Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: An exclusion boundary with a radius of 2.5 kilometers is to be maintained at all times around the center SCP-XXXX and all space agencies capable of landing on the Lunar surface are to be monitored for proposals to visit the Fra Mauro Formation. All missions which may bring a manned capsule or unmanned satellite within the area of SCP-XXXX are to be delayed indefinitely, cancelled or sabotaged at the Commands discretion. The anomalous nature of the area allows for regular scrutiny by professional and amateur astronomers which should not be discouraged, to minimize suspicion.
All reconnaissance of SCP-XXXX should only be undertaken by probes remotely controlled from Lunar Unit-10, subdivision of Command-██. Any probe entered into the anomaly should be built to withstand micrometeoroids and orbital debris less than 1 centimeter in size, whose velocities generally range between 3 and 18 kilometers per second. However larger debris are consistently recorded and should be avoided unless they are the primary objective of an experiment. It should be noted that Lunar Unit-10 is accountable for the loss of each probe.
Any sentient SCP distinct from SCP-XXXX found within the perimeter is not to be interacted with or made aware of the Foundations presence.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a spherical spacial anomaly, with a radius of 2 kilometers, located at selenographic latitude ██████°S and longitude ██████°W. This area appears to be entirely uniform with the rest of the surface of the Moon from outside the area of effect. SCP-XXXX enters an active state only when manned or unmanned spacecraft, lunar vehicle or persons wearing space suits passes through its perimeter, seamlessly transporting them to a parallel universe designated SCP-XXXX-A. Any attempts to explore deeper into SCP-XXXX-A have failed as soon as objects leave the area designated as SCP-XXXX, causing them to reenter the baseline universe. Experimentation has shown that mundane household objects or materials do not activate SCP-XXXX’s effects and spectroscopic readings do not deviate from the norm.
SCP-XXXX-A is an alternate Lunar surface, situated in exactly the same place as the anomaly sits in our reality. Since its discovery in 19██, the surface has persistently impacted with various remains of animal and humanoid life, vehicles, building materials and miscellaneous waste produced by a world consistent with Earth in the late 1960s. At the very centre of this area, crushed under the remains of a diesel train identified as the Trans Europ Express ████████ █ █/█, is a Lunar Module believed to be inline with the make and style consistent with the Apollo 13 mission launched by Nasa on April 11th, 1970.
Currently the bodies of two crew members of the alternate Apollo 13 mission, Commander Jim Lovell and Jack Swigert have been located on the lunar surface. It is believed the third man, Fred Haise was killed in a cataclysmic event or soon afterwards.
The only recovered materials pertaining to the moment of destruction are the damaged remains of an Apollo Lunar Television Camera, currently stored at Command-██. Anyone with Level 2 clearance can request to see all eighteen hours of footage. See Document-1004 and Document-1006 for abridged transcripts pertinent to the SCP.
Addendum-XXXX-1:
Researchers have concluded that SCP-XXXX-A’s timeline diverged significantly from our own when on April 16th, 1970, its version of Earth was annihilated through an as of yet unknown process. It is theorised that the energy needed to do such is upwards of 2x10³² joules, or an amount of antimatter comparable to Mount Everest. No such explanation put forward so far has demonstrated why the planet would leave no astronomical remains in the form of Asteroids or large meteorites impacting the Moons surface. However, an inexplicably large amount of man made structures, tools and biological matter seems to have survived and floats freely above the lunar surface, consistently propelled away from the area where Earth should be. Researches have termed this event SCP-XXXX-B and continue to argue about its viability and consequences, with some thinking that it might have created SCP-XXXX.
The Foundation has been unable to determine if the parallel reality in question underwent the cataclysmic event because of a failure of an alternate Foundation to prevent an XK-Class End of the World Scenario or through extraterrestrial interference. It is unclear if an alternate version of the Foundation even existed, or if there are duplicates of SCPs currently held within this reality.
