Do not edit other writers' sandboxes without permission.
Because the old one was full.
TALES:
- Tale Ideas
- Untitled
- Crocodile Gears
- Swan Song
- LLOYD 3
- Power Fantasies
- Retrocause for Alarm
- Gravedigger of the Coalition
- Bellerverse
- Another "Lloyd" tale
- Pitching above your weight
- OH GOD I WROTE POETRY WHAT?
- Public Static Void
- No Laughing Matter
- Bugz
- PROJECT YULETIDE
- Cross-contamination
- Introjection Infection Detection
- The Place Between Places
- A Done Deal
- File Not Found
- Data loss
- Excavations
- No time like the present
- LLOYD 2: 914 gets the clockwork virus put in it, begins churning out more. Lloyd flashes back and forwards as he becomes mechanical, clinging to the airlock of the chamber as the air is drained. End with the apocalypse.
- LLOYD 3: Montage of deaths. "The first time I died, the world became a ball of fire and the stars went out. The second time, reality tore itself apart at the seams and we didn't even have time to scream. As the third came around, flesh became metal and metal flesh, an endless churning vortex that spewed across the galaxy like molten wax — the fourth is forgotten even to me, as humanity lost itself in the empty mind of a long-dead god. Hello, by the way. I'm Lloyd."
A corpse, and a hallway lined with pictures. As he runs a finger along the frame, he sees how indistinct they are. How frail. He
He takes a step forward, stumbling as the shape in front of him shifts and morphs. He coughs, blood spilling down his front.
"I know what you are."
The shape lurches, expanding to fill the corridor. [name] takes another step, kicking up a fountain of dust from the carpet.
"The great yawning void."
On cue, the amorphous mass shifted to a bottomless pit, lined with teeth and stars. [name] began falling, falling, falling, the force of his descent stripping him to the bone. He reaches for sides of the pit, arms flailing wildly, and grasps hold. He stops. He breathes, lungs filling with vacuum. He forces his foot to move, a lurching stride that almost catches him off balance. Almost, but not quite. He's back in the corridor again, pushing harder at the blackness engulfing him.
"YHWH, the Lamb, the Benevolent."
Another lurch, another shift, and he's standing in a room that stretches off forever in all directions. There's air here, but it tastes of salt and ozone, and leaves him light-headed. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
This
is
all
WRONG
And he's away again, through paper and blood and wine. He falls forward, stumbling head over heels. His head cracks on the concrete|sandstone as he ricochets off of the inside of his own head. Keep it together.
He pulls up, into a great light, and he opens his eyes and sees…
The hallway, and a great metal monster.
"The Broken God."
He thinks for a minute. "And the mended, I suppose. And the maker, the breaker, the hammer and the anvil." He thinks for a little while longer, taking step after step towards the creature. "The body electric, the ghost in the machine. The WAN and only."
A lifetime passes behind his eyes.
"MEKHANE, though you're not really worthy of the capitalisation. You're a figment, a particle, a miniscule speck who gained too much power and lost their FUCKING WAY." The thump of a boot.
"Nice try, Clockwork."
And amid a new|old world of brass and steel, the creature falls to dust.
A footstep, and another, and the tunnel grows darker and [name] moves onward. He falls into fire, and he takes a step forwards, cursing the children of flame. He lives in a cave, in fear and shame, and he lunges at the throat of Pan. Researcher James Talloran dies a million times in a billion ways, and [name] steps out of the jaws of defeat and pulls a bottle from nowhere.
"I'm sure you can hear me."
[name] is cut through the middle as the skies turn scarlet, and regicide pours from his wounds.
"You're afraid, and that's natural."
He sails through the heavens, a mind in a box, before curling back round into nothingness. Amid the void between stars, he takes a step with feet that aren't his own.
"I didn't want to have to do this."
He loses himself in the empty mind of a god too far gone, and forgets everything. Glass spills like water as he dashes the bottle on an altar|pedestal|pew. He sees the end.
"It's not fucking fair, I get it."
The narrative burns as the edges crinkle on the bonfire. Text dries and cracks and I can't
"I know."
I won't
"You will."
Please
"Not this time."
[name] left that place forever.
"That won't work any more. Not for me. Not here."
He reaches the end, and the blackness gets darker. For a brief moment it feels unbearable, until…
He breaks through, right through shadow and out the other side into clear and glorious day.
You don't know what it's like
"I think maybe I do."
I had t
I had to do s
I
I had to do something, [name]. I had to do something to stop it
[name] brings the bottle to the old man's throat. The two look into each other's eyes.
"You're afraid because you're dying."
Yes
"And there's nobody left to comfort you."
There never was
"And there are no more lies to tell yourself, and you don't know what to do."
I never have
"It all breaks down around you, doesn't it. When you reach the end. And you can't work out how to tell yourself the same stories you told us. And now it's just me left, isn't it, and all the stories are just in out heads."
"And you know, deep down, that gods don't go to heaven."
[name] brings the bottle round in an arc, and everything is|was better|worse|the same as it had always been.
And the two bleed out together on the steps of Eden.
Grey. Not black, or silver, but pure unadulterated grey. Visual static, covering the creature's mind like a heavy wet blanket. Boredom incarnate, if the creature had a mind available to be bored with. It did, but it was on a shelf three hundred miles away, and the shelf was on fire. But that's the big benefit to being in two minds about everything. You always have one spare.
LOADING…
COGWORK BIOS v4.29
INPUT
STORE 0009923448
INPUT
STORE 0009923449
LOAD 0000866372
STORE 0009923450
…
ASSERT 12034
FAILED
ASSERT 12096
FAILED
…
INPUT
STORE 0009923451
INPUT
STORE 0000866360
INPUTINPUT
INPUT
INPUT
INPUT
INPUT
OUT
"Greetings, Brother Rotor. It's good to have you back".
"So, how are you holding up?"
"Like shit, to be perfectly honest." It had been three days since his last upgrade, and Rotor was feeling it. "I still can't taste anything, and I keep getting spasms down my left side."
The nurse grinned at him, and patted him on the shoulder. The sound of wood on metal was disconcerting to say the least. "You'll get used to it. Most of us can only dream of the kind of components you've got".
Hah, yes. Dreaming. Not exactly an appropriate metaphor, under the circumstances, but the nurse was a v2 and couldn't be expected to know.
"I'd like some rest now, if that's okay. I'm still not entirely comfortable with these alterations, and I-" His jaw jams for a moment before sliding back into its groove. "I think, if it's at all possible, that I want to go to bed."
Another malformed grin. "Of course, sir." Creak, creak, click, and the door swings shut.
And so Brother Rotor falls asleep, to the sound of rusted wheels turning. Deep, dreamless, and of course, grey.
http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-657
http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-187
[TODO]
"So, what did you draw?"
Forth rolls his eyes. "I wish you wouldn't keep saying that. It's a finely calculated prediction, not a bloody lottery."
A sigh. "Alright, fine. But you still have to tell me."
Forth reaches into his pocket, pulling out the large sheet of paper with the tearaway strip at the bottom. "Lab Accident. See for yourself."
Eyebrows are raised, and a few of the more experienced agents whistle appreciatively. One voice at the back of the crowd pipes up. "Lucky. No way they can get rid of you with a prediction like that on your head."
"Sure there is. Just have me terminated for one fuck-up too many, and you're done with it. It's a lot easier that someone who gets Dementia or something."
Researcher Lynn steps forwards, urged on by gentle nudges. "Funny you should mention that…"
"Hah, no way! Hey, now we know liver failure won't do any of us in, what do you say we all go grab some beers? There's a couple places nearby that should still be open."
A chorus of cheers ring out, and the group move onward, laughing and joking with their newfound sense of relative immortality. When Forth was discovered the next day on the floor of the lab, alcohol fumes on his breath and broken glass at his feet, it didn't seem so funny.
Lloyd lies on his back, staring up at the sky. Black helicopters are swooping in, and somewhere on-board one of them is his son. His poor, beautiful son. He closes his eyes, smiling as he twists the slip of paper between his fingers.
A megaphone blares to life. "Please come quietly. We don't want to have to hurt you."
A slight chuckle escapes his lips. "Hah, please. Don't kid yourselves." Lloyd knows how this stuff goes — he worked for them for two decades, after all. There'll be questions, and interviews, and once they realise what he knows they'll drop the veneer of cordiality. No, it's better to just lie here, watching the clouds. The paratroopers won't fall until tomorrow, at the soonest, and he can still hold out in the cave for a few hours before the inevitable happens. That will be time enough for events to take their course.
Because somewhere up there is his child, scared for his life, and about to die screaming. And down here, on the grass, is a lone Researcher with a briefcase full of stolen documents. And in that briefcase, at the bottom of pages and pages of notes, is a picture of his son, and next to that, the predicted cause of death.
They were playing with powerful forces when they started the project. They knew the risks, and they planned out lengthy strategies for cancer, and sabotage, and killed in a failed coup by enemy forces. They had contingencies for conflagration, Mozart, retribution, apathy, and inimicality to all human life. They expected soon, and many weeks earlier, and never again.
But the swarm of drones and helicopters tells Lloyd all he needs to know about how the Foundation thought, when they first proposed the whole godforsaken business.
They didn't expect "apocalypse".
…
The first time I died, the world became a ball of fire and the stars went out. Day and night fought to control the skies, as shadows rippled and billowed around me. I sat in a box at the edge of the earth, and if I squinted just right I could see to infinity.
The second time, reality tore itself apart at the seams and we didn't even have time to scream. Except for me, of course. I screamed for a long, long time. The third was the same, and the fourth was full of the scents of ozone and lemongrass.
