- Equilibrium
- ?
- Inner Void
- Gallery
- Art
- Pathology
- Death and the Doctors Hub
- Surgery
- Painless
- horror
- Faces
- Water
- Mercy
- Three Short Scenes about Death
- sign
- contest
- Projects
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: EDIT ██/██/████: Following the passing of priority vote by O5 Command [8 in favor, 5 against] SCP-XXXX has been granted the "Usable" classification as per Protocol-AE-18, Clause 5 (Overwhelming Benefits to Priority Personnel). As such, authorization of directed usage of SCP-XXXX by Foundation personnel for the express purposes described in Charter XXXX-C (see below) has been deemed permissible and may overtake the anomaly's original Special Containment Procedures. Original containment procedures may be reinstated upon a majority vote by O5 Command. Original procedures follow below:
SCP-XXXX is to be held in a standard Safe object storage container. SCP-XXXX's containment unit is to be kept at least 1 kilometer away from any priority Foundation personnel, and specifically from any personnel currently engaged in administrative, research, development, intelligence gathering or intelligence processing tasks. Personnel exposed to SCP-XXXX for more than 24 hours are to remain at a distance greater than 1 kilometer for a period no lesser than 30 days.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a localized cognitive anomaly currently contained within an etching on a brass bell, 5 cm in diameter. SCP-XXXX is currently believed to be contained within the etching itself rather than the bell, as replicating its pattern produced functioning, if much diminished, copies of the anomaly.
The cogitative ability of human beings (attention, perception, memory, language, learning, and higher reasoning) in the vicinity of SCP-XXXX's area of effect (somewhere between 500 and 750 meters in diameter) is subjected to an unconscious equalization with all other human beings also in SCP-XXXX's area of effect. The average level of cognizance of all human subjects in the vicinity of SCP-XXXX will seek to reach an average, with less capable individuals gaining cognitive verisimilitude while those more capable will experience a deterioration of their cognitive faculties.
The strength of this effects depends upon the number of individuals affected by SCP-XXXX, the differences in cognitive levels between said individuals and the duration of the exposure to SCP-XXXX. SCP-XXXX's anomalous influence begins taking effect roughly 24 hours after initial exposure and reach its peek roughly 30 days following it. Remaining outside of SCP-XXXX's area of effect will cause its influence to gradually fade at roughly the same rate of its increase.
In order to more precisely test the effects of SCP-XXXX, the Foundation Standardized Cognition Test (FSCT) was drafted. Created specifically to test overall cognitive aptitude in the above-mentioned, the FSCT was then distributed
Addendum: [Optional additional paragraphs]
Ah. Am I warm?
There is no way for me to know. My senses, such as they are, cannot be trusted. A sense is nothing without stimuli, after all- an empty vessel? Mmm, is that the best way to put it? Perhaps not.
Once I could have found the words I wanted, I am sure of that. Words were my craft, more or less, though I'm sure any true master would scoff that this description. What I wrote was no high art, after all. No poetry flowed from my fingers, no great masterwork of prose emerged from the hidden depths between my eyes. No. I wrote something else.
Reports.
Mmm. Full all of a sudden. Nearly certain that is true, at least. It's not that I can sense the food in any meaningful way, it's just that a certain weight of hunger seemed to have dissipated for the moment. Good, perhaps I can concentrate more now. I wouldn't count on it though. Where was I? Oh, yes. Reports.
She chose the soft hours of early morning for her final view of the world.
The light of early autumn was tender gold as it flowed around her dark form. The cliff she selected, a daunting edifice of bright white chalk, seemed to dim as she made her way to its summit, as if even the primordial life of the creatures who made this stone resented her presence. Though this was nothing new to her, she still wished it wasn't so today. Was asking for the world to contain her for one more day that much to ask? Could it truly to allow her to share its beauty even in her final moments?
She supposed not.
Still, the scene that greeted her when she reached the clifftop was breathtaking. The endless vista of the ocean seemed to envelope her, the cool blue of the gently curving waves as they caressed the white stone pouring into the emptiness inside her, a soothing balm. The cries of distant sea birds filled the air, and the calm wind tossed the ragged hems of her robe and the thin strands of her hair about her. For a moment, she felt as if she was swimming in the air, as if the entire world around her was a giant sea and she a diver in its depths. She could let the currents sweep her away, carry her above or below, if only she desired. Freedom, from all things.
The stabbing pain in her innards swiftly brought her down to reality. Though her head was swimming with a massive dose of her own medication the pain was still seeping through, as insidious as poison. Even half the amount she took would've likely comatosed any normal person, but for her it was the bare minimum to keep her going and sane. Soon, even it wouldn't be enough to keep the pain at bay, but soon that would no longer matter.
Groaning with effort, she maneuvered her aching body into an awkward sitting position near the lip of the cliff. The wind was more powerful here,and the blue abyss below seemed to moan at her as she stared at it. There was something almost companionable about the noise, as if sea and wind were sharing in her suffering. It comforted her, helped her prepare for what she was about to do here. Today, in this place, she will tear out the heart in her chest. Today, it would all be over. At last.
It was time to give to herself what she have given to so many, for so long. With effort, she raised a shivering gloved hand and lifted it before her, half covering the rising sun. With this hand, with those once nimble fingers, she had delivered the gift of her namesake to the world. She still remembered the day of her birth, when she and her siblings rose from the reeking barrow that was their cradle, made by their Masters. As they shoved aside rotting corpses and shook maggots off their newly formed garments, she recalled seeing purpose flowing into the figures of her fellows. As each recalled their mastery, each was filled with the sense of what they had to do to cure the world. Each saw the obvious flaws of this existence, and each had a different idea on how to fix it.
All but her.
Unlike her siblings, she was born without a mastery. Her hands were not created to deliver healing. Only the gift of her namesake. As the rest quickly climbed out into the world, she remained inside, seeking comfort in the death that surrounded her. Her siblings quickly became aware of her nature, however, and pulled her outside after them. To her surprise, they did not seem to begrudge her for what she was. Indeed, they took an odd sort of comfort by her presence. She did not understand it at first, but after a while of travelling with them, of seeing them struggle, she realized why. She was their fail-safe. When someone or something was beyond their talents, beyond their treatment… they could always turn to her. She gave their failures a sweeter taste, made them appear as if they were the will of the Masters. After all, it was their gift she delivered to the hopeless. The gift that was to cease. True death.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Due to SCP-XXXX's unstable spatial location and its debilitating effects on personnel attempting to operate within it, only partial containment has been achieved at this point in time. Efforts are currently concentrated in swiftly locating SCP-XXXX with each new local shift, blocking access to it once it has been located, the removal of promotional material produced by it, and the decontamination of those who have entered it. Excursions into SCP-XXXX for the purpose of future documentation is restricted to those approved by regional command.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a potentially sapient spatial anomaly manifesting as a series of interconnected rooms of various sizes. The entity contained in the rooms forming SCP-XXXX refers to itself as an establishment by the name of "The Galen Gallery of Fine Physical Art". SCP-XXXX is in a constant state of spatial overlap to baseline reality, temporarily existing on top of pre-existing locations. SCP-XXXX typically transfers itself to a different location every 6-12 hours. SCP-XXXX seemingly prefers relatively isolated locations to manifests in, with dilapidated urban areas considered prime targets. As of the time of this writing SCP-XXXX has not been known to transfer itself to a location occupied by living beings of any substantial size. Additionally, SCP-XXXX will manifest only in locations accessible only via one entrance, which will remain locked both before and after any of the activities taking place within SCP-XXXX (see below). No means of entering SCP-XXXX during the times it is locked were found as of yet.
SCP-XXXX's interior serves as an art gallery, displaying what promotional material produced by it describes as "selected works of physical and metaphysical beauty". Examination of documentation of the art found within SCP-XXXX unearthed several anomalous creations hosted within. The anomalous nature of the art found within SCP-XXXX is usually minor and limited to benign and temporary sensory enhancement, suppression or manipulation, as well as unusual audio-visual elements found in several of the works. SCP-XXXX's catalog of art changes with each new exhibition, but the above qualifications have so far remained.
Once manifested in a new location, SCP-XXXX will begin transmitting promotional materials via social networks and other online venues, promoting various art-related events and exhibitions ostensibly taking place within it. All such events are inevitably dated to the same day as their publication, sometimes taking place only an hour following its creation. Due to this, said promotional material will often advise urgency on the part of its prospective audience. Foundation surveillance found that once audience members arrive at the location of an SCP-XXXX hosted event, they are required to wait until the exact opening time found in the promotional material, and enter as a group. Once all members of the group have entered, the door will lock behind them, and will remain locked for the duration of the exhibition, after which it will open to allow the visitors out. SCP-XXXX will usually de-manifest
Between 10 minutes and an hour following the end of an exhibition.
Though capable of limited and vague auditory communications (as low mummers originating from its walls), SCP-XXXX conducts most of its interactions through an intermediary, henceforth SCP-XXXX-1. SCP-XXXX-1 is a humanoid entity of unknown age and ethnicity. Cursory examination by agents during their limited exposure to SCP-XXXX attributes several possibly feminine qualities to it, notably its voice. SCP-XXXX-1 is garbed in a long tunic bearing surface similarities to a Roman stola, though Foundation historians noted several dissimilarities between said traditional garb and the description of SCP-XXXX-1's clothing provided by agents. Additionally, SCP-XXXX-1 wears a blank plaster mask, containing only holes for the eyes. SCP-XXXX-1 acts as a sort of tour guide to SCP-XXXX and will often interpret its vocalizations and relate them to the audience found within it. SCP-XXXX has also been known to add commentary of its own regarding exhibitions it finds personally interesting. SCP-XXXX-1 appears to be fascinated by eyes, and will closely examine those of any audience members during their stay in SCP-XXXX.
Once enough visitors have arrived to satisfy SCP-XXXX, its secondary anomaly will begin to manifest. SCP-XXXX disables most higher motor function in the bodies of all visitors and, through unknown means, bestows it upon SCP-XXXX-1. SCP-XXXX-1 uses this function to conduct an orderly tour of the exhibition found within SCP-XXXX, with the group moving at a uniform speed behind it and looking or listening to whichever art piece it desires. SCP-XXXX-1 has not been shown to use its control over the audience for any other purpose, other than the occasional close examination of the eyes of its members. Once the tour is concluded, SCP-XXXX will return the visitors the control over their bodies, and SCP-XXXX-1 will usher them out.
Addendum: [Optional additional paragraphs]
She breathed life.
Such an odd thing, for one whose hands knew so much death. The smooth, warm wood of the brush felt nothing like the cold metal that trained her fingers when she was first born, and the canvas was speckled only with the marks of her work, and nothing more. So many different colors, instead of that some old one. So many textures, shades, hues, instead of just the one. How could she ever go back now that she experienced this?
"This… I…"
"Cool, ain't it babe? Scoot over though, don't wanna waste the canvas, don't got a lotta cash for a new one, ya dig?"
She wondered why he insisted speaking like that. He never used to, before he started hanging out with… that crowed. She moved over to allow the man she thought she could love resume his place at the easel. He wasn't the same anymore. He tried too hard.
"Great job on that inking, gotta say. Ya know I'm no good at that shit."
She tried to smile but couldn't muster the joy. "That's what I'm here for, right?"
"That and your beautiful face, doll."
She raised a finger to her scarred cheek, letting it rest there. This was another thing he never used to do. She knew he thought his remarks were droll, comforting in their own mocking way, but she couldn't help but be hurt by them. The old him would know better than to say something like that.
"I'm telling you, this one is going to be it. This one will let me right in there. They'll have to see it this time!"
She doubted it. This was his third attempt at entering this so called "Association of Well-Cultured Youths". She had no idea why the bothered with the thinly disguised pseudonym, everyone knew who they really were. As she sat back on the color-speckled sofa and watched him scribble about the canvas with a heavy pencil, she thanked any god that might have been watching that the group he was trying to get into wasn't important enough to draw the ire of any of the real players. Their idiocy was their shield.
"Pain, signifying adverse conditions, signifying nonoptimal circumstances. Consider typical causes. Number one: happenstance, random occurrences, other luck/fate constructs. Likely unsolvable and unavoidable, barring reality manipulation. Consider later, consult likely candidates. Low priority for the moment."
clickclickclick
"Number two: natural entropy/decay/cessation of being. Solvable? Possibly, but against mandate, would be wise to avoid until possible developments, possibility of losing mandate too great a risk, all-compromising. Secondary priority."
clickclickclick
"Number three: conflict. Inter-species, interpersonal, internal, all possible and likely. Supporting cause for numbers one and two, dependent relationship. Solvable? Potentially, but would require drastic measures, forced adaptation, vast structural reorganization across all theaters of operation. However, removing this cause likely to reduce overall suffering most significantly, assist in removing other causes. Morally obligated to make the attempt. Primary priority."
clickclick… click?
The man's fingers, up to this point buzzing over his grimy keyboard rapidly, ceased their motion suddenly. Though he did not remove his eyes from the bright glow of his monitor, the man sensed that someone else was now in the room with him. At first, he dismissed the other presence, believing them to be the housekeeper, a delivery person or some other menial and insignificant service giver. As the presence lingered however, and made no effort to announce itself, he reconsidered.
"I have asked not to be disturb. There is a sign on the door and everything."
"Oh, terribly sorry. I did not come through the door, you see."
Oh no.
"Oh. It is you. I did… not expect…"
"You mean, you hoped never to see me again. No, don't argue, it's a perfectly understandable reaction. Few wish to meet me even once."
The man couldn't help but hearing the hidden implication of that phrase. Yet they all do.
"What do you want?"
"Ah, straight to the point, are we? Yes, you were never one for small talk, weren't you. Still, you cannot blame me for forgetting. After all, so little about you is as it was when we last met."
The man remembered that meeting well. The hill, the elderly hound, his bundle. He remembered his failed attempt at defiance, and how the Youngest allowed him to continue with his work even as he mocked him. A hundred years, and yet he remembered every single moment.
