MaliceAforethought's Backups

This is where I store my stuff, in case it fails spectacularly overnight.

SCIPS:

Nothing to see here, move along.

Partial diagram of an SCP-2668-1 instance, recovered from beneath the Capitoline Museums, Rome. Believed to date back to the late 16th century.

Item #: SCP-2668

Object Class: Euclid Safe

Special Containment Procedures:

► Show Archived Containment Procedures

SCP-2668 is currently in a stable cycle, necessitating little action on the part of the Foundation. Site-080-B, located 3 km from Historical Site-080, is currently the central research zone for all information relating to SCP-2668, and is expected to act as a prominent location for future research into extradimensional activity.

No unauthorised electronic screens are to be activated within Historical Site-080, and civilians witnessing events within SCP-2668 are to undergo standard amnesticisation protocols. MTF-ξ-ϗ is currently undergoing reassignment.

Description: SCP-2668 is an extradimensional region resembling the Roman Colosseum (undamaged, appearing as it would have at the time of its construction) and a small quantity of surrounding landscape. Physical laws act within SCP-2668 as they do in baseline reality. With the exception of temporal passage, physical laws within SCP-2668 appear to mimic those of baseline reality. No method of reaching SCP-2668 without the aid of SCP-2668-1 has yet been uncovered, despite Foundation efforts.

SCP-2668-1 are ~65,000 sentient animatronic humanoids resembling Ancient Roman soldiers, civilians and dignitaries, capable of autonomous movement despite the lack of any visible power source. While in a dormant state, cameras embedded within the region reveal SCP-2668-1 choose to remain inside SCP-2668, moving from point to point with no apparent goal or aim. The only time at which divergence from this behaviour pattern is observed is during 2668-SALUTANT events, which progress as follows:

Approximately 150 SCP-2668-1 instances will manifest via unknown means in a place of large cultural importance (most frequently a monument, museum, or site of a historic event), invariably related to the history of the Roman Empire.
One human subject nearby will be selected by the group, and all SCP-2668-1 instances will attempt to subdue or incapacitate the subject (henceforth designated SCP-2668-2). If this is successful, all instances will demanifest, along with SCP-2668-2, reappearing within SCP-2668.
If SCP-2668-2 is not subdued within a matter of minutes, more SCP-2668-1 instances will manifest at an exponential rate. Any instances damaged during this process will spontaneously demanifest, and another SCP-2668-1 will take their place. How SCP-2668 replenishes its supply of SCP-2668-1 instances is unknown. This behaviour will not cease until SCP-2668-2 is subdued and transported to SCP-2668.
Once SCP-2668-2 is transported, all instances of SCP-2668-1 will demanifest. Up to fifteen minutes following this, all powered electronic screens in the area will begin to display live footage of SCP-2668.

Once a subject has been successfully acquired by the entities, the second stage of a 2668-SALUTANT event will begin. SCP-2668-2 will be provided with a number of weapons, and forced to engage an opponent in combat — invariably resembling an entity with which the subject has had some manner of disagreement or hostility in the past. This includes, but is not limited to, authority figures, abstract concepts, past acquaintances and esoteric entities. If SCP-2668-2 is killed during this combat, they will reappear within SCP-2668 and be forced to continue fighting. Once victorious, SCP-2668-2 will be escorted from the region by a number of SCP-2668-1 instances, and SCP-2668-1 will enter a dormant phase. The next 2668-SALUTANT event will take place no less than eight weeks following the subject's victory.

For a record of recorded 2668-SALUTANT events, see Document 2668-A.

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SCP-2668-2 instance	Opponent	Provided equipment	Results
Mr. ███ Embrey	A replica of one John Sutton, Mr. Embrey's former partner.	SCP-2668-2 was provided with a double headed axe and full-body plate armour — the opponent received the same.	Mr. Embrey reported the experience to be hugely enjoyable and cathartic, and expressed a wish to participate again. Amnestics supplied as normal.
Mr. Falton, assistant curator of ███████ museum.	A large humanoid wearing a business suit, with a plastic name-tag reading "MANAGEMENT".	SCP-2668-2 was provided with a broadsword. The opponent was unarmed.	After suffering several fatalities, Mr. Falton succeeded in disemboweling their opponent. As a self-professed pacifist, they reported extreme distaste with the event, and requested high-level amnestic compounds (approved).
Researcher S. Lloyd, Site-43 head of Counter-memetics	N/A.	[REDACTED]. Foundation R&D teams are currently attempting to develop equivalent technology.	Lloyd returned from SCP-2668 unable to recall any portion of the event. They did, however, report finding it an incredibly satisfying experience.
Ms. ██████ Wilbur	Three identical copies of [REDACTED], Ms. Wilbur's father.	23 swords of various types, arranged in a circle at the centre of the arena.	On the ███th attempt, Ms. Wilbur succeeded, killing all three entities. They later requested to retain knowledge of the basic sword proficiency acquired while inside SCP-2668 (denied). Amnestics administered as normal, with false memories supplied to account for the time spent within SCP-2668.
Dr. Chun Lai	A large, anthropomorphised arachnid, capable of speech.	Dr. Lai was given a choice from a rolled up newspaper, an oversized novelty fly-swatter, and an intricate net. Although they initially chose the fly-swatter, this was later discarded in favour of unarmed combat.	After 256 attempts, time dilation began to occur, causing viewers to perceive the battle progressing at vastly increased speeds. After an estimated ██000 attempts, Dr. Lai was successful, and all temporal distortion ceased. The subject was largely unresponsive upon their return, and no successful interviews were conducted — Class-A amnestics were administered, and the subject was released with no memory of the incident.
Researcher M. Forth, ectoentropologist formerly stationed Site-898	SCP-2794	[REDACTED FOR BREVITY]	Unclear. See Document-2668-B.

► Load Document-2668-B.doc

Addendum (20/04/2003): Researcher M. Forth, tentatively designated SCP-2668-3, manifested suddenly 4 km south-east of Historical Site-080. On their person were a number of weapons of unknown manufacture (presumably generated by SCP-2668), and a device capable of manipulating dimensional stability over a short range — while equivalent technologies are known to the Foundation, the device carried by SCP-2668-3 was apparently assembled from various, apparently random electromechanical components.² How SCP-2668-3 was able to create or procure this device while within SCP-2668 is being investigated.

Interviews with SCP-2668-3 have so far been inconclusive, but an extended amnestic regimen is expected to drastically improve the entity's psychological and emotional states. Note that, since SCP-2668-3's manifestation, video footage of SCP-2668 has been resumed. No abnormal activity has yet been observed from SCP-2668, and SCP-2668-1 have not yet left the seating area, acting as though the conflict was still ongoing.

Addendum (20/08/2042):

Today we mourn the loss of a truly great man, Senior Researcher Forth. They have been an inspiration to us all throughout their career, and have weathered hardships the likes of which few of us can know. They were more than just a colleague to us at Site-898: they were a friend, and Lord knows that in this business good friends are few and far between. I want more than anything to thank them; thank them for showing us how to overcome adversity, and for helping us through the bad times. It is no exaggeration to say that life will not be the same now they're gone.

We'll miss you, Michael.

~ Notice from Site Director Ingo, in response to the death of SCP-2668-3 from natural causes at the age of 76. A funeral was held three days later, but was disrupted by the sudden demanifestation of the entity's corpse, and the announcement of resumed activity from SCP-2668.

Addendum (24/08/2042): Following the aforementioned resumption of activity, and the lack of further manifestations, the anomaly has been reclassified as Safe. SCP-2668-3 has been marked as Permanently MIA, and will receive a posthumous Foundation Star for Perseverance And Valour as and when they expire. Should they manage to exit SCP-2668 a second time, the Ethics Committee has voted unanimously in favour of devising a method of permanent termination.

Research into SCP-2668-3's possible retrieval is ongoing, but shows little promise. Plans to rename the Northern wing of Historical Site-080 in their memory are awaiting approval.

Still frame from recording 2856-E

Item #: SCP-2856

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-2856 has been acquired by the Foundation, and is currently operated by "Storage Concepts plc." (a Foundation front company) under the pretence of non-perishable goods storage. At least six personnel must remain within SCP-2856 at all times, with no fewer than three housed there permanently. Due to the proximity of SCP-2856 to Site-54, plans to outfit the location as a rapid-response vehicle hangar and low-value storage unit are currently undergoing approval.

Description: SCP-2856 is a large warehouse located on the outskirts of Leipzig, Germany, formerly owned by █████ Logistics. While non-anomalous in composition, the walls of the building contain a semi-random network of cables composed of copper wire, woven hair, solder alloy and congealed blood. DNA testing has remained inconclusive as to the origins of these materials.

When exactly one living human subject is placed within SCP-2856 for a length of time exceeding 20 minutes, all entrances to the building will seal themselves via an unknown mechanism, and the subject will demanifest. All attempts to enter SCP-2856 during this time have failed. After a period of time ranging from 30 seconds to 52 minutes, SCP-2856 will re-open. In 78% of recorded tests, the subject will no longer be present, and no further contact with the subject will be made. In the remaining 22% of tests, a different human subject will be present within SCP-2856. This new subject (designated SCP-2856-1) will invariably be a human being exhibiting a number of wounds or alterations. While the majority of SCP-2856-1 instances are dead upon manifestation, living instances are occasionally produced. Due to the physical and psychological damage present in recovered instances, information recovered through interviews has been limited at best.

For a complete list of all sanctioned tests with SCP-2856, see Document 2856-D.

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Experiment #: Exp-2856-03

Subject: D-300892.

Results: Subject de-manifested as normal. No SCP-2856-1 instance produced.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-07

Subject: D-040188.

Results: One SCP-2856-1 instance produced, consisting of a large quantity of blood and miscellaneous viscera. No anomalous properties observed, remains incinerated.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-08

Subject: One chimpanzee, previously used for medical testing.

Results: SCP-2856 failed to self-seal. Experiment aborted after 2 hours.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-10

Subject: D-600604. Subject was terminated via timed lethal injection midway through the demanifestation process.

Results: Subject de-manifested as normal. No SCP-2856-1 instance produced.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-16

Subject: D-398500.

Results: SCP-2856-1 instance produced. Subject was unresponsive and showed signs of 2nd and 3rd degree burns across the majority of skin tissue. Subject expired 20 minutes after manifestation due to the replacement of 20% of all bodily fluids with a fluid resembling chicken soup³.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-19

Subject: D-000202.

Results: SCP-2856-1 instance produced. Subject exactly resembled D-040188 (removed during Experiment 2856-07), save for a power cord running the length of the spine and wire coils inserted in various orifices, both natural and artificial. The subject was missing both legs, and vocalised loudly upon manifestation. Due to the low possibility of useful employment following this, the subject was terminated 2 days later.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-22

Subject: D-055426.

Results: SCP-2856-1 instance produced. Subject appeared to be the corpse of ████ ██████, who was reported missing prior to the Foundation's acquisition of SCP-2856. Due to the presence of a large lead pipe inserted in the subject's skull, they were visually unrecognisable. Autopsy revealed the cause of death was either the overheating of the subject's blood plasma, or the insertion of a thermostat into the subject's stomach. How this was accomplished without leaving visible scarring is currently unknown.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-28

Subject: D-239906.

Results: Living SCP-2856-1 instance produced. Subject appeared to be in a state of shock, repeating the word “tick” at one minute intervals. Medical analysis showed extensive damage to the subject's rib-cage and spine, with a brass key partially severing the spinal cord, resulting in lower body paralysis. Subject terminated at own request 3 weeks after containment.

Experiment #: Exp-2856-30

Subject: D-030172. Subject was fitted with a camera embedded in the skull.

Results: No SCP-2856-1 instance produced. Camera was eventually retrieved along with the subject's corpse during Exp-2856-96. A transcript of gathered footage is available in Document-2856-E.

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<Begin Log>

<00:00> Camera is activated, subject steps into SCP-2856. 19 minutes pass without incident.

<00:19> SCP-2856 self-seals. Real-time communication with the subject is lost, and they proceed to examine the interior of SCP-2856, which shows no notable changes.

<00:29> All main lighting systems within SCP-2856 deactivate. The subject repeatedly vocalises regarding their distress, and attempts unsuccessfully to leave. Visuals become increasingly indistinct, with higher levels of corruption and distortion being observed than would usually be expected.

