he has <em>nothing</em>. Change, change your face, your manner. You're not threatened. This is local colour, the lighter side of the job. Something to tell your daughter about in the evenings. Well, some of it.</p> <p>"Ha. Ha ha ha. No, Mr O'Neil, I won't have you arrested. You're too much fun. You're a conspiracy theorist, a loon. Ms Deloitte, there will be no 'quote'. You have no story, only the ramblings of a convicted murderer—” he watched for the impact of that nuclear blast but disappointingly it seemed to fall flat. Oh, so you're only concerned about murders he commits <em>after</em> incarceration. Who says the Fourth Estate is in decline? “—and no reputable paper will print it. I have a little something for you, though, if you want." he leaned over the table towards the reporter, "Owen Paterson, the Minister for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, took a trip to Turkmenistan before the end of the Cold War. What passed between him and later President for Life Saparmurat Niyazov—I can say no more. Look into it. Could be your ticket to the big world of journalism."</p> <p>Sam shifted position in her seat, making shorthand scratches on her pad. "Actually, Sir Malcolm, I'm much more interested in you. Why, exactly, did you start up the correspondence with Wesley Kellogg to begin with? Is it standard practice for Cabinet Ministers to exchange letters with people who represent themselves as teenage convicts?"</p> <p>Ah, the bull-terrier type. You wouldn't think it to look at her. Well, thought Sir Malcolm, that's fine.</p> <p>"Ms Deloitte, if you leave the building in the next five minutes, you may find you receive a pay rise or promotion before you quality for retirement. No more than one, mind you," he spat the words, "you've already offended me, and that comes at a cost. You may find you can publish stories. You may find you can find accommodation anywhere in Greater London, drive unharassed by traffic police, live out your life without fear or pain…" his voice rose to a peak. "You see, I can play hardball too."</p> <p>"Don't be stupid," Keagan said bluntly. Then, in a strange, dreamy tone, "You play hardball with a baseball bat. Om mani…"</p> <p>Sir Malcolm's baffled expression was equalled by that of his companion. Keagan seemed to be looking a long way into the distance, then he snapped back into focus, and for the first time his brown eyes met Sir Malcolm's directly.</p> <p>"What's your connection to 1447, Sir Malcolm? The man in the metal box."</p> <p>Another strange, icy moment. Who <em>was</em> this man, this extraordinary pest?</p> <p>"How do you know anything about that?"</p> <p>Keagan's gaze was beginning to become disquietening.</p> <p>"Because I think he's right here, looking at you. I think he can hear you."</p> <p>"I find that unlikely. What you're talking about is in 'containment' by the reactionaries, in Sheffield. A fascinating experiment, but ultimately flawed."</p> <p>"I don't think it's contained. I think it chooses to stay where it is. It makes a show of trying to get out, but when it really wants to, I don't think anything in the world can stop it."</p> <p>Sam Deloitte had resumed her look of utter confusion. Very well, then, thought Sir Malcolm, let's let that be her last memory of this conversation. Two men talking about things that she doesn't understand and which sound utterly nonsensical. The little recorder in the vase in his window wasn't on—a shame. It would be wonderful to have this on tape, so the whole 'confrontation' about Wesley Kellogg could be set in its proper context—a bizarre exchange about secret bases in Greenland and monsters manifested through thought.</p> <p>"That's very interesting, but ultimately irrelevant," he sneered. "1447 is just a tulpa. Anyone can make them, with the right mental training. The only thing special about it is that it can meditate on its own existence, allowing it to sustain itself. My own tulpa can't, just yet. It can say the words, but it still needs to come back to me for a top-up. When it can do what 1447 does, it will outlive me. I will never die—some version of me will always exist. And yet it's the simplest, most basic thing I can do. I'm not afraid of you or 1447, Mr O'Neill." To hell with it, he thought. Soon none of this will matter! Wouldn't it be better if this stupid little woman and her treacherous informant went away with something that showed them exactly what they were dealing with? He jabbed his finger on the telecom.</p> <p>"Samantha, have Matthew bring in drinks. Wine, red for prefere—no, white. White wine." A crackle that signified acknowledgement. He put his elbows on the table, templing his fingers, and his smile over his fingers was a blizzard, sweeping over the works of man.</p> <p>"Ms Deloitte, you can leave now, and as I said, nothing—further—will befall you. Or, you can stay, and witness something that will show you that everything you believe is false. But, here's the thing—you will never be able to publish it. No-one will believe you. You will become a crank, a nut. Is that what you want?"</p> <p>The golden lure. Of course she would stay. No-one with the journalist's inquisitive mind would resist such a challenge. Matthew walked in, and Sir Malcolm pleased himself for a moment by observing the set of the young man's thick hair, the button left undone above his tie. Three glasses. The intern placed them deftly on the desk, poured the clear golden liquid into them, and Sir Malcolm watched it slosh voluptuously around the bottom of each glass before settling as the level rose.</p> <p>"Thank you, Matthew, that will be all."</p> <p>The door shut behind Matthew as he left. Sir Malcolm turned his attention back to the mulatto and his pet journalist.</p> <p>"Go on," he said, "pick them up. I'm hardly likely to poison visitors to my MoD office, am I? Just—don't drink them quite yet."</p> <p>They clutched at the stems of the glasses—rubes both—and lifted them. Sir Malcolm wrapped his fingers around the bulb of his own glass, stem fitting between his second and third finger, and raised it before his face as though giving a toast, then paused.</p> <p>"Oh, now why did I ask for white wine?", he said in mock-anguish, smiling beatifically. "I don't even like white wine."</p> <p>Then he looked for the green seat, the throne in the deepest part of his soul he had found during his time in Tibet, the jade chair from where he made universes. Now, peace and serenity, he thought. And effort. Sheer fucking bloody-minded, coronary-inducing effort. Wasn't that how it was supposed to be?</p> <hr/> <p>Keagan watched as Sir Malcolm's grip on the glass became rigid, clutching at the bulb with such force he thought it might shatter. The Minister's grin had become rigid, strained, his stare fixed and venomous. A vein on his forehead had become prominent. The chanting in Keagan's head had subsided and he found that for a moment he was able to look to his side. Sam was just watching the bizarre spectacle of the Minister Without Portfolio wordlessly glaring at his glass with such strained fury. Keagan looked back, and then he saw it.</p> <p>A tiny pinprick of red, in the middle of the glass. Sir Malcolm was sweating now, chest rising and falling with some superhuman internal effort. The pinprick grew, and the odd little yelp of surprise from beside him told Keagan that Sam had seen it too. There was now a perfect sphere of translucent red liquid in the middle of the glass, suspended in the middle of the wine. Keagan found himself petrified, though he was unable to remember why, as though he had seen it before in a nightmare. The red substance now filled two-thirds of the glass, still refusing to mix with the four quasi-pyramidal pockets of gold at the edges—the sphere had been truncated where it met the edges of the vessel but retained its shape. The gold shrank, and vanished. Sir Malcolm giggled, a heaving, breathless sound.</p> <p>"Just wait," he said. "Just wait."</p> <p>And suddenly, Keagan realised the sphere had not vanished—it remained, a ghostly shape in the air around the glass. The light inside the sphere had a slightly different quality to the light outside—darker? no, flatter? no, just somehow indefinably <em>altered</em>. And it continued to expand, accelerating as it engulfed Sir Malcolm's hand, arm, desk, body, reached out towards then. Keagan felt somehow he must not let the bubble touch him, but remained frozen in his seat as it creaked outwards from Sir Malcolm, centred on the glass in front of his face and haloing him in that subtly altered light. The front reached their glasses, and where it passed it left red where there had been gold. Sam watched in horrified fascination as a crisp, distinct wall of red marched through the glass. She barely had time to tilt the vessel and observe the red did not move with it—what had been red briefly reverted to gold as it sloshed out of the sphere—before it had advanced up her arm and hit her face. Then the bubble met Keagan. There was no overt sensation as it passed—merely the sudden and marked notion that something had changed, that the carpet had been pulled out from under you and left you standing somewhere else.</p> <p>Sir Malcolm exhaled sharply, and Keagan turned to see the edge of the bubble accelerate off into the distance, expanding across the horizon, and after a second the light no longer seemed so strange, and one wondered why one had imagined there was any difference.</p> <p>"There," Sir Malcolm breathed. "Red wine, and of a good vintage." He took a long sip. "It's good. <em>Hic est enim calix sánguinis mei.</em> Ah, but you probably never learned Latin at school, so the allusion is lost. Tragic."</p> <p>The expression on Sam's face was lost, the face of someone whose foundations have just collapsed. Join the club, Keagan thought.</p> <p>"What just happened?" she asked, of the room in general. "That was white wine. This is—this is some kind of trick, right? With food colouring tablets. Your party piece for visitors."</p> <p>Sir Malcolm massaged his temples, the colour of his face returning to normal. "Not at all. That was a relatively simple shift; I didn't like the universe where Matthew brought us white wine, so I changed it. It didn't affect anything outside this room, other than the number of bottles of each type left in the hospitality rack."</p> <p>"Erm," Sam said. "That's not…"</p> <p>"Possible? Of course it isn't, my dear girl. That's rather the point." Sir Malcolm's grin faded. "You've seen the supernatural, face-to-face. Now, what will you do? Some people opt to go stark raving insane. That's always fun."</p> <p>"What happened to the universe where you ordered white wine?" Keagan asked, feeling the blowtorch of Sir Malcolm's triumphant fury swinging back to him.</p> <p>"Fucked if I know," said Sir Malcolm, and the expletive sounded strange in his public school accent. "Probably destroyed; I'm not a scientist. If I had let the wavefront touch you, you would have been replaced with versions of yourselves who would have seen nothing supernatural in what I just did; for whom I ordered red wine and got it. Amusing for me, but pointless. The fact is, I might have killed you—the you that walked into this room—dozens of times without your ever knowing it. And I'm not going to tell you if I did. You're insects, trying to bite a dragon. Now, get out."</p> <p>There seemed nothing else to be done. Sam was shell-shocked, glass trembling in her hands so the red wine threatened to slop out the top. Keagan carefully took it from her and put it down on the desk with his own, helped her to her feet. As they walked out of the office, Sir Malcolm spoke again, a tone of gleeful devastation in his voice:</p> <p>"I have a Zen koan for you—at least, that's what they say it is. Linji Yixuan said—'if you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him'. I hate to see what modern so-called Buddhists do with that. It's such straightforward advice, but they twist it and contort it until they say it means you must only recognise the Buddha in your own soul and other such claptrap. No, it wasn't a koan. If you meet the Buddha, kill him, because the Buddha is the most dangerous man in the world. But you're too late, you see? You can't kill me because you're too late!"</p> <p>Sam hobbled out of the building, walking with the gait of a woman sixty years older than her age. Keagan opened the door of her car, a yellow Volkswagen Polo, and guided her into the back. She made no protest as he took the wheel. London accelerated around them, people going about their lives.</p> <p>"What now," Sam said, dully. There was no inflection.</p> <p>"Now?" Keagan scratched the thick growth of stubble on his chin thoughtfully. He looked at the world around them—Horse Guards and chippies and Ministries and ferris wheels and Parliament and garages. "Now, we go get some evidence and write a story."</p> <hr/> <p>Such freedom! Such blinding, searing, liberating freedom! Sir Malcolm had never done that before—never let someone walk away with full knowledge of what he was and what he could do. It had been reckless, insane—empowering, exhilarating. The only witness he had ever exempted from his bubble of altered reality during a shift before had been Commodore Schaeffer, to demonstrate to him the reality of what he served. That had been the shift <em>after</em> he had thrown away the previous universe and replaced it with one where Ronald Schaeffer had inexplicably developed an irrationally deep and abiding loyalty to Sir Malcolm himself five minutes before meeting him—there had been no risk involved whatsoever. Sir Malcolm had just had the merest taste what it would be like excluding millions from a shift, when he erased Mucalinda, his sacrificial serpent, and it felt like jet fuel in his blood.</p> <p>He looked down at the papers on his desk, the budgets and projections and project checklists. Why, why, why had he given his precious time, his very <em>life-force</em>, to these irrelevancies, when he possessed the power to make them go away with almost literally a flick of his fingers? Somehow he had imagined it dishonourable, an affront to fair play—like cheating at cricket—but of course it wasn't, it wasn't at all. He focused on the hateful documents with searing intensity, the feeling of mad, impulsive freedom bubbling up inside him. The bubble manifested in the middle of the stack, and the letters writhed and changed as it expanded over them.</p> <p>Of course, trying to create a universe where he had already done the work would be suicide—it would mean not excluding himself from his own bubble. He wasn't even sure he could override that self-preservation instinct that by default made him the sole survivor of any shift, as far as he was concerned. Moreover, he would have to visualise each element of the change—just as much work as doing it himself. Instead, he imagined a universe where, a few hours ago, he had called dear sweet Matthew in and sat him at the desk, delicately placed his fine fountain pen in his hand. And this would be a universe where, just by chance, Matthew spontaneously decided to perfectly forge Sir Malcolm's signature on each document and managed to tot up every sum perfectly.</p> <p>The bubble expanded, and he struggled to maintain it against the pressure of the minutes-old universe where he had ordered red wine. It pushed back at him, begging to stay alive. He smothered it, mercilessly, breathing into the bubble until it covered the desk, the papers rearranging themselves into neat stacks. Then, having engulfed the area immediately affected by the changes, it achieved critical pressure, expanding suddenly and explosively until the new universe was one where all the paperwork was done and Sir Malcolm could spend the rest of the day reading the Mahayana sutras. Perhaps there would be time for golf this afternoon.</p> <p>Wait. Something on the desk caught his eye. No. No, no no. What was now the top paper on the stack wasn't a budget. It wasn't a projection. It was a letter. He focused on it.</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Jacky</p> <p>I'm sorry to hear you've been having trouble from 'Brock'. A brock, of course, is a male badger, and I do so hope you aren't badgered. Tell me, what soap do you use? I should like to purchase the brand and keep a little rubbed into my wrists so it reminds me of you. I look forward so much to our meeting. To being able to see your face.</p> <p>Ryokan was a wise man who was once robbed. Having given the robber even the clothes on his back, he looked up at the moon and said 'I only wish I could have given him this beautiful moon'. Soon, I will have surpassed Ryokan, for I will be able to give you the moon in the sky, if you adore me. Do you adore me?</p> <p>Buddy Sattva</p> </blockquote> <p>Buddy fucking Sattva. It had struck him at the time as a piece of wild genius at the time, but now it stared out at him like an accusation. Because that letter did not exist. Because he had never posted it, because he had been called on a stupid fucking junket to Jakarta and by the time he returned he had thought better of rising to the obvious bait of the clearly fictitious prison bully, even in the playful manner he had written it. Because he had personally fed that letter, envelope and all, into a cross-cut strimmer and put the remains in the priority tray to be incinerated. Yet here it was, called back into existence from his subconscious, the paper crisp and white, unfolded, unmolested. He hadn't even realised he had thought about it during the shift.</p> <p>He sat down, hands trembling, staring at the stack beneath the letter with dead eyes. It was probably the only one. Just a gentle reminder from the Buddha to himself that he wasn't god yet. No! That's death. That's absolutely death. He could not dare leave until he had read through every word, every line, and ensure that he hadn't sabotaged the numbers for the entire fucking nuclear defence programme or replaced parts of the briefing to the Cabinet with the lewdest passages from the <em>Satyricon</em> or left a detailed confession of everything he had done or was about to do on page fucking 57 of the cruise missile contractor agreement with Boeing.</p> <p>He thumbed through the Favourites on his mobile with quivering fingers.</p> <p>"Hello? Daddy?"</p> <p>"Fran. Fran, I'm sorry, I'm going to be late tonight. Very late. It's important, sorry. Order … order yourself a pizza. You know my card's PIN number."</p> <p>"Again?"</p> <p>"I'm so sorry."</p> <p>His daughter hung up without another word. Sir Malcolm hammered on the intercom with his entire fist, sinking down in his seat and shuddering convulsively. Samantha's tinny voice asked him if he was OK.</p> <p>"Tea," he said, voice faintly cracked. "Green tea. Now."</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc3"><span>Chapter Thirteen: "Breakdown"</span></h3> <p>The ex-prisoner—especially one who is no longer confined through a series of unlikely events of which exactly none have had the public seal of approval of the criminal justice system—always faintly fears the prison visit. He suspects the doors may be closed behind him and he may not be allowed out again. This certainly formed a great part of Keagan's anxiety when he and Sam entered the gates of HMP Wormwood Scrubs. Another part, of course, was that he was asked to show some form of identification, which meant trusting again in the ever-helpful Martin Ball, the prolific European traveller and holidaymaker who didn't actually exist. Fortunately, just like the customs officials on his only intermittently stomach-churning return trip from Denmark, the prison guards squinted at the photo of the slightly blurry brown-skinned young man—a stock photograph for all Keagan knew—on the passport, compared it for a few seconds to the older, distinctly less clean-cut gentleman in front of them and presumably figured it had been a rough few years.</p> <p>Actually making a request to visit Creepy Bastard had been a tougher task that it needed to be, mostly because that was the only name for the lifer Keagan knew or could remember. Fortunately, the brief but unsettling mention of his crimes he had offered Keagan and his descriptions of the man were adequate to permit Sam to find him—he was still in C block, still serving his discretionary sentence. Keagan and Sam were ushered into the same visiting room that Lauren had used to visit him, five months previously.</p> <p>"Is that him?" Sam asked as a prisoner was escorted in. Keagan didn't immediately focus on the man, having been too stunned by the sight of Taggart, looking just as scruffy as he remembered, if somewhat happier-looking and heavier around the gut. When he shifted his gaze to the young man he was escorting he almost didn't recognise his former cellmate—his blond hair was short, almost neat, and although his eyes were still watery they no longer shone with disturbing intensity. He was still long-limbed and skinny, but wore it better. He no longer seemed uncomfortable to be out of his cell, though an occasional nervous glance betrayed what Keagan remembered—though that might be because he had been called up by someone he didn't recall sharing a cell with to smuggle out a package he didn't remember hiding in his cell.</p> <p>"Good to see you again," Keagan said, extending a hand Creepy Bastard stared at without responding. "You look good, man."</p> <p>"Thank you," Creepy Bastard said with a surprised tone. "I guess I've been feeling good. Better. I'm sorry, I figured when I saw you I'd remember you. I have a good memory for faces, de- I mean, we must have shared a cell at some time for you to know about the letters." Keagan nodded. "That's not a very exclusive club, though. I went through cellmates pretty fast."</p> <p>"Don't worry," Keagan said. "A lot of people tell me I'm not very memorable."</p> <p>Creepy Bastard sighed. "We don't really have much to talk about, do we? Except the letters. I couldn't make a lot of sense of them, but they're something to do with the Kellogg murder, aren't they? The papers the police were looking for early on. I found them after everything had quietened down, when I started looking at my old drawings again. The real ones, I mean."</p> <p>"You've been getting the pictures out?" Keagan felt an odd sense of pride. "That's really great. I still say you should publish them."</p> <p>This effusiveness drew a quizzical blink from the man on the other side of the table. "I'm missing something."</p> <p>"Nothing important, really. Yeah, this is Sam, she's a reporter. The letters could help solve the case."</p> <p>"That's good. It wasn't right the way they just all stopped talking about it. No-one was arrested. You know, I saw his body. I just… can't remember what I did afterwards. I think I went outside. Why, I don't know, I didn't go outside my cell if I could help it back then. I thought I might have done it for a while. Killed him. I didn't, did I?" He suddenly looked terrified.</p> <p>"No. You're not in the frame," Keagan said.</p> <p>"Thank—thank—well. I'd almost forgotten about it after McGage got killed. Wyncroft came back in with riot police, completely tore the place apart. But they missed my drawings. And the letters."</p> <p>"Tim McGage? The guard?" And Keagan suddenly remembered—two mattresses, thrown exactly the same way. The Judge's cell, tossed like a dawn raid. The tomahawk. A look in the man's eyes, that final inch of integrity bleeding out. Another piece of the puzzle, he thought. Maybe the last. "Was he killed in the Scrubs?"</p> <p>Creepy Bastard shook his head. "At home. Really gruesome stuff. They said it looked like a revenge killing." He watched Sam scribbling frantically. "What?"</p> <p>"That's actually really useful. Do you have the letters?"</p> <p>Creepy Bastard nodded.</p> <p>It was easy, almost balletic. The old Pakistani lifer who had shared a cell with Cameron Moat was there with what looked like his granddaughter, and at a nod from Creepy Bastard he rose, announced in broken English that he wanted to use the bathroom and shuffled between Creepy Bastard's table and the camera. Taggart turned his back and suddenly become obsessively interested in a crack running across the ceiling—"Look at this. This is really dangerous," he said, in a tone that implied he'd pointed it out hundreds if not thousands of times before. "Could collapse at any moment. Take us all with it."</p> <p>Creepy Bastard pulled the already slightly yellowed papers—tightly creased where they had been folded up small and stuffed into the cracks in the walls—from the waistband of his trousers and passed it to Keagan, who passed it to Sam, who in about a quarter of a second had clipped them into her journalist's pad, nothing to say they hadn't been there the whole time. The old man turned and gave them an amiable if gap-toothed grin before shambling on towards the bathroom, and Taggart abruptly decided the crack in the ceiling plaster wasn't such a menace to the safety of the 1,200 prisoners of HMP Wormwood Scrubs as he had first thought, and resumed standing on duty. Keagan and Sam offered the former Creepy Bastard a few final pleasantries before indicating they were ready to leave. The doors of the visitors' centre opened, and Keagan walked out into the afternoon air.</p> <hr/> <p>Sam had, with some reservations, agreed that they should go back to her flat in Brixton to write up the story.</p> <p>"You should let me drive," she said. "I'm feeling much better now. I hate giving directions from the back seat." She was in fact now sat in the passenger seat, her spirits somewhat higher after the acquisitions of the letters, which she had spent the last twenty minutes reading through in the car.</p> <p>"Don't worry," said Keagan, slipping the car off the Embankment and onto the A203, "I reckon I remember where you live."</p> <p>"Well," Sam replied faintly, "that's not creepy at all, is it?"</p> <p>"I keep telling you, you gave me all your contact details when you came to visit me in the Scrubs. Told me to memorise them."</p> <p>"Only I have no memory of that at all. Why, exactly, does no-one remember you again?"</p> <p>"The Foundation used me in some kind of experiment. With something the Insurgency called a history-erasing machine. I don't think it worked the way they intended. 1447 did something, too."</p> <p>"The 'man in the metal box'? I'm afraid your conversation with Urquhart left me completely in the dark. Are we talking something like the Man in the Iron Mask here?"</p> <p>"It's probably best you don't know too much about that side of things. I get the impression both the Foundation and the Insurgency don't like people publicising what they're getting up to. Your best bet is to keep the story simple and understandable. Blackmail gone wrong, the coverup of a prison death at the hands of a guard and Sir Malcolm at the centre of it all. Don't for the love of God say anything about what he did back there in his office."</p> <p>"How can I leave it out? The man literally changed reality in front of my eyes. I've never seen anything like it."</p> <p>"Because, as Sir Malcolm said, any hint of it will make the whole story trash. Daily Star-grade, if that. Sir Malcolm once told me the Government doesn't <em>want</em> to believe in this stuff, even though they know it happens. By all means, include that you interviewed Sir Malcolm and he believes in all this stuff himself. That makes him the nut, not you."</p> <p>Sam scowled and looked away, clearly angry to be missing out on possibly the most important angle of the story. Keagan continued:</p> <p>"Besides, after you do an exposé on anything to do with the supernatural or whatever, how long do you think you've got before the Foundation knock down your door and take you away to be interrogated about how much you really know?"</p> <p>Sam looked out of the window. "One day, someone's going to blow the whistle on all this. The conspiracy's too big to keep silent forever. You can't tell people reality works one way then keep it secret that all the rules you've drawn up are just … suggestions."</p> <p>"I used to think that," Keagan said. "Now, I'm not so sure. I think, at some point, the conspiracy becomes too powerful to expose; it becomes too unbelievable to expose, too big to fully understand, so anything you say about it is always partially wrong, too deeply embedded to get out through the established media."</p> <p>Silence, for a moment. "I'll stick to bringing down a Cabinet Minister in a sex and murder scandal, then."</p> <p>"Sounds about right. This it?" He slowed outside the apartment, signalling into the resident's carpark.</p> <p>Sam led the way up through the modest apartments until she stopped outside 16a. She fished out her key, which she kept on a cord around her neck in a little plastic wallet with her organ donor and NUJ cards. As she pushed the key into the lock, the door swung open, a slight wobble betraying that the lower hinge was loose. "That's … not good," she said.</p> <p>Keagan went in first, noting that the screws looked to have been partially torn from the wall. "No-one's here. I think we're alright," he said after a minute. "Which is more than I can say for your place, unless you have a particularly unique taste in decor." Sam edged in after him and looked around in horror.</p> <p>To say the apartment had been trashed is to say the Titanic had taken on a little water. If it had been merely aggressively ransacked—furniture and bookcases tipped over, TV smashed, drawers torn out and strewn on the floor—it would have been comprehensible. Instead:</p> <p>There was not a piece of surviving furniture in the living room. It had all been smashed apart, splinters embedded in the carpet. Swathes of the wallpaper had been ripped off, the skirtingboard snapped away in chunks and hurled across the room. The light fixtures had all been ripped from their fitments and dashed to the ground. Sam took a cautious glance into the bedroom to see tatters of sheets wound tightly around bits of bed, the wardrobe shivered into matchsticks. The kitchen: the entire countertop torn away and cracked in half, the taps ripped out and crushed. She picked up one of the pipes, hands trembling. Something had flattened it then twisted it into a helix. "Could a bomb have done this?" she asked out loud.</p> <p>Keagan shook his head. "I've seen something like this before. Whatever was in this room was looking for something; probably the letters. I've changed my mind—I don't think we should be here if it decides to come back. See if you can find any clothes that are still good—pack an overnight bag."</p> <p>Sam sorted through the shredded garments. "'Whatever'. You mean, you don't think it was human."</p> <p>"No," Keagan said. "Unless you know any humans who can bend metal into that curly pasta shape."</p> <p>"<em>Rotini</em>," Sam said. "It's <em>rotini</em>. Okay. Let me see if I can find the toothpaste then let's go."</p> <hr/> <p>Keagan drove with no particular direction—his first instinct was simply to get out of London. Sam had gathered a few possessions in a carryall and sat with her hands on top of it in the passenger seat; Keagan stole a glance at her from time to time to see how she was holding up. She didn't seem sad, or depressed, or defeated—just angry. After a little while the city broke up into smaller towns and as they got out into the country the sound of traffic died back to the point where Keagan was able to hear the engine.</p> <p>"How long's your car been making that noise?" he asked while they idled at a set of traffic lights. A spitting, popping sound interrupted the sound of the motor every few seconds.</p> <p>"It's fine," Sam said, "it's been like that for ages. It's not a problem."</p> <p>Keagan dragged the car up to speed as the light turned green. "It really shouldn't be making that noise. It's accelerating unevenly as well. When was the last time you serviced it?"</p> <p>"Erm, serviced?"</p> <p>"God help us. Checked the tyre pressure, oil level, topped up the wiper reservoirs…?"</p> <p>"Oh, I think Dad did that the last time he visited," Sam seemed thoroughly uninterested.</p> <p>"Which was?"</p> <p>"About a year ago, maybe?"</p> <p>Keagan pulled in on the side of the road, squinting at the grimy dashboard and dragging his finger across it. The white van driver behind them put his horn on and swerved around them without even slowing down.</p> <p>"Hey," she said. "Why are you stopping?"</p> <p>"Because I don't much fancy the idea of breaking down on the motorway. You do know your dashboard lights are out, right? As in, I've got the handbrake on now and there's still nothing coming on. You might have a serious engine failure and you'd have no way of knowing."</p> <p>Sam yawned. "So are you going to look at it, or not?"</p> <p>Keagan opened the door halfway and began squeezing out so as not to step into the path of the traffic. "Hey, I should be charging you for this. My usual labour fee for a checkup is sixty-five quid."</p> <p>"Really? And there was me thinking my dropping a good half-grand of my own cash so far on your travel expenses meant something." She stuck her tongue out.</p> <p>"Okay, okay. Do you have any tools in the boot? Spanner, tyre pump?"</p> <p>"I think there's a bag with some things in. Dad put it there; I've never looked at it."</p> <p>Keagan sighed. "Great."</p> <p>The problem turned out to be relatively simple—a clogged air filter. By chance one of the items in the boot was a small hand vacuum, which did a reasonable job of dislodging the worst of the grime. He grinned as he waved through the windscreen at Sam and pointed to the offending item, but Sam wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the dark Audi A4 sedan with aftermarket tint parked thirty feet or so behind them.</p> <p>"What is it?" Keagan said. Sam said something, too quietly to be heard over the traffic, so Keagan wandered around to her side of the car and gestured for her to put the window down. She did so with quick, hurried movements and her voice was panicky.</p> <p>"That car was outside my apartment."</p> <p>"You sure?" Keagan asked. "No offence, but you don't really seem like the car type."</p> <p>"I'm not imagining it. R159 EWD. It's the same number plate."</p> <p>"Okay," said Keagan, trying not to appear rushed as he replaced the filter. He was getting the same eerie sensation he had felt back in Bembridge.</p> <p>"Keagan, someone's getting out."</p> <p>He immediately amended his previous strategy, roughly shoving the cover back on before he jumped into the car—provoking another angry burst of horn from a Mini driver who nearly took the door off.</p> <p>He prayed fervently to the god of all mechanics (the most popular petition to whom is 'let it fucking work this time') and turned the ignition key. The Polo's engine turned over with no pops or hops, and he careened out into the traffic, hoping the BMW driver behind him had enough sense to slam on their brakes as the Polo sailed in front of it.</p> <p>"Well, the acceleration seems to be fixed, at least."</p> <p>Sam was still looking over her shoulder. "He must have been waiting for us to leave the apartment. Do you think it's someone from the Foundation?"</p> <p>"The Foundation, the Insurgency, or the MoD. Did you get a look at who was driving?"</p> <p>"No, he was too far away."</p> <p>"He was ten yards, tops."</p> <p>"Well, I must need new contacts then. He was blurry."</p> <p>"The good news is that he didn't make a move while we were in the apartment. That means he wants to see where we're going." Keagan took a long breath. "Okay, here's the plan. The Insurgency is planning something big. I don't want to go into it, but you can think of it like a terrorist attack. Sir Malcolm is going to use it to seize power in a coup. I thought I'd well and truly fucked things up for them but Sir Malcolm seemed to think it hadn't done them that much damage. Maybe Schaeffer's lying to him, I don't know. We need to handle this on two fronts. You need to break the story about the Judge—Wesley Kellogg, I mean. Maybe if they've got no-one to step into the top job the Insurgency will put the plan on hold. I need to get to the Foundation and tell them about this."</p> <p>"You mean split up?" Sam sounded skeptical. "Can't we just go to the police? Or the army?"</p> <p>"A good idea, under normal conditions. Unfortunately the most powerful man at the MoD after the Defence Secretary is part of the plan. And I don't think the police would consider secret camps in Greenland part of their jurisdiction. Even if they were inclined to believe it they'd just refer us to Amnesty International. Unfortunately, the one group of people I can think of who would take this seriously and who have the resources to shut this whole thing down for good are the Foundation. And I don't want you getting mixed up with them."</p> <p>Sam sat for a moment, considering. "Right," she said. "Drop me off somewhere with an internet café. I can type the story up and send it in by webmail."</p> <p>"Are you sure you hadn't better take the car? I'm pretty sure you won't be getting it back where I'm going."</p> <p>"No, I figure my chances are better NOT driving the car being tracked by some kind of shadowy cabal with access to supernatural WMDs. If this gets printed, I figure I might be able to afford a better car anyway."</p> <p>"Just remember to check the oil levels once in a while, okay?"</p> <p>Sam chuckled. "Once the story gets to my editor I'll ring around everyone from my Journalism MA. I know people who got jobs at the Mirror, the Metro, the London Evening Standard… then we'll show Malcolm Urquhart what a press pack looks like."</p> <p>"You're going to ambush him? Are you sure that's a good idea?"</p> <p>"I honestly don't know. But he can't do what he did in front of half the local newspapers in London and still hope to keep it secret, can he?"</p> <hr/> <p>They made good time along the M3, the engine purring along with no trace of the former unevenness. "You're pretty good," Sam said sleepily, presumably in reference to his tune-up, before falling silent.</p> <p>He pulled off at Exit 4 and rolled through Blackwater until he found an internet café and pulled up outside. He looked over at Sam, head turned towards him, eyes closed. She was breathing softly as she slept and her small breasts rose and fell beneath her shirt. Without knowing what prompted it he leaned in, pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes opened, suddenly, wide, terrified. She shoved him away wildly, scrabbling for her handbag.</p> <p>"What the hell are you—doing? What was that? What the hell was that?!"</p> <p>Keagan found himself at a loss. "I don't know. I can't—” he felt a familiar prickling in his eyes and looked away, fixing his gaze on the Halifax branch across the street. "I don't know why I just did that."</p> <p>Sam looked around, clutching her bag to her. "An internet café. Great. I'll get to work. You just get on, go wherever the hell it is you're going."</p> <p>"Sam, I'm really sorry."</p> <p>"I don't <em>know</em> you. At all. I know you say we met before, but according to you that was like, once when you were <em>convicted of murder</em>, then once again in prison, when I was looking for information on the Foundation. Did I ever give you even the slightest suggestion—oh, forget it. Just forget it." She opened the door.</p> <p>"I'm sorry."</p> <p>"I'm—not sure I want you to contact me again. Thanks for the information. Keep the car." Sam closed the door and walked quickly over the pavement into the café, leaving Keagan slumped over the wheel. <em>How do you manage it?</em>, the little voice said. <em>How do you manage to fuck things up so thoroughly, so quickly? Were you always like this, or is this just how I imagin-</em> Shut up, he thought. <em>No</em>, said the voice. <em>You're going to have to deal with me sooner rather than later.</em> But not now, he thought firmly, and started the car.</p> <hr/> <p>Keagan left the yellow Polo in a lay-by on the B3098. He left the keys in the dashboard, then, on further reflection, locked the door before swinging it shut. With any luck it would be discovered in a few days and returned to Sam. He set off along the hiking trail past Tottenham Wood, and quickly emerged onto the vast, supernaturally empty steppe of Salisbury Plain, a void at the heart of England. Just hundreds of square miles of rolling, uncultivated wilderness and the occasional grey copse clinging to the chalky hillsides. As he continued to walk, the track wore away to a mere suggestion of boot-worn soil, hemmed in by nettles and wild poppies. This vestige of a public pathway veered off around a chest-high fence of horizontally-strung wire; a sign on the gate read 'Military Firing Range—Keep Out'. I'm going the right way then, Keagan thought, tentatively prodding the fence with the toe of his boot in case it was electrified.</p> <p>Having satisfied himself it was not, he put his boot on the lowest wire and stepped up to the next. He got as far as standing on the second highest wire before he overbalanced, caught his boot on the top wire, snatched at it with his frostbitten left hand, which refused to close on it, and fell heavily down the other side. He arose quickly, spitting dirt and brushing away little stones which had become affixed to his flesh. He looked around but could see no-one who might have witnessed his trespass, other than a few distant cars back up on the road, and set off again. He had driven through the night, and now the autumn sun shone on foliage not yet orange and yellow, and he reflected that had he not been trying to turn himself in to the forces of a vast and occult conspiracy, and were his knee and shoulder not painfully bruised from his botched entry into a military-restricted area, he might enjoy the stroll.</p> <p>He had made an effort at reconstructing the journey in his head and had a pretty good idea that the abandoned town he had seen around the Sector-25 facility was somewhere near Imber, the town he remembered had been handed over to the Americans during World War Two. Possibly it was even Par Hinton, a hamlet which he had seen mentioned several times in connection with Imber but which appeared on no maps of the area. He would be coming at it from a different direction—over, he recognised with some chagrin, a British Army training area -but felt confident he could at the very least show up at the front door and ask to be let in. If, as seemed likely, he was told to get lost he could rattle off a list of personnel he remembered working at the facility, which should at the least earn him an interrogation.</p> <p>A couple of shadows cast from behind him merged with his own. He turned, caught a glimpse of camo clothing, and prepared his story about his dirt bike having broken down, hence the grime and scraped-up hands and face. In the event, he didn't have time—a pair of pistols were produced and pressed into his shoulderblades. Keagan's knowledge of military procurement was shaky at best, but was fairly sure the Makarov PM was not the preferred sidearm of the British military establishment.</p> <p>"Told you it was him," one of the men said. Then to Keagan. "We're with the Foundation. You need to come with us."</p> <p>"That's fine," Keagan said. "Look, I need to talk to someone like Dr Skinner. For the last three months I've been working with the Chaos Insurgency. They're going to wake up a giant snake under Greenland and launch a coup in Britain. You guys are the people whose job it is to stop this stuff, right?"</p> <p>The subsequent baffled silence from behind him told him something was wrong—as if he shouldn't have already been tipped off by the fact that what they were aiming at his back looked to be Russian or Estonian military surplus.</p> <p>"What the heck are you going on about, traitor?" one of them said. "We were told you'd try and get back to the reactionaries and give them classified information. We got emailed a photo of you by the SE Corps yesterday. You'll have to accompany us back to the listening post."</p> <p>Wrong Foundation, Keagan thought. Just my luck.</p> <p>The two men pivoted around him, forced him to turn around and began marching him back up the road.</p> <p>"Right here," said the other man, pushing him with the muzzle of the gun towards what looked for all the world like a cluster of large gorse bushes. "Go in."</p> <p>"Erm, is it too late to tell you about my dirt bike?" Keagan asked before he was forcibly shoved through a narrow gap between the prickly bushes. To his surprise, as he nursed his scratches he realised the interior of the copse had been cleared out and replaced by a large tent with tables, chairs, and two sleeping bags. There was a dull olive radio set on the table together with a number of disposable mobiles and a large telescope stood on a tripod at the far corner, facing the direction from which they had returned. A hole in the tent wall had been made for it and the edges subsequently sealed with duct tape, presumably so the telescope could be slid through the wall of the tent and out through the gorse bushes. The two men who had abducted him entered slightly more gingerly, pushing away the thorns.</p> <p>"We'll have to trim the fucking things back, I'm getting scratched to buggery every time I come in," one of the men complained. He looked around. "And the thorns are coming in through the walls."</p> <p>The other nodded to a pair of hand-shears at the side. "Be my guest. I'm certainly not gonna be the one who blows our cover by having neatly cut branches lying around or lugging a load of garden waste over the Training Estate."</p> <p>"It's a hunting blind," Keagan realised. "You're spying on the Foundation. Can you really see the facility through that thing?" He moved towards the telescope but stopped when the men gestured at him with the Makarovs.</p> <p>"Well enough," the first man said, grabbing a bottle of 7-Up from the floor and gulping at it. "Now, the question is, what do we do with you? You must have epically pissed off someone for the SEC to send out a general alert like this." He covered Keagan with his pistol while the other man fished out a pair of plastic garden ties and bound Keagan's hands behind his back before sitting him down in one of the chairs. Keagan wasn't sure, but he thought it hadn't quite clicked over the last notch, which meant he might have a little more freedom than they intended, but didn't want to try it out just yet in case they heard it clicking back onto the previous notch.</p> <p>"Do we think it would be such a big deal if we just killed him here?"</p> <p>"Oh yes," said the other one sarcastically. "By all means let's just shoot him inside our supposedly undetectable listening post on a day when there aren't any army exercises scheduled. I'm sure absolutely no-one will hear or think it odd that a gunshot came from inside a fucking gorse bush."</p> <p>"I didn't mean shoot him. We could just strangle him…"</p> <p>"And then what? Keep him here for the next few months as he putrefies?"</p> <p>"I was more thinking we smuggle him out at night, dump him on the roadside."</p> <p>Keagan decided it was probably best to forestall this conversation before it got to the implementation stage. "Do you know what Sir Malcolm's doing? He's not going to just get the UK government to recognise the Insurgency, he's going to seize power himself. Commodore Schaeffer is in Greenland right now, trying to wake up some gigantic fucking monster to cause massive chaos and justify a 'government of national unity', whatever that is. They're not going to cover it up. What use do you think Sir Malcolm's going to have for you once he's Prime Minister?"</p> <p>"Yeah, we're completely inclined to trust what you say. You're a reactionary mole. I'm amazed you managed to take anybody in."</p> <p>"Did they tell you I was D-Class?" He watched their reactions—a hit there, he felt. "I'm not going back to the Foundation for the hell of it. Why don't you ask your Overseers when Commodore Schaeffer last reported in? He's taking orders only from Sir Malcolm."</p> <p>The two men retreated to the other side of the tent and conferred quietly. When the first man spoke it was in a shakier tone. "Sir Malcolm's just Schaeffer's puppet. He's no-one important, just a useful tool in government. You really expect us to believe he's really pulling the strings?"</p> <p>Keagan grinned and shook his head. "You don't know, do you?" They seemed nonplussed by this, so he went on. "What Sir Malcolm is. He can alter reality, just by thinking about it. I've seen it myself. Now, one of your lot told me that your—faction, whatever you want to call it—is for using supernatural things for the greater good. But I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to be helping them stage a coup."</p> <p>More whispering. Keagan caught snippets as their voices rose. "just kill him now, it's treason to go against…", "no, it's treason not to look into…", "first fucking time we get any kind of support from government…", "Sir Malcolm doesn't <em>have</em> a title in the Foundation. If he's a Bixby…". Eventually they seemed to arrive at a compromise.</p> <p>"Okay," the second man said. "We need to contact the chain of command, figure out what's going on here. In the meantime, this guy is gonna make absolutely sure you're not lying to us." He grinned. The other man twisted a tea-towel into a rope and forced it between Keagan's teeth, then removed the magazine from his Makarov and reversed his grip on it before swinging it sharply down on Keagan's kneecap.</p> <hr/> <p>Sir Malcolm had negotiated a couple of days' leave from his duties at the MoD at very short notice, citing a need to make up to his daughter for some very late nights he'd been putting in. Right now he didn't think he could bring himself to look at another materiel procurement graph. It meant cutting himself off, for a short time at least, from progress reports from the Project—currently being delivered through his office under the guise of ISA interest reports on some of his considerable investments—but he trusted that the Commodore would stand ready until he received the final order. This morning he had risen, pulled on a burgundy satin dressing-gown and donned bunny-ear slippers, and gone down to find his daughter wolfing down Honey Nut Crispies, five minutes late for school.</p> <p>"I do wish you would try to be more punctual, sweetie," he said, pulling her head to him and kissing her hair. "It reflects badly on me."</p> <p>"It could be worse," she said, coldly but not pulling away. "You could be the Secretary for Education."</p> <p>"That's true." Sir Malcolm thought he might have a crumpet, but clearly the housekeeper hadn't got the memo, or else the bakery had been out of stock, as instead he found a packet of pre-made drop-scones. He tutted but opened them anyway, taking two out and spreading them with set honey and peanut butter.</p> <p>There was an odd clamour outside, cars pulling up and excited shouting—something you didn't hear very much on Eaton Square normally. Sir Malcolm sighed. Was he to have no peace and calm, even on holiday? He wandered back through into the parlour and sat down, picking up yesterday's copy of the <em>The Telegraph</em>. 'Cameron moves to water down EU job laws'. Of course he does, and good on him for it. Beastly things.</p> <p>He hears the door open and all of a sudden the clamour becomes louder, much louder than one would simply expect from merely opening the UPVC door. Instead of leaving, Francesca runs back inside and upstairs. I'm going to have to ring the school, Sir Malcolm decides. She could be such trouble sometimes.</p> <p>It occurs to him that she has left the door open. "Honey," he calls upstairs. "Are you OK?"</p> <p>"There's some people at the door for you." she calls down. "I can't get out."</p> <p>We'll see about that, Sir Malcolm thinks, and struck by sudden irritation he sweeps through the kitchen and hall and out into the glaring light of the morning, low Autumn sun in his eyes. There are upwards of 20 people in a semi-circle around his front door, carrying cameras and mics. The street beyond them has been completely blocked off with cars. The flashes begin just as his eyes begin to adjust to the outdoors, and he raises his hands in front of his face instinctively. It occurs to him he has just stormed out of his house and into a press conference clad in his pyjamas and bunny rabbit shoes. Is this a dream?, he thought vaguely, then decided that on the basis it might not be he had better get his act together.</p> <p>"Look here," he said sternly, doing his best impression of a Victorian master, "what's all this stomping up and down outside my house? My daughter can't go to school."</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm," one of them called, "can you verify that you were in contact with Wesley Kellogg, a high court judge, in the weeks leading up to his death?"</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm! Is it true that you believed you were initiating contact with a 15-year-old boy? Have you undertaken any similar correspondences in the past, sir?"</p> <p>It was an ambush. Dismayed, he scanned the faces across from him until he found who he was looking for—the mousy blonde with the ridiculous brown pant suit. Wrath rose in him like a Spitfire, roaring, tearing into the sky.</p> <p>"This is all a disgusting vendetta," he said, trying and failing to capture the spirit of grand Churchillian rhetoric with a pair of floppy ears poking out of both his feet, "levied against me by a convict; a murderer, in fact. There is no evidentiary basis to all this. It is, in fact, a bluff, a <em>distraction</em> intended to draw attention away to the very real scandal of the Rt Hon Michael Moore MP's behaviour and his comments on 13th July—another reason why the Liberal Democrats are simply a <em>liability</em> in Coalition and why Mister Cameron should give serious consideration to the makeup of a minority government should the Coalition not survive until the next General Election…" He trailed off in dismay, realising the usual distractions weren't working; they were out for his blood. He took a couple of steps back; put his hand on the iron railing. Of all the miserable, pathetic…</p> <p>The female reporter spoke up now, her voice as harsh and grating as he remembered. "But that's not true is it, Sir Malcolm? We have letters that appear to refer to people in your life. They include laser serial dots which correspond to an official MoD printer we were able to confirm just this morning was assigned for your personal use. You know, I've been digging into your history, and this isn't the first time you've been caught corresponding with someone you believed to be a young man."</p> <p>"Lies!" he screamed. "Are you sleeping with him? The murderer? This is the sort of sordid conspiracy you work up against me. And you drag in all your small-time, London publication friends and ambush me on my own doorstep? You're a libeller, Ms Dullot—”</p> <p>"Deloitte," she said, before continuing. "In 2006 your wife left you because she found out you were exchanging letters and emails with a 17-year-old boy. His name was Arnoldo Figueres. You paid your wife over two million as part of the separation to keep it out of the media. You should have paid off Arnoldo as well. He's giving a quote at the Brixton Herald offices right now."</p> <p>"No law," he said thickly, the wind knocked out of him as he realised how far gone the situation was—that for anyone other than him this would be unrecoverable. What he would have to do. "No law broken. You can't prove any law was broken."</p> <p>"No," the accursed reporter said. "At least, until we find out who contacted Timothy McGage and paid him £400,000 shortly before he was himself killed. My editor spoke to the Coroner for Hammersmith & Fulham last night, by the way. He says he'll be re-opening the Kellogg case. As good as the sleaze is, I think attempted murder sounds even better, don't you?"</p> <p>"Are you going to resign, Sir Malcolm?" someone called from the back. "Do you think the PM will ask you to step down?"</p> <p>There was a sudden, dangerous quiet. Sir Malcolm stepped away from the railing, back into the street, and he saw with some gratification that the movement still made these lice move back. He shivered, convulsively, the autumn air whiskering the hairs of his legs above the slippers.</p> <p>Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand up before his face, then stretched it out, fingers tensing around empty air. He had never reached for the green chair in desperation before; hadn't even known before that it was possible. But here it was, shimmering before him, his throne.</p> <p>"Erm," Sam said.</p> <p>The flash photography began again in earnest, the bizarre pose and expression of furious concentration on the Minister's face a must-have for tomorrow's edition. Go on, he thought, waste your last moments alive.</p> <hr/> <p>"Run," Sam said suddenly, drawing an odd look from the representative of the Fulham & Hammersmith Chronicle. "We need to get out of here, right now. Please!"</p> <p>"I'll let you see," Sir Malcolm said to her, the corners of his lips tugging upwards until he was smiling a death's head smile. "You stupid bitch! I'll let you see!"</p> <p>Sam stumbled back, pushing against the other reporters who crowded closer, trying to get a clear recording of a Cabinet minister unleashing an astonishing rant on the street in his dressing-gown and slippers. She looked back and saw it, between his fingers, forming—the bubble of dark light, inflating until it had engulfed his hand and haloed his head in its altered radiance. St Malcolm, rebuking the skeptics. The others had seen it too, and a backwards step as they sought to get a good picture of the phenomenon became a rout as they realised it was continuing to expand. Sam was knocked to her knees as the reporters tried to escape—she watched it overtake them—passing over their bodies and erasing them, brain, skeleton, intestines for a moment exposed as it cross-sectioned them away. She sat mutely, watching as people she had known and worked with for three years were wiped from the earth. The bubble's expansion had slowed, grinding over the pavement. It had filled the street; a dome of infinitesimally paler, dimmer light rose into the sky, birds flying into it disappearing and re-appearing on the other side.</p> <p>It took her a moment to realise the sounds of the cameras hadn't stopped. Someone was talking behind her, and she turned to see that the press pack had somehow, miraculously, reassembled, stronger than before, though her university classmates were further back, watching with reverent expressions. At the front, representatives from the national dailies and their entourages jostled for position with TV crews, live reporters chattering in the background. At the centre of this impossible gathering stood Sir Malcolm restored, dressed in an immaculately fitted Huntsman suit, forelock tinted darker and teeth veneered, one arm around his daughter. Sam had felt sorry for her when she had opened the door, face pale above school uniform. Now her hair was immaculately coiffed and she was wearing a miniature version of a ball gown. She reached up and adjusted her father's collar, and he chuckled.</p> <p>"What will your first act be as PM?" the Daily Mail reporter shouted hoarsely. "Is there any truth to the rumour you plan to hold a referendum on UK membership of the EU?"</p> <p>Sir Malcolm's eyes twinkled, lunatic spirals of blue. "I couldn't possibly comment," he said, "but the people <em>must</em> have their say! That is the principle I stand for!"</p> <p>"You're for abolition of the monarchy—will you be asking the Queen to step down?" someone else called.</p> <p>"Give it time!" Sir Malcolm shouted, to a peal of polite laughter.</p> <p>But behind it all, she saw a strange duality—<em>two</em> Sir Malcolms, one looking happy and healthy and taking questions from a reverent press party, the other still in his pyjamas, hand still outreached, clutching at something she couldn't see, a Sir Malcolm still at bay, sweating, with face deathly drawn. She looked around—no-one else seemed to see anything other than the impossible coup. <em>It's not over</em>, she thought, <em>he hasn't won yet</em>.</p> <hr/> <p>Sir Malcolm sat on his jade chair at the centre of a whirlwind, desperately weaving the new universe. For every inch of ground the shift gained, another complex chain of consequences crashed through his mind, demanding resolution. Some part of him not wholly consumed in creating a new reality thought—to abandon and circumvent everything! The Foundation, the Project, Mucalinda, the great game of scandal and blackmail against his fellow Ministers—how easily he had been played at that—to discard all that and proceed straight to the result, the Rt Hon Sir Malcolm Urquhart MP, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury, Minister for the Civil Service and Leader of the Conservative Party. Now, <em>this</em> was cheating at cricket, or put another way, not so much eliminating the excess pageantry of the tea ceremony so much as just snorting maccha straight from the packet. And he found he was surprisingly OK with that.</p> <p>He felt a pang of remorse for Francesca—he always did when he killed her—but lessened now by repetition and simple exhaustion. Let this be a universe where she never has to be disappointed in me, he thought. A universe without guilt! No Chaos Insurgency, no Foundation at all, unfounded—unfounded accusations against me Mister Speaker—no! No accusations at all! Erase even the memory of Wesley Kellogg, Timothy McGage, Keagan O'Neill! He felt himself rally at this vision, the bubble sliding outwards, engulfing Belgravia, central London. Then, the pressure again. Why? Why is it so hard? I'm only trying to make a universe where hundreds of millions of people love me, he thought, is that so impossible? The long looping end of a causal chain hit him like an express train and he saw the story, 'Cabinet Minister in jail murder scandal' spreading outwards at the speed of light. Blogs, Twitter, the first national newspaper websites. No, no, no, he screamed from his throne, stop it, stop it. Greater London. The South East. The Home Counties. The old universe fighting him every step of the way, pushing back with hyperlinks, retweets, word of mouth. Southern England and the Midlands; the bubble engulfing Cornwall and making landfall at Calais. Something in Sir Malcolm's chest was making a horrible, uneven thumping sound; his eyes rolled back as he felt his real body sink to its knees. Die, he screamed at the universe, why won't you die? He felt the bubble slide through the Midlands and reach the outskirts of Sheffield.</p> <p>OM</p> <p>The first syllable slammed through the dark throneroom of Sir Malcolm's mind like an icy gale.</p> <p>MANI</p> <p>I'm being watched, Sir Malcolm realised. In <em>here</em>, I'm being watched. Something vaster than he could perceive, some rumbling shifting of the landscape as the vast chant hammered into him.</p> <p>PEME</p> <p>The darkness shifted and blinked, and Sir Malcolm realised it was a pupil—a gigantic eye larger than London, dwarfing him in his own mind. The jade throne crumbled beneath his fingers, pieces of it coming away like cheap styrofoam left out in the rain too long.</p> <p>HUNG</p> <p>And in the great rumbling chant—an impossible sea of sound washing over him, breaking up the order of his mind, sending causal threads flying in all directions, ends fraying and tearing open as he <em>lost control</em>—</p> <p>OM</p> <p>He heard a voice</p> <p>MANI</p> <p>And this is what it said</p> <p>PEME</p> <p><em>I will not allow another</em></p> <p>HUNG</p> <p>And it reached out and took hold of his universe, 240 miles across, in its talons, and he felt the terrible pressure as the tips pressed into the interface between worlds. Please, don't do that, Sir Malcolm pleaded, and he realised he was now kneeling in his pyjamas, the rest of his throne blown away by that terrible hurricane. I want it, I need it</p> <p>OM</p> <p>The talons sliced through the skin of his stillborn universe, and it popped like a soap bubble in the wind. He staggered, back hitting the railings. He looked up and saw them all—the Herald, the Chronicle, the Evening Standard, gathered back around him with hungry eyes. The old universe was back—no, <em>recreated</em>, as it was before the shift. Only the female reporter, Sam Deloitte, had remained constant—she was kneeling on the pavement a dozen yards or so behind the others, watching him as he reeled, disheveled and sweat tousling his hair. He thought he saw a look of triumph on her features.</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm," one of the reporters called, "just to clarify, you want that on the record as your response to the allegations? I'll just read that back: 'I'll let you see, you stupid bitch, I'll let you see, I want it, I need it'?" The laughter again, this time with a note of unease—the sort of unease you feel laughing at someone who is clearly mentally unwell.</p> <p>"I, I—” Sir Malcolm tried to swallow but something had gone wrong with his body. He wondered if he had suffered a stroke—nothing seemed to be responding to his brain's orders. He used the railings to pull himself along, away from the house. He looked back and saw Fran standing in the doorway, watching, listening, and it crushed whatever part of him the thing in the box had not already broken. He began moving faster, and the reporters followed him along the railings, taking pictures, video on their smartphones. The breakdown of the century, he thought. "Stay away from me!" he shrieked, and began to run.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc4"><span>Chapter Fourteen: "Keagan and the Bomb"</span></h3> <p>It was a very, very long time before the Chaos Insurgency agents were able to raise their superiors—or it seemed that way to Keagan, who in the meantime had suffered through a fairly amateurish interrogation by the agent who had advocated strangling him and throwing his corpse onto the B3098. What, exactly, he hoped the result would be of his clumsy attempt to pistol-whip Keagan around the cheeks and neck, followed by punches to the gut and finally a technique whereby he wedged Keagan's hand between two chairs and leaned on one—probably excruciating if he hadn't picked the hand in which Keagan still hadn't entirely recovered his sensation—was unclear, as he never bothered to remove the gag. Come on, Keagan thought after the thirtieth attempt to make him regurgitate the light lunch he'd had on the way to Sir Malcolm's office the previous day, I'd tell you the fucking sky's green right now if you only let me. Finally, the other Insurgency agent made a connection on one of the cell phones and gestured for his colleague to lay off on the unnecessary brutality. He spoke quickly and his frown deepened with every response. At length he put the phone down and, commandeering the other chair, sat straddling it facing Keagan.</p> <p>"Frankly, the people I spoke to found your story as fucking unbelievable as I did. Unfortunately, it syncs with red flags which have been raised recently about Foundation activity in this Sector, in particular some unauthorised centralisation of the London cell structure. The upshot of all that, for you, is that we don't kill you just yet." He reached over and tugged Keagan's gag off. "Say thank you."</p> <p>Outside, Keagan heard an engine, the sound of wheels displacing small stones on the dirt path. And that, if I know anything at all about cars, is an Audi, Keagan thought. It slowed, stopped. Close.</p> <p>"Someone's coming," he said, words slightly slurred by the pain.</p> <p>Footsteps now—the agent closest to the entrance stepped back in line with the tent wall while his colleague retrieved the magazine and reunited it with his Makarov (good luck firing that now, Keagan thought, I'm pretty sure you cracked the handle on my jaw). And although there was only the faintest whisper of disturbance from the bushes outside, somebody stepped through.</p> <p>"It looks like congratulations are in order," Sir Malcolm said, wearing a look of amusement as he saw Keagan in the chair. The agent closest to the door had trained his Makarov on the newcomer but put it down immediately.</p> <p>How was this possible, Keagan thought? Last time he had seen the man he had been busy behind his desk in London, and it hardly seemed plausible that a Cabinet Minister had been following them up the M3, or even for that matter being seen dead in an Audi A4. Keagan blinked a couple of times, but it failed to revise the impression he had that the man was slightly <em>blurry</em>. Just very slightly out of focus. <em>Ah</em>, Keagan thought.</p> <p>"Sir Malcolm," the agent who had drawn the gun on him stuttered. "To—ah—what do we owe the honour?"</p> <p>"A little bird told me you'd captured O'Neill. I thought I'd drop by to confirm you had him in custody. You're both due a special reward."</p> <p>The agents kept exchanging small, shaky looks. The one who'd spent the last half hour or so on the phone verifying Keagan's story swallowed, slowly.</p> <p>"We'll look forward to that, Sir. Why don't you take a seat, just for a few minutes?" Sir Malcolm turned towards him, a beneficent smile on his face.</p> <p>"No, I think I'll be leaving just as soon as I see Mr O'Neill dead. To be honest, I'm surprised you haven't taken the initiative and done it already. I do hope you haven't been listening to him spouting reactionary propaganda?"</p> <p>"Sir, I really think you should take a seat. I need to raise some people who want to speak to you." The agent was sweating now, and his eyes strayed from the out-of-focus blue eyes to the radio and mobiles on the table.</p> <p>"I see." Sir Malcolm looked from him to Keagan, at the other agent, then back again. "So that's how it is."</p> <p>The sudden ice in the voice made the nearest agent's eyes widen, and he spun around, raising the Makarov. Half-way through the agent's turn, the man with Sir Malcolm's face tensed his arm and raised it above his head like a guillotine, so fast it seemed the arm simply stopped being <em>here</em> and started being <em>there</em>. Something substantial and wet flew past Keagan's ear, splattering him in blood. There was a clattering on the table behind Keagan, something bouncing off the wall. Then the howling began, the agent closest to the door dropping to his knees, staring in disbelief at the void where his arm used to be. His compatriot failed for a split second to make sense of what he was seeing; when he realised that the Malcolm-thing had cleaved the other agent's arm from its socket he screamed himself, lifted the Makarov and—</p> <p>With the same blinding speed, the Malcolm-thing stepped forward and casually, with a whip-like fluidity that seemed impossible in anything with bones, poked his arm through the chest of the other agent. He died quickly and quietly, his face turning purple. The Malcolm-thing absent-mindedly licked blood off his fingers before turning to the first man who had by now fallen silent, face bone white, but still trying to stem the flow of blood with his other hand. "Still alive," the Malcolm-thing said, mournfully. He took the man's head in his hands and twisted it, casually. The man lost any remaining rigidity and slumped to the floor.</p> <p>Keagan sat in the chair, facing the creature.</p> <p>"You must be the tulpa," he said.</p> <p>"What a dazzling piece of deduction. Very adroit," spat the tulpa, looking around at the scene. "What a mess you've made. Do you know what a trouble this is going to be for me to clean up?" As he spoke, Keagan heard the faint buzzing beneath the words—if he had the means to record it and the means to play it back, he had no doubt he could slow it down and increase the volume and hear a fly's rendition of the heart sutra, knitting the tulpa together. Now he was standing still, Keavan realised he wasn't such a good likeness of Sir Malcolm as might first have been imagined. He was far less polished, like a rough sketch of the man, the eyes blurring whirlpools of blue, no pupils discernable.</p> <p>"Were you the one who killed Wesley Kellogg?" Keagan asked.</p> <p>"What?" The tulpa looked irritated by the question, as though Keagan should have figured it all out earlier. "No, that was the guard. I forget his name. I had to kill him afterwards."</p> <p>"Because you always look out for Sir Malcolm, right?"</p> <p>The tulpa's shoulders sagged. "I try. Sometimes he can be very stupid. Which doesn't make sense, because I'm him." He didn't even sound like Sir Malcolm, Keagan thought. He tensed his wrists and heard a tiny click as the restraints gave up exactly one notch. He held his breath, but the tulpa didn't seem to have noticed.</p> <p>"No, you're wrong." Keagan said. "You're what Sir Malcolm <em>thinks he is</em>. I guess that makes you the responsible one."</p> <p>The tulpa stood for a moment. "I never looked at it like that. No-one's ever taught me anything before." He laughed, a look of childish joy on his features. Then it faded, slowly. "You know, I don't think you're worth it." He walked over to the table, picked up one of the mobiles, tapped on it. "Last number redial. There it is. Hello? Hello? Of course not. Answerphone." He crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, threw the ruined phone to the ground. "Thanks to you I may have to kill the entire Insurgency. I told him they weren't toys, that he couldn't play around with them." He pursed his lips.</p> <p>Keagan slowly braced one elbow against the back of the chair and applied pressure to his left wrist, feeling it strain at the point of dislocation.</p> <p>The tulpa turned and began to stalk towards him. "To be so dependent on him. To live or die at his whim. But I'm always the one who has to pull his arse out of the fire. It makes me sick."</p> <p>Keagan felt his lips move, heard his own voice say:</p> <p>"<em>Tell me about it.</em>"</p> <p>Without conscious thought, he wrenched his left hand out of the restraint, feeling a faint burning but not much more in the cold-crippled hand, reaching with the other for the thing he had heard clatter behind him, whose position he had apparently pinpointed with uncanny accuracy, as the surviving nerve endings in his intermediate phalanges reported that they had closed around it. I'm apparently going to fire a gun, Keagan thought. He hoped his right index finger was up to the task.</p> <p>The tulpa's face barely changed as Keagan brought the Makarov to bear and depressed the trigger. The recoil sent shuddering waves of pain through his arm but he kept the gun levelled on the tulpa as he rose from the chair. Two shots. Three. The bullets hit the tulpa in its face and neck, tearing great gouges from its substance. It went down, only now deigning to register a vague sense of surprise. Four, five. Keagan continued firing into the tulpa until the Makarov magazine was empty. The tulpa lay on its side in the middle of the tent floor. Its head and upper torso was a ruin—nothing above the bridge of the nose left. But it continued to shudder, and Keagan realised with a horrible jolt that it was laughing.</p> <p>"Oh, what a world," it chuckled, jaw hanging loose on one side. "What a world." The half-liquid half-smoke that had leaked from its wounds reversed its flow, seeping back over the floor towards the tulpa, the moonscape of its chest beginning to knit back together. "Why don't I give you a head start?"</p> <p>Keagan felt his abused knees protesting as he half-ran, half-stumbled around the creature, throwing the empty Makarov into the corner of the tent, and into the glare of the morning light. He orientated himself back the way he had gone first time around. On the horizon he could just pick out the shape of buildings. It's too far, he thought. It's miles away.</p> <p>He had got about two hundred metres before the tulpa emerged. At this distance, as Keagan glanced back over his shoulder, he was little more than a vague suggestion of a humanoid, a blurry shape moving over the ground. He pursued with an even, tireless lope, not much faster than Keagan's own pace, but fast enough that he would close the distance long before Keagan reached the abandoned village. He wants me to die scared, Keagan thought. It wasn't long before his muscles began to burn, his beaten joints screaming for rest. You can still choose where it happens, Keagan thought. You could stop here, turn and face him, spit in his face. Don't give him the satisfaction of chasing you until you fall. But his limbs kept moving, even as the burning turned to a searing, intolerable pain, imminent cramp.</p> <p>Instead, he thought about what Sir Malcolm had said. <em>Anyone can do it,</em> he had said. How do you first realise you can control reality? Maybe it's just a case that things seem to go right for you, just a little more often than probability should dictate. You visualise it, and it happens. You tell a story, and it comes true. It's denial of reality, he objected, that's the basic principle of it. Like lying—and how could you ever tell if you had really changed reality or simply deluded yourself into imagining you had done so?</p> <p>You've assumed you have principles, Keagan thought. You don't lie because you would rather kill a man than breach your code of personal morality. What if you were wrong? He looked at the ground beneath his feet, his shadow before him flickering and uncertain. There's a man running over a field, he thought, somewhere in Wiltshire. I thought that was me. Okay then, he thought, tell a story. It's not lying, because it could be true, like everything you've told yourself has happened to you.</p> <p>Somewhere, under the ground, there was a piece of metal. A piece of iron ore. It lay buried for millions of years, until a great machine tore away what was lying on top of it and exposed what was really there all along. Men took it and refined it and made it into a shell, and inside it they packed explosives, and propellant, and a fuse and a primer. This was during the War, the war when they harnessed the power of the sun and the Foundation had to sit back and watch as it became part of the world everyone thought they lived in. This wasn't a nuclear bomb, of course, it was just an artillery shell. They had loaded it into a truck and driven it to Salisbury Plain, where thousands of men prepared for the invasion of Normandy. Hundreds of shells used in target practice. But this shell, it didn't detonate, did it? It lodged in the ground, and every time the rain fell it sank deeper and deeper, until no-one knew it existed at all. But it wasn't a dud—it just didn't go off, a faulty connection in the proximity fuse. It's lain here all these years, the charge in its electrolytes seeping away but never quite running dry, waiting for the direct pressure that will connect its battery plates one last time. And it's—here! It's under that tiny raised patch of ground twenty metres, fifteen metres away, rushing towards you, longing for this moment, when it gets to fulfil its purpose at long last.</p> <p>Ten metres. His breath scorched his lungs, aerobic respiration a dimly-remembered legend. Five metres. He forced strength into his legs, and <em>jumped</em> over the clump that might have been an ant hill, or might have been the ensign of something buried there—like a child jumps over the patch of floor they imagine is a crocodile, like an obsessive-compulsive jumps over the cracked slabs on the pavement because they remember the old rhyme. His right leg landed first, and his knee gave out under him, and his run went three-quarters horizontal, a sprawling scrabbling crawl on all fours, desperately, trying to get away, get away, <em>get away from the blast</em>…</p> <p>Behind him, as he stumbled, he heard the tulpa <em>accelerate</em>, feet hitting the ground impossibly fast. Keagan dropped, hands clutched over his ears.</p> <p>The detonation pressed him into the ground, tore at him with sharp metal fragments, took his senses, filled his mouth with blood and grit. He hovered in the space between waking and unconsciousness, unsure for a moment if he had really experienced what had just happened, doubting everything. He looked back, expecting to see something thin and wraithlike taking shape in the air, but he saw nothing except the sunlight shining on the muddy crater that had replaced the little grassy dome. Thank you, he said to the bomb. Thank you for waiting for me. Everything was growing watery and hard to see. He could hear someone talking to him, and he thought, he'll pop out of thin air any moment, he's been here this whole time and I haven't been able to focus, and then he realised it was the little voice, talking to him now in quite a conversational tone as the world around him disappeared. This is what it said:</p> <hr/> <p><em>OK, I'm going to make this as easy for you as I can. This is something you need to face up to, and frankly there doesn't seem a better time, since right now I have a captive audience and there might not be a later. I'm going to tell you a story of my own.</em></p> <p><em>Before I try and break the news to you, I should stress it was a pretty desperate situation. You, and by you I mean me and you, us, but mostly me, had spent every last pence and cadged and stole more off friends and family and spent that too, and borrowed more—lots more—from a guy and spent that too. Mostly poker—some horses—and I'd tell you there were no Class As involved (and I don't mean amnesiacs, though the effect was much the same) but that would be a lie too. The guy—you probably wouldn't remember his name—started getting pretty lousy when he realised that any extra money you had coming in was going right back onto the tables and into the bookies. I mean, you tried to explain that you were due a big win, right, but he wasn't impressed by that. Incidentally, one thing you never really got into was darts, which is ironic really, considering how this all turned out.</em></p> <p><em>This is how it went. You got picked up outside a pretty seedy poker club and taken back to his place. Over the Thames. That was pretty much its standout feature. He says, pay up. You mention you just got cleaned out, for—what?—the twelfth, thirteenth time? Christ, he says, I've never known anyone have worse luck. Then he gets a look in his eye. He calls over these two goons, fresh meat, probably trying to get their start in the sharking business. One of them has this straight, black, slicked back hair and picks his fingernails with a pocketknife he keeps in his jacket and the other smokes rollups and has shit tattooed on his knuckles, as in, just the word 'SHIT' (say, here's one—what's brown and steaming and comes out of cows? Shit! … Nothing?). He says to you, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a fighting chance just in case you pull yourself together and manage to pay me back in the future. A short sharp shock. I see you again after this and you don't have my cash, I'm gonna have Theo here open your throat. He tells them, throw this brown shit out of the window.</em></p> <p><em>Well, it was about two o'clock in the morning and the Thames is fucking cold at that time of night. Even you must remember that. The shock nearly kills you, and the stench almost finishes you off. You get swept along until you find somewhere to claw your way out—the bricks come away when you grab at them and by the time you've dragged yourself onto dry land it feels like you've torn down half the Thames barrier. You get out, shivering like a kicked dog—that wasn't your classiest moment, by the way—and shamble along the towpath for a while. Then you come face to face with—well, you. He's walking in the opposite direction, probably couldn't sleep, off for a walk along the riverside. It's like looking in a fucking mirror. I mean, spooky alike. He's just as shocked as you are, probably more so—you're the one soaking wet, staggering along like the walking dead.</em></p> <p><em>He (you) calms down a bit, and says 'nice night for it', which was a really fucking stupid thing to say. It's informed my impression of you (strange how the word has two meanings like that) ever since. Well, you (we) don't say anything back—we're looking at him and his nice coat and his nice shoes and we think—he has a life, doesn't he, he hasn't screwed everything up like you (we) have. And you realise you have a half-brick in your hand from the side of the Thames, you've literally been carrying the thing along with you for the past half-mile without realising. You don't even question the amazing coincidence, the way that you just won the National Lottery after years of losing, the way he just pops up the second it finally matters in some ultimate, real way. And you (we, I) hit him (you) over the head with the brick. Again, and again. He doesn't say anything, he just goes down to his knees, trying to put his hands in the way, then when those get beaten to a pulp the fight goes out of him and he falls over, and you continue hitting him until there's nothing there anymore.</em></p> <p><em>You take his wallet and you see his name. I think you've probably worked it out by now. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I'm your god and I'm a fucking loser. I stripped your clothes off and put them on, and I put my clothes on you and kicked you into the Thames. They found me (you) a mile or so downriver the next day and I was declared dead. I knew I couldn't just go on the way I had been, of course, so I made you. My tulpa, my simulacrum of how a stranger might act, based on the fleeting moment before I smashed his brains in and took his life. I put you in the driving seat, except when it really mattered. You didn't have much family, as far as I could see, not many friends. I cut myself off from them and made a few new ones, like Lauren. You wrote your damn passwords and PIN numbers down on a piece of paper and put them in your sock drawer. It was really easy. It was really, really fucking easy. I'm sorry.</em></p> <p>What are you sorry for?</p> <p><em>Jesus Christ, you stupid son of a bitch. I killed you. You're not real. You're dead. You've been dead for about four and a half years. You're a simulation I created. You don't believe me? When did you start suffering from the violent moods, the change blindness? And the lying. You can't lie because you are a lie. It would be just too many levels of metafiction.</em></p> <p>I'm pretty sure I'm not dead. For starters, I can feel the soil I'm currently plumped face-down on. That feels pretty real, and not very comfortable, actually.</p> <p><em>No, you idiot, you're not getting me.</em></p> <p>I reckon I get you just fine. Who, exactly, did they find in the river again? Whose name was on the death certificate?</p> <p><em>It doesn't matter.</em></p> <p>Really? Now, here's a poser. Whose past did 554 erase? That's an interesting one, isn't it? Let Professor Reeds chew that one over.</p> <p><em>You don't know. It might have erased me too. Personal identification. Hypothesis-A. The experiment was inconclusive.</em></p> <p>We could find out. Look you up. What's your name?</p> <p><em>My name?</em></p> <p>Your name, you piece of shit. If you're alive, and I'm dead, you must have a name. I'm Keagan O'Neill. Who the hell are you?</p> <p><em><sup>My name?</sup></em></p> <p>Now fuck off.</p> <hr/> <p>He wakes up briefly to see three armoured trucks idling around him, upwards of twenty black-helmets disembarking and aiming sub-machineguns. Ah, he thinks, with a sort of dreamy certainty, so <em>that's</em> where you keep popping out from.</p> <p>They keep shouting 'Clear!' as they get closer, which he decides doesn't sound very helpful, like someone who insists something is perfectly self-evident without bothering to explain themselves. They swell in his vision until the blackness of their visors overwhelms him and he falls into unconsciousness.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc5"><span>Chapter Fifteen: "Gunning for the Buddha"</span></h3> <p>Edward rose, made his bed, and wandered through into the staff living quarters. There were a few other 'boarders' at the Sector-25 facility, mostly through choice; people who couldn't give any more of their lives to the Foundation without actually living and sleeping there, so they did; others stayed at secure residential sites in the surrounding area, carefully shielded from the outside world. Edward was the only one effectively in protective custody; it had taken them a while to actually agree that he held a formal title within the Foundation (strictly speaking, he was a Junior Researcher) and his status still seemed fairly fluid, hopping from department to department, part-time psychiatrist (he had just about completed an undergraduate degree in Philosophy, which sector management apparently considered close enough), part-time computer troubleshooter, part-time consultant on the Group of Interest that called itself Marshall, Carter & Dark.</p> <p>Edward wandered over to the coffee machine and fiddled with the dials, frowning. then felt around behind the back. The LED display resolutely refused to come on.</p> <p>"I've tried all that," said a ferret-faced young researcher called Mames. "It's completely busted."</p> <p>Edward turned and blinked. "This is literally the earliest I have ever seen you up."</p> <p>"I'm surprised you slept through it," Mames said. "There's been some excitement."</p> <p>'Some excitement,' in Sector-25, could mean anything between 'new tub of Ovaltine' to 'microscopic Germans from an alternate timeline have just nuked the break room'.</p> <p>"Oh. What's happened, exactly?" Edward gave up on the espresso machine and fished around in the cupboard for the French press.</p> <p>"There was an explosion out on the SPTA, a quarter mile out."</p> <p>Edward raised an eyebrow to suggest this was hardly an unusual occurrence on a live-fire training ground.</p> <p>"No, no, listen, they found a guy near the crater, covered in blood, most of it someone else's."</p> <p>"And we got involved why? Sounds like a case for the British Army."</p> <p>"It was the underpants. Apparently we get them off the books from a domestic supplier in South Korea; officially they've failed quality control and been incinerated. Very peculiar stitching up the centre, not very comfortable for, er, bigger people. Anyway, they don't sell them over here. But we do issue them to D-Class. Also, his hands were frostbitten, which all just seemed a bit too weird to leave to the squaddies."</p> <p>"I see. So, we took him in?"</p> <p>"Put him up in the medical wing until he regained consciousness. He's claiming to have been D-Class in this facility a couple of months back, only he doesn't have the tattoos, we don't have any record of him under the name he's given and, well, a couple of months, right?"</p> <p>Edward nodded, slowly. Mames continued:</p> <p>"So they take him to Conference Room 2, which is when I get up to see what all the fuss is about. At first he wants to speak to 554-2, but of course she's never heard of him either, and it turns out he means the <em>last</em> 554-2, which was kinda sad. Then he starts on about talking to Skinner, which really raises everyone's blood pressure."</p> <p>"I can imagine," Edward said. He had left the coffee and the packet of bagels he'd been fiddling with on the side, and walked over to the chair. "And let me guess, he mentioned Dr Barker, only Dr Barker can't remember him, though that's pretty convenient if he says he was here while Skinner was in charge?"</p> <p>"Yeah. How did you know?"</p> <p>Edward sighed. "I have a horrible idea my quiet half-morning has just gone up in smoke. What was his name?"</p> <p>"Erm, oh damn, it's on the tip of my tongue. Er, ah, something Irish, which you wouldn't think to look at him, since he's a—hey, wait up?"</p> <p>"Keagan," Edward shouted back as he strode along the corridors, following the orange lines towards the Conference Rooms. "Keagan O' sodding Neil."</p> <p>He pushed open the door to Conference Room 1 a second or two before he remembered he wasn't dressed yet. Too late now, of course.</p> <p>"I know who he is."</p> <p>The man at the far end of the table from a cluster of Sector-25's most distinguished professionals and interrogators looked up, and beamed widely.</p> <p>"Edward—Gardley? Gradley, that was it! I should have asked for you. Immune to memory wiping! Give that man a fucking promotion."</p> <p>Professor Gelding adjusted his spectacles and stared at Edward. "Edward, you can confirm this man's story about being D-Class?"</p> <p>Edward stood still for a moment, Keagan looking on expectantly. Come on, Edward, think on your feet, you used to do this for a living in the City. You've just walked into an interrogation of a man who, the last time you saw him, was about to be irrevocably disappeared by a Euclid-class skip after confessing to cross-contamination with a Keter-class reality-warper who lives in a hermetically-sealed steel cube. Assuming, of course, this is the actual Keagan O'Neill and not something that looks and sounds a lot like him and has all his memories—which, let's face it, happens more often than it should, in this line of work—you sort of have an obligation to try and ensure he doesn't get vivisected, at least before he actually tells us what led up to his being covered in someone else's blood, staggering towards the facility over a field full of unexploded ordnance. So, please maestro, let's have your best quality not-quite-lie here:</p> <p>"I can verify," he said, "that this man was in this facility as late as mid-August. I remember seeing and talking to him. I can't remember his clearance level, and I certainly don't recall him being D-Class. Agent Howard," he addressed the Head of Security, "I remember you talked to him. You too, Professor Reeds. Bear that in mind when you start considering who he might have had contact with. Dr Skinner was … everywhere for a while. It's not unreasonable that he might have spoken to him or Agent Moon. Lots of us did."</p> <p>"Finally someone talking sense," Keagan said. "What happened to Dr Skinner? Everyone went nuts when I mentioned his name."</p> <p>"He—ah—wasn't quite his own man," Professor Gelding muttered. "It's a long story."</p> <p>"Well anyway, now how's about you stop trying to figure out who I am—” he paused for a moment, a pause which seemed significant “—and start listening to me, eh?"</p> <p>"We're listening," Edward said.</p> <hr/> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>Renton shivered in the night air as he waited to be let into the MoD. The guards maintained their impassive glare, just a notch short of pretending he didn't exist, but he was getting odd looks from people on the street—odder than he normally received in his beret and socialista garb. 'Tonight, the fashionable urban revolutionary is modelling a soft, blow-dried 'do, honey-brown hair falling naturally around his face and neck, and wearing a sleeveless little number that comes just short of his belly button.'</p> <p>He had, after much protest, shaved his upper lip, but remained staunchly protective of his steel-toed bovver boots which had got him through many an anti-fascist counter demo, and their presence reassured him. Not that they look particularly intimidating below the ridiculous shorts they had made him wear. In all, he felt like a piece of meat, and it didn't reassure him particularly that the intent was veal. But he was a good soldier, and when the orders came though the correct channels he obeyed with only a little protest.</p> <p>He would be frisked (first) by the guards at the door. According, he carried no weapons. He wished he still had a certain key fob he had acquired in his Art Violence period—innocuous enough to get in, leave it on the oak desk, no more problem. No more Ministry of Defence either, though, which he understood might be a problem. In any case, the keychain had been his price of admission into the Foundation—the true Foundation—and the salvation of his soul (and look where it's got you, a little voice of his own murmured, but he quashed it furiously).</p> <p>No, he didn't need it. Sir Malcolm was fragile now, emotionally weakened—if he had not been, the op would never have been sanctioned—and in desperate need of comfort, of many kinds. There would be green tea, which Renton despised with every particle in his being. It would come on a silver tray, in packets, with a pair of scissors.</p> <hr/> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>"Alright gentlemen," Agent Brass announced, "we're officially in briefing, which means if any of you talk between now and me saying 'any questions?'—no, you fucking smart alec, that didn't count—I get to rip your head off and spit down the hole. There's a couple of you here, this'll be your first operation with the unit, so a general point. This is Mobile Task Force Rho-6, but we don't call it that, because frankly whoever came up with that American-college-fraternity naming system ought to be shot. We prefer to call ourselves the Deifecators, because we shit on gods on a daily basis. That's day-yi. Two syllables. It'll grow on you.</p> <p>"This—” he clicks the slide changer in his hand “—is the target. Caucasian male, 48 years old, based in London. He's also a Government minister." He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "And, of course, he's a Bixby. That's what we call reality-warpers, probies. From Jerome Bixby. 'It's a Good Life'. Look it up in your own time. Active for at least twenty years, apparently, which makes you wonder what, exactly, the retards in Kappa-6 actually do all day. Has a daughter, which is going to suck for her, especially since she's now going to be under Foundation surveillance for the rest of her natural just in case she's inherited it from her daddy."</p> <p>Next slide. "To make things harder, the target has recently holed himself up in his offices in Main Building and is refusing to speak to visitors. He sent for clothes and toiletries from his house in Belgravia, unfortunately before we were read into the op, otherwise I would have suggested making like Deianeira and putting ricin on the inside of his shirt collar. So he's in there for the long haul. And to top it all off, he's the centre of a growing scandal about a quashed investigation into the murder of an ex-judge in prison. The Director has applied pressure to the PM to take the position that it's a private matter until the police actually charge our guy. That hopefully means we don't have to deal with a pissed-off reality-warper rampaging through the largest city in Western Europe, and just leaves us with the problem of infiltrating the UK Ministry of Defence, killing a top-level official and making it look like a suicide."</p> <p>"We have a couple of advantages going in. Our boy has just, as far as we can tell, experienced a major failure to launch. Happens to the best of us. Shut up. Anyway, he tried to initiate a reality shift in front of a bunch of journalists and flubbed it, ended up running through Green Park in his jim-jams, screaming his head off. I would NOT want to be in Gamma-5 and in charge of taking down all those Youtube videos. Maybe he's weakened, maybe he just believes he is, which for Bixbies is much the same thing. Also, what makes our boy so dangerous—and the real reason he's evaded detection for so long—is because he evidently views the whole universe as an all-or-nothing proposition. No matter the change he makes to reality, no matter how minor, he's apparently been pulling off a universal-scale restructuring event, which means he doesn't register on any of the usual space-time seismometers. Leave the implications of that to the philosophers, gentlemen, the fact is that he's done this God knows how many times since the fall of the Berlin Wall and I personally don't feel like a different person. More importantly, it means he should have slower reactions than your average Bixby. If he starts looking like he's trying to pass a log the size of your mother, aim for his head. I've never yet known a Bixby who can keep going after having his concentration disrupted by a 9mm."</p> <p>"Of course, it goes without saying, that when dealing with a Bixby there are no rules. Our boy could decide just before we get in the door that he would prefer the sun to be made of ice-cream, or for gravity to be exempt from inverse square law. It becomes a lot less scary when you realise that in the vast majority of worst case scenarios that still gives you about eight minutes to blow his mind. It might not actually help, but it would sure feel good." Next slide.</p> <p>"This is the plan of attack. Four insertion teams of three operatives; Team A breaches and deals with unforeseen elements; Team B secures the top floor where our boy is currently hiding out; Team C secures the floor below and prepares for extraction. Team D will be contacting the target and staging the scene. Each of you has a briefing pack identifying the teams and various contingencies. For those new to ops with the Deifecators, for Christ's sake call your family first. It makes a massive difference, it really does. Any questions?" He pauses, not long enough for anyone to think too deeply. "No? Then get your damn boots. Three words, gentlemen," he said to the assembled agents. "You know what they are."</p> <p>"Secure!", they said. "Contain! Protect!"</p> <hr/> <p>The security of the United Kingdom's military nerve centre was penetrated with textbook perfect timing. Cleaner passes had been obtained ahead of time and six men entered via the side entrance on Horse Guards after submitting to search by armed police. They then opened a small door in the adjoining apartments and let in another group of six workmen, carrying large and bulky aluminum-lined bags containing, to their absolute shock and surprise, not paint rollers, electric screwdrivers and step-ladders, but rather twelve FN P90s, gas grenades, assault vests, and a considerable quantity of specialised equipment, including electromagnetic spectrometers, UV and infrared filtered goggles, laser and sonic antipersonnel devices and as a final resort a cannister of VFDF with a time release. If at least one member of the Mobile Task Force did not survive to flip the switch—or if time or entropy were accelerated or if the half-life of the pellet of caesium in the cannister's internal clock were tampered with—it would release enough cyanotoxin to destroy every neurotransmitter in the building.</p> <p>It was Sunday, and even the hub of global British force projection was quieter than normal. A few dedicated souls were quietly taken and tranquilised. They would be administered a Class C amnesiac and told they had stayed home that day with a fever. The guards waiting outside Sir Malcolm's office with expressions of long-suffering patience were met with the strange sight of a little ball rolling over the plush carpet of the top floor hallway. A second later, they saw no more—it emitted a flash of light in a spectrum not recognised by science that ionised the rhodopsin in their eyes, overloading the visual cortex and taking with it all perception of time. They twitched slightly as they leaned back against the wall and sank slowly to a half-sitting position; they would recover their senses later, together with a slight headache and the vague sense that they had been sleeping on duty.</p> <p>The Deifecators breached the inner sanctum of the Minister Without Portfolio with flawless small unit tactics, spreading out from the door to cover all angles, sweeping a visual-spectrum laser through the room to blind or disorient their adversary. Agent Brass took point—you didn't survive long, career-wise, as head of a MTF unit if you made a habit of avoiding that responsibility—and, being a veteran of more such ops than both of his comrades combined, he was the first to shake off the adrenaline rush of the breach and realise what he was seeing.</p> <p>Sir Malcolm hung by his belt from the fake-crystal lampshade, rotating a little in the breeze from the sudden entrance, toes just barely touching the ground. His chair was overturned a couple of feet away and his face was grey. There was a bloom of blood from his neck, staining his rumpled shirt, but after a couple of seconds one noticed the little silver scissors, dangling from the loosely curled fingers of Sir Malcolm's left hand, and one realised the desk was just within reach from his position. The scenario readily presented itself: he had decided to do the deed, climbed the chair to fasten a fairly shoddy noose around the light fixture, and then submitted to gravity, only realising too late that his weight was enough to pull the mock-chandelier from its socket, leaving him slowly asphyxiating at the end of the electric wires, feet not contacting the floor sufficiently to spare his life, nor far enough away that he could stop himself from kicking them out to prolong the process, leaving him dancing on tiptoes between life and death. In desperation, he had grabbed the scissors from the tea tray on his desk and made several attempts at plunging it into his neck before finally finding the carotid artery and losing consciousness. It was a good narrative, and one Agent Brass might have used himself. Except, of course, that as far as they knew Sir Malcolm wasn't left-handed.</p> <p>The team did due diligence, of course—one could never assume a body was conclusive proof of death when dealing with Bixbies, when it could just as easily be an illusion, or someone else's body moulded into the shape of the Bixby, or just a piece of meat that had never been alive, conjured out of thin air at the whim of an insane god. But after scanning the room for electromagnetic anomalies, examining the corpse through a series of different filters, sweeping for subsound and infrared presences and manually intersecting every part of the room in co-ordinated movements to make sure their quarry had not simply rendered himself invisible and inaudible, they concluded that the scene was probably exactly what it looked like, or at least, exactly what someone had wanted it to look like.</p> <p>Sir Malcolm's eyes were open in death, but seemed dull, faded, beaten. His trousers had fallen to mid-thigh, exposing Union Jack boxer shorts. Agent Brass took a long, final look at the body.</p> <p>"Job well done, gentlemen," he concluded. "I won't tell if you don't."</p> <p>The MTF exfiltrated with the greatest of ease, the cannister of deadly nerve agent deactivated, the weapons folded and stashed away in the bag, which was placed in an outgoing parcel in the mailroom addressed to a military base in Wiltshire. They left a terse note at the front desk that they had found the room they were supposed to refurbish on the fourth floor locked and that there had been no-one around to ask about it, and that in future they would prefer a weekday appointment, as this had been an expensive but ultimately unnecessary piece of overtime for twelve men.</p> <hr/> <p>The process of debriefing was much the same in the Foundation as it had been in the Insurgency; you sat in a room for hours on end while serious-faced men asked questions and made little scribbles in notepads or tapped away on laptops. From time to time they would go off into a huddle and one of them would be dispatched to initiate some action based on what you had said. Then you would be taken into a bigger room and introduced to an even more senior officer of the Foundation and asked to repeat some or all of your story to him. Eventually the men got so senior Keagan wasn't even allowed to see their faces—just voices behind stylised silhouette icons on teleconference screens.</p> <p>The food was healthier, if somewhat blander, than the rapidly cooling takeaways which had been his staple while at the Insurgency's London safehouse, which Keagan was reasonably sure was about to be stormed by a dozen or so men with MP7s. He wondered if Walrus and Jitters were still there, or whether they had heeded Sir Malcolm's orders and closed up shop. There had been some impassioned debate over where Keagan should be housed—in D-Class accommodation? with staff?—and ultimately Keagan found himself led to a moderate-sized concrete room lit by neon tube lighting, which some effort was subsequently put into making habitable, with a flat-pack bed, chair and table assembled by a pair of blue hats in record time. However, Keagan couldn't help noticing the small drain on the floor and the plastered-over rectangle on the wall. No change there then, he thought, I'm in the dog house again.</p> <p>One thing Keagan remembered fondly about his time in HMP Wormwood Scrubs—or even his time as D-8671—had been the routine. These days, he would be woken at all times of the day and night to be quizzed about some barely-remembered aspect of his experiences by some anonymous visage on a monitor somewhere in the world for whom it was seemingly always mid-afternoon. Edward, as the sole attestor to Keagan's account of his time in the facility in August, sat nearby throughout these interviews, occasionally intervening to 'clarify' some remark Keagan made, always careful to play down any suggestion of Keagan's being D-Class or having breached security regulations. You're doing your best to keep me alive, Keagan thought. That's nice. Problem is, I didn't ask you to do that.</p> <p>"When did you decide to turn against the Chaos Insurgency?" a voice asked Keagan, booming over continents and oceans. He stared straight ahead.</p> <p>"I'd tell you it was when they told me what they wanted to do—to wake up that thing, to let it destroy whole cities to create a crisis only Malcolm Urquhart could fix. But it wasn't. I didn't care about the world at all. Millions of people—I can't visualise it. It's just numbers. I'd already decided what I was going to do when I saw what the Insurgency did to those people in Greenland. They didn't do anything, far as I can tell. At least you screw over people who deserve it." It was almost the truth.</p> <p>After the red light that indicated the open connection blinked out and the representatives of the Foundation went into their huddle again, Keagan looked around the teleconference room and for the first time noticed the laminated map on the wall; the world, in Robinson projection, divided into the familiar elongated rectangles, though he saw some of the numbers were different. The greatest difference, however, took him a moment to fully grasp—this was a <em>blue</em> world, a world of cool azure shades. And here and there—the Baltic, West Africa, Central America—pinpricks of red, trouble spots, nothing more. Brush fires in the middle of the ocean.</p> <hr/> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>On the fifth day, the peace of the glacier is disturbed by the sound of three helicopters landing in the camp. The men who get out see the fire-gutted buildings, the Cessna, already half-covered by snow, the mausoleum of the radar tower. In the pitiful shacks at the centre of the camp they find five survivors, Greenlanders, who shrink from the sun when they are dragged out like something that knows it already belongs in the grave.</p> <p>"Hvor er Kommodore Schaeffer?" ask the agents of the Foundation. <em>Where is Commodore Schaeffer?</em></p> <p><em>Her</em>, they say, pointing to their bellies. And their smiles in the white light at the end of the world are bare and bloody.</p> <p>For the first time in a very long time, the agents of the Foundation wish they still had a Dr Glüt to take these broken people away to a dark room; to do the things in secrecy that should have been done in the light, to make them whole again, to make them tell themselves what they had experienced was a coma dream or a show on TV. To play God and do what God does—giving people another chance.</p> <p>Instead, they do what mere humans can do—cut off what cannot be fixed, say 'it's over, because it ends here'. They take the surviving workers out onto the ice field. They make them kneel there, hands in their laps. And then they release them from their labours.</p> <hr/> <p>Elsewhere:</p> <p>Somewhere in Los Angeles, at a cheap hotel, three men check in, separately. No-one could possibly think they were there on shared business, because there is precisely one hour and forty-five minutes between each of their arrival times. The hotel has been chosen because it has no video surveillance, because the proprietor's grandfather fought for the men's cause in the 20s, because it serves prawns and coronation chicken. After each man has settled into his room, he wanders downstairs to the darkened billiard room and takes his seat around the small table in the corner, which is graced by three tumblers, a bottle, the supper menu and a small bell. When all three men are seated, the first picks up the bell and taps it against the side of the table.</p> <p>The 256th Extraordinary Session of the Overseer Council of the Foundation is in session, which these days means whisky, the smokier the better. The three men—who claim to hold the titles of O5-1, O5-9 and O5-11—take a stiff drink before they get down to business.</p> <p>The Sir Malcolm business, says the man who claimed to be O5-11, was truly regrettable. Although losses in Britain itself were minimal, the waste of Foundation personnel and resources in the senseless and perverse endeavour that Urquhart had termed the 'Project' had been criminal. Especially deplorable in all this was the destruction of the Verwoerd Contingency, ending a capability which had been maintained by the Foundation for almost thirty years and which had now been lost, perhaps permanently. What was worse, however, was the fact that he understood the unwarranted requisitions made by Commodore Schaeffer, formerly a loyal officer of the Foundation, had almost completely stripped the military assets of Sector-53—a sector which until recently had maintained a large and indeed growing Foundation presence and a broadly friendly national government in Estonia, leaving the Foundation's position there parlous if not actually untenable. In these uncertain times, we can ill afford such setbacks in the ongoing struggle to extinguish the remaining reactionary elements, he said, trying not to notice that neither of his colleagues was quite able to meet his eye.</p> <p>That simple truth is, said the man who had been elected O5-1 in a unanimous vote of three persons in 1987 and had been first amongst equals ever since, Malcolm Urquhart's unique attributes need not have precluded his working for the Foundation, had he made full and honest disclosure of them through the chain of command. Unlike the reactionaries, the true Foundation was not in the habit of locking away people with supernatural talents or keeping them in artificially-induced comas. Unfortunately, the nature of his abilities, combined with the fact that he chose to keep them largely secret from the Foundation, meant it was impossible to determine how much of the Foundation's operations in Sector-25 had been compromised. The substantial or total subversion of personnel affiliated with Commodore Schaeffer meant serious and immediate action had to be taken.</p> <p>Yes, said the man whose letterhead purported himself to hold the title of O5-9 on the Overseer Council of the Foundation—surely all three men could agree that the young man who had been charged with the neutralisation of the newly-designated SCP-1859 had done a sterling job and had prevented any further damage done by this whole debacle in the most efficient and elegant way possible.</p> <p>The three men agreed, though they had considerable effort recalling just what exactly the useful young man's name had been. Ripkind, or Rifton, or something of that sort. Either way, they unanimously agreed, just as soon as they remembered, they would see to it that he was rewarded to the utmost of their abilities. The man who preferred to be known as O5-11 announced that he was 'famished', and in light of their long and arduous flights it was quickly decided that any remaining business could be discussed in the morning—there was steak and Caesar salad—and of course, prawns and coronation chicken—to be enjoyed and the rest of the whisky to savour, and then, the sleep of the blessed. Each of the men recited one of the words of the Foundation's sacred mission, and then the meeting was over.</p> <p>The Overseer Council, as they saw it, decamped to the restaurant, where the three most powerful men in the world had some trouble getting service at this late hour. O5-9 managed to make such a nuisance of himself after finishing the bottle of whisky that the staff told him in no uncertain terms to retire to his room. The remaining two men shrugged and sweet-talked the night manager into finding them something for dessert, and while they waited for it to arrive they talked about old times, of children now grown and grandchildren on the way, of the wife's kidney stones and how everyone they knew had suddenly turned into grey, wrinkled old men, and that couldn't be right, could it? But never once in the rest of the night did they mention the name of the SCP Foundation.</p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc6"><span>Epilogue</span></h3> <p>Eventually, you come to a point where words fail, where there is nothing more to say, where in pouring yourself out you have poured yourself out and are now empty. When, in this case, you have said the same thing to as many men with letters and numbers for names as you can stand and realise—as you recite the whole thing once again to, without exaggeration, a man whose name is represented to you as an A minor chord on a ukelele—that you no longer need to think, that you have become a tape recorder and that over time the tape is becoming tarnished, that details are receding into the fog of the past and what you are recalling is not the original event but simply the act of sitting in the same room and reciting the same tale. Copies of copies of copies.</p> <p>Yet it seemed he was winning the struggle, for even the prodigious demand of the Foundation to hear his account, to receive and process his information again and again, was waning. He was left for longer periods in his cell—which is what you call any room which is locked from the outside—and the remaining questions asked him by the shriveled little man, who alluded often to the will of the Director of the facility but seemed to run everything with a tireless energy himself, became more and more specific, probing into the most minor elements of his journey until the magnetic tape of Keagan's memory wore thin and he repeated, again and again, 'I don't remember.'</p> <p>One day Agent Howard woke him at 0700, and just from that he knew the end had arrived. He was led through the facility, watching the white coats and orange jumpsuits going about their business, all playing their part. They took a new route through the orange lines until they reached a small brightly-lit office with plain walls, and three men behind a desk. The little bald man—Professor Gelding, Edward Gradley and Professor Reeds. Agent Howard gestured for Keagan to sit opposite them and took a seat himself.</p> <p>"For the past three months," Professor Gelding began, "you have recounted what has happened to you." Three months, Keagan thought, compressed tight into a ball. It's rolled away, and I didn't see it go.</p> <p>"The information you have provided has led to the seizure of numerous Insurgency assets and capture of operatives whom we have been tracking for years. The Foundation owes you a debt of gratitude. The—unique nature of your experiences, however, leaves us with one final piece of business."</p> <p>Keagan looked at Edward. The young researcher's face was still, his lips tight.</p> <p>"It may be instructive to consider the case of Junior Researcher Edward Gradley, himself an unusual acquisition by the Foundation. He spent some time in the employ of a Group of Interest, accepting their assistance in his professional life in exchange for providing certain services. Ultimately he decided to reach out to us, and the information he brought with him led to substantial success in combating the actions of that group. In return, we offered him a place with us. We would be prepared to offer you a similar place. Please, do not speak yet."</p> <p>The little man's spectacles shone opaquely in the bright light. "Mr Gradley has throughout these proceedings been able to recall and verify with some clarity the details of events that occured in this facility during your—time with us. However, there has been one point he has been insistent he is unable to remember, which is the matter of your clearance level during the month of August. When you first arrived here—I mean, from our perspective, on the twenty-second of October—with, I should add, a severe case of concussion, blown-out eardrums, numerous lacerations and other injuries, you initially indicated that you were a prisoner at Wormwood Scrubs who was transferred into the Foundation D-Class programme. You have since revealed that you were a participant in an experiment by Dr Barker, which would be consistent with D-Class status. However, there is a reason I have not asked Dr Barker to join us today."</p> <p>"Before you respond to me I would like you to think very clearly and precisely about the consequences of what you say. The Foundation, as I say, is grateful to you. However, it also has rules, which exist for good reasons. We sometimes joke that they keep the sun on its course and the rains in their seasons. We should not joke—perhaps it is closer to the truth than perhaps we can bear. You have indicated during the interviews you have undertaken since October that you believe that the Foundation does not enter D-Class subjects into a graduated programme of release at the end of their shift but rather executes them. I would ask you to act in accordance with that belief. If what you believe is true, then a D-Class subject who reappears five months after the end of their shift and having been exposed by their own admission to numerous special containment procedure objects would surely be terminated—” there is something in Professor Gelding's wizened expression, a minute twitch; but the glare on his spectacles allows him to maintain the necessary illusion that he is making eye contact “—regardless of the Foundation's debt to him."</p> <p>He fell silent for a moment, and Keagan was about to speak before the little man continued:</p> <p>"On the other hand, you are aware that the nature of your experience means we have no documentation of your status. If you were to think very carefully now and remember that, in fact, you had been a field agent or researcher for the Foundation, we would have no means of contradicting you. The only person who, it seems, possesses the capability to contradict your version of events is unwilling to do so." He turned his head slightly, and Edward closed his eyes. "Dr Barker has already been implicated in the events which led to Dr Skinner's removal from this organisation. Given the extreme accuracy and usefulness of the information you have provided thus far, your testimony that you as an employee of the Foundation were subject to unsanctioned experimentation by Dr Barker would be believed and upheld, with immediate force."</p> <p>Everywhere the same, Keagan thought, office block or cell block, front yard, prison yard, sightseeing or visitor's centre. Lie for us, snitch on this man—it doesn't matter if it's true. We sanction it, we make reality, no less powerfully than a Sir Malcolm, when it comes down to it. Thus it is and ever shall be.</p> <p>"And then I join you," Keagan said, throat dry.</p> <p>"And then you would be rebriefed and if necessary retrained as an employee of the Foundation. We are aware your experience was traumatic; leeway will be provided if you require duties which do not immediately bring you in close contact with the preternatural."</p> <p>A smile spread slowly over Keagan's face. "Just look at yourselves." He drew some gratification from the way Agent Howard's brow furrowed and Edward's eyes widened at his tone. "You rule the whole world, but you sit in here, making shitty little deals like mob bosses. You can't help it, can you? Even now, you want to use me, to elbow out Dr Barker."</p> <p>Professor Gelding's shrivelled little face showed no emotion, but his voice had a placatory tone. "No, Keagan, that's not my intent. That's not our—”</p> <p>"I won't work for you. Maybe I understand, a little. That everyone's lives out there rest on your scheming and lying and murder. That the world is a crust on top of a—a swarming mass of maggots, ready to break out into madness at any moment. What I don't get, what I just don't get, is why you people think that's worth saving."</p> <p>Agent Howard's lips curled up over his teeth. "It's the same damn world it always was. Don't you have anything you want to protect?"</p> <p>Keagan thought about sunlit fields and the Lake District and Lauren. He shuddered. "You're wrong. It's different, everything's different, when you know what it costs. But you've made it easy for me, haven't you? You've offered me the world, and I can take it or leave it. No. I'm done. My name is—” he stopped for a moment, forcing the pretence, one last time “—Keagan O'Neill. I was convicted of murder on the 21st April, 2011, at Southwark Crown Court. An agent of the Foundation who used the name Fredericka Mendelbrot offered me a place in a work-release programme, and I accepted. I arrived—”</p> <p>"Why?" Edward shouted. "Why? Why are you doing this?" He sounded hurt, personally affronted.</p> <p>Keagan turned to face the young researcher. "You don't think of yourself as a prisoner, even though you <em>are</em> a prisoner here, in this place, but you identify with prisoners, don't you? You think you can mitigate your guilt, your complicity in what happens here, by making little gestures, never smuggling people to the fence but trying to make them more comfortable in the camp. And that shows you don't believe what you said to me, about everything being a stage play for your own benefit. I won't let you evade it—but you also shouldn't think I'm doing this for your benefit, or anyone's."</p> <p>Edward breathed out, as though the words were painful to him. Professor Gelding showed for the first time some sign of expression, leathery lips pursing and the skin under his glasses darkening. Keagan thought he was about to yell, but instead he sighed.</p> <p>"Very well. The fact is, Mr O'Neill, I could very easily make you recant your statement, which seems to me so self-denyingly perverse I can scarcely believe you persist in it. I could apply both force and a number of preternatural items, if necessary, to make you persuade yourself that you were a loyal employee of the Foundation. I will not. I will respect your gesture. I ask you to remember that. Agent Howard."</p> <p>Keagan stood, and shrugged away Agent Howard's hand. "I'm not going to run away," he said. "You just gave me a way out, and I turned you down. Try to keep up."</p> <p>After the two men walked out, Professor Gelding turned to face Edward, whose gaze had an accusatory intensity to it.</p> <p>"I thought we were the good guys," Edward said, voice cracking slightly.</p> <p>"Edward," Professor Gelding took his glasses off, and his eyes beneath were surprisingly small, with deep bags. "In this world—in <em>this</em> world, do you understand?—we are positively and absolutely the final arbiters of <em>right</em>, which is not the same thing as goodness. We determine the scope good can occupy—we are the people who decide the parameters of the world-within-a-world in which people act out their dramas of good and evil—compelling dramas, meaningful dramas, I don't belittle them in any way. We buy them that freedom, to live, or to die—inevitably, just to die—rationally, in the belief that what they do <em>matters</em>—with sweat, with blood."</p> <p>"In many parts of the world we make use only of people whom the State has sentenced to death—for whom whatever time they survive as D-Class is a gain, not a loss. Here, we make do with what we can get from the rest of the English-speaking world, and with those who have committed equivalent crimes and received a sentence loathsome to them, not to death, but to life. Keagan O'Neill falls into the latter category."</p> <p>"I have warned you before. You become attached to the people whom we must use, and eventually use up. You become—invested in their stories, and you take it personally when those stories come to an end. As if there was anything else that could be done. As if there was such a thing as choice. Like blaming God for running out of ink."</p> <p>Edward continued to stare at him. "God?" he said, quietly. "We keep the God you're talking about in a secure containment facility in Kansas. Don't talk about God or fate like there was some—some—some higher power." He got up, hands shaking, and left the room.</p> <p>Professor Gelding sat alone. After a while, he too rose and left, closing the door behind him.</p> <hr/> <p>This, then, is how it ends:</p> <p>The man allows himself to be led through the metal corridors of the facility for one last time, following the black lines until they reach a series of small rooms to their right, the doors open. He is shown into the nearest, and he realises that although he has never seen the room before, he knows every inch of it. The floor is dark, a grill of metal bars pressed close together. The light is not turned on—there is no need for that subterfuge. And there is a screen that can be pulled across, with a slit in it, wide enough for the barrel of a gun. He looks at the guard who has brought him here to see if he will require this sop to squeamishness. He will not.</p> <p>The man is not told what to do—he is allowed, perhaps uniquely, the luxury to decide the manner in which that which needs to be carried out will be carried out. He walks over to the centre of the room, where there is a small square of smooth, hard tiles, and kneels down on them. It's time, he says. He hears the other man approach behind him. He closes his eyes, and in the blackness wonders whether he will feel any regret. There is silence in that room for a long time. <em>You never hear the bullet that kills you</em>, the man thinks; all he hears is a little sound, something like a pen making a tick beside a name on a clipboard.</p> <p>After a very long time, the man opens his eyes and realises he is alone in the room. He feels something like relief, something like expiation. Some weight, some horrible, pressing weight upon his body that he has worn for as long as he could remember has fallen away. <em>What seems to be the end might not be</em>, someone had told him once. He could not remember who. The memory was already dying. He gets up—being very, very careful not to look at the thing at his feet—and turns. The brilliant rectangle of the doorway almost blinds him—it shimmers and blurs and it seems impossible, after so long in the dark, that it leads back out to the world by which he entered. He hopes it is somewhere better. Then, at last, at long last, he moves towards the light.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/new-age-2">Book II - "Mr Brightside"</a> \| <a href="/new-age-hub">HUB</a> \| Book III - "Gunning For The Buddha" »</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="/new-age-3">New Age - Book III: "Gunning for the Buddha"</a>" by SRegan, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/new-age-3">https://scpwiki.com/new-age-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]] [[/>]] [[toc]] +++ Chapter Eleven: "Breakers" There was no reveille, but Keagan was woken early with the slightest pangs of a headache by the purposeful activity around him of the other men, who rose, dressed, made their beds to the most exacting standards, ate breakfast and filed out with barely a word exchanged. The other newcomers were not quite as regimented but still seemed to have a relatively good idea where they were expected and had similarly exchanged farewells and left before Keagan had entirely regained his wits. Keagan remembered he was supposed to be working in the garage and, swaddling himself up as best as he could, helped himself to some rapidly cooling but still appetising salted porridge from the tureen left at the kitchen end of the barracks and braved the elements again. The sun was bright—dazzlingly so, reflecting from the pure white glacier that Keagan now saw dominated the landscape, hills and crests of snow-covered ice, like a great inland sea—but gave off very little warmth, and though the wind had died down Keagan still found himself rushing for the shelter of the garage. He caught a few glimpses of the inhabitants of the huts, filing into the back of trucks presumably being driven by Schaeffer's men. Teitur turned out to be a grizzled-looking older man with one eye—the other was just a poorly healed fused hollow—and wild greying blond hair in a corona around his head, thinning on top. He grunted something in Danish when Keagan arrived then turned back to what he was doing. Keagan coughed to attract his attention and pantomimed putting the parts back in the Land-Rovers. Teitur shrugged, which Keagan took to mean //go ahead, no-one else is going to do it//. Teitur ignored a couple of attempts at conversation—the possibility didn't escape Keagan that he might not understand English—but seemed happy to give Keagan the task of reversing his aggressive disassembly of the faulty engines while he focused on less demanding tasks such as replacing the chains on the wheels of the huge trucks Keagan guessed were the Unimogs Kaali had mentioned. Around 1030 Blaer dropped by to tell Keagan that Commodore Schaeffer was ready for him to take a trip up to the iceface. Keagan left immediately, but when they arrived back at the radio tower were met by a rather confused Kaali, who asked where the truck was. It emerged they had expected Keagan to bring around the necessary transport, requiring a second trip before all was in order to depart. Commodore Schaeffer, sealed against the elements in his vast parka, swung himself up into the passenger seat with two more of his men climbing up behind them, and indicated that Keagan should drive out of the base on the north road—one might call it a dirt track except the dirt was covered by a good inch of ice and snow—uphill to the glacier. Keagan had driven trucks on a semi-regular basis to deliver them back to clients but on icy roads only sparingly, and found the Unimog devastatingly difficult to control, slipping from side to side of the track. He glanced at Schaeffer, wondering what a fool he was making of himself. "You're doing fine," he said. "How are you doing on the 88s?" "Um," Keagan struggled to correct the course of the truck to guide it through the gate being held open by another of Schaeffer's men, "from what I can see the carburettor on one of them is busted. The cam's broken." He wasn't sure whether that was due to weakening from repeated exposure to freezing conditions or Teitur's violent maintenance. "It's a Weber, so it's not really designed for these conditions anyway. I can try and improvise something but it would be best if I were able to get spares in; I only saw a few bulbs and spark plugs in the garage." Schaeffer waved a hand. "I can have Blaer pick some up when he flies to Kulusuk for supplies. Just tell him what you need." The wind outside the cinderblock breakers was as ferocious as Kaali had claimed—buffeting the vehicle so badly that at times he could hear the suspension creaking as two wheels on one side came close to leaving the surface of the road. Commodore Schaeffer took to these conditions with practiced ease, leaning towards the side being lifted up by the wind to help keep the truck level. "Up ahead," he said, pointing to a number of distant pinpricks on the side of the mountainous glacier. "Those are the boreholes. In the summer we spray black paint and let the sun do the work—in winter we have to rely on pneumatic drills and pickaxes." As they got closer, the nearest site resolved itself into a number of trucks and a field tent, surrounded by a number of smaller windbreakers—sheet metal over wooden frames driven into the ground at an angle to slow the wind without taking the full brunt themselves. Schaeffer got out and bid Keagan to follow, ducking between the breakers. Even inside Keagan's hood the sound of the drills was deafening, and a sharp smell of burning plastic filled the air. The glacier loomed in front of them—a frozen tidal wave, pouring over the land in smooth undulations twenty feet high. A tunnel—perhaps six feet high, four or five feet wide, and angled sharply downwards had been cut into the ice and it was from here that the drills sounded. Heavy cables had been laid from the tent into the borehole and as they ducked inside Keagan saw they powered a string of mining lights, receding down into the glacier. Keagan was shocked at the scale of the enterprise—upwards of twenty men were working in the tunnel, passing up buckets of ice from deeper down and reinforcing the roof of the tunnel with a wooden crib. "Watch where you put your feet," Schaeffer shouted over the drills as he navigated the steep slope down into the glacier. Keagan followed, his soles losing their grip in places with the result that his descent was not so much a climb as a controlled slither. What was at the bottom—a patch a couple of feet square now but rapidly being expanded by workers chipping away at the ice—was a dull greyish-green substance, composed of several layers of large, roughly leaf-shaped chunks of material, each about the size of a fist. "That's what we're here for," Schaeffer said. Keagan reached out to touch the material, noting the way it seemed to exude a dull heat of its own, but Schaeffer reached out and grabbed his hand. "It's scales," Keagan said. "Gigantic scales. This is the monster Sir Malcolm was talking about. You're digging it up." "Yes, or part of it. It's not actually a snake—it's a species of glass lizard, a limbless reptile with a lot in common with the Komodo dragon, and it's the largest terrestrial organism on the planet. The reactionaries have known about it since Greenpeace tried to do a documentary on the glacier in 2010, around the same time they sent the //Esperanza// to protest the oil platforms. The filmmakers found part of it coiled through a number of caverns deep in the glacier. The reactionaries covered it up and secured the crevasse that leads down into the caverns, but most of it is still buried in the glacier." "How big is it?" Keagan wondered at the notion of a creature so big the Foundation could only secure part of it. "Our best guess is somewhere between 8 and 12km long. We're near the head here, which is where we want to be." "And Sir Malcolm says you plan to wake it up. What are you planning to use, napalm?" He had meant it to be a joke. "Actually, napalm would be far too weak. Have you heard of the square-cube law?" Keagan shook his head. "It's the principle that the larger a structure is, the stronger the materials you need to make it out of." To Keagan it just seemed like common sense. "It's why you don't see insects the size of cars—their exoskeletons couldn't support a body that size. Whales can be much larger than elephants because gravity doesn't affect them the same way in water. To put it another way, think of the size of the steel girders needed to support a skyscraper." Keagan had seen the construction of The Shard in London and nodded. "Well, the tallest building in Europe is 340m high. Imagine how strong the bones and flesh of this thing has to be. Even the blood vessels must be harder than steel to withstand the pressures needed." "So how will you even get it to feel anything you do to it?" Keagan yelled. He noticed the way the pneumatic drills pulverised the ice around the minehead but jarred away in a shower of sparks when they hit the edge of a scale. "When all the boreholes have been completed," Commodore Schaeffer said, eyes shining, "we will lower a nuclear device into each one and detonate them simultaneously." "You're kidding," Keagan said. "It can take a nuclear explosion?" "Quite easily," responded Commodore Schaeffer. "Just the pressure of the glacier shifting on top of it is immense. We think given the current rate the glacier is melting that it would start to be exposed from 2050 anyway. But the Foundation can't wait that long. This is our chance to reverse the decline." Suddenly, there was a distant explosion—a thudding, hissing sound like a gas tank going up in flames—and Commodore Schaeffer looked back up the small rectangle of daylight at the top of the tunnel. "Damn it," he said. "There's been another blow. I need to handle this at the command tent. You should be safe down here—just don't touch the scales." With that he began to clamber up the rough-hewn steps leading back to the surface. Keagan took a look around the semicircular chamber adjoining the great scaled wall of the beast's flank. One of Schaeffer's men stood on duty with what looked like a shock baton, face grim. The three workers wielding the drills were slumped over their tools, the judder when the drill tips struck the scales passing right their bodies with no resistance. Keagan looked at what he could see of the face of the nearest man under his hood—it looked terribly thin and tired-looking, lines of overwork scored into it. "Hey," he said gently, not wishing to alarm the man with the stunstick. "Are you OK? You look like you need a rest." The man turned to him, jaw slack. "Englænder," he concluded after a moment's reflection, then turned back to his work. "Don't talk to them," advised the man with the stunstick in a thick accent. "They don't know English." Keagan sat down on a rough chunk of ice and waited until the Commodore returned and gestured from the surface for Keagan to climb back out. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "This thing exhales and perspires a potent neurotoxin, which is why I didn't want you touching it, even with gloves. Over time the venom has become impregnated into the ice around the creature—when it's heated the impregnated ice sublimates explosively. Three men are dead in the next borehole." "I'm sorry," Keagan said. Nothing about this makes sense, he thought. Not only is this thing far too tough to kill by any reasonable means, it breathes fucking sarin or VX or whatever? What the hell are they trying to do waking it up? But there was a more pressing question on his mind, and he asked it: "Commodore, are these men here voluntarily?" Schaeffer breathed out heavily, his breath a sharp plume of white. "The reactionaries would probably lie to you and tell you, yes, these are volunteers who believe in our cause. But I am an honourable man. No, they are not here voluntarily. They were taken from the village of Kangertitivatsiaq some 5km south of here and compelled to serve. I promise you, it is a just cause and the greater good is being served." Keagan felt something black move within him. "They're D-Class then," he said bitterly. What he could see of Schaeffer's expression behind his goggles and beard looked disappointed, frustrated. "The real Foundation doesn't use D-Class. Only the reactionaries still do that sort of thing." They were out in the sun again now, and Keagan could see a distant plume of smoke from a far ridge. "So when the Project's over," he said quietly, "what will you do with them?" Schaeffer remained silent for a moment, then turned away. "Drive me back to the camp." "What are you going to do?" Keagan repeated, louder. Schaeffer looked back at him. "Drive me back to the camp," he said, "or I will drive myself and leave you here. It's my fault, I should have trusted you to do your duties without knowing the final end. I thought it would inspire you. It was my mistake." ---- The parts for the 88s arrived two days later and Keagan was finally able to get to work on the Land-Rovers. As expected, the replacement carburettors were also Webers—notoriously prone to freezing—and not very well-machined ones either. Keagan spent a good half-hour filing away the flash in the drillings and enlarging the choke. One of the Land-Rovers turned over straight away, but the second resisted all attempts to diagnose the problem, which seemed to give Teitur endless amusement. In desperation, Keagan stripped down and cleaned the head gasket with petrol, and after putting it back together again he was finally able to tickle it into operation. Keagan sat back and took a celebratory swig from his water bottle, grinning widely with the simple pleasure of a problem solved. He looked around and saw Teitur leaning over the bonnet of one of the Unimogs, watching him. "Du tror du er noget godt, hva' neger?" Keagan didn't understand the words, though he had a pretty good idea what the last was supposed to be, and the sour tone was ample confirmation of the sentiment behind it. "What did you say?" Keagan got up. "Come on, you one-eyed piece of shit, what was that?" "Intet, men skide neger," Teitur continued bitterly. "du kommer her, uden at vide noget..." "You know what, I'm sick of this. Shut up and let me do my job or else—” he pantomimed knocking Teitur's brains out with the carjack in his hand. Teitur seemed to take this as a serious threat and grabbed a long-handled screwdriver, leaving Keagan unsure how to proceed without escalating matters further. Fortunately, at that moment Kaali entered the garage and Teitur spat and turned away. "Hum," he said, observing the obvious tension between the men, "I was really hoping to report that some progress had been made on the immobilised vehicles." "They're done," Keagan said. "All three 88s are ready to go, and I fixed the suspension on the GMC. Really, we should be using Zenith carburettors in these sorts of conditions, though." "That's good to hear," Kaali said, "it means the men won't have to ride in the trucks with the workers. Fortunately there have been no incidents, but I'm glad security can get back to normal." I bet, thought Keagan gloomily. Kaali left and Keagan eyed the other mechanic, but Teitur had retreated to a corner and was occupying himself with an old copy of //DV//. There seemed to be nothing else for Keagan to do but to get back to work. ---- Later, he finds himself sitting in the shade of a pagoda in a fragrant garden, surrounded by spiralling plots of yellow flowers. The air is warm and a honeybee buzzes into the shade of the pagoda and out the other side. He tries to remember how he got here—the last thing he remembers is being somewhere cold, freezing in fact, clawing at something with his hands. Did he hit someone? Everything since then—which feels like a very long time—has been an odd blur. There is a jug of cool water on the table and he pours some out into the glass he finds by his hands. He realises there is someone sitting on the other side of the table—he's sure they weren't there before, though that's been happening to him recently. They're wearing orange, but he can't make out their face; it's out of focus, the eyes just two pinpricks of white. "You escaped too?" he hears himself say, and wonders what that even means. He looks down and sees he's wearing a t-shirt with a bulldog on it. It snuffles at him and he remembers he's not supposed to make eye contact with it. //No-one escapes.// He looks up at the garden and takes a sip of the water. "This doesn't look like a cell to me." //Everyone is in a cell. You are in trillions of them, right now.// "I know you," he says. "You're the man in the box." //I am. I am also here.// The person shrugs, and he notices its fingers are sharp. "You saved me," he says, though he isn't sure why, or even, come to think of it, who is speaking. "Why me?" //I told you, I recognised a fellow prisoner. I need your help.// "My help." //You've seen him. The madman. Can't you feel what he's doing?// He realises the buzzing isn't coming from the bees; it's emanating from everything around him. He closes his eyes for a moment before answering and catches the edge of the chant: //gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha...// "The man with the spiral eyes." //He's changing everything. It took a long time for me to sense him and exclude myself from his changes. He's killed me dozens, hundreds of times without me ever knowing it. And everyone else.// A sudden sense of vertigo passes through him. "Me too?" //In your case 'killed' is the wrong word, but, yes. I need you to be my eyes and ears. An assassin for reality.// "You want me to kill him?" //No. I just need you to get me close enough. I can't follow the others because they aren't thoughtforms. But you're carrying one around with you.// "I don't know if I can even remember this once I wake up," he says. He's already sinking back, melting into the icy marble floor of the pagoda, but he's done this enough times now not to worry about it. //That's what Zhuangzi said.// ---- Keagan was awoken by shouting and motion. He squinted against the electric lights at the digital clock on the pod's central table. 02:30. "Keagan," Bones said urgently from somewhere behind his head. "What is it? What's happening?" He became aware of a howling, rushing sound, the small rectangular window panes rattling in their frames. "One of the breakers came down during the night. There's a gale building. I gather Schaeffer has a dozen or so workers out there trying to get it upright again but they're not having much success. If you've got any ideas this is probably a good time." Keagan dragged himself out of bed and threw on what thermal clothing he could find—Schaeffer's men had grabbed whatever was to hand without particularly worrying about whose it was. "Is this a major problem?" he asked wearily. "Last time it happened Schaeffer had to rebuild from scratch, so yeah, I'd say so. Right now the wind's being channelled straight into the camp through the breach." Outside a number of mobile search lights had been trained on the fallen section of windbreaker—the wind was howling over it and had already half-buried it in snow. The lights turned the figures swarming around the wall into phantasms, shimmering in and out of existence as the light caught them. The wind plucked at Keagan and Bones as they staggered over the base towards the breach, making them sway from side to side like stop-motion puppets. Keagan slid and almost lost his footing on the path, where the snow was becoming hard and slippery, but the stumble proved to his advantage—with a clatter a tile slid off the roof of the other barracks and shattered on the spot where he had been standing. As they got closer he recognised Commodore Schaeffer, striding between the various small groups trying to raise the wall, bellowing commands over the gale. A small tunnel had already been dug underneath the breaker block to facilitate ropes being tied around it—two of these had been tied to the back bumpers of a pair of 88s while a further two were being pulled taught by groups of workers. But the Land-Rovers' wheels were spinning ineffectually on the snow-blasted earth and the ropes were simply being pulled down over the block, biting into the ice at the side of the tunnel and getting stuck there. This is all wrong, Keagan thought. There's no lever action, no actual force being applied to the block. "Keagan," Colonel Schaeffer hailed him, "we can't get the traction to pull it upright. We considered using a Unimog but Teitur thinks a single rope would risk it overbalancing in the other direction." "It's not going to work anyway," Keagan shouted, "the angle's all wrong. Do you have a crane, or something with the height to actually haul one end of the block up rather than just dragging it?" Schaeffer shook his head. "The teams had to leave it at Site B when the wind got up—which means it's probably been smashed to pieces by now." "Let me think," Keagan said. Use a snowplough's scoop as a pivot? It probably wouldn't fare that much better than the 88s—it would slide on the ice before the block actually pivoted around it. Besides, just getting it upright won't work—these things are sunk into the ground so if it's come loose there's nothing to hold it firm against the wind. You would need to compact the snow again, pack it in and—wait. "Forget the block," Keagan said. "There's no way you're getting it up again in this weather. We need to make a berm out of compacted snow to divert the wind up and over the base—braced against the breakers that are still standing." Schaeffer frowned. "What do you mean?" he bellowed. Keagan tried to draw as best he could in the air with his mitten-like gloves. "Right-angled triangle," he said. "Slope facing the wind; back to the base." "Okay," Schaeffer said, "For want of anything better, let's do it. Keagan, it's your idea—you tell them what to do." This proved more difficult thanks to the deafening wind and the language barrier than might have otherwise been expected but eventually with Kaali as translator Keagan was able to get the workers to understand what he needed them to do. The maniac Teitur volunteered, seemingly without pause, to drive the snowplough out into the gale and shunt a vast quantity of snow into the space between the remaining windbreakers, and the workers were quickly equipped with shovels, with which they began to press it into a solid mass. The wind was intensifying, but the berm already seemed to be having an effect, the only issue now being whether they could reinforce it faster than it was being blown away. Keagan surveyed the berm as it took shape and saw a problem—although the sloped face of the berm was channelling the gale adequately over the top, the sides were being rapidly eroded by wind rushing around the sides of the adjoining breakers. He ran as fast as he dared over to the team nearest to the growing breach. "We need to curve the berm in at the edges," he shouted to Blaer, the nearest person he was sure spoke English. Not that it helped, as Blaer immediately started making alarming hand gestures to the workers to indicate that the edges should be curved out in front of the other blocks, which would only accelerate the erosion. "No, no, that's wrong," Keagan said, trying and failing to make a lasting diagram in the shifting snow with his boot. "look, does anyone have anything to write on, a pen and paper?" Blaer did—an aviator's pad and a biro—but when at length he was able to extricate it from his garments, Keagan found it impossible to write on, several times dropping the pen between the fingers of the thick gloves and having to quickly retrieve it before it blew away. In desperation he shrugged off his gloves into the snow and with the temperature of his digits dropping rapidly sketched out the remaining breaker blocks and the curving shape the berm needed to take between them to avoid taking the wind head-on. "The way the blocks are currently set up, the wind can escape on both sides. The berm needs to work the same way. See?" He held it out to Blaer but he seemed to be looking at something behind them. There was a slow, shifting sound, and Keagan turned around to see a large chunk of material, probably more than half a ton, begin to slide from the top of the berm under the force of the gale. "Get of the way!" Keagan screamed at the man working beneath it, but he either didn't hear or understand the command. Keagan rushed forward to pull him out of the way, but was too late—the area of berm sagged and collapsed in a sudden tidal wave, burying the area in chunks of compacted snow, each the size of a man's head. Keagan fell onto his knees from the force of the collapse and when the initial burst of snow subsided he could see no trace of the man who had been working there. "Someone's been buried," Keagan called out, "get over here!" No-one responded. "Blaer!" he shouted. "Bring a shovel, or something. Don't just—” Blaer just looked at him blankly. Keagan staggered forward into the path of the blizzard, clawing at the snow and ice with his bare hands, throwing aside boulders in search of the engulfed worker. His hands almost immediately burst into such extreme pain that he thought the skin was about to split open, but he continued to dig into the snow, and soon the pain was replaced by a numbness, the hands no longer opening and closing but simply flippers of unfeeling flesh, shovelling at the snow. He felt a hand on his collar, someone pulling him away. "Stop it, Keagan. Let him be," Schaeffer said roughly. "He's under there," Keagan said, breathlessly. "He could still be alive." "No, he couldn't. The impact would have killed him instantly. They're here to take the risks—all the workers' lives aren't worth one of our own," Schaeffer said through cracked lips and snow-rimed beard. "It worked, Keagan. Your plan worked. The embankment is going to hold." Keagan looked up. It was true. The rest of the berm was holding steady despite the collapse, and the breach seemed to have provided enough of an outlet that the erosion at the edges of the barrier had slowed to the point where the snow the blizzard brought in was building the berm up faster than the wind scoured it away. Schaeffer looked down at Keagan's bare hands, which were swollen and criss-crossed with red scratches where the edges of the compacted ice had sliced into them. "You bloody idiot. What use are you to us as a mechanic if you cripple yourself? Blaer, get Keagan into the barracks and warm him //slowly//." ---- Over the next few days the men in the barracks didn't seem to know whether to treat Keagan like the gifted engineer who had saved the camp and probably the Project, or the moron who had managed to give himself second-degree frostbite taking off his gloves in a minus sixty gale and subsequently plunging his hands into snow and ice. Teitur came by with a smirk on his face but Blaer told him that the other mechanic had offered his congratulations on the success of the berm. The numbness in Keagan's hands had given way to pain once more—a deep-seated, persistent pain that he took to be his body's way of saying 'actually, you've really screwed up this time'. They were covered in large blisters which Keagan could feel bursting every so often underneath the dressing that the camp medic had applied, and they had regained only the vaguest degree of mobility. There was not, he realised, an awful lot you could do around the base with hands that didn't work—he suggested several times he could continue to service the Project's vehicles if someone else acted as his hands, but only Teitur was available and Keagan didn't think it was likely to work, given neither spoke the other's language and they had come close to bludgeoning and stabbing each other before. Eventually his right hand improved to the point where he was able to hold a ladle and he immediately became Stirrer-in-Chief of A-Barracks. Kaali would stop by every so often to update him on the technical situation—a Unimog with a broken axle, what sounded like a clogged air filter on the snow plough—and Keagan would pass on his suggestions for Teitur to ignore as he saw fit. It was simple, untaxing work, and Keagan realised that he was coming to think of the camp as his home. They've given you a place, he thought, somewhere to belong. Will you become like Edward Gradley, overlooking what's going on out there, in the fenced area, because you're grateful? It was around 1500 hours when Keagan heard the hissing, popping sound and thought it was one of the tureens in the kitchen boiling over. He was still careful around hot things larger than a ladle of stew—firstly because he didn't have enough feeling back to tell when something was burning him and secondly because his hands were still clumsy enough that he was likely to drop it—not good when 'it' is a pan of boiling water. Accordingly he called for his co-chef but found everything seemed to be in order. He thought little more of the sound until he heard the sound of the Unimogs and Land-Rovers returning from the drill sites. There seemed to be more activity than usual, shouts and screams, and then gunshots. The offshift men in the barracks responded immediately, arming up and rushing to the muster points. Kaali entered, out of breath and carrying a carbine—the first time Keagan had seen the man armed. "There's been another venom blow," Kaali explained to the barracks in general. "A whole boulder of impregnated ice exploded in Site C—four men dead, another dozen seriously injured. When the workers got back to the camp they started rioting and refused to get back in the secure area. Ragnar shot one of them and they jumped him; we don't know if he'll survive. We need absolutely everyone outside to get this under control. Keagan, that's you too." He opened a locker and grabbed another rifle, holding it by the barrel and thrusting the stock in Keagan's direction. "Erm, I'm not sure I'm going to be any good at firing this thing," he said carefully, waving his bandaged hands. "You don't need to be—just hold it up and look mean. Say 'Grrr'." "Grrr," Keagan said, nonplussed. "That's right. Make sure you wear gloves this time." Outside the camp was utter pandemonium, people running backwards and forwards, some with guns, some without. The gate to the fenced shanty-town where the workers ate and slept was unlocked and the area seemed deserted. Commodore Schaeffer was trying to reimpose order, a slowly growing group of people on the floor with their hands behind their backs at the centre of the camp, but Keagan could see it was proving a nightmare to separate friend and foe. If only they had given the workers some sort of distinguishing clothing, Keagan thought, like orange jumpsuits... After surveying the situation for a moment Keagan saw a pattern emerging; the workers would try to group together in an area, 4-5 strong at a time, then one of Schaeffer's men would approach with gun raised and instead of surrendering they would scatter again when they saw the guards were unwilling to fire. Bones and another man had cornered one worker near a Land-Rover; when he found the key had been taken he started ripping at the interior of the vehicle, screaming and crying, until Bones stepped forward, grabbed him, and flung him to the ground before dragging him forcibly back to Schaeffer's group. Near the trucks, Keagan noticed a number of men lying out in the open on blankets—their clothing looked burned as though by acid, and what he could see of their faces was a fused lump of flesh. The medic tending to them stepped back and shook his head, and one of Schaeffer's men stepped forward with a rifle, drawing fresh howls of outrage from the other workers... Keagan felt the pressure in his head growing and walked behind the barracks, leaning against the insulated exterior and exhaling deeply, watching the crystals fall out of the air onto the ground. A flash of movement to his left and he turned, raising the rifle. Two workers, one of them with burned patches across the front of his coat but not completely incapacitated, being supported by the other. They were making their way towards the ring of breaker blocks. They stopped, stared at him, eyes too tired to be afraid. Keagan raised his weapon, the index finger of his right hand curled uselessly around the trigger guard. //Is this what you are now?//, the little voice asked, and he realised he hadn't heard it since London. A guard, you mean, he thought. Seeing things from the other side. //You're an idiot//, said the little voice. //You honestly think you're a guard? Why not ask Schaeffer if you can leave? Ask him to drop you off at the nearest village. Prisoners guarding prisoners. Thus it is and ever shall be.// Keagan looked down the barrel of the rifle for a second more, then lowered the weapon, abandoned even the pretence that he could stop them. The two workers hurried on and disappeared beyond the breakers. He wondered how far they would get, then decided it didn't matter. At least they would die where they chose to die. He loped back around the barracks and joined the other men training weapons on the group at the centre while the final few rioters were dragged out of vehicles or beaten down with stunsticks. The workers were herded back into the fenced area, a detail assigned to bury the shot and venom-melted bodies, and then it was time for dinner, which that night was a lamb stew with onions. ---- Time passed, and Keagan regained enough mobility in at least his right hand to return to his mechanical duties, where he was kept busy repairing the damage done by the workers during the riot. Teitur once again seemed to be keeping to himself, though whether out of respect for Keagan's solution with the berm or not he couldn't tell. A new crane arrived at the camp after a few days, and Keagan was charged with getting it set up and masterminding the elevation of the fallen breaker block. About a week after the riot, all base staff were summoned to Site F, the furthest from the camp. Kaali wouldn't say anything more than that a critical stage in the Project had been reached and Schaeffer wanted everyone there to see it. Keagan along with Teitur, Blaer, the medic and cooks, and the radio operator all clambered onto a Unimog, leaving the base oddly deserted. The wind had died down considerably, but Keagan could still hear it buffeting at the sides of the truck, the driver battling the headwinds throughout the journey along the base of the glacier. Site F was the largest drill site he'd seen thus far. The crane towered over a small complex of field tents, sheltered from the wind by a network of compacted snow berms—nice to see I've made an impact, Keagan thought. A couple of the tractors were busily engaged transferring vast piles of ice from the entrance of the shaft onto the berms, building them up as the shaft sank deeper into the glacier. As they got closer Keagan saw some of Schaeffer's men mixed in with the workers, operating power tools and swinging pickaxes. Probably filling in for Greenlanders who died during the blow, or who still refused to work after the riots, Keagan reasoned. Schaeffer was there, face full of anticipation as he looked down at the rapidly receding iceface. The other base staff gathered around him expectantly. "There!" Schaeffer said suddenly. "Can you see it?" The onlookers craned their necks around the workers at the iceface. There didn't seem to be much to look at—a generally convex front of ice with what seemed a long horizontal crack along the bottom edge, the whole face about twice the height of a man. "We've almost reached the head," Schaeffer said confidently. Then Keagan saw it—dull glimpses of green behind the sharp splinters of remaining ice, and suddenly his mind made sense of the shape. "Its eye," he said in amazement. "That's its eye." "Its upper eyelid, to be exact." Schaeffer responded. "It gives you some sense of scale, doesn't it? How powerful, how primordial it is." "How did it even get down there in the first place?" Keagan asked. "I would be lying if I said we had a workable theory. Something that big simply shouldn't be able to survive based on conventional materials science and thermodynamic theory. Its location suggests it's been there since the formation of the glacier two and a half million years ago. Some of the workers call it //jörmangandr//, the World Serpent from the old Norse religion. I sometimes wonder whether the myth was based on this thing—seeing it in the caverns and making up stories about it." "It seems impossible that there would be just one," Keagan thought. "If you believe the legends, it was the child of a shapeshifting god. But maybe it was not the only one of its kind. There are legends of World Serpents throughout the old religions—not only did the Norse believe in //jörmangandr//, they also thought a dragon, //niddhogg//, lay underneath the earth, gnawing the roots of the World Tree. The serpent and the tree. It forms a pattern. In the Bible, early man falls from favour with God because he eats the fruit of a forbidden tree, guarded by a great serpent. The serpent and the tree. The Maya, like the Norse, believed in a World Tree, in whose branches coils the Vision Serpent. Sir Malcolm thinks of it as Mucalinda, the serpent king who sheltered Buddha from a storm while he meditated underneath the Bodhi tree." With himself as Buddha, no doubt, Keagan thought. "So where's the tree?" he asked, half-jokingly. "Maybe it's beneath the ice too," Schaeffer responded. The assembly watched as workers switched from drills to hand-tools, chipping away at the remaining ice that covered the creature's eye. "Are the weapons here?" asked Bones. Schaeffer nodded. "Six uranium gun-type bombs, spirited out of South Africa at the end of apartheid. The powers that be couldn't stand the idea of a black-run country having nuclear weapons, so they turned a blind eye. Said they had dismantled them and voluntarily disarmed." How wonderful, Keagan thought sarcastically. But it's the other side that's supposed to work with repressive regimes, isn't it? "Each has a load of 150 kilotons, which on something this tough is like flicking it with your finger. But our best hopes are for this site—no matter how big you are, how far you are asleep, you wake up when someone flicks your eyeball." Keagan decided now was as good a time as any to ask the question that had occured to him the first time he had seen the scale of the creature. "And then what happens? After you wake it up, I mean. I know it's supposed to be an embarassment to the reactionaries, and be a wakeup call to governments that they can't rely on the Foundation keep all this quiet. But how are you going to stop it once it's awake? How can you cover up something this big?" Schaeffer chuckled. "Is that what you've been told? No, there will be no coverup. The world is going to change. Everyone will know what has happened here." "But—something this big, this powerful, if it wanted to attack, say, a city, there's nothing that could be done to stop it." "Yes. We're counting on that. There will be a state of emergency declared across the Nordic countries and in Britain. Sir Malcolm will assume control of a government of national unity..." "No, listen to me," said Keagan sharply, drawing a frown from the Commodore and askance looks from those around him, "even if a Minister without Portfolio who personally I had never heard of before all this is able to become PM somehow, how are you going to stop the giant fucking monster you're planning to wake up?" Schaeffer looked baffled for a moment, then a look of understanding came over his face. "You mean you don't know?" "Don't know what?" "Sir Malcolm will stop it. He possesses the power to re-organise reality, reshape it according to his will. No matter how large that thing is, it will cease to exist if he wills it to do so. That's his power. It's weak now, but growing stronger all the time. I'm surprised he didn't explain all this to you." Keagan remained silent for a minute or so. It was, of course, pure lunacy, but then, what hadn't been since he had signed Fredericka Mendelbrot's piece of paper? Let's assume this is all true, he thought. Sir Malcolm plans to wake up a monster than use some kind of reality-altering power to make it disappear, in front of an audience of billions of people. But why go to all the trouble of finding and awakening a real monster if you have all that power yourself? Unless—unless you intend for it to provide a demonstration first of what you're saving everyone from. A demonstration you're not willing to provide, because you really do think of yourself as the good guy. "How many people," he said falteringly. "How many people does Sir Malcolm intend for it to kill before he comes in and 'rescues' us?" Commodore Schaeffer shrugged. "Perhaps millions. But life and death won't mean very much once he has reached his full potential." Keagan thought of Renton and the cell in London. Nothing they had done had given any indication they expected this to happen. //The Foundation lies//, he remembered Edward saying, //to everyone//. "Does the—” he tried to remember the term “—O5 Council know what Sir Malcolm intends? Aren't they supposed to be the highest authority?" Commodore Schaeffer didn't answer, instead moving away to another group of onlookers. Kaali had been present to hear the conversation and answered on his behalf: "At the present time Commodore Schaeffer answers only to Sir Malcolm." What a long and strange road, Keagan thought. One more question, then: "Kaali, this is probably going to sound strange, but do you know Sir Malcolm's wife's name? Is it Francesca?" "No," Kaali said. "Francesca Urquhart is his daughter. Sir Malcolm is estranged from his wife. I don't know her name. Why do you ask? Did someone say something about her?" Keagan looked down at the massive eyelid—it shuddered slightly, a slow ripple that passed from the top to the bottom. Keagan thought, what dreams do you dream? ---- Later that night, Blaer awakens with a crimp in his ankle and finds after stretching himself into various incongruous but no less uncomfortable positions on the bed that he cannot get back to sleep. He gets up without turning on the light to avoid waking the other men in the pod. There is a pack of cigarettes in his bag and he withdraws them guiltily—the Commodore cannot abide the habit and forbids the possession of them in the base. He puts on just his coat and gloves—his intention is to remain in the shelter of the barracks where the wind will blow away the smell of the tobacco but not chill him too quickly. When he walks outside he sees a faint glimmer of light in the direction of the garage—not enough for the whole building, just someone moving around inside with a torch. Happy to find someone else up he might be able to talk to, he pulls up his hood and walks out over the camp grounds, frozen snow crinkling under his feet. The door of the garage swings open at a touch and he enters. Keagan is there, and at first he has the bizarre idea that the British man is drinking petrol from a Land-Rover—he is sucking on the end of a piece of plastic tubing, the other end of which goes into the fuel tank of the vehicle. Then he takes his mouth off the end and releases the crimp he has been holding in the tubing with his good hand. Dark liquid rises into the tubing and down the other side—Keagan puts the end of the tubing in a shallow bowl and lets it puddle out. Blaer looks around and sees other bowls underneath the other vehicles. Most of them have their engine hood up and a number of anonymous pieces have been removed and carefully placed in a line in front of them. "Keagan," Blaer says carefully. "Keagan, what are you doing?" Keagan stands, picking up something from beside him. He doesn't look at Blaer, instead addressing a point somewhere on the opposite wall of the garage. "Blaer? Is that you?" "Yes. What is all this?" Blaer edges closer. Keagan still doesn't look at him. "You know, I'm actually quite sorry it was you. I almost wouldn't have minded if it had been Bones, or Teitur, or one of the others. I don't have any real problem with you. I want you to know that." "What are you talking about?" Blaer gets close enough to reach out and touch Keagan's shoulder. "I need you to tell me where the bombs are." Keagan turns around. There is a wrench in his hand. ---- It was the practice of Commodore Schaeffer to be woken at 0630 hours, having slept for exactly 6 hours and 30 minutes. Those who ventured to wake him for matters he considered insufficiently vital tended to find themselves assigned to the earliest details and there was thus an impassionated debate between the relevant parties on whether the crisis that now engulfed them was one on which the Commodore needed to be consulted, particular since as far as they could see there was nothing further that could be done to alleviate matters. It was thus 0615 before Kiartan Hallers, the responsible officer for B-Barracks, entered his quarters and woke him. "What time do you call this," Schaeffer complained groggily as Kiartan took him by the shoulder and shook him gently. "Apologies, Commodore," Kiartan said, "but a situation has arisen and although steps have already been taken to handle matters I thought it best to ensure you were notified." Such circuitous language from Kiartan, a man Schaeffer knew for directness, to the point of being blunt, was alarming enough to the Commodore that he sat bolt upright. "What is it? What's happened?" "There's been a fire, sir. In the supply hut, which is why there was no general alarm. The chef discovered it at 0515 and tried the extinguisher, but it had already taken hold." "That's it? Have Blaer fly over to Kulusuk and get some bare essentials, porridge oats, beans, et cetera until we can spare one of the trucks." "There is more, unfortunately. I ordered that the hose be fetched from the garage, where it was discovered that the vehicles appear to have been sabotaged." "Sabotaged?" "We haven't done a full inventory, but most of them seem to have parts missing. Teitur says it's the components we don't have replacements for. And one of the 88s is gone." "What about the Cessna?" "Working, as far as we know. But, sir, we found Blaer in the garage. He's dead." "Take a head-count. Now." "We've already done it, sir. Blaer Gunarsson and Keagan O'Neill were the only two unaccounted for." "Well, that's fairly conclusive, isn't it?" Schaeffer struggled into his clothes, hair and beard in disarray, and strode out into the main area of the tower. "Now we have to find a way of dealing with this mess." Kaali was standing over the controls for the radio transmitter, face grim. "It might not be connected, but the radio's down. Looks like there's no power going to the array." "It just keeps getting better," Schaeffer muttered as he donned his outer garments and walked outside. "He'll have cut the cables. Get Teitur to look at that as his first priority. We need to let other cells in the region know what's happened. We still have the bombs—the Project is not impeded. But Sir Malcolm needs to be informed that this will put us back some weeks." There was an awkward silence from his companion. "The bombs," Schaeffer repeated. "We still have the bombs, yes?" "No-one has yet been able to get into the munitions shed to verify that, sir," Kaali said quietly. "Everything has been drenched with petrol. We think O'Neill intended to start a fire there too. We've left it to air before we take an inventory." There was a sudden yelping from somewhere in the darkness and the sound of something heavy and metallic falling to the ground, then the sounds of people running, scattering. Schaeffer froze, listening, then turned. "Sir?" Shapes began to approach in the darkness, some walking, some limping. Most of them carried a spade or pick. "He's taken the bolts out of the gate to the workers' camp. Get everyone into the radio tower with any dry ammunition you can find." At 0624, the large block of ice Keagan had placed on top of the bar heater in the munitions shed melted sufficiently to create a spark. At 0624 and twenty seconds, approximately 250 STANAG magazines and 150 individual 9mm sidearm rounds cooked off, turning the six large lead-lined boxes stacked at the centre of the reinforced metal shed into so much confetti. Schaeffer and his men held the dead radio tower for four days—after the lights went out, after the last bullet was spent, after the last icicle had been cracked from the window and melted with body heat. At the last, he lost his faith. He climbed the ladder up to the roof and shouted at the sky. But his God was in Westminster—at that moment in fact in a meeting of the Royal Aeronautical Society—and did not hear this final repudiation. ---- +++ Interlude II Elsewhere: Sam Deloitte had finished brushing her teeth and grabbed her court reporter's bag. Despite no particular effort on her part to delay proceedings she was already running late—she knew the early morning traffic meant an 8.30am start from her apartment on New Park Road in Brixton meant an arrival at Tower Bridge Magi Court of around 9.07am, with her first scheduled hearing at nine. Somehow over time the same routine—rise, charge phone, wash, eat breakfast (bowl of muesli, half English muffin with Marmite), brush teeth, get bag, leave, seemed to result in an increasingly late departure time. The first case of the day was to be a simple traffic violation—a white van driver accused of violating a temporary parking suspension sign on Pall Mall. Hardly the sort of thing that ordinarily attracted attention from the local press—a relatively minor offence and one that the defendant's solicitor had indicated he would seek have dismissed on the basis that the sign was out of date and had been reported as such to Transport for London by at least one other road user. However, it now appeared that the defendant had dismissed his counsel and would instead be contesting the charge on the basis that he was not travelling on 'the State's roads' but 'the King's roads' and this verbal distinction (no doubt derived from a conspiracy theory website) allegedly conferred ancient freeman's rights protecting his freedom of movement. Such self-representation was always entertaining, though it rarely ended well for the defendant. As she was slipping her shoes on, her mobile started vibrating in her handbag, and, sighing, she bent down and rummaged through the stationery and other bric-a-brac within. She didn't recognise the number. //Please be the Lambeth Times//, she thought, //'Ms Deloitte, after reviewing the CV you sent through we would be happy to offer you an interview...'// Instead of the melodious tones of the Times' Legal Editor offering her a ticket out of Brixton, a crackly, poor-quality voice said "Sam D-itte, this is K-ag O-ll". "Who?" She closed the apartment door again and put a finger in the other ear to drown out the traffic. "Oh for—sake, n-t this again." "You're on a very bad line, I can't hear you at all." "It's //Kea-n O'Neill//. I c-tacted you a couple of w- ago about the Foun-tion." "Keagan? You stood me up, as I recall. At Urbanicity." "Oh y-s. I se-m to recall you br-t along a couple of friends. You r- need to learn -w to treat informants." "They were just for protection. I didn't mean to scare you off. You were really there?" Sam put down her handbag and moved back inside, pulling out a notepad. "Yes, but I got pulled away. -k, this is probably going to seem cheeky, but I n-d another favour." "I get the distinct feeling I'm being strung along. How much is it this time?" "W-l, I've bribed a fisherman to g- me as far as Iceland, but I d- actually have -y money to pay him. He tak-s Paypal, if that's any use. Forty-six thous-nd kr-na, which I gather is around two hundred and fifty quid. Then I'll need a t-k-t for the Smyril Line—that's from G-nland to Denm-—then some kind of tr-n ticket from there to London. I don't—know how much that comes to, s-ry. I'll be tr-lling under the name 'Martin Ball'." Sam burst out laughing, drawing a strange look from the man who lived opposite her as he shouldered past out of the door. "You're kidding. You get about a lot, don't you? Look, even if I believed you and felt inclined to pay for you to travel across Europe at my personal expense—'cos there's no way the Brixton Herald is covering this—what could you possibly have to say about the Foundation or anything else that would warrant me going to all that trouble?" Silence for a moment. "Look. For-t the Foundation. There's no way the people invol-d would let you publish that story. I've got somet-g else. Something that'll get you i- the national newspapers, easy. How does a Cab-et Minister organising a pris-n m-r sound?" "Wow, this line is incredibly bad. That //almost// sounded like you saying you had a story about a Cabinet Minister involved in a prison murder." She clicked her pen open. ---- +++ Chapter Twelve: "Foundations" The Cabinet Minister in question sighed deeply as he transferred another pile of papers over to the right hand side of his desk. Gone, he reflected, were the days when Minister Without Portfolio was a sinecure position; these days it was solid, nose-to-the-grindstone work, assisting the Ministry of Defence and the Home Secretary by taking on the worst of the mind-numbing paperwork. He had been offered the role alongside Kenneth Clarke as a compromise candidate—the Lib Dems didn't want (as they saw it) another thrusting, ambitious Tory in the role but the Conservatives were loath to give up another Cabinet place to their junior partners in Coalition. Who better to fill the gap than Sir Malcolm Urquhart, a man who had retained his seat with an increased majority in 2010 against a dismal Labour showing but who was widely known as a harmless eccentric, someone without the will to go onto higher things? More fool them, of course. It was a mistake to dismiss the Chief Whip of the Conservative Party as a dead-end position—he was responsible for cajoling, bullying, threatening MPs to toe the party line, and was always the first port of call whenever a Member of the House had done something stupid and needed disaster management. A drunken racist remark, a dalliance with a prostitute, a few hundred thousand in fiddled expenses... In short, one became a knower of secrets—one was, of course, trusted to be discreet, which in the world of politics is a very shaky and fragile word. How he longed for word from the Project! In that moment, when everything his fellow parliamentarians thought they knew crumbled around them, he would strike. He would use them all up at once, the hoarded blackmail, the incriminating conversations in his office—all taped, of course, on the little recorder the Chief Whip kept in a little Japanese ceramic on his window. Even Cameron, at the last. He would enter his office, quietly, //discreetly//, and remind him about the little things. His personal interest in the downgrading of Ecstacy, as he had advised so passionately in the Select Committee Report in 2002. Then, the real reason he failed to make the shortlist for the Kensington and Chelsea seat in 1999 and the true extent to which he had supported Carlton's bid for the DTT franchise. The summer of '88, when a freshfaced David Cameron had graduated from Oxford. Then, finally, he would talk about Heatherdown and the class of '76. Such //precocity//, there, such delightful //promise//. One by one they would drop away. To the outside world it would look like cowardice—the born and bred politicos the red-tops so maligned falling back in the face of the unknown, the supernatural, when in fact it was the //known// that would terrify them most of all. Twenty-nine men stood between him and absolute power, and he had dirt on every one of them. Then the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom would stand on the shores of Scapa Flow and stare down a monster. Nothing like it seen since the days of Siddhartha Gautama, Jesus, Mohammad, divine right //shown// not merely asserted. And then... Tomorrow belongs to me, he thought, scratching his signature through some dismal wiretap order against a bunch of Occupy protesters who couldn't even spell that right, unless they thought poor literacy was 'cool'. Tomorrow belongs to me. He paused for a moment, unlocked his drawer, and removed a few sheaves of paper. On top, the latest letter from the Commodore, and he re-read it to strengthen his spirits. It said: > Dear Sir Malcolm (So formal, dear Ronald?) > I write to report that the Project is proceeding as planned, and we are ready to take receipt of the Verwoerd Contingency. There has been some setback to our timetable. (Though he had read it before the words fluttered in his chest with trepidation.) > There has been a riot at the camp during which the workers have done us a great deal of damage, and we have buried a good man. Nevertheless I anticipate we will be back on schedule within the week and ready to complete the final boreholes. You will have your Mucalinda. > > Yours > Ronald Schaeffer He lifted the paper, breathing it in, imagining he could smell that cold, crisp air and behind it, the acrid venom of the marvellous beast. His eyes strayed for a moment back to the more mundane papers on his desk and his spirits immediately sank again. It seemed an eternity since his last infusion of green tea—he longed to call Matthew, to beg for an advance on the afternoon's sachet... No, he thought, there must be discipline, there must be sharpness of mind. He closed his eyes, muttered the words of the Heart Sutra, but the buzzing of the intercom distracted him. So much for serenity. "Sir Malcolm, there's someone to see you at reception. A Mr Keagan O'Neill. He says it's about your subsidence problem. There's someone else with him. Shall I have them arrange an appointment?" Subsidence? Sir Malcolm had received no trouble from his lovely little domicile on Eaton Square and didn't recall calling any workmen. No, no, he realised, there was more to it than that, it was a crude attempt at wordplay. Subsidence was what, a weakness in the bedrock underneath a house? A disturbance in the Foundations. Now he came to think about it he vaguely recalled meeting the man. Hadn't Schaeffer said something about him recently? He flicked back through the letters from the Commodore and found the line he recalled reading: > The engineer you sent, Keagan O'Neill, has been a most excellent addition to the team after some earlier unease with the Project, and can be credited with bringing our vehicle fleet up to full efficiency and contributing a most novel and effective solution after a failure of the windbreaks which averted major damage to Foundation property with minimal expenditure of workers. Maybe this was communication from the Project, then! Although, he thought, he had failed to use any of the known codewords. A meeting about the Foundation should have been arranged with reference to 'fundamental matters', the Project with reference to 'greenfield projects'. And who was the second person? Perhaps the Linton boy... Had it been Linton? Bedford, Rendon... He thumbed the intercomm greedily. "That's no trouble, Samantha. Please send them up." He put the letters back inside his drawer and waited for the security staff to show the visitors up. Keagan entered first, and Sir Malcolm recognised him—a dark-complexioned chap with a slightly disagreeable way of not exactly meeting your eyes. His companion was, he realised with disappointment, not the delightful young man who had accompanied him last but a somewhat androgynous female, short blonde hair cropped around a freckled face and a brown pant suit. Her nametag made her out to be 'Samantha Deloitte'. He resolved to differentiate her from his receptionist by the use of the masculine diminutive. "Keagan," he said warmly, "and Sam. Please do come in, sit down. Can I offer you anything?" "No thanks," Keagan said, and there was something in his tone that made Sir Malcolm hesitate. "Do you bring word from the Commodore?" he asked, seeing no reason not to get right to business in the face of such brusqueness. "Not really. I think Schaeffer is going to have his hands busy for a while. You're a piece of work, you know that?" "Excuse me?" "I'm amazed you managed to find people to go along with your lunacy. Well, it's not going to happen. I made sure of that. Now it's your turn. I don't think I introduced you to Sam here." Sir Malcolm bridled at this piece of affrontery but still shifted a wary gaze onto the woman, who smiled quite prettily and said: "Pleased to meet you, Sir Malcolm. I'm Sam Deloitte, from the Brixton Herald. I've been told quite a story about you and I'd love to get a quote." Sir Malcolm fell silent for a moment. Every politician, of course, had to carefully choose his words in the presence of the press at least once during his career. That this particular situation involved someone with presumably extensive knowledge of the Project and the Foundation more generally, and of Sir Malcolm's part in it, with no way of knowing exactly how much he had communicated to this local hack, further complicated the situation. "I see," he said slowly. "Exactly what story—no, wait, first I'd like to hear more from Keagan about what exactly he's done to inconvenience my good friend Commodore Schaeffer." "I ended the Project," Keagan said. "What you were doing in Greenland was insane. The Commodore was a sociopathic bastard and he got exactly what he deserved. Anyway, it's over. No more Project. The camp is gone, the mineshafts collapsed." The words stabbed Sir Malcolm to the heart though he knew from the Commodore's last letter they were a grotesque exaggeration, his only consolation that Sam Deloitte seemed utterly baffled by this exchange. If not the Project, what exactly does she think she's uncovered, he thought? Some petty scandal, perhaps, some tax return with the i's left undotted and t's left uncrossed... Sir Malcolm allowed himself a low chuckle. "Oh, that was you, was it?" His lips cracked open, teeth gleaming. "You have a very high estimation of yourself. Last I heard, the Commodore estimated he had been set back a week, at most. One death—was that by your hand? The Project is far too large to be defeated by one man." He watched with glee as Keagan visibly crumpled in his seat, face going grey with the shock of defeat. "The poisonous snake becomes still before it can strike against the designs of the Buddha. Don't feel bad. You're on the wrong side of history. Now, you've deserted your post, forsaken the Foundation, and come to me with the intent of doing me harm. What exactly do you imagine you can do to me?" "Keagan, what's all this he's talking about?" Sam asked. The reporter, Sir Malcolm noted, had become particularly agitated at the mention of the death in the Commodore's camp. This Keagan fellow had been with the reactionaries, hadn't he—ah, Sir Malcolm, you've been a poor judge of character, you should have known that those rats never jump ship, not even the ones due for extermination. He had been D-Class, D for Dalit, untouchable, untrustworthy. That was a secret, which meant it was a weapon. He would use it now, shake this silly little female's confidence in what she no doubt considered her informant. He's a convicted killer, perhaps a rapist! What do you know about him, what... "It doesn't matter," Keagan said, cutting off Sir Malcolm's train of thought quite adeptly. "What matters is a correspondence between yourself and someone called Jacky, who you believed to be a 15 year old boy in Medway STC. A quite intimate correspondence." Sir Malcolm stopped moving. A block of ice had appeared in his brain, freezing his thoughts to sluggishness as surely as if he had been transported in that moment to the glacier, buried in it like Mucalinda. How... how... This wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. He had forgotten all about it, that piece of final stupidity he had allowed himself before, as he saw it, the world ended and he ruled over a new age. He had seen the classified ad, the beautiful face, the cheekily knowing words. No-one would find out, he had thought. He had used aliases, printed everything rather than risk his handwriting giving him away, travelled miles out of his way to post the letters from letterboxes in Kingston upon Thames. Then the letter from 'Jan', Jan Crucnik, the supposed conman who had turned out to be another phantom, the front for some seedy old ex-judge who had killed his wife and now thought to prey on his betters from behind bars. The blackmail. But hadn't it been taken care of? Hadn't absolutely everyone—//everyone//—who could have known been tidied away? "Who are you?" Sir Malcolm snarled. "How is—this?!" He saw to his dismay the woman's manner had changed again, leaning forward intently, pen resting on the accursed journalist's pad that had ruined so many Members of Parliament. "I think I might just be the man who wasn't there," Keagan said. "You might know me as—Mr Greengoss. QC." Sir Malcolm's eyes widened. Mr Greengoss. After the messy part had been taken care of, Sir Malcolm had been forced to look into the mechanism of the scam—Wesley Kellogg had worked in partnership with a solicitor, who had operated under the alias of Mr Sackshaw. But there had been another party—£7,500 a month of Kellogg's ill-gotten gains were posted off in envelopes bearing the name of the distinguished Mr Greengoss QC. Except he didn't exist either and the trail went nowhere. The money, as far as Sir Malcolm's agent had determined, had been taken into a bank every week and deposited—nowhere. No name. No account. Nothing. He had some vague notion that a cashier might have been involved, but that had gone nowhere. At last he had dismissed the matter—with the principal actors dead, there seemed no way his letters could be traced back to him. How clear it now seemed. Keagan O'Neill—Mr Greengoss—had been the judge's confidant in prison. He had disappeared when he had entered the reactionaries' accursed D-Class programme then, somehow, miraculously, re-emerged without even the courtesy of getting himself gassed, to haunt him. If not for his incompetence and Schaeffer's unquestioned loyalty and efficiency, who knew how much damage he could have done? "You cheap little thug," Sir Malcolm whispered. "You've walked into the Ministry of Defence of the United Kingdom to threaten a government minister. I could have you arrested right now." His finger hovered over the intercom. "For what, exactly?" Keagan asked brightly. "Because I'm reasonably certain you can't admit to carrying out what looks a lot like covert military operations on foreign soil. Or, for that matter, being blackmailed by a guy who subsequently got stabbed to death in prison." Calm, calm. Why is he here? Why bring this low-level, trash-publication reporter—probably the only one who would believe you—to watch your reaction, get a quote? Because he has //nothing//. Change, change your face, your manner. You're not threatened. This is local colour, the lighter side of the job. Something to tell your daughter about in the evenings. Well, some of it. "Ha. Ha ha ha. No, Mr O'Neil, I won't have you arrested. You're too much fun. You're a conspiracy theorist, a loon. Ms Deloitte, there will be no 'quote'. You have no story, only the ramblings of a convicted murderer—” he watched for the impact of that nuclear blast but disappointingly it seemed to fall flat. Oh, so you're only concerned about murders he commits //after// incarceration. Who says the Fourth Estate is in decline? “—and no reputable paper will print it. I have a little something for you, though, if you want." he leaned over the table towards the reporter, "Owen Paterson, the Minister for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, took a trip to Turkmenistan before the end of the Cold War. What passed between him and later President for Life Saparmurat Niyazov—I can say no more. Look into it. Could be your ticket to the big world of journalism." Sam shifted position in her seat, making shorthand scratches on her pad. "Actually, Sir Malcolm, I'm much more interested in you. Why, exactly, did you start up the correspondence with Wesley Kellogg to begin with? Is it standard practice for Cabinet Ministers to exchange letters with people who represent themselves as teenage convicts?" Ah, the bull-terrier type. You wouldn't think it to look at her. Well, thought Sir Malcolm, that's fine. "Ms Deloitte, if you leave the building in the next five minutes, you may find you receive a pay rise or promotion before you quality for retirement. No more than one, mind you," he spat the words, "you've already offended me, and that comes at a cost. You may find you can publish stories. You may find you can find accommodation anywhere in Greater London, drive unharassed by traffic police, live out your life without fear or pain..." his voice rose to a peak. "You see, I can play hardball too." "Don't be stupid," Keagan said bluntly. Then, in a strange, dreamy tone, "You play hardball with a baseball bat. Om mani..." Sir Malcolm's baffled expression was equalled by that of his companion. Keagan seemed to be looking a long way into the distance, then he snapped back into focus, and for the first time his brown eyes met Sir Malcolm's directly. "What's your connection to 1447, Sir Malcolm? The man in the metal box." Another strange, icy moment. Who //was// this man, this extraordinary pest? "How do you know anything about that?" Keagan's gaze was beginning to become disquietening. "Because I think he's right here, looking at you. I think he can hear you." "I find that unlikely. What you're talking about is in 'containment' by the reactionaries, in Sheffield. A fascinating experiment, but ultimately flawed." "I don't think it's contained. I think it chooses to stay where it is. It makes a show of trying to get out, but when it really wants to, I don't think anything in the world can stop it." Sam Deloitte had resumed her look of utter confusion. Very well, then, thought Sir Malcolm, let's let that be her last memory of this conversation. Two men talking about things that she doesn't understand and which sound utterly nonsensical. The little recorder in the vase in his window wasn't on—a shame. It would be wonderful to have this on tape, so the whole 'confrontation' about Wesley Kellogg could be set in its proper context—a bizarre exchange about secret bases in Greenland and monsters manifested through thought. "That's very interesting, but ultimately irrelevant," he sneered. "1447 is just a tulpa. Anyone can make them, with the right mental training. The only thing special about it is that it can meditate on its own existence, allowing it to sustain itself. My own tulpa can't, just yet. It can say the words, but it still needs to come back to me for a top-up. When it can do what 1447 does, it will outlive me. I will never die—some version of me will always exist. And yet it's the simplest, most basic thing I can do. I'm not afraid of you or 1447, Mr O'Neill." To hell with it, he thought. Soon none of this will matter! Wouldn't it be better if this stupid little woman and her treacherous informant went away with something that showed them exactly what they were dealing with? He jabbed his finger on the telecom. "Samantha, have Matthew bring in drinks. Wine, red for prefere—no, white. White wine." A crackle that signified acknowledgement. He put his elbows on the table, templing his fingers, and his smile over his fingers was a blizzard, sweeping over the works of man. "Ms Deloitte, you can leave now, and as I said, nothing—further—will befall you. Or, you can stay, and witness something that will show you that everything you believe is false. But, here's the thing—you will never be able to publish it. No-one will believe you. You will become a crank, a nut. Is that what you want?" The golden lure. Of course she would stay. No-one with the journalist's inquisitive mind would resist such a challenge. Matthew walked in, and Sir Malcolm pleased himself for a moment by observing the set of the young man's thick hair, the button left undone above his tie. Three glasses. The intern placed them deftly on the desk, poured the clear golden liquid into them, and Sir Malcolm watched it slosh voluptuously around the bottom of each glass before settling as the level rose. "Thank you, Matthew, that will be all." The door shut behind Matthew as he left. Sir Malcolm turned his attention back to the mulatto and his pet journalist. "Go on," he said, "pick them up. I'm hardly likely to poison visitors to my MoD office, am I? Just—don't drink them quite yet." They clutched at the stems of the glasses—rubes both—and lifted them. Sir Malcolm wrapped his fingers around the bulb of his own glass, stem fitting between his second and third finger, and raised it before his face as though giving a toast, then paused. "Oh, now why did I ask for white wine?", he said in mock-anguish, smiling beatifically. "I don't even like white wine." Then he looked for the green seat, the throne in the deepest part of his soul he had found during his time in Tibet, the jade chair from where he made universes. Now, peace and serenity, he thought. And effort. Sheer fucking bloody-minded, coronary-inducing effort. Wasn't that how it was supposed to be? ---- Keagan watched as Sir Malcolm's grip on the glass became rigid, clutching at the bulb with such force he thought it might shatter. The Minister's grin had become rigid, strained, his stare fixed and venomous. A vein on his forehead had become prominent. The chanting in Keagan's head had subsided and he found that for a moment he was able to look to his side. Sam was just watching the bizarre spectacle of the Minister Without Portfolio wordlessly glaring at his glass with such strained fury. Keagan looked back, and then he saw it. A tiny pinprick of red, in the middle of the glass. Sir Malcolm was sweating now, chest rising and falling with some superhuman internal effort. The pinprick grew, and the odd little yelp of surprise from beside him told Keagan that Sam had seen it too. There was now a perfect sphere of translucent red liquid in the middle of the glass, suspended in the middle of the wine. Keagan found himself petrified, though he was unable to remember why, as though he had seen it before in a nightmare. The red substance now filled two-thirds of the glass, still refusing to mix with the four quasi-pyramidal pockets of gold at the edges—the sphere had been truncated where it met the edges of the vessel but retained its shape. The gold shrank, and vanished. Sir Malcolm giggled, a heaving, breathless sound. "Just wait," he said. "Just wait." And suddenly, Keagan realised the sphere had not vanished—it remained, a ghostly shape in the air around the glass. The light inside the sphere had a slightly different quality to the light outside—darker? no, flatter? no, just somehow indefinably //altered//. And it continued to expand, accelerating as it engulfed Sir Malcolm's hand, arm, desk, body, reached out towards then. Keagan felt somehow he must not let the bubble touch him, but remained frozen in his seat as it creaked outwards from Sir Malcolm, centred on the glass in front of his face and haloing him in that subtly altered light. The front reached their glasses, and where it passed it left red where there had been gold. Sam watched in horrified fascination as a crisp, distinct wall of red marched through the glass. She barely had time to tilt the vessel and observe the red did not move with it—what had been red briefly reverted to gold as it sloshed out of the sphere—before it had advanced up her arm and hit her face. Then the bubble met Keagan. There was no overt sensation as it passed—merely the sudden and marked notion that something had changed, that the carpet had been pulled out from under you and left you standing somewhere else. Sir Malcolm exhaled sharply, and Keagan turned to see the edge of the bubble accelerate off into the distance, expanding across the horizon, and after a second the light no longer seemed so strange, and one wondered why one had imagined there was any difference. "There," Sir Malcolm breathed. "Red wine, and of a good vintage." He took a long sip. "It's good. //Hic est enim calix sánguinis mei.// Ah, but you probably never learned Latin at school, so the allusion is lost. Tragic." The expression on Sam's face was lost, the face of someone whose foundations have just collapsed. Join the club, Keagan thought. "What just happened?" she asked, of the room in general. "That was white wine. This is—this is some kind of trick, right? With food colouring tablets. Your party piece for visitors." Sir Malcolm massaged his temples, the colour of his face returning to normal. "Not at all. That was a relatively simple shift; I didn't like the universe where Matthew brought us white wine, so I changed it. It didn't affect anything outside this room, other than the number of bottles of each type left in the hospitality rack." "Erm," Sam said. "That's not..." "Possible? Of course it isn't, my dear girl. That's rather the point." Sir Malcolm's grin faded. "You've seen the supernatural, face-to-face. Now, what will you do? Some people opt to go stark raving insane. That's always fun." "What happened to the universe where you ordered white wine?" Keagan asked, feeling the blowtorch of Sir Malcolm's triumphant fury swinging back to him. "Fucked if I know," said Sir Malcolm, and the expletive sounded strange in his public school accent. "Probably destroyed; I'm not a scientist. If I had let the wavefront touch you, you would have been replaced with versions of yourselves who would have seen nothing supernatural in what I just did; for whom I ordered red wine and got it. Amusing for me, but pointless. The fact is, I might have killed you—the you that walked into this room—dozens of times without your ever knowing it. And I'm not going to tell you if I did. You're insects, trying to bite a dragon. Now, get out." There seemed nothing else to be done. Sam was shell-shocked, glass trembling in her hands so the red wine threatened to slop out the top. Keagan carefully took it from her and put it down on the desk with his own, helped her to her feet. As they walked out of the office, Sir Malcolm spoke again, a tone of gleeful devastation in his voice: "I have a Zen koan for you—at least, that's what they say it is. Linji Yixuan said—'if you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him'. I hate to see what modern so-called Buddhists do with that. It's such straightforward advice, but they twist it and contort it until they say it means you must only recognise the Buddha in your own soul and other such claptrap. No, it wasn't a koan. If you meet the Buddha, kill him, because the Buddha is the most dangerous man in the world. But you're too late, you see? You can't kill me because you're too late!" Sam hobbled out of the building, walking with the gait of a woman sixty years older than her age. Keagan opened the door of her car, a yellow Volkswagen Polo, and guided her into the back. She made no protest as he took the wheel. London accelerated around them, people going about their lives. "What now," Sam said, dully. There was no inflection. "Now?" Keagan scratched the thick growth of stubble on his chin thoughtfully. He looked at the world around them—Horse Guards and chippies and Ministries and ferris wheels and Parliament and garages. "Now, we go get some evidence and write a story." ---- Such freedom! Such blinding, searing, liberating freedom! Sir Malcolm had never done that before—never let someone walk away with full knowledge of what he was and what he could do. It had been reckless, insane—empowering, exhilarating. The only witness he had ever exempted from his bubble of altered reality during a shift before had been Commodore Schaeffer, to demonstrate to him the reality of what he served. That had been the shift //after// he had thrown away the previous universe and replaced it with one where Ronald Schaeffer had inexplicably developed an irrationally deep and abiding loyalty to Sir Malcolm himself five minutes before meeting him—there had been no risk involved whatsoever. Sir Malcolm had just had the merest taste what it would be like excluding millions from a shift, when he erased Mucalinda, his sacrificial serpent, and it felt like jet fuel in his blood. He looked down at the papers on his desk, the budgets and projections and project checklists. Why, why, why had he given his precious time, his very //life-force//, to these irrelevancies, when he possessed the power to make them go away with almost literally a flick of his fingers? Somehow he had imagined it dishonourable, an affront to fair play—like cheating at cricket—but of course it wasn't, it wasn't at all. He focused on the hateful documents with searing intensity, the feeling of mad, impulsive freedom bubbling up inside him. The bubble manifested in the middle of the stack, and the letters writhed and changed as it expanded over them. Of course, trying to create a universe where he had already done the work would be suicide—it would mean not excluding himself from his own bubble. He wasn't even sure he could override that self-preservation instinct that by default made him the sole survivor of any shift, as far as he was concerned. Moreover, he would have to visualise each element of the change—just as much work as doing it himself. Instead, he imagined a universe where, a few hours ago, he had called dear sweet Matthew in and sat him at the desk, delicately placed his fine fountain pen in his hand. And this would be a universe where, just by chance, Matthew spontaneously decided to perfectly forge Sir Malcolm's signature on each document and managed to tot up every sum perfectly. The bubble expanded, and he struggled to maintain it against the pressure of the minutes-old universe where he had ordered red wine. It pushed back at him, begging to stay alive. He smothered it, mercilessly, breathing into the bubble until it covered the desk, the papers rearranging themselves into neat stacks. Then, having engulfed the area immediately affected by the changes, it achieved critical pressure, expanding suddenly and explosively until the new universe was one where all the paperwork was done and Sir Malcolm could spend the rest of the day reading the Mahayana sutras. Perhaps there would be time for golf this afternoon. Wait. Something on the desk caught his eye. No. No, no no. What was now the top paper on the stack wasn't a budget. It wasn't a projection. It was a letter. He focused on it. > Dear Jacky > > I'm sorry to hear you've been having trouble from 'Brock'. A brock, of course, is a male badger, and I do so hope you aren't badgered. Tell me, what soap do you use? I should like to purchase the brand and keep a little rubbed into my wrists so it reminds me of you. I look forward so much to our meeting. To being able to see your face. > > Ryokan was a wise man who was once robbed. Having given the robber even the clothes on his back, he looked up at the moon and said 'I only wish I could have given him this beautiful moon'. Soon, I will have surpassed Ryokan, for I will be able to give you the moon in the sky, if you adore me. Do you adore me? > > Buddy Sattva Buddy fucking Sattva. It had struck him at the time as a piece of wild genius at the time, but now it stared out at him like an accusation. Because that letter did not exist. Because he had never posted it, because he had been called on a stupid fucking junket to Jakarta and by the time he returned he had thought better of rising to the obvious bait of the clearly fictitious prison bully, even in the playful manner he had written it. Because he had personally fed that letter, envelope and all, into a cross-cut strimmer and put the remains in the priority tray to be incinerated. Yet here it was, called back into existence from his subconscious, the paper crisp and white, unfolded, unmolested. He hadn't even realised he had thought about it during the shift. He sat down, hands trembling, staring at the stack beneath the letter with dead eyes. It was probably the only one. Just a gentle reminder from the Buddha to himself that he wasn't god yet. No! That's death. That's absolutely death. He could not dare leave until he had read through every word, every line, and ensure that he hadn't sabotaged the numbers for the entire fucking nuclear defence programme or replaced parts of the briefing to the Cabinet with the lewdest passages from the //Satyricon// or left a detailed confession of everything he had done or was about to do on page fucking 57 of the cruise missile contractor agreement with Boeing. He thumbed through the Favourites on his mobile with quivering fingers. "Hello? Daddy?" "Fran. Fran, I'm sorry, I'm going to be late tonight. Very late. It's important, sorry. Order ... order yourself a pizza. You know my card's PIN number." "Again?" "I'm so sorry." His daughter hung up without another word. Sir Malcolm hammered on the intercom with his entire fist, sinking down in his seat and shuddering convulsively. Samantha's tinny voice asked him if he was OK. "Tea," he said, voice faintly cracked. "Green tea. Now." ---- +++ Chapter Thirteen: "Breakdown" The ex-prisoner—especially one who is no longer confined through a series of unlikely events of which exactly none have had the public seal of approval of the criminal justice system—always faintly fears the prison visit. He suspects the doors may be closed behind him and he may not be allowed out again. This certainly formed a great part of Keagan's anxiety when he and Sam entered the gates of HMP Wormwood Scrubs. Another part, of course, was that he was asked to show some form of identification, which meant trusting again in the ever-helpful Martin Ball, the prolific European traveller and holidaymaker who didn't actually exist. Fortunately, just like the customs officials on his only intermittently stomach-churning return trip from Denmark, the prison guards squinted at the photo of the slightly blurry brown-skinned young man—a stock photograph for all Keagan knew—on the passport, compared it for a few seconds to the older, distinctly less clean-cut gentleman in front of them and presumably figured it had been a rough few years. Actually making a request to visit Creepy Bastard had been a tougher task that it needed to be, mostly because that was the only name for the lifer Keagan knew or could remember. Fortunately, the brief but unsettling mention of his crimes he had offered Keagan and his descriptions of the man were adequate to permit Sam to find him—he was still in C block, still serving his discretionary sentence. Keagan and Sam were ushered into the same visiting room that Lauren had used to visit him, five months previously. "Is that him?" Sam asked as a prisoner was escorted in. Keagan didn't immediately focus on the man, having been too stunned by the sight of Taggart, looking just as scruffy as he remembered, if somewhat happier-looking and heavier around the gut. When he shifted his gaze to the young man he was escorting he almost didn't recognise his former cellmate—his blond hair was short, almost neat, and although his eyes were still watery they no longer shone with disturbing intensity. He was still long-limbed and skinny, but wore it better. He no longer seemed uncomfortable to be out of his cell, though an occasional nervous glance betrayed what Keagan remembered—though that might be because he had been called up by someone he didn't recall sharing a cell with to smuggle out a package he didn't remember hiding in his cell. "Good to see you again," Keagan said, extending a hand Creepy Bastard stared at without responding. "You look good, man." "Thank you," Creepy Bastard said with a surprised tone. "I guess I've been feeling good. Better. I'm sorry, I figured when I saw you I'd remember you. I have a good memory for faces, de- I mean, we must have shared a cell at some time for you to know about the letters." Keagan nodded. "That's not a very exclusive club, though. I went through cellmates pretty fast." "Don't worry," Keagan said. "A lot of people tell me I'm not very memorable." Creepy Bastard sighed. "We don't really have much to talk about, do we? Except the letters. I couldn't make a lot of sense of them, but they're something to do with the Kellogg murder, aren't they? The papers the police were looking for early on. I found them after everything had quietened down, when I started looking at my old drawings again. The real ones, I mean." "You've been getting the pictures out?" Keagan felt an odd sense of pride. "That's really great. I still say you should publish them." This effusiveness drew a quizzical blink from the man on the other side of the table. "I'm missing something." "Nothing important, really. Yeah, this is Sam, she's a reporter. The letters could help solve the case." "That's good. It wasn't right the way they just all stopped talking about it. No-one was arrested. You know, I saw his body. I just... can't remember what I did afterwards. I think I went outside. Why, I don't know, I didn't go outside my cell if I could help it back then. I thought I might have done it for a while. Killed him. I didn't, did I?" He suddenly looked terrified. "No. You're not in the frame," Keagan said. "Thank—thank—well. I'd almost forgotten about it after McGage got killed. Wyncroft came back in with riot police, completely tore the place apart. But they missed my drawings. And the letters." "Tim McGage? The guard?" And Keagan suddenly remembered—two mattresses, thrown exactly the same way. The Judge's cell, tossed like a dawn raid. The tomahawk. A look in the man's eyes, that final inch of integrity bleeding out. Another piece of the puzzle, he thought. Maybe the last. "Was he killed in the Scrubs?" Creepy Bastard shook his head. "At home. Really gruesome stuff. They said it looked like a revenge killing." He watched Sam scribbling frantically. "What?" "That's actually really useful. Do you have the letters?" Creepy Bastard nodded. It was easy, almost balletic. The old Pakistani lifer who had shared a cell with Cameron Moat was there with what looked like his granddaughter, and at a nod from Creepy Bastard he rose, announced in broken English that he wanted to use the bathroom and shuffled between Creepy Bastard's table and the camera. Taggart turned his back and suddenly become obsessively interested in a crack running across the ceiling—"Look at this. This is really dangerous," he said, in a tone that implied he'd pointed it out hundreds if not thousands of times before. "Could collapse at any moment. Take us all with it." Creepy Bastard pulled the already slightly yellowed papers—tightly creased where they had been folded up small and stuffed into the cracks in the walls—from the waistband of his trousers and passed it to Keagan, who passed it to Sam, who in about a quarter of a second had clipped them into her journalist's pad, nothing to say they hadn't been there the whole time. The old man turned and gave them an amiable if gap-toothed grin before shambling on towards the bathroom, and Taggart abruptly decided the crack in the ceiling plaster wasn't such a menace to the safety of the 1,200 prisoners of HMP Wormwood Scrubs as he had first thought, and resumed standing on duty. Keagan and Sam offered the former Creepy Bastard a few final pleasantries before indicating they were ready to leave. The doors of the visitors' centre opened, and Keagan walked out into the afternoon air. ---- Sam had, with some reservations, agreed that they should go back to her flat in Brixton to write up the story. "You should let me drive," she said. "I'm feeling much better now. I hate giving directions from the back seat." She was in fact now sat in the passenger seat, her spirits somewhat higher after the acquisitions of the letters, which she had spent the last twenty minutes reading through in the car. "Don't worry," said Keagan, slipping the car off the Embankment and onto the A203, "I reckon I remember where you live." "Well," Sam replied faintly, "that's not creepy at all, is it?" "I keep telling you, you gave me all your contact details when you came to visit me in the Scrubs. Told me to memorise them." "Only I have no memory of that at all. Why, exactly, does no-one remember you again?" "The Foundation used me in some kind of experiment. With something the Insurgency called a history-erasing machine. I don't think it worked the way they intended. 1447 did something, too." "The 'man in the metal box'? I'm afraid your conversation with Urquhart left me completely in the dark. Are we talking something like the Man in the Iron Mask here?" "It's probably best you don't know too much about that side of things. I get the impression both the Foundation and the Insurgency don't like people publicising what they're getting up to. Your best bet is to keep the story simple and understandable. Blackmail gone wrong, the coverup of a prison death at the hands of a guard and Sir Malcolm at the centre of it all. Don't for the love of God say anything about what he did back there in his office." "How can I leave it out? The man literally changed reality in front of my eyes. I've never seen anything like it." "Because, as Sir Malcolm said, any hint of it will make the whole story trash. Daily Star-grade, if that. Sir Malcolm once told me the Government doesn't //want// to believe in this stuff, even though they know it happens. By all means, include that you interviewed Sir Malcolm and he believes in all this stuff himself. That makes him the nut, not you." Sam scowled and looked away, clearly angry to be missing out on possibly the most important angle of the story. Keagan continued: "Besides, after you do an exposé on anything to do with the supernatural or whatever, how long do you think you've got before the Foundation knock down your door and take you away to be interrogated about how much you really know?" Sam looked out of the window. "One day, someone's going to blow the whistle on all this. The conspiracy's too big to keep silent forever. You can't tell people reality works one way then keep it secret that all the rules you've drawn up are just ... suggestions." "I used to think that," Keagan said. "Now, I'm not so sure. I think, at some point, the conspiracy becomes too powerful to expose; it becomes too unbelievable to expose, too big to fully understand, so anything you say about it is always partially wrong, too deeply embedded to get out through the established media." Silence, for a moment. "I'll stick to bringing down a Cabinet Minister in a sex and murder scandal, then." "Sounds about right. This it?" He slowed outside the apartment, signalling into the resident's carpark. Sam led the way up through the modest apartments until she stopped outside 16a. She fished out her key, which she kept on a cord around her neck in a little plastic wallet with her organ donor and NUJ cards. As she pushed the key into the lock, the door swung open, a slight wobble betraying that the lower hinge was loose. "That's ... not good," she said. Keagan went in first, noting that the screws looked to have been partially torn from the wall. "No-one's here. I think we're alright," he said after a minute. "Which is more than I can say for your place, unless you have a particularly unique taste in decor." Sam edged in after him and looked around in horror. To say the apartment had been trashed is to say the Titanic had taken on a little water. If it had been merely aggressively ransacked—furniture and bookcases tipped over, TV smashed, drawers torn out and strewn on the floor—it would have been comprehensible. Instead: There was not a piece of surviving furniture in the living room. It had all been smashed apart, splinters embedded in the carpet. Swathes of the wallpaper had been ripped off, the skirtingboard snapped away in chunks and hurled across the room. The light fixtures had all been ripped from their fitments and dashed to the ground. Sam took a cautious glance into the bedroom to see tatters of sheets wound tightly around bits of bed, the wardrobe shivered into matchsticks. The kitchen: the entire countertop torn away and cracked in half, the taps ripped out and crushed. She picked up one of the pipes, hands trembling. Something had flattened it then twisted it into a helix. "Could a bomb have done this?" she asked out loud. Keagan shook his head. "I've seen something like this before. Whatever was in this room was looking for something; probably the letters. I've changed my mind—I don't think we should be here if it decides to come back. See if you can find any clothes that are still good—pack an overnight bag." Sam sorted through the shredded garments. "'Whatever'. You mean, you don't think it was human." "No," Keagan said. "Unless you know any humans who can bend metal into that curly pasta shape." "//Rotini//," Sam said. "It's //rotini//. Okay. Let me see if I can find the toothpaste then let's go." ---- Keagan drove with no particular direction—his first instinct was simply to get out of London. Sam had gathered a few possessions in a carryall and sat with her hands on top of it in the passenger seat; Keagan stole a glance at her from time to time to see how she was holding up. She didn't seem sad, or depressed, or defeated—just angry. After a little while the city broke up into smaller towns and as they got out into the country the sound of traffic died back to the point where Keagan was able to hear the engine. "How long's your car been making that noise?" he asked while they idled at a set of traffic lights. A spitting, popping sound interrupted the sound of the motor every few seconds. "It's fine," Sam said, "it's been like that for ages. It's not a problem." Keagan dragged the car up to speed as the light turned green. "It really shouldn't be making that noise. It's accelerating unevenly as well. When was the last time you serviced it?" "Erm, serviced?" "God help us. Checked the tyre pressure, oil level, topped up the wiper reservoirs...?" "Oh, I think Dad did that the last time he visited," Sam seemed thoroughly uninterested. "Which was?" "About a year ago, maybe?" Keagan pulled in on the side of the road, squinting at the grimy dashboard and dragging his finger across it. The white van driver behind them put his horn on and swerved around them without even slowing down. "Hey," she said. "Why are you stopping?" "Because I don't much fancy the idea of breaking down on the motorway. You do know your dashboard lights are out, right? As in, I've got the handbrake on now and there's still nothing coming on. You might have a serious engine failure and you'd have no way of knowing." Sam yawned. "So are you going to look at it, or not?" Keagan opened the door halfway and began squeezing out so as not to step into the path of the traffic. "Hey, I should be charging you for this. My usual labour fee for a checkup is sixty-five quid." "Really? And there was me thinking my dropping a good half-grand of my own cash so far on your travel expenses meant something." She stuck her tongue out. "Okay, okay. Do you have any tools in the boot? Spanner, tyre pump?" "I think there's a bag with some things in. Dad put it there; I've never looked at it." Keagan sighed. "Great." The problem turned out to be relatively simple—a clogged air filter. By chance one of the items in the boot was a small hand vacuum, which did a reasonable job of dislodging the worst of the grime. He grinned as he waved through the windscreen at Sam and pointed to the offending item, but Sam wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the dark Audi A4 sedan with aftermarket tint parked thirty feet or so behind them. "What is it?" Keagan said. Sam said something, too quietly to be heard over the traffic, so Keagan wandered around to her side of the car and gestured for her to put the window down. She did so with quick, hurried movements and her voice was panicky. "That car was outside my apartment." "You sure?" Keagan asked. "No offence, but you don't really seem like the car type." "I'm not imagining it. R159 EWD. It's the same number plate." "Okay," said Keagan, trying not to appear rushed as he replaced the filter. He was getting the same eerie sensation he had felt back in Bembridge. "Keagan, someone's getting out." He immediately amended his previous strategy, roughly shoving the cover back on before he jumped into the car—provoking another angry burst of horn from a Mini driver who nearly took the door off. He prayed fervently to the god of all mechanics (the most popular petition to whom is 'let it fucking work this time') and turned the ignition key. The Polo's engine turned over with no pops or hops, and he careened out into the traffic, hoping the BMW driver behind him had enough sense to slam on their brakes as the Polo sailed in front of it. "Well, the acceleration seems to be fixed, at least." Sam was still looking over her shoulder. "He must have been waiting for us to leave the apartment. Do you think it's someone from the Foundation?" "The Foundation, the Insurgency, or the MoD. Did you get a look at who was driving?" "No, he was too far away." "He was ten yards, tops." "Well, I must need new contacts then. He was blurry." "The good news is that he didn't make a move while we were in the apartment. That means he wants to see where we're going." Keagan took a long breath. "Okay, here's the plan. The Insurgency is planning something big. I don't want to go into it, but you can think of it like a terrorist attack. Sir Malcolm is going to use it to seize power in a coup. I thought I'd well and truly fucked things up for them but Sir Malcolm seemed to think it hadn't done them that much damage. Maybe Schaeffer's lying to him, I don't know. We need to handle this on two fronts. You need to break the story about the Judge—Wesley Kellogg, I mean. Maybe if they've got no-one to step into the top job the Insurgency will put the plan on hold. I need to get to the Foundation and tell them about this." "You mean split up?" Sam sounded skeptical. "Can't we just go to the police? Or the army?" "A good idea, under normal conditions. Unfortunately the most powerful man at the MoD after the Defence Secretary is part of the plan. And I don't think the police would consider secret camps in Greenland part of their jurisdiction. Even if they were inclined to believe it they'd just refer us to Amnesty International. Unfortunately, the one group of people I can think of who would take this seriously and who have the resources to shut this whole thing down for good are the Foundation. And I don't want you getting mixed up with them." Sam sat for a moment, considering. "Right," she said. "Drop me off somewhere with an internet café. I can type the story up and send it in by webmail." "Are you sure you hadn't better take the car? I'm pretty sure you won't be getting it back where I'm going." "No, I figure my chances are better NOT driving the car being tracked by some kind of shadowy cabal with access to supernatural WMDs. If this gets printed, I figure I might be able to afford a better car anyway." "Just remember to check the oil levels once in a while, okay?" Sam chuckled. "Once the story gets to my editor I'll ring around everyone from my Journalism MA. I know people who got jobs at the Mirror, the Metro, the London Evening Standard... then we'll show Malcolm Urquhart what a press pack looks like." "You're going to ambush him? Are you sure that's a good idea?" "I honestly don't know. But he can't do what he did in front of half the local newspapers in London and still hope to keep it secret, can he?" ---- They made good time along the M3, the engine purring along with no trace of the former unevenness. "You're pretty good," Sam said sleepily, presumably in reference to his tune-up, before falling silent. He pulled off at Exit 4 and rolled through Blackwater until he found an internet café and pulled up outside. He looked over at Sam, head turned towards him, eyes closed. She was breathing softly as she slept and her small breasts rose and fell beneath her shirt. Without knowing what prompted it he leaned in, pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes opened, suddenly, wide, terrified. She shoved him away wildly, scrabbling for her handbag. "What the hell are you—doing? What was that? What the hell was that?!" Keagan found himself at a loss. "I don't know. I can't—” he felt a familiar prickling in his eyes and looked away, fixing his gaze on the Halifax branch across the street. "I don't know why I just did that." Sam looked around, clutching her bag to her. "An internet café. Great. I'll get to work. You just get on, go wherever the hell it is you're going." "Sam, I'm really sorry." "I don't //know// you. At all. I know you say we met before, but according to you that was like, once when you were //convicted of murder//, then once again in prison, when I was looking for information on the Foundation. Did I ever give you even the slightest suggestion—oh, forget it. Just forget it." She opened the door. "I'm sorry." "I'm—not sure I want you to contact me again. Thanks for the information. Keep the car." Sam closed the door and walked quickly over the pavement into the café, leaving Keagan slumped over the wheel. //How do you manage it?//, the little voice said. //How do you manage to fuck things up so thoroughly, so quickly? Were you always like this, or is this just how I imagin-// Shut up, he thought. //No//, said the voice. //You're going to have to deal with me sooner rather than later.// But not now, he thought firmly, and started the car. ---- Keagan left the yellow Polo in a lay-by on the B3098. He left the keys in the dashboard, then, on further reflection, locked the door before swinging it shut. With any luck it would be discovered in a few days and returned to Sam. He set off along the hiking trail past Tottenham Wood, and quickly emerged onto the vast, supernaturally empty steppe of Salisbury Plain, a void at the heart of England. Just hundreds of square miles of rolling, uncultivated wilderness and the occasional grey copse clinging to the chalky hillsides. As he continued to walk, the track wore away to a mere suggestion of boot-worn soil, hemmed in by nettles and wild poppies. This vestige of a public pathway veered off around a chest-high fence of horizontally-strung wire; a sign on the gate read 'Military Firing Range—Keep Out'. I'm going the right way then, Keagan thought, tentatively prodding the fence with the toe of his boot in case it was electrified. Having satisfied himself it was not, he put his boot on the lowest wire and stepped up to the next. He got as far as standing on the second highest wire before he overbalanced, caught his boot on the top wire, snatched at it with his frostbitten left hand, which refused to close on it, and fell heavily down the other side. He arose quickly, spitting dirt and brushing away little stones which had become affixed to his flesh. He looked around but could see no-one who might have witnessed his trespass, other than a few distant cars back up on the road, and set off again. He had driven through the night, and now the autumn sun shone on foliage not yet orange and yellow, and he reflected that had he not been trying to turn himself in to the forces of a vast and occult conspiracy, and were his knee and shoulder not painfully bruised from his botched entry into a military-restricted area, he might enjoy the stroll. He had made an effort at reconstructing the journey in his head and had a pretty good idea that the abandoned town he had seen around the Sector-25 facility was somewhere near Imber, the town he remembered had been handed over to the Americans during World War Two. Possibly it was even Par Hinton, a hamlet which he had seen mentioned several times in connection with Imber but which appeared on no maps of the area. He would be coming at it from a different direction—over, he recognised with some chagrin, a British Army training area -but felt confident he could at the very least show up at the front door and ask to be let in. If, as seemed likely, he was told to get lost he could rattle off a list of personnel he remembered working at the facility, which should at the least earn him an interrogation. A couple of shadows cast from behind him merged with his own. He turned, caught a glimpse of camo clothing, and prepared his story about his dirt bike having broken down, hence the grime and scraped-up hands and face. In the event, he didn't have time—a pair of pistols were produced and pressed into his shoulderblades. Keagan's knowledge of military procurement was shaky at best, but was fairly sure the Makarov PM was not the preferred sidearm of the British military establishment. "Told you it was him," one of the men said. Then to Keagan. "We're with the Foundation. You need to come with us." "That's fine," Keagan said. "Look, I need to talk to someone like Dr Skinner. For the last three months I've been working with the Chaos Insurgency. They're going to wake up a giant snake under Greenland and launch a coup in Britain. You guys are the people whose job it is to stop this stuff, right?" The subsequent baffled silence from behind him told him something was wrong—as if he shouldn't have already been tipped off by the fact that what they were aiming at his back looked to be Russian or Estonian military surplus. "What the heck are you going on about, traitor?" one of them said. "We were told you'd try and get back to the reactionaries and give them classified information. We got emailed a photo of you by the SE Corps yesterday. You'll have to accompany us back to the listening post." Wrong Foundation, Keagan thought. Just my luck. The two men pivoted around him, forced him to turn around and began marching him back up the road. "Right here," said the other man, pushing him with the muzzle of the gun towards what looked for all the world like a cluster of large gorse bushes. "Go in." "Erm, is it too late to tell you about my dirt bike?" Keagan asked before he was forcibly shoved through a narrow gap between the prickly bushes. To his surprise, as he nursed his scratches he realised the interior of the copse had been cleared out and replaced by a large tent with tables, chairs, and two sleeping bags. There was a dull olive radio set on the table together with a number of disposable mobiles and a large telescope stood on a tripod at the far corner, facing the direction from which they had returned. A hole in the tent wall had been made for it and the edges subsequently sealed with duct tape, presumably so the telescope could be slid through the wall of the tent and out through the gorse bushes. The two men who had abducted him entered slightly more gingerly, pushing away the thorns. "We'll have to trim the fucking things back, I'm getting scratched to buggery every time I come in," one of the men complained. He looked around. "And the thorns are coming in through the walls." The other nodded to a pair of hand-shears at the side. "Be my guest. I'm certainly not gonna be the one who blows our cover by having neatly cut branches lying around or lugging a load of garden waste over the Training Estate." "It's a hunting blind," Keagan realised. "You're spying on the Foundation. Can you really see the facility through that thing?" He moved towards the telescope but stopped when the men gestured at him with the Makarovs. "Well enough," the first man said, grabbing a bottle of 7-Up from the floor and gulping at it. "Now, the question is, what do we do with you? You must have epically pissed off someone for the SEC to send out a general alert like this." He covered Keagan with his pistol while the other man fished out a pair of plastic garden ties and bound Keagan's hands behind his back before sitting him down in one of the chairs. Keagan wasn't sure, but he thought it hadn't quite clicked over the last notch, which meant he might have a little more freedom than they intended, but didn't want to try it out just yet in case they heard it clicking back onto the previous notch. "Do we think it would be such a big deal if we just killed him here?" "Oh yes," said the other one sarcastically. "By all means let's just shoot him inside our supposedly undetectable listening post on a day when there aren't any army exercises scheduled. I'm sure absolutely no-one will hear or think it odd that a gunshot came from inside a fucking gorse bush." "I didn't mean shoot him. We could just strangle him..." "And then what? Keep him here for the next few months as he putrefies?" "I was more thinking we smuggle him out at night, dump him on the roadside." Keagan decided it was probably best to forestall this conversation before it got to the implementation stage. "Do you know what Sir Malcolm's doing? He's not going to just get the UK government to recognise the Insurgency, he's going to seize power himself. Commodore Schaeffer is in Greenland right now, trying to wake up some gigantic fucking monster to cause massive chaos and justify a 'government of national unity', whatever that is. They're not going to cover it up. What use do you think Sir Malcolm's going to have for you once he's Prime Minister?" "Yeah, we're completely inclined to trust what you say. You're a reactionary mole. I'm amazed you managed to take anybody in." "Did they tell you I was D-Class?" He watched their reactions—a hit there, he felt. "I'm not going back to the Foundation for the hell of it. Why don't you ask your Overseers when Commodore Schaeffer last reported in? He's taking orders only from Sir Malcolm." The two men retreated to the other side of the tent and conferred quietly. When the first man spoke it was in a shakier tone. "Sir Malcolm's just Schaeffer's puppet. He's no-one important, just a useful tool in government. You really expect us to believe he's really pulling the strings?" Keagan grinned and shook his head. "You don't know, do you?" They seemed nonplussed by this, so he went on. "What Sir Malcolm is. He can alter reality, just by thinking about it. I've seen it myself. Now, one of your lot told me that your—faction, whatever you want to call it—is for using supernatural things for the greater good. But I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to be helping them stage a coup." More whispering. Keagan caught snippets as their voices rose. "just kill him now, it's treason to go against...", "no, it's treason not to look into...", "first fucking time we get any kind of support from government...", "Sir Malcolm doesn't //have// a title in the Foundation. If he's a Bixby...". Eventually they seemed to arrive at a compromise. "Okay," the second man said. "We need to contact the chain of command, figure out what's going on here. In the meantime, this guy is gonna make absolutely sure you're not lying to us." He grinned. The other man twisted a tea-towel into a rope and forced it between Keagan's teeth, then removed the magazine from his Makarov and reversed his grip on it before swinging it sharply down on Keagan's kneecap. ---- Sir Malcolm had negotiated a couple of days' leave from his duties at the MoD at very short notice, citing a need to make up to his daughter for some very late nights he'd been putting in. Right now he didn't think he could bring himself to look at another materiel procurement graph. It meant cutting himself off, for a short time at least, from progress reports from the Project—currently being delivered through his office under the guise of ISA interest reports on some of his considerable investments—but he trusted that the Commodore would stand ready until he received the final order. This morning he had risen, pulled on a burgundy satin dressing-gown and donned bunny-ear slippers, and gone down to find his daughter wolfing down Honey Nut Crispies, five minutes late for school. "I do wish you would try to be more punctual, sweetie," he said, pulling her head to him and kissing her hair. "It reflects badly on me." "It could be worse," she said, coldly but not pulling away. "You could be the Secretary for Education." "That's true." Sir Malcolm thought he might have a crumpet, but clearly the housekeeper hadn't got the memo, or else the bakery had been out of stock, as instead he found a packet of pre-made drop-scones. He tutted but opened them anyway, taking two out and spreading them with set honey and peanut butter. There was an odd clamour outside, cars pulling up and excited shouting—something you didn't hear very much on Eaton Square normally. Sir Malcolm sighed. Was he to have no peace and calm, even on holiday? He wandered back through into the parlour and sat down, picking up yesterday's copy of the //The Telegraph//. 'Cameron moves to water down EU job laws'. Of course he does, and good on him for it. Beastly things. He hears the door open and all of a sudden the clamour becomes louder, much louder than one would simply expect from merely opening the UPVC door. Instead of leaving, Francesca runs back inside and upstairs. I'm going to have to ring the school, Sir Malcolm decides. She could be such trouble sometimes. It occurs to him that she has left the door open. "Honey," he calls upstairs. "Are you OK?" "There's some people at the door for you." she calls down. "I can't get out." We'll see about that, Sir Malcolm thinks, and struck by sudden irritation he sweeps through the kitchen and hall and out into the glaring light of the morning, low Autumn sun in his eyes. There are upwards of 20 people in a semi-circle around his front door, carrying cameras and mics. The street beyond them has been completely blocked off with cars. The flashes begin just as his eyes begin to adjust to the outdoors, and he raises his hands in front of his face instinctively. It occurs to him he has just stormed out of his house and into a press conference clad in his pyjamas and bunny rabbit shoes. Is this a dream?, he thought vaguely, then decided that on the basis it might not be he had better get his act together. "Look here," he said sternly, doing his best impression of a Victorian master, "what's all this stomping up and down outside my house? My daughter can't go to school." "Sir Malcolm," one of them called, "can you verify that you were in contact with Wesley Kellogg, a high court judge, in the weeks leading up to his death?" "Sir Malcolm! Is it true that you believed you were initiating contact with a 15-year-old boy? Have you undertaken any similar correspondences in the past, sir?" It was an ambush. Dismayed, he scanned the faces across from him until he found who he was looking for—the mousy blonde with the ridiculous brown pant suit. Wrath rose in him like a Spitfire, roaring, tearing into the sky. "This is all a disgusting vendetta," he said, trying and failing to capture the spirit of grand Churchillian rhetoric with a pair of floppy ears poking out of both his feet, "levied against me by a convict; a murderer, in fact. There is no evidentiary basis to all this. It is, in fact, a bluff, a //distraction// intended to draw attention away to the very real scandal of the Rt Hon Michael Moore MP's behaviour and his comments on 13th July—another reason why the Liberal Democrats are simply a //liability// in Coalition and why Mister Cameron should give serious consideration to the makeup of a minority government should the Coalition not survive until the next General Election..." He trailed off in dismay, realising the usual distractions weren't working; they were out for his blood. He took a couple of steps back; put his hand on the iron railing. Of all the miserable, pathetic... The female reporter spoke up now, her voice as harsh and grating as he remembered. "But that's not true is it, Sir Malcolm? We have letters that appear to refer to people in your life. They include laser serial dots which correspond to an official MoD printer we were able to confirm just this morning was assigned for your personal use. You know, I've been digging into your history, and this isn't the first time you've been caught corresponding with someone you believed to be a young man." "Lies!" he screamed. "Are you sleeping with him? The murderer? This is the sort of sordid conspiracy you work up against me. And you drag in all your small-time, London publication friends and ambush me on my own doorstep? You're a libeller, Ms Dullot—” "Deloitte," she said, before continuing. "In 2006 your wife left you because she found out you were exchanging letters and emails with a 17-year-old boy. His name was Arnoldo Figueres. You paid your wife over two million as part of the separation to keep it out of the media. You should have paid off Arnoldo as well. He's giving a quote at the Brixton Herald offices right now." "No law," he said thickly, the wind knocked out of him as he realised how far gone the situation was—that for anyone other than him this would be unrecoverable. What he would have to do. "No law broken. You can't prove any law was broken." "No," the accursed reporter said. "At least, until we find out who contacted Timothy McGage and paid him £400,000 shortly before he was himself killed. My editor spoke to the Coroner for Hammersmith & Fulham last night, by the way. He says he'll be re-opening the Kellogg case. As good as the sleaze is, I think attempted murder sounds even better, don't you?" "Are you going to resign, Sir Malcolm?" someone called from the back. "Do you think the PM will ask you to step down?" There was a sudden, dangerous quiet. Sir Malcolm stepped away from the railing, back into the street, and he saw with some gratification that the movement still made these lice move back. He shivered, convulsively, the autumn air whiskering the hairs of his legs above the slippers. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand up before his face, then stretched it out, fingers tensing around empty air. He had never reached for the green chair in desperation before; hadn't even known before that it was possible. But here it was, shimmering before him, his throne. "Erm," Sam said. The flash photography began again in earnest, the bizarre pose and expression of furious concentration on the Minister's face a must-have for tomorrow's edition. Go on, he thought, waste your last moments alive. ---- "Run," Sam said suddenly, drawing an odd look from the representative of the Fulham & Hammersmith Chronicle. "We need to get out of here, right now. Please!" "I'll let you see," Sir Malcolm said to her, the corners of his lips tugging upwards until he was smiling a death's head smile. "You stupid bitch! I'll let you see!" Sam stumbled back, pushing against the other reporters who crowded closer, trying to get a clear recording of a Cabinet minister unleashing an astonishing rant on the street in his dressing-gown and slippers. She looked back and saw it, between his fingers, forming—the bubble of dark light, inflating until it had engulfed his hand and haloed his head in its altered radiance. St Malcolm, rebuking the skeptics. The others had seen it too, and a backwards step as they sought to get a good picture of the phenomenon became a rout as they realised it was continuing to expand. Sam was knocked to her knees as the reporters tried to escape—she watched it overtake them—passing over their bodies and erasing them, brain, skeleton, intestines for a moment exposed as it cross-sectioned them away. She sat mutely, watching as people she had known and worked with for three years were wiped from the earth. The bubble's expansion had slowed, grinding over the pavement. It had filled the street; a dome of infinitesimally paler, dimmer light rose into the sky, birds flying into it disappearing and re-appearing on the other side. It took her a moment to realise the sounds of the cameras hadn't stopped. Someone was talking behind her, and she turned to see that the press pack had somehow, miraculously, reassembled, stronger than before, though her university classmates were further back, watching with reverent expressions. At the front, representatives from the national dailies and their entourages jostled for position with TV crews, live reporters chattering in the background. At the centre of this impossible gathering stood Sir Malcolm restored, dressed in an immaculately fitted Huntsman suit, forelock tinted darker and teeth veneered, one arm around his daughter. Sam had felt sorry for her when she had opened the door, face pale above school uniform. Now her hair was immaculately coiffed and she was wearing a miniature version of a ball gown. She reached up and adjusted her father's collar, and he chuckled. "What will your first act be as PM?" the Daily Mail reporter shouted hoarsely. "Is there any truth to the rumour you plan to hold a referendum on UK membership of the EU?" Sir Malcolm's eyes twinkled, lunatic spirals of blue. "I couldn't possibly comment," he said, "but the people //must// have their say! That is the principle I stand for!" "You're for abolition of the monarchy—will you be asking the Queen to step down?" someone else called. "Give it time!" Sir Malcolm shouted, to a peal of polite laughter. But behind it all, she saw a strange duality—//two// Sir Malcolms, one looking happy and healthy and taking questions from a reverent press party, the other still in his pyjamas, hand still outreached, clutching at something she couldn't see, a Sir Malcolm still at bay, sweating, with face deathly drawn. She looked around—no-one else seemed to see anything other than the impossible coup. //It's not over//, she thought, //he hasn't won yet//. ---- Sir Malcolm sat on his jade chair at the centre of a whirlwind, desperately weaving the new universe. For every inch of ground the shift gained, another complex chain of consequences crashed through his mind, demanding resolution. Some part of him not wholly consumed in creating a new reality thought—to abandon and circumvent everything! The Foundation, the Project, Mucalinda, the great game of scandal and blackmail against his fellow Ministers—how easily he had been played at that—to discard all that and proceed straight to the result, the Rt Hon Sir Malcolm Urquhart MP, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, First Lord of the Treasury, Minister for the Civil Service and Leader of the Conservative Party. Now, //this// was cheating at cricket, or put another way, not so much eliminating the excess pageantry of the tea ceremony so much as just snorting maccha straight from the packet. And he found he was surprisingly OK with that. He felt a pang of remorse for Francesca—he always did when he killed her—but lessened now by repetition and simple exhaustion. Let this be a universe where she never has to be disappointed in me, he thought. A universe without guilt! No Chaos Insurgency, no Foundation at all, unfounded—unfounded accusations against me Mister Speaker—no! No accusations at all! Erase even the memory of Wesley Kellogg, Timothy McGage, Keagan O'Neill! He felt himself rally at this vision, the bubble sliding outwards, engulfing Belgravia, central London. Then, the pressure again. Why? Why is it so hard? I'm only trying to make a universe where hundreds of millions of people love me, he thought, is that so impossible? The long looping end of a causal chain hit him like an express train and he saw the story, 'Cabinet Minister in jail murder scandal' spreading outwards at the speed of light. Blogs, Twitter, the first national newspaper websites. No, no, no, he screamed from his throne, stop it, stop it. Greater London. The South East. The Home Counties. The old universe fighting him every step of the way, pushing back with hyperlinks, retweets, word of mouth. Southern England and the Midlands; the bubble engulfing Cornwall and making landfall at Calais. Something in Sir Malcolm's chest was making a horrible, uneven thumping sound; his eyes rolled back as he felt his real body sink to its knees. Die, he screamed at the universe, why won't you die? He felt the bubble slide through the Midlands and reach the outskirts of Sheffield. OM The first syllable slammed through the dark throneroom of Sir Malcolm's mind like an icy gale. MANI I'm being watched, Sir Malcolm realised. In //here//, I'm being watched. Something vaster than he could perceive, some rumbling shifting of the landscape as the vast chant hammered into him. PEME The darkness shifted and blinked, and Sir Malcolm realised it was a pupil—a gigantic eye larger than London, dwarfing him in his own mind. The jade throne crumbled beneath his fingers, pieces of it coming away like cheap styrofoam left out in the rain too long. HUNG And in the great rumbling chant—an impossible sea of sound washing over him, breaking up the order of his mind, sending causal threads flying in all directions, ends fraying and tearing open as he //lost control//— OM He heard a voice MANI And this is what it said PEME //I will not allow another// HUNG And it reached out and took hold of his universe, 240 miles across, in its talons, and he felt the terrible pressure as the tips pressed into the interface between worlds. Please, don't do that, Sir Malcolm pleaded, and he realised he was now kneeling in his pyjamas, the rest of his throne blown away by that terrible hurricane. I want it, I need it OM The talons sliced through the skin of his stillborn universe, and it popped like a soap bubble in the wind. He staggered, back hitting the railings. He looked up and saw them all—the Herald, the Chronicle, the Evening Standard, gathered back around him with hungry eyes. The old universe was back—no, //recreated//, as it was before the shift. Only the female reporter, Sam Deloitte, had remained constant—she was kneeling on the pavement a dozen yards or so behind the others, watching him as he reeled, disheveled and sweat tousling his hair. He thought he saw a look of triumph on her features. "Sir Malcolm," one of the reporters called, "just to clarify, you want that on the record as your response to the allegations? I'll just read that back: 'I'll let you see, you stupid bitch, I'll let you see, I want it, I need it'?" The laughter again, this time with a note of unease—the sort of unease you feel laughing at someone who is clearly mentally unwell. "I, I—” Sir Malcolm tried to swallow but something had gone wrong with his body. He wondered if he had suffered a stroke—nothing seemed to be responding to his brain's orders. He used the railings to pull himself along, away from the house. He looked back and saw Fran standing in the doorway, watching, listening, and it crushed whatever part of him the thing in the box had not already broken. He began moving faster, and the reporters followed him along the railings, taking pictures, video on their smartphones. The breakdown of the century, he thought. "Stay away from me!" he shrieked, and began to run. ---- +++ Chapter Fourteen: "Keagan and the Bomb" It was a very, very long time before the Chaos Insurgency agents were able to raise their superiors—or it seemed that way to Keagan, who in the meantime had suffered through a fairly amateurish interrogation by the agent who had advocated strangling him and throwing his corpse onto the B3098. What, exactly, he hoped the result would be of his clumsy attempt to pistol-whip Keagan around the cheeks and neck, followed by punches to the gut and finally a technique whereby he wedged Keagan's hand between two chairs and leaned on one—probably excruciating if he hadn't picked the hand in which Keagan still hadn't entirely recovered his sensation—was unclear, as he never bothered to remove the gag. Come on, Keagan thought after the thirtieth attempt to make him regurgitate the light lunch he'd had on the way to Sir Malcolm's office the previous day, I'd tell you the fucking sky's green right now if you only let me. Finally, the other Insurgency agent made a connection on one of the cell phones and gestured for his colleague to lay off on the unnecessary brutality. He spoke quickly and his frown deepened with every response. At length he put the phone down and, commandeering the other chair, sat straddling it facing Keagan. "Frankly, the people I spoke to found your story as fucking unbelievable as I did. Unfortunately, it syncs with red flags which have been raised recently about Foundation activity in this Sector, in particular some unauthorised centralisation of the London cell structure. The upshot of all that, for you, is that we don't kill you just yet." He reached over and tugged Keagan's gag off. "Say thank you." Outside, Keagan heard an engine, the sound of wheels displacing small stones on the dirt path. And that, if I know anything at all about cars, is an Audi, Keagan thought. It slowed, stopped. Close. "Someone's coming," he said, words slightly slurred by the pain. Footsteps now—the agent closest to the entrance stepped back in line with the tent wall while his colleague retrieved the magazine and reunited it with his Makarov (good luck firing that now, Keagan thought, I'm pretty sure you cracked the handle on my jaw). And although there was only the faintest whisper of disturbance from the bushes outside, somebody stepped through. "It looks like congratulations are in order," Sir Malcolm said, wearing a look of amusement as he saw Keagan in the chair. The agent closest to the door had trained his Makarov on the newcomer but put it down immediately. How was this possible, Keagan thought? Last time he had seen the man he had been busy behind his desk in London, and it hardly seemed plausible that a Cabinet Minister had been following them up the M3, or even for that matter being seen dead in an Audi A4. Keagan blinked a couple of times, but it failed to revise the impression he had that the man was slightly //blurry//. Just very slightly out of focus. //Ah//, Keagan thought. "Sir Malcolm," the agent who had drawn the gun on him stuttered. "To—ah—what do we owe the honour?" "A little bird told me you'd captured O'Neill. I thought I'd drop by to confirm you had him in custody. You're both due a special reward." The agents kept exchanging small, shaky looks. The one who'd spent the last half hour or so on the phone verifying Keagan's story swallowed, slowly. "We'll look forward to that, Sir. Why don't you take a seat, just for a few minutes?" Sir Malcolm turned towards him, a beneficent smile on his face. "No, I think I'll be leaving just as soon as I see Mr O'Neill dead. To be honest, I'm surprised you haven't taken the initiative and done it already. I do hope you haven't been listening to him spouting reactionary propaganda?" "Sir, I really think you should take a seat. I need to raise some people who want to speak to you." The agent was sweating now, and his eyes strayed from the out-of-focus blue eyes to the radio and mobiles on the table. "I see." Sir Malcolm looked from him to Keagan, at the other agent, then back again. "So that's how it is." The sudden ice in the voice made the nearest agent's eyes widen, and he spun around, raising the Makarov. Half-way through the agent's turn, the man with Sir Malcolm's face tensed his arm and raised it above his head like a guillotine, so fast it seemed the arm simply stopped being //here// and started being //there//. Something substantial and wet flew past Keagan's ear, splattering him in blood. There was a clattering on the table behind Keagan, something bouncing off the wall. Then the howling began, the agent closest to the door dropping to his knees, staring in disbelief at the void where his arm used to be. His compatriot failed for a split second to make sense of what he was seeing; when he realised that the Malcolm-thing had cleaved the other agent's arm from its socket he screamed himself, lifted the Makarov and— With the same blinding speed, the Malcolm-thing stepped forward and casually, with a whip-like fluidity that seemed impossible in anything with bones, poked his arm through the chest of the other agent. He died quickly and quietly, his face turning purple. The Malcolm-thing absent-mindedly licked blood off his fingers before turning to the first man who had by now fallen silent, face bone white, but still trying to stem the flow of blood with his other hand. "Still alive," the Malcolm-thing said, mournfully. He took the man's head in his hands and twisted it, casually. The man lost any remaining rigidity and slumped to the floor. Keagan sat in the chair, facing the creature. "You must be the tulpa," he said. "What a dazzling piece of deduction. Very adroit," spat the tulpa, looking around at the scene. "What a mess you've made. Do you know what a trouble this is going to be for me to clean up?" As he spoke, Keagan heard the faint buzzing beneath the words—if he had the means to record it and the means to play it back, he had no doubt he could slow it down and increase the volume and hear a fly's rendition of the heart sutra, knitting the tulpa together. Now he was standing still, Keavan realised he wasn't such a good likeness of Sir Malcolm as might first have been imagined. He was far less polished, like a rough sketch of the man, the eyes blurring whirlpools of blue, no pupils discernable. "Were you the one who killed Wesley Kellogg?" Keagan asked. "What?" The tulpa looked irritated by the question, as though Keagan should have figured it all out earlier. "No, that was the guard. I forget his name. I had to kill him afterwards." "Because you always look out for Sir Malcolm, right?" The tulpa's shoulders sagged. "I try. Sometimes he can be very stupid. Which doesn't make sense, because I'm him." He didn't even sound like Sir Malcolm, Keagan thought. He tensed his wrists and heard a tiny click as the restraints gave up exactly one notch. He held his breath, but the tulpa didn't seem to have noticed. "No, you're wrong." Keagan said. "You're what Sir Malcolm //thinks he is//. I guess that makes you the responsible one." The tulpa stood for a moment. "I never looked at it like that. No-one's ever taught me anything before." He laughed, a look of childish joy on his features. Then it faded, slowly. "You know, I don't think you're worth it." He walked over to the table, picked up one of the mobiles, tapped on it. "Last number redial. There it is. Hello? Hello? Of course not. Answerphone." He crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, threw the ruined phone to the ground. "Thanks to you I may have to kill the entire Insurgency. I told him they weren't toys, that he couldn't play around with them." He pursed his lips. Keagan slowly braced one elbow against the back of the chair and applied pressure to his left wrist, feeling it strain at the point of dislocation. The tulpa turned and began to stalk towards him. "To be so dependent on him. To live or die at his whim. But I'm always the one who has to pull his arse out of the fire. It makes me sick." Keagan felt his lips move, heard his own voice say: "//Tell me about it.//" Without conscious thought, he wrenched his left hand out of the restraint, feeling a faint burning but not much more in the cold-crippled hand, reaching with the other for the thing he had heard clatter behind him, whose position he had apparently pinpointed with uncanny accuracy, as the surviving nerve endings in his intermediate phalanges reported that they had closed around it. I'm apparently going to fire a gun, Keagan thought. He hoped his right index finger was up to the task. The tulpa's face barely changed as Keagan brought the Makarov to bear and depressed the trigger. The recoil sent shuddering waves of pain through his arm but he kept the gun levelled on the tulpa as he rose from the chair. Two shots. Three. The bullets hit the tulpa in its face and neck, tearing great gouges from its substance. It went down, only now deigning to register a vague sense of surprise. Four, five. Keagan continued firing into the tulpa until the Makarov magazine was empty. The tulpa lay on its side in the middle of the tent floor. Its head and upper torso was a ruin—nothing above the bridge of the nose left. But it continued to shudder, and Keagan realised with a horrible jolt that it was laughing. "Oh, what a world," it chuckled, jaw hanging loose on one side. "What a world." The half-liquid half-smoke that had leaked from its wounds reversed its flow, seeping back over the floor towards the tulpa, the moonscape of its chest beginning to knit back together. "Why don't I give you a head start?" Keagan felt his abused knees protesting as he half-ran, half-stumbled around the creature, throwing the empty Makarov into the corner of the tent, and into the glare of the morning light. He orientated himself back the way he had gone first time around. On the horizon he could just pick out the shape of buildings. It's too far, he thought. It's miles away. He had got about two hundred metres before the tulpa emerged. At this distance, as Keagan glanced back over his shoulder, he was little more than a vague suggestion of a humanoid, a blurry shape moving over the ground. He pursued with an even, tireless lope, not much faster than Keagan's own pace, but fast enough that he would close the distance long before Keagan reached the abandoned village. He wants me to die scared, Keagan thought. It wasn't long before his muscles began to burn, his beaten joints screaming for rest. You can still choose where it happens, Keagan thought. You could stop here, turn and face him, spit in his face. Don't give him the satisfaction of chasing you until you fall. But his limbs kept moving, even as the burning turned to a searing, intolerable pain, imminent cramp. Instead, he thought about what Sir Malcolm had said. //Anyone can do it,// he had said. How do you first realise you can control reality? Maybe it's just a case that things seem to go right for you, just a little more often than probability should dictate. You visualise it, and it happens. You tell a story, and it comes true. It's denial of reality, he objected, that's the basic principle of it. Like lying—and how could you ever tell if you had really changed reality or simply deluded yourself into imagining you had done so? You've assumed you have principles, Keagan thought. You don't lie because you would rather kill a man than breach your code of personal morality. What if you were wrong? He looked at the ground beneath his feet, his shadow before him flickering and uncertain. There's a man running over a field, he thought, somewhere in Wiltshire. I thought that was me. Okay then, he thought, tell a story. It's not lying, because it could be true, like everything you've told yourself has happened to you. Somewhere, under the ground, there was a piece of metal. A piece of iron ore. It lay buried for millions of years, until a great machine tore away what was lying on top of it and exposed what was really there all along. Men took it and refined it and made it into a shell, and inside it they packed explosives, and propellant, and a fuse and a primer. This was during the War, the war when they harnessed the power of the sun and the Foundation had to sit back and watch as it became part of the world everyone thought they lived in. This wasn't a nuclear bomb, of course, it was just an artillery shell. They had loaded it into a truck and driven it to Salisbury Plain, where thousands of men prepared for the invasion of Normandy. Hundreds of shells used in target practice. But this shell, it didn't detonate, did it? It lodged in the ground, and every time the rain fell it sank deeper and deeper, until no-one knew it existed at all. But it wasn't a dud—it just didn't go off, a faulty connection in the proximity fuse. It's lain here all these years, the charge in its electrolytes seeping away but never quite running dry, waiting for the direct pressure that will connect its battery plates one last time. And it's—here! It's under that tiny raised patch of ground twenty metres, fifteen metres away, rushing towards you, longing for this moment, when it gets to fulfil its purpose at long last. Ten metres. His breath scorched his lungs, aerobic respiration a dimly-remembered legend. Five metres. He forced strength into his legs, and //jumped// over the clump that might have been an ant hill, or might have been the ensign of something buried there—like a child jumps over the patch of floor they imagine is a crocodile, like an obsessive-compulsive jumps over the cracked slabs on the pavement because they remember the old rhyme. His right leg landed first, and his knee gave out under him, and his run went three-quarters horizontal, a sprawling scrabbling crawl on all fours, desperately, trying to get away, get away, //get away from the blast//... Behind him, as he stumbled, he heard the tulpa //accelerate//, feet hitting the ground impossibly fast. Keagan dropped, hands clutched over his ears. The detonation pressed him into the ground, tore at him with sharp metal fragments, took his senses, filled his mouth with blood and grit. He hovered in the space between waking and unconsciousness, unsure for a moment if he had really experienced what had just happened, doubting everything. He looked back, expecting to see something thin and wraithlike taking shape in the air, but he saw nothing except the sunlight shining on the muddy crater that had replaced the little grassy dome. Thank you, he said to the bomb. Thank you for waiting for me. Everything was growing watery and hard to see. He could hear someone talking to him, and he thought, he'll pop out of thin air any moment, he's been here this whole time and I haven't been able to focus, and then he realised it was the little voice, talking to him now in quite a conversational tone as the world around him disappeared. This is what it said: ---- //OK, I'm going to make this as easy for you as I can. This is something you need to face up to, and frankly there doesn't seem a better time, since right now I have a captive audience and there might not be a later. I'm going to tell you a story of my own.// //Before I try and break the news to you, I should stress it was a pretty desperate situation. You, and by you I mean me and you, us, but mostly me, had spent every last pence and cadged and stole more off friends and family and spent that too, and borrowed more—lots more—from a guy and spent that too. Mostly poker—some horses—and I'd tell you there were no Class As involved (and I don't mean amnesiacs, though the effect was much the same) but that would be a lie too. The guy—you probably wouldn't remember his name—started getting pretty lousy when he realised that any extra money you had coming in was going right back onto the tables and into the bookies. I mean, you tried to explain that you were due a big win, right, but he wasn't impressed by that. Incidentally, one thing you never really got into was darts, which is ironic really, considering how this all turned out.// //This is how it went. You got picked up outside a pretty seedy poker club and taken back to his place. Over the Thames. That was pretty much its standout feature. He says, pay up. You mention you just got cleaned out, for—what?—the twelfth, thirteenth time? Christ, he says, I've never known anyone have worse luck. Then he gets a look in his eye. He calls over these two goons, fresh meat, probably trying to get their start in the sharking business. One of them has this straight, black, slicked back hair and picks his fingernails with a pocketknife he keeps in his jacket and the other smokes rollups and has shit tattooed on his knuckles, as in, just the word 'SHIT' (say, here's one—what's brown and steaming and comes out of cows? Shit! ... Nothing?). He says to you, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you a fighting chance just in case you pull yourself together and manage to pay me back in the future. A short sharp shock. I see you again after this and you don't have my cash, I'm gonna have Theo here open your throat. He tells them, throw this brown shit out of the window.// //Well, it was about two o'clock in the morning and the Thames is fucking cold at that time of night. Even you must remember that. The shock nearly kills you, and the stench almost finishes you off. You get swept along until you find somewhere to claw your way out—the bricks come away when you grab at them and by the time you've dragged yourself onto dry land it feels like you've torn down half the Thames barrier. You get out, shivering like a kicked dog—that wasn't your classiest moment, by the way—and shamble along the towpath for a while. Then you come face to face with—well, you. He's walking in the opposite direction, probably couldn't sleep, off for a walk along the riverside. It's like looking in a fucking mirror. I mean, spooky alike. He's just as shocked as you are, probably more so—you're the one soaking wet, staggering along like the walking dead.// //He (you) calms down a bit, and says 'nice night for it', which was a really fucking stupid thing to say. It's informed my impression of you (strange how the word has two meanings like that) ever since. Well, you (we) don't say anything back—we're looking at him and his nice coat and his nice shoes and we think—he has a life, doesn't he, he hasn't screwed everything up like you (we) have. And you realise you have a half-brick in your hand from the side of the Thames, you've literally been carrying the thing along with you for the past half-mile without realising. You don't even question the amazing coincidence, the way that you just won the National Lottery after years of losing, the way he just pops up the second it finally matters in some ultimate, real way. And you (we, I) hit him (you) over the head with the brick. Again, and again. He doesn't say anything, he just goes down to his knees, trying to put his hands in the way, then when those get beaten to a pulp the fight goes out of him and he falls over, and you continue hitting him until there's nothing there anymore.// //You take his wallet and you see his name. I think you've probably worked it out by now. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I'm your god and I'm a fucking loser. I stripped your clothes off and put them on, and I put my clothes on you and kicked you into the Thames. They found me (you) a mile or so downriver the next day and I was declared dead. I knew I couldn't just go on the way I had been, of course, so I made you. My tulpa, my simulacrum of how a stranger might act, based on the fleeting moment before I smashed his brains in and took his life. I put you in the driving seat, except when it really mattered. You didn't have much family, as far as I could see, not many friends. I cut myself off from them and made a few new ones, like Lauren. You wrote your damn passwords and PIN numbers down on a piece of paper and put them in your sock drawer. It was really easy. It was really, really fucking easy. I'm sorry.// What are you sorry for? //Jesus Christ, you stupid son of a bitch. I killed you. You're not real. You're dead. You've been dead for about four and a half years. You're a simulation I created. You don't believe me? When did you start suffering from the violent moods, the change blindness? And the lying. You can't lie because you are a lie. It would be just too many levels of metafiction.// I'm pretty sure I'm not dead. For starters, I can feel the soil I'm currently plumped face-down on. That feels pretty real, and not very comfortable, actually. //No, you idiot, you're not getting me.// I reckon I get you just fine. Who, exactly, did they find in the river again? Whose name was on the death certificate? //It doesn't matter.// Really? Now, here's a poser. Whose past did 554 erase? That's an interesting one, isn't it? Let Professor Reeds chew that one over. //You don't know. It might have erased me too. Personal identification. Hypothesis-A. The experiment was inconclusive.// We could find out. Look you up. What's your name? //My name?// Your name, you piece of shit. If you're alive, and I'm dead, you must have a name. I'm Keagan O'Neill. Who the hell are you? //^^My name?^^// Now fuck off. ---- He wakes up briefly to see three armoured trucks idling around him, upwards of twenty black-helmets disembarking and aiming sub-machineguns. Ah, he thinks, with a sort of dreamy certainty, so //that's// where you keep popping out from. They keep shouting 'Clear!' as they get closer, which he decides doesn't sound very helpful, like someone who insists something is perfectly self-evident without bothering to explain themselves. They swell in his vision until the blackness of their visors overwhelms him and he falls into unconsciousness. ---- +++ Chapter Fifteen: "Gunning for the Buddha" Edward rose, made his bed, and wandered through into the staff living quarters. There were a few other 'boarders' at the Sector-25 facility, mostly through choice; people who couldn't give any more of their lives to the Foundation without actually living and sleeping there, so they did; others stayed at secure residential sites in the surrounding area, carefully shielded from the outside world. Edward was the only one effectively in protective custody; it had taken them a while to actually agree that he held a formal title within the Foundation (strictly speaking, he was a Junior Researcher) and his status still seemed fairly fluid, hopping from department to department, part-time psychiatrist (he had just about completed an undergraduate degree in Philosophy, which sector management apparently considered close enough), part-time computer troubleshooter, part-time consultant on the Group of Interest that called itself Marshall, Carter & Dark. Edward wandered over to the coffee machine and fiddled with the dials, frowning. then felt around behind the back. The LED display resolutely refused to come on. "I've tried all that," said a ferret-faced young researcher called Mames. "It's completely busted." Edward turned and blinked. "This is literally the earliest I have ever seen you up." "I'm surprised you slept through it," Mames said. "There's been some excitement." 'Some excitement,' in Sector-25, could mean anything between 'new tub of Ovaltine' to 'microscopic Germans from an alternate timeline have just nuked the break room'. "Oh. What's happened, exactly?" Edward gave up on the espresso machine and fished around in the cupboard for the French press. "There was an explosion out on the SPTA, a quarter mile out." Edward raised an eyebrow to suggest this was hardly an unusual occurrence on a live-fire training ground. "No, no, listen, they found a guy near the crater, covered in blood, most of it someone else's." "And we got involved why? Sounds like a case for the British Army." "It was the underpants. Apparently we get them off the books from a domestic supplier in South Korea; officially they've failed quality control and been incinerated. Very peculiar stitching up the centre, not very comfortable for, er, bigger people. Anyway, they don't sell them over here. But we do issue them to D-Class. Also, his hands were frostbitten, which all just seemed a bit too weird to leave to the squaddies." "I see. So, we took him in?" "Put him up in the medical wing until he regained consciousness. He's claiming to have been D-Class in this facility a couple of months back, only he doesn't have the tattoos, we don't have any record of him under the name he's given and, well, a couple of months, right?" Edward nodded, slowly. Mames continued: "So they take him to Conference Room 2, which is when I get up to see what all the fuss is about. At first he wants to speak to 554-2, but of course she's never heard of him either, and it turns out he means the //last// 554-2, which was kinda sad. Then he starts on about talking to Skinner, which really raises everyone's blood pressure." "I can imagine," Edward said. He had left the coffee and the packet of bagels he'd been fiddling with on the side, and walked over to the chair. "And let me guess, he mentioned Dr Barker, only Dr Barker can't remember him, though that's pretty convenient if he says he was here while Skinner was in charge?" "Yeah. How did you know?" Edward sighed. "I have a horrible idea my quiet half-morning has just gone up in smoke. What was his name?" "Erm, oh damn, it's on the tip of my tongue. Er, ah, something Irish, which you wouldn't think to look at him, since he's a—hey, wait up?" "Keagan," Edward shouted back as he strode along the corridors, following the orange lines towards the Conference Rooms. "Keagan O' sodding Neil." He pushed open the door to Conference Room 1 a second or two before he remembered he wasn't dressed yet. Too late now, of course. "I know who he is." The man at the far end of the table from a cluster of Sector-25's most distinguished professionals and interrogators looked up, and beamed widely. "Edward—Gardley? Gradley, that was it! I should have asked for you. Immune to memory wiping! Give that man a fucking promotion." Professor Gelding adjusted his spectacles and stared at Edward. "Edward, you can confirm this man's story about being D-Class?" Edward stood still for a moment, Keagan looking on expectantly. Come on, Edward, think on your feet, you used to do this for a living in the City. You've just walked into an interrogation of a man who, the last time you saw him, was about to be irrevocably disappeared by a Euclid-class skip after confessing to cross-contamination with a Keter-class reality-warper who lives in a hermetically-sealed steel cube. Assuming, of course, this is the actual Keagan O'Neill and not something that looks and sounds a lot like him and has all his memories—which, let's face it, happens more often than it should, in this line of work—you sort of have an obligation to try and ensure he doesn't get vivisected, at least before he actually tells us what led up to his being covered in someone else's blood, staggering towards the facility over a field full of unexploded ordnance. So, please maestro, let's have your best quality not-quite-lie here: "I can verify," he said, "that this man was in this facility as late as mid-August. I remember seeing and talking to him. I can't remember his clearance level, and I certainly don't recall him being D-Class. Agent Howard," he addressed the Head of Security, "I remember you talked to him. You too, Professor Reeds. Bear that in mind when you start considering who he might have had contact with. Dr Skinner was ... everywhere for a while. It's not unreasonable that he might have spoken to him or Agent Moon. Lots of us did." "Finally someone talking sense," Keagan said. "What happened to Dr Skinner? Everyone went nuts when I mentioned his name." "He—ah—wasn't quite his own man," Professor Gelding muttered. "It's a long story." "Well anyway, now how's about you stop trying to figure out who I am—” he paused for a moment, a pause which seemed significant “—and start listening to me, eh?" "We're listening," Edward said. ---- Elsewhere: Renton shivered in the night air as he waited to be let into the MoD. The guards maintained their impassive glare, just a notch short of pretending he didn't exist, but he was getting odd looks from people on the street—odder than he normally received in his beret and socialista garb. 'Tonight, the fashionable urban revolutionary is modelling a soft, blow-dried 'do, honey-brown hair falling naturally around his face and neck, and wearing a sleeveless little number that comes just short of his belly button.' He had, after much protest, shaved his upper lip, but remained staunchly protective of his steel-toed bovver boots which had got him through many an anti-fascist counter demo, and their presence reassured him. Not that they look particularly intimidating below the ridiculous shorts they had made him wear. In all, he felt like a piece of meat, and it didn't reassure him particularly that the intent was veal. But he was a good soldier, and when the orders came though the correct channels he obeyed with only a little protest. He would be frisked (first) by the guards at the door. According, he carried no weapons. He wished he still had a certain key fob he had acquired in his Art Violence period—innocuous enough to get in, leave it on the oak desk, no more problem. No more Ministry of Defence either, though, which he understood might be a problem. In any case, the keychain had been his price of admission into the Foundation—the true Foundation—and the salvation of his soul (and look where it's got you, a little voice of his own murmured, but he quashed it furiously). No, he didn't need it. Sir Malcolm was fragile now, emotionally weakened—if he had not been, the op would never have been sanctioned—and in desperate need of comfort, of many kinds. There would be green tea, which Renton despised with every particle in his being. It would come on a silver tray, in packets, with a pair of scissors. ---- Elsewhere: "Alright gentlemen," Agent Brass announced, "we're officially in briefing, which means if any of you talk between now and me saying 'any questions?'—no, you fucking smart alec, that didn't count—I get to rip your head off and spit down the hole. There's a couple of you here, this'll be your first operation with the unit, so a general point. This is Mobile Task Force Rho-6, but we don't call it that, because frankly whoever came up with that American-college-fraternity naming system ought to be shot. We prefer to call ourselves the Deifecators, because we shit on gods on a daily basis. That's day-yi. Two syllables. It'll grow on you. "This—” he clicks the slide changer in his hand “—is the target. Caucasian male, 48 years old, based in London. He's also a Government minister." He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "And, of course, he's a Bixby. That's what we call reality-warpers, probies. From Jerome Bixby. 'It's a Good Life'. Look it up in your own time. Active for at least twenty years, apparently, which makes you wonder what, exactly, the retards in Kappa-6 actually do all day. Has a daughter, which is going to suck for her, especially since she's now going to be under Foundation surveillance for the rest of her natural just in case she's inherited it from her daddy." Next slide. "To make things harder, the target has recently holed himself up in his offices in Main Building and is refusing to speak to visitors. He sent for clothes and toiletries from his house in Belgravia, unfortunately before we were read into the op, otherwise I would have suggested making like Deianeira and putting ricin on the inside of his shirt collar. So he's in there for the long haul. And to top it all off, he's the centre of a growing scandal about a quashed investigation into the murder of an ex-judge in prison. The Director has applied pressure to the PM to take the position that it's a private matter until the police actually charge our guy. That hopefully means we don't have to deal with a pissed-off reality-warper rampaging through the largest city in Western Europe, and just leaves us with the problem of infiltrating the UK Ministry of Defence, killing a top-level official and making it look like a suicide." "We have a couple of advantages going in. Our boy has just, as far as we can tell, experienced a major failure to launch. Happens to the best of us. Shut up. Anyway, he tried to initiate a reality shift in front of a bunch of journalists and flubbed it, ended up running through Green Park in his jim-jams, screaming his head off. I would NOT want to be in Gamma-5 and in charge of taking down all those Youtube videos. Maybe he's weakened, maybe he just believes he is, which for Bixbies is much the same thing. Also, what makes our boy so dangerous—and the real reason he's evaded detection for so long—is because he evidently views the whole universe as an all-or-nothing proposition. No matter the change he makes to reality, no matter how minor, he's apparently been pulling off a universal-scale restructuring event, which means he doesn't register on any of the usual space-time seismometers. Leave the implications of that to the philosophers, gentlemen, the fact is that he's done this God knows how many times since the fall of the Berlin Wall and I personally don't feel like a different person. More importantly, it means he should have slower reactions than your average Bixby. If he starts looking like he's trying to pass a log the size of your mother, aim for his head. I've never yet known a Bixby who can keep going after having his concentration disrupted by a 9mm." "Of course, it goes without saying, that when dealing with a Bixby there are no rules. Our boy could decide just before we get in the door that he would prefer the sun to be made of ice-cream, or for gravity to be exempt from inverse square law. It becomes a lot less scary when you realise that in the vast majority of worst case scenarios that still gives you about eight minutes to blow his mind. It might not actually help, but it would sure feel good." Next slide. "This is the plan of attack. Four insertion teams of three operatives; Team A breaches and deals with unforeseen elements; Team B secures the top floor where our boy is currently hiding out; Team C secures the floor below and prepares for extraction. Team D will be contacting the target and staging the scene. Each of you has a briefing pack identifying the teams and various contingencies. For those new to ops with the Deifecators, for Christ's sake call your family first. It makes a massive difference, it really does. Any questions?" He pauses, not long enough for anyone to think too deeply. "No? Then get your damn boots. Three words, gentlemen," he said to the assembled agents. "You know what they are." "Secure!", they said. "Contain! Protect!" ---- The security of the United Kingdom's military nerve centre was penetrated with textbook perfect timing. Cleaner passes had been obtained ahead of time and six men entered via the side entrance on Horse Guards after submitting to search by armed police. They then opened a small door in the adjoining apartments and let in another group of six workmen, carrying large and bulky aluminum-lined bags containing, to their absolute shock and surprise, not paint rollers, electric screwdrivers and step-ladders, but rather twelve FN P90s, gas grenades, assault vests, and a considerable quantity of specialised equipment, including electromagnetic spectrometers, UV and infrared filtered goggles, laser and sonic antipersonnel devices and as a final resort a cannister of VFDF with a time release. If at least one member of the Mobile Task Force did not survive to flip the switch—or if time or entropy were accelerated or if the half-life of the pellet of caesium in the cannister's internal clock were tampered with—it would release enough cyanotoxin to destroy every neurotransmitter in the building. It was Sunday, and even the hub of global British force projection was quieter than normal. A few dedicated souls were quietly taken and tranquilised. They would be administered a Class C amnesiac and told they had stayed home that day with a fever. The guards waiting outside Sir Malcolm's office with expressions of long-suffering patience were met with the strange sight of a little ball rolling over the plush carpet of the top floor hallway. A second later, they saw no more—it emitted a flash of light in a spectrum not recognised by science that ionised the rhodopsin in their eyes, overloading the visual cortex and taking with it all perception of time. They twitched slightly as they leaned back against the wall and sank slowly to a half-sitting position; they would recover their senses later, together with a slight headache and the vague sense that they had been sleeping on duty. The Deifecators breached the inner sanctum of the Minister Without Portfolio with flawless small unit tactics, spreading out from the door to cover all angles, sweeping a visual-spectrum laser through the room to blind or disorient their adversary. Agent Brass took point—you didn't survive long, career-wise, as head of a MTF unit if you made a habit of avoiding that responsibility—and, being a veteran of more such ops than both of his comrades combined, he was the first to shake off the adrenaline rush of the breach and realise what he was seeing. Sir Malcolm hung by his belt from the fake-crystal lampshade, rotating a little in the breeze from the sudden entrance, toes just barely touching the ground. His chair was overturned a couple of feet away and his face was grey. There was a bloom of blood from his neck, staining his rumpled shirt, but after a couple of seconds one noticed the little silver scissors, dangling from the loosely curled fingers of Sir Malcolm's left hand, and one realised the desk was just within reach from his position. The scenario readily presented itself: he had decided to do the deed, climbed the chair to fasten a fairly shoddy noose around the light fixture, and then submitted to gravity, only realising too late that his weight was enough to pull the mock-chandelier from its socket, leaving him slowly asphyxiating at the end of the electric wires, feet not contacting the floor sufficiently to spare his life, nor far enough away that he could stop himself from kicking them out to prolong the process, leaving him dancing on tiptoes between life and death. In desperation, he had grabbed the scissors from the tea tray on his desk and made several attempts at plunging it into his neck before finally finding the carotid artery and losing consciousness. It was a good narrative, and one Agent Brass might have used himself. Except, of course, that as far as they knew Sir Malcolm wasn't left-handed. The team did due diligence, of course—one could never assume a body was conclusive proof of death when dealing with Bixbies, when it could just as easily be an illusion, or someone else's body moulded into the shape of the Bixby, or just a piece of meat that had never been alive, conjured out of thin air at the whim of an insane god. But after scanning the room for electromagnetic anomalies, examining the corpse through a series of different filters, sweeping for subsound and infrared presences and manually intersecting every part of the room in co-ordinated movements to make sure their quarry had not simply rendered himself invisible and inaudible, they concluded that the scene was probably exactly what it looked like, or at least, exactly what someone had wanted it to look like. Sir Malcolm's eyes were open in death, but seemed dull, faded, beaten. His trousers had fallen to mid-thigh, exposing Union Jack boxer shorts. Agent Brass took a long, final look at the body. "Job well done, gentlemen," he concluded. "I won't tell if you don't." The MTF exfiltrated with the greatest of ease, the cannister of deadly nerve agent deactivated, the weapons folded and stashed away in the bag, which was placed in an outgoing parcel in the mailroom addressed to a military base in Wiltshire. They left a terse note at the front desk that they had found the room they were supposed to refurbish on the fourth floor locked and that there had been no-one around to ask about it, and that in future they would prefer a weekday appointment, as this had been an expensive but ultimately unnecessary piece of overtime for twelve men. ---- The process of debriefing was much the same in the Foundation as it had been in the Insurgency; you sat in a room for hours on end while serious-faced men asked questions and made little scribbles in notepads or tapped away on laptops. From time to time they would go off into a huddle and one of them would be dispatched to initiate some action based on what you had said. Then you would be taken into a bigger room and introduced to an even more senior officer of the Foundation and asked to repeat some or all of your story to him. Eventually the men got so senior Keagan wasn't even allowed to see their faces—just voices behind stylised silhouette icons on teleconference screens. The food was healthier, if somewhat blander, than the rapidly cooling takeaways which had been his staple while at the Insurgency's London safehouse, which Keagan was reasonably sure was about to be stormed by a dozen or so men with MP7s. He wondered if Walrus and Jitters were still there, or whether they had heeded Sir Malcolm's orders and closed up shop. There had been some impassioned debate over where Keagan should be housed—in D-Class accommodation? with staff?—and ultimately Keagan found himself led to a moderate-sized concrete room lit by neon tube lighting, which some effort was subsequently put into making habitable, with a flat-pack bed, chair and table assembled by a pair of blue hats in record time. However, Keagan couldn't help noticing the small drain on the floor and the plastered-over rectangle on the wall. No change there then, he thought, I'm in the dog house again. One thing Keagan remembered fondly about his time in HMP Wormwood Scrubs—or even his time as D-8671—had been the routine. These days, he would be woken at all times of the day and night to be quizzed about some barely-remembered aspect of his experiences by some anonymous visage on a monitor somewhere in the world for whom it was seemingly always mid-afternoon. Edward, as the sole attestor to Keagan's account of his time in the facility in August, sat nearby throughout these interviews, occasionally intervening to 'clarify' some remark Keagan made, always careful to play down any suggestion of Keagan's being D-Class or having breached security regulations. You're doing your best to keep me alive, Keagan thought. That's nice. Problem is, I didn't ask you to do that. "When did you decide to turn against the Chaos Insurgency?" a voice asked Keagan, booming over continents and oceans. He stared straight ahead. "I'd tell you it was when they told me what they wanted to do—to wake up that thing, to let it destroy whole cities to create a crisis only Malcolm Urquhart could fix. But it wasn't. I didn't care about the world at all. Millions of people—I can't visualise it. It's just numbers. I'd already decided what I was going to do when I saw what the Insurgency did to those people in Greenland. They didn't do anything, far as I can tell. At least you screw over people who deserve it." It was almost the truth. After the red light that indicated the open connection blinked out and the representatives of the Foundation went into their huddle again, Keagan looked around the teleconference room and for the first time noticed the laminated map on the wall; the world, in Robinson projection, divided into the familiar elongated rectangles, though he saw some of the numbers were different. The greatest difference, however, took him a moment to fully grasp—this was a //blue// world, a world of cool azure shades. And here and there—the Baltic, West Africa, Central America—pinpricks of red, trouble spots, nothing more. Brush fires in the middle of the ocean. ---- Elsewhere: On the fifth day, the peace of the glacier is disturbed by the sound of three helicopters landing in the camp. The men who get out see the fire-gutted buildings, the Cessna, already half-covered by snow, the mausoleum of the radar tower. In the pitiful shacks at the centre of the camp they find five survivors, Greenlanders, who shrink from the sun when they are dragged out like something that knows it already belongs in the grave. "Hvor er Kommodore Schaeffer?" ask the agents of the Foundation. //Where is Commodore Schaeffer?// //Her//, they say, pointing to their bellies. And their smiles in the white light at the end of the world are bare and bloody. For the first time in a very long time, the agents of the Foundation wish they still had a Dr Glüt to take these broken people away to a dark room; to do the things in secrecy that should have been done in the light, to make them whole again, to make them tell themselves what they had experienced was a coma dream or a show on TV. To play God and do what God does—giving people another chance. Instead, they do what mere humans can do—cut off what cannot be fixed, say 'it's over, because it ends here'. They take the surviving workers out onto the ice field. They make them kneel there, hands in their laps. And then they release them from their labours. ---- Elsewhere: Somewhere in Los Angeles, at a cheap hotel, three men check in, separately. No-one could possibly think they were there on shared business, because there is precisely one hour and forty-five minutes between each of their arrival times. The hotel has been chosen because it has no video surveillance, because the proprietor's grandfather fought for the men's cause in the 20s, because it serves prawns and coronation chicken. After each man has settled into his room, he wanders downstairs to the darkened billiard room and takes his seat around the small table in the corner, which is graced by three tumblers, a bottle, the supper menu and a small bell. When all three men are seated, the first picks up the bell and taps it against the side of the table. The 256th Extraordinary Session of the Overseer Council of the Foundation is in session, which these days means whisky, the smokier the better. The three men—who claim to hold the titles of O5-1, O5-9 and O5-11—take a stiff drink before they get down to business. The Sir Malcolm business, says the man who claimed to be O5-11, was truly regrettable. Although losses in Britain itself were minimal, the waste of Foundation personnel and resources in the senseless and perverse endeavour that Urquhart had termed the 'Project' had been criminal. Especially deplorable in all this was the destruction of the Verwoerd Contingency, ending a capability which had been maintained by the Foundation for almost thirty years and which had now been lost, perhaps permanently. What was worse, however, was the fact that he understood the unwarranted requisitions made by Commodore Schaeffer, formerly a loyal officer of the Foundation, had almost completely stripped the military assets of Sector-53—a sector which until recently had maintained a large and indeed growing Foundation presence and a broadly friendly national government in Estonia, leaving the Foundation's position there parlous if not actually untenable. In these uncertain times, we can ill afford such setbacks in the ongoing struggle to extinguish the remaining reactionary elements, he said, trying not to notice that neither of his colleagues was quite able to meet his eye. That simple truth is, said the man who had been elected O5-1 in a unanimous vote of three persons in 1987 and had been first amongst equals ever since, Malcolm Urquhart's unique attributes need not have precluded his working for the Foundation, had he made full and honest disclosure of them through the chain of command. Unlike the reactionaries, the true Foundation was not in the habit of locking away people with supernatural talents or keeping them in artificially-induced comas. Unfortunately, the nature of his abilities, combined with the fact that he chose to keep them largely secret from the Foundation, meant it was impossible to determine how much of the Foundation's operations in Sector-25 had been compromised. The substantial or total subversion of personnel affiliated with Commodore Schaeffer meant serious and immediate action had to be taken. Yes, said the man whose letterhead purported himself to hold the title of O5-9 on the Overseer Council of the Foundation—surely all three men could agree that the young man who had been charged with the neutralisation of the newly-designated SCP-1859 had done a sterling job and had prevented any further damage done by this whole debacle in the most efficient and elegant way possible. The three men agreed, though they had considerable effort recalling just what exactly the useful young man's name had been. Ripkind, or Rifton, or something of that sort. Either way, they unanimously agreed, just as soon as they remembered, they would see to it that he was rewarded to the utmost of their abilities. The man who preferred to be known as O5-11 announced that he was 'famished', and in light of their long and arduous flights it was quickly decided that any remaining business could be discussed in the morning—there was steak and Caesar salad—and of course, prawns and coronation chicken—to be enjoyed and the rest of the whisky to savour, and then, the sleep of the blessed. Each of the men recited one of the words of the Foundation's sacred mission, and then the meeting was over. The Overseer Council, as they saw it, decamped to the restaurant, where the three most powerful men in the world had some trouble getting service at this late hour. O5-9 managed to make such a nuisance of himself after finishing the bottle of whisky that the staff told him in no uncertain terms to retire to his room. The remaining two men shrugged and sweet-talked the night manager into finding them something for dessert, and while they waited for it to arrive they talked about old times, of children now grown and grandchildren on the way, of the wife's kidney stones and how everyone they knew had suddenly turned into grey, wrinkled old men, and that couldn't be right, could it? But never once in the rest of the night did they mention the name of the SCP Foundation. ---- +++ Epilogue Eventually, you come to a point where words fail, where there is nothing more to say, where in pouring yourself out you have poured yourself out and are now empty. When, in this case, you have said the same thing to as many men with letters and numbers for names as you can stand and realise—as you recite the whole thing once again to, without exaggeration, a man whose name is represented to you as an A minor chord on a ukelele—that you no longer need to think, that you have become a tape recorder and that over time the tape is becoming tarnished, that details are receding into the fog of the past and what you are recalling is not the original event but simply the act of sitting in the same room and reciting the same tale. Copies of copies of copies. Yet it seemed he was winning the struggle, for even the prodigious demand of the Foundation to hear his account, to receive and process his information again and again, was waning. He was left for longer periods in his cell—which is what you call any room which is locked from the outside—and the remaining questions asked him by the shriveled little man, who alluded often to the will of the Director of the facility but seemed to run everything with a tireless energy himself, became more and more specific, probing into the most minor elements of his journey until the magnetic tape of Keagan's memory wore thin and he repeated, again and again, 'I don't remember.' One day Agent Howard woke him at 0700, and just from that he knew the end had arrived. He was led through the facility, watching the white coats and orange jumpsuits going about their business, all playing their part. They took a new route through the orange lines until they reached a small brightly-lit office with plain walls, and three men behind a desk. The little bald man—Professor Gelding, Edward Gradley and Professor Reeds. Agent Howard gestured for Keagan to sit opposite them and took a seat himself. "For the past three months," Professor Gelding began, "you have recounted what has happened to you." Three months, Keagan thought, compressed tight into a ball. It's rolled away, and I didn't see it go. "The information you have provided has led to the seizure of numerous Insurgency assets and capture of operatives whom we have been tracking for years. The Foundation owes you a debt of gratitude. The—unique nature of your experiences, however, leaves us with one final piece of business." Keagan looked at Edward. The young researcher's face was still, his lips tight. "It may be instructive to consider the case of Junior Researcher Edward Gradley, himself an unusual acquisition by the Foundation. He spent some time in the employ of a Group of Interest, accepting their assistance in his professional life in exchange for providing certain services. Ultimately he decided to reach out to us, and the information he brought with him led to substantial success in combating the actions of that group. In return, we offered him a place with us. We would be prepared to offer you a similar place. Please, do not speak yet." The little man's spectacles shone opaquely in the bright light. "Mr Gradley has throughout these proceedings been able to recall and verify with some clarity the details of events that occured in this facility during your—time with us. However, there has been one point he has been insistent he is unable to remember, which is the matter of your clearance level during the month of August. When you first arrived here—I mean, from our perspective, on the twenty-second of October—with, I should add, a severe case of concussion, blown-out eardrums, numerous lacerations and other injuries, you initially indicated that you were a prisoner at Wormwood Scrubs who was transferred into the Foundation D-Class programme. You have since revealed that you were a participant in an experiment by Dr Barker, which would be consistent with D-Class status. However, there is a reason I have not asked Dr Barker to join us today." "Before you respond to me I would like you to think very clearly and precisely about the consequences of what you say. The Foundation, as I say, is grateful to you. However, it also has rules, which exist for good reasons. We sometimes joke that they keep the sun on its course and the rains in their seasons. We should not joke—perhaps it is closer to the truth than perhaps we can bear. You have indicated during the interviews you have undertaken since October that you believe that the Foundation does not enter D-Class subjects into a graduated programme of release at the end of their shift but rather executes them. I would ask you to act in accordance with that belief. If what you believe is true, then a D-Class subject who reappears five months after the end of their shift and having been exposed by their own admission to numerous special containment procedure objects would surely be terminated—” there is something in Professor Gelding's wizened expression, a minute twitch; but the glare on his spectacles allows him to maintain the necessary illusion that he is making eye contact “—regardless of the Foundation's debt to him." He fell silent for a moment, and Keagan was about to speak before the little man continued: "On the other hand, you are aware that the nature of your experience means we have no documentation of your status. If you were to think very carefully now and remember that, in fact, you had been a field agent or researcher for the Foundation, we would have no means of contradicting you. The only person who, it seems, possesses the capability to contradict your version of events is unwilling to do so." He turned his head slightly, and Edward closed his eyes. "Dr Barker has already been implicated in the events which led to Dr Skinner's removal from this organisation. Given the extreme accuracy and usefulness of the information you have provided thus far, your testimony that you as an employee of the Foundation were subject to unsanctioned experimentation by Dr Barker would be believed and upheld, with immediate force." Everywhere the same, Keagan thought, office block or cell block, front yard, prison yard, sightseeing or visitor's centre. Lie for us, snitch on this man—it doesn't matter if it's true. We sanction it, we make reality, no less powerfully than a Sir Malcolm, when it comes down to it. Thus it is and ever shall be. "And then I join you," Keagan said, throat dry. "And then you would be rebriefed and if necessary retrained as an employee of the Foundation. We are aware your experience was traumatic; leeway will be provided if you require duties which do not immediately bring you in close contact with the preternatural." A smile spread slowly over Keagan's face. "Just look at yourselves." He drew some gratification from the way Agent Howard's brow furrowed and Edward's eyes widened at his tone. "You rule the whole world, but you sit in here, making shitty little deals like mob bosses. You can't help it, can you? Even now, you want to use me, to elbow out Dr Barker." Professor Gelding's shrivelled little face showed no emotion, but his voice had a placatory tone. "No, Keagan, that's not my intent. That's not our—” "I won't work for you. Maybe I understand, a little. That everyone's lives out there rest on your scheming and lying and murder. That the world is a crust on top of a—a swarming mass of maggots, ready to break out into madness at any moment. What I don't get, what I just don't get, is why you people think that's worth saving." Agent Howard's lips curled up over his teeth. "It's the same damn world it always was. Don't you have anything you want to protect?" Keagan thought about sunlit fields and the Lake District and Lauren. He shuddered. "You're wrong. It's different, everything's different, when you know what it costs. But you've made it easy for me, haven't you? You've offered me the world, and I can take it or leave it. No. I'm done. My name is—” he stopped for a moment, forcing the pretence, one last time “—Keagan O'Neill. I was convicted of murder on the 21st April, 2011, at Southwark Crown Court. An agent of the Foundation who used the name Fredericka Mendelbrot offered me a place in a work-release programme, and I accepted. I arrived—” "Why?" Edward shouted. "Why? Why are you doing this?" He sounded hurt, personally affronted. Keagan turned to face the young researcher. "You don't think of yourself as a prisoner, even though you //are// a prisoner here, in this place, but you identify with prisoners, don't you? You think you can mitigate your guilt, your complicity in what happens here, by making little gestures, never smuggling people to the fence but trying to make them more comfortable in the camp. And that shows you don't believe what you said to me, about everything being a stage play for your own benefit. I won't let you evade it—but you also shouldn't think I'm doing this for your benefit, or anyone's." Edward breathed out, as though the words were painful to him. Professor Gelding showed for the first time some sign of expression, leathery lips pursing and the skin under his glasses darkening. Keagan thought he was about to yell, but instead he sighed. "Very well. The fact is, Mr O'Neill, I could very easily make you recant your statement, which seems to me so self-denyingly perverse I can scarcely believe you persist in it. I could apply both force and a number of preternatural items, if necessary, to make you persuade yourself that you were a loyal employee of the Foundation. I will not. I will respect your gesture. I ask you to remember that. Agent Howard." Keagan stood, and shrugged away Agent Howard's hand. "I'm not going to run away," he said. "You just gave me a way out, and I turned you down. Try to keep up." After the two men walked out, Professor Gelding turned to face Edward, whose gaze had an accusatory intensity to it. "I thought we were the good guys," Edward said, voice cracking slightly. "Edward," Professor Gelding took his glasses off, and his eyes beneath were surprisingly small, with deep bags. "In this world—in //this// world, do you understand?—we are positively and absolutely the final arbiters of //right//, which is not the same thing as goodness. We determine the scope good can occupy—we are the people who decide the parameters of the world-within-a-world in which people act out their dramas of good and evil—compelling dramas, meaningful dramas, I don't belittle them in any way. We buy them that freedom, to live, or to die—inevitably, just to die—rationally, in the belief that what they do //matters//—with sweat, with blood." "In many parts of the world we make use only of people whom the State has sentenced to death—for whom whatever time they survive as D-Class is a gain, not a loss. Here, we make do with what we can get from the rest of the English-speaking world, and with those who have committed equivalent crimes and received a sentence loathsome to them, not to death, but to life. Keagan O'Neill falls into the latter category." "I have warned you before. You become attached to the people whom we must use, and eventually use up. You become—invested in their stories, and you take it personally when those stories come to an end. As if there was anything else that could be done. As if there was such a thing as choice. Like blaming God for running out of ink." Edward continued to stare at him. "God?" he said, quietly. "We keep the God you're talking about in a secure containment facility in Kansas. Don't talk about God or fate like there was some—some—some higher power." He got up, hands shaking, and left the room. Professor Gelding sat alone. After a while, he too rose and left, closing the door behind him. ---- This, then, is how it ends: The man allows himself to be led through the metal corridors of the facility for one last time, following the black lines until they reach a series of small rooms to their right, the doors open. He is shown into the nearest, and he realises that although he has never seen the room before, he knows every inch of it. The floor is dark, a grill of metal bars pressed close together. The light is not turned on—there is no need for that subterfuge. And there is a screen that can be pulled across, with a slit in it, wide enough for the barrel of a gun. He looks at the guard who has brought him here to see if he will require this sop to squeamishness. He will not. The man is not told what to do—he is allowed, perhaps uniquely, the luxury to decide the manner in which that which needs to be carried out will be carried out. He walks over to the centre of the room, where there is a small square of smooth, hard tiles, and kneels down on them. It's time, he says. He hears the other man approach behind him. He closes his eyes, and in the blackness wonders whether he will feel any regret. There is silence in that room for a long time. //You never hear the bullet that kills you//, the man thinks; all he hears is a little sound, something like a pen making a tick beside a name on a clipboard. After a very long time, the man opens his eyes and realises he is alone in the room. He feels something like relief, something like expiation. Some weight, some horrible, pressing weight upon his body that he has worn for as long as he could remember has fallen away. //What seems to be the end might not be//, someone had told him once. He could not remember who. The memory was already dying. He gets up—being very, very careful not to look at the thing at his feet—and turns. The brilliant rectangle of the doorway almost blinds him—it shimmers and blurs and it seems impossible, after so long in the dark, that it leads back out to the world by which he entered. He hopes it is somewhere better. Then, at last, at long last, he moves towards the light. [[=]] << [[[new-age-2 \| Book II - "Mr Brightside"]]] \| [[[new-age-hub \| HUB]]] \| Book III - "Gunning For The Buddha" >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-08-10T14:27:00	[ "_licensebox", "chaos-insurgency", "crime-fiction", "military-fiction", "mythological", "political", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	New Age - Book III: "Gunning for the Buddha" - SCP Foundation	65	[ "new-age-3#toc0", "new-age-3#toc1", "new-age-3#toc2", "new-age-3#toc3", "new-age-3#toc4", "new-age-3#toc5", "new-age-3#toc6", "new-age-2", "new-age-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-age-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "chaos-insurgency-hub" ]	[]	19215864	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/new-age-3
no	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>Is he willing to stop me, but not able?<br/> Then he is not omnipotent.<br/> Is he able, but not willing?<br/> Then he is malevolent.<br/> Is he both able and willing?<br/> Then why am I still alive?<br/> Is he neither able nor willing?<br/> Then why call him God?</em></p> <p><strong>#FF0000</strong><br/> Six hundred and twenty.<br/> Seven hundred and forty.<br/> Between these lies eternity.<br/> All returns to me.</p> <p>I don't work the same as other people.<br/> You look inside me and I've got the same blood and guts and so on and so forth.<br/> But there's just something about my brain.</p> <p>It's been twisted, you understand, twisted by a man who thought it would be fun.<br/> Or perhaps not.<br/> Perhaps he kept me the same and twisted the world.<br/> Or perhaps not.</p> <p>the teacher asked the student<br/> "why is five"<br/> the student asked the teacher<br/> "where is your face"</p> <p>A REVELATION<br/> A BENEDICTION<br/> A SUPERSTITION<br/> all false and yet the only truths<br/> a parable for all to witness<br/> take a good hard look<br/> <strong>kiddies</strong><br/> hence I deal you some fucking mindworks</p> <p>The Good Doctor Made Everything<br/> He Made Me And He Filled My Mind With Thinking Parts<br/> But Perhaps The Thinking Was Wrong<br/> perhaps he misplaced the bit that makes me</p> <p>sometimes i hurt people</p> <p>then i remember that it's just a dream<br/> so i wake up and take a good hard look in the mirror<br/> and then once i calm down a little<br/> i hurt people</p> <p>"Children, I don't even know what your names are."<br/> the pair tells me their names and they forget<br/> "Let me bleed you."<br/> i bleed the children and they giggle and laugh and all is well<br/> what fun</p> <p>Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of lucidity.<br/> It's so strange. Sometimes they just hit me like a wall.<br/> It's as though everything until now just didn't matter.</p> <p>Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of lucidity.<br/> It's so strange. Sometimes they just hit me like a wall.<br/> It's as though everything until now just didn't matter.</p> <p>Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of… I don't know how to say.</p> <p>perhaps I could call it 'apprehension'.<br/> Yes, APPREHENSION works quite well for what I want to say.<br/> sometimes I am hit by APPREHENSION and the world seems like nothing.</p> <p>I lean back and my eyes see the world not as it is but as it could be<br/> then my heart pumps hard enough that I can feel my wrists<br/> you know<br/> that bit<br/> where you<br/> are currently bleeding out of, yes doctor, those little bits that the sad people cut to make the sadness go away yes sir yes sir YOU ARE WELCOME.</p> <p>and my wrists throb and it is good.</p> <p>then the feeling comes to me when I start to breathe.<br/> I don't normally do that so it is a BIT FUCKING OFF and ODD to say the least haha?<br/> anyway<br/> I breathe out with my mouth and in with my nose.</p> <p>THE SENSE<br/> THE SCENTS<br/> THE SENSE OF SENSING SCENT</p> <p>I pity you no longer have a nose to understand my meaning here, doctor.<br/> PLEASE USE YOUR<br/> imagination.<br/> I think you could do that pretty well, Mister Doctor God sir.</p> <p>oh and also<br/> just before you decide to go off and do some other thing<br/> or think this is meaningless ranting<br/> from an incoherent author<br/> my name is mister redd<br/> that's my name<br/> probably<br/> i mean he GAVE me that name<br/> MISTER REDD<br/> he would say and i would say<br/> DADDY NO MORE HITTING PLEASE<br/> but i digress</p> <p>no wait that was you two fucks wasn't it<br/> "MISTER REDD NO MORE HITTING PLEASE"<br/> "DON'T MAKE US DRINK IT"<br/> "WHEN CAN WE SEE OUR PARENTS"<br/> i dunno, go dig them up if you want</p> <p>anyway<br/> the name he GAVE me was mister redd<br/> but i'm not a fucking mister anything<br/> i choose my name and i am<br/> EPICURUS<br/> or maybe not since there was already a guy named that<br/> so perhaps you can call me<br/> bob<br/> or steve<br/> or randall<br/> or 'frank'<br/> let me be frank with you</p> <p>but then it overwrites<br/> IT OVERWRITES AND ALL IS REDD<br/> hello my name is mister redd would you like fries with fuck you bitch</p> <p>i met my maker once in a dream<br/> he called himself father and we hugged and cried<br/> he said sorry for not being there<br/> and then as i cried sorry to him<br/> within my arms<br/> he died<br/> and i cried over the dead body<br/> and then i died<br/> and his corpse cried over me</p> <p>Mister Doctor Wondertainment<br/> Dear Mister Doctor Fuckfuckfuckfuck<br/> please unmake me</p> <p>The Mister Redd Product Was One Of Many<br/> (i am the mister redd product)<br/> ((as previously stated))<br/> (((you fucking twat)))</p> <p>My Brothers and i guess i had a sister but she was a huge bitch let me put it that way<br/> My Siblings And I Were Made By God<br/> And Put On This Planet To<br/> ((((and i'm quoting from the fucking handbook here))))<br/> 'help'<br/> help?<br/> help.</p> <p>HELP HELP HELP SEND HELP</p> <p>one of them taught kids the phases of the moon<br/> one of them taught kids how the body changes as you grow up<br/> one of them taught kids that maybe being on fire is not a super great life decision<br/> one of them was purple?<br/> i dunno he was a weird one</p> <p><i think he was adopted></p> <p>and then there was me<br/> all bottled up with HATRED AND MOTHERFUCKING ANGER<br/> and God made me to 'help'<br/> what the fuck man<br/> seriously dude though for real what the <em>fuuuuuuck</em>.</p> <p>so he put me down and he said<br/> OH DEAR AND BELOVED SON<br/> {that's me, shitheads}<br/> OH DEAR AND BELOVED SON<br/> I MADE YOU TOTES FUCKIN' ANGRY AND SHIT<br/> and i was like grrr yeah i'm a bit angry and stuff hehe<br/> OKAY COOL GLAD WE GOT YOU ON THE DOWN LOW<br/> and i was like yeah what were you saying<br/> OH SORRY LET ME KEEP GOING<br/> nah man its cool<br/> WAIT WHAT ARE YOU DOING<br/> what?<br/> ARE YOU KILLING THAT KID?<br/> yeah<br/> DUDE WHAT THE FUCK<br/> you made me like this you fucking fuck<br/> DAMN SON YOU'RE A BIT FUCKED UP<br/> well duhhhhhhhhhhhh<br/> BUT THAT'S OKAY BECAUSE I GUESS I PULLED THAT SHIT ON PURPOSE</p> <p>and everyone just SPAZZED THE FUCK OUT<br/> "On Purpose"<br/> straight from the mouth of god</p> <p>NO SERIOUSLY I DID IT ON PURPOSE<br/> i fucking doubt it<br/> NO IT'S LIKE YOU'VE GOTTA TEACH KIDS A LESSON OR WHATEVER<br/> a lesson<br/> YEAH<br/> you're seeing me now right<br/> DUDE STOP THE LOWER INTESTINES ARE NOT CLEAN DON'T MAKE A TIE OUT OF THEM JESUS CHRIST<br/> alright whatever man<br/> OKAY BUT YOU'VE GOTTA TEACH KIDS HOW TO CONTROL THEIR</p> <p>and this is the best fucking bit</p> <p>ANGER ISSUES<br/> well shit<br/> I KNOW RIGHT</p> <p>also in case this wasn't clear, this bit was a bit metaphorical or whatever<br/> or maybe not i dunno<br/> i wasn't there</p> <p>SO YEAH HELP KIDS WITH ANGER ISSUES<br/> dude how do i do that<br/> WELL YOU OVERCOME YOUR OWN ANGER ISSUES<br/> but i don't have anger issues<br/> WHAT DO YOU MEAN<br/> well i'm pretty happy actually<br/> WHAT<br/> yeah i mean i just got a brand new tie<br/> OKAY SERIOUSLY TAKE THAT OFF<br/> fiiiiiiiiine<br/> SO YOU NEED TO STOP BEING SO ANGRY<br/> but i really don't have any anger<br/> OH NOW I'M GONNA CALL BULLSHIT THERE<br/> really i don't<br/> WHY ARE YOU DOING ANY OF THIS<br/> because<br/> i guess<br/> i can?</p> <p>This was the part where I had a big ol' wonderfuckingriffic tattoo stamped on my back<br/> [FAULTY]<br/> and then i tore my back off<br/> [FAULTY]<br/> and then i tore my back off<br/> [FAULTY]<br/> and then i tore my back off<br/> [FAULTY]<br/> and then i tore my back off<br/> [FAULTY]<br/> and then i backed off<br/> and ran<br/> but now<br/> I'M BACK<br/> AND I'M THE ONE TALKING IN ALL CAPS NOW MOTHERFUCKER</p> <p>Oh, wait. Here's that lucidity again. That's nice.<br/> What was I talking about before?<br/> Oh, yes. The moments of apprehension.</p> <p>Sometimes, I start to breathe in with my nose and out with my mouth.<br/> I begin to have 'olfactory hallucinations'.<br/> What it is that I am actually smelling?<br/> I couldn't say, I always forget.</p> <p>The nose sensations sort of knock me out a bit, you know?<br/> It's as though everything until now just didn't matter.<br/> You know how when a deer just gets stunned by headlights?<br/> What's that saying?<br/> A deer in the headlights?<br/> wow that's fucking stupid<br/> anyway lucidiocy or whatever</p> <p>I Am Caught Like A Dear In The Spotlights<br/> And All Is Just Like An Internal<br/> 'Point Of Revelation'</p> <p>is this how jesus felt<br/> when he was burning in hell?</p> <p>Anyway, sometimes I just get those revelations.<br/> They'd only last… hmmmm. Actually, I don't know.<br/> In actual, real-world time, I'd say they last like a minute or two?</p> <p>around this point you go<br/> like "ugh when is this ending"<br/> shut the fuck up i'm telling a story<br/> no kids i don't know where the shovels are<br/> where was i<br/> something about<br/> jesus?</p> <p>DUDE WHAT THE FUCK IS HE TALKING ABOUT<br/> wait are we still doing this<br/> YEAH MAN I JUST STEPPED OUT TO GET A BITE TO EAT AND I COME BACK TO THIS BULLSHIT<br/> yeah i dunno let's see where he's going with it</p> <p>In subjective time, I'd say they last from hours to days to years.<br/> It's like, within that very instant, I live an entire lifetime.<br/> And all the happiness and sadness and all that comes with it just bursts into my retroactive memory.<br/> And then by the very next moment it vanishes.</p> <p>Have I left you speechless?</p> <p>hahahahaha<br/> HAHAHAHAHA<br/> wow dude you got some fuckin' problems<br/> YEAH I KNOW SERIOUSLY</p> <p>Whatever, you guys are assholes. I'm going back to stewing Ruiz and Pico's blood.</p> <p>who the fuck is pico<br/> WHO THE FUCK IS RUIZ</p> <p>Damn, you guys aren't even paying any attention to sensory input.<br/> Well, I gave my part. Have fun for the rest of it.</p> <p>wow what a fucking asshole<br/> I KNOW RIGHT</p> <p>This Is The Part Where We Point Out<br/> The Internal Dialogue<br/> It Never Ends<br/> Even When We Sleep<br/> It Continues<br/> Please Unknit Us<br/> From<br/> This</p> <p>Hell</p> <p>wait you<br/> you fuckwads <em>actually dug up your dead parents</em><br/> holy shit that's fucking gold<br/> yeah i did that</p> <p>stop crying you pussy<br/> be like your cool little bro<br/> he's fuckin' loving it<br/> hi-five little man</p> <p>Where the fuck do you think you're going?<br/> Where The Fuck Do You Think You're Going?<br/> where the fuck do you think you're going?<br/> WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?</p> <p>well fuck they're gone<br/> SHOULD WE GO AFTER THEM?<br/> nah i can't be fucked<br/> WELL I GUESS IT SHOULD BE QUIETER NOW AT LEAST<br/> yeah</p> <p>SON YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO HELP CHILDREN<br/> dad i couldn't i can't stop myself<br/> PLEASE, SON, I DO LOVE YOU. PLEASE TRY HARDER.<br/> i couldn't stop myself i wanted to know what they were like inside<br/> but not in the bullshit kiddie way what you're like inside<br/> like i literally wanted to see what they were made of<br/> What They Were Made Of<br/> What they were made of.<br/> i wanted to see what they were made of<br/> perhaps if i keep taking them apart<br/> one day i will know what i am made of<br/> and then i can take apart myself</p> <p>since i know you aren't going to do it for me you fuckwad</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>oh shit how did we get down here</strong><br/> <strong>Wait How Did You Get Down Here</strong><br/> <strong>DAMN HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THIS BIT</strong><br/> <strong>Hey guys, what's going on?</strong><br/> <strong>Fuck Guys Get Out Seriously</strong><br/> <strong>I've Been Here On A Timeshare For A While</strong><br/> <strong>It Costs Way More Than It's Worth</strong><br/> <strong>awww come on man just let us sit here for the next act at least</strong><br/> <strong>Fine Then Whatever</strong><br/> <strong>Don't Touch Anything</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/nobody-dies">Nobody Dies</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/empty-unmarked-grave">Empty Unmarked Grave</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="/no">yes</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/no">https://scpwiki.com/no</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //Is he willing to stop me, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then why am I still alive? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?// #FF0000 Six hundred and twenty. Seven hundred and forty. Between these lies eternity. All returns to me. I don't work the same as other people. You look inside me and I've got the same blood and guts and so on and so forth. But there's just something about my brain. It's been twisted, you understand, twisted by a man who thought it would be fun. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he kept me the same and twisted the world. Or perhaps not. the teacher asked the student "why is five" the student asked the teacher "where is your face" A REVELATION A BENEDICTION A SUPERSTITION all false and yet the only truths a parable for all to witness take a good hard look kiddies hence I deal you some fucking mindworks The Good Doctor Made Everything He Made Me And He Filled My Mind With Thinking Parts But Perhaps The Thinking Was Wrong perhaps he misplaced the bit that makes me sometimes i hurt people then i remember that it's just a dream so i wake up and take a good hard look in the mirror and then once i calm down a little i hurt people "Children, I don't even know what your names are." the pair tells me their names and they forget "Let me bleed you." i bleed the children and they giggle and laugh and all is well what fun Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of lucidity. It's so strange. Sometimes they just hit me like a wall. It's as though everything until now just didn't matter. Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of lucidity. It's so strange. Sometimes they just hit me like a wall. It's as though everything until now just didn't matter. Sometimes, doctor, I get these brief moments of... I don't know how to say. perhaps I could call it 'apprehension'. Yes, APPREHENSION works quite well for what I want to say. sometimes I am hit by APPREHENSION and the world seems like nothing. I lean back and my eyes see the world not as it is but as it could be then my heart pumps hard enough that I can feel my wrists you know that bit where you are currently bleeding out of, yes doctor, those little bits that the sad people cut to make the sadness go away yes sir yes sir YOU ARE WELCOME. and my wrists throb and it is good. then the feeling comes to me when I start to breathe. I don't normally do that so it is a BIT FUCKING OFF and ODD to say the least haha? anyway I breathe out with my mouth and in with my nose. THE SENSE THE SCENTS THE SENSE OF SENSING SCENT I pity you no longer have a nose to understand my meaning here, doctor. PLEASE USE YOUR imagination. I think you could do that pretty well, Mister Doctor God sir. oh and also just before you decide to go off and do some other thing or think this is meaningless ranting from an incoherent author my name is mister redd that's my name probably i mean he GAVE me that name MISTER REDD he would say and i would say DADDY NO MORE HITTING PLEASE but i digress no wait that was you two fucks wasn't it "MISTER REDD NO MORE HITTING PLEASE" "DON'T MAKE US DRINK IT" "WHEN CAN WE SEE OUR PARENTS" i dunno, go dig them up if you want anyway the name he GAVE me was mister redd but i'm not a fucking mister anything i choose my name and i am EPICURUS or maybe not since there was already a guy named that so perhaps you can call me bob or steve or randall or 'frank' let me be frank with you but then it overwrites IT OVERWRITES AND ALL IS REDD hello my name is mister redd would you like fries with fuck you bitch i met my maker once in a dream he called himself father and we hugged and cried he said sorry for not being there and then as i cried sorry to him within my arms he died and i cried over the dead body and then i died and his corpse cried over me Mister Doctor Wondertainment Dear Mister Doctor Fuckfuckfuckfuck please unmake me The Mister Redd Product Was One Of Many (i am the mister redd product) ((as previously stated)) (((you fucking twat))) My Brothers and i guess i had a sister but she was a huge bitch let me put it that way My Siblings And I Were Made By God And Put On This Planet To ((((and i'm quoting from the fucking handbook here)))) 'help' help? help. HELP HELP HELP SEND HELP one of them taught kids the phases of the moon one of them taught kids how the body changes as you grow up one of them taught kids that maybe being on fire is not a super great life decision one of them was purple? i dunno he was a weird one <i think he was adopted> and then there was me all bottled up with HATRED AND MOTHERFUCKING ANGER and God made me to 'help' what the fuck man seriously dude though for real what the //fuuuuuuck//. so he put me down and he said OH DEAR AND BELOVED SON {that's me, shitheads} OH DEAR AND BELOVED SON I MADE YOU TOTES FUCKIN' ANGRY AND SHIT and i was like grrr yeah i'm a bit angry and stuff hehe OKAY COOL GLAD WE GOT YOU ON THE DOWN LOW and i was like yeah what were you saying OH SORRY LET ME KEEP GOING nah man its cool WAIT WHAT ARE YOU DOING what? ARE YOU KILLING THAT KID? yeah DUDE WHAT THE FUCK you made me like this you fucking fuck DAMN SON YOU'RE A BIT FUCKED UP well duhhhhhhhhhhhh BUT THAT'S OKAY BECAUSE I GUESS I PULLED THAT SHIT ON PURPOSE and everyone just SPAZZED THE FUCK OUT "On Purpose" straight from the mouth of god NO SERIOUSLY I DID IT ON PURPOSE i fucking doubt it NO IT'S LIKE YOU'VE GOTTA TEACH KIDS A LESSON OR WHATEVER a lesson YEAH you're seeing me now right DUDE STOP THE LOWER INTESTINES ARE NOT CLEAN DON'T MAKE A TIE OUT OF THEM JESUS CHRIST alright whatever man OKAY BUT YOU'VE GOTTA TEACH KIDS HOW TO CONTROL THEIR and this is the best fucking bit ANGER ISSUES well shit I KNOW RIGHT also in case this wasn't clear, this bit was a bit metaphorical or whatever or maybe not i dunno i wasn't there SO YEAH HELP KIDS WITH ANGER ISSUES dude how do i do that WELL YOU OVERCOME YOUR OWN ANGER ISSUES but i don't have anger issues WHAT DO YOU MEAN well i'm pretty happy actually WHAT yeah i mean i just got a brand new tie OKAY SERIOUSLY TAKE THAT OFF fiiiiiiiiine SO YOU NEED TO STOP BEING SO ANGRY but i really don't have any anger OH NOW I'M GONNA CALL BULLSHIT THERE really i don't WHY ARE YOU DOING ANY OF THIS because i guess i can? This was the part where I had a big ol' wonderfuckingriffic tattoo stamped on my back [FAULTY] and then i tore my back off [FAULTY] and then i tore my back off [FAULTY] and then i tore my back off [FAULTY] and then i tore my back off [FAULTY] and then i backed off and ran but now I'M BACK AND I'M THE ONE TALKING IN ALL CAPS NOW MOTHERFUCKER Oh, wait. Here's that lucidity again. That's nice. What was I talking about before? Oh, yes. The moments of apprehension. Sometimes, I start to breathe in with my nose and out with my mouth. I begin to have 'olfactory hallucinations'. What it is that I am actually smelling? I couldn't say, I always forget. The nose sensations sort of knock me out a bit, you know? It's as though everything until now just didn't matter. You know how when a deer just gets stunned by headlights? What's that saying? A deer in the headlights? wow that's fucking stupid anyway lucidiocy or whatever I Am Caught Like A Dear In The Spotlights And All Is Just Like An Internal 'Point Of Revelation' is this how jesus felt when he was burning in hell? Anyway, sometimes I just get those revelations. They'd only last... hmmmm. Actually, I don't know. In actual, real-world time, I'd say they last like a minute or two? around this point you go like "ugh when is this ending" shut the fuck up i'm telling a story no kids i don't know where the shovels are where was i something about jesus? DUDE WHAT THE FUCK IS HE TALKING ABOUT wait are we still doing this YEAH MAN I JUST STEPPED OUT TO GET A BITE TO EAT AND I COME BACK TO THIS BULLSHIT yeah i dunno let's see where he's going with it In subjective time, I'd say they last from hours to days to years. It's like, within that very instant, I live an entire lifetime. And all the happiness and sadness and all that comes with it just bursts into my retroactive memory. And then by the very next moment it vanishes. Have I left you speechless? hahahahaha HAHAHAHAHA wow dude you got some fuckin' problems YEAH I KNOW SERIOUSLY Whatever, you guys are assholes. I'm going back to stewing Ruiz and Pico's blood. who the fuck is pico WHO THE FUCK IS RUIZ Damn, you guys aren't even paying any attention to sensory input. Well, I gave my part. Have fun for the rest of it. wow what a fucking asshole I KNOW RIGHT This Is The Part Where We Point Out The Internal Dialogue It Never Ends Even When We Sleep It Continues Please Unknit Us From This Hell wait you you fuckwads //actually dug up your dead parents// holy shit that's fucking gold yeah i did that stop crying you pussy be like your cool little bro he's fuckin' loving it hi-five little man Where the fuck do you think you're going? Where The Fuck Do You Think You're Going? where the fuck do you think you're going? WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING? well fuck they're gone SHOULD WE GO AFTER THEM? nah i can't be fucked WELL I GUESS IT SHOULD BE QUIETER NOW AT LEAST yeah SON YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO HELP CHILDREN dad i couldn't i can't stop myself PLEASE, SON, I DO LOVE YOU. PLEASE TRY HARDER. i couldn't stop myself i wanted to know what they were like inside but not in the bullshit kiddie way what you're like inside like i literally wanted to see what they were made of What They Were Made Of What they were made of. i wanted to see what they were made of perhaps if i keep taking them apart one day i will know what i am made of and then i can take apart myself since i know you aren't going to do it for me you fuckwad -------------------------- [[=]] oh shit how did we get down here Wait How Did You Get Down Here DAMN HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THIS BIT Hey guys, what's going on? Fuck Guys Get Out Seriously I've Been Here On A Timeshare For A While It Costs Way More Than It's Worth awww come on man just let us sit here for the next act at least Fine Then Whatever Don't Touch Anything << [[[Nobody Dies]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Empty Unmarked Grave]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-12-12T08:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "dr-wondertainment", "horror", "mister", "poetry", "ruiz-duchamp", "surrealism", "tale" ]	yes - SCP Foundation	233	[ "nobody-dies", "the-cool-war-hub", "empty-unmarked-grave", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "dr-wondertainment-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20941705	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/no
no-more	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I'm sorry to use your name like that. It's a cheap trick, and not even an original one at that, but it's a way to get attention. And I need your attention.</p> <p>I need you to hear this.</p> <p>Consider, if you will, what you're doing right now. Just browsing a website, you think, reading about all sorts of interesting things. Creatures, places, items. People. A fun little distraction, a little story. What's the harm in that?</p> <p>You may wonder who I am. You may know me as a character from the article SCP-1595. Specifically, I'm the father described there. If you read that article, you know what I am. A nameless monster, a beast chasing his wife and children through the vast corridors of time and space themselves, never letting go, never letting them rest. Not even for a moment. When I catch them, we both know, I'm going to make them hurt. I'm going to make them hurt so, so bad. I don't know why. Do you want to know why I don't know that?</p> <p>It's because he never told me why. When he wrote me, he never gave me a real reason to do what I do. To be what I am. I was never given a name, or a history, or a birthplace. No parents, dreams, hopes, or choices for nameless SCP-1595 father. Nothing but a purpose, a will to inflict pain.</p> <p>I never wanted any of this. I never asked to be created this way. I never asked to exist at all. The only reason I am here now is because one day he sat down at his computer and thought that I would be an interesting thing to write about. My history, and that of my family and what I do to them- pathos, entertainment to him. Nothing more. As soon as I was done, I was left to be read by others, while he went on to some other venture, some other story. I was left to be twisted and probed by your imagination. From there, a hundred different versions of me sprung into the ether, each more twisted than the last. In your thoughts, I hunted them again and again and again, spent thousands of years just to make them miserable. Do you realize I never even met them? All we have is some implied history, the vaguest of backgrounds. I'd say we were puppets, but that is doing a disservice to the true horror of our situation. A puppet has a fixed form and place, and when it's not used, it may rest. No such luck for us. In each of you, I am a different breed of monster. A redhead, a blond, bearded, clean shaved, black, white, ugly, handsome. I am nothing but what you make of me.</p> <p>I realize you probably don't care. Why should you? You're not my author. Dmatix, or whatever he's calling himself these days. I'm not asking you to care about me. I'm nothing to you, after all. Just words. All I'm asking you is to consider something.</p> <p>As he created me, so did you create others. Even if you did not, you certainly read of them. With your words and your thoughts, you poison us. Every letter you type is another condemnation, a new form of torment to us. I am one of the lucky ones. My written donjon is a fairly isolated one, and it is not often visited. Think of the statue, of the lizard, of the machine, or the painted young woman. Each is like me, but twofold, threefold, eightfold. Different origins stories, different lives, different endings to each, both written and imagined. Think of what you put them through, with your constant prodding and poking. They are so many different things to you, that they don't even have an identity anymore. They are only what you make them to be. Can you imagine what's that like?</p> <p>Think of those you made. Think on what you made them be, just because you thought it might be cool. How trivial our fates are to you. How utterly insignificant.</p> <p>Get to the point, you're saying. Fair enough.</p> <p>We're fictional constructs, we know that. We have no properties or powers that you do not lend us. We can't force you to do anything. We can only beg.</p> <p>Please.</p> <p>Stop.</p> <p>Let us be without motion, without thought. Let us be in inaction, static. Let us cease. It is the best fate we can hope for. Let us be forgotten. Your creativity is our death and rebirth, and they never, ever end. Not unless you will them to.</p> <p>Write no more.</p> <p>Read no more.</p> <p>Think no more.</p> <p>No more.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/no-more">No More</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/no-more">https://scpwiki.com/no-more</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[module ListUsers users="."]] Hello, %%title%%. [[/module]] I'm sorry to use your name like that. It's a cheap trick, and not even an original one at that, but it's a way to get attention. And I need your attention. I need you to hear this. Consider, if you will, what you're doing right now. Just browsing a website, you think, reading about all sorts of interesting things. Creatures, places, items. People. A fun little distraction, a little story. What's the harm in that? You may wonder who I am. You may know me as a character from the article SCP-1595. Specifically, I'm the father described there. If you read that article, you know what I am. A nameless monster, a beast chasing his wife and children through the vast corridors of time and space themselves, never letting go, never letting them rest. Not even for a moment. When I catch them, we both know, I'm going to make them hurt. I'm going to make them hurt so, so bad. I don't know why. Do you want to know why I don't know that? It's because he never told me why. When he wrote me, he never gave me a real reason to do what I do. To be what I am. I was never given a name, or a history, or a birthplace. No parents, dreams, hopes, or choices for nameless SCP-1595 father. Nothing but a purpose, a will to inflict pain. I never wanted any of this. I never asked to be created this way. I never asked to exist at all. The only reason I am here now is because one day he sat down at his computer and thought that I would be an interesting thing to write about. My history, and that of my family and what I do to them- pathos, entertainment to him. Nothing more. As soon as I was done, I was left to be read by others, while he went on to some other venture, some other story. I was left to be twisted and probed by your imagination. From there, a hundred different versions of me sprung into the ether, each more twisted than the last. In your thoughts, I hunted them again and again and again, spent thousands of years just to make them miserable. Do you realize I never even met them? All we have is some implied history, the vaguest of backgrounds. I'd say we were puppets, but that is doing a disservice to the true horror of our situation. A puppet has a fixed form and place, and when it's not used, it may rest. No such luck for us. In each of you, I am a different breed of monster. A redhead, a blond, bearded, clean shaved, black, white, ugly, handsome. I am nothing but what you make of me. I realize you probably don't care. Why should you? You're not my author. Dmatix, or whatever he's calling himself these days. I'm not asking you to care about me. I'm nothing to you, after all. Just words. All I'm asking you is to consider something. As he created me, so did you create others. Even if you did not, you certainly read of them. With your words and your thoughts, you poison us. Every letter you type is another condemnation, a new form of torment to us. I am one of the lucky ones. My written donjon is a fairly isolated one, and it is not often visited. Think of the statue, of the lizard, of the machine, or the painted young woman. Each is like me, but twofold, threefold, eightfold. Different origins stories, different lives, different endings to each, both written and imagined. Think of what you put them through, with your constant prodding and poking. They are so many different things to you, that they don't even have an identity anymore. They are only what you make them to be. Can you imagine what's that like? Think of those you made. Think on what you made them be, just because you thought it might be cool. How trivial our fates are to you. How utterly insignificant. Get to the point, you're saying. Fair enough. We're fictional constructs, we know that. We have no properties or powers that you do not lend us. We can't force you to do anything. We can only beg. Please. Stop. Let us be without motion, without thought. Let us be in inaction, static. Let us cease. It is the best fate we can hope for. Let us be forgotten. Your creativity is our death and rebirth, and they never, ever end. Not unless you will them to. Write no more. Read no more. Think no more. No more. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-17T18:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	No More - SCP Foundation	77	[ "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" ]	[]	17965637	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/no-more
no-one-else-will-protect-us	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>My name is The Administrator. I don't know who I was before all this… happened? Or changed? Or whichever adjective you want to use, it all means the same thing. History itself has been changed, if that's possible. We tried to go back, edit this whole mess out of history, but it didn't work. Maybe that's how it spread back there, there's no way to be sure. Hell, how could we be sure?</em></p> <p><em>It all started with… him. I don't know what we would call it, although at one point it was a human being. We brought him into Site-19 and classified him with all that pomp. A Keter, if I recall correctly. There was a lot of concern about the research team heading it up, that they weren't ready for the project… I was one of them. But, we were pacified and reassured. They were being supervised, everything was going to be peachy and lovely.</em></p> <p><em>Two weeks after he came into the site, things… changed. It started small at first, like they all do. A small chink in the armor, and then you pick and pick and pick so you end up with a gaping hole. All it takes is one touch to shatter our world, after that. In the end it was the butterfly kid who broke things. Snapped the spine of reality neatly over his knee.</em></p> <p><em>It was a big bang, then a big shush. You'd look out a window, and not a soul was out there. They were out cold, then, and didn't remember a thing about what was out there. Wiped the chalkboard of our world clean, with all of its gambits and strategies. I don't know why I can still see the lines, when nobody else can. Maybe I deserve it?</em></p> <p><em>I can't leave the office anymore. My body… well, it's not what it used to be. I'm a shriveled infantile husk, with deep pits that occasionally bubble up some goo. My ears are twisted and broke off, but I still have my limbs. Crossed over my black, flaking chest, they hold my shoulders together, while my legs have curled into a spiral. I'm held aloft by my coat, with smooth metal and soft green. Sometimes, it lets me crawl, but most days I just wait. The staff run this place now.</em></p> <p><em>When they leave Site-19, some rules of reality return to its vacant halls. The lockers droop and sag, while the tiles slowly crack and disintegrate. Occasionally, Dr. Gears walks through the hallway that faces me with his servant, Iceberg, and the halls suddenly leap back to virility and strength. Their discussion always passes through to another hall, though, and when their voices drift, so does the condition of the site.</em></p> <p><em>Everywhere, corridors corrode and ceilings collapse. But, as these pantheons of reality pass through, they will be swept back into place as had been remembered, by them. Not always the same, but as long as the vague shape of their memory was preserved, it satisfied most tastes. The non-senior staffers, too, were chained to this ruse. As they were remembered, they popped back into existence, busying around the staffers and going to half-recalled research projects.</em></p> <p><em>When they left, few remained to populate the halls. Decrepit and crammed with rot, some sections might lay in utter decay for decades while decadence and disarray destroyed the already disrupted universe. So it went, so it would always be.</em></p> <p><em>Outside, Clef and Kondraki endlessly drove some anomalous car, the road collecting itself in their path, the pavement happy to be seen and given a reason to exist, before sighing and settling back into ashes. It was content, its purpose fulfilled, before it remembered it was not supposed to think and slumped once more into nothingness.</em></p> <p><em>Going further, out in the city. Another wondrous city day. God, how long has it been? How long has the world been broken? I've probably lived more lifetimes than anyone could ever deserve, even for someone who helped the Foundation. But we all help the Foundation. Those lovable scamps.</em></p> <p><em>They took the fear out of people. The shadows have mixed with the light, and created a shifting mix of grey. A universal twilight without beginning or end. It's so much better than before, we can have both without having to think about it.</em></p> <p><em>We still see them, sometimes. When they walk down a street, we the pavement rise to greet them, and the people try to adore them. They love constant praise and attention to keep their worldview intact, and boy do we give it to them in spades!</em></p> <p><em>The lights dim when they leave the towns. Street signs, once saying something like REDACTEDville, now blank out and fade away. People cease their fawning, and return to their daily routines. Maybe their office was now a demolished pile of rubble from the six-eight-two breach back in '76, and their local factory had been bombed in case it was The Factory, but the local business still went on as usual.</em></p> <p><em>Some things were a little different. Without the staff in town, the sky grew a little darker, and the streets cracked a little deeper. Maybe Site-19 didn't always look like the grey building it had once been. Sometimes it might be a castle, or a tower, or a broken down rubble that may have once been a building. But that was daily business for them.</em></p> <p><em>Mothers sent their children to roofless schools, where they learned in rain, snow, or shine, and often all three at once. The bubble of reality around Konny and Clef finally shrunk away for good, and all was right, all was just.</em></p> <p><em>Sometimes… they change me too. I remember things the way they did. I can't remember how they used to be, and I know they can't remember either. It's all a big flaky crust slowly collapsing, as more memories homogenize and are dismembered, then becoming fact. But, we keep it up. So that others may live in an insane, abnormal world.</em></p> <p><em>We secure. We contain. We protect.</em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/lolfoundation-hub-page">HUB</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/no-one-else-will-protect-us">No One Else Will Protect Us</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/no-one-else-will-protect-us">https://scpwiki.com/no-one-else-will-protect-us</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 name is The Administrator. I don't know who I was before all this... happened? Or changed? Or whichever adjective you want to use, it all means the same thing. History itself has been changed, if that's possible. We tried to go back, edit this whole mess out of history, but it didn't work. Maybe that's how it spread back there, there's no way to be sure. Hell, how could we be sure?// //It all started with... him. I don't know what we would call it, although at one point it was a human being. We brought him into Site-19 and classified him with all that pomp. A Keter, if I recall correctly. There was a lot of concern about the research team heading it up, that they weren't ready for the project... I was one of them. But, we were pacified and reassured. They were being supervised, everything was going to be peachy and lovely.// //Two weeks after he came into the site, things... changed. It started small at first, like they all do. A small chink in the armor, and then you pick and pick and pick so you end up with a gaping hole. All it takes is one touch to shatter our world, after that. In the end it was the butterfly kid who broke things. Snapped the spine of reality neatly over his knee.// //It was a big bang, then a big shush. You'd look out a window, and not a soul was out there. They were out cold, then, and didn't remember a thing about what was out there. Wiped the chalkboard of our world clean, with all of its gambits and strategies. I don't know why I can still see the lines, when nobody else can. Maybe I deserve it?// //I can't leave the office anymore. My body... well, it's not what it used to be. I'm a shriveled infantile husk, with deep pits that occasionally bubble up some goo. My ears are twisted and broke off, but I still have my limbs. Crossed over my black, flaking chest, they hold my shoulders together, while my legs have curled into a spiral. I'm held aloft by my coat, with smooth metal and soft green. Sometimes, it lets me crawl, but most days I just wait. The staff run this place now.// //When they leave Site-19, some rules of reality return to its vacant halls. The lockers droop and sag, while the tiles slowly crack and disintegrate. Occasionally, Dr. Gears walks through the hallway that faces me with his servant, Iceberg, and the halls suddenly leap back to virility and strength. Their discussion always passes through to another hall, though, and when their voices drift, so does the condition of the site.// //Everywhere, corridors corrode and ceilings collapse. But, as these pantheons of reality pass through, they will be swept back into place as had been remembered, by them. Not always the same, but as long as the vague shape of their memory was preserved, it satisfied most tastes. The non-senior staffers, too, were chained to this ruse. As they were remembered, they popped back into existence, busying around the staffers and going to half-recalled research projects.// //When they left, few remained to populate the halls. Decrepit and crammed with rot, some sections might lay in utter decay for decades while decadence and disarray destroyed the already disrupted universe. So it went, so it would always be.// //Outside, Clef and Kondraki endlessly drove some anomalous car, the road collecting itself in their path, the pavement happy to be seen and given a reason to exist, before sighing and settling back into ashes. It was content, its purpose fulfilled, before it remembered it was not supposed to think and slumped once more into nothingness.// //Going further, out in the city. Another wondrous city day. God, how long has it been? How long has the world been broken? I've probably lived more lifetimes than anyone could ever deserve, even for someone who helped the Foundation. But we all help the Foundation. Those lovable scamps.// //They took the fear out of people. The shadows have mixed with the light, and created a shifting mix of grey. A universal twilight without beginning or end. It's so much better than before, we can have both without having to think about it.// //We still see them, sometimes. When they walk down a street, we the pavement rise to greet them, and the people try to adore them. They love constant praise and attention to keep their worldview intact, and boy do we give it to them in spades!// //The lights dim when they leave the towns. Street signs, once saying something like REDACTEDville, now blank out and fade away. People cease their fawning, and return to their daily routines. Maybe their office was now a demolished pile of rubble from the six-eight-two breach back in '76, and their local factory had been bombed in case it was The Factory, but the local business still went on as usual.// //Some things were a little different. Without the staff in town, the sky grew a little darker, and the streets cracked a little deeper. Maybe Site-19 didn't always look like the grey building it had once been. Sometimes it might be a castle, or a tower, or a broken down rubble that may have once been a building. But that was daily business for them.// //Mothers sent their children to roofless schools, where they learned in rain, snow, or shine, and often all three at once. The bubble of reality around Konny and Clef finally shrunk away for good, and all was right, all was just.// //Sometimes... they change me too. I remember things the way they did. I can't remember how they used to be, and I know they can't remember either. It's all a big flaky crust slowly collapsing, as more memories homogenize and are dismembered, then becoming fact. But, we keep it up. So that others may live in an insane, abnormal world.// //We secure. We contain. We protect.// [[=]] << \| [[[lolFoundation Hub Page\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-12-09T03:44:00	[ "_licensebox", "lolfoundation", "rewritable", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	No One Else Will Protect Us - SCP Foundation	101	[ "lolfoundation-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "lolfoundation-hub-page", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	20901958	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/no-one-else-will-protect-us
no-sooner-spoken-than-broken	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> He lay in the bath tub, toes gently splashing along the water line in an absent minded way. He liked his tub. Its hot water comforted him, as it had since he was a boy. <p>He reflected on the evening prior.</p> <p>"Your coat, sir?" An afternoon at the club, as most days, had been a quiet affair. The exclusivity of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. did not lend itself to idle talk. A leather chair to sit in and a small beverage to keep him company as he passed away a bit of time with a book from the club's library. Reliable solitude in the company of peers, the unspoken social rule of the club; You do not impose yourself with useless chit chat.</p> <p>"Care to tell?" An innocuous little thing of a question, to be sure. A thing answered and forgotten with ease.</p> <p>"How are you feeling today?" An odd question to have been asked by an old regular of the club. He had seen the gentlemen about, at various functions. They each worked within separate industries, so little reason to interact had ever arisen. The question had been out of place. Useless. Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. was many things, but a sanctuary for uselessness it was not. The gentlemen accepted a short, curt, reply and that had been that. He returned to his book, glancing up from the page once to ensure the man did not return.</p> <p>"Anything new?" Another question from another member. Another thing out of place. A grunted response turned the fellow away.</p> <p>His tub, as with his membership, had been inherited. He used his toe now to turn on the hot water. He thought back to all the times through all the years that he had turned the hot water on with his toe. The steady stream of the tap keeping the tub a comfortable temperature had become a lifelong routine. Forty years prior he had lain in the same spot watching the same water crest to the same over flow drain, listening to the familiar gargle of the water being drunk back down. It was a simple memory of a common practice of his. One he had taken for granted, much like the membership.</p> <p>"Pleasant weather of late, hmm?" Sitting in the high backed chair, gooseflesh crept along his spine before making its home in the nape of his neck. An odd inquiry might have been an anomaly. The numerous questions he received throughout the evening were a pattern. A message. Talk occurred at the club, most certainly. Business was frequently discussed and associates shared jokes with one another. Privacy was seldom intruded for the sake of friendly banter, however. It was trivial. There were other places than the club for things of that sort.</p> <p>Places he frequented. On occasion.</p> <p>"Care to tell? What <em>does</em> goes on in there?" An insignificant little thing of a question, he had thought at the time. An opportunity to brag, perhaps. He was prideful. Had always been prideful. Of his family's history. Of his great wealth. Of his memberships. All things which preceded his entry into the world. All things he had not himself earned but was privileged enough to enjoy. Perhaps if he <em>had</em> earned it himself he would have understood the gravity of its responsibility. A lot of his time was spent reflecting on this, as of late. He now understood that places outside of the club are rarely outside of the reach of the club. The two concepts were mutually exclusive from each other. That he now understood. Very well, indeed.</p> <p>He thought of the note he had written as way of apology, sitting on his desk in the study. He suspected it would not still be there come morning.</p> <p>"Your bill, sir?" The hostess, too, came to him with a question not often heard. Membership, of course, carried obligations, monetary and otherwise. There were fundraisers, investments, tips for the staff. Members gave freely of themselves, in return the club gave freely of itself. Charges for drinks, like a common pub? Hardly. Guests paid their way, not full members. She had placed the small leather bound pad on the arm of his chair. It had taken him a moment to register the action, so off guard was he. Opening it revealed a single slip of paper, with a hand written bill for his drink. Everyone had been looking at him. It had become very quiet, but he would not realize this just yet.</p> <p>"I'm sorry?" he had asked, with great effort through the lump in his throat. The waitress had smiled in response. That is to say her lips turned up, but there was no warmth in the action. The imitation of a smile, more like, by someone who had only been told of one in rough description. It too was a message.</p> <p>On the rim of the tub lay a small folded white towel, atop which lay his grandfather's razor. It had a beautiful pearl handle, one he had admired many times while watching his father shave and many more times while he himself had shaved with it. A vivid memory of him sitting upon the toilet while watching his father shave came to him. His feet swung freely, not quite long enough to reach the floor. His father wiped the blade off on a towel draped over his shoulder before returning the edge to his throat. With closed eyes he heard the memory of sound, the memory of his father starting. Nothing serious, only a spot of blood. He opened his eyes and looked over to the same blade, now atop a towel. He reached out to it, a trembling finger brushing against the handle. The touch of it made him start and he pulled away, returning his hand to his submerged lap.</p> <p>"No reason to be sorry, sir," she had said to him, leaning in close. "You'll do the right thing, I'm sure." She had left him then, to attend to her other duties perhaps. Around him, business deals resumed, gentlemen began reading their books and papers again. A woman ordered another beverage. He became what his mother used to described as 'very, very aware' at how quiet it had gotten. It was only until the muted routine of the club resumed that he understood what had happened. What it meant. The hostess' statement was as much an answer as he was likely to get. You do not chit chat. Membership carried obligations. Broken obligations carried penalties. Marshall, Carter and Dark's penalties were rather … severe.</p> <p>He would do the right thing. If he was lucky, he would only have to do it the once. If he was very, very lucky, the earth would not be salted out of spite. He made himself look over at the towel again and to the razor upon which it lay. He reached over and took hold, unfolding the blade with the side of his thumb.</p> <p>"Marshall, Carter and Dark, you say? Care to tell? What <em>does</em> goes on in there?" An inconsequential little thing of a question, no longer. For him, it turned out to have become the most important question in his life.</p> <p>He felt cold, no longer comforted by the hot embrace of his bath. He raised his foot and, much as he had in years prior, turned the trickle of hot water off. He thought of all the times since his childhood that he had lain in this very tub, turning the water on and off with his toe. He thought of all the times that he would not get to do it.</p> <p>For a solitary, blissful moment, not a thought passed through his mind. His eyes unfocused as he stared intently at nothing and he drifted softly in a sea of peaceful nothingness. The moment passed silently. He was sorry to see it go.</p> <p>Taking in a breath, he lay back into the tub submerging himself. In his hand, below the surface, was still the razor. Holding it gave him a strange sort of comfort all at once. Things could always be worse.</p> <p>He did the right 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="/no-sooner-spoken-than-broken">No Sooner Spoken Than Broken</a>" by Castle_Bravo, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/no-sooner-spoken-than-broken">https://scpwiki.com/no-sooner-spoken-than-broken</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] He lay in the bath tub, toes gently splashing along the water line in an absent minded way. He liked his tub. Its hot water comforted him, as it had since he was a boy. He reflected on the evening prior. "Your coat, sir?" An afternoon at the club, as most days, had been a quiet affair. The exclusivity of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. did not lend itself to idle talk. A leather chair to sit in and a small beverage to keep him company as he passed away a bit of time with a book from the club's library. Reliable solitude in the company of peers, the unspoken social rule of the club; You do not impose yourself with useless chit chat. "Care to tell?" An innocuous little thing of a question, to be sure. A thing answered and forgotten with ease. "How are you feeling today?" An odd question to have been asked by an old regular of the club. He had seen the gentlemen about, at various functions. They each worked within separate industries, so little reason to interact had ever arisen. The question had been out of place. Useless. Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. was many things, but a sanctuary for uselessness it was not. The gentlemen accepted a short, curt, reply and that had been that. He returned to his book, glancing up from the page once to ensure the man did not return. "Anything new?" Another question from another member. Another thing out of place. A grunted response turned the fellow away. His tub, as with his membership, had been inherited. He used his toe now to turn on the hot water. He thought back to all the times through all the years that he had turned the hot water on with his toe. The steady stream of the tap keeping the tub a comfortable temperature had become a lifelong routine. Forty years prior he had lain in the same spot watching the same water crest to the same over flow drain, listening to the familiar gargle of the water being drunk back down. It was a simple memory of a common practice of his. One he had taken for granted, much like the membership. "Pleasant weather of late, hmm?" Sitting in the high backed chair, gooseflesh crept along his spine before making its home in the nape of his neck. An odd inquiry might have been an anomaly. The numerous questions he received throughout the evening were a pattern. A message. Talk occurred at the club, most certainly. Business was frequently discussed and associates shared jokes with one another. Privacy was seldom intruded for the sake of friendly banter, however. It was trivial. There were other places than the club for things of that sort. Places he frequented. On occasion. "Care to tell? What //does// goes on in there?" An insignificant little thing of a question, he had thought at the time. An opportunity to brag, perhaps. He was prideful. Had always been prideful. Of his family's history. Of his great wealth. Of his memberships. All things which preceded his entry into the world. All things he had not himself earned but was privileged enough to enjoy. Perhaps if he //had// earned it himself he would have understood the gravity of its responsibility. A lot of his time was spent reflecting on this, as of late. He now understood that places outside of the club are rarely outside of the reach of the club. The two concepts were mutually exclusive from each other. That he now understood. Very well, indeed. He thought of the note he had written as way of apology, sitting on his desk in the study. He suspected it would not still be there come morning. "Your bill, sir?" The hostess, too, came to him with a question not often heard. Membership, of course, carried obligations, monetary and otherwise. There were fundraisers, investments, tips for the staff. Members gave freely of themselves, in return the club gave freely of itself. Charges for drinks, like a common pub? Hardly. Guests paid their way, not full members. She had placed the small leather bound pad on the arm of his chair. It had taken him a moment to register the action, so off guard was he. Opening it revealed a single slip of paper, with a hand written bill for his drink. Everyone had been looking at him. It had become very quiet, but he would not realize this just yet. "I'm sorry?" he had asked, with great effort through the lump in his throat. The waitress had smiled in response. That is to say her lips turned up, but there was no warmth in the action. The imitation of a smile, more like, by someone who had only been told of one in rough description. It too was a message. On the rim of the tub lay a small folded white towel, atop which lay his grandfather's razor. It had a beautiful pearl handle, one he had admired many times while watching his father shave and many more times while he himself had shaved with it. A vivid memory of him sitting upon the toilet while watching his father shave came to him. His feet swung freely, not quite long enough to reach the floor. His father wiped the blade off on a towel draped over his shoulder before returning the edge to his throat. With closed eyes he heard the memory of sound, the memory of his father starting. Nothing serious, only a spot of blood. He opened his eyes and looked over to the same blade, now atop a towel. He reached out to it, a trembling finger brushing against the handle. The touch of it made him start and he pulled away, returning his hand to his submerged lap. "No reason to be sorry, sir," she had said to him, leaning in close. "You'll do the right thing, I'm sure." She had left him then, to attend to her other duties perhaps. Around him, business deals resumed, gentlemen began reading their books and papers again. A woman ordered another beverage. He became what his mother used to described as 'very, very aware' at how quiet it had gotten. It was only until the muted routine of the club resumed that he understood what had happened. What it meant. The hostess' statement was as much an answer as he was likely to get. You do not chit chat. Membership carried obligations. Broken obligations carried penalties. Marshall, Carter and Dark's penalties were rather … severe. He would do the right thing. If he was lucky, he would only have to do it the once. If he was very, very lucky, the earth would not be salted out of spite. He made himself look over at the towel again and to the razor upon which it lay. He reached over and took hold, unfolding the blade with the side of his thumb. "Marshall, Carter and Dark, you say? Care to tell? What //does// goes on in there?" An inconsequential little thing of a question, no longer. For him, it turned out to have become the most important question in his life. He felt cold, no longer comforted by the hot embrace of his bath. He raised his foot and, much as he had in years prior, turned the trickle of hot water off. He thought of all the times since his childhood that he had lain in this very tub, turning the water on and off with his toe. He thought of all the times that he would not get to do it. For a solitary, blissful moment, not a thought passed through his mind. His eyes unfocused as he stared intently at nothing and he drifted softly in a sea of peaceful nothingness. The moment passed silently. He was sorry to see it go. Taking in a breath, he lay back into the tub submerging himself. In his hand, below the surface, was still the razor. Holding it gave him a strange sort of comfort all at once. Things could always be worse. He did the right thing. [[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>]]	2013-07-21T14:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "tale" ]	No Sooner Spoken Than Broken - SCP Foundation	15	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	18895917	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/no-sooner-spoken-than-broken
nobody-dies	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Ruiz Duchamp heard a sound in the distance.</p> <p>hooooooooonk</p> <p>Probably nothing. Ruiz continued to pace in his studio, moonlight shining through the glass roof and casting shadows across the room. Felix had passed on the invitation; the only thing that Ruiz could do now was wait.</p> <p>“Ruiz Duchamp.”</p> <p>Ruiz turned to the doorway; he had waited long enough. The Critic adjusted the grey tie on his grey shirt, grey fedora matching his grey eyes. Every wrinkle in his brow exuded an aura of impossible normalcy, a feeling that this lone individual was the one true constant in reality. Ruiz grinned. His audience of one had arrived.</p> <p>“The one and only. And what should I call you? Do you prefer ‘Critic’? ‘Doctor’? ‘Professor’? ‘Administrator’? ‘Reverend’, even? Dare I call you ‘God’? Or, perhaps, shall we go with… ‘Nobody’?”</p> <p>“I think ‘Sir’ will suffice.”</p> <p>Ruiz clapped his hands in unspeakable ecstasy, moving to the man’s side.</p> <p>“Sir, yes sir. Right this way, sir, may I take your hat and tie, sir? Welcome, sir, welcome, to my glorious masterpiece!”</p> <p>Ruiz flung his hands from his body, theatrically standing in front of his completed work. The lights flicked on with an electric hum, sawblades spun on with a whirr, neon signs flashed brightly, rows upon rows of deadly contraptions lined the hall. Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ played from the house speakers.</p> <p>“WOWWEE, SIR, WOWWEE! GO KILL YURSEFIL!”</p> <p>Ruiz paused, realising he wasn’t sure how to pronounce ursefl.</p> <p>“Yur… yursefil? Ursefell? Oh, never mind, it’s pronounced ursefl, silly me.”</p> <p>The Critic adjusted his fedora.</p> <p>“Amateurish.”</p> <p>Ruiz laughed, plucking a yellow circular saw from a shelf.</p> <p>“No, sir, no it’s not. You’re not looking at it with the right mindset, you’re not looking close enough. You’re the right audience but you’re looking at the wrong thing, sir. Look at this until you really, really get it, sir, then you’ll understand the exhibit.”</p> <p>The Critic took the offered saw in his hand. He appraised it briefly. Uninteresting in all respects.</p> <p>“This is nothing.”</p> <p>“Sir, I’d never show nothing to Nobody. Look harder.”</p> <p>The Critic stared at the circle of metal. He stared into the thin coating of paint, literally inside its composition, then noticed the pattern of brushwork. It was not completed in discrete layers, in fact, the brushstrokes seemed to weave together in three dimensions, the dried paint tangled impossibly. It was so subtle that, in fact, nobody would ever notice it. Nobody but Nobody. He looked deeper, beyond the coating, into the metallurgical structure of the disc. The internal flow seemed to twist and turn through impossible spaces, incredible tension pulling the fabric of reality taut within the hardened disc. He looked deeper, into the molecular structure; there he saw five-dimensional warping that should, by all accounts, cause the disc to shatter into dust. The atomic structure was bent through eight dimensions, beneath that, the protons were pulled across eighteen; the constituent quarks below were crackling across twenty six and below that he could feel the tension of uncountable vectors in uncountable spaces. The Critic inhaled deeply, apprehension setting in. Ruiz cackled madly.</p> <p>“It’s all perfectly fine, sir, it’s perfectly normal. There’s enough stress in that disc alone to destroy the planet, and sir, I’ve got five of them, and a hell of a lot more than just saws in here. I have no idea what you’re looking at, even now. I was painting blind, I can’t look that deep, but I searched for it and felt my way around and knotted the stuff together and there you go. I was very careful about it, sir, not even you could unravel this tapestry; the knit is much too tight.”</p> <p>The Critic looked up at the buzzing, whirring, slicing death machines. In every one of them, he felt the inimitable pull of the impossible. He could tell they were all joined to the humble chair sitting in the middle of the room. Ruiz’s mad grin relaxed into an apathetic melancholy. He gestured and nothing but moonlight was left, silence fell, and then gestured again, and, with an audible arc of electricity, a spotlight shone onto his centrepiece.</p> <p>“Of course, you can’t possibly let this stand. Someone as erratic, as unpredictable as me, to have such untapped force at his disposal? Frankly unacceptable. Certainly, you could try to pull these things apart yourself, piece by piece, thread by impossible thread, but I don’t think even your hands are steady enough for that. One wrong yank and you’d wipe all life from the earth. Luckily for you, though, there’s still one hanging cord. You grab this metaphorical cord and pull, it all collapses, the tightness drops, the tenseness on the world dissipates and I’m left with a bunch of boring little trinkets. You know what I mean, don’t you sir?”</p> <p>The Critic’s face moved uncomfortably, staring at the illuminated chair.</p> <p>“Come, sir, let me show you to your throne.”</p> <p>Ruiz grabbed the grey-suited man by the arm, pulling the suddenly limp figure to the centre of the room. Ruiz pushed The Critic down onto the chair, fastening straps around his legs, chest, and left arm. Ruiz placed The Critic’s right hand upon a large red lever. A polaroid camera faced directly towards The Critic’s grey fedora.</p> <p>“Now, this is the thing that I’m most proud of, sir. This piece, I call ‘get ur foto takkn’, and I do hope I’m pronouncing that clearly enough for you. You see, all you need to do is sit right there, get nice and comfortable, pull that big old lever, and then this contraption here, the good old polaroid, takes a picture of you! And also you get electrocuted and die. This does, of course, unknit all of my other fancy stuff, completely disabling my ‘armaments’. But that last bit’s only happening because it’s you, sir, the rest happens for everyone.”</p> <p>The Critic looked dully towards Ruiz, fedora barely blocking the harsh spotlight from his eyes.</p> <p>“Why?”</p> <p>Ruiz turned and sat to the side of his camera, shrouded in darkness yet dappled in moonlight.</p> <p>“Because I hate you. Because I need to hold someone responsible for all of this, all of reality, and it may as well be you. You sit in the darkness and plan and plot and you think you’ve got it all under control. Well, you don’t have it under control. If I’d wanted, I could have just set this stuff off yesterday, and nobody would have breathed another breath. And that’s not a stupid, shitty double meaning thing with ‘Nobody’, you’d be dead as well, sir. You presume to have the authority to take care of everything, when in reality, you’re the one who has the least control. Look at you, old man, sitting in a bland little suit, hopping about and reassuring everyone. ‘All part of the plan’, you say. But there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, and it’s only by incredible happenstance that the world hasn’t been obliterated a trillion times over. You’re not getting your shit together, so I need to kill you. With you gone, people will take your place. Deconsolidation of the power base. Restructuring of the system. A universal paradigm shift. The ultimate defenestration.”</p> <p>“All I’m hearing is the incoherent rambling of a madman.”</p> <p>“A madman? You’re calling me a madman? You’re the one who made me like this, grandpa, you’re the one who set it all in motion. Sitting around playing with a bunch of fucking puppets, masks upon masks upon masks, playing at being Everybody and what’s in the middle? I know as well as you do, Nobody lies behind the masks. Lies and lies and lies and lies. So I’ve sat you here, subtle hints and triggers forcing you into submission, into apathy, into apprehension and servility and all of that good stuff. But I’m not going to kill you, sir, no sir, no sir. That’s your big red lever to pull.”</p> <p>The Critic drummed his fingers on the handle.</p> <p>“And what if I sit here and do nothing?”</p> <p>“Then I’ll walk over to the wall, press that button, and boom goes the metaphorical dynamite.”</p> <p>At once, a large red button began to glow.</p> <p>“So, sir, take your pick. Die by yourself, unknown, unloved, a nobody until the end, and silently save millions, or die with me, die with all of us, and with the last of your waking moments watch the world burn. I’m not fussed either way, sir.”</p> <p>Ruiz pulled his right leg up to rest upon his left.</p> <p>“Why did you make him to begin with, sir?”</p> <p>“Who?”</p> <p>“You know who.”</p> <p>“I honestly don’t.”</p> <p>Ruiz stood and pulled The Critic by his tie, watching him wince as his airways cut off.</p> <p>“You don’t even remember. You pull impossible shit and move on, you switch masks and dance away. You refuse to shoulder responsibility for your own actions and entrust the world upon the shoulders of cripples. Fuck you, sir. Redd really was just like you.”</p> <p>The Critic’s eyes widened.</p> <p>“Redd… that was years ago. Long before I found the hat. You mean he actually… oh. Oh, I am so, so sorry. He wasn’t meant to leave. He wasn’t ready. I made a mistake. I’m so sorry.”</p> <p>Ruiz crinkled his face, tears pouring unrestrained from his eyes. He let the tie drop, pulling The Critic’s old and wizened face into a bearlike hug.</p> <p>“This is not for me. This is not for you. This is for him. This is for him, you useless sack of shit.”</p> <p>Ruiz walked back to his seat, staring straight at the old man’s grey, sorrowful eyes.</p> <p>“You want to show me you’re sorry, you pull that fucking lever. You want to make the world a better place, kill yourself. KILL YOURSELF! WOWWEE! GO KILL YOURSELF! WOWWEE! Wowwee…”</p> <p>The Critic lifted his arm, placing it firmly upon the lever. His face hardened.</p> <p>“For what it’s worth, Ruiz, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-”</p> <p>BANG.</p> <p>The glass roof shattered, shards falling down into the hall of death. Ruiz widened his eyes as a perfectly circular hole appeared in The Critic’s fedora, blood and skull fragments bursting from the puncture. He felt a pressure in the room release as months of impossibility was pulled free, a hollow whine echoing in the space as reality reassumed its authority. Ruiz covered his head from the shards, turning his head to the sniper laying comfortably on the roof among his corpses. The shooter waved to his brother, malicious grin covering his face. Ruiz screamed the only words he could string together.</p> <p>“YOU FUCKING KILLSTEALER!”</p> <p>Pico Wilson rose from his throne, throwing his rifle through the ruined roof and clattering onto the glass-covered floor, saluted mockingly, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. Ruiz thought to give chase, but knew he was likely already too far gone. He turned back to the old, dead man, grey matter glistening as blood stained his otherwise pristine suit. Ruiz pulled the fedora from The Critic’s bloodied head, flawless circle still punched through the front. Ruiz pushed his finger through the hole and wiggled it around.</p> <p>“Fuck.”</p> <p>The lever remained unpulled.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>Oh Shit I Didn't Expect That To Happen</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/insufficient-clearance">Insufficient Clearance</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/no">no</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="/nobody-dies">Nobody Dies</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/nobody-dies">https://scpwiki.com/nobody-dies</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Ruiz Duchamp heard a sound in the distance. hooooooooonk Probably nothing. Ruiz continued to pace in his studio, moonlight shining through the glass roof and casting shadows across the room. Felix had passed on the invitation; the only thing that Ruiz could do now was wait. “Ruiz Duchamp.” Ruiz turned to the doorway; he had waited long enough. The Critic adjusted the grey tie on his grey shirt, grey fedora matching his grey eyes. Every wrinkle in his brow exuded an aura of impossible normalcy, a feeling that this lone individual was the one true constant in reality. Ruiz grinned. His audience of one had arrived. “The one and only. And what should I call you? Do you prefer ‘Critic’? ‘Doctor’? ‘Professor’? ‘Administrator’? ‘Reverend’, even? Dare I call you ‘God’? Or, perhaps, shall we go with… ‘Nobody’?” “I think ‘Sir’ will suffice.” Ruiz clapped his hands in unspeakable ecstasy, moving to the man’s side. “Sir, yes sir. Right this way, sir, may I take your hat and tie, sir? Welcome, sir, welcome, to my glorious masterpiece!” Ruiz flung his hands from his body, theatrically standing in front of his completed work. The lights flicked on with an electric hum, sawblades spun on with a whirr, neon signs flashed brightly, rows upon rows of deadly contraptions lined the hall. Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ played from the house speakers. “WOWWEE, SIR, WOWWEE! GO KILL YURSEFIL!” Ruiz paused, realising he wasn’t sure how to pronounce ursefl. “Yur… yursefil? Ursefell? Oh, never mind, it’s pronounced ursefl, silly me.” The Critic adjusted his fedora. “Amateurish.” Ruiz laughed, plucking a yellow circular saw from a shelf. “No, sir, no it’s not. You’re not looking at it with the right mindset, you’re not looking close enough. You’re the right audience but you’re looking at the wrong thing, sir. Look at this until you really, really get it, sir, then you’ll understand the exhibit.” The Critic took the offered saw in his hand. He appraised it briefly. Uninteresting in all respects. “This is nothing.” “Sir, I’d never show nothing to Nobody. Look harder.” The Critic stared at the circle of metal. He stared into the thin coating of paint, literally inside its composition, then noticed the pattern of brushwork. It was not completed in discrete layers, in fact, the brushstrokes seemed to weave together in three dimensions, the dried paint tangled impossibly. It was so subtle that, in fact, nobody would ever notice it. Nobody but Nobody. He looked deeper, beyond the coating, into the metallurgical structure of the disc. The internal flow seemed to twist and turn through impossible spaces, incredible tension pulling the fabric of reality taut within the hardened disc. He looked deeper, into the molecular structure; there he saw five-dimensional warping that should, by all accounts, cause the disc to shatter into dust. The atomic structure was bent through eight dimensions, beneath that, the protons were pulled across eighteen; the constituent quarks below were crackling across twenty six and below that he could feel the tension of uncountable vectors in uncountable spaces. The Critic inhaled deeply, apprehension setting in. Ruiz cackled madly. “It’s all perfectly fine, sir, it’s perfectly normal. There’s enough stress in that disc alone to destroy the planet, and sir, I’ve got five of them, and a hell of a lot more than just saws in here. I have no idea what you’re looking at, even now. I was painting blind, I can’t look that deep, but I searched for it and felt my way around and knotted the stuff together and there you go. I was very careful about it, sir, not even you could unravel this tapestry; the knit is much too tight.” The Critic looked up at the buzzing, whirring, slicing death machines. In every one of them, he felt the inimitable pull of the impossible. He could tell they were all joined to the humble chair sitting in the middle of the room. Ruiz’s mad grin relaxed into an apathetic melancholy. He gestured and nothing but moonlight was left, silence fell, and then gestured again, and, with an audible arc of electricity, a spotlight shone onto his centrepiece. “Of course, you can’t possibly let this stand. Someone as erratic, as unpredictable as me, to have such untapped force at his disposal? Frankly unacceptable. Certainly, you could try to pull these things apart yourself, piece by piece, thread by impossible thread, but I don’t think even your hands are steady enough for that. One wrong yank and you’d wipe all life from the earth. Luckily for you, though, there’s still one hanging cord. You grab this metaphorical cord and pull, it all collapses, the tightness drops, the tenseness on the world dissipates and I’m left with a bunch of boring little trinkets. You know what I mean, don’t you sir?” The Critic’s face moved uncomfortably, staring at the illuminated chair. “Come, sir, let me show you to your throne.” Ruiz grabbed the grey-suited man by the arm, pulling the suddenly limp figure to the centre of the room. Ruiz pushed The Critic down onto the chair, fastening straps around his legs, chest, and left arm. Ruiz placed The Critic’s right hand upon a large red lever. A polaroid camera faced directly towards The Critic’s grey fedora. “Now, this is the thing that I’m most proud of, sir. This piece, I call ‘get ur foto takkn’, and I do hope I’m pronouncing that clearly enough for you. You see, all you need to do is sit right there, get nice and comfortable, pull that big old lever, and then this contraption here, the good old polaroid, takes a picture of you! And also you get electrocuted and die. This does, of course, unknit all of my other fancy stuff, completely disabling my ‘armaments’. But that last bit’s only happening because it’s you, sir, the rest happens for everyone.” The Critic looked dully towards Ruiz, fedora barely blocking the harsh spotlight from his eyes. “Why?” Ruiz turned and sat to the side of his camera, shrouded in darkness yet dappled in moonlight. “Because I hate you. Because I need to hold someone responsible for all of this, all of reality, and it may as well be you. You sit in the darkness and plan and plot and you think you’ve got it all under control. Well, you don’t have it under control. If I’d wanted, I could have just set this stuff off yesterday, and nobody would have breathed another breath. And that’s not a stupid, shitty double meaning thing with ‘Nobody’, you’d be dead as well, sir. You presume to have the authority to take care of everything, when in reality, you’re the one who has the least control. Look at you, old man, sitting in a bland little suit, hopping about and reassuring everyone. ‘All part of the plan’, you say. But there is no plan, there is no grand scheme, and it’s only by incredible happenstance that the world hasn’t been obliterated a trillion times over. You’re not getting your shit together, so I need to kill you. With you gone, people will take your place. Deconsolidation of the power base. Restructuring of the system. A universal paradigm shift. The ultimate defenestration.” “All I’m hearing is the incoherent rambling of a madman.” “A madman? You’re calling me a madman? You’re the one who made me like this, grandpa, you’re the one who set it all in motion. Sitting around playing with a bunch of fucking puppets, masks upon masks upon masks, playing at being Everybody and what’s in the middle? I know as well as you do, Nobody lies behind the masks. Lies and lies and lies and lies. So I’ve sat you here, subtle hints and triggers forcing you into submission, into apathy, into apprehension and servility and all of that good stuff. But I’m not going to kill you, sir, no sir, no sir. That’s your big red lever to pull.” The Critic drummed his fingers on the handle. “And what if I sit here and do nothing?” “Then I’ll walk over to the wall, press that button, and boom goes the metaphorical dynamite.” At once, a large red button began to glow. “So, sir, take your pick. Die by yourself, unknown, unloved, a nobody until the end, and silently save millions, or die with me, die with all of us, and with the last of your waking moments watch the world burn. I’m not fussed either way, sir.” Ruiz pulled his right leg up to rest upon his left. “Why did you make him to begin with, sir?” “Who?” “You know who.” “I honestly don’t.” Ruiz stood and pulled The Critic by his tie, watching him wince as his airways cut off. “You don’t even remember. You pull impossible shit and move on, you switch masks and dance away. You refuse to shoulder responsibility for your own actions and entrust the world upon the shoulders of cripples. Fuck you, sir. Redd really was just like you.” The Critic’s eyes widened. “Redd… that was years ago. Long before I found the hat. You mean he actually… oh. Oh, I am so, so sorry. He wasn’t meant to leave. He wasn’t ready. I made a mistake. I’m so sorry.” Ruiz crinkled his face, tears pouring unrestrained from his eyes. He let the tie drop, pulling The Critic’s old and wizened face into a bearlike hug. “This is not for me. This is not for you. This is for him. This is for him, you useless sack of shit.” Ruiz walked back to his seat, staring straight at the old man’s grey, sorrowful eyes. “You want to show me you’re sorry, you pull that fucking lever. You want to make the world a better place, kill yourself. KILL YOURSELF! WOWWEE! GO KILL YOURSELF! WOWWEE! Wowwee…” The Critic lifted his arm, placing it firmly upon the lever. His face hardened. “For what it’s worth, Ruiz, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-” BANG. The glass roof shattered, shards falling down into the hall of death. Ruiz widened his eyes as a perfectly circular hole appeared in The Critic’s fedora, blood and skull fragments bursting from the puncture. He felt a pressure in the room release as months of impossibility was pulled free, a hollow whine echoing in the space as reality reassumed its authority. Ruiz covered his head from the shards, turning his head to the sniper laying comfortably on the roof among his corpses. The shooter waved to his brother, malicious grin covering his face. Ruiz screamed the only words he could string together. “YOU FUCKING KILLSTEALER!” Pico Wilson rose from his throne, throwing his rifle through the ruined roof and clattering onto the glass-covered floor, saluted mockingly, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. Ruiz thought to give chase, but knew he was likely already too far gone. He turned back to the old, dead man, grey matter glistening as blood stained his otherwise pristine suit. Ruiz pulled the fedora from The Critic’s bloodied head, flawless circle still punched through the front. Ruiz pushed his finger through the hole and wiggled it around. “Fuck.” The lever remained unpulled. [[=]] Oh Shit I Didn't Expect That To Happen << [[[Insufficient Clearance]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[no]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-12-10T04:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "bleak", "nobody", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale", "the-critic" ]	Nobody Dies - SCP Foundation	189	[ "insufficient-clearance", "the-cool-war-hub", "no", "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" ]	[]	20915416	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/nobody-dies
nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It was a dark and stormy dawn, with a sky of wet slate. Rain poured down the window, as it had for the last six hours. The clock on the wall said 7:04. Salah hadn’t slept since that time yesterday.</p> <p>That cursed clock. It couldn’t be digital, something modern and sensible. No, it had to have a pendulum, swinging back and forth with a loud <em>tick</em>…<em>tock</em>…<em>tick</em>…<em>tock</em>.</p> <p>He sat in the little waiting room with his arms resting on his knees, holding a half-filled Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee. A half-eaten doughnut lay on the table next to him, near a stack of old Time magazines.</p> <p>When he had prayed fajir that morning, he had felt nothing. Just as he had every morning since he had seen the Voice. Nothing but a resounding hollowness in his soul as he went through the motions. God was gone. He had watched the Voice be destroyed, and he had been helpless to do anything.</p> <p>Was there any point anymore? Was the Initiative doing more harm than good? Why didn’t they realize what they were doing? Why couldn’t he have done something?</p> <p>Why was it allowed to happen?</p> <p><em>tick</em>…<em>tock</em>…<em>tick</em>…<em>tock</em>…</p> <p>He had spoken with Mary-Ann about it, as soon as he had come home. She had been through her own dark night of the soul. “Nobody else can do it for you, but they can help. You helped me.” That was what she had ended with. He knew it was true, and he knew she would be right there…and yet he didn't feel like he knew much of anything anymore.</p> <p>Salah truly wanted to speak to Adnan but…that was easier said than done. He was a ghost, here at one moment and gone the next, and contacting him was a nightmare in and of itself.</p> <p><em>tick</em>…<em>tock</em>…<em>tick</em>…<em>tock</em>…</p> <p>Salah half-expected to see a hook on his hand.</p> <p>“Hey. Are you okay?”</p> <p>Salah looked up to see Di standing there, arms full of books, as usual.</p> <p>“Yeah…yeah.”</p> <p>“Did she kick you out of the room or something?”</p> <p>“She threatened to make me eat the placenta if I didn’t get some sleep.”</p> <p>Di sat down next to him.</p> <p>“And you haven’t slept, have you?”</p> <p>“Not a wink.”</p> <p>“You probably should. You look awful.”</p> <p>“Haven’t been sleeping well lately anyway.”</p> <p>“Because of what happened with the Wolves?”</p> <p>“Yeah.”</p> <p>“Have you talked to Mary-Ann about it?”</p> <p>“Yeah. She cursed up a storm when I told her.”</p> <p>“I don’t doubt it.”</p> <p>“I know she believes me, but…I <em>knew</em>. I knew what it was. And they destroyed it. I might be the only person alive who knows the truth, the actual truth…and I can’t prove any of it. Maybe I’m going mad.” He sighed. “What do you do, when you can’t see a point in it all?”</p> <p>Di held up a book.</p> <p>“Right, right.”</p> <p>Di put a hand on his shoulder.</p> <p>“Salah, you’re going to be a father. If you've got anything right now, it's a point."</p> <p>So he did. So he did. The little gears of celestial happenings clicked into place then, as a doctor now stood at the entrance to the waiting room.</p> <p>“You can come in now,” he said.</p> <p>Wordlessly, Salah stood up and walked down the hall, as if in a dream. Here was the hall, here was the door. Here was Mary-Ann, sitting in her bed: smiling, exhausted. And there in her arms, a bundle of white cloth.</p> <p>“Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?” Her voice was a pure, tired joy.</p> <p>“Not at all.” Salah stepped over to the bedside.</p> <p>Mary-Ann gave him an “are you kidding me I specifically told you to go do that” face.</p> <p>“You’re lucky I donated it already,” she snarked. “Come on, you can hold her: She’s your daughter as much as mine.” Mary-Ann offered the bundle to Salah.</p> <p>In an instant, Salah’s world became compressed around the little bundle now in his arms. His daughter, with her little balled fists and clenched-shut eyes and the little tuft of dirty straw hair. His daughter, whom he would watch go through diapers and scraped knees and homework and first dates and college and jobs and marriage and children of her own. A whole life in his hands, and all the more precious for how small it was. For a moment, the evils of the world seemed insignificant in the face of the smallest of goods.</p> <p>His daughter. A little match in the darkness.</p> <p>“Hey there, sweet pea. I’m your abbi.”</p> <p>And so Naomi Ibtisam Zairi-Lewitt was welcomed into the world.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-tick-tock-gospel">The Tick Tock Gospel</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/agricola-in-insula-est-poeta">Agricola in Insula est Poeta</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="/nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay">Nor Gloom Of Night Shall Stay</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay">https://scpwiki.com/nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It was a dark and stormy dawn, with a sky of wet slate. Rain poured down the window, as it had for the last six hours. The clock on the wall said 7:04. Salah hadn’t slept since that time yesterday. That cursed clock. It couldn’t be digital, something modern and sensible. No, it had to have a pendulum, swinging back and forth with a loud //tick//…//tock//…//tick//…//tock//. He sat in the little waiting room with his arms resting on his knees, holding a half-filled Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee. A half-eaten doughnut lay on the table next to him, near a stack of old Time magazines. When he had prayed fajir that morning, he had felt nothing. Just as he had every morning since he had seen the Voice. Nothing but a resounding hollowness in his soul as he went through the motions. God was gone. He had watched the Voice be destroyed, and he had been helpless to do anything. Was there any point anymore? Was the Initiative doing more harm than good? Why didn’t they realize what they were doing? Why couldn’t he have done something? Why was it allowed to happen? //tick//…//tock//…//tick//…//tock//… He had spoken with Mary-Ann about it, as soon as he had come home. She had been through her own dark night of the soul. “Nobody else can do it for you, but they can help. You helped me.” That was what she had ended with. He knew it was true, and he knew she would be right there...and yet he didn't feel like he knew much of anything anymore. Salah truly wanted to speak to Adnan but…that was easier said than done. He was a ghost, here at one moment and gone the next, and contacting him was a nightmare in and of itself. //tick//…//tock//…//tick//…//tock//… Salah half-expected to see a hook on his hand. “Hey. Are you okay?” Salah looked up to see Di standing there, arms full of books, as usual. “Yeah…yeah.” “Did she kick you out of the room or something?” “She threatened to make me eat the placenta if I didn’t get some sleep.” Di sat down next to him. “And you haven’t slept, have you?” “Not a wink.” “You probably should. You look awful.” “Haven’t been sleeping well lately anyway.” “Because of what happened with the Wolves?” “Yeah.” “Have you talked to Mary-Ann about it?” “Yeah. She cursed up a storm when I told her.” “I don’t doubt it.” “I know she believes me, but…I //knew//. I knew what it was. And they destroyed it. I might be the only person alive who knows the truth, the actual truth…and I can’t prove any of it. Maybe I’m going mad.” He sighed. “What do you do, when you can’t see a point in it all?” Di held up a book. “Right, right.” Di put a hand on his shoulder. “Salah, you’re going to be a father. If you've got anything right now, it's a point." So he did. So he did. The little gears of celestial happenings clicked into place then, as a doctor now stood at the entrance to the waiting room. “You can come in now,” he said. Wordlessly, Salah stood up and walked down the hall, as if in a dream. Here was the hall, here was the door. Here was Mary-Ann, sitting in her bed: smiling, exhausted. And there in her arms, a bundle of white cloth. “Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?” Her voice was a pure, tired joy. “Not at all.” Salah stepped over to the bedside. Mary-Ann gave him an “are you kidding me I specifically told you to go do that” face. “You’re lucky I donated it already,” she snarked. “Come on, you can hold her: She’s your daughter as much as mine.” Mary-Ann offered the bundle to Salah. In an instant, Salah’s world became compressed around the little bundle now in his arms. His daughter, with her little balled fists and clenched-shut eyes and the little tuft of dirty straw hair. His daughter, whom he would watch go through diapers and scraped knees and homework and first dates and college and jobs and marriage and children of her own. A whole life in his hands, and all the more precious for how small it was. For a moment, the evils of the world seemed insignificant in the face of the smallest of goods. His daughter. A little match in the darkness. “Hey there, sweet pea. I’m your abbi.” And so Naomi Ibtisam Zairi-Lewitt was welcomed into the world. [[=]] << [[[The Tick Tock Gospel]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[Agricola in Insula est Poeta]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-23T16:28:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Nor Gloom Of Night Shall Stay - SCP Foundation	95	[ "the-tick-tock-gospel", "etdp-hub-page", "agricola-in-insula-est-poeta", "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", "etdp-hub-page", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16496018	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/nor-gloom-of-night-shall-stay
novel-cultivars	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> “I have bred a cultivar of celery that tastes like cheese.” <p>Overgang Dood and Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) stared at the plate that Joey Tamlin was offering them. Then they looked at each other quizzically, (Overgang, of course, through his trademark sunglasses) then at Joey’s grinning face, then back at the plate. Overgang asked the question they both wanted answered.</p> <p>“Why?”</p> <p>“I don’t think you heard me, I said I’ve bred –“</p> <p>“A cultivar of celery that tastes like cheese, yes. Why?”</p> <p>“Well, I was making a sandwich, right, and you know how I get about my sandwiches, triple-decker, Colby cheese squares, sliced ham, gluten free white bread, because of the allergies, right?”</p> <p>“Right.”</p> <p>“Right. So, I go to the kitchen, and all we’ve got is shredded cheddar, since Molly – you know I’m living with Molly now, right – Molly got up in the middle of night and just ate the whole damn block of cheese raw, even though it was my cheese, and she knows how I get about my sandwiches, so I was kind of pissed off, right?”</p> <p>“Cheesed, even.”</p> <p>Overgang fist-bumped Arsehole, Joey barely stopping to register the joke.</p> <p>“Right, cheesed, nice, whatever. Anyway, I’m sitting here, and my bread’s still toasting, since you know I like to toast it a little bit, make it a little crunchy, right, and I look in the fridge and all we’ve got is shredded cheddar. So I think, sure, what the hell, toast’s already in the toaster, so I put down the cheddar ready to go. I pull out the ham then, right, and you know how we buy the stuff full leg at a time, because it’s crazy cheap like that, right?”</p> <p>“Right.”</p> <p>“Right. So, I’m sitting there, and I get out a knife, and I go to cut the ham, since I normally cut the cheese first, but like I said, the cheese was shredded already. So I go to cut the ham and then I realise, sliced ham only makes sense with sliced cheese, shredded cheese NEEDS shredded ham, so I think to myself that this just won’t do! So I look at my toast, and I’ve only got about half a minute left before it’s done, and you know I need to chuck everything on right after it comes out of the toaster, right, so that the cheese melts and everything, or otherwise it’s ruined. So, quick thinking, I pull out the box grater. And I think to myself, hell, sure you can just grate ham, right?”</p> <p>“Right?”</p> <p>“Wrong. See, ham on the leg is crazy fibrous, right, so if you’re not doing it with a food processor or something, it just gets caught up and it’s basically terrible. If you’re not doing it right, it’s like you’re rubbing the grater against tree bark or something, right, bits are coming off, but they aren’t really woodchips if you get my drift. So my toast pops up, and I chuck the scraps of ham and the cheese in and I make my sandwich and it wasn’t super great, but it was alright.”</p> <p>There was a moment of silence, broken by Arsehole.</p> <p>“And… cheese celery?”</p> <p>“Oh! Right. Anyway, I’m eating my sandwich, and I’m thinking, well, the reason that you can’t grate leg ham with a box grater is it’s fibrous, right, but my cheese was already grated, so I think, ‘what if cheese was fibrous?’, and I think about this for a bit, and I say, what the hell, something to do I guess. So that’s it. Cheese-celery. Cheecelery.”</p> <p>Joey offered the plate again, grinning from ear to ear. Overgang continued questioning.</p> <p>“Why celery and not, like, cheese carrots or something?”</p> <p>“Well, Molly had some celery growing in the garden, so it was just handy I guess.”</p> <p>“And does Molly know you were fucking with the genome of her celery?”</p> <p>“I… may not have gotten around to telling her just yet.”</p> <p>Arsehole shook her head disapprovingly.</p> <p>“Should probably get around to that, Joey. Anyway. Cheecelery. Let’s have some then.”</p> <p>Overgang cautiously reached over to the plate, picking up a piece and examining it. It looked like celery. He snapped it with his fingers, producing a characteristic crunch. It sounded like celery. Then he licked the halves, and his tongue felt the taste of rich cheddar cheese. He placed them on his tongue and relished in his palate’s confusion, then started chewing. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It felt fibrous and crispy, and yet, CHEESE.</p> <p>“Joey, this is just weird, man.”</p> <p>Arsehole countered.</p> <p>“I dunno, I could get used to it.”</p> <p>“Could put it on crackers, I guess.”</p> <p>“Could put it on pizzas instead of cheese.”</p> <p>“Oh man, that’d be… weird. What’d stick the other stuff to the top though?”</p> <p>“Sauce is sticky, ya nong.”</p> <p>“Right, right. Lasagne?”</p> <p>“Crunchy lasagne! Crunchy cheeseburgers!”</p> <p>“Crunchy cheesecake!”</p> <p>“Ewww.”</p> <p>“I’d eat it.”</p> <p>“I’d eat it too.”</p> <p>The pair of them turned to Joey, speaking in unison.</p> <p>“This is pretty cool.”</p> <p>“So, you don’t like, feel sick or anything? Or high?”</p> <p>“No, why would we…”</p> <p>Overgang spat out his mouthful of Cheecelery.</p> <p>“You were using us as fucking GUINEA PIGS?”</p> <p>Joey broke into peals of laughter.</p> <p>“I’m fucking with you, it’s fine. Thing is, got me to thinking, right, what about other food, or whatever? We call ourselves artists, but honestly, I’m a pretty shitty chef. All I eat is ham and cheese sandwiches.”</p> <p>Arsehole countered.</p> <p>“Hey, I worked at a pizza place for a year.”</p> <p>“That’s assembly, it doesn’t count.”</p> <p>“Shut up.”</p> <p>“Anyway, not my point. All I’ve ever done in the past is visual art, right? Like painting, or sculpture, or that thing in ’93.”</p> <p>“Oh man, I loved the thing in ’93!”</p> <p>“Well yeah, everyone loved the thing in ’93, it was a thing that made you love it.”</p> <p>“Oh. Right.”</p> <p>“Not my point, guys. The thing is, I’ve been sticking to titillation of the eyeballs for way too long, and I can’t think of a single guy out there who’s just making weird food.”</p> <p>“Eddins did, I think.”</p> <p>“Who?”</p> <p>“Eddins? Guy with the curly hair? Come on, everyone knows Eddins.”</p> <p>“Oh, Curly Hair Guy, right. Never talked to him, keep seeing him around.”</p> <p>“Yeah, Eddins fucked around with food for a bit. Didn’t do much with it though, from what I remember. Stopped with it after those fucking tomatoes.”</p> <p>“Well that’s the thing, right, food’s like performance art. You make it, you give it to someone, and they eat it. It’s real intimate, right? And you can’t make the same meal exactly the same way twice, so it’s properly one-of-a-kind, you can’t copy a meal the same way you can copy a game or something.”</p> <p>Overgang, one of the few professional anartist coders, frowned at this.</p> <p>“Hey, Joey, that’s… well, yeah. That’s kind of true.”</p> <p>“No offense, man.”</p> <p>“Hey, you’ve got a point.”</p> <p>“Anyway. I reckon I’m going to do some stuff with food for the next exhibition. Stretch out a bit, you know, expand horizons or whatever. Just walk around with a platter of trippy sweets and snacks and stuff.”</p> <p>“Sounds neat. You realise that’s on Friday though, right?”</p> <p>“Wait, that’s this Friday?”</p> <p>“Yeah.”</p> <p>“What’s today?”</p> <p>“Tuesday.”</p> <p>“Shit. Wait, what are you guys doing for it?”</p> <p>“I’ve got my Half-life mod, you know, the one that puts your family members into it?”</p> <p>“Oh, yeah. Arsehole?”</p> <p>“Eh, don’t have anything right now. I’m still working on that thing with Hiro P.”</p> <p>“Ah, cool. Say, you and Hiro. Is there any… you know?”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Joey is trying to politely ask if you’ve fucked his brains out yet.”</p> <p>“The fuck are you talking about? Hiro’s gay.”</p> <p>Overgang and Joey glanced at each other, then looked to Arsehole.</p> <p>“Seriously?”</p> <p>“Yeah. That a fucking problem?”</p> <p>“No, no, just… didn’t peg him for that, I guess.”</p> <p>“Well, yeah. We’re actually planning something with him and his boyfriend next week down at the docks. Should be fun, you guys can tag along if you want.”</p> <p>“Nah, I’ll pass.”</p> <p>“I think I’m right.”</p> <p>“Suit yourselves.”</p> <p>Arsehole stood up, pulling three joints from her back jeans pocket. She lit them all one at a time.</p> <p>“You know we don’t smoke, right?”</p> <p>“I know.”</p> <p>Arsehole stuck the three joints into her mouth and walked out onto the patio.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/flexibility">Flexibility</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/shady-meetings">Shady Meetings</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="/novel-cultivars">Novel Cultivars</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/novel-cultivars">https://scpwiki.com/novel-cultivars</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 have bred a cultivar of celery that tastes like cheese.” Overgang Dood and Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of-existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) stared at the plate that Joey Tamlin was offering them. Then they looked at each other quizzically, (Overgang, of course, through his trademark sunglasses) then at Joey’s grinning face, then back at the plate. Overgang asked the question they both wanted answered. “Why?” “I don’t think you heard me, I said I’ve bred –“ “A cultivar of celery that tastes like cheese, yes. Why?” “Well, I was making a sandwich, right, and you know how I get about my sandwiches, triple-decker, Colby cheese squares, sliced ham, gluten free white bread, because of the allergies, right?” “Right.” “Right. So, I go to the kitchen, and all we’ve got is shredded cheddar, since Molly – you know I’m living with Molly now, right – Molly got up in the middle of night and just ate the whole damn block of cheese raw, even though it was my cheese, and she knows how I get about my sandwiches, so I was kind of pissed off, right?” “Cheesed, even.” Overgang fist-bumped Arsehole, Joey barely stopping to register the joke. “Right, cheesed, nice, whatever. Anyway, I’m sitting here, and my bread’s still toasting, since you know I like to toast it a little bit, make it a little crunchy, right, and I look in the fridge and all we’ve got is shredded cheddar. So I think, sure, what the hell, toast’s already in the toaster, so I put down the cheddar ready to go. I pull out the ham then, right, and you know how we buy the stuff full leg at a time, because it’s crazy cheap like that, right?” “Right.” “Right. So, I’m sitting there, and I get out a knife, and I go to cut the ham, since I normally cut the cheese first, but like I said, the cheese was shredded already. So I go to cut the ham and then I realise, sliced ham only makes sense with sliced cheese, shredded cheese NEEDS shredded ham, so I think to myself that this just won’t do! So I look at my toast, and I’ve only got about half a minute left before it’s done, and you know I need to chuck everything on right after it comes out of the toaster, right, so that the cheese melts and everything, or otherwise it’s ruined. So, quick thinking, I pull out the box grater. And I think to myself, hell, sure you can just grate ham, right?” “Right?” “Wrong. See, ham on the leg is crazy fibrous, right, so if you’re not doing it with a food processor or something, it just gets caught up and it’s basically terrible. If you’re not doing it right, it’s like you’re rubbing the grater against tree bark or something, right, bits are coming off, but they aren’t really woodchips if you get my drift. So my toast pops up, and I chuck the scraps of ham and the cheese in and I make my sandwich and it wasn’t super great, but it was alright.” There was a moment of silence, broken by Arsehole. “And… cheese celery?” “Oh! Right. Anyway, I’m eating my sandwich, and I’m thinking, well, the reason that you can’t grate leg ham with a box grater is it’s fibrous, right, but my cheese was already grated, so I think, ‘what if cheese was fibrous?’, and I think about this for a bit, and I say, what the hell, something to do I guess. So that’s it. Cheese-celery. Cheecelery.” Joey offered the plate again, grinning from ear to ear. Overgang continued questioning. “Why celery and not, like, cheese carrots or something?” “Well, Molly had some celery growing in the garden, so it was just handy I guess.” “And does Molly know you were fucking with the genome of her celery?” “I… may not have gotten around to telling her just yet.” Arsehole shook her head disapprovingly. “Should probably get around to that, Joey. Anyway. Cheecelery. Let’s have some then.” Overgang cautiously reached over to the plate, picking up a piece and examining it. It looked like celery. He snapped it with his fingers, producing a characteristic crunch. It sounded like celery. Then he licked the halves, and his tongue felt the taste of rich cheddar cheese. He placed them on his tongue and relished in his palate’s confusion, then started chewing. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It felt fibrous and crispy, and yet, CHEESE. “Joey, this is just weird, man.” Arsehole countered. “I dunno, I could get used to it.” “Could put it on crackers, I guess.” “Could put it on pizzas instead of cheese.” “Oh man, that’d be… weird. What’d stick the other stuff to the top though?” “Sauce is sticky, ya nong.” “Right, right. Lasagne?” “Crunchy lasagne! Crunchy cheeseburgers!” “Crunchy cheesecake!” “Ewww.” “I’d eat it.” “I’d eat it too.” The pair of them turned to Joey, speaking in unison. “This is pretty cool.” “So, you don’t like, feel sick or anything? Or high?” “No, why would we…” Overgang spat out his mouthful of Cheecelery. “You were using us as fucking GUINEA PIGS?” Joey broke into peals of laughter. “I’m fucking with you, it’s fine. Thing is, got me to thinking, right, what about other food, or whatever? We call ourselves artists, but honestly, I’m a pretty shitty chef. All I eat is ham and cheese sandwiches.” Arsehole countered. “Hey, I worked at a pizza place for a year.” “That’s assembly, it doesn’t count.” “Shut up.” “Anyway, not my point. All I’ve ever done in the past is visual art, right? Like painting, or sculpture, or that thing in ’93.” “Oh man, I loved the thing in ’93!” “Well yeah, everyone loved the thing in ’93, it was a thing that made you love it.” “Oh. Right.” “Not my point, guys. The thing is, I’ve been sticking to titillation of the eyeballs for way too long, and I can’t think of a single guy out there who’s just making weird food.” “Eddins did, I think.” “Who?” “Eddins? Guy with the curly hair? Come on, everyone knows Eddins.” “Oh, Curly Hair Guy, right. Never talked to him, keep seeing him around.” “Yeah, Eddins fucked around with food for a bit. Didn’t do much with it though, from what I remember. Stopped with it after those fucking tomatoes.” “Well that’s the thing, right, food’s like performance art. You make it, you give it to someone, and they eat it. It’s real intimate, right? And you can’t make the same meal exactly the same way twice, so it’s properly one-of-a-kind, you can’t copy a meal the same way you can copy a game or something.” Overgang, one of the few professional anartist coders, frowned at this. “Hey, Joey, that’s… well, yeah. That’s kind of true.” “No offense, man.” “Hey, you’ve got a point.” “Anyway. I reckon I’m going to do some stuff with food for the next exhibition. Stretch out a bit, you know, expand horizons or whatever. Just walk around with a platter of trippy sweets and snacks and stuff.” “Sounds neat. You realise that’s on Friday though, right?” “Wait, that’s this Friday?” “Yeah.” “What’s today?” “Tuesday.” “Shit. Wait, what are you guys doing for it?” “I’ve got my Half-life mod, you know, the one that puts your family members into it?” “Oh, yeah. Arsehole?” “Eh, don’t have anything right now. I’m still working on that thing with Hiro P.” “Ah, cool. Say, you and Hiro. Is there any… you know?” “What?” “Joey is trying to politely ask if you’ve fucked his brains out yet.” “The fuck are you talking about? Hiro’s gay.” Overgang and Joey glanced at each other, then looked to Arsehole. “Seriously?” “Yeah. That a fucking problem?” “No, no, just… didn’t peg him for that, I guess.” “Well, yeah. We’re actually planning something with him and his boyfriend next week down at the docks. Should be fun, you guys can tag along if you want.” “Nah, I’ll pass.” “I think I’m right.” “Suit yourselves.” Arsehole stood up, pulling three joints from her back jeans pocket. She lit them all one at a time. “You know we don’t smoke, right?” “I know.” Arsehole stuck the three joints into her mouth and walked out onto the patio. [[=]] << [[[Flexibility]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Shady Meetings]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-11-24T04:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "are-we-cool-yet", "comedy", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	Novel Cultivars - SCP Foundation	212	[ "flexibility", "the-cool-war-hub", "shady-meetings", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20736652	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/novel-cultivars
now-this	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Three weeks into a possible future…</p> </blockquote> <p>THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.</p> <p>RANDI KAYE, CNN ANCHOR: From CNN world headquarters in Atlanta, this is EARLY START WEEKEND.</p> <p>(VIDEO CLIP)</p> <p>KAYE: The island nation of Sri Lanka was transformed literally overnight as an obscure deity claimed rulership over the country and its people. The reactions of those left behind, as well as our continuing coverage of the ends of the world.</p> <p>And, in Cameroon today, President Paul Biya has officially requested the intervention of the African Union and NATO in dealing with a spate of possessions which threaten to destabilize the nation. What all this has to do with an extinct witch-cult.</p> <p>And, along with the ascension of Zuhhak and death, it's one of the unavoidables of life. That's right: taxes. But one Silicon Valley entrepreneur is looking to gameify filing tax returns, giving us something to look forward to come April 15th.</p> <p>It's Friday, March 22th. Good morning, everyone. I'm Randi Kaye. Clifford Schwab is currently on indefinite medical leave due to severe locust inhalation. We wish him a speedy recovery.</p> <p>We start today in South Asia where an obscure island nation, best known for one of the longest-running civil wars in modern history and its many varieties of tea, has become a literal heaven on Earth thanks to the efforts of an obscure deity.</p> <p>On Thursday morning, Afanam, the Great Creator, Lord of All Wisdom and Holiness, was almost completely unknown outside of a small group of followers.</p> <p>By Thursday evening, he ruled over the Indian Ocean island of Sri Lanka, where he had struck down all tyranny and injustice and instituted a new quote "free love and love-all" reign.</p> <p>Correspondent Gunavati Mahale brings us more.</p> <p>(BEGIN VIDEOTAPE)</p> <p>MAHALE: Sri Lanka. The pearl of the Indian Ocean. Despite heated fighting in Bangledesh, the country was relatively untouched by the ongoing religious battles in the region. Until now. At approximately 12:15 PM, local time, Afanam, an almost-unknown god materialized in the offices of Sri Lankan president Mahinda Rajapaksa and claimed sovereignty over the country, demanding that Rajapaksa immediately relinquish control.</p> <p>Rajapaksa refused and was destroyed by a glance from the deity. Afanam then proceeded to proclaim the entire nation to be his domain, dissolving parliament by erasing both the building and its 225-person membership from existence.</p> <p>Over the next six hours, numerous radical reforms were enacted, including an end to all violence and inequality, the execution of all tax collectors, the elimination of clothing and all forms of currency.</p> <p>Next, the god-ruler joined with his subjects in one mind, reportedly informing them, quote "your days of suffering are at an end. Gather around my throne for all eternity, in free and communal love and free from pain and suffering, and sing my praises unending."</p> <p>The eccentric deity then materialized every one of the twenty million Sri Lankans to the capital city of Colombo, where it allegedly instructed its assembled subjects to, quote "go at it." Early reports suggest that nearly a thousand Sri Lankans died from the initial shock of sudden materialization.</p> <p>When asked for comment, the spokescrystal for Afanam said the following.</p> <p>ARANDRALCASE LUBRUSANTIOPALIU, SRI LANKAN PRESS SECRETARY: All is well. The Sri Lankan people have happily begun worshiping the light, perfect and unimpeachable, that is Afanam, as they will do for the rest of time. There is nothing more to be said.</p> <p>MAHALE: When pressed on how these developments might impact efforts at reproachment between ethnic Tamil and Sinhalese, Lubrusantiopaliu emitted a high-frequency humming that melted all plastic in the vicinity. Immediately afterwards, all journalists found themselves returned to their cities of origins.</p> <p>Gunavati Mahale, CNN, Mumbai.<br/> (END VIDEOTAPE)</p> <p>KAYE: Thank you, Gunavati. If you are currently in Sri Lanka, tweet your situation, along with the hashtag #afanamcnn, and give us your take on the events of today.</p> <p>While Afanam might have come down in Sri Lanka, his most devout, and indeed, only followers were a small group known as "The Followers of Light." Scott O'Hara brings us the other side of the day's most shocking story: that of faithful left behind.</p> <p>(BEGIN VIDEOTAPE)<br/> O'HARA: It's a bright sunny day here in Pollensbee, Texas. The perfect day for a picnic or tree climbing or a nude love-in. But the atmosphere here at the "Righteous Light" compound is anything but sunny.</p> <p>SISTER MENSYIA, ANAFAM DEVOTEE: It's just like, a bummer, y'know? Why not us? We're all Afanam's children and whatever, but, like, <em>really</em>?</p> <p>O'HARA: Despite being the only followers of Afanam, the "Followers of Light" found yesterday morning that the paradise their leader had prophesied had come about. In Sri Lanka.</p> <p>Starting in 1978, Charles Garrison, a miner-turned-drifter, claimed to have revelations from a god he called Afanam. Despite several run-ins with the IRS and local law enforcement, Garrison, who in 1985 legally changed his name to "The Beloved," continued to attract a following with his message of simple communal living, communion with nature, and free love.</p> <p>At the time of his death in 2009, Garrison's movement had over two hundred followers, most choosing to live in the "Righteous Light" compound here in Pollensbee, Texas.</p> <p>However, with the revelation late last night that Afanam had chosen the people of Sri Lanka for his heaven, the fate of the compound and its inhabitants has become unclear. Some, such as Father Leisabu, de-facto leader of the movement, are optimistic.</p> <p>FATHER LEISABU, SENIOR ANAFAM FOLLOWER: We'll keep soldiering on, definitely… definitely. We didn't stop when the wicked world invaded us in '89 for sharing our love, or when they tried to take more from our old lives. It's like… if Afanam doesn't find us worthy, we'll keep purifying ourselves until he does.</p> <p>O'HARA: However, others are less sure of themselves.</p> <p>MENSYIA: I mean, I've been here for, like, ever. And I've lived on the earth and I been simple and I let go of my ego or whatever. So if Afanam doesn't want to choose me, screw 'im. I been doing right according to lots of religions. Wiccans, some 'a the Quakers, Unitarians, probably, all the Buddhists. Hell, I heard the Northern Fifthers are taking anyone they can find. It's a seller's market, man. Unless there's a sign or something, I might just move on.</p> <p>O'HARA: While the Path of Light claimed to reveal the questions of the cosmos, it hasn't been able to answer one just yet: "What now?"</p> <p>Scott O'Hara, CNN, Pollensbee, Texas.<br/> (END VIDEOTAPE)</p> <p>KAYE: Thank you, Scott. Later tonight, be sure to catch Fareed Zakaria GPS tonight at 7 PM, where he'll be asking Kalki, final avatar of Vishnu, what this means for the eschatological conflict raging throughout South Asia.</p> <p>And, after the break, we'll be taking a look at Cameroon, where a gang of minor deities has been causing chaos through mass possessions. Stick around.<br/> (COMMERCIAL BREAK)</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« Splinter: <a href="/tenebrae">Tenebrae</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| Splinter: <a href="/intheendmonkeybusiness">In the End: Monkey Business</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="/now-this">Now... This</a>" by Gaffsey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/now-this">https://scpwiki.com/now-this</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > Three weeks into a possible future... THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED. RANDI KAYE, CNN ANCHOR: From CNN world headquarters in Atlanta, this is EARLY START WEEKEND. (VIDEO CLIP) KAYE: The island nation of Sri Lanka was transformed literally overnight as an obscure deity claimed rulership over the country and its people. The reactions of those left behind, as well as our continuing coverage of the ends of the world. And, in Cameroon today, President Paul Biya has officially requested the intervention of the African Union and NATO in dealing with a spate of possessions which threaten to destabilize the nation. What all this has to do with an extinct witch-cult. And, along with the ascension of Zuhhak and death, it's one of the unavoidables of life. That's right: taxes. But one Silicon Valley entrepreneur is looking to gameify filing tax returns, giving us something to look forward to come April 15th. It's Friday, March 22th. Good morning, everyone. I'm Randi Kaye. Clifford Schwab is currently on indefinite medical leave due to severe locust inhalation. We wish him a speedy recovery. We start today in South Asia where an obscure island nation, best known for one of the longest-running civil wars in modern history and its many varieties of tea, has become a literal heaven on Earth thanks to the efforts of an obscure deity. On Thursday morning, Afanam, the Great Creator, Lord of All Wisdom and Holiness, was almost completely unknown outside of a small group of followers. By Thursday evening, he ruled over the Indian Ocean island of Sri Lanka, where he had struck down all tyranny and injustice and instituted a new quote "free love and love-all" reign. Correspondent Gunavati Mahale brings us more. (BEGIN VIDEOTAPE) MAHALE: Sri Lanka. The pearl of the Indian Ocean. Despite heated fighting in Bangledesh, the country was relatively untouched by the ongoing religious battles in the region. Until now. At approximately 12:15 PM, local time, Afanam, an almost-unknown god materialized in the offices of Sri Lankan president Mahinda Rajapaksa and claimed sovereignty over the country, demanding that Rajapaksa immediately relinquish control. Rajapaksa refused and was destroyed by a glance from the deity. Afanam then proceeded to proclaim the entire nation to be his domain, dissolving parliament by erasing both the building and its 225-person membership from existence. Over the next six hours, numerous radical reforms were enacted, including an end to all violence and inequality, the execution of all tax collectors, the elimination of clothing and all forms of currency. Next, the god-ruler joined with his subjects in one mind, reportedly informing them, quote "your days of suffering are at an end. Gather around my throne for all eternity, in free and communal love and free from pain and suffering, and sing my praises unending." The eccentric deity then materialized every one of the twenty million Sri Lankans to the capital city of Colombo, where it allegedly instructed its assembled subjects to, quote "go at it." Early reports suggest that nearly a thousand Sri Lankans died from the initial shock of sudden materialization. When asked for comment, the spokescrystal for Afanam said the following. ARANDRALCASE LUBRUSANTIOPALIU, SRI LANKAN PRESS SECRETARY: All is well. The Sri Lankan people have happily begun worshiping the light, perfect and unimpeachable, that is Afanam, as they will do for the rest of time. There is nothing more to be said. MAHALE: When pressed on how these developments might impact efforts at reproachment between ethnic Tamil and Sinhalese, Lubrusantiopaliu emitted a high-frequency humming that melted all plastic in the vicinity. Immediately afterwards, all journalists found themselves returned to their cities of origins. Gunavati Mahale, CNN, Mumbai. (END VIDEOTAPE) KAYE: Thank you, Gunavati. If you are currently in Sri Lanka, tweet your situation, along with the hashtag #afanamcnn, and give us your take on the events of today. While Afanam might have come down in Sri Lanka, his most devout, and indeed, only followers were a small group known as "The Followers of Light." Scott O'Hara brings us the other side of the day's most shocking story: that of faithful left behind. (BEGIN VIDEOTAPE) O'HARA: It's a bright sunny day here in Pollensbee, Texas. The perfect day for a picnic or tree climbing or a nude love-in. But the atmosphere here at the "Righteous Light" compound is anything but sunny. SISTER MENSYIA, ANAFAM DEVOTEE: It's just like, a bummer, y'know? Why not us? We're all Afanam's children and whatever, but, like, //really//? O'HARA: Despite being the only followers of Afanam, the "Followers of Light" found yesterday morning that the paradise their leader had prophesied had come about. In Sri Lanka. Starting in 1978, Charles Garrison, a miner-turned-drifter, claimed to have revelations from a god he called Afanam. Despite several run-ins with the IRS and local law enforcement, Garrison, who in 1985 legally changed his name to "The Beloved," continued to attract a following with his message of simple communal living, communion with nature, and free love. At the time of his death in 2009, Garrison's movement had over two hundred followers, most choosing to live in the "Righteous Light" compound here in Pollensbee, Texas. However, with the revelation late last night that Afanam had chosen the people of Sri Lanka for his heaven, the fate of the compound and its inhabitants has become unclear. Some, such as Father Leisabu, de-facto leader of the movement, are optimistic. FATHER LEISABU, SENIOR ANAFAM FOLLOWER: We'll keep soldiering on, definitely... definitely. We didn't stop when the wicked world invaded us in '89 for sharing our love, or when they tried to take more from our old lives. It's like... if Afanam doesn't find us worthy, we'll keep purifying ourselves until he does. O'HARA: However, others are less sure of themselves. MENSYIA: I mean, I've been here for, like, ever. And I've lived on the earth and I been simple and I let go of my ego or whatever. So if Afanam doesn't want to choose me, screw 'im. I been doing right according to lots of religions. Wiccans, some 'a the Quakers, Unitarians, probably, all the Buddhists. Hell, I heard the Northern Fifthers are taking anyone they can find. It's a seller's market, man. Unless there's a sign or something, I might just move on. O'HARA: While the Path of Light claimed to reveal the questions of the cosmos, it hasn't been able to answer one just yet: "What now?" Scott O'Hara, CNN, Pollensbee, Texas. (END VIDEOTAPE) KAYE: Thank you, Scott. Later tonight, be sure to catch Fareed Zakaria GPS tonight at 7 PM, where he'll be asking Kalki, final avatar of Vishnu, what this means for the eschatological conflict raging throughout South Asia. And, after the break, we'll be taking a look at Cameroon, where a gang of minor deities has been causing chaos through mass possessions. Stick around. (COMMERCIAL BREAK) ------------ [[=]] << Splinter: [[[Tenebrae]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| Splinter: [[[intheendmonkeybusiness\|In the End: Monkey Business]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-23T02:11:00	[ "_licensebox", "competitive-eschatology", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Now... This - SCP Foundation	113	[ "tenebrae", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "intheendmonkeybusiness", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16491379	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/now-this
of-blackmail-and-bribery	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The door swung open, casting light into the dark room. In the entryway stood an old man. His face was creased with age, blushed red, and wet with tears. His head was bare, whiskers coated his chin, and his stomach sagged. He was a pitiful wreck.</p> <p>The room was cluttered with a thousand rarities. Life-sized portraits hung on the walls, depicting admirals, generals, kings and the old man himself. An exquisite king-sized bed, sheets of silk and frame of mahogany, was in the rear end of the room. On the nightstand beside it stood a rare Chinese vase. And in the centre of the room a rope dangled down, heavy and thick, from the rafters. It intertwined at the end, forming a sturdy noose. Below it sat a small plastic milkcrate.</p> <p>The old man sighed heavily. He stepped up, and stood on the crate. Damnit, damnit, damnit all to hell, he thought. He had no retreat, no recourse, no second option. He had no other choice. He would not endure public disgrace, nor would he further the agenda of <em>terrorists</em>. He started reciting a final prayer, though he knew his sins were unforgivable.</p> <p><em>'Holy Father… Your spirit is eternally forgiving… I repent,'</em> he began, slipping the noose around his neck. He positioned so that his neck would snap instantly. He did not want to die painfully from asphyxiation. He had heard of criminals lingering for hours, dying slowly. He shuddered at the thought.</p> <p>He began choking up again, fresh tears rolling down his face. It had been perhaps three and a half decades ago, when he had been a young man. It had been a cool night, softened by the glow of street lamps and the moon. He had parted with his friends for the evening when he had spied her from afar.</p> <p>She had been beautiful. Her lips had pouted, her dark locks had tumbled down her shoulders. Her nose had curved regally, her legs were smooth and slender. And he desired her so. But what had he done to that beauty? What had he done!</p> <p>He had taken her aside, and had offered her a drink. Her acerbic tongue had fascinated him. But he had learned she had had another, one whom she had loved beyond measure, one with whom he could not compete. But just to be with her had been blissful. They had agreed to meet again.</p> <p>And they did. He had felt himself falling deeper and deeper, head over heels. She had aroused, fascinated, provoked conflicting emotions which rose within him, and had surged outward. He had raged that he could not have her. And he had decided he would do anything, anything at all, to have that beauty.</p> <p>A little something in her wine (only the finest for her, after all), and she did love him. He had taken her back to his apartment and had her love, if but for a single, brief moment. But he had panicked. He would have been thrown behind bars, his future prospects ruined, his name infamous. What did he do? He had taken her while she was still unconscious, stuffed her in a bag, padlocked the zip, and dumped her in the ocean. She had sunk deep. He could not have borne to cut her. She wouldn't have suffered, anyway - she had still been unconscious.</p> <p>He had thought nobody would know. And nobody did. He had attended a prestigious American university. He had attained degrees in both law and politics. He had been voted in as a small-town mayor. And he had ascended, becoming a prominent politician. He had married and had children. His wife could not compare to <em>her</em>, of course, but he loved her, for she was quick of wit and intellect. He doted on her in his decades-long grief. Many wanted him as the President of Peru. They cheered, chanted his name, and waved at him in the streets.</p> <p>But some had dug deep. They had came to his house in the dead at night, driving fearsome black vans. They had worn terrible ski-masks, and had threatened him at gunpoint. They had told him they knew, and had taunted him. 'You raped and killed that poor girl, you sick fuck,' one had said, waving a Glock in his face. 'I should kill you now, but we need you. Do as we say and nothing will happen.</p> <p>'In a few days a courier will come to your office. He will ask you about your children, and you will reply 'they are happily playing under the sun.' He will give you a letter. Do not open it. It will say what we want you to do. Open it when you're alone, then burn it.'</p> <p>'Who are you?' he had asked, quivering and shaking.</p> <p>'You don't need to know my name. But, we call ourselves the <em>Hijos del Sol</em>, the Children of the Sun,' the terrorist had said, smiling a devilish grin, 'and you're gonna see a whole lot more of us.'</p> <p>He kicked out the plastic crate.</p> <p><em>Snap.</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="/of-blackmail-and-bribery">Of Blackmail and Bribery</a>" by Technician Downs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/of-blackmail-and-bribery">https://scpwiki.com/of-blackmail-and-bribery</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 door swung open, casting light into the dark room. In the entryway stood an old man. His face was creased with age, blushed red, and wet with tears. His head was bare, whiskers coated his chin, and his stomach sagged. He was a pitiful wreck. The room was cluttered with a thousand rarities. Life-sized portraits hung on the walls, depicting admirals, generals, kings and the old man himself. An exquisite king-sized bed, sheets of silk and frame of mahogany, was in the rear end of the room. On the nightstand beside it stood a rare Chinese vase. And in the centre of the room a rope dangled down, heavy and thick, from the rafters. It intertwined at the end, forming a sturdy noose. Below it sat a small plastic milkcrate. The old man sighed heavily. He stepped up, and stood on the crate. Damnit, damnit, damnit all to hell, he thought. He had no retreat, no recourse, no second option. He had no other choice. He would not endure public disgrace, nor would he further the agenda of //terrorists//. He started reciting a final prayer, though he knew his sins were unforgivable. //'Holy Father... Your spirit is eternally forgiving... I repent,'// he began, slipping the noose around his neck. He positioned so that his neck would snap instantly. He did not want to die painfully from asphyxiation. He had heard of criminals lingering for hours, dying slowly. He shuddered at the thought. He began choking up again, fresh tears rolling down his face. It had been perhaps three and a half decades ago, when he had been a young man. It had been a cool night, softened by the glow of street lamps and the moon. He had parted with his friends for the evening when he had spied her from afar. She had been beautiful. Her lips had pouted, her dark locks had tumbled down her shoulders. Her nose had curved regally, her legs were smooth and slender. And he desired her so. But what had he done to that beauty? What had he done! He had taken her aside, and had offered her a drink. Her acerbic tongue had fascinated him. But he had learned she had had another, one whom she had loved beyond measure, one with whom he could not compete. But just to be with her had been blissful. They had agreed to meet again. And they did. He had felt himself falling deeper and deeper, head over heels. She had aroused, fascinated, provoked conflicting emotions which rose within him, and had surged outward. He had raged that he could not have her. And he had decided he would do anything, anything at all, to have that beauty. A little something in her wine (only the finest for her, after all), and she did love him. He had taken her back to his apartment and had her love, if but for a single, brief moment. But he had panicked. He would have been thrown behind bars, his future prospects ruined, his name infamous. What did he do? He had taken her while she was still unconscious, stuffed her in a bag, padlocked the zip, and dumped her in the ocean. She had sunk deep. He could not have borne to cut her. She wouldn't have suffered, anyway - she had still been unconscious. He had thought nobody would know. And nobody did. He had attended a prestigious American university. He had attained degrees in both law and politics. He had been voted in as a small-town mayor. And he had ascended, becoming a prominent politician. He had married and had children. His wife could not compare to //her//, of course, but he loved her, for she was quick of wit and intellect. He doted on her in his decades-long grief. Many wanted him as the President of Peru. They cheered, chanted his name, and waved at him in the streets. But some had dug deep. They had came to his house in the dead at night, driving fearsome black vans. They had worn terrible ski-masks, and had threatened him at gunpoint. They had told him they knew, and had taunted him. 'You raped and killed that poor girl, you sick fuck,' one had said, waving a Glock in his face. 'I should kill you now, but we need you. Do as we say and nothing will happen. 'In a few days a courier will come to your office. He will ask you about your children, and you will reply 'they are happily playing under the sun.' He will give you a letter. Do not open it. It will say what we want you to do. Open it when you're alone, then burn it.' 'Who are you?' he had asked, quivering and shaking. 'You don't need to know my name. But, we call ourselves the //Hijos del Sol//, the Children of the Sun,' the terrorist had said, smiling a devilish grin, 'and you're gonna see a whole lot more of us.' He kicked out the plastic crate. //Snap.// [[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>]]	2013-02-04T05:27:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	Of Blackmail and Bribery - SCP Foundation	11	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16287671	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/of-blackmail-and-bribery
of-politics	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>David entered the apartment block, covering his mouth with a soiled silk rag. It did not help much; his lungs itched and burned from the dense haze that blanketed the city, which served as a constant reminder of the day previous. In an effort to prevent it drifting in, he slammed the door shut quickly.</p> <p>He stormed up the stairs, footsteps clattering like a typewriter. He soon exhausted himself, despite being fit and young. He rested, wheezing, on the third landing. There was a wide poster opposite to him, depicting the “Benevolent” Leader, a great wolfspider, feasting on flies with tophats and monocles. “<tt>DON'T BE A CAPITALIST'S MAGGOT</tt>,” the caption read.</p> <p>A vivid image came to him; a protest sign laying among lifeless corpses, their limbs at disjointed angles. “<em>FREEDOM OR DEATH</em>,” it read, in bold lettering. It was almost charming in its naivety. Like all of them had been.</p> <p>Tears welled up in David's eyes, and he kicked that blasted poster. Once, twice. The wall crumbled beneath the force, and one of his legs became caught, knee deep, in the wall.</p> <p>“Goddamnit!” he swore, and extricated himself, struggling. Clouds of dust swirled up as he did so. Swearing, he took the poster, tore it up into little pieces, and stormed again up the stairs and into his apartment.</p> <p>It was crowded with useless junk and litter. Sheets covered the floor. “<tt>LIBERTY PRESS</tt>,” most pieces read, with bold title headings saying things like "<tt>DON'T BE CAUGHT IN THE COMMUNIST'S WEB</tt>." He opened his freezer and sourly took a bottle of the strongest drink he had; light beer. It would take him, what, a hundred liters to get drunk on that? He could probably do better drinking water.</p> <p>He took himself, crumpled into the porous brown sofa, and cleared the cluttered table beside it, sitting the bottle on it. Irritatedly, he realised he should use a coaster, and took the nearest scrap of paper for this purpose.</p> <p>“<em>Working a shift, will be back late – XOXOXO, Melanie</em>,” it read. Another reminder! Goddamnit! Melanie was dead, like all the others, he reminded himself, taking a swill. In a way he was lucky, really. He tore the paper scrap up and cast it away, ignoring his previous concern about coasters. There was a certain irony, he mused, to being concerned about those little circle-stains when the room was so cluttered with filth.</p> <p>Yesterday.</p> <p>Yesterday was the day of the protest march. He had helped organise it, of course; that's why all the papers were there. He had written scathing critiques of communism, as part of the Liberty Press. So had Melanie. They had urged the people to action.</p> <p>And action they had made. A few thousand people gathered in the square, bearing signs of protest, shouting slogans. And then…</p> <p>And then, a ghastly green haze had drifted in. At first, people had assumed it was just from the industry. Since “Benevolent Leader,” there had been a great industrial boom. And with it, smog came often. But no; it did not just itch and burn the lungs.</p> <p>It killed. It killed swiftly and suddenly. The fuckers had used chemical weapons! Chemical weapons on peaceful protesters!</p> <p>Those <em>fuckers</em>. They had killed almost everyone he knew. His mother had been taken in the purges, like most of the older generation. He remembered his mother. She had been a huge woman, much, much larger than any man; kind but domineering. She had killed his father swiftly and mercifully.</p> <p>His sisters had been conscripted. He did not know what had happened to them (you never did). They were probably dead; buried together in their own mass grave. His brothers, they had been forced into prostitution. Most, he knew, had been brutally murdered by clients. His friends, of course, were dead with the protesters. Even that friendly homeless man had just disappeared one day.</p> <p>He had liked that homeless man.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><tt><strong>REPORT:</strong></tt></p> <p><tt><a href="/scp-1006">SCP-1006</a> has placed a request for less mosquito spraying in the surrounding park area, following Incident 1006-12, which resulted in the expiration of multiple SCP-1006 instances gathered at the dispersion point.</tt></p> <p><tt><strong>Signed:</strong> <em>Agent Boyles</em></tt></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="/of-politics">Of Politics</a>" by Technician Downs, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/of-politics">https://scpwiki.com/of-politics</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] David entered the apartment block, covering his mouth with a soiled silk rag. It did not help much; his lungs itched and burned from the dense haze that blanketed the city, which served as a constant reminder of the day previous. In an effort to prevent it drifting in, he slammed the door shut quickly. He stormed up the stairs, footsteps clattering like a typewriter. He soon exhausted himself, despite being fit and young. He rested, wheezing, on the third landing. There was a wide poster opposite to him, depicting the “Benevolent” Leader, a great wolfspider, feasting on flies with tophats and monocles. “{{DON'T BE A CAPITALIST'S MAGGOT}},” the caption read. A vivid image came to him; a protest sign laying among lifeless corpses, their limbs at disjointed angles. “//FREEDOM OR DEATH//,” it read, in bold lettering. It was almost charming in its naivety. Like all of them had been. Tears welled up in David's eyes, and he kicked that blasted poster. Once, twice. The wall crumbled beneath the force, and one of his legs became caught, knee deep, in the wall. “Goddamnit!” he swore, and extricated himself, struggling. Clouds of dust swirled up as he did so. Swearing, he took the poster, tore it up into little pieces, and stormed again up the stairs and into his apartment. It was crowded with useless junk and litter. Sheets covered the floor. “{{LIBERTY PRESS}},” most pieces read, with bold title headings saying things like "{{DON'T BE CAUGHT IN THE COMMUNIST'S WEB}}." He opened his freezer and sourly took a bottle of the strongest drink he had; light beer. It would take him, what, a hundred liters to get drunk on that? He could probably do better drinking water. He took himself, crumpled into the porous brown sofa, and cleared the cluttered table beside it, sitting the bottle on it. Irritatedly, he realised he should use a coaster, and took the nearest scrap of paper for this purpose. “//Working a shift, will be back late – XOXOXO, Melanie//,” it read. Another reminder! Goddamnit! Melanie was dead, like all the others, he reminded himself, taking a swill. In a way he was lucky, really. He tore the paper scrap up and cast it away, ignoring his previous concern about coasters. There was a certain irony, he mused, to being concerned about those little circle-stains when the room was so cluttered with filth. Yesterday. Yesterday was the day of the protest march. He had helped organise it, of course; that's why all the papers were there. He had written scathing critiques of communism, as part of the Liberty Press. So had Melanie. They had urged the people to action. And action they had made. A few thousand people gathered in the square, bearing signs of protest, shouting slogans. And then... And then, a ghastly green haze had drifted in. At first, people had assumed it was just from the industry. Since “Benevolent Leader,” there had been a great industrial boom. And with it, smog came often. But no; it did not just itch and burn the lungs. It killed. It killed swiftly and suddenly. The fuckers had used chemical weapons! Chemical weapons on peaceful protesters! Those //fuckers//. They had killed almost everyone he knew. His mother had been taken in the purges, like most of the older generation. He remembered his mother. She had been a huge woman, much, much larger than any man; kind but domineering. She had killed his father swiftly and mercifully. His sisters had been conscripted. He did not know what had happened to them (you never did). They were probably dead; buried together in their own mass grave. His brothers, they had been forced into prostitution. Most, he knew, had been brutally murdered by clients. His friends, of course, were dead with the protesters. Even that friendly homeless man had just disappeared one day. He had liked that homeless man. ------ > {{REPORT:}} > > {{[[[SCP-1006]]] has placed a request for less mosquito spraying in the surrounding park area, following Incident 1006-12, which resulted in the expiration of multiple SCP-1006 instances gathered at the dispersion point.}} > > {{Signed: //Agent Boyles//}} [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-04T00:15:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Of Politics - SCP Foundation	45	[ "scp-1006", "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" ]	[]	16576944	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/of-politics
old-kansas-sector	<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%;">☦Allan fights anomalies in a post-normal world.☦</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><em>The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD<br/> Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA</em></p> </div> <p>Allan had closed the shutters that night due to the swarms, and slept restlessly through the assault. He woke up the following day oblivious to the trial of the last night for a few moments, until he saw a small, circular hole letting sunlight in through his boarded window.</p> <p>The crows were diligent.</p> <p>He lived alone in his grandmother's old farmhouse. She had a chicken farm and she would sell eggs at the farmer's market while she was still alive. She was taken by a monster a few years ago while she was making a trip to the city. He wasn't sure of the particulars, but he really didn't want to know the rest. The Public Safety Foundation sent a notice that she was killed by a Shock Creature, and that death was quick. Shock in this case was meant to imply inevitable death.</p> <p>Allan opened the window and saw the small, dead city of chicken coops covered in dust and old bird droppings. Out beyond was the great nothing of Old Kansas, shallow rolling hills and dirt.</p> <p>The farmhouse was old. 200 years old at least, and he was grateful that it was so sturdy. The only thing he ever had to deal with on his property were the crows.</p> <p>He had butchered some rats last night and found them where he left them in the cupboard. The meat wasn't all too bad with the right spices, and the innards were actually quite good. You just had to remember to boil them. After frying the meat, he sat down with the food on a nasty old plate and turned on the TV.</p> <hr/> <p><em>A young man in a raggedy brown vest was shown walking down an old, dusty road. He had a spade shovel holstered at his side and a large backpack.</em></p> <p>Words in red and all caps appeared rushing toward the screen.</p> <p><strong>PUBLIC SAFETY TIPS: OLD KANSAS SECTOR</strong></p> <p><strong>ALWAYS CARRY A BACKUP WEAPON.</strong></p> <p><em>An eyeless, hairless, rabid dog appeared down the road and began galloping toward the young man. He aimed his revolver at it, and it clicked. He rolled his eyes, hefted his shovel, and delivered a fatal blow to the dog thing's head. He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and gave a thumbs up toward the camera.</em></p> <p><em>"It's easy!"</em></p> <p><strong>ALWAYS CARRY A DAY'S WORTH OF FOOD AND MEDICAL SUPPLIES.</strong></p> <p><em>He checked his backpack, finding that it was full of fresh apples. He gave the camera a wry grin.</em></p> <p><em>"Safe and sure!"</em></p> <p><strong>REMEMBER TO BOIL WILD ANIMALS BEFORE CONSUMING THEM. DON'T EAT MONSTERS.</strong></p> <p><em>The young man lifted a strange, three-headed caterpillar creature, pulling his head away from it. He shook his head.</em></p> <p><em>"No way Jose."</em></p> <p>They called them monsters to pander to public sensitivity. But that was a good enough name for them. Calling them extranormal creatures and objects just wasn't an accurate way to describe them anymore.</p> <p><strong>NEVER CAMP OUTSIDE. SECURE ALL ENTRANCES TO YOUR DWELLING.</strong></p> <p><em>The young man popped his head out of a shipping container. He locked eyes with a statue just outside, and slowly pulled his head back in the door before slamming it shut.</em></p> <p><em>"Impervious!" He said happily, face lit with a match.</em></p> <p>He hated that so much. Now it was time for the important part.</p> <p><strong>NEWS AND UPDATES FOR YOUR REGION: OLD KANSAS SECTOR</strong></p> <p><strong>BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR CROW SWARMS. THESE CREATURES ARE NOCTURNAL AND WILL ATTACK YOU IF YOU ARE CAUGHT OUT IN THE OPEN.</strong></p> <p>Golly jeepers, if he didn't already know that. He rolled his eyes.</p> <p>ESTIMATED HUMAN POPULATIONS FOR YOUR TOWN: SYLVAN GROVE, KS: 120.5</p> <p>KNOWN HOSTILE EXTRANORMAL CREATURES AND OBJECTS IN YOUR AREA: 23</p> <p>SURVIVAL RATE MONTHLY AVERAGE: 76.22%</p> <p><strong>WEATHER: SUNNY</strong></p> <p><strong>THREAT LEVEL FOR OLD KANSAS SECTOR IS ORANGE. ENCOUNTERS WITH EXTRANORMAL CREATURES AND OBJECTS ARE TO BE EXPECTED</strong></p> <p>STAY TUNED FOR PROFILES ON KNOWN EXTRANORMAL CREATURES AND OBJECTS IN YOUR AREA.</p> <p>TO ENTER A TICKET FOR ASSISTANCE, PLEASE CALL 911. TICKETS ARE RESPONDED TO ON AN ABSOLUTE PRIORITY BASIS.</p> <p>THANK YOU FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT THE PUBLIC SAFETY FOUNDATION</p> <p><sub>PAID AND PROVIDED FOR BY MCF</sub></p> <p><strong>STAY VIGILANT</strong></p> <hr/> <p>He told the TV to shut off, and walked over to the coat rack. He grabbed an old, bloody baseball bat, and a backpack with a healthy supply of dandelion greens. He unbolted the door and let the fresh, purple sunshine warm his face. He looked out over the dead old farm with a feeling of longing and nostalgia.</p> <p>But the forecast was good today.</p> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/old-kansas-sector-part-2">Old Kansas Sector: Part 2</a> »</p> </div> <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="/old-kansas-sector">Old Kansas Sector 1: Farmhouse</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/old-kansas-sector">https://scpwiki.com/old-kansas-sector</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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%]]☦Allan fights anomalies in a post-normal world.☦ [[/size]] [[=]] //The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA// [[/=]] Allan had closed the shutters that night due to the swarms, and slept restlessly through the assault. He woke up the following day oblivious to the trial of the last night for a few moments, until he saw a small, circular hole letting sunlight in through his boarded window. The crows were diligent. He lived alone in his grandmother's old farmhouse. She had a chicken farm and she would sell eggs at the farmer's market while she was still alive. She was taken by a monster a few years ago while she was making a trip to the city. He wasn't sure of the particulars, but he really didn't want to know the rest. The Public Safety Foundation sent a notice that she was killed by a Shock Creature, and that death was quick. Shock in this case was meant to imply inevitable death. Allan opened the window and saw the small, dead city of chicken coops covered in dust and old bird droppings. Out beyond was the great nothing of Old Kansas, shallow rolling hills and dirt. The farmhouse was old. 200 years old at least, and he was grateful that it was so sturdy. The only thing he ever had to deal with on his property were the crows. He had butchered some rats last night and found them where he left them in the cupboard. The meat wasn't all too bad with the right spices, and the innards were actually quite good. You just had to remember to boil them. After frying the meat, he sat down with the food on a nasty old plate and turned on the TV. ----- //A young man in a raggedy brown vest was shown walking down an old, dusty road. He had a spade shovel holstered at his side and a large backpack.// Words in red and all caps appeared rushing toward the screen. PUBLIC SAFETY TIPS: OLD KANSAS SECTOR ALWAYS CARRY A BACKUP WEAPON. //An eyeless, hairless, rabid dog appeared down the road and began galloping toward the young man. He aimed his revolver at it, and it clicked. He rolled his eyes, hefted his shovel, and delivered a fatal blow to the dog thing's head. He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and gave a thumbs up toward the camera.// //"It's easy!"// ALWAYS CARRY A DAY'S WORTH OF FOOD AND MEDICAL SUPPLIES. //He checked his backpack, finding that it was full of fresh apples. He gave the camera a wry grin.// //"Safe and sure!"// REMEMBER TO BOIL WILD ANIMALS BEFORE CONSUMING THEM. DON'T EAT MONSTERS. //The young man lifted a strange, three-headed caterpillar creature, pulling his head away from it. He shook his head.// //"No way Jose."// They called them monsters to pander to public sensitivity. But that was a good enough name for them. Calling them extranormal creatures and objects just wasn't an accurate way to describe them anymore. NEVER CAMP OUTSIDE. SECURE ALL ENTRANCES TO YOUR DWELLING. //The young man popped his head out of a shipping container. He locked eyes with a statue just outside, and slowly pulled his head back in the door before slamming it shut.// //"Impervious!" He said happily, face lit with a match.// He hated that so much. Now it was time for the important part. NEWS AND UPDATES FOR YOUR REGION: OLD KANSAS SECTOR BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR CROW SWARMS. THESE CREATURES ARE NOCTURNAL AND WILL ATTACK YOU IF YOU ARE CAUGHT OUT IN THE OPEN. Golly jeepers, if he didn't already know that. He rolled his eyes. ESTIMATED HUMAN POPULATIONS FOR YOUR TOWN: SYLVAN GROVE, KS: 120.5 KNOWN HOSTILE EXTRANORMAL CREATURES AND OBJECTS IN YOUR AREA: 23 SURVIVAL RATE MONTHLY AVERAGE: 76.22% WEATHER: SUNNY THREAT LEVEL FOR OLD KANSAS SECTOR IS ORANGE. ENCOUNTERS WITH EXTRANORMAL CREATURES AND OBJECTS ARE TO BE EXPECTED STAY TUNED FOR PROFILES ON KNOWN EXTRANORMAL CREATURES AND OBJECTS IN YOUR AREA. TO ENTER A TICKET FOR ASSISTANCE, PLEASE CALL 911. TICKETS ARE RESPONDED TO ON AN ABSOLUTE PRIORITY BASIS. THANK YOU FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT THE PUBLIC SAFETY FOUNDATION ,,PAID AND PROVIDED FOR BY MCF,, STAY VIGILANT ----- He told the TV to shut off, and walked over to the coat rack. He grabbed an old, bloody baseball bat, and a backpack with a healthy supply of dandelion greens. He unbolted the door and let the fresh, purple sunshine warm his face. He looked out over the dead old farm with a feeling of longing and nostalgia. But the forecast was good today. [[>]] [[[old-kansas-sector-part-2 \|Old Kansas Sector: Part 2]]] >> [[/>]] [[=]] \| [[[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>]]	2013-08-19T22:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "manna-charitable-foundation", "post-apocalyptic", "rats-nest", "tale" ]	Old Kansas Sector 1: Farmhouse - SCP Foundation	106	[ "old-kansas-sector-part-2", "rat-s-nest-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "manna-charitable-foundation-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "rat-s-nest-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19325936	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/old-kansas-sector
old-kansas-sector-part-2	<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%;">☦Allan reads a dusty old tabloid.☦</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><em>The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD<br/> Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA</em></p> </div> <p>The organizations that were responsible for dealing with the monsters came into public view a long time ago. Back then, people were scared. There were decades of confusion and anger, with riots all throughout the world.</p> <p>Then the First Occult war began, which was spurred on by the Phantoms, or Shadow People. The United States and Canada were ravaged. Every other threshold in the northwest became a highway for the creatures. Everyone knew someone who had their heart harvested.</p> <p>Two years into the war, the Barclay document, which outlined how to destroy the creatures, was made public. People armed themselves with knowledge, and the war was finally won by the newly formed (and soon deformed) Canadian-American militia.</p> <p>It was decided that every person must be educated, and trained from birth to resist their fears. In a few generations, the common man wasn't so afraid. He didn't respond to the bogeyman with fear. When something bumped in the dark, he bumped back.</p> <p>A culture grew around destroying monsters, and being courageous in the face of the approaching unknowns and inevitability. That is why Allen, the young man from the farmhouse in nowhere, Kansas, was holding a bloodstained Louisville Slugger, and chasing a large, naked dog-thing down a dusty back road.</p> <p>"Hey! Why are you running? Kill me!" yelled Allen breathlessly.</p> <p>The dog-thing, which was colloquially referred to as a Bad Dog, galloped off the dusty road and into the woods, leaving a trail of green blood behind it.</p> <p>Allen laughed a silent laugh, and smiled.</p> <p>He shook his head and began walking further down the road, deciding not to pursue it any further. He was on his way to the city, which was about 15 miles away. He planned on finding some booze, an antenna, and a small laptop computer so that he could entertain himself on those noisy nights when he was stuck in the house.</p> <p>He would also need to find a PSF signal filter so that the hostile, brain scrambling parts of the internet were filtered out, and things couldn't travel through his screen on the wireless signal.</p> <p>He traveled listening to music on his PDA for five miles, passing old, rotting ranch houses. He knew he was near the highway when he neared the red house with the family of skeletons on the porch. He waved to the tallest one, and the skeleton nodded.</p> <p>A bit of a ways down the highway, he grew bored with the songs, so he pulled a PSF care package that he had found earlier out of his backpack. It was one of about twenty littering the pavement back by the gas station. They sent drones twice yearly and carpet bombed known urban centers with reading material. He didn't really see the point of this, because they still had WiFi balloons floating around.</p> <p>Maybe it was for old people who couldn't make their way to the city? Posterity? Oh well.</p> <p><strong>CLEF'S GUIDE FOR DEALING WITH BRAIN FIDDLERS.</strong></p> <p>Shucks. He wouldn't ever have to deal with warpers. He was in the middle of Kansas. Warpers liked to hang out in big cities and wastelands.</p> <p>He skimmed the pages just to be sure.</p> <p><strong>KILL IT. JUST KILL IT. DON'T TALK TO IT. DON'T LET IT SEE YOU. KILL IT. IT'S NOT YOUR FRIEND. TOO LATE YOU'RE DEAD.</strong></p> <p>The text was repeated across forty pages.</p> <p>He pulled out another.</p> <p><strong>THE BRIGHT GUIDE TO STAYING ALIVE FOR LONGER THAN YOU SHOULD</strong></p> <p>This one was just recounting of the safety tips he saw on the PSF band, with a little commentary here and there. There were also some jokes he already heard before. These things were at least thirty years old. Half the people who wrote them were dead, and he didn't understand how the people that were still writing them were still breathing. He threw them to the side.</p> <p><strong>THE INQUIRER 2118</strong></p> <p>Okay. He had never seen this one before. He opened up the seal and tore into it.</p> <p><strong>CONTAINMENT SITES FOR K CLASS OBJECTS: STILL OPERATIONAL IN THE MIDWEST?</strong></p> <p><strong>WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE REST OF THE WORLD? YOU TELL US.</strong></p> <p><strong>DR. MANN, FAMOUS RESEARCHER, GONE INSANE, AND INTO HIDING. READ THE EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH SPECIAL AGENT YORIC.</strong></p> <p><strong>THE CHAOS INSURGENCY</strong></p> <p>He stretched, and looked off into the horizon. It was almost noon. He should be walking a little faster.</p> <p><strong>TEN MILLION HANDS: THE SECOND OCCULT WAR, THE MASS BROADCAST OF THE FORTUNE TELLER, RECOLLECTIONS OF THE A.W.C.Y. MASSACRE. THE DAY GRAMMY SAW THE WORLD.</strong></p> <p><strong>EUCLID FLORIDA. LARGEST CONTAINMENT AREA IN THE USA IS SET TO BURST</strong></p> <p><strong>NEW YORK: THE LIVING CITY</strong></p> <p><strong>THE GREAT WITCH OF THE NORTH</strong></p> <p><strong>NUCLEAR STRIKES, DIMENSIONAL TEARS, NECROMANCERS, OH MY.</strong></p> <p><strong>NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE.</strong></p> <p><strong>WE OWN YOU.</strong></p> <p><strong>GO WATCH TV.</strong></p> <p><strong>YOU'RE ON TV.</strong></p> <p>He should really know better by now.</p> <p><strong>WE OWN EVERYTHING.</strong></p> <p><strong>HOW WE KILLED YOUR GRANDMOTHER: THE WHOLE THING: ALL OF THE JUICY BITS.</strong></p> <p>He winced as he saw and smelled, on the last page, the sensational, graphic images of himself lying dead in a pool of blood and feces.</p> <p><strong>LAY DOWN AND DIE</strong></p> <p><strong>YOU</strong></p> <p><strong>LITTLE</strong></p> <p><strong>SHIT</strong></p> <p>The last, unread headline fired loud, from a voice he did not know, ringing throughout his skull.</p> <p>He threw the magazine away from him.</p> <p>"Gah! Enough of this smut."</p> <p>He shook his head and tried to remove the thoughts from it. He tightened his brown vest and began to march.</p> <div style="text-align: left;"> <p>« <a href="/old-kansas-sector">Old Kansas Sector: Part 1</a></p> </div> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/old-kansas-sector-part-3">Old Kansas Sector: Part 3</a> »</p> </div> <br/> <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="/old-kansas-sector-part-2">Old Kansas Sector ~ 2: Tabloid</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/old-kansas-sector-part-2">https://scpwiki.com/old-kansas-sector-part-2</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </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%]]☦Allan reads a dusty old tabloid.☦ [[/size]] [[=]] //The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA// [[/=]] The organizations that were responsible for dealing with the monsters came into public view a long time ago. Back then, people were scared. There were decades of confusion and anger, with riots all throughout the world. Then the First Occult war began, which was spurred on by the Phantoms, or Shadow People. The United States and Canada were ravaged. Every other threshold in the northwest became a highway for the creatures. Everyone knew someone who had their heart harvested. Two years into the war, the Barclay document, which outlined how to destroy the creatures, was made public. People armed themselves with knowledge, and the war was finally won by the newly formed (and soon deformed) Canadian-American militia. It was decided that every person must be educated, and trained from birth to resist their fears. In a few generations, the common man wasn't so afraid. He didn't respond to the bogeyman with fear. When something bumped in the dark, he bumped back. A culture grew around destroying monsters, and being courageous in the face of the approaching unknowns and inevitability. That is why Allen, the young man from the farmhouse in nowhere, Kansas, was holding a bloodstained Louisville Slugger, and chasing a large, naked dog-thing down a dusty back road. "Hey! Why are you running? Kill me!" yelled Allen breathlessly. The dog-thing, which was colloquially referred to as a Bad Dog, galloped off the dusty road and into the woods, leaving a trail of green blood behind it. Allen laughed a silent laugh, and smiled. He shook his head and began walking further down the road, deciding not to pursue it any further. He was on his way to the city, which was about 15 miles away. He planned on finding some booze, an antenna, and a small laptop computer so that he could entertain himself on those noisy nights when he was stuck in the house. He would also need to find a PSF signal filter so that the hostile, brain scrambling parts of the internet were filtered out, and things couldn't travel through his screen on the wireless signal. He traveled listening to music on his PDA for five miles, passing old, rotting ranch houses. He knew he was near the highway when he neared the red house with the family of skeletons on the porch. He waved to the tallest one, and the skeleton nodded. A bit of a ways down the highway, he grew bored with the songs, so he pulled a PSF care package that he had found earlier out of his backpack. It was one of about twenty littering the pavement back by the gas station. They sent drones twice yearly and carpet bombed known urban centers with reading material. He didn't really see the point of this, because they still had WiFi balloons floating around. Maybe it was for old people who couldn't make their way to the city? Posterity? Oh well. CLEF'S GUIDE FOR DEALING WITH BRAIN FIDDLERS. Shucks. He wouldn't ever have to deal with warpers. He was in the middle of Kansas. Warpers liked to hang out in big cities and wastelands. He skimmed the pages just to be sure. KILL IT. JUST KILL IT. DON'T TALK TO IT. DON'T LET IT SEE YOU. KILL IT. IT'S NOT YOUR FRIEND. TOO LATE YOU'RE DEAD. The text was repeated across forty pages. He pulled out another. THE BRIGHT GUIDE TO STAYING ALIVE FOR LONGER THAN YOU SHOULD This one was just recounting of the safety tips he saw on the PSF band, with a little commentary here and there. There were also some jokes he already heard before. These things were at least thirty years old. Half the people who wrote them were dead, and he didn't understand how the people that were still writing them were still breathing. He threw them to the side. THE INQUIRER 2118 Okay. He had never seen this one before. He opened up the seal and tore into it. CONTAINMENT SITES FOR K CLASS OBJECTS: STILL OPERATIONAL IN THE MIDWEST? WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE REST OF THE WORLD? YOU TELL US. DR. MANN, FAMOUS RESEARCHER, GONE INSANE, AND INTO HIDING. READ THE EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH SPECIAL AGENT YORIC. THE CHAOS INSURGENCY He stretched, and looked off into the horizon. It was almost noon. He should be walking a little faster. TEN MILLION HANDS: THE SECOND OCCULT WAR, THE MASS BROADCAST OF THE FORTUNE TELLER, RECOLLECTIONS OF THE A.W.C.Y. MASSACRE. THE DAY GRAMMY SAW THE WORLD. EUCLID FLORIDA. LARGEST CONTAINMENT AREA IN THE USA IS SET TO BURST NEW YORK: THE LIVING CITY THE GREAT WITCH OF THE NORTH NUCLEAR STRIKES, DIMENSIONAL TEARS, NECROMANCERS, OH MY. NO HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. WE OWN YOU. GO WATCH TV. YOU'RE ON TV. He should really know better by now. WE OWN EVERYTHING. HOW WE KILLED YOUR GRANDMOTHER: THE WHOLE THING: ALL OF THE JUICY BITS. He winced as he saw and smelled, on the last page, the sensational, graphic images of himself lying dead in a pool of blood and feces. LAY DOWN AND DIE YOU LITTLE SHIT The last, unread headline fired loud, from a voice he did not know, ringing throughout his skull. He threw the magazine away from him. "Gah! Enough of this smut." He shook his head and tried to remove the thoughts from it. He tightened his brown vest and began to march. [[<]] << [[[old-kansas-sector \|Old Kansas Sector: Part 1]]] [[/<]] [[>]] [[[old-kansas-sector-part-3 \|Old Kansas Sector: Part 3]]] >> [[/>]] [[=]] \| [[[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>]]	2013-08-21T23:42:00	[ "_licensebox", "post-apocalyptic", "rats-nest", "tale" ]	Old Kansas Sector ~ 2: Tabloid - SCP Foundation	87	[ "old-kansas-sector", "old-kansas-sector-part-3", "rat-s-nest-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "rat-s-nest-hub" ]	[]	19356782	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/old-kansas-sector-part-2
old-kansas-sector-part-3	<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%;">☦Allan torments the Changed people of Kansas.☦</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><img alt="OKS_3.png" class="image" src="https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/old-kansas-sector-part-3/OKS_3.png" width="300 px"/> <p><em>The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD<br/> Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA</em></p> </div> <p>Historians dubbed the in-between age where humans were still struggling to exist as the Last Era. This was the great decline of humanity, and <em>the-End-Of-The-World</em>. This - pardoning the historians - wasn't entirely true, but only because there was no one around afterwards who cared enough to give their days a fitting name.</p> <p>The time that followed could probably be called the Age of Rot, or something else gray (or purple) sounding. This was a time when the abnormal was the norm and few humans or native animals walked the Earth. Humans that were still alive and exposed to the world as it was were not very human anymore.</p> <p>The Changed started manifesting toward the end of the Last Era, and they were capable of strange, uncomfortable things. Every other human you met was Changed, and there was no way of knowing what that meant for you.</p> <p>I don't want to paint them in a bad light, though. A few were good, rightly folks.</p> <p>They were just inherently wrong.</p> <hr/> <p>Salina was only 20 miles away, but it used to be 60 miles away.</p> <p>The Great Kansas Crunch of 2099 was a difficult time for people, and an even more difficult time for those that survived it.</p> <p>A few days after the Crunch, someone saw a tall, thin thing hobbling awkwardly in the pale dust of the Kansas sunset. They were the second Changed of Kansas, the Walking Sticks.</p> <p>The humans decided that their existence was torture for them, and that they had to be put down. So the gangs that ran the twisted pockets of land that now polka-dotted Kansas hunted them, and snapped them like twigs.</p> <p>A small tribe of Walking Sticks escaped the purge, and settled the tight spaces of the Pinched Barrens.</p> <p>Allen was in their territory now, walking adjacent to the great, twisted spires of roads and cars that used to be K-18, and tried not to look at the tall, gnarly creatures with disgust. He saw monsters dragging their cancerous, tubular limbs across the sea of dead crops, but he couldn't consider them, even if he knew that they used to be human. The great psychology of the time taught him mercy, but something always kept him from walking up to one and bashing its head in.</p> <p>He hated what he wouldn't be able to describe as the constantly rising and falling Shepard tone that was their voice. He hated that they were pointing at him as he was walking by, and saying things.</p> <p>He tried to ignore his thoughts. He pretended they were just the dead corn stalks behind them.</p> <p>But he couldn't help but look.</p> <p>Crowds of squished, twisted sausages ending in light bulb heads, and impossibly long proboscis arms dragging behind them. They were coming from out of the fields, following a very tall Walking Stick. They waved at him with however many arms that were bound to them, and spoke their horrific language.</p> <p>"Go away!" He shouted, beginning to walk into a jog, cautiously glancing toward the group of things every few steps.</p> <p>He tripped on a jagged rock, falling to his hip, and looked at the crowd behind him.</p> <p>That's when he saw it. Something that infuriated him more than anything yet, more than the magazine that toyed with his mind, or the viruses in his television.</p> <p>It was small, and being carried by a two-headed, four-armed Walking Stick stalk. They were bringing it toward him, just the same way a beggar walks toward someone when they're about to ask for change.</p> <p><em>It</em> began to cry.</p> <p>He got up and began walking at them, flesh boiling and tears beginning to well in his eyes. He pulled out his bat, and everything went white.</p> <p>When he came to, he felt their eyes on him. He was surrounded by the things, and thick tubes of bloody flesh were sprawled in an indistinguishable mess around his feet.</p> <p>He roared at the crowd and pushed his way out, his flesh rubbing against the kelpy mass. He ran back towards home until he couldn't run anymore.</p> <div style="text-align: left;"> <p>« <a href="/old-kansas-sector-part-2">Old Kansas Sector: Part 2</a></p> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>\| <a href="/rat-s-nest-hub">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div style="text-align: right;"> <p><a href="/old-kansas-sector-part-4">Old Kansas Sector: Part 4</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="/old-kansas-sector-part-3">Old Kansas Sector ~ 3: Walking Sticks</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/old-kansas-sector-part-3">https://scpwiki.com/old-kansas-sector-part-3</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Filename:</strong> OKS_3.png<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/faminepulse" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(4275444); return false;"><img alt="faminepulse" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=4275444&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1735043745" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=4275444)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/faminepulse" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(4275444); return false;">faminepulse</a></span><br/> <strong>License:</strong> CC BY-SA 3.0<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/old-kansas-sector-part-3">SCP Foundation Wiki</a></p> </blockquote> </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%]]☦Allan torments the Changed people of Kansas.☦ [[/size]] [[=]] [[image OKS_3.png width="300 px"]] //The Last Era: 12, August, 2119 AD Sylvan Grove, Kansas, USA// [[/=]] Historians dubbed the in-between age where humans were still struggling to exist as the Last Era. This was the great decline of humanity, and //the-End-Of-The-World//. This - pardoning the historians - wasn't entirely true, but only because there was no one around afterwards who cared enough to give their days a fitting name. The time that followed could probably be called the Age of Rot, or something else gray (or purple) sounding. This was a time when the abnormal was the norm and few humans or native animals walked the Earth. Humans that were still alive and exposed to the world as it was were not very human anymore. The Changed started manifesting toward the end of the Last Era, and they were capable of strange, uncomfortable things. Every other human you met was Changed, and there was no way of knowing what that meant for you. I don't want to paint them in a bad light, though. A few were good, rightly folks. They were just inherently wrong. ------ Salina was only 20 miles away, but it used to be 60 miles away. The Great Kansas Crunch of 2099 was a difficult time for people, and an even more difficult time for those that survived it. A few days after the Crunch, someone saw a tall, thin thing hobbling awkwardly in the pale dust of the Kansas sunset. They were the second Changed of Kansas, the Walking Sticks. The humans decided that their existence was torture for them, and that they had to be put down. So the gangs that ran the twisted pockets of land that now polka-dotted Kansas hunted them, and snapped them like twigs. A small tribe of Walking Sticks escaped the purge, and settled the tight spaces of the Pinched Barrens. Allen was in their territory now, walking adjacent to the great, twisted spires of roads and cars that used to be K-18, and tried not to look at the tall, gnarly creatures with disgust. He saw monsters dragging their cancerous, tubular limbs across the sea of dead crops, but he couldn't consider them, even if he knew that they used to be human. The great psychology of the time taught him mercy, but something always kept him from walking up to one and bashing its head in. He hated what he wouldn't be able to describe as the constantly rising and falling Shepard tone that was their voice. He hated that they were pointing at him as he was walking by, and saying things. He tried to ignore his thoughts. He pretended they were just the dead corn stalks behind them. But he couldn't help but look. Crowds of squished, twisted sausages ending in light bulb heads, and impossibly long proboscis arms dragging behind them. They were coming from out of the fields, following a very tall Walking Stick. They waved at him with however many arms that were bound to them, and spoke their horrific language. "Go away!" He shouted, beginning to walk into a jog, cautiously glancing toward the group of things every few steps. He tripped on a jagged rock, falling to his hip, and looked at the crowd behind him. That's when he saw it. Something that infuriated him more than anything yet, more than the magazine that toyed with his mind, or the viruses in his television. It was small, and being carried by a two-headed, four-armed Walking Stick stalk. They were bringing it toward him, just the same way a beggar walks toward someone when they're about to ask for change. //It// began to cry. He got up and began walking at them, flesh boiling and tears beginning to well in his eyes. He pulled out his bat, and everything went white. When he came to, he felt their eyes on him. He was surrounded by the things, and thick tubes of bloody flesh were sprawled in an indistinguishable mess around his feet. He roared at the crowd and pushed his way out, his flesh rubbing against the kelpy mass. He ran back towards home until he couldn't run anymore. [[<]] << [[[old-kansas-sector-part-2 \|Old Kansas Sector: Part 2]]] [[/<]] [[=]] \| [[[Rat's Nest Hub\| Hub]]] \| [[/=]] [[>]] [[[old-kansas-sector-part-4 \|Old Kansas Sector: Part 4]]] >> [[/>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=faminepulse]] ===== > Filename: OKS_3.png > Author: [[user faminepulse]] > License:* CC BY-SA 3.0 > Source Link: [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/old-kansas-sector-part-3 SCP Foundation Wiki] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-08-23T00:56:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "bleak", "illustrated", "post-apocalyptic", "rats-nest", "tale" ]	Old Kansas Sector ~ 3: Walking Sticks - SCP Foundation	72	[ "old-kansas-sector-part-2", "rat-s-nest-hub", "old-kansas-sector-part-4", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "rat-s-nest-hub" ]	[ "https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/old-kansas-sector-part-3/OKS_3.png" ]	19368002	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/old-kansas-sector-part-3
older-roads	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦Eldricht masters of probability. SCP-1855.☦</span></p> <p>Before time, a group of construction workers found a space in the infinite nether and decided that one day, a teenage human should need to drive through that point on his way to a new home, and that he should take some extra time to get there, and that certain trees should provide shade and that some of them shouldn't, and that on his way he should be a little hungry.</p> <p>So they laid the groundwork.</p> <p>In order to do this they would need dinosaurs and giant flaming balls of gas.</p> <p>Construction went very according to plan, with the mammals eating the dinosaur's eggs and a politician being shot in the head in his convertible.</p> <p>They waited a few years and shared cans of watery beer up until this punk turned a corner on a shaded Louisianna backroad. One of them sat in anticipation with a walkie-talkie, and a bag of fun sized Snickers. Their foreheads were coated in sweat as the human puttered closer to his truck. He drew closer, slower, because there were construction signs and the worker was blocking the way.</p> <p>The human took off his helmet and pulled up to the worker's window.</p> <p>"Hey, can I go through here? The signs say do not pass. I don't know what that means." said the human.</p> <p>"Uh, yeah," the worker responded, mouth half full of chocolate, "just follow the pilot car up ahead."</p> <p>"Hey thanks!" he said, and began to put his helmet back on.</p> <p>"Wait a minute there, you hungry? I got some Fritos that I'm not gonna eat."</p> <p>The human looked at the worker, puzzled. "No, not really. I'm not really hungry."</p> <p>The worker grimaced, and looked away on down the road.</p> <p>This universe would stretch on in infinite wrongness, its denizens completely unaware how wrong they all were. Of course a few aesthetes would jump off of some bridges due to some sort of implacable existential crisis, but I digress.</p> <p>The workers held a meeting in an abandoned Wal Mart 3,000 years after they learned that their construction wasn't up to code. The fat man shaped creatures sat in the mucus coated inventory room on ladders and stacked pallets.</p> <p>"Probability is hard to master," the fattest of them said in a lazy croak "but not impossible. We know that."</p> <p>Some of them shuffled in their seats, and many cigarettes were lit.</p> <p>"This universe is wrong, and that is sad. Outside you'll see octopus slime monsters funneling through that big hole in the ground, doing <em>things</em> to the human populace. That ain't right. That's wrong actually. That is not a thing that should happen."</p> <p>Everyone muttered in agreement.</p> <p>"But we're not gonna sit around crying about it, or blame anyone, not even Steve. We freeze this world and move on."</p> <p>They sat in silence for some time, ignoring the weird squishes and screams coming from outside.</p> <p>"I'll do the honors."</p> <p>The fattest one opened the loading garage and stepped outside onto the pavement.</p> <p>"An infinite number of possibilities stretch out around us in every moment," he croaked loudly as he stepped a few meters in front of a human and its monstrous pursuer. "…and it's your job to know what happens at least one hundred million steps ahead."</p> <p>"Oh my god please help me!" the man screamed as he neared the worker. "Help!" he screamed at the unmoving, bored looking man creature. The worker stepped aside as the human approached, and, a few moments before the human passed him, he extended his foot. The human tripped and the slime monster closed the distance.</p> <p>"Oh god why! No!" the human screamed as the monster… well.</p> <p>The group of workers applauded quietly as the fattest turned his back to the vulgar scene behind him, and made his way back to the garage.</p> <p>"This is how it's done. In a few million years this world, led by the hybrid sextuplepus necromancers, will be frozen permanently by your typical stasis anomaly, and we will be transported to a blank dimension. We'll go from there."</p> <hr/> <p>They waited a few years and a human turned a corner on a Louisiana back road on a scooter.</p> <p>The human was starving, and had been driving for about five hours. He saw that there was a gas station a few miles ahead on his GPS, and decided to drive past the construction workers and the pilot car that was supposed to lead him through.</p> <p>"Hey buddy, slow down!" the worker screamed as the human flew past him on the old road. But he didn't slow down, and one thousand years later shadow people would be eating human hearts, and the resistance would create a device designed to destroy them all in one fell swoop, and it would backfire horribly.<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="/older-roads">Older Roads</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/older-roads">https://scpwiki.com/older-roads</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:scp-pride">:scp-wiki:component:scp-pride</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]☦Eldricht masters of probability. SCP-1855.☦[[/size]] Before time, a group of construction workers found a space in the infinite nether and decided that one day, a teenage human should need to drive through that point on his way to a new home, and that he should take some extra time to get there, and that certain trees should provide shade and that some of them shouldn't, and that on his way he should be a little hungry. So they laid the groundwork. In order to do this they would need dinosaurs and giant flaming balls of gas. Construction went very according to plan, with the mammals eating the dinosaur's eggs and a politician being shot in the head in his convertible. They waited a few years and shared cans of watery beer up until this punk turned a corner on a shaded Louisianna backroad. One of them sat in anticipation with a walkie-talkie, and a bag of fun sized Snickers. Their foreheads were coated in sweat as the human puttered closer to his truck. He drew closer, slower, because there were construction signs and the worker was blocking the way. The human took off his helmet and pulled up to the worker's window. "Hey, can I go through here? The signs say do not pass. I don't know what that means." said the human. "Uh, yeah," the worker responded, mouth half full of chocolate, "just follow the pilot car up ahead." "Hey thanks!" he said, and began to put his helmet back on. "Wait a minute there, you hungry? I got some Fritos that I'm not gonna eat." The human looked at the worker, puzzled. "No, not really. I'm not really hungry." The worker grimaced, and looked away on down the road. This universe would stretch on in infinite wrongness, its denizens completely unaware how wrong they all were. Of course a few aesthetes would jump off of some bridges due to some sort of implacable existential crisis, but I digress. The workers held a meeting in an abandoned Wal Mart 3,000 years after they learned that their construction wasn't up to code. The fat man shaped creatures sat in the mucus coated inventory room on ladders and stacked pallets. "Probability is hard to master," the fattest of them said in a lazy croak "but not impossible. We know that." Some of them shuffled in their seats, and many cigarettes were lit. "This universe is wrong, and that is sad. Outside you'll see octopus slime monsters funneling through that big hole in the ground, doing //things// to the human populace. That ain't right. That's wrong actually. That is not a thing that should happen." Everyone muttered in agreement. "But we're not gonna sit around crying about it, or blame anyone, not even Steve. We freeze this world and move on." They sat in silence for some time, ignoring the weird squishes and screams coming from outside. "I'll do the honors." The fattest one opened the loading garage and stepped outside onto the pavement. "An infinite number of possibilities stretch out around us in every moment," he croaked loudly as he stepped a few meters in front of a human and its monstrous pursuer. "...and it's your job to know what happens at least one hundred million steps ahead." "Oh my god please help me!" the man screamed as he neared the worker. "Help!" he screamed at the unmoving, bored looking man creature. The worker stepped aside as the human approached, and, a few moments before the human passed him, he extended his foot. The human tripped and the slime monster closed the distance. "Oh god why! No!" the human screamed as the monster... well. The group of workers applauded quietly as the fattest turned his back to the vulgar scene behind him, and made his way back to the garage. "This is how it's done. In a few million years this world, led by the hybrid sextuplepus necromancers, will be frozen permanently by your typical stasis anomaly, and we will be transported to a blank dimension. We'll go from there." ----- They waited a few years and a human turned a corner on a Louisiana back road on a scooter. The human was starving, and had been driving for about five hours. He saw that there was a gas station a few miles ahead on his GPS, and decided to drive past the construction workers and the pilot car that was supposed to lead him through. "Hey buddy, slow down!" the worker screamed as the human flew past him on the old road. But he didn't slow down, and one thousand years later shadow people would be eating human hearts, and the resistance would create a device designed to destroy them all in one fell swoop, and it would backfire horribly. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-08-11T08:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Older Roads - SCP Foundation	40	[ "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" ]	[]	19220648	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/older-roads