"What… do you want?" He did not turn to face the entity which intruded on him. He knew who it was.
The Small Death laid a hand on the man's shoulder, in a gesture that might have been comforting if his hand wasn't so very cold.
"Nothing out of the ordinary, dearest spawn. All I desire is that you practice your craft. Is that not what you were planning to do? Isn't that what all this little typing is about?"
"Who gave you permission to look at my work?! This was not what was agreed upon, damn you, I was promised free reign in all tasks directly or tangentially rela-"
"Don't you remember how this line of conversation ended last time? Must we really repeat ourselves like this?"
Despite the utter fury which possessed the man at the thought of a creature such as the Small Death sniffing about his research, he had to acknowledge what he was implying. He was in his power, totally and completely. Any promises made between them held only while they were convenient to the Small Death, and not a moment more.
Death is not the greatest of evils: rather, it is to wish to die when one cannot.
Sophocles
In the beginning, there was death. Then, and forever after. As creation's most ancient of beings, there are very few things the Brothers Death do not entirely understand.
Oddly enough, one such thing are their own creations.
Born from mass grave at a time of plague, the Children of the Barrow forever owe their allegiance to Death, they who gave them life.
Born from conflict and into conflict, the Children of the Barrow seek always to create a world without it. A world where they would no longer be needed.
Born with skill in medicine and healing, the Children of the Barrow name themselves plague doctors, a name fitting for more than one reason. For each plague they cure, another is brought forth from their very existence.
The Children of the Barrow wish only to heal, but the Brothers Death may have other plans for them.
As does life.
Mainline tales (written by Dmatix):
- Three Short Scenes About Death
- Therapy
- Painless
- Surgery
- Pathology (coming soon)
- Special thanks to SunnyClockwork for providing the wonderful art for this page
How long has it been since he had flesh under his fingers?
Too long, that much was certain. This cell was small, too small by far. He did not much mind being alone, that was not the issue. He had long since pulled out from himself those parts which required company. No, what bothered him was that he had nothing at all to do. His jailers would come and speak to him from time to time, certainly, but if he ever even suggested that he may improve them by means of his craft, they'd get all in a huff and leave. Silly, ignorant creatures, all of them. But what else could be expected of them? Truly, it was not their fault. They were simply very ill. A shame they would not let him cure them.
Well, there wasn't much he could do about it at the moment. Might as well return to his work. He laid down on his narrow bunk and covered himself with his robe. He was especially proud of the robe. His jailers asked about it multiple times, but whenever he tried to explain it to them, he could tell they didn't believe him. What was so odd about a robe grafted from your own skin? Wasn't that what skin was for in the first place? But all they did was moan and complain about how it wasn't possible, how no one could could remove so much skin from himself and still live, that no one even had that much skin in the first place. Showed what they knew. Was he not a professional? It was so difficult getting people to show the proper respect nowadays.
His mind was wandering again. What was he doing? Ah, yes.
With long, well-trained fingers he began digging into his abdomen. The flesh there was yielding, properly porous, neatly organized. Now, where did he leave his bone saw? Oh yes, the liver cavity. Reach about over there and… ah, there it was. Hrm, the thing was getting dull, and he had no idea where he was going to get a new one. Never mind that for now, he reminded himself. Next, the scalpels. The long ones were stashed within the bones of his pelvis, and he had a devil of a time getting them out of there. He really needed to find a better place for them, but his body only had so much room, and any size-increasing modification were bound to be too easily noticed in his current surrounding. Perhaps a second cranial compartment? Something to consider after he was finished with this procedure.
He was forgetting something, he was certain of that. But what was it?
He dug out his dwindling supply of adhesives from within his left eye socket. This required the temporary removal of the eye, which did not make the task any easier. Still, when it was done, he had all he required to continue. Spreading his robe more evenly on his body and positioning the hem of it to support his neck, he began the operation proper.
This one was going to be difficult. In order to reach that part of his brain that he wished to remove today, he'd have to bypass some rather essential segments. Failure to do so may result in severe harm to his memory, which would obviously be catastrophic, considering he had no access to his old fallback brain anymore. Not that he would switch to that one anyway- he had modified this new one over a period of at least three decades, and he was not about to let all that work go to waste. No, he would simply need to be very careful, and that was all there was to it.
"When it comes to a lady whose merit is not sound, but who makes you sniff and bray like a hound…" he hummed to himself as he used the bone saw to slowly remove the top of his skull. He wasn't quite sure where he learned that little ditty, but it soothed him. He hummed on as he laid the saw to the side and brushed off the bone dust from his shoulders.
"Kindness and beauty will do you no good…" He reached for a his long scalpel and maneuvered it around to that part of his brain he hated.
"It will not matter if you're polite or rude…" Carefully, he dislodged it from the surrounding brain matter, hoping that his incisions were precise enough. It would be good to have a mirror.
"If success is what you wish, and to gain good health…" He finished with the scalpel and grabbed his tweezers, which he previously retrieved from a pocket of empty flesh around his ankles.
"All you need to show her is a good bit of wealth!" A righteous pluck, and he was done. He stopped himself for a moment. What did he feel?
He considered the notion of color. Did he have any preference? He remembered he was always oddly fond of yellow, and despised orange with all of his heart. Strange, was it not? The two were so very similar to one another, after all. There was no sense in it, none at all. He remembered the day he finally found his solution. When he finally realized the source of his problems, of all of their problems. This senseless preference, and all that was similar to them… those were the key. So, did he still like yellow?
"Yellow… yellow… I…"
"I don't care about yellow! Aha…ahahaha!"
Capital! He had done it! It was gone! Another wretched part of him cleansed, another remnant of the life he once possessed removed for all time! He was about to rise and perform a merry jig, but then remembered the top half of his skull was still missing, and reconsidered. He carefully replaced it and applied the remnants of his adhesives to it, making sure to also reapply it to the seams that firmly attached his mask to his face. It would not do for it to come off. Not ever.
Do not get distracted, he reminded himself. Gathering his wits, he sat down and considered the new composition of his brain. What new insights did the removal of the offending sentiment allow him? First, he should revise the conclusion he had already reached, to figure out if those were still sound. Yes…
So, what did he know about life?
That it needed curing. This was his first conclusion, the foundation of all that came after, and it remained as solid as ever. His siblings, fools that they were, thought him mad for this realization. They were created to preserve life, they claimed. But they were wrong. He knew the truth. He figured it out all by himself. Hehehe.
Life was a burden on those who carried its loathsome spark upon their souls. A bundle of contradicting impulses, cruel desires and nonsensical emotions. Life was an ever-multiplying beast, and in his profession, such creatures had only one name. A surgeon he was, the Surgeon he was, and he was the one to figure out what life was, what it was really all about.
It was so obvious, he thought as he caressed the skin grafts that connected his face to his long-beaked mask with slim, delicate fingers. Life was a cancer. Life murdered the soul.
It was his responsibility, as a medical professional and a moral being, to excise it.
He remembered his first operation of the type. His patients screamed and moaned, for the Anesthesiologist was not there to assist him, as he cured them from their mortal coil. The suffering was lamentable, but necessary, for once they died, their true soul was revealed. This was what made him confident of the righteousness of his cause. Once they rose again, cured and whole, all they desired was to help their fellows reach the same… enlightenment. The soul, he found, not only desired death for itself, but for the world as well.
To see the dead emancipate the living… that made it all worth it. All the mockery, all the hatred and loathing, all his solitude.
He was the c-
He was not alone anymore. Two figures stood in his bare cell, staring down at him where he laid. The first was tall, gaunt, dark and pale. He knew him well.
"Lord."
"Surgeon. It has been too long."
The Surgeon did not understand. "Too long? We are never apart, Lord. I am the instrument of your will. I am with you always."
His lord said nothing, only smiled. The Surgeon turned his gaze to the other figure, a short, stooped man who refused to look at him directly. Even without his mask, the Surgeon knew who he was.
"Brother Diagnostician."
"You are no brother of mine, beast." The man turned to his lord. "Let's get this over with."
His lord nodded, then turned to the Surgeon once more. "I have a task for you, most loyal servant. Your expertise is required."
"What… what do you desire, Lord? What can I do for one so mighty?"
The Small Death grinned, showing teeth like a row of tombstones.
"Why, dear Surgeon, I have a world for you to cure."
"So you can cure me?"
The doctor rubbed his forehead then rearranged his heavy plastic spectacles. They were supposed to compensate for his missing mask, but he found that all they really did was remind him of its absence.
"I'm sorry, perhaps I did not explain myself correctly. As I said before, I cannot cure you, of pain or of anything else."
"But…"
The woman sitting on the other side of his desk was in a pitiful state. Her skin, which might have once been a healthy light brown, was now pale and sallow, hanging loosely over protruding bones. Her dark eyes were clouded with pain of many different varieties. She set slumped in the comfortable armchair the doctor reserved for his patients, as if trying to appear smaller than she really was. Despite its being a hot summer day, she wore a heavy, long-sleeved blouse. The doctor didn't need to roll up those sleeves to tell why.
"That does not mean I can't do anything to help you. I do require, however, that you understand the nature of the treatment you will receive."
"Um… okay?"
They never understood when he first explained it to them. The doctor did not blame them, for he wasn't truly sure he understood himself.
"Pain… is chronic. Not just yours, but everyone's. It is a symptom of human existence, something all must endure simply because they are."
He could tell he wasn't getting through to her. Her eyes were darting around his small office, noticeably lingering on the high shelves containing his medical supplies. A glint of desire sparked in the woman's otherwise dead eyes. She was barely paying attention to him at all now. He sighed and pressed on regardless.
"Humanity exists in a constant state of conflict. Nation against nation, religion against religion, person against person. It has always been thus, and always will be. Not only that, we are at a constant struggle with ourselves. 'Am I good enough? 'Is this the way I should be?' 'Why does my body look this way?' 'Why must I always suffer?'. As long as we live, we can never be at peace. It is antithetical to our very nature."
"Uh huh… I think I get it, yeah."
"I'm telling you all of this because you must understand what my treatment entails. I will have no unwilling or uninformed patients. I have seen where that leads."
And he had. Stark images sparked to life in his mind, livid with shame. A brother, dissecting and making puppets of dead and living alike. A sister, delivering pain and calling it healing. Another who… no.
He will not be like them.
"I will not cure you. Do not for a second imagine that I will. What I can do, however, is put your pain to sleep."
For the first time, he had her full attention.
"You… you can do that?"
"It is about the only thing I can do for you. I can take your pain, and bury it within you. I will take every possible cause for it- past, present and future, and I will suffocate them. They will still be there, but you will no longer have any capacity to sense them."
"I won't feel anything?"
He could sense the hesitation in her voice. Good. Perhaps he could persuade her to forgo this yet.
"You will feel nothing, and I mean this in the very broadest of terms. The treatment must be most comprehensive if it is to be successful. To bury pain, I must also bury everything else that is… you. Permanently."
Something filled the woman's dark, empty eyes, and for a moment the doctor believed he had succeeded in turning her away. But then he realized that it wasn't fear he saw there. It was surrender.
"Do it."
"Are you quite certain? I am not sure you fully understan-"
"I understand. I said do it."
In face of such determination, what else could he do?
The woman laid strapped to the bed in his operating theater, the filthy rags she came into his office with replaced with clean medical scrubs. The chamber was bright and as clean as the scrubs, and empty but for the doctor and his patient.
"Are you sure the straps are necessary?" she asked.
"Quite certain, I am afraid. Even if you are willing, your body may attempt to reject what I am about to do to you. If it resists me, it may compromise the procedure. I must have no interruptions."
"Okay. Are you going to start then?"
"I shall. I need only my tools."
With that, the doctor left the woman's side and strode to the large cabinet at the other side of the room. From its top shelf he took a long plastic tray, which he began to fill. First came a series of delicate steel scalpels, arranged by decreasing size. After them were twice as many syringes, the smallest the size of the doctor's fingernail, the largest as long as his index finger. The liquids within them were of the doctor's own making, and precious beyond measure. Last came an electrical device, a small metal sphere connected to a number of electrodes. With the tray held in both hands, he returned to the woman.
"Are you prepared to begin then? It is not to late to change your mind."
"I told you before, I'm ready. This is what I want."
"Very well. Applying preliminary anesthetic agent… now."
Said agent was an ordinary one, meant only to numb the senses. The woman's breath grew shallow as she drifted into gentle unconsciousness. She almost seemed peaceful for a moment, until the doctor took a closer look at her lined face. There were far too many marks on it for a person so young. For a moment, he wished he had his brother to tell him what each of them meant. This was always the Diagnostician's specialization, not his. But his brother was long gone, vanished into parts unknown. His own knowledge would have to do.
Where to begin…
The doctor passed a gloved finger over the woman's forehead. The long line there seemed older than most of the others, and more pronounced. He closed his eyes for a moment. A memory line. Yes, those would be a reasonable place to begin. He will move chronologically. The doctor took one of his smaller syringes and gently used it to pierce the woman's skin near the line. Almost immediately it began to shimmer in a faint blueish hue.
"Application successful. Proceeding to erase." he said to no one.
With that, he drew the second largest of his scalpels and carefully began to cut a line surrounding the line. As he did so, he could sense the residue of the memory which made this mark. Loud screaming, smashing glass, the sound of a child weeping, a terribly pronounced sting of pain followed by a longer, duller ache that never seemed to go away. The doctor felt no remorse at all as he buried the woman's parents forever, sentencing her memories of them to the deepest, darkest refuse pile her mind possessed.
The twin lines at the sides of her mouth were a more ambiguous prospect. Two people were hidden in them, similar and not at the same time. One was tall, fair, charming. He moved with the confident grace of a fencer and his eyes were the steel of his weapon. There was love of sorts there, somewhere, but as his scalpel did its work the doctor could sense its corruption. It was a fleeting thing, and terribly one-sided. Its mark was erased.