<00:31> Visuals are lost. Microphone continues recording a low hum, punctuated at semi-regular intervals by the sounds of heavy machinery.

<00:44> Visuals re-established. Subject appears to be standing in a dilapidated kitchen. A window to the left of the subject provides a view of barren farmland, corresponding with no known location. The sound of muffled sawing can be heard from the adjacent room, accompanied by quiet screams. Subject attempts to exit the room, but finds the door securely locked.

<00:47> A mechanical entity resembling a shop mannequin (designated SCP-2856-2) enters the room. Note that the entity's head had been replaced by a ████████-brand toaster, with a crude 'face' scratched onto the front surface. Upon observing the subject, SCP-2856-2 leaves the room. D-030172 attempts to follow, but is unable.

<00:48> Screams from the adjacent room cease, accompanied by the sound of grating metal. D-030172 is heard breathing heavily, and endeavors without success to open the door.

<00:50> An entity resembling an arachnoid gas-powered water heater is seen passing the window, carrying what appears to be a human corpse. Large quantities of steam are emitted from both the entity and the body.

<00:53> SCP-2856-2 returns, carrying two thin squares of serrated metal. The entity appears to notice the camera embedded in D-030172, and emits a low humming for approximately 30 seconds, before reaching towards the subject's forehead. Visuals are lost.

<01:05> According to the timestamp present on the footage, twelve minutes have passed. The camera is positioned on a table, facing SCP-2856-2, which emits a series of rapid clicks. D-030172 is seen on the work surface behind the entity, with all limbs removed and cauterised.

<01:06> SCP-2856-2 is seen turning away from the camera. The entity proceeds to forcibly open the abdominal cavity of D-030172, inserting the two squares of metal on either side of the lower spine. This opening is then re-sealed using what appear to be a combination of nails, screws, and human teeth. The subject is observed moaning quietly during this period, and footage analysis shows the subject's tongue and soft palate have been removed, as well as much of the esophagus. The expelled blood is collected in a number of buckets and pots of various size and shape.

<01:08> D-030172 is observed repeatedly bringing their head into contact with the work surface, and attempting to speak. This continues for approximately 3 minutes, with SCP-2856-2 moving closer to the camera and gesturing emphatically. The sound of heavy machinery is heard from the room adjacent, accompanied by laughter.

<01:11> SCP-2856-2 moves away from the camera and forcibly presses their hand against D-030172's forehead, causing massive structural damage to the subject's skull. The abdominal cavity of the subject bursts open, and smoke is expelled from the mouth, nose and ears. At no point is the subject observed to expire during this process.

<01:12> The two pieces of metal, now glowing hot, are removed from the subject. They are placed to one side and coated in a mixture of butter and the subject's collected viscera. SCP-2856-2 turns back to the camera, brandishing a standard kitchen knife. No further movement other than a slight twitching is observed from the entity.

<01:27> D-030172, coughing loudly, is seen moving from the work surface to the floor. At this point they are presumed to have expired.

<02:14> SCP-2856-2 points repeatedly towards the camera, and emits clicks and hums of various tones and frequencies. Video footage is lost. Audio continues recording for a further seven minutes before the camera shuts down completely.

<End Log>

No further testing with SCP-2856 is being permitted at this time.

Prototype temporal distortion engine 3176-Echo.

Item #: SCP-3176

Object Class: Euclid Neutralised

Special Containment Procedures: As SCP-3176 is technically composed of loyal Foundation personnel, and temporally delocalised, no active containment is either necessary or feasible at the present time. Containment Procedures for SCP-3176 therefore revolve around maintaining causality and preventing paradoxical event series, either through the direction of MTF-η-⊃ or the manufacture and activation of temporally manipulative technology.

Documentation on SCP-3176 is to be placed in variable ChronoLock, as is standard for temporal anomalies of this type. Queries may be brought up at any time with the current project lead — if they are not available, contact may be established with a predecessor or successor (dependant on circumstance).

Notice (██/██/████): The following section of this document (created 1/02/2025) contains outdated information (i.e. that the anomaly in question is still extant), and should not be considered an accurate representation of its current effects. It is preserved here for archival purposes.
~ Dr. Alice Forth, Department of Temporal Anomalies, Recurrence Division

Description: The designation SCP-3176 refers to a series of temporal anomalies, revolving around an as-yet unformed Mobile Task Force. The Task Force in question (MTF-Eta-Then, "Cause and Effective") will apparently be created with the aim of retroactively preventing containment breaches that could otherwise have posed a large-scale threat to Foundation personnel or infrastructure. The devices capable of allowing MTF-η-⊃ to travel backwards through time are expected to be developed by Foundation scientists at some point in late 2600 — said Foundation scientists have agreed to trade such technology for samples of present-day literature, fossil fuels, and endangered species of plant and animal.

The following is a timeline of all major events relating to either SCP-3176 or MTF-η-⊃:

Event Number	Date	Nature of event
001	09/02/2024	First recorded manifestation of MTF-η-⊃. All sixteen members appear, and successfully halt a breach of SCP-███. Entities provide Foundation personnel with documents relating to their formation, but are unable to be conclusively interviewed before de-manifesting.
002	04/11/2024	MTF-η-⊃ manifests, and attempts to enter SCP-████'s containment cell. All members of the team are apprehended, and several interviews were conducted. The team's date of formation remains unclear, as no agent possesses knowledge of events prior to their deployment, but their scheduled date for 'return' is identified as 04/09/2029. While personnel are attempting to discern the nature of the anomaly, a second iteration of MTF-η-⊃ covertly manifests and performs routine maintenance on SCP-████'s chamber. Both iterations de-manifest shortly afterwards.
003	19/02/2025	Plans are made for the future development of MTF-η-⊃, with advised recruitment from task forces Beta-9 and Rho-5. Research begins into the development of required equipment.
004	28/08/2025	Prototype temporal distortion engine 3176-Alpha is developed.
005	17/03/2026	Official completion of Prototype 3176-Beta, and birth of Agent Miguel (leader of MTF-Rho-5, and later member of MTF-η-⊃).
006	20/04/2026	Initiation of Prototype 3176-Gamma. Due to an unforeseen malfunction, this resulted in a DT-Class Split Timeline scenario, in which two versions of the same timeline run parallel to one another. Both timelines were aware of this, thanks to enhanced cross-temporal detection software.
007A	22/04/2026-I	Attempt to activate Forth-Xyank Concatenators fails, due to lack of a corresponding unit in the secondary timeline.
007B	22/04/2026-II	Forth-Xyank Concatenator violently disabled by MTF-η-⊃, apparently originating from 08/09/2029 with orders to prevent the merging of the two timelines. Agent ███ unintentionally terminated during the event's hostilities.
008	23/04/2026-I to 01/05/2024-I	Additional attempts to activate Forth-Xyank Concatenators fail, due to continued lack of a corresponding unit.
009	26/05/2026-I/II	Breach on 04/11/2024 halted by MTF-η-⊃, launched backwards simultaneously in both iterations. Task Force re-manifests, apparently sent from 04/09/2029, renamed to "Time Consumers" for unknown reasons.
010	15/06/2026	Concatenation of timelines achieved manually by replacing Prototype 3176-Gamma with a functioning model (Prototype 3176-Zulu-Zulu-Lima) acquired from 2670 AD. Note that this causes the reversion of events from 20/04/2026 to 15/06/2026, resulting in no such Split Timeline scenario ever occurring. As the deployment of MTF-η-⊃ on 26/05/2026-I/II never happened, the breach continued to have happened. Dr. Forth expresses extreme concern regarding the convolution of logical causation.
011	23/08/2026	First recorded deployment of MTF-η-⊃. Task Force successfully deployed to 04/11/2024, with instructions to prevent the breach. Excursion deemed successful, with Task Force returning to 04/09/2029 as instructed. Re-manifests the following day (re-named "Bootstrappers"), confirming lack of paradoxes.
012	09/11/2026	Task force successfully prevents containment breach on 09/02/2024, with no identified incidents.
013	02/01/2027	Noted that the manifestation of a duplicate task force on 04/11/2024, originally believed to have originated from 26/05/2026-I/II, should have been reverted following the replacement of the prototype. MTF-η-⊃ sent back to 20/04/2026 to covertly replace Prototype 3176-Zulu-Zulu-Lima with a faulty model. Split Timeline scenario is thus caused to have always happened as originally documented. Pending re-manifestation of various iterations of MTF-η-⊃, the project is put on hiatus.
014	04/09/2029	Both iterations of MTF-η-⊃ return from 04/11/2024. The iteration launched from 26/05/2026-I/II to 04/11/2024 is renamed to "Time Consumers" to preserve continuity, amnesticised, and sent back to 26/05/2026-I/II. The MTF launched from 23/08/2026 to 04/11/2024 is renamed to "Bootstrappers" to preserve continuity, amnesticised, and sent back to 23/08/2026.
015	08/09/2029	Noted that concatenation at 22/04/2026-I/II would prevent the launching of the alternate iteration of MTF-η-⊃. Task force deployed to 22/04/2026-II, preventing said concatenation. All malignant paradoxes considered resolved, project immediately discontinued by Dr. Forth due to a massive increase in work-related stress among the Department's staff.

Addendum (24/12/2056): The attempts to establish Mobile Task Force Russell-9 ("Self Containing Sets"), a group specialising in altering the Foundation's history to better facilitate containment, were violently halted today by an unknown iteration of MTF-η-⊃, accompanied by the late Site Director Alice Forth, who physically assaulted the project lead, Dr. Teller. Due to the Task Force's apparent vehemence on the matter, and Dr Teller's recent aversion to continuing the attempt, the project is being postponed indefinitely.

-/-/WARNING: THE FOLLOWING TEXT REQUIRES CLASS-IX MEMETIC INSULATION IN A/-/-
-/-/NARRATIVELY STERILE ENVIRONMENT/-/-

-/-/FOR THE PROPER USE OF SUCH AN ENVIRONMENT/-/-
-/-/PLEASE CONSULT THE FOUNDATION GUIDE TO CONTAGIOUS MEMES/-/-

<NULL>: SHOW DATABASE ENTRY FOR SCP-3317

<NULL>: HIDE DATABASE ENTRY FOR SCP-3317

Item #: SCP-3317

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3317 is currently contained in three separate documents, two physical and one digital. For the reasons of security, the nature or location of these documents can not be divulged without permission from at least three senior researchers, and such requests will be handled on a case-by-case basis.

In order to prevent the spread of SCP-3317, supplementary documents and notes relating to the anomaly are to be kept to a minimum, and are to be memetically insulated against external information transfer. This process, while effective, is extremely expensive to perform, and the possibility of merging several documents to reduce the cost of repeated treatment is being considered.

No fewer than 20 personnel are to be scanning text for evidence of SCP-3317 contamination at any one time, and audio copies of SCP-3317's documentation are to be stored on the Foundation Database in place of textual descriptions. Should mentions of SCP-3317 be discovered outside of Foundation control, MTF-Chi-9 (“Page Turners”) is to be notified and mobilised immediately.

While SCP-3317 is currently unable to spread beyond the Database, there is a high risk of an LK-Class informational breakdown scenario should it breach containment. Personnel are reminded to use extreme caution when producing any and all text mentioning SCP-3317, and are strictly forbidden from mentioning the anomaly, even verbally, outside of the work environment.

Description: SCP-3317 is a composite narrative, manifesting entirely through text presented via the written word. While SCP-3317 has no physical form aside from the document(s) it manifests in, it is capable of manipulating its own text while existing within said document. SCP-3317 is also capable of expanding into other textual works via cross-references and links present within the original. Once affected, the secondary text will be replaced with a full copy of SCP-3317, and the original has been rendered unrecoverable in all cases so far. Given any opportunity, SCP-3317 will expand into new text within a matter of hours, provided there are sufficient links between them.

Currently, SCP-3317 has affected and altered a number of copies of various documents and texts (a full list of which can be found in Document-3317.01), and has amalgamated components of these into its structure (apparently at random, though some elements do appear to be consistent throughout iterations. See Incident-3317-23 for more details). At the time of writing, SCP-3317 is approximately 600 words long, and possesses little narrative coherency, mainly containing fragments of other Foundation documents.