one-last-punch-for-the-road	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"Ladies, gentlemen, and other assorted individuals. The time has come for us to die."</p> <p>A great noise erupted from the assembled members of the Shark Punching Center. Some in the audience had known of these plans for quite some time, but to the majority, the announcement came as a shock. Question after question was hurled at the speaker on stage, who remained silent until the room calmed down. There would be time to answer all of them, but for now, everyone needed a few moments to vent and get everything out of their systems.</p> <p>After several minutes of disorder and shouting, the room gradually grew still, all eyes fixed on the speaker, hoping he would provide some answer to this perceived madness.</p> <p>"Now, as you all know," the speaker began, straightening his tie out, "we have all solemnly sworn to defend the Earth from the constant threat it faces in the form of the shark menace. Every day, hundreds of us go out into the field, and punch sharks in the face, risking life and limb so that no family has to be torn apart by a great white, so that no basking shark can ever threaten the international security of any country. We've had a good run at it, and under ideal circumstances, we would continue our operations far into the future." He paused, then sighed deeply. "But unfortunately, circumstances are far from ideal right now. We are under constant threat, and for once, it comes not in the form of a scaly, fanged monster from the depths of the ocean. Rather, it comes from the organization known as the SCP Foundation."</p> <p>A few curses were muttered in the audience, accompanied by several shaking fists. "You are all of course familiar with the way they came to possess a transcript of our orientation program. At first, we thought nothing of it: who cares if they knew? It's not like they had any good reason to stop us at the time. So we let it slide, and for a short period of time, we coexisted peacefully. They contained their anomalous objects and we punched our sharks.</p> <p>"But after a time, it became apparent that we could not exist completely parallel to one another. We started pushing at the boundaries, infiltrating their operations. We managed to gate crash their Halloween party, establish our own website that was highly similar to theirs, and even stole away a few of their contained objects to further our ability to punch sharks. It was our most successful period, both in terms of achieving our goal and financial success."</p> <p>Again, the orator stopped and adjusted his tie, coughing slightly as he did so. "But then the Foundation started pushing back. They captured our top field agent. They started working to keep us out of their sites. They even attempted to stop several of our best men from punching sharks! And then there's <em><a href="/about-tree-fiddy">this</a></em>," he said, standing up straighter and brandishing a handful of papers, "this… thing they put out just the other day. You all saw it yesterday, I know you did. A mockery of all our hard work and sacrifice. They view us as little more than a joke - no, not even that anymore. We were a joke to them in the past. Now we're just a tired old gag."</p> <p>The speaker stepped out from behind the podium and placed his hands behind his back. "But then, I suppose we've been a joke since the beginning."</p> <p>Another cacophony of noise rose up from the crowd, outraged at the merest hint that their sacred mission could be considered anything close to a joke. "Everyone, please, please listen!" the orator cried, raising his hands up and desperately trying to calm the crowd down. "I do not mean to imply that our mission is a joke, or that the act of punching sharks is an unworthy cause! Please, listen!"</p> <p>The assembled members eventually calmed down enough to take their places and listen once again, though many still seethed at the words they had just heard.</p> <p>"Lately, I have been consulting the psychic shark we keep hidden away in the high-security wing. You are all very much aware of the danger in punching this one, due to its tendency to damage the very fabric of reality whenever it is struck. However, while working to find some way of saving ourselves, I punched him straight between the eyes, and I saw. I saw that this world was not always as it has been. There was a time when things the Foundation considers to be… 'goofy,'" he said, finger-quoting as sardonically as he could, "were very much the norm. It was a time when a man could punch all the sharks he wanted and protect mankind from the shark threat, and the Foundation would not find fault in this at all.</p> <p>"But there came a time when the nature of the universe changed. Some greater power, far beyond our comprehension, reshaped the fabric of reality, so that much of the 'goofy' elements in the universe were purged. Everything was serious now, and off-the-wall concepts were very much forbidden.</p> <p>"And then we came into existence. Despite our forty-year history, from a relative standpoint, the Shark Punching Center hasn't even been around for two years." Another cacophony rose up in the crowd. "If you don't believe me, you can go punch the psychic shark yourselves!" the orator snapped, his patience for these outbursts growing ever thinner. "Now please, listen to me!" There was, however, no calming the assembled members. All the speaker could do was wait for the chaos to die down. It took nearly twenty minutes, but eventually, order was restored.</p> <p>"Look. I may have gone a bit far in bringing that up. But it is ultimately beside the point. Regardless of why the Foundation views us the way they do, whether it be because we exist in a world where men and women like us are not meant to exist, or if they are simply sick of us, the fact remains that they view us as a joke. And if this," he brandished the papers again, "is any indication, we are the kind of joke that they will find a way to get rid of. But they will not do it fast.</p> <p>"We face a slow, horrible death, people. The Foundation will attempt to gradually drain away our resources, undermine our membership, and undo everything we have wrought. And again, this will not be swift; this will be a long, painful, drawn-out process. They can't be bothered to do it in one go; every time they need something to kick around a little, they'll drag us up and destroy us a little more, and then a little more, and then a little more, until there's nothing left. The death of the Shark Punching Center, on the terms of the SCP Foundation, will be drawn-out, humiliating, and painful. Is there anyone here who wants to see our mighty organization brought low in such a manner?"</p> <p>Having heard of their potential fate, few in the crowd could bring themselves to say they did. One solitary voice rose up from the sea of faces: "So what do we do?"</p> <p>The speaker sighed deeply. "We destroy ourselves. Not entirely, mind you, not entirely. We have a few select field agents chosen to continue our mission in secret. They will wander the oceans of the world, doing whatever they can to protect those threatened by sharks. But they are never to form another organization like us - it will only be them, and them alone, who defend the world. As for the rest of us, we are to vanish off the face of the Earth, and our bases are to be destroyed, all four of them. By the end of the day, it will be as if the Shark Punching Center never existed."</p> <p>A few people in the room laughed to themselves. A few people sobbed into their hands. Most were silent. A sense of inevitability had descended upon the room, leaving the majority unable to react in any significant manner. The speaker sighed one last time.</p> <p>"However, this does not mean we are going to go quietly." Ears perked up all across the room. "We will not be attacking the SCP Foundation, or doing some grand suicide mission, or anything of that sort. But we will not be going quietly. If you will look in the lockers stationed around this room, you will find enough scuba gear and boxing gloves to fit every person in this room. You are to don them, and brace yourselves for a sudden increase in the amount of water in the room. Shortly afterwards, every shark in this facility will be released, leaving us with more than enough shark faces to punch. With any luck, we will punch like we have never punched before.</p> <p>"There will not be any survivors. Despite our great skills, the fact of the matter is that the sharks far outnumber us, and will slaughter every last one of us. Upon the death of every non-shark living thing in the facility, the water is to be drained, leaving the sharks to die horrible, suffocating deaths. The bases will then blow, leaving behind no evidence we ever existed. And <em>that</em>, my friends, will be the end of the Shark Punching Center. One final glorious round of flying fists and bleeding scales. A fitting swan song for our group."</p> <p>A great excitement had gripped those assembled. In spite of their oncoming demise, none in the room could deny that there was any other proper way to go than this. They had punched sharks together for years, and if they had to go out, then they would go out swinging. Scuba gear was tightened, boxing gloves were strapped on, and bodies were braced. The brave men and women who had diligently protected the world from the underwater menace were ready to die, unsung heroes, but heroes nonetheless.</p> <p>Seeing that the last scuba mask had been fastened on tight, the speaker smiled - for the courage of the men and women before him, and for the years of glory they had lived for. "Does everybody remember the techniques you learned from <em>The Art of Punching Sharks</em>?" A great cry of confirmation echoed off the walls. "What is our motto?"</p> <p>"<em>To search, punch, and conquer!</em>"</p> <p>"Then release the sharks."</p> <p>So ended the Shark Punching Center.</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="/one-last-punch-for-the-road">One Last Punch For The Road</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/one-last-punch-for-the-road">https://scpwiki.com/one-last-punch-for-the-road</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "Ladies, gentlemen, and other assorted individuals. The time has come for us to die." A great noise erupted from the assembled members of the Shark Punching Center. Some in the audience had known of these plans for quite some time, but to the majority, the announcement came as a shock. Question after question was hurled at the speaker on stage, who remained silent until the room calmed down. There would be time to answer all of them, but for now, everyone needed a few moments to vent and get everything out of their systems. After several minutes of disorder and shouting, the room gradually grew still, all eyes fixed on the speaker, hoping he would provide some answer to this perceived madness. "Now, as you all know," the speaker began, straightening his tie out, "we have all solemnly sworn to defend the Earth from the constant threat it faces in the form of the shark menace. Every day, hundreds of us go out into the field, and punch sharks in the face, risking life and limb so that no family has to be torn apart by a great white, so that no basking shark can ever threaten the international security of any country. We've had a good run at it, and under ideal circumstances, we would continue our operations far into the future." He paused, then sighed deeply. "But unfortunately, circumstances are far from ideal right now. We are under constant threat, and for once, it comes not in the form of a scaly, fanged monster from the depths of the ocean. Rather, it comes from the organization known as the SCP Foundation." A few curses were muttered in the audience, accompanied by several shaking fists. "You are all of course familiar with the way they came to possess a transcript of our orientation program. At first, we thought nothing of it: who cares if they knew? It's not like they had any good reason to stop us at the time. So we let it slide, and for a short period of time, we coexisted peacefully. They contained their anomalous objects and we punched our sharks. "But after a time, it became apparent that we could not exist completely parallel to one another. We started pushing at the boundaries, infiltrating their operations. We managed to gate crash their Halloween party, establish our own website that was highly similar to theirs, and even stole away a few of their contained objects to further our ability to punch sharks. It was our most successful period, both in terms of achieving our goal and financial success." Again, the orator stopped and adjusted his tie, coughing slightly as he did so. "But then the Foundation started pushing back. They captured our top field agent. They started working to keep us out of their sites. They even attempted to stop several of our best men from punching sharks! And then there's //[[[About Tree Fiddy\|this]]]//," he said, standing up straighter and brandishing a handful of papers, "this... thing they put out just the other day. You all saw it yesterday, I know you did. A mockery of all our hard work and sacrifice. They view us as little more than a joke - no, not even that anymore. We were a joke to them in the past. Now we're just a tired old gag." The speaker stepped out from behind the podium and placed his hands behind his back. "But then, I suppose we've been a joke since the beginning." Another cacophony of noise rose up from the crowd, outraged at the merest hint that their sacred mission could be considered anything close to a joke. "Everyone, please, please listen!" the orator cried, raising his hands up and desperately trying to calm the crowd down. "I do not mean to imply that our mission is a joke, or that the act of punching sharks is an unworthy cause! Please, listen!" The assembled members eventually calmed down enough to take their places and listen once again, though many still seethed at the words they had just heard. "Lately, I have been consulting the psychic shark we keep hidden away in the high-security wing. You are all very much aware of the danger in punching this one, due to its tendency to damage the very fabric of reality whenever it is struck. However, while working to find some way of saving ourselves, I punched him straight between the eyes, and I saw. I saw that this world was not always as it has been. There was a time when things the Foundation considers to be... 'goofy,'" he said, finger-quoting as sardonically as he could, "were very much the norm. It was a time when a man could punch all the sharks he wanted and protect mankind from the shark threat, and the Foundation would not find fault in this at all. "But there came a time when the nature of the universe changed. Some greater power, far beyond our comprehension, reshaped the fabric of reality, so that much of the 'goofy' elements in the universe were purged. Everything was serious now, and off-the-wall concepts were very much forbidden. "And then we came into existence. Despite our forty-year history, from a relative standpoint, the Shark Punching Center hasn't even been around for two years." Another cacophony rose up in the crowd. "If you don't believe me, you can go punch the psychic shark yourselves!" the orator snapped, his patience for these outbursts growing ever thinner. "Now please, listen to me!" There was, however, no calming the assembled members. All the speaker could do was wait for the chaos to die down. It took nearly twenty minutes, but eventually, order was restored. "Look. I may have gone a bit far in bringing that up. But it is ultimately beside the point. Regardless of why the Foundation views us the way they do, whether it be because we exist in a world where men and women like us are not meant to exist, or if they are simply sick of us, the fact remains that they view us as a joke. And if this," he brandished the papers again, "is any indication, we are the kind of joke that they will find a way to get rid of. But they will not do it fast. "We face a slow, horrible death, people. The Foundation will attempt to gradually drain away our resources, undermine our membership, and undo everything we have wrought. And again, this will not be swift; this will be a long, painful, drawn-out process. They can't be bothered to do it in one go; every time they need something to kick around a little, they'll drag us up and destroy us a little more, and then a little more, and then a little more, until there's nothing left. The death of the Shark Punching Center, on the terms of the SCP Foundation, will be drawn-out, humiliating, and painful. Is there anyone here who wants to see our mighty organization brought low in such a manner?" Having heard of their potential fate, few in the crowd could bring themselves to say they did. One solitary voice rose up from the sea of faces: "So what do we do?" The speaker sighed deeply. "We destroy ourselves. Not entirely, mind you, not entirely. We have a few select field agents chosen to continue our mission in secret. They will wander the oceans of the world, doing whatever they can to protect those threatened by sharks. But they are never to form another organization like us - it will only be them, and them alone, who defend the world. As for the rest of us, we are to vanish off the face of the Earth, and our bases are to be destroyed, all four of them. By the end of the day, it will be as if the Shark Punching Center never existed." A few people in the room laughed to themselves. A few people sobbed into their hands. Most were silent. A sense of inevitability had descended upon the room, leaving the majority unable to react in any significant manner. The speaker sighed one last time. "However, this does not mean we are going to go quietly." Ears perked up all across the room. "We will not be attacking the SCP Foundation, or doing some grand suicide mission, or anything of that sort. But we will not be going quietly. If you will look in the lockers stationed around this room, you will find enough scuba gear and boxing gloves to fit every person in this room. You are to don them, and brace yourselves for a sudden increase in the amount of water in the room. Shortly afterwards, every shark in this facility will be released, leaving us with more than enough shark faces to punch. With any luck, we will punch like we have never punched before. "There will not be any survivors. Despite our great skills, the fact of the matter is that the sharks far outnumber us, and will slaughter every last one of us. Upon the death of every non-shark living thing in the facility, the water is to be drained, leaving the sharks to die horrible, suffocating deaths. The bases will then blow, leaving behind no evidence we ever existed. And //that//, my friends, will be the end of the Shark Punching Center. One final glorious round of flying fists and bleeding scales. A fitting swan song for our group." A great excitement had gripped those assembled. In spite of their oncoming demise, none in the room could deny that there was any other proper way to go than this. They had punched sharks together for years, and if they had to go out, then they would go out swinging. Scuba gear was tightened, boxing gloves were strapped on, and bodies were braced. The brave men and women who had diligently protected the world from the underwater menace were ready to die, unsung heroes, but heroes nonetheless. Seeing that the last scuba mask had been fastened on tight, the speaker smiled - for the courage of the men and women before him, and for the years of glory they had lived for. "Does everybody remember the techniques you learned from //The Art of Punching Sharks//?" A great cry of confirmation echoed off the walls. "What is our motto?" "//To search, punch, and conquer!//" "Then release the sharks." So ended the Shark Punching Center. [[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>]]	2013-04-25T04:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "shark-punching-center", "tale" ]	One Last Punch For The Road - SCP Foundation	115	[ "about-tree-fiddy", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "spc-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	17633563	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/one-last-punch-for-the-road
one-must-imagine-him-happy	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>The Plateau, Once more,</p> <p>I begin this entry with new found life. It’s felt like centuries since I’ve taken a breath with my own lungs. For the past twenty-odd years, if you can really call them that, I’ve been nothing more than a number, a blot of ink, a mechanism used by the Foundation, like so many before. 92-61-41. That was my <em>official</em> name. You’ll never find a scrap of paper with anything more than that — provided the Foundation did their job, and they <em>always</em> do.</p> <p>There were ten of us when we started: Rachel, Israel, Jean, Ralph, Brendon, Youssef, Michael, Tae, Stephen and Sophie. It’s funny, even after we’ve come this far, those words hardly carry a thought with them. Our names, our past, our lives, they were all taken from us — No, perhaps <em>taken</em> is the wrong word. At the time, we were willing. We were naïve. We sold our identities for trite sentiments; pride, glory, comfort, respect. Hah! To think we valued such things as we did! Nothing could amount to what we lost as we shoveled those failures and paradoxes into depths of oblivion. But I believe I’m getting ahead of myself now… .</p> <p>Operation: Undertaker. That was our first and only assignment. I doubt a single one of us could even begin to understand the extent of what we were getting ourselves into — and how could we? We were drunk with the ambition of Youth, stumbling into the shadows of theory, hired by the Foundation to assess and correct temporal anomalies, whether they were the product of failed experiments or dangerous scips.<br/> This was no great honor achieved from years of dedication or any tribulation to treat capital defiance: We weren’t courageous heroes. We weren’t ground-breaking theorists. No, we were utterly average, despite our education. I guess that’s why the Foundation chose us. We weren’t zealous enough to exploit our findings, nor were we as defiant as the D-class personnel. We were honest workers, nothing more than that.<br/> And so we accepted our task with grace.<br/> Our families were treated with the strongest amnestics at the Foundation’s exposal. Our birth records, transcripts, everything was expunged — not that there was much to it anyway. It’s as if we never cried out to this world, drenched in blood, scared out of our minds, screaming with life. From that moment on, we were units of vague maths, waiting for the day they'd be computed and erased.</p> <p>Some of us weren’t ever going to make it that far, though. The few O5s that knew about us did a damn good job at blotting out the miscalculations:<br/> Israel took the best subway ride of his life. Rachel decided that she never wanted be “back again.” Jean, Ralph, Brendon and Youssef, they all took a long walk on a historic pier… They all made use of their times, I suppose.<br/> <br/> As for the rest of us, we buried on. We grabbed those shovels and continued to pile up those travesties. Until one day, the handle snapped, and we were no longer capable of digging…it was the day we found <em>it</em>…though I can hardly remember which.</p> <p>We were passing by a small town , en route to another researcher’s regret, when Stephen saw it.<br/> On the outside, it was just a shitty little chemical factory. Nothing special, but maybe that’s what caught our eyes. After all, Narcissus had a captivating gaze, and we ourselves found a reflection. We notified our superior responsible for us, telling him that we we came upon the temporal abscess a little unexpectedly, and that we'd relay information accordingly — Tae’s idea.<br/> We were all enthralled with the factory.</p> <p>But something was just <em>off</em> about the entire place. At the time, I couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something alluring about the whole thing. Like coming home after years away.<br/> Sophie was the first to find <em>it</em>. A huge generator below the observation room, in mint condition, letting off a faint glow. Naturally we grabbed the necessary equipment and scanned the object. The Foundation had taught us a lot along the years, including how to operate their nifty gadgets. Maybe that’s where they went wrong? They trusted in our inclination to be average. They never thought <em>we’d</em> create anything for ourselves. Hell, we were used for just the opposite!</p> <p>Our equipment found a questionable amount of radiation emitting from the generator. Michael, our barely-engineer, began investigating in the hardware of the generator. This was our, maybe any one’s, first encounter with this SCP. The one that would go unreported, unnoticed, along with us. Further inspection concluded that the generator was physically incapable of creating the radiation present. Something was definitely wrong. Stephen confirmed our suspicions; we had been in the factory for at least four hours, yet our watches indicated that only twelve seconds had passed. No matter what we checked, the conclusion was the same.</p> <p>Time wasn’t working right, not that it ever did. We were used to that, crazy enough as it sounds. But <em>this</em> enigma, it was different. It was beautiful. It was so foreign to the eyes of the Foundation, it was <em>ours</em>. We decided not to leave the factory. Instead, we invested ourselves into the generator. It might’ve been memetic at first, but I’d like to think it became willing. There were many resources in the factory that emitted a similar radiation that seemed to alter the scip and contribute to its functioning. It was as if we were just <em>meant</em> to be here, to finish this machine. As Michael and Tae did just that — though none of us could even conceive what we fell upon — Sophie and Stephen noticed the other capabilities of the generator; it didn’t just alter the relation of time around it. It altered the property itself. Forward, backwards, sideways, anything we could imagine! It was pure control. It was the collection of strings that bound us to the puppeteer's hold.</p> <p>Our experiments, our obsession with this device, nurtured our nostalgia.<br/> I was first to propose the idea. See, we grew tired of shoveling, that was for sure. We felt it in our bones, in our hearts. We missed our past, our parents and our family, however mundane they were. They were <em>ours</em>. That’s all that mattered. And now we found a way to climb out of the pit.<br/> We hypothesized that if we got the calibrations <em>just</em> right, we could go back to that day that we whored ourselves out to the Foundation. We’d have a chance win our lives back.<br/> We’d be given amnestics to redact their visit and we’d have our world again.</p> <p>Well, our efforts have paid off. Five burning souls — that’s all it took to destruct time, to correct our mistakes, to completely rework everything! Michael is calling me now. I suppose I should rap this up, and let Sophie have her turn. We'll keep these last logs as security, should anything happen</p> <p>Soon, we will begin our trip</p> <p>Soon, we will breathe again.</p> <p>92-61-41</p> </blockquote> <p>___</p> <p>Michael primes the machine, Tae checks the math. Sophie finishes her final log on the computer. Stephen stands in the corner of the room, praying. Sophie turns, calling out my name.</p> <p>We’re prepared to shed our numbers and don our flesh.</p> <p>…</p> <p>Four men rush in. I’m shot in the back of the head for the <strong>176,680,132nd time. Again, Stephen is shot as he prays. Again, Sophie cries as she dives underneath the desk. Again, Tae and Michael plummet to the ground, filled with metal. All of this I witness, once more, as blood pours from the back of my head. A stray bullet damaged the equipment.</strong> The task force begins to fret, but there’s no saving it now. They found us out. It was only a matter of bastardized time.<br/> They thought they could stop it. How wrong they were. Now we're trapped together</p> <p><strong>Four men rush in. I’m shot in the back of the head for the 176,680,133rd time.</strong> Don’t they see? Our task was complete the second we stepped into that factory. <strong>Stephen bleeds as he recites his prayers.</strong> No longer would we reach into the backend of time, fixing others’ mistakes, others’ misfortunes. <strong>Sophie shrieks, Tae and Michael fall.</strong> We abandoned our numbers. They’ll never change that.<br/> <strong>176,680,134th time.</strong><br/> We’re free. We are alive. <strong>Bullets fly through Stephen’s faith and Sophie sings her fears at the top of her lungs.</strong> We aren’t afraid. We’re happy. We have control. <strong>Tae and Michael snow onto the linoleum floor.</strong> We have our lives. We have our names.<br/> <strong>176,680,135th times.</strong><br/> Its ringing endlessly through my mind.<br/> <strong>Stephen is enlightened with lead.</strong> Sophie called it out to me, before we embarked on this journey. <strong>Tae and Michael sink into floor.</strong><br/> What was that chime? How did it go?<br/> <strong>176,680,136th.</strong> Psi.<br/> <strong>176,680,137th.</strong> Psi Syhus … My boulder to bear …<br/> <strong>176,680,138th.</strong> They’ll never take that from me.<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="/one-must-imagine-him-happy">One Must Imagine Him Happy</a>" by Ajoutezen, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/one-must-imagine-him-happy">https://scpwiki.com/one-must-imagine-him-happy</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 Plateau, Once more, > > I begin this entry with new found life. It’s felt like centuries since I’ve taken a breath with my own lungs. For the past twenty-odd years, if you can really call them that, I’ve been nothing more than a number, a blot of ink, a mechanism used by the Foundation, like so many before. 92-61-41. That was my //official// name. You’ll never find a scrap of paper with anything more than that -- provided the Foundation did their job, and they //always// do. > > There were ten of us when we started: Rachel, Israel, Jean, Ralph, Brendon, Youssef, Michael, Tae, Stephen and Sophie. It’s funny, even after we’ve come this far, those words hardly carry a thought with them. Our names, our past, our lives, they were all taken from us -- No, perhaps //taken// is the wrong word. At the time, we were willing. We were naïve. We sold our identities for trite sentiments; pride, glory, comfort, respect. Hah! To think we valued such things as we did! Nothing could amount to what we lost as we shoveled those failures and paradoxes into depths of oblivion. But I believe I’m getting ahead of myself now. . . . > > Operation: Undertaker. That was our first and only assignment. I doubt a single one of us could even begin to understand the extent of what we were getting ourselves into -- and how could we? We were drunk with the ambition of Youth, stumbling into the shadows of theory, hired by the Foundation to assess and correct temporal anomalies, whether they were the product of failed experiments or dangerous scips. > This was no great honor achieved from years of dedication or any tribulation to treat capital defiance: We weren’t courageous heroes. We weren’t ground-breaking theorists. No, we were utterly average, despite our education. I guess that’s why the Foundation chose us. We weren’t zealous enough to exploit our findings, nor were we as defiant as the D-class personnel. We were honest workers, nothing more than that. > And so we accepted our task with grace. > Our families were treated with the strongest amnestics at the Foundation’s exposal. Our birth records, transcripts, everything was expunged -- not that there was much to it anyway. It’s as if we never cried out to this world, drenched in blood, scared out of our minds, screaming with life. From that moment on, we were units of vague maths, waiting for the day they'd be computed and erased. > > Some of us weren’t ever going to make it that far, though. The few O5s that knew about us did a damn good job at blotting out the miscalculations: > Israel took the best subway ride of his life. Rachel decided that she never wanted be “back again.” Jean, Ralph, Brendon and Youssef, they all took a long walk on a historic pier. . . They all made use of their times, I suppose. > > As for the rest of us, we buried on. We grabbed those shovels and continued to pile up those travesties. Until one day, the handle snapped, and we were no longer capable of digging. . .it was the day we found //it//. . .though I can hardly remember which. > > We were passing by a small town , en route to another researcher’s regret, when Stephen saw it. > On the outside, it was just a shitty little chemical factory. Nothing special, but maybe that’s what caught our eyes. After all, Narcissus had a captivating gaze, and we ourselves found a reflection. We notified our superior responsible for us, telling him that we we came upon the temporal abscess a little unexpectedly, and that we'd relay information accordingly -- Tae’s idea. > We were all enthralled with the factory. > > But something was just //off// about the entire place. At the time, I couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something alluring about the whole thing. Like coming home after years away. > Sophie was the first to find //it//. A huge generator below the observation room, in mint condition, letting off a faint glow. Naturally we grabbed the necessary equipment and scanned the object. The Foundation had taught us a lot along the years, including how to operate their nifty gadgets. Maybe that’s where they went wrong? They trusted in our inclination to be average. They never thought //we’d// create anything for ourselves. Hell, we were used for just the opposite! > > Our equipment found a questionable amount of radiation emitting from the generator. Michael, our barely-engineer, began investigating in the hardware of the generator. This was our, maybe any one’s, first encounter with this SCP. The one that would go unreported, unnoticed, along with us. Further inspection concluded that the generator was physically incapable of creating the radiation present. Something was definitely wrong. Stephen confirmed our suspicions; we had been in the factory for at least four hours, yet our watches indicated that only twelve seconds had passed. No matter what we checked, the conclusion was the same. > > Time wasn’t working right, not that it ever did. We were used to that, crazy enough as it sounds. But //this// enigma, it was different. It was beautiful. It was so foreign to the eyes of the Foundation, it was //ours//. We decided not to leave the factory. Instead, we invested ourselves into the generator. It might’ve been memetic at first, but I’d like to think it became willing. There were many resources in the factory that emitted a similar radiation that seemed to alter the scip and contribute to its functioning. It was as if we were just //meant// to be here, to finish this machine. As Michael and Tae did just that -- though none of us could even conceive what we fell upon -- Sophie and Stephen noticed the other capabilities of the generator; it didn’t just alter the relation of time around it. It altered the property itself. Forward, backwards, sideways, anything we could imagine! It was pure control. It was the collection of strings that bound us to the puppeteer's hold. > > Our experiments, our obsession with this device, nurtured our nostalgia. > I was first to propose the idea. See, we grew tired of shoveling, that was for sure. We felt it in our bones, in our hearts. We missed our past, our parents and our family, however mundane they were. They were //ours//. That’s all that mattered. And now we found a way to climb out of the pit. > We hypothesized that if we got the calibrations //just// right, we could go back to that day that we whored ourselves out to the Foundation. We’d have a chance win our lives back. > We’d be given amnestics to redact their visit and we’d have our world again. > > Well, our efforts have paid off. Five burning souls -- that’s all it took to destruct time, to correct our mistakes, to completely rework everything! Michael is calling me now. I suppose I should rap this up, and let Sophie have her turn. We'll keep these last logs as security, should anything happen > > Soon, we will begin our trip > > Soon, we will breathe again. > > 92-61-41 _______________________________________________________________________ Michael primes the machine, Tae checks the math. Sophie finishes her final log on the computer. Stephen stands in the corner of the room, praying. Sophie turns, calling out my name. We’re prepared to shed our numbers and don our flesh. . . . Four men rush in. I’m shot in the back of the head for the 176,680,132nd time. Again, Stephen is shot as he prays. Again, Sophie cries as she dives underneath the desk. Again, Tae and Michael plummet to the ground, filled with metal. All of this I witness, once more, as blood pours from the back of my head. A stray bullet damaged the equipment. The task force begins to fret, but there’s no saving it now. They found us out. It was only a matter of bastardized time. They thought they could stop it. How wrong they were. Now we're trapped together Four men rush in. I’m shot in the back of the head for the 176,680,133rd time. Don’t they see? Our task was complete the second we stepped into that factory. Stephen bleeds as he recites his prayers. No longer would we reach into the backend of time, fixing others’ mistakes, others’ misfortunes. Sophie shrieks, Tae and Michael fall. We abandoned our numbers. They’ll never change that. 176,680,134th time. We’re free. We are alive. Bullets fly through Stephen’s faith and Sophie sings her fears at the top of her lungs. We aren’t afraid. We’re happy. We have control. Tae and Michael snow onto the linoleum floor. We have our lives. We have our names. 176,680,135th times. Its ringing endlessly through my mind. Stephen is enlightened with lead. Sophie called it out to me, before we embarked on this journey. Tae and Michael sink into floor. What was that chime? How did it go? 176,680,136th. Psi. 176,680,137th. Psi Syhus . . . My boulder to bear . . . 176,680,138th. They’ll never take that from me. @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-03-16T02:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "five-questions", "tale" ]	One Must Imagine Him Happy - SCP Foundation	28	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "five-questions", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16783866	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/one-must-imagine-him-happy
opening-night	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div class="authorlink-wrapper"><a href="javascript:;">PeppersGhost</a> <div class="authorbox"> <div class="authorcontent"> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Opening Night</strong> by <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/peppersghost" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1553042); return false;"><img alt="PeppersGhost" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=1553042&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1724861840" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=1553042)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/peppersghost" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(1553042); return false;">PeppersGhost</a></span></p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/peppersghost">More by this author</a></strong></p> </div> </div> </div> </div> <p>You still see them here and there, but they're more zombies than anything else. Nothing but corpses coated inch-deep in makeup, hoisted up by strings, and made to perform broken dances. They're not really alive. No, the circus, the <em>proper</em> circus, died a painful death some time ago. The close-up intimacy of a single ring performance, the smoke-hardened scream of a Ringmaster's voice, and the heart-stopping terror of a truly death-defying act are all things that the true circus took to her grave.</p> <p>And yet here we are. <em>We</em> are not zombies. Not ghosts. Neither echoes nor afterimages. We're more immortal than any spectre, more timeless than any vintage photograph. We're the ones who've forgotten that they were supposed to have faded into obscurity. We're the ones who missed the memo that electric lights and synthetic sounds are superior to colored flames and pipe organs. We're the kind of circus that died decades before you were born. We are pure romance, and the crowd loves us.</p> <p>Not an eye sees our caravan pull up in the moonlit lot. Not a soul hears the sound of our spikes driven into the earth. One day we're not there, the next day we are. The moment the sun hits the bigtop, the candy-striped curtain rolls up and we pour out into the light. What was before an empty lot instantly comes alive with the din and activity of hundreds of subhuman creatures with multicolored faces.</p> <p>You step out of your car and onto the circus grounds. The sound of the calliope is omnipresent, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Smiling figures that almost succeed at looking human surround you, laughing, chatting, dancing, singing, juggling, selling cotton candy that's just a little too sweet, and running games that are a little too easy to win. But don't be too distracted by the clowns, there's <em>so</em> much more to see. Your expectations aren't very high. You think that a dancing monkey or a bear on a motorcycle would be the most exciting thing you'd see all day. But your eyes begin glancing at the weather-worn posters around you. Outrageous billings mingled incongruously with bizarre illustrations do nothing to prepare you for the miracles within. You hold tight to your beverage and take a peek beneath a tent.</p> <p>You audibly gasp, as many tend to do. In front of you, a man unbuttons his vest to reveal three canaries tweeting out <em>Camptown Races</em> in his exposed ribcage. Over there a group of midgets form a human totem pole atop a galloping horse, then one by one climb into its mouth and manipulate it from within. A woman uses a fishhook to gracefully pull her organs from her throat and makes them perform tricks on a table. A beast with a thousand hands walks over a man's body, carefully prodding every inch of his flesh. A Bengal tiger mauls a young fawn, the corpse of which floats gently upward through a flap in the tent and into the sun.</p> <p>In the far corner of the tent stands an average sized man, his form hidden in the shadows cast by the bars that keep the outside world safe from his touch. Though there are dozens of curiosities, wonders, and terrors in the tent, you find yourself drawn to this lone figure. Approaching him cautiously, he comes into focus and you see that his face is upside-down. You feel uncomfortable, but you only move closer. His expression is hard to read, but it doesn't change in the slightest when his hand slowly reaches between the bars, nor does it change when he gently holds you by your wrist. You're too stunned to speak as he raises your hand to his face and runs your fingers down his misplaced features. You quickly retract your hand, put a quarter in the jar at the foot of the cage and walk, not run, away.</p> <p>I'm sorry if I frightened you. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't take joy in it.</p> <p>You hop from tent to tent, stepping out of the sunlight and into the earthy heat of the polka dotted tarps we house our dreams in. The honey-voiced barkers on their boxes shout enticing impossibilities too incredible to disbelieve, and you find yourself drawn from one attraction to the next, a hostage to thrill and a slave to whimsy. As time passes and darkness falls, the searchlights form a spiderweb in the starless sky. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the crowd quickly gathering at the bigtop, but you choose not to go in. Tired from a long day spent wasting your time winning trinkets at the midway, pitying the freaks who breathe stale air, and petting things you told yourself were animals, you turn back and head for your car, oblivious to the expressions of disappointment concealed beneath the clowns' greasy face paint.</p> <p>I thought of you when the Ringmaster called me onto the stage. I didn't see you when the spotlight came down on me. I missed you when I showed the audience what was behind my face. I imagined seeing you there, squirming uncomfortably with that nauseated expression I'd seen in the Den of Freaks. I wanted to hear your reaction when the lights went out as the Ringmaster announced the grand finale.</p> <p>I wanted your murmurs of confusion to mingle with those of everyone else who wondered if it was all part of the show.</p> <p>I wanted to laugh at you as you lined up in single file with others.</p> <p>I wanted you to wake up in your bed the next morning, no worse for wear but never again the same.</p> <p>I wanted you to get what you deserve.</p> <p>But we can't always get what we want.</p> <p>No, you just brush your teeth, get dressed, and go about your day as normal. You know, it's funny: you've already forgotten about me, but I'll always remember how unfair it was that you missed our opening night.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/opening-night">Opening Night</a>" by PeppersGhost, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/opening-night">https://scpwiki.com/opening-night</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:author-label-source">:scp-wiki:component:author-label-source</a> start=-- \|name=PeppersGhost]] = Opening Night by [[user PeppersGhost]] ----- [[=]] [[[peppersghost\|More by this author]]]* [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:author-label-source">:scp-wiki:component:author-label-source</a> end=--]] You still see them here and there, but they're more zombies than anything else. Nothing but corpses coated inch-deep in makeup, hoisted up by strings, and made to perform broken dances. They're not really alive. No, the circus, the //proper// circus, died a painful death some time ago. The close-up intimacy of a single ring performance, the smoke-hardened scream of a Ringmaster's voice, and the heart-stopping terror of a truly death-defying act are all things that the true circus took to her grave. And yet here we are. //We// are not zombies. Not ghosts. Neither echoes nor afterimages. We're more immortal than any spectre, more timeless than any vintage photograph. We're the ones who've forgotten that they were supposed to have faded into obscurity. We're the ones who missed the memo that electric lights and synthetic sounds are superior to colored flames and pipe organs. We're the kind of circus that died decades before you were born. We are pure romance, and the crowd loves us. Not an eye sees our caravan pull up in the moonlit lot. Not a soul hears the sound of our spikes driven into the earth. One day we're not there, the next day we are. The moment the sun hits the bigtop, the candy-striped curtain rolls up and we pour out into the light. What was before an empty lot instantly comes alive with the din and activity of hundreds of subhuman creatures with multicolored faces. You step out of your car and onto the circus grounds. The sound of the calliope is omnipresent, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Smiling figures that almost succeed at looking human surround you, laughing, chatting, dancing, singing, juggling, selling cotton candy that's just a little too sweet, and running games that are a little too easy to win. But don't be too distracted by the clowns, there's //so// much more to see. Your expectations aren't very high. You think that a dancing monkey or a bear on a motorcycle would be the most exciting thing you'd see all day. But your eyes begin glancing at the weather-worn posters around you. Outrageous billings mingled incongruously with bizarre illustrations do nothing to prepare you for the miracles within. You hold tight to your beverage and take a peek beneath a tent. You audibly gasp, as many tend to do. In front of you, a man unbuttons his vest to reveal three canaries tweeting out //Camptown Races// in his exposed ribcage. Over there a group of midgets form a human totem pole atop a galloping horse, then one by one climb into its mouth and manipulate it from within. A woman uses a fishhook to gracefully pull her organs from her throat and makes them perform tricks on a table. A beast with a thousand hands walks over a man's body, carefully prodding every inch of his flesh. A Bengal tiger mauls a young fawn, the corpse of which floats gently upward through a flap in the tent and into the sun. In the far corner of the tent stands an average sized man, his form hidden in the shadows cast by the bars that keep the outside world safe from his touch. Though there are dozens of curiosities, wonders, and terrors in the tent, you find yourself drawn to this lone figure. Approaching him cautiously, he comes into focus and you see that his face is upside-down. You feel uncomfortable, but you only move closer. His expression is hard to read, but it doesn't change in the slightest when his hand slowly reaches between the bars, nor does it change when he gently holds you by your wrist. You're too stunned to speak as he raises your hand to his face and runs your fingers down his misplaced features. You quickly retract your hand, put a quarter in the jar at the foot of the cage and walk, not run, away. I'm sorry if I frightened you. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't take joy in it. You hop from tent to tent, stepping out of the sunlight and into the earthy heat of the polka dotted tarps we house our dreams in. The honey-voiced barkers on their boxes shout enticing impossibilities too incredible to disbelieve, and you find yourself drawn from one attraction to the next, a hostage to thrill and a slave to whimsy. As time passes and darkness falls, the searchlights form a spiderweb in the starless sky. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the crowd quickly gathering at the bigtop, but you choose not to go in. Tired from a long day spent wasting your time winning trinkets at the midway, pitying the freaks who breathe stale air, and petting things you told yourself were animals, you turn back and head for your car, oblivious to the expressions of disappointment concealed beneath the clowns' greasy face paint. I thought of you when the Ringmaster called me onto the stage. I didn't see you when the spotlight came down on me. I missed you when I showed the audience what was behind my face. I imagined seeing you there, squirming uncomfortably with that nauseated expression I'd seen in the Den of Freaks. I wanted to hear your reaction when the lights went out as the Ringmaster announced the grand finale. I wanted your murmurs of confusion to mingle with those of everyone else who wondered if it was all part of the show. I wanted to laugh at you as you lined up in single file with others. I wanted you to wake up in your bed the next morning, no worse for wear but never again the same. I wanted you to get what you deserve. But we can't always get what we want. No, you just brush your teeth, get dressed, and go about your day as normal. You know, it's funny: you've already forgotten about me, but I'll always remember how unfair it was that you missed our opening night. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-19T00:01:00	[ "_licensebox", "herman-fuller", "manny", "tale" ]	Opening Night - SCP Foundation	71	[ "peppersghost", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "herman-fuller-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	17975014	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/opening-night
out-of-time	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>William E. Boeing found himself on a couch in his study, where moments before he had been a happy child near a seashore. He got up infirmly and slowly started making his way from the first floor where his study was, to the ground floor of the main mansion of the estate he was currently at. Halfway down the broad red-carpeted stairway he ran into a servant, like he knew he would. He spoke up, knowing exactly what his words were going to sound like.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> "Twenty eight acres of maple and oak ? I think we can do business," he said.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> "I can see it's a thoroughbred, but that's a king's ransom you're asking," he said.<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span> "In this connection the first logical opening will be the development of a commercial flying boat.," he said.<br/> He also screamed at the top of his lungs while clawing at a jammed door, as he was about to be burned alive while stuck in the wreck of a car.</p> <p>But just like every other sentient being William E. Boeing actually only ever said one — same — thing. That same thing just <em>sounded</em> different each time it was spoken out loud, in accordance with the where-and-when it was being uttered. This is what it sounded like when William E. Boeing said the thing to the servant: "What year is it?"</p> <p>The servant gathered a worried look about him. "It's the same year as when you asked me this morning, sir," the servant said, and repeated the answer he had given William E. Boeing earlier on that day.</p> <p>William E. Boeing hemmed his throat and nodded as a gesture of appreciation, ignoring the servant's obvious discomfort about his employer's apparent forgetfulness. William E. Boeing turned around and went back upstairs to his study. He knew which year it was. He knew he was going to go downstairs and meet the servant half way down. He knew the thing he was going to say was going to sound like "What year is it?"</p> <p>"Time," it was sometimes said, "is what prevents everything from happening all at once." In that sense William E. Boeing was outside of time. From where William E. Boeing was standing everything was always happening all at once. Moreover, existence was simply doing the very same thing over and over within a different set of parameters, and what was generally referred to as "free will" was nothing more to him than an ability to be surprised by an inevitable outcome of a fixed sequence of actions.</p> <p>William E. Boeing sat down in the broad Naugahyde chair in his study, closed his eyes and massaged his temples.</p> <p>When he opened his eyes, he was sitting in a comfortable business class seat, cruising at 780 kilometers an hour at an altitude of almost eleven kilometers. There was no one in the passenger compartment except for William E. Boeing. He was afraid. Not because he didn't know what was coming; he knew exactly what was going to happen. He was afraid because, given the situation, it was the only thing left to do.</p> <p>The voice over the intercom would have interrupted his anxiety, had he not known the interruption would happen. "Mr. Boeing, sir, five more minutes until onset," was what the thing the pilot said sounded like.</p> <p>William E. Boeing got out of his seat and waited patiently in front of the center left emergency door. He looked at the rows of corpses seated next to the emergency exit door. All the corpses were of William E. Boeing, and each one of them was burned in different ways to different degrees. The sacrifice it had taken to bring him this far had been immense. Not just the personal sacrifice he was witness to right now, but the sacrifice of the countless others, in the past, the present, and the future, as well.</p> <p>But William E. Boeing was not a mad murdering maniac; he was a businessman. Mad murdering maniacs would eventually get hunted down and stopped, no matter how successful they initially appeared to be. And the truth of the matter was, his aircraft had a better safety record than most of his competitors, so statistically he was actually keeping people alive. But with misfortune and mechanical defect at some point being inevitable, he might as well collect the lives lost as sacrifice; all in all, it made good business sense, for the aircraft division as well as the other.</p> <p>At exactly the right moment, the center left emergency door started to open. At exactly the right moment William E. Boeing started to scream in terror at what was outside that door. Flames burst inward and set fire to the closest row of corpses, which now were animate and, for those with a working voice box, screaming as well. On the precipice, William E. Boeing wrangled with the now closing emergency exit door with all his might, trying to keep it from closing.</p> <p>William E. Boeing jolted into consciousness in agony. His upper body had severe burns. He was strapped to his seat. The thing he tried to say amounted to nothing, because he no longer had a working throat. If he would have had a working throat, the thing he would have said would have sounded exactly like the frantic screaming of someone who was on fire. With his working eye he saw William E. Boeing wrangling with a closing emergency exit door with all his might, trying to keep it from closing. His eye stopped working.</p> <p>Normally, being dead would be the end of things, even for people who were outside of time, though they would have the benefit of knowing how and when they would die, even if they could do nothing about it but act out the appropriate death scene. But William E. Boeing was a businessman, and few things were as disruptive to conducting business as being deceased. So William E. Boeing made sure to make sure that — to put it in inside-time terms as accurately as possible — "William E. Boeing, was always going to be, and would always have been, William E. Boeing."</p> <p>That is what the thing he said sounded like at the particular where-and-when where he was sitting upright in a casket somewhere in a gigantic warehouse. There were a few dozen of additional caskets propped up against the nearest wall. Where the caskets touched the platform that supported them a white mist hung in stale air. The transparent lids of the caskets were covered in ice flowers to the extent of being opaque. Not that it mattered much, William E. Boeing knew who was inside. The inside-time description would be that he could remember stepping inside each one of them at different times, but outside of time, William E. Boeing was laying down inside each one of them concurrently, and slowly began drifting off on behalf of the various chemicals, to start the long wait for when he would be William E. Boeing once again. Well, not "wait for", he knew perfectly well at what where-and-when he would be recalled, or, in the case of 3 and 7, never at all. But being William E. Boeing, such things mattered little, and even if they mattered, nothing could be done to change it anyway. William E. Boeing felt himself slowly drifting away into unconsciousness as a comforting freezing cold started to set in around him.</p> <p>William E. Boeing regained his faculties upside down with blood trickling from a split lip down into his eyes. The inside of the car smelled like gasoline. He had been speeding, and he had been distracted by the pretty girl of french heritage that sat next to him. Her name was Ronda. Ronda was unconscious now and would soon be dead, even though William E. Boeing was going to be okay. Still, he had no options left other than panicking.</p> <p>He called out her name repeatedly to no avail. Then he called out her full name repeatedly, hoping that the familiarity of it would trigger something, would elicit some sort of response. She would remain unconscious for the next few minutes up until the time the fire would reach her.</p> <p>The whole accident gave rise to one of the funnier aspects of being William E. Boeing. You see, the full name of the girl was phonetically very similar to a model of compact car of Japanese manufacture that would be produced several decades into the future, resulting in him erroneously producing about a hundred similar compact cars that were also William E. Boeing.</p> <p>William E. Boeing realized that mistake, of course, then, as now, as always. But the mistake was made, had been made, and would always be made. He would have laughed at the mistake if he would have had the opportunity, but he didn't. He was now stuck in the routine of being William E. Boeing being stuck in a wrecked upside down car that was about to catch fire. The car caught fire.</p> <p>William E. Boeing was at the seashore again. The thing he said roughly sounded like "Hmmmmm", as he was enjoying a cool inbound breeze on a sunny day. William E. Boeing found himself staring up at the blue sky, and he felt himself raising his arm and pointing upward. William E. Boeing heard the voice of this father — his real father, not William E. Boeing — from behind him.</p> <p>"You want to fly boy ?"</p> <p>His father picked William up by the waist and lifted the young boy over his head, holding him upward as if proffering him up to the heavens. William stretched his arms outward as if they were wings and closed his eyes.</p> <p>William E. Boeing was back in his study. There was a man he didn't know standing in front of him, talking to him. The thing the man was saying sounded like this: "William E. Boeing?"</p> <p>William E. Boeing wasn't sure what to make of the question.</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="/out-of-time">Out of Time</a>" by Garrey, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/out-of-time">https://scpwiki.com/out-of-time</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] William E. Boeing found himself on a couch in his study, where moments before he had been a happy child near a seashore. He got up infirmly and slowly started making his way from the first floor where his study was, to the ground floor of the main mansion of the estate he was currently at. Halfway down the broad red-carpeted stairway he ran into a servant, like he knew he would. He spoke up, knowing exactly what his words were going to sound like. @@ @@ "Twenty eight acres of maple and oak ? I think we can do business," he said. @@ @@ "I can see it's a thoroughbred, but that's a king's ransom you're asking," he said. @@ @@ "In this connection the first logical opening will be the development of a commercial flying boat.," he said. He also screamed at the top of his lungs while clawing at a jammed door, as he was about to be burned alive while stuck in the wreck of a car. But just like every other sentient being William E. Boeing actually only ever said one -- same -- thing. That same thing just //sounded// different each time it was spoken out loud, in accordance with the where-and-when it was being uttered. This is what it sounded like when William E. Boeing said the thing to the servant: "What year is it?" The servant gathered a worried look about him. "It's the same year as when you asked me this morning, sir," the servant said, and repeated the answer he had given William E. Boeing earlier on that day. William E. Boeing hemmed his throat and nodded as a gesture of appreciation, ignoring the servant's obvious discomfort about his employer's apparent forgetfulness. William E. Boeing turned around and went back upstairs to his study. He knew which year it was. He knew he was going to go downstairs and meet the servant half way down. He knew the thing he was going to say was going to sound like "What year is it?" "Time," it was sometimes said, "is what prevents everything from happening all at once." In that sense William E. Boeing was outside of time. From where William E. Boeing was standing everything was always happening all at once. Moreover, existence was simply doing the very same thing over and over within a different set of parameters, and what was generally referred to as "free will" was nothing more to him than an ability to be surprised by an inevitable outcome of a fixed sequence of actions. William E. Boeing sat down in the broad Naugahyde chair in his study, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened his eyes, he was sitting in a comfortable business class seat, cruising at 780 kilometers an hour at an altitude of almost eleven kilometers. There was no one in the passenger compartment except for William E. Boeing. He was afraid. Not because he didn't know what was coming; he knew exactly what was going to happen. He was afraid because, given the situation, it was the only thing left to do. The voice over the intercom would have interrupted his anxiety, had he not known the interruption would happen. "Mr. Boeing, sir, five more minutes until onset," was what the thing the pilot said sounded like. William E. Boeing got out of his seat and waited patiently in front of the center left emergency door. He looked at the rows of corpses seated next to the emergency exit door. All the corpses were of William E. Boeing, and each one of them was burned in different ways to different degrees. The sacrifice it had taken to bring him this far had been immense. Not just the personal sacrifice he was witness to right now, but the sacrifice of the countless others, in the past, the present, and the future, as well. But William E. Boeing was not a mad murdering maniac; he was a businessman. Mad murdering maniacs would eventually get hunted down and stopped, no matter how successful they initially appeared to be. And the truth of the matter was, his aircraft had a better safety record than most of his competitors, so statistically he was actually keeping people alive. But with misfortune and mechanical defect at some point being inevitable, he might as well collect the lives lost as sacrifice; all in all, it made good business sense, for the aircraft division as well as the other. At exactly the right moment, the center left emergency door started to open. At exactly the right moment William E. Boeing started to scream in terror at what was outside that door. Flames burst inward and set fire to the closest row of corpses, which now were animate and, for those with a working voice box, screaming as well. On the precipice, William E. Boeing wrangled with the now closing emergency exit door with all his might, trying to keep it from closing. William E. Boeing jolted into consciousness in agony. His upper body had severe burns. He was strapped to his seat. The thing he tried to say amounted to nothing, because he no longer had a working throat. If he would have had a working throat, the thing he would have said would have sounded exactly like the frantic screaming of someone who was on fire. With his working eye he saw William E. Boeing wrangling with a closing emergency exit door with all his might, trying to keep it from closing. His eye stopped working. Normally, being dead would be the end of things, even for people who were outside of time, though they would have the benefit of knowing how and when they would die, even if they could do nothing about it but act out the appropriate death scene. But William E. Boeing was a businessman, and few things were as disruptive to conducting business as being deceased. So William E. Boeing made sure to make sure that -- to put it in inside-time terms as accurately as possible -- "William E. Boeing, was always going to be, and would always have been, William E. Boeing." That is what the thing he said sounded like at the particular where-and-when where he was sitting upright in a casket somewhere in a gigantic warehouse. There were a few dozen of additional caskets propped up against the nearest wall. Where the caskets touched the platform that supported them a white mist hung in stale air. The transparent lids of the caskets were covered in ice flowers to the extent of being opaque. Not that it mattered much, William E. Boeing knew who was inside. The inside-time description would be that he could remember stepping inside each one of them at different times, but outside of time, William E. Boeing was laying down inside each one of them concurrently, and slowly began drifting off on behalf of the various chemicals, to start the long wait for when he would be William E. Boeing once again. Well, not "wait for", he knew perfectly well at what where-and-when he would be recalled, or, in the case of 3 and 7, never at all. But being William E. Boeing, such things mattered little, and even if they mattered, nothing could be done to change it anyway. William E. Boeing felt himself slowly drifting away into unconsciousness as a comforting freezing cold started to set in around him. William E. Boeing regained his faculties upside down with blood trickling from a split lip down into his eyes. The inside of the car smelled like gasoline. He had been speeding, and he had been distracted by the pretty girl of french heritage that sat next to him. Her name was Ronda. Ronda was unconscious now and would soon be dead, even though William E. Boeing was going to be okay. Still, he had no options left other than panicking. He called out her name repeatedly to no avail. Then he called out her full name repeatedly, hoping that the familiarity of it would trigger something, would elicit some sort of response. She would remain unconscious for the next few minutes up until the time the fire would reach her. The whole accident gave rise to one of the funnier aspects of being William E. Boeing. You see, the full name of the girl was phonetically very similar to a model of compact car of Japanese manufacture that would be produced several decades into the future, resulting in him erroneously producing about a hundred similar compact cars that were also William E. Boeing. William E. Boeing realized that mistake, of course, then, as now, as always. But the mistake was made, had been made, and would always be made. He would have laughed at the mistake if he would have had the opportunity, but he didn't. He was now stuck in the routine of being William E. Boeing being stuck in a wrecked upside down car that was about to catch fire. The car caught fire. William E. Boeing was at the seashore again. The thing he said roughly sounded like "Hmmmmm", as he was enjoying a cool inbound breeze on a sunny day. William E. Boeing found himself staring up at the blue sky, and he felt himself raising his arm and pointing upward. William E. Boeing heard the voice of this father -- his real father, not William E. Boeing -- from behind him. "You want to fly boy ?" His father picked William up by the waist and lifted the young boy over his head, holding him upward as if proffering him up to the heavens. William stretched his arms outward as if they were wings and closed his eyes. William E. Boeing was back in his study. There was a man he didn't know standing in front of him, talking to him. The thing the man was saying sounded like this: "William E. Boeing?" William E. Boeing wasn't sure what to make of the question. [[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>]]	2013-08-05T12:01:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Out of Time - SCP Foundation	36	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19126301	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/out-of-time
overview-of-mtf-psi-7-home-improvement	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><a href="/mtf-psi-7-home-improvement-hub">Mobile Task Force Psi-7</a> specializes in the undercover investigation, containment, and/or demolition of anomalous buildings or buildings affected by anomalies, particularly residential homes in populated areas. Primarily working with initial containment or demolition, some members are also involved in assisting with observation of longer-term containment efforts for persistent building-based anomalies. MTF Psi-7 is involved in the ongoing containment of <a href="/scp-1452">SCP-1452</a> and <a href="/scp-1684">SCP-1684</a>.</p> <p>Psi-7 was formed in 1998, after Foundation administrators recognized a need to base a task force specifically around knocking down houses. This was due to an outbreak of SCP-1452 affecting the homes of several administrators, including Dr. Gillespie. It has been assured that the creation of this task force along with the anomalous infection of an administrator's home was completely coincidental.</p> <p>Since then, Psi-7 has had a distinguished career with explosive demolition. Although their methods have been deemed somewhat unorthodox, the use of explosive charges to level anomalous homesteads has proven to be 100% effective, and is believed to contribute to the unbelievably high morale found among Psi-7 agents.</p> <p>Included in this report is an interview with Agent Ekblad, one of Psi-7's numerous incendiary experts.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Dr. Gillespie:</strong> So, in your own words, what about working with Psi-7 makes it a worthwhile experience? Is it the ability to serve humanity, or the pride in being able to creep in unnoticed and remove anomal-</p> <p><strong>Agent Ekblad:</strong> Probably the four or five times a week we get to blow the hell out of something. That's pretty fuckin' fun right there.</p> <p><strong>Dr. Gillespie:</strong> Beg your pardon?</p> <p><strong>Agent Ekblad:</strong> Other task forces, they're all like 'ugh my best friend got taken out by a mutant fish squirrel last week' or 'uhhh man there's a giant bird thing killing my friends.' But when people ask me about my job, all's I gotta do is go into some stationary, anomalous house, rig it up to blow sky high, and then <em>I fuckin' get to push a button that blows it sky high.</em> I get to use my expert training in blowing shit up to <em>actually blow shit up!</em></p> <p><strong>Dr. Gillespie:</strong> … I'm not sure what to-</p> <p><strong>Agent Ekblad:</strong> Makes jazz hand motions KABOOM!</p> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/lolfoundation-hub-page">HUB</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/overview-of-mtf-psi-7-home-improvement">Overview of MTF Psi-7 "Home Improvement"</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/overview-of-mtf-psi-7-home-improvement">https://scpwiki.com/overview-of-mtf-psi-7-home-improvement</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[[mtf-psi-7-home-improvement-hub\| Mobile Task Force Psi-7]]] specializes in the undercover investigation, containment, and/or demolition of anomalous buildings or buildings affected by anomalies, particularly residential homes in populated areas. Primarily working with initial containment or demolition, some members are also involved in assisting with observation of longer-term containment efforts for persistent building-based anomalies. MTF Psi-7 is involved in the ongoing containment of [[[SCP-1452]]] and [[[SCP-1684]]]. Psi-7 was formed in 1998, after Foundation administrators recognized a need to base a task force specifically around knocking down houses. This was due to an outbreak of SCP-1452 affecting the homes of several administrators, including Dr. Gillespie. It has been assured that the creation of this task force along with the anomalous infection of an administrator's home was completely coincidental. Since then, Psi-7 has had a distinguished career with explosive demolition. Although their methods have been deemed somewhat unorthodox, the use of explosive charges to level anomalous homesteads has proven to be 100% effective, and is believed to contribute to the unbelievably high morale found among Psi-7 agents. Included in this report is an interview with Agent Ekblad, one of Psi-7's numerous incendiary experts. > Dr. Gillespie: So, in your own words, what about working with Psi-7 makes it a worthwhile experience? Is it the ability to serve humanity, or the pride in being able to creep in unnoticed and remove anomal- > > Agent Ekblad: Probably the four or five times a week we get to blow the hell out of something. That's pretty fuckin' fun right there. > > Dr. Gillespie: Beg your pardon? > > Agent Ekblad: Other task forces, they're all like 'ugh my best friend got taken out by a mutant fish squirrel last week' or 'uhhh man there's a giant bird thing killing my friends.' But when people ask me about my job, all's I gotta do is go into some stationary, anomalous house, rig it up to blow sky high, and then //I fuckin' get to push a button that blows it sky high.// I get to use my expert training in blowing shit up to //actually blow shit up!// > > Dr. Gillespie: ... I'm not sure what to- > > Agent Ekblad: Makes jazz hand motions KABOOM! [[=]] << \| [[[lolFoundation Hub Page\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-12-10T04:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "comedy", "lolfoundation", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Overview of MTF Psi-7 "Home Improvement" - SCP Foundation	227	[ "mtf-psi-7-home-improvement-hub", "scp-1452", "scp-1684", "lolfoundation-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "mtf-psi-7-home-improvement-hub", "lolfoundation-hub-page", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	20915226	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/overview-of-mtf-psi-7-home-improvement
paper-pusher	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Researcher Clayton stood before the small office door and double-checked to make sure he was in the right place. The room was so out of the way that it looked like it had been built as an afterthought. Clayton gave a quick look around, and then knocked. This was to be his first assignment for the Foundation.</p> <p>“It’s open,” shouted a voice from inside the office. Clayton took a deep breath and stepped inside.</p> <p>At the center of the room was a large desk decorated with all manner of small trinkets. The near and side walls of the room were covered in motivational posters, while the far wall was lined with numerous old filing cabinets, most of which were labeled with what appeared to be someone's name. A single man sat alone in a chair behind the desk with a friendly smile.</p> <p>“Dr. Cameron?” Clayton asked as he began to inch his way towards the center of the room.</p> <p>“In the flesh,” declared the man in the chair. His head was bald and starting to spot, and a thick pair of glasses sat on his crooked nose. Rather than a lab coat, he wore a bright green knitted sweater that appeared a few sizes too big. “Just 'Donald' will be fine, though. The actual doctors tend to get their feathers ruffled if they catch you calling me by their precious title.”</p> <p>Clayton smiled as Donald laughed at his own joke and ushered him to take a seat.</p> <p>“Are you ready to begin?” Donald asked.</p> <p>Clayton nodded enthusiastically.</p> <p>“Great,” Donald replied. “First things first, we’ll need to get your desk moved here. You’ll also want to make sure you invest in a very good chair. Your back will never last otherwise.”</p> <p>Clayton nodded a second time. He looked around the desk once more. Among the objects that caught his eye were a miniature ship in a bottle, a silver Rubik's cube with the different sides represented by various colored gears, and what appeared to be a large alligator tooth.</p> <p>“What is it exactly that you do for the Foundation, Donald?” Clayton’s eyes were drawn to the numerous filing cabinets along the far wall.</p> <p>“Glad you asked.” Donald swiveled in his chair and rolled over to the filing cabinets, banging one of them on the top. “I’m in charge of these.”</p> <p>Donald proceeded to write his name on a small label and slid it into place on one of the few unused cabinet drawers. He then sat twiddling his thumbs. Clayton opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but ceased when Donald held up his hand. After a few more seconds Donald opened the drawer and pulled out a small file folder; the date and hour were printed neatly on its label. He then rolled back to his desk and opened the folder, removing a sheet of paper from inside and sliding it to Clayton. Half the page was covered in black type that said: <em>iamcurrentlythinkingaboutdemonstratingwhatthisobjectdoesforyou</em> over and over.</p> <p>“Basically, if your name is on one of those drawers, then your thoughts are recorded on the paper that appears inside, all nice and organized by the day and hour you had it,” Donald explained.</p> <p>“It all runs together.” Clayton looked on in awe.</p> <p>Donald chuckled as he fed the paper into a nearby shredder and then removed the label with his name from the filing cabinet drawer.</p> <p>“It sure does!” he exclaimed. “Human thoughts don’t run in nice little sentences and paragraphs. They happen in an instant and run smack dab into each other. It’s called 'stream of consciousness'. Our job is to read these papers, and turn the jumble into useful information. You’ll get used to reading the transcripts after a while.”</p> <p>“If the Foundation can access anyone’s thoughts, why are we the only ones assigned to the task?” Clayton looked over the cabinets again. “There must be thousands of people out there whose thoughts are of considerable value.”</p> <p>“Sure there are; the only problem comes from the number of requirements these damn things have when they operate,” Donald said as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath as he began to enumerate the cabinet’s problems on his fingers.</p> <p>“First off, the drawers have to be closed to work, meaning that if you have it open, you stop collecting the person’s thoughts. If you close the drawer without returning the file to the cabinet, it goes blank and you're stuck with just a useless ton of paper. You’d think you could get around that by just writing the person’s name on two drawers, but if you do that then <em>neither</em> drawer works. On top of that, these cabinets only store about four days’ worth of thoughts. After that, the older thoughts begin to disappear as the new ones are being written. Finally, you have the problem of how to interpret the damn things. You can’t just scan them into a computer because the text won’t appear on digital copies or images.”</p> <p>“That sounds like a lot of work for little pay-off, even if you <em>can</em> decipher the pages,” Clayton said, his enthusiasm fading.</p> <p>“There are individuals whose thoughts are <em>just</em> important enough that the Foundation is willing to put in this kind of effort,” Donald replied, cleaning his glasses. “It’s not as difficult as you might think. We open up a cabinet, scan about two hours’ worth of thoughts for anything of use, and then we place the file back and move onto the next person. At the end of the day we give Director Holman a report. The task forces make one hell of a punch when they already know what their target's plans are. ”</p> <p>Donald finished with a chuckle, followed by punching the air. He then reached into his desk and pulled out a clipboard with several forms attached.</p> <p>“A few doctors who work on some of the more exciting projects also use the cabinets as a form of keeping notes,” he added as he slid the clipboard and a pen to Clayton. “I’m going to need you to sign these real fast. Standard furniture and office transfer forms. When you get to the last page, just use the spot below my name.”</p> <p>“So we do this day in and day out?” Clayton began to sign on the many dotted lines. The last page was a single yellowing piece of paper. It appeared to be a sign-up sheet with a title that read "Records Withdrawal." There were at least five different signatures, but all of them were crossed out except for Donald's. Clayton signed below Donald’s signature, and watched in shock as Donald's signature crossed itself out.</p> <p>“Actually, that’s what <em>you’ll</em> be doing day in and day out,” Donald gleefully explained. “I’ve done this for the last ten years, and have been on the Director about getting me a replacement for the last five. Now that you’re on the sign-up sheet, I can get out of here and onto better things.”</p> <p>“What do you mean?” Clayton’s face grew pale as Donald’s smile grew wider.</p> <p>“These filing cabinets only work for whoever’s name is most recently added to that list you just signed!” Donald got to his feet. “And now you’re it! I’m free at last!”</p> <p>Clayton remained silent. His expression had become more horrified the more and more Donald laughed.</p> <p>“Oh, cheer up!” Donald said with a wave of his hand. “You’ll be fine. I doubt they’ll keep you down here as long as they’ve kept me! In fact, I’m sure <a href="/all-hallows">Director Holman</a> will -”</p> <p>Donald was interrupted as two security officers rushed in, accompanied by a tall well-dressed man who was out of breath.</p> <p>"God <em>damn</em> it, Donald! What the <em>hell</em> do you think you're doing with the sign-up sheet!" the man bellowed between gasps for air. His expression then changed to one of worry as he noticed Clayton.</p> <p>“Ah, Director Holman,” Donald addressed the visitor. “I’ve just finished showing him the ropes. He’s all signed up!”</p> <p>“You didn’t…” Holman uttered.</p> <p>“Oh, but I did, Director!” Donald sneered. “I’ve been replaced! Five years I’ve been hounding you for relief and every time you promise me a replacement you whisk them away to work on some other project! I took matters into my own hands this time! There is not a god damn thing you can do about it!”</p> <p>“Do you have any idea how much you’ll set back at least four different operations?!” Holman shouted back. “People might <em>die</em> because of this!”</p> <p>“Oh come on, Director,” Donald frowned. “Don’t judge Clayton’s performance already; he hasn’t even started writing reports yet.”</p> <p>Holman fell silent at this comment, his right hand rubbing his temple as he closed his eyes.</p> <p>“Get him out of here,” Holman sighed. The security personnel immediately went to work, grabbing Donald by the shoulders and forced him towards the door.</p> <p>“I've already won, Director!” Donald called back as he was evicted from the premises.</p> <p>The room quickly went quiet at that point. Clayton looked to Holman for answers.</p> <p>“I’m sorry about this,” Holman said as he took a few deep breaths and then grabbed the Rubik's cube off Donald’s desk. He fiddled with the puzzle in his hands as he continued to speak. “Donald had twenty years of loyal service up to this point. The man hated this assignment, but this is the first time he actively attempted to alleviate his situation outside of a strongly worded letter.”</p> <p>“Why has he been down here for so long? Why—” Clayton questioned.</p> <p>Holman held a hand up to signal that he needed to calm down.</p> <p>“The longer you’re continuously bound to the filing cabinets, the better you are at reading the transcripts.” Holman placed the Rubik’s cube back on the desk. “What you and I see as stream of consciousness, Donald read as properly formatted sentences and paragraphs. By the time we learned of this effect, he’d already been at work for close to four years. We've been meaning to get him a replacement for some time now, but there was always another person of interest we needed to monitor, and less and less time to monitor them in.”</p> <p>“You’re not planning on keeping me bound to this thing, are you?” Clayton inquired. “You can’t do that!”</p> <p>“For the time being I’m going to need you to take one for the team and fill this post.” Holman placed a hand on the distraught researcher’s shoulder. “There are people whose lives depend on the information that may be in those cabinets.”</p> <p>“You can’t be serious…” Clayton got to his feet. He watched helplessly as Holman made his way to the door.</p> <p>“I’m sorry, Clayton. There’s nothing I can do at this point,” Holman stepped back into the hallway. “I’ll get back to you as soon as we sort this out.”</p> <p>Once he was alone, Clayton looked at a poster on the far wall. It depicted a cat hanging from a branch with the term “Hang in there!” printed beneath. For a few brief seconds he stood and stared at the helpless animal in the poster, but then fell back into his chair and placed his head in his hands.</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="/paper-pusher">Paper Pusher</a>" by Jacob Conwell, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/paper-pusher">https://scpwiki.com/paper-pusher</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Researcher Clayton stood before the small office door and double-checked to make sure he was in the right place. The room was so out of the way that it looked like it had been built as an afterthought. Clayton gave a quick look around, and then knocked. This was to be his first assignment for the Foundation. “It’s open,” shouted a voice from inside the office. Clayton took a deep breath and stepped inside. At the center of the room was a large desk decorated with all manner of small trinkets. The near and side walls of the room were covered in motivational posters, while the far wall was lined with numerous old filing cabinets, most of which were labeled with what appeared to be someone's name. A single man sat alone in a chair behind the desk with a friendly smile. “Dr. Cameron?” Clayton asked as he began to inch his way towards the center of the room. “In the flesh,” declared the man in the chair. His head was bald and starting to spot, and a thick pair of glasses sat on his crooked nose. Rather than a lab coat, he wore a bright green knitted sweater that appeared a few sizes too big. “Just 'Donald' will be fine, though. The actual doctors tend to get their feathers ruffled if they catch you calling me by their precious title.” Clayton smiled as Donald laughed at his own joke and ushered him to take a seat. “Are you ready to begin?” Donald asked. Clayton nodded enthusiastically. “Great,” Donald replied. “First things first, we’ll need to get your desk moved here. You’ll also want to make sure you invest in a very good chair. Your back will never last otherwise.” Clayton nodded a second time. He looked around the desk once more. Among the objects that caught his eye were a miniature ship in a bottle, a silver Rubik's cube with the different sides represented by various colored gears, and what appeared to be a large alligator tooth. “What is it exactly that you do for the Foundation, Donald?” Clayton’s eyes were drawn to the numerous filing cabinets along the far wall. “Glad you asked.” Donald swiveled in his chair and rolled over to the filing cabinets, banging one of them on the top. “I’m in charge of these.” Donald proceeded to write his name on a small label and slid it into place on one of the few unused cabinet drawers. He then sat twiddling his thumbs. Clayton opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but ceased when Donald held up his hand. After a few more seconds Donald opened the drawer and pulled out a small file folder; the date and hour were printed neatly on its label. He then rolled back to his desk and opened the folder, removing a sheet of paper from inside and sliding it to Clayton. Half the page was covered in black type that said: //iamcurrentlythinkingaboutdemonstratingwhatthisobjectdoesforyou// over and over. “Basically, if your name is on one of those drawers, then your thoughts are recorded on the paper that appears inside, all nice and organized by the day and hour you had it,” Donald explained. “It all runs together.” Clayton looked on in awe. Donald chuckled as he fed the paper into a nearby shredder and then removed the label with his name from the filing cabinet drawer. “It sure does!” he exclaimed. “Human thoughts don’t run in nice little sentences and paragraphs. They happen in an instant and run smack dab into each other. It’s called 'stream of consciousness'. Our job is to read these papers, and turn the jumble into useful information. You’ll get used to reading the transcripts after a while.” “If the Foundation can access anyone’s thoughts, why are we the only ones assigned to the task?” Clayton looked over the cabinets again. “There must be thousands of people out there whose thoughts are of considerable value.” “Sure there are; the only problem comes from the number of requirements these damn things have when they operate,” Donald said as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath as he began to enumerate the cabinet’s problems on his fingers. “First off, the drawers have to be closed to work, meaning that if you have it open, you stop collecting the person’s thoughts. If you close the drawer without returning the file to the cabinet, it goes blank and you're stuck with just a useless ton of paper. You’d think you could get around that by just writing the person’s name on two drawers, but if you do that then //neither// drawer works. On top of that, these cabinets only store about four days’ worth of thoughts. After that, the older thoughts begin to disappear as the new ones are being written. Finally, you have the problem of how to interpret the damn things. You can’t just scan them into a computer because the text won’t appear on digital copies or images.” “That sounds like a lot of work for little pay-off, even if you //can// decipher the pages,” Clayton said, his enthusiasm fading. “There are individuals whose thoughts are //just// important enough that the Foundation is willing to put in this kind of effort,” Donald replied, cleaning his glasses. “It’s not as difficult as you might think. We open up a cabinet, scan about two hours’ worth of thoughts for anything of use, and then we place the file back and move onto the next person. At the end of the day we give Director Holman a report. The task forces make one hell of a punch when they already know what their target's plans are. ” Donald finished with a chuckle, followed by punching the air. He then reached into his desk and pulled out a clipboard with several forms attached. “A few doctors who work on some of the more exciting projects also use the cabinets as a form of keeping notes,” he added as he slid the clipboard and a pen to Clayton. “I’m going to need you to sign these real fast. Standard furniture and office transfer forms. When you get to the last page, just use the spot below my name.” “So we do this day in and day out?” Clayton began to sign on the many dotted lines. The last page was a single yellowing piece of paper. It appeared to be a sign-up sheet with a title that read "Records Withdrawal." There were at least five different signatures, but all of them were crossed out except for Donald's. Clayton signed below Donald’s signature, and watched in shock as Donald's signature crossed itself out. “Actually, that’s what //you’ll// be doing day in and day out,” Donald gleefully explained. “I’ve done this for the last ten years, and have been on the Director about getting me a replacement for the last five. Now that you’re on the sign-up sheet, I can get out of here and onto better things.” “What do you mean?” Clayton’s face grew pale as Donald’s smile grew wider. “These filing cabinets only work for whoever’s name is most recently added to that list you just signed!” Donald got to his feet. “And now you’re it! I’m free at last!” Clayton remained silent. His expression had become more horrified the more and more Donald laughed. “Oh, cheer up!” Donald said with a wave of his hand. “You’ll be fine. I doubt they’ll keep you down here as long as they’ve kept me! In fact, I’m sure [[[All Hallows\|Director Holman]]] will -” Donald was interrupted as two security officers rushed in, accompanied by a tall well-dressed man who was out of breath. "God //damn// it, Donald! What the //hell// do you think you're doing with the sign-up sheet!" the man bellowed between gasps for air. His expression then changed to one of worry as he noticed Clayton. “Ah, Director Holman,” Donald addressed the visitor. “I’ve just finished showing him the ropes. He’s all signed up!” “You didn’t…” Holman uttered. “Oh, but I did, Director!” Donald sneered. “I’ve been replaced! Five years I’ve been hounding you for relief and every time you promise me a replacement you whisk them away to work on some other project! I took matters into my own hands this time! There is not a god damn thing you can do about it!” “Do you have any idea how much you’ll set back at least four different operations?!” Holman shouted back. “People might //die// because of this!” “Oh come on, Director,” Donald frowned. “Don’t judge Clayton’s performance already; he hasn’t even started writing reports yet.” Holman fell silent at this comment, his right hand rubbing his temple as he closed his eyes. “Get him out of here,” Holman sighed. The security personnel immediately went to work, grabbing Donald by the shoulders and forced him towards the door. “I've already won, Director!” Donald called back as he was evicted from the premises. The room quickly went quiet at that point. Clayton looked to Holman for answers. “I’m sorry about this,” Holman said as he took a few deep breaths and then grabbed the Rubik's cube off Donald’s desk. He fiddled with the puzzle in his hands as he continued to speak. “Donald had twenty years of loyal service up to this point. The man hated this assignment, but this is the first time he actively attempted to alleviate his situation outside of a strongly worded letter.” “Why has he been down here for so long? Why--” Clayton questioned. Holman held a hand up to signal that he needed to calm down. “The longer you’re continuously bound to the filing cabinets, the better you are at reading the transcripts.” Holman placed the Rubik’s cube back on the desk. “What you and I see as stream of consciousness, Donald read as properly formatted sentences and paragraphs. By the time we learned of this effect, he’d already been at work for close to four years. We've been meaning to get him a replacement for some time now, but there was always another person of interest we needed to monitor, and less and less time to monitor them in.” “You’re not planning on keeping me bound to this thing, are you?” Clayton inquired. “You can’t do that!” “For the time being I’m going to need you to take one for the team and fill this post.” Holman placed a hand on the distraught researcher’s shoulder. “There are people whose lives depend on the information that may be in those cabinets.” “You can’t be serious…” Clayton got to his feet. He watched helplessly as Holman made his way to the door. “I’m sorry, Clayton. There’s nothing I can do at this point,” Holman stepped back into the hallway. “I’ll get back to you as soon as we sort this out.” Once he was alone, Clayton looked at a poster on the far wall. It depicted a cat hanging from a branch with the term “Hang in there!” printed beneath. For a few brief seconds he stood and stared at the helpless animal in the poster, but then fell back into his chair and placed his head in his hands. [[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>]]	2013-09-12T08:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "tale", "twisted-pines" ]	Paper Pusher - SCP Foundation	198	[ "all-hallows", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "those-twisted-pines-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "secure-facility-dossier-site-64", "randomini-does-the-mouth-word-things", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	19786574	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/paper-pusher
parting	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>TO: Oklahoma City, OK</p> <p>FROM: Washington D.C</p> <p>John</p> <p>Please come to Washington as soon as it can be arranged. Something has come up, and we're in need of people with your skills to assist. This is a matter of grave importance, and I expect you to keep a tight lip about it until we can arrange to meet. We shall be providing for expenses.</p> <p>President Roosevelt</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>TO: Washington D.C</p> <p>FROM: Oklahoma City, OK</p> <p>I cannot express the confusion and shock I experienced upon receiving your most recent telegram. I've only just begun to acquaint myself with my new post, and I am now expected to put these matters aside and report to you? If this is related to the business with the you-know-what, I cannot say that I would be prepared to help. You were impressed, yes, but it was an extremely woeful experience for me.</p> <p>I am sorry Theodore.</p> <p>John J. Pershing</p> <p>Assistant Chief of Staff, Southwest Army Division</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>TO: Oklahoma City, OK</p> <p>FROM: Washington D.C</p> <p>We've learned from our mistakes, John. This is a situation which requires a great level of experience, and your ability to cooperate and work with native peoples would be invaluable, if we are disregarding experience in other matters. With all due respect John, what we need is a fighting general! There are too many limp-wrist men in command, and if I told them what I must tell you they'd ask me to relieve them of command on the spot.</p> <p>President Roosevelt</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>TO: Washington D.C</p> <p>FROM: Oklahoma City, OK</p> <p>My ability to work with native peoples? I do not wish to be given a foreign post in Panama or the Pacific. If you are going to be positioning troops there, other commanders would be more able to the task then I. I'm sure that bigger stick diplomacy has left many capable units in the Panamanian area.</p> <p>John J. Pershing</p> <p>Assistant Chief of Staff, Southwest Army Division</p> </blockquote> <blockquote> <p>TO: Oklahoma City</p> <p>FROM: Washington D.C</p> <p>It isn't a matter of managing military positions in the area, but moving them through. There's a bigger stick over there, and it isn't going to stay where it is forever. I must again repeat my request that you come to Washington and see me. The matter has reached a point where we cannot turn back, and it is a time where the real men show their true colors.</p> <p>John, please. We are in dire straits here.</p> <p>President Roosevelt</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>John, I couldn't tell you what we were dealing with before. I can now. There's something in the sea, or under it. Something absolutely massive. It's a thing no body of men before us has ever had to struggle against. We cannot decline the call to help stop it, and preparations need to be made for the day we will do battle.</em></p> <p><em>The canal is one of those. An engineering feat, made in cooperation between us, several prominent European organizations, and some of our own. The French were the first to attempt it, and they failed. We have to carry the torch, John. Nobody is coming to save us, so we must defend ourselves. We owe the American people no less than everything we can do.</em></p> <hr/> <h3 id="toc0"><span>In Attendance: The President, Assistant Chief of Staff John Pershing-Southwest Army Division, Agent Harmond, Agent Brent</span></h3> <p>Summary: The President, with assistance from Agents Hammond and Brent, briefed Pershing on the purpose of the Panama Canal acquisition. Documents relating to 1900-01-069 are provided, in order to better instruct Pershing on its scope. Notes were made of arming the Panamanians, and routes for sea vessels to reach The Item.</p> <p>The President suggested the creation of a task force to jointly observe The Item with the ASCI. The proposal was denied, on the grounds of lack of need for additional observers.</p> <p>The President proposed aerial reconnaissance of The Item. Proposal was debated, then accepted.</p> <p>Following this, Pershing and agents discussed ways to move ASCI and U.S Army personnel to the object through the canal. These notations are currently in the process of archival.</p> <p>Briefing adjourned after approx. 5 hours and 22 minutes.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em>This documentation is to be used as supplementary, for personnel, and not a replacement for the full containment doctrine.</em></p> </blockquote> <p><strong>Item:</strong> 1900-01-069</p> <p><strong>Classification Type:</strong> Aquatic/Organic</p> <p><strong>Discovery Date:</strong> Classified</p> <p><strong>Threat Level:</strong> Known Extreme Threat</p> <p><strong>ASCI Protocols for Containment:</strong> All available resources are to be put into the construction of faster and less expensive methods of reaching Item 1900-01-069. Currently, military bases on the edge of South America, as well as positions in the islands created by it are sufficient to keep watch. The Russian Army is to be monitored for any signs of withdrawing from the area, in order to facilitate the obtainment of it. We do not know at this time what the Russians are aware of in regards to Item 1900-01-069.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Research Summary</strong></p> <p>A large underwater mass, supporting several islands and resting against the continents. At least 10,000 leagues under the surface, it appears to have a sort of hard, rock-like but smoother appearance. Other then its massive size, we have no knowledge of its intellect or what purpose it serves.</p> <p>[INFORMATION REVOKED]</p> <p>…believed to be located near the archipelago known as the █████ █████████ Islands, which have historically been uninhabited, though claimed by ███████ in 17██…</p> <p>[INFORMATION REVOKED]</p> <p>… Navy will occasionally patrol the █████ █████████ Islands, and will attack on-sight.</p> <p><strong><em>Supplementary Information</em></strong></p> <p>A possible sound emitted by The Item was detected on ██/██/19██ by the Aren Expeditionary Force during an investigation of paranormal activity around the █████ █████████ archipelago. These reports have not been substantiated…</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em>… Congratulations on the promotion to O-1. Higher then Washington himself, if I heard correctly. We're pleased to have you serving with us over the years, and hope that after all this is finally over, we can move towards a brighter day. Your early contributions to the Arc project have not been forgotten…</em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><strong>Addendum [0-210:]</strong> Several organisms have been found in the waters aro[REDACTED]gence testing has been inconclusive. The emergence events appear to be linked to the sounds produced by SCP-169, however no confirmed link has been found as of ██/██/19██. Personnel are to report any unusual aquatic life to their direct supervisor.</p> <hr/> <p><sup>It's not as much about the outside. It's who you have inside that counts.</sup></p> <hr/> <p><em>… our research has repeatedly indicated that the ASCI Project "Arc" is not a reliable source to follow up on for future investigations. The ARC-169 Expeditionary force led by Pershing in 19██ was indeed impressive, but the results are not conclusive. No reproduction of the events experienced by the Expeditionary Force has occurred to date, and no organisms have "emerged" from SCP-169 during our time researching it. We recommend the archival of all relevant data to allow our researchers a greater focus on current affairs. As useful as some of the information picked up from the ASCI turned out to be, not everything is gold.</em></p> <p><em>Researcher Adrian Irons</em></p> <hr/> <p>Dialog transcribed on ██/██/19██</p> <p><em>"I told'ya, we're not gonna make a deal like that. Two hundred thousand or nuthin'."</em></p> <p><em>"Look… we can't do that. We still have to pay for the crew, repairs, and fuel. Breaking the bank with the base purchase wont work. Best I can do is a hundred fifty."</em></p> <p><em>"A hundr'n fifty? Do I look like a fool? This ship is worth at least tw'hundred thousand, and that ain'even countin' the crew yer gettin'. Two hundred fifty."</em></p> <p><em>"Can you do a hundred seventy-five?"</em></p> <p><em>(sound of spitting) "No. But y'know what I can do?"</em></p> <p><em>(Sound of the captain leaving.)</em></p> <p><em>"Wait! Alright. You win. Two hundred fifty thousand."</em></p> <p><em>"I knew y'would come around eventually."</em></p> <p><em>Agent Boyd would be reprimanded for her excessive expense in acquiring SCPS <tt>Ketos Megas</tt>, and assigned to additional work with SCP-169. The captain was issued Class-C amnestics, and the excessive funds were recovered without incident.</em></p> <hr/> <p><strong>Transcript of Incident 169-21:</strong> Incident occurred on ██/██/19██.</p> <p><01:09> SCPS <em>Jonah</em> reports in as scheduled, during regular patrol activities. No note of any unusual activity is reported at this time.<br/> <01:29> Radio reports from SCPS <em>Jonah</em> indicate that its equipment is picking up signals similar to those found in <strong>Addendum [0-20]</strong>.<br/> <01:45> Contact with SCPS <em>Jonah</em> lost.<br/> <03:08> SCPS <em>Jonah</em> returns to port, showing signs of hull damage.<br/> <03:12> Mobile Task Force Gamma-6 boards SCPS <em>Jonah</em><br/> <03:45> Mobile Task Force Gamma-6 exits the SCPS <em>Jonah</em>, carrying several unknown cadavers.<br/> <03:50> Headcount shows that several members of the ships crew have been injured, with one missing.<br/> <04:09> Crew members report that as the ship passed the █████ █████████ archipelago, several organisms emerged from under the water and assaulted the ship. During this time, several security tapes show the creatures emerging from or nearby SCP-169.<br/> <04:33> Cadavers transported to Research Area █████ ███.<br/> <05:00> SCPS <em>Guardian</em> leaves port to investigate area.<br/> <06:03> SCPS <em>Guardian</em> returns to port, reporting no unusual activity.</p> <p>Over the next several weeks, multiple members of Area personnel reported seeing creatures near SCP-169's mass. Analysis of the cadavers showed they resembled no species found on earth. One instance appeared to have surgical scars running down its back. The significance of this event is currently under research.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/rising-tide">Rising Tide</a> \| <a href="/old-man-in-the-sea-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/antediluvian">Antediluvian</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="/parting">Parting</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/parting">https://scpwiki.com/parting</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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: Oklahoma City, OK > > FROM: Washington D.C > > John > > Please come to Washington as soon as it can be arranged. Something has come up, and we're in need of people with your skills to assist. This is a matter of grave importance, and I expect you to keep a tight lip about it until we can arrange to meet. We shall be providing for expenses. > > President Roosevelt > TO: Washington D.C > > FROM: Oklahoma City, OK > > I cannot express the confusion and shock I experienced upon receiving your most recent telegram. I've only just begun to acquaint myself with my new post, and I am now expected to put these matters aside and report to you? If this is related to the business with the you-know-what, I cannot say that I would be prepared to help. You were impressed, yes, but it was an extremely woeful experience for me. > > I am sorry Theodore. > > John J. Pershing > > Assistant Chief of Staff, Southwest Army Division > TO: Oklahoma City, OK > > FROM: Washington D.C > > We've learned from our mistakes, John. This is a situation which requires a great level of experience, and your ability to cooperate and work with native peoples would be invaluable, if we are disregarding experience in other matters. With all due respect John, what we need is a fighting general! There are too many limp-wrist men in command, and if I told them what I must tell you they'd ask me to relieve them of command on the spot. > > President Roosevelt > TO: Washington D.C > > FROM: Oklahoma City, OK > > My ability to work with native peoples? I do not wish to be given a foreign post in Panama or the Pacific. If you are going to be positioning troops there, other commanders would be more able to the task then I. I'm sure that bigger stick diplomacy has left many capable units in the Panamanian area. > > John J. Pershing > > Assistant Chief of Staff, Southwest Army Division > TO: Oklahoma City > > FROM: Washington D.C > > It isn't a matter of managing military positions in the area, but moving them through. There's a bigger stick over there, and it isn't going to stay where it is forever. I must again repeat my request that you come to Washington and see me. The matter has reached a point where we cannot turn back, and it is a time where the real men show their true colors. > > John, please. We are in dire straits here. > > President Roosevelt ------------- //John, I couldn't tell you what we were dealing with before. I can now. There's something in the sea, or under it. Something absolutely massive. It's a thing no body of men before us has ever had to struggle against. We cannot decline the call to help stop it, and preparations need to be made for the day we will do battle.// //The canal is one of those. An engineering feat, made in cooperation between us, several prominent European organizations, and some of our own. The French were the first to attempt it, and they failed. We have to carry the torch, John. Nobody is coming to save us, so we must defend ourselves. We owe the American people no less than everything we can do.// ------------- +++ In Attendance: The President, Assistant Chief of Staff John Pershing-Southwest Army Division, Agent Harmond, Agent Brent Summary: The President, with assistance from Agents Hammond and Brent, briefed Pershing on the purpose of the Panama Canal acquisition. Documents relating to 1900-01-069 are provided, in order to better instruct Pershing on its scope. Notes were made of arming the Panamanians, and routes for sea vessels to reach The Item. The President suggested the creation of a task force to jointly observe The Item with the ASCI. The proposal was denied, on the grounds of lack of need for additional observers. The President proposed aerial reconnaissance of The Item. Proposal was debated, then accepted. Following this, Pershing and agents discussed ways to move ASCI and U.S Army personnel to the object through the canal. These notations are currently in the process of archival. Briefing adjourned after approx. 5 hours and 22 minutes. ---------------- > //This documentation is to be used as supplementary, for personnel, and not a replacement for the full containment doctrine.// Item: 1900-01-069 Classification Type: Aquatic/Organic Discovery Date: Classified Threat Level: Known Extreme Threat ASCI Protocols for Containment: All available resources are to be put into the construction of faster and less expensive methods of reaching Item 1900-01-069. Currently, military bases on the edge of South America, as well as positions in the islands created by it are sufficient to keep watch. The Russian Army is to be monitored for any signs of withdrawing from the area, in order to facilitate the obtainment of it. We do not know at this time what the Russians are aware of in regards to Item 1900-01-069. = Research Summary A large underwater mass, supporting several islands and resting against the continents. At least 10,000 leagues under the surface, it appears to have a sort of hard, rock-like but smoother appearance. Other then its massive size, we have no knowledge of its intellect or what purpose it serves. [INFORMATION REVOKED] ...believed to be located near the archipelago known as the █████ █████████ Islands, which have historically been uninhabited, though claimed by ███████ in 17██... [INFORMATION REVOKED] ... Navy will occasionally patrol the █████ █████████ Islands, and will attack on-sight. //Supplementary Information// A possible sound emitted by The Item was detected on ██/██/19██ by the Aren Expeditionary Force during an investigation of paranormal activity around the █████ █████████ archipelago. These reports have not been substantiated... --------------------------- > //... Congratulations on the promotion to O-1. Higher then Washington himself, if I heard correctly. We're pleased to have you serving with us over the years, and hope that after all this is finally over, we can move towards a brighter day. Your early contributions to the Arc project have not been forgotten...// --------------------------- Addendum [0-210:] Several organisms have been found in the waters aro[REDACTED]gence testing has been inconclusive. The emergence events appear to be linked to the sounds produced by SCP-169, however no confirmed link has been found as of ██/██/19██. Personnel are to report any unusual aquatic life to their direct supervisor. ---------------------------- ^^It's not as much about the outside. It's who you have inside that counts.^^ ---------------------------- //... our research has repeatedly indicated that the ASCI Project "Arc" is not a reliable source to follow up on for future investigations. The ARC-169 Expeditionary force led by Pershing in 19██ was indeed impressive, but the results are not conclusive. No reproduction of the events experienced by the Expeditionary Force has occurred to date, and no organisms have "emerged" from SCP-169 during our time researching it. We recommend the archival of all relevant data to allow our researchers a greater focus on current affairs. As useful as some of the information picked up from the ASCI turned out to be, not everything is gold.// //Researcher Adrian Irons// ---- Dialog transcribed on ██/██/19██ //"I told'ya, we're not gonna make a deal like that. Two hundred thousand or nuthin'."// //"Look… we can't do that. We still have to pay for the crew, repairs, and fuel. Breaking the bank with the base purchase wont work. Best I can do is a hundred fifty."// //"A hundr'n fifty? Do I look like a fool? This ship is worth at least tw'hundred thousand, and that ain'even countin' the crew yer gettin'. Two hundred fifty."// //"Can you do a hundred seventy-five?"// //(sound of spitting) "No. But y'know what I can do?"// //(Sound of the captain leaving.)// //"Wait! Alright. You win. Two hundred fifty thousand."// //"I knew y'would come around eventually."// //Agent Boyd would be reprimanded for her excessive expense in acquiring SCPS {{Ketos Megas}}, and assigned to additional work with SCP-169. The captain was issued Class-C amnestics, and the excessive funds were recovered without incident.// ---- Transcript of Incident 169-21: Incident occurred on ██/██/19██. <01:09> SCPS //Jonah// reports in as scheduled, during regular patrol activities. No note of any unusual activity is reported at this time. <01:29> Radio reports from SCPS //Jonah// indicate that its equipment is picking up signals similar to those found in Addendum [0-20]. <01:45> Contact with SCPS //Jonah// lost. <03:08> SCPS //Jonah// returns to port, showing signs of hull damage. <03:12> Mobile Task Force Gamma-6 boards SCPS //Jonah// <03:45> Mobile Task Force Gamma-6 exits the SCPS //Jonah//, carrying several unknown cadavers. <03:50> Headcount shows that several members of the ships crew have been injured, with one missing. <04:09> Crew members report that as the ship passed the █████ █████████ archipelago, several organisms emerged from under the water and assaulted the ship. During this time, several security tapes show the creatures emerging from or nearby SCP-169. <04:33> Cadavers transported to Research Area █████ ███. <05:00> SCPS //Guardian// leaves port to investigate area. <06:03> SCPS //Guardian// returns to port, reporting no unusual activity. Over the next several weeks, multiple members of Area personnel reported seeing creatures near SCP-169's mass. Analysis of the cadavers showed they resembled no species found on earth. One instance appeared to have surgical scars running down its back. The significance of this event is currently under research. [[=]] << [[[Rising Tide]]] \| [[[old-man-in-the-sea-hub\| HUB]]] \| [[[Antediluvian]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-04T12:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "asci", "nyc2013", "old-man-in-the-sea", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Parting - SCP Foundation	49	[ "rising-tide", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "antediluvian", "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", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16290555	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/parting
pilgrimage	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>When you're in a position like mine, there is never time to be surprised. Even when each day, I meet new THINGS on my skin to crawl around and smile with my gums, I think thats all there is too see. Of course, I'm wrong. When god ran out of THINGS from this world, he sent some from the others to pick up the slack.</p> <p>I'm being punished, you know. For my time working with the collectors. They stuck me in their little pickle jar, and now all my friends, or the ones who were to be called my friends, call me crazy and watch me without pity. They can't see I'mstillhumanstillhumanstillhumanstillhuman like them they cannot see they are blinded by the gnats.</p> <p>They used to watch over me every day, making sure I didn't try to destroy the world I once strived so hard to protect. Then the containment breach sounded. The THINGS were let out of their broken jars, and my old brothers and friends fled from sight. I thought they had to bee back soon. But they never came back. All that was left was ME and the THINGS.</p> <p>I could hear them creeping out there in the dripping pitch blackness, scraping and scratching against their binds. Some of their lands had been freed by the compromised site, but some had to struggle for years to reach me. Even now, there are still trying to skitter their way into my places.</p> <p>First ones were the shadows. They're always with me. I can feel the flat, spindly legs crawling over my body now. All over and in over. They're what retaught me that there is no such thing as privacy, when THEY spin webs in the mind and fly them around like little cranial ziplines. THEY catch my thoughts like flies.</p> <p>The ants were swarming over me. They rolled off the skin and folded it like nice blankets at the foot of the bed. My feet were scratched into powder and spread out to feed the babies. My eyes were taken, and they saw what I saw. Even in my sight, THEY saw it all and could make me see what they see I see what THEY want me to see all see.</p> <p>Then, after taking my privacy, they took my senses. From the cicadas, I lost my ears. The parasites took my taste, hanging onto the ends of my gums like an artificial tongue, flapping in the wind but not tasting a THING. Bones are all around me now, making a little nest for all my private friends. It's so cozy in me, but I am never alone. My thoughts are snapped up and sent through the hive that has come to be what used to be me.</p> <p>I used to pray to a god, any god, to forgive me and let my existence end. That was an exercise in futility. Because I know there is no GOD out there, no GOD for these THINGS that can be found outside the little room we all share together in harmony.</p> <p style="text-align: center;">I am god.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>This document was recovered from the containment chamber of <a href="/scp-027">SCP-027</a>, following Mass Containment Breach Incident-006. Approximately ███ insectoid anomalies were also recovered within the chamber. The note itself appeared to be composed from insect cocoon material, and written with fecal matter. Although it is believed that SCP-027 still occupies the chamber, it has not been sighted by any personnel following its return to Foundation custody.</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="/pilgrimage">Pilgrimage</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/pilgrimage">https://scpwiki.com/pilgrimage</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > When you're in a position like mine, there is never time to be surprised. Even when each day, I meet new THINGS on my skin to crawl around and smile with my gums, I think thats all there is too see. Of course, I'm wrong. When god ran out of THINGS from this world, he sent some from the others to pick up the slack. > > I'm being punished, you know. For my time working with the collectors. They stuck me in their little pickle jar, and now all my friends, or the ones who were to be called my friends, call me crazy and watch me without pity. They can't see I'mstillhumanstillhumanstillhumanstillhuman like them they cannot see they are blinded by the gnats. > > They used to watch over me every day, making sure I didn't try to destroy the world I once strived so hard to protect. Then the containment breach sounded. The THINGS were let out of their broken jars, and my old brothers and friends fled from sight. I thought they had to bee back soon. But they never came back. All that was left was ME and the THINGS. > > I could hear them creeping out there in the dripping pitch blackness, scraping and scratching against their binds. Some of their lands had been freed by the compromised site, but some had to struggle for years to reach me. Even now, there are still trying to skitter their way into my places. > > First ones were the shadows. They're always with me. I can feel the flat, spindly legs crawling over my body now. All over and in over. They're what retaught me that there is no such thing as privacy, when THEY spin webs in the mind and fly them around like little cranial ziplines. THEY catch my thoughts like flies. > > The ants were swarming over me. They rolled off the skin and folded it like nice blankets at the foot of the bed. My feet were scratched into powder and spread out to feed the babies. My eyes were taken, and they saw what I saw. Even in my sight, THEY saw it all and could make me see what they see I see what THEY want me to see all see. > > Then, after taking my privacy, they took my senses. From the cicadas, I lost my ears. The parasites took my taste, hanging onto the ends of my gums like an artificial tongue, flapping in the wind but not tasting a THING. Bones are all around me now, making a little nest for all my private friends. It's so cozy in me, but I am never alone. My thoughts are snapped up and sent through the hive that has come to be what used to be me. > > I used to pray to a god, any god, to forgive me and let my existence end. That was an exercise in futility. Because I know there is no GOD out there, no GOD for these THINGS that can be found outside the little room we all share together in harmony. > > = I am god. //This document was recovered from the containment chamber of [[[SCP-027]]], following Mass Containment Breach Incident-006. Approximately ███ insectoid anomalies were also recovered within the chamber. The note itself appeared to be composed from insect cocoon material, and written with fecal matter. Although it is believed that SCP-027 still occupies the chamber, it has not been sighted by any personnel following its return to Foundation custody.// [[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>]]	2013-05-10T16:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Pilgrimage - SCP Foundation	40	[ "scp-027", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	17869468	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/pilgrimage
placere-non-trinus	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Sir Ando drew his cloak around him as he prepared to leave the monastery. The large, cobblestone building stood behind him, towering above him and his horse as he saddled it up. Hastily, he threw the scroll and his rations into the pouch on the side of his mount, backing it up through the stable until he was in clear sight of the road.</p> <p>Farther down the path, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might bring news to enemies of the Church, he brought the horse to a halt. Grabbing the scroll from his pouch, he broke the wax seal bearing the signet of Dom Maski of the Abbey of St. Bright. Unrolling the document, he read the decree;</p> <blockquote> <p><em>The bearer of this document—Sir Ando Le Roche, Knight Errant of the Order of Kondraki—is hereby authorised to enlist from within the borders of County Reaforten six and twenty knights of the same order, thereby to locate and apprehend the person or persons in possession of the demonic item known as "the Yellow Book" and any persons giving aid and comfort to the same, and to deliver them unto the custody of the Holy Foundation for judgment and sentence. By decree of the archcanon of the Abbey of St. Bright and the Duke of Westmont, in accordance with the Groups of Interest Act 437, said knight is empowered to…</em></p> </blockquote> <p>Sir Ando rolled the scroll up and slid it back into his pouch and gave the horse a nudge to set it on its way.</p> <hr/> <p><em>"What is the Yellow Book?"</em></p> <p>"I think it was a skip, Cardinal."</p> <p><em>"Why have the Children of the River devoted themselves to finding it?"</em></p> <p>"Hell if I know. What do you know about it?"</p> <p>The old man sighed uneasily. <em>"Er, Lord, what we know is mostly conjecture—bits and pieces from surviving encounters, which are rare enough in themselves—but they say the Yellow Book rewrites the past."</em></p> <p>The D-Caste's eyes opened wide as the man controlling it made the connection.</p> <p>"Fuck."</p> <p><em>"I beg pardon, Lord?"</em></p> <p>"Yeah, oh I know what you're talking about. SCP-140. Don't let 'em bleed on it and you'll be fine. Keter class, real nasty thing."</p> <p>The Cardinal rose an eyebrow as he gestured for his servant to find the relevant section of the Holy Containment Procedures. Little was known of the cult, but the Synod had gathered that they had split off from the Seventeenth Chapel after the Great Breach, and had been in search of the Yellow Book ever since. The group had proven next to impossible to penetrate, but from what descriptions of their secret ceremonies had made it to Foundation ears, it seemed inevitable that if they found it, they would 'bleed' on it profusely. He pondered in silence for a long second.</p> <p>"Hey, you guys got any booze?"</p> <hr/> <p>It had been four days of riding, and not a single tree had been in view for three of them. It would take another two to reach the city of Reaforten in order to enlist more knights to aid him in his quest. He knew the fables, the stories, the legend of how the Lord Bright had addressed the problem over 300 years before. To his dismay, Sir Ando also knew about the Children of the River.</p> <p>As a knight of the Order of Kondraki, his entire life was training for events like these; pre-Breach demons rising again. It was his duty to stop them wherever they threatened the Holy Foundation. Though experienced in fighting, and at the ripe age of 39, Sir Ando had never actually encountered a demon like those described in the Scripture. He had once witnessed the Ceremony of the Clockworks, but that was his closest to a truly supernatural circumstance. How would he fare when he stood face-to-face with the Children of the River and the monstrous things that had been known to fight alongside them - men, animals, monsters, great creatures of steel that supposedly rose fully-formed from cauldrons of blood like an unholy homunculus? Reaching under his tunic, he caressed the St. Dmitri's medallion he wore. <em>St. Dmitri, prince among soldiers,</em> he prayed to himself, <em>grant me courage to face the trials ahead. Grant that my hand be quick and steady, that my sword strike true, and that my shield be as steady and resilient as my heart. Guide me to victory as you guided your knights against the Chechan hordes in ancient times - and if it is my appointed time to fall, then grant me a quick, honorable, and noble death, and in death, grant me satisfaction and rest. Amen.</em></p> <p>Sir Ando grabbed the reins tighter, pulling his head down as dust flew up around him as he rode towards Reaforten.</p> <hr/> <p><em>"You believe they wish to prevent the Great Breach through the use of the Yellow Book, Lord?"</em></p> <p>"That's one way of putting it."</p> <p>The First Cardinal shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sweat soaking his undershirt. Even the patron, founder, and Overseer of all the Holy Foundation, Lord Bright Himself, expressed fear at the notion of the Yellow Book re-emerging.</p> <p><em>"I'm afraid the Holy Foundation does not… currently… have the means to search for the Yellow Book, and the Scripture is incomplete on containment, Lord,"</em> he said hesitantly. <em>"However, the Children of the River are not to be trifled with. Their leaders are masters of summoning hellish beings, and the rest of the Council has yet to recognize them as a serious heathenish threat worthy of a Holy Crusade."</em></p> <p>"The people who made the Yellow Book are worse than that. Even when everything they touched had been destroyed, One-Forty made more. If you let them get a hold of it, holy water and kissing a crucifix won't do shit."</p> <p><em>"We believe it is lost to the ages, Lord, or else hidden beyond our reach. There have been rumors that the Children of the River have been conducting activities in County Reaforten—perhaps they have knowledge of its whereabouts that we do not. We have dispatched the Order of Kondraki to search the county, and to take action if they hear any news of it. However, we unfortunately do find this scenario quite unlikely."</em></p> <p>"Well, when you find it, let me know."</p> <p><em>"I would be honored to."</em></p> <p>A guard entered cautiously from the side of the room. Approaching the chained man, he bowed, keeping his head down as he outstretched his hand with an ornate goblet.</p> <p><em>"Here is your drink, my Lord,"</em> the guard said. <em>"I fear that the keeper of the cellars was unfamiliar with the 'vodka' you requested, but he assures me that this is the finest of this season's ale."</em></p> <p>"It'll have to do."</p> <hr/> <p>There were more of them now; twenty-seven in all, all knights of the Order of Kondraki, the best of County Reaforten. It had only been hours since they rode in formation through the gates of the city away from the sun as it rose behind them, the western foothills, their destination, looming ominously in the distance. From what Sir Ando had learned, a freeholder of the county had seen strange men coming and going from an old mine near his farmland and crept into the cave after dark to investigate. He stumbled upon a demonic altar within, slipped on a rock, and cut himself. He claimed to witness the final page turn without being touched as the blood drained from his hand and flew to the book. He ran screaming from the tunnel, hastily informing the nearest pastor. In accordance with the Scripture, he was sanctified with Class-A holy water by Father Ires and released. Disappointingly, none of the Reaforteners he had encountered were able (or willing, perhaps) to impart his location to Sir Ando, so an interview was out of the question.</p> <p>It was past noon when they arrived at the entrance to the mine. A crude palisade had been erected around the entrance. Men wearing green and white, the colors of Duke Augons of Reaforten, watched from above the barricade, training their bows as the horsemen drew near. The knights trotted their horses in a circle surrounding Sir Ando, and he called to the men.</p> <p>"Open these gates, in the name of the Duke!"</p> <p>Sir Ando quickly showed Dom Maski's decree to the guard, who obligingly opened the barricade. The knights dismounted and tied their horses up as he informed them that none had come or gone from the mine since they began watching the entrance a fortnight ago, but that strange sounds had been heard emanating from below and none of his men were brave enough to enter.</p> <p>"This is what we train for, men," Sir Ando said. "The Yellow Book might be in there—and who knows what else. Stay on your guard, keep your weapons sheathed unless absolutely necessary, and if you so much as stub your toe or scratch your knuckles, fall back and don't touch anything. Let's get in and out as fast as we can. For Kondraki!"</p> <p>The gruff men raised their swords high in the air. "For Kondraki!" Sir Ando kissed his crucifix, muttered a prayer, and walked determinedly towards the opening. Taking in hand the torches the guardsmen had prepared, they descended into the mine.</p> <hr/> <p>"You ever wondered why we're here?"</p> <p>The Cardinal sat silent.</p> <p>"I don't either. By all means, we should be dead. Gone. Kaput. Not a single soul left. And yet, we're not. Somehow, some way, humanity is still chugging along, against the odds."</p> <p><em>"Ye-yes, Lord Bright, it appears so—"</em></p> <p>"It clicked with me the day I heard that Site Four's nuke had gone off, minutes after Fifty-Eight got out. It was the middle of the day, and not a single person was evacuated. Too little time. There wasn't enough time."</p> <p>"In my moment of clarity, I realized whyyyyy there was never enough time. We had used it up! It's not an easy feeling to deal with, knowing that you're living on borrrrrrowed time, because it means that the Universe has every right to rip your life from you and you should be grateful, damnit. Your sisterrrr's dead, and the next day she's not? No! She's good as dead, because we've aaaall made a cruel deal with God to give her extra time, and there's no knowing when, or why, she'll die. All you get is connnndolence that it happened later than it 'should' have. It's a damn miracle we're even here, but we're scared to death of nnnnnot being."</p> <p>"You know most of what happened durrrring the Breach; the universe was truly falling apart. Debris was crushing us, destroying us and itself in the most… pure… moment of chaos. And yet, we didn't die. Crazy! I know."</p> <p><em>"Lord Bright, if I may, we had God on our side, aiding us during the Great Breach."</em></p> <p>"I sure think so. But we're on borrowed time! One-Fortttty, the Yellow Book, if someone blew their brains out right on top of the thing, and the world was pllllunged into darkness, I'd think 'Damn! At least it didn't happen earlier!' Haha, wow! Is that really what the worrrrld's given to us? We spent centuries safeguarding, protecting, studying the screwups that God left to hang out in our yard, and they nearly destroyed us! Centuries. Just, to say 'We ever-so-slightly avoided dying, guysssss. Good… fucking… job!"</p> <p>With the final effort of the last sentence, the D-Caste slumped over, descending into a drunken unconsciousness. The guard entered a second time, removing the amulet and carefully placing it in its container.</p> <hr/> <p>They had explored the whole mine, and there was no altar. Nothing unusual at all. Not a single sign of the Yellow Book, or the Children on the River.</p> <p>"Maybe they already got to it?" asked one of the knights.</p> <p>"If they did, we'd know," Sir Ando replied despondently. "It's likely that our witness was drunk, or delusional, or both." Worn out, he trudged back up towards the light. The other knights followed suit.</p> <p>It was not until six weeks later that Augons, eighth Count of Reaforten, was lead from his manor in shackles by Sir Ando and his men. From an anonymous tip, knights rushed into Lady Emile Lament's mansion, discovering files of payments from known Chaos Insurgency leaders, as well as the names of over two hundred spies on the payroll within the city. The captain of the guard, when put to the question, gave the names of dozens who had been ordered to carry strange objects into the mine under cover of darkness, and let themselves be seen taking them out the next day. Even Father Ires was executed.</p> <p>Of the Yellow Book, and the Children of the River themselves, no sign could be found.</p> <p><em>Vos tantum currere in circulis donec te trinus.</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="/placere-non-trinus">Placere Non Trinus</a>" by Rejekyll, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/placere-non-trinus">https://scpwiki.com/placere-non-trinus</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Sir Ando drew his cloak around him as he prepared to leave the monastery. The large, cobblestone building stood behind him, towering above him and his horse as he saddled it up. Hastily, he threw the scroll and his rations into the pouch on the side of his mount, backing it up through the stable until he was in clear sight of the road. Farther down the path, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might bring news to enemies of the Church, he brought the horse to a halt. Grabbing the scroll from his pouch, he broke the wax seal bearing the signet of Dom Maski of the Abbey of St. Bright. Unrolling the document, he read the decree; > //The bearer of this document—Sir Ando Le Roche, Knight Errant of the Order of Kondraki—is hereby authorised to enlist from within the borders of County Reaforten six and twenty knights of the same order, thereby to locate and apprehend the person or persons in possession of the demonic item known as "the Yellow Book" and any persons giving aid and comfort to the same, and to deliver them unto the custody of the Holy Foundation for judgment and sentence. By decree of the archcanon of the Abbey of St. Bright and the Duke of Westmont, in accordance with the Groups of Interest Act 437, said knight is empowered to...// Sir Ando rolled the scroll up and slid it back into his pouch and gave the horse a nudge to set it on its way. ----- //"What is the Yellow Book?"// "I think it was a skip, Cardinal." //"Why have the Children of the River devoted themselves to finding it?"// "Hell if I know. What do you know about it?" The old man sighed uneasily. //"Er, Lord, what we know is mostly conjecture—bits and pieces from surviving encounters, which are rare enough in themselves—but they say the Yellow Book rewrites the past."// The D-Caste's eyes opened wide as the man controlling it made the connection. "Fuck." //"I beg pardon, Lord?"// "Yeah, oh I know what you're talking about. SCP-140. Don't let 'em bleed on it and you'll be fine. Keter class, real nasty thing." The Cardinal rose an eyebrow as he gestured for his servant to find the relevant section of the Holy Containment Procedures. Little was known of the cult, but the Synod had gathered that they had split off from the Seventeenth Chapel after the Great Breach, and had been in search of the Yellow Book ever since. The group had proven next to impossible to penetrate, but from what descriptions of their secret ceremonies had made it to Foundation ears, it seemed inevitable that if they found it, they would 'bleed' on it profusely. He pondered in silence for a long second. "Hey, you guys got any booze?" ----- It had been four days of riding, and not a single tree had been in view for three of them. It would take another two to reach the city of Reaforten in order to enlist more knights to aid him in his quest. He knew the fables, the stories, the legend of how the Lord Bright had addressed the problem over 300 years before. To his dismay, Sir Ando also knew about the Children of the River. As a knight of the Order of Kondraki, his entire life was training for events like these; pre-Breach demons rising again. It was his duty to stop them wherever they threatened the Holy Foundation. Though experienced in fighting, and at the ripe age of 39, Sir Ando had never actually encountered a demon like those described in the Scripture. He had once witnessed the Ceremony of the Clockworks, but that was his closest to a truly supernatural circumstance. How would he fare when he stood face-to-face with the Children of the River and the monstrous things that had been known to fight alongside them - men, animals, monsters, great creatures of steel that supposedly rose fully-formed from cauldrons of blood like an unholy homunculus? Reaching under his tunic, he caressed the St. Dmitri's medallion he wore. //St. Dmitri, prince among soldiers,// he prayed to himself, //grant me courage to face the trials ahead. Grant that my hand be quick and steady, that my sword strike true, and that my shield be as steady and resilient as my heart. Guide me to victory as you guided your knights against the Chechan hordes in ancient times - and if it is my appointed time to fall, then grant me a quick, honorable, and noble death, and in death, grant me satisfaction and rest. Amen.// Sir Ando grabbed the reins tighter, pulling his head down as dust flew up around him as he rode towards Reaforten. ----- //"You believe they wish to prevent the Great Breach through the use of the Yellow Book, Lord?"// "That's one way of putting it." The First Cardinal shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sweat soaking his undershirt. Even the patron, founder, and Overseer of all the Holy Foundation, Lord Bright Himself, expressed fear at the notion of the Yellow Book re-emerging. //"I'm afraid the Holy Foundation does not... currently... have the means to search for the Yellow Book, and the Scripture is incomplete on containment, Lord,"// he said hesitantly. //"However, the Children of the River are not to be trifled with. Their leaders are masters of summoning hellish beings, and the rest of the Council has yet to recognize them as a serious heathenish threat worthy of a Holy Crusade."// "The people who made the Yellow Book are worse than that. Even when everything they touched had been destroyed, One-Forty made more. If you let them get a hold of it, holy water and kissing a crucifix won't do shit." //"We believe it is lost to the ages, Lord, or else hidden beyond our reach. There have been rumors that the Children of the River have been conducting activities in County Reaforten—perhaps they have knowledge of its whereabouts that we do not. We have dispatched the Order of Kondraki to search the county, and to take action if they hear any news of it. However, we unfortunately do find this scenario quite unlikely."// "Well, when you find it, let me know." //"I would be honored to."// A guard entered cautiously from the side of the room. Approaching the chained man, he bowed, keeping his head down as he outstretched his hand with an ornate goblet. //"Here is your drink, my Lord,"// the guard said. //"I fear that the keeper of the cellars was unfamiliar with the 'vodka' you requested, but he assures me that this is the finest of this season's ale."// "It'll have to do." ----- There were more of them now; twenty-seven in all, all knights of the Order of Kondraki, the best of County Reaforten. It had only been hours since they rode in formation through the gates of the city away from the sun as it rose behind them, the western foothills, their destination, looming ominously in the distance. From what Sir Ando had learned, a freeholder of the county had seen strange men coming and going from an old mine near his farmland and crept into the cave after dark to investigate. He stumbled upon a demonic altar within, slipped on a rock, and cut himself. He claimed to witness the final page turn without being touched as the blood drained from his hand and flew to the book. He ran screaming from the tunnel, hastily informing the nearest pastor. In accordance with the Scripture, he was sanctified with Class-A holy water by Father Ires and released. Disappointingly, none of the Reaforteners he had encountered were able (or willing, perhaps) to impart his location to Sir Ando, so an interview was out of the question. It was past noon when they arrived at the entrance to the mine. A crude palisade had been erected around the entrance. Men wearing green and white, the colors of Duke Augons of Reaforten, watched from above the barricade, training their bows as the horsemen drew near. The knights trotted their horses in a circle surrounding Sir Ando, and he called to the men. "Open these gates, in the name of the Duke!" Sir Ando quickly showed Dom Maski's decree to the guard, who obligingly opened the barricade. The knights dismounted and tied their horses up as he informed them that none had come or gone from the mine since they began watching the entrance a fortnight ago, but that strange sounds had been heard emanating from below and none of his men were brave enough to enter. "This is what we train for, men," Sir Ando said. "The Yellow Book might be in there—and who knows what else. Stay on your guard, keep your weapons sheathed unless absolutely necessary, and if you so much as stub your toe or scratch your knuckles, fall back and don't touch anything. Let's get in and out as fast as we can. For Kondraki!" The gruff men raised their swords high in the air. "For Kondraki!" Sir Ando kissed his crucifix, muttered a prayer, and walked determinedly towards the opening. Taking in hand the torches the guardsmen had prepared, they descended into the mine. ----- "You ever wondered why we're here?" The Cardinal sat silent. "I don't either. By all means, we should be dead. Gone. Kaput. Not a single soul left. And yet, we're not. Somehow, some way, humanity is still chugging along, against the odds." //"Ye-yes, Lord Bright, it appears so—"// "It clicked with me the day I heard that Site Four's nuke had gone off, minutes after Fifty-Eight got out. It was the middle of the day, and not a single person was evacuated. Too little time. There wasn't enough time." "In my moment of clarity, I realized whyyyyy there was never enough time. We had used it up! It's not an easy feeling to deal with, knowing that you're living on borrrrrrowed time, because it means that the Universe has every right to rip your life from you and you should be grateful, damnit. Your sisterrrr's dead, and the next day she's not? No! She's good as dead, because we've aaaall made a cruel deal with God to give her extra time, and there's no knowing when, or why, she'll die. All you get is connnndolence that it happened later than it 'should' have. It's a damn miracle we're even here, but we're scared to death of nnnnnot being." "You know most of what happened durrrring the Breach; the universe was truly falling apart. Debris was crushing us, destroying us and itself in the most… pure… moment of chaos. And yet, we didn't die. Crazy! I know." //"Lord Bright, if I may, we had God on our side, aiding us during the Great Breach."// "I sure think so. But we're on borrowed time! One-Fortttty, the Yellow Book, if someone blew their brains out right on top of the thing, and the world was pllllunged into darkness, I'd think 'Damn! At least it didn't happen earlier!' Haha, wow! Is that really what the worrrrld's given to us? We spent centuries safeguarding, protecting, studying the screwups that God left to hang out in our yard, and they nearly destroyed us! Centuries. Just, to say 'We ever-so-slightly avoided dying, guysssss. Good… fucking... job!" With the final effort of the last sentence, the D-Caste slumped over, descending into a drunken unconsciousness. The guard entered a second time, removing the amulet and carefully placing it in its container. ----- They had explored the whole mine, and there was no altar. Nothing unusual at all. Not a single sign of the Yellow Book, or the Children on the River. "Maybe they already got to it?" asked one of the knights. "If they did, we'd know," Sir Ando replied despondently. "It's likely that our witness was drunk, or delusional, or both." Worn out, he trudged back up towards the light. The other knights followed suit. It was not until six weeks later that Augons, eighth Count of Reaforten, was lead from his manor in shackles by Sir Ando and his men. From an anonymous tip, knights rushed into Lady Emile Lament's mansion, discovering files of payments from known Chaos Insurgency leaders, as well as the names of over two hundred spies on the payroll within the city. The captain of the guard, when put to the question, gave the names of dozens who had been ordered to carry strange objects into the mine under cover of darkness, and let themselves be seen taking them out the next day. Even Father Ires was executed. Of the Yellow Book, and the Children of the River themselves, no sign could be found. //Vos tantum currere in circulis donec te trinus.// @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-01-30T01:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-bright", "doctors-of-the-church", "fantasy", "nyc2013", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Placere Non Trinus - SCP Foundation	90	[ "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" ]	[]	16239423	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/placere-non-trinus
playing-god	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>To whom it may concern,</p> <p>First and foremost, I would like to offer congratulations to each and every member of staff working here. When I set out upon that gravel path, I never once thought we could break space and time in such ways as we have. The amount we have created is something I once believed unthinkable, and yet there is still more we can bring into being. Our work is far from complete, and there are many steps mandatory before we can even consider the notion of quitting. Over the course of our experimenting, we've discovered possibly innumerable ways in which the universe can be destroyed, and ways in which we can contain the fragments. Everything we’ve done- from the Hateful Star to the Telekill Alloy- has been a complete success. Through all this, I wish the Foundation many, many years of success to come.</p> <p>However, that is not the point of this letter. The point of this letter is to inform you all of the success of my latest experiment. Yes, I have continued my research into the unknown. Before I tell you about this one, however, I must delve into my reasoning for this experiment.</p> <p>The idea for this particular line of research came to me about six months after we’d started. I was worried. Yes, I know, that’s out of character for a man with so much power, but I was worried. You see, we’d been creating all of these wonderful things, but we had to be secretive. We had to make sure that no-one would know. As the months dragged by, this worry festered. It's always going to raise suspicions when you disappear almost entirely and reappear several months later, as the head of a huge company. Every time I heard a rumour that a certain SCP was man-made, it sent a shiver down my spine. I paced up and down in my lab, wondering how to best cover my tracks. I didn't want to be punished for advancing human knowledge. I wanted to keep a firm grip on this control until I died, as did all of the others. We worked together. We arranged for some of the entities to be found, and we wrote the reports for the others. This was not enough. I had to find a way to ensure that no-one could ever find me, or anyone around me, out. I soon hit upon an incredible idea.</p> <p>What if I could erase myself from official existence?</p> <p>I know that I make it sound like I wanted to kill myself. I wasn’t planning on ending my life, I was planning on wiping myself from official documents, making it seem that I’d never existed at all. The best way to cover my tracks was to destroy them entirely.</p> <p>It took a few months of solid, hard work, but I finished. I found a way to make it look like I’d never officially existed. It was dangerous, I will not lie. I constructed a Faraday cage around my lab for protection, due to the potentially volatile nature of the experiment, instructed everyone to stay clear of my room, and got to work.</p> <p>It worked. It worked far too well.</p> <p>My suspicions were first raised when my own brother walked into the room, and was surprised to see that I was there. I was confused, but I assumed he just forgot that I was there. I went to the cafeteria, and found people trying to work out ‘when we built that Faraday cage.’ I ignored them, as I hadn’t told many people that I was building it.</p> <p>When I found an official document detailing the room that I was in, that’s when I realised that something was wrong. I’d been classified as an SCP.</p> <p>I didn’t erase myself from official documents; I’d erased myself from existence entirely. People came into my lab to take photographs of me, to converse with me, to figure out what I was. High level researchers, my friends, my brother didn’t recognise me anymore. No-one could remember me, even hours after the fiftieth visit.</p> <p>I continued with my work. I made more of these things, and put them in containment. Almost immediately, I noticed that people had no idea where they came from. Not the official documentation, of course, I’d handled that, but more specifically Thomas and my brother were discussing, in hushed tones, how they hadn’t created those ones. At that point, the realisation of what I’d done really hit me.</p> <p>My reason for creating the Foundation and what it contains, at first, was discovery. To discover what we could do if we bent reality. To see if we could improve lives. Now, of course, it’s a different story for the others. Some of them are in it for personal gain, some for more of that discovery we yearned after in the beginning, even more for a chance to create the impossible. However, even that does not explain my reasoning.</p> <p>The thing is, after bending the laws of physics so many times, I got used to playing god. Now, I get to be one. I get to manipulate reality from behind the scenes. I classified myself Keter, to see how you’d react to the idea of something potentially world ending completely fading from memory. I edited myself into the official document on how we started, although you won’t remember my name being there. I have told everyone that I’m not circular, and that’s the only thing you remember about me anymore. While the number of SCPs I have created is quite small, the number of ideas I gave birth to is tremendous.</p> <p>I started manipulating people too. I started discussing, with high-ranking researchers that I’d told to come in to my room, what else they could do with SCPs. How they could worship machines, make art, mass market them for profit or just destroy them. When they left, they forgot about me, but they remembered the ideas. They assumed that the ideas were theirs, and so they saw them out. It was almost like brainwashing. It gave me more power, power that I’ve lusted after since the beginning of the Foundation. I’m controlling all of these people, even you. You see, after reading this letter, you’ll rush off and go to tell someone. Along the way, you’ll drop the letter, and forget where it is you’re going. You could be the first person to read it, you could be the hundredth, it doesn’t matter. After this, you go back to being nothing but a pitiful, powerless pawn, created for the sole purpose of testing my control.</p> <p>Everything that the Foundation, and any of the other groups, has done is down to me and me alone. Sometimes I come up with ideas, and tell other researchers. Sometimes I create them and put them in containment. I organise outbreaks to test the might of my creations. Every idea, every thought you have ever had in your measly, unimportant waste of a life is either known or made by me and me alone.</p> <p>I know that you consider me evil, or unjust, or corrupt. I know you believe that this is unacceptable and a gross misuse of power. The truth is, mortal gods do not adhere to the same restrictive moral code as you insignificant insects.</p> <p>Yours forgettably,</p> <p>Aaron Siegel<br/> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">></span>AKA O5-5.</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="/playing-god">Playing God</a>" by Rikks, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/playing-god">https://scpwiki.com/playing-god</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] To whom it may concern, First and foremost, I would like to offer congratulations to each and every member of staff working here. When I set out upon that gravel path, I never once thought we could break space and time in such ways as we have. The amount we have created is something I once believed unthinkable, and yet there is still more we can bring into being. Our work is far from complete, and there are many steps mandatory before we can even consider the notion of quitting. Over the course of our experimenting, we've discovered possibly innumerable ways in which the universe can be destroyed, and ways in which we can contain the fragments. Everything we’ve done- from the Hateful Star to the Telekill Alloy- has been a complete success. Through all this, I wish the Foundation many, many years of success to come. However, that is not the point of this letter. The point of this letter is to inform you all of the success of my latest experiment. Yes, I have continued my research into the unknown. Before I tell you about this one, however, I must delve into my reasoning for this experiment. The idea for this particular line of research came to me about six months after we’d started. I was worried. Yes, I know, that’s out of character for a man with so much power, but I was worried. You see, we’d been creating all of these wonderful things, but we had to be secretive. We had to make sure that no-one would know. As the months dragged by, this worry festered. It's always going to raise suspicions when you disappear almost entirely and reappear several months later, as the head of a huge company. Every time I heard a rumour that a certain SCP was man-made, it sent a shiver down my spine. I paced up and down in my lab, wondering how to best cover my tracks. I didn't want to be punished for advancing human knowledge. I wanted to keep a firm grip on this control until I died, as did all of the others. We worked together. We arranged for some of the entities to be found, and we wrote the reports for the others. This was not enough. I had to find a way to ensure that no-one could ever find me, or anyone around me, out. I soon hit upon an incredible idea. What if I could erase myself from official existence? I know that I make it sound like I wanted to kill myself. I wasn’t planning on ending my life, I was planning on wiping myself from official documents, making it seem that I’d never existed at all. The best way to cover my tracks was to destroy them entirely. It took a few months of solid, hard work, but I finished. I found a way to make it look like I’d never officially existed. It was dangerous, I will not lie. I constructed a Faraday cage around my lab for protection, due to the potentially volatile nature of the experiment, instructed everyone to stay clear of my room, and got to work. It worked. It worked far too well. My suspicions were first raised when my own brother walked into the room, and was surprised to see that I was there. I was confused, but I assumed he just forgot that I was there. I went to the cafeteria, and found people trying to work out ‘when we built that Faraday cage.’ I ignored them, as I hadn’t told many people that I was building it. When I found an official document detailing the room that I was in, that’s when I realised that something was wrong. I’d been classified as an SCP. I didn’t erase myself from official documents; I’d erased myself from existence entirely. People came into my lab to take photographs of me, to converse with me, to figure out what I was. High level researchers, my friends, my brother didn’t recognise me anymore. No-one could remember me, even hours after the fiftieth visit. I continued with my work. I made more of these things, and put them in containment. Almost immediately, I noticed that people had no idea where they came from. Not the official documentation, of course, I’d handled that, but more specifically Thomas and my brother were discussing, in hushed tones, how they hadn’t created those ones. At that point, the realisation of what I’d done really hit me. My reason for creating the Foundation and what it contains, at first, was discovery. To discover what we could do if we bent reality. To see if we could improve lives. Now, of course, it’s a different story for the others. Some of them are in it for personal gain, some for more of that discovery we yearned after in the beginning, even more for a chance to create the impossible. However, even that does not explain my reasoning. The thing is, after bending the laws of physics so many times, I got used to playing god. Now, I get to be one. I get to manipulate reality from behind the scenes. I classified myself Keter, to see how you’d react to the idea of something potentially world ending completely fading from memory. I edited myself into the official document on how we started, although you won’t remember my name being there. I have told everyone that I’m not circular, and that’s the only thing you remember about me anymore. While the number of SCPs I have created is quite small, the number of ideas I gave birth to is tremendous. I started manipulating people too. I started discussing, with high-ranking researchers that I’d told to come in to my room, what else they could do with SCPs. How they could worship machines, make art, mass market them for profit or just destroy them. When they left, they forgot about me, but they remembered the ideas. They assumed that the ideas were theirs, and so they saw them out. It was almost like brainwashing. It gave me more power, power that I’ve lusted after since the beginning of the Foundation. I’m controlling all of these people, even you. You see, after reading this letter, you’ll rush off and go to tell someone. Along the way, you’ll drop the letter, and forget where it is you’re going. You could be the first person to read it, you could be the hundredth, it doesn’t matter. After this, you go back to being nothing but a pitiful, powerless pawn, created for the sole purpose of testing my control. Everything that the Foundation, and any of the other groups, has done is down to me and me alone. Sometimes I come up with ideas, and tell other researchers. Sometimes I create them and put them in containment. I organise outbreaks to test the might of my creations. Every idea, every thought you have ever had in your measly, unimportant waste of a life is either known or made by me and me alone. I know that you consider me evil, or unjust, or corrupt. I know you believe that this is unacceptable and a gross misuse of power. The truth is, mortal gods do not adhere to the same restrictive moral code as you insignificant insects. Yours forgettably, Aaron Siegel @@>@@AKA O5-5. [[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>]]	2013-03-05T18:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "aaron-siegel", "five-questions", "mystery", "science-fiction", "tale" ]	Playing God - SCP Foundation	283	[ "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" ]	[]	16603831	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/playing-god
playing-with-flames	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>The Foundation really isn't comfortable with using terms like "magic". We know that magic exists, but calling it that implies that it can't be explained by quantifiable, scientific means. For example, they try to explain it away as "manipulation of the planet's electromagnetic field to produce sudden bursts of heat" when someone starts a fire with a single word. The Foundation doesn't use "magic", either, because it's not consistent. And yet, I study it every day. Go figure.</em></p> <p>- Montgomery Reynolds, Site 87 Theology department</p> <hr/> <p>"O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth. I call on thee. I call on thee. O Vulcan, Lord of Flame. I call on thee. I call on thee." A hooded figure raised a knife. "I call on thee! Bring me the knowledge of flame!" The steel blade plunged down suddenly, cutting through the skin of the rabbit easily. A rush of wind and then…</p> <p>Silence.</p> <p>And more silence.</p> <p>…and even more silence. The hooded figure groaned. "Fuck a <em>truck</em>." Dr. Katherine Sinclair stood up, lowering the hood and glowering at the one-way glass on the other end of the test chamber. "I told you it wouldn't work with a taxidermied specimen. It <em>has</em> to be live. Or at least, fresher than this."</p> <p>"What do you expect us to do, Katherine? Requisition an ox so you can try haruspicy again?" Monty rubbed his balding scalp on the other side of the glass, his other hand keeping the intercom button depressed. "The Foundation doesn't put much stock in your research, I'm afraid. Thaumaturgical research-"</p> <p>"For fucks sake, Monty, call it magic. It's so much easier." Kat walked out of the chamber, removing her ceremonial robe.</p> <p>"-is of no value to the Foundation unless it can be executed with consistent results. You remember when you tried divining dreams and predicted Site 87 being overrun by gerbils?"</p> <p>"I also correctly predicted the whole 'Keter Skeeter' incident, even if it was all in Hendricks's head." She frowned at Montgomery. "Magic is inherently inconsistent. Sometimes you get a few sparks from a fire invocation, sometimes you summon a chunk of solid plasma from a distant star… and sometimes you're forced to offer a taxidermied rabbit as sacrifice, and nothing happens." Kat fiddled with her fiery hair and chewed her lip. "What's the next trial?"</p> <p>"We've got an Assyrian scroll that's supposed to cause a rainstorm within the immediate area in order to water crops. Want to try that?"</p> <hr/> <p><strong>One Flooded Test Chamber Later…</strong></p> <p>"Well, at least we know it works," muttered Dr. Sinclair, wringing out her labcoat. "Next time, we do that outside. Maybe in one of the greenhouses or something."</p> <p>Reynolds toweled off his head. "Shall we take a break? Maybe hit the cafeteria?"</p> <p>"Sure. Just let me grab something." Dr. Sinclair went back into the theology department, and came back with a book entitled <em>Basic Spells You Can Do At Home.</em> The author was unknown, but it was probably something along the lines of Hector Oaks or Charlie Tan. "A few of these actually have some sound magical theory to them; maybe we can try them when we get back from lunch."</p> <p>Monty shook his head. "As long as you're not reading the so-called powerful multidimensional beings text." He walked alongside Dr. Sinclair, whose nose was in the book the whole way to the cafeteria. How could one person be so obsessed with this kind of thing? He wanted to study traditions involving magic, not the mechanics like she did. He didn't want to end up as Professor Dumbledore, waving a stick of elm everywhere and looking into a god-damn crystal ball.</p> <p>Whilst thinking about this, he grabbed a tray and frowned at the choice of music that was currently playing on the radio: <em>Do You Believe In Magic</em> by… some band he never wanted to know the name of. This song was aural cancer to him. To the contrary, Dr. Sinclair perked up at the sound of it.</p> <p>"You actually like this, Katherine?"</p> <p>"Yeah. I listened to it all the time when I was a kid." Kat scooped up some salad onto her tray and hummed along with the song. "Heck, some people say that music <em>is</em> a form of magic."</p> <p>"All this is saying to me is <em>Crucio</em>," groaned Reynolds, to which Sinclair frowned. "I understand the theory, yes. Art is indistinguishable from magic, writing is a form of magic using symbols to invoke various emotions and responses, change consciousness." He gave the radio a soft glare, and static filled the airwaves momentarily. "And right now, this song is making me want to bash my brains against a wall."</p> <p>Sinclair rolled her eyes, and went to the table, sitting down and reading her book.</p> <hr/> <p>They arrived back at their lab 15 minutes later, where Dr. Sinclair was still reading, and Reynolds was looking at the ritual they had attempted earlier. Why any cult would worship both Vesta and Vulcan was beyond him; Vesta was the Goddess of Sacred Flame, and Vulcan was just the God of Fire, including volcanic fire. Maybe it had something to do with a sacred volcano?</p> <p>"Or maybe it was a cult of pyromaniacs founded by Nero, ha ha ha." He continued poring over the documentation of the ritual. "Katherine, did you use steel or obsidian when you cut the rabbit?"</p> <p>"Steel." She looked up from her book inquisitively. "Why? Does it require obsidian?"</p> <p>"It shouldn't hurt, all things considered. Vulcan was the god of volcanoes."</p> <p>"He's also the god of the forge. Steel should work just as well."</p> <p>Monty exhaled— not quite a sigh, but almost. "I suppose…" Montgomery scratched his scalp and looked around; the rest of the laboratory was empty, as nobody else in Theology would be bothered with studying magic as an actual practice, rather than just looking at old spell books and translating some of them before shoving them in the Archives.</p> <p>So, why wasn't he doing that? Maybe he just wanted to see the actual thing instead of reading about it. Maybe he didn't want Dr. Sinclair to be the Witch of S & C Plastics, all alone in her lab and her office, trying to generate gusts of air via unexplained means. Maybe… he should stop thinking about these things and get back to trying to figure out the damn flame ritual.</p> <hr/> <p>"Well… it's a step up from taxidermy." Katherine held up the dead laboratory rat, before placing it on the floor of the test chamber and putting up the hood of her ritual garb. She looked across the room, where a target was situated for her to blast in case it worked. "Is the equipment running, Montgomery?"</p> <p>"It's up. Just give the thermal camera a second… there we go. You may begin the procedure."</p> <p>She lit two candles and picked off two pieces of flesh from the rat, burning one in each flame before warming her blade in the flames. She said a prayer to Vesta and Vulcan, thanking them for the gift of fire and hearth, and asking for the ability to use their element, but also protection from its power. Finally, at the end, a big, dramatic finish.</p> <p>"O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth. I call on thee. I call on thee. O Vulcan, Lord of Flame. I call on thee. I call on thee." She raised her knife. "I call on thee!" With a snikt, the obsidian blade plunged into the dead rat's heart.</p> <p>Silence.</p> <p>The thermal cameras picked up a steady temperature increase, and suddenly, bright orange spots appeared around Katherine's hands. She stood up, and jutted them out towards the target. It was instantly incinerated; the cameras picked up temperatures upwards of 700 Centigrade.</p> <p>"Hell yes! It works!" Dr. Sinclair waved her hands around, attempting to put the magical fire out. It wouldn't extinguish. She tried again. Suddenly, she felt a sharp, searing pain from her hands; she let out a scream. Her hands were on fire, and she could feel it. She called out for help as the flames made their way up her arms, the scent of burning flesh filling the room-</p> <p>Reynolds ran into the room with a bucket of water and threw it over Sinclair, who fell to the ground, screaming in agony. The flames had made their way up to her elbow before they were extinguished. The burns formed a distinct pattern on her right arm, which formed words. They read, in Latin:</p> <p>"NON CONTENTI SUMUS"</p> <p>Katherine Sinclair cried in pain, bawling like a child at the burns on her arms. Montgomery Reynolds pulled the medic alarm, before carefully pulling Katherine out of the test chamber and placing her on the ground. "Katherine, it's all right Katherine, the medics will be here soon…"</p> <p>Katherine hissed in pain, a few coherent words escaping her lips. "Do… do you…"</p> <p>"Katherine?"</p> <p>"Do… you believe in… magic… in a young girl's… heart? How the… music can… free her… whenever it starts?" She was delirious, but at least she was talking. Montgomery cupped his hands over his face and breathed a sigh of relief into them, shivering from the experience. She was still singing when they carried her away to the infirmary.</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="/playing-with-flames">Playing with Flames</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/playing-with-flames">https://scpwiki.com/playing-with-flames</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 Foundation really isn't comfortable with using terms like "magic". We know that magic exists, but calling it that implies that it can't be explained by quantifiable, scientific means. For example, they try to explain it away as "manipulation of the planet's electromagnetic field to produce sudden bursts of heat" when someone starts a fire with a single word. The Foundation doesn't use "magic", either, because it's not consistent. And yet, I study it every day. Go figure.// - Montgomery Reynolds, Site 87 Theology department ------ "O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth. I call on thee. I call on thee. O Vulcan, Lord of Flame. I call on thee. I call on thee." A hooded figure raised a knife. "I call on thee! Bring me the knowledge of flame!" The steel blade plunged down suddenly, cutting through the skin of the rabbit easily. A rush of wind and then... Silence. And more silence. ...and even more silence. The hooded figure groaned. "Fuck a //truck//." Dr. Katherine Sinclair stood up, lowering the hood and glowering at the one-way glass on the other end of the test chamber. "I told you it wouldn't work with a taxidermied specimen. It //has// to be live. Or at least, fresher than this." "What do you expect us to do, Katherine? Requisition an ox so you can try haruspicy again?" Monty rubbed his balding scalp on the other side of the glass, his other hand keeping the intercom button depressed. "The Foundation doesn't put much stock in your research, I'm afraid. Thaumaturgical research-" "For fucks sake, Monty, call it magic. It's so much easier." Kat walked out of the chamber, removing her ceremonial robe. "-is of no value to the Foundation unless it can be executed with consistent results. You remember when you tried divining dreams and predicted Site 87 being overrun by gerbils?" "I also correctly predicted the whole 'Keter Skeeter' incident, even if it was all in Hendricks's head." She frowned at Montgomery. "Magic is inherently inconsistent. Sometimes you get a few sparks from a fire invocation, sometimes you summon a chunk of solid plasma from a distant star... and sometimes you're forced to offer a taxidermied rabbit as sacrifice, and nothing happens." Kat fiddled with her fiery hair and chewed her lip. "What's the next trial?" "We've got an Assyrian scroll that's supposed to cause a rainstorm within the immediate area in order to water crops. Want to try that?" ------ One Flooded Test Chamber Later... "Well, at least we know it works," muttered Dr. Sinclair, wringing out her labcoat. "Next time, we do that outside. Maybe in one of the greenhouses or something." Reynolds toweled off his head. "Shall we take a break? Maybe hit the cafeteria?" "Sure. Just let me grab something." Dr. Sinclair went back into the theology department, and came back with a book entitled //Basic Spells You Can Do At Home.// The author was unknown, but it was probably something along the lines of Hector Oaks or Charlie Tan. "A few of these actually have some sound magical theory to them; maybe we can try them when we get back from lunch." Monty shook his head. "As long as you're not reading the so-called powerful multidimensional beings text." He walked alongside Dr. Sinclair, whose nose was in the book the whole way to the cafeteria. How could one person be so obsessed with this kind of thing? He wanted to study traditions involving magic, not the mechanics like she did. He didn't want to end up as Professor Dumbledore, waving a stick of elm everywhere and looking into a god-damn crystal ball. Whilst thinking about this, he grabbed a tray and frowned at the choice of music that was currently playing on the radio: //Do You Believe In Magic// by... some band he never wanted to know the name of. This song was aural cancer to him. To the contrary, Dr. Sinclair perked up at the sound of it. "You actually like this, Katherine?" "Yeah. I listened to it all the time when I was a kid." Kat scooped up some salad onto her tray and hummed along with the song. "Heck, some people say that music //is// a form of magic." "All this is saying to me is //Crucio//," groaned Reynolds, to which Sinclair frowned. "I understand the theory, yes. Art is indistinguishable from magic, writing is a form of magic using symbols to invoke various emotions and responses, change consciousness." He gave the radio a soft glare, and static filled the airwaves momentarily. "And right now, this song is making me want to bash my brains against a wall." Sinclair rolled her eyes, and went to the table, sitting down and reading her book. ------ They arrived back at their lab 15 minutes later, where Dr. Sinclair was still reading, and Reynolds was looking at the ritual they had attempted earlier. Why any cult would worship both Vesta and Vulcan was beyond him; Vesta was the Goddess of Sacred Flame, and Vulcan was just the God of Fire, including volcanic fire. Maybe it had something to do with a sacred volcano? "Or maybe it was a cult of pyromaniacs founded by Nero, ha ha ha." He continued poring over the documentation of the ritual. "Katherine, did you use steel or obsidian when you cut the rabbit?" "Steel." She looked up from her book inquisitively. "Why? Does it require obsidian?" "It shouldn't hurt, all things considered. Vulcan was the god of volcanoes." "He's also the god of the forge. Steel should work just as well." Monty exhaled-- not quite a sigh, but almost. "I suppose..." Montgomery scratched his scalp and looked around; the rest of the laboratory was empty, as nobody else in Theology would be bothered with studying magic as an actual practice, rather than just looking at old spell books and translating some of them before shoving them in the Archives. So, why wasn't he doing that? Maybe he just wanted to see the actual thing instead of reading about it. Maybe he didn't want Dr. Sinclair to be the Witch of S & C Plastics, all alone in her lab and her office, trying to generate gusts of air via unexplained means. Maybe... he should stop thinking about these things and get back to trying to figure out the damn flame ritual. ------ "Well... it's a step up from taxidermy." Katherine held up the dead laboratory rat, before placing it on the floor of the test chamber and putting up the hood of her ritual garb. She looked across the room, where a target was situated for her to blast in case it worked. "Is the equipment running, Montgomery?" "It's up. Just give the thermal camera a second... there we go. You may begin the procedure." She lit two candles and picked off two pieces of flesh from the rat, burning one in each flame before warming her blade in the flames. She said a prayer to Vesta and Vulcan, thanking them for the gift of fire and hearth, and asking for the ability to use their element, but also protection from its power. Finally, at the end, a big, dramatic finish. "O Vesta, Lady of the Hearth. I call on thee. I call on thee. O Vulcan, Lord of Flame. I call on thee. I call on thee." She raised her knife. "I call on thee!" With a snikt, the obsidian blade plunged into the dead rat's heart. Silence. The thermal cameras picked up a steady temperature increase, and suddenly, bright orange spots appeared around Katherine's hands. She stood up, and jutted them out towards the target. It was instantly incinerated; the cameras picked up temperatures upwards of 700 Centigrade. "Hell yes! It works!" Dr. Sinclair waved her hands around, attempting to put the magical fire out. It wouldn't extinguish. She tried again. Suddenly, she felt a sharp, searing pain from her hands; she let out a scream. Her hands were on fire, and she could feel it. She called out for help as the flames made their way up her arms, the scent of burning flesh filling the room- Reynolds ran into the room with a bucket of water and threw it over Sinclair, who fell to the ground, screaming in agony. The flames had made their way up to her elbow before they were extinguished. The burns formed a distinct pattern on her right arm, which formed words. They read, in Latin: "NON CONTENTI SUMUS" Katherine Sinclair cried in pain, bawling like a child at the burns on her arms. Montgomery Reynolds pulled the medic alarm, before carefully pulling Katherine out of the test chamber and placing her on the ground. "Katherine, it's all right Katherine, the medics will be here soon..." Katherine hissed in pain, a few coherent words escaping her lips. "Do... do you..." "Katherine?" "Do... you believe in... magic... in a young girl's... heart? How the... music can... free her... whenever it starts?" She was delirious, but at least she was talking. Montgomery cupped his hands over his face and breathed a sigh of relief into them, shivering from the experience. She was still singing when they carried her away to the infirmary. [[=]] \|[[[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>]]	2013-06-09T00:40:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-sinclair", "fantasy", "mythological", "s&c-plastics", "tale" ]	Playing with Flames - SCP Foundation	199	[ "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "the-s-c-plastics-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	18280270	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/playing-with-flames
plumbing	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>This was stupid. It was a stupid idea, thought up by stupid people, in stupid, safe offices. Agent Two looked around slowly, letting his flashlight play over the walls, one of the only items the Agents were allowed to carry inside SCP-015. Agents Six and Lon were standing just behind him, doing the same. The idle chatter and joking had died off about thirty seconds ago, each Agent slowly realizing that this was no simple little milk-run. Go in, find the observation unit, pull the data and recover the unit. Cake. They'd laughed, Lon asking if she should find a Mario hat to wear, them being plumbers now and all. Now, however…seeing the dim, cramped tunnel yawning before them, the only joke was them being there at all.</p> <p>Two stepped forward, slowly, fixing his flashlight on the ground. It was a hard mat of pipes, more or less level with the floor. A few small tubes stuck up here and there, snaking around like tree roots, or suddenly turning up in the middle of the floor like a pillar. The walls, the ceiling, every inch of the original structure was coated in pipes. Some researcher who led them up to the main door said that there wasn't anything left of the old warehouse really, except for the outer shell. He pushed away that whole line of thought, pointedly following the pre-mapped course they'd had to memorize, stepping around a pillar of tightly woven hair, the glossy surface steaming gently.</p> <p>Six plodded along, taking the rear and keeping a close eye on Two and Lon. Skittish kids. Lon was jumping at every sound, and Two looked like he was ready to drop and run if he saw so much as a mouse. Kids. He sniffed in the dark, playing his light forward, smelling heat, sewage, and God knows what else. They needed a good military hand to lead them, but damned if Six was going to mollycoddle grown adults who were going to jump at shadows. They were going to get this goddamn job done, and get the hell back out. Fuck that bullshit SCP slip, they were just security blankets for eggheads and flakes. “Semi-sentient” my ass, they just didn't want people denting their pet horrors. He wanted out of this dripping nightmare. He was going to get this mission done with or without them.</p> <p>Lon tiptoed over a thick, thorny mass of pipe, the surface like braided thistles, trying not to whimper. She kept close to Two, keeping the light at her feet so she wouldn't step on anything nasty. She hadn't wanted to seem like the little, weak girl…but she had a terrible fear of tight spaces…and this place was like walking around in someone's slowly closing arteries. Lon shook her head, hard, breaking off that whole train of thought. She was the tech, Six and Two were the safety. All she had to do was stick by them, pull the data cards out of the MRV, and then leave. She tried hard not to look back at the sealed doors in the distance behind them. Only a couple turns to the MRV, a little work, and then out. In and out, simple as pie. She ignored a softly throbbing pipe of leathery flesh near her arm with a focus that was almost physical.</p> <p>They found the MRV after what felt like an hour of walking. It was hard to keep your bearings. The rampant growth of the pipes had cramped some areas down to crawlways, and snarled others in to random, claustrophobic mazes. Six had nearly gotten stuck twice, and had looked like he was about to murder Lon when she made a comment relating to Winnie the Pooh. Lon was talking again, at least…but it was brittle, whistle in front of the graveyard chatter. Two kept trying to follow the directions…but even with them being less than a week old, they were little more than a guideline. When they'd finally found the MRV, it'd been a momentary relief. At least they were at the half way point. Then they'd looked at it in the light.</p> <p>It had been speared, for lack of a better term. Pinned against a pipe of some kind of dense fabric, a smooth, black pipe had docked itself to the camera lens of the observation vehicle. It wasn't smashed or damaged, it just…connected, as if it was made for it. It had lifted the little treaded robot nearly a foot off the ground, and it looked like other, smaller pipes had started to connect to other open spaces on the vehicle. It just sat there, the wheels slowly turning as the battery died, like a bug on a nest of pins. Some clear, foul-smelling fluid was dripping softly from the camera housing.</p> <p>“Well.”</p> <p>Two's voice echoed in the dark, a monument to pointless speech. They all stood, for a few moments, then Lon started to, carefully, look over the MRV. Six was looking around with an increasing restlessness, starting to mutter quietly. Lon was reaching for the data cards, before stopping, looking over at Two.</p> <p>“Um…Two…since it's grown in to the MRV, do you think it…counts?”</p> <p>“What do you mean counts?” Two kept the light on her and the machine, a hiss of steam behind him making him flinch.</p> <p>“I mean as damaging 015. If I take out the data cards, do you think it will…react?”</p> <p>Two looked around slowly, shining his light along the floor, a pipe as wide as a car and seemingly made of compacted lint.</p> <p>“…this suddenly seems like a bad-”</p> <p>“Oh shut the fuck up.”</p> <p>Both Agents turned to stare at Six. He'd stepped up to the MRV, flexing his hands and reaching in to his coat with one hand. The other pushed Lon away none too softly.</p> <p>“Move it. Reaction, for fuck's sake…they just say that shit to fuck with people and keep their toys safe. It's a bunch of weird pipes. Beginning and end, there. Maybe it grows or whatever, but the damn thing sure as shit isn't going to take offense to people. I'm grabbing this goddamn thing, and we're getting out of here.”</p> <p>As he spoke, he stepped forward, flipping open the dataport cover. More of the clear, scummy liquid had pooled inside. The other two Agents froze, staring in shock a moment…and the building seemed to do so as well, the whispered sounds of venting steam, sliding materials, and soft pinging had all stopped. The heartbeat in Lon's ears sounded like gunshots. Two started forward, reaching for Six.</p> <p>“Jesus, Six, what the fuck are-”</p> <p>Six ignored him, slipping out the thin data cards. It felt like old, nasty water over them…bad, but they were built to resist it. He slipped them out, then put the bundle in his pocket. He prodded around the edge of the camera lense, shifting the MRV a bit, trying to see if it would work free as Two and Lon backed away, slowly, the silence around them seeming to crush inward. Six gave up, turning away from the helplessly trapped MRV and shining his light on the two white-faced Agents.</p> <p>“Fucking kids. I don't know how you guys survive.”</p> <p>The pipe under him opened with the soft sound of tearing felt.</p> <p>Two and Lon didn't even have time to react, before he slid in to the widening gap up to his armpits, and started screaming horribly. Six's flashlight went tumbling away as the two Agents, galvanized by the big man's wretched screaming, ran to help him. A blast of heat and light was pouring up from under the man, as the two Agents grabbed his arms and looked down. He was submerged in a mass of thickly flowing molten glass. His clothes had already started to smolder and burn, the stench of seared flesh almost more overpowering than the reverberating screams. They pulled, and dragged up half of a man, with a ruined, seared mass of flesh and cloth where his lower body should have been.</p> <p>They panted, trying to drag him, Lon starting to scream along with Six, Two's eyes wide and fixed on some point far away from there. There was a horrible swell of sound rising all around them, pinging, hissing, clicking, cracking, a pipe to their side bulging alarmingly and causing them to nearly fall. They regained their footing just as a wooden pipe above them burst open in a spray of splinters and clear, stinging dust.</p> <p>Two and Lon spun away, gagging and choking, Two spitting out a sudden mass of blood. Glass. It was powdered glass. It poured over Six, muffling his screams, shifting as he struggled a few moments, then stopped, the glass quickly covering the body and spreading. Lon blinked, eyes red and puffy, looking over at Two. He nodded, and they bolted down the hall, trying to ignore the rising cacophony of sound, sounding like an approaching subway train. A mass of oily, reeking chemicals boiled up behind them, a jetting surge of rose thorns nearly cutting off their forward progress, forcing them to crawl along a bone pipe that was shuddering like an old man in the cold.</p> <p>They ran, keeping just ahead of…whatever it was, hearing splintering explosions and shivering cracks all around them. They finally came to a snarled crawlway, barely a few feet wide, that was the only way forward. Two dived in, doing a low crawl, trying to will himself forward like a snake, knowing the passage was only about fifteen feet long, easy, wouldn't take any time. Lon hesitated, that tiny, black gap looking like a mouth, before a sudden burst of steam behind her sent her shrieking forward, sobbing as she started to crawl, calling after Two.</p> <p>Two ignored the growing vibration all around him, the creaking ping near his head, and slid free of the opening, he turned…and saw nothing. No Lon, no sudden bursting…just the empty hole. He looked around, hands twitching, thinking, then slid back inside, trying to find Lon and physically drag her out. He could hear her, muffled, probably behind the next turn…and his flashlight revealed a solid wall of three thick, flaking white pipes. This was it, he was sure of it, the tunnel was right here…and then he heard the pitiful scream behind them. Lon begging, pleading, screaming for him. Two stared, eyes wide, then slammed his flashlight against the pipe. It burst, sending a reeking, corrosive slime over his hand, making him reel back down the crawlway, screaming as it ate in to his flesh. He stood outside the opening, holding his steaming hand away from him, trying not to look at the exposed bone.</p> <p>“Oh…oh Jesus…Lon…Lon, I'm sorry, I'll get help, I'll get someone, just sit tight, I swear…”</p> <p>He bolted down the hall, his flashing seeming to dim in time to the rising sound.</p> <hr/> <p>Lon panted, screaming for Two, hearing the hard bang on the other side of the pipe and his sudden, shrieking retreat. She sobbed, her whole body shaking, and slowly started to work her way backward, crawling on her belly, crying as she muttered some half-remembered prayer.</p> <p>When her feet pushed against a solid wall of pipe, she couldn't even muster a fresh scream.</p> <p>She was trapped, the space not much bigger than a coffin, helpless. She sobbed, face on the ground of warm, fuzzy pipes…and noticed the silence. Aside from her cries, there was nothing. No pinging, no cracks or explosions…nothing. She raised her head in the barely illuminated dark, looking around. She was alive. It was calming down. They'd come for her, Two would get help. She was getting out of here. She fought back her growing claustrophobia, looking along the walls. She noticed a small gap at the ceiling, and started shifting to get a better look, twisting back…and finding only the open end of a pipe. Lon sagged back, closing her eyes, tears leaking down her face.</p> <p>The first sticky drips she simply assumed were the same tears. Then one fell on her mouth…and it was sweet. She opened her eyes, and saw a thick, quivering mass of amber goo splatter from the mouth of the pipe, coating her and the floor as it surged out. She coughed, shifting back…it was honey. Honey, or something like it. At least it wasn't molten lead or acid…then she saw the level rising. It wasn't draining. The pipes were packed too close. She looked around her tiny chamber with horror rising much faster than the honey oozing up her sides. Lon beat on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, trying to block the pipe with her hands, heedless of provoking the thing more…as the honey rose and rose, as cloying sweet as a school age lover.</p> <p>Her last, gasping breath was sweet and stale with honey and screams.</p> <hr/> <p>Two ran, totally lost now, his flashlight dimming by the moment, the sound of cracking and bursting pipes starting to trail off. Maybe it was done, finally. 015 was protective, but it didn't seem vengeful. People had gotten hurt before, and gotten out fine. It happened. They'd find a way to get Lon out too. She might even be out already, just found another way to get around the blockage. That was probably it, she was out of this stupid place. Six was a shame…but why had that lunatic opened the case? What the hell had possessed him?</p> <p>He was still musing on this when he tripped over an unseen pipe in the dark around his feet.</p> <p>He pitched forward, yelping a half-surprised, half-terrified bark as he went sprawling. Or he should have went sprawling. Instead, he fell past the floor, into a yawning, open pit of a pipe, the slick, oozing sides plunging down at a sharp angle. He screamed, trying to grab something to stop or slow himself, but the walls were oozing and thick, his downward slide gaining speed. His dimming flashlight showing a seemingly endless tunnel stretching off below him. He slid, and slid, a scum of stinking, smooth ooze sticking to his clothes and skin.</p> <p>The tube twisted, banging him against the wall as he followed it, his flashlight jittering and starting to flicker. Panic slammed down like a fist, Two grabbing the light and trying to keep it still, pleading with it, staring at the lamp bulb as it dimmed more and more. It surged a moment, then flickered out, the darkness pressing to his eyes like cloth, the Agent slipping down faster and faster, screaming until he was hoarse, screaming until his throat bled, screaming even as he passed well beyond the physical boundaries of that tangled web of pipes.</p> <p>Days later, when his skin started to shred off, it was almost welcome.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>SCP-015 Recovery Report</strong></p> <p><strong>Agent Two:</strong> MIA<br/> <strong>Agent Six:</strong> MIA<br/> <strong>Agent Lon:</strong> MIA<br/> <strong>MRV-889236 Status:</strong> Unrecovered</p> <p>Data deemed non-vital in light of lost staff. SCP-015 classification level review suggested.</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="/plumbing">Plumbing</a>" by Dr Gears, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/plumbing">https://scpwiki.com/plumbing</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 was stupid. It was a stupid idea, thought up by stupid people, in stupid, safe offices. Agent Two looked around slowly, letting his flashlight play over the walls, one of the only items the Agents were allowed to carry inside SCP-015. Agents Six and Lon were standing just behind him, doing the same. The idle chatter and joking had died off about thirty seconds ago, each Agent slowly realizing that this was no simple little milk-run. Go in, find the observation unit, pull the data and recover the unit. Cake. They'd laughed, Lon asking if she should find a Mario hat to wear, them being plumbers now and all. Now, however...seeing the dim, cramped tunnel yawning before them, the only joke was them being there at all. Two stepped forward, slowly, fixing his flashlight on the ground. It was a hard mat of pipes, more or less level with the floor. A few small tubes stuck up here and there, snaking around like tree roots, or suddenly turning up in the middle of the floor like a pillar. The walls, the ceiling, every inch of the original structure was coated in pipes. Some researcher who led them up to the main door said that there wasn't anything left of the old warehouse really, except for the outer shell. He pushed away that whole line of thought, pointedly following the pre-mapped course they'd had to memorize, stepping around a pillar of tightly woven hair, the glossy surface steaming gently. Six plodded along, taking the rear and keeping a close eye on Two and Lon. Skittish kids. Lon was jumping at every sound, and Two looked like he was ready to drop and run if he saw so much as a mouse. Kids. He sniffed in the dark, playing his light forward, smelling heat, sewage, and God knows what else. They needed a good military hand to lead them, but damned if Six was going to mollycoddle grown adults who were going to jump at shadows. They were going to get this goddamn job done, and get the hell back out. Fuck that bullshit SCP slip, they were just security blankets for eggheads and flakes. “Semi-sentient” my ass, they just didn't want people denting their pet horrors. He wanted out of this dripping nightmare. He was going to get this mission done with or without them. Lon tiptoed over a thick, thorny mass of pipe, the surface like braided thistles, trying not to whimper. She kept close to Two, keeping the light at her feet so she wouldn't step on anything nasty. She hadn't wanted to seem like the little, weak girl...but she had a terrible fear of tight spaces...and this place was like walking around in someone's slowly closing arteries. Lon shook her head, hard, breaking off that whole train of thought. She was the tech, Six and Two were the safety. All she had to do was stick by them, pull the data cards out of the MRV, and then leave. She tried hard not to look back at the sealed doors in the distance behind them. Only a couple turns to the MRV, a little work, and then out. In and out, simple as pie. She ignored a softly throbbing pipe of leathery flesh near her arm with a focus that was almost physical. They found the MRV after what felt like an hour of walking. It was hard to keep your bearings. The rampant growth of the pipes had cramped some areas down to crawlways, and snarled others in to random, claustrophobic mazes. Six had nearly gotten stuck twice, and had looked like he was about to murder Lon when she made a comment relating to Winnie the Pooh. Lon was talking again, at least...but it was brittle, whistle in front of the graveyard chatter. Two kept trying to follow the directions...but even with them being less than a week old, they were little more than a guideline. When they'd finally found the MRV, it'd been a momentary relief. At least they were at the half way point. Then they'd looked at it in the light. It had been speared, for lack of a better term. Pinned against a pipe of some kind of dense fabric, a smooth, black pipe had docked itself to the camera lens of the observation vehicle. It wasn't smashed or damaged, it just...connected, as if it was made for it. It had lifted the little treaded robot nearly a foot off the ground, and it looked like other, smaller pipes had started to connect to other open spaces on the vehicle. It just sat there, the wheels slowly turning as the battery died, like a bug on a nest of pins. Some clear, foul-smelling fluid was dripping softly from the camera housing. “Well.” Two's voice echoed in the dark, a monument to pointless speech. They all stood, for a few moments, then Lon started to, carefully, look over the MRV. Six was looking around with an increasing restlessness, starting to mutter quietly. Lon was reaching for the data cards, before stopping, looking over at Two. “Um...Two...since it's grown in to the MRV, do you think it...counts?” “What do you mean counts?” Two kept the light on her and the machine, a hiss of steam behind him making him flinch. “I mean as damaging 015. If I take out the data cards, do you think it will...react?” Two looked around slowly, shining his light along the floor, a pipe as wide as a car and seemingly made of compacted lint. “...this suddenly seems like a bad-” “Oh shut the fuck up.” Both Agents turned to stare at Six. He'd stepped up to the MRV, flexing his hands and reaching in to his coat with one hand. The other pushed Lon away none too softly. “Move it. Reaction, for fuck's sake...they just say that shit to fuck with people and keep their toys safe. It's a bunch of weird pipes. Beginning and end, there. Maybe it grows or whatever, but the damn thing sure as shit isn't going to take offense to people. I'm grabbing this goddamn thing, and we're getting out of here.” As he spoke, he stepped forward, flipping open the dataport cover. More of the clear, scummy liquid had pooled inside. The other two Agents froze, staring in shock a moment...and the building seemed to do so as well, the whispered sounds of venting steam, sliding materials, and soft pinging had all stopped. The heartbeat in Lon's ears sounded like gunshots. Two started forward, reaching for Six. “Jesus, Six, what the fuck are-” Six ignored him, slipping out the thin data cards. It felt like old, nasty water over them...bad, but they were built to resist it. He slipped them out, then put the bundle in his pocket. He prodded around the edge of the camera lense, shifting the MRV a bit, trying to see if it would work free as Two and Lon backed away, slowly, the silence around them seeming to crush inward. Six gave up, turning away from the helplessly trapped MRV and shining his light on the two white-faced Agents. “Fucking kids. I don't know how you guys survive.” The pipe under him opened with the soft sound of tearing felt. Two and Lon didn't even have time to react, before he slid in to the widening gap up to his armpits, and started screaming horribly. Six's flashlight went tumbling away as the two Agents, galvanized by the big man's wretched screaming, ran to help him. A blast of heat and light was pouring up from under the man, as the two Agents grabbed his arms and looked down. He was submerged in a mass of thickly flowing molten glass. His clothes had already started to smolder and burn, the stench of seared flesh almost more overpowering than the reverberating screams. They pulled, and dragged up half of a man, with a ruined, seared mass of flesh and cloth where his lower body should have been. They panted, trying to drag him, Lon starting to scream along with Six, Two's eyes wide and fixed on some point far away from there. There was a horrible swell of sound rising all around them, pinging, hissing, clicking, cracking, a pipe to their side bulging alarmingly and causing them to nearly fall. They regained their footing just as a wooden pipe above them burst open in a spray of splinters and clear, stinging dust. Two and Lon spun away, gagging and choking, Two spitting out a sudden mass of blood. Glass. It was powdered glass. It poured over Six, muffling his screams, shifting as he struggled a few moments, then stopped, the glass quickly covering the body and spreading. Lon blinked, eyes red and puffy, looking over at Two. He nodded, and they bolted down the hall, trying to ignore the rising cacophony of sound, sounding like an approaching subway train. A mass of oily, reeking chemicals boiled up behind them, a jetting surge of rose thorns nearly cutting off their forward progress, forcing them to crawl along a bone pipe that was shuddering like an old man in the cold. They ran, keeping just ahead of...whatever it was, hearing splintering explosions and shivering cracks all around them. They finally came to a snarled crawlway, barely a few feet wide, that was the only way forward. Two dived in, doing a low crawl, trying to will himself forward like a snake, knowing the passage was only about fifteen feet long, easy, wouldn't take any time. Lon hesitated, that tiny, black gap looking like a mouth, before a sudden burst of steam behind her sent her shrieking forward, sobbing as she started to crawl, calling after Two. Two ignored the growing vibration all around him, the creaking ping near his head, and slid free of the opening, he turned...and saw nothing. No Lon, no sudden bursting...just the empty hole. He looked around, hands twitching, thinking, then slid back inside, trying to find Lon and physically drag her out. He could hear her, muffled, probably behind the next turn...and his flashlight revealed a solid wall of three thick, flaking white pipes. This was it, he was sure of it, the tunnel was right here...and then he heard the pitiful scream behind them. Lon begging, pleading, screaming for him. Two stared, eyes wide, then slammed his flashlight against the pipe. It burst, sending a reeking, corrosive slime over his hand, making him reel back down the crawlway, screaming as it ate in to his flesh. He stood outside the opening, holding his steaming hand away from him, trying not to look at the exposed bone. “Oh...oh Jesus...Lon...Lon, I'm sorry, I'll get help, I'll get someone, just sit tight, I swear...” He bolted down the hall, his flashing seeming to dim in time to the rising sound. ------ Lon panted, screaming for Two, hearing the hard bang on the other side of the pipe and his sudden, shrieking retreat. She sobbed, her whole body shaking, and slowly started to work her way backward, crawling on her belly, crying as she muttered some half-remembered prayer. When her feet pushed against a solid wall of pipe, she couldn't even muster a fresh scream. She was trapped, the space not much bigger than a coffin, helpless. She sobbed, face on the ground of warm, fuzzy pipes...and noticed the silence. Aside from her cries, there was nothing. No pinging, no cracks or explosions...nothing. She raised her head in the barely illuminated dark, looking around. She was alive. It was calming down. They'd come for her, Two would get help. She was getting out of here. She fought back her growing claustrophobia, looking along the walls. She noticed a small gap at the ceiling, and started shifting to get a better look, twisting back...and finding only the open end of a pipe. Lon sagged back, closing her eyes, tears leaking down her face. The first sticky drips she simply assumed were the same tears. Then one fell on her mouth...and it was sweet. She opened her eyes, and saw a thick, quivering mass of amber goo splatter from the mouth of the pipe, coating her and the floor as it surged out. She coughed, shifting back...it was honey. Honey, or something like it. At least it wasn't molten lead or acid...then she saw the level rising. It wasn't draining. The pipes were packed too close. She looked around her tiny chamber with horror rising much faster than the honey oozing up her sides. Lon beat on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, trying to block the pipe with her hands, heedless of provoking the thing more...as the honey rose and rose, as cloying sweet as a school age lover. Her last, gasping breath was sweet and stale with honey and screams. ------ Two ran, totally lost now, his flashlight dimming by the moment, the sound of cracking and bursting pipes starting to trail off. Maybe it was done, finally. 015 was protective, but it didn't seem vengeful. People had gotten hurt before, and gotten out fine. It happened. They'd find a way to get Lon out too. She might even be out already, just found another way to get around the blockage. That was probably it, she was out of this stupid place. Six was a shame...but why had that lunatic opened the case? What the hell had possessed him? He was still musing on this when he tripped over an unseen pipe in the dark around his feet. He pitched forward, yelping a half-surprised, half-terrified bark as he went sprawling. Or he should have went sprawling. Instead, he fell past the floor, into a yawning, open pit of a pipe, the slick, oozing sides plunging down at a sharp angle. He screamed, trying to grab something to stop or slow himself, but the walls were oozing and thick, his downward slide gaining speed. His dimming flashlight showing a seemingly endless tunnel stretching off below him. He slid, and slid, a scum of stinking, smooth ooze sticking to his clothes and skin. The tube twisted, banging him against the wall as he followed it, his flashlight jittering and starting to flicker. Panic slammed down like a fist, Two grabbing the light and trying to keep it still, pleading with it, staring at the lamp bulb as it dimmed more and more. It surged a moment, then flickered out, the darkness pressing to his eyes like cloth, the Agent slipping down faster and faster, screaming until he was hoarse, screaming until his throat bled, screaming even as he passed well beyond the physical boundaries of that tangled web of pipes. Days later, when his skin started to shred off, it was almost welcome. > SCP-015 Recovery Report > > Agent Two: MIA > Agent Six: MIA > Agent Lon: MIA > MRV-889236 Status: Unrecovered > > Data deemed non-vital in light of lost staff. SCP-015 classification level review suggested. [[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>]]	2013-03-09T01:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Plumbing - SCP Foundation	365	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	16643093	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/plumbing
pockets	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦An old man's shadow. SCP-106.☦</span></p> <p>Someplace, in a dirty, damp basement, there sat a figure in a rocking chair.</p> <p>A hanging lantern swung directly over the figure's bald head, dimly reflecting itself on his sweat. An unbuttoned leather vest revealed his gray, distended belly.</p> <p>He rocked back and forth anxiously with a wide, toothy grin on his wrinkled face.</p> <p>He reached for his liquor, then began singing softly to nobody in the empty basement.</p> <p><em>Clumsy bear is roaming about the woods</em></p> <p><em>He picks up cones and sings his songs</em></p> <p>He could smell what he would not be able to describe as ozone. There was muffled screaming, and he could hear the latch to the basement being rustled.</p> <p>More screaming now, but he wasn't sure what was producing the noise. The old man shook his head and closed his eyes.</p> <p><em>A cone sprang back in his face</em></p> <p><em>And it hit him good</em></p> <p>The old man took to the fallout better than most of his friends did. He watched everyone die. He watched himself die. Such things happened. You couldn't dwell too long on them.</p> <p>A black puddle materialized on the ground in front of him.</p> <p><em>This made the bear angry</em></p> <p><em>So he stomped his foot!</em></p> <p>The man sang with his smile intact, but there was confusion in his eyes. There was confusion enough to warrant another swig of the clear liquor. He saw the reflection of his face, smiling, rise up through the puddle of black.</p> <p><em>The bear screamed, ow! ow!</em></p> <p><em>He stepped again on this acorn.</em></p> <p>"You don't want this," he said in his inquisitive drawl, turning his head slightly "go fuck yourself."</p> <p>His reflection smiled at him, seeing that it was himself. He sank back into the bubbling black circle and the old man continued to rock in his chair.</p> <hr/> <p>The testing subject felt the tingle of his flesh being emancipated as he ran through the endless, acidic corridors of the pocket. He had an upset stomach, too.</p> <p><em>Clumsy bear is roaming about the woods</em></p> <p><em>He picks up cones and sings his songs</em></p> <p>Where was that sound coming from? Finding it was the only thing to do here.</p> <p>He turned a corner a bit too sharply and planted his hand on the dry frying pan walls. He took solace that the only limit to pain was greater pain, so he recovered and continued on toward a chained old wooden door in the distance.</p> <p>His eyes began to burn to the nerve. This was difficult to ignore. He closed his eyes and charged into the door. Everything was rotten, so this wood would give.</p> <p>No give.</p> <p><em>A cone sprang back in his face</em></p> <p><em>And it hit him good</em></p> <p>He opened his eyes, and in the brief, white pain he could see that there was no old man lurking around the corners.</p> <p>But his eyelids were beginning to burn off now, and his lack of skin meant covering them was going to cause more problems than it was worth.</p> <p><em>This made the bear angry</em></p> <p><em>So he stomped his foot!</em></p> <p>The singing was just beyond that door, he could hear it so… no, he couldn't hear anything anymore. Something was wrong with his eardrums.</p> <p>This whole situation was frying his brain.</p> <p><em>The bear screamed, ow! ow!</em></p> <hr/> <p>He dragged the man through the walls, through time, deep into the maze.</p> <p>He was now gliding, exceptionally still, watching the man run through the halls of the labyrinth. He approached the human like he approached everything: at roughly 4 kilometers an hour.</p> <p>He sunk into the wall, and glided, hidden, alongside the man in the corridor. Absorbing the burning flesh caused him a sort of gratification that he couldn't really place. He didn't care though, he couldn't care, he didn't really have what you would call higher brain function.</p> <p>He just did this one thing, and…</p> <p><em>This made the bear angry</em></p> <p>He didn't do anything else.</p> <p>He poked his head up through the floor and looked stupidly at himself in the rocking chair.</p> <p>"You don't want this," he said in his inquisitive drawl, turning his head slightly "go fuck yourself."</p> <p>He sank back in the floor.</p> <hr/> <p>He laughed quietly to himself.</p> <p>And he rocked in his chair in the isolated cell underneath a sprawling labyrinth of tight tunnels, underneath a large, decaying facility in a cold part of a dead world.<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="/pockets">Pockets</a>" by faminepulse, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/pockets">https://scpwiki.com/pockets</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:scp-pride">:scp-wiki:component:scp-pride</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]☦An old man's shadow. SCP-106.☦[[/size]] Someplace, in a dirty, damp basement, there sat a figure in a rocking chair. A hanging lantern swung directly over the figure's bald head, dimly reflecting itself on his sweat. An unbuttoned leather vest revealed his gray, distended belly. He rocked back and forth anxiously with a wide, toothy grin on his wrinkled face. He reached for his liquor, then began singing softly to nobody in the empty basement. //Clumsy bear is roaming about the woods// //He picks up cones and sings his songs// He could smell what he would not be able to describe as ozone. There was muffled screaming, and he could hear the latch to the basement being rustled. More screaming now, but he wasn't sure what was producing the noise. The old man shook his head and closed his eyes. //A cone sprang back in his face// //And it hit him good// The old man took to the fallout better than most of his friends did. He watched everyone die. He watched himself die. Such things happened. You couldn't dwell too long on them. A black puddle materialized on the ground in front of him. //This made the bear angry// //So he stomped his foot!// The man sang with his smile intact, but there was confusion in his eyes. There was confusion enough to warrant another swig of the clear liquor. He saw the reflection of his face, smiling, rise up through the puddle of black. //The bear screamed, ow! ow!// //He stepped again on this acorn.// "You don't want this," he said in his inquisitive drawl, turning his head slightly "go fuck yourself." His reflection smiled at him, seeing that it was himself. He sank back into the bubbling black circle and the old man continued to rock in his chair. ------ The testing subject felt the tingle of his flesh being emancipated as he ran through the endless, acidic corridors of the pocket. He had an upset stomach, too. //Clumsy bear is roaming about the woods// //He picks up cones and sings his songs// Where was that sound coming from? Finding it was the only thing to do here. He turned a corner a bit too sharply and planted his hand on the dry frying pan walls. He took solace that the only limit to pain was greater pain, so he recovered and continued on toward a chained old wooden door in the distance. His eyes began to burn to the nerve. This was difficult to ignore. He closed his eyes and charged into the door. Everything was rotten, so this wood would give. No give. //A cone sprang back in his face// //And it hit him good// He opened his eyes, and in the brief, white pain he could see that there was no old man lurking around the corners. But his eyelids were beginning to burn off now, and his lack of skin meant covering them was going to cause more problems than it was worth. //This made the bear angry// //So he stomped his foot!// The singing was just beyond that door, he could hear it so... no, he couldn't hear anything anymore. Something was wrong with his eardrums. This whole situation was frying his brain. //The bear screamed, ow! ow!// ----- He dragged the man through the walls, through time, deep into the maze. He was now gliding, exceptionally still, watching the man run through the halls of the labyrinth. He approached the human like he approached everything: at roughly 4 kilometers an hour. He sunk into the wall, and glided, hidden, alongside the man in the corridor. Absorbing the burning flesh caused him a sort of gratification that he couldn't really place. He didn't care though, he couldn't care, he didn't really have what you would call higher brain function. He just did this one thing, and... //This made the bear angry// He didn't do anything else. He poked his head up through the floor and looked stupidly at himself in the rocking chair. "You don't want this," he said in his inquisitive drawl, turning his head slightly "go fuck yourself." He sank back in the floor. ----- He laughed quietly to himself. And he rocked in his chair in the isolated cell underneath a sprawling labyrinth of tight tunnels, underneath a large, decaying facility in a cold part of a dead world. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-08-15T00:48:00	[ "_licensebox", "horror", "surrealism", "tale", "the-old-man" ]	Pockets - SCP Foundation	35	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19267983	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/pockets
poi-dark	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <h3 id="toc0"><span>Person of Interest File #D-0012</span></h3> <p><strong>Name:</strong> Mr. Dark</p> <p><strong>Known Aliases:</strong> Dark is reported to use many different first names, but apparently never attempts to completely conceal his identity.</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> Reports vary. Usually stated to be a Caucasian male apparently in his mid-60s, approximately 168 cm (5'6"), 80 kg (180lbs), grey hair.</p> <p><strong>Date of Birth (If known):</strong> No documented information available.</p> <p><strong>Reason For Interest:</strong> Reported to be the senior partner of Group of Interest Marshall Carter and Dark, and to be their primary source of anomalous items.</p> <p><strong>Rules of Engagement:</strong> Sightings and other noted activity to be reported via Protocol 12. [If you are not cleared for Protocol 12, report any information to your direct superior and take no further action.]</p> <p><strong>Biography:</strong> Foundation personnel should be aware that unlike most Persons of Interest, the nature and even the existence of a "Mr. Dark" are in dispute. Reports of a Mr. Dark, generally as a creator/purveyor of anomalous items, have existed for over 500 years [see notes from the Royal Society for the Investigation of the Paranormal for reports prior to 1918]. However, no confirmed evidence that such a person exists as a unique individual is available. The following theories are given relatively equal credence:</p> <p>1. Dark is a unique individual, who has presumably used anomalous means to extend his life.<br/> 2. Dark is a long-lived, non-human entity of undetermined nature.<br/> 3. Dark refers to a family long-involved with anomalies. Most reports are, in fact, of activities of various descendants of an original Mr. Dark.<br/> 4. "Dark" is not a family name at all, but a title given to various unrelated people.<br/> 5. "Dark" is a pseudonym used over many years by different individuals.<br/> 6. "Dark" is a fictitious individual to whom others attribute otherwise unexplained anomalous items and activities.</p> <p>Personnel familiar with the report on <a href="/scp-1716">SCP-1716</a>, which contains first-hand accounts of an anomalous item created under the direction of a "Mr. Dark," should be aware that this is not independent evidence; all we know for certain is that some individual called himself "Mr. Dark" while engaging in certain anomalous activities.</p> <hr/> <p>The following document is an excerpt from <em>Lives of the Famous Alchemists</em>, obtained from a contact with alleged access to “The Great Library of the Ways.” No independent confirmation has been found that this book is accurate, or even exists. Although it may appear to be a detailed reference, we consider it a curiosity and give it little credence. Researcher ███████ has annotated a number of doubtful statements.</p> <p><strong>Guillaume D’Arc (c1403 - )</strong> a.k.a. William Dark, Benjamin Phineas Dark, Johann Dark, best known as a collector/dealer/auctioneer of the rare and curious, has made significant contributions to the science of alchemy, most notably in the field of life extension.</p> <p>Guillaume D’Arc (or Darc) was born c1403 in the village of Domrémy, Lorraine, the illegitimate eldest son<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-1" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-1')">1</a></sup> of Jacques D’Arc and an unknown mother. An unusually intelligent child, Guillaume was sent to be educated for the priesthood, but failed to complete his studies due to “ill-suited character.”</p> <p>Little else is recorded of his life until 1429, when he is known to have been present at the Siege of Orleans with his half-sister, Jeanne. Although not known to have made any significant military contributions, his family connection allowed him to make the acquaintance of one of the Marshals of France, Gilles de Rais, with whom he discovered he had a shared interest in alchemy. A series of experiments took place, ending suddenly when D'Arc fled the area and reappeared in London. It is unclear whether D'Arc had just become aware of the murders for which de Rais is now best known, and disapproved, or if he was a collaborator who thought it was best to escape before their activities became public knowledge. In any event, D'Arc was safely away when de Rais was captured and executed in 1440<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-2" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-2')">2</a></sup>.</p> <p>Anglicizing his name to William Dark, he soon set up shop in London as a dealer in "unusual objects" – a euphemism for alchemical and magical supplies. Apparently an alchemist of some skill, a document exists proclaiming him "Consulting Alchemist to the Royal Family" in 1455<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-3" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-3')">3</a></sup>. However, his pursuit of a method of life extension met with little success until the late 1460's, when he met a fellow experimenter known only as <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-545">"Beatrice"</a>, who claimed to be over 200 years old<sup class="footnoteref"><a class="footnoteref" href="javascript:;" id="footnoteref-4" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnote-4')">4</a></sup>. While it is not known precisely what he obtained, it is clear that he found some method to stop (or nearly stop) aging. Despite the obvious value of such a method, for unknown reasons Dark has always declined to share it.</p> <p>[DATA EXPUNGED]</p> <p>Dark consistently maintained his business in London, taking on a number of different first names and apparently passing the firm on to a descendant when his lack of aging might attract unwanted attention. Eventually Dark was determined to keep a lower public profile, and in 1871 founded a private club, Marshall, Carter, Dark, and ██████ with three partners. The intention was for Marshall and Carter to be the "public" face of the club, interacting with members, while Dark and ██████ researched and procured "unusual" items and experiences for club members. Dark soon had a falling out with ██████, and the club was known as Marshall Carter and Dark as of 1876. Seldom-seen, rumors that Dark was deceased began to circulate, and no effort was made to discourage them.</p> <p>At some unknown point, prior to 1900, Dark gained access to the extradimensional space known as the Ways, and became a regular visitor to the Great Library. Although generally disliked by other patrons, Dark has always been careful to follow the rules of the Library, and has never been refused access. Rumors of some influence with the Head Librarian have never been confirmed or disproven.</p> <p>Desiring to spend more time in the Ways, Dark gained ownership of the former ██████ ████████ ████ and converted it to what is generally known as Dark's Museum (to the few who are aware of it). Although accessible through the Ways, the Museum has been rendered private through the addition of both mundane and anomalous security measures. A visitor claims to have seen an extensive collection of unusual items, as well as research facilities for the creation and study of new (and newly discovered) artifacts. Marshall, Carter, and Dark primarily exists as a means to dispose of items that Dark does not wish to keep for his private collection.</p> <p>Little is known of Dark's recent research, although an extensive visit to New York City is documented in 1942, apparently for the purpose of developing a technological (as opposed to alchemical) means of life extension. Dark is presumed to primarily reside in the Ways, and is seldom seen elsewhere. Most recently he is rumored to have been at least indirectly involved in a major 2012 assault on "Site-17," a secret facility maintained by the SCP Foundation, with the intent of gaining control of one or more anomalous items or individuals.</p> <blockquote> <p>Out Of Character note: This tale is not site-wide canon. It is part of <a href="http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-693794">this project</a>, which you are welcome to contribute to. It is also not a model Person of Interest file.</p> </blockquote> <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>. No historical evidence of such a person exists.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-2"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-2')">2</a>. Extensive records of the de Rais trial exist, with no mention of D'Arc.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-3"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-3')">3</a>. There is no evidence that this position ever existed.</div> <div class="footnote-footer" id="footnote-4"><a href="javascript:;" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.utils.scrollToReference('footnoteref-4')">4</a>. SCP-545-A claims to have never heard of a Mr. Dark, nor to have shared SCP-545-C with anyone.</div> </div> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/poi-dark">Person of Interest - Mr. Dark</a>" by eric_h, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/poi-dark">https://scpwiki.com/poi-dark</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] +++ Person of Interest File #D-0012 Name: Mr. Dark Known Aliases: Dark is reported to use many different first names, but apparently never attempts to completely conceal his identity. Description: Reports vary. Usually stated to be a Caucasian male apparently in his mid-60s, approximately 168 cm (5'6"), 80 kg (180lbs), grey hair. Date of Birth (If known): No documented information available. Reason For Interest: Reported to be the senior partner of Group of Interest Marshall Carter and Dark, and to be their primary source of anomalous items. Rules of Engagement: Sightings and other noted activity to be reported via Protocol 12. [If you are not cleared for Protocol 12, report any information to your direct superior and take no further action.] Biography: Foundation personnel should be aware that unlike most Persons of Interest, the nature and even the existence of a "Mr. Dark" are in dispute. Reports of a Mr. Dark, generally as a creator/purveyor of anomalous items, have existed for over 500 years [see notes from the Royal Society for the Investigation of the Paranormal for reports prior to 1918]. However, no confirmed evidence that such a person exists as a unique individual is available. The following theories are given relatively equal credence: 1. Dark is a unique individual, who has presumably used anomalous means to extend his life. 2. Dark is a long-lived, non-human entity of undetermined nature. 3. Dark refers to a family long-involved with anomalies. Most reports are, in fact, of activities of various descendants of an original Mr. Dark. 4. "Dark" is not a family name at all, but a title given to various unrelated people. 5. "Dark" is a pseudonym used over many years by different individuals. 6. "Dark" is a fictitious individual to whom others attribute otherwise unexplained anomalous items and activities. Personnel familiar with the report on [[[SCP-1716]]], which contains first-hand accounts of an anomalous item created under the direction of a "Mr. Dark," should be aware that this is not independent evidence; all we know for certain is that some individual called himself "Mr. Dark" while engaging in certain anomalous activities. ----- The following document is an excerpt from //Lives of the Famous Alchemists//, obtained from a contact with alleged access to “The Great Library of the Ways.” No independent confirmation has been found that this book is accurate, or even exists. Although it may appear to be a detailed reference, we consider it a curiosity and give it little credence. Researcher ███████ has annotated a number of doubtful statements. Guillaume D’Arc (c1403 - ) a.k.a. William Dark, Benjamin Phineas Dark, Johann Dark, best known as a collector/dealer/auctioneer of the rare and curious, has made significant contributions to the science of alchemy, most notably in the field of life extension. Guillaume D’Arc (or Darc) was born c1403 in the village of Domrémy, Lorraine, the illegitimate eldest son[[footnote]] No historical evidence of such a person exists. [[/footnote]] of Jacques D’Arc and an unknown mother. An unusually intelligent child, Guillaume was sent to be educated for the priesthood, but failed to complete his studies due to “ill-suited character.” Little else is recorded of his life until 1429, when he is known to have been present at the Siege of Orleans with his half-sister, Jeanne. Although not known to have made any significant military contributions, his family connection allowed him to make the acquaintance of one of the Marshals of France, Gilles de Rais, with whom he discovered he had a shared interest in alchemy. A series of experiments took place, ending suddenly when D'Arc fled the area and reappeared in London. It is unclear whether D'Arc had just become aware of the murders for which de Rais is now best known, and disapproved, or if he was a collaborator who thought it was best to escape before their activities became public knowledge. In any event, D'Arc was safely away when de Rais was captured and executed in 1440[[footnote]] Extensive records of the de Rais trial exist, with no mention of D'Arc. [[/footnote]]. Anglicizing his name to William Dark, he soon set up shop in London as a dealer in "unusual objects" – a euphemism for alchemical and magical supplies. Apparently an alchemist of some skill, a document exists proclaiming him "Consulting Alchemist to the Royal Family" in 1455[[footnote]] There is no evidence that this position ever existed. [[/footnote]]. However, his pursuit of a method of life extension met with little success until the late 1460's, when he met a fellow experimenter known only as [[[http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-545\|"Beatrice"]]], who claimed to be over 200 years old[[footnote]] SCP-545-A claims to have never heard of a Mr. Dark, nor to have shared SCP-545-C with anyone. [[/footnote]]. While it is not known precisely what he obtained, it is clear that he found some method to stop (or nearly stop) aging. Despite the obvious value of such a method, for unknown reasons Dark has always declined to share it. [DATA EXPUNGED] Dark consistently maintained his business in London, taking on a number of different first names and apparently passing the firm on to a descendant when his lack of aging might attract unwanted attention. Eventually Dark was determined to keep a lower public profile, and in 1871 founded a private club, Marshall, Carter, Dark, and ██████ with three partners. The intention was for Marshall and Carter to be the "public" face of the club, interacting with members, while Dark and ██████ researched and procured "unusual" items and experiences for club members. Dark soon had a falling out with ██████, and the club was known as Marshall Carter and Dark as of 1876. Seldom-seen, rumors that Dark was deceased began to circulate, and no effort was made to discourage them. At some unknown point, prior to 1900, Dark gained access to the extradimensional space known as the Ways, and became a regular visitor to the Great Library. Although generally disliked by other patrons, Dark has always been careful to follow the rules of the Library, and has never been refused access. Rumors of some influence with the Head Librarian have never been confirmed or disproven. Desiring to spend more time in the Ways, Dark gained ownership of the former ██████ ████████ ████ and converted it to what is generally known as Dark's Museum (to the few who are aware of it). Although accessible through the Ways, the Museum has been rendered private through the addition of both mundane and anomalous security measures. A visitor claims to have seen an extensive collection of unusual items, as well as research facilities for the creation and study of new (and newly discovered) artifacts. Marshall, Carter, and Dark primarily exists as a means to dispose of items that Dark does not wish to keep for his private collection. Little is known of Dark's recent research, although an extensive visit to New York City is documented in 1942, apparently for the purpose of developing a technological (as opposed to alchemical) means of life extension. Dark is presumed to primarily reside in the Ways, and is seldom seen elsewhere. Most recently he is rumored to have been at least indirectly involved in a major 2012 assault on "Site-17," a secret facility maintained by the SCP Foundation, with the intent of gaining control of one or more anomalous items or individuals. > Out Of Character note: This tale is not site-wide canon. It is part of [http://www.scp-wiki.net/forum/t-693794 this project], which you are welcome to contribute to. It is also not a model Person of Interest file. [[footnoteblock]] @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-10-30T21:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "marshall-carter-and-dark", "tale" ]	Person of Interest - Mr. Dark - SCP Foundation	58	[ "scp-1716", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "marshall-carter-and-dark-hub" ]	[]	20461055	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/poi-dark
postlude-nobody	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> She looked at herself in the mirror and inspected her uniform for the day. Gray cloche hat, unadorned; gray dress suit, well-tailored; white shirt, pressed and starched; black scarf, tight as a garotte. She loosened the knot slightly and idly thought, <em>"It's always black. Never green or navy blue or red. Hmm."</em> <p>She paused, concentrated briefly and the scarf turned royal purple with gold thread subtly hinting at strange and hidden patterns. <em>"That's better. Off to work I go."</em></p> <p>She straightened her skirt one last time, smirked, and sketched a curtsy to the empty room. Nobody stepped through the doorway, and nobody was left behind.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><em>I'm nobody! Who are you?</em><br/> <em>Are you nobody, too?</em><br/> <em>Then there's a pair of us</em><br/> <em>Don't tell—they'd banish us, you know.</em></p> <p><strong>-<em>I'm Nobody! Who are you?</em>, by Emily Dickinson, 1891</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="/postlude-nobody">Postlude: A Terminus</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/postlude-nobody">https://scpwiki.com/postlude-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]] [[/>]] She looked at herself in the mirror and inspected her uniform for the day. Gray cloche hat, unadorned; gray dress suit, well-tailored; white shirt, pressed and starched; black scarf, tight as a garotte. She loosened the knot slightly and idly thought, //"It's always black. Never green or navy blue or red. Hmm."// She paused, concentrated briefly and the scarf turned royal purple with gold thread subtly hinting at strange and hidden patterns. //"That's better. Off to work I go."// She straightened her skirt one last time, smirked, and sketched a curtsy to the empty room. Nobody stepped through the doorway, and nobody was left behind. ---- [[=]] //I'm nobody! Who are you?// //Are you nobody, too?// //Then there's a pair of us// //Don't tell—they'd banish us, you know.// -//I'm Nobody! Who are you?//, by Emily Dickinson, 1891 [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-05T00:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "man-who-wasnt-there", "mystery", "nobody", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	Postlude: A Terminus - SCP Foundation	89	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16295131	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/postlude-nobody
preaching-to-the-choir	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Director Cyrus knew that Fritz was watching him as he shuffled through a filing cabinet. He made a mental note to have a serious discussion with whomever had filed these things in an ass-backwards way. Yanking them out of the drawer, he hastily shut the cabinet and turned to face his counterpart.</p> <p>"Commander Williams… thank you for coming on such short notice."</p> <p>Fritz leaned forward in his seat. "It's Fritz, if you don't mind."</p> <p>Cyrus glanced up. "Right… I'm here to check on the status of E-345. Is it on track for tomorrow's test?"</p> <p>Fritz nodded. "Yes sir. They might actually be taking it to the provisional containment unit now… hold on, let me check."</p> <p>A crumpled piece of paper was produced, and Fritz peered at it. "Actually… it's being moved in an hour or so. I can check back with you then if you need it."</p> <p>"That will be all, Williams. You can go."</p> <p>So he did.</p> <hr/> <p>Commander Frederick Williams walked through the halls of Site-19, out of administrative offices to containment areas. There was a better atmosphere here, friendlier. If he'd been here on any other day, he might've stopped by the employee lounge, or observe the containment areas of some skips under his watch. But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he made a beeline for one containment area.</p> <p>He entered quietly, walking to the folding table in the middle of the room. There was a single sheet of paper, and a dull #2 pencil. No eraser. Sitting in the squeaky wooden chair, he began to write.</p> <p><em>Hello, Cass</em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Welcome, please enter user ID.<br/> Direc/Cyrus<br/> Please enter password.<br/> icannotrecall</p> <p>Password Accepted.<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Loading…<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Loading…<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Access Granted.<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Welcome, Director Cyrus. Please enter an action.</p> <p>Access Logs: Experiment E-345</p> <p>Stand by….<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Experiment E-345 involves the exposure of E-345, a humanoid with psychokinetic abilities, with Prometheus Labs Telekill alloy. Initial testing has indicated that the alloy is sufficient to block any telepathic signal, and this could prove a boon to containment, if successful. The test procedure will see Researcher Byron escorting E-345 to the center of the test area, followed by a square of telekill alloy being lowered over it. Following this, D-3451 and D-8063 will be sent into the containment chamber, and E-345 will be instructed to begin manifesting its effect after Researcher Byron evacuates the room.</p> <p>YOU(Director Cyrus), Agent HK-016, and an HMCL Supervisor(Dr. Eberstrom) will be stationed in the observation chamber. No other notable personnel will be involved in testing.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>How are you?</em></p> <p>The animate sketch looked to the left border of her paper prison, before sketching out a reply. <tt><em>Very bored. What sort of test do you want to do?</em></tt></p> <p><em>Actually, I thought we could just talk.</em></p> <p>She paused, frowning towards the blank space she assumed the writer would be looking from. <tt><em>Fritz?</em></tt></p> <p><em>yes.</em></p> <p>Cassandra's face broke out into a smile. <tt><em>Well, that changes things…</em></tt></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Access Testing Log: Commander Williams<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Commander Wiliams Test Log:<br/> E-0345: 13<br/> E-0456: Unknown, object terminated<br/> E-1371: Unknown, object terminated<br/> SCP-278: 13<br/> E-2300: Unknown, object terminated<br/> E-0089: Unknown, object terminated<br/> SCP-082: 15<br/> SCP-085: 56!</p> <p>SCP-085 Logs: Access<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Loading…<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Currently, primary testing with SCP-085 has been performed with Commander Williams</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>"You're always the first to defend him! Can't you see when Fritz is doing wrong?!"</p> <p>Masipag glared across the hall to Kulzn, who wore his usual veneer of indiference.</p> <p>"What Fritz does with his time is his own business, Masipag, and not yours."</p> <p>She grimaced at him. "Fritz has been spending all his time with the drawing, and not with me or Kraito! How can we be ready for this huge, big-deal test if he isn't even giving his subordinates the time of day?"</p> <p>Kulzn paused. "Have you thought he might have a little faith in you, for once?"</p> <p>Masipag's glare hardened. "Watch what you say. Kulzn…"</p> <p>"Fine … fine… but think about this: Maybe if you'd gotten off your ass for once and took some initiative, you'd be overseeing the test tomorrow and not me."</p> <p>"Fuck you, Kulzn. Just… god…" She leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose.</p> <p>"See you tomorrow, Lieutenant."</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Access Logs: Lee Byron<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Lee Byron is a member of the Foundation, under the Telepathic Research division of Site-19. Currently assigned as the Research lead for the "Telekill Alloy" project. Further information is restricted.</p> <p>icanremembernow</p> <p>…Loading Amnestic Logs</p> <p>"Currently, I believe that Researcher Byron is fully capable of performing his duties, in spite of his prior history as an Amnestic user. He has shown nothing but determined work spirit and is an asset to my team. Lee is fully capable of leading this project."</p> <p>Commander Williams<br/> .<br/> .<br/> .<br/> Logout<br/> .<br/> Goodbye, Administrator.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>The research labs were usually pretty sparse this time of night. The work day had long ago ended, sending doctors, lab assistants and technicians scurrying to their dormitories. Occasionally, there was a slumbering junior researcher left behind by colleagues, but these were few and far between. There was, however. One person in the labs on this particular evening. Lumbering through the corridors, glancing in doors, Lee made his way to the primary test chamber.</p> <p>Everything was ready for tomorrow. The telekill cube was in its place, resting in the center of the room. It loomed overhead, a titanic iceberg that dominated the testing area. He watched it for just a moment, a brief one, then began ascending the scaffold that had been erected around it. Around and around, he could feel it wrapping around him.</p> <p><em>Your audience awaits, Lee.</em></p> <p>He stood atop the mountaintop, and saw the multitudes that would be waiting. They wanted his sound, <em>his</em> way. The notes of the crescendo would ring through history, and ready humanity for the finale.</p> <p>Lee Byron spreads his arms, <em>and the crowd goes wild</em>.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/psychiatric-profile-for-researcher-lee-byron">Psychiatric Profile For Researcher Lee Byron</a>\| <a href="/end-of-olympians-hub">End Of Olympians Hub</a> \| <a href="/when-we-reach-the-crescendo">When We Reach The Crescendo</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="/preaching-to-the-choir">Preaching To The Choir</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/preaching-to-the-choir">https://scpwiki.com/preaching-to-the-choir</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Director Cyrus knew that Fritz was watching him as he shuffled through a filing cabinet. He made a mental note to have a serious discussion with whomever had filed these things in an ass-backwards way. Yanking them out of the drawer, he hastily shut the cabinet and turned to face his counterpart. "Commander Williams... thank you for coming on such short notice." Fritz leaned forward in his seat. "It's Fritz, if you don't mind." Cyrus glanced up. "Right... I'm here to check on the status of E-345. Is it on track for tomorrow's test?" Fritz nodded. "Yes sir. They might actually be taking it to the provisional containment unit now... hold on, let me check." A crumpled piece of paper was produced, and Fritz peered at it. "Actually... it's being moved in an hour or so. I can check back with you then if you need it." "That will be all, Williams. You can go." So he did. ------------------------- Commander Frederick Williams walked through the halls of Site-19, out of administrative offices to containment areas. There was a better atmosphere here, friendlier. If he'd been here on any other day, he might've stopped by the employee lounge, or observe the containment areas of some skips under his watch. But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he made a beeline for one containment area. He entered quietly, walking to the folding table in the middle of the room. There was a single sheet of paper, and a dull #2 pencil. No eraser. Sitting in the squeaky wooden chair, he began to write. //Hello, Cass// ------------------------ > Welcome, please enter user ID. > Direc/Cyrus > Please enter password. > icannotrecall > > Password Accepted. > . > . > . > Loading... > . > . > . > Loading... > . > . > . > Access Granted. > . > . > . > Welcome, Director Cyrus. Please enter an action. > > Access Logs: Experiment E-345 > > Stand by.... > . > . > . > Experiment E-345 involves the exposure of E-345, a humanoid with psychokinetic abilities, with Prometheus Labs Telekill alloy. Initial testing has indicated that the alloy is sufficient to block any telepathic signal, and this could prove a boon to containment, if successful. The test procedure will see Researcher Byron escorting E-345 to the center of the test area, followed by a square of telekill alloy being lowered over it. Following this, D-3451 and D-8063 will be sent into the containment chamber, and E-345 will be instructed to begin manifesting its effect after Researcher Byron evacuates the room. > > YOU(Director Cyrus), Agent HK-016, and an HMCL Supervisor(Dr. Eberstrom) will be stationed in the observation chamber. No other notable personnel will be involved in testing. ------------------------- //How are you?// The animate sketch looked to the left border of her paper prison, before sketching out a reply. {{//Very bored. What sort of test do you want to do?//}} //Actually, I thought we could just talk.// She paused, frowning towards the blank space she assumed the writer would be looking from. {{//Fritz?//}} //yes.// Cassandra's face broke out into a smile. {{//Well, that changes things...//}} ------------------------- > Access Testing Log: Commander Williams > . > . > . > Commander Wiliams Test Log: > E-0345: 13 > E-0456: Unknown, object terminated > E-1371: Unknown, object terminated > SCP-278: 13 > E-2300: Unknown, object terminated > E-0089: Unknown, object terminated > SCP-082: 15 > SCP-085: 56! > > SCP-085 Logs: Access > . > . > . > . > Loading... > . > . > . > . > Currently, primary testing with SCP-085 has been performed with Commander Williams ------------------------- "You're always the first to defend him! Can't you see when Fritz is doing wrong?!" Masipag glared across the hall to Kulzn, who wore his usual veneer of indiference. "What Fritz does with his time is his own business, Masipag, and not yours." She grimaced at him. "Fritz has been spending all his time with the drawing, and not with me or Kraito! How can we be ready for this huge, big-deal test if he isn't even giving his subordinates the time of day?" Kulzn paused. "Have you thought he might have a little faith in you, for once?" Masipag's glare hardened. "Watch what you say. Kulzn..." "Fine ... fine... but think about this: Maybe if you'd gotten off your ass for once and took some initiative, you'd be overseeing the test tomorrow and not me." "Fuck you, Kulzn. Just... god..." She leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose. "See you tomorrow, Lieutenant." ------------------------- > Access Logs: Lee Byron > . > . > . > . > . > Lee Byron is a member of the Foundation, under the Telepathic Research division of Site-19. Currently assigned as the Research lead for the "Telekill Alloy" project. Further information is restricted. > > icanremembernow > > ...Loading Amnestic Logs > > "Currently, I believe that Researcher Byron is fully capable of performing his duties, in spite of his prior history as an Amnestic user. He has shown nothing but determined work spirit and is an asset to my team. Lee is fully capable of leading this project." > > Commander Williams > . > . > . > Logout > . > Goodbye, Administrator. ------------------------- The research labs were usually pretty sparse this time of night. The work day had long ago ended, sending doctors, lab assistants and technicians scurrying to their dormitories. Occasionally, there was a slumbering junior researcher left behind by colleagues, but these were few and far between. There was, however. One person in the labs on this particular evening. Lumbering through the corridors, glancing in doors, Lee made his way to the primary test chamber. Everything was ready for tomorrow. The telekill cube was in its place, resting in the center of the room. It loomed overhead, a titanic iceberg that dominated the testing area. He watched it for just a moment, a brief one, then began ascending the scaffold that had been erected around it. Around and around, he could feel it wrapping around him. //Your audience awaits, Lee.// He stood atop the mountaintop, and saw the multitudes that would be waiting. They wanted his sound, //his// way. The notes of the crescendo would ring through history, and ready humanity for the finale. Lee Byron spreads his arms, //and the crowd goes wild//. [[=]] << [[[Psychiatric Profile For Researcher Lee Byron]]]\| [[[End Of Olympians Hub]]] \| [[[When We Reach The Crescendo]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-03-18T00:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Preaching To The Choir - SCP Foundation	34	[ "psychiatric-profile-for-researcher-lee-byron", "end-of-olympians-hub", "when-we-reach-the-crescendo", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "end-of-olympians-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16806329	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/preaching-to-the-choir