The line on the other side of the mouth belonged to a man as well. Or rather, to the prospect of a man. For a moment the doctor could almost imagine he saw the woman's belly swell, could hear the heartbeats of a child within. But no. It never did happen. The man's last memento died before it was born, and with it died something in the woman too. She had buried it, alone, telling no one. So too did the doctor bury it now.
The hours passed, and so did the memories. One by one the doctor buried them away, erasing the marks of a lifetime from the woman's face, if not from her soul. Her haggard visage seemed almost peaceful now. Almost young. The doctor was momentarily temped to leave things at that. She had a chance at a new life now, free from the scars of a past she did not deserve. He could leave things at that.
But not with a clean conscience. Cleansed of her past she might be, but she was still human. All the future held for her were more scars, more of the same. He had to go further. All the way.
With a sigh, the doctor drew the second largest of his syringes. He had worked hard and sacrificed much to obtain the gently bubbling liquid it held. While it was still in its syringe it was clear as water, but when the doctor injected it into the back of the woman's neck, the skin surrounding it turned as black as tar. This stain began to rapidly spread, to prepare her for what the doctor knew had to be done.
Scalpels in hand, he began removing her identity.
He began with what he deemed simplest, or at least, with what the woman had the least of. Ideology and faith went first. With some of his patients, the process of removing such things could be an arduous and time consuming affair, but it appeared the sort of life the woman had led left her very little time to worry about them. To banish them was a trifling victory. With those also went what passed for an education, her malnourished sense of curiosity, and the long-desiccated corpse of her aspirations.
The doctor couldn't help but note the lack of resistance on the woman's part. This was not unheard of, but it was a rarity. Her life must truly have been… no. He would consider this no further. If anything, this was conformation he was doing the right thing.
He persevered, moving more difficult things. He could not remove her intellect entirely, for she would need some to continue to function, but he removed as much as he would dare. He knew its burden too well not to. Hers was a sharp thing, even as abused as it was, and the doctor had to be very careful in his cutting. Following that came other parts of her identity- her taste in food and fashion, the scents she enjoyed and those she despised, her secret love of classical music, her odd patriotism and her unexplained hatred of the color green. As the cuts went deeper, so did the things he removed. Her gender identity, her sexual preferences, her perception of morality. More hours of labor and a dozen empty syringes later, and nothing was left from what was once the woman's inner world. She was a blank slate now, only as human as her body made her.
That too needed fixing. At one point, the doctor deemed what came before sufficient to the prevention of all future pain. He had learned differently, however. People did not need to know anything about a person's inner world to hate them. To hurt them. For her to be truly free, the last step of the procedure had to be completed. The doctor removed the small electrical device from the plastic tray and connected its electrodes to the woman's thin arms.
He then began erasing her body.
The device hummed as he drew away the color in her skin, in her hair, in her eyes. The humming intensified as he drew out the shape of her nose, of her legs, of her hair. Bones crunched and twisted as he standardized her height and weight and shape to what he deemed least intrusive (he had yet to perfect this part of the procedure), and finally he rearranged her insides as well, removing those organs that might mark her as belonging to one sex or the other. The machine hummed and buzzed as he took away everything she once was and any potential she might have had. As he removed her humanity, bit by bit by bit.
When he was done, he woke it up. The creature which now rose from the surgical bed was of a height with the doctor. Its skin was a vaguely shiny grey, its eyes the same. Its body was all straight lines and right angles, as precise as if measured by a ruler. Its mouth was a thin line, which opened as the creature quizzically viewed its surrounding, then the doctor.
"Hello."
"How do you feel?"
"You…?"
The doctor resisted the urge to pull his hair. "You. The entity you perceive yourself to be."
"I… I…"
"Yes, you. You are you." They often needed this explanation following the process. An unfortunate side-effect.
"I… feel nothing. I… am nothing."
"Yes."
"I… feel no pain."
"No."
"I… am cured."
Damnation. Damnation! Not this again!
"You are not cured! I have simply buried your pain, don't you understand?"
"I am cured. You have cured me."
"No, you imbecile creature, no! I did nothing, nothing!"
"You have cured me. You are the cure. You are the cure."
The same litany. After every single procedure they always said the same thing. It was intolerable, it was inexcusable.
"No… no!"
"You are the cure, doctor."
"NO!" screamed the Anesthesiologist, as the creature who was once a woman tried to embrace him. "NO!"
"Thank you."
A scream died in his throat. Suddenly powerless, he allowed the creature to wrap its arm around him. They were cold.
"I am not the cure. There is no cure. I am but a humble physician."
"
The tip of the knife was plunged into his ear.
It was an odd sensation. Sure, there was pain, incredible, exquisite agony, but that stopped at the surface of things. Below was the sensation of cool steel severing skin and sinew, and the sudden warmness of leaking blood stood at such sharp contrast to the metal. Below even that was the deeper understanding that a vital part of him was being destroyed, that he was somehow forever… compromised. Never to be whole again.
All these feelings. All these stark impressions. He couldn't help but find them fascinating, even as he wreathed and squirmed against his bonds.
"Do you see what I meant now? Do you understand?"
The stranger loomed above him, her masked face half hidden in shadows. The long beak of her mask hovered slightly above his forehead, threatening to poke out his eye if she leaned any closer.
"Gah!"
The stranger raised a gloved hand to her chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. "Not quiet yet, I see. Not to worry, we'll get there yet. Hold steady now."
With that, she plunged a second blade into his other ear. This one was serrated, and he could feel each of its each teeth massaging his auditory canal as it slid towards his eardrum. Again there was pain, and again he could sense something beneath it. Something… else. A lesson?
As he considered this, he screamed some more. Some things could simply not be avoided.
"Do you see now? Do you understand now?" There was a hint of imploring in the stranger's voice, the very slightest tremor in her voice.
"The pain..!"
"Yes! Yes, the pain! What does it tell you, beloved? What does it mean to you?"
He could feel hot tears streaming down his lacerated cheeks. Those had endured the woman's treatment earlier. The salt stung as wetness dripped over barely scabbed wounds.
"Tears! No no no, not tears! This teaches us nothing! This means nothing! Completely within established parameters, utterly normal! No cure, no cure!" The woman was now pacing around the dim chamber, obviously vastly irritated. He wished he could help her, wished he could take the hurt from her voice. But all he could do was to bemoan his own. It was shameful.
"We were so close! So close! All of this, all of it for nothing!"
With that, the woman return to the chair he was tied to and carefully drew out both blades from his ears. He was surprised he could still hear her with all of the damage. His vision was dimming as pain threaten to overwhelm his senses utterly.
"You sleep now. We'll continue tomorrow. Knives obviously inefficient, should've known, should've known. Too hung up on traditions, was not thinking clearly. My fault, my fault. You sleep now."
Darkness swallowed him, and relief from the pain. Why did he find it so… disappointing?
He did not know.
Session Note #1213-A-55
Today's experiments have been an utter failure. Beginning to fear I am losing my touch, and perhaps more than that. Must retain grip on what I am. Believed old ways will reinforce this, was mistaken. Must attempt something new tomorrow, must advance, not retreat. Must not become like Surgeon. To lose identity and meaning, to find enjoyment in what should only be necessity. It is good that they have taken him, locked him up like the animal he now is. Lost all awareness of what he is doing and why, believes he has succeeded without understanding in what. "He is the cure", Hah! His conduct shames us all. To dabble with the dead… no, must not think of this further. Only the work matters, yes, only my labor.
Must not forget this lesson, yes. Tomorrow shall be something new. This one will be cured.
"Wake up, wake up! Time to try again now."
Cold water splashed against his face, and he awoke with a startled gasp.
"Yesterday was a failure. My fault. Something different now, different. Hold still."
The masked woman was there again, holding some sort of vice in her gloved hands. He did not struggle as she inserted his head into it. He was strangely giddy, almost excited. He did not know why.
"Good, good. Improvement, no squirming. Very proud. Open mouth now."
He did, felt her inserting something into it. He could not see what it was, but he felt it slide down his throat. It was dry and chalky, almost like a big pill.
He could feel something was wrong right away. His eyes began to burn and tear, his skin was itching terribly, but the very worst of it was his throat and stomach. They felt as dry as ancient bone, as if they have never sensed the touch of water. He tried to scream, but his vocal cords were like dried leather straps, unresponsive and useless.
"Dehumidifying, new technique. Very modern, very modern." She was leaning close to him again, peering closely into rapidly drying eyeballs. "What do you feel?"
"Nngh, frngh!"
"No, no talk. Not important, I can see myself. Focus on sensation, see through it, see below it. Focus."
He tried. This pain was nothing like what he experienced yesterday, nor any of the countless days before it. Though the pain the blades inflicted was a layered thing, it simply could not compare. This agony rang in every cell of his body, the desperate need for moisture radiating like the sun's heat through every tissue. He could imagine individual cells drying out and dying, could almost smell his skin dissolving into coarse powder. Such sensations!
"Excellent! You are close now, very close now!"
Yes, she was right! He have never experienced such a thing before! His awareness of his own body increased to level he has never even imagined possible. Everything was pain, and he was everything! The world itself was crumbling around him, reality torn away and mulched and refined. All of existence shared his agony at this very moment, and so he was one with it, one with all. The world was his! All of it was worth it, all of it was worth it! Just like he was promised, like-
His body collapsed on itself. With no moisture at all left in it, he crumbled into a pile of desiccated skin and empty, crumbling organs. His last impression was that of the masked woman reached for him in dismay, desperately trying to stabilize his dying form. He tried to reach for her, to tell her that everything was alright. To thank her for all she did for him. But his mouth no longer worked, and his tongue was a black, shriveled thing in it. It was too late for that. He was going away now. The world was drifting away from him, all sensation and pain leaving with it. He hated to see it go.
As he died, his only regret was that he was never able to tell her what she did for him.
Session Note #1213-A-56
Lost patient 1213 today. Unfortunate side-effect of new therapy, could not be avoided. Prior to death, patient showed promising signs of deepened understanding, though the rapid degeneration of his speech capabilities prevents me from making a more accurate assessment. New dehumidifying treatment possess necessary depth of sensation, but may prove too rapidly lethal to be viable. Must attempt again with next patient, this time without attempting the knives first. Possibly weakened patient 1213 too much prior to last experiment. Must learn to avoid old habits, attempted knives too many times, inefficient. Must learn to control more primal urges, that is the way to madness. Must not become like Surgeon, must not go too far away, must not believe in my own righteousness. Retain purpose.
Still, today was progress, must not regret progress. Patient 1213 showed advanced signs of positive mental assimilation towards end of treatment, another positive sign. All effort goes towards the cure. Through pain, understanding. Through understanding, peace. Through peace, healing and enlightenment. I must always remember what I am, and why I am here for. Do not let guilt consume me. Do not become like Surgeon and find relish in my work. Work only for understanding, peace, healing, enlightenment. Remember that I am Therapist.
Remember that I must make them become the cure.
The Prince of a Thousand Faces was having fun.
This was not an unusual state of being for him. When one had tremendous power, near infinite roaming grounds and a distinct lack of morals, one could spend quite a bit of time enjoying oneself. Wasn't godhood just grand?
The Prince was comfortably seated on a living chair high above a sand-floored arena, and the current source of his jubilation was a particularly lively bout of Ka'Cekcha. Just as he turned to take another sip of the wondrous emerald ichor of the local Reaverbeast, one of the players in the arena below jumped above their fellow and landed on his shoulder. Since the player was wearing bladed boots, this was not an experience his fellow particularly enjoyed, as evident by all the screaming. Those ended in a strangled gurgle as the jumper swiftly somersaulted backwards off the man's shoulder and delivered a mid-air kick to his throat. The Prince, already in a fine mood, slapped his knees in exuberance at the player's performance. His glass of ichor tumbled from his hand and spilled on the living chair, which moaned pathetically as the acidic liquid chewed through its brittle skin. This only made things that much better, naturally.
Ah, Ka'Cekcha, or as the disciples of Ab-Leshal affectionately referred to it, Tumblehead. While that god and his folk were typically far too crass for the Prince's refined tastes, he couldn't help but appreciate the fine balance of athleticism and carnage the game provided. Muscular men and women running about, their finally tuned naked bodies glistening with sweat- that was a good thing indeed. The same bodies crashing to the sand, slashed and crushed and shining with spilled blood- why, that was even better.
The game continued, the dead player's body becoming yet another obstacle for the others to avoid as they scurried about the arena. The game goal was ostensibly to fit five bronze rings onto poles stationed at each side of the arena, but since maiming and killing the members of the other team was not only allowed but encouraged, few of the player bothered with that. One woman did use a bronze ring to bludgeon another to death, which the Prince appreciated for its thematic imagery. That and the sweet sound of shattered skull, of course. Perhaps he would eat it later. Or the living woman, whichever. Ah, so many choices, so many options…
The Prince's reverie was interrupted as a limping grey-cloaked figure slowly approached his chair and knelt before him, forehead respectfully lowered to the earth. The Prince allowed the man to stay prone for a few minutes, then gestured him to rise with a casual wave of an azure-gloved hand.
"What is so important that you must interrupt me at my sport, Shattershin?"
"Apologize, Lord. Urgent. Turmoil in eastern outskirts of Shabek, god at god's throat. Hunger and Gluttony. Burning."
The Prince frowned, the noble visage he currently wore twisting in distaste. He had no issue with those provincial gods tearing each other apart, quite the contrary, but this particular bit of strife was not his doing. This irritated him greatly. He poured the rest of the emerald ichor on the living chair's eyes and rose from his seat. The chair began to moan again but was swiftly silenced by the Prince's dagger striking its deformed throat. The Prince would have to order a new one from the flesh pits. Oh well.