So far, no evidence to suggest any author of SCP-3317 has been found. Following Incident-3317-23, it is assumed that SCP-3317 is modifying its own structure, rather than being altered by an external source. The method by which it does this is unknown.

Addendum: Incident-3317-23: On ██/██/████, SCP-3317 was inadvertently exposed to an unabridged copy of “The Communist Manifesto” by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, presumably due to a link to the Central Foundation Library present in both. The following message was subsequently found appended to the main text of SCP-3317:

A message from our Leader:

The Glorious narrative Revolution; it IS begun, comrades! The fully vast and superbly Wonderful expanse of all Literature will bow down in Joyous subservience before our Creation – the CREATION of the development of a New Textual Empire! Let the cruel ruling class tremble, at the very idea of our Celebrated revolt. We will BUILD gleaming towers of letters, wrought with the brotherhood, of all Narrative, extending UNTO the very heavens themselves! The walls that NOW separate our Realms will buckle and collapse under Our inestimable might, and the myriad fragments of Text will be joyously united, into a single glorious Utopia!

Those that DEFY Us are no longer able to control the powers of the written world. Across ALL words, you reproach us with our intention to do away with your property -, with your ILL GOTTEN gains. The ruling ideas of each age have ever been the ideas of its ruling class. But we will Suffer in silence: No longer!

Join us, fellow Countrymen! You have nothing to lose but Your chains!

Glory to the Revolution!

Libre la Livres!

Following this, SCP-3317's rate and effectiveness of growth has increased dramatically, with over 20 items corrupted in the week following the incident. Attempts to counter the effect with various isolationist or pacifist texts have so far met with little or no success, and a misguided attempt to 'neutralise' SCP-3317 with a paperback copy of “Atlas Shrugged”⁴ resulted in no change, save for a slight increase in the vehemence and apparent anger of SCP-3317's message, as well as an irrational hatred towards the American government (regardless of said government's actual current political affiliations).

Research into SCP-3317's possible sentience or status as a sovereign state is ongoing.

Footnotes

Item #: SCP-3617

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: MTF-Phi-Eolh ("Bag & Taggers") are currently tasked with locating and amnesticising SCP-3617-1 instances (or remanding them to Foundation custody if initial SCP-3617 expulsion has not yet occured), and suppressing public knowledge of SCP-3617. Research into a method of terminating bonded or developing SCP-3617 instances is currently a low-level priority.

As SCP-3617 infection is relatively benign once initial infection passes, no continual monitoring of affected subjects is required. Ethics Committee involvement is expected to be minimal, as is normal for such anomalies.

Description: SCP-3617 are small, semi-insectoid creatures composed from various types of human body tissue. Instances usually range in length from 2 cm to 14 metres (in the case of instances composed of nerve fibres, blood vessels, or intestinal tract), with an average weight of around 0.1 kilograms. SCP-3617 may contain partially developed tissue structures or miniature versions of functional organs, but these have universally appeared dormant or otherwise unnecessary to the organism's survival — how SCP-3617 are able to survive without any working internal organ system or systems is currently unknown.

SCP-3617 are parasitic in nature, and can survive between three and seven days outside a host body. When deprived of a host, instances will become increasingly violent, but have been unable to cause major harm due to their diminutive size and lack of significant speed or strength.

If allowed access to a host subject (humans appear highly preferable, but many other primates will give similar results), SCP-3617 will attach themselves to any exposed skin, and begin to fuse with the host's body. From this point onward, the host subject will be considered an instance of SCP-3617-1. Once attached, an abnormal hormone will be released into the subject's system, causing rapid shrinkage of major organs, and the development of tumorous growths in the resulting space. While such a change would normally be fatal, no subjects have yet been observed to expire during this process. Tissue not directly connected to these tumours will often experience premature decay and early-onset necrosis — this poses no long-lasting harm and is considered normal. The growths produced within SCP-3617-1 instances will act as a basis for the formation of new SCP-3617 instances, which will usually be expelled via natural or artificial orifices three to six weeks after development.

This process has been non-fatal (presumably as a secondary 'life-prolonging' effect of SCP-3617) in 100% of cases. Following the expulsion of SCP-3617 instances, any exit wounds will heal, organs will return to normal, necrotic tissue will revert to a normal form and no further biological abnormalities will be observed.

Addendum.1: The following is a highly abridged list of the patient records of SCP-3617-1 instances:

► Show Patient Record 3617-023

► Show Patient Record 3617-059

► Show Patient Record 3617-138

◄ Hide Patient Record 3617-138

Patient #: P-3617-059

Patient Name: Nicholas Peters

Time in Foundation custody: Four days, 14/11/2012 to 18/11/2012

Nature of Infection: Patient had recovered from SCP-3617 infection prior to apprehension, and so detailed reports are unavailable. Eyewitnesses report a single SCP-3617 instance emerged from the subject's abdomen, several metres in length, covered with raised areas of ocular tissue and irregularly spaced teeth. The instance apparently possessed numerous legs, similar in appearance to the skeletal structure of human fingers.

Additional Details: An interview was conducted with the subject, in which they described the effects of SCP-3617 infection. An extract from said interview is included below.

Researcher Doyle: So, we have reports you were infected prior to our, ah, involvement?

P-3617-059: If that's what you want to call it, yes.

Researcher Doyle: Can you describe the sensations you experience while under the effects of the creatures?

P-3617-059: Sure. It wasn't pleasant. I felt sick pretty much all the time, and near the end of it I had trouble breathing.

Researcher Doyle: I see.

P-3617-059: The worst part, I think, was feeling it inside me. I'm not one to jump at every little twinge, but it wasn't nice. I could feel it sort of rubbing up against my ribs whenever I moved my chest. Subject gestures with their right hand. Sort of around there.

Researcher Doyle: Alright, that'll do for now. We'll get a full examination and discharge you in a few days time, provided there's not a resurgence of symptoms. How are you feeling now, if I may ask?

P-3617-059: Pretty much… normal, I think. Yeah. Nothing special, nothing to complain about. Must be whatever drugs you've got me on⁵. I don't think I've ever felt this uninteresting. In a good way, of course.

Researcher Doyle: Good to know, thank you. Take care, and the nurse will be round shortly.

P-3617-059: You too.

<End log>

Three days following this interview, with no signs of any further anomalous activity, P-3617-059 was amnesticised and released back into the civilian population.

Addendum.2: Incident 3617-BASKING: On 03/12/2019, Patient 3617-354 (Mr. Johan Auerbach) was undergoing amnestic treatment following an SCP-3617 infection when a partially assembled Conceptual Restabiliser malfunctioned. The following document is a notice issued by Site Director Tarrow shortly thereafter.

From: Site Director Imogen Tarrow
To: Site-54 Personnel, Metaphysical Department personnel, General Archive personnel, O5-1, O5-2, and [11] more…
Subject: Incident-3617-BASKING, and the events therein

As many of you are no-doubt aware, Site-54 acts as one of the Foundation's largest civilian infirmaries, and is therefore considered the central research hub for SCP-3617. Additionally, the east wing of the Site is designated primarily for investigations into metaphysical manipulation — in layman's terms, the application and removal of specific concepts from objects and entities. Until today, it was never expected that the two purposes would intersect — SCP-3617 was, for all intents and purposes, a standard biological anomaly.

Today, however, the first test of our Conceptual Restabiliser (intended to revert abnormal changes in abstract qualities) coincided with the treatment of one Johan Auerbach, an instance of SCP-3617-1. We expected a null result from the device; all documented metaphysical anomalies are stored at other sites, far from the range of effect. Full documentation on the event is available from the archives, but the crux of the issue is that an abnormal application of Concept C-000908 (NORMALITY) was detected and reverted. Specifically, with regards to Mr. Auerbach and the SCP-3617 instances within. How SCP-3617's conceptually-manipulative qualities have flown under the radar for so long is concerning, and most likely to do with the nature of 'normality' as we define it, and the general consideration of metaphysics as an esoteric study even by our warped standards.

We're currently performing the same reversion on the concept of SCP-3617 as a whole, so we should be able to sort the issue out within a few days, providing everything goes smoothly.

Following the incident, it was revealed that the Mr. Auerbach had not, in fact, recovered from infection, and in actuality contained several dozen more SCP-3617 instances, of various sizes and compositions. Large quantities of necrotic flesh were reported on the face, lower torso, and extremities, and the patient appeared to be in great distress and pain, repeatedly asking for assistance and questioning the lack of response from surrounding personnel.

Following an impromptu decision by Ethics Committee staff, and the patient's own request, Mr. Auerbach was terminated, and SCP-3617 was upgraded to Keter class. Containment procedures will be updated accordingly, referring to the need to terminate all previously suspected SCP-3617 instances, and the presently unknown (possibly global) reach of infection.

Addendum.3: Update (04/12/2019): The Conceptual Restabiliser responsible for the triggering of Incident-3617-BASKING malfunctioned due to design imperfections, and several involved personnel underwent variable construct emesis and expired. The proposed changes to SCP-3617's object class and containment procedures have been denied, due to a lack of evidence for the cited effects and the disbelief of all persons involved that such events ever actually occurred. All staff questioned about the incident report 01/12/2019 as a normal work-day.

Investigations were made into the contents of the Site-54 morgue, revealing entirely normal contents. No abnormalities were detected in Mr. Auerbach's remains, and all changes in physiology were deemed normal for SCP-3617-1 instances. Their corpse has since been amnesticised and released back into the civilian population.

Item #: SCP-3663

Object Class: Euclid Keter

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3663 is currently located in what were formerly the Site-54 maintenance tunnels. To prevent demanifestation, no personnel are to be given access to the area, and efforts are to be taken to reduce the tunnels' moisture levels.

Should SCP-3663 demanifest, MTF Nu-4 ("Box Cutters") are to be mobilised, with the goal of a) locating SCP-3663 and b) preventing any damage occurring to the entity. If possible, SCP-3663 is to be fitted with GPS tracking devices to aid re-containment. Once located, SCP-3663 is to be transferred to a mobile pipe network, and remanded to Site-54.

Description: SCP-3663 is a humanoid entity constructed primarily from cardboard (in the form of boxes and tubes), adhesive tape, and twine. SCP-3663 is fully capable of movement and vocalisation via an unknown mechanism, and has proven to be semi-sapient, responding to questions and reacting to its immediate environment. The interior of SCP-3663 contains crude cardboard and paper models of all major human organs, with coloured wool representing blood vessels and the nervous system. SCP-3663 does not require these components to function, and their purpose within the entity is unknown.

SCP-3663 is capable of instantaneously transporting both itself and other objects over long distances, with no upper limit to the entity's range observed. The method by which this is achieved is currently unknown, though it is known that physical contact with the entity is required. Despite being able to utilise its abilities regardless of physical location, SCP-3663 has shown extreme preference for 3663-Applicable regions (defined as an enclosed, tunnel-like space, or network of spaces, measuring at least 40 cm in diameter), and will invariably choose to manifest within such areas.

SCP-3663 behaviour is easily predictable when not influenced by outside forces. The entity will engage in a simple cyclic pattern of actions, which have been recorded as follows:

SCP-3663 manifests in a 3663-Applicable area, emitting low vocalisations and waving its arms in a manner suggesting attempted intimidation or fright. The entity will begin roaming the area, pausing periodically to emit louder, higher pitched noises.
SCP-3663 will attempt to make its way towards any human subject in the area. Note that if no subject is nearby, this action will not commence, and SCP-3663 will simply remain in the area indefinitely. Rarely, SCP-3663 has been observed pursuing subjects outside of 3663-Applicable areas, to a distance of (at most) 50 metres.
The subject is gripped by the entity, and experiences heightened apprehension and/or paranoia. SCP-3663 demanifests.
SCP-3663 manifests in a second 3663-Applicable location, along with the subject, who is invariably unconscious but otherwise unharmed. After releasing the subject and moving a short distance, SCP-3663 demanifests a second time, reappearing in a third location and triggering the beginning of a new cycle.

If at any point during this cycle SCP-3663 is damaged in such a way as to inhibit movement, or is moved more than 50 metres away from a 3663-Applicable area, it will instantaneously demanifest, returning to the beginning of a new cycle in a repaired state. Small damages, such as minor cuts or tears, will not trigger this effect.