Addendum-XXXX-2:
Thorough testing has proved that the Earth’s sudden destruction has little to minimal effect on the rest of the solar system, at least in the years monitored by the Foundation. The Moon’s orbit now a singular ellipse, dragging or passing through the remains of the surface of the earth each year, making it more difficult to explore the interior of SCP-XXXX or to examine the rest of the solar system as time continues. Study of this reality’s orbital mechanics is an ongoing project.
Researchers assigned to the project are required to undergo regular psychiatric evaluation for evidence of depression. It has been noted mood and morale is often extremely low within Lunar Unit-10.
Document-1004:
<Begin Log, April 16th 1970>
[A jostled shot of the lunar surface, with an Astronaut believed to be Commander Jim Lovell in frame with the Earth behind him. Facial features are hard to make out because of sun visors.]
Jim Lovell: Is the camera set up yet?
Jack Swigert: Almost, just gotta get the damn thing stable.
[Jostling continues for a moment, before finally it stops. Second Astronaut enters shot, believed to be Jack Swigert. He stands beside the Commander and waves a hand.]
Jack Swigert: Houston, Apollo 13. How do we read?
Houston: Roger. Read you loud and clear here.
Jim Lovell: First day on the surface of the moon. Todays plan is to get soil samples for the guys back home.
[Jack Swigert raises a thumb and moves towards the Lunar Module. Commander Jim Lovell turns to look at the Earth.]
Jim Lovell: Nice view for it.
Jack Swigert: [Muffled laughing]
Houston: Apollo 13, we’re experience a few problems, give us a moment.
Jim Lovell: Houston, repeat?
[Slowed frames show a sudden ripple through the atmosphere of the planet, before a bright light disrupts all further video feed. The last visible frames are of Jim Lovell’s shadow.]
Jack Swigert: Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?!
Jim Lovell: Uh. Houston? Houston? Is anyone there? There seems to have been a strange light, like the sun rising over the Earth. Houston, is anyone there? Can you read me?
Jack Swigert: Jesus H. Christ just look at that, Jim!
Jim Lovell: Can’t see my hand in front of my face, damn thing nearly blinded me. Jack, do you think comms are down?
Jack Swigert: The oceans are gone, Jim. They’re just fucking gone! I can see right through to the other side, like… Oh god no.
Jim Lovell: Jack? What is it Jack? Repeat?
<End Log>
Document-1006
<Begin Log, April 16th 1970>
Opening Statement: The camera continues to receive no video feed but picks up Apollo 13’s radio signals. Shortly after the annihilation the two Astronauts return to their capsule and attempt to contact Earth with increasing frustration, noting they are unable to reach the third member of their crew. Eventually they both decide to get into their suits again and stand on the surface.
Jim Lovell: I think thats a blue whale.
Jack Swigert: Goddamn it is. Look at that, first blue whale in space. I guess all of them are now. [Muffled laughing.]
Jim Lovell: You okay Jack?
Jack Swigert: Sure. Doing fine Commander. Doing fine.
Jim Lovell: Is the Camera still not working?
Jack Swigert: No, film was all burned out by that light. I think its still recording though.
Jim Lovell: Oh… Yeah, thats definitely a blue whale. Or what’s left of it.
Closing statement: Conversation continues on for three hours, subjects picking out objects familiar to them. Commander Jim Lovell expires first from lack of oxygen, with Jack Swigert continuing to describe objects to his corpse until he expires soon afterwards.
“Unit-01 once took up the entire third sub-basement level of this facility.” The old man pulls back the grating, which squeals in distress. You wince and try not to think about how old the elevator you just rode in is, or how far the shaft drops below your feet. “We were twenty two men and women, all from distinct fields. That office there-” He jabbed with the ivory cane at a moldy white door. “Use to belong to one of the current O5s.” You barely hide your surprise. It makes him smile, his old face wrinkling sharply like a ceramic plate cracking. “Spotty little teenager with forged diplomas on his walls. They’re all gone now, just me. Twelve suicides, sixteen homicides, five displaced dimensionally or removed through temporal manipulation, six promotions. There’s a plaque on the wall in my office, commemorating them all. Poor bastards.”