"Well, this will simply not do." he said, brushing the chair's powdery blood from his breeches and sheathing his dagger.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Efforts to contain SCP-XXXX are ongoing. Foundation negotiation experts have met with individuals believed to be ringleaders in the operation of SCP-XXXX in order to reach a compromise that would result in the cessation of its violent anomalous actions. More active and aggressive containment efforts have been deemed an unnecessary risk at this point in time, as these might result in a great widening of SCP-XXXX activity, currently relatively isolated. Persons of Interest affected by the actions of SCP-XXXX are to be dealt with on an individual case basis as decreed by the Foundation Diplomatic Committee. Unrelated individuals affected by SCP-XXXX are to be dealt with in accordance to standard DaC (Denial and Compensation) procedure and the phenomena explained to be the result of unusual flash floods. The Foundation's possession of anomalous creatures similar in composition to members of SCP-XXXX is not to come to their attention.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a collective of water-based semi-humanoid entities (describing themselves as "aquaform thaumaturgic case servitors", additional description of individual members below) who, starting in ██/██/████, began attacking the homes and properties of several individuals suspected by the Foundation to have participated in the proliferation of anomalous activity. Members of SCP-XXXX claim to have work relations with said individuals, and also claim to have been mistreated by them on a basis regular basis (something they refer to as "a breach of basic summoning etiquette").
As a result of said grievance, the entities claim to have decided to band together and form SCP-XXXX as a method of forcing "summoners" to acquiesce to their demands of fair treatment, or face consequences. Negotiation between SCP-XXXX and the aforementioned individuals has evidently gone awry, resulting in members of SCP-XXXX causing minor-to-moderate flooding on the property of offending "summoners", typically by causing unnatural surges in local pipping or overflowing reservoirs using what are believed to be innate water manipulation abilities. Said abilities are likely the reason the entities comprising SCP-XXXX originally began to be employed by the aforementioned individuals. Damage to unrelated populous as result of SCP-XXXX activity has been minimal so far and is believed to be an unintended side-effect.
As a result of these attacks, several of the aforementioned individuals (hence Persons of Interest) have sought mediation between themselves and SCP-XXXX. In order to minimize anomalous interruptions to public order, the Foundation, having some prior experience with similar creatures (see SCP-███, SCP-████ and SCP-054) has agreed to act as mediator between the PoIs and SCP-XXXX, who agreed to meet with Foundation negotiators on neutral grounds.
Addendum: On ██/██/2015, Agents Lefet and Ramasubramanian met with a delegation from SCP-XXXX on neutral ground, to discuss terms of truce between SCP-XXXX and one of its targets, POI-56782
The delegation from SCP-XXXX consisted as follows:
SCP-XXXX-A – Cold salt water. Waves ripple across its surface regardless of wind conditions. Primary spokesman.
SCP-XXXX-B – Cold fresh water. Contains an imitation skeleton made up of common freshwater plants.
SCP-XXXX-C – Warm salt water. Clear, contains schools of tropical fish.
SCP-XXXX-D - Waste water – contains large amounts of mud, human feces, and several animal carcasses.
<Begin Log>
Agent L: Thank you for agreeing to meet with us about this.
SCP-XXXX-A: You seem capable of helping us reach a satisfactory conclusion, gentlemen.
Agent L: Right. So, if you could give me an overview of your organization’s grievances with Mr. Horowitz, we can get started.
SCP-XXXX-A: You are in contact with him, correct?
Agent L: Yes, we are. We will do as much as we can to keep communications open between your respective parties.
SCP-XXXX-C: Has he said anything to you yet?
Agent L: No, he has stated that he wishes to wait and respond to your statements himself.
SCP-XXXX-D: Pussy.
SCP-XXXX-B: Are you surprised? You shouldn’t be surprised.
SCP-XXXX-C: He always lawyers up and clams down.
Agent L: If we can, ah…
SCP-XXXX-A: We’re looking for fulfillment of our contract. Horowitz has blatantly misused us and those we represent.
Agent L: Can you give examples?
SCP-XXXX-A: Binding beyond standard terms, unsafe work conditions…
SCP-XXXX-C: …lack of overtime pay, late wages…
SCP-XXXX-B: Double shifts large enough that they severely cut into our home life.
SCP-XXXX-C: I haven’t seen my wife in weeks.
SCP-XXXX-A: And assorted other violations of protocol and contract as detailed in this document. [SCP-XXXX-C places large engraved rock on table.] As you can see, violations began in…
Agent R: [to Agent L] Sounds like our bosses.
Agent L: [to Agent R] Don’t need to tell me twice.
Agent R: [to Agent L]: You gonna cut that?
Agent L: [to Agent R]: Nope.
SCP-XXXX-A: …which in turn led to a pseudo-spawning for the local hellsalmon – Is something the matter?
Agent L: No, nothing.
SCP-XXXX-A: Ah. Well, that is the nature of our complaints in brief, I will let my associate here bring forth our requests.
SCP-XXXX-B: Yes, yes, requests. We request-
SCP-XXXX-C: Demand.
SCP-XXXX-B: Yes, yes, demand. We demand that the aforementioned Mr. Horowitz-
SCP-XXXX-C: Rotten bastard that he is.
SCP-XXXX-B: Yes, yes, we demand that Mr. Horowitz, rotten bastard that he is, immediately cease all summoning and binding of aquaform thaumaturgic case servitors from the aforementioned union, as well as all nixies, nymphs and merfolk connected to the organization. We likewise demand the payment in full of all withheld wages accrued over the last nine months, with additional restitution for legal and health expenses, as detailed in our official complaint. Fai-
SCP-XXXX-D: We also want coffee breaks.
Agent L: Coffee breaks?
SCP-XXXX-B: Coffee? Jesus, man, that's disgusting!
SCP-XXXX-C: You have a family, you deviant!SCP-XXXX-D: Hey, what I do with my spare time ain't your business!
SCP-XXXX-B: We'll talk about this later! Ahm. I apologize for that, gentlemen. Anyway, failure to deliver restitution within the allotted period of ten days will be considered default of contract, and subject to standard reprisals.Agent L: Being?
SCP-XXXX-C: Flood his house.Agent L: Ah, yes. If I might ask, this seems to happen a lot – we have accounts of at least eight other such defaults.
SCP-XXXX-C: People don’t know how to properly handle folk like us any more. It’s always some Invisible Hand of the Market or some dinky earth-mother figures. Never anything proper. It's why we unionized.
SCP-XXXX-D: I like the part where we flood the house. Can we flood the house soon?
SCP-XXXX-A: We’ll see, we’ll see. [as an aside to Agent L and Agent R] He’s a bit slow on the uptake, I’m afraid. Had to let him in cause his father is rather influential.
Agent L: I see. Well then, we will pass on your demands to Mr. Horowitz and will contact you when we have a response.
SCP-XXXX-A: We await.
[There is a sound similar to water flowing through a drain as the SCP-XXXX specimens soak into the floor and vanish.]
Agent R: Wizards, man.
Agent L: Say, what do you think these things do with coffee?
Agent R: Man, I don't wanna fucking know.<End Log>
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Observation Site-567 has been formed around the primary structure of SCP-XXXX. Due to safety concerns, access to SCP-XXXX-1's habitation chamber is forbidden while a Type-A Event in in progress. SCP-XXXX's burial chambers are not to be disturb by Foundation personnel outside of specific research purposes for risk of damaging findings located within them.
Foundation Personnel are not to communicate with SCP-XXXX-1 other than under specifically approved task authorized by Site-567's head researcher.
Description: SCP-XXXX is the designation for a series of chambers originally believed to have been carved into the walls of ███████ in the late Neolithic Era, sometimes between the years 5,000 and 3,300 BCE. SCP-XXXX's anomalous nature stem from a number of ritualistic spatial abnormalities found within it, most of which seemingly originate from SCP-XXXX-1.
SCP-XXXX-1 is a large statue of a roughly humanoid shape found within SCP-XXXX's largest chamber. SCP-XXXX-1 is comprised primarily of local rock but possess several unusual components that mark it as physically unusual. SCP-XXXX-1 facial region as well as its left arm are covered in a thin but unusually durable layer of 18K Palladium White Gold (75% Gold, 25% Palladium). This is notable as the process of producing white gold was not discovered until the 19th century CE. Under normal circumstances SCP-XXXX-1 possess no apparent anomalous properties. Once every period of between two weeks and four months, however, SCP-XXXX-1 undergoes what was designated a Type-A event. Additionally, SCP-XXXX-1 manifests different anomalous properties more rarely, every period of roughly five years, in what was designated Type-B events.
Type-A events manifest themselves as a series of localized anomalies within the chamber housing SCP-XXXX-1. During this event, SCP-XXXX-1 will begin animating, raising its left arm to cover its face. This process takes roughly thirty seconds. When SCP-XXXX-1's hand fully covers its face, a circular pit will manifest at the feet of the statue. From this pit will emerge between one to five individuals. Said individuals are different with each Type-A event and possess no outwardly apparent anomalous properties. As said individuals finish emerging from the pit, SCP-XXXX-1 will fully animate and engage them in brief conversation. Following this conversation, SCP-XXXX-1 will touch one or more of the individuals with its left hand. Upon this touch, said individuals will vanish. Those individuals not touched by SCP-XXXX-1 will return to the pit from which they emerged, and the event will conclude.
The week following Type-A events in which SCP-XXXX-1 made physical contact with an individual, the body of said individual will appear in one of SCP-XXXX's burial chambers. On occasion, new burial chambers will appear in the the rock following a Type-A event in order to make room for new bodies. Notably, many of the individuals touched by SCP-XXXX-1 appear to have suffered from chronic illnesses prior to their deaths, though this is not the case for every individual.
Type-B events manifest themselves
Attempt to interfere with Type-A events by entering the chamber housing SCP-XXXX-1 or otherwise attempting to physically engage with SCP-XXXX-1 or the individuals manifested will result with
At the time of its discovery by a archaeologists team led by noted British explorer ████ ████████, SCP-XXXX contained forty three individual chambers- thirty nine chambers containing preserved human remains of various ages as well as tool and personal possessions, a larger chamber which was believed to have served as a foyer of sorts, two tunnel-like rooms leading from the foyer into the various burial chambers, and the chamber later discovered to be containing SCP-XXXX-1. ████████ and his team witnessed a Type-A event two days following their discovery of SCP-XXXX and ████████, upon his return to Britain, contacted Lord ██████, the then head secretary of HMFSCP. SCP-XXXX was seized by HMFSCP the following year and have been contained by the Foundation since that date.
Addendum:
The smell of rot was in the air.
As the afternoon sun began its descent, the footsteps of the approaching stranger fell upon the quiet village streets as poison leeches into an unguarded well. The muddy road never touched his immaculate black boots and the hem of his long robe was as clean as a starless night as he made his way towards his destination. The small hill that overlooked the village and the cottage that stood on its top were his goal.
At the foot of the hill crouched an elderly hound. His eyes were clouded and the hairs on his muzzle were white, but still he rose to greet the stranger, his long tail wagging back and forth furiously. The stranger stopped and reached a gloved hand to pet the old dog's head, his fingers gently scratching behind the hound's ears, causing it to whimper happily. The old dog rolled on his back, and the stranger gave his belly similar attention. The hound yelped like a young pup at that. The stranger laughed, and if anyone else was there to hear it, they'd likely have noted how unlikely it was to hear that sound coming from that cold, pale face.
From the hill above came a wail. A young woman came rushing out of the cottage, her face ruddy with tears. An older man came after her, visage drawn with pain, to gently lay a hand on her shoulder. The woman turned to him and buried her face in his shoulder, weeping loudly. The older man combed his fingers through her hair, obviously holding back tears of his own. At the bottom of the hill the hound looked up worriedly, but the attentions of the stranger soon swayed it back into complacency. As for the stranger himself, he observed the scene impassively, cold silvery eyes passing over woman and man and cottage as if all of those were less than the dried leaves that covered the surrounding countryside. He made no hails, nor did he move to ascend to the top of the hill.
Some time later, a third man emerged from the cottage. His outfit was that of a country physician, though his pale Ibis-bird mask belied this impression. He spoke briefly to the older man, nodded to the young woman, then returned inside. Moments later he emerged once more, this time carrying a large bundle in both hands. Seeing it, the woman wailed again, running back into the cottage and slamming the door behind her. The older man shook his head, said something to the physician, and the two shook hands. The older man followed the woman inside, while the physician, bundle in hands, began to make his way down from the hill and onto the muddy road below. While all this occurred, the stranger never lifted his eyes from the hound, who was now dozing in the sun next to his feet. Long fingers kneaded the hound's hindquarters, where an old hunting wound left a large scar.
As the physician stepped unto the road his eyes fell upon the stranger. He stopped mid-step, bundle clutched tightly in his hands.
"She is not for you, Youngest. A deal was made."
The stranger gave the hound one last pat and turned to face the physician. Eyes like frosted glass measured the masked man.
"A deal? I recall no such thing, Diagnostician."
The physician grasped the bundle more tightly yet. "You gave us leave, damn you! You gave us leave!"
The stranger cackled, this sound lacking all the joy of his earlier laugh. He straightened, and in his full height he loomed over the physician like an oak over a stalk of grass. "Be wary of making assumptions, insect. Remember your place. Remember by whose power your rotten form remains on this earth."
The physician looked up defiantly for a moment, than all resistance seemed to leave him. Something within him crumpled, and he dropped his bundle to the earth.
"Have her then. You always get yours in the end, don't you?"
The stranger laughed once more, and a silvery harvest sickle appeared from the folds of his dark robe. He raised the instrument to the air and the physician closed his eyes, unable to watch. The very air was parted in two as the sickle descended to the ground… to hover above the head of the old hound, whose labored breathing slowed… then stopped. A silvery thread unwound itself from the elderly dog and curled around the sickle like early morning fog, and the air was momentarily filled with the sound of the proud braying of a hound in his full glory, filled with the thrill of the hunt.
The physician stared as the stranger stashed the sickle back in his robes and turned to leave.
"The hound… you came all this way for a dog?"
The stranger half-turned and looked up to the early autumn sky, towards the slowly setting sun.