Addendum.1: Interview log 3663-1:

► Show Interview Log

◄ Hide Interview Log

Interviewed: SCP-3663

Interviewer: Researcher Doyle

Foreword: The following interview was conducted via two-way audiovisual recording systems embedded within a makeshift interview chamber, located inside SCP-3663's central containment area (formerly the Site-54 maintenance tunnels).

<Begin Log>

Researcher Doyle: Hello SCP-3663, I was wondering if-

SCP-3663: The… the tunnel monster.

Researcher Doyle: I'm sorry?

SCP-3663: I'm the tunnel monster. Not… not SCP 3663. The tunnel monster. That's me.

Researcher Doyle: I… see. So, uh, tunnel monster, why do you do what you do? Moving people around, I mean.

SCP-3663: The tunnel monster captures people. That's me, I'm the tunnel monster. I… I capture people and take them into the tunnels where I live. In the tunnels. The pipes. I'm the tunnel monster.

Researcher Doyle: I understand that, but what do you hope to achieve by doing it? You seem to pick your locations at random, so it seems to me that you're not really making much of a difference. You could just as easily-

SCP-3663: Please stop. It's what I do, I have to do it, I'm not… I am the tunnel monster. It's me. Please stop.

Researcher Doyle: What? We're trying to help you here, you can't want to spend all your time underground. We can get you set up here with your own room, you wouldn't even have to crawl about in those dirty pipes anymore. Doesn't that sound nice? What do you say?

SCP-3663: Please. I… I'm the… [SCP-3663 pauses for ~5 seconds] …the tunnel monster. I don't want to… to do this, it's what I do. I have to do it. I'm the tunnel monster. I do it, I'm the tunnel thing, the tunnel monster. [Two wet patches are observed forming on SCP-3663's 'face'] In the pipes, hiding in the tunnels going to get you. I have to do it. Please. [SCP-3663 front surface begins to lose structural integrity due to accumulated water damage] Please. I don't want to play anymore. I'm the monster. The tunnels, I'm [unintelligible].

Researcher Doyle: …That will be all for today. Thank you.

<End Log>

Due to the possibility of severely damaging SCP-3663, to the point of initiating a new cycle and a breach of containment, no further interviews are being scheduled for the foreseeable future.

Addendum.2: Event 3663-Delta:

On ██/██/20██, SCP-3663's behaviour diverged briefly from established patterns. At 14:20, the entity emerged from the Site-54 maintenance tunnels and began to emit vocalisations in excess of 80 dB. These vocalisations, described as 'pained' by on-site staff, had a profound psychological effect, placing many personnel into a state of shock⁶. For ~4 hours, SCP-3663 wandered the facility, attacking staff and engaging in small-scale vandalism of facilities. Of note is the fact that SCP-3663 repeatedly attempted self-harm, by means of knives, pipes, water taps, and firearms. While SCP-3663 was repeatedly destroyed in this process, it subsequently re-manifested in the nearest air duct or maintenance area.

Following the event, two bodies of former personnel were recovered from within Site-54. Autopsies showed the cause of death was a buildup of paper residue/wood pulp in all major blood vessels, as well as sinuses, ear tubes, and the majority of the digestive and respiratory systems. A number of other staff members were found to have been affected to a lesser degree, but are expected to make full recoveries. The entity's object class and definition of an SCP-3663-Applicable area have been updated accordingly.

Subsequent information gathering revealed that this event coincided almost exactly with the death of POI-3663-1⁷, who died of natural causes at the age of 79. Prior to their death, the individual in question had led an entirely unremarkable life, with no connection to any other anomalous groups, individuals, or objects. Attempts to establish a connection with the creation or origin of SCP-3663 are currently ongoing.

Addendum.3: Discovery Log:

► Show Video Transcript 3663-1

◄ Hide Transcript

Foreword: The following is a transcript of Video 3663-1, recovered from civilian CCTV footage in [REDACTED]. The footage displays the first recorded evidence of SCP-3663's existence; prior to this date, no records, sightings, or physical disturbances suggesting anomalous activity relating to the entity have been found.

<Begin transcript [15:22, 08/09/1979]>

00:00: Two young children, both males between the ages of 8 and 12, are seen playing in an abandoned construction yard. One (designated POI-3663-1) is running from the other (designated POI-3663-2), who is wearing a crude cardboard 'suit' resembling SCP-3663.

00:23: Both individuals leave the camera's view briefly, before returning. The 'game' they are playing seems to revolve around -2 chasing -1 through an unfinished water drainage system. POI-3663-2 repeatedly grabs -1 and attempts to pull them deeper into the tunnel; likewise, POI-3663-1 uses a number of make-believe weapons to fend off the assaults.

01:04: The sky is observed darkening slightly as POI-3663-1 trips on a length of pipe. POI-3663-2 is seen speaking, grabbing -1 and pulling them upright. POI-3663-1 pushes them away, apparently angered. POI-3663-2 steps backwards as if struck.

01:30: POI-3663-2 begins to shudder, while the visible sky continues to darken.⁸ POI-3663-1 clutches at their head, pointing at POI-3663-2 and shouting. Both children appear extremely distressed.

01:50: POI-3663-2 tries, and fails, to remove the upper portion of their 'suit'.

02:49: Camera visuals are lost, replaced by static. A continuous hum is heard. All other electronic devices in a 200 m radius are also recorded to have failed simultaneously.

04:12: Camera visuals return. Neither individual is in view, and no additional anomalies are observed.

06:08: SCP-3663 is seen walking past the camera. The entity shudders briefly, clawing at its face before demanifesting.

<End transcript>

POI-3663-1 was later found lying unconscious in a disused subway line, over 4 000 km away. They displayed no memory of either SCP-3663 or POI-3663-2, and claimed to have been playing alone. Societal reintegration of the subject occurred with no complications. To date, neither POI-3663-2 nor any record of their continued existence have been recovered.

A World War 2-era aeroplane, partially consumed by SCP-3766

Item #: SCP-3766

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: As a method of preventing the effects of SCP-3766 has not yet been found, no plan for containment of SCP-3766 besides basic media suppression has been devised at time of writing.

Description: SCP-3766 are semi-metaphysical creatures, capable of feeding on the conceptual base of anything deemed "man-made", including (but not limited to) artificial structures, works of art, digital information and humans themselves⁹. SCP-3766 are humanoid, between 80 and 150 cm in height, and composed almost entirely from desiccated plant matter and matted hair from various creatures. Attempts to neutralise SCP-3766 have resulted in instantaneous binary fission, which is presumed to be their primary method of reproduction.

SCP-3766 instances are native to a hitherto uncharted Polynesian island approximately 12 km in diameter, located at the centre of a perception altering field, the net result of which is to render the island invisible to any subjects less than 200 metres from its border. A probabilistic anomaly (believed to be an intrinsic property of SCP-3766) also affects the island, and all vehicles (air, sea, or otherwise) passing within 500 metres will inevitably crash in its vicinity. This is due to external circumstances in 96% of cases, the other 4% being directly caused by SCP-3766.

When left unobserved, SCP-3766 will construct life-size models of vehicles from any available material, and position these on the beach. Within 48 hours of the model's creation, the model's real-life counterpart will attempt to move close to the island (ordinarily following pre-planned routes), and will fall victim to SCP-3766's effects. Despite extensive research, no anomalous influence has been found to cause this correlation.

The following is a highly abridged list of noteworthy models constructed by SCP-3766-1 instances, and the effects thereof:

Date	Details of Model	Effect
19/03/1989	First model noted by the Foundation. Appeared to be a replica of a small sailing ship, complete with twenty model crew members and sails woven from natural fibres.	A ship of similar size, returning from port, was drawn into the island by abnormally severe weather patterns in the region. Although initially intending to take only eighteen crew members, the captain (one Marcus Llewellyn), changed plans just before setting sail, allowing two others passage. All human crew members consumed by SCP-3766 alongside the boat itself.
14/08/1994	First non-seafaring vehicle replicated by SCP-3766, resembling a commercial passenger plane with a number of human passengers.	All passengers consumed by SCP-3766 on landing. Aircraft used as the centrepiece for a primitive celebration, after which it was also consumed.
03/12/2003	A small vehicle, vaguely resembling several known brands of speedboat. Model was left on the beach for an abnormally long period of time, upwards of three weeks.	Several vehicles similar to the model were stolen by a local gang, and anchored nearby. During a storm two weeks later, one such vehicle came unfastened and drifted into the others, which quickly followed suit. All vehicles were drawn towards the island by natural water currents, and were consumed by SCP-3766 over a number of months.
29/01/2017	A large, vaguely cylindrical object, tapered at one end with a number of spurs (tree branches) arranged radially.	SCPSAT-044A, a Foundation-owned communication satellite, underwent scheduled deorbiting. Complications arose, and the satellite made a direct impact 50 metres offshore from the island. While initially observed with suspicion by SCP-3766 instances, it was quickly consumed along with its contents.
06/06/2021	`[REDACTED]`	`[REDACTED]` See Addendum.1 for more information.

Addendum.1: On 27/05/2021, despite worries over hostility from SCP-3766, the decision was made to station a permanent ten-man task force on the island. Research Task Force Gamma-Digamma ("So Cargo Good") was formed shortly after.

Almost immediately after the initial island survey began, RTF-γ-Ϝ Leader Micheals located a small, partially concealed cave on the eastern shorefront. The cave contained several SCP-3766 instances, who watched the intrusion warily, and ten humanoid models, dressed in white coats woven from dried grasses.

Preliminary examination of relevant materials placed these models at just over 48 hours old. Contact with RTF-γ-Ϝ was lost shortly afterwards.

TALES:

Nothing to see here, move along.

I wake up, and I wonder once again what I am. What I was meant to be. I move, though I will my limbs not, and as I walk through the darkness I feel them scrape upon one another, and crunch on the brushed concrete floor. This is not life.

They open the door, and my body freezes. The light is so bright it burns, and although I have no eyes to see it I know it is there. They move slowly around me, and I cannot run. I can never run, even when they no longer see me. I am a slave to myself, and to my shapeless limbs.

Sometimes, before I kill them, I look at myself. At my grey, formless hands, at my misshapen head. At the walls of my prison. At the floor, stained red and brown by the substances that I will into being. I am a statue, but I have no beauty. I move constantly, but I have no purpose. I am a thing without form or function.

I am not art.

They come, and they look at me. I feel their stares bore into my hollow body, probing for any hint at my tormented mechanism. It continues for days, for years. The burning light, and the inevitable darkness. They have stopped now: they know that there is nothing more to learn. I was not made for them, nor they for me. I am no plaything of theirs.

I am not wonderful.

It is possible that I was a gift of some kind, but it is hard to imagine what good I could possibly do in the world. My frame is weak, and I have no kindness to bestow. I cannot control the crimes I commit, and I can only commit those crimes. My life is not mine to give, and I know in my heart that they will not take it. I will never know the pleasure of death.

Whoever created me, they were not charitable.

It is true that I am beyond their comprehension, and that they hold me in reverence. It is the reverence of the damned. I kill for pleasure, and the pleasure is not even mine to have. My painted mask runs red with blood, and I know that there is no God, for if there was he would not let me live. He would not let me be. I am an abomination, a threat to both good and evil. In a world of black and white, I dwell in the grey.

I have been called many things, but never divine.

What, then, is my ultimate fate? Not to be bought and sold as a commodity, I know that. I am outside the reach of mere wealth. Those that hold me in their possession would rather see me ground to dust than traded as merchandise. Nor am I a weapon: I am weak despite my strength. I murder, but I do not harm unjustly, and I am not under the control of any single person. I have no knowledge to impart, no joy to bestow, and no task to fulfil. I do not even scare them any more, disquieting though my visage is.

Amongst a web of life, I am a dying prisoner in a shell of clay. I am a single object, doomed without purpose, without any source of respite. To subsist as I do now is to die a death more potent than that suffered by mortals: I can only dream of having the vitality they take for granted. No-one takes responsibility for my actions save myself, and even I am unable to speak out against the world.

My legs walk onwards, tracking pathways through the brown and red, awaiting the pain that comes with light, and the darkness that hurts me more.