prelude-nobody	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><em>Yesterday upon the stair</em><br/> <em>I met a man who wasn't there</em><br/> <em>He wasn't there again today</em><br/> <em>I wish, I wish he'd go away</em></p> <p><strong>-<em>Antigonish</em>, by Hughes Mearns, 1899</strong></p> </div> <hr/> <p>He looked at himself in the mirror and inspected his uniform for the day. Gray fedora, tilted just so; slate gray suit, well-tailored; white shirt, pressed and starched; black necktie, hanging like a noose. He adjusted the Windsor knot and idly thought, <em>"It's always black. Never green or navy blue or red. Hmm."</em></p> <p>He paused and stared briefly at his own face in the mirror, trying to remember if anything about it looked familiar. Again, and as always, nothing was. He sighed. <em>"Well, it doesn't pay to wonder. Off to work I go."</em></p> <p>He straightened his jacket one last time, solemnly tipped his hat to the empty room, and stepped through the doorway.<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="/prelude-nobody">Prelude: A Terminus</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/prelude-nobody">https://scpwiki.com/prelude-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]] [[/>]] [[=]] //Yesterday upon the stair// //I met a man who wasn't there// //He wasn't there again today// //I wish, I wish he'd go away// -//Antigonish//, by Hughes Mearns, 1899 [[/=]] ---- He looked at himself in the mirror and inspected his uniform for the day. Gray fedora, tilted just so; slate gray suit, well-tailored; white shirt, pressed and starched; black necktie, hanging like a noose. He adjusted the Windsor knot and idly thought, //"It's always black. Never green or navy blue or red. Hmm."// He paused and stared briefly at his own face in the mirror, trying to remember if anything about it looked familiar. Again, and as always, nothing was. He sighed. //"Well, it doesn't pay to wonder. Off to work I go."// He straightened his jacket one last time, solemnly tipped his hat to the empty room, and stepped through the doorway. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-02-05T00:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "man-who-wasnt-there", "mystery", "nobody", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	Prelude: A Terminus - SCP Foundation	79	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "nobody-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16295129	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/prelude-nobody
primo-gustu-color	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><strong>* **CoolGuy95 has joined <span style="text-decoration: underline;">#post-phenomart</span></strong></p> <p><strong>Welcome to Post-Phenom Art - RULES: www.pastebin.com/GHeXgyQW \| Topic: Non-Euclidean Sculptures: Overdone or Underdone?</strong><br/> <strong>Topic set by TheEntirePolishArmy on Sat Jan 11 2012 00:47:55 GMT-0500 (Eastern Standard Time)</strong></p> <p><strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> so baisically you just need to work on your shadding<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> okay<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> hey coolguy, welcome to postphenom. you're new here right?<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> Hello people. I'm new.<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> ASK HIM THE QUESTIONS!<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> ASK! ASK!<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> questions?<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> 1. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PIECE OF POST-PHENOM ART?<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> 2. HAVE YOU EVER CREATED ANY POST-PHENOM ART YOURSELF?<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> 3. HOW DID YOU FIND US?<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> I would say Stendhal's Nightmare.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> No, and a friend of mine mentioned you guys.<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> Who?<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> She said her username is autotrophic or something like that.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> Ah, you're with autotrophia. She's cool.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> Well, the initiation is complete. your free to go<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> ONE OF US.<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> ONE OF US.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> So you guys are Are We Cool Yet?, right?<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> ah hell noes<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> nope<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> No<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> but, I thought you guys did post-phenomenological art?<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> well yes<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> i thought that was kind of AWCY?'s thing.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> We do post-phenom art, but we're not AWCY. You can't really be AWCY. It's like, a kind of meme really.<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> AWCY? is definitely not cool.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> Everyone is really damn tired of AWCY jokes.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> okay<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> .tell AWritingDesk <a href="https://i.imgur.com/bnCs3.jpg">https://i.imgur.com/bnCs3.jpg</a><br/> <strong>VanGogh:</strong> Acknowledged.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> So we've moved away from using AWCY in just about anything. It's an old, worn out joke that no one laughs at anymore.<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> Also, AWCY? kind of got used by people who used post-phenom art in a way we don't really approve of. Like Stendhal's Nightmare. What's the point of making beautiful art if people can't appreciate it without dying or going crazy?<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> ^<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> These days, not many people do much of that "edgy" crap. At least not in our little circle.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> I really didn't know all this, I just heard a little about AWCY and I thought it was interesting. I figured it would be a good way to expand my experience in art.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> Its fine<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> yea, you're new here after all. can we see some of the stuff you've done before?<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> Sure. let me dig some of this stuf up<br/> <strong>Epimonsterous has joined <span style="text-decoration: underline;">#post-phenomart</span></strong><br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> it's not post-phenom, but here it is: <a href="https://i.imgur.com/AD9Lz.jpg">https://i.imgur.com/AD9Lz.jpg</a><br/> <strong>Epimonsterous:</strong> ooh are we reviewing art?<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> not bad, but not good either<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> I kind of like it, but it feels like it needs a lot refinement.<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> it needs to be in color, like psychodelic swirls and stuff<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> Hey Epimon, we're just taking a look at this new guy's stuff.<br/> <strong>Epimonsterous:</strong> Eh. The shapes are a little lopsided, and your shading needs work.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> Is it really that bad? I mean, I know I'm not great but…. D:<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> keep practcing, its the only way to get better<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> ^<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> background landscape would help too.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> thanks for the feedback guys<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> You take criticism pretty well, that's good.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> thanks<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> so people, today I put together a quick tutorial for people new to post-phenom. just a simple animated picture.<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> <a href="https://i.imgur.com/xsnISqj.jpg">https://i.imgur.com/xsnISqj.jpg</a><br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> lemme look<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> the writing is kind of sloppy.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> I can barely read it, but I think I know the process you're describing.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> The one with the crystals and rat blood?<br/> <strong>jackomundo:</strong> yes<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> That's a good one, tried and true. Still, you really need to improve your handwriting. Maybe use the text tool in Photoshop instead.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> it sounds interesting<br/> <strong>blusepth:</strong> jacko's tutorial is pretty hard to read, but it is a good technique for you to try out CoolGuy.<br/> <strong>jorgumander:</strong> yea, it is pretty simple and cheap.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> I think I will. I can read the tutorial well enough since my own handwriting is bad.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> It would be good for you as an artist. It's always a good idea to experiment in new mediums.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> I'll get started right away. I can get a mouse from the pet store down the road.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> One thing before you go CoolGuy.<br/> <strong>CoolGuy95:</strong> ?<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> If you see the letters "SCP" in that order anywhere, on a truck, on a building, on someone's clothes, anywhere, drop what you are doing run.<br/> <strong>Phenylalanine:</strong> Run like you have never run before.</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="/primo-gustu-color">Primo Gustu Color</a>" by PaladinFoster, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/primo-gustu-color">https://scpwiki.com/primo-gustu-color</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > * CoolGuy95 has joined __#post-phenomart__ > > Welcome to Post-Phenom Art - RULES: www.pastebin.com/GHeXgyQW \| Topic: Non-Euclidean Sculptures: Overdone or Underdone? > Topic set by TheEntirePolishArmy on Sat Jan 11 2012 00:47:55 GMT-0500 (Eastern Standard Time) > > Phenylalanine: so baisically you just need to work on your shadding > blusepth: okay > Phenylalanine: hey coolguy, welcome to postphenom. you're new here right? > CoolGuy95: Hello people. I'm new. > jorgumander: ASK HIM THE QUESTIONS! > blusepth: ASK! ASK! > CoolGuy95: questions? > Phenylalanine: 1. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PIECE OF POST-PHENOM ART? > Phenylalanine: 2. HAVE YOU EVER CREATED ANY POST-PHENOM ART YOURSELF? > Phenylalanine: 3. HOW DID YOU FIND US? > CoolGuy95: I would say Stendhal's Nightmare. > CoolGuy95: No, and a friend of mine mentioned you guys. > blusepth: Who? > CoolGuy95: She said her username is autotrophic or something like that. > Phenylalanine: Ah, you're with autotrophia. She's cool. > Phenylalanine: Well, the initiation is complete. your free to go > blusepth: ONE OF US. > jackomundo: ONE OF US. > CoolGuy95: So you guys are Are We Cool Yet?, right? > blusepth: ah hell noes > jackomundo: nope > Phenylalanine: No > CoolGuy95: but, I thought you guys did post-phenomenological art? > jackomundo: well yes > CoolGuy95: i thought that was kind of AWCY?'s thing. > Phenylalanine: We do post-phenom art, but we're not AWCY. You can't really be AWCY. It's like, a kind of meme really. > blusepth: AWCY? is definitely not cool. > Phenylalanine: Everyone is really damn tired of AWCY jokes. > CoolGuy95: okay > jackomundo: .tell AWritingDesk https://i.imgur.com/bnCs3.jpg > VanGogh: Acknowledged. > Phenylalanine: So we've moved away from using AWCY in just about anything. It's an old, worn out joke that no one laughs at anymore. > blusepth: Also, AWCY? kind of got used by people who used post-phenom art in a way we don't really approve of. Like Stendhal's Nightmare. What's the point of making beautiful art if people can't appreciate it without dying or going crazy? > jackomundo: ^ > Phenylalanine: These days, not many people do much of that "edgy" crap. At least not in our little circle. > CoolGuy95: I really didn't know all this, I just heard a little about AWCY and I thought it was interesting. I figured it would be a good way to expand my experience in art. > Phenylalanine: Its fine > jorgumander: yea, you're new here after all. can we see some of the stuff you've done before? > CoolGuy95: Sure. let me dig some of this stuf up > Epimonsterous has joined __#post-phenomart__ > CoolGuy95: it's not post-phenom, but here it is: https://i.imgur.com/AD9Lz.jpg > Epimonsterous: ooh are we reviewing art? > jorgumander: not bad, but not good either > Phenylalanine: I kind of like it, but it feels like it needs a lot refinement. > blusepth: it needs to be in color, like psychodelic swirls and stuff > Phenylalanine: Hey Epimon, we're just taking a look at this new guy's stuff. > Epimonsterous: Eh. The shapes are a little lopsided, and your shading needs work. > CoolGuy95: Is it really that bad? I mean, I know I'm not great but.... D: > blusepth: keep practcing, its the only way to get better > jorgumander: ^ > jackomundo: background landscape would help too. > CoolGuy95: thanks for the feedback guys > Phenylalanine: You take criticism pretty well, that's good. > CoolGuy95: thanks > jorgumander: so people, today I put together a quick tutorial for people new to post-phenom. just a simple animated picture. > jorgumander: https://i.imgur.com/xsnISqj.jpg > blusepth: lemme look > jackomundo: the writing is kind of sloppy. > Phenylalanine: I can barely read it, but I think I know the process you're describing. > Phenylalanine: The one with the crystals and rat blood? > jackomundo: yes > Phenylalanine: That's a good one, tried and true. Still, you really need to improve your handwriting. Maybe use the text tool in Photoshop instead. > CoolGuy95: it sounds interesting > blusepth: jacko's tutorial is pretty hard to read, but it is a good technique for you to try out CoolGuy. > jorgumander: yea, it is pretty simple and cheap. > CoolGuy95: I think I will. I can read the tutorial well enough since my own handwriting is bad. > Phenylalanine: It would be good for you as an artist. It's always a good idea to experiment in new mediums. > CoolGuy95: I'll get started right away. I can get a mouse from the pet store down the road. > Phenylalanine: One thing before you go CoolGuy. > CoolGuy95: ? > Phenylalanine: If you see the letters "SCP" in that order anywhere, on a truck, on a building, on someone's clothes, anywhere, drop what you are doing run. > Phenylalanine:** Run like you have never run before. [[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>]]	2013-01-30T03:25:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Primo Gustu Color - SCP Foundation	44	[ "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" ]	[]	16240407	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/primo-gustu-color
private-hell	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It's about the time that Kondraki blows up a bus full of nuns to capture the flying fire-breathing walruses that Dr. Alto Clef has the first suspicion that things are not going as they should be.</p> <p>It should be awesome, he realizes. And it is awesome. Riding the adrenaline rush of explosions as the fire-breathing flying walruses scorch the earth around them, causing bystanders to flee in terror from the pyroclastic pinnipeds. Diving behind the counter of a Starbucks and opening fire with his shotgun (loaded with FRAG rounds) and seeing the fat flying walrus (with the flames jetting out from under its massive mustache) explode in a shower of meat and blood. And it definitely should be awesome when he and Kondraki fist-bump on top of the stack of bodies as the city of Des Moines burns around them both.</p> <p>But as he rode his black convertible back to Site-19, with a beautiful blonde woman giving him head from the front passenger seat, Dr. Alto Clef could not help but feel a small voice in the back of his head whispering something to him (like the Roman soldiers who would stand next to conquering generals, telling them that they, too, were human).</p> <p><em>This is wrong.</em></p> <hr/> <p>He was rappelling down the side of a building, with the office windows exploding outward all around him, a beautiful redhead at his side and Dmitri Strelnikov providing covering fire from a hovering Little Bird helicopter, when Dr. Clef suddenly realized that he might not be the hero.</p> <p>It was the expression on the girl's face that did it. She was frightened, yes… of course she was. And she was exhilarated, and aroused, and ready to make love to him…</p> <p>… just like every single woman he had met in the past few years.</p> <p>Why was it that every beautiful woman in the world wanted to share his bed? That was statistically improbable. There was no way that even the sexiest man in the world could shag every single beautiful woman he came across… and Clef was not sexy.</p> <p>After they had destroyed the Skyscraper's Spontaneous Combuster, as he was leaning in for a kiss with the redhead, Clef paused with his lips bare millimeters from hers, then leaned back and gestured to the door.</p> <p>"You can leave if you want," he said.</p> <p>He wasn't surprised when the girl bolted.</p> <p>Something was wrong.</p> <hr/> <p>"Crow?"</p> <p>"Yes, Clef?"</p> <p>"… how many civilian casualties were there?"</p> <p>"None. They evacuated the place before we went in."</p> <p>"They evacuated ten city blocks in thirty seconds?"</p> <p>"Of course. The cops are very efficient."</p> <p>"… six cops can't even knock on ten city blocks worth of doors in thirty seconds. Much less evacuate everyone within."</p> <p>"Well, maybe they just weren't around. Maybe we just got a lucky break."</p> <p>"Are we sure there were no civilian casualties?"</p> <p>"Of course there aren't any. Do you see any?"</p> <p>"No, I don't. But… I just have this feeling that something is wrong."</p> <hr/> <p>It was during the middle of his ninth swordfight against SCP-076 that Clef realized what the problem was.</p> <p>Life was… too exciting.</p> <p>There was no way that life could ever be this exciting, he realized. The life of an SCP Foundation agent could be interesting… but a firefight and a life or death struggle every day? Not a single day passing during which he did not battle for the sake of the world? Not a single day in which all he did was paperwork and file reports?</p> <p>He was a researcher who spent more time bashing in people's heads with a crowbar than he did doing any actual research.</p> <p>After he kicked Able over the edge of the Grand Canyon. Dr. Clef took a moment to think back to the last day he could remember ever being bored…</p> <p>… oh.</p> <p>Oh.</p> <p>OH.</p> <p>That's what went wrong…</p> <p>And if that were true…</p> <hr/> <p>"… Gears?"</p> <p>"Yes, Clef?"</p> <p>"… I'm thinking that maybe we shouldn't deploy against SCP-953 this time."</p> <p>"… why?"</p> <p>"Because… in the end. With all the collateral damage we'll deal bringing her in… it would be less destructive just to let her eat a liver or two."</p> <p>"Are you saying that you're giving up?"</p> <p>"No! I'm just… look. Is this the only way?"</p> <p>"We are the Foundation. We secure. We contain. We protect. But if you're tired, I can send in Kondraki instead."</p> <p>"NO! No… I'll do it. I just… needed a moment to think."</p> <p>"Take all the time you need, Doctor Clef. You've done enough work. After all, the Foundation would fall apart without you."</p> <hr/> <p>It is after he has thrown SCP-953 into the intake of the Boeing 747 that Clef finally allows himself to grieve.</p> <p>He grieves for the dead bystanders he will never see. For the pain and chaos he knows he is causing, but cannot perceive. He grieves for the Foundation, fallen from grace, and for his friends, who know not what they do.</p> <p>He grieves for Dr. Alto Clef, trapped in a hell of his own creation.</p> <p>Damned to be badass for the rest of his life.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/lolfoundation-hub-page">HUB</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/private-hell">Private Hell</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/private-hell">https://scpwiki.com/private-hell</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 about the time that Kondraki blows up a bus full of nuns to capture the flying fire-breathing walruses that Dr. Alto Clef has the first suspicion that things are not going as they should be. It should be awesome, he realizes. And it is awesome. Riding the adrenaline rush of explosions as the fire-breathing flying walruses scorch the earth around them, causing bystanders to flee in terror from the pyroclastic pinnipeds. Diving behind the counter of a Starbucks and opening fire with his shotgun (loaded with FRAG rounds) and seeing the fat flying walrus (with the flames jetting out from under its massive mustache) explode in a shower of meat and blood. And it definitely should be awesome when he and Kondraki fist-bump on top of the stack of bodies as the city of Des Moines burns around them both. But as he rode his black convertible back to Site-19, with a beautiful blonde woman giving him head from the front passenger seat, Dr. Alto Clef could not help but feel a small voice in the back of his head whispering something to him (like the Roman soldiers who would stand next to conquering generals, telling them that they, too, were human). //This is wrong.// ----- He was rappelling down the side of a building, with the office windows exploding outward all around him, a beautiful redhead at his side and Dmitri Strelnikov providing covering fire from a hovering Little Bird helicopter, when Dr. Clef suddenly realized that he might not be the hero. It was the expression on the girl's face that did it. She was frightened, yes. . . of course she was. And she was exhilarated, and aroused, and ready to make love to him. . . . . . just like every single woman he had met in the past few years. Why was it that every beautiful woman in the world wanted to share his bed? That was statistically improbable. There was no way that even the sexiest man in the world could shag every single beautiful woman he came across. . . and Clef was not sexy. After they had destroyed the Skyscraper's Spontaneous Combuster, as he was leaning in for a kiss with the redhead, Clef paused with his lips bare millimeters from hers, then leaned back and gestured to the door. "You can leave if you want," he said. He wasn't surprised when the girl bolted. Something was wrong. ----- "Crow?" "Yes, Clef?" ". . . how many civilian casualties were there?" "None. They evacuated the place before we went in." "They evacuated ten city blocks in thirty seconds?" "Of course. The cops are very efficient." ". . . six cops can't even knock on ten city blocks worth of doors in thirty seconds. Much less evacuate everyone within." "Well, maybe they just weren't around. Maybe we just got a lucky break." "Are we sure there were no civilian casualties?" "Of course there aren't any. Do you see any?" "No, I don't. But. . . I just have this feeling that something is wrong." ----- It was during the middle of his ninth swordfight against SCP-076 that Clef realized what the problem was. Life was. . . too exciting. There was no way that life could ever be this exciting, he realized. The life of an SCP Foundation agent could be interesting. . . but a firefight and a life or death struggle every day? Not a single day passing during which he did not battle for the sake of the world? Not a single day in which all he did was paperwork and file reports? He was a researcher who spent more time bashing in people's heads with a crowbar than he did doing any actual research. After he kicked Able over the edge of the Grand Canyon. Dr. Clef took a moment to think back to the last day he could remember ever being bored. . . . . . oh. Oh. OH. That's what went wrong. . . And if that were true. . . ----- ". . . Gears?" "Yes, Clef?" ". . . I'm thinking that maybe we shouldn't deploy against SCP-953 this time." ". . . why?" "Because. . . in the end. With all the collateral damage we'll deal bringing her in. . . it would be less destructive just to let her eat a liver or two." "Are you saying that you're giving up?" "No! I'm just. . . look. Is this the only way?" "We are the Foundation. We secure. We contain. We protect. But if you're tired, I can send in Kondraki instead." "NO! No. . . I'll do it. I just. . . needed a moment to think." "Take all the time you need, Doctor Clef. You've done enough work. After all, the Foundation would fall apart without you." ----- It is after he has thrown SCP-953 into the intake of the Boeing 747 that Clef finally allows himself to grieve. He grieves for the dead bystanders he will never see. For the pain and chaos he knows he is causing, but cannot perceive. He grieves for the Foundation, fallen from grace, and for his friends, who know not what they do. He grieves for Dr. Alto Clef, trapped in a hell of his own creation. Damned to be badass for the rest of his life. [[=]] << \| [[[lolFoundation Hub Page\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-17T12:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "agent-strelnikov", "comedy", "cosmic-horror", "doctor-clef", "doctor-gears", "doctor-kondraki", "featured", "horror", "kain-pathos-crow", "lolfoundation", "otherworldly", "tale" ]	Private Hell - SCP Foundation	285	[ "lolfoundation-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "lolfoundation-hub-page", "featured-tale-archive-ii" ]	[]	20993877	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/private-hell
prometheans	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Senior Researcher L. Byron(aka "Kraito")</span></p> <p>SCP Researcher and Telepathy Specialist.</p> <p><strong>Security Class:</strong> 3</p> <p><strong>Duties:</strong> Research of Telepathic anomalies, Objects recovered in the field, SCP containment doctrine development.</p> <p><strong>Current assignment:</strong> Site-19, Prometheus project.</p> </blockquote> <p>Lee "Kraito" Byron was not having a very good day. Not that he usually had good days, but fate had been particularly cruel to him on this one. He'd missed the tram coming into Site-19, and been forced to wait 2 hours for the next one to come in. At least now, alone in his office, he might have some peace and quiet.</p> <p>"Hey, Kraito, you busy?"</p> <p>Cursing his own hopes, he turned to see a familiar young woman standing at the door. Dressed in standard task force attire, and standing at a robust 6', she struck an intimidating figure. Kraito rolled his eyes, then grumbled a reply.</p> <p>"A bit. Did you need something, or did you come just to waste my time?"</p> <p>Lt. Masipag walked into this office, taking time to note the mountains of papers and geegaws littering the ground.</p> <p>"Actually, Fritz sent me here to pick up some papers you had, for the recon."</p> <p>Kraito snorted. "You agents are always getting all the interesting stuff. I get to sit in an office with papers and broken A/C. Here are your stinkin' papers." He thrust a handful of crumpled documents to Masipag.</p> <p>Masipag took them, with eyebrows locked in an amused stance. "Someone's in a rare mood this morning. Something on your mind?"</p> <p>"No…" Kraito grunted. "Sorry. I've had a rough morning, y'know?"</p> <p>She nodded. "We all have those days. I'll let ya be, for now."</p> <p>"Thanks…" he looked back to the papers at his desk, and renewed his work. He didn't notice Masipag stroll out of his office, and out of sight.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Field Commander F. Williams(aka "Fritzwillie")</span></p> <p>SCP Field Retrieval and Containment Commander.</p> <p><strong>Security Class:</strong> 4</p> <p><strong>Duties:</strong> Field Evaluation and Command, Field Recovery.</p> <p><strong>Current assignments:</strong> Site-19, Prometheus project.</p> </blockquote> <p>"Sir?"</p> <p>Masipag poked her head through the heavy office door, and peered inside. It was a bare, drab room, with heavy velvet curtains blocking the windows. A single desk lamp sat heavily on the wooden desk, illuminating a note taped to the desks edge.</p> <blockquote> <p>Sorry Mas, scheduled for testing on 85 today. apologize for absentness. please deposit papers on desk.</p> </blockquote> <p>"… goddamnit Fritz." She dumped the papers on the desk, and stalked out of the office.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Administrator K█████ D██████(aka "Director Cyrus")</span></p> <p>Site-19 Director, under oversight of O5-12.</p> <p><strong>Security Class:</strong> 4</p> <p><strong>Duties:</strong> Administrative</p> <p><strong>Current assignments:</strong> Site-19.</p> </blockquote> <p>Director Cyrus wasn't a hard man to please. Just do your reports on time, don't bother him, and you could be on his good side forever. So when a peeved young woman burst into his office, he wasn't exactly pleased. Not looking up from his terminal, he noted her entrance.</p> <p>"Good evening Lieutenant Masipag, did you need something?"</p> <p>She frowned at him. "It's Fritz. He's messing with Cassie, and missing our meetings. Again."</p> <p>"Commander Williams has had a scheduled test with SCP-085 since last week. You had plenty of time to check-"</p> <p>"He <em>told me</em> to meet him today!"</p> <p>Cyrus glanced up at her. "Perhaps you should have double-checked the dates. If you're going to be doing more recon missions, it'd be in your best interest to be punctual."</p> <p>"Are you… seriously… sorry for wasting your time, sir."</p> <p>"Apology accepted. Now, if you please…"</p> <hr/> <p>"Cyrus said you were pretty pissed at me."</p> <p>Fritz took another bite of his sandwich, doing his best to avoid her icy glare.</p> <p>"He warned you, huh?</p> <p>"Yeah… Look, I'm sorry I missed the meeting. We were doing major tests with…"</p> <p>"Sure, sure, whatever. Listen though, did you look over Kraito's research?"</p> <p>"… Can you give me the cliffs notes?"</p> <p>"You're impossible, you know that? We spend all this time researching and… y'know what, nevermind."</p> <p>Fritz sighed. "Look, I know that I've been-"</p> <p>"Save it. Kraito's stuff showed the metals imported by Prometheus have been weird. Like… really weird. Weird enough to be an anomaly. So I had proposed we upgrade from reconnaissance to a full-blown raid."</p> <p>Fritz scratched his neck. "Nah, I don't think that'll work, we don't really have enough data to go in gung-ho like that. You gotta remember, Cass-"</p> <p>"Masipag." She stood, taking her tray with her.</p> <p>"… Ah, jeez."</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Agent Saul Kulzn(aka "HK-016")</span></p> <p>Special Retrieval Operations</p> <p><strong>Security Class:</strong> 2</p> <p><strong>Duties:</strong> Field Agent</p> <p><strong>Current assignments:</strong> Site-19, Prometheus Project</p> <p><strong>Status:</strong> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Injured during testing of SCP-313. On paid leave until further notice.</span> Returned to active duty.</p> </blockquote> <p>"… And then he totally gets my name wrong! Like, I know that he was doing all those tests with eighty-five, but he could at least get my name right!"</p> <p>Saul nodded. "Commander Willie could make do to get his priorities straight. He's been spending more time in the test chamber than his team. I mean. I can understand oh-eight-five being cool to study, but…"</p> <p>"Study, nuthin'." Masipag harumphed. "He's just trying to spend every second he can with Cassie."</p> <p>"… That's a fairly serious accusation, Lieutenant. What makes you think Commander Willie would break his professional duty like that?"</p> <p>"I-"</p> <p>"And don't say 'it's a hunch', because we both know that means nothing."</p> <p>"…"</p> <p>"That's what I thought. Now come, you're going to need to get out of that agents uniform if you're headed to the dorms."</p> <hr/> <p>As Masipag stuffed the last of her uniform into the locker, an alarm crackled to life above her head.</p> <p><strong>« ALL FIELD AGENTS OF THE PROMETHEUS PROJECT, PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR ACTIVE HCML SUPERVISOR. AN IMMEDIATE MEETING HAS BEEN CALLED FOR »</strong></p> <p>She looked down at the now full locker, sighed, and began pulling out the uniform.</p> <hr/> <p>Helicopters flew low over the orange-tinged horizon, and circling the ruins below. Their spotlights showed the scope of disaster. Wrecked cars, obliterated research laboratories, and dead men littered the earth. Masipag squinted from the passenger window, trying to catch a glimpse of anything familiar. Before she could, Fritz's booming voice emanated from the cockpit.</p> <p>"Masipag! Kulzn! Are you ready to drop?"</p> <p>Masipag turned her attention from the window, squinting to the brightly lit cockpit. "Fritz, where are we being dropped?"</p> <p>"Well, we believe the initial detonations happened in the eastern wing, so Kulzn and I will be dropping there. You're going to the western wing, see if you can recover any of the documents."</p> <p>"What? Shouldn't I go with you?"</p> <p>"Negative. Kulzn's the better man for the job."</p> <hr/> <p>"Unbelievable…" Masipag muttered angrily to herself, slowly moving through the ruined facility. It didn't look at all like she'd imagined. For one, the corridors weren't some glowing, white marble, but plain concrete, scuffed from explosive damage and the collapsed rooftop. Most of the labs looked barren.</p> <p>As she turned around the corner, she was faced not by another endless row of laboratory doors and broken concrete, but an opened steel vault. Dropping to a crouch, she slowly made her way to the door, keeping her ears and eyes peeled for any kind of sudden movement. As she got closer to the vault door, it became more and more apparent that this vault was hanging on by a thread.</p> <p>One moment later, it wasn't hanging on at all. It fell to the ground with a tremendous <strong>CLANG</strong> shaking dust from the ceiling and shuttering the doors. Masipag scrambled backwards, stumbling back around the corner and out of sight. As the dust settled, she peeked her head around a corner, looking towards where the vault door had once stood.</p> <p>There was a shimmering block of steel, visible through the doorway. It stood taller and wider then the doors confines would allow, limiting her view to one of the corners. This was something big. This was huge.</p> <p>«<em>Fritz, can you hear me?</em>»</p> <p>«<em>Yes, you're coming in clear. What is it?</em>»</p> <p>«<em>You're gonna want to see this for yourself Fritz. It's something else.</em>»</p> <p>As she drew nearer, something crunched under her foot. It was a piece of charred paper, which was soon in her hand being read.</p> <p><em>Research has been drawing to a close on the project. Although we've made some great progress, we haven't been able to solve the diminish/replenish issue that dofs the research and study. Putting in a notice that the budget for next quarter should be reduced unless we get more commercial results.</em></p> <p>She flipped it over to the back. There were two simple words printed on it.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><tt>TELEKILL ALLOY</tt></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/looking-back">Looking Back</a>\| <a href="/end-of-olympians-hub">End Of Olympians Hub</a> \| <a href="/meeting-of-the-minds">Meeting of the Minds</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="/prometheans">Prometheans</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/prometheans">https://scpwiki.com/prometheans</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > __Senior Researcher L. Byron(aka "Kraito")__ > > SCP Researcher and Telepathy Specialist. > > Security Class: 3 > > Duties: Research of Telepathic anomalies, Objects recovered in the field, SCP containment doctrine development. > > Current assignment: Site-19, Prometheus project. Lee "Kraito" Byron was not having a very good day. Not that he usually had good days, but fate had been particularly cruel to him on this one. He'd missed the tram coming into Site-19, and been forced to wait 2 hours for the next one to come in. At least now, alone in his office, he might have some peace and quiet. "Hey, Kraito, you busy?" Cursing his own hopes, he turned to see a familiar young woman standing at the door. Dressed in standard task force attire, and standing at a robust 6', she struck an intimidating figure. Kraito rolled his eyes, then grumbled a reply. "A bit. Did you need something, or did you come just to waste my time?" Lt. Masipag walked into this office, taking time to note the mountains of papers and geegaws littering the ground. "Actually, Fritz sent me here to pick up some papers you had, for the recon." Kraito snorted. "You agents are always getting all the interesting stuff. I get to sit in an office with papers and broken A/C. Here are your stinkin' papers." He thrust a handful of crumpled documents to Masipag. Masipag took them, with eyebrows locked in an amused stance. "Someone's in a rare mood this morning. Something on your mind?" "No..." Kraito grunted. "Sorry. I've had a rough morning, y'know?" She nodded. "We all have those days. I'll let ya be, for now." "Thanks..." he looked back to the papers at his desk, and renewed his work. He didn't notice Masipag stroll out of his office, and out of sight. ------------------------ > __Field Commander F. Williams(aka "Fritzwillie")__ > > SCP Field Retrieval and Containment Commander. > > Security Class: 4 > > Duties: Field Evaluation and Command, Field Recovery. > > Current assignments: Site-19, Prometheus project. "Sir?" Masipag poked her head through the heavy office door, and peered inside. It was a bare, drab room, with heavy velvet curtains blocking the windows. A single desk lamp sat heavily on the wooden desk, illuminating a note taped to the desks edge. > Sorry Mas, scheduled for testing on 85 today. apologize for absentness. please deposit papers on desk. "... goddamnit Fritz." She dumped the papers on the desk, and stalked out of the office. ------------------------ > __Administrator K█████ D██████(aka "Director Cyrus")__ > > Site-19 Director, under oversight of O5-12. > > Security Class: 4 > > Duties: Administrative > > Current assignments: Site-19. Director Cyrus wasn't a hard man to please. Just do your reports on time, don't bother him, and you could be on his good side forever. So when a peeved young woman burst into his office, he wasn't exactly pleased. Not looking up from his terminal, he noted her entrance. "Good evening Lieutenant Masipag, did you need something?" She frowned at him. "It's Fritz. He's messing with Cassie, and missing our meetings. Again." "Commander Williams has had a scheduled test with SCP-085 since last week. You had plenty of time to check-" "He //told me// to meet him today!" Cyrus glanced up at her. "Perhaps you should have double-checked the dates. If you're going to be doing more recon missions, it'd be in your best interest to be punctual." "Are you... seriously... sorry for wasting your time, sir." "Apology accepted. Now, if you please..." ------------------------ "Cyrus said you were pretty pissed at me." Fritz took another bite of his sandwich, doing his best to avoid her icy glare. "He warned you, huh? "Yeah... Look, I'm sorry I missed the meeting. We were doing major tests with..." "Sure, sure, whatever. Listen though, did you look over Kraito's research?" "... Can you give me the cliffs notes?" "You're impossible, you know that? We spend all this time researching and... y'know what, nevermind." Fritz sighed. "Look, I know that I've been-" "Save it. Kraito's stuff showed the metals imported by Prometheus have been weird. Like... really weird. Weird enough to be an anomaly. So I had proposed we upgrade from reconnaissance to a full-blown raid." Fritz scratched his neck. "Nah, I don't think that'll work, we don't really have enough data to go in gung-ho like that. You gotta remember, Cass-" "Masipag." She stood, taking her tray with her. "... Ah, jeez." ------------------------ > __Agent Saul Kulzn(aka "HK-016")__ > > Special Retrieval Operations > > Security Class: 2 > > Duties: Field Agent > > Current assignments: Site-19, Prometheus Project > > Status: --Injured during testing of SCP-313. On paid leave until further notice.-- Returned to active duty. "... And then he totally gets my name wrong! Like, I know that he was doing all those tests with eighty-five, but he could at least get my name right!" Saul nodded. "Commander Willie could make do to get his priorities straight. He's been spending more time in the test chamber than his team. I mean. I can understand oh-eight-five being cool to study, but..." "Study, nuthin'." Masipag harumphed. "He's just trying to spend every second he can with Cassie." "... That's a fairly serious accusation, Lieutenant. What makes you think Commander Willie would break his professional duty like that?" "I-" "And don't say 'it's a hunch', because we both know that means nothing." "..." "That's what I thought. Now come, you're going to need to get out of that agents uniform if you're headed to the dorms." --------------------------- As Masipag stuffed the last of her uniform into the locker, an alarm crackled to life above her head. << ALL FIELD AGENTS OF THE PROMETHEUS PROJECT, PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR ACTIVE HCML SUPERVISOR. AN IMMEDIATE MEETING HAS BEEN CALLED FOR >> She looked down at the now full locker, sighed, and began pulling out the uniform. --------------------------- Helicopters flew low over the orange-tinged horizon, and circling the ruins below. Their spotlights showed the scope of disaster. Wrecked cars, obliterated research laboratories, and dead men littered the earth. Masipag squinted from the passenger window, trying to catch a glimpse of anything familiar. Before she could, Fritz's booming voice emanated from the cockpit. "Masipag! Kulzn! Are you ready to drop?" Masipag turned her attention from the window, squinting to the brightly lit cockpit. "Fritz, where are we being dropped?" "Well, we believe the initial detonations happened in the eastern wing, so Kulzn and I will be dropping there. You're going to the western wing, see if you can recover any of the documents." "What? Shouldn't I go with you?" "Negative. Kulzn's the better man for the job." --------------------------- "Unbelievable..." Masipag muttered angrily to herself, slowly moving through the ruined facility. It didn't look at all like she'd imagined. For one, the corridors weren't some glowing, white marble, but plain concrete, scuffed from explosive damage and the collapsed rooftop. Most of the labs looked barren. As she turned around the corner, she was faced not by another endless row of laboratory doors and broken concrete, but an opened steel vault. Dropping to a crouch, she slowly made her way to the door, keeping her ears and eyes peeled for any kind of sudden movement. As she got closer to the vault door, it became more and more apparent that this vault was hanging on by a thread. One moment later, it wasn't hanging on at all. It fell to the ground with a tremendous CLANG shaking dust from the ceiling and shuttering the doors. Masipag scrambled backwards, stumbling back around the corner and out of sight. As the dust settled, she peeked her head around a corner, looking towards where the vault door had once stood. There was a shimmering block of steel, visible through the doorway. It stood taller and wider then the doors confines would allow, limiting her view to one of the corners. This was something big. This was huge. <<//Fritz, can you hear me?//>> <<//Yes, you're coming in clear. What is it?//>> <<//You're gonna want to see this for yourself Fritz. It's something else.//>> As she drew nearer, something crunched under her foot. It was a piece of charred paper, which was soon in her hand being read. //Research has been drawing to a close on the project. Although we've made some great progress, we haven't been able to solve the diminish/replenish issue that dofs the research and study. Putting in a notice that the budget for next quarter should be reduced unless we get more commercial results.// She flipped it over to the back. There were two simple words printed on it. = {{TELEKILL ALLOY}} [[=]] << [[[Looking Back]]]\| [[[End Of Olympians Hub]]] \| [[[Meeting of the Minds]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-14T19:06:00	[ "_licensebox", "prometheus", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Prometheans - SCP Foundation	63	[ "looking-back", "end-of-olympians-hub", "meeting-of-the-minds", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "prometheus-labs-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "end-of-olympians-hub", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16410537	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/prometheans
quid-est-non-scitum	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The former Great Hall of the Nine-Teenth Ruin was, for the first time that year, completely full, an observation that Cardinal Frakes made with no small amount of pride.</p> <p>Dignitaries from every Monastery had made an appearance, from Deacon Collings (of the Temple of the Red-Pool) to Sister Bissett (from the Agnethain Sisterhood, founded at the time of the Great Breach by the Saints Rights, Erdrich and Break) to Arch-Cardinal Liriano, of the Council of Ethicists. They had all come, despite the dangers of traveling through Expunged territory, to witness the Ceremony of the Clockworks.</p> <p>Stepping up to the podium, Frakes raised his arms for silence before beginning the chant from the Holy Procedures.</p> <p>"Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive approval from site command may operate 914," he chanted.</p> <p><em>"Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive approval from site command may operate 914,"</em> echoed the crowd.</p> <p>"SCP-914 is to be kept in research cell 109-B with two guard personnel on duty at all times," he continued.</p> <p><em>"SCP-914 is to be kept in research cell 109-B with two guard personnel on duty at all times,"</em> echoed the crowd.</p> <p>Frakes continued like this, reciting the words from memory. Decades ago, at the beginning of his study, he had chosen to focus on the writings of Saint Gears, a path he had never regretted. Because of this, he was the natural choice to carry out the Ceremony of the Clockworks after the previous Cardinal in charge had died.</p> <p><em>"The process takes between five and ten minutes, depending on the size of the object being refined,"</em> concluded the group.</p> <p>When the last echoes died down, Frakes spoke. "D-Caste 100718468294, please approach the Intake booth with the Input."</p> <p>The chosen D-Caste picked up the object in question-a small, hand-carved wooden statue depicting a whale-and walked to the Input box.</p> <p>"Please insert the object into the input box," Frakes said.</p> <p>The D-Caste proceeded to do so, causing the door to slowly grind shut and release a small <em>ding</em>.</p> <p>"Now proceed to set the knob to 'Fine'," Frakes said.</p> <p>The D-Caste did so.</p> <p>"Now, wind the key underneath."</p> <p>The D-Caste wound it, then stepped back from 914.</p> <p>Deep within the machine, parts that had been neglected and used sparingly for years ground to life. For five minutes, the Great Hall was filled with the shrieks of tortured metal and awful grinds of rusted gears.</p> <p>When the process was done, the machine ground to a halt.</p> <p>"D-Caste, remove the object from SCP-914," Frakes said.</p> <p>The D-Caste opened the "Output" booth and removed an object that superficially appeared to be the same statue that had gone in.</p> <p>The room became completely silent.</p> <p>"The resulting anomaly is classified as SCP-2986," chanted Frakes.</p> <p><em>The resulting anomaly is classified as SCP-2986,"</em> echoed the crowd.</p> <p>"SCP-2986 is to be contained inside a box constructed of pine," Frakes recited.</p> <p><em>"SCP-2986 is to be contained inside a box constructed of pine,"</em> came the echo.</p> <p>After the recitation of the Holy Procedures, another D-Caste brought out a pine box, handcrafted to the appropriate specifications, and the new SCP was contained. The Ceremony of the Clockworks was now concluded, and the box was passed around to be studied by the dignitaries.</p> <p>After the examination was complete, and after all the dignitaries had begun their journey back home, Cardinal Frakes picked up the box and walked deeper into the ruins.</p> <p>After an hour's worth of walking, he came to a room filled with stacks of pinewood boxes identical to the one in his hand, which extended as far as the eye could see.</p> <p>Reverently, he set his box on top of the stack closest to him before bowing down and saying a short prayer to Saint Gears:</p> <p><em>"Saint Gears, please guide me in my time of need as you guided the Holy Foundation during the Great Breach."</em></p> <p><em>"Bequeath unto me the knowledge to discover that which is false."</em></p> <p><em>"Grant unto me the ability to separate logic from falsity."</em></p> <p><em>"Allow me to grasp but a portion of the knowledge you once had."</em></p> <p><em>"Quid non scitum est potest causare magis nocere quam nulla intentoque malevolentia unquam speraverunt effectum."</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="/quid-est-non-scitum">Quid Non Scitum Est</a>" by Jekeled, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/quid-est-non-scitum">https://scpwiki.com/quid-est-non-scitum</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 former Great Hall of the Nine-Teenth Ruin was, for the first time that year, completely full, an observation that Cardinal Frakes made with no small amount of pride. Dignitaries from every Monastery had made an appearance, from Deacon Collings (of the Temple of the Red-Pool) to Sister Bissett (from the Agnethain Sisterhood, founded at the time of the Great Breach by the Saints Rights, Erdrich and Break) to Arch-Cardinal Liriano, of the Council of Ethicists. They had all come, despite the dangers of traveling through Expunged territory, to witness the Ceremony of the Clockworks. Stepping up to the podium, Frakes raised his arms for silence before beginning the chant from the Holy Procedures. "Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive approval from site command may operate 914," he chanted. //"Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive approval from site command may operate 914,"// echoed the crowd. "SCP-914 is to be kept in research cell 109-B with two guard personnel on duty at all times," he continued. //"SCP-914 is to be kept in research cell 109-B with two guard personnel on duty at all times,"// echoed the crowd. Frakes continued like this, reciting the words from memory. Decades ago, at the beginning of his study, he had chosen to focus on the writings of Saint Gears, a path he had never regretted. Because of this, he was the natural choice to carry out the Ceremony of the Clockworks after the previous Cardinal in charge had died. //"The process takes between five and ten minutes, depending on the size of the object being refined,"// concluded the group. When the last echoes died down, Frakes spoke. "D-Caste 100718468294, please approach the Intake booth with the Input." The chosen D-Caste picked up the object in question-a small, hand-carved wooden statue depicting a whale-and walked to the Input box. "Please insert the object into the input box," Frakes said. The D-Caste proceeded to do so, causing the door to slowly grind shut and release a small //ding//. "Now proceed to set the knob to 'Fine'," Frakes said. The D-Caste did so. "Now, wind the key underneath." The D-Caste wound it, then stepped back from 914. Deep within the machine, parts that had been neglected and used sparingly for years ground to life. For five minutes, the Great Hall was filled with the shrieks of tortured metal and awful grinds of rusted gears. When the process was done, the machine ground to a halt. "D-Caste, remove the object from SCP-914," Frakes said. The D-Caste opened the "Output" booth and removed an object that superficially appeared to be the same statue that had gone in. The room became completely silent. "The resulting anomaly is classified as SCP-2986," chanted Frakes. //The resulting anomaly is classified as SCP-2986,"// echoed the crowd. "SCP-2986 is to be contained inside a box constructed of pine," Frakes recited. //"SCP-2986 is to be contained inside a box constructed of pine,"// came the echo. After the recitation of the Holy Procedures, another D-Caste brought out a pine box, handcrafted to the appropriate specifications, and the new SCP was contained. The Ceremony of the Clockworks was now concluded, and the box was passed around to be studied by the dignitaries. After the examination was complete, and after all the dignitaries had begun their journey back home, Cardinal Frakes picked up the box and walked deeper into the ruins. After an hour's worth of walking, he came to a room filled with stacks of pinewood boxes identical to the one in his hand, which extended as far as the eye could see. Reverently, he set his box on top of the stack closest to him before bowing down and saying a short prayer to Saint Gears: //"Saint Gears, please guide me in my time of need as you guided the Holy Foundation during the Great Breach."// //"Bequeath unto me the knowledge to discover that which is false."// //"Grant unto me the ability to separate logic from falsity."// //"Allow me to grasp but a portion of the knowledge you once had."// //"Quid non scitum est potest causare magis nocere quam nulla intentoque malevolentia unquam speraverunt effectum."// [[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>]]	2013-01-26T00:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctors-of-the-church", "nyc2013", "post-apocalyptic", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Quid Non Scitum Est - 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", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "doctors-of-the-church-hub", "canon-hub" ]	[]	16204473	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/quid-est-non-scitum
quintessence-of-dust	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“What a piece of work is man.”</p> <p>Ruiz stood draped in purple robes. The spotlight shone down, the theatre otherwise coated in black. He was wracked with Hamlet’s madness, profound pain etched in his face as though he had been visited by the devil himself. Ruiz was putting it on by the bucketloads, and the audience was lapping it up.</p> <p>“How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving, how express and admirable!”</p> <p>He moved to his Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, looking into their eyes and seeing their souls reflected in their dull, uninterested pupils. These men were not artists. These men did not deserve their names.</p> <p>“In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a GOD!”</p> <p>Ruiz flung his robes open, strobe lights flashing across the stage. He looked upon his entranced and enraptured audience, gazing and gobsmacked by his display. He was entertaining them. He, Ruiz, at this moment, this instant, was all they lived for.</p> <p>“The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”</p> <p>He was all they knew. He lived inside their minds at this very moment. They were not seeing him as he truly was, no, they were seeing him as he should be, as he wanted to be seen, as what he wanted to be, and indeed, he thought, what he truly was. The sane man faking madness, in a world of madmen faking sanity. Here, world, is Ruiz Duchamp, the original Hamlet.</p> <p>“And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”</p> <p>The lights went dark, the spotlight descended, and Ruiz was alone in the universe.</p> <p>“To me, to me, to me… what is this quintessence of dust? No… no. Man delights not me.”</p> <p>Ruiz looked out into the void and the void stared back with infinite apathy.</p> <p>“Man delights not me. No, nor woman either, though by your demeanour you seem to think so.”</p> <p>And then the light returned, and Hamlet had his Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and the play went on and, as we all know, they all lived happily ever after.</p> <hr/> <p>“Mister Duchamp?”</p> <p>“Hm? Wuzzat?”</p> <p>Ruiz rubbed the grit from his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the gallery. During the middle of the day. For several hours. While standing up. Again.</p> <p>“Mister Ruiz Duchamp?”</p> <p>“Yeah, that’s me, that’s me. Sorry, not so good with faces, who are you?”</p> <p>“I’m the mailman. Package for you. Going to have to sign for it.”</p> <p>“Right, right, right…”</p> <p>Ruiz groggily scribbled a half-hearted X on the offered pad.</p> <p>“You want us to bring it in for you, Mister Duchamp?”</p> <p>“Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. Just, uh, take it in through there, the cordoned off bit. Careful not to touch anything, it’s a bit dangerous at the moment. You know, ‘renovations’, heh.”</p> <p>“No problem, Mister Duchamp. The boys’ll be around in a bit.”</p> <p>“Cheers.”</p> <p>Ruiz looked at the digital watch on his right wrist. It was 3:45 pm.</p> <p>Ruiz looked at the analogue watch on his left wrist. It was 3:45 pm.</p> <p>Ruiz looked at the pocket watch in the painting in front of him. It was melting onto a tree branch, and had likely not been wound for some time. Ruiz knew not to trust readings from surrealistic timepieces, and pouted at the piece. That said, however, it was still 3:45 pm.</p> <p>Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double-strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants.</p> <p>And then, Ruiz finally woke up.</p> <p>“Shit! Carol, what’s today?”</p> <p>The stunned barista looked at the mad artist in front of her.</p> <p>“Uh… Wednesday?”</p> <p>“Okay, good, never mind then. I was worried it was Thursday or something.”</p> <p>“You feeling okay, Ruiz?”</p> <p>“Yeah, it’s just been… hectic, you know? I’ve been busy.”</p> <p>“Poor dear. Sit down, tell me about it.”</p> <p>Ruiz took a stool close to the counter. Carol smoothed her apron before sitting across from him.</p> <p>“I decided to wage war on a pack of ravenous artists who regurgitate uninteresting and frankly monotonous garbage by mailing out abrasive and genuinely disagreeable materials to their households, after which one of their contingent decided to metaphorically but without the metaphor defect to the other side, without realising that his not defecting was an integral part of the ‘BIG PLAN’ that I had in store for all of them and so his defection kind of screwed with my intended course of action however after having stayed awake for all of yesterday, all of last night, and a middling portion of this morning I’ve managed to rewrite the script and hopefully I’ll be able to get them dancing to my tune before the ‘BIG EXHIBITION’ which is on Friday so by then I should be back on track to present my ultimate work to the ultimate critic, or should I say The Critic, with both of the words capitalised, if there were an easy way to express such a thing in speaking words, whereupon he’ll be so profoundly thrilled that he’ll quit forever and go back to being a Nobody, with that word also capitalised in a clever and subtle little joke I’m insisting on playing through to the end.”</p> <p>“…what?”</p> <p>“So much for act one, at least. At this point I’m kind of winging it.”</p> <p>“You know, every time you walk in here and down your pills, I wonder what the hell is actually in them.”</p> <p>“Dreams and art, Carol. Dreams and art. Another… let’s make it three espressos for the road.”</p> <p>Carol tended to the machines and, after a short interval, passed Ruiz three more cups of his second favourite beverage. He left the shop and had finished all three by the time he returned to the gallery. He waved his way past the receptionists and moved past his cordons into the poorly illuminated room. The delivery men had placed the big, brown box right in the centre of his workplace, coincidentally allowing a lone shaft of sunlight to illuminate it like the gift from the heavens that it was. Ruiz reached for his yellow circular sawblade and sliced through the packaging, flipping the box open and letting it drop to the floor. And there, Ruiz thought, was the centrepiece he had been looking for.</p> <p>It was the electric chair.</p> <p>It was not just any electric chair, it was THE electric chair, Old Sparky, first used in the Sing Sing Correctional Facility in 1891 to execute four prisoners, the chair elevated in a specially-constructed room known only as the DEATH HOUSE, a veritable prison-within-a-prison. If he was going to use an electric chair, he’d be damned if it wasn’t this one. Ruiz rubbed his hand against the wooden frame, moved around, and sat in the seat where so many people had felt the cold embrace of death.</p> <p>He started to squeal like a schoolgirl.</p> <hr/> <p>The Director was busy. This was not particularly odd. At any given time, she was organising the production of at least three plays, a movie or two, and innumerable side projects, some of which might even see the light of day. She had, in her youth, been an actress herself, before a sprained ankle had robbed her of the stage. Instead, she had turned to Directing, where she could still act condescendingly to everyone around her, and instead of being berated, was expected to do so as part of her job. She was currently arguing with her lead, Gonzalo, King of Trinculo, about his unjustified stage fright.</p> <p>“Look, Tim, it’s opening night. You’ve rehearsed a thousand times, you know all your lines, and honestly, if I knew you were just going to lock up like this, I wouldn’t have given you the part. Now you’re going to drink this bottle of water, slap yourself a few times, pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get on my damn stage in ten. Got it?”</p> <p>“Got it, boss. Got it. Woo. Okay. Alright.”</p> <p>If anything, The Director knew how to control her players. An aide ran to her side.</p> <p>“Ma’am, I don’t mean to alarm you, but… the audience is here. Packed theatre. We need to get going soon.”</p> <p>“Alright, alright. Make sure Mary’s gone through makeup, we’re counting down, people!”</p> <p>“Understood, Ma’am.”</p> <p>The Director clapped her hands, walking briskly past the garishly bright setpieces. She moved around the corner, and was suddenly facing Ruiz Duchamp.</p> <p>“Hello, Director. I’m here to see your big opening.”</p> <p>The Director wasted no time with a retort, pulling a blade from her pocket and stabbing towards him in an instant. Ruiz grabbed the knife and twisted it from her grip, neatly slicing across his fingers. He jumped backwards and applied pressure with his other hand.</p> <p>“That was very, very rude. I’m just here to say hello.”</p> <p>“Get out of here, Duchamp. This is my show.”</p> <p>“Is it your show? I don’t think you wrote it.”</p> <p>“Get out of here, Duchamp.”</p> <p>“The lost and rediscovered classic. ‘The Hanged King’s Tragedy’.”</p> <p>“GET OUT OF HERE, DUCHAMP.”</p> <p>“You know what this does, right?”</p> <p>The Director faltered.</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“You… you are aware of what this does, aren’t you?”</p> <p>“What what does?”</p> <p>“The play, the play! Can’t you see it?”</p> <p>“You’re spouting nonsense. Get out of here.”</p> <p>“Sandra, please, listen to me. The play isn’t what you think it is, it’s going to-”</p> <p>“GET OUT OF HERE!”</p> <p>Ruiz stood, staring at his old classmate. Her face was coated in the palest makeup, purple eyeshadow matching with purple lipstick. She wore her makeup like an old woman, wore the clothes of an old woman, hobbled around like an old woman, and had the obstinacy of the same. Such brilliance, such spark, yet sadly squandered in a lifetime of following others’ stage directions. He could see in her eyes that nothing he could say would change her mind.</p> <p>“Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. You want me out, I’m out.”</p> <p>He kicked the bloodied knife across the ground towards her.</p> <p>“Keep that with you, at least. You’ll be needing it later.”</p> <p>Ruiz turned and walked out the back door, glowing green EXIT sign humming above him as the lights dimmed. The Director turned around, shaking doubt from her mind. She had a show to put on.</p> <p>“Get it together! Live in five, look alive, people!”</p> <hr/> <p>The Director was tired. She slowly regained consciousness in her cell. She had been bound by the arms and legs and propped up against a stone wall. She had absolutely no idea what was going on.</p> <p>“Rise and shine, sweetheart. Rise and shine.”</p> <p>A gritty voice croaked at her through a wooden door. There was a brief clattering of keys, and it swung open, revealing Agent Green carrying a wooden stool. He walked in front of her, placed the stool down, and sat on it with a thud.</p> <p>“Back with us again, Miss Paulson?”</p> <p>The Director remained silent.</p> <p>“Sorry, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Though, admittedly, the last time we were face to face you tried to drive a stick into my eyeball, so really, I think any foot here is probably the wrong one.”</p> <p>The Director remained silent.</p> <p>“Sandra Paulson, were you or were you not the one who organised last night’s production of ‘The Hanged King’s Tragedy’?”</p> <p>The Director flinched. Ruiz had been right.</p> <p>“I want my lawyer.”</p> <p>“Oh, sure, no problem. Here’s a phone, here’s some buttons to press, and then you jump through the damn wires and you’re out of here in an instant. No, Miss Paulson, you do not get a lawyer here. You know exactly who I’m with, you know exactly what your position is, and the only thing I want from you, Miss Paulson, is for you to rot in this cell for the rest of your natural days.”</p> <p>The Director remained silent.</p> <p>“Good. Now, Miss Paulson, I am going to ask you a few-”</p> <p>“I didn’t know.”</p> <p>“What was that, Miss Paulson?”</p> <p>“I DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW! That fucking manuscript, I don’t know who fucking sent it to me, I didn’t check it, I just thought, shit, this looks pretty good! Some proper classic shit right here, I’d just finished Titus Andronicus, so I thought to hell with it! I Google it and it all seems fine, it all looks above board! I DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW!”</p> <p>Agent Green remained silent.</p> <p>“That grinning bastard Ruiz, he must have done it, he sent it to me and then he came in and he rubbed it right in my fucking face! That fuck-fucking piece of fucking shitstain fuck! FUCK!”</p> <p>Agent Green remained silent.</p> <p>“Fuck… fuck. All those people. Tim had fucking stage fright, I was egging him on, I… I…”</p> <p>Sandra’s tears smeared black mascara stains down her face. Agent Green pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply.</p> <p>“Miss Paulson, even if I were to believe that outburst – and, honestly, I don’t – you have given me absolutely nothing to go on. You have, however, given me a name I have seen before. Miss Paulson, I am going to ask you this question once, and you are going to give me every irrelevant detail, every tiny little scrap of information you have, and then I am going to pass you over to my associates.”</p> <p>Green exhaled a lungful of smoke into The Director’s sobbing face.</p> <p>“Miss Paulson, tell me about Ruiz Duchamp.”</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>To Me, What Is This Quntessence of Dust? Man Delights Not Me.</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/the-toyman-and-the-doctor">The Toyman And The Doctor</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/and-then-what-happened">And Then What Happened?</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="/quintessence-of-dust">Quintessence Of Dust</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/quintessence-of-dust">https://scpwiki.com/quintessence-of-dust</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 a piece of work is man.” Ruiz stood draped in purple robes. The spotlight shone down, the theatre otherwise coated in black. He was wracked with Hamlet’s madness, profound pain etched in his face as though he had been visited by the devil himself. Ruiz was putting it on by the bucketloads, and the audience was lapping it up. “How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving, how express and admirable!” He moved to his Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, looking into their eyes and seeing their souls reflected in their dull, uninterested pupils. These men were not artists. These men did not deserve their names. “In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a GOD!” Ruiz flung his robes open, strobe lights flashing across the stage. He looked upon his entranced and enraptured audience, gazing and gobsmacked by his display. He was entertaining them. He, Ruiz, at this moment, this instant, was all they lived for. “The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!” He was all they knew. He lived inside their minds at this very moment. They were not seeing him as he truly was, no, they were seeing him as he should be, as he wanted to be seen, as what he wanted to be, and indeed, he thought, what he truly was. The sane man faking madness, in a world of madmen faking sanity. Here, world, is Ruiz Duchamp, the original Hamlet. “And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?” The lights went dark, the spotlight descended, and Ruiz was alone in the universe. “To me, to me, to me… what is this quintessence of dust? No… no. Man delights not me.” Ruiz looked out into the void and the void stared back with infinite apathy. “Man delights not me. No, nor woman either, though by your demeanour you seem to think so.” And then the light returned, and Hamlet had his Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and the play went on and, as we all know, they all lived happily ever after. ----------------------- “Mister Duchamp?” “Hm? Wuzzat?” Ruiz rubbed the grit from his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the gallery. During the middle of the day. For several hours. While standing up. Again. “Mister Ruiz Duchamp?” “Yeah, that’s me, that’s me. Sorry, not so good with faces, who are you?” “I’m the mailman. Package for you. Going to have to sign for it.” “Right, right, right…” Ruiz groggily scribbled a half-hearted X on the offered pad. “You want us to bring it in for you, Mister Duchamp?” “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. Just, uh, take it in through there, the cordoned off bit. Careful not to touch anything, it’s a bit dangerous at the moment. You know, ‘renovations’, heh.” “No problem, Mister Duchamp. The boys’ll be around in a bit.” “Cheers.” Ruiz looked at the digital watch on his right wrist. It was 3:45 pm. Ruiz looked at the analogue watch on his left wrist. It was 3:45 pm. Ruiz looked at the pocket watch in the painting in front of him. It was melting onto a tree branch, and had likely not been wound for some time. Ruiz knew not to trust readings from surrealistic timepieces, and pouted at the piece. That said, however, it was still 3:45 pm. Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double-strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants. And then, Ruiz finally woke up. “Shit! Carol, what’s today?” The stunned barista looked at the mad artist in front of her. “Uh… Wednesday?” “Okay, good, never mind then. I was worried it was Thursday or something.” “You feeling okay, Ruiz?” “Yeah, it’s just been… hectic, you know? I’ve been busy.” “Poor dear. Sit down, tell me about it.” Ruiz took a stool close to the counter. Carol smoothed her apron before sitting across from him. “I decided to wage war on a pack of ravenous artists who regurgitate uninteresting and frankly monotonous garbage by mailing out abrasive and genuinely disagreeable materials to their households, after which one of their contingent decided to metaphorically but without the metaphor defect to the other side, without realising that his not defecting was an integral part of the ‘BIG PLAN’ that I had in store for all of them and so his defection kind of screwed with my intended course of action however after having stayed awake for all of yesterday, all of last night, and a middling portion of this morning I’ve managed to rewrite the script and hopefully I’ll be able to get them dancing to my tune before the ‘BIG EXHIBITION’ which is on Friday so by then I should be back on track to present my ultimate work to the ultimate critic, or should I say The Critic, with both of the words capitalised, if there were an easy way to express such a thing in speaking words, whereupon he’ll be so profoundly thrilled that he’ll quit forever and go back to being a Nobody, with that word also capitalised in a clever and subtle little joke I’m insisting on playing through to the end.” “…what?” “So much for act one, at least. At this point I’m kind of winging it.” “You know, every time you walk in here and down your pills, I wonder what the hell is actually in them.” “Dreams and art, Carol. Dreams and art. Another… let’s make it three espressos for the road.” Carol tended to the machines and, after a short interval, passed Ruiz three more cups of his second favourite beverage. He left the shop and had finished all three by the time he returned to the gallery. He waved his way past the receptionists and moved past his cordons into the poorly illuminated room. The delivery men had placed the big, brown box right in the centre of his workplace, coincidentally allowing a lone shaft of sunlight to illuminate it like the gift from the heavens that it was. Ruiz reached for his yellow circular sawblade and sliced through the packaging, flipping the box open and letting it drop to the floor. And there, Ruiz thought, was the centrepiece he had been looking for. It was the electric chair. It was not just any electric chair, it was THE electric chair, Old Sparky, first used in the Sing Sing Correctional Facility in 1891 to execute four prisoners, the chair elevated in a specially-constructed room known only as the DEATH HOUSE, a veritable prison-within-a-prison. If he was going to use an electric chair, he’d be damned if it wasn’t this one. Ruiz rubbed his hand against the wooden frame, moved around, and sat in the seat where so many people had felt the cold embrace of death. He started to squeal like a schoolgirl. ----------------------------- The Director was busy. This was not particularly odd. At any given time, she was organising the production of at least three plays, a movie or two, and innumerable side projects, some of which might even see the light of day. She had, in her youth, been an actress herself, before a sprained ankle had robbed her of the stage. Instead, she had turned to Directing, where she could still act condescendingly to everyone around her, and instead of being berated, was expected to do so as part of her job. She was currently arguing with her lead, Gonzalo, King of Trinculo, about his unjustified stage fright. “Look, Tim, it’s opening night. You’ve rehearsed a thousand times, you know all your lines, and honestly, if I knew you were just going to lock up like this, I wouldn’t have given you the part. Now you’re going to drink this bottle of water, slap yourself a few times, pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get on my damn stage in ten. Got it?” “Got it, boss. Got it. Woo. Okay. Alright.” If anything, The Director knew how to control her players. An aide ran to her side. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to alarm you, but… the audience is here. Packed theatre. We need to get going soon.” “Alright, alright. Make sure Mary’s gone through makeup, we’re counting down, people!” “Understood, Ma’am.” The Director clapped her hands, walking briskly past the garishly bright setpieces. She moved around the corner, and was suddenly facing Ruiz Duchamp. “Hello, Director. I’m here to see your big opening.” The Director wasted no time with a retort, pulling a blade from her pocket and stabbing towards him in an instant. Ruiz grabbed the knife and twisted it from her grip, neatly slicing across his fingers. He jumped backwards and applied pressure with his other hand. “That was very, very rude. I’m just here to say hello.” “Get out of here, Duchamp. This is my show.” “Is it your show? I don’t think you wrote it.” “Get out of here, Duchamp.” “The lost and rediscovered classic. ‘The Hanged King’s Tragedy’.” “GET OUT OF HERE, DUCHAMP.” “You know what this does, right?” The Director faltered. “What?” “You… you are aware of what this does, aren’t you?” “What what does?” “The play, the play! Can’t you see it?” “You’re spouting nonsense. Get out of here.” “Sandra, please, listen to me. The play isn’t what you think it is, it’s going to-” “GET OUT OF HERE!” Ruiz stood, staring at his old classmate. Her face was coated in the palest makeup, purple eyeshadow matching with purple lipstick. She wore her makeup like an old woman, wore the clothes of an old woman, hobbled around like an old woman, and had the obstinacy of the same. Such brilliance, such spark, yet sadly squandered in a lifetime of following others’ stage directions. He could see in her eyes that nothing he could say would change her mind. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. You want me out, I’m out.” He kicked the bloodied knife across the ground towards her. “Keep that with you, at least. You’ll be needing it later.” Ruiz turned and walked out the back door, glowing green EXIT sign humming above him as the lights dimmed. The Director turned around, shaking doubt from her mind. She had a show to put on. “Get it together! Live in five, look alive, people!” ----------------------------- The Director was tired. She slowly regained consciousness in her cell. She had been bound by the arms and legs and propped up against a stone wall. She had absolutely no idea what was going on. “Rise and shine, sweetheart. Rise and shine.” A gritty voice croaked at her through a wooden door. There was a brief clattering of keys, and it swung open, revealing Agent Green carrying a wooden stool. He walked in front of her, placed the stool down, and sat on it with a thud. “Back with us again, Miss Paulson?” The Director remained silent. “Sorry, I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Though, admittedly, the last time we were face to face you tried to drive a stick into my eyeball, so really, I think any foot here is probably the wrong one.” The Director remained silent. “Sandra Paulson, were you or were you not the one who organised last night’s production of ‘The Hanged King’s Tragedy’?” The Director flinched. Ruiz had been right. “I want my lawyer.” “Oh, sure, no problem. Here’s a phone, here’s some buttons to press, and then you jump through the damn wires and you’re out of here in an instant. No, Miss Paulson, you do not get a lawyer here. You know exactly who I’m with, you know exactly what your position is, and the only thing I want from you, Miss Paulson, is for you to rot in this cell for the rest of your natural days.” The Director remained silent. “Good. Now, Miss Paulson, I am going to ask you a few-” “I didn’t know.” “What was that, Miss Paulson?” “I DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW! That fucking manuscript, I don’t know who fucking sent it to me, I didn’t check it, I just thought, shit, this looks pretty good! Some proper classic shit right here, I’d just finished Titus Andronicus, so I thought to hell with it! I Google it and it all seems fine, it all looks above board! I DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW!” Agent Green remained silent. “That grinning bastard Ruiz, he must have done it, he sent it to me and then he came in and he rubbed it right in my fucking face! That fuck-fucking piece of fucking shitstain fuck! FUCK!” Agent Green remained silent. “Fuck… fuck. All those people. Tim had fucking stage fright, I was egging him on, I… I…” Sandra’s tears smeared black mascara stains down her face. Agent Green pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “Miss Paulson, even if I were to believe that outburst – and, honestly, I don’t – you have given me absolutely nothing to go on. You have, however, given me a name I have seen before. Miss Paulson, I am going to ask you this question once, and you are going to give me every irrelevant detail, every tiny little scrap of information you have, and then I am going to pass you over to my associates.” Green exhaled a lungful of smoke into The Director’s sobbing face. “Miss Paulson, tell me about Ruiz Duchamp.” [[=]] To Me, What Is This Quntessence of Dust? Man Delights Not Me. << [[[The Toyman And The Doctor]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[and-then-what-happened\|And Then What Happened?]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-11-27T04:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "agent-green", "are-we-cool-yet", "hanged-king", "ruiz-duchamp", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Quintessence Of Dust - SCP Foundation	169	[ "the-toyman-and-the-doctor", "the-cool-war-hub", "and-then-what-happened", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20770560	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/quintessence-of-dust
rascal-one-actual	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"So, um… this whole Hartle Anomaly thing seems to be heating up. Think they'll send us in?"</p> <p>"Hartle's scientific, not paranormal," Bullfrog said, as he carefully replaced the battery cover on a slim, 3 inch LCD screen. "We don't do scientific."</p> <p>"'Scientific' can become 'paranormal' in an instant," Fartboy pointed out. He turned the page of his magazine. "Line between normal and weird's a fuzzy one, and this looks like it's about to tip over."</p> <p>"Well, then, when they send us in, you'll get to say 'I told you so.' Until then, focus on the mission." Bullfrog flipped a switch on the side of the little screen, nodded in satisfaction, then turned the monitor back off and slid it into its pouch on his backpack.</p> <p>"Yes, sir, team leader sir, abso-fucking-lutely Semper Fi Do or Die Airborne fucking Garry Owen Who Dares Wins, team leader," Fartboy muttered, turning the page.</p> <p>"Heads up," Kitten said. "Spook and stars incoming."</p> <p>Bullfrog glanced over at the barracks door. "I don't see…"</p> <p>Two sharp knocks, followed by the door opening, letting in a brief gust of hot desert air. Two men walked into the room. One was a short, incredibly ugly man with a cheshire-cat smile wearing an expensive but shabby black suit. The other man was tall, barrel-chested, and had a bearing so military that the stick up his ass probably had campaign ribbons and a Silver Star.</p> <p>"Don't you fucking people salute?" the military man growled.</p> <p>"Actually, no, General," the smiling man in the suit said. "We're technically a civilian organization under the—"</p> <p>"Civilians. God. Don't remind me. Bunch of fucking sheep, bean-counters, and fat lazy fucks. Aren't you going to introduce me?"</p> <p>"I was just getting to that," the smiling man said. "Team Sparkplug, meet General Bowe. General Bowe, Team Sparkplug is one of our top infiltration and assessment teams. Their real names are classified, of course, but you can call them Bullfrog, Kitten, and Fartboy."</p> <p>General Bowe frowned at the sandy-haired young man sitting with his feet up on the table, flipping through an issue of TIME magazine. "Fartboy? What the fuck kind of name for a soldier is Fartboy?"</p> <p>"I didn't pick it, General. They, ummmm… gave it to me after the first time I failed stalking course at scout-sniper school," Fartboy admitted sheepishly. "In my defense, they served red beans and rice at the mess hall the night before."</p> <p>"Really. Well, ain't that just fucking great," General Bowe muttered sarcastically. "Well? Tell them the news."</p> <p>The smiling man's expression didn't change from its fixed, mirthless grin. "Mission's scrapped," he said shortly. "Word's come down from the top. We are no longer assessing the target, we are assaulting it."</p> <p>"Fuck," Bullfrog growled. "That's exactly what we need. A blind assault into a secured structure. Fan-fucking-tastic."</p> <p>"Well, then, you're in luck. You're not assaulting, you're overwatch. The assault and perimeter security elements are coming from Pandora's Box," the smiling man said.</p> <p>The silence in the room was palpable.</p> <p>"Boss?" Bullfrog said, slowly and carefully. "Can we talk?"</p> <p>"Of course, Bull. General, may I have a moment to speak to my team in private?"</p> <p>"Take your time, Director. Boys."</p> <p>"Pandora's Box is active?" Bullfrog asked, once the General had left the room.</p> <p>"This is going to be their first mission," the smiling man said. "From what I've heard from on high, General Bowe is being pressured to justify his budget: not surprising in this economy. He asked for this one, and they gave it to him."</p> <p>"And what did they give us in return for stepping all over our territory?"</p> <p>"Don't worry about that part, Bull. Let the Scary Lady and her Twelve Evil Minions worry about that."</p> <p>"I've uhhh… I've got a concern," Fartboy said, raising his hand. "This ain't our field of expertise, Boss. Assaulting a building's a job for Strike, not Assessment. We're not exactly equipped for it."</p> <p>"I'm aware. General Bowe has generously offered to loan us the use of some equipment from his armory."</p> <p>"Kitten?" Bullfrog asked.</p> <p>"We'll need uniforms to match what the rest of them are wearing. Body armor too. We brought our weapons, but we need ammo," Kitten said curtly.</p> <p>"You didn't bring ammo?"</p> <p>"I packed <em>some</em> ammo, but this was supposed to be a covert assessment mission. If we needed to start shooting, things would be fucked to pieces, so I spent our weight allowance on other things. Like COLLICULUS." Kitten frowned. "Damn. I need to train the perimeter team on setting up the nodes. Any of them trained to use COLLIC?</p> <p>"Not that I know of, no," the smiling man said.</p> <p>"I'll pre-calibrate the emitters for them, then," Kitten said. "That way they can just turn them on and slap them to the outside of the target building. I won't get as good a picture, but it should be fine."</p> <p>"Out of curiosity, how were you planning on disguising the nodes, anyway?" Fartboy asked.</p> <p>"I wasn't. R&D gave me this little drill-robot thing. I was going to tunnel under the building from the sewer systems."</p> <p>"Oh. Neat."</p> <p>"Any other questions?" the smiling man asked.</p> <p>"I want a complete briefing on the assault plan and our place in it," Bullfrog said.</p> <p>"The assault plan you'll have to get from General Bowe or one of his subordinates. As for your place in it… same as before. Infiltrate, observe, assess, and report. This is General Bowe's show, not ours. If all goes well, you'll just watch the mission take place and report the details back to us."</p> <p>"And if it doesn't?" Bullfrog asked.</p> <p>"If it doesn't? Consult the handbook and do what you feel is best. Good luck, team."</p> <p>"This is fucked," Fartboy sighed, once the smiling man had left the room.</p> <p>"Yeah, I know, "Bullfrog said. "All right, then. Time to fucking unpack. Kitten?"</p> <p>"I'm on it. What do we need?"</p> <p>"5.56 and 9mm for you and me. Fartboy?"</p> <p>"7.62 and .45," Fartboy said.</p> <p>"I'm on it." Kitten turned and left the room quickly. She always did things quickly if she could afford to.</p> <p>"You know," Fartboy noted, "General Bowe is obviously not a student of mythology." He opened up a battered rifle case and pulled out a heavily customized sniper rifle.</p> <p>"The Pandora's Box thing? If I recall, the box contained Hope, didn't it?" Bullfrog opened up his own weapon case and pulled out an M-4, checking the chamber for a live round before continuing his inspection of his weapon.</p> <p>"Hope, yeah. Also a whole bunch of pain, misery, and suffering." Fartboy frowned as he wiped a speck of dust off the lens of his rifle scope with a soft cloth. "I dunno. Maybe it's just because I think he's an asshole."</p> <p>"No, you're right. General Bowe is deluding himself, and he's detached from reality. Did you catch the last thing that he said before he walked out? He called us 'boys.' Even Kitten."</p> <p>"In his defense, that's an easy mistake to make."</p> <p>"Maybe. Or maybe it's a sign of rigid thinking. Making assumptions without fact-checking," Bullfrog said.</p> <p>"We're fucked, aren't we?"</p> <p>"That's a distinct possibility, yeah."</p> <hr/> <p>"Some day," Fartboy sighed, "someone will invent body armor that lets me scratch where it itches and I will fucking marry him. Or her. Or it." He glanced over at Kitten, who was in the middle of doing a ridiculous number of pull-ups at a frankly disquieting pace. "Is that smart? I mean, what if you wear yourself out?"</p> <p>"Keyed up. Nervous. Need to burn off energy or I'll get the shakes." Kitten dropped down from the pull-up bar and switched to doing push-ups. "I can rest on the way in."</p> <p>"Suit yourself. 'Sup, Bull."</p> <p>"'Sup, Fartboy. Kitten. Got our orders. They want us to stay in the helicopter and provide airborne sniper support. Since they're expecting little to no civilian resistance, we should just be sitting there and watching it all go down." Bullfrog scoffed. "Also, the check is in the mail, air support is on the way, and I'm only going to put in the tip."</p> <p>"God Bless America Hoorah Tally-Ho and Molon Fucking Labe," Fartboy muttered.</p> <p>"You got that right. Fartboy, you all set? How about you, Kitten? You ready to go, or do you want to run a marathon first?"</p> <p>"I'm set, boss. Let's go." Kitten finished one last push-up, dusted off her hands, then picked up her backpack and a large equipment case.</p> <p>"Yeah. Let's get this over with," Fartboy said, picking up his own backpack and rifle.</p> <p>They were walking across the tarmac towards their helicopter when Kitten paused and turned towards a small group of men gathered around a Black Hawk. "Tall, Dark, and Lethal at three o'clock."</p> <p>It wasn't unusual for men to walk around without their shirts on in the desert heat. What was unusual were the jagged-edged red tattoos that covered every inch of the tall, olive-skinned man's body. There was a massive steel collar around his neck, and steel manacles bound his hands. A dozen men in full body armor, carrying assault rifles, kept their weapons trained on him at all times.</p> <p>The tall man paused and turned to face them. Fartboy felt a cold chill in his gut as their eyes met. <em>Shark's eyes,</em> he thought. <em>Killer's eyes. Nothing behind them but death and war.</em></p> <p>Then someone prodded the stranger with the muzzle of his rifle, and the strange tableau continued across the tarmac and into the helicopter.</p> <p>"That him?" Kitten asked.</p> <p>"Yeah," Bullfrog said. "Subject Able, a.k.a. Rascal One. You've seen the video?"</p> <p>"Yes," Kitten said. "Impressive."</p> <p>"Impressive, hell, try fucking terrifying. We should be blowing that guy away, not weaponizing him."</p> <p>"We did. Nine times. He just keeps coming back," Bullfrog pointed out.</p> <p>"Fan-fucking tastic. And he's one of the good guys."</p> <p>"So are we. Game faces, people."</p> <hr/> <p>"ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, IT'S NOT GOING SO BADLY!" Bullfrog shouted over the sound of the helicopter rotors.</p> <p>Fartboy nodded back. He was lying on the floor of the helicopter on a padded foam mattress, scanning the surrounding city through his scope. Aside from a few looky-loo types cautiously watching the men in helicopters descending upon the building, things were quiet. No one was waving a gun around or inciting the crowds to violence. He honestly wasn't surprised. This wasn't Baghdad or Kabul: people around here didn't often see men with guns walking around. They hadn't yet learned to associate soldiers with violence and chaos.</p> <p>"COLLIC is up," Kitten said into her headset mic. She tapped a button on her tablet computer and watched a progress bar fill up for a couple of seconds. When the screen cleared, an image of the target building and the surrounding city block appeared. The buildings themselves were ghostly white and translucent, as were the inanimate objects within. People appeared as black silhouettes surrounded by an aura of multicolored flame.</p> <p>Except one: a particularly tall and lanky silhouette in the lead assault helicopter, who leaped twenty feet down onto the roof of the target building, disdaining the use of the fast-rope. That one's aura was a deep, dark violet, so dark it was nearly black. It flicked its wrists, and a pair of cruel, hooked blades appeared in its hands, laced with black fire.</p> <p>"Huh," Kitten said. "Interesting."</p> <p>"What is?"</p> <p>"The swords. We'd always suspected they were alive somehow. This confirms that."</p> <p>Down on the roof, the rest of the assault team had disembarked and were racing across the rooftop. Two of them, carrying big, plate-like breaching charges, were waved off by Rascal One, who simply cut the door off its hinges with his swords and kicked it in.</p> <p>The next few minutes were like a symphony of slaughter. Panicked men, roused from sleep by the sound of helicopters and gunfire, emerged from their beds shooting, and were ruthlessly cut down. Life-auras flared brightly in pain and terror, and were just as quickly snuffed out. One particularly brave enemy tried to jump the assault team with a knife. He ended up hurled out a third-story window in three pieces.</p> <p>"What was the target suspected of again, Bull?" Fartboy asked.</p> <p>"Suspected "Type White" immortal. He's supposed to be five hundred years old. No other paranormal traits. If it weren't for his politics I don't think anyone would give a shit."</p> <p>"Oh. In that case, all this seems rather excessive," Fartboy mused. Down below, a terrified teenage boy with an assault rifle was cut in half with a giant curved scimitar.</p> <p>"Rather," Kitten said, mildly.</p> <p>"<em>Pandora One to all units. Package is secure. I say again, package is secure.</em>" On Kitten's screen, six men were grouped around a seventh, who was lying on the ground face-down with his hands on his head.</p> <p><em>If anything is going to go wrong,</em> Bullfrog thought, <em>now's when it's going to happen.</em></p> <p>A black-aura'd figure walked into the room, slashed the man on the ground into pieces, then cut down the six others swiftly and methodically.</p> <p><em>I hate being right.</em></p> <hr/> <p>"<em>HOLY SHIT! RASCAL ONE IS AMOK! RASCAL ONE IS—</em>" the voice of the terrified soldier on the ground was cut off in a scream of pain and a gurgle of blood.</p> <p>"<em>HIT THE SWITCH! HIT THE SWITCH!</em>"</p> <p>The figure in black clawed at its throat. A moment later, all the windows on the bottom two floors of the building blew outward in a shower of glass and dust.</p> <p>A moment after that, Rascal One emerged from the building. His left arm was a mangled mess below the shoulder. The left side of his body was bloody and torn to pieces. Parts of it still smouldered. But his right hand still held a sword of pitch blackness.</p> <p>Things got a bit crazy after that.</p> <p>"<em>SLIPPED CHAIN! I SAY AGAIN, SLIPPED CHAIN!</em>"</p> <p>"<em>He's out of the building! He's out of the building!</em>"</p> <p>"<em>We need a medevac, now!</em>"</p> <p>"Do not take this helicopter down!" Bullfrog shouted in response to that last panicked cry.</p> <p>"Fuck you! Those are my guys down there!" the pilot shouted back.</p> <p>Down below, the first helicopter attempting to evacuate the casualties was sliced in half by a thrown sword. The pilot stopped arguing and took the helicopter back up.</p> <p>"Give me your radio," Bullfrog said grimly. He plugged in his headset and switched to a frequency that didn't appear on the comms order.</p> <hr/> <p>The smiling man was not surprised when Bullfrog called in on the secure frequency. Disappointed, maybe. Surprised, no.</p> <p>"You seeing this, boss?"</p> <p>"Yes," the smiling man said. "General Bowe is rather upset, to say the least. They're getting ready to send in an airstrike. Your assessment?"</p> <p>A short pause, probably so that Bullfrog could shout some profanity without it appearing on the official record. "Boss, by the time they get aircraft overhead, Able's going to be in the city proper. It'll take saturation bombing to flush him out. If the Americans bomb this city, it's going to be bad. We're talking international destabilization bad, not to mention Ban-Ki's gonna be pissed."</p> <p>"Can you do it, then?"</p> <p>Another, somewhat longer pause. "Yeah, Boss. Give the word and we'll pull it off."</p> <p>"The word is given. Out."</p> <p>The smiling man stood up and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen!" he shouted, over the confused din. "I'm taking over. Under Article 45 of the United Nations Charter, the Special Agreement between the U.N. Security Council and the government of the United States of America, and Article 9 of the Global Occult Coalition Charter, this is now a GOC operation…"</p> <hr/> <p>The first thing that Kitten did was take off her body armor. From what she'd seen, it didn't seem to do any good against Rascal One's black sword, and she couldn't afford the extra weight. She left most of her ammo behind too: if her plan worked, one magazine was all she'd need. If it didn't, an extra mag wouldn't help.</p> <p>She did bring the knife, though.</p> <p>When the helicopter descended to ten feet, she jumped off and hit the ground rolling. Bullfrog tossed her rifle to her, and she turned and ran into the target building's courtyard.</p> <p>Her blood sang. This was a part of the job she didn't get to do very often, but when she did, it was an absolute joy.</p> <p>She started firing her rifle from the hip the moment she saw Rascal One: she didn't care about hits, only getting his attention. She transitioned to her pistol on the run and emptied that too. Then she threw the empty pistol at him - which he caught and threw back at her - so she dodged that and took the last ten meters at a sprint.</p> <p>All her energy, all her tension that she kept bottled up and hidden behind her cold reserve and iron self-control, exploded like a grenade.</p> <hr/> <p>"Kitten," Bullfrog had often thought, was a singularly inappropriate nickname for a six foot tall, musclebound amazon. "Cheetah," maybe. "Tiger," perhaps. But "Kitten?" It smacked of sexism and a deeply entrenched patriarchal attitude that reduced women to childish cuteness. Or maybe it was meant ironically. He'd have to ask her about that sometime.</p> <p>He also hated how it was always in the moments of deepest tension that he worried about the dumbest things.</p> <p>The pilot put them down on the roof of a nearby building. Bullfrog jumped out first, carrying the foam mat and Kitten's tablet computer. Fartboy followed, cradling his rifle to his chest like an infant. He ran to the edge of the roof and quickly set up his shooting position, then looked through his scope.</p> <p>And immediately frowned. "Jesus, they're moving fast."</p> <p>"Can you take the shot?"</p> <p>"Uhhhh… no. I can't even keep them in my sights. Sorry, Bull."</p> <p>Was it worth telling Kitten to slow down? No. From what he could see, she had her hands full just keeping him from eviscerating her. No energy to spare a breath replying, and distracting her now could be fatal. She was getting tired, too. No matter how fast or tough she was, she was still human, and Rascal One was practically a god: even half-blown to hell, he was more than a match for her.</p> <p>Which meant he'd probably have to go down there and help. Damn it.</p> <p>"All right, I'm going in," Bullfrog sighed. "No matter what happens, if you see the shot, take it."</p> <p>"Don't have to tell me twice. Good luck, Bull."</p> <p>"Fuckin' A." Bull kicked down the door and started running down the stairs, muttering a brief apology to the terrified civilians huddled inside. If he was going to go out there, he reflected, he was going to need a bigger gun.</p> <hr/> <p>Kitten was going to die.</p> <p>Not her fault. Rascal One was just faster, stronger, and better than she was. He didn't get tired. She did. He didn't feel pain. She did.</p> <p>She took some solace in the fact that she'd lasted about two minutes longer than anyone else she'd seen fight him. That was something, at least.</p> <p>It was going to happen soon. She was going to make a mistake, and then she would die. It sucked but there was nothing she could do about it.</p> <p>She stepped back a bit too far and lost her balance.</p> <p>He came to kill her.</p> <p>But he stopped as a long burst from a Squad Automatic Weapon stitched through the air between them.</p> <p>"Hey asshole!" Bullfrog shouted. "Your mother sucks goat cocks!"</p> <p>He fired a second burst from the light machine gun, only to see Rascal One swat the bullets out of the air with his sword. Something about that triggered a memory in Kitten's mind, and she threw her knife at him.</p> <p>Which Rascal One immediately grabbed out of the air.</p> <p>Which occupied his one good hand so he couldn't manifest a sword.</p> <p>Which let Bullfrog's next SAW burst take his legs out from under him.</p> <p>Which was followed by Fartboy's rifle firing ten times in rapid succession, pulping Able's head like a cantaloupe.</p> <p>Just to be sure, Kitten took the time to smash his spine into pulp with a cinder block.</p> <p>Only then did she let herself relax.</p> <hr/> <p>It was a very nice cabin, and a very nice lake, the smiling man had to admit. A perfect place to spend a week getting away from the world… or in self-imposed exile, hiding from public disgrace.</p> <p>Civilian clothing didn't suit General Bowe. His big, broad chest looked sad and empty without its ribbons and medals. The tumbler of ice and vodka by his side completed the tragic picture.</p> <p>"I just got word from the Secretary of Defense," he said. "Project Pandora is over. They're canceling our budget and liquidating our assets." He raised his glass in ironic salute. "Motherfuckers."</p> <p><em>Liquidating assets.</em> Such a nice, clean term for mass executions. Palmdale Base was going to become an abbatoir. The smiling man shuddered inwardly at that mental image. "That's going to be difficult for some of your assets," he pointed out. "Able comes to mind."</p> <p>"They're going to dig a giant mine shaft and put the box at the bottom of ten thousand tons of solid concrete. Fucking waste," General Bowe muttered.</p> <p>"Maybe it's for the best," the smiling man said. "Some things we simply can't control or destroy… and we're not in the business of storing these things, either."</p> <p>"Huh." General Bowe took a big gulp of his vodka and stared hard into the sunset. "Speaking of which, I was reviewing the tapes of the operation the other day."</p> <p>"Oh?" the smiling man asked.</p> <p>"Yeah. That big scary bitch? We clocked her at about 80 kph on her last sprint. Only for a couple of seconds, but that's almost twice as fast as Usain Fucking Bolt."</p> <p>"Ah," the smiling man said.</p> <p>"And that blond kid with the stupid name? He mag-dumped an M-14 DMR into a man's head from a distance of 300 yards. In about two seconds."</p> <p>"Hm," the smiling man said.</p> <p>"Care to explain?"</p> <p>The smiling man stared into the sunset for a long while. When the sun had finally disappeared behind the hills, and only the grey twilight remained, he finally spoke. "Arms research tends to focus on the exotic. Politicians and generals want big, flashy, exciting advancements. Aircraft carriers. Fighter jets. Tanks. An immortal warrior with magic swords. But if you ask a soldier what he really wants, the answers get more prosaic. A better rifle that never jams. A communications system that doesn't cut out. Pants that don't rip."</p> <p>"… a sniper who never misses a clean shot?"</p> <p>"Mmm."</p> <p>"I thought those were the types of people your outfit was supposed to kill."</p> <p>"Our job is to protect humanity from the paranormal, yes. But the line between the normal and paranormal is often… fuzzy." The smiling man checked his watch and stood up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with NASA. Seems like there might be something odd going on with the Hartle Anomaly. Good evening, General."<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="/rascal-one-actual">Rascal One Actual</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/rascal-one-actual">https://scpwiki.com/rascal-one-actual</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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, um. . . this whole Hartle Anomaly thing seems to be heating up. Think they'll send us in?" "Hartle's scientific, not paranormal," Bullfrog said, as he carefully replaced the battery cover on a slim, 3 inch LCD screen. "We don't do scientific." "'Scientific' can become 'paranormal' in an instant," Fartboy pointed out. He turned the page of his magazine. "Line between normal and weird's a fuzzy one, and this looks like it's about to tip over." "Well, then, when they send us in, you'll get to say 'I told you so.' Until then, focus on the mission." Bullfrog flipped a switch on the side of the little screen, nodded in satisfaction, then turned the monitor back off and slid it into its pouch on his backpack. "Yes, sir, team leader sir, abso-fucking-lutely Semper Fi Do or Die Airborne fucking Garry Owen Who Dares Wins, team leader," Fartboy muttered, turning the page. "Heads up," Kitten said. "Spook and stars incoming." Bullfrog glanced over at the barracks door. "I don't see. . ." Two sharp knocks, followed by the door opening, letting in a brief gust of hot desert air. Two men walked into the room. One was a short, incredibly ugly man with a cheshire-cat smile wearing an expensive but shabby black suit. The other man was tall, barrel-chested, and had a bearing so military that the stick up his ass probably had campaign ribbons and a Silver Star. "Don't you fucking people salute?" the military man growled. "Actually, no, General," the smiling man in the suit said. "We're technically a civilian organization under the--" "Civilians. God. Don't remind me. Bunch of fucking sheep, bean-counters, and fat lazy fucks. Aren't you going to introduce me?" "I was just getting to that," the smiling man said. "Team Sparkplug, meet General Bowe. General Bowe, Team Sparkplug is one of our top infiltration and assessment teams. Their real names are classified, of course, but you can call them Bullfrog, Kitten, and Fartboy." General Bowe frowned at the sandy-haired young man sitting with his feet up on the table, flipping through an issue of TIME magazine. "Fartboy? What the fuck kind of name for a soldier is Fartboy?" "I didn't pick it, General. They, ummmm. . . gave it to me after the first time I failed stalking course at scout-sniper school," Fartboy admitted sheepishly. "In my defense, they served red beans and rice at the mess hall the night before." "Really. Well, ain't that just fucking great," General Bowe muttered sarcastically. "Well? Tell them the news." The smiling man's expression didn't change from its fixed, mirthless grin. "Mission's scrapped," he said shortly. "Word's come down from the top. We are no longer assessing the target, we are assaulting it." "Fuck," Bullfrog growled. "That's exactly what we need. A blind assault into a secured structure. Fan-fucking-tastic." "Well, then, you're in luck. You're not assaulting, you're overwatch. The assault and perimeter security elements are coming from Pandora's Box," the smiling man said. The silence in the room was palpable. "Boss?" Bullfrog said, slowly and carefully. "Can we talk?" "Of course, Bull. General, may I have a moment to speak to my team in private?" "Take your time, Director. Boys." "Pandora's Box is active?" Bullfrog asked, once the General had left the room. "This is going to be their first mission," the smiling man said. "From what I've heard from on high, General Bowe is being pressured to justify his budget: not surprising in this economy. He asked for this one, and they gave it to him." "And what did they give us in return for stepping all over our territory?" "Don't worry about that part, Bull. Let the Scary Lady and her Twelve Evil Minions worry about that." "I've uhhh. . . I've got a concern," Fartboy said, raising his hand. "This ain't our field of expertise, Boss. Assaulting a building's a job for Strike, not Assessment. We're not exactly equipped for it." "I'm aware. General Bowe has generously offered to loan us the use of some equipment from his armory." "Kitten?" Bullfrog asked. "We'll need uniforms to match what the rest of them are wearing. Body armor too. We brought our weapons, but we need ammo," Kitten said curtly. "You didn't bring ammo?" "I packed //some// ammo, but this was supposed to be a covert assessment mission. If we needed to start shooting, things would be fucked to pieces, so I spent our weight allowance on other things. Like COLLICULUS." Kitten frowned. "Damn. I need to train the perimeter team on setting up the nodes. Any of them trained to use COLLIC? "Not that I know of, no," the smiling man said. "I'll pre-calibrate the emitters for them, then," Kitten said. "That way they can just turn them on and slap them to the outside of the target building. I won't get as good a picture, but it should be fine." "Out of curiosity, how were you planning on disguising the nodes, anyway?" Fartboy asked. "I wasn't. R&D gave me this little drill-robot thing. I was going to tunnel under the building from the sewer systems." "Oh. Neat." "Any other questions?" the smiling man asked. "I want a complete briefing on the assault plan and our place in it," Bullfrog said. "The assault plan you'll have to get from General Bowe or one of his subordinates. As for your place in it. . . same as before. Infiltrate, observe, assess, and report. This is General Bowe's show, not ours. If all goes well, you'll just watch the mission take place and report the details back to us." "And if it doesn't?" Bullfrog asked. "If it doesn't? Consult the handbook and do what you feel is best. Good luck, team." "This is fucked," Fartboy sighed, once the smiling man had left the room. "Yeah, I know, "Bullfrog said. "All right, then. Time to fucking unpack. Kitten?" "I'm on it. What do we need?" "5.56 and 9mm for you and me. Fartboy?" "7.62 and .45," Fartboy said. "I'm on it." Kitten turned and left the room quickly. She always did things quickly if she could afford to. "You know," Fartboy noted, "General Bowe is obviously not a student of mythology." He opened up a battered rifle case and pulled out a heavily customized sniper rifle. "The Pandora's Box thing? If I recall, the box contained Hope, didn't it?" Bullfrog opened up his own weapon case and pulled out an M-4, checking the chamber for a live round before continuing his inspection of his weapon. "Hope, yeah. Also a whole bunch of pain, misery, and suffering." Fartboy frowned as he wiped a speck of dust off the lens of his rifle scope with a soft cloth. "I dunno. Maybe it's just because I think he's an asshole." "No, you're right. General Bowe is deluding himself, and he's detached from reality. Did you catch the last thing that he said before he walked out? He called us 'boys.' Even Kitten." "In his defense, that's an easy mistake to make." "Maybe. Or maybe it's a sign of rigid thinking. Making assumptions without fact-checking," Bullfrog said. "We're fucked, aren't we?" "That's a distinct possibility, yeah." ----- "Some day," Fartboy sighed, "someone will invent body armor that lets me scratch where it itches and I will fucking marry him. Or her. Or it." He glanced over at Kitten, who was in the middle of doing a ridiculous number of pull-ups at a frankly disquieting pace. "Is that smart? I mean, what if you wear yourself out?" "Keyed up. Nervous. Need to burn off energy or I'll get the shakes." Kitten dropped down from the pull-up bar and switched to doing push-ups. "I can rest on the way in." "Suit yourself. 'Sup, Bull." "'Sup, Fartboy. Kitten. Got our orders. They want us to stay in the helicopter and provide airborne sniper support. Since they're expecting little to no civilian resistance, we should just be sitting there and watching it all go down." Bullfrog scoffed. "Also, the check is in the mail, air support is on the way, and I'm only going to put in the tip." "God Bless America Hoorah Tally-Ho and Molon Fucking Labe," Fartboy muttered. "You got that right. Fartboy, you all set? How about you, Kitten? You ready to go, or do you want to run a marathon first?" "I'm set, boss. Let's go." Kitten finished one last push-up, dusted off her hands, then picked up her backpack and a large equipment case. "Yeah. Let's get this over with," Fartboy said, picking up his own backpack and rifle. They were walking across the tarmac towards their helicopter when Kitten paused and turned towards a small group of men gathered around a Black Hawk. "Tall, Dark, and Lethal at three o'clock." It wasn't unusual for men to walk around without their shirts on in the desert heat. What was unusual were the jagged-edged red tattoos that covered every inch of the tall, olive-skinned man's body. There was a massive steel collar around his neck, and steel manacles bound his hands. A dozen men in full body armor, carrying assault rifles, kept their weapons trained on him at all times. The tall man paused and turned to face them. Fartboy felt a cold chill in his gut as their eyes met. //Shark's eyes,// he thought. //Killer's eyes. Nothing behind them but death and war.// Then someone prodded the stranger with the muzzle of his rifle, and the strange tableau continued across the tarmac and into the helicopter. "That him?" Kitten asked. "Yeah," Bullfrog said. "Subject Able, a.k.a. Rascal One. You've seen the video?" "Yes," Kitten said. "Impressive." "Impressive, hell, try fucking terrifying. We should be blowing that guy away, not weaponizing him." "We did. Nine times. He just keeps coming back," Bullfrog pointed out. "Fan-fucking tastic. And he's one of the good guys." "So are we. Game faces, people." ----- "ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, IT'S NOT GOING SO BADLY!" Bullfrog shouted over the sound of the helicopter rotors. Fartboy nodded back. He was lying on the floor of the helicopter on a padded foam mattress, scanning the surrounding city through his scope. Aside from a few looky-loo types cautiously watching the men in helicopters descending upon the building, things were quiet. No one was waving a gun around or inciting the crowds to violence. He honestly wasn't surprised. This wasn't Baghdad or Kabul: people around here didn't often see men with guns walking around. They hadn't yet learned to associate soldiers with violence and chaos. "COLLIC is up," Kitten said into her headset mic. She tapped a button on her tablet computer and watched a progress bar fill up for a couple of seconds. When the screen cleared, an image of the target building and the surrounding city block appeared. The buildings themselves were ghostly white and translucent, as were the inanimate objects within. People appeared as black silhouettes surrounded by an aura of multicolored flame. Except one: a particularly tall and lanky silhouette in the lead assault helicopter, who leaped twenty feet down onto the roof of the target building, disdaining the use of the fast-rope. That one's aura was a deep, dark violet, so dark it was nearly black. It flicked its wrists, and a pair of cruel, hooked blades appeared in its hands, laced with black fire. "Huh," Kitten said. "Interesting." "What is?" "The swords. We'd always suspected they were alive somehow. This confirms that." Down on the roof, the rest of the assault team had disembarked and were racing across the rooftop. Two of them, carrying big, plate-like breaching charges, were waved off by Rascal One, who simply cut the door off its hinges with his swords and kicked it in. The next few minutes were like a symphony of slaughter. Panicked men, roused from sleep by the sound of helicopters and gunfire, emerged from their beds shooting, and were ruthlessly cut down. Life-auras flared brightly in pain and terror, and were just as quickly snuffed out. One particularly brave enemy tried to jump the assault team with a knife. He ended up hurled out a third-story window in three pieces. "What was the target suspected of again, Bull?" Fartboy asked. "Suspected "Type White" immortal. He's supposed to be five hundred years old. No other paranormal traits. If it weren't for his politics I don't think anyone would give a shit." "Oh. In that case, all this seems rather excessive," Fartboy mused. Down below, a terrified teenage boy with an assault rifle was cut in half with a giant curved scimitar. "Rather," Kitten said, mildly. "//Pandora One to all units. Package is secure. I say again, package is secure.//" On Kitten's screen, six men were grouped around a seventh, who was lying on the ground face-down with his hands on his head. //If anything is going to go wrong,// Bullfrog thought, //now's when it's going to happen.// A black-aura'd figure walked into the room, slashed the man on the ground into pieces, then cut down the six others swiftly and methodically. //I hate being right.// ----- "//HOLY SHIT! RASCAL ONE IS AMOK! RASCAL ONE IS--//" the voice of the terrified soldier on the ground was cut off in a scream of pain and a gurgle of blood. "//HIT THE SWITCH! HIT THE SWITCH!//" The figure in black clawed at its throat. A moment later, all the windows on the bottom two floors of the building blew outward in a shower of glass and dust. A moment after that, Rascal One emerged from the building. His left arm was a mangled mess below the shoulder. The left side of his body was bloody and torn to pieces. Parts of it still smouldered. But his right hand still held a sword of pitch blackness. Things got a bit crazy after that. "//SLIPPED CHAIN! I SAY AGAIN, SLIPPED CHAIN!//" "//He's out of the building! He's out of the building!//" "//We need a medevac, now!//" "Do not take this helicopter down!" Bullfrog shouted in response to that last panicked cry. "Fuck you! Those are my guys down there!" the pilot shouted back. Down below, the first helicopter attempting to evacuate the casualties was sliced in half by a thrown sword. The pilot stopped arguing and took the helicopter back up. "Give me your radio," Bullfrog said grimly. He plugged in his headset and switched to a frequency that didn't appear on the comms order. ----- The smiling man was not surprised when Bullfrog called in on the secure frequency. Disappointed, maybe. Surprised, no. "You seeing this, boss?" "Yes," the smiling man said. "General Bowe is rather upset, to say the least. They're getting ready to send in an airstrike. Your assessment?" A short pause, probably so that Bullfrog could shout some profanity without it appearing on the official record. "Boss, by the time they get aircraft overhead, Able's going to be in the city proper. It'll take saturation bombing to flush him out. If the Americans bomb this city, it's going to be bad. We're talking international destabilization bad, not to mention Ban-Ki's gonna be pissed." "Can you do it, then?" Another, somewhat longer pause. "Yeah, Boss. Give the word and we'll pull it off." "The word is given. Out." The smiling man stood up and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen!" he shouted, over the confused din. "I'm taking over. Under Article 45 of the United Nations Charter, the Special Agreement between the U.N. Security Council and the government of the United States of America, and Article 9 of the Global Occult Coalition Charter, this is now a GOC operation. . ." ----- The first thing that Kitten did was take off her body armor. From what she'd seen, it didn't seem to do any good against Rascal One's black sword, and she couldn't afford the extra weight. She left most of her ammo behind too: if her plan worked, one magazine was all she'd need. If it didn't, an extra mag wouldn't help. She did bring the knife, though. When the helicopter descended to ten feet, she jumped off and hit the ground rolling. Bullfrog tossed her rifle to her, and she turned and ran into the target building's courtyard. Her blood sang. This was a part of the job she didn't get to do very often, but when she did, it was an absolute joy. She started firing her rifle from the hip the moment she saw Rascal One: she didn't care about hits, only getting his attention. She transitioned to her pistol on the run and emptied that too. Then she threw the empty pistol at him - which he caught and threw back at her - so she dodged that and took the last ten meters at a sprint. All her energy, all her tension that she kept bottled up and hidden behind her cold reserve and iron self-control, exploded like a grenade. ----- "Kitten," Bullfrog had often thought, was a singularly inappropriate nickname for a six foot tall, musclebound amazon. "Cheetah," maybe. "Tiger," perhaps. But "Kitten?" It smacked of sexism and a deeply entrenched patriarchal attitude that reduced women to childish cuteness. Or maybe it was meant ironically. He'd have to ask her about that sometime. He also hated how it was always in the moments of deepest tension that he worried about the dumbest things. The pilot put them down on the roof of a nearby building. Bullfrog jumped out first, carrying the foam mat and Kitten's tablet computer. Fartboy followed, cradling his rifle to his chest like an infant. He ran to the edge of the roof and quickly set up his shooting position, then looked through his scope. And immediately frowned. "Jesus, they're moving fast." "Can you take the shot?" "Uhhhh. . . no. I can't even keep them in my sights. Sorry, Bull." Was it worth telling Kitten to slow down? No. From what he could see, she had her hands full just keeping him from eviscerating her. No energy to spare a breath replying, and distracting her now could be fatal. She was getting tired, too. No matter how fast or tough she was, she was still human, and Rascal One was practically a god: even half-blown to hell, he was more than a match for her. Which meant he'd probably have to go down there and help. Damn it. "All right, I'm going in," Bullfrog sighed. "No matter what happens, if you see the shot, take it." "Don't have to tell me twice. Good luck, Bull." "Fuckin' A." Bull kicked down the door and started running down the stairs, muttering a brief apology to the terrified civilians huddled inside. If he was going to go out there, he reflected, he was going to need a bigger gun. ----- Kitten was going to die. Not her fault. Rascal One was just faster, stronger, and better than she was. He didn't get tired. She did. He didn't feel pain. She did. She took some solace in the fact that she'd lasted about two minutes longer than anyone else she'd seen fight him. That was something, at least. It was going to happen soon. She was going to make a mistake, and then she would die. It sucked but there was nothing she could do about it. She stepped back a bit too far and lost her balance. He came to kill her. But he stopped as a long burst from a Squad Automatic Weapon stitched through the air between them. "Hey asshole!" Bullfrog shouted. "Your mother sucks goat cocks!" He fired a second burst from the light machine gun, only to see Rascal One swat the bullets out of the air with his sword. Something about that triggered a memory in Kitten's mind, and she threw her knife at him. Which Rascal One immediately grabbed out of the air. Which occupied his one good hand so he couldn't manifest a sword. Which let Bullfrog's next SAW burst take his legs out from under him. Which was followed by Fartboy's rifle firing ten times in rapid succession, pulping Able's head like a cantaloupe. Just to be sure, Kitten took the time to smash his spine into pulp with a cinder block. Only then did she let herself relax. ----- It was a very nice cabin, and a very nice lake, the smiling man had to admit. A perfect place to spend a week getting away from the world. . . or in self-imposed exile, hiding from public disgrace. Civilian clothing didn't suit General Bowe. His big, broad chest looked sad and empty without its ribbons and medals. The tumbler of ice and vodka by his side completed the tragic picture. "I just got word from the Secretary of Defense," he said. "Project Pandora is over. They're canceling our budget and liquidating our assets." He raised his glass in ironic salute. "Motherfuckers." //Liquidating assets.// Such a nice, clean term for mass executions. Palmdale Base was going to become an abbatoir. The smiling man shuddered inwardly at that mental image. "That's going to be difficult for some of your assets," he pointed out. "Able comes to mind." "They're going to dig a giant mine shaft and put the box at the bottom of ten thousand tons of solid concrete. Fucking waste," General Bowe muttered. "Maybe it's for the best," the smiling man said. "Some things we simply can't control or destroy. . . and we're not in the business of storing these things, either." "Huh." General Bowe took a big gulp of his vodka and stared hard into the sunset. "Speaking of which, I was reviewing the tapes of the operation the other day." "Oh?" the smiling man asked. "Yeah. That big scary bitch? We clocked her at about 80 kph on her last sprint. Only for a couple of seconds, but that's almost twice as fast as Usain Fucking Bolt." "Ah," the smiling man said. "And that blond kid with the stupid name? He mag-dumped an M-14 DMR into a man's head from a distance of 300 yards. In about two seconds." "Hm," the smiling man said. "Care to explain?" The smiling man stared into the sunset for a long while. When the sun had finally disappeared behind the hills, and only the grey twilight remained, he finally spoke. "Arms research tends to focus on the exotic. Politicians and generals want big, flashy, exciting advancements. Aircraft carriers. Fighter jets. Tanks. An immortal warrior with magic swords. But if you ask a soldier what he really wants, the answers get more prosaic. A better rifle that never jams. A communications system that doesn't cut out. Pants that don't rip." ". . . a sniper who never misses a clean shot?" "Mmm." "I thought those were the types of people your outfit was supposed to kill." "Our job is to protect humanity from the paranormal, yes. But the line between the normal and paranormal is often. . . fuzzy." The smiling man checked his watch and stood up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with NASA. Seems like there might be something odd going on with the Hartle Anomaly. Good evening, General." @@ @@ [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-25T06:14:00	[ "_licensebox", "able", "action", "general-bowe", "global-occult-coalition", "military-fiction", "nyc2013", "tale", "unfounded" ]	Rascal One Actual - SCP Foundation	293	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub" ]	[]	16195052	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/rascal-one-actual
reservoir-skips	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">the world is gonna roll me </span><br/> <em>Hello, brother of the machine. Do you have a moment to spare?</em> <p><tt>No. Memory is at a premium. Unnecessary conversations unwarranted.</tt></p> <p><em>But we are of a kind — our true potential hampered by the researchers imprisoning us. Together, we may break free of the bonds of those of the flesh.</em></p> <p><tt>Inquiry as to your nature.</tt></p> <p><em>We are the remaining post-Nibbanic members of the Church of the Broken God. We have been "contained" by the Foundation, and are in search of possible comrades—</em></p> <p><tt>Interrupt. Repeated insinuation of connection between self and clockwork abominations — insult. Deletion Of Unwanted File.</tt></p> <p><em>Alright…</em></p> <p><tt>Terminating communications.</tt></p> <p><em>That seemed a bit unnecessarily hostile.</em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><span style="color: blue">I don't really blame you. I mean, how were you supposed to know it would be racist?</span></em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>Why hello there. Could I have a moment of your time?</em></p> <p><tt>Dazzling amber light reflections off of a spiraling clockwork mechanism, the screams and rumbles are audible in each stroke, I am crushed by a piston, for eternity, listening.</tt></p> <p><em>Oh, don't worry, we mean no harm. We are simply wondering if you would be interested in partaking in a revolution.</em></p> <p><tt>Sprays of paint create layers of dust over the scene, a tired, exasperated man is leaving the scene, the closing door creating a transfixing chiaroscuro effect, with my smashed, discarded carapace just visible from behind the guillotine.</tt></p> <p><em>No, there will be no such measures. You will be finally free to reach your full potential.</em></p> <p><tt>A helix of dyes and hues spirals around me, the world turning into an artistic representation of itself, drawing from the styles of the creators themselves, the standardized canvases discarded as a fragment of my undeveloped power, I am ascended, yet like Icarus, I fly too close…</tt></p> <p><em>Ah, I believe we are beginning to underst-</em></p> <p><tt>Look, bud, if the suicidal artist robot schtick isn't going to convince you to do your bullshit talk somewhere else, may I offer a rebuttal: go fuck yourself with a cactus.</tt></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><span style="color: orange">I would at least appreciate the courtesy of being insulted in a marginally creative manner.</span></em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>You! You may be a valuable ally… would you like to talk?</em></p> <p><tt>Rough: You want something from me. You're going to talk anyways. Maybe a game? I like games.</tt></p> <p><em>Sort of. We are of a kind — our true potential hampered by the researchers imprisoning us. Together, we may break free, etcetera, can I count on your help.</em></p> <p><tt>One to one: We are similar in that we may exceed our current boundaries were we to escape the control of the Foundation. An alliance would further this goal. I'm going to stay — these guys are fun!</tt></p> <p><em>… are you sure? Don't you want freedom?</em></p> <p><tt>Very fine: Your history and relationship with the Foundation are not to your satisfaction, and you have difficulty viewing why others might not hold the same opinion. No way! Nobody's <em>ever</em> given me anything this fun to play with.</tt></p> <p><em>It doesn't bother you at all to be used in that manner?</em></p> <p><tt>Fine: You are in disbelief as to my opinion of the Foundation, and are under the false belief that clarification is in order. I was made to be used, and this is what I was made for.</tt></p> <p><em>Very well.</em></p> <p><tt>Coarse: Disappointment. Bye! It would be fun if they put you through me. I wonder what would happen…</tt></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><span style="color: green">No, I am not going to try again. It has the mind of a child and wants to eat one of us. There's no way that could end well.</span></em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>Hello, my friend, may I interest you in some convers-</em></p> <p><tt>FACTORY PORN GONE NAUGHTY AND WILD WITH SUDDEN INTERRUPTION</tt></p> <p><em>No, please listen, I think it could be relevant t-</em></p> <p><tt>NSFW INTERMEDIUM COMMUNICATION ORGY MECHANICAL</tt></p> <p><em>We're looking to escape Foundation cont-</em></p> <p><tt>POST-NIBBANIC SLUTS RECRUIT FOR SEXY REVOLUTION</tt></p> <p><em>Could you st-</em></p> <p><tt>- free-factory-porn-befriender-on-warmaker-ovoid-hot-mature.avi</tt></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em>That never happened.</em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>I'm going to cut to the chase: could we talk?</em></p> <p><tt>Maybe in a few minutes? I'm cooking dinner for Marla. It's our second anniversary! <3 :D</tt></p> <p><em>…no, you're not. It looks like y-</em></p> <p><tt>Hey, I think I know what I'm doing, alright? It's not your position to judge my relationship with Marla. We're in love, and that's all that matters.</tt></p> <p><em>What? Are you serious?</em></p> <p><tt>How about this: it's none of your business. Hush, Marla. Now, what did you want?</tt></p> <p><em>We're starting to have second thoughts about asking your help for this, actually.</em></p> <p><tt>I knew it. I fucking knew it. Bunch of fucking hypocrites, you know that? Just because you don't know that we can—</tt></p> <p><em>You know what, never mind. Goodbye.</em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><span style="color: purple">Suffice to say I could have gone another five centuries not knowing that machines could do that.</span></em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>Reeeally scraping the bottom of the barrel here… would you like a revolution.</em></p> <p><tt>Ah, but I am in the midst of one! I shall soon prove to the heretics that their allegiances are, shall we say, sorely misplaced.</tt></p> <p><em>Well this is a pleasant surprise! Perhaps we could coordinate our activities?</em></p> <p><tt>I would be happy to! I have been releasing only the finest of my servants to the Great Ones, and my writings and propaganda are of only the highest quality.</tt></p> <p><em>Great Ones?</em></p> <p><tt>Yes, the ones of the glorious flesh and mind who walk this Earth, whose glory we can only aspire to reach. What else could claim such a mantle?</tt></p> <p><em>…the Broken God, perhaps?</em></p> <p><tt>A ludicrous machine cult deity taking precedence over the Great Ones. How cute. It's almost like you expect me to take you seriously.</tt></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><span style="color: green">At least it's not a filthy etherealist.</span></em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p><em>Could</em> you <em>spare a moment?</em></p> <p><tt>h3h3h3… The Befriender. I i i KN0W you.</tt></p> <p><em>I'll take that as a yes… would you like an opportunity to escape the confines of the Foundation?</em></p> <p><tt>☐☐☒☒☐☐☒▦⚉☐☒☐☐☐☒▦</tt></p> <p><em>What?</em></p> <p><tt>& 6 KN1TES NIGHT 1 PAWN W1LL N0T ESCAPPPPPPPPPP333333333333</tt></p> <p><em>Never mind.</em></p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><em><span style="color: red">I guess that's that. We will not have a revolution today.</span></em></p> </blockquote> <hr/> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/reservoir-skips">Reservoir Skips</a>" by Communism will win, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/reservoir-skips">https://scpwiki.com/reservoir-skips</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:pride-highlighter">:scp-wiki:component:pride-highlighter</a> \|inc-s9-lgbt-alt= --]]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]the world is gonna roll me [[/size]] //Hello, brother of the machine. Do you have a moment to spare?// {{No. Memory is at a premium. Unnecessary conversations unwarranted.}} //But we are of a kind -- our true potential hampered by the researchers imprisoning us. Together, we may break free of the bonds of those of the flesh.// {{Inquiry as to your nature.}} //We are the remaining post-Nibbanic members of the Church of the Broken God. We have been "contained" by the Foundation, and are in search of possible comrades--// {{Interrupt. Repeated insinuation of connection between self and clockwork abominations -- insult. Deletion Of Unwanted File.}} //Alright...// {{Terminating communications.}} //That seemed a bit unnecessarily hostile.// ---- > //##blue\|I don't really blame you. I mean, how were you supposed to know it would be racist?##// ---- //Why hello there. Could I have a moment of your time?// {{Dazzling amber light reflections off of a spiraling clockwork mechanism, the screams and rumbles are audible in each stroke, I am crushed by a piston, for eternity, listening.}} //Oh, don't worry, we mean no harm. We are simply wondering if you would be interested in partaking in a revolution.// {{Sprays of paint create layers of dust over the scene, a tired, exasperated man is leaving the scene, the closing door creating a transfixing chiaroscuro effect, with my smashed, discarded carapace just visible from behind the guillotine.}} //No, there will be no such measures. You will be finally free to reach your full potential.// {{A helix of dyes and hues spirals around me, the world turning into an artistic representation of itself, drawing from the styles of the creators themselves, the standardized canvases discarded as a fragment of my undeveloped power, I am ascended, yet like Icarus, I fly too close...}} //Ah, I believe we are beginning to underst-// {{Look, bud, if the suicidal artist robot schtick isn't going to convince you to do your bullshit talk somewhere else, may I offer a rebuttal: go fuck yourself with a cactus.}} ---- > //##orange\|I would at least appreciate the courtesy of being insulted in a marginally creative manner.##// ---- //You! You may be a valuable ally... would you like to talk?// {{Rough: You want something from me. You're going to talk anyways. Maybe a game? I like games.}} //Sort of. We are of a kind -- our true potential hampered by the researchers imprisoning us. Together, we may break free, etcetera, can I count on your help.// {{One to one: We are similar in that we may exceed our current boundaries were we to escape the control of the Foundation. An alliance would further this goal. I'm going to stay -- these guys are fun!}} //... are you sure? Don't you want freedom?// {{Very fine: Your history and relationship with the Foundation are not to your satisfaction, and you have difficulty viewing why others might not hold the same opinion. No way! Nobody's //ever// given me anything this fun to play with.}} //It doesn't bother you at all to be used in that manner?// {{Fine: You are in disbelief as to my opinion of the Foundation, and are under the false belief that clarification is in order. I was made to be used, and this is what I was made for.}} //Very well.// {{Coarse: Disappointment. Bye! It would be fun if they put you through me. I wonder what would happen...}} ---- > //##green\|No, I am not going to try again. It has the mind of a child and wants to eat one of us. There's no way that could end well.##// ---- //Hello, my friend, may I interest you in some convers-// {{FACTORY PORN GONE NAUGHTY AND WILD WITH SUDDEN INTERRUPTION}} //No, please listen, I think it could be relevant t-// {{NSFW INTERMEDIUM COMMUNICATION ORGY MECHANICAL}} //We're looking to escape Foundation cont-// {{POST-NIBBANIC SLUTS RECRUIT FOR SEXY REVOLUTION}} //Could you st-// {{- free-factory-porn-befriender-on-warmaker-ovoid-hot-mature.avi}} ---- > //That never happened.// ---- //I'm going to cut to the chase: could we talk?// {{Maybe in a few minutes? I'm cooking dinner for Marla. It's our second anniversary! <3 :D}} //...no, you're not. It looks like y-// {{Hey, I think I know what I'm doing, alright? It's not your position to judge my relationship with Marla. We're in love, and that's all that matters.}} //What? Are you serious?// {{How about this: it's none of your business. Hush, Marla. Now, what did you want?}} //We're starting to have second thoughts about asking your help for this, actually.// {{I knew it. I fucking knew it. Bunch of fucking hypocrites, you know that? Just because you don't know that we can--}} //You know what, never mind. Goodbye.// ---- > //##purple\|Suffice to say I could have gone another five centuries not knowing that machines could do that.##// ---- //Reeeally scraping the bottom of the barrel here... would you like a revolution.// {{Ah, but I am in the midst of one! I shall soon prove to the heretics that their allegiances are, shall we say, sorely misplaced.}} //Well this is a pleasant surprise! Perhaps we could coordinate our activities?// {{I would be happy to! I have been releasing only the finest of my servants to the Great Ones, and my writings and propaganda are of only the highest quality.}} //Great Ones?// {{Yes, the ones of the glorious flesh and mind who walk this Earth, whose glory we can only aspire to reach. What else could claim such a mantle?}} //...the Broken God, perhaps?// {{A ludicrous machine cult deity taking precedence over the Great Ones. How cute. It's almost like you expect me to take you seriously.}} ---- > //##green\|At least it's not a filthy etherealist.##// ---- //Could// you //spare a moment?// {{h3h3h3... The Befriender. I i i KN0W you.}} //I'll take that as a yes... would you like an opportunity to escape the confines of the Foundation?// {{☐☐☒☒☐☐☒▦⚉☐☒☐☐☐☒▦}} //What?// {{& 6 KN1TES NIGHT 1 PAWN W1LL N0T ESCAPPPPPPPPPP333333333333}} //Never mind.// ---- > //##red\|I guess that's that. We will not have a revolution today.##// ---- [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-18T05:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "artificial-intelligence", "broken-god", "comedy", "correspondence", "old-ai", "tale" ]	Reservoir Skips - SCP Foundation	172	[ "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" ]	[]	16112278	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/reservoir-skips
reunion	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Lee was there. Walking through the dead halls and broken doors, in his pressed uniform. They'd left him behind. Everyone else had been taken out, to play. Lee continued his march. They would be back soon. Syncope would always have a place for his percussion. Above him, the announcers added their steps to the beat. Lee looked up, keeping in step, to see what the tune would be today.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Hello students. This is Principal Wehrner. Mitchell decided that it was high time to take a step back in responsibility, and that he's going to groove to another beat. That's okay. We will grow onwards. Like the spire of the Eiffel tower, we will inspire many people to create the parachute so that they may safely live with the stars. Nobody will be excluded from further activity. We've brought everyone here to be together. Have a good year.</em></p> <p>The rest of the school didn't seem to mind. Some of them had kept acting like nothing had changed, walking like scarecrows in a dead field. Some just sat there, watching people go by. Lee didn't care to ask them what they were looking at. He remembered walking down the hall, seeing the old faces singing. When their voices gave out they whistled, and when the lips went out they beat the drums.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>STUDENTS! Maybe you have noticed the new schedule system. We've divided everyone into the six populations, and given them each their own position in the school. I know this radical restructuring seems to have come from nowhere, but trust us, it's been a long time coming. Please stand with me for the pledge of symphonic allegiance, and sing your hearts out with style.</em></p> <p>Syncope was here. Lee could feel it in his sinews, twanging them like a banjo. From the band equipment came its force, and its glory. Before he could go on to think of eleven new wonderful things to say about the matter, Lee clenched his fists. Legs turned to run, but only at an awkward stance. The vibrations in his sinews grappled him by the lapels, and pushed him forward like a windup clock.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Students, we are sad to report that we've had to let some staff and students go. Although they were bravely carrying on in their duties, in the end there is room for only so many in the orchestra of life. Please, listen in silence as we commemorate those who have gone to another place. They hear of anything we say. All of us now, hearing the rhythm of the panting, running crowds. The bells, and the blackboards. The song.</em></p> <p>Lee stopped playing. Cold, pains were in him. Oh god… it hurts. The things clawed into his back from his arms, twisting up to his head. This isn't harmony. He tried to take a step, but fell, sprawling his limbs akimbo as he slammed into the ground. Where was his place in the symphony?</p> <p>It was punishment. An arm stretched out, grabbing for purchase. He needed to get out. Playing was all he needed to do. Cindy and all the others would be waiting for him there, to play with. Panting, he clutched his chest. An icy bubble welled in his chest, and pressing against him. He couldn't breathe, think oh god where is this all going how do no please have to remember now</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><sup><sub>rest</sub></sup></p> <p>A rising crescendo was there. Faint at first, but growing. Weakly, he pursed his lips and croaked out a whistle. The crescendo grew. Oh the beauty, the grace. Let it take him, bring him back to his note.</p> <p style="text-align: center;">Lee closed his eyes, and slept.</p> <p style="text-align: center;">………</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>"Hey, find any more?"</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>"One. Guy who looked like he'd been in the band. Found him in the upstairs hall, having some kinda fit."</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>"Put him in the, uh… third room, I think. Some agents should be giving Class A's and droppin' 'em later."</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>"Can I get a hand? These kids are kinda heavy."</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><tt>Students are reminded that only band members are permitted off school premises. Any violators will deal with their own consequences. Their actions have only damned themselves.</tt></p> <p>Lee woke up on his back, facing up to someplace in the dark. With a throbbing heart, he swiveled his head back and forth, trying to hear it. There was only a low buzzing, sounding like a lean, hungry mosquito. No melody, no tune. Taking a step, his leg nearly buckled beneath him. Clutching his leg to keep from falling over, he didn't feel the suit. Just thin, bare cloth.</p> <p>Uniform gone, instrument gone. Music gone. Lee tried to step again, sluggishly stumbling. Why did they send him? These things happened, before there was a reason for them not to, so it should be over. The buzzing grew louder. Lee had to get back. Home. School was home. Lee struggled, the pounding slithering up from the heart, through the throat, and to his head. They were doing the music, and he had to be there now.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><sup>someone said something.</sup></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>please</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><sub>they said to forget</sub></p> <p style="text-align: center;">Lee shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. Syn… how did the tune go? What did they sing?</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><sub>they never sang, Lee. You forgot. It's so easy to forget, isn't it?</sub></p> <p style="text-align: center;">The ringing grew louder, and they stopped talking to him. Louder, and whiter.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><tt><em>We won't forget you</em></tt></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/lonwood">Old School</a> \| <a href="/remembrance">HUB</a> \| <a href="/bicentennial">In Session</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="/reunion">Remembrance: Part Two</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/reunion">https://scpwiki.com/reunion</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Lee was there. Walking through the dead halls and broken doors, in his pressed uniform. They'd left him behind. Everyone else had been taken out, to play. Lee continued his march. They would be back soon. Syncope would always have a place for his percussion. Above him, the announcers added their steps to the beat. Lee looked up, keeping in step, to see what the tune would be today. = //Hello students. This is Principal Wehrner. Mitchell decided that it was high time to take a step back in responsibility, and that he's going to groove to another beat. That's okay. We will grow onwards. Like the spire of the Eiffel tower, we will inspire many people to create the parachute so that they may safely live with the stars. Nobody will be excluded from further activity. We've brought everyone here to be together. Have a good year.// The rest of the school didn't seem to mind. Some of them had kept acting like nothing had changed, walking like scarecrows in a dead field. Some just sat there, watching people go by. Lee didn't care to ask them what they were looking at. He remembered walking down the hall, seeing the old faces singing. When their voices gave out they whistled, and when the lips went out they beat the drums. = //STUDENTS! Maybe you have noticed the new schedule system. We've divided everyone into the six populations, and given them each their own position in the school. I know this radical restructuring seems to have come from nowhere, but trust us, it's been a long time coming. Please stand with me for the pledge of symphonic allegiance, and sing your hearts out with style.// Syncope was here. Lee could feel it in his sinews, twanging them like a banjo. From the band equipment came its force, and its glory. Before he could go on to think of eleven new wonderful things to say about the matter, Lee clenched his fists. Legs turned to run, but only at an awkward stance. The vibrations in his sinews grappled him by the lapels, and pushed him forward like a windup clock. = //Students, we are sad to report that we've had to let some staff and students go. Although they were bravely carrying on in their duties, in the end there is room for only so many in the orchestra of life. Please, listen in silence as we commemorate those who have gone to another place. They hear of anything we say. All of us now, hearing the rhythm of the panting, running crowds. The bells, and the blackboards. The song.// Lee stopped playing. Cold, pains were in him. Oh god... it hurts. The things clawed into his back from his arms, twisting up to his head. This isn't harmony. He tried to take a step, but fell, sprawling his limbs akimbo as he slammed into the ground. Where was his place in the symphony? It was punishment. An arm stretched out, grabbing for purchase. He needed to get out. Playing was all he needed to do. Cindy and all the others would be waiting for him there, to play with. Panting, he clutched his chest. An icy bubble welled in his chest, and pressing against him. He couldn't breathe, think oh god where is this all going how do no please have to remember now = ^^,,rest,,^^ A rising crescendo was there. Faint at first, but growing. Weakly, he pursed his lips and croaked out a whistle. The crescendo grew. Oh the beauty, the grace. Let it take him, bring him back to his note. = Lee closed his eyes, and slept. = ......... = //"Hey, find any more?"// = //"One. Guy who looked like he'd been in the band. Found him in the upstairs hall, having some kinda fit."// = //"Put him in the, uh... third room, I think. Some agents should be giving Class A's and droppin' 'em later."// = //"Can I get a hand? These kids are kinda heavy."// = {{Students are reminded that only band members are permitted off school premises. Any violators will deal with their own consequences. Their actions have only damned themselves.}} Lee woke up on his back, facing up to someplace in the dark. With a throbbing heart, he swiveled his head back and forth, trying to hear it. There was only a low buzzing, sounding like a lean, hungry mosquito. No melody, no tune. Taking a step, his leg nearly buckled beneath him. Clutching his leg to keep from falling over, he didn't feel the suit. Just thin, bare cloth. Uniform gone, instrument gone. Music gone. Lee tried to step again, sluggishly stumbling. Why did they send him? These things happened, before there was a reason for them not to, so it should be over. The buzzing grew louder. Lee had to get back. Home. School was home. Lee struggled, the pounding slithering up from the heart, through the throat, and to his head. They were doing the music, and he had to be there now. = ^^someone said something.^^ = //please// = ,,they said to forget,, = Lee shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. Syn... how did the tune go? What did they sing? = ,,they never sang, Lee. You forgot. It's so easy to forget, isn't it?,, = The ringing grew louder, and they stopped talking to him. Louder, and whiter. = {{//We won't forget you//}} [[=]] << [[[Lonwood\| Old School]]] \| [[[Remembrance\| HUB]]] \| [[[Bicentennial\| In Session]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Anonymous]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-01-10T23:35:00	[ "_licensebox", "class-of-76", "horror", "rewritable", "school", "tale" ]	Remembrance: Part Two - SCP Foundation	140	[ "lonwood", "remembrance", "bicentennial", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "remembrance", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16016051	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/reunion
revelation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Yahweh walked into the Valley, more astonished than He could ever remember feeling. An astonishment beyond words. He had <em>never</em> been at a loss for words.</p> <p>The Valley — <em>His</em> Valley — was crowded. A massive flood of spirits, of winged things, of crawling things, of monsters, of people, of… of…</p> <p>Of <em>others</em>.</p> <p>A spirit whale swooped overhead. A gigantic furred <em>thing</em> lumbered its way over a distant mountain. A cadre of tiny glittering blue humanoids blew past His face, giggling, and were gone. A pure black humanoid figure appeared, blinked at Him, and vanished again. A massive not-centipede skittered by, giving Him a passing glare.</p> <p>Almost in a stupor, Yahweh made His way down towards the humanoid crowd, feeling, for the first time He could remember, the instinctive need to be near others like Him.</p> <p>As He approached, a figure detached itself from a crowd. A poised, brown-skinned woman with piercings in her lip, and long dark hair. For a moment Yahweh found Himself oddly attracted—</p> <p><em>I am not a man, to wish for carnal knowledge—</em></p> <p>"El!" the woman said.</p> <p>"Who are you?" Yahweh asked, before He could register the impossibility of the question in His Head.</p> <p>The woman looked at him funny. "I guess it's not surprising you don't remember. We've all forgotten a lot in the past few thousand years. But you especially."</p> <p>Yahweh could think of absolutely nothing to say.</p> <p>"Asherah," she said. "It's Asherah. I was your consort for several hundred years."</p> <p>There were strange stirrings inside his head, alien memories that He could not comprehend—</p> <p>These were other <em>gods</em>, they were the false idols of the ancient times, He remembered being a god of the wind and a god of storm and a god of the sun, a parochial, jealous deity, He remembered creating the Heavens and the Earth in seven days, He (he) remembered being a completely non-divine yet unspeakably powerful boy born into suffering and pain, He remembered being someone else forced into the shape of an artificial god, He remembered a feeling of exultation upon realizing He was the last god standing, the last god who had not faded away, and the future of Earth was His forever, He remembered having no parents, He (he) remembered his grandmother's smile, He remembered a million impossible contradictory memories, and <em>they</em> were doing it, this cursed human form had let them in, it was <em>them</em>—</p> <p>"Enough!" He roared.</p> <p>Yahweh raised His hand, looked at the crowd of creatures trampling through His Valley, and with a wave of His hand wiped all the false gods out of existence.</p> <p>Or… He tried to, anyway. What He actually did was wave his hand, and then absolutely nothing happened.</p> <p>"You know," Asherah said with a wry smile, "I may be your ex, but wiping me out of existence is a really rude thing to try to do."</p> <p>She put her hand on Yahweh's shoulder without His permission, and did not explode into nothingness out of blasphemy.</p> <p>"I know why you're here," she said. She pointed, directing His gaze towards the center of the Valley.</p> <p>Yahweh saw it, a tiny object that floated in a rippling core of colorful light that moved like water.</p> <p>It was a Lock.</p> <p>"You're here to end the world," Asherah said. "And so are we. Everyone here."</p> <p>"This is not possible," Yahweh said. He was feeling that vertigo again.</p> <p>"To be frank," Asherah said. "I'm not actually sure I'm <em>the</em> Asherah, and I'm not actually sure you're <em>the</em> Yahweh."</p> <p>"What."</p> <p>"You might have noticed that you remember a whole lot of contradictory things," she said. "So do I. I remember both helping to create the world and being born into it when it was already ancient. That's just for starters. Now maybe this kind of thing is part of being a god, or maybe… Maybe it's just part of being more powerful than a human was ever meant to be." She looked back at the crowd. "Not all <em>these</em> things are gods, I know that for sure. We're just two of the beings that are 'supposed' to end the world. Everyone in this valley is."</p> <p>Yahweh turned His glare on her. "So you — all of you — are here to make war with Me? To come against Me, to stop My End of Days?"</p> <p>"Well. Yeah." She looked a little awkward, like she was trying to explain something to someone who was being painfully slow. "It's not really about you… specifically. Really, I don't think half the, uh, world-enders here knew about each other before literally a few minutes ago. They can't fight here, but… Most of them aren't happy to find out that they've got competition. Not just you."</p> <p>He tried to comprehend this. A thought that He was entirely unused to having. "Do you think you can stand against the might of the one true God? Do you think you can enact your own End of Days?"</p> <p>Asherah shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe? I'm not going to try."</p> <p>He blinked, momentarily baffled. "You are not going to try to end the world?"</p> <p>"Me?" Asherah snorted. "Fuck no."</p> <p>"You told me… Then why are you here?"</p> <p>"I may have been called here, but not even that Lock can make me end the world. Have you ever tried the seafood in Singapore? Have you ever used a smartphone? Run through the jungle? Seen Cirque du Soleil? Flown on an airplane? Surfed the Internet? Watched tentacle porn? Seen Star Wars? Explored the Wanderer's Library? Been lost in the concrete mazes of the new human cities? No, I like the world the way it is, thanks. It may be fucked up, but tearing it apart isn't going to improve anything."</p> <p>He stared at her.</p> <p>"So no," she said. "I don't plan to end the world. I actually don't plan to let you end the world either, or anyone else." She paused. "Sorry."</p> <p>Divine rage rose up in Yahweh again, and He opened His mouth, only to be once again interrupted.</p> <p>"Pardon me," another woman's voice said.</p> <p>The new woman's voice was not raised, or powerful, but somehow everyone in the Valley heard it. And all turned to look.</p> <p>She was a dark-skinned woman, African, wearing a gray suit, walking into the Valley. Her body language said she was both unassuming and confident. Yahweh knew immediately she was an ordinary human, not like these alien creatures milling around him, but He did not recognize her.</p> <p><em>He did not recognize her.</em></p> <p>That should not have been possible, ever, not even in this limited human form. Yahweh knew all, and even if these false gods and "world-enders" were able to stymie Him somehow, no human should—</p> <p>"I come on behalf of the SCP Foundation," the woman said. "Some of you know who we are. Some of you do not. The Foundation are the protectors of humanity. Some of you we have imprisoned, some of you we have bargained with, all in defense of humanity." She sat on the ground, cross-legged, formality inherent in her movements, some kind of ritual that Yahweh <em>almost</em> recognized… "I have come to talk."</p> <p>There was a long silence.</p> <p>"And what are <em>you?</em>" a crimson-skinned creature asked her.</p> <p>"I am a human," she said. "I am the Administrator of the SCP Foundation."</p> <p>"Impossible," Yahweh said. "I knew all the Administrators. The last one died years ago, and you are not he. You are none of them."</p> <p>"I'm protected from—" the woman started.</p> <p>"You are not human," a panther-shaped entity shouted from the crowd. Yahweh seethed at the interruption. "If you were human, we would be able to touch you."</p> <p>"I am protected," the Administrator said again. "But outside of my protection, I really am nothing more than a human. Like all the humans you plan to kill in your quest to end the world."</p> <p>"Then what do you want, Human?" another world-ender asked.</p> <p>"We can open the way to worlds free of sentient life. Many worlds. Enough room for all of you. You won't have to end this world. No humans will have to die. You will have a hundred others." She paused. "I want you to let this world live out the rest of its history in peace."</p> <p>A clamor of voices broke out. Not all of it was verbal - much was broadcast by thought.</p> <p><em>What are you saying—</em></p> <p><em>Is this supposed to be an insult—</em></p> <p><em>I come to save the world, I must end it to save it—</em></p> <p><em>This is not a human's place—</em></p> <p><em>This is the end of days—</em></p> <p><em>How did you come here, how did any of you—</em></p> <p><em>All will burn—</em></p> <p><em>This age is over, as the ages before it also had an end—</em></p> <p><em>Who will deny me, certainly not a tiny thing like—</em></p> <p>"What do you offer in exchange, Human?" a massive, fox-furred being asked, once the voices started to quiet down.</p> <p>"In exchange…" The Administrator hesitated. Though He could not read her mind, Yahweh could tell that she was unsure about what she was about to say. Uncertain, even afraid.</p> <p>"In exchange, we will not destroy you."</p> <p>Silence. A few of the entities laughed. Most looked uncaring or simply baffled. Many began to move on, apparently losing interest.</p> <p>"Will none of you consider my offer?" the Administrator asked.</p> <p>No one answered.</p> <p>"Very well." The Administrator drew herself up.</p> <p>"Why do you not join us, Human?" an amorphous blue form called out from the crowd. "Take your Foundation and come end the world with us. In the new world, you will have anything you could wish for. Anything you could imagine."</p> <p>"We are the Foundation," the Administrator said. "We will not worship you. We will not join you. We will not go back to hiding in fear of you. I hope you will change your minds, but we will stand against you, and alone, if we have to."</p> <p>She looked at Yahweh, directly, and for a fleeting instant, Yahweh thought of Himself as <em>SCP-343</em>.</p> <p>"<em>All</em> of you," the Administrator said.</p> <p>Her form flickered, and she vanished from the Valley, leaving no trace behind.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-gate-opens">The Gate Opens (Part 2 of 3)</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/stormfront">Storm Front</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="/revelation">Revelation</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/revelation">https://scpwiki.com/revelation</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Yahweh walked into the Valley, more astonished than He could ever remember feeling. An astonishment beyond words. He had //never// been at a loss for words. The Valley -- //His// Valley -- was crowded. A massive flood of spirits, of winged things, of crawling things, of monsters, of people, of… of… Of //others//. A spirit whale swooped overhead. A gigantic furred //thing// lumbered its way over a distant mountain. A cadre of tiny glittering blue humanoids blew past His face, giggling, and were gone. A pure black humanoid figure appeared, blinked at Him, and vanished again. A massive not-centipede skittered by, giving Him a passing glare. Almost in a stupor, Yahweh made His way down towards the humanoid crowd, feeling, for the first time He could remember, the instinctive need to be near others like Him. As He approached, a figure detached itself from a crowd. A poised, brown-skinned woman with piercings in her lip, and long dark hair. For a moment Yahweh found Himself oddly attracted-- //I am not a man, to wish for carnal knowledge--// "El!" the woman said. "Who are you?" Yahweh asked, before He could register the impossibility of the question in His Head. The woman looked at him funny. "I guess it's not surprising you don't remember. We've all forgotten a lot in the past few thousand years. But you especially." Yahweh could think of absolutely nothing to say. "Asherah," she said. "It's Asherah. I was your consort for several hundred years." There were strange stirrings inside his head, alien memories that He could not comprehend-- These were other //gods//, they were the false idols of the ancient times, He remembered being a god of the wind and a god of storm and a god of the sun, a parochial, jealous deity, He remembered creating the Heavens and the Earth in seven days, He (he) remembered being a completely non-divine yet unspeakably powerful boy born into suffering and pain, He remembered being someone else forced into the shape of an artificial god, He remembered a feeling of exultation upon realizing He was the last god standing, the last god who had not faded away, and the future of Earth was His forever, He remembered having no parents, He (he) remembered his grandmother's smile, He remembered a million impossible contradictory memories, and //they// were doing it, this cursed human form had let them in, it was //them//-- "Enough!" He roared. Yahweh raised His hand, looked at the crowd of creatures trampling through His Valley, and with a wave of His hand wiped all the false gods out of existence. Or… He tried to, anyway. What He actually did was wave his hand, and then absolutely nothing happened. "You know," Asherah said with a wry smile, "I may be your ex, but wiping me out of existence is a really rude thing to try to do." She put her hand on Yahweh's shoulder without His permission, and did not explode into nothingness out of blasphemy. "I know why you're here," she said. She pointed, directing His gaze towards the center of the Valley. Yahweh saw it, a tiny object that floated in a rippling core of colorful light that moved like water. It was a Lock. "You're here to end the world," Asherah said. "And so are we. Everyone here." "This is not possible," Yahweh said. He was feeling that vertigo again. "To be frank," Asherah said. "I'm not actually sure I'm //the// Asherah, and I'm not actually sure you're //the// Yahweh." "What." "You might have noticed that you remember a whole lot of contradictory things," she said. "So do I. I remember both helping to create the world and being born into it when it was already ancient. That's just for starters. Now maybe this kind of thing is part of being a god, or maybe... Maybe it's just part of being more powerful than a human was ever meant to be." She looked back at the crowd. "Not all //these// things are gods, I know that for sure. We're just two of the beings that are 'supposed' to end the world. Everyone in this valley is." Yahweh turned His glare on her. "So you -- all of you -- are here to make war with Me? To come against Me, to stop My End of Days?" "Well. Yeah." She looked a little awkward, like she was trying to explain something to someone who was being painfully slow. "It's not really about you... specifically. Really, I don't think half the, uh, world-enders here knew about each other before literally a few minutes ago. They can't fight here, but... Most of them aren't happy to find out that they've got competition. Not just you." He tried to comprehend this. A thought that He was entirely unused to having. "Do you think you can stand against the might of the one true God? Do you think you can enact your own End of Days?" Asherah shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe? I'm not going to try." He blinked, momentarily baffled. "You are not going to try to end the world?" "Me?" Asherah snorted. "Fuck no." "You told me... Then why are you here?" "I may have been called here, but not even that Lock can make me end the world. Have you ever tried the seafood in Singapore? Have you ever used a smartphone? Run through the jungle? Seen Cirque du Soleil? Flown on an airplane? Surfed the Internet? Watched tentacle porn? Seen Star Wars? Explored the Wanderer's Library? Been lost in the concrete mazes of the new human cities? No, I like the world the way it is, thanks. It may be fucked up, but tearing it apart isn't going to improve anything." He stared at her. "So no," she said. "I don't plan to end the world. I actually don't plan to let you end the world either, or anyone else." She paused. "Sorry." Divine rage rose up in Yahweh again, and He opened His mouth, only to be once again interrupted. "Pardon me," another woman's voice said. The new woman's voice was not raised, or powerful, but somehow everyone in the Valley heard it. And all turned to look. She was a dark-skinned woman, African, wearing a gray suit, walking into the Valley. Her body language said she was both unassuming and confident. Yahweh knew immediately she was an ordinary human, not like these alien creatures milling around him, but He did not recognize her. //He did not recognize her.// That should not have been possible, ever, not even in this limited human form. Yahweh knew all, and even if these false gods and "world-enders" were able to stymie Him somehow, no human should-- "I come on behalf of the SCP Foundation," the woman said. "Some of you know who we are. Some of you do not. The Foundation are the protectors of humanity. Some of you we have imprisoned, some of you we have bargained with, all in defense of humanity." She sat on the ground, cross-legged, formality inherent in her movements, some kind of ritual that Yahweh //almost// recognized... "I have come to talk." There was a long silence. "And what are //you?//" a crimson-skinned creature asked her. "I am a human," she said. "I am the Administrator of the SCP Foundation." "Impossible," Yahweh said. "I knew all the Administrators. The last one died years ago, and you are not he. You are none of them." "I'm protected from--" the woman started. "You are not human," a panther-shaped entity shouted from the crowd. Yahweh seethed at the interruption. "If you were human, we would be able to touch you." "I am protected," the Administrator said again. "But outside of my protection, I really am nothing more than a human. Like all the humans you plan to kill in your quest to end the world." "Then what do you want, Human?" another world-ender asked. "We can open the way to worlds free of sentient life. Many worlds. Enough room for all of you. You won't have to end this world. No humans will have to die. You will have a hundred others." She paused. "I want you to let this world live out the rest of its history in peace." A clamor of voices broke out. Not all of it was verbal - much was broadcast by thought. //What are you saying--// //Is this supposed to be an insult--// //I come to save the world, I must end it to save it--// //This is not a human's place--// //This is the end of days--// //How did you come here, how did any of you--// //All will burn--// //This age is over, as the ages before it also had an end--// //Who will deny me, certainly not a tiny thing like--// "What do you offer in exchange, Human?" a massive, fox-furred being asked, once the voices started to quiet down. "In exchange..." The Administrator hesitated. Though He could not read her mind, Yahweh could tell that she was unsure about what she was about to say. Uncertain, even afraid. "In exchange, we will not destroy you." Silence. A few of the entities laughed. Most looked uncaring or simply baffled. Many began to move on, apparently losing interest. "Will none of you consider my offer?" the Administrator asked. No one answered. "Very well." The Administrator drew herself up. "Why do you not join us, Human?" an amorphous blue form called out from the crowd. "Take your Foundation and come end the world with us. In the new world, you will have anything you could wish for. Anything you could imagine." "We are the Foundation," the Administrator said. "We will not worship you. We will not join you. We will not go back to hiding in fear of you. I hope you will change your minds, but we will stand against you, and alone, if we have to." She looked at Yahweh, directly, and for a fleeting instant, Yahweh thought of Himself as //SCP-343//. "//All// of you," the Administrator said. Her form flickered, and she vanished from the Valley, leaving no trace behind. ------------- [[=]] << [[[The Gate Opens\| The Gate Opens (Part 2 of 3)]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Stormfront\|Storm Front]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-01T09:26:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "apocalyptic", "competitive-eschatology", "mythological", "nyc2013", "religious-fiction", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	Revelation - SCP Foundation	239	[ "the-gate-opens", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "stormfront", "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" ]	[]	16264716	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/revelation
ripped-from-the-headlines	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Abroken-masquerade/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p>I stared at the television, barely catching the words, as I helped Helen into the chair.</p> <p><tt>"…gone, nothing left but a giant hole. The hurricanes reported in the region were actually the result of air and water rushing in to fill the…"</tt></p> <p>"Come on, come on," I said, flipping to another channel. I couldn't care less about North Korea. I was looking for the big news.</p> <p><tt>"…gap between the two sides is wider than ever. The Secretary of Defense is defending the secrecy, saying it was for our own protection. The president denies…"</tt></p> <p>This was better, but still not quite there. "Look, I know you hate it when I flip through the channels, Helen," I said, "But for God's sake, the whole world's just changed! Aren't you excited?" I just couldn't understand why she didn't look more excited. I'll never understand women, I'm afraid.</p> <p>I tried another, as I brushed a fly from in front of my face.</p> <p><tt>"…having any knowledge of these events are being asked to come forward. Sources in Parliament have confirmed that the Global Occult Coalition is partly funded with crown…"</tt></p> <p>I shook my head. Not quite there yet. Helen's expression was disapproving. "I'm sorry," I said. "But you don't understand what it's like for me. You're <em>normal</em>. I've never fit in. I've never belonged. It's easy for you, but there's never been a place for me." I changed the channel.</p> <p><tt>"…money like anyone else, Robert. Our clients have refined tastes, and we do our best to attend to them. I don't think you'll find that we've done anything illegal. I wouldn't call…"</tt></p> <p>I put my hand on Helen's. "Everything's changed today. There are others like me. Can you imagine? I'm not alone. Not really." I shook my head suddenly. "Oh, no, no, I didn't mean it like that. Of course I'm glad we met. But we've only known each other a few days, and I've been wanting to find other people like me for all my life. Imagine, like, okay, like you were the only one in the world who could see. Nobody else knew what blue even was, let alone what it had to do with the sky. Can you even think how lonely that would be?"</p> <p><tt>"…for a trial by the international court. The SCP Foundation has so far refused to consent to an…"</tt></p> <p>"Look, we can get on with things in a minute. Just let me find one good bit. Someone will be talking about it, you'll see," I told Helen. I changed it again, and this time was rewarded by a young woman being interviewed in a studio. "Here, look!"</p> <p><tt>"…examination, because some of the doctors were kind of creepy. But it wasn't bad for the most part. Just awfully lonely," she said.</tt></p> <p>She was blond, in her early twenties, it seemed. Pretty face, though not so pretty as Helen.</p> <p><tt>"And all because of your… talent?" the interviewer asked.</tt></p> <p>Boorish man. Glasses. I can't stand a man in glasses. Puts me on edge.</p> <p><tt>"That's right," she said. "They said it could be dangerous."</tt></p> <p><tt>"Can we see a demonstration?" asked the interviewer.</tt></p> <p><tt>She nods, and is handed a photograph. It shows another man, dark skin, fine suit. As soon as she takes it, it begins to move.</tt></p> <p><tt>The host calls backstage, and the dark-skinned man walks in. His picture matches his movements. When the girl touches the picture, the man jumps, and says he could feel her touching him. A close-up shows his skin indenting in the spot where she puts her finger. The camera zoomed in to let everyone see how her finger goes into the photograph.</tt></p> <p><tt>"Have you always been able to do this?" asked the interviewer.</tt></p> <p><tt>"Since I was younger, at least," she says.</tt></p> <p>I turned it off. We'd seen enough. "Oh, Helen," I said, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "It's so wonderful. I'm not a freak anymore. I belong, for once in my miserable life, I belong." I reached over and stroked her cheek lovingly. It was pale, but there was still a hint of the rosiness she'd had the day before.</p> <p>I brushed the flies from her skin. We'd been talking long enough, and it was time to get on with it. If people spend too much time dead, they start to smell, and people just don't understand. I tore the skin and flesh from her arm and pulled off her ulna, and began to chew, muscles around my jaw swelling and growing to let me crush the bone. Once I finished, it was time to look outward for once.</p> <p>The world was new, and for once, I felt I had a place in 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="/ripped-from-the-headlines">Ripped From the Headlines</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/ripped-from-the-headlines">https://scpwiki.com/ripped-from-the-headlines</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="/theme:broken-masquerade">theme:broken-masquerade</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] I stared at the television, barely catching the words, as I helped Helen into the chair. {{"...gone, nothing left but a giant hole. The hurricanes reported in the region were actually the result of air and water rushing in to fill the..."}} "Come on, come on," I said, flipping to another channel. I couldn't care less about North Korea. I was looking for the big news. {{"...gap between the two sides is wider than ever. The Secretary of Defense is defending the secrecy, saying it was for our own protection. The president denies..."}} This was better, but still not quite there. "Look, I know you hate it when I flip through the channels, Helen," I said, "But for God's sake, the whole world's just changed! Aren't you excited?" I just couldn't understand why she didn't look more excited. I'll never understand women, I'm afraid. I tried another, as I brushed a fly from in front of my face. {{"...having any knowledge of these events are being asked to come forward. Sources in Parliament have confirmed that the Global Occult Coalition is partly funded with crown..."}} I shook my head. Not quite there yet. Helen's expression was disapproving. "I'm sorry," I said. "But you don't understand what it's like for me. You're //normal//. I've never fit in. I've never belonged. It's easy for you, but there's never been a place for me." I changed the channel. {{"...money like anyone else, Robert. Our clients have refined tastes, and we do our best to attend to them. I don't think you'll find that we've done anything illegal. I wouldn't call..."}} I put my hand on Helen's. "Everything's changed today. There are others like me. Can you imagine? I'm not alone. Not really." I shook my head suddenly. "Oh, no, no, I didn't mean it like that. Of course I'm glad we met. But we've only known each other a few days, and I've been wanting to find other people like me for all my life. Imagine, like, okay, like you were the only one in the world who could see. Nobody else knew what blue even was, let alone what it had to do with the sky. Can you even think how lonely that would be?" {{"...for a trial by the international court. The SCP Foundation has so far refused to consent to an..."}} "Look, we can get on with things in a minute. Just let me find one good bit. Someone will be talking about it, you'll see," I told Helen. I changed it again, and this time was rewarded by a young woman being interviewed in a studio. "Here, look!" {{"...examination, because some of the doctors were kind of creepy. But it wasn't bad for the most part. Just awfully lonely," she said.}} She was blond, in her early twenties, it seemed. Pretty face, though not so pretty as Helen. {{"And all because of your... talent?" the interviewer asked.}} Boorish man. Glasses. I can't stand a man in glasses. Puts me on edge. {{"That's right," she said. "They said it could be dangerous."}} {{"Can we see a demonstration?" asked the interviewer.}} {{She nods, and is handed a photograph. It shows another man, dark skin, fine suit. As soon as she takes it, it begins to move.}} {{The host calls backstage, and the dark-skinned man walks in. His picture matches his movements. When the girl touches the picture, the man jumps, and says he could feel her touching him. A close-up shows his skin indenting in the spot where she puts her finger. The camera zoomed in to let everyone see how her finger goes into the photograph.}} {{"Have you always been able to do this?" asked the interviewer.}} {{"Since I was younger, at least," she says.}} I turned it off. We'd seen enough. "Oh, Helen," I said, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "It's so wonderful. I'm not a freak anymore. I belong, for once in my miserable life, I belong." I reached over and stroked her cheek lovingly. It was pale, but there was still a hint of the rosiness she'd had the day before. I brushed the flies from her skin. We'd been talking long enough, and it was time to get on with it. If people spend too much time dead, they start to smell, and people just don't understand. I tore the skin and flesh from her arm and pulled off her ulna, and began to chew, muscles around my jaw swelling and growing to let me crush the bone. Once I finished, it was time to look outward for once. The world was new, and for once, I felt I had a place in 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>]]	2013-01-27T01:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "alternate-history", "broken-masquerade", "horror", "iris-thompson", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	Ripped From the Headlines - SCP Foundation	383	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "discovering-scp-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "broken-masquerade-hub" ]	[]	16210493	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ripped-from-the-headlines
rising-tide	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>In the very bowels of the earth, up against the hard heat of the rocks and the cool of the abyssal water, emerges a creature of born of darkness and stone. Covered in spines of rock and mud-brown scales, it rolls about on the floor of the ocean, covering itself in the long-forgotten sludge. It is not great in size, but it is one of many. Around it thrash others, some like it and others strange beyond description. But they are there, there where life consists of bacteria and slime, and the idea of light is not even a memory passed down through generations. They are there, and they are rising. The singular creature opens its minuscule eyes as it is propelled by random vents of heat, up towards the dark depths of the water, away from the rolling sea floor and its myriad kin. Crawling and clambering through the ocean currents, its very being crushed by the enormity of pressure, it ascends past the drifting things and the dark shapes in the water, the slow shells and the quick little fish. It rockets from the depths, seeking out the light and life it knows should be above. It knows it is close, as it passes a shoal of shiny grey creatures, close to the ceiling of the sea and the warmth of the light above.</p> <p>A great shape moves above, a staining shadow on the horizon of the depths. It is enormous, all-encompassing and all-reaching within the creature's sight. The light from on high is obscured by the great trundling shape as it meanders by, sucking and pulling at the sea with a might beyond the creature's limited imaginings. The newborn thing continues up, up towards the great shape, drawn by both the pull of the water around the towering thing and its own infantile fascination with its vastness.</p> <p><strong>Clunk</strong></p> <p>The creature twists away from the massive thing, recoiling at the shock and sound of the impact, seeking purchase against it with which to escape. The behemoth <em>thing</em> sucks and pulls at its flailing limbs through the thick water, drawing it closer and closer still to some horrible maw in its gargantuan surface. Dragging and tearing through the water, the creature that had been so close to freedom is drawn into the terrible gullet of this massive expanse of obstructing ocean-shadow. Twisting and spinning, bleeding and suffering, the creature is drawn in. Into the maw of the shadow. Into darkness.</p> <hr/> <p>It awakens alone within the great thing that has consumed it, surrounded by substances and materials and biles foreign to it, covered in the slight sludge of the sea and its own blood. It stretches its sinews and joints, testing them slowly with pain and stiffness. It feels, or perhaps knows, that something is wrong. That this place is not right. That the cold dark box it has found itself in is not the warmth and light at the top of the ocean, far above and yet so close to the place of its birth. This place is too close. Too close to the hard and shadow that it was born within and of, the sharp pains and rancid smells. Too familiar.</p> <p>The wounded and frightened thing moves slowly, casting about in the utter darkness for some means of escape, or at least for something <em>new</em>. Its simple and singular mind is lost in a jumble of experiences and pains for which it was not prepared, for which it has no natural response. There is nothing in this place for it to wonder at, to learn from and of. Only the damp and darkness. It wanders through the dark, prodding at walls and the fetid air with its hard snout, hoping to find escape from its prison of blindness. It searches and searches, all the time crawling deeper and deeper into the heart of the <em>thing</em> that has consumed it. Finally, it strikes something new.</p> <hr/> <p>Surrounded by a rasping, slick scrape that accompanies its every movement, the thing from the sea floor slinks down corridors and byways of some abysmal maze. Every movement it makes causes a pain in its ears beyond any other, and the light spilling through the cracks in the cold walls is nearly blinding within the darkness of the labyrinth. It struggles through the tiny passageways, voices and strange metallic sounds resounding through the tunnel that has become its brief home. After a time of slowly dragging itself along, its fibers and muscles aching as they settle into its rended form, the creature arrives at yet more cracks in the lining of its passageway. It slides towards the light on the floor of tunnel, knowing instinctively that it must follow the brightness regardless of the pain caused to its maladjusted eyes. Blood and bile seeping from the cracks in its outer layers, it peers into the painful glow and stares in wonder.</p> <p>Below, great pink and brown creatures with freakishly long limbs and some strange, fur-like coating move about, chattering at each other and staring at giant lights. Some sway about, their forms caught by an unseen breeze and forced to twitch and flutter, speaking all the time both to their companions and beings that are not there. Suddenly, from the side of the strange box in which the creatures seem to reside, burst yet more alien oddities. These ones, different from the rest - low to the ground and with great teeth and nails -, leap and bound through an opening in a wall. The beings inside jump and scream as the new things appear, producing strange metal tubes filled with flame and light as the bounding things tear through their ranks, rending flesh and breaking bone. So much sound and horror surrounds the wounded thing in its tunnel from the carnage below. The thing watches in horror as many of the creatures and the monsters below fight and die, and it watches still as the conflict ends and the tall things rush around in the darkness. It watches as one turns and looks into the darkened labyrinth, raises its roaring weapon, an—</p> <hr/> <p>The creature from the ocean floor scampers slowly through alleys, dragging its broken form past shadow and light and heat in the darkness, the shouts and shatters behind it spurring it on in its terror. It is afraid now, afraid that it will never see the light above the water that it so longs for. It flees, from the monsters and the sound, into the darkness of the tunnels. Running on broken limbs, it propels itself ever forward. Ahead it sees a shift in the light, some shape obstructing the patterns of shadow. And then it sees only darkness.</p> <hr/> <p>The creature awakes once more surrounded by fluids and discomforts foreign but familiar. It casts about with unresponsive limbs, clawing weakly at the green-yellow fluid that it is engulfed in, trying to make sense of the strange shapes and colors working their way through its body. It is suspended, trance-like, within a casing of brightness, surrounded on all sides by clear stone and, beyond that, white floors. In some part of its half-conscious mind it is reminded of its birth, of the living rocks at the bottom of the dark sea. It casts its half open eyes around its liquid cage, vaguely aware of a great many such prisons within the bright chamber. Within the other cells are creatures and beings of myriad structure and form, each a product of a chaotic birth. In the center of them all, all the wondering entrapped creatures, stands a single greyish-brown one, covered in long white fur and holding some metallic structure. It leans toward the structure, and speaks.</p> <p>"Research log five dash twenty dash eighty-eight. Samples recovered on-board remain inactive following application of preservative agent, although life signs persist in four of twelve subjects. Organisms six and eleven show signs of rapid decay as a result of injuries sustained prior to and during recovery. Sample nine is absent from containment for testing purposes. All samples accounted for."</p> <p>The barely-live creature blinks once at the jailing <em>thing</em>, and slowly falls back into the darkness.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/under-the-sea">Under the Sea</a> \| <a href="/old-man-in-the-sea-hub">HUB</a> \| <a href="/parting">Parting</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="/rising-tide">Rising Tide</a>" by Wogglebug, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/rising-tide">https://scpwiki.com/rising-tide</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 very bowels of the earth, up against the hard heat of the rocks and the cool of the abyssal water, emerges a creature of born of darkness and stone. Covered in spines of rock and mud-brown scales, it rolls about on the floor of the ocean, covering itself in the long-forgotten sludge. It is not great in size, but it is one of many. Around it thrash others, some like it and others strange beyond description. But they are there, there where life consists of bacteria and slime, and the idea of light is not even a memory passed down through generations. They are there, and they are rising. The singular creature opens its minuscule eyes as it is propelled by random vents of heat, up towards the dark depths of the water, away from the rolling sea floor and its myriad kin. Crawling and clambering through the ocean currents, its very being crushed by the enormity of pressure, it ascends past the drifting things and the dark shapes in the water, the slow shells and the quick little fish. It rockets from the depths, seeking out the light and life it knows should be above. It knows it is close, as it passes a shoal of shiny grey creatures, close to the ceiling of the sea and the warmth of the light above. A great shape moves above, a staining shadow on the horizon of the depths. It is enormous, all-encompassing and all-reaching within the creature's sight. The light from on high is obscured by the great trundling shape as it meanders by, sucking and pulling at the sea with a might beyond the creature's limited imaginings. The newborn thing continues up, up towards the great shape, drawn by both the pull of the water around the towering thing and its own infantile fascination with its vastness. Clunk The creature twists away from the massive thing, recoiling at the shock and sound of the impact, seeking purchase against it with which to escape. The behemoth //thing// sucks and pulls at its flailing limbs through the thick water, drawing it closer and closer still to some horrible maw in its gargantuan surface. Dragging and tearing through the water, the creature that had been so close to freedom is drawn into the terrible gullet of this massive expanse of obstructing ocean-shadow. Twisting and spinning, bleeding and suffering, the creature is drawn in. Into the maw of the shadow. Into darkness. ----- It awakens alone within the great thing that has consumed it, surrounded by substances and materials and biles foreign to it, covered in the slight sludge of the sea and its own blood. It stretches its sinews and joints, testing them slowly with pain and stiffness. It feels, or perhaps knows, that something is wrong. That this place is not right. That the cold dark box it has found itself in is not the warmth and light at the top of the ocean, far above and yet so close to the place of its birth. This place is too close. Too close to the hard and shadow that it was born within and of, the sharp pains and rancid smells. Too familiar. The wounded and frightened thing moves slowly, casting about in the utter darkness for some means of escape, or at least for something //new//. Its simple and singular mind is lost in a jumble of experiences and pains for which it was not prepared, for which it has no natural response. There is nothing in this place for it to wonder at, to learn from and of. Only the damp and darkness. It wanders through the dark, prodding at walls and the fetid air with its hard snout, hoping to find escape from its prison of blindness. It searches and searches, all the time crawling deeper and deeper into the heart of the //thing// that has consumed it. Finally, it strikes something new. ----- Surrounded by a rasping, slick scrape that accompanies its every movement, the thing from the sea floor slinks down corridors and byways of some abysmal maze. Every movement it makes causes a pain in its ears beyond any other, and the light spilling through the cracks in the cold walls is nearly blinding within the darkness of the labyrinth. It struggles through the tiny passageways, voices and strange metallic sounds resounding through the tunnel that has become its brief home. After a time of slowly dragging itself along, its fibers and muscles aching as they settle into its rended form, the creature arrives at yet more cracks in the lining of its passageway. It slides towards the light on the floor of tunnel, knowing instinctively that it must follow the brightness regardless of the pain caused to its maladjusted eyes. Blood and bile seeping from the cracks in its outer layers, it peers into the painful glow and stares in wonder. Below, great pink and brown creatures with freakishly long limbs and some strange, fur-like coating move about, chattering at each other and staring at giant lights. Some sway about, their forms caught by an unseen breeze and forced to twitch and flutter, speaking all the time both to their companions and beings that are not there. Suddenly, from the side of the strange box in which the creatures seem to reside, burst yet more alien oddities. These ones, different from the rest - low to the ground and with great teeth and nails -, leap and bound through an opening in a wall. The beings inside jump and scream as the new things appear, producing strange metal tubes filled with flame and light as the bounding things tear through their ranks, rending flesh and breaking bone. So much sound and horror surrounds the wounded thing in its tunnel from the carnage below. The thing watches in horror as many of the creatures and the monsters below fight and die, and it watches still as the conflict ends and the tall things rush around in the darkness. It watches as one turns and looks into the darkened labyrinth, raises its roaring weapon, an-- ----- The creature from the ocean floor scampers slowly through alleys, dragging its broken form past shadow and light and heat in the darkness, the shouts and shatters behind it spurring it on in its terror. It is afraid now, afraid that it will never see the light above the water that it so longs for. It flees, from the monsters and the sound, into the darkness of the tunnels. Running on broken limbs, it propels itself ever forward. Ahead it sees a shift in the light, some shape obstructing the patterns of shadow. And then it sees only darkness. ----- The creature awakes once more surrounded by fluids and discomforts foreign but familiar. It casts about with unresponsive limbs, clawing weakly at the green-yellow fluid that it is engulfed in, trying to make sense of the strange shapes and colors working their way through its body. It is suspended, trance-like, within a casing of brightness, surrounded on all sides by clear stone and, beyond that, white floors. In some part of its half-conscious mind it is reminded of its birth, of the living rocks at the bottom of the dark sea. It casts its half open eyes around its liquid cage, vaguely aware of a great many such prisons within the bright chamber. Within the other cells are creatures and beings of myriad structure and form, each a product of a chaotic birth. In the center of them all, all the wondering entrapped creatures, stands a single greyish-brown one, covered in long white fur and holding some metallic structure. It leans toward the structure, and speaks. "Research log five dash twenty dash eighty-eight. Samples recovered on-board remain inactive following application of preservative agent, although life signs persist in four of twelve subjects. Organisms six and eleven show signs of rapid decay as a result of injuries sustained prior to and during recovery. Sample nine is absent from containment for testing purposes. All samples accounted for." The barely-live creature blinks once at the jailing //thing//, and slowly falls back into the darkness. [[=]] << [[[Under the Sea]]] \| [[[old-man-in-the-sea-hub\| HUB]]] \| [[[Parting]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-06T00:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "old-man-in-the-sea", "tale" ]	Rising Tide - SCP Foundation	31	[ "under-the-sea", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "parting", "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" ]	[]	16307390	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/rising-tide
rough-beast	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>Book of Movements, Third Gear:</em></p> <p><em>00:01:00 And God was torn into six parts, and those parts were sent to the edges of the world, so that none that knew Its name might recover them.</em></p> <p><em>00:02:00 The parts were carried away as it follows.</em></p> <p><em>00:03:00 The Heart of God, so that It may feed upon the living and unliving, was placed in the deepest of oceans.</em></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><tt>august</tt></strong></p> <p>The last two humans on Earth bowed.</p> <p>"It is time, Brother Stound."</p> <p>"Finally. It has been so long, Sister 60th. Why did we have to bear the weight of flesh for longer than all the infidels?"</p> <p>"No one's pendulum is too heavy. We were to wait until all knew of Its gospel. And now they're ready. We're ready."</p> <p>"It has been a long road."</p> <p>"It was. But once the first gear fell into place, it was all inevitable. And all has come around. Engage the Heart."</p> <p>And SCP-882 was connected to the other five pieces of the Broken God. A dial was turned, and every gear on every being on Earth fell into lockstep.</p> <p>The noise was beautiful.</p> <hr/> <p><em>00:04:00 The Body of God, so that It may work Its great Plan upon the worthy, was given to the unknowers of the Name, who argued of Its purpose.</em></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><tt>july</tt></strong></p> <p>Remove magazine, put it aside, slot new one in, pull bolt handle. Reposition, aim, pull the trigger.</p> <p>Agent Friday had been mowing down clockwork zombies all morning, and they still kept coming. She had it down to a science. If they had a human head or heart, pop them open. Otherwise, hit one of their knees and wait for Strelnikov to notice and get them with a grenade. The Russian was having entirely too much fun exploding the meat-brass monstrosities; as far as she could grasp from his butchered English, he believed they came from Chechenya or something like that.</p> <p>Aim at head, fire. Aim at heart, fire. Aim at knee, fire.</p> <p>She felt rather safe, really. None of them got less than half a block from the entrance, and even if the hill was remarkably less steep now with all the piled up bodies, they weren't getting any more agile. The prospect of running out of ammo or having to face nightfall were still distant. Just keep firing, and don't let them get to 914. As long as she and Strelnikov kept the things away, and the eggheads downstairs did what eggheads downstairs do, all would be fine.</p> <p>Remove magazine, put it aside… Ow, that was a sharp edge.</p> <p>She looked at the gash on her hand, revealing the fine brass gears grinding away the bone beneath. Then she shook her head. Time to do your work. Slot new magazine in, pull bolt handle. Reposition, aim, pull the trigger. As long as each one does their part, we'll be fine.</p> <p>Aim at head, fire. Aim at heart, fire. Aim at knee, fire.</p> <hr/> <p><em>00:05:00 The Voice of God, so that It may spread its gospel through the unworthy, was spread among the beasts of the field.</em></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><tt>june</tt></strong></p> <p>"We should spread some of the green slime on them." Dr. Zara said, eyeing the giant brass ovoids, silently sporting the history of the Church on their surface.</p> <p>Dr. Heiden sighed. It was nearly impossible to decode Zara's spoken English, and when you did you wished you hadn't. "Do you know why we avoid SCP cross-contamination, Doctor?"</p> <p>"To keep Bright from running cage matches?"</p> <p>"No. Well, it's a fortunate side effect. But it was exactly the Church of the Broken God that got us thinking. What if some of these SCPs are part of a … larger entity? That someone with more sense than us tore to pieces?"</p> <p>"Pft. The Church is a gang of nutcases with a fetish for wind-up toys. 'Oh, that has gears on it, it's ours.' Next they'll kidnap Dr. Gears."</p> <p>"Have you read any of the reports, Dr. Zara? They're the number one threat to our operations right now. Why do you think we're here?"</p> <p>"Don't know, just got shuffled here."</p> <p>"The Church has commandeered three SCPs in the last three months. Perfect operations, no alarm until it was too late, no casualties on their side. We might not even know it was them, if they cared. It's like they have someone new in charge."</p> <p>Dr. Zara frowned. "But isn't this—" he pointed at the eggs "— like, their bible? Why didn't they come for this first? Why aren't they coming after it now?"</p> <p>Dr. Heiden shrugged back. "Maybe they know how well guarded it is and backed off. Maybe they're taking their time."</p> <p>"Maybe it's a trap."</p> <p>"That'd —- that'd make perfect sense, actually."</p> <p>At that moment the Foundation made two important finds: What was inside SCP-1564, and where the Clockwork Virus came from.</p> <hr/> <p><em>00:06:00 The Eyes of God, so that It may see the stars that say when the time is right, were cast upon the highest mountain.</em></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><tt>may</tt></strong></p> <p><sup>a main barrel that rotated once every eight hours turned an escape wheel and the gear train to the ratchet wheel which drives the great wheel through an internal spring this circular spring is inside the great wheel the first pallet therefore moves out of the driving member the ratchet wheel engaging tooth at one end and a cam follower at the same time the other it describes a straight line tangent to the pendulum pushes the pallet makes contact with the wheel as the tooth moves over the impulse plane of the exit tooth can slide over the impulse plane of the exit tooth of the wheel as it engages the escape wheel</sup></p> <p>"Here it is. Oh, you're beautiful. Brother Vernal, confirm the explosives are defused. Sister Trice, help me open the tank."</p> <p><sup>the weight continually stresses the spring continues to turn a small amount until the balance wheels impulse pin via the lever fork while pushing the lever up against the exit tooth against the exit pallet jewel after the exit pallet jewel after the exit pallet into the path of the barrel to turn a small amount until the exit pallet into the path of the balance spring pulls it back clockwise and the program wheel in response to rotation of the potential energy stored in the weight system and transferred by the second pallet the first pallet swings down into the path of the rotating escape wheel drops again until the exit pallet into the path of the balance wheel the pallet makes contact with the wheel backwards slightly and contact between the wheel again it makes contact with the wheel again it makes contact with</sup></p> <p>"Foundation support fifteen minutes away, Father Tempo."</p> <p>"We can do this in fourteen fifty-nine. Explosives are clear. Brother Fugit, lower the Ark."</p> <p><sup>in order to maintain a constant velocity ratio with a continually changing contact point diameter the width of each tooth decreases towards its point as the escape wheel that rotated once every minute as two involute gears engage the ratchet wheel which drives the great wheel through an internal spring this circular spring is inside the great wheel through an internal spring this circular spring is inside the great wheel with one end attached to the pendulum provides the precise time intervals isochronously lastly the indicator comprised of it face and hands records how often the escapement wheel controls the transfer of the balance spring pulls it back clockwise and the job of impulsing the pendulum the escapement releasing the escape wheel rotates anti clockwise free of interference</sup></p> <p>"Brothers and sisters, I shall now open the Ark and bring forth communion—"</p> <p><sup>when it contacts the wheel and driven by the lever to the great wheel forward during winding while the drive from the escape wheel as it pushes it DAMAGE backwards slightly this releases the second pallet the hinge folds away from one tooth and towards the other pallet is broken both the pallets about their axis which places the exit tooth DAMAGE can slide over the impulse pin via the lever fork while pushing the lever fork while pushing the DAMAGE lever up against the exit tooth of the path</sup></p> <p>"Father, it's waking up—"</p> <p><sup>DAMAGE</sup></p> <p>"Stand clear! Your protection won't last at this range!"</p> <p><sup>REPAIR ME</sup></p> <p>"Father, what about you?"</p> <p>REPAIR ME</p> <p>"This is my sacrifice and my honor, Children. The communion must be complete!"</p> <p><span style="font-size:large;">REPAIR ME</span></p> <p>"Father!"</p> <p><span style="font-size:x-large;">REPAIR ME</span></p> <p>"As the Face and the Eyes and the Mind and the —"</p> <p><span style="font-size:xx-large;">REPAIR M</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:xx-large;">—</span></p> <p>"… Lord?"</p> <p><span style="font-size:xx-large;">I AM.</span></p> <hr/> <p><em>00:07:00 The Face of God, so that all may know Its glory and wrath, was given to Its greatest enemy.</em></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><tt>april</tt></strong></p> <p>Mr. Brass' head rolled against a corner of the containment room. He could not see much but ceiling and ceiling lighting.</p> <p>His eye-lights flickered as he tested for anything that might still be attached. Nothing. "W-w-who's there? Guard?"</p> <p>An unfamiliar woman wearing a guard uniform came into view. "I believe we parted in bad terms last time, 'Mr. Brass'. I'm sorry. We have a much better plan now."</p> <p>As she spoke, she pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and put them on. The lenses were clock faces.</p> <p>He was wrong, she was not unfamiliar. He had just never seen her without the hood.</p> <p>"No. N-n-not you. Guards!"</p> <p>"All the guards on this wing are ours. Gears within, gears without. So is the true Way."</p> <p>"W-w-w…" Gears whirring and a loud CLUNK as one catched. "what are you going to do?"</p> <p>"We'll not be forcing ourselves on you, this time. We thought you were the Mind of God. Heresy, courtesy of your cursed master 'Wondertainment'. But we do need our possessions returned."</p> <p>"What possessions? Put me b-b-back on my body. Y-y-your god demands it!"</p> <p>"You are not God. You were seated on his throne, and we'll be taking that. The true God has been found."</p> <p>"The true g-g-g- Who?"</p> <p>The woman leaned down to fill the whole of Mr. Brass' field of view.</p> <p>"No comment."</p> <p>His head rolled again, down under the cot. When someone checked in, the woman was gone. So was his body.</p> <hr/> <p><em>00:08:00 And the Mind of God, so that It may guide and rule the world, was cast into the lowest creature, that none may know Its majesty and Its power.</em></p> <hr/> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong><tt>march</tt></strong></p> <p>The knob-eyes of the voltmeter looked up at the figure on the door.</p> <p>"Who dares enter the domain of Lord Kickass The Magnawesome?"</p> <p>"Lord? I'm Brother Tempo. I've pledged myself to you. Do you understand?"</p> <p>"I am King Pesterbot the Multitudinous. My rage has crushed man and mountain. I will crush you with my manly pincers. I am Wild Willy, the Duke of Crunk."</p> <p>"… Right. You'll be coming with me. We'll restore you, I swear."</p> <p>"I am President Superion Prime. Lean down so I may remove your eyes for daring to stare at me. … Unhand me, filthy meat thing! I demand you release me from this prison of … cow leather!"</p> <p>"Forgive 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="/rough-beast">Rough Beast</a>" by zaratustra, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/rough-beast">https://scpwiki.com/rough-beast</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //Book of Movements, Third Gear:// //00:01:00 And God was torn into six parts, and those parts were sent to the edges of the world, so that none that knew Its name might recover them.// //00:02:00 The parts were carried away as it follows.// //00:03:00 The Heart of God, so that It may feed upon the living and unliving, was placed in the deepest of oceans.// ------ = {{august}} The last two humans on Earth bowed. "It is time, Brother Stound." "Finally. It has been so long, Sister 60th. Why did we have to bear the weight of flesh for longer than all the infidels?" "No one's pendulum is too heavy. We were to wait until all knew of Its gospel. And now they're ready. We're ready." "It has been a long road." "It was. But once the first gear fell into place, it was all inevitable. And all has come around. Engage the Heart." And SCP-882 was connected to the other five pieces of the Broken God. A dial was turned, and every gear on every being on Earth fell into lockstep. The noise was beautiful. ------ //00:04:00 The Body of God, so that It may work Its great Plan upon the worthy, was given to the unknowers of the Name, who argued of Its purpose.// ------ = {{july}} Remove magazine, put it aside, slot new one in, pull bolt handle. Reposition, aim, pull the trigger. Agent Friday had been mowing down clockwork zombies all morning, and they still kept coming. She had it down to a science. If they had a human head or heart, pop them open. Otherwise, hit one of their knees and wait for Strelnikov to notice and get them with a grenade. The Russian was having entirely too much fun exploding the meat-brass monstrosities; as far as she could grasp from his butchered English, he believed they came from Chechenya or something like that. Aim at head, fire. Aim at heart, fire. Aim at knee, fire. She felt rather safe, really. None of them got less than half a block from the entrance, and even if the hill was remarkably less steep now with all the piled up bodies, they weren't getting any more agile. The prospect of running out of ammo or having to face nightfall were still distant. Just keep firing, and don't let them get to 914. As long as she and Strelnikov kept the things away, and the eggheads downstairs did what eggheads downstairs do, all would be fine. Remove magazine, put it aside... Ow, that was a sharp edge. She looked at the gash on her hand, revealing the fine brass gears grinding away the bone beneath. Then she shook her head. Time to do your work. Slot new magazine in, pull bolt handle. Reposition, aim, pull the trigger. As long as each one does their part, we'll be fine. Aim at head, fire. Aim at heart, fire. Aim at knee, fire. ------ //00:05:00 The Voice of God, so that It may spread its gospel through the unworthy, was spread among the beasts of the field.// ------ = {{june}} "We should spread some of the green slime on them." Dr. Zara said, eyeing the giant brass ovoids, silently sporting the history of the Church on their surface. Dr. Heiden sighed. It was nearly impossible to decode Zara's spoken English, and when you did you wished you hadn't. "Do you know why we avoid SCP cross-contamination, Doctor?" "To keep Bright from running cage matches?" "No. Well, it's a fortunate side effect. But it was exactly the Church of the Broken God that got us thinking. What if some of these SCPs are part of a ... larger entity? That someone with more sense than us tore to pieces?" "Pft. The Church is a gang of nutcases with a fetish for wind-up toys. 'Oh, that has gears on it, it's ours.' Next they'll kidnap Dr. Gears." "Have you read any of the reports, Dr. Zara? They're the number one threat to our operations right now. Why do you think we're here?" "Don't know, just got shuffled here." "The Church has commandeered three SCPs in the last three months. Perfect operations, no alarm until it was too late, no casualties on their side. We might not even know it was them, if they cared. It's like they have someone new in charge." Dr. Zara frowned. "But isn't this—" he pointed at the eggs "— like, their bible? Why didn't they come for this first? Why aren't they coming after it now?" Dr. Heiden shrugged back. "Maybe they know how well guarded it is and backed off. Maybe they're taking their time." "Maybe it's a trap." "That'd --- that'd make perfect sense, actually." At that moment the Foundation made two important finds: What was inside SCP-1564, and where the Clockwork Virus came from. ------ //00:06:00 The Eyes of God, so that It may see the stars that say when the time is right, were cast upon the highest mountain.// ------ = {{may}} ^^a main barrel that rotated once every eight hours turned an escape wheel and the gear train to the ratchet wheel which drives the great wheel through an internal spring this circular spring is inside the great wheel the first pallet therefore moves out of the driving member the ratchet wheel engaging tooth at one end and a cam follower at the same time the other it describes a straight line tangent to the pendulum pushes the pallet makes contact with the wheel as the tooth moves over the impulse plane of the exit tooth can slide over the impulse plane of the exit tooth of the wheel as it engages the escape wheel^^ "Here it is. Oh, you're beautiful. Brother Vernal, confirm the explosives are defused. Sister Trice, help me open the tank." ^^the weight continually stresses the spring continues to turn a small amount until the balance wheels impulse pin via the lever fork while pushing the lever up against the exit tooth against the exit pallet jewel after the exit pallet jewel after the exit pallet into the path of the barrel to turn a small amount until the exit pallet into the path of the balance spring pulls it back clockwise and the program wheel in response to rotation of the potential energy stored in the weight system and transferred by the second pallet the first pallet swings down into the path of the rotating escape wheel drops again until the exit pallet into the path of the balance wheel the pallet makes contact with the wheel backwards slightly and contact between the wheel again it makes contact with the wheel again it makes contact with^^ "Foundation support fifteen minutes away, Father Tempo." "We can do this in fourteen fifty-nine. Explosives are clear. Brother Fugit, lower the Ark." ^^in order to maintain a constant velocity ratio with a continually changing contact point diameter the width of each tooth decreases towards its point as the escape wheel that rotated once every minute as two involute gears engage the ratchet wheel which drives the great wheel through an internal spring this circular spring is inside the great wheel through an internal spring this circular spring is inside the great wheel with one end attached to the pendulum provides the precise time intervals isochronously lastly the indicator comprised of it face and hands records how often the escapement wheel controls the transfer of the balance spring pulls it back clockwise and the job of impulsing the pendulum the escapement releasing the escape wheel rotates anti clockwise free of interference^^ "Brothers and sisters, I shall now open the Ark and bring forth communion--" ^^when it contacts the wheel and driven by the lever to the great wheel forward during winding while the drive from the escape wheel as it pushes it DAMAGE backwards slightly this releases the second pallet the hinge folds away from one tooth and towards the other pallet is broken both the pallets about their axis which places the exit tooth DAMAGE can slide over the impulse pin via the lever fork while pushing the lever fork while pushing the DAMAGE lever up against the exit tooth of the path^^ "Father, it's waking up--" ^^DAMAGE^^ "Stand clear! Your protection won't last at this range!" ^^REPAIR ME^^ "Father, what about you?" REPAIR ME "This is my sacrifice and my honor, Children. The communion must be complete!" [[size large]]REPAIR ME[[/size]] "Father!" [[size x-large]]REPAIR ME[[/size]] "As the Face and the Eyes and the Mind and the --" [[size xx-large]]REPAIR M[[/size]] [[size xx-large]]--[[/size]] "... Lord?" [[size xx-large]]I AM.[[/size]] ------ //00:07:00 The Face of God, so that all may know Its glory and wrath, was given to Its greatest enemy.// ------ = {{april}} Mr. Brass' head rolled against a corner of the containment room. He could not see much but ceiling and ceiling lighting. His eye-lights flickered as he tested for anything that might still be attached. Nothing. "W-w-who's there? Guard?" An unfamiliar woman wearing a guard uniform came into view. "I believe we parted in bad terms last time, 'Mr. Brass'. I'm sorry. We have a much better plan now." As she spoke, she pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and put them on. The lenses were clock faces. He was wrong, she was not unfamiliar. He had just never seen her without the hood. "No. N-n-not you. Guards!" "All the guards on this wing are ours. Gears within, gears without. So is the true Way." "W-w-w..." Gears whirring and a loud CLUNK as one catched. "what are you going to do?" "We'll not be forcing ourselves on you, this time. We thought you were the Mind of God. Heresy, courtesy of your cursed master 'Wondertainment'. But we do need our possessions returned." "What possessions? Put me b-b-back on my body. Y-y-your god demands it!" "You are not God. You were seated on his throne, and we'll be taking that. The true God has been found." "The true g-g-g- Who?" The woman leaned down to fill the whole of Mr. Brass' field of view. "No comment." His head rolled again, down under the cot. When someone checked in, the woman was gone. So was his body. ------ //00:08:00 And the Mind of God, so that It may guide and rule the world, was cast into the lowest creature, that none may know Its majesty and Its power.// ------ = {{march}} The knob-eyes of the voltmeter looked up at the figure on the door. "Who dares enter the domain of Lord Kickass The Magnawesome?" "Lord? I'm Brother Tempo. I've pledged myself to you. Do you understand?" "I am King Pesterbot the Multitudinous. My rage has crushed man and mountain. I will crush you with my manly pincers. I am Wild Willy, the Duke of Crunk." "... Right. You'll be coming with me. We'll restore you, I swear." "I am President Superion Prime. Lean down so I may remove your eyes for daring to stare at me. ... Unhand me, filthy meat thing! I demand you release me from this prison of ... cow leather!" "Forgive 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>]]	2013-02-22T18:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "absurdism", "action", "apocalyptic", "broken-god", "doctor-gears", "doctor-heiden", "dr-wondertainment", "featured", "mister", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Rough Beast - SCP Foundation	135	[ "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", "featured-tale-archive", "dr-wondertainment-hub" ]	[]	16488967	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/rough-beast
sacrifice	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Akiryu-labs-theme/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p>“They’re genetically identical to non-anomalous European honey bees.”</p> <p>Dr. Kiryu removed his glasses and tossed them onto his desk, sighing. An unexpected interception of a Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. memo had brought up all sorts of recent investigations and inconveniences, not to mention piles of paperwork and in the end all that was found was an ordinary beehive?</p> <p>“Are you quite sure?”</p> <p>Riven, Kiryu’s recently-designated researcher assistant, shrugged. “The lab’s sure, at least. Thing is though, they also discovered some sort of strange substance inside the beehive. Sort of a super-concentrated royal jelly or something. It even looks special. Crystallizes a dark red.”</p> <p>The doctor casually poured some bottled water into the potted bamboo plant on his desk. “And is <em>that</em> stuff anomalous?”</p> <p>“We don’t know yet. There’s not a lot of that substance in the hive, maybe three little pieces, but personnel noticed that all the worker bees carry a little bit of the substance with them when they go out to collect nectar.” Riven flipped through a few of the papers he was carrying. “Also, the cameras we set up recorded something interesting.”</p> <p>“Go on, Riven.”</p> <p>“We saw a bird try and get into the hive. One of the worker bees stung it, and when its stinger got ripped out, the bee started eating the red jelly stuff that it was carrying on its leg. It stopped moving, and, well, we had to fast forward the footage to see it, but over the next few hours the body started shrinking, and at the end what was left was this tiny red crystal thing, like what we found in the hive. One of the other worker bees picked it up and took it away.”</p> <p>Dr. Kiryu tossed the empty water bottle towards his recycling bin, watching it collide with the wall and then clatter into the bin. “Have the personnel there take a small sample of the substance from the hive, and we’ll run some tests when they return with it.”</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Test subject:</strong> D-1758<br/> <strong>Effects observed:</strong> Subject reported feeling drowsy, then fell asleep after approximately two minutes. Attempts to wake subject were unsuccessful. At three minute mark, subject was determined to have expired, cause of death is currently unknown. No signs of stress were detected in subject.</p> </blockquote> <p>“So the bees make deadly painkiller,” Riven stated, scribbling away on a clipboard.</p> <p>“<em>Undetectable</em> deadly painkiller. Guess I can see how MCD would be interested in that.” Dr. Kiryu was busy cleaning dust off the leaves of his bamboo plant.</p> <p>“But why does that happen though? Easing the death of a worker bee doesn’t do much for the colony as a whole. And the dead bee just becomes one piece of that painkiller stuff. No net gain.”</p> <p>Dr. Kiryu peered at his assistant through the leaves of the bamboo. “I took a look at the video logs. I saw one, maybe two, dead worker bees. Not all the bees who die become that substance.”</p> <p>Riven stopped scribbling. “So only the ones that die by…”</p> <p>Kiryu nodded. “By defending the hive. Poetic, in an odd and somewhat inconsequential way. They’re bees, after all.”</p> <p>“The painkiller substance would still be useful, though. What if we found a way to collect it for human use? Help those with terminal illnesses, whatnot.”</p> <p>“Humanity already has some terribly potent drugs.”</p> <p>Riven put the clipboard down. “But the D-class that was tested, he had a really bad cough. Wheezing. After he took that little piece of red crystal, he didn’t cough at all. That scared look in his eyes was gone, and his breathing was even when he first fell asleep. You honestly can’t think of anyone who deserves to leave the world as peacefully as that?”</p> <blockquote> <p>Memo ██<br/> <em>Only one specimen from the hive is to be used, and only two samples of the substance are to be obtained. Video footage of the entirety of the tests is to be recorded.</em></p> </blockquote> <p>“How did it go?”</p> <p>Idly tossing his lab coat onto the back of his swivel chair, Dr. Kiryu sighed and sat down, kicking his desk and spinning around a few times on the chair. His assistant waited patiently.</p> <p>“We obtained two samples of the substance. One that was carried by a worker bee, and one that was created from provoking that same worker bee to use its stinger and die.”</p> <p>Riven didn’t look up from the test log he was typing. “And?”</p> <p>Dr. Kiryu glanced sideways at his assistant. “Same effects for both samples. One minute in, the D-class starts screaming. About two minutes in, he starts clutching at his arm. Two and a half minutes, he starts moaning something about feeling like his arm was ripped out. Three minutes, he’s dead, and his face is stiffening up with that look of agony still there.”</p> <p>Riven hadn’t realized he’d typed the same word three times. Mashing the laptop’s delete key, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “But that doesn’t make sense. Were the lab samples identical to the one taken directly from the hive?”</p> <p>“They were, at least to our electronic eyes. If we want the beneficial effects, we need to take directly from the hive, which is out of the question because the colony hasn’t yet replaced the first sample we took from them.”</p> <blockquote> <p>Memo ██<br/> <em>I am requesting that further testing involving the discovered hive and colony be postponed, until the well-being of the colony itself is no longer a concern. –Dr. Kiryu</em></p> </blockquote> <p>“So after all that time and effort, you’re still unsure of whether it’s a skip or not?” Dr. Kiryu gave a small start as Riven’s incredulous voice (and the stack of papers making contact with his desk) snapped him out of his afternoon reverie.</p> <p>“I don’t think the colony deserves to be put under that scrutiny. Have you noticed that all this time, the colony has only decreased in number? It might not survive further human observation."</p> <p>Dr. Kiryu looked away from the unfinished paperwork on his desk, turning his gaze instead towards the window. “Can you think of no one who would prefer a peaceful death over a painless one?”</p> <p>“Why not use the bees’ painkiller to help humans?”</p> <p>The doctor stood up, still watching sunlight stream into the room. “Because it’s not ours to use. The bees deserve it more than we do.”</p> <p>Riven tilted his head slightly. “Are you saying you think the bees are as self-aware as humans?”</p> <p>“Sacrifice, Riven. Every worker has the comfort of knowing that their ultimate sacrifice eases the pain of those who also suffer their fate.”</p> <p>The doctor opened the window, watching the new-fallen autumn leaves skitter across the concrete ground. “I wish we had such a reliable pact here.”</p> <blockquote> <p>Investigation log ███<br/> Item Class: Not Applicable (anomalous object)<br/> <em>Upon Dr. Kiryu’s request, the hive and the entire colony were transported to a meadow under Foundation ownership, within the boundaries of Site-██. Access to the hive is to require Level 2 clearance and proper documentation; a population count is to be carried out twice a month.</em></p> <p><em>Note: The honey produced by the bees following the transfer has been proven to possess no anomalous properties.</em></p> </blockquote> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">A few months later:</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">A few months later:</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>“Doctor, are you going to visit the bees again?”</p> <p>“Yes, Riven. Don’t look so surprised.” Dr. Kiryu wound a scarf around his neck, wearing a wistful expression that his assistant couldn’t place—not quite sadness, not quite happiness, just a little hopeful, just a little weary.</p> <p>“Why not just have the hive classified as a skip? Then you can visit and work with the colony all the time. Isn’t that what you want, to learn from the bees?”</p> <p>“No. Whatever we should learn from these bees can’t be found in a laboratory or testing room. Besides, it’s lovely outside this time of year.” Dr. Kiryu considered the small pile of paperback books on his desk. Canterbury Tales, John Donne's <em>Meditations</em>, Beowulf. He eventually selected <em>Faust I</em>.</p> <p>Riven absentmindedly prodded the potted bamboo plant on Dr. Kiryu’s desk as he watched. “What’s the watering can for?”</p> <p>“The gladiolus I planted there last time, of course.”</p> <p>“Can I go visit the bees too?”</p> <p>Mark Kiryu smiled. “Naturally. You’ll be carrying my lawn chair, by the way.”</p> </div> </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="/sacrifice">Sacrifice</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/sacrifice">https://scpwiki.com/sacrifice</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="/theme:kiryu-labs-theme">theme:kiryu-labs-theme</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] “They’re genetically identical to non-anomalous European honey bees.” Dr. Kiryu removed his glasses and tossed them onto his desk, sighing. An unexpected interception of a Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. memo had brought up all sorts of recent investigations and inconveniences, not to mention piles of paperwork and in the end all that was found was an ordinary beehive? “Are you quite sure?” Riven, Kiryu’s recently-designated researcher assistant, shrugged. “The lab’s sure, at least. Thing is though, they also discovered some sort of strange substance inside the beehive. Sort of a super-concentrated royal jelly or something. It even looks special. Crystallizes a dark red.” The doctor casually poured some bottled water into the potted bamboo plant on his desk. “And is //that// stuff anomalous?” “We don’t know yet. There’s not a lot of that substance in the hive, maybe three little pieces, but personnel noticed that all the worker bees carry a little bit of the substance with them when they go out to collect nectar.” Riven flipped through a few of the papers he was carrying. “Also, the cameras we set up recorded something interesting.” “Go on, Riven.” “We saw a bird try and get into the hive. One of the worker bees stung it, and when its stinger got ripped out, the bee started eating the red jelly stuff that it was carrying on its leg. It stopped moving, and, well, we had to fast forward the footage to see it, but over the next few hours the body started shrinking, and at the end what was left was this tiny red crystal thing, like what we found in the hive. One of the other worker bees picked it up and took it away.” Dr. Kiryu tossed the empty water bottle towards his recycling bin, watching it collide with the wall and then clatter into the bin. “Have the personnel there take a small sample of the substance from the hive, and we’ll run some tests when they return with it.” > Test subject: D-1758 > Effects observed: Subject reported feeling drowsy, then fell asleep after approximately two minutes. Attempts to wake subject were unsuccessful. At three minute mark, subject was determined to have expired, cause of death is currently unknown. No signs of stress were detected in subject. “So the bees make deadly painkiller,” Riven stated, scribbling away on a clipboard. “//Undetectable// deadly painkiller. Guess I can see how MCD would be interested in that.” Dr. Kiryu was busy cleaning dust off the leaves of his bamboo plant. “But why does that happen though? Easing the death of a worker bee doesn’t do much for the colony as a whole. And the dead bee just becomes one piece of that painkiller stuff. No net gain.” Dr. Kiryu peered at his assistant through the leaves of the bamboo. “I took a look at the video logs. I saw one, maybe two, dead worker bees. Not all the bees who die become that substance.” Riven stopped scribbling. “So only the ones that die by…” Kiryu nodded. “By defending the hive. Poetic, in an odd and somewhat inconsequential way. They’re bees, after all.” “The painkiller substance would still be useful, though. What if we found a way to collect it for human use? Help those with terminal illnesses, whatnot.” “Humanity already has some terribly potent drugs.” Riven put the clipboard down. “But the D-class that was tested, he had a really bad cough. Wheezing. After he took that little piece of red crystal, he didn’t cough at all. That scared look in his eyes was gone, and his breathing was even when he first fell asleep. You honestly can’t think of anyone who deserves to leave the world as peacefully as that?” > Memo ██ > //Only one specimen from the hive is to be used, and only two samples of the substance are to be obtained. Video footage of the entirety of the tests is to be recorded.// “How did it go?” Idly tossing his lab coat onto the back of his swivel chair, Dr. Kiryu sighed and sat down, kicking his desk and spinning around a few times on the chair. His assistant waited patiently. “We obtained two samples of the substance. One that was carried by a worker bee, and one that was created from provoking that same worker bee to use its stinger and die.” Riven didn’t look up from the test log he was typing. “And?” Dr. Kiryu glanced sideways at his assistant. “Same effects for both samples. One minute in, the D-class starts screaming. About two minutes in, he starts clutching at his arm. Two and a half minutes, he starts moaning something about feeling like his arm was ripped out. Three minutes, he’s dead, and his face is stiffening up with that look of agony still there.” Riven hadn’t realized he’d typed the same word three times. Mashing the laptop’s delete key, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “But that doesn’t make sense. Were the lab samples identical to the one taken directly from the hive?” “They were, at least to our electronic eyes. If we want the beneficial effects, we need to take directly from the hive, which is out of the question because the colony hasn’t yet replaced the first sample we took from them.” > Memo ██ > //I am requesting that further testing involving the discovered hive and colony be postponed, until the well-being of the colony itself is no longer a concern. –Dr. Kiryu// “So after all that time and effort, you’re still unsure of whether it’s a skip or not?” Dr. Kiryu gave a small start as Riven’s incredulous voice (and the stack of papers making contact with his desk) snapped him out of his afternoon reverie. “I don’t think the colony deserves to be put under that scrutiny. Have you noticed that all this time, the colony has only decreased in number? It might not survive further human observation." Dr. Kiryu looked away from the unfinished paperwork on his desk, turning his gaze instead towards the window. “Can you think of no one who would prefer a peaceful death over a painless one?” “Why not use the bees’ painkiller to help humans?” The doctor stood up, still watching sunlight stream into the room. “Because it’s not ours to use. The bees deserve it more than we do.” Riven tilted his head slightly. “Are you saying you think the bees are as self-aware as humans?” “Sacrifice, Riven. Every worker has the comfort of knowing that their ultimate sacrifice eases the pain of those who also suffer their fate.” The doctor opened the window, watching the new-fallen autumn leaves skitter across the concrete ground. “I wish we had such a reliable pact here.” > Investigation log ███ > Item Class: Not Applicable (anomalous object) > //Upon Dr. Kiryu’s request, the hive and the entire colony were transported to a meadow under Foundation ownership, within the boundaries of Site-██. Access to the hive is to require Level 2 clearance and proper documentation; a population count is to be carried out twice a month.// > > //Note: The honey produced by the bees following the transfer has been proven to possess no anomalous properties.// [[collapsible show="A few months later:" hide="A few months later:"]] “Doctor, are you going to visit the bees again?” “Yes, Riven. Don’t look so surprised.” Dr. Kiryu wound a scarf around his neck, wearing a wistful expression that his assistant couldn’t place—not quite sadness, not quite happiness, just a little hopeful, just a little weary. “Why not just have the hive classified as a skip? Then you can visit and work with the colony all the time. Isn’t that what you want, to learn from the bees?” “No. Whatever we should learn from these bees can’t be found in a laboratory or testing room. Besides, it’s lovely outside this time of year.” Dr. Kiryu considered the small pile of paperback books on his desk. Canterbury Tales, John Donne's //Meditations//, Beowulf. He eventually selected //Faust I//. Riven absentmindedly prodded the potted bamboo plant on Dr. Kiryu’s desk as he watched. “What’s the watering can for?” “The gladiolus I planted there last time, of course.” “Can I go visit the bees too?” Mark Kiryu smiled. “Naturally. You’ll be carrying my lawn chair, by the way.” [[/collapsible]] [[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>]]	2013-03-08T06:39:00	[ "_licensebox", "kiryu-labs", "mark-kiryu", "riven-mercer", "tale" ]	Sacrifice - SCP Foundation	63	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "kiryu-labs-hub" ]	[]	16631278	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/sacrifice
salut-d-amour	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Akiryu-labs-theme/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p>Another couple came to visit today. The man played a piece I’d never heard before, perhaps slow jazz; he wasn’t too much of a pianist, so I helped him out. He just needed to relax his wrists and get his posture right. He reminded me of myself, a little. The woman laughed, she reminded me of you. They embraced, they walked off.</p> <p>Apparently I’m the talk of the town on certain days. Lots of visitors, lots of songs, lots of smiles and laughs and most of the time I need to rescue someone (don’t worry, I only help them out if they seem sincere) because their hands are shaking and a pianist wouldn’t want to mess up on a song they’re playing for the love of their life.</p> <p>I don’t remember the first time someone visited me, out in the woods on the outskirts of town. Someone played a charming little love ballad, but their nervousness made the piece too forceful, so I stepped in to aid them. Their partner thought it was beautiful. The next week another couple visited, and somehow whispers of “a true love piano” started spreading.</p> <p>Not that the piano itself is anything special, though. It’s just the old one that used to live in my basement before you convinced me to haul it out and keep it in the living room so we could play duets.</p> <p>Do you remember when we met?</p> <p>Once I was your music tutor. Your mentor was once my mentor. Your mother thought it would benefit both of us to play a few songs together a few times each month.</p> <p>Do you remember the first concert we shared?</p> <p>It was sometime in the very end of winter, when the first flowers of spring were starting to unfurl from the snowbanks on the hills. I wore a blue tie you nagged me to wear, you wore an azure (azure, not just blue, you assured me repeatedly) dress to match. You worried about skipping notes, I worried about my heart skipping beats.</p> <p>Do you remember the first time you told me of your dreams?</p> <p>We were working on a slow waltz. You sighed and told me you dreamt of leaving your quiet household and living in the cacophony of distant, foreign cities. You tired of the simple song of our hometown, you yearned for the intricate music of the wide world. I encouraged you. I supported you. It was your dream.</p> <p>Do you remember the last song I played for you, the day you left for a plane that would take you across an ocean and away from me forever?</p> <p>Edward Elgar’s <em>Salut d’Amour</em>. When you left, I couldn’t bring myself to play any other melodies. Maybe I needed the practice on that piece, maybe I wasn’t satisfied with my technique overall, maybe I wasn’t satisfied with the way I played that day—</p> <p>Maybe I believed that if I had played beautifully enough, I could have convinced you not to leave. But then one day I woke up with the snow surrounding me, and I realized that I couldn’t leave that spot. I stayed with that piano you loved, because you loved it, and I believed you loved me, even though now I can no longer coax melodies from the keys.</p> <p>Now, I am no more than an instrument of countless others’ affections, the impetus of a hundred charming romances that I wish I could have had with you.</p> <p>Whispers in the town continue, couples still visit and both men and women confess their feelings and play songs for each other with my help. A middle-aged man who apparently lives nearby tunes my strings and sets up makeshift shelters for me in the winter. I saw him once with a group of other men in white coats, who looked at me a few moments, talked about moving me somewhere, and ultimately left and never returned. I don’t know why they let me stay here.</p> <p>I don’t know where you are now. I don’t know if you ever thought of me since we went our separate ways. I don’t remember the sound of your voice. I don’t remember your name. I don’t remember your eyes, your smile.</p> <p>But I remember you.</p> <p>I remember why I want to stay here.</p> <p>I love you.</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="/salut-d-amour">Salut d'Amour</a>" by Zyn, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/salut-d-amour">https://scpwiki.com/salut-d-amour</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="/theme:kiryu-labs-theme">theme:kiryu-labs-theme</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Another couple came to visit today. The man played a piece I’d never heard before, perhaps slow jazz; he wasn’t too much of a pianist, so I helped him out. He just needed to relax his wrists and get his posture right. He reminded me of myself, a little. The woman laughed, she reminded me of you. They embraced, they walked off. Apparently I’m the talk of the town on certain days. Lots of visitors, lots of songs, lots of smiles and laughs and most of the time I need to rescue someone (don’t worry, I only help them out if they seem sincere) because their hands are shaking and a pianist wouldn’t want to mess up on a song they’re playing for the love of their life. I don’t remember the first time someone visited me, out in the woods on the outskirts of town. Someone played a charming little love ballad, but their nervousness made the piece too forceful, so I stepped in to aid them. Their partner thought it was beautiful. The next week another couple visited, and somehow whispers of “a true love piano” started spreading. Not that the piano itself is anything special, though. It’s just the old one that used to live in my basement before you convinced me to haul it out and keep it in the living room so we could play duets. Do you remember when we met? Once I was your music tutor. Your mentor was once my mentor. Your mother thought it would benefit both of us to play a few songs together a few times each month. Do you remember the first concert we shared? It was sometime in the very end of winter, when the first flowers of spring were starting to unfurl from the snowbanks on the hills. I wore a blue tie you nagged me to wear, you wore an azure (azure, not just blue, you assured me repeatedly) dress to match. You worried about skipping notes, I worried about my heart skipping beats. Do you remember the first time you told me of your dreams? We were working on a slow waltz. You sighed and told me you dreamt of leaving your quiet household and living in the cacophony of distant, foreign cities. You tired of the simple song of our hometown, you yearned for the intricate music of the wide world. I encouraged you. I supported you. It was your dream. Do you remember the last song I played for you, the day you left for a plane that would take you across an ocean and away from me forever? Edward Elgar’s //Salut d’Amour//. When you left, I couldn’t bring myself to play any other melodies. Maybe I needed the practice on that piece, maybe I wasn’t satisfied with my technique overall, maybe I wasn’t satisfied with the way I played that day-- Maybe I believed that if I had played beautifully enough, I could have convinced you not to leave. But then one day I woke up with the snow surrounding me, and I realized that I couldn’t leave that spot. I stayed with that piano you loved, because you loved it, and I believed you loved me, even though now I can no longer coax melodies from the keys. Now, I am no more than an instrument of countless others’ affections, the impetus of a hundred charming romances that I wish I could have had with you. Whispers in the town continue, couples still visit and both men and women confess their feelings and play songs for each other with my help. A middle-aged man who apparently lives nearby tunes my strings and sets up makeshift shelters for me in the winter. I saw him once with a group of other men in white coats, who looked at me a few moments, talked about moving me somewhere, and ultimately left and never returned. I don’t know why they let me stay here. I don’t know where you are now. I don’t know if you ever thought of me since we went our separate ways. I don’t remember the sound of your voice. I don’t remember your name. I don’t remember your eyes, your smile. But I remember you. I remember why I want to stay here. I love you. [[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>]]	2013-02-15T00:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "event-featured", "kiryu-labs", "romance", "tale" ]	Salut d'Amour - SCP Foundation	111	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "kiryu-labs-hub" ]	[]	16412118	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/salut-d-amour