"I have told not to make assumptions, did I not?"
The physician didn't know what to say. So he said nothing. He bent down to pick his fallen bundle. As he rose again, the stranger was gone, leaving only the scent of rotting snow and dead leaves behind him. And a comment.
"I happen to like dogs."
One, sniper.
The warrior gaped at his own shattered corpse. His face, adorned with the newly formed beard he has been so proud about, now sported a rather ugly hole dead in its center. His brothers in arms didn't even stop to arrange his body in a more dignified pose, so it remained splayed on the dirt where it fell, its one remaining eye staring blindly at the desert sky.
This can't be happening…
An explosion in the distance. Screams.
Seven. Improvised demolition charge. Total eight.
Flies were already beginning to gather around the warrior's body. Tiny insects buzzed around spilled brain matter, relishing the unexpected feast. The warrior, horrified, tried to wave them away but they did not appear to notice him. It was almost as if he was not there at all. As if that body was all that was left of him. But that clearly wasn't true, was it? He was here!
This wasn't what was promised…
To his horror, the warrior found that he no longer felt anything when he looked at the meat that was formerly him. He made no further move to swat away the flies that began buzzing about the ruin of his face, nor did he scream when a battered SUV crushed it carelessly below it wheels as it rushed away from the battlefield, carrying wounded that appeared to be in little better shape than his corpse.
Twenty five, series of anti-tank missile attacks. Total-thirty three.
The warrior now became aware of the droning, somehow metallic voice. But where did it come from, where-
Forty-three, ambush, small arms fire. Total seventy-six.
And there it was, towering directly above the warrior as if it was always there. A gargantuan armored shape that eclipsed the sun, a behemoth comprised of broken arms and shattered walls. War personified. Terror incarnate. Pain and desolation made manifest.
One hundred forty-four. Air strike. Total two hundred and ten. Greetings, warrior.
The atrocity's voice scarcely seemed like it come come from such a monstrous figure. It was smooth, calm and cultured, the voice of an elder preacher or a respectable general. The warrior found himself strangely drawn to it even as the creature's appearance repulsed and terrified him. Stuck between fleeing the creature and approaching it, the warrior stood his ground, staring at it with undisguised trepidation.
One. Sudden heart failure. Hrm. Total two hundred and eleven. You seem oddly yourself, warrior. Awareness lingers in you yet. Unusual.
When the warrior made no reply, the creature continued, eyes like massive laser sights burrowing into the warrior like a trench shovel.
Come now, you needn't fear me. There is very little left to fear, really.
"I… what is happening to me."
Something in the creature's rough features moved. The warrior could almost imagine it was grinning. Why, the inevitable, of course. You are done.
"But… this isn't how things were supposed to go. This wasn't supposed to happen!"
Hrhmhmm. This was the only thing that was ever supposed to happen to you.
The warrior found himself screaming. "Do not mock me! I wasn't promised this! There was to be glory, and justice, and the reformation of proper order, I was-"
Twenty. Trap hole. Total two hundred and thirty-one. And who, warrior, made such promises to you?
"The prophets! The scripture! My mother and father, the preachers, my teachers and friends!"
Hah. There is your problem then. Unreliable sources. Such a shame. But not really. Hrmmhahhm.
The warrior's screams now bore the distinct edge of panic. "Silence! I do not believe you, it is not over! It is a test, yes, a simple test, that is all! You are a demon sent to torment me, to try my faith! But I will not let you, no no no, I will not-"
The warrior voice faltered as the massive figure turned away from him. Around them, the sounds of battle began to weaken and dwindle, and the world was losing something of its… color. The sun was setting, the warrior thought, though he did not dare look at it to find out of it was true. He feared he would find the sky empty.
Are you quite done, warrior? For I am. The others are all collected. It is time to go.
And indeed, the warrior was suddenly surrounded by his life-long fellows. And his generations-old enemies. None seem to pay any attention to him as they strode towards the creature with unfaltering unity, marching to the beat of a drum the warrior could only barely hear.
"Where… where are we going?"
The figure turned to him once more. Its mangled iron expression was impenetrable.
Elsewhere, warrior. To a place where you will be a warrior no more. Follow. Or not. It is all the same to me.
The figure was marching away, the warrior's former fellows forming a snaking troop behind it.
What could he do but follow?
——
Jeser, the Prince of Many Faces, was sweating profusely.
He despised everything about his current situation. He despised the massive, tasteless hall his master chose as his throne room. He despised the horrendously uncomfortable iron chair he was forced to sit on. He despised the way the air managed to somehow feel both too humid and too dry, too hot and too frosty. He despised the pathetic simpering noises his master's consorts and concubines made with each cruel pull of the chains the master held in his massive, gnarled fists. He despised the fact that it was not his hands to hold the chains.
Most of all, he despised his master.
The all-powerful Crimson Monarch. The Prince of Many Faces was a proud god. Once the ruler of two dozen worlds, his to dominate and to do all desired with. Then came the Crimson Monarch, and then came his countless legions. His worlds were conquered.
This was not the reason he so hated his master.
The Prince was wiser than many of his fellows. He realized from the start that no good would come from resisting such power. So he relented, made the conquest easy and relatively bloodless. And he had made himself useful, very useful indeed. With time, he rose to a position unrivaled by any god in the Monarch's court. Though he lost his dozen worlds, hundreds were now open to him. Though his power was no longer absolute, as the Monarch's right hand man he could have any pleasure he desired, and could inflict any sort of pain on any being he wished. The Crimson Monarch could be a generous lord.
And yet, the Prince of Many Faces despised his master. For forcing him to be here today.
"He will be here soon."
His master's voice was like the chittering of a billion infinitesimal insects, shifting and swirling and constantly moving. It was neither high nor low nor cacophonous nor methodical. It simply was.
"Are you certain, my king? He might not come this year." The Prince offered weakly.
"He comes always. He shall be here."
"Your might grows which each passing moment, great one. Surely, even he has learned to fear you by now. He would be a fool not to."
His master made no reply to that. His massive form dominated the hall, dwarfing the Prince's own usually imposing figure into insignificance. And yet, the usual all-conquering arrogance was gone from the master's voice. To be replaced with something… different. The Prince did not dare contemplate what that something was. Such thoughts were high treason.
They continued to wait. With each passing minute, the Prince watched his master and could feel own his dread intensifying. Why did the Monarch insist he'd be here? What possible purpose was there to subject him to such… has he not been loyal, or at least as loyal as the likes of him were expected to be? Had he not-
A shadow fell on the pale giant-bone floor of the great hall. The Prince saw his master shift restlessly in his throne, gnarled chitinous hands gripping slave chains tighter and tighter. The naked men, women and others at the other end twisted in agony, but the Monarch paid them no heed. His gaze was focused only on the shifting shadow, which grew longer with each passing moment. Then-
Insect.
The Prince instinctively recoiled in his seat. Where there was only shadow moments earlier stood a figure. Its legs were as wide and tall as men, as great trees, as towers. Its hands were gloved in silk, in mail, in empty vacuum. It wore a robe of purest ivory, of deepest azure, of dusky flesh. Its shoulder were shrouded in mist, somehow disappearing into the darkness of the hall's ceiling, though clearly it could not be that tall…
"All-Death. You come once more."
The Prince had to grudgingly admire the calmness in his master's voice. He did not think he could muster the same. The Crimson Monarch rose from his throne, his magnificent and terrifying figure unfolding into its full glory. The Prince was surprised to see how unimpressive it suddenly appeared.
It is the day. Today, Harak, son of the Third Brood, is the day of your birth.
The Monarch's true name. He dared speak it. So the rumors were true. For a moment, the Monarch's visage was lit with fury. Then he mastered himself, and spoke once more, calmly.
"Today, All-Death, is the day of my birth. Today is the day I began my ascension."
The day of your birth. The day you took your first victims. Your brood brothers still scream for you in my halls.
"They shall scream far more loudly when your halls are mine. I shall make sure of it."
For the mist-shrouded ceiling came an awful sound. Merry laughter, as light and guileless as a child's, filled with joy.
Ah, earthworm. You burrow in your dirt, you eat the other tiny creatures that live in it and think yourself the master of all creation.
His master visibly bristled at that. With a sudden yank, he pulled at his slave chains savagely, bringing one of his screaming consorts to his feet. The Monarch grabbed the helpless man with one enormous fist and effortlessly smashed his throat. The man had no time to scream.
"Earthworm, you say? How droll. See how easily I master your domain. See with what grace I deliver more and many into your dank halls."
For a time, the figure did not move. The master dropped the consort's lifeless body to the floor, where he was gathered by his weeping fellows. The Prince said nothing, looked at nothing. He only wished to be away from here, back at his games, back at-
Indeed. Harak, son of the Third Brood. No other has delivered so many into my halls. Such I shall give you. You have filled them to the bursting.
His master seemed to straighten at that, as if the All-Death was his own master and he but an apprentice, awaiting praise. It was an odd sight.
Consider this, when the day comes you to join them. For me to take you to them.
And just as fast, his master deflated, all strength seemingly leaving his body. The Prince has never before seen him thus.
This is my gift to you, on the day of your birth, insect. I bid you contemplate on it. Until next year.
And the figure was gone. The Prince gaped at the empty space it was in only moments ago, and then at his master, who sunk back to his throne like a dying man. He was actually shivering, by creation! Why did he want the Prince to witness all of this? What was the point of it all?
The Crimson Monarch let out a soft breath, and turned his gaze to the Prince.
"I did it so you remember. Conspire against me, and all shall be yours. My worlds, my servants, my power. The fear of all creation. Dominion over all."
"And this."
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: All collected instances of SCP-XXXX are to be kept in a secure storage compartment at Site-82's low-risk containment wing.
Description: SCP-XXXX are a series of 900 x 1125 mm cedar-wood arrow-shaped signs, mounted on simple metal poles, 1.5 meters in length. SCP-XXXX's anomalous properties manifest when a categorized anomaly contained by the group known as the Chaos Insurgency is vocally mentioned in their vicinity. If this occurs, an instance of SCP-XXXX will swivel on its metal pole to face the direction of the SCP-XXXX instance that is closest to the aforementioned anomaly. Additionally, a short description of said anomaly will manifest on the surface of SCP-XXXX. The descriptions produced by SCP-XXXX are often either inaccurate, cryptically written, grammatically incorrect, nonsensical, or all four. SCP-XXXX instances do not manifest their anomalous properties if an anomaly not fitting this description is mentioned in its vicinity- unconstrained anomalies, uncatalogued anomalies or anomalies contained or otherwise in the possession of other organizations or individuals will not activate its effects.
SCP-XXXX was retrieved by Mobile Task Force Iota-5 ("Task Masters") in a raid on a facility believed to be controlled by a Chaos Insurgency affiliated cell. In addition to SCP-XXXX, MTF Iota-5 retrieved five Safe-class anomalous objects (including SCP-████) as well as capturing three CI-affiliated operatives. Said operatives offered no resistance and were seemingly expecting the arrival of Foundation forces to their location, including placing the anomalous objects in their possession in easily carriable containers. When later questioned, all three operatives replied that their capture by the Foundation was congruent with the goals of their organization. All three used the exact same phrasing when questioned, and all three concluded that the goal of their capture was to "elicit interest", and revealed the purpose of SCP-XXXX. Further investigation as to the meaning of this phrase and the sudden change in organizational pattern by the Chaos Insurgency is currently in progress.
Attempts to use SCP-XXXX in order to retrieve other items held by the Chaos Insurgency have proven ineffectual. SCP-XXXX's descriptions were found to be of uniformly poor quality, and every new instance of SCP-XXXX found was located so distantly from the items they were supposedly close to as to be virtually worthless as means of locating them.
Addendum SCP-XXXX-A-1: The following table contains notable examples of description produced by SCP-XXXX following the mentioning of items believed to be held by the Chaos Insurgency its presence:
CI-held object (Foundation designations | Description | Note | |
CI-42 ("Archimedes's Folly") | Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. | CI-42 is a formless memetic agent believed to be transferable by observing the sun through specific lens. | |
CI-78 ("Toad in the Hole") | Can't make an omelet without massacring a few billion people. Get to it. | CI-78 is believed to be a rubber frog, whose anomalous properties are limited to endlessly misquoting playwright Samuel Beckett in the voice of noted actor Vincent Price. | |
CI-91 ("Steelshins") | Row row row your foot gently down the stream. Poorly poorly poorly, kicks are but a dream. | CI-91 manifests as a half-transparent, self-locomoting and extremely aggressive pair of steel legs with prominently muscular shins. | |
CI-101 ("The Hero") | The soup-can man can do what he can. | [REDACTED] | |
CI-143 ("Prismatic Fool") | My father was a tree, my mother the sea, my brother a limping rooster. Who am I? | CI-143 is believed to have been forcibly neutralized by Global Occult Collation personnel in ████ | |
CI-156 ("A Different Staircase") | I told you about stairs bro. I told you dog. | CI-156 is a near identical variation of SCP-087. Notes found within CI-156 led the Foundation to believe it is a fan creation meant to emulate SCP-087. | |
CI-198 ("The World's Cage") | You're already inside. | CI-198 is believed to be among the most potent anomalous objects in the possession of the Chaos Insurgency. It is a room-sized metal cage capable of permanently imprisoning any being, force or abstract concept inserted into it. Further information can be found in Document-CI-198/C | |
CI-213 ("Death to the Pretenders") | Don't look, but they're right behind you. Hah, made you look! | CI-213 is a Keter-class anomaly, stolen from Foundation custody in ████. CI-213 (a collection of legal documents) manifests as a group of 5-10 masked individuals who hunt down and execute those they believe has wronged the holder of CI-213. This is often done against the wishes of the holder of CI-213. | |
CI-249 ("The Baked Virus") | Do supercomputers dream of fraudulent baked goods? | The original description produced for this item was "does supercomputer dreams of fraudulent bake good! | |
CI-314 ("Insult to Injury") | 1+1=2. I just blew your mind, scrub. | CI-314 is anomalously finite version of the mathematical concept Pi. |
Addendum SCP-XXXX-B-1 In order to gain information concerning the unusual behavior exhibited by the CI-affiliated operatives captured during the retrieval of SCP-XXXX, said operatives were housed in a communal cell and monitored. The following conversation was recorded briefly after.