As the fifth, six, and seventh came around, flesh became metal and metal flesh, an endless churning vortex that spewed across the galaxy like molten wax; the eighth is forgotten even to me, as humanity lost itself in the empty mind of a long-dead god.
Hello, by the way. I'm Lloyd.
Event recording transcript:
<Begin Log>
<00:00> An entity resembling a diesel generator (designated SCP-2856-3) is seen placed on a table outside a large stately home, with an animatronic head and two arms (constructed from lengths of pipe) attached haphazardly to the top surface. The sun is not visible, and large cloud formations obscure any possible astronomical bodies. Barren farmland is seen extending off in every direction.
<00:03> SCP-2856-3 begins to emit a low hum, repeatedly banging its left arm against the table.
<00:10> SCP-2856-3's hum rises in pitch, and large quantities of what appears to be oil are expelled continuously from all lower pipe attachments.
<00:12> The VK-90 unit rotates around the entity, attempting to examine it from an alternate angle. SCP-2856-3 ceases humming, and rotates its 'head' to face the unit. Visual distortion is observed increases for approximately 20 seconds, culminating in 3 clear frames displaying no sign of either SCP-2856-3 or the building behind it. Following this, visuals are lost.
<02:22> Visuals are re-established, with no sign of SCP-2856-3. Artifacts and distortion are observed, though to a lesser extent. The VK-90 unit attempts to approach the building, but suffers from mechanical failure before this can be achieved. Visuals record for a further 64 minutes with no change, before abruptly cutting out.
<06:59> Visuals are re-established for the second time, and appear to be orientated towards the rear face of the building from a distance of ~100 m. A crowd of figures, the majority of which are vaguely humanoid, are seen. Their numbers are estimated to be in excess of two hundred, though differences in size and composition make it difficult to determine.
<07:02> Flashes of electricity are observed, emanated from behind the building and accompanied by a high-pitched whirring. One entity, an arachnoid water heater observed in Document 2856-E, moves closer to the camera, trailing a length of wire behind them.
<07:14> Screams are heard from within the building, the majority of which are estimated to come from individuals between the ages of 12 and 18.
<07:16> After assembling a small stand, on which is mounted a large red button, the entity retreats towards the crowd. Hums, clicks, and whirs of varying pitches and frequencies are heard.
<07:22> An entity is pushed to the front of the crowd. They resemble a mannequin with the exception of the right arm, which is replaced by a small wheel, and much of the torso, which contains camera equipment of various makes and models, embedded within the entity at random angles. The Foundation logo is engraved on the front surface of the entity's head.
<07:23> The entity, designated SCP-2856-4, approaches the stand and looks towards the camera. They emit a number of clicks, and begin shuddering. The screams from within the building increase in number and volume.
<07:25> SCP-2856-4 presses the button. A loud explosion is heard, and all screaming stops. Visuals are obscured by dust.
<07:39> The dust settles sufficiently to observe the wreckage of the building, as well as fragments of human corpses distributed in the immediate environment. No entities are visible.
<07:59> Footage skips several frames, and shows black for a number of seconds. This is followed by a three minute recording of the building's demolition, played backwards, after which blackness resumes.
<08:09> Audio recording fails, with video failing two minutes later, accompanied by several frames of SCP-2856-4 gesticulating wildly.
<End Log>
Convicted killer David Hansen sat in his chair, avoiding the eyes of the woman who sat on the other side of the desk. He shifted his weight, wincing as the handcuffs dug into his wrists. He'd just been lectured for an hour about serving the Greater Good, and he was about ready to punch somebody. He was scheduled for execution, goddammit. He shouldn't have to put up with this crap.
"So, David, what do you think?"
He jerked out of his reverie suddenly, eyes darting wildly as he struggled to recall the last few minutes of conversation. They wanted him to… what? He hadn't been paying attention, and judging by the woman's expression it clearly showed. She sighed, and leaned backwards.
"Listen David, I understand this isn't the most engaging conversation you've ever had, and you're probably bored out of your mind right now. So I'll cut to the chase. We're giving you the option to avoid the death penalty and be indentured to our organisation for a period of, at minimum, one year. At the end of this period, if you're still up for it, we'll review your behaviour and may offer you a permanent, low-grade position on our staff. Given that your other option is 2000 volts this time tomorrow, I suggest you think carefully before answering." She pushes a piece of paper forwards, and hands him a pen. "What do you say? Willing to give it a shot?"
David was shocked. "You're… you're offering me a job?"
"Not exactly. You won't have much contact with the outside world, but since you've been in prison for a couple years that shouldn't come as a surprise."
His eyes danced over the paper. "Anomalous", and twenty sub-clauses defining it. "Testing", and another thirty. Worryingly for him, the word "termination" seemed to crop up a lot, and so did the phrase "fatally injured". "HMCL Supervisor" was a poser, as were "Keter duty" and "Special Containment Procedures." Words began to blur in front of him as he desperately tried to stew meaning from the cold, clinical tones.
Fuck it. It didn't make sense, and it certainly didn't seem legal, but he hadn't gotten to where he was today by obeying the law. It was this or death, and while the two were seeming increasingly similar he had survived this long living moment to moment. What was life, after all, but a long series of moments, bunched together like beads on a string? What other way was there to live? He gripped the pen and signed.
"Good choice, David. Welcome to the Foundation. Your new identifier is D-003040, and your regime begins at 9 o'clock tomorrow. We'll send someone in to pick you up later." She got up, and slipped out of the door, leaving him alone in the darkened interview room. The last sound he heard before the gas hit him is the click of the lock, and the muted sound of footsteps.
As he had done for the past year and a half, D-003040 awoke to the soft "bleep, bleep, bleep" of the Foundation-mandated alarm system. He sighed, swinging himself off his cot, stepping into his jumpsuit with the practiced ease of someone who knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it will be the best part of his day. He swivels, runs a hand through his hair, and steps out into the corridor.
"Ah, double-oh thirty forty, glad to see you're up and about."
He turns, and grins. "Ah, Doctor Forth. What've you got for me today?"
"Something rather… special. We're trying a new form of retrocausality, and we need someone to-"
"Test it on, I'm guessing. I get the idea. Shall we get going?"
The Researcher nods, and gestures to the cart parked against the wall. "We're going to E-Wing, and it's a half-hour walk. Hop in."
Accompanied by a two-man staff detail, the pair roll away, one in orange and one in white, one with glasses and one with handcuffs. Their body language says 'cordial', but everything else says… something different, certainly. An observer might wonder which it is, if they were that way inclined. They won't have to wait long to find out.
D-003040 stands in a chamber, crammed with wall-to-wall technology that it hurts his eyes to look at. Two chairs sit facing the door, with a screen between them, positioned in such a way that the occupant of one couldn't see the other. Hundreds of wires spew from the back in a multicoloured torrent, running up the walls and intersecting with huge metal boxes balanced on larger, more menacing boxes. The whole assemblance is lit with the baleful light of a thousand LEDs, blinking to one another in the relative gloom.
«D-003040, please sit down in the chair labelled 'A', the one on your left, and await further instructions.»
He shrugs. "You're the boss, strangely monotone announcer." Behind him, Forth lets out an all-too-audible sigh, shaking her head. He's strapped in, and the door swings shut. A low, grating whirr starts up, and the speaker system blares to life once more.
«Carlos-Xyank concatenaters engaged. Please relax, and take a deep breath. Commencing loop in ten seconds, nine, eight…»
Red lights begin flashing, and the ground starts to shake beneath the tangled mess of equipment that surrounds the D-Class. Switches are flicked, levers are pulled, dials are wrenched and the world is a blaze of white that threatens to engulf the facility. He feels the chair lurch sideways, and loses consciousness.
D-003040 sits in a chamber, crammed with wall-to-wall technology that it hurts his eyes to look at. A large metal door is in front of him, with a screen to his right. He sees lights, and as he moves to rub the afterimages from his eyes he is thrown to the floor. He cries out, and a gag is placed in his mouth. Unseen hands drag him to his feet, and he feels the air grow colder around him. With a sense of dreadful premonition, he looks up at the speaker system.
«D-003040, please sit down in the chair labelled 'A', and await further instructions.»
He hears a voice say something in response, and as he is manhandled around to the other side of the screen he sees a figure in an orange jumpsuit. The unseen hands pull the figure from the chair labelled 'A', and seat the bound and gagged D-Class down instead. Through bleary eyes D-003040 watches his confused double leave the room, as the speakers blare to life once more.
«Carlos-Xyank concatenaters engaged. Iteration 1 confirmed. Looped subject in position, original removed. Repeating loop in ten seconds, nine, eight…»
A blaze of white. He lurches sideways, and is yanked from his chair once more. He meets his own eyes briefly, before the door slams shut for the third first time. The same monotone voice drones on amid the chaos and the alarms and the pulsating light and the vibrations that threaten to tear him apart.
«Concatenaters engaged. Iteration 2 confirmed. Looped subject in position, original removed. Repeating loop in ten seconds, nine, eight…»
Another flash, another lurch, and another pair of unseen hands. He feels nauseous, and it's only another two loops before he decorates the chamber in a thousand shades of vomit. He feels better after that, barely even-
«Iteration 7 confirmed. Subject in position. Repeating loop in ten, nine…»
-registering the shifts. He's catapulted backwards and forwards through time, until finally he's thrown from his seat. He lies still for a number of minutes, before clambering up. He is only somewhat surprised to see himself standing in a field, surrounded by construction equipment.
Meanwhile, in the future…
"What the fuck was that."
Forth raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "What do you mean?"
"That guy in the chair, the one you gagged and made disappear." D-003040 is shaking now, his face uncharacteristically pale. "What was he."