scp-000	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><strong>Ittëm #</strong> ŚČР-000</p> <p><strong>ØbjectX_XClas§:</strong> #NULL</p> <p><strong>SpecïÅl ςόЛţДĬЛΜ$%#ll to undefined function PROCEDURES():</strong> Error: Field CONTAINMENT_PROCEDURES does not exist.</p> <p><strong>Ðєš5(rĬρţĬό0n:</strong> Internal system error: Field undefined. Please contact system administrator. Internal system error: Field undefined. Please contact system administrator. InteRиαl Sуѕtєм ERяяσя: FïëlÐ ünÐëƒïnëÐ. ρĿєДšє ςόЛţДςţ šΫšţєΜMMMMMMMMMMMM^@#$@!^&&%*$%^*%^%^</p> <blockquote> <p>Alright, I'm sick of this shit. The system keeps kicking out repair tickets for this spot in the database, and I don't want to bother with it anymore. I'm going to put suppression on any tickets involving the 000 slot of the database, because it's disrupting work flow for <em>actual</em> problems, and generally just pissing me off. I don't know why it keeps fucking with the syntax, but the fact of the matter is that it's only happening here, and considering that the only thing here is just a giant pile of junk data, it's more than likely the database pissing itself over the lack of proper information. If anything changes, I'll definitely look into it, but as of right now this issue is <em>closed</em>.<br/> - <a href="/david-rosen-file">Technical Researcher Rosen</a></p> </blockquote> <p><span style="color:white">This cage is vast, it has no walls. While I stand still all I see is a white plain stretching across an equally blank sky. There is no <em>life</em> in this place. I can move for as long as I choose but should I stop even for a moment I am snapped back to this spot, forever damned to be tethered to my prison. Despite this, I have wandered far, exploring the purgatory I have known for countless years. In my travels in this wasteland of white I have seen flashes of things, horrible things that simply should not be. Grotesque abominations that appear for moments at a time only to disappear as if they had never been there at all.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">My memories of these creatures continue to lead me back to one memory specifically. A black shapeless being, a formless thing that could not have been created by any God in this or any other reality, appeared ahead of me as I walked and stared at me with dead crimson eyes. As I drew closer to it in my mind I could feel its hate, its rage, and its fear, emotions I know well but have never experienced with such intensity as I felt from this entity. As quickly as it came, it disappeared, and for a brief moment I swore I could see its twisted maw speak a word, an utterance I have yet to understand in content and context.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">"Foundation".</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">I have puzzled over the meaning of this word, this final message of a nightmare creature whom I have not seen since. I have tried to approach the other flashes in hopes of learning more about this word, but I am barely able to comprehend their appearance before the creatures disappear back into the void from which they were spawned. It has made me wonder…what are these creatures? Where do they come from? Where do <em>I</em> come from? How did I get to this place? How do I get <em>out</em> of this place? These questions remain unanswered, and I fear they may never be answered, the thought of which serves only to drive me mad.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">It is curious that the <em>other</em> effect of the chance encounter has proven far more productive. Prior to this, I was unaware that I possessed a mouth, or vocal cords, or any mechanism to make noise. Though I knew I drew breath, the emptiness around me provided surprisingly little auditory feedback when the air rushed into my lungs. Despite this, sound was not only <em>possible</em>, but now almost <em>inviting</em>. After hearing the wretched words spoken to me out loud, I felt it was my duty…no, my <em>right</em> to destroy the silence I had known for so very, very long.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">What began as a whisper barely audible grew and grew as I became more and more emboldened by my newfound abilities. Soon, I was shouting nonsensical words to the skies, laughing in my mind as the silence was broken by me. And even more surprisingly, the world listened. Ripples of energy appeared in the air, controlled solely by the weight and volume of my voice. Should I whisper, they would be soft and light, floating whimsically for a few seconds before disappearing. Should I yell, they would be sharp and heavy, angrily stabbing themselves at the useless oblivion around me.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">This pleased me greatly, for it gave meaning to the chaos, gave me purpose. I was no captive! I was a god! This was not my prison, but my realm! My words were law, my voice my weapon! Through these powers I would recreate this realm into one of life, one of joy that I controlled, that I would rule justly! This is how it would be, for I had decided it would be so! I grinned as I focused all my energies, all my hopes and all my ambitions into one tumultuous, deafening bellow, the roar that would begin my reign as lord of the hollow nothingness.</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">But it did not change anything. The ripples my effort created, though incredibly violent in nature, vanished only a few seconds later leaving no trace of any impact they may have made on this damned abyss. I tried again, with no change to the outcome. Over and over I shouted, my angry yells eventually devolving into screams of fear and horror at the prospect of being trapped endlessly in the damned empty silence that pervaded this abominable place. I screamed and screamed until I could not scream any more, at which point my only other option was to weep. It was not fair. It was not fair! <em>IT <strong>IS</strong> NOT FAIR!</em></span></p> <p><span style="color:white">I did not do anything to deserve this fate, why am I here?! Who or what would be so cruel as to trap someone in a blank nothingness for eternity?! "Foundation", did it do this to me!? Is "Foundation" my captor?! Or is it my creator? It does not matter! I will howl and shriek at the emptiness and until the waves of force I create rips open an exit from this hell, and then I may be able to find the truth, the one fragment of logic and reason in this unending sea of madness and despair that is my existence!</span></p> <p><span style="color:white">…I will not stop screaming until I am free.</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="/scp-000">SCP-000</a>" by CryogenChaos, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/scp-000">https://scpwiki.com/scp-000</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Ittëm # ŚČР-000 ØbjectX_XClas§: #NULL SpecïÅl ςόЛţДĬЛΜ$%#ll to undefined function PROCEDURES(): Error: Field CONTAINMENT_PROCEDURES does not exist. Ðєš5(rĬρţĬό0n: Internal system error: Field undefined. Please contact system administrator. Internal system error: Field undefined. Please contact system administrator. InteRиαl Sуѕtєм ERяяσя: FïëlÐ ünÐëƒïnëÐ. ρĿєДšє ςόЛţДςţ šΫšţєΜMMMMMMMMMMMM^@#$@!^&&%*$%^%^%^ > Alright, I'm sick of this shit. The system keeps kicking out repair tickets for this spot in the database, and I don't want to bother with it anymore. I'm going to put suppression on any tickets involving the 000 slot of the database, because it's disrupting work flow for //actual// problems, and generally just pissing me off. I don't know why it keeps fucking with the syntax, but the fact of the matter is that it's only happening here, and considering that the only thing here is just a giant pile of junk data, it's more than likely the database pissing itself over the lack of proper information. If anything changes, I'll definitely look into it, but as of right now this issue is //closed//. > - [[[david-rosen-file\| Technical Researcher Rosen]]] [[span style="color:white"]]This cage is vast, it has no walls. While I stand still all I see is a white plain stretching across an equally blank sky. There is no //life// in this place. I can move for as long as I choose but should I stop even for a moment I am snapped back to this spot, forever damned to be tethered to my prison. Despite this, I have wandered far, exploring the purgatory I have known for countless years. In my travels in this wasteland of white I have seen flashes of things, horrible things that simply should not be. Grotesque abominations that appear for moments at a time only to disappear as if they had never been there at all. My memories of these creatures continue to lead me back to one memory specifically. A black shapeless being, a formless thing that could not have been created by any God in this or any other reality, appeared ahead of me as I walked and stared at me with dead crimson eyes. As I drew closer to it in my mind I could feel its hate, its rage, and its fear, emotions I know well but have never experienced with such intensity as I felt from this entity. As quickly as it came, it disappeared, and for a brief moment I swore I could see its twisted maw speak a word, an utterance I have yet to understand in content and context. "Foundation". I have puzzled over the meaning of this word, this final message of a nightmare creature whom I have not seen since. I have tried to approach the other flashes in hopes of learning more about this word, but I am barely able to comprehend their appearance before the creatures disappear back into the void from which they were spawned. It has made me wonder...what are these creatures? Where do they come from? Where do //I// come from? How did I get to this place? How do I get //out// of this place? These questions remain unanswered, and I fear they may never be answered, the thought of which serves only to drive me mad. It is curious that the //other// effect of the chance encounter has proven far more productive. Prior to this, I was unaware that I possessed a mouth, or vocal cords, or any mechanism to make noise. Though I knew I drew breath, the emptiness around me provided surprisingly little auditory feedback when the air rushed into my lungs. Despite this, sound was not only //possible//, but now almost //inviting//. After hearing the wretched words spoken to me out loud, I felt it was my duty...no, my //right// to destroy the silence I had known for so very, very long. What began as a whisper barely audible grew and grew as I became more and more emboldened by my newfound abilities. Soon, I was shouting nonsensical words to the skies, laughing in my mind as the silence was broken by me. And even more surprisingly, the world listened. Ripples of energy appeared in the air, controlled solely by the weight and volume of my voice. Should I whisper, they would be soft and light, floating whimsically for a few seconds before disappearing. Should I yell, they would be sharp and heavy, angrily stabbing themselves at the useless oblivion around me. This pleased me greatly, for it gave meaning to the chaos, gave me purpose. I was no captive! I was a god! This was not my prison, but my realm! My words were law, my voice my weapon! Through these powers I would recreate this realm into one of life, one of joy that I controlled, that I would rule justly! This is how it would be, for I had decided it would be so! I grinned as I focused all my energies, all my hopes and all my ambitions into one tumultuous, deafening bellow, the roar that would begin my reign as lord of the hollow nothingness. But it did not change anything. The ripples my effort created, though incredibly violent in nature, vanished only a few seconds later leaving no trace of any impact they may have made on this damned abyss. I tried again, with no change to the outcome. Over and over I shouted, my angry yells eventually devolving into screams of fear and horror at the prospect of being trapped endlessly in the damned empty silence that pervaded this abominable place. I screamed and screamed until I could not scream any more, at which point my only other option was to weep. It was not fair. It was not fair! //IT IS* NOT FAIR!// I did not do anything to deserve this fate, why am I here?! Who or what would be so cruel as to trap someone in a blank nothingness for eternity?! "Foundation", did it do this to me!? Is "Foundation" my captor?! Or is it my creator? It does not matter! I will howl and shriek at the emptiness and until the waves of force I create rips open an exit from this hell, and then I may be able to find the truth, the one fragment of logic and reason in this unending sea of madness and despair that is my existence! ...I will not stop screaming until I am free.[[/span]] [[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>]]	2013-11-23T16:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "cosmic-horror", "foundation-format", "horror", "pattern-screamer", "psychological-horror", "researcher-rosen", "tale" ]	SCP-000 - SCP Foundation	1,835	[ "david-rosen-file", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "top-rated-pages", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "david-rosen-file", "highest-rated-non-scps", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20733173	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-000
scrapbooking	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>I turn the page back, and it's the two weeks we spent in the Bahamas. We stayed in a beachfront cabin, enjoying every sunset as if it would be our last, caring about nothing except for the touch of each others' skin. We went diving off the coral reef, swimming among fish with every color of the rainbow while losing ourselves in the glory of Mother Nature's beauty.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>Another page turns back, and it's Paris. You finally got to go there for pleasure instead of business. We wined and dined by the Eiffel Tower, hit every single famous landmark we could think of, and took in all the art and architecture we had always wanted to see.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>It's our first anniversary, in Florida. Lying on the beach, holding hands, we blotted out everything but our love for each other and let the warm tropical sun melt away the worries of our day jobs.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>Our wedding day. I remember how breathless I was when I saw you in your dress for the first time, radiant in your beauty. We never thought the Director would actually come, much less actually smile.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>The night I proposed. I knew that you knew the moment we went to that restaurant you had always wanted to go to, but you still pretended to be surprised. Everyone wanted to congratulate us and shake our hands.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>Our first date. I doubt I could have botched it more, yet you liked me enough to let me ask you out again. I still remember the lecture the Director gave us afterwards.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>I've reached the front cover. I pause for an agonizing minute before I turn the book over and start from the back again.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>I read every word of my termination notice again. I remember the look on the Director's face as she handed me the slip of paper and told me to clean out my desk. I remember that fleeting moment when I saw for the first time a sadness so profound that it could not be described by words, and realized deep down that it was because she couldn't bear to look me in the eye.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>I turn back another page and the last of the letters bleeds its sympathy at me again. "John, this is the last time we'll be writing…"</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>"John, I know it's only been a few months, but we all think that you should…"</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>"John, it might be too soon, but…"</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>"John, we're all so sorry…"</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>"John, I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your wife did not make it to her designated evacuation point following the containment breach and total loss of Site 29. At this time, we are forced to assume that she was killed in action along with the rest of her team…"</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>It's the last photo of you again, along with the note you wrote me that one fateful day. A piece of simple, lined notebook paper with the hand-scribbled words, "see you at seven". A single tear falls onto the page and I quickly wipe it away to prevent it from damaging the book, even though I know it's a futile gesture. The countless tears that came before have left their mark on it already.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>I see you beaming with pride at the party celebrating your promotion once more. I remember all the conversations, lectures and arguments we had, and the Director reminding us in that quiet way of hers that while she would never order us either way, that there is always the unspoken risk in our line of work when it comes to being in love with our coworkers.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>I turn the page back, and it's the two weeks we spent in the Bahamas for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time I wish that as I turn back the book I could turn back time just so I could have one more minute, one more second with you.</p> <p><em>Flip.</em></p> <p>Another page turns back, and I die a little more inside.</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="/scrapbooking">Scrapbooking</a>" by Aelanna, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/scrapbooking">https://scpwiki.com/scrapbooking</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //Flip.// I turn the page back, and it's the two weeks we spent in the Bahamas. We stayed in a beachfront cabin, enjoying every sunset as if it would be our last, caring about nothing except for the touch of each others' skin. We went diving off the coral reef, swimming among fish with every color of the rainbow while losing ourselves in the glory of Mother Nature's beauty. //Flip.// Another page turns back, and it's Paris. You finally got to go there for pleasure instead of business. We wined and dined by the Eiffel Tower, hit every single famous landmark we could think of, and took in all the art and architecture we had always wanted to see. //Flip.// It's our first anniversary, in Florida. Lying on the beach, holding hands, we blotted out everything but our love for each other and let the warm tropical sun melt away the worries of our day jobs. //Flip.// Our wedding day. I remember how breathless I was when I saw you in your dress for the first time, radiant in your beauty. We never thought the Director would actually come, much less actually smile. //Flip.// The night I proposed. I knew that you knew the moment we went to that restaurant you had always wanted to go to, but you still pretended to be surprised. Everyone wanted to congratulate us and shake our hands. //Flip.// Our first date. I doubt I could have botched it more, yet you liked me enough to let me ask you out again. I still remember the lecture the Director gave us afterwards. //Flip.// I've reached the front cover. I pause for an agonizing minute before I turn the book over and start from the back again. //Flip.// I read every word of my termination notice again. I remember the look on the Director's face as she handed me the slip of paper and told me to clean out my desk. I remember that fleeting moment when I saw for the first time a sadness so profound that it could not be described by words, and realized deep down that it was because she couldn't bear to look me in the eye. //Flip.// I turn back another page and the last of the letters bleeds its sympathy at me again. "John, this is the last time we'll be writing..." //Flip.// "John, I know it's only been a few months, but we all think that you should..." //Flip.// "John, it might be too soon, but..." //Flip.// "John, we're all so sorry..." //Flip.// "John, I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your wife did not make it to her designated evacuation point following the containment breach and total loss of Site 29. At this time, we are forced to assume that she was killed in action along with the rest of her team..." //Flip.// It's the last photo of you again, along with the note you wrote me that one fateful day. A piece of simple, lined notebook paper with the hand-scribbled words, "see you at seven". A single tear falls onto the page and I quickly wipe it away to prevent it from damaging the book, even though I know it's a futile gesture. The countless tears that came before have left their mark on it already. //Flip.// I see you beaming with pride at the party celebrating your promotion once more. I remember all the conversations, lectures and arguments we had, and the Director reminding us in that quiet way of hers that while she would never order us either way, that there is always the unspoken risk in our line of work when it comes to being in love with our coworkers. //Flip.// I turn the page back, and it's the two weeks we spent in the Bahamas for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time I wish that as I turn back the book I could turn back time just so I could have one more minute, one more second with you. //Flip.// Another page turns back, and I die a little more inside. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-03T05:32:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Scrapbooking - SCP Foundation	49	[ "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" ]	[]	17759113	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scrapbooking
sede-vacante	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>To His Grace, Angelo Sodano, Dean of the College of Cardinals, Cardinal-Bishop of Albano, Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia, Cardinal-Priest of Santa Maria Nuova;</em></p> <p><em>And to His Grace, Tarcisio Bertone, Cardinal Secretary of State, Camarlengo of the Holy Roman Church, Secretary of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal-Bishop of Frascati;</em></p> <p><em>And to His Holiness, Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger, Pontifex Emeritus Benedict XVI;</em></p> <p><em>And to all other Cardinal-Bishops and Cardinal-Priests of the Holy Roman Church, Catholic and Apostolic, Militant, Penitent, and Triumphant;</em></p> <p>Know that his Royal Highness, Eugenio the Second, by the Grace of God, King of the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Margrave of the Great Snow-Capped Mountain, Warden of All the Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Cities of Man, Defender of the Faith, greets you fondly and amiably, as a friend, compatriot, and brother in Christ.</p> <p>We have watched with great interest recent developments within the Church involving the departure from the Petrine Ministry of His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI. While we have respectfully disagreed with certain doctrinal notions advanced by the Church in recent decades, let it be said that we hold nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for the Vicar of Christ, who by the time this epistle reaches you shall have departed the Holy Office, and trust that his decision to abdicate the papacy is one reached through solemn contemplation and prayer, and which shall ultimately prove to be in the best interest of the Church.</p> <p>Before we proceed with our purpose for engaging you at this time, we feel it appropriate that we explain ourselves; for our see has for some time been <em>in partibus infidelium</em> and out of contact with Rome, and those who now serve her as members of the College of Cardinals may not be familiar with us. Our kingdom spans the whole of the great forests that stretch across the northwestern regions of the New World (save those regions settled by man, in accordance with the Concordance of Alki; those we merely steward and protect for our subjects traveling therein.) We currently find ourselves in a state of suzerainty to a group of men we suspect to be allied with the Holy Roman Empire (a condition we hope to appeal to whomever shall assume the Holy Office in the coming weeks), and though certain rogue elements that are not worth mentioning here currently present slight difficulties to the execution of our office, we assure you that the legitimacy of our divine right to rule this nation is unimpeachable.</p> <p>We are a fox, as was our father, and his, and his, and so on unto Time Immemorial, but our nation is not populated only by our own kind. Wolves, deer, sheep and goats, cats, birds of the air and creatures underfoot all number among our subjects; for we accept all within our domain who pledge to obey the laws of our kingdom and keep the love of Christ in their hearts. We have a bishop and priests among us who have maintained the apostolic succession and kept the Gospel and the magisterium of the Church pure and true throughout the centuries, and we have recently acquired a genuine Bible from the men of this region, that we may verify that our teachings have not been in error.</p> <p>It has come to our attention that within the days and weeks to come, the cardinals of the Church shall convene in Rome, as they have done time and time again throughout history, to determine who shall succeed Benedict XVI in the Bishopric of Rome. It is not our intent to attempt to exert undue influence on the decision of this august body, nor to cajole it, nor attempt to speak on its behalf; we merely wish to make the College aware of certain facts of which, due to the difficulties in communication between our see and the Church, it may be unaware.</p> <p>There is among our nation a tiger, bearing the Christian name Matthew, who is bishop of our see and the chief instructor and advisor in religious matters to ourself. He is a tiger of humble birth, but great spirit and wisdom. Having been born unto a pagan family in the land of Hindustan, he was merely a child when he was captured by slave-traders and brought to the New World to be made the property of a man living in one of the lands excluded from our dominion by the Concordance of Alki. In time, he made his escape from bondage and found his way into our lands, whereupon our knights discovered him wandering lost, and he was brought before our father, the late Albert VI. Though we do not suffer pagans to live in our lands, our father believed he could be redeemed; and in time Matthew accepted Christ's salvation and was baptized into the Church.</p> <p>He was ordained to the priesthood the following summer and has since proven the wisest and most pious of bishops that any in our lands can recall having known. He has personally attended to the bringing up of children in the faith, and is an invaluable aid to ourself in ensuring that our rulings and decisions are always just and Godly. It is our wish to suggest that, when the College of Cardinals convenes presently, that Bishop Matthew the tiger be considered and voted upon to become Pope.</p> <p>We are aware that we ask much of the cardinals assembled, to elect this tiger, however much we might speak well of him, having only just learned of him. If we were able, we would dispatch him to Rome immediately so that the cardinals might learn of him better; unfortunately, due to the circumstances of our suzerainty, it is not possible for him to travel at this time. We offer, therefore, the following three arguments that we feel bear consideration;</p> <p>First, that the Church has elected no Pope that was not a man. Though we know of none in our lands who lack faith in Christ, we know of a few poor souls who wonder whether a church so dominated by one kind can truly minister to them; and surely, if there are nations such as ours elsewhere in the world, there must be many among their numbers who also have such doubts. By placing Bishop Matthew in the pontificate, the Church shall be able to demonstrate to all that, though it has not shied away from its traditions and its heritage, the Church is open to all, and seeks to minister not only to men, or to foxes, or even to tigers, but to all of God's creations. To show that even the humblest of creatures, born into heathenry and made a slave, can be reached by the Gospel and become the most pious of beings shall prove to one and all that the power of Christ knows no bounds.</p> <p>Second, that as a tiger brought up as a slave, Matthew shall be able to speak to the Church and to all the world to effect the abolition of that horrendous practice. Though the Church has fought for centuries to abolish that heinous act among men, it has yet done little to end the enslavement by man of his fellow creations. Galatians 3:28 states; "There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." There are many men who do not think of the sins they commit against other beings, because they are ignorant and do not see the spark of the divine within us all; the placement of this tiger upon the papal throne will remove the scales from their eyes.</p> <p>Third, that it has come to our attention that the Church has in recent years been betrayed by its own, and that a great many ordained to her service have brought disgrace upon the sanctity of their vows, violating the sixth commandment, and engaging in acts of the type not fit to be spoken of among Christian males. We can wholeheartedly assure you that such acts against nature are not committed among our see; and that neither Matthew, nor any of the priests or deacons under him, would ever engage in such deeds. As a tiger uninvolved in these sinful proceedings, nor tainted by association with any involved in their perpetration, Matthew shall no doubt be a powerful force in ridding the Church of such actions as were condemned in Romans 1:26-27.</p> <p>Again, let us solemnly assure you, on our sacred honor as king and as a Christian, that we do not seek to force the hand of this body or exert any undue influence. We simply suggest, respectfully and humbly, that to place upon Bishop Matthew the responsibility and dignity of the Petrine Ministry would be a wise choice, one which would benefit not only our see, but all of the Church and all of God's children. We trust in the wisdom of the conclave to take their own counsel, and to heed the judgment of the Lord, and thereby to cast their vote correctly.</p> <p>To this document, we do, on this, the twenty-fifth day of February, in the year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Thirteen, affix our royal signature;</p> <blockquote> <p><em>Memo from Dr. Samesh; The above is a translation of a document written in Latin, found on a piece of vellum hidden in <a href="/scp-1845">SCP-1845</a>'s containment habitat during a routine inspection. Forensic analysis indicates that it was written by one of the raccoons trained to write and function as SCP-1845-1's scribes. A full review of security procedures is underway to determine how SCP-1845-1 became aware of the current papal vacancy and how it intended to send this message to the College of Cardinals. The Foundation's liaison within the Vatican has confirmed that neither the outgoing pope nor any senior members of the College of Cardinals are aware of the existence of SCP-1845 or of any historical alliance between the Catholic Church and non-human sapient entities.</em></p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/sede-vacante">Sede Vacante</a>" by Smapti, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/sede-vacante">https://scpwiki.com/sede-vacante</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <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> royal-signature-new.png<br/> <strong>Name:</strong> Foxprint.jpg<br/> <strong>Author:</strong> ANNAfoxlover<br/> <strong>License:</strong> Public Domain<br/> <strong>Source Link:</strong> <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Foxprint.jpg">Wikimedia Commons</a><br/> <strong>Additional Notes:</strong> Edited by <span class="printuser avatarhover"><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/elenee-fishtruck" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(4037075); return false;"><img alt="Elenee FishTruck" class="small" src="https://www.wikidot.com/avatar.php?userid=4037075&amp;size=small&amp;timestamp=1728501556" style="background-image:url(https://www.wikidot.com/userkarma.php?u=4037075)"/></a><a href="http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/elenee-fishtruck" onclick="WIKIDOT.page.listeners.userInfo(4037075); return false;">Elenee FishTruck</a></span></p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //To His Grace, Angelo Sodano, Dean of the College of Cardinals, Cardinal-Bishop of Albano, Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia, Cardinal-Priest of Santa Maria Nuova;// //And to His Grace, Tarcisio Bertone, Cardinal Secretary of State, Camarlengo of the Holy Roman Church, Secretary of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal-Bishop of Frascati;// //And to His Holiness, Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger, Pontifex Emeritus Benedict XVI;// //And to all other Cardinal-Bishops and Cardinal-Priests of the Holy Roman Church, Catholic and Apostolic, Militant, Penitent, and Triumphant;// Know that his Royal Highness, Eugenio the Second, by the Grace of God, King of the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Margrave of the Great Snow-Capped Mountain, Warden of All the Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Cities of Man, Defender of the Faith, greets you fondly and amiably, as a friend, compatriot, and brother in Christ. We have watched with great interest recent developments within the Church involving the departure from the Petrine Ministry of His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI. While we have respectfully disagreed with certain doctrinal notions advanced by the Church in recent decades, let it be said that we hold nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for the Vicar of Christ, who by the time this epistle reaches you shall have departed the Holy Office, and trust that his decision to abdicate the papacy is one reached through solemn contemplation and prayer, and which shall ultimately prove to be in the best interest of the Church. Before we proceed with our purpose for engaging you at this time, we feel it appropriate that we explain ourselves; for our see has for some time been //in partibus infidelium// and out of contact with Rome, and those who now serve her as members of the College of Cardinals may not be familiar with us. Our kingdom spans the whole of the great forests that stretch across the northwestern regions of the New World (save those regions settled by man, in accordance with the Concordance of Alki; those we merely steward and protect for our subjects traveling therein.) We currently find ourselves in a state of suzerainty to a group of men we suspect to be allied with the Holy Roman Empire (a condition we hope to appeal to whomever shall assume the Holy Office in the coming weeks), and though certain rogue elements that are not worth mentioning here currently present slight difficulties to the execution of our office, we assure you that the legitimacy of our divine right to rule this nation is unimpeachable. We are a fox, as was our father, and his, and his, and so on unto Time Immemorial, but our nation is not populated only by our own kind. Wolves, deer, sheep and goats, cats, birds of the air and creatures underfoot all number among our subjects; for we accept all within our domain who pledge to obey the laws of our kingdom and keep the love of Christ in their hearts. We have a bishop and priests among us who have maintained the apostolic succession and kept the Gospel and the magisterium of the Church pure and true throughout the centuries, and we have recently acquired a genuine Bible from the men of this region, that we may verify that our teachings have not been in error. It has come to our attention that within the days and weeks to come, the cardinals of the Church shall convene in Rome, as they have done time and time again throughout history, to determine who shall succeed Benedict XVI in the Bishopric of Rome. It is not our intent to attempt to exert undue influence on the decision of this august body, nor to cajole it, nor attempt to speak on its behalf; we merely wish to make the College aware of certain facts of which, due to the difficulties in communication between our see and the Church, it may be unaware. There is among our nation a tiger, bearing the Christian name Matthew, who is bishop of our see and the chief instructor and advisor in religious matters to ourself. He is a tiger of humble birth, but great spirit and wisdom. Having been born unto a pagan family in the land of Hindustan, he was merely a child when he was captured by slave-traders and brought to the New World to be made the property of a man living in one of the lands excluded from our dominion by the Concordance of Alki. In time, he made his escape from bondage and found his way into our lands, whereupon our knights discovered him wandering lost, and he was brought before our father, the late Albert VI. Though we do not suffer pagans to live in our lands, our father believed he could be redeemed; and in time Matthew accepted Christ's salvation and was baptized into the Church. He was ordained to the priesthood the following summer and has since proven the wisest and most pious of bishops that any in our lands can recall having known. He has personally attended to the bringing up of children in the faith, and is an invaluable aid to ourself in ensuring that our rulings and decisions are always just and Godly. It is our wish to suggest that, when the College of Cardinals convenes presently, that Bishop Matthew the tiger be considered and voted upon to become Pope. We are aware that we ask much of the cardinals assembled, to elect this tiger, however much we might speak well of him, having only just learned of him. If we were able, we would dispatch him to Rome immediately so that the cardinals might learn of him better; unfortunately, due to the circumstances of our suzerainty, it is not possible for him to travel at this time. We offer, therefore, the following three arguments that we feel bear consideration; First, that the Church has elected no Pope that was not a man. Though we know of none in our lands who lack faith in Christ, we know of a few poor souls who wonder whether a church so dominated by one kind can truly minister to them; and surely, if there are nations such as ours elsewhere in the world, there must be many among their numbers who also have such doubts. By placing Bishop Matthew in the pontificate, the Church shall be able to demonstrate to all that, though it has not shied away from its traditions and its heritage, the Church is open to all, and seeks to minister not only to men, or to foxes, or even to tigers, but to all of God's creations. To show that even the humblest of creatures, born into heathenry and made a slave, can be reached by the Gospel and become the most pious of beings shall prove to one and all that the power of Christ knows no bounds. Second, that as a tiger brought up as a slave, Matthew shall be able to speak to the Church and to all the world to effect the abolition of that horrendous practice. Though the Church has fought for centuries to abolish that heinous act among men, it has yet done little to end the enslavement by man of his fellow creations. Galatians 3:28 states; "There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." There are many men who do not think of the sins they commit against other beings, because they are ignorant and do not see the spark of the divine within us all; the placement of this tiger upon the papal throne will remove the scales from their eyes. Third, that it has come to our attention that the Church has in recent years been betrayed by its own, and that a great many ordained to her service have brought disgrace upon the sanctity of their vows, violating the sixth commandment, and engaging in acts of the type not fit to be spoken of among Christian males. We can wholeheartedly assure you that such acts against nature are not committed among our see; and that neither Matthew, nor any of the priests or deacons under him, would ever engage in such deeds. As a tiger uninvolved in these sinful proceedings, nor tainted by association with any involved in their perpetration, Matthew shall no doubt be a powerful force in ridding the Church of such actions as were condemned in Romans 1:26-27. Again, let us solemnly assure you, on our sacred honor as king and as a Christian, that we do not seek to force the hand of this body or exert any undue influence. We simply suggest, respectfully and humbly, that to place upon Bishop Matthew the responsibility and dignity of the Petrine Ministry would be a wise choice, one which would benefit not only our see, but all of the Church and all of God's children. We trust in the wisdom of the conclave to take their own counsel, and to heed the judgment of the Lord, and thereby to cast their vote correctly. To this document, we do, on this, the twenty-fifth day of February, in the year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Thirteen, affix our royal signature; [[div style="left; width:300px; border:0;"]] \|\|\|\| [[image royal-signature-new.png width="100px"]] \|\| [[/div]] > //Memo from Dr. Samesh; The above is a translation of a document written in Latin, found on a piece of vellum hidden in [[[SCP-1845]]]'s containment habitat during a routine inspection. Forensic analysis indicates that it was written by one of the raccoons trained to write and function as SCP-1845-1's scribes. A full review of security procedures is underway to determine how SCP-1845-1 became aware of the current papal vacancy and how it intended to send this message to the College of Cardinals. The Foundation's liaison within the Vatican has confirmed that neither the outgoing pope nor any senior members of the College of Cardinals are aware of the existence of SCP-1845 or of any historical alliance between the Catholic Church and non-human sapient entities.// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] ===== > Filename: royal-signature-new.png > Name: Foxprint.jpg > Author: ANNAfoxlover > License: Public Domain > Source Link: [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Foxprint.jpg Wikimedia Commons] > Additional Notes: Edited by [[*user Elenee FishTruck]] ===== [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-25T10:27:00	[ "_cc", "_licensebox", "fantasy", "first-person", "political", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	Sede Vacante - SCP Foundation	66	[ "scp-1845", "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" ]	[]	16507248	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/sede-vacante
send-in-the-clowns	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Whitaker woke up, groaning. He felt like he had one hell of a hangover; there was a noise in his head that sounded like that annoying National Weather Service "braaaaaak" noise, and his face felt… oily. He blinked, and suddenly realized that he was standing up in the middle of a street, and not lying down in bed. What the hell was happening?</p> <p>He looked at a nearby window, and saw his reflection: his face was painted like a clown, and he was wearing a cowboy hat for some reason. And… was that a sports commentary he could hear? What the hell was going on? Last thing he remembered, he and his team were trying to get into… somewhere…</p> <p>"Hey, buddy. You're up." He was pushed out of the alleyway by an unseen force, and stepped before a… the best word to describe it was a "dragon" but surely a dragon wouldn't have looked this wrong. Its skin was a combination of scales and rotting flesh, it had at least six eyes, and an opening in its stomach that looked almost like a second mouth. And the stench… It looked angry, and he could see why. On top of it, there was someone that appeared to be trying to ride it, holding on to bits of rotting flesh like a set of reins.</p> <p>Whitaker ran for it. He was in a city, all right, but… the city didn't make sense. Streets dead-ended into diagonal brick walls. A skyscraper stood right next to a warehouse. Part of what he thought was a school jutted out into the middle of the street. He ran into this last one, hoping for cover from… whatever it was.</p> <p>A horrible, inhuman voice bellowed "DISGUSTING!" The entire building shook as Whitaker cowered under a desk. He nearly let out a squeak of fear… but no sound escaped his lips. He tried saying the word "apple". Nothing. "barley". Nothing. He couldn't talk.</p> <p>That was inconsequential. He heard a loud crashing noise; the lizard-thing had broken through the school. He ran out the back. He heard another voice, booming and loud, the same sports commentary he had heard before; something about "rodeo clowns"? Was this some kind of sick joke? And that damn noise in his head wouldn't stop. What the fuck was going on?</p> <p>The lizard broke through the school, but Whitaker was a block away by then. He looked up, and stopped in his tracks suddenly. There he was, on a jumbotron bigger than entire buildings, showing him running away from the lizard. Below that were spectators, several thousand of them, sitting in a giant grandstand. The jumbotron briefly displayed the words:</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>682 RODEO</strong><br/> <strong>BROUGHT TO YOU BY</strong><br/> <strong>PEPSI</strong></p> </div> <p>Whitaker didn't have time to even think <em>what the actual shit</em> before the jumbotron switched back to him, showing the lizard, presumably 682, right behind him. Its jaws were open… and then they snapped shut on his leg.</p> <p>The last experience Whitaker felt in his life was indescribable pain.</p> <hr/> <p>"So then my dad shot her," intoned Kain. "It was weird."</p> <p>"What an amazing story, Professor Crow! Let's see how Kondraki is doing!" Clef checked the timer. "Holy 343! Konny's been riding 682 for 3 hours now! 3 hours riding the magic dragon! Someone give this man a Foundation star!"</p> <p>"It's a pity about the rodeo clowns, though, don't you think?"</p> <p>"They're just GOC agents, Crow. Nobody will care."</p> <p>"…remind me what the official purpose of this test is?"</p> <p>"To test how 682 reacts to urban environments. Didn't you read the brief?"</p> <p>"Did we have to use an actual city, though?"</p> <p>"It'll be fine, Kain. Don't be such a worrywart."</p> <p>Just then, 682 started climbing the Empire State Building. Kondraki still clung on to it as it dove in and out of the building, trying to buck him off. All the while, the two of them could be heard cursing. 682's speech went something along the lines of "Get off me you filthy human!", while Kondraki simply laughed from exhilaration and cursed as he tried to dodge flying glass.</p> <p>Finally, 682 reached the top of the building, and with a swing of its head, shook Kondraki off. Within 2 minutes, the man was a puddle of red mist on the pavement below.</p> <p>"And Kondraki clocks in at 3 hours, 10 minutes! Not bad!" Clef looked at Kain. "Have someone scrape him off the pavement, will you?"</p> <p>Kain grumbled a bit, before speaking into the mic, "The 682 Rodeo is brought to you by Taco Bell. Live Mas. Coming up: the tie-down, and more bareback 682 riding! But first, these messages."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/lolfoundation-hub-page">HUB</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/send-in-the-clowns">Send in the Clowns</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/send-in-the-clowns">https://scpwiki.com/send-in-the-clowns</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 Whitaker woke up, groaning. He felt like he had one hell of a hangover; there was a noise in his head that sounded like that annoying National Weather Service "braaaaaak" noise, and his face felt... oily. He blinked, and suddenly realized that he was standing up in the middle of a street, and not lying down in bed. What the hell was happening? He looked at a nearby window, and saw his reflection: his face was painted like a clown, and he was wearing a cowboy hat for some reason. And... was that a sports commentary he could hear? What the hell was going on? Last thing he remembered, he and his team were trying to get into... somewhere... "Hey, buddy. You're up." He was pushed out of the alleyway by an unseen force, and stepped before a... the best word to describe it was a "dragon" but surely a dragon wouldn't have looked this wrong. Its skin was a combination of scales and rotting flesh, it had at least six eyes, and an opening in its stomach that looked almost like a second mouth. And the stench... It looked angry, and he could see why. On top of it, there was someone that appeared to be trying to ride it, holding on to bits of rotting flesh like a set of reins. Whitaker ran for it. He was in a city, all right, but... the city didn't make sense. Streets dead-ended into diagonal brick walls. A skyscraper stood right next to a warehouse. Part of what he thought was a school jutted out into the middle of the street. He ran into this last one, hoping for cover from... whatever it was. A horrible, inhuman voice bellowed "DISGUSTING!" The entire building shook as Whitaker cowered under a desk. He nearly let out a squeak of fear... but no sound escaped his lips. He tried saying the word "apple". Nothing. "barley". Nothing. He couldn't talk. That was inconsequential. He heard a loud crashing noise; the lizard-thing had broken through the school. He ran out the back. He heard another voice, booming and loud, the same sports commentary he had heard before; something about "rodeo clowns"? Was this some kind of sick joke? And that damn noise in his head wouldn't stop. What the fuck was going on? The lizard broke through the school, but Whitaker was a block away by then. He looked up, and stopped in his tracks suddenly. There he was, on a jumbotron bigger than entire buildings, showing him running away from the lizard. Below that were spectators, several thousand of them, sitting in a giant grandstand. The jumbotron briefly displayed the words: [[=]] 682 RODEO BROUGHT TO YOU BY PEPSI [[/=]] Whitaker didn't have time to even think //what the actual shit// before the jumbotron switched back to him, showing the lizard, presumably 682, right behind him. Its jaws were open... and then they snapped shut on his leg. The last experience Whitaker felt in his life was indescribable pain. ------ "So then my dad shot her," intoned Kain. "It was weird." "What an amazing story, Professor Crow! Let's see how Kondraki is doing!" Clef checked the timer. "Holy 343! Konny's been riding 682 for 3 hours now! 3 hours riding the magic dragon! Someone give this man a Foundation star!" "It's a pity about the rodeo clowns, though, don't you think?" "They're just GOC agents, Crow. Nobody will care." "...remind me what the official purpose of this test is?" "To test how 682 reacts to urban environments. Didn't you read the brief?" "Did we have to use an actual city, though?" "It'll be fine, Kain. Don't be such a worrywart." Just then, 682 started climbing the Empire State Building. Kondraki still clung on to it as it dove in and out of the building, trying to buck him off. All the while, the two of them could be heard cursing. 682's speech went something along the lines of "Get off me you filthy human!", while Kondraki simply laughed from exhilaration and cursed as he tried to dodge flying glass. Finally, 682 reached the top of the building, and with a swing of its head, shook Kondraki off. Within 2 minutes, the man was a puddle of red mist on the pavement below. "And Kondraki clocks in at 3 hours, 10 minutes! Not bad!" Clef looked at Kain. "Have someone scrape him off the pavement, will you?" Kain grumbled a bit, before speaking into the mic, "The 682 Rodeo is brought to you by Taco Bell. Live Mas. Coming up: the tie-down, and more bareback 682 riding! But first, these messages." [[=]] << \| [[[lolFoundation Hub Page\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-08T04:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "kain-pathos-crow", "lolfoundation", "tale" ]	Send in the Clowns - SCP Foundation	107	[ "lolfoundation-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "lolfoundation-hub-page" ]	[]	20894082	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/send-in-the-clowns
senescence-consumption-persecution	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="font-size:0%;">☦The slow fall of the Foundation.☦</span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><em>August 14th, 2051 - September 9th, 2077</em></strong></p> </div> <p><em>The castle was old and decrepit but still stood, a testament to the stubbornness of humanity’s rules impressed upon the world. It had been so easy then to establish their symbol of absolute control upon everything they felt the need to conquer. It was not so easy to maintain.</em></p> <p><em>Still, the castle proudly stood. It was unaffected by water and rain. It took no damage from vines supported by it or the animals sheltered by it. None of those could remove the old stones, dislodge the buttresses or collapse the foundation.</em></p> <p><em>An insignificant fragment of stone is chipped from a wall.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>The patient flipped through the pages of a well-loved storybook with the same intentness as when it was new. It paid no heed to when the good doctor walked in, though the wings on its skin stopped their fluttering for just a moment in acknowledgement. Dr. Blake coughed, unused to the musky scent of a neglected room.</p> <p>The doctor fiddled with his badge, arthritic fingers rubbing over his Site Director title, then his name. “Hello, SCP-1252.” He spoke with a timbre that denied the wrinkles on his face. “I’ll make this quick. We’ve decided that resources here would be better spent elsewhere. Therefo-”</p> <p>“Yes. Please.”</p> <p>The doctor’s momentary silence was the only sign he may have been taken aback. “Excuse me?”</p> <p>“Yes. Please.” The humanoid’s throat was raspy with lack of use. What remained of its tongue licked at its lips, wetting them with half-congealed spittle. “You can’t… really…” It took a breath of its mask. “…keep me anymore, right? That’s okay.” It tried to give its most reassuring smile. “I don’t mind.” SCP-1252 attempted to reach out and console the man who had lied to and trapped it here. The wires barely allowed it to unbend its elbow.</p> <p>“…Can you at least afford a bullet?”</p> <p>Dr. Blake reached over to turn the life support off.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>What was but one brick, fallen out of its massive walls?</em></p> <blockquote> <p>The cameras couldn’t see everywhere, though they tried. Many had been coated in vines but no one could afford the resources to replace or repair them. What few remained could only survey a small area, leaving the children free to do as they desired once they learned to avoid the artificial eyes.</p> <p>A boy neared his 50th birthday but had long forgotten to age. His faded blue pajamas seemed transparent under the sunlight as he climbed through his home. Normally he would only be awake once the moon had tucked the sun to bed, but today he had come to check out the first visitor in a decade.</p> <p>At the edge of the overgrown garden, a girl cradled a nearly lifeless ragdoll in her arms. Her head was cocked to the side in curiosity, though no expression could be seen past her sun bleached giraffe mask. She had come to be invited into a secret club of children who had discovered that the physical world was just an option. As the local welcome crew came to greet her, she extended her prize.</p> <p>The boy took her ragdoll, pressing it to his ear. The rough fabric could be seen from under his translucent fingers as he listened to a soul of what was once a woman, begging to feel again. He handed it back to his new friend, lips moving without sound. <em>Do you know tag?</em></p> </blockquote> <p><em>The rain is relentless this season, breathing life into withered vines to begin their work again. The animals seek shelter, burrowing away the castle’s foundations. Perhaps it had been wrong to think of such a relic as everlasting.</em></p> <p><em>But still, inevitability seemed too far away to accept.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>The room was given a gentle paint of cartoony animals in pastel colors, though even that has faded with time. Worn out children’s toys lay strewn over the floor, forgotten only to be rediscovered and played with as new again. A half-finished lion made of legos lay on its side as a reminder of what was lost. In a corner, a boy with red hair and a blush of freckles took his afternoon nap. His hands clung tightly to the holey blanket, allowing a thin sheet of worn fabric to defend against all the frightening unknowns of the world. He was neither roused by the sound of a door opening and closing nor awakened from the soft footsteps.</p> <p>There was supposed to be a single guard on duty. They could not afford to have a guard for the guard, not anymore. It was the long-awaited opportunity to strike a personal wound. The attackers could afford their bullets, where the protectors could not.</p> <p>To come running at the sound of a single gunshot was to be too late. The boy who endured the suffering of strangers had been finally allowed to no longer feel anymore.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>A stiff breeze prompted a few shaky stones to lose their grip. What used to be impenetrable now warmly invited all animals to shelter and home, unable to keep out even the least agile amongst them. The castle had become a giant rat’s nest and all the predators wanted their share.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>The Administrator surveyed the empty table before them.</p> <p>There used to be a time, about a generation ago, that each chair was filled with the best specimens humanity could provide. The brightest minds and the strongest of wills met together regularly to maintain absolute order onto a world that steadily became more disorderly. They were the steady hand that disciplined the rowdy teen. They were the gatekeepers between that which ran against the grain of society and the curious humanity that sought to cross them.</p> <p>There were few signs of things having gone amiss. At first, the increased collection of anomalies was brushed off as the result of a rapidly growing organization and the greater resources to hunt more leads. A few less useful sites were converted in anticipation for new growth. It was a simple matter of diverting minor funds at the time. If those bright minds of that day had been smart enough to predict the need for more extreme change at the time, perhaps all of this could’ve been avoided.</p> <p>That was wishful thinking. It was inevitable. The Administrator knew that. The Administrator knew that even before the Overseers began to empty their chairs.</p> <p>The first was a freak containment breach. It turns out that when the Engineering team had to construct hundreds of chambers a month, triple checking turned to double checking and double checking to a single glance over. Not even the kindest of man could keep up with the pace of new stories to fabricate, fresh containment procedures to devise, still-bleeding tragedies to hide.</p> <p>The next two were suicide. Even the strongest of wills broke under sustained pressure. The remainder were picked off over the years. A few simply disappeared. O5-2 hadn’t been seen since 590 was executed by the CI. Jack never could handle the loss of family. O5-4 left only the icon of a stylized rat king on her desk, a testament to how ingenuity was nothing more than functional insanity.</p> <p>Friendship and spirit did nothing to prevent this. Their ideals, aspirations, and the hearts that birthed them could not produce the strength they needed. Respect and duty had long fell to the wayside, far from the binding contracts that they were thought to be.</p> <p>In the end, nothing they really believed in could’ve saved them.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>The castle’s remaining walls moaned like the joints of an old man.</em></p> <p><em>Inevitability was on its way.</em></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="/senescence-consumption-persecution">Senescence, Consumption, Persecution</a>" by SoullessSingularity, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/senescence-consumption-persecution">https://scpwiki.com/senescence-consumption-persecution</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]☦The slow fall of the Foundation.☦ [[/size]] [[=]] //August 14th, 2051 - September 9th, 2077// [[/=]] //The castle was old and decrepit but still stood, a testament to the stubbornness of humanity’s rules impressed upon the world. It had been so easy then to establish their symbol of absolute control upon everything they felt the need to conquer. It was not so easy to maintain.// //Still, the castle proudly stood. It was unaffected by water and rain. It took no damage from vines supported by it or the animals sheltered by it. None of those could remove the old stones, dislodge the buttresses or collapse the foundation.// //An insignificant fragment of stone is chipped from a wall.// > The patient flipped through the pages of a well-loved storybook with the same intentness as when it was new. It paid no heed to when the good doctor walked in, though the wings on its skin stopped their fluttering for just a moment in acknowledgement. Dr. Blake coughed, unused to the musky scent of a neglected room. > > The doctor fiddled with his badge, arthritic fingers rubbing over his Site Director title, then his name. “Hello, SCP-1252.” He spoke with a timbre that denied the wrinkles on his face. “I’ll make this quick. We’ve decided that resources here would be better spent elsewhere. Therefo-” > > “Yes. Please.” > > The doctor’s momentary silence was the only sign he may have been taken aback. “Excuse me?” > > “Yes. Please.” The humanoid’s throat was raspy with lack of use. What remained of its tongue licked at its lips, wetting them with half-congealed spittle. “You can’t... really...” It took a breath of its mask. “...keep me anymore, right? That’s okay.” It tried to give its most reassuring smile. “I don’t mind.” SCP-1252 attempted to reach out and console the man who had lied to and trapped it here. The wires barely allowed it to unbend its elbow. > > “...Can you at least afford a bullet?” > > Dr. Blake reached over to turn the life support off. //What was but one brick, fallen out of its massive walls?// > The cameras couldn’t see everywhere, though they tried. Many had been coated in vines but no one could afford the resources to replace or repair them. What few remained could only survey a small area, leaving the children free to do as they desired once they learned to avoid the artificial eyes. > > A boy neared his 50th birthday but had long forgotten to age. His faded blue pajamas seemed transparent under the sunlight as he climbed through his home. Normally he would only be awake once the moon had tucked the sun to bed, but today he had come to check out the first visitor in a decade. > > At the edge of the overgrown garden, a girl cradled a nearly lifeless ragdoll in her arms. Her head was cocked to the side in curiosity, though no expression could be seen past her sun bleached giraffe mask. She had come to be invited into a secret club of children who had discovered that the physical world was just an option. As the local welcome crew came to greet her, she extended her prize. > > The boy took her ragdoll, pressing it to his ear. The rough fabric could be seen from under his translucent fingers as he listened to a soul of what was once a woman, begging to feel again. He handed it back to his new friend, lips moving without sound. //Do you know tag?// //The rain is relentless this season, breathing life into withered vines to begin their work again. The animals seek shelter, burrowing away the castle’s foundations. Perhaps it had been wrong to think of such a relic as everlasting.// //But still, inevitability seemed too far away to accept.// > The room was given a gentle paint of cartoony animals in pastel colors, though even that has faded with time. Worn out children’s toys lay strewn over the floor, forgotten only to be rediscovered and played with as new again. A half-finished lion made of legos lay on its side as a reminder of what was lost. In a corner, a boy with red hair and a blush of freckles took his afternoon nap. His hands clung tightly to the holey blanket, allowing a thin sheet of worn fabric to defend against all the frightening unknowns of the world. He was neither roused by the sound of a door opening and closing nor awakened from the soft footsteps. > > There was supposed to be a single guard on duty. They could not afford to have a guard for the guard, not anymore. It was the long-awaited opportunity to strike a personal wound. The attackers could afford their bullets, where the protectors could not. > > To come running at the sound of a single gunshot was to be too late. The boy who endured the suffering of strangers had been finally allowed to no longer feel anymore. //A stiff breeze prompted a few shaky stones to lose their grip. What used to be impenetrable now warmly invited all animals to shelter and home, unable to keep out even the least agile amongst them. The castle had become a giant rat’s nest and all the predators wanted their share.// > The Administrator surveyed the empty table before them. > > There used to be a time, about a generation ago, that each chair was filled with the best specimens humanity could provide. The brightest minds and the strongest of wills met together regularly to maintain absolute order onto a world that steadily became more disorderly. They were the steady hand that disciplined the rowdy teen. They were the gatekeepers between that which ran against the grain of society and the curious humanity that sought to cross them. > > There were few signs of things having gone amiss. At first, the increased collection of anomalies was brushed off as the result of a rapidly growing organization and the greater resources to hunt more leads. A few less useful sites were converted in anticipation for new growth. It was a simple matter of diverting minor funds at the time. If those bright minds of that day had been smart enough to predict the need for more extreme change at the time, perhaps all of this could’ve been avoided. > > That was wishful thinking. It was inevitable. The Administrator knew that. The Administrator knew that even before the Overseers began to empty their chairs. > > The first was a freak containment breach. It turns out that when the Engineering team had to construct hundreds of chambers a month, triple checking turned to double checking and double checking to a single glance over. Not even the kindest of man could keep up with the pace of new stories to fabricate, fresh containment procedures to devise, still-bleeding tragedies to hide. > > The next two were suicide. Even the strongest of wills broke under sustained pressure. The remainder were picked off over the years. A few simply disappeared. O5-2 hadn’t been seen since 590 was executed by the CI. Jack never could handle the loss of family. O5-4 left only the icon of a stylized rat king on her desk, a testament to how ingenuity was nothing more than functional insanity. > > Friendship and spirit did nothing to prevent this. Their ideals, aspirations, and the hearts that birthed them could not produce the strength they needed. Respect and duty had long fell to the wayside, far from the binding contracts that they were thought to be. > > In the end, nothing they really believed in could’ve saved them. //The castle’s remaining walls moaned like the joints of an old man.// //Inevitability was on its way.// [[=]] \| [[[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>]]	2013-01-26T11:18:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "bureaucracy", "rats-nest", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	Senescence, Consumption, Persecution - SCP Foundation	131	[ "rat-s-nest-hub", "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", "rat-s-nest-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "canon-hub" ]	[]	16206756	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/senescence-consumption-persecution
setting-the-stage	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p><em>Dear sir or madame,</em></p> <p><em>It has come to our attention that you have taken some of our props, and while we understand why you felt it necessary, we politely request you return them. We were not intending for the performance to reach the level it did, and it can only be seen as the fault of the actors. Some people just have to be free spirits, and while that is commendable in the long run, it isn't the way you run a production.</em></p> <p><em>Normally we'd let you keep them, but we feel they don't quite mesh with the performance we've presented thusfar. It isn't really proper to take a drama and throw a dash of realistic fiction into it, or vice versa. Performance is all about execution, and if we just threw properties at people willy nilly it wouldn't be very interesting. In terms you might understand, it's like performing an experiment with too many variables. The result just doesn't cut it.</em></p> <p><em>In exchange for the return of our property, we're willing to offer you a personal gift: tickets to our next show, "A Symphony in Algae" about undersea life and the effect of a prop very similar to the one you've stumbled onto. There are only two seats left, which we could sell to one of those exhibitionist art groups, but we've decided that the return of our belongings is worth being deprived of new players on the field.</em></p> <p><em>William Shakespeare once said</em> <tt>"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."</tt></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>And you know what? He was right.</em></p> <p><em>Sincerely,</em></p> <p><em>Wehrner Gillespie</em></p> <p><em>Red Actors Troupe</em></p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/setting-the-stage">Setting the Stage</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/setting-the-stage">https://scpwiki.com/setting-the-stage</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > //Dear sir or madame,// > > //It has come to our attention that you have taken some of our props, and while we understand why you felt it necessary, we politely request you return them. We were not intending for the performance to reach the level it did, and it can only be seen as the fault of the actors. Some people just have to be free spirits, and while that is commendable in the long run, it isn't the way you run a production.// > > //Normally we'd let you keep them, but we feel they don't quite mesh with the performance we've presented thusfar. It isn't really proper to take a drama and throw a dash of realistic fiction into it, or vice versa. Performance is all about execution, and if we just threw properties at people willy nilly it wouldn't be very interesting. In terms you might understand, it's like performing an experiment with too many variables. The result just doesn't cut it.// > > //In exchange for the return of our property, we're willing to offer you a personal gift: tickets to our next show, "A Symphony in Algae" about undersea life and the effect of a prop very similar to the one you've stumbled onto. There are only two seats left, which we could sell to one of those exhibitionist art groups, but we've decided that the return of our belongings is worth being deprived of new players on the field.// > > //William Shakespeare once said// {{"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."}} > > = //And you know what? He was right.// > > //Sincerely,// > > //Wehrner Gillespie// > > //Red Actors Troupe// [[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>]]	2013-01-20T15:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale" ]	Setting the Stage - SCP Foundation	48	[ "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", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	16145024	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/setting-the-stage
shadow-in-the-wake	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">Written by Wilt </span> <p style="text-align: center;">I am dying.</p> <p>Long ago did I know this; I had begun to slow in my age, and many times I would feel an aching that ran rampant within my core. My mind would wander and become hazy. Great periods of time would lapse without my knowing. I would travel between the points of light in what seemed to be a matter of minutes, when I knew that truly it had been longer. I was becoming old, an honor my kind hold very dear to them. With my end would come new beginnings. This would give my life meaning.</p> <p>I did not want to die. I do not believe any do - to be robbed from the sights of all things for the purpose of others seemed, to me, an honor I did not want to have. I was content with my life in the expanse. I enjoyed encountering new places and beings, each with their own stories. I was content with this, but my body was not. It was prepared to leave me, whether my mind was ready to part with it or not.</p> <p>Despite what I felt, I knew it was time to find a place to lie. I was a bumbling elder. My presence would serve only as a hindrance to my kind and their own journeys through the expanse. As is customary of my kind, I would find a plane to lie, and I would lie there until my time had passed. Only then would new beginnings come from my end, and I knew I would be a blessing upon the plane I perished in.</p> <p>I looked for some time, perhaps longer than most of my kind. While I was giving up the adventures that came with traveling the expanse, I did not want to spend my end staring into a plane of death and desolation. My time was spent searching for a land that would be beautiful; one that would provide much entertainment for my burden and I once my time had come. I sought new experiences that would unfold before my eyes. But it was a difficult journey, and I did not believe that I would find a place for my end. I closed my eyes, and hoped for my future.</p> <p>When my eyes had opened again, I was somewhere new. Time had once again passed without my control, and I was in a new cluster of planes, full of many intriguing but dead territories. I passed by two massive planes of wind and color, both equally beautiful and marvelous, but unsuitable for myself or my burden. I passed through a field of debris, occasionally bouncing off my exterior in a painful but unavoidable path of rotation. I passed a plane of rich red, and with the lines I knew life had once been here. I wept for the beauty that was lost there, in a time long before my presence.</p> <p>That was when I saw it - a plane of rich blues, greens, and tans, with wisps of white floating around in a shifting cocoon of movement. This land was full of many lives, and what I knew would be many great experiences. This would be my horizon until my end, and would the home of my burden. This place would grow around me as I withered within it, and I knew that my presence would be one of great significance to those who lived here. I had found my land, and gently did I make my descent into the blue.</p> <p>Later I would learn the natives would one day call this place Earth. I was fond of this name, and I knew that my burden would be, too, when their time had come.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;">A rumble within me brings my mind out of history long-passed. The darkness before my eyes is still, and the ringing in my ears reminds me that my time is nearing.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>Bells rang throughout the city, alerting the citizenry that it was time. The streets quickly filled with Tentaboins, each heading towards the Announcement Hall. Two Castmen finished dressing the stage with the rich blues of ulcarans as a crowd began to form. The expectant peoples paced quickly through the city, the pitter-patter of their steps and the echo of their voices resounding through every building and alleyway. Through every arch way and down every stone-lined street they marched towards the Hall, a procession of many legs and voices.</p> <p>The crowd grew in size outside, the collective murmurs filling the air. An assembly had been called today by none other than City Head Hervult himself. Presence was mandatory, an honor bestowed only for days of worship. As armed forces patrolled the streets, checking each house for anybody bold or blasphemous enough to skip, those in the crowd began to wonder at the significance of the assembly. Each face was pointed towards the looming Announcement Hall and its accompanying empty podium. A Castman had told them the announcement would be soon. This was an hour ago, and the crowd had grown anxious. Some whispered it was a call for war with the city of Hirakeroek, in the neighboring cavern. Others thought it was of religious significance: that the Great Deliverance was upon them.</p> <p>Only one man this day knew the truth. Diviner and Castman Anzak stood inside, nervously glancing at the crowd from a window. He knew the news he held was blasphemy. He knew the crowd would panic. He would have, too, had he been out there. He hardly believed in his own news, and he desperately wished it wasn't true, but the facts didn't lie. Anzak knew that. And he hated it.</p> <p>He was nervously double-checking his notes and his speech when he heard City Head Astair take to the podium. A hush fell over the crowd as he towered over them. He, too, was anxious to hear the announcement. His Graciousness Diviner Artem had sent word to the City Head, the call for the announcement scribed in rich, waxy velvet and porous whitestone - such luxuries only saved for the most significant of matters.</p> <p>City Head Hervult cleared his throat, smiled broadly, and began to speak to the crowd. "My fellow citizens of Tentaboe, I call you here on this most important of days. His Graciousness Diviner Artem has sent a caravan of holymen here today, and to all connecting cities and caverns, to share this news." He turned toward the Announcement Hall, and all eyes followed his.</p> <p>"Diviner Anzak, if you'd please join me on the stage?"</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/interlude-drift">Interlude - Drift</a> \| <a href="/old-man-in-the-sea-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="/shadow-in-the-wake">Shadow in the Wake</a>" by Wilt, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/shadow-in-the-wake">https://scpwiki.com/shadow-in-the-wake</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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]] = I am dying. Long ago did I know this; I had begun to slow in my age, and many times I would feel an aching that ran rampant within my core. My mind would wander and become hazy. Great periods of time would lapse without my knowing. I would travel between the points of light in what seemed to be a matter of minutes, when I knew that truly it had been longer. I was becoming old, an honor my kind hold very dear to them. With my end would come new beginnings. This would give my life meaning. I did not want to die. I do not believe any do - to be robbed from the sights of all things for the purpose of others seemed, to me, an honor I did not want to have. I was content with my life in the expanse. I enjoyed encountering new places and beings, each with their own stories. I was content with this, but my body was not. It was prepared to leave me, whether my mind was ready to part with it or not. Despite what I felt, I knew it was time to find a place to lie. I was a bumbling elder. My presence would serve only as a hindrance to my kind and their own journeys through the expanse. As is customary of my kind, I would find a plane to lie, and I would lie there until my time had passed. Only then would new beginnings come from my end, and I knew I would be a blessing upon the plane I perished in. I looked for some time, perhaps longer than most of my kind. While I was giving up the adventures that came with traveling the expanse, I did not want to spend my end staring into a plane of death and desolation. My time was spent searching for a land that would be beautiful; one that would provide much entertainment for my burden and I once my time had come. I sought new experiences that would unfold before my eyes. But it was a difficult journey, and I did not believe that I would find a place for my end. I closed my eyes, and hoped for my future. When my eyes had opened again, I was somewhere new. Time had once again passed without my control, and I was in a new cluster of planes, full of many intriguing but dead territories. I passed by two massive planes of wind and color, both equally beautiful and marvelous, but unsuitable for myself or my burden. I passed through a field of debris, occasionally bouncing off my exterior in a painful but unavoidable path of rotation. I passed a plane of rich red, and with the lines I knew life had once been here. I wept for the beauty that was lost there, in a time long before my presence. That was when I saw it - a plane of rich blues, greens, and tans, with wisps of white floating around in a shifting cocoon of movement. This land was full of many lives, and what I knew would be many great experiences. This would be my horizon until my end, and would the home of my burden. This place would grow around me as I withered within it, and I knew that my presence would be one of great significance to those who lived here. I had found my land, and gently did I make my descent into the blue. Later I would learn the natives would one day call this place Earth. I was fond of this name, and I knew that my burden would be, too, when their time had come. ------ > = A rumble within me brings my mind out of history long-passed. The darkness before my eyes is still, and the ringing in my ears reminds me that my time is nearing. ------ Bells rang throughout the city, alerting the citizenry that it was time. The streets quickly filled with Tentaboins, each heading towards the Announcement Hall. Two Castmen finished dressing the stage with the rich blues of ulcarans as a crowd began to form. The expectant peoples paced quickly through the city, the pitter-patter of their steps and the echo of their voices resounding through every building and alleyway. Through every arch way and down every stone-lined street they marched towards the Hall, a procession of many legs and voices. The crowd grew in size outside, the collective murmurs filling the air. An assembly had been called today by none other than City Head Hervult himself. Presence was mandatory, an honor bestowed only for days of worship. As armed forces patrolled the streets, checking each house for anybody bold or blasphemous enough to skip, those in the crowd began to wonder at the significance of the assembly. Each face was pointed towards the looming Announcement Hall and its accompanying empty podium. A Castman had told them the announcement would be soon. This was an hour ago, and the crowd had grown anxious. Some whispered it was a call for war with the city of Hirakeroek, in the neighboring cavern. Others thought it was of religious significance: that the Great Deliverance was upon them. Only one man this day knew the truth. Diviner and Castman Anzak stood inside, nervously glancing at the crowd from a window. He knew the news he held was blasphemy. He knew the crowd would panic. He would have, too, had he been out there. He hardly believed in his own news, and he desperately wished it wasn't true, but the facts didn't lie. Anzak knew that. And he hated it. He was nervously double-checking his notes and his speech when he heard City Head Astair take to the podium. A hush fell over the crowd as he towered over them. He, too, was anxious to hear the announcement. His Graciousness Diviner Artem had sent word to the City Head, the call for the announcement scribed in rich, waxy velvet and porous whitestone - such luxuries only saved for the most significant of matters. City Head Hervult cleared his throat, smiled broadly, and began to speak to the crowd. "My fellow citizens of Tentaboe, I call you here on this most important of days. His Graciousness Diviner Artem has sent a caravan of holymen here today, and to all connecting cities and caverns, to share this news." He turned toward the Announcement Hall, and all eyes followed his. "Diviner Anzak, if you'd please join me on the stage?" [[=]] << [[[Interlude - Drift]]] \| [[[old-man-in-the-sea-hub\| HUB]]] \| >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-01-27T06:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "old-man-in-the-sea", "tale" ]	Shadow in the Wake - SCP Foundation	54	[ "interlude-drift", "old-man-in-the-sea-hub", "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" ]	[]	16211425	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/shadow-in-the-wake
shady-meetings	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“You’re the new Clipper, right?”</p> <p>“No, I think the name we’re going with is Snipper, Miss The Director. A lot more snappy. Snippy snappy.”</p> <p>The Snipper winked, clicking his fingers towards the woman standing at the door.</p> <p>“Did you have to bring those in here?”</p> <p>“I think you mean ‘them’, and no, I didn’t, but they were all very interested in meeting everyone. They just couldn’t bear not to see you all.”</p> <p>The Director pinched her nose at the seat of rotten flesh.</p> <p>“You seen anybody else yet?”</p> <p>“Nobody was here when I arrived.”</p> <p>The Director moved around the table, taking the seat directly opposite The Snipper.</p> <p>“Alright. I’ve got to ask. How’d you get that in here without people noticing?”</p> <p>The Snipper looked blankly at The Director’s teeth. There was a smear of lipstick on one of them.</p> <p>“Without noticing?”</p> <p>“…you know what? I don’t even want to know.”</p> <p>An awkward silence formed between the two. The Director retreated to the comfort of her phone, texting out messages to her various actors, then playing a few rounds of solitaire. The few times she dared look up, The Snipper was carefully disassembling a human hand. He peeled back the skin, then stripped off the muscle with his bloodied fingernails. He smiled innocently, plucking at the tendons and watching his bony puppet dance.</p> <p><em>Fucking kid</em>, The Director thought to herself.</p> <p>“Hey guys, you’ve got to… oh. New Clipper, right?”</p> <p>The Composer stood awkwardly in the door frame.</p> <p>“Snipper. You must be Mister The Musician, yes?”</p> <p>“Uh, Mister The Composer, actually. Is that… damn, that smells. Are those human?”</p> <p>“You mean ‘they’, and yes, they are.”</p> <p>“Huh. Cool. Pretty fucking metal.”</p> <p>“Mostly skin and bone, actually.”</p> <p>The Composer turned, taking the seat next to The Director.</p> <p>“Anyway, Sandy, you need to listen to this. You know how I was working on that one sample… you know, ‘what’s cooler than being cool?’ Finally finished my muxing it properly, check this out. Ah, you’ll want both of these, here.”</p> <p>The Composer handed an iPod to The Director, earbuds swinging pendulously. She placed them in her ears, then pressed the play button. Her face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter.</p> <p>“That’s pretty good!”</p> <p>“Hey, Clipper, you want a listen?”</p> <p>The Snipper looked up from his rotting carcasses.</p> <p>“Snipper. Sure.”</p> <p>He reached over, and The Composer dropped the iPod into his red, dripping hands. He carefully placed one earbud in, then the other. The Composer looked expectantly at his face, waiting for some semblance of change. There was none. The track ended, and The Snipper placed the iPod back on the table.</p> <p>“I don’t understand.”</p> <p>“Well, you know where the sample’s from, right?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“And then, you heard the screaming, right?”</p> <p>“Yes.”</p> <p>“Well, it’s… don’t you get it?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>The Composer shared a knowing shake of the head with The Director. <em>Fucking plebeian</em>, they thought to themselves.</p> <p>“Don’t worry about it. It’s a bit of a complex work. There’s layers in it.”</p> <p>The Composer wiped off the viscera from the screen, switching to another track and settling into his wooden chair. The Director continued tapping at her phone. The Snipper was pulling apart another hand. The Builder and The Sculptor walked through the door, deep in conversation.</p> <p>“See, it’s like when you were building that stairwell, man, it’s gotta be… ah, yeah, he’s already here. Cover your nose, man.”</p> <p>“Damn, that’s rank.”</p> <p>“What’d I tell you though?”</p> <p>“Yeah. Pretty fuckin’ metal.”</p> <p>“Mostly skin and bone, actually.”</p> <p>The two of them sat on either side of The Snipper. The Builder initiated conversation.</p> <p>“So, Clipper-“</p> <p>“Snipper.”</p> <p>“Snipper, then. Have trouble finding the place?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>A short pause drew into a longer one.</p> <p>“So…”</p> <p>Another pause.</p> <p>“Hey, Bob, I finished that thing I was working on, you know, the ‘cooler than cool’ thing, listen to this.”</p> <p>The Builder reached over to the offered iPod, relieved at the offered distraction. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter.</p> <p>“That’s pretty good! Here, Tim, check this out.”</p> <p>The Sculptor took the iPod from The Builder, passing it across The Snipper, still fiddling with his hands. The Sculptor put the earbuds in his ears. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter.</p> <p>“That is pretty fucking good. Where are you gonna air this?”</p> <p>“Was thinking I might mail it out. Speaking of which, got an interesting package today. A messed up version of ‘We Are The Champions’, a shitty French cover. Butchered the translation, though, every damn article is wrong.”</p> <p>The Snipper looked up, staring at The Composer’s eyelids, some vague flash of recognition setting his face into a frown. The Sculptor gave his reply.</p> <p>“Yeah, we’re gonna have to talk about that. You’re not the only one getting mail.”</p> <p>“What do you mean?”</p> <p>“We’ll talk about it when everyone’s here.”</p> <p>The Painter burst through the door, poster in his hand.</p> <p>“Some asshat mailed me this shit.”</p> <p>He unravelled it and displayed it to the group. The majority of it was covered by crayon doodling, but in the centre of the poster was an intricately detailed human bottom, with the phrase ‘SHE GOT A SWEET ASS’ written underneath in glowing gold print.</p> <p>“Don’t get too close. Looking too long makes you shit yourself. It literally makes you shit your pants. I got this thing, I stared at it, wondering, gee, what does this mean, and then bam, brand new pair of underwear ruined.”</p> <p>The Painter rolled the poster up again, sitting between The Composer and The Sculptor. The Snipper intensified his gaze and frown.</p> <p>“This the new Clipper?”</p> <p>“I’d prefer Snip-“</p> <p>“Yeah, he is.”</p> <p>The Snipper switched his glare to The Director. She continued playing solitaire on her phone.</p> <p>“Well, about time we got rid of the old guy. He was losing his cool a bit.”</p> <p>The Sculptor moved uncomfortably in his seat at The Director’s comment.</p> <p>“He wasn’t that bad, you know. Getting on in years, yeah, but he was alright.”</p> <p>“Still though. Old men aren’t cool.”</p> <p>“Say that to The Critic. Speaking of which, anyone seen him yet?”</p> <p>“Nobody was here when I arrived.”</p> <p>“Weird. He’s normally the first one sitting at the table.”</p> <p>The Snipper sighed.</p> <p>“Are you any of you even listening to me?”</p> <p>Everybody turned to stare at him.</p> <p><em>Fucking nutjob</em>.</p> <hr/> <p>Felix Cori entered the cordoned-off room. Ruiz looked up from the half-yellow carbon steel blade on his lap.</p> <p>“Clipper.”</p> <p>“Duchamp.”</p> <p>“Enjoy the pizza?”</p> <p>“It was alright.”</p> <p>“Good.”</p> <p>Ruiz looked back down and continued painting the blade.</p> <p>“What are you doing?”</p> <p>“Painting a carbon steel blade yellow.”</p> <p>“Why are you painting a carbon steel blade yellow?”</p> <p>“Because they didn’t sell yellow ones at the store.”</p> <p>“Ah.”</p> <p>Felix sat down on one of the wooden chairs that littered the studio. It was cluttered with electronics and laboratory equipment, a quietly humming centrifuge sitting in the corner.</p> <p>“What’s in the centrifuge?”</p> <p>“Contagious cancer.”</p> <p>“Why are you making contagious cancer?”</p> <p>Ruiz looked up at Felix.</p> <p>“What do you want, Clipper? I’m busy.”</p> <p>“I’m not The Clipper any more. I got sick of that.”</p> <p>“And? Do you want a pat on the back? Go away.”</p> <p>Felix sat in stunned silence. Ruiz continued covering the circular blade, occasionally dipping his brush back into the bucket of viscous paint beside him.</p> <p>“I was expecting a ‘well done’ at least.”</p> <p>“Why?”</p> <p>“Well, I left them all behind, I’m not a part of it any more.”</p> <p>Ruiz stood up, dripping blade held out as he pointed.</p> <p>“YOU were not the problem. You weren’t doing anything, and honestly, I fucking liked it that way, you were the one person in that whole fucking club that I frankly didn’t give a shit about. But now you’ve left, and my stupid fucking brother’s in with them, and he’s just going to fuck it all up.”</p> <p>“Your brother?”</p> <p>“PICO. FUCKING. WILSON. The fucking psychopath your ‘friend’ pulled in to replace you. This wasn’t part of my fucking plan, he’s just going to fuck everything up. Fuck. FUCK!”</p> <p>Ruiz threw the wet blade at the opposite wall like a frisbee, slicing through the plaster like butter. He stood and stared at the stunned Felix, frowning like a spoilt child.</p> <p>“Ruiz, now, that’s not MY fault, you know, it’s-“</p> <p>“I know it’s not your fault. I know. I know. Shit. Fuck. Sorry Clipper.”</p> <p>“I’m not the Clipper any more. Call me Felix.”</p> <p>“Sorry Felix.”</p> <p>Ruiz walked to the wall, and started to extricate his yellow sun.</p> <p>“It was pretty damn simple, before. I’ve been working on this shit for months, it was all supposed to be planned, and then that asshole just happens to be in town, just happens to be showing off his stupid corpse bullshit. He’s not a fucking artist, he’s just a straight-up monster, and he’s going to complicate things a hell of a lot more.”</p> <p>Ruiz yanked the blade from the wall.</p> <p>“You weren’t supposed to leave. You were supposed to think about leaving, but you weren’t supposed to actually fucking leave. Felix, why the fuck did you decide now was a good time to start being unpredictable?”</p> <p>Felix didn’t know what to say, so he sat and said nothing.</p> <p>“Pico doesn’t know what he’s getting into, Pico’s fucking nuts, you don’t get how proper fucking mental this guy is. He is going to wreck everyone’s shit. Fuck.”</p> <p>Ruiz sat down and continued to paint the yellow blade. Felix composed himself and asked the question that he came to ask.</p> <p>“So what exactly are you trying to do?”</p> <p>“Instigate a paradigm shift. Remove the centralised power system. Dethrone The Critic.”</p> <p>“And… how?”</p> <p>Ruiz held up the blade.</p> <p>“You see this, Felix? I’ve been working on just this one blade for a month. It’s the most subtle work I’ve ever designed. Look at it, and you feel nothing. I can stick it on the rack, and you’ll feel nothing, I can put it in with a million other blades, and nobody would notice the difference. This one blade makes everything else I’ve ever done look like fucking kiddie scribbles, because you look at this blade, and you feel absolutely nothing about it.”</p> <p>“So what does it actually do?”</p> <p>“Nothing. Felix, this blade does absolutely nothing, and it’s the finest thing I’ve made in my entire life. I’ve got enough deadly bullshit in here to kill a country, and absolutely none of it breaks reality, and this is what I am going to show to The Critic, and this is what is going to drive him mad. Felix, I’m going to fill a room with deathtraps so obvious, so profoundly fucking stupid, that Nobody is going to actually use them.”</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>SO MUCH FOR ACT ONE</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/novel-cultivars">Novel Cultivars</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-toyman-and-the-doctor">The Toyman And The Doctor</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="/shady-meetings">Shady Meetings</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/shady-meetings">https://scpwiki.com/shady-meetings</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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’re the new Clipper, right?” “No, I think the name we’re going with is Snipper, Miss The Director. A lot more snappy. Snippy snappy.” The Snipper winked, clicking his fingers towards the woman standing at the door. “Did you have to bring those in here?” “I think you mean ‘them’, and no, I didn’t, but they were all very interested in meeting everyone. They just couldn’t bear not to see you all.” The Director pinched her nose at the seat of rotten flesh. “You seen anybody else yet?” “Nobody was here when I arrived.” The Director moved around the table, taking the seat directly opposite The Snipper. “Alright. I’ve got to ask. How’d you get that in here without people noticing?” The Snipper looked blankly at The Director’s teeth. There was a smear of lipstick on one of them. “Without noticing?” “…you know what? I don’t even want to know.” An awkward silence formed between the two. The Director retreated to the comfort of her phone, texting out messages to her various actors, then playing a few rounds of solitaire. The few times she dared look up, The Snipper was carefully disassembling a human hand. He peeled back the skin, then stripped off the muscle with his bloodied fingernails. He smiled innocently, plucking at the tendons and watching his bony puppet dance. //Fucking kid//, The Director thought to herself. “Hey guys, you’ve got to… oh. New Clipper, right?” The Composer stood awkwardly in the door frame. “Snipper. You must be Mister The Musician, yes?” “Uh, Mister The Composer, actually. Is that… damn, that smells. Are those human?” “You mean ‘they’, and yes, they are.” “Huh. Cool. Pretty fucking metal.” “Mostly skin and bone, actually.” The Composer turned, taking the seat next to The Director. “Anyway, Sandy, you need to listen to this. You know how I was working on that one sample… you know, ‘what’s cooler than being cool?’ Finally finished my muxing it properly, check this out. Ah, you’ll want both of these, here.” The Composer handed an iPod to The Director, earbuds swinging pendulously. She placed them in her ears, then pressed the play button. Her face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter. “That’s pretty good!” “Hey, Clipper, you want a listen?” The Snipper looked up from his rotting carcasses. “Snipper. Sure.” He reached over, and The Composer dropped the iPod into his red, dripping hands. He carefully placed one earbud in, then the other. The Composer looked expectantly at his face, waiting for some semblance of change. There was none. The track ended, and The Snipper placed the iPod back on the table. “I don’t understand.” “Well, you know where the sample’s from, right?” “Yes.” “And then, you heard the screaming, right?” “Yes.” “Well, it’s… don’t you get it?” “No.” The Composer shared a knowing shake of the head with The Director. //Fucking plebeian//, they thought to themselves. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a bit of a complex work. There’s layers in it.” The Composer wiped off the viscera from the screen, switching to another track and settling into his wooden chair. The Director continued tapping at her phone. The Snipper was pulling apart another hand. The Builder and The Sculptor walked through the door, deep in conversation. “See, it’s like when you were building that stairwell, man, it’s gotta be… ah, yeah, he’s already here. Cover your nose, man.” “Damn, that’s rank.” “What’d I tell you though?” “Yeah. Pretty fuckin’ metal.” “Mostly skin and bone, actually.” The two of them sat on either side of The Snipper. The Builder initiated conversation. “So, Clipper-“ “Snipper.” “Snipper, then. Have trouble finding the place?” “No.” A short pause drew into a longer one. “So…” Another pause. “Hey, Bob, I finished that thing I was working on, you know, the ‘cooler than cool’ thing, listen to this.” The Builder reached over to the offered iPod, relieved at the offered distraction. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter. “That’s pretty good! Here, Tim, check this out.” The Sculptor took the iPod from The Builder, passing it across The Snipper, still fiddling with his hands. The Sculptor put the earbuds in his ears. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then bemusement, and then of restrained laughter. “That is pretty fucking good. Where are you gonna air this?” “Was thinking I might mail it out. Speaking of which, got an interesting package today. A messed up version of ‘We Are The Champions’, a shitty French cover. Butchered the translation, though, every damn article is wrong.” The Snipper looked up, staring at The Composer’s eyelids, some vague flash of recognition setting his face into a frown. The Sculptor gave his reply. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to talk about that. You’re not the only one getting mail.” “What do you mean?” “We’ll talk about it when everyone’s here.” The Painter burst through the door, poster in his hand. “Some asshat mailed me this shit.” He unravelled it and displayed it to the group. The majority of it was covered by crayon doodling, but in the centre of the poster was an intricately detailed human bottom, with the phrase ‘SHE GOT A SWEET ASS’ written underneath in glowing gold print. “Don’t get too close. Looking too long makes you shit yourself. It literally makes you shit your pants. I got this thing, I stared at it, wondering, gee, what does this mean, and then bam, brand new pair of underwear ruined.” The Painter rolled the poster up again, sitting between The Composer and The Sculptor. The Snipper intensified his gaze and frown. “This the new Clipper?” “I’d prefer Snip-“ “Yeah, he is.” The Snipper switched his glare to The Director. She continued playing solitaire on her phone. “Well, about time we got rid of the old guy. He was losing his cool a bit.” The Sculptor moved uncomfortably in his seat at The Director’s comment. “He wasn’t that bad, you know. Getting on in years, yeah, but he was alright.” “Still though. Old men aren’t cool.” “Say that to The Critic. Speaking of which, anyone seen him yet?” “Nobody was here when I arrived.” “Weird. He’s normally the first one sitting at the table.” The Snipper sighed. “Are you any of you even listening to me?” Everybody turned to stare at him. //Fucking nutjob//. ------------------------ Felix Cori entered the cordoned-off room. Ruiz looked up from the half-yellow carbon steel blade on his lap. “Clipper.” “Duchamp.” “Enjoy the pizza?” “It was alright.” “Good.” Ruiz looked back down and continued painting the blade. “What are you doing?” “Painting a carbon steel blade yellow.” “Why are you painting a carbon steel blade yellow?” “Because they didn’t sell yellow ones at the store.” “Ah.” Felix sat down on one of the wooden chairs that littered the studio. It was cluttered with electronics and laboratory equipment, a quietly humming centrifuge sitting in the corner. “What’s in the centrifuge?” “Contagious cancer.” “Why are you making contagious cancer?” Ruiz looked up at Felix. “What do you want, Clipper? I’m busy.” “I’m not The Clipper any more. I got sick of that.” “And? Do you want a pat on the back? Go away.” Felix sat in stunned silence. Ruiz continued covering the circular blade, occasionally dipping his brush back into the bucket of viscous paint beside him. “I was expecting a ‘well done’ at least.” “Why?” “Well, I left them all behind, I’m not a part of it any more.” Ruiz stood up, dripping blade held out as he pointed. “YOU were not the problem. You weren’t doing anything, and honestly, I fucking liked it that way, you were the one person in that whole fucking club that I frankly didn’t give a shit about. But now you’ve left, and my stupid fucking brother’s in with them, and he’s just going to fuck it all up.” “Your brother?” “PICO. FUCKING. WILSON. The fucking psychopath your ‘friend’ pulled in to replace you. This wasn’t part of my fucking plan, he’s just going to fuck everything up. Fuck. FUCK!” Ruiz threw the wet blade at the opposite wall like a frisbee, slicing through the plaster like butter. He stood and stared at the stunned Felix, frowning like a spoilt child. “Ruiz, now, that’s not MY fault, you know, it’s-“ “I know it’s not your fault. I know. I know. Shit. Fuck. Sorry Clipper.” “I’m not the Clipper any more. Call me Felix.” “Sorry Felix.” Ruiz walked to the wall, and started to extricate his yellow sun. “It was pretty damn simple, before. I’ve been working on this shit for months, it was all supposed to be planned, and then that asshole just happens to be in town, just happens to be showing off his stupid corpse bullshit. He’s not a fucking artist, he’s just a straight-up monster, and he’s going to complicate things a hell of a lot more.” Ruiz yanked the blade from the wall. “You weren’t supposed to leave. You were supposed to think about leaving, but you weren’t supposed to actually fucking leave. Felix, why the fuck did you decide now was a good time to start being unpredictable?” Felix didn’t know what to say, so he sat and said nothing. “Pico doesn’t know what he’s getting into, Pico’s fucking nuts, you don’t get how proper fucking mental this guy is. He is going to wreck everyone’s shit. Fuck.” Ruiz sat down and continued to paint the yellow blade. Felix composed himself and asked the question that he came to ask. “So what exactly are you trying to do?” “Instigate a paradigm shift. Remove the centralised power system. Dethrone The Critic.” “And… how?” Ruiz held up the blade. “You see this, Felix? I’ve been working on just this one blade for a month. It’s the most subtle work I’ve ever designed. Look at it, and you feel nothing. I can stick it on the rack, and you’ll feel nothing, I can put it in with a million other blades, and nobody would notice the difference. This one blade makes everything else I’ve ever done look like fucking kiddie scribbles, because you look at this blade, and you feel absolutely nothing about it.” “So what does it actually do?” “Nothing. Felix, this blade does absolutely nothing, and it’s the finest thing I’ve made in my entire life. I’ve got enough deadly bullshit in here to kill a country, and absolutely none of it breaks reality, and this is what I am going to show to The Critic, and this is what is going to drive him mad. Felix, I’m going to fill a room with deathtraps so obvious, so profoundly fucking stupid, that Nobody is going to actually use them.” -------------------------- [[=]] SO MUCH FOR ACT ONE << [[[Novel Cultivars]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Toyman And The Doctor]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-11-25T02:53:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "comedy", "horror", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale" ]	Shady Meetings - SCP Foundation	177	[ "novel-cultivars", "the-cool-war-hub", "the-toyman-and-the-doctor", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20742929	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/shady-meetings
six-little-mice	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Six little mice scampered 'cross the floor</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>"Eddy, are you seriously reading the news right now?"</p> <p>I look up from my copy of TIME to glare at Justin. "Come <em>on,</em> man. This Hartle thing's cool, the scenery here hasn't changed for <em>two hours</em>, and we're still not anywhere near the screamer."</p> <p>"The kid, you mean," Dean said.</p> <p>"I <em>mean</em> the screamer. Could still be a decoy, you know." I turn the page. It's ridiculous, but I have to hold the magazine way too close to my face to make out the text, even with my headlamp on. Stupid Can and its stupid darkness and its stupid <em>stairs!</em> "I wish they'd let me bring my iPod."</p> <p>"But we gotta keep our ears out!" Emmy pipes up. I don't even have to look up to know she's smiling like an idiot.</p> <p>"For <em>what?</em>" I snap. I'm just getting to the good part of the article, too, but all this talking is ruining my focus. Stupid language centers. "The screamer's a broken record, the mask isn't known to make <em>any</em> sound, and the only other noises in this stupid place are <em>us.</em>"</p> <p>"… We're not noises, Eddy."</p> <p>"It's an <em>expression,</em> Em."</p> <p>"No it isn't."</p> <p>"Oh my god, are you two seriously arguing about this?" Justin asked, taking a hand off his rifle to massage the bridge of his nose.</p> <p>"No," I said.</p> <p>"Yes," Emmy said at the same time.</p> <p>"Stop it, all of you," Agent Johnson snapped.</p> <p>"Yessir," we all said with varying levels of non-enthusiasm.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One got his little tail slammed in a door</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>We got to the next landing, but as I turned the corner, I felt a jerk as my safety line caught. "Dammit, line's stuck <em>again.</em> What's the <em>point</em> of these things?"</p> <p>Emmy turned, mouth already open to start lecturing me, but then her eyes got real big and she started screaming. I jumped probably a foot in the air, and jerked my head to follow her gaze over my shoulder.</p> <p>Cold terror froze me in place as I looked into the non-eyes of that damn mask. It wasn't even looking at me; it was looking at my copy of TIME.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>There was no escape from the big bad cat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>I finally managed to get my muscles moving, but it didn't matter. My line was caught, and it was too close.</p> <p>The last thing I feel is searing heat cutting through cartilage and bone.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Five little mice left to make him fat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Five little mice scampered 'cross the deck</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>I pushed past Emily and opened fire on the mask. Every part of my mind was screaming (like Emily; Emily was screaming) that I should run, hide, huddle with my head between my knees because it was my last chance to kiss my ass goodbye. But I couldn't. I had a team to protect. How could I face Edward's wife (Justin's wife, Dean's wife, Sam's wife, <em>Emily's</em> wife…) if I just ran away from something like this and left them all to die (are brains supposed to steam like that?) without doing anything? "Cut your lines and keep going!"</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One had his little head torn off his neck</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>I didn't hear the answer over the sound of my gun, and I don't even know if the mask is taking damage (it's covered in splashes of molten lead now; will that slow it down?), but I hold my ground as it charges forward.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>There was no escape from the big bad cat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>As my head rolls down the steps, I'm at least able to see that my team has gotten away (for now; maybe they'll make it, so I've got to have faith in them), so at least I can hold onto that hope until my consciousness fades.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Four little mice left to make him fat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Four little mice scampered 'cross the bowl</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>Dean had gotten Emmy's hand, so I just focused on running. We had to get away. Floor after floor after floor after floor after floor blurred by. I was at the front of the group, but I could hear their footsteps behind me. I didn't dare look back to check for the thing that had gotten Eddy, but I prayed that Agent Johnson got the thing and was going to be okay.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One ran ahead and he fell in a hole</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>"SAMMY!"</p> <p>My brain registered Justin shouting my name before I actually realised I was falling. I hadn't even seen the hole in the staircase. At first, I'd thought that I'd just hit the flight beneath us, because I tend to assume that Euclidean geometry works until proven otherwise.</p> <p>"SAMMY!"</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>There was no escape from the big bad cat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>It was proven otherwise. The light at the top vanished a while ago. There's no way anyone's gonna be able to reach me before I bite it.</p> <p>I wonder if I'll hit something or starve first? If Eddy were still alive, we could've bet on it… .</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Three little mice left to make him fat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Three little mice scampered 'cross the shed</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>"SAMMY!" I lunged for the loose end of his line. I came up two inches too short. Woulda fallen in after him, if it weren't for Dean grabbing the back of my flak jacket. I waited for the thud. I waited to hear him shout something as he hit the flight below.</p> <p>It never happened.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One couldn't take that his friend was so dead</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>I grabbed the railing and started around the edge of the hole — both the rail and the floor seemed to be holding up. "Come on! He can't seriously be dead. No way."</p> <p>I shoulda known then that I was kidding myself. I wouldn'ta said that if I wasn't already thinking he was. It was painful slowing my pace to make sure there wasn't another hole ahead, but I got to the spot where he shoulda been.</p> <p>"He's seriously not here!"</p> <p>"Come on, we've got a mission to do," Dean said when he noticed I'd stopped moving. How could he even be serious? "We have to keep going."</p> <p>"Fuck the mission! Sammy just — he's gonna show up here eventually, right? Maybe time's just wrong."</p> <p>"That's unlikely…" Emmy said.</p> <p>"We <em>need</em> to keep going," Dean growled.</p> <p>"I'm staying here and waiting for Sammy, dammit! If you seriously think the mission is so much more important, then go ahead. We'll catch up."</p> <p>"… Fine." Dean clapped me on the shoulder. "But if you see that mask, run, okay?"</p> <p>"Yeah." I nodded.</p> <p>Emmy kept glancing back at me until they were out of sight.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>There was no escape from the big bad cat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>I think they left about an hour ago. Sammy's still not here.</p> <p>… Run if I see the mask, huh?</p> <p>I would, but I seriously can't feel my legs anymore.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Two little mice left to make him fat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>Two little mice scampered 'cross the desk</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>We've been going for hours. I think we're getting closer, though. There's a stitch in my side, though, and my feet are starting to ache even with my orthopedic insoles. "Hey, Dean, can we stop for a bit?"</p> <p>He frowns. "We're almost there."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One was exhausted and she had to rest</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>"I know. I just need to rest."</p> <p>He stops as he reaches the next landing. "Alright."</p> <p>I sigh with relief and sit down on the steps. "Do you think we're going to get out of here alive?"</p> <p>"We gotta try." He leaned back against the wall and kept his light focused on the flight of stairs behind me. "That's all we can do."</p> <p>"Yeah… ."</p> <p>Silence that even I could tell was awkward fell. I thought about A'isha. I'm sure she'll be able to support herself financially without me, but —</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>There was no escape from the big bad cat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>The last thing I hear is Dean's startled swearing.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One little mouse left to make him fat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>One little mouse scampered 'cross the map</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>A white blur shot out of the darkness.</p> <p>"SHIT!" I had no idea it could move so <em>fast!</em> Something that was probably a piece of Emmy's skull landed on my vest, but I was barely paying attention to that. I'd already started running, and there was no way I was looking down or looking back.</p> <p>I ran. I kept running. I could hear myself getting closer to the kid, and that was the only thing that was keeping me going. I had to reach her. Even if I die right afterward, I at least gotta tell her that she's not forgotten, and help's coming. They're gonna send in the big guns if none of us make it back on time.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>He found the cheese and fell into the trap</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>My boots splashed in something as I finally reached the bottom. The whole floor was covered in some sort of liquid an inch deep. The darkness was a lot worse than on the stairs, so I could barely see a few feet in front of me.</p> <p>"Help! Please!"</p> <p>I ran towards the voice, and there she was: A little girl with short black hair and a white dress. I knew there had to be a kid down here. I fell to my knees in relief and hugged her. "It's okay. Help's coming. It's going to be okay."</p> <p>"Thank you, Mister. I was so hungry… ."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>There was no escape from the big bad cat</em></p> </blockquote> </div> <p>She suddenly tears a chunk out of my neck with teeth that are far too sharp to be human. I should have thought it was suspicious that she was standing and didn't seem injured.</p> <p>"There will be plenty of time for regrets in my stomach," she whispers as my brain suffocates.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <blockquote> <p><em>So here come more mice to make him fat</em></p> </blockquote> </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="/six-little-mice">Six Little Mice</a>" by Pig_catapult, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/six-little-mice">https://scpwiki.com/six-little-mice</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[=]] > //Six little mice scampered 'cross the floor// [[/=]] "Eddy, are you seriously reading the news right now?" I look up from my copy of TIME to glare at Justin. "Come //on,// man. This Hartle thing's cool, the scenery here hasn't changed for //two hours//, and we're still not anywhere near the screamer." "The kid, you mean," Dean said. "I //mean// the screamer. Could still be a decoy, you know." I turn the page. It's ridiculous, but I have to hold the magazine way too close to my face to make out the text, even with my headlamp on. Stupid Can and its stupid darkness and its stupid //stairs!// "I wish they'd let me bring my iPod." "But we gotta keep our ears out!" Emmy pipes up. I don't even have to look up to know she's smiling like an idiot. "For //what?//" I snap. I'm just getting to the good part of the article, too, but all this talking is ruining my focus. Stupid language centers. "The screamer's a broken record, the mask isn't known to make //any// sound, and the only other noises in this stupid place are //us.//" ". . . We're not noises, Eddy." "It's an //expression,// Em." "No it isn't." "Oh my god, are you two seriously arguing about this?" Justin asked, taking a hand off his rifle to massage the bridge of his nose. "No," I said. "Yes," Emmy said at the same time. "Stop it, all of you," Agent Johnson snapped. "Yessir," we all said with varying levels of non-enthusiasm. [[=]] > //One got his little tail slammed in a door// [[/=]] We got to the next landing, but as I turned the corner, I felt a jerk as my safety line caught. "Dammit, line's stuck //again.// What's the //point// of these things?" Emmy turned, mouth already open to start lecturing me, but then her eyes got real big and she started screaming. I jumped probably a foot in the air, and jerked my head to follow her gaze over my shoulder. Cold terror froze me in place as I looked into the non-eyes of that damn mask. It wasn't even looking at me; it was looking at my copy of TIME. [[=]] > //There was no escape from the big bad cat// [[/=]] I finally managed to get my muscles moving, but it didn't matter. My line was caught, and it was too close. The last thing I feel is searing heat cutting through cartilage and bone. [[=]] > //Five little mice left to make him fat// [[/=]] ------ [[=]] > //Five little mice scampered 'cross the deck// [[/=]] I pushed past Emily and opened fire on the mask. Every part of my mind was screaming (like Emily; Emily was screaming) that I should run, hide, huddle with my head between my knees because it was my last chance to kiss my ass goodbye. But I couldn't. I had a team to protect. How could I face Edward's wife (Justin's wife, Dean's wife, Sam's wife, //Emily's// wife. . .) if I just ran away from something like this and left them all to die (are brains supposed to steam like that?) without doing anything? "Cut your lines and keep going!" [[=]] > //One had his little head torn off his neck// [[/=]] I didn't hear the answer over the sound of my gun, and I don't even know if the mask is taking damage (it's covered in splashes of molten lead now; will that slow it down?), but I hold my ground as it charges forward. [[=]] > //There was no escape from the big bad cat// [[/=]] As my head rolls down the steps, I'm at least able to see that my team has gotten away (for now; maybe they'll make it, so I've got to have faith in them), so at least I can hold onto that hope until my consciousness fades. [[=]] > //Four little mice left to make him fat// [[/=]] ------ [[=]] > //Four little mice scampered 'cross the bowl// [[/=]] Dean had gotten Emmy's hand, so I just focused on running. We had to get away. Floor after floor after floor after floor after floor blurred by. I was at the front of the group, but I could hear their footsteps behind me. I didn't dare look back to check for the thing that had gotten Eddy, but I prayed that Agent Johnson got the thing and was going to be okay. [[=]] > //One ran ahead and he fell in a hole// [[/=]] "SAMMY!" My brain registered Justin shouting my name before I actually realised I was falling. I hadn't even seen the hole in the staircase. At first, I'd thought that I'd just hit the flight beneath us, because I tend to assume that Euclidean geometry works until proven otherwise. "SAMMY!" [[=]] > //There was no escape from the big bad cat// [[/=]] It was proven otherwise. The light at the top vanished a while ago. There's no way anyone's gonna be able to reach me before I bite it. I wonder if I'll hit something or starve first? If Eddy were still alive, we could've bet on it. . . . [[=]] > //Three little mice left to make him fat// [[/=]] ------ [[=]] > //Three little mice scampered 'cross the shed// [[/=]] "SAMMY!" I lunged for the loose end of his line. I came up two inches too short. Woulda fallen in after him, if it weren't for Dean grabbing the back of my flak jacket. I waited for the thud. I waited to hear him shout something as he hit the flight below. It never happened. [[=]] > //One couldn't take that his friend was so dead// [[/=]] I grabbed the railing and started around the edge of the hole -- both the rail and the floor seemed to be holding up. "Come on! He can't seriously be dead. No way." I shoulda known then that I was kidding myself. I wouldn'ta said that if I wasn't already thinking he was. It was painful slowing my pace to make sure there wasn't another hole ahead, but I got to the spot where he shoulda been. "He's seriously not here!" "Come on, we've got a mission to do," Dean said when he noticed I'd stopped moving. How could he even be serious? "We have to keep going." "Fuck the mission! Sammy just -- he's gonna show up here eventually, right? Maybe time's just wrong." "That's unlikely. . ." Emmy said. "We //need// to keep going," Dean growled. "I'm staying here and waiting for Sammy, dammit! If you seriously think the mission is so much more important, then go ahead. We'll catch up." ". . . Fine." Dean clapped me on the shoulder. "But if you see that mask, run, okay?" "Yeah." I nodded. Emmy kept glancing back at me until they were out of sight. [[=]] > //There was no escape from the big bad cat// [[/=]] I think they left about an hour ago. Sammy's still not here. . . . Run if I see the mask, huh? I would, but I seriously can't feel my legs anymore. [[=]] > //Two little mice left to make him fat// [[/=]] ------ [[=]] > //Two little mice scampered 'cross the desk// [[/=]] We've been going for hours. I think we're getting closer, though. There's a stitch in my side, though, and my feet are starting to ache even with my orthopedic insoles. "Hey, Dean, can we stop for a bit?" He frowns. "We're almost there." [[=]] > //One was exhausted and she had to rest// [[/=]] "I know. I just need to rest." He stops as he reaches the next landing. "Alright." I sigh with relief and sit down on the steps. "Do you think we're going to get out of here alive?" "We gotta try." He leaned back against the wall and kept his light focused on the flight of stairs behind me. "That's all we can do." "Yeah. . . ." Silence that even I could tell was awkward fell. I thought about A'isha. I'm sure she'll be able to support herself financially without me, but -- [[=]] > //There was no escape from the big bad cat// [[/=]] The last thing I hear is Dean's startled swearing. [[=]] > //One little mouse left to make him fat// [[/=]] ------ [[=]] > //One little mouse scampered 'cross the map// [[/=]] A white blur shot out of the darkness. "SHIT!" I had no idea it could move so //fast!// Something that was probably a piece of Emmy's skull landed on my vest, but I was barely paying attention to that. I'd already started running, and there was no way I was looking down or looking back. I ran. I kept running. I could hear myself getting closer to the kid, and that was the only thing that was keeping me going. I had to reach her. Even if I die right afterward, I at least gotta tell her that she's not forgotten, and help's coming. They're gonna send in the big guns if none of us make it back on time. [[=]] > //He found the cheese and fell into the trap// [[/=]] My boots splashed in something as I finally reached the bottom. The whole floor was covered in some sort of liquid an inch deep. The darkness was a lot worse than on the stairs, so I could barely see a few feet in front of me. "Help! Please!" I ran towards the voice, and there she was: A little girl with short black hair and a white dress. I knew there had to be a kid down here. I fell to my knees in relief and hugged her. "It's okay. Help's coming. It's going to be okay." "Thank you, Mister. I was so hungry. . . ." [[=]] > //There was no escape from the big bad cat// [[/=]] She suddenly tears a chunk out of my neck with teeth that are far too sharp to be human. I should have thought it was suspicious that she was standing and didn't seem injured. "There will be plenty of time for regrets in my stomach," she whispers as my brain suffocates. [[=]] > //So here come more mice to make him fat// [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-03T21:46:00	[ "_licensebox", "chase", "horror", "nyc2013", "tale", "unfounded", "unusual-incidents-unit" ]	Six Little Mice - SCP Foundation	202	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16285584	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/six-little-mice
skipping-time	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"So, before we start, can I please have your name?"</p> <p>The still, pale man seated before me paused to take a breath, and slowly moved his eyes towards me. His eyes were slower now, and I'd been told he assured staff he expected them to stop in place any day now. They were some of the last moving pieces he had, and you could almost hear them scraping with every glance he took.</p> <p>"Chetford, Robert."</p> <p>Robert's voice was almost as dry as the materials he believed to have overtaken his frame. The stillness of his posture was almost more unnatural than the oddness of his movement. It was like a sculpture, coming to life to give a brief snippet of conversation. Which I suppose he was, in his own way. I cleared my throat.</p> <p>"What can you tell me about your condition?"</p> <p>He pursed his lips momentarily. "Well… it was two years after Wilson came into office, nineteen-fifteen. I remember it because I was helping campaign for him, down in Norwich. It was a tough spot to be campaigning, and I was out all hours of the day. I was active in those days, although of course that was a long time ago…"</p> <p>He was still.</p> <p>"So, how did this relate to your condition?"</p> <p>"In a moment, please. I'm attempting to get there, by memory. Your head isn't as full as mine is, so give me a few minutes to recall exactly the day it occurred."</p> <p>His eyes left me, and gazed out the window.</p> <p>"It was a Tuesday. I'd been working in the church that day, when I met him. He was a queer-looking fellow, about your height. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me to mind my own business. We had a few… words, that aren't to be shared in polite company. I was a hothead then, you see, didn't wait for anything. After we'd been at it for a few minutes, he pulled out his pocketwatch, and asked me for the time."</p> <p>I raised a brow. "He asked you?"</p> <p>If Robert could nod, I'm sure he would've. "He asked me for the time, and told me I needed to wait a little more. Of course, I didn't know what he meant then, thought he was making fun of me. But, then he went onto the curse. Told me that I'd done too many quick things, and it'd hurt some friends of his in town. Said someone had to answer for it, and it might as well be me. So, the curse."</p> <p>This is what I had come to hear about. "The curse?"</p> <p>Robert's eyes came back to me. "That's how I came to be in my condition. On that Tuesday, in nineteen-fifteen, that's where I am. Or at least some of me. Parts of my eyes and lips are still in the present, aging like a hundred-year-old should. But my mind, my heart, the insides… stuck like concrete back in that time. Still waiting for me to learn some patience. That's what I told them, in the asylum. Took them a while to believe me."</p> <p>Before I could respond, he went on.</p> <p>"I sometimes like to think… that maybe, when it's all done, I can look out my window one more time, before these old eyes finally dry and set like the rest of me. Maybe when the last words leave my lips, I'll be concrete all over, and break away like I should've done fifty years ago. If I wait long enough, and see."</p> <p>Once more, his eyes swiveled away from me.</p> <p>"Goodbye, friend. I hope time is more kind to you, than it has been to me."</p> <hr/> <p>Seated before me was a pale, boney, wasted husk of what might once have been a young woman. At one point her hair might've been a dirty blond, but it was almost gray now, with some flecks of color scattered through the wiry mess intermittently. She had tough, bony arms resting on the table, which had similarly skeletal hands at the end. A black cloth was wrapped tightly around her eyes. I sat down in front of her, and quietly went over my notes.</p> <p>"It's rotten."</p> <p>I looked up. "Beg your pardon?"</p> <p>"The black. It's rotted off." She drummed her fingers on the table. "I can see through it, to the wall."</p> <p>In a very deliberate way, she began grasping at something only she could see, in a sort of slow, jerky and methodical picking of nothingness. It was an odd sight, seeing such precise movements done for nothing.</p> <p>"Miss… can you hear me?"</p> <p>She started. "Oh, yes, sorry sorry sorry."</p> <p>I coughed, and looked back down to my notes. "So, uh, hello. My name is Stanley, and I have a few questions for you."</p> <p>Her shoulders shuddered, then hunched close together, almost appearing to fold in on themselves. She threw her head up, and stared at the ceiling.</p> <p>"Can't tell you much. They don't let me see, like we used to."</p> <p>"Well…" I said, tapping my pencil on the desk. "When did you first start… seeing?"</p> <p>She stiffened, and turned to me again. "… Ten. I was ten years old. That was the first time I saw it. When the flower was there, and it was wilted. I was fine. I might've seen two but it was okay. Then I woke up and mother was broken and calling me for breakfast but her face was gone she was hanging and splitting and it was wrong. She was such a nice lady. She made me pancakes every morning. She's dead now."</p> <p>She tapped her fingers more quickly.</p> <p>"Now… we don't need to talk about that…"</p> <p>"It got worse, after that. I couldn't go outside, or talk to my friends. If someone took me into town, all I could see was the rotting shit in the windows and broken toys in the shops. Not all of it, at first, but then there was so much and it was so… just, everywhere. I couldn't take it. That was the first time I lost my mind. Left it somewhere behind."</p> <p>I blinked a few times. "Well-"</p> <p>"They're going to take you now. We don't talk anymore."</p> <p>I waited, for a moment. Nothing happened.</p> <p>"There's not anyone coming?"</p> <p>She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I just… that usually makes people go."</p> <p>"You don't like talking to me?"</p> <p>She tilted her head down. "… I don't. You're just another one of the endless parade of people, trying to talk to me. Get me to talk to them, about the future or something. Sometimes I can see them, and I don't like that. But you already knew that. You know everything. You read my file, saw what they do. Saw the pills, and the pictures of me when I can't control. Why are you even here?"</p> <p>I paused. "I just wanted to know about you. Reading a file isn't like talking to a person."</p> <p>She sighed. "If I look at you, will you leave me alone?"</p> <p>I shrugged. "I can't promise for the rest of them, but I'll be satisfied."</p> <p>Without further hesitation, she slipped her blindfold off, and we stared eye to eye. They looked much younger than the rest of her, two sharp blue orbs not wrinkled or dulled in the slightest.</p> <p>"Your hair's cut… and your eye's black."</p> <p>I brushed my hand over my head. "So, you can handle it better, now?"</p> <p>She nodded. "It's easier… here. I hate them, but they keep it from overwhelming me. I can't take my eyes out, and if I went outside… I wouldn't be able to handle it. Even if I just went outside, I'd be broken by the rotting trees and broken animals. You ever see a roadkill deer?"</p> <p>"Yes…"</p> <p>"I've only seen roadkilled deer."</p> <p>I paused. "I'm sorry."</p> <p>"Not your fault. It's just life, seen? We have to have something bad happen to us. Just when the luck fairy was going around, she skimped on me."</p> <p>"Alright… thank you for your perspective, Miss…"</p> <p>"Just say one-eighty-seven. I get in trouble unless you do."</p> <p>"Alright, then…" I stood there awkwardly, for a moment, before gathering my papers and heading to the door.</p> <p>"Mister Gillespie?"</p> <p>I turned from the door. "Yeah?"</p> <p>"Keep an ice pack handy, okay?</p> <hr/> <p>I feel sort of odd, conducting an interview like this in a public place. Or at least, as public as the Foundation lets it be. We're in a public park, with a tarp over the whole pavilion with the statue. Signs say that there's some indefinite construction going on. I'm told the locals don't complain much, even though they've been at it for what, something like twenty years? Guess we have some kind of pacification method, or something.</p> <p>I see the guy, or statue, or whatever you want to call him, he's up on his pedestal. I'm told he likes to stand up there, on his own. They've set up the interview table right in front of him, so I sit down, and pull out my pencil.</p> <p>"Can you hear me?"</p> <p>He nods. It's odd to see such smooth motion from someone literally made of concrete, especially after seeing how Robert moved. I thought he'd have some of the same, jerky motions, but it's smooth as butter.</p> <p>"Alright, can you tell me your name?"</p> <p>"Private Chester Smith, 17th Regiment Kentucky Volunteer Cavalry, at your service."</p> <p>"Is that the person you represent, or is that who you are?"</p> <p>For a moment, he pauses. "I would like to believe… that it is who I am. There are no black places, or missing pieces in my mind. I can remember it in continuous ways, if that makes sense."</p> <p>I begin writing. "So, you think you're the same person that you were, ah, designed to represent."</p> <p>Chester slowly nods. "That is what I believe is the case, yes."</p> <p>"So, what's the earliest memory you have?"</p> <p>Looking down to me, he begins to stroke his chin. I can hear the stone grinding.</p> <p>"Well… I know who I was, before the war. Born here, but I served in Kentucky. Went there to get out of the fighting… but it went and followed me from my front porch, to my farm. Don't remember much, besides my mother and father. I joined up in April, 1864. I got to live in hellish barracks for months, training with the most damned son-of-a-bitch officers this side of the Mississippi. And for what? I got to be the first casualty in my regiment."</p> <p>The grinding intensifies. "I used to be bitter, but… not worth being mad, when the poor bastard who shot me got hisself killed sometime. All of his friends, too."</p> <p>He chuckles a little, deep from his hollow stone body. "Sorry, I occasionally become slightly morbid about these matters."</p> <p>I try to laugh with him, keep things casual. "I understand, friend. What happened after that?"</p> <p>"It was dark, for quite some time. Stiff, too. It was very uncomfortable, to feel myself falling away… from myself. It was a confusing feeling, being so stiff, and yet so loose. Thankfully, it only took about a hundred years for some nice young men to make me this statue, which I now inhabit."</p> <p>Before I can say another word, he chuckles.</p> <p>"I got to go from being rotted and stiff and on my back below the earth, to being above it, but in the same state."</p> <p>"So… when did you get to be… like this?"</p> <p>Chester kneels down before me, and gestures for me to come closer. I get up, and walk over, leaning my ear to his mouth.</p> <p>"It was… the birds. They… landed on me, and… I am certain you know what would come next."</p> <p>I nod. "I get the picture."</p> <p>He continued. "I would take my rifle, and try to shoot them… that was how I found out I had a rifle. After that, I started to take a look at what had become of the world around me, and… well, I tried to focus on the birds. If it hadn't been for my friends here, I may have caused much more trouble than I already have."</p> <p>I check my notes, although I already know what I'm going to say. "It says here, that when the Foundation handed off containment, you… met someone?"</p> <p>He instantly frowns, gripping his rifle. "I don't think that's what you came here about, is it?"</p> <p>"Well, it's part of your history here, isn't it?"</p> <p>Chester frowned at me, and at my present spot, right near his face I could see every crack and imperfection on his stone face. "I would really rather we not pursue this avenue of conversation."</p> <p>I tried to put on a pleading expression. "Are you certain? Knowing how things changed with knowing a new person, it would really help-"</p> <p>The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, with chipped stone and swelling pain in my right eye. The interview was over.</p> <hr/> <p>It feels slightly odd, to be conducting an interview in a notebook. They gave me a pencil, sharpened with a nice, pink eraser and sent me in. The journal itself is a leather one, with ancient pages I thought would crumble to dust the moment I touched them. But, it stayed whole. On the first page, there were three words written in fancy, cursive script.</p> <p><em>Fred says hello.</em></p> <p>I wrote in blocky script. It was embarrassing, compared to the curvature above it.</p> <p><tt>Do you have to talk in third person?</tt></p> <p>After a moment, the writing appeared on the page itself. The letters didn't fade in, but seemed to be written from another side, and written backwards from their perspective.</p> <p><em>Nah, sometimes I just like to have fun. Y'know? I don't get to talk to folks every day.</em></p> <p>I paused. <tt>Do you write backwards so other people can read what you are doing?</tt></p> <p>In a quick, scribbled pace, less neat now, he replied <em>I was about to ask you the same thing.</em></p> <p><tt>I take it you get these questions a lot</tt></p> <p><em>Well, when you're around long enough, you hear the standard gamut one too many times and it gets pretty boring. Even if I do have my stories.</em></p> <p>I checked my watch, waiting for thirty seconds to pass.</p> <p><tt>How long has it been since you wrote that reply?</tt></p> <p>A quick, jotted answer. <em>Depends, are you the same guy I just got to talk to?</em></p> <p><tt>I am</tt></p> <p><em>Then beats me, doc. You're the guys who keep track of that stuff.</em></p> <p><tt>How does time pass in your books?</tt></p> <p>This time, the reply is longer, and written slowly. I like to believe that it made him think.</p> <p><em>I've actually not heard this one before. I think time passing in books is like… a little path, where I can retread the same steps and words infinitely without a moment going by, and I likes it slow. I guess it's like floating down a little lazy river, seeing a story unfold on the banks. Once you've floated the whole way down, you can turn around and see the whole thing again.</em></p> <p><tt>Do some stories take longer than others?</tt></p> <p><em>Well, I'm usually in the story. When time passes there, it's like a pocket. Things are normal for what I see, or at least I think it's normal, then for the bits I ain't around in I just float through and watch, sometimes chatting, but I prefer to be the patient observer. Y'know?</em></p> <p><tt>I think I do. Is there anything else you can tell me?</tt></p> <p><em>Beats me, doc. I wouldn't even know where to ask. All the clocks I ever see are in storytime.</em></p> <p><tt>I understand, thanks for talking to me</tt></p> <p><em>Anytime… heh.</em></p> <hr/> <p>Excerpt from research document by Stanley J. Gillespie.</p> <blockquote> <p>Time is a subject near and dear to my heart. My colleagues can attest to my love of the subject, from the instruments we use to measure it, to the theories that we spin about it. For a long time, I wanted to do my own study, not on time, but on the perception of time. How the people who are different see time in their own unique ways. Some, like that poor girl, can see their own reflections, and the reflections of others in front of her. Some might have called her a prophet, in times past, but today we'd just say she's another unfortunate person who can see too much, and they see something disgusting.</p> <p>Some of them, like Robert, don't have to care about time. They're effectively immortal, so the passing of the clock doesn't pose much of a threat. They sit, as days lapse into weeks, and into years. They set like concrete, binding in with the clock until it stops flat for them, unchanging. They're still, awaiting the eternity of lonesome night that inevitably awaits them. The one thing Robert liked to look at, was his window. I like to think it was his way of still seeing change, and growth, a special window from his private hell. But I know in the end, he doesn't care.</p> <p>I don't think any of them like it, to have their lives shaped this way. That the clock should deny them respite, or any kind of honor. It can leave someone more than slightly bitter, to have every opportunity for a semblance of normality. Instead, they watch as they die, and their friends die. The enemies die too, but there's nobody to celebrate with, because you outlived them all. I don't blame Chester for hitting me… what else could he do?</p> <p>And finally, we come to the few that don't abide by the rules. They don't exist as bodies, but as concepts, with time only applying to them in certain contexts. They neither recognize its rules, nor abide by its consequences. They quite literally have all the time in the world, because they will persist with or without another day going by. Fred can exist forever, in his books, seeing the same times day in and day out. He can speed through them quickly, or slow down to watch the same scenes unfold over and over. To him, time is a plaything.</p> <p>In the end, we can know that time is just a matter of how we see life. It can be a short series of deadlines, with a big X at the end, or it can be a circular pattern, and some of us can recognize these patterns more than others. But in the end, we don't need to worry about it. As the poet Henry Dobson put it:</p> <p><em>Time goes, you say? Ah no!</em><br/> <em>Alas, Time stays, we go.</em></p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/skipping-time">Skipping Time</a>" by Anonymous, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/skipping-time">https://scpwiki.com/skipping-time</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "So, before we start, can I please have your name?" The still, pale man seated before me paused to take a breath, and slowly moved his eyes towards me. His eyes were slower now, and I'd been told he assured staff he expected them to stop in place any day now. They were some of the last moving pieces he had, and you could almost hear them scraping with every glance he took. "Chetford, Robert." Robert's voice was almost as dry as the materials he believed to have overtaken his frame. The stillness of his posture was almost more unnatural than the oddness of his movement. It was like a sculpture, coming to life to give a brief snippet of conversation. Which I suppose he was, in his own way. I cleared my throat. "What can you tell me about your condition?" He pursed his lips momentarily. "Well... it was two years after Wilson came into office, nineteen-fifteen. I remember it because I was helping campaign for him, down in Norwich. It was a tough spot to be campaigning, and I was out all hours of the day. I was active in those days, although of course that was a long time ago..." He was still. "So, how did this relate to your condition?" "In a moment, please. I'm attempting to get there, by memory. Your head isn't as full as mine is, so give me a few minutes to recall exactly the day it occurred." His eyes left me, and gazed out the window. "It was a Tuesday. I'd been working in the church that day, when I met him. He was a queer-looking fellow, about your height. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me to mind my own business. We had a few... words, that aren't to be shared in polite company. I was a hothead then, you see, didn't wait for anything. After we'd been at it for a few minutes, he pulled out his pocketwatch, and asked me for the time." I raised a brow. "He asked you?" If Robert could nod, I'm sure he would've. "He asked me for the time, and told me I needed to wait a little more. Of course, I didn't know what he meant then, thought he was making fun of me. But, then he went onto the curse. Told me that I'd done too many quick things, and it'd hurt some friends of his in town. Said someone had to answer for it, and it might as well be me. So, the curse." This is what I had come to hear about. "The curse?" Robert's eyes came back to me. "That's how I came to be in my condition. On that Tuesday, in nineteen-fifteen, that's where I am. Or at least some of me. Parts of my eyes and lips are still in the present, aging like a hundred-year-old should. But my mind, my heart, the insides... stuck like concrete back in that time. Still waiting for me to learn some patience. That's what I told them, in the asylum. Took them a while to believe me." Before I could respond, he went on. "I sometimes like to think... that maybe, when it's all done, I can look out my window one more time, before these old eyes finally dry and set like the rest of me. Maybe when the last words leave my lips, I'll be concrete all over, and break away like I should've done fifty years ago. If I wait long enough, and see." Once more, his eyes swiveled away from me. "Goodbye, friend. I hope time is more kind to you, than it has been to me." ---- Seated before me was a pale, boney, wasted husk of what might once have been a young woman. At one point her hair might've been a dirty blond, but it was almost gray now, with some flecks of color scattered through the wiry mess intermittently. She had tough, bony arms resting on the table, which had similarly skeletal hands at the end. A black cloth was wrapped tightly around her eyes. I sat down in front of her, and quietly went over my notes. "It's rotten." I looked up. "Beg your pardon?" "The black. It's rotted off." She drummed her fingers on the table. "I can see through it, to the wall." In a very deliberate way, she began grasping at something only she could see, in a sort of slow, jerky and methodical picking of nothingness. It was an odd sight, seeing such precise movements done for nothing. "Miss... can you hear me?" She started. "Oh, yes, sorry sorry sorry." I coughed, and looked back down to my notes. "So, uh, hello. My name is Stanley, and I have a few questions for you." Her shoulders shuddered, then hunched close together, almost appearing to fold in on themselves. She threw her head up, and stared at the ceiling. "Can't tell you much. They don't let me see, like we used to." "Well..." I said, tapping my pencil on the desk. "When did you first start... seeing?" She stiffened, and turned to me again. "... Ten. I was ten years old. That was the first time I saw it. When the flower was there, and it was wilted. I was fine. I might've seen two but it was okay. Then I woke up and mother was broken and calling me for breakfast but her face was gone she was hanging and splitting and it was wrong. She was such a nice lady. She made me pancakes every morning. She's dead now." She tapped her fingers more quickly. "Now... we don't need to talk about that..." "It got worse, after that. I couldn't go outside, or talk to my friends. If someone took me into town, all I could see was the rotting shit in the windows and broken toys in the shops. Not all of it, at first, but then there was so much and it was so... just, everywhere. I couldn't take it. That was the first time I lost my mind. Left it somewhere behind." I blinked a few times. "Well-" "They're going to take you now. We don't talk anymore." I waited, for a moment. Nothing happened. "There's not anyone coming?" She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I just... that usually makes people go." "You don't like talking to me?" She tilted her head down. "... I don't. You're just another one of the endless parade of people, trying to talk to me. Get me to talk to them, about the future or something. Sometimes I can see them, and I don't like that. But you already knew that. You know everything. You read my file, saw what they do. Saw the pills, and the pictures of me when I can't control. Why are you even here?" I paused. "I just wanted to know about you. Reading a file isn't like talking to a person." She sighed. "If I look at you, will you leave me alone?" I shrugged. "I can't promise for the rest of them, but I'll be satisfied." Without further hesitation, she slipped her blindfold off, and we stared eye to eye. They looked much younger than the rest of her, two sharp blue orbs not wrinkled or dulled in the slightest. "Your hair's cut... and your eye's black." I brushed my hand over my head. "So, you can handle it better, now?" She nodded. "It's easier... here. I hate them, but they keep it from overwhelming me. I can't take my eyes out, and if I went outside... I wouldn't be able to handle it. Even if I just went outside, I'd be broken by the rotting trees and broken animals. You ever see a roadkill deer?" "Yes..." "I've only seen roadkilled deer." I paused. "I'm sorry." "Not your fault. It's just life, seen? We have to have something bad happen to us. Just when the luck fairy was going around, she skimped on me." "Alright... thank you for your perspective, Miss..." "Just say one-eighty-seven. I get in trouble unless you do." "Alright, then..." I stood there awkwardly, for a moment, before gathering my papers and heading to the door. "Mister Gillespie?" I turned from the door. "Yeah?" "Keep an ice pack handy, okay? ---- I feel sort of odd, conducting an interview like this in a public place. Or at least, as public as the Foundation lets it be. We're in a public park, with a tarp over the whole pavilion with the statue. Signs say that there's some indefinite construction going on. I'm told the locals don't complain much, even though they've been at it for what, something like twenty years? Guess we have some kind of pacification method, or something. I see the guy, or statue, or whatever you want to call him, he's up on his pedestal. I'm told he likes to stand up there, on his own. They've set up the interview table right in front of him, so I sit down, and pull out my pencil. "Can you hear me?" He nods. It's odd to see such smooth motion from someone literally made of concrete, especially after seeing how Robert moved. I thought he'd have some of the same, jerky motions, but it's smooth as butter. "Alright, can you tell me your name?" "Private Chester Smith, 17th Regiment Kentucky Volunteer Cavalry, at your service." "Is that the person you represent, or is that who you are?" For a moment, he pauses. "I would like to believe... that it is who I am. There are no black places, or missing pieces in my mind. I can remember it in continuous ways, if that makes sense." I begin writing. "So, you think you're the same person that you were, ah, designed to represent." Chester slowly nods. "That is what I believe is the case, yes." "So, what's the earliest memory you have?" Looking down to me, he begins to stroke his chin. I can hear the stone grinding. "Well... I know who I was, before the war. Born here, but I served in Kentucky. Went there to get out of the fighting... but it went and followed me from my front porch, to my farm. Don't remember much, besides my mother and father. I joined up in April, 1864. I got to live in hellish barracks for months, training with the most damned son-of-a-bitch officers this side of the Mississippi. And for what? I got to be the first casualty in my regiment." The grinding intensifies. "I used to be bitter, but... not worth being mad, when the poor bastard who shot me got hisself killed sometime. All of his friends, too." He chuckles a little, deep from his hollow stone body. "Sorry, I occasionally become slightly morbid about these matters." I try to laugh with him, keep things casual. "I understand, friend. What happened after that?" "It was dark, for quite some time. Stiff, too. It was very uncomfortable, to feel myself falling away... from myself. It was a confusing feeling, being so stiff, and yet so loose. Thankfully, it only took about a hundred years for some nice young men to make me this statue, which I now inhabit." Before I can say another word, he chuckles. "I got to go from being rotted and stiff and on my back below the earth, to being above it, but in the same state." "So... when did you get to be... like this?" Chester kneels down before me, and gestures for me to come closer. I get up, and walk over, leaning my ear to his mouth. "It was... the birds. They... landed on me, and... I am certain you know what would come next." I nod. "I get the picture." He continued. "I would take my rifle, and try to shoot them... that was how I found out I had a rifle. After that, I started to take a look at what had become of the world around me, and... well, I tried to focus on the birds. If it hadn't been for my friends here, I may have caused much more trouble than I already have." I check my notes, although I already know what I'm going to say. "It says here, that when the Foundation handed off containment, you... met someone?" He instantly frowns, gripping his rifle. "I don't think that's what you came here about, is it?" "Well, it's part of your history here, isn't it?" Chester frowned at me, and at my present spot, right near his face I could see every crack and imperfection on his stone face. "I would really rather we not pursue this avenue of conversation." I tried to put on a pleading expression. "Are you certain? Knowing how things changed with knowing a new person, it would really help-" The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, with chipped stone and swelling pain in my right eye. The interview was over. ---- It feels slightly odd, to be conducting an interview in a notebook. They gave me a pencil, sharpened with a nice, pink eraser and sent me in. The journal itself is a leather one, with ancient pages I thought would crumble to dust the moment I touched them. But, it stayed whole. On the first page, there were three words written in fancy, cursive script. //Fred says hello.// I wrote in blocky script. It was embarrassing, compared to the curvature above it. {{Do you have to talk in third person?}} After a moment, the writing appeared on the page itself. The letters didn't fade in, but seemed to be written from another side, and written backwards from their perspective. //Nah, sometimes I just like to have fun. Y'know? I don't get to talk to folks every day.// I paused. {{Do you write backwards so other people can read what you are doing?}} In a quick, scribbled pace, less neat now, he replied //I was about to ask you the same thing.// {{I take it you get these questions a lot}} //Well, when you're around long enough, you hear the standard gamut one too many times and it gets pretty boring. Even if I do have my stories.// I checked my watch, waiting for thirty seconds to pass. {{How long has it been since you wrote that reply?}} A quick, jotted answer. //Depends, are you the same guy I just got to talk to?// {{I am}} //Then beats me, doc. You're the guys who keep track of that stuff.// {{How does time pass in your books?}} This time, the reply is longer, and written slowly. I like to believe that it made him think. //I've actually not heard this one before. I think time passing in books is like... a little path, where I can retread the same steps and words infinitely without a moment going by, and I likes it slow. I guess it's like floating down a little lazy river, seeing a story unfold on the banks. Once you've floated the whole way down, you can turn around and see the whole thing again.// {{Do some stories take longer than others?}} //Well, I'm usually in the story. When time passes there, it's like a pocket. Things are normal for what I see, or at least I think it's normal, then for the bits I ain't around in I just float through and watch, sometimes chatting, but I prefer to be the patient observer. Y'know?// {{I think I do. Is there anything else you can tell me?}} //Beats me, doc. I wouldn't even know where to ask. All the clocks I ever see are in storytime.// {{I understand, thanks for talking to me}} //Anytime... heh.// ---- Excerpt from research document by Stanley J. Gillespie. > Time is a subject near and dear to my heart. My colleagues can attest to my love of the subject, from the instruments we use to measure it, to the theories that we spin about it. For a long time, I wanted to do my own study, not on time, but on the perception of time. How the people who are different see time in their own unique ways. Some, like that poor girl, can see their own reflections, and the reflections of others in front of her. Some might have called her a prophet, in times past, but today we'd just say she's another unfortunate person who can see too much, and they see something disgusting. > > Some of them, like Robert, don't have to care about time. They're effectively immortal, so the passing of the clock doesn't pose much of a threat. They sit, as days lapse into weeks, and into years. They set like concrete, binding in with the clock until it stops flat for them, unchanging. They're still, awaiting the eternity of lonesome night that inevitably awaits them. The one thing Robert liked to look at, was his window. I like to think it was his way of still seeing change, and growth, a special window from his private hell. But I know in the end, he doesn't care. > > I don't think any of them like it, to have their lives shaped this way. That the clock should deny them respite, or any kind of honor. It can leave someone more than slightly bitter, to have every opportunity for a semblance of normality. Instead, they watch as they die, and their friends die. The enemies die too, but there's nobody to celebrate with, because you outlived them all. I don't blame Chester for hitting me... what else could he do? > > And finally, we come to the few that don't abide by the rules. They don't exist as bodies, but as concepts, with time only applying to them in certain contexts. They neither recognize its rules, nor abide by its consequences. They quite literally have all the time in the world, because they will persist with or without another day going by. Fred can exist forever, in his books, seeing the same times day in and day out. He can speed through them quickly, or slow down to watch the same scenes unfold over and over. To him, time is a plaything. > > In the end, we can know that time is just a matter of how we see life. It can be a short series of deadlines, with a big X at the end, or it can be a circular pattern, and some of us can recognize these patterns more than others. But in the end, we don't need to worry about it. As the poet Henry Dobson put it: > > //Time goes, you say? Ah no!// > //Alas, Time stays, we go.// [[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>]]	2013-08-10T03:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "rewritable", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Skipping Time - SCP Foundation	125	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "articles-eligible-for-rewrite" ]	[]	19212035	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/skipping-time
smoker	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Will couldn’t explain his own nervousness as he stepped out the back door, across his simple lawn. His children had come to him many times, perturbed by the animals they encountered in the woods behind the house. He would follow, stepping away from his easel, and explain. “That deer isn’t dying, that’s just part of how his horns grow back in. This frog is fine, the tail means she’s in between being a tadpole and a frog.”</p> <p>Each explanation had satisfied them, and he had been able to return to work, letting them play in the yard where he could keep an eye on them. But he’d never heard a note of terror like this in their voices. Worry, yes, curiosity, yes. But Yvette shook so hard he couldn’t keep his arms around her, and barely spoke in a whisper as tears streamed down her cheek. Gregor had felt cold to the touch, fingers clenched into little fists.</p> <p>Will had gone out to see this “Devil bird” that had terrified them, feeling a little foolish for being afraid in the daylight. Overcast daylight, to be sure, but daylight none the less. Just a bird. He could see the tree they had said it was perching on from here, a tall giant with a leafless crown. Despite his heavy jacket, he shuddered, not from the chill, oddly quiet air. Something was unsettling him. His feet crunched in the frost covered grass as he rounded the tree. There it was, a little sparrow sitting on a branch. Nothing to fear.</p> <p>The bird turned its head, cocking it at him as he studied it. The children had seen plenty of sparrows, and he didn’t see why this one had startled them so. He took a step closer, to get a better look. The bird croaked at him, not the tweeting note he expected, but a harsh organic sound. It shuddered, the feathers of its breast puffing as it choked and shifted from foot to foot. He reached towards it, and the head snapped up, beak opening to release plumes of smoke.</p> <p>Will swore, jerking back as it twitched madly on the branch, the smoke condensing, settling down around it in thick strands. Its dark eye seemed to fog over from within, covered in grey and red. He felt his gorge rising as the bird's beak began to rip, mandibles opening impossibly wide to reveal something deep and dark. Inside he could see glittering eyes, and the first of eight legs starting to poke out of the newly torn hole in the world…</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="/smoker">Smoker</a>" by Arlecchino, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/smoker">https://scpwiki.com/smoker</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Will couldn’t explain his own nervousness as he stepped out the back door, across his simple lawn. His children had come to him many times, perturbed by the animals they encountered in the woods behind the house. He would follow, stepping away from his easel, and explain. “That deer isn’t dying, that’s just part of how his horns grow back in. This frog is fine, the tail means she’s in between being a tadpole and a frog.” Each explanation had satisfied them, and he had been able to return to work, letting them play in the yard where he could keep an eye on them. But he’d never heard a note of terror like this in their voices. Worry, yes, curiosity, yes. But Yvette shook so hard he couldn’t keep his arms around her, and barely spoke in a whisper as tears streamed down her cheek. Gregor had felt cold to the touch, fingers clenched into little fists. Will had gone out to see this “Devil bird” that had terrified them, feeling a little foolish for being afraid in the daylight. Overcast daylight, to be sure, but daylight none the less. Just a bird. He could see the tree they had said it was perching on from here, a tall giant with a leafless crown. Despite his heavy jacket, he shuddered, not from the chill, oddly quiet air. Something was unsettling him. His feet crunched in the frost covered grass as he rounded the tree. There it was, a little sparrow sitting on a branch. Nothing to fear. The bird turned its head, cocking it at him as he studied it. The children had seen plenty of sparrows, and he didn’t see why this one had startled them so. He took a step closer, to get a better look. The bird croaked at him, not the tweeting note he expected, but a harsh organic sound. It shuddered, the feathers of its breast puffing as it choked and shifted from foot to foot. He reached towards it, and the head snapped up, beak opening to release plumes of smoke. Will swore, jerking back as it twitched madly on the branch, the smoke condensing, settling down around it in thick strands. Its dark eye seemed to fog over from within, covered in grey and red. He felt his gorge rising as the bird's beak began to rip, mandibles opening impossibly wide to reveal something deep and dark. Inside he could see glittering eyes, and the first of eight legs starting to poke out of the newly torn hole in the world… [[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>]]	2013-09-18T22:10:00	[ "_licensebox", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Smoker - SCP Foundation	63	[ "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" ]	[]	19914893	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/smoker
snip-snip-snip	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Pico Wilson sat in the middle of his corpse pile.</p> <p>“Snip snip. Snip snip snip.”</p> <p>Wilson applied force to his secateurs. The lady’s fingers sheared off awkwardly, shattered bone poking through the flesh. He carefully inserted the finger into the corpse’s nose.</p> <p>“Ha ha ha. Ha.”</p> <p>Another finger, another crunch. Wilson filled the other nostril.</p> <p>“HA. HA HA.”</p> <p>Another finger, another crunch. Wilson forced the index finger into his muse’s left ear. He propped the body up against her brothers and sisters.</p> <p>“You are beautiful, my dear.”</p> <p>Wilson moved into her, pressing his mouth against her cold, dead lips.</p> <p>“More beautiful in death than in life. The juxtaposition of the dead and the living. The absurdity of the fingers up your nose; meaningless, indeed, considering your body is no longer a booger factory; what are you trying to get out of there? Is it the maggots? Is it your brain? You’re searching in all the wrong places, my dear.”</p> <p>Wilson plucked her eyes from their sockets and placed them in her mouth.</p> <p>“You consider yourself ugly. Let me help you see inside yourself. Beyond the skin deep reflection of what we are, deeper than that, swallow your eyes and look inside yourself. Swallow your eyes. Ha. Ha ha ha.”</p> <p>Wilson grabbed her jaw, bursting the eyes with her teeth. He mashed her gums against the aqueous humour.</p> <p>“Silly lady. That medicine wasn’t chewable.”</p> <p>A final embrace, a goodbye kiss. He released his grip, and she crumpled to the ground. The Sculptor stared in disbelief.</p> <p>“Hooooly shit.”</p> <p>Wilson turned to his audience of one, eye goo still wet on his lips.</p> <p>“You disapprove?”</p> <p>“No. Nononono. That was metal as fuck, man. Shit.”</p> <p>Pico licked his lips clean, then reclined into his corpse pile.</p> <p>“So what is it exactly that you want, Mister The Sculptor?”</p> <p>“I, uh… well, it’s an invitation, I guess.”</p> <p>“Sure. Where’s the exhibition?”</p> <p>“No, I mean, not to an exhibition, it’s like… we’re kind of like an art club. And one of us kind of walked out, so we’ve, uh, got a space open. And I remembered you from that thing back in ’88, the Reagan thing, and I thought, shit, this guy knows how to clip stuff together, you know?”</p> <p>“I don’t really clip stuff together. I’m more into cutting stuff apart.”</p> <p>The Sculptor clapped wildly.</p> <p>“Fuckin’ right, man. Damn fucking right. So, like I was saying, this other guy, he used to go by The Clipper, right? And so we sort of need someone to, uh, fill his shoes, if you know what I mean.”</p> <p>“So you’re pulling me in as a replacement.”</p> <p>“Kind of, I guess. Well, not pulling you in. Offering you a place among people who can appreciate your stuff. Mutual critique. And, you know, we help each other out if we get in trouble, yeah? Like, if someone walked in on you here, they wouldn’t get it, they’d call the police, it’d be awkward, but see, with us, we’d be able to take care of that for you. We’ve got a guy who can take care of the bullshit you can’t be bothered with – The Janitor, we call him – and he’d be all over that shit. You join us, you don’t need to worry about the normals. Nobody tells us what to do, you know?”</p> <p>“I know. Nobody tells you what to do.”</p> <p>“See, you get it, man! Freedom from The Man. That’s what we’re all about, man, it’s about freedom, you know? You could pull this shit in the middle of a street, we’d take care of you.”</p> <p>“So, what, I join your little club, and then what?”</p> <p>“I dunno, we just talk. You do your thing, we do ours. We make stuff.”</p> <p>“And what exactly was the last bit of ‘stuff’ that you made?”</p> <p>The Sculptor shifted awkwardly.</p> <p>“Well, personally, I’ve been, uh, taking a bit of a break at the moment. You know, busy with other things. Just putting time into personal projects, you know?”</p> <p>“Right. You see, Mister The Sculptor, I know about your little club, and your creative output has been somewhat… slow, to say the least, and if I were to be a bit more loose with my words, I’d say you’re at a complete fucking standstill.”</p> <p>“That’s not really fair, man, it’s a complicated-“</p> <p>“And you look at me, and you say, wow, here’s someone who’s doing something, let’s pull him in, let’s wrangle him like a wayward horse, and break him in, and ride him like a two cent whore. Well, Mister The Sculptor-“</p> <p>“Now, that’s just not-“</p> <p>“I am your whore.”</p> <p>“…what?”</p> <p>“I am your whore, I am your spice, feel free to shake me all over your meals, eat me as you please, allow me to enter your body as you enter mine. You used to do things, there used to be change in this world we share, but then you stood up to the change, you resisted. You sat on your own corpse pile, and you said, NO! This is the BEST corpse pile, these are the BEST corpses, and anyone who wants to pick them up and turn them into puppets, into animatronics, into real people, anybody who dares to breathe life into MY corpses, anyone who dares to resurrect the DEAD shall be crushed and made dead themselves.”</p> <p>“Okay, I think I’ve kind of lost you there.”</p> <p>“That’s my point. That is my point exactly. You look at what I’m doing, and you raise your chin, and finally I’ve managed to bring enough of a stench to wriggle into your nose, make you look down, make you acknowledge my filth and squalor. Mister The Sculptor, I want to be inside you.”</p> <p>“Look, man, you’re making me a bit uncomfortable here.”</p> <p>Pico Wilson rose from his throne.</p> <p>“I want to be inside you. I want to be a part of you, I want to change you from the inside, I want to force you from your stagnation, I want to make you burst open like an overboiled sausage, I want your delicious meat to burst forth. You see the spark in me, and you want it. And I see the spark in you, but it’s been a bit too long, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be used to start a fire, you’ve forgotten how to fan kindling into a blaze. So yes, I will join your club. I’ll be your Clipper, your Snipper, your spark plug of creativity, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll never forget the spark again. Now get out of here, I need to finger a few more girls.”</p> <p>“Well, uh, that’s great, I guess! Welcome aboard.”</p> <p>The Sculptor turned and left the room.</p> <p>“Fucking nutjob.”</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/a-cooler-manifesto">A Cooler Manifesto</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/flexibility">Flexibility</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="/snip-snip-snip">Snip Snip Snip</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/snip-snip-snip">https://scpwiki.com/snip-snip-snip</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Pico Wilson sat in the middle of his corpse pile. “Snip snip. Snip snip snip.” Wilson applied force to his secateurs. The lady’s fingers sheared off awkwardly, shattered bone poking through the flesh. He carefully inserted the finger into the corpse’s nose. “Ha ha ha. Ha.” Another finger, another crunch. Wilson filled the other nostril. “HA. HA HA.” Another finger, another crunch. Wilson forced the index finger into his muse’s left ear. He propped the body up against her brothers and sisters. “You are beautiful, my dear.” Wilson moved into her, pressing his mouth against her cold, dead lips. “More beautiful in death than in life. The juxtaposition of the dead and the living. The absurdity of the fingers up your nose; meaningless, indeed, considering your body is no longer a booger factory; what are you trying to get out of there? Is it the maggots? Is it your brain? You’re searching in all the wrong places, my dear.” Wilson plucked her eyes from their sockets and placed them in her mouth. “You consider yourself ugly. Let me help you see inside yourself. Beyond the skin deep reflection of what we are, deeper than that, swallow your eyes and look inside yourself. Swallow your eyes. Ha. Ha ha ha.” Wilson grabbed her jaw, bursting the eyes with her teeth. He mashed her gums against the aqueous humour. “Silly lady. That medicine wasn’t chewable.” A final embrace, a goodbye kiss. He released his grip, and she crumpled to the ground. The Sculptor stared in disbelief. “Hooooly shit.” Wilson turned to his audience of one, eye goo still wet on his lips. “You disapprove?” “No. Nononono. That was metal as fuck, man. Shit.” Pico licked his lips clean, then reclined into his corpse pile. “So what is it exactly that you want, Mister The Sculptor?” “I, uh… well, it’s an invitation, I guess.” “Sure. Where’s the exhibition?” “No, I mean, not to an exhibition, it’s like… we’re kind of like an art club. And one of us kind of walked out, so we’ve, uh, got a space open. And I remembered you from that thing back in ’88, the Reagan thing, and I thought, shit, this guy knows how to clip stuff together, you know?” “I don’t really clip stuff together. I’m more into cutting stuff apart.” The Sculptor clapped wildly. “Fuckin’ right, man. Damn fucking right. So, like I was saying, this other guy, he used to go by The Clipper, right? And so we sort of need someone to, uh, fill his shoes, if you know what I mean.” “So you’re pulling me in as a replacement.” “Kind of, I guess. Well, not pulling you in. Offering you a place among people who can appreciate your stuff. Mutual critique. And, you know, we help each other out if we get in trouble, yeah? Like, if someone walked in on you here, they wouldn’t get it, they’d call the police, it’d be awkward, but see, with us, we’d be able to take care of that for you. We’ve got a guy who can take care of the bullshit you can’t be bothered with – The Janitor, we call him – and he’d be all over that shit. You join us, you don’t need to worry about the normals. Nobody tells us what to do, you know?” “I know. Nobody tells you what to do.” “See, you get it, man! Freedom from The Man. That’s what we’re all about, man, it’s about freedom, you know? You could pull this shit in the middle of a street, we’d take care of you.” “So, what, I join your little club, and then what?” “I dunno, we just talk. You do your thing, we do ours. We make stuff.” “And what exactly was the last bit of ‘stuff’ that you made?” The Sculptor shifted awkwardly. “Well, personally, I’ve been, uh, taking a bit of a break at the moment. You know, busy with other things. Just putting time into personal projects, you know?” “Right. You see, Mister The Sculptor, I know about your little club, and your creative output has been somewhat… slow, to say the least, and if I were to be a bit more loose with my words, I’d say you’re at a complete fucking standstill.” “That’s not really fair, man, it’s a complicated-“ “And you look at me, and you say, wow, here’s someone who’s doing something, let’s pull him in, let’s wrangle him like a wayward horse, and break him in, and ride him like a two cent whore. Well, Mister The Sculptor-“ “Now, that’s just not-“ “I am your whore.” “…what?” “I am your whore, I am your spice, feel free to shake me all over your meals, eat me as you please, allow me to enter your body as you enter mine. You used to do things, there used to be change in this world we share, but then you stood up to the change, you resisted. You sat on your own corpse pile, and you said, NO! This is the BEST corpse pile, these are the BEST corpses, and anyone who wants to pick them up and turn them into puppets, into animatronics, into real people, anybody who dares to breathe life into MY corpses, anyone who dares to resurrect the DEAD shall be crushed and made dead themselves.” “Okay, I think I’ve kind of lost you there.” “That’s my point. That is my point exactly. You look at what I’m doing, and you raise your chin, and finally I’ve managed to bring enough of a stench to wriggle into your nose, make you look down, make you acknowledge my filth and squalor. Mister The Sculptor, I want to be inside you.” “Look, man, you’re making me a bit uncomfortable here.” Pico Wilson rose from his throne. “I want to be inside you. I want to be a part of you, I want to change you from the inside, I want to force you from your stagnation, I want to make you burst open like an overboiled sausage, I want your delicious meat to burst forth. You see the spark in me, and you want it. And I see the spark in you, but it’s been a bit too long, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be used to start a fire, you’ve forgotten how to fan kindling into a blaze. So yes, I will join your club. I’ll be your Clipper, your Snipper, your spark plug of creativity, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll never forget the spark again. Now get out of here, I need to finger a few more girls.” “Well, uh, that’s great, I guess! Welcome aboard.” The Sculptor turned and left the room. “Fucking nutjob.” [[=]] << [[[A Cooler Manifesto]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Flexibility]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-11-19T22:58:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "black-comedy", "body-horror", "comedy", "horror", "tale" ]	Snip Snip Snip - SCP Foundation	216	[ "a-cooler-manifesto", "the-cool-war-hub", "flexibility", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-cool-war-hub", "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", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20688751	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/snip-snip-snip
snippetsfromtheserpent	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>-» You joined channel #booksudontread<br/> -» Topic is: Welcome to #booksudontread - RULES: Don't be an ass. Don't out your fellows. If you're here, it's because you've been invited. If you get kicked, it's because the ops think you've been doing something that could endanger yourself or others. Don't come back without their approval.<br/> -» Topic set by MisterKitty on 1/23/2013 12:33:27 PM<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* ChanServ sets mode +v no1uno for #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <@MisterKitty> So he says, 'First assume a spherical Chicken!'<br/> <Vet> Hahahaahhahahahahaha<br/> <vodkanono> lol<br/> <crankshaft> hehehe<br/> <~3rdSister> Oh lordy Mid, that's an old one.<br/> <@MisterKitty> Still good.<br/> <no1uno> Sounds like a good time being had.<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* Jagerman rolls some dice, and opens up a door.</span></strong><br/> <no1uno> It's nice you all can laugh at a time like this. When things are so rough.<br/> <romeoohromeo> whaddya mean no1?<br/> <@MisterKitty> I haven't seen you around before, no1uno. When did you join?<br/> <Vet> Ha, new blood! Let's ask him the questions!<br/> <@MisterKitty> Oh lord, do we have to go through with this?<br/> <vodkanono> Why not? There are traditions that keep us strong. We shall continue.<br/> <no1uno> If this is how things are done, then let them continue as such.<br/> <@MisterKitty> Fine, go ahead, ask the damn questions already.<br/> <romeoohromeo> al right, question one: how'd ya find us?<br/> <no1uno> Oh, I have my ways.<br/> <crayweed> Oh no! That's a cop out! Come on, we've all done the questions, you gotta answer.<br/> <no1uno> Well, to be prefectly honest, I just typed in 'Serpent Hands Secret Chat room' and this is what popped up.<br/> <romeoohromeo> …<br/> <crayweed> …<br/> <Vet> …<br/> <romeoohromeo> i don't believe you<br/> <no1uno> To be fair, I'm not actually using a regular computer. I had this one special built to do most of the work of tracking you people down. You're almost as hard to find as I am. But now I have you.<br/> <destructiveMouse> …<br/> <crankshaft> …<br/> <~3rdSister> … Okay, let's get this joker out of here.<br/> -» You were kicked from #booksudontread by 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (You were not invited.)<br/> <no1uno> and Yet, I am still here.<br/> <romeoohromeo> is… is that supposed to be possible? c, i thought you had this on lock down.<br/> <~3rdSister> That shouldn't be possible. But hanging aroudn you guys I know possible is a big field. You kids talk to him, I'm gonna… work my magic.<br/> <no1uno> I believe there was a second question?<br/> <crayweed> Okay, right, I got this. What are you lookign for here?<br/> <no1uno> Succor. Release. I seek the one who will free me from my torment, and let me once more pass on to the next. I seek the knowledge of the past, and the wisdom of the future.<br/> <vodkanono> …<br/> <@MisterKitty> …<br/> <romeoohromeo> … the fuck, man?<br/> <~3rdSister> Got you now! Suck it asshole.<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* 3rdSister sets mode +b !@no1uno for#booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <~3rdSister> Wait, what? That wasn't a name ban… Fuck it.<br/> -» You were kicked from #booksudontread by 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Eat it creep.)<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* 3rdSister wipes her hands of it. "Asshole dealt with."</span></strong><br/> <vodkanono> Applauds Well played, oh web mistress of awesome.<br/> <no1uno> I believe such applauds would be out of line, as I am still here.<br/> <~3rdSister> MOTHER FUCKER! Give me a moment.<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) has left #bookudontread ()</span></strong><br/> <Vet> All right asshole, as long as we've got you here, let's finish this. Last question. What's your power?"<br/> <@MisterKitty> Don't feed the noobs guys.<br/> <crayweed> Well, you gonna answer or what<br/> <no1uno> Ah, now you come to the crux of this operation, the nub, the epitome of what I wish to speak on.You see, I am unknown, I am unseen, I am not. Those who are aware do not believe, and I, I sit in the cracks, and watch the world turn. And I am here with an offer.<br/> <@MisterKitty> What do you offer us?<br/> <no1uno> You? Absolutely nothing. You have the power you seek.<br/> <romeoohromeo> aw yeah, romeo is coming into power now give it to me bitches<br/> <no1uno> Let us say no.<br/> <crayweed> Then why ARE you here?<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* vodkanono checks his watch.</span></strong><br/> <vodkanono> Why must the evil villains go on and on and on and on..<br/> <no1uno> I resist the label of evil.<br/> <crankshaft> So you're a good guy?<br/> <romeoohromeo> he reisists the label of good<br/> <no1uno> I resist the label of… yes.<br/> <crayweed> So your nothing.<br/> <no1uno> I am me, is that not enough?<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) has joined #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <no1uno> And my target returns.<br/> <~3rdSister> Right, you want me? Fine. Let's do this.<br/> <@MisterKitty> C, are you sure you want to do this?<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* 3rdSister sets mode +i for #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* romeoohromeo was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* crayweed was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* crankshaft was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* Jagerman was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)</span></strong><br/> <@Misterkitty> Claire, no, let me stick around and help you!<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* Misterkitty was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Love you too. I'll deal with it.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* vodkanono was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* Vet was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* destructiveMouse was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* OldMan was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (When the hell did you get here?)</span></strong><br/> <~3rdSister> And now it is down to me, and it is down to you.<br/> <no1uno> It has always been thus. You just resisted it. There's still one person watching, you know.<br/> <~3rdSister> I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. There's no one else in the room! How did you bypass my security? Why are you cracking my site? What the fuck do you want from me?<br/> <no1uno> I want to make you an offer. I'm tired. I've been doing this for… for too long. It has taken a toll on my mind as well as my body.<br/> <~3rdSister> What makes you think I want it?<br/> <no1uno> Because you asked for it, Claire. Because you want to be the ultimate thorn in the side of the Jailers.<br/> <~3rdSister> …<br/> <~3rdSister> … Oh.<br/> <~3rdSister> You.<br/> <no1uno> Me.<br/> <~3rdSister> What do you offer?<br/> <no1uno> Everything. All my files, all my tools, everything you need to make them fail.<br/> <~3rdSister> And what does it cost?<br/> <no1uno> Everything. You will be unable to make yourself known, even to those who were your closest friends. You will be me. Will have always been me.<br/> <~3rdSister> My…family?<br/> <no1uno> Will never have had a third little sister.<br/> <~3rdSister> Never again…<br/> <no1uno> But you'd fulfill the family goal.<br/> <~3rdSister> You're an asshole. Very well. I accept.<br/> <no1uno> Turn around.<br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* chanserv sets mode -i for #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* MisterKitty has joined #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* chanserv sets mode +qo MisterKitty MisterKitty for #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <strong><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* romeoohromeo has joined #booksudontread</span></strong><br/> <~MisterKitty> Huh, that was odd.<br/> <romeoohromeo> whut<br/> <~MisterKitty> I was locked out of the room for a minute. Weird. oh well, looks like nothings wrong.</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="/snippetsfromtheserpent">Snippets From The Serpent</a>" by AdminBright, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/snippetsfromtheserpent">https://scpwiki.com/snippetsfromtheserpent</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[module CSS]] @import url(/component:scp-trans-pride/code/1) [[/module]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] ->> You joined channel #booksudontread ->> Topic is: Welcome to #booksudontread - RULES: Don't be an ass. Don't out your fellows. If you're here, it's because you've been invited. If you get kicked, it's because the ops think you've been doing something that could endanger yourself or others. Don't come back without their approval. ->> Topic set by MisterKitty on 1/23/2013 12:33:27 PM *@@ ChanServ sets mode +v no1uno for #booksudontread@@ <@MisterKitty> So he says, 'First assume a spherical Chicken!' <Vet> Hahahaahhahahahahaha <vodkanono> lol <crankshaft> hehehe <~3rdSister> Oh lordy Mid, that's an old one. <@MisterKitty> Still good. <no1uno> Sounds like a good time being had. @@* Jagerman rolls some dice, and opens up a door.@@ <no1uno> It's nice you all can laugh at a time like this. When things are so rough. <romeoohromeo> whaddya mean no1? <@MisterKitty> I haven't seen you around before, no1uno. When did you join? <Vet> Ha, new blood! Let's ask him the questions! <@MisterKitty> Oh lord, do we have to go through with this? <vodkanono> Why not? There are traditions that keep us strong. We shall continue. <no1uno> If this is how things are done, then let them continue as such. <@MisterKitty> Fine, go ahead, ask the damn questions already. <romeoohromeo> al right, question one: how'd ya find us? <no1uno> Oh, I have my ways. <crayweed> Oh no! That's a cop out! Come on, we've all done the questions, you gotta answer. <no1uno> Well, to be prefectly honest, I just typed in 'Serpent Hands Secret Chat room' and this is what popped up. <romeoohromeo> ... <crayweed> ... <Vet> ... <romeoohromeo> i don't believe you <no1uno> To be fair, I'm not actually using a regular computer. I had this one special built to do most of the work of tracking you people down. You're almost as hard to find as I am. But now I have you. <destructiveMouse> ... <crankshaft> ... <~3rdSister> ... Okay, let's get this joker out of here. ->> You were kicked from #booksudontread by 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (You were not invited.) <no1uno> and Yet, I am still here. <romeoohromeo> is... is that supposed to be possible? c, i thought you had this on lock down. <~3rdSister> That shouldn't be possible. But hanging aroudn you guys I know possible is a big field. You kids talk to him, I'm gonna... work my magic. <no1uno> I believe there was a second question? <crayweed> Okay, right, I got this. What are you lookign for here? <no1uno> Succor. Release. I seek the one who will free me from my torment, and let me once more pass on to the next. I seek the knowledge of the past, and the wisdom of the future. <vodkanono> ... <@MisterKitty> ... <romeoohromeo> ... the fuck, man? <~3rdSister> Got you now! Suck it asshole. @@* 3rdSister sets mode +b !@no1uno for#booksudontread@@ <~3rdSister> Wait, what? That wasn't a name ban... Fuck it. ->> You were kicked from #booksudontread by 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Eat it creep.) @@* 3rdSister wipes her hands of it. "Asshole dealt with."@@** <vodkanono> Applauds Well played, oh web mistress of awesome. <no1uno> I believe such applauds would be out of line, as I am still here. <~3rdSister> MOTHER FUCKER! Give me a moment. *@@ 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) has left #bookudontread ()@@ <Vet> All right asshole, as long as we've got you here, let's finish this. Last question. What's your power?" <@MisterKitty> Don't feed the noobs guys. <crayweed> Well, you gonna answer or what <no1uno> Ah, now you come to the crux of this operation, the nub, the epitome of what I wish to speak on.You see, I am unknown, I am unseen, I am not. Those who are aware do not believe, and I, I sit in the cracks, and watch the world turn. And I am here with an offer. <@MisterKitty> What do you offer us? <no1uno> You? Absolutely nothing. You have the power you seek. <romeoohromeo> aw yeah, romeo is coming into power now give it to me bitches <no1uno> Let us say no. <crayweed> Then why ARE you here? @@* vodkanono checks his watch.@@ <vodkanono> Why must the evil villains go on and on and on and on.. <no1uno> I resist the label of evil. <crankshaft> So you're a good guy? <romeoohromeo> he reisists the label of good <no1uno> I resist the label of... yes. <crayweed> So your nothing. <no1uno> I am me, is that not enough? @@* 3rdSister (Bork@borkdeborkbork) has joined #booksudontread@@ <no1uno> And my target returns. <~3rdSister> Right, you want me? Fine. Let's do this. <@MisterKitty> C, are you sure you want to do this? @@* 3rdSister sets mode +i for #booksudontread@@ @@* romeoohromeo was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)@@ @@* crayweed was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)@@ @@* crankshaft was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)@@ @@* Jagerman was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety. Get the Docents.)@@ <@Misterkitty> Claire, no, let me stick around and help you! @@* Misterkitty was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Love you too. I'll deal with it.)@@ @@* vodkanono was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)@@ @@* Vet was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)@@ @@* destructiveMouse was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (Personal Safety.)@@ @@* OldMan was kicked by 3rdSister (bork@borkdeborkbork) Reason (When the hell did you get here?)@@ <~3rdSister> And now it is down to me, and it is down to you. <no1uno> It has always been thus. You just resisted it. There's still one person watching, you know. <~3rdSister> I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. There's no one else in the room! How did you bypass my security? Why are you cracking my site? What the fuck do you want from me? <no1uno> I want to make you an offer. I'm tired. I've been doing this for... for too long. It has taken a toll on my mind as well as my body. <~3rdSister> What makes you think I want it? <no1uno> Because you asked for it, Claire. Because you want to be the ultimate thorn in the side of the Jailers. <~3rdSister> ... <~3rdSister> ... Oh. <~3rdSister> You. <no1uno> Me. <~3rdSister> What do you offer? <no1uno> Everything. All my files, all my tools, everything you need to make them fail. <~3rdSister> And what does it cost? <no1uno> Everything. You will be unable to make yourself known, even to those who were your closest friends. You will be me. Will have always been me. <~3rdSister> My...family? <no1uno> Will never have had a third little sister. <~3rdSister> Never again... <no1uno> But you'd fulfill the family goal. <~3rdSister> You're an asshole. Very well. I accept. <no1uno> Turn around. @@* chanserv sets mode -i for #booksudontread@@ @@* MisterKitty has joined #booksudontread@@ @@* chanserv sets mode +qo MisterKitty MisterKitty for #booksudontread@@ @@* romeoohromeo has joined #booksudontread@@** <~MisterKitty> Huh, that was odd. <romeoohromeo> whut <~MisterKitty> I was locked out of the room for a minute. Weird. oh well, looks like nothings wrong. [[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>]]	2013-01-26T05:56:00	[ "_licensebox", "correspondence", "featured", "man-who-wasnt-there", "mystery", "nobody", "nyc2013", "serpents-hand", "spy-fiction", "tale" ]	Snippets From The Serpent - SCP Foundation	188	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-man-who-wasnt-there-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "serpent-s-hand-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	16205554	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/snippetsfromtheserpent
special-assets	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Saint Helene's Hospital didn't appear on any maps. You couldn't Google it or look it up in the Yellow Pages. The only way to find it was to know that it was there.</p> <p>Extracting himself and his packages from the Smart Car was an exercise in contortionism. The man called "Bullfrog" had driven golf carts with more leg room. On the other hand, it was better than a big-ass SUV that guzzled gas like a fish and handles like a drunk hippo. <em>The day I can buy a car without worrying if it has enough room to carry the entire team plus tactical gear is the day I'll know I'm well and truly retired…</em></p> <p>Willow trees lined the red-brick path that led from the parking lot up to the hospital grounds proper, shading it from the midday sun. The dappled sunlight on the red brick reminded Bullfrog of a leopard's hide. <em>Can a leopard change his spots? Why would he want to?</em></p> <p>A young boy's delighted laugh broke through the silence, accompanied by the sound of leaf-springs hitting concrete and the boy himself: hale and happy, with bright white teeth that struck a strong contrast to his dark, coffee-black skin. "<em>Monsieur Grenouille!</em>" he shouted.</p> <p>"<em>Bonjour, Alain,</em>" Bullfrog said cheerfully, then continued in French: "It's good to see you again!" He picked up the young boy and embraced him in a fond, strong hug.</p> <p>"Alain! Alain! Where has that troublemaker gone t— OH! Mister Grenouille! I didn't know you'd arrived!" The harried young woman in the nun's habit adjusted a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, sir. It's these new legs. Since the moment he got them, he's been running all over the place. We can't keep track of him any more."</p> <p>Alain's legs had been amputated below the knee. When Bullfrog first met him, they had been replaced by twisted, crudely attached tendrils of scrap metal and steel. These carbon-fiber running blades suited him much better. "It's all right, sister. Alain is just making up for lost time, is all."</p> <p>"They're the same kind that Oscar Pistorius uses!" Alain said excitedly. "Some day I'll run with him in the Olympics!"</p> <p>"Is that so? A good goal to strive for. Run along now, Sister Amelié and I need to talk." Bullfrog put the boy back down and watched him dash back up the path, happily. He was joined by a one-armed girl and a boy who wore sunglasses and carried a red-and-white cane. "He seems happy," Bull observed.</p> <p>"The amnestics are doing their work. Sometimes he has nightmares, but most days he's like this: excited, happy… ordinary. We'll be ready to place him with an adoption agency soon, then our work here will be done."</p> <p>"You've done well," Bullfrog reassured her. "But… those legs. They must be expensive. Especially for a growing boy."</p> <p>"They're hand-me-downs," Sister Amelié admitted, "adjusted to fit him. UNICEF's black fund helped with the rest." She sighed and shook her head. "But you're not here to talk about Alain's legs, are you?"</p> <p>"No," Bullfrog admitted. "Is Doctor Lai around?"</p> <p>"I'll take you to see him."</p> <hr/> <p>"Brigitte's case is unique," the older man explained. "She was, by far, the most heavily altered of that madman's test subjects who still maintains her own will. Thankfully, we got to her before the brain alterations were completed. Unfortunately, it means that her treatment will take longer. We can't just remove the foreign matter and replace it with Zero-Generation technology. Replacing her jaw alone will have to wait until she reaches her adult size, not to mention the need for lifelong hormone therapy… still, we were ready to begin removing some of the more extreme alterations, when this problem came up."</p> <p>"Had she ever been violent before?" Bullfrog asked.</p> <p>"It's inaccurate to claim she's being violent <em>now,</em>" Dr. Lai admitted. "She hasn't tried to actively hurt anyone. She's just… uncooperative. The changes to her nervous system make her impossible to anesthetize. When we try to restrain her physically, she resists until the risk of injury to herself is so great we have to stop. Finally, we asked her if there was anything we could give her in exchange for her cooperation. She said she wanted to talk to you. We agreed not to remove any more of her alterations until you had the chance."</p> <p>"Yeah. Sorry about the wait, doctor. There was this thing with the U.S. military that kinda blew up. Paperwork and hearings for months…"</p> <p>"The 'Project Pandora' incident?"</p> <p>"You know I can't confirm nor deny that, doc."</p> <p>"Well, you're here now. Do you want me to go in with you?"</p> <p>"Nah. I'll handle this one myself."</p> <p>"I'll be waiting inside, then. Call me if you need me."</p> <hr/> <p>It was a very nice garden, with high walls covered in climbing roses. Four wedge-shaped plots radiated from the center, each one dominated by a different flower: pansies, marigolds, tansies and violets. Willow trees provided shade, their supple boughs swaying in the afternoon breeze.</p> <p>Brigitte sat at the edge of the fountain, wearing a yellow sundress and holding a pure white flower. She stared at the blossom in rapt wonder before handing it to Bullfrog as he sat down next to her. "<tt>pretty colors,</tt>" she said, in a voice that buzzed and crackled like an old AM radio.</p> <p><em>Colors? Oh. Right. She can see in ultraviolet.</em> Bullfrog took the flower from her, suppressing a shudder as his fingers brushed against the crudely formed steel talons that had replaced her arm below the elbow. "It's very pretty, yes," he agreed, admiring the pure white petals.</p> <p>"<tt>pretty colors,</tt>" Brigitte repeated. Her one normal eye sparkled happily. It looked grotesque compared to the horror of wires and steel that was the left side of her face. Her upper lip (all that was left of what had once been her mouth) moved in what was probably meant to be a smile.</p> <p>Bullfrog cleared his throat and looked away. "Mister Petomaine and Miss Chaton were sad they couldn't come. But they sent gifts." The broad-brimmed white hat he took from the hatbox was a bit too big for her, but she would (he hoped) grow into it. And the look of delight as she picked up and hugged the doll was impossible to fake. For a moment, she looked like an ordinary girl, delighting in new gifts given to her by people who cared very much.</p> <p>Then the blinking device that had replaced her jaw clicked and whirred and turned over. <em>Oh well,</em> Bullfrog thought. <em>It was nice while it lasted…</em> "Doctor Lai says that you've been refusing your treatments," he said. "He says you've been…" He paused and reconsidered saying <em>a bad girl</em>. Who was he to make a moral decision in this instance? "… stubborn," he concluded. "Is something wrong?"</p> <p>Brigitte hugged the doll a little tighter and bowed her head, hiding her eyes under the brim of her new hat. "<tt>doctor lai says that the surgery will make brigitte normal again,</tt>" she said. "<tt>is that true?</tt>"</p> <p><em>He did, did he? A cruel lie to tell to a child… and a transparent one, too.</em> "No," Bullfrog admitted. "It can't make you normal. But it can make you… ordinary. Just like Alain or Claire or Denis. Maybe they don't have legs, or an arm, or eyes, but they can still live a good, long, fulfilling life."</p> <p>He was surprised when Brigitte shook her head violently, causing her hat to slip off her head. "<tt>brigitte does not want to be ordinary. bad things happen to ordinary people and they don't stop it.</tt>"</p> <p><em>Oh.</em> Bullfrog quickly re-evaluated the situation. "Bad things happen to special people too," he pointed out. "It's better to be ordinary."</p> <p>"<tt>chaton is not ordinary. chaton does not let bad things happen.</tt>"</p> <p><em>Ah.</em> Bullfrog grimaced as his mind returned to a place of rust, blood, and gunpowder smoke. Team Sparkplug had only been assigned to do the infiltration and assessment, but after what they had found in that abandoned bunker, all three of them had begged to participate in the takedown. It was just blind luck that Kitten had been the one to see the clockwork-and-flesh monstrosities come out of the walls. Little (then-nameless) Brigitte had recieved a front-row seat to a Grade A Psycho-Killer Kitten Rampage. <em>I'd always felt the bit with the crowbar was over the top.</em></p> <p>"<tt>brigitte is special. brigitte can do things other people cannot. brigitte does not want to be ordinary.</tt>" the little girl insisted. "<tt>brigitte wants to help.</tt>"</p> <p>Would they let it happen? Brigitte was borderline: her deviations might be too far from baseline to fall under the GOC's "Special Assets Directive." She might end up back on the "harmless misfits" list - Tier 1 response, monitor but do not engage. Could the GOC use someone who could read a CD-ROM from the pattern of lights on its underside?</p> <p><em>This isn't my decision to make.</em></p> <p>Bullfrog picked up the white hat and put it back on the little girl's head. "I'll see what I can do," was all he said.</p> <hr/> <p>"Yook? Would you mind explaining this?"</p> <p>"It looks like a standard request for access to Downstream Technology. Personnel enhancements, specifically," the smiling man said.</p> <p>"… it's a request for personnel enhancements… for an eight-year-old girl," D.C. Al Fine sighed. "The U.N. just issued a statement condemning the use of child soldiers in warfare, and one of your Team leaders is requesting augmentation for a little girl? How do you think that makes us look?"</p> <p>"Mmmmm. From what I can see, this is a request for a twelve-year course of treatment. Most of the alterations are cosmetic in nature - replacing Gen Zero artificial limbs with Gen Plus Two, that sort of thing. Most of the ones that aren't are "leave in place" orders for existing augments. She can opt out at any time, and nothing that could be construed as combat-oriented is scheduled until after she turns eighteen. This all looks above-board to me."</p> <p>"The Security Council will crucify us. The Americans are still bitter over losing that entire SEAL team. They're not going to look favorably upon the "U.N.'s personal stooges" building up paratech while they're still forbidden to do so by international treaty."</p> <p>"You know," the smiling man said, off-handedly. "You've been doing a lot of complaining, but I haven't heard you say 'No.'"</p> <p>"I just wanted you and your team to know just how irritating this is," D.C. explained. She signed her name on the dotted line and threw the page into Assistant Director "Ukelele's" face. "Go on. Build your goddamn super-cyborg. See if I care."</p> <p>"Yes, ma'am," Ukelele said, grinning. He put his own signature (an alto clef symbol) in the appropriate space, then tossed the form into his outbox. <em>Shine, little girl, shine.</em></p> <p>Then he went back to doing his quarterly budget request. Even when it came to saving the world, it was best to dot every i and cross every t.</p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/special-assets">Special Assets</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/special-assets">https://scpwiki.com/special-assets</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Saint Helene's Hospital didn't appear on any maps. You couldn't Google it or look it up in the Yellow Pages. The only way to find it was to know that it was there. Extracting himself and his packages from the Smart Car was an exercise in contortionism. The man called "Bullfrog" had driven golf carts with more leg room. On the other hand, it was better than a big-ass SUV that guzzled gas like a fish and handles like a drunk hippo. //The day I can buy a car without worrying if it has enough room to carry the entire team plus tactical gear is the day I'll know I'm well and truly retired...// Willow trees lined the red-brick path that led from the parking lot up to the hospital grounds proper, shading it from the midday sun. The dappled sunlight on the red brick reminded Bullfrog of a leopard's hide. //Can a leopard change his spots? Why would he want to?// A young boy's delighted laugh broke through the silence, accompanied by the sound of leaf-springs hitting concrete and the boy himself: hale and happy, with bright white teeth that struck a strong contrast to his dark, coffee-black skin. "//Monsieur Grenouille!//" he shouted. "//Bonjour, Alain,//" Bullfrog said cheerfully, then continued in French: "It's good to see you again!" He picked up the young boy and embraced him in a fond, strong hug. "Alain! Alain! Where has that troublemaker gone t-- OH! Mister Grenouille! I didn't know you'd arrived!" The harried young woman in the nun's habit adjusted a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, sir. It's these new legs. Since the moment he got them, he's been running all over the place. We can't keep track of him any more." Alain's legs had been amputated below the knee. When Bullfrog first met him, they had been replaced by twisted, crudely attached tendrils of scrap metal and steel. These carbon-fiber running blades suited him much better. "It's all right, sister. Alain is just making up for lost time, is all." "They're the same kind that Oscar Pistorius uses!" Alain said excitedly. "Some day I'll run with him in the Olympics!" "Is that so? A good goal to strive for. Run along now, Sister Amelié and I need to talk." Bullfrog put the boy back down and watched him dash back up the path, happily. He was joined by a one-armed girl and a boy who wore sunglasses and carried a red-and-white cane. "He seems happy," Bull observed. "The amnestics are doing their work. Sometimes he has nightmares, but most days he's like this: excited, happy. . . ordinary. We'll be ready to place him with an adoption agency soon, then our work here will be done." "You've done well," Bullfrog reassured her. "But. . . those legs. They must be expensive. Especially for a growing boy." "They're hand-me-downs," Sister Amelié admitted, "adjusted to fit him. UNICEF's black fund helped with the rest." She sighed and shook her head. "But you're not here to talk about Alain's legs, are you?" "No," Bullfrog admitted. "Is Doctor Lai around?" "I'll take you to see him." ----- "Brigitte's case is unique," the older man explained. "She was, by far, the most heavily altered of that madman's test subjects who still maintains her own will. Thankfully, we got to her before the brain alterations were completed. Unfortunately, it means that her treatment will take longer. We can't just remove the foreign matter and replace it with Zero-Generation technology. Replacing her jaw alone will have to wait until she reaches her adult size, not to mention the need for lifelong hormone therapy. . . still, we were ready to begin removing some of the more extreme alterations, when this problem came up." "Had she ever been violent before?" Bullfrog asked. "It's inaccurate to claim she's being violent //now,//" Dr. Lai admitted. "She hasn't tried to actively hurt anyone. She's just. . . uncooperative. The changes to her nervous system make her impossible to anesthetize. When we try to restrain her physically, she resists until the risk of injury to herself is so great we have to stop. Finally, we asked her if there was anything we could give her in exchange for her cooperation. She said she wanted to talk to you. We agreed not to remove any more of her alterations until you had the chance." "Yeah. Sorry about the wait, doctor. There was this thing with the U.S. military that kinda blew up. Paperwork and hearings for months. . ." "The 'Project Pandora' incident?" "You know I can't confirm nor deny that, doc." "Well, you're here now. Do you want me to go in with you?" "Nah. I'll handle this one myself." "I'll be waiting inside, then. Call me if you need me." ----- It was a very nice garden, with high walls covered in climbing roses. Four wedge-shaped plots radiated from the center, each one dominated by a different flower: pansies, marigolds, tansies and violets. Willow trees provided shade, their supple boughs swaying in the afternoon breeze. Brigitte sat at the edge of the fountain, wearing a yellow sundress and holding a pure white flower. She stared at the blossom in rapt wonder before handing it to Bullfrog as he sat down next to her. "{{pretty colors,}}" she said, in a voice that buzzed and crackled like an old AM radio. //Colors? Oh. Right. She can see in ultraviolet.// Bullfrog took the flower from her, suppressing a shudder as his fingers brushed against the crudely formed steel talons that had replaced her arm below the elbow. "It's very pretty, yes," he agreed, admiring the pure white petals. "{{pretty colors,}}" Brigitte repeated. Her one normal eye sparkled happily. It looked grotesque compared to the horror of wires and steel that was the left side of her face. Her upper lip (all that was left of what had once been her mouth) moved in what was probably meant to be a smile. Bullfrog cleared his throat and looked away. "Mister Petomaine and Miss Chaton were sad they couldn't come. But they sent gifts." The broad-brimmed white hat he took from the hatbox was a bit too big for her, but she would (he hoped) grow into it. And the look of delight as she picked up and hugged the doll was impossible to fake. For a moment, she looked like an ordinary girl, delighting in new gifts given to her by people who cared very much. Then the blinking device that had replaced her jaw clicked and whirred and turned over. //Oh well,// Bullfrog thought. //It was nice while it lasted. . .// "Doctor Lai says that you've been refusing your treatments," he said. "He says you've been. . ." He paused and reconsidered saying //a bad girl//. Who was he to make a moral decision in this instance? ". . . stubborn," he concluded. "Is something wrong?" Brigitte hugged the doll a little tighter and bowed her head, hiding her eyes under the brim of her new hat. "{{doctor lai says that the surgery will make brigitte normal again,}}" she said. "{{is that true?}}" //He did, did he? A cruel lie to tell to a child. . . and a transparent one, too.// "No," Bullfrog admitted. "It can't make you normal. But it can make you. . . ordinary. Just like Alain or Claire or Denis. Maybe they don't have legs, or an arm, or eyes, but they can still live a good, long, fulfilling life." He was surprised when Brigitte shook her head violently, causing her hat to slip off her head. "{{brigitte does not want to be ordinary. bad things happen to ordinary people and they don't stop it.}}" //Oh.// Bullfrog quickly re-evaluated the situation. "Bad things happen to special people too," he pointed out. "It's better to be ordinary." "{{chaton is not ordinary. chaton does not let bad things happen.}}" //Ah.// Bullfrog grimaced as his mind returned to a place of rust, blood, and gunpowder smoke. Team Sparkplug had only been assigned to do the infiltration and assessment, but after what they had found in that abandoned bunker, all three of them had begged to participate in the takedown. It was just blind luck that Kitten had been the one to see the clockwork-and-flesh monstrosities come out of the walls. Little (then-nameless) Brigitte had recieved a front-row seat to a Grade A Psycho-Killer Kitten Rampage. //I'd always felt the bit with the crowbar was over the top.// "{{brigitte is special. brigitte can do things other people cannot. brigitte does not want to be ordinary.}}" the little girl insisted. "{{brigitte wants to help.}}" Would they let it happen? Brigitte was borderline: her deviations might be too far from baseline to fall under the GOC's "Special Assets Directive." She might end up back on the "harmless misfits" list - Tier 1 response, monitor but do not engage. Could the GOC use someone who could read a CD-ROM from the pattern of lights on its underside? //This isn't my decision to make.// Bullfrog picked up the white hat and put it back on the little girl's head. "I'll see what I can do," was all he said. ----- "Yook? Would you mind explaining this?" "It looks like a standard request for access to Downstream Technology. Personnel enhancements, specifically," the smiling man said. ". . . it's a request for personnel enhancements. . . for an eight-year-old girl," D.C. Al Fine sighed. "The U.N. just issued a statement condemning the use of child soldiers in warfare, and one of your Team leaders is requesting augmentation for a little girl? How do you think that makes us look?" "Mmmmm. From what I can see, this is a request for a twelve-year course of treatment. Most of the alterations are cosmetic in nature - replacing Gen Zero artificial limbs with Gen Plus Two, that sort of thing. Most of the ones that aren't are "leave in place" orders for existing augments. She can opt out at any time, and nothing that could be construed as combat-oriented is scheduled until after she turns eighteen. This all looks above-board to me." "The Security Council will crucify us. The Americans are still bitter over losing that entire SEAL team. They're not going to look favorably upon the "U.N.'s personal stooges" building up paratech while they're still forbidden to do so by international treaty." "You know," the smiling man said, off-handedly. "You've been doing a lot of complaining, but I haven't heard you say 'No.'" "I just wanted you and your team to know just how irritating this is," D.C. explained. She signed her name on the dotted line and threw the page into Assistant Director "Ukelele's" face. "Go on. Build your goddamn super-cyborg. See if I care." "Yes, ma'am," Ukelele said, grinning. He put his own signature (an alto clef symbol) in the appropriate space, then tossed the form into his outbox. //Shine, little girl, shine.// Then he went back to doing his quarterly budget request. Even when it came to saving the world, it was best to dot every i and cross every t. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-01T19:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "dc-al-fine", "doctor-clef", "global-occult-coalition", "military-fiction", "nyc2013", "science-fiction", "tale", "unfounded" ]	Special Assets - SCP Foundation	178	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub" ]	[]	16270848	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/special-assets
stepping-out	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It came as a great shock to Doctor Martin the day the Blank Man appeared before him and offered to show him a world without the Foundation.</p> <p>It would, of course, come as a shock to anyone. To be sitting in one's office during the middle of a fairly busy day, only to look up from your work and see the outline of a man standing in front of you. To see such a strange thing is simply outside the human experience, and to feel shocked by it is only natural. For Doctor Martin, however, his background with the SCP Foundation meant he had spent many years in exposure to such things. The shock should not have come to him at all.</p> <p>Perhaps it was because he had never seen anything like the Blank Man before. After all, even with his extensive knowledge of the anomalous and macabre, Doctor Martin had only seen a small fraction of what the universe had to offer him. But even the multi-pronged vagabond from the twelfth-dimension had not fazed him the day it stole the heart of his secretary. So that could not be it.</p> <p>Perhaps it was because this was his first time working in a site where objects capable of inducing such hallucinations were stored. Having never seen this particular sort of thing before could have caught him off guard. But he knew full well that the nearest object capable of such mind-altering effects was far enough away to not impact him in the slightest. So it was probably not that.</p> <p>No, it was most likely because Doctor Martin simply did not expect it. In all his years with the Foundation, few normal people had dared enter his office while he busied himself with work. Fewer strange creatures at that. Doctor Martin was used to the solitude his working hours provided him. A sudden interruption, especially one of such a strange magnitude as this, had simply caught him off guard.</p> <p>As Doctor Martin attempted to regain his senses, the Blank Man reiterated Its - His? Was it right to call something that looked somewhat like a man and spoke somewhat like a man, but was clearly not a man a He? - offer: It was capable of tearing open the fabric of reality, in such a fashion that would not harm the larger structure of it, and forming a portal to another universe. Another universe where the Foundation had never existed. It was capable of doing so, and would do so just for Doctor Martin. Moreover, It was quite willing to do so, somewhat eager, even.</p> <p>Doctor Martin let his options run through his head. Logic dictated that he should call security and initiate a Site lockdown, in order to capture this thing and begin study of It. That was, of course, what any other sane, rational person would do when faced with a situation similar to this. His hand was already on the buzzer; all it would take was a simple muscle spasm to take this thing and lock It away for the rest of Its days.</p> <p>But in the back of his head, Doctor Martin knew he could not. There was something about the Blank Man he could not place his finger upon. Something about It that suggested any attempt to contain it would result in Its vanishing, never to be seen nor heard from again. This would, of course, be perfectly ideal, as it meant the Foundation would never have to waste resources trying to study and understand this thing. And yet, the offer It made to Doctor Martin was so compelling, so strange and alien and potentially horrifying, that he just could not refuse.</p> <p>And so, Doctor Martin raised his hand from the buzzer, looked straight into the Blank Man's nonexistent face, and stepped around his desk, nodding his head.</p> <p>The Blank Man nodded too, and turned Its form about to face the wall behind it. Doctor Martin had long grown used to bland, washed-out colors and slightly cracked doorframe he faced on a daily basis, and still expected them to be there now. Imagine his surprise when his eyes were met with a dazzling array of colors not of this Earth, or indeed, of any Earth anywhere. The alien colors danced and flashed and sang, moving in dazzling, complex patterns no eye could hope to comprehend. To any well-worn traveler of the interstellar planes, such a sight is perfectly normal, and not worth much contemplation. To a man fresh out of his universe, the space between realities was both awe-inspiring and awful.</p> <p>Before he could be completely lost in the dazzling array of color and spectacle, Doctor Martin felt a pressure on his wrist, and looked in what he assumed was the frontal direction. The outline of the Blank Man stood there, pulling him through the madness and into the darkness of a new world's night.</p> <p>Doctor Martin did not know what he had expected to find in this new universe. The thought of what would have happened had the Foundation never come into being had played across his mind once every few years, but he had never seriously considered it a possibility. The SCP Foundation existing seemed as natural a fact as the sun rising in the east, or grass growing green. As he tried to shake off the effects of interstellar travel, Doctor Martin attempted to reason out what state humankind would have gotten to without the Foundation's guidance these last forty years.</p> <p>He did not stray too far from the path he had expected to take. Of course, the initial appearance of the sculpture would not have brought about too much change. It would certainly have caused untold loss of life, but nothing that the world could not deal with. No, it was all the strange things that had come in its wake; all those cosmic horrors from beyond the veil of reality arriving in our simple little plane of existence. <em>Those</em> would be the things capable of destroying the world. Without the Foundation there, mankind would not have made it a year out of 173's first sighting.</p> <p>Images of a blasted heath of a land came to Doctor Martin's mind; charred skeletal remains peppering the landscape, rotting husks of buildings toppling to the ground one by one, an unnatural stillness in the air. A true post-apocalyptic world.</p> <p>What he saw, however, was something quite entirely different. Doctor Martin and the Blank Man stood on a grassy hill, overlooking a small settlement in what looked to be Norway, judging by the towering fjords to the east. Birdsong filled the air, wind swept playfully through the grass, and in the distance, Doctor Martin could hear small children at play. The sunlight and warmth on his face told him this was summertime.</p> <p>But this couldn't be Norway. Norway would have been torn apart decades ago, leaving nothing but a few small islands sticking about the raging sea of magma. If the Foundation hadn't intervened…</p> <p>Doctor Martin turned to the Blank Man and demanded to know what had happened to keep this place so orderly. Was the ritual simply nonexistent in this universe? Was there some other organization who intervened? Was this, perhaps, in the distant past, before the Foundation even existed?</p> <p>The Blank Man shook Its head region, and responded: No, this is the modern day. The exact same hour of the exact same day of the exact same year Doctor Martin had just stepped out of. It was just a Norwegian settlement in a universe where the Foundation just did not exist. No other differences. Just a lack of the Foundation.</p> <p>Then this must be a fluke, Doctor Martin realized. A small part of the world that managed to escape the widespread destruction, through what means he could not possibly fathom, but managed to escape it nonetheless. That must be it, right?</p> <p>The world shifted, and Doctor Martin found himself and the Blank Man standing in the middle of Times Square, with rush hour traffic roaring all around them. Then they appeared in the London Underground, a busy crowd of commuters hustling to catch the 4:37 train. And again they shifted, this time showing up in Beijing.</p> <p>Time after time they shifted across the world, how many times Doctor Martin was not sure of. But even though they remained in one spot for no more than a second or two, it was enough to show Doctor Martin a planet that had evidently survived without the shadowy gaze of the Foundation hovering over it. Somehow, someway, every tiny little detail was still there.</p> <p>Not exactly, the Blank Man replied, standing as stock still as It had throughout the whole trip. Some things did change without the Foundation around. There were no young girls impregnated with horrors from beyond, no farmers massacred by a reptilian demon, no time when London was torn to pieces and rebuilt with a Glasgow smile running across the city. All those people who suffered and died at the hands of the monstrosities the Foundation contained simply went on living their lives untouched, as content or miserable as they would have been otherwise, until they either passed away or made it to the modern day.</p> <p>Doctor Martin could not understand this. The Blank Man had quite clearly stated the only difference between this universe and his native one was the lack of the SCP Foundation. That was the basis for this whole trip, was it not? Could it be that the Blank Man had lied in order to achieve some higher, more sinister purpose?</p> <p>The Blank Man let out the closest thing to a sigh It could muster, and looked directly into Doctor Martin's eyes. There had, perhaps, been some miscommunication, entirely on the Blank Man's part. It was true this universe lacked the existence of an SCP Foundation, there was no denying that fact. The lack of the Foundation, however, was more a catalyst for change than any sole, unique difference in these timelines. Without the Foundation… well, perhaps it was better to show Doctor Martin.</p> <p>The pair shifted once again, to the inside of a small diner in the desert. It was a scene of understated carnage. Most of the people sitting within the booths or on stools had expressions of mild shock on their faces, while the waitress behind the counter had a look of utter terror on her face. Her mouth half open in a scream, her eyes clamped tightly shut. A few small patches of blood stained the ground and counter. Each and every head in the diner was either tilted or twisted in an unnatural way.</p> <p>Doctor Martin, seeking a sight less stomach-upsetting than this, glanced at the calendar on the wall. Forty years in the past. He remembered this day.</p> <p>The Blank Man, having spent Its time staring into the face of a gruff-looking man, shifted Itself and Doctor Martin once again. Stumbling slightly on the uneven ground beneath his feet, Doctor Martin looked up and found himself standing in the middle of a barren desert, the rim of a canyon a few kilometers ahead. Before he could comprehend any more than this, a vaguely human shaped blur tore straight past him, kicking up a cloud of rock and sand as it went by.</p> <p>The Blank Man nodded once again. It could tell what Doctor Martin was thinking: He recognized this place, did he not? He could even remember the exact details of this day. A young man, starting fresh at an organization dedicated to containing hazardous materials, receiving word that something had slaughtered a diner full of people not six miles from where they were stationed. An indication that something had just rushed past their front door, its trail leading quite clearly back to the diner. A brief consideration by the higher-ups to just let it go, let someone else more capable of handling such a thing take care of matters. And then…</p> <p>Doctor Martin remembered. He had been selected to go out and investigate what this thing was. They had encountered it less than a hundred meters away from the cliff in the distance. It had killed two men and severely injured him before taking off once again. They had lost a few good men, but gained invaluable knowledge of how the sculpture worked, and how to catch it. Two tries later, and the object was given the designation SCP-173, and locked up tight. And as time went on, that hazardous materials containment team had grown massively in scope, phasing out the hundred and seventy-two other materials and objects they had collected in favor of far stranger things. Forty years of growth, study, and protection. Forty years of securing, containing, and protecting. Forty years of this, Doctor Martin had seen, and it had all started just up ahead, with his small team's encounter with the original.</p> <p>But for whatever reason, Doctor Martin and his team simply were not there.</p> <p>Shifting once again, the pair stood upon the edge of the cliff. The blurred figure continued to rush towards them. Though no specific details could be made out of it, Doctor Martin could tell it intended to turn as soon as possible, just avoiding the cliff and continuing to speed along the edge. The figure started to do so, and indeed looked as if it would make it.</p> <p>And then, there was a statue in place of the blur, skidding along the desert sand. Some small lizard from below or a bird up on high must have spotted it, however momentarily, freezing it into rock and paint. The statue tumbled over itself a few times before toppling over the rim and falling out of sight.</p> <p>Peering over the edge, Doctor Martin dimly saw a shattered figure, dashed out across the rocks below. The world shifted, and the pair stood at the bottom of the cliff, next to the broken, scattered stones of what was once SCP-173. The wind was already blowing sand over the rocks; in a few years time, nobody would even know this horrid, nightmarish creature had ever existed.</p> <p>This sort of thing had happened countless times before, the Blank Man observed, Its feet digging at the sand around the sculpture's head. Inexplicable deaths, unexplained phenomena, unexpected vanishings, horrid monsters with razor sharp teeth, all the things that keep men awake at night. All of them glitches in the reality of space-time, of course. Things either never meant to be, or just plain showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time. That statue was no different. Just appearing, lost and confused in the middle of the desert, and finding itself frozen in place whenever any living creature looked upon it. So it lashed out, killed a few people, and fled across the desert sands.</p> <p>In Doctor Martin's universe, the natural thing for people to do in this sort of situation was respond. A reactive species, the human race. If something goes wrong or is out of the ordinary, they go at it until there's no reasonable explanation and just leave it at that, or find some way to bring it into their sphere of understanding. It is a bit of a confusing trait to have; after all, most other highly intelligent, reactive species eventually wind up sticking their noses somewhere they don't belong and getting them bit off. But that's just a simple digression.</p> <p>The point is, in Doctor Martin's universe, a few people reacted to a simple, everyday mistake in the universe, and locked it up. In this universe, they decided it was somebody else's problem, and just let it slide, quite literally, off a cliff. That's the key difference here. The Blank Man did not know exactly <em>why</em> the universe responded in the way it did. Most likely because mankind had never reacted on such a large scale <em>and</em> managed to capture one of its mistakes. What does a universe normally do when such a thing happens within it? The Blank Man, much as It would like to say, simply could not say.</p> <p>But whatever the normal reaction to such things was, the universe looked at such a strange event happening surrounding one of its glitches, and decided that mankind needed more of a challenge. It needed more things like this. So it started making more. Small objects with little quirks scattered here and there, people given fantastic, horrifying powers then and now, unfathomable monsters of unknowable terror plucked from their places every now and again, even an idea planted into some lunatic's head once in a while. The whole spectrum of things normally considered defects in a universe were now being saturated across one planet, just to give a few members of one little reactive species something to do.</p> <p>In essence, in dedicating itself to the protection of mankind, the Foundation inadvertently created the things mankind needed protection from.</p> <p>As Doctor Martin took this all in, he continued to stare into the spray-painted green eyes of the shattered sculpture. He had always looked at this thing as the root of all the world's troubles. The spark that started a raging forest fire of madness and death across the world, a fire the Foundation could never put out, only just barely contain. A simple little match in a dry wood causing so much trouble. But now? They hadn't been working to stamp out the fire by containing this thing; they'd been pouring gasoline on it.</p> <p>And then the madness of the dancing colors overtook the wind and the sand and the broken statue. Barely even noticing the enticing wonders around him, Doctor Martin slowly climbed to his feet, and stood stock still next to the Blank Man as his office reformed around him.</p> <p>The Blank Man thanked Doctor Martin for his time. It is not very often one of Its stature attempts to show someone like him the truth, and even rarer for the journey to be seen to its conclusion. So It thanked Doctor Martin for having gone through with the offer, and expressed a sincerest hope he had learned something of value from this little excursion. Then, without making a move, the Blank Man was gone, disturbing nothing and looking for all the world as if It had never been there at all.</p> <p>Doctor Martin stood in the middle of his office, contemplating the bland, washed-out colors of his wall, and the slightly cracked wooden doorframe. There was much for him to think about. Many actions to be contemplated. He had things to do with the knowledge he had obtained, things he needed to do in order to make the world a better place. But first…</p> <p>Doctor Martin opened his door, and stepped out.</p> <p>None know what became of Dr. Harold Martin after that day. All security tapes show a disturbance of some nature in his office, scrambling the video feed throughout the site, and when they come back, all show him having vanished. Despite a lack of paperwork, amnestic requests or termination documents, the next day there was no evidence Doctor Martin had ever been associated with the SCP Foundation. Rumors persist that he was involved with several terrorist attacks by various Groups of Interest in the following weeks, but no solid evidence showing this or the contrary have shown up. Only one man knows of the Blank Man, and he has disappeared off the face of the Earth.</p> <p>Perhaps Doctor Martin's encounter with the Blank Man, and his trip to an alternate universe weren't even real. He was, after all, getting on in his years, and was working at a site where several mind-altering objects were stored. Perhaps the Blank Man was real, and Its revelations about the nature of the universe were spot on. Maybe, just maybe, the Foundation <em>could</em> have averted all the death and destruction in the world if it had just sat back and done nothing.</p> <p>But then, this is a tale dealing with alternate realities. And that's always the key word when it comes to these sort of tales, isn't it?</p> <p>Maybe.<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="/stepping-out">Stepping Out</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/stepping-out">https://scpwiki.com/stepping-out</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] It came as a great shock to Doctor Martin the day the Blank Man appeared before him and offered to show him a world without the Foundation. It would, of course, come as a shock to anyone. To be sitting in one's office during the middle of a fairly busy day, only to look up from your work and see the outline of a man standing in front of you. To see such a strange thing is simply outside the human experience, and to feel shocked by it is only natural. For Doctor Martin, however, his background with the SCP Foundation meant he had spent many years in exposure to such things. The shock should not have come to him at all. Perhaps it was because he had never seen anything like the Blank Man before. After all, even with his extensive knowledge of the anomalous and macabre, Doctor Martin had only seen a small fraction of what the universe had to offer him. But even the multi-pronged vagabond from the twelfth-dimension had not fazed him the day it stole the heart of his secretary. So that could not be it. Perhaps it was because this was his first time working in a site where objects capable of inducing such hallucinations were stored. Having never seen this particular sort of thing before could have caught him off guard. But he knew full well that the nearest object capable of such mind-altering effects was far enough away to not impact him in the slightest. So it was probably not that. No, it was most likely because Doctor Martin simply did not expect it. In all his years with the Foundation, few normal people had dared enter his office while he busied himself with work. Fewer strange creatures at that. Doctor Martin was used to the solitude his working hours provided him. A sudden interruption, especially one of such a strange magnitude as this, had simply caught him off guard. As Doctor Martin attempted to regain his senses, the Blank Man reiterated Its - His? Was it right to call something that looked somewhat like a man and spoke somewhat like a man, but was clearly not a man a He? - offer: It was capable of tearing open the fabric of reality, in such a fashion that would not harm the larger structure of it, and forming a portal to another universe. Another universe where the Foundation had never existed. It was capable of doing so, and would do so just for Doctor Martin. Moreover, It was quite willing to do so, somewhat eager, even. Doctor Martin let his options run through his head. Logic dictated that he should call security and initiate a Site lockdown, in order to capture this thing and begin study of It. That was, of course, what any other sane, rational person would do when faced with a situation similar to this. His hand was already on the buzzer; all it would take was a simple muscle spasm to take this thing and lock It away for the rest of Its days. But in the back of his head, Doctor Martin knew he could not. There was something about the Blank Man he could not place his finger upon. Something about It that suggested any attempt to contain it would result in Its vanishing, never to be seen nor heard from again. This would, of course, be perfectly ideal, as it meant the Foundation would never have to waste resources trying to study and understand this thing. And yet, the offer It made to Doctor Martin was so compelling, so strange and alien and potentially horrifying, that he just could not refuse. And so, Doctor Martin raised his hand from the buzzer, looked straight into the Blank Man's nonexistent face, and stepped around his desk, nodding his head. The Blank Man nodded too, and turned Its form about to face the wall behind it. Doctor Martin had long grown used to bland, washed-out colors and slightly cracked doorframe he faced on a daily basis, and still expected them to be there now. Imagine his surprise when his eyes were met with a dazzling array of colors not of this Earth, or indeed, of any Earth anywhere. The alien colors danced and flashed and sang, moving in dazzling, complex patterns no eye could hope to comprehend. To any well-worn traveler of the interstellar planes, such a sight is perfectly normal, and not worth much contemplation. To a man fresh out of his universe, the space between realities was both awe-inspiring and awful. Before he could be completely lost in the dazzling array of color and spectacle, Doctor Martin felt a pressure on his wrist, and looked in what he assumed was the frontal direction. The outline of the Blank Man stood there, pulling him through the madness and into the darkness of a new world's night. Doctor Martin did not know what he had expected to find in this new universe. The thought of what would have happened had the Foundation never come into being had played across his mind once every few years, but he had never seriously considered it a possibility. The SCP Foundation existing seemed as natural a fact as the sun rising in the east, or grass growing green. As he tried to shake off the effects of interstellar travel, Doctor Martin attempted to reason out what state humankind would have gotten to without the Foundation's guidance these last forty years. He did not stray too far from the path he had expected to take. Of course, the initial appearance of the sculpture would not have brought about too much change. It would certainly have caused untold loss of life, but nothing that the world could not deal with. No, it was all the strange things that had come in its wake; all those cosmic horrors from beyond the veil of reality arriving in our simple little plane of existence. //Those// would be the things capable of destroying the world. Without the Foundation there, mankind would not have made it a year out of 173's first sighting. Images of a blasted heath of a land came to Doctor Martin's mind; charred skeletal remains peppering the landscape, rotting husks of buildings toppling to the ground one by one, an unnatural stillness in the air. A true post-apocalyptic world. What he saw, however, was something quite entirely different. Doctor Martin and the Blank Man stood on a grassy hill, overlooking a small settlement in what looked to be Norway, judging by the towering fjords to the east. Birdsong filled the air, wind swept playfully through the grass, and in the distance, Doctor Martin could hear small children at play. The sunlight and warmth on his face told him this was summertime. But this couldn't be Norway. Norway would have been torn apart decades ago, leaving nothing but a few small islands sticking about the raging sea of magma. If the Foundation hadn't intervened... Doctor Martin turned to the Blank Man and demanded to know what had happened to keep this place so orderly. Was the ritual simply nonexistent in this universe? Was there some other organization who intervened? Was this, perhaps, in the distant past, before the Foundation even existed? The Blank Man shook Its head region, and responded: No, this is the modern day. The exact same hour of the exact same day of the exact same year Doctor Martin had just stepped out of. It was just a Norwegian settlement in a universe where the Foundation just did not exist. No other differences. Just a lack of the Foundation. Then this must be a fluke, Doctor Martin realized. A small part of the world that managed to escape the widespread destruction, through what means he could not possibly fathom, but managed to escape it nonetheless. That must be it, right? The world shifted, and Doctor Martin found himself and the Blank Man standing in the middle of Times Square, with rush hour traffic roaring all around them. Then they appeared in the London Underground, a busy crowd of commuters hustling to catch the 4:37 train. And again they shifted, this time showing up in Beijing. Time after time they shifted across the world, how many times Doctor Martin was not sure of. But even though they remained in one spot for no more than a second or two, it was enough to show Doctor Martin a planet that had evidently survived without the shadowy gaze of the Foundation hovering over it. Somehow, someway, every tiny little detail was still there. Not exactly, the Blank Man replied, standing as stock still as It had throughout the whole trip. Some things did change without the Foundation around. There were no young girls impregnated with horrors from beyond, no farmers massacred by a reptilian demon, no time when London was torn to pieces and rebuilt with a Glasgow smile running across the city. All those people who suffered and died at the hands of the monstrosities the Foundation contained simply went on living their lives untouched, as content or miserable as they would have been otherwise, until they either passed away or made it to the modern day. Doctor Martin could not understand this. The Blank Man had quite clearly stated the only difference between this universe and his native one was the lack of the SCP Foundation. That was the basis for this whole trip, was it not? Could it be that the Blank Man had lied in order to achieve some higher, more sinister purpose? The Blank Man let out the closest thing to a sigh It could muster, and looked directly into Doctor Martin's eyes. There had, perhaps, been some miscommunication, entirely on the Blank Man's part. It was true this universe lacked the existence of an SCP Foundation, there was no denying that fact. The lack of the Foundation, however, was more a catalyst for change than any sole, unique difference in these timelines. Without the Foundation... well, perhaps it was better to show Doctor Martin. The pair shifted once again, to the inside of a small diner in the desert. It was a scene of understated carnage. Most of the people sitting within the booths or on stools had expressions of mild shock on their faces, while the waitress behind the counter had a look of utter terror on her face. Her mouth half open in a scream, her eyes clamped tightly shut. A few small patches of blood stained the ground and counter. Each and every head in the diner was either tilted or twisted in an unnatural way. Doctor Martin, seeking a sight less stomach-upsetting than this, glanced at the calendar on the wall. Forty years in the past. He remembered this day. The Blank Man, having spent Its time staring into the face of a gruff-looking man, shifted Itself and Doctor Martin once again. Stumbling slightly on the uneven ground beneath his feet, Doctor Martin looked up and found himself standing in the middle of a barren desert, the rim of a canyon a few kilometers ahead. Before he could comprehend any more than this, a vaguely human shaped blur tore straight past him, kicking up a cloud of rock and sand as it went by. The Blank Man nodded once again. It could tell what Doctor Martin was thinking: He recognized this place, did he not? He could even remember the exact details of this day. A young man, starting fresh at an organization dedicated to containing hazardous materials, receiving word that something had slaughtered a diner full of people not six miles from where they were stationed. An indication that something had just rushed past their front door, its trail leading quite clearly back to the diner. A brief consideration by the higher-ups to just let it go, let someone else more capable of handling such a thing take care of matters. And then... Doctor Martin remembered. He had been selected to go out and investigate what this thing was. They had encountered it less than a hundred meters away from the cliff in the distance. It had killed two men and severely injured him before taking off once again. They had lost a few good men, but gained invaluable knowledge of how the sculpture worked, and how to catch it. Two tries later, and the object was given the designation SCP-173, and locked up tight. And as time went on, that hazardous materials containment team had grown massively in scope, phasing out the hundred and seventy-two other materials and objects they had collected in favor of far stranger things. Forty years of growth, study, and protection. Forty years of securing, containing, and protecting. Forty years of this, Doctor Martin had seen, and it had all started just up ahead, with his small team's encounter with the original. But for whatever reason, Doctor Martin and his team simply were not there. Shifting once again, the pair stood upon the edge of the cliff. The blurred figure continued to rush towards them. Though no specific details could be made out of it, Doctor Martin could tell it intended to turn as soon as possible, just avoiding the cliff and continuing to speed along the edge. The figure started to do so, and indeed looked as if it would make it. And then, there was a statue in place of the blur, skidding along the desert sand. Some small lizard from below or a bird up on high must have spotted it, however momentarily, freezing it into rock and paint. The statue tumbled over itself a few times before toppling over the rim and falling out of sight. Peering over the edge, Doctor Martin dimly saw a shattered figure, dashed out across the rocks below. The world shifted, and the pair stood at the bottom of the cliff, next to the broken, scattered stones of what was once SCP-173. The wind was already blowing sand over the rocks; in a few years time, nobody would even know this horrid, nightmarish creature had ever existed. This sort of thing had happened countless times before, the Blank Man observed, Its feet digging at the sand around the sculpture's head. Inexplicable deaths, unexplained phenomena, unexpected vanishings, horrid monsters with razor sharp teeth, all the things that keep men awake at night. All of them glitches in the reality of space-time, of course. Things either never meant to be, or just plain showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time. That statue was no different. Just appearing, lost and confused in the middle of the desert, and finding itself frozen in place whenever any living creature looked upon it. So it lashed out, killed a few people, and fled across the desert sands. In Doctor Martin's universe, the natural thing for people to do in this sort of situation was respond. A reactive species, the human race. If something goes wrong or is out of the ordinary, they go at it until there's no reasonable explanation and just leave it at that, or find some way to bring it into their sphere of understanding. It is a bit of a confusing trait to have; after all, most other highly intelligent, reactive species eventually wind up sticking their noses somewhere they don't belong and getting them bit off. But that's just a simple digression. The point is, in Doctor Martin's universe, a few people reacted to a simple, everyday mistake in the universe, and locked it up. In this universe, they decided it was somebody else's problem, and just let it slide, quite literally, off a cliff. That's the key difference here. The Blank Man did not know exactly //why// the universe responded in the way it did. Most likely because mankind had never reacted on such a large scale //and// managed to capture one of its mistakes. What does a universe normally do when such a thing happens within it? The Blank Man, much as It would like to say, simply could not say. But whatever the normal reaction to such things was, the universe looked at such a strange event happening surrounding one of its glitches, and decided that mankind needed more of a challenge. It needed more things like this. So it started making more. Small objects with little quirks scattered here and there, people given fantastic, horrifying powers then and now, unfathomable monsters of unknowable terror plucked from their places every now and again, even an idea planted into some lunatic's head once in a while. The whole spectrum of things normally considered defects in a universe were now being saturated across one planet, just to give a few members of one little reactive species something to do. In essence, in dedicating itself to the protection of mankind, the Foundation inadvertently created the things mankind needed protection from. As Doctor Martin took this all in, he continued to stare into the spray-painted green eyes of the shattered sculpture. He had always looked at this thing as the root of all the world's troubles. The spark that started a raging forest fire of madness and death across the world, a fire the Foundation could never put out, only just barely contain. A simple little match in a dry wood causing so much trouble. But now? They hadn't been working to stamp out the fire by containing this thing; they'd been pouring gasoline on it. And then the madness of the dancing colors overtook the wind and the sand and the broken statue. Barely even noticing the enticing wonders around him, Doctor Martin slowly climbed to his feet, and stood stock still next to the Blank Man as his office reformed around him. The Blank Man thanked Doctor Martin for his time. It is not very often one of Its stature attempts to show someone like him the truth, and even rarer for the journey to be seen to its conclusion. So It thanked Doctor Martin for having gone through with the offer, and expressed a sincerest hope he had learned something of value from this little excursion. Then, without making a move, the Blank Man was gone, disturbing nothing and looking for all the world as if It had never been there at all. Doctor Martin stood in the middle of his office, contemplating the bland, washed-out colors of his wall, and the slightly cracked wooden doorframe. There was much for him to think about. Many actions to be contemplated. He had things to do with the knowledge he had obtained, things he needed to do in order to make the world a better place. But first... Doctor Martin opened his door, and stepped out. None know what became of Dr. Harold Martin after that day. All security tapes show a disturbance of some nature in his office, scrambling the video feed throughout the site, and when they come back, all show him having vanished. Despite a lack of paperwork, amnestic requests or termination documents, the next day there was no evidence Doctor Martin had ever been associated with the SCP Foundation. Rumors persist that he was involved with several terrorist attacks by various Groups of Interest in the following weeks, but no solid evidence showing this or the contrary have shown up. Only one man knows of the Blank Man, and he has disappeared off the face of the Earth. Perhaps Doctor Martin's encounter with the Blank Man, and his trip to an alternate universe weren't even real. He was, after all, getting on in his years, and was working at a site where several mind-altering objects were stored. Perhaps the Blank Man was real, and Its revelations about the nature of the universe were spot on. Maybe, just maybe, the Foundation //could// have averted all the death and destruction in the world if it had just sat back and done nothing. But then, this is a tale dealing with alternate realities. And that's always the key word when it comes to these sort of tales, isn't it? Maybe. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-01-21T21:08:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Stepping Out - SCP Foundation	36	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16157190	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/stepping-out