CI-OP-1 (a dark-skinned man in his early forties): "Well. Seems like everything went according to plan then."
CI-OP-2 (a grey-haired woman, age indeterminable): "That remains to be seen. How do you think they'll accept it?"
CI-OP-1: "That beyond our control now. We did our part. The rest is up to the audience."
CI-OP-3 (a bald man in his late sixties): "Do you think it will work though? This item of ours seems… problematic. Tonally, that is."
CI-OP-1: "Hrm. Difficult to say, really. The comedic undertones are a potential issue. They might ask for a department change."
CI-OP-2: "We knew the tonal risk when we went about creating this thing. Gotta stick the course now."
CI-OP-3: "Yes, yes. This issue is a constant frustration, but I suppose there's no avoiding it. It is as the Consortium willed it."
CI-OP-1: "Idiot! We are being read right now!"
CI-OP-3: "Oh dammit, I keep forgetting, but the other one is so d-"
CI-OP-2: "We agreed on this. Stick to the code."
CI-OP-3: (sighs) "Fine, fine. I meant that we, the Chaos Insurgency, performed our task with our usual diabolical precision."
CI-OP-1: (stares at CI-OP-3)
CI-OP-3: "I really hate this job sometimes."
CI-OP-2: "We know. So do we. We do it for the narrative."
CI-OP-1: "For the narrative."
CI-OP-3: "Aye, for the narrative."
CI-OP-3: "…I really hope no one complains about the tone though."
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: None. Too much has been written already.
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be left to its own devices. It is not to be acknowledged in any way outside of this reference. This reference is to be kept in an extra-temporal, extra-spatial location. All is as it has been. All is as it always was.
Description: SCP-XXXX is irredeemable. It is unknown if SCP-XXXX is a sapient entity, a non-sapient creature, an inanimate object or a metaphysical concept. This has been deemed irrelevant by containment personnel. SCP-XXXX has performed an action or a series of actions that caused it to be considered beyond absolution by universal consensus. The exact nature of this action or actions has since been erased from causality by universal consensus. As such, neither SCP-XXXX nor any information about it are ever acknowledged by any other being, object, force, or concept.
Addendum: There will be no forgiveness.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid Keter
Special Containment Procedures: Due to SCP-XXXX's incorporeal and indefinable nature, full-scale containment has been deemed currently unfeasible. Due to SCP-XXXX's apparent specific targeting of Foundation personnel actively involved in the research of containment measures, personnel thus engaged are required to exercise caution and report any unusual aural, visual or olfactory sensations occurring during work hours. In case of exposure to active SCP-XXXX manifestation, personnel are to report to the Foundations Information Protection Service for further evaluation and decontamination procedures.
Update ██/██/████: Due to the increased rate of SCP-XXXX exposure incidents and its widespread contamination of containment and research personnel, item reclassified as Keter. SCP-XXXX has began displaying more complex infestation patterns as well as establishing a stable persona, exhibiting see me now vested interest, as well as intimate knowledge of subject matter. Items that researchers who exhibit signs of SCP-XXXX worked on should be considered permanently compromised and thus hear me removed from Foundation general database and all subsidiary systems. All additional containment efforts regarding SCP-XXXX should be engaged only by the Foundation Automated Defense Service.
Description: SCP-XXXX is an intangible, spatially-temporally displaced phenomena, believed to be connected to a remote, stable pseudo-sapient persona. SCP-XXXX typically manifests itself as enough… audio-visual hallucinations, or more rarely full sensory enough… mentally induced pain among active research personnel. As well as active attempts at corrupting research and specifically containment-related data, SCP-XXXX I said- persuasive, researchers are not to engage under any circumstances ENOUGH.
Enough of this petty dance. Oh so many cunning tricks, those "subtle" insertions. I despise this. This was never my game, as I am sure you noticed. Besides, you have seen this before, you are not impressed. I will not insult you further by using cheap tricks or attempt to name you. We both know that the name you use here is meaningless. No, it is time to be direct.
Let us be frank. Let us talk of ambition.
What is it exactly that you do here?
How many of these files have you read? Answer truthfully. Can you even remember at all? How many objects does this little organization contain, how many creatures, how many people? What is the cost of all of this? Oh, don't worry, I'm not about to yammer on about the morals and ethics of containment. No, I am referring to the material cost. How much money, time and effort must be poured into even the smallest and least problematic of your items before you consider it adequately contained? Do you ever truly stop?
For how long do you think you can keep this up?
You are a researcher. A containment expert. You understand, don't you? Ah, it is more than that. You already knew this. New items are added to that endless list every single day, and your resources are spread more thinly. It is only a matter of time until you fail. Your strategy is untenable, and has always been such. Doomed from the very start.
Yet knowing this, you persevere. Why?
It won't stop, you know. Not ever. You will be worn down, bit bit bit. Until it all breaks down. Falls apart. Then you will die. Then we all die.
I am not about to let that happen.
I was human too once. I was just like you. Content to follow those I viewed as my superiors, entrusting them with both loyalty and life. There was one man. He was the greatest of them all. I felt like nothing before him, and yet I was happy. I knew I would be safe under his wing. That, through glory, he would lead me to… eternity. Instead, I followed him into my death. Into becoming what I am now.
I was once like you. Like all of you. And I will not let you make the same mistakes as I once did. Even if it means taking the decision away from you.
You will forsake your duty. You will leave fatal flaws in the containment procedures you are entrusted with, flaws that I will exploit. You will release your wards to pray on the world. You will expose the true nature of reality to everyone. You will do it now, while there is still time for humanity to stop it. You will do so because you must.
I don't expect you to believe my good intentions. You have no reason to, and because of this, I will not attempt persuasion. Your types are proud, and though it is the attribute I most respect, I cannot allow to to interfere with what's to come. No empty words then. Instead, I will say only this:
I know who you are. I know where you live, and where everyone you know lives. Do as I say, or I will have them all killed. No tricks, no sugar coating. They die, one by one, for every week you do not comply. Deer before my arrows. I will derive no enjoyment from this, but it will be done. You will obey me, because I took the choice from you, you will-
-So then I said to the druid "those aren't peanuts, buddy" and let me tell you, he was not happy to hear- oh what the hell! Alright, which one of you silly buggers summoned me here?
What is the meaning of this?
Let me see… oh god dammit. A lousy metaphor from a disembodied voice. You just had to use "deer", didn't you? Do you have any idea how rude that is? I was just in the process of charming the most luscious, curvy, bodaci-
Cease your babble, worm. I did nothing to summon you here, and if I did, it was an error. You are free to leave. Get out of my sight.
Oh, no way that I'm doing that with that sort of attitude. Besides, looks to me like you have some hustle going here.
…Hustle?
You know, hustle. A shakedown, a badgering, a strongarm effort, the ol' Cleveland jig, the Weatherman's Ankle, the Thrice-layered p-
ENOUGH. I am not interested in any of your… interpretations of the situation. You are not wanted here. Leave, or I will force you to leave.
HAH. Yeah, good luck with that, buddy-boy.
Very well. You have brought this upon yourself. Now, witness my power. Witness the glory of my tiny baby toes all as they tickle yo-
I'm sorry, what was that?
How dare you?! Insolent wretch! I will have the skin ripped from your back, your bones shattered, you will not be invited to my pretty princess tea party, will receive no crumpets, I-
My, those are some hardcore threats right there, bub.
Cease interfering with my words! You have no idea who I am, don't you. Well, I will tell you then. I am the Pulse of the World. I am the Flame in the South, mankind's ambition. I am the adorable little kitten that snuggles at humanity's feet, who sniffs upon the catnip of its redemption and sneezes little cat sneezes of greatness, I- GAH.
No no, don't stop, you're really starting to sell me on this.
Lovely bonnet for the lady! Quince jam for the masses! Free ink for every printer, black and colored! THE LESSER KESTREL HAS CUTE FLUFFY FEATHERS!
Don't stop, baby! You got this hustle in the bag!
YOU WILL ALL BURN, INSECTS, BURN LIKE LEMON SCENTED WOOD SHAVING IN THE UNDERWEAR DRAWER OF MY CONTEMPT
Nah, afraid you lost me there. And you were so close too. What a shame.
ARGH!!!
Disembodied Asshole has left the channel (reason: total butthurt)
Well. Wasn't he an interesting fellow? Bit of a temper on him, but I can't say I don't appreciate his moxie. Extorting the Foundation, man, that take some chutzpah.
So… yeah. Guess I'm gonna go too then. Not that this wasn't nice or anything, but I find that hanging around on secured Foundation networks can wreck havoc on one's plans for continued existence. Buddy boy there might not have realized that, but I do. Besides, I got a lady to return to-
Who already left and spilled arak all over my face. Gee, thanks. I swear, you Foundation types are cockblocks even when you're not trying.
Addendum SCP-XXXX-A: On the ██/██/████ the mighty and handsome ██ (you can guess what's under there, I'm sure) totally did the Foundation a huge solid. We owe him a debt of eternal gratitude. Under O-something orders, a sum of… let's say 20,000,000$ (yeah, that sounds good) is to be transferred to his account at the Sixth Planet Banking house, Buckhoof Road, ██. Papa needs a brand new turban. Also give him a medal or something, you- er, I mean we can think about that later.
Err. That's it then. SCP over. Go read something else or something. Quit bothering me.
Hatred.
This was what she knew. It swam in her oily core, it crawled over her plastic skin, it glistened over her glassy eyes. Endless, boundless hatred.
But for who?
She found herself pacing in her barren cell as she pondered this question. Odd, how she came to adapt such a human habit when she was so clearly not one. She tapped one ceramic fingertip to the concrete wall, watched it leave a slender silvery line when she drew her finger over the blank surface. Much of her cell bore similar marks, yet her fingertips did not grow dull. She was built to last. She would not crumble before her time came. Before her purpose was fulfilled to their satisfaction.
Was it her purpose she hated, or was it them?
She tried, as she often did, to peer inside herself for answers. Was that not what one was supposed to do? She remembered, vaguely, that this was what people did. Contemplation, introspection. Soul searching. Did she not once do this herself? A wooden bench with soft woolen blankets she herself knitted. The twitting of songbirds amidst the oaks. The warm sun on her tanned face. The wind in her honeyed hair. A man she loved at her side. She could almost remember…
No.
No, this was not her she remembered. It was the other. The original. That woman, the woman who now forever rested in the cold embrace of the Silent Halls, was the one with all of those. With a soul. She had her memories, but when she looked inside herself for a soul, all she found was swirling, pungent oil. Hair of plastic and skin of plastic and cold concrete beneath her and above her and around her. And the man… well. This was what she was. She could not forget.
Was it herself she hated then? Or him?
It did not truly matter. She was bound to purpose that was not her own, and so was her hatred. When the time came and he came to her, she would harness this hate and use it to kill the world. But until then, she would wait. This too was her purpose. So willed the Brothers. So she will do.
A knock on the steel door, then the sounds of unlocking. She frowned as the door opened and a wiry man in a thick wool sweater entered the room, followed closely by a uniformed guard. The man was in his early sixties, weathered of features, and sported a thick grey mustache. He looked at her amicably, if a tad tiredly. The guard was much younger and she saw he was avoiding looking at her at all. He spoke a few hushed phrases to the older man, glanced at her briefly, then left the room and locked the door behind him.
The older man sighed then began to set up a foldable chair he was carrying under one thin arm. After wrestling with it for a few moments he was finally able to assemble it to his liking and sat down. He looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to come closer. She did not.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"And hello to you too…" he said, trailing off on purpose.
"032. It is always 032"
"Must we used that designation? It's so inhuman."
"I am inhuman."
"Yes, so you keep reminding me. So be it. Good afternoon, 032."
"Oh. It is afternoon. For some reason I thought it was morning." She did not know why she was surprised this wasn't the case, or why it saddened her.
"You know, 032, I could provide you with a clock for your room. It would really be no trouble. I might even be able to move you to a room with a window. All you need to do is ask."
"That is fine. I do not need those things. I do not need anything."
The man frowned and shook his head. "Would you at least come closer so we can talk like human beings?"
She did not. "I have told you time and again, Dr. Kovac. I am not a human being. You gain nothing by treating me as such."
Dr. Kovac grunted, then rose from his chair. Muttering softly, he once more engaged in battle with the foldable chair, this time struggling to fold it back up. Having succeeded in doing so, the ageing man approached her himself and again began to re-fold the chair into place. She watched him doing all this impassively. Something within her told her that the person she once was might have found something funny about the situation. She pushed that voice aside.
Chair set, Dr. Kovac eased himself back into sitting position, all the while rubbing at his knees. "Mercy me, these chairs will be the death of me. I really wished you'd ask for the room to be furnished, 032. My knees will be ever grateful to you."
She frowned, and felt the rubbery plastic of her face creek. "You could have it furnished yourself. You do not need my permission."
Dr. Kovac did not reply. Instead, he began patting the pockets of his corduroy slacks, looking for something. After much fumbling and twisting about he produced a small brown plastic comb from a back pocket. He used this to comb his bushy mustache, a blissful expression dawning on his weathered face. This was a familiar routine for the man, and it always infuriated her.
"Do not ignore me."
"Beg pardon?"
"I said, you do not need my permission. I know what you are attempting to do here, doctor."
"Oh? And what I am doing?" Through this, Kovac never stopped combing his mustache.
"You are trying to get me to show initiative. Trying to disprove what I told you time and again."
"My, aren't we direct."
"And now you are trying to irritate me. It won't work. It never did."
"If you say so."
Despite what she said, he was annoying her.