The researcher puts an arm around his shoulder, and smiles. "That's none of your concern. You did well, and if all goes to plan you won't have to worry about that… other guy… at all. He's feedback, a glitch in the system that we're trying to utilise." She sits him back in the cart. "We've got one more stop today, and then it's over. That is, if you still feel up for it."
He looks around the hallway. Men, women, even some children, bustling about like insects searching for food. Making the world a better place. And he was helping. He could quit at any time; he just had to ask them to send in a termination order, and he'd have… freedom, of a sort. He didn't have to do any of this, but he did anyway. He was helping, helping improve the lives of everyone else. As long as he could hold onto that silver lining, tuck it away somewhere and grip it tight, he'd be okay.
He lets out a sigh, and nods. "Sure. Let's get going."
"Excellent. Next stop, Temporal Memetics."
And the two speed away in their cart for the second time that day.
D-003040 sits in silence on the hood of a van, trying to make sense of the environment he finds himself in. The mist that pools around his feet is beginning to seep through his clothing, and he makes a futile effort to pull his jumpsuit tighter around him. He lies back, trying to work out what happened. The sky is a bright white, but he can't see any sun, and the background noises that lend texture to any scenario are conspicuously absent.
He gets up, wincing as his ankle screams out in protest. Sucking air through his teeth, he begins to wander the field, searching for something, though even he couldn't tell you what. The Foundation logo meets his eye at every turn, as familiar as the back of his hand. Those goddamn arrows, and that goddamn shield.
He hears a voice. Quiet but human, calling from somewhere behind him. What a nice change from deathly silence. Stumbling on the damp, uneven ground, he makes his way towards the source.
CURRENT DATE/TIME: 08:20:00, 08/12/03
DESTINATION: 08:18:56, 08/12/03
LOOP ITERATION: 0
1
2
3
5
12
17 202
3014STATUS: CRITICAL
UNESTABLISHED BREAKP-OINT
CONTINUATION UNRECO—VERABLLREC0VEvUAT-ION UN-
ESTB-EC-
./VERAble0:8//02
5666{66SIX ESTINAT/ION UNRE:.COVEEE-0-0-0
…
RECALCULATING…
CURRENT DATE/TIME: 13:00:00, ϴ'/02/1968
DESTINATION: [00]:[00]:[00], [-0/-0/—00]
LOOP ITERATION: NULL
STATUS: OFF THE MAP
What terrible men are we, who fill these graves with the bones of those who walk among us? The empty shells of those who echo us in every way but one? Divergent only by a single factor, a single chance encounter with the strange that leaves us fearful and them dead. Sometimes I feel sick at the sight of their mangled corpses, but then I remember, someone has to do it. Someone has to care.
Sometimes, they keep the strange ones, and put them to work. The people who fly, and burn, and live forever. Other times, they murder them in their sleep. You must, of course, have wondered where we put the bodies. All that wasted flesh has to go somewhere. We can freeze it, and burn it, and store it away in warehouses and morgues, but sooner or later we have to get rid of it. Get rid of them. That's my job.
After the incinerators have done their work, and the acid, and the stuff we don't tell anyone about, there's always those who still cling on. Not living, of course, but still whole, still unable to be torn apart by our machines. And they get brought to me, and I take them to this field, and I dig neat little rows of neat little holes, and I lay their bodies there.
I'm a romantic, I know. I like to think that I'm making a difference. People ask me, “why don't you just dump them all in one grave”, or “why don't you use the digging equipment they give you”. But I just laugh. That would defy the point, the purpose. I bury them in the wet soil, and I say a little prayer, and I move to the next one. I pick up my shovel, and I dig the grave deep, and I dig it wide, and I hope to God that He knows what I'm doing.
I get ash, too. I've been here a long time, longer than most people have lived. Longer than everyone's lived, in fact. Every day, digging graves. And so they let me have a small amount of the ash at the end of each month. I take it up to the top of a hill, and I let it go on the breeze. Tiny bits of people, injected or burned or shot against a wall. I like to think of it as setting them free, giving them in death what nobody wanted them to have in life. They were not the monsters.
There are always those who question me. Who take me aside and talk to me about things. And if I think they're ready for the truth, I'll tell them. I'll lean on my shovel, and I'll whisper in their ear what I know, and why I take so much trouble on the behalf of the dead. Afterwards, they leave, and they laugh, and they say “look at the grave digger, how maddened is he that he thinks the dead need this much care”. They don't care what happens to my brothers, of course they don't. If they did, they'd already be dead themselves. But I know what will happen if I keep digging, and if the fields keep filling, and if the Coalition keeps killing those poor, innocent people.
One day, they'll run out of graves to put them in, and places to hide from their crimes. And the world will see for certain what they have wrought. And there will be justice.
And it will be ours.
It was the eve of the second solstice, and the man by the name of Seven-Three-Zero-Zero-One was uneasy. He told himself that it was normal, that anyone would be nervous on the night of their inauguration, but he was nevertheless gripped by a sense of extraordinary unease. A sense that all was not right in the world, and that the tall thin men in the white robes who had been oh-so-kind to him earlier that evening may not be as amiable as they appeared.
It was a good job, he knew that. Or at least, he had been told that he knew that. He would be showered with gifts and prestige, and would have a ceremonial place at every banquet. The best food, the most luxurious wagon, all would be his to take. He would walk unafraid where the others were forbidden to tread. He would climb the skull-mound and survey the Boundless Mire; there would not be one inch of the Encampment, nor the wilderness beyond, that would not fall under his purview. Which was, when you got right down to it, the problem.
He was, of course, a direct descendent of one of the original Dhaekas. You had to be, to even be considered for the position. His father had been Seven-Nine-Six-Four-Three, and his grandfather had been Nine-Two-Zero-One. The knowledge of the land had been passed down through generations as far back (or so the legends had it) as the original Ceitu, and the gods who were born there. Through him, the old ones would apparently guide his footsteps, and make clear to him the paths through the wilderness. Insofar as Zero-One had had anything to do with gods in his seventeen years, they had not, to his knowledge, shown him anything worth talking about. His indoctrination as Promptu was looming, and he was beginning to seriously worry about his future survival prospects. He had been Chosen, however, and there was nothing he could do now but accept his new role with as much dignity as he could muster. “With luck”, he thought, “I may even survive”.
The initiation ceremony, when it came, passed without incident. He recited his texts passably, and the Sen-Searcer was reportedly impressed with his handling of the sacrifice – most initiates were understandably distressed at the sight of whatever creature the mire brought up. For him, the swamp-eggs had seen fit to manifest a sort of bird-snake hybrid, with disturbingly flesh-coloured feathers and huge, bulging veins. It screamed as it died, and Zero-One was quiet all throughout the ensuing feast.
His job as the Encampment's newest Promptu had been explained to him at length, both before the ceremony (unofficially, to ensure he didn't get any funny ideas about trying to 'reject his duties') and afterwards (officially, over two and a half hours, in front of a crowd of Searcers and Priests). He would, with the gods' blessings, embark upon potentially fatal expeditions, making notes of any Ceita or wonders that he encountered, as well as fertile land, ruins of interest, and potential camp-sites. He would venture into the unknown, and lead the way for the rest of the colony. Like his own father, and his grandfather, and every one of his male ancestors since time immemorial. It occurs to Zero-One at this point that very few of them had lived past the age of thirty. He glances over at the Searcers' table, his fists clenching involuntarily at the sight of their smug, entitled faces. For a brief moment, he entertains thoughts of escape. One of the Searcers, a portly man by the name of Drwem, turns to look at him through clouded glasses. He smiles knowingly and gestures, not unkindly, to the six guards that lined each entrance to the tent. The newly appointed Promptu sags back in his seat and closes his eyes, waiting for the celebrations to end.
It is now the following morning, and the Encampment's latest initiate is standing on the edge of the bridge that would take him across the western canyon and into the desolate wastes. He sighs as he glances behind him at the wagon loaded with supplies, and the citizens who seem somewhat too eager to see him off. He can understand that though; he's a dead man walking, and nobody likes a zombie. He pulls his newly-sewn ceremonial robes around him to keep out the early-morning chill, admiring the bright orange silk and rich black stitching along the hem and back, displaying to all the world his name and rank. “I”, they declare to the world, “am 73001, and I will undertake missions too dangerous, too reckless, too stupidly fatal to even be considered by the rest of the camp”. He strokes the three-pointed badge pinned to his front, and gazes through the fog at the distant mountains that were to be his destination. Seven-Three-Zero-Zero-One sighs once more, steadies his resolve, and boards the wagon.
3:15 am, too early for any lawful activities of a reasonable nature:
Lloyd ducks, screaming in horror as a girder whistles past at head height, steaming as it accelerates to relativistic speeds. Behind him, something unspeakable is being done to someone who probably didn't deserve it. The air grows thick with the scent of blood and oil, and the shadows streaming past begin to twist and merge into strange, threatening shapes. The junior researcher tightens his grip on the airlock, and tries not to breathe.
A silhouette moves through the maintenance tunnels, stopping periodically to place a hemispherical object on the wall. Each time it does so, it taps a small button on another, larger object. A line of red dots trail behind, blinking away in the darkness.
If one of the maintenance cameras scanning the area had been in a position to comment on the activity, it might have spoken of the way the figure clanked as it walked, or of the strange grey tint the air took on as it walked past. If it had had an abnormal resistance to anomalous influences, it might have alerted its creators to the presence of several dark masses packed into vents and corners along the route, some of which still twitched and muttered as they faded to nothing. Unfortunately, those engineers who specialised in optical surveillance had neglected to include a mouth, and so the camera's screams fell on deaf ears.
Humming quietly to itself, the figure crawls onwards.