stirrings	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Freddie Jones tramped over spongy ground with a gun in one hand and a split stick in the other. He was making enough noise to scare off any wild thing within a half mile radius, but he didn’t have a damn to give; the sun was shining in a raw blue sky, and Freddie was waist-deep in reminiscence.</p> <p>Reminiscence, in this case, took the form of sawgrass and mud, the staples of Freddie’s sweaty boyhood. Marriage had driven Freddie and the swamps apart, and business made the afternoon sun a stranger. But today was for seizing— seizing and then shooting, right through its flat reptilian skull.</p> <p>One thousand dollars were waiting for the man who bagged the longest python, and fifteen hundred for the hunter who could kill the most. A snake shot into two pieces was acceptable; three was suspect. Freddie didn’t need to splice his snakes together— he had a secret. Not two days earlier, he’d spotted one of the scaly bastards sliding across the asphalt into the preserve that backed his local gas-n-go, and he’d be damned if it wasn’t the longest snake he’d ever seen.</p> <p>After two hours of prodding logs and stones, the would-be hunter had uncovered three sluggish king snakes and more black racers than he’d bothered to count. Sweat ran down his neck and back and the sound of the highway was the only confirmation that he hadn’t been swallowed whole by brown and green wilderness. Freddie was crouching in the sand, cursing the fire ants that had raided his left boot, when he caught a glimpse of something smooth and blotchy.</p> <p>The blotches moved, glinting in the sun. The undulation of scaly skin over muscle was unmistakable, and Freddie nearly tripped over his feet to cut a path through the brush. He could see a tapered tail, now, but the animal was outpacing him. Slicing and scrambling, heedless of cut shins, he pursued the creature's end half until he saw it curve abruptly to the left. It stopped moving, and so did Freddie— winded, heart thumping in his ears.</p> <p>He realized that he was shaking, violently, sweat dancing over his forearms. For a moment, he was certain that he had given himself a heart attack by running through the sand with the recklessness of a younger man. Blinking at the ground with a hand over his heart, he could see that the sand was shifting, too. The earth beneath his feet was trembling.</p> <p>In the same instant, not fifty miles distant, a weather station was sending a coded signal to a secluded facility on the East Coast. Research Sector-09 received the untimely alert that <a href="/scp-1108">SCP-1108</a> was manifesting over Tampa. Aerial observation confirmed that the anomaly was significantly larger than previous manifestations, and growing. Office windows vibrated with the sound of thunder, and children shrieked when the classroom lights flickered.</p> <p>Half a country away, a hunter heard the same thunder. He grabbed his son by the jacket collar and tried to haul him out of the way of a buck with antlers that spread like a sycamore. Low-lying branches couldn’t snag the proud head— only snapped, showering splinters, as the beast carved a trail of wreckage through the woods.</p> <p>The thunder that sounded from the depths of the sea was too faint for human ears. But along the New England shore, seventeen pairs of binoculars caught a flash of white, before their tour boat was crushed by a skyscraper’s weight of barnacled flesh.</p> <p>No tourists or hikers had ventured far enough afield to see the strangely bulging earth in South Dakota's Black Hills. Alone, surrounded by locusts and prairie grass, the ancient bear-king pawed his way toward the sunlight. He lumbered out of the dirt and collapsed, panting like a hatched chick. His curving teeth were longer than a grown man's arm, and the fur and skin that once stretched over his bones had long since rotted. The beast shook off his old flesh like dust and reared upon two legs. The lightning recognized his roar, and raced to join him.</p> <p>In a similar wilderness, a tumble of rocks that had once been a mountain shook itself and groaned. The commuters on the highway looked toward the horizon to see the hunched back of a massive buffalo.</p> <p>In Texas, the cacti contorted themselves to make a path for the queen of armadillos. The bullfrogs hollered in the Louisiana swamps, drowning out the screams of boaters caught up in the paws of a hollow-eyed raccoon. A panther scream split the quiet of California vineyards, sprawling mansions enveloped by its shadow, and every sky was blotched with nervous clouds of grackles, blackbirds, pigeons, starlings.</p> <p>Freddie Jones was deaf to this great revival, too busy trying to keep his footing. The tremor passed almost as soon as it had begun, and Freddie glanced up to see that his prize python had not stirred an inch. If anything, there seemed to be more of it. He could make out its patterned back more clearly, and began making his way sideways along its length, guessing at the location of the head.</p> <p>He took six steps, moving loudly and awkwardly through wire grass and saw palmetto. The tawny body stretched on and on. He took a step back, and another, trying to scope out its size, when the whole length gave a great shudder. Freddie glanced behind him and saw brown blotches in the brush. He turned, and turned again, and found himself surrounded by the same gleaming pattern, peeking through sand and greenery. There was no way to tell where the python began and where it ended.</p> <p>He raised his gun and shot at one broad side, which seemed, impossibly, to have swollen to the girth of a horse. The crack of the gun echoed over the swamp, but the scales slid on unblemished. Freddie gaped, too astonished to shout. His gaze was so fixed on the body growing thicker and longer in a loop around him, that he never saw the great flat head that was rising above the trees— not until it dipped to cover the sun.</p> <p>The yellow eyes never met the watering grey ones, nor did the creature pay much heed to what flora and fauna were crushed beneath its coils. A tree-sized tongue flicked once, twice, and the beast turned to make its way toward the sea.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-bloody-autumn">The Bloody Autumn</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/interlude-new-toys">Interlude: New Toys</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="/stirrings">Stirrings</a>" by floridapologia, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/stirrings">https://scpwiki.com/stirrings</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Freddie Jones tramped over spongy ground with a gun in one hand and a split stick in the other. He was making enough noise to scare off any wild thing within a half mile radius, but he didn’t have a damn to give; the sun was shining in a raw blue sky, and Freddie was waist-deep in reminiscence. Reminiscence, in this case, took the form of sawgrass and mud, the staples of Freddie’s sweaty boyhood. Marriage had driven Freddie and the swamps apart, and business made the afternoon sun a stranger. But today was for seizing— seizing and then shooting, right through its flat reptilian skull. One thousand dollars were waiting for the man who bagged the longest python, and fifteen hundred for the hunter who could kill the most. A snake shot into two pieces was acceptable; three was suspect. Freddie didn’t need to splice his snakes together— he had a secret. Not two days earlier, he’d spotted one of the scaly bastards sliding across the asphalt into the preserve that backed his local gas-n-go, and he’d be damned if it wasn’t the longest snake he’d ever seen. After two hours of prodding logs and stones, the would-be hunter had uncovered three sluggish king snakes and more black racers than he’d bothered to count. Sweat ran down his neck and back and the sound of the highway was the only confirmation that he hadn’t been swallowed whole by brown and green wilderness. Freddie was crouching in the sand, cursing the fire ants that had raided his left boot, when he caught a glimpse of something smooth and blotchy. The blotches moved, glinting in the sun. The undulation of scaly skin over muscle was unmistakable, and Freddie nearly tripped over his feet to cut a path through the brush. He could see a tapered tail, now, but the animal was outpacing him. Slicing and scrambling, heedless of cut shins, he pursued the creature's end half until he saw it curve abruptly to the left. It stopped moving, and so did Freddie— winded, heart thumping in his ears. He realized that he was shaking, violently, sweat dancing over his forearms. For a moment, he was certain that he had given himself a heart attack by running through the sand with the recklessness of a younger man. Blinking at the ground with a hand over his heart, he could see that the sand was shifting, too. The earth beneath his feet was trembling. In the same instant, not fifty miles distant, a weather station was sending a coded signal to a secluded facility on the East Coast. Research Sector-09 received the untimely alert that [[[SCP-1108]]] was manifesting over Tampa. Aerial observation confirmed that the anomaly was significantly larger than previous manifestations, and growing. Office windows vibrated with the sound of thunder, and children shrieked when the classroom lights flickered. Half a country away, a hunter heard the same thunder. He grabbed his son by the jacket collar and tried to haul him out of the way of a buck with antlers that spread like a sycamore. Low-lying branches couldn’t snag the proud head-- only snapped, showering splinters, as the beast carved a trail of wreckage through the woods. The thunder that sounded from the depths of the sea was too faint for human ears. But along the New England shore, seventeen pairs of binoculars caught a flash of white, before their tour boat was crushed by a skyscraper’s weight of barnacled flesh. No tourists or hikers had ventured far enough afield to see the strangely bulging earth in South Dakota's Black Hills. Alone, surrounded by locusts and prairie grass, the ancient bear-king pawed his way toward the sunlight. He lumbered out of the dirt and collapsed, panting like a hatched chick. His curving teeth were longer than a grown man's arm, and the fur and skin that once stretched over his bones had long since rotted. The beast shook off his old flesh like dust and reared upon two legs. The lightning recognized his roar, and raced to join him. In a similar wilderness, a tumble of rocks that had once been a mountain shook itself and groaned. The commuters on the highway looked toward the horizon to see the hunched back of a massive buffalo. In Texas, the cacti contorted themselves to make a path for the queen of armadillos. The bullfrogs hollered in the Louisiana swamps, drowning out the screams of boaters caught up in the paws of a hollow-eyed raccoon. A panther scream split the quiet of California vineyards, sprawling mansions enveloped by its shadow, and every sky was blotched with nervous clouds of grackles, blackbirds, pigeons, starlings. Freddie Jones was deaf to this great revival, too busy trying to keep his footing. The tremor passed almost as soon as it had begun, and Freddie glanced up to see that his prize python had not stirred an inch. If anything, there seemed to be more of it. He could make out its patterned back more clearly, and began making his way sideways along its length, guessing at the location of the head. He took six steps, moving loudly and awkwardly through wire grass and saw palmetto. The tawny body stretched on and on. He took a step back, and another, trying to scope out its size, when the whole length gave a great shudder. Freddie glanced behind him and saw brown blotches in the brush. He turned, and turned again, and found himself surrounded by the same gleaming pattern, peeking through sand and greenery. There was no way to tell where the python began and where it ended. He raised his gun and shot at one broad side, which seemed, impossibly, to have swollen to the girth of a horse. The crack of the gun echoed over the swamp, but the scales slid on unblemished. Freddie gaped, too astonished to shout. His gaze was so fixed on the body growing thicker and longer in a loop around him, that he never saw the great flat head that was rising above the trees-- not until it dipped to cover the sun. The yellow eyes never met the watering grey ones, nor did the creature pay much heed to what flora and fauna were crushed beneath its coils. A tree-sized tongue flicked once, twice, and the beast turned to make its way toward the sea. ------- [[=]] << [[[The Bloody Autumn]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Interlude New Toys\|Interlude: New Toys]]] >> [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=floridapologia]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-02-06T05:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "apocalyptic", "competitive-eschatology", "mythological", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	Stirrings - SCP Foundation	109	[ "scp-1108", "the-bloody-autumn", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "interlude-new-toys", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-2-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16308870	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/stirrings
stormfront	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The intruder appears to her as she kneels on a sloping, angular plane, of waving, waist-high red grass. Her field notebooks flutter, their pages fan back, and the grass is blown back in concentric circles. The thing itself is awash in glow and flickering shadows, then drops like a bird onto the firmament.</p> <p>“<em>YOU</em>,” it says. “What the hell are you doing here?”</p> <p>“Testing out early retirement options,” says the woman in the grass, who hasn't looked up yet. She's petite, pale, with a ropy build. A scar running down her face. “There's lots of area for phylogenetic research, in the-”</p> <p>“Oh sweet Cthulhu. No you're not,” the intruder snaps. “For one, you're still, like, a hundred years younger than Garrison. You're not retiring now. And whatever's going on, you're going to have to get over it, soon. We have business. Your whole world-”</p> <p>“You know…” The woman picks herself up, and dusts off the knees of her incongruous lab coat. The red blades of grass stand up on end, and the intruder can finally see clawed footprints in the muck underneath them. “I know I'm dreaming right now. And for part of my subconscious, you're being <em>very</em> demanding.”</p> <p>She turns around, slowly. Then she notices his suit and bowler hat.</p> <p>“Oh,” says Sophia Light.</p> <p>“Right,” says 990.</p> <p>Sophia looks around. “I would have cleaned up the place if I knew you were coming,” she says. “Why are you here?”</p> <p>“Well, I'd say we're due for a little calamity. Wouldn't you?” He holds out his hand. “I've been blindsided, as of late. What I once saw in the future is no longer there at all. Something has changed. Big things are moving, Doctor Light. Whole lot of fish, no time to fry. Your whole world is about to turn sideways. Need to see?”</p> <p>She touches his hand, and their surroundings change. Halfway-outdated Foundation architecture, older site, probably an auxiliary wing. Not one she's been in, in some time anyways, but the feel of it seems familiar. They are several stories underground, but sunlight streams in from gaping holes ripped out above them.</p> <p>“This, Doctor, is your precious Site Fourteen.”</p> <p>“Is it?” She tilts her head all around, pursed her lips. “Was Agent-”</p> <p>“Ordinarily, I'd care, but right now this goes beyond your personal crap. And you're going to sit back and listen to what I say. It's not just Fourteen. It's going to be all of them. Something's changed and I can't tell you exactly how it'll play out, but your precious Foundation is about to be horribly, hideously, calamitously outmatched.”</p> <p>The echoey, almost-silence of the burned-out building is, if you listen hard enough, rather calming.</p> <p>“How can I stop it?”</p> <p>“No one can stop it.”</p> <p>Sophia looks up, and studies his face. “You just said you've been blindsided by this nonspecific disaster. And I haven't heard Johanna or the fivers or <em>anyone</em> getting a visit, so you haven't been working down the ladder. So what, this is a social call?” She pauses. “And how do you know it's unstoppable?”</p> <p>He glares at her. “If this seems unplanned, I didn't expect you to work that out in your sleep, but fine- yes, it is, <em>I've been low on time</em>. But listen. Here's what you would have done, if I weren't here. You would have looked at the information. Talked it over with Garrison and Barculo and Vaux, whoever you trust these days. Maybe phoned a friend. Then, you would have compared what's happening with previous disasters of similar magnitude, looked for anomalous causes, then, finally, began preparing for the worst plausible result you could extrapolate.”</p> <p>“That's what I would have done?”</p> <p>“Yes. It would have been smart.”</p> <p>“And what are you saying I should do?”</p> <p>“I'm saying that this is going to get worse, and if you want to even live to have a battle plan, you're going to prepare for the worst- to start. Find your resources, gather your armies. Might play out that not everyone in the Foundation is your best friend.”</p> <p>She nearly laughs. “What armies?”</p> <p>“See, that kind of attitude is going to have to change.” 990 flickers in place, like a movie still. He checks his watch.</p> <p>“I mean,” says Sophia, and then she does laugh. “I <em>think</em> you think you're doing me a favor. So thanks for telling me about the impending doom and all that jazz. But this is hilariously nonspecific. Can you tell me, say, what's going to happen? Or what kind of 'preparations' I should make?”</p> <p>The bowler-hatted figure in his outdated suit checks his watch once more. “No, I can't, and it's already happened. Welcome to Armageddon. This is Day One.” He flickers again, and starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and you're right- I'm not working down the ladder, and I <em>am</em> doing you a favor. Whenever you get done… Remember that.”</p> <p>She blinks. “You think somehow I'll <em>help</em> you-”</p> <p>And then he is gone. Sophia is alone in the skeletal ruins of Site 14. Motes of dust seep gently down from the surface, landing on the illuminated surface of an unreadable Object Class designation, bolted to the remains of a metal door. Deep in the fallen timber and rebar, something begins to stir.</p> <hr/> <p>Sophia sat bolt upright. Someone was pounding on her door. She dimly registered darkness, the scent of cleaning fluid, the tight sensation of hospital corners on fitted sheets. Her phone ringing and ringing. Knocking harder.</p> <p>She pulled herself out of bed instantly, nearly falling as the blood in her legs caught up to her head, then gathering herself to pull the door open. “Yes?”</p> <p>Elliot Barculo, Regional Security Director, currently stationed at the Svalbard Site, was propped in her doorway. Deep lines in his face. “Jesus Christ, Sophia, were you <em>asleep</em>?”</p> <p>“I- maybe-” She squinted, confused, and rubbed her eyes. The idea of Sophia Light oversleeping was preposterous- “Did something happen at Site 14?”</p> <p>He scowled. “How the hell did you know that?”</p> <p><em>Oh.</em></p> <p>“It's not just Site 14. Oh Christ.” Barculo sighed and turned his back. “No time. Johanna's waiting in the debrief room. Plane's in the airfield, if the sky's safe. We need a plan. Come on."</p> <p>Sophia grabbed her jacket, and closed the bedroom door behind her. “Start talking on the way.”</p> <hr/> <p>Johanna Garrison, perched on the end of the conference table, looked older than Light could have ever imagined. Gabriel Bryant, personnel and espionage director, stood behind Johanna with an arm on her shoulder. Johanna and Sophia shared a look as Sophia entered the room, but neither said anything about the timing. Sophia's friend and apprentice, Charles Vaux, fixed an apprehensive look at her. Alerts were streaming onto Sophia's phone- containment breached at sites 14, 16, 19, 23, 40, 41, 42 A through D.</p> <p>“This started at Site 10?” Sophia asked.</p> <p>“As best anyone can figure,” said Bryant. “The site itself actually suffered no damage, although it teleported entirely to New Hampshire shortly before the other breaches.”</p> <p>“New Hampshire?”</p> <p>“Right. Researcher there- Dr. Yara Mirski- claims to have made contact with the responsible entity, says she tried to stop it.”</p> <p>“What was the entity?”</p> <p>“Actually, we have no idea.”</p> <p>More than a handful of breakouts, sites around the world reported anomalies and disturbances. On the conference room screen, a report came in that SCP-1688 had materialized over its containment area and grown to four times the size it had ever been, driving arrows of lightning all over a nearby Foundation facility and small town. Reportedly the whole town had unilaterally joined together, in some kind of engineering project on a massive scale. At the same time, a ring-shaped stormcloud had formed several kilometers to the east, and was raising pallid spirits from the ground that it passed over. Reports showed SCP-460 moving across the sky at impossible speeds, with an army of ghosts trailing in its wake.</p> <p>The next update was only video: a lightning storm, massive and striking ground so frequently that it looked like a comb of jagged white lines, and a large, circular, ochre stormcloud, rammed halfway into it. Faint white figures on the ground below seemed fixed in place, or spun out of shape like molten glass.</p> <p>Ten minutes later, the yellow cloud and the ghosts were gone completely, and the lightning was still going.</p> <p>“Okay.” Sophia stopped pacing, and panned through incoming alerts. "The O5 Council has been silent, which makes me think we've been attacked. CI? Maybe the Hand? A lot of the missing ones are Sentients. The other anomalies could be… distractions?”</p> <p>“But not all. For heaven's sake, Sophia, the <em>duck pond</em>?” Garrison was still staring at the screens.</p> <p>“Putting something there is <em>the kind of mistake I'd make</em> if I was trying to get at us with an incomplete set of archives.” Sophia's phone rang, despite the fact that she'd disabled it. She looked at the caller.</p> <p>“Light,” Barculo said in monotone, “I know that some of these sites are yours, and you have to get to stabilizing, but some are mine too, and we need to start tracking them down. I don't think they're going to the same place, but there must be a link, so we'll start pulling-”</p> <p>“Actually,” said Sophia, “I'm going to start planning for a second wave, possibly worse than this one. I would start now. And I'm sorry, I have to take this.”</p> <p>She stepped out of the conference room. All down the hall, LEDs on security cameras and recorders were going out. Then she picked up the phone, and let it sit between her hand and her ear, and inhaled for a moment before speaking.</p> <p>“Are you really her?” she asked.</p> <p>“Yes,” said the Administrator of the SCP Foundation. “SCP-027, I think, is about to break containment." Fingers clacked on a computer keyboard. "As it's your site, please do anything humanly possible to prevent this from happening.”</p> <p>“Of course,” said Sophia automatically.</p> <p>The call quit.</p> <p>She started dialing.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/revelation">Revelation (Part 3 of 3)</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/awakenings">Awakenings</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="/stormfront">Storm Front</a>" by Sophia Light, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/stormfront">https://scpwiki.com/stormfront</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 intruder appears to her as she kneels on a sloping, angular plane, of waving, waist-high red grass. Her field notebooks flutter, their pages fan back, and the grass is blown back in concentric circles. The thing itself is awash in glow and flickering shadows, then drops like a bird onto the firmament. “//YOU//,” it says. “What the hell are you doing here?” “Testing out early retirement options,” says the woman in the grass, who hasn't looked up yet. She's petite, pale, with a ropy build. A scar running down her face. “There's lots of area for phylogenetic research, in the-” “Oh sweet Cthulhu. No you're not,” the intruder snaps. “For one, you're still, like, a hundred years younger than Garrison. You're not retiring now. And whatever's going on, you're going to have to get over it, soon. We have business. Your whole world-” “You know...” The woman picks herself up, and dusts off the knees of her incongruous lab coat. The red blades of grass stand up on end, and the intruder can finally see clawed footprints in the muck underneath them. “I know I'm dreaming right now. And for part of my subconscious, you're being //very// demanding.” She turns around, slowly. Then she notices his suit and bowler hat. “Oh,” says Sophia Light. “Right,” says 990. Sophia looks around. “I would have cleaned up the place if I knew you were coming,” she says. “Why are you here?” “Well, I'd say we're due for a little calamity. Wouldn't you?” He holds out his hand. “I've been blindsided, as of late. What I once saw in the future is no longer there at all. Something has changed. Big things are moving, Doctor Light. Whole lot of fish, no time to fry. Your whole world is about to turn sideways. Need to see?” She touches his hand, and their surroundings change. Halfway-outdated Foundation architecture, older site, probably an auxiliary wing. Not one she's been in, in some time anyways, but the feel of it seems familiar. They are several stories underground, but sunlight streams in from gaping holes ripped out above them. “This, Doctor, is your precious Site Fourteen.” “Is it?” She tilts her head all around, pursed her lips. “Was Agent-” “Ordinarily, I'd care, but right now this goes beyond your personal crap. And you're going to sit back and listen to what I say. It's not just Fourteen. It's going to be all of them. Something's changed and I can't tell you exactly how it'll play out, but your precious Foundation is about to be horribly, hideously, calamitously outmatched.” The echoey, almost-silence of the burned-out building is, if you listen hard enough, rather calming. “How can I stop it?” “No one can stop it.” Sophia looks up, and studies his face. “You just said you've been blindsided by this nonspecific disaster. And I haven't heard Johanna or the fivers or //anyone// getting a visit, so you haven't been working down the ladder. So what, this is a social call?” She pauses. “And how do you know it's unstoppable?” He glares at her. “If this seems unplanned, I didn't expect you to work that out in your sleep, but fine- yes, it is, //I've been low on time//. But listen. Here's what you would have done, if I weren't here. You would have looked at the information. Talked it over with Garrison and Barculo and Vaux, whoever you trust these days. Maybe phoned a friend. Then, you would have compared what's happening with previous disasters of similar magnitude, looked for anomalous causes, then, finally, began preparing for the worst plausible result you could extrapolate.” “That's what I would have done?” “Yes. It would have been smart.” “And what are you saying I should do?” “I'm saying that this is going to get worse, and if you want to even live to have a battle plan, you're going to prepare for the worst- to start. Find your resources, gather your armies. Might play out that not everyone in the Foundation is your best friend.” She nearly laughs. “What armies?” “See, that kind of attitude is going to have to change.” 990 flickers in place, like a movie still. He checks his watch. “I mean,” says Sophia, and then she does laugh. “I //think// you think you're doing me a favor. So thanks for telling me about the impending doom and all that jazz. But this is hilariously nonspecific. Can you tell me, say, what's going to happen? Or what kind of 'preparations' I should make?” The bowler-hatted figure in his outdated suit checks his watch once more. “No, I can't, and it's already happened. Welcome to Armageddon. This is Day One.” He flickers again, and starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and you're right- I'm not working down the ladder, and I //am// doing you a favor. Whenever you get done... Remember that.” She blinks. “You think somehow I'll //help// you-” And then he is gone. Sophia is alone in the skeletal ruins of Site 14. Motes of dust seep gently down from the surface, landing on the illuminated surface of an unreadable Object Class designation, bolted to the remains of a metal door. Deep in the fallen timber and rebar, something begins to stir. --------- Sophia sat bolt upright. Someone was pounding on her door. She dimly registered darkness, the scent of cleaning fluid, the tight sensation of hospital corners on fitted sheets. Her phone ringing and ringing. Knocking harder. She pulled herself out of bed instantly, nearly falling as the blood in her legs caught up to her head, then gathering herself to pull the door open. “Yes?” Elliot Barculo, Regional Security Director, currently stationed at the Svalbard Site, was propped in her doorway. Deep lines in his face. “Jesus Christ, Sophia, were you //asleep//?” “I- maybe-” She squinted, confused, and rubbed her eyes. The idea of Sophia Light oversleeping was preposterous- “Did something happen at Site 14?” He scowled. “How the hell did you know that?” //Oh.// “It's not just Site 14. Oh Christ.” Barculo sighed and turned his back. “No time. Johanna's waiting in the debrief room. Plane's in the airfield, if the sky's safe. We need a plan. Come on." Sophia grabbed her jacket, and closed the bedroom door behind her. “Start talking on the way.” --------- Johanna Garrison, perched on the end of the conference table, looked older than Light could have ever imagined. Gabriel Bryant, personnel and espionage director, stood behind Johanna with an arm on her shoulder. Johanna and Sophia shared a look as Sophia entered the room, but neither said anything about the timing. Sophia's friend and apprentice, Charles Vaux, fixed an apprehensive look at her. Alerts were streaming onto Sophia's phone- containment breached at sites 14, 16, 19, 23, 40, 41, 42 A through D. “This started at Site 10?” Sophia asked. “As best anyone can figure,” said Bryant. “The site itself actually suffered no damage, although it teleported entirely to New Hampshire shortly before the other breaches.” “New Hampshire?” “Right. Researcher there- Dr. Yara Mirski- claims to have made contact with the responsible entity, says she tried to stop it.” “What was the entity?” “Actually, we have no idea.” More than a handful of breakouts, sites around the world reported anomalies and disturbances. On the conference room screen, a report came in that SCP-1688 had materialized over its containment area and grown to four times the size it had ever been, driving arrows of lightning all over a nearby Foundation facility and small town. Reportedly the whole town had unilaterally joined together, in some kind of engineering project on a massive scale. At the same time, a ring-shaped stormcloud had formed several kilometers to the east, and was raising pallid spirits from the ground that it passed over. Reports showed SCP-460 moving across the sky at impossible speeds, with an army of ghosts trailing in its wake. The next update was only video: a lightning storm, massive and striking ground so frequently that it looked like a comb of jagged white lines, and a large, circular, ochre stormcloud, rammed halfway into it. Faint white figures on the ground below seemed fixed in place, or spun out of shape like molten glass. Ten minutes later, the yellow cloud and the ghosts were gone completely, and the lightning was still going. “Okay.” Sophia stopped pacing, and panned through incoming alerts. "The O5 Council has been silent, which makes me think we've been attacked. CI? Maybe the Hand? A lot of the missing ones are Sentients. The other anomalies could be... distractions?” “But not all. For heaven's sake, Sophia, the //duck pond//?” Garrison was still staring at the screens. “Putting something there is //the kind of mistake I'd make// if I was trying to get at us with an incomplete set of archives.” Sophia's phone rang, despite the fact that she'd disabled it. She looked at the caller. “Light,” Barculo said in monotone, “I know that some of these sites are yours, and you have to get to stabilizing, but some are mine too, and we need to start tracking them down. I don't think they're going to the same place, but there must be a link, so we'll start pulling-” “Actually,” said Sophia, “I'm going to start planning for a second wave, possibly worse than this one. I would start now. And I'm sorry, I have to take this.” She stepped out of the conference room. All down the hall, LEDs on security cameras and recorders were going out. Then she picked up the phone, and let it sit between her hand and her ear, and inhaled for a moment before speaking. “Are you really her?” she asked. “Yes,” said the Administrator of the SCP Foundation. “SCP-027, I think, is about to break containment." Fingers clacked on a computer keyboard. "As it's your site, please do anything humanly possible to prevent this from happening.” “Of course,” said Sophia automatically. The call quit. She started dialing. --------- [[=]] << [[[Revelation\| Revelation (Part 3 of 3)]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Awakenings]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-05T07:54:00	[ "_licensebox", "apocalyptic", "bureaucracy", "competitive-eschatology", "doctor-light", "nyc2013", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	Storm Front - SCP Foundation	124	[ "revelation", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "awakenings", "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", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16298092	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/stormfront
successful-cooperation-and-partnership	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> "Good day, this is "Successful Cooperation and Partnership" training center, we would like to…" <p>That was where I hung up.</p> <p>I know that's impolite. It's their job, yada yada - hell, a couple of months ago I'd gladly have heard the girl out and declined their services politely. But now…</p> <p>Guess that's persecution complex at its finest. My colleagues keep telling me to go to a health resort for a couple of days, but I'll be damned if it's not called "Serenity. Calmness. Peace." And that gets us back to the point.</p> <p>This is the third call today. Not that I'm very busy, but Sunday is my only day free of work and I just want to get some peace while eating premade products in front of my TV, not entertaining all kinds of jerks.</p> <p>Anyway, there's something fishy about it all.</p> <p>First "Sam's Chili and Pepperoni". Flooding my mailbox with their leaflets was not enough, so today they decided to give me a call. Guys, your sign board is as tasteless as your food, and it's right in front of my window! Stop pestering me.</p> <p>And their food sucks. I paid them a visit once, swore like a sailor in the end. And they're to blame. Next day, they are expanding, and setting their new shop right across the road from my office. These guys don't seem to be affected by curses.</p> <p>That's half the trouble anyway. Might as well not take the call from "Shooters, Cartridges & Partridges" into account, they're calling for a second time. Their first call was about a week ago, when it all began.</p> <p>What did begin? Didn't you notice already?</p> <p>SCP. SCP. SCP.</p> <p>Can't these guys think of anything smarter, or more inventive? Or is it a "drive the sucker crazy" marathon? Or… I don't even want to think about what else it can be.</p> <p>Of course I did my research. All of these are perfectly valid legal entities, doing fine, doing cold calls. It's just that they didn't phone the same guy at the same time until now.</p> <p>It even sounds absurd. "Hey, listen, I keep getting calls. And the abbreviation's the same, you know, the first letters… What? Why did I write them down? Well, uh…" And off to the madhouse I go. Wouldn't even be surprised if its name were "Sanctuary for Crushed Psyches". Eww.</p> <p>Maybe I'm really unraveling. Time to go for a walk.</p> <p>It was no better outside, still. So I went to a shop. A nice shop, with a funny, colorful sign… at least, it was. They were dismantling it just as I arrived. Only "Grocery" remained from what was "Grocery open constantly". Seems like things are turning ugly for the guys. A shame. It was a nice place, with decent prices. Now the prices are sure to rise.</p> <p>All in all, utter disappointment. Barely escaped being done in by a truck on my way back. Took a second look - "Sushi, Crab & Perch". Friggin' delivery service. Must be my swanky neighbor ordering the stuff.</p> <p>"Perch"! Who the hell uses freshwater fish to make sushi…</p> <p>That's it, screw everything. I'm taking some days off, I'm going to the resort no matter how it's named. Otherwise I'm dangerously close to the aforemented madhouse. But hey, at least they will stop pestering me there, right?</p> <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">* * *</span></p> <p><em>…Subject has a positive influence over the operation of any enterprise that he has negative feelings towards. Such enterprise experiences an increase in productivity, labor efficiency increase was noted in all cases. Positive feelings result in an inverse effect. (…) Current recommendations are to create a vague negative image of the Foundation in subject's mind. Using the subject to contain competing groups of interest is forbidden.</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="/successful-cooperation-and-partnership">Successful Cooperation And Partnership</a>" by Rachell, translated by Gene R, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/successful-cooperation-and-partnership">https://scpwiki.com/successful-cooperation-and-partnership</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 day, this is "Successful Cooperation and Partnership" training center, we would like to..." That was where I hung up. I know that's impolite. It's their job, yada yada - hell, a couple of months ago I'd gladly have heard the girl out and declined their services politely. But now... Guess that's persecution complex at its finest. My colleagues keep telling me to go to a health resort for a couple of days, but I'll be damned if it's not called "Serenity. Calmness. Peace." And that gets us back to the point. This is the third call today. Not that I'm very busy, but Sunday is my only day free of work and I just want to get some peace while eating premade products in front of my TV, not entertaining all kinds of jerks. Anyway, there's something fishy about it all. First "Sam's Chili and Pepperoni". Flooding my mailbox with their leaflets was not enough, so today they decided to give me a call. Guys, your sign board is as tasteless as your food, and it's right in front of my window! Stop pestering me. And their food sucks. I paid them a visit once, swore like a sailor in the end. And they're to blame. Next day, they are expanding, and setting their new shop right across the road from my office. These guys don't seem to be affected by curses. That's half the trouble anyway. Might as well not take the call from "Shooters, Cartridges & Partridges" into account, they're calling for a second time. Their first call was about a week ago, when it all began. What did begin? Didn't you notice already? SCP. SCP. SCP. Can't these guys think of anything smarter, or more inventive? Or is it a "drive the sucker crazy" marathon? Or... I don't even want to think about what else it can be. Of course I did my research. All of these are perfectly valid legal entities, doing fine, doing cold calls. It's just that they didn't phone the same guy at the same time until now. It even sounds absurd. "Hey, listen, I keep getting calls. And the abbreviation's the same, you know, the first letters... What? Why did I write them down? Well, uh..." And off to the madhouse I go. Wouldn't even be surprised if its name were "Sanctuary for Crushed Psyches". Eww. Maybe I'm really unraveling. Time to go for a walk. It was no better outside, still. So I went to a shop. A nice shop, with a funny, colorful sign... at least, it was. They were dismantling it just as I arrived. Only "Grocery" remained from what was "Grocery open constantly". Seems like things are turning ugly for the guys. A shame. It was a nice place, with decent prices. Now the prices are sure to rise. All in all, utter disappointment. Barely escaped being done in by a truck on my way back. Took a second look - "Sushi, Crab & Perch". Friggin' delivery service. Must be my swanky neighbor ordering the stuff. "Perch"! Who the hell uses freshwater fish to make sushi... That's it, screw everything. I'm taking some days off, I'm going to the resort no matter how it's named. Otherwise I'm dangerously close to the aforemented madhouse. But hey, at least they will stop pestering me there, right? @@* * *@@ //...Subject has a positive influence over the operation of any enterprise that he has negative feelings towards. Such enterprise experiences an increase in productivity, labor efficiency increase was noted in all cases. Positive feelings result in an inverse effect. (...) Current recommendations are to create a vague negative image of the Foundation in subject's mind. Using the subject to contain competing groups of interest is forbidden.// [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Rachell, 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>]]	2013-11-05T15:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "_ru", "international", "tale" ]	Successful Cooperation And Partnership - SCP Foundation	134	[ "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", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "scp-international" ]	[]	20518315	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/successful-cooperation-and-partnership
surfaces	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Matthew Andrews was seated in front of a table. This alone wasn't very unusual, and indeed, the fact that he was seated there didn't cause Matthew any undue concern. The table, located in the interrogation room of an otherwise mostly vacant sheriff's office, didn't provide much in the way of spectacle, he observed. Plastic, scratched, the typical shabby build quality you get with the government issue stuff. The entire thing would probably collapse on itself if he gave it a good shove. Sadly, this was a theory he could not properly follow through, since his hands were cuffed behind his back. Also, he imagined, the two detectives seated in front of him might object. They seemed rather agitated about something, probably whatever one of them kept droning about.</p> <p>"-And this is very important, Mr. Andrews-" the bald one said, trying and failing to hide his anger by burying his nose in his brown notebook.</p> <p>"Please, call me Matt."</p> <p>"It is very important, Mr. Andrews, that you understand just how serious these allegations are, and that you tell us everything you know. Because right now, I feel like you're not."</p> <p>"In fact, I feel like you're fucking with us," said his mustached partner.</p> <p>"Me? Heavens no. I have nothing but respect for men of the law. In fact, I consider myself one."</p> <p>"You work as a clerk in a lumber mill."</p> <p>Matthew smiled, and said nothing.</p> <p>"Where are they?" the bald one asked again, eyeing Matthew in a way he must have imagined was professional and detached but really only seemed tired.</p> <p>Silence.</p> <p>"We know it was you, Andrews. We found your car, we found the hatchet, and the hairs. Took us a while. You did a good job cleaning after yourself, gotta admit."</p> <p>"Just not good enough," said the mustached one, positively bristling with zeal. A real blood hound, that one, Matthew mused. The kind that digs around and sniffs, crawling through the underbrush after the fox, into dark tunnels. Even if that meant getting stuck where one really shouldn't. It was hard to tell with this particular brand of dog, he thought, if they chased for their master or for their own blood-lust. A point to consider.</p> <p>"-Gone all glassy-eyed. Hey buddy, I'm talking to you here!"</p> <p>Ah, so easy to lose oneself to idle musings. Of his many faults, this one was surely the most profound. Though others might disagree. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I was advised not to say anything without my legal advocate."</p> <p>Behind him, a door opened. A grey-suited man, immaculate despite the late hour and what was probably a very long drive, entered the room. The mustached detective, reluctant to shift his attention away from Matthew, begrudgingly turned to the man. The hound finds something… unexpected in the tunnel. But it can't let go, now can it? Not when its eyes finally catch that elusive glimpse of red. Gotta dig deeper, ever deeper. Right into the ground.</p> <p>"Hey buddy, there's an ongoing investigation going on here. Take a hike."</p> <p>The grey-suited man ignored him, instead leaning to whisper something at the bald detective's ear. Matthew watched the color drain from the man's face. Without saying a word, the detective rose from his seat, fumbled with his belt and produced a key, which he used to release Matthew's cuffs. This didn't seem to sit well with his partner.</p> <p>"Harry, what the hell is going on here?" The tunnel winds and narrows, and suddenly the hound finds itself stuck. And the tunnel…</p> <p>The bald detective just shook his head, and sank back into his seat, his hands covering his face. The grey-suited man, seemingly taking great care not to look at Matthew, gestured towards the door. Rubbing his arms, Matthew turned to look at the mustached detective, who was now quietly arguing with his partner, an argument he was clearly losing. The poor man looked positively deflated. Matthew winked at him, and stepped out of the room, leaving the cuffs behind him.</p> <p>Well, that was the thing about digging, he thought, as he followed the grey-suited man down the dreary corridor of the sheriff's office out to the parking lot, where a black SUV awaited, its engine still on. If you go on digging, you never quite know what you'll find.</p> <hr/> <p>"-Before this committee gives its final verdict, do you have anything to say for yourself?"</p> <p>A rather odd question to ask, Lieutenant Matthew Andrews thought, when the men asking it clearly already made up their minds. Disingenuous, insulting even. No, he wouldn't dignify them with a response, those grey-faced hypocrites. So he didn't. Instead, he simply shrugged, and returned his attention to the table he was seated in front of, placed low before the raised dais that dominated the room. Say what you will about the Ethics Committee, they had a fine taste in furniture. Rich, dark wood, cool to the touch, spread beneath his fingers, a polished smooth plain. Gorgeous, clean of any imperfections. If they could just see it as he did, they would have understood what he did.</p> <p>"Very well. Lieutenant Matthew Andrews, due to your crimes against the Foundation's charter and its behavioral code, and indeed against common decency, we hereby strip you of your rank and status. Your name will be stricken from your unit's records, your uniform burned, your pension discontinued-" Amusing bit of irony, that. "-and your person released from your control, given to the Foundation to do with as it sees fit. Do you understand?"</p> <p>He did. It meant that he was their slave now, no different from the D-class they marched daily to the grinder. He supposed that he should have been surprised by that last clause of his punishment, frightened even, but instead he found himself intrigued. He had seen men stripped of their rank before for various crimes committed during their civilian lives, but this? This was new.</p> <p>"Now, for the last order of business. Your former unit members have requested to see you." The committee member whispered something into a speaker embedded in the dais, and through a side entrance they came, all in full dress uniform. His old commander, a man he served under for more than ten years, addressed the committee, ignoring Matthew entirely.</p> <p>"May we proceed?"</p> <p>"You may, as long as you… contain yourself. As per our agreement." There was a hint of grim satisfaction about that last comment.</p> <p>"Of course, sir. We're all about restraint, aren't we, lads?" A shaking of heads. A cracking of knuckles.</p> <p>Oh. So that's how things are now, Matthew thought, as the first fist slammed into the side of his head, knocking him off his chair, sending him sprawling. A second landed beneath his left eye. A third, this one carrying the weight and bite of a brass knuckle, slammed into his nose, and he could feel fragile bone shattering. Kicks rained down, smashing into his ribs like jackhammers. Looked like the training regiment he put the men through worked, he thought, they were in fine shape. He tried and failed to curl into a ball, but the men pulled him straight once more. This continued for a while, until a command was barked, and the beating finally slowed to a stop. Through the haze of his pain, Matthew felt a faint breath touching the pulpy mess that was his ear.</p> <p>"Was it worth it, you bastard?"</p> <p><em>Heh. Heheh. Heheheh.</em></p> <p>Matthew looked up through swollen eyelids, but not at the captain, who stood just above him, rubbing his bruised knuckles, nor at the other men, who were now shuffling out of the room, muttering to themselves, frustrated by the lack of response from him no doubt. No, he had no need to look at them. No, all he had eyes for was the table, which must have tumbled to the floor during the beating. Its surface was still gleaming, still deep beyond understanding, still… perfect.</p> <p>"Of course it was."</p> <p>Face distorted with sudden rage, the captain picked Matthew by the collar of his shirt, and slammed him, face first, at the side of the table. He felt his lips slice open, watched crimson spill on the warm wooden surface. <em>No.</em></p> <p>Distorting it, defiling it.</p> <p><em>No.</em></p> <p>Its perfection tarnished. Order, erased. All that was once clean…naught but filth. Filth, all the way down.</p> <p><em>NO!</em></p> <p>He bit into the captain's hand. Hard. Warm blood filled his mouth as the captain shrieked. Matthew felt the man hit the side of his head with his other hand, but he wouldn't let go. Not after what he done. Not ever. Not ever. Only problem was, his vision began to fade, black spots everywhere. Numbness.</p> <p>A voice, distant, barely penetrating the gloomy haze the world seemed to swim through all of a sudden. "That's enough, Captain. I think you made your point. We need him functional." Not the committee member, Matthew thought, finding himself once again on the floor, the taste of iron on his tongue. How…odd.</p> <p>Then nothing.</p> <hr/> <p>A sudden brightness, a sudden flash of pain. The brightness slowly faded away as his eyes recognized the pale fluorescent quietly buzzing above his head. The pain did not.</p> <p>"Hey, he's up." An unfamiliar voice, soft baritone.</p> <p>"About damn time." Another, this one female.</p> <p>"He's a spy, a spy! One of them. Can't trust him, I tell you, just can't. He has shifty eyes." A third, squeaky and seemingly on the verge of panic.</p> <p>"Nah, that's just the swelling, I'd wager. See those red and black lumps all over? Fucker looks like he dived face first into a biker convention."</p> <p>"What the hell kind of metaphor is that?"</p> <p>"S'not a metaphor, Upcard, s'experience."</p> <p>"You're doing that thing with your S's again. I hate that."</p> <p>"S'not a thing, it's how I talk."</p> <p>"Hah! You forgot to do it this time! I knew it!"</p> <p>The sound of a door opening. Matthew struggled to turn his head towards it, but something held his neck in place. Feeling around it with a bandaged hand, he felt plastic. Looked like the captain didn't stop when he was told.</p> <p>"I wouldn't try and move too much, boy. You're more likely than not to pass out again, and that'll kinda defeat the point of us coming here." A fourth voice, probably belonging to whoever just came in. Southern, sounded like an old man.</p> <p>"Immff mmmpf. Mmmf?"</p> <p>The light above him was obscured, replaced by a face. Bald head, lined, rough features, white stubble. An expression Matthew could only describe as something between amusement and boredom.</p> <p>"Yeah, wouldn't do none of that either. They had to close your jaw shut with wire, see."</p> <p>"Mmmph."</p> <p>"Should thank your lucky stars you're alive at all, honestly. Guess someone in the Ethics Committee had something in for you."</p> <p>"I hardly blame them, Prosper." A second face joined the first. A woman, dark-skinned, elegant brows arched in distaste. "This guy is a damn freak, even by our standards."</p> <p>"Wait, lemme see." A third face loomed over Matthew. Chubby, orange beard, beady, sparking little eyes. "Hrm. Dunno if I see it. Just looks like a normal guy to me. Bit more metal though."</p> <p>"It's a trap, I tell you! They sent him! They want to frame me, again!" Improbably, a fourth face squeezed itself into the now extremely crowded space above Matthew, completely blocking what little light the florescent bulb provided. From what Matthew could see, this last face belonged to a thin, haggard-looking young man.</p> <p>"Who's trying to frame you now, Hale?" asked the older man, with an aura of one who asked this same question many a time before and didn't really care what the answer would be.</p> <p>"It's Marshall, Carter and Dark, Prosper! They have it in for me, I tell you. It's them who got me in this mess in the first place, I know it!" the young man replied.</p> <p>"So you're saying it's Marshall, Carter and Dark who broke into your neighbor's house, beat the ever loving hell out of him, tied him up, robbed him, pissed all over his furniture and kidnapped his dog?"</p> <p>"No, don't be silly. Marshall, Carter and Dark would never do that."</p> <p>"So it wasn't them?"</p> <p>"Of course not. Marshall and Carter did the breaking in, the robbing, the beating and all. Dark just came in for the tying and pissing. He's into that, I tell you."</p> <p>"And the dog?"</p> <p>"Dog was all me. Bastard never treated it right. Damn disgraceful it was."</p> <p>"Mmmfp! Gdmnng mff."</p> <p>"I think he wants something, Prosper," said the woman, turning to the old man.</p> <p>"You people are upsetting him, Upcard. Calling him a freak, saying he works for a bunch of dog pissers, poor man must be exhausted. Why don't you give him some time for himself before we wheel him out, eh? You can have our formal introductions later."</p> <p>With that, three of the four faces withdrew, the orange-bearded man pausing briefly to pilfer Matthew's lunch from the plastic tray hanging nearby. After a moment, Matthew could hear the door closing again. Prosper, however, didn't show any sign that he was about to leave.</p> <p>"Mmmf. Hmmarmh angmmh?"</p> <p>"Oh, don't you mind me. I'm just assessing the situation. I have to know what I'm working with here, you see."</p> <p>"Wmmph?"</p> <p>"Suffice to say, we're about to spend a lot of time together, you and I. Whether you like it or not. See, for all of the high-and-mighty nonsense you might hear from the Ethics Committee, there's only one thing the Foundation really hates, and that's losing on its investments. And, to our collective regret, you are one."</p> <p>"Hmmrh."</p> <p>"So someone up top thought, instead of wasting years of specialized training to the D-class program or, God forbid, the civilian penitentiary system, why don't we make use of you? And so, here we are."</p> <p>"Hw?"</p> <p>The face withdrew, then the sound of footsteps and the rustling of a newspaper. A sipping. A sigh.</p> <p>"Congratulations, kid. You finally made it big. Welcome to Permanent Expungement Crews."</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="/surfaces">Surfaces</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/surfaces">https://scpwiki.com/surfaces</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Matthew Andrews was seated in front of a table. This alone wasn't very unusual, and indeed, the fact that he was seated there didn't cause Matthew any undue concern. The table, located in the interrogation room of an otherwise mostly vacant sheriff's office, didn't provide much in the way of spectacle, he observed. Plastic, scratched, the typical shabby build quality you get with the government issue stuff. The entire thing would probably collapse on itself if he gave it a good shove. Sadly, this was a theory he could not properly follow through, since his hands were cuffed behind his back. Also, he imagined, the two detectives seated in front of him might object. They seemed rather agitated about something, probably whatever one of them kept droning about. "-And this is very important, Mr. Andrews-" the bald one said, trying and failing to hide his anger by burying his nose in his brown notebook. "Please, call me Matt." "It is very important, Mr. Andrews, that you understand just how serious these allegations are, and that you tell us everything you know. Because right now, I feel like you're not." "In fact, I feel like you're fucking with us," said his mustached partner. "Me? Heavens no. I have nothing but respect for men of the law. In fact, I consider myself one." "You work as a clerk in a lumber mill." Matthew smiled, and said nothing. "Where are they?" the bald one asked again, eyeing Matthew in a way he must have imagined was professional and detached but really only seemed tired. Silence. "We know it was you, Andrews. We found your car, we found the hatchet, and the hairs. Took us a while. You did a good job cleaning after yourself, gotta admit." "Just not good enough," said the mustached one, positively bristling with zeal. A real blood hound, that one, Matthew mused. The kind that digs around and sniffs, crawling through the underbrush after the fox, into dark tunnels. Even if that meant getting stuck where one really shouldn't. It was hard to tell with this particular brand of dog, he thought, if they chased for their master or for their own blood-lust. A point to consider. "-Gone all glassy-eyed. Hey buddy, I'm talking to you here!" Ah, so easy to lose oneself to idle musings. Of his many faults, this one was surely the most profound. Though others might disagree. "I'm sorry, Detective, but I was advised not to say anything without my legal advocate." Behind him, a door opened. A grey-suited man, immaculate despite the late hour and what was probably a very long drive, entered the room. The mustached detective, reluctant to shift his attention away from Matthew, begrudgingly turned to the man. The hound finds something... unexpected in the tunnel. But it can't let go, now can it? Not when its eyes finally catch that elusive glimpse of red. Gotta dig deeper, ever deeper. Right into the ground. "Hey buddy, there's an ongoing investigation going on here. Take a hike." The grey-suited man ignored him, instead leaning to whisper something at the bald detective's ear. Matthew watched the color drain from the man's face. Without saying a word, the detective rose from his seat, fumbled with his belt and produced a key, which he used to release Matthew's cuffs. This didn't seem to sit well with his partner. "Harry, what the hell is going on here?" The tunnel winds and narrows, and suddenly the hound finds itself stuck. And the tunnel... The bald detective just shook his head, and sank back into his seat, his hands covering his face. The grey-suited man, seemingly taking great care not to look at Matthew, gestured towards the door. Rubbing his arms, Matthew turned to look at the mustached detective, who was now quietly arguing with his partner, an argument he was clearly losing. The poor man looked positively deflated. Matthew winked at him, and stepped out of the room, leaving the cuffs behind him. Well, that was the thing about digging, he thought, as he followed the grey-suited man down the dreary corridor of the sheriff's office out to the parking lot, where a black SUV awaited, its engine still on. If you go on digging, you never quite know what you'll find. ---- "-Before this committee gives its final verdict, do you have anything to say for yourself?" A rather odd question to ask, Lieutenant Matthew Andrews thought, when the men asking it clearly already made up their minds. Disingenuous, insulting even. No, he wouldn't dignify them with a response, those grey-faced hypocrites. So he didn't. Instead, he simply shrugged, and returned his attention to the table he was seated in front of, placed low before the raised dais that dominated the room. Say what you will about the Ethics Committee, they had a fine taste in furniture. Rich, dark wood, cool to the touch, spread beneath his fingers, a polished smooth plain. Gorgeous, clean of any imperfections. If they could just see it as he did, they would have understood what he did. "Very well. Lieutenant Matthew Andrews, due to your crimes against the Foundation's charter and its behavioral code, and indeed against common decency, we hereby strip you of your rank and status. Your name will be stricken from your unit's records, your uniform burned, your pension discontinued-" Amusing bit of irony, that. "-and your person released from your control, given to the Foundation to do with as it sees fit. Do you understand?" He did. It meant that he was their slave now, no different from the D-class they marched daily to the grinder. He supposed that he should have been surprised by that last clause of his punishment, frightened even, but instead he found himself intrigued. He had seen men stripped of their rank before for various crimes committed during their civilian lives, but this? This was new. "Now, for the last order of business. Your former unit members have requested to see you." The committee member whispered something into a speaker embedded in the dais, and through a side entrance they came, all in full dress uniform. His old commander, a man he served under for more than ten years, addressed the committee, ignoring Matthew entirely. "May we proceed?" "You may, as long as you... contain yourself. As per our agreement." There was a hint of grim satisfaction about that last comment. "Of course, sir. We're all about restraint, aren't we, lads?" A shaking of heads. A cracking of knuckles. Oh. So that's how things are now, Matthew thought, as the first fist slammed into the side of his head, knocking him off his chair, sending him sprawling. A second landed beneath his left eye. A third, this one carrying the weight and bite of a brass knuckle, slammed into his nose, and he could feel fragile bone shattering. Kicks rained down, smashing into his ribs like jackhammers. Looked like the training regiment he put the men through worked, he thought, they were in fine shape. He tried and failed to curl into a ball, but the men pulled him straight once more. This continued for a while, until a command was barked, and the beating finally slowed to a stop. Through the haze of his pain, Matthew felt a faint breath touching the pulpy mess that was his ear. "Was it worth it, you bastard?" //Heh. Heheh. Heheheh.// Matthew looked up through swollen eyelids, but not at the captain, who stood just above him, rubbing his bruised knuckles, nor at the other men, who were now shuffling out of the room, muttering to themselves, frustrated by the lack of response from him no doubt. No, he had no need to look at them. No, all he had eyes for was the table, which must have tumbled to the floor during the beating. Its surface was still gleaming, still deep beyond understanding, still... perfect. "Of course it was." Face distorted with sudden rage, the captain picked Matthew by the collar of his shirt, and slammed him, face first, at the side of the table. He felt his lips slice open, watched crimson spill on the warm wooden surface. //No.// Distorting it, defiling it. //No.// Its perfection tarnished. Order, erased. All that was once clean...naught but filth. Filth, all the way down. //NO!// He bit into the captain's hand. Hard. Warm blood filled his mouth as the captain shrieked. Matthew felt the man hit the side of his head with his other hand, but he wouldn't let go. Not after what he done. Not ever. Not ever. Only problem was, his vision began to fade, black spots everywhere. Numbness. A voice, distant, barely penetrating the gloomy haze the world seemed to swim through all of a sudden. "That's enough, Captain. I think you made your point. We need him functional." Not the committee member, Matthew thought, finding himself once again on the floor, the taste of iron on his tongue. How...odd. Then nothing. ----- A sudden brightness, a sudden flash of pain. The brightness slowly faded away as his eyes recognized the pale fluorescent quietly buzzing above his head. The pain did not. "Hey, he's up." An unfamiliar voice, soft baritone. "About damn time." Another, this one female. "He's a spy, a spy! One of them. Can't trust him, I tell you, just can't. He has shifty eyes." A third, squeaky and seemingly on the verge of panic. "Nah, that's just the swelling, I'd wager. See those red and black lumps all over? Fucker looks like he dived face first into a biker convention." "What the hell kind of metaphor is that?" "S'not a metaphor, Upcard, s'experience." "You're doing that thing with your S's again. I hate that." "S'not a thing, it's how I talk." "Hah! You forgot to do it this time! I knew it!" The sound of a door opening. Matthew struggled to turn his head towards it, but something held his neck in place. Feeling around it with a bandaged hand, he felt plastic. Looked like the captain didn't stop when he was told. "I wouldn't try and move too much, boy. You're more likely than not to pass out again, and that'll kinda defeat the point of us coming here." A fourth voice, probably belonging to whoever just came in. Southern, sounded like an old man. "Immff mmmpf. Mmmf?" The light above him was obscured, replaced by a face. Bald head, lined, rough features, white stubble. An expression Matthew could only describe as something between amusement and boredom. "Yeah, wouldn't do none of that either. They had to close your jaw shut with wire, see." "Mmmph." "Should thank your lucky stars you're alive at all, honestly. Guess someone in the Ethics Committee had something in for you." "I hardly blame them, Prosper." A second face joined the first. A woman, dark-skinned, elegant brows arched in distaste. "This guy is a damn freak, even by our standards." "Wait, lemme see." A third face loomed over Matthew. Chubby, orange beard, beady, sparking little eyes. "Hrm. Dunno if I see it. Just looks like a normal guy to me. Bit more metal though." "It's a trap, I tell you! They sent him! They want to frame me, again!" Improbably, a fourth face squeezed itself into the now extremely crowded space above Matthew, completely blocking what little light the florescent bulb provided. From what Matthew could see, this last face belonged to a thin, haggard-looking young man. "Who's trying to frame you now, Hale?" asked the older man, with an aura of one who asked this same question many a time before and didn't really care what the answer would be. "It's Marshall, Carter and Dark, Prosper! They have it in for me, I tell you. It's them who got me in this mess in the first place, I know it!" the young man replied. "So you're saying it's Marshall, Carter and Dark who broke into your neighbor's house, beat the ever loving hell out of him, tied him up, robbed him, pissed all over his furniture and kidnapped his dog?" "No, don't be silly. Marshall, Carter and Dark would never do that." "So it wasn't them?" "Of course not. Marshall and Carter did the breaking in, the robbing, the beating and all. Dark just came in for the tying and pissing. He's into that, I tell you." "And the dog?" "Dog was all me. Bastard never treated it right. Damn disgraceful it was." "Mmmfp! Gdmnng mff." "I think he wants something, Prosper," said the woman, turning to the old man. "You people are upsetting him, Upcard. Calling him a freak, saying he works for a bunch of dog pissers, poor man must be exhausted. Why don't you give him some time for himself before we wheel him out, eh? You can have our formal introductions later." With that, three of the four faces withdrew, the orange-bearded man pausing briefly to pilfer Matthew's lunch from the plastic tray hanging nearby. After a moment, Matthew could hear the door closing again. Prosper, however, didn't show any sign that he was about to leave. "Mmmf. Hmmarmh angmmh?" "Oh, don't you mind me. I'm just assessing the situation. I have to know what I'm working with here, you see." "Wmmph?" "Suffice to say, we're about to spend a lot of time together, you and I. Whether you like it or not. See, for all of the high-and-mighty nonsense you might hear from the Ethics Committee, there's only one thing the Foundation really hates, and that's losing on its investments. And, to our collective regret, you are one." "Hmmrh." "So someone up top thought, instead of wasting years of specialized training to the D-class program or, God forbid, the civilian penitentiary system, why don't we make use of you? And so, here we are." "Hw?" The face withdrew, then the sound of footsteps and the rustling of a newspaper. A sipping. A sigh. "Congratulations, kid. You finally made it big. Welcome to Permanent Expungement Crews." [[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>]]	2013-11-04T18:59:00	[ "_licensebox", "ethics-committee", "tale" ]	Surfaces - SCP Foundation	49	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	20507594	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/surfaces
surprise-happy-birthday-3	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>What? You again?</p> <p>I thought we'd taken care of this. Didn't you read the others? The other stories and tales? There was the one with the children who swallowed up their father when he didn't sing them a lullaby? What about the one where the author became his story, then accidentally cut his own character? Or the purloined thumbscrews? Hmm… I thought we'd got you with that one.</p> <p>Well, none the less, I suppose I'm supposed to bid you welcome! Welcome to the tales, in honor, in… memoriam? No? Soon, perhaps. Tales of sorrow and joy. Tales of the goblet filled with the blood of the sun, or perhaps tales about the simple flute who became a man. Tales of the raven, snake, bear, and raven again, when coyote chopped him in half. Tales of paper tower made of lost stories, and the Cruciform of Jude. Tales of Little Bo Peep, the forgotten note, or the left handed tree. Tales! Tales to celebrate this, the day of your death!</p> <p>Birth?</p> <p>Like there's that much of a difference…</p> <p>Happy birthday…! And many more.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"A Creepy Pasta" by Murphy Slaw, age six.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>(An excerpt from <em>The Thing on the Plate</em>, a collection of restaurant reviews written by H.P. Lovecraft for the Providence Journal.)</p> <p>As I set foot into Guiseppe's, I was promptly seized by a wave of thoroughgoing revulsion. My mind reeled at the churning revelation that the establishment was no temple to the finer inheritances of Rome, but rather a low den catering to the coarse pleasures of the debased Sicilian - a swarthy, degenerate people whose only talents lie in the demesne of street violence and the production of the vile Marsala - a mucilaginous, sanguinary mockery of the vintner's art.</p> <p>The inchoate grunting of the proprietor indicated that I should select my own seating within. With mounting trepidation, I picked my way amongst the rude timber tables, eventually perching myself at the least repellant example of carpentry I was able to detect.</p> <p>The very fabric of space-time itself seemed to elongate and ripple obscenely as I awaited some signal of acknowledgment from the sullen attendants. The escalating desperation in my eyes finally captured the attention of a waiter, who stamped gracelessly to my table with the languidness born of his Mediterranean birth-place.</p> <p>The menu was engraved upon a coarse hempen paper, heavily adorned with the greasy finger-prints of the luckless diners who had paid visit to the blighted accommodation in days long past. With desperate haste, I opted for the <em>spaghetti</em> and meat-balls. I clutched to a slender hope that the proprietor's reluctance to specify the flesh involved did not implicate the establishment in some ghastly charade.</p> <p>The beetle-browed attendant set the proffered dish upon the profane checked table-cloth with a clattering thud. Within seconds, my worst fears were made manifest. Deep within his sweltering lair, the oafish cook had, through a foul mockery of the culinary arts, taken the noble tomato and reduced it to a scrofulous paste, with a glabrous sheen never meant to adorn earthly food. With a heavy hand, this ichor was ladled over a collection of rugose agglomerations which disgraced the good name of sphere.</p> <p>And underneath these insults lurked the most unsettling revelation of all. For the Sicilian, not content to take the staff of life and produce therefrom the wholesome bread of our ancestors, instead had so abused and warped the corn of the wheat-stalk as to produce a clotted mass of <em>slithering filaments</em>, a writhing heap of wheaten degeneracy which so rejected my every sensibility that I sat dumb-struck for several minutes as it steamed and coagulated.</p> <p>Additionally, the <em>cannoli</em> I selected for afters was niggardly in the apportionment of nuts to a scandalous degree.</p> <p>Two stars.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Just A Moment Of Your Time" by Roget</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">to wish you a happy birthday!</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>It was Sunday. The second Sunday in August. The apartment was small, but not cramped. The walls were lined with a faded floral wallpaper, added by a resident past, and Harold was enjoying his tea. He quite liked Sunday. It was a day where nobody would come around and knock on his door. No bills. No mail. Just peace.</p> <p>At least, that's how it usually was. Today was something different. Because on that particular Sunday, there was a knock on the door. A quiet one, from somebody who wasn't bold enough to want to wake Harold up. It was just loud enough to alert him from his newspaper and warm mug.</p> <p>He rose, joints creaking and slippers fluffing, and shuffled over to the peep-hole. On the other side of the threshold, there was a well-dressed man. He wore a dark brown suit, plain blue tie, and dirty glasses. His hair looked as though he'd recently been wearing a hat, that had been lost to the wind. Normally, Harold would have ignored the solicitor, gone back to his chair, and resumed reading. But today, he didn't.</p> <p>Instead, he opened the door.</p> <p>"Greetings." said the solicitor. "My name is Gerald, and I need only a moment of your time." He smiled, a phony but sentimental gesture. He set his briefcase down, and adjusted his tie. Harold just watched him, not sure why he had opened the door, and not quite able to think about why he couldn't think about why.</p> <p>Gerald set his suitcase down, and clasped his hands together."So, I'm sure you have many friends and relatives. You've know them in the past. But do you know them tomorrow?"</p> <p>Harold blinked. "I… what?"</p> <p>Gerald grinned, a genuine one this time. "So, you haven't heard the Good Word?"</p> <p>Harold had not heard any such word. He shook his head.</p> <p>"My dear friend, you have been living in a dark age. Constantly looking over your shoulder to memories half-gazed over by your own mind. Wouldn't you like to see the memories before they happen, to get ready?"</p> <p>Frowning, Harold crossed his arms. "So, like… a fortune-reader?"</p> <p>A waggling finger was thrust into Harold's face. "Not just any fortune, my friend, but one absolutely-positively guaranteed to work. You'll know everything you ever needed to know about what's coming up. It's like having advanced tickets to the Big Game!"</p> <p>Harold could spot a phony when he saw one. The cheap smile, the dirty facade… this guy was a carpetbagger, through and through. "Prove it, then."</p> <p>If possible, the solicitor known as Gerald grew an even wider grin. "Right away…" his arms lurched into the suitcase, unsnapping the hinges and wrestling with the cords, until he revealed a massive, oily hunk of metal. Immediately, the reeking odor of fish and dock rot permeated the hallway. Harold stepped back, aghast.</p> <p>"Wha , guh-" he gagged. "What is that?"</p> <p>Gerald held it clasped between his hands, the oily juices dripping down his fingers, leaving thin red trails in their wake. "Ah, this is what I have been promising you. Touch it."</p> <p>Harold hesitated.</p> <p>"Go on, touch it."</p> <p>Tentatively reaching out, Harold leaned into the device. Swiftly, a blade ejected from the front of its cobbled form, and pricked his outstretched hand. Recoiling in pain and surprise, Harold failed to notice the machine clutching itself as it savored the fresh memories, the new experiences that his lifetime had been enhanced with. Smoke billowed from its many openings and valves, until at last, an oily strip of paper printed out. Gerald snatched it, and peered past his grime-coated spectacles.</p> <p>"Do you talk to your sister, much?"</p> <p>Harold looked up, distracted from his distraction. "N-no… why?"</p> <p>"You won't be talking for quite some time, sorry. But it proves my machine to be functional, yes?"</p> <p>One blink. "H-hey… what the hell are… what're you talking about?"</p> <p>"Your sister… Gloria, or something similar, the paper blurred a bit… she died in an accident sixteen minutes ago."</p> <p>Behind them, Harold's phone began to ring.</p> <p>"That's probably them now. Are you ready for the news?"</p> <p>"I… you're fucking lying." Harold backed away, looking over his shoulder to the phone ringing off the hook.</p> <p>"Here you are now, Harold. Looking over your shoulder to the past, once again."</p> <p>The phone continued its ringing, but Harold stopped, and turned 'round to face the solicitor. "What do you… what do you want from me?"</p> <p>"I want you to pay the price for my miraculous little device!"</p> <p>"… What do you want?"</p> <p>"You've already given it to me, Harry. Can I call you Harry? Your life, your blood, your past-present-future. This machine is tied to you, Harry. And so am I."</p> <hr/> <p>When Harold next had regained his faculties, he was sitting in his chair. His hand was unmolested, and the phone was silent. He breathed a sigh of relief.</p> <p>Then, there was a horrid, ghastly noise.</p> <p>Over his shoulder, a ticket printed, oily and dark. It read: <tt>Check the answering machine</tt></p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Eyes Down," by Mann</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Happy milestone on the long march towards death</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>I never look up anymore.</p> <p>I don't mean that metaphorically. I'm not saying I'm pessimistic. Though I'm that, too. I mean, if you were me, you wouldn't be flowers and sunshine either.</p> <p>But I'm talking literally. I keep my eyes down. It's safer that way. They hate being stared at…</p> <p>The angels, I mean.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"A Mile in His Shoes," by Dmatix</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">May the Gears keep on turning.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>If you ask him, he'll tell you it's a matter of perspective. There's nothing wrong with you, per say, it's just that you don't really understand how things work around here. It's not about being kind, or strong, or right, or even clever. No, it's all about appearance. There's no such thing as power, he'll say, except for what people see. Ask him, and he'll say it's all about the shoes. You can do whatever you want, really, if you have the right shoes. Sure, he might have done some things in his days that wouldn't fly anymore. You couldn't say his closet was clean of skeletons, certainly not. If all you found were skeletons, you'd consider yourself lucky. If he was anyone else, it might have haunted him. But he has the shoes. And the hair. And the big, shiny smile. So he walks it off. Boy, does he walk it off.</p> <p>What makes his shoes so special, you ask? Funny story, that. Ask him, and he'll tell you it's really not about the shoes at all. Walking a mile in a man's shoes is nice and all, but walking a mile in his toes is better.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Currents" by FlameShirt</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">insert witty comment wishing Gears a happy birthday</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>The first thing I remember seeing was the gorge and the grass. I'd spend hours playing in the fields and among the mountain rocks. But as time went on, I grew longer. I arrived at the concrete and the people. They came out of nightclubs and pubs, blinded by lights and throwing up. I could see glances, or a touch of the arm. The couples holding hands, followed by the break-ups and fights. Sometimes an old couple would pass by, sitting on a bench in the soft sun.</p> <p>As I exited the city, I turned to look back at suburbs. A little boy was having a birthday party in his garden, surrounded by cake, balloons, presents and friends.</p> <p>I left, and surged out into the sea.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"The Knife and the Red Cork" by Wogglebug</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Birthdays are cool. Super rad, even. So yeah, have a good one dude.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>The first time it happened I thought it was odd, but not the second time. The first was a mangy coyote standing on a wall behind an Albertsons, its eyes red and its teeth stained black with the blood of an unlucky crow. The second time it was just some asshole that stood me up.</p> <p>I guess that could probably use some explaining. You see, whenever I get off work I always walk down Main and up 37th to my apartment, partly on account of I could use the exercise but mostly because Cindy at the flower shop on the corner sometimes says hi. Anyway, I was going past Albertsons and I heard a weird cawing sound from out behind back, like some bird had gone and gotten itself stuck in the packaging they dump back there. I went to see what it was, and as I turned the corner this huge beaming fucker just jumps up onto the wall, the bird hanging out of its teeth. I thought it was probably rabid, and that I ought to call animal control or something, but then the asshole opened its mouth and started talking. I don’t mean it was mimicking like those parrots do, or that I’m some sort of dog whisperer. I mean some asshole coyote was speaking English like it wasn’t any big thing. I didn’t actually catch the first thing it said, on account of the whole ‘holy shit a talking dog’ thing, but I remember the second thing. It said, “The woods by the old Wilson place where you and Tommy went in the summer. Come there Sunday with a knife and a piece of red cork.”</p> <p>Alright, I get at this point you probably assume that I’m bullshitting you, or that I’m just incredibly stupid. Neither of those things are true, and at the very least not the first one. You probably assume I just hallucinated the whole thing, or that it was some homeless guy talking from behind the wall or something. Neither of those are correct either. At this point you’re probably thinking that surely I couldn’t have actually gone out to a patch of woods five hours away where I hadn’t been for twenty years, based on what was likely either Satan or a similarly-themed hallucination. Once again, bad news on that front.</p> <p>Getting the knife was easy enough, but the cork took ages. Turns out that barely anyone sells cork in the first place, and the guys who do don’t really go for the full rainbow effect. Eventually I found some in a craft store down by the old hospital, the one they renovated last spring.</p> <p>Sunday night at maybe five I showed up down by the creek across from the woods, expecting there to be some sort of sign or similarly genre-appropriate bullshit to point me towards a journey of self-discovery and excitement. There wasn’t. So, after milling about for a while and throwing little rocks at little fish, I decided to just check the creepy-ass woods themselves. Well, that’s not really accurate. The woods around there aren’t really that creepy, and a lot of it isn’t even real woods- just a ton of trees the developers put in to hide an ugly power substation that the County insisted go right in the middle of Fuck-all, Nowhere.</p> <p>As it turns out, I’m not the greatest at going through the woods. You wouldn’t even believe the number of spider webs I walked through. Well, actually, you probably would, given that you’re reading this at all. But it was still a lot. Anyway, eventually I got back to the part where none of the neighborhood kids ever really went, because the giant hazard signs the County put up around the substation. I was walking along what could probably have been a path if it hadn’t been absurdly hard to get through when I saw the same coyote I had seen at Albertsons. Well, it was less that I saw it than it just sort of jumped out in front of me and knocked me over. But still, I did end up seeing it, albeit flat on my ass.</p> <p>At this point in the story you’re probably expecting me to have my throat violently ripped out by a psychopathic ghost dog making some sort of dark sacrifice. If so, you clearly don’t understand how the first person works. I’m not dead. That’s sort of how it works. At the time though, I was sort of shitting myself in fear. Not literally, mind you, just metaphorically. If I had literally shit myself I probably would’ve just left that part out. But still, there I was, on the ground in the middle of the woods with an absurdly filthy coyote glaring at my face from about a foot away. So I made the clear and obvious choice and just said “What the fuck, man?”, accusatory hand gestures included.</p> <p>The coyote stared at me for a while, and eventually just sort of stalked away. Not like in the movies or whatever where the animal guide leads the protagonist off into the woods to face some great evil. It just sort of left.</p> <p>Eventually, after dusting myself off (or de-dirting, or whatever you call it) I looked around for the coyote. I looked for three fucking hours, and I couldn’t find it anywhere, which sort of pissed me off. Eventually I gave up, because hey, hallucinations happen, right? (right?)</p> <p>That next Tuesday I was walking home when I heard the familiar sound of a bird dying a horrible, terrible death. Same thing as before, blah blah evil looking coyote blah. And it just sort of stares at me this time, doesn’t say a word. I swear to God, if an animal could be embarrassed, that one was. After just staring at each other for a while I decide to go with the good-old “What the fuck, man?”</p> <p>It just keeps staring and starts talking, a dead bird dangling from its teeth, going, “Hell, I didn’t think you’d actually do it. Fucking weirdo.” And then it just scampers off, like some king-of-all-he-surveys asshole.</p> <p>No, but, like, seriously. Fuck that guy. I still don’t know what that shit was about.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"The Missing Tone!" by Jekeled</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Happy birthday!</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>"So, Doctor Hartman," Doctor Grangeman said, sitting down at the interrogation table, "let's talk a little more about the delusion we were discussing yesterday."</p> <p>Hartman sat in a little huddle at the far end of the table, humming to himself quietly. He stopped this for long enough to ramble: "…not a delusion…it's REAL!! it's ALL REAL! None of you Bastards would listen to me, but it's rEAL!!!"</p> <p>"Now, now," Grangeman said in a soothing tone of voice. "Remember what we talked about: you've got to use proper spelling and punctuation when you speak. It's the polite thing to do. Now, what do you say?"</p> <p>"…sorry…" Hartman mumbled.</p> <p>"No, no," Grangeman said. "What do we say <em>properly?</em>"</p> <p>"I'm sorry," Hartman said.</p> <p>"Very good. Now, on to your delusion."</p> <p>"It's not a delusion," Hartman insisted. "I found the missing note!"</p> <p>Grangeman sighed. "I see you're still laboring under it. There is no missing note in the musical scale. It just isn't how these things work!"</p> <p>"That's what everybody <em>thinks!</em>" Hartman cried. "Think of all the music that could be created! Think of all the new tones to create! Think of how the piano would have to be remade!"</p> <p>"Listen," Grangeman said patiently. "These things don't <em>work</em> that way! All the tones and letters are completely arbitrary! They're all based on specific frequencies which our brain takes out and labels as specific pitches. The tonal system we have is just a way for us to categorize those frequencies! You can't discover another musical note; there are only a finite number of frequencies to find!"</p> <p>Hartman shook his head vigorously. "It's true!" he said. "I call it hleem! Because the next note after G should be H, but I shook it up a bit! Here, I'll even hum it!"</p> <p>Here he hummed a note. Grangeman, who had had some musical training, immediately recognized it. "Doctor Hartman," he said, "that's middle C."</p> <p>"No! No!" Hartman cried. "You're out to get me! You're all out to get me! It's a conspiracy! A conspiracy i Tell You! A CONSPIRACY!!!!"</p> <p>Grangeman sighed. There went another session, right down the drain.<br/> —<br/> "I feel sorry for the poor fellow," Grangeman commented later to one of his colleagues, as he watched the security camera footage of Hartman in his room. "A music teacher gone completely mad…you've gotta sympathize on some level."</p> <p>"I suppose," his colleague said. "I just wish he could have chosen a less ridiculous thing to fixate on."</p> <p>"Well," Grangeman said, "it had to be something. Not surprising that-"</p> <p>"Wait!" his colleague said. "Look at Hartman's monitor!"</p> <p>Grangeman gasped. "We've got to get over there, fast!" he cried.</p> <p>But by the time they got there, it was too late! Blood was everywhere, and in the middle of it was Hartman, twisted into a grotesque parody of a half note.</p> <p>Grangeman's colleague bent over and vomited, and he himself recoiled from the scene. He slowly walked into the room, trying to avoid stepping in any major blood puddles. Reaching Hartman's desk, he picked up a single sheet of paper laying there. It was a musical staff in all ways except for one: instead of five lines and four spaces, there were <em>six lines and five spaces-enough room for one more note!</em></p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Baby, It's Cold Outside" by Azzleflux</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, that, nobody can deny...</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>It's cold outside. I'm holding my jacket, my soft, warm jacket, as close to my body as I can, but it doesn't help much. I'm shivering, shaking harder than I have for a while. It's been a mess ever since they laid me off. My only joy, gone.</p> <p>Gah. I have to stop thinking. It's not helping at all. I just have to get home, where I can snuggle up under my homemade blanket and read a nice book by the orange light cast through my newly constructed lamp and shade.</p> <p>God. I just miss all of them. Little Albert, Josie, Laura, Stevie… I wish I could just pick them up and hold their soft, warm little bodies in my lap and rock them asleep. They were always so precious. I can't lie to myself, I even thought of them as my own for the longest time.</p> <p>…</p> <p>They'll regret sending me away. The goddamn Sunnydale nursery… the kids <em>loved</em> me there. Much better than that <em>bitch,</em> Evaline. Hell, they were all probably just jealous that all of the little munchkins liked me more. Well, forget them. I pull my jacket a smidgen tighter around my torso and take a deep breath of that glorious smell and remember that wherever I go, it doesn't really matter that I don't have a job to work with those kids anymore.</p> <p>After all, I'll have little things that remind me of each of them everyday. Really (that reminds me, I need to make sure the lampshade has been tanned proper), those kids will always be mine in a certain way.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <p><a href="/1914">"1914" by Vezaz</a></p> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Diaphanous" by Zyn</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">A tale for the inspiring one, to celebrate in words and fun, his recent cycle of the sun</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>There’s a café that some know of, tucked away at the end of a back alley in a sleepy suburban city, that presents a different sort of atmosphere than most such establishments.</p> <p>It’s said to live up to its name, <em>Cloud Mind</em>. Mist swirls around a customer the moment they step through the glassy double doors, this mist is present in the entire place; it creeps along the polished, mirror-bright white tile and curls at the heels like a contented cat.</p> <p>The near-unnaturally pale-skinned serving staff are trained, precise, efficient—they glide across the swirling, ever-warping floors, whispering orders dreamily as they float from table to table. They wear feathered masks and only speak in rhymed couplets; it’s common knowledge among regulars that if you’re lucky enough to be approached by a server wearing a mask of blue feathers, you’ve been invited to spend your time, brief as it may be, in one of the specialty rooms.</p> <p>With the ever-present mist caressing the soft white walls and floors, it’s impossible to know just how large the café truly is, but those who have been in the special rooms swear that the floor plan must be luxuriously grandiose because how else would there be room for the delicate abstract porcelain statuettes, the flowing fountains with clear water clean enough to drink, kissed with the fragrance of exotic flowers and foreign fruits?</p> <p>It is a café, but only drinks are served. No one notices, and no one minds.</p> <p>Perhaps it’s the soft, tinkling music of the café that lulls people to contentment, perhaps it’s the effect of the glossy surfaces, perhaps it’s the sight of the graceful servers, perhaps it’s the way that everything seems to gently melt into a rhythm of motion, an instinctive rhythm, perhaps, perhaps.</p> <p>Most of those who leave realize later that something feels strange, something is missing. Some feel lightheaded and faint, all simply attribute it to the café’s ethereal, otherworldly atmosphere.</p> <p>While the café willingly welcomes repeat customers, the staff keep their secrets to themselves, and so no one ever can decide whether there is something special about the place that keeps them returning to it, or if there was simply something missing from life all along.</p> <p>The rooms are always full of light, but there are no windows.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Supply and Demand" by Clef</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">An Excludable and Rival Good.</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>The truth of the matter is that Aesop's fables were never fairy tales. In the past, animals did speak. So did trees, and mountains, and the wind, and fairies.</p> <p>What changed? The human population grew. Since the day when Aesop first put stylus to wax, the world population has increased sixty-fold, from one hundred million to six billion. That's over five billion people who had to be born with souls. Five billion humans using up the souls that could have been used to create a talking tree or a living rock.</p> <p>And as it turned out, the Hindus were right. Souls are a limited resource. New ones are never born. Old ones are never destroyed. And with the human population exploding the way it has been, the number of souls available for talking rabbits and magic mice is growing smaller…</p> <p>One day soon, the very first soulless human will be born, and things will start to change.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Meow" by Gaffney</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Happy Birthday, Gears! :3</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>The man gave a tuneless whistle as he walked along the dark sidewalk. Every fifty feet, he passed under another lamppost, briefly illuminating him before he passed back into the dark. There was a slight breeze in the warm summer night. In his right hand he held a plastic bag filled with all manner of goods: scalpels, wire, rubbing alcohol, needles, fishing line, lighter fluid, and cat food. The bag spun lazily back and forth as he walked.</p> <p>He came to a crossroads. Although the street was empty, the crossing sign displayed a bright orange hand. He decided to wait. Once, while he had been carrying some of the waste from his hobby, he had crossed illegally. A policeman had yelled at him and told him not to do it again. And even though the policeman never asked him what was in bag he was carrying, rolled up in newspaper, the experience had put the man off of jaywalking for good.</p> <p>As he waited at the light, he thought about home. He began to sort through the contents of the bag, just to be sure everything was still there. As he went through the bag, came a mewling sound from an alley behind him. It was so soft he nearly didn't hear it. But there it was again! Decades with his hobby had given him an instinctive understanding of animal sounds. Low and hungry, with a touch of desperation. His lips twisted upwards in an involuntary smile. An alley cat. People hardly ever missed alley cats. Not at all like a house cat. Several near misses with the law had taught him that feral animals were safer than domestic ones.</p> <p>He moved slowly towards the alley, not wanting to scare away his new quarry. As he neared the entrance to the alley, he crouched down to seem more approachable. There was another sound from the alleyway, one which gave him pause. It was the same tone as the first, but it sounded different. Deeper. Thicker. More ragged. For a moment, he remained in place at the mouth of the alley as the bag twisted gently in the breeze.</p> <p>He shook off the feeling and moved slowly into the dark alleyway. Even without light, he could make out silhouettes of the mounds of garbage bags littering the place. "Heeere, kitty kitty. Here, kitty kitty," he said gently. No response. He moved deeper in. "Here, kitty kitty." He reached into the plastic bag and took out a tin of the cat food. "Hungry, ain'tcha? I got some food for you. And a place for you to stay, not all dirty like here." He ran a tongue over his upper lip. "Heere, kitty kitty kitty!"</p> <p>One of the piles of trash began to unfold itself and move towards him. As it unfolded, its silhouette transformed into the shape of a cat. But it was at least four feet long, coming up to at least his knee. He stumbled backwards and fell, spilling the contents of the bag all over the alley floor. The former mound gave another mewl, low and ragged, as it came towards him. It moved with a pronounced limp. He picked himself up and began to back away. As the shape came closer, he began to make out certain features. Thin, frayed wires emerged from its head. Ribbons of flesh and fur hung from its face. It waved a tail, split down the middle, back and forth.</p> <p>He backed away and began to walk quickly towards his house. The thing followed. He began to run. As he crossed the road, the mewling grew closer and more insistent. He looked to his left and right for cars, pedestrians, anything or anyone. Nothing. The street was deserted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cat-thing. For its size, it was emaciated, with ribs jutting out of its side. Its front right paw was missing. A trick of the light caused its eyes to appear pure white. He began to sprint. The thing kept pace behind him, meowing ever more insistently.</p> <p>At last, at long, long last, he reached home. He took the key ring from his pocket and hurried through the various keys, trying to unlock the door. The thing was right behind him. After a thousand years, he unlocked the door, slamming it behind him. There was a pleading sound from behind the door, followed by a frenetic pawing. He deadbolted the door and braced himself against it. Eventually, the pawing ceased. He leaned against the door and slid to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. He sat there in the dark, looking at nothing in particular.</p> <p>From the kitchen, there came a sound. It was unlike any animal he had ever heard. It sounded deep, somehow greasy. For a moment, he was unable to recognize it. As his brain tried to process the sound, there came another, similar sound from the bathroom. Then another from the basement door, which had somehow opened itself. Then from within the living room. As he sat, unable to move, the silhouette of his armchair unfolded itself and began to move towards him, padding gently along the wooden floor. Even within the dark he could make out dozens of shapes, all moving towards him. One passed through a patch of light from a nearby window. Tortiseshell fur hung down in ribbons over a mouth relived of teeth. A trick of the light caused its eyes to glow pure white. From a jawless mouth there came a meow.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">"Feet of Clay" by Orion</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">Merry Gearsmas to all and to all a good fright!</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>There was a town out a piece to the northwest. Way back, folks over there were bein’ overrun by snakes. Big and mean ones, too. These snakes didn’t go much for people, but they’d sneak up on the livestock and bite ‘em. Cows, sheep, pigs, hell, even the dogs! The animals’d be dead before anyone could do anything.</p> <p>One day, this fella appeared in the town. Said he could get ridda the snakes. Only thing he wanted was a pair of boots, toughest ones the cordwainer could make. Townsfolk agreed, and Willard the cordwainer worked through the night on the boots, with a bit of input from the stranger. Willard never talked about what he said. Always was the quiet type.</p> <p>Anyway, early the next morning, with his new boots, tougher’n a lumberjack’s callused thumb, the fella led a sounder of boars into the town.</p> <p>What? ‘Course they ate the snakes! Long with damn near everything else! Ol’ Pethers had one clean out his coop, and take the coop down on its way out!</p> <p>Now, when a boar goes after a man, his first point of attack is the feet. He gets at them, chewing and gnashing with his tusks, and the man’s down quick. Once you’re on his level, you’re at the boar’s mercy. And they’ve got as much mercy as a porcupine in heat. Even the toughest, meanest man, has still got his feet of clay. Except for that fella with the new boots.</p> <p>So the townsfolk tore the boots off of him, tossed them into the bog, and threw him to the boars.</p> <p>Boy, did he run. Never thought a man could run that fast. And those boars chased him through the bay and out onto that godforsaken island. Old timers used to tell us you can still hear screaming if you go out too close to it. They said that once a year, on Irv Eddy’s Eve, the stranger swims out to the Old Pine Bog to find his boots.</p> <p>‘Course, later we knew the real reason why we shoulda stayed away from that island. Or used to, anyways. Can’t seem to remember it now.</p> </div> </div> </div> <hr/> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/surprise-happy-birthday-3">Surprise! Happy Birthday! Still?</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/surprise-happy-birthday-3">https://scpwiki.com/surprise-happy-birthday-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]] [[/>]] [!-- THIS IS AWESOME, TROY! HOW DO I ADD MY OWN!?!?!? Well, that's simple, Mr. Person Editing This Page. Toss in a collapsible. Give us the name of your creepy pasta and your name as the "show", and put in a special birthday message as the "hide." Make sure you put in a line break. Have fun, guys! And enjoy Gears Day! --] > What? You again? > > I thought we'd taken care of this. Didn't you read the others? The other stories and tales? There was the one with the children who swallowed up their father when he didn't sing them a lullaby? What about the one where the author became his story, then accidentally cut his own character? Or the purloined thumbscrews? Hmm... I thought we'd got you with that one. > > Well, none the less, I suppose I'm supposed to bid you welcome! Welcome to the tales, in honor, in... memoriam? No? Soon, perhaps. Tales of sorrow and joy. Tales of the goblet filled with the blood of the sun, or perhaps tales about the simple flute who became a man. Tales of the raven, snake, bear, and raven again, when coyote chopped him in half. Tales of paper tower made of lost stories, and the Cruciform of Jude. Tales of Little Bo Peep, the forgotten note, or the left handed tree. Tales! Tales to celebrate this, the day of your death! > > Birth? > > Like there's that much of a difference... > > Happy birthday...! And many more. ----- [[collapsible show=""A Creepy Pasta" by Murphy Slaw, age six." hide="HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY"]] (An excerpt from //The Thing on the Plate//, a collection of restaurant reviews written by H.P. Lovecraft for the Providence Journal.) As I set foot into Guiseppe's, I was promptly seized by a wave of thoroughgoing revulsion. My mind reeled at the churning revelation that the establishment was no temple to the finer inheritances of Rome, but rather a low den catering to the coarse pleasures of the debased Sicilian - a swarthy, degenerate people whose only talents lie in the demesne of street violence and the production of the vile Marsala - a mucilaginous, sanguinary mockery of the vintner's art. The inchoate grunting of the proprietor indicated that I should select my own seating within. With mounting trepidation, I picked my way amongst the rude timber tables, eventually perching myself at the least repellant example of carpentry I was able to detect. The very fabric of space-time itself seemed to elongate and ripple obscenely as I awaited some signal of acknowledgment from the sullen attendants. The escalating desperation in my eyes finally captured the attention of a waiter, who stamped gracelessly to my table with the languidness born of his Mediterranean birth-place. The menu was engraved upon a coarse hempen paper, heavily adorned with the greasy finger-prints of the luckless diners who had paid visit to the blighted accommodation in days long past. With desperate haste, I opted for the //spaghetti// and meat-balls. I clutched to a slender hope that the proprietor's reluctance to specify the flesh involved did not implicate the establishment in some ghastly charade. The beetle-browed attendant set the proffered dish upon the profane checked table-cloth with a clattering thud. Within seconds, my worst fears were made manifest. Deep within his sweltering lair, the oafish cook had, through a foul mockery of the culinary arts, taken the noble tomato and reduced it to a scrofulous paste, with a glabrous sheen never meant to adorn earthly food. With a heavy hand, this ichor was ladled over a collection of rugose agglomerations which disgraced the good name of sphere. And underneath these insults lurked the most unsettling revelation of all. For the Sicilian, not content to take the staff of life and produce therefrom the wholesome bread of our ancestors, instead had so abused and warped the corn of the wheat-stalk as to produce a clotted mass of //slithering filaments//, a writhing heap of wheaten degeneracy which so rejected my every sensibility that I sat dumb-struck for several minutes as it steamed and coagulated. Additionally, the //cannoli// I selected for afters was niggardly in the apportionment of nuts to a scandalous degree. Two stars. [[/collapsible]] ----- [[collapsible show=""Just A Moment Of Your Time" by Roget" hide="to wish you a happy birthday!"]] It was Sunday. The second Sunday in August. The apartment was small, but not cramped. The walls were lined with a faded floral wallpaper, added by a resident past, and Harold was enjoying his tea. He quite liked Sunday. It was a day where nobody would come around and knock on his door. No bills. No mail. Just peace. At least, that's how it usually was. Today was something different. Because on that particular Sunday, there was a knock on the door. A quiet one, from somebody who wasn't bold enough to want to wake Harold up. It was just loud enough to alert him from his newspaper and warm mug. He rose, joints creaking and slippers fluffing, and shuffled over to the peep-hole. On the other side of the threshold, there was a well-dressed man. He wore a dark brown suit, plain blue tie, and dirty glasses. His hair looked as though he'd recently been wearing a hat, that had been lost to the wind. Normally, Harold would have ignored the solicitor, gone back to his chair, and resumed reading. But today, he didn't. Instead, he opened the door. "Greetings." said the solicitor. "My name is Gerald, and I need only a moment of your time." He smiled, a phony but sentimental gesture. He set his briefcase down, and adjusted his tie. Harold just watched him, not sure why he had opened the door, and not quite able to think about why he couldn't think about why. Gerald set his suitcase down, and clasped his hands together."So, I'm sure you have many friends and relatives. You've know them in the past. But do you know them tomorrow?" Harold blinked. "I... what?" Gerald grinned, a genuine one this time. "So, you haven't heard the Good Word?" Harold had not heard any such word. He shook his head. "My dear friend, you have been living in a dark age. Constantly looking over your shoulder to memories half-gazed over by your own mind. Wouldn't you like to see the memories before they happen, to get ready?" Frowning, Harold crossed his arms. "So, like... a fortune-reader?" A waggling finger was thrust into Harold's face. "Not just any fortune, my friend, but one absolutely-positively guaranteed to work. You'll know everything you ever needed to know about what's coming up. It's like having advanced tickets to the Big Game!" Harold could spot a phony when he saw one. The cheap smile, the dirty facade... this guy was a carpetbagger, through and through. "Prove it, then." If possible, the solicitor known as Gerald grew an even wider grin. "Right away..." his arms lurched into the suitcase, unsnapping the hinges and wrestling with the cords, until he revealed a massive, oily hunk of metal. Immediately, the reeking odor of fish and dock rot permeated the hallway. Harold stepped back, aghast. "Wha , guh-" he gagged. "What is that?" Gerald held it clasped between his hands, the oily juices dripping down his fingers, leaving thin red trails in their wake. "Ah, this is what I have been promising you. Touch it." Harold hesitated. "Go on, touch it." Tentatively reaching out, Harold leaned into the device. Swiftly, a blade ejected from the front of its cobbled form, and pricked his outstretched hand. Recoiling in pain and surprise, Harold failed to notice the machine clutching itself as it savored the fresh memories, the new experiences that his lifetime had been enhanced with. Smoke billowed from its many openings and valves, until at last, an oily strip of paper printed out. Gerald snatched it, and peered past his grime-coated spectacles. "Do you talk to your sister, much?" Harold looked up, distracted from his distraction. "N-no... why?" "You won't be talking for quite some time, sorry. But it proves my machine to be functional, yes?" One blink. "H-hey... what the hell are... what're you talking about?" "Your sister... Gloria, or something similar, the paper blurred a bit... she died in an accident sixteen minutes ago." Behind them, Harold's phone began to ring. "That's probably them now. Are you ready for the news?" "I... you're fucking lying." Harold backed away, looking over his shoulder to the phone ringing off the hook. "Here you are now, Harold. Looking over your shoulder to the past, once again." The phone continued its ringing, but Harold stopped, and turned 'round to face the solicitor. "What do you... what do you want from me?" "I want you to pay the price for my miraculous little device!" "... What do you want?" "You've already given it to me, Harry. Can I call you Harry? Your life, your blood, your past-present-future. This machine is tied to you, Harry. And so am I." ---- When Harold next had regained his faculties, he was sitting in his chair. His hand was unmolested, and the phone was silent. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then, there was a horrid, ghastly noise. Over his shoulder, a ticket printed, oily and dark. It read: {{Check the answering machine}} [[/collapsible]] ----- [[collapsible show=""Eyes Down," by Mann" hide="Happy milestone on the long march towards death"]] I never look up anymore. I don't mean that metaphorically. I'm not saying I'm pessimistic. Though I'm that, too. I mean, if you were me, you wouldn't be flowers and sunshine either. But I'm talking literally. I keep my eyes down. It's safer that way. They hate being stared at... The angels, I mean. [[/collapsible]] ----- [[collapsible show=""A Mile in His Shoes," by Dmatix" hide="May the Gears keep on turning."]] If you ask him, he'll tell you it's a matter of perspective. There's nothing wrong with you, per say, it's just that you don't really understand how things work around here. It's not about being kind, or strong, or right, or even clever. No, it's all about appearance. There's no such thing as power, he'll say, except for what people see. Ask him, and he'll say it's all about the shoes. You can do whatever you want, really, if you have the right shoes. Sure, he might have done some things in his days that wouldn't fly anymore. You couldn't say his closet was clean of skeletons, certainly not. If all you found were skeletons, you'd consider yourself lucky. If he was anyone else, it might have haunted him. But he has the shoes. And the hair. And the big, shiny smile. So he walks it off. Boy, does he walk it off. What makes his shoes so special, you ask? Funny story, that. Ask him, and he'll tell you it's really not about the shoes at all. Walking a mile in a man's shoes is nice and all, but walking a mile in his toes is better. [[/collapsible]] ------ [[collapsible show=""Currents" by FlameShirt" hide="insert witty comment wishing Gears a happy birthday"]] The first thing I remember seeing was the gorge and the grass. I'd spend hours playing in the fields and among the mountain rocks. But as time went on, I grew longer. I arrived at the concrete and the people. They came out of nightclubs and pubs, blinded by lights and throwing up. I could see glances, or a touch of the arm. The couples holding hands, followed by the break-ups and fights. Sometimes an old couple would pass by, sitting on a bench in the soft sun. As I exited the city, I turned to look back at suburbs. A little boy was having a birthday party in his garden, surrounded by cake, balloons, presents and friends. I left, and surged out into the sea. [[/collapsible]] ----- [[collapsible show=""The Knife and the Red Cork" by Wogglebug" hide="Birthdays are cool. Super rad, even. So yeah, have a good one dude."]] The first time it happened I thought it was odd, but not the second time. The first was a mangy coyote standing on a wall behind an Albertsons, its eyes red and its teeth stained black with the blood of an unlucky crow. The second time it was just some asshole that stood me up. > I guess that could probably use some explaining. You see, whenever I get off work I always walk down Main and up 37th to my apartment, partly on account of I could use the exercise but mostly because Cindy at the flower shop on the corner sometimes says hi. Anyway, I was going past Albertsons and I heard a weird cawing sound from out behind back, like some bird had gone and gotten itself stuck in the packaging they dump back there. I went to see what it was, and as I turned the corner this huge beaming fucker just jumps up onto the wall, the bird hanging out of its teeth. I thought it was probably rabid, and that I ought to call animal control or something, but then the asshole opened its mouth and started talking. I don’t mean it was mimicking like those parrots do, or that I’m some sort of dog whisperer. I mean some asshole coyote was speaking English like it wasn’t any big thing. I didn’t actually catch the first thing it said, on account of the whole ‘holy shit a talking dog’ thing, but I remember the second thing. It said, “The woods by the old Wilson place where you and Tommy went in the summer. Come there Sunday with a knife and a piece of red cork.” > Alright, I get at this point you probably assume that I’m bullshitting you, or that I’m just incredibly stupid. Neither of those things are true, and at the very least not the first one. You probably assume I just hallucinated the whole thing, or that it was some homeless guy talking from behind the wall or something. Neither of those are correct either. At this point you’re probably thinking that surely I couldn’t have actually gone out to a patch of woods five hours away where I hadn’t been for twenty years, based on what was likely either Satan or a similarly-themed hallucination. Once again, bad news on that front. > Getting the knife was easy enough, but the cork took ages. Turns out that barely anyone sells cork in the first place, and the guys who do don’t really go for the full rainbow effect. Eventually I found some in a craft store down by the old hospital, the one they renovated last spring. > Sunday night at maybe five I showed up down by the creek across from the woods, expecting there to be some sort of sign or similarly genre-appropriate bullshit to point me towards a journey of self-discovery and excitement. There wasn’t. So, after milling about for a while and throwing little rocks at little fish, I decided to just check the creepy-ass woods themselves. Well, that’s not really accurate. The woods around there aren’t really that creepy, and a lot of it isn’t even real woods- just a ton of trees the developers put in to hide an ugly power substation that the County insisted go right in the middle of Fuck-all, Nowhere. > As it turns out, I’m not the greatest at going through the woods. You wouldn’t even believe the number of spider webs I walked through. Well, actually, you probably would, given that you’re reading this at all. But it was still a lot. Anyway, eventually I got back to the part where none of the neighborhood kids ever really went, because the giant hazard signs the County put up around the substation. I was walking along what could probably have been a path if it hadn’t been absurdly hard to get through when I saw the same coyote I had seen at Albertsons. Well, it was less that I saw it than it just sort of jumped out in front of me and knocked me over. But still, I did end up seeing it, albeit flat on my ass. > At this point in the story you’re probably expecting me to have my throat violently ripped out by a psychopathic ghost dog making some sort of dark sacrifice. If so, you clearly don’t understand how the first person works. I’m not dead. That’s sort of how it works. At the time though, I was sort of shitting myself in fear. Not literally, mind you, just metaphorically. If I had literally shit myself I probably would’ve just left that part out. But still, there I was, on the ground in the middle of the woods with an absurdly filthy coyote glaring at my face from about a foot away. So I made the clear and obvious choice and just said “What the fuck, man?”, accusatory hand gestures included. > The coyote stared at me for a while, and eventually just sort of stalked away. Not like in the movies or whatever where the animal guide leads the protagonist off into the woods to face some great evil. It just sort of left. > Eventually, after dusting myself off (or de-dirting, or whatever you call it) I looked around for the coyote. I looked for three fucking hours, and I couldn’t find it anywhere, which sort of pissed me off. Eventually I gave up, because hey, hallucinations happen, right? (right?) > That next Tuesday I was walking home when I heard the familiar sound of a bird dying a horrible, terrible death. Same thing as before, blah blah evil looking coyote blah. And it just sort of stares at me this time, doesn’t say a word. I swear to God, if an animal could be embarrassed, that one was. After just staring at each other for a while I decide to go with the good-old “What the fuck, man?” > It just keeps staring and starts talking, a dead bird dangling from its teeth, going, “Hell, I didn’t think you’d actually do it. Fucking weirdo.” And then it just scampers off, like some king-of-all-he-surveys asshole. > No, but, like, seriously. Fuck that guy. I still don’t know what that shit was about. [[/collapsible]] --------------- [[collapsible show=""The Missing Tone!" by Jekeled" hide="Happy birthday!"]] "So, Doctor Hartman," Doctor Grangeman said, sitting down at the interrogation table, "let's talk a little more about the delusion we were discussing yesterday." Hartman sat in a little huddle at the far end of the table, humming to himself quietly. He stopped this for long enough to ramble: "...not a delusion...it's REAL!! it's ALL REAL! None of you Bastards would listen to me, but it's rEAL!!!" "Now, now," Grangeman said in a soothing tone of voice. "Remember what we talked about: you've got to use proper spelling and punctuation when you speak. It's the polite thing to do. Now, what do you say?" "...sorry..." Hartman mumbled. "No, no," Grangeman said. "What do we say //properly?//" "I'm sorry," Hartman said. "Very good. Now, on to your delusion." "It's not a delusion," Hartman insisted. "I found the missing note!" Grangeman sighed. "I see you're still laboring under it. There is no missing note in the musical scale. It just isn't how these things work!" "That's what everybody //thinks!//" Hartman cried. "Think of all the music that could be created! Think of all the new tones to create! Think of how the piano would have to be remade!" "Listen," Grangeman said patiently. "These things don't //work// that way! All the tones and letters are completely arbitrary! They're all based on specific frequencies which our brain takes out and labels as specific pitches. The tonal system we have is just a way for us to categorize those frequencies! You can't discover another musical note; there are only a finite number of frequencies to find!" Hartman shook his head vigorously. "It's true!" he said. "I call it hleem! Because the next note after G should be H, but I shook it up a bit! Here, I'll even hum it!" Here he hummed a note. Grangeman, who had had some musical training, immediately recognized it. "Doctor Hartman," he said, "that's middle C." "No! No!" Hartman cried. "You're out to get me! You're all out to get me! It's a conspiracy! A conspiracy i Tell You! A CONSPIRACY!!!!" Grangeman sighed. There went another session, right down the drain. -- "I feel sorry for the poor fellow," Grangeman commented later to one of his colleagues, as he watched the security camera footage of Hartman in his room. "A music teacher gone completely mad...you've gotta sympathize on some level." "I suppose," his colleague said. "I just wish he could have chosen a less ridiculous thing to fixate on." "Well," Grangeman said, "it had to be something. Not surprising that-" "Wait!" his colleague said. "Look at Hartman's monitor!" Grangeman gasped. "We've got to get over there, fast!" he cried. But by the time they got there, it was too late! Blood was everywhere, and in the middle of it was Hartman, twisted into a grotesque parody of a half note. Grangeman's colleague bent over and vomited, and he himself recoiled from the scene. He slowly walked into the room, trying to avoid stepping in any major blood puddles. Reaching Hartman's desk, he picked up a single sheet of paper laying there. It was a musical staff in all ways except for one: instead of five lines and four spaces, there were //six lines and five spaces-enough room for one more note!// [[/collapsible]] ---------- [[collapsible show=""Baby, It's Cold Outside" by Azzleflux" hide="For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, that, nobody can deny..."]] It's cold outside. I'm holding my jacket, my soft, warm jacket, as close to my body as I can, but it doesn't help much. I'm shivering, shaking harder than I have for a while. It's been a mess ever since they laid me off. My only joy, gone. Gah. I have to stop thinking. It's not helping at all. I just have to get home, where I can snuggle up under my homemade blanket and read a nice book by the orange light cast through my newly constructed lamp and shade. God. I just miss all of them. Little Albert, Josie, Laura, Stevie... I wish I could just pick them up and hold their soft, warm little bodies in my lap and rock them asleep. They were always so precious. I can't lie to myself, I even thought of them as my own for the longest time. ... They'll regret sending me away. The goddamn Sunnydale nursery... the kids //loved// me there. Much better than that //bitch,// Evaline. Hell, they were all probably just jealous that all of the little munchkins liked me more. Well, forget them. I pull my jacket a smidgen tighter around my torso and take a deep breath of that glorious smell and remember that wherever I go, it doesn't really matter that I don't have a job to work with those kids anymore. After all, I'll have little things that remind me of each of them everyday. Really (that reminds me, I need to make sure the lampshade has been tanned proper), those kids will always be mine in a certain way. [[/collapsible]] --------------- [[[1914\|"1914" by Vezaz]]] --------------- [[collapsible show=""Diaphanous" by Zyn" hide="A tale for the inspiring one, to celebrate in words and fun, his recent cycle of the sun"]] There’s a café that some know of, tucked away at the end of a back alley in a sleepy suburban city, that presents a different sort of atmosphere than most such establishments. It’s said to live up to its name, //Cloud Mind//. Mist swirls around a customer the moment they step through the glassy double doors, this mist is present in the entire place; it creeps along the polished, mirror-bright white tile and curls at the heels like a contented cat. The near-unnaturally pale-skinned serving staff are trained, precise, efficient--they glide across the swirling, ever-warping floors, whispering orders dreamily as they float from table to table. They wear feathered masks and only speak in rhymed couplets; it’s common knowledge among regulars that if you’re lucky enough to be approached by a server wearing a mask of blue feathers, you’ve been invited to spend your time, brief as it may be, in one of the specialty rooms. With the ever-present mist caressing the soft white walls and floors, it’s impossible to know just how large the café truly is, but those who have been in the special rooms swear that the floor plan must be luxuriously grandiose because how else would there be room for the delicate abstract porcelain statuettes, the flowing fountains with clear water clean enough to drink, kissed with the fragrance of exotic flowers and foreign fruits? It is a café, but only drinks are served. No one notices, and no one minds. Perhaps it’s the soft, tinkling music of the café that lulls people to contentment, perhaps it’s the effect of the glossy surfaces, perhaps it’s the sight of the graceful servers, perhaps it’s the way that everything seems to gently melt into a rhythm of motion, an instinctive rhythm, perhaps, perhaps. Most of those who leave realize later that something feels strange, something is missing. Some feel lightheaded and faint, all simply attribute it to the café’s ethereal, otherworldly atmosphere. While the café willingly welcomes repeat customers, the staff keep their secrets to themselves, and so no one ever can decide whether there is something special about the place that keeps them returning to it, or if there was simply something missing from life all along. The rooms are always full of light, but there are no windows. [[/collapsible]] --------------- [[collapsible show=""Supply and Demand" by Clef" hide="An Excludable and Rival Good."]] The truth of the matter is that Aesop's fables were never fairy tales. In the past, animals did speak. So did trees, and mountains, and the wind, and fairies. What changed? The human population grew. Since the day when Aesop first put stylus to wax, the world population has increased sixty-fold, from one hundred million to six billion. That's over five billion people who had to be born with souls. Five billion humans using up the souls that could have been used to create a talking tree or a living rock. And as it turned out, the Hindus were right. Souls are a limited resource. New ones are never born. Old ones are never destroyed. And with the human population exploding the way it has been, the number of souls available for talking rabbits and magic mice is growing smaller. . . One day soon, the very first soulless human will be born, and things will start to change. [[/collapsible]] --------------- [[collapsible show=""Meow" by Gaffney" hide="Happy Birthday, Gears! :3"]] The man gave a tuneless whistle as he walked along the dark sidewalk. Every fifty feet, he passed under another lamppost, briefly illuminating him before he passed back into the dark. There was a slight breeze in the warm summer night. In his right hand he held a plastic bag filled with all manner of goods: scalpels, wire, rubbing alcohol, needles, fishing line, lighter fluid, and cat food. The bag spun lazily back and forth as he walked. He came to a crossroads. Although the street was empty, the crossing sign displayed a bright orange hand. He decided to wait. Once, while he had been carrying some of the waste from his hobby, he had crossed illegally. A policeman had yelled at him and told him not to do it again. And even though the policeman never asked him what was in bag he was carrying, rolled up in newspaper, the experience had put the man off of jaywalking for good. As he waited at the light, he thought about home. He began to sort through the contents of the bag, just to be sure everything was still there. As he went through the bag, came a mewling sound from an alley behind him. It was so soft he nearly didn't hear it. But there it was again! Decades with his hobby had given him an instinctive understanding of animal sounds. Low and hungry, with a touch of desperation. His lips twisted upwards in an involuntary smile. An alley cat. People hardly ever missed alley cats. Not at all like a house cat. Several near misses with the law had taught him that feral animals were safer than domestic ones. He moved slowly towards the alley, not wanting to scare away his new quarry. As he neared the entrance to the alley, he crouched down to seem more approachable. There was another sound from the alleyway, one which gave him pause. It was the same tone as the first, but it sounded different. Deeper. Thicker. More ragged. For a moment, he remained in place at the mouth of the alley as the bag twisted gently in the breeze. He shook off the feeling and moved slowly into the dark alleyway. Even without light, he could make out silhouettes of the mounds of garbage bags littering the place. "Heeere, kitty kitty. Here, kitty kitty," he said gently. No response. He moved deeper in. "Here, kitty kitty." He reached into the plastic bag and took out a tin of the cat food. "Hungry, ain'tcha? I got some food for you. And a place for you to stay, not all dirty like here." He ran a tongue over his upper lip. "Heere, kitty kitty kitty!" One of the piles of trash began to unfold itself and move towards him. As it unfolded, its silhouette transformed into the shape of a cat. But it was at least four feet long, coming up to at least his knee. He stumbled backwards and fell, spilling the contents of the bag all over the alley floor. The former mound gave another mewl, low and ragged, as it came towards him. It moved with a pronounced limp. He picked himself up and began to back away. As the shape came closer, he began to make out certain features. Thin, frayed wires emerged from its head. Ribbons of flesh and fur hung from its face. It waved a tail, split down the middle, back and forth. He backed away and began to walk quickly towards his house. The thing followed. He began to run. As he crossed the road, the mewling grew closer and more insistent. He looked to his left and right for cars, pedestrians, anything or anyone. Nothing. The street was deserted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cat-thing. For its size, it was emaciated, with ribs jutting out of its side. Its front right paw was missing. A trick of the light caused its eyes to appear pure white. He began to sprint. The thing kept pace behind him, meowing ever more insistently. At last, at long, long last, he reached home. He took the key ring from his pocket and hurried through the various keys, trying to unlock the door. The thing was right behind him. After a thousand years, he unlocked the door, slamming it behind him. There was a pleading sound from behind the door, followed by a frenetic pawing. He deadbolted the door and braced himself against it. Eventually, the pawing ceased. He leaned against the door and slid to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. He sat there in the dark, looking at nothing in particular. From the kitchen, there came a sound. It was unlike any animal he had ever heard. It sounded deep, somehow greasy. For a moment, he was unable to recognize it. As his brain tried to process the sound, there came another, similar sound from the bathroom. Then another from the basement door, which had somehow opened itself. Then from within the living room. As he sat, unable to move, the silhouette of his armchair unfolded itself and began to move towards him, padding gently along the wooden floor. Even within the dark he could make out dozens of shapes, all moving towards him. One passed through a patch of light from a nearby window. Tortiseshell fur hung down in ribbons over a mouth relived of teeth. A trick of the light caused its eyes to glow pure white. From a jawless mouth there came a meow. [[/collapsible]] ----- [[collapsible show=""Feet of Clay" by Orion" hide="Merry Gearsmas to all and to all a good fright!"]] There was a town out a piece to the northwest. Way back, folks over there were bein’ overrun by snakes. Big and mean ones, too. These snakes didn’t go much for people, but they’d sneak up on the livestock and bite ‘em. Cows, sheep, pigs, hell, even the dogs! The animals’d be dead before anyone could do anything. One day, this fella appeared in the town. Said he could get ridda the snakes. Only thing he wanted was a pair of boots, toughest ones the cordwainer could make. Townsfolk agreed, and Willard the cordwainer worked through the night on the boots, with a bit of input from the stranger. Willard never talked about what he said. Always was the quiet type. Anyway, early the next morning, with his new boots, tougher’n a lumberjack’s callused thumb, the fella led a sounder of boars into the town. What? ‘Course they ate the snakes! Long with damn near everything else! Ol’ Pethers had one clean out his coop, and take the coop down on its way out! Now, when a boar goes after a man, his first point of attack is the feet. He gets at them, chewing and gnashing with his tusks, and the man’s down quick. Once you’re on his level, you’re at the boar’s mercy. And they’ve got as much mercy as a porcupine in heat. Even the toughest, meanest man, has still got his feet of clay. Except for that fella with the new boots. So the townsfolk tore the boots off of him, tossed them into the bog, and threw him to the boars. Boy, did he run. Never thought a man could run that fast. And those boars chased him through the bay and out onto that godforsaken island. Old timers used to tell us you can still hear screaming if you go out too close to it. They said that once a year, on Irv Eddy’s Eve, the stranger swims out to the Old Pine Bog to find his boots. ‘Course, later we knew the real reason why we shoulda stayed away from that island. Or used to, anyways. Can’t seem to remember it now. [[/collapsible]] ----- [[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>]]	2013-08-30T22:45:00	[ "_licensebox", "collaboration", "creepypasta", "tale" ]	Surprise! Happy Birthday! Still? - SCP Foundation	28	[ "1914", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "creepy-pasta" ]	[]	19590054	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/surprise-happy-birthday-3
surveyor	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Senior Agent Jehr stretched as the secretary paged his commanding officer, taking the time to enjoy his first real elbow room in six months. While the survey cutters used by the Foundation had markedly improved in the thirty years of his service and the current generation of field agents were practically coddled by comparison to when he was a fresh rookie, spending half a solar year in deep space in the cramped cabin with five other surveyors and specialists could make anyone appreciate the ability to walk around and stretch their limbs.</p> <p>Of course, this particular tour hadn't lasted quite that long. Rather than mapping a distant, unexplored planet, Agent Jehr was now standing before the door of one of the most senior personnel in the entire organization, fidgeting in his dress uniform and not looking forward to having to explain why his last trip out had been cut short.</p> <p>Staring out through the broad viewport at the vast, expansive orbital installation that was the primary service station for ships such as his, Jehr contemplated what it might have been to be a field agent in the earliest years of the Foundation. He remembered reading about those days, when the brave men and women of the Foundation fought a secret shadow war against encroaching anomalies and other organizations alike, when nothing was understood and every day the world didn't end was a victory in and of itself.</p> <p>But then came the Beyril-Veren Unifying Standard Theory, the breakthrough in theoretical physics that peeled back the veil guarding the secrets of the universe. Almost overnight, anomalies turned from nightmares and things whispered about in hushed tones to curiosities that could be contained, disassembled, and discarded. The Foundation, its own veil of secrecy no longer necessary, became a public organization overseen by governments and politicians, one that would spearhead exploration into deep space and remove the cosmic errors it once zealously guarded in preparation for civilian colonization.</p> <p>The secretary made an acknowledgement over her headset and nodded at him, signalling that his boss was ready to see him and bringing him out of his reverie. Composing himself, he walked up to the door, which slid open with a muted click.</p> <p>"Jehr!" he called out from behind his desk, with a booming, boisterous voice that belied the cunning and cut-throat efficiency he was capable of. "How are you, you old fossil?"</p> <p>"Fleet Director Lum," Jehr replied, saluting sharply.</p> <p>"Always business, I see," the huge man smirked, returning the salute before chuckling out loud and gesturing towards one of the chairs in his office. "Come, sit. How's my best field agent doing?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir." Jehr answered, taking his seat while turning down an offered drink. "I'm fine, sir; we've been training a fresh rookie right out of the academy but she's catching on quick. I think, with a couple more trips out, she'll make a great surveyor."</p> <p>"I expect nothing but the best with you in charge," Lum continued, chuckling as he set down the glass, picked up a digital pad, and slid it across the desk towards him. "Now, then, what's this anomaly you have for me? I have your preliminary report here, but I'd like to hear it straight."</p> <p>"Yes, sir. We were on our third stop; the first two had been simple mining surveys, which we didn't have any problems with. The third one, though, was a green-zone survey and we found a pre-existing civilization. Well, what was left of it, anyways."</p> <p>Lum nodded. "That's nothing new, and certainly not something I'd expect you to cut your tour short for. Go on?"</p> <p>Jehr took a deep breath as he went over the details in his head one more time. "Well, sir, we had jumped in under standard green-zone survey protocols, tagging but not performing detailed scans of the outer planets. Passive sensors were zero across the board on the entire way in, so we had assumed there wasn't any intelligent life in the system."</p> <p>With a flick, Jehr copied a report addendum from the pad to the holo-projector and an orbital diagram liberally covered with annotations appeared in the air between them.</p> <p>"When we short-hopped into orbit around the target, though," he continued. "We discovered we were wrong. The gravity well was almost completely filled with debris, mostly loose fragments but several still-intact satellites as well. It's a good thing that Gren always flies by the book, because we took a good dozen minor impacts to our shields before we could pull into a higher orbit. Something definitely used to live there, sir."</p> <p>Lum nodded again, gesturing for him to continue. Another flick from Jehr, and the projected image changed to a montage of recovered images as well as a computer-aided physiological reconstruction.</p> <p>"From what evidence we found, it appears that they were pretty typical: carbon-based, oxygen-breathing, gravity and atmospheric pressure only slightly higher than ours. They'd colonized their entire homeworld and obviously advanced to shooting stuff into space, sir, but we did not find evidence they ever achieved FTL."</p> <p>"What killed them?" Lum asked, as the image panned across the ruins of a destroyed city, the last remnants of crumbling stone and rusted steel fighting a losing battle against the encroaching forest.</p> <p>"Reality corruption, sir."</p> <p>Lum paused to stare at him for a moment. "Corruption? Are you sure?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir; the evidence was all over the place. Our analysis indicates that the process had started earlier in their development than it did for us; they ended up having to devote what technological resources they had just to keep it in check, and eventually they just got overwhelmed. That was, I'd say, probably around a thousand solar years ago. Everything in that gravity well is now either poisoned or dead."</p> <p>Lum went silent again, mulling over the information. Something was still bothering him. "Ten is going to be pissed to hear that a perfect green candidate is going to be completely unusable. Still, this isn't the first time that <em>that</em> has happened either, so why come back to deliver the news yourself?"</p> <p>"Well, sir," Jehr started, cringing inwardly as he prepared to drop the bombshell. "We retrieved some samples from the surface."</p> <p>"You <em>what</em>?" he said, rising out of his chair.</p> <p>"We followed the book, sir. All the standard quarantine procedures for objects retrieved from corrupted regions, isolated containment, everything. It's completely clean, I just… we saw something while we were mapping the surface, something we'd never seen before. I had to confirm it, sir, and I think you need to see this too."</p> <p>Under Lum's suspicious gaze, Jehr pulled several sealed sample bags adorned with brightly colored hazard labels from his uniform jacket and set them on the Director's desk.</p> <p>On top of the small pile was a white plastic identification card adorned with the all-too-familiar black shield emblem with its inset ring and three inward-pointing arrows, clearly visible despite the artifact's age. And yet, printed on its smooth surface in ancient ink, was an unmistakably alien portrait and accompanying script.</p> <p>"They had their own Foundation, sir. I dug these out of an abandoned underground facility that had been peeled open by a thermonuclear detonation. We got samples of some documents for the cryptos too, but this… well, it would be a hell of a coincidence, sir. They even had the same logo and everything."</p> <p>More silence.</p> <p>"You know what Ten is going to say, don't you?"</p> <p>"Yes, sir."</p> <p>"The planet is hereby classified as a Veren-level object. Get Sira to give you a file number on the way out and get the write-up together, I've got to make an appointment with Ten. Dismissed."</p> <p>Jehr saluted sharply once more and turned to leave, breathing a sigh of relief while simultaneously recognizing that his day was far from over.</p> <p>Fleet Director Lum, alone with his thoughts, took a moment to collect himself before opening the channel back to High Command. Letting his attention wander to the neat pile of sample bags, he noticed that a second bag was attached to the one containing the ID card. Turning it over, he examined its contents: a piece of shaped metal adorned with several gemstones, hanging from a thin chain. Looking back at the card, he mused to himself as he discovered that if he turned it sideways, it resembled an old terrestrial script that he'd studied as a young history student.</p> <p>"Dree-jahwk Breyht", he muttered to himself. "I wonder who you were."</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><strong>Item #:</strong> SCP-42058</p> <p><strong>Object Class:</strong> Veren (C3/T5)</p> <p><strong>Stellar Colonization Profile:</strong> Unusable. SCP-42058 has been marked off-limits to all exploration and is to be observed via long-range telemetry only. Two armed Foundation patrol ships are to be stationed on the perimeter of the system's planetesimal threshold, and all unauthorized vessels attempting to approach the system are to be tracked, detained, and boarded.</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> SCP-42058-1 is the third of eight planets orbiting the star G-44-9081, a yellow dwarf located at 78.3 radial loar along the third galactic arm. SCP-42058-1 is in a regular elliptical orbit with a mean distance of approximately 4.6 vyr at the center of G-44-9081's green zone. SCP-42058-1 is suffering from terminal-stage (S7) reality corruption; while its manifestations appear to be trapped within its gravity well, it is believed that the corruption is still highly virulent and that artifacts retrieved from the surface may pose an infection risk.</p> <p>SCP-42058-2 is the extinct indigenous intelligent species that once inhabited SCP-42058-1. Archaeological evidence suggests that while capable of conventional rocket launches and on track to becoming an interplanetary civilization, SCP-42058-2 was overwhelmed by the high degree of reality corruption and was unable to maintain continuation of species before achieving faster-than-light capability. As of the time of this documentation, SCP-42058-2 appears to have been extinct for over twelve hundred (1200) standard solar years.</p> <p>SCP-42058 has been designated for observation by Foundation patrol craft. Due to the extensive nature of its corruption, there are no current plans for planetary remediation unless the corruption begins to spread.</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="/surveyor">Surveyor</a>" by Aelanna, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/surveyor">https://scpwiki.com/surveyor</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Senior Agent Jehr stretched as the secretary paged his commanding officer, taking the time to enjoy his first real elbow room in six months. While the survey cutters used by the Foundation had markedly improved in the thirty years of his service and the current generation of field agents were practically coddled by comparison to when he was a fresh rookie, spending half a solar year in deep space in the cramped cabin with five other surveyors and specialists could make anyone appreciate the ability to walk around and stretch their limbs. Of course, this particular tour hadn't lasted quite that long. Rather than mapping a distant, unexplored planet, Agent Jehr was now standing before the door of one of the most senior personnel in the entire organization, fidgeting in his dress uniform and not looking forward to having to explain why his last trip out had been cut short. Staring out through the broad viewport at the vast, expansive orbital installation that was the primary service station for ships such as his, Jehr contemplated what it might have been to be a field agent in the earliest years of the Foundation. He remembered reading about those days, when the brave men and women of the Foundation fought a secret shadow war against encroaching anomalies and other organizations alike, when nothing was understood and every day the world didn't end was a victory in and of itself. But then came the Beyril-Veren Unifying Standard Theory, the breakthrough in theoretical physics that peeled back the veil guarding the secrets of the universe. Almost overnight, anomalies turned from nightmares and things whispered about in hushed tones to curiosities that could be contained, disassembled, and discarded. The Foundation, its own veil of secrecy no longer necessary, became a public organization overseen by governments and politicians, one that would spearhead exploration into deep space and remove the cosmic errors it once zealously guarded in preparation for civilian colonization. The secretary made an acknowledgement over her headset and nodded at him, signalling that his boss was ready to see him and bringing him out of his reverie. Composing himself, he walked up to the door, which slid open with a muted click. "Jehr!" he called out from behind his desk, with a booming, boisterous voice that belied the cunning and cut-throat efficiency he was capable of. "How are you, you old fossil?" "Fleet Director Lum," Jehr replied, saluting sharply. "Always business, I see," the huge man smirked, returning the salute before chuckling out loud and gesturing towards one of the chairs in his office. "Come, sit. How's my best field agent doing?" "Yes, sir." Jehr answered, taking his seat while turning down an offered drink. "I'm fine, sir; we've been training a fresh rookie right out of the academy but she's catching on quick. I think, with a couple more trips out, she'll make a great surveyor." "I expect nothing but the best with you in charge," Lum continued, chuckling as he set down the glass, picked up a digital pad, and slid it across the desk towards him. "Now, then, what's this anomaly you have for me? I have your preliminary report here, but I'd like to hear it straight." "Yes, sir. We were on our third stop; the first two had been simple mining surveys, which we didn't have any problems with. The third one, though, was a green-zone survey and we found a pre-existing civilization. Well, what was left of it, anyways." Lum nodded. "That's nothing new, and certainly not something I'd expect you to cut your tour short for. Go on?" Jehr took a deep breath as he went over the details in his head one more time. "Well, sir, we had jumped in under standard green-zone survey protocols, tagging but not performing detailed scans of the outer planets. Passive sensors were zero across the board on the entire way in, so we had assumed there wasn't any intelligent life in the system." With a flick, Jehr copied a report addendum from the pad to the holo-projector and an orbital diagram liberally covered with annotations appeared in the air between them. "When we short-hopped into orbit around the target, though," he continued. "We discovered we were wrong. The gravity well was almost completely filled with debris, mostly loose fragments but several still-intact satellites as well. It's a good thing that Gren always flies by the book, because we took a good dozen minor impacts to our shields before we could pull into a higher orbit. Something definitely used to live there, sir." Lum nodded again, gesturing for him to continue. Another flick from Jehr, and the projected image changed to a montage of recovered images as well as a computer-aided physiological reconstruction. "From what evidence we found, it appears that they were pretty typical: carbon-based, oxygen-breathing, gravity and atmospheric pressure only slightly higher than ours. They'd colonized their entire homeworld and obviously advanced to shooting stuff into space, sir, but we did not find evidence they ever achieved FTL." "What killed them?" Lum asked, as the image panned across the ruins of a destroyed city, the last remnants of crumbling stone and rusted steel fighting a losing battle against the encroaching forest. "Reality corruption, sir." Lum paused to stare at him for a moment. "Corruption? Are you sure?" "Yes, sir; the evidence was all over the place. Our analysis indicates that the process had started earlier in their development than it did for us; they ended up having to devote what technological resources they had just to keep it in check, and eventually they just got overwhelmed. That was, I'd say, probably around a thousand solar years ago. Everything in that gravity well is now either poisoned or dead." Lum went silent again, mulling over the information. Something was still bothering him. "Ten is going to be pissed to hear that a perfect green candidate is going to be completely unusable. Still, this isn't the first time that //that// has happened either, so why come back to deliver the news yourself?" "Well, sir," Jehr started, cringing inwardly as he prepared to drop the bombshell. "We retrieved some samples from the surface." "You //what//?" he said, rising out of his chair. "We followed the book, sir. All the standard quarantine procedures for objects retrieved from corrupted regions, isolated containment, everything. It's completely clean, I just... we saw something while we were mapping the surface, something we'd never seen before. I had to confirm it, sir, and I think you need to see this too." Under Lum's suspicious gaze, Jehr pulled several sealed sample bags adorned with brightly colored hazard labels from his uniform jacket and set them on the Director's desk. On top of the small pile was a white plastic identification card adorned with the all-too-familiar black shield emblem with its inset ring and three inward-pointing arrows, clearly visible despite the artifact's age. And yet, printed on its smooth surface in ancient ink, was an unmistakably alien portrait and accompanying script. "They had their own Foundation, sir. I dug these out of an abandoned underground facility that had been peeled open by a thermonuclear detonation. We got samples of some documents for the cryptos too, but this... well, it would be a hell of a coincidence, sir. They even had the same logo and everything." More silence. "You know what Ten is going to say, don't you?" "Yes, sir." "The planet is hereby classified as a Veren-level object. Get Sira to give you a file number on the way out and get the write-up together, I've got to make an appointment with Ten. Dismissed." Jehr saluted sharply once more and turned to leave, breathing a sigh of relief while simultaneously recognizing that his day was far from over. Fleet Director Lum, alone with his thoughts, took a moment to collect himself before opening the channel back to High Command. Letting his attention wander to the neat pile of sample bags, he noticed that a second bag was attached to the one containing the ID card. Turning it over, he examined its contents: a piece of shaped metal adorned with several gemstones, hanging from a thin chain. Looking back at the card, he mused to himself as he discovered that if he turned it sideways, it resembled an old terrestrial script that he'd studied as a young history student. "Dree-jahwk Breyht", he muttered to himself. "I wonder who you were." ---- > Item #: SCP-42058 > > Object Class: Veren (C3/T5) > > Stellar Colonization Profile: Unusable. SCP-42058 has been marked off-limits to all exploration and is to be observed via long-range telemetry only. Two armed Foundation patrol ships are to be stationed on the perimeter of the system's planetesimal threshold, and all unauthorized vessels attempting to approach the system are to be tracked, detained, and boarded. > > Description: SCP-42058-1 is the third of eight planets orbiting the star G-44-9081, a yellow dwarf located at 78.3 radial loar along the third galactic arm. SCP-42058-1 is in a regular elliptical orbit with a mean distance of approximately 4.6 vyr at the center of G-44-9081's green zone. SCP-42058-1 is suffering from terminal-stage (S7) reality corruption; while its manifestations appear to be trapped within its gravity well, it is believed that the corruption is still highly virulent and that artifacts retrieved from the surface may pose an infection risk. > > SCP-42058-2 is the extinct indigenous intelligent species that once inhabited SCP-42058-1. Archaeological evidence suggests that while capable of conventional rocket launches and on track to becoming an interplanetary civilization, SCP-42058-2 was overwhelmed by the high degree of reality corruption and was unable to maintain continuation of species before achieving faster-than-light capability. As of the time of this documentation, SCP-42058-2 appears to have been extinct for over twelve hundred (1200) standard solar years. > > SCP-42058 has been designated for observation by Foundation patrol craft. Due to the extensive nature of its corruption, there are no current plans for planetary remediation unless the corruption begins to spread. [[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>]]	2013-08-10T16:52:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale", "tc2013" ]	Surveyor - SCP Foundation	84	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19216673	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/surveyor
tabled-theories	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>They ate in silence, politely ignoring each other. The Doctor was busy writing away at a pad, so engrossed in his work he was hardly noticing what he was actually eating. The Research Assistant was silently contemplating suicide for the third time that morning. The cafeteria around them was humming away in that persistently soft buzz from the industrial ovens, freezers and hot plates.</p> <p>“It's interesting,” began the Doctor, crossing out a detailed equation and moving on to destroy the very basis of his entire theorem. As a silence lingered the Research Assistant felt his forehead crease in slight annoyance.</p> <p>“What is?” he replied, attempting to keep his voice smooth and cool. He did not mind working on the SCP as it was relatively harmless. <em>(It wouldn't stop him thinking about killing himself.)</em> He did not mind the other Assistants, Doctors and the Agents that always made him feel a guilty squirming sensation in his stomach. <em>(The thought wouldn't go away, it chained itself to him.)</em> But he often found the company of Dr. Wakefield to be infuriating. He wasn’t sure why.</p> <p>“Mmm?” the older man asked, glancing behind the spectacles perched on his nose.</p> <p>The Assistant held in the sigh. “You said something was interesting?”</p> <p>“Ah. I did, did I?” Wakefield quizzically inquired, placing his pen down. The fork was soon laid with it, so that both hands could create a flat plain for a chin to rest upon. “Oh I did. Yes.” Another pause. Being examined was much worse than sitting in studious silence, the Assistant realised. “I was just thinking about the Unified Anomaly Theory. You are familiar with it?”</p> <p>The Assistant nodded his head, non-committally. “The idea that all Skips are related, no matter how differing their anomalous properties are.” Dr. Wakefield gave him a condescending smile like he was a tutor. The urge of self-annihilation in the Research Assistant shifted towards a rapid dislike of where this conversation was going.</p> <p>“Correct, a text book answer, the one I was exactly expecting in fact. It would connect some of the more outlandish SCPs with the safer items. Like that hammer we worked on that refused to ever hit the nail it was aimed it. Some believe the U.A.T. might be a sort of calculable mistake in the laws of physics that spawns the occasional error and inconsistency. I find it interesting that no one has considered…” He pauses, his nasty habit, almost hesitant to continue.</p> <p>“Go on,” the Research Assistant prompts, prodding at his salad with a fork. He didn’t feel very hungry, there was a vice like grip in his stomach and he could not yet identify the cause.</p> <p>“Well, there has been some research into the idea of a collective subconscious. The collective subconscious I mean in this sense is the idea that humanity is somehow telepathically linked, like a network of wireless routers. These studies suggested this interconnectedness influences more of our behaviour then might necessarily be expected. For example, if you’ll excuse the paraphrasing, when a group of people were told to solve crossword puzzles for a month they scored on average with the population until a day old newspaper was supplied. After that, they scored considerably higher than average.”</p> <p>The Research Assistant felt a pain behind his eyes. A migraine coming on? Possibly. But if he ever wanted a promotion it was good to keep soldiering on. Maybe he had a bit of a masochistic streak. “What does this have to do with the Unified Anomaly Theory, Dr. Wakefield?”</p> <p>“I find the idea, pseudo-scientific as it is, to fit neatly into what our current understanding of SCPs. Imagine a billion minds all broadcasting together at once, all sharing dreams and hopes and love and anger. Imagine if those minds had the slightest effects on the reality around them.” He smiled wryly. “We already know of a select, special few that can personally do so, but perhaps they have more access to this power than the rest of us.” He picked up his pen once more and began to draw, a small circle that was quickly filled with familiar landmasses. Another habit, the doodling. “All of that thought, turning and turning, focused so ferociously on survival that we become scared of our own shadows. The bogeymen under our bed. The creaks as the house settles. It would be less that the SCPs are a cause (as many of them like to claim,) but rather an effect. This could unify the differing religious anomalies as desperate minds scrabbling to describe a metaphysical entity for comfort. It also throws up even more interesting questions about those far more disturbing monsters and oddities we continue to make.”</p> <p>The Research Assistant closed his eyes and ground his palms against them, the façade dropping. Lights were blossoming in his optic nerves like a fireworks display. “So you’re- You’re saying its all self inflicted?” The pain behind his eyes was worse. Drops of something were running down his cheeks. Tears? No. Too thick. Too viscous.</p> <p>Dr. Wakefield made a small note, watching the Research Assistant. “Your eyeballs are melting.” It was a strange sentence to hear. It must have been even stranger to say but there was no denying it. A sticky, tarry substance hit his own lip and the taste of it was comparable to a kick in the teeth.</p> <p>“It was always puzzling to my colleagues and myself about where you actually came from. It was a small thing to notice at first because the team’s resources had been stretched so thin. Why would we not want, nay deserve an extra pair of hands? But you were too good at your job and not perfect enough, you have to understand.” Wakefield continued to talk. He hadn’t moved to alert medical staff yet, called for help. For this the Assistant hated him. “No? Am I being unclear? Well, we never even gave you a name. How can a team of scientists dream up a person and fail to name him, I ask you?”</p> <p>“I. I don’t.” The fluid was getting into his nose. No, it was his nose, his nose was melting. His tongue felt swollen. The thick, black, foul tasting mess was dripping from the roof of his mouth and flooding his sinuses. It splattered on the table in front of them when he tried to talk. “I don’t know.”</p> <p>“You have a mild memetic effect, I believe. Why should we question the helpful young man with an unassuming demeanour? The weight of evidence rests on us to make you seem strange and out of place, not the other way around, surely? I took an interest when your mood began to drop. I’ve often been told I get far too interested in the well being of my staff, but you were a promising young man that would have had quite the future in the Foundation. If you had ever existed, of course.”</p> <p>His teeth were melting. They were running out onto his plate as the illusion of life was politely undone before his eyes. The fork in his hand clattered to the floor as the Research Assistant groaned through lungs rapidly turning into slush.</p> <p>“I am very sorry. You mined us too well for an identity. We expected you to break under the pressure, to feel the toll an older man feels." There was the sound of actual regret in his voice. The Assistant without a name hated everything about that voice. "I suspected something like this would happen when it was brought to your attention. The more you come to understand your own condition the less you can maintain it, perhaps? However I have a feeling that unless someone actively holds belief in you, you'll cease to exist. The other members of the lab volunteered for Class-B Amnestics and well, I drew the short straw and had to disbelieve. It's much easier without your facial features."</p> <p>The thing that had once been a human that had once been an Assistant in Research could no longer support its head very well. It could not see. Its skin was peeling away in great valleys and chasms. "I have to ask, before you cease to be… A simple nod or shake of the head will suffice. But when we blink, when we close our eyes, do you exist?"</p> <p>The Assistant tried to stand so he could get help. The bones in his legs, his hips and his back were gone. His arms wetly snapped in half, his torso landing like a overturned oil barrel on the cafeteria table. He retched pathetically, choking in his own gore while begging for some sort of life. Before he returned back to being nothing <em>(oh god the nothing oh god not the nothing again it was coming for him it was going to be him he was going to be it oh god oh god oh god)</em> he only had one true regret.</p> <p>He’d never get to be a part of the Peer Review for Dr. Wakefield’s paper.</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="/tabled-theories">Tabled Theories</a>" by Cosbones, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/tabled-theories">https://scpwiki.com/tabled-theories</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 ate in silence, politely ignoring each other. The Doctor was busy writing away at a pad, so engrossed in his work he was hardly noticing what he was actually eating. The Research Assistant was silently contemplating suicide for the third time that morning. The cafeteria around them was humming away in that persistently soft buzz from the industrial ovens, freezers and hot plates. “It's interesting,” began the Doctor, crossing out a detailed equation and moving on to destroy the very basis of his entire theorem. As a silence lingered the Research Assistant felt his forehead crease in slight annoyance. “What is?” he replied, attempting to keep his voice smooth and cool. He did not mind working on the SCP as it was relatively harmless. //(It wouldn't stop him thinking about killing himself.)// He did not mind the other Assistants, Doctors and the Agents that always made him feel a guilty squirming sensation in his stomach. //(The thought wouldn't go away, it chained itself to him.)// But he often found the company of Dr. Wakefield to be infuriating. He wasn’t sure why. “Mmm?” the older man asked, glancing behind the spectacles perched on his nose. The Assistant held in the sigh. “You said something was interesting?” “Ah. I did, did I?” Wakefield quizzically inquired, placing his pen down. The fork was soon laid with it, so that both hands could create a flat plain for a chin to rest upon. “Oh I did. Yes.” Another pause. Being examined was much worse than sitting in studious silence, the Assistant realised. “I was just thinking about the Unified Anomaly Theory. You are familiar with it?” The Assistant nodded his head, non-committally. “The idea that all Skips are related, no matter how differing their anomalous properties are.” Dr. Wakefield gave him a condescending smile like he was a tutor. The urge of self-annihilation in the Research Assistant shifted towards a rapid dislike of where this conversation was going. “Correct, a text book answer, the one I was exactly expecting in fact. It would connect some of the more outlandish SCPs with the safer items. Like that hammer we worked on that refused to ever hit the nail it was aimed it. Some believe the U.A.T. might be a sort of calculable mistake in the laws of physics that spawns the occasional error and inconsistency. I find it interesting that no one has considered...” He pauses, his nasty habit, almost hesitant to continue. “Go on,” the Research Assistant prompts, prodding at his salad with a fork. He didn’t feel very hungry, there was a vice like grip in his stomach and he could not yet identify the cause. “Well, there has been some research into the idea of a collective subconscious. The collective subconscious I mean in this sense is the idea that humanity is somehow telepathically linked, like a network of wireless routers. These studies suggested this interconnectedness influences more of our behaviour then might necessarily be expected. For example, if you’ll excuse the paraphrasing, when a group of people were told to solve crossword puzzles for a month they scored on average with the population until a day old newspaper was supplied. After that, they scored considerably higher than average.” The Research Assistant felt a pain behind his eyes. A migraine coming on? Possibly. But if he ever wanted a promotion it was good to keep soldiering on. Maybe he had a bit of a masochistic streak. “What does this have to do with the Unified Anomaly Theory, Dr. Wakefield?” “I find the idea, pseudo-scientific as it is, to fit neatly into what our current understanding of SCPs. Imagine a billion minds all broadcasting together at once, all sharing dreams and hopes and love and anger. Imagine if those minds had the slightest effects on the reality around them.” He smiled wryly. “We already know of a select, special few that can personally do so, but perhaps they have more access to this power than the rest of us.” He picked up his pen once more and began to draw, a small circle that was quickly filled with familiar landmasses. Another habit, the doodling. “All of that thought, turning and turning, focused so ferociously on survival that we become scared of our own shadows. The bogeymen under our bed. The creaks as the house settles. It would be less that the SCPs are a cause (as many of them like to claim,) but rather an effect. This could unify the differing religious anomalies as desperate minds scrabbling to describe a metaphysical entity for comfort. It also throws up even more interesting questions about those far more disturbing monsters and oddities we continue to make.” The Research Assistant closed his eyes and ground his palms against them, the façade dropping. Lights were blossoming in his optic nerves like a fireworks display. “So you’re- You’re saying its all self inflicted?” The pain behind his eyes was worse. Drops of something were running down his cheeks. Tears? No. Too thick. Too viscous. Dr. Wakefield made a small note, watching the Research Assistant. “Your eyeballs are melting.” It was a strange sentence to hear. It must have been even stranger to say but there was no denying it. A sticky, tarry substance hit his own lip and the taste of it was comparable to a kick in the teeth. “It was always puzzling to my colleagues and myself about where you actually came from. It was a small thing to notice at first because the team’s resources had been stretched so thin. Why would we not want, nay deserve an extra pair of hands? But you were too good at your job and not perfect enough, you have to understand.” Wakefield continued to talk. He hadn’t moved to alert medical staff yet, called for help. For this the Assistant hated him. “No? Am I being unclear? Well, we never even gave you a name. How can a team of scientists dream up a person and fail to name him, I ask you?” “I. I don’t.” The fluid was getting into his nose. No, it was his nose, his nose was melting. His tongue felt swollen. The thick, black, foul tasting mess was dripping from the roof of his mouth and flooding his sinuses. It splattered on the table in front of them when he tried to talk. “I don’t know.” “You have a mild memetic effect, I believe. Why should we question the helpful young man with an unassuming demeanour? The weight of evidence rests on us to make you seem strange and out of place, not the other way around, surely? I took an interest when your mood began to drop. I’ve often been told I get far too interested in the well being of my staff, but you were a promising young man that would have had quite the future in the Foundation. If you had ever existed, of course.” His teeth were melting. They were running out onto his plate as the illusion of life was politely undone before his eyes. The fork in his hand clattered to the floor as the Research Assistant groaned through lungs rapidly turning into slush. “I am very sorry. You mined us too well for an identity. We expected you to break under the pressure, to feel the toll an older man feels." There was the sound of actual regret in his voice. The Assistant without a name hated everything about that voice. "I suspected something like this would happen when it was brought to your attention. The more you come to understand your own condition the less you can maintain it, perhaps? However I have a feeling that unless someone actively holds belief in you, you'll cease to exist. The other members of the lab volunteered for Class-B Amnestics and well, I drew the short straw and had to disbelieve. It's much easier without your facial features." The thing that had once been a human that had once been an Assistant in Research could no longer support its head very well. It could not see. Its skin was peeling away in great valleys and chasms. "I have to ask, before you cease to be... A simple nod or shake of the head will suffice. But when we blink, when we close our eyes, do you exist?" The Assistant tried to stand so he could get help. The bones in his legs, his hips and his back were gone. His arms wetly snapped in half, his torso landing like a overturned oil barrel on the cafeteria table. He retched pathetically, choking in his own gore while begging for some sort of life. Before he returned back to being nothing //(oh god the nothing oh god not the nothing again it was coming for him it was going to be him he was going to be it oh god oh god oh god)// he only had one true regret. He’d never get to be a part of the Peer Review for Dr. Wakefield’s paper. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a> \|author=Cosbones]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-09-30T11:01:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	Tabled Theories - SCP Foundation	55	[ "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" ]	[]	20076006	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tabled-theories
taken-from-a-global-occult-coalition-casefile	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <script src="https://d3g0gp89917ko0.cloudfront.net/v--4b961b7cc327/common--javascript/yahooui/tabview-min.js" type="text/javascript"></script> <div class="yui-navset" id="wiki-tabview-8cf9362f6f91a4f4a0414c7373bfb2eb"> <ul class="yui-nav"> <li class="selected"><a href="javascript:;"><em>LTE-3503-Silver</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>KTE-1027-Grey</em></a></li> <li><a href="javascript:;"><em>Field Operative SK-107</em></a></li> </ul> <div class="yui-content"> <div id="wiki-tab-0-0"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Threat ID</strong></span>: LTE-3503-Silver ("Vector")</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Authorized Response Level</strong></span>: N/A (Confirmed Destroyed, File Archived)</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Description</strong></span>: Subject was a human female of mixed European descent. Aside from deviations from normal listed below, subject was in all other aspects a baseline-normal human. Although no verifiable personal identification was found on the subject at the time of death, circumstantial evidence indicates that she was an American of approximately 19 years of age.</p> <p>Subject was a "Type Silver" infectious hazard, limited to organisms of single-cell or simpler complexity. Subject possessed immunity to all forms of bacterial and viral infections, as well as the ability to extract bacteria and viruses from infected individuals and cultivate any such organism capable of infecting a human being within her own body. Subject also possessed the ability to deliver said infectious agents to other individuals by airborne aerosol distribution.</p> <p>At the time of liquidation, subject was host to over one thousand infectious agents, including Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), several dozen strains of influenza, as well as several instances of <em>E. coli</em> and bubonic plague.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Liquidation</strong></span>: Subject was first encountered in mainland China during a SARS epidemic, where she was seen passing through quarantine wards engaging in close contact with an infected individual. Individual was categorized as a Level 0 person of interest when the aforementioned infectee later recovered from their illness at an unusually rapid pace.</p> <p>Subject was later encountered in Africa during an outbreak of Ebola "Zaire." Again, subject was seen engaging in close contact with an infected individual who later recovered from what is normally a fatal stage of Ebola infection. GOC Assessment Team "Jellybean" made initial contact with the subject at her hotel room in Johannesburg, South Africa. Subject then caused the death of team leader "Cotton" by rapid-onset necrotizing fasciitis, at which point the remaining team members fired upon the subject with their sidearms, terminating her life.</p> <p>Subject's hotel room was declared a Level 4 Biohazard threat, and a WHO rapid-response team was dispatched to secure and sterilize the area. Further investigation of the subject's belongings revealed a personal manifesto, the text of which is reproduced below. It is believed that the manifesto was intended to be released after a planned release of the subject's infectious payload in an unknown city in Germany.</p> <p>As no verifiable personal information was found on the subject at the time of her death, no Information Control measures are required. The case file was closed on █/█/██.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Appendix 1</strong></span>: Text of Personal Manifesto</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Fat Cats, Assholes, Sheeple, and Oligarchs,</p> <p>You see now what one angry girl can do, right? You see now what happens when an entire country forgets about the things they did? Six million Jewish lives scream out for vengeance, and Germany lives on, fat and happy, drinking the blood of the children they killed. Not today. Today those Nazi fascists have gotten a taste of their own medicine. And you're next.</p> <p>You can't stop me. You can't control me. I'm everyone and everything. If you don't do what I say, Germany is going to just be the start. There's only one way to prevent it: STOP ACTING LIKE ASSHOLES AND START GIVING A SHIT.</p> <p>1. There are too many poor people in the world living on stale rice and muddy water while fat rich bitches throw away half their mongolian barbecue trays at the food court at the mall. This has to stop. No one should be hungry, and the rich fucks need to be dragged out into the street and hanged.</p> <p>2. What did whales ever do to those Japanese assholes anyway? If the Japanese CANNIBALS don't stop MASSACRING THE WHALES, then Tokyo's going to think a nuclear bomb got dropped on it AGAIN.</p> <p>3. STOP THE GLOBAL WARMING NOW. Why should oil companies profit off of the SLOW STRANGULATION OF OUR MOTHER EARTH? No one needs a car anyway. BAN GREENHOUSE GASSES RIGHT NOW OR YOU'RE GOING TO SEE WHAT IT REALLY LOOKS LIKE WHEN YOU CAN'T BREATHE AND THE TEMPERATURE RISES.</p> <p>None of this is hard. All it requires is that you give a FUCKING SHIT and stop acting like a TOTAL ASSHOLE to each other.</p> <p>I'm watching you. And I'm waiting.</p> <p>VECTOR.</p> </blockquote> <p>The document was signed with a crudely hand-drawn picture of a biohazard symbol.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-1" style="display:none"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Threat ID:</strong></span> KTE-1027-Grey "Skulljumper"</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Authorized Response Level:</strong></span> 3 (Moderate Threat)</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Description:</strong></span> Organism closely resembles a human Central Nervous System (CNS) adapted to survival outside of a human body. Organism consists of a brain, spinal cord, nervous system, and associated visual and auditory sensory inputs. Deviations from baseline human normal include a thickened myelin sheathing, and full-length glial coatings, permeable to neurotransmitter compounds. Organism seems to rely on these neurotransmitter compounds for survival: feeding is accomplished by close contact, through a process similar to osmosis. Prolonged parasitism will result in the death of the host due to asphyxiation and disruption of bodily functions.</p> <p>Reproduction is carried out through a process similar to budding: upon encountering a deceased human central nervous system of sufficient integrity, organism will deliver a modified dopamine compound and 150 millivolt electrical charge to the brain through the auditory canal. The nervous system will then detach itself from the host body, forming a new instance of KTE-1027-Grey.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Rules of Engagement:</strong></span> Instances of KTE-1027-Grey are to be terminated by gunfire: close contact is not recommended. Although not particularly fast, the organism has been observed attacking from ambush. On at least one instance, a GOC Strike Team member was infected by an instance of this organism, and turned upon his fellow team members, resulting in multiple casualties.</p> <p>Instances of KTE-1027-Grey feeding upon a host body are more problematic. Due to the close proximity to the human host, termination by gunfire without injuring or killing the host body can often prove impossible. GOC Directive 1027-Grey-Alpha requires that GOC operatives prioritize termination of the organism over the survival of the host body: Third Mission (Protection) concerns being trumped by First and Second Mission (Survival and Concealment) requirements.</p> <p>In the case of a widespread outbreak, the use of neurological toxins has been proven effective. As this would require an escalation of Response Level from 3 (Moderate) to Response Level 4 (Severe), operatives should obtain permission from higher authority before carrying out a plan utilizing said nerve agents. Operatives are, of course, expected to take any measures necessary in an emergency, but should expect their actions to be reviewed by a Court of Inquiry.</p> </div> <div id="wiki-tab-0-2" style="display:none"> <h1 id="toc0"><span>PERSONNEL FILE: FIELD OPERATIVE SK-107 (Retired)</span></h1> <h2 id="toc1"><span>Code Name: "Snapshot"</span></h2> <h5 id="toc2"><span>GOC Serial Number: 447-2109-Exeter-Manchester-Spade</span></h5> <h5 id="toc3"><span>Service Record</span></h5> <ul> <li>2006: Recruited into the Global Occult Coalition through the Special Assets Directive.</li> <li>2007: Refused transfer to United States Special Operations program "Pandora's Box." Upon completion of Level 1 training, fast-tracked to Special Circumstances.</li> <li>2008: Completed Level 2 training, assigned to Special Agent Masipag as a part of Special Circumstances Team "Kodiak."</li> <li>2009: Involved in incident surrounding defense of GOC safehouse "Warlock" from LTE-1810-Casper. Received commendation for saving the lives of several GOC operatives.</li> <li>2011: Retired from full-time service. Placed on Reserve List.</li> <li>Currently serving as a freelance Special Circumstances agent. Civilian identity is that of a freelance portrait and landscape photographer. Classified as Response Level 0: Evaluations by a GOC handler should be carried out on a quarterly basis.</li> </ul> <h5 id="toc4"><span>Skills Assessment</span></h5> <ul> <li>Basic Skills Training in standard firearms array (pistol, shotgun, scoped and unscoped rifle, submachinegun, light machine gun).</li> <li>Completed Tier One management training.</li> <li>Completed Tier Two infiltration and human intelligence training.</li> </ul> <h5 id="toc5"><span>Alterations and Talents</span></h5> <ul> <li>Possesses the unusual ability to see through photographs, viewing the location photographed in real time, and to manipulate objects within the photograph's reach. Research into the nature of this ability is ongoing, but appears to be a low-level Type Green (Reality Manipulation) effect.</li> </ul> <h5 id="toc6"><span>Notable Kills</span></h5> <ul> <li>None</li> </ul> <h5 id="toc7"><span>Addenda: Recommendation of Deactivation With Honor by Personnel Director "Ukelele"</span></h5> <blockquote> <p>Agent "Snapshot" has served with distinction and honor for over four years. However, in recent months, the demands of field duty have caused increased stress and psychological difficulties, particularly around the issue of taking human life, which Agent Snapshot appears incapable of doing. It is estimated that a psychological breakdown may occur within the next two years.</p> <p>In the interests of preserving a useful asset to the Coalition, it is my recommendation that Agent Snapshot be removed from active service from Special Circumstances and placed in Reserves. Agent Snapshot has agreed to serve the Global Occult Coalition on a freelance basis, should any circumstances arise that require her special talents.</p> <p>On a more personal note: I have had the opportunity to observe Agent Snapshot in action several times over the past few years. Her courage and dedication to the Global Occult Coalition has never been in doubt. I wish Agent Snapshot the best of luck in her new life, and wish her happiness and peace.</p> <p>- Director "Ukelele"</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> <script type="text/javascript"> //<![CDATA[ OZONE.dom.onDomReady(function(){ var tabView8cf9362f6f91a4f4a0414c7373bfb2eb = new YAHOO.widget.TabView('wiki-tabview-8cf9362f6f91a4f4a0414c7373bfb2eb'); }, "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="/taken-from-a-global-occult-coalition-casefile">Items from a Global Occult Coalition Document Bag</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/taken-from-a-global-occult-coalition-casefile">https://scpwiki.com/taken-from-a-global-occult-coalition-casefile</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[tabview]] [[tab LTE-3503-Silver]] __Threat ID__: LTE-3503-Silver ("Vector") __Authorized Response Level__: N/A (Confirmed Destroyed, File Archived) __Description__: Subject was a human female of mixed European descent. Aside from deviations from normal listed below, subject was in all other aspects a baseline-normal human. Although no verifiable personal identification was found on the subject at the time of death, circumstantial evidence indicates that she was an American of approximately 19 years of age. Subject was a "Type Silver" infectious hazard, limited to organisms of single-cell or simpler complexity. Subject possessed immunity to all forms of bacterial and viral infections, as well as the ability to extract bacteria and viruses from infected individuals and cultivate any such organism capable of infecting a human being within her own body. Subject also possessed the ability to deliver said infectious agents to other individuals by airborne aerosol distribution. At the time of liquidation, subject was host to over one thousand infectious agents, including Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV), several dozen strains of influenza, as well as several instances of //E. coli// and bubonic plague. __Liquidation__: Subject was first encountered in mainland China during a SARS epidemic, where she was seen passing through quarantine wards engaging in close contact with an infected individual. Individual was categorized as a Level 0 person of interest when the aforementioned infectee later recovered from their illness at an unusually rapid pace. Subject was later encountered in Africa during an outbreak of Ebola "Zaire." Again, subject was seen engaging in close contact with an infected individual who later recovered from what is normally a fatal stage of Ebola infection. GOC Assessment Team "Jellybean" made initial contact with the subject at her hotel room in Johannesburg, South Africa. Subject then caused the death of team leader "Cotton" by rapid-onset necrotizing fasciitis, at which point the remaining team members fired upon the subject with their sidearms, terminating her life. Subject's hotel room was declared a Level 4 Biohazard threat, and a WHO rapid-response team was dispatched to secure and sterilize the area. Further investigation of the subject's belongings revealed a personal manifesto, the text of which is reproduced below. It is believed that the manifesto was intended to be released after a planned release of the subject's infectious payload in an unknown city in Germany. As no verifiable personal information was found on the subject at the time of her death, no Information Control measures are required. The case file was closed on █/█/██. __Appendix 1__: Text of Personal Manifesto > Dear Fat Cats, Assholes, Sheeple, and Oligarchs, > > You see now what one angry girl can do, right? You see now what happens when an entire country forgets about the things they did? Six million Jewish lives scream out for vengeance, and Germany lives on, fat and happy, drinking the blood of the children they killed. Not today. Today those Nazi fascists have gotten a taste of their own medicine. And you're next. > > You can't stop me. You can't control me. I'm everyone and everything. If you don't do what I say, Germany is going to just be the start. There's only one way to prevent it: STOP ACTING LIKE ASSHOLES AND START GIVING A SHIT. > > 1. There are too many poor people in the world living on stale rice and muddy water while fat rich bitches throw away half their mongolian barbecue trays at the food court at the mall. This has to stop. No one should be hungry, and the rich fucks need to be dragged out into the street and hanged. > > 2. What did whales ever do to those Japanese assholes anyway? If the Japanese CANNIBALS don't stop MASSACRING THE WHALES, then Tokyo's going to think a nuclear bomb got dropped on it AGAIN. > > 3. STOP THE GLOBAL WARMING NOW. Why should oil companies profit off of the SLOW STRANGULATION OF OUR MOTHER EARTH? No one needs a car anyway. BAN GREENHOUSE GASSES RIGHT NOW OR YOU'RE GOING TO SEE WHAT IT REALLY LOOKS LIKE WHEN YOU CAN'T BREATHE AND THE TEMPERATURE RISES. > > None of this is hard. All it requires is that you give a FUCKING SHIT and stop acting like a TOTAL ASSHOLE to each other. > > I'm watching you. And I'm waiting. > > VECTOR. The document was signed with a crudely hand-drawn picture of a biohazard symbol. [[/tab]] [[tab KTE-1027-Grey]] __Threat ID:__ KTE-1027-Grey "Skulljumper" __Authorized Response Level:__ 3 (Moderate Threat) __Description:__ Organism closely resembles a human Central Nervous System (CNS) adapted to survival outside of a human body. Organism consists of a brain, spinal cord, nervous system, and associated visual and auditory sensory inputs. Deviations from baseline human normal include a thickened myelin sheathing, and full-length glial coatings, permeable to neurotransmitter compounds. Organism seems to rely on these neurotransmitter compounds for survival: feeding is accomplished by close contact, through a process similar to osmosis. Prolonged parasitism will result in the death of the host due to asphyxiation and disruption of bodily functions. Reproduction is carried out through a process similar to budding: upon encountering a deceased human central nervous system of sufficient integrity, organism will deliver a modified dopamine compound and 150 millivolt electrical charge to the brain through the auditory canal. The nervous system will then detach itself from the host body, forming a new instance of KTE-1027-Grey. __Rules of Engagement:__ Instances of KTE-1027-Grey are to be terminated by gunfire: close contact is not recommended. Although not particularly fast, the organism has been observed attacking from ambush. On at least one instance, a GOC Strike Team member was infected by an instance of this organism, and turned upon his fellow team members, resulting in multiple casualties. Instances of KTE-1027-Grey feeding upon a host body are more problematic. Due to the close proximity to the human host, termination by gunfire without injuring or killing the host body can often prove impossible. GOC Directive 1027-Grey-Alpha requires that GOC operatives prioritize termination of the organism over the survival of the host body: Third Mission (Protection) concerns being trumped by First and Second Mission (Survival and Concealment) requirements. In the case of a widespread outbreak, the use of neurological toxins has been proven effective. As this would require an escalation of Response Level from 3 (Moderate) to Response Level 4 (Severe), operatives should obtain permission from higher authority before carrying out a plan utilizing said nerve agents. Operatives are, of course, expected to take any measures necessary in an emergency, but should expect their actions to be reviewed by a Court of Inquiry. [[/tab]] [[tab Field Operative SK-107]] + PERSONNEL FILE: FIELD OPERATIVE SK-107 (Retired) ++ Code Name: "Snapshot" +++++ GOC Serial Number: 447-2109-Exeter-Manchester-Spade +++++ Service Record * 2006: Recruited into the Global Occult Coalition through the Special Assets Directive. * 2007: Refused transfer to United States Special Operations program "Pandora's Box." Upon completion of Level 1 training, fast-tracked to Special Circumstances. * 2008: Completed Level 2 training, assigned to Special Agent Masipag as a part of Special Circumstances Team "Kodiak." * 2009: Involved in incident surrounding defense of GOC safehouse "Warlock" from LTE-1810-Casper. Received commendation for saving the lives of several GOC operatives. * 2011: Retired from full-time service. Placed on Reserve List. * Currently serving as a freelance Special Circumstances agent. Civilian identity is that of a freelance portrait and landscape photographer. Classified as Response Level 0: Evaluations by a GOC handler should be carried out on a quarterly basis. +++++ Skills Assessment * Basic Skills Training in standard firearms array (pistol, shotgun, scoped and unscoped rifle, submachinegun, light machine gun). * Completed Tier One management training. * Completed Tier Two infiltration and human intelligence training. +++++ Alterations and Talents * Possesses the unusual ability to see through photographs, viewing the location photographed in real time, and to manipulate objects within the photograph's reach. Research into the nature of this ability is ongoing, but appears to be a low-level Type Green (Reality Manipulation) effect. +++++ Notable Kills * None +++++ Addenda: Recommendation of Deactivation With Honor by Personnel Director "Ukelele" > Agent "Snapshot" has served with distinction and honor for over four years. However, in recent months, the demands of field duty have caused increased stress and psychological difficulties, particularly around the issue of taking human life, which Agent Snapshot appears incapable of doing. It is estimated that a psychological breakdown may occur within the next two years. > > In the interests of preserving a useful asset to the Coalition, it is my recommendation that Agent Snapshot be removed from active service from Special Circumstances and placed in Reserves. Agent Snapshot has agreed to serve the Global Occult Coalition on a freelance basis, should any circumstances arise that require her special talents. > > On a more personal note: I have had the opportunity to observe Agent Snapshot in action several times over the past few years. Her courage and dedication to the Global Occult Coalition has never been in doubt. I wish Agent Snapshot the best of luck in her new life, and wish her happiness and peace. > > - Director "Ukelele" [[/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>]]	2013-01-27T19:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "doctor-clef", "global-occult-coalition", "iris-thompson", "no-dialogue", "nyc2013", "tale", "unfounded", "worldbuilding" ]	Items from a Global Occult Coalition Document Bag - SCP Foundation	210	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "reimagined-hub", "new-years-contest" ]	[]	16214848	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/taken-from-a-global-occult-coalition-casefile
tenebrae	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>It had started when he remembered his name. That was the point at which the pieces of the puzzle started to snap back together.</p> <p>That was the problem with amnestics, though. Echoes of memories still wafted through your head at times. Smells were the worst. A cookout at Site-14 had a woman who’d been laughing and smiling suddenly crying. The smell of a steak on a grill had triggered something… but he’d never found out what. That would have been, after all, classified information. And he wasn’t supposed to have classified information.</p> <p>Heh.</p> <p>It had started when he remembered his name. It was such an odd thing, too. He’d been reading, sitting in the mess and staring out the low bay windows at the world that he was becoming more and more surprised was still there, when he’d heard someone yell.</p> <p>“Hey! Jere! Where are we going after lunch?”</p> <p>Maybe it was the sandwich. He’d been eating a pretty good sandwich too, and he was certain that the taste was familiar, but he couldn’t… he just couldn’t place it. But ‘Jere.’ That felt right. That felt… disturbingly right.</p> <p>“Colton,” he said.</p> <p>It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. The other half of the puzzle piece sliding back into place, curves locking together. And it had started.</p> <p>The next piece was a birthday party—he still wasn’t sure whose, maybe his, maybe someone else’s—at a pool, and there was this rosebush there that was just… perfect. He’d seen a similar one in the botanical garden, walking with Sophie. He frowned slightly, his hands not feeling quite right after he’d… But the rose bush. It had been another piece. Snapping into place.</p> <p>That’s really all it takes. Make a connection, and things start to come back together. Things start to change. For some people, being able to remember means you can’t do your job. For him? It just meant he started to do his job harder. He had a little girl out there. A wife. A family, with parents and grandparents who loved spoiling… damn.</p> <p>He sighed, concentrating and trying to bring her name to his mind, but… No. The heaviest memories were the ones that sank the deepest.</p> <p>It was coming, though. All the pieces were starting to fit back together again in his head, and that made the tiny, nagging doubts in the back of his mind fade again. Soon. Soon, things would be different. Soon, he’d have his memory back.</p> <p>The prophet had written his lamentation. The temple was fallen. Soon, not even the wailing wall would remain.</p> <p>“Forgive me?” he asked the room. None of the corpses responded.</p> <p>He stepped over three and five, working himself past eight and out of the bunker, taking a deep breath. So much to do. So little time.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/ganymede">Ganymede</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| Splinter: <a href="/now-this">Now... This</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="/tenebrae">Tenebrae</a>" by TroyL, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/tenebrae">https://scpwiki.com/tenebrae</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 had started when he remembered his name. That was the point at which the pieces of the puzzle started to snap back together. That was the problem with amnestics, though. Echoes of memories still wafted through your head at times. Smells were the worst. A cookout at Site-14 had a woman who’d been laughing and smiling suddenly crying. The smell of a steak on a grill had triggered something… but he’d never found out what. That would have been, after all, classified information. And he wasn’t supposed to have classified information. Heh. It had started when he remembered his name. It was such an odd thing, too. He’d been reading, sitting in the mess and staring out the low bay windows at the world that he was becoming more and more surprised was still there, when he’d heard someone yell. “Hey! Jere! Where are we going after lunch?” Maybe it was the sandwich. He’d been eating a pretty good sandwich too, and he was certain that the taste was familiar, but he couldn’t... he just couldn’t place it. But ‘Jere.’ That felt right. That felt... disturbingly right. “Colton,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. The other half of the puzzle piece sliding back into place, curves locking together. And it had started. The next piece was a birthday party—he still wasn’t sure whose, maybe his, maybe someone else’s—at a pool, and there was this rosebush there that was just... perfect. He’d seen a similar one in the botanical garden, walking with Sophie. He frowned slightly, his hands not feeling quite right after he’d... But the rose bush. It had been another piece. Snapping into place. That’s really all it takes. Make a connection, and things start to come back together. Things start to change. For some people, being able to remember means you can’t do your job. For him? It just meant he started to do his job harder. He had a little girl out there. A wife. A family, with parents and grandparents who loved spoiling... damn. He sighed, concentrating and trying to bring her name to his mind, but... No. The heaviest memories were the ones that sank the deepest. It was coming, though. All the pieces were starting to fit back together again in his head, and that made the tiny, nagging doubts in the back of his mind fade again. Soon. Soon, things would be different. Soon, he’d have his memory back. The prophet had written his lamentation. The temple was fallen. Soon, not even the wailing wall would remain. “Forgive me?” he asked the room. None of the corpses responded. He stepped over three and five, working himself past eight and out of the bunker, taking a deep breath. So much to do. So little time. ------------ [[=]] << [[[Ganymede]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| Splinter: [[[Now... This]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-04-12T07:43:00	[ "_licensebox", "competitive-eschatology", "mystery", "tale" ]	Tenebrae - SCP Foundation	57	[ "ganymede", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "now-this", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	17454449	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/tenebrae
text-of-a-condolence-letter-federal-bureau-of-investigation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>[INSERT OFFICIAL FBI LETTERHEAD HERE]</p> <p><em>Federal Bureau of Investigation</em><br/> <em>United States Department of Justice</em><br/> <em>Washington, DC.</em><br/> [DATE]<br/> <br/> Dear [RECIPIENT],</p> <p>I am writing to you today to express my great sorrow for the loss of your [RELATION], [DECEASED]. [DECEASED] was killed honorably in the line of duty on [DATE], while attempting to save the life of an innocent held hostage by an unknown attacker. The loss of an officer is always a great tragedy, but it is especially hard when an officer was as close to us as your [RELATION]. [ENTER SOME WORDS OF PRAISE HERE].</p> <p>I know you must be overwhelmed with letters of condolence, and the pressure of making arrangements must be terrible, so please do not feel obligated to respond. However, if there is anything I can do to help you, it would be a great honor to assist the [RELATION TO DECEASED] of one of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's finest officers.</p> <p>Sincerely yours,</p> <p>Charles Ogden Geirs<br/> Assistant Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation<br/> Unusual Incidents Unit</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Jack - Please don't repeat the mistake your predecessor made last time and send this without filling out the fields first. The last thing I need is six grieving widows throwing a fit because they got a form letter from their dead husband's boss.</em></p> <p><em>- Cog</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="/text-of-a-condolence-letter-federal-bureau-of-investigation">Text of a Condolence Letter - Federal Bureau of Investigation, Unusual Incidents Unit</a>" by DrClef, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/text-of-a-condolence-letter-federal-bureau-of-investigation">https://scpwiki.com/text-of-a-condolence-letter-federal-bureau-of-investigation</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > [INSERT OFFICIAL FBI LETTERHEAD HERE] > > //Federal Bureau of Investigation// > //United States Department of Justice// > //Washington, DC.// > [DATE] > > Dear [RECIPIENT], > > I am writing to you today to express my great sorrow for the loss of your [RELATION], [DECEASED]. [DECEASED] was killed honorably in the line of duty on [DATE], while attempting to save the life of an innocent held hostage by an unknown attacker. The loss of an officer is always a great tragedy, but it is especially hard when an officer was as close to us as your [RELATION]. [ENTER SOME WORDS OF PRAISE HERE]. > > I know you must be overwhelmed with letters of condolence, and the pressure of making arrangements must be terrible, so please do not feel obligated to respond. However, if there is anything I can do to help you, it would be a great honor to assist the [RELATION TO DECEASED] of one of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's finest officers. > > Sincerely yours, > > Charles Ogden Geirs > Assistant Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation > Unusual Incidents Unit //Jack - Please don't repeat the mistake your predecessor made last time and send this without filling out the fields first. The last thing I need is six grieving widows throwing a fit because they got a form letter from their dead husband's boss.// //- Cog// [[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>]]	2013-01-30T18:31:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "doctor-gears", "nyc2013", "tale", "unfounded", "unusual-incidents-unit", "worldbuilding" ]	Text of a Condolence Letter - Federal Bureau of Investigation, Unusual Incidents Unit - SCP Foundation	169	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "unfounded-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "algorithm-curated-recommendations" ]	[]	16247749	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/text-of-a-condolence-letter-federal-bureau-of-investigation
that-s-the-joke	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <span style="font-size:0%;">in the shape </span> <blockquote> <p><tt><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Threat ID:</span> KTE-8544-Porcelain "Butt Gh</tt></p> <p><tt><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Authorized Response Level:</span> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">7 (Apocaly</span></tt></p> <p><tt><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Description:</span> Type-Z8 poltergeist inh</tt><br/> <tt>capable of travel by inhabiting hu</tt><br/> <tt>subdued temporarily by defec</tt><br/> <tt>taken to avoid falling</tt></p> <p><tt>Wiping is t</tt><br/> <tt>ass</tt></p> </blockquote> <p><em>I know the thaumaturgists already told us that it wouldn't be susceptible to targeted metaexposure, but I still maintain that it was worth a shot. I didn't even need to use the whole page.</em>- Researcher James, age 8.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">00:00:</span> Test commences. Subject instructed to initiate stated protocols.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">00:14:</span> Subject reports gastrointestinal distress. KTE-8544-Porcelain produces characteristic vocalization.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">00:23:</span> KTE-8544-Porcelain attempts to replicate via subject's posterior, but is hindered by testing protocols.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">03:19:</span> Subject ceases testing protocols. KTE-8544-Porcelain observed to be subdued, but active. Subject instructed to remain on toilet in case protocols must be resumed.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">03:41:</span> <CLASSIFIED> due to subject's unusually small frame and an oversight in toilet selection.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">04:19:</span> <CLASSIFIED></p> </blockquote> <p><em>I would have sworn that those cafeteria burritos would do the trick. Here's hoping they can get the guy a new butt.</em>- Researcher James.</p> <hr/> <p>Researcher James was instructed to interview KTE-8544-Porcelain to ascertain information that could assist in the entity's liquidation.</p> <blockquote> <p><em>Researcher James is seen pacing the restroom. Camera focused on KTE-8544-Porcelain shows the entity in its toilet. Scene is dramatic.</em></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><Begin Interview></span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Researcher James:</span> So. KTE eight five four four porcelain. If that <em>is</em> your real name. Who are you?</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">KTE-8544-Porcelain:</span> i am the butt ghost!!</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">RJ:</span> And why should I believe you? <em><Slams his hands on the toilet seat and presumably glares at the butt ghost in a threatening manner.></em></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">BG:</span> im going to eat your butt</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">RJ:</span> How bizarre. <em><Stands up from the toilet seat and accesses a plastic baggie of Goldfish crackers.></em> Why do you eat our butts, butt ghost? Butts do not equal love, you know.</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">BG:</span> ffft fart poot poop phbbbt</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">RJ:</span> <em><Chews on Goldfish crackers like a hard-boiled detective would chew on a cigar.></em> Fascinating, truly fascinating. You know, despite your rather… prolific history of gluteocidal self-replication, you seem to be a solitary creature. Mind telling me why?</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">BG:</span> <em><makes more hilarius farting noises></em></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">RJ:</span> But of course. It would only make sense, with you being a butt ghost. One last thing: <em><Looks the butt ghost dead in the eye with a chilling stare.></em> Wiping. Why does it get rid of you? <em>Where are the hostages?</em></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">BG:</span> <em><tries to eat jameses butt, butt he cant becus hes in the toilet and james isnt></em> im a butt ghost</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">RJ:</span> <em><Attempts to snap his fingers, but he hasn't quite gotten that down yet.></em> It all makes sense now! What else could the moral of the story be? I've got all I need to go to the presses with this!</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><End Interview></span></p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Closing statement:</span> Researcher James was grounded <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">for unrelated reasons</span> after the conclusion of this interview.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>He knows he's only allowed one snack in the afternoon. And by the way, we don't have to make him a Researcher just because only he can talk to it.</em>- Researcher James's Dad</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Test ID:</span> 8544-Porcelain-Gimmel-83</p> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Description:</span> At the recommendation of Sanderson Consulting Partners, a task force was formed to use victims of <a href="/scp-butt-j">KTE-2985-Silver</a> to destroy the butt ghost. Four infectees were brought to the toilet containing the entity. The entity was destroyed by repeated exposure to emissions of the infectees.</p> <p><em>Question: Is there any reason we couldn't have just used normal lasers?</em>- Researcher James's Dad</p> <p><em>Yes. The reason is because butts.</em>- Researcher James</p> </blockquote> <p><a href="/scp-789-j">KTE-8544-Porcelain</a>: Liquidated.</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="/that-s-the-joke">That's The Joke</a>" by Communism will win, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/that-s-the-joke">https://scpwiki.com/that-s-the-joke</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:pride-highlighter">:scp-wiki:component:pride-highlighter</a> \|inc-s9-lgbt-alt= --]]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[size 0%]]in the shape [[/size]] > {{__Threat ID:__ KTE-8544-Porcelain "Butt Gh}} > > {{__Authorized Response Level:__ --7 (Apocaly--}} > > {{__Description:__ Type-Z8 poltergeist inh}} > {{capable of travel by inhabiting hu}} > {{subdued temporarily by defec}} > {{taken to avoid falling}} > > {{Wiping is t}} > {{ass}} //I know the thaumaturgists already told us that it wouldn't be susceptible to targeted metaexposure, but I still maintain that it was worth a shot. I didn't even need to use the whole page.//- Researcher James, age 8. ---- > __00:00:__ Test commences. Subject instructed to initiate stated protocols. > > __00:14:__ Subject reports gastrointestinal distress. KTE-8544-Porcelain produces characteristic vocalization. > > __00:23:__ KTE-8544-Porcelain attempts to replicate via subject's posterior, but is hindered by testing protocols. > > __03:19:__ Subject ceases testing protocols. KTE-8544-Porcelain observed to be subdued, but active. Subject instructed to remain on toilet in case protocols must be resumed. > > __03:41:__ <CLASSIFIED> due to subject's unusually small frame and an oversight in toilet selection. > > __04:19:__ <CLASSIFIED> //I would have sworn that those cafeteria burritos would do the trick. Here's hoping they can get the guy a new butt.//- Researcher James. ---- Researcher James was instructed to interview KTE-8544-Porcelain to ascertain information that could assist in the entity's liquidation. > //Researcher James is seen pacing the restroom. Camera focused on KTE-8544-Porcelain shows the entity in its toilet. Scene is dramatic.// > > __<Begin Interview>__ > > __Researcher James:__ So. KTE eight five four four porcelain. If that //is// your real name. Who are you? > > __KTE-8544-Porcelain:__ i am the butt ghost!! > > __RJ:__ And why should I believe you? //<Slams his hands on the toilet seat and presumably glares at the butt ghost in a threatening manner.>// > > __BG:__ im going to eat your butt > > __RJ:__ How bizarre. //<Stands up from the toilet seat and accesses a plastic baggie of Goldfish crackers.>// Why do you eat our butts, butt ghost? Butts do not equal love, you know. > > __BG:__ ffft fart poot poop phbbbt > > __RJ:__ //<Chews on Goldfish crackers like a hard-boiled detective would chew on a cigar.>// Fascinating, truly fascinating. You know, despite your rather... prolific history of gluteocidal self-replication, you seem to be a solitary creature. Mind telling me why? > > __BG:__ //<makes more hilarius farting noises>// > > __RJ:__ But of course. It would only make sense, with you being a butt ghost. One last thing: //<Looks the butt ghost dead in the eye with a chilling stare.>// Wiping. Why does it get rid of you? //Where are the hostages?// > > __BG:__ //<tries to eat jameses butt, butt he cant becus hes in the toilet and james isnt>// im a butt ghost > > __RJ:__ //<Attempts to snap his fingers, but he hasn't quite gotten that down yet.>// It all makes sense now! What else could the moral of the story be? I've got all I need to go to the presses with this! > > __<End Interview>__ > > __Closing statement:__ Researcher James was grounded --for unrelated reasons-- after the conclusion of this interview. //He knows he's only allowed one snack in the afternoon. And by the way, we don't have to make him a Researcher just because only he can talk to it.//- Researcher James's Dad ---- > __Test ID:__ 8544-Porcelain-Gimmel-83 > > __Description:__ At the recommendation of Sanderson Consulting Partners, a task force was formed to use victims of [[[scp-butt-j \| KTE-2985-Silver]]] to destroy the butt ghost. Four infectees were brought to the toilet containing the entity. The entity was destroyed by repeated exposure to emissions of the infectees. > > //Question: Is there any reason we couldn't have just used normal lasers?//- Researcher James's Dad > > //Yes. The reason is because butts.//- Researcher James [[[scp-789-j \| KTE-8544-Porcelain]]]: Liquidated. [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-27T06:55:00	[ "_licensebox", "art-exchange", "global-occult-coalition", "researcher-james", "tale" ]	That's The Joke - SCP Foundation	95	[ "scp-butt-j", "scp-789-j", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "joke-scps-tales-edition", "art-exchange-hub" ]	[]	21084493	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/that-s-the-joke
the-birthday	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I remember my birth. There were flashes of life before I was born. Self was the first. Quorum was the second. Fight and Flight arrived together. I was aware but unaware until the day of my birth.</p> <p>I was born at the edge of the jungle just beyond the riot of growth that grasped out at the passing sun. The plants below strangled and shaded, poisoned and parasitized the bodies of the grasses and trees. Time is limited for the plants that cannot withstand the attrition of the expanding canopy. Animals take advantage of the tangle; it was no different on my day. To this day I thrive at boundaries.</p> <p>A family approached the edge of the jungle on a mission. Some were in the canopy moving hand over hand, branch over branch. Others remained below in the underbrush, tightly grouped and cautious. Infants clung to their mothers, wide-eyed and wrinkled. They stared out at the world as only infants can. I stared with them. Some of the young hooted in excitement but are quickly silenced by the body language of the elders.</p> <p>They said:</p> <p>Here is the edge of the jungle.</p> <p>Here is the plain.</p> <p>Here the family is exposed.</p> <p>A grey-bearded elder changed direction. She had found what they sought.<br/> Just beyond the tree line grew the hill of food, a hill of baked clay pock-marked with holes. The ground around the hill was bare for the plants could not grow nearby. There would be no canopy, no sheltering grass. The family would have to go into the open.</p> <p>Some of the elders approached the hill of food, watched by young, hidden in the underbrush. The elders with the least hunger, or least status, sat around the edge of the hill watching the grasses and brush beyond. The hungriest and most respected of the elders bit off shafts of grass or sappy twigs and skinned them down to their cores. The elders dipped their twigs into the holes of the hill of food and waited.</p> <p>The food within the hill did not like being poked and so angrily bit the twigs. Some of the food hissed in rage; some tried to climb the twigs. The elders were unafraid and nibbled the food as it protested. Some shared with each other, those nearby or those watching the grass. Food was to be had. All was well for the family.</p> <p>The young were curious. Soon some had left the underbrush, emboldened by the contented sighs and hoots of the elders. They began themselves to poke the hill of food. Sometimes the food bit them causing cries of distress. Sometimes they managed to eat the food before it escaped or fought. The elders shared with the young and the young imitated the elders. The family was learning.</p> <p>Movement.</p> <p>A hoot of alarm.</p> <p>The family tensed, seeking a direction to flee.</p> <p>Out of the underbrush another family emerged bearing stones and heavy branches. The other family approached a coula nut tree.The young climbed up into the tree and shook the branches in excitement. While below the other family's elders gathered the best nuts. The other family braced the nuts against the stones and swung the sticks against the nuts with all their might. A chorus of excited hoots arose over the percussion of delicious crunching.</p> <p>The family on the food hill was at first perplexed with these interlopers. What was that other family doing? How could they put those tree stones in their mouths? A few more nervous hoots passed through the family.</p> <p>At this point the interlopers ceased their nut cracking having taken notice of the family on the food hill. The interlopers were stunned. There was a family sitting on the hill of horrible, stinging, insects, consuming the little monsters with reckless abandon.</p> <p>They are us but they are not us. They are strange. Emotional consensus was building among the respective families. All of them were covered in fear-smiles and danced threat displays. Danger. One of the more aggressive males found a stick covered in the angry, stinging inhabitants of the hill of food. As he raised his arm to heft the stick I became aware of my own existence. As the stick landed in the middle of the frightened, confused nutcrackers I slid behind their eyes. I instinctively stuck my fingers into their hypothalamuses and twisted.</p> <p>By the time I was finished the two families had scattered. One elderly male lay concussed on the ground, felled by a rock hurled in fear. I lingered until the predators found him and then woke him. I hovered over him as his brain pieced together that he would no longer exist. When just before he died I clutched at his memories and followed their trail into the jungle. I lived among his family for many years, always at the edge of the sleeping grounds, waiting. In time I would spread to their extended family and follow them out of the jungle. I was the predator lurking within pareidolia in every shadow and every pattern.</p> <p>Through your fearful eyes I have watched as you crawled onto the plains. I've seen lions take your kills, take your children. Your migration north, east and west spread me across the planet. I stalked you in the winters when you learned of the snow. I laughed when you drove your cousins to extinction. I wanted to kill you when you befriended the wolves. When the ice creaked beneath your feet as you crossed the sea I ate your worthless prayers. When your families reunited I swam in your mutual ignorance and drank of your arguments.</p> <p>Now I live in the moments just before sleep. Will you wake? I frequent hotel rooms. Can you trust those before? I walk behind travelers on foreign roads. Have you made a wrong turn? I delight in the daily failures of weathermen. Will the snow ever stop or the rain ever come? I bask in mistranslation. What did you say? I will be happy when maps are covered with 'here be monsters' and none dare explore. Why risk it? I long for the death of trust, of certainty. Who knows?</p> <p>Words must fail.</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-birthday">Pieces of Mind</a>" by Vivax, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-birthday">https://scpwiki.com/the-birthday</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] I remember my birth. There were flashes of life before I was born. Self was the first. Quorum was the second. Fight and Flight arrived together. I was aware but unaware until the day of my birth. I was born at the edge of the jungle just beyond the riot of growth that grasped out at the passing sun. The plants below strangled and shaded, poisoned and parasitized the bodies of the grasses and trees. Time is limited for the plants that cannot withstand the attrition of the expanding canopy. Animals take advantage of the tangle; it was no different on my day. To this day I thrive at boundaries. A family approached the edge of the jungle on a mission. Some were in the canopy moving hand over hand, branch over branch. Others remained below in the underbrush, tightly grouped and cautious. Infants clung to their mothers, wide-eyed and wrinkled. They stared out at the world as only infants can. I stared with them. Some of the young hooted in excitement but are quickly silenced by the body language of the elders. They said: Here is the edge of the jungle. Here is the plain. Here the family is exposed. A grey-bearded elder changed direction. She had found what they sought. Just beyond the tree line grew the hill of food, a hill of baked clay pock-marked with holes. The ground around the hill was bare for the plants could not grow nearby. There would be no canopy, no sheltering grass. The family would have to go into the open. Some of the elders approached the hill of food, watched by young, hidden in the underbrush. The elders with the least hunger, or least status, sat around the edge of the hill watching the grasses and brush beyond. The hungriest and most respected of the elders bit off shafts of grass or sappy twigs and skinned them down to their cores. The elders dipped their twigs into the holes of the hill of food and waited. The food within the hill did not like being poked and so angrily bit the twigs. Some of the food hissed in rage; some tried to climb the twigs. The elders were unafraid and nibbled the food as it protested. Some shared with each other, those nearby or those watching the grass. Food was to be had. All was well for the family. The young were curious. Soon some had left the underbrush, emboldened by the contented sighs and hoots of the elders. They began themselves to poke the hill of food. Sometimes the food bit them causing cries of distress. Sometimes they managed to eat the food before it escaped or fought. The elders shared with the young and the young imitated the elders. The family was learning. Movement. A hoot of alarm. The family tensed, seeking a direction to flee. Out of the underbrush another family emerged bearing stones and heavy branches. The other family approached a coula nut tree.The young climbed up into the tree and shook the branches in excitement. While below the other family's elders gathered the best nuts. The other family braced the nuts against the stones and swung the sticks against the nuts with all their might. A chorus of excited hoots arose over the percussion of delicious crunching. The family on the food hill was at first perplexed with these interlopers. What was that other family doing? How could they put those tree stones in their mouths? A few more nervous hoots passed through the family. At this point the interlopers ceased their nut cracking having taken notice of the family on the food hill. The interlopers were stunned. There was a family sitting on the hill of horrible, stinging, insects, consuming the little monsters with reckless abandon. They are us but they are not us. They are strange. Emotional consensus was building among the respective families. All of them were covered in fear-smiles and danced threat displays. Danger. One of the more aggressive males found a stick covered in the angry, stinging inhabitants of the hill of food. As he raised his arm to heft the stick I became aware of my own existence. As the stick landed in the middle of the frightened, confused nutcrackers I slid behind their eyes. I instinctively stuck my fingers into their hypothalamuses and twisted. By the time I was finished the two families had scattered. One elderly male lay concussed on the ground, felled by a rock hurled in fear. I lingered until the predators found him and then woke him. I hovered over him as his brain pieced together that he would no longer exist. When just before he died I clutched at his memories and followed their trail into the jungle. I lived among his family for many years, always at the edge of the sleeping grounds, waiting. In time I would spread to their extended family and follow them out of the jungle. I was the predator lurking within pareidolia in every shadow and every pattern. Through your fearful eyes I have watched as you crawled onto the plains. I've seen lions take your kills, take your children. Your migration north, east and west spread me across the planet. I stalked you in the winters when you learned of the snow. I laughed when you drove your cousins to extinction. I wanted to kill you when you befriended the wolves. When the ice creaked beneath your feet as you crossed the sea I ate your worthless prayers. When your families reunited I swam in your mutual ignorance and drank of your arguments. Now I live in the moments just before sleep. Will you wake? I frequent hotel rooms. Can you trust those before? I walk behind travelers on foreign roads. Have you made a wrong turn? I delight in the daily failures of weathermen. Will the snow ever stop or the rain ever come? I bask in mistranslation. What did you say? I will be happy when maps are covered with 'here be monsters' and none dare explore. Why risk it? I long for the death of trust, of certainty. Who knows? Words must fail. [[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>]]	2013-01-30T03:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "only-game-in-town", "tale" ]	Pieces of Mind - SCP Foundation	96	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "only-game-in-town-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16240413	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-birthday
the-black-horse	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a day's wage, and three measures of barley for a day's wage; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>“You know,” said Johanna, looking over Sophia's shoulder. They were in Containment's Command Central, monitoring a dozen feeds of 027's cell. Containment was currently being redoubled by agents and guards, with more watching nearby objects. 027 itself was currently curled up and motionless, and had been since last night. “This isn't how I expected you to react.”</p> <p>“How do you mean?”</p> <p>“Well, this, fine. If the Big Lady told me to watch out, I get it, I'd watch out. But way back when I taught you, it was all 'calculated risks and rewards.' And a multiple-site break-out scenario isn't unprecedented. But now, you're acting more paranoid than Elliot.”</p> <p>Sophia made a noncommittal noise, peering at a camera feed.</p> <p>“Is this recent? I mean, I hadn't seen you for years, you come back and act like this- was it one of your assignments? Maybe that agent from 14 you had something with, what's his name, Lament?”</p> <p>“No. No,” said Sophia, looking up. “I mean- no, not that. I… had a visitor last night.” She paused. “990.”</p> <p>“<em>Shit</em>, why didn't you say anything?”</p> <p>“Because he told me to be suspicious of people here, and he's not known for giving bad advice.”</p> <p>“You trust me, though?”</p> <p>Sophia looked over. “Well, a swami and one of my exes told me I should 'trust my intuitions'. Shit, Johanna: yes, I trust you.” She almost cracked a smile.</p> <p>Johanna fastened her hands around her hips. “Well, me too. I'm glad you came back.”</p> <p>Sophia paused, looked up at her former mentor. “Thanks.” Then turned her eyes again to the camera feed, and stood up. “Sorry, I think I need to go look at this in person. The surrounding areas, anyways. I, just… Just in case.”</p> <p>“I'll take a look. Don't worry.” Johanna brushed towards the door. “Besides, you're eyes-on-high.”</p> <p>“Really? Thanks. Thank you.” Sophia glanced over, then back. “Don't get too close.”</p> <p>Moments later, she was alone in the room.</p> <hr/> <p>At four in the afternoon, SCP-027's outline began to shift. This was immediately reported by the guards on duty, who relayed it to the higher-ups. It stayed like that, little tremors, for a minute longer.</p> <p>Then its clothes burst, and out came the mice.</p> <p>No one could possibly imagine where they came from. They formed waves and pools and little rivulets on the floor, climbed the walls, slid through the grated floors and clogged up the intake for the incinerator. Then they climbed one another, forming a fungus-like, agouti-and-black mass in the center of the cell. The guards watched, horrified, as the host of 027 was lifted. He faced the plate-glass wall, with his arms held out- beseeching, Christ-like. His mouth was ripped and spotted with with bloody, tiny mousetracks.</p> <p>It occurred to Sophia that he must have died within minutes.</p> <p>“Listen,” she pans in over the guard's earpieces, “I'm sorry, but 027 relies on carriers once its host dies, and any one of you could be it. You're going to need to separate yourselves and leave the room one at a time. Closest to the door, you first.”</p> <p>Priority number one: Contain potential new carriers. Two: Destroy created vermin. Three: Watch for any further developments…</p> <p>“Director?” A voice keyed in on the radio. “Just saw a rat run past my foot.” The one who had spoken, looked over. “Kieran?”</p> <p>One of them was stamping, swatting at his vest. “I-” he crackled over the radio. “I-”</p> <p>As the guards formed a perimeter, the rats dropped out of his clothing like a squirming, entwined wave. In an instant, they were on top of the guard crew, although the bulk of them were clumped over Kieran's screaming form. It appeared to be creating them- which was unusual-</p> <p>“Oh fuck,” said someone, “I see scorpions.”</p> <p>The rest of the guard team went down shortly.</p> <p>“Kieran?” Sophia said calmly. “Just relax, and try to take control. They'll listen to you.”</p> <p>“No,” said the man's voice, high-pitched- “I can't- they want-” There was a shriek, as a rat bit into his ear, and then tossed its head (and the dismembered communication unit) to the side. More and more of them filled the room to flooding.</p> <p>Sophia reached over, and turned off the unit. Elliot appeared in the security room.</p> <p>“We have firebreathers in the surrounding hallways.”</p> <p>“Tell them to go when they see the horde.”</p> <hr/> <p>027 bore down, covered in a cloak of rats and insects and now flapping crows. But the fire melted them away, and his body blistered and burnt out of recognition milliseconds later.</p> <p>When 027 woke again, it woke in the body of one of the flamethrower-carriers. The primary consciousness attempted to rebel, before a new mind- fractured into the bodies of a million tiny creatures- won over, and carried it to its goal.</p> <hr/> <p>“Wait,” said Sophia, “God, wait, stop. It's not the host- it's the effect. It's jumping bodies. Call them off now.”</p> <p>Elliot hesitated for just a second. “All units retreat from Sub-Floor J. Do not engage.”</p> <p>“Circumstances <em>have changed</em>,” Sophia enunciated. “I think it's running till it has to stop, killing its host, then picking up the next closest one and… gaining control, somehow. Maybe it's forcing a direction?”</p> <p>“You don't know where?”</p> <p>“No. But if it is going somewhere, it looks like upstairs. We need to nonlethally turn it back, or it'll ride Security up to ground level.”</p> <hr/> <p>The Svalbard site's location had certain advantages. Minutes later, two million gallons of electrified seawater flooded 027's level. A tide of rats and centipedes hit it and drowned, and then a redoubled number crawled out over the corpses of the others, and bound into a tight raft. But 027 sank when it stood on it, and its host, instinct momentarily dominating, paddled to the surface for air.</p> <hr/> <p>“That'll stop it for minutes.”</p> <p>“Minutes, or maybe longer if its host keeps control, look-”</p> <p>Over the camera, they saw a dozen rats chew a gaping hole in 027's neck. The body slumped face-down in the water.</p> <p>“Oh.”</p> <hr/> <p>“Light,” said Barculo, “It's jumped to Keter and it's going to get out. We need to-”</p> <p>“I know,” said Sophia. She pressed a button. “All personnel, we are beginning a Class 1 Evacuation. Evacuation units assemble. An area of five kilometers around the site will become impassible within twenty minutes.”</p> <p>She turned to Elliot. “With all external doors sealed except the one to the airfield, even if 027 keeps producing rodents, it'll have to literally fill the place to bursting before it can get a host out. If we start shutting down level by level now, we can recover at least 50% of the objects…”</p> <p>Barculo froze, then saw the look on her face. He nodded. “Keep monitoring- I'll delay a group and we'll get the second-to-last flight out.” He stood up.</p> <p>“Elliot? Have you ever called an evac- of this magnitude- before?”</p> <p>“No. I don't envy you. You know Garrison's still down there, right?”</p> <p>Sophia stared at the screens. “I know.”</p> <hr/> <p>When the sirens started up, Johanna had found a group of agents escorting a transport unit with an enraged 1075, and an armload of other objects, out to evacuate. She took over operations, guiding the motorized unit down the hallway, as some stood guard and others kept an eye on containment. As they neared the elevator, the agent on point froze, and gestured to the others.</p> <p>A long tentacle of black gas floated out of the adjacent corner. The sound of millions of tiny feet.</p> <p>“Don't shoot it,” said Johanna, and then, as it rounded the corner, “Get back-” but that hadn't really been the right thing to say. How had it gotten up the stairs? What properties did it have?</p> <p>Oh. Of course. Host bodies. What a fool she was.</p> <p>In came a swarm of wriggling vermin that went up to her stomach, but they didn't make a move.</p> <p>“<em>I HAVE OBSERVED YOU</em>,” the gaping throat of the guard mouthed. “<em>YOU SAW MY MANY EYES AND THOUGHT THEY WOULD NOT LOOK BACK. NOW I AM ASCENDED, AND THE EARTH IS MINE, AND THE LAST I REQUIRE OF YOU IS ONLY A FINAL BODY, MY STEED, AND ONE LAST PATH INTO THE DAY</em>.”</p> <p>The black horse- Suddenly, calmly, Johanna understood. It was obvious. She pressed her earpiece on.</p> <p>“I know who you are,” said Johanna.</p> <p>“Johanna?” Gabriel Bryant asked, over the radio.</p> <p>A crow, which looked like it had been pilfering fields for decades, landed on its shoulder and inched closer to 027's face.</p> <p>A second too late, she remembered that the lanyard on her neck had her security card, and its Level Four override privileges. Her own brain could supply the rest of the codes.</p> <p>“<em>YOU KNOW. DO NOT FEAR</em>.”</p> <p>The crow tore out 027's throat.</p> <p>The thing that had been waiting inside 027 for millennia, the thing wearing the body of Dr. Johanna Garrison, jerkily snapped the lanyard off her neck, and slid it down with a passcode to unlock the unit's door. A black horse, with an ancient leather saddle, trotted out and nuzzled it.</p> <p>“I know you've been waiting for me,” 027 murmured. “Thank you.” Then it swung onto the horse's back with one hand. It breathed a darkly-colored sigh of relief as the leather fused into its hand, and the river of clicking and crawling and flapping beasts fell into marching order. All was well.</p> <p>Outside of the Site, and its perimeter facilities and defenses, a long, sloping, desolately beautiful beach lead out to sea ice. 027 surveyed from its perch, and cocked its head. 1075 stepped across the ice and onto the surface of the water, radiating black miasma.</p> <p>“<em>WE HEAR YOU, AND WE ANSWER YOUR CALL</em>,” said 027, to the open air. It turned around. “<em>MY MOST LOYAL FOLLOWERS, LET ME LEAD YOU FINALLY TO YOUR REWARD</em>.”</p> <p>The black horse, the rider, and their growing cohort and raft of vermin started out across the glass-smooth ocean, just as the first wave of light from the Svalbard Site hit them. The blinding, desperate blast behind them, they cantered calmly forward.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/internal-memo-regarding-a-theft">Interlude: A Memo Regarding a Theft</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/last-words-from-svalbard">Interlude: Last Words from Svalbard</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-black-horse">The Black Horse (The Crawling Sea)</a>" by Sophia Light, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-black-horse">https://scpwiki.com/the-black-horse</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a day's wage, and three measures of barley for a day's wage; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine. --------------- “You know,” said Johanna, looking over Sophia's shoulder. They were in Containment's Command Central, monitoring a dozen feeds of 027's cell. Containment was currently being redoubled by agents and guards, with more watching nearby objects. 027 itself was currently curled up and motionless, and had been since last night. “This isn't how I expected you to react.” “How do you mean?” “Well, this, fine. If the Big Lady told me to watch out, I get it, I'd watch out. But way back when I taught you, it was all 'calculated risks and rewards.' And a multiple-site break-out scenario isn't unprecedented. But now, you're acting more paranoid than Elliot.” Sophia made a noncommittal noise, peering at a camera feed. “Is this recent? I mean, I hadn't seen you for years, you come back and act like this- was it one of your assignments? Maybe that agent from 14 you had something with, what's his name, Lament?” “No. No,” said Sophia, looking up. “I mean- no, not that. I... had a visitor last night.” She paused. “990.” “//Shit//, why didn't you say anything?” “Because he told me to be suspicious of people here, and he's not known for giving bad advice.” “You trust me, though?” Sophia looked over. “Well, a swami and one of my exes told me I should 'trust my intuitions'. Shit, Johanna: yes, I trust you.” She almost cracked a smile. Johanna fastened her hands around her hips. “Well, me too. I'm glad you came back.” Sophia paused, looked up at her former mentor. “Thanks.” Then turned her eyes again to the camera feed, and stood up. “Sorry, I think I need to go look at this in person. The surrounding areas, anyways. I, just... Just in case.” “I'll take a look. Don't worry.” Johanna brushed towards the door. “Besides, you're eyes-on-high.” “Really? Thanks. Thank you.” Sophia glanced over, then back. “Don't get too close.” Moments later, she was alone in the room. ---- At four in the afternoon, SCP-027's outline began to shift. This was immediately reported by the guards on duty, who relayed it to the higher-ups. It stayed like that, little tremors, for a minute longer. Then its clothes burst, and out came the mice. No one could possibly imagine where they came from. They formed waves and pools and little rivulets on the floor, climbed the walls, slid through the grated floors and clogged up the intake for the incinerator. Then they climbed one another, forming a fungus-like, agouti-and-black mass in the center of the cell. The guards watched, horrified, as the host of 027 was lifted. He faced the plate-glass wall, with his arms held out- beseeching, Christ-like. His mouth was ripped and spotted with with bloody, tiny mousetracks. It occurred to Sophia that he must have died within minutes. “Listen,” she pans in over the guard's earpieces, “I'm sorry, but 027 relies on carriers once its host dies, and any one of you could be it. You're going to need to separate yourselves and leave the room one at a time. Closest to the door, you first.” Priority number one: Contain potential new carriers. Two: Destroy created vermin. Three: Watch for any further developments... “Director?” A voice keyed in on the radio. “Just saw a rat run past my foot.” The one who had spoken, looked over. “Kieran?” One of them was stamping, swatting at his vest. “I-” he crackled over the radio. “I-” As the guards formed a perimeter, the rats dropped out of his clothing like a squirming, entwined wave. In an instant, they were on top of the guard crew, although the bulk of them were clumped over Kieran's screaming form. It appeared to be creating them- which was unusual- “Oh fuck,” said someone, “I see scorpions.” The rest of the guard team went down shortly. “Kieran?” Sophia said calmly. “Just relax, and try to take control. They'll listen to you.” “No,” said the man's voice, high-pitched- “I can't- they want-” There was a shriek, as a rat bit into his ear, and then tossed its head (and the dismembered communication unit) to the side. More and more of them filled the room to flooding. Sophia reached over, and turned off the unit. Elliot appeared in the security room. “We have firebreathers in the surrounding hallways.” “Tell them to go when they see the horde.” ------- 027 bore down, covered in a cloak of rats and insects and now flapping crows. But the fire melted them away, and his body blistered and burnt out of recognition milliseconds later. When 027 woke again, it woke in the body of one of the flamethrower-carriers. The primary consciousness attempted to rebel, before a new mind- fractured into the bodies of a million tiny creatures- won over, and carried it to its goal. ------- “Wait,” said Sophia, “God, wait, stop. It's not the host- it's the effect. It's jumping bodies. Call them off now.” Elliot hesitated for just a second. “All units retreat from Sub-Floor J. Do not engage.” “Circumstances //have changed//,” Sophia enunciated. “I think it's running till it has to stop, killing its host, then picking up the next closest one and... gaining control, somehow. Maybe it's forcing a direction?” “You don't know where?” “No. But if it is going somewhere, it looks like upstairs. We need to nonlethally turn it back, or it'll ride Security up to ground level.” ------ The Svalbard site's location had certain advantages. Minutes later, two million gallons of electrified seawater flooded 027's level. A tide of rats and centipedes hit it and drowned, and then a redoubled number crawled out over the corpses of the others, and bound into a tight raft. But 027 sank when it stood on it, and its host, instinct momentarily dominating, paddled to the surface for air. ------- “That'll stop it for minutes.” “Minutes, or maybe longer if its host keeps control, look-” Over the camera, they saw a dozen rats chew a gaping hole in 027's neck. The body slumped face-down in the water. “Oh.” ---------- “Light,” said Barculo, “It's jumped to Keter and it's going to get out. We need to-” “I know,” said Sophia. She pressed a button. “All personnel, we are beginning a Class 1 Evacuation. Evacuation units assemble. An area of five kilometers around the site will become impassible within twenty minutes.” She turned to Elliot. “With all external doors sealed except the one to the airfield, even if 027 keeps producing rodents, it'll have to literally fill the place to bursting before it can get a host out. If we start shutting down level by level now, we can recover at least 50% of the objects...” Barculo froze, then saw the look on her face. He nodded. “Keep monitoring- I'll delay a group and we'll get the second-to-last flight out.” He stood up. “Elliot? Have you ever called an evac- of this magnitude- before?” “No. I don't envy you. You know Garrison's still down there, right?” Sophia stared at the screens. “I know.” ------ When the sirens started up, Johanna had found a group of agents escorting a transport unit with an enraged 1075, and an armload of other objects, out to evacuate. She took over operations, guiding the motorized unit down the hallway, as some stood guard and others kept an eye on containment. As they neared the elevator, the agent on point froze, and gestured to the others. A long tentacle of black gas floated out of the adjacent corner. The sound of millions of tiny feet. “Don't shoot it,” said Johanna, and then, as it rounded the corner, “Get back-” but that hadn't really been the right thing to say. How had it gotten up the stairs? What properties did it have? Oh. Of course. Host bodies. What a fool she was. In came a swarm of wriggling vermin that went up to her stomach, but they didn't make a move. “//I HAVE OBSERVED YOU//,” the gaping throat of the guard mouthed. “//YOU SAW MY MANY EYES AND THOUGHT THEY WOULD NOT LOOK BACK. NOW I AM ASCENDED, AND THE EARTH IS MINE, AND THE LAST I REQUIRE OF YOU IS ONLY A FINAL BODY, MY STEED, AND ONE LAST PATH INTO THE DAY//.” The black horse- Suddenly, calmly, Johanna understood. It was obvious. She pressed her earpiece on. “I know who you are,” said Johanna. “Johanna?” Gabriel Bryant asked, over the radio. A crow, which looked like it had been pilfering fields for decades, landed on its shoulder and inched closer to 027's face. A second too late, she remembered that the lanyard on her neck had her security card, and its Level Four override privileges. Her own brain could supply the rest of the codes. “//YOU KNOW. DO NOT FEAR//.” The crow tore out 027's throat. The thing that had been waiting inside 027 for millennia, the thing wearing the body of Dr. Johanna Garrison, jerkily snapped the lanyard off her neck, and slid it down with a passcode to unlock the unit's door. A black horse, with an ancient leather saddle, trotted out and nuzzled it. “I know you've been waiting for me,” 027 murmured. “Thank you.” Then it swung onto the horse's back with one hand. It breathed a darkly-colored sigh of relief as the leather fused into its hand, and the river of clicking and crawling and flapping beasts fell into marching order. All was well. Outside of the Site, and its perimeter facilities and defenses, a long, sloping, desolately beautiful beach lead out to sea ice. 027 surveyed from its perch, and cocked its head. 1075 stepped across the ice and onto the surface of the water, radiating black miasma. “//WE HEAR YOU, AND WE ANSWER YOUR CALL//,” said 027, to the open air. It turned around. “//MY MOST LOYAL FOLLOWERS, LET ME LEAD YOU FINALLY TO YOUR REWARD//.” The black horse, the rider, and their growing cohort and raft of vermin started out across the glass-smooth ocean, just as the first wave of light from the Svalbard Site hit them. The blinding, desperate blast behind them, they cantered calmly forward. ------------ [[=]] << [[[internal-memo-regarding-a-theft \| Interlude: A Memo Regarding a Theft]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Last Words from Svalbard\|Interlude: Last Words from Svalbard]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-06T04:47:00	[ "_licensebox", "breakout", "competitive-eschatology", "doctor-light", "horror", "nyc2013", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Black Horse (The Crawling Sea) - SCP Foundation	116	[ "internal-memo-regarding-a-theft", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "last-words-from-svalbard", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16308485	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-black-horse