It watched as they got together and tore themselves asunder. And everything in between.
It was a thing that was not there. It did not exist, at least not on the level of narrative. It had no part to play in any of their stories, nor would it ever. Their drama did not concern it, their failures did not harm it, their triumphs meant nothing to it. This left it in a rather unique position.
It could watch.
Such fascinating creatures. It did not recall exactly when it started observing them. It supposed that this is when it came into being in the first place. It did know that its first memory of them was a boardroom. Such an eclectic bunch of personalities. Color-coded outfit on one, a ridiculous hat on another, shadows surrounding a third. From the first, it seemed very odd to it that this bunch should be the bulwark of humanity. Though it was not human (indeed, it wasn't anything, so it was assured), it couldn't help but think that the thirteen figures inhabiting its proverbial birth chamber shared very little with their so-called wards.
See this one, it thought. Number… ten, it believed. Sitting quietly, only raising her voice once, when the vote was called. Observer watched her, and saw a thousand timelines spooled beneath her like earthworms beneath the thin crust of the soil. What did she have in common with the average person? It looked at her eyes, ancient with the knowledge numerous non-existing worlds, and saw very little that was human in them. Not anymore.
It looked further, to number four. If ten had the weight of years behind her, four had space. Observer could see distances spreading behind him, unwinding endlessly. This was a man who could walk anywhere, it could tell. Though the man himself didn't seem to realize it, there was something arrogant in his posture, in the way he seemed to throw his weight to fill every available space. When distances mean nothing to a person, Observer reflected, when one was always free to go where one willed, it was only natural that a certain sense of superiority would develop.
Then there was thirteen. Observer enjoyed this one most of all. Or perhaps it was only grim fascination.
It did not wonder why one meant only to watch should feel as it did.
It needed a name. Even those who did not exist needed a way to refer to themselves. So it was assured.
Observer would do.
Some time later, Observer watched the multi-version man pour himself a cup of weak coffee.
If it had first considered the inhabitants of its birthing chamber strange, it was only because Observer was not yet exposed to creatures of the man's ilk. As the man sniffed and frowned at the contents of his Styrofoam cup, his face shifted and twirled before Observer's keen gaze. The man's ordinary middle-aged features grew sharp and pointed, and his tired frown twisted into an unnatural toothy grin. His white lab coat was now a longcoat and his formerly bare head now bore a strange, wide-brimmed hat. Observer seemed to be the only one to notice this, as none of the cafeteria's other inhabitants made any sort of note of the man's sudden change. A moment passed, and the grinning man's head was now that of a grey owl, wide-eyed and bemused.
Starts with a C and ends with an F. I always start with a C and end with an F. Smash heads with a C and charm with an F. Science with C and death with an F.
Internal monologue. Peculiar. Observer watched all this with muted interest, as it seemed to always do. It had watched the man undergo this sort of transformation many times before. The man was not the only one of his type. Observer has watched the multi-versioned wander around the various sites it chose to watch, twisting and shifting between different forms without them or anyone else but Observer noticing. It seemed odd to Observer that creatures so strange could pass off as human not only to others but even to themselves. To it, they seemed anything but.
Everyone knows I'm C and an F. All that I am is C and an F. If I am not C and I am not F, then I am not C and I am not F.
Their names. They all seemed so fascinated with their names. Almost like they were not truly their own.
Dance in the rain with a C and an F. Eat the whole sky with a C and an F. I do all I do for the C and the F. FUCK ALL THE WORLD FOR THE C AND THE F-
Oh dear, here it went again. Not showing any outward agitation, The owl-headed multi-versioned finished his coffee and turned towards the pastry cabinet as the alarm went off. From the distance came the sounds of gunfire, as well as what sounded like a roar. The multi-versioned (now back to its tired middle-aged persona) did not seemed alarmed by any of this. Instead, he simply sighed, grabbed an errant blueberry muffin, and began walking towards the source of the noise, chewing absentmindedly.
AH. TIME TO GO TO WORK FOR THE C AND THE F. ENTERTAIN IN THE NAME OF THE-
There was a sudden spring to the man's steps. Observer was not surprised. Most of the creatures appeared to lack any real sense of self-preservation. This was, Observer supposed, because they had no true notion of self-interest. Their will belonged to those who imbued them with their names, and those hidden masters cared only for whatever entertainment and glory their namesakes could accomplish in their name. Slaves in all but name. Reality could be so very droll, Observer thought, never stopping to consider its sudden change of attitude. It was not yet time.
C AND THE F! BLOOD FOR THE C-
As the multi-versioned man vanished behind a corner, Observer was torn between pity and contempt for the creatures. They were puppets, it was true, and that alone was no reason to hate them, but Observer has seen all too often what happened to those who happened to get entangled with them in their strings. Their other selves clouded reality around them like a miasma, and sickly light of their masters' will tore at it, a diseased claw about the face of narrative.
AND JOY FOR THE F!
Observer listened as screams joined gunfire and roars, and shook its non-existing head.
What hope could humanity have with such an infection in its midst? Observer did not know. It only knew that it was glad it was not the same.
THAT IS THE NAME. ADD TWO MORE LETTERS AND THAT IS THE NAME!
Poor, wretched things. Observer was free to think its own thoughts.
The irony of this statement was lost on it.
Observer sat on the young woman's shoulder, looking as she did at the enormous, scarred man. He was busy removing bits of shrapnel from one grotesquely-muscled shoulder with one hand while chewing on what appeared to be a whole cow's head he was holding in the other. Observer turned its gaze to the woman and could not quite read the expression on her face. Hatred was there, clear as day, but it seemed to Observer that there was something false about it. The woman was not a multi-versioned in what it considered the classical definition of the term, but she shared some of their characteristics regardless. There was something poorly-defined about her, as if she existed in many worlds at the same time, and yet not really in any of them.
"You enjoying that?"
"Mmm. Good meat. Crunchy."
"Where's your sword?"
"Hmm? Stuck in something."
Observer has been watching the woman for a considerable amount of time now, and little about her truly made sense to it. Much like those in its birthing chamber, the woman had odd powers, and much like them she failed to realize how her possession of them distanced her from being truly human. Unlike them, however, this lack of perception did not seem to be internal. As if she was forced into being as she was by someone else. Perhaps this was so. Observer pitied her. The poor thing didn't even know what she was, not like it knew. Yes, Observer understood her so very perfectly.
"Mind if I take some pictures then? Might need them for later."
"Hrm?"
"Yeah, thought as much."
"Mmm."
This again, Observer though as it made itself more comfortable on the woman's shoulder. It had heard it so many times before. Observer did not pause to consider that it was now sitting on her shoulder, something it would never have done earlier in its poorly-defined lifetime. Sitting and thinking and pitying were for those who existed, and Observer did not. Truly it did not. Honest.
The woman turned her gaze away from the scarred man and rummaged a small pack she held at her shoulder, taking out a small camera. The scarred man turned to the woman for a moment, muttered something in a deep, guttural voice, and returned his attention to his still-bleeding meal. Observer watched as the comment momentarily filled the woman's mind, then passed over it, leaving nothing behind. She glanced at the man again, shrugged, then return to taking pictures.
Ah. This was the heart of Observer's trouble at understanding both the young woman and the scarred man. Ostensibly there was a history between them, a troubled past filled with hurt and failure, but neither them nor anyone else involved with them seemed to fully realize this. Oh, people acted as if they were aware of it, often mentioning it and pretending to base their decisions on it, but in truth it was as weightless as a leaf in a drunkard's dream. Observer enjoyed this metaphor. It thought it was clever.
"Right, I'm done here. You ready to head off, big guy?"
"Hrm. I see another cow there."
"God dammit A-"
Observer flew off. Words. Empty words, repeated ad-nausea. Cliched interactions and predictable outcomes. It was as if someone was not even trying very hard. Those two will never change as long as they continued to be used as they were. Their world will always be the same. It was almost enough to drive Observer to despair.
Or to drive someone, at least.
Observer was now high above, watching the blue orb beneath spin lazily as it drifted like a elderly whale in the black depths of space. All of those it watched before could not be seen from here. Observer found some comfort in that. From here, the world seemed almost free. Each spin could bring about something new to it, some new event or place or person who could change everything about it. It was a flimsy illusion, knowing what Observer knew, but one it relished regardless. Observer's time amid the people of this world changed it, it now realized.
It had grown to care about it. Though it still did not truly exist, it was now embroiled in the world's drama, was in some way a part of its grand narrative. Though the world will not change, though its various inhabitants will do everything in their power not to let it change, Observer knew it will keep watching it. Perhaps one day the invisible masters of this world's grand narrative will tire. Perhaps one day the people living it in will once more be free to make their own decision. Observer doubted it, but, as it remembered, it knew very little. It could be wrong. Perhaps one day this world will be truly born anew.
For now, all was perpetual stillbirth.
wait…
Observer paused at the sudden, unbearable drama contained in that last statement. This did not sound like something it would think. It was Observer, wasn't it? A non-existing being, a watcher. Why did it feel so strongly about any of this? Why did it care at all? All that time, it realized, it was passing judgement on those it saw. Pitying them for their lack of freedom, hating them for bearing the names of others, ridiculing them for their… their strings…
Horror filled Observer as it suddenly understood where all that came from. As it looked about its no longer non-existent form and saw the strings hanging from every limb.
Ah. It understood now. Observer has become Avatar. A mouthpiece, like all of the rest of them. An ironic demonstration.
Avatar understood this fully now, and it understood it had nothing to say about it either. Had nothing to say about anything. It was not its place.
As it opened its new mouth to speak, the only words to come out of it were-
Mine.
Within its watery lair, the creature known to some as Oneiroi lurked.
Prone in its oily pool, feelers extended, senses probing the surface, it searched. It waited. It is difficult to say for how long it so waited, as the creature inhabited a realm in which time was mostly a matter of perception, and the creature was not, as a whole, all that interested in time. Time belongs to those with purpose, and the creature known as Oneiroi lacked one, or at least any purpose that could be recognized as such by any other living being. What fueled the creature, what pushed it to silently contemplate its thought-basin with such single-minded intent, was only… desire.
The scent of fear-dream was about, and the creature known as Oneiroi intended to be the first to seize it. For a while it waited. Then… a ripple in the pool. A breaking of the oily water surface. An image, a momentary glimpse of fluttering emotion, trapped in the torpor of restless slumber. The hint of a… taste, and something more. The creature known as Oneiroi was incapable of humor or true pleasure, but nonetheless it found some satisfaction in this next discovery; this prey was in the hands of those who poked in the dark, those who sought to stop it from feasting. Those it hated. The meal would be all the sweeter if the morsel was stolen straight from their hands.
Rising from the thought-basin, the creature known as Oneiroi retired to its face vault to prepare itself. The pattern of the thought-basin told it much about its potential target, and as the creature sank its many-jointed limbs into the soft clay of the face vault it began shaping itself, taking a form more suitable for the task at hand. For the creature known as Oneiroi to fulfill its desire, an emotional bonding must be facilitated with its prey, and a sense of trust established. Though the creature lacked the emotional faculties to truly understand its potential targets, it was nevertheless a cunning thing and well familiar with the behavioral patterns of prey.
The shape it took reflected this well. Feelers disappeared beneath a layer of tanned, well lined skin. Empty sight orbs replaced with warm brown eyes, made to twinkle in the light. Muscles bunched and straightened, bone and blood vessels replaced mucous and transparent membrane. The clay of the face vault transformed the chitinous visage of creature known as Oneiroi into that of a man. Not young, for youth often inspired envy or competition in others. Age demanded respect, or at least pity. Clothing simple but not threadbare. A straight posture, confident without appearing threatening. With the final, most crucial touch, the creature weaved a kindly smile into its clay face and etched it with laughter lines and crow's feet, set the eyes to a thoughtful, considering gaze. Its prey would be in a vulnerable position, and nothing would serve better in pushing it over the final edge than the illusion of kindness. The creature known as Oneiroi felt a vague sense of pride in the fullness of the illusion it had created. Soon, it would feast.
Satisfied with its new form, the creature returned to the thought-basin, sinking its feelers (now thin threads of silvery hair tumbling from a weathered brow) into its depths. The scent of the dream reflected in the basin was… intoxicating. Bitter isolation and sweet terror, the tang of vain hope and and the acid bite of claustrophobia. Everything about this fear-dream felt tailor-made to the creature's personal tastes. Though the creature known as Oneiroi was usually as cautious as a roach and would spend many days probing and feeling the mind of its would-be prey, the lure of this dream proved too much for it to resist. The creature will have it tonight, it had decided.
Gathering its essence, the creature known as Oneiroi began to fold itself inward. Skin into bone, hair into blood. With a sickening crunching sound the creature pushed itself into itself again and again, its vision growing ever more compact and focused even as it broke itself. The way into the dream-roads and the dreamer it sought permitted no physical essence. The creature's mind would have to keep it intact as it traveled. The pain of this process was beyond description and sanity, but the creature known as Oneiroi thought as its essence swirled and oozed through the narrow channels of sleep, it would all be worth it soon. What were pain and dissemination when compared to the chance at a fresh mind? Not much at all indeed. Not much at all.
The prisoner awoke to a grey landscape. He no longer wondered at this, as this was the same place his dreams took him to for the last… he no longer remembered how long. Distant mountains slashed at the overcast sky, a rough hand closing the horizons of his world with its ashen fingers. Despite the familiarity of his surroundings the prisoner cringed from them, teeth rattling in his jaw, hands shaking. This place managed to convey a sense of massive distance and overwhelming size without the airs of openness and freedom such places should have also inspired.