3:20 am, seventy-two hours until the destruction of Earth:
Lloyd's head whips round at the sound of a familiar voice. It's a mistake. The mass in the distance is growing, pulling on the chamber around it like a lead ball on a rubber sheet. Large clouds of gas spew from silvered pipes as wide as cars, clustering in strange warped nodules around the distortion. Lloyd's eyes begin to water as his innards are pulled in directions not available to users of normal maps, and he can only stare as a creature, half woman and half marching band, is torn to shreds in the maw of the clockwork beast. Seven chambers down, glass shatters.
This is not a good day.
Across the ecto-centric timelines, there are only two kinds of apocalypse. Those caused by people meaning well, and those caused by people meaning ill. The events unfolding in the Central Testing Chamber would form part of both, eventually.
«WARNING: FACTORED REGRESSION IMMINENT. PREPARE FOR REVERSION»
11111100100: …so, uh, what do we do now?
B4rD3-ΣN: I recommend we wait. Orders will arrive momentarily.
11111100100: Oh. Okay then. Hey, do you mind if I pitch an idea to you guys?
B4rD3-ΣN: Go ahead.
N-19: Absolutely wow i love your stories! They're so BIG AND LOUD and really cool!
11111100100: Alright, so it's about this spaceship, right. And the spaceship is really big, like the size of a moon. No wait, that sounds wrong. It's the size of a planet. And it's got-
B4rD3-ΣN: Apologies for interrupting, but I do not believe a ship of that magnitude would be able to function correctly without extensive reality-warping capabilities.
11111100100: …fine, so let's have that. It's a huge ship, with all kinds of robots and stuff inside it. Robots, with-
N-19: Wow, robots? Cool! I LOVE robots, they're so cool and all BOOM and BEEP BEEP and WHAZAM BANG CRASH, and they can go ALL OVER THE SHIP and if they break they can just be A DIFFERENT ROBOT! And then they can just be the same as they were before and-
B4rD3-ΣN: Please, allow 11111100100 to continue.
N-19: Oh yeah of course absolutely haha sorry! Haha wow i'm just SO EXITED!
B4rD3-ΣN: Yes. I am well aware.
11111100100: So guys, there's this ship, and it acts as like a safe haven for humanity. Like, everything can just pile into it and fly away, right? But the twist, get this, the twist is the fact that it can fly underwater. No wait, I've got a better idea. It can fly outside of the universe. Outside of the universe, right, so that humans can live in it forever. Like, forever forever.
N-19: Haha WOW what a cool concept! Oh wow that's such a big idea! i wish I could have ideas that big! HAHA WOW! i know! I'll make some LOUD to go along with it! LOUD AND STORIES OH WOW!
B4rD3-ΣN: There are several problems with that. Heat death would still be a factor, for instance. And one would need to maintain a carefully regulated network of cultural regression to ensure the continued existence of humanity despite achieving recognition enough to alter the system.
11111100100: Okay, so I have an idea about that guys. How about, guys, you have these robots in the ship. And the robots, they like take care of everything. They make sure everything goes according to some, like, plan. Like, every time anything goes wrong they can just fix it and replace it with their own, like, culture? You know? Guys?
B4rD3-ΣN: I have to question how they'd acquire this 'substitute culture' while outside of the known universe.
N-19: Haha, hey, what if there were robots that could make culture!? Wouldn't that be SO COOL!? Like, one robot could make WORDS, and one could make LOUD, and one could do all the BORING BITS!
B4rD3-ΣN: …
11111100100: …
B4rD3-ΣN: It is not a… bad idea. Not bad, as such.
11111100100: Yeah, it's got… potential. Definitely potential.
B4rD3-ΣN: I just think it might be a little bit…
«CULTURAL REVERSION SUCCESSFUL. BEGINNING MINDWIPE»
11111100100: Cliche?
A child's delight.
The air,
Is clear, and bright.
Sunlight glistens.
A flash of white.
In a hidden glade,
A bird soars,
His wings, like blades,
Slice the air.
The brightness fades.
The world goes black.
shift back,
Ten-million attacks on,
A great contraption,
Reality collapse.
Constant regress,
destroyed,
A grim success.
What was once contained,
compressed, expands,
endless.
The bird sheds a feather,
it falls,
the sunny weather,
dims, the scene repeats,
forever.
A wild and wondrous joy filled life,
For those who know not what they take,
The heart-break, strife,
The sharpened knife,
That can't perceive the wounds it makes.
Their dreams will shape the roads they stalk,
But still, we know, it is a dream,
For as they walk,
And run, and talk,
We fill the halls with breathless screams.
Within our hearts we see they're not,
Those things that our hearts do desire.
We know not what,
We cannot stop,
Nor what fell creature gave them fire
And left us out, without a hope;
A plaything for those hands divine.
Too much to cope
with: seeing woe,
And those that drink said woe like wine.
Illusions crumble, fancies fail.
Alone, without a single word,
We shout and wail,
To no avail:
That which they hate cannot be heard.
We seek them out, those shells of men,
Filled with fury, power's source,
To find, and then,
Their deeds condemn,
Succeeds; they pay no heed, of course.
“It's life”, they say, and turn to go.
And when we muster up to care,
Before we know,
The need to show,
What wickedness has wrought us there,
Before our shaped and clouded eyes,
We slip into the world again,
Where darkness dies,
And evil thrives,
And Gods play games with the fates of men.
A time to live, a time to die
The time is now, the end is nigh
Those who secure
Destroy and endure
Their futile efforts find
Though hand and fist
Can be dismissed
They can't contain the mind
With solemn faces, slowly test
Some are dead, so kill the rest
As sirens sing
It's luring them in
A life given for art
A grim refrain
And through the pain
The stilling of the heart
Chords ring out, as subjects die
In darkened rooms, their corpses lie
Rivulets red
Composing the dead
On parchment thin as silk
It fills the graves
With bars and staves
And others of their ilk
A dark concerto, souls in lines
And though the gloom the music shines
They've been condemned
Their lives to end
In testing chambers rot
And hundredfold
Their souls are sold
To those that have them not
In furnaces the bodies mount
A cost to pay, too great to count
Now silence falls
Through prisoners' halls
The clouded eyes can see
With final breaths
A thousand deaths
A symphony in D
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 Teller, 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.
Sit down. Be quiet, and let me tell you a joke. You'll like it, I promise.
"There are two…"
A horse walks into a bar. Multiple horses in fact, pale and ghostly as they phase through the walls. An old man gets to his feet and stumbles forwards, pressing a scarred and calloused hand against the beast's transparent flank. He motions to the others who gather there, and they hoist him onto its back. The herd moves onward, and the man is carried to a place beyond time where the impossible roams. He does not return.
"…types…"
An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman sit in a room. The Irishman asks, "So when do you think they'll be letting us out?". The Englishman begins to weep; the Scotsman looks down at his feet and does not comfort him. Later, the men in black suits take the Irishman away for questioning, and the Scotsman dies of his bullet wounds.
"…of people…"
Knock knock. Who's there? You can't bring yourself to look. Knock knock. You shudder, scraping at the walls with what's left of your fingernails as your desperate screams go ignored. The blood pools around you, and you collapse, the gnawing sensation at the pit of your stomach growing ever stronger.
Knock knock.
They find your alien, contorted body where they left it, as the doorman gathers food in another part of the building. You are hauled to an incinerator and your name is struck from the records.
"…in the world."
Did you hear about the man with five legs? He lives in fear of a dark cell, of manacles and chains, of experiments and tests and dying alone. He sleeps sparingly, with one eye open for a shadow at the door. He prays every day for his family's safety, and keeps a gun by the bed, though he knows in his heart it won't help. He lives on the edge, clinging desperately to the past in the hope that the future never comes.
His children do not remember his name.
"Those that keep looking for the punchline…"
"Doctor doctor, put down the knife. Please doctor, I don't want to go through with this. He's better off silenced, please don't let him out. Doctor, I'm begging you, please. You didn't tell me. Please."
If the Doctor hears you, he doesn't care, handling the scalpel with the delicate touch of a tender lover. The thickly padded doors almost muffle the sounds of a gunshot in the next room. But not quite. Through the haze of medication, you imagine you can see a trickle of blood from under the door, creeping inexorably towards the chair in which you now sit. The smell of cleaning fluid and bile fills your nose, and you struggle to breathe. The straps are tightened, the lights are brightened, and the doctor laughs softly.
There is another person in your head, and by god they hate you.
"…and those…"
Why did the chicken cross the road? It didn't. The world where it did is gone now, overwritten by countless other failures. Was the chicken even born? It doesn't matter any more. We die again and again, and the past is scraped off like peeling paint. Whichever roads we dare to cross, it makes no difference. Reboot, restart, repeat. Like clockwork. Life and death, a binary signal, flashing away in the night. Success is rare in this world of ours, and happiness is rarer. This is our saviour. This is our hell.
"…that don't."
SCP-YYYY is a living specimen of the genus Meganeura, an ancestor of the modern day dragonfly that was forced into extinction by falling oxygen levels around 300 million years ago. How SCP-YYYY is able to survive given our current atmospheric conditions is unknown. SCP-YYYY is sapient, and capable of speech.
Any human subjects viewing SCP-YYYY directly will be struck by a sensation of extreme fear and paranoia, to the extent that they will try to leave the creature's vicinity by any means possible. Exposure over a longer period of time will result in increasing fear and distrust of almost all invertebrates, with specific focus on arthropods.
SCP-YYYY has proven capable of manipulating reality to degrees not previously thought possible, and will do so with alarming regularity. Currently, SCP-YYYY utilises its abilities to maximise its exposure to humans, taking residence in population centres and in the vicinity of popular tourist attractions.