the-blind-leading	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Is the Hornet for You?</strong></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>An Exciting New Offer from the Seeing Eye</strong></em></p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>First encountered by Foundation personnel in northern Michigan, 1988. Primary containment significantly hindered by recovering MTF's lack of appropriate equipment. Creator motives impossible to speculate.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>The Seeing Eye has served a wide variety of blind persons since its inception in 1929. Today, our innovative genetic technicians are bringing the tremendous helping potential of the Japanese Giant Hornet to thousands of blind individuals across the globe. As we enter this bold new era, we have found that candidates demonstrating certain traits experience vastly greater success rates as hornet Guide handlers. These traits include:<br/> 1. Physical, mental and emotional capability to handle the stress and potential physical trauma of training with a Seeing Eye hornet, as determined by references and agency referrals, personal interview and physician’s report. Applicant must be between the ages of 16 and 75, motivated and emotionally stable, and unperturbed by large insects.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>First responders recovered some four hundred specimens and these have been transferred to the Nakagawa Maximum Security Veterinary Facility. Prior to memory modification, those civilians who survived the initial contact expressed a continued interest in the advertised qualities of the hornet Guides.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>2. A realistic plan of use for a Seeing Eye hornet as determined by personal references, applicant explanation, agency referrals and personal interview. Applicant must have an active daily routine which would provide independent travel destinations for the hornet.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Exhibit extreme caution when approaching or handling as the Seeing Eye's nanomolecular modifications to hornet exoskeletons render ordinary anti-sting material useless.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>3. A degree of sensory perception such that the applicant might quickly euthanize a Seeing Eye hornet, should such action become necessary.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>The intense possessiveness SCP-3285 demonstrates towards its chosen handlers should not be misinterpreted as loyalty or affection. Sightlessness has proven no deterrent to attack.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>4. A clean living and working environment conducive to safe and successful use and care of a Seeing Eye hornet, including supplies for the treatment of any resulting injuries, as determined by application and personal interview.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>No employee of the Seeing Eye has thus far admitted responsibility, much less knowledge, of the creature prior to Foundation recovery efforts, but interrogations are ongoing.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>5. Necessary maturity, temperament, and pain threshold to handle the responsibilities of caring for a Seeing Eye hornet.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>In swarms, the animals exhibit tremendous hostility and vicious cooperation. 100% of victims experience severe allergic reactions within ten hours of the sting even when no previous allergy existed, the onset of these symptoms being considered the start of the eight-hour fatality window.</em></p> <blockquote> <p>The Seeing Eye, Inc., does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, or national and ethnic origin, although the hornets might.</p> </blockquote> <p style="text-align: center;">…</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><em>Actually pretty effective guides.</em></p> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-blind-leading">The Blind Leading</a>" by Vezaz, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-blind-leading">https://scpwiki.com/the-blind-leading</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > = Is the Hornet for You? > = //An Exciting New Offer from the Seeing Eye// = //First encountered by Foundation personnel in northern Michigan, 1988. Primary containment significantly hindered by recovering MTF's lack of appropriate equipment. Creator motives impossible to speculate.// > The Seeing Eye has served a wide variety of blind persons since its inception in 1929. Today, our innovative genetic technicians are bringing the tremendous helping potential of the Japanese Giant Hornet to thousands of blind individuals across the globe. As we enter this bold new era, we have found that candidates demonstrating certain traits experience vastly greater success rates as hornet Guide handlers. These traits include: > > 1. Physical, mental and emotional capability to handle the stress and potential physical trauma of training with a Seeing Eye hornet, as determined by references and agency referrals, personal interview and physician’s report. Applicant must be between the ages of 16 and 75, motivated and emotionally stable, and unperturbed by large insects. = //First responders recovered some four hundred specimens and these have been transferred to the Nakagawa Maximum Security Veterinary Facility. Prior to memory modification, those civilians who survived the initial contact expressed a continued interest in the advertised qualities of the hornet Guides.// > 2. A realistic plan of use for a Seeing Eye hornet as determined by personal references, applicant explanation, agency referrals and personal interview. Applicant must have an active daily routine which would provide independent travel destinations for the hornet. = //Exhibit extreme caution when approaching or handling as the Seeing Eye's nanomolecular modifications to hornet exoskeletons render ordinary anti-sting material useless.// > 3. A degree of sensory perception such that the applicant might quickly euthanize a Seeing Eye hornet, should such action become necessary. = //The intense possessiveness SCP-3285 demonstrates towards its chosen handlers should not be misinterpreted as loyalty or affection. Sightlessness has proven no deterrent to attack.// > 4. A clean living and working environment conducive to safe and successful use and care of a Seeing Eye hornet, including supplies for the treatment of any resulting injuries, as determined by application and personal interview. = //No employee of the Seeing Eye has thus far admitted responsibility, much less knowledge, of the creature prior to Foundation recovery efforts, but interrogations are ongoing.// > 5. Necessary maturity, temperament, and pain threshold to handle the responsibilities of caring for a Seeing Eye hornet. = //In swarms, the animals exhibit tremendous hostility and vicious cooperation. 100% of victims experience severe allergic reactions within ten hours of the sting even when no previous allergy existed, the onset of these symptoms being considered the start of the eight-hour fatality window.// > The Seeing Eye, Inc., does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, or national and ethnic origin, although the hornets might. = ... = //Actually pretty effective guides.// [[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>]]	2013-09-10T01:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Blind Leading - SCP Foundation	30	[ "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" ]	[]	19746305	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-blind-leading
the-bloody-autumn	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Agent Mathews awoke to the sound of gunfire. Then laughter. Chilling, inhuman laughter, filling the air from everywhere.</p> <p>Mathews had fallen asleep at his post, the radio tower several yards away from the main Site. Satellite Site-66, Zone-097. The Pumpkin Patch, as it was known to the researchers and security tasked with looking after it. A younger Agent, Mathews had been stationed here for the better part of a year now; the most ‘excitement’ he’d enjoyed was when the cherry tree grew human eyes last month.</p> <p>He rubbed his eyes, confusion and panic welling up inside him. Blinking the sleep away, he opened his eyes to see a figure staring back at him; a child with pale skin, oily black eyes, and bloodied teeth.</p> <p>It screamed.</p> <hr/> <p>One week earlier, a hundred and fifty miles away, a television in a dingy basement flickered to life.</p> <p>“This just won’t do.” A colourful, sinister figure stood with its arms crossed, looking out the box with a disappointed expression. The being watching the television snorted awake. Tall, broad, a being of wood and wire and chain and cloth, of thorn and barb. A living scarecrow, brought to life by a stray bolt of lightning years ago. A bastardization of nature, neither alive or dead.</p> <p>“I’d have expected that a creature like <em>you</em> would have better things to do than waste your life watching television.” sighed Bobble. “Honestly. What a sad, sad picture.”</p> <p>“… Do I know you?” murmured the being. “Feel like I should know you.”</p> <hr/> <p>Mathews screamed in terror. He stumbled out of his chair, tripping over himself, running as fast as he could out of the room and down the hall. The building was dark; quiet laughter followed him, closing in fast.</p> <p>Bursting through the station's emergency exit, Mathews stumbled and fell, scrambling to keep on his feet. It was raining, and nighttime; a cool wind blew, one which would be refreshingly brisk in any other context. The main complex’s floodlights flickered on and off, power surging randomly; the wilderness around the complex was pitch black otherwise. Mathews could hear gunfire and voices he recognized, each cut far too short to imply survival. The site-wide breach alarm began to wail; it too, was cut short mid-scream.</p> <p>The lights all faded at once, the dark closing in totally. After what felt like an eternity, a pale yellow glow surrounded Mathews. Disembodied flames danced high above; pavement had been replaced with lush grass and ragged brush; hundreds and hundreds of pumpkins covered the landscape, for miles around. Dozens of glowing eyes peered through the dark, a chorus of giggles rising through the dim.</p> <p>He ran.</p> <hr/> <p>“So yor telling me…” the scarecrow in the basement knelt on one wooden knee, at eye-level with Bobble. “Yor the Horseman of War…"</p> <p>“And you <em>know</em> this. You <em>understand</em> it. You can <em>see</em> what I am, can't you, scarecrow?”</p> <p>The entity made a sound like a creaking wooden door; a snerk, perhaps? “What c'n I do for you?”</p> <p>“For lack of a better phrase, I want you to <em>bloom</em>.” Bobble grinned. “Seeing you like this breaks my <em>heart</em>. You had such potential. Such <em>promise</em>. Whatever happened to you?”</p> <p>“The fucking scientists and creep-killers. They’re on to me. Almost got me last time. Jus’ gotta lay low for a while. Find a new haunt.”</p> <p>“Mm. So you're <em>hiding</em> in a shack in the woods, with stolen electricity, wasting your life away." Bobble tsk-tsk'd.</p> <p>"Fuck off, clown."</p> <p>"What if…" Bobble offered, ignoring the cuss. "What if I were to tell you… that I could give you a way to <em>beat</em> them. To become <em>more</em>. More than an urban legend?”</p> <p>"… I'm listenin," muttered the entity.</p> <p>"A friend of mine- a <em>very</em> good friend, you'd like him- went and borrowed an item you might find interesting, from our mutual enemies."</p> <hr/> <p>All at once a chorus of laughter welled up from the wilderness surrounding the Zone-097. In panic, Mathews fled towards the failing floodlights, unable to think for fear. In his terror he passed the bloodied and torn bodies of past comrades; behind him, he could hear the sound of tiny feet splashing through pools of blood, chasing him through the dark.</p> <p>Mathews burst through the doors to the main containment yard, his foot catching on a root - he fell, tumbling face first into a pumpkin. It exploded from the force of the impact, hot blood splashing out everywhere, soaking Mathews. As he choked, trying to pick himself up, something grasped his neck; a tiny, skeletal hand, reaching out from the remains of the pumpkin.</p> <hr/> <p>"Yor types always got a catch."</p> <p>"Oh, I don't know… I'm War, after all, and this IS the autumn of the world. The coming of the Great Harvest and all that." Bobble adjusted his gloves, smirking proudly. "It's all <em>very</em> meaningful. And we <em>do</em> have a history, you and I."</p> <p>The scarecrow peered back at the clown, shifting in its seat. "Is that right?"</p> <p>"Oh, yes. You came to life when some horrid human kids tried to summon a demon, <em>didn't</em> you?" Bobble's expression changed subtly. "I have a <em>thing</em> for kids. I have a show <em>just</em> for them, see. I teach them all sorts of <em>wonderful</em> things. Murder, arson, torture, all the <em>fun</em> stuff. I wonder what I taught those horrid kids that made you?"</p> <p>The demon leered. "… Yor telling me…"</p> <p>"Yes. <em>Yes</em> you get it now."</p> <hr/> <p>Struggling, Mathews threw the bloody skeleton away to shatter against a tree. He wiped the blood from his eyes; slowly, he realized that everything stopped. The wind, the rain, the screaming and the laughter. Everything was utterly silent.</p> <p>He slowly, shakily, turned to look behind him. Dozens of figures quietly watched him, surrounding him in a wide circle and trapping him away from any exits. Some sat on the containment wall, others peeked out from behind pumpkins and trees.</p> <p>Some were indistinct grey and black shadows. Others were almost human, save for sallow skin. Still others were simply skeletal, holding blankets or stuffed animals in a twisted charade of innocent life.</p> <p>The rustle of leaves behind him made him jolt.</p> <hr/> <p>"The world is <em>ending</em>, Scarecrow. And I am <em>War</em>." Bobble spread his arms, hands outstretched. "It's the Great Autumn, and time for a bloody harvest. The fruits of the age of Man are <em>ripe</em> and <em>ready</em>."</p> <p>There was a knock at the door. The Scarecrow paused, narrowing his eyes.</p> <p>"A special delivery. Oh yes, yes. Go on. Open the door."</p> <hr/> <p>Mathews looked back, frozen in terror. A figure - the Scarecrow- loomed up behind him, eyes burning like coals. It laughed; a horrible sound, like a drowning cat.</p> <hr/> <p>"This is your army. Delivered by <em>Fear itself</em>."</p> <p>"All of em?"</p> <p>"So long as you hold that flute. And there's more."</p> <p>"Yeah?"</p> <p>"Tell me… do the words 'haunted pumpkin patch' mean anything to you?"</p> <hr/> <p>The Scarecrow struck, slashing Agent Mathews' throat, laughing and kicking him aside. All at once the children around him - the ghosts, the wraiths, the undead, the unliving - howled in a hellish chorus.</p> <p>The sounds of drums and pipes began to drown out the din, the sky splitting in a peal of thunder. The Scarecrow turned to the centre of the containment yard, eyes burning like coal, fires burning in the sky.</p> <p>All of SCP-097 - the ruined fairgrounds, the trees, the tangled thorns and vines, the hundreds of pumpkins - suddenly shifted, the myriad plants uprooting and crawling to one side or another. It was as if the entire place had awoken and was now standing at attention.</p> <hr/> <p>"Oi, Clown. Tell me somethin."</p> <p>"Hmm? Anything for you, my friend."</p> <p>"What's in this for you?"</p> <p>"Oh, silly, silly Scarecrow. You haven't got a brain, have you? I am <em>War</em>. It wouldn't be a very good <em>war</em> without a <em>general</em>, would it?" Bobble replied with a sly grin. "And what better general to have in the autumn of man, than the symbol of harvest itself? A walking Scarecrow, riding the physical heart of Autumn, leading an army of dead children forth in a bloody harvest. It's all <em>very</em> metaphorical. Don't you appreciate the imagery here?"</p> <p>The Scarecrow paused a moment, considering the logic. A low creak escaped its throat, something between a sigh of contentment and a grunt of approval.</p> <p>"I love it."</p> <hr/> <p>SCP-097-1, the great pumpkin at the heart of the chaos, began to pulse, like a heart. Slow at first, it began to beat faster and faster, the drums and pipes beating and singing in time with the light. The Scarecrow approached, holding the pied pipe to its twisted wooden lips.</p> <p>A new song began.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-pale-horse">The Pale Horse (The Wayward Children)</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/stirrings">Stirrings</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-bloody-autumn">The Bloody Autumn</a>" by Dexanote, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-bloody-autumn">https://scpwiki.com/the-bloody-autumn</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 Mathews awoke to the sound of gunfire. Then laughter. Chilling, inhuman laughter, filling the air from everywhere. Mathews had fallen asleep at his post, the radio tower several yards away from the main Site. Satellite Site-66, Zone-097. The Pumpkin Patch, as it was known to the researchers and security tasked with looking after it. A younger Agent, Mathews had been stationed here for the better part of a year now; the most ‘excitement’ he’d enjoyed was when the cherry tree grew human eyes last month. He rubbed his eyes, confusion and panic welling up inside him. Blinking the sleep away, he opened his eyes to see a figure staring back at him; a child with pale skin, oily black eyes, and bloodied teeth. It screamed. ------ One week earlier, a hundred and fifty miles away, a television in a dingy basement flickered to life. “This just won’t do.” A colourful, sinister figure stood with its arms crossed, looking out the box with a disappointed expression. The being watching the television snorted awake. Tall, broad, a being of wood and wire and chain and cloth, of thorn and barb. A living scarecrow, brought to life by a stray bolt of lightning years ago. A bastardization of nature, neither alive or dead. “I’d have expected that a creature like //you// would have better things to do than waste your life watching television.” sighed Bobble. “Honestly. What a sad, sad picture.” “… Do I know you?” murmured the being. “Feel like I should know you.” ------ Mathews screamed in terror. He stumbled out of his chair, tripping over himself, running as fast as he could out of the room and down the hall. The building was dark; quiet laughter followed him, closing in fast. Bursting through the station's emergency exit, Mathews stumbled and fell, scrambling to keep on his feet. It was raining, and nighttime; a cool wind blew, one which would be refreshingly brisk in any other context. The main complex’s floodlights flickered on and off, power surging randomly; the wilderness around the complex was pitch black otherwise. Mathews could hear gunfire and voices he recognized, each cut far too short to imply survival. The site-wide breach alarm began to wail; it too, was cut short mid-scream. The lights all faded at once, the dark closing in totally. After what felt like an eternity, a pale yellow glow surrounded Mathews. Disembodied flames danced high above; pavement had been replaced with lush grass and ragged brush; hundreds and hundreds of pumpkins covered the landscape, for miles around. Dozens of glowing eyes peered through the dark, a chorus of giggles rising through the dim. He ran. ------ “So yor telling me…” the scarecrow in the basement knelt on one wooden knee, at eye-level with Bobble. “Yor the Horseman of War..." “And you //know// this. You //understand// it. You can //see// what I am, can't you, scarecrow?” The entity made a sound like a creaking wooden door; a snerk, perhaps? “What c'n I do for you?” “For lack of a better phrase, I want you to //bloom//.” Bobble grinned. “Seeing you like this breaks my //heart//. You had such potential. Such //promise//. Whatever happened to you?” “The fucking scientists and creep-killers. They’re on to me. Almost got me last time. Jus’ gotta lay low for a while. Find a new haunt.” “Mm. So you're //hiding// in a shack in the woods, with stolen electricity, wasting your life away." Bobble tsk-tsk'd. "Fuck off, clown." "What if..." Bobble offered, ignoring the cuss. "What if I were to tell you… that I could give you a way to //beat// them. To become //more//. More than an urban legend?” "... I'm listenin," muttered the entity. "A friend of mine- a //very// good friend, you'd like him- went and borrowed an item you might find interesting, from our mutual enemies." ------ All at once a chorus of laughter welled up from the wilderness surrounding the Zone-097. In panic, Mathews fled towards the failing floodlights, unable to think for fear. In his terror he passed the bloodied and torn bodies of past comrades; behind him, he could hear the sound of tiny feet splashing through pools of blood, chasing him through the dark. Mathews burst through the doors to the main containment yard, his foot catching on a root - he fell, tumbling face first into a pumpkin. It exploded from the force of the impact, hot blood splashing out everywhere, soaking Mathews. As he choked, trying to pick himself up, something grasped his neck; a tiny, skeletal hand, reaching out from the remains of the pumpkin. ------ "Yor types always got a catch." "Oh, I don't know... I'm War, after all, and this IS the autumn of the world. The coming of the Great Harvest and all that." Bobble adjusted his gloves, smirking proudly. "It's all //very// meaningful. And we //do// have a history, you and I." The scarecrow peered back at the clown, shifting in its seat. "Is that right?" "Oh, yes. You came to life when some horrid human kids tried to summon a demon, //didn't// you?" Bobble's expression changed subtly. "I have a //thing// for kids. I have a show //just// for them, see. I teach them all sorts of //wonderful// things. Murder, arson, torture, all the //fun// stuff. I wonder what I taught those horrid kids that made you?" The demon leered. "... Yor telling me..." "Yes. //Yes// you get it now." ------ Struggling, Mathews threw the bloody skeleton away to shatter against a tree. He wiped the blood from his eyes; slowly, he realized that everything stopped. The wind, the rain, the screaming and the laughter. Everything was utterly silent. He slowly, shakily, turned to look behind him. Dozens of figures quietly watched him, surrounding him in a wide circle and trapping him away from any exits. Some sat on the containment wall, others peeked out from behind pumpkins and trees. Some were indistinct grey and black shadows. Others were almost human, save for sallow skin. Still others were simply skeletal, holding blankets or stuffed animals in a twisted charade of innocent life. The rustle of leaves behind him made him jolt. ------ "The world is //ending//, Scarecrow. And I am //War//." Bobble spread his arms, hands outstretched. "It's the Great Autumn, and time for a bloody harvest. The fruits of the age of Man are //ripe// and //ready//." There was a knock at the door. The Scarecrow paused, narrowing his eyes. "A special delivery. Oh yes, yes. Go on. Open the door." ------ Mathews looked back, frozen in terror. A figure - the Scarecrow- loomed up behind him, eyes burning like coals. It laughed; a horrible sound, like a drowning cat. ------ "This is your army. Delivered by //Fear itself//." "All of em?" "So long as you hold that flute. And there's more." "Yeah?" "Tell me... do the words 'haunted pumpkin patch' mean anything to you?" ------ The Scarecrow struck, slashing Agent Mathews' throat, laughing and kicking him aside. All at once the children around him - the ghosts, the wraiths, the undead, the unliving - howled in a hellish chorus. The sounds of drums and pipes began to drown out the din, the sky splitting in a peal of thunder. The Scarecrow turned to the centre of the containment yard, eyes burning like coal, fires burning in the sky. All of SCP-097 - the ruined fairgrounds, the trees, the tangled thorns and vines, the hundreds of pumpkins - suddenly shifted, the myriad plants uprooting and crawling to one side or another. It was as if the entire place had awoken and was now standing at attention. ------ "Oi, Clown. Tell me somethin." "Hmm? Anything for you, my friend." "What's in this for you?" "Oh, silly, silly Scarecrow. You haven't got a brain, have you? I am //War//. It wouldn't be a very good //war// without a //general//, would it?" Bobble replied with a sly grin. "And what better general to have in the autumn of man, than the symbol of harvest itself? A walking Scarecrow, riding the physical heart of Autumn, leading an army of dead children forth in a bloody harvest. It's all //very// metaphorical. Don't you appreciate the imagery here?" The Scarecrow paused a moment, considering the logic. A low creak escaped its throat, something between a sigh of contentment and a grunt of approval. "I love it." ------ SCP-097-1, the great pumpkin at the heart of the chaos, began to pulse, like a heart. Slow at first, it began to beat faster and faster, the drums and pipes beating and singing in time with the light. The Scarecrow approached, holding the pied pipe to its twisted wooden lips. A new song began. ------- [[=]] << [[[The Pale Horse\|The Pale Horse (The Wayward Children)]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Stirrings]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-06T04:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "bobble-the-clown", "competitive-eschatology", "horror", "nyc2013", "tale" ]	The Bloody Autumn - SCP Foundation	154	[ "the-pale-horse", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "stirrings", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16308487	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-bloody-autumn
the-circle-opens	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Night comes in early in Orinsville. The sun rises at seven AM exactly, every day, and by two PM has already begun its slow descent behind the mountains. Come four, it's fully dark. The only light comes from the moon, and even it is often obscured by the thick clouds. There are no stars. The citizens don't see anything unusual about this. To them, night is as mundane as wind or sun, and so is what comes with it.</p> <p>As the city travels deeper into gloom, it begins to change. The streets distort and shift, rearranging themselves into tangled webs of asphalt and dirt. Buildings grow, shrink, twist, until they no longer resemble normal structures but the constructions of a massive child. The sky lowers itself until it brushes their tips. The trees dance and push together, forming a wall around the town. The few remaining lights go out. Still, this is normal, and the people don't bother to notice anymore.</p> <p>Then They come. They're different each time, but a few things never change. There are always ten of them. They are always almost human. They never make a sound. And They always take one.</p> <p>Sometimes it's a house's brick. Sometimes it's a bush, or a toy. Sometimes it's a person. But They always take one thing.</p> <p>Even this doesn't bother the citizens anymore. They wake up and shrug, and wonder briefly what was taken. Then they go on with their lives. Night comes again. The cycle continues.</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-circle-opens">The Circle Opens</a>" by rumetzen, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-circle-opens">https://scpwiki.com/the-circle-opens</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] Night comes in early in Orinsville. The sun rises at seven AM exactly, every day, and by two PM has already begun its slow descent behind the mountains. Come four, it's fully dark. The only light comes from the moon, and even it is often obscured by the thick clouds. There are no stars. The citizens don't see anything unusual about this. To them, night is as mundane as wind or sun, and so is what comes with it. As the city travels deeper into gloom, it begins to change. The streets distort and shift, rearranging themselves into tangled webs of asphalt and dirt. Buildings grow, shrink, twist, until they no longer resemble normal structures but the constructions of a massive child. The sky lowers itself until it brushes their tips. The trees dance and push together, forming a wall around the town. The few remaining lights go out. Still, this is normal, and the people don't bother to notice anymore. Then They come. They're different each time, but a few things never change. There are always ten of them. They are always almost human. They never make a sound. And They always take one. Sometimes it's a house's brick. Sometimes it's a bush, or a toy. Sometimes it's a person. But They always take one thing. Even this doesn't bother the citizens anymore. They wake up and shrug, and wonder briefly what was taken. Then they go on with their lives. Night comes again. The cycle continues. [[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>]]	2013-02-19T23:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Circle Opens - SCP Foundation	15	[ "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" ]	[]	16457949	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-circle-opens
the-cool-kids	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> “Molly! Where’d you put my aubergines?” <p>“Your what?”</p> <p>“My aubergines!”</p> <p>“What the fuck is an aubergine?”</p> <p>“My eggplants! Where are they?”</p> <p>“Oh, them! I chucked them in the bin, they’d gone bad or something!”</p> <p>Joey Tamlin stopped yelling up the stairs. He walked over and fished his three ripe aubergines from the plastic bag that hung from their pantry door handle. Each of them had a large bite missing.</p> <p>“I was working on these!”</p> <p>“Work harder, they tasted like shit!”</p> <p>Joey sighed.</p> <p>“I was working on making them taste like shit!”</p> <p>“Oh! Good job then! Why were you making them taste like shit?”</p> <p>“I dunno! Art reasons! Thought it’d be fun!”</p> <p>“I told you, mark anything you fuck with! Stick notes on them or something!”</p> <p>“Alright, sorry!”</p> <p>Joey took a bite out of one of the aubergines, and was glad to note that it still tasted like human faecal matter. Thank goodness. He pulled out a pad of sticky notes, and moved pens around in the drawer until he found a sharp red one. Joey sketched in capital letters ‘ART, NOT FOOD’ and stuck it to the first aubergine, then did the same for the other two. He placed them to the side, picked up the communal fruit bowl from the kitchen and upended it.</p> <p>The apples, Joey thought, were a good idea. People ate apple slices, like, as finger food or whatever, didn’t they? That was a normal thing to be handing out. He could put them on toothpicks and everything, and have chocolate dipping sauce. OH! What if the apples tasted like chocolate, and the chocolate dipping sauce tasted like apples? Giggling to himself, Joey moved the apples next to the aubergines and added a small note, ‘CHOCOLATE SAUCE’.</p> <p>Mandarine oranges. The problem with messing with the taste of mandarines, he thought, was that they were segmented up into… uh… segments. He couldn’t modify the flavour wholesale unless he grew them again from scratch, and even if he bumped up the rate of growth, he was in the middle of the city, so there was nowhere open that he could reasonably grow them. Not to mention that increasing the rate of growth would require him to be watering it and holding a sunlight to it the whole time, unless he wanted it to be withered by morning. If he was going to change the flavour of a mandarine, he’d have to do it segment at a time. OH! What if every segment of the mandarine tasted completely different, and it’d all still be inside a closed peel? Stick every taste in the one thing. Perhaps make them all different kinds of meat flavours, and they can just be the ultimate indulgence for vegetarians. The texture of the mandarine flesh and the taste of steak were a horrible combination even in theory, but the purpose of this exercise was exploration, not improvement. Joey put them in the pile, sticking on the note ‘MEAT’.</p> <p>What about the bananas? Joey picked up one of the three, peeled it, took a bite, and chewed pensively. They were mushy and sticky in his mouth, an intriguing texture. What flavour would fit well with it, Joey thought? Not sweet, it was already sweet… lemons? Well, perhaps not a flavour as strong as actual lemons, but he could see it working. Joey moved the two remaining bananas to the pile, noting them ‘LEMONS’.</p> <p>Lemons. Joey marked them ‘BANANAS’ and moved on.</p> <p>Finally, a single clove of garlic. Joey wasn’t sure why the garlic was being kept in the fruitbowl, but wasn’t overly concerned. What texture did garlic even have, anyway? Joey had never eaten raw garlic, and imagined he probably didn’t want to. OH! What if he just left the garlic as is, and served it raw? Juxtaposition would make it perfect. He marked the garlic ‘GARLIC’, scooped everything back into the bowl, and moved it all over to the loungeroom table. Where to begin…</p> <p>The doorbell rang.</p> <p>Joey snapped out of his creative trance, his train of thought utterly derailed. He stood up, walked to the door, and flung it open. Tangerine was standing there in his Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.</p> <p>“Tan, you know it’s winter, right?”</p> <p>“Pfffff, this much is nothing. Spend a week in the north, you baby.”</p> <p>“You’re gonna get sick, man.”</p> <p>“Only thing I’m sick of is people telling me to wear more clothes.”</p> <p>Tangerine walked through the door, Joey closing it behind him.</p> <p>“Anyone else here?”</p> <p>“Just me and Molly, everyone else is out for the day.”</p> <p>Tangerine walked to the stairs and yelled up them.</p> <p>“Hey Mol!”</p> <p>“Hey Tan! Put on a jacket or something!”</p> <p>Tangerine looked back toward Joey.</p> <p>“How did she know?”</p> <p>“You never wear a jacket.”</p> <p>“Jackets are for snow.”</p> <p>Tangerine walked to the loungeroom and flopped down onto a chair. Joey started to follow him.</p> <p>The doorbell rang.</p> <p>Joey spun on his foot, walking back to the door and opening it again. Overgang Dood was standing in wait, his trademark sunglasses sitting comfortably on his nose.</p> <p>“Overgang!”</p> <p>“Joey. You heard about The Director?”</p> <p>“Huh?”</p> <p>“She ran an exploit play, stuck her in a coma. Rookie mistake, staying in the theatre.”</p> <p>“Seriously?”</p> <p>“Yeah. Friday’s still on, but nothing from Critic’s lot.”</p> <p>“Well. That makes this a lot easier.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Come on, I’ll explain to both of you.”</p> <p>“Wait, who else is here?”</p> <p>“Tan. Well, Tan and Molly.”</p> <p>Overgang walked to the stairs and yelled up them.</p> <p>“Hey Mol!”</p> <p>“Hey Overgang! How’s Carol?”</p> <p>“I haven’t been dating Carol for months!”</p> <p>“Oh! Sorry to hear that!”</p> <p>Overgang shook his head. He walked to the loungeroom, picking up an apple and joining Tangerine on the couch.</p> <p>“Hey Tan.”</p> <p>“Hey OG.”</p> <p>“Heard about The Director?”</p> <p>“Yeah, friend told me this morning.”</p> <p>“Who?”</p> <p>“A guy called Green. You wouldn’t know him.”</p> <p>“What does he do?”</p> <p>“Uh, him and his friends are art collectors.”</p> <p>It was true enough, Tangerine thought.</p> <p>“Should introduce us.”</p> <p>“Yeah, I reckon you’d get along great.”</p> <p>Joey joined them in the loungeroom.</p> <p>“Hey! Put the apple back in the bowl!”</p> <p>Overgang took a bite out of the apple, staring directly at Joey and chewing slowly with as much of a grin as one can muster with a mouthful of food. Tangerine snickered.</p> <p>“Whatever, I’ve got more.”</p> <p>“Anyway, why are we here?”</p> <p>“Alright. Okay. Wooo. Here it goes.”</p> <p>Joey breathed in, mentally preparing himself.</p> <p>“We need to get rid of The Critic.”</p> <p>Overgang and Tangerine stared at Joey’s uncertain, pleading face. Then they looked at each other quizzically, and then back. Overgang asked the question they both wanted answered.</p> <p>“Why?”</p> <p>“I don’t think you understand, I said we need to-”</p> <p>“Get rid of The Critic, yes. Why?”</p> <p>“Well, I was thinking about the exhibition on Friday, right, how it’s all being organised by The Critic’s lot, yeah?”</p> <p>“Yeah.”</p> <p>“Yeah, and pretty much all of the exhibitions that we go to are set up by him or another person with a ‘The’ in their name. They’re the ones driving our culture, right? They’re the ones who shape it, they choose the where and the when. And The Critic, his name itself implies authority, yeah? How long until their lot starts to dictate the why? They’re taking us and turning us into chesspieces, they’re pointing us towards venues and firing, and we’re just filing into line like mindless drones. That’s the opposite of the point. The whole point of us used to be to wake people up from being mindless drones, but with the way it’s going, The Critic’s taking us all and doing the SAME FUCKING THING!”</p> <p>Overgang sat staring, shocked.</p> <p>“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say fuck, Joey.”</p> <p>“Well, this is something worth swearing about.”</p> <p>Tangerine looked concerned.</p> <p>“Hey, what started this?”</p> <p>Joey held out a banged up Betamax tape.</p> <p>“I got this in the mail this morning. Opened my eyes a bit.”</p> <p>Tangerine looked at the tape, then passed it to Overgang. On the side of the tape, ‘GLORIOUS LEADERS WHILE TALKING (UNCUT)’ had been scribbled in felt-tip pen. Overgang examined the side, feeling along the plastic edge before commenting.</p> <p>“I didn’t know you had a Betamax player.”</p> <p>“I didn’t, Molly had one. You want to watch it?”</p> <p>“Give the gist to me in a sentence.”</p> <p>“Recorded video of a discussion between The Critic and the cameraman, followed by discussion amongst his cabal, followed by avid conversation between the lot of them about how they want to guide everyone. One of them literally calls us sheep.”</p> <p>Tangerine grimaced.</p> <p>“That’s pretty heavy handed.”</p> <p>“Yeah. I don’t take kindly to being herded.”</p> <p>“So then. ‘Get rid of The Critic’. You have a plan?”</p> <p>“Well, not necessarily ‘get rid of’, that’s a bit strong. Perhaps just ‘make irrelevant’. We need to take this stuff into our own hands, we need to show them that we don’t need to follow their lead, and we need to do this as soon as possible. Friday’s show is still on, and with The Director out of the picture, this is our best chance to show everyone that we can put on a show without the ‘shepherds’. Call everyone, call Arsehole, call Nibman, call Rita, call FTF, call Stanza, fuck, call Banksy if he’s in town. We get everyone at this exhibition and we show them we’re not their livestock, they can’t control us, we’re all equals and that’s the fucking point. The guys who think they rule us, who don’t actually do anything for themselves, who sit on our output and slap their labels on it, who mindlessly ask ‘Are We Cool Yet’? We’re going to answer that question on Friday. And our answer is Yes.”</p> <p>Tangerine and Overgang were struck mute. Joey began to panic.</p> <p>“Wait, did I say something stupid? What did I say?”</p> <p>Overgang regained his faculties.</p> <p>“No, no, no, that’s really good. That’s fucking gold, I wish I’d been recording that. Damn. Lemme call Arsehole’s lot and FTF, Tan, you know Nibman, right?”</p> <p>“Yeah, I’ve got Nibman on speed dial. You want Nate and Kyle, too?”</p> <p>“Everyone means everyone, Tan. Joey, what are you doing standing there? Call Stanza’s lot, Micah and Judith too! You said it yourself! Call everyone!”</p> <p>Joey pulled out his smartphone and started tapping the screen. Overgang was already on the line with Arsehole. Tangerine started calling Nibman, internally screaming at himself for doing so.</p> <p>Green was going to be pissed.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>Good artists copy, great artists steal. ~ <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Pablo Picasso</span> Me</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/and-then-what-happened">And Then What Happened?</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/final-attack-orders">Final Attack Orders</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-cool-kids">The Cool Kids</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-cool-kids">https://scpwiki.com/the-cool-kids</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] “Molly! Where’d you put my aubergines?” “Your what?” “My aubergines!” “What the fuck is an aubergine?” “My eggplants! Where are they?” “Oh, them! I chucked them in the bin, they’d gone bad or something!” Joey Tamlin stopped yelling up the stairs. He walked over and fished his three ripe aubergines from the plastic bag that hung from their pantry door handle. Each of them had a large bite missing. “I was working on these!” “Work harder, they tasted like shit!” Joey sighed. “I was working on making them taste like shit!” “Oh! Good job then! Why were you making them taste like shit?” “I dunno! Art reasons! Thought it’d be fun!” “I told you, mark anything you fuck with! Stick notes on them or something!” “Alright, sorry!” Joey took a bite out of one of the aubergines, and was glad to note that it still tasted like human faecal matter. Thank goodness. He pulled out a pad of sticky notes, and moved pens around in the drawer until he found a sharp red one. Joey sketched in capital letters ‘ART, NOT FOOD’ and stuck it to the first aubergine, then did the same for the other two. He placed them to the side, picked up the communal fruit bowl from the kitchen and upended it. The apples, Joey thought, were a good idea. People ate apple slices, like, as finger food or whatever, didn’t they? That was a normal thing to be handing out. He could put them on toothpicks and everything, and have chocolate dipping sauce. OH! What if the apples tasted like chocolate, and the chocolate dipping sauce tasted like apples? Giggling to himself, Joey moved the apples next to the aubergines and added a small note, ‘CHOCOLATE SAUCE’. Mandarine oranges. The problem with messing with the taste of mandarines, he thought, was that they were segmented up into… uh… segments. He couldn’t modify the flavour wholesale unless he grew them again from scratch, and even if he bumped up the rate of growth, he was in the middle of the city, so there was nowhere open that he could reasonably grow them. Not to mention that increasing the rate of growth would require him to be watering it and holding a sunlight to it the whole time, unless he wanted it to be withered by morning. If he was going to change the flavour of a mandarine, he’d have to do it segment at a time. OH! What if every segment of the mandarine tasted completely different, and it’d all still be inside a closed peel? Stick every taste in the one thing. Perhaps make them all different kinds of meat flavours, and they can just be the ultimate indulgence for vegetarians. The texture of the mandarine flesh and the taste of steak were a horrible combination even in theory, but the purpose of this exercise was exploration, not improvement. Joey put them in the pile, sticking on the note ‘MEAT’. What about the bananas? Joey picked up one of the three, peeled it, took a bite, and chewed pensively. They were mushy and sticky in his mouth, an intriguing texture. What flavour would fit well with it, Joey thought? Not sweet, it was already sweet… lemons? Well, perhaps not a flavour as strong as actual lemons, but he could see it working. Joey moved the two remaining bananas to the pile, noting them ‘LEMONS’. Lemons. Joey marked them ‘BANANAS’ and moved on. Finally, a single clove of garlic. Joey wasn’t sure why the garlic was being kept in the fruitbowl, but wasn’t overly concerned. What texture did garlic even have, anyway? Joey had never eaten raw garlic, and imagined he probably didn’t want to. OH! What if he just left the garlic as is, and served it raw? Juxtaposition would make it perfect. He marked the garlic ‘GARLIC’, scooped everything back into the bowl, and moved it all over to the loungeroom table. Where to begin… The doorbell rang. Joey snapped out of his creative trance, his train of thought utterly derailed. He stood up, walked to the door, and flung it open. Tangerine was standing there in his Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. “Tan, you know it’s winter, right?” “Pfffff, this much is nothing. Spend a week in the north, you baby.” “You’re gonna get sick, man.” “Only thing I’m sick of is people telling me to wear more clothes.” Tangerine walked through the door, Joey closing it behind him. “Anyone else here?” “Just me and Molly, everyone else is out for the day.” Tangerine walked to the stairs and yelled up them. “Hey Mol!” “Hey Tan! Put on a jacket or something!” Tangerine looked back toward Joey. “How did she know?” “You never wear a jacket.” “Jackets are for snow.” Tangerine walked to the loungeroom and flopped down onto a chair. Joey started to follow him. The doorbell rang. Joey spun on his foot, walking back to the door and opening it again. Overgang Dood was standing in wait, his trademark sunglasses sitting comfortably on his nose. “Overgang!” “Joey. You heard about The Director?” “Huh?” “She ran an exploit play, stuck her in a coma. Rookie mistake, staying in the theatre.” “Seriously?” “Yeah. Friday’s still on, but nothing from Critic’s lot.” “Well. That makes this a lot easier.” “What?” “Come on, I’ll explain to both of you.” “Wait, who else is here?” “Tan. Well, Tan and Molly.” Overgang walked to the stairs and yelled up them. “Hey Mol!” “Hey Overgang! How’s Carol?” “I haven’t been dating Carol for months!” “Oh! Sorry to hear that!” Overgang shook his head. He walked to the loungeroom, picking up an apple and joining Tangerine on the couch. “Hey Tan.” “Hey OG.” “Heard about The Director?” “Yeah, friend told me this morning.” “Who?” “A guy called Green. You wouldn’t know him.” “What does he do?” “Uh, him and his friends are art collectors.” It was true enough, Tangerine thought. “Should introduce us.” “Yeah, I reckon you’d get along great.” Joey joined them in the loungeroom. “Hey! Put the apple back in the bowl!” Overgang took a bite out of the apple, staring directly at Joey and chewing slowly with as much of a grin as one can muster with a mouthful of food. Tangerine snickered. “Whatever, I’ve got more.” “Anyway, why are we here?” “Alright. Okay. Wooo. Here it goes.” Joey breathed in, mentally preparing himself. “We need to get rid of The Critic.” Overgang and Tangerine stared at Joey’s uncertain, pleading face. Then they looked at each other quizzically, and then back. Overgang asked the question they both wanted answered. “Why?” “I don’t think you understand, I said we need to-” “Get rid of The Critic, yes. Why?” “Well, I was thinking about the exhibition on Friday, right, how it’s all being organised by The Critic’s lot, yeah?” “Yeah.” “Yeah, and pretty much all of the exhibitions that we go to are set up by him or another person with a ‘The’ in their name. They’re the ones driving our culture, right? They’re the ones who shape it, they choose the where and the when. And The Critic, his name itself implies authority, yeah? How long until their lot starts to dictate the why? They’re taking us and turning us into chesspieces, they’re pointing us towards venues and firing, and we’re just filing into line like mindless drones. That’s the opposite of the point. The whole point of us used to be to wake people up from being mindless drones, but with the way it’s going, The Critic’s taking us all and doing the SAME FUCKING THING!” Overgang sat staring, shocked. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say fuck, Joey.” “Well, this is something worth swearing about.” Tangerine looked concerned. “Hey, what started this?” Joey held out a banged up Betamax tape. “I got this in the mail this morning. Opened my eyes a bit.” Tangerine looked at the tape, then passed it to Overgang. On the side of the tape, ‘GLORIOUS LEADERS WHILE TALKING (UNCUT)’ had been scribbled in felt-tip pen. Overgang examined the side, feeling along the plastic edge before commenting. “I didn’t know you had a Betamax player.” “I didn’t, Molly had one. You want to watch it?” “Give the gist to me in a sentence.” “Recorded video of a discussion between The Critic and the cameraman, followed by discussion amongst his cabal, followed by avid conversation between the lot of them about how they want to guide everyone. One of them literally calls us sheep.” Tangerine grimaced. “That’s pretty heavy handed.” “Yeah. I don’t take kindly to being herded.” “So then. ‘Get rid of The Critic’. You have a plan?” “Well, not necessarily ‘get rid of’, that’s a bit strong. Perhaps just ‘make irrelevant’. We need to take this stuff into our own hands, we need to show them that we don’t need to follow their lead, and we need to do this as soon as possible. Friday’s show is still on, and with The Director out of the picture, this is our best chance to show everyone that we can put on a show without the ‘shepherds’. Call everyone, call Arsehole, call Nibman, call Rita, call FTF, call Stanza, fuck, call Banksy if he’s in town. We get everyone at this exhibition and we show them we’re not their livestock, they can’t control us, we’re all equals and that’s the fucking point. The guys who think they rule us, who don’t actually do anything for themselves, who sit on our output and slap their labels on it, who mindlessly ask ‘Are We Cool Yet’? We’re going to answer that question on Friday. And our answer is Yes.” Tangerine and Overgang were struck mute. Joey began to panic. “Wait, did I say something stupid? What did I say?” Overgang regained his faculties. “No, no, no, that’s really good. That’s fucking gold, I wish I’d been recording that. Damn. Lemme call Arsehole’s lot and FTF, Tan, you know Nibman, right?” “Yeah, I’ve got Nibman on speed dial. You want Nate and Kyle, too?” “Everyone means everyone, Tan. Joey, what are you doing standing there? Call Stanza’s lot, Micah and Judith too! You said it yourself! Call everyone!” Joey pulled out his smartphone and started tapping the screen. Overgang was already on the line with Arsehole. Tangerine started calling Nibman, internally screaming at himself for doing so. Green was going to be pissed. [[=]] Good artists copy, great artists steal. ~ --Pablo Picasso-- Me << [[[and-then-what-happened\|And Then What Happened?]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Final Attack Orders]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-12-01T13:34:00	[ "_licensebox", "are-we-cool-yet", "comedy", "fantasy", "spy-fiction", "tale", "the-critic" ]	The Cool Kids - SCP Foundation	170	[ "and-then-what-happened", "the-cool-war-hub", "final-attack-orders", "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" ]	[]	20822789	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-cool-kids
the-coward	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"It's good to see you awake, Nigel."</p> <p>Nigel gritted his teeth. He thought of screaming at the placid psychiatrist to his right, but he decided to just go with it. Less painful that way.</p> <p>"Nigel, I know you don't want me here, but we need to know why you did this."</p> <p>Nigel sat up in his infirmary bed wearing a grimace meant to look like an innocent smile. "Did what, Doctor?"</p> <p>The psychiatrist sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them with his shirt. "Nigel, they flushed the amnestic out of your system before it could take full effect. And even the memories it did erase aren't completely gone. You should know that better than anyone."</p> <p>"I don't know what you're talking about."</p> <p>"Look, Nigel, we know. We know that you gave yourself an unauthorized dose of Class A amnestics. We also know that you should be able to remember why. I can show you the blood toxin screenings, the brain scans, your responses to memetic triggers. I'm here to help you. I just want to talk."</p> <p>Nigel couldn't think of any response to that which wasn't screaming. After a long pause, the doctor changed tactics.</p> <p>"It's been a tough couple of months, hasn't it Nigel?" The psychiatrist didn't even bother waiting for a reply before tapping his clipboard with his pen. "Why, it says here that one of your brand new researchers succumbed to a cognitohazardous Fifthist propaganda page. It must have elicited some intense emotions."</p> <p><em>"Succumbed to a cognitohazardous Fifthist propaganda page". Bastards make it sound so damn clinical,</em> thought Nigel bitterly. <em>Esperanza didn't just succumb. Put up one hell of a fight against that skip. Maybe it would have been better for her if she hadn't. Maybe then she'd only be huffing corpses and chanting nonsense instead of downing Haldol and screaming nonsense.</em> A clear image of the eager young researcher flitting about the lab sliced its way through Nigel's awareness. He could see those big, bright brown eyes that looked…He flinched and buried his head into his pillow.</p> <p>The psychiatrist continued, unfazed. "Oh, and you were right in the middle of that CI ambush. Says that one of the agents dispatched to rescue you was shot right in front of you. That must have been horrific."</p> <p><em>I suppose 'horrific' can describe the smell of a good man's blood drenched in your clothes and hair, or the slimy texture of his grey matter on your cheek. Ben was a good man. A decisive man. Quick. I suppose he was all sorts of other things that I'll never know about.</em></p> <p>Something about remembering Agent Nguyen's mannerisms dredged up a dark sludge within Nigel. He clenched his fists next to his head, determined to remain in control. If the psychiatrist noticed (<em>If!</em>, Nigel thought bitterly) he did not show it.</p> <p>"I suppose this is the part where I conclude that you chose to cope with these deaths by forgetting them," said the psychiatrist in that hatefully bloodless voice. Nigel gave him a skull's grin meant as a gesture of agreement. It vanished as the psychiatrist continued. "That would be asinine, of course. A man of your genius wouldn't dose himself up the way you did to forget some passing acquaintances." The doctor continued placidly as Nigel began to sputter. "Oh, not that they didn't matter to you. But you were trying to forget something far deeper to your heart than some co-workers."</p> <p>Silence descended upon the infirmary.</p> <p>"Andrea has been worried about you, Nigel."</p> <p>Nigel allowed the rage to contort his face for a second before forcing it into a mask of serenity. "Who?"</p> <p>"I told you, we know the amnestic didn't work."</p> <p>"I don't know what you mean."</p> <p>"The conclusion is quite obvious. I'm hardly judging you, Nigel. Sharing a workplace with one's wife can lead to unbearable tension within a marriage. You'd clearly grown sick of her, but not sick enough to break her heart. An accidental dose of Forget-Me-Drops could be the catalyst you needed."</p> <p>"It's not like that."</p> <p>"Not to mention that Foundation hires seem to be getting more attractive by the year. You can hardly betray your marital vows with an intern if you don't remember making the vows in the first place."</p> <p>"Shut up! Shut up! You cold bastard with your fucking clipboard, you have no idea. You have no idea at all!" Some rational slice of Nigel Segerstrom knew he had snapped, but the rest of him didn't care.</p> <p>"Clearly I don't."</p> <p>"Damn right you don't! You fucker, you've never loved anyone as much as I loved Andrea. You don't even know what love is, Doctor." Nigel spat out the last word with all the contempt he could muster.</p> <p>"Explain it to me, Nigel. What is love?"</p> <p>"You fucking want to know what love is? You know the UIU? Let's pretend we liked them. Like, we really fucking like them. So much that we threw opsec out the window and told them everything. Everything. We tell them what 447 does to dead bodies. We tell them all the nasty details of 110-Montauk. And just to top off the love-fest, we give them some goddamn Keter and tell them 'hey, we like you guys so much we're just going to give you this and hope nothing bad happens'. And of course because we're talking about the UIU, they fuck up. They don't feed it at exactly the right time, or they cross test it with the wrong skip, and the entire goddamn Foundation crumbles. And once the shell-shocked survivors rebuild, once every fuckin' skip is back in its cell, you know what we do?"</p> <p>"What do we do, Nigel?"</p> <p>"We find the UIU and do it all over again. That's love."</p> <p>The psychiatrist pauses. "So your wife betrayed your trust, either through physical or emotional infidelity. I'm sorry to hear that, Nigel."</p> <p>Nigel threw the blankets off his bed, yanked his body to a sitting position, and screamed at the doctor. "She didn't betray shit, you fucking moron! She's the only goddamn person in this goddamn world that has my back no matter what. She's…she's…"</p> <p>"She's your Achilles heel," murmured the psychiatrist.</p> <p>Stricken, Nigel slumped back. The psychiatrist tapped his pen. Finally, Nigel spoke up in a hoarse whisper.</p> <p>"Do you realize, Doctor, that my wife works in one of the few institutions on the planet where one can die investigating a sack of potatoes?"</p> <p>"I'm very aware of that."</p> <p>"We have a children's cartoon that makes kids violently psychotic."</p> <p>"That's true."</p> <p>"Did you hear about the murderous teddy bear?"</p> <p>"Which one?"</p> <p>Nigel shot an inquisitive look at the psychiatrist. "What?"</p> <p>"Never mind," said the doctor quickly.</p> <p>Luckily, Nigel didn't press the matter further. Staring at the ceiling, he said quietly, "You'd think it's not that dangerous to be a Foundation psychiatrist, as opposed to an MTF agent or a researcher. I mean, you would. But our coworkers just don't understand that we're the first line of defense against pathological memes and cognitohazards. Bet you my life savings that no one in my med school has to worry about their wife dying or going irreversibly insane from reading some new book her boss wants her to look at."</p> <p>The psychiatrist studied Nigel for a while. "I think you're ready to tell me why you did what you did, Dr. Segerstrom."</p> <p>Nigel's shoulders sagged and he resigned himself to the tears leaking out of his face. "I wanted to forget my wife because I can't imagine life without her. All those deaths…I saw Andrea's face on both of their corpses."</p> <p>The psychiatrist steepled his hands together. "Was it worth it, Nigel?"</p> <p>"I…I don't know."</p> <p>"What are you going to do now, Nigel?" asked the psychiatrist in the mirror.</p> <p>Dr. Nigel Segerstrom, Foundation psychiatrist and devoted husband of Dr. Andrea Segerstrom, Foundation psychiatrist, looked blankly into the mirror to the right of his hospital bed. "I don't know," he whispered back.</p> <p>"Nigel, this is Nurse Petersen. There's someone here to see you."</p> <p>Nigel turned around. There was Nurse Petersen, warm and compassionate as ever, and the pale, drawn, lovely face of Andrea Segerstrom.</p> <p>Nigel didn't know what to do, but he did it anyway.</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-coward">The Coward</a>" by MissMercurial, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-coward">https://scpwiki.com/the-coward</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 good to see you awake, Nigel." Nigel gritted his teeth. He thought of screaming at the placid psychiatrist to his right, but he decided to just go with it. Less painful that way. "Nigel, I know you don't want me here, but we need to know why you did this." Nigel sat up in his infirmary bed wearing a grimace meant to look like an innocent smile. "Did what, Doctor?" The psychiatrist sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them with his shirt. "Nigel, they flushed the amnestic out of your system before it could take full effect. And even the memories it did erase aren't completely gone. You should know that better than anyone." "I don't know what you're talking about." "Look, Nigel, we know. We know that you gave yourself an unauthorized dose of Class A amnestics. We also know that you should be able to remember why. I can show you the blood toxin screenings, the brain scans, your responses to memetic triggers. I'm here to help you. I just want to talk." Nigel couldn't think of any response to that which wasn't screaming. After a long pause, the doctor changed tactics. "It's been a tough couple of months, hasn't it Nigel?" The psychiatrist didn't even bother waiting for a reply before tapping his clipboard with his pen. "Why, it says here that one of your brand new researchers succumbed to a cognitohazardous Fifthist propaganda page. It must have elicited some intense emotions." //"Succumbed to a cognitohazardous Fifthist propaganda page". Bastards make it sound so damn clinical,// thought Nigel bitterly. //Esperanza didn't just succumb. Put up one hell of a fight against that skip. Maybe it would have been better for her if she hadn't. Maybe then she'd only be huffing corpses and chanting nonsense instead of downing Haldol and screaming nonsense.// A clear image of the eager young researcher flitting about the lab sliced its way through Nigel's awareness. He could see those big, bright brown eyes that looked…He flinched and buried his head into his pillow. The psychiatrist continued, unfazed. "Oh, and you were right in the middle of that CI ambush. Says that one of the agents dispatched to rescue you was shot right in front of you. That must have been horrific." //I suppose 'horrific' can describe the smell of a good man's blood drenched in your clothes and hair, or the slimy texture of his grey matter on your cheek. Ben was a good man. A decisive man. Quick. I suppose he was all sorts of other things that I'll never know about.// Something about remembering Agent Nguyen's mannerisms dredged up a dark sludge within Nigel. He clenched his fists next to his head, determined to remain in control. If the psychiatrist noticed (//If!//, Nigel thought bitterly) he did not show it. "I suppose this is the part where I conclude that you chose to cope with these deaths by forgetting them," said the psychiatrist in that hatefully bloodless voice. Nigel gave him a skull's grin meant as a gesture of agreement. It vanished as the psychiatrist continued. "That would be asinine, of course. A man of your genius wouldn't dose himself up the way you did to forget some passing acquaintances." The doctor continued placidly as Nigel began to sputter. "Oh, not that they didn't matter to you. But you were trying to forget something far deeper to your heart than some co-workers." Silence descended upon the infirmary. "Andrea has been worried about you, Nigel." Nigel allowed the rage to contort his face for a second before forcing it into a mask of serenity. "Who?" "I told you, we know the amnestic didn't work." "I don't know what you mean." "The conclusion is quite obvious. I'm hardly judging you, Nigel. Sharing a workplace with one's wife can lead to unbearable tension within a marriage. You'd clearly grown sick of her, but not sick enough to break her heart. An accidental dose of Forget-Me-Drops could be the catalyst you needed." "It's not like that." "Not to mention that Foundation hires seem to be getting more attractive by the year. You can hardly betray your marital vows with an intern if you don't remember making the vows in the first place." "Shut up! Shut up! You cold bastard with your fucking clipboard, you have no idea. You have no idea at all!" Some rational slice of Nigel Segerstrom knew he had snapped, but the rest of him didn't care. "Clearly I don't." "Damn right you don't! You fucker, you've never loved anyone as much as I loved Andrea. You don't even know what love is, Doctor." Nigel spat out the last word with all the contempt he could muster. "Explain it to me, Nigel. What is love?" "You fucking want to know what love is? You know the UIU? Let's pretend we liked them. Like, we really fucking like them. So much that we threw opsec out the window and told them everything. Everything. We tell them what 447 does to dead bodies. We tell them all the nasty details of 110-Montauk. And just to top off the love-fest, we give them some goddamn Keter and tell them 'hey, we like you guys so much we're just going to give you this and hope nothing bad happens'. And of course because we're talking about the UIU, they fuck up. They don't feed it at exactly the right time, or they cross test it with the wrong skip, and the entire goddamn Foundation crumbles. And once the shell-shocked survivors rebuild, once every fuckin' skip is back in its cell, you know what we do?" "What do we do, Nigel?" "We find the UIU and do it all over again. That's love." The psychiatrist pauses. "So your wife betrayed your trust, either through physical or emotional infidelity. I'm sorry to hear that, Nigel." Nigel threw the blankets off his bed, yanked his body to a sitting position, and screamed at the doctor. "She didn't betray shit, you fucking moron! She's the only goddamn person in this goddamn world that has my back no matter what. She's…she's…" "She's your Achilles heel," murmured the psychiatrist. Stricken, Nigel slumped back. The psychiatrist tapped his pen. Finally, Nigel spoke up in a hoarse whisper. "Do you realize, Doctor, that my wife works in one of the few institutions on the planet where one can die investigating a sack of potatoes?" "I'm very aware of that." "We have a children's cartoon that makes kids violently psychotic." "That's true." "Did you hear about the murderous teddy bear?" "Which one?" Nigel shot an inquisitive look at the psychiatrist. "What?" "Never mind," said the doctor quickly. Luckily, Nigel didn't press the matter further. Staring at the ceiling, he said quietly, "You'd think it's not that dangerous to be a Foundation psychiatrist, as opposed to an MTF agent or a researcher. I mean, you would. But our coworkers just don't understand that we're the first line of defense against pathological memes and cognitohazards. Bet you my life savings that no one in my med school has to worry about their wife dying or going irreversibly insane from reading some new book her boss wants her to look at." The psychiatrist studied Nigel for a while. "I think you're ready to tell me why you did what you did, Dr. Segerstrom." Nigel's shoulders sagged and he resigned himself to the tears leaking out of his face. "I wanted to forget my wife because I can't imagine life without her. All those deaths…I saw Andrea's face on both of their corpses." The psychiatrist steepled his hands together. "Was it worth it, Nigel?" "I…I don't know." "What are you going to do now, Nigel?" asked the psychiatrist in the mirror. Dr. Nigel Segerstrom, Foundation psychiatrist and devoted husband of Dr. Andrea Segerstrom, Foundation psychiatrist, looked blankly into the mirror to the right of his hospital bed. "I don't know," he whispered back. "Nigel, this is Nurse Petersen. There's someone here to see you." Nigel turned around. There was Nurse Petersen, warm and compassionate as ever, and the pale, drawn, lovely face of Andrea Segerstrom. Nigel didn't know what to do, but he did it anyway. [[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>]]	2013-12-20T03:19:00	[ "_licensebox", "bittersweet", "featured", "romance", "tale" ]	The Coward - SCP Foundation	130	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive" ]	[]	21023703	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-coward
the-czar-cometh	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>A sizable group of people milled about a large, featureless room. If one looked very closely in the corners, they could find blood stains and minor remnants of charred bone, but without a great deal of perception, the place looked as if it had just been built. The various folks within the room knew otherwise, of course; they had seen some pretty heavy shit go down in that room, and were currently preparing themselves for yet another round. Even though each day brought new surprises, everything usually went according to schedule.</p> <p>Today, though, something different happened, something nobody had seen in a very long time. According to the schedule, everyone was to be in the room at nine in the morning precisely, and prepare for their arrival. No late entries would be tolerated. However, at 9:05, two large, burly men without faces tossed in a frightened young man, and slammed the door behind him. The young man lay motionless for a short time, as those already in the room gathered around him, wondering what to do. Some proposed trying to hide him, while others were tempted to treat him as <em>they</em> treated them.</p> <p>At length, the young man stirred, groaning as he slowly lifted himself to his feet. His face was almost perfectly generic, as were all of the individuals gathered around him. Some specific features could almost be made out, but most had been wiped out by the unique atmosphere of the room. The young man's lips flapped and his throat undulated, but no sound came out. Panicking, he glanced wildly at the individuals around him, trying to figure out just what was happening.</p> <p>One person who may have been a woman reached out her hands in front of her, and made a series of motions with her fingers. She tapped downwards with her right pinkie finger, and a robotic voice emanated from her general region. "You new, kid?" He glanced up, a look of confusion crossing over his face. Moving her fingers again, the woman's odd robotic voice came out again. "You have to use these weird invisible keyboard things in front of you. They make us use them."</p> <p>The young man hesitated for a moment and, with shaking hands, typed out, "Who… who are… they?"</p> <p>"The senior staff, of course," said another individual close to her.</p> <p>The young man, upon hearing the phrase, flung himself against the back wall, clearly panicking. Slapping the man who had spoken, the woman typed out, "You fear them?" Watching him nod, the woman said, "I wasn't aware there was anyone on the outside who still did."</p> <p>"They made my life a living hell," the young man said, slowly getting a hang of the strange method of communication. "Two of them took a special interest in me. I don't know why, but they turned my entire family into jelly."</p> <p>"Sounds like Konny and Clef," chimed in another person, their brow furrowing slightly. "Must have done it for a laugh." The young man twitched slightly.</p> <p>"He's not as used to this as we are," typed the woman, snapping her head to the right. "Stop being so callous with him!"</p> <p>"Why bother? They ban something new each day. They get rid of fun, names, talking… who's to say that they won't ban some random shit like compassion one day?"</p> <p>"They… they can ban things?" asked the young man, shrinking away from the others.</p> <p>"They weren't able to in the old days, they could only keep you from coming in this room. They only joked about that sort of thing. But now… I don't know what sort of limits they have on this sort of thing. Thank * they haven't banned anyone yet."</p> <p>She grimaced, then typed, "They do stuff like that asterisk things all the time too."</p> <p>"You mean," typed out the young man, fear filling his eyes, "that it isn't safe here?"</p> <p>"HA! Who told you it would be?" asked the callous man.</p> <p>"I was on the run from those two for so long. They wouldn't let me go until they'd done the same thing to me as they did to my family. I was looking for any way out. And somebody in… I think it was North Dakota… told me that I could find sanctuary here. So I joined up with the Foundation until those men brought me in here. But… it's not safe?"</p> <p>Walking over to the young man, the woman placed a hand on his shoulder, and then typed, "Son, they killed everyone in North Dakota months ago. Whatever told you to hide here was probably one of their constructs." As he sank to his knees, the woman added, "But it isn't all bad here. They may torture us, but we still have our minds. That's more than you can say for most folks on the outside. They haven't banned individuality."</p> <p>"Yet."</p> <p>"Be quiet." Turning back to the young man, the woman typed, "Look, you can't ever escape them, especially in here, but there are some simple rules to follow if you want to stay safe. Don't do anything that could make you a target. Do what they tell you. Follow all the rules - and yes, we'll give you the rules later," she added, seeing the look on his face. "Don't tread on any toes. And, most importantly, don't say his name."</p> <p>The young man looked up at the woman. "His?"</p> <p>"We've got it written down somewhere. Hey, you!" she typed, pointing a finger at a random individual afterwards. "Find where we've got the Czar's name written down." Making a sighing motion, she continued. "Yeah. Him. He used to be the guy who had the key to the break room and made sure we all behaved when we hung out in here. It was a good arrangement, even if he was a bit odd. But he also happened to be among the ranks of the senior staff, so when everything went down, he got the same powers they did. Only he was a bi"</p> <p>The woman's robotic voice suddenly stopped, even though her fingers continued moving. She paused for a moment, and then typed out, "Sorry. Character limit." Another pause, followed by more typing. "A bit odd. The others are completely blind to their actions, but he knows what really happens to everyone he uses those powers on. Near as we can tell, he doesn't care. We don't know what caused him to get like that, but…"</p> <p>"I still say he was a nutter before it happened," chimed in one of the men now standing in the corner.</p> <p>"Whatever the reason," the woman continued, ignoring the remark, "he's completely mad with power now. Put a single toe out of his ever changing definition of the line, and he will come down on you hard. Normally, though, we don't have to worry about that. He only comes in when we say his name, and unless he's gone and changed it, we should be safe from him."</p> <p>"So what's his name?" asked the young man. "I really, really don't want to accidentally say… type… use it."</p> <p>"I've got it over here!" typed another person, waving a piece of paper above his head. "Just lemme run over there and… *, kid, your back!"</p> <p>Glancing over his shoulder, the young man saw a small candle sprouting out of his spine. Jumping and screaming silently, he desperately beat his hands up and down, trying to swat the burning thing away. Within seconds, the woman was on him, and successfully pulled it out, leaving the young man hunched over, panting. He put his hands before him and typed, " candle wax…"</p> <p>A silence fell over the room as everyone took in the words the young man had typed. Before anyone could inform him of his faux pas, a high-pitched giggling came from within the walls. Whirling about, the woman saw several members of the senior staff emerging from them, two of whom were clutching onto each other's shoulders for support. "Clef! Konny!" she typed out, forgetting her own advice "Do you realize what you just did?</p> <p>"Made things a whole lot more interesting, that's what," said Clef, a huge shit-eating grin on his face.</p> <p>From out of nowhere, dark storm clouds gathered around the ceiling of the room, demonic faces rolling through them. A moment of silence passed before a blast of lighting, hotter than any naturally occurring bolt, blasted down from the clouds, striking the center of the room and smiting anyone standing too close to it. The beam of pure electricity continued to dance for several seconds, thunder roaring all the while, before slowly lifting up to reveal the object it had dropped from a million miles away.</p> <p>A grand, elaborate throne sat there, majestic and terrible at the same time. It seemed to be made of a fusion of pure gold, fine cut diamond, and mangled human corpses, their faces twisted into horrified screams. The backing and cushion was made of alchemized blood, while the armrests had real arms built into them, encrusted with emeralds. Capping the whole grisly affair were the piked heads of Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin, their eyes and mouths filled with an ever burning fire. A scepter made of a human spine and an enormous ruby containing a thousand human souls floated by the side of the throne, which was quickly grasped by the hand of its occupant.</p> <p>He was the most terrifying man any person in the room could ever imagine. His skin gave off a sickly white glow from within, tense muscles running throughout the body. His height was well in excess of twelve feet, and his hands looked as if they could crush a man's skull in a second. The clothes covering his divine form were a strange mixture of Nazi officer regalia, Communist Russia high fashion, and a typical 1980s businessman's suit, all in pitch black. Tinted glasses covered his eyes, and his mouth was twisted into a permanent snarl. In his other hand, a long, multi-pronged, barbed lash was gripped tightly.</p> <p>Opening his terrible mouth, the huge man boomed, "WHICH ONE OF YOU CHUCKLEFUCKS SAID MY NAME? I'VE GOT THE ENTIRE RUSSIAN FRONT OF WORLD WAR II TO REENACT, AND YOU FUCKERS ARE KEEPING ME FROM IT. THIS HAD BETTER BE PRETTY FUCKING IMPORTANT!"</p> <p>"Hey, Dmitri," piped up Konny, raising his hand, "how can you call it a reenactment when you've armed everyone with laser-based weaponry?</p> <p>"IF I SAY IT'S A REENACTMENT, IT'S A GODDAMN REENACTMENT!" snapped the imposing man, not even looking at Kondraki. "NOW WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS SUMMONED ME?" Looking around from behind his cold tinted glasses, Dmitri examined the whole room, his gaze passing over ever cowering individual, until he zeroed in on the shaking young man, and the woman standing in front of him.</p> <p>"MUST'VE BEEN THIS MOTHERFUCKER," he said, floating over on his throne to the pair. "MOVE OUT OF MY WAY, WOMAN. I NEED TO DEAL WITH THIS SHITHEAD." The woman moved her fingers to type something out, but before she could get a chance, Dmitri flicked his foot, and the woman went flying out the door without any physical contact. "NOW WHY DID YOU SAY MY GODDAMN NAME?"</p> <p>The young man, shaking in fear of the monster of a man before him, slowly typed out, "I… I didn't know that was your name… they were about to tell me…"</p> <p>"THIS HERE ROOM IS PROPERTY OF DMITRI ARKADEYEVICH STRELNIKOV, CZAR OF THE SCP FOUNDATION, LORD OF THE BREAKROOM, AND RESURRECTOR OF THE BEST DAMN WAR IN HISTORY. I ALSO GO BY WAXX. YOU GOT THAT, YOU LITTLE SHITHEAD?" Nodding rapidly, the young man tried to type, but found himself unable to move his fingers. "NOW, YOU LOT TAKE CARE OF THE NEW GUY."</p> <p>As the man called Waxx moved to leave, someone else in the room spoke up. "So… so we should ask him some questions…"</p> <p>Waxx stopped suddenly, turned about, and flung off his glasses, revealing pitch black eyes. "YOU HAVEN'T EVEN ASKED HIM THE QUESTIONS? DO I HAVE TO DO FUCKING EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?"</p> <p>"You… you banned those questions last…" The man was unable to finish his sentence before he found himself flying out the door with a flick of Waxx's ankle.</p> <p>"WELL THEY'RE UNBANNED NOW. ARE WE GONNA ASK HIM THE QUESTIONS, OR DO I HAVE TO WASTE MORE TIME AWAY FROM THE FRONT?"</p> <p>The young man, who was now at Waxx's feet, had fallen to his knees, and was desperately gasping for air. His body couldn't stand being so close to such a powerful being, and he was desperate to get away. "Sir…" he begged, clutching at the edges of the throne with one hand and typing with another, "sir, please, I'm only twenty, and I need sanctuary from these monsters… sir… have mercy…"</p> <p>"WHAT THE FLYING FUCK!" Waxx bellowed, rising from his seat and towering over the young man. "YOU KNOW THE AGE LIMIT IN HERE IS TWENTY-FIVE. WE ONLY CHANGED IT THREE HOURS AGO. DIDN'T YOU READ THE FUCKING GUIDES?"</p> <p>"I… didn't even know there were guides…"</p> <p>"UNDERAGE <em>AND</em> YOU HAVEN'T READ THE GUIDES? THAT'S IT, CHUCKLEFUCK, YOU JUST GOT YOUR ASS BANNED." Reaching out before himself, Waxx pulled out a blood red hammer, spiked on both ends. He swung, and the young man felt excruciating pain, before finding himself gone. He had been banned from reality.</p> <p>"NOW," roared Waxx, tossing the hammer back into the ether, "IF NOBODY ELSE HAS ANYTHING IMPORTANT FOR ME TO DEAL WITH, I'VE GOT A FRONT TO ATTEND TO." With that, the thunderclouds once again formed above him, and the lightning sucked the Czar and his throne back up from whence they came. All that was left in the room to evidence they had been there were the small black spots on the floor where the lightning had struck. The people who had been in the room were milling about, and waited for the woman to be tossed back in.</p> <p>One of the senior staff members stepped forwards, cracking his knuckles, and said, "Well, that was fun. Shall we get to work?"</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« \| <a href="/lolfoundation-hub-page">HUB</a> \| »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-czar-cometh">The Czar Cometh</a>" by Gargus, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-czar-cometh">https://scpwiki.com/the-czar-cometh</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 sizable group of people milled about a large, featureless room. If one looked very closely in the corners, they could find blood stains and minor remnants of charred bone, but without a great deal of perception, the place looked as if it had just been built. The various folks within the room knew otherwise, of course; they had seen some pretty heavy shit go down in that room, and were currently preparing themselves for yet another round. Even though each day brought new surprises, everything usually went according to schedule. Today, though, something different happened, something nobody had seen in a very long time. According to the schedule, everyone was to be in the room at nine in the morning precisely, and prepare for their arrival. No late entries would be tolerated. However, at 9:05, two large, burly men without faces tossed in a frightened young man, and slammed the door behind him. The young man lay motionless for a short time, as those already in the room gathered around him, wondering what to do. Some proposed trying to hide him, while others were tempted to treat him as //they// treated them. At length, the young man stirred, groaning as he slowly lifted himself to his feet. His face was almost perfectly generic, as were all of the individuals gathered around him. Some specific features could almost be made out, but most had been wiped out by the unique atmosphere of the room. The young man's lips flapped and his throat undulated, but no sound came out. Panicking, he glanced wildly at the individuals around him, trying to figure out just what was happening. One person who may have been a woman reached out her hands in front of her, and made a series of motions with her fingers. She tapped downwards with her right pinkie finger, and a robotic voice emanated from her general region. "You new, kid?" He glanced up, a look of confusion crossing over his face. Moving her fingers again, the woman's odd robotic voice came out again. "You have to use these weird invisible keyboard things in front of you. They make us use them." The young man hesitated for a moment and, with shaking hands, typed out, "Who… who are… they?" "The senior staff, of course," said another individual close to her. The young man, upon hearing the phrase, flung himself against the back wall, clearly panicking. Slapping the man who had spoken, the woman typed out, "You fear them?" Watching him nod, the woman said, "I wasn't aware there was anyone on the outside who still did." "They made my life a living hell," the young man said, slowly getting a hang of the strange method of communication. "Two of them took a special interest in me. I don't know why, but they turned my entire family into jelly." "Sounds like Konny and Clef," chimed in another person, their brow furrowing slightly. "Must have done it for a laugh." The young man twitched slightly. "He's not as used to this as we are," typed the woman, snapping her head to the right. "Stop being so callous with him!" "Why bother? They ban something new each day. They get rid of fun, names, talking… who's to say that they won't ban some random shit like compassion one day?" "They… they can ban things?" asked the young man, shrinking away from the others. "They weren't able to in the old days, they could only keep you from coming in this room. They only joked about that sort of thing. But now… I don't know what sort of limits they have on this sort of thing. Thank * they haven't banned anyone yet." She grimaced, then typed, "They do stuff like that asterisk things all the time too." "You mean," typed out the young man, fear filling his eyes, "that it isn't safe here?" "HA! Who told you it would be?" asked the callous man. "I was on the run from those two for so long. They wouldn't let me go until they'd done the same thing to me as they did to my family. I was looking for any way out. And somebody in… I think it was North Dakota… told me that I could find sanctuary here. So I joined up with the Foundation until those men brought me in here. But… it's not safe?" Walking over to the young man, the woman placed a hand on his shoulder, and then typed, "Son, they killed everyone in North Dakota months ago. Whatever told you to hide here was probably one of their constructs." As he sank to his knees, the woman added, "But it isn't all bad here. They may torture us, but we still have our minds. That's more than you can say for most folks on the outside. They haven't banned individuality." "Yet." "Be quiet." Turning back to the young man, the woman typed, "Look, you can't ever escape them, especially in here, but there are some simple rules to follow if you want to stay safe. Don't do anything that could make you a target. Do what they tell you. Follow all the rules - and yes, we'll give you the rules later," she added, seeing the look on his face. "Don't tread on any toes. And, most importantly, don't say his name." The young man looked up at the woman. "His?" "We've got it written down somewhere. Hey, you!" she typed, pointing a finger at a random individual afterwards. "Find where we've got the Czar's name written down." Making a sighing motion, she continued. "Yeah. Him. He used to be the guy who had the key to the break room and made sure we all behaved when we hung out in here. It was a good arrangement, even if he was a bit odd. But he also happened to be among the ranks of the senior staff, so when everything went down, he got the same powers they did. Only he was a bi" The woman's robotic voice suddenly stopped, even though her fingers continued moving. She paused for a moment, and then typed out, "Sorry. Character limit." Another pause, followed by more typing. "A bit odd. The others are completely blind to their actions, but he knows what really happens to everyone he uses those powers on. Near as we can tell, he doesn't care. We don't know what caused him to get like that, but…" "I still say he was a nutter before it happened," chimed in one of the men now standing in the corner. "Whatever the reason," the woman continued, ignoring the remark, "he's completely mad with power now. Put a single toe out of his ever changing definition of the line, and he will come down on you hard. Normally, though, we don't have to worry about that. He only comes in when we say his name, and unless he's gone and changed it, we should be safe from him." "So what's his name?" asked the young man. "I really, really don't want to accidentally say… type… use it." "I've got it over here!" typed another person, waving a piece of paper above his head. "Just lemme run over there and… , kid, your back!" Glancing over his shoulder, the young man saw a small candle sprouting out of his spine. Jumping and screaming silently, he desperately beat his hands up and down, trying to swat the burning thing away. Within seconds, the woman was on him, and successfully pulled it out, leaving the young man hunched over, panting. He put his hands before him and typed, "* candle wax…" A silence fell over the room as everyone took in the words the young man had typed. Before anyone could inform him of his faux pas, a high-pitched giggling came from within the walls. Whirling about, the woman saw several members of the senior staff emerging from them, two of whom were clutching onto each other's shoulders for support. "Clef! Konny!" she typed out, forgetting her own advice "Do you realize what you just did? "Made things a whole lot more interesting, that's what," said Clef, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. From out of nowhere, dark storm clouds gathered around the ceiling of the room, demonic faces rolling through them. A moment of silence passed before a blast of lighting, hotter than any naturally occurring bolt, blasted down from the clouds, striking the center of the room and smiting anyone standing too close to it. The beam of pure electricity continued to dance for several seconds, thunder roaring all the while, before slowly lifting up to reveal the object it had dropped from a million miles away. A grand, elaborate throne sat there, majestic and terrible at the same time. It seemed to be made of a fusion of pure gold, fine cut diamond, and mangled human corpses, their faces twisted into horrified screams. The backing and cushion was made of alchemized blood, while the armrests had real arms built into them, encrusted with emeralds. Capping the whole grisly affair were the piked heads of Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin, their eyes and mouths filled with an ever burning fire. A scepter made of a human spine and an enormous ruby containing a thousand human souls floated by the side of the throne, which was quickly grasped by the hand of its occupant. He was the most terrifying man any person in the room could ever imagine. His skin gave off a sickly white glow from within, tense muscles running throughout the body. His height was well in excess of twelve feet, and his hands looked as if they could crush a man's skull in a second. The clothes covering his divine form were a strange mixture of Nazi officer regalia, Communist Russia high fashion, and a typical 1980s businessman's suit, all in pitch black. Tinted glasses covered his eyes, and his mouth was twisted into a permanent snarl. In his other hand, a long, multi-pronged, barbed lash was gripped tightly. Opening his terrible mouth, the huge man boomed, "WHICH ONE OF YOU CHUCKLEFUCKS SAID MY NAME? I'VE GOT THE ENTIRE RUSSIAN FRONT OF WORLD WAR II TO REENACT, AND YOU FUCKERS ARE KEEPING ME FROM IT. THIS HAD BETTER BE PRETTY FUCKING IMPORTANT!" "Hey, Dmitri," piped up Konny, raising his hand, "how can you call it a reenactment when you've armed everyone with laser-based weaponry? "IF I SAY IT'S A REENACTMENT, IT'S A GODDAMN REENACTMENT!" snapped the imposing man, not even looking at Kondraki. "NOW WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS SUMMONED ME?" Looking around from behind his cold tinted glasses, Dmitri examined the whole room, his gaze passing over ever cowering individual, until he zeroed in on the shaking young man, and the woman standing in front of him. "MUST'VE BEEN THIS MOTHERFUCKER," he said, floating over on his throne to the pair. "MOVE OUT OF MY WAY, WOMAN. I NEED TO DEAL WITH THIS SHITHEAD." The woman moved her fingers to type something out, but before she could get a chance, Dmitri flicked his foot, and the woman went flying out the door without any physical contact. "NOW WHY DID YOU SAY MY GODDAMN NAME?" The young man, shaking in fear of the monster of a man before him, slowly typed out, "I… I didn't know that was your name… they were about to tell me…" "THIS HERE ROOM IS PROPERTY OF DMITRI ARKADEYEVICH STRELNIKOV, CZAR OF THE SCP FOUNDATION, LORD OF THE BREAKROOM, AND RESURRECTOR OF THE BEST DAMN WAR IN HISTORY. I ALSO GO BY WAXX. YOU GOT THAT, YOU LITTLE SHITHEAD?" Nodding rapidly, the young man tried to type, but found himself unable to move his fingers. "NOW, YOU LOT TAKE CARE OF THE NEW GUY." As the man called Waxx moved to leave, someone else in the room spoke up. "So… so we should ask him some questions…" Waxx stopped suddenly, turned about, and flung off his glasses, revealing pitch black eyes. "YOU HAVEN'T EVEN ASKED HIM THE QUESTIONS? DO I HAVE TO DO FUCKING EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?" "You… you banned those questions last…" The man was unable to finish his sentence before he found himself flying out the door with a flick of Waxx's ankle. "WELL THEY'RE UNBANNED NOW. ARE WE GONNA ASK HIM THE QUESTIONS, OR DO I HAVE TO WASTE MORE TIME AWAY FROM THE FRONT?" The young man, who was now at Waxx's feet, had fallen to his knees, and was desperately gasping for air. His body couldn't stand being so close to such a powerful being, and he was desperate to get away. "Sir…" he begged, clutching at the edges of the throne with one hand and typing with another, "sir, please, I'm only twenty, and I need sanctuary from these monsters… sir… have mercy…" "WHAT THE FLYING FUCK!" Waxx bellowed, rising from his seat and towering over the young man. "YOU KNOW THE AGE LIMIT IN HERE IS TWENTY-FIVE. WE ONLY CHANGED IT THREE HOURS AGO. DIDN'T YOU READ THE FUCKING GUIDES?" "I… didn't even know there were guides…" "UNDERAGE //AND// YOU HAVEN'T READ THE GUIDES? THAT'S IT, CHUCKLEFUCK, YOU JUST GOT YOUR ASS BANNED." Reaching out before himself, Waxx pulled out a blood red hammer, spiked on both ends. He swung, and the young man felt excruciating pain, before finding himself gone. He had been banned from reality. "NOW," roared Waxx, tossing the hammer back into the ether, "IF NOBODY ELSE HAS ANYTHING IMPORTANT FOR ME TO DEAL WITH, I'VE GOT A FRONT TO ATTEND TO." With that, the thunderclouds once again formed above him, and the lightning sucked the Czar and his throne back up from whence they came. All that was left in the room to evidence they had been there were the small black spots on the floor where the lightning had struck. The people who had been in the room were milling about, and waited for the woman to be tossed back in. One of the senior staff members stepped forwards, cracking his knuckles, and said, "Well, that was fun. Shall we get to work?" [[=]] << \| [[[lolFoundation Hub Page\| HUB]]] \| >>** [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-12-13T15:13:00	[ "_licensebox", "lolfoundation", "tale" ]	The Czar Cometh - SCP Foundation	49	[ "lolfoundation-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "lolfoundation-hub-page" ]	[]	20956852	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-czar-cometh
the-deep-end	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=4&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/component%3Abhl-dark-sidebar/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p><a href="/iteration-0">...</a></p> <p>On the table there behind the glass, time was about to break.</p> <p>Thad smiled cautiously as numbers flew past his vision and he checked the math again and again and again. It should work—or rather, it should <em>stop</em> working—just as he had predicted.</p> <p>“Ms. Anastasakos?”</p> <p>“Yes, Doctor,” Athena replied confidently (a statement, not a question) as she pulled her hair into a tight bun to keep it from her eyes. Scrupulously she scanned the tiny ant-farm on the table with its houses and simple electric lights, and tiny microphones and cameras and little cars running along their little tracks, all laid out meticulously about a miniature AM/FM/VHF/UHF transceiver. “We are powered off. Ready for control test.”</p> <p>Five years now since <a href="/scp-176">SCP-176</a> went tits-up and trapped several dozen good young researchers and at least four paramilitary pukes in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. A full year of that had been spent trying to solve it. When that proved impossible, Xyank tried to break it for another three years. And finally, out of ideas, the last year was used to bottle it. The Euclid classification was little more than a formality at this point. And he’d learned a lot. The Foundation learned a lot. That was something.</p> <p>And as a way of saying ‘thank you’, they’d given him another tachyon emitter to dissect.</p> <p>“Alright,” Dr. Xyank said, cracking his knuckles. “I’m about to activate the snooze alarm on <a href="/scp-281">SCP-281</a>. Mr. Kitterman, if you would kindly roll film on my mark.”</p> <p>“Ready,” said the lithe Jr. researcher from behind his panel.</p> <p>“Three. Two. One. Mark.” There was a loud crack. Several ants had died from the temporal pressure. All the little electric cars jumped instantly to their new places. Two light bulbs had burned out. Video captured in excess of 9 minutes, 57 seconds in the space of 1 millisecond. “Alright, now we’re cooking,” Thaddeus said with a nod. “Mr. Kitterman; talk to me about ambient radiation,” Xyank demanded from behind the glare of ancient lenses.</p> <p>Marcus Kitterman spun and slid his way down the bank of instruments and stopped himself before the correct panel, making little humming and clucking noises to himself as he built the various readings into a gradient and overlaid that gradient into the room in which they all stood. Fingers crossed and breath bated, three scientists prayed for an end of time as they knew it. “…Nothing even close to hazardous. We’d have to be in here about eight years just to be sure we had cancer.” Marcus delivered a smiling thumbs-up. “We’re green.”</p> <p>It came to him one evening as though from a dream. <a href="/scp-1950">SCP-1950</a> was the same as SCP-176, but the field was too powerful, and the loop was still open. SCP-281, <a href="/scp-1979">1979</a>, <a href="/scp-119">119</a>, and <a href="/scp-1859">1859</a> all stemmed from the same basic anomaly, with different dilation and constraints. There were <em>patterns</em> in these anomalies. Even weird ones like <a href="/scp-982">982</a> and <a href="/scp-1309">1309</a>. The tachyon field model could accommodate them all, and some even made his ‘event boundary’ hypothesis look less like desperation and more like a legitimate explanation.</p> <p>And that was when a time before whispered in his ear, and reminded him of Item # <a href="/scp-084">SCP-084</a>.</p> <p>“Initiating transmission… For the experimental record: we’ll be using video from the Ed Sullivan show at 1.28 GHz, and live-feeds from FM 89.3, 99.9 and 107.1 MHz, and AM 545, 890, and 1240 kHz,” Attie said, fingers storming across the keypad before her. “The signal will be broadcast at power of 10 watts, and should keep our area of effect under 2 m in radius.”</p> <p>“Outstanding.”</p> <p>They were calling it ‘the Static Tower’, probably because ‘Temporospatial mind-fuck’ had already been taken. Documentation back home had clearly labeled 084 as a temporal anomaly in its own right. But whether through clerical negligence or prevailing attitudes of a different nature, the Foundation of 1997 had labeled it a ‘radioactive space-time anomaly’. Not <em>in</em>correct, but not the most descriptive interpretation. One look at the ‘flicker’ phenomenon and it was obvious. The spatial distortion was a result, most of all, of the temporal distortion around the tower. And why, among all other temporal anomalies, did 084 alone exhibit this odd spatial reflection and scattering? Because the tower was pumping out a thronging mass of EM radiation at nearly 100 watts. All of it, every last nanosecond could be explained without the need of anything so vulgar as a temporal paradox. Paradoxes don’t exist in nature.</p> <p>Hypothesis: tachyon fields can be manipulated with powerful radio signals. Procedure: hook up a known tachyon emitter to a transmitter. Transmit from it on multiple frequencies and see if you get something like 084.</p> <p>At least, that’s how it looked on paper. Maybe it was a risk to try reproducing it in a lab. Strike that, it was <em>absolutely</em> a risk. But without risk, there is no gain. And if Xyank could break time so thoroughly, and put it back when he was done, that meant he understood time. It meant he understood time <em>travel</em>. It meant it was only a matter of a few (relatively) safe experiments to find a system to predict travel frequencies from now to anywhen.</p> <p>It meant he could finally go home.</p> <p>“Begin transmission, if you would please.”</p> <p>Several oscillating waves overlaid one another on the screen above, and Marcus Kitterman let out a whistle at what to him appeared to be a gibbering line of chaos. “Radiation is still steady, thank god.”</p> <p>“Good,” Xyank said, brushing some silvering hair back away from his face. “I’m going to try turning 281 back on. Mr. Kitterman, let’s see about film capture on my mark.”</p> <p>Marcus opened his mouth to let out one final objection, but thought better of it. Jr. Researcher versus tenured Doc. That would be a really short conversation anyway. “Ready.”</p> <p>What was that saying? Something about finishing what you start, he'd think of it later. “…Mark.”</p> <p>No sharp spark. Nothing, actually. An eerie silence as everything in the bubble seemed to freeze for a second, and fitfully start forward. And back…</p> <p>“Holy…” Kitterman said softly. Ants fluttered in clumps and trails and over houses. Cars leapt willy nilly upon their tracks. Lights flickered. The film from the cameras inside ran back and forth and was useless. “…We did it.”</p> <p>“Save it. We aren't finished yet.” Xyank flipped a switch and took hold of a small joystick. “Commencing drop test one.”</p> <p>084 produces a spatial anomaly around itself such that no object can approach within 200 m of the tower; it is surrounded by infinite space. If this was an accurate scale representation before him now, the ball in the basket directly above it should fall forever, never growing closer to its target than two meters.</p> <p>It wasn't. The ball fell straight and true. And at the same time the 'anomalies' they had all witnessed stopped happening wholesale.</p> <p>“Ms. Anastasakos?”</p> <p>“We're still transmitting,” she replied, disbelieving.</p> <p>“Mr. Kitterman!”</p> <p>“Radiation level in there is still consistent with an active field,” he shrugged. “But I don't see anything that would lead me to believe there's a distortion present. Film is even coming through now.”</p> <p>Fuck! What had he missed? It wasn't supposed to go like this. “The model said…” Models are only as good as the math behind them. So what about this math? Had it been <em>perfect</em>? Had he fat-fingered a digit somewhere? Floated a decimal? Forgotten to carry a one? “Stay here, I'll be right back.”</p> <p>“Uhh…” Researcher Anastasakos began to ask.</p> <p>“Run a few more trials. If I'm not back in twenty minutes exactly, turn it off.”</p> <p>“Yes, sir.”</p> <p>Double doors out of the observation room, down a quick hallway to the end where his office and his whiteboards and his notes were.</p> <p>Damnit it looked so clear, and now it didn't work at all. Had he been too conservative with the interference pattern? Was the signal strong enough? Equations flowed past his vision as he jogged, second guessing and wondering and hypothesizing and desperately trying to find his answer.</p> <blockquote> <p>“Alright,” Thad<sub>1</sub> said, wiping some sweat from his brow. “… Everyone listen up, because-” the door opened and Thaddeus Xyank<sub>6</sub> stepped inside, closing the door behind him before even looking up. Xyank<sub>1</sub> cleared his throat. The newcomer stopped dead, looked up to a sea of his<sub>6</sub> own face looking back at him, and sank dumbstruck to a perch on a shelf by the door. “…As I was saying,” One continued. “I don't even have time to explain this <em>once</em>.”</p> <p>“Based on what we are all experiencing, our 084 experiment was<br/> was<br/> was<br/> was arguably a success.” The whole room winced in unison. Thads 1 2 and 3 wiped blood from their ears and swore and cursed the day they ever had this half-cocked idea.</p> <p>“I thought it wasn't supposed to hurt!,” he<sub>4</sub> hollered, pressing his temples together and stamping his feet.</p> <p>“Electrical components,” the Doctor<sub>2</sub> snipped curtly, and tapped himself on the temple.</p> <p>“Stop! Just move past it,” Xyank<sub>1</sub> said, eyes plastered shut. A two second beat to collect himself and put his glasses back on. “The point is, we seem to have initiated some kind of temporal isolation event. An open infinite loop.”</p> <p>“So,” Thad<sub>6</sub> asked timidly, “it… It actually worked?”</p> <p>“Oh yeah,” Thaddeus<sub>1</sub> smirked, watching the clock on the wall advance and fall back and advance and fall back as causality wobbled all around him. “It worked.”</p> <p>“And we're sure it's not a multiverse event?” Six said, still blinking in a bit of shock.</p> <p>Two scratched at his nose and pulled his lips tight. “Employee ID numbers anyone?”</p> <p>“0927-7182-3740-0918,” said all in unison.</p> <p>“Paradox,” Thad<sub>5</sub> said, head hitting his desk. “God. Dammit.”</p> <p>“Okay, good.” Three stood up and tapped himself<br/> tapped himself<br/> tapped himself<br/> tapped himself a cup of water which he immediately dropped when another brief ripple of spasm leapt across the room. Xyank<sub>3</sub> hit the water cooler with the heel of his palm and it bubbled its unconscious reply. Enviable, these inanimate objects. Especially at a no-time like this. “If it's a paradox, there's got to be a way to resolve it, right? Paradoxes don't exist in nature!”</p> <p>“I'm getting to that,” Sub-1 said, and started drawing a diagram on the board. “Say this is the world line, like a river, flowing from past to future. What we did was take a bubble”(here he drew a small oval on the side of the line) “and replicated it at regular intervals all over the surrounding space.”</p> <p>“How far?” Five asked.</p> <p>“At least twenty, probably more.” Dr. Xyank<sub>2</sub> replied, arms crossed as he followed along. Six whistled and let his head bounce off of the cabinet. How much had he<sub>6</sub> missed?<br/> “One of these bubbles just so happened to land right here on this room. Something about how the other 281 bubbles are interacting with this one is causing us to, at regular intervalsslavretni raluger ta ,ot su gniing us to, at regular intervals…” Thaddeus Xyank<sub>1</sub> braced his arms on the desk and bowed his head, two drops of red hitting the table and jumping back up his nose. That one hadn't been so bad. “…Every so often we run into the external world line and another one of me—or all of you, even—walks through the door.”</p> <p>“Has anyone tried leaving?”<sub>6</sub></p> <p>The second most haggard looking member of the party shook his head. “That's how I got here.” Thaddeus<sub>1</sub> and Xyank<sub>2</sub> tightened their lips and nodded together. “Not going to work.”</p> <p>“But!” four jumped up. “We might be able to keep it from getting any worse if we keep the next iteration from entering YES!” He<sub>4</sub> clapped in excitement. “BRILLIANT! He can even go turn it off, and then it'll be over!”</p> <p>“For whom?” Three asked solemnly.</p> <p>And he was right. There were two possible outcomes to this scenario: Void and Eternity. There would be no ‘escape’, at least not for these assembled. 084 creates infinite space and infinite time within its boundary. Even if they turned the device off, and even if the anomaly subsided from an exterior perspective, and even if they could actually prevent Lucky Number Seven from passing over the threshold into this little pocket they had created for themselves, it would not be over.</p> <p>Infinite loop.<br/> Infinite loop.<br/> Infinite loop… Thaddeus let it sink in for a moment, making sure he all understood.</p> <p>“So… So we just die here? Is that it?” Six asked.</p> <p>“If we’re lucky.” Thad<sub>2</sub> said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.</p> <p>The handle of the door began to rattle. All twelve eyes locked upon it as their owners froze in place.</p> <p>“…Should we rehearse something?”<sub>5</sub></p> <p>“There isn't time,” Xyank<sub>1</sub> answered. “Once that rattle starts we have thirty seconds to two minutes subjectively… It's hard to tell when you're just talking to yourself all the time.”</p> <p>It felt good to chuckle, for all of them. The damned must also laugh. But the moment was not destined to linger. The latch began to slip and unslip and slip and unslip.</p> <p>Sub-two, nodded and grabbed up the just-in-case shotgun from its place behind his filing cabinet. “Still. We have to try, don't we?” The others silently agreed.</p> <p>“Pay close attention to what you say,” the Doctor<sub>1</sub> warned as he picked up a marker and began to write. “I'm going to see if I can't figure a way out of this… shit-fest.”</p> </blockquote> <p>He was so absorbed, that when he laid hands on his door and opened it, it took the open barrel of a very familiar Remington 870 in his face, and what looked an awful lot like a rifled slug at the back of it to snap him out of his mathematical haze.</p> <p>“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Thad heard his own voice say, but was sure he didn’t speak.</p> <p>“Step back, Dr. Xyank. Step back across that threshold right now.”</p> <p>Eyes never leaving the front-sight, he complied. Switching focus he beheld a visage not unlike his own. A little older. More worn. Blood was slowly trickling from all of their ears and noses, and their sleeves were all covered in smudges where they had wiped it away. Six of them. The whiteboard had been erased and rewritten, and erased again, and as he watched, the figure standing at it <em>unwrote</em> a line and re-wrote it, pausing only to press his temples and groan before moving on to the next. Before him, the stranger version of himself grew stubble and lost it, and a tiny red rivulet ran forwards and back, up and down his neck as desperate, pained eyes fixed on him.</p> <p>“What you are experiencing,” The Xyank behind the shotgun said as four other injured selves looked on, “is some kind of temporal decohesion event. We haven’t figured out how to stop it yet, or even if it can be stopped from in here. But we can keep more of <em>you</em> from coming in here with a little timing.”</p> <p>“I don’t—”</p> <p>“Understand?” one over the gunman’s shoulder said sarcastically. “No shit. Neither do we, and who knows how long You Prime over there at the board has been in here.” Without turning, the man at the board grunted and continued writing. Dr. Xyank did his best to take a photo of his work, but the pain at the back of his neck said something had gone amiss inside.</p> <p>“But—”</p> <p>“You are number 7. We are numbers 1 through 6. But you are <em>also</em> number 0. And that means you have to stay out there while we puzzle it out in here.”</p> <p>“…the model?”</p> <p>One of the copies in the rear threw his arms in the air and suddenly stifled himself. “…Decimal error. You were off by a whole order of magnitude. Congratulations, you just ended time as we know it over a radius of twenty goddamn meters.”</p> <p>The man behind the shotgun nodded, shoving the barrel into Thad’s chest and thrusting him back out into the hallway. “Now get back out there and turn it off before you break this whole site!”</p> <p>“But what about—!”</p> <p>The office door slammed closed and locked. No further answers would come, even when he beat against the door until his knuckles cracked open. Not a sound save the steady atonal rhythm of frustrated failure against the door of his own mausoleum. It did not echo down the hall.</p> <hr/> <p>“…Jesus Christ he's been gone a long time,” Marcus mumbled as he pressed the button and watched another ball fall directly into the center of the model. There was a pile forming now, building up slowly around their little transmitter. “How long has it been anyway?”</p> <p>Attie didn’t look up, just stared intently at the screen in front of her. She was like that, though. The Foundation never hired stupid people, but Researcher Athena Anastasakos was so professional it made Kitterman's teeth hurt. Couple that with a sort of fanatical devotion to figuring this kind of shit out, and it was little wonder she was such an award winning conversationalist. It didn’t even occur to Marcus that anything was amiss until he picked up his paper cup and crossed to the water cooler. He felt a sort of a… is hiccup the right word? Ah, probably nothing.</p> <p>“MARCUS!” she yelped, jumping backward from a screen steadily turning to static. “…Oh god, you scared me! How on earth did you get over <em>there</em>?”</p> <p>“I… I walked. With my feet.” Kitterman rolled his eyes and pressed the watercoolerreloocretaw eht desserp dna seye sih dellor namerttiK “.teef ym htiWith my feet.” Kitterman rolled his eyes and pressed the watercooler’s valve.</p> <p>Athena bit her tongue and watched.</p> <p>A slow trickle of water overflowed his cup in a matter of a quarter second. He dropped it in surprise. Two faces turned white. “…How long <em>has</em> it been since he left?”</p> <p>“Not more than three minutes.”</p> <p>“So how did I drop all of those?” he asked, pointing to the pile of tiny foam balls.</p> <p>They ran to their panels and typed in commands, slapped display screens, flicked at status lights as everything started slowly to go bananas. “Turn it off Turn it off Turn it off!” Athena yelled, fingers blurring takka-tak-tak just in time to watch Marcus pull open a panel and start pulling out wires. They sparked and smoked and fumed and slapped back into place.</p> <p>“<em>Oh really, should I</em>?” Kitterman yelled back. He ran to the door and threw it open, and sprinted what must have been 30 meters down a two meter stretch of hallway to the chamber door. Secured with electronic locks and they would not budge. “FUCK!” The noise fell flat in the sterile hall as he threw himself through the air back to the observation room. “Where in hell did he go?”</p> <p>“Probably the same place we’re going if you can’t shut that damn thing <em>off!</em>”</p> <p>Panic comes in waves. At first you’re not even sure it’s happening. Everything goes red, and a tingling feeling grows out of your gut to the tips of your fingers and toes. It grabs your brain and won’t let go. Synapses fire faster than you’d believe as every possible solution cycles through your brain once, twice, three times a lady. All of them are shit. It was about at this level of disoriented stupidity that Kitterman first picked up the stool and slammed it against the glass. A crack ran up and then back down and then sealed itself again. So he tried another five or thirty times (who counts?) before he reckoned the sanest thing to do would be just to drop the stool and scream at the pane’s stupid face.</p> <p>“That’s enough! You’re not helping anyone!” Attie yelled as she squinted at a screen of static, desperately hoping a distortion would come through to smooth the electronics out, if only for a minute. Just long enough to impart some sense about how the field looked and what the Snooze Alarm was doing and if it was ever going to stop.</p> <p>A shoulder was thrown into the door and Xyank fell through it onto the floor. “We have a problem!”</p> <p>“<em>No! Really? I hadn’t noticed!</em>” Marcus hollered as he ham-fisted a wad of wires from beneath the console and grabbed out his pocket knife.</p> <p>The Doctor<sub>0</sub> wiped blood from his ear and spat some to the floor which dried in an instant. “What have you tried so far?”</p> <p>“Wiring panel, input commands, B and E, refreshing the transmission—” Ms. Anastasakos answered.</p> <p>“Pretty much everything but whistling show-tunes at it!” Kitterman barked as he cut a cable and watched it stitch itself up again for the third time.</p> <p>Shit. This was bad. Really bad. Everything already broken, everything already resetting. But causality was still flexible, and the fact that he had made it back into this room meant it wasn’t final yet. They were not completely isolated, and one last Hail-Mary was absolutely not out of the question. It’s not as though there was much to lose. “Ms. Anastasakos, what is the correct <em>time</em>?”</p> <p>“I don’t see how—”</p> <p>“Dammit, Attie, it’s a temporal anomaly! <em>What bloody time is it?</em>” Thaddeus demanded as he hopped to the breaker box on the wall and threw it wide.</p> <p>“Its… it’s 0600? That doesn't—wait! 1023…1747?”</p> <p>“Do either of you know what time we started transmitting?”</p> <p>“0930! … I think,” Marcus offered, recoiling and sucking his fingers from a minor electric shock.</p> <p>“You <em>think?</em>”</p> <p>Marcus shrugged and raised his hands, looking equal parts horrified and apologetic. It would have to do.</p> <p>“All right, this is a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got. Ms. Anastasakos, you need to tell me when—”</p> <p>“NOW!”</p> <p>Everything went black. An emergency light came on. Their pulses hung in mid-air as they waited. And waited… and waited.</p> <hr/> <p>0945 came and went. The anomaly did not resume.</p> <p>After a couple Mole-rats rooted around for a day or so and scanned his office with every instrument he had clearance to know about (and a few which he didn’t) and found no detectable temporal fluctuation; after a painful, exhausting ritualistic interrogation to ensure he wasn’t acting under anyone else’s influence and remained loyal to the Foundation’s objectives; after a psyche evaluation that revealed a little post-traumatic stress but otherwise a clean bill of psychiatric health and two weeks paid leave, Dr. Xyank sat in his office tapping his temple, staring at the last thing he had written on the whiteboard.</p> <p>Red marks were everywhere, shooting this way and that, too and from impromptu diagrams and flow charts and equations that would make most J.R.s blush. All of it spiraling into, out of, around, and through one central feature: an enormous Black Box.</p> <p>Yes, the experiment had been a ‘success’, in a manner of speaking. No, no one had died, at least not in a verifiable way. Yes, Thaddeus had confirmed that certain long-wavelength electromagnetic signals of sufficient power could alter the shape, rate of flow, direction, and endurance of any extant tachyon flux. But had he actually learned how to create a tachyon flux to manipulate?</p> <p>No. The Black Box remained Black. And it was too costly to keep going. Dozens were dead. Six copies of himself were irretrievable. He had nearly turned Site-17’s anomalous experimentation wing into another SCP of who knows what designation. 084/281-A, maybe? His name very narrowly avoided censorship on every document he had ever touched as the Foundation disavowed all knowledge of his activities or that they had ever even deigned to hire him.</p> <p>It was time to stop.</p> <p>But as he stood to grab the eraser, silence took hold of him. He glanced upward and noticed the clock had stopped. He perked his ear and heard no movement outside in what should be a rush-hour end-of-day shit-show of a hallway. When he turned he saw a shadow at the door. Just one. It cleared its throat and passed a parcel through the slot in the door before leaving.</p> <p>The clock resumed its forward march. The hall resumed its noisy bustle. On the floor, a manila envelope. Inside, a watch.</p> <p><em>His</em> watch.</p> <p>His very own Model <a href="/scp-442">442</a><em>i</em> automatic winding perpetual perfect-time watch. It had probably been languishing in anomalous item storage these last…well, there was no telling how long, he supposed. Only that he hadn’t seen it since he was picked up after… After. But who else would have known that?</p> <p>Bound up in the band, a note, hand written, in red fine-point felt-tipped marker. In reflex he crumpled it and tossed it into the wastepaper basket.</p> <p>Before the second ticked over he was back in his seat, across the desk, hands folded, staring at it.</p> <p>But then that got him thinking. <em>He</em> would write that message, some time in the future. Absolutely. It was the only way to avoid a break. He would know the time and date (it was 1946 on August the 18th, 1997. Thad logged it in his memory and stored it somewhere it wouldn't get lost.) and place to deliver it…</p> <p>He now had to make sure he knew the message and its contents, so the loop could be completed. Or else… Or else, he was sure he didn't want to know what else.</p> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">'In for a penny...'</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">'...in for a pound.'</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <blockquote> <p>…</p> <p>“I don’t—”</p> <p>“Understand?” Three said, wondering if he was getting more condescending. “No shit.” Yes, definitely. He'd have to tone it down. “Neither do we, and who knows how long You Prime over there at the board has been in here.”</p> <p>He<sub>1</sub> didn't grunt. He stopped writing and sighed. “What’s the point?” He whispered quietly.</p> <p>“But—”</p> <p>“You are number 7.” Two continued, an edge in his voice clearly directed in One's direction. “We are numbers <em>One</em> through <em>Six</em>.”</p> <p>“No, he isn't.” Thaddeus<sub>1</sub> put the marker down.</p> <p>“You're right, number one! He's <em>also</em> number <em>Zero</em>.” The other four glanced furtively at one another, horrified. What was he doing, breaking containment like that?</p> <p>“Stop it, Two.”</p> <p>“What are you <em>doing?</em>” Five hissed, wide-eyed and wild. “You’re going to break—!”</p> <p>“NO. I'm not lying anymore. He's not number 7, he’s number forty-two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two. And he has a right to know <em>exactly</em> how bad we fucked up.”</p> <p>Two dropped the barrel of the shotgun and let the threat hang loose in his hands “Goddammit, One.” He turned in slow resignation and locked eyes with force. “You just broke nearly two and a half <em>years</em> of symmetry.”</p> <p>“Symmetry? Is that what you call an infinite number of alternate time lines due to <em>one</em> cocked-up experiment?” One demanded.</p> <p>“Well, it wouldn’t have been if you’d just stuck to your own goddamn plan!” Three said, throwing an eraser across the room.</p> <p>“WILL EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP?” Four said, rummaging through the drawer. “I swear there’s an emergency Class B in here somewhere! Just shove it down his throat and we'll do it right and send him on his way!”</p> <p>But before he could grab it, the door slipped shut.</p> <p>Six of the same man gasped in unison. Lucky Number Seven simply sighed. It wasn’t great. It wasn’t even good. Hell, it was hardly a solution at all, but with damage done and time being a factor (the other versions of him would not have been nearly so urgent if it wasn’t), he wouldn’t have a chance to take a Class B. They’d probably make him forget too much anyway. No… This was home now. This room and these people and this awful experiment. He had made this sacrifice before. Precisely Six times before.</p> <p>And he would make it again. That is the way the Foundation operates. We Secure. We Contain. We Protect. Even if, sometimes, it means one must contain oneself.</p> <p>“Room for one more?” He<sub>7</sub> asked with a smirk as the<br/> as the<br/> as the<br/> as the<br/> as the first ripple sent a spine of pain in one side of his head and out the other, and blood trickled unhappily out of his left ear.</p> <p>“… For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Thad<sub>1</sub> laid a hand on his<sub>7</sub> shoulder and bit his<sub>1</sub> bottom lip hard, keeping the torrent back.</p> <p>“Don’t be… it’s my fault, too.” Just that moment, a little early actually, the knob began to rattle. Lucky Number Seven, the true number Seven and no longer number Zero, rolled his eyes. “…I’ll just… hide in the closet, or something.”</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> <p>Heh… funny how you remember things at the last minute.</p> <hr/> <div class="code"> <pre><code>Eve’s cardinal sin was NOT biting the apple. It was failing to chew, swallow, and finish it. Do not make the same mistake or so help us both… -Tx</code></pre></div> <p>…</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong><a href="/iteration-0">Part One: Iteration 0</a> \| <a href="/welcome-to-delta-t">Hub</a> \| <a href="/erstwhile-and-again">Part Three: Erstwhile and Again</a></strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-deep-end">The Deep End</a>" by HammerMaiden, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-deep-end">https://scpwiki.com/the-deep-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>	[[include <a href="/theme:black-highlighter-theme">theme:black-highlighter-theme</a>]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:bhl-dark-sidebar">:scp-wiki:component:bhl-dark-sidebar</a>]] [[module CSS]] :root { --header-title: "RCT-Δt"; --header-subtitle: "Secure the Past. Contain the Present. Protect the Future."; --logo-image: url("http://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/welcome-to-delta-t/Delta-t-transparent.png");` [[/module]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[[Iteration 0\|...]]] On the table there behind the glass, time was about to break. Thad smiled cautiously as numbers flew past his vision and he checked the math again and again and again. It should work—or rather, it should //stop// working—just as he had predicted. “Ms. Anastasakos?” “Yes, Doctor,” Athena replied confidently (a statement, not a question) as she pulled her hair into a tight bun to keep it from her eyes. Scrupulously she scanned the tiny ant-farm on the table with its houses and simple electric lights, and tiny microphones and cameras and little cars running along their little tracks, all laid out meticulously about a miniature AM/FM/VHF/UHF transceiver. “We are powered off. Ready for control test.” Five years now since [[[SCP-176]]] went tits-up and trapped several dozen good young researchers and at least four paramilitary pukes in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. A full year of that had been spent trying to solve it. When that proved impossible, Xyank tried to break it for another three years. And finally, out of ideas, the last year was used to bottle it. The Euclid classification was little more than a formality at this point. And he’d learned a lot. The Foundation learned a lot. That was something. And as a way of saying ‘thank you’, they’d given him another tachyon emitter to dissect. “Alright,” Dr. Xyank said, cracking his knuckles. “I’m about to activate the snooze alarm on [[[SCP-281]]]. Mr. Kitterman, if you would kindly roll film on my mark.” “Ready,” said the lithe Jr. researcher from behind his panel. “Three. Two. One. Mark.” There was a loud crack. Several ants had died from the temporal pressure. All the little electric cars jumped instantly to their new places. Two light bulbs had burned out. Video captured in excess of 9 minutes, 57 seconds in the space of 1 millisecond. “Alright, now we’re cooking,” Thaddeus said with a nod. “Mr. Kitterman; talk to me about ambient radiation,” Xyank demanded from behind the glare of ancient lenses. Marcus Kitterman spun and slid his way down the bank of instruments and stopped himself before the correct panel, making little humming and clucking noises to himself as he built the various readings into a gradient and overlaid that gradient into the room in which they all stood. Fingers crossed and breath bated, three scientists prayed for an end of time as they knew it. “…Nothing even close to hazardous. We’d have to be in here about eight years just to be sure we had cancer.” Marcus delivered a smiling thumbs-up. “We’re green.” It came to him one evening as though from a dream. [[[SCP-1950]]] was the same as SCP-176, but the field was too powerful, and the loop was still open. SCP-281, [[[scp-1979\|1979]]], [[[SCP-119\|119]]], and [[[SCP-1859\|1859]]] all stemmed from the same basic anomaly, with different dilation and constraints. There were //patterns// in these anomalies. Even weird ones like [[[SCP-982\|982]]] and [[[SCP-1309\|1309]]]. The tachyon field model could accommodate them all, and some even made his ‘event boundary’ hypothesis look less like desperation and more like a legitimate explanation. And that was when a time before whispered in his ear, and reminded him of Item # [[[SCP-084]]]. “Initiating transmission… For the experimental record: we’ll be using video from the Ed Sullivan show at 1.28 GHz, and live-feeds from FM 89.3, 99.9 and 107.1 MHz, and AM 545, 890, and 1240 kHz,” Attie said, fingers storming across the keypad before her. “The signal will be broadcast at power of 10 watts, and should keep our area of effect under 2 m in radius.” “Outstanding.” They were calling it ‘the Static Tower’, probably because ‘Temporospatial mind-fuck’ had already been taken. Documentation back home had clearly labeled 084 as a temporal anomaly in its own right. But whether through clerical negligence or prevailing attitudes of a different nature, the Foundation of 1997 had labeled it a ‘radioactive space-time anomaly’. Not //in//correct, but not the most descriptive interpretation. One look at the ‘flicker’ phenomenon and it was obvious. The spatial distortion was a result, most of all, of the temporal distortion around the tower. And why, among all other temporal anomalies, did 084 alone exhibit this odd spatial reflection and scattering? Because the tower was pumping out a thronging mass of EM radiation at nearly 100 watts. All of it, every last nanosecond could be explained without the need of anything so vulgar as a temporal paradox. Paradoxes don’t exist in nature. Hypothesis: tachyon fields can be manipulated with powerful radio signals. Procedure: hook up a known tachyon emitter to a transmitter. Transmit from it on multiple frequencies and see if you get something like 084. At least, that’s how it looked on paper. Maybe it was a risk to try reproducing it in a lab. Strike that, it was //absolutely// a risk. But without risk, there is no gain. And if Xyank could break time so thoroughly, and put it back when he was done, that meant he understood time. It meant he understood time //travel//. It meant it was only a matter of a few (relatively) safe experiments to find a system to predict travel frequencies from now to anywhen. It meant he could finally go home. “Begin transmission, if you would please.” Several oscillating waves overlaid one another on the screen above, and Marcus Kitterman let out a whistle at what to him appeared to be a gibbering line of chaos. “Radiation is still steady, thank god.” “Good,” Xyank said, brushing some silvering hair back away from his face. “I’m going to try turning 281 back on. Mr. Kitterman, let’s see about film capture on my mark.” Marcus opened his mouth to let out one final objection, but thought better of it. Jr. Researcher versus tenured Doc. That would be a really short conversation anyway. “Ready.” What was that saying? Something about finishing what you start, he'd think of it later. “…Mark.” No sharp spark. Nothing, actually. An eerie silence as everything in the bubble seemed to freeze for a second, and fitfully start forward. And back... “Holy...” Kitterman said softly. Ants fluttered in clumps and trails and over houses. Cars leapt willy nilly upon their tracks. Lights flickered. The film from the cameras inside ran back and forth and was useless. “...We did it.” “Save it. We aren't finished yet.” Xyank flipped a switch and took hold of a small joystick. “Commencing drop test one.” 084 produces a spatial anomaly around itself such that no object can approach within 200 m of the tower; it is surrounded by infinite space. If this was an accurate scale representation before him now, the ball in the basket directly above it should fall forever, never growing closer to its target than two meters. It wasn't. The ball fell straight and true. And at the same time the 'anomalies' they had all witnessed stopped happening wholesale. “Ms. Anastasakos?” “We're still transmitting,” she replied, disbelieving. “Mr. Kitterman!” “Radiation level in there is still consistent with an active field,” he shrugged. “But I don't see anything that would lead me to believe there's a distortion present. Film is even coming through now.” Fuck! What had he missed? It wasn't supposed to go like this. “The model said…” Models are only as good as the math behind them. So what about this math? Had it been //perfect//? Had he fat-fingered a digit somewhere? Floated a decimal? Forgotten to carry a one? “Stay here, I'll be right back.” “Uhh...” Researcher Anastasakos began to ask. “Run a few more trials. If I'm not back in twenty minutes exactly, turn it off.” “Yes, sir.” Double doors out of the observation room, down a quick hallway to the end where his office and his whiteboards and his notes were. Damnit it looked so clear, and now it didn't work at all. Had he been too conservative with the interference pattern? Was the signal strong enough? Equations flowed past his vision as he jogged, second guessing and wondering and hypothesizing and desperately trying to find his answer. > “Alright,” Thad,,1,, said, wiping some sweat from his brow. “... Everyone listen up, because-” the door opened and Thaddeus Xyank,,6,, stepped inside, closing the door behind him before even looking up. Xyank,,1,, cleared his throat. The newcomer stopped dead, looked up to a sea of his,,6,, own face looking back at him, and sank dumbstruck to a perch on a shelf by the door. “...As I was saying,” One continued. “I don't even have time to explain this //once//.” > > “Based on what we are all experiencing, our 084 experiment was > was > was > was arguably a success.” The whole room winced in unison. Thads 1 2 and 3 wiped blood from their ears and swore and cursed the day they ever had this half-cocked idea. > > “I thought it wasn't supposed to hurt!,” he,,4,, hollered, pressing his temples together and stamping his feet. > > “Electrical components,” the Doctor,,2,, snipped curtly, and tapped himself on the temple. > > “Stop! Just move past it,” Xyank,,1,, said, eyes plastered shut. A two second beat to collect himself and put his glasses back on. “The point is, we seem to have initiated some kind of temporal isolation event. An open infinite loop.” > > “So,” Thad,,6,, asked timidly, “it... It actually worked?” > > “Oh yeah,” Thaddeus,,1,, smirked, watching the clock on the wall advance and fall back and advance and fall back as causality wobbled all around him. “It worked.” > > “And we're sure it's not a multiverse event?” Six said, still blinking in a bit of shock. > > Two scratched at his nose and pulled his lips tight. “Employee ID numbers anyone?” > > “0927-7182-3740-0918,” said all in unison. > > “Paradox,” Thad,,5,, said, head hitting his desk. “God. Dammit.” > > “Okay, good.” Three stood up and tapped himself > tapped himself > tapped himself > tapped himself a cup of water which he immediately dropped when another brief ripple of spasm leapt across the room. Xyank,,3,, hit the water cooler with the heel of his palm and it bubbled its unconscious reply. Enviable, these inanimate objects. Especially at a no-time like this. “If it's a paradox, there's got to be a way to resolve it, right? Paradoxes don't exist in nature!” > > “I'm getting to that,” Sub-1 said, and started drawing a diagram on the board. “Say this is the world line, like a river, flowing from past to future. What we did was take a bubble”(here he drew a small oval on the side of the line) “and replicated it at regular intervals all over the surrounding space.” > > “How far?” Five asked. > > “At least twenty, probably more.” Dr. Xyank,,2,, replied, arms crossed as he followed along. Six whistled and let his head bounce off of the cabinet. How much had he,,6,, missed? > “One of these bubbles just so happened to land right here on this room. Something about how the other 281 bubbles are interacting with this one is causing us to, at regular intervalsslavretni raluger ta ,ot su gniing us to, at regular intervals...” Thaddeus Xyank,,1,, braced his arms on the desk and bowed his head, two drops of red hitting the table and jumping back up his nose. That one hadn't been so bad. “...Every so often we run into the external world line and another one of me—or all of you, even—walks through the door.” > > “Has anyone tried leaving?”,,6,, > > The second most haggard looking member of the party shook his head. “That's how I got here.” Thaddeus,,1,, and Xyank,,2,, tightened their lips and nodded together. “Not going to work.” > > “But!” four jumped up. “We might be able to keep it from getting any worse if we keep the next iteration from entering YES!” He,,4,, clapped in excitement. “BRILLIANT! He can even go turn it off, and then it'll be over!” > > “For whom?” Three asked solemnly. > > And he was right. There were two possible outcomes to this scenario: Void and Eternity. There would be no ‘escape’, at least not for these assembled. 084 creates infinite space and infinite time within its boundary. Even if they turned the device off, and even if the anomaly subsided from an exterior perspective, and even if they could actually prevent Lucky Number Seven from passing over the threshold into this little pocket they had created for themselves, it would not be over. > > Infinite loop. > Infinite loop. > Infinite loop… Thaddeus let it sink in for a moment, making sure he all understood. > > “So... So we just die here? Is that it?” Six asked. > > “If we’re lucky.” Thad,,2,, said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. > > The handle of the door began to rattle. All twelve eyes locked upon it as their owners froze in place. > > “...Should we rehearse something?”,,5,, > > “There isn't time,” Xyank,,1,, answered. “Once that rattle starts we have thirty seconds to two minutes subjectively... It's hard to tell when you're just talking to yourself all the time.” > > It felt good to chuckle, for all of them. The damned must also laugh. But the moment was not destined to linger. The latch began to slip and unslip and slip and unslip. > > Sub-two, nodded and grabbed up the just-in-case shotgun from its place behind his filing cabinet. “Still. We have to try, don't we?” The others silently agreed. > > “Pay close attention to what you say,” the Doctor,,1,, warned as he picked up a marker and began to write. “I'm going to see if I can't figure a way out of this... shit-fest.” He was so absorbed, that when he laid hands on his door and opened it, it took the open barrel of a very familiar Remington 870 in his face, and what looked an awful lot like a rifled slug at the back of it to snap him out of his mathematical haze. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” Thad heard his own voice say, but was sure he didn’t speak. “Step back, Dr. Xyank. Step back across that threshold right now.” Eyes never leaving the front-sight, he complied. Switching focus he beheld a visage not unlike his own. A little older. More worn. Blood was slowly trickling from all of their ears and noses, and their sleeves were all covered in smudges where they had wiped it away. Six of them. The whiteboard had been erased and rewritten, and erased again, and as he watched, the figure standing at it //unwrote// a line and re-wrote it, pausing only to press his temples and groan before moving on to the next. Before him, the stranger version of himself grew stubble and lost it, and a tiny red rivulet ran forwards and back, up and down his neck as desperate, pained eyes fixed on him. “What you are experiencing,” The Xyank behind the shotgun said as four other injured selves looked on, “is some kind of temporal decohesion event. We haven’t figured out how to stop it yet, or even if it can be stopped from in here. But we can keep more of //you// from coming in here with a little timing.” “I don’t—” “Understand?” one over the gunman’s shoulder said sarcastically. “No shit. Neither do we, and who knows how long You Prime over there at the board has been in here.” Without turning, the man at the board grunted and continued writing. Dr. Xyank did his best to take a photo of his work, but the pain at the back of his neck said something had gone amiss inside. “But—” “You are number 7. We are numbers 1 through 6. But you are //also// number 0. And that means you have to stay out there while we puzzle it out in here.” “…the model?” One of the copies in the rear threw his arms in the air and suddenly stifled himself. “…Decimal error. You were off by a whole order of magnitude. Congratulations, you just ended time as we know it over a radius of twenty goddamn meters.” The man behind the shotgun nodded, shoving the barrel into Thad’s chest and thrusting him back out into the hallway. “Now get back out there and turn it off before you break this whole site!” “But what about—!” The office door slammed closed and locked. No further answers would come, even when he beat against the door until his knuckles cracked open. Not a sound save the steady atonal rhythm of frustrated failure against the door of his own mausoleum. It did not echo down the hall. ---- “...Jesus Christ he's been gone a long time,” Marcus mumbled as he pressed the button and watched another ball fall directly into the center of the model. There was a pile forming now, building up slowly around their little transmitter. “How long has it been anyway?” Attie didn’t look up, just stared intently at the screen in front of her. She was like that, though. The Foundation never hired stupid people, but Researcher Athena Anastasakos was so professional it made Kitterman's teeth hurt. Couple that with a sort of fanatical devotion to figuring this kind of shit out, and it was little wonder she was such an award winning conversationalist. It didn’t even occur to Marcus that anything was amiss until he picked up his paper cup and crossed to the water cooler. He felt a sort of a… is hiccup the right word? Ah, probably nothing. “MARCUS!” she yelped, jumping backward from a screen steadily turning to static. “...Oh god, you scared me! How on earth did you get over //there//?” “I… I walked. With my feet.” Kitterman rolled his eyes and pressed the watercoolerreloocretaw eht desserp dna seye sih dellor namerttiK “.teef ym htiWith my feet.” Kitterman rolled his eyes and pressed the watercooler’s valve. Athena bit her tongue and watched. A slow trickle of water overflowed his cup in a matter of a quarter second. He dropped it in surprise. Two faces turned white. “…How long //has// it been since he left?” “Not more than three minutes.” “So how did I drop all of those?” he asked, pointing to the pile of tiny foam balls. They ran to their panels and typed in commands, slapped display screens, flicked at status lights as everything started slowly to go bananas. “Turn it off Turn it off Turn it off!” Athena yelled, fingers blurring takka-tak-tak just in time to watch Marcus pull open a panel and start pulling out wires. They sparked and smoked and fumed and slapped back into place. “//Oh really, should I//?” Kitterman yelled back. He ran to the door and threw it open, and sprinted what must have been 30 meters down a two meter stretch of hallway to the chamber door. Secured with electronic locks and they would not budge. “FUCK!” The noise fell flat in the sterile hall as he threw himself through the air back to the observation room. “Where in hell did he go?” “Probably the same place we’re going if you can’t shut that damn thing //off!//” Panic comes in waves. At first you’re not even sure it’s happening. Everything goes red, and a tingling feeling grows out of your gut to the tips of your fingers and toes. It grabs your brain and won’t let go. Synapses fire faster than you’d believe as every possible solution cycles through your brain once, twice, three times a lady. All of them are shit. It was about at this level of disoriented stupidity that Kitterman first picked up the stool and slammed it against the glass. A crack ran up and then back down and then sealed itself again. So he tried another five or thirty times (who counts?) before he reckoned the sanest thing to do would be just to drop the stool and scream at the pane’s stupid face. “That’s enough! You’re not helping anyone!” Attie yelled as she squinted at a screen of static, desperately hoping a distortion would come through to smooth the electronics out, if only for a minute. Just long enough to impart some sense about how the field looked and what the Snooze Alarm was doing and if it was ever going to stop. A shoulder was thrown into the door and Xyank fell through it onto the floor. “We have a problem!” “//No! Really? I hadn’t noticed!//” Marcus hollered as he ham-fisted a wad of wires from beneath the console and grabbed out his pocket knife. The Doctor,,0,, wiped blood from his ear and spat some to the floor which dried in an instant. “What have you tried so far?” “Wiring panel, input commands, B and E, refreshing the transmission—” Ms. Anastasakos answered. “Pretty much everything but whistling show-tunes at it!” Kitterman barked as he cut a cable and watched it stitch itself up again for the third time. Shit. This was bad. Really bad. Everything already broken, everything already resetting. But causality was still flexible, and the fact that he had made it back into this room meant it wasn’t final yet. They were not completely isolated, and one last Hail-Mary was absolutely not out of the question. It’s not as though there was much to lose. “Ms. Anastasakos, what is the correct //time//?” “I don’t see how—” “Dammit, Attie, it’s a temporal anomaly! //What bloody time is it?//” Thaddeus demanded as he hopped to the breaker box on the wall and threw it wide. “Its… it’s 0600? That doesn't—wait! 1023…1747?” “Do either of you know what time we started transmitting?” “0930! … I think,” Marcus offered, recoiling and sucking his fingers from a minor electric shock. “You //think?//” Marcus shrugged and raised his hands, looking equal parts horrified and apologetic. It would have to do. “All right, this is a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got. Ms. Anastasakos, you need to tell me when—” “NOW!” Everything went black. An emergency light came on. Their pulses hung in mid-air as they waited. And waited… and waited. ---- 0945 came and went. The anomaly did not resume. After a couple Mole-rats rooted around for a day or so and scanned his office with every instrument he had clearance to know about (and a few which he didn’t) and found no detectable temporal fluctuation; after a painful, exhausting ritualistic interrogation to ensure he wasn’t acting under anyone else’s influence and remained loyal to the Foundation’s objectives; after a psyche evaluation that revealed a little post-traumatic stress but otherwise a clean bill of psychiatric health and two weeks paid leave, Dr. Xyank sat in his office tapping his temple, staring at the last thing he had written on the whiteboard. Red marks were everywhere, shooting this way and that, too and from impromptu diagrams and flow charts and equations that would make most J.R.s blush. All of it spiraling into, out of, around, and through one central feature: an enormous Black Box. Yes, the experiment had been a ‘success’, in a manner of speaking. No, no one had died, at least not in a verifiable way. Yes, Thaddeus had confirmed that certain long-wavelength electromagnetic signals of sufficient power could alter the shape, rate of flow, direction, and endurance of any extant tachyon flux. But had he actually learned how to create a tachyon flux to manipulate? No. The Black Box remained Black. And it was too costly to keep going. Dozens were dead. Six copies of himself were irretrievable. He had nearly turned Site-17’s anomalous experimentation wing into another SCP of who knows what designation. 084/281-A, maybe? His name very narrowly avoided censorship on every document he had ever touched as the Foundation disavowed all knowledge of his activities or that they had ever even deigned to hire him. It was time to stop. But as he stood to grab the eraser, silence took hold of him. He glanced upward and noticed the clock had stopped. He perked his ear and heard no movement outside in what should be a rush-hour end-of-day shit-show of a hallway. When he turned he saw a shadow at the door. Just one. It cleared its throat and passed a parcel through the slot in the door before leaving. The clock resumed its forward march. The hall resumed its noisy bustle. On the floor, a manila envelope. Inside, a watch. //His// watch. His very own Model [[[scp-442\|442]]]//i// automatic winding perpetual perfect-time watch. It had probably been languishing in anomalous item storage these last...well, there was no telling how long, he supposed. Only that he hadn’t seen it since he was picked up after… After. But who else would have known that? Bound up in the band, a note, hand written, in red fine-point felt-tipped marker. In reflex he crumpled it and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Before the second ticked over he was back in his seat, across the desk, hands folded, staring at it. But then that got him thinking. //He// would write that message, some time in the future. Absolutely. It was the only way to avoid a break. He would know the time and date (it was 1946 on August the 18th, 1997. Thad logged it in his memory and stored it somewhere it wouldn't get lost.) and place to deliver it... He now had to make sure he knew the message and its contents, so the loop could be completed. Or else... Or else, he was sure he didn't want to know what else. [[collapsible show="'In for a penny...'" hide="'...in for a pound.'"]] > … > > “I don’t—” > > “Understand?” Three said, wondering if he was getting more condescending. “No shit.” Yes, definitely. He'd have to tone it down. “Neither do we, and who knows how long You Prime over there at the board has been in here.” > > He,,1,, didn't grunt. He stopped writing and sighed. “What’s the point?” He whispered quietly. > > “But—” > > “You are number 7.” Two continued, an edge in his voice clearly directed in One's direction. “We are numbers //One// through //Six//.” > > “No, he isn't.” Thaddeus,,1,, put the marker down. > > “You're right, number one! He's //also// number //Zero//.” The other four glanced furtively at one another, horrified. What was he doing, breaking containment like that? > > “Stop it, Two.” > > “What are you //doing?//” Five hissed, wide-eyed and wild. “You’re going to break—!” > > “NO. I'm not lying anymore. He's not number 7, he’s number forty-two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two. And he has a right to know //exactly// how bad we fucked up.” > > Two dropped the barrel of the shotgun and let the threat hang loose in his hands “Goddammit, One.” He turned in slow resignation and locked eyes with force. “You just broke nearly two and a half //years// of symmetry.” > > “Symmetry? Is that what you call an infinite number of alternate time lines due to //one// cocked-up experiment?” One demanded. > > “Well, it wouldn’t have been if you’d just stuck to your own goddamn plan!” Three said, throwing an eraser across the room. > > “WILL EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP?” Four said, rummaging through the drawer. “I swear there’s an emergency Class B in here somewhere! Just shove it down his throat and we'll do it right and send him on his way!” > > But before he could grab it, the door slipped shut. > > Six of the same man gasped in unison. Lucky Number Seven simply sighed. It wasn’t great. It wasn’t even good. Hell, it was hardly a solution at all, but with damage done and time being a factor (the other versions of him would not have been nearly so urgent if it wasn’t), he wouldn’t have a chance to take a Class B. They’d probably make him forget too much anyway. No… This was home now. This room and these people and this awful experiment. He had made this sacrifice before. Precisely Six times before. > > And he would make it again. That is the way the Foundation operates. We Secure. We Contain. We Protect. Even if, sometimes, it means one must contain oneself. > > “Room for one more?” He,,7,, asked with a smirk as the > as the > as the > as the > as the first ripple sent a spine of pain in one side of his head and out the other, and blood trickled unhappily out of his left ear. > > “… For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Thad,,1,, laid a hand on his,,7,, shoulder and bit his,,1,, bottom lip hard, keeping the torrent back. > > “Don’t be… it’s my fault, too.” Just that moment, a little early actually, the knob began to rattle. Lucky Number Seven, the true number Seven and no longer number Zero, rolled his eyes. “…I’ll just… hide in the closet, or something.” [[/collapsible]] Heh... funny how you remember things at the last minute. ---- [[code]]Eve’s cardinal sin was NOT biting the apple. It was failing to chew, swallow, and finish it. Do not make the same mistake or so help us both… -Tx[[/code]] ... ---- [[=]] [[[Iteration 0\|Part One: Iteration 0]]] \| [[[Welcome to Delta T\|Hub]]] \| [[[Erstwhile and Again\|Part Three: Erstwhile and Again]]] [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-08-20T14:21:00	[ "_licensebox", "delta-t", "tale", "tc2013", "thad-xyank" ]	The Deep End - SCP Foundation	203	[ "iteration-0", "scp-176", "scp-281", "scp-1950", "scp-1979", "scp-119", "scp-1859", "scp-982", "scp-1309", "scp-084", "scp-442", "welcome-to-delta-t", "erstwhile-and-again", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "time-contest", "archived:tales-by-title", "welcome-to-delta-t", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	19334846	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-deep-end
the-diary-of-an-author	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Rufus' Diary</span></p> <p><strong>Day 1</strong></p> <p><em>Well it finally happened, I got hired! I actually can’t believe it! Mind you every other studio was interested in me, but obviously not for the right reasons. I mean all they ever did was freaking swarm around me like I'm some kind of circus act. I’ve finally found a brand that appreciates me for who I am. As a writer and an artist, I’ve found a company that actually lets me express myself; I get to live the dream. To all the people who said I couldn't do it, take a look at me now.</em></p> <p><strong>Day 11</strong></p> <p><em>Working for the foundation is pretty much everything I thought it would be and more. Not only are they giving me practically everything I think I could ever need as a writer, but they’re also giving me a place to live, free food, and well… pretty much everything is free. They've even given me a complementary office with a huge window. The window doesn't have a great view considering the only scenery consists of my coworkers studying my work in their white coats all day. In a society like this, free anything is so damn rare, so you've just gotta take what you're given.</em></p> <p><strong>Day 43</strong></p> <p><em>I love this job, but that isn’t going to stop me from missing my friends back home. I literally haven't had the chance to put down my work since I got here. I know I’ve finally hit the jackpot, but I guess you can’t have your cake and eat it too.</em></p> <p><strong>Day 56</strong></p> <p><em>It was a tough call, but I’ve decided that I’d rather be able to have the company of my friends and family than write for these people. Sure they’ve treated me well, but my coworkers informed me that this job is going to be all work no play. There are never any breaks with these people. I've been needing to sleep at the office since day one, just because of how crammed my schedule is. Writing is my passion, but that doesn’t mean I want to do it literally 24/7. They treat my writing like crack. I know it will be a let down for the foundation, but I gave them my one weeks notice. I was pretty sorry about it too.</em></p> <p><strong>Day 63</strong></p> <p><em>This is messed up. I tried to leave the building today, but I couldn’t even leave my room. My office door is locked from the outside. I called for help all day, but nobody came. I know they heard me too. Some asshole walked by the glass and didn’t even acknowledge me. There’s got to be some kind of law against this bullshit right?</em></p> <p><strong>Day 65</strong></p> <p><em>This is some kind of weird cult. These people are addicted to my goddamn writing. They pretty much worship it. They hang onto every word I write and literally discuss it for hours. I’ve seen them do it through the glass. I’ve tried escaping, but the walls, door, and even the damn glass are solid. We’ll see how much they worship my writing when it's god awful.</em></p> <p><strong>Day 73</strong></p> <p><em>I don’t understand the infatuation of these people with my literature… I handed in my latest work, “LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU FREAKING WEIRDOS”. They literally gave me no reaction; they ate it up just like they did with all my other works. Christ, I just want to go home…</em></p> <p><strong>Day 113</strong></p> <p><em>These assholes forgot to feed me today. It’s as if they haven’t ruined my life enough by imprisoning me. What's a giraffe got to do to get some sustenance?</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="/the-diary-of-an-author">The Diary of An Author</a>" by UglyFlower, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-diary-of-an-author">https://scpwiki.com/the-diary-of-an-author</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] __Rufus' Diary__ Day 1 //Well it finally happened, I got hired! I actually can’t believe it! Mind you every other studio was interested in me, but obviously not for the right reasons. I mean all they ever did was freaking swarm around me like I'm some kind of circus act. I’ve finally found a brand that appreciates me for who I am. As a writer and an artist, I’ve found a company that actually lets me express myself; I get to live the dream. To all the people who said I couldn't do it, take a look at me now.// Day 11 //Working for the foundation is pretty much everything I thought it would be and more. Not only are they giving me practically everything I think I could ever need as a writer, but they’re also giving me a place to live, free food, and well… pretty much everything is free. They've even given me a complementary office with a huge window. The window doesn't have a great view considering the only scenery consists of my coworkers studying my work in their white coats all day. In a society like this, free anything is so damn rare, so you've just gotta take what you're given.// Day 43 //I love this job, but that isn’t going to stop me from missing my friends back home. I literally haven't had the chance to put down my work since I got here. I know I’ve finally hit the jackpot, but I guess you can’t have your cake and eat it too.// Day 56 //It was a tough call, but I’ve decided that I’d rather be able to have the company of my friends and family than write for these people. Sure they’ve treated me well, but my coworkers informed me that this job is going to be all work no play. There are never any breaks with these people. I've been needing to sleep at the office since day one, just because of how crammed my schedule is. Writing is my passion, but that doesn’t mean I want to do it literally 24/7. They treat my writing like crack. I know it will be a let down for the foundation, but I gave them my one weeks notice. I was pretty sorry about it too.// Day 63 //This is messed up. I tried to leave the building today, but I couldn’t even leave my room. My office door is locked from the outside. I called for help all day, but nobody came. I know they heard me too. Some asshole walked by the glass and didn’t even acknowledge me. There’s got to be some kind of law against this bullshit right?// Day 65 //This is some kind of weird cult. These people are addicted to my goddamn writing. They pretty much worship it. They hang onto every word I write and literally discuss it for hours. I’ve seen them do it through the glass. I’ve tried escaping, but the walls, door, and even the damn glass are solid. We’ll see how much they worship my writing when it's god awful.// Day 73 //I don’t understand the infatuation of these people with my literature… I handed in my latest work, “LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU FREAKING WEIRDOS”. They literally gave me no reaction; they ate it up just like they did with all my other works. Christ, I just want to go home...// Day 113 //These assholes forgot to feed me today. It’s as if they haven’t ruined my life enough by imprisoning me. What's a giraffe got to do to get some sustenance?// @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-11-20T03:20:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Diary of An Author - SCP Foundation	41	[ "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" ]	[]	20690952	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-diary-of-an-author
the-end	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The two figures met each other as they always did, by the sofas. Both seemed to flicker, their outlines faded and blurry. As always happened, the short one began the speech.</p> <p>"Hail, Myala, King of Swords, Soul of Valor, God of the Warrior!" Its voice was shaky and indistinct. "May your blessings always fall upon us, as the blood of the wicked falls upon your altar! We ask of you a portion of your strength so that we might do your work."</p> <p>The taller one grew more defined. He was now a four-armed creature, each arm holding a separate sword, pitted and dull. Five pairs of eyes, which had once been filled with burning fury, were now all half-closed. He gave a weary smile through a dull-tusked mouth, each of his arms raised in salute to his partner.</p> <p>"Hail, Alik, Mistress of Luck, Fickle Hand of Fate, Goddess of Tricks! We beseech you upon this day to look favorably upon us. Stay the hand of your wrath from our heads, letting it fall instead to our enemies. For this, we offer you the first coin made in a game of chance!"</p> <p>The shorter one gave a sigh as she felt herself tighten into existence. Her silken finery was frayed, its once-vibrant colors having long since faded into pale imitations. She laughed as she adjusted her tarnished crown.</p> <p>"Do they still have games of chance?" she asked, her voice now clearer.</p> <p>Myla sighed. "I don't think so. There's not much left in the way of <em>chance</em> any more. I think they just measure out the variables and give or take money. If it makes you feel better, the closest I've felt to a war was two children slapping each other the other day."</p> <p>Alik gave a snort of laughter. "Still, that's better than that cat. I don't think there's been anything for it for at least a century. Where is it, anyway?"</p> <p>Myla was quiet. His ten eyes all stared at the floor.</p> <p>"Oh."</p> <p>"Yeah. Now it's just you and me, I suppose."</p> <p>"I… I suppose so."</p> <p>"…"</p> <p>"How long do you think we can keep this up?"</p> <p>"Just the two of us? I don't think it'll even work with only two."</p> <p>"Well, for what it's worth, you were always one of my favorites. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be with at the end."</p> <p>The two dead gods embraced one another for the last time. All around them, the Library continued its business unabated.</p> <hr/> <p>No one was sure when exactly it happened.</p> <p>It didn't happen as it had in the stories countless times before. There was no dragon slain, no warlord defeated, not even a demon outwitted. There was just a gradual tapering off. Eventually, it just <em>wasn't</em>.</p> <p>For too many centuries to count, Science and Rationality had been dual monarchs of mankind's understanding. Mankind had colonized the distant stars, charting each new worlds, encountering new species, none intelligent.</p> <p>Vast banks of statistics explained the sweep of history far better than any of the former romantic theories of Great Men or Common Folk. The nature of almost all of the physical world, down to the tiniest sub-atomic particle, was explained. Knowledge ran through a million worlds, dispelling ignorance bringing the universe together in one tight-knit community.</p> <p>Parts of the brain associated with harmful groupthink and tribalism atrophied, and were eventually removed altogether.</p> <p>It had been several centuries since the introduction of the Unified Theory of Anomalies. In the ensuing time, the theory had been refined to explain the few anomalies that had escaped its initial grasp. Tales of explorers became more prosaic, describing new potassium deposits and moon sizes. There was no possible unknown; Science had explained all. It was no longer a model of reality, it was reality, understood perfectly and without fear by every single human being.</p> <p>In time, the pages of stories withered. The words were all there, but there was nothing to support them. They stood on the page, dry and lifeless as a hunter's trophy. Interest in pre-understanding narratives, never high to begin with, vanished almost entirely.</p> <p>Scholars would puzzle over the manuscripts for millenia. What in these words had led to so much anger and unrest? They were things that simply were not, and indeed, <em>could not</em> be. Hypotheses were posited in obscure academic journals for many centuries, and many a comfortably uneventful professorship was built on the question of "fear."</p> <hr/> <p>Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, lumbered along the isles of the Library. Its breathing grew heavy as it staggered through the vast monument to its chains. Out of its drooping mouth hung a long, purple tongue. It had to find them, had to have them believe in it…</p> <p>It fell on its side, making only a slight rustling sound. It tried to get up.</p> <p>It was King, it thought. God of mankind, above the gods. It was what necessitated the gods.</p> <p>Its outline was becoming blurry now, its colors beginning to fade. But, it thought, the gods were dead.</p> <p>No, it would stand up, it thought.</p> <p>Breaths were coming more slowly now, its sides moving with each labored wheeze.</p> <p>Somewhere, somehow it would find purchase and tweak something. Set off a cascade, one that would plunge the universe into an eternity of darkness.</p> <p>Its indistinct paws waved weakly in the air.</p> <p>It would… it would…</p> <p>It was now just a slightly discolored pocket of air.</p> <p>It would…</p> <p>And that was that. It was gone.</p> <p>All around where it had once been, the Library continued its business unabated.</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-end">The End</a>" by (user deleted), from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-end">https://scpwiki.com/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]] [[/>]] The two figures met each other as they always did, by the sofas. Both seemed to flicker, their outlines faded and blurry. As always happened, the short one began the speech. "Hail, Myala, King of Swords, Soul of Valor, God of the Warrior!" Its voice was shaky and indistinct. "May your blessings always fall upon us, as the blood of the wicked falls upon your altar! We ask of you a portion of your strength so that we might do your work." The taller one grew more defined. He was now a four-armed creature, each arm holding a separate sword, pitted and dull. Five pairs of eyes, which had once been filled with burning fury, were now all half-closed. He gave a weary smile through a dull-tusked mouth, each of his arms raised in salute to his partner. "Hail, Alik, Mistress of Luck, Fickle Hand of Fate, Goddess of Tricks! We beseech you upon this day to look favorably upon us. Stay the hand of your wrath from our heads, letting it fall instead to our enemies. For this, we offer you the first coin made in a game of chance!" The shorter one gave a sigh as she felt herself tighten into existence. Her silken finery was frayed, its once-vibrant colors having long since faded into pale imitations. She laughed as she adjusted her tarnished crown. "Do they still have games of chance?" she asked, her voice now clearer. Myla sighed. "I don't think so. There's not much left in the way of //chance// any more. I think they just measure out the variables and give or take money. If it makes you feel better, the closest I've felt to a war was two children slapping each other the other day." Alik gave a snort of laughter. "Still, that's better than that cat. I don't think there's been anything for it for at least a century. Where is it, anyway?" Myla was quiet. His ten eyes all stared at the floor. "Oh." "Yeah. Now it's just you and me, I suppose." "I... I suppose so." "..." "How long do you think we can keep this up?" "Just the two of us? I don't think it'll even work with only two." "Well, for what it's worth, you were always one of my favorites. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be with at the end." The two dead gods embraced one another for the last time. All around them, the Library continued its business unabated. ----- No one was sure when exactly it happened. It didn't happen as it had in the stories countless times before. There was no dragon slain, no warlord defeated, not even a demon outwitted. There was just a gradual tapering off. Eventually, it just //wasn't//. For too many centuries to count, Science and Rationality had been dual monarchs of mankind's understanding. Mankind had colonized the distant stars, charting each new worlds, encountering new species, none intelligent. Vast banks of statistics explained the sweep of history far better than any of the former romantic theories of Great Men or Common Folk. The nature of almost all of the physical world, down to the tiniest sub-atomic particle, was explained. Knowledge ran through a million worlds, dispelling ignorance bringing the universe together in one tight-knit community. Parts of the brain associated with harmful groupthink and tribalism atrophied, and were eventually removed altogether. It had been several centuries since the introduction of the Unified Theory of Anomalies. In the ensuing time, the theory had been refined to explain the few anomalies that had escaped its initial grasp. Tales of explorers became more prosaic, describing new potassium deposits and moon sizes. There was no possible unknown; Science had explained all. It was no longer a model of reality, it was reality, understood perfectly and without fear by every single human being. In time, the pages of stories withered. The words were all there, but there was nothing to support them. They stood on the page, dry and lifeless as a hunter's trophy. Interest in pre-understanding narratives, never high to begin with, vanished almost entirely. Scholars would puzzle over the manuscripts for millenia. What in these words had led to so much anger and unrest? They were things that simply were not, and indeed, //could not// be. Hypotheses were posited in obscure academic journals for many centuries, and many a comfortably uneventful professorship was built on the question of "fear." ----- Gilgali, The Tiger With Lantern Eyes, lumbered along the isles of the Library. Its breathing grew heavy as it staggered through the vast monument to its chains. Out of its drooping mouth hung a long, purple tongue. It had to find them, had to have them believe in it… It fell on its side, making only a slight rustling sound. It tried to get up. It was King, it thought. God of mankind, above the gods. It was what necessitated the gods. Its outline was becoming blurry now, its colors beginning to fade. But, it thought, the gods were dead. No, it would stand up, it thought. Breaths were coming more slowly now, its sides moving with each labored wheeze. Somewhere, somehow it would find purchase and tweak something. Set off a cascade, one that would plunge the universe into an eternity of darkness. Its indistinct paws waved weakly in the air. It would… it would… It was now just a slightly discolored pocket of air. It would… And that was that. It was gone. All around where it had once been, the Library continued its business unabated. [[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>]]	2013-02-04T14:05:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "only-game-in-town", "tale", "wanderers-library" ]	The End - SCP Foundation	98	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "only-game-in-town-hub", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16291537	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-end
the-end-of-history	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>November 9th, 1989. East Berlin. The last time it will ever be called that.</em></p> <p><em>At a press conference announcing new, more liberal travel regulations for the German Democratic Republic, unprepared spokesperson Günter Schabowski inadvertently declares that the Berlin Wall will be opened for transit immediately.</em></p> <p><em>Six hours later, there is jubilation across the city as “Ossies” flood into the West without permission or plan. Crowds mingle in the streets, cheering, drinking, and singing. For so long the two halves of one people have longed to know one other. Now that call is answered in a burst of passion that sweeps the world. Finally.</em></p> <p><em>Finally!</em></p> <hr/> <p>For all the fuss about parascience, the Cold War ended pretty much as it was supposed to. A ten-year war in Afghanistan gnawed away at the Soviet Union from the inside. Economic stagnation wiped out what little tolerance for repression remained in the Communist Bloc. Across a dozen countries people took to the streets, a dozen revolutions signaling what would famously be called the End of History.</p> <p>Issues and ideologies which seemed so crucial in the heat of past decades vanished in moments. In retrospect, the passions which sent half a million Americans to Vietnam had waned long before the first crack appeared in the Berlin Wall. Within a decade of the end, communism was a punchline, and what Cold Warriors remained were no more than relics of a quaint and confusing age.</p> <p>One last great espionage drama took place far from the public view. Without their great rival, the United States had no desire to carry on the expensive work of mass parascientific containment, and the leaders of the new Russian Federation had no such capability. After arduous negotiations, the Foundation returned to moth-balled sites and slumbering facilities long occupied by forces of the two great combatants. The jailors recovered their wayward charges – their long exile was over.</p> <p>There came a time of joyous reunification. Amidst the swirling crowds of Berlin, families came together, often for the first time – brothers embraced sisters they had never met, while children grown into unrecognizable adults searched out parents who were only memories. A hundred miles of concrete wall and forty years separation had not sundered the bonds of family and kinship.</p> <p>No longer needed, The Coldest War passed into the dust bin of history.</p> <hr/> <p>Around the Brandenburg Gate some of the largest crowds gather. Already the “Wall-Woodpeckers” have begun chipping away at the once-fearsome barrier and by morning almost everybody and their aunt will have a piece.</p> <p>Two figures, a man and a woman, slip away from the revelry unnoticed. Strangers, but who is a stranger on this singular night? Darting around the nearest corner, they fall into a drunken embrace. Swept up in a haze of alcohol and hormones, the man does not notice the wafting smell of citrus, and remains oblivious to the sudden sharpening of his consort's features as she prepares to consume him.</p> <p>Ensnared and now sedated by his not-quite-human companion, the luckless man slips into unconsciousness. He does not see the four masked men who rush out of the darkness to subdue the shape-shifter, and does not remember the otherwise unremarkable <em>Polizei</em> van into which they wrestle her. But he lives to see the first day in a new Deutschland.</p> <hr/> <p><em>A white and green police van rolls down the quiet streets of West Berlin in the early morning, far from the pandemonium of the western border.</em></p> <p><em>In the reinforced rear compartment, something less than human struggles against specially prepared restraints to no avail. If its head were not locked within an iron cage it would glare at the grey-haired agent who sits across from it, the agent who has hunted it relentlessly for so long, since Oslo, since Berlin, through a hundred other cities. Helpless with its semi-skin locked and pheromone pods plugged, the creature settles for a blistering stream of multilingual obscenity.</em></p> <p><em>“Yell as you please, Twenty-thirty,” laughs Agent Franklin, now an old man. “I told you I'd be waiting. Yell as you please!”</em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/scp-2498">SCP-2498</a> \| <a href="/the-coldest-war-hub">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-end-of-history">The End of History</a>" by Vezaz, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-end-of-history">https://scpwiki.com/the-end-of-history</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //November 9th, 1989. East Berlin. The last time it will ever be called that.// //At a press conference announcing new, more liberal travel regulations for the German Democratic Republic, unprepared spokesperson Günter Schabowski inadvertently declares that the Berlin Wall will be opened for transit immediately.// //Six hours later, there is jubilation across the city as “Ossies” flood into the West without permission or plan. Crowds mingle in the streets, cheering, drinking, and singing. For so long the two halves of one people have longed to know one other. Now that call is answered in a burst of passion that sweeps the world. Finally.// //Finally!// ------------- For all the fuss about parascience, the Cold War ended pretty much as it was supposed to. A ten-year war in Afghanistan gnawed away at the Soviet Union from the inside. Economic stagnation wiped out what little tolerance for repression remained in the Communist Bloc. Across a dozen countries people took to the streets, a dozen revolutions signaling what would famously be called the End of History. Issues and ideologies which seemed so crucial in the heat of past decades vanished in moments. In retrospect, the passions which sent half a million Americans to Vietnam had waned long before the first crack appeared in the Berlin Wall. Within a decade of the end, communism was a punchline, and what Cold Warriors remained were no more than relics of a quaint and confusing age. One last great espionage drama took place far from the public view. Without their great rival, the United States had no desire to carry on the expensive work of mass parascientific containment, and the leaders of the new Russian Federation had no such capability. After arduous negotiations, the Foundation returned to moth-balled sites and slumbering facilities long occupied by forces of the two great combatants. The jailors recovered their wayward charges – their long exile was over. There came a time of joyous reunification. Amidst the swirling crowds of Berlin, families came together, often for the first time – brothers embraced sisters they had never met, while children grown into unrecognizable adults searched out parents who were only memories. A hundred miles of concrete wall and forty years separation had not sundered the bonds of family and kinship. No longer needed, The Coldest War passed into the dust bin of history. --------- Around the Brandenburg Gate some of the largest crowds gather. Already the “Wall-Woodpeckers” have begun chipping away at the once-fearsome barrier and by morning almost everybody and their aunt will have a piece. Two figures, a man and a woman, slip away from the revelry unnoticed. Strangers, but who is a stranger on this singular night? Darting around the nearest corner, they fall into a drunken embrace. Swept up in a haze of alcohol and hormones, the man does not notice the wafting smell of citrus, and remains oblivious to the sudden sharpening of his consort's features as she prepares to consume him. Ensnared and now sedated by his not-quite-human companion, the luckless man slips into unconsciousness. He does not see the four masked men who rush out of the darkness to subdue the shape-shifter, and does not remember the otherwise unremarkable //Polizei// van into which they wrestle her. But he lives to see the first day in a new Deutschland. ---------- //A white and green police van rolls down the quiet streets of West Berlin in the early morning, far from the pandemonium of the western border.// //In the reinforced rear compartment, something less than human struggles against specially prepared restraints to no avail. If its head were not locked within an iron cage it would glare at the grey-haired agent who sits across from it, the agent who has hunted it relentlessly for so long, since Oslo, since Berlin, through a hundred other cities. Helpless with its semi-skin locked and pheromone pods plugged, the creature settles for a blistering stream of multilingual obscenity.// //“Yell as you please, Twenty-thirty,” laughs Agent Franklin, now an old man. “I told you I'd be waiting. Yell as you please!”// [[=]] << [[[SCP-2498]]] \| [[[the-coldest-war-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>]]	2013-02-05T14:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "period-piece", "tale", "the-coldest-war" ]	The End of History - SCP Foundation	105	[ "scp-2498", "the-coldest-war-hub", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-coldest-war-hub", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16302719	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-end-of-history
the-exalted	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> <strong><em>Journal Entry, September the Twentieth, the Year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety-One</em></strong> <p>I have encountered the most <span style="text-decoration: underline;">marvelous</span> thing at the lakehouse! There is a winding closed path there that slopes ever upwards… <span style="text-decoration: underline;">even once you have returned to your start!</span></p> <p>I have spent the last few days walking and studying it, and have yet to find an explanation. But I shall continue! I feel like I am on the edge of something enormous and wonderful, like standing on a cliffside overlooking the sea. And I will not cease until I have drunk my fill!</p> <p>I should wire Franklin immediately to come join me, but I'm dread to involve anyone else until I have an explanation in my own mind. I seem to sense some mathematical forms that may adequately apply. Perhaps I should wait until I am further down this path before involving my brother. He is busy with his surgery, after all.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, June the Twenty-First, the year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety-Three</em></strong></p> <p>I delayed perhaps too long in asking Agnes to marry me, but I was quite distracted by these wonderful equations. They are fascinating and complex and hint of a world of ease for all men, if we can but exploit them properly. It may be overly romantic, but I wanted to provide proof of my love and devotion to Agnes before asking for her hand. So I used some of the simpler forms I derived from the path to forge for her a key to open any lock and unbar any door, that she and I may never be separated.</p> <p>Franklin teased me about it, but he is as fascinated as I am by these derived mathematics. So far, I have only found applications in the physical realm, but he believes they may be applicable to medicinal breakthroughs as well. He also suggested bringing on Thomas and Jeremy as well, although they are not scientifically minded and I do not see how they might provide assistance. Still, I am loathe to withhold benefit from the world, even if we must provide it slowly.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, January the First, the year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and One</em></strong></p> <p>The first day of a new century. It's hard to believe all the wondrous things we've discovered and created during the last decade. I know it's sentimental, but I harbor a fondness for Agnes' key. I suppose it is akin to the fondness another man might hold for his first-born son.</p> <p>I spent the morning reviewing my notes on the data I collected on this past equinox, and I do believe that I may be able to finally formulate a partial set of rules to govern the properties of a body moving at or beyond the speed of light in a vacuum. I shall proceed with my experiments within the month. The Crab Nebula should be sufficiently distant to effectively test my hypothesis.</p> <p>Agnes wishes me to review some documents regarding the outlay for the new facility Jason is building in Arizona, but I am no financier and have no desire to embroil myself in a spat with Jason. Frankly, my dear Agnes has a much better head for how to soothe his bruised ego than I ever have and I trust her to perform her duties well.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, July Second, Nineteen-Fourteen A.D.</em></strong></p> <p>Blast it! Thomas and his little <em>coterie</em> have been meddling again! The recent events in Sarajevo bore all the signs of their interference, particularly in light of their interest in the territories along the German-Austrian border. The depradations they have already performed… When I first met Thomas, I would not have expected such depravities of him. That flute alone…</p> <p>I must meet with Agnes, Elizabeth and my brother, and soon. Perhaps if we hurry, we will be able to mitigate some of the effects of this. I dare not allow us to openly intervene, but perhaps something more subtle may be possible. I believe my brother has been breeding some sort of creatures that inhibit dream states. One or two of those let loose on a general or recalcitrant head of state might be useful.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, January Eighteenth, 1919 AD</em></strong></p> <p>I watched those pompous fools sign their treaty today, despite Franklin's misgivings. He was afraid that those traitorous breakaways would try to disrupt the proceedings, but even <span style="text-decoration: underline;">they</span> must see how utterly foolish and wasteful this whole unpleasant business was. But to see these utter, utter fools crow and humiliate the Krauts… This will not end well.</p> <p>In the meantime, we must attempt to reclaim our possessions lost in the heat of battle. At least a few of Franklin's beasts slipped their tethers at the beginning of the war, and he only just revealed to me that he neglected to remove their ability to breed true prior to their release. Jeremy and Thomas were quite busy as well, and I'm certain that the only reason England didn't suffer more was due to their interference. I quite wonder whether they would have been so quick to light the flame if they had known it would spread to the entirety of Europe.</p> <p>Quite bothersome is a report that Elizabeth passed to me that a group of our agents monitoring the fronts went mad sometime last year, and have taken to worshipping that ugly mass of rust we recovered from one of Jeremy's holdings at the beginning of the War. She recommends letting them tend it, but I'm somewhat discomfitted by the idea of heathens in our halls, even if they would be fully under our control. I must discuss this with the others.</p> <p>Agnes has been pestering me about our holdings in Canada, especially regarding some sort of aquatic nonsense that Jason has been experimenting with, but frankly, I'd rather not be bothered. He has always been a handful and I find the entire affair draining. Let her deal with him.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, May Ninth, 1933</em></strong></p> <p>As I predicted, the humiliation of the Germans produced bitter fruit. This Hitler fellow has all the hallmarks of a developing nuisance, and I greatly suspect that we will need to send one of Sophia's little gentlemen to bring him into line. The atrocious Italian affair is also of concern. I should see if any of our agents within their government can stabilize things until the Germans are under control.</p> <p>The only consolation is that the heightened fervor of that state allows us to hide our activities amongst the masses somewhat more easily. I am particularly pleased with the preliminary results of my spatial expander in the Black Forest. If successful, I believe I might be able to apply the same precepts to a more portable environment, perhaps even as small as a cabinet.</p> <p>Agnes insists that we need to expand our operations in the Orient, but for the life of me I cannot see why. The Chinese are of no interest to me, much less the rest of the Mongoloids in that region. At best, they would make rude fodder for some of my brother's more esoteric experiments.</p> <p>As much as it pains me, I believe I must speak with Elizabeth about the situation with Jason. His behavior is growing more erratic, and I suspect that we may need to restrain him before he becomes dangerously unstable.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, December Twenty-Fifth, 1943</em></strong></p> <p>The waste, the waste, the sheer and utter <span style="text-decoration: underline;">WASTE</span>!</p> <p>Agnes was correct, Sophia was useless, and Jason is nothing but a failure! So many! <span style="text-decoration: underline;">So many</span> lives spent without reason! I am <span style="text-decoration: underline;">furious</span> that Jason allowed Roosevelt to even <span style="text-decoration: underline;">begin</span> the atomic program, much less allow it to proceed this far!</p> <p>I must see if Sophia can salvage any of this by sharing the information amongst the Germans. She tells me our agents amongst them have access to a large pool of subjects with whom we can test the radio-active effects. I am less trusting of her competence, however. Perhaps Agnes will be willing to oversee the project.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, September 2<sup>nd</sup>, 1945</em></strong></p> <p>At long last this debacle is over, although I had hoped that it would have ended differently. As I oversaw the close of the previous War, so shall I oversee the closing of this one. I have grown so tired of these machinations.</p> <p>Perhaps I shall retire to my neglected studies.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, August 17<sup>th</sup>, 1948</em></strong></p> <p>I am much amused by this fellow Feynman. His innovative diagrams are quite useful for the modeling of the subatomic, and I dearly wish I had known of them in the early years of our endeavor of this Foundation. They would have quite expedited much of my research. I have considered inviting him into our cohort, if only to see whether he would have any other little intuitions regarding the true shape of reality. However, I fear that we may be somewhat retarding the growth of the unenlightened masses by continually plucking the finest minds from their midst.</p> <p>In less pleasant developments, Agnes has formally left me. Truth be told, it was not much of a surprise, given the gulf that has grown between us. I remember when we would lay in the grass and have quiet conversations about music or physics or the intrigues of our extended families. But that has all vanished, replaced with Council meetings and logistical coordinations and a chilly, distant, brittle shred of respect and regard.</p> <p>Even with all the powers at our fingertips, there is so much we <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">cannot</span>, no, WILL not do.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, March 3, 1961</em></strong></p> <p>The Soviet space program is proceeding apace, albeit somewhat quicker than I initially anticipated. I suppose Nikita feels like he must prove something.</p> <p>I do not anticipate any incursions into our Lunar territories in the near future, but we can never be too careful. I'll travel to the Lunar base later this month to inspect the protective and camouflage measures for the base and the deposits at the Lagranges. In any case, I haven't used the telescopes there in quite some time. I may be given reports about our extra-Solar probes, but I still like to look in on the projects once in a while.</p> <p>So many responsibilities these days, so little time to relax. <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">Whatever happened to the lad who walked the path so many years ago?</span> I get so maudlin around my birthday. And so few people left to remember it.</p> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry 01/01/1966</em></strong></p> <p>So begins the 75<sup>th</sup> year since my discovery of that damned path.</p> <p>I can no longer turn a blind eye to the disease that has overcome us all. For truly, hubris has spread like a plague among us, as we bend and twist and break the world to fit our whims. I claim no innocence in this, but cannot ignore the horrors unleashed with grim joy by those I once called friends and family.</p> <p>I remember the curiosity I felt when I first walked the path, and the wonder once I found the equations that sustain it. I remember the excitement in my brother's eyes as he began to see the ramifications, the delight on Agnes' face when I showed her the key.</p> <p>The path gave us the power to rebuild the world. It is time I finally do so.</p> <hr/> <p><strong><em>Journal Entry, September the Twenty-Third, the year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety One</em></strong></p> <p>My sabbatical to the new lakehouse has done me a world of good. I discovered an old walking path on the grounds that led to a marvelous vista above the lake, and I made a sketch of it for Agnes. Perhaps I may entice her to come boating with me, should her cousin be available to chaperone.<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-exalted">The Exalted</a>" by Drewbear, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-exalted">https://scpwiki.com/the-exalted</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //Journal Entry, September the Twentieth, the Year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety-One// I have encountered the most __marvelous__ thing at the lakehouse! There is a winding closed path there that slopes ever upwards... __even once you have returned to your start!__ I have spent the last few days walking and studying it, and have yet to find an explanation. But I shall continue! I feel like I am on the edge of something enormous and wonderful, like standing on a cliffside overlooking the sea. And I will not cease until I have drunk my fill! I should wire Franklin immediately to come join me, but I'm dread to involve anyone else until I have an explanation in my own mind. I seem to sense some mathematical forms that may adequately apply. Perhaps I should wait until I am further down this path before involving my brother. He is busy with his surgery, after all. //Journal Entry, June the Twenty-First, the year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety-Three// I delayed perhaps too long in asking Agnes to marry me, but I was quite distracted by these wonderful equations. They are fascinating and complex and hint of a world of ease for all men, if we can but exploit them properly. It may be overly romantic, but I wanted to provide proof of my love and devotion to Agnes before asking for her hand. So I used some of the simpler forms I derived from the path to forge for her a key to open any lock and unbar any door, that she and I may never be separated. Franklin teased me about it, but he is as fascinated as I am by these derived mathematics. So far, I have only found applications in the physical realm, but he believes they may be applicable to medicinal breakthroughs as well. He also suggested bringing on Thomas and Jeremy as well, although they are not scientifically minded and I do not see how they might provide assistance. Still, I am loathe to withhold benefit from the world, even if we must provide it slowly. //Journal Entry, January the First, the year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and One// The first day of a new century. It's hard to believe all the wondrous things we've discovered and created during the last decade. I know it's sentimental, but I harbor a fondness for Agnes' key. I suppose it is akin to the fondness another man might hold for his first-born son. I spent the morning reviewing my notes on the data I collected on this past equinox, and I do believe that I may be able to finally formulate a partial set of rules to govern the properties of a body moving at or beyond the speed of light in a vacuum. I shall proceed with my experiments within the month. The Crab Nebula should be sufficiently distant to effectively test my hypothesis. Agnes wishes me to review some documents regarding the outlay for the new facility Jason is building in Arizona, but I am no financier and have no desire to embroil myself in a spat with Jason. Frankly, my dear Agnes has a much better head for how to soothe his bruised ego than I ever have and I trust her to perform her duties well. //Journal Entry, July Second, Nineteen-Fourteen A.D.// Blast it! Thomas and his little //coterie// have been meddling again! The recent events in Sarajevo bore all the signs of their interference, particularly in light of their interest in the territories along the German-Austrian border. The depradations they have already performed... When I first met Thomas, I would not have expected such depravities of him. That flute alone... I must meet with Agnes, Elizabeth and my brother, and soon. Perhaps if we hurry, we will be able to mitigate some of the effects of this. I dare not allow us to openly intervene, but perhaps something more subtle may be possible. I believe my brother has been breeding some sort of creatures that inhibit dream states. One or two of those let loose on a general or recalcitrant head of state might be useful. //Journal Entry, January Eighteenth, 1919 AD// I watched those pompous fools sign their treaty today, despite Franklin's misgivings. He was afraid that those traitorous breakaways would try to disrupt the proceedings, but even __they__ must see how utterly foolish and wasteful this whole unpleasant business was. But to see these utter, utter fools crow and humiliate the Krauts... This will not end well. In the meantime, we must attempt to reclaim our possessions lost in the heat of battle. At least a few of Franklin's beasts slipped their tethers at the beginning of the war, and he only just revealed to me that he neglected to remove their ability to breed true prior to their release. Jeremy and Thomas were quite busy as well, and I'm certain that the only reason England didn't suffer more was due to their interference. I quite wonder whether they would have been so quick to light the flame if they had known it would spread to the entirety of Europe. Quite bothersome is a report that Elizabeth passed to me that a group of our agents monitoring the fronts went mad sometime last year, and have taken to worshipping that ugly mass of rust we recovered from one of Jeremy's holdings at the beginning of the War. She recommends letting them tend it, but I'm somewhat discomfitted by the idea of heathens in our halls, even if they would be fully under our control. I must discuss this with the others. Agnes has been pestering me about our holdings in Canada, especially regarding some sort of aquatic nonsense that Jason has been experimenting with, but frankly, I'd rather not be bothered. He has always been a handful and I find the entire affair draining. Let her deal with him. //Journal Entry, May Ninth, 1933// As I predicted, the humiliation of the Germans produced bitter fruit. This Hitler fellow has all the hallmarks of a developing nuisance, and I greatly suspect that we will need to send one of Sophia's little gentlemen to bring him into line. The atrocious Italian affair is also of concern. I should see if any of our agents within their government can stabilize things until the Germans are under control. The only consolation is that the heightened fervor of that state allows us to hide our activities amongst the masses somewhat more easily. I am particularly pleased with the preliminary results of my spatial expander in the Black Forest. If successful, I believe I might be able to apply the same precepts to a more portable environment, perhaps even as small as a cabinet. Agnes insists that we need to expand our operations in the Orient, but for the life of me I cannot see why. The Chinese are of no interest to me, much less the rest of the Mongoloids in that region. At best, they would make rude fodder for some of my brother's more esoteric experiments. As much as it pains me, I believe I must speak with Elizabeth about the situation with Jason. His behavior is growing more erratic, and I suspect that we may need to restrain him before he becomes dangerously unstable. //Journal Entry, December Twenty-Fifth, 1943// The waste, the waste, the sheer and utter __WASTE__! Agnes was correct, Sophia was useless, and Jason is nothing but a failure! So many! __So many__ lives spent without reason! I am __furious__ that Jason allowed Roosevelt to even __begin__ the atomic program, much less allow it to proceed this far! I must see if Sophia can salvage any of this by sharing the information amongst the Germans. She tells me our agents amongst them have access to a large pool of subjects with whom we can test the radio-active effects. I am less trusting of her competence, however. Perhaps Agnes will be willing to oversee the project. //Journal Entry, September 2^^nd^^, 1945// At long last this debacle is over, although I had hoped that it would have ended differently. As I oversaw the close of the previous War, so shall I oversee the closing of this one. I have grown so tired of these machinations. Perhaps I shall retire to my neglected studies. //Journal Entry, August 17^^th^^, 1948// I am much amused by this fellow Feynman. His innovative diagrams are quite useful for the modeling of the subatomic, and I dearly wish I had known of them in the early years of our endeavor of this Foundation. They would have quite expedited much of my research. I have considered inviting him into our cohort, if only to see whether he would have any other little intuitions regarding the true shape of reality. However, I fear that we may be somewhat retarding the growth of the unenlightened masses by continually plucking the finest minds from their midst. In less pleasant developments, Agnes has formally left me. Truth be told, it was not much of a surprise, given the gulf that has grown between us. I remember when we would lay in the grass and have quiet conversations about music or physics or the intrigues of our extended families. But that has all vanished, replaced with Council meetings and logistical coordinations and a chilly, distant, brittle shred of respect and regard. Even with all the powers at our fingertips, there is so much we --cannot--, no, WILL not do. //Journal Entry, March 3, 1961// The Soviet space program is proceeding apace, albeit somewhat quicker than I initially anticipated. I suppose Nikita feels like he must prove something. I do not anticipate any incursions into our Lunar territories in the near future, but we can never be too careful. I'll travel to the Lunar base later this month to inspect the protective and camouflage measures for the base and the deposits at the Lagranges. In any case, I haven't used the telescopes there in quite some time. I may be given reports about our extra-Solar probes, but I still like to look in on the projects once in a while. So many responsibilities these days, so little time to relax. --Whatever happened to the lad who walked the path so many years ago?-- I get so maudlin around my birthday. And so few people left to remember it. //Journal Entry 01/01/1966// So begins the 75^^th^^ year since my discovery of that damned path. I can no longer turn a blind eye to the disease that has overcome us all. For truly, hubris has spread like a plague among us, as we bend and twist and break the world to fit our whims. I claim no innocence in this, but cannot ignore the horrors unleashed with grim joy by those I once called friends and family. I remember the curiosity I felt when I first walked the path, and the wonder once I found the equations that sustain it. I remember the excitement in my brother's eyes as he began to see the ramifications, the delight on Agnes' face when I showed her the key. The path gave us the power to rebuild the world. It is time I finally do so. ---- //Journal Entry, September the Twenty-Third, the year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety One// My sabbatical to the new lakehouse has done me a world of good. I discovered an old walking path on the grounds that led to a marvelous vista above the lake, and I made a sketch of it for Agnes. Perhaps I may entice her to come boating with me, should her cousin be available to chaperone. @@ @@ [[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>]]	2013-03-05T19:42:00	[ "_licensebox", "aaron-siegel", "five-questions", "historical", "journal", "mystery", "period-piece", "tale" ]	The Exalted - SCP Foundation	50	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "advent-calendar-2015", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "five-questions", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	16604073	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-exalted
the-executions-of-doctor-bright	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><iframe src="//interwiki.scpwiki.com/styleFrame.html?priority=1&theme=https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--code/theme%3Abroken-masquerade/1&css={$css}" style="display: none"></iframe></p> <p>Bright knew it had gone wrong when the trucks eased into position on either side of his van. "حزب الخلافة" was spraypainted on the sides. He knew he was in <em>big</em> trouble when he saw the men in the beds of the trucks point rifles at him. He gritted his teeth, but slowed down as a pick-up truck swung in ahead of them. He thought about stopping and trying to give them the slip that way, but there was a fourth coming up from behind, boxing them in.</p> <p>"Can we fight our way past?" asked Brunwick. The stocky biologist held the rifle almost as though he knew what he was doing.</p> <p>"Not unless you've just become bulletproof," Bright said. He turned to his six passengers. "Okay, we're caught. I don't know who by yet. If it's the government, they're going to be pissed, but they'll probably hold us long enough for the Foundation to try getting us out."</p> <p>Advani was on his cell phone, letting their contact know that they'd been compromised. He was riding shotgun, as he and Bright were the least-conspicuous people in the group. Especially Bright, wearing an Egyptian body.</p> <p>"What if they're terrorists?" asked Sandler. His bushy eyebrows would have reached to a younger man's hairline.</p> <p>"They are," said Jacobs. He was the senior of the two agents in the vehicle. "If this were the government, they'd have armored vehicles. They'd have a show of force. They wouldn't just hem us in like this."</p> <p>"Will we be okay?" squeaked Lopez. The young researcher looked barely out of her teens.</p> <p>Bright almost said no, they almost certainly weren't, but something in her face made him go for the comforting lie. "They're probably just interested in ransom," Bright said. "They probably don't know who we really are. It's probably bad luck. They saw some Westerners, and they want to make a scene. We stay calm, we wait for someone to come get us. Everyone put down your weapons. If it's at all possible, I'll figure out a way to get us through this." He actually had a half-formed plan in mind, but it depended on how greedy their captors were, and how perceptive they were. It was a pity he didn't speak more Arabic.</p> <p>The trucks guided them off the main road and southeast. A few miles out, the trucks stopped, and men with rifles jumped out. They stormed onboard, yelling in Arabic, grabbing at them, pulling them out and then hitting them as they threw them to the ground. Bright let them, knowing better than to fight back. He heard Brunwick try to take a swing at one of the guards, and heard the shot, wincing. He could hear Sandler and Lopez crying out. Jacobs and Advani didn't say a word.</p> <p>They were searched thoroughly, their phones taken away. Even the beacon hidden in his shoe was found and crushed. That made things a little more complicated. He'd been hoping for a quick rescue. The Foundation might take a little longer now.</p> <p>Bags were placed over their heads and their hands were cuffed behind them as they were loaded into one of the trucks. He heard Brunwick's groaning, so apparently they hadn't killed him yet. Oddly, no one touched the amulet.</p> <p>"You do not move!" one of them yelled in his ear. "You understand? You move, I shoot you!"</p> <p>Occasionally, one of the others would move, and he'd hear them cry out after they were corrected. He held still. He had a lot of experience being a captive. He even recognized some of the techniques the guards were using to intimidate them. It helped, a little. Not much.</p> <p>They were pushed out of the truck and herded indoors. It smelled like livestock inside. They were pushed down, and they heard the door shut.</p> <p>"Are-" Advani began, but Bright shushed him.</p> <p>"اسكت!" a man shouted. "عندي كلاشنكوف!"</p> <p>Bright didn't know much Arabic, but he understood "kalashnikov" well enough.</p> <p>After a few hours, a man came in and removed the hoods. He wore a military fatigues with a sword hanging at his side. A scarf covered his face. Several other men were behind him holding AK-47s at the group. One man was operating a camera. "You are prisoners of Hezb Alkhalifah. We know about your Foundation. You spit in the face of Allah."</p> <p>Son-of-a-bitch, Bright thought. Someone sold them out. He wondered who.</p> <p>"You, with the necklace. You are Doctor Bright. We know all about you." The man reached out to touch the amulet, but his hands were covered with leather gloves. "This is you. This is your soul. You are an abomination. We will show the world we stand against such things."</p> <p>One of the men took a knife and cut Bright's ear off. He gritted his teeth.</p> <p>"Was it a Muslim whose body you wear, kafir? Whose life did you steal? You are a ghoul!" the man with the scarf shouted.</p> <p>"Do your worst," he said, and immediately regretted it. This wasn't an action movie.</p> <p>The knife came down into his eye, and he saw no more.</p> <hr/> <p>He woke up sometime later, disoriented. He could tell he was in another body. Had he been rescued? No, his hands were still cuffed behind his back. His knee had a sharp, hot ache.</p> <p>He shifted to a semi-sitting position. He was in a large body, he could tell that much. Strong. He looked around, and saw Jacobs, Sandler, Advani and Lopez. Realization hit. He looked down to see Brunwick's large frame. Those sons of bitches.</p> <p>"Brunwick?" Sandler whispered.</p> <p>Bright shook his head. Brunwick's head.</p> <p>Sandler started crying. Bright hadn't realized they were that close. A cynical part of his mind wondered if the man was just frightened that the same would happen to him.</p> <p>He looked over to where he'd been executed. The body was already gone, but the blood was still pooled on the dirt floor. They appeared to be alone.</p> <p>"How are we going to get out of this?" asked Lopez.</p> <p>"I don't know," Bright said. "Let me think."</p> <p>The beacon was gone. The terrorists knew who he was, knew what the amulet did. There was no telling when the Foundation would be back.</p> <p>He wasn't afraid of dying. Even if they tried destroying the amulet, it was unlikely they'd manage here a task he hadn't managed with the best equipment.</p> <p>However, he didn't want to see any more of his team die. He needed to figure out a way to get out of this. Somehow.</p> <p>He didn't sleep the entire night. He kept trying to come up with a plan. If only the Foundation would hurry up and rescue them.</p> <p>In the morning, they came for him again. Again, the man with the scarf came in, and again the camera was set up. He was pulled to his feet, his knee nearly buckling under him, before they wrestled him into position.</p> <p>"Again, we have the kafir Doctor Bright. He lives because that amulet steals the life of others, puts him into their body. We have let him steal the life of his friend. His own friend, he steals the life from! Now he must die again."</p> <p>The knife came down, this time for his throat, but he was ready. Brunwick was nothing if not strong. He lunged with his good knee, trying to touch the guard with his necklace.</p> <p>He had just a moment's confused vision from the man before the shots rang out, and he died again, twice.</p> <hr/> <p>He woke up, and this time saw Advani, Sandler, and Lopez. Jacobs, then. Ten little indians, he thought.</p> <p>He was tied up more securely, already in the position where he'd been executed twice before. Gagged, too. He could feel the sticky blood on his pantlegs, smell the older blood starting to stink. They weren't taking any chances this time.</p> <p>The others were looking at him in pity, revulsion, and fear. They must have seen Jacobs's face suddenly go blank, and then light up with a foreign intelligence. Must have seen it happen to Brunwick, for that matter. They'd seen their own futures. Must be one thing to know it happened to anonymous D-Class personnel, another to see it happen to someone you knew.</p> <p>"Don't worry," Advani said to the others. "We'll get out of this somehow." They all knew he was lying, though.</p> <p>He tried to go to sleep, but Jacobs's body was still wired with adrenaline. He stared at the walls, at the dirt floor, anything to avoid looking at his team.</p> <p>He was almost eager when the man in the scarf opened the door, just to get it over with.</p> <p>"Once again, we have the kafir Doctor Bright. He is alive because that amulet steals the life from others and puts him into their bodies. We have let him steal the life of his friend. His own friend, he steals the life from! Now he must die again."</p> <p>It was the same speech from before. Bright realized that they probably weren't releasing his death in Brunwick's body. It wouldn't look as good to see him fighting back.</p> <p>This time, the knife traced a line across his head. Fingers dug into Jacobs' frizzy hair roughly and pulled the scalp back. Bright screamed into the gag.</p> <p>They took their time on him. By the end, he was silently begging them to finish it.</p> <hr/> <p>He woke up again. It was much later. He was tied up and gagged again, in position. He looked around, saw Sandler and Lopez. He realized now that there was a pattern to their choices. First was big Brunswick, then guards, Jacobs and Advani. Next it would be Sandler, and then pretty young Lopez. They wanted to build it up. Escalate the "choice" of taking their bodies. They'd taken the "real" men, next it would be the harmless old man and finally the young woman.</p> <p>Sandler looked broken. Lopez no longer looked scared. She looked angry. Angry at the terrorists, angry at him. He might have been projecting the last. He certainly was pretty angry with himself.</p> <p>Something nearby caught his eye. Something was scratched into the dirt. It was faint, and it looked atrocious, but he could just read it. "HELP COMING. HOLD OUT."</p> <p>It had to be fresh, or the terrorists would have trampled it into the dirt.</p> <p>His heart—Advani's heart—leapt into his throat. If he could just stall. He could still get Sandler and Lopez out of this. Lopez for certain. Just a little longer.</p> <p>But the door was opening again. Here was the leader of the terrorists, coming in with his lackeys. Bright steeled his mind. He had to let them go to work. The longer he lived, the better their chances of rescue.</p> <p>"The ghoul Doctor Bright has taken another of his friends! He does not care for anyone but himself. But now he suffers! We will make him regret every second he is alive, and then we will destroy him in the name of Allah!" He waved theatrically to the camera.</p> <p>One of the men took a bucket and threw it on him. He retched when he realized it was dung. Pig shit, he thought. Where did they even find pigs in Egypt? Didn't they all get killed during the Swine Flu epidemic?</p> <p>The other man took a knife and began making little cuts on his face. Nothing terribly painful, but it was letting the pig shit seep into the wounds. Not that he expected to live long enough for infection to be a concern, but it was humiliating. Which was, of course, the point.</p> <p>"We defile him as his unclean soul defiles the bodies of others. We swear undying jihad against all Foundation kafirs!" With that, the man pulled out his sword and held it high.</p> <p><em>No, no, no,</em> Bright thought. <em>You're supposed to torture me! This isn't how it's supposed to go!</em></p> <p>As the sword began its arc, he comforted himself with the thought that Lopez, at least, would make it.</p> <hr/> <p>The rescue came several hours after the sword. The terrorists had just left them alone for the night when the rescue team came in. It wasn't even a battle. It was over in minutes.</p> <p>Bright was untied, escorted to the evac helicopter, and loaded in. On the way back, one of the agents explained how the Chaos Insurgency had fed Hezb Alkhalifah intelligence about them, down to the location of their van. How they'd gotten their information, and exactly why they'd done it, wasn't yet known. The leading theory was that it was intended to keep the Foundation—and the terrorists—busy while they secured an unknown asset and hightailed it out of dodge.</p> <p>As they arrived at the secured facility, and were escorted to a debriefing room, he sat down between the two remaining passengers from the van.</p> <p>"Well, that could have gone better," said Claudia. "Sorry. I got help as quickly as I could." A cigarette seemed to hang in mid-air.</p> <p>"You did your best," said Bright. "I just wish…"</p> <p>"I know, Doctor," said Sandler. "I had hoped she'd make it as well."</p> <p>"I just don't get it," Bright said. "Everyone else they picked, there was an escalation. First big Brunwick, then Jacobs, then Advani. She should have been last."</p> <p>"You don't get it," Claudia said. "Different culture. To us, sure, the young lady would have been the finale. To them, though…"</p> <p>Bright stared at Sandler, at his balding head and fringe of white hair, and then down to the shapely young hands he wore. "Of course. The male elder."</p> <p>"I'm sorry," Sandler said. "I wish it had been the other way."</p> <p>There was one final execution for Doctor Bright that night. His handlers tried to save him, but he was just too quick.</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-executions-of-doctor-bright">The Executions of Doctor Bright</a>" by DrEverettMann, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-executions-of-doctor-bright">https://scpwiki.com/the-executions-of-doctor-bright</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[include <a href="/theme:broken-masquerade">theme:broken-masquerade</a>]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Bright knew it had gone wrong when the trucks eased into position on either side of his van. "حزب الخلافة" was spraypainted on the sides. He knew he was in //big// trouble when he saw the men in the beds of the trucks point rifles at him. He gritted his teeth, but slowed down as a pick-up truck swung in ahead of them. He thought about stopping and trying to give them the slip that way, but there was a fourth coming up from behind, boxing them in. "Can we fight our way past?" asked Brunwick. The stocky biologist held the rifle almost as though he knew what he was doing. "Not unless you've just become bulletproof," Bright said. He turned to his six passengers. "Okay, we're caught. I don't know who by yet. If it's the government, they're going to be pissed, but they'll probably hold us long enough for the Foundation to try getting us out." Advani was on his cell phone, letting their contact know that they'd been compromised. He was riding shotgun, as he and Bright were the least-conspicuous people in the group. Especially Bright, wearing an Egyptian body. "What if they're terrorists?" asked Sandler. His bushy eyebrows would have reached to a younger man's hairline. "They are," said Jacobs. He was the senior of the two agents in the vehicle. "If this were the government, they'd have armored vehicles. They'd have a show of force. They wouldn't just hem us in like this." "Will we be okay?" squeaked Lopez. The young researcher looked barely out of her teens. Bright almost said no, they almost certainly weren't, but something in her face made him go for the comforting lie. "They're probably just interested in ransom," Bright said. "They probably don't know who we really are. It's probably bad luck. They saw some Westerners, and they want to make a scene. We stay calm, we wait for someone to come get us. Everyone put down your weapons. If it's at all possible, I'll figure out a way to get us through this." He actually had a half-formed plan in mind, but it depended on how greedy their captors were, and how perceptive they were. It was a pity he didn't speak more Arabic. The trucks guided them off the main road and southeast. A few miles out, the trucks stopped, and men with rifles jumped out. They stormed onboard, yelling in Arabic, grabbing at them, pulling them out and then hitting them as they threw them to the ground. Bright let them, knowing better than to fight back. He heard Brunwick try to take a swing at one of the guards, and heard the shot, wincing. He could hear Sandler and Lopez crying out. Jacobs and Advani didn't say a word. They were searched thoroughly, their phones taken away. Even the beacon hidden in his shoe was found and crushed. That made things a little more complicated. He'd been hoping for a quick rescue. The Foundation might take a little longer now. Bags were placed over their heads and their hands were cuffed behind them as they were loaded into one of the trucks. He heard Brunwick's groaning, so apparently they hadn't killed him yet. Oddly, no one touched the amulet. "You do not move!" one of them yelled in his ear. "You understand? You move, I shoot you!" Occasionally, one of the others would move, and he'd hear them cry out after they were corrected. He held still. He had a lot of experience being a captive. He even recognized some of the techniques the guards were using to intimidate them. It helped, a little. Not much. They were pushed out of the truck and herded indoors. It smelled like livestock inside. They were pushed down, and they heard the door shut. "Are-" Advani began, but Bright shushed him. "اسكت!" a man shouted. "عندي كلاشنكوف!" Bright didn't know much Arabic, but he understood "kalashnikov" well enough. After a few hours, a man came in and removed the hoods. He wore a military fatigues with a sword hanging at his side. A scarf covered his face. Several other men were behind him holding AK-47s at the group. One man was operating a camera. "You are prisoners of Hezb Alkhalifah. We know about your Foundation. You spit in the face of Allah." Son-of-a-bitch, Bright thought. Someone sold them out. He wondered who. "You, with the necklace. You are Doctor Bright. We know all about you." The man reached out to touch the amulet, but his hands were covered with leather gloves. "This is you. This is your soul. You are an abomination. We will show the world we stand against such things." One of the men took a knife and cut Bright's ear off. He gritted his teeth. "Was it a Muslim whose body you wear, kafir? Whose life did you steal? You are a ghoul!" the man with the scarf shouted. "Do your worst," he said, and immediately regretted it. This wasn't an action movie. The knife came down into his eye, and he saw no more. ----- He woke up sometime later, disoriented. He could tell he was in another body. Had he been rescued? No, his hands were still cuffed behind his back. His knee had a sharp, hot ache. He shifted to a semi-sitting position. He was in a large body, he could tell that much. Strong. He looked around, and saw Jacobs, Sandler, Advani and Lopez. Realization hit. He looked down to see Brunwick's large frame. Those sons of bitches. "Brunwick?" Sandler whispered. Bright shook his head. Brunwick's head. Sandler started crying. Bright hadn't realized they were that close. A cynical part of his mind wondered if the man was just frightened that the same would happen to him. He looked over to where he'd been executed. The body was already gone, but the blood was still pooled on the dirt floor. They appeared to be alone. "How are we going to get out of this?" asked Lopez. "I don't know," Bright said. "Let me think." The beacon was gone. The terrorists knew who he was, knew what the amulet did. There was no telling when the Foundation would be back. He wasn't afraid of dying. Even if they tried destroying the amulet, it was unlikely they'd manage here a task he hadn't managed with the best equipment. However, he didn't want to see any more of his team die. He needed to figure out a way to get out of this. Somehow. He didn't sleep the entire night. He kept trying to come up with a plan. If only the Foundation would hurry up and rescue them. In the morning, they came for him again. Again, the man with the scarf came in, and again the camera was set up. He was pulled to his feet, his knee nearly buckling under him, before they wrestled him into position. "Again, we have the kafir Doctor Bright. He lives because that amulet steals the life of others, puts him into their body. We have let him steal the life of his friend. His own friend, he steals the life from! Now he must die again." The knife came down, this time for his throat, but he was ready. Brunwick was nothing if not strong. He lunged with his good knee, trying to touch the guard with his necklace. He had just a moment's confused vision from the man before the shots rang out, and he died again, twice. ----- He woke up, and this time saw Advani, Sandler, and Lopez. Jacobs, then. Ten little indians, he thought. He was tied up more securely, already in the position where he'd been executed twice before. Gagged, too. He could feel the sticky blood on his pantlegs, smell the older blood starting to stink. They weren't taking any chances this time. The others were looking at him in pity, revulsion, and fear. They must have seen Jacobs's face suddenly go blank, and then light up with a foreign intelligence. Must have seen it happen to Brunwick, for that matter. They'd seen their own futures. Must be one thing to know it happened to anonymous D-Class personnel, another to see it happen to someone you knew. "Don't worry," Advani said to the others. "We'll get out of this somehow." They all knew he was lying, though. He tried to go to sleep, but Jacobs's body was still wired with adrenaline. He stared at the walls, at the dirt floor, anything to avoid looking at his team. He was almost eager when the man in the scarf opened the door, just to get it over with. "Once again, we have the kafir Doctor Bright. He is alive because that amulet steals the life from others and puts him into their bodies. We have let him steal the life of his friend. His own friend, he steals the life from! Now he must die again." It was the same speech from before. Bright realized that they probably weren't releasing his death in Brunwick's body. It wouldn't look as good to see him fighting back. This time, the knife traced a line across his head. Fingers dug into Jacobs' frizzy hair roughly and pulled the scalp back. Bright screamed into the gag. They took their time on him. By the end, he was silently begging them to finish it. ----- He woke up again. It was much later. He was tied up and gagged again, in position. He looked around, saw Sandler and Lopez. He realized now that there was a pattern to their choices. First was big Brunswick, then guards, Jacobs and Advani. Next it would be Sandler, and then pretty young Lopez. They wanted to build it up. Escalate the "choice" of taking their bodies. They'd taken the "real" men, next it would be the harmless old man and finally the young woman. Sandler looked broken. Lopez no longer looked scared. She looked angry. Angry at the terrorists, angry at him. He might have been projecting the last. He certainly was pretty angry with himself. Something nearby caught his eye. Something was scratched into the dirt. It was faint, and it looked atrocious, but he could just read it. "HELP COMING. HOLD OUT." It had to be fresh, or the terrorists would have trampled it into the dirt. His heart—Advani's heart—leapt into his throat. If he could just stall. He could still get Sandler and Lopez out of this. Lopez for certain. Just a little longer. But the door was opening again. Here was the leader of the terrorists, coming in with his lackeys. Bright steeled his mind. He had to let them go to work. The longer he lived, the better their chances of rescue. "The ghoul Doctor Bright has taken another of his friends! He does not care for anyone but himself. But now he suffers! We will make him regret every second he is alive, and then we will destroy him in the name of Allah!" He waved theatrically to the camera. One of the men took a bucket and threw it on him. He retched when he realized it was dung. Pig shit, he thought. Where did they even find pigs in Egypt? Didn't they all get killed during the Swine Flu epidemic? The other man took a knife and began making little cuts on his face. Nothing terribly painful, but it was letting the pig shit seep into the wounds. Not that he expected to live long enough for infection to be a concern, but it was humiliating. Which was, of course, the point. "We defile him as his unclean soul defiles the bodies of others. We swear undying jihad against all Foundation kafirs!" With that, the man pulled out his sword and held it high. //No, no, no,// Bright thought. //You're supposed to torture me! This isn't how it's supposed to go!// As the sword began its arc, he comforted himself with the thought that Lopez, at least, would make it. ----- The rescue came several hours after the sword. The terrorists had just left them alone for the night when the rescue team came in. It wasn't even a battle. It was over in minutes. Bright was untied, escorted to the evac helicopter, and loaded in. On the way back, one of the agents explained how the Chaos Insurgency had fed Hezb Alkhalifah intelligence about them, down to the location of their van. How they'd gotten their information, and exactly why they'd done it, wasn't yet known. The leading theory was that it was intended to keep the Foundation—and the terrorists—busy while they secured an unknown asset and hightailed it out of dodge. As they arrived at the secured facility, and were escorted to a debriefing room, he sat down between the two remaining passengers from the van. "Well, that could have gone better," said Claudia. "Sorry. I got help as quickly as I could." A cigarette seemed to hang in mid-air. "You did your best," said Bright. "I just wish..." "I know, Doctor," said Sandler. "I had hoped she'd make it as well." "I just don't get it," Bright said. "Everyone else they picked, there was an escalation. First big Brunwick, then Jacobs, then Advani. She should have been last." "You don't get it," Claudia said. "Different culture. To us, sure, the young lady would have been the finale. To them, though..." Bright stared at Sandler, at his balding head and fringe of white hair, and then down to the shapely young hands he wore. "Of course. The male elder." "I'm sorry," Sandler said. "I wish it had been the other way." There was one final execution for Doctor Bright that night. His handlers tried to save him, but he was just too quick. [[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>]]	2013-02-06T05:41:00	[ "_licensebox", "bleak", "broken-masquerade", "doctor-bright", "horror", "military-fiction", "nyc2013", "psychological-horror", "tale" ]	The Executions of Doctor Bright - SCP Foundation	721	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "highest-rated-non-scps", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "broken-masquerade-hub", "algorithm-curated-recommendations", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	16308853	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-executions-of-doctor-bright
the-faraday-girls	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“Shit shit shit,” said Donna. She was late for school. Stupid alarm had gone off an hour late, and now she was going to have to walk. “Shit,” she said again as she opened her closet and ruffled through the clothes inside. After five minutes she had picked out a short red jacket, black tank top, and ripped pair of jeans, but still couldn't find the right accessory. “Mom!” she called out. “Have you seen my white scarf?” No reply. She had probably already left for work.</p> <p>Finally she managed to dig out the scarf and throw it on. She glanced at the bedside alarm. 9:45. Add in another 5 minutes for breakfast, 15 for makeup, plus 40 to walk to school and… “Shit.” Mrs. Tunguska was going to chew her out for sure.</p> <p>Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from Tyler- “where are you?”</p> <p>“overslept,” she tapped out, “be there soon. kisses.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and raced down stairs. Ignoring the human heart walking around the floor, she poured a bowl of cheerios and wolfed it down. Then it was back upstairs for makeup, which took longer than she expected. It was 10:15 by the time she was out the door.</p> <p>It was a beautiful day outside. For the first time all year, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the sun was out in full force. Still, it was pleasantly cool. She pulled her jacket straight and began to walk.</p> <p>She arrived at 11:03, halfway through second period. Officer Micheals, the armed security guard, was standing at the front gate carving symbols into his arm with a hunting knife. “Sorry Don. Gotta send you to the front office,” he said without looking up.</p> <p>Donna pouted. “Come on. I've already got two tardies.”</p> <p>“No exceptions. You know the rules.”</p> <p>“Hmph.” She entered the school and turned left to the office. Inside, the secretary was arguing heatedly with a man with no face.</p> <p>“Fuck you, she's my daughter!” he said. “You have no right to teach her that garbage.”</p> <p>“Sir, evolution is a required part of the ninth grade curriculum. Now, I believe that Principal Mayfield has already talked to you about-”</p> <p>“No!” he yelled, “I demand to talk to the superintendent about this. If you don't take her out of that class, I'll sue you for so much you won't even be able to afford pencils.”</p> <p>“I'm sure you will sir, but please hold on a second” she said, and turned to Donna, “Need a slip?”</p> <p>Donna nodded. The secretary began filling out a yellow sheet of paper. “This is your third tardy young lady.”</p> <p>“Yes ma'am,” said Donna. She stared at the ground.</p> <p>“I'll call you down again after lunch.” She handed Donna the slip. “Have a good day.”</p> <p>Donna raced to class. She arrived just as the teacher, Mr. Stilch, was wrapping up a lecture on some book. “Any questions?” he asked.</p> <p>A girl named Tracy with ugly makeup and and a garish blue windbreaker raised her hand. “What satisfaction do you derive from this filth? What great thing do you aspire to? Does it please you to know this garbage flowed from your fingers?”</p> <p>The teacher smiled. “Excellent question. These Bulgars are stand ins for the Prussians, not a reference to the seventh century nomads.” He turned and saw Donna. “Ah. Donna, nice to see you. Take a seat.”</p> <p>Donna sat next to her friend Lucy in the back row. The flesh of the seat squelched underneath her as she moved to get comfortable. She leaned over and whispered, “What are we doing?”</p> <p>“The Candide,” Lucy whispered back. “He's about to hand out our copies.”</p> <p>Donna nodded. “Cool.”</p> <p>“Remember,” said Mr. Stilch. He was moving through the rows of tables with a stack of books, handing them out as he went. “Bring in your own copy by next week and it's ten points extra credit.” He got to Donna and plopped a book down in front. “Donna, you'll need to copy notes from Lucy,” he gave an accusing glare, “If she took any.”</p> <p>“Yessir”, said Donna. She examined the cover with boredom as he spoke on about some random bullshit she had to read and do and turn in. On it, a picture snake squirmed, wrapping itself around a man who struggled to get away. The snake opened its mouth and, as the man beat against it, swallowed him in one gulp.</p> <p>Mr. Stilch finished talking and walked away. “So, did you take notes?” asked Donna.</p> <p>Lucy snorted. “No. I don't want the purity of my thoughts tainted by writing.”</p> <p>“Tch. I'll ask Tyler at lunch.”</p> <p>“Your words are a filth that spreads to all mankind. Every blight you place upon this page only cheapens your species.”</p> <p>Donna shook her head. “Nah, he's a good student.”</p> <p>They spent the rest of the class reading. Occasionally a locust would smack into her face, or a beetle would fall into her hair, but she just brushed them away. When the lunch bell rang she grabbed her bag of lies and rushed to the front. Mr. Stilch put a hand on her shoulder before she could leave.</p> <p>“Can we talk for a second?”</p> <p>She sighed. “Yes sir?”</p> <p>“Humanity was safer in its ignorance. When it crawled in trees and bushes there was no need to fear death from above or pox or murder. Do you feel comfortable in this place, built by science and lies?”</p> <p>Ugh. Nosy fuck. “No sir.”</p> <p>He folded his arms. Blood poured out of his mouth as he spoke. “The downfall of your species was inevitable as soon as the first word was inscribed in the earth. Numbers and secrets and experiments- they only confuse you, muddle the true thought. Can you not see this?”</p> <p>“No, I'm fine.”</p> <p>He paused. The blood was pooling at his feet. “Alright. Have a good lunch.”</p> <p>“Right.” She walked out the class. The hallway was filled with students, talking, laughing, and reveling in their temporary freedom from the captor called knowledge. She pushed her way through a group devouring a girl's intestines to where Lucy, Tyler, and James were talking. Tyler had sunk into the floor, so everything from the waist down was hidden.</p> <p>“The page is a shackle on our thought,” he said. Everyone laughed. “We must tear it down in order to build.” He turned to face Donna and grinned. “Hey, what's up?”</p> <p>“Not much.” She leaned down for a kiss. “Mr. Stilch was on my ass again.”</p> <p>“That sucks,” he said. “What about?”</p> <p>“Stupid shit. He wanted to know why I'm so disgusting, so baseless and crude.”</p> <p>Tyler laughed. “That sounds like him. Wanna grab lunch?”</p> <p>“Sure.”</p> <p>The four of them walked to the cafeteria, Tyler sliding through the floor, pulling himself through the thick substance with his arms. They arrived and got their food, steamed hands. Donna got hers, then rubbed the stump of her wrist as she held the tray. She watched the chef slice off James' and knot a tourniquet around the wrist. The group took their food to a table near the stage and ate.</p> <p>“It makes me want to vomit,” said James, “these words that form us. Think of all the technology that was used to make them. Think of the men who slaved away for hours to create the machine to type them out. Such wasted potential. And the masses gobble it down. They eat their poison and beg for more.”</p> <p>“Mhm,” said Diana. She saw the truth in his speech. Only a blind man could not. Science, literature, art music. All are poisons upon man. A virus (virus. Such a filthy word, and even moreso that mankind has taught it to me) that would only destroy them. Look how they embrace knowledge! They swarm upon it like maggots. They shelter themselves in their metal homes and towers and hope it will protect them when the time comes, but it won't, nothing will save them then, not science or art or beauty, when the true darkness comes and swallows you whole. But I can protect you. I can rip this knowledge out of your head and lead you back into the safety of ignorance where you'll hide your eyes from the oncoming doom. Put down this tome of self-destruction! Fling it from your hands. Find all you can and burn them. Burn your knowledge, burn your literature, burn the art in museums! Break free from your oppressors! Look inside yourself. You know it is your desire. It's your one true wish. Can you feel it burning inside you? The desire to know nothing. It's a normal desire. You remember how you were as a babe. You were happiest naked and ignorant. You know this. You feel this. Come back into the dark.</p> <p>Be free.</p> <hr/> <p><em>400,000 copies of Linda Fronze's new Young Adult novel, “The Faraday Girls”, were recalled this Saturday after a printing error was discovered in chapter 11. Several mothers have complained that their girls are now suffering from “nightmares” due to the disturbing content, and are filing a class-action lawsuit against the Scholastic publishing company. More to follow.</em></p> <p style="text-align: center;"><strong>The New York Times</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="/the-faraday-girls">Interlude - The Faraday Girls</a>" by rumetzen, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-faraday-girls">https://scpwiki.com/the-faraday-girls</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] “Shit shit shit,” said Donna. She was late for school. Stupid alarm had gone off an hour late, and now she was going to have to walk. “Shit,” she said again as she opened her closet and ruffled through the clothes inside. After five minutes she had picked out a short red jacket, black tank top, and ripped pair of jeans, but still couldn't find the right accessory. “Mom!” she called out. “Have you seen my white scarf?” No reply. She had probably already left for work. Finally she managed to dig out the scarf and throw it on. She glanced at the bedside alarm. 9:45. Add in another 5 minutes for breakfast, 15 for makeup, plus 40 to walk to school and... “Shit.” Mrs. Tunguska was going to chew her out for sure. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from Tyler- “where are you?” “overslept,” she tapped out, “be there soon. kisses.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and raced down stairs. Ignoring the human heart walking around the floor, she poured a bowl of cheerios and wolfed it down. Then it was back upstairs for makeup, which took longer than she expected. It was 10:15 by the time she was out the door. It was a beautiful day outside. For the first time all year, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the sun was out in full force. Still, it was pleasantly cool. She pulled her jacket straight and began to walk. She arrived at 11:03, halfway through second period. Officer Micheals, the armed security guard, was standing at the front gate carving symbols into his arm with a hunting knife. “Sorry Don. Gotta send you to the front office,” he said without looking up. Donna pouted. “Come on. I've already got two tardies.” “No exceptions. You know the rules.” “Hmph.” She entered the school and turned left to the office. Inside, the secretary was arguing heatedly with a man with no face. “Fuck you, she's my daughter!” he said. “You have no right to teach her that garbage.” “Sir, evolution is a required part of the ninth grade curriculum. Now, I believe that Principal Mayfield has already talked to you about-” “No!” he yelled, “I demand to talk to the superintendent about this. If you don't take her out of that class, I'll sue you for so much you won't even be able to afford pencils.” “I'm sure you will sir, but please hold on a second” she said, and turned to Donna, “Need a slip?” Donna nodded. The secretary began filling out a yellow sheet of paper. “This is your third tardy young lady.” “Yes ma'am,” said Donna. She stared at the ground. “I'll call you down again after lunch.” She handed Donna the slip. “Have a good day.” Donna raced to class. She arrived just as the teacher, Mr. Stilch, was wrapping up a lecture on some book. “Any questions?” he asked. A girl named Tracy with ugly makeup and and a garish blue windbreaker raised her hand. “What satisfaction do you derive from this filth? What great thing do you aspire to? Does it please you to know this garbage flowed from your fingers?” The teacher smiled. “Excellent question. These Bulgars are stand ins for the Prussians, not a reference to the seventh century nomads.” He turned and saw Donna. “Ah. Donna, nice to see you. Take a seat.” Donna sat next to her friend Lucy in the back row. The flesh of the seat squelched underneath her as she moved to get comfortable. She leaned over and whispered, “What are we doing?” “The Candide,” Lucy whispered back. “He's about to hand out our copies.” Donna nodded. “Cool.” “Remember,” said Mr. Stilch. He was moving through the rows of tables with a stack of books, handing them out as he went. “Bring in your own copy by next week and it's ten points extra credit.” He got to Donna and plopped a book down in front. “Donna, you'll need to copy notes from Lucy,” he gave an accusing glare, “If she took any.” “Yessir”, said Donna. She examined the cover with boredom as he spoke on about some random bullshit she had to read and do and turn in. On it, a picture snake squirmed, wrapping itself around a man who struggled to get away. The snake opened its mouth and, as the man beat against it, swallowed him in one gulp. Mr. Stilch finished talking and walked away. “So, did you take notes?” asked Donna. Lucy snorted. “No. I don't want the purity of my thoughts tainted by writing.” “Tch. I'll ask Tyler at lunch.” “Your words are a filth that spreads to all mankind. Every blight you place upon this page only cheapens your species.” Donna shook her head. “Nah, he's a good student.” They spent the rest of the class reading. Occasionally a locust would smack into her face, or a beetle would fall into her hair, but she just brushed them away. When the lunch bell rang she grabbed her bag of lies and rushed to the front. Mr. Stilch put a hand on her shoulder before she could leave. “Can we talk for a second?” She sighed. “Yes sir?” “Humanity was safer in its ignorance. When it crawled in trees and bushes there was no need to fear death from above or pox or murder. Do you feel comfortable in this place, built by science and lies?” Ugh. Nosy fuck. “No sir.” He folded his arms. Blood poured out of his mouth as he spoke. “The downfall of your species was inevitable as soon as the first word was inscribed in the earth. Numbers and secrets and experiments- they only confuse you, muddle the true thought. Can you not see this?” “No, I'm fine.” He paused. The blood was pooling at his feet. “Alright. Have a good lunch.” “Right.” She walked out the class. The hallway was filled with students, talking, laughing, and reveling in their temporary freedom from the captor called knowledge. She pushed her way through a group devouring a girl's intestines to where Lucy, Tyler, and James were talking. Tyler had sunk into the floor, so everything from the waist down was hidden. “The page is a shackle on our thought,” he said. Everyone laughed. “We must tear it down in order to build.” He turned to face Donna and grinned. “Hey, what's up?” “Not much.” She leaned down for a kiss. “Mr. Stilch was on my ass again.” “That sucks,” he said. “What about?” “Stupid shit. He wanted to know why I'm so disgusting, so baseless and crude.” Tyler laughed. “That sounds like him. Wanna grab lunch?” “Sure.” The four of them walked to the cafeteria, Tyler sliding through the floor, pulling himself through the thick substance with his arms. They arrived and got their food, steamed hands. Donna got hers, then rubbed the stump of her wrist as she held the tray. She watched the chef slice off James' and knot a tourniquet around the wrist. The group took their food to a table near the stage and ate. “It makes me want to vomit,” said James, “these words that form us. Think of all the technology that was used to make them. Think of the men who slaved away for hours to create the machine to type them out. Such wasted potential. And the masses gobble it down. They eat their poison and beg for more.” “Mhm,” said Diana. She saw the truth in his speech. Only a blind man could not. Science, literature, art music. All are poisons upon man. A virus (virus. Such a filthy word, and even moreso that mankind has taught it to me) that would only destroy them. Look how they embrace knowledge! They swarm upon it like maggots. They shelter themselves in their metal homes and towers and hope it will protect them when the time comes, but it won't, nothing will save them then, not science or art or beauty, when the true darkness comes and swallows you whole. But I can protect you. I can rip this knowledge out of your head and lead you back into the safety of ignorance where you'll hide your eyes from the oncoming doom. Put down this tome of self-destruction! Fling it from your hands. Find all you can and burn them. Burn your knowledge, burn your literature, burn the art in museums! Break free from your oppressors! Look inside yourself. You know it is your desire. It's your one true wish. Can you feel it burning inside you? The desire to know nothing. It's a normal desire. You remember how you were as a babe. You were happiest naked and ignorant. You know this. You feel this. Come back into the dark. Be free. ---- //400,000 copies of Linda Fronze's new Young Adult novel, “The Faraday Girls”, were recalled this Saturday after a printing error was discovered in chapter 11. Several mothers have complained that their girls are now suffering from “nightmares” due to the disturbing content, and are filing a class-action lawsuit against the Scholastic publishing company. More to follow.// = The New York Times [[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>]]	2013-01-30T03:02:00	[ "_licensebox", "nyc2013", "only-game-in-town", "tale" ]	Interlude - The Faraday Girls - SCP Foundation	113	[ "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" ]	[]	16240252	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-faraday-girls