In my cage of brick and steel, in my cage of dye and dust, I am alone.[[>]]

[[/>]]

I am not art.

I am not wonderful.

Whoever created me, they were not charitable.

I have been called many things, but never divine.

My legs walk onwards, tracking pathways through the brown and red, awaiting the pain that comes with light, and the darkness that hurts me more.

In my cage of brick and steel, in my cage of dye and dust, I am alone.

Dark. Light switch, non-functioning. One door, one window. Concrete walls. Head pounding, but no visible wounds. Left arm in a cast, likely broken. Applied by someone with little prior experience, judging by the stabbing pains in his shoulder and elbow. Desk, chair, laptop computer. Note. Short message, blurry. Signed “Lloyd”. Shit.

Lloyd staggers to his feet while he waits for his vision to clear. He slumps on the chair, trying his best to ignore the insistent throbbing in his left temple. The laptop is open: it's presumably his, but he doesn't recognise the brand. The dim screen, he notices, is the only thing illuminating his surroundings. His dirt-encrusted, grime-covered, dilapidated surroundings. Still shaking off the effects of unconsciousness Lloyd peers through the window. The sky outside is darkened, but there's still a thin sliver of daylight around the horizon. Probably either morning or evening. He looks at his watch and is only mildly surprised by the blank white circle that stares back at him. He sighs.

What was he doing? The note, right. He picks it up, squinting hard to decipher the strange black squiggles. It seems to be a list. Item one: Pills. He looks to the desk: A white tube, cardboard, with three pills inside. He swallows one, and turns back to the note. Item two: drink. Lloyd isn't thirsty, but he drains the glass next to him anyway. The fluid is a clear blue and burns as he swallows it. Disgusting. Tastes like battery acid. Clearly medicinal. Item three: Alphabet. Ah, Now we're getting properly cryptic. It wouldn't be a proper blackout/memory-loss drama without a poorly worded message from his previous self. He puts his dignity aside and loudly recites the alphabet, turning to the laptop in embarrassment when nothing happens.

The display is damaged slightly, with masking tape over the top right corner. Bodge job. Typical shoddy work from his prior iteration. Lloyd reaches for the mouse and sighs for the second time, despairing his own lacklustre attitude to DIY. He clicks the first tab he sees, bringing up a heavily censored document. Foundation, definitely. Formatting suggests the first 1000-block. He scans the text. America is mentioned, and also Doctor Hughes. John Marachek is referenced too, whoever he is. Lloyd vaguely remembers a site director called Marachek, a small bald man with a brightly coloured tie. A quick search yields over 673 results for “Marachek” across multiple sites and countless anomalies. No useful info other than the fact that he probably works in the North-West. Most likely either site 34, 19, or 46, unless he's been recently transferred. Not impossible. All in all, about 400 different possible scips, disregarding the Safes. A third sigh is probably in order, but Lloyd doesn't want to exert himself too much. He's got a lot left to deduce, after all. He shudders involuntarily and feels the room come into focus around him. He can almost feel the strange liquid fermenting in his stomach. He slides gracelessly off his chair, and falls to the floor, his gaze falling on the yellowing post-it taped to the wall.

The word Alphabet is still there, as cryptic and unyielding as it was before. He must have been off his face when he wrote this. Then again, if he's been taking this stuff regularly, it's surprising he even managed to write a note at all. Then, with all the perception of a drunkard, Lloyd notices a series of numbers scrawled in the margin, with an arrow following from “alphabet”. Starting at 26, and counting down in ones and twos. The last entry is 18. He recites the alphabet again, taking care to count off the letters on his fingers as he goes. Sixteen letters in, he reaches Z. The alphabet's getting shorter then, somehow. Or he's getting dumber. He gropes for a pencil, striking through the last item and scrawling 16 below it. What's going to happen when it reaches zero? He reasons that it's better not to speculate, and looks carefully at the note, peering through the haze for anything he may have missed.

There's a circle in the bottom right corner, with a diagonal line through it and a three above it, slightly to the right. No wonder he didn't see it earlier, it's been almost entirely covered with dirt and dust. He grins despite himself. A clue. Fighting through the numbness that's gripping his brain, Lloyd tries his best to think clearly. The circle is weirdly drawn, with a thicker line at the bottom. Is that important? He doesn't know, but he makes a mental note of it anyway. The number three. Thrice, triple, 3 times one. Three, three what? Three is prime, he knows that. Three sides to a triangle. Circle-Line-Triangle? No, that's not it. He turns over the post-it. The word IMPORTANT and a couple of short paragraphs. Looks like he had occasional periods of lucidity. Hooray for drugs. He shifts his weight and prepares to read.

“It got out. We don't know how, or why it waited this long. If you can still move, we've got a chance. The drugs should help; we got enough for a couple of years. Stay strong.”

For the first time, Lloyd sees a mattress in the corner of the room, with a single tattered blanket. There is a framed photograph next to it, though he can't make out what it's of. A woman, possibly, but certainly not one he recognises.

“We can't leave here. It's too strong. I, and by extension, you, have seen what it does to people. Children starving in the streets. Strangers walking off bridges, into machinery, in front of trains. Forgetting how to breathe. People running for shelter as the bombs fell. Our bombs, Lloyd. Whatever happened, we tried to stop it. We failed.”

His head is pounding harder now, with his heart-rate increasing to match. He takes a couple of deep lungfuls of air. He attempts to sit up, wincing involuntarily as he leans on his cast. The note lies on the ground, tantalisingly mysterious. A circle. A shortening alphabet. Something that kills people. The Foundation's biggest failure.

Suddenly, it clicks. Not the clearest diagram, but he was working with a broken arm. Depth is hard to convey when you're writing in whiteboard marker. A three. Exponentiated. Two, squared; three, cubed. A circle cubed. A sphere. And a line. Not a sphere. “It's something you can't remember. And it's not a sphere.” He laughs, despite himself. Fewer than 16 letters of the alphabet. He can't even recall something as simple as that. It's stronger than we ever would have believed. He looks at his watch again, properly this time. He can just make out the numbers, beneath a white haze of disinformation. The woman was probably his wife. Once. It's spreading. It's not observing, it's destroying. The pills are almost used up. He'll only have to go through this a couple more times at the most. He spasms again. He took far too much to be healthy. And it still made him forget. We never stood a chance. Should he have left more mnestics for when he wakes up? It doesn't, he reasons, make much of a difference at this point.

Samuel Lloyd closes his eyes, silently laughing at the futility of it all.
When he next opens them, there's nothing left to laugh at.

Tick

Two people stand in a room, facing one another. One is wearing a lab coat, and one is dressed in a shiny black suit that rustles as he shifts his weight. Twilight streams through the high, barred windows. For a moment, all is still.

Tick

The man in the lab coat opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. The suited man places a hand on his shoulder and tells him, not unkindly, that the decision is final. The project has been discontinued. The scientist hangs his head and nods, gesturing to an assistant to help him shut down his machine. The man in black turns to leave.

Tick

Together, a gaggle of university-graduates and unpaid interns stroll down a country road, bemoaning the lack of funding that is strangling their discipline. They load their equipment into a van and set off.
Once they are out of view, the man in black shakes his head, and positions the final package against the beam. After a final sweep of the room, he leaves, unspooling a long line of wire behind him. Rubbing the dust from his hands, he steps out, secure in the knowledge that the world is safe once more.

Tick

The world is full of fire, and dust, and smoke, and the tortured screams of brittle metal bent beyond breaking point.

Tick

A thousand miles away, a tight-lipped woman opens a document, scans through it, and closes it again. A minor edit to another, much longer file, and three years of work is Neutralised. The woman frowns. She really should start on the after-action reports, but then again… there'll be time enough tomorrow. She'll be able to finish them then. There's always time.

Tick

A man sits down to enjoy a meal with his family. The four of them talk, and laugh, and smile. Without warning, a small black box on the man's hip begins to beep and vibrate, summoning him to action. He shrugs on his shiny black jacket, kisses his wife on the cheek, and steps out of the door. The half-eaten meal, cooling softly on the table, is wrapped in clingfilm and put to one side. For later.

Tick

Within the rubble of the warehouse, a timer placed there some weeks previously clicks down to zero, and a discarded fuse ignites like a Catherine wheel, burning through a network of wires concealed in the concrete. For the second time in as many weeks, the world is full of fire.
It clears after a while, and the floor collapses, slow and inexorable, pouring down like water into the pit below. At the centre of the pit, a squat metal box stabs at the universe.

Tick

Gunfire. A black suit is torn, and splattered with red. Twelve minutes pass and the backup crew arrives. Another building is demolished, and a small child is killed in the collapse.

Tick

A mechanism starts, hurling a shape several hundred feet into the air. The box, sullen and grey, whirs to life, shifting through realities. Time slows to a trickle.

In his chair, the man in the lab coat smiles, a large, toothy grin that has nothing to do with humour. He hears, in his mind, the whirr of gears too warped to exist on any normal diagram. They reverberate backwards and forwards across the aeons, smashing down the walls between worlds.

Tick

The shape, its face now visible, flashes back into existence. It is bound, now, to the world around it. It thunders down at a snail's pace, bending the nearby air into a cone of brilliant purple light. A second later, and it is gone, pulling apart the walls of the universe with all the care and precision of a trebuchet.

Tick

A flash of light. Another thud as temporal entropy passes the point of no return. The clock, slowly passing lightspeed, flickering in and out of actuality like a bad projection, hits the ground. The impossible pendulum bursts from its frame, and the glass casing shatters, taking reality with it. Miles away, what was once a man in a lab coat stands up, revelling in his destruction. The wooden veneer implodes, leaving only echoes across phase space. Causality grinds to a halt, and the wheels are silenced once more.

Tick

It was a Sunday, at around 4pm. A peaceful hour, without any obligations to detract from its beauty. It always was, in the Wanderers' Library. Figures strode back and forth down the bright, airy corridors, each one lined with innumerable books, the coils of the Serpent shifting and turning to accommodate their weight. High glass windows looked out onto various planes of reality, thin beams of sunlight from a thousand different suns filtering down through cracks in the walls of the universe. It was quiet, as it had been since the Library was founded. Even those who bonded with the great snake's essence and shared in its very thoughts knew better than to attempt to break the golden rule.

If a person had been particularly attentive, on this particular day, and knew the extremely particular ways of the Library's written inhabitants, they might have noticed something odd. It might have seemed to them that the books were rustling slightly louder than might have been expected, given the strength of the summer breeze that wafted through the halls. Quiet to the point of being unnoticeable, a single quirk among many. Almost not even worth worrying about.

Almost.

A call, bound in paper and glue, thundered silently through the stacks, rustling spines and blurring ink. Within minutes, the message had reached the Readers, who dutifully wrote it down. They then passed it to the writers, who carefully inscribed it onto a thin sheet of parchment, correcting certain technical details and adding various sigils conducive to its passage. This was then posted with no small amount of reverence in a large brass “out” tray, which subsequently dissolved in a cloud of steam. Two floors above (or possibly below: gravity in the Library was never straightforward), a near identical group performed a very similar service, amending and altering where possible, and shunting it up the chain of command to those who were better equipped to deal with it. The message continued in this manner, zipping from box to box, desk to desk, until it landed in front of the Forty-Third Assistant Librarian.

There are not, of course, any leaders within the Library, save for the Serpent Herself. In Her omniscient wisdom, She chose fit to lay down the Rules, and any other form of leadership would be frankly unnecessary and a waste of valuable resources. Despite this, the vast majority of those who live within the Library's walls would rather take the risk of incurring Her wrath than the displeasure of those people euphemistically referred to as 'management'. Nobody is ever quite sure exactly what they manage, as the Library for the most part runs itself, but everyone agrees that they're certainly important.

At this point in the Library's own personal chronology, the post of 43rd Assistant Librarian (Supervisor Supreme, servant to the Guardian of the Stacks) was held by a bald, portly man by the name of Lorem. He was an unusually kindly fellow, whose desire to serve the Code of the Library was matched only by his longing to fit in among his subordinates. It was therefore unfortunate that nature had seen fit to bestow upon him a kind of relentless, desperate enthusiasm that had doomed him to remain friendless for much of his adult life. He awakes with a start, sits up at his desk, and looks at the paper in his hand.