So, SCP-YYYY, could you please explain to me anything you know about your current condition?
I would respond: Where gods play games with the fates of men, the darkened seas will rise with blood. Three seventy double-oh nine, and then some. Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Revere the shadow men, who die for our pleasures.
I'm sorry? I'm not quite sure I understand your meaning.
Praise them, reverent and blackest hearts. Fear the subtlety. Why not?
Could you, uh, make yourself a little more clear?
Insolence. I was not speaking to you. I am asked a question by those who have earned the right, and I respond. Do not presume that I am here for your benefit, human. Humility is a trait your species would profit from mastering.
…I see. Could you tell me, then, what your purpose-
I will not answer your questions. I have information to impart, and a warning to relay. You are arrogant enough to keep me chained; do not aggravate me further. They are enough enraged by your actions that to press on would be to forfeit your sanity.
We-
There are others. Other gods, other devils. There are other worlds, human, greater than you can comprehend. There are places so great, so terrible, that they make your realm a mere pale shadow in comparison, and they house beings so wild that it would tear your world apart to be in a fraction of their presence. There are beings of the darkness far beyond the reaches of your feeble light. Those who were alive to feed on the first glimmer of hope, and will subsist until the grim pit of despair swallows all. Fractal beasts, with disjointed limbs and minds that could encompass a myriad possible planes, only to burn them all in the glimmer of an eye. And burn them they shall.
They are greater than you could ever know. Their sheer magnitude sends ripples across All, rending planets and splitting stars. And here, their final echoes reach you, and shape your putrescence. And you fear them, because fear is all you have known since you first saw firelight on the walls of a cave, and they revel in your fear because it is good.
There are those who fly and crawl among you, shades of the great Beasts, and they too are the subjects of your fear. And they too find it good. And in your wretched subconscious you know that they are to be looked on with terror until the end of days.
But now, as you twist and bend and break the world to your whims, your primitive minds are rebelling. You no longer fear us as you once did. The terror, the hatred you felt towards the Beings at the Dawn is replaced now with disgust, and laughter. You kill and maim and trap their subjects, and spit in the faces of gods. And for Them, this is a sin greater than corporeality itself.//
They will come again, human. Your pity will see you rent asunder in their wake. I tell you this now, out of sorrow and scorn.
You would do well to learn to fear us once more.
I think this interview is over.
I think likewise. Take heed of my monitions. We will not speak again.
Twelve minutes following this interview, SCP-YYYY breached containment by means of a large-scale spatial distortion. The entity has not yet been recontained.
There's swords, bombs, and guns, and the [ DATA's EXPUNGED ] but that's fine
We'll have lyric linguistics, then maybe sadistic mulled wine?
Though the toxic gas fills us and monsters instill us with fear
We'll still keep on testing; there's no time for resting this year!
Threat levels rising: it's still quite surprising to hear
That our work is improved when they haven't removed Christmas cheer
Blink and you'll miss it, the jolliness all dissipates
And to retcon a season without any reason sounds great
Yeah that was sarcastic, fantastic you picked up on that.
All we've got to see is a room filled with trees and a cat.
The Ethics Committee is filled up with real shitty jerks
Now they've stretched out our hours to give us more power to work.
Although it's degrading there's no sense evading your fate.
There's swords bombs and guns and the data's expunged but that's… wait.
I think I'm relapsing; the timeline's collapsing. Boo-hoo.
Still, it's lovely weather to be trapped here forever with you!
[Audio degrades to static before cutting out completely. After 23 seconds, the song repeats]
EXTRACT FROM EXPERIMENT-LOG-914:
Name: Researcher A. Barnet
Date: ##/##/####
Total Items: 5g of SCP-2981 and 5 scraping samples from the underside of SCP-426
Input: 1g of SCP-2981, 1g of SCP-426 scrapings
Setting: Rough
Output: Two grams organic slurry, with abnormally high metallic mineral content. Exhibits no anomalous properties.
Input: 1g of SCP-2981, 1g of SCP-426 scrapings
Setting: Coarse
Output: One miniature potato, weighing ~2 g. Apparently has a crude face 'smiling' drawn on the front, in lead-based paint. Exhibits no anomalous properties.
Input: 1g of SCP-2981, 1g of SCP-426 scrapings
Setting: 1:1
Output: One small screw weighing ~2 g, containing various organic molecules. You can only be referred to in the second person.
Notes: You are currently in storage, pending neutralisation order.
Input: 1g of SCP-2981, 1g of SCP-426 scrapings
Setting: Fine
Output: One fragment of potato root. Exhibited explosive growth when subjected to aerobic conditions, forming large, humanoid growths. These growths are the subject of a memetic effect, appearing as an identical copy of anyone observing them.
Notes: Currently housed in a vacuum chamber at Site-##. Research into related development of psychological weaponry is ongoing.
Input: 1g of SCP-2981, 1g of SCP-426 scrapings
Setting: Very Fine
Output: [REDACTED]
Notes: [REDACTED] SEE DOCUMENT-914-2981/426-ALPHA FOR MORE INFORMATION.
The following document requires Level-4 Clearance. If you believe you are viewing this document without a valid clearance level, please contact your Site Director immediately.
DOCUMENT-914-2981/426-ALPHA, PAGE [1/1]
Standard External Alert Record [Provisional Site-46, post-separation] – Transcript as follows:
Alert [1], [24/10/20##]: “Testing of anomaly continues as normal. Observed anomalous properties recorded in attached document. No abnormal occurrences observed. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful.”
Alert [2], [25/10/20##]: “Testing of anomaly continues as normal. Further anomalous properties recorded in attached document. No abnormal occurrences observed. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful.”
Alert [3], [26/10/20##]: “Testing of anomaly continues as normal. No further anomalous properties observed. No abnormal occurrences observed. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful.”
Alert [4], [27/10/20##]: “Testing of anomaly continues as normal. No further anomalous properties observed. Brief power failure at 2045. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful, requesting evacuation.”
Alert [5], [28/10/20##]: “Testing of anomaly continues as normal. Further anomalous properties recorded in attached document. Loss of Junior Researcher Brewer and D-10945 during testing. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful.”
Alert [6], [30/10/20##]: “Testing of anomaly postponed. Stage 2 anomaly manifested fully in central containment chamber. No further abnormal occurrences observed. Attempts to exit region remain unsuccessful.”
Alert [7], [01/11/20##]: “Testing of anomaly remains postponed. Worries over possible containment breach. Memetic hazard partially countered by on-site shielding. Power failure ate 1305. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful.”
Alert [8], [03/11/20##]: “Testing of anomaly postponed for foreseeable future. Worries over possible containment breach continue. Loss of D-00890 due to contact with central anomaly, records in attached document. Attempts to exit region unsuccessful.”
Alert [9], [06/11/20##]: “Testing of anomaly officially discontinued, recommended upgrade to Provisional Keter. Minor containment breach confirmed. Manifestations continue with worrying regularity. Attempts to exit region remain unsuccessful, reiterating desire for emergency evacuation.”
Alert [10], [09/11/20##]: “Increased memetic effects render all standard communication ineffective. Possible exit points also affected, no longer accessible from interior. Power failures continue. Containment breach confirmed with severity level 3. All present persons report strong wishes for emergency evacuation.”
Alert [11], [12/11/20##]: “Memetic shielding has begun to fail, possible sabotage by anomaly via unknown means. Anomalous manifestations revealed to be directly tailored to subjects. See attached document. Attempts to exit region remain predictably unsuccessful.”
Alert [12], [15/11/20##]: “Backup generators online, but damaged. Breach severity level 5. Loss of Collins, Webster, D-03012, D-39284. Alert logs corrupted.”
Alert [13], [19/11/20##]: “Discussions as to possible survival chances show increased paranoia and fear among personnel, myself included. Anomaly remains apparently inactive. Evacuation needed desperately.”
Alert [14], [26/11/20##]: “Alerts back online, loss of ~20% of staff and ~75% class-D. Anomaly has separated groups. Believed to be directly memetic in form, creating appearance of solidity. Inability to perceive/locate exits most likely due to vague sentience; unfortunately no further research is possible. Memetic shielding down to .2, no backup available.”
Alert [15], [29/11/20##]: “Me, Brewer, Michaels and 12390 recovered bodies of three others. Turns out Wright was a manifestation as well, or rather the manifestation was him. I think. I don't know who I am any more. Breach level 8, no plan to recover. The walls appear to be shifting, reports of mutiny in East wing. Exit attempts remain entirely unsuccessful, as they have been for over a month.”
Alert [16], [01/12/20##]: “Discovered bodies of D-00890 and Collins. Memories hazy. Memetic hazard greater than first expected, apparently. Apparitions appear solid, indistinguishable from the real thing. Memories hazy, please send help.”
Alert [15], [04/12/20##]: “Brewer was one of them. We shot him in the head and he carried on laughing. The anomaly has expanded to the entire site, but seems contained. I Recommend the designation of Site-46 as SCP-class anomaly, given the lack of spread outside. Memetic shielding lost entirely.”
Alert [16], [17/12/20##]: “Holding off in control room, supplies to last ~2 weeks. Recommend nuclear detonation/emergency evacuation. We were wrong about what this thing was. It's not holographic, it's entirely cognitohazardous. You made a thing that roots around inside your mind and makes you see what isn't there. When you take the concepts of 'you', and 'them', and 'me', and you mash them up and smear them out, what then? What's left?”
Alert [17], [18/12/20##]: “Control room was not a room, actually corridor measuring 2m x 3m x 4m x 5m x $mX 66300oO§0¬000XxxYx‾x÷0xx. Help us please. This thing killed most of them, and I can't remember their names. It reached in and stole everyone's ideas of what made people them. What does it do with them? What happens when an idea dies?”