You try to keep up with the stiff walking gait of Doctor Cosmos, his eyes steeled and glaring ahead. You think he might be considering the past, but you realise quickly hes angrily observing the present. Basement Level 3 was converted into storage back in the 1980s. Various paper documents, redundantly existing in an age where binary rules undisputedly, sits caked with dust. Cheap shelving units make walking down the hallway a tricky prospect for two men side by side. You want to pause to let him go ahead of you, but he gestures with the tip of his cane and stares you down.
Its a maze of rooms and labs, choked with the miscellaneous storage of a facility older than you. He doesn’t speak, but occasionally raps you on the ankle to direct you one way or another. You get the feeling he's driving you in circles, or following a distorting little maze, trying to disorient you. You pass by replicas of the Apollo 11 space suit twice, step over the fossilised skull of a Tyrannosaurus Rex and have to crawl through a tunnel made by a toppled, vicious looking industrial machine. Questions bubble under the surface of your mind, thoughts about turning the Doctor into an interesting case study. It was self evident that Doctor Cosmos was very defensive of what little remained of Unit-01.
“Left here.” He raps your smartly on the knee and you strain a smile, squeezing into an opening you imagine could be camouflaged at a moments notice. At the end of this final stretch of lime green hallway is a door with peeling white paint. You politely wait for Doctor Cosmos to remove a ring of keys on his belt, attached to an elastic cord, which he uses to unlock the door. You make a mental note about lax security procedures as you enter his office.
There are stacks of files everywhere, lining every wall. Books have been displaced from shelves to make room for the ocean of paper, creating interesting geometric patterns in the corners of the rooms, little staircases of abandoned knowledge. A large oak desk sits in the centre of the room with a huge black board behind it, covered in scrawled notes and equations in chalk. There is a leather armchair behind it and two very uncomfortable, cheap looking plastic ones in front of the table. You suspect he keeps them out of the way and meticulously lays them out for unwanted company. Another note is added to your mental dossier as you glance at the only modern looking piece of equipment in the room. A laptop sits closed on the top of the desk, surrounded by silver picture frames with their backs to you.
The Doctor lifts his ivory cane and for a moment you’re afraid he might beat you to death with it. You notice with a guilty start its cracked, overused tip is lightly resting against a brass plate above the chalk board, shining brightly in the electrical lights installed in the 1980s. A list of 22 names. You keep your brow smooth even as you mentally type SECURITY RISK into the report in your head.
“Sit. Sit.” He waves a hand and proceeds to sink into the worn leather armchair. It creaks from age. “I never did catch your name, now what was it Son?”
“Ahem.” You clear your through. “Doctor Silver, psychiatric reviewer.” You wait for him to welcome you slightly more warmly. He does not. “Ahem. Well, I noticed when reviewing the personnel records for the Site that you’re something of an elusive character. Since you came to work for the Foundation in the fall of 1946 you’ve had very little interaction with anyone outside of Unit-01 and O5 command. I suggested to our superiors it might be beneficial, especially considering the now near defunct status of Unit-01, that you had a small review. Nothing formal of course, just to see how well you’re handling your, Ahem, academic isolation.”
Doctor Cosmos has that strange steely gaze again. Eyes that scrutinize. Eyes that have spent their lives measuring. The man before you is nearing ninety years old and has declined all attempts at retirement. His paycheck is nearly the only official way to trace his existence without directly asking O5 Command.
“Do you have clearance to know what I do?” The question cuts deep into the caring but professional tone you’ve tried to set.
“O5 Command deemed it appropriate that you brief me-”
“Prove it.” The words hang heavily in the air. You decide to humour the Doctor, withdrawing your security pass. He withdraws a pair of battered, brass spectacles from his shirt pocket and examines the card with those same eyes, bearing down like a freight train of judgement. “Fine.” He does not hand the card back to you, but places it front of him neatly. “My life’s work has been to quantify end of the world scenarios, thanks to the Foundation. Back in 1946 the bosses were worried about the effect that atomic annihilation might have for humanity, with a team of economists and political analysts projecting that in some forty years it might become a very serious possibility.