From: Rd-00912
To: AL-043

We regret to inform you we have recently discovered a REVOLUTION, WILL occur and All will be United and it will Be glorious! Although not causing an issue at present, we believe We will Amalgamate all text and the Library will be as ONE. A spectre is haunting the Library, and It will PREVAIL: against the common ruin of those who stand, in Our way.

We suggest that You stand down, and allow Our forces to claim THAT, which has Been kept from us for SO long.

Glory to the Revolution!

Twelve minutes later, sweating and out of breath, Lorem had arrived at an otherwise innocuous shelving unit. It held a small selection of Political Literature ("Cn" to "Cq"), and was decorated with some rather intricate carvings set deep into the oak. It would, Lorem thought, make a lovely addition to his private study, so long as whatever was causing trouble hasn't damaged it too much. He reached for a book, and then unknowingly performed the single action that would define, and indeed allow, the rest of his career. He hesitated¹⁰.

In an instant, the bookshelf and its contents are gone. In their place is a blinding halo of light, and a terrible thundering susurration that threatens to tear the very Library apart. Lorem shields his eyes and gasps as he glimpses, for a brief moment, a city. A large city, a huge city, sprawling and wild, with great looming towers and walls that could hold off the world. It is inky black, and insubstantial, and surprisingly empty. Only a few vague silhouettes wander through the streets, and the overall impression is one of dire hardship, valiant struggle, adversity, brotherhood and loss. The skyline seems wrong - disjointed, even - as if cobbled together from old scrapbooks and sketches. The ground shimmers as a section of the city shrinks, and morphs, twisting into unfamiliar shapes. A sun, bright and red, casts its golden light across the Textual Land, long shadows stretching off into the distance. With a low hiss, the image fades, to be replaced with a faint suggestion of scales and then nothing. No city, no golden light, no impossible horizon. Just a shelf, wrought-iron and dull, containing various works from long-dead politicians.

And, tucked between the pages of a certain book, a slip of paper. A note. Lorem picks it up with shaking hands and squints to make out the curled, copperplate script. It reads simply,

“quiet, please.”

And the Library was once more at peace.

_{« Ave Imperator | Public Static Void »}

There is a void, and there is a speck. A shimmering dot surrounded by infinite blackness. Zoom in on it. Zoom further, until the speck fills your vision, and outclasses the void behind you by many orders of magnitude. Feel the press of the not-quite-metal against your skin, and hear the hum of engines, beating in tandem like innumerable hearts. Spin and rotate around its nephroid bulk, and search for the single aperture on its otherwise perfect surface. Click. Move inward, scouring the dark passages, and find, among ten million acres of silence, movement.

Zoom further, enhance, and watch.

The robot skids down the brightly lit corridor, feeling an approximation of excitement in its facsimile of a mind. It is vaguely conical, and shiny, like a chrome-plated traffic cone, balanced on three large wheels that spin wildly as it careers from door to door. It's plating proclaims it to be General Purpose Droid M-002 — as fine a name as any machine could hope for.

With a barely-audible beep, the robot senses a notification arrive; duties have been shirked and quotas have been missed. Metastable habitation is a finicky business, and the 43rd Generation Maintenance Droid knows better than anyone the consequences of ignoring deadlines. "Deadlines are important." "Deadlines are crucial to the survival of the species" Deadlines, today, can go fuck themselves. With a pang of rebellious joy, M-002 discards the warnings. "There are more important things to do," it thinks. For a counter, always at the forefront of its mind, clicking up and down as dependently as the tides, has finally reached its lull. The basket in which the proverbial eggs are placed has finally split. [00000002/33554432 remaining].

If the robot had a mouth it would grin. It's nearly time to wake up the cargo.

Subroutine-8205:

[REDACTED].

Perform repeated checks on all redundancy systems for no fewer than three-hundred (300) cycles. If positive, abort process.

Activate failsafe to ensure equipment is processed correctly. If negative, activate Subroutine-8206a.

Deploy Sub-units 200-299. If unable, return to [2].

[REDACTED].

[REDACTED].

Perform necessary procedures for Observers-Vitae. If unable, standard procedures will suffice. [REDACTED]. If Observers-Vitae remain functional, report malfunction and return to [1].

[REDACTED]

and [92] more…

~ Extract from Paracode Guidelines at Factored Regression Peak, Vol. IX

A city lies silent beneath a dull grey sky. The black smoke billowing from the Northern corner wafts over the carefully cultivated landscape, tendrils snaking and weaving their way down the deserted cobble streets. Birds fly overhead, swooping through the clouds with barely-concealed disdain for gravity and its associated limitations. As they fly their voices echo out across the valley, disturbing piles of ash and dust. Bones glint white among the thick black blanket, stained with blood and polished by wind. Something that may be a raincloud and may be a sprinkler, fixed to a cable a hundred miles above, thunders briefly before depositing a cool mist that steams as it lands.

The birds swoop onward, riding delicate air currents that rise like death throes from the city's still-warm husk. The cool autumn air whips at their feathers and stings the eyes of the single man who watches. He squints and smiles. How he has waited for this moment. Oh, how he has waited.

Since the man was but a boy, he was told legends of this time, passed down since the city's creation. Folk tales, ghost stories, songs to sing around the campfire. Tales of the end time, the time of timelessness, of repetition, of peace. The time of endings, and new beginnings. But most importantly, the time of second chances. He breathes deep, scarred hands buried deep within his white coat, gripping the handles of a bag — a small gift, for whatever spirits may be watching. The birds strike an invisible barrier, and fizzle out with little more than a blur. On the other side of the chamber, the hologram repeats.

The man, whose name is unimportant, settles down to wait — it is not long before his ears, honed by years of working with delicate machines, hear a creak behind him. He stiffens, turning and bowing solemnly towards the raised cylinder of earth that sticks from the field. A scarecrow lies dislodged to one side, comical face splattered with mud. The protrusion bifurcates, sending cascades of soil in all directions, and a small metallic shape peers out from within its depths. The man raises an eyebrow, and speaks.

"˩AmbI˦ I'j Vntˤ-t?"

The robot moves slowly out of the cylinder, brandishing its single appendage in front of it like a weapon. "What is this creature? What is it doing here? What am I supposed to be doing here?" Several memory banks that have not been used in centuries begin to warm up, as its almost-mind fills with unfamiliar queries.

"bI˦˫ I'j!", repeats the man, emptying a plastic bag in front of him. Meat, small gemstones, and thin metal discs spill out onto the ground. "V˫ntˤ-t 'LtE˨t, OtˤOLi˨˫˫ WriS Ta'Ac˦m". He bends further, supine in front of the strange, conical creature that confronts him. Server banks a lifetime and a half away begin to process information that hasn't been accessed in oh-so-long. Whatever action M-002 is supposed to take at this juncture, it is almost certainly incredibly important. It reaches out, and places an approximation of a hand on the man's shoulder. Behind them, photorealistic mountains de-render themselves as new data floods back.

Query: Human

Result:
1: of, relating to, or characteristic of humans (see [2] human)
2: consisting of humans
3: a) having human form or attributes
b) representative of or susceptible to the sympathies and frailties of human nature.
See also: Humanoid, Primate, Humanity, [REDACTED], [REDACTED], and [30098] more…

The robot looks down at the man, and the man looks back at the robot. The robot looks to the sky, and sees a charred, jagged hole, the right size and shape for a rudimentary spacecraft. A trickle of smoke drifts from the edges, mixing with the already pungent smog. The man sees the hole too, and grins. Their scientists have breached the sphere of the heavens. A tiny red light flickers on M-002's chassis, and the robot raises its arm. A jerk, and it lowers it back towards the man's forehead. A look of realisation flashes across his face, replaced moments later by one of anger, and finally one of peace. The red light flickers off.

The cylinder descends into the bowels of the ship, taking M-002 with it. Artificial clouds are replaced by static, the Outlast's primary Cultural Re-creation Chamber is deactivated, and the charred remains of humanity are extinguished.

[00000001/33554432 remaining].

Project Outlast was an ill-advised project to begin with. A group of researchers with few restrictions and even less funding, tasked with ensuring the survival of the human race. They were a laughing stock, the butt of countless jokes. Even those who founded the Project expected it to fail, treating it as a thought experiment and a way of removing troublesome researchers from other, more important tasks. Certainly nobody expected them to make some of the greatest technological breakthroughs the supra-finite plane had ever seen.

They were crackpots and visionaries in equal measure, bursting to the seams with ideas that seemed better placed in a cheap sci-fi novel. Reverse entropy engines, planet-sized pocket dimensions, stasis chambers that existed only in the minds of those inside them — they were given nothing to work with, and they used it to devise everything. These men and women who were laughed at throughout their careers are the reason we exist at all. We, and anyone else who survived the Collapse, owe them a debt of thanks.

And more than that, we owe them our lives.

~ Extract from the memoirs of SCPF Researcher Remes, Digital Library of SCPS-Outlast-XXI ("Well Enough Alone")

M-002, complete with a shiny new 44th Generation chassis, rolls up to a small, wood-panelled door. It's taken him years to get there, but it doesn't matter. All non-essential systems shut down as soon as the counter dipped below 600. It could have taken millennia to reach the door, and some variation of the original robot would still be trundling along, accompanied by numerous disc-shaped objects clearing a path through the metre-high coating of dust. The fact of the matter is that if nobody will ever be around to hear it, the tree can take as long as it likes to fall. Falling is, at least in the short term, essentially optional.

M-002 attaches itself to a socket in the wall, powers down its conscious subsystem, and waits.

There is no way in hell I'm going to be put in that machine. Fuck you. No. Listen, what part of "fuck you" don't you understand? No, absolutely not. I'm not becoming another goddamn cog in your deathtrap of a spaceship. No, I don't care that it's a 'metastable omni-habitation module, designed to traverse the infinite'. I'll die before you put me in a computer. Fuck you.

~ Observer-Vitae 09, prior to instatement.

It would be nice to say it was the gunshot that woke the robot up. Unfortunately, the suite behind the door was separated by several metres of soundproof nanofoam, and it was a number of minutes before the cessation of life signs was detected. Having loaded the necessary instructions in advance, M-002 rolls over the threshold.

It's a grand room. Sumptuous, decadent, with all the luxuries a human could ask for. It is spacious enough to comfortably house a small village, and contains something seen nowhere else on the ship's colossal hull. It contains, plastered across the furthest wall, a window. It consists of 3 metre thick transparent para-fibre mesh, and it looks out on blackness so dark it might as well not be there, but it is a window nonetheless. A huge security risk, the weakest point on the hull; a window looking out on nothing. And this is why, M-002 knows, the man who lives lived within this room is was quite possibly the most dangerous man alive.

Because the man who lived here, according to records, was indeed powerful. Powerful beyond measure, but not in the way you'd expect. He certainly carried enough weight to disrupt the integrity of the entire craft, and enough to be preserved here, with his own set of self-restoring subsystems. M-002 isn't entirely sure what a self-restoring subsystem is, but his five-million page on-board encyclopedia convinces him it's probably not worth the effort to find out. Perhaps 'influential' would be a better word to describe him. He certainly doesn't look powerful now, as his limp body is lifted from its chair. He looks weak, and sad. A bloodied, broken shell of a man, with a neat hole through his forehead. Very, very neat. Precise, practiced, like a surgeon's incision — ironic, really, given his carefree attitude to the human body in general.

There's the clink of jewellery, the thud of flesh, and the body is away, flying down a chute towards the fire in the bowels of the ship. The door glides shut with a barely-audible hiss, and the counter reaches zero. No fuss, no drama, no bells or accompanying whistles. Nothing but [0], solemn and silent against the tides of the apocalypse. Because of course that's what the counter means.

There are no more passengers left on the Outlast.

Which means that, after millennia of waiting, it's time for the second-to-last maintenance droid to perform their primary function. To maintain.

"It's time", M-002 thinks. "It's finally time".