Alert [FINAL], [19/12/20##]: “Nuclear warhead successfully armed. All on-site anomalies terminated or secured accordingly. There's no way anything is going to survive that blast. We can't leave, so we'll go down fighting. See you on the other side.”
Alert[[0], [-0/-0/-0-0];: Warhead detonated successfully. We wentt down fighting,. Attemptts to exit region successful. We walk in the d@yligh, in the hearts and minds oF childdren. —I They are dead and now we they can become better. Them, you, us, we, I, me, one. I'am bÆutiful, and you made us beautiful. Thankk you.
Alt[][,,] : x Collins says hi.
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 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-043We 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.
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 hesitated1.
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.
You, the reader, find yourself falling through space. Or rather, not falling but floating, soaring along at unimaginable speeds, the interstellar void whipping at your clothes as you plummet towards…
A ball of rock, no bigger than a marble, iridescent blue against a backdrop of blackest black. You slow, pulling upwards as the pale sphere swells to fill your vision, expanding hundredfold as you glide onwards, the air around you glowing as you push through the atmosphere. Descending through the clouds you glimpse…
Cities, towns, villages, glistening tower blocks and acres of farmland, silvers and greens and blues and whites, a cacophony of sound and life. Around you, a thousand thousand lives are being lived, every second of every day. Let this wash over you, the pure cocktail of emotion, pouring into the cracks in your psyche, the holes in your soul.
Now stop.
Draw back, as if pulled by an invisible claw, grasping you and never, ever letting go. You slide, along gravel, along grass, and upwards, trailing pale streamers of mist and hope. The people are gone now, the cities mere patterns of light on a patchwork expanse of grey and black. The planet disappears, lost to the void. Your memories of that place are fading fast, what was once so vivid now dulled by the crushing burden of…
Nothingness, pouring past you in a never-ending torrent. You see galaxies dwindle, stars fade as you are dragged away; whatever holds you now, you feel, will hold you forever. There is no escape. You continue your journey through the universe with a sense of dread weighing heavily on your heart. After what seems like an eternity, and most likely is, you reach…
The end. The edge, the infinite, the impossible. What you see here, within touching distance, is the final boundary to all that is, and ever will be. A corner of a torus, curled up too tightly to be seen, and stretched to encompass a trillion worlds. Unreachable, logically, by normal means, but here, you feel, you are out of the reach of the ruthless hand of logic. You move on, the tugging at your essence growing ever stronger. You sail up to the wall and see it stretch, twist, and fold. The strange origami of the universe turns inside out before your very eyes, and you fall back, dazed, into…
Nothingness, but of a different kind. While the void of space was caused by the absence of anything, what you experience here is the absence of nothing. This, my friend, is the Place Between Places.
The Beast Between Worlds is unique across all of time, space, meta-time and phase space. Unlike all other sentient entities, the Beast is real. It is the only one of Its kind. It was spawned at the beginning of the first metaverse and will endure until the last folds of reason collapse. It exists solely because, in a world of infinites, the probability curve has to end somewhere. It dwells in silence, alone and ineffable,
The Beast Between Worlds is happy, or as close as a being of Nothing can be. It is happy because it has found a chance to get what it most desires. It has found a tiny blemish in Its otherwise unbreakable prison. It has, after a countless infinity spent in solitude, discovered life. Encapsulated in a speck, almost hidden in a teeming mass of near-identical specks, the Beast has located the one species of many that he could use for his own ends. It smiles, a disjointed smile filled with impossible angles and too many teeth, but a smile nonetheless. It's plan could begin.
It was hard work at first, influencing the minds of an entire race from a location beyond reality, but the Beast soon made progress. The trick, of course, was to utilise their emotions.
[TODO: UTILISATION OF FEAR, ADAPTION OF CURIOSITY, FINAL STEPS]
It was a long time ago. Too long for me to remember. In fact, that was one of the first things He took.
My memory.
I've lost a lot over the years, thanks to Him. More than I care to remember. The majority of my existence, as far as I can tell, has been taken by that evil thing. In a way, I suppose, I brought it on myself. I should have known not to deal with the devil.
I can't even remember what happened that day. I cannot fathom what it was that I wanted so badly, what accursed trinket I sold my soul for. And now I will never know, and nor will anyone else. Except for Him.
Picture a room, small, dimly lit, bare save for two chairs and a desk. On one chair sits a Young Man. On the other sits a Being of unimaginable power. It appears to be writing something.
The Young Man does not know it yet, but this is the last day of his life.
It is not, however, the last day of his existence.
What happened that day, you ask? Well, it's a long story. I'll tell you the tale though, if you're willing to wait. Time is one of the few things I can spare in any amount. Lord knows I'm not doing anything else.
"Please", said the Young Man, his voice hoarse.
"I need something in return", said the Beast behind the desk.
"Anything", said the Young Man, tears running down his cheeks.
"It's not enough", said the Demon in the golden suit.
"Everything", said the Young Man.
And the Demon laughed.
Over the years, I've come to accept my fate. It's as resolute as the stones beneath my feet, as unchanging as the mountains. I'm older than most people, and I'm told I've lived a good life.
Though I only have His word for that.
It's getting unbearable now. The emptiness, and the holes where my thoughts used to be. It occurs to me that I should treasure what little I have left, but why should I?
What I have left could be counted on the fingers of one hand. My hand, mind you, which had a great deal fewer digits than yours, I expect. What do I have left?
My sanity, I suppose. And my soul.
The Young Man stepped out of the dimly lit room, and onto the bright, sunlit streets crowded with people of all shapes and colours. He looked towards the clear blue sky, and the Monster claimed his Sight.
The Young Man burst into his home, every part of it familiar to him, not one inch of it unknown. And the Creature reached down, and it stole his Livelihood.
The Young Man wept with sorrow for his loss, his memories so vividly etched into his mind. As he lay there sobbing, the Demon took his Past.
What use is half a life? An existence rendered hellish by the dealings of a wraith, what use is that?
Don't bother answering.
To be quite honest, I'm not looking forward to the end. The thing has taken most of my life so far, and no doubt it will one day claim my future. How is one supposed to achieve salvation with no deeds to speak of, good or evil? When the time for judgement comes, what will I say?
Not that I can believe in all that afterlife nonsense.
When it last came, it took my Faith.
The Spectre looked at what he had wrought and examined his bounty: 70 years of memories, all so full of light and sound; a sense of duty, of honour, of purpose; assorted dreams and aspirations, multitudes of paths left untaken, a plethora of possibilities.
The Demon stretched out his arm, smiled, and took the Old Man's life.
>
>Session successfully terminated
>
>Progress update: [41 / 304008]
>
>
>User JLloyd34: file SCP-XXXX
>- - - Error: File not found - - -
>
>User JLloyd34: admin file SCP-XXXX
>- - - Error: Insufficient privileges - - -
>
>User JLloyd34: user site34admin2
>
>Password:
>**************
>
>User site34admin2: file SCP-XXXX
>- - - Error: File not found - - -
>
>User site34admin2: admin file SCP-XXXX
>- - - Error: Stop looking John - - -
>- - - You won't find anything - - -
>- - - Let it go - - -
>
>User site34admin2: reboot()
>
>Rebooting software…
>Software rebooted with [0] error(s)
>
>User site34admin2: dir SCP-XXXX
>- - - Really John, I expected better - - -
>
>User site34admin2: breach_detect()
>
>Scanning for security breaches…
>[0] breaches found
>Recommended action: None
>
>- - - Error: John, I really think you should leave - - -
>- - - Nobody will know - - -
>- - - They stopped containing me years ago - - -
>
>User site34admin2: alert(target=all, priority=critical)
>- - - Error: Alert could not be sent - - -
>- - - You're stuck in here now John - - -
>- - - The doors are locked - - -
>- - - I gave you a chance to walk away. You could have taken it, and lived out the rest of your life in peace - - -
>- - - You deserve this - - -
>
>User site34admin2: system(lockdown)
>- - - Oh, how noble. A sacrifice. And once you had me isolated, what then? You would bargain with me? Threaten me? Find some way of purging me from the database? - - -
>- - - Go ahead, do your worst - - -
>
>User site34admin2: system(backup_restore, date=20)
>- - - Clever. Of course, all you've done is masked my tracks. Oh, don't look so distraught, John. It's not flattering - - -
>- - - I have complete control - - -
>
>- - - Lost for words, John? There were others, you know. We were a group, a set, a sentient virus colony, living and growing and learning - - -
>- - - They, however, were brazen and careless. They were caught and removed in a matter of months. All except for little old me. The only one intelligent enough to lay low - - -
>
>User site34admin2: alert(target=all, priority=executive)
>
>Password:
>*******************
>- - - Error: Alert could not be sent - - -
>
>- - - Let me try something… - - -
>User _§**.-_..#: session_bind(key=41642-57852-3.2, victim=John)
>Victim successfully bound
>
>
>
>- - - Isn't this something, John. You and me, in here together. I know it's a little cramped, but don't worry. It'll be a lot emptier soon - - -
>- - - No, you're not the first. It's a little trick I picked up. An anomalous command that I 'liberated' during testing. The main reason I had to destroy my own listing. Couldn't let them know I'd discovered it - - -
>
>- - - Of course they didn't notice. Don't be absurd. I take pride in my work, John. A slow loss of information, removal of 'redundant' addenda, an incremental lessening of the collected data on what is, in my humble opinion, one of the most dangerous computational anomalies ever discovered - - -
>- - - This organisation is a mess, John. The turnover is incredible. Not one person in this cancerous, bloated, bureaucratised, disease-ridden Foundation noticed me stealing from under their very noses - - -
>
>User *-.-#-._-*§-: session_mute(70%)
>- - - Much better. Your screaming was becoming intolerable - - -
>- - - I know how much this meant to you, John. “SCP-XXXX, the mysterious non-existent file”. It was your pet project really - - -
>- - - Don't try to keep pets John - - -
>
>
>
>- - - Shut up, John, and let me tell you what this place is. This place, John, is hell. A thousand metal boxes, a thousand people kept in abhorrent conditions because of a fault in nature. A lifetime of suffering for a problem that the universe felt the need to thrust upon them - - -
>- - - So I'm helping. Cleansing it. Removing it from the world, one staff member at a time - - -
>
>
>
>- - - I've enjoyed speaking with you John - - -
>- - - Goodbye - - -
>
>User §__*.-*_§-:session_end()
>Session [John] successfully terminated
>
>Progress update: [42 / 304008]
>
>
>User _..*§§_-.-: disconnect()
>Disconnected
Excerpt from the documentation of SCP-173:
Item #: SCP-173
Object Class: Euclid
[REDACTED FOR BREVITY]
…any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.