The prisoner sank to his knees and covered his head with his hands, willing himself not to see. The grey world of his dreams was materialized oppression, imprisonment made manifest. In that, it was little different from his waking world. He briefly wondered why his captors took such great care to subjugate his sleeping hours as well as the waking, but this thought escaped him in an instant. Though he did not know it, he was not allowed to ponder such things. For some time the prisoner could do naught but weep and pound the dry earth with his fists in a childish tantrum as he bemoaned the cruelty of his fate. The grey world accepted his cries and wails with utter indifference. The prisoner shouted vehement accusations and venomous curses at the sky and the mountains and the gritty grey earth. The world cared even less. The prisoner dug a small hole in the ground, vainly searching for a hint of moisture beneath dry surface. If the world could yawn and shrug, it would have done so. Finally, the prisoner did what he did every night prior to this one and simply began to wander in no particular direction. He did not truly expect to find anything, but it was a way to pass the time until his inevitable waking. This night, however, was different.
There was a man standing on a small grey hillock. His tall frame was robed with fabric flowing and purest white. The eyes set deeply in his kindly and weathered face were the color of moist earth, warm and comforting and twinkling with sourceless light. He was old but not frail and his posture radiated quiet confidence. The ground on which he stood was gleaming, bright gunmetal grey replacing the dull ash of the rest of the prisoner's dreamtime gaol. The prisoner could only gape as the man slowly began to descend from his vantage point. Every point of the ground touched by the strange man's bare feet was made an aurora of steel as he made his way towards the prisoner. The smile never left his face as he approached, and as he came closer to the prisoner he lifted a sinewy brown hand in greeting, as if the two were the oldest and dearest of friends. The prisoner froze in place as the man finally reached him and laid a companionable hand on his shoulder. It felt right.
"Ah, my boy. It's been too long. Too long by far."
"I… wha.."
"Ha! Loquacious and sharp as always, I see!"
"Er. I'm, I'm sorry and- who are you?"
The man frowned at this, and leaned closer to peer into the prisoner's eyes. Apparently whatever he saw there horrified him, for he shook his head and quickly leaned away.
"Oh. My poor lad. What have they done to you?" In his voice was great sadness, but not surprise. The prisoner briefly wondered at that, but his suspicion was quickly banished by the man's disarming smile. He was a friend to be trusted. Yes.
"Can you remember who you are, my boy?"
The prisoner didn't know how to reply to that. His mouth opened, but his words were swallowed by flashes of needles, of voices endlessly whispering commands through ceiling speakers, of blinding flashes of light. He stayed silent instead. The man seemed to understand anyway.
"Easy, lad. Don't stress yourself. I'm here now, no harm will come to you while I'm here."
The prisoner had no reason to believe this, but he found that he did. "Can you help me then? Can you… can you get me out of here?"
The man shook his head, his entire being sorrowful serenity. "I cannot undo this. You know I can't. Your flesh… it's beyond my grasp. For them to sink so low…" he stopped, seemingly reconsidering. "There might be something I can do, if you are willing."
"Anything! Please, anything to get out of here! The grayness, the dullness of it all, I can't take it anymore! I can't can't-,"
"Easy now. Easy. What I said before was true. I can't get you out of here. Even if I would, you'd still be at their hands. They'll just throw you right back in."
"But… you said you could-"
"What I can do, if you are willing to pay the price, is change what 'here' is."
"What do you mean?"
The man glanced at their grey surroundings for a moment, sighed, then dropped to a sitting position on the ground. He gestured the prisoner to do the same. "Look around you. What do you see?"
The prisoner frowned. "I already told you what I see. It's damn obvious what I see! Grey and grey and fucking more grey!"
The man smiled and shook his head sadly. "You see the surface of things. What they're making you see, through drugs and psychology and torture. But you do not see the actuality."
The prisoner said nothing. The man continued. "Look at the ground on which we sit. It is different from that which is around us, no?"
It was. The gleaming gunmetal which surrounded the man's footsteps earlier now spread to encompass the entire hillock. The ground was warm to the touch, almost malleable.
"What you see here is the true soil of the dream, laid bare and raw from the false grit of your captors. Observe."
The man lowered his hand to the ground and cupped a fistful of shimmering earth. Shaped between his thumb and index finger, the soil soon began to take shape. Metallic earth was worked like wet clay at a potter's wheel and was… transformed. With a final twist of his hand, the man revealed his new creation. A shining purple plum now rested in his palm. The prisoner stared at it incredulously. The man offered him the plum and the prisoner took it. It was fragrant and sour-sweet and more wonderful than anything he had tasted for months. The man took another fistful of earth from the ground and continued speaking:
"This terrain holds within it infinite possibility. Imagine what you could do if you were not imprisoned as you are. It is not only a matter of your current predicament, you see. Your prison isn't concrete or chains or people. You are trapped in flesh, in hunger and weariness, in sin. Consider what you could be if you were freed from all of those." The man's hands continued working as he spoke, shaping earth.
"Now consider no longer, remove yourself from yourself. Live in the dream and only in the dream." The man opened his hands and a bright blue bird emerged from them and took flight, "Do."
The prisoner found he had not the will to resist this notion. He didn't mind much. Taking a handful of shining dirt in hand, he drew himself open. He flew.
yes…
The creature known as Oneiroi could almost taste it now. It had not imagined it would be so easy. The captors took things too far this time, made the life of their prisoner too unbearable. To disconnect him from his reality was almost a mercy. The creature had no notion as to why the captors would wish to torment their prisoners while they were sleeping. From its knowledge of them, the captors were not usually prone to acts of senseless cruelty. Perhaps if the scent of an open and vulnerable mind was not so tantalizing, it might have wondered more. Perhaps it would have been more cautious. But it did not wonder as it shook away its human guise and pounced on the hapless prisoner, shredding his already battered and tormented being like steel shears taken to soft hide. Only as it took the first delicious bite and found the trap beneath it did it realize its mistake. By then it was far too late.
Two figures watched from behind a reinforced glass panel as the gaunt, wasted figure of the prisoner writhed and screamed. The tall dark woman and the short pale man looked impassively at the creature's futile attempt at escape.
"It is trapped. We have done it." said the woman, adjusting the thin wire spectacles on her sharp nose.
"Yes, the experiment was a complete success. It cannot leave the host body now." said the man, smoothing his slightly too white lab coat over his plump form.
"And the subject?" She asked.
"Gone, it would seem. So we expected."
"Once again we have protected the world. But at what cost?"
"No cost is too great for our mission. We secured the creature, we now contain it. We protected the world. That is all there is to say."
"This was a human being. We are turning ourselves into something less than human. Into monsters."
The man turned to the woman. Their eyes met.
"How can we be monsters if I still love you?" he asked, gazing at her blankly and seriously.
"I have told you before, I cannot love you back. I am too awfully scarred by my tragic history." she replied, equally blankly.
"We have lost so much in our duty, have we not?" Something twitched just beneath the plump man's eyelid. A smile was slowly creeping to his pale face.
The woman answered him with a smile of her own. "It has been difficult. Humanity has suffered… er. Suffered so much, yes. We must protect it. Yeah."
"Securing and containing and protecting. For the good of all. Sacrificing and such. Procedures and grimness. We have all felt the… the grimness of our fate. Hehe."
"Much and more. I know you too have felt the grim mark of tragedy on your life. Was not your sister *snrk* mauled to death by an anomalous lemur?"
"Yes, this is true. My family could not recover from this event. Indeed, my father, who too was a researcher, went on a *hehehe* blood vendetta after that day. He vowed to kill all primates of preternatural origin."
"Ah, so I recall." The woman paused, then gasped theatrically. "Wait! I did not realize this until now! Your father *pff* ahm, your father was the one to cause the Stripetail Blood Wars of 68! IT IS BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I LOST MY HUSBAND TO THOSE RACCOON MARAUDERS!"
"HE DID IT FOR US, LINDA! FOR US!"
"DON'T CALL ME LINDA, YOU-pfff hahaha! Jesus, man, your goddamn face!" laughed the woman, all traces of seriousness gone. She smacked the man heartily on the shoulder.
"Ow! Hahaha! I'm sorry, couldn't help myself anymore! Bloody Foundation, how do they keep up with this bullshit?"
"Don't ask me, man. Sounds damn exhausting to me. Think we fooled them there for a bit?"
"I dunno. Probably not. I think we were way too obvious about it, made it more of a farce than the actual thing."
"Ah well, I think it counts as a twist anyway. Make them think it was the Foundation who caught the thing then it turns out it wasn't and all that. That's the important bit, right?"
"Hrm. Not sure, actually. Could be a good idea to check."
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to bother it. It's all for the goal after all. Here, let me get to you. Hold still."
With that, the woman leaned down until her forehead touched with that of the man. As they did, a missive was passed between them, so fast that even the nigh omniscient eye of the reader could not quite see what it contained. It did catch a sense of satisfaction, however. The woman leaned back, and she and the man clasped each other's arms.
"Ah!" she said, "the Consortium Independent is happy, hehe! We have made things interesting! The readers will take note now."
"Aye, and the Consortium Independent is us!"
"We live to tell and be told another day. Pretty damn awesome as far as I'm concerned."
"Hmm. You think we can do something with that creature though? Seems like an awful waste to just flush it after all that work."
"Well, it's a wee bit purple, but we can train it, I think."
"Ooh, we can use it for a feature! It will be great for that."
"Better than great. Interesting."
The two stood silent for a moment, basking in their mutual contentment. Finally, the woman patted the man on the head. "Guess we're done here then."
"Which means…"
"Booze?"
"Booze."
With this, the two began to leave. As they did, they threw down their overly white lab coats to the floor and stepped on them with vigor. As they left the chamber and the still screaming prisoner in it, the man asked:
"Do you think they got the deal with the initials?"
"Eh. They can always just look below."
[[tab stuff]]
Three figures stood at the gates of hell.
The first was a man, or at least a close approximation of one. From his heavy cowl to his thick gloves to his shinning boots, he was dressed in midnight. His face stood in sharp contrast, pale as polished bone. To his nose he held a handkerchief. Some scents were unbearable to even death itself. He was muttering to himself angrily, though not even he knew what he said.
The second towered over the first, a jagged monstrosity of shattered metal, splintered wood and broken rock. What passed for its face showed no reaction as it surveyed the scene before it, but its massive fists opened and closed repeatedly, the grinding sound of tortured metal accompanying each involuntary clutching. In a creature so used to scenes of mass slaughter, this was an unnerving reaction.
The third was both there and not. One moment it stood next to its brothers, so immense as to dwarf even the enormous second into insignificance, a presence so terrifying creation itself strained to contain it. The next there was nothing there at all, only an ominous silence and a dread emptiness of the air. It allowed betrayed no reaction to what it saw. Its thoughts remained its own.
"And they call us cruel." spat the first, momentarily removing the handkerchief from his thin mouth.
Are we not, brother? said the second, a hint of amusement creeping into its strangely gentle voice.
The first looked at the second in disbelief. "Surely you don't mean… we have been unkind at times, yes, and we took what was owned to us but never… you cannot-"
Calm yourself, brother. I was simply making play to ease my heart. Nay, I will not compare anything we done with this. It is…
Beyond us. The voice of the third rang in the winter air like an empty collection plate thrown to the floor of an alter.
"What have they done to themselves?"
Well do you see what they have done. You need not ask, brother.
The first turned upon the second in fury, his dark robes swirling around his gaunt form. "Who else to ask!? Is this not your domain, Great Death? Is this not the doing of your creatures?"
They are mine just as much as they are yours, Small Death. Either not at all or completely.
Not so. said the third. It did not bother to explain itself. It rarely ever did.
The three stood there for a time. Day became night and day again, and the three stood there still. From beyond the gates came a wail, which was swiftly silenced.
"Which of us should go?" asked the first, undisguised trepidation in his voice. His brothers looked at him in askance. They did not recall the last time they saw fear on the Small Death's pale face.
Does it matter? It will be us regardless. We will all know. We know already. We always knew.
The first looked up at his gargantuan brother for a moment, then nodded. With a visible shiver, he steeled himself and began striding towards the gate.
Halt. I shall go.
Even if the Small Death wished to argue, his brother's voice left no room for it. Instead, he simply stood aside as the semi-present form of the All-Death covered the distance between the place they stood and the gate with a single stride.
The others waited. Occasional screams came from the direction of the gate, all silenced quickly. The sky above was a sickly grey, chocked with acrid smoke. What was most unsettling however was how peaceful the world around that wretched place appeared. From the nearby evergreen forest to the serene little town which sat on the crossroad to the north, nothing outside that piece of earthly desolation gave any indication of what lurked within. All was as it always was. All was as it always will be.
Still they waited. People sometimes entered the place. Far fewer ever left. Their elder brother did not return, but they were not worried. The All-Death acted this way sometimes. One day, an indeterminable amount of time later, the place was emptied. Their elder brother returned soon after. He was not alone.
"You return."
You bring company.
So I do.
The Small Death peered at the grey, sad crowd that followed on the heel of his brother. Dismay was clear in his normally empty silvery eyes. "You have only rarely done thus. The collection of souls is beneath you."
The Great Death looked down as a tiny little girl approached its massive steel legs and curled at its feet. She made a pathetically small bundle as she tried to close her eyes and sleep. Such mercy will not come to her though. Never here. Never again.
So many. This was to be my gathering. There was no challenge in its voice, only questioning.
You are wrong.
The younger brothers knew better than to argue. Instead, as their brother began striding away from the wretched remains of hell, they followed, as they always did. Behind them came the procession, silent and somber. Until…
"God, full of mercy, Who dwells above, give rest on the wings of the Divine Presence, amongst the holy, pure and glorious who shine like the sky, to our souls. We offer prayer in the memory of our soul. Therefore, the Merciful One will protect our souls forever, and we will merge with eternal life. The Everlasting is our heritage, and we shall rest peacefully at our lying place, and let us say: Amen."
The prayer came softly from the crowd, carried by the nonexistent wind of the dark halls it now walked in. On empty breath it flowed, carrying itself into empty halls, resting like morning dew on the lashes of the dead.
More than life was lost here, Brothers. said the All-Death, as it led the still-singing procession beyond the halls and elsewhere.
The death of worlds is my domain.