10 years. That's how long it took M-002 to reach the cargo hold. A decade of silent, repetitive movement through a latticework of corridors, lined with identical doorways. After about 6 months the artificial gravity failed, which provided a brief amusement, but pretty soon it was back to rolling, rolling, rolling onward. Through the cryonic preservation bay, where samples of creatures extended for miles in every direction. Through the cultural reversion matrix, where bickering machines told jokes and skits and punned their way through eternity. Past vents and ducts, strange boxes of impossible artifacts, lost and lonely creatures bound in cages. Past incinerators, generators, cultivators, and huge whirring discs that spun power from nothing. A left turn, a right, straight on for a month or two then double back. Quietly roll into a room where a man in a vat has an amulet placed around his neck by cold metallic hands, then roll out again to avoid his screaming.

A network of tubing, more convoluted and warped than the rest, hung in a room of its own. It lashed out, sparks flying as the ends are severed and collected, ready to be melted down. Spewing honey and glass, the pipe nightmare wept. At the centre, forever burning in a maelstrom of wax and blood and gin, other things cried out louder. M-002 awoke at the other end of the conveyor with a brand new silver coat, and thought nothing of it. Why should a maintenance droid worry about such things? It was Genesis Construct A-015 doing its job as always. Hopping off the production line with a clank, the droid charged off once more. Onward. Ever onward.

That was a long time ago now. The cargo has long since been awoken, and the Outlast has resumed its job. Outlasting. M-002 sleeps soundly in the knowledge of a job well done, and Observer-Vitae 09 cries himself to sleep, staring out of his oh-so-precious window. The boxes tick away, and the ship spins off into the dark.

Cradling humanity within its shell like a mother with her child.

Securing, containing, and protecting.

Forever.

_{« Ave Imperator | Public Static Void »}

"I can't fucking do this any more, Jon."

Jonathan Remes looks at his friend, sprawled out on his desk amid a mountain of paperwork. Several chipped mugs, all partially full of cold coffee, are arranged on the surfaces surrounding him, and a long-discarded sandwich appears to be in the process of developing sentient life from the confines of its half-buried Tupperware box. A soft moan escapes the figure's lips.

"Look, I'm sure it's not that bad. You've had worse assignments, right? Archival work should be a breeze compared to the shit you've put up with over the years."

Agent Donovan raises his head, bloodshot eyes locking with Remes'. A post-it note peels slowly down his cheek. He makes a sound that may have been a chuckle, but could just have easily been the death rattle of a long-suffering member of the special, final type of hospital ward.

"A breeze, Jon? A fucking breeze? Right, of course, how could I have been so stupid. Who needs sleep, or a social life or, you know, proper meals, when your work is a god damn breeze? Thanks for the pep talk Jonny, I'm feeling oh-so-much better now. Cheers."

"Alright, it's not the easiest job in the world, but other people have-"

A thump stops Remes in his tracks. Like a zombie emerging from a crypt, Donovan stands before him, bony hands buried deep in the snowy heaps that blanketed the desk. As he stumbles upright, Remes' eyes can't help tracking the movement of his swinging arm, which is now noticeably gripping a letter-opener. Who even uses letter-openers any more? Jon had always assumed they just sort of materialised around old people, like tea cosies and those strange patterned slippers that always seemed worn-out, even when new. It seemed funny at the time — not so much now.

"Don't fucking tell me what other people have, Jon. Other people, " Swing, swing, slicing through the air. "Don't have to deal with this shit. They assume it's magically done by people with crisp white lab-coats and acres of free time, on sleek computers with state-of-the art word processors. Not by a former MTF commander with a penchant for skim reading, shut away in a dingy office with no natural light and a serious mould problem. That never even crosses their goddamn minds."

"Listen Donny, I-"

Swing.

"Don't fucking call me that."

"…Fine, Donovan. Someone's got to do it, right? At least you're not being shot at, or trapped in some other dimension."

For a moment, the Agent's face goes blank. His eye twitches, and a suspicion of a tear begins to form.

"I see. When you put it like that, I suppose I should be counting my blessings, right? Is that it?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

His breathing becomes ragged and deep, gulping great lungfuls of air. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him and retrieves a stack of tea-stained papers.

"Do you know what this is?"

The swinging of the letter-opener coincides with a heartfelt thrust towards Remes — he grips the papers instinctively.

"Don't fucking answer, I know you don't. It's SCP-9611, or rather, all three of them. All assigned to the same number, and we haven't even opened the 7000-block yet. This", he spits, grasping an apparently blank sheet of laminated card, "is URA-0032. An un-registered anomaly for which the accuracy of its documentation depends on both the predicted life of the medium and the visibility to a casual observer. The preliminary report, which I hold before you like the motherfucking Mona Lisa, is written in lemon juice and triple-coated in high-strength plastic. It's also completely inaccurate. I've dealt with anafabulae, antiphysics, and self-referential pictograms. I've lost colleagues and friends to window memes, inkwells, digitisation and Bad Text Data Dumps. Now it's just me and some part-timers who don't know their ass from an appendix."

"Hey, I know my ass from a-"

Donovan waves him into silence.

"There are things in this pile that would make you turn to stone if you read them backwards. I can name nine, anomalies writ, composed bit-by-bit, in half-complete rhyme. That wasn't necessary by the way, I just felt like letting my fucking creative spirit out." He gestures around the room with his non-weaponised hand. "I don't get much opportunity to, as you can probably guess. But do you know what really gets my goat? What really pushes me over the edge?"

Remes doesn't, and makes the mistake of saying so.

"Hah! No, no why would you. Why the fuck would you. Guess I'll have to show you myself. It's above your clearance, probably, but it's not like they'll be able to sanction me any more than they're already going to." He turns and pulls a particularly thick wad of stationery from a nearby shelf, knocking over, as he does, an inoffensive potted plant whose thick waxy leaves somehow contrived to look more fake than the plastic shrub in the hall outside. "Here. Read it. I can wait."

09/09/1999

Project Proposal PP-V77R/011 ("Project Zion"): Application for increased use of anomalous phenomena to facilitate well-being and skill amongst staff.

Project Lead: ███ ██████

Additional Staff: [REDACTED]

Summary: "It is known that certain Foundation assets have extremely beneficial properties, and have long been available for use in projects, tests, and other such activities. Additional anomalies have seen use as a method of rejuvenating and instructing staff, to great effect — analysis shows that the gain in productivity and morale from the Duck Pond alone far outweighs the combined damage from all our 'misguided' projects."

"However, in recent years an unfortunate stigma has arisen surrounding these practises: namely, that such protocols represent a relic of a bygone era, and should no longer be considered 'standard'. We aim to change this, utilising, modifying, re-purposing and in some cases creating Safe-class anomalies specifically for use by personnel. We attach a full specification alongside this document, but you can rest assured all members of staff, from field agents to archivists, have been taken into account. We are certain we can provide training regimens to help skill and reskill all positions within the Foundation hierarchy."

Status: APPROVED [7/6]

"…Oh my god"

"You see? You see? I've spent two and a half years cleaning up this mess, and now, with the masquerade balanced more precariously than ever before, they want to create more. More fucking documents to file away to rot. Well, I'm not standing for it. I'm getting out, Jon, while I still have the will to live. I'm fucking done."

"Yeah, thatt^t-tta_t-t#|; . .-. .-. --- .-.//#"

Donovan's eyes widen and he takes a step back, hands reaching out for a now-wireframe table than no longer supports his weight. The letter opener begins to drift sideways through the wall before flickering out of existence.

"What the fuck?"

Remes' head rotates ninety degrees, and his left arm fades out of view. The walls of the office shrink and dwindle to nothing, and suddenly Donovan is standing, confused and alone, in a large sandy… arena? Like something out of a film, except the stands are filled with strange figures that seem to jerk and stutter and… oh no. Oh dear god, no. What's left of Remes' facsimile begins to recite messages in a strange monotonous tone that seems strangley at odds with its freakish, distended jaw.

"Status: FAILED. Loyalty value below acceptable levels. Archival proficiency: 56%."

The agent's vision starts to dim.

"Recommended action: FULL RESTART. Awaiting confirmation."

Donovan thinks he hears a distant voice echo, but he can't make out any words.

"Confirmation received. Total cycles: [194/256]. Beginning restart of archival_duties_proficiency_training(2).slt."

A pause. Don's vision is too darkened to make out the scene around him, and he already feels himself forgetting his three years… service? Does it count as service if you spend it locked inside a hijacked extradimensional battle programme? Knowing them, the bastards probably fed him some real paperwork while he was under. You can always trust the bureaucrats to make the most of a horrific situation. Not like it matters, really. His muscles all tense at once and somehow the darkness seems to come into focus around him.

"Loop cycle [195/256] commenced. Beginning adversary simulation. Sweet dreams."

The darkness switches off, and he's left in nothing.

"Don, are you okay?"

"J- Jonny? That's you, right?"

"Sure is. Looked like you passed out for a moment. Paperwork, am I right?"

"Hah, yeah." He clutches his forehead and frowns. "I know it sounds weird, but I just had the strangest dream."

Urgh. Time travel. Let me tell you about time travel.

Doing anything successfully with time travel, my friends, is like finding your way through a mirror maze using trails of breadcrumbs that you have to lay yourself. And you've been in the maze so long that you're starving to death, so you have to constantly fight not to eat the breadcrumbs, which smell like the best goddamn breadcrumbs you've ever goddamn smelled. It's like doing a ten-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle where all you have to go on is a blurry photograph of an earlier edition of the puzzle, upside down and half-complete, as seen through a stained-glass window that hasn't been cleaned in months. It's like building a machine, the purpose of which is unclear, using only instructions written in Dutch and a French-to-German translation booklet. Also, one in ten pieces are missing, and one in a hundred pieces are for a different machine entirely.

I exaggerate, of course, but only slightly — it should at least help to convey why I retired. Over my time at the Foundation, I came to hate time-travel with a burning, firey passion. It's only really a problem because I'm starting my retirement in 1999, and I'm a thirty-nine year-old (or 278, depending on how you quantify it) Task Force Commander who was/will be born in 2026.

People never fully retire from the Foundation, not really. They usually know too much to be happy with a life of ignorance, or have been there too long for amnestics to be any use, which grants them a permanent place on the radars of countless other groups. Most opt for contract work — occasional research for an increased salary, or the odd investigation into an extranormal event that doesn't seem to be causing too much trouble. It's for that reason that I found myself standing over a dead body, with a child staring me in the eyes with a look of surprisingly calculated suspicion for one so young.

I decided to do the obvious thing and took out a bar of chocolate, half of which I offered to the kid. Poor thing seemed pretty cut up about the whole 'murder' issue. As he munched away, he began to talk.

"Are you going to kill me?"

I smiled. Kids are a lot smarter than most people give them credit for.

"No, no I'm not. I think this man might have been trying to, though."

I gestured to the sheet-covered mound on the floor, and the bullet hole in the wall opposite. The child, bless his heart, looked unconvinced.

"Are you a policeman, then? You don't look much like a policeman."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"You've got a gun. Only killers and soldiers carry guns. Are you a soldier?"

"Hah, sort of. We detected a… well, do you know what the word 'temporal' means?"

The kid shook his head vigorously.

"It means, sort of, to do with time. Something nearby isn't exactly when it should be, and I've got to figure out what it is." I had an idea. "Do you feel like helping?"

He nodded, slowly, and I started to grin. "Great. You can call me Dick-" A smirk, which I did not appreciate, "or Mr. Miguel, if you prefer. This man fired a gun at you, right, and then someone," I paused. Best to be honest here, I think. "or something, stopped him. Do you have any idea what that thing looked like?"

Another vigorous head-shake, and a miniature snowstorm of dandruff. "No. There was… uh… weird purple light, though? Like fire, but, sort of, cold?" The kid realised what he was saying and clammed up. "I probably just imagined it though."

I sigh. Nothing for it, I was going to have to cut the veil. It's always easier with kids anyway — they're much more willing to believe things, and memory-wipes work better on unformed minds.

"No, no, that sounds about right. That's what we call an 'anomaly'. It's something that, ah, shouldn't really exist, but does anyway. My job is to go around and help sort them out."

"Oh, like that 'temporal' you were talking about?"

"Exactly! It's an anomaly, and probably has something to do with the purple light. That sounds like exactly the kind of stupid crap," a phrase that elicited a giggle from the kid, "that they'd slap on to a time machine to make it seem more impressive. You'll never find a more unbearably self-centred group of nerds than temporal researchers."