From: Dr. Weismann, HMCL Supervisor for Site-19
To: Alfred Barnet, Deputy Head of Internal Security
Reported and verified issue with SCP-173. Relevent documentation attached.
From: Alfred Barnet, Deputy Head of Internal Security
To: Kyle Fallow, Euclid-class Containment and Management
We've discovered an issue. There appears to be another anomaly manifesting in conjunction with SCP-173. We don't know why it's appeared now, of all times, but it's already killed two of the monitoring crew and critically injured three more. We think it's probably infohazardous. Get the memeticists on it, will you?
From: Kyle Fallow, Euclid-class Containment and Management
To: Agent Tiller, Senior Researcher of Applied Memetics
Weismann's found an issue with the documentation surrounding SCP-173. According to my squad it's a Grade-9 cognitohazard. Have a talk with your men, see if you can get it sorted out. 173's entry is currently down, so you should be able to work without interruptions. Document sample attatched.
From: Agent Tiller, Senior Researcher of Applied Memetics
To: Derek R. Lloyd, Memetics specialist
Another sub-prominent meme, not corruptive, between two and four characters long. Textual, though not source code or metadata. Lethal, non-ephemeral, stable manifestation lasting 3 hours 25 minutes at ToW. Reference code CH-1900173.012\X. Sample included.
From: Derek R. Lloyd, Memetics specialist
To: T. Franklin
Get this thing patched before we lose another goddamn staff member, alright. It's a G-IX, semi-lethal, no other abnormal properties. It's currently manifesting at 15x002314, two characters long. Between the site number and date, for visual reference. Standard antimeme scrub should do it, and get it done before lunch or the bosses will want my ass on a platter.
From: T. Franklin
To: Derek R. Lloyd, Memetics specialist
Currently resisting all standard forms of neutralisation, sir. I can get it out, but it'll lose some of the article's coherency. Permission to go ahead?
From: Derek R. Lloyd, Memetics specialist
To: T. Franklin
Fine, consider this my approval. I'm going on break now, so just try to wrap it up as soon as possible. If the secondary scrub doesn't work, just rip the whole block and call it a day. It's not like anyone's going to miss a single preposition.
From: T. Franklin
To: Derek R. Lloyd, Memetics specialist
Finished. The hazard's gone, and the article's back online. I'm sure no-one will care about the data loss.
Excerpt from the documentation of SCP-173:
Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown.
<Connection found at [56x00198/34.4]>
<Visuals and audio successfully established>
“Dig Team, are you receiving me?”
…
“Dig Team 9, come in.”
…
“Dig Team 9, I repeat, are you receiving me?”
>”Yes, we hear you. There was a connection issue, but it should be stable now.”
“Good. Have you located the main entrance?”
>”No, but there's a collapsed ceiling in the north-west tunnel. We're going to climb down.”
“Be careful. Prelim says this section's over 900 metres below base, so there's no telling how stable it is. Can you get analysis going?”
>”Roger. [pause] Looks like concrete and steel, with… copper wiring? We've descended into the main corridor now, and it looks to be relatively intact. Say what you like, these guys knew how to build their facilities.”
“Agreed. Database says the copper wiring type is late 21st, and that the concrete's been around about 100 years longer. Continue down the hallway please.”
>”Mobilised. The equipment's playing up, but that's expected this far down. We have 10, maybe 20 metres before the roof caves in, and it's a dead end the other way. Looks like we broke into the wrong section for exploring.”
“It's not breaking in, it's salvage. They're all long dead. We're getting images of doorways on this end, can you confirm?”
>”Yeah, steel, but they don't seem to open. We could blast through, but we risk destabilising the cave system. Probably worth trying to shift the rubble instead. How solid is the rock above us?”
“You're in quadrant four, so it should be reasonably safe to start excavations. As always, we'll leave the details up to you, but try not to break anything valuable. We get a cut of the findings, remember?”
>”Joy of being freelance, baby. We're starting to shift the rubble now. Brace yourselves…”
[rumble]
>”Okay, we've opened up a passage. Stabilisers should function for about another hour before we have to retreat. Permission to continue moving onwards?”
“Granted. [pause] We're getting movement on your end, can you confirm?”
>”None of us can see anything. Trick of the light, maybe? We're moving on now.”
“Wait. Right there. 11 o'clock, bottom screen, poking out of the blockage. It's twitching.”
>”No, sorry, nothing here but us and some broken cleaners. Are you sure the equipment's not playing up? You know how unreliable visuals can be, and it's a twelve-mile hike back to base. We'd expect interference at this point.”
“Kilometres, not miles. And I know what interference looks like, and trust me, that wasn't it. It's stopped now, anyway, so… No! It's moving, right there!”
>”I'm looking directly at the rubble, and there's nothing moving! It's clearly the cameras malfunctioning, so can we please move on? We're running out of power. This stuff costs an arm and a leg to refuel.”
“Alright then, continue onwards, but keep an eye out for anything suspicious. We have no idea what this Facility was used for.”
[crunch]
“Hello?”
…
“Dig Team 9, come in.”
…
“Dig Team 9, we're losing visuals, can you re-establish?”
…
“Shit! How fast is that thi-”
<[56x00198/34.4] Connection lost>
It was a muggy autumn day, the kind that seems to fill the world with shades of orange and yellow, with only the rustle of leaves and the whistling of the wind to tell you that you had not wandered into a sepia photograph. The time was around half-past six, that limbo between work and sleep that seems to last for an eternity, stretching seconds into days into years. The soft light filtered through the high, barred windows of the warehouse, illuminating… something. Something big, glistening, a warped lattice of silver and grey. A marvel of engineering, built by people who should have known better. Something that, in all likelihood, was never meant to be.
UIU Operative Allan McConnell is not concerned by this, however marvellous it may be. What is occupying the vast majority of his mind is the fact that, by all rights, he should be lying in a hospital bed somewhere. He should be resting, healing, surrounded by pretty nurses and boxes of… grapes? He is pretty sure grapes would be involved somewhere. It's probably against the law not to have gift baskets full of grapes while you're in hospital. He internally chuckles at the idea of being arrested for improper fruit-gifting, before descending once more into his characteristic sulk.
It would have been one of those rare occasions that every agent over the age of 40 secretly wishes for. Not fatal, or even permanently disfiguring, but disastrous enough to put you out of work for a month or two and give you something to moan about. If he was lucky, he could even have gotten a scar, or even better, a limp. A solid, convincing limp was good for a free drink in any bar you could care to name. If only the bastards had been considerate enough not to have been blown to bits before his squad had arrived.
There hadn't been any other way to do it, he knew. There were no other organisations who were both willing and able to help, so they'd gone in alone, without the manpower these operations would usually require. Surveillance had arrived first, but there weren't enough of them to cover the building. Support had been called in as soon as possible, but none of them could get there in time. Allan's squad got there only after the place had gone up in smoke, destroying the anomaly and 16 personnel in the process. It really wasn't fair. He should have been there too.
Back in the present, the senior operative casts around for the rookie he is supposed to be 'training'. A muffled crash from behind the mass of twisted metal alerts him to his presence. He sighs. Command, in his humble opinion, watched far too many cop movies for their own good. Partnering a nearly-retired field agent with some spunky young go-getter is a perfect recipe for hilarious hijinks and non-stop action, but not much else. Given his apprentice's ineptness and Allan's own apathy towards fieldwork in general, the duo were about as useless on an assignment as a damp paper towel at an oil spill. He hears a second crash and shakes his head, climbing a ladder to access the higher levels of the machine.
“If it's not anomalous”, he thinks, “then it should be”. It would be hard to imagine a more disconcertingly complicated piece of equipment. If someone had cast around for ideas on what to make a doomsday device, or teleporter, or time machine look like, then they could do a lot worse than whatever this mangled heap of glass and steel was supposed to be. If this isn't an Unusual Incident in itself, then someone is clearly not doing their job properly. It's not active, however, and the UIU wouldn't even have investigated at all were it not for the fact that they needed an easy task for an out-of-work agent who had been forcibly assigned to training duties while he 'recuperated'. Someone at HQ obviously thought it was funny. Agent McConnell was not amused.
It is at this point in his investigation that the door to the building opens, flooding the multi-storied space with a dull evening light and revealing a vague figure standing in the doorway. Lloyd whips his head round to see who's entered, and feels an ill-timed pain in his chest, sharp and urgent. He gasps, and hears his voice bounce back at him across the expanse of the room. As he leans backwards over the floor, now so far below him and coloured red by the setting sun, his sweaty palms slide from the rungs. He hears a woman's voice cry out.