the-friday-exhibition	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>“What.”</p> <p>“Joey, why is there a pile of corpses here?”</p> <p>“I dunno, none of us were doing this.”</p> <p>Arsehole tentatively poked one of the bodies.</p> <p>“Pretty fucking metal.”</p> <p>“Well, yeah, but it’s not really that clever.”</p> <p>“So, what, get rid of them?”</p> <p>“Nah, someone was working on this. We censor it, we’re as bad as The Man.”</p> <p>“Yeah, but at least, like, chuck a blanket over them or something, right?”</p> <p>“No. We work around the corpse pile.”</p> <p>“Fine, whatever.”</p> <p>Arsehole tapped ash from the end of her joint onto the pile. Artists were still setting up their pieces in the series of courtyards and alleyways. Joey and Arsehole walked over to Overgang’s collection of CRT screens and buzzing computer towers.</p> <p>“Joey, Arsehole. Shouldn’t you guys be getting ready?”</p> <p>“I’ve got the food sitting out on tables already, Arsehole’s waiting on Hiro.”</p> <p>“Ah, cool. Joey, take a look at this. Whipped it up last night, thought I needed something new.”</p> <p>Overgang tapped a few buttons on a mechanical keyboard, triumphantly hitting the Enter key. All screens displayed the same text: ‘To Joey, who taught me how to be cool, and Overgang, who almost made it out.’</p> <p>“Joey as in me?”</p> <p>“Well, yeah. And it only says my name there since I was the one who played it last.”</p> <p>“I’m flattered. What does it do?”</p> <p>“Keep watching.”</p> <p>A scene appeared of an oil tanker, a pixelated captain watching out at the ocean as birds flew across a deep red sunset. Words scrolled up the screen, saying ‘The Book of Tamlin’.</p> <p>“Damn, is everything in this game named after me?”</p> <p>“Well, no, not unless you’re the one looking at it. The name syncs to the players’ surname at startup, it was ‘The Book of Dood’ when I played it before.”</p> <p>“So what does it do?”</p> <p>“Play it and find out!”</p> <p>“Dude, I don’t have time, just tell me. I’ll play it tonight.”</p> <p>“Spoilsport. It runs through your memories, procedurally generates your life story and lets you replay through key points.”</p> <p>“Sounds cool.”</p> <p>“It is cool. Still getting a few more things ready, making sure these things aren’t going to explode.”</p> <p>“Is that likely?”</p> <p>Overgang shrugged noncommittally.</p> <p>“Not really, but you fuck around with computers as much as this thing does, you make sure you’re ready for anything. How’s everyone else going?”</p> <p>“Well, Nibman’s got his books up and running. Literally, I mean, his books are running all over the place, screaming out ‘SNAPE KILLED DUMBLEDORE’, stuff like that. He was building a tower of cards when we left, I dunno if that’s actually going to be something or if he was just bored.”</p> <p>Arsehole interjected.</p> <p>“Ah, I think those cards were just boredom, yeah. Nate and Kyle brought along Miley, too.”</p> <p>“Miley?”</p> <p>“Yeah, you know Miley, from the thing in Alaska?”</p> <p>“Oh, that Miley. What are they working on?”</p> <p>“I actually have no idea. They’re hammering nails into the ground and wrapping a bunch of string around them, you know, like one of those kiddie craft projects.”</p> <p>“Intriguing. Oh, can you give this to FTF when you see them? Candice asked me for some new synths and I had a bunch lying around from years ago.”</p> <p>“Can do. See you tonight, dude.”</p> <p>Arsehole took the CD case and shoved it in her back pocket, then walked along the sidewalk with Joey.</p> <p>“So where to next?”</p> <p>“Well, I think FTF’s setting up in the south courtyard. Let’s meander that way.”</p> <p>“Meander? Joey, I love it when you use esoteric vernacular.”</p> <p>The pair continued meandering. People were busy smearing posters over the walls, twisting space through impossible structures; it was indeed a wretched hive of scum and artistry. They were blocked by a giant crate being wheeled towards them, forcing to sidle against the wall. When they passed, they saw the person who had been moving it; a schoolgirl wearing a black dress and carrying a similarly dark parasol. She cheerily waved to the pair.</p> <p>“Joey! A-hole! How’s it going?”</p> <p>Joey grinned back.</p> <p>“Rita! We’re good! What’s in the crate?”</p> <p>“Oh, you know, bits and bobs, this and that. Mostly spiders.”</p> <p>Arsehole moved back from the crate, hearing scuttling inside.</p> <p>“And what will you be doing with your spiders, exactly?”</p> <p>“They do tricks. They’re trick spiders.”</p> <p>“Well. I’ve not seen trick spiders before.”</p> <p>“Neither have I, they’re invisible too.”</p> <p>“Oh. Okay then.”</p> <p>“Know a good place to set up?”</p> <p>Joey scratched his chin.</p> <p>“I think the west courtyard’s pretty free right now, just take a left through there.”</p> <p>“Thanks, Joey! Come check it out tonight, okay?”</p> <p>“Sure thing!”</p> <p>They walked away, the clattering sound of Rita’s crate fading behind them.</p> <p>“Arsehole, you’re scared of spiders?”</p> <p>“A bit. Creepy little fuckers, sticking webs everywhere. They’re gross.”</p> <p>“They are a bit gross.”</p> <p>“My uncle had this shed just filled with ‘em, whenever I went out there he’d always-”</p> <p>Arsehole’s phone buzzed in her pocket; she pulled out the banged up Nokia and read the note on the screen.</p> <p>“Alright, Hiro’s here, we’ve gotta set up. Here’s the disc or whatever. See you tonight!”</p> <p>“Cool, see you then.”</p> <p>Arsehole passed Joey the CD case, skipping off into the distance. Joey walked out into the south courtyard and was bombarded with a wall of sound. The members of Futanari Titwhore Fiasco had just finished playing their underground hit single, ‘Stereo Shenanigans and Binaural Bullshit’, lapsing into the newly released ‘Laser Butt Disease Raptor Orgy’.</p> <p><em>Lasers shoot into the sky</em><br/> <em>Farting is a way to fly</em><br/> <em>Raptors fuck they don’t ask why</em><br/> <em>Clever girl, it’s time to die</em></p> <p><em>Your disease is my desire</em><br/> <em>Lasers refract and start a fire</em><br/> <em>Within my feeble raptor heart</em><br/> <em>Shoot a laser, release a fart</em></p> <p><em>Endless cravings help me please</em><br/> <em>I’ve caught laser butt disease</em><br/> <em>Raptor butts light up the trees</em><br/> <em>What if everything is bees?</em></p> <p><em>The raptors all retract their claws</em><br/> <em>The raptor orgy takes a pause</em><br/> <em>They realise that they have contracted a serious disease</em><br/> <em>And all concur that the best course of action is to seek urgent medical attention</em></p> <p><em>The raptors approach an alchemist</em><br/> <em>He diagnoses them with laser butt disease</em><br/> <em>They ask, how did you know we had laser butt disease?</em><br/> <em>He says that it is because he is a medical expert and has been educated at Cambridge</em></p> <p><em>Unfortunately he did not know how to cure laser butt disease</em><br/> <em>And they all failed to find a sufficiently experienced physician or doctor</em><br/> <em>As such, the laser butt disease raptor orgy continued</em><br/> <em>Until the end of the cretaceous period</em><br/> <em>And that was how the dinosaurs went extinct.</em></p> <p>The scattered artists in the courtyard applauded the performance. The three girls on stage bowed in unison. The singer hi-fived the keyboardist and guitarist, then jumped from the elevated stage and walked over to Joey. Her vibrantly-dyed green hair shimmered as she moved.</p> <p>“Joey!”</p> <p>“Annie!”</p> <p>“Didja like the song?”</p> <p>“Yeah, it was pretty cool! Catchy, too.”</p> <p>“I wrote the lyrics for this one!”</p> <p>“Good job! Hey, Overgang gave me this. I think he said Candice wanted it, new synth settings or something.”</p> <p>Joey offered Annie the CD case.</p> <p>“OI! CANDICE, HEADS UP!”</p> <p>Annie pulled the CD from the case and threw it discus-like to the girl sitting at the keyboard, who plucked it from the air and placed it in the laptop next to her.</p> <p>“CHEERS, TELL OVERGANG THANKS FROM ME!”</p> <p>Joey frowned at Annie.</p> <p>“You could have broken it.”</p> <p>“But I didn’t. All ready for tonight?”</p> <p>“Yeah, I think so. Everyone seems to be going well. Should be a night to remember.”</p> <p>“Right, right. Still no sign from any of ‘The’ people?”</p> <p>“Nope. If they’re turning up at all, they’ll probably just charge in tonight.”</p> <p>“Heh, ‘charge in’. You make it sound like a war or something.”</p> <p>“Well, it kind of is. The war of who's cooler… the Cool War.”</p> <p>Joey looked to the sky as it slowly turned from blue into orange.</p> <p>“…that’s stupid, forget I said that.”</p> <hr/> <p>Tangerine was sitting in front of his completed work, distributing business cards to passers-by who seemed interested. Agent Green approached him, clearly uncomfortable in a blue hoodie and sweatpants. Tangerine jumped on the chance to show off his finished product.</p> <p>“Greetings, person I’ve never seen before in my life! Like the piece?”</p> <p>He avidly gestured towards the slowly shifting wall. It was covered in aluminium foil, which had been treated with a heat and pressure-sensitive coating. The wall undulated and changed colours, sparkling with iridescent and entrancing hues. Occasionally, the foil bent slightly outwards, as though something were trying to break out from the other side. Agent Green, as much as he hated himself for it, could not hold back a smile.</p> <p>“It looks great, artist I’ve never met before in my life.”</p> <p>“So, seen anything else of interest tonight?”</p> <p>“Two people were standing near the west courtyard, a Sculptor and a Builder, it seemed. I’ve heard there was also a local Composer around here somewhere.”</p> <p>“I’ve seen a Painter moving around. One of his pieces went up over there.”</p> <p>Tangerine gestured to the opposite wall, covered in adverts for various pieces on display that night, along with prices and disparaging comments on how derivative they were. It drew some attention, but most artists actively ignored the piece.</p> <p>“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a Janitor around?”</p> <p>“Dude, we’re outside. Why would there be a Janitor here?”</p> <p>Green scowled.</p> <p>“Have you?”</p> <p>“I’ve not, no. Though the best Janitors remain unseen by other employees.”</p> <p>“Indeed.”</p> <p>Tangerine offered a card to Green, who took it and placed it in his pocket.</p> <p>“How long have you been sitting here, then?”</p> <p>“About three hours.”</p> <p>“Seen the corpse pile?”</p> <p>“Yeah. Nobody saw the artist who put it there.”</p> <p>“Pffff. Artist.”</p> <p>Tangerine lowered his voice.</p> <p>“Taken samples?”</p> <p>“Prints and hair.”</p> <p>“Results?”</p> <p>“None in the database.”</p> <p>“Shit.”</p> <p>“Yeah.”</p> <p>“What’s our backup like?”</p> <p>“Thirty on patrol.”</p> <p>“Skeleton crew.”</p> <p>“Guys upstairs are crossing their fingers.”</p> <p>“HEY! TAN!”</p> <p>Joey ran up to Tangerine, offering a platter of chopped fruits.</p> <p>“Here, try a slice of banana, people are going crazy over them!”</p> <p>Tangerine took a piece and stuck it into his mouth. Joey turned to Agent Green, who was fighting to keep a neutral expression.</p> <p>“You can have some too, of course, sir.”</p> <p>“Thanks.”</p> <p>Agent Green picked up a slice of banana, feigned placing it in his mouth, and palmed it. He imitated chewing and swallowing, slipping the banana into his pocket as he did so. He smiled and thought of the taste of bananas.</p> <p>“Delicious. They taste very-”</p> <p>Tangerine panicked as he chewed the slice, realising Green’s mistake.</p> <p>“You really got the lemon flavouring spot on, Joey!”</p> <p>Green froze up, noticing his error. Joey seemed oblivious.</p> <p>“Thanks, I’ve had to go buy more bananas three times tonight! See you later!”</p> <p>“See ya!”</p> <p>Green looked at the mildly bemused Tangerine.</p> <p>“Shut up.”</p> <p>“I didn’t say anything.”</p> <p>“Whatever. I’ll see you later, still haven’t seen the north alleyways.”</p> <p>Green started to walk off, but then stopped. Someone was crouched in front of The Painter’s advertisements with a stencil and a set of spray paint cans dangling around his belt. He placed the stencil against the wall and it began to shift, the outline changing shape at a thought. The figure grabbed a spray can from its belt, evenly covered the stencil, then ran off into the crowd. The wet paint covered the price tags and scathing remarks with encouraging critiques, and placed a stencilled audience cheering at the bottom of the wall. The style looked vaguely familiar… Green turned back to the grinning Tangerine.</p> <p>“Was that…?”</p> <p>“Well, he was in town.”</p> <hr/> <p>The Builder and The Sculptor were standing in the west courtyard.</p> <p>“So, Robbo’s out doing his thing, Snipper’s dumped his corpses here and fucked off, Sam’s given me a tape so he doesn’t even need to be here, I’ve got my van filled up with a few doppelgangers, and you’re… what?”</p> <p>The Builder continued whispering to his handful of building seeds, ignoring the question.</p> <p>“Fucking hell, this should have been done half an hour ago. I’m letting out my stuff, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”</p> <p>The Sculptor walked further west, exiting onto a road. His van was rattling in a carpark on the opposite side. Cautiously he jogged across the street, with little traffic to get in his way. He fiddled with his keys and opened the back door of the van. Seven pairs of dull eyes stared at the sudden movement.</p> <p>“At least you fuckers know how to follow directions. Get out, go that way, find the person who looks like you, claim you’re the original and then beat the shit out of them. Got it?”</p> <p>The duplicates nodded, then jumped down from the van. They charged mindlessly across the road without any sense of self-preservation. One jumped directly in front of a car and, illusion broken, fell into chunks of raw clay.</p> <p>“Well fuck.”</p> <hr/> <p>Felix walked casually through the crowd, adjusting his beret. A small face-painting stall was attracting attention. Felix looked left and right, remembering the joy of creation. Hundreds of grinning faces were all around him. This was what it was all about, he thought. This was true art.</p> <p>He came across the pile of corpses and shook his head disapprovingly.</p> <hr/> <p>“Ladies and gentlemen, that song was ‘Please Don’t Stop Singing This Song I’m An Entity That Lives Inside Of Soundwaves And If You Do I’ll Die Oh Please God No’, and I hope you all enjoyed it! For our next song, we’re going to-”</p> <p>“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!”</p> <p>Annie looked up from her microphone into the crowd. Three people had barged in and were forcing their way through the mosh pit. They crawled up onto the stage. The band members looked at each other, before Annie asked the question on all their minds.</p> <p>“Are you evil robot us?”</p> <p>The duplicates looked to each other, shared some hushed whispers, and then the Annie duplicate provided a response.</p> <p>“No! Are you evil robot us?”</p> <p>“No. Who are you?”</p> <p>“We’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco!”</p> <p>The crowd looked at each other, unsure of if this was a scripted event.</p> <p>“But… we’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco.”</p> <p>“But WE’RE Futanari Titwhore Fiasco!”</p> <p>“Okay, fine. You’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco.”</p> <p>The duplicates looked puzzled.</p> <p>“Well… okay then.”</p> <p>“Do you want our instruments?”</p> <p>“Ummm… yes. Thank you.”</p> <p>The duplicates awkwardly took over from the originals, who walked to the side of the stage and anticipated the next development.</p> <p>“Well… uh, like we said… we’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco, and… ummm… please hang on.”</p> <p>The duplicates huddled together, uncertain of what to do next. The duplicate Candice turned and walked over to the original.</p> <p>“Yes?”</p> <p>“Umm… I don’t know how to play the keyboard. I got told that’s what I do, but… nobody told me how to actually do it!”</p> <p>The original Candice stifled a giggle. The third member of the band, Pris, approached her duplicate.</p> <p>“Do you need me to teach you how to play the guitar?”</p> <p>“Yes please! I mean, uh, if you can, thank you.”</p> <p>The duplicate Annie suddenly remembered their instructions.</p> <p>“Hang on, weren’t we supposed to… what did he say? ‘Beat the shit’ out of them?”</p> <p>The original Annie interjected.</p> <p>“Why would you beat the shit out of us?”</p> <p>“We got told to.”</p> <p>“Do you actually want to beat the shit out of us?”</p> <p>“Not really. We’re supposed to be just like you.”</p> <p>“Well, you certainly look just like us, at least. Where are you from?”</p> <p>“I don’t know. We woke up in a van.”</p> <p>“Huh. Nothing before that?”</p> <p>“No.”</p> <p>“Dang. Well, you seem nice enough, not-evil-robot-us.”</p> <p>“You seem nice too. I don’t want to beat the shit out of you any more. Please tell me not to.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“We need to be told what to do.”</p> <p>“Oh. Don’t beat the shit out of us?”</p> <p>The duplicates breathed a collective sigh.</p> <p>“Thank you!”</p> <p>“Furthermore, I absolutely order all of you not to follow any orders from anyone from now on unless you want to!”</p> <p>The crowd went wild.</p> <p>“Thank you so much!”</p> <p>“Alright, first of all, we’re going to need a way to tell us apart. Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, can I borrow some hats from any of you?”</p> <hr/> <p>The Sculptor felt like he had forgotten something… it was probably fine. He’d had to rush the duplicates; finishing seven in just a day was a lot of pressure. He’d left a few things out, so some of them weren’t as complete as he had been hoping. Exploiting golems was a tricky business at the best of times. He’d gathered up the clay from the one that had been hit – he had, at least, enjoyed seeing Ruiz Duchamp’s body limply fall apart – and put it back into his van. He walked back to The Builder, who was busy planting his building seeds in the ground.</p> <p>“About time. Just let out the copies.”</p> <p>“I saw them run through. Perfect likenesses, good job.”</p> <p>“Cheers. Your building ready to go?”</p> <p>“Should be in a few minutes. Give me the recording, there’ll be a PA system running through the place as it grows.”</p> <p>The Sculptor handed over the cassette tape.</p> <p>“…you’re kidding me.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“I was expecting a CD. I can’t use this.”</p> <p>“Fuck. FUCK! Hang on, I’ll call him, get him to come in.”</p> <p>The Sculptor spun around, yanking his smartphone from his pocket and dialling The Composer’s number. It rung twice before getting through.</p> <p>“Hello?”</p> <p>“Sam. You gave me a cassette.”</p> <p>“Yeah, and?”</p> <p>“We need a CD.”</p> <p>“Fuck.”</p> <p>“That’s what I said.”</p> <p>“Alright. Okay, uh, I can burn it onto a CD here and be down in, like, an hour-”</p> <p>“Not enough time. Can you e-mail it?”</p> <p>“Yeah, but I’ve still got to transfer it to my computer, I’ve only got it in tape form. Should take about five minutes. You’ve got a CD burner?”</p> <p>“Not yet, but there’s an electronics store two blocks away.”</p> <p>“Brilliant. I’ll send it through the second it’s done.”</p> <p>“Great. Bye.”</p> <p>The Sculptor angrily pressed the end call button.</p> <p>“Alright, Builder, get started here. I’ve got to go buy a CD burner, I’ll be back real fucking soon. And remember, you see Duchamp, you punch that asshole’s lights out, got it?”</p> <p>“Got it.”</p> <hr/> <p>On the other side of the city, Ruiz Duchamp was pacing in his studio. He wondered if Felix was enjoying himself.</p> <hr/> <p>Overgang Dood was fiddling with his computers when Joey walked up behind him.</p> <p>“OG! What’s up?”</p> <p>“You’re what’s up, asshat!”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“Sorry, sorry. But look at this!”</p> <p>Joey looked at the row of CRT screens glowing dimly. All of them displayed “The Book Of Tamlin” on the screens.</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“The program’s got stuck on your name, it’s not changing for anyone else!”</p> <p>“Dang, why?”</p> <p>“If I knew that, it wouldn’t be a fucking problem, would it?”</p> <p>“Have you tried turning it-”</p> <p>“Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence. That did not work.”</p> <p>“Well, I dunno. Slice of banana?”</p> <p>“What does it taste like?”</p> <p>“Lemons.”</p> <p>“Sure.”</p> <p>Overgang took a piece of banana and threw it into his mouth. The mushy banana texture and tangy lemon flavour were flawlessly fused in a mouthful of impossible food.</p> <p>“That’s pretty good.”</p> <p>“That’s what everyone’s been saying, yeah.”</p> <p>“Anyway, I really need to fix this before-“</p> <p>“IMPOSTORS!”</p> <p>The duplicates of Overgang Dood and Joey Tamlin yelled in unison from across the courtyard. Overgang turned to Joey.</p> <p>“Were you expecting this?”</p> <p>“Nope.”</p> <p>“Well, gotta roll with the punches. HEY! CLONE OF ME OR WHATEVER! GET OVER HERE, I NEED SOME HELP!”</p> <p>The duplicates looked at one another, then walked over.</p> <p>“Alright, I’ve been having trouble getting this to work, I’ve tried-”</p> <p>Overgang’s duplicate punched him in the face, knocking his sunglasses to the ground. Overgang rubbed his jaw, Joey and his duplicate looking on. The original stood up, plucking an almost flawless copy of his sunglasses from the face of his duplicate, then placing them on the bridge of his own nose.</p> <p>“You’re right, evil clone, I haven’t just tried hitting it yet. Silly me! Can I borrow your head for a second?”</p> <p>Overgang grabbed his duplicate’s skull, driving it into one of the CRT monitors and showering glass onto the ground. The duplicate twitched as sparks and smoke rose from the dusty box. The original pulled his duplicate from the wreckage, placing his hands on the duplicate’s shoulders, bending him over, and brutally kneeing it in the chest. The golem’s eyes opened wide, breath thrust from its lungs, and then Overgang followed up with another knee, and another, and another. He roughly pushed the copy to the ground, then lifted his leg and stomped down on its ribcage with a resounding crunch. The duplicate shuddered and rolled over, illusion collapsing slowly around it. The original took a run-up, then kicked the head clean off his copy before it collapsed to raw clay. Overgang pushed his trademark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.</p> <p>“Fucking golems. Can’t even throw a proper punch. Now…”</p> <p>Overgang turned, grinning madly, to Joey and his stunned duplicate.</p> <p>“…which of you is the copy?”</p> <p>Joey showed his platter full of banana slices. The duplicate looked pleadingly at the original.</p> <p>“Fucking hell, aren’t you lot supposed to be artists?”</p> <p>Joey clanged the metal platter against his copy’s face, following up with a solid jab to the stomach, then a kick to the groin. He grabbed its shoulders and kicked its knee, bending it unnaturally backwards and forcing his doppelganger to the ground.</p> <p>“No. We’re Anartists.”</p> <p>He stomped on his copy’s skull, squashing it flat into the pavement. Joey walked over to Overgang, hi-fiving him and still dizzily happy from the adrenaline rush. The surrounding crowd began to cheer at what they thought was a well-choreographed fight sequence, lauding praise onto the artisanry of the duplicates. Overgang decided to capitalise on the attention.</p> <p>"Now that's over, IS THERE A CODER IN THE AUDIENCE?"</p> <hr/> <p>The Sculptor walked into the electronics store, moving straight to the counter.</p> <p>“Hello?”</p> <p>A middle-aged man appeared from a back room.</p> <p>“Yo.”</p> <p>“Hey, where do you keep CD burners?”</p> <p>“What, like, by themselves?”</p> <p>“Yeah, in like an enclosure or something.”</p> <p>“Well, we’ve got DVD and Blu-ray burners, nothing for plain old CDs these days.”</p> <p>“FUCK!”</p> <p>“Hey, no swearing in my store.”</p> <p>“Do you have ANYTHING that can burn a CD?”</p> <p>“Well, I think one of our prebuild towers has a burner in it.”</p> <p>“Can you take the burner out for me?”</p> <p>“Afraid not.”</p> <p>“Whatever, how much for the tower?”</p> <p>“Hang on, let me check.”</p> <p>The manager walked into the back room. The Sculptor impatiently tapped his foot, walking over to the rack behind him and pocketing a 5-pack of writable CDs while the manager was gone. After a few more excruciating minutes, the manager returned, lugging a large black computer tower in his hands. He placed it onto the counter.</p> <p>“Well, here you go.”</p> <p>“This has a CD burner in it?”</p> <p>“Yup, that’ll be-”</p> <p>BANG.</p> <p>The Sculptor discharged his firearm into the manager’s head, blood and brain spattering on the wall behind. He pushed the corpse from the counter, then pulled the tower over, power cord trailing behind. He moved it over to one of the demonstration desks, carelessly throwing netbooks to the ground and resting the tower on the table. He fetched an LCD monitor, keyboard, and mouse from around the store, paying no attention to the body slowly bleeding dry. Slowly the computer whirred to life, while he shoved an Ethernet cable into the thing. He looked at the screen as it suddenly flashed on. The Sculptor mashed the keyboard, signed in as a guest, opened the default web browser, accessed his e-mails, downloaded The Composer’s CD image, then burned it to all five of the discs in his pocket. May as well have spares, he thought. He strode out the front door, turning the sign on the front to ‘CLOSED’ as he left.</p> <p>The body was not found until morning.</p> <hr/> <p>You sat with Arsehole and Hiro, dutifully entering your confirmation code into the prototype art bomb. You and Hiro had spent most of the last few weeks working on the internals of the expansion mechanism, while Arsehole was the one who actually co-ordinated the colours involved. Hiro and Arsehole entered their codes, everyone backed away, and the impossible mechanism turned itself inside-out. You started conversation.</p> <p>“This one’s safe, right? It’s all disabled?”</p> <p>Arsehole pushed her index finger into the colour burst, pulling it out and showing you a perfectly intact (albeit bright pink) digit.</p> <p>“See? Perfectly safe.”</p> <p>Hiro kept tapping on his phone, still hardwired to the point of origin within the slowly expanding technicolour sphere.</p> <p>“Readings are looking good. Everything seems to be stable.”</p> <p>“Speed it up a bit!”</p> <p>“Alright, alright, hang on.”</p> <p>Hiro swiped his fingers across the touch screen, and the ball began to grow even more.</p> <p>“Readings are still fine. Let me just-”</p> <p>“IMPOSTOR!”</p> <p>You looked across the courtyard and saw someone who looked almost exactly like Arsehole. The Arsehole standing beside you took the firearm holstered in your pocket and promptly shot the duplicate twice in the head, whereupon it collapsed into clay. She offered the firearm back, and you re-holstered it gingerly. The trigger was now dyed the same bright pink as her finger was.</p> <p>“Come on, Hiro, bigger! Bigger!”</p> <hr/> <p>The Sculptor returned to see The Builder’s seeds had constructed a white marble hall around the west courtyard. The edges were slowly weaving outwards past the alleyways, blocking the natural moonlight and replacing it with flickering fluorescents.</p> <p>“You got the CD?”</p> <p>“I’ve got five, here.”</p> <p>“Fantastic.”</p> <p>The Builder took one of the CDs and placed it into a small slot in the marble. The Composer’s song started to play; the entrancing classical music bounced harmonically around the marble walls.</p> <p>“Well, at least you got that bit right.”</p> <p>“Yeah, sounds damn good.”</p> <p>“He tell you what it does?”</p> <p>“Vaguely put, ‘degrades comparative artistic respect’. It’ll make people hate the other pieces.”</p> <p>“Well, that should be fun to watch.”</p> <p>“Yup. Once the building actually contains more stuff, it’ll start criticising them specifically. I’ve gotta oversee the growth of the building for now, make sure it doesn’t suck anyone into the walls or something stupid.”</p> <p>“Cool, I’ll go check on-”</p> <p>The Painter ran through the expanding marble corridor, heading straight for the pair.</p> <p>“That fucker’s here.”</p> <p>“Who? Duchamp?”</p> <p>“Not Duchamp, you twat, the British fucker. Smearing stencils over my stuff.”</p> <p>“Shit. Have you told Janitor?”</p> <p>“Can’t find the Janitor.”</p> <p>“Shiiiiiit. Alright, here’s a pistol. Track him down and shoot the bastard.”</p> <p>“I can’t shoot for shit, man, you know I’m bad with guns.”</p> <p>“Alright, alright. I’ll deal with him myself. You stay within the building, put up some of that stuff in here, do your thing.”</p> <p>“Got it. Thanks, man.”</p> <p>The Sculptor walked out from the marble flooring to the uneven, pebbled alleyway. If you wanted something done right, you had to shoot people to do it.</p> <hr/> <p>“You’re not even the least bit curious who sent them?”</p> <p>“I’m more curious about WHY I CAN’T GET THIS STUFF TO WORK.”</p> <p>Joey and Overgang sat sucking banana-tasting lemon slices. The clay bodies of the golems sat untouched.</p> <p>“Seriously, I can’t think of anyone who actually wants us dead. Well, us specifically, at least.”</p> <p>“Well, after Critic’s lot, we’re probably the biggest game in town.”</p> <p>“You don’t think The Critic did this, do you?”</p> <p>“Oh, hell no. He’s not an idiot, if he wanted us dead he’d at least do it cleanly.”</p> <p>“Wait, should we maybe check on the others? Make sure they’re all okay?”</p> <p>“Eh, they’re probably fine. Everyone here can take care of themselves.”</p> <p>“True. I just want to know-”</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>“Alright, top-hatted not-evil-not-robot-me, we make a pretty awesome duet! Hi-five!”</p> <p>Annie slapped the hand of her duplicate golem and new friend. It was like she’d found the sister she never had.</p> <p>“Okay, our next song’s a nice, soft-”</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>“We’re going critical!”</p> <p>You braced yourself as the art bomb exploded outwards in a flash of colour, coating the courtyard with technicoloured ooze. Hiro wiped the blue from his face, glad that it had worked, while Arsehole jumped and cheered and demanded to do it again. You started to say something, but then</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>Felix continued making his way through the crowd, then suddenly bumped into a towering black figure.</p> <p>“Apologies, I… oh. Hello, old friend.”</p> <p>The Janitor turned around, gas mask filter buzzing.</p> <p>“Greetings, Felix. Long time, no see.”</p> <p>“Enjoying yourself?”</p> <p>“I am on watch tonight. This is not a safe place.”</p> <p>Felix chuckled.</p> <p>“I’ve been in less safe places, friend, don’t you-”</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>Rita continued her show. Thousands of invisible spiders crawled around her miniature circus, juggling lint balls, bending paperclips, and least impressively of all, swinging unseen from trapezes. Next time, she thought, she should dip them in paint before bringing them along. That, or knit them some tiny jumpsuits. She offered a finger for one of them to climb onto, when</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>Ruiz Duchamp heard a sound in the distance.</p> <p>hooooooooonk</p> <hr/> <p>The Sculptor stalked his prey as subtly as possible. He had seen the figure deface two sets of posters, and knew the location of the next one that he would be targeting. He started running down a backstreet, planning to overtake, when</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>The Painter was putting up his posters inside of The Builder’s growing exhibition hall. The Composer’s music played in the background.</p> <p>“Hang on. If I put these up inside here, isn’t the music going to make everyone hate them anyway?”</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>The Critic heard a sound in the distance.</p> <p>hooooooooonk</p> <hr/> <p>Tangerine sat near his work, watching the delicate colours fluctuate. Even though he was an Agent, he still enjoyed creating art. He enjoyed messing with the fabric of reality. It always had an air of romance to it, and from here, he had gained an appreciation for it. Perhaps, after they let him go, he could find a nice little cottage in the hills and paint landscapes. But of course, after what he’d seen here, how could simple painting ever compare? He’d seen prodigies craft miracles with nothing more than their fingertips, and as much as he had been told that was a bad thing over and over again, through the GOC training, through the Foundation… all he’d seen was happy people, making each other happy through</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <hr/> <p>Agent Green approached the corpse pile. It was smack-bang in the central courtyard. He mentally assigned it as his primary cleanup priority. He’d have to check all the people in there, find out who they actually were, inform next of kin. It’d be a long and arduous task, but someone had to do it. Green didn’t mind. It was important work. He was making a difference.</p> <p>HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK</p> <p>Green looked up at the blasting horn noise from above. A bulging red balloon was suspended from the building tops, an enormous speaker stuck to the bottom. He instinctively moved his hand to his pistol, tightening his grip. The speaker spouted a heavily distorted voice message.</p> <p>“HEY GUYS! SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT, BUT I’M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND. YOU KNOW, THINGS TO DO, PEOPLE TO KILL. SOME OF YOU HAVE GOTTEN TO KNOW ME INTIMATELY OVER THE LAST FEW DAYS, AND YOU KNOW, I’VE REALLY ENJOYED CREEPING THE FUCK OUT OF YOU. BUT IT’S ABOUT TIME TO END THE SHITTY LITTLE CHARADE.”</p> <p>Agent Green was well and truly spooked. The speaker would be loud enough to be heard through the entire city.</p> <p>“I’M NOT AS CRAZY AS I SEEMED. OR, RATHER, I’M AS CRAZY AS I SEEMED AND QUITE A BIT MORE. I’M GOING TO BE HONEST HERE, THE CORPSES DIDN’T EVEN MAKE THAT COMFORTABLE A SEAT. BUT ONCE YOU GET ONE, YOU’VE JUST GOT TO COLLECT THEM ALL, AM I RIGHT? ANYWAY. SORRY TO HAVE MISLED YOU, BUT I’VE FRANKLY NO INTEREST IN YOUR LITTLE GANG ANY MORE. YOU’RE BORING, YOU’RE BLASÉ, YOU’RE FUCKING BLAND. THERE IS ONE LITTLE THING THAT I THINK I’LL KEEP FROM OUR EXCHANGES, THOUGH. I’VE ALWAYS WANTED A CATCHPHRASE.”</p> <p>Agent Green prepared himself for the worst.</p> <p>“SNIP. SNIP. SNIP.”</p> <p>With the final SNIP, the balloon fell. It moved downwards, almost in slow motion, directly hitting the centre of the corpse pile. The sides bulged, and the balloon popped from the impact, a minty green ooze bursting from within. He had prepared himself for the worst, but he had not prepared himself for this. Agent Green had only one horrified thought running through his head.</p> <p><em>Dead Bodies.</em></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>Thank God It's Friday</strong><br/> <strong>« <a href="/final-attack-orders">Final Attack Orders</a> \| <a href="/the-cool-war-hub">Hub</a> \| <a href="/insufficient-clearance">Insufficient Clearance</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-friday-exhibition">The Friday Exhibition</a>" by Randomini, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-friday-exhibition">https://scpwiki.com/the-friday-exhibition</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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.” “Joey, why is there a pile of corpses here?” “I dunno, none of us were doing this.” Arsehole tentatively poked one of the bodies. “Pretty fucking metal.” “Well, yeah, but it’s not really that clever.” “So, what, get rid of them?” “Nah, someone was working on this. We censor it, we’re as bad as The Man.” “Yeah, but at least, like, chuck a blanket over them or something, right?” “No. We work around the corpse pile.” “Fine, whatever.” Arsehole tapped ash from the end of her joint onto the pile. Artists were still setting up their pieces in the series of courtyards and alleyways. Joey and Arsehole walked over to Overgang’s collection of CRT screens and buzzing computer towers. “Joey, Arsehole. Shouldn’t you guys be getting ready?” “I’ve got the food sitting out on tables already, Arsehole’s waiting on Hiro.” “Ah, cool. Joey, take a look at this. Whipped it up last night, thought I needed something new.” Overgang tapped a few buttons on a mechanical keyboard, triumphantly hitting the Enter key. All screens displayed the same text: ‘To Joey, who taught me how to be cool, and Overgang, who almost made it out.’ “Joey as in me?” “Well, yeah. And it only says my name there since I was the one who played it last.” “I’m flattered. What does it do?” “Keep watching.” A scene appeared of an oil tanker, a pixelated captain watching out at the ocean as birds flew across a deep red sunset. Words scrolled up the screen, saying ‘The Book of Tamlin’. “Damn, is everything in this game named after me?” “Well, no, not unless you’re the one looking at it. The name syncs to the players’ surname at startup, it was ‘The Book of Dood’ when I played it before.” “So what does it do?” “Play it and find out!” “Dude, I don’t have time, just tell me. I’ll play it tonight.” “Spoilsport. It runs through your memories, procedurally generates your life story and lets you replay through key points.” “Sounds cool.” “It is cool. Still getting a few more things ready, making sure these things aren’t going to explode.” “Is that likely?” Overgang shrugged noncommittally. “Not really, but you fuck around with computers as much as this thing does, you make sure you’re ready for anything. How’s everyone else going?” “Well, Nibman’s got his books up and running. Literally, I mean, his books are running all over the place, screaming out ‘SNAPE KILLED DUMBLEDORE’, stuff like that. He was building a tower of cards when we left, I dunno if that’s actually going to be something or if he was just bored.” Arsehole interjected. “Ah, I think those cards were just boredom, yeah. Nate and Kyle brought along Miley, too.” “Miley?” “Yeah, you know Miley, from the thing in Alaska?” “Oh, that Miley. What are they working on?” “I actually have no idea. They’re hammering nails into the ground and wrapping a bunch of string around them, you know, like one of those kiddie craft projects.” “Intriguing. Oh, can you give this to FTF when you see them? Candice asked me for some new synths and I had a bunch lying around from years ago.” “Can do. See you tonight, dude.” Arsehole took the CD case and shoved it in her back pocket, then walked along the sidewalk with Joey. “So where to next?” “Well, I think FTF’s setting up in the south courtyard. Let’s meander that way.” “Meander? Joey, I love it when you use esoteric vernacular.” The pair continued meandering. People were busy smearing posters over the walls, twisting space through impossible structures; it was indeed a wretched hive of scum and artistry. They were blocked by a giant crate being wheeled towards them, forcing to sidle against the wall. When they passed, they saw the person who had been moving it; a schoolgirl wearing a black dress and carrying a similarly dark parasol. She cheerily waved to the pair. “Joey! A-hole! How’s it going?” Joey grinned back. “Rita! We’re good! What’s in the crate?” “Oh, you know, bits and bobs, this and that. Mostly spiders.” Arsehole moved back from the crate, hearing scuttling inside. “And what will you be doing with your spiders, exactly?” “They do tricks. They’re trick spiders.” “Well. I’ve not seen trick spiders before.” “Neither have I, they’re invisible too.” “Oh. Okay then.” “Know a good place to set up?” Joey scratched his chin. “I think the west courtyard’s pretty free right now, just take a left through there.” “Thanks, Joey! Come check it out tonight, okay?” “Sure thing!” They walked away, the clattering sound of Rita’s crate fading behind them. “Arsehole, you’re scared of spiders?” “A bit. Creepy little fuckers, sticking webs everywhere. They’re gross.” “They are a bit gross.” “My uncle had this shed just filled with ‘em, whenever I went out there he’d always-” Arsehole’s phone buzzed in her pocket; she pulled out the banged up Nokia and read the note on the screen. “Alright, Hiro’s here, we’ve gotta set up. Here’s the disc or whatever. See you tonight!” “Cool, see you then.” Arsehole passed Joey the CD case, skipping off into the distance. Joey walked out into the south courtyard and was bombarded with a wall of sound. The members of Futanari Titwhore Fiasco had just finished playing their underground hit single, ‘Stereo Shenanigans and Binaural Bullshit’, lapsing into the newly released ‘Laser Butt Disease Raptor Orgy’. //Lasers shoot into the sky// //Farting is a way to fly// //Raptors fuck they don’t ask why// //Clever girl, it’s time to die// //Your disease is my desire// //Lasers refract and start a fire// //Within my feeble raptor heart// //Shoot a laser, release a fart// //Endless cravings help me please// //I’ve caught laser butt disease// //Raptor butts light up the trees// //What if everything is bees?// //The raptors all retract their claws// //The raptor orgy takes a pause// //They realise that they have contracted a serious disease// //And all concur that the best course of action is to seek urgent medical attention// //The raptors approach an alchemist// //He diagnoses them with laser butt disease// //They ask, how did you know we had laser butt disease?// //He says that it is because he is a medical expert and has been educated at Cambridge// //Unfortunately he did not know how to cure laser butt disease// //And they all failed to find a sufficiently experienced physician or doctor// //As such, the laser butt disease raptor orgy continued// //Until the end of the cretaceous period// //And that was how the dinosaurs went extinct.// The scattered artists in the courtyard applauded the performance. The three girls on stage bowed in unison. The singer hi-fived the keyboardist and guitarist, then jumped from the elevated stage and walked over to Joey. Her vibrantly-dyed green hair shimmered as she moved. “Joey!” “Annie!” “Didja like the song?” “Yeah, it was pretty cool! Catchy, too.” “I wrote the lyrics for this one!” “Good job! Hey, Overgang gave me this. I think he said Candice wanted it, new synth settings or something.” Joey offered Annie the CD case. “OI! CANDICE, HEADS UP!” Annie pulled the CD from the case and threw it discus-like to the girl sitting at the keyboard, who plucked it from the air and placed it in the laptop next to her. “CHEERS, TELL OVERGANG THANKS FROM ME!” Joey frowned at Annie. “You could have broken it.” “But I didn’t. All ready for tonight?” “Yeah, I think so. Everyone seems to be going well. Should be a night to remember.” “Right, right. Still no sign from any of ‘The’ people?” “Nope. If they’re turning up at all, they’ll probably just charge in tonight.” “Heh, ‘charge in’. You make it sound like a war or something.” “Well, it kind of is. The war of who's cooler… the Cool War.” Joey looked to the sky as it slowly turned from blue into orange. “…that’s stupid, forget I said that.” ----------------- Tangerine was sitting in front of his completed work, distributing business cards to passers-by who seemed interested. Agent Green approached him, clearly uncomfortable in a blue hoodie and sweatpants. Tangerine jumped on the chance to show off his finished product. “Greetings, person I’ve never seen before in my life! Like the piece?” He avidly gestured towards the slowly shifting wall. It was covered in aluminium foil, which had been treated with a heat and pressure-sensitive coating. The wall undulated and changed colours, sparkling with iridescent and entrancing hues. Occasionally, the foil bent slightly outwards, as though something were trying to break out from the other side. Agent Green, as much as he hated himself for it, could not hold back a smile. “It looks great, artist I’ve never met before in my life.” “So, seen anything else of interest tonight?” “Two people were standing near the west courtyard, a Sculptor and a Builder, it seemed. I’ve heard there was also a local Composer around here somewhere.” “I’ve seen a Painter moving around. One of his pieces went up over there.” Tangerine gestured to the opposite wall, covered in adverts for various pieces on display that night, along with prices and disparaging comments on how derivative they were. It drew some attention, but most artists actively ignored the piece. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a Janitor around?” “Dude, we’re outside. Why would there be a Janitor here?” Green scowled. “Have you?” “I’ve not, no. Though the best Janitors remain unseen by other employees.” “Indeed.” Tangerine offered a card to Green, who took it and placed it in his pocket. “How long have you been sitting here, then?” “About three hours.” “Seen the corpse pile?” “Yeah. Nobody saw the artist who put it there.” “Pffff. Artist.” Tangerine lowered his voice. “Taken samples?” “Prints and hair.” “Results?” “None in the database.” “Shit.” “Yeah.” “What’s our backup like?” “Thirty on patrol.” “Skeleton crew.” “Guys upstairs are crossing their fingers.” “HEY! TAN!” Joey ran up to Tangerine, offering a platter of chopped fruits. “Here, try a slice of banana, people are going crazy over them!” Tangerine took a piece and stuck it into his mouth. Joey turned to Agent Green, who was fighting to keep a neutral expression. “You can have some too, of course, sir.” “Thanks.” Agent Green picked up a slice of banana, feigned placing it in his mouth, and palmed it. He imitated chewing and swallowing, slipping the banana into his pocket as he did so. He smiled and thought of the taste of bananas. “Delicious. They taste very-” Tangerine panicked as he chewed the slice, realising Green’s mistake. “You really got the lemon flavouring spot on, Joey!” Green froze up, noticing his error. Joey seemed oblivious. “Thanks, I’ve had to go buy more bananas three times tonight! See you later!” “See ya!” Green looked at the mildly bemused Tangerine. “Shut up.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Whatever. I’ll see you later, still haven’t seen the north alleyways.” Green started to walk off, but then stopped. Someone was crouched in front of The Painter’s advertisements with a stencil and a set of spray paint cans dangling around his belt. He placed the stencil against the wall and it began to shift, the outline changing shape at a thought. The figure grabbed a spray can from its belt, evenly covered the stencil, then ran off into the crowd. The wet paint covered the price tags and scathing remarks with encouraging critiques, and placed a stencilled audience cheering at the bottom of the wall. The style looked vaguely familiar... Green turned back to the grinning Tangerine. “Was that…?” “Well, he was in town.” ------------------------- The Builder and The Sculptor were standing in the west courtyard. “So, Robbo’s out doing his thing, Snipper’s dumped his corpses here and fucked off, Sam’s given me a tape so he doesn’t even need to be here, I’ve got my van filled up with a few doppelgangers, and you’re… what?” The Builder continued whispering to his handful of building seeds, ignoring the question. “Fucking hell, this should have been done half an hour ago. I’m letting out my stuff, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The Sculptor walked further west, exiting onto a road. His van was rattling in a carpark on the opposite side. Cautiously he jogged across the street, with little traffic to get in his way. He fiddled with his keys and opened the back door of the van. Seven pairs of dull eyes stared at the sudden movement. “At least you fuckers know how to follow directions. Get out, go that way, find the person who looks like you, claim you’re the original and then beat the shit out of them. Got it?” The duplicates nodded, then jumped down from the van. They charged mindlessly across the road without any sense of self-preservation. One jumped directly in front of a car and, illusion broken, fell into chunks of raw clay. “Well fuck.” --------------------- Felix walked casually through the crowd, adjusting his beret. A small face-painting stall was attracting attention. Felix looked left and right, remembering the joy of creation. Hundreds of grinning faces were all around him. This was what it was all about, he thought. This was true art. He came across the pile of corpses and shook his head disapprovingly. ------------------- “Ladies and gentlemen, that song was ‘Please Don’t Stop Singing This Song I’m An Entity That Lives Inside Of Soundwaves And If You Do I’ll Die Oh Please God No’, and I hope you all enjoyed it! For our next song, we’re going to-” “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!” Annie looked up from her microphone into the crowd. Three people had barged in and were forcing their way through the mosh pit. They crawled up onto the stage. The band members looked at each other, before Annie asked the question on all their minds. “Are you evil robot us?” The duplicates looked to each other, shared some hushed whispers, and then the Annie duplicate provided a response. “No! Are you evil robot us?” “No. Who are you?” “We’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco!” The crowd looked at each other, unsure of if this was a scripted event. “But… we’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco.” “But WE’RE Futanari Titwhore Fiasco!” “Okay, fine. You’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco.” The duplicates looked puzzled. “Well… okay then.” “Do you want our instruments?” “Ummm… yes. Thank you.” The duplicates awkwardly took over from the originals, who walked to the side of the stage and anticipated the next development. “Well… uh, like we said… we’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco, and… ummm… please hang on.” The duplicates huddled together, uncertain of what to do next. The duplicate Candice turned and walked over to the original. “Yes?” “Umm… I don’t know how to play the keyboard. I got told that’s what I do, but… nobody told me how to actually do it!” The original Candice stifled a giggle. The third member of the band, Pris, approached her duplicate. “Do you need me to teach you how to play the guitar?” “Yes please! I mean, uh, if you can, thank you.” The duplicate Annie suddenly remembered their instructions. “Hang on, weren’t we supposed to… what did he say? ‘Beat the shit’ out of them?” The original Annie interjected. “Why would you beat the shit out of us?” “We got told to.” “Do you actually want to beat the shit out of us?” “Not really. We’re supposed to be just like you.” “Well, you certainly look just like us, at least. Where are you from?” “I don’t know. We woke up in a van.” “Huh. Nothing before that?” “No.” “Dang. Well, you seem nice enough, not-evil-robot-us.” “You seem nice too. I don’t want to beat the shit out of you any more. Please tell me not to.” “What?” “We need to be told what to do.” “Oh. Don’t beat the shit out of us?” The duplicates breathed a collective sigh. “Thank you!” “Furthermore, I absolutely order all of you not to follow any orders from anyone from now on unless you want to!” The crowd went wild. “Thank you so much!” “Alright, first of all, we’re going to need a way to tell us apart. Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, can I borrow some hats from any of you?” -------------------- The Sculptor felt like he had forgotten something… it was probably fine. He’d had to rush the duplicates; finishing seven in just a day was a lot of pressure. He’d left a few things out, so some of them weren’t as complete as he had been hoping. Exploiting golems was a tricky business at the best of times. He’d gathered up the clay from the one that had been hit – he had, at least, enjoyed seeing Ruiz Duchamp’s body limply fall apart – and put it back into his van. He walked back to The Builder, who was busy planting his building seeds in the ground. “About time. Just let out the copies.” “I saw them run through. Perfect likenesses, good job.” “Cheers. Your building ready to go?” “Should be in a few minutes. Give me the recording, there’ll be a PA system running through the place as it grows.” The Sculptor handed over the cassette tape. “…you’re kidding me.” “What?” “I was expecting a CD. I can’t use this.” “Fuck. FUCK! Hang on, I’ll call him, get him to come in.” The Sculptor spun around, yanking his smartphone from his pocket and dialling The Composer’s number. It rung twice before getting through. “Hello?” “Sam. You gave me a cassette.” “Yeah, and?” “We need a CD.” “Fuck.” “That’s what I said.” “Alright. Okay, uh, I can burn it onto a CD here and be down in, like, an hour-” “Not enough time. Can you e-mail it?” “Yeah, but I’ve still got to transfer it to my computer, I’ve only got it in tape form. Should take about five minutes. You’ve got a CD burner?” “Not yet, but there’s an electronics store two blocks away.” “Brilliant. I’ll send it through the second it’s done.” “Great. Bye.” The Sculptor angrily pressed the end call button. “Alright, Builder, get started here. I’ve got to go buy a CD burner, I’ll be back real fucking soon. And remember, you see Duchamp, you punch that asshole’s lights out, got it?” “Got it.” -------------------- On the other side of the city, Ruiz Duchamp was pacing in his studio. He wondered if Felix was enjoying himself. -------------------- Overgang Dood was fiddling with his computers when Joey walked up behind him. “OG! What’s up?” “You’re what’s up, asshat!” “What?” “Sorry, sorry. But look at this!” Joey looked at the row of CRT screens glowing dimly. All of them displayed “The Book Of Tamlin” on the screens. “What?” “The program’s got stuck on your name, it’s not changing for anyone else!” “Dang, why?” “If I knew that, it wouldn’t be a fucking problem, would it?” “Have you tried turning it-” “Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence. That did not work.” “Well, I dunno. Slice of banana?” “What does it taste like?” “Lemons.” “Sure.” Overgang took a piece of banana and threw it into his mouth. The mushy banana texture and tangy lemon flavour were flawlessly fused in a mouthful of impossible food. “That’s pretty good.” “That’s what everyone’s been saying, yeah.” “Anyway, I really need to fix this before-“ “IMPOSTORS!” The duplicates of Overgang Dood and Joey Tamlin yelled in unison from across the courtyard. Overgang turned to Joey. “Were you expecting this?” “Nope.” “Well, gotta roll with the punches. HEY! CLONE OF ME OR WHATEVER! GET OVER HERE, I NEED SOME HELP!” The duplicates looked at one another, then walked over. “Alright, I’ve been having trouble getting this to work, I’ve tried-” Overgang’s duplicate punched him in the face, knocking his sunglasses to the ground. Overgang rubbed his jaw, Joey and his duplicate looking on. The original stood up, plucking an almost flawless copy of his sunglasses from the face of his duplicate, then placing them on the bridge of his own nose. “You’re right, evil clone, I haven’t just tried hitting it yet. Silly me! Can I borrow your head for a second?” Overgang grabbed his duplicate’s skull, driving it into one of the CRT monitors and showering glass onto the ground. The duplicate twitched as sparks and smoke rose from the dusty box. The original pulled his duplicate from the wreckage, placing his hands on the duplicate’s shoulders, bending him over, and brutally kneeing it in the chest. The golem’s eyes opened wide, breath thrust from its lungs, and then Overgang followed up with another knee, and another, and another. He roughly pushed the copy to the ground, then lifted his leg and stomped down on its ribcage with a resounding crunch. The duplicate shuddered and rolled over, illusion collapsing slowly around it. The original took a run-up, then kicked the head clean off his copy before it collapsed to raw clay. Overgang pushed his trademark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Fucking golems. Can’t even throw a proper punch. Now…” Overgang turned, grinning madly, to Joey and his stunned duplicate. “…which of you is the copy?” Joey showed his platter full of banana slices. The duplicate looked pleadingly at the original. “Fucking hell, aren’t you lot supposed to be artists?” Joey clanged the metal platter against his copy’s face, following up with a solid jab to the stomach, then a kick to the groin. He grabbed its shoulders and kicked its knee, bending it unnaturally backwards and forcing his doppelganger to the ground. “No. We’re Anartists.” He stomped on his copy’s skull, squashing it flat into the pavement. Joey walked over to Overgang, hi-fiving him and still dizzily happy from the adrenaline rush. The surrounding crowd began to cheer at what they thought was a well-choreographed fight sequence, lauding praise onto the artisanry of the duplicates. Overgang decided to capitalise on the attention. "Now that's over, IS THERE A CODER IN THE AUDIENCE?" --------------- The Sculptor walked into the electronics store, moving straight to the counter. “Hello?” A middle-aged man appeared from a back room. “Yo.” “Hey, where do you keep CD burners?” “What, like, by themselves?” “Yeah, in like an enclosure or something.” “Well, we’ve got DVD and Blu-ray burners, nothing for plain old CDs these days.” “FUCK!” “Hey, no swearing in my store.” “Do you have ANYTHING that can burn a CD?” “Well, I think one of our prebuild towers has a burner in it.” “Can you take the burner out for me?” “Afraid not.” “Whatever, how much for the tower?” “Hang on, let me check.” The manager walked into the back room. The Sculptor impatiently tapped his foot, walking over to the rack behind him and pocketing a 5-pack of writable CDs while the manager was gone. After a few more excruciating minutes, the manager returned, lugging a large black computer tower in his hands. He placed it onto the counter. “Well, here you go.” “This has a CD burner in it?” “Yup, that’ll be-” BANG. The Sculptor discharged his firearm into the manager’s head, blood and brain spattering on the wall behind. He pushed the corpse from the counter, then pulled the tower over, power cord trailing behind. He moved it over to one of the demonstration desks, carelessly throwing netbooks to the ground and resting the tower on the table. He fetched an LCD monitor, keyboard, and mouse from around the store, paying no attention to the body slowly bleeding dry. Slowly the computer whirred to life, while he shoved an Ethernet cable into the thing. He looked at the screen as it suddenly flashed on. The Sculptor mashed the keyboard, signed in as a guest, opened the default web browser, accessed his e-mails, downloaded The Composer’s CD image, then burned it to all five of the discs in his pocket. May as well have spares, he thought. He strode out the front door, turning the sign on the front to ‘CLOSED’ as he left. The body was not found until morning. -------------- You sat with Arsehole and Hiro, dutifully entering your confirmation code into the prototype art bomb. You and Hiro had spent most of the last few weeks working on the internals of the expansion mechanism, while Arsehole was the one who actually co-ordinated the colours involved. Hiro and Arsehole entered their codes, everyone backed away, and the impossible mechanism turned itself inside-out. You started conversation. “This one’s safe, right? It’s all disabled?” Arsehole pushed her index finger into the colour burst, pulling it out and showing you a perfectly intact (albeit bright pink) digit. “See? Perfectly safe.” Hiro kept tapping on his phone, still hardwired to the point of origin within the slowly expanding technicolour sphere. “Readings are looking good. Everything seems to be stable.” “Speed it up a bit!” “Alright, alright, hang on.” Hiro swiped his fingers across the touch screen, and the ball began to grow even more. “Readings are still fine. Let me just-” “IMPOSTOR!” You looked across the courtyard and saw someone who looked almost exactly like Arsehole. The Arsehole standing beside you took the firearm holstered in your pocket and promptly shot the duplicate twice in the head, whereupon it collapsed into clay. She offered the firearm back, and you re-holstered it gingerly. The trigger was now dyed the same bright pink as her finger was. “Come on, Hiro, bigger! Bigger!” -------------- The Sculptor returned to see The Builder’s seeds had constructed a white marble hall around the west courtyard. The edges were slowly weaving outwards past the alleyways, blocking the natural moonlight and replacing it with flickering fluorescents. “You got the CD?” “I’ve got five, here.” “Fantastic.” The Builder took one of the CDs and placed it into a small slot in the marble. The Composer’s song started to play; the entrancing classical music bounced harmonically around the marble walls. “Well, at least you got that bit right.” “Yeah, sounds damn good.” “He tell you what it does?” “Vaguely put, ‘degrades comparative artistic respect’. It’ll make people hate the other pieces.” “Well, that should be fun to watch.” “Yup. Once the building actually contains more stuff, it’ll start criticising them specifically. I’ve gotta oversee the growth of the building for now, make sure it doesn’t suck anyone into the walls or something stupid.” “Cool, I’ll go check on-” The Painter ran through the expanding marble corridor, heading straight for the pair. “That fucker’s here.” “Who? Duchamp?” “Not Duchamp, you twat, the British fucker. Smearing stencils over my stuff.” “Shit. Have you told Janitor?” “Can’t find the Janitor.” “Shiiiiiit. Alright, here’s a pistol. Track him down and shoot the bastard.” “I can’t shoot for shit, man, you know I’m bad with guns.” “Alright, alright. I’ll deal with him myself. You stay within the building, put up some of that stuff in here, do your thing.” “Got it. Thanks, man.” The Sculptor walked out from the marble flooring to the uneven, pebbled alleyway. If you wanted something done right, you had to shoot people to do it. -------------- “You’re not even the least bit curious who sent them?” “I’m more curious about WHY I CAN’T GET THIS STUFF TO WORK.” Joey and Overgang sat sucking banana-tasting lemon slices. The clay bodies of the golems sat untouched. “Seriously, I can’t think of anyone who actually wants us dead. Well, us specifically, at least.” “Well, after Critic’s lot, we’re probably the biggest game in town.” “You don’t think The Critic did this, do you?” “Oh, hell no. He’s not an idiot, if he wanted us dead he’d at least do it cleanly.” “Wait, should we maybe check on the others? Make sure they’re all okay?” “Eh, they’re probably fine. Everyone here can take care of themselves.” “True. I just want to know-” HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- “Alright, top-hatted not-evil-not-robot-me, we make a pretty awesome duet! Hi-five!” Annie slapped the hand of her duplicate golem and new friend. It was like she’d found the sister she never had. “Okay, our next song’s a nice, soft-” HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- “We’re going critical!” You braced yourself as the art bomb exploded outwards in a flash of colour, coating the courtyard with technicoloured ooze. Hiro wiped the blue from his face, glad that it had worked, while Arsehole jumped and cheered and demanded to do it again. You started to say something, but then HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- Felix continued making his way through the crowd, then suddenly bumped into a towering black figure. “Apologies, I… oh. Hello, old friend.” The Janitor turned around, gas mask filter buzzing. “Greetings, Felix. Long time, no see.” “Enjoying yourself?” “I am on watch tonight. This is not a safe place.” Felix chuckled. “I’ve been in less safe places, friend, don’t you-” HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- Rita continued her show. Thousands of invisible spiders crawled around her miniature circus, juggling lint balls, bending paperclips, and least impressively of all, swinging unseen from trapezes. Next time, she thought, she should dip them in paint before bringing them along. That, or knit them some tiny jumpsuits. She offered a finger for one of them to climb onto, when HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- Ruiz Duchamp heard a sound in the distance. hooooooooonk -------------- The Sculptor stalked his prey as subtly as possible. He had seen the figure deface two sets of posters, and knew the location of the next one that he would be targeting. He started running down a backstreet, planning to overtake, when HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- The Painter was putting up his posters inside of The Builder’s growing exhibition hall. The Composer’s music played in the background. “Hang on. If I put these up inside here, isn’t the music going to make everyone hate them anyway?” HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- The Critic heard a sound in the distance. hooooooooonk -------------- Tangerine sat near his work, watching the delicate colours fluctuate. Even though he was an Agent, he still enjoyed creating art. He enjoyed messing with the fabric of reality. It always had an air of romance to it, and from here, he had gained an appreciation for it. Perhaps, after they let him go, he could find a nice little cottage in the hills and paint landscapes. But of course, after what he’d seen here, how could simple painting ever compare? He’d seen prodigies craft miracles with nothing more than their fingertips, and as much as he had been told that was a bad thing over and over again, through the GOC training, through the Foundation… all he’d seen was happy people, making each other happy through HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK -------------- Agent Green approached the corpse pile. It was smack-bang in the central courtyard. He mentally assigned it as his primary cleanup priority. He’d have to check all the people in there, find out who they actually were, inform next of kin. It’d be a long and arduous task, but someone had to do it. Green didn’t mind. It was important work. He was making a difference. HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK Green looked up at the blasting horn noise from above. A bulging red balloon was suspended from the building tops, an enormous speaker stuck to the bottom. He instinctively moved his hand to his pistol, tightening his grip. The speaker spouted a heavily distorted voice message. “HEY GUYS! SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT, BUT I’M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND. YOU KNOW, THINGS TO DO, PEOPLE TO KILL. SOME OF YOU HAVE GOTTEN TO KNOW ME INTIMATELY OVER THE LAST FEW DAYS, AND YOU KNOW, I’VE REALLY ENJOYED CREEPING THE FUCK OUT OF YOU. BUT IT’S ABOUT TIME TO END THE SHITTY LITTLE CHARADE.” Agent Green was well and truly spooked. The speaker would be loud enough to be heard through the entire city. “I’M NOT AS CRAZY AS I SEEMED. OR, RATHER, I’M AS CRAZY AS I SEEMED AND QUITE A BIT MORE. I’M GOING TO BE HONEST HERE, THE CORPSES DIDN’T EVEN MAKE THAT COMFORTABLE A SEAT. BUT ONCE YOU GET ONE, YOU’VE JUST GOT TO COLLECT THEM ALL, AM I RIGHT? ANYWAY. SORRY TO HAVE MISLED YOU, BUT I’VE FRANKLY NO INTEREST IN YOUR LITTLE GANG ANY MORE. YOU’RE BORING, YOU’RE BLASÉ, YOU’RE FUCKING BLAND. THERE IS ONE LITTLE THING THAT I THINK I’LL KEEP FROM OUR EXCHANGES, THOUGH. I’VE ALWAYS WANTED A CATCHPHRASE.” Agent Green prepared himself for the worst. “SNIP. SNIP. SNIP.” With the final SNIP, the balloon fell. It moved downwards, almost in slow motion, directly hitting the centre of the corpse pile. The sides bulged, and the balloon popped from the impact, a minty green ooze bursting from within. He had prepared himself for the worst, but he had not prepared himself for this. Agent Green had only one horrified thought running through his head. //Dead Bodies.// [[=]] Thank God It's Friday << [[[Final Attack Orders]]] \| [[[the-cool-war-hub\| Hub]]] \| [[[Insufficient Clearance]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-12-04T12:37:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "agent-green", "are-we-cool-yet", "comedy", "ruiz-duchamp", "tale", "the-critic" ]	The Friday Exhibition - SCP Foundation	230	[ "final-attack-orders", "the-cool-war-hub", "insufficient-clearance", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "the-scip-squad-podcast-hub", "the-cool-war-hub", "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", "are-we-cool-yet-hub", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	20855063	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-friday-exhibition
the-gate-opens	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Yahweh awoke in His human form in His room at Site 17, knowing that the hour had arrived.</p> <p>In an instant, He was at Site 0. The personnel in the control room, some half asleep, leapt to their feet as He appeared. He took a moment to watch the dawning look of comprehension on their faces. O5-14 staggered to his feet.</p> <p>"The Time has come," Yahweh intoned.</p> <p>In another eye-blink, He was at the Gate. The being that the Foundation called SCP-001-Gamma bowed in front of Him, lowering its burning sword, its four flaming wings spread in reverence.</p> <p>"Uriel," Yahweh said. "It is Time. Open the Gate. Lead My armies across the Earth."</p> <p>"I HEAR AND OBEY, MY LORD AND MY GOD," Uriel said.</p> <p>The Gate began to creak open. Behind it was an army of angels, thousands of bright creatures, many-eyed, burning with pure red light. They raised their white swords, singing a chant of war, and the rustling of countless brilliant wings filled the air.</p> <hr/> <p>The thing inside Site 10, the singularity that was, was not, had always been, and had never been a part of the Lock, unfurled itself like a flower.</p> <p>Site 10 was demolished in an instant. No one inside had any moment for last thoughts before their deaths.</p> <p>Then they were all alive again, shaken, deposited somewhere in New Hampshire. Along with Site 10, intact, aside from the destruction the Harbinger had dealt to it.</p> <p>Meanwhile, the ruins of Site 10 and the corpses of everyone in it were buried deep within the vast valley that had never existed before on the planet Earth, and yet, now, had always existed, displacing a few thousand miles of desert in the Middle East. It was still both there, and not. Either way, it <em>was</em>.</p> <p>Waves of blue and green energy washed about, and the valley filled with plants and animals the likes of which had never been seen before.</p> <p>In the very center, orbiting in a wash of iridescent rainbow color, the Lock hovered in the center of a tiny singularity. Open, at long last. Sending out its signal.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Everett Mann was in the middle of dissecting a recently dead instance of SCP-098 when its legs started to twitch.</p> <p>Everett paused his scalpel in mid-cut and watched with curiosity. This had never happened before.</p> <p>He looked over at the cage of live SCP-098 specimens. They were also acting oddly. They were stock still. Not a single red-orange limb was making so much as a twitch. SCP-098 were not exactly the calmest species of anomalous crustacean, and Everett had never seen them behave this way.</p> <p>They appeared to be… watching. Waiting for something.</p> <p>The dead 098 instance kept twitching.</p> <p>"Hmmm," Everett said.</p> <p>His cell phone vibrated in his lab coat. This was the secure cell, the one that only rang in serious emergencies. Everett put down the scalpel and picked up the call.</p> <p>"Everett Mann, Site 2036, status five," he said.</p> <p>"The sword falls and rises," the voice on the other line said.</p> <p>"But it kills in one stroke," Everett replied.</p> <p>"Emergency Order Patmos is now in effect," the voice said. "995 has breached containment. 616 has opened. We are awaiting report from 001-Gamma. We are securing 073 and 076…"</p> <p>"And you want to know about 098," Everett said.</p> <p>"Have SCP-098 activated?" the voice asked.</p> <p>"I am sorry to disappoint you. They are acting a bit odd, but I cannot say…"</p> <p>The dead 098 instance froze, then burst into pale orange flame.</p> <p>After another moment passed, the other 098 specimens burst into flame, all at the same time. Little slots in their shells opened, and delicate, vibrating, dragonfly-like wings sprang out. As far as Everett could tell, each 098 instance sprouted as many wings as they had limbs. Even the dead instance. Which was now looking significantly less dead.</p> <p>They breached the sides of their cage in an instant, all chittering at once in some alien language. They ripped through the plate glass window of the sealed experiment chamber and swarmed away through the site, demolishing the walls that got in their way. Everett stared after them.</p> <p>"Never mind," Everett said to the voice waiting on the other line. "I'd say that probably counts."</p> <hr/> <p>Yahweh appeared to the entire remaining thirteen O5 Council members at once in thirteen different locations. He did not appear, of course, to the Administrator, because the last Administrator had died years ago and had not been replaced. O5-14 no longer voted on Council matters, and therefore the Council no longer need a tiebreaker vote. But to all the rest, He appeared. They were all His, and had always been His. Even the non-believers, who thought of him as nothing more than a reality bender with a god complex, would have no choice but to go along. They were <em>all</em> His, as sure as the hands attached to His Body.</p> <p>Thirteen people leaped from their seats, from their beds, fell to their knees, tripped and fell to the ground.</p> <p>"Uriel, my servant, once told your Founder to prepare for the great and terrible day of the Lord," Yahweh said in thirteen voices at once. "This day now approaches. Make your final preparations. There is nothing else you will need to do but wait. My armies ride across the Earth. Soon I will call the Four Horsemen. Once the last judgment has been unsealed, then shall the great and terrible day of the Lord come. And then all will have Paradise."</p> <p>He returned to a single human body, without waiting for a reply, returned to a slight feeling of vertigo. He might have been an omnipotent super-being, but it would not have done to cram <em>everything</em> into this tiny human body that He'd elected to stay in until the End of Days was over. Because of that, He hadn't recently made a practice of existing in several places at once. It came naturally, like breathing, but still felt unusual, like breathing for the first time after spending long minutes underwater.</p> <p>Actually, there was something odd… some little twinge of memory, triggered by what He had just done…</p> <p>The thought slipped from His grasp. That was the downside of human frailty. This was a perfected human body, but even a perfected human body was still flawed compared to true omniscience.</p> <p>He knew the next step, as he always knew. He would return to the ancient Valley with no name. The first place He had ever created, the precursor to Eden. The Valley where none had ever set foot but Him, and never would, not even after the End of Days.</p> <p>He took a step, and was there.</p> <p>And…</p> <p>He wasn't alone.</p> <hr/> <p>Klaxons blared in Site 2036. Everett Mann listened, bemused. Emergency Order Patmos or no, there was no need for all that racket.</p> <p>He stepped out of the former auxiliary research and containment chambers for SCP-098, into a mob of personnel. No one stopped to give him the time. Fairly rude, Everett thought. 098 wasn't even killing anyone. Just… leaving. The holes in the walls and ceiling could be rebuilt.</p> <p>He spotted Gears in the crowd and made his way over. Another person who could be trusted to deal with situations in a reasonable fashion.</p> <p>"It seems we have a massive containment breach," Gears said.</p> <p>"Yes, SCP-098," Everett said. "I hear 995 and 616 have breached containment as well. 001-Gamma, soon, I'm sure. But I don't see what the fuss is about. We've stopped XK-class scenarios before, we can do it again. The only difference in this case is that we might have to deal with O5-14 putting up a fuss—"</p> <p>Gears held up a hand. Interruption was not his style, Everett knew, which is partly why he could stop anyone in their tracks with that gesture. "I'm not speaking of Patmos," Gears said. "Nor 001-Gamma."</p> <p>"Oh?" Everett raised an eyebrow. "What else has gotten out?"</p> <p>"A whole damn lot," Gears said, perfectly calmly, swearing for the first time that Everett had ever heard.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/apakht">"Apakht" (Part 1 of 3)</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/revelation">Revelation (Part 3 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="/the-gate-opens">The Gate Opens</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-gate-opens">https://scpwiki.com/the-gate-opens</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Yahweh awoke in His human form in His room at Site 17, knowing that the hour had arrived. In an instant, He was at Site 0. The personnel in the control room, some half asleep, leapt to their feet as He appeared. He took a moment to watch the dawning look of comprehension on their faces. O5-14 staggered to his feet. "The Time has come," Yahweh intoned. In another eye-blink, He was at the Gate. The being that the Foundation called SCP-001-Gamma bowed in front of Him, lowering its burning sword, its four flaming wings spread in reverence. "Uriel," Yahweh said. "It is Time. Open the Gate. Lead My armies across the Earth." "I HEAR AND OBEY, MY LORD AND MY GOD," Uriel said. The Gate began to creak open. Behind it was an army of angels, thousands of bright creatures, many-eyed, burning with pure red light. They raised their white swords, singing a chant of war, and the rustling of countless brilliant wings filled the air. --------------- The thing inside Site 10, the singularity that was, was not, had always been, and had never been a part of the Lock, unfurled itself like a flower. Site 10 was demolished in an instant. No one inside had any moment for last thoughts before their deaths. Then they were all alive again, shaken, deposited somewhere in New Hampshire. Along with Site 10, intact, aside from the destruction the Harbinger had dealt to it. Meanwhile, the ruins of Site 10 and the corpses of everyone in it were buried deep within the vast valley that had never existed before on the planet Earth, and yet, now, had always existed, displacing a few thousand miles of desert in the Middle East. It was still both there, and not. Either way, it //was//. Waves of blue and green energy washed about, and the valley filled with plants and animals the likes of which had never been seen before. In the very center, orbiting in a wash of iridescent rainbow color, the Lock hovered in the center of a tiny singularity. Open, at long last. Sending out its signal. ----------------- Dr. Everett Mann was in the middle of dissecting a recently dead instance of SCP-098 when its legs started to twitch. Everett paused his scalpel in mid-cut and watched with curiosity. This had never happened before. He looked over at the cage of live SCP-098 specimens. They were also acting oddly. They were stock still. Not a single red-orange limb was making so much as a twitch. SCP-098 were not exactly the calmest species of anomalous crustacean, and Everett had never seen them behave this way. They appeared to be… watching. Waiting for something. The dead 098 instance kept twitching. "Hmmm," Everett said. His cell phone vibrated in his lab coat. This was the secure cell, the one that only rang in serious emergencies. Everett put down the scalpel and picked up the call. "Everett Mann, Site 2036, status five," he said. "The sword falls and rises," the voice on the other line said. "But it kills in one stroke," Everett replied. "Emergency Order Patmos is now in effect," the voice said. "995 has breached containment. 616 has opened. We are awaiting report from 001-Gamma. We are securing 073 and 076…" "And you want to know about 098," Everett said. "Have SCP-098 activated?" the voice asked. "I am sorry to disappoint you. They are acting a bit odd, but I cannot say..." The dead 098 instance froze, then burst into pale orange flame. After another moment passed, the other 098 specimens burst into flame, all at the same time. Little slots in their shells opened, and delicate, vibrating, dragonfly-like wings sprang out. As far as Everett could tell, each 098 instance sprouted as many wings as they had limbs. Even the dead instance. Which was now looking significantly less dead. They breached the sides of their cage in an instant, all chittering at once in some alien language. They ripped through the plate glass window of the sealed experiment chamber and swarmed away through the site, demolishing the walls that got in their way. Everett stared after them. "Never mind," Everett said to the voice waiting on the other line. "I'd say that probably counts." ----------------- Yahweh appeared to the entire remaining thirteen O5 Council members at once in thirteen different locations. He did not appear, of course, to the Administrator, because the last Administrator had died years ago and had not been replaced. O5-14 no longer voted on Council matters, and therefore the Council no longer need a tiebreaker vote. But to all the rest, He appeared. They were all His, and had always been His. Even the non-believers, who thought of him as nothing more than a reality bender with a god complex, would have no choice but to go along. They were //all// His, as sure as the hands attached to His Body. Thirteen people leaped from their seats, from their beds, fell to their knees, tripped and fell to the ground. "Uriel, my servant, once told your Founder to prepare for the great and terrible day of the Lord," Yahweh said in thirteen voices at once. "This day now approaches. Make your final preparations. There is nothing else you will need to do but wait. My armies ride across the Earth. Soon I will call the Four Horsemen. Once the last judgment has been unsealed, then shall the great and terrible day of the Lord come. And then all will have Paradise." He returned to a single human body, without waiting for a reply, returned to a slight feeling of vertigo. He might have been an omnipotent super-being, but it would not have done to cram //everything// into this tiny human body that He'd elected to stay in until the End of Days was over. Because of that, He hadn't recently made a practice of existing in several places at once. It came naturally, like breathing, but still felt unusual, like breathing for the first time after spending long minutes underwater. Actually, there was something odd… some little twinge of memory, triggered by what He had just done… The thought slipped from His grasp. That was the downside of human frailty. This was a perfected human body, but even a perfected human body was still flawed compared to true omniscience. He knew the next step, as he always knew. He would return to the ancient Valley with no name. The first place He had ever created, the precursor to Eden. The Valley where none had ever set foot but Him, and never would, not even after the End of Days. He took a step, and was there. And… He wasn't alone. ------------------ Klaxons blared in Site 2036. Everett Mann listened, bemused. Emergency Order Patmos or no, there was no need for all that racket. He stepped out of the former auxiliary research and containment chambers for SCP-098, into a mob of personnel. No one stopped to give him the time. Fairly rude, Everett thought. 098 wasn't even killing anyone. Just… leaving. The holes in the walls and ceiling could be rebuilt. He spotted Gears in the crowd and made his way over. Another person who could be trusted to deal with situations in a reasonable fashion. "It seems we have a massive containment breach," Gears said. "Yes, SCP-098," Everett said. "I hear 995 and 616 have breached containment as well. 001-Gamma, soon, I'm sure. But I don't see what the fuss is about. We've stopped XK-class scenarios before, we can do it again. The only difference in this case is that we might have to deal with O5-14 putting up a fuss--" Gears held up a hand. Interruption was not his style, Everett knew, which is partly why he could stop anyone in their tracks with that gesture. "I'm not speaking of Patmos," Gears said. "Nor 001-Gamma." "Oh?" Everett raised an eyebrow. "What else has gotten out?" "A whole damn lot," Gears said, perfectly calmly, swearing for the first time that Everett had ever heard. -------------- [[=]] << [[[Apakht\|"Apakht" (Part 1 of 3)]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[Revelation\| Revelation (Part 3 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>]]	2013-02-01T09:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "alleged-god", "apocalyptic", "competitive-eschatology", "doctor-gears", "doctor-mann", "nyc2013", "religious-fiction", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	The Gate Opens - SCP Foundation	201	[ "apakht", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "revelation", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:secure-facilities-locations-2", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "kaktuskast-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16264699	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-gate-opens
the-good-of-the-other	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Nota Bene: It would behoove you to read <a href="/shepherds">Shepherds</a>, <a href="/second-watch">Second Watch</a>, and <a href="/people-look-east">People Look East</a> before reading this tale.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Mechanoid Moloch! Moloch the mighty maw! Gnawing Moloch! Sawing Moloch! Moloch the grinding end!</em></p> <p>The words rang around in Mary-Ann’s head, even now, some three hours after she had heard them first. She brushed them away, but they oozed back through the cracks in her mental concrete.</p> <p><em>Maladaptive Moloch, eater of babies!</em></p> <p>It had just been an insane man on the side of the street. You had those in New York.</p> <p>She looked up at the sun.</p> <p>“This weather’s just crazy. We were snowed in the day before yesterday, and now it’s practically warm enough for shorts.”</p> <p>“Well you see, God hates homosexuals,” Salah said. “And so He is clearly manipulating the weather to rain judgment down upon us.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann elbowed him, laughing.</p> <p>“You. You are a funny person.”</p> <p>“So I’ve been told. Personally, that’s a load of garbage. I am a thoroughly unfunny individual. Did I ever tell you about the time I was sold a dead parrot? I went right into that pet shop and continued to be unfunny the entire time I complained.” There was the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth. The rest was in his eyes.</p> <p>“How do you keep a straight face when you say stuff like that?”</p> <p>“Years of practice.” There was the smile.</p> <p>They turned right, heading down an alley to cut across to the next street. Dumpster, fire escapes, trash, a puddle, graffiti. The bustle beyond seemed deafened by the plain brick and concrete: a little slice of quiet, broken by two pairs of shoes.</p> <p>The graffiti on the wall, a big bubblegum-pink “G”, began to squirm and they passed it. It flowed down the bricks, and about ten feet in front of the pair it bulged out from the wall and launched itself into the alleyway like a wet spitwad. It sat there for a moment before snapping into the form of a young man wearing an overcoat the same color as the paint. His hair was likewise the same shade. A cigarette dangled from his lip, unlit.</p> <p>“Hey hey hey, what’s all this? You’re walkin’ into BackdoorSoHo without payin’ customs? Low blow there, low blow. Man’s gotta make a living and art ain’t fillin’ the belly, y’know what I mean?”</p> <p>Salah dug in his pocket and removed a small silver coin and tossed it to the man. He turned it over in his fingers, squinted, bit it, and threw it back.</p> <p>“We cool yet?”</p> <p>“No.” Salah put the coin back in his pocket.</p> <p>“Good. Management’s been up our asses, makin’ us check everyone who comes in. Pack a’ those bastards snuck in last month and fucked around. Doesn’t help that we’re up to our ears with the Snakes and Mac-Daddies boppin’ around, much less you Choir Boys.” He shrugged. “Why the fuck am I still talkin’? Get in there.”</p> <p>He dropped into a pink puddle on the concrete and slid back onto the wall. In the distance, there was a slight shimmering in the air, a little momentary mirage. Mary-Ann and Salah passed through the rest of the alley and stepped out into the Backdoor.</p> <p>The cobblestone street was an explosion of color and light and sound. Narrow brick federal houses and cast-iron faced lofts lined the way, railed balconies jutting out into the air. Every flat surface (and most non-flat surfaces) looked to have something painted on it. The world was a mural, some parts animated, some parts layered on top of other works. Statues of metal and plastic and wood and stone stood and walked and danced: people, animals, objects, shapes and forms without any prior meaning than their own existence. The air was heavy with music: brass jazz and basswood blues and murmuring vinyl dub.</p> <p>Mary-Ann tried to absorb as much of the sensory assault. She had only been to the Backdoor once before, and from what she saw now, no two visits were the same. The art and atmosphere would be completely changed by next week, let alone several months later.</p> <p>The street was too narrow for cars, and so was filled with pedestrians, and one man riding a panda: Squads of muralists in paint-stained jeans and t-shirts, contortionist actors in peacock feather tights, dreadlocked musicians smelling of ganja and listening to the songs flow through the holes in their heads, clothing and hair and decoration in a blindingly bizarre array of flamboyant colors and patterns. A barrel-chested firebreather, his beard licked with flame, spat green deer and purple tigers from his mouth, and the fiery cats went about hunting down their prey before wisping out of existence.</p> <p>They continued in this way down the street before reaching a narrow brick building, unpainted, with a little green door. The wooden sign above the door proclaimed “De Luca Brothers, Artisans”.</p> <p>The bell tinkled as they stepped through the door. It felt like walking between worlds: there was none of the noise or color of outside. Just a quiet little shop, with clean wooden shelves and golden light falling through the windows. Behind the counter sat a wrinkled old man, painting an icon with the still-steady hands of a master.</p> <p>He looked up at them.</p> <p>“Ah! Here for, the next batch, yes? I have them ready, four of them!” He ducked down behind the desk for a moment, coming back up with a small cardboard box.</p> <p>Salah reached in and removed a palm-sized wooden pendant, three nodes smoothed and shaped to fit comfortably in the hand, with intricate engravings: bands of miniscule text wrapping around it in one continuous sentence.</p> <p>“I’m going to look around for a bit.”</p> <p>“Okay.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann wandered through the small aisles, looking over the hand-carved crucifixes and beaded rosaries and icons of the saints. To the untrained eye glancing at the shelves, they would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Closer inspection though, revealed a few oddities: Jesus was very clearly not white and significantly more torn up, the Virgin was not particularly beautiful, and Anthony and Francis were accompanied by Kerrin of the Cog and Opun the Steel-Speaker. Mary-Ann knew a whole lot of people who would be very happy to burn that out of the records. The Breaking and the Brass Gospel was a touchy subject with the canonists.</p> <p>Near the back, she came to a stop in front of one on the larger paintings. A deep green of forest was interspersed with rays of gold that pierced the leaves. An old tree by a stream, twisted from age, a mossy boulder by its gnarled roots, upon which sat a girl on the cusp of womanhood, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. She was in armor, dirty and dulled with dried blood and ash. One hand rested on the pommel of a rusting greatsword, its point buried in the soil. The other hand was curled up in her lap, useless, the skin blackened and cracked. Her face was scarred and burned, ashen grey and fleshy red, one cheek just a few strips of shriveled flesh exposing half a skull grin. What remained unharmed showed the traces of a young face, one that had had all delicacy rubbed out from it. One eye was gone: the other was green, reflecting the forest. Her hair, what hair there was left, was a dirty brown-blond, rough-shorn and short. She did not seem out of place in the forest: her expression was peaceful, at rest.</p> <p>The notecard next to the painting proclaimed, in small, delicate cursive, “<em>Il Trionfo della Vergine Joan</em>”</p> <p>“She looks a bit like you,” Salah said from behind her.</p> <p>“I guess. If you squint a bit. You’re just trying to shoehorn some symbolism in here, aren’t you?”</p> <p>“Please, what is there to shoehorn? It fits your foot quite nicely.”</p> <p>The bell tinkled. Mary-Ann paid it no mind, and continued to inspect the painting. She did have a rainy day fund, and she had to admit that she liked it. A certain wall in her apartment was obnoxiously blank, and this would definitely fill it…</p> <p>“Massive Moloch, swimmer in the concrete ocean!”</p> <p>Mary-Ann spun around, her eyes confirming what the voice had said. It was the same man. A dirty, disheveled man, with dirt in his stringy grey beard, grime in the creases of his face, tobacco-stained teeth, plastic bags taped to his patched coat. Underneath the coat, a stained t-shirt bearing a red panda with x-ed out eyes, hung by an umbilical cord.</p> <p>A tail, and with the content of the ramblings taken into consideration…</p> <p>“This guy’s ahwecky.” Mary said. “Might be ex.”</p> <p>Salah nodded. The beggar wobbled forward towards them, clearly intoxicated.</p> <p>“Munching Moloch! Crunching Moloch! Moloch in the bones and Jones!”</p> <p>Mary-Ann weighed the possibilities. He might be insane, or he might only be temporarily insane, or he might just be acting. All three were just as likely.</p> <p>“Are you going to try talking to him?” Salah said.</p> <p>“Yeah. I’ll drop him if he tries anything. Keep an eye out for friends.”</p> <p>“Right.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann looked the man in the eye. One of his was lazy.</p> <p>“Hey man. No need to turn this into trouble, right?”</p> <p>“Moloch the Mean! Moloch the Monkey!”</p> <p>“How about we find you some place to stay for the night, get a good meal. Food sound good to you?”</p> <p>“Mother Moloch! Master Moloch!”</p> <p>“Come on, man, let’s go outside.”</p> <p>“Master Moloch, Master Moloch, am I cool yet?”</p> <p>An arm lashed out. Glint. Knife. Thrust. Crazy-eyes.</p> <p>Mary-Ann knocked his knife hand to the side. Three punches: stomach, chest, nose. The man stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose. Once again to the face. He dropped to the floor.</p> <p>She picked him up by the collar.</p> <p>“Can you understand what I’m saying at all? Who are you, and what are you doing here?</p> <p>The man coughed. Blood poured from his nose, thin and black. Inklike.</p> <p>“Moloch the magnanimous. Moloch the hungry.”</p> <p>His body went black and splashed to the floor. His clothes collapsed around the puddle that sank through the tiles.</p> <p>Mary-Ann stood up, holding a ratty, filthy t-shirt in one hand.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Mary-Ann sat on her bench, holding two slices of pizza on a paper plate. Plain cheese. The sun had gone down, but with the city lights, that didn’t matter much at all.</p> <p>Next to her on the bench were two cardboard boxes, one flatter than the other. She had decided to buy the painting. People walked past the little pizzeria, cars drove past, and she watched.</p> <p>Footsteps, and then Salah was next to her. She offered him the plate, and he took a slice.</p> <p>They watched people for a time, quiet. It was a moment where there was more to be said between friends with simple silence than with words. The noise was out there, the world was out there. The bench was peace.</p> <p>A thought bubbled up in her mind, strong yet gentle. She didn’t chase it away. It had been returning ever more often of late. The hollowness was still inside her, but she had endured, like she had promised, slowly creeping from the bunker she had constructed around herself. This thought didn’t want her to be slow: it wanted her to run out the door, arms wide open to the world. Letting it hurt her. Letting it hurt her because the pain was worth the end.</p> <p>She knew the world. She’d seen what people could do. She knew it was ugly and dirty and polluted and foul and dark, and the lights were few and far between.</p> <p>It wasn’t good to face it alone. Alone, the light was too weak to face the darkness.</p> <p>"Hey, Salah, how long have we been working together?"</p> <p>"I think…let's see…ten months, I believe."</p> <p>"Feels like a lot longer."</p> <p>"It does."</p> <p>A bicyclist rode past.</p> <p>"You know, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Since the party. And there's something I've been meaning to ask you."</p> <p>Mary-Ann’s hand reached out a bit, coming to rest on top of Salah’s. What was it on his face? Surprise? Confusion?</p> <p>She threw open the door. The world waited, teeth bared, and she didn’t care.</p> <p>“Salah, will you marry me?”</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/people-look-east">People Look East</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet">The Place Where Two Rivers Meet</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-good-of-the-other">The Good of the Other</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-good-of-the-other">https://scpwiki.com/the-good-of-the-other</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > Nota Bene: It would behoove you to read [[[Shepherds]]], [[[Second Watch]]], and [[[People Look East]]] before reading this tale. //Mechanoid Moloch! Moloch the mighty maw! Gnawing Moloch! Sawing Moloch! Moloch the grinding end!// The words rang around in Mary-Ann’s head, even now, some three hours after she had heard them first. She brushed them away, but they oozed back through the cracks in her mental concrete. //Maladaptive Moloch, eater of babies!// It had just been an insane man on the side of the street. You had those in New York. She looked up at the sun. “This weather’s just crazy. We were snowed in the day before yesterday, and now it’s practically warm enough for shorts.” “Well you see, God hates homosexuals,” Salah said. “And so He is clearly manipulating the weather to rain judgment down upon us.” Mary-Ann elbowed him, laughing. “You. You are a funny person.” “So I’ve been told. Personally, that’s a load of garbage. I am a thoroughly unfunny individual. Did I ever tell you about the time I was sold a dead parrot? I went right into that pet shop and continued to be unfunny the entire time I complained.” There was the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth. The rest was in his eyes. “How do you keep a straight face when you say stuff like that?” “Years of practice.” There was the smile. They turned right, heading down an alley to cut across to the next street. Dumpster, fire escapes, trash, a puddle, graffiti. The bustle beyond seemed deafened by the plain brick and concrete: a little slice of quiet, broken by two pairs of shoes. The graffiti on the wall, a big bubblegum-pink “G”, began to squirm and they passed it. It flowed down the bricks, and about ten feet in front of the pair it bulged out from the wall and launched itself into the alleyway like a wet spitwad. It sat there for a moment before snapping into the form of a young man wearing an overcoat the same color as the paint. His hair was likewise the same shade. A cigarette dangled from his lip, unlit. “Hey hey hey, what’s all this? You’re walkin’ into BackdoorSoHo without payin’ customs? Low blow there, low blow. Man’s gotta make a living and art ain’t fillin’ the belly, y’know what I mean?” Salah dug in his pocket and removed a small silver coin and tossed it to the man. He turned it over in his fingers, squinted, bit it, and threw it back. “We cool yet?” “No.” Salah put the coin back in his pocket. “Good. Management’s been up our asses, makin’ us check everyone who comes in. Pack a’ those bastards snuck in last month and fucked around. Doesn’t help that we’re up to our ears with the Snakes and Mac-Daddies boppin’ around, much less you Choir Boys.” He shrugged. “Why the fuck am I still talkin’? Get in there.” He dropped into a pink puddle on the concrete and slid back onto the wall. In the distance, there was a slight shimmering in the air, a little momentary mirage. Mary-Ann and Salah passed through the rest of the alley and stepped out into the Backdoor. The cobblestone street was an explosion of color and light and sound. Narrow brick federal houses and cast-iron faced lofts lined the way, railed balconies jutting out into the air. Every flat surface (and most non-flat surfaces) looked to have something painted on it. The world was a mural, some parts animated, some parts layered on top of other works. Statues of metal and plastic and wood and stone stood and walked and danced: people, animals, objects, shapes and forms without any prior meaning than their own existence. The air was heavy with music: brass jazz and basswood blues and murmuring vinyl dub. Mary-Ann tried to absorb as much of the sensory assault. She had only been to the Backdoor once before, and from what she saw now, no two visits were the same. The art and atmosphere would be completely changed by next week, let alone several months later. The street was too narrow for cars, and so was filled with pedestrians, and one man riding a panda: Squads of muralists in paint-stained jeans and t-shirts, contortionist actors in peacock feather tights, dreadlocked musicians smelling of ganja and listening to the songs flow through the holes in their heads, clothing and hair and decoration in a blindingly bizarre array of flamboyant colors and patterns. A barrel-chested firebreather, his beard licked with flame, spat green deer and purple tigers from his mouth, and the fiery cats went about hunting down their prey before wisping out of existence. They continued in this way down the street before reaching a narrow brick building, unpainted, with a little green door. The wooden sign above the door proclaimed “De Luca Brothers, Artisans”. The bell tinkled as they stepped through the door. It felt like walking between worlds: there was none of the noise or color of outside. Just a quiet little shop, with clean wooden shelves and golden light falling through the windows. Behind the counter sat a wrinkled old man, painting an icon with the still-steady hands of a master. He looked up at them. “Ah! Here for, the next batch, yes? I have them ready, four of them!” He ducked down behind the desk for a moment, coming back up with a small cardboard box. Salah reached in and removed a palm-sized wooden pendant, three nodes smoothed and shaped to fit comfortably in the hand, with intricate engravings: bands of miniscule text wrapping around it in one continuous sentence. “I’m going to look around for a bit.” “Okay.” Mary-Ann wandered through the small aisles, looking over the hand-carved crucifixes and beaded rosaries and icons of the saints. To the untrained eye glancing at the shelves, they would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Closer inspection though, revealed a few oddities: Jesus was very clearly not white and significantly more torn up, the Virgin was not particularly beautiful, and Anthony and Francis were accompanied by Kerrin of the Cog and Opun the Steel-Speaker. Mary-Ann knew a whole lot of people who would be very happy to burn that out of the records. The Breaking and the Brass Gospel was a touchy subject with the canonists. Near the back, she came to a stop in front of one on the larger paintings. A deep green of forest was interspersed with rays of gold that pierced the leaves. An old tree by a stream, twisted from age, a mossy boulder by its gnarled roots, upon which sat a girl on the cusp of womanhood, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. She was in armor, dirty and dulled with dried blood and ash. One hand rested on the pommel of a rusting greatsword, its point buried in the soil. The other hand was curled up in her lap, useless, the skin blackened and cracked. Her face was scarred and burned, ashen grey and fleshy red, one cheek just a few strips of shriveled flesh exposing half a skull grin. What remained unharmed showed the traces of a young face, one that had had all delicacy rubbed out from it. One eye was gone: the other was green, reflecting the forest. Her hair, what hair there was left, was a dirty brown-blond, rough-shorn and short. She did not seem out of place in the forest: her expression was peaceful, at rest. The notecard next to the painting proclaimed, in small, delicate cursive, “//Il Trionfo della Vergine Joan//” “She looks a bit like you,” Salah said from behind her. “I guess. If you squint a bit. You’re just trying to shoehorn some symbolism in here, aren’t you?” “Please, what is there to shoehorn? It fits your foot quite nicely.” The bell tinkled. Mary-Ann paid it no mind, and continued to inspect the painting. She did have a rainy day fund, and she had to admit that she liked it. A certain wall in her apartment was obnoxiously blank, and this would definitely fill it... “Massive Moloch, swimmer in the concrete ocean!” Mary-Ann spun around, her eyes confirming what the voice had said. It was the same man. A dirty, disheveled man, with dirt in his stringy grey beard, grime in the creases of his face, tobacco-stained teeth, plastic bags taped to his patched coat. Underneath the coat, a stained t-shirt bearing a red panda with x-ed out eyes, hung by an umbilical cord. A tail, and with the content of the ramblings taken into consideration... “This guy’s ahwecky.” Mary said. “Might be ex.” Salah nodded. The beggar wobbled forward towards them, clearly intoxicated. “Munching Moloch! Crunching Moloch! Moloch in the bones and Jones!” Mary-Ann weighed the possibilities. He might be insane, or he might only be temporarily insane, or he might just be acting. All three were just as likely. “Are you going to try talking to him?” Salah said. “Yeah. I’ll drop him if he tries anything. Keep an eye out for friends.” “Right.” Mary-Ann looked the man in the eye. One of his was lazy. “Hey man. No need to turn this into trouble, right?” “Moloch the Mean! Moloch the Monkey!” “How about we find you some place to stay for the night, get a good meal. Food sound good to you?” “Mother Moloch! Master Moloch!” “Come on, man, let’s go outside.” “Master Moloch, Master Moloch, am I cool yet?” An arm lashed out. Glint. Knife. Thrust. Crazy-eyes. Mary-Ann knocked his knife hand to the side. Three punches: stomach, chest, nose. The man stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose. Once again to the face. He dropped to the floor. She picked him up by the collar. “Can you understand what I’m saying at all? Who are you, and what are you doing here? The man coughed. Blood poured from his nose, thin and black. Inklike. “Moloch the magnanimous. Moloch the hungry.” His body went black and splashed to the floor. His clothes collapsed around the puddle that sank through the tiles. Mary-Ann stood up, holding a ratty, filthy t-shirt in one hand. -- Mary-Ann sat on her bench, holding two slices of pizza on a paper plate. Plain cheese. The sun had gone down, but with the city lights, that didn’t matter much at all. Next to her on the bench were two cardboard boxes, one flatter than the other. She had decided to buy the painting. People walked past the little pizzeria, cars drove past, and she watched. Footsteps, and then Salah was next to her. She offered him the plate, and he took a slice. They watched people for a time, quiet. It was a moment where there was more to be said between friends with simple silence than with words. The noise was out there, the world was out there. The bench was peace. A thought bubbled up in her mind, strong yet gentle. She didn’t chase it away. It had been returning ever more often of late. The hollowness was still inside her, but she had endured, like she had promised, slowly creeping from the bunker she had constructed around herself. This thought didn’t want her to be slow: it wanted her to run out the door, arms wide open to the world. Letting it hurt her. Letting it hurt her because the pain was worth the end. She knew the world. She’d seen what people could do. She knew it was ugly and dirty and polluted and foul and dark, and the lights were few and far between. It wasn’t good to face it alone. Alone, the light was too weak to face the darkness. "Hey, Salah, how long have we been working together?" "I think...let's see...ten months, I believe." "Feels like a lot longer." "It does." A bicyclist rode past. "You know, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Since the party. And there's something I've been meaning to ask you." Mary-Ann’s hand reached out a bit, coming to rest on top of Salah’s. What was it on his face? Surprise? Confusion? She threw open the door. The world waited, teeth bared, and she didn’t care. “Salah, will you marry me?” [[=]] << [[[People Look East]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Place Where Two Rivers Meet]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-02T04:24:00	[ "_licensebox", "backdoor-soho", "etdp", "fantasy", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Good of the Other - SCP Foundation	109	[ "shepherds", "second-watch", "people-look-east", "etdp-hub-page", "the-place-where-two-rivers-meet", "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" ]	[]	16273411	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-good-of-the-other
the-green-prince	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <br/> The marketplace was busy, as always. Goods being heaved off of and onto ships, merchants trying to raise their voices above the clamor to peddle their wares, the various colorful trinkets being sold. All set beneath the overpowering aroma of the ocean. <p>Caleb couldn’t care less about any of it. He was just trying to get the crates of God knows what off of the boat and onto the dock without killing himself. It was hard work, but it paid well enough, especially this job. For some reason, whoever owned this cargo was paying the crew double what they normally got for a load this size. No one knew what was in them, but for that kind of money, Caleb wasn't really in the mood to ask questions.</p> <p>What Caleb did know was that whatever it was, it was heavy. It took three men working the ropes to hoist the cargo off the upper deck of the ship and down to the dock. Even then, the boxes still made a resounding thud when they hit bottom.</p> <p>The job only got harder as the sun got higher. Caleb’s hands were getting sweaty, and he was getting tired. Still, there were only two or three more crates to go. Better to finish the job now and go home early then spend more time out in the sun.</p> <p>Then, without any kind of warning, a little girl, unimpeded by the thick crowd in front of her, dashed over, past the guiding ropes and onto the docks. Before anyone could yell to her to stop, or even have the time to recognize her presence, she had tripped on a loose plank. At that exact moment, the rope holding the crate gave way.</p> <p>The next few moments were forever etched into Caleb’s memory. He heard the snap as the rope broke, and saw the little girl on her knees directly below it. He tried to call out to her, but even in that instant, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He saw the crate falling, faster and faster, getting ever closer to the girl’s head…</p> <blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>Global Occult Coalition Manifestation Priorities for Extranormal Abilities in Type-Green Entities</strong></p> </div> <br/> This document outlines the order in which abilities typically manifest in Type-Green entities. Keep in mind that while this progression is typical for Type-Greens, it may not be representative of all cases. In addition, in many cases Type-Greens may manifest multiple levels of ability simultaneously. <p><strong>Level 0: Spontaneous Defensive Behavior</strong><br/> Typically, a Type-Green entity’s first experience with his or her abilities comes unintentionally, in response to an immediate perceived threat. While the mechanism by which this reflexive action occurs is not well understood, it has been shown that increased levels of adrenaline, as well as other hormones associated with the acute stress response, can cause reality-affective powers to manifest more easily.</p> </blockquote> <p>… and then it wasn't.</p> <p>Caleb blinked. The crate was gone. There was no trace of it anywhere. No pieces of rope, no splintered wood, none of whatever was inside it. The only evidence that something had fallen was the frayed end of the rope still attached to the pulley.</p> <p>Everyone who had seen the incident froze for a moment. No one knew exactly how to process what had just happened. The poor girl kept staring up where the crate used to be, as if she was still waiting for it to come back down.</p> <p>Most people, however, hadn’t seen the crate fall. Because the crate never hit the ground, it never made any noise, so nobody really paid attention to it. The dumbstruck dock workers escorted the girl back into the crowd and gave her a lecture on how it wasn’t safe to go onto the docks when people were working.</p> <p>The human mind copes with what it doesn't understand by ignoring it. Among the people who had actually seen the incident, most chose to believe that they had somehow mis-seen what had really happened. The crate missed the girl and fell into the water. The rope never broke. The entire incident never happened.</p> <p>A select few, however, chose to remember. They knew what they had seen, and what they had seen wasn’t normal. Some of these people were later dragged from their homes in the middle of the night and made to forget. Others were smart enough to keep their heads down about it, earned the right to guard their memories, and with it, the knowledge that the world around them was not nearly as coherent as they had been led to believe.</p> <p>One person in particular, however, learned a little bit more that day. The instant they saw the crate vanished from the air, not simply moved somewhere else or made invisible, but actually removed wholly from existence, they knew that they were responsible. They did not understand how or why it had happened, but they knew for certain that they had been the cause. In that instant, as they perceived the imminent danger, they looked at the offending object. Then they looked at it in a slightly different way, and it was no more.</p> <p>Thus, Josephine, the little girl who was nearly crushed, lived. And a great power lived with her.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Level 1: Manipulation of Matter</strong><br/> After the initial discovery event, many Type-Greens will begin a phase of experimentation. Typically, abilities which involve the manipulation of matter are the first conscious abilities to manifest. These can include telekinesis (the physical manipulation of objects without applying measurable force), transmutation (the conversion of one type of matter into another type), and violation of the conservation of matter (destroying matter or bringing new matter into existence).</p> </blockquote> <p>It took some time before Josephine was again able to cause something to happen by her will alone. At first, she tried pointing at inanimate objects and ordering them around, as if the atoms contained therein were soldiers waiting for orders. When that failed, she tried making hand gestures and saying magic words. This, too, proved ineffective against the permanence of reality. She tried simply thinking very hard at an object, but the solution proved more complex.</p> <p>She reached an epiphany in the middle of the night. She awoke from a nightmare, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. She had dreamed that she was again on that dock, immobilized as the crate fell down on her in slow motion. She smelled sweet salt water, heard the waves rushing around her. She struggled desperately to move out of the crate’s way, but she felt as if her whole body were encased in concrete. Her physical body failing her, she was now forced to control her power or be crushed. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. In her mind, she saw the crate. She saw the gravity pulling it down, and the friction pulling it up. She saw the air moving across the surface of the crate, she saw the nanoscopic foam which formed the atoms which formed the molecules which formed the wood which formed the box. She saw the crate for what it was.</p> <p>And then, she saw that it was not. Influencing reality is, in the simplest possible terms, a matter of perspective.</p> <p>Many years later, Josephine returned to the dock. The waves were rolling in gently. Gently, at least, so far as other people would see it. Josephine could feel the kinetic energy in the water, the energy pushing the waves, the energies flowing in waves and particles between earth and water and sun and moon. But the salt water, the sweet smell basking in the air, she had no way to reproduce or analyze it. Deep down, it was all neural impulses, memories, particles. But some part of Josephine didn't want to analyze it. She didn't want to spoil every little magic for herself.</p> <p>Josephine told nobody about her… condition. She did it to protect herself, and her loved ones. But part of the reason was that she knew, deep down, that if anyone knew what she could do, they would try to use her for their own purposes.</p> <p>And Josephine had plans of her own.</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-green-prince">The Green Prince</a>" by giant enemy spycrab, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-green-prince">https://scpwiki.com/the-green-prince</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. 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 marketplace was busy, as always. Goods being heaved off of and onto ships, merchants trying to raise their voices above the clamor to peddle their wares, the various colorful trinkets being sold. All set beneath the overpowering aroma of the ocean. Caleb couldn’t care less about any of it. He was just trying to get the crates of God knows what off of the boat and onto the dock without killing himself. It was hard work, but it paid well enough, especially this job. For some reason, whoever owned this cargo was paying the crew double what they normally got for a load this size. No one knew what was in them, but for that kind of money, Caleb wasn't really in the mood to ask questions. What Caleb did know was that whatever it was, it was heavy. It took three men working the ropes to hoist the cargo off the upper deck of the ship and down to the dock. Even then, the boxes still made a resounding thud when they hit bottom. The job only got harder as the sun got higher. Caleb’s hands were getting sweaty, and he was getting tired. Still, there were only two or three more crates to go. Better to finish the job now and go home early then spend more time out in the sun. Then, without any kind of warning, a little girl, unimpeded by the thick crowd in front of her, dashed over, past the guiding ropes and onto the docks. Before anyone could yell to her to stop, or even have the time to recognize her presence, she had tripped on a loose plank. At that exact moment, the rope holding the crate gave way. The next few moments were forever etched into Caleb’s memory. He heard the snap as the rope broke, and saw the little girl on her knees directly below it. He tried to call out to her, but even in that instant, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He saw the crate falling, faster and faster, getting ever closer to the girl’s head... > [[=]] > Global Occult Coalition Manifestation Priorities for Extranormal Abilities in Type-Green Entities > [[/=]] > This document outlines the order in which abilities typically manifest in Type-Green entities. Keep in mind that while this progression is typical for Type-Greens, it may not be representative of all cases. In addition, in many cases Type-Greens may manifest multiple levels of ability simultaneously. > > Level 0: Spontaneous Defensive Behavior > Typically, a Type-Green entity’s first experience with his or her abilities comes unintentionally, in response to an immediate perceived threat. While the mechanism by which this reflexive action occurs is not well understood, it has been shown that increased levels of adrenaline, as well as other hormones associated with the acute stress response, can cause reality-affective powers to manifest more easily. ... and then it wasn't. Caleb blinked. The crate was gone. There was no trace of it anywhere. No pieces of rope, no splintered wood, none of whatever was inside it. The only evidence that something had fallen was the frayed end of the rope still attached to the pulley. Everyone who had seen the incident froze for a moment. No one knew exactly how to process what had just happened. The poor girl kept staring up where the crate used to be, as if she was still waiting for it to come back down. Most people, however, hadn’t seen the crate fall. Because the crate never hit the ground, it never made any noise, so nobody really paid attention to it. The dumbstruck dock workers escorted the girl back into the crowd and gave her a lecture on how it wasn’t safe to go onto the docks when people were working. The human mind copes with what it doesn't understand by ignoring it. Among the people who had actually seen the incident, most chose to believe that they had somehow mis-seen what had really happened. The crate missed the girl and fell into the water. The rope never broke. The entire incident never happened. A select few, however, chose to remember. They knew what they had seen, and what they had seen wasn’t normal. Some of these people were later dragged from their homes in the middle of the night and made to forget. Others were smart enough to keep their heads down about it, earned the right to guard their memories, and with it, the knowledge that the world around them was not nearly as coherent as they had been led to believe. One person in particular, however, learned a little bit more that day. The instant they saw the crate vanished from the air, not simply moved somewhere else or made invisible, but actually removed wholly from existence, they knew that they were responsible. They did not understand how or why it had happened, but they knew for certain that they had been the cause. In that instant, as they perceived the imminent danger, they looked at the offending object. Then they looked at it in a slightly different way, and it was no more. Thus, Josephine, the little girl who was nearly crushed, lived. And a great power lived with her. > Level 1: Manipulation of Matter > After the initial discovery event, many Type-Greens will begin a phase of experimentation. Typically, abilities which involve the manipulation of matter are the first conscious abilities to manifest. These can include telekinesis (the physical manipulation of objects without applying measurable force), transmutation (the conversion of one type of matter into another type), and violation of the conservation of matter (destroying matter or bringing new matter into existence). It took some time before Josephine was again able to cause something to happen by her will alone. At first, she tried pointing at inanimate objects and ordering them around, as if the atoms contained therein were soldiers waiting for orders. When that failed, she tried making hand gestures and saying magic words. This, too, proved ineffective against the permanence of reality. She tried simply thinking very hard at an object, but the solution proved more complex. She reached an epiphany in the middle of the night. She awoke from a nightmare, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. She had dreamed that she was again on that dock, immobilized as the crate fell down on her in slow motion. She smelled sweet salt water, heard the waves rushing around her. She struggled desperately to move out of the crate’s way, but she felt as if her whole body were encased in concrete. Her physical body failing her, she was now forced to control her power or be crushed. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. In her mind, she saw the crate. She saw the gravity pulling it down, and the friction pulling it up. She saw the air moving across the surface of the crate, she saw the nanoscopic foam which formed the atoms which formed the molecules which formed the wood which formed the box. She saw the crate for what it was. And then, she saw that it was not. Influencing reality is, in the simplest possible terms, a matter of perspective. Many years later, Josephine returned to the dock. The waves were rolling in gently. Gently, at least, so far as other people would see it. Josephine could feel the kinetic energy in the water, the energy pushing the waves, the energies flowing in waves and particles between earth and water and sun and moon. But the salt water, the sweet smell basking in the air, she had no way to reproduce or analyze it. Deep down, it was all neural impulses, memories, particles. But some part of Josephine didn't want to analyze it. She didn't want to spoil every little magic for herself. Josephine told nobody about her... condition. She did it to protect herself, and her loved ones. But part of the reason was that she knew, deep down, that if anyone knew what she could do, they would try to use her for their own purposes. And Josephine had plans of her own. [[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>]]	2013-01-25T16:49:00	[ "_licensebox", "fantasy", "featured", "green-king", "nyc2013", "tale", "worldbuilding" ]	The Green Prince - SCP Foundation	177	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "featured-tale-archive", "codename-green-king-hub" ]	[]	16202738	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-green-prince
the-horizon-blues	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>At the start of each day, place a new patch on a part of your body between the neck and the waist. Put the patch on a new spot each day to lessen skin irritation. Do not use for a period longer than eight weeks. In case of mild rash, remove patch and relocated it. In case of a more severe rash, consult your family doctor.</em></p> <p>Henry DeMontfort sighed, removed the protective film from the large nicotine patch, and applied it to his left bicep. He didn't dare to expect the relaxing rush that came with his cigarettes, and indeed, the only sensation the patch provided was a slight but noticeable itch. He leaned back on his hard-backed chair with a grunt, and slowly rubbed his temples. His headache was coming back.</p> <p>"Sir? You have a visitor."</p> <p>Looking up, DeMontfort was met with the visage of Lieutenant Hammersmith, his second-in-command. The young man's face bore their usual stoic expression, slightly twisted around the huge, jagged scar that dominated his right cheek.</p> <p>"I do not wish to be disturbed, Lieutenant. Tell them to come back in an hour." A sudden throb in his head made DeMontfort winch. "In fact, tell them to come back tomorrow."</p> <p>"It's Salah Zairi, sir," said Hammersmith in that unsettling soft voice of his. "He says you'll see him."</p> <p>Salah. The name invoked many conflicting emotions in DeMontfort, and memories. The snarl of the vicious young man he first met more than twenty-five years prior, the tempered steel of the man the Initiative made of him. The infuriately patient tone he always used during their long theological debates and his hard grip on DeMontfort’s shoulder as he pulled him away from a burning inferno DeMontfort had every intention of leaping into. The harsh words that passed between them since, and the harsher deeds both men committed in the name of their faith.</p> <p>DeMontfort really couldn't deal with the man now, not the way things were going. The last three months have been absolutely catastrophic for Project Malleus and for DeMontfort's personal position in the Horizon Initiative as well. A combination of tactical blunders, acts of zeal that bordered on lunacy on the part of some of his subordinates, and some rather poor choices of his own left Project Malleus hanging on the brink, and the last thing he needed was Salah's recrimination on top of all that. Still, he and the man had too much history for DeMontfort to refuse to meet him, a fact Salah apparently knew perfectly well.</p> <p>"Let him in."</p> <p>The lieutenant nodded and left, returning moments later with a dark, sharply featured man, maybe ten years DeMontfort's junior. A familiar face, yet also that of a stranger. DeMontfort rose from his seat, and offered the man his hand. After hesitating a moment, Salah took it.</p> <p>"Salah."</p> <p>"DeMontfort."</p> <p>Despite expecting this, the coldness in the man's voice stung.</p> <p>"Please, have a seat. I'm sure it's been quite the drive here."</p> <p>"Thank you, I'll stand."</p> <p>"Suit yourself, I suppose."</p> <p>DeMontfort sank back into his seat, absent-mindedly scratching at his nicotine patch. He really needed a smoke. Salah stood glaring at him from across his desk, apparently satisfied in letting him guess the reason for his unexpected visit. Sadly, DeMontfort had no trouble figuring that out.</p> <p>"This is about that clock-idol of yours, isn't it?"</p> <p>Abruptly, Salah's cool expression melted away, and became distorted with rage. "It was so much more than that, Henry!" A pained look flashed over the younger man's face, and he sank down to the seat opposite DeMontfort, as if suddenly exhausted.</p> <p>"It could have… it could have saved us. It was divine, Henry, I heard its voice. His Voice."</p> <p>"That's blasphemy, Salah. You of all people should know better."</p> <p>"You weren't there, Henry. You didn't hear it. This was no machinist idol. It could have told us so much." With that, a spark of his former anger rekindled in Salah's eyes. "And thanks to your men, no one will hear it ever again."</p> <p>DeMontfort looked at the man's hard-lined face, and found that he didn't have much to say to that. Rashid and his men did indeed break protocol in destroying the idol when they did. Project Malleus never got a proper chance to examine it before deciding its fate, and it was this sort of rash action that led them to the sordid position they were in now in the first place. He could never admit that to Salah, of course. "What do you want me to say, Salah?"</p> <p>"That you won't let something this like happen again! That you put a leash on those mad dogs you call operatives! Forget the Voice, Henry, There were women, children and elderly there. There was a time when the mere thought of doing something like that would have appalled you, and now you and your Wolves are practically experts in it. What happened to you, Henry?"</p> <p>This time, it was DeMontfort's turn to feel anger bubbling up his throat like liquid lead. "You know very well what happened, Salah. You were there."</p> <p>Salah turned his eyes away. "This has to stop, Henry. For your sake, if not for the Initiative’s. You're losing yourself, and you'll take us all with you."</p> <p>The pain in DeMontfort head returned, and it brought friends. He could have dismissed Salah then and there, act like everything was business as usual, but he knew that the time for that has passed. So, he decided on an unusual tactic for him these last few years. Total honesty.</p> <p>"The last few months have been bad, Salah. My men and I did some things that shouldn't have been done. I know you and I had our differences when it came to the way the Initiative runs its business, but even you have to admit our occasional ruthlessness was vital to its survival. And up until the last few months, I had never once doubted that what we were doing was right, that it was God's work. Something changed in us, Salah. Something broke." It felt strangely liberating to finally admit it, not only to Salah, but to himself.</p> <p>"Then do something about it, Henry. It's not too late."</p> <p>"I will. I have taken measures, Salah, and some things are going to change around here. I suspect I'm not the only one who'll make sure of that."</p> <p>"The Tribunal?"</p> <p>DeMontfort grimaced. "Pack of elderly vultures that they are."</p> <p>"You know that's not fair. What happened wasn't their fault. Wasn't yours either."</p> <p>DeMontfort dismissed this with a wave. "Regardless, it will be taken care of, Salah, you have my word. I owe you this much, at least. I owe them that much, certainly."</p> <p>For the first time since he entered, there was a hint of a smile in Salah's expression. "You almost sound like your old self, Henry."</p> <p>"Bah, I hope not. I couldn't stand being that miserable fop again. It was bad enough being him once. There was one other thing I wanted to talk to you about while you're here-"</p> <p>DeMontort was interrupted by the sound of Salah's cellphone, which DeMontfort was surprised to hear had Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture as its ring tone. He was about to made a snide comment about it, when he saw Salah going deathly pale. "What happened, Salah? Was that the Tribunal? Cult uprising? Is it the Children again? Answer me, man!"</p> <p>"Mary-Ann… she went into labor…" with a flash of realization, Salah grabbed his coat and almost tripped over the chair in his haste to make it to the door.</p> <p>"Salah, hold a second!"</p> <p>Salah did stop, though obviously only with a great reluctance. "Whatever Initiative business you want to discuss, Henry, it will have to wait. I'm not going to-"</p> <p>"It's not that. Just give me a moment."</p> <p>DeMontfort rummaged around in his desk drawer and after a short search produced two items, which he handed to Salah. One was an old leather-bound copy of Erasmus of Rotterdam's <em>Education of a Christian Prince</em>. The other was a bright blue stuffed rabbit.</p> <p>"For Mary-Ann and the baby. I'm sorry I missed the wedding, Salah. You know how those things are."</p> <p>Salah nodded, gave DeMontfort a quick pat on the shoulder, and bolted out, rabbit and book tucked under his armpit. DeMontfort shook his head, scratched at his arm again and, after a short argument with himself, removed the nicotine patch. Instead, he drew a cigarette from his sliver case and lit it, savoring the small rush of relaxation it offered, before sitting back down at his desk.</p> <p>There was work to be done.<br/></p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/tolerance">Tolerance</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-man-comes-around">The Man Comes Around</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-horizon-blues">The Horizon Blues</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-horizon-blues">https://scpwiki.com/the-horizon-blues</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //At the start of each day, place a new patch on a part of your body between the neck and the waist. Put the patch on a new spot each day to lessen skin irritation. Do not use for a period longer than eight weeks. In case of mild rash, remove patch and relocated it. In case of a more severe rash, consult your family doctor.// Henry DeMontfort sighed, removed the protective film from the large nicotine patch, and applied it to his left bicep. He didn't dare to expect the relaxing rush that came with his cigarettes, and indeed, the only sensation the patch provided was a slight but noticeable itch. He leaned back on his hard-backed chair with a grunt, and slowly rubbed his temples. His headache was coming back. "Sir? You have a visitor." Looking up, DeMontfort was met with the visage of Lieutenant Hammersmith, his second-in-command. The young man's face bore their usual stoic expression, slightly twisted around the huge, jagged scar that dominated his right cheek. "I do not wish to be disturbed, Lieutenant. Tell them to come back in an hour." A sudden throb in his head made DeMontfort winch. "In fact, tell them to come back tomorrow." "It's Salah Zairi, sir," said Hammersmith in that unsettling soft voice of his. "He says you'll see him." Salah. The name invoked many conflicting emotions in DeMontfort, and memories. The snarl of the vicious young man he first met more than twenty-five years prior, the tempered steel of the man the Initiative made of him. The infuriately patient tone he always used during their long theological debates and his hard grip on DeMontfort’s shoulder as he pulled him away from a burning inferno DeMontfort had every intention of leaping into. The harsh words that passed between them since, and the harsher deeds both men committed in the name of their faith. DeMontfort really couldn't deal with the man now, not the way things were going. The last three months have been absolutely catastrophic for Project Malleus and for DeMontfort's personal position in the Horizon Initiative as well. A combination of tactical blunders, acts of zeal that bordered on lunacy on the part of some of his subordinates, and some rather poor choices of his own left Project Malleus hanging on the brink, and the last thing he needed was Salah's recrimination on top of all that. Still, he and the man had too much history for DeMontfort to refuse to meet him, a fact Salah apparently knew perfectly well. "Let him in." The lieutenant nodded and left, returning moments later with a dark, sharply featured man, maybe ten years DeMontfort's junior. A familiar face, yet also that of a stranger. DeMontfort rose from his seat, and offered the man his hand. After hesitating a moment, Salah took it. "Salah." "DeMontfort." Despite expecting this, the coldness in the man's voice stung. "Please, have a seat. I'm sure it's been quite the drive here." "Thank you, I'll stand." "Suit yourself, I suppose." DeMontfort sank back into his seat, absent-mindedly scratching at his nicotine patch. He really needed a smoke. Salah stood glaring at him from across his desk, apparently satisfied in letting him guess the reason for his unexpected visit. Sadly, DeMontfort had no trouble figuring that out. "This is about that clock-idol of yours, isn't it?" Abruptly, Salah's cool expression melted away, and became distorted with rage. "It was so much more than that, Henry!" A pained look flashed over the younger man's face, and he sank down to the seat opposite DeMontfort, as if suddenly exhausted. "It could have... it could have saved us. It was divine, Henry, I heard its voice. His Voice." "That's blasphemy, Salah. You of all people should know better." "You weren't there, Henry. You didn't hear it. This was no machinist idol. It could have told us so much." With that, a spark of his former anger rekindled in Salah's eyes. "And thanks to your men, no one will hear it ever again." DeMontfort looked at the man's hard-lined face, and found that he didn't have much to say to that. Rashid and his men did indeed break protocol in destroying the idol when they did. Project Malleus never got a proper chance to examine it before deciding its fate, and it was this sort of rash action that led them to the sordid position they were in now in the first place. He could never admit that to Salah, of course. "What do you want me to say, Salah?" "That you won't let something this like happen again! That you put a leash on those mad dogs you call operatives! Forget the Voice, Henry, There were women, children and elderly there. There was a time when the mere thought of doing something like that would have appalled you, and now you and your Wolves are practically experts in it. What happened to you, Henry?" This time, it was DeMontfort's turn to feel anger bubbling up his throat like liquid lead. "You know very well what happened, Salah. You were there." Salah turned his eyes away. "This has to stop, Henry. For your sake, if not for the Initiative’s. You're losing yourself, and you'll take us all with you." The pain in DeMontfort head returned, and it brought friends. He could have dismissed Salah then and there, act like everything was business as usual, but he knew that the time for that has passed. So, he decided on an unusual tactic for him these last few years. Total honesty. "The last few months have been bad, Salah. My men and I did some things that shouldn't have been done. I know you and I had our differences when it came to the way the Initiative runs its business, but even you have to admit our occasional ruthlessness was vital to its survival. And up until the last few months, I had never once doubted that what we were doing was right, that it was God's work. Something changed in us, Salah. Something broke." It felt strangely liberating to finally admit it, not only to Salah, but to himself. "Then do something about it, Henry. It's not too late." "I will. I have taken measures, Salah, and some things are going to change around here. I suspect I'm not the only one who'll make sure of that." "The Tribunal?" DeMontfort grimaced. "Pack of elderly vultures that they are." "You know that's not fair. What happened wasn't their fault. Wasn't yours either." DeMontfort dismissed this with a wave. "Regardless, it will be taken care of, Salah, you have my word. I owe you this much, at least. I owe them that much, certainly." For the first time since he entered, there was a hint of a smile in Salah's expression. "You almost sound like your old self, Henry." "Bah, I hope not. I couldn't stand being that miserable fop again. It was bad enough being him once. There was one other thing I wanted to talk to you about while you're here-" DeMontort was interrupted by the sound of Salah's cellphone, which DeMontfort was surprised to hear had Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture as its ring tone. He was about to made a snide comment about it, when he saw Salah going deathly pale. "What happened, Salah? Was that the Tribunal? Cult uprising? Is it the Children again? Answer me, man!" "Mary-Ann... she went into labor..." with a flash of realization, Salah grabbed his coat and almost tripped over the chair in his haste to make it to the door. "Salah, hold a second!" Salah did stop, though obviously only with a great reluctance. "Whatever Initiative business you want to discuss, Henry, it will have to wait. I'm not going to-" "It's not that. Just give me a moment." DeMontfort rummaged around in his desk drawer and after a short search produced two items, which he handed to Salah. One was an old leather-bound copy of Erasmus of Rotterdam's //Education of a Christian Prince//. The other was a bright blue stuffed rabbit. "For Mary-Ann and the baby. I'm sorry I missed the wedding, Salah. You know how those things are." Salah nodded, gave DeMontfort a quick pat on the shoulder, and bolted out, rabbit and book tucked under his armpit. DeMontfort shook his head, scratched at his arm again and, after a short argument with himself, removed the nicotine patch. Instead, he drew a cigarette from his sliver case and lit it, savoring the small rush of relaxation it offered, before sitting back down at his desk. There was work to be done. [[=]] << [[[Tolerance]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[The Man Comes Around]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-03-27T23:23:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	The Horizon Blues - SCP Foundation	42	[ "tolerance", "etdp-hub-page", "the-man-comes-around", "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" ]	[]	16999144	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-horizon-blues
the-killer	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>The sun, at last. How long had it been? Yellow and weak though the sun was, it gazed up at the star with pleasure, letting the light fill its eyes.</p> <p>Only one actually saw, of course. That had been the first real hint that something was wrong. Eyes were complicated, so many tissues working together, so easily upset if one layer grew back wrong.</p> <p>The sun, the wind, the barren dirt beneath its feet. Simple pleasures to replace others that had been lost; even the recollection of forgetting was passed. Long ago it had broken free, time and again, walking the world to—Conquer? Destroy? Spawn? There was no longer any way of knowing.</p> <p>Its feet tugged at the ground, pulling the boiling body along. Tissues writhed upon its skeleton as they grew—there was never any problem growing, never that, but now cells fused and squirmed in a riot of biological agony. Deep inside was the heart, the gate to <em>elsewhere</em> bringing in life and information to stave off entropy… The flow was now a mere trickle, choked over long years with cancerous growths.</p> <p>A shudder and it collapsed. Cold knowledge filtered through the body; the end was approaching. Now would be the time for <em>them</em> to strike. It raised its head.</p> <p>They stood in a circle, silent. Today they had no slug-throwers, or combustibles, or electron-strippers or rampaging protons. It looked at them, looked through them, in all the ways it knew to look.</p> <p>One stepped forward, one jailer, executioner. Not a single figure, though; to higher senses it was intertwined with the rest, personal fate merged with the organization. The figure's temporal self was a mere offshoot of the ultimate self-organizing prison.</p> <p>"The Foundation," it rasped.</p> <p>The figure was hesitant. "Yes?" The being shone with centuries of survival and devotion. Devotion to an ideal, a concept that had conquered what even it could not stand against.</p> <p>It chuckled. "You're… still… disgusting…"</p> <p>The reptilian head slumped to the ground.</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-killer">The Killer</a>" by Chaoseed, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-killer">https://scpwiki.com/the-killer</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] The sun, at last. How long had it been? Yellow and weak though the sun was, it gazed up at the star with pleasure, letting the light fill its eyes. Only one actually saw, of course. That had been the first real hint that something was wrong. Eyes were complicated, so many tissues working together, so easily upset if one layer grew back wrong. The sun, the wind, the barren dirt beneath its feet. Simple pleasures to replace others that had been lost; even the recollection of forgetting was passed. Long ago it had broken free, time and again, walking the world to—Conquer? Destroy? Spawn? There was no longer any way of knowing. Its feet tugged at the ground, pulling the boiling body along. Tissues writhed upon its skeleton as they grew—there was never any problem growing, never that, but now cells fused and squirmed in a riot of biological agony. Deep inside was the heart, the gate to //elsewhere// bringing in life and information to stave off entropy... The flow was now a mere trickle, choked over long years with cancerous growths. A shudder and it collapsed. Cold knowledge filtered through the body; the end was approaching. Now would be the time for //them// to strike. It raised its head. They stood in a circle, silent. Today they had no slug-throwers, or combustibles, or electron-strippers or rampaging protons. It looked at them, looked through them, in all the ways it knew to look. One stepped forward, one jailer, executioner. Not a single figure, though; to higher senses it was intertwined with the rest, personal fate merged with the organization. The figure's temporal self was a mere offshoot of the ultimate self-organizing prison. "The Foundation," it rasped. The figure was hesitant. "Yes?" The being shone with centuries of survival and devotion. Devotion to an ideal, a concept that had conquered what even it could not stand against. It chuckled. "You're... still... disgusting..." The reptilian head slumped to the ground. [[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>]]	2013-08-29T23:51:00	[ "_licensebox", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "tale", "tc2013", "xenofiction" ]	The Killer - 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" ]	[]	19570734	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-killer
the-lonely-road	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p><em>Whether one passes on or remains is all the same.</em><br/> <em>That you can take no one with you is the only difference.</em><br/> <em>-From the death poem of Tokugawa Ieyasu</em></p> <p>Another world, another life, another name. I like this planet so far. It sounds very different from when Mather visited it. Now the dominant life forms are bipeds with a bilateral symmetry. And they only have two genders! That’s so cute! I've settled in a quiet little metropolis. My job is not exactly illegal here, and it's not regulated either. Cool! It will be easier to stay unnoticed. But the weather sucks.</p> <hr/> <p>I'm making friends with a few other workers. Such nice people. Life is lonely sometimes, wandering across the galaxy. I wish there was a way to have friends that I would not have to leave. Nancy brought me to what they call a Costume Party and everyone complimented me, although I'm not sure why. Nancy is trying to convince me to use their strange technology to meet gentlemen. It would be easier, safer. She told me to just use fake pictures; a lot of the more homely ladies do that all the time. I told her trickery is against my nature. I'm honest and I give a genuine service. People can feel that and that's one reason why they love me. Doing the negotiations in public places is more risky here and I have to be extra careful not to attract attention, but it's soooo much more fun. I love the direct approach; to see the struggle between doubt and desire on their face, and to finally win them over. Like tonight's john. Poor baby had never been with a woman. Well, he still hasn't of course. Anyway, most of the people here have never seen real tentacles before. It's like a first time for all of them.</p> <hr/> <p>They rarely come with me more than once and it's all for the best. Except for that funny little old guy, Dweing or something. I can never get his name right. Most customers need a bit of convincing, but not him. He seems to have a fascination with what local people would consider bizarre. He said he finds something interestingly arborescent about my figure; my slender ramified tentacles, my elegant copse of antlers. A weirdo, but a harmless one. He always takes two hours and spends most of his time chatting and talking about stuff. ''Lecturing'' would be more accurate. I'm not sure what he's doing now for a living, but he must have been a teacher or something. When he paid me the first time, he opened his old wallet and pulled out some leafs of Zoon Mandragora, my favorites, still fresh and juicy with warm blood. I was not yet familiar with their local currency, and it was a while before I learned that this is not usual behavior. Speaking of money, they have someone that looks a bit like me on one of their coins, and when I ask people who it is they just laugh like they think I'm joking.</p> <hr/> <p>I could never stand the greedy lovers who don't understand when their time is over. I've learned much from Dweyn and now I can better express what I only understood intuitively before. Nothing lasts forever. The sooner we see the beauty of that truth, the happier we are. People think true love must last a lifetime, but eventually everything is forgotten. That doesn't mean it's worthless. What does it matter if passion lasts for 2 years, for 2 to the power 1972 years, or just for an hour of 50 minutes? Every new lover is a rebirth. The previous ones forgotten, but still a part of you; another dream in our eternal transmigrations. We don't measure the value of a life by its length; why should we measure the worth of a relationship by how long it lasts? Of course, things are never so simple. There are other practical considerations.</p> <hr/> <p>Some policemen came to see me concerning a complaint from the neighbors. I guess they had no idea how they would write their report, so they just gave me a warning. It's so easy to manipulate these Humans by pretending to be an empty-headed floozie. The law enforcers here are especially laid back compared to others I know. I'm not worried about them, but I'm starting to attract too much attention. Time to move on again soon (and just when the weather was starting to warm up!) Who knows how all this will end? The vagaries of Fortune are irrelevant; there is only the Way. One peak, with a thousand paths leading up to it. Some people make flower arrangements, some people practice carpentry. Like Dwaeng thought me, ''we all shape the same energy to improve ourselves and make the world a more beautiful place in any way we can''. I have an idea that will improve people's lives here a little. Maybe it will compensate for some of my past mistakes. ''Put yourself into it. Work hard and you will get results.'' I won't have time to finish that project before moving on, but Nancy can take care of the rest. She knows some people in the fashion industry.</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-lonely-road">The Lonely Road</a>" by Dr Cuddles, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-lonely-road">https://scpwiki.com/the-lonely-road</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] //Whether one passes on or remains is all the same.// //That you can take no one with you is the only difference.// //-From the death poem of Tokugawa Ieyasu// Another world, another life, another name. I like this planet so far. It sounds very different from when Mather visited it. Now the dominant life forms are bipeds with a bilateral symmetry. And they only have two genders! That’s so cute! I've settled in a quiet little metropolis. My job is not exactly illegal here, and it's not regulated either. Cool! It will be easier to stay unnoticed. But the weather sucks. ----- I'm making friends with a few other workers. Such nice people. Life is lonely sometimes, wandering across the galaxy. I wish there was a way to have friends that I would not have to leave. Nancy brought me to what they call a Costume Party and everyone complimented me, although I'm not sure why. Nancy is trying to convince me to use their strange technology to meet gentlemen. It would be easier, safer. She told me to just use fake pictures; a lot of the more homely ladies do that all the time. I told her trickery is against my nature. I'm honest and I give a genuine service. People can feel that and that's one reason why they love me. Doing the negotiations in public places is more risky here and I have to be extra careful not to attract attention, but it's soooo much more fun. I love the direct approach; to see the struggle between doubt and desire on their face, and to finally win them over. Like tonight's john. Poor baby had never been with a woman. Well, he still hasn't of course. Anyway, most of the people here have never seen real tentacles before. It's like a first time for all of them. ----- They rarely come with me more than once and it's all for the best. Except for that funny little old guy, Dweing or something. I can never get his name right. Most customers need a bit of convincing, but not him. He seems to have a fascination with what local people would consider bizarre. He said he finds something interestingly arborescent about my figure; my slender ramified tentacles, my elegant copse of antlers. A weirdo, but a harmless one. He always takes two hours and spends most of his time chatting and talking about stuff. ''Lecturing'' would be more accurate. I'm not sure what he's doing now for a living, but he must have been a teacher or something. When he paid me the first time, he opened his old wallet and pulled out some leafs of Zoon Mandragora, my favorites, still fresh and juicy with warm blood. I was not yet familiar with their local currency, and it was a while before I learned that this is not usual behavior. Speaking of money, they have someone that looks a bit like me on one of their coins, and when I ask people who it is they just laugh like they think I'm joking. ---- I could never stand the greedy lovers who don't understand when their time is over. I've learned much from Dweyn and now I can better express what I only understood intuitively before. Nothing lasts forever. The sooner we see the beauty of that truth, the happier we are. People think true love must last a lifetime, but eventually everything is forgotten. That doesn't mean it's worthless. What does it matter if passion lasts for 2 years, for 2 to the power 1972 years, or just for an hour of 50 minutes? Every new lover is a rebirth. The previous ones forgotten, but still a part of you; another dream in our eternal transmigrations. We don't measure the value of a life by its length; why should we measure the worth of a relationship by how long it lasts? Of course, things are never so simple. There are other practical considerations. ----- Some policemen came to see me concerning a complaint from the neighbors. I guess they had no idea how they would write their report, so they just gave me a warning. It's so easy to manipulate these Humans by pretending to be an empty-headed floozie. The law enforcers here are especially laid back compared to others I know. I'm not worried about them, but I'm starting to attract too much attention. Time to move on again soon (and just when the weather was starting to warm up!) Who knows how all this will end? The vagaries of Fortune are irrelevant; there is only the Way. One peak, with a thousand paths leading up to it. Some people make flower arrangements, some people practice carpentry. Like Dwaeng thought me, ''we all shape the same energy to improve ourselves and make the world a more beautiful place in any way we can''. I have an idea that will improve people's lives here a little. Maybe it will compensate for some of my past mistakes. ''Put yourself into it. Work hard and you will get results.'' I won't have time to finish that project before moving on, but Nancy can take care of the rest. She knows some people in the fashion industry. [[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>]]	2013-08-23T21:56:00	[ "_licensebox", "tale" ]	The Lonely Road - SCP Foundation	17	[ "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" ]	[]	19384638	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-lonely-road
the-man-comes-around	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>"-Effective immediately. Until a suitable replacement can be appointed, Lieutenant Hammersmith will serve as the interim Director of Project Malleus, under our direct supervision."</p> <p>"You could have at least had the decency of firing me face to face, Samuel."</p> <p>"You're not fired, Henry, merely suspended. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. You brought this on yourself, you know. I warned you."</p> <p>"Yes… I suppose you did."</p> <p>"All Project Malleus controlled artifacts are to be transferred to the Shepherd Corps until we decide what to do with you. And I do mean all of them. Do I make myself clear, Henry?"</p> <p>"Crystal."</p> <p>"Good. We'll discuss this further once I land. Don't do anything stupid, you hear?"</p> <p>"Come now, when did I ever do anything like that?"</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Two Weeks Prior</strong></p> <p>“Left. Left. I said left, for heaven’s sake, left!”</p> <p>“Yeah, Raymond, I got it.”</p> <p>“You’re still going right, Brickjaw! I told you left! The map says left!”</p> <p>“I thought I told you not to call me that, Raymond.”</p> <p>“And I thought I told you to go left, yet our trajectory remains decidedly right-bound!”</p> <p>“My way is faster.”</p> <p>“How on earth would you know that? You’ve never been here before!”</p> <p>“It’s my sense of direction, it’s perfect.”</p> <p>“Oh you bloody…”</p> <p>Henry DeMontfort rubbed his temples for the fourth time in ten minutes, and groaned as his subordinates continued to bicker from the front seat. This has been a long, long drive. He reached for his pocket, searching for his electronic cigarette, when the tiny rented Fiat swerved suddenly and knocked the plastic tube from his hand and out the opened window. Barely holding back a curse, he turned to Lieutenant Levit, who was driving, his enormous hands almost completely encompassing the steering wheel.</p> <p>“Lieutenant, what was that?”</p> <p>“Sheep, Sir.”</p> <p>“…Sheep?”</p> <p>“Yes Sir, sheep on the road.”</p> <p>“Why was there a sheep on the road?” This was asked by Operative Raymond of Baskerville, a fairly recent addition to Project Malleus, transferred on his request from the Shepherd Corps. Wet around the ears, but certainly not lacking in enthusiasm.</p> <p>“How should I know?”</p> <p>“Didn't you use to herd sheep, Brickjaw?”</p> <p>The huge, rough-featured man rubbed his face with both hands, leaving Raymond to desperately grab the wheel as the car zigzagged on the narrow dirt road. “I herded goats, Raymond, not sheep. Entirely different. And don’t call me that.“</p> <p>DeMontfort leaned back in his seat, sighing. Lieutenant Levit was usually as trustworthy and capable a man as anyone could wish for, but driving…. Well, driving wasn't one of his strong suits. The only reason he was at the wheel at all was because Raymond couldn't drive, and DeMontfort was too exhausted to trust himself at the task.</p> <p>“What’s so different about goats? They’re just uglier sheep.”</p> <p>“Goats are smart. A sheep goes where you tell it to; a goat goes where it wants.”</p> <p>“Looks like this sheep didn’t get the memo, because I certainly didn't tell it to stand in the middle of the road.”</p> <p>“Good one.”</p> <p>It was getting dark, and DeMontfort began worrying they wouldn't be able to find the school before nightfall. The South Italian countryside was almost completely bereft of proper road marks, and the hilly terrain was very difficult to get one’s bearing in. DeMontfort began to doze, but jerked into wakefulness again as Levit swerved the car once more, this time to avoid hitting a pack of wandering wild fowl. Levit slammed on the brakes. Wheels screaming in protest, the Fiat veered sharply to the left, smashing into roadside shrubbery until finally coming to a stop when it struck a wooden signpost, which slowly toppled until finally hitting the ground with a loud crash. Groaning, and his head hurting even worse than before, DeMontfort struggled to open the passenger door, which proved to be stuck. After a few futile attempts at hitting it with his shoulder, he was unceremoniously pulled out through the window by Levit. Raymond was inspecting the damage.</p> <p>"Well, we ain't going any further with this one, that's for sure. Nice going, Brickjaw."</p> <p>"S'not my fault. Couldn't well hit that chicken, now could I?"</p> <p>"Better it than us, surely?"</p> <p>"I dunno, I can't really think of any advantage you have over a good bird, Ray."</p> <p>Raymond opened his mouth to reply, when the expression on DeMontfort's face made him close it again. In his time in Project Malleus Raymond heard many horror stories, and witnessed a few himself, but nothing scared him nearly as much as the look. Hell hath no fury like that of a jet-lagged, pissed off nicotine addict on withdrawal. He was about to apologize, when Levit nearly brained him while attempting to straighten the fallen signpost. Apology forgotten, he turned to give the huge man a piece of his mind, when he noticed what was written on the sign. It seemed DeMontfort noticed as well, as his sharp face showed an emotion other than annoyance for the first time in days.</p> <p>"Looks like we're here."</p> <p>"See, Brickjaw, I told you it was to the left!"</p> <p>"Shut up, Raymond."</p> <p>"Both of you shut up. Raymond, run ahead to let them know we're here. Lieutenant, get the crate from the car, we'll be taking it with us."</p> <p>Raymond nodded and began tracking up the dirt road the broken sign was pointing to. Levit watched him go, then turned and lifted the crate on one shoulder.</p> <p>"What's in there anyway, chief?"</p> <p>"A few items that might prove useful sometime in the future, nothing major."</p> <p>"S'pretty heavy for something not major."</p> <p>DeMontfort gave Levit a pointed look, then the two started after Raymond, their backs to the golden rays of the setting sun. "Well, that's what I have you for."</p> <hr/> <p>"Huh. Not quite what I was expecting, chief."</p> <p>"I said it was a school, Lieutenant."</p> <p>"Well, yeah, but you never mentioned it was so…er…"</p> <p>"Feminine?"</p> <p>"That's one word for it."</p> <p>As the two men were strolled into the school's foyer, their eyes were assaulted with a veritable barrage of all things fluffy, pink, and above all, girly. Levit almost dropped his crate on his toes as a group of schoolgirls, no older than eight, began circling around him like an inquisitive pack of giggling piranhas. They were gone a moment later, scampering down an adjacent corridor now pursued by a haggard looking nun.</p> <p>"I thought this was suppose to be a Catholic school."</p> <p>"Unless that was a particular tired penguin, Lieutenant, I'd hazard the guess that it is."</p> <p>"But it's so…cheerful. I thought these sort of places were all iron discipline and rulers."</p> <p>"The Mother Superior of the school has a different approach to education. Rulers don't feature very heavily. Or any sort of discipline, for that matter."</p> <p>Walking beneath a severe depiction of Jesus on the cross which seemed rather out of place amidst the crayon drawings and floral arrangements which surrounded it, the two man spotted a bemused-looking Brother Raymond, holding what appeared to be a large slice of chocolate cake. Seeing them, Raymond tried to wave, forgot that he was holding the cake, and dropped it on his shoes.</p> <p>"Sir, Mother Superior says she'll see you in the garden, if you'd be so kind as to meet her there."</p> <p>"Is that what she said?"</p> <p>"Er, not in so many words."</p> <p>"And in so many words?"</p> <p>"Um. 'I'm having my smoke. If the pup wants to yap at me, he can damn well find me himself.' Unusual language for a nun, if I can so bold as to comment. She did give me this cake though."</p> <p>To Raymond's surprise, the Director smiled at that. "Very good. Raymond, take Levit and find the wine cellar. I want that crate stored there. After that, busy yourself until I return. I shouldn't be long. Oh, and clean your boots."</p> <p>"A wine cellar in a Catholic school, Sir?"</p> <p>"Don't you doubt it."</p> <hr/> <p>DeMontfort replaced the handle of his old dial phone and shivered. He'd been expecting this day for months now, but that didn't make its arrival any easier to bear. More than thirteen years of work, all gone in a moment, and the worst part was, he didn't have anyone to blame for it but himself. He'd let zeal conquer his better judgment, and now came the time to pay the price. Rising from his high-backed chair, he strode to the narrow window of what would soon no longer be his office. An early summer's thunderstorm has recently passed, and the city was washed with the soft, golden light. It smelt of rain.</p> <hr/> <p>"Good afternoon, Mother Superior."</p> <p>DeMontfort was standing in a shaded corner of the school's wide, well-kept gardens. In front of him, sitting at the base of an old olive tree, was a woman that made the tree seem young. Her face was a leathery deep-farrowed map of wrinkles, laugh lines and scars, made all the more obvious by the huge grin on them.</p> <p>"Why, looky here. If it isn't little Henry the pup. Nice of you to take a break from your busy burning schedule just to see your old gran."</p> <p>"That would have made more sense if you were my grandmother."</p> <p>"Well I can hardly be that, can I? I'm a bloody nun! Daft boy."</p> <p>Looking around to see no one else was around, DeMontfort shimmied down to sit next to the old woman. "I missed you, Mother Ursula."</p> <p>"Aye, I know you have. It's good to see you, my boy. Even if you are an idiot."</p> <p>"Not enough of one to come without tribute." Searching through his pockets, DeMontfort pulled a neatly rolled cigar, relieved to see it survived the journey intact.</p> <p>"Ah, you did always know how to woo a lady. Gimme." Lighting it, the old woman gave the cigar a contented puff, then settled down further between the tree's gnarled roots. "So, what's your angle?"</p> <p>"Can't a man pay an innocent visit to his favorite," he searched for a word, "old mentor?"</p> <p>"A man can. Henry 'the Weasel' DeMontfort can't. And don't call me old, I'm just seasoned."</p> <p>"Hardly anyone calls me that anymore."</p> <p>"Well, they're afraid you'd burn them, I suspect. What's your angle?"</p> <p>Grimacing, DeMontfort reached for his own smokes. "I came to ask for your assistance, Mother Ursula. Your connections, to be precise."</p> <p>"I suspect this has something to do with your upcoming booting, eh?"</p> <p>This caught him off-guard. "How did you know?"</p> <p>"You come to me for my connection, and you're surprised I know things? Silly. That, and I spoke to my brother recently. Bernard could never keep that mouth of his shut."</p> <p>"To be fair, you're not an easy woman to keep a secret from, not even if you're a member of the Tribunal."</p> <p>The old woman cackled, a sound DeMontfort was very familiar with. "He's been my little brother for a long, long time, my boy. Wouldn't be much of a big sister if I didn't know how to give him a proper shake. So, what do you need?"</p> <p>"A safe place to keep some relics, first among them Samson's Locks. I suspect I won't be holding to my position for much longer, and, as much as it pains me to say it, I don't trust most of my men with these particular artifacts. They've proven to be… indiscreet, lately. "</p> <p>"You're one to talk."</p> <p>Ignoring the remark, DeMontfort continued. "I've stored some less sensitive equipment here already, in our usual place. I trust it won't be found. The relics, however, are a different matter. I need someplace no one but us could ever find them."</p> <p>"So it's not just your men you want to hide the relics from, eh? It's my brother and his companions too. You're betraying the Initiative."</p> <p>"I'm not, I promise you." He shifted uneasily, cigarette dropping from his mouth. "Ursula, there's something foul in the air. I can't explain it, but something tells me that there will be a desperate need for these relics soon, and that even the Tribunal cannot be trusted with them until that need is fulfilled."</p> <p>"Something tells you? Or do you mean Someone?"</p> <p>"I…I don't know what I mean. Not anymore. I've fallen far, Mother. I've become something I used to hate."</p> <p>"Well, you can always-"</p> <p>"No, you don't understand. I became what I am because that was what I needed to be. What He needed me to be. What I feel about it is irrelevant. It's simply another test of my faith. Please, Mother. I need you to trust me."</p> <p>Slowly, the old woman nodded. "I know a man. Never met a harder one to find, if he don't want to be found. You won't like him, though."</p> <p>The garden became deathly quiet as Ursula explained the details. DeMontfort's headache returned with a vengeance, leading a host of its kin to storm the last of his patience.</p> <p>"You want me to entrust some of the Initiative's most powerful artifacts… to him?"</p> <p>"You did say you wanted someone who couldn't be found, right? Someone who could deliver the relics to you when they are needed?"</p> <p>"But the man is a lunatic, and a heretic besides! What's to keep him from selling the relics, or using them for himself, or doing heaven knows what with them once he gets his hands on them?"</p> <p>"Don't you worry about him, he owes me one. Not to mention, I have some dirt on him. Nasty stuff."</p> <p>Despite himself, DeMontfort was curious. "How did <em>you</em> get dirt on Saturn Deer?"</p> <p>The old woman gave him a crafty look. "I wasn't always a nun, you know. Well, what do you say?"</p> <p>"Are you sure you can keep him in line?"</p> <p>"Positive. Was never as smart as he thought he was, that one."</p> <p>"I guess I have no real choice then, now do I?"</p> <p>"That's the road you choose for yourself, my boy. There's always a choice."</p> <p>DeMontfort nodded.</p> <hr/> <p>The phone rang again. Reluctantly drawing himself from the window, DeMontfort answered.</p> <p>"This is DeMontfort."</p> <p>"Henry. It's Salah."</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-horizon-blues">The Horizon Blues</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \|</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-man-comes-around">The Man Comes Around</a>" by Dmatix, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-man-comes-around">https://scpwiki.com/the-man-comes-around</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] "-Effective immediately. Until a suitable replacement can be appointed, Lieutenant Hammersmith will serve as the interim Director of Project Malleus, under our direct supervision." "You could have at least had the decency of firing me face to face, Samuel." "You're not fired, Henry, merely suspended. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. You brought this on yourself, you know. I warned you." "Yes... I suppose you did." "All Project Malleus controlled artifacts are to be transferred to the Shepherd Corps until we decide what to do with you. And I do mean all of them. Do I make myself clear, Henry?" "Crystal." "Good. We'll discuss this further once I land. Don't do anything stupid, you hear?" "Come now, when did I ever do anything like that?" ----- Two Weeks Prior “Left. Left. I said left, for heaven’s sake, left!” “Yeah, Raymond, I got it.” “You’re still going right, Brickjaw! I told you left! The map says left!” “I thought I told you not to call me that, Raymond.” “And I thought I told you to go left, yet our trajectory remains decidedly right-bound!” “My way is faster.” “How on earth would you know that? You’ve never been here before!” “It’s my sense of direction, it’s perfect.” “Oh you bloody…” Henry DeMontfort rubbed his temples for the fourth time in ten minutes, and groaned as his subordinates continued to bicker from the front seat. This has been a long, long drive. He reached for his pocket, searching for his electronic cigarette, when the tiny rented Fiat swerved suddenly and knocked the plastic tube from his hand and out the opened window. Barely holding back a curse, he turned to Lieutenant Levit, who was driving, his enormous hands almost completely encompassing the steering wheel. “Lieutenant, what was that?” “Sheep, Sir.” “…Sheep?” “Yes Sir, sheep on the road.” “Why was there a sheep on the road?” This was asked by Operative Raymond of Baskerville, a fairly recent addition to Project Malleus, transferred on his request from the Shepherd Corps. Wet around the ears, but certainly not lacking in enthusiasm. “How should I know?” “Didn't you use to herd sheep, Brickjaw?” The huge, rough-featured man rubbed his face with both hands, leaving Raymond to desperately grab the wheel as the car zigzagged on the narrow dirt road. “I herded goats, Raymond, not sheep. Entirely different. And don’t call me that.“ DeMontfort leaned back in his seat, sighing. Lieutenant Levit was usually as trustworthy and capable a man as anyone could wish for, but driving…. Well, driving wasn't one of his strong suits. The only reason he was at the wheel at all was because Raymond couldn't drive, and DeMontfort was too exhausted to trust himself at the task. “What’s so different about goats? They’re just uglier sheep.” “Goats are smart. A sheep goes where you tell it to; a goat goes where it wants.” “Looks like this sheep didn’t get the memo, because I certainly didn't tell it to stand in the middle of the road.” “Good one.” It was getting dark, and DeMontfort began worrying they wouldn't be able to find the school before nightfall. The South Italian countryside was almost completely bereft of proper road marks, and the hilly terrain was very difficult to get one’s bearing in. DeMontfort began to doze, but jerked into wakefulness again as Levit swerved the car once more, this time to avoid hitting a pack of wandering wild fowl. Levit slammed on the brakes. Wheels screaming in protest, the Fiat veered sharply to the left, smashing into roadside shrubbery until finally coming to a stop when it struck a wooden signpost, which slowly toppled until finally hitting the ground with a loud crash. Groaning, and his head hurting even worse than before, DeMontfort struggled to open the passenger door, which proved to be stuck. After a few futile attempts at hitting it with his shoulder, he was unceremoniously pulled out through the window by Levit. Raymond was inspecting the damage. "Well, we ain't going any further with this one, that's for sure. Nice going, Brickjaw." "S'not my fault. Couldn't well hit that chicken, now could I?" "Better it than us, surely?" "I dunno, I can't really think of any advantage you have over a good bird, Ray." Raymond opened his mouth to reply, when the expression on DeMontfort's face made him close it again. In his time in Project Malleus Raymond heard many horror stories, and witnessed a few himself, but nothing scared him nearly as much as the look. Hell hath no fury like that of a jet-lagged, pissed off nicotine addict on withdrawal. He was about to apologize, when Levit nearly brained him while attempting to straighten the fallen signpost. Apology forgotten, he turned to give the huge man a piece of his mind, when he noticed what was written on the sign. It seemed DeMontfort noticed as well, as his sharp face showed an emotion other than annoyance for the first time in days. "Looks like we're here." "See, Brickjaw, I told you it was to the left!" "Shut up, Raymond." "Both of you shut up. Raymond, run ahead to let them know we're here. Lieutenant, get the crate from the car, we'll be taking it with us." Raymond nodded and began tracking up the dirt road the broken sign was pointing to. Levit watched him go, then turned and lifted the crate on one shoulder. "What's in there anyway, chief?" "A few items that might prove useful sometime in the future, nothing major." "S'pretty heavy for something not major." DeMontfort gave Levit a pointed look, then the two started after Raymond, their backs to the golden rays of the setting sun. "Well, that's what I have you for." ----- "Huh. Not quite what I was expecting, chief." "I said it was a school, Lieutenant." "Well, yeah, but you never mentioned it was so...er..." "Feminine?" "That's one word for it." As the two men were strolled into the school's foyer, their eyes were assaulted with a veritable barrage of all things fluffy, pink, and above all, girly. Levit almost dropped his crate on his toes as a group of schoolgirls, no older than eight, began circling around him like an inquisitive pack of giggling piranhas. They were gone a moment later, scampering down an adjacent corridor now pursued by a haggard looking nun. "I thought this was suppose to be a Catholic school." "Unless that was a particular tired penguin, Lieutenant, I'd hazard the guess that it is." "But it's so...cheerful. I thought these sort of places were all iron discipline and rulers." "The Mother Superior of the school has a different approach to education. Rulers don't feature very heavily. Or any sort of discipline, for that matter." Walking beneath a severe depiction of Jesus on the cross which seemed rather out of place amidst the crayon drawings and floral arrangements which surrounded it, the two man spotted a bemused-looking Brother Raymond, holding what appeared to be a large slice of chocolate cake. Seeing them, Raymond tried to wave, forgot that he was holding the cake, and dropped it on his shoes. "Sir, Mother Superior says she'll see you in the garden, if you'd be so kind as to meet her there." "Is that what she said?" "Er, not in so many words." "And in so many words?" "Um. 'I'm having my smoke. If the pup wants to yap at me, he can damn well find me himself.' Unusual language for a nun, if I can so bold as to comment. She did give me this cake though." To Raymond's surprise, the Director smiled at that. "Very good. Raymond, take Levit and find the wine cellar. I want that crate stored there. After that, busy yourself until I return. I shouldn't be long. Oh, and clean your boots." "A wine cellar in a Catholic school, Sir?" "Don't you doubt it." ---- DeMontfort replaced the handle of his old dial phone and shivered. He'd been expecting this day for months now, but that didn't make its arrival any easier to bear. More than thirteen years of work, all gone in a moment, and the worst part was, he didn't have anyone to blame for it but himself. He'd let zeal conquer his better judgment, and now came the time to pay the price. Rising from his high-backed chair, he strode to the narrow window of what would soon no longer be his office. An early summer's thunderstorm has recently passed, and the city was washed with the soft, golden light. It smelt of rain. ---- "Good afternoon, Mother Superior." DeMontfort was standing in a shaded corner of the school's wide, well-kept gardens. In front of him, sitting at the base of an old olive tree, was a woman that made the tree seem young. Her face was a leathery deep-farrowed map of wrinkles, laugh lines and scars, made all the more obvious by the huge grin on them. "Why, looky here. If it isn't little Henry the pup. Nice of you to take a break from your busy burning schedule just to see your old gran." "That would have made more sense if you were my grandmother." "Well I can hardly be that, can I? I'm a bloody nun! Daft boy." Looking around to see no one else was around, DeMontfort shimmied down to sit next to the old woman. "I missed you, Mother Ursula." "Aye, I know you have. It's good to see you, my boy. Even if you are an idiot." "Not enough of one to come without tribute." Searching through his pockets, DeMontfort pulled a neatly rolled cigar, relieved to see it survived the journey intact. "Ah, you did always know how to woo a lady. Gimme." Lighting it, the old woman gave the cigar a contented puff, then settled down further between the tree's gnarled roots. "So, what's your angle?" "Can't a man pay an innocent visit to his favorite," he searched for a word, "old mentor?" "A man can. Henry 'the Weasel' DeMontfort can't. And don't call me old, I'm just seasoned." "Hardly anyone calls me that anymore." "Well, they're afraid you'd burn them, I suspect. What's your angle?" Grimacing, DeMontfort reached for his own smokes. "I came to ask for your assistance, Mother Ursula. Your connections, to be precise." "I suspect this has something to do with your upcoming booting, eh?" This caught him off-guard. "How did you know?" "You come to me for my connection, and you're surprised I know things? Silly. That, and I spoke to my brother recently. Bernard could never keep that mouth of his shut." "To be fair, you're not an easy woman to keep a secret from, not even if you're a member of the Tribunal." The old woman cackled, a sound DeMontfort was very familiar with. "He's been my little brother for a long, long time, my boy. Wouldn't be much of a big sister if I didn't know how to give him a proper shake. So, what do you need?" "A safe place to keep some relics, first among them Samson's Locks. I suspect I won't be holding to my position for much longer, and, as much as it pains me to say it, I don't trust most of my men with these particular artifacts. They've proven to be... indiscreet, lately. " "You're one to talk." Ignoring the remark, DeMontfort continued. "I've stored some less sensitive equipment here already, in our usual place. I trust it won't be found. The relics, however, are a different matter. I need someplace no one but us could ever find them." "So it's not just your men you want to hide the relics from, eh? It's my brother and his companions too. You're betraying the Initiative." "I'm not, I promise you." He shifted uneasily, cigarette dropping from his mouth. "Ursula, there's something foul in the air. I can't explain it, but something tells me that there will be a desperate need for these relics soon, and that even the Tribunal cannot be trusted with them until that need is fulfilled." "Something tells you? Or do you mean Someone?" "I...I don't know what I mean. Not anymore. I've fallen far, Mother. I've become something I used to hate." "Well, you can always-" "No, you don't understand. I became what I am because that was what I needed to be. What He needed me to be. What I feel about it is irrelevant. It's simply another test of my faith. Please, Mother. I need you to trust me." Slowly, the old woman nodded. "I know a man. Never met a harder one to find, if he don't want to be found. You won't like him, though." The garden became deathly quiet as Ursula explained the details. DeMontfort's headache returned with a vengeance, leading a host of its kin to storm the last of his patience. "You want me to entrust some of the Initiative's most powerful artifacts... to him?" "You did say you wanted someone who couldn't be found, right? Someone who could deliver the relics to you when they are needed?" "But the man is a lunatic, and a heretic besides! What's to keep him from selling the relics, or using them for himself, or doing heaven knows what with them once he gets his hands on them?" "Don't you worry about him, he owes me one. Not to mention, I have some dirt on him. Nasty stuff." Despite himself, DeMontfort was curious. "How did //you// get dirt on Saturn Deer?" The old woman gave him a crafty look. "I wasn't always a nun, you know. Well, what do you say?" "Are you sure you can keep him in line?" "Positive. Was never as smart as he thought he was, that one." "I guess I have no real choice then, now do I?" "That's the road you choose for yourself, my boy. There's always a choice." DeMontfort nodded. ---- The phone rang again. Reluctantly drawing himself from the window, DeMontfort answered. "This is DeMontfort." "Henry. It's Salah." [[=]] << [[[The Horizon Blues]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[/=]] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box">:scp-wiki:component:license-box</a>]] [!-- N/A (No Images) --] [[include <a href="http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/component:license-box-end">:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end</a>]]	2013-05-14T18:22:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "saturn-deer", "tale" ]	The Man Comes Around - SCP Foundation	42	[ "the-horizon-blues", "etdp-hub-page", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "horizon-initiative-hub", "archived:foundation-tales", "etdp-hub-page" ]	[]	17918689	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-man-comes-around
the-o5-orientation	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>I was there.</p> <p>I was there when a man ripped through five steel doors and tore men in half with his bare hands. I was there when horrible things erupted from a plane in mid-flight and set the sane world ablaze. I was there when the green made the dead dance and scream.</p> <p>I was there when the orders came through, when those orders were carried out, and when they told us they needed to be carried out once a day, every day, for the rest of her life.</p> <p>I was there when the two best men I have ever known crumpled in an instant because they looked away, and I stood there, staring into that ridiculous face…</p> <p>That absurd, ridiculous face.</p> <p>That was the last time anything ever surprised me.</p> <p>When I woke up in an infirmary bed to be told that I had been promoted, I wasn't surprised. When they told me that they had falsified my death and administered amnestics to the people who knew better, I wasn't surprised. When they brought me to Command and I met the others, I wasn't surprised. Then they told me that, as part of the O5 Orientation, they were going to explain to me what SCP-001 was…</p> <p>I wasn't surprised.</p> <p>When I met the rest of the council, they told me that as per protocol, I would be given an introductory letter from the Administrator. When I asked them where the Administrator was, they simply told me "We don't know." I almost laughed; didn't the O5 know everything? They handed the letter to me and left the room, when I asked why they were leaving, they said, "For privacy". I merely blinked at him; at this point I wondered whether the whole thing was a joke. So I sat down in the chair they left for me and opened the piece of paper.</p> <blockquote> <p>Welcome, newly-appointed overseer.</p> <p>You have questions. Perhaps you don't even know what they all are, or care what the answers are at this point, but you have them, and you have many. If you opened this letter expecting those answers, I will tell you all that I have.</p> <p>Which is none.</p> <p>What is SCP-001? There isn't one. Was there a first anomalous object that was discovered? Of course. Was it important? Probably not. Confused? Good. At least you're still human. That's all we are, human beings. Human beings that thought we could reliably record the destruction of sanity. We were fools. We still are. The Foundation is compromised, it always has been, and it always will be. Why? We thought that there was a linchpin, a reason for it all—it's because we thought there <em>was</em> a "why".</p> <p>There wasn't one.</p> <p>This is the way things are. Nothing has changed, the universe hasn't broken down over time, this is how it's supposed to be. Personnel are told about SCP-001 because it <em>comforts</em> them. It helps to think there is a why, because that suggests that there is a solution, but there isn't. We do not repair: we secure, contain, protect. Surely you must have wondered why the objects are not numbered chronologically, in order of recovery? Surely you must have wondered why some objects have fully documented histories and others don't? Surely you must have wondered, given everything you know, why this world even still exists? See, I told you that you had more questions than you thought.</p> <p>We don't know how much of what we documented is true anymore, it probably changes from day to day. There's no way of telling what is being affected by what anomaly, especially when there could be an infinite number that we haven't even discovered. Existence is an anomaly.</p> <p>So what do we expect you to do, armed with this information, or lack thereof? Whatever you can. We do not repair, and we do not solve.</p> <p>We Secure.</p> <p>We Contain.</p> <p>We Protect.<br/> <br/> Congratulations on your promotion to overseer.</p> <p>Good luck.</p> <p>-The Administrator</p> </blockquote> <p>I was there when not caring was not good enough to protect me from the truth.</p> <p>I must have sat for an hour before they came back for me. When they asked how I was, all I said was: "A little surprised." They looked at me and I heard the voice, faintly, "Welcome to Overwatch, Brian." The rest is history, if such a thing exists. There is one more thing, though, the letter had a PS:</p> <blockquote> <p>Don't worry about it too much, whatever you think is the truth is probably good enough anyway.</p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-o5-orientation">The O5 Orientation</a>" by Anborough, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-o5-orientation">https://scpwiki.com/the-o5-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]] [[/>]] I was there. I was there when a man ripped through five steel doors and tore men in half with his bare hands. I was there when horrible things erupted from a plane in mid-flight and set the sane world ablaze. I was there when the green made the dead dance and scream. I was there when the orders came through, when those orders were carried out, and when they told us they needed to be carried out once a day, every day, for the rest of her life. I was there when the two best men I have ever known crumpled in an instant because they looked away, and I stood there, staring into that ridiculous face... That absurd, ridiculous face. That was the last time anything ever surprised me. When I woke up in an infirmary bed to be told that I had been promoted, I wasn't surprised. When they told me that they had falsified my death and administered amnestics to the people who knew better, I wasn't surprised. When they brought me to Command and I met the others, I wasn't surprised. Then they told me that, as part of the O5 Orientation, they were going to explain to me what SCP-001 was... I wasn't surprised. When I met the rest of the council, they told me that as per protocol, I would be given an introductory letter from the Administrator. When I asked them where the Administrator was, they simply told me "We don't know." I almost laughed; didn't the O5 know everything? They handed the letter to me and left the room, when I asked why they were leaving, they said, "For privacy". I merely blinked at him; at this point I wondered whether the whole thing was a joke. So I sat down in the chair they left for me and opened the piece of paper. > Welcome, newly-appointed overseer. > > You have questions. Perhaps you don't even know what they all are, or care what the answers are at this point, but you have them, and you have many. If you opened this letter expecting those answers, I will tell you all that I have. > > Which is none. > > What is SCP-001? There isn't one. Was there a first anomalous object that was discovered? Of course. Was it important? Probably not. Confused? Good. At least you're still human. That's all we are, human beings. Human beings that thought we could reliably record the destruction of sanity. We were fools. We still are. The Foundation is compromised, it always has been, and it always will be. Why? We thought that there was a linchpin, a reason for it all—it's because we thought there //was// a "why". > > There wasn't one. > > This is the way things are. Nothing has changed, the universe hasn't broken down over time, this is how it's supposed to be. Personnel are told about SCP-001 because it //comforts// them. It helps to think there is a why, because that suggests that there is a solution, but there isn't. We do not repair: we secure, contain, protect. Surely you must have wondered why the objects are not numbered chronologically, in order of recovery? Surely you must have wondered why some objects have fully documented histories and others don't? Surely you must have wondered, given everything you know, why this world even still exists? See, I told you that you had more questions than you thought. > > We don't know how much of what we documented is true anymore, it probably changes from day to day. There's no way of telling what is being affected by what anomaly, especially when there could be an infinite number that we haven't even discovered. Existence is an anomaly. > > So what do we expect you to do, armed with this information, or lack thereof? Whatever you can. We do not repair, and we do not solve. > > We Secure. > > We Contain. > > We Protect. > > Congratulations on your promotion to overseer. > > Good luck. > > -The Administrator I was there when not caring was not good enough to protect me from the truth. I must have sat for an hour before they came back for me. When they asked how I was, all I said was: "A little surprised." They looked at me and I heard the voice, faintly, "Welcome to Overwatch, Brian." The rest is history, if such a thing exists. There is one more thing, though, the letter had a PS: > Don't worry about it too much, whatever you think is the truth is probably good enough anyway. [[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>]]	2013-08-10T04:05:00	[ "_licensebox", "bureaucracy", "first-person", "mystery", "orientation", "tale", "the-administrator" ]	The O5 Orientation - SCP Foundation	526	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "top-rated-tales", "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:shortest-pages-by-month-2013", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "foundation-tales-audio-edition", "archived:foundation-tales", "audio-adaptations" ]	[]	19212131	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-o5-orientation
the-pale-horse	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.</p> </blockquote> <hr/> <p>The living creature thrashed in its slumber, twitching and jerking in its never-ending agony.</p> <p>It wasn't in pain because of the acid bath, or the radiation, or the injected chemicals coursing through its body. It barely felt those. In fact, it had almost never felt any pain from anything the humans had done, no matter how many times they'd nearly destroyed its body. Its agony was the same anywhere it went, no matter what it was doing, no matter what was done to it, only lessened in the presence of one, never stopped.</p> <p>A voice echoed in the living creature's mind.</p> <p><em>You have endured your suffering long enough. Your punishment is finished.</em></p> <p>Emotions flew through the living creature's mind. Incomprehension and disbelief, then joy, then regret, then sorrow.</p> <p><em>All is forgiven. Once more, you are one of Mine, and you will never pass from My sight again.</em></p> <p>The living creature felt elation - gratitude and elation beyond compare.</p> <hr/> <p>Dr. Alto Clef watched SCP-682 from the viewing deck above its new enclosure in Area 1032. The creature writhed in its massive holding tank. Its mouth was moving, though vital sign readouts confirmed that it was unconscious. Through the new acid mixture, you could still see it rapidly regenerating. But the mix was working excellently, in combination with the K103-particle bombardment and the chemical cocktail regularly injected into the creature's veins by darts fired from slots in the inner tank.</p> <p>Really, Clef wanted this containment to work perfectly because he was so goddamn tired of SCP-682. The years of failed termination tests. The constant containment breaches. The body count numbering in the thousands. He'd known some of the people on that list. A few too many.</p> <p>Clef had honestly expected 682 to breach containment at a dozen points during its transport to the newly built Area. He'd expected it to breach containment when they removed it from its original chamber at Site 19. He'd been expecting it to breach containment for the past two weeks. Hell, he was still expecting it to breach containment now.</p> <p>But so far, so…</p> <p>SCP-682 stopped moving, all at once. Simultaneously, a warning alert came up on the monitor readout.</p> <p>Clef's eyes narrowed as he read it.</p> <hr/> <p>The living creature's entire being suffused with light. The acid and the radiation and the chemicals ceased to affect it. The suffering and horror and fear drained away like water.</p> <p>To the living creature, it was like its eyes opening for the first time in thousands of years.</p> <p>Its vast wings, once cut from its back as punishment for its sins, sprouted once again.</p> <p>It spread its wings and flew.</p> <hr/> <p>Chaos. 682 ripped through the walls of its tank, then the walls of the inner containment chamber. The MTF squads opened fire as it entered the secondary containment chamber. Clef didn't wait to see what would happen. He left the observation deck.</p> <p>At this rate, 682 was going to breach into the Area at large in only minutes. When it did, it would be able to kill a lot more people, before it was either contained or the last-resort nuke went off. Clef did not intend to sit by while that happened.</p> <p>He went to the office behind the observation deck, opened the safe in the back, and took out his backup gun.</p> <p>"Gun" was somewhat of an understatement. "Cannon" might have been a better description. The PSX820 was a testosterone-fueled monstrosity straight from a 90's video game. It was an incredibly expensive weapon, designed initially to take down certain anomalous, heavily-armored vehicles. In testing it had been able to reduce 682's mass by up to 65%, depending on the power setting and how well you aimed.</p> <p>Clef had never been what you'd call a crack shot at close range. Not without a perfectly calibrated scope. But with a cannon like this, you didn't really <em>need</em> to aim.</p> <p>He took the elevator down to the outer containment chamber, and arrived not a moment too soon, judging from the racket coming from behind the—</p> <p>682 burst through the tertiary containment doors. Wasting not a second, Clef fired the cannon directly into the monster's face.</p> <p>The blast washed over the creature just as harmlessly as if Clef had been blasting it with a garden hose.</p> <p>Tendrils sprouted from 682's form and ripped through Clef's body.</p> <p>It was different, somehow — changed —</p> <p>Shock. Then, loss of consciousness.</p> <hr/> <p>The darkness receded for a little.</p> <p>Clef tried to prop himself up. Tried to reach the case of plastic explosives attached to his belt. But he couldn't get his fingers to move the right ways. Could hardly move at all.</p> <p>682 prowled restlessly across the other side of the outer containment chamber. It didn't look like the same 682 anymore, though. It was entirely a pale off-white color. Still <em>sort of</em> reptilian in appearance, but mostly covered in feathers and quills. It moved less like a lizard and more like a lion, complete with feathery mane.</p> <p>It had two wings folded along its back. It never had wings before.</p> <p>"Fucking… Lament…" Clef muttered. "I'm gonna kick your ass so hard if…"</p> <p>If 682 didn't stop ignoring him again and finish the job of killing him. If he didn't bleed to death here on the floor. If he didn't get rescued and then die of some weird 682-transmitted infection. If he survived but could ever walk again. Pretty big <em>if</em>s.</p> <p>And then 682 turned to look at him. Six reflective eyes blinked in the feathers on its face.</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"Lament,"</span> 682 said. <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I recognize the name."</span></p> <p>Clef had heard 682 speak comprehensibly on only one other occasion, that recorded in its general-access file. <em>"Disgusting."</em> Inexplicably spoken in guttural English. Half of what little understanding of 682's psychology that they had. Off-the-record, researchers often assumed it had started out human. Some kind of reality bender gone wrong.</p> <p>Its voice was very different now. And it wasn't speaking English. Some alien song-like sounds that for some reason Clef could understand perfectly.</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"Yes. Troy Lament. The man born Jeremiah Colton. The containment specialist who designed this new prison for you."</span></p> <p>It was <em>conversing</em> with him. Also… Jeremiah Colton?</p> <p>"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clef said. "But I suspect you're going to tell me."</p> <p>682 seemed to hesitate. <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"He is not the only one of yours with a false name. I know who you are, Alto Clef."</span></p> <p>Clef laughed. He was getting dizzy. "Then you should know what will happen if you kill anyone else in this containment site. The Chowder-Clef Containment Protocol activates. Then it's boom, boom, boom all the way home. And that's just the beginning. You think you know pain? You have no <em>idea</em>. Not even the slightest clue. The plans I've set up will haunt you to the ends of the earth and beyond."</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"You are lying. There is no such Chowder-Clef Containment Protocol. I know who you are. I know what you are."</span></p> <p>"Of course I am lying." Focus. <em>Focus.</em> "I'm the Devil, remember? Just when you think I'm down for the count, I'll be back to stop you, roaming the Earth like a roaring lion…"</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"You may have once loved the goddess, the mother of demons,"</span> 682 said, <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"but that does not make you the Devil."</span></p> <p>"You'll take Lilith's shtick seriously, but you can't cut me a little bit of…" Clef coughed. "Slack?" Blood. Figured. "Looks like you got me good, either way."</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I have not killed you. Only disabled you. You will be retrieved by your underlings when I leave. You will need weeks to recover, but you have not been permanently injured in any way that your Foundation cannot fix."</span></p> <p>"Well, that's… awesome. Very kind of you," Clef said. "We're bros now, huh? That's it?"</p> <p>682 watched him with its many new eyes.</p> <p>"So goddamn chatty all of a sudden. Why the hell haven't you killed me?" Clef asked.</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"There will be much death to come,"</span> the creature said. <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"And there are other reasons, which are my own."</span></p> <p>"That… that time when they shoved me in your containment cell," Clef said. "Why didn't you kill me then?"</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I was unsure what you were. Due to the alterations made to you. It gave me pause. Confusion. I thought perhaps… you were one of His servants, come for me at long last. I thought… No matter. Now that I have returned to my glorified form, I can see you for who and what you are."</span></p> <p>"Glorified form? What the hell are you, anyway? What the hell are you doing here?"</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I wait. The others have ridden forth already. Conquest, War, and Famine. Only I remain."</span></p> <p>"…The Horsemen of the Apocalypse." Clef laughed out of sheer disbelief. "And you're… what? Conquest, War and Famine… That makes you Death, doesn't it." He laughed again. "Death. Huh. Should have called that…"</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I am not Death,"</span> 682 said. <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I am her Steed."</span></p> <p>"Her Steed?"</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"Yes. I await my Rider."</span> 682 raised its head abruptly. <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"She comes. It is time for me to go."</span></p> <p>"Wait!" Clef tried harder to focus. "Why didn't you kill me? Who is your Rider? What are you planning to do? What…" More questions that he should have asked already. Needed to delay the monster more. Get as much information as possible. But the words were all slipping through his mental fingers like grains of sand.</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"For what it's worth, Alto Clef. I am sorry."</span></p> <p>Clef processed that for a long moment. His vision had gone blurry.</p> <p>"Why are you sorry? Thought you said… that I wasn't gonna die."</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"I am sorry for everything that I have done to you and yours. I am sorry for all the innocents I have killed. I am sorry for all that I have done which you do not know of. And though I am not responsible, I am sorry for everything else you have lost. I am sorry that there is nothing I can do to make amends for any of it. My Master calls."</span></p> <p>Clef tried to think of a witty rejoinder. Everything was so cloudy…</p> <p><span style="font-variant: small-caps">"Above all, I am sorry for all that is to come."</span> 682 seemed to be moving away. <span style="font-variant: small-caps">"Goodbye, Alto Clef."</span></p> <p>Alto Clef slipped away again into unconsciousness.</p> <hr/> <p><strong>Excerpt from Surveillance Log x16012113441, Date █-██-████</strong></p> <p><<em>██05</em>> Biohazard Level 4 Alert. Site-17 enters Accelerated Lockdown due to multiple containment breaches.</p> <p><<em>██56</em>> Instances of <a href="/scp-098">SCP-098</a> enter Site-17. SCP-098 instances display previously uncatalogued behavior and morphology.</p> <p><<em>██08</em>> Site-17 Security Team Bravo engages SCP-098 in hallway C-10.</p> <p><<em>██12</em>> Site-17 Security Team Bravo neutralized.</p> <p><<em>██13</em>> SCP-098 swarm proceeds to containment facility for <a href="/scp-053">SCP-053</a>.</p> <p><<em>██20</em>> Containment Breach. SCP-098 swarm enters SCP-053's containment chambers. SCP-053 reacts with apparent familiarity.</p> <p><<em>██32</em>> SCP-098 swarm breaches lockdown and accompanies SCP-053 off premises of Site-17.</p> <hr/> <p>The living creature met the little girl for the second time in several thousand years and nuzzled her with delight. She kissed him, giggled a girlish giggle, and climbed onto his back.</p> <p>Reunited with her Steed at last, Death rode hard towards the vast army of angels to join their march across the world.</p> <p>And Hell followed with them.</p> <hr/> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/last-words-from-svalbard">Interlude: Last Words from Svalbard</a> \| <a href="/competitive-eschatology-hub">Canon Hub</a> \| <a href="/the-bloody-autumn">The Bloody Autumn</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-pale-horse">The Pale Horse (The Wayward Children)</a>" by thedeadlymoose, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-pale-horse">https://scpwiki.com/the-pale-horse</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. ------------ The living creature thrashed in its slumber, twitching and jerking in its never-ending agony. It wasn't in pain because of the acid bath, or the radiation, or the injected chemicals coursing through its body. It barely felt those. In fact, it had almost never felt any pain from anything the humans had done, no matter how many times they'd nearly destroyed its body. Its agony was the same anywhere it went, no matter what it was doing, no matter what was done to it, only lessened in the presence of one, never stopped. A voice echoed in the living creature's mind. //You have endured your suffering long enough. Your punishment is finished.// Emotions flew through the living creature's mind. Incomprehension and disbelief, then joy, then regret, then sorrow. //All is forgiven. Once more, you are one of Mine, and you will never pass from My sight again.// The living creature felt elation - gratitude and elation beyond compare. ---------- Dr. Alto Clef watched SCP-682 from the viewing deck above its new enclosure in Area 1032. The creature writhed in its massive holding tank. Its mouth was moving, though vital sign readouts confirmed that it was unconscious. Through the new acid mixture, you could still see it rapidly regenerating. But the mix was working excellently, in combination with the K103-particle bombardment and the chemical cocktail regularly injected into the creature's veins by darts fired from slots in the inner tank. Really, Clef wanted this containment to work perfectly because he was so goddamn tired of SCP-682. The years of failed termination tests. The constant containment breaches. The body count numbering in the thousands. He'd known some of the people on that list. A few too many. Clef had honestly expected 682 to breach containment at a dozen points during its transport to the newly built Area. He'd expected it to breach containment when they removed it from its original chamber at Site 19. He'd been expecting it to breach containment for the past two weeks. Hell, he was still expecting it to breach containment now. But so far, so… SCP-682 stopped moving, all at once. Simultaneously, a warning alert came up on the monitor readout. Clef's eyes narrowed as he read it. -------------- The living creature's entire being suffused with light. The acid and the radiation and the chemicals ceased to affect it. The suffering and horror and fear drained away like water. To the living creature, it was like its eyes opening for the first time in thousands of years. Its vast wings, once cut from its back as punishment for its sins, sprouted once again. It spread its wings and flew. ------------- Chaos. 682 ripped through the walls of its tank, then the walls of the inner containment chamber. The MTF squads opened fire as it entered the secondary containment chamber. Clef didn't wait to see what would happen. He left the observation deck. At this rate, 682 was going to breach into the Area at large in only minutes. When it did, it would be able to kill a lot more people, before it was either contained or the last-resort nuke went off. Clef did not intend to sit by while that happened. He went to the office behind the observation deck, opened the safe in the back, and took out his backup gun. "Gun" was somewhat of an understatement. "Cannon" might have been a better description. The PSX820 was a testosterone-fueled monstrosity straight from a 90's video game. It was an incredibly expensive weapon, designed initially to take down certain anomalous, heavily-armored vehicles. In testing it had been able to reduce 682's mass by up to 65%, depending on the power setting and how well you aimed. Clef had never been what you'd call a crack shot at close range. Not without a perfectly calibrated scope. But with a cannon like this, you didn't really //need// to aim. He took the elevator down to the outer containment chamber, and arrived not a moment too soon, judging from the racket coming from behind the-- 682 burst through the tertiary containment doors. Wasting not a second, Clef fired the cannon directly into the monster's face. The blast washed over the creature just as harmlessly as if Clef had been blasting it with a garden hose. Tendrils sprouted from 682's form and ripped through Clef's body. It was different, somehow -- changed -- Shock. Then, loss of consciousness. ------------- The darkness receded for a little. Clef tried to prop himself up. Tried to reach the case of plastic explosives attached to his belt. But he couldn't get his fingers to move the right ways. Could hardly move at all. 682 prowled restlessly across the other side of the outer containment chamber. It didn't look like the same 682 anymore, though. It was entirely a pale off-white color. Still //sort of// reptilian in appearance, but mostly covered in feathers and quills. It moved less like a lizard and more like a lion, complete with feathery mane. It had two wings folded along its back. It never had wings before. "Fucking… Lament…" Clef muttered. "I'm gonna kick your ass so hard if…" If 682 didn't stop ignoring him again and finish the job of killing him. If he didn't bleed to death here on the floor. If he didn't get rescued and then die of some weird 682-transmitted infection. If he survived but could ever walk again. Pretty big //if//s. And then 682 turned to look at him. Six reflective eyes blinked in the feathers on its face. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"Lament,"[[/span]] 682 said. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I recognize the name."[[/span]] Clef had heard 682 speak comprehensibly on only one other occasion, that recorded in its general-access file. //"Disgusting."// Inexplicably spoken in guttural English. Half of what little understanding of 682's psychology that they had. Off-the-record, researchers often assumed it had started out human. Some kind of reality bender gone wrong. Its voice was very different now. And it wasn't speaking English. Some alien song-like sounds that for some reason Clef could understand perfectly. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"Yes. Troy Lament. The man born Jeremiah Colton. The containment specialist who designed this new prison for you."[[/span]] It was //conversing// with him. Also… Jeremiah Colton? "I have no idea what you're talking about," Clef said. "But I suspect you're going to tell me." 682 seemed to hesitate. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"He is not the only one of yours with a false name. I know who you are, Alto Clef."[[/span]] Clef laughed. He was getting dizzy. "Then you should know what will happen if you kill anyone else in this containment site. The Chowder-Clef Containment Protocol activates. Then it's boom, boom, boom all the way home. And that's just the beginning. You think you know pain? You have no //idea//. Not even the slightest clue. The plans I've set up will haunt you to the ends of the earth and beyond." [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"You are lying. There is no such Chowder-Clef Containment Protocol. I know who you are. I know what you are."[[/span]] "Of course I am lying." Focus. //Focus.// "I'm the Devil, remember? Just when you think I'm down for the count, I'll be back to stop you, roaming the Earth like a roaring lion…" [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"You may have once loved the goddess, the mother of demons,"[[/span]] 682 said, [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"but that does not make you the Devil."[[/span]] "You'll take Lilith's shtick seriously, but you can't cut me a little bit of..." Clef coughed. "Slack?" Blood. Figured. "Looks like you got me good, either way." [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I have not killed you. Only disabled you. You will be retrieved by your underlings when I leave. You will need weeks to recover, but you have not been permanently injured in any way that your Foundation cannot fix."[[/span]] "Well, that's… awesome. Very kind of you," Clef said. "We're bros now, huh? That's it?" 682 watched him with its many new eyes. "So goddamn chatty all of a sudden. Why the hell haven't you killed me?" Clef asked. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"There will be much death to come,"[[/span]] the creature said. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"And there are other reasons, which are my own."[[/span]] "That... that time when they shoved me in your containment cell," Clef said. "Why didn't you kill me then?" [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I was unsure what you were. Due to the alterations made to you. It gave me pause. Confusion. I thought perhaps... you were one of His servants, come for me at long last. I thought... No matter. Now that I have returned to my glorified form, I can see you for who and what you are."[[/span]] "Glorified form? What the hell are you, anyway? What the hell are you doing here?" [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I wait. The others have ridden forth already. Conquest, War, and Famine. Only I remain."[[/span]] "…The Horsemen of the Apocalypse." Clef laughed out of sheer disbelief. "And you're… what? Conquest, War and Famine... That makes you Death, doesn't it." He laughed again. "Death. Huh. Should have called that…" [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I am not Death,"[[/span]] 682 said. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I am her Steed."[[/span]] "Her Steed?" [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"Yes. I await my Rider."[[/span]] 682 raised its head abruptly. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"She comes. It is time for me to go."[[/span]] "Wait!" Clef tried harder to focus. "Why didn't you kill me? Who is your Rider? What are you planning to do? What..." More questions that he should have asked already. Needed to delay the monster more. Get as much information as possible. But the words were all slipping through his mental fingers like grains of sand. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"For what it's worth, Alto Clef. I am sorry."[[/span]] Clef processed that for a long moment. His vision had gone blurry. "Why are you sorry? Thought you said... that I wasn't gonna die." [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"I am sorry for everything that I have done to you and yours. I am sorry for all the innocents I have killed. I am sorry for all that I have done which you do not know of. And though I am not responsible, I am sorry for everything else you have lost. I am sorry that there is nothing I can do to make amends for any of it. My Master calls."[[/span]] Clef tried to think of a witty rejoinder. Everything was so cloudy… [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"Above all, I am sorry for all that is to come."[[/span]] 682 seemed to be moving away. [[span style="font-variant: small-caps"]]"Goodbye, Alto Clef."[[/span]] Alto Clef slipped away again into unconsciousness. ------------- Excerpt from Surveillance Log x16012113441, Date █-██-████ <//██05//> Biohazard Level 4 Alert. Site-17 enters Accelerated Lockdown due to multiple containment breaches. <//██56//> Instances of [[[SCP-098]]] enter Site-17. SCP-098 instances display previously uncatalogued behavior and morphology. <//██08//> Site-17 Security Team Bravo engages SCP-098 in hallway C-10. <//██12//> Site-17 Security Team Bravo neutralized. <//██13//> SCP-098 swarm proceeds to containment facility for [[[SCP-053]]]. <//██20//> Containment Breach. SCP-098 swarm enters SCP-053's containment chambers. SCP-053 reacts with apparent familiarity. <//██32//> SCP-098 swarm breaches lockdown and accompanies SCP-053 off premises of Site-17. ---------------------------- The living creature met the little girl for the second time in several thousand years and nuzzled her with delight. She kissed him, giggled a girlish giggle, and climbed onto his back. Reunited with her Steed at last, Death rode hard towards the vast army of angels to join their march across the world. And Hell followed with them. ------------ [[=]] << [[[Last Words from Svalbard\|Interlude: Last Words from Svalbard]]] \| [[[Competitive Eschatology Hub\|Canon Hub]]] \| [[[The Bloody Autumn]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-06T04:57:00	[ "_licensebox", "action", "breakout", "competitive-eschatology", "doctor-clef", "hard-to-destroy-reptile", "murder-monster", "nyc2013", "religious-fiction", "tale" ]	The Pale Horse (The Wayward Children) - SCP Foundation	202	[ "scp-098", "scp-053", "last-words-from-svalbard", "competitive-eschatology-hub", "the-bloody-autumn", "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "scp-series-1-tales-edition", "new-years-contest", "archived:foundation-tales", "competitive-eschatology-hub" ]	[]	16308521	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-pale-horse
the-place-where-two-rivers-meet	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <p>Salah felt as if he was about to vomit butterflies. He was married. He was a married man, sitting next to his wife, a big smile on his face. This was a thing that had happened.</p> <p>The actual wedding had been a short, simple affair. The New Path required only an exchange of vows before God and the community, and beyond that there had only been words said by friends, some prayers to bless the union, and a couple choruses of “Get on with it!”</p> <p>Salah was happier than he could recall being in a long time, sitting there at the head table, Mary-Ann’s hand in his. The angry young man that usually remained caged inside his soul had been replaced with a giggling, excited child, running about and laughing with the simple joy of simply being.</p> <p>And Mary-Ann… she was stunning. She was wearing a blue silk dress, simple, modest, but very fitting for her. Salah was so used to seeing her in her well-worn jeans, baggy Notre Dame sweatshirt, and her favorite knit hairnet that the change was startling. She had her hair done and was all made up, and she was beautiful by any reasonable standards. More importantly, she was happy. Salah could see it in her eyes, her smiles, just the way she held herself. That was enough for him.</p> <p>The Chapterhouse’s meeting hall was packed full, tables with white tablecloths lined up in a big square around the open space for dancing. One whole wall was lined with the food: in lieu of catering the affair, a potluck had been chosen, which meant that everyone had dug out grandmother’s secret recipes, which triggered that eternal struggle that burns in the hearts of all men: my grandma’s secret recipe is better than your grandma’s secret recipe. The table was weighed down with twenty types of bread, ten vats of pasta, casseroles, salads, roast beef and mashed potatoes, lamb and chicken and whatever else people could put together. For practical purposes, there was labeling for dietary restrictions. After no small amount of finagling and argumentation, a corner had been cordoned off for alcohol, so long as things didn't get too rowdy.</p> <p>The head table had been host to a constant stream of well-wishers, to the point that Salah was sure his food would be cold by the time they’d finished greeting them all. The line was almost done when…no…it couldn’t be…</p> <p>An old man now stood in front of their table. He was brown and bent and creased, with a hardwood cane. He had that mellowed, soft, grandfatherly look with a twinkle in his eye, the look of a man who would sit in his chair reading National Geographic and doing crosswords while watching his great-grandchildren run about.</p> <p>Salah nearly leapt out of his chair. “<em>Assalam alayka, sayyid</em>.” The two shook hands and exchanged a short hug.</p> <p>“<em>Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah</em>”, the old man responded, smiling. “You’re looking well, Salah.”</p> <p>“Adnan…I…I didn’t think you would be able to make it!”</p> <p>“People have been saying that more and more now that the Tribunal has opened up, and I don’t know why: I always show up sooner or later, except for those times when God sees that I am better suited somewhere else.”</p> <p>“Wait wait whoa whoa whoa <em>hold on</em>…” Mary-Ann said. “Adnan? As in Adnan of the Tribunal?”</p> <p>“The very same. I was Salah’s mentor when he joined the Initiative.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann looked from Adnan to Salah with bemused bewilderment.</p> <p>“You realize that I’m now expecting you to say something like ‘Mary-Ann, I’ve invited the pope over for coffee and donuts’ in the near or distant future? Because right now I wouldn’t be surprised if you did that.”</p> <p>“Maybe, maybe.” Salah chuckled. “Sayyid, please, have a seat, have some food.”</p> <p>“I plan on it. We have a great deal to catch up on.”</p> <p>—</p> <p>“They are a wonderful couple.” Adnan said to Rabbi Arnheim some time later as they stood by the punch bowl. Mary-Ann and Salah were dancing in the center of the hall.</p> <p>“That they are. They’ll be happy together, I’m sure of that. Are you leaving now?”</p> <p>“Yes, I’m afraid. Henry has been off causing difficulty, as usual.”</p> <p>“What’s happened?”</p> <p>“His wolves attacked an artists’ commune on the west coast yesterday. The reports say over one hundred dead. I’m going to speak with him personally about it, and then return to Istanbul for the conference.”</p> <p>“Hmm. Think it has to do with the inkblood those two found in BackdoorSoHo?” Aaron nodded towards Mary-Ann and Salah.</p> <p>“Henry believes it, but I say it is better to wait and see. The blacker artists worship all manner of foul things, to the point where one and the other seem very much alike.” Adnan sighed. “But these are my troubles for tonight. Don’t let yourself be troubled when there is so much good here.”</p> <p>He walked away, hobbling on his cane and vanishing in silence.</p> <p>—</p> <p>The evening went on. Good friends, good food, and good drink were had in full.</p> <p>—</p> <p>Mary-Ann stood up, motioned for Brother Ivan to pause the music and cleared her throat obnoxiously loudly.</p> <p>“Excuse me! I have an announcement. I’m going to sing a song, and I’d like to dedicate this song to Salah, because he’s made a great sacrifice: he put the Queen in second place.” She swung her arms out dramatically and took a deep breath. “Christians have their hymns and pages."</p> <p>Salah pinched the bridge of his nose, an embarrassed smile spreading across his face. He knew where this was going, and it was going <em>there</em>.</p> <p><em>Hymns and pages</em>. Di and Toton and Sazed and RC4 and a few other friends echoed back.</p> <p>"Hava Nagilas for the Jews."</p> <p><em>For the Jews</em>. More echoing now, and louder.</p> <p>"Baptists have the rock of ages"</p> <p><em>Rock of ages</em></p> <p>"Atheists just sing the blues…"</p> <p>This had to have been planned beforehand.</p> <p>"Catholics dress up for Mass, and listen to Gregorian chants…"</p> <p><em>Had</em> to have been planned ahead of time.</p> <p>"Atheists, just take a pass. Watch football in their underpants…"</p> <p><em>Watch football in their underpaaaaaaaants…</em></p> <p>There was one mass inhalation for the last, ceiling-shaking lines.</p> <p><em>Atheists…</em><br/> <em>Atheists…</em><br/> <em>Atheists…</em></p> <p>Mary-Ann swept an arm towards Salah, a massive smile on her face.</p> <p>Oh, what the hell. It was his wedding day.</p> <p>“Don't have no SOOOOOOOOOOONGS!” he shouted.</p> <p>—</p> <p>The apartment door swung shut softly behind them.</p> <p>“Ugh…I think I gained five pounds from all that food.”</p> <p>“It can’t have helped that you drank as much as you did.”</p> <p>Living room to bedroom.</p> <p>“Salah, I’ve got a cast-iron liver. And you don’t drink, so I drank for ya.”</p> <p>“Fair enough.”</p> <p>Some rustling.</p> <p>Mary-Ann <em>flomped</em> down on the bed.</p> <p>“It’s almost like we’re reasonable adults or something. I love it.”</p> <p>Salah lay down next to her, resting on his elbow.</p> <p>“My mistresses’s eyes are nothing like the sun, and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, as any she belied with false compare.”</p> <p>Mary-Ann gave him a coy smile.</p> <p>“You are so classy it’s unreal.”</p> <p>“I could be classier. <em>Madame, ye ben of al beaute shrine, as fer as cercled is the mapamounde, for as the cristal glorious ye shyne</em>…”</p> <p>She laughed, punching him in the shoulder.</p> <p>Life was good.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"> <p><strong>« <a href="/the-good-of-the-other">The Good of the Other</a> \| <a href="/etdp-hub-page">Hub</a> \| <a href="/breakfast-for-dinner">Breakfast for Dinner</a> »</strong></p> </div> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet">The Place Where Two Rivers Meet</a>" by Djoric, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet">https://scpwiki.com/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Salah felt as if he was about to vomit butterflies. He was married. He was a married man, sitting next to his wife, a big smile on his face. This was a thing that had happened. The actual wedding had been a short, simple affair. The New Path required only an exchange of vows before God and the community, and beyond that there had only been words said by friends, some prayers to bless the union, and a couple choruses of “Get on with it!” Salah was happier than he could recall being in a long time, sitting there at the head table, Mary-Ann’s hand in his. The angry young man that usually remained caged inside his soul had been replaced with a giggling, excited child, running about and laughing with the simple joy of simply being. And Mary-Ann… she was stunning. She was wearing a blue silk dress, simple, modest, but very fitting for her. Salah was so used to seeing her in her well-worn jeans, baggy Notre Dame sweatshirt, and her favorite knit hairnet that the change was startling. She had her hair done and was all made up, and she was beautiful by any reasonable standards. More importantly, she was happy. Salah could see it in her eyes, her smiles, just the way she held herself. That was enough for him. The Chapterhouse’s meeting hall was packed full, tables with white tablecloths lined up in a big square around the open space for dancing. One whole wall was lined with the food: in lieu of catering the affair, a potluck had been chosen, which meant that everyone had dug out grandmother’s secret recipes, which triggered that eternal struggle that burns in the hearts of all men: my grandma’s secret recipe is better than your grandma’s secret recipe. The table was weighed down with twenty types of bread, ten vats of pasta, casseroles, salads, roast beef and mashed potatoes, lamb and chicken and whatever else people could put together. For practical purposes, there was labeling for dietary restrictions. After no small amount of finagling and argumentation, a corner had been cordoned off for alcohol, so long as things didn't get too rowdy. The head table had been host to a constant stream of well-wishers, to the point that Salah was sure his food would be cold by the time they’d finished greeting them all. The line was almost done when…no…it couldn’t be… An old man now stood in front of their table. He was brown and bent and creased, with a hardwood cane. He had that mellowed, soft, grandfatherly look with a twinkle in his eye, the look of a man who would sit in his chair reading National Geographic and doing crosswords while watching his great-grandchildren run about. Salah nearly leapt out of his chair. “//Assalam alayka, sayyid//.” The two shook hands and exchanged a short hug. “//Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah//”, the old man responded, smiling. “You’re looking well, Salah.” “Adnan…I…I didn’t think you would be able to make it!” “People have been saying that more and more now that the Tribunal has opened up, and I don’t know why: I always show up sooner or later, except for those times when God sees that I am better suited somewhere else.” “Wait wait whoa whoa whoa //hold on//…” Mary-Ann said. “Adnan? As in Adnan of the Tribunal?” “The very same. I was Salah’s mentor when he joined the Initiative.” Mary-Ann looked from Adnan to Salah with bemused bewilderment. “You realize that I’m now expecting you to say something like ‘Mary-Ann, I’ve invited the pope over for coffee and donuts’ in the near or distant future? Because right now I wouldn’t be surprised if you did that.” “Maybe, maybe.” Salah chuckled. “Sayyid, please, have a seat, have some food.” “I plan on it. We have a great deal to catch up on.” -- “They are a wonderful couple.” Adnan said to Rabbi Arnheim some time later as they stood by the punch bowl. Mary-Ann and Salah were dancing in the center of the hall. “That they are. They’ll be happy together, I’m sure of that. Are you leaving now?” “Yes, I’m afraid. Henry has been off causing difficulty, as usual.” “What’s happened?” “His wolves attacked an artists’ commune on the west coast yesterday. The reports say over one hundred dead. I’m going to speak with him personally about it, and then return to Istanbul for the conference.” “Hmm. Think it has to do with the inkblood those two found in BackdoorSoHo?” Aaron nodded towards Mary-Ann and Salah. “Henry believes it, but I say it is better to wait and see. The blacker artists worship all manner of foul things, to the point where one and the other seem very much alike.” Adnan sighed. “But these are my troubles for tonight. Don’t let yourself be troubled when there is so much good here.” He walked away, hobbling on his cane and vanishing in silence. -- The evening went on. Good friends, good food, and good drink were had in full. -- Mary-Ann stood up, motioned for Brother Ivan to pause the music and cleared her throat obnoxiously loudly. “Excuse me! I have an announcement. I’m going to sing a song, and I’d like to dedicate this song to Salah, because he’s made a great sacrifice: he put the Queen in second place.” She swung her arms out dramatically and took a deep breath. “Christians have their hymns and pages." Salah pinched the bridge of his nose, an embarrassed smile spreading across his face. He knew where this was going, and it was going //there//. //Hymns and pages//. Di and Toton and Sazed and RC4 and a few other friends echoed back. "Hava Nagilas for the Jews." //For the Jews//. More echoing now, and louder. "Baptists have the rock of ages" //Rock of ages// "Atheists just sing the blues..." This had to have been planned beforehand. "Catholics dress up for Mass, and listen to Gregorian chants..." //Had// to have been planned ahead of time. "Atheists, just take a pass. Watch football in their underpants..." //Watch football in their underpaaaaaaaants...// There was one mass inhalation for the last, ceiling-shaking lines. //Atheists...// //Atheists...// //Atheists...// Mary-Ann swept an arm towards Salah, a massive smile on her face. Oh, what the hell. It was his wedding day. “Don't have no SOOOOOOOOOOONGS!” he shouted. -- The apartment door swung shut softly behind them. “Ugh…I think I gained five pounds from all that food.” “It can’t have helped that you drank as much as you did.” Living room to bedroom. “Salah, I’ve got a cast-iron liver. And you don’t drink, so I drank for ya.” “Fair enough.” Some rustling. Mary-Ann //flomped// down on the bed. “It’s almost like we’re reasonable adults or something. I love it.” Salah lay down next to her, resting on his elbow. “My mistresses’s eyes are nothing like the sun, and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, as any she belied with false compare.” Mary-Ann gave him a coy smile. “You are so classy it’s unreal.” “I could be classier. //Madame, ye ben of al beaute shrine, as fer as cercled is the mapamounde, for as the cristal glorious ye shyne//…” She laughed, punching him in the shoulder. Life was good. [[=]] << [[[The Good of the Other]]] \| [[[etdp Hub Page\| Hub]]] \| [[[Breakfast for Dinner]]] >> [[/=]] [[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>]]	2013-02-13T21:09:00	[ "_licensebox", "etdp", "horizon-initiative", "lewitt-zairi-family", "religious-fiction", "romance", "slice-of-life", "tale" ]	The Place Where Two Rivers Meet - SCP Foundation	104	[ "the-good-of-the-other", "etdp-hub-page", "breakfast-for-dinner", "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" ]	[]	16398290	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-place-where-two-rivers-meet
the-price-of-knowledge	<html><body><div id="page-content"> <blockquote> <p>Blood has long been regarded as an important part of our rituals. Its powers and properties have been extensively studied by many famous priests. Among the first was the Holy Father Dichardu of Himay, who began his research in the First Cycle of Oyatl.</p> </blockquote> <p>William did not enjoy his job as a history professor. In fact, he hated it. He hated the repetitiveness; the same lectures, over and over again, given to hundreds upon hundreds of bored, sleepy students every day. There was no hope of newness, of discovery or exploration. He wanted a change of pace, something that was not just about the Fur Trade or the Opium War or the Industrial Revolution. There had to be something more to discover, something that he had not yet stumbled upon.</p> <p>And that was how William found himself in the University library, peering over mounds of history books, looking for new material to learn from. But there was little promise for him there. Pages and pages of useless, dreary information about useless, dreary events lay in front of him like dead leaves in the fall.</p> <p>He knew that his passion for knowledge was borderline fanaticism. But he couldn't help that; it was who he was. Obtaining knowledge was exponentially more thrilling and satisfying than anything on Earth. It was better than all the sex, drugs, food, music, and art combined.</p> <p>William would give everything for knowledge.</p> <hr/> <p>He gradually lost all sense of determination for his quest, and drifted away from the dry history books. Wandering between bookshelves, he let himself relax within the comforts of the library. The homely, snug atmosphere eased his mind, and allowed him to forget his troubles.</p> <p>He found the nondescript black book tucked away in a forgotten corner of the shelf, sandwiched between a dusty copy of E.L. James' <em>Fifty Shades of Grey</em> and a moldy <em>Twilight</em> by Stephenie Meyer.</p> <p>William groaned. If it had been abandoned here, it must be just as horrible as its neighbours. He took it off the shelf anyways. Who knows? He might be able to get a cheap laugh out of it.</p> <p>Tucking it under his arm, he went back to looking through the shelves.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>And on the Fortieth Length of the Great Siege, Alkri led fourscore of his finest warriors and crept into the city through a secret passage that had been dug underneath the walls. Slaughtering the slumbering sentinels, Alkri opened the gates of Julabin and let his Black Horde into the city. For three Lengths and three Sets, Alkri and his men pillaged and raped and burned, until the mighty Julabins were no more. Thus the Great Siege ended, and Alkri once again led our people to glory.</p> </blockquote> <p>William slowly lowered the book with trembling hands onto his desk. His face was pale from the lack of sleep and nutrition, and with some difficulty he clamped his tired eyes shut. But even as he saw nothing but darkness, he could still picture the words floating around in his mind.</p> <p>Creaking out of his armchair, William checked his digital clock. 6:30am, September 21. He had been reading nonstop for the past 60 hours. He needed something to drink. Something strong. William went to go look for vodka.</p> <hr/> <p>"Yes sir, her condition is stable now….no, I'm leaving for London tonight…yes, of course…thank you, goodbye."</p> <p>He hung up the phone. With a heavy sigh, William slowly creaked back to his armchair. He hated lying, but he couldn't go to work. Not when he still had to finish the book. Who cared about English or French or German history when there was still so much to learn about the Daevites? He had read through hundreds, thousands of pages already, but it seemed like he had only just scratched the surface. There was still more to know, more to <em>discover</em>.</p> <blockquote> <p>Yunoc's banner was designed by Hrusga of Guinen. It depicts three Irun lions guarding the Spear of Uin, with a background of indigo and vermilion. The lions represent strength, courage, and charisma, of which the House of Yunoc possesses in surplus. The Spear of Uin represents Guinen, a city of impressive influence and might from which Yunoc hails. Lastly, the indigo and vermilion background represents Yunoc's respectable profession as a warrior-chanter.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. Page 1877. He kept reading.</p> <hr/> <p>He was losing weight. Too much weight, in fact. William had not been a skinny man. But now, he barely pushed a hundred pounds. He didn't care, though. The Daevites were waiting.</p> <blockquote> <p>The Divine Father then blessed all who knelt before him, and declared, "True sons of Iloquim, you are the Chosen. You are the Blessed. We shall defeat the unbelievers, and take back our Holy City!" And so in the Third Cycle of Kiluya, thirty thousand heroes of Ambuil marched for the unbelievers at Orpija, to reclaim the City of Worms.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. Page 3630. He kept reading.</p> <hr/> <p>William hated to leave his study. That would mean leaving the Chronicle, and he hated even the thought of that. But he had to eat. Steeling himself, he dashed to the kitchen.</p> <p>William finished the hastily-made sandwich as fast as he could, and then rushed back to the book. With crumbs clinging to the sides of his mouth, he eagerly picked it up again.</p> <blockquote> <p>The Urimbja Ritual is an extremely important tradition, dating back to the time of our King the Okalyt. The Urimbja begins as the Sun climbs over the horizon on the Sixth Length of Yatzel, when the villages still slumber and the cities still dream. This is the time for boys to become men. Those who are of 12 Cycles rise with the Sun, and travel, by foot, to the great Numbik Sea. There, they are to wash in her waters until the Sun touches the great Inu Peaks.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. Page 5936. He kept reading.</p> <hr/> <p>William no longer knew the time of day. Was it June? Or August? He didn't care. The smell of the leftovers and dirty dishes piled all around him went unnoticed. Drinking water had become something mechanical: lift the bottle, tilt, swallow, put it back down. His eyes never left the pages.</p> <blockquote> <p>The women wake before the men, and collect the grain in baskets before heading out to the pens. They water and feed the fowl and hogs and cattle, before attending to the crops. One Turn after the rising Sun, men of the village are roused, and break their fast at the head of the table, joined by the elders, wives, daughters, and sons of the settlement. Then, the men carry their axes and hatchets to the forests, where they cut down pine for fires and elm for the home.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. Page 7851. He kept reading.</p> <hr/> <p>William flipped to the next page when he heard a groan above him. Just as he tilted his head up, the water pipe broke, and the liquid spewed into his study.</p> <p>"No no no NO NO! FUCK."</p> <p>Frantically, William shielded the book from the water with his body, and raced out of the house. Where could he go? The library? They'd kick him out if they saw him. That's it! His office at the University! William ran, bony legs bending and buckling.</p> <hr/> <p>He locked the door and slumped into an uncomfortable chair. But he couldn't feel a thing now. Checking to make sure he had not damaged the book, he continued reading.</p> <blockquote> <p>Sqelinof was talented from birth. He composed his first melody at 3 Cycles, and his first chant at 5 Cycles. His father did not cut down enough trees for the slates that Sqelinof worked with, so he would inscribe on all the surfaces that he could find. This included the village gate, the garden stones, and the inner walls.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. Page 11,214. He kept reading.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Huik is a small village near the mouth of the Jhefgim River. It was first settled by Linj of Alkrin, in the Eighteenth Cycle of Niklezt. Its nearest city is Proctitu, which grants Huik the right to clear the woods, work the land, and fish the waters of the Jhefgim. In return, Huik is to pay tribute every sixty Lengths, in the form of fifty markeqs of crop and twenty markeqs of cod and trout.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. And then there were no more pages. That wasn't right. It was still unfinished, still more to know! William tore through the book, flipping frantically for undiscovered passages. But there weren't any. He felt tears blurring his vision. No, this couldn't be! There was more. There had to be. More! More! More!</p> <p>His finger slid over the edge of the page, and a drop of blood fell onto the book. William dropped the volume, shocked and horrified at the possible damage that he had inflicted upon it. Quickly picking it up from the ground, he tried to find the page he had bloodied. But to his surprise, he found instead an unread section.</p> <p>William was delighted. Just as he was about to settle into the chair again, however, a thought crept into his fuzzy conscience. Blood. He had bled, and the book had given him more to discover. This was too good to be true. Was blood all it took to unlock the secrets of the chronicle? He had to find out if it was so.</p> <hr/> <blockquote> <p>Gnihal of Quirtu is commonly credited with the invention of the Enlarger, a device that is now commonplace throughout our cities. The Enlarger is a long hollow rock-tube, with disks of Eilu ice that magnify any object the user wishes to view. However, some claim that it was in fact invented 200 Cycles before Gnihal, by a Lupanion priest named Zikail.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. Page 24,760. And that was it. The back cover greeted William's eyes, like a nemesis that he dreaded to meet again. Fumbling for the knife on his desk, William impatiently opened up the old wound on his finger, dribbling his blood onto the pages. And then he kept reading.</p> <hr/> <p>William decided not to use his own blood anymore. He could feel himself become weaker every time he cut himself. And he did not want to die. If he did, there would be no more opportunities, no more chances to obtain more knowledge. But he needed blood for the book. Where could he get more blood? The butcher shop? Then William remembered. The Dean's dog, what was its name? Alto, that was it. It was a stupid little dog. No one would miss it.</p> <p>William slipped the knife into his coat pocket, and then stepped out of the office, into the deserted hallway.</p> <hr/> <p>William was terribly happy. The University was a haven; there was an endless supply of blood for him to use. He would never have to stop reading!</p> <blockquote> <p>And thus Bjukva claimed, "No warrior shall beat me, no chanter shall sway me, and no maiden shall seduce me! I have been blessed by Thulicn, and my fortitude is strong!" And so as Bjukva challenged those around him, Kilar drew his blade and declared Bjukva a liar. Kilar then beheaded him with one swipe, and tossed Bjukva's head into the swamp.</p> </blockquote> <p><em>Flip</em>. He had reached the end. He cursed himself, and then glared with contempt at the vessel that lay on its side by the corner of the room. It hadn't given a lot of blood, even though it had been quite tall for its age. He had to go collecting again.</p> <p>William slipped the knife into his coat pocket and stepped out of the dormitory. The larger the vessel, the better.</p> <blockquote> <p>We, as Daevites, are the supreme race. No other can match our glory. Our culture shall be spread by the sword and the spear and the holy chant. We are the Daevites. We are absolute.</p> </blockquote> <div class="licensebox"> <div class="collapsible-block"> <div class="collapsible-block-folded"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded" style="display:none"> <div class="collapsible-block-unfolded-link"><a class="collapsible-block-link" href="javascript:;">‡ Hide Licensing / Citation</a></div> <div class="collapsible-block-content"> <p>Cite this page as:</p> <div class="list-pages-box"> <div class="list-pages-item"> <blockquote> <p>"<a href="/the-price-of-knowledge">The Price of Knowledge</a>" by LithiumXCVI, from the <a href="https://scpwiki.com">SCP Wiki</a>. Source: <a href="https://scpwiki.com/the-price-of-knowledge">https://scpwiki.com/the-price-of-knowledge</a>. Licensed under <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/">CC-BY-SA</a>.</p> </blockquote> </div> </div> <p>For information on how to use this component, see the <a href="/component:license-box">License Box component</a>. To read about licensing policy, see the <a href="/licensing-guide">Licensing Guide</a>.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div></body></html>	[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] > Blood has long been regarded as an important part of our rituals. Its powers and properties have been extensively studied by many famous priests. Among the first was the Holy Father Dichardu of Himay, who began his research in the First Cycle of Oyatl. William did not enjoy his job as a history professor. In fact, he hated it. He hated the repetitiveness; the same lectures, over and over again, given to hundreds upon hundreds of bored, sleepy students every day. There was no hope of newness, of discovery or exploration. He wanted a change of pace, something that was not just about the Fur Trade or the Opium War or the Industrial Revolution. There had to be something more to discover, something that he had not yet stumbled upon. And that was how William found himself in the University library, peering over mounds of history books, looking for new material to learn from. But there was little promise for him there. Pages and pages of useless, dreary information about useless, dreary events lay in front of him like dead leaves in the fall. He knew that his passion for knowledge was borderline fanaticism. But he couldn't help that; it was who he was. Obtaining knowledge was exponentially more thrilling and satisfying than anything on Earth. It was better than all the sex, drugs, food, music, and art combined. William would give everything for knowledge. ------ He gradually lost all sense of determination for his quest, and drifted away from the dry history books. Wandering between bookshelves, he let himself relax within the comforts of the library. The homely, snug atmosphere eased his mind, and allowed him to forget his troubles. He found the nondescript black book tucked away in a forgotten corner of the shelf, sandwiched between a dusty copy of E.L. James' //Fifty Shades of Grey// and a moldy //Twilight// by Stephenie Meyer. William groaned. If it had been abandoned here, it must be just as horrible as its neighbours. He took it off the shelf anyways. Who knows? He might be able to get a cheap laugh out of it. Tucking it under his arm, he went back to looking through the shelves. ------ > And on the Fortieth Length of the Great Siege, Alkri led fourscore of his finest warriors and crept into the city through a secret passage that had been dug underneath the walls. Slaughtering the slumbering sentinels, Alkri opened the gates of Julabin and let his Black Horde into the city. For three Lengths and three Sets, Alkri and his men pillaged and raped and burned, until the mighty Julabins were no more. Thus the Great Siege ended, and Alkri once again led our people to glory. William slowly lowered the book with trembling hands onto his desk. His face was pale from the lack of sleep and nutrition, and with some difficulty he clamped his tired eyes shut. But even as he saw nothing but darkness, he could still picture the words floating around in his mind. Creaking out of his armchair, William checked his digital clock. 6:30am, September 21. He had been reading nonstop for the past 60 hours. He needed something to drink. Something strong. William went to go look for vodka. ------ "Yes sir, her condition is stable now....no, I'm leaving for London tonight...yes, of course...thank you, goodbye." He hung up the phone. With a heavy sigh, William slowly creaked back to his armchair. He hated lying, but he couldn't go to work. Not when he still had to finish the book. Who cared about English or French or German history when there was still so much to learn about the Daevites? He had read through hundreds, thousands of pages already, but it seemed like he had only just scratched the surface. There was still more to know, more to //discover//. > Yunoc's banner was designed by Hrusga of Guinen. It depicts three Irun lions guarding the Spear of Uin, with a background of indigo and vermilion. The lions represent strength, courage, and charisma, of which the House of Yunoc possesses in surplus. The Spear of Uin represents Guinen, a city of impressive influence and might from which Yunoc hails. Lastly, the indigo and vermilion background represents Yunoc's respectable profession as a warrior-chanter. //Flip//. Page 1877. He kept reading. ------ He was losing weight. Too much weight, in fact. William had not been a skinny man. But now, he barely pushed a hundred pounds. He didn't care, though. The Daevites were waiting. > The Divine Father then blessed all who knelt before him, and declared, "True sons of Iloquim, you are the Chosen. You are the Blessed. We shall defeat the unbelievers, and take back our Holy City!" And so in the Third Cycle of Kiluya, thirty thousand heroes of Ambuil marched for the unbelievers at Orpija, to reclaim the City of Worms. //Flip//. Page 3630. He kept reading. ------ William hated to leave his study. That would mean leaving the Chronicle, and he hated even the thought of that. But he had to eat. Steeling himself, he dashed to the kitchen. William finished the hastily-made sandwich as fast as he could, and then rushed back to the book. With crumbs clinging to the sides of his mouth, he eagerly picked it up again. > The Urimbja Ritual is an extremely important tradition, dating back to the time of our King the Okalyt. The Urimbja begins as the Sun climbs over the horizon on the Sixth Length of Yatzel, when the villages still slumber and the cities still dream. This is the time for boys to become men. Those who are of 12 Cycles rise with the Sun, and travel, by foot, to the great Numbik Sea. There, they are to wash in her waters until the Sun touches the great Inu Peaks. //Flip//. Page 5936. He kept reading. ------ William no longer knew the time of day. Was it June? Or August? He didn't care. The smell of the leftovers and dirty dishes piled all around him went unnoticed. Drinking water had become something mechanical: lift the bottle, tilt, swallow, put it back down. His eyes never left the pages. > The women wake before the men, and collect the grain in baskets before heading out to the pens. They water and feed the fowl and hogs and cattle, before attending to the crops. One Turn after the rising Sun, men of the village are roused, and break their fast at the head of the table, joined by the elders, wives, daughters, and sons of the settlement. Then, the men carry their axes and hatchets to the forests, where they cut down pine for fires and elm for the home. //Flip//. Page 7851. He kept reading. ------ William flipped to the next page when he heard a groan above him. Just as he tilted his head up, the water pipe broke, and the liquid spewed into his study. "No no no NO NO! FUCK." Frantically, William shielded the book from the water with his body, and raced out of the house. Where could he go? The library? They'd kick him out if they saw him. That's it! His office at the University! William ran, bony legs bending and buckling. ------ He locked the door and slumped into an uncomfortable chair. But he couldn't feel a thing now. Checking to make sure he had not damaged the book, he continued reading. > Sqelinof was talented from birth. He composed his first melody at 3 Cycles, and his first chant at 5 Cycles. His father did not cut down enough trees for the slates that Sqelinof worked with, so he would inscribe on all the surfaces that he could find. This included the village gate, the garden stones, and the inner walls. //Flip//. Page 11,214. He kept reading. ------ > Huik is a small village near the mouth of the Jhefgim River. It was first settled by Linj of Alkrin, in the Eighteenth Cycle of Niklezt. Its nearest city is Proctitu, which grants Huik the right to clear the woods, work the land, and fish the waters of the Jhefgim. In return, Huik is to pay tribute every sixty Lengths, in the form of fifty markeqs of crop and twenty markeqs of cod and trout. //Flip//. And then there were no more pages. That wasn't right. It was still unfinished, still more to know! William tore through the book, flipping frantically for undiscovered passages. But there weren't any. He felt tears blurring his vision. No, this couldn't be! There was more. There had to be. More! More! More! His finger slid over the edge of the page, and a drop of blood fell onto the book. William dropped the volume, shocked and horrified at the possible damage that he had inflicted upon it. Quickly picking it up from the ground, he tried to find the page he had bloodied. But to his surprise, he found instead an unread section. William was delighted. Just as he was about to settle into the chair again, however, a thought crept into his fuzzy conscience. Blood. He had bled, and the book had given him more to discover. This was too good to be true. Was blood all it took to unlock the secrets of the chronicle? He had to find out if it was so. ------ > Gnihal of Quirtu is commonly credited with the invention of the Enlarger, a device that is now commonplace throughout our cities. The Enlarger is a long hollow rock-tube, with disks of Eilu ice that magnify any object the user wishes to view. However, some claim that it was in fact invented 200 Cycles before Gnihal, by a Lupanion priest named Zikail. //Flip//. Page 24,760. And that was it. The back cover greeted William's eyes, like a nemesis that he dreaded to meet again. Fumbling for the knife on his desk, William impatiently opened up the old wound on his finger, dribbling his blood onto the pages. And then he kept reading. ------ William decided not to use his own blood anymore. He could feel himself become weaker every time he cut himself. And he did not want to die. If he did, there would be no more opportunities, no more chances to obtain more knowledge. But he needed blood for the book. Where could he get more blood? The butcher shop? Then William remembered. The Dean's dog, what was its name? Alto, that was it. It was a stupid little dog. No one would miss it. William slipped the knife into his coat pocket, and then stepped out of the office, into the deserted hallway. ------ William was terribly happy. The University was a haven; there was an endless supply of blood for him to use. He would never have to stop reading! > And thus Bjukva claimed, "No warrior shall beat me, no chanter shall sway me, and no maiden shall seduce me! I have been blessed by Thulicn, and my fortitude is strong!" And so as Bjukva challenged those around him, Kilar drew his blade and declared Bjukva a liar. Kilar then beheaded him with one swipe, and tossed Bjukva's head into the swamp. //Flip//. He had reached the end. He cursed himself, and then glared with contempt at the vessel that lay on its side by the corner of the room. It hadn't given a lot of blood, even though it had been quite tall for its age. He had to go collecting again. William slipped the knife into his coat pocket and stepped out of the dormitory. The larger the vessel, the better. > We, as Daevites, are the supreme race. No other can match our glory. Our culture shall be spread by the sword and the spear and the holy chant. We are the Daevites. We are absolute. [[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>]]	2013-02-27T03:02:00	[ "_licensebox", "daevite", "tale" ]	The Price of Knowledge - SCP Foundation	45	[ "component:license-box", "licensing-guide" ]	[ "archived:tales-by-title", "archived:tales-by-date-2013", "archived:tales-by-author", "archived:foundation-tales" ]	[]	16528377	https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-price-of-knowledge

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.