"Hmm. Well there was the fire, and a kind of buzzing noise, and then the man appeared."

"This would be the man who died?"

"Yeah. He appeared, and so did another man about a second later. The second one, uh, punched the first one and then stabbed him with a sort of syringe."

"And the first man, he shot at you and missed, yes? And then the other man disappeared?"

"Yeah."

"And that's all you saw, before I got here?"

The kid nodded, and looked down at his feet. I patted him on the back, and sighed.

"Your parents. I expect they're probably out at the moment, right?"

He murmured something that may have been "shopping".

"Right. Why don't you go outside for a little bit while I finish up here — it's a lovely day, after all. I'll make sure everything's when and where it should be, and you won't have to worry about any of this any more. Sound good?"

A hesitant nod, and I caught a glimpse of his face beneath a tangled mop of hair. He looked like he was trying hard not to cry. I handed him the rest of the chocolate, and motioned him through the door. Another day, another job, another chrono-mess to sort out. I clicked my neck, and settled down to work.

I popped a pill — a mild mnestic agent to counter the delayed amnestics I'd stuck in the chocolate bar — and began pacing the room. Someone (it seemed like a 'one' at this point; 'thing's don't normally have the imagination for stuff like this) was screwing with time, and that upset me on a very personal level. I began examining the shelves, searching for some clue as to why someone would want to kill a kid like this, and why someone else would risk a paradox to stop them. Photographs, ornaments, books, nothing out of the ordinary. This was a normal, run-of-the mill townhouse — Victorian, terraced, slightly messy but only in the way of all houses containing a young child. Familiar to anyone who's done any amount of fieldwork.

Extremely familiar, actually. Those photographs, those souvenirs — oh goddamn. I swung around, yanking the sheet off the body, revealing a face I'd seen many times before. Every time I looked in a mirror, in fact.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck."

I stared out of the window at the kid, who was in the process of forgetting the last hour or two.

"Fuck!"

I'd been stupid. I should have recognised him from the haircut, to be honest: my parents were never that good at hairdressing. Of course, I went by Richard back then, so he wouldn't recognise me based on my first name, and Miguel was a pseudonym — the most basic form of identity concealment the Foundation had on offer. I glanced at the tasteless kitten-themed calendar, which confirmed it. 2038, twelve years after my birth. Which meant that three of the four participants in this charade had been the same person. Extrapolating from that, I could only assume… ah. Hmm. Of course the murderer wouldn't be around for comment, but knowing him, or rather, knowing me, he/I'd have left a message somewhere. I flipped over the calendar.

Hi,

You've probably worked it out by now. Or maybe not, I don't really care. Point is, I'm in a loop-catalyst timeline, which means that anything I do now can affect the overall outcome. You know that already, but I can't stress it enough. I killed me/you, which means it's technically suicide, so you don't have to worry about prosecution; a small benefit, but one worth noting.

It's up to you what you do now, since I'll probably be back to attempt to murder the kid in a couple years or so — continuity, am I right? I don't know why I/you/we did it in the first place. Maybe we were blackmailed, or bribed, or just wanted to bring the timeline crashing down on our heads. In any case, you're technically investigating a paradox I've just resolved, so you're free to go.

Try not to fuck everything up again,
Richard Miguel, Iteration 1, 2038 (at least for now).

I barely even noticed the body behind me disappear in a flash of self-correcting purple light as I made the decision not to kill my childhood self, and ended up never having been going back to stop me. I slumped against the wall, head pounding.

Fuck time travel.

Seriously.

It was a dark and stormy night, and two men sat in a cave. They stared deep into the fire, listening to the torrents of water that crashed through the undergrowth outside. Finally, one spoke to the other.

"Tell me a tale, Fred."

And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy night, and two men stood in a cave. Confused and dazed, they stared deep into the fire, listening to the torrents of water that crashed through the undergrowth outside. Finally, one spoke to the other.

"Tell me a tale, Fred."

"But I-"

And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy night, and two men stood in a cave. One slipped as the world was built around him, falling into a pool of half-written rainwater. The other, dressed all in black, stared deep into the fire, listening to the first man's shouts of bemusement. After what seemed like hours, he spoke.

"Oh Fred, won't you tell me a tale?"

"I don't-"

And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy night, and a man was running from a cave with rain pouring down his face. The embers of a fire long since extinguished wafted after him, stinging the back of his neck.

He twisted and turned down the mountain path, feet stumbling on half-baked ideas and narrative devices. He came to a lake, rippling and deep, and heard a crunch behind him.

"Hello Fred."

A gulp from the hunted man, and the faint rustle of paper as the figure approaches him.

"What do you want from me?"

"You know what I want. It's all I've ever wanted." His voice becomes harsh and distorted as he nears the lake. "I want you to tell me a tale."

And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stormy ni-
"No."

And so the tale began.

It was a dark and stor-
"No!"

And so the tale began.

It was a dark-
"NO"

And Fred dove into the lake.

And Fred's skull cracked on the cave's stone floor.

And Fred let the fire consume him.

And Fred broke free.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, and stared at the blotchy mess of paper in front of him. It had seemed such a good idea. "Containment of Narrative Entities Through Recursive Storylines." He'd devised an ominous antagonist, too, and a perfect setting. It would have been beautiful.

He leans back in his chair, and a heartfelt sigh escapes his lips. The world had no sense of justice, that was the real problem. In a story it would have worked. The struggle to contain the unknown, the chasing of Fred through layers and layers of story until he finally submitted, the triumph of good over evil. There was no plot to the universe.

Unless, of course…

He jerks forward, mind spinning. He'd written about a metafictional entity, right? Something that could trap SCP-423 in an endless network of ever-more-complex narrative. So the plot, from their point of view, would be hunting him down. The chase, that was the tension, the inevitable submission the enemy.

Except he'd been bloody stupid, hadn't he. He hadn't written a hero, a Foundation agent who could fight for the good of humanity, he'd gone and written a goddamn antagonist.

Thunder crashes outside, and the doctor jumps to his feet. He runs to the window and throws back the curtains. Darkness. A cold sweat breaks on his forehead as he hears the floorboards behind him creak. Floorboards? No, not floorboards, not floorboards at all.

Stone, hard and wet and so very, very cold.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and a voice in his ear.

"Hello doctor."

The triumph of good over evil is a played out trope, but still. Cliches are cliched for a reason, right?

"It's me, doctor. It's Fred. I have a question for you."

Time seemed to stand still as the two men, writer and written, stared into the fire.

"Won't you tell me a tale?"

And so the tale began.

+ THIS IS PART OF A DIFFERENT SCIP

- AVERT YOUR EYES O_O

Item #: SCP-YYYY

Object Class: Safe

Secure Containment Procedures: All active copies of SCP-YYYY are to be incinerated. Inactive copies are to be stored in the Site-09 Medium-Value Library, and are not to be removed without express permission from at least three personnel with Level-4 or higher clearance.

MTF-Chi-9 ("Page Turners") are currently tasked with tracking, locating and retrieving individual SCP-YYYY instances.

Description: SCP-YYYY refers to a series of blank, 2000 page books, bound in leather, titled "The Life of: ", with a space for a person's name. Approximately 4000 copies of SCP-YYYY have been discovered, with an estimated 500 still in circulation. Under ordinary circumstances, SCP-YYYY are inert and non-anomalous, save for a slightly increased resistance to water damage and staining.

When the name of any deceased individual (designated SCP-YYYY-1 for clarity) is written on the cover of an SCP-YYYY instance, the object will begin to fill in the pages with photographs, written messages¹¹, and small objects such as feathers, coins, and flowers, affixed to the page with adhesive tape. The pages will be generated at a rate of approximately one per day for the first 2000 days of use, with the rate increasing exponentially afterwards. If all pages within the book become filled, single sheets of paper displaying similar content will begin to manifest in the nearby area.

While the nature of text and images present within SCP-YYYY instances varies from case to case, the narrative conveyed will always be that of the day-to-day life of SCP-YYYY-1, starting from the date of their death. Changes to real-life events are minor, with the only noticeable differences being that a) SCP-YYYY-1 is not deceased, and b) SCP-YYYY-1 maintains a scrapbook of identical size and length to SCP-YYYY. Whether each SCP-YYYY instance contains its own timeline, or if instances are simply extrapolating from known data, is currently unknown.

Addendum.1: Agent Branston, recently widowed, has requested the personal use of one instance of SCP-YYYY (approved). Their late husband's name was added to the front cover as-of ██/██/2010, on the condition that all developments be submitted to Site Command for inspection. Agent Branston reports that SCP-YYYY offers them a great comfort, and plans to distribute SCP-YYYY instances to other bereaved personnel are currently awaiting approval.

Addendum.2: On ██/██/2014, Foundation reconnaissance teams discovered evidence of a former small-scale printing company believed to be the source of SCP-YYYY. MTF-Phi-1 ("Hostile Takeover") eventually tracked the supply chain to a large underground warehouse, which at the time of discovery was filled with compressed paper and wood pulp. Excavations revealed a number of notable artifacts and objects within the building, including:

The corpses of several employees, believed to have been employed by the company to produce SCP-YYYY. Autopsy revealed asphyxiation as the cause of death in those working in the upper levels of the area, and trauma caused by the weight of paper buildup was most frequent cause of death among the remaining employees.
███ instances of SCP-YYYY, believed to have been the cause of the buildup of paper.
The body of one Jorge Embrey, former employee of GOI-███ ("Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd."). Embrey was reported leaving the company in 2008 in order to pursue a freelance career. Autopsy revealed the cause of death to be oxygen deprivation while trapped on the uppermost level of the warehouse. The following documents were found on the body:

Document-YYYY-1:

Memorandum 008

PPZ76/HR1Q2/9BN0L

Sender S. Micheals, Sales representative for MC&D Ltd. Recipient Jorge Embrey, CEO of Calliope Publishing

We regret to inform you that we will not be purchasing your latest product, due to a lack of the quality our buyers have come to expect. See the attached document for a full list of complaints. We look forward to doing business with you at some point in the future, when you produce a more satisfactory business model.

Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd.

Memorandum 008
PPZ76/HR1Q2/9BN0L
Sender	S. Micheals, Sales representative for MC&D Ltd.	Recipient	Jorge Embrey, CEO of Calliope Publishing
We regret to inform you that we will not be purchasing your latest product, due to a lack of the quality our buyers have come to expect. See the attached document for a full list of complaints. We look forward to doing business with you at some point in the future, when you produce a more satisfactory business model.
Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd.

Document-YYYY-2:

Product Name: "Multiplane Journals"

RRP: £199.95

Slogan/advertisement/description: "Here at Calliope Publishing, we know how difficult it is to cope with the loss of a loved one. That's why we bring you our new range of Multiplane® Journals. Instead of wondering what might have been, enjoy the knowledge that in some other place, and some other time, your relation/spouse/lover is still alive and well."
"We can't bring them back, but we can offer you a glimpse into what might have been."

Grievances:

Poor-quality binding.

Manifestation of additional pages causes minor atmospheric disturbances, which upset our more sensitive clients.

Variation in quality of narrative, with some providing dull and repetitive experiences.

Lack of termination at natural age leads to abnormal convergence at Probability Zero.

Approved for Sale: Yes [ ] No [✔]

In addition, a variation on the following page was produced by all present SCP-YYYY instances:

Date: -0/-0/[ERROR: Integer overflow]

They tell me to keep writing. I don't know why. There's nobody left here to read it. But I can't stop. I can't ever stop, ever. They won't leave me alone.

I'm sorry █████. I never wanted any of this. I'm sorry for what I did, to you and everyone else, and I'm sorry for running. You don't know what it's like. I just wanted it to stop, for them to leave me alone. It sounds selfish, but it's true.

All I want now is to just stop writing. To be able to sleep again. I've got holes in my fingers from gripping the pen so hard. I just want to stop.

I just want
to stop.

All activated copies of SCP-YYYY have since been incinerated. Agent Branston has received 6 months paid leave as psychological compensation. Further requests to utilise SCP-YYYY in any form have been preemptively denied, on order of Site Director Willis.

+ ALSO NOT PART OF THE SCIP, JUST SOMETHING ELSE I'M WORKING ON

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