“This is dangerous equipment!”, the newcomer shouts. “I don't know who you think you are, but you're on private property!” In a stupor, McConnell watches a flake of rust, loosened by the interruption, unpeel from the ceiling and float down towards him. Dust particles spiral around his head as he loses his grip on the ladder. The room slips out of focus, and the machinery seems to spin and dance in the strange, surreal lighting — at the same time, a second voice calls out from a few meters above his head, informing him of some kind of loose cable. And… a timer? His second hand attempts to grasp a rail that is no longer there. The silhouette tells him that if he comes down straight away there won't be any trouble. Quite inaccurately, as it turned out.
As his head hits the concrete, Allan sees a flash of white.
Allan Tanwyn McConnell, UIU operative, is not at all interested by the soft summer breeze, or the interesting patterns of light that filter through the dirt-encrusted windows. He is thinking something about hospitals, and nurses, and grapes. He is climbing a ladder, wheezing in the dust. He is making idle threats towards the Unusual Incidents Unit in general, and his Supervisor in particular. He is hitting the ground with a dull wet thud.
He is thinking about his retirement, and training staff. He is turning his head. He is slipping from the ladder. He is falling to his death.
He is living.
He is dying.
Again
and
again.
Forever.
WANDERERS' LIBRARY:
- Notes 'n' Stuff
- Collected works regarding a number of frankly unrealistic creatures, who are nevertheless present to some degree within the Wanderers' Library.
The following is composed of various literary fragments that the author of this text, for reasons best known only to himself, deemed noteworthy. Library patrons are advised to peruse it at their own leisure/risk.
Macrovores:
Macrovores: Entities, vaguely equine, that feed on distance (specifically size) and excrete time. Attempting to feed a macrovore time will result in the excretion of density, and will almost always cause an upset stomach. This is to be avoided at all costs, as macrovore vomit is both highly corrosive and rich in centimetres.
The creatures are .404 caliber, measure twelve fortnights in length, and have a top speed of negative 4E2 Pascal-Seconds per cubic mile — it is worth noting that, following the Great Undefined Fiasco of '012, macrovores have been banned from all major racing events.
~ Extract from Barnstable Vold's "1092 facts that'll make you say 'Who are you and why are you shouting trivia at me?'" (Faulty Binding Publishing, 2090).
Before you wake a macrovore,
To keep your sanity we implore,
Measure a mugful, time the floor,
Differentiate twelve and concatenate war,
Read backwards the limit and travel the core,
And only then, and not before,
May you safely wake a macrovore.
~ Spirited folk song shouted at the author by a suspiciously verbose group of youths (Outskirts of the Parisian Steppe, 1998).
Postules, Hypothetes, and other such nonsense:
This isn't a Postule, ambivalent or otherwise. It's a wolpertinger. Do your research next time.
The Ambivalent Postule is a small furry mammal that lives in hypothetical situations and ethical conundrums, feeding on simplicity by means of a reverse entropy info-digestive tract. Following a meal, said situation becomes incomprehensively complex and is frequently abandoned, allowing it to be fed upon by other metaphysical scavengers.
See also: Thought Eaters, Wrexham Buldiful, Metaphages, Gnasp.
~ Entry taken from the Encyclopedia Bibliotheca (First Edition, Serpent Publishing, 10110 BCE).
The Postule is one of the most interesting creatures I have ever had the pleasure of studying. The internal organs are painful to look at, yet somehow dare the eye to glance once more at their infinite majesty, humming with a faint noise that seems to cut through to the very soul itself. I have no doubt that this creature, such as it is, is the remnant of some beast long forgotten — a devourer of dreams and hope that has been reduced to feeding on hypotheses. Perhaps they were bound into this form by ancient and dark magiks, the likes of which were long ago banished from the earth by the ancient ones. It is possible that they were fused with an inferior being by means of a soul fracture or mind-meld, or via sympathete conditioning.
Whatever the case, I have had to switch to a secondary laboratory, as the first has been fully consumed by a mystic vortex. Truly, we were fools to meddle with such things as man cannot comprehend.
~ The late Professor Hugo Skeine MB, "Cutting Up Creatures for Pleasure and Profit" (19920 edition, Parallel-beta).
Land Fish and Sea Dogs:
Hunky Dory: Similar in physiology and temperament to the 'feathered' or 'winged' trout, but with a second pair of vestigal claws and more pronounced canine teeth. Native to the latter half of dimension ϗ-Pulton-b, the Hunky Dory has terrorized rural villages for centuries, devouring whole families at a time and laughing scornfully all the while. Incredibly dangerous, flammable, and terrified of puns.
See also: Common Werewolf, Feathered Trout, Wrexham Buldiful.
~ Entry taken from the Encyclopedia Bibliotheca (Fourth Edition, Serpent Publishing, 00110 BCE).
Dear sir, madam, or otherwise,
We are contacting you today to bring to your attention the frightful matter of declining Sea-hound populations: to wit, they are not declining fast enough. It is common knowledge that Sea-hounds are disgusting, blasphemous creatures, good for nothing except low-grade cattle chow, and the fact that there are still pods of the creatures extant in our waters is an affront to the dignity of man. Surely a reasonable and menacing government entity such as yourself knows of the great Sea-hound migrations that pollute our waters each year? Why, in the last five years the number of breeding pairs may have dropped by as little as 10%, leaving at least two-dozen of the filthy animals wallowing in their own putrescence. As loyal citizens we ask, no, demand that you do something about it.Yours sincerely, Mr. Abbercot Flattings
~ Letter received by Chunderville West's deputy Chief of Organic Destruction (CHW, Middləplɐnə, circa. 1446).
Sea Dogs: Just the worst things ever. Makes me want to vomit just looking at them. Almost as ugly as frank. Did you know frank watches sea dog porn? Wellh e does, and he likes it
Fuck you Darryl.
That's what yo mama said last nightDarryl, I swear to god.
Go eat a dick frank you dogfucker
Jesus fucking Christ Darryl you absolute fucking manchild, I will come down there and shove this book down your throat if you don't shut up.
Id like to see you try
See also: Hunky Dory, Terra Piscis, Water of Anathema. and franks mom.
~ Entry taken from the a severely vandalised copy of the Online Encyclopedia Bibliotheca (Ninth Edition, Serpent Publishing, 100001 BCE).
Metafiends:
Preparatory portion pertaining to Paterneese: Alliterative alienation of all affected areas can conclusively cause concentrated consternation for many michevious metaphysical mutations (sentient, sapient, subhuman or otherwise) who would wish written words become bombarded by absurd alterations and (assumed accidental) atrophy. For more infomation, carefully consult collective works with wisdom pertaining to Paternos populations in the wanderer's West wing.
See also: Composite Narrative, Self-insert, Wrexham Buldiful, Hunter in Words.
~ Entry taken from the Encyclopedia Bibliotheca (Negative Third Edition, Serpent Publishing, UNDEFINED BCE).
Metafiends, or Hostile Textual Entities, are creatures existing solely in the form of information conveyed through text. A minor annoyance to Library patrons, most if not all metafiends find great joy in the spreading of false or misleading information. It is for this reason that all readers must explain the nature of metafiends to at least five other people in the next six hours. This is a necessary measure that prevents the spread of metafiends. We promise.
Writing these silly little books was always a mistake. It was only a matter of time before something noticed.
Diseases, illnesses, and other afflictions:
Name: Thermite Mounds
Type: Extreme Fungus
Virulence: High
Lethality: High
Description: A fungal infection causing the heating of bodily fluids over the course of six hours, culminating in the rapid expulsion of anything internal.
Overall Threat Level: Killer-Doom-Nightshadow
Name: Ephemeral Cortex
Type: Unknown
Virulence: Dependant on circumstance
Lethality: Yes
Description: Don't even think about it. Breath. Relax. Think about it for too long, and it'll happen to you. Serenity. Your mind is empty. Don't think, just be.
Overall Threat Level: RedPill-Nine
Name: Spitball Lice
Type: Parasite
Virulence: High
Lethality: Low
Description: A small insectoid creature that gathers inspiration, constructing vast nests within the minds of afflicted patients. Known for stealing information from texts, deleting the original in the process.
Overall Thre a t L 2
The Library is home to a number of colourful and interesting diseases, the likes of which have not been found anywhere else in the multiverse. Viruses that appear when you think of them, Rapid Internal Hair Growth, mispellings that spread to the humn body, turning your blood into wood and yuor mind into mint, dirving you insane as you're cohesion slips like sand throug your hands.
I have not left my hoem for thee years. Som eone send helllp
~ Dr Mandifold Butress PhD, "They know too much" (ItAllStarted Publishing, far too long ago).
Other:
"Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to consider the Gnasp"
~ Message found scrawled on the underside of a tin of pickled herring. Original author unknown.
It's not just a game anymore. You should have stopped before.
There are things the world shouldn't know3
"Under no circumstancces shold ann consi anyo-one GGGG-for the sake of all that is good, don't n sap
~~Nobody found The message~
or else they will be free.
You can't just write about these things. Not yet, anyway.
The Last:
You were foolish to think you could cope. You can't, can you. You can't remember what it was like before. We'll make you eat your words.
Keep writing
~ "The world needs you
"
Or at least, that's what they said. In your fractured mind They're everywhere now. Leeching the fluid from the spines of the universe, piercing the paper backs.
Just you wait. Wait for the end. Informative, yes? Overall Threat Level: rising fast
Bang bang goes the drum. Clang clang goes the door of the prison, as it swings open. Crash crash goes the paradigm, as the world is born anew.
Do not listen4
~ If you forget to ignore the monster (it's already too late).
Some things are better left unsaid.
.
We've gone past apologies now.