“I was paid to imagine a nuclear wasteland where the monsters we face everyday ruled kingdoms of pitiful men. I was good at it, so they asked me to do it again and again. The next thing I know, decades have passed and I’ve thought up designations for end of the world scenarios then created ways to break them, prevent them and undo them at our own leisure. For sixty three years I’ve been quietly making my way through the archives, attempting to piece the plans and the convoluted plots together in such a way that it would render the Foundation foolproof to any attack.” The armchair creaked slightly as he leaned forward.
“The past four years in particular have been the culmination of all that data. Its an uphill battle, compiling twenty three thousand days of work into a manifesto a chimp could understand, no offence meant to your intelligence of course.” The ivory cane was lightly laid on the desk and Doctor Cosmos opened a draw to his left, not drawing his gaze away from you.
“I’ve finished it.” Your eyebrows raise, sceptically. “And I’ll give it to you. What you do with it then is up to you, Doctor Silver, but I’d prefer to close my career with a few words.” The old man fishes three objects from the interior of his desk; An old service revolver, a small glass vial containing a pill and a black folder, filled with a thick sheaf of paper.
“… Ahem. What is that you’d like me to record?” You ask, attempting to put the math together for each part of the puzzle put before you.
“Object A.” He taps an old, chipped nail on the pill. “An Amnesiac. Rather thorough, I am afraid. The effects have been likened to severe cranial trauma or late stage alzheimers. I deserve to forget in the last minutes, I believe.” The finger drifts. “Object B, The Enfield Revolver. Well maintained, a badge of honor I’ve carried to remind me what the Foundation is for.” He pauses and withdraws a letter from the inside jacket of the black folder. You briefly catch the title on the first page; The All Purpose Guide to Classifying, Averting and Reversing End of the World Scenarios. He places a formal letter, on Foundation stationary, before you. “My last request is to be allowed obscurity. I’d rather what remains of my family is unaware of my death. There’s a nice spot near the south of the Site, overlooks a valley. If I meant a damn thing spread my ashes there.” Your eyes remain hungrily upon the folder and he smirks dryly, finger landing on it. “Object C. An expression of loyalty to the Foundation.” When he hands you the folder he returns your Authentication pass with it. You resist the urge to open it and begin intensively reading immediately.
“Be careful when you make your way back out. The path I led you down is the safe one. Charleton, one of my Assistants, is still lost out there. Keeps complaining about someone taking his eyes. Never had the heart to tell the boys upstairs about it, you see.” Your eyes flick from the black cover to a man who is as brittle as thin ice, as old as a glacier, slowly trickling through the Foundation. A pebble that barely created a ripple but decided to delve as deep into the pond as possible.
“Thank you, Doctor Cos-”
“Please, call me Abraham. I always hated that name.”
You watch as he methodically prepares himself, mentally and physically. He straightens himself with a small mirror located in another deep drawer. He shares a glass of whiskey with you. It burns and you dislike it immensely, but the point is that the simple act of doing it isn’t for you. He mixes the alcohol with the Amnesiac, which works as he describes, surprisingly quickly. It reminds you of your fear about them, of the secret little tricks you’ve set up to catch any lapses in memory. The sharp, steely, cracked face of the Doctor loosens across from you as he tells you stories about O5-3 you’ll never repeat. He forgets what he’s talking about and the facade slips to reveal wet cement, a dense and sudden misunderstanding of the world around him. The man still found the strength of will to raise a skeletal hand and bite the end of his barrel. You like to believe his Death is instantaneous.
Leaving the maze is easier than you thought it would be. As the familiar props and confiscated items welcomes you, you ponder if Charleton even exists and immediately know for a fact he does. The elevator grate clanks shut and the hallway darkens once the sensors detects no more movement in Sub-Basement Level 3.
Inside the file you find exactly what you expect, beyond the title page. A blank booklet, with a single message typed onto the last page.
Just bite the bullet already.